A week ago Alasdair had had a vivid dream in which he was making love to Fiona, who sat astride him with her shining hair freed from its braid. In his dream, her pale slim body had glowed as if on fire, set alight by the touch of his hands upon her.

Now, here in her dressing-room of all places, as he received her upon him, felt her hands upon his face, saw the glow in long-lashed eyes gone blue, he wondered for a stunned moment if he was, in fact, dreaming. She seemed real, there was something very reassuring about the weight of her, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the scent of her lemony soap and her rose perfume and her sweat mingling in a rather intoxicating way, but still—

It was easy to imagine that despite their prosaic surroundings, he, they, had been transported to some kind of mystical paradise.

Here they were, here was Fiona, naked as the day she’d been born. With her hair streaming about her like a shimmering silvery-blonde cloak, here was his Eve, he was her Adam, and he had just tasted of the Fruit of Knowledge: the sweet musky taste of her still lingered, but he hadn’t had enough and he wanted nothing more than—why, he wanted more of her.

As he had come to her closed dressing-room door, he’d been confident that their marital relations—sex—could be improved, but never in a million years would he have guessed this would happen. That the nice little flame he’d expected had instead exploded into a roaring conflagration of desire: a bonfire of absolute, devouring, splendid lust that took them both, remaking them anew. Had he really once thought her too thin, unappealing? Christ, but he’d been blind. She was magnificent. And with that same ravenous longing he wanted to run his hands along the long slim line of her torso, devour her beautifully rounded little breasts, and more, so much more, but she had said firmly to him:

Kiss me again.

Who was he to disobey?

Especially with that pretty mouth, the color of pink spring roses, so temptingly close, revealing between parted lips a glimpse of white straight teeth. Maybe she wanted to devour him too. Alasdair knew a strong impulse to ravage her mouth with his own, but instead, acting on a kind of deep instinct, he remained still, meeting her eyes with his own, and didn’t even pull her against him.

“You,” he said, quietly, calmly, affably, “kiss me.”

He could feel her react. The indrawn breath, her fingers tightening against his face.

“Do you want me to?” she asked.

“My God, yes.”

She seemed to be satisfied then. She smiled slightly. Leaned closer, and closer still, until there was only the merest hairsbreadth between their mouths. A kiss without a kiss. How could such a thing be so erotic? But it was: he was hard now, ragingly hard, she had to know it and feel it, his shaft beneath his robe pressed insistently between her legs as she sat with wonderful abandon on him, the silken barrier between them damp with the wetness of her desire, her readiness. Hurry, hurry, clamored his body, but with a supreme effort of will, guided by instinct, he did not hurry. Instead, he waited. His breath came faster and his own lips parted; expectancy surged through him like a storm.

But he waited.

She did not kiss him, though their mouths were so close and he could feel the warmth of her breath like a siren’s song. No, she slid her fingers down along the column of his throat, to the muscles of his shoulders, slid caressingly around his biceps, and then up again, to travel across his chest, lingering, dipping into the hollows of his collarbone and trailing down his chest.

He couldn’t prevent himself from groaning a little.

“You’re torturing me, lass.”

“Am I?” She didn’t sound at all sorry. She sounded rather pleased. And she shifted herself upon his lap a little, in a very purposeful, very cruel way.

He groaned again.

“You,” he said, “are not a nice person.”

“No,” she agreed, in a pleased voice. “I’m really not, am I?”

But she did touch her lips to his, just a little, a whisper-light touch, and Alasdair broke out in a sweat.

“More?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“Very well.” She tilted her head, kissed his upper lip, licked it. Pleasure shot through him, keen and exquisite.

“Again?” she asked.

“Aye.”

She licked his lip again, boldly now, then brought her lips more fully upon his, and when she gave a long, soft, satisfied sort of sigh, he judged the time was right, and he deepened the kiss, touched his tongue to hers, explored her, tasted her, but with a slow approach, without haste, sensitive to her response, and savoring—relishing—experiencing every second of it. Yielding, returning, she was all wetness and heat here, too; Alasdair groaned again, a raw, rough sound which seemed to give her considerable enjoyment, for she gave a little purring noise, broke the kiss, and pressed herself against him, whispering against his ear, “You do like this, don’t you?”

“You know I do.”

“Good.” She bit his earlobe, just sharply enough to make him twitch with surprise and excitement.

“No, you’re not a nice person at all,” growled Alasdair, and took his revenge at once by wrapping his hands around her shoulders, creating a distance between them, and taking one pink, hard tip of her sweet little breast into his mouth, suckling at her and enjoying very much the spasmodic way she twitched. Two could play at that game, after all. After a while he went to her other breast, glorying in the way she clutched at him, murmured feverishly, “Oh, Alasdair, oh my God . . .”

He could have gone on like this forever, yet did not object when her hands found the silk sash at his waist, fumbled at it. Her face was flushed, her expression one of intense urgency.

In a lazy, leisurely way he leaned back from her, bracing his hands behind him, amazed at his own self-control. It seemed possible that he’d never been quite so racked with lust, but here he was, not even assisting her one tiny bit to speed things along.

“Your hands are trembling,” he remarked.

“Help me, you awful man,” she hissed.

He smiled. “If you insist.” He lay back onto the soft carpet, Fiona shifting to straddle his thighs. He undid the knot she had created in his sash, but did not open the robe, only folded his crossed arms behind his head. “There.”

Fiona sat back a little, breathing deeply, and said, politely, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, just as courteously, then commented, “You’ve stopped trembling.”

“For now.”

There was a pause. Alasdair wondered what was going to happen next. He hoped his body wouldn’t disintegrate into a million little pieces of unfulfilled desire. He gazed up at Fiona, slim and strong and naked and with her magnificent hair all about her.

“You look like Belisama, lass.” The mystical goddess of light and fire.

“That’s a lovely thing to say.”

“I mean it. You’re beautiful.”

“When you say it like that, I almost believe you.”

“Believe it.”

“I’ll try. Alasdair.”

“Yes, Fiona?”

“I wish our wedding night had been like this.”

“So do I. I’m sorry I was such an ass.”

She smiled a little, and he admired again the lovely curves of her rose-pink lips, although he did wish they weren’t so far away from his own mouth.

“Better late than never,” she said.

“True.”

“Will it always be like this?”

“Like how?”

“Magical.”

“No.”

Her dark brows went up. “No?”

“It will be better,” he told her.

“That seems impossible.”

“Trust me.”

“I will.”

“Fiona,” he said.

“Yes?”

“There’s a very real chance I’ll die unless I have you very soon.”

“We wouldn’t want that to happen.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.”

Still she didn’t move. “Alasdair.”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember what you asked me to do on our wedding night?”

“Aye, to my shame. Must you remind me again of my boorishness?”

“I only brought it up because—well, I want to do it.”

He really was dreaming, Alasdair thought, in a kind of wonderful agony. “Fine.”

“Is it all right for a wife to do that?”

“Yes.”

“And you would like it too?”

“Yes.” He lay at his ease—or with as much appearance of it as a man could in his situation, with a blatantly erect shaft, poorly concealed by a panel of silk, and his naked wife only inches from it—and waited for her to make the next move, for still that deep instinct of his told him to do so. He wondered if she would slide open the panels of his robe with a certain tentativeness, but instead she whipped them aside. And then, in a heartbeat, she was upon him, he was within her, they were joined completely and it was, in fact, magical.

Fiona could not have said how long it was after they had made love, after they had both reached their peaks, first her, then Alasdair, that she lay next to him on the carpet in her dressing-room, still rather breathless. She had cried out, had lifted her voice in joyful abandon, and oh, how wonderful it felt to do that.

Now her head rested comfortably on the perfect hollow between the base of his neck and his collarbone. One of her legs was draped across his; one of her arms lay across his broad chest. Her hair was everywhere. Tomorrow it would take her a long time to smooth out the snarls and tangles. But why consider tomorrow when the present moment was so delightful?

She said to Alasdair:

“Thank you.”

One big hand had been stroking her arm, but it stopped. “Don’t be daft, lass.”

“Why am I daft?”

“If anyone’s to be doing the thanking, it should be me.”

“Really? Why?”

“Do you need to ask?”

Fiona smiled. His pleasure had been as exciting, as satisfying, as her own. She reached out and ran a teasing finger along those sensual lines near his mouth, then down the firm hardness of his chin. Now that was a chin for you. Manly, handsome, neither too protuberant nor receding.

Goodness, she hadn’t thought of Logan Munro at all. Before, in those brief mechanical interludes with Alasdair, she’d allowed seductive memories to dance across her mind. But tonight, Alasdair had filled her senses, richly, completely. Filled her. Nothing that had ever happened between herself and Logan—the stolen kisses, the secretive caresses—could compare with making love with Alasdair.

A little voice, solemn, oracular:

You stare at the moon, ever changing. Turn about, lady, turn about.

Fiona suddenly remembered that evening in the Great Drawing-room some weeks back, when, unguardedly, she’d compared Alasdair to the sun.

Another memory superimposed itself, one she hadn’t thought of in a long time. A few weeks before she had left home on that fateful journey to Edinburgh at eighteen, to visit Cousin Isobel, an eclipse had come upon Wick Bay. She’d been riding with Father to visit one of their tenant farmers, whose sow had just given birth to an astonishing nineteen piglets, when the sky had begun turning to a deeper blue before fading into gray and continuing to darken, and day had somehow, bizarrely, become night. She had been shocked, and afraid, but Father had said, “It’s the moon passing across the sun. ’Twill soon pass away. There will be all kinds of tumult and gibbering among the poor folk, and they’ll talk of nothing but the devil casting his own shadow. Ignore it.” He had been right, and before long the afternoon had brightened again.

Then she had gone to Edinburgh and met Logan, with his jet-black eyes, gleaming black hair, who had said he loved her but changed so completely. It was not difficult, as she lay here replete, entwined, to think of Logan—the memory of Logan— as the moon, ever-changing and inconstant; and Alasdair, here, now, real and solid, her future, as the sun.

Alasdair, filling her with warmth and pleasure.

Maybe filling her with a baby, too.

Fiona closed her eyes. Her breathing had softened to an easy cadence. Images formed, as if fully fleshed in her mind: herself all rounded and pregnant, a chubby red-haired baby, all smiles and dimples, Alasdair holding the baby in his arms; another baby, with silvery-blond hair and a determined little face . . .

“Alasdair,” she said, keeping her eyes closed.

“Yes, lass?” He was stroking her arm again.

“I’m feeling very sleepy.”

“That is gladsome news.”

“I’m not sure I want to sleep on the carpet.”

“No, lass, I quite agree. Wait a moment. Don’t move.” He extricated himself from her embrace, and with easy strength he picked her up in his arms, lifted her, and carried her to their bed. He laid her down, gently as a feather; she gave a contented sigh, still with her eyes shut, and said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The mattress shifted as Alasdair got in next to her. Not all the way across the length of the bed, either. He lay on his side, with a big, splendidly heavy arm across her midsection, just below her breasts. “Good night, lass.”

“Good night, Alasdair.”

There was a short, comfortable silence.

“Alasdair?”

“Aye, Fiona?”

“I’m too happy to sleep.”

“Oh?”

Fiona opened her eyes and turned onto her side, facing him. How strange it felt to not have on a nightgown. But how . . . convenient. She slid closer to him, until their naked bodies were touching—skin to skin, her smooth breasts against his muscled chest, her hips pressed up against his—and felt his pleasingly immediate response. She smiled in the warm dimness of their bedchamber. “I know what we could do instead.”

“Do you?” His deep voice was lazy, amused.

Fiona curled a leg over his hip, and snugged herself even closer. “Do you want to?”

“You are daft,” he said, and kissed her, and she kissed him right back, and they began again.

Later, later, when their breathing had slowed and their sweat had dried, Alasdair lay watching as Fiona, this time, did fall asleep, on her back, one hand flung out toward him, on her face an expression of pure tranquility.

Ah, good for you, lass, he thought.

Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he brought the blankets a little higher, to cover her bare, smooth-skinned shoulders, then settled back against his pillows. He’d have thought he would have preceded her in sleep. Especially since he hadn’t slept at all last night.

Still, he could certainly lie here for a little while, and enjoy this marvelous feeling of satiation. And happiness, yes?

Yes?

Wasn’t he happy?

He should be.

The sex had been more than satisfactory.

Alasdair rolled onto his side, away from Fiona.

He should be happy, for now, for sure, there would be peacefulness between them.

And peace was such a nice, safe feeling.

It was all he wanted.

All he needed.

And on that thought, his body relaxed. His eyelids grew heavy. And at last, he slept too.

He was having an argument with Gavin. Or, rather, he was trying to have an argument with Gavin, who, taller, older, only looked down his finely chiseled nose at him and smiled in that aloof, condescending manner he deployed when he was trying to prompt Alasdair to explosive outbursts of fury.

It usually worked.

They were standing on the shore of Loch Sgàthan, deep, blue, beautiful, with Castle Tadgh clearly visible in the distance. Here in this loch they had swum, fished, sailed for all their lives. Don’t do it, you daft fool! he was saying to Gavin, only he noticed that he was shouting, for the wind abruptly rose, and the blue waters of the loch had turned a troubling dark green, no longer smooth and glassy but choppy and angry-looking.

But I want to, calmly replied Gavin. When have you ever stopped me from doing what I wanted to do, little brother?

Never, damn you, Alasdair said, waiting for the mood to shift, for the affection—which for all their lives had knitted them together—to return, as it always did, even after their ugliest fights.

I’m ready, someone cried, I want to be the first one on the boat.

And there was Mòrag, her black curls whipping crazily in the wind, looking not at him, but up at Gavin.

And Gavin smiled at her, took her hand, just as Alasdair heard a loud crack that could have been thunder, or, equally possible, his heart breaking. He prayed it was thunder, for pride was clearly all he had left.

I’m ready too, Gavin told Mòrag, and then as Alasdair reached desperately for them both, to try and stop them by physically restraining them, a crowd of people had suddenly appeared between them, blocking his way. Friends of Gavin: the large party he had invited from Glasgow, charming young men, bonny young ladies, their pleasant chaperones. And Father and Mother, too:

Mother, saying proudly, Gavin is such a fine sailor, isn’t it a handsome boat we’ve given him for his birthday?

Father nodding, nodding, nodding.

Don’t do it, he shouted, don’t go, but his words were lost in the howl of the wind, and even as he glanced in despair at the loch, a dark, menacing shape, enormous and sinister, swam up near the surface, and only Alasdair saw it.

The crowd of people in front of him had gone oddly transparent, and he could see through them as he would an ordinary pane of glass. He could see Gavin backing away from him, smiling, Mòrag clinging to his arm.

Gavin, saying, We’re going whether you like it or not, little brother. Stay on the shore if you wish. We’ll miss you; won’t you change your mind?

Goodbye, goodbye, everyone said gaily, Father and Mother too.

Mòrag, laughing, her black curls suddenly a morass of deadly snakes, alive and writhing and furious, as if entirely separate beings from Mòrag and transmitting their black anger to Alasdair, who shouted, You’re daft, all of you, you shouldn’t go, it’s unsafe, can’t you see that?

Nobody listened, nobody heard him, and furiously Alasdair tried to turn and walk away from them, but he had looked at the snakes and been instantly turned to stone. He was forced, then, to watch as the boat, already full of passengers and in the middle of the loch, went slowly down. Forced to hear the screams, the pitiful cries for help. It seemed to take years for the beautiful new boat to sink within the ugly green depths of the loch.

The last one to go under was his brother Gavin, his golden-blond hair like a shining helmet in the gloom.

Gavin didn’t scream or cry like the others. No, he stood there very calm, smiling at Alasdair triumphantly, as if even in death he’d gotten yet again the very last laugh.

Gavin! he shouted. I’m sorry I turned away from you! So sorry!

Too late, little brother. You should have come with us, you know. We’re having so much fun.

No. No—

You should have come with us.

No! You were wrong to insist!

I’m never wrong, little brother.

You’re daft!

What’s the matter?

I’m sorry—

Wake up.

What? I can’t hear you, Gavin!

Alasdair, wake up. Wake up!

Mother, Father, Gavin, Mòrag, all of you— you can have her with my blessing, Gavin, if only you’d come back—

Wake up, Alasdair!

A hand was upon him, shaking his shoulder, and Alasdair was swept away, jerked from his dream, opening his eyes to find himself in his bed, sweating, and in his blind disorientation he had no idea who was touching him: with a rough noise he shoved the hand away, wrenched himself across the bed. “Stop,” he said hoarsely, “don’t touch me.”

There was only silence.

Alasdair was waiting for his heart to slow its racing. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness.

He saw Fiona, sitting up, the covers clutched to her breasts and her hair a mad nimbus all around her, looking, he thought dazedly, not unlike a seraph who had come from the heavens into the human realm.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice still a little rough. “A nightmare, nothing more.”

“You called out,” she said softly. “For your parents. For Gavin, and for Mòrag. Was she someone whom you lost, too?”

A wave of anger, of pain and desolation, crashed over Alasdair and he had to fiercely fight back the urge to snarl at Fiona or to simply get up and go away somewhere, anywhere, to avoid having to answer questions he didn’t wish to hear, let alone answer. Instead, he brought himself closer to her, through sheer will made his voice just as soft.

“It was nothing, lass,” he said, “only a dream,” and before she could say anything else he coaxed her down with persuasive hands, to lie against him, and to let him kiss her and touch her, gently, slowly, until she was breathless, eager, carried off with desire. And then he, too, was subsumed, all thoughts of the past gone, as if they were only flotsam taken back by a remorseless sea.

After, Fiona slept again, and Alasdair did too, for a little while. But sentience came again, far too soon, and for a long while he reflected in the darkness on the irony of Fiona sleeping and himself wide awake. Somehow they seemed to have traded places. He’d have laughed out loud—although perhaps not entirely with amusement—except that he didn’t want to disturb her.

Finally, in that uncertain hour between waning night and early sunrise, very quietly he rose, dressed, slipped out of their bedchamber, leaving behind a sleeping Fiona. There in the hallway was Cuilean, tail wagging, and together they went downstairs and outside, where they walked to the river. Alasdair watched the sun begin its slow climb into a blue cloudless sky, and Cuilean enjoyed himself nosing along the riverbank and chasing squirrels up into the trees. Ordinarily Alasdair would have enjoyed just such an early-morning walk too, but today . . .

Today was different.

And not in a good way.

So he was glad—inappropriately glad—when he returned to the castle and was greeted in the Great Hall by his bailiff Shaw, his boots and trousers spattered with mud, his rough hat gripped in his hands, and anxious to let him know that during last night’s thunderstorm, lightning had struck a great oak tree. “It toppled, laird,” Shaw said, “and it’s completely flattened old Norval Smith’s threshing barn.”

In his dream, Alasdair recalled, he had heard the storm. It had been real. Not his heart cracking in two.

Well, that was a relief.

“Was anyone injured?” he quickly asked.

“Thank God, no, laird. But the Smiths were badly spooked, and their animals, too. Their horses broke away from their stables, and a whole flock of sheep is scattered. And you know how frail Norval is.”

“To be sure. Let’s go there at once.” To Lister, standing near, Alasdair said, “Tell the mistress where I’ve gone, would you?”

“Of course, laird. Will you be wishing for breakfast before you go?”

“No, I thank you.” With that, he was off and away to the stables, aware, with some shame, that his concern for the Smith family was tainted by his gratitude at having an excuse to go.

If he was running away, just a little, there was nobody who could possibly have suspected it.

To Fiona came the slow realization that she was being gently delivered from the depths of slumber into a new day. Goodness gracious, she was actually waking up, rather than stirring blearily from out of a restless doze. How novel, how incredibly, wonderfully, amazingly, miraculously novel.

She sighed happily and stretched, filled with an unusually powerful sense of well-being. She was rested. And naked. And her body felt . . . well-loved. Quickly, now, she opened her eyes, looking for Alasdair.

But he was gone.

A disappointment, especially after last night.

Don’t be impatient, you’ll be seeing him again soon enough.

However, when Fiona had bathed and dressed, and made her way downstairs, Lister informed her that the laird was already gone out. A further disappointment, but hardly a tragedy. She had, after all, slept uncharacteristically late. Cheerfully Fiona thanked him and went on to the breakfast-room.

The disposition of a widow’s bedstead, should she remarry and die, without new issue, before her current spouse does.

The age at which a young man might become a soldier.

The proper investigatory procedure for anyone suspected of being a witch.

The protocol for May Day celebrations (with specific additional instructions during a leap year).

The invalidation of a wedding ceremony performed when the presiding minister is observed to be in an obvious state of intoxication.

The punishment for arson.

The formalities of becoming a guardian of orphaned children.

The sale of personal possessions acquired in a state of summer madness.

The resolution of violent disputes among elderly siblings.

The proclamation that any calf born an albino automatically belongs to the chieftain or his designated successor.

Isobel sat back on her knees, her brain whirling. The Tome was simply stuffed with rules, procedures, and ordinances, as well as the occasional retraction or clarification, as in the archaic material about witches, demons, and spells. She felt a delightful shudder ripple up her spine. How confusing it all was, yet so endlessly fascinating. And she was only up to page 418.

She glanced at the elaborate ormolu clock set on the fireplace mantel and gasped. The breakfast hour had already commenced, and she was going to be late again. She didn’t want that. Mealtimes had become so pleasant; she’d had such nice conversations with Duff lately. It had been a long, long time since a gentleman had taken such an interest in her, and she in him. He was so intelligent, and so handsome. At first, it had been difficult to notice these attributes, but it was as if her perception had somehow, mysteriously, begun to sharpen.

Quickly Isobel closed the Tome and put it back into the cabinet, pleased to notice that it was getting easier and easier to move it.

Sheila lifted her head from the sampler on which she was laboriously sewing a simple floral border. “Granny,” she said suddenly, “are you always right?”

Old Dame Margery glanced at her over the shift she was mending. “Nay, child, only the Lord above is always right. Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” replied Sheila vaguely, “I was just wondering. Granny, Granny, your hands are better, aren’t they? The lady’s magic salve worked, didn’t it? And Granny, only see! I’ve finished one side entirely, isn’t it pretty?”

“Very pretty, child, very pretty indeed.” Margery smiled at her grandchild, and watched as that strange, opaque look passed from her eyes and she turned them once more to her sampler.

“Do it, man!” Duff said, with a certain urgency, to Grahame, Alasdair’s manservant whom he’d summoned to his own rooms.

“All of it, sir?” asked Grahame, sounding more than a little astonished.

“Aye. Now! Before I lose my courage.”

“Very well, sir.” Grahame took his shears, drew a deep breath, and clipped off Duff’s long beard. Snip snip snip. And it was done. Slowly Duff turned to look at himself in his mirror. After a minute inspection, he said:

“Shows off my jaw. Excellent. Now for a shave. And while you’re at it, you may as well trim my hair.”

“And eyebrows, sir?”

“Why not?” replied Duff, recklessly. “If a man’s got a good face, there’s no point hiding it.”

“Very well, sir,” Grahame repeated, and obediently set to his work.

Fiona sat at her desk, looking not at her notes and lists and letters, but out the window. It was a golden September day, breezy and mild, with perfect weather for the harvesting that had already begun. The sky was vast and so beautiful a blue it almost made her heart ache to see it.

Movement, somber color, caught her eye, and she saw Monty the gardener stumping past in his dark jacket and somehow managing to carry as if it were weightless the longest ladder she had ever seen. Curiosity, and the temptation of a golden morning, decided her.

In a flash Fiona was up and on her way outside.