“Aye, in a blazing tar barrel!” A high-pitched female voice rose above the other cries, the woman’s glee joining the excitement of Madeline’s tormentors, their fired-up eagerness to see her burn whirling so quickly in her breast its wild spinning made her dizzy.

“That’ll teach her to steal from shrines,” another voice boomed from the crowd, a man’s this time.

“Thieving, and light-skirted, too, no doubt,” a thin-faced woman sniffed. “A brazen whore hiding in a nun’s trappings.”

The taunts came from all directions, as did Nella’s ceaseless shouts at their captors as she struggled to break away from the two burly men restraining her.

Terror closing her own throat, Madeline shut her eyes to the sea of leering faces. The jeers pounded so loudly in her head she feared it would burst before they even shoved her into the pitch-lined barrel.

Her eyes snapped open when rough hands yanked her arms behind her back, and a man’s large, callused fingers began tying her wrists together with a length of coarse rope.

Biting her lip until the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, she kept reminding herself that Drummonds died with dignity, the men with a sword in their hands, the women without complaint.

She would not dishonor her people by being less bold.

So she kept her chin raised, her back straight, and prayed for a swift passing.

Blessedly, the increasing chaos in her head and the dizziness soon blocked out the taunts. As if by a wonder, the crowd, and even St. Thenew’s stone chapel and well faded into a haze of soft, thick gray.

A cloaking mist that shielded her from all but the fierce hammering in her temples, the rumble of approaching thunder, and the odd roll of the earth. And it was then that she felt it…

The familiar fury, dark and livid, ferocious enough to sweep her length and banish every last shout of the scolding mob.

Her heart skittered, something inside her recognizing this man’s anger. The rage aimed not at her but those who’d do her harm.

Her eyes flickered open. The haze was beginning to thin, the trembling of the ground and low growl of thunder now identifiable as the drumming of horses’ hooves nearing at swiftest speed.

“Mercy!” the onion-breathed man tying her wrists gasped. “‘Tis the devil come to fetch his own!” he shrieked, shoving her from him with such force she slammed into the hard and rocky earth.

Sharp pain exploded inside her, her breath leaving her in a whoosh of air. The man nearly tripped over her as he scrabbled away, eager to be gone.

Stunned and windless, Madeline lay where she’d fallen, the ropes binding her wrists and ankles preventing any movement even if she’d had the breath to try.

“Enough!” his voice pierced the haze. “Touch her again and the lot of you shall dangle from a gibbet by nightfall,” her shadow man roared, plunging his horse into the crowd.

Scattering them, he reined up in a welter of fury and wild-eyed, shrieking horseflesh. The horse reared high, his lashing hooves a warning to any fool not fast enough to spring aside.

Neighing protest, the beast pawed the air. Madeline’s shadow man flung himself from the saddle before the horse’s hooves struck ground. His handsome face thunderous, he threw back his cloak and whipped out his steel, a gleaming sword he clearly knew how to wield.

He strode toward her, tearing off his pilgrim’s mantle as he came, his dark eyes raking those who hadn’t yet fled. “Tell me who ripped her gown for I’ve a need to relieve the bastard of his manhood,” he shouted, hurling his cloak across her bared breasts. “In the Scotland I know, women are no’ treated so savagely.

“Now I am feeling savage myself!” He lifted his sword, whipping it in a fast figure eight motion before swinging the tip toward her cloak-covered breasts. “So – who sullied her?”

No one spoke, though many took backward steps, cowering beneath his rage.

Madeline went cold for another reason, flinching as his cloak’s rough-woven warmth settled over her. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized they’d torn her clothes.

She looked up at the tall pilgrim. He’d taken on a fighting stance, and now loomed above her, standing so close, the edge of his booted foot pressed against her hip. Anger rolled off him in great, black waves as he swept the mob with another fierce glare.

“Stop gawking at her – or you’ll meet the cutting edge of my sword,” he warned, his fury a loud crackling in Madeline’s ears.

He stepped over her then, his hard-muscled legs shielding her. “The man who thinks I jest can greet the morrow from beneath his headstone.”

Still dazed, Madeline peered at him. His scent, a blend of woodsmoke, leather, and wide-open places, swirled around her, comforting in its sure, steady earthiness.

“Dia!” Nella dashed to her then, her own clothes mussed, but untorn. Dropping to her knees, she cradled Madeline’s head in her lap. “Oh, mercy, what have they done to you?”

“They went mad…” Madeline’s voice cracked, her mouth too dry for words.

“Hush, all is well now.” Nella ran her fingers across Madeline’s brow – they came away smeared red.

A fresh wave of nausea welled in Madeline’s stomach at the sight of her blood on Nella’s fingers. She tried to assure her friend she was only a bit queasy and not bleeding to death, but she still couldn’t speak.

“She should lose more than a few drops of blood for stealing from a saint,” a hostile voice called out, the man’s anger stirring the crowd.

“Leave her be!” Nella leaned over Madeline, protecting her as best she could. “Now, before God smites you.”

“He’s the reason we’re here!” A tall, bony-faced woman pointed a finger at Madeline. “She must be punished.”

“Thieving postulants don’t deserve mercy,” another agreed.

“You’ll be pleading for just that when I cut out your tongue,” Iain called back, scanning the throng for the first man bold enough to step forward.

Searching, too, for the long-overdue MacFie.

The lout should have ridden up shortly after Iain. But instead of Gavin’s approach, a small, stringy-haired woman darted around the side of the holy well and tossed a little silver-cast leg at Iain’s feet.

“Stole that, she did,” the woman scolded, raking the prone lass with a glare. “I saw her take it. We all did.”

“Is that so?” Iain tightened his grip on his sword hilt. “As a Scot, you should know things are no’ always as they seem.”

“Humph.” The woman sniffed. “She needs to burn,” she snapped, ignoring his attempt to calm her. “Let the flames cleanse her of her sins.”

Others edged closer, growling agreement.

Iain frowned, glancing around again. If MacFie didn’t arrive soon, the tardy Islesman would be the first to get a taste of Iain’s worst temper - even if it meant he’d never again glimpse Doon’s bonnie shores.

The underswell of snarls and anger from the crowd increased then and a handful of bull-necked ruffians stepped forward. One brandished a pitchfork, another cracked meaty knuckles, and the rest just muttered slurs or glowered.

The brawniest, a huge black-bearded bear of a man, cocked a brow at Iain. “Who be you to come between justice?”

“Someone so forsaken that I make my own,” Iain shot back, his fury so rife he could taste it.

“You have no rights here.” The big man came closer. “The wench is ours.”

“You err.” Iain glanced at the little silver leg lying in the dirt. When he spoke again, he lifted his voice. “The lass is nae thief,” he said, holding the man’s gaze. “She is my wife.”