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a curse, but he did believe he was a Jonah to anyone who loved him. It had been the sins of his past, not a century old curse that haunted him.
    Damn this place. Tragedy and death stalked every corridor. He hated every foot of it. He hated the endless and futile feuds. The victims were never the men who instigated the violence, but the crofters who wanted only to grow enough crops to see them through the next year.
    How many had been burned out, their homes destroyed, their crops spoiled, their animals taken? How many babies would die this year?
    He knew overtures to the Campbells and the Scottish king would dismay his clan, perhaps alienate them. He was chief by consent. He could well be displaced.
    But by whom?
    As if summoned by his thoughts, his younger brother approached him. Rory stopped and glared, his anger—and despair—finding a new target.
    “No need to glower at me, brother,” Lachlan said with his easy grin.
    Lachlan had always been able to charm, even though he was unaware of the impact he had. Perhaps his charm came from a refreshing lack of guile and ambition.
    Rory relaxed. He always did in his younger brother’s presence.
    He had always competed with Patrick. It had been expected, and he’d usually been bested by his older brother. Patrick was a natural warrior. Rory always had to work at it. But Lachlan had avoided competition and physical tests. He’d always preferred music and books.
    “Are you here to tell me I should wed again?”
    “You should know me better, brother. I dislike interfering in the lives of others for fear they might try to interfere with mine.”
    “Patrick does that anyway.”
    “Aye, he does. He wants to make me into himself. But you never have.”
    “I like you as you are.”
    “My lack of ambition appeals to you?”
    “Nay. Your music does. Your good nature does.”
    “You once played the lute. You were very good.”
    “It was a boyish pastime.”
    “Was it?” Lachlan said. “Then I hope I am always a lad.”
    “You want me to sing of lost loves, Lachlan. Unlike you, I’ve tasted the pain. I have no desire to sing of it.”
    Lachlan’s handsome face clouded. “I am sorry. You know I loved Maggie. We all did.”
    “I know.”
    Maggie had loved Lachlan more than any other member of the family. They sang together, walked together, told stories to each other. Rory would have been jealous if he had not loved them both so much and known that they loved him as well. Maggie had made him appreciate Lachlan’s gentleness, something Patrick constantly belittled.
    They—Maggie and Lachlan—had a connection he’d never quite understood.
    “She would want—”
    “Lachlan, you cannot know what she would want. You were not her husband.”
    He turned and strode away from his brother, not understanding the sudden, overwhelming anger he felt. Why for God’s nails wouldn’t everyone leave him alone? He did not even want to be here.
    The sea was solace. Scotland was pain.
    Felicia tried not to touch the body of her abductor.
    The cloth was taken from her mouth after several miles. She was warned, though, that any cry would mean that the gag would be returned.
    She had no intention of screaming. She was frightened. Beyond frightened. But she was equally terrified of being returned to her home. And to her prospective groom.
    They stopped after several hours. She was gently dropped to the ground, and food was offered. It was naught but rough bread and cheese, but she was hungry.
    She glanced around as she ate. The mist had lifted, but clouds kept the sun at bay, and it was cold and dreary. There were no more than five men. ‘Twas odd, but she felt no threat from them. She should. She knew that. She had been abducted by men unknown to her.
    She only knew that they had been respectful. That boded well.
    “My lady?”
    The speaker was the same large man who had lifted her onto the horse. He looked even more fearsome as she sat on a fallen log, staring up at him. His beard was