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would never dissipate. No one but he could be leader of the Sinclairs.

    He turned his head, and she would have sworn he looked directly at her, if it were possible. It was as if he knew she was watching him, but that could not be. The urge to duck fully behind the curtain was strong, but she was still feeling the paralyzing effects of her desire to touch him. And surely he could not see her in the dark of the cottage?

    Was that cruelty or strength in his glittering eyes? There was knowledge. Logic notwithstanding, he knew she was there. But how?

    Unlike him, she did not stand in a clearing with no hindrance to the revelations of bright moonlight. She was hidden almost completely by the window covering, and what wasn't hidden should not have been distinguishable in the dim light, made darker by the shadow of the cottage's roof.

    If circumstances were not odd enough, the pale-haired giant warrior turned his attention on her as well, though she had seen nothing to indicate the other man had apprised him of her presence. This warrior's eyes were dark, though she did not think they were brown. He was maybe even bigger than the dark-haired man, but she did not assume that made him laird.

    While might would be important in determining leadership among the war-bent clans in the north, size was not the only determining factor in strength. The blond giant looked strong enough, but he did not look toward her with quite the intensity of the other man.

    He did not have a tattoo on his arm either, and she was guessing that was significant. His left cheek was marred by a battle scar; even so, he was almost as handsome as the other man.

    Abigail felt an instant rapport with the marked soldier. It was too easy for others to judge a person's worth on a physical affliction. This warrior could do no more about his scar than she could her deafness.

    The raven-haired man came toward her with purposeful strides. The other giant warrior followed him, a strange half smile on his face. The puckered flesh gave him a sinister look that the amusement in his eyes belied.

    At that moment, Abigail definitely should have ducked behind the window covering. She couldn't. The tattooed warrior held her attention as firmly as she held on to the hope of seeing her sister again one day.

    His silent command to stay still was unmistakable.

    Even if the command was only in her imagination, it would not let her go. Her body felt strangely heavy, but her head felt light. Fear and exhilaration coursed through her as her fingers curled around the window covering in a stranglehold.

    As he came closer, the pace of her breathing increased until she was panting as if she had been chasing her sister through the meadow near her stepfather's keep like she had when they were children.

    He did not stop once he reached the cottage as she expected, but continued around to the front. She stared after him, confused and painfully disappointed when she should never have wanted to speak to the man alone in the first place.

    Her gaze swung back to the light-haired soldier where he had stopped a few feet from the window. He looked at her, but if he was curious about her like the MacDonald clan, he did not show it. His scarred face and gray eyes were devoid of emotion, his square jaw set as if words would not leave his mouth anytime soon.

    She stared back, uncertain if she should do or say anything.

    The lack of communication stretched between them until the dark-haired man returned, a scowl of anger twisting his masculine lips. His blue gaze seared her, his eyes darker than the daytime sky, but nothing like the dark blue velvet of night.

    Her heart beat more quickly in her chest, and she laid her hand against her throat to ensure she was not making sounds she was unaware of.

    "Why are you angry?" she felt herself asking without first thinking to do so. She spoke in Gaelic, not so halting as it had been when she had been learning with Emily, but at a lower volume.

    She