Highlanders. Michelle Willingham

she could not get Alasdair Og’s dark, frightening image out of her mind.

      Her desperate pleas had fallen upon deaf ears, she thought grimly.

      But had they saved the cathedral? She, the monks and the villagers had been frantically fighting the fire when her brother and his men had arrived. Alexander MacDougall had immediately ordered both of his sisters back to Coeffin Castle, taking over the effort to save the cathedral. Juliana had not wanted to go, but Mary had been feeling faint and she had accompanied her sister back to the castle.

      Mary was resting now, and comfortably. Juliana thanked God for that.

      Juliana heard Alexander and William’s voices and she whirled as they came marching through the door, shaking snow from their mantels, followed by two dozen of their best soldiers. As they came into the hall, Alexander smiled at her.

      He was a tall man in his late thirties, with strong features and brown hair. Like most Highlanders, he wore a simple short-sleeved linen leine, belted, his legs bare except for knee-high boots. Today he wore a shirt of mail over his leine. His wool brat was red striped with white—the MacDougall colors. “It is done. Yer cathedral is but a wee worse for wear. She stands.”

      Juliana was flooded with relief.

      “Mary?” William rushed forward. Three years younger than his wife, he was a tall, blond man with attractive features, clad in a long-sleeved red tunic, a brown surcote, hose and boots.

      “She is resting upstairs,” Juliana told him and William rushed from the hall.

      Juliana began to shake, thinking once again of Bishop Alan—thinking of Alasdair Og.

      Her brother no longer smiled. “Tell me everything, Juliana.”

      She inhaled. “No—you tell me!”

      He was taken aback. “I beg yer pardon?”

      “Did you urge Bishop Alan to spy? Did you send the poor bishop into that den of wolves?”

      “I dinna ken what ye speak of!” he snapped angrily.

      She felt like striking him, but he was chief of their clan, and she knew better. “You sent him to spy upon the MacDonalds—knowing how dangerous they are—knowing poor Alan is a man of peace, not war!”

      “Ye blame me?” he cried.

      She bit her lip, hard. Her brother was a ruthless man. She cared for and respected him, of course she did—but she also feared him. “He is dead because of it.”

      “Ye go too far, Juliana,” Alexander said, his blue eyes dark. He now strode past her and threw his gloves down on the table.

      He was right, she thought with trepidation. She would gain nothing now by accusing her brother of sending Alan to his death. “I need an army,” she said.

      He whirled. “Ye what?”

      “I want revenge.”

      Alexander finally smiled—and then he laughed. “Yer mad!”

      She had been thinking of revenge ever since leaving the burning cathedral. She did not think she had ever been so angry. “Vengeance is mine, said the Lord.”

      “Yer a woman.”

      “I’m your sister.”

      He eyed her. A long moment passed. He finally said, “Do ye really think I’d let ye take an army and attack him? Ye ken nothing of war!”

      Alasdair Og’s image flashed in her mind, hard, cold, proud—frightening. Her brother was right. She knew nothing of war, except that it so often took the lives of the innocent and the young. “He attacked Lismore,” she said, sinking to sit down on the bench. “He killed my knights, our bishop. He tried to burn down the cathedral.” She felt ill—as if violated. “Mary could have lost her child.”

      “But I did not,” Mary said softly, from the threshold of the room.

      Juliana turned to see her and William, arm in arm. Her sister’s color had returned, and she was smiling, her blue eyes alight. She looked very much like a woman in love.

      “Ye dinna need an army,” Alexander said to her, and he was final. “I’ll make him pay for the bishop’s murder, Juliana. I’ll attack Ardtornish castle.” He suddenly paced, thoughtfully. “It’s a new stronghold. Strong, well built, with thick walls. ’tis said they’re proud of it. He’ll be furious to lose it.”

      “Will you burn it?” she asked.

      “Aye.”

      As Mary and Will came to sit down beside her, Juliana stared at her brother. The one thing she knew was that Alexander usually attained his ambition. He had taken over leadership of the clan and its extensive lands at the age of seventeen—twenty-one years ago, before Juliana was even born. In the past two decades he had fought off every major threat to his power, from rival clans, from Clan Donald, and even from the kings of Scotland and England. Alexander MacDougall was a ruthless but excellent warrior—and he had proven it. His control of Argyll and Lorn had never been greater.

      “When will you attack?” Juliana whispered.

      “Soon—as soon as I can.” His smile was savage. “The bastard will pay, Juliana—ye’ll have yer revenge.”

      Mary took her hand. Juliana did not look at her. For suddenly there was dread—and she wondered if she had just set a new and terrible feud in motion.

      * * *

      “YOU HAVE BEEN behaving oddly—ever since the attack on the cathedral.”

      Juliana was helping Mary to dress. It was early morning, and a fire roared in the hearth of her sister’s chamber, but it did not chase the winter chill away. Nor could it calm her ever-racing thoughts. Almost a week had passed since Alasdair Macdonald had attacked the cathedral and murdered Bishop Alan.

      Almost a week had passed since her brother had sailed away toward Ardtornish Castle. And he had attacked two days ago—a messenger had been sent to tell them.

      Juliana finished braiding her sister’s long, thick hair. Her stomach churned. “I am wondering what has happened.”

      Mary turned, understanding her. “No news can be good news. And an attack on a castle like Ardtornish could take days or even weeks.”

      Juliana did not point out that her brother had said he would destroy the castle, not besiege it. And because Mary was staring far too curiously at her, Juliana walked away.

      “What is wrong with you?” Mary asked quietly. “You are so anxious. Are you worried about Alexander?”

      Juliana hesitated. Every time she considered a confrontation between her powerful brother and Alasdair Og, she was filled with an odd dread. Too late, she did not think any good could come of pitting two such men against one another. “I am worried,” she finally said. “But not about our brother—he is invincible.” She smiled, then hoped she had not misspoken. “I don’t know what is bothering me so much...I cannot get over Bishop Alan’s murder.” That much was true, for she felt guilt every time she thought of him. At night, she dreamed of the damned attack. She saw her dead soldiers. She saw Alan, begging for his life. And she saw Alasdair Og, his blue eyes as cold as ice.

      He had been impossible to forget.

      “I know we are already at war with the MacDonalds,” she finally said, “but I feel as if I have just started another war.”

      “You did not start anything,” Mary flashed. “He attacked us.”

      Juliana decided not to point out that their brother had sent the bishop to spy upon them, and in a way, he had triggered the attack. She still did not know which man she should be angrier with—her brother or MacDonald.

      “I am glad you are still here,” she said impulsively. Because William remained loyally at their brother’s side, Mary had decided to stay at Coeffin Castle