Iain lifted his head and gazed at Victoria. “What manner of woman are you?”

The near whisper went unanswered, and he stared at her until it became clear she grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny. He stretched a hand to her cheek, stroked it, then rose and sat on the couch beside her.

“What did you hope to accomplish by putting yourself in jeopardy?”

Victoria lowered her eyes. “There was no other way,” she murmured.

No other way? His heart hammered. All harm that had come to her since he stole her from Montrose Abbey was his doing. The attempted rape, David Robertson’s hands on her…Edwin Hockley.

With a finger to her chin, Iain tipped her face upward toward his. “Were you harmed in any way?”

She frowned. “Did Thomas not inform you I was well? He promised to do so.”

“Aye.” Iain released her. “But you would not commit such information to paper.”

Her face reddened. “It matters not.”

Dread coiled deep in his gut. “What do you mean?”

“My lord, please, David Robertson is dead.”

“It matters,” Iain growled, his anger fueled by having been cheated out of thrusting his sword through the coward’s belly. “Were you harmed?”

“I swear, I am well. No harm was done me.” “Victoria—” Iain clamped down on his fury. “Victoria,” he began more gently, “you are my wife. I swear, you need not fear. I do not blame you.”

An indignant brow shot up. “I have done no wrong.”

The words were fearless, but he didn’t miss the quaver in her voice. He covered her hand with his. “I know, love. Now be forthright. What happened?”

She flung his hand from hers. “No one laid a finger on your precious possession.”

His heart twisted. He would die a little more every time he looked into her eyes—and deserve it. “And what of Hockley?” Iain asked. “Had he anything to offer my precious possession?”

“Edwin?” Her eyes widened. “Sweet Jesu, even now you think—”

Iain squeezed her hand. “It is him I distrust, not you. You cannot deny Hockley wants you, and we both know he would use the situation to his benefit.” Something flickered in her eyes.

“By God, the look on your face has signed his death warrant.” Iain startled at his outburst. No war was needed to infect his mistake. Only the death of the man who had taken what belonged to him.

Wasn’t that what his father had thought? Iain tried to shake off the thought. This was different. Eric MacPherson was angry the woman he loved rejected him. Iain was protecting the woman he loved.

Victoria grasped his shirt. “I swear, he never touched me. You ask me to trust you. Can you not do the same?”

Iain refocused on her.

“Where is Edwin?” she asked.

“He journeys here.”

“He knows I am here?”

Fear creased her brow—just as it had the day he took her. Iain’s heart twisted. Did she fear Edwin or him? “You need not fear. When he arrives, I will be ready.”

“My lord, I would not have you harmed.”

“My lass,” he smiled grimly, “it is you alone who can harm me, no one else.”

Her eyes widened. “I would not do so.” He caressed her cheek. She blushed.

“I feared for you,” he said. “But, bastard that I am, I feared as much for myself. I find I cannot live without you.” He lifted her hand and placed a kiss on the inside of her palm. “You were ever present in my mind.” Another kiss, this time on her shoulder. “The thought of you…” He traced the line of her jaw.

With a small cry, Victoria threw her arms around his neck and covered his lips with hers. He pushed her down onto the sofa, his body engulfing her as she softened beneath him. Her fingers slid from his shoulder and wound their way into his hair. Iain pulled back and looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. He braced his weight on his elbows and cupped her face.

Moving against her in a slow rhythm, he watched her eyes flutter. She breathed deep and desire raced through him like a falcon on wing. His mouth was on her again, tasting her lips, her neck, inching further down. She arched against him. He slipped past the low bodice, his tongue sweeping a hardened nipple. She gave a choked sigh. In the next instant, Iain had her dress up around her waist and thrust inside her.

“My lord,” Victoria whispered.

“My lass,” he answered.

Iain moved fast, his body rising and falling against her. Over and over, he had imagined the slow way he would enjoy her body, but now, even the smallest remembrance of those pleasures was overshadowed by something greater. Neither lust nor desire drove him. Now it was need. The need to reassure himself she was still whole. The need to know he was still alive. But most of all, the need to claim her again and remind her that no matter what, she belonged with him.

* * *

Iain looked up from his meal at the sight of Riley entering the great hall. The lad cast a glance at where Katherine sat three chairs down on Iain’s left. The girl’s gaze met Riley’s, then dropped. Iain glanced at Victoria and saw that she, too, had noticed the girl’s reaction. This was the first sign of genuine feeling for Riley. Victoria had asked that the boy be released from the promise of marriage to Katherine, but Riley had refused. Iain looked up as he stopped before him. Maybe the lad knew more than Iain had given him credit for.

“A band of Robertsons, laird,” Riley announced.

“One says he is Bran Robertson.”

From the corner of his eye, Iain saw Victoria reach for Jillian’s hand. The girl’s tremulous smile confirmed Victoria had offered a reassuring squeeze to her hand.

“Allow him and his men through the gates,” Iain said. “And do not forget we are expecting another guest.”

Riley nodded and Iain returned his attention to the women in time to hear Victoria tell Jillian, “My lord has said your brother does not blame you.”

Jillian glanced shyly in his direction, and he offered a reassuring smile.

A quarter of an hour later, hinges creaked and Iain shifted his gaze from the Gypsy man Evan to the three men who entered the great hall. The leader, the largest by far, scanned the room, his eyes fastening onto Jillian. She paled. Iain winced. He wouldn’t want to be the recipient of that grim expression. He would have risen to greet the lad, but Bran seemed oblivious to him as well as everyone else in the room and strode to where Jillian sat.

“Hello, lass,” he said in a husky voice.

Jillian glanced away. He seemed to understand her fear and reached down, lifting her into a warm embrace.

“I am sorry,” she cried into his shirt. Over and over, she repeated the words as Bran soothed her with long strokes to her hair. “I did not do it,” she added with sudden desperation.

Bran closed his eyes. “Of course not.”

“I did not mean to cause you so much trouble,” she went on.

He sighed. “’Tis my fault for not making sure you were well.”

“You could not know,” she said, her voice low, but steadier.

“Mayhap,” he replied gently, “but it was my duty.” He shushed her protests for a few moments longer with soft, unintelligible words, then held her at arm’s length. “You look well.”

Jillian sniffed. “I have been well treated.”

Bran shot a grateful look in Iain’s direction, and

Iain gave a nod of acknowledgment. Bran settled Jillian back in her chair and squatted, bringing his face level with hers.

“You know I must hear the whole of it.”

“Aye.”

“Good.” He smiled. “But we can speak of it later.”

The relief in Jillian’s eyes, Iain had expected, but seeing Victoria visibly relax surprised him. What was it that caused women to doubt a man’s ability to understand circumstances beyond a woman’s control? Iain studied Victoria. Or mayhap even a situation involving Edwin Hockley?

Bran rose and motioned to the two men who accompanied him. He strode to where Iain sat. “I am in your debt. Anything you want, you have but to ask.”

Iain smiled and nodded toward Jillian. “She is a fine lass.”

“Aye,” a fond light entered Bran’s eyes, “she is.”

His gaze sharpened. “I mean to repay you.”

“Get to the bottom of this business and you may consider the debt paid.”

“You can depend on that.” Bran turned to the men who stood behind him. “I would like you to meet my cousin Glen.” The man nearest stepped forward. “Glen,” Bran said, “this is Laird Mac—”

A loud cry from the kitchen stopped Bran midsentence. Iain shot to his feet as all eyes turned to Aurari, who stood in the kitchen doorway, a hand covering her mouth.

A single syllable escaped her lips. “Beng.”

Thomas appeared behind her in the kitchen. He frowned, shooting a questioning look in Iain’s direction. Iain gave a small shake of his head. Evan said something in their tongue to Aurari, but she stood mute as if gripped by an unseen force. Evan cursed. He started forward, and Iain strode toward Aurari and reached her side in unison with Evan.

“What is it?” Iain demanded, looking from Aurari to where she stared at Glen. When no answer was forthcoming, he again demanded, “What is it?” “Patience,” Evan said. “We must wait.” But even as he spoke, Aurari pointed at Glen, again saying,

“Beng.”

“What is she saying?” Iain demanded.

“Devil,” Evan replied.

Iain looked from Glen to Aurari. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Ask him,” Aurari said.

Iain kept his eyes on the Gypsy woman. “’Tis not him I ask.”

Aurari blinked as if seeing Iain for the first time.

“I am asking you,” he said.

“There is darkness there.” She shivered, and Iain could have sworn he felt a chill pass over him. “It is hidden deep within.”

Victoria appeared beside him and laid a hand on his arm. “When we traveled together, she spoke of just such a thing…” Victoria paused, distress creasing her brow.

Iain caught Victoria’s hand. “You are safe here.”

She shook her head. “The danger lies within the very heart of us, my lord. That is what she means.” Before he could ask her meaning, Bran said, “Who is this Egyptian and what mischief is she about?”

Victoria stiffened, and Liam shoved up from his seat at the table. Even Thomas’s expression darkened.

“She is an honored guest in this house,” Iain stated, “and none will speak ill of her.”

Bran appeared surprised, but assented with a slight incline of his head. “Forgive me. May I ask

what she means?”

“He knows,” Aurari interjected, pointing at Glen.

All looked in his direction.

“I have no notion what the witch means,” he sneered.

Iain stared at Glen for a moment, then was struck with memory of something Jillian had said. “T’would be hard to lose a brother, and he did have the devil in his eyes.”

Iain faced her. “Jillian, what was it you said about

Jonathan’s brother?”

The girl colored and a pang of regret shot through him at the abrupt way he had brought up memories better left for a more private time.

Bran’s forehead furrowed in a deep frown. “What does he speak of, Jillian?” She shook her head.

Iain’s soft, “Lass,” was followed by Bran’s firmer,

“Jillian.”

“They found me there,” she began, “over Jonathan’s body. They thought I was the one who had killed him. Simon was there when they…”

“Sweet God in heaven.” Bran closed his eyes and Iain knew the boy struggled to gain control. With a heavy breath, Bran opened his eyes and nodded for Jillian to go on. When she said, “That is all,” he regarded her with the stern look born of brotherly familiarity. “That is not the whole of it, Sister.”

“I do not understand what this has to do with her.” Jillian pointed at Aurari.

Bran sent a questioning look at Iain.

“Perhaps it is different in your clan,” Iain replied, “but a MacPherson man would not so easily take his brother’s woman.”

Bran’s lips thinned, and he turned his attention to Aurari. “You started this, mistress. What have you to say?”

“Those who live in darkness, do so to hide.”

Bran’s jaw tightened, but he said in an even tone, “You will have to speak plainer than that, if you want a simple man such as myself to understand.”

“Betrayal,” Aurari replied, her mouth in grim lines, “is one such deed that thrives in the darkness.” “Betrayal?” Iain and Bran echoed.

“Beware. Those closest to you have the greatest power to harm you.”

Bran looked at Iain, his expression saying he didn’t comprehend why Aurari stated the obvious.

“Bran,” Iain said. “Have you any idea who wanted Jonathan dead?”

“Nay. He had enemies. We all do.” The corners of his mouth dipped downward. “But not among his own people.”

“But he did,” Aurari interjected, her eyes still on Glen. “Ask him.” She pointed a slim finger at him.

“Ask about the Stewarts.”

“What the devil?” Glen burst out.

“We have been feuding with the Stewarts for years,” Bran cut in. “’Tis no secret.”

“Then why did he meet with them?” Aurari asked.

Glen swore, and Bran’s resounding “What?” rang out above the commotion the question incited.

Glen’s hand went to his sword.

Victoria gave a small cry and clutched Iain’s arm.

“Iain!” Thomas yelled, but Iain was already stepping forward, his hand outstretched to still Evan as Evan slid his sword from the sheath.

“No one move,” Iain boomed, halting his own men as they drew their weapons. He swept the room with his gaze. “Is there any guest here who thinks they can draw a sword within these walls and live?

“Good,” he said, when the room quieted. “Bran, perhaps it is best to question your cousin concerning this.” Iain faced Glen. “What have you to say?”

Glen snorted. “Jesu, man, what should I say?” He looked from Iain to Bran, his expression incredulous.

“Surely you do not believe the witch?” “I see no reason for her to lie,” Iain said.

“There was something.” The unexpected sound of Jillian’s soft voice silenced the room.

Iain faced her. “Something?”

Jillian nodded. “Jonathan tried to tell me something when I found him. At the time I thought it nothing, the mutterings of a man who knew—” She sat straighter, her face drawn. “It sounded as though he were trying to say something about our marriage.

But I remember…” She paused for a long silence.

Liam’s “Lass,” came too late to stop Victoria as she stepped forward, but Iain caught her arm and pulled her back while shaking his head.

“It sounded strange,” Jillian went on.

“‘Remember marry,’” he said. She swiped at a tear on her cheek. “I thought he was telling me to remember that we were to wed.” A tremulous smile shook the corners of her mouth. “Only, he didna’ say the word quite right. I thought he could not say it, what with…he slurred the first part of the word and drew the last of it out. Not quite marry, but—”

“What babble is this?” Glen nearly shouted. “First this one,” he pointed to Aurari, “tries to cast a spell on us, and now your own sister. For Christ’s sake, Bran.” His voice had taken on an ugly tone. “How

long must we—”

“Silence!” Bran shot Glen a dangerous look, then to Iain, “If he speaks so much as another word, you have my leave to stop him any way you please.” Bran exchanged a glance with Iain before seeming satisfied his meaning was understood. “Out with it, Jillian.”

It was obvious the girl was unperturbed by her brother’s outburst when she forged on without hesitation. “It came out more like murae. Remember muurae.”

“Think carefully,” Bran said, his voice reflecting caution, “could it have been—Murray? As in a name,

love. Remember Murray?”

Jillian frowned. “Aye,” she answered slowly. “That is the word. It sounded just so.”

“Sweet mother of God,” Bran whispered. “’Tis not possible.”

“What is it?” Iain demanded.

Bran waved his hand in a small arc as if to brush away a feather that had floated into his line of sight. “Murray Stewart, we met him in battle not four months ago—or I should say, we were waylaid by him.”

“They lay in ambush for you?”

“Aye,” Bran replied. “We learned the Stewarts were planning an attack on one of our villages to the north. We went there to wait for them, but they never came. I was down south at the time. Odd, but, on the trip home our men were attacked by a company half again in number. Many good men were lost.” Bran paused. “The survivors returned home to find that while waiting in the north, Troquin House had been raided.”

“I remember,” Iain said. “They tried to raze the castle.”

Bran nodded. “Damaged near a quarter of it. We thought it very bad luck so many of our men had been away. Bad luck,” he repeated. “Nothing more.” His gaze moved to Glen.

The astonished look on Glen’s face was replaced by a shrewd light that told Iain betrayal had, indeed, been deep in the heart of Bran’s own bosom.

“Why?” Bran asked. “Your own clan.”

Glen shook his head. “Do you believe I could betray you, my own kin?”

“I would not have thought so,” Bran replied.

“Then why now?”

“Because, Cousin,” Bran’s resigned expression fixed on Glen, “I see it in your eyes.”

Glen looked around the room, his expression a mixture of disbelief and astonishment. “Jesu, man. You are letting the words of that witch turn your brains to oatmeal. You can no more see betrayal in a man’s eyes than you can—” He stopped, his palms moving in front of him as he made an effort to find the right words.

“Loyalty?” Bran offered. Glen shook his head and started to open his mouth, but Bran cut him off.

“Jonathan found out and you had to stop him.”

“I was with you the whole time, Bran. How could

I have stopped him?”

Bran’s mouth twisted into a sardonic twist. “You were not there, but you might as well have been. Who did it, Glen?”

“Bran, Cousin.” Glen gave him a beseeching look. “I am not a man given to fright, but you give me reason to believe I need be afraid. Can you find it in your heart to believe the magic of a witch and the memory of a woman who lost her man? Her mind is not right, Bran.”

Bran growled as an animal enraged and drew his sword.

Iain’s guards reacted in kind. “Nay!” he yelled to his men, motioning them back.

Glen retreated, clearly afraid to draw his own weapon, and Bran backed him against the wall with the point of his broadsword. “You bloody bastard,” he snarled. “She is my sister. How could you do that to her?”

“It was a mistake,” Glen blurted. “No one knew she would be there. I swear to you, I would never harm a hair on the lass’s head. That idiot,” he said, half under his breath. “That bloody idiot, Simon, reasoned she would be the perfect scapegoat.”

Bran’s long reach allowed him to wrap a hand around Glen’s throat while keeping his sword steady. “You know what they did to her.” The words weren’t a question, and though spoken low, his deep voice carried through the room. Bran’s broadsword never wavered as his hand began to tighten around his cousin’s neck. “I willna’ give you the privilege of dying by the sword. The last thing you will remember is the feel of my fingers squeezing the life from your body.”

“Nay, Bran,” Glen’s words were strangled, “you must understand, I did it for you.”

Bran halted, and Iain felt his own rage flicker in response.

“For me?” Bran repeated.

“If you remember,” Glen said, “William was wounded that night.”

Bran released Glen and staggered back. “You helped the Stewarts try to murder our laird?”

There was a low, “Mon Dieu,” from Thomas, and even Iain couldn’t repress a muttered, “Christ.”

Bran shook his head violently from side to side, almost as if to shake the very words from his ears.

“You were meant to rule, Bran,” Glen said.

“What in the name of God are you talking about?” Bran demanded.

“With William gone you would have been chosen.”

“To rule in William’s stead?” Bran looked horrified. “Are you daft, man? The seat would fall to David.” He stopped, and the silence in the room grew even more deadly as he said, “But you knew that, did you not, Cousin?”

Bran’s features drew into a twisted grimace, and Iain wondered how a man dealt with learning in one fell sweep the duplicity a trusted friend was capable of. He shot a look in Thomas’s direction. The even gaze that met Iain’s brought relief. Thomas was as he had always been: friend, brother, ally.

Iain’s attention was forced back to Bran when Bran said, “David Robertson was a part of this all along.” Bran glanced at Jillian as if to say it was all his fault. “Connall,” Bran addressed his other companion. “Fetch some rope and bring half a dozen men with you.”

“You would have taken David’s place,” Glen pleaded, as if the admission somehow shed light on something Bran had missed.

Bran looked at Glen. “You can run if you like. I will not kill you.”

His cousin appeared relieved until Bran added, “I am taking you back to William. I do not care what condition you are in when we arrive, just so long as you still breathe.”

Glen’s hands went limp at his side, and Bran slid his sword back into the scabbard.

The unexpected creak of the postern door sounded, and the occupants of the room turned as Edwin stepped through the doorway. Iain heard the scrape of steel and lunged forward, knowing Glen’s intention even before Glen swung his sword in Bran’s direction.

“Bran!” Iain yelled, throwing himself against Glen’s side.

The force of his weight sent them skidding toward the postern door. Swords whipped from sheaths as MacPherson men leapt to his aid.

Iain recognized desperation in the mighty push Glen gave him. Landing on his back, Iain looked up to find Glen standing over him, sword descending in a fatal strike. Iain raised his arm to protect his face when an Italian rapier crossed in front of him, blocking the broadsword.

Iain rolled away and was yanked to his feet by MacPherson men as Hockley’s rapier beat Glen’s sword back in a few quick strokes. The sword slashed through the air, slicing Glen’s arm from shoulder to elbow. Glen fell to his knees with a shriek of pain.

“Sweet Jesu,” Victoria’s voice came from Iain’s side.

He glanced down at her ashen face, then back at Hockley, who now stared at the two of them.

A movement behind Edwin brought shouts, but Iain’s “Hockley!” came too late. Glen was on his feet, his sword piercing Edwin’s side.

MacPherson men fell upon Glen before his sword left Edwin’s body. Iain caught Edwin, lowering him to the floor.

Victoria fell to her knees in Edwin’s blood beside him. “Edwin!”

Iain looked up and found Thomas staring down at him. Iain shook his head at the question in his cousin’s eyes, but Thomas shouted for a healer nonetheless.

Bran held Glen face down on the floor while another man tied a ruthless knot around his wrists. A moment too late, Iain thought, as he looked back down at Hockley.

Victoria placed an ear to Edwin’s mouth, then turned frantic eyes on Iain. “Sweet Jesu.”

“Why did you do it, Hockley?” Iain asked.

A faint smile twisted the Englishman’s mouth. “It would seem I am not like my brother, after all.”

Iain recalled the warmth of Victoria’s blood on his hands, the weight of her body as she fell dying into his arms. The memory vanished. In its place, he faced the reality of the fading light in Edwin’s eyes.

How many chances did a man get?

Victoria gave a cry, and both men looked at her.

Iain with clear eyes. Edwin, for the last time.