Only three days passed before a scout burst into the great hall, heaving with breath, caked in a layer of dust.

“My laird,” the poor lad panted. “We spotted a large retinue coming from the east. Colors look like Olafsson.”

Lilias froze, her blood running cold as she imagined a retinue of a thousand battle-hardened warriors marching on their doorstep. Not a lick of mercy in their bones, but born and bred to kill.

Their arrival was not unexpected. And so shouldn’t have come as such a shock as it did. All the same, she felt like the very wind had been knocked from her.

Over the past few days, between making love, Dirk had been busy with his men preparing for the impending battle. He had proudly proclaimed they were ready just that morning and that they would be triumphant when their enemies finally arrived.

But still… She felt as though she’d barely had time to enjoy life as a married woman. Barely had time to enjoy her new husband. They were so new in the beginning of this new life that if he were to ride out today… She gulped down her fear, refusing to finish that thought. Fostering negative images could only give them power. And she didn’t want to do that.

Ladies of the castle, mistresses of their clans, did not wallow. They held their heads high. Held swords if need be. Her people required her to be a pillar of strength, and Dirk, he did not need to see that she worried so. It would only make him worry, and she couldn’t have him being distracted on the field of battle. She would not be cause for diversion when his sole focus must be on defeating Olafsson.

Working doubly hard, she breathed evenly, forced her hands not to shake. To keep her shoulders straight, her knees from knocking into each other. It took every ounce of her willpower to do so. She just prayed he couldn’t see her pulse leaping in her throat.

Dirk rose from where he sat beside her. They’d been taking a break from further preparations to play a quick round of knucklebones, her new favorite pastime. Well, besides her other favorite pastime which took place in their bedchamber.

“Good work, lad.” Dirk strode toward his scout, slapping him on the back and waving a servant over to give him a cup of much needed ale.

Lilias gathered the bones that Dirk had given her as one of his many wedding gifts, and placed them back in the soft leather bag he’d had fashioned just for her, the letters LM stitched on the face.

Having seen the rider come through the bailey, Lady Elle and Lady Fenella shuffled in quickly from where they’d been upstairs resting in the ladies solar.

“What did he say?” Fenella asked Lilias.

Lady Elle was pale, almost gray, her eyes wide and glassy. “They come,” she whispered.

“My lady.” Lilias rose, worried over her grandmother-by-marriage who she’d come to be very close to. “Come sit. Are ye feeling ill?”

“Nay. Just a bit dizzy.” She allowed Lilias to lead her to one of the chairs before the hearth. A servant rushed forward with a cup of watered wine. “Have Cook make me one of my special tisanes,” Lady Elle ordered.

Of late, the older woman had been having a bit of an upset stomach, which she blamed on nerves. Likely, this impending battle was responsible for her distress.

When Lady Fenella rushed off to make sure the tisane was prepared properly, Elle locked eyes with Lilias who’d knelt before her in the chair.

“Are ye all right? Ye can trust me to keep whatever it is between us,” Lilias said.

Elle patted her hand and smiled softly. There was a wealth of affection and kindness, embraced by strength, in the woman’s gaze. “Ye worry too much, lass.”

“Perhaps. What can I do?”

“I get these spells when things”—she waved her hand in the air—“get a wee bit jumpy.”

“Ye needn’t worry,” Lilias said. “We’ve got everything well in hand. Dirk has made certain the castle is fortified, the villagers all know of the impending attack. Right now, I’m certain he has men gathering those near the castle to come inside her walls. We have plenty of food and water. And I cut strips of linen just yesterday if they should need to be used for the wounded.”

“Ye’re a good lady of the castle,” Elle said. “I dinna think I ever told ye how proud I am to have ye as my granddaughter, and the wife of my favorite grandson.”

“He is your only grandson, is he not?”

She chuckled. “Aye. The family curse.”

“Family curse?”

“Three generations of fruitless unions, save for a single male heir to each of them.” The tisane arrived and she sipped it slowly. “Ye’ll change that. I can feel it.”

Lilias nodded, touching her belly, wondering if right at that moment she might have a bairn growing in her womb. The thought sent her belly into thousand little flutters. A child that she and Dirk created. A precious child. “I hope to have many, but I would be happy if there only ever came one.”

“I pray ye have many, lass, for I know the both of ye have enough love in your hearts.”

“Ye still will not tell me what ails ye?”

Lady Elle chuckled. “When I was your age, our castle was attacked. ’Tis how I came to meet my late husband, Beiste MacDougall. The memories of that day haunt me, and yet without the haunting, I would not have ever come here. ’Twas a blessing and a curse at the same time.”

“And now ye think of that day, and the pain?”

“Aye.”

Lilias squeezed the older woman’s hand. “I understand.”

Lady Elle sat forward and pressed her hand to Lilias’s cheek. “I have waited a long time to meet a lass like ye. I know my Dirk will be in good hands always.”

She felt Dirk’s presence behind her before he touched her shoulder. That seemed to happen a lot. A sort of sixth sense when it came to him. As though he were an extension of herself.

“What is happening? Are ye all right, seanmhair?”

Lilias stood up so Dirk could take her place. She found it fascinating that a man of his size, his power, would be sweet enough to kneel at his grandmother’s feet and ask her what he could do to make her feel better. Ferocious on the battlefield he may be, but he had a kind heart. And that was likely why he garnered the respect of so many.

“A megrim, ’tis all,” she said, squeezing his hand and bringing it to her lips.

That seemed to be enough for him, though when he stood and turned around, Lilias made out a flash of worry in his eyes.

“She’ll be fine,” Lilias said, reaching for his arm and sliding her fingers around his muscles. “I’ll be here to watch over her, as will your mother.”

“Aye, lad,” Elle said. “Keep your mind on the battle ahead. Dinna let that foul brute take what is yours.”

“He’ll never get my wife, nor my lands.” There was such fierceness, possessiveness in his tone. “The man has wanted what was mine since we were wee lads, and even now, he canna stop reaching.”

“I have every confidence ye will be victorious, my love.” Lilias sank against him as he pulled her in for hug, something he didn’t so often do before the attention of others. She pressed her ear to his chest, not caring they were in full view of everyone. His heart pounded beneath the surface. She closed her eyes, breathing in his woodsy, masculine scent, and willed his heart to slow. Willed his worry to dissipate. To her surprise, the beating did slow, his breaths evened out.

Dirk’s lips skimmed over the top of her ear. “Whenever I am with ye I feel a sense of peace. We are right. This is right. I will not lose ye.”

Lilias wrapped her arms tight around his middle and pressed a kiss to his heart. “Aye. I am not going anywhere, my love.”

He tilted her chin up, the wealth of emotion in his eyes overwhelming. “I love ye, beag calman.”

* * *

Letting her go seemed like just about the worst thing Dirk could do.

But he couldn’t hold her forever, not when their enemy would come raging against his stronghold within the hour. Tugging her toward the corner of the room where they could have a measure of privacy, he said, “I swear, beag calman, as soon as I vanquish Olafsson, I will not let go of ye for a sennight or more.”

She laughed, and tickled his ribs. “Well, I hope ye do some of the time. I do like to eat. And well, there are certain things I like to do with a measure of privacy.”

Dirk let out a long, ragged sigh that ended on a laugh. “Oh, my love, ye do make each day better. I swear I’ll not starve ye, nor take away your privacy in the garderobe.”

Grinning up at him, her eyes shining, she said, “I dinna know how I lived before ye.”

Saints, but he loved her with every fiber of his being. Never once in his life had he ever contemplated feeling this way, never thought he would. “’Tis the same for me, sweet lass. I was waiting for ye to arrive, and I didna know it until ye walked through my door.”

She leaned in closer. Damn, but she felt so good pressed to him. All lush, seductive curves. Even more appealing, she seemed oblivious to how his bones ached with need whenever she was near. If the woman ever knew how much power she wielded over him, he’d be doomed.

“And I was waiting to find ye,” she whispered.

He bent to kiss her, gently brushing his lips over hers, wanting to sweep her up to their bedchamber, but knowing there wasn’t enough time.

“My laird,” Gunnar interrupted. “Men on the ramparts have caught sight of movement.”

Lilias stiffened against him. Dirk wanted to take that fear away from her. But knew that no matter what he said, she would worry over him the moment he left her sight.

With one last gentle kiss, he held her at arm’s length, eyes locked on hers, willing her to be strong. “Stay with my mother and grandmother. Ye will be safe. I swear it.”

“We will see ye soon,” she whispered, her hands grasping hold of his on her shoulders and squeezing so tight her knuckles were white.

“I will join ye in bed before the sun rises on the morrow, and then I will take ye to swim in the sea if ’tis not too cold.”

Lilias’s pressed her lips together firmly, nodded with a jerk. “I will count on it.”

And then he was letting go over her, moving away, slowly, painfully, as though someone were cutting them apart with a jagged blade.

Gunnar opened the main door, bringing with him a sudden rush of sound: orders being shouted, running footfalls, the clanging of metal. General panic and battle preparations. “The portcullis has been lowered, the gates closed and barred. There looks to be nearly fifty of them approaching, my laird.”

“Less than he normally brings.” Dirk frowned. What was his cousin up to?

“Aye, but we’ve word he split his army. Horsemen approach from the east and foot soldiers will come from the sea.”

That made more sense. Olafsson was likely hoping for a surprise attack from his men at sea. To overwhelm them as he surrounded them. But the man had underestimated Dirk yet again. “Are the men prepared? The fields oiled?”

“Aye, my laird. Archers at every post on the battlements. Men stationed above the gates with heavy stones, boiling oil and flames. Guards are lined in the bailey, the ramparts and the stairs, ready to relieve each other. Villagers are safely locked in the kirk. They’ll not breach our walls, my laird.”

Dirk nodded, assessing the men as he issued orders. “Send a score of men out on our finest galley. They can attack at sea. Take Olafsson’s son prisoner. Mercy only if the rest retreat. Set the docks aflame now. If they get through our galley, which I doubt, I dinna want the men from the sea to moor there. What of the scouts?”

“Aye, my laird.” Gunnar’s eyes blazed with the same intense tension that Dirk felt. “I will have them fire the flaming arrows at once. All of the scouts returned, save one.”

“Damn,” Dirk Cursed. “Who was it?”

“Wee John, my laird.”

Dirk prayed for the lad’s quick death or escape, for being tortured by Olafsson was no circumstance he’d wish on any living, breathing being.

They continued talking logistics as they walked across the bailey, and then Gunnar ran toward the ramparts shouting orders for the men to fire the docks, while Dirk ordered men out of their secret sea gate to board the galley. Dirk was already outfitted for battle. Each morning since they come back to the castle, he’d dressed ready to do battle so that he’d not be caught unprepared when the time came. He climbed the stairs and looked out over the walls, observing the surrounding land and ocean.

The sea appeared tranquil, with a mist skating on its surface. But, perhaps, it was too calm. There was an eeriness about it, as though a ship of apparitions might rise from its depths. Over the moors, he caught sight of the warriors riding toward Dunstaffnage easily enough. They’d be at their gates within a quarter hour at most. That was, if they made it.

“Archers,” Dirk shouted. There was no way in hell was going to allow Olafsson’s men to get near enough to attack the castle. Not while he still had a beating heart in his chest. “Prepare your flames.”

The men nocked their bows with arrows comprised of caged tips, which were filled with strands of hemp, soaked in tallow and ignited. The men pulled back their bowstrings, aiming for the fields where Dirk had ordered the men to pour pitch in circular patterns that would end up caging their enemy in flames.

“Hold!” Dirk bellowed, waiting until the enemy warriors were in the perfect position, then he ordered the men to fire their flaming arrows.

Orange bolts sparked overhead, momentarily setting the afternoon sky ablaze. In the distance, Dirk made out the shouted order from Olafsson to his men to put up their shields, but shields wouldn’t protect them. Nothing could protect them now. The arrows landed in the pitch, igniting the field in a dozen wide linked circles, creating an ancient Pagan rune in design, with the enemy caught inside them screaming.

“Hold,” Dirk said to his men who prepared to shoot once more. He watched the enemy scrambling to get free of the flames.

A dozen or so rode through, smacking at the fire that caught on their boots and the manes and tails of their horses.

Another band who’d not quite made it to the pitch, backed away looking for another route in which to attack the castle.

“Aim,” Dirk order. “Let those not burning, feel our fury. Fire!”

Another set of arrows sparked the sky, about half lodging in men’s bodies, the other half sinking into the ground and fizzling out on the moist earth.

Screams echoed from the moors. Dirk didn’t think it was possible that he would defeat Olafsson so soon. And he still didn’t think so. At least fifty more warriors were expected to come from the sea, and a score or more were still on the field biding their time to attack. There could be even more men approaching from the wood. With Wee John not reporting in, there was still a gap in the surrounding lands that hadn’t been reported.

Dirk turned his attention to the sea, but the only ship he could see was his own. Was it a ruse? Had something happened to Olafsson’s galley? He concentrated on the field. If he could just get to Olafsson, defeat him, take out his son, then the warriors at sea would have no cause to fight, save for revenge. That was a weak incentive for men who had little to gain from meting out their retribution. He doubted once they saw the carnage here they would risk their lives for a man already dead, and no blood heirs to take up the sword. Albeit, there were always a few. He’d guess that maybe ten warriors would jump from a ship and attack. The MacDougalls would take out half with arrows, leaving maybe five to try and climb the walls. Not good odds at all for the seafarers.

“What are ye thinking, my laird?” Gunnar asked.

“We’ll open the gates. Ye stay here. I’ll take two-dozen warriors out to fight the rest of Olafsson’s men. Close the gates behind us.”

Gunnar nodded. “Archers will have your back.”

Decision made, Dirk ordered two dozen of his warriors ready to ride out. Swords and targes in hand, they flew through the opened gates, hearing the portcullis slam down behind them. Navigating the fields wasn’t hard since they’d all helped to lay the pitch that hadn’t yet ignited, and staying away from flames was only common sense. Their horses had been trained to withstand anything on the fields of battle, and flaming tar pits didn’t bother them at all.

Dirk met Olafsson on the moors between the flames and the trees.

The man sneered and spit on the ground, his horse prancing to the side. “Ye stole my wife,” Olafsson bellowed.

Just hearing the man say, my wife, set Dirk on edge. He wanted to gore the bastard. But staying in control and not letting his rage rule him was the only way to remain alive. Men who lost their control died quickly and unexpectedly. Keeping his voice measured, he said, “I stole nothing from ye, Olafsson.”

“We had a treaty,” his cousin roared like a petulant child. “A signed treaty. Ye broke it. I told ye I’d bring war to your lands, and I’ve kept my word.”

“Indeed ye have. But, do ye not recall I told ye I’d kill ye, your son and every last one of your men if ye did? I intend to keep my word, too.”

Olafsson, red in the face, watched as the men behind Dirk burned. Most of them were still, a few others continued to fight their imminent demise, writhing in agony.

Suddenly, Olafsson broke out into a fit of frenzied laughter, madness pinching the creases of his face. “Ye’re a fool, MacDougall. These are not all my men. Ye have fallen into my trap.”

Dirk didn’t say anything, not wanting to give away what he did and did not know. With his sword and targe raised, he said, “And these are not all mine.”

Feeling a confidence he shouldn’t have had, Morten Olafsson let his battle cry rip from his throat. The men who had not succumbed to the flames, but had been stuck in the centers of the Pagan circles, suddenly revived themselves, hurtling through the firewalls and running at the MacDougall warriors like demons from hell.

Dirk let out his own battle cry, charging his cousin. Their swords clashed as his men put the flaming fiends to rest. The remainder of Olafsson’s army let their weapons fly. Just as on every other field of battle, they were evenly matched at skill, Dirk would give them that. But they’d been shaken, watching their mates burn to death, having just cheated a fiery grave themselves. Nerves made a man fight blindly and with passion, but that wasn’t enough. A warrior had to be passionate and have his wits about him. They were too arrogant and sure, like his cousin, underestimating the skill of their opponents. Their mistakes mounted like the pile of their bodies.

“I should have killed ye when I had the chance,” Morten spewed.

“And would ye have had me kill your son?” Dirk taunted back.

His unwanted relation growled at that, knowing how true it was. The only reason they were even standing here today was because Dirk had shown him mercy and then made a truce for peace. A truce which he’d gone back on, and might make some of the other clans question whether he was worthy of his word. Well, he was, and he would prove it here and now. Even if he’d broken the treaty—Olafsson had already planned to do so.

“I know what your plans were for the woman I was to bring ye. Dishonorable. Ye broke the treaty the moment ye uttered those disgusting words in regards to her fate.”

“Rubbish!” Olafsson sneered. “Ye know nothing.”

“I know enough. I know my men, my people, all of Scotland will agree with me.” And with that, he devoted all his energy into fighting his cousin, letting his sword speak for him.

As he parried and blocked, he pushed Olafsson farther and farther away from his men, and then struck hard, knocking his opponent’s sword from his hands where it fell with a dull thud against the bloodied grass.

When his greatest enemy scrambled for his weapon, Dirk knew it was time to put this battle to an end. He kicked out hard, knocking Olafsson to the ground, where he came to stand over his distant cousin, the tip of his sword at his throat.

Rather than beg for mercy, Olafsson bared his teeth. “Do it. Prove to the world ye’re not worthy of the title ye bare.”

“Kings have killed for less,” Dirk answered back, glancing over his shoulder toward the sea. “But ye’re right. I’d rather ye live knowing what I’ve taken away from ye.”

Olafsson’s eyes widened. “Nay.” He shook his head vehemently.

Dirk nodded, his mouth pressed in a grim line. “Her depth and breadth are vast. So many precious things are often lost within her.”

“Nay, nay, nay! Ye couldna have known about my ship!”

Dirk tsked. “Indeed, I did. My men are attacking as we speak. Ye canna defeat me, Olafsson.” He let the fate of his son hang in the air, for he didn’t know himself whether the braggart whelp would allow himself to be captured or die trying to escape.

“Kill me,” Olafsson begged.

“I am not that merciful.” All around them, the sounds of battle calmed as the MacDougalls finished off the last of the Olafsson men. “Ye are alone here. Run. Run and dinna come back.”

As his cousin scrabbled for purchase, leapt onto his horse and charged away, Dirk let out a massive sigh of pent up frustration. He prayed that this time, the wars would come to an end, for this was the last time he’d be merciful

Turning back toward the castle, he could see that his wife stood upon the battlements, tall and wild and brilliant. God, how he loved her.

Though a love between them had been forbidden, there was nothing that could separate them. No man. No beast. Their love would triumph. Again and again.

Theirs was a future foretold, but a love so great that no one could ever have predicted its power, and he’d never allow anyone to stand in their way.