“How dare ye shame yer father’s memory? How dare ye allow her in the funeral procession?” a woman shrieked as she leapt in front of Niall and Anne the next morning.
Her eyes were wild, her face tear-streaked and pale. Her hair beneath the plaid covering her head was tangled and tumbled down onto her face, but Anne still recognized the tormented features. It was Hugh’s mother.
“Ye banish my son, then refuse to allow him to return for his uncle’s funeral,” Lydia Campbell cried, only half aware she had begun pounding on Niall’s chest. “Yet ye permit this witch—”
Gently, Niall captured her hands and held her to him until two serving women hurried over. “Go with them, Aunt Lydia,” he said, no trace of emotion in his voice. “Yer grief has befuddled yer reason. This isn’t the time or place to question my decisions. We’ll talk later.”
He watched the women lead her away, his heart going out to the sobbing woman. Then, without another word, he took Anne’s arm.
As they walked along, she shot him a hesitant glance but could detect no reaction beneath his stony mask. There were reactions aplenty, however, in the faces of those awaiting them.
Caitlin stood there, a horrified expression on her face. Duncan, a few feet away, had his head bent in heated discussion with the Reformed preacher. Both men, as Anne neared, halted their talk to turn the full brunt of their hostile gazes upon her. She knew she had been the topic of their conversation.
Well aware of Duncan’s feelings for her, she found it was all she could do to force a charitable smile. Then, to distract herself from Niall’s unpleasant uncle, Anne next fixed her glance on the preacher in the hope of determining the extent of his animosity. She almost wished she hadn’t.
Malcolm was a short man, with little of the Campbell look about him. His stern visage of dense black brows and beard fairly reeked of fanatical energy and inflexibility. The look in his penetrating brown eyes as he surveyed her was hard and unforgiving.
Anne shivered. One way or another, Duncan had turned another Campbell against her and gained a powerful ally in the bargain.
Concern for Niall filled her. Would his uncle somehow use the preacher and his religious influence over the people to turn the clan against their new chief? It’d be easy enough if the rumors of her involvement in the Campbell’s death could be twisted into outright lies. Noting the look of malice curving Duncan’s lips as he straightened and began to move toward them, Anne felt certain it was a distinct possibility.
Niall’s grip on her elbow tightened. He gave Duncan a brief nod. “Aye, Uncle?”
“I’ve a wish to speak with ye.” The older man’s frigid gaze brushed over Anne before returning to his nephew. “Alone.”
“Ye may say what ye wish in front of m’lady.” A warning smoldered in his eyes. “I’ve no secrets from her.”
The lines about Duncan’s mouth tightened. “The matter concerns her. I thought only to spare her feelings.”
Anne turned to Niall. “I’ve no wish to be cause for further discord. I can wait a ways—”
“Nay, lass,” Niall growled. “Yer place is here, at my side. My uncle can speak his piece now and be done with it, or let it rot.”
“Young fool!” Duncan took a step closer. “If ye continue on this path, ye’re set on the course of yer own destruction! Yer loyalty to this woman’s sadly misplaced. Will ye sacrifice family and clan for the likes of her?”
“And will ye fan the flames of this destructive feud by refusing to accept her?” Niall shot back, his voice a harsh whisper. “I didn’t think ye capable of such petty conduct.”
A challenging light flared in Duncan’s eyes. “Would ye banish me, too, then? Ye’ve already driven Hugh and likely my son away too. Strange conduct, indeed, but mayhap all part of yer plan to assure that none of yer immediate male relatives are deemed acceptable for naming as chief over ye, not to mention as yer tanist. Is that it? Some insignificant laird as second in command would never present a challenge to yer chieftainship, would he?”
Niall ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I haven’t time for such foolishness. Let it be, I say, until my father’s buried. Ye gave yer word.”
“Aye, that I did, and I’ll keep it.” Duncan sighed, the fight visibly ebbing from him. “Truly, nephew, I meant only to warn ye of what the people will think if ye insist on allowing yer lady to attend the funeral. Is that not my place, to keep ye attuned to the clan’s mood?”
“Aye, Uncle.” Niall’s taut-muscled frame relaxed. “But I’ll not bend to some whim that’s false and unfair, either.” He motioned toward the casket. “Now, enough of this. It’s past time we buried my father.”
He turned to Anne and once more offered her his arm. She hesitated, her glance skittering from one man to the other. Then she placed her hand on Niall’s arm.
With each advancing step, Anne’s feeling of apprehension grew. Niall may have been fooled by his uncle’s apparent submission, but she knew better. Even as he had appeared to acquiesce, the hard, malicious light in the older man’s eyes continued to burn. Niall’s desire to make peace had blinded him to the evil fires smoldering beneath the surface of Duncan’s smooth concern.
But Anne, freed of the ties of kinship, had seen the man’s true intent. It frightened her. Duncan cared little for his nephew’s welfare. And it began to appear he wished for yet further conflict to weaken Niall’s standing as the new chief.
But why?
Ena’s words shot through her mind. “The young lord’s in great danger. Ye must help him.”
Fear prickled down Anne’s spine. Niall was indeed in grave danger—his position as chief yet unacknowledged, a dangerous enemy made in banishing his unstable cousin, and now there was also his uncle, who seemed bent on undermining him. Dear Lord, she prayed, help him. Help me. We’re beset by enemies, and only Ye can save us.
She glanced up. Niall strode along beside her, tall and proud, his broad shoulders resolutely squared. Strong shoulders, aye, she mused, but increasingly weighted with new and more serious problems. Problems he had no one to share with as, one by one, his closest advisers and family slipped away—and all because of her.
For an instant, Anne’s eyes burned with unshed tears. He hadn’t even God to turn to, for he seemed a man bereft of God. Yet, in the end, who else could lead him where he truly needed to go?
A fierce determination swelled within her. They were innocent—she and Niall—of any wrongdoing, any fault, in this gathering storm of intrigue and betrayal. The time had come to fight. If Niall couldn’t see the Lord beckoning, she did, and she’d be His voice, calling out over and over to him.
She was vowed to the new Campbell chief, the enigmatic and tormented warrior who had fought the battle for her heart and won. Aye, she’d stand by him to the end. Even if, ultimately, that end meant death.
The funeral procession wound up the road to the cemetery, the preacher at its head periodically ringing his brass bell, followed by the six clansmen carrying the coffin. Behind them marched the chief’s personal retinue—his bard and bodyguards who bore his sword and shield, the standard bearer, piper, then tatter or spokesman, and the two special men designated to carry the chief over running water. Niall came next, Anne at his side. The rest of the family followed. As the procession passed, the other mourners lining the road fell into place behind it.
The sun crept up from behind the hills, the cloud-shrouded sky dampening its light to a hazy glimmer. A misting of rain began to fall. One by one, the gathering pulled their plaids over their heads.
Thunder rolled in the distance. Anne winced at the sound. Wasn’t the day miserable enough without the imminent threat of a downpour?
Gradually, a new sound intruded. The rhythmic thud of hoofbeats heading up the hill behind them must have caught Niall’s attention as well. He turned. A dark scowl spread across his face. With a growing feeling of unease, Anne turned.
A man on a bay horse reined in at the back of the procession, then flung himself down and began to make his way through the crowd. Though his dismount was quick, Anne caught a glimpse of his face. It was Iain.
She glanced at Niall. His hands were clenched at his sides. A muscle ticked along his jaw. Considering the exhaustion that dogged his every movement and etched deep lines into his face, Anne knew the strain of dealing with Iain right now might be too much. But what could she do to ease the tension? How could she help him?
“A truce?” she whispered. “Until yer father’s buried?”
Niall leveled his gaze upon her, his blazing anger fading to one of flat accusation. “Ye turn my words upon me.”
She calmly returned his glance. “What’s fair for the father’s fair for the son. And, besides,” she added, her eyes softening with concern, “it isn’t the time or place to renew the battle between ye. It’s no affront to ye that Iain attends his uncle’s funeral. Let it be for now.”
He eyed her for a moment longer then sighed. “Aye, lass, that I will—for now.”
Niall awaited his cousin, his stance still rigid, but Anne knew now there’d be no fight. She gave Iain a welcoming smile.
His mouth quirked in reply, then he riveted his attention on the dark-haired man standing before him. Iain’s blond head lowered briefly in greeting. “I came as soon as I heard. I ask leave to attend the burying.”
“It’s yer right.”
At Niall’s emotionless reply, Iain exhaled a long breath. There was no forgiveness between them, he realized with a dull ache, only a brief peace for the sake of the dead Campbell chief.
He watched Niall stride on, his glance reuniting with Anne’s for a fleeting moment before she turned and followed. Compassion warmed her silver eyes. Iain’s gaze never left her as she walked away, a small, delicate contrast to his dark, fierce cousin. Far too kind and good for the likes of him.
Rage surged through him. Vainly, he fought against the destructive emotion, against the frustration following quickly on the heels of the admission of his anger. His hands opened and closed with the ferocity of his struggle.
Curse ye, cousin, he mentally flung the words at Niall’s retreating back. Ye don’t deserve her, ye arrogant, power-crazed fool! Ye don’t deserve her . . .
Iain hesitated to knock on Anne’s bedchamber door. Sound judgment cautioned against speaking with her, especially now, after being all but banished from Kilchurn. He had Niall to thank for that. No sooner was the funeral over and they returned to the castle, than his cousin summoned him into a private meeting room.
There, all pretenses had been flung aside. Niall had coldly informed him his continued presence was no longer desired. As soon as the meeting to confirm his chieftainship had met on the morrow, Iain was to return to his own lands.
Iain had considered swallowing his pride and, for the sake of kinship, attempting to make amends. But the hard, unyielding look in Niall’s eyes had immediately squelched that. Iain refused to grovel or beg forgiveness for something that only existed in Niall’s jealous imagination.
A large part of Niall’s anger toward him had to be that. Jealousy over his innocent friendship with Anne. Not that Iain didn’t want her. He was too honest to deny the truth. But, until this moment, he had never considered betraying his cousin, or tried to convince his woman to leave with him. Indeed, he had risked Niall’s wrath in even bringing up the topic of Anne’s continued safety at Kilchurn. For his efforts, Iain had received threats if he dared even think of seeing her again.
There was something seriously wrong with his cousin of late, but what it was remained a mystery. Surely the death of the Lady Anne Stewart hadn’t addled Niall’s brain. Iain had seen no sign of it before. But could jealousy, then, turn a man as levelheaded as Niall into an irrational, suspicious fool?
Well, whatever it was, Iain decided, his cousin’s threats and unreasoning attitude had destroyed any lingering feelings of loyalty and affection. Though he wouldn’t seek revenge, Iain no longer felt any commitment to support Niall.
Anne would be better off with him. He’d treat her kindly, would give her the love she deserved. And, besides removing her from Niall’s cruel presence, he’d also be rescuing her from the storm of animosity and false rumors rising against her.
In the few hours since his return to Kilchurn, Iain had already heard enough foul tales about Anne to justify a burning at the stake. No, he thought with a small shudder. His plan to take Anne away had come none too soon.
With renewed resolve, Iain knocked at her door. Anne’s sweet face greeted him a moment later. He smiled.
“Iain?” Her brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “Why are ye here?”
He glanced down the corridor then took a step closer. “I need to talk with ye. May I come in?”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be seemly. Agnes isn’t here.”
“More the better. What I’ve to say is best said in private.” When she hesitated, Iain grasped her arm. “Please, Anne. Ye know ye can trust me. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
She eyed him for a moment longer, then sighed. “I know, Iain.” She stepped back. “Come in.”
He waited until she closed the door, then motioned toward it. “Bolt the door. I don’t want anyone walking in on us. I can always escape out the window.”
Her eyes widened, but she complied. “What is it, Iain? What’s wrong?”
“It isn’t safe for ye here.” He walked toward her and took her by both arms. “I want ye to come away with me.”
“It isn’t safe? Come away?” She shook her head. “Truly, Iain, ye make no sense.”
“Don’t I, lass? I haven’t been back a day, and already I see naught has changed for ye. Niall still treats ye harshly, the people have yet to befriend ye, and the witch talk about ye grows to deadly proportions. Ye’re in danger if ye stay here another moment.”
“Och, Iain.” Anne smiled and patted him on the cheek. “Always my friend and protector. But ye needn’t worry yerself over me. True, I’ve made little progress where the Campbell clan’s concerned, but it’s only a matter of time. And, once they befriend me, I feel certain the rumors will die. So ye see, it isn’t as bad as ye fear.”
“And I say ye’re blind to the truth!” He captured the hand that rested on his face and turned his lips to it. “Ye risk much in remaining here, and for what reason? Yer vows to Niall?” Iain lowered her hand to rest upon his chest. “Nay, Anne, ye owe him naught. He broke the handfasting long ago when he failed to treat ye kindly. Do ye forget I was there when he promised to strive for yer happiness and welfare?”
He paused when Anne’s gaze moved from his. With a firm hand, he grasped her chin and turned her face back to his. “Ye know the truth as well as I, lass. Come with me. I’ll love ye, care for ye as ye truly deserve.”
Anne sighed. She had thought time and distance would ease that hunger burning in Iain’s eyes. Did he realize how it tore at her heart to have to hurt him? But what choice had she now, even more than before?
“Nay, Iain,” she whispered. “I can’t go with ye. To do so would ruin yer life. Niall would come after us. He’d not give up until he killed ye. I wouldn’t have that upon my conscience.”
“And I don’t care!” Iain cried. “I love ye, Anne! It’d kill me if I left ye here and something happened to ye. Would ye have that upon yer conscience?”
“Naught will happen.” Her voice lowered in an attempt to soothe his anguish. “Niall will protect me.”
“In a pig’s eye, he will!”
“I know he would, and so do ye.” Gently, Anne disengaged herself and stepped back. “There’s more, Iain.”
“He has bedded ye, hasn’t he?”
She gave him a sad little smile. “Nay. We made vows to keep our handfasting chaste, and he’s too honorable ever to go against them. It’s why I love him.”
A grimace of pain twisted his handsome features. “Nay, Anne! Don’t say it!”
“Would my lying change what is?” she asked softly.
“But surely he doesn’t love ye. I’ve seen no sign of it—in his actions or his words.”
Anne lowered her head. “I think he feels something for me. It’s enough for now.”
“Yer goodness blinds ye to the truth!” Iain pulled her to him. “Ye’d see that in time. I should take ye away, with or without yer consent. Far from his presence, ye’d soon discover yer mistake.”
“But ye won’t.” Steadily, she returned his gaze.
A fierce battle waged within him—Anne could see it in his eyes—but, finally, he released a deep breath. “Nay, I won’t, for it’d destroy what’s between us. But if aught happens to ye, I swear I’ll come back and kill Niall. I’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t protect ye.”
“He will. He’s a good man.”
“Is he now? I used to think so, but of late I’m not so certain.” A bittersweet light in his eyes, Iain smiled down at her. “I think ye’re mayhap blinded by yer love.”
“Mayhap.”
He sighed and released her. “Well, bemoaning what I can’t have is pointless. Just swear that if Niall ever fails ye, ye’ll send word to me. I must know ye’ll do that at least.”
“I know ye’re my friend.”
“Promise me, Anne!”
She grinned. “Och, but ye’re the most persistent, pigheaded—”
“Promise me. Please, Anne.”
“I promise.”
The look in his eyes as his gaze swept over her sent a sad despair rippling through Anne. She had never meant to hurt him, but what else could she do? She had sealed her fate when she had admitted to loving Niall. There was no turning back.
Anne touched his arm. “Ye should go.”
“Aye.” He made no move.
“Now, Iain.” She gave him a small push.
Iain forced himself backward, his gaze never leaving hers. When he reached the door, he paused. “Remember yer promise, Anne.”
“I will.”
He slid the bolt aside and opened the door. Not looking back, Iain slipped from the room.
Slumped in his bedchamber chair, Niall gazed at the tongues of fire lapping their greedy way through the pile of logs. In his hand, he clasped an untouched glass of claret.
It was nearly midnight. The castle folk had long ago been sent to bed, but still he sat there, painfully, acutely awake. Niall’s eyes burned fiercely. His exhaustion weighted him so heavily that even the thought of getting up and walking to his bed required more effort than he was capable of. Yet still the blessed reprieve of sleep eluded him.
Disjointed thoughts whirled through his mind, mocking him with the futility of any possible solution. Duncan . . . Hugh . . . Iain.
Iain.
Thanks to Nelly, he knew his cousin had been up to see Anne earlier this evening. The dark-haired maidservant, whose primary duties were centered in the kitchen when she wasn’t lustily warming someone’s bed, seemed to be all over the castle of late. Niall knew he mayhap should’ve sent her away, after her lie about Anne having poisoned his father, but something had stayed him. Though her hatred for Anne may well have been the sole motive, there was yet another possibility for Nelly’s falsehood. She might be in league with the traitor. If so, she bore close watching. If so, she might ultimately lead him to the man.
She had come to him a few hours ago, still hopefully seductive, informing him she had passed by just as Anne had let Iain into her bedchamber. Though Niall had thought to deflate her eager confidence with the comment that he knew all about the meeting, he sensed his ruse hadn’t worked. Nelly hadn’t looked convinced.
His grip about the wineglass tightened. Indeed, what had gone on between Anne and Iain? He had wanted to trust her, thought he had, but the news of this latest liaison strained even his newly admitted affection for her. What possible reason could she have for letting Iain visit her?
His cousin’s motives were more than apparent. Iain wanted Anne.
But Anne—what did she want? With a mighty effort fueled by his anguish, Niall rose and walked to the hearth. Setting his glass
on the mantel, he braced his hands on the wooden overhang and stared, unseeing, into the flames.
Did Anne love Iain? Had they lain together as lovers? He’d kill Iain if they had.
A rage, white-hot and searing, grew within Niall. He was surrounded on all sides by betrayal, and the one haven in which he imagined he’d find comfort had never been more than a sweet illusion.
Och, Annie, he thought with a bittersweet pang, ye called to my heart. Yet, when I came, ye turned from me, leaving me more alone than I was before. I was a fool to have let myself trust ye . . . much less need ye.
Music, soft and lilting, floated to his ears. Niall lifted his head, wondering at its source.
It was Anne, playing her clarsach.
He turned from the hearth. She was awake. Dare he go to her, as confused and exhausted as he was? He risked betraying too much. It would be wiser to avoid her.
Yet, even as he admitted the fact, Niall’s legs were carrying him toward the door. Though he dare not trust his heart to her, the physical solace of her body was safe enough. Vows or no, she owed him that much.
Anne couldn’t sleep. Exhausted from the emotionally draining day, she had gone to bed early but, once there, could only toss and turn. A jumble of thoughts and impressions assailed her. The haggard look of grief on Niall’s face as they lowered his father into the grave. The strain of the supper meal, from which she had excused herself as soon as it was considered proper. And then, after everything else, the unexpected surprise of Iain’s visit.
That, mayhap most of all, nibbled at Anne, driving all hope of rest from her mind. What was she to do about Iain? The chance of Niall hearing about Iain’s visit was too great to ignore. There were too many in Kilchurn eager for her downfall for her not to consider the possibility. And if Niall should hear of this latest news from anyone but her, Anne feared it might drive the final wedge between them. More than aught else, Anne didn’t want that to happen.
She never wanted to be a problem to Niall again. All she desired was to be close, to comfort and support him. To be everything to him, to the extent of his need. He might not ever love her, at least not like he had loved the Lady Anne Stewart, but what he was capable of giving she would accept and cherish.
Love was like that, she supposed, especially when it finally turned your brain to a pile of mush. With a sigh, Anne rose from her bed and donned her warm bed robe. She walked over to stare out the stone-cut window.
What time was it? At least midnight by her calculations. Far too late to speak to Niall tonight about Iain, no matter how desperately she needed to tell him. The admission would have to wait for the morrow.
Her clarsach lay beside the oaken bench beneath the window. Anne picked it up, nestling its curved frame in the crook of her arm. Her fingers strummed the taut strings, coaxing a hauntingly sweet melody from the vibrating strands. The music soothed her, easing the raw ache in her heart.
How she wanted to go to Niall, to feel the strength of his arms about her, to bury her face in the comforting warmth of his chest! But that was not to be. Niall’s need for rest was of greater import than her petty desires.
She jumped at the sound of her bedchamber door opening, her fingers striking a discordant note. Anne turned, and her startled gaze met Niall’s. He stood there, his stance wide-legged, still dressed in the garb he had worn all day. His chest heaved with some barely repressed emotion.
She laid down her clarsach and rose. “What is it, m’lord? Did my playing waken ye?”
A sudden surge of tenderness flooded him. She stood there dressed in a simple white nightdress beneath her open bed robe, her curly mane cascading about her shoulders and down her back. She looked so beguiling, so sweetly girlish—and so innocent of any wrongdoing.
The anger ebbed, leaving only a curious, quivering ache in the middle of his chest. He was too weary for a battle tonight. Too overwhelmed with the events of the past few days to face the truth. The morrow was soon enough to deal with the unpleasant task of confronting her.
But now, now what he needed was rest. Perhaps Anne’s songs would soothe him to it.
He sighed and shook his head. “Nay, lass, I was never asleep. I but heard yer music and thought to ask ye to play for me. Ye used to play for my father.” His lips curved into a wistful smile. “Will ye do so as willingly for me?”
Anne nodded. “Aye, of course I will, and gladly.”
Niall motioned to her clarsach. “Dress, then bring yer harp and meet me in the library.”
Ten minutes later, she joined Niall in the library. The room was dark save for the small circle of light cast by the hearth fire. He pulled up a tall-backed chair to face his before the fireplace, then glanced at Anne.
“It’s warmest here. Come, seat yerself.”
Anne forced herself to move forward. She had thought she had until the morrow to tell Niall about Iain. Instead, the time was now upon her.
It was too late to turn back. That choice had been made when she revealed her love for Niall to Iain. She owed Niall at least the same honesty she had shown his cousin. And that honesty began with telling him about Iain’s visit this eve. But how to begin? How to tell him without stirring afresh Niall’s anger against his cousin? Anne settled herself in the chair, but the strings of her clarsach remained silent.
At the worried chewing of her lip, Niall cocked a questioning brow. He motioned toward her harp. “Have ye no song for me, lady?”
“Aye, but first I’ve something to speak of.” Anne imagined he could hear the pounding of her heart from where he stood.
He waved her words aside with a movement of his hand. “In time, lass. But first, a song.”
“What would ye like to hear, m’lord?” Both relieved and frustrated to put the matter aside, if only temporarily, Anne took her seat.
“A song of love,” he replied finally, his voice a low growl as he seated himself opposite her. “About the enchantment of a beautiful woman.”
Anne swallowed hard. The deeper meaning to his words sent a small shiver of excitement through her. Her fingers, seemingly of their own accord, strummed the opening notes. “Mayhap ye’d like the ‘Vision of a Fair Woman’ then? It’s an ancient Celtic song.”
Niall nodded. His eyes, burning with an inner intensity, so mesmerized Anne that the song flowed from her lips without conscious effort. Her voice rose and fell with the melody, breathless at first but growing stronger with each haunting phrase. And, all the while, Niall watched her.
Tell us some of the charms of the stars:
Close and well set were her ivory teeth;
White as the canna upon the moor
Was her bosom the tartan bright beneath.
Her well-rounded forehead shone
Soft and fair as the mountain snow;
Her two breasts were heaving full;
To them did the hearts of heroes flow . . .
Like some Highland cat he watched her, motionless, tense with waiting, but waiting for what? Anne felt like a doe, alone, poised for flight, sensing danger but not knowing from whence it came. And all the while Niall, the dark, powerful animal, sat there, watching . . . waiting.
. . . her countenance looked like the gentle buds
Unfolding their beauty in early spring;
Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills;
And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring . . .
The closing stanza ended in a breathless whisper as Anne’s throat constricted. She had never seen eyes quite like his, smoldering golden-brown in the dim firelight. They glowed with some otherworldly fire. They beckoned her toward a heady oblivion she was helpless to resist. Her fingers fell from the strings.
“That night ye learned of the land charter,” he said, his deep voice shattering the suddenly heavy silence, “ye begged me to free ye from our handfasting.”
She barely had breath to reply. “Aye?”
Niall leaned forward. “Do ye still wish that?”
The question dissipated the dreamlike trance that had followed Anne into the room. Why was he asking this? Of all times, when she felt herself hanging on the abyss of surrendering everything to him, why was Niall asking such a question?
Did he need some pretense to free himself now that he was about to secure his position as chief? Mayhap he had finally admitted she was more hindrance than pleasure, that her unpopularity with his clan would never improve.
Or mayhap there was some other reason. Mayhap, just mayhap, Niall was attempting to plumb the depths of her commitment to him. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The truth remained the same.
“Nay, I don’t wish to be freed from our handfasting.” Anne laid her harp on the floor beside her chair, then squarely met his gaze.
“My place is with ye, for as long as ye’ll have me.”
“And why do ye want to stay, lass?” Her grip tightened on the chair arm. “Because I love ye.”
“Do ye?” he asked with a mocking smile. “As much as ye love Iain?”
“I don’t understand.” Unease spiraled through her. How could he be so calm, so casual, about her heart-wrenching admission? “What have my feelings for Iain to do with ye?”
Niall shrugged. “I was but attempting to determine the extent of yer loyalty. Whom do ye love more, Anne? Iain or me?”
She struggled to stand, tears glimmering in her eyes. “Ye mock me, mock the honest admission of my feelings for ye, to ask such a thing! Why would ye want to hurt me like that?”
“Hurt ye?” Niall leapt to his feet. “And can aught I say or do compare with what ye’ve wrought by yer liaison with Iain this eve? Answer me that!”
Anne blanched. He knows, and because of my hesitation I’ve lost the chance to tell him myself. He’ll never believe me now.
“I was afraid of this.” Anne sighed, lowering herself back to her chair. Her gaze slid to her hands clasped in her lap. “There are no secrets in this castle, however benign they may be.”
“Allow me to be the judge of that,” Niall said, his voice dangerously soft.
Anne met his fierce gaze. “There’s little to tell at any rate. Iain was simply concerned for my welfare.”
“And was it necessary to seek out the privacy of yer bedchamber to do so?” He paused. “Was Agnes with ye?”
“Nay.” Even in the firelight, she could see the dark flush that suffused Niall’s face. “Naught happened,” Anne hastened to explain, panic rising within her. “I swear it!”
“Mayhap not.” His voice was taut with barely contained fury. “It’s difficult to judge without knowing the real reason for my cousin’s visit. What was it, lass?”
She hesitated. The same dilemma confronted her as before. How was she to tell Niall the truth without betraying Iain?
“I await yer answer, madam.”
The hard edge to his voice prodded her to action. She wet her lips, then hurried on. “I’ll tell ye and gladly, if only ye’ll swear Iain will come to no harm because of it.”
“I’ll make no oath on that! If ye think to protect his deceit—”
“There was no deceit!” Anne cried. “He but wanted to take me away with him, away from all the hatred here against me. He was concerned for my safety, that’s all!”
“And I say ye lie! Ye’re lovers, aren’t ye?”
In one quick step Niall was before her, pulling Anne into the unyielding hardness of his body. She gazed up into eyes blazing with anger and, surprisingly, a tortured pain. For a moment, she couldn’t find her breath. Then it came, expelled on a shuddering whisper.
“Och, nay. Nay, Niall. I don’t love Iain, at least not in the way ye mean.”
Niall’s grip tightened painfully. Anne squirmed in his grasp.
“Niall, please. Ye’re hurting me.”
He released her with a jerk and gave a shaky laugh. “Then we’re even. But don’t mistake my acceptance of this as trust. Too many times have yer path and Iain’s crossed for me to ignore—or forgive!”
“Forgive?” Anne’s temper finally got the best of her. “There’s naught to forgive, ye suspicious, pigheaded dolt! Och, I don’t know why I thought telling ye would’ve made a difference, if I ever had the chance! But, nay, no sooner was the deed done than yer people came running to tell ye everything. Do ye trust me so little ye must surround yerself with spies?”
Niall turned toward the hearth. “I can’t afford to trust anyone just now. Ye know how precarious my position as chief is.”
“Aye, and I suppose I should accept that I must also, of necessity, be considered a threat to yer precious chieftainship.”
She paused, as an insight into the source of his continued mistrust suddenly struck her. “This isn’t solely an issue of jealousy, is it? Of yer fears that Iain and I are lovers?” Anne took a deep, shuddering breath. “Nay, it’s of far greater import. Like, mayhap, that Iain’s yer traitor?”