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A ileana stretched her aching muscles and inched closer to the fire. The night spent huddled on the ground, protected by nothing but two thin plaids, had confirmed one of her long-held beliefs.

Men were senseless idiots.

The idea that they could wage war on each other after sleeping in such conditions seemed addle-minded at best. If they thought to gather piles of leaves or nice, thick pine boughs to lay beneath their plaids, they’d be much more comfortable and agile in the morning.

At the very least, it would warm them while they slept.

But when she’d suggested as much to the MacRae last night, he’d leveled such a look of masculine disgust at her that she’d clamped her mouth shut.

The beast had even denied her the privilege of gathering her own makeshift mattress, snapping an order for Kinnon to keep her under control and near the fire when she ventured toward the copse of pines at camp’s edge.

Aileana supposed she should be grateful that the MacRae had chosen to remain aloof.

Yesterday, after the first, grief-numbed hour of riding, the realization of what she’d actually done began to sink in.

She’d agreed to a life of virtual slavery, sure to be ostracized and rejected for her status as the MacRae’s leman.

And being his leman meant more than just helping to serve his meals and clean his castle keep.

It meant sharing his bed.

A shudder slithered down Aileana’s spine.

She’d not allowed herself to fully contemplate that part of the bargain yesterday.

Now that the prospect faced her in the clear light of morning, she had to purse her lips to keep her teeth from chattering.

All kinds of images danced through her mind, making her think.

Making her feel. It was enough to make her stomach ache.

With a start, Aileana stopped herself from imagining any further.

The pain was too great. Gone forever was the wedding night she’d dreamed of her whole life.

Duncan MacRae wouldn’t attempt to satisfy her maiden curiosity with tender touches and exciting, whispered words of love.

Tonight when they reached Eilean Donan, he would bed her, pure and simple; he would slake his lust on her body and then leave her until the next time he felt the need.

She’d be his leman, nothing more…an outcast to his clan. Reviled. Scorned .

Swallowing the ball of fear in her throat, Aileana stood and adjusted the plaid at her shoulder.

Instantly, seven suspicious male gazes trained on her.

She went still, having almost forgotten that her every move was now watched and studied.

Except for the few moments of privacy allowed to her earlier for tending to her personal needs, her life was no longer her own.

She almost laughed at the irony of it all.

She’d gone from being a solitary, virtual recluse as the Ealach ’s keeper to being surrounded by enemies under order to note the slightest change in her breathing.

She fought a sudden, unthinkable impulse to shake her hair into wild disarray, dance in crazed abandon, and keen to the rising sun.

But then she caught sight of Duncan across the clearing. He’d turned from a discussion with his men to fix his gaze on her. His silver eyes held a feral gleam, an unmistakable glimmer that made her look down and cross her arms over her chest.

It was apparent that, just like Father, the MacRae was a man used to being feared and obeyed.

With him watching her there’d be no chance of disobedience.

She turned her back on him. Then, secretly making a face that mimicked his glower, Aileana twisted her hair into a makeshift braid and crouched again near the fire.

Let him stare all he wanted. Right now, she was hungry.

Picking up the crusty bannock and hunk of hard cheese Kinnon had left her, she broke her fast with relish.

All too soon, the call came to mount up and continue the ride to Eilean Donan.

Aileana breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the MacRae ride out of the clearing with a group of his men.

She would be allowed to walk with the others, away from him.

Bending down to retrieve the trailing end of her plaid, she tucked it into her belt and draped it into acceptable pleats.

It would be good to get back into her women’s clothing, she thought, as she started toward the men traveling on foot.

When she passed the last, doused cook-fire, she sent up silent thanks that she wouldn’t be made to ride with Duncan again, to bear his impossible closeness or feel the warm pressure of his thighs on her hips.

It had been a terrible burden, remaining impassive in that position yesterday.

Each jolting movement had made her more aware of him and his claim on her.

His nearness had made her want to grit her teeth.

It made her stomach clench. It made her want to scream—

“Give me your hand.”

Aileana jumped. She snapped her gaze up to see Duncan astride his steed, one gloved hand extended to her. His other gripped the reins, keeping the stallion’s powerful energy contained enough for her to approach.

Even so, the breath seemed to leave her lungs, though she refused to appear weak in front of the MacRae. “Nay, I’d rather walk.” She eyed the stallion’s massive hooves as they gouged the sodden earth near her feet. His nostrils flared, and he snorted as Duncan reined him into tighter control.

“Give me your hand and get up now.” He gave her a look that would wilt a daisy. “Unless you’re telling me that MacDonell wenches need footstools to get their dainty arses up into a saddle.”

Heat rose to Aileana’s cheeks and with it a fear-numbing burst of animosity. Grabbing his outstretched arm, she leaped up, landing sideways on the stallion’s back. As she wriggled astride, she accidentally kicked Duncan’s shin.

When he growled in irritation, she snapped, “So sorry, milord, but my dainty arse needed adjusting.”

Aileana thought she heard a choking sound behind her, but when she hazarded a glimpse over her shoulder, she saw nothing but the tight, grim line of Duncan’s mouth. Perhaps he’d missed her comment, she reasoned. But then the low-pitched timbre of his voice filled her ear, quiet and cutting.

“You will confine your prattling tongue and your way ward feet, or I’ll be forced to truss you up and carry you gagged and bound into the castle yard of Eilean Donan.”

She remained silent, and so he did nothing—until she clenched her fingers in his steed’s mane so hard that she made the beast toss his head and let out a snorting whinny.

“Damnation, woman, he’ll throw us if you don’t stop clinging like that. He’s a stallion, not a bed sheet!”

Aileana stilled. She waited, tension building, before working up enough courage to twist around and look at Duncan’s face.

He was scowling and his eyes were steely gray, but he didn’t seem in the midst of any preparations to tie or beat her.

Relief spread in a blessed flow to the ends of her fingertips, and she turned forward again.

Taking a deep breath, she thanked God for the reprieve she’d been granted.

All of her life she’d struggled to curb her tongue and hide her emotions.

Father had tried to punish it out of her, but it hadn’t worked.

Now it was more important than ever that she concentrate on controlling herself.

For Duncan MacRae was an unknown entity, and that made him all the more frightening. And more dangerous.

This couldn’t be her new home. It couldn’t.

Aileana sat straight as a claymore as she viewed the castle; it was nestled at the merging of the three lochs opposite the Isle of Skye, a dark, square structure, reflected ominously in the waters.

She swallowed hard as Duncan pulled Glendragon to a stop on the bluff overlooking the sight; all of his men rode into formation behind him.

“What…what happened to it?” she murmured without thinking.

The castle looked as if animals and wild things had inhabited it for a long time.

Her gaze took in the crumbling tiles of the roof, the uneven window openings in the main tower, and the gaping holes in the wall where piles of stones had fallen to the ground.

A tense silence followed her question, and from the corner of her gaze she saw Kinnon shift uncomfortably, while Ewen and the others darted uneasy glances at their laird. Aileana didn’t need to see Duncan to know that his eyes bored shafts of gray flint into her back. She swallowed again.

“Thirteen years happened.” His voice was dangerously soft. “Thirteen years spent living in hell, courtesy of that bitch you called sister.”

Aileana felt his arms tense when he gripped Glendragon’s bridle as if he wanted to strangle the thin strips of leather…

or her neck. Then without another word, he pressed his knees into the stallion’s sides, and they continued on, down the sloping path toward the ruined castle.

Aileana’s heart thudded in her chest, seemingly in time with the thumping cadence of the horses’ hooves, as each man followed Duncan in solemn procession.

Soon they entered the courtyard. No cheers of villagers greeted them, no smiles or shouts of happy wives and children.

Several bedraggled waifs and a few women gathered in the yard to meet their men.

Their expressions of grim relief struck a chord in Aileana, and she felt an answering swell of sympathy.