Shakier than he’d ever been in his life, Iain sat on a rough-hewn long bench at Cormac MacFie’s high table and clenched his fingers around his wooden ale cup. Nella’s flustered revelations swirled through the bluish haze of the peat smoke, each word spilling more light into the darkness in his heart than all the brightly flaring torches in his unsuspecting host’s great hall.

Her own choosing.

Needed elsewhere.

Wishes only his happiness … even at another woman’s side.

Closer and closer they came, teasing, ethereal wisps of the spoken words. Disturbing and exhilarating in one, their portent curled round his neck, slipped past his shoulders, and finally slid lower to wrap around his chest and squeeze his ribs until he could hardly draw a single breath.

Nor could he touch the succulent roasted meats and other savory offerings Cormac’s well-meaning wife had piled upon his trencher. Grateful to be off his feet, he cast a cautious glance down the table to where Nella conversed quite calmly with Gavin and their host.

She seemed to have recovered from having seen a ghost.

Iain’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t be sure he’d ever get past the shock of having heard from one.

Lileas or nae.

Sensing his gaze, Nella looked his way, gave him a slight nod. Her assurance that, as she’d promised belowstairs after he’d come to, no one would ever learn from her what she’d revealed to him.

Or that he’d passed out on the cold stone floor of Cormac’s undercroft.

Despite his jellied knees and still-quivering innards, he was much relieved. He, too, had no wish to air the matter.

Not with anyone, never again.

So he returned Nella’s nod, pleased to know their agreement was sealed.

He just hoped she recognized the depth of his appreciation for she hadn’t just shared an experience that truly unsettled her. Nor had she simply passed on a message. She’d banished the last of his doubts and guilt.

She’d breathed sweet life into his soul again, and he could fall to his knees and weep with the wonder of it.

For the moment, though, he contented himself with raising his ale cup to his lips and downing the frothy brew, a fine heather ale. He just hoped no one noticed how badly his hand shook.

Or that he hadn’t touched the dinner spread before him.

Truth to tell, he’d lost his appetite for meat and drink.

He only hungered for his lady.

His bane.

She sat beside him, her hip and thigh grazing his, and sakes but he reveled in the sight and scent of her.

He craved the feel of her.

Fire glow from the hall’s many torches caught in her hair, gliding the braids she’d coiled above her ears. She’d already changed into a new gown of fine linen. A simple kirtle with a low-dipping bodice, it offered a tantalizing peek, through the opening of sister’s arisaid, at the shadowy cleft between the lush upper swells of her breasts.

But it was the arisaid that made his heart smile, warmed him through and through. Held in place at the shoulder by a round brooch of smooth-polished green and amber pebbles, the shawl’s soft-flowing folds molded to her curves.

The MacLean plaid looked so right on her. The sight sent clan pride beating through him.

More telling still…

Unlike the untouched food on his trencher, he did hunger for her.

He ached for her with a ravenous, all-consuming need. A ferocious urge to leap to his feet, sweep her into his arms, and run with her abovestairs, taking the winding steps two at a time, claim whatever pallet – or bed? – their host provided, and then make her his at last.

Nothing else would do.

The gods knew he’d waited a lifetime for her.

Now he was free.

And he burned to love her. To claim her so thoroughly, so hotly, he’d fire her passion with his own, not stopping until they were both so sated, so drained, that neither could lift a finger, and his name was branded all over her, inside and out.

He wanted to touch her in ways that went far beyond the physical. Love her until their breaths mingled and became one, their hearts beat in tandem, and their very souls melded.

Pulling in a ragged breath, he allowed himself another glance at her breasts as he topped his ale cup and took another gulp of the potent brew.

Och, aye, he wanted her. He needed to be so close to her neither of them could say where one ended and the other began.

That was his wish and he’d make it happen.

This very night.

“A ruse is good!” Cormac’s booming voice shattered Iain’s lusty reverie, banishing each delectable image like so many faint ripples against an incoming tide.

None too ready to relinquish them, he turned to Cormac.

“The best strategy, aye,” Iain agreed. “No’ a new trick. But we will make it work for us.”

“I am glad to hear it!” Half-rising from his chair, the garrulous MacFie chieftain looked to him from the far end of the table. “A proper taking of Bernhard Logie with or without a sizable host would prove harder than making rain fall upward!” he declared, sweeping all present with a sharp eye as if challenging them to deny it.

“He is wily as a fox,” he finished, slapping his palm on the table. “His heart colder than a Norseman’s hell.”

Iain plunked down his ale cup, leaned toward him. “You ken the bastard?”

Cormac snorted, dropped back into his chair. “Enough to say he must be met with his own tricks,” he said, and tossed back the contents of his own ale cup.

Slamming it down, he dragged his sleeve over his mouth and chin. “God’s eyes, I wish I didnae ken the snake! But he is known hereabouts.” He leaned forward, gripping the table edge. “See you, his own holding isnae far from here – or what was his until the Bruce took it from him for his support of Balliol and the Sassunachs. The place is rubble now.”

“Ne’er was worth a passing glance even before he lost it,” someone else put in.

A swell of agreement rose from the others at the table.

“Logie’s keep was less grand than mine.” Cormac fell back against his chair. “But he had dungeons cut so deep in the rock beneath it, ‘twas said one night in such a hellish place would curdle the devil’s own blood.”

“Pits, he had, and used ‘em,” another joined in from the next table.

“He even put a woman or two to rot down there,” Cormac’s wife added with a shudder.

“Rumor was he did that because he didnae like the color of their eyes!” Cormac slapped the table again, his eyes sparking.

“He ought fret o’er the shade of his own eyes and worry if the demons in hell will approve, for he’ll soon be meeting them,” Gavin called out from where he now stood across the hall with Nella. “The man’s hours are numbered.”

Iain tossed him a look of thanks. He knew why Gavin predicted Logie’s doom. A glance at Madeline confirmed it.

No longer eating, she sat rigid, her gaze fixed on some distant point across the smoke-hazed hall.

It was time to see her abovestairs.

Time for lots of things.

Iain eyed their host. He burned to ask the MacFie chieftain to spare him a few good men. They needn’t be his best fighters. The men he hoped would cause a disturbance – a distracting ruckus - at Abercairn’s rear wall needed but a strong set of lungs and the will to clash together any bits of metal that would make a mighty din.

But Gavin had forewarned him that, although ever bold in spirit and eager to welcome any and all to his table, Cormac and the few who abided beneath his humble roof had suffered a spate of horrendous hardships in recent years.

Fever, flooding, and failed crops had taken a toll on his numbers and strength.

So Iain stared up at the smoke-wreathed ceiling for a moment and counted his blessings. They were growing by the day, and he was indeed grateful. Then he pushed to his feet, relieved that his knees no longer felt like wobbly jelly.

He looked down the high table, caught his host’s eye. “It has been a long and hard day, and my lady grows weary. I would see her abed now,” he said, and lifted his glass, nodding to their host.

“Thanks be to you and yours, Cormac MacFie, for making us so welcome.” He smiled round, then downed what ale remained in his cup. “We are indebted to you.”

“Nae need, that!” Cormac heaved his bulk to his feet. “The pleasure’s mine, MacLean,” he declared, and thrust his own ale cup high in the air. “May God go with you on the morrow!”

Madeline stood as well. “I thank you, too, good sir,” she offered, her voice sincere, if quiet. “The finest of blessings on you and your house for your warm hospitality.”

“Your lady wife kens the chamber I’ve given you for the night,” Cormac called after them as they crossed the rushes, making for the turnpike stair. “‘Tis small, but clean and with a fine rope bed big enough for two. Aye, you ought sleep well – if ye can do so with such a bonnie lass beside ye!”

“Pay him no heed,” Iain spoke above her ear, his voice just loud enough for her to hear above the laughter brought on by the chief’s parting words. “He is deep in his cups.”

“Ho, MacLean! Wait you!” Cormac boomed then, halting them before they could start up the winding steps.

He sounded anything but befuddled.

Iain turned. “Aye?”

Still on his feet, the big man indicated his kinsmen with a sweep of his arm. “See you, my friend, we are but a few and I cannae field many either. But I’m of a mind to help you bring down thon hell-spawn you’re after,” he announced, looking mightily pleased.

“You wish to send along men?” Iain’s heart lifted, hope swelling inside him. “Do I understand rightly?”

“Ye do!” Cormac flashed a bearded grin. “God’s shame on me if I meant otherwise.” He clutched a hand to his heart. “When you leave here, my best men ride with you.”

“My thanks, good friend,” Iain said, his voice thick. “I shall use them well.”

The excited buzz of Cormac’s kinsmen followed Iain and Madeline up the narrow turnpike stair, and from their eager voices, it was clear they’d lain idle too long. They would relish a good fight.

Iain understood.

He, too, had idled overlong. Lain inactive, withered, and bored. Unhappier than a man should ever be. But unlike that of Cormac’s fired-up kinsmen, his relief would come before the dawn.

At least he hoped so.

Oh, how he hoped.