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“But you fight for family,” she said, “and it's a good fight.  Without it, Jean wouldn't have a home anyway. Not really.  Not with the Campbell to contend with.”

MacColla gave her a small smile. “Are you trying to convince me?”

“No. I know.” She reached to him, without thinking,  gripped the tartan at his chest. “I know it's a good fight.  But… ”

“But what, lass?”

“But… ” She looked him in the eyes. They were warm and  open, and Haley marveled how much had changed in a  short time. She took in the whole of him then. He'd bathed

earlier, and the smell of soap clung to him, mingling with  the scent of his skin, something like leather  and wool and  musk.

His face was scraped clean, and the dim firelight outlined his strong jaw with a golden glow. He'd washed his hair too, she could tell from the fullness of it, resting wavy and light along his shoulders.

Haley truly looked at the man before her, and she felt a sharp stabbing in her chest, some untold emotion splintering her heart in two.

She belonged at home. She missed her father and mother, her brothers. Ached with the uncertainty  - of what had happened, what they were doing right now, what they must think. Most of all, she wondered just how, and when, she'd be able to go back to them once more.

And yet, she wanted to be able to stay here, with MacColla too, just a little while longer.

He watched her, waiting with those brown eyes t hat seemed to soften now for her, and she thought that this man had changed something deep inside her. She realized, in that moment, that he mattered to her.

Though uncertain what to say, she had the bone -deep knowledge that she needed to say something. To tell him
something
.

But what, and how much?

She knew. MacColla was to die. She knew there would be a

battle, that it was in Ireland. But she didn't know why or

when.

He'd die and leave behind so many people who depended on him.

Would she still be there when it happened? Would he leave

her
 
behind?

Urgency stabbed her, turning the biscuit to stone in her belly.

She wished she remembered her history. Exactly what happened, exactly when. “Just be wary of Ireland,” she told him finally.

“Of Ireland?” He looked taken aback. “What do you know of

Ireland?”

“I know that it's… dangerous.”

He laughed at her. “Dangerous?”

“I'm serious.” She deflated, sagging against the counter at

her back. “I assume you're going back there?”

“Aye, and soon. To gather more  men for the fight.”

“Just… ” Haley wondered how to tell this man that she

could predict his future, that she knew where he'd die.

She felt suddenly, unutterably sad. The sense that there might be something she could do nagged at hen that there was something she
 
needed
 
to do, but she didn't know what

it was.

“Just… please. Please be careful, MacColla.”

* * *

Haley fell at once into a deep and dreamless sleep. For the first time in days, she was sated, feeling full and warm and deliciously exhausted.

She hadn't even had the wherewithal to fully undress. Or the desire. The hideous contraption that was her corset had the ironic effect of binding her injured muscles. When  Jean had first laced her into it, Haley had been nearly lightheaded with relief.

And  so, after MacColla helped her back to her room, she'd crawled right into bed, corset and all, sighing straightaway into the mound of pillows, where she slept propped comfortably upright.

But then she was suddenly awake again. A hand was clamped over her mouth, and for a single sleep -drenched moment, Haley thought,
 
she hoped
, that MacColla had come for her in the night.

She roused to skim the surface of wakefulness.

MacColla.
 
It was a relief. He'd come to take her. He wanted

her, and his wanting of her made Haley recognize how

much she wanted him too.

Her body loosened at the thought. She
 
hadn't
 
imagined his intent the night before, sitting and drinking with him, his large hands so gentle on her back, massaging her. She remembered the accidental brushes in sensitive spots. Not

accidents after all.

Alasdair MacColla.
 
Come for her. It suddenly seemed the only way it could be.

But then she heard the voice. Foreign, new, more nasal than MacColla's own husky burr. “Be silent or die, bitch,” the voice hissed.

Her eyes flew open. And then she felt the blade. Cold and hard, like that blade from so long ago. She inhaled sharply.  Cold steel on her throat. It was the one thing in the world with the capacity to still her. The one thing capable of robbing her of all  control. Haley felt the blade at her throat and froze like a small and weak thing.

Calm. Think.
 
Two men were at her bedside, and her senses instantly startled to attention.
 
Darkness. Middle of the night.

Hands seemed to be all over her. An impossible number of hands. Clamped over her mouth, gripping her arms, holding the knife to her throat.

Tears spilled, as she realized what was happening. Not  MacColla at all.
 
Strangers.
 
And she was alone, her room far from the others. Scrymgeour had been so thoughtful , placing the women in rooms such a modest and decent distance from the men's.

And that was going to be her downfall.

Nobody would hear her moans, the shuffling of feet. Haley would disappear in the night, with none the wiser.

Adrenalin dumped into her  veins, spiking her heartbeat to a frenzied patter. She squealed and bit down hard. She heard a whispered curse and the hand at her mouth only clamped down harder.

Fingers tangled roughly through her hair and her body torqued awkwardly as she was dragged up and out of bed.  The stiff corset that had provided her such relief twisted and jabbed into her now. Pain seared through her chest, and her terror was subsumed by a blessed wash of fury.

Haley wriggled like a mad thing then, her screams muffled by a hand that tasted satisfyingly metallic. She'd drawn blood. The thought gave her focus, and she scrambled more frantically, but the arms only grasped tighter, pulling her hard against the solid body at her back.

A coarse ripping of cloth filled the room like static.
 
The sheets?

Hands clawed at her feet. She kicked, struck what she thought was a chin, then there was only air as the ground

whooshed
 
away from her. She jerked her body, trying to  free herself from the men who held her, ignoring the now  constant agony shrieking through her body.

Her writhing couldn't stop a strip of linen from being wadded into her mouth, wrapped around her face, cutting into her skin, and silencing her more effectively than any hand could.

It was easy work then, for the two men, to whisk her down the stairs and out the door. She watched Scrymgeour's castle recede in the shadows, the image wavering through the flood of her tears.

Stop.
 
She needed to calm down, or suffocate on those tears.

She needed to focus. To fight.
 
Think.

This couldn't be random violence. Seventeenth-century

Scotland was rife with feuding and retributions.

Who?
 
Yet even as the question popped into her head, she

knew.

Campbell.

Men invading Scrymgeours lands in the night. Revenge aimed at a MacDonald ally, or at MacColla himself. It could only be one man.

He'd kidnapped Jean once. And now it was her being taken in the night.

They reached a copse of trees and the men dropped her feet hard to the ground. The impact jarred her, bringing with it a fresh wave of  nausea. She doubled over, gulping convulsively, choking her own bile back down her throat.  She tamped down the pain and tried to moderate her breathing, thinking she really would choke if she sicked up

now.

The cloth in her mouth was slick, drenched with  her own spit. Haley bit at it. Wrenching her chin down, her tongue pushed at the gag, trying to force it from her mouth, but it wouldn't budge.

As she caught her breath, she became aware of a stilted silence around them. The air tense with waiting.

Haley looked up and saw him. A man stood there, his eyes glued to her, fascinated.

A chill crept along her flesh.
 
Campbell
.

For a split second, she hoped that perhaps he'd been given short shrift by the history books. Perhaps Campbell had been a kind man. Maybe it was merely history's desire for a narrative, for good guys and bad guys, that had named him the villain.

Clouds drifted thick overhead, glowing gray in the night sky. But in that moment they parted, and a bright moonbeam cut through the trees, illuminating them in an eerie wash of light.

And she saw him clearly then, recognized Campbell from all those portraits. The jowly features paler in the moonlight than any drawing had ever portrayed.

Cruelty animated those features now. It was written at the corners of his eyes. Bracketed his thin, drawn lips.

She saw him and she knew.

He was every bit as evil as they'd said.

* * *

Jean shook her hand out, then banged on the door once again. It was a solid thing and even knocking as hard as she could didn' t make much of a sound. She considered

kicking at it  - she imagined that Haley lass would kick at it

- but decided just to open it instead.

As the door swung open, she suppressed a bout of nerves.  The strange woman had pinned Jean with more than one wilting glare, and despite the peace they'd seemed to reach, she wouldn't put it past Haley to come at her, claws beared and angling for a fight.

But the room was quiet. Her trepidation turned to annoyance. Was the woman still abed? She'd drank like a man, then spent the entirety of the next day in her room.  Was she planning on lazing away yet another one? The attitude spoke to a certain entitlement that was new to her.  Death and death alone would keep Jean in her bed for the day.

Shaking her head, she strode  in, wondering what the woman's background was, that she considered the daily running of her own life  - not to mention such a simple consideration as appearing for a meal  - as something beneath her.

But the bed was empty.

She was gone. It was hard to imagine that she'd risen earlier than Jean that day. And even if she had, surely someone would have noted her appearance.

Confused, she wandered back into the hallway.

“What has your lovely features in such a muddle, and on

such a fine morning?”

She turned  to see Scrymgeour walking toward her. The man had such a pleasant countenance, always with a gentle smile and an easy manner. Even his large size felt welcoming. Rather than implying sloth, the fullness at his waist spoke to a jovial nature and a love of life that was reassuring to Jean. The sight of him brought an instant swell of relief.

“I… yes. Lord Scrymgeour, perhaps you can be of

assistance.”

“Och, please Jean.” Taking her elbow, he patted her arm.  “I've told you time and again. You must please call me  John.”

She felt her cheeks redden, and cursed her pale skin.

Casting her eyes down, she replied, “Yes, of course, John.”

“Now you must tell me, how may I be of service?”

“She… Haley, she's gone.” She nodded to the open  doorway. “I came to fetch her for the morning meal, and  she's not here.”

“Well, surely you just missed each other?”

“No, I'd have seen her. She doesn't seem the sort to rise  with the dawn.” Jean hadn't intended her comment to have

such sass, and Scrymgeour's answering grin embarrassed

her.

“Well, then.” He steered them down the hall, and the  steady feel of his arm in hers warmed her. She tried not to  wonder at the strangely calming effect he seemed to have  on her. “Surely your brother will have some notion.”

They reached MacColla's door too quickly. Scrymgeour lifted his hand to knock, and her arm felt cool where his hand had been.

“Come,” MacColla called brusquely.

Scrymgeour opened the door, and Jean instinctively froze.  The sight of her older brother never ceased to startle her .  He'd yet to don his tartan, and he stood at his washbasin in just his linen shirt. Though it reached almost to his knees, it revealed the thick muscle of his legs and chest in

a way that his plaid, wrapped about his waist and tossed

over his shoulder, did not.