Chapter Eleven

Adam strode across the sun-filled meadow where the Macleans had set up several events, including the caber toss and axe throwing. Tables laid out with sweets, cider, and mead were draped with brightly colored cloths.

He whistled a tune he hadn’t heard since he was a child and realized it had been one of his father’s favorites before his mother died. He smiled at the memory of John Macquarie escorting his wife around a festival on this very hillside. She had made his eyes twinkle and his smile easy.

Now Adam would be able to escort Lark. He’d left her sleeping after a night of loving. When he’d seen Meg Maclean below, he’d asked her to have a maid wake Lark if she did not rouse before mid-morning. He continued the jaunty melody, the sun seeming to smile down on him.

“What the bloody hell is coming out of your mouth?” Beck asked, sullen as usual in the early morning. His hair was sticking up, and he had a small towel and ball of soap.

“Heading to the creek?” Adam asked.

“Aye, Callum says I stink of whisky and ale.” He narrowed his eyes. “I have never heard ye whistle.”

Adam shrugged, watching a bird fly overhead. “I think I will start.” He smiled. “Da used to.”

Beck’s brows slowly rose as his eyes opened wide. He glanced at the castle and then back at Adam, and a wicked grin tipped up one side of his mouth. “So, ye finally made that marriage real, eh?”

“Go take your bath. No woman is going to wed a man who stinks of whisky and ale.”

Beck walked off chuckling as Callum jogged up to Adam. “I have signed us up for the caber toss. There are a number of lasses I intend to impress.”

Adam chuckled. “Make certain they know about Ulva before asking them to wed.”

Callum snorted, his smile sharpening into a wry grin. “Everyone on Mull already knows about the curse.”

Adam watched another bird soaring in the breeze above them. “I will talk to Tor Maclean about the curse being broken with Lark coming to the isle. We need to convince a few Macleans to come live there.”

“Broken?” Callum said. “What about the hanging poppet and unearthed bones that ye told him about yesterday?”

“’Tis the work of an old woman who plays pranks,” Adam said as they walked up to Drostan on the meadow above Aros.

“Grissell could not even walk to the village, let alone dig holes through it until she risked entering the church to find Wilyam Macquarie’s bones,” Callum said. “And why go to all that trouble to find them and then not take them?”

“Why the bloody hell are ye talking about that here?” Drostan asked in a gruff whisper. He looked slick from the sword practice that Adam had forfeited that dawn in order to make Lark yell out his name one more time.

“Adam bloody told Tor about it yesterday,” Callum said.

Adam crossed his arms. “I gave Tor my oath to tell him everything about the isle as we resettled it. He can send warriors over to help us remove a single old crone if need be.”

“A witch,” Callum said. “Not just a crone, and a bastard at that.”

“Again,” Drostan said sternly as he nodded to a group of giggling lasses wandering by. “Why are ye talking about this out here? Are we not supposed to be finding lasses willing to come live there?”

Adam glanced about but saw no one that could overhear them. Still, he lowered his voice. “Lark spoke with Aunt Ida after the wedding. She says the curse says nothing about bastards living on the isle, just that we cannot father any on the isle.”

“How about off the isle?” Callum asked.

Drostan hit him hard in the arm. “No bringing bastards into the world at all.”

Callum rolled his eyes. “I was jesting. Da told us that enough that I practically hear it every time I glance at a lass.” He looked at Adam. “Speaking of lasses, ask Lark to invite some of her new friends to Ulva,” Callum said. “She must want more women on the isle with her. Ye know, to do things that lasses do together.”

“Such as?” Drostan asked.

Callum shrugged. “Baking, watching us train, making delicious tarts for us, fluffing bedding and picking flowers. Oh, and making tapestries. We need more on Gylin’s walls.”

Drostan snorted and turned toward the road. He let out a low exhale, his lips forming an O as his brows lifted. “Lord, Adam, ye may want to stay by Lark’s side today.”

Adam turned to see Lark walking along the path toward the field. She was still far away, but the new gown she had borrowed from Tor’s daughter fit her form well, cinching her waist in a deep green, the color of ferns in the summer forest. Curls cascaded in red glory down her straight back, and as she nodded and passed several Maclean men, they stared, several of them catching up to her on both sides.

“She has a bloody wedding band on her finger,” Adam said, his words like a growl. Damn randy fools.

“I do not think they are looking at her finger,” Callum said, making Adam’s fists clench. He left his brothers on the field, striding away like a slide of rocks down a mountain. Several glanced toward him and retreated, leaving one lad smiling foolishly down at her.

“I will be tossing the caber in a bit,” the lad said. “Can I have your favor for the contest, a ribbon perhaps for luck?”

“The only man she will be favoring is her husband,” Adam said. The lad blanched as he caught Adam’s look.

He nodded, gave Lark a tight smile, and hurried off with the rest of his fool friends, several laughing at him.

“He was only being kind,” Lark said, her smile softening her tone. The swell of her breasts teased the edge of the lace smock poking up from her bodice worked in green plaid. She took Adam’s arm.

“He was leering at ye,” Adam said, his irritation still high. “Even though ye wear my ring.” He looked down on Lark as they walked. From his height, he could practically see down her bodice, or at least imagine that he could. His jack agreed. “I will find a shawl for ye,” he said.

“I do not want to cover up the lovely costume Meg brought me to wear. I wonder if I can purchase it from her.”

“Ye look too bonny this morning,” he said, his frown relaxing as he leaned in to place a gentle kiss on her lips. “I thought ye would sleep longer,” he whispered near her ear. “Ye seemed fairly exhausted after ye screamed my name right before dawn.”

A slight flush pinkened her cheeks, but she smiled mischievously. “And you fell asleep within minutes of roaring my name.”

The side of his mouth went up in a half grin. “We will head back early to Aros to catch up on our sleep. A nap will do us both good.”

“Sleep? Really?” she drew out with a wry smile. “Somehow I do not think I will feel like sleeping when you come to nap with me.” This teasing between them was easy and comfortable. Aye, marriage was good. A bonny, sweet wife would bring forth a brood of children and a settled isle. Lark was brave and lush and would help him see his clan established and his oath fulfilled. Trust, the most important aspect of marriage to her, was already growing between them.

Beck strode across from the stream, his hair wet. “Glad to see ye up and happy this morn, sister,” he said, a smile tugging his mouth. “Adam was whistling when I first saw him. He has never whistled before.” Beck ignored Adam’s frown and trudged off toward the field where warriors and lasses were gathering for the start of the contests.

“Maybe I can sign up to throw my sgian dubh,” she said and patted her leg as if she had a weapon tied beneath the petticoat.

“We will head over after the caber toss. Callum signed us up,” Adam said, his gaze scanning the circle of warriors. Liam stood talking to the priest from Glencoe who had wed them.

“I heard you won the toss at the Beltane Festival,” she said, her words low. “Impressive.” He turned, meeting her smile, and felt a lightness in his chest.

Colorful tents were set up, and the bride and groom, from the wedding yesterday, were heralded onto the field with cheering. Small clusters of visiting MacLeods stood nearby. Had the groom ordered them not to start trouble? Liam’s sister, Julia, seemed happy about the marriage even though she would move off Mull to the MacLeod’s territory on Skye. Perhaps the groom was an exception to their foolish warring nature.

“My mother used to take me to festivals with my sisters,” Lark said as they walked. The wind tugged at her curls, making them dance down her back and across her slender shoulders. He remembered kissing the smooth skin between them, inhaling her sweet scent from under the silky mass at her nape while she slept.

“I had heard…that she had died,” Adam said, and her smile turned sad.

“Two years ago from consumption.”

“I am sorry.”

“Thank you,” she said and inhaled, squeezing his hand where their fingers were intertwined.

Ahead, all four of his brothers waited for them, nodding a greeting to Lark. Adam pointed across the field. “There is Meg. Ye can stand with her, and then we can sign ye up for tossing daggers after the caber toss.”

“Come on,” Eagan said. “They are lining up, and lads are inspecting the logs.”

“Those are MacLeods over there,” Lark said, frowning at his brothers and then Adam. “No fighting. Slicing off heads at a festival will not attract wives and will surely upset Julia.”

“See,” Callum said. “Lark wants more lasses on Ulva, too.” He looked at her. “So don’t ye go telling them about the hanging poppet and falling on bones.”

“Only if it comes up in conversation,” Lark said without cracking a smile.

“Good morn,” called a foreign-sounding voice. Adam turned to see the priest, but what pulled his attention was the sudden weight against his side.

“Lark?” he said low. “Are ye unwell?”

“I…I am surprised to see anyone I recognize,” she said haltingly. A flush had covered her chest and neck, and a look that could only be described as dread washed over her features.

Before Adam could question her, the man walked up to their group, nodding to Beck. “I thought I recognized you two yesterday when that MacLeod was trying to start trouble.” His gaze slid to Lark, and he smiled. “And the lovely young Beltane bride given away by Roylin Montgomerie.”

“Father Lowder,” Lark said. “I did not know you traveled this far north or onto the western isles.”

“I travel to many lands to bring the word of God.” He reached inside his robes. “And sometimes to carry news. A letter from your sister.” He smiled as he handed it to her.

“Thank you,” Lark said and tugged it. The letter didn’t come away from his fingers, and he grinned as if playing a game until he finally let go.

“From where do ye hale?” Adam asked, frowning at the slight tremble he glanced in Lark’s hand as she unfolded the parchment. “Your accent is like nothing I have heard.” Was she frightened of the priest or what news he might bring?

The vicar smiled, his teeth bright in his tan face. “I grew up on the continent, but my father sailed the seas, and I went with him. I suppose I picked up the accent of the heathens on the southern isles.”

“I imagine ye have vastly interesting tales of adventure on the sea,” Beck said.

Lowder laughed. “That I do.”

“And now ye travel across Scotland marrying Beltane brides?” Adam asked.

Lowder’s chuckle sounded lofty. “As of late. There are a lot of blessings needed in this trampled country. The damned King Henry of England stealing from Catholic churches down there and sending troops north.” He shrugged, his shoulders broad under his robes. “I do what I can to help.”

“I have a question for ye, Father,” Eagan said.

Adam watched Lark as she unfolded the missive, her eyes scanning the words. There had been no seal on the parchment, and Adam looked back to the priest. Would a man of God read a letter not meant for him?

Lowder smiled at Adam’s youngest brother. “What is it you wish to know, my son?”

“How does one break an evil curse?” Eagan asked.

“The curse is not real,” Adam said.

“But if it is,” Eagan said, “we need to know how to break it. And ye have not asked a priest about it as far as I know.” He had not. Any cleric that their father had asked had said the isle was tainted with evil but that he could give rights of it over to the church to see it cleansed. He eventually stopped asking, fearing that all of them were corrupt.

“A curse?” Father Lowder asked, his brow rising.

“Aye, on Ulva Isle.” Callum pointed. “West of Mull. It was cursed by a witch a century ago, and no women have thrived on it since.”

“There is a witch living on the isle, too,” Drostan said. “Aunt Ida told Lark that the curse only states that bastards cannot be born of us on the isle, not that one cannot live on it.”

“We still do not know the specific details,” Beck said, frowning. “What if we father a bastard off isle and bring it on the isle?”

“That is what I asked,” Callum said.

Adam cut a sharp glance to Callum. “It is superstition.” Was this talk making Lark worry? But she didn’t seem to be listening as she continued to read the letter, finally looking up, her gaze far away.

The priest’s face scrunched as if he were thinking hard. “Satan’s evil cannot touch a woman of purity and virtue, one with a clean heart and body, a woman with a godly past. With God’s protection, she could thrive, and her virtue could break the curse.”

One by one, his brothers turned their faces to Lark. As if suddenly hearing the priest’s words, her frown sharpened. A clean heart, purity, and virtue? What husband would want that in his bed? Not he. Lark had been like fire undulating under him last night, teasing him with her touches and impure words, heating his blood and joining him as they came together. He wouldn’t pray, ask, or wish for anything else.

“Perhaps ye should come to Ulva,” Eagan said. “And bless her… The isle, that is.”

“I would be happy to visit,” Father Lowder said with a beaming smile. He turned to Lark, holding out an arm. “I can escort you over to Lady Maclean and her daughter, to watch at a safe distance, milady.”

Lark felt stiff next to Adam. “I will take ye over,” he said.

“’Tis no trouble,” the priest said, grinning. “I am headed there now.” He held out his arm.

When Lark did not move forward, Adam began to walk with her on his own arm. Meg met them halfway and took Lark’s other arm. “I will take you over to stand with us,” she said. “Adam, you go off and show us how you throw the cabers.” Meg smiled almost wickedly between them. Had she heard Lark’s cries of bliss through the walls of Aros?

“I am well,” Lark said and gave him a tight smile. The priest had walked on and now stood talking to Lady Ava. Adam nodded and returned to his brothers.

“He has the build of a warrior,” Beck said, shaking his head. “A shame he’s a priest and won’t take up a sword.”

“We will need a man to hold mass in the chapel on Ulva once we resurrect it,” Eagan said and snorted at his own humor while Adam continued to watch Father Lowder. Was it a coincidence he had come up this way? Perhaps when he found out Anna Montgomerie wanted to send word to Lark, he had traveled north to Mull with the MacLeods attending the Beltane Festival.

Adam’s frown grew as he walked with his brothers up to the line of cabers. Bloody damn hell. Iain MacLeod stood beyond, watching them. He had dark circles under his narrowed eyes from Adam’s punch last eve. He and his men were dressed in crisp kilts and had removed their shirts. Maclean lasses lined up to watch them while the lads pretended not to notice.

Liam Maclean walked along the line of cabers. “Ever since ye kicked his arse on Ulva, he wants ye dead,” he said to Adam.

Adam turned his glare on Liam. “Speaking of kicking an arse, why the bloody hell were ye telling Lark I’d slept with many women?”

Liam’s smile dropped away, but he didn’t have time to respond.

“Damn, Macquarie,” Iain yelled down the slope. “I am still surprised ye aren’t dead on that cursed isle of yours.” The lasses bent their heads together, whispering.

“How is your beak feeling this morn?” Callum asked, thumbing his nose at him.

Iain frowned, his lips curling back like a hungry mongrel. “’Twas an unfair punch,” he said and looked to Adam. “Shall we take another go at it?”

“What was unfair about it?” Adam asked. “Ye tried to start a clan war, and I broke your nose. Seems like an even trade.”

Iain slammed his fist into his palm, his scowl showing clenched yellow teeth.

“Feeling brave with your pack of cousins here to back ye up,” Eagan said. There were at least ten MacLeods on the hill, outnumbering them easily.

Iain shot his hand in the air, his thumb caught in a rude gesture, but looked to Adam. The group of shirtless MacLeods shifted, letting one press through them. Adam recognized Fergus MacLeod from the Beltane Festival, one of Lark’s tenacious suitors, hatred evident in his glare. Had he followed her there, bringing Father Lowder with Anna’s letter?

Iain tsked. “I hear ye tricked a lass into wedding ye.”

“Foking tricked her into giving up her life to work on your cursed isle,” Fergus added as he stalked closer.

Iain crossed his arms over his hairy chest and nodded to where Lark stood across the field. The bastard was going to get his damn nose punched again. But Adam wouldn’t be the one to start the fight even if he would surely finish it. No fighting. Lark’s reminder kept his boots rooted to the ground.

Iain turned to look at the row of women behind him. “Be that a lesson to ye, lasses, not to believe anything the Macquaries say to ye.”

Drostan took two strides uphill, but Beck stopped him with a hard clasp on his shoulder. “Adam told her everything about Ulva before she wed him,” Beck said. Not completely true, but Adam had tried. Even so, the comment was like a thin needle twisting in his gut.

Several of Iain’s cousins moved to stand before each of his brothers with Iain and Fergus confronting Adam together.

“Ye fools thinking to impress the lasses by picking a fight, MacLeod?” Adam asked, his face blank with apathy. His brows rose slowly. “Because they will not be thinking much of ye with missing teeth, broken faces, and a pint or two less blood.”

Iain smiled crookedly while Fergus held his scowl. “I am heartily glad the curse hasn’t finished ye off already,” Iain said.

Drostan chuckled, the sound tinged with dark contempt. “Ye afraid of curses? Because I am certain that many of them have been placed against your life, Iain MacLeod.”

Iain spit. “Ye letting your wee brothers talk on their own? They will get themselves into trouble that way.” The belligerent arse must wish for an early grave. Adam’s wee brothers were as tall as he, which meant taller than any MacLeod there, and twice as toned and talented with a sword.

“Shut the fok up,” Eagan said, and Callum stepped in front of him to stop him from charging into the line of war-ready clansmen. His brothers were always hungry for a chance to battle the slander said against their diminished clan. It was both their weakness and their strength, their fury feeding their frenzy for vengeance.

No fighting. Mo chreach.

Iain grinned. “Aye, keep the rascal under control else he will end up dead on this isle instead of on yer own. Isn’t that where Macquaries go to die? Wolf Isle?” He laughed, and his men joined him. Adam breathed evenly, his temper kept in check with the discipline he worked hard to hone. A chief must rule his wants with wisdom, which required a level head and thoughtful restraint.

“’Tis a shame ye’ve wed,” Iain continued, his gaze slid past Adam to settle on Lark. “She will end up as dead as your mother and then no lass will step foot on your cursed isle.”

Snap. It was as if the iron chain Adam held on his rage ripped apart. One, two, three steps, and he caught Iain’s collar in his fist. War erupted around him as his brothers leaped forward, attacking the other MacLeod cousins. But Adam was intent on slamming his fist into Iain’s gut. Foking bastard. Leering at Lark and thinking of her dead, blaming it on him for bringing her to Wolf Isle like his father brought his mother. Bloody foking bastard.

Fergus charged forward to grab Adam along with a third, but Liam Maclean jumped in, slamming the other man with a well-aimed fist while Adam threw Fergus to the ground. He followed his momentum with a kick, sending him sprawling into the dirt before turning back to Iain, who held his nose that once again dripped blood. Adam lifted Iain up around the middle, propping him above his head to spin him in a tight circle.

“Put me down! Ye are a foking dead man!” Iain yelled, his blood flying out from his nose with the force of the spin. Adam threw him like he was a boulder in the stone throwing contest, his body thudding against the hard ground followed by a groan.

Adam pivoted back to see that several Macleans had jumped in, as well as Rabbie, to support his brothers, making the sides even, and he surged forward to help. Fists flew, and large bodies were shoved, falling amongst the shrieking women who had lined up to watch the caber contest. A pack of dogs ran amongst them, barking and adding to the chaos. Drostan and Callum each had a MacLeod in the air over their heads while Beck defended them against several who ran forward. His brothers threw the MacLeods onto the heavily laden tables of sweets and drinks. Dishes crashed to the ground as the table broke under their combined weight, and the entire tent shifted, falling over.

Everywhere, men wrestled, most Macleans joining in to help the Macquaries like they had all their lives. Without the Macleans, the other clans would have wiped the Macquaries out decades ago. Why then did their help strum more anger inside Adam?

Half covered with jam and honey ale, the two MacLeods hurled themselves back into the fight, attacking Callum and Drostan, who grappled with them to end up clasping them in wrestling holds around their thick necks. Luckily for the MacLeods, no swords were drawn.

Eagan’s anger made him swing wildly, taking down a MacLeod with sheer battle frenzy, but his youthful anger made him take risks. Adam ran to him, guarding his back and shoving away two other MacLeods bent on knocking Eagan into the ground.

“Enough!” Tor Maclean’s voice cut through the grunts and curses of battle. “I said enough,” Tor yelled again. He and Keir MacKinnon stood on the outskirts of the brawl. Tor grabbed several MacLeods from the clutches of Adam’s brothers, as did his tattooed friend. “’Tis a friendly competition, not a bloody war.”

Adam’s arms lowered, his fists unclenching, and he wiped blood from his hands on a cloth he carried tied to his belt. His gaze ran down the line of his brothers. Eagan had a broken lip that would need to be stitched, and blood leaked from cuts on all their knuckles. Rabbie was sitting on a caber, sweat over his face but very little blood. The MacLeods looked worse by far.

Iain clutched a rag to his nose as he drew in fast breaths and pointed at Adam. “He threw the first punch.”

“Because ye said his new wife would die like his mother did on his isle,” Liam yelled.

“We can add a public flogging to the games,” Keir added, his tattoos of little crosses and Celtic circles adding to the promise of pain in his even voice. How the man had convinced his sweet, mild wife, Grace, to marry him was a mystery.

“As much as ye’d like to, Keir,” Tor said, “I would not taint Julia’s wedding with screams and more blood.”

Liam wiped his lip with a swipe of his finger. “Appreciated. For Julia’s sake, let’s keep the public displays of blood at a minimum. My sister is squeamish.” He took a deep breath and looked at the mess of broken dishes, tables, and scattered food. “As it is, she is going to cry at the loss of her favorite tarts. Damn, and her stack of wedding buns.” The white pastries lay scattered in the grass where several of the older women tried to salvage them.

As if on cue, a wailing began, and they all turned to see Julia Maclean MacLeod run up the hill toward them, her groom, Rearden, chasing after her. Lark, with Meg Maclean, were following briskly, menacing frowns in place.

Beck huffed in resignation. “Shite. Here comes Lark.”

“Damn, she looks mad enough to stab us,” Callum cursed, his voice low.

“Ye should have seen how she handled those thieves on our journey here,” Beck whispered, his hands folding in front of his ballocks.

Lark marched toward them, her eyes snapping with fury. She cut them all a look of pure reprimand and bent down to help console Julia, who wailed over the toppling of the confection in white sugar work. Tor’s wife joined in, all of them helping to pick the little cakes up, brushing them gently. But there was no whole table on which to set them.

Eagan tried to help, but when he dripped blood on one, and Julia started crying louder, he retreated to Adam. Beck and Callum went forward to help while Drostan glared at the MacLeods, waiting for them to dive back in.

“Find a whole table,” Tor ordered, and four of the Macleans ran off.

Adam stepped up to Tor. “Chief Maclean, apologies.”

Tor’s face was as hard as Adam’s, but his mouth softened as he met his gaze. His voice lowered. “A settled spirit in a man keeps his head level.” He exhaled. “Ye have the dedication of your father. Do not let others divert ye from your goals.” He shook his head “Men like Iain MacLeod create diversions.” Tor glanced toward Iain where one of the Maclean lasses peered up his nose. “Ye should wonder what the reason is behind them.”

Adam nodded to the wise chief. “Thank ye for your loyalty to the Macquaries and for letting us live amongst ye for generations.”

“Ye are always welcome,” Tor said. “Although…” He nodded to the mess and wailing behind Adam.

“Bloody Macquaries,” the groom yelled out as he drew his bride into his arms, anger flashing in his eyes as he stared across at Adam.

Lark stepped up. “I am so sorry, Chief Maclean, for this mess. Thank you for the invitation to Mull and Aros,” she said, her voice even. “We will be departing now to prevent any further disturbance within the families representing the couple.” She nodded and turned on her heel to walk away.

Beck’s mouth dropped open. “We have not competed yet.”

“He says we are still welcome,” Eagan said, his lip dripping profusely.

“Adam was but defending your honor,” Drostan called after her.

Fergus MacLeod leaped forward to follow her, dirt smeared on his ruddy cheek. He grabbed Lark’s wrist, swinging her around. “Your bloody da meant ye for me or for anyone he could sell ye off to. But not a cursed Macquarie.”

That foking devil!

“Adam, hold on,” Tor said, his hand braced on Adam’s shoulder.

“Ye will lose your hand and your bloody tongue,” Adam yelled at Fergus.

Fergus’s meaty hand still held Lark’s wrist. “Your father wants ye back, ye know. Sent me to fetch ye for him,” Fergus continued. “He cannot stop talking of ye. Drinks himself into a fit and says—”

“He is not my father,” Lark yelled. With a jerk and twist of her arm, she yanked her wrist free. Drawing the sgian dubh, her glare pierced Fergus. But Adam didn’t give her a chance to stab the arse. He walked up behind Fergus and slammed one hand into the man’s shoulder. Fergus swung around with the force, and Adam’s fist smashed into his jaw, knocking him on his arse as Lark jumped back.

Fergus was sprawled on the ground, his eyes barely able to focus, so Adam crouched low. “Never touch or speak to my wife again.” Fergus spit, glaring, the sounds of another fight in the background.

Lark spun away from the scene. Not her father? What did that mean? Who was Lark’s father? She flew down the hill, Meg chasing after her. Adam exhaled a smothered curse.

“Enough!” Tor yelled behind him, but Adam continued to watch Lark hurry away. “Or ye all will be thrown off the Isle of Mull.”

Lark gave the bride a hug where she still cried on the path then said a few words to Ava Maclean and Meg. She shook her head when Father Lowder approached, the curls still tumbling down her back, looking silky and fragrant. Lark glanced back at him, her face blank, and turned to walk toward the docks.

Drostan ran up to him. “Do we go then?”

“Aye. See to the barge,” Adam said. Sell her off? What did Fergus MacLeod mean by that? Who was Roylin Montgomerie if he was not her father? Why did she live with him, and why would he want to sell her off and then send Fergus to fetch her back?

The questions around Lark were adding up into a bigger mystery than Wolf Isle.