Highland Sinner. Hannah Howell

to see when Walter had spoken of the Ross witch.

      “Go home, Mistress Ross,” said Simon. “It might be best if ye try to avoid coming here for a while.”

      “Because Ide might actually get those fools to listen to her evil lies?” Morainn asked, feeling her anger stir at the unfairness of it all and knowing too well that the answer to her question was a resounding aye.

      “I fear so. ’Tis unfair, but it would be a bad time to argue that.” After Morainn curtsied and left, Simon turned to Sir William. “I am done now. Ye may see to your wife. My deepest condolences.”

      Sir William nodded, but then looked toward Morainn. “Are ye certain she isnae a witch? The church says—”

      “The church says a lot of things few of us heed. She isnae a witch, Sir William. She is a good healer. Nay more.”

      “They say she has visions.”

      Simon nodded. “I have heard that but if the visions she has only aid people, then where is the evil in that? Go, Sir William, tend to your wife and let us find this killer.”

      As Simon and Tormand walked away, Simon quietly said, “They threw out a child.”

      “Aye.” Tormand was a little surprised at the rage he felt over that. “I had expected a woman of at least middle years, if nay some old crone. Mayhap Walter’s suggestion has some merit.”

      “What suggestion?”

      “That I take something the killer or the victim touched and see if she has some vision of the who, what, or why.”

      “Ye just want to see her again.”

      Tormand just smiled. He would not deny it. What troubled him was the strength of the attraction he felt for her. His interest had never been grasped so quickly, so fiercely. It was worrisome, but he knew that would make no difference in the end. She might not be a witch, but she definitely had some power and Tormand knew that power would soon pull him to her side.

      Chapter 4

      His eyes were so full of passion’s fire she could feel the heat upon her skin as he looked at her. The dual colors of his eyes grew brighter, the blue and the green sharper and clearer as he pulled her into his arms. Morainn purred in welcome as his sinful mouth covered hers. She wrapped her arms around his strong body as he ravished her mouth, his clever tongue stirring a heat within her that she had never felt before.

      Eager and ready for more of him, she pulled at his clothes as he pulled at hers until they were both blessedly naked. The sight of him took her breath away. When their flesh touched she moaned with pleasure. He was such a beautiful man, lean and strong, his warm skin smooth beneath her greedy hands. She felt the hard proof of his desire for her press against her and she ached for him. Her breasts felt full, the tips burning for his touch.

      He pushed her down onto a wide, soft bed; the fine linen sheets cool against her heated flesh. When he lowered his beautiful body down to hers, she eagerly accepted his weight. The way their bodies fit together so perfectly made her cry out her need for him. His warm, soft lips traveled over her throat, leaving a trail of delicious fire as she ran her hands over his tautly muscled back. When the heat of his mouth touched her breasts she arched against him in silent demand.

      Then, abruptly, he was gone, her arms empty. She felt as if a part of her soul had just been torn away. As she began to sit up to look for him, she was pushed back down onto the bed, but this time it was not done gently. Her wrists and ankles were suddenly tightly bound to the bedposts and fear rose up in her so swiftly and fiercely that she felt she could choke on it. The scent of a too rich perfume filled her nose and she coughed. Morainn cried for Tormand to help her, to save her from this unseen threat.

      “Your lover is doomed,” whispered a soft, icy cold voice. “And so are ye, witch.”

      Morainn saw a bloodstained knife held in a delicate hand and screamed.

      Morainn bolted upright in her bed, startling her cats, and looked around. The sight of her own bedchamber did little to still the hard pounding of heart. This was the third time she had had the dream. It was always the same dream, but each time it became a little more detailed. Morainn was not sure she could go through it again even if it promised some much needed answers to why these poor women were being murdered or who was doing it. No matter how hard she thought over what she had seen in her dreams, she remained certain that they were trying to tell her something about these murders.

      “But just what does Sir Tormand Murray have to do with those killings?” she wondered aloud.

      She looked out her tiny window, saw that the sky was lightening with the rising of the sun, and softly cursed as she flopped back down on the bed. A small noise by the door drew her attention, making her heart leap with fear. She took a deep breath to calm herself when she saw Walin there watching her with concern. She had obviously woken him up. Again.

      “Ye screamed,” he said.

      “Aye, I suspicion I did,” she replied. “These visions are verra troubling ones. I think they are trying to tell me something important, each one just a little different from the one before, but I havenae grasped what the message is yet.” None except the one that told her a part of her, a very large part, craved Sir Tormand Murray for a lover. “I am sorry for waking ye, lad, but I fear I cannae promise that it willnae happen again.”

      “At least this time ye have woken us near the time we must be awake anyway.”

      “True enough. Go and get ready, dearling, and then we will break our fast as we plan our day.”

      The moment he was gone, Morainn stared up at her ceiling. These were troubling dreams and not just because they ended with an increasing darkness. She had never had such dreams about a man. Despite the dark ending of this vision, her body still felt heavy with a need she had never felt before. Nor did she fully understand it. She had only seen the man in the flesh once. Despite how he had defended her before an angry crowd, she should not be dreaming of being naked with him. And liking it. Especially when his own friend called him a rutting fool, she thought with a sigh as she got up to wash and clean her teeth.

      Two women had been brutally murdered. From what Sir William had said four days ago, Tormand Murray had kenned both women. If any other women were murdered, ones he had also kenned, then Sir Tormand was going to be drawing very close to a noose around his neck.

      From the few people who did visit or talk to her, Morainn had learned a little about the dead women. Lady Clara and Lady Isabella had each kenned a lot of men, although it appeared that Lady Isabella had been faithful to her husband once they were officially wed. Yet, Sir William had cast his suspicions on Sir Tormand and Morainn knew others would as well. Her visions told her he was innocent, as did all of her instincts, but she knew that did not mean he was safe from hanging for murder. Innocent men had been dragged to the gallows before.

      Once dressed, she went to join Walin for their morning meal. She had to do something to try to stop Tormand from going to the gallows. It was what her visions were pushing her to do; she was certain of that. Morainn just hoped that she could come up with some useful plan before it was too late.

      It was as they weeded her garden that Walin finally spoke about her dreams. “Mayhap ye should go and talk to Sir Tormand. He is the mon with the mismatched eyes, isnae he?”

      “Aye, he is,” she replied as she sat back on her heels and looked at him. “Yet, what could I say to him, Walin? I have dreams about ye, sir? He may have eloquently defended me before that crowd, but that doesnae mean he will give any weight to my visions. S’truth, he may think I but try to catch his interest.”

      “Because he is a rutting fool?”

      Morainn inwardly grimaced, thinking that it had probably been unwise to say that before Walin. “There is that. But, what could he do even if he did believe in my dreams? He already helps Sir Simon hunt for the killer. He is, I think, nay a mon to flee, either. The dreams that now cause me to scream in the night are trying to tell me who is killing