Page 19

ROSE STAYED WITH Kerr all night, dozing on the edge of the nest of sheepskins where he lay. Her sleep was fitful though, and she found herself waking often to check on him.

As the first rays of morning light caressed the valley outside, Rose slipped out from behind the hanging and opened the shutters for Hazel.

“Did ye have a good night’s hunt?” Rose whispered to the owl, caressing its soft feathers with the back of her hand.

In response, Hazel gave a soft hoot. She then hopped up onto the shelf Kenna had cleared for her roost and settled in.

Rose’s mouth curved. Hazel had been a friend indeed over the past months.

However, now that her grief had subsided, she felt a little less reliant on the owl.

In addition, she was no longer put upon, as she had before—although there was a part of her that would have welcomed going back to the way things had been before, if it would bring her father and brothers back.

Slipping back behind the hanging, Rose perched next to Kerr and placed a hand upon his brow.

A sigh of relief then gusted from her. His fever had broken. In the middle of the night, he’d burned hot like an ember, but the fire raging in his veins eventually died.

Kerr’s eyes flickered open then, and their gazes met.

It occurred to Rose that she was sitting very close to him, so close she could see that his eyelashes were blond with dark tips. Drawing back a little, she favored him with an embarrassed smile.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” he rasped. “Why do I feel like a wrung dish rag?”

“Ye were burning up with fever for most of the night,” she replied. “But fortunately, it has spent itself now.”

Their gazes held, and his blue eyes darkened. “Have ye been looking after me?”

Rose cleared her throat, her embarrassment rising further. “Aye.”

“Thank ye.”

She swallowed, not sure how to respond. “Aye, well … it was the least I could do,” she said softly, even as her pulse started to race.

“After the way I’ve treated ye.” His eyes widened at these words, yet Rose rushed on.

Guilt had sat like a crow on her shoulder all night.

She had to say this. “When ye offered me a position in yer brother’s broch, I responded harshly.

” She broke off, swallowing as heat crept across her chest and up her neck.

“And I have regretted the things I said, ever since.”

Kerr didn’t reply immediately. Instead, his gaze roamed over her face, as if he wasn’t quite sure if Rose MacAlister sat before him and not a changeling.

“Rose,” he said gently. “I—”

“Don’t mistake me,” she interjected, her pulse hammering now. Lord, this was awkward. “I still have no wish to work for yer family … but there was no need for me to throw the offer back in yer face the way I did.”

Another silence swelled between them before Kerr eventually answered, “There’s nothing to forgive, lass. Grief does strange things to us all.”

Rose stared back at him. God’s bones, why did he have to be so decent?

Of course, he was decent. He always had been.

If he’d hounded her father, it was because he’d been doing his job. Not out of spite or cruelty. Kerr Mackay could be obstinate and overly serious, but he was a good man. She admitted it now.

Straightening her shoulders, Rose attempted to school her features into an expression of composure. It was hard though, for his steady gaze now flustered her. “Aye, well, I just wanted to say ‘I’m sorry’,” she murmured, rising to her feet.

His mouth lifted at the corners—although his gaze remained solemn, shadowed—before he nodded.

“The Wolves have eluded us … again.”

His brother’s news, delivered roughly, made Kerr sit up in bed. His heart kicked against his breastbone, and heat rolled over him. “Let me get out of this bed, Iver,” he snarled. “I’ll hunt them down … and gut each shit-eating bastard.”

Iver’s gaze widened at this angry proclamation, while Brodie shifted awkwardly next to him.

“Fear not, we’ll deal with those outlaws, Kerr,” Brodie assured him firmly. “But ye aren’t in a fit state to go after them.”

“No, he isn’t,” Iver agreed, his gaze still on Kerr’s face.

“We followed them west for a spell … but then the ground grew rocky as we approached the Drum Crags, and we lost their tracks. They just disappeared.” He paused then.

“We need reinforcements … and since The Black Wolves are Douglases, I shall write to the king and ask him for assistance.”

Kerr stiffened, logic fighting with instinct. He knew Iver’s plan was a solid one. It made sense to ask King James for help, as the crown was currently locked in a struggle against the Douglases. Nonetheless, there was a part of him that wanted the reckoning to be his own, and his alone.

But of course, that would never be the case.

Murmuring another curse, he sank back against the pillows. His gaze then flicked to Rose. She stood back from his brothers, and the furrow to her brow warned him that his reaction had shocked her as much as it had Iver and Brodie.

In truth, Kerr didn’t feel himself at all.

Two days had passed since he’d awoken, and he couldn’t shake the anger, the guilt, that he’d survived when the rest of his band hadn’t—and the raw humiliation of being bested by The Black Wolves.

“My men,” he croaked then, his throat thickening. “Have they been buried yet?”

Iver shook his head. “Their burial is today, at noon.” He paused then, his gaze roaming over Kerr. “Are ye strong enough to attend?”

“Aye,” Kerr grunted. “Of course.” Wild horses wouldn’t keep him from paying his respects to those brave warriors.

“Kerr.”

Rose’s voice drew his attention as he prepared to let Brodie and Iver help him up into the saddle. It was humiliating to be assisted like he was an old man, yet his limbs were still shaky after the walk from the cottage to where the horses waited.

Kerr turned to see that Rose had followed them down the path.

“Aye,” he replied tersely. He wished she’d go inside. He didn’t like her seeing him in this state.

“I’d like to attend the burial too … can I?”

There was a brittleness to her voice that made him still. It was as if she expected him to deny her.

He never would. Despite that she wasn’t to be his, he’d never deny Rose anything.

“Aye,” he murmured. “Ye don’t need to ask permission for such a thing, Rose.”

“Ye can ride with me, lass,” Brodie offered then.

Wild, irritational jealousy spiked through Kerr at these words. His brother’s face was earnest, and there was no lust in his eyes as he regarded Rose, but Kerr couldn’t fight the response that boiled inside him.

He wanted to punch Brodie in the guts for making such an offer.

God’s bones, what was wrong with him these days?

He felt as if he’d awoken a different man than he’d been before the attack. Right now, he wanted to rage against the world.

Kerr would have suggested she rode with him . However, she wouldn’t have been comfortable with that, and it might knock his injured shoulder.

As such, he swallowed his foolish jealousy, while Rose nodded and flashed Brodie a grateful smile.

A cool, salt-laced breeze whipped in from the sea, ruffling the hair and clothing of the group of mourners gathered around eight mounds of fresh earth.

Rose stood near the back of the crowds, careful to wait behind a group of MacAlisters.

When she’d ridden into the village, perched behind Brodie Mackay, she’d seen the curious stares of the locals and heard the whispers that had followed them.

Dismounting from Brodie’s horse, she’d distanced herself from the Mackays as quickly as she could.

She didn’t want to draw any more attention to herself than she already had.

Today was about mourning eight brave men, not about creating fodder for gossip.

Father Gregor stood at the center of the circle of graves, his black robes fluttering around him as he spoke the burial rites for each man. The sounds of sobbing accompanied his words.

One of the women, a lass called Esme, who’d been wed to Tavish MacAlister, knelt at the edge of her husband’s grave.

She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders trembling as grief consumed her.

Meanwhile, the wife and bairns belonging to another guard, Athol Mackay, sobbed loudly at his graveside.

Rose’s throat grew painfully tight.

It was awful to watch, and since she’d recently lost kin, she understood their sorrow. She knew how it pierced the heart like a blade, how it was impossible to believe the pain would ever subside.

Her vision blurred, and she swallowed hard, attempting to ease the lump in her throat. Like most of the locals, she knew these men. Indeed, she’d grown up with some of them.

Struggling not to break down, Rose sought something to cling to, and without meaning to, her gaze shifted to Kerr Mackay.

He stood next to the laird and lady of Dun Ugadale, his gaze unfocused as he listened to the priest’s words.

Two days earlier, she’d witnessed his grief at the news that the rest of his band had died at the hands of the outlaws.

But there was no outward sign of grief now.

Only the way his throat worked and the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

Kerr’s expression was carved from stone.

His eyes glittered, not from sorrow, but banked rage.

Rose’s belly clenched. His anger made her worry about him. She knew first-hand what hate and bitterness did to folk. She’d seen it ruin her family, and it had threatened to destroy her too.

She wished, for his sake, that Kerr would let it go, but the man was stubborn.

He’d not rest until The Black Wolves were brought to justice.

The burial service ended, and, one by one, the mourners drifted away, leaving the kin of the dead alone to grieve in peace.

Rose waited for a little longer than she should have, for part of her had wanted to talk to Kerr, to remind him he wasn’t to blame for his men’s death. However, Father Gregor was now speaking to Iver Mackay, and she didn’t want the priest to see her.

With a sigh, she decided it was time she began the walk home.

Kerr wouldn’t be returning with her as he’d finish his healing inside the broch. She was relieved that he was no longer her responsibility, yet at the same time, a strange hollowness settled in her gut.

Irritated by her reaction, she set off down the path that would take her out of the kirkyard.

Unfortunately, it took her straight past Maisie MacDonald.

The woman had spied her amongst the crowd and had been waiting for her.

“Wicked lass,” she hissed as Rose drew near.

Rose’s step faltered, and her spine snapped straight. “Excuse me?”

Maisie’s round face flushed. “Yer father was a bad seed, but ye are even worse. Ye are behind all of this, aren’t ye?”

Rose scowled. “Behind what exactly?”

Maisie fisted her hands at her sides. “Ye lured Captain Mackay and his men into the hills and then set the outlaws upon them … admit it!”

Rose stared at Maisie as if she’d slapped her. The accusation was as ridiculous as it was offensive.