A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

ye in a dangerous time of war? Surely there are others in Nairn with healing potions.”

      She did not wish to lie again. “Duncan has no care for me. He never has. We did have an escort, a single guard, but he fled, abandoning us.”

      His gaze darkened. “Ye did not answer, mistress.”

      She hugged herself. “Have I not said enough?”

      “I cannot imagine what could be so urgent that he would summon ye to Nairn now. But clearly, it is a wartime matter.”

      She was grim. How right he was.

      “Ye have no husband.”

      Taken by surprise, she stared. But she had introduced herself as Mistress le Latimer. “No.”

      “Why not?”

      She tensed.

      Just then, Eleanor stepped up to them. “Alana, are you ill? You’re pale this morning.”

      Alana took her hand. “Lord Iain said we could leave, if we told him the truth. I told him we are from Brodie, and I am Elisabeth le Latimer’s daughter.” She knew her grandmother would never volunteer information dangerous to her survival. She faced Iain. “I have no husband because I have no significant dowry.”

      He barely glanced at Eleanor. “Really? As comely as ye be, ye hardly need much of a dowry to wed some young knight.”

      Alana shook her head. He knew that something was amiss, of course he did. “I am a bastard, my lord, and my tainted birth has further limited my prospects.”

      His gaze narrowed as they stared at one another.

      Eleanor put her arm around her. “My lord, you owe my granddaughter a great debt. But you discomfort her instead. We must be allowed to go on to Nairn.”

      He never even looked at Eleanor. “Who is yer father, mistress?”

      Alana stared at him, aware of moisture gathering in her eyes. She was ready to admit defeat and tell him all, but Eleanor said, “We do not know. Elisabeth never said, and she died in her childbed.”

      Alana closed her eyes, relieved. A silence fell as Eleanor hugged her close.

      Iain turned, now impatient. “Fergus! Ye will escort both women, but not to Nairn.”

      Alana gasped. “We had an agreement! I have told you the truth!”

      “Did ye?”

      “You let me believe you would allow us to go on our way if I told you who I am.”

      “Bruce’s army is near Nairn. Choose another destination, or I will choose it for ye.” He strode past her.

      Alana was furious. She ran after him and reached for his arm, jerking him back. He whirled, incredulous. “I have done my part. How can you do this?”

      He shrugged his arm free. “I dinna ken what part ye play, but ye cannot go on to Nairn. I will not put ye in harm’s way. Make some other choice or ye can return to Brodie.” He was final.

      “You do not care about me,” Alana finally said, but she felt as if she were asking a question. “Why would you care where we go? Or if we are at Nairn when it is attacked?”

      For a moment, he did not answer. Then, for the second time that morning, he tilted up her chin. “Ye said so yerself—I owe ye a great debt,” he said softly.

      She began to tremble. What was he doing? Were his eyes dark and smoldering?

      “Then let us go to Nairn,” she said.

      He made a harsh, disbelieving sound. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

      Alana went still, shocked, as his mouth claimed hers—in a hard, demanding, aggressive kiss.

      And when he stepped back, her heart was thundering, her skin aflame and her knees buckling.

      He gave her a look that could not be mistaken before he strode away, calling to his men.

      Alana stared after him. What had just happened?

      Iain did not trust her—but he had kissed her. She had never been kissed before. Men did not desire her, they feared her.

      Except for Iain of Islay—who did not know she was a witch.

      She became aware of Eleanor, for her grandmother had approached. Still stunned and breathless, Alana dared to face her.

      There was no censure in her grandmother’s eyes. Alana saw speculation, instead.

      “Will you speak?” she asked. “Will you berate me?”

      “I have no desire to berate you, but later, we should talk about the Highlander. We must get to Nairn, and we must do so before it is attacked.”

      Alana was finally jerked back to some sensibility. “He is sending us back to Brodie.”

      “If your father and uncle were not on their way, I would wish to return to Brodie. We must get to Nairn, Alana,” Eleanor said. “I can make up a potion for Fergus, one to make him ill.”

      Alana nodded grimly, as they had no choice but to poison Iain’s soldier. She gazed across the land. His men were all mounted now. The camp had been entirely dismantled, with no sign of it ever having existed. A dozen wagons were filled with their tents and war equipment. Beyond the army, the manor was a pile of rubble, except for one lone chimney that was still standing.

      Their wagon and the mule had been brought forward, and Mistress MacDuff was beside it, with her two children in the back. Fergus held the mule’s bridle, and that of his warhorse.

      Only Iain remained afoot, his long hair streaming about his fur-clad shoulders. It was as if she could still feel his lips on hers.

      His squire led a big dark horse over to him. Iain leaped astride easily enough, gathering up his reins. And for one moment, the land was silent, except for the snorting of horses, the creak of leather, the jangle of bridles. Iain’s gaze was on her.

      Alana stared back. He had been hostile and suspicious since meeting her, but he had kissed her with unimaginable passion. She did not know what to think.

      He turned to face his men, standing in his stirrups, and he lifted his hand. “A Donald!” he roared.

      A hundred men roared back at him, a reverberating Highland war cry. And then the army was galloping away from the burned ruins of Boath Manor.

      Beside the mule and the wagon, Alana held her grandmother’s hand, staring after Iain until he was gone and only snowy mountains remained.

CHAPTER THREE

      “NAIRN,” ELEANOR SAID.

      Alana trembled, seated beside her grandmother in the front seat of the wagon, Mary MacDuff and her children huddled under wool blankets in the back. The dark stone castle rose out of a promontory on a hill above the town, the skies blue and sunny above it. Snow was clinging to the rocky hillside, and the deep blue waters of the Moray Firth were visible behind it.

      It had taken them a few hours to travel the short distance from the MacDuffs’ burned manor to Nairn. Poor Fergus had been left in the woods not far from last night’s camp, retching up his breakfast. In a few hours he would be well enough to go on his way.

      From the towers, shouts rang out.

      Alana tensed. She had been to the town of Nairn many times, as it was a bustling port and she enjoyed the market there. But she had never been within the castle, which had always seemed threatening.

      It had been garrisoned with royal English troops for years because the great barons of north Scotland were at war with England more often than not. Edward I had taken Nairn and provisioned it for his use, and now, English archers loyal to his son were upon its walls, staring down their bows at them.

      Of