“M’lady?”
A few steps from her bedchamber door, Anne jerked to a halt. The familiar voice beckoned her from the morose thoughts dogging her since she had found that piece of Campbell cloth. And, as cowardly as she felt in the act, Anne turned and flung herself into Iain’s strong arms.
He gathered her to him, pulling her against the hard-muscled wall of his body. Tenderly, he stroked her hair. “What is it, lass? What’s frightened ye so?”
She started to reply, to tell him of the forest’s evil intruder, then hesitated. If he knew, he might want her to take him there. Then he’d see her garden, and she couldn’t risk Niall finding out about the forbidden plants, at least not for a time.
“Och, it’s naught.” Anne met his gaze. “Ye startled me, that’s all.” She glanced down at the arms that held her. “Please let me go. I’m fine now.”
His gaze met hers. A flush crept up Iain’s neck and face. He released Anne and took a step backward. “Aye, it’d help, I’d wager.”
Anne felt the warmth rise in her own cheeks. What must Iain think?
“I-I’m sorry for throwing myself at ye.”
The tension eased from Iain’s face. He chuckled. “Aye, and I immediately flung ye from me, didn’t I? Nay, I fear the blame for our extended embrace must be shared.”
“Then so be it. I don’t wish . . .” Her voice faded at the tenderness in his expression. Heavy silence settled between them. In the emptiness, Anne could hear the blood rushing through her body.
He cares for me! The realization filled her with panic. She could never be his and, because of that, didn’t dare examine the depth of her feelings for him. Nay, for then she’d also be forced to face her true feelings for Niall Campbell. And that was the most frightening consideration of all.
“I-I must go.” Anne stepped back.
“Wait!” Iain grasped her arm. “I came to ask if ye’d like to ride with me, see the loch.”
“A ride?” In the happy anticipation of going riding, the tension of the past few moments drained from Anne. “Aye. I’d dearly love a ride. When can we leave?”
Iain grinned at her eagerness. “Just as soon as ye’re ready. Shall I meet ye at the stables?”
“Aye.” She glanced down at her soiled skirt. “It’ll take me but a few minutes to prepare myself.”
Anne hurried into her room.
Iain is so good, so kind, she thought as she quickly stripped down to her petticoats. At every turn he attempted to think of her happiness. And now, it seemed he saw her as more than just a friend.
The warm glow in his eyes a few moments ago confused Anne. How was it possible he cared for her after such a short time? Was he, mayhap, as lonely as she?
She sighed. If it were true, she must tread carefully with his heart. There could never be anything between them. She was vowed to another, whether she wished it or not.
It’ll do no good to curse the fate that bound ye to him instead of Iain, Anne chided herself as she donned a simple, forest green woolen dress. Yet, even as the sense of futility filled her, Niall’s darkly handsome face rose in her mind’s eye. She remembered how the sorrow,
as he talked of his lost love, had deepened his eyes to an intense shade of brown and had turned his voice husky with barely suppressed emotion.
In that moment he had opened his heart to her, shared a deeply personal part she sensed he revealed to few others. And, in that moment, Anne had felt herself irresistibly drawn to him. Aye, she admitted, drawn to him as woman to man.
That realization, most of all, disturbed her. She didn’t want to care for the enigmatic, ruthless man known as the Wolf of Cruachan. He stirred emotions in her better left unexamined, the kind that sent a woman’s heart to pounding and turned her brain to mush. And no man was ever going to do that.
Anne moved to close the chest when her glance snagged on the MacGregor plaid neatly folded within. After an instant’s hesitation, she pulled it out and draped it around her shoulders, fastening the cloth with a silver brooch adorned with the form of her clan’s beloved Scots pine.
Though she knew it wasn’t wise to wear her clan crest and colors in Kilchurn, Anne suddenly didn’t care. She wasn’t ashamed of her heritage. Let them all, Niall Campbell included, know they must accept her for herself, and part of that identity was MacGregor. Why must all the adjustment be hers? Aye, why indeed? Anne angrily asked herself as she finished dressing and left her room.
Iain awaited her at the stables, garbed in a loose, snow-white shirt, snug-fitting tartan trews, and a sturdier, ankle-high laced pair of cuarans. At his side hung the ever-present dirk, and across his back, his claymore. His dark blue gaze skimmed Anne as she walked up, but he made no comment about the plaid slung around her shoulders. He helped her mount, and they were soon galloping out of the castle and along the shore of Loch Awe.
The day was cool, the sky a clear, delicately cloud-strewn blue. The loch’s aquamarine waters were placid. Long-necked swans floated serenely upon its mirrored surface, passing near the imposing stone castle.
Kilchurn, Anne thought as they rode away. Guardian of Loch Awe, standing lonely sentinel on its narrow outcropping of land. Tales were that when first built it had stood apart on an island.
Looking at it now, she wondered if the fortress might not someday break free once again, to float like some massive warship down the length of darkling water. It was indeed a beautiful land, this seat of Campbell power, of mighty, snowcapped mountains, forested hills, and heather-clad meadows, reminding her so much of Glenstrae . . . and home.
Anne shook aside the painful memory. She turned her glance to the blond man riding beside her. “And where are ye taking me, Sir Iain? Do ye plan to abduct me and hold me for ransom?”
Iain shot her a rueful smile and shook his head. “If ye were still a MacGregor lass, aye, the idea would be foremost in my mind. Not that I’d ever give ye up for any amount of money.”
His smile broadened into a grin. “It’d be an easy thing to hide ye in these mountains. When we were boys, Niall, Hugh, and I used to explore Ben Cruachan, spending the summer days roaming its rocky heights and the nights sleeping beneath the stars, wrapped only in our plaids.
“Once we came upon an ancient, deserted tower high in the mountains. Surprisingly, it was still quite sturdy. All it needed were new floors and doors to make it habitable. Each summer, for several years, we’d journey up to it, to work on its repairs.”
“Did ye ever finish it?”
Iain laughed. “Aye, as a matter of fact. But that was over ten years ago. I haven’t been there since.”
“And is that where ye plan to take me?” Anne asked, a twinkle in her eyes.
He reined in his horse. “Nay, not this time.” Iain gestured toward a small burn that emptied into the loch. Huge oaks, their gnarled arms outstretched across the coldly gleaming torrent of water, grew nearby. Below, the grass was starry with wild anemones in vivid purples, reds, lavenders, and whites.
Anne gasped in pleasure. “Och, it’s heavenly!” A radiant smile touched her face. “Thank ye for sharing this with me.”
He dismounted, then moved to take her hand. “I’m pleased ye like it. It’s little to leave ye with, but I wanted ye to have this special place to come to, to be yer haven, when I’m gone.”
She frowned in puzzlement. “Gone? Are ye leaving, Iain?”
“Aye, lass. It’s time to return home, to Balloch Castle.”
Anne lowered her head, her thick curls tumbling forward to hide her suddenly downcast face. Her only friend in Kilchurn besides Agnes, and now he was to be taken from her.
“When?” she whispered.
“On the morrow.”
Her hand covered his. “Och, nay, Iain. Must ye leave so soon?”
He sighed. “Aye, I must go. My father’ll stay a time more, awaiting a response from the Crown related to some enterprise he and the Campbell have been working on all these months. But there’s too much to be done at Balloch now that summer draws nigh. One of us, at least, must be there to oversee things.”
“But I’ve only been here a day . . .” Anne shook her head. “Och, I’m selfish to think only of myself. I beg pardon.”
Iain pulled her gently down from her horse but didn’t let her go. Instead, he gathered her to him, wrapping his arms about her. Anne knew she shouldn’t let him, but at this sweet moment of parting she no longer cared.
“Ye can’t keep yer hands off what’s mine, can ye, cousin?” a deep voice intruded.
Iain paled. His arms fell away.
Awash in a sea of grim foreboding, Anne turned. Niall’s dark eyes were cold, glittering with suspicion. She took a hesitant step toward him. “M’lord—”
A movement of his hand silenced her, for his glance had returned to Iain. “Well, cousin? I await yer reply.”
The younger man glowered back, uncowed. “I care for her, if that’s what ye’re getting at, but I’m not low enough to sneak behind yer back and cuckold ye. It wasn’t what ye thought, at any rate. Anne was but sad to hear of my departure, and I—”
“Was but comforting her?” Niall supplied dryly. “Then it’s well ye’re leaving, for if ye ever touch her again—”
“And what will ye do?” Iain demanded. “Have me thrown in the dungeon or mayhap flogged? Or would ye prefer to just beat me to a pulp right here and now?”
He moved into a fighting stance, his hands fisted before him. “I tire of yer foul mood of late. Why not put it to rest once and for all? I’m not afraid of ye. Answer me, Niall. Why not here and now?”
Anne turned to Niall. His hands had clenched, and his face was rigid with glacial anger. They were about to come to blows, and all because of a simple misunderstanding!
Instinctively, she ran to her blond companion, knowing she’d have a better chance of reasoning with him. “Iain, don’t fight yer cousin,” she pleaded. “If there’s any fault, it’s mine. I foolishly keep running to yer arms, and I’ve no right. The sin’s mine, not yers—”
“A wee hug for comfort’s hardly a sin,” Iain muttered. “I won’t leave ye here to suffer his wrath. I’m not afraid of him.”
“He won’t harm me. Ye know that. It’ll be all right.” Her hand gripped his arm. “Please, Iain.”
Iain hesitated, indecision wavering in his eyes, but at last he lowered his fists. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips. “Farewell, lass. If ever ye need me . . .”
Anne smiled. “Aye, well I know. Fare ye well, my friend.”
After Iain had mounted and rode away, Anne faced Niall. He, too, had relaxed his fighter’s stance, but the look in his eyes remained hard and unforgiving. Slowly, like a person going to her doom, Anne walked up to him.
Her small chin lifted a defiant notch. Perhaps she was partly in the wrong, but she was past weary of his suspicions. “Well, m’lord? What have I done wrong now? Since it seems I’m not fated ever to please ye?”
“Don’t mock me!”
“Then what would ye have me say? I doubt ye’d believe me at any rate!” Anne threw up her hands. “Och, why do ye treat us like this? I’ve done naught, and neither has Iain. Are ye trying to destroy our friendship? Is that it? Do ye hate me so much ye wish me friendless?”
“I don’t hate ye!” Niall growled. “Don’t put words into my mouth, nor lay deeds at my feet not of my doing.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Why is it every time we’re together we fight? It isn’t my intent. I swear it.”
“Then why such anger toward Iain?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, save that Iain may not be all he seems.” Niall stepped closer, and crooked a finger beneath her chin. “I’m sorry if that’s not enough, but it’s the best I can offer.”
Anne wrenched away. “Ye insult me with yer suspicions, all but do battle with Iain, and then offer that most sorry of explanations? Nay, it can never be enough! Despite what ye may think, I’ll not shirk my vows, no matter how odious they be. And don’t worry about my fidelity to ye, not with Iain or any other man. I can bear aught for a year—and that includes the likes of ye!”
He cocked an amused brow. “Och, and can ye? And exactly what’ve I done that’s so unforgivable? Ravished ye, beat ye, locked ye in yer room? I’ve the right to do all that and more, yet all I’ve asked is ye stay away from Iain—”
“Is that the truth of it, now? Yer truth, mayhap, but not mine. I say ye’ve tried to take away my only friend, not to mention refused me my greatest joy in life, my healing. Why, ye’ve really done naught but attempt to destroy my freedom and identity!”
His glance strayed to the plaid she wore. “Aye, yer verra identity. MacGregor identity, and the source of all our problems.”
His hands moved to the silver brooch upon her shoulder, and he began to unfasten it. “Ye talk about having no friends, then ye flaunt this plaid in everyone’s faces.”
Anne’s hands halted his. “What are ye about?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I don’t want ye wearing this in Kilchurn.”
She stared at him for a moment and read his hard resolve. What was the use? And she had been a fool.
Her hands fell to her sides. “As ye wish, m’lord.”
The cold irony in her voice vibrated along Niall’s tautly strung nerves. With a force that surprised him, his fingers tightened in the plaid, and he pulled her to him. “Curse ye, woman! Why do ye fight me every step of the way? Why must all the effort be mine? Ye say ye want friends, then don’t wear this for a time. Appear to them not as a MacGregor, but as a woman—my woman. And as for Iain,” he added, anger beginning to thread his voice, “why do ye constantly run to him and shut me out? Ye’re vowed to me, yet have ye ever made one gesture of friendship?”
Anne’s anger evaporated, leaving only confusion. Friendship? Was it possible? Could he truly want her friendship? Her mind whirled back to the events of the past few days.
The memory of his anger and arrogance immediately flooded her, but, when the roiling emotions settled, she admitted many were the times he had also been gentle with her, apologized for his earlier harshness. And last eve, when he had lowered his defenses to explain why he had no inclination to bed her . . .
“I-I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, “or how to answer ye.”
Anne grasped his forearms. How warm he felt beneath his linen shirt. She ran her fingers along the corded length, marveling at the crisp texture of hair where the rolled-up sleeves met bare skin. Awesome power lay coiled beneath the rippling surface, yet he had never so much as threatened her. True, he had tried to control her—and that was harm enough—raised his voice a time or two, but he had never, ever, lifted a hand to her.
Her eyelids, weighted with growing languor by the heady nearness of him, reluctantly lifted. Compelling, gold-flecked brown eyes stared down at her, kindling a deep, aching fire. Niall’s lips were clenched, his jaw rigid, but his erratic breathing belied his outward semblance of control. Strong fingers dug into Anne’s arms, but the pain was fiercely sweet in the spiraling current of excitement that engulfed her.
“Say naught, lass.” Niall’s head lowered, his voice rough velvet. “It’s past time for talking. Show me what ye feel.”
His mouth descended, capturing hers in a hard, hungry kiss. For a moment Anne struggled; then she yielded to him. Her arms entwined about his neck, and she leaned into him.
At her eager response Niall shuddered then crushed her to him. His lips moved to trace the soft fullness of her mouth, and he kissed her slowly, thoroughly, the long-repressed desire rising to surround him in a red-hot mist.
She trembled but didn’t pull away, shyly meeting his kiss. A harsh spasm wracked Niall. He groaned, then pushed Anne away.
No matter how fiercely he suddenly desired her, it was still too soon. And he didn’t know her, had yet even fully to give her his trust. He willed his breathing to slow, his body to relax, and avoided Anne’s glance until he could handle the excitement that stirred anew at the sight of her ripe, kiss-swollen mouth.
“I . . . I beg pardon,” he muttered at long last, his voice still husky with desire. “It’s not right. I’m not ready.”
Anne stepped back, wrapping her plaid protectively about her. “Aye, ye said that, though yer actions just now spoke far differently. But fear not, m’lord. I’ll respect yer request. I’ll not force myself on ye.”
Wheeling about, Anne strode toward her horse. Och, curse the man! she thought through her rising sense of shame and frustration. He kisses me, and when I respond, he acts as if I was too eager to throw myself at him.
She stopped short. Well, mayhap she was. And that after her vow to the Lord not to sin in accepting this handfasting, and her agreement with Niall that there’d be no carnal rights taken.
Tears, maddeningly unwelcome, filled Anne’s eyes. I hate him!
He toys with my heart at every turn. God forgive me, but how I hate him!
A hand gripped her shoulder and jerked her around. Brown eyes blazed down at her.
“I didn’t mean it was yer fault, lass,” Niall rasped, his expression one of bewildered remorse. “I—I’m not angry at ye, but at myself. Aye, angry and totally confused.” A sheepish grin twisted his rugged face. “And, truly, can ye blame me? One moment we’re talking about friendship and the next . . . well, we’re well past all talk of friendship.”
Anne shook off his hand. He was right. What had just happened was indeed confusing, and that was the very least of the problem.
“It was a mistake on both our parts. Enough said.”
“Aye, so it was.” A soft smile grazed his lips as he moved to help her onto her horse. “Mistake or not, enough said . . . until the need arises to speak of it again.”
The hissing and popping of pine sap splattering onto hungry flames drew Niall’s attention from the letter. He glanced up from the massive oak desk that commanded an entire corner of the library, his bleary gaze moving in the direction of the stone hearth on the opposite wall. Outside, a heavy, late-spring rain slanted past the window, pelting the castle with wind-driven sheets of water.
A fine day to be indoors attending to clan business, Niall thought. Warm and dry, with a cup of fragrant mulled cider to chase away the ever-present dampness. Yet the feathery script on the parchment spread before him seemed as illegible as some foreign language. Too many impressions, too many memories, bombarded him until he found himself reading and rereading the page in an unseeing daze. Finally, after a futile hour of little progress, Niall put away the letter.
With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and picked up his cup. He swirled the amber liquid, watching the interplay of firelight and
shadow in the backdrop of fine crystal. It sparkled and shimmered in the hearth’s fiery glow like tongues of flame. Like the auburn glints in Anne’s hair. Like the inner fire that flared in her eyes when she was angry.
Anne. When had he begun to think of her as Anne? A small, wondering frown puckered Niall’s brow. The mention of her name—his beloved wife’s name—no longer chafed the raw, festering wound of his loss. Yet when had that happened? He had met Anne MacGregor barely three weeks ago, when she, a glorious, defiant beauty, had stood before all his men. Since then he had spent but a few days with her, and most of those filled with constant conflict.
Already he looked at her in a different light. She stirred him like no other since the death of his first Anne. Stirred him deeply, yet what did he really know of her?
Until a few days ago, she had been his enemy. In her heart, she might be his enemy still. What did he really know of her true feelings? What if, somehow, she was involved with the traitor?
What if Anne was conspiring with Iain to bring about his downfall? Had yesterday at the loch been the opportunity they had awaited? Had their embrace been arranged to goad him into a fight?
The thought of Iain willingly challenging him to fight sickened him. True, they had sparred many times as boys and young men, but always in fun, solely to improve their skills.
But not so yesterday. Yesterday the blood lust flared brightly in Iain’s eyes, so brightly Niall wondered if any mercy would’ve been given if he had fallen victim to the younger man. At the very least, Iain had greatly desired a vicious brawl. And at the worst . . . ? Niall preferred not to even consider what darker motives might have lain beneath his cousin’s challenge.
It would also explain the seeming devotion that had so quickly grown between Anne and his cousin. Mayhap there was more there than affection, however platonic Anne claimed it to be. For that matter, his and Anne’s handfasting could’ve also been part of a greater plan. After all, he had only Alastair MacGregor’s word on the true circumstances of his betrayal. What if it had all been lies, twisted to manipulate him to the ultimate MacGregor revenge?
Niall lowered his head to rest it in his hands. By mountain and sea, how he wished he had someone to talk all this over with, to help him sift through the questions until he found the answers! His father would listen and understand, but he dared not burden him with this. Robert Campbell already clung to life by the most tenuous of threads. And, though he respected his uncle Duncan’s wisdom, for some reason—call it instinct—Niall knew he dared trust no one with any possible claim to the chieftainship.
It was past time to put a plan into effect. On the morrow, he’d summon several of his most trusted warriors to a secret mission. He’d send them out across Campbell lands to visit secretly all the higher lairds, instructing them to keep their eyes and ears open for any sign of suspicious activity. He’d ask for the first report in a month’s time. Time enough for his men to uncover any plots outside Kilchurn, if that indeed was where the treachery lay.
In the meanwhile, Niall would continue to center his efforts on his immediate family. Besides Iain, that had to include Hugh, Duncan, and even Malcolm. Preacher though he was, he too was a possible traitor. Niall dared leave no stone unturned, no person unexamined. Now, all were suspect, including a certain lovely, silver-eyed woman.
Of its own accord, Anne’s pale, delicate face insinuated itself into his mind. A fierce anger swelled at the thought of her possible deception, an anger that, upon closer examination, more accurately resembled pain. How could he misjudge her? She seemed so brave and kind and good.
Mayhap his mourning heart had betrayed him. Mayhap he was so needful and she had happened along at the right moment. And mayhap, just mayhap, she saw him for the fool he was.
His head bent under the weight of such a possibility. His fist unconsciously clenched around the curved bowl of his cup until it shattered in his hand. The cider ran between his fingers to mingle with his blood, but Niall was oblivious. With an angry motion, he swept the crystal shards from the desk.
Curse it all, he was no one’s fool! Not his ambitious cousins’ or any of his relatives’ or lairds’, and certainly no woman’s! There wasn’t time to cloud his mind with a beguiling lass, no matter how well-rounded and tempting. His clan needed him; his father depended on him.
He must harden himself to her, no matter how difficult or how cruel he might seem. Though Anne MacGregor might not be a traitor, he couldn’t allow himself to forget the danger she presented from a less obvious side—his hungry, wounded, needing heart.
Save at the supper meal, Anne barely saw Niall for the next two weeks. Even then he seemed reserved, remotely polite as he inquired after her activities, offered her an additional portion or tempting dessert. After that tumultuous day at the loch, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned over his behavior. Finally, she let the matter cease to bother her. Even in Iain’s absence, there were more pleasant, less disturbing, matters at hand. Like learning more of the healing art from Ena.
Brushing back a stray tendril that had escaped the snug braid hanging down her back, Anne returned her attention to the little hut and the decoction of comfrey tea Ena was carefully pouring into a small, earthenware cup. Her gaze followed the gnarled hands as the old woman offered the brew to the young child held in her mother’s arms. The little girl had fallen from a tree several hours ago, breaking her right wrist. She now looked at the liquid offered her with youthful suspicion.
“Drink it, lassie,” Ena urged. “It’s the knit bone tea. It’ll hasten yer healing.” Her eyes twinkled with warmth and humor. “Ye wouldn’t want all yer friends to call ye a wee bairn, would ye?”
The girl grimaced then swallowed the tea. Ena gave the mother a few more instructions. Both she and Anne then assisted the pair out to the oxcart where the father waited.
After seeing them off, Ena turned to Anne. “Will ye share a spot of tea before ye leave for the castle?”
Anne smiled. “Aye, but I can’t tarry long. It’ll soon be sunset, and I must return to Kilchurn.”
“Ye don’t wish to miss the evening’s meal with yer lord, do ye, lassie?”
A teasing light gleamed in the old woman’s eyes. Anne started to deny it, then thought better of it. It was true enough at any rate. The more she was with Niall Campbell, the more she enjoyed him.
She gave a rueful nod. “Aye, he’s certainly not the evil man the tales would have him be.” They halted at the hut, and Anne allowed Ena to enter first.
“The tales of the evil, murdering Wolf of Cruachan?” Ena sat and began filling two cups with rose hips. “Och, lassie, that’s all one warrior’s silly boasting to another, until the man scarce resembles the legend. Not that Niall Campbell isn’t a braw man.”
She paused to pour a pot of simmering water over the rose hips. “He’s just not a self-serving whiner, like some of the Campbells these days.”
Anne’s brow puckered. Perhaps she could learn a bit about Niall’s problems from Ena. “There’s trouble in Castle Kilchurn then?”
“Something’s afoot.” Ena paused to allow the tea to steep before handing her a cupful. “I’m not certain exactly what, but I don’t like the feel of things these days. The portents don’t bode well—”
“Are ye a witch then,” Anne interrupted uneasily, “to speak so of portents?”
“Nay.” Ena shook her head. “I’m no witch, just a watchful old woman with a bit of wisdom after all these years.” She shrugged. “Mayhap it’s but something in the air or the scraps of talk I hear now and then. I don’t know. What I do know, for I can feel it in my bones, is that the young lord’s in danger. Ye mustn’t cease in yer prayers for him, and, in every way, ye must help him.”
Anne stared at her. “In danger? But how and from whom? And how, aside from commending him to God’s care, can I possibly help him?”
Ena sipped her tea. “I don’t know from whence the danger comes, lassie. It isn’t something of the head but of the heart. I feel it, that’s all. And as far as helping him, why, keep yer eyes and ears open, give him all yer loyalty and devotion. Ye never know when ye might see or hear something, have some bit of information cross yer path that could be of use.”
“He won’t trust me or what I say over his kin.” Anne sighed. “I mean naught to him. He doesn’t want or need my help.”
“Doesn’t he?” Ena’s brows lifted. “I wonder. Ye’ve already won over the heart of the Campbell. I hear ye visit him every day. How far behind can his son’s heart be?”
“The Campbell’s a sick and lonely old man,” Anne said by way of protest. “Few will stay near him long for fear of catching the consumption. I but try and bring a little cheer to his days. Why, I don’t think Niall even knows I visit him. If he did, he’d most likely forbid it.”
“Mayhap, and then mayhap not.” Ena eyed her intently. “Does it bother ye then, the fact Sir Niall might find ye appealing?”
At the sudden turn in the conversation, Anne felt the heat flare in her cheeks. “Nay, of course not. I don’t care what he thinks of me. Our handfasting’s but an act of convenience—clan convenience. I fully plan to return home as soon as the year’s over.”
“Och, and that’d be a sad day for Campbell and MacGregor alike! He needs ye, lassie. Can’t ye see that yet?”
“Nay.” Anne vehemently shook her head. “That’s not true. He needs no one, and certainly not—”
A firm knock sounded at the door. Anne glanced at it, then back to Ena. The old woman climbed to her feet and hobbled over. At the sight of the person who stood there, she dipped in an awkward curtsey. “M’lord. I’m honored—”
“Is the Lady Anne here, Ena?”
At the sound of Niall’s deep voice, Anne rose. Had she violated yet another one of his strictures by coming to visit the old healer? She moved to stand behind Ena. “I’m here, m’lord. What do ye wish?”
Niall’s dark glance swept over her. “Come away, lass. I’ve a need to talk with ye.”
Anne smiled at Ena. “Thank ye for the tea. I’ll return soon.”
They were hardly out the door when a strong hand gripped Anne’s arm. She turned to Niall. “Aye, m’lord?”
He began to lead her away. “Ye’re determined to thwart me every way ye can, aren’t ye?”
“How, m’lord?” At his grim tone, her anxiety rose. “What do ye mean?”
Niall halted, pulling her around to face him. “I asked ye not to do yer healing among my people, explaining all the while my reasons for it, my concerns over yer actions being misconstrued as witchcraft. And still ye keep company with old Ena. Don’t ye know she’s thought by some a witch? What do ye think the village considers yer visits here to be? What do ye think they consider ye? Curse it, lass. Are ye bent on yer own destruction?”
“She’s not a witch!”
“It doesn’t matter what ye or I think.” An undercurrent of exasperation threaded Niall’s voice. “I’ve discussed this with ye before. Why won’t ye heed my words? I grow weary of talking.”
“I don’t mean to disregard yer request, truly, m’lord, but it seems we’re fated always to be at odds.” Anne tried to temper her reply with reason, knowing, in his own way, Niall meant well. “I think it better ye not try to control my life. Let it take its natural course. That’s best for the both of us.”
“Is it now?” Wearily, Niall shook his head. “Do ye think I could stand by and watch ye go to the—” He paused and inhaled an unsteady breath. “Ye’re my responsibility now. I promised yer father—”
Anne wrenched her arm from his grip. “I’m no one’s responsibility but my own! When, oh when, will ye see that? I never asked for, or desired, yer protection.” She forced her voice to soften. “When will ye allow me my freedom, m’lord? I can’t live without it.”
His brown eyes darkened in pain. “I’ll give ye all the freedom within my power, lass, but I won’t, I can’t, allow ye to endanger yer life.” He paused, noting the crowd of interested bystanders beginning to gather. “Now, no more of this. I’ll not allow ye to entertain the people at my expense. Will ye come willingly?”
She stared up at him, confused by the strange mixture of frustration and compassion whirling inside her. Frustration at having her life so strongly held in check. Compassion for him in his sincere belief that he was right in doing so. Yet what else could she do but continue to fight him?
With a deep sigh, Anne turned from Niall. Her brisk strides carried her quickly across the village commons, and the acute sense of being watched followed her once again. The feeling grew until it became one of almost tangible discomfort. Full of malevolent intent, it hung heavy on the air, filling Anne with the memory of another unsettling day—of that day in the forest.
She whirled to confront the sender of such evil thoughts. Her glance careened into those of three men glowering at her beside the village well. There, dressed in bright plaids, were Duncan and Hugh Campbell. Beside them was yet another man, hostility burning in his eyes. He was dressed in the robes of a Reformed preacher.