“Master of the Highlands?” Gavin rubbed his bearded jaw, somehow managing to appear amused and reproachful in one. “She said that? You dinnae jest?”

Iain frowned. “I ne’er jest.”

“Perhaps you should?” Gavin returned, ever a font of wisdom. “It might do you good.”

“I would be better served if you keep your long nose out of my business.”

“A shame that isn’t possible.” Gavin hooked his thumbs in his sword belt. “Leastways, no’ for the duration of your pilgrimage.”

“Dinnae remind me.” Iain leaned a shoulder against the cold gray stone of St. Thenew’s Chapel and peered up at the wispy clouds scudding across the late-afternoon sky. His fate and the fine mess he’d made of it taunted him from across the now-deserted kirkyard. “I’m aware of every step of this fool journey, and the reason we’re here.”

“Then all is well.” Gavin smiled.

“Indeed.” Iain knew that wasn’t so.

Drawing a deep breath, he glanced at the small, yew-enclosed burial ground. Madeline was there, safely inside its green-shadowed quiet, her fairness hidden by the ancient, sheltering trees.

Iain crossed his arms, his awareness of her so strong he didn’t wonder that his heart beat faster. Although he knew he shouldn’t, he imagined her behind the trees. Partially or wholly unclothed, she’d be washing with the buckets of water he’d drawn for her from the holy well.

He stood here, propped against the chapel wall, many paces away.

Yet…

Somehow her presence reached across the kirkyard to beguile him. She fired his senses, stole his wits, and posed a challenge not just to his long-neglected manhood, but to his needy soul.

Even more so to his MacLean heart.

Annoyed to find himself so smitten, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes, seeking the familiar solace of darkness – if only for a moment.

Sakes, he could even smell her. The light, heathery scent wafted about him, bewitching him with all the subtle mastery of a queen of the fey.

Clenching his fists, his eyes still closed, he tipped back his head and knew the full power of the Bane of the MacLeans. The legend’s might blasted through him like a fierce Highland gale. And that unnerved him more than little else had in all his days.

Even the tinkly, splashing sounds of her ablutions filled his mind with images that scorched him. His old lusty nature tormented him with thoughts of water droplets sparkling on the red-gold curls he knew he’d find between her thighs.

When his mind’s eyes parted her legs a bit, and encouraged one glittering drop to break free and trickle down the tender flesh of her inner thigh, his maleness jerked and stretched, running hard.

God’s eyes! He almost roared, his capitulation to the clan legend underscored by the choked groan that escaped him instead.

“Ho, man…” Gavin thwacked him on the shoulder. “Master of the Highlands, eh?” he said, hammering Iain’s back with the flat of his hand. “Folly, that.

“You’re addled if you expect anyone to heed it,” he added, his words and shoulder pounding shattering Iain’s sensual haze, breaking the witchy spell.

Iain glared at him. “I didnae choose the title. The lass gave it to me. She wanted to honor me.”

“She has good breeding, then.”

“She is on her way to a convent so it scarce matters.”

“Ah, well…” Scratching his beard, Gavin peered at Iain as if he wished to say more but held his tongue.

“Rest assured I told her I am no’ worthy of such praise,” Iain said, the admission a jab to his tattered pride.

Gavin nodded. “She’ll assess ye herself, nae doubt.”

Iain turned aside, drew a hand over his mouth and chin. Gavin’s words irritated him more than they should. Until recently, he hadn’t cared what anyone thought of him.

Now…

Truth to tell, he liked the title and wanted to savor the sentiment behind it if only for a wee bit. It’d been so long since a lass had paid him a compliment or looked on him with admiration.

And this one seemed sincere.

Nae, she was.

He was sure of it.

And that made things worse.

Regret clawing at him, he studied the lichen patterns on a nearby wall until the ifs and might-have-beens in his life stopped mocking him. The moment they did, he slid Gavin a long, pointed glare.

A blazing one piled with all his frustration. “I am no’ some ravening wolf out to pounce on hapless maidens.”

“Did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to.” Iain ran a finger beneath the neck opening of his tunic, wondering at its sudden tightness. “Your face says all before you ever open your mouth.”

“Claiming the lass as your wife before a mob and saddling me with one as well, puts us in a fine predicament, my friend.” Gavin began pacing, his concern mirroring Iain’s own. “The lasses, too.”

“That I know.” Iain scowled. “What choice did I have?”

“There are always choices. You made yours. Now you must make amends.”

“Have a care, lest you push me too far.” Iain strode after the pacing MacFie. “I am many things and no’ particularly worthy, I know. But I am no’ wholly without honor.”

“I ne’er said otherwise.” Gavin looked at him. “Even so, I’ll no’ see you endanger two innocent women.”

“Strike me down if that was my intent.” Iain bristled. “I sought to save them, and did. I ne’er meant to cause them harm or duress.”

“But you have, willfully or nae.” Gavin sighed. “Have you considered how they are to continue their way after your rash claims?”

Iain started to argue, but couldn’t. He had thought about just that. But not until after he’d declared the lass his wife.

Wife.

His wife.

Iron bands clamped around his chest, the two words squeezing the breath from him. Even the day’s light dimmed, the air chilling.

A cold shudder swept down his spine, its iciness blasting him. His thoughtlessness had already cost one wife her life.

He couldn’t imperil another – true wife, or nae.

“I spoke with the older one,” Gavin was saying, his voice coming as if from a great distance.

“What did you learn?”

“Nella is her name.” Gavin glanced at him, seemingly unaware that an invisible storm cloud had blotted the sun. “Nella of the Marsh, and she tells me they are indeed on their way to a nunnery, though she did no’ say which one.”

In a rare show of agitation, Gavin kicked at a clump of grass. He wheeled on Iain, his hazel eyes sparking. “If they encounter any who witnessed your nonsense this day, and we are no’ at their sides, appearing as their husbands, they could fall prey to all manner of trouble.”

Iain blanched, the chill inside him spreading to coat his innards and freeze his bones. Sakes, he actually felt the blood drain from his face, his stomach drop.

Two swift steps brought him nose-to-nose with the MacFie. “Where’er they go, two unescorted women make easy prey. Do you truly think I am too thick-skulled to ken I’ve made them even more vulnerable?”

“I think nothing such.”

“You had me fooled.”

To his amazement, he would have sworn he caught a quirking of MacFie’s lips, but the twitch – or whatever it’d been – vanished in a flash.

“So what will you do to protect them?” Gavin wanted to know, his tone calm as the sea on a windless day, his freckled face once again expressionless.

Bland, and something else that Iain couldn’t put his finger on – and didn’t really want to.

“I will think of something.” Iain winced to note that his words sounded like the wheeze of a strangled man’s last breath.

“We cannae leave them here.” He glanced at the yew-enclosed graveyard. “Nor can we send them on their way. No’ with good conscience.”

“Nae, we cannae,” Iain agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. Mercy, but his skin felt hot, feverish. “They stay with us. For the sake of their reputations, they will travel as our wives. In truth, we will escort them to the nunnery of their choice.”

“And then?”

Iain frowned. “We leave them there. Simple as that.”

“Humph.” Gavin shook his head. “I am no’ keen on any of this.”

“You think I am?” Still scowling, Iain strode to his horse and began undoing the fastenings that secured his pilgrim’s staff to his saddle.

“Have you forgotten we meant to sleep at the MacNab’s tonight?” Gavin came up behind him. “He is a close enough friend of Donall’s to ken you have no’ taken another wife.”

Wife again.

The word chilled Iain anew and brought Lileas in all her fragile loveliness to the forefront of his mind. But then another image rose before hers. The vision of a bold green-eyed minx with a tousled mane of red-gold curls and creamy, coral-crested breasts he wished to all the gods he hadn’t seen. The lass was a plague, her charms tempting enough to undo any man.

Gavin leaned round to peer at him. “MacNab will wonder.”

“So he might. He’s shrewd, could even pepper Beardie and Douglas with questions when they arrive before you.” Iain hoped not. “Living on the arse of nowhere, he has little else to do.”

And he needed to rid himself of the bonnie postulant’s image. So he pulled a hand down over his face, drew a long, cleansing breath. Regrettably, though her image faded, he couldn’t shake the guilt that had come with it.

Not guilt for painting mind-pictures of her charms, but for thinking of the MacLean treasure in the saddlebags Donall’s two seamen guarded with their brawn and steel.

Iain’s head began to throb. Woman of his MacLean heart or nae, he had seen her steal the votive.

She’d robbed a holy shrine.

Yet some deep-seated knowing in the darkest corner of his soul scoffed at his suspicions.

And so he pinned Gavin with his best brother-of-the-laird look.

“You ride to the MacNab’s with the older lass and make my excuses – I dinnae care what you tell him,” he said, waving away Gavin’s protest. “The postulant stays with me. We’ll join you by eventide tomorrow, meeting somewhere along the road, north of the MacNab’s stronghold. The old Fortingall yew would be a good place. Do you know it?”

“Aye.” Gavin clamped a hand on Iain’s shoulder. “But as your brother’s man, I must remind you of the wealth we carry. You bear a great responsibility.”

“I am no’ daft.”

“If she is a thief, she could be tempted if she learned of such goods, could pose a threat.”

“She willnae.” Iain winced at the untruth.

The well-curved lassie presented a tremendous threat. But one that had nothing to do with bejeweled reliquaries and golden chalices. She proved too great a temptation. Every moment with her would test his ability to control his baser urges.

He was a man, after all.

And as a MacLean, his blood ran hotter than most.

“I will ask only once, and thereafter consider my duty done,” Gavin pressed, clearly in his role as Donall’s warrior-in-chief. “Do you trust the lass?”

“I do.” Iain didn’t hesitate. But the speed of his answer stunned him, as did his certainty. “With my life, and with our MacLean treasures.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Gavin lifted his hand from Iain’s shoulder. “I believe her, too. My gut says you can trust her, whate’er reason she gives you for taking the ex-voto. If indeed she tells you.”

“She will,” Iain returned, the need to know suddenly as fierce as his physical lust for her.

Consumed, there was no other word for how he felt. And so he glanced again at the yew trees across the kirkyard, a ridiculous attempt to catch a glimpse of her creamy skin or perhaps a flash of her red-gleaming tresses.

Annoyed by his weakness, he turned his attention back to unfastening the saddle ties.

“We must also speak of your penance.” Gavin folded his arms, proving how annoying he could be. “The lass complicates your task, but changes nothing.”

“Is that so?” Iain gritted his teeth and counted to ten.

“You know I had to mention it.”

“You also ken I am paying for my sins.” Iain kept fussing with the saddle ties. “The good brothers of Duncairn Cathedral shall receive their gifts,” he added, at last freeing the hated pilgrim’s staff. To his relief, the wide-brimmed hat and beggar’s bowl gave him less resistance.

“I shall keep praying for forgiveness at whate’er holy site we happen upon.” He knelt to place the items on the ground at the base of the chapel wall. “But I will no longer disguise myself as a pilgrim, nor shall I deny my name.”

Straightening, he brushed his hands. “Especially before the lass.”

“What will you say when she asks why you are no longer a pilgrim? Or why you continue to kneel at shrines?”

“I will tell her the whole sordid tale before she can ask,” Iain declared, the assertion knocking a few more clumps of rust off his corroded pride. “At least the most of it,” he added beneath his breath.

And regrettably, loud enough for MacFie to hear.

The fiend angled his head, again making clear how seriously he took his duty as Clan MacLean’s highest-ranking tattler-to-the-laird. “What part of the truth will you keep from her?”

The most damning, Iain’s shame roared.

“Why I was so distraught I knocked over the candle-stand,” he said aloud, taking his plaid from his leather travel pouch and flinging it over his shoulder.

He’d also warn her that were she wise, she’d finish washing the grime from her limbs and use the shelter of the yew trees to scramble over the kirkyard wall and flee.

Seize the moment and run for her sweet life.

Run a thousand miles before her Master of the Highlands forgets his blighted touch and claims her for his own.

Claim her for his own.

The words shot through Madeline. A tingling streak of sizzling, molten gold, stopping her in her tracks before she’d taken more than a few steps into the kirkyard, then spinning away before she could even catch her breath.

Almost dizzy, she regained her balance, but the passion crackling behind those few words eddied through her, exciting her.

As did the man.

Even Nella was awed. At least Madeline thought so for her friend had gasped.

Madeline’s heart tilted. She also felt a surge of satisfaction at having recognized the master beneath the pilgrim’s garb.

Those rags, and the accompanying trappings, lay forgotten in the dirt, discarded. He’d exchanged them for the proud plaid now slung across his broad shoulders. Humble no more, he seemed to have stilled the wind and claimed the air, making the ancient kirkyard and everything around them, his own.

His hair glistened. No longer pulled back from his face, it now spilled to his shoulders, black and silky, shimmering as a raven’s wing.

Just looking at him weakened Madeline’s knees. He stirred her so strongly she had to remember to breathe.

His dark beauty captivated her, while the masculine power evident in every inch of his tall, well-muscled body enthralled her, making it impossible to look away.

Not that she wanted to.

Were she less startled by the transformation, she would have smiled. No other man could better fit the style she’d given him.

But she could only stare, too awed to do anything else.

Her Master of the Highlands, whoever he truly was, was simply irresistible. He’d have only to crook his finger and any woman would run to him.

If he desired them, which she knew he didn’t.

He loved only one.

Madeline’s heart pounded, her palms growing cold and clammy as her abilities sent his words crashing through her once again…

Claim her, he’d said or thought, and she’d picked up the sentiment. His blazing need had roared through her, demanding her awareness. How wondrous if he’d meant her and not the woman whose heart he carried within his own.

But that wasn’t so.

And she was making moon eyes at a man she wanted but could never have.

Determined to ignore Gavin’s gog-eyed perusal, Iain blew out a breath and straightened his plaid’s fine, woolen folds until he calmed enough to search his bags for his misplaced brooch.

That, too, grated on his nerves, so he indulged himself by tossing aside the thin leather band Gavin was always pressing him to use to tie back his hair. The lout insisted a man with long, unbound hair would never make a believable pilgrim.

Now the ruse was over.

Enjoying the feel of his hair spilling across his shoulders, he bit back the urge to shout with the glory of his freedom.

It was then that he noted Gavin clearing his throat. And he was doing so in such an exaggerated way that Iain’s nape prickled.

He knew why.

Gavin was warning him.

Sure enough, Iain spun about to find a pair of green-gold eyes staring at him.

Madeline stood a few paces beyond the yews, her friend hovering at her elbow. And he’d been too caught up in his cares to notice her approach.

But she was full aware of him. Her gaze flew from him to his discarded pilgrim garb. Then she looked back to him, taking in his plaid and unbound hair. Her eyes widened and her skin paled. Signs she’d guessed all.

Knew before he could tell her that he was anything but a common miracle seeker.

An unfortunate turn of events any way he twisted it, but one he could have easily mended were it not for the look on her lovely face, the disappointment in her eyes.

Regret, as well.

And that left him only one choice…

He’d have to charm her.

How sad that he wasn’t sure he could.