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A Sword Upon the Rose
Brenda Joyce
New York Times bestselling author Brenda Joyce takes you back to the Highlands, where the battle for land, liberty and love rages on…A bastard daughter, Alana was cast away at birth and forgotten by her mighty Comyn family. Raised in solitude by her grandmother, she has remained at a safe distance from the war raging through Scotland. But when a battle comes close to home and she finds herself compelled to save an enemy warrior from death, her own life is thrown into danger.Iain of Islay's allegiance is to the formidable Robert Bruce. His beautiful rescuer captures both his attention and his desire, but Alana must keep her identity a secret even as she is swept up into a wild and forbidden affair. But as Bruce's army begins the final destruction of the earldom, Alana must decide between the family whose acceptance she's always sought, or the man she so wrongly loves.


New York Times bestselling author Brenda Joyce takes you back to the Highlands, where the battle for land, liberty and love rages on…
A bastard daughter, Alana was cast away at birth and forgotten by her mighty Comyn family. Raised in solitude by her grandmother, she has remained at a safe distance from the war raging through Scotland. But when a battle comes close to home and she finds herself compelled to save an enemy warrior from death, her own life is thrown into danger.
Iain of Islay’s allegiance is to the formidable Robert Bruce. His beautiful rescuer captures both his attention and his desire, but Alana must keep her identity a secret even as she is swept up into a wild and forbidden affair. But as Bruce’s army begins the final destruction of the earldom, Alana must decide between the family whose acceptance she’s always sought, or the man she so wrongly loves.
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Brenda Joyce (#ulink_09c1cdeb-dd24-5cf7-9335-f4b79548b41b)
“Scotland’s complex history is as strong a character as the hero and heroine, and Joyce seamlessly merges the historical details of Robert the Bruce’s rise to power with a captive/captor, forbidden love story. Highland history sings on the pages through Joyce’s potent prose.”
—RT Book Reviews on A Rose in the Storm
“As dangerous and intriguing as readers could desire. This is a tale reminiscent of genre classics, with its lush and fascinating historical details and sensuality.”
—RT Book Reviews on Surrender
“First-rate…featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama…Joyce’s tight plot and vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Perfect Bride
“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters…romance at its best.”
—Booklist on The Perfect Bride
“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”
—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last
“Sexual tension crackles…in this sizzling, action-packed adventure.”
—Library Journal on Dark Seduction
Dear Readers (#ulink_8a3b39cb-db22-504f-81de-869807763ca1),
I hope you have enjoyed Alana and Iain’s story as much as I have. Once again, my muse led me to portray a small, brave woman fighting for her life and her love in a bygone and dangerous world dominated by men. As you know, this is a theme that I have returned to time and again, for nothing fascinates more than a woman confronted by male power—and triumphing over it in the end by bringing that man to his very knees out of pure love and raw passion.
While Alana is a fictional character, her family is not. Joan le Latimer was married to Sir Alexander Comyn, the sheriff of Aberdeen, and the Earl of Buchan’s second brother. She did have a cousin, Elisabeth. However, I have entirely fabricated the story of their lives. If Elisabeth fell in love with her cousin’s fiancé, much less had a love child with him, it would be a great coincidence—and so very cool!
Donald of Islay was the cousin of both Alexander and Angus MacDonald. Angus Og gave him command of a Highland army, and he was sent to fight for Bruce. Donald was one of four brothers, the youngest being Iain. I found no mentions of Iain in history otherwise, and chose to use him as this story’s hero. Obviously I have entirely fictionalized his life.
The other major historical characters that I have attempted to portray are the Earl of Buchan and Robert Bruce. I have characterized them for my own ends—portraying them in a manner that is the most dramatic possible, to best enhance Alana and Iain’s love story.
This is the third story I have written that is set during Bruce’s bloody quest for Scotland’s throne. In 1307, Bruce began his campaign to destroy the Earl of Buchan and the entire Comyn family, once and for all. By the summer of 1308, Buchan’s armies were decimated and scattered to the four winds, with Buchan having fled to England, where he would soon die. Bruce then began his infamous and merciless Harrying of the North.
Alice Comyn was the Earl of Buchan’s heir. She married Henry de Beaumont sometime before July 1310, and the couple put forth their claim to the Buchan earldom, resulting in a long struggle that was one of the causes of the Second War of Scottish Independence.
This novel is a work of fiction. This period in Scotland’s history is filled with conflicting accounts and huge gaps in information, allowing me to pick and choose what I want to write, how I want to write it, while permitting me to fill in any blanks any way I wish. I have put Alana and Iain’s love story ahead of historical accuracy. While most of the battles, incidents, events and characters are a part of history, I have exercised poetic license throughout. Any errors in fact are mine.

Happy Reading,
Brenda Joyce
A Sword
Upon the Rose
Brenda Joyce


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Rick Christen—
Because what happened in Vegas did not stay in Vegas,
Because second chances can really happen,
Because two is better than one,
Because I love you,
Always
Contents
Cover (#u1c972be7-8d10-5865-a2a6-86576ec6432a)
Back Cover Text (#u12f3a135-650e-5489-916f-7d73d148f23a)
Praise (#ulink_489c4096-4ff9-5d51-a7b9-06de2e59e27f)
Dear Reader (#ulink_a71d5c6b-8480-57c6-bfee-53ea2dd493b2)
Title Page (#u7bd0d8a7-817d-55d1-8ca8-e69a8481a81a)
Dedication (#u67a412e6-6d09-527d-92f9-2dcc1e1347bd)
Chapter One (#ulink_4e25d230-56f5-5c93-96f3-9cf7dc4f9d8c)
Chapter Two (#ulink_2d611a48-e96e-547d-aca8-491c4887baf5)
Chapter Three (#ulink_94cd51db-10e7-5268-8252-06f4ada6ab57)
Chapter Four (#ulink_d7caa27f-5bfc-5114-8c54-8fc2d4859f46)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a13bb407-058c-5e3d-a083-623ea079b256)
Brodie Castle, Scotland—December 1, 1307
FIRE RAGED EVERYWHERE, a blazing inferno. Men screamed in agony, horses whinnied in terror, and swords rang.
The smoke cleared. Horror overcame Alana.
A manor had been set afire, and before its walls, men fought with sword and pike, both on foot and from horseback. Some were English knights, mail-clad, others, bare-legged Highlanders. An English knight was stabbed through by a Highlander’s blade; a huge destrier went down, impaled through the barrel, a Highlander leaping off....
Where was she?
Alana was confused. The ground tilted wildly beneath her feet. She thought she fell, and she clawed the ground, looking up.
Amidst the brutal fighting, she saw one man. The warrior was on foot, bloody sword in hand, his long dark hair whipping about his face, his leine riding his bare thighs, a fur flung back over his broad shoulders. He was shouting to the Highland warriors, urging them on—every man bloodied and desperate and savagely fighting for his life now.
The tides of the battle changed, some of the English soldiers fleeing, some of the knights deciding to gallop away in retreat. But the dark-haired Highlander did not cease, now engaged in fierce combat with an English knight. Their swords clashed viciously, time and again.
Alana tensed. What had she just heard?
Her gaze flew to the burning manor. A woman was screaming for help from inside. And did she hear children crying, as well?
Somehow Alana got to her feet. But the dark-haired Highlander was already at the burning manor door.
Smoke burned through the wood, and flames shot out of an adjacent window. He pushed his shoulder hard against the door, oblivious to the smoke, the heat and the flames....
Suddenly she was afraid for him. As suddenly he turned, and for one moment, she could see his hard, determined face. His blue eyes pierced hers.
And then he was rushing into the burning manor. A moment later he reappeared, carrying a small child. A woman and another child ran outside with him.
Relief overcame her. He had rescued the woman and her children—they would not die.
The roof crashed in. More flames shot into the sky. He covered the child with his body, now on the ground. Burning timbers fell around him.
Then he leaped up, racing away to some safer distance from the burning house where he returned the child to its weeping mother. He turned, his gaze searching the woods where Alana hid—as if to look for her.
As he did, a man with shaggy red hair, another Highlander from the same army, came up behind him, raising a dagger at the warrior’s back.
“Behind you!” Alana screamed.
The dark-haired Highlander must have sensed danger, for he whirled as the dagger came down. He did not scream—he stiffened, the dagger penetrating his chest. And then his sword was cutting through the air, faster than her eyes could see.
The red-haired traitor fell to the ground, stabbed through his chest. The Highlander delivered another clearly fatal blow, and paused, towering over his victim.
He staggered and fell....
“Alana! Wake up! Yer frightening me!”
Alana gasped and tasted mud and snow. And for one more moment, she could not move, overwhelmed by the sight of the battle—the treachery—she had just witnessed.
The hair was raised on her skin, her nape prickling. She had the urge to retch.
“Alana! Alana! Quick! Before someone sees!” her grandmother cried.
Alana became aware of her surroundings now. She was lying in the snow, facedown. Her cheek was freezing, as were her hands, for her mittens were stiff and frozen. She did not know how long she had been lying there.
She fought for air, for composure, waiting for the nausea to pass. Her nape stopped prickling. Her stomach calmed.
She inhaled, but her relief was short-lived as she sat up with her grandmother’s help. Dismay consumed her.
She was near the stream that ran just outside the castle walls in the spring. It had been a clear and cold winter day and she had gone outside the castle with some of the maids’ children, who had wanted to play. She must have frightened them when she collapsed; they must have rushed to find Alana’s grandmother.
She stared at the stream. It was mostly frozen now, but patches of water where the ice was melting were visible. Dear God. The water...even now, it beckoned, dark and mysterious, offering up secrets no soul had any right to....
She hadn’t had a vision in months. She had been praying she would never have one again. She jerked her gaze away from the dangerous water, releasing her grandmother and standing up.
Her grandmother stared, her lined face filled with worry. Eleanor quickly pulled Alana’s wool mantle more securely about her. Alana saw now that they were not alone.
Duncan of Frendraught’s son was standing behind her grandmother, his pale face twisted with fear and revulsion. “What did you see?” Godfrey demanded, blue eyes wide. He was wrapped in a heavy fur, and his booted feet were braced in a belligerent stance.
“I saw nothing,” she lied quickly, lifting her chin. They lived in the same place, but they were not related, and although they were on the same side in the war that raged across the land, he was her enemy.
“She tripped and fell,” Eleanor said firmly. Her tone was filled with an authority she did not have.
He sneered. “I’ll ask you again—what did you see, Alana?” There was warning in his tone.
She trembled as she stood. “I saw your father, victorious in battle,” she lied.
Their gazes locked. He stared, clearly trying to decide if she told the truth or not. “If you’re lying to me, you will pay, witch,” he spat. And then he strode away.
She sagged against Eleanor, relieved he was gone. What had she just seen?
“Why do you fight him? When he can strike you down if he wishes?” Eleanor cried.
Alana took her hand. “He goads me, Gran.”
Her grandmother stared at her with worry. Eleanor Fitzhugh was a tiny woman, her eyes blue, her hair gray. But she was as determined as she was small. Her body had aged, but her wits had not. Alana did not want her to worry, but she always did. She was the mother Alana did not have, even though they were not actually related.
“He is rude and arrogant, but he is master here,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “And Godfrey will have a fit if we don’t have his supper ready. But, Alana? You must not let your hatred show.”
It was impossible, Alana thought. They had had this same conversation many, many times. She hated Godfrey not merely because he goaded her to no end, and not because he hated her, but because one day, he would be lord of Brodie Castle.
“I do try,” she said.
“You must try harder,” Eleanor returned. Though she was sixty and Alana just twenty, she put her arm around her, helping her back toward the castle’s front gates, as if their ages were reversed. But Alana was weak-legged and still slightly queasy; the visions made her feel faint.
The huge wood gates were open, large enough to admit two wagons side by side at a time, or a dozen mounted knights, and the drawbridge was down. Godfrey had already vanished from her view. Unfortunately, he could not be easily avoided, not when Brodie was one of the Earl of Buchan’s castles.
Brodie Castle had belonged to Alana’s mother, Elisabeth le Latimer. It had been her dowry when she had married Sir Hubert Fitzhugh, Eleanor’s son. Sir Hubert had died in battle without children, and Elisabeth had turned to Alexander Comyn, the Earl of Buchan’s brother, for comfort. Alana had been the result.
Elisabeth had died in childbirth, and Lord Alexander Comyn had married Joan le Latimer, Elisabeth’s cousin. Two years after Alana was born, Joan gave birth to a daughter, Alice, and a few years later, to another girl, Margaret.
Alana had met her father exactly once, by accident, when he was hunting in the woods, and his party had become lost. They had come to stay at Brodie Castle for the night. Alana had been five, but she would never forget the sight of her tall golden father in the hall’s firelight—as he stared at her with similar surprise.
“Is that my daughter?”
“Yes, my lord,” Eleanor had answered.
He had strode over to her, his stare unnerving. Alana had been frightened, uncertain of what he would say or do, and she had not been able to move. He had seemed so tall, unnaturally so, more like a king than a nobleman. And then he had knelt down beside her.
“You look exactly like your mother,” he had said softly. “You have her dark hair and blue eyes...she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen when we met, and to this day, I have yet to meet anyone as fair.”
Alana was thrilled. Shyly, she had smiled. Somehow, Alana had known that was praise. And before leaving Brodie, he had told Eleanor to take good care of her. Alana had been in earshot, and she had heard. Her father cared about her!
But he had never come to Brodie again. She had expected another visit, and disappointment had become heartache. But the pain had dulled and died. She was just a bastard, and so be it.
When she was thirteen, she had been told he meant to arrange a marriage for her. Alana had been in disbelief. By that time, she had come to believe that her father did not even recall her very existence. And before she could become excited about the prospect of having a husband and a home of her own, she had learned that her dowry would be a manor in Aberdeenshire.
Eleanor told her she must be grateful, but as much as Alana wished to be grateful, she was disappointed. Brodie Castle had belonged to her mother. But an illegitimate daughter could not inherit such a stronghold, and as there had not been any other heirs, Brodie Castle had been awarded to the Earl of Buchan by King Edward of England, and in turn, he had given it to his loyal vassal, Duncan of Frendraught. Alana had been eight at the time. Foolishly, when her father revealed that he would give her a dowry, she had thought he would somehow—miraculously—return Brodie to her.
But he had not, and it did not matter in the end, for Alana remained unwed.
No one wanted to marry a “witch.”
Eleanor held her arm as they hurried through the frozen and muddy courtyard. They passed long-haired cows, standing with their backs to the walls, their faces to the sun. A pair of maids was bringing in water from the well. A boy was carrying in firewood. They did not speak.
They stepped inside the great hall, which was warmer, two huge fires roaring there in two facing hearths. Godfrey and his men were seated at the trestle table before one hearth, and were in a heated discussion. Alana hoped they were arguing over her fabricated vision of his father being victorious in a battle. The idea gave her some small satisfaction, even when she knew it was petty of her.
Once they were safely in the kitchens, Eleanor pulled her aside.
“What did you see?” Eleanor asked carefully, keeping her tone low.
Alana glanced about the kitchens, where Cook and her maids were bustling to prepare supper. Venison and lamb were roasting on spits. She removed her fur-lined wool mantle, hanging it on a wall peg. “A terrible battle, and a stranger, a warrior, stabbed in the back by his own.”
Eleanor started as their gazes locked. “Since when do you see strangers?”
She shook her head. “You know I have never had a vision about someone who was not familiar to me.” It was true. Now, as she recalled her vision, she was shocked. Why had she seen some stranger in the midst of a battle with the English? The memory was causing her nape to prickle uncomfortably again.
Her stomach roiled—as if another vision was imminent. Yet there was no water to lure her into its depths....
“Are you certain you didn’t know the man?”
Alana was certain, but she visualized him now, with his hard face and dark hair, his blue eyes. “He did seem familiar,” she decided. “Yet, I don’t think we have ever met. What could such a vision mean, Gran?” Would she now be cursed with seeing the future when it belonged to those she did not know? Wasn’t it bad enough that she could foresee the future of her friends and family?
“I don’t know, Alana,” Eleanor said.
Suddenly the door to the kitchens burst open and Godfrey stood there, appearing furious. “Where is our meal?” he demanded, his hands on his hips.
Alana stared coldly at him. When he was in such a foul temper, there were always consequences to pay, and it was best to be meek—and to avoid him. His temper was so easily set off, and he was a cruel man—just as his father was.
“Your meal is to be served at once,” Eleanor said easily.
“Good.” Godfrey scowled.
“My lord, did the messenger that arrived at noon bring ill tidings?” Alana asked as politely as she could.
“He brought very ill tidings!” Godfrey swung his hard gaze to Alana. “Robert Bruce has sacked Inverness. He has burned it to the ground.”
Alana froze. Inverness was a short distance to the south, within a day’s march of Brodie!
For as long as she could recall, various families and clans of Scotland had been at war with England—and each other. But almost two years ago, Robert Bruce, who had a claim to the throne of Scotland, had murdered Red John Comyn, the Lord of Badenoch—her father’s cousin. He had then seized the throne, and Scotland had been at war ever since.
Her mind raced frantically now, as a silence fell over everyone in the kitchens.
“Aye, you should all be afraid!” Godfrey cried. “Bruce has been on the march all year, destroying everything and everyone that he can! If he comes here, he’ll destroy Brodie—he’ll destroy us all.” He stormed out.
Alana glanced at the staff—everyone was white with fear.
She was afraid, too. When Bruce had first been crowned at Scone by a handful of bishops loyal to him, the coronation attended by his closest allies and friends, it had seemed impossible that he might actually be triumphant. How could he defeat the great power of England, and the great power of the Comyn family? And his army had been decimated at Methven that summer, by the mighty Aymer de Valence, who was now the Earl of Pembroke. Bruce and his ragtag, starving army had spent the rest of the summer of 1306 hiding from Aymer and the English army in the forests and the mountains, while retreating across Scotland on foot. They had finally found a safe haven with Angus Og MacDonald, the mighty chieftain of Kintyre. During the rest of that year, Angus Og and Christina MacRuari had given him men, arms, horses and ships.
Bruce had returned to Scotland last January with a terrible vengeance. He had spent the winter attempting to gain back his lands in Carrick, and when there was no outpouring of welcoming support from his old tenants, he had taken to the forests to terrorize the villagers and squires at will—until they sued him for peace, paying dearly in tribute for it. He had then gone to war upon all of Galloway, to exact revenge for the capture and execution of two of his brothers. He had met and defeated Aymer de Valence at Loudoun Hill. And recently, he had turned his attention to the north of Scotland—to Buchan territory.
For the Earl of Buchan and the entire Comyn family was his oldest and worst enemy.
Bruce had taken a series of small strongholds since the fall, before attacking and destroying the Buchan fortresses at Inverlochy and Urquhart, in a quick sequence. And apparently, he continued to march up the Great Glen, for he had just taken and destroyed Inverness!
Was it now possible that Robert Bruce might be triumphant?
Would he even think of attacking Brodie Castle? Alana wondered with a shrinking sensation. Until now, the war had not concerned her—it had been a distant affair, the concern of her father and the family she had never been a part of.
Brodie was such a tiny stronghold! Why would Bruce bother?
What about the odd vision she had just had? Had she seen a battle in the war for Scotland’s throne?
She hurried after Godfrey.
“Alana!” her grandmother called.
Alana ignored her, racing after Godfrey and catching up to him in the hall. “Where does Bruce go now?” she asked.
He glared at her. “He continues to march north, and he will surely descend upon Nairn or Elgin,” Godfrey said furiously, referring to two of the greatest Comyn strongholds. “And Brodie lies betwixt them!”
Alana trembled. “Will he attack us?”
“I hope not! We are not fully provisioned,” Godfrey said. “I have sent a messenger to my father, asking him for more men. Surely Duncan will send us soldiers. And I am hoping Buchan will send us men, as well. Meanwhile, I am rousing up every tenant and villager that I can, to bear arms in defense here if we must indeed defend the keep.”
Alana stared. It was one thing to know that a terrible war raged throughout the land for Scotland’s crown, it was another to be so close to the battlefront—to the path of destruction waged by the ruthless Robert Bruce.
Godfrey suddenly leaned over her, far too closely for comfort. He spoke and his breath feathered her face. “You should have a vision, Alana, a vision about Brodie and its future!”
She flushed. “You know as well as I do that I cannot see upon command.”
“Truly? Or is it that you simply have no care for us here at Brodie?” He snorted in disbelief and strode to the table, where his men remained. “Bring more wine, Alana,” he ordered, not looking back at her.
She watched him for another moment. No matter how she tried, she could not control how much she disliked him. And he was right—partly. She had no care for his welfare, none.
When she returned to the kitchens, where the lamb was now on a platter and about to be served, Eleanor took her hand. “What is it, Alana?”
“Bruce might attack, Gran.”
For a moment, Eleanor was silent. Then, “At least you did not see Brodie Castle burning,” she said.
There was finally some small relief in that truth. She had not seen Brodie aflame.
* * *
ALANA STRAIGHTENED, wiping perspiration out of her eyes in spite of the cold. She held a shovel, as did a dozen others, mostly young boys, old men and women her own age. They were helping to enlarge the ditch that surrounded the castle, in case they were attacked.
Her hands were frozen in spite of the mittens she wore. The sun was finally in descent and clouds were rushing in, indicating a coming snowfall. It had taken several hours to remove the frozen and crusted snow from the moat, and now, they were digging out frozen dirt. It was a task best suited to strong and grown men, but most of the adult men from the area had gone to war years ago; a handful remained to defend Brodie, should the need ever arise.
One of Godfrey’s sergeants signaled them that they could go inside for the evening; they would finish on the morrow. Alana leaned on her shovel, exhausted.
Even as she did, images danced about in her mind’s eye. She continued to recall the dark, powerful Highland warrior who had been commanding his small army as they battled English knights not far from the burning manor. How she wished he did not haunt her thoughts.
She did not even recognize the manor they fought for. She kept trying to remember if she had seen a banner, or the colors of a plaid. But nothing came to her. And she had not recognized the land, what little she had glimpsed of it. There was only one new detail—she had seen patches of snow about the ground.
So the battle had been in winter.
But what she truly wished to know was the identity of the Highland warrior—and the reason for her vision about him.
Alana followed the others inside. Although Godfrey was pacing in the hall, she went to one of the hearths there to warm her frozen hands. He whirled and stalked to her.
His expression was dark and so ugly. Then she saw the unrolled parchment in his hand. He waved it at her.
“You will be pleased to know that my father cannot spare a single man, and Brodie’s defense falls to me.” He threw the vellum at her.
Her heart thundered. “That hardly pleases me.”
“Oh, come! We both know you covet Brodie Castle, that you think you have a claim to it, that you hate me because I will be lord and master here—over you!” He wasn’t gloating. He was angry.
“This place belonged to my mother, so I do have a claim, but not unless something ill befalls you,” she said carefully.
“And you pray for just such an ill fortune, do you not? I don’t trust you, Alana!”
“I do not want Brodie to fall to Robert Bruce.” She meant it. Her father might have forgotten her very existence, but he was her father, and she would be loyal to him in the end. “How can we defend Brodie?”
Godfrey looked at her oddly as he paced, his energy pent up. “I see no way to prevail if Bruce attacks us. We must hope his interest lies in Nairn, Elgin and Banf. The earl is on his way to Nairn as we speak, where my father is, to plan a defense of all the Buchan lands.”
Godfrey was frightened beneath the anger. She almost felt sorry for him, for he was in a terrible position—he could hardly defend Brodie against Bruce without any men. “I heard that Bruce destroyed Inverlochy, Urquhart and Inverness. That he left few stones standing. Is that true?”
“It’s true.” His gaze was sharp. “I know what you are asking. I don’t know if he would burn Brodie to the ground. He is the devil. He destroys every castle he takes, so we cannot retake the ground and use it against him!”
She could not bear to see Brodie reduced to rubble and ashes, and she closed her eyes to ward off such terrible images. She felt faint.
She prayed she would not have a vision—that she would not see Brodie burned to the ground.
“You might want to know one other thing, Alana.” His harsh voice broke into her thoughts and her eyes flew open. “Sir Alexander is on his way to Nairn, as well.”
She froze.
“What is wrong, Alana?” Godfrey leered, but with anger. “You are white! But this is not the first time your father has been but a short distance from us—without his ever calling.”
Her heart lurched, hard. This would not be the first time her father had been in the vicinity, although he had never come to Brodie except that one time when she was a small child. Did she foolishly hope she might see him again? And what would she gain if she did?
He had tried to arrange a marriage for her when she was thirteen, but his efforts had been short-lived. Since then, there had been no word. If he wished to see her, he would have simply sent for her. So either he had forgotten about her, or he simply did not care.
It hurt, when the hurt should have died ages ago. “You are the bastard he does not want,” Godfrey said.
She faced him, suddenly furious. “Does it please you, to be cruel?”
“It pleases me greatly. And, Alana? You are to go to Nairn, immediately.”
Was this a cruel jest? She stared, trembling, trying to decide.
He slowly smiled. “My father demands you go to him now.”
“Why would Duncan send for me?” she asked carefully, for she knew Godfrey might be toying with her.
“Why do you think? Witch!”
Alana was aghast. “What did you tell him?”
“Did you not see my father victorious in battle?”
She trembled. Duncan knew about her sight—everyone at Brodie did. “You told him about my vision,” she said slowly, with growing dread.
“Aye, I did. And he wishes to speak with you.” He bent down and retrieved the parchment. He then placed it in the fire, watching it begin to burn. “If I were you, I would begin to think about what I saw. He will want to know everything.”
“I told you what I saw,” she cried. Her mind raced frantically. She had lied about having a vision of Duncan. And she despised Duncan, feared him in a way that she did not fear Godfrey. What should she do? Duncan might beat her if he learned of her lie. He would surely punish her in some way.
“You are not pleased? Do you not wish to see Sir Alexander?” Godfrey asked.
Alana could not even think clearly. However, foolishly, she must admit that she did hope to see Sir Alexander again.
And now, she must hope Nairn was not attacked, not anytime soon.
* * *
“THIS IS MADNESS!” Eleanor cried. She was pale.
Alana smiled grimly. “I cannot refuse Duncan, Gran, and you know it. You also know he will be displeased if he learns I lied about my vision.”
Eleanor sat down, stricken. The women were in the small tower chamber they shared, two narrow beds beneath one window, a small table between them. The only other piece of furniture in the chamber was a chest, in which they kept their belongings. Alana was folding an extra cote carefully, placing it with the other garments she meant to take with her.
“Well, perhaps some good will come of this.” Eleanor was grim. “You will see your father again—and he might recall the fact of your existence!”
The stabbing of hurt was dull, like the taped tip of a knife’s blade. Carefully, she said, “If Duncan had not summoned me, I would not be going.”
“Do not play me, my girl. We both know you would be pleased to see your father again—and it would please me if he finally made good on his promise to see you wed properly.”
“He cannot change how the world sees me.” She smiled, not wanting to reveal that she did care about the opinion everyone held of her, a great deal.
“Of course he could—he is the great Sir Alexander, the earl’s closest brother!”
Alana was suddenly overcome. “What would I do without you?”
Eleanor walked to the open chest and began removing garments from it. They were her clothes. “I am an old woman, Alana, and one day, you will have to get on without me. Which is why I wish for you to have a good husband at your side.” She now removed a burlap sack from the chest, and began packing it. “I am going to Nairn with you.”
Alana was surprised. “Gran,” she began, instinctively protesting. Eleanor was agile and spry, and Nairn was but a half day’s horseback ride from Brodie. Still, the woman could hardly ride—they would need a wagon or a litter. And the journey would be in the midst of winter, with snow threatening to fall. She should not come.
“Do not argue. I have not seen your father or Buchan in years. And you have never met Buchan. He has never met you. If your father has no care for your future, perhaps we can convince the earl to provide for you. You are his brother’s daughter.”
Alana did not want to jeopardize her grandmother’s good health on a winter journey, even if it was a short one, and she had heard—everyone had heard—that Buchan was a cold and at times a ruthless man.
“He cannot change my infamy,” Alana said.
“Of course he can. He is the most powerful man in the north of Scotland.”
* * *
THEY LEFT THE next morning. The sun was high, but it had snowed the previous afternoon and night, and a fresh fall blanketed the road and the woods. The mountains surrounding them were white. Alana rode in a small wagon with her grandmother, driving the mule in the traces. Godfrey had not cared that Eleanor wished to accompany her, and had given them a single man as an escort. Connaught rode beside them, a mail tunic beneath his fur cloak.
The wagon and the snow made the going slow. In the midafternoon, when they were but a short distance from the castle, Alana stiffened.
Something was wrong.
She did not need a vision to know it. She simply sensed danger, and as she did, she noticed a gray pall beyond the line of trees that lay ahead. She smelled smoke.
“There is a fire nearby,” the soldier said sharply, abruptly drawing his mount to a halt.
Alana’s nape prickled. The gray pall staining the blue sky was definitely smoke. She pulled hard on the reins, halting the mule. It snorted, long ears pricked, alarmed.
“Alana,” Eleanor cried.
But Alana heard the horses whinnying in fright, saw the glow of a fire beyond the trees. And was she imagining it or did she hear men shouting in fear and agony?
Because the sounds of the horses and men were so familiar—exactly like the sounds in her last vision!
Her heart slammed. “Can you go ahead and see what is happening? Without being remarked?” she asked Connaught.
“Aye.” He spurred his horse aggressively forward, galloping away.
Alana felt entirely exposed, sitting in the wagon with her grandmother, on the deserted and snowy road, no longer hidden by the surrounding woods.
Eleanor took her hand. “We should turn back.”
She hesitated. “I am wondering if we are about to encounter the battle from my vision, Gran.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened as Connaught galloped back to them. “They have attacked the MacDuffs’ home, Boath Manor! They are burning it to the ground! And they carry Bruce’s flag!”
Alana’s tension increased. “Surely Bruce’s army is not beyond those trees?” she cried.
“It is but a few dozen Highlanders, mistress. Still, they are warring with Duncan’s men.”
Her heart thundered. They were but minutes away from a terrible battle, a part of the great war for Scotland’s throne.
“Turn the wagon, Mistress Alana,” Connaught ordered. “We must go back before we are discovered.”
She thought of the dark-haired Highlander who had been betrayed by one of his own men. If she was about to encounter him—and witness such treachery—she could not go back. She did not know why, but she was compelled to warn him.
Alana began to get down from the wagon. “Will you take Eleanor back to Brodie?”
“Alana,” Eleanor gasped. “You cannot stay—we must turn around!”
“I have to see what is happening. But I will hide in the trees, I promise you.” Before she had finished speaking, she could hear the men shouting, the horses neighing, more loudly. The battle had moved closer to them.
She turned, and she could see the fire on the other side of the trees far more clearly, bright and brilliant. “You’ll never outrun them with a wagon. But damned if I will die to save an old woman and a witch.” Suddenly Connaught was galloping away.
Alana choked, shocked that he would leave them there—two women alone and defenseless!
“Alana, if they are coming this way, you must hide! Forget me!” Eleanor’s eyes were wide with fright.
Alana reached for the mule’s bridle. “I am not forgetting you, Gran. Let’s get you hidden.”
“And what about you?” Eleanor demanded. “I am an old woman. My life is done. You are young. Your life is ahead of you!”
“Do not speak that way! Come.” Alana led the mule and the wagon off the road, no easy task. The mule was balking and unruly, while the snow became deeper, until finally the wagon was stuck. But they were off the road, and not as obvious as they had been. In any case, she could not coax the mule any farther.
Alana glanced around and saw an outcropping of rocks. She could leave Eleanor in the wagon—or hide her in the cavern there.
Eleanor understood. “I’d rather stay here.”
Alana nodded. “I will not be long.” She covered her grandmother with a second fur.
Eleanor took her hand. “I am frightened for you. Why, Alana? Why won’t you hide here with me?”
Briefly, Alana stared. What was wrong with her? Why did she wish to see if the battle just beyond the woods was the one from her vision? Why was she determined to warn the dark-haired Highlander of treachery? Perhaps sparing him any injury—and saving him from death?
For she had seen him stabbed, and she had seen him fall. She did not know if he would live, or if he would die.
“I am coming back. I am not leaving you here.” She hugged her, hard.
Eleanor clasped her face. “Your mother was stubborn and brave, too.”
Alana somehow smiled and hurried off.
She was too agitated to be cold, as she trudged through the snow back to the road. She headed toward the line of trees that lay ahead, and the sounds of the battle became louder as she approached it. The stench of smoke and fire increased. Filled with fear and dread, her pulse pounding, Alana reached the edge of the wood. She halted, grasping a birch to remain upright.
Her vision was before her, come to life!
The manor was aflame, and English knights and Highland warriors were in a savage battle before it. The snow was bloodred. Swords rang, horses screamed. And then a steed went down, the Highlander astride it leaping off....
Shaken, she felt her knees buckle. But she did not collapse. Frantically, she scanned the fighting men.
Her heart slammed.
A fur flung over his shoulders, bloody sword in hand, long dark hair loose, the Highlander was viciously fighting an English knight. Their huge swords clashed, shrieking, again and again, in the midst of the bloody, battling men.
He looked exactly as she had envisioned him.
Alana was stunned. What did this mean? To happen upon one of her visions this way?
Screams sounded from within the manor.
The Highlander heard them, too. He sheathed his sword and rushed to the door, which was burning. Flames shot from an adjacent window. He rammed his shoulder into the door.
And then he suddenly turned and looked at the woods—as if he was looking at her.
Alana stiffened.
For it almost felt as if their gazes had met, which was impossible.
Within a moment he had vanished inside the burning manor. Flames shot out from the walls near the door.
Alana did not think twice. She began to run out of the trees, toward the battling men—toward the manor.
He appeared in the doorway, a small boy in his arms. A woman and another child ran past him; he let them go first. As he ran out of the house, more of the flaming roof crashed down. He dived to the ground with the child, protecting the boy with his body.
Alana tripped, fell, got up.
He had risen, too, and was ushering the boy into his mother’s arms. Then he whirled to face her.
This time, Alana knew she was entirely visible. This time, in spite of the warring men between them, she knew their eyes met.
For one moment, she paused, breathing hard as they stared at one another, in surprise, in shock.
And then she saw the man behind him. He was approaching rapidly, and was but a short distance away. His hair was shaggy and red.
Her heart seemed to stop. This man meant to betray his fellow Highlander, meant to murder him. “Behind you!” she screamed.
The Highlander whirled, sword in hand. Apparently he did not see any danger, for he faced her again. But the red-haired Scot held a dagger and his strides were unwavering....
Alana tried again. “Behind you! Danger!” As she cried out, he whirled, and his assailant swiftly stabbed him in the chest. Almost simultaneously, the Highlander thrust his sword through the traitor, delivering a fatal blow. Slowly, the other man keeled over.
The Highlander looked across the battle at her, staggered and fell. His blood stained the snow.
Alana heard herself cry out. She began to run toward him again. The English knights who remained mounted were galloping away. Those on foot who could flee were doing so. All that remained was the small, victorious Highland army, the wounded, the dying and the dead.
Alarm motivated her as never before. She had to swerve past bodies, and she tripped on a dead man’s outstretched arm. Someone tried to grab her; she dodged his hand. And then she reached him.
She dropped to her knees in the snow, beside him. “You are hurt,” she cried.
His blue gaze pierced hers, and he seized her wrist, hard. “Who are ye?”
She felt mesmerized by his hard blue eyes. They were filled with suspicion. “You’re bleeding. Let me help.” But his grip was brutal—she could not move.
“Ye wish to help?” he snarled. “Or do ye think to harm me?”
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2fe205c2-9439-58e0-bc5e-fedd27633fa7)
ALANA’S TENSION WAS impossible to bear. He would not release her wrist, and his stare was colder now. “Dughall,” he said harshly, his gaze unwavering upon her face, “take the dagger from my chest.”
“Aye, my lord.” A tall blond Highlander knelt and ruthlessly yanked the blade from the flesh and tendon where it was embedded.
Alana cried out. The Highlander did not make a sound, although he paled and his grasp on her wrist eased as his blood spewed.
Alana jerked free and seized the hem of her skirts; she pushed a wad of it down hard on his wound. What had he been thinking?
“That was a fine way to remove the blade,” she said tersely. But the enemy blade had missed his heart; she was relieved to see the wound was high up, almost in his shoulder.
He eyed her exposed knee as another man handed her a piece of linen. Alana quickly put it on his wound in place of her skirt. The wound continued to bleed. Dughall knelt, offering the warrior a flask. He took it with his right hand and drank.
Now on both knees in the frozen snow, she shivered—but not from the cold. She was terribly aware of the Highlander she was trying to help. His presence—his proximity—seemed overwhelming. “Your wound needs cleaning. It needs stitches.”
His blue eyes were ice. “Why would ye help me—a stranger?”
She had no answer to give. She did not know why she was compelled to aid him. She did not know why she was worried. But he had clearly survived the attack—and she was relieved.
She had no explanation for her relief, either.
When she made no answer, his eyes darkened with suspicion. He struggled to stand. Instantly he reeled, as if he were a tree buffeted in the wind.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, left holding the bloody linen. She rushed to him to brace him to stand.
“Dughall, tell the men to raise our tents. We will spend the night here.” He did not glance at her, shaking her off, his gaze on the burning manor. It was mostly rubble and smoldering ash now, although some timbers still burned. He appeared satisfied. “No one will use this place against us now.”
Alana recalled what she had heard about Bruce—how his armies left no stones standing. So it was true.
He turned to Alana. “So yer an angel of mercy.” He was mocking.
She flushed. He did not seem grateful for her aid. He seemed highly skeptical.
“I could not let you bleed.”
He turned as if he hadn’t heard her. “And, Dughall, get a needle and thread.”
“Aye, Iain.” Dughall raced off.
Her pulse was racing. His name was Iain. Why did that seem to matter to her? “I can see a simple knife wound will not kill you. You should sit back down, my lord.”
“A true angel.” He eyed her. “Why not, mistress? Why not let a stranger bleed to death?”
She did not know the answer herself!
“Why were ye in the woods? Did ye flee the manor when we attacked?” He spoke sharply.
“No.” She hesitated, now thinking about the fact that Eleanor was hiding in the woods, and it would be dark in another hour. And he was fighting for Robert Bruce. He had been in battle with Duncan’s men. It would be dangerous to reveal who she was, or where she had been going—or why. He was the enemy, even if she had been compelled to help him. “I was on my way to visit kin in Nairn.” A version of the truth would surely do.
“Ye journey alone?” He was obviously doubtful. “And then ye rush into a battle, to aid a stranger?” His stare was unnerving.
She wet her lips. She could not blame him for being so suspicious. “I am not alone. My grandmother is in the woods, where I left our mule and the wagon. We heard the battle....” She stopped. Now what could she say?
“And ye decided to come closer? Ye’ll have to tell a far better tale, my lady.” But now, his gaze swept over her, from head to toe. “Who are ye? Whom do ye visit in Nairn?”
“I am not from the castle,” she managed to say. Had he just looked at her as if she were in a brothel and awaiting his pleasure? “We are simple folk, farmers....” She could barely speak. Men did not look at her with male interest—they were too frightened to ever do so.
For a moment he stared.
“My grandmother carries healing potions.” That much was true. She could finally breathe, somewhat. “If you will allow it, we will clean the wound and put a healing salve on it, then stitch it closed. I must get her, my lord. She is old and it is cold out.”
He turned. “Fergus, go into the woods and bring back an old woman and a wagon.”
A Highlander with long blond hair rushed off to obey.
Alana hoped that was the end of the conversation, but it was not. He said, “Ye still cannot explain why ye rushed into the battle, mistress, when all other women would hide in the woods and pray.”
She again had no answer to make.
His gaze narrow, he took her shoulder and guided her with him to the largest of the tents that had just been erected. He gestured and Alana preceded him inside.
It was warmer within. A boy was laying out furs and a pallet. From outside, she could smell meat roasting—a cook fire had been started. Alana hugged herself. She felt uncomfortable, and not just because of her lies. Twilight was near, and they were alone. He did remain the enemy, he was a warrior, and as such, was frightening.
Dughall stepped inside, carrying a small sack. “Do ye want me to sew it?”
Alana was alarmed. “My lord, the wound must be cleaned first.” He could so easily die of an infection if it were left dirty and unwashed.
His blue gaze upon her, he sank down on the pallet, shoving off the fur that had been loosely draped about his shoulders. For an instant, Alana stared at his broad shoulders, his huge biceps. The upper half of his leine was blood soaked. “Come, angel of mercy,” he said.
Mockery remained in his tone. She looked aside and hurried to him. “Pressure must be kept on the wound.” She tried to sound brisk. “Or you will certainly bleed to death.”
“Give her a blade,” he said to Dughall. To Alana, “Cut the leine off.”
She nodded, taking the knife Dughall handed her. And then he seized her wrist another time. Alana froze, meeting his hard gaze once again.
“Try anything untoward and ye will suffer my wrath,” he said.
She nodded. Did he truly think she might stab him now?
He released her. She quickly cut his leine down the front, to his belt, and pulled open the sides of his leine. She pretended not to notice the hard slabs of his chest, the dark hair there, or the small gold cross he wore. Then she uncovered his left shoulder completely.
The wound was bleeding again. Dughall handed her more linens, which she gratefully took and pressed to it. Iain inhaled in pain and their gazes collided.
“I am sorry.... I am trying not to hurt you.” She avoided his gaze now, acutely aware of him.
“You have no calluses,” he said.
She started, eyes wide, locking with his. What was he talking about?
“On yer hands.” He was final—triumphant.
She finally realized what he meant. If she were a farmer, her hands would be callused. Alana could only stare. She had been caught in her first deception.
His smile was slow, dangerous. “Who are ye, lady? Dinna tell me yer a farmer’s wife—falsehoods dinna sit well with me.”
“We were summoned to Nairn,” she managed to answer. “My grandmother carries healing potions.”
“An answer that is no answer,” he said.
She glanced at Dughall, her cheeks aflame. “Can you bring me warm water and soap?”
“Aye, my lady.” He slipped from the tent.
“The truth,” Iain said.
Alana felt mesmerized by his unwavering stare. “We do not know why we were summoned,” she lied, feeling desperate. “But we believe my grandmother’s potions are needed.”
His blue gaze moved over her face now, feature by feature.
Did he believe her, when she was so deliberately lying? When she hated doing so, when she was a poor liar by nature? And Duncan of Frendraught was his enemy—would such a lie even protect her? “You should not speak. You should rest.”
“Ye do not play these games well. Ye have no ready answers.” He had become thoughtful.
She checked to see if his wound had stopped bleeding, and was relieved that it had. “Saving a life is no game.”
He said, “Ye cannot or will not tell me who ye are. A spy would be prepared.”
“I am no spy, my lord,” Alana said tersely. He thought her a spy? She was horrified. “I am no one of any import.”
He smiled coldly at her. “Ye have import, lady, or ye would not hide from me. And—” he paused for emphasis “—I am intrigued.”
She was dismayed. She did not want his interest, not at all!
“A young woman, alone in the woods with her grandmother, not far from Nairn. A young woman who does not flee from a battle, but goes into it—and warns a stranger of treachery. How long do ye think it will take for me to learn yer name?”
If he wished to find out who she was, he would certainly be able to do so, quickly enough. She and her grandmother were well-known in these parts. But she would be long gone by then, or so she hoped.
“And you, my lord? You fly Bruce’s flag. You command these men. You come from the Highlands. My guess, from your speech, is you come from the islands in the west.”
“Unlike ye, lady, I have no secrets to keep. I am Iain of Islay.”
“Iain is a common enough name.” But Alana’s heart lurched. She had heard gossip of one Iain of Islay—a warrior known as Iain the Fierce. The cousin of both Alasdair MacDonald, lord of the Isles, and his brother, Angus Og. He was renowned to be ruthless, bloodthirsty and undefeatable.
“Are ye frightened?”
Alana dragged her gaze to his as Dughall returned. “I hate war. I hate death. Of course I am frightened. Many men died today.”
His gaze was on her face.
“Are you the cousin of Angus and Alasdair MacDonald?” she had to ask.
“So ye have heard of me,” he said, but softly.
He was the savage Highlander known as Iain the Fierce, a warrior who never let his enemies live.
And she was in his camp, in the midst of a war for Scotland—as the enemy.
No, she was not just in his camp—she was in his tent.
She got to her feet, taking a step back and away from the pallet. “I have heard of you,” she said.
He made a sound, perhaps of satisfaction. And then Eleanor hurried into the tent, shivering, Fergus with her, breaking the tension, the moment.
“Grandmother!” Alana hurried to her, relieved. “Are you cold? I am sorry I have been so long!” she cried, hugging her.
“I paused before the fire, Alana, so I have warmed up.” Eleanor hugged her back while Alana flinched. Now Iain knew her name. Tomorrow, if he made enough inquiries, he would learn the truth—that she was Elisabeth le Latimer’s bastard daughter, from Brodie Castle, and that her father was Sir Alexander. He might even learn that she was a witch.
She must leave his camp before he made any inquiries about her.
Iain was watching them closely. “Yer granddaughter has been kindly tending me, Grandmother,” he said.
“Of course she has, for no one is as kind,” Eleanor said. “May I help you, as well, my lord?”
“It is Iain, Grandmother.” He glanced casually at Alana. “Iain MacDonald.”
Eleanor went to him and knelt, responding as Alana had feared she would. “I am Lady Eleanor. Well, the wound is deep. You will need stitches. Alana, bring me the bowl of water.”
Alana met Iain’s amused gaze. He had just ferreted out her grandmother’s name, as well, easily enough. When he asked about them, he would quickly learn that they were from Brodie Castle. It would not be difficult now.
They had to leave his camp as soon as possible.
Alana did as her grandmother instructed, then remained silent as Eleanor cleaned the wound. She did not look at Iain, but was aware that he was watching her. When Eleanor was done, she said, “Alana’s hand is steadier than mine, and she makes a fine stitch. She will sew you up, my lord.”
“It is Iain,” he said. “I am no lord, just a fourth son.”
Alana handed him the flask, absorbing that bit of information. Younger sons were either churchmen or soldiers of fortune. He had clearly chosen the latter. “I will need at least two men to hold you down.”
He took a long drink from the flask. “Ye will need no one. Bring me the blade,” he said.
He would struggle when she stuck a needle in his flesh, all men did. “My lord,” she objected.
“Bring me the blade, Alana,” he ordered.
She inhaled. It was so odd, unnerving, to have him call her by her name. Alana handed it to him.
She took up the needle, which was threaded. He would only make her efforts more difficult. It would be hard to remain steady if he struggled. How silly, to be so proud.
And Iain put the hilt of the dagger in his mouth. She carefully pricked the needle into his skin. He tensed, making a harsh sound, but he did not move.
Alana knew better than to look at him. Very swiftly, with determination, she put ten stitches into the wound, closing it completely. He did not move, or flinch, again. She knotted the thread, and Eleanor snipped it. Finally, she looked at him.
His eyes were closed, long, thick lashes fanning his skin. His face was white and covered with perspiration. For a moment, she thought he had fainted. And she hoped that was the case.
Eleanor began to apply a salve to the wound. His eyes flew open, gazing at her, not her grandmother. “Thank ye, Alana.”
“Do not speak now,” she told him. “Most men would be unconscious with such a wound. You should sleep.”
He studied her, very closely. “Angel,” he finally said.
Alana felt her heart flutter oddly. This time, she had not heard mockery in his tone. She lifted the flask to his lips—he drank. Then his eyes closed and his breathing deepened. He had fallen asleep instantly.
Suddenly exhausted, she rocked back on her heels.
What had just happened?
He was the warrior from her last vision, yet he was a stranger, and now, there they were, together, in his tent, with her in attendance upon him! Why had she foreseen this battle—why had she foreseen him? And why was it so important to tend to his welfare? To prevent his death? He was a ruthless Highlander, renowned for his savagery in battle.
She could not tear her gaze away from him now. In sleep, his hard face relaxed, he was dark and handsome, but the MacDonald men were known for their dark hair, their blue eyes, their arresting features. And like any Highland warrior, he was powerfully built, his arms chiseled from years spent wielding sword and ax, his legs sculpted from the mountains he ran up and the horses he rode.
What kind of man was he? To suffer such a wound, as he had just done? To remain awake while she sewed him together? To lead his men so far from home in dangerous battle? To be known as Iain the Fierce?
Did he really leave no enemy alive? Hadn’t she just seen him rescue a woman and her children from the burning manor—putting his own life at risk to do so?
She instinctively knew that she did not want him as her enemy, even if that was what they were. And while she had thus far been able to avoid telling him the truth about her family—her father—he would soon find out about her Comyn blood.
Would they be allowed to leave, once he had awoken?
Could they leave before he woke up?
Eleanor had finished applying the healing ointment, and was laying linen over the wound. She sank down onto her stool, facing Alana, her gaze searching. “I don’t want to awaken him to bandage it. We can do so tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Alana gasped. “Maybe we should leave now, before he awakens—before he finds out who my father is.”
Eleanor took her hand. “We can hardly leave now, Alana. It is a short walk to Nairn, but it is dusk already and it will be too dark to travel soon.”
She was right, they could not leave now. Alana looked at Iain. He was so soundly asleep now, his face softer, as if he were a little boy. But she was frightened. He was so suspicious of her.
“Alana—what has happened?” Eleanor whispered.
Alana turned to her, clutching her thin hands. “It was as I suspected, Gran! The battle for Boath Manor was the battle of my vision—and he is the stranger I saw being betrayed by his own man.”
The two women stared at one another.
“I cannot comprehend this,” Alana finally said, low.
Eleanor shook her head. “Nor can I. One day, we will know why you had such a vision...why you saw this man.... But it is useless to dwell on it now. There will be no answers tonight.”
Alana realized that her grandmother was tired. She put her arm around her. “I am so sorry I let you come with me! You could be safely at Brodie Castle now, asleep in your own bed!”
“You did not have a choice, granddaughter.” Eleanor smiled. “But what worries you so?”
Her grandmother knew her too well. “He is the enemy. He rides with Bruce. He was fighting Duncan’s men,” Alana whispered, worriedly. “What if he does not let us go? He is already suspicious of me.” She did not add that she would never tell him about her visions.
“If he learns you are the Earl of Buchan’s niece, we will have to tell him everything, Alana, and pray he realizes that we have no value as hostages.”
Alana hesitated. Buchan and Bruce were the worst of enemies—each wanted the other dead. Bruce would surely be pleased to have her in his control as a hostage, even if no ransom were forthcoming. She did not feel confident that Iain would blithely allow them to go on their way if he ever learned the truth. He seemed ambitious and terribly ruthless. They might explain that her uncle and her father had no care for her, that they would not ransom her, but he might not believe them. And even if he did, her instincts told her he was a complicated man—that his actions could not be predicted. He might think her a card to be kept up his sleeve.
She glanced at him again. He lay asleep, unmoving. He was so handsome, in such a powerful and masculine way.
Eleanor stood and put her arm around her. “Child, let’s find a place to rest. It has been a long and trying day. My old bones are aching. And you should cease worrying. That will not solve anything, not tonight.”
Alana nodded. She walked back to Iain and stared down at him for a moment, suddenly aware of being exhausted. How she wished she knew why he had been in her vision, and why she was now with him.
She bent and adjusted the furs, covering him up to his chin. As she did, she thought he stirred; she thought his dark lashes flickered. But he did not open his eyes.
“Child?” Eleanor called.
Alana turned and followed Eleanor from his tent.
* * *
THE SOUNDS OF the men taking down the camp awoke Alana.
She jerked upright. For one waking moment, she did not recognize the tent she shared with her grandmother, did not recall why she was there and not in her own bed.
And then all the events of the previous day came rushing back to her. The burning manor, the bloody battle, Iain of Islay...
Alana stared at the hides of the tent, stunned anew, and then looked down at Eleanor. Her grandmother remained soundly asleep.
She had hoped to be up and gone well before dawn. Now she remembered every detail of the previous day—mostly, she remembered just how suspicious of her Iain had been. She could not imagine what the new day would bring. But they had to get to Nairn, or suffer Duncan’s wrath. And mostly, they had to escape this camp before Iain decided not to let them leave—before he learned she was a Comyn.
She prayed that he remained soundly asleep, which would not be unusual, considering he was afflicted with such a stab wound.
Alana slipped out from the furs she and Eleanor shared. A pitcher of water was on a small table in the tent, and Alana used some to wash her face and brush her teeth with one finger. She quickly loosened and braided her long dark hair. Then she paused to gently awaken her grandmother. “I am going outside.”
As Eleanor got up, Alana lifted the tent’s flap and stepped out. The sun was just rising, and it was a freezing cold December morning. She pulled her fur more tightly about her. They had overslept, for the sun was rising from the dark mists.
Her trepidation increased as she glanced at the camp, hoping their captor remained abed. A dozen men were standing about the cook fire, bread and ale in hand, while the rest of the Highlanders were packing up their tents and gear and saddling their horses.
Alana saw the lady of Boath Manor. Pale and blonde, she sat with her children on the fire’s other side, the children busily eating bread and cheese. And Iain was with them.
She was in disbelief. He was up and about, as if he had not suffered a deep knife wound the previous day. And then she prayed that he would not ask about her identity another time, that he would thank her for all she had done and let her go on her way.
He had seen her. He was seated with the lady and her children, but now, he slowly rose to his full height, staring across the fire at her.
She no longer saw the woman and her children, or the other men. She hugged herself, unmoving.
His gaze unwavering upon her, he drained his mug, tossed a crust away and strode to her. “Good morn, Alana.” He smiled carefully at her.
“Good morning,” she managed to answer. His smile did not reach his searching eyes.
“Did ye pass a pleasing night?” he asked.
So he wished to make polite conversation? What tactic was this? “Fortunately, it was not too cold.”
He glanced at the brightening skies. “It will be colder today.”
He was probably right, as the skies were clear, which meant it would not snow. She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes again. He did not seem like an injured man just then. Although his left arm was in a sling, he wore a long sword and a dagger. Beneath his fur, she saw his dark blue, black and red plaid, pinned with a gold brooch above his right shoulder. She was very aware that he was not bedridden, that he was powerful, masculine and very much the enemy.
“I did not expect to see you on your feet so soon.”
“Did ye truly think I’d linger on a pallet in my tent?”
Was he amused? It was hard to tell. “Your wound must pain you.”
“I care little about pain. It is always a good day when one awakens alive,” he said. “Will ye break bread with me, mistress?”
“I am not hungry.” She did not wish to share a breakfast with him. “We have been delayed as it is. We must get to our kin in Nairn.”
He smiled. “Ah, aye. Ye have been summoned there, to heal someone, and ye cannot spare a moment to eat.”
She knew she flushed. “It would be best to simply go on.”
His brow lifted. “But ye had the time to attend my wound.”
She could not help staring at him and their gazes locked.
“I will learn why ye nursed me, mistress, just as I will learn why ye truly go to Nairn,” he said.
She had little doubt he would soon learn all that she hid from him and she was so tempted to blurt out the truth. Instead, she cried, “I do not even know, myself, why I wished so desperately to save you! I saw the terrible treachery, my lord, and I ran to your aid without thought!”
He started, his regard probing.
Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. “That is the truth, my lord.”
For one more moment he studied her. “Come eat.”
She decided not to argue, aware that he had not forbidden her from leaving. Alana glanced toward their tent, but Eleanor had yet to come outside. She followed him closer to the campfire, took the bread he offered and quickly ate it. He continued to stare and it made her uncomfortable.
When she was done, she looked up and saw him flexing his left arm in the sling, wincing. He seemed pale beneath his days’ growth of beard.
She knew her stitches would hold, if he undertook no abnormal activities. But men died from infected battle wounds more often than not. “Maybe I should look at your wound before I leave?” Alana heard herself say.
“So yer concern for a stranger in a time of war remains.”
She did not want him to die, and she had already said as much—she would not say so again, especially when such desire was insensible.
He gestured. His tent had been taken down, so she followed him to a large wagon, one containing a catapult. He leaned against it, shaking his fur from his wounded shoulder. Their gazes danced together, his appraisal this time slow and steady.
She looked away, deciding that she preferred it when he looked at her with suspicion, not with interest. She pushed the plaid farther back over his shoulder. She did not look up at him as she untied the sling, but she felt his gaze upon her face. She had the feeling he was scrutinizing her every feature as he had done the past night. It made her terribly uneasy.
She removed the sling, then pulled open the neckline of his tunic. Someone had secured the bandage. She lifted an edge, and was instantly relieved. “You are healing nicely.”
“I have been well nursed,” he said softly.
Aware of the heat in her cheeks, Alana tucked the linen back into the wrappings, and covered it with his tunic. She helped him put his arm back in the sling and tied it. But there was no avoiding contact—no avoiding the feeling of male muscle and bone. “I hope you will rest and heal for a few days, at least. I do not wish for my efforts to have been in vain.”
“War waits fer no man.”
She took a step back, to put some distance between them. “Surely you will rest for a few days.”
“I am a soldier. I have no time to rest, mistress.”
She was in disbelief. “Then you might die, for you can hardly wield a sword with such a wound.”
He began to smile. “I will wield more than one sword today, my lady, I will wield two.”
Alana gasped. “How can you raise a sword in your left hand? And you think to fight today?”
His smile vanished. “Why did ye come to help me yesterday? The truth, mistress.” Warning filled his tone.
She froze. “I truly don’t know. I have told you what I do know.”
“That ye desperately wished to save a stranger—with no previous thought?” He was dismissive. “Did ye shout a warning to me?”
She had no intention of telling him that she had visions, and that he had been in her most recent one. She would not tell him that she had foreseen the battle of yesterday, and the treachery committed by one of his men, so that she had, indeed, warned him, not once, but twice. “You could not hear anyone shout from the woods,” she finally said.
“Aye, no man could hear a shout from the woods. But I saw ye standing there—and I heard ye scream at me, in warning. I heard ye as clear as can be—two times.” His eyes blazed.
She wet her lips nervously. She had shouted at him to warn him against his assailant. But how had he heard her? It was impossible!
“Did ye try to warn me?” he demanded.
“Even if I did, you could not hear,” she began.
He seized her arm. “I already told ye I heard ye! Confess! Did ye shout at me?”
Helplessly, she nodded. “Yes.”
He shook her, once. “How can that be? How could I hear ye—and how could ye warn me of treachery before it happened?”
Alana cried out. “I don’t know!”
“Ye shouted at me and there was nothing—then ye shouted again, and that bastard traitor stabbed me. Were ye privy to the plot?” His grip tightened.
“I was not privy to any plot!”
“Then ye must be a witch!” he cried furiously, releasing her.
She backed away, rubbing her arm. She had to lie. “I am not a witch,” she finally said, panting. “And I do not know why I shouted, everything is a blur in my mind!”
His look was scathing. Clearly, he did not believe her.
“Ye flush, perhaps with guilt,” he snarled.
She started; wet her lips. “If I am guilty, it is of aiding the enemy.”
“So ye admit that we are enemies.” His smile was hard, triumphant.
She hugged her fur close now, entirely intimidated. “No.”
“Do ye belong to Boath Manor or Nairn Castle? Or do ye belong somewhere else?”
Her mind raced. Should she give up her deception? And at least admit that she was from Brodie Castle? For then, perhaps, he would stop interrogating her.
“So ye still wish to deny me yer identity? Ye only pique my curiosity!”
She knew she must avoid revealing her relationship to the Comyn family, at least. God only knew what he would do to her if he knew she was Buchan’s niece. “What does it matter, my lord? When you have survived this battle, and this last act of treachery? When I will leave—and we will never see one another again?”
His smile was hard. “And why would ye think we will never see one another again?”
She started, incapable of comprehending him.
“Treachery is like a serpent with many heads,” he said abruptly. “Take one, and others appear, ready and able to strike.”
What did he mean? “I do not know treachery as you do.”
He made a harsh sound. “Ye knew of the treachery yesterday. Yer first shout is the proof.”
Alana finally whispered, “I have tended your wound, my lord. I believe you are in my debt. Will you let us leave? We are expected in Nairn.”
He slowly smiled at her, not pleasantly. “Are ye certain ye wish to play that card now, Alana?” He tilted up her chin. “That is a marker ye might wish to collect another time.”
She flinched and he dropped his hand. “What do you intend?” she gasped, shaken.
“It is hardly safe for two women, one old, one young and fair, to travel about the country.” His gaze was hooded now.
“Do you refuse to allow us to leave?”
“Ye have refused to answer my questions. Until ye do, aye, I refuse to allow ye to leave.” His gaze hard, his tone final, he turned abruptly away from her.
From behind, Alana seized his arm, shocking them both. He whirled to face her, eyes wide, and she dropped her hand. Touching him had somehow been a mistake, she knew that, although she did not know why. She gave up. “I am from Brodie. I am the daughter of Elisabeth le Latimer,” she said hoarsely.
His stare widened with surprise.
She could not withstand his intense interrogation, his cold badgering, his distrust—she could not. If she told him something of the truth, some part of it, he might lose interest in discovering the rest, and let them go.
“Elisabeth le Latimer,” he slowly said. “Is her sister Alexander Comyn’s wife?”
She swallowed. “Her cousin married Sir Alexander,” she somehow said. She could not believe her father had so quickly entered the conversation. “My mother married Sir Hubert Fitzhugh, bringing him Brodie Castle, a part of her dowry.”
He studied her with no expression, and then said, “I take it Sir Fitzhugh is not yer father?”
She flushed. “No. He died before I was born. I am Mistress le Latimer, my lord.” She could barely breathe, and the conversation had become far too dangerous. “Duncan of Frendraught is my liege, and he has summoned us to Nairn.” She tried to smile and knew she failed. “You will probably march on Nairn today or tomorrow or in the next week. I did not think it wise to reveal myself to you.”
He was considering. “Duncan is lord of Brodie. Fitzhugh had no heirs?”
She shook her head. “Duncan became lord of Brodie when I was eight.”
“Why would he summon ye in a dangerous time of war? Surely there are others in Nairn with healing potions.”
She did not wish to lie again. “Duncan has no care for me. He never has. We did have an escort, a single guard, but he fled, abandoning us.”
His gaze darkened. “Ye did not answer, mistress.”
She hugged herself. “Have I not said enough?”
“I cannot imagine what could be so urgent that he would summon ye to Nairn now. But clearly, it is a wartime matter.”
She was grim. How right he was.
“Ye have no husband.”
Taken by surprise, she stared. But she had introduced herself as Mistress le Latimer. “No.”
“Why not?”
She tensed.
Just then, Eleanor stepped up to them. “Alana, are you ill? You’re pale this morning.”
Alana took her hand. “Lord Iain said we could leave, if we told him the truth. I told him we are from Brodie, and I am Elisabeth le Latimer’s daughter.” She knew her grandmother would never volunteer information dangerous to her survival. She faced Iain. “I have no husband because I have no significant dowry.”
He barely glanced at Eleanor. “Really? As comely as ye be, ye hardly need much of a dowry to wed some young knight.”
Alana shook her head. He knew that something was amiss, of course he did. “I am a bastard, my lord, and my tainted birth has further limited my prospects.”
His gaze narrowed as they stared at one another.
Eleanor put her arm around her. “My lord, you owe my granddaughter a great debt. But you discomfort her instead. We must be allowed to go on to Nairn.”
He never even looked at Eleanor. “Who is yer father, mistress?”
Alana stared at him, aware of moisture gathering in her eyes. She was ready to admit defeat and tell him all, but Eleanor said, “We do not know. Elisabeth never said, and she died in her childbed.”
Alana closed her eyes, relieved. A silence fell as Eleanor hugged her close.
Iain turned, now impatient. “Fergus! Ye will escort both women, but not to Nairn.”
Alana gasped. “We had an agreement! I have told you the truth!”
“Did ye?”
“You let me believe you would allow us to go on our way if I told you who I am.”
“Bruce’s army is near Nairn. Choose another destination, or I will choose it for ye.” He strode past her.
Alana was furious. She ran after him and reached for his arm, jerking him back. He whirled, incredulous. “I have done my part. How can you do this?”
He shrugged his arm free. “I dinna ken what part ye play, but ye cannot go on to Nairn. I will not put ye in harm’s way. Make some other choice or ye can return to Brodie.” He was final.
“You do not care about me,” Alana finally said, but she felt as if she were asking a question. “Why would you care where we go? Or if we are at Nairn when it is attacked?”
For a moment, he did not answer. Then, for the second time that morning, he tilted up her chin. “Ye said so yerself—I owe ye a great debt,” he said softly.
She began to tremble. What was he doing? Were his eyes dark and smoldering?
“Then let us go to Nairn,” she said.
He made a harsh, disbelieving sound. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.
Alana went still, shocked, as his mouth claimed hers—in a hard, demanding, aggressive kiss.
And when he stepped back, her heart was thundering, her skin aflame and her knees buckling.
He gave her a look that could not be mistaken before he strode away, calling to his men.
Alana stared after him. What had just happened?
Iain did not trust her—but he had kissed her. She had never been kissed before. Men did not desire her, they feared her.
Except for Iain of Islay—who did not know she was a witch.
She became aware of Eleanor, for her grandmother had approached. Still stunned and breathless, Alana dared to face her.
There was no censure in her grandmother’s eyes. Alana saw speculation, instead.
“Will you speak?” she asked. “Will you berate me?”
“I have no desire to berate you, but later, we should talk about the Highlander. We must get to Nairn, and we must do so before it is attacked.”
Alana was finally jerked back to some sensibility. “He is sending us back to Brodie.”
“If your father and uncle were not on their way, I would wish to return to Brodie. We must get to Nairn, Alana,” Eleanor said. “I can make up a potion for Fergus, one to make him ill.”
Alana nodded grimly, as they had no choice but to poison Iain’s soldier. She gazed across the land. His men were all mounted now. The camp had been entirely dismantled, with no sign of it ever having existed. A dozen wagons were filled with their tents and war equipment. Beyond the army, the manor was a pile of rubble, except for one lone chimney that was still standing.
Their wagon and the mule had been brought forward, and Mistress MacDuff was beside it, with her two children in the back. Fergus held the mule’s bridle, and that of his warhorse.
Only Iain remained afoot, his long hair streaming about his fur-clad shoulders. It was as if she could still feel his lips on hers.
His squire led a big dark horse over to him. Iain leaped astride easily enough, gathering up his reins. And for one moment, the land was silent, except for the snorting of horses, the creak of leather, the jangle of bridles. Iain’s gaze was on her.
Alana stared back. He had been hostile and suspicious since meeting her, but he had kissed her with unimaginable passion. She did not know what to think.
He turned to face his men, standing in his stirrups, and he lifted his hand. “A Donald!” he roared.
A hundred men roared back at him, a reverberating Highland war cry. And then the army was galloping away from the burned ruins of Boath Manor.
Beside the mule and the wagon, Alana held her grandmother’s hand, staring after Iain until he was gone and only snowy mountains remained.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e39174f8-b8f5-5381-8885-7ce89a22af2c)
“NAIRN,” ELEANOR SAID.
Alana trembled, seated beside her grandmother in the front seat of the wagon, Mary MacDuff and her children huddled under wool blankets in the back. The dark stone castle rose out of a promontory on a hill above the town, the skies blue and sunny above it. Snow was clinging to the rocky hillside, and the deep blue waters of the Moray Firth were visible behind it.
It had taken them a few hours to travel the short distance from the MacDuffs’ burned manor to Nairn. Poor Fergus had been left in the woods not far from last night’s camp, retching up his breakfast. In a few hours he would be well enough to go on his way.
From the towers, shouts rang out.
Alana tensed. She had been to the town of Nairn many times, as it was a bustling port and she enjoyed the market there. But she had never been within the castle, which had always seemed threatening.
It had been garrisoned with royal English troops for years because the great barons of north Scotland were at war with England more often than not. Edward I had taken Nairn and provisioned it for his use, and now, English archers loyal to his son were upon its walls, staring down their bows at them.
Of course, they would not fire upon a wagon with women and children, not unless ordered to do so. Duncan had been given command of Nairn two years ago, by the Earl of Buchan. She wondered if the earl had arrived; she wondered if Sir Alexander was within.
She wondered if Iain of Islay would be amongst those attacking Nairn, if that is what Bruce did.
“They have seen us,” Eleanor said.
Alana smiled grimly and lifted the mule’s reins, clucking to him. Her tension felt impossible to bear. It had been difficult enough forgetting her every encounter with Iain, especially that shocking kiss. She felt fortunate to have escaped him, and she was determined not to dwell on their strange meeting or even stranger parting. No matter what he had said, it was unlikely that she would ever cross paths with him again.
She had more urgent matters to consider. She would soon meet her powerful uncle, and see her father for the second time in her life.
The journey up the road to the castle’s front gates seemed endless now. The hill was steep, the road rutted and frozen. The going was slow, made the worse by anticipation and dread. She wished she knew if the earl and her father had already arrived at Nairn, if they were within, and preparing to receive her.
When they finally reached the very top of the road, and were but a shout away from the watchtowers, a group of English soldiers galloped out of the barbican to meet them. Alana halted the mule, her heart skipping as the knights thundered up to them.
The knights formed a tight circle around them. They were clad in full armor, but each man had his visor up. Alana saw a dozen hard faces, the elderly ones lined, the young ones boyish and pale, and a dozen pairs of hard, cold eyes.
A middle-aged knight with a gray beard and chilly blue eyes rode up to her. “Identify yourself.”
“I am Alana le Latimer and this is my grandmother, Lady Fitzhugh,” she said quickly.
“Sir Duncan has been expecting you,” the elderly knight said. “I am Sir Roger, Duncan’s sergeant at arms. You’re a day late. What has kept you?” He was harsh.
Alana somehow smiled. “There was a battle at Boath Manor. We were put out to hide, and then we wished to aid the mistress and her children. So we had to wait until Bruce’s men were gone. They did not leave until dawn.”
The knight nodded, glancing at Mary and her children in the back of the cart. “I will escort you to Sir Duncan. He is impatient to speak with you.”
Alana did not look at her grandmother as they drove the mule into the keep. Because of Mary’s presence, they had not discussed the impending interview with Duncan. But Alana had spent the past few hours considering it.
Duncan of Frendraught would want to know about her encounter with Iain of Islay. She could not tell him that she had succored his enemy. He would be enraged. He might even accuse her of treachery. It seemed better to insist that the battle at Boath Manor had delayed them, and that they had spent the night in hiding.
Iain might be the enemy, but just then, she preferred him as her ally against Duncan. She was acutely aware that how she felt was inappropriate, but Duncan was even more intimidating than his son. He had absolute control over her, and Alana despised him even more greatly than she did Godfrey.
In the courtyard, Sir Roger helped her and Eleanor from the wagon. Mary slid down by herself, then got her two children out. Alana went to her.
She had hardly had a word with her, but she smiled kindly. The woman had no belongings, no home, and her husband was at war, fighting in Buchan’s army. “I will insist that Duncan give you a chamber. But what will you do next?”
Mary was very fair and though she was in her late twenties, her eyes were filled with fatigue, her face lined with worry. “I will try to get word to my husband, and when this war is over, we will rebuild our home.”
Alana took her hand. “You are welcome at Brodie Castle, Mary, until your home is rebuilt.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “How could I accept such charity?”
“I am certain we could find a place for you in the household, until you are settled at Boath Manor again.”
Tears of gratitude filled her eyes.
Sir Roger was waiting impatiently, and Alana turned away. She and Eleanor followed him up the steps and through the great hall’s pair of wooden doors.
Duncan of Frendraught was awaiting them. He stood in the center of the hall, hands on his bulky hips, scowling. Like Godfrey, he was blond, blue-eyed and arrogant. Unlike Godfrey, he had spent most of his life fighting for the Comyn family, and was a hardened soldier. He had been awarded command of Elgin last year, as well as several manors and an estate.
He strode toward her, clad in a dark blue cote, the sleeves tight and fitted, a short brown surcote over it. Rings glinted on his thick hands. He wore his sword, a sign of the war that raged so close by. “What has kept you, mistress?”
“There was a battle at Boath Manor,” she said, unsmiling. “We had to hide in the woods, even through the night, as the army camped there.”
“You spent the night in the woods with your grandmother? I am amazed you did not freeze to death.” He reached up and toyed with a tendril of her hair.
She pushed his hand away.
Duncan smiled mockingly. “Perhaps you should have allowed a maid to attend you before meeting me, Alana.” He reached out again and tucked the tendril behind her ear, his fingers lingering upon her skin.
She flinched, furious. Duncan had been toying with her since she was twelve—when he had tried to touch her breasts and thighs in a most lecherous manner. For several years, only her quick wit—and the threat to curse him—had left her unharmed. When she was fifteen, he had assaulted her after a night of heavy drinking. Alana had crashed a pot upon his head, and ever since, he had kept some distance, but his behavior remained rude and suggestive.
“Still afraid of a man’s touch?” He laughed.
“Afraid? I am not afraid, I loathe your touch.”
“Only because you are as cold-blooded as your mother was not.”
Alana wanted to strike him. But he had referred to her mother as a whore so often that the insult had lost much of its significance. She could control her rage—she had had years of practice doing so. “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “I did not come here to trade old barbs with you.”
“No, you came because I commanded it.” His stare had turned to ice.
“Yes, I came upon command, for you are my liege.” She looked at her feet and curtsied. Now they had an uneasy truce. She knew he disliked her as much as she did him.
“As your liege, I will tell you I am tired of your lies. So do not claim you spent the night on the road in the midst of winter. Lady Eleanor would be dead,” he snapped.
She lifted her chin and stared. How she felt like taunting him—and telling him that she had succored Iain of Islay. “We spent the night in an abandoned farmhouse, down the road from the manor.”
He eyed her with suspicion. “If I ever learn that you have lied, Alana, you will pay dearly.”
She smiled coldly, even as dread formed. “What else could have possibly kept us?”
“I intend to find out!” He turned his back to her and called to a serving maid. Then he faced her anew. “We heard about the battle,” he then said to her. “I had sent a small force south, and Iain of Islay defeated my men at Boath Manor. Did you see the fighting?”
“When we heard the battle, we hid in the woods until it was safe to escape to the farmhouse, where we spent the night, waiting for the army to leave.” She would repeat this story until the end of time, if need be.
“You forget, I know you well, I have known you since you were six or seven.” Duncan had become her guardian when she was six, which was when he had also become castellan—not lord—of Brodie. “You remain as curious as a wild little cat. You did not care to see who was fighting?”
“This war means little to me.”
“Yet it means everything to Buchan—your uncle.”
Alana shrugged.
“So you never saw Iain of Islay—Iain the Fierce?” The question seemed rhetorical, as he began to reflectively pace. Head down, hands clasped, he said, “He is a cousin to Angus Og, Bruce’s best friend in this war, and Angus has given him an army of savage Highlanders. They have murdered and raped their way across the mountains, burning down both home and field alike.”
Alana trembled. She did not believe it.
He stared. “And how is it that I now have your interest and attention?”
Iain had turned Boath Manor into a pile of ash-strewn rubble. But no one had been murdered or raped—not that she knew of. In fact, she had seen him risk his life to rescue Mistress MacDuff and her two children.
“He sounds frightening,” she said.
“He does not take prisoners, and he leaves no enemy alive.”
Alana bit her lip. She was the enemy and she was very much alive. But of course, she was a woman.
“How is it, Alana, that he or his watch did not remark you?”
Alana shook her head. “I told you—we hid in the woods until we thought we could go back down the road to the old farmhouse.” And there had been an abandoned farmhouse on the road, one partly burned, but hopefully, inhabitable. They had just never paused there.
“Then you are very fortunate. I am fortunate that you were not captured.” He eyed her with continued skepticism. “How fares Godfrey? Brodie?”
She felt chilled, and she rubbed her arms. “When we left, the castle stood, unharmed. Do you think it will be attacked?”
“Bruce’s army has made camp to the south of us. He could strike Nairn, Elgin or Brodie, or any number of smaller castles and manors.” He gave her a dark and long look. “We do not know where he will strike next, Alana.” He walked over to her and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
Alana trembled. Did he expect her to predict where Bruce would next attack? She pulled away from his odious touch.
Eleanor asked, “Has the Earl of Buchan arrived, my lord?”
“He is expected at any time. Why do you ask, Eleanor?” He was mocking.
“I have not seen the earl in a great many years and I am curious.” Eleanor smiled pleasantly.
“Curious? Come, old woman, we know one another too well. You seek something from the mighty earl—everyone does.”
“And do you truly care?” Eleanor asked.
Duncan stared at Alana now, his blue gaze unwavering. “If you think to place Alana under Buchan’s protection, then yes, I care. She is my ward.”
Alana was stunned and dismayed at once. “You have no care for me,” she began.
“Shut up,” Duncan said. He now approached tiny Eleanor. “She has always been your sole concern. Will you not appeal to her great-uncle, on her behalf?”
Eleanor still smiled. “You know me well, Sir Duncan. Alana needs a husband.”
“Alana could be valuable to me, old woman. I need her.”
Alana inhaled. “I have never been valuable to you! Not in the dozen years I have been under your protection at Brodie Castle!”
He approached, smiling coldly. “But we have never been in such danger. The earldom is under attack!”
A terrible silence fell. He suddenly found her valuable because of her sight. “What do you want of me?” she asked. But she knew. This was not about the lie she had told his son. He wished to know about Bruce’s plans—he wished for her to foresee them!
He slowly smiled. He touched her chin with his stout finger. She recoiled inwardly, but did not move. “You begin to please me, at last.... Tell me what you saw the other day.”
She stepped back, and his hand fell away. “I saw a battle, that is all.” Images from her vision—from the battle at Boath Manor—flashed. They competed with every memory she now had of Iain, and of her last glimpse of the manor, burned to the snowy ground.
“No. Godfrey says you saw me triumphant in battle.”
Alana did not dare glance at Eleanor. Her mind raced. She did not want to have any value to Duncan. It had been bad enough being his ward for most of her life, when he mostly ignored her and occasionally lusted for her. If she let him believe she had had a vision about him in battle, he would certainly think her a valuable asset. He might even think her valuable if she told him that she had foreseen the battle at Boath Manor. She could do neither, then.
But she did not want to anger him, either—not if she could avoid it. She decided to try to hedge.
“I saw a battle, and there was both victory and defeat. I cannot be certain you were the victor. It was a confusing sight.”
His face mottled with anger. “That is not what Godfrey claimed. He wrote me and said you saw me triumphant, Alana.” Warning was in his tone. “So think again and do not lie to me.”
“Men were fighting, and I saw Bruce’s flag.” She hesitated. “I think you were there. I do not know anything else.”
“You think I was present? You do not know anything else? You told Godfrey I was victorious!”
“The vision was not clear.”
He was disbelieving. “The vision was not clear? Or you will not tell me about it?”
Eleanor stepped forward. “We are sorry, my lord, truly sorry.”
Alana now regretted ever lying to Godfrey in the first place, and all for spite. But if she had not lied, she would not have been on the road near Boath Manor. Clearly, she had been meant to be on that road, although she still did not know why.
She thought of Iain, of his kiss and knew she must not allow her thoughts to go further.
“Buchan will not be pleased to hear of such a confusing vision,” he spat. He strode to the table and picked up a mug and drained it. Then he slammed it down. It was a moment before he faced her. “I am not pleased. I need details, Alana.”
Dismay flooded her. “Why will you tell my uncle about this small, confusing vision?”
“Why do you think I brought you here? I wish for you to help us! To help me! If your uncle doesn’t know about your visions, then I will be the first to tell him.” Duncan whirled and waved at a maid. “Wine, wench, bring me wine!”
Alana turned away. Did the Earl of Buchan even know that she had the sight?
Would her father have even bothered to mention that his bastard daughter was a witch? She simply did not know.
And what would happen when Buchan arrived? When her father arrived? Duncan now, suddenly, considered her valuable. Until now neither her father nor Buchan had thought about her. Was it possible that would change?
Would her uncle—her father—value her because she was a witch?
She felt no excitement. Instead, Alana wanted to cry.
Eleanor put her arm around her. “My lord, we are both fatigued from such an unusual journey. Could we retire?”
“I am not done with you.” Duncan turned his regard on Alana. “If you hid in the woods near Iain of Islay’s army...did you see him?”
Alana did not know what to say.
“Tell me the truth, Alana. Had you been in the woods, you would have stolen forth to witness the battle—I have no doubt! Well? Surely you would notice him!”
Alana wet her lips, shaken. “Why would you ask?”
“I was told Iain was wounded. There was a great deal of blood. Did you see him bleeding out? If I am very fortunate, he is dead!”
“There was blood everywhere! There were wounded men and the dead!”
Duncan stared angrily. “I think you enjoy lying to me. Well, you will not enjoy it when Nairn falls to those bloodthirsty Highlanders.”
Alana shivered and pulled her wool mantle closer.
“Is he such a terrible enemy, my lord?” her grandmother asked.
Duncan faced her. “Before he was given this army, he was but one more mad Highlander eager to slit our throats in the night. He preyed upon our ships on the western seas. Upon our merchants on the high roads. But that has changed. Bruce has come into the habit of having him advance first in every fray, to secure a path for Bruce’s larger army. He has not been defeated since his cousin provisioned him.” He turned his stare upon Alana, and she glimpsed dread and fear in his eyes. “If he takes Nairn, none of us will survive.”
Alana finally spoke, but thickly, “Is a peace possible?”
“No.” Duncan was vehement. “Bruce intends to be king—just as he intends to destroy the earldom of Buchan.”
And it seemed as if he was succeeding. The greater ramifications of the war began to sink in. Buchan destroyed, Brodie lost, her uncle and father hanged as traitors...
“If Nairn is attacked—if any of my castles are attacked—I will instruct my archers to place all their attention upon any man who resembles Iain of Islay.” Duncan was final.
Alana was aghast. Duncan hoped to assassinate Iain? Eleanor quickly put her arm around her. “We should go up,” her grandmother murmured.
But Duncan walked over to her and rudely clasped her shoulder. His grip was hard, and Alana was forced to meet his gaze, as she could hardly get free.
“Buchan will be here tomorrow,” he said. “By tomorrow, I expect you to have the answers you did not have today.”
“I have told you everything.”
“Have you?”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
“Then try harder, Alana, to know what you must. Unless you wish to displease me another time, and displease your mighty uncle, as well.” Duncan released her and turned his back on them.
Alana looked at her grandmother and, as one, they hurried from the hall. Outside, they paused, clasping hands. “He is threatening me!” she cried.
Eleanor was as shaken. “We must be careful, Alana, truly careful, now.”
“Yes, because suddenly I am valuable to them! But I am to please my uncle? How will I do that?” Alana cried. She lowered her voice. “Lying to Duncan is one thing. I do not think it wise to lie to the Earl of Buchan.”
“You must not lie to your uncle—but you will not please him if he ever learns you care about Iain of Islay,” Eleanor said in a terse whisper.
Alana flinched. “He is a stranger, Gran, that is all, and I doubt I will see him again.”
Eleanor gave her a pitying look.
* * *
“IT IS THE EARL OF BUCHAN,” Eleanor said, hurrying into the small tower chamber they shared.
It was the next afternoon. Alana took one look at her grandmother’s grim countenance and worried eyes and she rushed to the room’s single window. The shutters were closed to ward off the cold but she opened them and looked outside.
It was another sunny day, with bright blue skies, the countryside patched with snow. A huge army was below the castle, a sea of tents being formed. And dozens of knights were riding up the road at a rapid trot, the earl’s banner waving above them. A black bear and gold lion were rampant atop a field of red, against a black, red and gold shield.
She gripped the stone ledge of the window. Buchan would be amongst the first knights, wouldn’t he? She did not have a clue as to which rider he was.
And was Sir Alexander with him?
Would she finally see her father again, after all of these years? She was so afraid of what their reunion would be like!
Eleanor put her arm around her. “Whatever you do, be polite, and do not displease him,” she said.
Alana felt ill. “He will soon ask me about my vision—and it is a lie. I could not sleep at all last night. Every tale I have ever heard about the earl recurred to me. I do not know what to do.”
“Then maybe it is time for the truth,” Eleanor said, low. “Without revealing your feelings.”
Alana jerked, shocked by the suggestion. Was she saying that Alana should reveal her true vision about the battle at Boath Manor—about Iain of Islay? For if she did, Buchan would value her not as his niece, but as his witch.
Both women turned back to the window and watched until the knights had ridden beneath the tower gates, and could be seen no more. Alana gripped her hands in front of her. She knew she would be summoned downstairs soon. She was frightened. “Is Buchan as ruthless as is claimed?” Alana whispered.
Eleanor gave her a reassuring smile. “When I knew him as young man, he wasn’t ruthless at all,” Eleanor said. “Infamy is never kind.”
Alana did not answer. Her uncle was infamous now. All of Scotland, and perhaps all of England, knew of the Earl of Buchan and his ruthless rage. For his young wife, Isabella of Fife, the Countess of Buchan, had betrayed him by crowning Bruce two years earlier at Scone. It was even said that she had been Bruce’s lover, and Bruce had gone to great lengths to keep her safe with his queen and daughter. But all the women of Bruce’s court had been captured by the English that summer. And now, Isabella was kept in a cage at Berwick, a spectacle for all the world to gawk at and scorn.
The mighty Earl of Buchan did not care; in fact, he wanted her dead.
A knock sounded on their door. Alana jumped as Eleanor opened it. Sir Roger nodded at them. “The earl wishes to see Mistress Alana,” he said.
Alana’s anxiety spiraled uncomfortably. “Come with me,” she said to Eleanor, taking her hand.
The two women followed Sir Roger down the narrow stairwell. Hard male voices could be heard from within the great hall. One was Duncan’s. The other had to belong to the great Earl of Buchan.
They had reached the threshold. Alana faltered and stared.
There was no mistaking the Earl of Buchan, and not because he was well dressed in the fashion of the French and English courts, his rings gold, the hilt of his sword bejeweled. Middle-aged and gray of hair, he emanated power and an air of command. He instantly turned to stare at them.
“Lady Fitzhugh and Mistress le Latimer,” Sir Roger said, but informally.
Buchan stood alone with Duncan, not far from one hearth. Her father was not with them.
Buchan smiled. “So you are my niece.”
Alana nodded and curtsied. “My lord.”
Buchan paced over to her, his gaze filled with speculation. “I remember your mother, Mistress Alana. You so resemble her.” He spoke firmly, but not unpleasantly.
Alana did not know what to say.
“She was very beautiful. And you are from Brodie Castle? The place that was once your mother’s?”
Alana nodded, her gaze glued to his. He did not seem ruthless. He seemed kind. “Brodie was my mother’s dowry, my lord.”
“Yes. I recall that. But the circumstances of your birth prevented you from having a claim. Duncan tells me you are twenty, and unwed.”
She so hoped the subject of witchcraft would not arise. “I am not wed.”
“So my brother has forgotten you,” he said flatly.
Oddly, she felt that she must defend Sir Alexander. “He tried to arrange a marriage, some time ago.” She dared ask, “My father is not with you?”
“He is on his way,” Buchan said. “But no marriage was arranged.”
She felt certain she knew where he led. “No.”
“Because no man wishes to wed a woman who can see the future?”
She flinched. “No man wishes to marry a woman like myself.”
“What do you mean, Mistress Alana? Speak plainly.”
She felt her cheeks heat with shame. “I have the sight,” she whispered. “I am thought to be a witch.”
He studied her in silence then. “So it is true,” he finally said. “You can foretell the future.”
“Sometimes, my lord.”
“Sometimes? So you have visions, sometimes? At will, Alana?”
“No, they are never at will.” She hesitated, feeling desperate. “I wish I had no visions, my lord, but they began when I was a small child.”
“How do you know that they are visions? Do they always come to pass?” he asked.
She bit her lip. “Yes, they always come to pass.”
“Give me an example, Alana.”
She did not dare glance at Eleanor. “Our kitchen maid was with child. I saw her in her childbed, the babe born alive, the poor maid dead. There was so much blood.”
“And did the maid die in childbirth?”
“Yes—exactly as I saw it.” She hugged herself. Poor Peg had died giving birth six months ago, but Alana had known she would die for months before that.
“And now? Now you have seen battles from this war?” he asked thoughtfully.
She froze, and then she glanced at Eleanor.
“From time to time,” Eleanor said.
“I didn’t ask you, Lady Fitzhugh,” Buchan said, but mildly.
“I have had one vision of the war,” she breathed, and actually, that was the truth.
“Ah, yes, Duncan tells me you saw a battle, and you first thought he was victorious, then had no thoughts at all. What did you see?”
It was hard to breathe, impossible really. The earl’s stare was relentless. Eleanor’s advice echoed in her mind—do not displease him. “The vision was not clear,” she said. She dared a quick glance at Duncan—he was scowling.
But he was hardly as intimidating as her uncle.
“That will not do.” His stance was more aggressive now. “Did you or did you not see my knight in battle?” He did not raise his tone, but it remained firm, unyielding.
Duncan might beat her, but she would survive. Eleanor was right—she must not displease Buchan. She took a deep breath. “I must confess, my lord, to you.”
“Confess what?”
She fought despair. “I do have visions, but I did not have a vision of Duncan in battle. I lied.”
Buchan’s eyes widened. Duncan turned red, and his eyes popped.
“You lied?” Buchan asked with disbelief. “Explain yourself, mistress.”
She hugged herself, trembling. “Godfrey goaded me, as he always does, I lied to spite him. I did not have a vision of Duncan in battle.”
A terrible silence fell.
Alana looked nervously back and forth between the two men. Duncan was enraged, but the earl was somehow far more frightening. She felt how his thoughts raced. She wished he would not stare.
“You will pay for this,” Duncan snarled.
Buchan lifted his hand. “Enough. Lies do not sit well with me, mistress.”
“And that is why I did not wish to lie to you.” She looked at her uncle, needing courage to do so. “Six days ago, I saw the battle for Boath Manor—I saw the manor in flames, I saw Highlanders fighting the English, and I saw their dark-haired leader rescue a woman and her two children from the inferno.” She was hoarse with fear.
Buchan’s eyes were wider. “The battle for Boath Manor was the day before yesterday.”
“Yes, it was, we came upon it—and it was exactly as I had seen.”
Duncan charged forward. “So you lied again? You saw Iain of Islay?”
“Yes,” Alana said, afraid he might strike her.
Buchan gestured at Duncan, clearly meaning for him to stand back. “Now we are getting somewhere. Boath Manor is done. How often do you have these visions, Alana?”
“It varies.”
“That will not do,” Buchan said. He gave her a sidelong look and began to pace, slowly, his expression still thoughtful.
Eleanor hurried to her side and put her arm around her. She dared to glance at Duncan, who glared at her with raw hatred.
Buchan returned to stand before her. “You know I am pleased with you,” he said, smiling.
She was incredulous.
“How can we encourage your visions?”
“I cannot summon them,” she tried.
Duncan interjected, “Water, my lord. She has visions when she looks into water.”
Buchan seemed pleased. “Find a large glass bowl and fill it with water, and place it beside her bed,” he told Duncan. “You, Alana, will spend your days and nights staring into it.”
Alana felt ill. “I never look at water. I avoid looking into water, my lord!”
“Not anymore. You do wish to be useful to me? To your family?”
What could she do? She nodded.
“Good.” Buchan tilted up her chin. “Then you must have these visions—you must seek them out—and I must know the future of my earldom.”
He was asking for the moon and the stars, but she nodded, the feel of his blunt fingers under her chin disturbing. Worse, moisture seemed to gather in her eyes.
“You may retire,” he said. He walked away from her, to the table. Relieved, Alana realized the interview was over.
But as he sat down, he glanced at her. “And, Alana? I am not a patient man.” He smiled.
She managed to nod, her heart thundering. His meaning was clear. She must have a vision about the earldom—soon.
* * *
ALANA STOOD BESIDE her bed as one of Buchan’s knights carried a large glass bowl of water inside. It was placed on the chamber’s single small table, between the two beds. She realized she was looking at the bowl of water, and she jerked her gaze aside. Then she saw Duncan standing in the doorway, red-faced.
Eleanor immediately stepped between him and Alana. “My lord?”
He looked at her with contempt. “You are to vacate this chamber, old woman. Buchan has ordered it.”
“What?” Alana cried, aghast. “Surely you have misunderstood!”
“There is no misunderstanding.” He shoved past Eleanor, almost knocking her down. Alana reached out quickly to steady her. “His lordship wishes for you to spend your time without distraction—just you and the water.”
Alana was in disbelief. “Where will she go?”
“There is a chamber above you. She’ll have to share it with the maids.”
“It is hard enough for my grandmother to get up and down the stairs to this chamber. She cannot go up another flight!”
Duncan stepped over to her and leaned close. “You lying little bitch!”
Alana flinched. His fist was clenched and she dreaded a blow.
“Don’t worry. I am not stupid. I can’t hit you, though you deserve a beating. Buchan has great expectations, Alana. I would not disappoint him if I were you.”
His breath was foul. Alana stepped back. “I wish to see my uncle.” She would beg him to allow Eleanor to stay with her.
Duncan laughed. “You are to stay here until you are summoned.” He turned, nodding Eleanor toward the door.
“What?” Alana cried.
“You heard me, Alana—you will not leave this room until you are summoned.” He was savagely satisfied.
“Am I to be imprisoned here?” Alana was in disbelief. She could feel the glass bowl of water behind her—as if the water had a life of its own.
It beckoned.
“Come, old woman,” Duncan ordered.
Alana seized her grandmother’s hand. “Gran!”
“I will be fine, Alana. And so will you.”
She was to be locked in her room with water. How could she be fine? Her visions were never pleasant ones. She had spent her life avoiding them—avoiding water. Dear God!
“You will help him, if you can see the future of Buchan,” Eleanor said. “And then maybe he will help us.”
Somehow, Alana nodded. Duncan snorted and took her grandmother’s arm, guiding her rudely from the room. He did not look back as the knight who had brought the glass bowl to her room closed her door. Stunned, Alana sank down on the bed closest to the door.
Behind her, she felt the bowl of water, a forbidding and omniscient presence.
She heard two pairs of steps departing. She stood and went to the door, taking up the latch. As she did, she heard a movement outside. The knight remained in the hall.
Tears arose and flooded her eyes. She walked back to the bed and sat down on its end. She folded her hands in her lap. She did not turn her gaze to the glass bowl.
Was she a prisoner? How could that be? Perhaps the knight was there to protect her, but from what, she could not say.
She wiped the moisture from her lids. There were secrets in the room now, and they felt heavy. They felt dark. She refused to look up.
She recalled Iain of Islay, as he was about to break down the door of the burning manor, as he turned and gazed across the battle at her. She closed her eyes in despair.
This was not the time of think of Iain. She must think about her uncle, her father, her Comyn relations—and the earldom. She must have the courage to seek a vision, instead of dreading one.
Slowly, Alana turned around until she could see the glass bowl of water.
It seemed to stare back at her, cool and clear.
Her heart was rioting in her breast.
The water was still. Silent.
Alana stared, the bowl blurring, but not from any vision. She could not see through her tears.
* * *
“GOOD MORNING, MISTRESS ALANA,” Buchan said the next morning, his smile pleasant.
Alana stood on the threshold of the great hall, a knight with her. She had been summoned by her uncle, and the knight had retrieved her from her chamber and escorted her downstairs.
Alana managed to reply. “Good morning.” But she was filled with trepidation. She had not slept at all last night. And she had not had a single vision, either.
Buchan gestured her inside. Several knights sat with him at the table, as did Duncan, staring hatefully at her. Her grandmother was not present.
Alana walked to the table, and took the seat indicated by Buchan. “Did you pass a pleasant night?” he asked.
Would he be angry when she revealed that she had not had a vision? Or would he be reasonable? This far, he had not been ruthless or unkind, although she could not decide if she was being kept a prisoner. “I am unaccustomed to sleeping alone. My grandmother has shared my chamber since I was born. I did not sleep well, my lord.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
“Will I be allowed to see my grandmother today?”
“Of course.” He gestured at the knight who had escorted her down. “Please ask Lady Fitzhugh to come down for the breakfast.”
Alana bit her lip. “Thank you, my lord.”
“You’re welcome. Did you see the future, Alana?”
She did not move, hands in her lap. It was a moment before she spoke. “No, my lord, I did not.”
“Then I am not pleased.” His smile was gone, his stare uncomfortably piercing.
She flinched. “I tried, my lord. My visions frighten me and I dread them, but I tried.”
“Trying will not help me and it will not help the earldom,” Buchan said. “We do not have time on our side. Bruce is but a day’s march away. There will be a battle soon. You must try harder, Alana, to see the future for me.”
“I understand,” she said.
“Do you? Did you look at the water? Reflect upon it? Pray?”
“Yes, my lord, I did.”
He studied her closely. “Your father has never spoken of you. I had heard years ago about his affair with your mother, and that a daughter had been conceived. But I had truly forgotten your existence, until Duncan brought you here. Would it inspire you if I told you I am eager to help you now that you have my protection?”
Alana somehow smiled, stiff with tension. She was no fool. If she pleased him and had a vision as he wished, he would be helpful to her—he would find her a husband. “I am already inspired, my lord,” she said, when the opposite was true.
“You should be married, with a manor of your own.”
“No man will have me.”
“They will if I say so,” Buchan said.
Alana could not look away.
“Do you wish for a husband? A home of your own? Children?”
She could only recall Godfrey’s bullying and Duncan’s arrogance and advances—and Iain’s courage in the battle for Boath Manor. She suddenly looked at him. “Brodie Castle is my home.”
“Of course it is. Clearly, you are attached. You do know it would not be out of the question to return it to you.”
Alana gasped.
“Would that please you?” he asked.
She knew she was being played and manipulated. But dear God, it would be a dream come true, to have Brodie returned to her. It would be just.
“I see you would wish, very much, to be the lady of Brodie,” he said softly.
Oh, God, she thought, if only I could have a vision—one that will please him! “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, it would please me so much.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Duncan, who was in shock.
But he did not need Brodie! He had two manors and an estate!
Buchan leaned close. “Bruce murdered my cousin,” he said to her, more softly. “He stole the throne, and even my wife. And now he rapes and plunders Buchan lands. He has destroyed Inverlochy, Urquhart and Inverness.”
Unable to look away, she trembled.
“Will he march on Nairn? Will he march on Elgin, on Banf? Will we defeat him? Will I?”
He was asking for so much! “It is hard enough,” she said, low, “seeking out a vision, much less requiring a specific one to occur.”
He patted her hand. “But you are a Comyn. You are your father’s daughter as much as your mother’s. As a Comyn, you must do your duty to me and mine.”
“I want to do my duty,” she cried. And it was true. Never mind that she had not been raised as a Comyn, or that the entire Comyn family had never considered her one of them, now she wanted nothing more than to have the vision he wished for.
“Good.” He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.
Alana did not move. Although she had never given any thought to her future, not as a man’s wife, not as a child’s mother, tears arose. Was it possible that she might one day have a husband, children—a family?
“You are not eating,” Buchan said.
Alana was jerked out of her hopes and dreams. She smiled at him, and picked up her utensils. Dutifully, she began to eat.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_219f756b-191a-55bd-928e-772044409aef)
THE MEN WERE leaving the table. Alana made no move to get up, as Eleanor had joined them, but they had had no chance to speak privately yet. “My lord?” she called to Buchan’s back.
In the doorway, the earl turned.
“Dare I ask you about my father?” She trembled as she spoke. She had not heard Sir Alexander mentioned, not even once.
Buchan returned to her. “Your father was on his way here, Alana, but I sent him a missive ordering him to remain in the south—to hold the line against Bruce if Bruce marches north toward Nairn or Elgin.”
Her mind raced. Didn’t Iain always lead Bruce’s army? Would Iain’s army clash with her father’s?
“You seem dismayed,” Buchan said.
She forced a smile. “I was hoping to see him. It has been many years.”
“I am sure you will see Sir Alexander, in time. I will let you know when he is on his way to Nairn.” Buchan turned to go.
“My lord? Could I visit with my grandmother, just for a bit?”
He glanced at her. “You may have a few minutes, Alana, but then I wish for you to return to your chamber and seek out a vision for me.” He left with Duncan and the other men.
Alana stared after him. So that was how it was to be? She would now spend her days closeted in her chamber with a bowl of water? And would she only be allowed a brief moment with her grandmother—her best friend, her closest confidante?
And her father was not on his way to Nairn.
Eleanor took her hand. “Alana?”
She stole a quick glance at the door, but the men were gone. Only a single knight remained—the English knight who had been outside her door since the previous day. Clearly, Sir John was now her guard. “I am fine—but I have not had a vision.”
Eleanor squeezed her hand. “I have been so worried about you! He is keeping you locked up with that glass of water.... Shame on him, to use and abuse you so!”
“Gran! Hush! We must not speak ill of the earl!” Alana shot a glance at Sir John, who was listening to their every word. She flushed, as he did not try to conceal his interest. Although it was not quite true, she said, “I do not feel exactly like a captive, Gran. I think he believes that solitude will aid me in my quest for a vision. I so want to help. He is my uncle.” She pulled her grandmother toward the hearth, farther from Sir John.
She realized she was defending her uncle—and that she wanted to defend him. Was it not inexplicable? Yet he had treated her far better than anyone in the Comyn family had ever done. She did not need a guard—she would obey him if he merely asked. Surely, she was not a prisoner.
“I do not recognize the earl anymore,” Eleanor said. “The young man I once liked has grown up into a ruthlessly ambitious man.”
“He has been kind to me,” Alana began.
“Oh, child! He is tossing you crumbs, and you devour them as if they are an entire loaf! The earl is using you for his own ends. He does not care that you are his niece.”
How her grandmother’s words hurt—and how they rang true. Alana refused to listen to her now. “He has suggested he will return Brodie Castle to me if I please him with a vision.”
Eleanor cried out. She finally said, “And what if your vision is not what he expects? What if the future is not to his liking?”
She could not have a vision that he did not like. Fate could not be so cruel. “Gran, I must see a good future for the earldom!”
Her grandmother said, very low, “Perhaps you should create the vision he seeks.”
Alana started, her heart lurching. Speaking as low, she whispered, “I do not want to lie to him. He is my uncle.”
“Do not be deceived. He does not care about any blood ties!”
Alana tensed. “I am not sure of that.”
“Please, Alana, be wary of him.” Eleanor took her hand. “I know how much you yearn for affection from that family. I know how you hope for it. But you must keep your wits about you—now more so than ever.”
Eleanor was the wisest person Alana knew, and she sensed she was right—though she wished that wasn’t so.
“Mistress Alana.” The knight came forward. “The earl has told me you are allowed five minutes and that time is over. You must return to your chamber.”
“Already?”
“You will be allowed to walk in the afternoon—and to sup with his lordship this evening,” Sir John said.
Alana suddenly realized the extent of her confinement. “Gran—are you well cared for?” she asked quickly as the knight took her arm.
Eleanor nodded. “I am fine, Alana. But it is you we must worry about. I am praying for you. The sooner you have a vision pleasing to the earl, the sooner we will be able to go home.”
With dismay, Alana comprehended her meaning exactly. She sent her grandmother a last smile, and went with Sir John up the stairs.
* * *
SEVERAL DAYS PASSED, each day exactly like the one before it. In the morning Alana was summoned to the hall for the breakfast, and there, Buchan asked how she had passed the night. He would then ask if she had had a vision. But there were no visions in the glass bowl of clear water, and with trepidation she would tell him that she had no prophecies to make. He would smile politely, but his displeasure was obvious.
Eleanor was always present for the breakfast, and they would briefly speak before Alana was taken back to her room. There she would stare at the water and pray for a vision of the earldom’s future—one pleasing to Buchan.
Each afternoon she strolled about the courtyard with her grandmother and Sir John. In the evening, she supped with the earl and his men.
And at night, in the glow of the bedchamber’s firelight, she stared at the glass of water, desperately awaiting a vision. None came. There was only a growing sense of despair.
And would she ever be allowed to go home? Brodie Castle was her home, even if it belonged to Duncan, and even if, one day, it would be Godfrey’s. She had been at Nairn almost a week, and the four walls of her chamber were beginning to feel like a jail cell.
It was dusk now, and Alana entered the great hall, Sir John behind her. To her shock, only her grandmother was present. Eleanor hurried toward her. “There is rampant gossip about the castle this afternoon!” she cried.
Alana seized her arm. “What has happened, pray tell?”
“Your father defends Lochindorb Castle—from Iain of Islay!”
Alana froze.
She had thought about the dark Highlander who fought for Robert Bruce. He had been impossible to forget, and not simply because of her vision about him. His dark, powerful image haunted her. So did his inexplicable kiss.
She did not want to recall the brief time she had spent in his camp. She did not want to be interested in him, not even remotely, not in any way. But she had wondered how he fared. She even worried about Duncan’s plan to assassinate him should he attack Nairn. And she did fear that her father and Iain might cross paths in this war, with Sir Alexander left in the south to defend them. And now, it seemed as if the worst had happened.
“Where is Lochindorb?” Alana asked.
Eleanor looked at Sir John, who came forward. “It is two days to the south, if one rides without interruption,” he said.
“Is it true?” Alana asked him. “Is my father at Lochindorb—defending it from Iain of Islay?”
Buchan stormed into the hall, followed by a dozen knights, everyone in full armor. Obviously he had heard her question, for he snapped, “It was true. Lochindorb has fallen.” His eyes were burning with barely repressed anger.
Alana could not quite breathe. “My father?” she managed to ask.
“I do not know where he is, but the keep fell two days ago. The battle did not last an entire morning!” Buchan cried. He began to pace in a frenzy, head down, as he clearly deliberated the next course of action.
Alana stared at him. Her uncle wasn’t just angry—he was uneasy and anxious. Was he afraid that Sir Alexander was hurt? She prayed her father had survived his encounter with Iain. “Can we send a man for news of Sir Alexander?”
He stared at her, as if in disbelief. “I cannot worry about my brother now, when I must defend my land from Bruce!”
Her heart sank. Didn’t he care about his brother? Or was he only afraid of losing this war to Bruce? Everyone was dressed for battle. Clearly, her uncle was leaving to take his army to war.

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