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must keep her at his side to find out the extent of her influence on the curse he bore. Caught up in things that should be mundane, he missed her standing and leaving the small stretch of beach below. When he realized she was gone, he ran to the other side of the roof and gazed down on the small village, seeking out any movement on the narrow pathways between cottages and outbuildings that would give away her position.
    Finally! She moved slowly along the path to the south, heading for the cottage that sat separate from the rest, far enough away to almost be outside the village. Even from a distance so far he saw her shoulders were slumped forward. Once more, waves of pain and sorrow echoed across the space between them and his heart ached in response.
    His intentions of meeting with the men from Orkney disappeared as the need to discover the source of her pain overwhelmed him. Had he hurt her during the night? He remembered relentless passion and pleasure. Overwhelmed by it, he might have hurt her and not realized it. A whore would never mention such things.
    His feet were running before he knew where, the sharp stones that covered the roof tearing into the skin on the soles of his feet. Only when Ornolf blocked his path did he skid to a stop.
    “Out of my way, old man,” Duncan said, trying to push his way around his servant.
    “Ye cannot leave yer chambers naked as the day ye were born, Duncan. And clean the blood from yer feet or it will leave a trail.”
    Only then did Duncan realize his feet were bleeding. And they hurt! A mystifying and wondrous—and unexplained—change. He laughed again, the thrill of the pain rushing through him.
    “Fix them,” he ordered as he sat on a stool in his chambers.
    Ornolf worked quickly, wrapping Duncan’s feet with strips of linen, then shoving short boots on over them. Every wince was cause for celebration. Without a word being said, Ornolf handed him clothes and helped him dress. It took only a few minutes, but those were minutes Duncan did not wish to waste. He ran through the keep and the yard and the gate and finally, stood in the shadows observing as Sigurd spoke with the young woman he’d brought to the feast the evening before. The exchange between them was nothing like the glances Duncan had witnessed between Sigurd and Isabel. These were filled with soft feelings and concern while those were of ownership and possession.
    How could a man treat one so lovingly and the other so callously?
    Thinking on the matter would not change a thing, for the world was made up of men such as Sigurd—hard men whose only concern was making their way in the world, reaching above themselves with others paying their way. Men who sold their own brothers into slavery to gain from it. Men who would change allegiances and fight for whomever promised the greater reward.
    Duncan watched the cart carrying the daughter leave and Sigurd stride off in the direction of the keep, no doubt to meet with Davin to curry more favor or find ways to do so. After waiting until he was certain Sigurd was not coming back, Duncan walked the last few paces to Isabel’s door. He knew which of the small dwellings was hers after watching her from high above as she made her way there . . . more times than he could explain or care to think on.
    He placed his hands on the doorframe and leaned his head against the door, trying to calm his racing heart and his breathing. Waves of anguish poured over him from within, forcing him to his knees. Gasping for breath, the affliction pierced his heart and caused storms of pain in his head. The feelings reminded him of the beginning of the healing ritual—the part when he was still conscious of his own body, before the power flowed through him and erased all that he was. But the power did not build or flow, only the pain.
    Pushing himself to his feet, he knew he needed to get to Isabel. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Lifting the latch of her door, he eased it open and