Chapter Two

He's dead. After all these years, he's finally dead.

The words didn't feel real to Alys. Although an hour had passed since the MacKinlochs had freed the prisoners and driven out the remainder of her husband's men, she felt an overwhelming fear. Smoke billowed into the air from the fires set by the MacKinloch men, and her husband's body was left to burn.

No longer would she be enslaved within a marriage to such a monster. Never again would he use her body, blaming her for her barrenness. She was free of Robert, but she didn't know whether to weep for joy or fear anymore. Where could she go now?

Her maid Jeanne had tried to lend support, taking her hand and murmuring words of comfort. But Alys couldn't find any words at all to reply. Laren MacKinloch came up beside her, offering the comfort of silence.

"I'm glad he's dead," Alys whispered. "I just . . . don't know where to go now."

The woman touched her shoulder. "Do you have family you could return to, perhaps in England? We could arrange an escort."

Alys shook her head. "I have no one." It wasn't the truth, for her father was still alive. He'd gloried in the service of King Edward, commanding troops wherever Longshanks desired English forces. A man born and bred for the battlefield, her father had arranged her marriage to Lord Harkirk as a means of securing a strong alliance. No doubt her father would arrange another marriage to further his own interests, if she dared return home.

She stared into the forest, turning over the problem in her mind, when a sudden motion caught her attention. It was the older girl she'd freed several weeks ago before Robert could have her killed. Alys had been forced to disguise her as a boy, shearing off her hair, but the ruse had worked. She'd hidden the girl in the forest in an abandoned shelter.

Alys hurried toward the trees, signaling for the girl to come forward, now that the battle was over. The child clutched her arms as she saw the fires and the dead soldiers. Fear overtook her face, but Alys reached out her hand to the girl.

But the girl had stopped and her attention was fixed upon the prisoner Alys had freed. Her eyes filled up with tears, and she began sobbing.

The pieces suddenly came together, and Alys made the connection as she looked over at Finian. His gray eyes held shock and disbelief as the girl ran to him, and he caught her in his arms.

The child was his daughter. She had to be.

Thankfulness transformed his face as Finian smoothed his hand across the girl"s shorn hair. He he held his daughter and then glanced over at Alys. She managed a nod, answering his unspoken question that yes, she had saved the girl's life.

But she wasn't prepared for the way he was looking at her now. The intensity of Finian's gaze moved past her boundaries, in a silent message of gratitude. Though she wanted to shrug it off, an invisible bond seemed to draw her closer to him.

To distract herself from the unexpected muddle of feelings, Alys started explaining what had happened. "I bribed one of the soldiers to help me get her out." When she heard herself speak, she was talking too fast. Calm yourself.

"I disguised her as a boy and let my husband believe she was dead," Alys finished. Feeling guilty, she added, "I didn't know she was yours."

Finian kept his arm around his daughter, but he came forward and took Alys's hand. His palm was cold, reminding Alys of the icy night he'd endured, and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "There are no words to say how grateful I am."

She could make no reply, for her cheeks were burning. He was staring at her as if she'd given him back his life, when all she'd done was protect a child. Like any woman would have done.

The girl sent her a smile, snuggling against her father. But when Alys studied Finian again, she saw the pain in his face, the glassy stare in his eyes. And she recalled the lashes he'd endured at the hands of the soldiers. He needed someone to tend his wounds, to give him care and shelter.

From behind her, she heard footsteps. Then she turned and saw Laren MacKinloch. "Lady Harkirk will need a place to live, now that the fortress is gone," the woman said to Finian. "Will you provide her with an escort?"

"Anywhere she wishes to go."

Alys acknowledged her thanks, but her greater concern was his physical health. At a closer look, she saw that his hands were still shaking. She drew close to Finian and whispered low. "Your wounds . . . you need to tend them."

"Later," he promised, holding his daughter's hand.

But if they waited too much longer, his back might grow swollen, his body becoming feverish. Already she could see the signs of exhaustion, and Finian needed rest more than all else. As her eyes passed over him, she glimpsed an angry burn upon his arm. Though it was an older scar, it must have hurt him badly.

When she stared back at the fortress, she realized that it could still shelter them for a night or two. The fires had not touched the tower but were isolated to the outer structures and walls. They could prevent it from spreading further.

She went to the MacKinloch chief and pleaded, "Will your men put out the fires? I want to stay here in the tower for a few days more . . . until I'm ready to leave."

Alex didn't look pleased by her request. "There are many who would rather see it burned to the ground."

She lifted her face to meet his gaze. "After I've gathered my belongings, I'll set it ablaze myself." It would be a fitting end to watch the four years of captivity go up in smoke.

But for now, Finian needed a place to heal, and it was the best she could do.

"I'll give the orders," Alex said.

"Will my da be all right?" Iliana whispered.

"Of course he will," Alys reassured her. The young girl's worried expression was matched by her own wariness. Finian had barely managed to make it up the winding stone staircase, and he'd stumbled on to his hands and knees near the top. His brother Brochain had helped him into her husband's bedchamber, while she and her maid Jeanne took care of the girl.

"It's late," Alys told Iliana. "Follow me, and I'll show you a place where you can sleep." She led her into a separate chamber, where she had slept while Robert had entertained other women. It was a small bed, but the young girl pulled the coverlet over herself, snuggling up.

"You'll take care of my da?" Iliana asked.

Alys reached out and touched the girl's short hair. "I promise I will. And perhaps in another day or two, he'll take you home again."

A smile faltered on her face as Iliana closed her eyes. Alys waited a few more moments until she was certain the girl was safe enough.

"My lady?" came Jeanne's voice. "Shall I stay with the child and look after her?"

Alys sent her a grateful look. "Yes. In the meantime, I need to see to the MacLachor chief's wounds."

Her maid bowed her head, and Alys left her alone with Iliana. When she returned to Robert's bedchamber, Finian lay on top of the bed. His brother, Brochain, eyed him as if he didn't know what to do next.

"Build up the fire so we can make him warmer," she ordered. From a chest, she withdrew a heavy fur coverlet and brought it over, layering Finian with as many blankets as she could find. And still, he trembled.

"I'm bringing the rest of the MacLachors into the main hall," Brochain said. "We'll stay here tonight." With a look toward Alys, he asked, "Would you rather I remained here to look after him myself?"

"No, I'll tend his wounds," she told the man.

Finian stared at his brother and raised his arm to show the burned, scarred flesh. "This was your idea of healing, don't you remember?"

There was a twinge of remorse on Brochain's face, and Alys realized with dismay that the man had cauterized a sword wound. Though it might have saved Finian's life, the gesture was nothing short of brutal.

"The wounds on his back should be treated," she said. "I have herbs that will help."

But Brochain wasn't listening. Instead, he eyed his older brother. "Do you want me to stay or sleep with the men?"

"Go away," Finian warned. "I'd rather have a beautiful woman looking after me."

"Our enemy's wife?"

"She's the one who freed me from my chains. If she'd wanted to kill me, she'd have done it then."

Brochain gave a nod. To Alys, he said, "We'll guard the hall below and make sure none of the garrison returns. If you have need of us, call out."

She murmured her thanks and busied herself preparing healing herbs to draw out any poison from the lash marks. But it was Finian's freezing skin that bothered her most.

Despite all the blankets, nothing seemed to warm him. She sat beside the bed, and the exhaustion of the day swept over her. Her neck ached, and she was holding back her emotions by a thread. Robert was dead. No one would tell her how useless she was, or how fortunate she was that he'd taken pity on her and married her.

When he'd visited her bedchamber, it had never been anything but a horrifying ordeal to endure. She would lie beneath him, staring at the ceiling, praying to God that it would be over. Though after a few years, it had stopped hurting . . . it had still humiliated her every time. And not once had she become pregnant.

But that was her fault, like everything else.

"Lady Harkirk," Finian murmured. "Are you well?"

She veiled her unsettled emotions and nodded. "I'll be all right. Are you any warmer?"

Finian shook his head. "I suppose it will get better in a few hours."

She reached beneath the coverlet and took his hand. It was freezing, but she rubbed her palms against it, trying to imbue some warmth. His gray eyes studied her as she touched him. Alys grew self-conscious but didn't stop trying to warm his skin.

She touched his cool fingers, holding them between her palms. Then she massaged the skin, one finger at a time. He closed his eyes, as if he could melt the heat away from her body and pull it into his own.

Silently, Finian offered her his other hand. Once more, she rubbed his knuckles and fingers until they lost the stiffness, holding his hand between both palms. His gray eyes watched her, and the act took on an intimacy she'd never intended. The intense look in his eyes overpowered her defenses, as if he were trying to understand her.

She tried to pull her hands away, but he caught them. "What you did . . . when you saved my daughter's life—" He squeezed her palm, holding on to her as if his touch could convey the words he couldn't find. "It meant everything."

"She was a child. I did what I could to save her." She lowered her gaze, wishing the ghosts of the other prisoners didn't weigh down upon her. She'd been unable to save all of them.

His mouth came to rest upon her hand, and his warm breath caught her without warning. "You gave me my freedom that night."

"You didn't look like a man who deserved death," she whispered. "You looked like one in need of mercy."

"I didn't deserve mercy. I expected to die." He rolled to his stomach, his face buried against the mattress.

I'm glad you didn't.But she couldn't voice those words. Pulling back, she swallowed hard. "Can you . . . remove the cloak? I want to look at your back and apply a salve to your wounds."

Finian removed the garment, baring his shoulders. When he turned over, she saw the carved lines of his upper back, the broad strength that he'd kept hidden. His flesh was not as pale as Robert's, and she supposed Finian was a man accustomed to the harsh conditions here.

The lash marks weren't as deep as she'd thought, and the bleeding had dried up. She washed his skin, and he jerked at the cool water.

"I'll hurry," she promised, swabbing gently at the lash marks. Then she made a thick salve from the herbs and pressed it against his back. She tried not to hurt him, smoothing the mixture into the wounds.

When it was done, she wiped her hands with linen. "Try to sleep now. You need to get warm again."

"My daughter—" he protested.

"My maid is with her. But if you want me to, I'll go and stay with Iliana."

He closed his eyes. "Is she well?"

"She's gone to sleep. Just as you should."

He sent her a baleful look. "My dreams have troubled me for as long as I can remember. Sleep doesn't come easily."

"Then I'll stay with you for a little while," she offered. He looked so ragged and lost, she supposed it would do no harm. With her fingers, she brushed the edges of his eyelids, drawing them closed. "Sleep, Finian."

He took a breath, but she could see the tension weighing him down. Right now his body needed rest in order to heal. Though it went against her instincts, she lay down beside him with her hand holding his. "It's all right."

Her presence did seem to soothe him. But what she hadn't expected was how her body seemed to sink into the mattress, the arms of sleep drawing her near.

There's no harm in it, she thought. Not if she closed her eyes for a moment or two.

Alys felt so warm, cocooned within a man's arms. Not Robert's—no, these arms were strong. The spicy scent of male skin was calming instead of threatening. This man was holding her, his skin growing warmer by the minute. Her dreams stumbled against the wall of reality, but she wasn't ready to wake up. Not yet.

Somehow she was beneath the coverlet, and the man's hips were pressed against her. Her woolen gown was loose, and a sudden tension filled her up inside when his arousal pressed against her bottom. It wasn"t fear that held her captive . . . but a strange feeling of longing. Before she could open her eyes, he touched her back, reaching beneath the gown to caress her bare skin. Gentle and strong, he held her close while his mouth came to kiss her neck.

Finian was touching her in his sleep. Alys knew she had to move away, but the moment she tried, his hand slid beneath her gown, drawing it from her shoulders until she was bared to the waist. His hand reached over and cupped the fullness of her breast. Instantly, her nipple grew taut, and the heat spiraled through her, down between her legs. She was caught between the tantalizing sensations and her need to leave.

Just a moment longer, her body pleaded. She'd never been caressed like this before. It was as if Finian were reverencing her body, touching her with the intent of drawing out the buried feelings of desire. She was accustomed to her husband groping her, and never before had she felt this way.

It was wrong. So very wrong.

And yet her eyes clouded up with tears as she remained motionless. She ought to pull away, to preserve her virtue. But the hurtful four years had taken their toll, and she resented her husband for making their marriage bed such a miserable place.

Finian wasn't touching her with the intent to hurt her; instead, his fingers were gentle and deeply arousing. She bit her lip when his fingertips slid over her nipples, stroking her breast while his mouth tasted her nape.

But then his hands reached lower, raising the fabric of her gown. Against her naked bottom, he pressed the length of his arousal while his hand parted her legs.

A gasp was trapped in her throat, her body growing wet and aching. Finian was speaking in Gaelic, a hushed whisper of words.

His hand moved to the silken curls that guarded her womanhood, seeking the moisture that lay within. Against her spine, she felt him move, his shaft warm and firm. When his fingers moved to her sensitive flesh, she couldn't stop the cry that emitted from her throat. Enfolded in his arms, she was helpless to escape while he explored her folds.

"Finian," she whispered in desperation. It seemed that he wanted to make love with her, to penetrate her flesh with his when they hardly knew one another. "Wake up," she pleaded.

She started to move away, but at that moment, his fingers took a nipple between them, rolling it like a precious pearl. Between her legs, he echoed the sensation, barely touching the hooded flesh above her entrance.

She didn't know what he was doing, but the wickedness was making it hard to breathe. She felt herself arching against his hand, welcoming the gentle rhythm that was driving out the harsh memories of her past.

Like an awakening, he was transforming her, shaping her like molten wax into a new woman. And when his hand moved faster, she convulsed against him, unable to understand the overwhelming feelings of heat and need.

She was ashamed to admit that she wanted him. She wanted to feel his driving length penetrating her, pushing her toward the aching release that held just beyond her reach.

As if in answer to her craving, he pushed two fingers inside her, slowly entering and withdrawing. She backed up against him, her hand reaching to his. But when he used her wetness to rub against her cleft, slowly intensifying the vibrant need, her fingers dug into his thigh. Every part of her needed this, wanted him to show her what she'd been missing for all these years.

She was writhing against him, her body trembling hard, and when he murmured more endearments, she felt a sudden rising from within. The wild, dormant need clenched hard, and she let out a fierce gasp as the pleasure took her in a swift wave of release. She no longer cared that they were strangers, that she was allowing him intimacies only meant for a husband. She could only surrender to the movement, taking the fulfillment he offered, until she was wet around his fingers, squeezing him hard until his hand stilled.

A racking sob overtook her, tears she couldn't have stopped. Finian had given her sensations she'd never known were inside her, and he'd made her feel desirable.

"Gillian," he whispered. His voice was ragged, tormented. Alys froze at the mention of another woman's name. Was it his wife? Was he still wedded to someone else?

Oh God. Her cheeks burned with shame as she extricated herself from the bed and adjusted her gown. Swiping at her tears, she walked barefoot to the other side of the room. What had she done? Her husband had been dead for only a few hours and already she'd gone into another man's arms.

A man who had been thinking of someone else when he'd touched her. What was the matter with her? Was she so starved for affection that she would seek comfort from a stranger? Alys lowered her head to her knees as she cried.

Finian had promised to take her wherever she wanted to go. She wished he could help her disappear, where no one would ever find her.