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keeping his voice low.
    She turned her back to the devastation and faced him. Her eyes were filled with sadness, but her raised chin and stiff posture spoke loudly of anger, if not rage.
    “Aye, it can be,” she said, challenge now burning the sadness from her gaze, “and it is.” She abruptly turned back to the castle and strode down the path.
    He pushed himself to catch up with her. There were too many questions raging in his head.
    “Who did this?” he asked.
    “The wall?” She shrugged but did not slow down. “We do not ken why it fell. But the fire, that was set by an English spy. He killed my mum, too. Murdered her in front of me as she lay in her sickbed.”
    She looked back at him then, and he suddenly understood why a woman such as she, a healer dedicated to saving lives, would have attacked that English soldier so fearlessly. Vengeance was the strongest of motivators, even for a woman like Jeanette MacAlpin.
    “I am surprised you did not slice that Sassenach bastard’s head off today,” he said, meaning every word.
    “I would have, if I could have managed the sword better.”
    His gaze snapped to hers and he could feel a rage that matched hers, rolling off of him like storm-driven waves on the loch. Here was something he could give her, something he was well schooled in after more than a year in the king’s army. Once his arm was fully healed, he could give her vengeance against her enemies.
    “Next time, I shall do it for you,” he vowed.

CHAPTER THREE
    A S THEY DREW closer to the castle, the nearest part of the curtain wall obscured the devastation Malcolm had seen from higher up on the ben. If not for the strong odor of burnt wood, far stronger than those caused by the usual fires kindled within a castle, he might doubt what he had seen. They veered around the castle to the west and still all looked well, until they neared the gate.
    An old, grizzled guard yelled over his shoulder, back into the castle, “She is here!” Then he strode toward them, his eyes narrowed and his hand upon his dirk, Malcolm clearly the target of his gaze. “Who is this, mistress?” he demanded.
    “I am Malcolm, son of John, chieftain of the MacKenzies of Blackmuir.”
    The guard glared at him. “What business have you with us?”
    “He is injured, Denis,” Jeanette said. “He is in need of my help. Let us pass.”
    “How do you ken he is not an enemy to us? He could be another English spy.”
    Jeanette looked over her shoulder and gave him the slightest shake of her head as if to say he should not react to such a question, but Malcolm would not let his honor be smeared with such an implication.
    “I am a Highlander, a Scot. My home is west of Inverness and my clan is sworn to fight for King Robert. I fought with the king at Methven and Dalrigh and I shall fight with him again as soon as this kind lass mends my arm. I am no bedamned English spy!”
    “I believe him,” Jeanette said to the guard, whose dirk was half-drawn now. She turned and glared at Malcolm. “You are not making this easy, Malcolm MacKenzie.”
    “Aye, you are not,” the guard added.
    “Denis,” she said to the old man, “there are English soldiers on the ben. At least one, maybe more. We did not linger to find out. I need to speak to the chief and I do not think it wise for any of us to stand about in the open like this.”
    Denis looked from Malcolm to Jeanette and back several times, not budging from his spot between them and the gate.
    “Denis?” Jeanette prodded. “ ’Tis of great import I speak to Nicholas immediately.” Malcolm could hear the strain threading through her words, though clearly she tried to hide it.
    “Did you not understand her, man?” Malcolm said.
    The old guard grumbled but turned and led them to the gate, then through the short passage. Just as they stepped into the bright bailey, a tall auburn-haired woman strode toward them.
    “Oh, thank the heavens,” the woman said, “you are