Chapter Two

The chief slashed and thrust the blade at his sparing opponent as if the man were his worst enemy rather than his own soldier. Staying well out of the way, Anna pressed a hand to her mouth, praying no one would be killed this day.

Several warriors rushed to intervene, grabbing onto his arms and blocking Anna's view. Surely the rumors of the chief's madness were not true. Were they?

"Release me!" he roared. "Do you truly think I would kill my own clansman?" When the other warriors drew back, he threw the practice sword to the cobblestones with a clang and strode toward her. Anna's heart vaulted into her throat, but she remained in place. His eyes, normally icy blue, were now dark, narrowed and unfocused. He bypassed her and headed toward the entrance, fury written clearly on his flushed, sweat-drenched face. Once he'd disappeared inside, she released the breath she'd been holding.

The men's murmurs of concern filled the bailey. An older, white-haired man, large of frame and using a walking stick, followed after the chief. Mayhap the elderly man would calm him down.

A massive guard stopped beside Anna, leaned in and whispered, "Do not concern yourself with the mad laird. I'll protect you from him." He winked.

She frowned, unable to believe the chief's own man would say such a thing about him.

"I'm Farquar." He held out his hand as if he expected her to grasp it.

"Anna Douglas." Ignoring his hand, she gave a brief curtsy.

A girl stopped beside them, her glare shifting between Anna and the guard. "Why are you talking to her?" she demanded of him.

The lass was beautiful, her coloring similar to Anna's—blond hair and green eyes. She was perhaps a couple of years younger than Anna's own twenty-two summers. Her hair was styled to perfection in many lovely small braids and curls, whereas Anna made do with whatever style she could manage on her own. She used to have a lady's maid, too, who'd made her look pretty. But no longer.

"I was only reassuring her she need not fear the chief." Farquar gave a stiff grin.

"Nay, he is my cousin." The lass shrugged. "He's a bit odd, but naught to worry over. I'm Constance Gordon, by the way."

"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Anna Douglas, one of the minstrels."

"I know." After sneering down at Anna's drab, worn clothing, Constance glanced up at the guard, whose gaze remained on Anna. Her mouth tightening, Constance took his arm and led him off.

Glad to be away from those two, Anna hastened up the steps and into the great hall. She had noticed Farquar and a few other men here staring at her from time to time. They were not the first. Many men had complimented her looks, but beauty did not equal happiness. She would not care if she looked like a hag if only that knave Blackburn MacCromar had not destroyed her life and ripped everything she loved from her. The grief, rage and fear crawled its way up from the pit of her stomach as it did any time she thought of the bastard. Tears pricked her eyes but she forced them away. He had bent and mangled her, but she refused to be broken. She would hide from him for the rest of her life, treasuring the only things she possessed—the lovely memories of her first husband and the child they almost had. And her music. Along with the knowledge her dear sister was protected and taken care of.

And if she ever encountered Blackburn, she had a small dagger reserved for him.

Was this MacDonald chief like Blackburn, the new chief of MacCromar? Barbaric, uncivilized and murderous? If so, this was not the right place for her and her fellow minstrels. She'd always heard the clans of the west were ferocious, but she hadn't believed they could be worse than Blackburn. Now, she thought perhaps she'd ventured too far west to this coastal castle. She'd wanted to travel as far as she could get from Blackburn, but was she now putting herself in equal danger?

She gathered three members of her party in a corner of the great hall as they pretended to discuss the evening's entertainment. "I've decided we should leave here," Anna whispered, glancing into the faces of each of them.

"But why?" white-headed Eli asked. He was a brilliant musician who had taught her much. "This is one of the best castles we've visited. We have soft, warm beds to sleep on and plenty of food to eat. The residents are welcoming and they enjoy our music."

"Aye, 'tis true." Anna nodded. "But you have heard the servants' whispers. They say the laird is mad and, after what I just witnessed in the bailey, I believe it. We may not be safe."

"What happened?" Young Jules stared at her wide-eyed.

"During practice, he was possessed of a rage and almost killed his own soldier."

All of them gaped at her.

"Mayhap the man insulted him," Vardon, the tall, lanky piper, said. "There could be any number of reasons he would fly into a rage."

"I am tired of traveling, lass," Eli said with a sigh. "Me old bones ache when I have to sleep outside on the hard ground at night."

Anna chewed her bottom lip, the fear they'd made a mistake in coming here still overwhelming her. But autumn was upon them and they needed to find a warm place before winter, for Eli's sake. "Very well," she said reluctantly. "We'll stay a while longer and see what happens. But if any of us feel unsafe, we may need to leave."

Her fellow musicians nodded. They had no inkling of her past or that she was hiding from a vile man who thought he was her husband. All they knew about her was that singing was her life. She'd lied and told them she was the daughter of a merchant and the widow of a tacksman. In truth, her father had been a chief and so had her husband, both from much further east. No one called her lady anymore, for which she held no regret. This kept her safe. Never could she let anyone know who she truly was.

***

The battle rage which had possessed Neacal a quarter hour earlier, drained by slow degrees. From the ramparts, he gazed out over the loch and drew in deep breaths of the fresh salt air. 'Twas all Sleat's fault. Now, the whole clan saw him as truly mad. "Damnation," he growled.

Even the lovely singer had been there to witness his berserk outburst. The frightened look in her eyes flayed him severely. She was the last person he wanted to fear him.

"Chief," called a voice behind him.

He turned to find the ancient warrior, Sir Hugh MacDonald, along with another clan elder, Uncle Bhatar—Neacal's grandfather's brother. He did not know how either man had lived to be over eight decades in age. Clearly, they'd had little problem climbing the multiple flights of stairs to reach his sanctuary on the roof… although Hugh did clasp a walking stick in his gnarled hand.

"Aye?" Neacal answered.

"Are you well, lad?" Bhatar came forward, concern in his sharp blue eyes.

"Of course," Neacal said, unsure if he was lying. Either way, he had to appear as sane and normal as any other man. 'Twas the only way he could serve the clan and honor his father's memory. That was his sole purpose in life at this point. If he could make his father proud, mayhap he would forgive Neacal for the death and destruction he'd brought to their family.

"We were in the courtyard, watching." Hugh lowered his bushy white brows and narrowed his dark eyes as he scrutinized Neacal.

Annoyance twisted through him. "And?"

"You were possessed of a bloodlust of which I have not seen since I was a young man."

"Well then, you ken if we suffer another siege, I'll off a few of the invaders before they can kill me," Neacal growled, a tinge of the rage returning. Gazing out over the loch again, he drew in a deep breath and willed the dark poison of anger away. Please, God. I hate the anger.

"You're a highly skilled warrior, Neacal," Bhatar said, his voice raspy.

Neacal ground his teeth, waiting for his great uncle to continue. Was he buttering him up for some reason?

"And you're a fine chief," Bhatar went on.

"What is it you two want?" Neacal asked, forcing himself to remain patient.

Bhatar gave him a look that was both bold and mischievous. " Cha laidh na siantan anns na spéuran ." The storms rest not in the skies.

"I'm well aware," Neacal snapped. He knew what the old man was saying—that conflict would always exist, and he should find a better way to deal with it.

"As part of the clan council, and your advisors, we're concerned about…" Hugh trailed off.

A long pause followed.

"What? My sanity?" The words burst from Neacal's mouth. His pulse pounded at his temples and in his ears. "Are you here to boot me from the clan?"

"Nay, 'tis not that at all," Bhatar said in a placating tone.

"Do not mollycoddle the lad," Hugh grumbled.

Trying to force the hot, turbulent anger away, Neacal inhaled deeply. "You think I'm not suited to be chief?"

Hugh tapped his cane upon the wall walk. "I'm not certain."

Neacal wanted to curse and throw things. Instead, he dug his fingers against the hard stones of the battlement and forced himself to speak with patience and control. "The clan and all of you elders agreed that I should be chief. If 'twas not so, why did you go along with it?"

"I've had concerns from the first, but Bhatar and the rest convinced me to give you a chance. I was outnumbered," Hugh said.

"And now my chance is over because of swordplay practice?" Neacal asked.

Neither man responded. In the moment of silence that stretched out, Neacal drew the cool, salty air into his lungs and thought of his da—the only reason he stood here grasping at the threads of control. The only reason he wanted to be chief… and his only reason to go on living.

"You both kenned my father well. What would he say?"

"He would wish you to be chief," Bhatar said with confidence.

"We need allies," Hugh declared in a determined tone.

"Nay now," Bhatar said softly, as an aside to his comrade. "We can discuss that later."

"But we decided—"

"Aye, but it will keep 'til later," Bhatar announced jovially, forcing a smile.

Hugh narrowed his eyes at having been cut off.

Neacal frowned. What the devil were they up to? "We have allies—the Camerons."

"Bah!" Hugh said. "We don't need them coming here."

Neacal's rage threatened to return. "I trust Colin Cameron more than anyone. We were foster brothers."

"Aye, well… there are many more Camerons besides him. The chief for instance."

"You don't like Colin's father?"

"'Tis ancient history, Hugh," Bhatar warned gruffly. What he was talking about Neacal hadn't a clue.

"If we need allies, 'tis either the Camerons or the MacKenzies. Or both," Neacal said.

Hugh grimaced. "The MacKenzies are powerful, but I'll nay forgive them for killing so many in our clan."

Neacal shook his head. "Elrick must take the blame for their attack, because he captured a MacKenzie hostage."

"Aye, I'm well aware. I was here! I saw what happened."

"You like none of our allies. You're impossible to please!" Neacal said.

"Come, Hugh, let's leave the lad to his thoughts." Bhatar started toward the stairwell, turned back and said, " Tuitidh á chraobh a bhithear á sìor shnaidheadh ." The tree that is constantly hewed at will fall.

Neacal ground his teeth even as Hugh followed his fellow elder.

Neacal was no tree, nor did he intend to fall.

Every day was a struggle to control the rage that simmered beneath the surface. He hadn't been like this before the damnable torture. He no longer even liked himself. 'Twas no wonder everyone feared him or nagged at him to change.

He wished he could change.

But more than anything, he wished he could go back in time to right all the wrongs he'd sparked off. Since that wasn't possible, he had to help the clan in some other way. Although Hugh had discouraged him from contacting Colin Cameron, Neacal knew this was his best option at the moment.

Over two dozen men had been killed in the recent siege. But even before then, the garrison had diminished over the years, while his father was chief.

Though Neacal didn't like admitting it, he needed help in the event Sleat returned with a large force and tried to seize the castle. Neacal had hired on a few new guards, but he needed more in order to protect the clan and castle adequately.

He headed downstairs to his solar. At the desk in the corner, he took a seat in the wooden chair. After dipping the quill into the ink, he quickly penned a missive to his foster brother. Colin Cameron was one of the few people Neacal had trusted since he was a lad. Neacal had fostered with the Camerons for a few years to strengthen their clans' alliance. Colin had spent much time at Bearach as well. He would know where to find dependable soldiers in need of a clan and perhaps even loan a few of his own men in the meantime.

He would have Lawler and Roth deliver it to Colin on the morrow. He hoped Colin would arrive before Sleat had time to gather more forces and return.

***

That evening, Neacal dressed for supper and readied himself to go downstairs, no matter how much he hated the socializing aspect of meals.

"Come, Dunn."

The wolfhound rose from the rug by the fireplace and followed him.

When Neacal entered the great hall, several people watched him warily, but as soon as his eyes met theirs, they averted their gazes. 'Twas his own fault. Although he tried each day to gain their trust, he had taken a step back today because of simple swordplay practice. He knew the difference between practice and actual battle, but sometimes the lines blurred. And thanks to Sleat, his temper had been riled far more than normal. He hated when he could not control his anger.

He took his chair at the high table beside Uncle Bhatar.

No one sat on his other side and he was glad for it. He hated nothing more than idle, meaningless conversation. But then, that was part of the problem, wasn't it? 'Twas why there was a distance between him and the clan. He wanted to close that gap but did not yet ken how.

He and Uncle Bhatar ate in companionable silence, for which Neacal was grateful, but at the same time, he realized how alone he was, despite being surrounded by dozens of people. No one truly knew him anymore. No one kenned of the nightmares or how difficult it was to fall asleep at night. How mortified he would be if they saw how he kept his hearth fire burning bright to chase away the demons that lurked in the darkness. No one heard how he whispered to the spirit of his father in the night, asking for his forgiveness and his guidance.

Midway through supper, the minstrels started playing their instruments. He did not pay much attention until a high, clear voice rose above all the earthly music. Neacal's gaze sought out the lass who sang the haunting ballad, Griogal Cridhe . Beloved MacGregor.

'Twas the same every time she sang—a hush fell over the great hall and Neacal's breath halted. Anna's voice could be called nothing short of divine. It cut through his soul with such aching beauty, all the darkness inside him threatened to come pouring out at once.

He could not believe it when he glimpsed tears glistening upon Anna's face. But, of course, the song was exceedingly melancholy, for it was written by the grieving widow of the MacGregor clan chief who had been executed by her father, the Campbell laird, after a long and bloody feud. 'Twas obvious Anna put her heart and soul into the song… so much emotion that it scraped along his nerve endings. His muscles ached to hold her and comfort her… dry her tears. But it was something more which sent a spear though his soul.

He could not understand it, nor could he abide it in the midst of dozens of people. Shoving his chair back, he arose from the table and strode from the room, up the steps.

His heart thundered within his chest. Alone on the dark stair, he paused, his head pressed against the cool stone. He could not escape her voice. Nay, he wished to, but it lured him, dared him to keep listening. A battle raged within him. The demons of anger and fear fought against some unnamed force of good which slid through him with her voice.

Clawing his way up the stairs to the laird's lug, the tiny chamber over the great hall designed for chiefs to eavesdrop on the happenings below, he tried to maintain control. Inside the room, her voice echoed just as loudly as it had in the great hall. He closed the small door and slumped against it. His eyes burning, he ground his teeth. 'Twas not sadness. He didn't ken what it was. As her voice rose and circled him, it lifted his soul toward the heavens. Was he dying? Nay, during the time he thought he would die from the torture, he had never felt like this.

Good God, what was happening to him? Was he truly losing his sanity altogether?

Applause roared, filtering up through the gaps between the stones from the great hall, and then the angel started singing again.

Sitting on the stone floor of the tiny dark room, he absorbed the sound of her voice and all within him calmed. He breathed slowly, steadily. Her voice was like a celestial light shining brightly through him.

The sound of scratching and whining brought him back to himself. Dunn? He opened the door. The wolfhound entered the room, then licked his face. Neacal wrapped his arm around the massive dog.

Dunn lay down while Neacal stroked his rough fur. In the great hall below them, a lovely violin tune filtered up to him. After that, Anna sang again. He had not even introduced himself or talked to her specifically, although he had talked to their leader. What would he say to her? Could he tell her the truth, that her voice bewitched him? Surely, she already thought him mad and wished him to keep a good distance from her.

He knew not who she truly was or where she came from, but he wished he could do naught but listen to her singing all night and all day. How daft was that? He was a warrior and chief, for God's sake; he should not be enthralled by some woman's voice.

But he was.

As he continued to listen, relaxation overcame his body and his mind… and he drifted to a peaceful place he could not remember visiting before.

The next thing he knew, pounding awakened him. Opening his eyes, he saw that he lay before the door in the laird's lug, his head on Dunn.

"Are you in there, chief?" a male voice yelled outside the door.

His joints stiff and aching from lying on the cold, stone floor, he arose and opened the door to peer out. "What is it?"

"We searched for you all over, m'laird." Leith appeared distraught.

"Aye, well, I am here. Is there a problem?"

"You were gone most of the night. 'Tis just before dawn. We thought you'd left the castle again."

"Ah, I see," Neacal said. "I must have fallen asleep." After coming out, he closed the door and proceeded to his bedchamber, Dunn following. Sitting on the bed, he ruffled the fur on the dog's head. "What the devil happened, Dunn?" he whispered. "Did the lass's song lull me to sleep?"

Neacal lay back on the bed and Dunn leapt up to join him. Strange, Neacal now experienced more peace than he'd ever felt in this room. 'Twas his father's chamber and he did not deem himself worthy of occupying it.

When next he opened his eyes, morning sunlight streamed through the window. He sat bolt upright. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or had he actually gotten a good night's sleep for the first time in months? Normally, he could only sleep when he'd exhausted himself physically.

Anna's song echoing in his head, he washed his face and hair in the cold water of the basin. He needed a good swim in the loch. When he'd been living in the crofter's hut on the island, he'd made a practice of going for a swim in the bay every morn when it wasn't below freezing.

After cleaning up a bit more, he put on clean clothes.

When he opened the door to exit, Eonan, stood there. "I was going to help you with your clothes, m'laird."

"'Tis fine. I'm covered decently enough." On the island, he had no one to help him dress. He could accomplish it himself.

Eonan gave a brief bow. "As you wish, m'laird."

Neacal descended the steps. When he entered the great hall, the tables were filled with his clansmen breaking their fast. All eyes turned to him and conversation quieted. He took his place at the high table and a male servant placed a trencher of food in front of him. As his gaze traveled casually over those seated at the lower tables, it landed on her. Anna Douglas. She often wore a cowl or coif over her blond hair, as she did now. She glanced at him briefly, the mossy green of her eyes making him visualize the cool wood near the cliffs. Soothing, refreshing.

She turned back to her food and he shook his head. He was not only mad, but also foolish. He focused on devouring his food as quickly as possible and tried to forget she was there. But 'twas impossible, for his eyes kept straying back to her. Was it simply her voice which had enchanted him, or was there something more?

She shyly peeked at him again, then averted her gaze and pretended to ignore him. What was she thinking? He only knew two things about her—her name was Anna Douglas and she could sing. Was she a maiden? A widow? Was that why she wore mostly dark colors? Or was she married to one of the other minstrels? His gaze ran over her companions. One was but a lad, a few years younger than her. The other was old enough to be her grandfather. But the third musician, the piper, was around thirty—Vardon, they called him. Neacal had never noticed her paying him any special attention. She treated him as she did the other two. Was he her brother?

Damnation, why the devil should Neacal care whether she was married or not? He had no interest in her in that way. 'Twas only her singing which captured his attention. But even as he thought it, he knew he was lying to himself, for her green gaze bewitched him.

He did not need a reminder of how dangerous a sweet, lovely woman could be… if she was secretly treacherous. One such charming lass had lured him to destroy his life. He could never trust a woman again. Of a certainty, he would have to marry and sire an heir, but beyond that he wanted naught to do with a woman. He would not marry for love. In a year or two, he would start searching for an amenable lass from a strong clan he could count as an ally. The elders would have their opinion on the matter. But Neacal was certainly not ready now. First, he had to train the men and strengthen their defenses.

***

Though she would've preferred to take a walk along the loch's shore in the fresh air, Anna was unsure how safe it would be to venture outside the castle walls alone. Instead, she had slipped onto the castle's ramparts while the men practiced in the bailey. They went at it hard from morn 'til gloaming, their chief demanding much of them.

Suppertime was nigh. The sword clangs and men's shouts were diminishing now.

"Your singing is exquisite," a deep male voice said behind her.

Anna jumped and spun to find the chief waiting there. Good heavens! She bobbed a curtsy. "M'laird."

His cool blue eyes assessed her in a neutral manner—he neither smiled nor frowned. He simply appeared… curious. She was certain her own expression was curious as well, for he was a highly intriguing man. The pink scar that marred one side of his face didn't bother her, for her sister had a similar, though smaller, scar upon her face. The servants had murmured he'd received it when he'd been tortured.

The chief observed her closely, making Anna's stomach knot. Did he recognize her? She had never met him before—that much she knew. Did he suspect she was on the run? The intensity of his blue-flame gaze unsettled her every time she caught his attention directed her way, which was often. He never smiled, winked, or gave any indication he was flirting. His gaze was almost resentful at times as if she annoyed him somehow. Maybe he was lying and indeed hated her singing.

Last evening, during the meal, he had shoved back from the table and strode from the room during her song. Only the clan's enthusiasm, and their multiple requests, had kept her going.

"Calm yourself. I'm not the devil they make me out to be," he said with a wry smirk.

He knew the things they said about him? "They?" she asked, pretending she didn't know what he was talking about.

"Aye, the servants and some of the clansmen."

Finding it beyond difficult to hold his potent gaze, she lowered hers. Although he was a most attractive man, she knew naught about him, except what his clansmen whispered about madness, and what she'd seen him do in the bailey during practice. Could he lose his grip on his sanity and toss her from the ramparts? Icy fear snaked through her. She walked around him. "I should be getting back and preparing for the evening's entertainment."

"I'm glad you and the other minstrels came." He moved to the waist high wall and gazed out over the loch. "I've never heard music so… enchanting."

She paused, staring at the back of his head, the shiny dark hair that brushed his wide shoulders. The massive brown wolfhound crept close to his leg and sat down. The chief's hand idly rubbed the dog's furry head as they both stared out over the water into the colorful sunset.

He turned, his intense blue gaze pinning her to the spot.

She stared at the dog, trying to remember what he'd said. Oh… that their music was enchanting. "I thank you, m'laird. I'm glad we can offer you and your people a pleasant entertainment."

"'Tis more than that," he murmured. "I didn't realize how much I missed music."

She frowned. "No one else here plays?"

"Aye, here at the castle, but… I was away for a while."

"I see," she said, though she didn't see at all. Where would he have gone that had no music? Near everyone played music or sang, skilled or not. She dared another glance at him and was struck dumb by the glimpse of anguish she witnessed in his eyes. Her own pain reflected there as if she were looking into a silver mirror. He had suffered greatly. What had happened to him?

"I am sorry," she whispered.

He blinked, then studied her. "Why?"

Having no logical reason for what she'd said, she shook her head. She couldn't tell him she was sorry for whatever pain he'd suffered in the past that had formed him into the man he was now. She turned. "The other musicians will be looking for me."

Neacal didn't wish Anna to go. With everything in him, he yearned to linger in her bright presence a few minutes more. But how could he get her to stay?

"I'm sorry if I frightened you yesterday during practice," he blurted. "I saw you in the bailey watching."

She halted, glancing back at him with caution, her green eyes wide. "Oh. Um… nay, m'laird. You did not frighten me."

"I wish you'd call me Neacal. Every time someone says m'laird , I wait… expecting my father to answer."

She searched his eyes, then smiled. "Very well. I'm Anna."

He gave a nod, near rendered mute by her beautiful smile. "Anna," he said, relishing the excuse to say her name. The creamy, velvety-looking skin of her face lured him. How he wished he could stroke his fingers over her. Many months had passed since he'd last touched a woman. Och, how he had loved everything about women—their softness, their floral fragrances, the sweet taste of their kisses.

Anna's lips were full, lush and pink, just the type to entice any man. Neacal found, for the first time in eons, that he was fantasizing about kissing someone—Anna. He had gone crack-pated for a certainty.

"Do you miss your father?" she asked, startling him out of his outlandish fantasies. Her compassionate gaze made him want to speak the truth.

"Very much. He was a great man and admirable chief."

She nodded.

"Do you have any family?" he asked.

"A sister."

When she didn't elaborate, he said, "You met my sister, Maili, before she left with the MacKenzies and her new husband, Shamus."

"Aye, a lovely and sweet lady."

If Neacal were the man he used to be, he might say the same to her—that she was lovely and sweet—but he found those effortless compliments no longer rolled off his tongue with practiced ease. How he had taken everything for granted back then. He was a different person now.

She looked past him, the golden light of sunset illuminating her face and the vivid green of her eyes. "What a beautiful view," she whispered.

What a beautiful woman. He could not tear his gaze away from her long enough to see what she was talking about. Her skin was luminous ivory and her lips delicate pink. A lock of her blond hair trailed from her cowl. It looked silky and he craved rubbing it between his fingers.

"Do you not think so?" she asked.

He forced himself to send a quick glance over the loch toward the sunset. "Aye, indeed." He could not keep his gaze from venturing back to her.

She gave a shy smile. "Well, supper will begin soon and I must prepare for my performance."

He gave a brief bow. "I look forward to it."

She curtseyed. "I'll see you in the great hall."

He watched her until she disappeared from view, excitement racing through his veins. Damnation! What had just come over him? He turned as the sun dipped behind the orange clouds and dark islands in the distance. Hell, he didn't need a woman making his life even more muddled than it already was.

***

The next evening, after Anna finished singing three songs, the other musicians took over. She needed a reprieve from the crush in the great hall during the cèilidh . Neacal had also disappeared again, as he did half the time. Was he telling the truth about enjoying her singing? She wasn't so sure.

Still, anytime his eyes chanced to meet hers, her heartbeat sped along and she felt flushed.

Some wild and irrational part of her urged her to slip up to the ramparts again, for Neacal might be there, but…that would be madness. She'd best avoid him for many reasons. She must guard her secrets well if she wished to survive.

Aye, she would stay far from the ramparts and the tempting chief, she decided, savoring a small bowl of stew and a piece of bread in the kitchen. Most of the maids were in the great hall, carrying food or serving.

"Could I help you with anything?" she asked the cook after she'd finished eating.

Mistress Pottenger eyed her with a lifted graying auburn brow. "I thought you a singer rather than a kitchen maid."

"Aye, indeed, but I like to keep busy." Anything to keep her mind off the chief and how much she wanted to talk to him again.

Mistress Pottenger limped forward and handed her a small wooden bowl. "Aye, if you wouldn't mind taking these scraps out to wee Cèilidh . I would take them myself but my bad knee is paining me something fierce this eve."

"Of course. I would be glad to. Who is Cèilidh ?"

"The black cat what catches all the mice. She has wee kittens hidden somewhere and I'm thinking she needs extra food."

"Oh, aye." Anna smiled. "I petted her earlier today in the garden, then I secretly followed her toward the back sheds. I did see a tiny black kitten."

"Indeed."

"Mayhap you should see Tavia about something to rub on your knee."

"Aye, I will. I've been on my feet too much today."

Anna headed out the door and across the bailey. The torches had been lit, but 'twas still light out. No one was about, although she was certain the guards on duty were in the gatehouse. Everyone else was inside the keep, dancing to the lively music. During supper, the great hall grew too warm and stuffy with all the people shoulder to shoulder. She much preferred some time alone in the fresh air. Besides, she liked being helpful to Mistress Pottenger. The woman had been kinder to her than most people. She also knew the woman likely had to keep working despite her knee pain in order to earn a living. She truly hoped the healer could help her.

Anna called the cat but didn't see her anywhere. She strode around behind the stables toward the back sheds where the hay and grain were stored. This was where she'd seen a tiny black kitten that had escaped the nest.

Upon entering the shed, she saw naught but straw upon the ground. She soon heard mews in the back corner and found the wee critters. The mama cat meowed a warning and came out to greet her. No doubt to keep her away from her babies.

"Here you go." Anna poured the meat scraps from the bowl onto the clean straw. The sleek black cat tore into the food as if famished. Anna crept closer to the squirming, wiggling pile of kittens, then knelt to better observe them. Four black ones and two gray. They all hissed at her. How adorable. She smiled and stroked their soft fur anyway, despite their hisses.

"Indeed, you have a large family to feed."

Mama cat mewled but didn't leave her food.

"I won't hurt them, Cèilidh ," she whispered. Funny that Mistress Pottenger had named the cat after the song and dance the clan engaged in every night.

How Anna loved babies of any type, human or animal. If Blackburn hadn't shoved her down the stairs and caused her to have a miscarriage, she might be holding her own sweet bairn. The lass would've been two years old by now. Tears pricked her eyes, blurring her vision as she watched the squirming kittens beneath her hands. How soft they were.

"What are you doing out here, my little songbird?" asked a rough male voice behind her.

Anna jerked around. 'Twas the huge, burly guard who often stared at her, the one who'd spoken to her in the bailey a few days ago—Farquar.

"I was simply feeding the cat." She rose to her feet.

"Ah." Farquar watched her with focused interest, as a wolf watches a lamb.

Alarm prickled through her. "I was just leaving," she said, picking up the wooden bowl. "The other musicians are awaiting me. I'm to sing two more songs." 'Twas a lie but her instincts warned her to get away from him. Now.

"Wouldn't you like to entertain me first?" He smirked.

Her heart rate increasing, she took a step back. "What do you mean?"

His grin grew nasty and his lewd gaze traveled down her body. "Although your voice is lovely, 'tis not the part of you I'm interested in at the moment."

Her heart vaulted into her throat. Dear God, help me.

Spurred by her instincts, she threw the bowl at him and darted toward the shed's exit. He snatched her arm and jerked her around hard. Pain shot through her shoulder. "Ow!"

"Where are you going? We're about to have some fun, lassie."