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MacColla's brogue thickened, drawing out his words. “Our good King Malcolm told King Barelegs  - that was the  Viking's name.” Raising his brows, he grinned. “And a hard name to forget, aye?”

His face lit, completely animated now, and Haley decided he'd picked up a bit of the Irish storytelling in his time

away.

“Malcolm told the Viking that he could keep whichever  islands he was able to sail around. Well, Barelegs asked his  men to drag his boat over the narrowest stretch of Kintyre,  so set was he on having the land.”

“And did he do it?”

“Oh, aye,” he laughed from deep in his belly, “and as the  story goes, he sat proud as you please on the poop of that  Viking longboat whilst his men hauled him across.”

As her laugh faded, she stopped in her tracks. Watched

MacColla's back as he walked on for a few paces.

Such a huge man. Six foot six, she estimated. Haley

watched and admired the shift of muscles beneath his

shirt, the flex of his iron calves with each step. His black  hair was wild, swaying, brushing along his shoulders. And  there was that tremendous sword reaching toward the  ground at his back.

He was such a surprise to her.

Haley had heard of his ferocity, had seen it in his fight with the Campbells. She knew there were dark and vicious depths that she'd yet to understand.

The warrior in him scared her. Could she love a man

capable of such brutality?

And  yet she found she also anticipated seeing that side.  God help her, she even hoped she'd see it, hoped one day she'd see Alasdair MacColla in action.

Now
 
her
 
MacColla.

A man so artlessly amused in the telling of his own stories.

And capable of such passion. With a short fuse, it lit to consume him with warrior ferocity as quickly as it had brought words of love to his mouth.

She watched his back for those few paces.

Then he turned to see where she was. They were both silent for a moment. He tilted his head. “Did you not like

my tale, then?”

MacColla reached his hand out to her.

She inhaled deeply, walked forward. Haley took his hand and said, “No, MacColla, I loved your tale.”

Those thick black brows of his furrowed suddenly.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“Your feet,
 
leannan
.” He dropped to his knees before her.

“You're limping.”

With his hand wrapped around her thigh to steady her, he lifted the opposite foot and drew in his breath sharply.

She put a hand at his shoulder for balance. “I'm all right.”

“Why'd you not tell me? Och,” he growled, and checked her

other foot. “You've not the feet for such walking.”

He stood and abruptly swooped her into his arms. “You're a wildcat, aye, but with such tender wee paws.”

“Really, MacColla.” He began to  walk on and she pushed at  his shoulders in a half-hearted protest. “You can't carry me

all the way to Kintyre.”

“I would.” He guided her arms around his neck. His smile  was broad as he stole a kiss from her cheek. “If you asked  it.”

“Well. I'm not going  to ask it.” She rested her head on him,  her feet scissoring in the air and she let herself enjoy the  feel of it. “So what's your plan then?”

They were approaching a clearing. “My plan.” he said as he set her gently down to lean against a tree near the edge of the copse, “is to see you rest here. We need horses. And,  Iosh, but I need food.”

He leaned and kissed her forehead. “Don't move,
 
leannan
.

And please don't get yourself abducted in my absence.”

He headed back into the forest. Turning, he walked backwards a few steps to say. “I'll return with food and ponies, my fair lass.”

MacColla spun and jogged away. Her smile grew weak.

She'd rest, and think.

And try to figure out how exactly she proposed to keep a war hero from dying.

Chapter Twenty

“A lass?!” Colkitto slammed his tankard onto the table and

ale sloshed over the sides, puddling onto the well -scarred  slab of wood. “What's my son doing mucking about the  countryside with some lass?”

Jean cut her eyes to Scrymgeour. She knew her father could make even the most dauntless of men quaver, particularly when he was in his drink. But Scrymgeour sat by her side, as placid as ever, and she was grateful.

He glanced her way and she spared him a quick, shy smile.  At times like this, she felt chagrined by  her father's behavior. She wondered what Scrymgeour thought of them.  Of her especially.

She had three brothers, four if one counted the bastard  Angus, and Colkitto for a father, all of them set in their warring ways, clinging tight to a generations-long feud that she sometimes feared defined them as much as their own

clan lineage.

Did Scrymgeour sit there, biding his time, waiting for his moment to be free of the lot of them?

She sat tall, marshalling her thoughts enough to answer her father. “He's not mucking about.” Jean folded her hands in her lap, a calm pose to match the smoothness of her voice. “I told you. Campbell's men took the woman. My brother simply- ”

“Simply risked his own hide for some stranger?”

Jean hesitated. That had given her pause as well, though for different reasons. She hadn't liked the woman at first.

Resented Haley her free and mannish ways.

But when Alasdair had discovered Haley gone, the haste with which he'd raced after her startled Jean.

She wondered if the woman might be the key to blunting her brother's desire for vengeance. His craving of it was insatiable, never-ending, razing all in his path. It was what had robbed Jean's husband from her.

“Campbell threatens even now to take back this land,” her  father continued. He slammed his hand down again,  landing in the puddle with a dull slap.

She saw Scrymgeour bristle at the sprinkle of ale. He discretely dabbed his cheek, and mortification colored her cheeks.

Jean's mind strayed once more to her husband. Donald  Mac Kay of Ardnacroish. He'd been a good man, she knew.  A near stranger to her, but a good man nonetheless.

And then he sacrificed his sword in battle, giving it to her brother when Alasdair's own had broken. Her husband

gave his sword, and so he gave his life.

It was only because of him that her brother still lived.

Jean grimaced.

She tried to take her mind from it. Faced her father, watched his mouth moving, hearing sounds yet not registering words.

The men talked of battle, always battle. She expected more from them. More from Alasdair, especially. He was smarter, more level-headed than the rest. The only man in her family who knew how to read. Who was a visionary. A leader of men.

She wondered precisely what it was her husband had died for that day, at the battle of Auldearn.

It had been MacColla's great victory. So great, the bard Iain  Lorn MacDonald sang a song to praise him. “Health and joy to the valiant Alasdair,” he'd written.

She wiped her damp palms along her skirts. She should be relieved, she thought. She loved her brother, and he still lived.

But when others slept, and she knew none could hear her in the darkness, Jean wept. She mourned her loss.  Resented her brother his warring ways.

She shut her eyes, hearing the men speaking as if from a distance. Her hands were clenched, clammy, the nails that burrowed into her palms the only things that kept her tears at bay.

She felt a hand snake onto her lap. Warm and firm, fingers twined with hers. Giving her a squeeze.

Unclenching,   Jean   opened   her   eyes.   Glanced   to

Scrymgeour, stalwart by her side.

And she knew then that he wasn't simply biding his time.

That he would be by her side to stay, if she wished it.

The thought gave her strength.

She tuned back into Colkitto, who roared on. “Campbell vows to take back
 
this very land
 
Clan Iain Mor so dauntonly only just carved back for ourselves.”

“'Twas Alasdair who did the carving, father,” Jean said  quietly. She savored her anger now, and it brought frost to  her words. She would will the family to moderation, if it  killed her. “And I trust he'll soon return safe,” she added  evenly, “with this Haley in hand.”

Colkitto   glared   at   his   daughter,   silent.   Tensing,  Scrymgeour eased his hand from hers, nearer to the dirk hanging at his belt.

Jean shot him a quick, reassuring glance.

“Och,” Colkitto growled. “At ease, lad. My daughter's in no  danger from me. 'Tis my son who needs a fair clouting.” His  eyes lit at the prospect. He and his sons sparred and  tussled at every opportunity, and if Jean knew her father,  he'd not miss this one.

She feared her father was forgetting what he was about.

He grew old, well past seventy now, but he'd been a warrior in his day and considered himself a warrior still.

It wasn't his body that worried her. His skin fell slack, but it hung on muscles that remained as firm as bands of iron at his arms. It was his mind that Jean had been spending more time concerned about. His wits weren't as fast or as

fit as they once were.

Colkitto increasingly spent the days in his cups, bored.  Lately she'd had the grim thought that he'd as soon die in battle than spend one more day in their company.

“I've already negotiated surrender of Dunyveg. I'll not ”-

“That was before we were born, father. Thirty years ago.

The MacDonalds once again hold Dunyve g.”

The old man let out a slow hiss. Not moving his eyes from his daughter, he shouted for his wife. “Mary! More ale!”

Jean finally let herself flinch. Would he not show a little decorum? She stole a look in Scrymgeour's direction, shame keeping her chin cast low.

Her mother glided into the room, and Jean was reminded of what a beauty she'd once been. MacColla was an unusually large man, all her brothers were, and it was a trait they could only have inherited from their mother.  Though Colkitto was tall,  her mother was almost of a like height, still ramrod straight and strong despite her years.

“Aye, husband, we've ale to hand.” Mary smiled, and Jean  was thankful for the elegant nod she gave Scrymgeour as  she refilled his cup. “There is no need to bellow  like a bull.  I'm only just in the other room.”

She went to stand behind her husband's chair and placed a calm hand on his shoulder. “You may fashion yourself a king among men, my love,” she said, taking in the unadorned walls of the humble two -bedroom cottage, “but

this home is a far cry from a castle.”

Face otherwise completely still, her eyes locked on Jean and she gave a sly wink.

Scrymgeour stifled a laugh, clearly shocked by Mary's impertinence.

Colkitto erupted into laughter, a thunderous sound

echoing off the cold, stone walls. Her father had a broad,

open-mouthed laugh, revealing teeth yellowed with age.

“To my Mary!” He lifted his newly filled cup. “Never have I  known her to speak with forked tongue.” He craned his  head to look up at her. “You' re as bonny as the day we met,
 
beanag
.”

He gave her a brusque nod before taking a deep pull of ale.

“And you,
 
an duine agam
” Mary replied. Reaching down,  she took the cup from his lips for a sip. “I find you just as  irascible.”

“Aye, we drink now.” Chuckling, Colkitto reached up to pat  his wife on the cheek, then turned his attention back to the  table. “But soon we fight. The MacDonalds have reclaimed  Kintyre, and Campbell will not let it stand. Mark me, he  will come at us, with blood on his mind.”

Blood and more blood.
 
It was time for the fighting to stop.

Her father's bitterness grew with each passing day. As acrid as the accursed ale that he could no longer live without.

And Alasdair. Her brother was no longer a young man. It was time for him to think on other things. A home. A wife.  He had nearly four decades behind him and still no life of his own to speak of.

He'd seemed captivated by that peculiar woman.

Jean wrapped her hands around her cup. The metal was cool on her hot skin.

A shadow of a smile flickered for an instant. Perhaps the stranger named Haley would be just the one to finally turn her brother's head.

Chapter Twenty-One