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STRIDING INTO THE Ardshiel Tavern , Brodie headed for his usual booth in the far corner.

Two farmers saw him coming and hastily vacated the space. He hadn’t frequented the Ardshiel in a while, yet the locals knew him. And they knew where he liked to sit.

Settling down onto the cushioned bench, Brodie cast an eye around the familiar interior. The tavern was smoky and reeked of stale sweat, yet he’d spent many an entertaining evening here.

His mouth pursed then. Once, he’d frequented the Ardshiel with all three of his elder brothers, before—one by one—they’d deserted him.

A night of revelry was far less enjoyable without Iver, Lennox, or Kerr, at his side. Indeed, after Kerr had stopped accompanying him, Brodie’s visits here had dwindled.

“There ye are, Brodie Mackay!”

He snapped out of his brooding to see Anne, one of the lasses who worked here, walking toward him across the sawdust-strewn floor. Comely, with a mane of auburn hair, light-green eyes, and a mischievous smile, she’d offered him her services a few times over the past year.

Setting a wooden cup down in front of him and pouring it to the brim with frothy ale, she met his eye boldly before grinning. “Ye have been a stranger of late,” she greeted him. “What’s kept ye away?”

“I’ve been busy,” Brodie replied with an answering smile. The expression was a little forced though; it was an effort to play the game that had once come so easily to him with the lasses.

Her question reminded him that he hadn’t visited the Ardshiel , or tumbled Anne, since May—weeks before Greer Forbes had crashed into his life.

“Aye, well … at least ye are back now.” Putting down the jug, Anne then slid onto his lap and put an arm around his shoulders. “And I’d wager ye have some need of relief.”

He did—but not for her.

The realization jolted through Brodie then.

Why the devil was he here? After Greer’s departure, he’d spent the rest of the day hammering iron like a fiend. Finally, when his muscles ached and his body felt ready to collapse, he’d saddled Brèagha and galloped south, as if the hounds of hell were at his heels.

Anything not to relive those last moments with Greer—anything to forget the look on her face before she turned away and walked out of his life.

His gut clenched as the memories, still raw, barreled into him. And suddenly, the whole incident danced through his head. Their kiss, the liberties he’d taken, and the crude things he’d said to shock her, to push her away. None of it had worked though, and in the aftermath, he’d felt like a turd.

Was it any wonder, he’d thrown himself into work, and now into a night of revelry.

Anne wriggled in his lap and then leaned in, her lips brushing his neck.

She smelled of the ale she served, blended with the faint scent of lavender. It was a smell that would have aroused him in the past—yet not this evening.

He felt nothing.

Sensing his mood, Anne drew back, her green eyes narrowing slightly as her gaze roamed his face. After a few moments, she sighed and gave a slow shake of her head. “Christ’s blood, I don’t believe it.”

Brodie tensed. “Believe what?”

“Not ye too.”

Brodie snorted, reaching past her for the cup of ale.

He then lifted it to his lips and took a deep draft.

Lord, he needed to drown himself in ale tonight.

However, when he turned his attention back to Anne, he saw she wore a rueful smile.

“What?” he demanded, irritation spiking now. “Ye are speaking in riddles, woman.”

Anne sighed before shaking her head once more. “First Kerr … and then ye,” she said, her mouth quirking. “I always wondered when ye’d fall under love’s spell.”

Brodie pulled a face, even as his gut cramped.

Lord help him, was it that obvious?

“Ye are mistaken,” he growled. “Love is for fools.”

Anne continued to regard him, although her expression grew serious now. The lass was ever light-hearted and teasing, and so it discomforted Brodie to see her otherwise. She watched him as if she could read every thought within his skull.

A sickly sensation swept over Brodie as he fought the urge to look away.

“Who is she?” Anne asked gently.

Brodie clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around his cup as he took another deep pull of ale.

Curse it, the drink wasn’t strong enough to chase away his demons.

Despair pulled at him then, even as he fought it with everything he had.

“Someone forbidden to me,” he muttered.

Brodie returned late to the broch.

The waning moon was sailing high overhead as he rode into the barmkin upon Brèagha. The guards keeping watch on the walls had let him in.

“Didn’t expect to see ye back till morning lad,” one of them called out.

“Good night was it?” another teased.

“Aye,” he lied. He didn’t elaborate further, and no one expected him to. He wasn’t a great talker.

Instead, he swung down off his mare’s back and led her into the stables.

Typically, Brodie enjoyed rubbing down and grooming his horse after a long ride. Although he wasn’t one to talk at length with people, he often chatted to his horse and—as Greer had discovered—sometimes sang to it.

Yet, tonight, he unsaddled his courser silently.

Shoving aside thoughts of Greer Forbes, which had plagued him incessantly after a few cups of ale, Brodie gritted his teeth while he rubbed Brèagha down in long strokes.

His horse usually nudged him with her nose when they spent time together, yet tonight, she was subdued.

“Sorry, lass.” Brodie ran an apologetic hand down her neck. “I’m not myself, at present.”

The mare gave a soft whicker, as if she forgave him, and Brodie’s mouth tilted into a bitter smile. If only relations with people were as easy as with horses.

Leaving the stables, he crossed the silent, shadowy barmkin to his forge. The charcoal embers in the hearth had long died, although one of the servants had been in and lit a lantern on his workbench so that he didn’t stumble around in the dark.

Brodie picked up the lantern and moved through the forge toward the door at the far end that would lead him to his quarters.

On the way, something caught his eye.

Halting, he moved over to the left wall, bent over, and set his lantern down. He then retrieved a soft woolen shawl.

In the shadowy light, it was difficult to discern its color, although Brodie knew already.

Cobalt blue.

Greer had been wearing it that morning. He’d pushed it from her shoulders as he kissed her.

Suddenly, it felt as if an iron hand had clamped around Brodie’s throat and was squeezing hard. Letting out a strangled wheeze, he clutched the shawl tight. It was a fine weave made of soft wool. How hadn’t he noticed it earlier?

In truth, after Greer’s departure, he’d thrown himself into work and had barely looked up all day.

He lifted the shawl to his nose then, inhaling a spicy, musky perfume.

Greer’s smell.

He’d never met another woman who wore the same scent as she did. Suddenly, it was as if she were here with him.

His pulse started to pound in his ears, and a wave of dizziness assailed him. Reaching out with his free hand, he braced himself against the wall.

Shite … what have I done?

“It’s not the same without Greer.”

Brodie glanced up from his noon meal of blood sausage, braised onions, and oaten bread, his gaze alighting on Bonnie’s face.

Tensing, the mouthfuls of food he’d just consumed turning leaden in his gut, Brodie silently prayed that no one would answer her. A fortnight had passed since the Forbeses’ departure, and he was trying to get on with his life.

It wasn’t easy, although he was working himself half-to-death to keep Greer from his thoughts. He didn’t need her brought up at mealtimes.

However, the Lord didn’t answer him.

“Aye, I’ll admit, the broch isn’t the same without her laughter,” Sheena replied with a rueful smile.

Brodie’s heart thumped against his breastbone. His stepmother wasn’t given to easy smiles, or to speaking of most folk warmly. But of course, Lady Greer was a clan-chief’s daughter. Sheena had approved of her. Not only that, but she appeared to actually like her.

He wasn’t the only one to be surprised by Sheena’s comment, for Rose quirked an eyebrow, while Iver smiled.

“I liked how much ye all laughed while she was here,” Iver said, helping himself to another blood sausage. “The lass certainly had a way of brightening up everyone’s day.”

Brodie swallowed hard. Great. His stomach had now completely closed. Pushing the remnants of his lunch away, he got up abruptly from the table.

Kerr glanced his way, frowning, while Lennox and Davina looked up from where they’d been chatting intimately together. They were back at Dun Ugadale for a few days to enjoy Lughnasadh—the summer festival that celebrated the beginning of the harvest.

Everyone was here at present, even Colin Campbell had made the trip from Kilchurn Castle. As always during his stays, the Lord of Glenorchy had pulled up a seat next to Sheena. And as usual, Brodie’s stepmother tolerated the man—and his garrulous tongue—although barely.

A few days of celebrations had been planned for Lughnasadh, including games in the village square and a horse race in the hills west of the broch. Usually, Brodie and Brèagha competed, and often won. But, this year, he wasn’t in the mood.

“Where are ye off to?” Lennox asked, motioning to Brodie’s still half-full trencher. “Ye aren’t going to waste that, are ye?”

“Ye have it,” Brodie answered brusquely. Then, ignoring the surprised looks from his kin, he stepped down from the dais and strode out of the broch.

Walking out into the overcast day outside, Brodie struggled to catch his breath. Stopping on the top step, he clenched his hands by his sides and tried to pull himself together. However, he couldn’t.

His gaze swept the barmkin below and the walls, traveling to the wide monochrome sky.

Curse it, Greer had gone from his life and taken the sunlight with her.

As if the world knew, the days had been dull and cool ever since; the hot weather abruptly ended with her departure. And even the heat of Brodie’s forge couldn’t melt the lump of ice that had taken residence in his gut.

Brodie’s fists clenched harder still, causing his short nails to bite into his palms and his knuckles to creak. He ignored the discomfort, hoping that it would jolt him to his senses.

But it didn’t.

The truth was this longing for Greer wasn’t going away.

It was only getting worse. Each day he awoke with a restlessness churning within him.

Everyone had noticed too; even his brothers had received the sharp edge of his tongue.

He shunned company. He glowered at anyone who tried to engage him in conversation.

And he had become obsessive about his work.

The armory had been replenished with arrow-and-pike tips, ready for the coming conflict. Iver was now fully supplied. Brodie had also fashioned enough horseshoes and nails to keep the farrier supplied for a year.

But none of it helped.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Brodie finally faced the truth. He was sickening for Greer—and he needed to do something about it.

His gut twisted then as he considered a path that would forever estrange him from his kin. His brothers had been his world for so long. Could he walk away from them … even for her?