Chapter One
February 1312
Near Castle Eilean Donan, Wester Ross
Shivering in the bone-deep cold, Tyra MacNeacail tugged the hood of her fur-lined cloak to cover over her hair from the steadily falling snowflakes.
Although not a great distance, the passage across the sea from her home on the Isle of Skye to Wester Ross had been rough. She’d suffered terribly from seasickness, spending the voyage clinging to the rails of her half-brother Edmund’s birlinn, wishing for nothing more than to let the waves take her and plunge her to the bottom of the briny sea.
Yet, she’d survived, and here she was, en route to the Priory of Pluscarden at Moray, which was at least another three days’ ride. She shivered at the prospect of days on horseback in this freezing weather, when her legs were like jelly and her derrière already felt bruised and battered.
Dugald MacLeod, one of the two lads guarding her who had ridden ahead through the gathering gloom, grinned as he rode up to her, his bridle jangling. Judging by his ruddy cheeks and red nose he was feeling the cold as keenly as she was.
“The village is nae much further now, Lady Tyra.”
Her two stalwart defenders had been charged with keeping her safe at all costs. Even though she would have felt safer with a larger contingent of men-at-arms, she knew they would draw attention. To evade possible pursuit, this journey was meant for stealth, and she’d been whisked away from the castle and the island in secrecy.
She craned her neck, searching the dark, forbidding sky for a friendly spiral of smoke from a cottage chimney. But all was lost in the clouds.
“Thank ye Dugald. It will be good tae find a warm fire and something tae fill our bellies.”
Here in the rugged country, she was further from her home than she had ever traveled before, and to her great dismay, where she was heading was not at all to her liking. Once they arrived at the priory, her life would be lived in quiet reflection and prayer. It was a far cry from the bright, joyous, life she’d once believed would be hers. She sighed again.
It was not as if she had anything against nuns, but she’d always known the life of silent contemplation was not for her.
What she’d pictured for herself – not too long ago – was being wed to the man she loved, bearing his children, and creating a family of her own. Even though her hopes of a happy home had been dashed most cruelly, a tiny part of her still hoped and dreamed that somewhere there might be some happiness she could call hers.
But that hope was kept locked away in the furthest reaches of her heart, surrounded by a high stone wall that no one would ever be permitted to breach.
Over the past months she’d received an angry swarm of unsigned missives, all of them filled with dire threats of a cruel fate awaiting her – even threatening her death. At first, she’d said nothing, trying to ignore the letters, but as they became more numerous, they took a cruel toll. The threats haunted her. She’d become fearful, unable to sleep, nauseous, fretting over food she’d once enjoyed, her clothes loosening as she grew thin.
When, finally, she’d revealed to her brother and sister-in-law what troubled her, Laird Edmund had made every effort to discover who was sending the messages. Despite his efforts, the identity of the sender remained a mystery, yet as far as Edmund was concerned, they were sent by Laird Harris MacDonald, the man to whom Tyra had been betrothed. But there was no proof that MacDonald was the culprit and, ultimately, she had no recourse but to reluctantly agree with her brother’s plan to send her to safety at Pluscarden.
She shook her head. The memory of her fiancé’s betrayal was still too raw, too cruel, to allow her thoughts to dwell there.
Her fingers plucked idly at the reins. These last hours on horseback since leaving the ship had tired her, and she looked forward to a rest from the journey and a few blessed moments to herself.
Eager to escape the weather, all three urged their horses into a canter as the curling smoke from the scattering of whitewashed cottages ahead finally came into view.
The village was tiny, the population consisting of only a handful of fishermen, the landlord of the inn, and his staff.
In only a few minutes they were clattering into the deserted inn yard of Thistle and Briar. Ghillie, her other guard, assisted Tyra to dismount and handed her reins to the ostler, who was standing by ready to lead their horses into the stables.
“Feed them well,” Tyra said, “We’ve three more days before we reach our destination and our horses – and ourselves – will be sorely tested over such harsh country.” She glanced around, theirs were the only horses she could see. “Are there others staying here?”
“Nay, milady, ye and yer lads are the only ones taking respite here from this foul weather.”
This was good news. The fewer folk there were to take notice of her little party, the better.
Dugal left them, striding into the inn to consult the landlord about their overnight accommodation and to arrange a meal for all three. While Ghillie busied himself unstrapping their panniers, she stretched her arms and rolled her head to rid herself of the cursed crick in her neck. Her shoulders were tight with tension.
“I will walk a little way, Ghillie, I need tae stretch me limbs after such a long ride.” She gave a soft laugh. “Me poor legs are complaining that I have been sitting too long at me embroidery these past months.”
The man looked up, anxious creases appearing on his face.
“I’ll set this task aside, melady, and accompany ye. ‘Tis me first priority tae keep ye safe.”
Desperate to have a moment to herself, she tutted. “Dinnae fash, Ghillie. I’ll be back in minutes. I’ve nay intention of walking far, I just wish tae stretch me limbs after so long in the saddle and at sea. ‘Tis surely safe enough here. We’re far from Skye, and I doubt danger has followed us over the sea.” Although she understood the need for caution, the constant surveillance left her on edge, adding to her sense of peril rather than alleviating it.
Ghillie hastily redid the belt on the saddle that held the pannier. She saw him signal to the ostler who was waiting at the stables but she was in no mind to wait for him.
Breathing deeply, exhaling small, steamy clouds into the icy air, Tyra tramped along the muddy roadway, passing a row of fishermen’s cottages along the seafront where several small craft were tied.
Some distance behind her, Ghillie was hurrying to try and catch up.
She nodded to an old woman who shuffled past, bundled into so many layers of clothing that only her eyes and a tuft of grey hair were visible. There were only a few villagers about, hurrying, heads down against the falling snow, most of them carrying baskets or sacks of provisions.
As a fisherman informed her, this time of year, there was little fresh produce available, and the villagers survived with bartering between themselves of salted fish, eggs and cheese, drawing on supplies laid up from harvest time.
Realizing with a jolt that she’d walked further than she intended and had passed the last of the cottages, Tyra turned back into the gathering darkness. She’d only walked a few paces toward the now distant lights, when she heard quick footsteps surging behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder just in time to witness the dark figure of a man emerging from the woods beside the road, rushing toward her.
Heart stuttering, she broke into a run, but before she’d progressed more than a yard or two a rough hand was laid on her shoulder, restraining her. A wild scream of terror and rage broke from her throat as she struggled against the man, trying to tear herself from his grip.
It was only a moment before she felt the point of a dirk pressed hard into her ribcage, the sharp edge just piercing her skin.
“Hold still, ye chit,” came a gruff, muffled voice out of the darkness, “or I’ll slice ye like a slaughtered lamb.”
She managed another piercing scream before a giant hand came up, crushing her lips against her teeth, brutally attempting to stifle the scream about to fly from her mouth. Pulling her head back, her screams reduced to mere guttural bleats, she looked around, helplessly, for someone who might help.
Her blood ran hot with elation as she made out the figure of Ghillie rushing toward her in the gloom. And, not far behind him was Dugal.
For once their surveillance was not a burden but a source of hope.
The foul-smelling man who was holding her must have caught sight of the two men rushing to her rescue with swords raised, for he grunted, dragging her backwards a few steps.
Dugal was shouting as he raced toward her, “Halt, ye swine. Let the lady go.”
The man snarled. “Come closer, and the lady dies.” She felt the sting as he dug his blade against her ribs.
While his attention was momentarily diverted by her lads, she made a sudden twist that caused him to him to fumble with the dirk. Struggling, she managed to keep out of reach of his weapon, yelling with all her might to her defenders. “Take nay notice, lads. Come quick. He cannae hold me.”
In a trice, Ghillie and Dugal closed in and her captor was forced to let her go, turning to face the slashing swords of her would-be rescuers. Taking advantage of the moment, grabbing up her skirt, Tyra turned and raced back along the road, her ears resounding with men’s shouts, her rasping, indrawn breath and the deadly clash of steel on steel.
Glancing back over her shoulder as she ran, she was horrified to see two more men dashing onto the road. One of the newcomers engaged with her two men-at-arms, who turned to take the fight fiercely, while the third man set off in hot pursuit after Tyra.
She gasped in a breath and, gathering her courage, made a desperate bid to outrun him, her feet in her leather boots slipping and sliding in the rutted road, her skirt and petticoat tangling around her legs, slowing her down.
Up ahead, two villagers, watched, seemingly spellbound at the action taking place. As she drew closer to the bystanders, the man gaining on her with every step, she beseeched them for aid.
“Help me,” she yelled. But the two women seemed frozen to the spot, watching helplessly as her pursuer caught up with her, seizing her arm in an iron grip. She struggled, managing to drag her own dirk from her belt, slashing wildly at the man’s arm.
“Damn ye,” he cursed, lashing out with a fist, sending her dirk flying from her hand. Yet that brief moment’s respite provided her with an opportunity to break free. Summoning every last scrap of her failing strength to evade him, she ran screaming toward the inn, now not more than thirty yards further on.
But the road was empty, there were no villagers to lend her assistance and she still was too far from the inn to expect any help to come from the men there. Her soldiers were likely still fighting the other two attackers, yet Tyra didn’t dare look back to confirm, reluctant to lose even a moment of momentum.
Although willing herself on, she was puffing, chest heaving, out of breath, her body tiring. Her legs, heavy as lead, were giving out. Try as she might, she found her steps slowing.
In a flash the man was on her again, only now he was joined by the others.
Have me two soldiers been killed?
Before she could draw breath to scream again for help, the men had seized her arms and grabbed her around the waist, holding her fast. Twisting and turning, screaming desperately for aid that was not forthcoming, there was no escape. Two of them pinned her arms while the other bound a cloth tightly around her mouth, silencing her screams.
“Hurry lads,” one of the men ground out, “Before someone comes looking fer her.”
The two men holding her arms half-carried, half-dragged her back along the road where she’d so recently strolled, enjoying her momentarily illusion of freedom. Her heart was pounding with the force of a thousand hooves as, with every step, she was forced further away from any chance of rescue.
To her horror and building despair, she glimpsed the fallen, motionless, shapes of Dugal and Ghillie lying where they’d so bravely fought for her. She made a mewling sound in her throat and one of the men laughed.
She cast him a deathly look of loathing.
“We made short work of yer men, milady.” He chuckled again before turning to the men gripping her arms. “Nay time tae waste, lads, the laird is waiting.”
Her heart froze over at his words.
Harris kent…
There was no doubt in her mind that the ‘laird’ he mentioned was the man her family had long suspected of sending the threatening notes. Her former betrothed, a man she’d once trusted with all her being, Laird Harris MacDonald.
But how had these men located her so easily? They must have been aware she’d be traveling that way and laid in wait for her arrival.
Of course, a spy in the castle at Scorrybreac must have revealed the plan to send her to safety at the distant priory. She had hoped that, as she was travelling in the depths of winter, a time when few travelers were foolhardy enough to be on the roads, her departure would be unnoticed. Both she and Edmund had hoped the snowfall, storms, and the freezing weather would hoodwink her nemesis into believing she would never set forth under such conditions.
It was obvious Harris – she was certain now it was him– had called their bluff and sent his minions to accost her.
“Where are ye taking me?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Think ye can just drag me off like a sack of grain?”
Are we heading tae the woods? Dear God, naebody will find me there, I cannae let them drag me there!
“Let me go.” she snapped, thrashing against their hold. She knew shouting would do little good, but the silence of the woods made her words echo louder, braver, than she felt inside.
At the sight of their horses waiting, her heart sank. Once they were mounted and on their way, no one would have any knowledge of where she was or how to find her.
Her mind was reeling. Now that her defenders had been so cruelly dispatched, she held little or no hope of rescue. By the time word reached her half-brother that she was missing, she would have long been at the mercy of a man who had threatened her.
That is, if she still lived.
Would they take her to Sleat on the Isle of Skye, to the home of her former betrothed? Or would they simply deal with her in the woods, here, now, out of sight of the small, unseeing, scattering of houses?
She did not allow herself to lose hope altogether. If they planned to sail back to Skye there might be a chance of saving herself. There must be something she could do despite the obvious threat those rough men posed. It was clear to her they meant her nothing but harm and would stop at nothing.
Renewing her struggle, she attempted to bite one of the brute hands that clutched her arm.
“Ye wee vixen,” the man grunted and slapped her hard across the face. “Stop yer struggling.”
Her head flew back with the impact and she gasped at the sudden pain. Her chest ached with the effort of drawing breath, but she pulled again at the hands holding her.
After tramping for some minutes through the woods, they arrived at the banks of a small, frozen burn. Grunting with the effort, they dragged her, slipping and sliding, over pebbles to cross the solid expanse of ice ahead of them.
The slick, slithery surface made it difficult for the men holding her to keep their balance as she struggled. Feeling their grip on her loosening, she deliberately allowed her feet to slide out from under her. Tumbling onto the ice she brought her two captors down with her in a tangle of limbs. Her hands suddenly free, she struggled to her feet and pulled down the cloth gag around her mouth, screaming at the top of her lungs.
With the men clutched at her skirts as they attempted to rise, she stamped down hard, wrenching herself free as their fingers slipped from the cloth. She staggered on the rough ice, arms flailing for balance, before forcing her legs into motion and breaking away in a wild dash. She was more nimble and lighter than her pursuers, and she managed to gain a yard or two as they stumbled behind her, yelling at her to stop.
“It will go worse fer ye, ye little vixen, when we catch ye,” one of the men shouted.
“Aye. I’ll tan that wee hide of yer bahookie so that it’s black and blue. Ye’ll nay sit fer a week without squeaking in pain,” called another.
She kept on, holding her skirt high, ignoring their threats, her pounding heart jolting at the hateful man’s words.
If he contemplates me pain lasting fer a week, it must mean I’m tae be kept alive fer at least that length of time.
Her will kept her upright, forging ahead with no idea where she was going, yet building faint hopes she might somehow evade her captors. They were so close behind her she could hear their harsh breaths as they struggled on the icy surface, but she was inching ahead.
Yet the power of her determination could not stretch much further. Her strength was ebbing fast when she felt hands scrabbling at her skirt, wrenching her backwards, forcing her to lose her balance and slip onto the ice.
Her two pursuers grabbed at her, attempting to pinion her legs as she kicked out at them, using all her strength and was rewarded with a grunt from one of them. But despite her efforts, she was powerless against their fierce strength. She let fly a Banshee scream, emptying her lungs, her heart plummeting as the full recognition of the deathly danger she was in hit home.
“Take yer hands off me,” she shrieked. “Ye’ve nay right tae touch me.” Her voice was shrill with terror and despair as she fought to stay out of their grip.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere came a deep, commanding, voice rumbling over the ice like a coming thunderstorm.
“Dae as the lady tells ye lads. Take yer brute hands off her.”
Chapter Two
In the dim light Tyra could only just make out the tall figure of a man as he stepped onto the ice ahead of her, holding his claymore at his shoulder, ready to strike.
As silent and still as a statue, despite the treacherous ice underfoot, he reached a hand for her as her attackers fell back.
Shaking all over, she took the stranger’s hand and he helped her up.
“Behind me,” he ordered.
Her heart jumping wildly, she obeyed without question, slithering behind his broad back in a trice, while her pursuers took a step in retreat. It was clear that whoever that man was, he was no friend of theirs.
One of the men sprang forward, holding out a long dagger, crouching low, the fingertips of one hand holding him steady on the ice while the other aimed his blade at the intruder’s thigh, ready to bring him down.
With one terrible swoop of his claymore, the stranger cleaved the hand holding the knife from the man’s arm. Then, as the screaming man rolled on the ice, the stranger skewered him with the point of his blade with a lightning-fast move through his heart.
Tyra swallowed her breath as another man crept from the side holding a short sword aloft, preparing to strike. The stranger swiveled toward the man, wielding his deadly claymore once more.
His opponent had not a whisker of a chance. The tall swordsman, with one swift motion, sliced the creeping man’s throat with the long claymore before he could even draw close enough to land his blow. He went down, blood gushing from his wound, to lie motionless on the ice.
After watching both his companions dispatched to their fate, the third man managed to edge his way to the place where Tyra crouched behind her rescuer. He snatched at her arm and dragged her to stand as a shield between himself and the swordsman, shoving his dagger ruthlessly at her throat.
The warrior swiveled toward them, blood dripping from his claymore.
“Hold, where ye are,” Tyra’s captor growled. “I’m taking the lass wi’ me and ye’ll nae stop me.”
Her breath was coming high and fast in her throat as the man dragged her to the edge of the ice, the warrior standing by silent and still, able to do little more than watch. She had no doubt the man gripping her arm so painfully with his dirk at her throat would not hesitate to plunge it into her neck if any move was made by her rescuer.
A heartbeat passed, then two, and with each moment she was closer to the edge and her captor’s escape.
Without a thought she let herself go limp, turning into a dead weight, giving no thought to the possibility of the knife ending her life. She already knew it would be forfeit if the man succeeded in taking her.
As she slumped to the ice, the man’s balance was upended, his feet slithered as he desperately sought to regain his balance, his hands flailed, the dirk fell onto the ice with a clatter. Before he could right himself, the warrior was upon him, with moves as swift as lightning.
In a trice the claymore severed the man’s head from his body, and blood spurting, what remained of Tyra’s assailant fell and rolled off the ice to lie the gravel and pebbles at the side of the burn.
There was no strength left in her legs to help her scramble to her feet as her savior lifted her from the ice where she lay. His arm surrounded her waist and he held her tightly, here legs giving way. She registered the strength in his arm, the hardness of his chest, his scent of sweat and leather filling her nostrils as she leaned into him.
Her heart stuttered at the knowledge that his man had risked his life to save her.
“Can ye walk, lass. I’ve a horse tethered nearby and I wish tae leave this place with all speed.”
“Aye, I believe I can,” she whispered, trembling from head to toe, still not quite sure if she was alive or dead. He supported her with his strong arm at her waist as she walked with him until they came upon the place where his horse was tethered.
“Are ye injured, milady? Have any of those brutes hurt ye or harmed ye?
“Nay.” She managed a soft laugh. “There may be a bruise or two on the morrow, yet, thanks tae ye I have all me arms and legs and me throat intact.”
He held her upright, waiting while she restored her balance, despite trembling from head to toe now that the ordeal was over.
“I thank ye, sire. I am deeply grateful tae ye fer rescuing me. If ye’d nae come when ye did, the Lord kens what would have become of me.”
“I did what I had tae, lass. I saw ye were in a dire situation.” He bowed from the waist. “I am the Laird Ewan Mackenzie, milady. As ye are on me lands ye are under me protection.” Through a sliver of moonlight creating a small, dappled place among the snowclad trees, she sensed his eyes on her. Looking up, she caught his puzzled expression. “I can scarce make out yer features, lass, yet from what I can tell ye’re nae kent tae me. Are ye nae from around here?”
She felt a moment’s relief. Surely the Mackenzies were nae friends to the MacDonalds of Sleat. But in the tumble of thoughts bedeviling her mind, she struggled to recall what she knew of the clan’s alliances.
“I am half-sister tae Laird Edmund of the MacNeacail Clan of Scorrybreac on the Isle of Skye.”
“I am well pleased tae be of service milady. But what were ye thinking lass, tae be abroad on such an inclement night as this in a place where those ruffians could attack ye?”
She huffed in indignation. “’Twas nay fault of mine that I was waylaid. I had merely taken a turn tae stretch me legs after arriving at the inn with me two men-at-arms.” She sniffed loudly, recalling the dreadful fact that both Dugal and Ghillie were no more. “I believed we were in a place of safety.”
He grunted as he untied is horse’s reins from where he was tethered. “I can only apologize that ye met danger here on me lands. I didnae ken there were bandits hereabouts. I shall have me men patrol the braes and the glens tae ensure there are nay other ruffians here tae imperil travelers in me lands.”
She raised a hand, slanting him a smile. “Nay mind, Laird Mackenzie. I believe it was me those blackguards were pursuing.”
He glanced up at her in alarm. “How so?”
“I cannae say at this moment.”
“It seems a hidden menace may have caught up with ye.”
She peered at him warily. In the dim light it was not possible to see if his eyes were honest. While her body still surged with the shock of the attack, it seemed sheer foolishness to trust this man. Though his words and brave actions identified him as a noble man, she had no way of being sure he was the laird he claimed to be.
For all she knew, he could be an ally of MacDonald.
Sucking in a desperate breath she continued to search her memory for any recollection of Clan Mackenzie and their alliances. Her head swam as she tried to remember anything she’d heard of the Mackenzies from Harris MacDonald when she’d been in his company.
She only knew MacDonald was a traitor who had betrayed her and her clan. His allegiances were not to other Scotsmen, but to English and southern barons who could buy him with gold and influence from their king.
No. She made up her mind. This man was not allied with MacDonald.
His hand was still on her waist and she found herself reassured by the strength of his arm. Even though, in the hint of moonlight she could only make out his tall, broad outline, there was something in that deep, baritone voice flowing like treacle over her senses that warmed and comforted her.
“We’d best be gone from this place.” He enfolded her in his wool cloak, keeping her close. Are ye fit tae ride before me on the saddle, lass? I’ll take ye tae the village.”
Tyra thought she could trust him to escort her to the inn. “Aye. I would be grateful if ye could take me tae The Thistle and Briar where me horses and belongings are being held.”
He held out his hand to assist her to mount. “There’s nay telling if those evil-doers have companions close at hand waiting tae finish the job they were set tae dae.”
She placed one hand on the saddle and he lifted her with ease. Once she was settled, he sprang up behind her.
It seemed natural to lean against him as the horse began its slow and difficult walk through the trees toward the roadway. The uneven ground was blanketed with white and a smattering of snowflakes still swirled in the air. Tyra was shivering now, her teeth chattering both with cold and the horror of what she’d been through.
Something stirred deep inside her. It had been so long since she’d been held and comforted, feeling the strength of a man supporting her. She allowed herself to sway with him, inhaling his scent of horse, leather and sweat, and even the faint, metallic, reek of blood.
Tyra MacNeacail, what on earth are ye thinking? Ye cannae let down yer guard, even fer a second, nay matter how tired and cold ye might be. Unseen danger is all around.
She stiffened, shifting in the saddle, creating distance between herself and the Mackenzie – if that was truly who he was – shocked at the power of her reaction to his nearness.
Her mind struggled with the question of what she should do once she reached the inn.
Should she seek to employ two men from the village to act as her guardians and continue on her journey? Or should she return to Skye? If Harris had, as she now believed, tracked her, there was no longer any call for secrecy. Wherever she went he would likely know her whereabouts.
She caught her breath, her heart foundering, as the danger she was in fully dawned.
Ewan swung his horse into the inn yard. The landlord who had been standing by the door, rushed forward to greet them, wringing his hands.
He nodded to Tyra and bowed to Ewan, tugging his forelock between fingers and thumb.
“Thank the dear Lord the lady is safe wi’ ye, Laird Ewan. When word came that two men had been slain and there was nay sign of her, we feared the worst.”
Ewan dismounted and lifted Tyra out of the saddle to stand, still unsteady, beside him. She inclined against him, still unsure of her footing, greatly relieved to hear the landlord addressing him as “laird,” verifying who he claimed himself to be.
“The lady requires a warm fire and a bowl of good broth tae warm her.”
“Of course, Laird Ewan. It is all prepared and awaiting her pleasure in the parlor, even though I was afeared she was lost tae us.”
Within the space of only a few minutes, Tyra peeled off her damp outer garments, placed a soft, warm rug around her shoulders, and was seated by a roaring fire, with a large steaming bowl of chicken broth beside her on a small table.
She supped on the delicious broth, savoring the taste of carrots and barley along with the chicken, slowly feeling the return of life to her fingers and toes.
All at once, both her prospects – a return to Skye, or the onward journey to the Priory – overwhelmed her, washing over her like a king tide. One false step and she’d be swallowed whole. For several long moments she felt herself deluged with hopelessness.
But soon she straightened her shoulders. This self-pitying would never do. She must make sense of what had taken place, summon her courage, and make plans.
After consulting with the landlord for some minutes Ewan strode back into the room standing tall before the fireplace.
“I’ve given instructions fer yer two lads tae be taken care of. If ye wish, I shall make arrangements for them tae be returned tae Skye tae their families.”
She nodded her agreement. It was painful to think of the terrible fate that had befallen her trusty companions. There would be much grieving in the MacNeacail keep at their loss.
He turned to her and dipped his head so that his face was captured in the golden light of the fire and she saw him fully for the first time.
His features were rugged and weather-worn, indicating a man who spent much of his time outdoors. His nose was straight and proud, his cheeks had seen the angles of a sharp blade, and his mouth was wide and generous. She would not call him handsome but something more compelling. This was a man who stood his ground proudly, who would not quail in the face of danger, a man who could earn the trust of a lady, not demand it. He was unlike any man she’d ever seen.
Her heart jumped. His appearance was as distant to that of her former fiancé as day was to night. Where Harris was tall and slender, this man towered, his shoulders and chest were expansive, while the great size and strength of his arms robbed her breath. She’d seen him wield his hefty claymore as if it was nothing but a twig. And, where Harris’s hands were elegant and soft, this man’s hands were broad, scarred, and calloused, hinting at the warrior she knew him to be.
For the briefest, most foolish moment, she wondered if those roughened hands might, at a touch, prove soft… even gentle.
What am I thinkin’? This is but a stranger I’ll ne’er see again.
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