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She stepped out her door, heart pounding so fiercely her chest ached from it. The stairs were situated blessedly close to her bedroom. She approached them, trod carefully down.

Haley made her way to the low-ceilinged front hallway, then to the castle's entry door. It was thick, and rounded at the top, with elaborate iron hinges. She placed her hand on the latch. The metal was cool and black.

She kept pausing, waiting for someone to stop her, but no one did.

Gathering her courage, she stepped out. The door had swung more easily than she'd expected, and she turned to pull it shut behind her.

Breathing deeply, Haley couldn't help but smile. She hadn't realized the cloying mix of smells that filled the castle halls until the crisp air hit her lungs, the fragrance of oak and

fresh water replacing the stink of mildew and meat that

hung like smog in the indoor air.

Breathtaking scenery surrounded her, hills and distant peaks reaching as far as the eye could see. Drawn by the lake's lush, grassy bank and the tangle of trees growing at its edge, she strolled toward the water.

Her heart had slowed, but still it remained a low, distant hammering, echoing at the back of her mind. She fingered the small knife in the pocket of her skirts and the feel of the cold steel reassured her.

It was just a tiny thing she'd pilfered from a plate of bread and cheese. An old wooden haft attached to a short, serrated blade. She took it out and cradled it in her palm.  Closed it in her fist. Her grip was tenuous on such a thin handle. As a weapon, it would be hard to hold, hard to control.

“What are you about, lass?”

She startled, and tucked her hand at her back as she spun around.

MacColla stood there, curiosity wrinkling his features. He wore the same tartan, brushed clean. His  enormous sword was gone from between his shoulders, though Haley was quick to note the dagger that hung at his side.

“I thought I'd take a walk. Am I not allowed outside?”

“Aye,” he said carefully. “You may go as you will. But you'd  best be heedful about it. Don't stray too far.” He looked up  toward the foothills, then back at her. “Scrymgeour is an  ally, but many are not.”

Haley wasn't sure how she should respond to that, and so she didn't. MacColla simply remained standing, staring.

“What have you got there?” he asked finally.

“Huh?”

“Behind your back, lass. What do you hide?”

She thought about concealing her little weapon. But  MacColla wasn't stupid  - he knew she had something. He'd probably realize eventually that she'd stolen it, and she figured  she'd best just face his question head-on.

Tilting her chin high, Haley said. “It's a knife.”

Bringing her hand from behind her back, she opened her fist to reveal the small wood- handled cheese knife resting

on her palm.

MacColla relaxed his shoulders,  appearing visibly relieved.  “Planning a wee feast, is it?” Much to her annoyance, he looked like he was hiding a smile.

“I need a blade.”

“You need no such thing.”

“I might need to protect myself.”

“Protect yourself? What are you on about?”

MacColla's gaze went to the scar on her neck and his eyes grew dark. “Is it because of that?” he asked quietly.

Haley looked away, startled by the question. Although it had defined her in so many ways, she often simply forgot that she bore such a hideous mark on her neck. Gingerly, she ran a finger over the length of it and shrugged.

“You'd asked what happened… ” She hesitated, not sure  why she was choosing to broach the topic with him. “A  man… two men. They attacked me.”

She heard the sharp draw of his breath, and swung her head to face him. “No, not that. They got scared off. I was fine.” She felt a strange need to reassure him and grazed her finger dismissively over the old wound. “Except for this.”

“And so you learned how to protect yourself.” He gave her a

grave and, she thought, approving nod.

“And so I learned to protect myself, yes.”

His eyes narrowed. The look he gave her puzzled her.  Although she didn't know what it meant, she felt its impact physically. She'd been unmoored, and yet this charged stare somehow grounded her, connected her. She felt… understood.

And then he gave her a full-out smile. It wrinkled his warm, brown eyes and bracketed his mouth with deep lines. Again she spotted the tiny chip in his front tooth.

Alasdair MacColla smiled for her, and a small shiver

thrilled up her spine.

He nodded once more to the knife she held. “So, have you a mind to whittle your enemies to death?”

“I thought I'd practice,” she said, summoning her dignity.

“Practice cutting cheese?”

She made her face hard and expressionless. Not taking her eyes from him, she spent a moment finding the knife's center of weight, balancing it across her fingertip.

Straightening her back, Haley pinched the blade between her thumb and two fingers. She turned.

Careful to keep  her wrist steady, she threw it hard, overhand, grateful for the binding around her ribs that eased her movement.

The small knife spun, found its mark, its scarred wooden hilt quivering in a nearby tree. “I wanted to practice
 
that
?”

“Gu sealladh sealbh ort!”
 
MacColla strode to the tree,  shaking his head as he marveled at the blade stuck more  than an inch deep in the bark. He looked up at her and  grinned. “Losh, woman. Where did you learn that?”

“My father.” Haley returned his smile despite herself. “He

taught me.”

“But did he teach you how to fight with that?”

“Yes.” She walked to the tree to retrieve her knife. Wiping  the blade on her skirts, she added, “Fighting is mostly what  he taught me.”

“Show me.” Skepticism pitched his words, and Haley

fought the urge to hurl the blade into his bare foot.

“Love to,” she said, with a challenge in her voice. She  patted the fabric that was snugged comfortably tight  around her torso, testing that it was secure.

He pulled his own dagger from its scabbard. Haley eyed it nervously, roughly twelve inches of glittering steel compared to her rusty little blade.

“That's not a fair fight.” she said.

“It never is, aye?”

“Fine.” She shrugged. Growing up with five brothers, she  knew that fact all too well. “A few ground rules, though.  You pull back before that thing cuts me.”

“Or?” He smiled wide.

“Or I cut you back.”

His laugh was broad. MacColla nodded, the smile still on his face.

She bit her lower lip. Haley had lied. She didn't know the first thing about defending herself against that size dagger.

Her father
 
had
 
shown her the basics of street knife

fighting, though. It'd been the first thing he'd taught after

her attack.

A forward grip, knife in the lead hand. Close the distance.

Rapid diagonal slashes. Burst forward into a quick stab.

It couldn't be too different.

Hopping back lightly, she assumed her fighting posture, bouncing on the balls of her feet. MacColla's smile faded a little. He considered her, intrigued.

He surprised Haley when he took his dagger in his rear hand. She knew it was what a Highlander would do if he held a sword in his right. But instead of a broadsword,  MacColla wielded only his huge hand, open and ready to swat at her knife.

“
Hm
.” The sound she made was inadvertent. Suddenly the  most important thing in the world was that she put up a  good fight.

He struck first, coming at her with his left in a lumbering, halfhearted attack. Clearly he thought this a lark.

Haley braced her right arm at a ninety-degree angle. As she was blocking his weak swing, she leaned back and kicked her leg straight out, catching him in the groin.

He grunted, and the smile vanished from his face. His nostrils flared, and she panicked, thinking she'd mis-stepped badly. She girded herself, ready to be pummeled at

any moment.

But he only rubbed at his thigh, regarding her with a new and unsettling look in his eye.

He leapt toward her suddenly, and she startled with the abruptness of his attack. Skittering backward, she slammed into a tree, dropping her knife from her hand.

MacColla kicked the small blade aside, chuckling. Resting his foot on a stump, he asked, “Do you yield?”

Haley frowned. She wasn't about to yield.

She watched him resheathe his dagger. His cavalier pose put him just slightly off balance. Giving him a sweet smile, she stepped toward him.

And then she lunged. Ducking low, she went for his leg, catching his knee as she rolled to the ground.

"Dògan!"
 
he barked as he toppled like a felled tree,

slamming the breath from both of them.

Haley hadn't planned beyond that little maneuver and scrambled to untangle her legs from his. But he kept her pinned as he lay beneath her, his brawny thighs like vises.

He chuckled, coughed once, then, chuckling some more, slapped a hand to her bottom. “Well done, that, ” he muttered.

His hand didn't move from her and Haley went rigid, unnerved by the oddly intimate position.

MacColla was breathing hard, his other hand on his belly.

And then it seemed to hit him too. She felt him grow still.

Mindful of her ribs, he placed his hands at her hips and silently rolled them both to standing.

He gave only a brusque nod before he stalked off. His plaid swirled behind him, the tail of it swaying with each long stride.

It was the swiftest and, Haley mused, possibly the only

retreat Alasdair MacColla had ever marched in his life.

* * *

MacColla slammed the side of his fist into a tree, then muttered a curse as he shook out his hand.

He stormed back to Fincharn, unable to think on anything else but the lass's scar. A thick twine of skin marring her

otherwise perfect neck. He thought about the man who

dared cut her and irrational rage choked him.

MacColla sidestepped, lunging to slam his fist into another tree.

He didn't know how, but this strange woman had endeared herself to  him. He understood what it was to have

something stolen, understood the taste for revenge. He  knew well what it was to suffer injury, and instead of  seeking retreat, turning around to fight.

It was a warrior's impulse. He was a warrior. And he recognized the warrior in this Haley.

It touched him. Made him respect her in a way he'd not felt before. What woman lived with such courage that she'd face an enemy with naught but a cheese knife?

MacColla softened at the thought. Let a smile turn his lips.

What sort of woman indeed.

Chapter Eleven

“MacColla headed west.” Anticipation hummed in Nicholas  Purdon's voice. “My men tracked them through the passes,  but lost the trail near the eastern shore of Loch Awe.”

“Aye.” Campbell nodded, speaking his thoughts aloud.

“He'd head to water.”

“My thoughts precisely.” Purdon leaned back in his chair,  looking satisfied. He stroked the limp brown hair at the  crown of his head, brow furrowed in the way of men much  impressed with their own wisdom.

Campbell eyed him,  sitting to his left at Inveraray's dining table. He couldn't fault the man; Purdon had indeed done a fine job. But he had yet to bring MacColla down.

The major thought he'd succeeded, but he had much to learn. And he was wise to be looking to the Campbell for his tutelage.

Campbell spared a glance at the witch seated at the far end of the table. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows over her sharp features. He'd thought to ignore her, and  Purdon wisely followed his lead.