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awoke and realized Conor was caressing her hair and soothing her with soft, reassuring words. As he lured her back to sleep, Laurel wished he would always be there to save her from her nightmares in both sleep and reality.
    Laurel woke a second time in the middle of the night, but this time not because of a dream. Conor was gone. She knew he must have just left her side as the plaid was still warm. She glanced around and saw Conor and three guardsmen gathering their horses to leave. They were speaking Gaelic to a fourth man—Loman. They were going to bring back something from a nearby cabin. Loman was to have the camp broken and everyone ready to ride by dawn. They would leave immediately upon their return.
    Laurel quickly laid back down, feigning sleep. She did not want them to realize she had overheard—and understood—their Gaelic conversation.
     
    Conor and his men were going raiding. While he did not consider raiding truly dangerous, it had not been a planned activity for their trip home. Conor would have preferred to not to have his youngest brothers so close to potential danger. But they would be safe enough, he mused, and Laurel needed her own horse. He needed Laurel to have her own horse.
    When she fell asleep against him while riding this afternoon, Conor found it difficult to focus on potential dangers. Her scent made it near impossible to concentrate, and each time she shifted to rest more comfortably against him made his mind contemplate ways he would like to touch and distract her. She seemed to fit him better than his armor. It was as if she were made only for him and would fit just him.
    He dismissed the idea of having her ride with someone else. At first, he told himself that his brothers were already lovesick over the woman, and that he didn’t want to distract his guardsmen, either. But, that evening, when he held Laurel in his arms, comforting her in her sleep through one of her many nightmares, he realized that he didn’t want anyone touching her or holding her like he had. She was his to protect and to hold and he was not going to relinquish that right to anyone, not even to Finn—his happily married commander who apparently was the only man alive immune to Laurel’s charms.
    Hence, they were going raiding. Just a small raid. A fast moonlight ride, a quick plunder, then one horse would vanish and they would disappear back to the north.
    Earlier, Conor had spotted a small farmhouse with several stout horses, isolated from its neighbors. Tomorrow, that farmer would be short one gray horse. He had been waiting for just such an opportunity. Dwellings near towns had added obstacles to be surmounted. Towns were more secure and tended to be well defended with local watches, and the livestock was often brought in at night.
    However, this farmhouse was not near a town, and the Stirling clan was still recovering from their recent losses at the Battle of Falkirk and Robert the Bruce’s last successful siege against Edward I to regain these lands. It was highly unlikely anyone would avenge the pinching of a single horse.
    Conor plotted his time and their route, and prepared his assault.
     
    Late the next morning, Laurel was still somewhat shocked to be riding her own horse. It was a beautiful gray stallion that was sure-footed despite being unshod. Conor assured her that it would be strong, swift, and only need limited grooming. Although the highlanders cared for their animals, Laurel had noticed that grooming was not something that any of them particularly enjoyed.
    She decided to name her horse Borrail. Borrail was one of her grandfather’s guards who had been charged to watch over her when she was young. He, like her new horse, fit the name, which in Gaelic meant swaggering, boastful, haughty and proud. Ironically, though, when translated into English, Borrail was pronounced Borrel, which meant a man was plain, rude and a boor. Laurel had often wondered as a child why so many Gaelic words had opposite