Possessed By The Highlander. Terri Brisbin

seek a new wife from the northern clans to further cement and strengthen their position as the guardians of Scotland. Some worrisome rumors still floated about regarding the new laird some years ago—while his father still lived—and, as Duncan knew from his own laird’s experience, rumor and innuendo could destroy a reputation quickly. So, a move toward a new marriage, after his first one ended in the death of his wife in childbirth, was a good one on the laird’s part.

      One of his men called out and Duncan looked at the road ahead of them. A contingent of heavily armed Robertson warriors awaited them on the other side of the bridge. Straightening up on his own mount, he warned his men before going on.

      “You have your orders and know the importance of what we do here. From here on, report anything untoward to me. Bring your questions to me. Agree to nothing in Connor’s name.”

      “Do we need yer permission to piss then, too, Duncan?” asked Hamish from behind.

      “Aye, Hamish, e’en that,” he replied without breaking a smile. “More importantly, watch your drink and watch out for the lasses. Those two things can cause a man more trouble than almost anything else.”

      He took their grumbling as assent and nudged his horse forward. Adjusting the tartan and badge on his shoulder, Duncan led the MacLeries over the bridge and into Dunalastair. The Robertson’s man greeted them formally and invited them to follow to the entrance of the keep still some distance away and Duncan nodded and accepted the welcome.

      It was only as he found himself searching the faces of the villagers who’d gathered to watch their arrival that he realized he was looking for her.

      He’d carefully controlled the growing curiosity within himself to ask about her when he stayed with Ranald. He did not stray from Ranald’s croft or smithy and did not seek out neighbors or villagers in order to remain anonymous. But, the urge to know more about her increased until now he found himself examining the face of everyone who stood watching along the path.

      And not finding her.

      Cursing himself for not remaining on task, he realized he’d slowed his pace while he had gawked. Caelan, the Robertson who led them, turned back to say something, but his gaze moved off to something in the shadows along one of the other paths. Following it, Duncan discovered the woman he’d been thinking about and the little girl. They stood back, away from the other villagers, far enough to be out of the way, yet close enough to see what had drawn the Robertson soldiers to the village.

      The girl was tucked deeply into her mother’s skirts, only her head was visible as she said something to the woman. The woman leaned down and answered the child without ever taking her eyes off Caelan. Glancing back at the laird’s younger brother, Duncan noticed the protective gaze and began to wonder if the woman was Caelan’s leman. Just a few moments after he’d found her, she disappeared into the maze of cottages, dismissed by just a nod from Caelan.

      If he’d forgotten his own instructions, he found himself reminded of them by a very distinctive clearing of the throat by Hamish. The others took it up for only a second, but he knew that his attention to the woman had been noticed by them, too. He quelled the minor rebellion with a glance of his own and then quickened the pace to move along the path faster.

      Forcing his thoughts on what awaited them at the keep, Duncan was able to think on numbers of men the clan could call on in battle and the number of cattle the Robertson clan owned and how many meetings and talks faced him in the next few weeks. And he would later pride himself that he only thought about the woman with the pain in her gaze and the lovely child at her feet once during the ride to the keep.

      Holy Mother, protect her!

      Marian clasped Ciara’s hand in hers and practically ran toward her cottage. Making it a game so her daughter would not object, she sang a ditty and counted the stones along the way. The words sounded strange to her, but it was the beating of her heart that almost blocked out every sound around her.

      Caelan! Caelan was there!

      She’d mistook him for someone else as he rode by the place where she stood, backed enough into the shadows of the surrounding crofts to be unnoticeable to anyone. The noise of the soldiers’ arrival at the bridge, the excitement of the news of the MacLerie’s man’s entrance into the village and the purpose of his presence all fueled the gossip that swirled through the small village.

      Visitors were always of interest, but a man who carried with him the tidings and power of the one still called, though in whispered tones, the Beast of the Highlands, was something that would stir anticipation and storytelling for weeks to come. Curious, Marian had followed some of the women to observe their arrival.

      Then, the first shock had hit her.

      The man who led the MacLerie soldiers was the stranger who’d chased Laren away just three days past! Oh, he was dressed better now, with his clan badge gleaming on the plaid he wore over his shoulder, but she would have recognized that face and those eyes anywhere. Now he had eight warriors at his back as he rode into Dunalastair. He had not seen her yet, so she ducked back a bit, drawing Ciara with her.

      Then the second shock of the day—her youngest brother Caelan led the soldiers to the keep. She’d heard he had returned recently but had not seen him anywhere near the village. Her father had sent him off to foster with a cousin near Skye about three years before…before…before everything had happened five years ago. He must have nigh on ten-and-six years now and be almost a man. Iain must have great faith and trust in Caelan to allow him the honor of escorting such a guest into Dunalastair.

      Marian reached her cottage and sat down on a stool she kept near the entrance to her garden. Usually a place for her to clean the plants she harvested or the cuttings she culled, she plopped down and tried to calm her racing heart. When Ciara touched her wet cheek and asked why she was sad, Marian realized she’d been crying all the way from the road when she first saw Caelan. Wiping the tears with the back of her hand, she took in a deep breath and let out a ragged one before she even tried to speak.

      “I am not sad, my sweet,” she said, pasting on a smile she neither wanted nor felt. “‘Twas simply the excitement of seeing so many horses and men and everyone gathering around.”

      “Did you see the big black horse?” Ciara asked. “It was the biggest horse I have ever seen!”

      Marian laughed then, for Ciara loved horses. In spite of not having one at her disposal as she had in her father’s house, she’d passed her love of them down to her daughter just by stories and sightings.

      “He did seem to be the largest one.” Marian wiped the last of the moisture off her cheeks and smiled then. “I thought brown was your favorite color?”

      “I used to like brown,” she answered, her eyes bright with merriment as she talked about something she liked. “But I think black is the prettiest now.”

      Marian paused and realized that there had been only one black horse among all of them, and that had been his horse. The MacLerie’s man. Now she knew who he was but still had no name for him.

      Ciara began to chatter about horses, and that horse, and Marian took up her shovel and began where she had stopped before they’d gone to watch the soldiers cross the bridge. Digging into the dirt, she lost herself in her work and tried not to think about the man on the black horse and what trouble he could bring to her doorstep.

      Duncan lifted the satchel of parchment scrolls, charts and sheets from the back of his horse and searched for a certain one before turning back to follow Caelan into the keep where the laird awaited him. Handing the leather bag to Hamish to carry, they walked inside and up the stone steps to the second floor where the corridor led to a large chamber. Those waiting on their arrival milled around the whole of the room, which was about half the size of the one at Lairig Dubh.

      Still, it was clean and tapestries depicting folk tales and myths of their country’s past covered the walls. A huge hearth stood at one side and next to it was a dais with a long table that ran its length. In front of the table, at the top of the steps leading to it, sat a huge wooden chair, engraved and