Deepening twilight, wind, and rain accompanied Iain through the settlement. The worsening weather and muddied road spoiled any appeal the village might have held on a less stormy night. But rumbles of thunder warned of seeking shelter elsewhere.

So he rode beneath the arched gate of the village’s sole hostelry and spied the ale-stake, a long, horizontal pole projecting above the door.

Adorned with bundles of leafy green branches, the ale-stake bobbed in the wind – and marked his chosen lodgings as an alehouse rather than the more commodious and hospitable inn he’d hoped to find.

He reined in beside a pile of cut peat not far from the stables. Glancing about, he surveyed the alehouse’s foreyard.

Chickens pecked at straw scattered across the mushy ground and pigs grunted in ankle-deep muck. The noisy beasts edged near and Iain frowned, sure he’d left his wits somewhere on the moorland behind him.

Right about where he’d spotted the monastery tucked away in a dark wood, and chose to ride on. His hands fisted around the reins, guilt again piercing him.

But he’d so wanted a kiss. Or rather quarters for the night that would’ve proven helpful in gaining one.

Instead, he’d found a wee scrap of an alehouse. A dubious-looking establishment he doubted could offer an ewer and basin of warmed water and soap, much less a private, vermin-free room.

A shudder snaked down his spine, and he glanced again at the wind-tossed ale-stake. His every instinct told him to wheel about, spur his horse, and be gone. To ride away before the lass awakened, journeying the night through if need be.

Wet wind, empty belly, or nae.

But the yellow pools of light spilling from the alehouse’s half-shuttered windows beckoned. More than that, he caught a whiff of deliciously roasted meats.

His stomach growled. Madeline was surely hungry as well. She needed to eat.

He looked at her, something inside him softening. She still slept, leaning so trustingly against him. And her soft, warm weight stirred more than his physical body. She’d pulled Amicia’s arisaid – a MacLean plaid – over her head, using its woolen folds to shield her from the drizzly rain.

That, too, touched him.

Made her seem needful of him, a prospect he found almost impossible to grasp.

Iain MacLean, scourge of his clan, now rescuer of a fair maiden in distress.

In turn…

She made him feel alive again.

He inhaled deeply, savored her perfume. Her scent’s clean, heathery lightness chased the dark from his soul and sent cracks spreading across the hardened casing of his heart.

Blinking, he tried to rid himself of such foolish notions. He was anything but a romantic. Yet the more he sought to banish such thoughts, the worse they became.

The wilder, more bold, and far too hurtful to allow.

He frowned up at the heavens, his resentment at the foul weather almost as great as his scorn for himself. The heavy, gray clouds marred how wonderfully right it felt to have her in his arms.

This time of year, the night should have been still and shining, graced with finest luminosity until the small hours. And had the fates been kind, kissed with enough magic to spare him a dollop or two.

Instead, the alehouse door opened and the proprietor stepped outside, a slop pail in his hands.

The lass awakened then, twisting around to peer at him, her eyes hazy with sleep. “Where are we?”

“Our lodgings.” Iain spoke true. “We cannae keep on. The weather is thickening.”

He frowned as the portly ale-keeper flung the contents of his slop pail onto the muddy ground. The man then tossed aside the bucket and strode forward.

“Ho, good sir!” he called, wiping his hands on a cloth hanging from a wide leather belt slung low beneath his girth.

“Lady.” He dipped his head to Madeline, amiable if a bit ingratiating. “Welcome to the Shepherd’s Rest,” he greeted them, a speculative gleam in his eye. “How may I serve you?”

“We have been riding far and are weary.” Iain dismounted, then reached for Madeline. He eased her off the horse’s back, but kept her in his arms, holding her high against his chest so her dangling feet remained above the wet ground.

“My wife and I require a good meal, decent ale, and your best room for the night.” He started forward, closing the short distance between them. “Private quarters, and clean.”

The ale-keeper bristled. “Meals here are praised for miles around, and many claim I serve the best ale in the land,” he said, holding the door wide as Iain stepped past him into the common room. “But I’m full up for the night – lest you wish a pallet on the floor?”

“That willnae do.” Iain stopped just inside the threshold and glanced about the alehouse’s crowded interior. Smoky blue haze from a low-burning peat fire hung in the air, its pleasant, earthy tang laced with the stronger smell of ale-soaked floor rushes.

Iain turned to the proprietor. “You must have something better?”

“‘Tis a busy night, sir.” The man shrugged, then gestured to his patrons. Flush-cheeked and loud, they filled all but one of the rough-hewn tables – a smaller one near the door and full in the draught of the cold, damp air pouring through the windows’ shutter slats. “You have eyes and can see yourself. Even pallet space will be cramped.”

He turned back to Iain. “Nothing I can do about it.”

“Try.”

“A pallet will serve.” Madeline gripped Iain’s arm. “I told you, Nella and I-”

“Hush, sweeting.” Iain frowned, his mood worsening. “My lady wife will no’ sleep on the floor.”

“I have nothing else, lord.” The ale-keeper hitched up his belt, waited as a serving lass hurried past with a tray of empty ale mugs. “You came on a bad night – for yourselves, anyway.”

And he wasn’t lying.

Even the settles flanking the huge stone hearth proved occupied. And those were most often ignored, the stifling heat thrown off by the fire making the hard-backed settles less desirable seating than the bench-lined trestle tables.

“It doesn’t matter.” Madeline dug her fingers into his shoulder this time. “I can sleep anywhere. As long as we are dry and warm.”

“I can give you extra blankets,” the ale-keeper offered. “My daughter will sweep out a corner before she spreads your pallets.”

“Good sir, pallets are no’ acceptable.” Iain felt his temper rising. “We have had a day of long and hard riding. My wife is tired,” he said with a glance at the black-raftered ceiling. “Are you sure you haven’t a wee niche hidden away abovestairs?”

The ale-keeper gave another apologetic shrug. “Most fancy folk hereabouts make do sleeping on one of the common beds in the back room. But even those are spoken for this night.” He spread his hands. “Six to a bed last count.”

“Perhaps we should ride on,” Madeline whispered into his ear. “I do not want to attract attention.”

“Too late, sweetness.” Iain would’ve laughed if he weren’t so annoyed.

Worse, something in her tone prickled his nape. Trying not to show his ill-ease, he lowered her onto the bench of the only empty table and patted her on the shoulder in what he hoped she’d perceive as a gesture of reassurance.

“The heavens just opened,” he said, and a furious clap of thunder lent truth to his words.

She jumped, stared up at him with rounded eyes. “But-”

“Leaving is no’ an option. We’d be soaked before we left the ale yard.” Iain leaned close, smoothed a damp curl from her brow. “I willnae see you catch ill,” he added, raising his voice above the rain and wind. “Do you no’ hear the storm?”

Before she could answer, he straightened to face the ale-keeper. He also squared his shoulders, assuming his best brother-of-the-laird posture. “Even the humblest of establishments keep quarters for those wishing privacy. Is your Shepherd’s Rest different, then?”

“Aye, well…” A glimmer of interest flickered across the man’s face. “Let me think.”

“Do that.” Iain lifted a fold of his plaid to reveal the leather purse hanging from his waist belt. “It would serve you well if you can provide such a chamber.”

“There is one room,” the ale-keeper owned, eyeing the coin pouch.

Iain let his plaid fall back in place. “Is it clean?”

The man hesitated, moistened his lips. He slid a glance at another serving lass, this one replenishing burned-out candles on the tables. “I will have the bed linens changed. But the room is dear…” He let the words tail off, toyed with the end of his drying cloth.

Smelling victory, Iain fished a few coins from his purse. “I’ll double your profit if you send up a bath and triple it if you make haste.”

The ale-keeper bobbed his head. “I shall see to it as you enjoy your dinner, milord.” He thrust out his hand, accepting the coins. “You shall bathe in rose water and sleep on swan down.”

“See you only that the room is private and suitable for a lady,” Iain said, taking a seat across from Madeline.

He reached for her hand, tried to tell himself his conscience wasn’t glaring at him from over her shoulder – and that the talk of bathing wasn’t the reason for her sudden pallor.

Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “I know you washed at the spring. We need heated water to make the sphagnum tincture,” he said, rubbing gentle circles across her palm with his thumb. “A true bath will soothe your aches.”

“I am fine.” She pulled her hand away. “Save for this pretense. I do not like it.”

“Nor do I, but here we are. Dinnae think I am pleased.” He wasn’t, but not for the reasons she’d suppose. “Mind you, I am a man and a hungry one,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

Pulling a hand down over his chin, he tried again.

“It has been overlong since-” he broke off when the ale-keeper’s daughter plunked a brown-glazed jug of heather ale and two wooden cups on the table. An older woman, perhaps her mother, set down a platter heaped with brown bread, cheese, and a roasted capon.

Iain nodded thanks, but knew greater relief to see them leave.

“Since what, sir?”

Madeline’s sweet voice caught his ear. Odin’s balls, had he truly been about to admit how long it’d been since he’d lain with a woman? Even worse, that his MacLean heart knew her, his soul recognizing hers. That only she among all women could banish the hunger inside him, heal the ache in his heart and make him whole.

A declaration that would have surely sent her bolting from the Shepherd’s Rest and into the stormy night, never to be seen again. The truth was, were he the gallant she’d styled him, he’d warn her to run, to do whatever she could to escape Iain MacLean, hot-tempered scourge of the Isles and killer of innocent wives.

Disappointment to all who knew him.

“Sir?” She reached across the table to tap his arm.

“Aye?” He blinked, her touch sending a jolt of sensation through him. He struggled against the urge to grab her hand and drag her fingers over every inch of his flesh.

Frowning, he shifted on the hard bench, every fiber of his being crackling with the fierce need to share intimate touches with her. He burned to press her hand over his heart so she could feel its thunder and know she stirred more than his baser needs.

Much more.

But for now she was peering at him, round-eyed and curious, and making him ache just to hear her call him by his name.

And to learn hers – her full one, clan ties and all.

“I told you my name is Iain,” he reminded her, lifting the ale jug to pour two cups of the frothy brew. “No’ sir or lord, just Iain - even if you have given me a splendid style.”

He slid one of the cups across the table. “It would please me if you used my name.”

“Iain, then,” she said, taking the cup. Watching him, she sipped the ale. “You haven’t told me what you meant a moment ago, sir … Iain.”

“Only that I am no’ a monk,” he blurted, instantly regretting his words.

“Oh!” Her eyes flew wide. “I see.”

“Nae, you dinnae.” He hid his own embarrassment by slicing the brown bread. “Pardon my crudeness,” he added, his gaze on his task. “I am not known for a silvered tongue.”

He looked up, offered her a thick slice of the crusty, still-warm bread. “You should eat.” He waited for her to accept the bread. “See? I dinnae bite.”

“I wasn’t worried.” She set down her cup. “I have seen your gallantry,” she added, her gaze on a far corner near the hearth. “But whether you are chivalrous or otherwise, it is not seemly for us to share a room.”

“Then we shall make it as much so as we can,” Iain said, and imagined his conscience nodding approval. “I will no’ even peek when you bathe. No’ once,” he promised, and washed down the regrettable vow with a great gulp of heather ale.

“You won’t?”

“Nae.” He almost choked. Had her voice held regret?

Draining his cup, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, and narrowed his gaze on her, trying to decide. But she was still staring across the room.

“You have my word,” he offered, hoping to assure her of her modesty, and bind himself to his pride.

Keeping his word was about all he had left of it.

“I will do nothing in the chamber save tend your abraded wrists and ankles, and keep you from harm.” He watched her closely, at a loss to ease whatever troubled her. “I do no’ break my promises.”

A quick shake of her head was her only response. That, and to wash down a healthy bite of roasted capon with a formidable gulp of ale.

“I do not doubt your word,” she said, low-voiced, the trembling fingers wrapped around her ale cup disproving her.

Iain pried her fingers from around the wooden cup and clasped her cold hand. Tension rolled off her, and while her hand shook, there was a stiffness about the rest of her. And seeing her so troubled tore at his heart.

She did fear him.

There could be no other explanation.

No way to banish her concerns than to humiliate himself.

Taking a long breath, he again caressed her palm with his thumb. Slowly and gently. To soothe her, and to let the smooth silk of her skin settle him.

“I told you I was doing penance,” he pushed out the words, each one heavy sludge dredged from the darkest regions of his soul. “My sin is my temper. Quick-tindered bursts of anger I sometimes cannae control.”

“I understand, and am sorry.” She slid another glance at the far corner, this time keeping her gaze there.

She looked more worried than before.

Iain released her hand, sliced another choice portion of roasted chicken for her. He placed it on her trencher, and watched her dig into it, a different but equally fierce ache twisting his gut.

She clearly hadn’t enjoyed a good meal in ages. She’d devoured most of what they’d been served well before he’d taken a few bites.

Not that he minded, however hungry he was.

He did care to see her so needy. That knowledge fueled a black fury inside him.

Gripping the table’s edge, he leaned forward. “I have ne’er harmed a woman. Nor would I ever do so.” His head started aching when she still didn’t meet his gaze. “Nor have I e’er pressed attentions on a lass who wasn’t willing.”

“It isn’t you.” Her words came as a hush, barely heard above the howling wind, the rattling of the window shutters.

She turned back to him. “It’s me.”

“My temper caused me to topple a standing candelabrum in my family’s chapel. I set a holy place ablaze. The chapel was my clan’s pride. Its loss is the reason for my penance, my journey to Duncairn. I must make amends, and heal my temper-” He broke off when he realized what she’d said.

“You?” He blinked.

“Aye.” She drew Amicia’s arisaid closer about her head and shoulders, so that he could hardly see her face for the shadows cast by the shawl’s generous folds. “My worries have nothing to do with you. They are my own.”

“I see.” He didn’t, not at all. But he didn’t want to distress her, so he just looked at her, waiting.

But his mind raced, so he poured himself another cup of heather ale and tossed it down in one gulp.

“So, lass…” He sought good, sympathetic words, then decided to speak his mind. “As I am no’ a true pilgrim,” he began, plunging onto dangerous ground, “so, too, are you no’ a seeker of the veil.”

He leaned toward her. “Is that no’ the way of it?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence and downcast eyes said enough.

“Do you wish to speak of it?” He sat back, softened his voice. “I am good at listening.” Leastways, for you, his MacLean heart added in silence.

“Nae.” She shook her head.

“How do I know?” He took her hand again, turned it palm upward. “Are you no’ curious?”

“I believe I know.” She tried to yank back her hand, but he held fast.

“I will tell you.” He traced the tip of his forefinger across the underside of her fingers, then down the cup of her palm.

“You have smooth and tender flesh, wholly unmarred,” he said, not surprised to see her flinch at the observation. “Hands that have ne’er seen greater toil than the plying of an embroidering needle. Or the lifting of a wee votive offering. And that, dear heart, we can discuss abovestairs.”

“There is nothing to say.” She turned away. “Not here, not anywhere.”

“I disagree.” Iain was sure he caught the shimmer of tears in her eyes. “We must speak of many things, however difficult.”

Gods, he hated pressing her.

But he had to know who she was, what she was about. And what had brought her to such a dire pass.

Only so could he help her.

He sighed, began massaging the whole of her hand, the base of her wrist. “There are two kinds of true postulants,” he told her, “and, aye, your hands give you away.”

“Think you?”

“Nae, I know it.” Iain let a bit of arrogance into his voice, just enough to keep the edge on her irritation.

And so hold her tears at bay.

As he’d hoped, her eyes narrowed slightly. “What two sorts are there, then?” She met his gaze, heather ale and roasted capon forgotten. “Please tell me.”

“As you wish.” He waited as a serving lass picked up a wooden bowl she’d dropped near their table. “The first,” he continued, “is the gentlebred maid, matron, or widow seeking a sequestered existence for whatever reason spurs the need. The second is the less advantaged young woman who seeks a life – any life – away from the hardships of her own.”

“Why can I not be either?”

“Because you, precious lass, are the third,” Iain said, and hoped his voice held no trace of triumph.

“The third?”

He nodded. “Were you the first, a maid of noble birth sent to retire behind the safety of a convent’s walls, you would have been under heavy escort. Nae family of worth allows a daughter to roam the land unprotected, regardless of her destination.”

She refilled her ale cup, her face expressionless. “And the second?”

“The second could ne’er be you,” Iain asserted. “A common-born lass hoping for a better life would have roughened, work-toiled hands. Yours have broken nails and scratches, but those are only evidence of the hardships you’ve encountered on the road.”

She took a slow sip of ale. “Meaning?”

“You have the hands of a lady. Your skin is too soft and unmarred for a peasant’s.”

“So what is this third type of postulant?”

“A wellborn lady fleeing difficulties,” Iain said, certain of it.

“And if I am?” She watched him over the rim of her wooden cup. “What then?”

“I would know why.”

“Then I must disappoint you.” Madeline sat rigid, did her best not to squirm. She almost wished she could tell him. But she’d already revealed more than she should. “I cannot give you an answer.”

She couldn’t say more.

Not when two of Silver Leg’s men sat in a dark corner, speculating about her identity, their whispered slurs and suspicions louder in her ears than the clapping of the loosely-latched shutters behind her.

“At least tell me your name.” Iain looked at her with such concern that her eyes almost misted again.

Except, Drummonds didn’t cry.

“Come you…” He took her hand again, squeezing her fingers. “Your name is all I ask.”

“I am…” She trailed off, the crudeness rolling at her in waves from the far corner shredding her nerves, and making it hard to speak her name even in a whisper.

Iain stood, coming around the table to join her on the bench. He drew her to him before she could catch breath to object.

“Your name, lass.” He touched one of her curls, encouraging her. “Tell me so I can help you.”

He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Can you no’ trust me? Did I no’ already save you once?”

“Aye.” She nodded.

“Then speak.”

“I am Madeline Drummond of Abercairn.” The truth came out in a rush, even as Silver Leg’s men speculated the same. She knew because their excitement squeezed her chest, filling her with dread.

“Abercairn near Duncairn Cathedral?” Iain was asking her, but she didn’t glance at him. Silver Leg’s men were looking their way, one of them even pushing to his feet.

Iain ran a knuckle down her cheek. “Well?”

“Aye, that is my home.” Madeline heard the hitch in her voice. “But Abercairn is no more,” she said, too panicked to mind her secrets. “It’s been taken, my father killed, and I- I … I want you to kiss me.”

“Kiss you?”

Rather than oblige her, he pulled away. He stared her, looking so stunned, she would have laughed had she not been so miserable, were not Silver Leg’s ruffians so near.

“Aye, kiss me. Now!” She threw her arms around his neck and pressed into him, crushing her mouth to his in her first ever kiss.

A clumsy collision of lips, tongues, breath, and desperation.

Fear of the evil rushing at her from the corner table, and fear of the Master of the Highlands, for he’d abandoned his startled resistance and was obliging her with a skill that melted her. Something inside her broke free, soaring. She clung to him, forgetting time and space. She only ached for more, craving the astounding pleasure he gave her. Sensations powerful enough for her to not care where they were. Indeed, the room and its crowded tables blurred, the patrons’ chatter disappearing.

She was only aware of her quickening pulse and the delicious tingles spilling through her. His kiss filled her with a sweetness so intense she nearly, but not quite, forgot her troubles.

And the other matter that plagued her – a problem that had just taken on direst urgency…

The damning knowledge that Iain MacLean belonged to another.