John found Moire waiting for him when he strode into the dark bailey. He knew by her canny grin that she was waiting for him, that she wanted something.

He scowled at her and kept walking, but he wasn’t surprised when she scurried behind him. Her necklace, made of bones and hag stones, clacked with every step.

“What is it, Moire? Is it Fia?” he asked, moving toward the stable, his stride long. It didn’t deter her in the least.

“Och, no, Fia’s well enough. She’s fretting over Dair. Both the bairn and the chief will arrive when they’re meant to, safe and sound.”

“And Angus Mor’s Annie?”

She squinted up at the sky and sniffed the wind, just to be mysterious. “Her pains will start the day after tomorrow. She’ll have a lass at last, just as she wants.”

“Angus wants another son.”

“Mayhap he does, but it’s for the goddess to decide, not him.” Moire followed him into the stable. “And ye? How are ye tonight, English John?”

He glanced at her. “Did you really come to ask after my health?” He crossed to check the tack that hung on pegs on the wall.

“Aye. I’ve been wondering what’s ailing ye.”

He tossed a bridle onto a bench with a clatter. “I have work to do, Moire. What is it you want?”

She tilted her head. “I want a lot of things, but just now I want to know what it is that ye want.”

He frowned as he grabbed a bucket and filled it with oats, not bothering to reply. She cackled and leaned on the edge of a stall. “I think I know. I’ve seen the way ye look at Fia’s bonny wee sister. Ye’ve never looked at Elspeth or Rhona or Effie like ye look at her, and they’re all as bonny, and willing to have ye any way they can get ye. But with Gillian MacLeod it isn’t lust, is it? It’s a different need. Ye want to see yourself when ye look into her eyes, ye want her to look at ye the way Fia looks at Dair.”

He felt his heart kick at his ribs, and anger and regret pricked at him. “What the devil are you prattling about, old woman? Shouldn’t you be mixing a potion or poulticing a wart somewhere?” He ran his hand down the nearest garron’s leg, checking the creature’s fetlocks. But Moire stayed where she was, smiling knowingly at him, so he changed the subject. “Angus will be in charge while I’m gone.”

“Aye.”

“I’ll be back within the month.” He began to gather weapons and gear, ready to load in the morning. “Dair will be home by then.”

Moire folded her arms over her thin chest. “And the lass?”

“Mistress MacLeod will be safely delivered to the arms of her beloved, wedded and bedded by then.”

Moire made a sign in the air with her fingers. “If that’s what’s meant to be.”

He sent her a level look. “Is that straight from the lips of your goddess?”

She grinned. “Perhaps the goddess is leaving it up to you—and the lass. She wants to see what you’ll do, if you’re brave enough . . .”

He glared at her. “Enough conjuring. I am nothing more than a servant, her escort, just like the MacLeods who are accompanying her.”

“Ah, but they don’t look at her the way you do, and she doesn’t make sheep’s eyes at them.”

He glared all the harder to prove to Moire that she was wrong and he was immune to Gillian MacLeod’s charms.

Moire smirked at him as if she could see into his very soul, read Gillian MacLeod’s name there by mystical augury.

He pushed past the old woman and walked out the postern gate to the cliff path to get some air. He stood looking down at the sea, felt the dizzy pull of the waves, the queasy edge of nauseating memory that always struck him when he looked at the sea. He remembered being on a ship in a storm, helpless, holding the hand of his own brother as the terrible wound in Daniel’s chest festered, drained the life from him. There was nothing he could do but watch, count Daniel’s labored breaths as the ship tossed on seas determined to tear it to pieces. He’d wished—oh, God, he’d wished for his brother’s death, prayed for it. He’d been sick himself, had nearly died . . . Had Moire’s cruel, capricious goddess seen that? Nearly six years had passed since he’d been on that ship, and it had been five years since he’d been disowned, found Dair in an English gaol, and came to Carraig Brigh, but he felt the pain again, as sharp and agonizing as when it was new.

Then the wind shifted, and the scent of roses washed over him, and the image of Gillian in the moonlight came roaring back like a flood tide, and the breeze whispered soft soothing little sighs in his ears. He felt frustrated desire rise to overlay guilt and grief.

He was not worthy of her, didn’t deserve the happiness his brother had missed out on. His father had said just that, when John returned to seek absolution, share the terrible burden of grief, but there was none of that.

There’d been one way to make amends, but he’d refused it.

He shut his eyes. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to feel the terrible events of the past tearing him apart again.

He turned away from the sea and strode toward the dark sanctuary of the wood.