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with their heads together near the gallows. “And what of the girl?”
    “I put her where you said as well… next to the laird’s chamber.” There was a hint of a smile in his tone.
    Jaime turned a scowl upon the lad, but Luc blinked back, unfazed. God’s truth, the boy was blessed with his father’s sense of irreverence, but Jaime refused to rise to the bait. Only his footfalls in the frozen muck gave any reply.
    He’d hoped the inspection would set his mind at ease. Instead, it gave him pause. The simple fact that this castle remained unclaimed during the long months since MacLaren’s death only served to prove how dilapidated it had become. When all was said and done, it wasn’t in much better shape than his patrimony. At least Dunloppe had no keep left to raze. For all his talk of Keppenach’s former glory, David had given him a seat without much to recommend it.
    “Is there aught else you would have me do, my lord?” Luc asked far too amenably for Jaime’s present mood.
    “Aye,” Jaime snapped. “Go tend the horses, see the stables are proofed against the weather, then have the gallows dismantled.”
    “Then what?” the lad asked with a singsong tenor to his voice.
    Jaime growled. “Then go hang yourself,” he suggested, but the lad merely chuckled.
    “Aye, my lord,” he acquiesced good-naturedly and veered away, heading for what remained of the stables, leaving Jaime alone to wrestle with unruly thoughts.

Chapter Four

     
    Cameron MacKinnon lifted his head, examining his surroundings through lashes sticky with his own blood.
    Chreagach Mhor was still too far, but the mare wasn’t bound there anyway. Surefooted and graceful as a dancer, she belonged to Lael of the dún Scoti. He’d taken her because his own was dead, shot through the face with a burning shaft. If he lived to be an old man—not likely, considering the state he was in—he would never forget the hideous neigh of pain and terror that exploded from the animal’s mouth.
    Thirsty and fatigued, he collapsed over the withers of his tenacious mount, clinging to the blood-soaked mane as he fought yet another wave of vertigo. His body burned despite the flurry of snow. His wounds were bleeding extensively, draining him of life. He had no will to carry on. Fortunately for him, the silvery mare knew precisely where to go, persevering over the snow-covered shoulders of the Am Monadh Ruadh … a faithful pigeon flying home.
    With waning strength, he peered up at the overcast sky. The sun had fled, so had his energy and his resolve.
    He could hardly fathom what happened. They’d sent seven men in through the hidden portal to unlock Keppenach’s gates. Until then, it seemed no one even realized they’d embarked upon a siege in the freezing rain, for these were the hours when a man should be busy fattening his belly to prepare for a lean winter. Quietly, they’d sent Keppenach’s remaining villagers into the hills and then turned wagons away, keeping David’s garrison lean whilst they awaited reinforcements that never came. Once word came of the Butcher’s approach, Broc commanded the attack.
    But somehow the battle was over before it began.
    After a single warning shout to draw them out, arrows flew from the ramparts, all aimed at the place where their men lay hidden—as though MacLaren’s archers had known precisely where to aim. Within minutes, the villein’s huts were set aflame. Those who were spared retreated per force, leaving the wounded to draw the endless barrage of burning missiles. Left for dead under the weight of his gray, Cameron crawled out of the line of fire and ran into the copse. Like a red-painted gargoyle with boneless limbs, he climbed atop Lael’s mare. After that, he did not see his men again, and so he fled, without taking the time to see to his wounds. That was a mistake, he realized, but he’d been afraid. He should have stayed and fought like a man. Now he wasn’t certain what was to come.
    Mayhap he