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exploits.”
    “You do that, young lady. Not that he’d listen. But his ‘exploits’ have gotten his daughter tangled up in marriage with one of these Breatanach curs. Your mother never would have approved.”
    “I imagine my mother would have done whatever was best for the clan even if it meant accepting my marriage to a Breatanach lord.” She fixed Cynda with a hard stare. “But you don’t approve. Why?”
    Cynda wrung her hands as her eyes adopted a faraway look. “You didn’t see what those savages did to our poor brave warriors.”
    That was partly true. Blessed with a deft hand with bandages and a strong stomach for the sight and stench of blood, Cynda had accompanied the war-host to help with the wounded. Since Gyan had no heir, she’d had to stay behind. By Caledonach law, the clan chieftain and chieftainess could not be exposed to the same risk of death, lest there be a struggle for succession should the worst come to pass. Since Chieftainess Alayna had more need of Ogryvan’s wealth of fighting experience—although in hindsight his skill had not made a whit of difference to the outcome—Gyan had missed the chance for her first taste of battle.
    Gyan had understood the reasons and even agreed in principle. But this had not stopped her from brooding over the injustice.
    When the ragged remains of the host returned, she cauterized her wounded feelings to help tend to injuries of a life-threatening sort. This work gave her a glimpse of the harsh realities: the gaping gashes, the missing limbs and eyes, the raging fevers…and the blood-crusted bodies of clansmen who would never again feel the warmth of the sun, or hear a child’s laugh, or smell the furrowed earth after a spring shower.
    No, working in the sickrooms was not a pleasant duty. But that was a consequence of war. Whether Caledonach or Breatanach, Angalaranach or Scáthinach, the best and luckiest warriors survived with their skins intact. The others did not.
    She laid a hand on Cynda’s shoulder. “I saw enough, afterward. That can’t be the only thing bothering you about this visit.”
    The woman who was the only mother Gyan had ever known collapsed into her arms. “I feel as if”—Cynda drew a shuddering breath—“as if I’m losing you, Gyan…my wee dove.”
    Gyan hugged her. Words fled. It had never occurred to her that Cynda might not be able to leave Arbroch. Having to bid farewell to her father and brother and home was bad enough. But Cynda too?
    “Nonsense, Cynda. When I leave Arbroch in the spring, you’ll be coming with me.”
    Cynda shook her head. “Your father would never allow it. I know more about the day-to-day doings of this place than anyone else.”
    “Then it’s time you began sharing your knowledge, wouldn’t you say?”
    “Aye, Gyan, that’s a wonderful idea!” Her eyes sparkled. “The winter will be more than enough time to train a replacement. But who?”
    “Bryalla?”
    “Not with that wee bairn of hers. Perhaps Rhianna.”
    “She seems a little slow in the wits.”
    “Aye, you’re right, Gyan. Then there’s—”
    A thought flashed. The woman in Gyan’s mental picture was pretty and competent, and able to satisfy Ogryvan’s needs in more ways than one. “Mardha!”
    “The very lass I was thinking of.” Cynda grinned.
    “Gyan, there you are!”
    Resplendent in his freshly oiled leather battle-gear, silver torcs, and midnight-blue woolen clan cloak, pinned at the shoulder with a silver Argyll brooch, Per stood in the doorway. Gyan hoped the warmth of her smile told him how handsome he looked.
    “Per? I thought you’d ridden out with the patrol.”
    He shook his auburn head. “Father and I are trying to decide which of our Breatanach slaves can be trusted to act as translator.” Slaves, Gyan reflected, captured as a result of border disputes, or their children born at Arbroch over the years. Either way, Per was right: not many of them could be trusted with such a critical task. He