Brodwyn hurried along at Harald’s heels as he strode through the settlement, black anger writ clear on his usually handsome features. She should be frightened, but she didn’t think he would harm her any more than he had already. In his own peculiarly wicked way he needed her.

“What are you going to do?” she called to him as he marched farther away frae her, determination in every step. She didn’t think she’d seen him so throng, not even when he’d tried to kill the McArthur and that little whelp Rob interfered.

He ignored her, heading in the direction of the broche where they had left Kathryn and Lhilidh. The housecarls he had bribed to help them had fled. Dragging Kathryn’s maid along with them had been a mistake, Brodwyn thought. They could have tied her up and left her in a storeroom or dropped her off and let her find her way back round the mountain. That’s what she would have done, but Harald was in one of his Harald-kens-best sort of moods. She had to wonder if arriving at their Norse cousin’s settlement would have done them much good. With a little forethought, maybe Olaf wouldn’t have been so harassed at Harald causing him to miss the tide. Ach aye, but then he still would have refused to help, what with Ingrid being carried off by the Irish.

Therein lay the irony, she decided—though she doubted if Harald had seen the parallel—expecting Olaf to help them against Farquhar when the same sort of circumstance had robbed him of his wife. Ingrid was quite lovely, and there were times not so long ago when she would have hated her for it, the way she had hated Astrid and Kathryn; and they were both blood kin, both beautiful in a way that caught men’s eyes, while she had to work at getting their attention. She hadn’t always enjoyed doing sexual favours for men, but soon she’d become ambivalent, saw it as a task to get through like any other. As long as it got her what she wanted.

She had been working on Harald for a guid few years, and it hadn’t taken much to stir him up and make him eager to get rid of Euan McArthur, to convince him he had always been in love with Astrid, and if she died giving birth, which Brodwyn had believed would happen… No wife of the McArthur had survived the curse, so why would Astrid be any different? Besides, the McArthur had insulted her, refusing to consider her as a substitute while Astrid was carrying.

Then Harald had gone and got it in to his head that he knew better—had gone his own road, and now look at them. How would he solve this problem?

Her breath rasped in her throat as she trotted behind Harald in an attempt to catch up with him before he did something stupid and harmed the lasses. The only way they might get through this with their skins, was to escape to the Hebrides, leaving Kathryn and Lhilidh to find their way back to Dun Bhuird unharmed. Otherwise Farquhar would simply hunt them down and put them both to the sword.

Never cross a man caught in the throes of love. And Farquhar was most definitely in love with Kathryn. She recognised the symptoms.

She sped up, quickened her pace, her gaze spinning wildly around for anybody she could ask for help as, in a flash of premonition, she read Harald’s mind as he bent down and pulled a half-burned branch from the fire.

“No-o-o-o,” she screamed as he stomped up to the broche, branch held high, red-hot tip catching the breeze and bursting into flames.

“No-o-o,” she yelled, charging up to him.

Too late.

He pushed the burning branch into the thatch and watched the flames begin to lick at the dry heather thatch.

The realisation that she dare not let this happen sent her racing in the direction of the low opening to the broche, intent on pulling the both lasses out. Before she could reach the doorway, she cursed out loud as Harald grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her away. He held her against him, screaming and kicking, his hands rough, careless of hurting her. Although this time she wasn’t trying to placate him, or sway him to do her bidding, she felt his prick rise, harden and press into the crease in her buttocks, confirming her notion about the pleasure he had taken in murdering Magnus, watching the light drain from the constable’s eyes as if he had gathered it up into his being to bring him a perverse kind of pleasure.

This time she was adamant he wouldn’t use her to feed his aberrant soul. “Fool,” she spat the word at him. “You’re like a spoiled child who must have his way, even though you know killing the lasses will be the death of us.”

Another thought flashed before her, like a drowning man sees his past float by his eyes. The truth of it was that naught had changed. Harald had taken from her, and she, thinking he would liberate her from days, months and years of naught but boredom and busy work and, lacking the intellect to see the future, she had always paid the price.

Over the years he had cost her everything.

But naught worse than here and now when he had cost her the only love she had ever felt—cost her Jamie—and this time for certain he had cost her her life.

They galloped up to see a fire blazing in front of them. Not the wee one Gavyn had seen smoking outside of the longhouse. These flames leapt brightly skyward frae the blaze. Mayhap a warning.

No matter, naught would hinder them now. The noise of their mounts’ hooves was like thunder in Gavyn’s ears, and farther behind, he could hear the keening howl of hounds on the scent. A swift glance over his shoulder showed the lieutenant and the other men were right on their heels and that they had let the hounds loose.

When Kathryn imagined Harald murdering them, it hadn’t been in this fashion—by burning them alive. Burning heather fell in a shower of sparks on top of them. Soon she was sure it would fall in and suffocate them in a sea of flames.

Trussed up they might be, but they had to fight for life, fight to survive. “Lhilidh, we must wriggle over to the door. It’s our only chance. Follow me,” she croaked choking on a belch of smoke. If they didn’t burn, they would suffocate.

She lay down on her side, digging her soft boots into the dirt floor to push forward with her feet. “Do like I am, Lhilidh. Dig your heels in and slide over toward the door.” Kathryn gave another push, demonstrating the action to Lhilidh.

The biggest trouble they experienced, apart from the flames and smoke, was the growing darkness outside and the increasing difficulty of seeing the door. “Help!” she yelled as loud as she could, knowing that soon she wouldn’t have the breath to call out. “Help us! Please help us.”

She undulated on the dirt floor, hips and legs slowly moving in the direction she thought safety lay. Sparks and burning heather poured down on her. She could smell the acrid scent of worsted burning as the thatch rained down on her plaid and kirtle. “Hurry, Lhilidh. We have to hurry lass or we will burn alive.”

All she got in reply were Lhilidh’s screams as the roof at her side collapsed and buried her in burning heather. A moment later her own screams joined those of her maid’s. Screams almost as loud as the baying of dogs she could hear outside.

The hounds reached the fire before the men did and began dancing and bouncing at the edge of the fire, leaping around two people, a man and a woman watching the broche burn—Harald and Brodwyn. Gavyn’s heart sank, knowing full well there was but a single connotation he could take frae the sight.

Kathryn and Lhilidh were inside the building.

His blood boiled, pounded in his ears as it did in battle, and the killing madness took o’er. Reaching behind him, he freed his war axe. The weight felt good in his hands, its purpose undeniable. Gripping the barrel of the horse with he knees he dug his heels into his steed as he had done time and time again. Charge…

“With me lads,” he roared, wanting naught more at that instant than to split Harald frae crown to cock for a start.

The expression on Harald’s face was pathetic. Had he actually believed he could steal Gavyn’s wife and live. Naught would prevent Gavyn frae doling out his brand of retribution. Naught.

The coward thrust Brodwyn into the path of the thundering hooves as he turned to run. The reflection of the flames transformed the scene in front of Gavyn into a one frae a nightmare, for no sooner did Harald skelter away like the coward he had proved to be than a dog pounced, sank its teeth into the folds of his plaid and hindered his escape. Two huge paws straddled the villain’s shoulder blades, toppled him to the ground where the dog worried at the back of his neck.

Swerving to avoid Brodwyn, Gavyn called to the handler. Haul the dog off, but don’t let him get up. I’ve a more satisfying death in mind for him. He might have run like a rabbit but he’ll have to die like a man.”

He’d barely drawn another breath when he realised he could hear women’s screams. Kathryn.

Kathryn alive in the heart of the flames .

Gavyn leapt from his mount’s back, axe in hand. “Quick lads, help me get them out of that inferno before it collapses entirely on top of them.”

He ducked through the doorway of the burning broche. He could smell burnt flesh, and his stomach roiled and twisted. His bonnie lass. He didn’t give groat as long as she lived, as long as he could hold her in his arms. “I’m here Kathryn, here to get you and take you home. All you have to do is shout my name so I can find you amongst the flames.”

Over the crackle of burning heather he heard somebody moaning in the corner to the left-hand side of the opening. He used his axe like a rake to drag the red-hot twigs out of his path and gradually a dark shape formed against the wall where she crouched.

“Kathryn, speak to me. Tell me you’re alive, my lass, my love…” His voice faded as he groaned, “my love.”

“I’m here, Gavyn,” she moaned as if with pain, and his heart twisted again, suffered with her—Kathryn’s pain his pain. Clearing a path with his axe, he thrust the haft of the weapon through his belt and stooped to sweep his wife into his arms. She had rolled herself in thick folds of worsted plaid. It smouldered but, praise be to God, it wasn’t ablaze.

The three lads bent low to enter the broche. Gavyn saw them as he held Kathryn against his chest for a few heartbeats, both of them gasping from relief and smoke. Through the folds he heard her say, “Find Lhilidh. She is at the other side of the room.”

He swept around as if she was but a feather weight in his hands, shouting, “Lads, Lhilidh is under all that burning debris, get her out of there quickly—now!”

Outside, he sat her on the grass and began to unwrap the plaid. It was a miracle she had survived and another one she didn’t appear to be burned. Holding her in his arms, he tenderly pushed the plaid and tangles of strawberry blonde hair back frae her bonnie face. Softly, he placed and held a kiss on her poor, dry lips. “A flask,” he called to the excessive number of his men guarding Harald with a few well placed kicks every time the bastard moved.

Brodwyn, uncommonly for her, knelt on the ground, pleading mercy—whether for Harald, or for herself, he would never know nor care.

As soon as the flask was in his hands, he held it to Kathryn’s dry lips. Dripping water over them, he smoothed his thumb gently across their fullness then held her while she drank slowly frae the flask.

It was then he made the discovery that underneath the thick swirls of plaid, her hands as well as her feet were bound. “Christ’s blood. Without a doubt, the man is a bluidy monster.” He spat out the profanity, seeing the God’s-honest proof of his words through the clouds of dark smoke belching from the doorway as Nhaimeth emerged frae the death trap they’d been placed inside.

The wee man led the way, with Jamie behind, brushing aside the red-hot storm of falling cinders. Rob, last, carried Lhilidh like the precious bundle she was, holding the lass cannily, tenderly, and suddenly he looked like a man.

Curving one broad shoulder towards Kathryn, Gavyn deliberately blocked his wife’s view. Better that she couldn’t see the multitude of changing emotions flitting across the lad’s face—expressions Gavyn read easily, having felt them but a few moments ago as he searched the fire for Kathryn.

He felt the breeze freshen, driving the smoke away from them, bringing on its cool draught the sound of shouts and running feet.

Swiftly folding a fist around the smooth ebony haft of his skhean dhu, he bent his head and sliced through the strips of leather binding Kathryn’s hands and feet, intent on freeing her before the Norsemen arrived.

The ravens cawed a warning overhead, swooping and diving around some large stones that he suddenly realised was an abandoned stone circle, grass growing knee high round the base of the stones, as if nobody ever walked there. That’s what the ravens were telling him, that even the bravest of the Norsemen never ventured into the circle.

Lifting Kathryn into his arms again, he carried her in the direction of the standing stones, yelling, “Bring Lhilidh over here, she’ll be safer.” At least, that is what his instincts told him, and the stone circle held no fear for him.

He didn’t question the presence of the ravens. By now he had learned to take what fate put in front of him in his stride. The first time he heard the story of the Norsemen sending out ravens to find a place to land, a place to make home, he had felt there was a message in it for him—a man without memories—and had taken it to heart, using the bird as his ensign.

The lads swiftly followed him into the circle, legs churning through the long grass that whipped against their thighs to a chorus of ravens. He laid his wife at its heart, her head toward the large south-facing stone. “Lay her down here next to Kathryn.”

As he turned his head to face her, he saw Kathryn had come to herself and was looking at him. Her eyes fluttered, and he recognised a smile in them. “I knew you would come for me,” she told him, her voice cracking the way his heart had when he wondered if she would live.

“How could I not? A man can’t live without a heart in his chest, and you are my heart, Kathryn. Nary a soul can gainsay that truth. I love ye, wife.” He pushed her hair back frae her smoke-stained face and gently placed his lips on her brow. She reached up, her fingertips stretching to caress his hair-roughened chin. He took it as signal that she loved him in return.

“I have to leave ye for a wee while. It would seem these folk are superstitious about the standing circle.” He looked up at the noisy birds, all seemingly unwilling to settle. “The ravens seem to think so.”

“The ravens from the cliffs?”

“Aye, they came through the tunnel with us.” He quirked an eyebrow at her, amazed he could feel diverted in the middle of a crisis, but simply having Kathryn beside him gave him confidence that they would win through. “Nhaimeth wasn’t surprised by them.”

“The Bear always said that as long as they were on the cliffs, we would be safe. And it gave me hope when you first came to Dun Bhuird—the Raven—but frae the first you couldn’t look at me without scowling.”

“I can explain, but first I have to deal with Harald.”

“The Jarl of Caithness has a fierce reputation. He is Harald’s cousin. Take care, my love. You and I belong together.” At that, he placed a swift hard kiss on her mouth, wishing this moment had come at a better time.

A time when he could still reassure her of a lifetime together.

Afore he could turn and leave, she pulled at his hand and pushed it down over her small rounded belly. “I felt the bairn move on the way here.”

A rush of emotion filled him and, real or imaginary, he felt a flutter under his palm, his son, for he was certain the bairn was a lad. Sure, he felt him kick against his palm. A wee warrior .

That was all he needed to firm his resolve. He rose to his feet, convinced that Harald would die, and that he would take Kathryn and his bairn home to Dun Bhuird. “Rob, you and Nhaimeth stay here with the lasses. Jamie, you come with me.”

A look of relief shaped Jamie’s features. Whether it was because the lad had something to settle with Brodwyn, or like Gavyn, he dreaded what they would see when they lifted away Lhilidh’s smoking clothes.

Kathryn still coughed because of the smoke she’d inhaled, but he knew she wouldn’t turn away if Lhilidh needed her.

As they joined Gavyn and Kathryn inside the circle, Nhaimeth could see the other two lads were in the same straits as him, tears running down their faces while they pretended that the stinging smoke was responsible. That, though, would never pass as an excuse for being unmanned by the suffering Lhilidh was going through. Mayhap he felt their pain more than most, since in truth, Kathryn was his sister of the blood and Lhilidh felt like yin. Both of them mothered by Geala, the wee lass was a sister of the heart.

By the looks of it, Jamie was happy that Gavyn had given him an order to accompany him, though Nhaimeth had a notion that the Raven wasnae looking for the lad to mind his back. Nae, after what they had discovered on the way north, there was a lesson tae be learned here about sleekit women.

Kneeling beside them, Nhaimeth could have wept again at the grief he recognised in Rob’s eyes along with poor Lhilidh’s reflection. Rob’s arm supported her shoulders. He had pulled away the black crumbling cinders that had once been a worsted plaid, back frae her blistered neck and shoulders, a pitiful sight that made him wish Kathryn had some of the soothing unction she made in her stillroom—a thought, that had him turning to check on her.

He could see she was anxious to join them, leaning sideways on her left hand as if she might try to pull herself over to beside them. Catching her eye, he shook his head. Kathryn was with child, and she had just been through a physical as well mental ordeal. Nae need to add to it.

Lifting the wee lass’s hand, he kissed her knuckles and could have sworn her lips trembled on the edge of a tragic smile, but it was Rob she watched, not her almost brother.

Lhilidh tentatively licked her lips. A sigh slipping between the once rosy fullness made her chest shudder, though she avoided the cough that had to be lurking there. “Rob,” she said in a husky whisper, “will ye kiss me?”

The lad stared down on her face, a softness in his eyes as he forced his teeth to show in a rare brave smile. The left side of her face had felt the worst of the red-hot heather cinders and had peeled away, showing the red and black of burned flesh. The right side had escaped the worst and was surely still the bonnie lass they both knew and the lass Rob had been a fair way to falling in love with.

Leaning towards her, Rob said, “Aye, Lhilidh, I will. I cannae tell ye how often I wished ye would ask me just that, my darling wee lass, or how often I considered stealing a kiss off ye.”

For all his brave words, Nhaimeth could tell the lad had reached the end of his tether. Nhaimeth had a notion he wanted to howl at the moon like a whelp of the Baron of Wolfsdale—the grandfather who had brought him up on the borders of Scotland and Northumbria—a constantly shifting boundary where battling against a foe was expected and not a surprise. Yet there was a new maturity to Rob’s control that he’d never seen before. The lad he’d known had drifted away with the smoke and left a man in his place.

Tenderly, he placed his mouth to hers then supped up the tear that ran down her barely damaged cheek. It was a braw sight as Lhilidh’s eyelids fluttered and a soft light bloomed in her eyes, as if all her dreams had come true—a dream interrupted by a bout of harsh coughing.

In response, Nhaimeth could see Rob bite the inside of his cheek. His hands trembling he drew her close. Tucking the crown of her head under his chin as she fitted into the curve of his shoulder. Now… Now she couldn’t see his face, Rob’s tears flowed freely and he hummed the refrain of a lonely pipe tune, a lament

Slowly her eyelids drooped and closed. Lhilidh appeared to be asleep, a lass curled up in her lover’s arms but Nhaimeth, holding her hand in his, felt its stillness and knew she had gone.