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Campbell cut his eyes to the right, discretely studying the man riding beside him. He congratulated himself on  a wise decision.

Major Nicholas Purdon was a solid soldier. He received orders without question and appeared to relish the slaughtering of papists and fools.

Campbell gave the young man a rare smile and urged his horse into a trot. The flat grazing lands skirting the castle was pleasant terrain, and made for an easy approach. A peculiar spot to build a fortress, to say the least. But someone else's folly was his triumph.

Triumph.
 
He allowed himself a smile. Campbell had wanted victory. He'd tried for it  with a witch, but he'd finally found it with a soldier.

With Purdon at his right and one General Leslie at his left, he had mopped the countryside of MacDonalds. Together they'd chased MacColla and his family into a corner.

And together they'd slaughtere d MacColla once and for all.

“You're certain he's dead?”

“Aye,” Purdon replied, “the big man is dead.”

Could it be true?
 
MacColla, dead. Campbell beamed. No  MacDonald was a match for sixteen hundred of his best

soldiers. Not even MacColla.

“Skipness was a rout,” Purdon continued, referring to the  battle Campbell's men had just fought at Skipness Castle,  on the upper reaches of the Kintyre peninsula. “'Twas a  long siege, but Skipness is yours.” He nodded to the  structure looming before them.

“I care not for the castle.” Campbell pulled back on his  reins and looked up. Skipness was a stout, rectangular  fortress, constructed of red and yellow stone. “A dour pile  of rock, is it not?”

He didn't give the major a chance to answer. He'd noticed a knot of men,  studying something on the ground. And then he spotted the black boots, sticking out in an unnatural sprawl on the grass.

Campbell quickly dismounted, leaving his reins dangling.

Men surrounded the body, but Campbell could tell by the silhouette that it was a large man who lay dead on the

ground.

MacColla.

Purdon caught up to him as Campbell muttered gleefully,  “I care not for castles, Major, when MacColla's head is for the taking.”

“And so you have it.” Purdon smiled. The throng parted

and the soldier  gestured to the body with a flourish.

“You fool.” Campbell's low curse was a snake's hiss. “This  is not MacColla.” He nudged the man's head with his boot,  turning it side to side.

It was a tall man, with black hair, and MacColla's arrogant nose. A man who looked like MacColla. “This is his

brother.”

“Well… ” Purdon began, treading very carefully. “Isn't one

son of Coll Ciotach the same as another?”

Campbell answered with his silence. His hand went to the sword at his side, and he was gratified to see a  few of the men flinch.

The needle-thin steel made a satisfying whistle as he swept his blade diagonally before him. Then, in a single downward stroke, he knelt to plunge the sword in the throat of the dead MacDonald.

He stood once more, needing to wriggle his blade loose from the soil under the dead man's neck.

At last Campbell turned to the major. “No,” he replied. “Not the same. Now you will find MacColla. The
 
real
 
MacColla, and you will kill him. And you will kill his father. And you will kill his woman.”

Campbell gazed to the southwest. Shut his eyes to the sun, low in the sky. MacColla was out there. He'd have traveled

further south. He'd be in sight of Ireland, and it would call

to him.

Campbell would catch him before he could answer.

“We head south,” he said, “bleeding the country of

MacDonalds as we ride.”

* * *

The witch lay naked in the dirt, hands stretched over her head, her body an offering to the moon. She was dimly aware of the brambles and rocks that dug into her skin.  Dimly aware of her thirst. But the concerns of her body were not what drove her now.

Anger thrummed through Finola's veins. She'd depleted herself, doing the Campbell's dirty work. He'd taken her energy, her time.

Most of all, he'd taken her for granted. Feeding off her with the whimsy of a child.

But it wasn't a child's game he played at.

And if Campbell didn't know that yet, she'd be the one to show him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

They were closing in on the Mull of Kintyre, the scenery growing more breathtaking with eve ry step.

And Haley was freaking out. All that natural beauty was impossible to appreciate when all she could think was, in minutes, she'd meet those people most important in  MacColla's life.

Just one last stretch of lush valley separated them from his family's cottage, visible in the distance, tidy and painted a cheery white amidst so much green.

She was about to meet Colkitto.
 
The
 
Colkitto. Now
 
there

was a dissertation topic, she thought, incredulous.

“Breathe,
 
leannan
” MacColla chuckled. “You look like a wee  badger with your face screwed so. If I didn't ken better, I'd  think you were in pain.”

She turned to see MacColla smiling wide at her. He might be amused, but she was not.

“Go ahead, laugh,” she snapped. “I just wish there were

some way I could subject
 
you
 
to
 
my
 
family.”

A sudden twinge stabbed her throat.
 
My family.

What would they make of MacColla? Would she ever see them again? What could she ever tell them of this experience if she did?

She realized it would no longer be a simple thing to leave.  Could she turn her back on MacColla forever? And if not, would she really choose never again to see her family?

He'd changed her. Her life would never be the same. She knew she could never take another lover now that she'd

been kissed by Alasdair MacColla.

“You'll be fine, lass,” he told her, mistaking the lines on her  brow. He reached over and smoothed her cheek with the

back of his fingers. He smiled.

His voice once again in high spirits, he added, “Though if it's Colkitto you want to win over, you might consider a wee scrap with the old man. You can show him that trick you do throwing your blade.” MacColla laughed outright then, and Haley leaned over to slap the rump of his pony.

Unfortunately that sped the beast into a grudging trot, only hastening their arrival.

The door opened as they approached. A tall woman filled the doorway. She wore a simple, ruddy-colored dress, covered by an apron from the waist down. Her head was bare, and the sun shone on her gray hair. Some streaks of black remained, marbling the tight bun at the nape of her

neck.

Haley drew in her breath. “Is that your-” she began, but  MacColla answered her question when he leapt to the ground and, in two great strides, had the woman swept in his arms.

“Mother,” she mumbled under  her breath. Haley's mouth

was set in a grim line. “Well, here goes nothing.”

She slid from the pony. Busying herself for a minute, she stretched the life back into her legs, and then, not knowing what else to do, took and held the horses' reins, standing dumbly, waiting for it to be made clear just what she should do or where she should go.

She watched avidly as MacColla's mother held his face in her hands, chattering and exclaiming in Gaelic too rapid for her to understand. Haley spared a smile for the sight of the warrior who, despite his size and ferocity, was this mother's son.

His sister ducked out of the house from behind the two of

them and headed straight for Haley. Wiping her hands on  her apron, Jean gave her a nod and a surprisingly open  smile.

“Welcome,” she said in a muted voice. “I'm well pleased to  see you. You gave my brother a fright. I'm fair certain the  hounds of hell couldn't have caught him, so fast did he  race from Fincharn.”

Her comment gave Haley an unexpected little jag of warmth in her chest. MacColla had raced after
 
her
.

“I knew he'd find you,” Jean added. “And I'm glad of it. I

know what the Campbell is capable of,” she added quietly.

It was a grave statement, and Haley wondered at what the poor girl had undergone in the cellars of Campbell's grim tower house.

An awkward silence fell between them, then Jean appeared to brighten. “But what am I thinking of?” Taking the reins from Haley's hands, she swung them back over the ponies' heads to knot them high on their necks.

“Come  with me.” She held out her hand. Mistaking the  reason for Haley's anxiety, she added, “Don't fash yourself  over the mounts. This is men's work. My brother manages  the battles, let him tend the beasts as well.” She gave a sly  smile.

Haley took her arm, and Jean gave her a reassuring pat.

“You'll be wanting to bathe. And we've a bed for you too.”

It struck Haley how much of a luxury that would be.

“You'll sleep with me,” Jean added, “but 'tis just the two of

us.”

MacColla's mother was intent on her son, and just when  Haley thought she'd temporarily dodged introduction, an elegant voice announced, “Don't think you've escaped me.  I'd meet the lass who's got my son in such a
 
fankle
.”

She felt a firm hand on her shoulder and turned to face

Mary MacDonald. Though her warm smile put Haley at ease, it was clear her sharp eyes missed nothing.

“Oh, I… ” She wracked her mind for how it was one  actually politely introduced themselves in the seventeenth  century. Phrases like
  
well-met
  
seemed a little too  Shakespearean . She finally settled on saying, “I'm very  pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Ah”  - Mary raised her brows and shot a quick look at her

son  - “such fine English. No wonder my son tells me I'm

not to speak to you in our own tongue.”

Moving her hand to Haley's cheek, Mary studied her closely. “He also says that though your father is Irish, you have the mettle of a Highland woman.” She patted her cheek as if she'd test Haley's spirit then and there.

MacColla nodded to someone in greeting, and they turned to see Scrymgeour approaching. She watched as he stole a glance at Jean, his gaze automatically drawn to her. His eyes flicked quickly away, and Haley wondered if anyone else had noticed.

The greeting he and MacColla shared was more reserved than their last had been. Haley glanced to Jean and back again, realizing that MacColla, at least, was aware of  Scrymgeour's interest in her.

“What news of Gillespie have you?” MacColla asked.

Haley held her breath. She'd been so nervous about meeting his parents, she 'd forgotten that a brother would likely turn up as well. She wasn't entirely certain she was prepared for it.

“No word as yet,” Mary replied, her voice tight.

“Gillespie travels south even now,” Scrymgeour was quick  to reassure her. “I'm certain we'll s ee the wayward lad any

day.”

Haley was suddenly grateful for Scrymgeour's presence. He was polite, proper, and thoughtful as ever. She studied him while the men talked. Although he was just shy of what one would call stout, it wasn't his size that had initially struck her. He had a pleasant face, warm and open.  Trustworthy.

She noticed Jean watching him too, and realized she wasn't the only one grateful for the man.

“As I understand it, you travel with Alasdair now.”

It took Haley a moment to register that Mary had directed the comment to her.

“
 
Uh
, yes,” Haley said, looking to MacColla for reassurance.

“Then you'll be soon returning to your homeland,” Mary

noted. “To Ireland.”

Haley felt the warmth leach from her eyes.
 
To Ireland.
 
She worked to keep her lips wrenched in a smile.
 
Where he'll meet his death.

“I imagine you long to see your country again.”

“I- Yes.”

“It's been a long journey, mother.” MacColla's voice broke  in, saving her. He was at Haley's side in an instant, his  arm protectively at her back. “And I'm straight to the  kitchen. I'd have some of whatever my sister has in the  pot.”

“She's made a fine cock-a-leekie ”-

Haley heard a brief rustle from behind. MacColla's hand disappeared from her back, and she felt rather than saw him spin aside, just in time to dodge an old man leaping in to bear tackle him. Meeting air instead, the man stumbled forward, and MacColla turned to catch him before he hit the ground.

Colkitto, she presumed.

The old man stood, and showing off a mouthful of raggedteeth, bellowed with laughter.