Two

Colum Gordon was old.

One of his retainers kicked Katherine in the back of the knee when she didn’t offer the laird deference by lowering herself. She stumbled and ended up on her knees, to the delight of the Gordons.

Colum only regarded her from his throne-like chair set on a raised platform. It was covered in a bearskin, and he wore a necklace of the creature’s claws. He snorted when he noticed where her attention was.

“Gordons…” he began in a crusty voice, “prove their worth.”

Katherine climbed to her feet. It gained her a grumble from the men behind her and a grunt from the laird of the Gordons. The old man pointed at the man behind her. “Tyree there wants to hang ye.”

“He doesn’t take being bested well,” Katherine replied. For certain, many would have advised her to grovel, but she’d chosen her path when she left MacPherson Castle in a kilt.

“Ye did nae best me…” Tyree sent her sprawling onto the floor again. This time, she went with the motion, rolling and coming up on her feet. The rope was looped around her chest several times, keeping her arms bound tight to her body.

I am not helpless…

Katherine repeated that several times, using it as a shield to defend herself against the fear swelling up inside her.

“I was not on your land,” Katherine said smoothly.

“But ye are in a kilt,” Colum declared. “And someone has taught ye how to use that dagger like a man.”

He stopped and made a low sound in the back of his throat. His men were contemplating her, their foreheads furrowing as they took in her male attire.

“Unnatural…”

“English…”

“So,” Colum said. “At last I have an answer to why the MacPhersons seem to always best me men.” His eyes suddenly glowed with vicious intent. “For why my son is rotting in his grave and no’ here to lead this clan.”

His men looked to him while Katherine felt her breath catch. She recalled that tone of voice. It stirred the memory of the way the Earl of Morton had sounded so many years before, when he’d ordered her to be wed at barely fourteen years of age.

“The MacPhersons have an English witch.”

“I am not a witch,” Katherine insisted. Her rising alarm brought out her English accent and earned her more than one curse.

Colum listened to the rumble of discontentment from his people for a long moment, the gleam in his eye becoming one of enjoyment that sickened her with just how brightly it glowed. Hatred truly was an ugly thing.

“I do nae care if ye are a witch or no’,” he muttered with a wave of his hand.

His men didn’t like what he said, but Katherine wasn’t relieved because the laird’s lips rose into a twisted grin even more horrific than the enjoyment sparkling in his eyes. It chilled her blood.

“I wondered why I’ve lived this long…” The hall went quiet as the laird continued to speak. “Bhaic MacPherson laid me son, Lye Rob, in his grave. I do nae care why, only that Fate has delivered a woman to me that Bhaic and Marcus call sister.” Colum fingered one of the bear claws. “They took me family, and I will take a member of theirs. Blood for blood.”

“You are insane.” She didn’t mean to speak, but the horrified words slipped past her lips. There was no going back, so she stiffened her spine and took a brazen approach. “You would leave your clan with a feud started for the sake of vengeance?”

Colum scowled at her. “No English bitch is going to lecture me.”

“Someone should,” Katherine insisted, raising her voice so it carried through the hall. “For it will be the women of your clan who are left to mourn their husbands and sons when the MacPhersons extract vengeance for you spilling my blood.”

“Well, now.” Colum leaned forward and pointed one gnarled finger at her. “The good Earl of Morton will be ordering them to stop. The MacPhersons do what that man tells them to, sure enough.”

There was a gleam of unholy victory in his eyes, which sickened her.

“The earl is a long way from here.” She meant it as a warning, but it also served as one to her, because the men around her were not shifting in their stances. There was no hint of any of them questioning their laird.

Colum didn’t miss her rising fear. He chuckled at her, still smiling brightly. “And the beauty of it all is that even should me descendants find themselves answering to the earl, this will be a matter of a witch being burned. Put her somewhere where she can see the courtyard. I want her to watch the pyre being built.”

Tyree was the one who hooked his hands into her hair and dragged her away. Katherine held back the cry of pain and stumbled as he half threw her ahead of him, only to then recapture her and toss her forward again.

But she saw them at last. Those Gordons who did not share in their laird’s bloodlust. They were near the back of the hall, many of them looking away from her, shamed by her circumstances and the fact that they didn’t dare go against their laird’s will.

And then Tyree had hold of her hair again. She’d braided it tightly to keep it under her bonnet. He dug his fingers into it and jerked her along until she heard a door grinding open, the hinges stiff with rust.

“This will do well enough for a witch.”

Tyree kicked her to get her to move inside the dank room. Katherine faced him instead.

“At least I do not make excuses when I am laid low.”

His face twisted with rage and he raised his hand, but something flickered in his eyes. He was suddenly loosening the rope that bound her, pulling it free, and then in the next moment, he stripped her down to her shirt before pushing her into the room.

“A witch does nae need clothing to stay warm.”

Tyree closed the door after his parting shot. Katherine started to tremble as she heard the bar being lowered into place to secure the room. It was pitch-black, raising the tiny hairs along the surface of her skin.

Alone…

She struggled against the memory of being helpless and alone, but in the darkness, there was no defense. She sank down and pulled her arms inside her shirt to try to keep warm. But the true battle was against her circumstances. This time, she’d brought them on herself.

She didn’t regret it.

Couldn’t, because to do so would make her a creature like Colum or Tyree and his followers. Better to center her thoughts on the men she’d saved. Wasn’t it wiser to lose one life instead of five?

Well, perhaps she was just trying to ensure her plight had a purpose that was more than a life full of unkind circumstances. She refused to tumble into that pit of despair.

Refused…

* * *

“I’m thinking ye need to be knocked on the back of yer thick skull again,” Adwin said. “The Gordons will ransom her.”

Rolfe sent him a warning look. “And if they do no’? I am nae content to turn me back on the lass. She put herself between us and trouble. Honor demands we make sure she is no’ harmed.”

Rolfe was silent for a long moment because they all knew there had been plenty of time for her to suffer through the night. He didn’t linger on the thought of what the Gordons might already have taken from her. What mattered was the moment at hand, and there was no way he would be riding home while a woman sat in the Gordon stronghold because she’d shielded him.

“Aye,” Adwin admitted. “Ye’re right, we can nae be leaving the lass’s fate unknown. But who knows what manner of welcome we’ll receive from the Gordons?”

“Leave that to me,” Rolfe informed his men.

They waited until midmorning before they mounted and rode toward the gate of the Gordon stronghold. Rolfe heard the bells being rung at a frantic pace, summoning the Gordons to arms. He pulled up and waited for their war chief to ride out to meet him.

Diocail Gordon hadn’t been raised at the castle. It was only after Bhaic MacPherson had killed Lye Rob Gordon that Colum had brought his nephew Diocail down from the north country because he needed a clear blood heir. No one knew just what to make of the man, except that he was a Gordon—and that was something Rolfe needed to remember. Clan allegiance ran bone-deep in the Highlands. Men who failed to heed that fact often ended up dead.

“Come calling, have ye, McTavish?” Diocail asked.

“No’ on me own account.” Rolfe offered a similar tone of disgruntlement. “Me father is seeking an answer to his letter concerning the matter of me youngest sister wedding a Gordon.”

“Christ,” Diocail muttered. “That father of yers enjoys his alliances.”

“Ye Gordons do nae live as close to the Lowlands as we McTavishes,” Rolfe explained. “Morton is a bastard, and me father wants to ensure he stays off our land.”

Diocail nodded in agreement. “I’ve no’ been told to send ye on yer way, but I’d advise ye to lay yer head some place more Christian.”

It was a warmer welcome than Rolfe had been expecting. The Gordons closed ranks behind them as they rode toward Gordon Castle. But Rolfe’s stomach twisted when he made it into the courtyard and spied a pyre being built.

“Aye.” Diocail came up beside him. “Colum has it in his mind to burn a MacPherson witch.” He pointed toward a small window at ground level. “Even wants her to watch the stake being readied for her.”

Rolfe reached out and grabbed Diocail when the man went to step away. “Are ye mad, man? Colum will be long dead when the MacPhersons come for their vengeance. Ye will be the one who has to live with it.”

Diocail sent him a hard look. “Ye’ll learn something about Gordons, McTavish, and that is that the laird’s word is law. Perhaps ye’ll be better off getting back on yer horse.”

Rolfe made a scoffing sound in the back of his throat. “Me own father expects no less from his men, and being his son means I’d better lead by example. I’ll see Colum.”

“We all do what we must in this life.”

* * *

“I’m impressed.” Adwin spoke softly as he stood near Rolfe. The laird of the Gordons had yet to rise from his bed, so they were waiting for him while the Gordons contemplated them.

“I did nae think ye could manage to get us through those gates without lying,” Adwin finished. “No’ too bad.”

“Me sister will likely not agree with ye,” Rolfe answered. “I believe she prefers a convent to a Gordon.”

Adwin glanced back toward the stake being raised in the yard. “I can nae say I disagree. Nasty bit of business. No lass deserves it.”

Rolfe nodded. He was tense as he held back the instinct to fight. There were too many Gordons and too many retainers on the wall for a straightforward attack. No, this was a fight he’d have to win with his wits first.

But he would win, or he’d be dead before they lit the pyre. His father would likely argue with his impulse to interfere, but his sire had also taught him that honor wasn’t something a man could turn his back on. Whoever she was, her plight was a result of shielding him.

So he wasn’t going anywhere.

* * *

Katherine slept past dawn.

Considering how many hours she’d sat in the darkness shivering, it wasn’t any wonder her body had taken as much rest as it could.

But she awoke to the sound of men building.

The sounds of wood being broken and something being dragged in behind a team of horses.

“Wake up, witch!”

There was a clang as someone hit the bars over the small window. Now that there was light, she could see the mold blackening the walls of the cell. It was no more than four feet by four feet, and she had to stand to see out the window because the cell was mostly below ground.

No wonder it was as cold as ice.

Tyree was peering down at her, fresh stitches running along his jaw where she’d sliced him. His eyes narrowed as he noticed where her attention was. “I brought ye a good stake. Sturdy and strong enough to last long past yer last breath.” He smiled at her. “I’m going to make sure the lads set it deep, so when ye burn, it will hold fast and keep ye there for the flames to lick. We’ll keep the fire low enough to ensure ye are alive for a good long time.”

She felt the blood drain from her face, and he laughed at her horror. A moment later, she saw his knee as he pushed up and went back to the yard.

Do not look.

Katherine wanted to deny her captors the entertainment of her fear, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from moving toward the window. She had to lift her chin so she could peer out, and when she did, she felt as if her heart had stopped.

But Fate was not so merciful.

No, as she took in the sight of the Gordons digging a hold for the stake, she felt her heart begin pounding hard and fast, as though her body was trying to force her to keep living. She turned around, looking at the cell, frantic for any means of escape. Suddenly, the bitter cold was banished from her limbs as she sought the strength to survive.

All she faced were stone walls. She could see the places around the bars in the window where others had tried to scratch their way to freedom. With only the bars, she heard every sound of the pyre going up. Just as Colum wanted.

Well, she had to think hard and not abandon hope. Marcus had allowed her to train, and she would be more than a frightened female.

She would.

* * *

Colum peered at Rolfe, but didn’t speak until one of his men brought him a mug of ale. He drew off a long sip that left foam in his beard before he cleared his throat loudly enough for the kitchen maids to hear.

“Aye, I have the offer,” Colum exclaimed. “What I do nae have is a son.”

Bitterness was thick in the old man’s tone. He drew off another sip before slamming the mug down on the table in front of him.

“May the MacPhersons rot in hell for taking me Lye Rob.” Colum’s eyes brightened. “I’ll be paying them back for the loss. Ye’re in time to see it, McTavish. I’ve been handed the means to even the score.”

“If ye are speaking of that stake yer men are putting up in the yard,” Rolfe said clearly, “I want no part of it. Especially since ye’re telling me the woman is no’ a witch, only a MacPherson who had the poor luck to be brought to ye.”

Colum’s face twisted in rage. “She was wearing men’s clothing and…using a dagger like a man. What is that if not the doing of Satan?”

“Spirit,” Rolfe declared. “I think I’d like a look at her.”

“Ye can watch her burn,” the old laird snapped before going back to his drink.

“I meant what I said,” Rolfe replied. “I’ll not have any part of it. The McTavish name will not be associated with any witch burning where there has been no trial.”

“She cut one of me men.”

“More than one lass keeps a dagger in case of men who try to do them harm,” Rolfe explained. “I assure ye, me sister does, and I’m the one who showed her how to use it. That is no’ witchcraft. It’s good sense.”

“Aye.” Diocail Gordon surprised Rolfe by adding to the conversation. “One man’s pride should no’ be a deciding factor. Tyree should learn to drink less when he’s planning on riding out.”

There was a roar from the retainer. Tyree stomped forward, a few of his friends closing ranks behind him to make their support clear. He faced off with Diocail, leaving no doubt that the clan was headed for a split when Colum died. The strongest contenders for the lairdship were gathering.

“No one wants ye here,” Tyree informed Diocail. “Go back to the north where ye belong.”

“My father was Colum’s brother,” Diocail declared loudly. “I am a Gordon.”

“Yer mother took ye away,” Tyree declared. “Ye have no’ served this clan.”

“And ye call burning a lass a service?” Diocail asked quietly. “Only to yer pride, man. I’m wise enough to know it will start more trouble than the Gordons need. Ye are a fool to dismiss such facts.”

Tyree snarled and lunged at Diocail. For all his quiet demeanor, Diocail moved quickly. He dove and dipped and came up with Tyree locked in a choke hold.

“Enough!” Colum roared.

Diocail hesitated for a long moment before turning Tyree lose. The retainer gasped, rage flickering in his eyes.

“I’ll write yer father,” Colum informed Rolfe. “And ye can take the message and be on yer way before I get on with Gordon business.”

There was a crack of thunder so loud it nearly shook the walls. A moment later, rain started to pelt the windows of the castle. The women ran to close the shutters as hail started to come down. A frigid wind gusted through the open doors of the hall, blowing the tapestries. It was bone-numbing, with more than one woman lifting her hand to cross herself.

Colum visibly shivered. For a moment, he looked frailer than before, his joints locking up as he tried to stand but fell weakly back into his chair. And still, the gleam of hatred burned in his eyes. Rolfe offered him a nod before he turned and left.

If the lass was going to live, he’d have to find another way to free her.

* * *

The Gordons took full advantage of their laird’s frailty and the storm that kept them inside. Drink flowed freely, and before long, the retainers clustered around Colum were drunk. Rolfe only played at drinking. It was a game a wise man perfected early in life if he didn’t want to wake up in a ditch with an empty sporran and no boots.

“It seems to me…” Tyree said, “that the witch shouldn’t die a virgin.”

There were snickers in response.

“I think I should give her a taste of a real man,” he continued.

Rolfe knew enough of the man to know he wasn’t going to stop, and there was no one willing to interfere. It was clear the majority of the clan was hanging back, waiting to see whether Tyree or Diocail would eventually be laird.

Rolfe looked at the fading light and exchanged a look with Adwin. His captain nodded and left.

“Finally leaving, McTavish?” Tyree asked. “It was only a bit of rain.”

“We’re going,” Rolfe declared. “I’m tired of waiting on yer laird’s letter.”

“Piss off,” Tyree declared. “Keep yer sister.”

Rolfe turned and left. His men fell into step beside him as he waited in the lengthening shadows of the passageways. Gordon Castle was an older fortification that clearly hadn’t seen much in the way of improvements in the last two decades. Bits of rubble lined the walls, and the stench was strong from the men urinating on them instead of using the jakes. More than one clan still clung to medieval ways, but Rolfe was grateful the McTavishes didn’t.

Today, though, the conditions of the Gordon clan would be to his advantage. The retainers were lax and allowed to do as they pleased. For the moment, that meant a great number of them were drinking in the hall with Tyree.

The staff seemed accustomed to such evenings, because the older women had ushered all the younger females to places unknown hours ago. That left the passageways empty and the wind still howling through them through broken shutters that should have been repaired. But with no one insisting that the men put in a full day, many of them didn’t.

There was a burst of laughter from the hall, and Rolfe recalled himself to his purpose. He sent half his men toward the stables to saddle the horses. The rest stayed with him as he made his way to where the cells were. In the semidarkness, he had to slow down, because water was pouring in through the windows, making the floor muddy.

* * *

She was freezing.

Katherine laughed at the twist of fate. How very perverse to be saved from burning by an ice storm. The wind came through the window in frigid blasts, the hail hitting her no matter where she moved. There was an added cruelty to the place: whoever had built it had made it face north, toward the coldest weather.

Mud and water and debris from the yard came down the wall, filling the room until she was shin-deep in freezing muck. Time crept along, losing its meaning because she couldn’t tell what time of day it was with the clouds so dark. Outside, the stake was in place, but all work had stopped as the hail came down with fury.

She found herself looking at the door, willing it to open. When it did, she stared at it in disbelief. Clearly she’d gone mad, and that was disappointing, because she should have liked to believe she was strong enough to last more than one day before insanity claimed her.

Yet it had, because as the door opened, she blinked, seeing Rolfe McTavish before her.

She shied away from the thought, wanting to cling to sanity, to life. He lifted his hand, beckoning to her.

“Come with me, lass.”

His voice was soft now, enticing. It was so tempting.

“Tyree will be coming next, and what he plans is not pleasant.”

It was Tyree’s name that cut through to her. She jerked and blinked, and Rolfe was still there. She was still so cold it hurt, which made her realize she was not awash in the fold of insanity.

The insane did not feel pain.

But she did. So much of it that she clamped her jaw shut to keep from moaning. It was true agony, but Rolfe was waving her forward and she leaped toward him, slipping right through the door before he moved, without a care for how improper it was to brush against his body.

Freedom from the cell was the only thing that mattered.

“Hold up, lass.”

Rolfe was right behind her. He reached out to cup her shoulder and she wrenched free, stumbling along the passageway as her heart pounded with the need to escape. There was no other thought in her mind, and her blood was roaring in her ears now.

He jerked her back, pulling her into the shadows as he listened for any approaching footsteps.

“Easy now,” he offered in a low voice.

His body was hard and warm. It broke through the strange bubble surrounding her mind, allowing her to think. The impulse to run was still strong, but she clamped her jaw tight and forced herself to stand in place as she listened.

The Gordon stronghold was as close to hell as she had ever been.

She turned and looked at the man behind her. She’d wondered if she’d imagined how big he was, but her head didn’t quite reach his shoulders. The night was new, and the moon hidden behind the clouds made him seem even more a creature of shadows than the previous times she’d encountered him.

She wondered what he looked like in the light of day.

A hoot and a round of laughter sent a bolt of dread straight through her, for she recognized Tyree’s voice. He was coming down the passageway, heading for the door of her cell.

“Witch,” he declared as he pulled the bar up. “I’ve come to make yer last night a memorable one!”

He was laughing, but the laugh died as he looked into the cell. “Bloody—”

The shadows shifted, and Tyree was suddenly slumping onto the floor with a splat as he hit the mud and muck. His companions had a similar fate. Rolfe’s hand had tightened on her, keeping her in place.

Diocail Gordon locked gazes with Rolfe for a long moment before he looked ahead of him and walked on as though they were not there.

“Go.” Rolfe pushed her forward, breaking her thoughts as she once more focused on the task of escaping.

It wasn’t hard. They emerged from the cells with the use of a narrow set of stone steps that led up into the courtyard where the stake was standing silently in the darkness. Katherine’s belly roiled, making her grateful the Gordons hadn’t fed her because she didn’t want to have to take the time to retch.

She welcomed the cutting cold. With only her shirt on, it was bitter, and she decided she loved it because it meant she was still alive.

“There, lass.”

Rolfe pointed toward his men. They stood beside their horses, many of them swinging up into the saddles as they saw their laird coming. Katherine flexed her fingers, praying they wouldn’t fail her now. She was so close to freedom, something she hadn’t thought would be hers.

She grasped the side of the saddle, pushing off the ground and using the muscles along her midsection to help pull her up. Rolfe didn’t seem to trust her strength, staying beside her and pushing her up with one big hand on her backside that sent a rush of heat across her cheeks.

He was gone a moment later, appearing again on top of his horse. The animal was a full two hands taller than her own, and it danced as its master reached down to pat its neck. Rolfe looked forward, raising his fist into the air. His men reacted instantly, closing ranks around her and riding toward the gates.

Katherine felt time slowing down again. She felt the connection of each hoof as it hit the ground and moved with the motion of the animal beneath her, leaning forward with the need to urge the horse faster. Yet their progress seemed slow, as though the space between her heartbeats was a small eternity where she was left to endure the torment of seeing the open gate while knowing the stake was behind her.

And then they were through the gate. Relief rushed through her, leaving her sagging in the saddle.

She couldn’t collapse now. She drew on the horror that had squeezed her tight during the day, pulling from it the strength she needed to taunt the specter of death and Colum’s vengeance. It was a sweet thing. A victory unlike any other.

Of course, she hadn’t done it alone.

Not that it mattered.

In fact, she discovered she didn’t care a single bit for the circumstances of her deliverance. Life was sweet, and she preferred to revel in the knowledge that hers wasn’t going to be ending any time soon.

The rest of it… Well, the devil could take the details.

* * *

“We need to rest the horses.”

Rolfe pulled up several hours later. His men cheerfully slid from the backs of their mounts and lifted their kilts to relieve themselves. Katherine left her horse drinking from a stream and moved off a way to deal with her own business.

But Rolfe was watching her when she started to return. He’d stopped and directed his attention enough away from her to afford her some measure of privacy, while making it impossible for her to move past him without being seen. Of course she needed to have words with the man. It was only decent, and having so recently tasted the manner of treatment she might be subjected to at the hands of men who held themselves to no standard of conduct, she was loath to lower her standards, even if all she longed for was to swing back up into the saddle and ride until she was back at MacPherson Castle.

“I owe you my gratitude.” She spoke clearly, making sure she did not flinch in tone or posture.

“Ye’re a bloody fool to have ventured out again in male clothing,” he cut back, turning to face her. He was on the high ground, making him appear even more hulking and imposing.

Katherine set her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. “If I had not, you and your men would have been discovered, and would likely be dead now.” She maintained a respectful tone of voice, but that didn’t mean it was lacking in strength. She would not allow him to undermine her confidence.

“Me men fight very well, lass.”

“You were outnumbered more than two to one,” she reminded him. “And the Gordons were looking for blood.”

He was still for a moment and offered her a nod of agreement. Katherine returned it and started to move past him. He stepped into her path.

“Who are ye?”

It was a question, yet edged with the tone of a demand. She decided it was simply his way, for the man had a presence about him. Tyree thirsted for that kind of respect, but would never have it because the Gordon retainer didn’t understand that respect, true respect, was earned.

Rolfe knew that fact, and he didn’t care for her silence.

“Ye wear MacPherson colors, but ye are English.”

“I am.”

Rolfe was suddenly too large. She didn’t care for how aware of him she was. It was unseemly, and the timing was horrible. Fine, she would accept that she was a woman and perhaps prey to the feelings all females seemed to have trouble controlling, but not at the moment. Such things would simply have to wait.

Her emotions paid her no heed.

“Yer name, lass.” He’d crossed his arms over his chest. “Do nae make me ask again.”

“Katherine.”

She didn’t care for how quickly she answered, but chided herself for allowing her temper to rise. It was her name, and there was no reason to deny him such—unless she was simply being peevish. She owed him better than that for the service he’d provided her.

Which stirred a memory.

“Diocail let us go.”

“Aye,” Rolfe agreed. “I was glad of it, too. I would no’ have enjoyed killing the man.”

“Tyree would have been a different matter entirely.”

Rolfe snorted at her words. “What the devil is Marcus MacPherson thinking to train ye like a lad?”

She tried to go around him, but he stepped into her path again. “Do nae insult the man by denying it. No one wears MacPherson colors or rides a horse out of their gates without his knowing, and I’d say ye’ve been training for a good many years. Why does he allow ye in his training yard? There is no way he is ignorant of it.”

A tingle went down her spine, one that was pure enjoyment. Words were easily spoken, but she’d impressed Rolfe with her skill. Something she’d earned.

“I might ask why not?” Katherine responded.

Rolfe chuckled, only it wasn’t a happy sound. It was a male one that offered her a promise of his opinion being different from hers.

“For one reason: the facts of what happened there in the Gordon stronghold. Being a lass means ye are prey to more than a man might be.”

“You mean to a man’s bruised pride.”

“Tyree’s was bruised indeed,” Rolfe agreed with her. “And it nearly got ye burned at the stake.”

A lump decided to form in her throat right then, and it wasn’t easy to swallow. Rolfe didn’t miss her struggling to cast off her horror.

“Aye, it should stick in yer throat, lass. Ye’re damned lucky I was here to go in after ye.”

She scoffed at him. “You are the fortunate ones, for without me, there would have been plenty of McTavish blood spilled under the moonlight. I distracted them so they never saw you.”

“That stubborn nature of yers is going to get ye killed yet.” It was a grudging agreement. Something she had come to expect among burly Highlanders.

“It kept me alive for the last day, so I’ll be content and bid you good-bye. I’ve a mind to make it back to MacPherson land.”

“I do nae think so.”

“It is not for you to consider at all,” Katherine replied. “I belong on MacPherson land.”

Rolfe shook his head. “Nae, ye’re English, and ye have nae told me who yer sire is. The MacPhersons took ye from somewhere.”

“They saved me,” she said, her voice full of emotion.

“From what?”

Katherine felt a tingle on her nape. For all that Rolfe McTavish had rescued her from a horrible fate, the fact was that he’d been creeping about in the night, looking to toy with the MacPhersons, and he had held Helen for ransom just after her wedding to Marcus. As far as Highlanders went, he was a rogue—in every sense of the word. Standing firm was the only way to keep a man such as him from making her his next prize. Well, and making sure he didn’t have any reason to believe she was worth anything.

“I have thanked you, and now I tell you good night,” she said firmly, attempting to end the conversation.

“Tell me yer name now or later.” He closed the distance between them, sending a twist through her insides. “I will know who ye are.”

“Not if I am on MacPherson land.”

“Ye won’t be,” Rolfe informed her. “Ye are coming back to McTavish land with me.”

“You have no right to do any such thing.”

“That is exactly the point ye need to absorb.” Rolfe edged closer. “When ye venture out away from yer home, ye have no rights, except for the ones ye can ensure through force. There is strength in numbers. Marcus should have taught ye that, woman.”

He really was a beast, both in size and thinking. She stepped to the side, but he followed her, unfolding his arms to make it harder to evade him.

“Forgive me.” She tried a different approach. “I thought you a man of honor, unlike the Gordons.”

His lips curled up, flashing his teeth at her. “Compliments already, Katherine?”

“More of a reminder,” she offered softly. “As a hope that you shall not disappoint me by continuing with this rough treatment. I wanted to thank you, and I have. The fact of the matter is, we are both in each other’s debt. An honorable man would accept that and allow me to depart.”

“Honor comes with knowledge.” There was a hard edge to his voice that Katherine knew came from bitter lessons learned the hard way for all of the best reasons.

“Marcus MacPherson has done ye a disservice by no’ teaching ye to think of others before riding out into the night alone. Even I was no’ out by meself.”

That was a hard truth. She nodded and tried to let it be enough of an admission to soothe his need to instruct her. The urge to leave was growing, making her restless and suddenly so aware of the fact that she was standing there in nothing but a shirt and boots, with a man who seemed to notice far too much about her.

“Ye’ll taste rougher treatment if I allow ye back to a place that clearly lets ye do as ye please without any regard for the men who might have to fight to defend ye,” he stated firmly, his tone telling her he was becoming more and more set in his thinking.

“Stop it,” she instructed him. “I am not any of your kin, so concern yourself with those you share blood with. They are the ones you owe your attention to. Not me.”

“As ye said, lass, ye did keep me men from having to fight.”

“And you have freed me from the Gordons,” she was quick to point out. “We are even.”

“No’ while I know ye are returning to a place where ye will be free to venture into danger whenever ye take the whim to,” he declared. “Ye can get on yer horse or I’ll put ye on mine, but ye are coming to McTavish land.”

“I most certainly am not.”

In her agitation, her speech reverted back to pure English pronunciation. But her actions… Well, those she’d learned during her time in the Highlands. Katherine stepped back, widening her stance, and prepared to defend herself.

She was not going anywhere with the beast.

* * *

Tyree came awake as a bucket of water hit him in the face. He jerked and snarled, flipping over and knocking his knees against the stone floor of the passageway before he gained his feet.

“So,” Diocail Gordon greeted him, “ye thought so little of the lass’s powers that ye decided to have a go at her?”

Tyree looked around, trying to decide if he’d finished what he’d set out to do by coming down to the cells. The door was open, and Diocail was not alone. Some of his men had torches that allowed Tyree to see into the cell.

“Oh, aye,” Diocail said. “She’s gone, and I doubt Colum is going to be too happy about it. Or pleased with the men who lifted the bar.”

“Someone laid me low,” Tyree responded. “I never had the bitch.”

“Ye deny that ye left the hall after declaring ye were intent on making sure she did nae die a virgin?” Diocail questioned.

Tyree hesitated. His wits were clearing, but he recalled his brazen words well—along with the fact that someone had knocked him in the back of the head. But Diocail was smart. The man had plenty of witnesses.

Tyree decided on a new tactic. “Told ye she was a witch.”

“I am no’ the fool who thought to let me cock get near her.”

Tyree snarled at the word fool, but the men surrounding them only shook their heads at him. Diocail had planned the moment well, so Tyree would have to suffer through it.

But he would gain his recompense. On that Tyree was very sure.

Diocail had better sleep lightly.

* * *

“What the devil?” Cedric declared.

Rolfe pressed Katherine into his man’s arms before he swung up and into the saddle.

“Let’s ride, lads.” He gestured to Cedric. “Hand her up, and mind her feet. She has a wicked kick.”

“Is that what happened to ye?” Adwin asked as he held the horse steady by the bridle and Cedric lifted Katherine up while she fought. Her arms were bound tight to her torso by one of Rolfe’s wide belts.

“Never mind what happened to me.” Rolfe scooped Katherine’s writhing form out of his retainer’s arms and clamped her in front of him on the horse. “Just know we’ve got us a prize to show for our time away. An Englishwoman to ransom.”

Katherine snarled around the strip of wool that he’d used to gag her, and his horse danced in a circle as she struggled. Rolfe clamped his arms around her tightly as his men mounted their horses. He set his heels into the sides of his horse, and the animal happily took off toward home.

Katherine was the only one who argued against it, grumbling against her gag. Rolfe ignored her, keeping his arms locked around her as he headed away from MacPherson land.

“Hate me as ye like, lass,” he offered next to her ear. “But I’ll not close me eyes and wonder if ye are suffering some horrible fate because Marcus MacPherson allows ye to behave like a hellion.”

* * *

“Gone?” Colum’s eyes bulged. “Curse and rot yer prick! I should have it cut off ye!”

Tyree faced his laird, his hatred festering as he was forced to remain silent while the rest of the clan looked on, feasting on his humiliation.

“She’d transformed into a white stag,” he declared. “Ran me into the wall.”

There was a ripple of fear from those watching. Colum clamped his mouth shut, taking a moment to think.

“A witch for certain.” Tyree spoke directly to his laird. “Now ye know the truth of why the MacPhersons are undefeated in battle. They have a witch.”

“I’m a man, no’ a lad,” Diocail spoke up. “And I’ll no’ be frightened by tales best left to old women around a winter hearth. Ye were in yer cups and went down to rape her. More than one saw ye stagger out of the hall. She managed to cut ye when ye were sober. It’s little wonder she left ye drooling on the floor when ye tried her while drunk.”

“She transformed!” Tyree declared louder. “Unless ye are calling me a liar, Diocail Gordon.”

“I call ye a fool,” he replied calmly. “And if ye want to fight over it, I am yer man.”

“Enough,” Colum said. “Ye’ve both failed me.”

The hall went silent, people leaning forward to see what the laird would say. Colum pointed at Tyree. “Ye were in yer cups. Too many say so for it not to be true. Ye’ll get fifty lashes on that stake, and ye…” Colum pointed at Diocail. “Ye’ll get the same for no’ making sure the gate was secure, for the walls were yer duty last night.”

There was a shift in the hall as those who had pressed forward subtly moved back in an effort to withdraw from their laird’s direct sight. Colum sniffed as he noticed it.

“I will no’ be made a fool of!” he declared, his voice cracking with age. “I am laird of the Gordons! Me son will be avenged! I demand it of ye!”

His voice was only an echo of what it had been in his youth. All around him, his hall was falling to ruin, just as Colum himself was. His clan was thin and tired of his cries for vengeance.

But Colum Gordon still drew breath, so they followed his commands. Diocail felt his stomach turn. He’d been raised by his mother to dream of the day he returned to the Gordon towers and took command of them. He was glad she hadn’t lived to see the ruin the clan had fallen into. Some men didn’t live long enough, and others—such as Colum—lived too long.

Let the old man sentence him to some lashes. Diocail would never be sorry he’d made sure the little lass was free.

* * *

Rolfe McTavish was warm.

Deliciously so, considering Katherine wore only a shirt.

She tried to avoid thinking about how he kept her warm, but as the miles dropped behind them, her temper cooled as exhaustion took command of everything in her world. She simply didn’t have any strength left to nurse her wounded pride. For certain, she was furious with him for taking her hostage, but it paled in comparison to the fate that would have been hers at the hands of the Gordons.

So by sunrise, she faced the first rays of light with gratitude.

Rolfe kept them moving with only short breaks for the entire day.

He lifted his hand and called a halt once the light began to fade. He handed her down to one of his captains and slid off the back of his horse next to her.

She’d never seen him by light of day. The sun showed her a head of blond hair that complemented his green eyes. His face was cut and chiseled, declaring him a man who didn’t sit at the high table indulging his appetites while his men toiled through the daylight hours. She knew the difference better than most because England was more forgiving to such nobles. They became fat and slow, two things Rolfe McTavish certainly was not.

His captain released the belt holding her arms, and she stepped away from Rolfe, shooting him a scathing look as she yanked the gag off. Her jaw was stiff from the thing and her tongue dry as ashes.

That comparison tempered her thoughts, keeping her silent as she decided not to blister his ears.

She would be ashes without his aid.

So she turned and walked behind an outcropping of rocks to relieve herself.

But her restraint didn’t last when she caught sight of Adwin taking a position on the high ground above her. The captain had his back to her, but he was clearly there to ensure she didn’t make a run for it. Coming back around the outcropping, she watched as Rolfe tied her horse to his with a length of rope. He finished with a hard motion of his hand and turned his back on her before hiking over a ridge to seek his own privacy.

It would be a long walk, but she shifted back a step and then another, intending to drop back behind the outcropping of rocks that she’d just come around.

Adwin caught her by the upper arm and pulled her toward the other men.

“Release me,” she insisted.

“No need to be so agitated, lass,” the captain said before allowing her to shake off his hold. “It’s just a bit of ransom. Unlike with the Gordons, no harm will come to ye. Now sit down and rest while ye can.”

One of the men patted the ground next to him.

“I didn’t think you were feuding with the MacPhersons.”

“We aren’t.” Rolfe had returned, and she jumped because the man was right behind her. She ended up facing him and took a step backward.

Katherine felt her eyes narrow. Christ! Fate was having a merry time with her, it would seem! Why now, of all times, did she suddenly develop an awareness of men?

“We’re needling them,” Adwin informed her in a voice edged with experience. “Ye’ll be well and treated fine. Ye’ve put up a decent fight, enough to satisfy yer honor. Now sit. No one wants to truss ye up.”

“Excellent,” she responded. “In that case, I will be on my way since we seem to be finished with this ‘needling.’”

Rolfe was watching her, a glitter in his eyes that promised her an argument.

Or something else that she wasn’t all too certain of. She decided she didn’t want to know because her belly was twisting as though she was anticipating something.

“Can nae expect an English lass to understand,” Cedric spoke up. “Best keep a sharp eye on her.”

There was a murmur of agreement among the McTavish retainers. Many of them had lain back and rolled themselves in their plaids to catch a bit of sleep.

“Settle here, lass.” Adwin tried to cajole her once more. “We’ve no plaid to spare, so we’ll put ye between us to keep ye warm.”

“I will not—”

The last word was barely past her lips when Rolfe scooped her off her feet. Another one of those startled, feminine sounds escaped her lips before he put her exactly where he wanted to. What grated on her nerves was the amusement his men gained from it. But flipping over in her agitation only made her shirt ride up her thighs. She froze as she tugged it down, and Rolfe took advantage of the moment, lying down next to her. He turned his back to her, and Adwin started scooting toward her until she was wedged tight between them.

Oh, it felt good.

She tried to find some reason why she should resent it, but the truth was that she would be peevish if she continued to suckle her anger.

Not that she had much choice. Now that she was warm, exhaustion took over, ripping her away from everything except her need to rest.

* * *

The McTavish stronghold had two main towers. A long building connected them, and once Rolfe pulled her inside, Katherine realized that the great hall was inside it. There were more refinements here, making her think of England. More tapestries on the walls, the scent of beeswax candles lingering in the air, and chairs with backs. There were still a good number of benches to help accommodate the large number of retainers sitting at the tables for meals, but there were also clusters of chairs with wide seats and armrests placed around the hall.

She understood the reason for those chairs when Rolfe brought her before his father. Laird McTavish was missing part of his leg. The wooden peg was only visible when he stood because the rest of it was hidden inside a boot.

Only a laird would have a boot made for a peg. It was an extravagance, but Katherine admitted that the hall appeared to suggest that the McTavish could afford such things.

“What have ye brought me, Rolfe?”

Katherine found herself facing a man who was clearly Rolfe’s sire. He had the same huge frame along with green eyes. His people began to gather around, aiming curious looks at her, and she resisted the urge to tug on the bottom of her shirt.

“Katherine,” Rolfe answered his father. “I found her wearing the MacPherson plaid like a lad and she will no’ tell me her father’s name, but she is English. So I brought her home after stealing her from the Gordons.”

There was a round of laughter from the McTavish.

“You have neglected to mention how I prevented you and your men from being taken by those same Gordons.” Katherine kept her voice even.

Laird McTavish’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his son. “Ye were seen by the Gordons?”

“The lass stepped between us,” Rolfe explained. “The Gordons should be grateful for that. Instead, they decided to burn her as a witch as a strike against the MacPhersons for Lye Rob’s death.”

Laird McTavish grunted and lowered himself into one of the chairs. Katherine caught a flicker of distaste in his eyes as he was forced to remove his weight from the peg.

“Colum is a fool to be seeking vengeance. Lye Rob lost a fight he started. When ye steal a man’s wife, ye have to expect any decent Highlander to come looking for yer blood. Bhaic MacPherson was within his rights, and I’d have called him a dishonorable coward if he’d failed to meet the challenge of having his wife stolen. An unbedded bride is one thing, a wife altogether different.”

There was a ripple of male agreement around them.

“Do ye have a husband?”

Katherine realized where Rolfe gained his sense of authority. Laird McTavish embodied the same, and she found herself shaking her head immediately. Unlike Tyree Gordon, neither Rolfe nor his sire struck her as undeserving of respect.

“A contract?” Laird McTavish leaned forward as he pressed her.

Katherine discovered herself hesitating to answer. He didn’t care for it and slapped the arm of the chair.

“Either ye do, or ye do no’. Speak up.”

The McTavishes didn’t care for her silence. There were hard looks sent her way as more men arrived. She resisted the urge to squirm. Wearing men’s clothing was something she’d willingly decided to do. There would be no shrinking from it.

“I have not seen my father in over ten years,” she answered smoothly. “I am bastard born.”

There was a reaction to that announcement, but it was not as great as it might have been in England. The Scots were a bit more practical when it came to what side of the bedsheet one was born on. To their minds, blood was blood. With or without the church’s blessing, it was still a tie that could never be broken.

“Who is yer sire?” Laird McTavish asked bluntly.

“It does not matter. His newest wife was quite clear that I should expect naught from him.”

Laird McTavish slowly smiled. “The fact that ye are no’ willing to tell me says the man is important.” He considered her for a long moment, sweeping her from head to toe. “Aye, ye have the look of nobility with that fine pale skin. And the MacPhersons have allowed ye to run wild. That tells me no one wants to cross yer blood.”

“You are simply disappointed,” Katherine spoke softly. “It is understandable, yet I have spoken the truth.”

Laird McTavish was chuckling. He suddenly slapped the arm of the chair and looked at his son. “When ye brought Helen Grant here, was no’ there some mention of Morton trying to force a bride on Marcus MacPherson?”

Rolfe shifted, his expression darkening. “Aye. A girl too young for marriage.”

Laird McTavish contemplated her for a long moment, his lips slowly curling into a grin of victory.

“Well done!” Laird McTavish declared. “The Earl of Morton may be willing to pay more for her than the MacPhersons. Put her abovestairs.”

Katherine felt hollow. The security she’d felt in Scotland melted away as easily as sugar in the rain. Someone gripped her bicep, and she didn’t bother to look at who it was. The two towers were on either side of the hall.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, point the way. I certainly have no wish to go back to your hall,” she groused at her guide as she was smashed next to him in the narrow stairway.

A thick finger appeared in front of her in response. She forced her feet to move, recalling Marcus’s words that choosing one’s battles was wisest. If there was no clear path to victory, better to bide your time and wait for better circumstances.

She’d be ready when they arrived.

* * *

“Ye should have told me who yer sire was.”

Katherine wasn’t expecting Rolfe.

She turned and found him standing behind her in the chamber. His men were outside in the hallway.

Waiting to bar the door.

She couldn’t stop the shiver that went down her spine in response.

He contemplated her for a long moment, looking as though it bothered him to see her upset.

“Why?” she asked. “So you could celebrate your victory sooner?”

“I would have risked taking ye back to Marcus.”

His expression implied that he was serious, but she only saw what she longed for. “I doubt that.”

His jaw tightened as she questioned his word. Katherine stared straight at him, making it clear she wasn’t going to shirk from his displeasure.

“I would no’ have risked ye being given back to the Earl of Morton,” Rolfe said softly.

“It is ever so simple to apologize once deeds are done.” She’d meant to cut him with her words, but all she did was send another chill across her skin as she recognized how dire her circumstances were. She had spent years having nightmares about the Earl of Morton and the way he viewed her as a thing to be traded for what he wished.

It is better than being burned at the stake…

She held tight to that thought, yet it was difficult to accept that as a blessing. She turned her back on Rolfe, needing to maintain some sort of poise.

“Ye know why I did no’ take ye back to Marcus.” Rolfe wasn’t willing to be dismissed. “He allowed ye to act foolishly.”

“No more so than you.” She turned back to face him.

Rolfe shook his head, his expression serious. “Yer fate at the hands of the Gordons would have been horrible, but over soon. The repercussions of it, well, they would have claimed lives for years. Marcus could no’ have let it pass, no’ when ye were under his personal protection. It’s becoming clearer why he trained ye. The man is no fool, and he knows the English have few friends in the Highlands. There would have been a feud.”

He started for the door but stopped before crossing the threshold. “If ye can nae think of the men who would fight to avenge ye, then ye are still a child, Katherine.”

He sent her a hard look before he let his men close the chamber door.

He was right.

She detested the facts and the harsher side of Fate for not making her see the truth in some easier fashion. But life had never taught her any lessons the easy way.

Today was no exception.

* * *

The crack of the whip was a sound every Gordon knew.

As Colum grew older, whippings had become more frequent. Tyree watched as Diocail took his punishment first. The damned bastard had boldly jerked his shirt off and walked up to the stake without waiting to be ordered to it. He was holding on to it, his back crisscrossed with red stripes.

Somehow, he’d managed to transform a punishment into a reason to gain respect.

Colum sat in his chair, which had been moved outside for the spectacle.

He needed to die…

Laird or not, it was time for Colum Gordon to join the son he couldn’t seem to forget. The Gordons needed a strong laird, and Tyree planned to be that man.

“Fifty.”

Diocail let go of the stake and turned to face the men watching. His face was red, but he growled before striding off as though nothing pained him. The blood dripping down his back should have made a liar of him, but the men who watched him leave all wore expressions of respect for his stamina.

An idea started to form in Tyree’s head. Fortune favored the bold, and the Lord helped those who helped themselves. So maybe it was time to plan Colum’s death and make certain Diocail was the one blamed for it. Without a clear successor, the matter of choosing the next laird would come down to a vote, and the Gordons would not vote for a murderer.

Yes, it was time to plan his future.

Which would begin with Colum’s death.

* * *

“Ye’re no’ pleased with me.”

Rolfe considered his father and nodded. “The Earl of Morton is a bastard. Ye know it. I would no’ have brought the lass here if I’d thought ye’d be doing business with him.”

Inside his father’s study, Rolfe could speak his mind. His father eyed him, torn between admiring Rolfe’s courage and being annoyed with his son for questioning him.

It was a look Rolfe saw more often than not.

“Look around ye.” His father opened his fingers and fanned them around the room. “Ye have a fine inheritance, and make no mistake, it came from yer kin making choices with their business sense.” His father tapped the top of his desk with his forefinger. “But that is no’ what is eating at ye, boy.”

Rolfe stiffened, earning a chuckle from his sire.

“That’s what I thought,” William McTavish declared. “Ye’ve got a whiff of her in yer nostrils.”

“Father—”

“Do nae deny it.” William snorted at him with a grin. “Truth be told, she stirred me member as well. What with her in naught but a shirt so that every man among us might glimpse those tempting tits.”

“That is no’ what we are discussing,” Rolfe insisted.

His father roared with laughter, throwing his head back and letting his voice hit the ceiling. Rolfe made a sound under his breath that was less than respectful.

His father sobered. “Aye, back to the business. She is that, my son—business. Do nae go soft on me.”

“Ransom her to the MacPhersons, and ye’ll have yer gain.”

“And what will ye get from that bargain?”

Rolfe was caught off guard by the question. His father was serious.

“Ye brought her here, and I’m grateful for the respect ye show me beyond that door, but she’s yer prize. The clan will expect ye to get as much as ye can for her.”

“I’ve told ye what I want done with her.” Rolfe knew better than to answer quickly. His father had a razor-sharp mind.

“But no’ why ye argue with me,” William responded quickly, a suspicious look in his eyes. “If she did step between yer men and the Gordons, why did ye no’ allow her to go free? I can see that ye would have decided it was an even exchange. Yet she is here.”

His father knew him well. Rolfe stared back at the gleam in his sire’s face.

“The foolish chit almost started a feud,” Rolfe replied. “She needed to be taught a lesson.”

“Ye’re no’ her kin or her husband to be thinking of her education. Here, she is a prize.”

Rolfe drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She did put herself between the Gordons and me men. We were outnumbered, and that’s a fact.”

His father absorbed the knowledge and held silent as he contemplated what it meant.

“So,” Rolfe continued, “I would appreciate it if ye did nae contact the Earl of Morton. Katherine needs a lesson, but I owe her a measure of gratitude.”

His father nodded. “Off with ye, then.”

Rolfe tugged on the corner of his bonnet before he left the study. William McTavish waited until his son was gone before he looked up to see his half brother emerging from the shadows.

“What say ye?” William asked.

“I think ye needs be careful how ye go,” Niul responded. “Rolfe will nae forgive ye for forcing this issue easily.”

William snorted. “He barely knows her.”

“Does nae matter,” Niul replied. “Ye know Rolfe has a sense of honor that is no’ going to be pushed aside.”

His half brother sent him a knowing look that made William shift in his seat. William remembered well his desolation after losing his leg. His pride has been damaged as well as his body. His son had been the one to force him to emerge from his chambers.

“Aye, and yet Morton is the regent. The man rules Scotland in all but name. We have more to lose than the MacPhersons if the man is angry with us. The march from Edinburgh to McTavish land is much shorter.”

“James is growing up,” Niul replied.

“But he’s been raised by Morton,” William cut back. “And do nae forget that Morton is a Douglas. Even if the man loses his head, there will be plenty of his kin to remember who their enemies are. And before ye tell me that Morton knows naught of the girl, remember that secrets never stay hidden for long. Rolfe snatched her from under the Gordons’ noses.”

Niul nodded. “Aye, that tale will spread far and fast. So discover who her sire is. He must be important, or Morton would no’ have tried to force her on Marcus.”

William’s face suddenly lit. “Brenda Grant would know. She was there. Go up to Grant land and see what that woman has to say.”

Niul scoffed at his sibling. “The way I hear, Brenda Grant answers to no man since her escape from Morton and court.”

William waved his hand. “Use that handsome face of yers. Let her think ye’ve arrived to pay her court. Her damned cousin will no’ make a match for her that she does nae approve of. For all that I hear, Symon Grant is a man to be reckoned with. I wonder why the man is soft concerning the women of his house. And if she’s fool enough to be completely taken with ye, bed her quick.”

Niul grinned. “Ye can be sure I will. Wedding her, on the other hand… I’ll leave the business decisions to you.”

William chuckled at his brother’s humor. Niul liked women, and he had the devil’s luck when it came to his features. The lasses flocked to him. Niul enjoyed it full well, as any man should. William was forever having to deal with Niul’s cast-off lovers trying to gain recompense and acknowledgment of his bastards. None of them had succeeded so far, because William would protect his bloodline for Rolfe. Recognizing bastards would only lead to splits in the clan.

And he would do what was best to ensure his son inherited more than William had. It was the truest test of a laird: to increase his holdings and make certain his son inherited.

But there was one thing William didn’t have, and that was a noble title. Indeed, it was fine to be a laird in the Highlands, but in the more modern world, noble titles carried weight. Morton might bestow one of those, and that would be worth a great deal.

Even worth a fight with his son.

Anger faded, but a noble title… Well, that was something that stayed. William rang the small bell sitting next to his desk. A few moments later, there was a shuffle of feet as his secretary came into the study.

“I need a letter written to the Earl of Morton.”