A Sword Upon the Rose. Brenda Joyce

enough. She and her grandmother were well-known in these parts. But she would be long gone by then, or so she hoped.

      “And you, my lord? You fly Bruce’s flag. You command these men. You come from the Highlands. My guess, from your speech, is you come from the islands in the west.”

      “Unlike ye, lady, I have no secrets to keep. I am Iain of Islay.”

      “Iain is a common enough name.” But Alana’s heart lurched. She had heard gossip of one Iain of Islay—a warrior known as Iain the Fierce. The cousin of both Alasdair MacDonald, lord of the Isles, and his brother, Angus Og. He was renowned to be ruthless, bloodthirsty and undefeatable.

      “Are ye frightened?”

      Alana dragged her gaze to his as Dughall returned. “I hate war. I hate death. Of course I am frightened. Many men died today.”

      His gaze was on her face.

      “Are you the cousin of Angus and Alasdair MacDonald?” she had to ask.

      “So ye have heard of me,” he said, but softly.

      He was the savage Highlander known as Iain the Fierce, a warrior who never let his enemies live.

      And she was in his camp, in the midst of a war for Scotland—as the enemy.

      No, she was not just in his camp—she was in his tent.

      She got to her feet, taking a step back and away from the pallet. “I have heard of you,” she said.

      He made a sound, perhaps of satisfaction. And then Eleanor hurried into the tent, shivering, Fergus with her, breaking the tension, the moment.

      “Grandmother!” Alana hurried to her, relieved. “Are you cold? I am sorry I have been so long!” she cried, hugging her.

      “I paused before the fire, Alana, so I have warmed up.” Eleanor hugged her back while Alana flinched. Now Iain knew her name. Tomorrow, if he made enough inquiries, he would learn the truth—that she was Elisabeth le Latimer’s bastard daughter, from Brodie Castle, and that her father was Sir Alexander. He might even learn that she was a witch.

      She must leave his camp before he made any inquiries about her.

      Iain was watching them closely. “Yer granddaughter has been kindly tending me, Grandmother,” he said.

      “Of course she has, for no one is as kind,” Eleanor said. “May I help you, as well, my lord?”

      “It is Iain, Grandmother.” He glanced casually at Alana. “Iain MacDonald.”

      Eleanor went to him and knelt, responding as Alana had feared she would. “I am Lady Eleanor. Well, the wound is deep. You will need stitches. Alana, bring me the bowl of water.”

      Alana met Iain’s amused gaze. He had just ferreted out her grandmother’s name, as well, easily enough. When he asked about them, he would quickly learn that they were from Brodie Castle. It would not be difficult now.

      They had to leave his camp as soon as possible.

      Alana did as her grandmother instructed, then remained silent as Eleanor cleaned the wound. She did not look at Iain, but was aware that he was watching her. When Eleanor was done, she said, “Alana’s hand is steadier than mine, and she makes a fine stitch. She will sew you up, my lord.”

      “It is Iain,” he said. “I am no lord, just a fourth son.”

      Alana handed him the flask, absorbing that bit of information. Younger sons were either churchmen or soldiers of fortune. He had clearly chosen the latter. “I will need at least two men to hold you down.”

      He took a long drink from the flask. “Ye will need no one. Bring me the blade,” he said.

      He would struggle when she stuck a needle in his flesh, all men did. “My lord,” she objected.

      “Bring me the blade, Alana,” he ordered.

      She inhaled. It was so odd, unnerving, to have him call her by her name. Alana handed it to him.

      She took up the needle, which was threaded. He would only make her efforts more difficult. It would be hard to remain steady if he struggled. How silly, to be so proud.

      And Iain put the hilt of the dagger in his mouth. She carefully pricked the needle into his skin. He tensed, making a harsh sound, but he did not move.

      Alana knew better than to look at him. Very swiftly, with determination, she put ten stitches into the wound, closing it completely. He did not move, or flinch, again. She knotted the thread, and Eleanor snipped it. Finally, she looked at him.

      His eyes were closed, long, thick lashes fanning his skin. His face was white and covered with perspiration. For a moment, she thought he had fainted. And she hoped that was the case.

      Eleanor began to apply a salve to the wound. His eyes flew open, gazing at her, not her grandmother. “Thank ye, Alana.”

      “Do not speak now,” she told him. “Most men would be unconscious with such a wound. You should sleep.”

      He studied her, very closely. “Angel,” he finally said.

      Alana felt her heart flutter oddly. This time, she had not heard mockery in his tone. She lifted the flask to his lips—he drank. Then his eyes closed and his breathing deepened. He had fallen asleep instantly.

      Suddenly exhausted, she rocked back on her heels.

      What had just happened?

      He was the warrior from her last vision, yet he was a stranger, and now, there they were, together, in his tent, with her in attendance upon him! Why had she foreseen this battle—why had she foreseen him? And why was it so important to tend to his welfare? To prevent his death? He was a ruthless Highlander, renowned for his savagery in battle.

      She could not tear her gaze away from him now. In sleep, his hard face relaxed, he was dark and handsome, but the MacDonald men were known for their dark hair, their blue eyes, their arresting features. And like any Highland warrior, he was powerfully built, his arms chiseled from years spent wielding sword and ax, his legs sculpted from the mountains he ran up and the horses he rode.

      What kind of man was he? To suffer such a wound, as he had just done? To remain awake while she sewed him together? To lead his men so far from home in dangerous battle? To be known as Iain the Fierce?

      Did he really leave no enemy alive? Hadn’t she just seen him rescue a woman and her children from the burning manor—putting his own life at risk to do so?

      She instinctively knew that she did not want him as her enemy, even if that was what they were. And while she had thus far been able to avoid telling him the truth about her family—her father—he would soon find out about her Comyn blood.

      Would they be allowed to leave, once he had awoken?

      Could they leave before he woke up?

      Eleanor had finished applying the healing ointment, and was laying linen over the wound. She sank down onto her stool, facing Alana, her gaze searching. “I don’t want to awaken him to bandage it. We can do so tomorrow.”

      “Tomorrow?” Alana gasped. “Maybe we should leave now, before he awakens—before he finds out who my father is.”

      Eleanor took her hand. “We can hardly leave now, Alana. It is a short walk to Nairn, but it is dusk already and it will be too dark to travel soon.”

      She was right, they could not leave now. Alana looked at Iain. He was so soundly asleep now, his face softer, as if he were a little boy. But she was frightened. He was so suspicious of her.

      “Alana—what has happened?” Eleanor whispered.

      Alana turned to her, clutching her thin hands. “It was as I suspected, Gran! The battle for Boath Manor was the battle of my vision—and he is the stranger I saw being betrayed by his own man.”

      The