“THERE YE ARE, milady,” Meg said as she carried a heavily-laden tray into the map room, where Kinley sat at the surveyor’s desk. “What do ye there now?”

Kinley glanced down at the notes she had made while comparing the map scrolls of the region. That she had to do it with a feather on the thinly-scraped animal hide they called parchment mildly disgusted her.

“Just writing up some things for the laird.”

After two weeks at Dun Aran, Kinley had mostly settled into her new reality, which had proven surprisingly satisfying. Daily life in the fourteenth century required plenty of work from every member of the clan as well as their household staff, so she did her part by pitching in whenever and wherever she could. As for the modern conveniences she had always taken for granted, she didn’t miss much from her time. Now and then she thought she might kill for a cup of coffee, or a decent bottle of moisturizer, but that was all.

The biggest step she’d taken to adjust was deciding that she couldn’t be dreaming or comatose. There were too many things at the castle that she’d never seen and couldn’t have imagined on her own, like the carved puzzle stones the clansmen used for some kind of speed-solving game, or how everyone seemed to know what faodail meant, except for her. She’d finally asked Meg why Lachlan would call her ‘foot-ill’, only to learn it meant something like a waif or a foundling or maybe a lucky find.

Then there’d been the medieval version of a tooth brush.

“We dinnae have such brushes,” Raen had told Kinley when she’d asked for one.

He gave her instead a wide strip of rough cloth and a small box filled with a mixture of ashes, salt crystals and ground mint leaves.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” she asked perplexed.

“You clean your teeth.”

He sprinkled some of the mixture in the center of the cloth, tied it into a bundle, dampened it and used it in a scrubbing motion in front of his teeth.

She tried it, surprised by how well it worked. “What are the ashes made from?”

“Burnt rosemary stalks,” Raen told her. “Sage works as well, but I cannae abide the taste.”

Kinley had always assumed most medieval people had rotten teeth due to poor dental hygiene. Judging by the healthy smiles she saw around the stronghold, the reality was the exact opposite. Not knowing that simple fact ruled out dreaming or a coma, since both presented alternate realities based on her subconscious and memories.

Then there was Lachlan, and the strange connection she felt to him. The laird was unlike any man she’d ever known, hands down. Whatever was going on between them had an almost magical feel to it, as if some mystical force was trying to shove them together. In her other life Kinley had been a pragmatist: clear-eyed, hard-headed and with both feet firmly planted on the ground. She had never believed in magic, and had always felt amused by anyone who did.

Sometimes Kinley still wondered if she had died, and this was her afterlife. She wouldn’t have ever guessed that heaven would be a medieval castle filled with huge, inhumanly strong highland warriors. Even if she’d been a believer, she wouldn’t have fulfilled the entry requirements. She considered reincarnation, but if her soul had been reborn, why hadn’t she woken up in the future, or in a different body?

“The laird said to tell ye to eat this,” the chatelaine said as she set down the tray, “or he’ll have the Viking spoon-feed ye.”

“Thanks, Meg,” Kinley said as she glanced at the amount of food on the tray, which was rather more than she could eat in a week. “Tormod, you hungry?”

“I’m a man. I’m never no’ hungry.” The brawny Norseman emerged from the racks containing hundreds of scrolls, clay tablets and etched hides, but when he spotted the dishes on the tray he scowled. “You’re feeding us flowers, Chatelaine?”

“Fresh cider, bannocks with cloudberries, honey cakes, and my very best prymerose pudding.” Meg gave him an evil look. “’Tis for milady, no’ ye.”

Kinley suppressed a sigh.

Tormod plucked a primrose from the gooey sweet and sniffed it. “Gods forbid you bring her a tankard of ale and a trencher of rare beef.” He dropped the bloom as Meg curtseyed to Kinley and stomped out. “You’ve conquered another heart. The stingy old wench never makes such puddings for us.”

“Meg thinks I’m too skinny. Fattening me up is her new mission in life. Unfortunately, I have the metabolism of a greyhound on crack.” Kinley rolled up the scrolls and secured them with their ribbons before returning them to the racks. “All right, so if everything we’ve looked at is accurate, then at this point our undead search grid is about the size of Vermont. We don’t want to go there.” She saw his expression and added, “That means it’s way too big. We need more intel—reports—about their attacks to narrow it down to a more manageable area.”

“Mortals keep silent because they fear the vengeance of the legion,” the Norseman told her. “The undead are vicious when someone tries to stand against them. They torture them and their families in front of their entire village. Then they drag off the rest to serve as blood thralls, who are imprisoned and slowly drained until they die of it.”

“If they’re all about payback, then why aren’t they force-projecting on you guys?”

The Norseman yawned until his jaw cracked. “Your words confound me again, wench.”

“Sorry,” she said, thinking of how to translate her slang into his medieval-speak. “If the legion is so vengeful, then why aren’t they on the island and sieging the castle?”

“That you must ask the laird,” Tormod said and handed her a mug of cider. “Now drink, and eat, or Mistress Talley shall put fish bones and vetch in my pottage for the next moon.” He eyed the prymerose pudding. “Do you really no’ want that?”

After Kinley returned the tray to the kitchen, she and Tormod went up to the laird’s tower with her notes to report to Lachlan. They found him talking with Neac, Raen and Seoc Talorc, the stable master.

“Kinley,” Lachlan said and came to inspect her from head to toe before eyeing the roll of parchment she carried. “How do you fare with the new quill I cut for you?”

“Better. I didn’t get any ink on my fingers this time.”

She could smell him now, and felt a zing of desire ricochet through her lower belly. All she had to do was get within touching range and that delicious, cool water scent of his nailed her. They’d also both been implicitly avoiding each other since he’d moved her out of his chamber, which only seemed to make her more painfully aware of him when they did meet.

She glanced at Neac, Raen, and Seoc. “Are we interrupting?”

“No’ at all, my lady,” Seoc said. Tall and lanky like his cousin, the stable master was much more charming, and always made a point to smile before he bowed to her. “We were just speaking of you.”

“Aye, that’s all anyone does when you’re no’ here,” Neac assured her. “’Tis Kinley this and Kinley that, from sunup to twilight. Where is she, what is she doing, can anyone make out what she says today? We’ve given up warbanding for gossiping on you, wench.”

“This wouldn’t be because my idea to use two bellows instead of one to make your forge fire get hotter faster actually worked, would it?” When he grumbled something at his boots she grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“’Twas a sensible notion,” the chieftain admitted. He crossed his arms, making his huge hammer tattoos look as though they were stacked. Then he glared at Tormod and Raen. “That doesnae mean I’ll be having the wee lass hammering iron in my armory. Look at her. My cross-peen weighs more.”

“Dinnae be fooled by the fairy lass she appears,” Raen put in as he went to open the big cabinet where the laird stored his weapons. “She can carry two water buckets from the cistern to the stables without spilling a drop.”

As the men debated Kinley’s potential as a smith’s apprentice, Lachlan asked her, “Do you ride horseback?”

“It’s been a while, but I think I can manage.” She handed him her notes. “I’ll have to translate these for you, but basically if we don’t somehow reduce the search area, we’ll be looking for the undead for years. So where are we riding?”

“Out to the glen. Red deer of late have been pillaging the villagers’ gardens, and since they belong to me, I must act.” He carefully tucked her notes into one of his hanging satchels. “Do you hunt as well as you fight, lass?”

Kinley thought of how many times she’d watched Bambi as a girl, and her heart sank. “Probably not.” She looked up at him. “Can I maybe just watch while you and Raen hunt?”

“You might, if he were riding with us.” Lachlan tossed his tartan over one broad shoulder and tucked the ends under his belt. “Today ’twill be just we two.”

* * *

Kinley took the reins in her hands and squirmed a little in the four-horned saddle. Seoc had padded it until it felt comfortable.

“Tama’s sweet-tempered,” Seoc said, as he stroked the sturdy brown mare’s nose, “and kens glen paths like an island-bred palfrey.” He glanced over at Lachlan, who had mounted a much larger, muscular gray stallion. “And she doesnae rile Selon. He’s the laird’s war horse, and a bit of an ill-tempered bugger, that one.”

Kinley had never ridden without stirrups, but after a little practice walking her mount inside the stable, she felt more confident. The saddle clung to the mare’s broad back as if molded to it, and was flexible without having too much give where she didn’t need it.

“Does she spook easily?” she asked.

“No’ ever, my lady,” Seoc said and patted the mare’s neck. “We took her from the undead, and if there’s one thing those evil bastarts ken, ’tis how to train out the skittish from a mount.”

“Great, I’m riding the vampire horse,” Kinley muttered as she walked Tama out to where Lachlan was waiting. “I hope we’re not going to head down the side of this mountain. I do better riding slowly, and horizontally.”

He grinned. “We’ve fashioned many trails to and from Dun Aran. Or you could leave Tama and ride pillion with me.”

Riding while pressed up against all that hard, beautiful muscle, and smelling him to boot? Kinley suspected she’d melt into a big puddle of prymerose pudding.

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

Lachlan held Selon to a slow walk as he led Kinley to the trail down from the mountain. From what she could see it appeared as if it had been chiseled directly out of the rock, and was wide enough to accommodate several riders. Since the McDonnels had only the most basic of hand tools, she marveled at the amount of sheer brute strength it must have taken to cut the trail.

Upslope in the distance, a small grove of ancient oaks spread their green canopy. In their midst stood weathered rock sentinels, half-buried in the ground. Though Kinley couldn’t tell at this distance they seemed to form some sort of ring. Was it like the one on the mainland?

That reminded Kinley of the question Tormod had dodged. He implied that the undead didn’t come after the McDonnels, but wouldn’t tell her why. She looked down at the trail again. It had been cut so deeply that the walls of rock on either side of them likely hid them from view. Just like the towering walls of the volcanic crater in which Dun Aran sat probably kept it out of sight from anyone traversing the ridges of the Black Cuillin.

In Afghanistan the insurgents had used the extensive cave systems as base camps and supply caches. The natural cover had been so effective that not even the Russians had been able to find them while searching for more than a decade.

“You are thinking so hard I can hear it,” Lachlan said, startling her. “Tormod and Raen have said you have many questions. Ask me what you will.”

As they emerged from the trail into the upper slopes of the glen, she turned slightly to look back. “You can’t see the entrance to the trail at all, even from here.” Finally she put it all together. “It isn’t that the undead don’t come after you. It’s that they can’t. They don’t know where you are.”

The laird reined in his stallion to look out over the brilliant green grasses carpeting the island’s rugged coast.

“’Twas why the McDonnels came here to build our stronghold. Skye was home to many of our tribes, including my own. The people here are loyal to us because the Pritani are their ancestors, and we care for them. Some of their families have served my clan for more than a thousand years.”

He was trying to tell her something in a roundabout way, and Kinley felt as if she were on the brink of understanding.

“We didn’t come on this ride to hunt, did we?”

“’Twould be a shame if we didnae,” Lachlan said and nodded toward a large herd of red-brown deer that were grazing through a broad field of grain stalks. He touched his heels to the stallion’s sides and took off at a fast run.

Kinley followed at a slower lope for a few minutes, and then relaxed the reins to give the mare her head. Tama shot off after Lachlan and Selon, her shorter legs eating up the distance between them. The herd reacted by uttering calls that sounded like long, stuttering belches before rocketing off en masse toward the protection at the edge of the glen, where the trees, rocks and slopes formed a natural barrier.

Lachlan drove the deer into the trees and went in after them, whistling as he did. Suddenly men stood up from grass blinds and released a hail of arrows. Deer began dropping as the remainder of the herd scrabbled up the slopes and poured into a narrow pass between two ridges.

Kinley reined in Tama as she saw Lachlan dismount and pull a long, wide lattice made of branches out of the brush, which he used to block the pass. The men all around her shouldered their bows and took out clubs as they went to inspect the fallen deer.

Kinley rode past them to Lachlan, who caught Tama’s bridle as he looked up at her.

“I thought we were doing the hunting,” she said.

“An island has only so much graze. The herd needed thinning, else they’d starve,” he told her, and lifted her off the mare to set her on her feet. “We’ve livestock enough to keep the castle’s larders filled for years, but the villagers dinnae have a tenth so much. These men’s families will be glad of the meat.”

He’d said the clan cared for the island’s families, and now the hunt made more sense. “You’re really a neat laird, you know that?”

One of the villagers shouted as a huge stag scrambled to its feet, an arrow piercing the side of his neck. The animal kicked away the hunter and bellowed with fury before lowering its long, many-pointed antlers. It charged straight at Kinley and the laird.

Lachlan ran toward the wounded stag, catching it around the neck and dragging it to the ground. A long blade flashed in his hand before he buried it in the thrashing animal’s chest, and the huge furry body went limp.

Kinley felt horrified as she rushed over to the laird, who staggered to his feet and pulled a broken section of antler out of his left shoulder. Blood from three large puncture wounds soaked the front of his tunic.

“Lachlan.”

“I couldnae let him at you, lass.” He caught her with his arm and tugged her against his uninjured side before addressing the villagers gathering around them. “My lady and I must be off now, else someone mistakes me for a fresh haunch. Get to it, lads.”

The men seemed remarkably unconcerned as they tugged on their caps and forelocks before turning their attention to the carcasses. As Lachlan took Kinley back to the horses she wriggled free and blocked his path.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. “You can’t ride anywhere like that. You’re losing too much blood.” She pressed a hand to her forehead as she looked around them. “We have to get you to the village doctor, or healer, or whatever you call the guy who sews up antler holes in men who wrestle deer.”

“They sew wounds in San Diego, do they?” He gripped his saddle and jumped up onto Selon with one smooth motion. “Sounds painful.” He reached down to her, and when she took his hand he hauled her up and held her as he walked his charger over to Tama. “Swing on, that’s a good lass.” Once she had clambered onto the mare he nodded toward the ridge. “We’ll ride to the loch and have a soak. Can you swim?”

She gaped at him. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

He grinned and tapped his temple. “Doesnae sound like it.” He made a clicking sound to Selon, who trotted away with him.

Kinley caught up and paced him, expecting the laird to keel over and fall off the big stallion at any moment. Lachlan instead kept his seat, pointed out some crofts they passed and told her of the families working them, and generally behaved as if he hadn’t been impaled by the stag. By the time they reached the loch Kinley was almost frantic, especially when he helped her down and she saw he was still bleeding.

“Okay, you’ve impressed me with your awesome highlander stoicism,” she told him as he drew her down to the edge of the water. “Now we need to get you back to the castle, so I can–” She gaped as he removed his tunic. “What are you doing?”

“Having a soak,” he said and eyed the blood-stained shirt before tossing it to the ground and reaching for his trouser laces. “If you cannae swim you should stay on the bank. ’Tis deep here, and the loch’s currents can be devious.”

Seeing the wounds in his shoulder made her feel sick. “Lachlan, you’re badly hurt. Now is not the time to take a dip. Please.”

He removed his boots and dropped his trousers. “’Tis the best time, lass.”

Kinley tried not to stare, but the laird had the most perfectly ripped body she’d ever seen: a huge muscular chest beneath his giant snake tat, abs so hard and defined they’d have made body builders weep in defeat, and lean hips above long, strong legs with large, high-arched feet. Even with his skin streaked with blood, Kinley wanted nothing more than to jump on him and drag him to the ground. But something else gave her pause: namely, the thick, long column of his penis, which was all serious business. Framed by a thatch of dark body hair, and swelling bigger with every moment that passed, it looked hell-yeah ready to make her acquaintance.

Lachlan glanced down at his erection and then at her. “You’re no’ screeching.”

“I’m too busy losing my mind,” she told him. “Don’t you dare go in that water. I mean it, Lachlan. If it doesn’t kill you, I will.”

“Trust me, lass.” He waded in and dove under the surface.

Kinley shouted his name as she waded in after him, splashing wildly as she went and desperately peering into the dark waters of the loch. He might be bold and built and beautiful, but if she didn’t get him out of the damn lake he might finish bleeding to death in it, and then what would she do? Tell the clan their laird was a reckless moron who thought swimming in ice-cold water was the way to treat deep animal puncture wounds?

All around her the water took on a subtle glow, and she felt every inch of her skin tingle as if in response. Something was happening beneath the surface of the loch. Lachlan’s scent—the smell of cool, clear water—rose to fill her head as something whirled around her legs. The man himself suddenly emerged, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her back to shore. She looked at his injured shoulder and saw nothing but three faint pink marks and unbroken skin.

“You’re healed,” she said and touched one of the marks. “Lachlan, what happened to your wounds?”

“The loch’s waters heal me and my clan.” He set her down on her feet and rolled his head from side to side.

“Water heals you. Ah, no.” She shook her head. “Water is just water.”

“No’ here, lass.” He dragged his hair back from his face. “And no’ for the clan.”

Kinley peered at him as one of her grandmother’s stories emerged from her memory. “Are you and the clan kelpies?”

“Have you seen us turn into horses and eat mortals?” Curling up his arm, he tested the shoulder and nodded as if satisfied. “No’ even a twinge left. Now, would you like to–”

Kinley slapped his face as hard as she could, throwing all her weight behind the blow. He barely blinked, so she thumped him on the chest, kicked his shin and released a screech of fury.

“How could you do that to me?” she demanded. “Do you have any idea how scared I was? That I’d have to go and tell the clan you were dead? And then Evander would blame me and kill me for sure?”

“Raen would keep Evander from killing you,” Lachlan said and tried to put his dripping arms around her. He sighed as she eluded him. “Kinley, I told you, we are no’ mortal.”

“I thought you were joking.” Dazed now, she sank down onto the bank and stared at the jagged silhouette of the opposite ridge. “You’re not undead. I’ve seen you eat food, and walk around in the sunlight.”

His mouth hitched. “I’m no’ undead.”

Kinley turned her head as he sat down beside her, and for the first time saw the faint marks of the scars on his body. A few had been covered by the snake ink, but dozens of others appeared all over his chest, arms and legs, as if he’d been stabbed hundreds of times. The most ominous scar was a thin line that completely encircled his neck. She couldn’t believe she’d missed them, until she recalled the piss-poor lighting inside the castle.

“Why does the lake heal you?” Kinley demanded.

He laced his fingers through hers, and drew her to her feet. “I will tell you, my lady, but first you must take an oath of loyalty to me and mine.”

Kinley understood what he was asking. She’d sworn an oath when she’d enlisted in the Air Force. She didn’t know why he wanted her to, but he probably wouldn’t tell her anything until she did.

“All right,” she agreed. “What do I say?”

Lachlan reached for his belt, and removed a small knife. Instead of cutting himself or her, he wrapped her hand around the hilt. Then he folded his hand on top of hers and used an old piece of cord to bind her wrist to his.

“Say thus: I pledge myself to Lachlan McDonnel, laird of the McDonnels, and his clan. Ever when they call on me, I am theirs to command. Their battles are mine, and their secrets I keep. This I swear on my soul and my life.”

As she repeated the powerful words, she watched the laird’s dark eyes, and how suddenly ancient they seemed. When she’d finished her oath, she asked, “Why does the water heal you?”

“’Tis where the clan and I were slaughtered by the Romans.” Lachlan’s gaze grew distant as he looked out over the loch. “And where we awakened as immortals.”