Donald’s eyes narrowed. “I donna know.”

“Why would he write me and then nae explain his words? This doesnae make sense.”

“Your father sealed the letter and gave it to me over a year ago. Mayhap he meant to speak with ye and then became ill. But he ne’er mentioned anything to me about a stone. If ye donna know of what he writes, then this stone is probably already safe.”

“I will speak with Aunt Iseabail. Father may have spoken to her.” Alex pulled a pouch from a drawer and placed it on the desk in front of Donald. “I thank ye for the years of service and your continued loyalty to my father.”

“It was my honor to serve him. I wish I could do the same for ye, but I am afraid these aging bones are weary. John will serve ye well. If ye ever want or need for anything, ye need only ask. Your father was a dear friend to me and ye are as a son.” Donald rose and picked up the pouch. “Ye will make a fine laird, Alex.”

Alex watched Donald walk out the door, and then once again, he glanced at the opened letter. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was anything else his father had neglected to mention.

The remainder of the afternoon passed as a blur. All he was mindful of was the fact that last eve he had stood over his father’s lifeless body and now he returned to stand over his father’s grave. Time could not be turned back. He had to accept the fact that his sire was truly dead.

Alex glanced at his aunt as tears welled up in her eyes. Neither one of them spoke. The knowledge that he was now Laird Alexander MacDonell of Glengarry knotted and turned inside him, for he was a man who faced a harsh reality.

It was time to take his father’s place.

Alex’s hand seemed somewhat large as he rested it on his aunt’s frail shoulder. “Take all the time ye need, Aunt Iseabail. I will stay as long as ye wish.”

She patted his hand in response. “He was a good man, my brother.”

“Aye.”

There was a heavy silence.

She nodded toward his father’s grave and murmured, “Dia leat.” God be with you.

Touching her elbow lightly, Alex guided her back toward home. “I have been meaning to ask something of ye. Before he died, Father wrote a letter that spoke of keeping some kind of stone safe within the walls of the Rock of the Raven. Do ye know of it?”

He sensed a slight hesitation, and then Aunt Iseabail’s gaze lowered in confusion. He had been afraid that might happen. She had her good days and bad. Perhaps he would try again when she wasn’t so burdened by grief.

“I must confess my mind sometimes fails me,” said Aunt Iseabail with regret.

“’Tis all right. Why donna ye take some time to think upon it?”

After seeing to his aunt and barely muddling through the day, Alex sought the solace of his father’s study. He closed the heavy wooden door and secured the latch, pausing a moment to welcome the blessed silence. He grabbed a tankard from the shelf and opened the bottom desk drawer. Pulling out MacGregor’s ale, compliments of his cousin, he poured himself a healthy dram.

Without thought, he walked around the edge of the desk and then caught himself. What the hell was he doing? Backing up, he pulled out his sire’s chair and sat down. He kicked back a long, burning mouthful and welcomed the numbness the fiery liquid brought. With a shiver of vivid recollection, he was flooded by memories of his father and realized he hadn’t nearly had enough to drink. He would keep the bottle of ale on the desk. Hell, maybe he’d even down the whole damn thing.

Alex continued to stare at the walls that encased him until he heard a soft tapping at the door. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. Perhaps if he ignored the sound, it would go away. When another rap repeated even louder, Alex grunted. He pushed himself to his feet, walked over, and reluctantly lifted the latch. He swung open the door, and what he saw was certainly not what he had expected.

“Doireann.” He was too tired to notice the woman’s slim waist that flared into rounded hips or her hair, which was a rich auburn. He’d taken the lass so many times he knew every curve by memory.

“Alex.” She raised her hand to touch his arm in a gesture of sympathy. “I thought you might need comfort. And since my father’s service to your sire has come to an end, we will be taking our leave on the morrow to join my mother’s kin. Unless, of course, there is a reason ye would want me to remain…”

When he did not immediately respond, she closed the distance between them. She smoothed his hair with her hand and offered something else with her eyes. “We have been together for years, Alexander. I know ye as well as I know myself. I think ye should find an opportunity to speak with my father and discuss our future. If ye so desire.”

Alex sighed heavily. “Doireann, ye know I’m fond of ye, but we’ve discussed this before. We cannae have a future together, and ye always knew that. I am laird now.”

A playful smile curved her lips. “I thought as much, but ye cannae blame a lass for trying.” She fingered the edge of her gown above the swell of her ripe bosom. “But still, I offer ye comfort. For old times, if naught else. Do ye want me one last time?”

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment, and then his eyes sent her a private message. He traced his finger across her lip and then his hand slid down. There was no time for words. All of the pent-up energy he had been feeling for days rose in one heated moment. He needed a welcome distraction and she was more than willing. Before sanity crept back in, he tossed her skirts and lifted her to the wall. If Doireann was shocked by his urgency, she did not say so.

Right now, Alex was not the laird of Glengarry. He was only a man with a single purpose. He looked her over seductively and tugged down her dress over her shoulder. When he exposed her breast, he lowered his head and his lips touched her nipple. She let out mewling sounds, and one of his hands slid down her taut stomach to the swell of her hips, between her legs.

Leave it to the skillful Doireann—she was ready for him.

He lifted his kilt and his body imprisoned hers. She was so wet and welcomed him into her body. With thrust after blessed thrust, he yielded to the burning sweetness. She pulled him closer, riding him harder, deeper, burying her hands in his thick hair.

Her soft curves molded into the contours of his lean body. She was panting, her chest heaving. He took her like an animal, and the degree to which she responded stunned him. She rose to meet him in a moment of uncontrolled passion.

When she moaned aloud, she roused him to the peak of desire. She gasped in sweet agony, and with one last heavy thrust, he spilled his seed.

“Alex, ye are going to kill me,” she said, panting.

He grunted in response. That may not have been one of his most prolonged performances, but it had sated his needs nonetheless. He gently lowered her to the ground and supported her until her legs stopped wobbling. She brushed down her skirts and adjusted her bodice, casting him a wry smile.

“Are ye dead?” he asked, the huskiness lingering in his tone.

She stepped around him, and her eyes grew openly amused. “I donna think so. I suppose there is naught much else to say except I will sorely miss that and ye, Laird Alexander MacDonell of Glengarry.”

A sad smile played on his lips. The carefree moment ended as he suddenly felt burdened by a heavy weight on his shoulders. “Be well, Doireann.”

She walked to the door and turned around. “Ye and John be sure to stay out of trouble…and harm’s way, Alex.”

He nodded as she took her leave and then he smirked, realizing the irony. Doireann had walked out of his life and closed the door just like the last chapter of a book. Just as well. All that mattered now was the future. He was laird. He had responsibility, and Alex was bound and determined to make his father proud.

Two

Kintail, Scotland

Lady Sybella MacKenzie huffed. “I donna know why ’tis so important I learn to do this. Why is it expected that women must learn to sew and stitch? ’Tis truly ridiculous and has nay value whatsoever. I feel as though I’m losing my mind.”

“Nay wonder, Sybella. Ye arenae concentrating. Look at your stitching. What a mess.” A smile played on her cousin-by-marriage’s lips as Mary tucked her nut-brown hair behind her ear. She was petite and fragile, everything Angus would favor in a woman. “When ye wed, do ye want your husband to have tattered clothing? He would look like a fool.”

Sybella giggled. “It doesnae matter if his clothes are tattered. Men always look like fools.”

“Angus takes pride in his appearance,” Mary added.

“And my cousin takes ye for granted. Why do ye want to sit here bored to tears when we could be out in the open air?”

Mary promptly ignored her, resuming her latest project, while Sybella glanced around the ladies’ solar. She shook her head at the womanly touches. Dainty pictures of the fairer sex wearing delicate gowns hung on the walls. There were flowers and all of the feminine furnishings someone would expect to be placed in a room where the ladies were presumed to congregate.

How very original. Who made those rules? She would love to hang the bow that had landed her four rabbits in one single hunt. She wondered what the ladies would say about that. The women of propriety would surely shudder, including Mary. At least the bow might turn conversation to something other than the usual acceptable, boring subjects.

Sybella sprang to her feet, dropping the embroidery to the floor. “’Tis a beautiful day and ye are clearly wasting it. I dare ye to stop what ye are doing and come out and enjoy the sun.” When Mary hesitated, Sybella knew she was going to relent.

Sybella headed toward the door and turned her head over her shoulder. “Grab your cloak and I will meet ye in the bailey.”

“Ye know? One of these days ye’re going to meet your match. I wish to be there when ye do.”

“There has ne’er been such a man.” Even as she spoke the words, Sybella couldn’t help remembering a stolen kiss in a sun-kissed glade and the sound of a waterfall rushing in the distance. She quickly shook her head to clear the thought. She wouldn’t give the beastly MacDonell man the satisfaction.

Sybella ambled through the bailey to wait for Mary.

“Cousin.”

Sybella turned to face Mary’s husband, Angus. “Your father wants to speak with ye in his study.”

“Now?” she asked, disappointed.

Angus ran his hand through his brown locks. “Aye.”

“All right. Will you tell Mary for me?”

Sybella hoped whatever her father wanted wouldn’t take long. It was too beautiful to remain inside one minute longer than necessary.

As she approached the study, she could hear raised voices coming from inside. The argument sounded heated, but she couldn’t quite make out the words.

The voices silenced.

“Enter, Sybella,” called her father from the other side of the door.

How he could have heard her was beyond her comprehension. She pushed open the door to see her father seated behind his large wooden desk with Colin nearby. A shiver went up her back at the dour look on her brother’s face. This did not bode well.

“Come in, Daughter. I wish to speak with ye.” Her father gestured for her to sit.

There was no denying a command from her father. He was a man used to having his orders obeyed—instantly. His graying hair, broad shoulders, and sharp features gave him an innate air of authority.

She glanced at Colin, who cast her a bleak, tight-lipped smile. His eyes were dark and unfathomable. What was this about? If her father was going to chastise her about catching more rabbits than Colin and, therefore, making her brother look like a daft fool…It wasn’t the first time and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Straightening her spine, she waited for her father’s censure. What would it take to prove to him that she could be just as reliable as her brother? When would he understand that her talents were wasted on sewing and other women’s work?

Her father leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach. “I donna expect ye to understand the ways of politics, Sybella, but ye know enough to realize marriages are often arranged to better our clan.”

She heard herself swallow, not sure she liked where this conversation was headed.

“Since your dear mother has passed and ye nay longer care for her, nae to mention with our conquest of Lewis, the MacLeod clan—”