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At least…they weren’t supposed to.

He stilled, frowning, thinking of the last time he’d had a dream. Had it truly beenthirtyyears? They blurred like ink in rain. Thirty years without dreams—until now.

And of course, it had been abouther.

Davina.

The memory of her clung to him like the sweat that beaded across his chest. One night hadn’t been enough. Not even close. She was the reason he was here. The reason he couldn’t let go.

This obsession had teeth.

And tonight, it had claws.

The dream had replayed their single night together, the one that still haunted him like a half-finished song. Every curve, every gasp, every trembling moan. Except in the dream, she’d vanished before the end.

In truth, they’d climaxed—more than once—and he’d left the bed only long enough to fetch wine and sweetcakes from the tavern kitchen.

When he returned, she was gone.

Both memories—real and dream—ended the same way:

With him wanting more.

Those refreshments had merely been an intermission. He’d planned hours more, memorizing every lush inch of her until the madness worked its way free from his bones. Until he could forget her.

Or at least pretend to.

He wanted to give her a night worth remembering.

And—if he were honest—some part of him had hoped she’d never forget him…even as she returned to the bastard who called himself her husband.

Broderick’s shaft grew limp in his hand upon recalling that blackguard. When Broderick saw the pain she’d suffered as heread her memories during her palm reading, he had no qualms about seducing the fear right out of her. He was determined to give her a different reason to tremble at a man’s touch.

But it wasn’t enough.

His chest tightened with an ache he didn’t understand, and he shoved it aside. Broderick rolled over and grabbed his sporran, where he produced her hair comb. His thumb swept over the Celtic designs crafted into the silver, a stark reminder of her sudden departure. For months, he talked himself out of pursuing her. She was married, after all. One night was understandable, especially considering a woman in her situation. But to put her in a position to invite her husband’s wrath? That was selfish.

He rose and began dressing.

After the caravan had gone south to Edinburgh, she was far enough away for him to focus on other things—like tracking down Angus Campbell. That never-ending quest was like searching for a needle in a meadow. Broderick grumbled as he fastened his silver-plated sword to his hip. At every turn, be it searching for his clan rival or finding peace from this goddess plaguing his cock, Broderick ran into one brick wall after another.

Since the caravan had settled once again in Aberdeen, the constant reminder of that night with her at the inn drove him to Stewart Glen to settle this. Now she was just within reach, provided she was still here. So many had died in the Battle of Flodden, so perhaps she was blessed with being relieved of her shackles to the thug, but mayhap she’d been married off to another. Or had her husband returned from the battlefield? If so, Broderick would see about taking care of the churl who scarred her milk-white skin. He was exactly the kind of filthBroderick loved to dine on.

Speaking of which…he needed to feed. Broderick pulled a small leather tie from his sporran and tied back his hair to prepare for the hunt.

Chapter Two

Fergus MacLeod sat at the head of the table, tearing into the meal with all the grace of a starving boar. Davina had hoped the stale bread and common pottage might dull his appetite or offend his expectations. No such luck. So long as the ale flowed freely, the man hardly noticed what passed his lips.

Rosselyn sat quietly on the bench along the wall, across from Davina, her posture attentive, though her eyes remained lowered. She played her part well. Normally, Davina dined shoulder-to-shoulder with her household, laughing and sharing stories, treating staff and kin alike. But with MacLeod here, the charade of station and propriety resumed. Just for tonight.

The glutton drained the last of the ale andthunkedthe tankard down. The young maid, Beatrice—barely fifteen—rushed in from the serving room with a fresh jug and replaced the empty one with trembling hands.

MacLeod’s eyes followed her retreat, lingering far too long.

“So, how was your journey from…” Davina tilted her head, tapping her chin in mock thought. “Oh, I forget. Where is it you hail from again?”

“Inverness.” MacLeod’s tone soured, heavy with disapproval.