Fergus awakened abruptly, his heart beating rather too quickly. He felt agitated and threatened, but was relieved to find himself in the solar. He was alone in the bed and sat up quickly, wondering where Leila was. She was watching him from a short distance away, her brows drawn together in concern. She was already dressed, and he wondered at that, for it was still early enough for there to be shadows in the corners.

He had had the nightmare again. He knew it.

What had he said in his sleep?

“Is something amiss?” he asked.

“Why do you dream of her?” Leila asked, showing her usual inclination to be outspoken.

“Who?”

“Isobel, of course. You shout her name in the night.”

“I do?” Fergus knew he had experienced the nightmare of Isobel three times, but he had chosen not to speak to Leila about it. He did not wish her to fear for her future at Killairic and had kept its details to himself, but he saw on this morning that he might not have a choice.

In a way, it was a relief.

“You do.” Leila began to pace the width of the solar. “You take your pleasure with me, then you call out for her.” She spared him a hot glance. “It is most unsettling.”

Fergus rose and pushed a hand through his hair. Before he could find a way to explain, Leila continued. “I did not expect love to blossom between us quickly, especially when your heart was already surrendered. But I do expect some effort on your part, Fergus, and perhaps I am a fool, but I should prefer fidelity.”

“I have been with no woman but you, and so it shall be until the end of our handfast. I gave you my word.”

She flung out a hand and he found himself intrigued that she was so passionate. “Then why cry her name with such anguish? It is as if your heart is wretched.” Her voice turned husky. “If you wish so greatly to be with her, then we should part and you should go to her. I will not stand in the path of your happiness, Fergus. Go and be with your beloved.”

Fergus was surprised. “You suggest that we part because of a dream?”

She spun to face him. “It is in dreams that we cannot hide our true desires.”

“What of nightmares?”

Leila frowned, clearly not understanding his words.

Fergus crossed the floor to her and caught her shoulders in his hands. She was trembling and again, he was surprised by the intensity of her feelings. On the other hand, though, she had risked much and was reliant upon him. He looked down into her eyes, hoping she would believe the truth. “I am haunted by Isobel but not in the way you believe,” he explained. “She has appeared to me in a recurring nightmare, one in which I see Killairic destroyed because of her efforts.”

“Which efforts?”

“I do not know. It is a dream, so it makes little sense.”

“Your angel is warning you,” Leila said and Fergus nodded.

“As my wife has done before. Isobel’s tongue is a snake in this dream, and Killairic is consumed in flames. I cannot find you.” He heard his voice drop lower as the terror of his dream assailed him in daylight. His voice was hoarse when he continued. “I cannot protect you and Killairic itself is lost.” He shuddered involuntarily, aware that she watched him closely. “All is lost, and it is devastating.”

Leila leaned against his chest and her arms slid around his waist. “It might not mean that. It might be symbolic. If so, the dream could mean many things.”

“It could,” he acknowledged, drawing her closer.

“It could mean that Isobel lies.”

“That was my first notion. Snakes are often symbolic of deceit.”

“Or of healing,” Leila suggested. “Perhaps her words will reveal a dark truth that must be faced.”

“Perhaps. I should have told you,” he admitted, then kissed her temple. “I did not wish to concern you with what might be whimsy.”

“I told you before that if you do not heed your guardian angel, he may abandon you,” she chided, then pulled back from his embrace to look up at him. He saw unexpected concern in her expression. “What if your dream warns you that you could lose Killairic because of me?”

“What? That is nonsense!”

“Is it?” Leila demanded, abandoning him to pace again. “Murdoch says Killairic must be bestowed upon you by the king, in the event of your father’s demise.”

“Aye, but there is tradition...”

Leila met his gaze, her tone urgent. “What king will call for a war in one moment, then grant a key holding to a man who is wed to the enemy?”

Fergus would have liked to have believed that the king would make an exception for him, but he saw immediately that Leila did not share his view. “This is why you talk to the priest.”

She nodded. “I will ask to be baptized on Iona. I think it will be best for there to be many witnesses of my choice, and also that this matter be resolved sooner rather than later. Your father, as fond as I am of him, weakens.”

Fergus was humbled by her choice. “Are you certain, Leila?”

She lifted her chin, looking fierce. “I vowed to be the best wife that I could be, Fergus. It would hardly be fitting for you to lose your legacy because of me.”

He smiled at her, closing the distance between them to cup her chin in his hand. “And what do I give you, Leila, that merits such choices on your part?”

“A home,” she replied immediately. “A sanctuary.” She sighed. “What of the prize? Do you think it still safe where it is hidden?”

“I do. I suspect it is safer there than it was in the treasury.”

“We must find a better place for it, a permanent place,” Leila said, her worry clear. “Do you think Agnes went to Dunnisbrae?”

Fergus pursed his lips. “Perhaps. She fled in that direction but Enguerrand turned back once he thought her unlikely to return to Killairic. He is likely right that her exact destination is of little concern.”

It was evident that Leila did not share his conviction. “She will make trouble for me, no matter where she goes,” she said softly.

“Even if she told Stewart of the reliquary, he would have the wits to be skeptical of any tale Agnes might tell. She came from there, which hints to me that she might have been cast out.”

“Because he knew her nature,” Leila murmured, appearing to be slightly reassured.

Fergus smiled. “We do need to find a better place for it. Enguerrand and Yvan will not depart until they are convinced it is secure.”

“Perhaps there will be a bishop at Iona to take it into his care.”

“Perhaps the Templars would not approve of that.” Fergus frowned. “I have been wondering if we should undertake a journey to Edinburgh, purportedly so you can meet my mother’s kin. There are Templar houses near there, and perhaps the prize will find sanctuary with them.”

“Another journey,” Leila said. “I would see your dream banished before we depart. Do you still sense that threat?”

He nodded. “It grows more ominous every day.”

“This is not reassuring.”

Fergus could only agree. “Perhaps Gaston will send word soon of any plans for the prize.”

Leila nodded. “Surely Duncan will halt here when he rides to retrieve Radegunde or after he weds her.”

Fergus hoped the warrior managed to do both. “I have not thus far given you a haven, Leila.”

“But you have given me a home.” She lifted a finger. “With a dovecote.”

“The birds should arrive soon.”

Leila smiled a little. “And then perhaps you will give me a child with blue eyes.”

Fergus slid his fingers beneath her veil, caressing the softness of her skin, for he was awed once again by the tiny lioness he had taken to wife. “Must you hasten to the hall?” he murmured, then bent and touched his lips to hers. Leila sighed and leaned against him, her small hands landing upon his chest. “I would endeavor to create that child if my lady would linger a little longer.”

She lifted her mouth to his, her surrender as sweet and hot as ever. She was so trusting. She gave so much. She planned for his success and tried to remove every obstacle. On this morn, Fergus would ensure that Leila understood that no other woman ever intruded upon his thoughts when he was with her.

A curse upon Isobel for even giving his loyal wife a doubt.

---

Isobel had not been surprised when she finally bled.

In fact, she had been relieved, even triumphant. Once again, she had compelled her body to support her own desires. She had secretly bumped her belly into furniture and prayed for deliverance from her misfortune. She had exerted herself overmuch and had been impressed that a babe could be so hard to dislodge even when so young.

She hated pregnancy, the uneasy stomach, the bulge in her figure, and the physical discomfort that resulted from the growing burden. She had felt clumsy and unattractive while carrying Gavin, though she had known it was her duty to do so. Her distaste had been naught compared to the actual delivery of her son, which had been a hell of seeming eternity. Isobel was determined to never again endure such torment.

Stewart should have been content with one son. Gavin was such a robust boy that there was no chance of him being lost to illness. Isobel had done her duty, in her view, but in this matter, as in all others, Stewart was greedy for more. Isobel could not keep her legal husband from her bed or deny him the marital debt, but she had no intention of destroying her life—and risking it—by bearing child after child after child.

She had thought she might bear one more, but the return of Fergus had dismissed that notion.

And time was of the essence. It could not be long before a man like Fergus found a willing and suitable bride, yet Isobel could not appeal to him with Stewart’s babe in her belly. Her previously successful tactics had not worked quickly enough, but Isobel had not been daunted.

In desperation, she had consumed herbs that were said to oust babes from the womb. This felt daring and bold and a part of her feared that she went too far, but all ended as Isobel desired. When this child abandoned her womb, just like the last, she wept for the sake of appearances but within her heart, Isobel was glad.

So very glad.

Stewart was significantly less so.

He raged at the injustice. He was foul of temper with every soul at Dunnisbrae and impossible to please in any matter. He shouted at her and might have struck her, if he had not so desperately desired another son.

His greed was Isobel’s salvation.

It was only days before he joined her abed and his efforts began anew. Each night, as he thrust atop her in pursuit of his pleasure, Isobel hated him a little more. Each morning, when she awakened to the feel of his hand between her thighs, she kept her eyes closed and despised him. Stewart thought she had not noticed the pretty maid return to labor in the hall, the one Isobel had not seen in years, the one so willing to do whatever Stewart demanded of her. Isobel had seen and hated Stewart even more for welcoming a whore.

She knew she might not have loathed Stewart quite so much if Fergus had not returned. If Fergus had not been so handsome, or so affluent, she might have accepted the truth of her marriage more readily. She knew Fergus to be gentle but firm, a fair man and a good lover. Isobel knew that her life would be vastly improved with Fergus as spouse instead of Stewart.

Especially if she ensured she never ever conceived again.

She would never forget the shape and smell of that herb, to be sure.

Isobel’s plan was made. She would leave Stewart and throw herself at the mercy of Fergus. She would tell him a tale, one that he would believe, and she would have her way. She lingered only a week at Dunnisbrae after the loss of her child, only a week to ensure that she could endure the ride to Killairic.

She feared discovery with every moment, but Stewart, livid about the loss of another child, was not attentive to nuance. All the same, Isobel scarcely slept the night before her planned departure. She reviewed her preparations endlessly, certain that Stewart would somehow foil her scheme.

But, on that chosen morning, Stewart did precisely as she had anticipated. He awakened with his usual morning erection. He rolled over and used her for his pleasure, grunting like a rutting pig, indifferent as to whether she was even awake herself. Her anger simmered along with her sense that justice would be served. His hands ran over her, and Isobel hated that this was the extent of his appreciation for her. She had brought him a holding and given him a son, but Stewart always wanted more.

Isobel’s hatred sharpened. Even as her husband labored for his release, she reached beneath the bed and retrieved one of the needles Fergus had given to her, hiding it in her hand. Stewart found his pleasure with a shout, then collapsed on his back, panting as his eyes closed again.

It was yet early. The villagers were only beginning to stir. He usually slept an hour, maybe more, after relieving himself.

This day would be different.

Isobel rolled over and looked down at her husband, at the silver in his beard and his hair, at the lines on his face and the harsh line of his mouth. She saw him for the hard warrior he was, the older man whom she would survive. There was no tenderness in her heart in this moment for this man. She saw only what he had cost her, what he had taken, how he had used her for his own gain.

She saw only that he was less of a man than Fergus and hated him for that.

Stewart’s hand slipped from her hip as he dozed and his mouth slackened. She waited, watching, heart racing, until his breath slowed.

He would never forget this day, to be sure.

Isobel licked her lips and steeled her resolve.

She lifted the needle with its sharp point.

And she drove it into his eye with all of her might.

She would have done the same to the other, but Stewart roared in pain and seized her wrist. She bit him so that he released her, then pulled out the needle. He snatched at her but she kicked him in the groin, stumbling from the bed. He lunged after her and swore, one hand upon his bleeding eye and the other at his crotch.

His man had already raced up the stairs and flung open the door. “What is amiss?” he demanded, his gaze darting between Stewart and Isobel.

“I do not know. I welcomed him as ever, but then he cried out.”

“Bitch!” Stewart bellowed. “Deceitful, wicked bitch!”

She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Perhaps a fit or fury,” she said to Stewart’s comrade. She lowered her gaze demurely. “I regret that he did not find his pleasure.”

“Ah!” said the guard.

Stewart began to swear more vehemently. He stumbled across the chamber, blood streaming down his cheek from beneath his fist, and tried to snatch at Isobel.

“He would finish what was left undone,” she whispered even as he roared.

His guard swore in astonishment. “Blood runs from his eyes!”

“God in Heaven! What has he done to himself?” Isobel whispered in mock horror. “I will get old Helga from the village!”

“Do!” the guard insisted. “Make haste, my lady.” He moved then to seize Stewart and forcibly guide him back to the bed. “My lord, you must be still.”

“Seize that witch...”

“My lord, I beg of you, show a care for your own welfare...”

Isobel ran, but she did not run to Helga in the village. She raced down the stairs and seized Gavin, carrying the sleepy boy. She spat on the girl, Agnes, when that whore might have tripped her and shoved her aside. Stewart was welcome to her charms!

Isobel fled to the stables and to the stall of the horse she had saddled the night before, after the ostler had retired. All her preparations had been made. She donned the kirtle left there and the boots. She seized the packed saddlebag she had left in the stall, then flung on the cloak folded beside it. She leaped into the saddle, hiding her son beneath the cloak, and holding him fast against her side.

“Hush, Gavin,” she said and he obeyed, curling his heat against her and closing his eyes. She raced the palfrey toward the gate. “My husband is stricken!” she cried to the sentries. “I must fetch help with all haste!”

The guards opened the portcullis, fools that they were, and Isobel galloped out of Dunnisbrae at speed. She took a breath of precious freedom, not caring how much she had left behind. Fergus would buy her more garments, and Killairic was far more prosperous that Dunnisbrae had become. Her father had oft said that good fortune must be claimed not waited upon. The sound of Stewart’s rage carried to them even at a distance and Isobel shivered.

She was rid of him, for good.

“Mother?” Gavin whispered. “What is wrong with Father?”

“Naught more than he deserves.”

“Then why are we leaving?”

Isobel kissed the top of her son’s head. She loved him more dearly on this morning than she had yet, for he was the key to the success of her scheme. “We ride to Killairic.”

“But why?”

“To meet some friends, Gavin.”

“But Father...”

“Is only angry this morn. He will be fine by the time he breaks his fast.”

“But...”

“Hush, Gavin. All will be well.” Isobel touched her heels to the horse’s flanks, smiling at the prospect of success.

It was the only possible outcome, after all, with a scheme so infallible as this.

---

It was late afternoon when Fergus noted some agitation at the village gates. A woman shouted and it looked as if a palfrey had arrived. It was unusual for a horse to arrive alone, particularly ridden by a woman, and Fergus headed for the gates to investigate. The sentry argued with the woman and though Fergus could not discern their words, he feared he recognized the woman’s voice.

Had his vexation with Isobel summoned her to Killairic? It seemed as much. He feared that Leila might imagine it were so. He quickened his pace, hoping he was wrong.

He was not. It was Isobel. She wore a heavy cloak and a plain kirtle and her voice was raised in anger. Her hair was loose and her manner imperious.

“Of course, Laird Fergus will see me,” she insisted. “You must escort me to the hall. I must speak with him immediately...”

“Then do as much,” Fergus invited, knowing his annoyance showed. How would her arrival at his gates alone be construed? He doubted Stewart would approve and suspected that man might blame him for Isobel’s choice. Fergus needed no new friction with Stewart, to be sure. Leila might be concerned, given his own nightmare. “There must be good cause for you to have ridden so far without escort.”

Relief lit Isobel’s features. “Fergus! Stewart had a fit this morn and I feared for my life!” A murmur passed through the company of those who had gathered in curiosity and Fergus wondered if Isobel had desired to start the tale. She leaped from the saddle and reached up to lower her son to the ground. The boy looked uncertain, and rightly so. “I feared for both myself and Gavin and fled, knowing you would offer us sanctuary.”

It was a risky matter to offer a haven to another man’s wife, especially the wife of a warrior like Stewart. Fergus did not appreciate that Isobel embroiled him in her troubles and wondered if she meant to make this a habit.

He would halt the inclination now.

Fergus folded his arms across his chest. “A fit?” he echoed. “That does not sound like Stewart. I thought him a temperate man. Are you certain you did not provoke him?”

If Stewart had not threatened Isobel before this day, Fergus wagered there was some detail omitted from her tale. Her quick sidelong glance at his query confirmed his suspicions.

It was odd that after four years apart, he found her so much less enticing than once had been the case. In fact, Fergus wondered how he had missed Isobel’s quick expressions, the ones she tried to hide, the ones that revealed her words might not be the fullness of the truth. Even without the warning of his dream, he distrusted her.

What had she done this morn?

“Temperate?” she repeated with a laugh. “His is harsh beyond belief, cruel even.” She cast herself at Fergus, an entreaty in her eyes. “I was in despair, Fergus, until your return. I knew that if I left Stewart, you would stand by our betrothal. Let us wed this very day that I might have sanctuary at Killairic. You have a priest, do you not?”

Fergus frowned and stepped back, extricating himself from her embrace. “What madness is this, Isobel? You are wedded to Stewart...”

“I have left him!”

“You exchanged your vows before a bishop. You have borne his son.” He gestured to the boy, who simply watched. He looked pale, to Fergus’ thinking, and had to be in need of a hot meal. “Have you eaten this day?”

“Nay, of course not. I fled for my life!”

Fergus scanned the gathered company and spotted the smith. “Farquar, would you take Gavin to the kitchens for me, please? Tell Xavier that the lad has not eaten all day.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Intriguingly, Gavin did not look to his mother for her approval but simply followed instruction. Doubtless the boy was starving.

“What madness is this, Isobel, that you would not ensure the boy was fed?” Fergus demanded of her.

Isobel’s expression turned sly and she clutched at his arm. “Fergus, we must speak in private. There is much you do not know.”

“I know all I need to know,” Fergus corrected. “You chose to forget our betrothal and wed Stewart instead. What is done cannot be undone.”

“You would conclude differently, if you knew the whole of the truth,” Isobel said, her tone challenging.

“I doubt as much. I have a wife, Isobel, and I will not put Leila aside to better suit your convenience.”

“A wife?” Isobel scoffed. “Is that what you call an infidel who meets you abed?”

“We have a handfast.”

“A handfast is no firm bond, Fergus, and you know it well.”

“My word is my bond, and I have given it to Leila.”

She lifted her chin, her eyes flashing. “You gave it to me first.”

“And you disregarded it, thus freeing me from any commitment to you.” Fergus sighed. “Go home, Isobel. Go home to Dunnisbrae. Make amends with Stewart for whatever you have done and be content with your lot.”

Fury flashed in her eyes before she dropped her gaze. “Content,” she muttered so softly that only Fergus could have heard her. “Why should I be content with less than my father chose for me?”

Fergus leaned close to her. “Because you already chose to abandon his arrangement.”

Isobel licked her lips, spared a glance at the villagers, then laid her hand upon Fergus’ chest. “Have mercy, Fergus. I have journeyed all this way to speak with you. Will you not hear me out and offer me a measure of hospitality?”

Fergus did not point out that her husband had failed to offer him and Hamish such courtesy. It was too late for her to ride back to Dunnisbrae before dark, and he would not be to blame for any crime befalling her in darkness. Gavin had to eat, and he supposed that he would have to offer Isobel a meal, as well.

She could ride to Dunnisbrae in the morning.

He turned and pointed. “The midwife’s hut stands empty. You and the boy can sleep there this night. I will welcome you to the board for the evening meal.” Fergus knew his lack of enthusiasm showed, but was surprised by the rage that shone briefly in her eyes.

Then Isobel laughed, as if he made a jest, but there was no merriment in her eyes. “A hut? Fergus, you tease me! I will stay in the keep itself, of course, as befits my birthright...”

“There is no room,” Fergus said, interrupting her. “And it would not be fitting for you to sleep in the hall with warriors.”

Isobel’s tone was sweet, too sweet. “As I recall, there are two chambers in Killairic’s keep.”

“One occupied by my wife and me, and the other by my father.” Fergus held her gaze. “I will oust neither for a neighbor who arrives uninvited.”

Isobel inhaled sharply but bowed her head so quickly that only Fergus guessed her wrath. “As you wish, my lord,” she said with a sweetness that had to be feigned. “I look forward to seeing you at the board.”

Fergus returned to the hall, knowing that he had made the best possible compromise but distrusting Isobel’s intent all the same. He could not dismiss the memory of his dream or the fact that his dread had redoubled when Isobel entered Killairic’s gates.

---

Even though Fergus had warned her about their guest, Leila was startled when she came into the hall and found Isobel there.

The tall, slender beauty with hair of gold could be no other than Fergus’ former betrothed. She spoke to a young boy, as flaxen-haired as she, her expression so sweet and serene that Leila was reminded of a Madonna she had glimpsed in a church on their journey north. She thought it might have been in the chapel adjacent to the cemetery where they had buried Kerr.

She distrusted the other woman and disliked that she had arrived at Killairic’s gates unannounced and uninvited. Even without the warning of Fergus’ dream, Leila would have disliked how readily Isobel could anger Fergus. She had a power over him yet, and one Leila would have preferred to have seen dispelled.

Isobel glanced up at Leila and her smile was cool. Then she stepped gracefully across the hall. Leila noted that the other woman was almost as tall as Fergus and felt at a disadvantage. Isobel’s manner in greeting Leila was such that she might have been lady of the keep herself, which only increased Leila’s determination to conquer Gaelic. Leila was certain that her suspicions about the other woman’s malicious intent were correct, but she smiled politely all the same.

“It must be so strange for you in Scotland, Leila,” Isobel said, omitting any form of address. Leila knew it was no accident. She spoke slowly, evidently intent upon being understood. “Fergus’ stray Saracen, so far from home.”

“Fergus’ wife,” Leila replied. “In her new home.”

Isobel laughed, as if with pity. “But I understood you made only a handfast.”

“Surely the pledge of a man like Fergus has merit.”

Isobel shook her head. “Surely men are the same in all the world, Leila, especially in the matter of their pleasure. Why, Fergus pledged himself to me before his departure to the east. I doubt he was chaste.”

“I believe he was.”

Isobel laughed again. “Proving only that you believe men’s lies while I have learned my lesson. I should never have surrendered my maidenhead to Fergus, but four years ago, I was still trusting.”

Leila supposed that she should not have been surprised that a betrothed couple had been intimate, especially before one of them departed on a long journey. She could not think what to say, but Isobel gave her little chance.

She turned an adoring smile upon her son. “Gavin so resembles his father, does he not?”

“I could not say,” Leila admitted in some confusion. “I have not met Stewart MacEwan.”

Isobel laughed merrily at this, as if Leila jested with her. “You must see it, Leila,” she said in a confidential tone. Her eyes shone. “You must know.”

If Isobel meant to imply that Gavin was Fergus’ son, Leila would wait for her to say it aloud. She held the other woman’s gaze, fairly daring her to do it.

Isobel did. “Gavin is three years and three months of age,” she whispered, her eyes gleaming. “I married for the sake of Fergus’ son. I was with child and had no defender. Until Fergus returned to Killairic. I left Stewart this morning for the sake of Gavin. A son should be raised by his blood father and no other. Do you not agree that would be best?”

“Not for me,” Leila said, referring both to the notion of Gavin remaining at Killairic and her own childhood in her uncle’s home.

Isobel’s lips twisted. “Nay, the sole course best for you would be your immediate return to the lands of your own kind.” Fergus appeared at the base of the stairs, and Isobel continued in a quick whisper. “You will never be accepted as one of us. Your insistence upon remaining can only destroy Fergus and the regard that others have for him here. I know he acts with honor: give him the opportunity to do as much for his own son. If you care for him, surely you care for his advantage.”

Isobel was a viper to be sure, a viper who spewed venom with very word. Leila did not respond but went to Fergus to ask him some detail about the meal. He surveyed her and concern lit his eyes as he perceived that she was disturbed. His gaze flicked to Isobel as his lips tightened.

“Sit between my father and me,” he said tersely and Leila nodded agreement.

Calum descended the stairs in that moment, his features brightening at the sight of her, and Leila escorted him to the board. The older man spared their guest only a quick greeting, then continued to speak French to Leila as he took his place.

She did not miss the warning in the other woman’s eyes, and knew this matter was not yet put to rest. To Leila’s thinking, Isobel could not leave Killairic soon enough.

---

Isobel’s allure was diminishing so rapidly that Fergus could not imagine he had ever seen any merit in her. When he had changed and descended to the hall, he knew at a glance that Leila was upset. Her features were composed and her manner quiet, her thoughts hidden so surely that he knew something had gone awry.

Isobel looked pleased with herself, which meant she had said something to his lady wife. Fergus doubted it had been true, but could scarce discover the truth as the company sat down to the evening meal. He kissed Leila as if they had been parted for longer than had been the case and felt a little tremor in her response. He hoped his touch reassured her and kept his hand upon the back of her waist. He seated himself between the two women, certain this would simplify matters. He also invited Murdoch to sit by his father, so that the two warriors could share a trencher while he shared with Leila.

Isobel took this in poor humor, clearly having believed that she would share with Fergus instead of her son.

All the same, Fergus’ plan was ill-fated. Isobel pressed herself against him and talked ceaselessly to him. He thought she scarce took a breath, for fear that he might glance at his wife. He knew that she spoke in quick Gaelic, thick with dialect, deliberately so that Leila could not follow her words. She said little of import, merely reminding him of some event in their shared past or spoke of some mutual friend, but clearly intended to demonstrate that they shared a history that Leila did not.

Leila ignored Isobel, turning her attention to Calum. As much as Fergus admired her grace and good manners, he disliked that Isobel would so insult Leila in their home. He could not utter more than a word, though, and his temper rose steadily during the meal.

By the time the trenchers were cast to the dogs, he was furious with Isobel.

When she entreated him to accompany her to the healer’s hut, lest she become lost on the way, Fergus ceded to her request immediately. He had more than sufficient to say to his former betrothed.

He begged the indulgence of Leila, noting how she scanned his features before she nodded, then seized Isobel’s elbow and marched her from the hall. The boy ran behind them.

“Fergus!” Isobel said with pleasure. “I had no notion that you were so intent upon being alone with me.”

“How else should I chastise you for your rudeness?” he demanded. “What ails you that you would insult my lady wife in our hall? What seizes your wits that you would touch me as a lover in the company of my wife?”

Isobel smiled up at him coyly. “You would rather I wait until we are alone?”

“I would rather you recall that you are Stewart’s wife.”

“Stewart!” Isobel made a dismissive gesture, even as they reached the door to the healer’s hut. Fergus opened the portal, urged her inside, and left the door open while he lit a lantern. Isobel wrinkled her nose at the simplicity of the place, but Fergus did not care about her pleasure.

The boy was less insulted than his mother. Indeed, he was already eyeing the pallet with such yearning that Fergus guessed he was exhausted.

Fergus gestured to the pallet with clean bedding upon it. “You will be sufficiently comfortable here until your departure in the morning. There is oil in the lantern and you will not need a fire on so mild a night. They will give you bread to break your fast in the kitchens.” He inclined his head and bowed slightly. “I wish you a good journey to Dunnisbrae, for I doubt I will see you again.”

Isobel’s dismay was clear. “You cannot believe that I will leave Killairic for Dunnisbrae?”

“Of course, you will, and you will do as much before noon on the morrow.” Fergus smiled thinly. “I would not have you be without shelter when night falls and it is a long ride.” He nodded to Gavin, then turned to leave.

Isobel pursued him, snatching at his sleeve. “Fergus! I left Stewart to come to you! I have no plan to return to Dunnisbrae, and truly, Stewart might not have me back.”

“He is your husband. Of course, he will welcome your return.”

Isobel’s expression was sly for a moment, then she appealed to him again, looking feminine and vulnerable. “But he beats me, Fergus. I cannot bear to stay with him.”

Fergus glanced to the boy, who was visibly listening. “Then you must appeal to the king for sanctuary and to the bishop to have your match annulled.”

“I thought you would aid me.”

“You were wrong.”

Anger simmered in her gaze, but Fergus did not care. He stepped out of the hut, pausing to turn back and meet the fury in Isobel’s eyes. “Even if I were inclined to assist an old friend, your rudeness to my wife since your arrival would kill that impulse. Farewell, Isobel.”

“Farewell!” she echoed in outrage. “Your wife?” She lunged after him and drew him to a halt, her words falling in an angry torrent. “Just because you have a Saracen whore in your bed does not mean that your obligations to me are done. We were betrothed, Fergus.”

“And you chose to wed another. That is an effective means of ending a betrothal.” He shook off her grip. “Godspeed to you, Isobel. Do not be so fool as to return again without your husband.”

“And what of my son?” she cried. “What of our son?”

Fergus turned to look at her in confusion.

Isobel smiled. “Oh, aye, Gavin is our son, Fergus. He is your son.”

“We laid together but once...”

“And it was sufficient, to be sure. The proof accompanied me this day!”

“Gavin is Stewart’s son. I see his father in him.”

“You are deceived!” Isobel retorted. “We were intimate. I conceived. You were gone! What was I to do, a woman with a rounding belly but no husband? My father would have been outraged. I seduced Stewart and ensured that we were discovered, then my father insisted upon the match. I told Stewart that I bore his son, and he believed me.” She was triumphant, which said much of her nature. Fergus could not believe that any person of merit would take such pride in a deception of such magnitude.

She was also lying.

“But you wed Stewart three months after my departure. Surely he noted that the boy was born three months too soon?” he asked quietly, knowing this was not the least of the issue with her tale.

The boy watched with wide eyes, clearly uncertain what to think. Fergus hoped he did not understand it all.

“I lied, for the safety of both of us,” Isobel said. “I went to my cousin on the isles and gave birth to the boy there. He was born at the Yule. I lingered for the winter, then returned to Dunnisbrae, and told Stewart the boy was younger than he was.” She sneered. “He knew naught of babes and their size, and he trusted me.”

Fergus thought that said more good of Stewart than of Isobel. “Whether this tale is true or yet another lie, it matters little. Gavin cannot be my son.”

“I say he is!”

“And you lie, Isobel,” Fergus said, his recurring dream at the forefront of his thoughts. “All children in my family are born with red hair.” He glanced back at the yawning boy, even as Isobel’s lips parted in dismay. “Stewart is your father, Gavin. Never doubt it.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Fergus! Even if that is true, you cannot compel me to return to Dunnisbrae...”

“I can and I will. Farewell, Isobel.” Fergus left the hut then, ignoring the way she shouted after him, and strode back to the keep with purpose. He told Stephen to have Isobel’s palfrey saddled at first light. He spoke to Xavier about the morning, ensuring that it was understood that Isobel and Gavin could break their fast in the kitchens.

Enguerrand and Yvan were bent over their chess board and his father was reminiscing with Murdoch. Fergus wished them all a good night and climbed the stairs to the solar, to Leila, and to a misunderstanding that had to be put right.