Highland Sinner. Hannah Howell

felt her breath catch in her throat. Sir Tormand had come to her and she had to wonder why. Had someone told him that she had visions? Did he seek her help? If so, it would certainly help her to tell him about the visions she had already had. Sir Simon’s presence she could understand, but she wondered why the other four men had come. Such a show of force at her door made her uneasy.

      “Mistress Ross,” Sir Simon said in greeting, as he reined in before her, “we havenae come to cause ye any trouble.”

      “Nay?” She believed him, but still asked, “Then why the other men?”

      Sir Tormand cast a fleeting glare at the other men. “They claimed we needed protectors on the journey here.” He looked at her. “But the truth is they are but curious.”

      “To see the witch?” she asked, glancing at the four very handsome men. “Are ye going to introduce them to me?”

      Tormand sighed so heavily that she almost smiled. She remained coolly polite as he introduced his brothers Bennett and Uilliam and then his cousins Harcourt and Rory. They were all a treat for a woman’s eyes and Morainn found herself made a little uneasy by that. If nothing else, the gossip such a visitation could stir could prove very difficult to bear. Pushing aside her concern, she invited them all into her cottage, idly wondering if so many tall, strong men would actually fit.

      Just as she was about to lead them inside, Tormand paused by William. “That must be one of the biggest and strongest cats I have e’er seen,” he said and started to reach down to pat the cat.

      “’Ware, sir, William doesnae like men,” Morainn cautioned him, and then felt her heart skip in alarm for he was already scratching a strangely placid William behind its ragged ears. “How verra odd,” she murmured, praying this was not some sign, as she did not really want to trust Sir Tormand, at least not too much.

      “Mayhap it just didnae trust the other men it met with.” Tormand kept his tone of voice light and friendly, but inside he found himself wondering just who those other men might be.

      He frowned a little as she led them into her small, neat cottage. The thought of her with any man actually gnawed at him, tasting alarmingly like jealousy. He did not doubt that she was troubled by unwanted attentions from men who felt any woman alone was free for the taking, especially a poor one without any family left, but was there one she wanted?

      The fact that he felt eager for an answer to that question even as he almost dreaded it was a little alarming. He did not mind desiring her, but he did not want to feel any more than that. Tormand was not bothered by her birth or circumstances and he certainly did not care what superstitious fools thought she was, but he was just not ready to change his ways. A lover was what he wanted, no more. He was only one and thirty and in no need of an heir. He had a few more years of play left to get through before he started to look for anything more, anything deeper or lasting. He was not playing now simply because every man needed a rest, he told himself.

      When the little boy Walin was brought forward and introduced, Tormand had to fight to suppress a frown. With his blue eyes and thick black hair, Walin looked a lot like Morainn, but that was not what troubled him the most. There was something about young Walin that strongly reminded Tormand of someone. Tormand could not grasp the memory that tickled at the edges of his mind, however.

      They were soon all crowded around her table, each with a tankard of cider, and a plate of honey-sweetened oatcakes set in the middle of the table. Talk was idle for a few moments and Tormand watched his kinsmen flirt with Morainn. The annoyance he felt over that troubled him so much that he was beginning to think coming to see her had been a very bad idea. Then she fixed her sea-blue eyes on him and he felt his heart skip in welcome.

      This was not good, he mused. Not good at all. Unfortunately, he did not have any urge to flee what was beginning to feel too much like a trap too many of his kinsmen had fallen into—the kind that ensnared a man’s heart.

      “’Tis pleasant to have company to break up the tedium of the day,” Morainn said, “but I dinnae think ye rode here just to introduce your kinsmen, Sir Tormand.”

      “Nay, especially since I didnae invite the fools to ride with me and Simon,” Tormand replied, and sent his grinning kinsmen a brief scowl. “They have decided I need to be protected and stick like burrs.”

      Morainn felt a strong twist of envy in her heart. Even though Tormand was glaring at the others, she knew he cared for them. They were family and she sensed that those bonds were both deep and wide. She had never truly had a family. Once her father had left, shortly after her birth according to her mother, her mother had apparently lost interest in being a true loving mother. She had never harmed Morainn, but the woman had rarely displayed any true affection for her only child. Morainn had spent her growing years being made to feel little more than a burden.

      She hastily shook aside the envy and regrets. Her mother had made sure that her child had always had food to eat, clothes to wear, and a roof over her head. She had also taught Morainn everything she knew about the healing arts, the one thing Anna Ross had actually felt passionate about. That knowledge had allowed Morainn to make a life for herself after she had been banished from the town. For that alone, Morainn knew she owed her mother a lot. She may not have had the close, loving family these Murrays obviously did, but she had been gifted with far more than too many others got.

      “We heard that ye had visions,” said Tormand, thinking it a poor start to the conversation, but not sure how else to broach the subject of why they were there.

      Fear of the consequences of admitting such a thing made her hesitate, but then Morainn recalled Sir Tormand’s defense of her before the angry crowd. “Aye, sometimes,” she replied. “Visions, dreams, call them what ye will.”

      “They make her scream in the night,” said Walin.

      “Ah, weel, nay always.” Morainn handed Walin an oatcake in the hope that it would keep him silent for a while. “I cannae have a vision just because someone needs one, however. They come to me when they wish to. They are nay always clear in what they try to tell me, either.”

      Hearing the hesitancy in her voice, Tormand said, “Dinnae fear to speak of it to us. The Murray clan is littered with people who have such gifts. Mostly the lassies.” He heard his kinsmen murmur their agreement to that claim. “We dinnae think ye are truly a witch simply because ye have these dreams. We Murrays call them gifts for a reason.”

      It was difficult not to gape at the man. She glanced around at the other men, but saw no sign that Tormand was lying. They all just watched her silently, a hint of compassion in their eyes as though they understood exactly how difficult it was to have such a gift as hers. Morainn knew some people who thought of her gift as God-given, and not of the devil, but she had never met anyone who freely admitted to having such things in their bloodlines. There was even the hint of pride in Sir Tormand’s voice as he spoke of it.

      “Then, wouldnae ye prefer going to them?” she asked.

      “If one of them had seen anything, then I would have been sent word of it. Several of them sensed there was some trouble coming my way, that I could be in danger, but nay more than that. ’Tis why these fools are here.”

      It was difficult not to press him for more information about his family and the gifts he said they had, but Morainn resisted the urge. “If they have sensed that then, why do ye nay leave here?”

      “Because that would look too much like fleeing out of guilt and the killer might follow me anyway. I wouldnae be ending the murders, only taking them to a new place, to new victims.”

      She nodded. “Aye, I have, er, dreamed that ye are connected to this in some way, but that ye arenae the killer. Nay, ye may stand in pools of blood in my dreams, but there is none on your hands. Unfortunately, my telling anyone that willnae be enough to help ye fend off any accusations.”

      “We ken that, Mistress Ross,” said Sir Simon. “We dinnae plan to make ye speak of such things before those who are too quick to see the devil’s hand in anything they dinnae understand. We but hoped that ye may be able to help us find this