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THE KING’S MEN arrived on a bright spring morning, with the clatter of hooves and rattling of armor.

Kerr watched them approach from atop the guard tower with mixed feelings.

He was conflicted, for as much as he appreciated the king’s swift response to Iver’s request for assistance, there was a part of him that railed at needing it.

All the same, with eight of their men gone, it would take time to train new warriors. Time they didn’t have.

Kerr’s gaze narrowed as he surveyed the column of warriors.

King James had been generous, for he’d sent twenty men.

Kerr wasn’t sure where they were going to house all of them though.

He’d have to clear out the barracks. The members of The Guard would have to sleep on the floor in the hall for the time being.

Brow still furrowed, he turned and made his way down to the barmkin, to where Lennox had ordered a guard to raise the portcullis.

Kerr met his brother’s eye, and they exchanged a grim smile. Of course, Lennox was of the same mind as him. They wanted to be the ones to bring The Black Wolves to justice.

“I appreciate ye coming home for a while, Len,” Kerr said then, as they watched the soldiers reach the causeway below. “I know ye’d prefer to be looking after yer new broch.”

Lennox snorted. “No, I’d rather be here for the moment,” he replied. “I’ll not sleep easy until we have the bastards.”

Kerr nodded, noting the glint in his brother’s eye.

It was the same anger that he felt, although Kerr’s rage burned deeper.

It sat with him day and night. Every eve, he lay abed seething, tossing and turning until sleep eventually found him.

And when he awoke at dawn, he had barely a moment of peace before rage surfaced once more.

He remembered Ronan’s cheeky grin, and how Athol used to sing for them, his deep baritone drifting over the walls. While watching Evan and Tavish’s widows weep at their dead husbands’ gravesides had cut him deep.

His shoulder throbbed painfully through that lengthy burial service, yet it paled into insignificance compared to the ache in his chest.

Three weeks had passed since that day, and the shoulder was healing well, as was his head.

The headaches that plagued him initially had faded.

He’d been forced to rest a few days, yet as soon as he was able, he’d busied himself in recruiting new warriors and beginning their training.

He’d also increased the patrols around the perimeters of the fort, including the Red Deer Hills—to keep Rose, Kenna, and Ailis safe.

The first of the king’s men reached the top of the causeway and passed through the gate.

A big man clad in leather and mail, a forest-green cloak rippling from his broad shoulders, with a domed iron helmet jammed upon his head, grinned down at Kerr and Lennox.

“Which one of ye lads is Iver Mackay?”

“Neither of us,” Kerr replied, stepping forward. “I’m Kerr Mackay, Captain of the Dun Ugadale Guard, and this is my brother Lennox.”

The soldier’s grin widened. “Good afternoon to ye, Captain Mackay … Captain Fergus Stewart at yer service.”

Kerr favored him with a nod, although he couldn’t bring himself to answer the captain’s cocky grin with one of his own. He wouldn’t smile while the outlaws were still at large.

“Ready to go hunting for wolves, Captain?” Lennox asked, a challenge in his voice. Like Kerr, his brother didn’t appreciate the intrusion.

Captain Stewart glanced his way, his dark gaze narrowing a fraction. “Aye … although since we’ve ridden a week to get here, we’d like to fill our bellies and slake our thirst first … if ye don’t mind.”

“Aye, and ye will.” Irritation spiked through Kerr then. It was irrational, since none of them were ready to ride out today, but he resented these men making themselves comfortable here while the Wolves were still at large. If they had to be here, they could at least make themselves useful.

Swallowing his annoyance, he motioned to the stables behind him, where three lads were mucking out stalls.

Somehow, they’d have to find the space to accommodate these new arrivals.

“The lads will help ye see to yer mounts,” he said curtly.

He then nodded to the broch that loomed above them, its lichen-covered walls bright in the noon sun.

“And I shall inform the laird of yer arrival.”

It was loud inside the broch, much more so than usual.

The soldiers sent by the king were rowdy, and no sooner had they seated themselves at the long trestle tables than they were downing tankards of ale.

Fortunately, Fergus Stewart was more measured in his drinking.

The captain sat with Iver and his kin at the chieftain’s table, listening intently while Kerr told him all they knew about the outlaws.

“Sounds like Lachlan Douglas and his brothers to me,” Stewart said when Kerr had concluded. “They were troublemakers … even before their clan fell afoul of the king.”

Kerr’s mouth thinned. Of course, no one mentioned that ‘falling afoul of the king’ meant disagreeing with him.

King James had stabbed the former earl of Douglas to death at Stirling Castle after the man had refused to break with two of his allies.

The incident had left a stain on the young king’s reputation, although the behavior of some of the Douglases since then did little to garner them sympathy.

The summer before, Lennox’s wife, Davina, had been robbed by one of them.

“So … eight of them, ye say?” Stewart asked, rubbing his stubbled chin.

“As far as I could count on the day of the attack … although I brought down one of them,” Kerr replied.

Restlessness churned through him. He didn’t want to be sitting here discussing the outlaws; he wanted to be hunting them.

“We thought there were six … but it seems they have increased their number.”

“And they were well armed?”

“Aye … and they’ll be even more so now, for they took all our weapons.” The loss of Kerr’s dirk and claidheamh-mòr, both gifts from his father upon his sixteenth birthday, had galled.

“And they now have fine horses too,” Iver added.

Captain Stewart nodded, his expression turning thoughtful as he considered this.

Kerr was relieved to see that, since his arrival, the man’s arrogance had ebbed a little.

Some of his men had started singing loudly now as they clamored for more ale, yet the man who led them was focused on the reason they were here.

“There has to be an explanation for how they can appear and disappear so easily,” he murmured.

“Aye,” Kerr muttered, his irritation rising once more. “They’re like ghosts.”

“And yet, ye all know these lands better than they do.”

There was a slight chagrin to Stewart’s voice, one that brought a frown to all the Mackay males sitting around him.

Meanwhile, Bonnie and Davina, who’d listened silently to this discussion, exchanged looks.

Brodie too was scowling. Of late, he’d put aside his work as blacksmith to help hunt The Wolves.

“Ye’ll see for yerself, Stewart, that the valleys and mountains of this peninsula have plenty of places to hide,” Brodie growled.

Fergus Stewart flashed another one of his arrogant smiles Brodie’s way. “Then we shall just have to find a way to flush them out,” he replied. “Like pheasants hiding in the bracken.”

Picking up the dirk, Kerr held its thin blade up to the light, admiring its wicked sharpness.

He then tested the claidheamh-mòr, feeling its balance and weight by holding it two-handed.

Finally, he did a practice-strike and a feint.

His left shoulder gave a warning twinge as he moved, yet he ignored it.

The long blade sliced through the air, and a harsh smile tugged at Kerr’s lips.

“Ye have done well, Ian,” he said finally, meeting the weaponsmith’s eye. “This is some of yer finest work.” It wasn’t idle praise. No sword, even his old one, had ever felt so right in his hand.

It was the day following the arrival of the king’s men.

After breaking his fast, Kerr had ridden for Ceann Locha, to see if his new weapons were ready, and to his relief, they were.

Ever since the attack, he’d made do with a dirk and a light sword from the armory, yet he wasn’t comfortable wielding either.

He was impressed to see how fast the weaponsmith in Ceann Locha had worked, without any sacrifice to quality.

Ian accepted the praise with the nod of a man who knew his own worth, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Aye, well, I worked night and day to get them both right.”

“Aye, and I appreciate yer dedication.” Kerr sheathed the dirk at his hip before sliding the claidheamh-mòr into a scabbard on his back. He then untied a bag of coin from his belt and handed it to the weaponsmith. “Thank ye, Ian.”

The weaponsmith’s smile widened. “Can ye do me a favor, Captain?”

Kerr inclined his head. “Aye?”

“Name the claidheamh-mòr ‘Wolf-slayer’.”

Kerr stilled. Of course, Ian’s younger brother, Rae, was one of the men who’d fallen on that fateful day.

Guilt twisted hard in Kerr’s gut then. No one had blamed him for the deaths of his men, yet he still secretly condemned himself.

Moments passed before Kerr nodded. “I shall,” he assured the weaponsmith gruffly.

“And I will make sure it lives up to the name.”

Making his way purposefully back to Ceann Locha’s docks, where his horse was tied up, a short while later, Kerr burned with impatience.

The following day couldn’t come soon enough.

His left shoulder was still stiff, the arrow wounds, although healing, sore when he exerted himself.

Fortunately, he wielded his dirk with his right arm.

If he had to draw his claidheamh-mòr, he might have problems, but he didn’t care.

He'd rip open those old wounds, if necessary, to bring The Wolves down.

Head bowed, deep in thought, he quickened his step, moving out of the narrow space between two buildings—and barreled straight into someone.

“Oof!” The woman sprawled backward, her basket spilling its contents over the cobbles. She’d have hit the ground too, if Kerr hadn’t leaped forward and caught her.

His gaze met a pair of startled pine-green eyes. “Rose,” he grunted. “I’m sorry, lass. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Clearly,” she muttered, extricating herself from his grip and turning to retrieve the things she’d dropped. “Ye hit me like a battering ram.”

“Here,” he replied, stooping to pick up her basket. “I’ll help ye.”

“There’s no need.” Rose’s cheeks were pink as she crouched and retrieved the cloth sacks of onions, carrots, and dried beans. The latter had scattered all over the cobbles.

“I think there is,” he replied, cursing his lack of attention.

Together, they retrieved the items, although it took a while to pick up all the beans. In truth, Rose’s nearness made it difficult to concentrate. For the first time since the attack, he forgot about The Black Wolves and his vow of reckoning.

All he could think about was how the sun caught the strands of red in her long brown hair, how pretty she was when she blushed, how bright her green eyes were, and how delicious she smelled, both fresh and sweet like the summer’s dawn after the rain.

He hadn’t forgotten her kindness either, the way she’d tended to him in her aunt’s cottage. Or the apology she’d given him.

His breathing grew shallow. Satan’s cods. He still wanted her as much as he ever had. Longing gnawed at him, and he wished he could pull Rose into his arms right now and kiss her senseless, uncaring of the locals passing by.

He ached to do so—but, of course, he didn’t.

Instead, he rose to his feet, watching as she fussed over her basket, ensuring she had everything.

“Ye are a good distance from home,” he said awkwardly, suddenly at a loss of what to say. Indeed, Kenna and Ailis’s cottage was a lengthy walk from here.

“I walked here yesterday,” she murmured, still avoiding his eye, “and stayed overnight. Folk in Ceann Locha are more kindly disposed toward me than at Dun Ugadale, so Ailis asked me to sell the furs she cured over the winter.”

Kerr frowned. “Are the locals mistreating ye, Rose?”

Rose glanced up. “Not really … well only Maisie MacDonald and her friends … but they appear to wield quite an influence.” The blush on her cheeks deepened as their gazes held, and Kerr wondered at her embarrassment.

In the past, she didn’t have a problem meeting his eye, even if it was usually in anger.

But Rose wasn’t vexed this morning, even though he’d nearly knocked her over. Instead, she almost seemed timid around him.

Clearing her throat, she took a step back from him. “I’d better get going … like ye said, I’ve got a good distance to travel.”

Rose went to move away, yet Kerr stepped toward her. “Wait, Rose. Ye really shouldn’t be traveling on yer own … especially with outlaws still at large. Let me take ye home.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want ye to go out of yer way … and the road is well-traveled enough.”

“Maybe … but the path through The Red Deer Hills isn’t.” He paused then, his gaze holding hers. “Yer aunt’s cottage isn’t far out of my way … and I’ve concluded my business in Ceann Locha.”

Rose huffed a sigh, clearly wavering. “Only if it’s not too much trouble,” she murmured.

Kerr’s mouth curved. “It isn’t.” He then motioned to the Ardshiel Tavern farther down the dock. “I was going to get myself something to eat before traveling … would ye care to join me?”