Waves crashed violently against the craggy cliffs and shores below the Mactavish keep. Lightning danced across the black as pitch sky while the wind wailed like some tortured soul from the bowels of hell.

Because of the inclement weather, no one came to sup in the keep. People stayed in their cottages, for no meal, no fellowship was worth the trek out of doors.

Brogan braved a trip to the kitchens to wrangle up a simple meal for he and Mairghread. Though the pathway betwixt keep and kitchens was covered, it offered very little protection against the elements. The wind whipped through, splattering water against his trews, soaking through his boots.

Lowrens and the servants were seated at a long table. When he entered, each jumped to their feet. “Sit,” he said with an engaging smile. “Enjoy yer meal.”

“What can I do fer ye, m’laird?” Lowrens asked as he rose.

“A wee supper fer Mairghread and me,” he replied.

“We would have sent ye a tray,” Lowrens told him.

“We did no’ want anyone to have to brave this foul weather,” Brogan said. In truth, Mairghread was more worried than he.

“Verra well,” he replied. “I will have ye a tray in no time.”

While he waited at Lowrens’ worktable, the rest of the servants had returned to their meal. They were speaking in low, hushed tones. Just what was being said, he could not hear. But the man with the light brown hair muttered, it was causing a bit of a commotion. Two chairs down was a man who looked to be about Brogan’s age. His full beard was a few shades lighter than the dark brown mop that covered his head. But even through all the hair and whiskers, Brogan could see he was not the least bit impressed. Wiry whiskers danced lightly as he worked his jaw back and forth. Clutching his eating knife, his knuckles were turning white.

’Twas apparent the older man telling his story was oblivious to the rest of the people near him. For had he seen the way the bearded man was behaving, he would have shut his mouth by now.

Before Brogan could intervene, the bearded man slammed his meaty fists on the table. A moment later, he was on his feet, scooting the seating bench back, taking the other occupants with it. Startled, they nearly toppled over backward. Soon, they were scurrying off their seats.

“Yer laird be standin’ right there, Phillip Mactavish!” the bearded man exclaimed gruffly. “Mayhap ye’d like to give him yer opinions of his wife, yer lady and mistress?”

The man named Phillip looked up with wide eyes and mouth agape. “Sit down, Fergus!” he seethed in a whisper. “Have ye gone daft?”

Fergus slammed his fist against the table once again. “Ye are naught but a cruel gossip, Phillip. Again, I ask ye if ye’d like to share yer opinion of our lady with her husband?”

Brogan stepped forward, curious as well as angry. Though he had not a clue as to what had been said, it must have been quite foul.

Phillip looked up from his seat, worry and fear etched on his face. “’Twas naught but a jest,” he stammered.

With a raised brow, he waited for a further explanation. “Pray tell me, what was the jest?” he asked, the challenge in his tone evident.

“I,” he started, stopped, and tried again. “Please, m’laird, ’tis naught I wish to repeat to ye.”

Brogan took another step forward. “’Tis a jest ye have no problem with tellin’ everyone here, but naught one ye’d wish to repeat to me?” he asked for clarification sake.

Looking across the table to Fergus, Brogan asked, “Would ye like to repeat it fer him?”

Fergus cast an angry glance at Phillip. “He said he wonders how our lady is able to please ye in bed when her hands be too full of flagons of whisky.”

At once, Brogan lifted Phillip out of his seat and threw him against the wall. Pinning him in place with his forearm pressed against his throat, he seethed furiously. “If ever again I hear of ye makin’ such disparagin’ remarks about me wife, who is also yer lady, I will kill ye. Do. Ye. Understand?”

Phillip fair shook with fear, his eyes bulging in their sockets. Sweat broke out across his red face. Unable to speak, he could only nod his head violently.

Brogan counted to five before releasing him. Bent over, Phillip took in great gobs of air as spit dripped from his lips.

Speaking over his shoulder to Lowrens, Brogan said, “This man is no’ allowed to work in the kitchens again. He may find work elsewhere.”

Turning, he looked at the stunned faces of the rest of the servants. “Anyone who spreads such vile and disgustin’ jests about yer lady will be immediately banished from the keep. If such talk continues, ye will be banished from the clan.”

Although there should not have been a doubt in anyone’s mind he meant what he said, two men, about the same age as Phillip stepped forward. “Ye can no’ banish anyone,” the shorter of the two men said. “Aymer be our chief. Only he can do such.”

The taller man with light brown hair and pock-marked face nodded his agreement.

“Aymer Mactavish be no’ the chief here,” Brogan said through gritted teeth. “Yer lady, Mairghread, is.” He could feel his face growing hot with unmitigated anger.

The shorter man scoffed openly, derisively. Pulling his shoulders back and puffing his chest out like a peacock in rut, he said, “I’ll no’ put me faith in a drunkard.”

Brogan and Fergus lunged at the man at the same time.

Brogan reached him first. The table was in Fergus’s way, so he climbed over it.

No one came to the peacock’s defense. Not even his tall friend who had stood beside him moments ago.

Pulling back his right arm, Brogan plunged his fist into the man’s jaw. He fell backward, tripping over a small stool, and landed flat on his back. A moment later, Brogan had him pinned to the floor, on his back, his tunic clutched in his hands. “In case ye had no’ guessed, that was the wrong thing to say,” he spoke through clenched teeth.

Purple with rage, his eyes naught but slits, he was as angry at this man as he had been at Hargatha. “If ye can no’ give yer fealty to Mairghread, ye can leave.”

Shoving the man down harder, he got to his feet. So angry was he, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

Fergus, just a few inches taller than Brogan, bent over and hauled the man to his feet. Disgusted, he held on to the man’s shirt. “What would ye have me do with this, m’laird?” he asked with a good measure of disgust.

Turning to look at the rest of the people around them, Brogan said, “Anyone who can no’ give their fealty to yer lady, Mairghread Mactavish, fer any reason, will leave now. Pack yer things and go. We will start with him,” he said as he inclined his head toward the man Fergus was holding.

He would not give in to any pleas for mercy. Assuming these men were loyal to Aymer, ’twas too dangerous to keep them here. And if they were simply ignorant fools who could not hold their tongues? He cared not.

Wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his tunic, he went to Lowrens. “Thank ye for the meal.” Taking the tray from the table, he looked back once. “Fergus, I would like to meet with ye after I sup with me wife. Would ye have time?”

“Aye, m’laird, I would.”

Brogan gave him a quick nod and quit the kitchen.

* * *

All the way back to Mairghread’s chamber, Brogan debated on what, if anything, he should tell his wife. He did not want to lie to her and he certainly had no desire to keep anything from her.

He could not blame her people for having a lack of faith in her. They had watched as she nearly drank herself into an early grave. But, damn it! She was the lady of their keep. She was their chief.

It was going to take a long while before she earned their trust again. A long while, and a very long road. All he could do was show his unyielding support for her. Especially when it came to idiots like those he’d just encountered in the kitchens.

Pushing the door to Mairghread’s chamber open with his toe, he went inside and set the tray on the table.

“I hope it be warm,” Mairghread said as she rubbed her hands together. “Aside from settin’ the keep on fire, I do no’ ken what else to do to keep out the chill.”

“It was warm when I left the kitchens,” he said. “But it be a long, wet and windy walk this night.”

Shivering, she pulled her gray woolen shawl more tightly around her shoulders and sat next to the fire. Brogan placed a bowl of warm rabbit stew on the table, along with a small loaf of brown, crusty bread. Once he saw she was settled, he got his own stew and bread and sat across from her.

As she was lifting the stew to her lips, a clap of thunder rang out, rattling anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor. Mairghread nearly jumped out of her skin. “Lord, will this storm ever cease?”

The wind battled against the furs that covered the window, puffing them out like sails on a ship.

“Ye do no’ like storms?” he asked as he tore off a hunk of bread.

“Storms? Nay, storms do no’ bother me. But the hellish beast currently tryin’ to gain access to our keep? That, I do no’ like.”

Brogan chuckled, dipped his bread into the stew before popping it into his mouth.

“Lowrens makes a right good rabbit stew, aye?” she asked.

“I have yet to eat anything that was no’ good,” Brogan said.

Remembering the cider, he got up, grabbed the pitcher and two mugs and returned to the table. Mairghread’s nose curled up. “Will I ever get used to the cider?” she asked as he handed her a cup. “’Tis the truth I have to choke it down.”

She was the first person he’d ever known who did not like cider. “Mayhap on the morrow I can ask Lowrens if there be somethin’ else he can offer ye.”

“Thank ye,” she said as she lifted her mug. “Speaking of the morrow, I doubt ye will get much work done on the wall.”

He glanced at the furs fluttering against the howling wind. “I would wager ye be right.”

“I pray there will be no more delays,” she told him. “I want the wall finished before me uncle returns.”

On that, they were like-minded. Before he could offer his own opinion on the matter, she said, “I want to be the one who boots his arse through the gate.”

He nearly choked to death on his cider.

Mairghread turned her lips inward to quash her laughter. When he stopped choking, she asked, “Ye behave as though ye’ve never heard a woman use colorful words before,” she said with a sly smile.

Once he got his coughing under control, he said, “Usually, when a woman is cursin’ around me, she be cursin’ me to the devil.”

Raising a brow, she asked, “Does that happen often?”

“Unfortunately, aye, it does. Believe it or no’, no’ all women find me as charmin’ as ye do.”

“Think ye I find ye charmin’?” she said, feigning an air of nonchalance.

“Of course ye do,” he said. “Why else would ye have married me? It certainly was no’ fer me coin or me good looks.”

She sat up taller. “What do ye mean? Ye be a right handsome fellow.” She sounded quite serious.

“Ye find me handsome and charmin’?” he asked playfully, waggling his eyebrows and puffing out his chest.

“Handsome? Aye. Charmin’? That remains to be seen.”

* * *

After they finished their meal, Mairghread cleared the table. Brogan added more wood to the fire and returned to his seat.

Mairghread grabbed a blanket from the end of her bed and sat down, draping it across her lap. “I hope Reginald be somewhere warm and safe this night,” she said as she looked into the fire.

“Let us also pray he has found recruitments,” Brogan added.

She nodded slightly as she chewed on her bottom lip.

“Mairghread, there be more things we need to discuss.”

“Such as?” she asked, her eyes temporarily frozen on the flames that danced in the hearth. The heat, the sound of crackles and pops was making her sleepy.

He took in a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly. “I think it be time ye made an announcement to the clan, about ye becomin’ chief.”

Slowly, she pulled her eyes away from the fire to look at him. “I have no’ made a decision yet, Brogan.”

“Certainly ye can no’ be thinkin’ of makin’ yer uncle chief,” he asked with a good deal of incredulity.

“The only way Aymer Mactavish becomes chief of this clan is over me dead body,” she told him.

“Then what decision is it ye need to make?” As far as he knew, there was only one choice, and that was for Mairghread to take the helm. ’Twas her right and duty as heir.

“I want ye to be chief,” she told him matter-of-factly.

Aye, wives were betimes confusing and frustrating creatures. “I have no claim to it, Mairghread. Yer da wanted ye to be chief. Why do ye resist it?” Truly, he was baffled. “Few women are ever given the opportunity that sits before ye.”

“Ye think I should do this for all of womankind then?” she asked as she drummed her fingers on the table.

“In truth? Aye, I do. But there be other reasons as well.”

“Pray, tell me what those reasons be,” she said sarcastically as she rested her chin in her palm.

“Because ’tis yer birthright. A right many women are never given. Because this,” he extended his arms wide, “all be yers.”

“That’s it?” she asked. “Because it be me birthright?” Shaking her head in disbelief, she let out a long breath. “Birthright alone does no’ a good chief make.”

“I was no’ finished,” he told her firmly. After she gave him a nod, he went on. “Ye should be chief because I have witnessed with me own eyes how deeply ye care fer yer people. Ye worry over the servants walkin’ in the rain with our meal, so ye send me. Ye worried over and tended to Gertie and Tilda, as well as the others, when ye believed them ill. I am beginnin’ to see a strength in ye that I have no’ seen in another. It comes from here,” he pointed to his heart. “Ye be a right smart woman, Mairghread Mactavish. Ye will make a fine chief.”

* * *

His words, spoken from the heart, warmed her. With all her heart, she knew he meant everything he had said. She also knew, unequivocally, that he was not simply saying them because of what might be in it for him.

“Ye truly would no’ mind bein’ the husband to a woman who was chief of their clan?” She knew the answer, but wanted to hear it in his own words. “I can no’ think of many men who would be willin’ to step aside while their wife ruled.” In fact, she could bring to mind not a one. Many men, she supposed, might feel their masculinity would be questioned. But not Brogan.

“But I be no’ steppin’ aside,” he reminded her. “I married ye already knowin’ ye were or would soon be chief.”

She felt her eyes grow damp and cursed herself. She thought of James then. Would he still have married her if she had told him she wanted to lead their clan? If she were completely honest with herself, the answer was no. James was a good, generous man. But if she had not told him before he had even officially proposed that she wanted to lead as chief someday, well, that proposal likely would never have happened.

Self-doubt began to rear its ugly head, roaring in her ear that she would make a miserable leader. Too soft in her heart, too kind, and far too forgiving. And God forbid if they ever had to go into battle! She had no idea how to train men to fight. Isn’t that what all chiefs did?

“Brogan, I truly do appreciate your confidence in me,” she told him. “But I fear I would no’ make a good chief. I know nothin’ of warrin’ or negotiations in times of peace.”

Pushing himself to his feet, he came around to stand behind her. He placed a warm palm on her shoulder. “Ye would no’ be doin’ it all alone, Mairghread. I would be right beside ye.”

’Twas the same thing he had told her when she had made the decision to give up the drink. To her very bones, she could feel the sincerity in his words. It felt as warm and sweet as a lover’s embrace.

Before they could discuss the matter further, a light knock came at their door. Who on earth could it be at this hour of night?

She followed Brogan as he went to answer. She was rather perplexed to see Fergus standing on the other side. Water poured off his woolen cowl and cloak, leaving puddles on the floor under his feet. Her stomach lurched for the man had never appeared at her door before. “Fergus?” she asked as she stepped around her husband. “What be the matter?”

Giving her a slight bow at the waist, he said, “Did no’ Brogan tell ye?”

She gave Brogan a curious glance. He simply smiled and said, “I met Fergus earlier this night. I asked him to stop by so we might discuss a few things.”

“Ye be discussin’ kitchen matters at this late hour?” ’Twas odd, to say the least.

“Nay, m’lady wife, no’ kitchen matters,” Brogan told her. “I would like to discuss the possibility of Fergus workin’ with us on the wall. And when that be complete, mayhap he would be interested in helpin’ us to train the men in defense.” He looked to Fergus for his approval.

“’Tis the truth I do no’ like workin’ in the kitchens, m’lady,” he said.

Mairghread could not rightly blame him. “I remember now,” she said. “’Twas by Hargatha’s order last year, when ye injured yer arm.”

Brogan asked for an explanation.

“Ye see, I am used to workin’ with horses,” Fergus explained. “I was breakin’ one to ride and had a right nasty fall. Broke me arm in two places. Seamus, he set the bones. Afterward, Hargatha told the lai—” he quickly righted his mistake. “She told Aymer I could no’ work with the horses anymore and to put me to work in the kitchens.”

“And he listened?” Brogan asked, astonished as well as confused.

“Aye, that he did, m’laird,” he replied.

Brogan looked to Mairghread for more answers. “Why on earth would Hargatha suggest such a thing?”

“The better question is why me uncle listened.”

* * *

“That might be an answer we never have,” Brogan told her. Hargatha wasn’t exactly eager to share any information with anyone. She was especially angry with him, for it had been by his order she be locked away.

“I be certain Lowrens will no’ mind,” Mairghread told Fergus. “I hope he does no’ have too much trouble replacin’ ye.”

“I be certain ’twill no’ be a problem,” Brogan assured her, hoping to stop Fergus from making any mention of what had taken place earlier in the night.

He and Fergus made plans to meet in the gathering room on the morrow. After bidding them good night, Brogan shut the door and turned to look at Mairghread.

“Mayhap, on the morrow we could meet with a few of the men. I think ‘twould be good fer ye to start daily meetin’s with them.”

“Can I no’ leave ye in charge of the wall?” she asked, as she tried to suppress a yawn.

“Aye, ye can,” he said. “But it might mean more comin’ from ye. No’ necessarily as chief, but as lady of the keep.” He had no desire, especially at this late hour, of trying to convince her to make an official announcement, surmising it would be best for her to step into the role gradually. But not too gradually for there was much to be done.

She readily agreed to meeting them as lady instead of chief. “The hour be late,” she said. “And I be tired.”

He, too, was exhausted. He’d had too many sleepless nights of late.

He heard the hesitation in what she said next. “It be an awfully cold night.”

“Aye, ’tis that,” Brogan said.

She shuffled her weight from one foot to the next. Brogan, sensing there was something she wished to say but mayhap did not know where to begin, offered, “Be there somethin’ else ye want to discuss?”

“If ye would no’ mind,” she began. “I mean, well, it be an awfully cold night and the storm still rages.”

It took no keen intellect to reason out what she was trying so hard to get at. “Would ye like me to sleep in here again?”

Looking to her feet, she replied in a low, soft tone. “I do no’ like bein’ alone.”

He could not resist the urge to chuckle. “Lass,” he said as he took a step closer. “Ye never need be ashamed to ask anythin’ of me. We be married, after all.”

Her skin turned a deep shade of red, beginning at her neck and flaming upward. He knew she was fighting an inner battle with herself. It would take some time before she was ready to be a wife to him in every sense of the word. He’d not push nor demand anything of her. For now, he was just happy she had given up the drink and was beginning to confide in him.

“I will step into me chamber while ye ready yerself fer bed.”

* * *

At some time before dawn, the storms that had battered against the lands most of yesterday and last night, finally blew away. Morning dawned bright, with birds chirping at their window.

But ’twas not the birds that woke him. ’Twas Mairghread’s arm she had flung over his chest and the leg across his, that had done the trick. Still in a deep sleep, her head was nestled against his shoulder.

God’s teeth, ’twas a glorious feeling!

But what he would not give to roll over and bury himself deep within her. To feel her naked skin against his own, to bury his face into her beautiful auburn locks. To breathe in her scent, her essence.

Tempted as he was — and he was mightily tempted — he took in a deep breath and carefully rolled away, sitting on the edge of the bed. There would be no more sleeping now, for he was fully awake in all respects.

Quietly, he padded barefoot into his own chamber. After washing up and dressing, he left to begin his day.

He was breaking his fast on bannocks and sausages when Liam and Henry appeared. Bidding him good morn, Henry sat beside him whilst Liam took the seat across.

“’Twill be a muddy mess workin’ in the forest this morn, aye?” Henry said as he chewed on a bite of sausage.

Brogan yawned as he nodded his agreement.

“Any word from Reginald?” Liam asked.

Brogan could not remember how many days the man had been gone. “Nay,” he replied.

“’Twill no’ matter if he brings a thousand men back with him. The progress will be slow if the rain does no’ cease.”

Liam quirked a brow. “It has ceased,” he pointed out.

Henry rolled his eyes. “I can see that,” he said through gritted teeth. “I be no’ a simpleton. The rain needs to stay away for a time.”

Liam chuckled. “No rain in Scotland?” he asked dubiously.

Brogan’s head was beginning to ache. “Lads,” he said, bringing their argument to a halt. “Rain or no’, we must finish this wall as soon as possible. Preferably before Aymer returns.”

Pensively, Henry glanced at Liam before turning to look at Brogan. “Wall or no’, if we do no’ have well-trained warriors in place before his arrival, I hate to think what will happen.”

Brogan had been giving a good deal of thought to that as well. “I do no’ think he’ll be bringing a thousand warriors with him,” he said pointedly. “From what I am told, he left with only twenty men.”

“But how many will Courtemanche travel with?” Liam asked.

“I have only met the Frenchman twice,” Brogan said. “He usually travels with at least one hundred men.”

Liam whistled and Henry looked worried. “But do no’ worry lads. Most of them are servants. The man travels with his bed, linens, and various furniture. Each night, they must set up his grand and spacious tent, serve him a feast fit fer kings, and prepare him a hot bath.”

“Ye jest,” Henry said with a good measure of disbelief.

Brogan chuckled. He had witnessed that particular show of insanity a few years ago. “Nay, I do no’ jest. The man be a spoiled eejit. He could no’ more sleep on the cold, hard ground at night, than Edward of England would stay the bloody hell out of Scotland.”

“Then ye believe we do no’ have to worry?” Liam asked.

“Oh, we need to worry lads. Fer with men like Courtemanche and Aymer Mactavish, ye never ken what they will do. Unlike our weather, they be unpredictable fools.” And that was the most dangerous kind of fool.

* * *

Fergus came to join them at the table. “Good morn, to ye, m’laird,” he said.

“Sit,” Brogan told him with a nod toward the space next to Liam. “And call me Brogan.”

The man paused briefly before sitting. “I can no’ do that.”

“Aye, ye can and ye will. I be no’ laird nor chief nor bloody nobleman.” He detested pretense. “Liam, Henry, this be Fergus. He had been workin’ in the kitchens until late last night. I have asked him to come work on the wall with us.”

The two men scrutinized Fergus for a moment. “The kitchens?” Henry asked a bit skeptically.

“Aye, the kitchens,” Fergus replied gruffly. “Thanks to that auld witch Hargatha. Broke me arm, ye see, a year ago. Breaking a horse to saddle and the bugger throwed me off. Broke me arm in two places.”

Each man listened intently to his story.

“I had auld Seamus set the bones, fer Hargatha would have insisted on amputation, ye ken. Right angry, she was. Went to Aymer, she did. Told him I was no’ fit fer anythin’ but kitchen work now. Said I was a broken man, she did.”

“So they set ye to work in the kitchens?” Liam asked, a bit appalled at the idea.

“Aye, they did. But thanks to our lai — Brogan, I can get out of there and work on the wall.”

“We will be glad to have yer help,” Henry said. “I hope ye do no’ mind playin’ in the mud, because that’s what we’ll be doin’.”

“I have no aversion to mud,” he replied with a smile and a wink. “Played in it all the time as a lad.”

Henry grunted and Liam rolled his eyes, while Brogan ate his meal quietly.

“I heard a few men were asked to leave the keep before dawn,” Liam said, casting a glance at Henry.

“Aye,” Brogan replied.

“Good riddance,” Fergus said as he tore off a bite of sausage with his teeth. “A lazy lot, they is, and loyal to Aymer they be.”

Henry and Liam looked to Brogan for further explanation.

“Fergus be right,” Brogan told them.

“I says we round up all who remain loyal to Aymer, and banish them,” Fergus said with a mouthful of food.

“I take it ye do no’ care fer the man?” Liam asked.

Brogan already knew the answer to that question.

“I do no’ trust the man as far as I can pick him up and throw him,” Fergus said. ’Twas evident he cared not who might hear him speaking so despairingly against Aymer. “I was loyal to Gavin, our lady’s da, may he rest in peace.”

“What of yer lady, Mairghread?” Henry asked. “Be ye loyal to her?”

Fergus glowered at him. “I will allow ye that insult only because ye do no’ ken any better. Ye’re damned right I be loyal to her.” He took a pull of ale before going on. “Never a sweeter, more kind lass ye ever did meet. But that was before her troubles. Before her uncle did what he did.”

All three men raised brows, questioning the full meaning behind that last statement. “Before he did what?” Brogan asked.

“Turned her into a drunk, he did. Convinced her she had killed her own husband and bairn, he did. All the while he kent it was raiders that done it.”

Brogan was still not convinced there had been any raiders that night, but he kept that opinion to himself. “Why do ye think he did that? Convinced Mairghread she had done it?”

Fergus rested his elbows on the table and leaned over. Lowering his voice, he said, “Because he wants to be chief. He kent what a kind-hearted lass she was. He kent ‘twould destroy her. And it almost did.” Leaning back, he smiled at Brogan. “Most of us ken ’twas yer doin’, Brogan, gettin’ our lady to finally give up the drink.”

Brogan grunted dismissively. “’Twas Mairghread who did that. I only helped.”

“Either way, we all be right grateful to ye. The entire keep is talkin’ about it. She has apologized, ye ken, to those she hurt. Takes a right strong woman to do that. I do no’ think I ken a man alive who would do what she has, goin’ around, apologizin’.”

Brogan knew she had been trying to set to rights what she had done while drunk. When he had given up the drink, it had been his father who insisted he apologize to all the people he hurt. He was growing more proud of his wife with each passing day.

Aye, his wife was a remarkable woman.

* * *

In mud up to their knees, the men worked as best as they could under the conditions. ’Twas filthy, back-breaking work, which was made even worse by the exceedingly wet trees. When a man took an axe to one, water that still clung to branches and leaves would splatter them. By noontime, there was not a dry or clean man to be seen.

There were several mishaps, with axes slipping off the wet bark and men falling down in the mud. Before the end of the day, Seamus had to set the bones on two men who had broken fingers from falling, stitches in the head of another when he got too close to a falling branch.

Aye, they were in desperate need of a healer. Brogan approached Liam about asking his brother Lachlan if he would be interested in coming here to act as healer.

“I will send a messenger to him this afternoon,” Liam said. “But I doubt ye’ll be able to pull him away from Clan MacFindlay. In his last letter to me, he seemed quite happy.”

“Then ask fer a recommendation,” Brogan said, a bit more gruffly than he intended. He was beyond exhausted. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in an age. When he was not working, he was doing everything he could to foster a better relationship with his wife.

“Aye, Brogan, I will,” Liam said as he tried wiping the mud from his hands. ’Twas no use, for his shirt was caked with it.

“Be Fergus doin’ a good job?” Brogan asked as he was scraping bark from a large log. Liam was working on a log next to him.

“I think so,” Liam replied. “The man be as strong as an ox. Of course, this be his first day workin’ with us. We shall see how he fairs after a sennight.”

“I hope Reginald returns soon,” he said. His axe caught on a stubborn piece where a limb had been removed. Grunting, he did his best to remove it. “Bloody hell,” he cursed.

Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose. It took several attempts, but he was finally able to get rid of the knot and resume his scraping. Steam rose from his back, a combination of body heat against a soaked tunic and the sun beating down on him. Frustrated, he removed his tunic and hung it over a pile of logs to dry.

No matter how tired he was, he would not be deterred. There was too much to be done and complaining would solve nothing. Though he was mighty glad to see a wagon come up the path. In the back were several women with the nooning meal.

One of those women happened to be his wife.

* * *

Mairghread had been the one to procure a wagon for the women to bring the meal to the men. ’Twas far too muddy and slippery for them to try walking from the keep to the forest, especially when they were carrying baskets of food and flagons of drink. “’Twill do them no good if we drop the food in the mud,” she had told the women.

One of them remarked, “Me Charles will no’ mind. I swear the man would eat anything I set before him. Covered in mud or no’.”

The other women agreed with giggles and nods, for they’d seen the man eat.

With Seamus’ help, a team of fine horses was hitched to a wagon. Seamus even went so far as to volunteer to drive.

Mairghread was looking forward to seeing Brogan, a sensation she was doing her best to understand and become accustomed to. When she had first married him, she had been beset with a good deal of guilt. Guilt over believing she had killed her husband and babe. And guilt for thinking Brogan a good man.

But so many things had changed of late. She now knew she hadn’t killed them. The moment she realized that, she felt the weight of the world being lifted off her shoulders.

Anger and guilt had been as close a companion to her heart as whisky and wine. None of those things had been far from her grasp. She’d been consumed with those four things for years.

Until Brogan Mackintosh walked into her life.

He had set her on the path to sobriety, had proven her innocence in the murders of her husband and son, and now, he was working from dawn to dusk to protect her keep and its people.

Peace of mind and heart, safety, and sobriety. These were all new feelings that betimes caught her unawares in their intensity. Brogan was an intriguing man, a good and kind man.

Her thoughts slipped away when she saw him, there, in the clearing, using an axe to scrape wood from a log. Sweat glistened on his back, and with the sun beating down, his skin seemed to glow. Muscles rippled in his arms and stomach from each swing of the axe. Leather trews clung to thighs — strong, muscular thighs.

She drew in a breath at the sight of him, her stomach flipping and flopping, and it felt as though her blood was growing warmer, spreading the sensation throughout her body. Even to parts that had lain dormant and frozen for three long years: her heart, and parts further south.

Suddenly, she was beset with guilt. She had made James a promise to never take another man as husband. Of course, at the time he was dead and she thought she had killed him.

There was no time to think on the matter further, for the wagon came to a stop. Brogan was smiling at her as he approached. God’s teeth! Did he have to smile so brightly? Did he have to be so bloody handsome and kind and wonderful?

“Mairghread,” he called to her as he neared the wagon. “’Tis glad I am to see ye.”

She was not so certain now, that she was glad to see him. Temptation in a pair of leather trews.

* * *

Taking the basket from her hand, Brogan helped her down from the wagon. “I did no’ think to see ye here this day,” he remarked as he took her hand in his.

“I-I thought…” what had she been thinking? Food. Aye, that was it. Food. “I brought ye a meal.” ’Twas quite difficult to think with him looking so manly, so well-muscled, so…

“I be famished,” he told her as he tried to steer her away from a large puddle. “I fear there no’ be a place fer ye to stand without bein’ in mud,” he said, looking down at her feet.

What he did next nearly set her to swooning. With the basket in one arm, he picked her up with the other. With his arm under her rump, he carried her to the nearest log and set her down.

’Tis no’ fair! She screamed inwardly. Ye made James a promise. It matters no’ why ye made it, ’twas still a promise.

“What have ye brought me to feast on?” he asked as he removed the cloth that covered the basket and peered inside.

Me! Her traitorous heart screamed. Feast on me!

Warmth spread from her neck to her scalp; she could feel it. ’Twas the muscles betwixt his neck and shoulders that were her undoing. Corded, so well defined, it should have been against God’s laws, as well as man’s.

“Mmmm, ye brought bread and honey,” Brogan said as he pulled the items from the basket and set them on the log.

She quit listening after he mmmm’d. Her heart was pounding against her chest and she felt the blood rushing in her ears. Good, lord, she thought. I do no’ ken from where these thoughts be comin’,, but they be dangerous.

Brogan was rambling on about something, she had no earthly idea what, for her eyes were transfixed on the dab of honey in the corner of his mouth. Her thoughts turned darned right wicked, obsessed by the desire to reach out and swipe it away with her fingertip. Her fingers fair itched with a need so profound it was paralyzing.

As she was about to jump to her feet and race away, a great shout broke out amongst the crowd.

“Reginald! Reginald has returned!”

* * *

Ignoring Brogan’s warning of mud and muck, she slid from the log and raced back toward the keep.

“Mairghread!” he called out as he ran to catch up with her. “Wait!”

She did not wish to wait. Waiting meant she would have to look at him, talk to him, whilst her traitorous heart and womanly parts fed her mind with thoughts best left unthought.

Bigger, stronger, and faster than she, Brogan caught up with her. “Mairghread, ye can take the wagon back to the keep.”

“But I need to see Reginald,” she lied to him.

“’Twill be an hour before he be here,” Brogan explained as he brought her to a halt with a tug on her hand.

She felt her stomach tighten. “An hour?”

“Aye,” Brogan smiled down at her. “They were just lettin’ us know he is close to home.”

Feeling every bit a fool, she chastised herself for running away. That is what the old Mairghread would have done. But ye be a woman full grown now, she told herself.

“I should have refreshments ready for his return,” she said breathlessly. “I imagine they will be hungry.”

“Aye, I would imagine so,” he agreed. “We will have Seamus take us back in the wagon.”

We? Stop actin’ like some love-sick lass, she chastised herself. “Verra well. We shall take the wagon.”