ALTHEA LOOKED UP to see dozens of men with swords and large, spike-headed hammers emerging from behind the trees and marching down toward the loch.

Brennus pushed her behind him. “We’re no’ intruders. I’ve come to buy horses from your clan. The McAra laird expects us.” He nodded at Taran. “My clansman came before, to bargain with him.”

“So, you’re a clan,” the oldest of the warriors said. “Why do you no’ wear the same tartan?” He jerked his chin at the war master. “I ken that as Gordon, but you wear the MacFarlan.”

Althea muffled a groan. The clothing the druids had given the Skaraven had included new wool tartans for every man, but in varied patterns. Ruadri mentioned to her that they had been contributed by several clans allied with the druids. Since the Skaraven had never been permitted to wear tartans during their former lives, they didn’t understand the significance of the designs.

“Tell him that they’re gifts from friends,” she murmured quickly to Brennus. “And don’t attack them. I think they’re just being cautious.”

“Our allies gave us the tartans,” he said, growling the words. “If your laird doesnae want our gold, we’ll leave.”

“The laird awaits you in the glen,” the clansman told him. “He’ll decide when you go.” He made a beckoning gesture with his sword.

Cadeyrn came to stand beside them. “Too many to fight and protect our lady here. They’ve likely brought mounts.”

“Watch her back.” Putting his arm around her, Brennus guided her up from the rocks and through the trees to enter the clearing beyond. The McAra men closed around them, shoving Taran to join them.

“No horses,” he muttered to Brennus.

Althea didn’t understand why they were worried about horses when men with swords surrounded them. As they were marched through the tall grass she thought of her freezing power, and then remembered what had happened to Brennus’s shackles last night when she’d lost her temper. She couldn’t imagine using it on another human being, but to defend herself she might have to.

In the center of the glen sat a flat-topped rock, on which lay a short, slender man dressed in a dark blue jacket, black trousers and well-fitted dark leather boots. He looked as if he were sleeping, but as they approached he sat up and dusted off his sleeves, which ended in snowy lace cuffs.

The oldest clansman approached the man, bowed, and said, “Four intruders, my lord. They claim you invited them.”

The man hopped off the rock, adjusted the hem of his jacket, and walked in front of them as if inspecting new troops.

When she saw his face, Althea felt stunned. With his blue-black hair, crystalline eyes and white skin the man looked so much like Emeline they might have been siblings.

“I remember you,” he said to Taran. “You claimed to be Clan Skaraven. I am Laird Maddock McAra.” His gaze passed over Cadeyrn and Brennus before it locked on Althea. “Gods blind me, but you’re a beauty.”

“My thanks, sir,” Althea said, trying to sound as Scottish as possible. “We’ve come as you asked.”

“Hmmmm.” Maddock glanced at his clansman. “If you must end them, dinnae slit that lovely throat. She’d make a fine bedding wench.”

Brennus made an ugly sound.

“And you would be Chieftain, and the lady’s husband.” The laird gave him a lazy smile. “You’ve a formidable name. The McAra owe our bloodline to Brennus of the Skaraven. Mayhap to honor him I shall no’ have you killed.”

“The McAra owe more than their bloodline to us,” Brennus said suddenly. “’Tis a debt that remains unsettled between our clans, written on a scroll that your tribe swore to preserve until we returned to collect.”

Maddock laughed. “You ken the legend. How engaging. Do you claim right to it?”

“I do,” Brennus said.

McAra snapped his fingers, and one of the men rushed over and held out a short tube made of stone. The laird took it in his languid grip, opening one end and shaking out an ancient scroll. “We McAra didnae forget Brennus or the debt. For hundreds of generations we’ve kept our word. Every laird since our tribe became a clan have sworn to preserve the scroll and repay the debt by any means desired by the Skaraven. Tell me what Brennus wrote on the scroll, Chieftain, and you shall have whatever you wish from my clan.”

The McAra clansmen all drew their swords and moved in closer to the Skaraven.

“Only if you cannae tell me what the scroll contains,” the laird warned him, “my men shall kill all of you, here and now.”

Althea jumped as Brennus reached out and snatched the ancient parchment from Maddock’s hands. Before anyone could speak he crushed it between his palms and flung the crumbled bits and dust into the wind.

The laird’s face mottled with bright red patches as he drew his sword. “For that, you slee fack, I’ll cut off your head. Slowly.”

“You dinnae need the scroll anymore, McAra.” Brennus bent down and used his finger to draw the shape of a large horse in the dirt, and then added a raven on its side. “’Tis what I drew on it when I gave it to Ara, the Pritani headman who made the vow. My clan and I saved him and his tribe from being slaughtered by the Viking.”

Maddock stared at the drawing in the soil. “None but the living McAra laird ever knew what the scroll contained. You’ve come from the dead to collect the debt.”

“I’ve come to buy horses,” the chieftain told him. “I want naught else but friendship with your clan.”

The laird shouted for his men to leave them. Once the clansmen were out of earshot he asked, “The druids kept their vow? They awakened you as immortals?” When Brennus reluctantly nodded the sword dropped from the McAra’s hand, and then he knelt down and bowed his head.

“’Tis my honor, and that of my clan, to serve you, Chieftain. You shall have our finest horses, and a feast tonight to welcome your return to our realm. We shall from this day hence be your most loyal mortal allies and keep your secrets. This I pledge on my life and the lives of my clan.” He sighed. “May this repay our debt to you?”

Brennus helped Maddock to his feet and clasped his forearm. “Aye, and more.”

While the laird walked off to speak to his men, Althea blew out a long breath. “That turned out better than I thought. Was he serious about the feast, though?”

“’Tis an old midland custom, to offer food and rooms for the night to favored guests,” Taran said, nodding. “’Twould no’ be wise to refuse. Ruadri warned me they might take offense if I didnae stay for a meal when I came before. I cannae think what they may do if you dinnae attend a feast in our honor.”

“I am dressed for a party,” she said as she looked down at her gown, and then saw how Brennus was scowling. “Mortal allies are probably as valuable as horses. I think we should stay for it, as long as they agree we can leave in the morning.”

The chieftain nodded and said as much to Maddock when he returned. The laird beamed and let out a sharp whistle. From the other side of the glen what looked like a hundred men rode out of the trees and galloped toward them. The horses they rode were large, muscular mounts with hides in every shade of brown. Taran smiled as he watched the riders come to sudden stops and form ranks that were ten across and ten deep.

“I reckon these should please you,” the laird told Brennus as they walked over to inspect the mounts. “They’re battle-trained, so they’ll no’ turn and run from your enemies. Saddled or bare-backed they’ll carry you for ten leagues without rest.”

Brennus checked the first mount’s teeth and ran his hand along the horse’s strong neck. “How are they in water?”

“Fearless. We begin taking them through rivers and into the loch as yearlings,” Maddock said proudly. “Come and let me show you this mare for your lady wife.”

As Brennus and Maddock went to look at the mare, Althea saw Taran already walking down the ranks, touching a nose or a shoulder here and there. The horses in turn watched him with visible interest, some even turning their heads to look at him.

“’Twill be good to have a herd for Tran to look after again,” Cadeyrn said to her. “He’s more horse than warrior.”

“So, I guess you won’t gut the chieftain?” When he started to walk away from her she got in front of him. “Hey, that crap you pulled this morning was nasty, even for you. But you were looking at me, not Brennus. So, here’s your chance to hash it out with me. Just what is your problem?”

He looked up at the sky, and then shook his head. “You dinnae ken what we were. What ’twas like for us. They trained us to fear naught. To hold back naught. ’Tis still with us, inside us. The Skaraven dinnae retreat from a battle of any kind.”

Apparently, it had nothing to do with her after all. “You think Brennus is wrong about the clan living as free men.”

“We ken naught but battle. ’Twas why we were bred and trained. ’Tis all we shall ever ken.” He dragged a hand over his face. “’Tis no’ my place to meddle. Only think on it, my lady, and mayhap you shall see as I do.” He strode off.

For the rest of the day Althea kept replaying that odd conversation in her head. Even when they were ushered into the McAra’s enormous castle, with all its splendid tapestries and furnishings, she kept watching the War Master. What had he been trying to tell her? She tried to reason it away. Cadeyrn was in charge of all things war and battle, so he probably thought of nothing else. None of the Skaraven ever said anything straight out. Still, she had the feeling that she’d missed something important.

Once they’d been introduced to the laird’s wife and children, Althea and Brennus were escorted to the solar to rest. Maids brought in bread and cheese for them, along with some very strong, pulpy wine before hurrying out. But despite the hospitable spread, Brennus wore his unsettled face.

“I know you don’t want to trust outsiders,” Althea said as soon as they were alone. “But the laird just made good on a twelve-hundred-year-old IOU, and he swore to keep your secrets.”

“’Tis no’ the laird that troubles me. He kens that the druids meant to awaken us as immortals, as if some part of his clan’s legend. No, ’tis no’ that. McAra told me a dire storm from the west is coming. There’ll be no time to take the horses back to Dun Mor. I have summoned the clan to us.” He took hold of her hands. “’Tis more at work here than I fathom.”

She rested her head against his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Cadeyrn came in to report on Taran, who had returned to Dun Mor to gather the clan and what weapons they needed for the rescue mission. The War Master had also gotten a look at the castle’s layout, household guards, and the clan’s patrols. He’d also found a spot near the kitchens where they could easily slip out after the feast and return home.

“Why?” Althea asked. “We’re not taking the horses back, and the clan is coming to us at dawn.”

“You shall be safer at Dun Mor, my lady,” Cadeyrn said.

“’Twill no’ be necessary,” Brennus said and set down his wine. “Althea stays.” He fixed the War Master with a glare. “You may go, Cade, if you’ve no stomach for your duty.”

For a minute she thought the War Master might lunge at her lover, something she knew would end up trashing the solar and both of them.

“Why don’t we all stay?” she said gayly, stepping between them. It was a move that redefined being between the rock and the hard place, but it seemed to dispel the impending disaster. “I’d feel better if Cadeyrn was here to keep an eye on my back.” She looked from one man to the other. “I mean, the McAra never swore an oath to be my ally, right? I could still end up a bedding wench.”

Brennus gave his War Master a direct look. “No’ on my life, my lady.”

“Nor mine. I shall stand watch.” Cadeyrn walked out into the hall and let the door slam behind him.