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Irritation pricked his veins. "Woman, I am in no mood to discuss my wife with you."

  "Well, MacDonell, that is a pity. I want Valerie moved, and I want it done now."

  Anger flickered to life in his belly. Who the hell did this witch think she was, coming into his home, against his wishes, and spouting orders? He turned a gaze on her and once again considered tossing her out on her mended behind.

  "Hear me well, woman, for I am not in the habit of repeating myself." He took a deep breath to cool his rising temper. "The only reason you are here is because my wife requested it. That does not mean I have to listen to your words or suffer your presence. Valerie is my wife. Any decisions concerning her health are mine to make, not yours."

  There. He'd said it. His wishes were so clear, even the village idiot could understand.

  She stood unwavering before him. The only indication that she heard him at all was the tensing of her jaw. In the depths of her incredible eyes, he saw a flood of emotions flicker to life.

  "MacDonell, what I do here is for Valerie, not you. Her symptoms are very similar to those my mother suffered." She paused, as if to regain control over her emotions. "In your desire to reign supreme over all things in your house, have you not perceived that Valerie is dying?"

  Anguish filled his heart. How unfeeling the woman must think him! To stand boldly in his home and gouge the truth nestled in his soul was foolish beyond belief.

  With care to keep his temper in check, Alastair closed the distance between them. Staring into her luminous eyes, he longed to wrap his hands around her ivory throat and squeeze.

  "I know quite well the fate of my wife, woman," he managed to say. The bite of his voice was not lost on her, for she retreated a step. "I have done everything in my power to heal her. Dare not imply I am ignorant again, or so help me, I will take a whip to you."

  Her chin rose a fraction of an inch. He did not miss the tremble in her hands as she folded her arms across her belly.

  "Try it and I will turn you into a eunuch, MacDonell."

  His threatened manhood recoiled. For one brief moment, Alastair believed her.

  "Have you noticed the stench that fills Valerie's room?"

  He grimaced and turned away, lest he give into his urges and strike her down. "Aye. 'Tis hard to ignore."

  "I just came from her chamber. Mold covers the walls."

  The woman was daft as a horse. He paused before the hearth and once again turned to her. "So? This keep is old and the climate damp. Mold cannot be avoided."

  One fine eyebrow rose. "Aye, it can, MacDonell." With courage, the woman dared approach him. "Mold breeds a fungus that attacks the lungs of the weak."

  What was she talking about? Mold was everywhere in this land, especially during autumn. "How do you know so much? My own healer has said naught of this."

  Pain touched her eyes. He caught just a glimpse of it before she lowered her gaze. "While I was in France, I enlisted the talents of the healer who served the court. The first order he gave was to have our quarters scrubbed from floor to rafters to remove the mold."

  Something stirred in Alastair's heart. But what?

  "'Twas his theory that the mold was the malefactor of my mother's bane."

  Lord, she sounded sad, lost and alone. Before he realized what he was doing, Alastair tucked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to his. In the starry depths of her eyes he saw pain.

  Her lip quivered and he briefly thought she would weep. "Alas, I was unable to save my mother."

  Drawn into the recesses of her forlorn tone, Alastair felt sympathy for all she endured. For some unexplainable reason, he wanted to pull her into his arms and --

  "I will beg you if I must. Please, give me the chance to help Valerie."

  Her sad whisper spiraled through his soul. The woman was indeed a witch, an enchantress skilled in the art of her craft. At that moment, she had him completely beguiled.

  The echo of a door closing rang through the gallery and effectively broke the spell. Alastair dropped his hand and stepped away from the captivating shrew.

  Footsteps echoed across the stones. For some reason, Alastair felt like a lad caught stealing biscuits from the kitchen. He turned away from Ciara.

  Control. 'Tis what he needed when dealing with this woman. Yet, he found himself unable to accomplish this. One look into her alluring eyes and he was reduced to a quivering mass of infatuation.

  "The room two doors down from Valerie can be easily prepared," he said, clearing his throat to dislodge the uncomfortable lump wedged there. "I will move her by midday."

  "Thank you."

  Her soft murmur coiled around his heart. What was happening to him? The viper knew her mission well, knew how to use him to gain her wishes. He closed his eyes and nodded.

  The hush of her steps faded from the room. Alastair rested an arm on the mantel and took a deep breath. Guilt gnawed at his belly. Valerie deserved his unwavering attention; yet, somehow, Ciara forced her way into his mind.

  He stared into the hearth. Flames licked over dry logs and sparks drifted up the chimney. The cherry glow of the fire reminded him of Ciara; both her hair and her temper.

  By all that is holy, he was a married man. His wife lay dying in a room they once shared. A chamber where pleasure and peace once dwelled.

  Disgusted with himself, he left the room in search of Torquil. If it took his final breath, Alastair had to find a way to remove Ciara from behind his walls.

  * * *

  MacDonell was a very dangerous man.

  Annoyed with herself for her conduct, Ciara plunged her brush in a bucket of soapy water and scrubbed the floor with a vengeance. Bubbles skittered across the stones and carried with it the haunting eyes of her best friend's husband.

  Why had she allowed the man to touch her? Somehow he managed to stir her emotions and lower her defenses. Even now, hours after the confrontation in the hall, she felt the touch of his fingers against her skin.

  'Twas something she vowed would never happen again.

  "I have women arriving to help with this task."

  Ciara's heart jumped to her throat. She turned a glance toward the door. MacDonell stood there, surveying the empty room.

  Soft boots covered his feet and hugged his legs to the knee. A few inches above, the edge of his plaid brushed against his thighs. A pristine shirt with a leather tie at the throat encased his broad shoulders. Hair as dark as a raven's wing caressed that breadth and drew her gaze to his unforgettable eyes.

  "Am I disfigured, or do you like what you see?"

  Dear Lord. He had caught her staring at him. That misdeed was horrid enough. Yet the cocksure attitude of the man was enough to rile her temper.

  With a scowl, she turned her attention back on her task. "You are disfigured."

  His amused chuckle did little to dispel her discomfort. She felt his gaze upon her as she shoved the bucket across the floor. Damn the man to hell and back. Why couldn't he keep his distance?

  "Do you think this will help my wife?"

  Sorrow filled her heart and her brush slowed against the stones. From his tone, Ciara knew MacDonell cared for Valerie. Still, she could not bring herself to look at him.

  "Aye. I only pray it is not too late." A painful lump lodged in her throat at the thought of losing her friend. She shook her head and forced it away.

  "I share your prayer."

  The melancholy that laced his voice drew her gaze. In the lines etched upon his brow, she glimpsed the despair he felt. 'Twas a feeling she knew well. No one, MacDonell or not, liked to believe themselves helpless when dealing with death.

  "Her fate rests in the hands of the Almighty, MacDonell," Ciara whispered. She lowered her gaze to the brush held in her damp hand and sighed. "This we do is naught but a request for merciful time."

  With an enthusiasm she did not feel, Ciara returned to her chore. The scrape of the brush against the stones was the only noise in the room. She dared a glance at the doorway.

&n
bsp; MacDonell gazed upon her, yet she felt he did not see her. The hollowness of his eyes made him appear to be a hundred miles away.

  What should she do? The desire to offer him comfort welled in her breast. Yet she resisted. He was, after all, a MacDonell. Did that mean he had no feelings?

  With her gaze still on him, Ciara reached her brush in the direction of the bucket. It hit the rim and, before she could stop it, the pail tipped and spilled the contents over the floor.

  The noise drew MacDonell from his trance. He sighed and shoved his fingers through his hair. "If you need anything else to help Valerie, let me know."

  A moment later, he was gone. Ciara sat back on her bent legs and stared at the doorway. Despite the water that seeped through her worn gown, she was reluctant to move.

  The man was a puzzle, without a doubt. He appeared hard and calloused on the outside, yet when it came to Valerie, he was tender and caring.

  Ciara lowered her gaze to her lap. He knew Valerie was dying. What more did he know, yet kept to himself? Her heart tickled her ribs and fluttered to her throat.

  Could he possibly be aware of the plan Valerie had for them? And if so, what were his thoughts on the matter?

  Trepidation settled in the pit of her belly. She shook her head and continued her chore. It did not matter if he was aware of the plan or not. She hoped this scrubbing would restore Valerie's health. She would regain her strength, and resume her life with her husband.

  That would leave Ciara free to remove herself from this keep and the disturbing presence of its laird.

  * * *

  "What troubles you, Alastair?"

  The sleepy whisper drew his gaze away from the snow that continued to blanket the land. Valerie lay against an unfamiliar mattress. Fresh linen embraced her and soft pillows offered her comfort. The faint light of a lone candle danced across her delicate face. She looked so damned weak.

  "Naught for you to fret over, wife." He moved away from the window and eased himself on the edge of her bed. "You should sleep."

  She shook her head and stifled a yawn. "What is the hour?"

  Alastair glanced at the ringed candle nestled in a stand beside her bed. "'Tis near midnight." He lifted his hand and stroked her soft cheek. "Drift back to sleep now."

  "Nay," she sighed and closed her eyes. "Soon I will have an eternity to slumber."

  His hand stilled against her flesh. The truth stabbed his heart. He did not want her to die. 'Twas unfair of God to deal her such a cruel hand.

  Her eyes fluttered open. A tender smile curved her lips and she raised a hand to his cheek. "Do not look so forlorn, love. The only regret I have is that I will not be here to share a life with you."

  Alastair closed his eyes against her words. He wished he had as much courage as she did. The palm of his hand covered hers against his cheek. With a sad heart, he gently kissed her wrist.

  "I will listen to no more talk of death," he said and braved a look into her eyes. "Ciara has worked hard this day purifying our chamber for you."

  A gentle sigh escaped her lips. "If God wills me to join him soon, naught will delay his wish." Her hand withdrew from his and rested across her belly. "I need to speak with you about Ciara."

  Just the mention of the witch's name lulled his sleeping guilt to life. He would perish before telling this sweet creature of the shame he carried in his heart. Yet, mayhap, Valerie would offer a reprieve.

  "Do you wish her to leave?"

  Breath held, he waited for a positive reply.

  She smiled and briefly closed her eyes. "Nay, dear husband. Having Ciara here is a great comfort to me."

  All hopes Alastair had of removing the woman from his house fled. He took a deep breath and nodded. "Then, what thoughts concern you?"

  A frown furrowed her brow. "The future. Ciara is a very special woman."

  Alastair had no idea where this conversation was going, but he prayed she would soon make her point. Discussing the red-haired viper was not high on his list of favorite topics.

  "Do you know why she hates the MacDonells?"

  The question, simply stated, took him by surprise. Hostility was clear in his dealings with Ciara, yet he assumed it was her nature.

  He cupped Valerie's hand in his and whispered, "Nay."

  A rattled breath filled her lungs. "Five years past, her sire and a group of his men were slain in a glen near Loch Garry."

  Dread stilled his heart. Through the pages of his mind, his memory flashed to a summer's eve when he rode beside his father on a mission he knew little about.

  "When the Mackintosh fell, and their blood stained the ground, all that was found among the bodies was a scrap of MacDonell plaid."

  The shriek of horses falling beneath their masters melded with the clang of swords that echoed through his brain. Hands stained with blood clawed at his clothes.

  "None know who was involved. The plaid could have been a clever device meant to entrap the MacDonells."

  Reluctant shivers danced along his spine. He heard the roar of his father and felt his rage. Beneath his father's blood-stained hands, Alastair's plaid was stripped away, a mark of shame among the clan.

  "I assured Ciara that you were not involved."

  Take up yer sword and strike the foe, or ye are nae kin o' mine! The words reverberated through his mind until Alastair thought he would scream.

  The tender brush of Valerie's hand against his cheek jerked him from the past. He stared down into her worried eyes and willed his heart to calm.

  "Mercy, Alastair, your skin is damp and chilled."

  The horror he endured that night would haunt him the rest of his days.

  Her fingers traced his jaw, then slowly drifted back to her lap. "Did I tell Ciara true, husband?"

  The worried look reflected in her eyes tore at his soul. He would not let her last remembrance of him be the discovery that her husband, the man she so freely loved, was a killer.

  With firm resolve he forced the tortured memory from his mind and did his best to smile. "Nay, I did not kill her sire."

  The smile gifted upon him was worth the lie. "I knew it." She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and continued. "I have a request to make of you, husband."

  After the lie he just told, he would promise her the moon, should she ask. "What would that be?"

  She hesitated just a moment. "Promise me that, once I am gone, you will care for Ciara as you have cared for me."

  Disbelief tumbled through his veins. He could not have heard her properly. Surely, she had not asked him to take a viper into his home. "What?"

  A weak smile touched her lips. "You heard me, Alastair. I want you to protect Ciara."

  He scoffed. "That is one lass, I dare say, who can protect herself."

  Her smile faded. "Ciara is not as she seems. She is more fragile than you know."

  Fragile? She could not possibly be referring to the same woman who threatened to rob him of his manhood this morn.

  "Will you do as I ask?"

  He stared into her beautiful face and his heart twisted in his chest. How could he deny her? Yet, how could he not? Being dubbed the protector of Ciara Mackintosh was not what he longed to do.

  "Please, Alastair. Do not make me beg."

  He felt lower than the king beneath a whore. Valerie never asked him for favors. Now, when she made a request of him, he found it difficult to consent.

  "I would never make you beg." He swallowed hard and nodded. "I will honor your wish."

  Valerie smiled.

  Chapter Four

  Ciara slipped from the keep as the dawn sun struggled to rise in the eastern sky. Every muscle in her body ached from her activities of the day before. None of that mattered, though. Today the room would be open to the fresh highland air and tomorrow Valerie would return to her chambers. By the grace of God, Ciara's efforts would be rewarded with the restoration of her friend's health.

  Across the glen and the slope to the valley below, a thick blanket of snow
covered the land. The wind kissed her cheek and lured a smile to her lips.

  Nothing on earth could compare to a Highland dawn.

  With care, Ciara pulled the warmth of a cloak around her shoulders and descended the steps. Snow crunched beneath her feet as she made her way toward the clearing that offered such a heavenly view of the loch.

  In a matter of minutes the chill dampness of the snow seeped through the holes in her worn leather shoes, soaking her stockings and the hem of her gown. Despite the discomfort and the cold, Ciara continued on her journey.

  So many thoughts filled her head, keeping her from peaceful slumber. Valerie's condition and her odd request, coupled with the disturbing presence of the laird, unsettled Ciara. Valerie's approval did not ease the guilt Ciara felt when caught alone with MacDonell.

  This reprieve with the solace of dawn was what she needed to clear her mind of unwanted thoughts.

  Ciara reached an outcrop of trees that bordered the glen and rested her back against the trunk of a mighty oak. The contentment of a sigh murmured through the air as she lifted her face toward the sky.

  God knew what he was about when he created the Highlands.

  A faint noise drew her gaze. Not thirty feet from where she stood, an exquisite red deer picked its way through the pristine blanket. It paused and nibbled at the bark of a tree.

  Ciara smiled. Such a beautiful animal. The grace of its legs and curve of its neck drew her respect. Not everything God created was lovely. Ciara was proof of that.

  A fawn wobbled from the protection of the trees. It made its way to its mother and joined her in their morning meal.

  Natural beauty and serene grace. Two qualities Ciara longed to possess but knew would never be hers.

  The doe suddenly lifted her head, ears pushed forward, every line of her lithe body alert. Ciara followed the deer's gaze, yet saw nothing amiss. Without warning, a harsh whisper robbed the serenity of the morn. An arrow struck the doe in the neck.

  Horror lodged a scream in Ciara's throat. Stunned, she watched the beautiful creature stagger from the blow. Blood spurted from the wound and stained the virgin snow. The immature deer cried as another arrow hit its mother, successfully bringing her to the ground.