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HIS brOTHER WAS hammering a blade when Kerr entered the forge.

Stripped to the waist, sweat gleaming off his heavily muscled torso, Brodie Mackay slammed his hammer repeatedly onto the thin knife blade, sparks flying.

Folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorframe, Kerr cleared his throat. “Up with the lark, as usual, I see.”

Brodie was usually hard at work long before anyone else in the broch sat down to their morning bannocks. By the time he joined Kerr to break their morning fast, he’d already done a few hours in the forge.

Straightening up, before wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, Brodie grunted. However, his hazel eyes glinted as his gaze swept over Kerr. “Aye, as are ye … although I’d wager ye didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Kerr’s mouth curved. Brodie, like everyone else, would have seen him and Rose together the eve before. It didn’t take much imagination to guess where things had led.

“No, I didn’t as it happens,” he replied. “But I’m not here to boast about it. Rose and I are getting married.”

Brodie’s gaze widened. “That was fast work,” he murmured. He then put down his hammer and tongs, stripped off his heavy leather gloves, and strode toward his brother, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “And happy news.”

Grinning, Kerr pushed himself off the doorframe and clasped arms with his brother before Brodie yanked him in for a crushing hug.

When Brodie drew back, his expression grew rueful. “How did yer mother take the news?”

Yer mother.

Those two words spoke volumes. There had been times over the years when he imagined Brodie brooded about his parentage or the fact that their mother had never accepted him. And knowing Sheena, she likely never would.

In contrast, Iver, Lennox, and Kerr had never treated Brodie as anything other than their brother.

To them, he wasn’t a bastard. He belonged here as much as they did.

But Brodie’s illegitimacy was a raw nerve, made worse by the fact that his mother had died when he was a bairn.

Afterward, he’d been brought up in the broch by a woman who couldn’t stand the sight of him.

“As well as can be expected,” Kerr replied. “However, she’s been warned not to make mischief.”

“Aye, well, good luck with that.”

Kerr shrugged before slapping his brother on the shoulder. It was best to turn the conversation away from Sheena as speaking of her tended to sour Brodie’s mood. “With the rest of yer brothers spoken for … it’s now yer turn.”

Brodie pulled a face. “I don’t think so. I’ve better things to do.”

“Come on, ye’ll lose yer heart one day … everyone does, eventually. How long are ye going to make us all wait?”

“A long time, brother,” Brodie drawled. “Just because ye have gone daft over a lass, doesn’t mean I ever will.” He then waved Kerr away. “Now get out of here. I’m busy. And take those pine needles out of yer hair.”

Eara Mackay towed her rickety handcart through the village. She was transporting a barrel of water she’d drawn from a spring and was heading home. She’d crushed the malted barley up the day before yet needed spring water to mash it up into a ‘wort’, which she would boil up in her cauldron.

She looked forward to Rose starting back with her the following week. Even though her friend didn’t work with Eara every day, many of these chores were much easier with a second pair of hands.

Eara’s mouth curved then into a wry smile.

In truth, she wasn’t sure how much longer Rose would help her—judging from the passionate embrace she’d seen her friend and the handsome Captain of the Guard locked in on Beltaine Eve, Rose was on the cusp of a new life.

Surely, Rose wouldn’t want to continue helping her—even a couple of days a week—not if she was a wedded woman?

Nonetheless, Eara was delighted for her, even if it meant she’d be hauling water and grain on her own again. It was a small price to pay to see her friend so happy.

As the alewife entered the village square, a strident male voice reached her.

“Evil lives amongst us … we must strike it out!”

Squinting ahead, Eara spied a tall, robed figure standing atop a wooden box in the dirt square at the center of the village. She was surprised to see the priest out here—away from his kirk. Bathed in sunlight, Father Gregor was ranting at the crowd gathered before him.

“Beware of the Great Deceiver,” he cried, shaking his fist into the air. “And those who do his bidding.”

Eara frowned. The priest seemed excitable this morning. Something had clearly upset him.

“I must warn ye all,” Father Gregor continued, “of the devil’s handmaid in our midst. It is Rose MacAlister .”

Eara stifled a gasp. Meanwhile, his comment brought rumbles and murmurs from the crowd. They were MacDonalds mostly, with a few Mackays scattered amongst them. And worryingly, they were all nodding their heads as if the priest talked perfect sense.

Quickening her pace, Eara decided to circuit the edge of the village square rather than cut through the heart of it.

God’s blood, what was wrong with the man? Rose had done nothing to him. Eara had never seen Father Gregor so animated, so vitriolic.

“Rose MacAlister is a criminal’s daughter. And I believe she was the one to turn her father and brothers onto the path of wickedness.”

“Aye!” Maisie MacDonald shouted. “It’s true, Father … I’ve known it for a while now!”

Murmurs followed the woman’s outburst, while Eara’s heart started to thump against her ribs. This was nonsense—surely, she wasn’t the only one here who thought so?

“And the outlaws that plagued our lands weren’t here by accident either.

” Father Gregor’s gaze swept the crowd of upturned faces before him.

“She called them to us! Was it any coincidence the brigands were hiding in the Drum Crags … just a short distance from where she lives with two unnatural women?”

“And she has an owl too!” A young man shouted. It was Keith, Duncan MacDonald’s youngest son. Short and broad, the lad wore a belligerent expression. “It's her consort!”

“Aye,” a woman shouted from the crowd. “A witch, for sure!”

Eara’s mouth thinned. The villagers were acting like a mob of witless sheep. Would they run themselves off a cliff if the priest told them to?

“Rose MacAlister is indeed dangerous,” Father Gregor intoned, his expression grave.

He then motioned to where the walls of Dun Ugadale rose against a cornflower-blue sky.

“She seeks to control us all. Behold, she has set upon seducing our own laird’s brother …

the Captain of the Guard. Ye all saw them, yesterday eve … I know ye did!”

This comment brought a chorus of ‘aye’s and fervent nods.

Disgusted, Eara tugged hard on the rope, yanking the handcart behind her. She’d not remain here and listen to another word of this.

However, Rose needed to know that Father Gregor was preaching lies about her.

Her friend had told her she was coming into the village the following morning, to help Lady Bonnie deliver bread to the poor, and Eara would ensure she sought them out. Father Gregor’s days here would be numbered once Iver Mackay heard about the rot he was spreading.

Leaving the square, Eara headed down a narrow street toward her home. The roar of cheering followed her.

Rose hummed to herself as she walked east, over the hills, toward Dun Ugadale. There was a spring in her stride this morning, an eagerness to be on her way. She’d packed her things back at the cottage.

The day before had dragged on endlessly, and she was impatient to see Kerr again. All that remained now was for him to come and retrieve her. He’d said he’d likely fetch her today, yet she’d reach him first. She’d arranged to meet Lady Bonnie at the broch.

Later, Rose and Kerr could ride back to Kenna’s cottage together and collect her few things.

Excitement fluttered up as she imagined sitting in front of him, pressed against the warmth and strength of his body, his arms wrapped protectively around her. Now that she’d tasted Kerr Mackay, she was eager for more of him.

The walk to Dun Ugadale took a while, but since Rose had headed off just after dawn, it was still early when she crested the last hill. Below stretched a patchwork of fields and clusters of bothies.

Beyond the broch, the village, and the rows of run rigs, lay Kilbrannan Sound. On a bright day, the water sparkled in the sunlight, yet this morning, it resembled a beaten sheet of grey pewter, against a sky the color of pale smoke.

Rose’s attention shifted to the peaked roof of the kirk. It crouched under the rocky promontory where the broch perched. Looking upward, Rose could just make out the tiny figures of men on the walls of the fortress.

Her pulse quickened. Was one of them Kerr? Her breathing grew shallow as the fluttering in her belly intensified. Of course, before she and Bonnie headed out to give alms to the poor, she’d see him.

She couldn’t wait.

Descending the hill, Rose took the path past the kirk.

She slowed her gait as she passed, her gaze traveling over the gravestones that studded the ground in the yard.

Wistfulness wreathed up within her then, for she missed her Sunday sermons.

Till now, Father Gregor had made her too uncomfortable to attend.

But in the future, things would be different.

When she attended services with Kerr, the priest would keep his distance.

The path continued, skirting the edge of the village. Starting to hum to herself once more, Rose tugged her shawl a little closer. The breeze gusting in from the sound had a bite to it. She glanced up at the sky and wondered if it would rain later.

Thwack.

Something hit her between the shoulder blades.

The impact made her stumble, and she was about to turn and see what had hit her when something small and sharp pinged into the back of her skull.

Dear Lord, someone was pelting her with stones.

Crying out, she raised her hand to her head and whipped around, coming face-to-face with a group of villagers.

Where the devil had they all sprung from?

Maisie MacDonald stepped out from their midst. She was smiling, although her eyes were hard. “There she is,” the woman crowed. “The witch has walked into our midst.” She then ruffled the hair of the lad next to her. “Thanks to my sharp-eyed nephew, who spotted yer arrival.”

Rose’s heart lurched.

“I’m no witch,” she retorted, outrage eclipsing fear for a moment. “And shame on ye, Maisie MacDonald, for poisoning a bairn’s mind against me.”

“I’ve done no such thing,” Maisie snarled, motioning to the men and women surrounding her. As Rose looked closer now, she noted they all wore hungry expressions and had wild looks in their eyes.

A stocky young man stepped forward then, his face twisted in spite. Rose’s heart lurched when she recognized Keith MacDonald. He was the meanest of Duncan MacDonald’s brood, the one who’d often scrapped with her brothers. “We all know what ye are … and what must be done about ye.”

Her blood started to roar in her ears.

Run, Rose. Run!

This wasn’t the time to stand her ground and argue with these people. Danger crackled in the air.

Turning on her heel, she fled down the path toward the heart of the village. However, her tormentors were after her in moments, howling like hounds after a hind as they gave chase.

Rose was fast, although not as fast as some of the men, and her long skirts hampered her. She’d covered no more than a dozen yards when they caught her.

Hard fingers bit into her arms, dragging her to a halt.

Suddenly, they surrounded her on all sides. A fist caught her on the side of the head, while a boot connected with her shin.

Rose hissed in pain, struggling against them. “Let me go,” she shouted. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Witch!” A man bellowed in her face, spraying her with spittle. He was Dugan Mackay, the local tanner. Dugan had never been someone Rose had warmed to, yet she’d had no idea he had a problem with her—until today.

“Calm yerselves!” Maisie shouted over the commotion. “Remember what Father Gregor told us must be done. First, we bind her ankles and wrists … and then we throw her into the sea. If she floats, we will have proof she is in league with the devil. We must then burn her at the stake!”