Surrender Of A Highlander

By T.L. Kitchens

Divided by clan lines...united by fate.

Sandra was born The MacEwen Charm, destined to bring the warring with clan MacLachlan to an end with her marriage. Only one clan’s name would survive and she knew it was within her power to make it a peaceful ending for all concerned. Never in her life did she question her part in giving herself over to the chosen MacLachlan chieftain...until she met him.

Lex MacLachlan was the rightful heir of Clan MacLachlan but he wanted no part of the remains of his shabby clan in the Highlands any longer. He had survived as a child exiled and alone in London by any means necessary, and now he was returning as a man to claim the land-rights of both clans offered to him by the English King. All he had to do was turn over the MacEwen chieftain to the Crown, the most hated enemy who had caused his exile in the first place. This mission was easy and one he would have done for free...until he met her.

One desire for peace, one desire for revenge. The two clans were destined to continue their warring if not for the assistance of their fallen kin. A marriage between a MacEwen and a MacLachlan to end the battles had been tried before, but it had been cut short before the vows had barely been spoken. Can the ghosts of the past change these two hearts, or will their battle be the last for both clans?

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.L. Kitchens
• Release date: Oct 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370205806

Book preview

Surrender of a Highlander

Book One of The Clan MacLachlan Series

T. L. Kitchens

Copyright 2016 T. L. Kitchens

Published by T. L. Kitchens at Smashwords

www.TLKitchens.com

Smashwords Edition License Notes - This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Cover artwork by Megan Parker

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Preview of Keeper of the Legends

About the Author

www.TLKitchens.com

Chapter 1

Scottish Highlands, 1305

They would die, all of them, unless she helped.

Sandra MacEwen pulled with every last ounce of strength she had. She heard a loud crack like the breaking of a thigh bone. She felt a hard thump against her chest that knocked the breath out of her. Flying backwards from her body's own momentum, she landed on her backside in a soft cushioning of thick mud. The cartwheel was still half buried in the sludge that hid the huge pit in the dirt road, and it looked like the spokes on the wheel were now as broken as the levering stick in her hand. Her arms and back ached from her strenuous efforts and still the precious burden in the back of the cart was no closer to safety.

Be ye all in one chunk still, Sandra? Rory asked as he ran from the back of the wagon where he had been pushing to her pull. The young MacLachlan's green eyes were wide with fear as he bent down and scooped her up from the ground, as if she might drown in the shallow puddle of mud. Even though he was three years younger than her twenty-one summers, Rory MacLachlan already had the beginnings of that powerful MacLachlan height and build that made his clansmen excellent fighters of men...and unforgettable lovers of the Highland women. The MacEwen will be havin' me skin for a purse when I bring him his wee lucky charm back broken and covered all with mud.

Mud is the last thing we need to worry about right now, Rory. Sandra playfully tapped her escort's cheek with her hand, sharing with him some of the grime she was so fully covered in. There now, she said with a smile and a bob of her head. The fuller we are covered in mud, the more exciting we can make our tale of adventure.

Sandra, no, not there! Rory said half pleading, half laughing, but he could not stop her mischievous hands while he was carrying her. He set her down in the back of the cart as quickly as he could, but it was too late. She had scraped up more mud off her heavy plaid skirt and smeared the cold muck over both of her cheeks. She tried to brush her long blonde curls from her face with the unsoiled back of her hand, but it was useless. He grabbed her wrists in an effort to prevent any further soiling of either of them, causing a playful smile to dance across Sandra's muddy face.

I thought your life purpose was to stop our clan wars, not start 'em anew. Rory shook his head but could no longer hide the smile Sandra had been working so hard to pull from him all day.

My true purpose is to get every handsome MacLachlan face to glow with a smile like yours.

A soft pink blush rose under the downy stubble of Rory's youthful cheeks. N-n-no other lass in the Highlands has a heart as big as yours, Sandra MacEwen, and in a frame s-s-so wee small to carry it, no less. His stutter was the verbal sign of his embarrassment that matched his crimson color. Fortunately for him it only made its appearance around a few people, and they all just happened to be women who found him adorable. She had succeeded with yet another of the barbaric MacLachlans, and now she only had about twenty more to go.

Let us just hope my wee frame will be able to bear Mangus a strong son, because these tiny flowers alone will not be able to join our clans as they must be. She motioned with her hand to the bunches of star-shaped periwinkle flowers in the back of their slanting cart.

With winter nipping at the heels of the Highland foothills, they had traveled far to the inland forests to find the delicate blue flower-badge of Clan MacLachlan. Sandra hoped her efforts would make the disheartened members of the broken clan feel welcome and proud at the wedding ceremony in two days.

You were born with the sign and Mangus was born with the blood. That is all that is really needed, Rory said.

I know, Sandra answered with a forced smile. It is just that...well, Mangus is not... She found it difficult to put into words her feelings for her groom, especially to one of his kin.

Rory nodded his head in unspoken understanding. I know the feelings you must be having about Mangus. Many in our clan share them with you, Sandra, and sorry we are for it, but that he has the blood of the chieftain in his veins we cannot deny. The title is his now.

Sandra had never doubted her purpose in life as the MacEwen Charm until she came face to face with the ragged remains of the MacLachlan clan, led by young Mangus MacLachlan. Her whole life she had been raised with the belief that she alone would end the dooming prophecy between their clans, and now it was all coming true. One had been chosen. Mangus. And her time was near.

She tilted her head back and let the falling rain patter over her face. The cool liquid relieved the tightness of the drying mud with every tiny drop. No matter how pleasant it felt, Sandra knew the storm they had outrun most of the day was about to overtake them.

The sky darkened, and not just from the descending of the sun. Heavy clouds, black with their burden, swept over the rolling green hills that were to be their final destination. From the east came the whistle of the telling winds of the storm, and from above, the bellies of the clouds were cut open in true Highland fashion. From light mist to heavy downpour, the change was instantaneous.

We will have to both ride old Beatrice back to the castle, Rory shouted over the pelting rain that washed his black curls into his eyes. I do not think I have enough skin to pay the MacEwen if I lost both his cart and his daughter to this storm.

I will not be letting all our hard work from this morning go to not just because you are worried about your thin hide, Rory MacLachlan. She reached back and gathered a huge bunch of the precious blue flowers into her arms, careful not to touch any of their delicate blooms with her thickly soiled hands. They will all be a heap of horse fodder if they sit here in this rain much longer.

She gave her brown stitched boots in the back of the wagon one thoughtful look. The possibility of staying clean was far out of her reach already, but she was not about to let that fate fall on her flowers. She jumped back down into the mud, the cool goo squished up between her bare toes and slowly covered her ankles as she sank.

What are you about, Sandra? Rory asked with a fear in his voice that said he really did not want to hear her answer.

The MacLachlan manor house is not far off up that hill, she said.

No one has been in there since Angus's death. Rory's face became shadowed with fear at the mere mention of his deceased chieftain's name. You should not be goin' there until after the wedding. It just ain't right.

I am not about to catch sick over an ancient clan tradition, and neither are my flowers. She unwrapped her red and blue tartan from her shoulders and carefully ensconced the blooms in its repellent woolen weave, cradling them close to her body like a babe.

No flowers are worth your tartan, Sandra. Rory caught up to her at the base of the hill and tried to draw the protective wrap back around her shoulders.

She turned away briskly and guarded her swaddled burden with her body. These are more than just flowers. Hearing the sharpness in her words, Sandra reassuringly touched his forearm and gave it a firm squeeze. They are our future. One without killings and murders. One where you and I are family.

Rory gave her a weak nod of his soaking wet head and one of his endearing bashful smiles. And proud I am to call you family. I suppose there is no other MacEwen I would have abiding in the MacLachlan chieftain's home...even if it be a few days before your troths. His look of admiration made her feel as if he worshipped the very mud her feet were soaking in, a look that wove another thin thread around her heart to patch the many years of feuding between their families.

Stay you in the manor's shelter until I return with help...and more tartans for your flowers, he said as he swung onto the bare back of old Beatrice, a plow horse weary to the bone from her faithful years of service to the MacEwen fields.

'Til morn then, she yelled back at him and headed for her own destination.

As she trudged up the slope of the hillside that hid MacLachlan Manor from the dirt road, her bare feet carefully chose a grassy path around the jagged rocks that disguised their sharp edges with a thin covering of plush white lichen.

Out of breath by the time she made it to the top of the ridge, Sandra paused and took in the lushness of the smooth meadow that led to the dark stone manor of Clan MacLachlan. Every stone had been painstakingly gathered to fortify the great distance of wall that enclosed their lands from the banks of the loch on the east to the forest and stream in the west where MacEwen territory began.

The lush greenery shimmering through the curtain of rain was not the sight of beauty it should have been, but one that brought an ache of sadness to Sandra's mending heart. No sheep or goats fed on the abundance that was so rare on their Highland soils. All had been slaughtered or lost in the MacLachlans' efforts to starve each other out for the winter after their last chieftain died without appointing an heir-tanist. Their internal warring had dwindled their clan numbers to too few to survive the winter without help. Now there could be a peaceful end to the decades of warring, and her marriage to Mangus MacLachlan was the key.

He did not possess the striking good looks or towering stature that she had always dreamed her MacLachlan husband would have, but she counted it a blessing that he was at least taller than her. His hair was a heap of curling deep auburn on top of his head and not the striking black that marked many of the handsome MacLachlan men of his clan, but he carried within him the bloodline of their last chieftain, and beguiling or not, she was going to tie herself to him and bear him children as her destiny dictated, children of one combined clan. And this was to be her new home. No one dared to occupy the forbidding fortress after the last battle, or at least that was what she had been told.

Holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the blowing rain as well as the golden spikes of hair that whipped around and clung to her face, she squinted at the manor in the distance and studied its roof top intently.

Yes, it was smoke.

Billowy white puffs of smoke rose up from the hearth vent and dispersed into the mist of the storm. Someone was already there.

The old fear returned as if it had never really left. She was a MacEwen in MacLachlan territory. The wall was a marker between life and death, something never to be crossed, and a MacLachlan someone you never wanted to meet. Her heartbeat began to decelerate when she remembered the women had to prepare the chieftain's chamber for her upcoming wedding night. How silly to have all these fears about a man who would be sleeping in a bed next to her every day for the rest of her life.

With a slight smile on her face for her own foolishness, she lifted the water-soaked fabric of her plaid skirt and stuck one pale bare foot out to test her next step. The lush grass was slick with rain and her feet could find no textured ground to dig into. Her journey down the hill started faster than she had planned. With her arms wrapped tightly around her tartan-covered bouquet, she had no limbs left to rely upon for support. Her only option was the same one she had landed on in the mud, only this time her momentum did not stop once her bottom hit the ground.

Her speed continued to increase as she slid down the steep slope, unable to maneuver out of the path of numerous small rocks and pricking bushes. She tried to stop her descent with her bare feet, but she only managed to scrape and gouge them on the sharp edges of the unyielding stones.

Even if she remained in one piece for the entirety of her ride, the only thing waiting for her at the bottom of her descent was the MacLachlan wall. It had been built as a defense to keep MacEwens out, and now she was going to live just long enough to experience its worth.

At the last instant before her body's imminent impact with the jagged blockade, she threw herself sideways and began to roll. It slowed her slightly and softened the blow of the rocks penetrating into the flesh of her back. Unfortunately, it also brought her face into contact with the rough earth more than once.

The breath she finally released was more a moan of pain than a sigh of relief. A low ache had already started to grasp at the muscles of her back and threatened to scale her whole spine by nightfall. It was going to take much more than a broken cartwheel to explain this adventure to her father now, and much more than mud to cover up the bruises she was sure were already forming over every part of her backside.

It is for a good cause, she assured herself as she looked down at the bundle in her arms that appeared nearly untouched by the tumultuous trip. One peek at the blinking blue blossoms under the torn muddy tartan brought a smile to her lips and renewed drive to her aching body.

Pain throbbed in her toes and legs as she swung one foot then the other over the waist-high stone wall and jumped down into MacLachlan territory. After having gone through so much to save their clan flower from harm, she was certain the women preparing the manor would welcome her openly.

It was not until she was standing in front of the massive rowan wood doors of the forbidding manor that she realized how the MacLachlans must have felt when they came to her father's castle for help. They were a rival clan without a chieftain and in need of the aid of another clan's chief for protection and food. All the midnight stories she had heard about the murdering MacLachlans since she was a child tumbled through her mind and sent a momentary shudder of fear through her every bruised limb.

In a trance of recollection and fear, she pounded three times on the center of the wooden doors that were carved with the armorial shield of the MacLachlans. The two roe stags supporting the shield on either side pierced her with their red-jeweled eyes. If her forthcoming wedding had not already put an end to the legacy of bloodshed between their clans, she would have heartily acknowledged the prickly hair on the back of her neck warning her to run before those bucks came to life and chased her down.

She was so intent on fighting off the waves of gooseflesh crawling over her scalp that she was totally unprepared to speak when the door finally swung open.

English.

There was an Englishman in the MacLachlan manor. His deep green eyes darted over every part of her in a swift efficient sweep akin to the king's taxman estimating his dues. In a deep gruff voice he said in Gaelic, I have just arrived and have no need for whatever you might be selling there...girl. His pause in her address was again accompanied by a raking glance of her entire form.

Her first conclusion had been as wrong as his.

His fitted tan trews and finely tailored tunic were definitely straight out of the latest London shop, but even though his Gaelic was clipped and odd to her ear, she knew he was of Scottish descent, MacLachlan to be exact. Although she adored the men of her own clan for their burly rugged charm, the handsome faces of the MacLachlan men were reason alone for her clansmen to want them dead. He was at least ten years older than her, and looking exactly like a chieftain in his prime.

Like every MacLachlan chieftain who had stood on that threshold before him, this man was crowned with striking black hair that dared to defy the Norse blood that ran through the veins of all the western clans. He wore it not in the wild wind-tossed style of a Highlander, but pulled sharply back from his face in a single braid, revealing with even more definition the green of his eyes ringed again by the dark black MacLachlan lashes.

Coloration alone was not what defined this MacLachlan. He held himself tall with pride, even though he did not need to in order to fill the double doorway. The lack of a smile to curve his lips was exactly how she had pictured all the MacLachlans before she met Rory, and even that had not deterred her dream of marrying one of them someday. If there was ever an innocent time in this man's existence, it had been completely banished from his features by the hard lines of life that furrowed between his fathomless eyes and encased his stern mouth. A MacLachlan he was for certain, and everything she had ever dreamed of in a match, except of course for his missing tartan and lack of manners.

Being dismissed as a seller of wares was bad enough, but it had been some time since anyone had mistaken her for a young girl.

Lowering her tartan bundle down to her hip to make sure he realized she was no mere flower bud, she addressed him as politely as her anger would allow. I come not selling anything, sir. I merely need shelter from the storm. You see, my cart broke-

His deep voice rumbled out and cut her off. Go to the back. I am sure my cook can spare you some bread.

Before she could finish her explanation or even remark on his second dismissing command, the doors slammed shut in her face, leaving her standing there with her bundle of MacLachlan periwinkles on her hip and her mouth hanging open in utter shock.

She had been trying all her life to patch and mend the feuds of others, but sensible or not, she felt rage for her whole clan rush through her veins at the way a MacLachlan had just treated a MacEwen. Her fist balled up again and she pounded on the center of the MacLachlan shield. The pain of her bruises and cuts was barely noticeable over the pulsing of her anger.

Be gone from my door and take your wilted herbs with you, came his angry voice, and this time he did not bother to open the door. From the faint sound of his voice, he was at least halfway to the other side of the hall already, without any intent of coming back to speak with her.

Oh, she huffed out with a stamp of her bare foot on the cobbled entrance. Her myriad of small injuries were all making themselves painfully known with every stomp of her foot and clench of her fist. Looking down at her battered legs and arms, all covered to different degrees with mud or grass, she let out a little huff of a laugh.

She held out a long strand of her golden hair that was the same color as the rest of her, muddy brown. She was sure her ripped clothing and bruises only added to her overall appearance as a begging waif, exactly what he had concluded.

Sinking down to the ground with her bundle, she started to laugh in earnest at what a poor presentation she had made before one of her future clansmen, obviously one who had long been away from the Highlands and newly returned. Her laughter stopped abruptly and she swiveled back around when she heard the sound of voices approaching the door.

Was he brought up with no manners at all? she heard a woman ask. Highland or London, I doubt anyone would treat their neighbors like that. He is of your blood not mine, and true he is being to the shameful MacLachlan hospitality.

The huge doors creaked open just enough for her to once again feel the teasing of warmth coming from the hearth.

He might be of my clan, but he be not learning those rude-boy ways from me. The second voice was that of a man with a strong rolling burr that was Scottish to the core. Sandra watched the door creep open as if just barely blown by the wind, but no one came through it. Look at the purr thin'. She looks to have taken the worst of the storm on her wee shoulders.

Sandra leaned forward a little farther from where she sat on the cobblestones, but still she could not see the two people who were obviously viewing her.

If you get out of my way I can open the door enough so she will think she is welcome. The sound of the man's thick burr curled with a warmth that made Sandra feel instantly at ease. It was such a stark contrast to the cold English-accented Gaelic that the first man had snapped at her with.

Another slight movement of the door, but still no one came out to greet her. She stood up slowly, her bundle held protectively in front of her chest like a shield. She decided the friendly couple had already breached the gap by offering for her to come in. It would be rude not to reply.

Taking a few cautious steps, she walked to the door and placed one bare foot over the threshold of the MacLachlan fortress. Lightning did not strike her and there was no sword buried in her chest. She breathed a sigh of relief. Some of the legends had not been true after all.

The stone slabs that made up the floor were just as cold as those outside, but at least they were dry and clean. The large dark hall was as silent and empty as she had imagined it would be when she started her tumultuous journey. A flicker of movement on the high-beamed rafters caught her eye. A burning torch lit the way by someone in the upstairs corridor.

I am sure she will see the light and follow us to the room, she heard the woman's voice at the top of the stairs.

Why did not they want to be seen by her if they were trying to be so hospitable? That made Sandra wonder if they knew their invitation was against the other MacLachlan man's wishes and dared not be identifiable if there were consequences. She had no desire to run into that man again either, but neither did she want to stay at their door all night in the freezing rain. If she followed the couple's subtle hints, maybe she would be out of his sight before he even knew she had been invited in. The manor was large enough for a person to get lost amongst its many rooms. It was likely he would never know she had even been there.

Her mud-laden skirts made a slight slapping sound against her legs as she tried to quietly tiptoe across the stone floor and up the stairs toward the light. She quickened her pace to get it over with as fast as possible, rushing up the last few stairs two unladylike strides at a time.

It worked. She is coming, said the Scottish man from somewhere farther down the hall.

Sandra squinted and focused down the hall into the darkness, but could see nothing, not even a shadow of any movement. The torch had been placed in a holder outside a large door and a beam of candlelight radiated out through the partially cracked opening.

Go on in now, lassie, and enjoy the hospitality of your host. She looked down the hall once more for the owner of that warm Scottish voice. There was no one around that she could see or who wanted to be seen, so she quickly went in, shut the door behind her, and flipped the small wooden latch across it.

When she turned around she was stunned. In contrast to the cold, dank stone floors of the hall below, the chamber she had stepped into danced with warmth and was alive with the scent of freshly scrubbed old wooden floor boards. It was obvious from the fire burning brightly in the hearth that the chamber had been recently prepared for a visitor, but there was no way anyone could have expected her. Not this early.

But there it was, the wedding bed, bigger and more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. Four carved posts of dark cherry-colored wood supported a huge stuffed feather mattress that was quite inviting. Its crisp cream sheets were already turned back for the night and an extra layer of warmth was added by a velvety green quilt trimmed with gold fringe and intricately embroidered over its entire surface with fancy swirls. The elegant bed was tempting, but not quite as inviting as the other luxuries her MacLachlan neighbors had managed to somehow acquire for the wedding.

Hot steam rose from a copper tub that sat before the flickering hearth and brightened the room with every flash of the fire. As if more enticements were necessary, two thick drying towels were neatly draped on a round stool and the fresh smell of pine floated up in the clouds of mist coming off the water. Her feet brought her forward without command, and her hand reached out to test the water.

It was perfect.

How could she resist something so tempting when she was feeling so horribly dirty, bruised, and cold?

Her eyes looked to the door, secured with its latch, then back to the steaming tub. It obviously was not prepared for her, but such a luxury as a hot bath could surely be shared by two. Whole clans took advantage of a luxury like this in the middle of winter. If she was quick, just stepping in long enough to chase off her chill, how could anyone complain? She had been invited in by some member of the MacLachlan family, she had heard them say they were of the same blood. Surely that nice couple would come to her aid should the other Englishman show up again.

The matter already truly decided when she first eyed the tub, Sandra's flower bundle dropped to the floor and her hands worked at a swift pace to unlace her bodice. With one quick tug and flip, her belt was freed from its buckle and her drenched plaid slid off her body with a thick slap on the wooden floor. All that was left was her blousy white under-tunic, and with a pull of the bow at her neckline, it too joined the muddy heap at her feet.

The room was warm from the fire but the chill did not leave her body with her wet clothes. Her skin was damp with all the water she had soaked up from the storm, and there was only one way to fight a wet cold...with a hot soak.

Wasting no time, she eyed the latched door once more then dipped one numb foot into the steaming hot liquid and then the other. Her eyes closed, her lips smiled, her nose inhaled the warm pine scent. It was pure heaven to melt into the huge tub's depths, feeling the water soothing away the aches of her limbs. Lower and lower she sank, until every cold part of her was submerged in heat, even the frozen tip of her nose. Her golden hair fanned out and floated on top of the water for only an instant longer, then it too gave into the pull of pampering.

She would have stayed there forever if she had gills, but unfortunately she had to breathe. Up she popped, a smile on her face and all traces of the storm miraculously dissolved. Her hand reached back to the stool and closed around the oval cake of soap she had seen next to the towels. It had a clean pine scent to it as well and reminded her of sweet summer nights out of doors after a light rain. It was excitingly refreshing, just how she felt stealing the few precious moments of this bath.

As if she could hear the sound of her father's pipes playing in the background, Sandra began to hum a little tune as she quickly lavished the smooth slippery soap down her leg to her toes, then back up over her hand and up her arm. She even ran the bar through her tangled hair, plucking all the stray twigs from it as she went and tossing them into the nearby fire.

One final dip under and her bath was complete, but she had no desire to leave the luxury of the tub yet. Even at Castle MacEwen there was not a tub as grand as this or soap so silky smooth it felt like cream. These were imported treasures from the south, and she had a good idea who they had traveled this far north with. Was this possibly the stranger's wedding present to her and Mangus?

A wake of splashing water flooded over the edges of the tub when she startled at a noise from behind her. Her arms came up instantly and crossed over her bare breasts when she heard the voice of the woman at the door. I will just take these things to be washed. I left one of my own tartans to replace it.

Sandra saw only the slightest movement of the door closing behind the woman's voice…and the freely swinging latch she was certain she had secured across the door. Her muddy garments were gone, and in their place on the bed was a fresh new tartan in the MacEwen weave. She had no time to question who its owner was or how she had gotten in the room. She heard the Scottish man's voice again and she splashed down into the water up to her chin.

The purr little thin's not going to be able to wear your clothes. She is but a youngin’ yet. How can she be the one to fulfill the prophecy if she is but a girl?

The man's thick burr followed his footsteps down the hall and Sandra popped back up out of the water. How could they see her? And why did they all see her as a young girl?

She looked down at her breasts rounding up on top of the smooth glassy water. They were quite full for a woman of her small height and had been for five years now since the summer of her sixteenth birthday. She was sure all the remaining MacLachlans knew who she was and the importance of her marriage to the future of their clan. There would be no need for further explanation once she introduced herself properly to this couple.

Already shaken out of the relaxation of her bath, she regretfully concluded it was time for her to go. She stood up and looked at the drying towel, then to the unlatched door. What should she do first, run over and lock the door or dress herself in case...in case what? She laughed at herself for being so fearful in a place that was to be her home in two days. What was the worst that could happen to her here?

A crash downstairs, then a yell of rage. Her answers sounded like they were suddenly hurling up the stairs toward the room at that very moment. She could hear the couples' voices, but they no longer sounded calm, and they were no longer alone.

I will stand for no filthy intruder in my family home. You better run before I find you, beggar girl, came the first shout in a man's English-accented Gaelic. Her mind knew instantly who that angry voice belonged to. Black hair, green eyes, and the massive build of a chieftain all heading her way. The edge of fury in his tone froze her to her core, as if she really were a little girl again, waiting for her father's reprimand.

Stop him before he reaches her, the woman screamed over the clambering noise of men's boots on the wooden stairs.

I am tryin' my darndest, but his will be stronger than my might, yelled the true Scotsman.

At least be gettin' his sword before he does a MacLachlan fool thin' and ruins this for us all, ordered the woman, her own rich brogue flowing forth in panic.

Sandra was still frozen in fear, one foot in the tub and one on the warm wooden floorboards. The door burst