Highlanders. Michelle Willingham

the war has only just begun. My brother is usually triumphant—he will surely triumph in time.”

      “We must hope so,” Alan said.

      As Mary began lighting tapers and kneeling to pray, Juliana touched his arm. “I am distraught,” she said softly, “but so are you.”

      He hesitated. “I just never expected Bruce to take Dumfries or Wigtown, and defeat the English armies there. And now, Balliol has lost Buittle. This does not bode well, Lady Juliana, not at all. Well, at least we are far from the fighting.”

      Juliana wished he had been optimistic—she did not need to worry even more, now. And she thought his last remark odd, very much so, but before she could reflect upon it, war cries rent the day.

      She went still and Mary cried out.

      They had heard the war cries of Highland warriors too many times in their lives. The sound was shrill and barbaric—and terrifying.Shocked, Juliana turned, as outside the cathedral swords rang violently as soldiers fought one another. Horses neighed in panic and men screamed in murderous rage. In that instant, time seemed to stop as she realized the cathedral—or her men—were under attack.

      Juliana grabbed her sister, who had leapt up, thinking to propel her towards the back of the cathedral, where a side door would let them exit the south transept. But just then, the front door burst open and Juliana saw Ian and another of her soldiers rushing inside. “Lady Juliana! Lady Mary!” Ian shouted, his eyes fierce and wide, his sword in hand, dripping with blood.

      Before she could move, either towards him or away, she saw a dozen Highland warriors streaming into the cathedral—a jumbled image of tall, long-haired men, clad in furs, bare-legged, wielding swords and daggers.

      Juliana and Mary screamed. Ian whirled to confront the invaders, but too late. His sword was knocked from his hand, and then he was run through the chest.

      Choking on a sob of anguish, Juliana did not wait to see him collapse. She seized Mary, and they raced towards the right side of the cathedral, intent on fleeing out the transept’s side door.

      As they ran toward it, it burst open.

      Juliana stumbled, halting, as a Highlander erupted through the entranceway. All she saw was shaggy black hair, blue eyes, and dark blue tartan striped with red. The colors of their worst enemy.

      She and Mary were frozen as the Highlander faced them, sword in hand. A horde of his men were rushing inside now, past him. Juliana’s shock became horror as pale blue eyes set in a hard face met hers.

      MacDonalds were attacking the cathedral, her men, her land!

      Suddenly the towering Highlander was racing past her. Juliana turned and cried out as he seized Bishop Alan, pressing a dagger cruelly against his throat.

      Juliana wanted to scream at him to stop. But no words came out—the MacDonald was going to murder her bishop, she was certain, just as his men had massacred her soldiers. She saw the ruthless, murderous intent in his cold blue eyes.

      “Spare me, Alasdair! I beg you!” Bishop Alan sobbed.

      “Don’t,” Juliana heard herself gasp, but as she spoke, she was seized brutally from behind by her hair. She was jerked backwards, into a man’s arms, while beside her Mary was also grabbed. Her captor pressed a knife to her throat.

      Juliana went still. The Highlander—Alasdair—still holding Alan, shifted to look at her.

      “Don’t hurt my sister!” Juliana cried, her gaze locked with Alasdair’s. “She is with child!”

      “We’re not here for women,” he said coldly, and he pushed Alan hard, so he fell face first to the floor. He then laid one spurred and booted foot on his back. Revulsion briefly covered his face, and then he looked at Juliana again. “Release both women.”

      His men obeyed at once. Juliana rushed to Mary, and they instantly clasped hands. But she could not take her eyes off of Alasdair, who continued to press Alan into the floor with his boot.

      She began to shake. Her men had been murdered, and she knew that this Highlander meant to murder her bishop, too.

      Her fear intensified. Was he Alasdair Og, the eldest son of Angus Mor, Lord of the Isles?

      His father was a ruthless warrior who considered himself a king. And in effect, he was just that. Angus Mor commanded not just Islay and Kintyre, but other, smaller islands, lands in Argyll and Galloway, and a great deal of the high seas. No other regent dared to assert authority there. The kings of Scotland, England and Norway had tried and failed.

      Angus Mor was an older man now, but she had heard it said that his son was as ruthless, as fearless, as ambitious, and one day, perhaps soon, he would be Lord of the Isles.

      He was not just tall, a head taller than most, but he was hewn like a statue of stone. His broad shoulders, chest and arms were those of a Highlander who had spent his entire life hefting axes and swords. And his hair needed to be cut. It was well past his shoulders. Now, she saw a blue feather woven into a braid, the color almost as pale as his eyes.

      Juliana jerked, for she realized she was staring—and she saw that Alasdair was staring as intently back at her.

      She suddenly flushed. He did not appear as ruthless just then, for his gaze was narrowed, and he was staring at her red hair, which had come free of its braid and now spilled over her chest.

      “What do you want?” she managed to ask.

      His mouth curled and he removed his foot from Alan’s back. Alan scrambled across the floor, crawling frantically away from him but Alasdair took two steps towards Alan, reached down, seized his shoulder and dragged him to his feet. “Can ye not crawl away faster?” he mocked.

      “I have done nothing ill, my lord!” Alan gasped, his cheeks stained with tears.

      Juliana could not stand such abuse. “Stop!”

      Mary seized her hand and gave her an incredulous and warning look.

      Alasdair faced Juliana, and suddenly it was so still and silent in the cathedral that Juliana could hear her own breathing, which was labored, and her sister’s, which was as harsh. “I beg yer pardon?” One black brow slashed upwards.

      She now noticed just how even his features were, and that he had a crescent scar under his right eye. She wet her lips. She could hardly order Alasdair MacDonald around. “Please, reconsider what you intend to do.”

      He smiled, amused, and turned to his foremost soldier, a Highlander with long, curly red hair. “Take him outside. Shackle him. I’ll be out to dispose of him in a moment.”

      “I didn’t betray you!” Alan screamed.

      “Liar.” Alasdair struck him with the back of his hand, across the face. The slap was made effortlessly but was so powerful that bone and cartilage cracked, blood streamed, and Alan was propelled across the nave. Another soldier caught him before he fell and forced him outside.

      She could not allow this! Juliana rushed forward. “Stop! What quarrel do you have with the bishop? Why do you torment him so?”

      His eyes wide, he looked at her anew. This time, speculation was clear in his gaze. “The bishop has betrayed me, lady. If ye must ken.”

      “Could there be a mistake? I have known the good bishop for ten years, if not more. He is a good man.”

      “Ah, why am I not surprised that ye, lady, would think so?” He slowly smiled, and she shivered because she did not care for the way he was regarding her—he was looking very carefully at her every feature and at her figure. “Ye must be the lady of Lismore.”

      He had been bound to realize her identity, sooner or later. It was common knowledge that Lismore was her dowry. She was clearly a noblewoman, and her red hair was always the cause of interest and admiration—it often gave her away. “I am Lady Juliana MacDougall.”

      “The bards have not