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T he smell of warm oatmeal pulled Aileana out of sleep, making her smile with satisfaction an instant before she remembered where she was.

At first, she stiffened under the covers, her mind blurry with images of the horrible day that had changed her life.

Pictures of the battle, of Gavin wounded and bleeding, of hiding the amulet in Morgana’s secret grove.

Then she remembered last night and Duncan’s casual, infuriating comments.

You will sleep in my chamber on that pallet over there, except in the wee hours, when you will come to my bed so that Bridgid won’t suspect anything amiss…

Satan’s fire, she was in Duncan MacRae’s bed.

She gasped and peeped from beneath the thick blanket, cheeks burning as she realized that he must have carried her from the pallet while she slept.

Her gaze darted around his chamber. Thank the saints, but he’d left already.

Relaxing again, Aileana scrunched down, pulling the covers up to hide the tip of her nose. Then she froze.

She sniffed, scowling in concentration. It was a pleasant scent, light and clean.

With a start she’d realized that it was his fragrance coming from the bedclothes…

the same sharply sweet smell as the square of hard soap Bridgid had taken from the tub last night before she’d tossed her a pot of soft lye soap from the kitchen.

The realization was enough to propel her out of bed and into a chemise and kirtle that she found draped across one of the room’s carved chairs.

The garments were of serviceable weave, coarse but well crafted.

Aileana felt a twinge of regret for her own gowns back home; they were of fine fabric and woven in colors to suit her.

Home . She had to stop thinking of Dulhmeny like that.

This was home to her now, whether she liked it or not.

And today was the first full day of her new life here.

Her usual good nature tried valiantly to reassert itself and failed.

Her mind kept straying to the revenges she’d conjured up last night to play against Duncan.

How could she feign a peaceful demeanor?

Life as the Ealach ’s keeper had been difficult enough with its isolation and loneliness.

But she’d only traded one kind of captivity for another, and this one was decidedly less tolerable.

Biting back a scowl, Aileana tried to ignore the growling of her stomach as she finished dressing and walked down the stairs to the great hall.

Several tables jutted at odd angles round the room; they were full of men, some standing hunched over trenchers of steaming oatmeal, others sitting on the benches and ripping off hunks of dark bread and stuffing them in their mouths.

Many of them looked unkempt, their flowing hair and beards snarled, their bare legs dirty beneath wrinkled plaids and tunics.

Aileana sniffed at the vulgar display; it was be coming ever more apparent why everyone called this clan the wild MacRaes.

A prickle of apprehension slid down her spine an instant before she saw him.

He sat at the far end of the hall, his silver gaze fixed on her, penetrating.

Unlike his clansmen, Duncan exuded a sense of clean, calm orderliness.

He looked refreshed from his night’s rest, though she thought she saw a glint of annoyance in his eyes before he turned to Kinnon, sitting next to him.

At that moment Bridgid huffed up to Aileana and dropped a heavy iron pot into her hands; it was empty, smeared with the jellied remnants of cold oatmeal.

“It’s about time you showed your face this morning, missy.

Here. Take it back to the kitchens and have it filled again.

” Bridgid shook her red face at Aileana, muttering, “There’s no time to dawdle with a room of hungry men.

Get about it.” She stalked away, charging at whirlwind speed toward a table whose occupants were banging their fists in a rising crescendo of complaint.

Aileana gaped at Bridgid’s retreating back.

Serve these animals? But Bridgid had already turned away, waving her toward the kitchens.

With a sigh, Aileana let the pot dangle from her grip and did as she was bid.

The sound of women’s voices spilled from the warm chamber beyond the hall, rising and falling, punctuated with laughter.

But as soon as she stepped into the chamber, the chatter tapered off and fell to silence by the time she’d reached the middle of the room.

“Bridgid told me to have this refilled,” she murmured, holding out the empty pot. The only sound to break the quiet came from the bannock cakes hissing on the hearth-fire.

Finally, one of the women sauntered forward. She was tall and dark-haired, her ample curves filling a kirtle that was a shade too tight. She reached out and grasped the pot between her finger and her thumb, clearly being careful not to touch Aileana’s hand.

“Here, Maggie,” she said to the small, blond girl behind her, though she kept her gaze only on Aileana. “Wash this out before you fill it again.” She fixed her with an insolent expression. “We don’t want our men catching anything from the MacRae’s new whore, now, do we?”

Aileana stood her ground, but a sick, hollow feeling unfurled in her belly. Someone jostled into her and pushed her roughly aside.

“That’s enough out of you, Nora MacKenzie.

” Bridgid jabbed her finger into the woman’s shoulder.

“If you want to spend the day wailing about being misplaced from the MacRae’s bed, then do it on your own time.

That, or I can send you out to the pig trough, to muck and mumble by yourself. ” Bridgid glared. “Make your decision.”

Nora’s gaze sliced across Aileana once more before she grumbled under her breath and moved back to the cook pots. One by one, the other women went back to their tasks, their sideways glances leaving Aileana little doubt about the meaning of their whispers.

Pursing her lips, Bridgid took a pot of fresh, hot oatmeal from the fire and wrapped the handle in a cloth before handing it to Aileana. “Take this to the MacRae’s table. His was running low.”

Aileana just looked at her, surprised at her intervention. With a tentative nod, she said, “Thank you for what you did just now. I won’t forget it.”

“What I said wasn’t for your sake, missy, believe you me,” Bridgid snapped, angry red mottling her cheeks.

“Work needs to be done, and that was the quickest way of getting Nora back to it. I’ll not be defending the likes of you with my breath.

” She tilted her head with a sharp gesture to the door.

“Now get moving and take this in before it gets cold.”

Cheeks burning, Aileana turned away without another word and strode from the kitchen. She reached the MacRae’s table almost without looking, but as she prepared to set the pot of oatmeal on the broad wooden surface, she heard a hissed conversation right next to her that stopped her cold.

“The MacDonell lass has a nice twitch to her arse when she walks, eh, Dougal?”

“Aye, and a fine lap for resting in as well, if you ken my meaning,” the other said, chortling. “Do you think the MacRae’ll be sharing her anytime soon?”

Aileana’s gaze snapped up. The two men sat an arm’s length away from her at Duncan’s table, one as broad as the other was lean.

They stared, the lanky one grinning. Her stomach sank to her toes.

When she set the pot down, her hands trembled so badly that some of the oatmeal sloshed onto the table in front of them.

“Ach, watch it there!” the portly man hooted. Then he winked. “But clumsy or not, you’re a fine piece with that red hair. The MacRae’s a lucky man.”

“Not bad,” the second one admitted, smacking his lips. He reached out to pinch Aileana’s hip. She gasped and backed away. “Though I think she needs a lesson in the manners of a serving wench. Spilling half the oatmeal is no way to feed a man!”

Aileana’s gaze flew to Duncan; she expected him to at least upbraid his men for their rudeness. But he simply returned a look of level contemplation before leaning back in his chair.

Heat crept from her neck to the roots of her hair.

How dare he sit there and let these ruffians abuse her without speaking nay against it?

Impotent fury wound through her, so strong that her throat felt squeezed shut with it.

But the rage was quickly followed by a swell of desolation.

She’d gain no help from Duncan MacRae; she was foolish to have even hoped for it.

Duncan watched Aileana’s reaction, seeing her emotions clear in the depths of her eyes.

An odd ache unfurled in his belly at the fierce color in her cheeks and the sight of her hands twisting in her skirt.

The surge of satisfaction he’d expected to feel when his plans for her humiliation began to bear fruit failed to surface.

And it annoyed him. She was supposed to take the place of Gavin MacDonell in his revenge, and yet how could she, when he wouldn’t allow himself the pleasure of her discomfort?

Disgusted with himself, he averted his gaze and broke a piece from the chunk of bread that had served as his trencher.

He popped it in his mouth and concentrated on chewing, pretending not to notice when Aileana slipped from the hall, as soundless as a ghost. The conversation around him continued at low pitch, though the two men who had insulted her had finally gone quiet in favor of nudging each other and grinning.

Duncan felt someone’s stare boring into him, and he turned to see Kinnon; his cousin’s head was tilted, his brow raised in a condemning expression reminiscent of that moment when he’d first noticed Aileana’s nakedness in the glen.

The bread lodged in Duncan’s throat, and he stopped chewing. Kinnon’s accusing stare grew more intense.