"Under his rules," Ian barked. "These two can't seem to abide by them. They'll have to take their chances."

"You're not the laird, Ian Macrae," one of the villagers cried. "You can't eject us. We want to talk to the Macrae!"

Ian punched that one in the mouth, then put the blade to the throat of the other. "Well, you're not going to. Out, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, or I'll run you through myself."

"Ian!" I cried again. And this earned me a look so ferocious that I retreated a step. Then I vowed, "I'm going to find the laird myself to put a stop to this."

I turned, hurrying as fast as I could back inside, searching for the man who ruled this castle and everyone in it, my fury rising more and more as I ran. Ian caught me in the hall, just before I started up the stairs to the tower.

Ian's big hand closed over my forearm and yanked me so hard that I spun against the stone wall. "What the devil do you think you were doing out there, you daft woman?"

Spitting mad, I accused, "You cast them out! Those poor villagers? You did it, didn't you?"

"Oh, aye, I did. And I'd do it again."

"Do you think the laird will thank you for it?"

Ian gave me a shake that rattled my teeth. "If John Macrae was the sort to thank a man for doing his duty, he would, since I did it on his orders."

The shock of his words made me unsteady on my feet and I had to lean back against the frigid wall. But since I couldn't fathom how the man I loved could order such a thing, I said, "...if that's true, then why didn't you say as much to the villagers when they called for their laird?"

"Because it's better they hate me. If they should survive out there, the enemy will try to use them against the laird; no need to give them extra motivation."

Ian was taking the blame for it. That's what he was saying. He made it sound as if it wasn't the first time either. I found myself shaking my head. "You're a bitter, resentful, man, Ian Macrae. And you've spoken ill of the laird before. So I don't believe you. Do you hear me? I don't believe you."

He might have slapped me for the insolence. Instead, he gave me a tug up the stairs. "Let's ask him then, shall we?"

We burst in together, and the laird, who had been staring out over the loch watching for enemy ships, couldn't hide his shock at seeing us together in such a state of fury. "What the devil-"

"Your woman thinks I'm an evil brute who sends helpless villagers out to their deaths," Ian announced. "While I don't see why I should care a whit what she thinks, you ought to have a word with her, because the miscreants looked to her for help before I tossed them out."

The laird squinted, his eyes shifting between Ian and me as if trying to make sense of it. "What can you mean, Ian?"

"The villagers we sent out tried to appeal through her to you," Ian explained. "I'm sure it won't be the last time. So I think she might as well know how it is. She doesn't believe that I did it on your orders."

My laird squeezed his eyes shut, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's true, la.s.s. I ordered them out."

I swallowed, my heart sinking. "But why?"

"Because an example had to be made," the laird explained. "As a siege goes on, people become more unruly. More disobedient. I've taken in more villagers than I should have, in mercy. There isn't any spare room for those who endanger others."

An icy spike of anger drove into my heart with the memory that he'd also made an example of me. I served as an example of what happened to the daughters of men who held back rents from their laird. He liked making examples. "They weren't endangering others-they were just having an argument that got out of hand. Surely they don't deserve-"

"They broke open a cask of wine!" Ian roared. "If you think that won't cost a life should our water be compromised-"

The laird cut him off with a raised hand. "She doesn't know, Ian. Heather's a good and gentle la.s.s who ought never know such things as the ugliness of war. I wish she would never have to know the hard choices to be made."

"But here we are anyway, aren't we?" Ian said.

"Aye," the laird said, then met my eyes, his dark with sorrow. "La.s.s, I would never send anyone out of the castle unless it was for the good of the whole clan. It's the same weighing of danger and justice that I make every time I ask a warrior to take on a dangerous mission. I did not send those villagers out to be cruel to them, but to be kind to all the others."

I knew he must be right. The more I thought about men who had been warned before, and still chose to brawl in the keep...

"There have been others just as deserving as being ejected," the laird explained, surprising me. "But they were either helpless children or womenfolk or old men who didn't stand a chance. These two..."

These two should have known better and had the best chance at survival, I realized. And though the cold calculation chilled my blood, I couldn't help but realize how foolish I'd been. The laird stepped to me and took my chin between his thumb and forefinger so that I was forced to look at him. "La.s.s, I should rather die myself than see your tender heart harden, so I will never count it against you when you come to me with what you believe you see as an injustice. All the same, you must be wary of people using you to influence me..."

I swallowed, and nodded. Was it possible that I could influence him? At the moment, I didn't feel like it. In truth, I felt quite small and ignorant and chastened.

"And you must try not to interfere with my warriors."

I bit my lower lip, understanding. I owed Ian Macrae an apology. A rather big apology. He didn't like me, but he'd risked his life to protect me. I'd repaid him very poorly. "I regret interfering, Ian," I murmured. "In truth, I regret many of the things I said-"

"Why were you even outside?" Ian barked.

"I was looking for you," I replied, as I remembered the jar in my hand. "My sister is trying to organize the physickers herbs and we couldn't read the word written here. I hoped...well, never mind what I hoped. I was in the wrong."

Ian came to me and s.n.a.t.c.hed the jar from my hand. "You can't read it because these are rune symbols. No doubt a gift from some woman in the hills. Witchery or some such."

My pleasure at realizing that my reading skill was not to blame for my lack of comprehension was overcome by disappointment that I wouldn't be able to help Arabella. "Can you read rune symbols?"

"No, but there's a book in the laird's library somewhere on it," Ian said.

"Why don't you go look for it, la.s.s," the laird suggested, not unkindly, but I hesitated because it was a dismissal, and I felt as if I needed to make up for my error. But it was clear he wanted to be alone with his kinsman, so I was forced to accept my laird's warm kiss upon my cheek, then retreated back down the stairs.

Chapter Five.

THE LAIRD.

John watched as his kinsman stared out over the loch where enemy ships were staying just out of range of their fire, all while blocking escape. Then Ian said, "I don't know why you feel the need to explain yourself to your-"

"You don't dare take me to task on that," the laird interrupted before his kinsman provoked him. "Not when you forced the matter by bringing her up here to me, demanding that I explain myself."

"You're not going to tell her about the marriage offer, are you?"

The laird felt his heart frost over at the notion. He'd sent Ian to the most recent parley with the enemy, and the terms Ian had returned with had been troubling. The message from the enemy was clear: If Laird John Alexander Ramsay Macrae would turn over the castle and marry the daughter of the Donald clan chieftain, they'd let him live. It wasn't just an offer to let him keep his head, but also one of a proper marriage alliance that might bring an end to the seemingly endless feuding.

But it brought John no joy whatsoever. "What would be the point of telling Heather?"

"No point at all," Ian said, slowly. "Best you not tell anyone until it's done."

The laird's chin jerked up. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Ian. You don't think I mean to accept, do you?"

"It's that or your head! They want you dead. A thing I'd have not predicted, truthfully, given your mother's bloodline."

"That my mother was herself a Donald only makes them hate me more. That I have their blood but still fight them...that's why they want my head."

Ian shrugged. "S'pose it doesn't matter why they want it, just that they've offered you a way out if you break your alliance with the Mackenzies and turn over the castle."

John's gut clenched. "I'm a sworn friend to the Mackenzies!"

"Aye, but the Mackenzies don't seem to be keen to show their friendship to us. Where are the Mackenzie reinforcements? I don't see them. There's not even been word of them. No one is coming to relieve us. It's winter. This is the strongest position you'll be in to negotiate for your life and for the clan. We have supplies, the enemy is in a more difficult spot. But come springtime..."

Everything Ian said made perfect sense, but it was a matter of honor. The laird wasn't about to be the first Macrae chieftain to surrender the castle at Eilean Donan. Not even if it cost him his head.

Nor could he see himself clear to marrying the Donald chieftain's daughter.

Oh, he'd made a fine speech to Heather about all the pragmatic choices he made when it came to the lives of others, but when it came to his own life he found himself quite intractable. Heather was the woman he loved, the only woman he wanted. He knew he couldn't have her for his wife, but he also couldn't see his way clear to marrying anyone else.

Interrupting that dangerous train of thought, Ian asked, "So we're just to sit about waiting, praying for a squall?"

"Aye," the laird replied. He was hoping for a squall. A blizzard. Any winter calamity that would make the enemy flee. But all the laird saw was sunny skies overhead. And he was fairly certain that the enemy would send an a.s.sa.s.sin to kill him long before the spring thaw. Which would, amongst other things, leave Heather utterly undefended. "They'll accept a surrender of the clan if I'm dead-which I think everyone in the castle knows-so where do you put my chances?"

Ian's jaw clenched. "I'm not a betting man."

But if he were, he'd bet against the laird's survival. John understood. He wouldn't put a wager on his own chances either. The laird cleared his throat. "You say the villagers asked Heather for help, as if they thought she had some sway with me?"

"They know she does. Truthfully, we all do. It's not a good thing to have your men wondering if your head is on the siege or filled with love poetry to be murmured between her creamy thighs."

The laird stiffened, swallowing down his anger. Ian had no right to be speaking of Heather's creamy thighs. Except, of course, that Ian had seen them. He'd seen them because the laird had insisted Ian witness her in her shame. And there was little doubt that Ian l.u.s.ted for her ever since.

Ian wanted her.

Ian wanted his Heather.

But did Ian want her enough to protect her if the worst came to pa.s.s?

The forbidden question leaped up from the boggy thoughts at the back of the laird's mind, where it had been thrashing for quite some time. What would happen if the laird should die, either in battle, or through treachery? In surrender, Clan Macrae would turn to Ian for leadership. John had always known that. Always counted on it. It's why he tolerated from his kinsman what he'd tolerate from no one else. Without sons of his own, Ian was the closest thing the laird had to an heir. And John believed, truly believed, that he could trust the clan to Ian should it come to it.

But what of Heather and her little sister, for that matter? If Heather survived the laird's downfall, would Ian provide for her? Would he take her for his own?

Oh, that thought twisted in John's gut like a poisoned knife.

But it was a far better thought than the alternative.

He should hope that Ian would take Heather as his own. He should want that for her. He should go to his grave glad for her to be safe and protected and with Ian, a man who was more honorable than not. A man of letters. A man of good birth. If the laird should die, there was no better man for her than Ian Macrae.

But would Ian have her?

The laird's kinsman wasn't sentimental. There'd be no reason for Ian to protect Heather against the enemy unless he could somehow be made to be sentimental about her...

It hurt John to think what he must do to make that happen. It burned a searing hole possessive rage in him. But he must accept that pain of jealousy as his due. It was no less than he deserved. After all, he had created this mess.

He would b.l.o.o.d.y well clean it up...

"The la.s.s is to me no more than she should be," the laird said, forcing himself to meet his kinsman's gaze. "Believe it. Come to my chambers this evening and I will prove it to you."

HEATHER.

That night, I poured over a book of old Norse runes, fascinated by the drawings. I didn't think this jar could possibly be as old as the Vikings who pillaged here long ago-if it were, what an archaic treasure it would be! More likely it was some relic of more recent witchery, and given the accusations I'd heard against my sister for her knowledge of herbs, I might be wise to smash it upon the ground or throw it into the loch.

"What's in the jar?" the laird asked, startling me.

I could never seem to accustom myself to how silently he moved for such a big man. Nor could I really accustom myself to being discovered in his rooms without feeling the need to apologize, as if I didn't belong there. "I-I'm not certain," I replied. "Some sort of powder. Nothing for you to trouble yourself with."

Because he did look troubled. There was a new wrinkle in his brow, a weary slump to his broad shoulders. He was a man carrying much weight, and so I rose to help him out of his cloak. Shrugging out of it, he eyed me hungrily. But instead of devouring me in a kiss, he sat at his chess board and beckoned to me with one hand. "Come. Play with me."

He'd taught me this game. I was getting better at it. But I should think he'd had enough of thinking and strategizing for one day. Still, I did as I was bid and opened the game by moving my chessmen in a way he hadn't antic.i.p.ated.

"Och! Bold move, la.s.s. Mayhaps even a little reckless."

"As I was today?" I asked, sheepishly.

"You ought to be disciplined for that," he said, not lifting his eyes from the board. "Go fetch the paddle."

I swallowed, remembering how, in his hands, that paddle had become the instrument of the devil. I had wanted him to use it on me. I wanted it still. But that didn't stop me from trembling a bit in antic.i.p.ation of the pain. "Yes, my laird..."

I rose to fetch it, my legs a bit wobbly under me as I contemplated both the way being spanked with it was likely to make me cry, but also relieve me of my guilt. Very humbly, I laid the paddle on the laird's plaid-covered lap, then waited for him to make his move.

He pushed his queen into place, lifting his eyes to me. "I very much enjoy paddling you, Heather."

I nodded, my eyes dropping to the floor.

He reached for my hand. "It's a good tool that both serves as a true deterrent to misbehavior while giving us both so much pleasure as it did before, is it not?"

I nodded again, silently.

"But, la.s.s, it's not the only means I have of disciplining you. And asking you to bend over my knee is not the hardest thing I will ever ask of you."

I felt a quiver of arousal in my belly at those words. What was so very wrong with me that whenever the laird proposed to do some dark and wicked thing, I was not only frightened, but filled with a pulsing, throbbing, desire to experience it? Surely the churchmen would condemn me for it. But then, as a harlot, I supposed I did not need to worry what the churchmen thought!

"La.s.s," the laird said, very seriously. "I must ask for your obedience tonight."

Quite proudly, I asked, "Have I ever disobeyed you, my laird?"

He raised a brow, then smiled. "Once."

I gasped, my pride stung. "When?" I demanded to know.