Eva couldn’t breathe.

Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. She could, but it felt like all the breath had left her, and drawing it back in was taking every effort. She sat numbly rooted on the bench in the alcove of the great hall, watching Strath’s retreating figure. His green, blue, and red plaid swung wildly against his powerful, sun-darkened legs with each lengthy, purposeful stride.

The king was concerned for her welfare. That could mean only one thing—that her letter to her mother’s family had been received and they had implored their king to seek her out. That was how he’d guessed her name. She’d nearly forgotten that part.

There were so many questions she had, wanted to shout for him to come back so she could figure out all he knew.

But Strath did not turn around. And she did not expect him to.

Though she’d not known him long, there was only one other instance where she’d seen him walk with such intense resolve. And that had been in the chapel at Northwyck a few seconds before he’d tossed her over his shoulder.

The memory of that, of the strength and determination of him, had another gush of air rushing out of her. Duff was a fool to have gone against his laird.

What was Strath going to do?

Strath ducked beneath the arched opening that led toward the main entrance, and a moment later, the loudness of the bailey filled the castle, only to be cut off abruptly by the sound of the door closing. It was eerie to have heard the noise and then nothing. Eva suppressed a shudder.

Duff was certainly going to get a severe punishment for attempting to start an uprising, for that was what he was doing. A little part of her was also embarrassed. Duff had somehow watched that kiss she and Strath shared in the orchard. That deliciously wanton kiss. Eva pressed her hand to her heart, feeling it pound. That had not been an innocent kiss. The way he’d claimed her, pressed her up against the shed… Sensual didn’t even begin to describe it. As she reimagined the entire scenario all over again, her body heated, nipples perked to life, and there was what she could only describe as a pulsing need between her legs.

Her body craved him. And Duff had been witness to all of that. Because of it, he’d determined his laird was not capable of leading the men. Was that a logical conclusion? Perhaps she might have thought so had she been on Duff’s end. Perhaps not.

In any case, the fact this was happening at all was her fault.

Well, partially. She, Strath, and Duff had all played a part in what was happening now. But would Duff have taken those actions if she’d not thrown herself at his laird on two different occasions?

That remained a serious question. Duff had already started to question her on their journey, loudly, when she’d tried to cook the men stew. There was a chance he had been looking for an excuse to put down his laird. Eva didn’t fully understand all the interworkings of a clan, but she did know what it meant when a leader was undermined.

She’d never forget being a young girl of perhaps eleven, and watching her father take a lash to one of his knight’s backs. It had not been about a mutiny, but it did have to do with respect. These were harsh times. Men had to count on each other to stay alive, when one false word could prove to be life or death… Well, that called for a heavy hand.

Perhaps she should not feel bad for Duff. He knew what he was getting into. She couldn’t imagine that Strath would surround himself with imbeciles, because while his men had to trust that he would lead them, he had to trust they would have his back. So while Duff might have feared his leader was going to be taken advantage of again, he could have gone about it a different way than the one he’d chosen.

Her mind flitted back and forth between the situation outside, her mother and the news of the king’s inquiry. All of it made her a little dizzy.

Eva sat against the cool stone, leaning her head back and looking up toward the timber rafters crisscrossing in an arching pattern. A bird flew from one end to the other, probably had a nest up there. Whatever was happening between her and Strath was confusing. Not to mention overwhelming. Of course, it would be puzzling to his men, too.

And they might even perceive it as a weakness.

Eva didn’t want to be anyone’s weakness, especially not his.

But how could she prove that she could be his strength? There was so much she had against her. Being half English. Being daughter to an enemy of his country. Not to mention she’d been about to wed a man their king had sent him to battle—the very reason Strath had determined to take her prisoner. The list went on. The men would see their passion as Strath abusing his power. And she supposed she could see their point, and how it would look on the outside. But Eva didn’t see it that way.

When he’d burst into that church, right after her initial fear, she’d experienced clear relief. She’d told him to take her. Offered herself. Known the consequences of doing so. She’d wanted protection from Belfinch, wanted to find out what happened to her mother, even if that had meant putting herself in Scottish hands.

Eva had chosen the lesser of what she’d thought at the time were two evils. Perhaps Fate or God had interceded to keep her safe. That she’d come to fall for the man who’d taken her.

If only they’d met under different circumstances. Then none of this would be happening.

Eva pushed herself up from the bench. Outside was eerily silent, at least none of the noise filtered in. Being alone in the great hall, surrounded by silence, she could almost imagine she was completely alone in the world. The sensation of it was overwhelming, pulsing in on her in a moment of sudden panic. She took a few hurried steps toward the entrance, an intense yearning to see what was happening flooded her, but she knew that would be a bad idea. She didn’t want to watch a man be punished. She didn’t want to hear it, either.

There was only one thing to do. This morning, she’d seen Lady Lorna exit the family’s private chapel off the great hall. Finding the entrance was easy, and once inside the empty chamber, Eva closed the door. Candles were lit on the small altar. She went forward, knelt before it, and pressed her hands together in prayer.

She stared up at the carved stone statue of the Virgin holding her infant son. A mother whose only wish had been to protect her sacred child. What any mother would want. What her own mother had desired. And if Eva was ever blessed with a child, she would do the same.

Words escaped her as she stared at the tilted head, the carved lips, the emotion the artist had captured in their stonework. How did one pray for guidance? She’d not often been one to pray other than when she was told to. She’d confessed her sins to their family’s priest, her list undoubtedly lengthier than anyone else’s. But never had she asked for guidance. She’d always preferred to do things her own way.

“What should I do?” she asked the statue. “I think I love him. And it seems as though a love between us is wrong. For hundreds of years before us, people from different countries have wed. Uniting nations in matrimony. But have people that should be enemies married across borders for other reasons? For love?”

Eva sat back on her heels, recalling how Strath had said his own parents had done just that, and they were happy. Was that a sign she could try? That love and happiness were a possibility?

The door handle rattled, and a swish of air flickered the candles. But no one came in, and the candles flared back to life. She stared into the center of the orange flame of the candle closest to her, making out the faint lines of blue where it burned hottest.

What should I do?

No answers came to her, but a memory did, of her mother sitting behind her and brushing out the knots from her long hair. Her mother had always been so tender in her ministrations, and kissed away Eva’s tears when the knots were extra bold. On that particular morning, Eva had been asking questions like any seven-year-old might. Why this, and why that, but then she’d asked her mother if she could live with her forever, and her mother had answered that one day, she would grow up and marry, and that she would have her own household to run. Eva hadn’t wanted her own house. She’d wanted to stay with her mother. And her mother had said softly in her Scottish brogue, “I pray for ye, my love, that one day ye find a man who takes away your breath, and when ye do, ye will know where home is.”

But what was home? When she was a child, home had been love, her mother and father and sister. Home had been where she laid her head. Where she ate her meals. Where she played. Home had been safety. Home had been hope and happiness.

Eva sighed, understanding now what her mother had meant.

Whenever she looked at Strath, or indeed thought of him or sensed him near, her breath hitched. He took her breath away. When she was with him, she felt hope and happiness and anticipation for things to come—and that extended beyond kissing.

Strath was home.

“I want to stay,” she said to herself. “I love him.”

Strath marched out to the bailey, uncertain of what he was going to do until he saw Duff standing in the center of half a dozen Dornoch warriors. His men looked up at him warily, perhaps in that moment regretting having listened to any of the damning words Duff might have uttered.

“Duff,” he bellowed.

The scorned warrior slowly turned around, and those who’d been surrounding him backed away, flickers of apprehension mixing with the dawning knowledge they’d been caught.

Upon hearing his bellow, Tomaidh exited the barracks with the other men.

“Ye want to challenge me.” It was not a question, but a statement from Strath. He stopped about six feet from Duff, keeping his face emotionless, his stance rigid, strong. From this, he would not back down.

Duff puffed out his chest, thrusting his jaw forward in pigheadedness. “Perhaps ye need to be challenged.”

Strath took note the man conveniently left off my laird.

“Does anyone else feel the need to challenge their laird?” Strath asked the crowd, scanning his men, especially those who’d been gathered with Duff to begin with.

No one stepped forward.

“Duff here believes me incapable of leading my men.” From the corner of his eye, he saw his uncle approach from wherever he’d been. “For some time after the attack on Dunrobin by the Guinn clan, I felt to blame. Perhaps there were signs I should have seen from my betrothed, I readily admit that. But I am not to blame for the betrayal laid on our clans.”

The men nodded in understanding.

“Who among ye would judge me for believing the woman I was to marry was faithful? I was a fool, aye. But I have learned my lesson. I also know that Guinn would still have attacked Dunrobin. All he needed was a push. If I’d not discovered her sins, we’d be married, and despite the attack, she would still be my wife to this day. And I’d be raising another man’s bairn.” Strath stared at each man, challenging them to speak up. “She would be your mistress, and ye would have to be loyal to her, protect her with your lives. After she’d betrayed us.”

They’d not thought of that, not the way Strath had. Hell, until this very moment, he’d not fully thought about how lucky he was to have escaped that fate. By being married in the eyes of God, the only thing he could have done was lock her in a convent. And she’d still be his wife until the day she died. Not to mention the bairn. Even if it wasn’t his, he’d not have tossed him to the wolves.

“Jean Guinn would not have made ye stew in the woods, because she thought ye might enjoy it over dried venison. She would not have laughed with ye to break up the monotony of a long journey. She would have put her sgian dubh to your throats while ye slept.” Strath glanced at his uncle, about to reveal the truth for the first time. “’Tis true that she was at first my prisoner. That the king asked us to find her. But Eva, she has won ye all over, not just me. She has proven more than once she is not our enemy, but one of us.”

The men called out a forceful, Aye. But the only reaction Strath cared about for that moment was his uncle’s. To his relief his uncle nodded.

Strath pinned Duff with a glower. “Raise your sword, or strip off your shirt. Either way, I’ll be giving ye a lashing to remind ye who is your laird. And I’ll remind ye that I could have tossed ye in the dungeon for trying to start a rebellion.”

Duff touched the hilt of his sword, clearly contemplating pulling it from its scabbard. Mo chreach, but Strath prayed the man did not go through with it. If he did, Strath would disarm him and put him down before he had to draw blood, but if the man pushed him to it, he could quite possibly take his life. No one would question him on it.

Aye, it would be his right if the man raised a weapon toward him. But even still, that was not what Strath wanted. Duff needed guidance, assurance. And he needed to understand his laird would show him mercy. Once.

By going behind Strath’s back, Duff had made a mistake. But like Strath, mistakes were lessons that one learned from, that made a person better, which was why Strath was willing to show him clemency.

Nevertheless, Strath couldn’t make him strip off his shirt to take his punishment. Strath couldn’t force him not to draw his weapon. Those were decisions Duff had to make on his own.

They stayed still like that for many moments, Strath counting the seconds as they stared at each other. The wind picked up, and the sky overhead darkened when clouds passed over the dull sun. Rain would soon be upon them again. He would count to sixty, letting Duff have a full minute to make the choice for life or death.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine… The seconds dragged on with an agonizing stillness.

Finally, Duff took his hand off the hilt of his sword and moved it to the pin holding his plaid in place. Jaw tight and eyes never leaving Strath’s, he unpinned his plaid and pulled off his shirt. He stood naked from the waist up in the bailey, and turned his back on his laird, prepared to take his punishment.

A collective breath was released from the crowd. Thank the heavens, Duff had chosen a thrashing instead. Strath’s lungs were tight, almost bursting with the tension inside him. He glanced down at his hand.

Ballocks. Strath didn’t even have a whip. He’d not been prepared.

“My laird.” Tomaidh appeared at his side and handed him a horse whip he must have gone to get from the stables.

Strath took it with a nod of gratitude and approached Duff. He glanced behind him at his uncle, who gave a subtle nod. Had Uncle Jamie ever been in this situation before? Strath had certainly punished men before, but not many, and never with a whipping. Each lash would tear into Duff’s flesh. And yet it was unavoidable.

Strath cleared his throat, feeling how dry it was. Lord, he could use a flagon of whisky right now. “Duff of Dornoch and Sutherland, ye are hereby charged with an attempt at mutiny and will receive a punishment of twenty lashes. Do ye confess?”

“Aye. I confess, and gladly take my lashes, if my laird will forgive me for being a fool.”

Strath gripped the sturdy handle of the whip and heard the leather creak. “Aye. Ye will be forgiven.”

And with that said, he raised the whip.