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scents of
moldering leaves and black dirt.
    By the sun, he gauged he was traveling east,
toward his own land. He would never be so glad as to see MacGrath
sod, and his clan. He listened for the sounds of hidden enemies,
but the high-pitched calls of crossbills feeding in the pine
branches overhead thwarted his efforts.
    Hearing a different sort of bird, this one
screeching in the distance, he paused. The MacIrwin call, he would
recognize it anywhere. It sounded again, closer this time.
Searching out a place to hide, he crept down an embankment, careful
not to disturb the brown pine needles, and hid below a gigantic
decaying tree stump, one of many that littered the area.
    Minutes later, a MacIrwin strode by, humming
a ballad, his rawhide shoes padding over the damp leaves.
Crouching, Alasdair held his breath and watched. He did not want to
kill a man this day.
    Once the other man moved on and the sounds of
the forest returned to normal, Alasdair crawled from his hideout
and continued on his way.
    The more steps he took, the more intense the
agony from his toe—stabbing pain that shot halfway up his leg. He
ground his teeth. The exertion spiked the aching in his head as
well.
    The trees thinned and gave way to scrubby
bushes and tall gorse. He paused at the edge of a moor swathed in
heather and other short vegetation. Only a couple boulders and
larger bushes dotting the land would provide any sort of cover.
Crossing without being seen would prove a hellish task.
    Perhaps he should wait for nightfall before
attempting it.
    Keeping a close watch on the landscape spread
out before him, he rested for a spell between gooseberry
bushes.
    The gash on his abdomen smarted and burned.
He glanced down and found it bleeding again despite the fine
stitches. The bonny healer would’ve scolded him over that.
    He’d never gotten the chance to ask her what
an English lady was doing here in the Highlands. Likely, she
wouldn’t have told him anyway. And it was just as likely he’d never
see her again. He didn’t care for the feel of that, despite her
possible guilt.
    Something about her had held his attention,
not just her clear, vivid blue eyes that met his with courage and
intelligence. She was a wee, slight thing but appeared to possess
the hidden strength of a mighty oak. Perhaps he had enjoyed too
much making her blush with his compliments. He glanced back in the
direction of the woods and her cottage, some small aching spot
within his chest making him yearn to see her one more time. To
thank her again for saving his life.
    Sometime later, thick gloaming settled over
the land along with a faint gray mist. Surely it was murky enough
that he wouldn’t be seen easily. His predominately blue and black
tartan was dull in color, and he wore no light-colored shirt that
would glow at a distance in the twilight.
    His gaze scanning the deserted moor, he stood
and limped forward. Though he had to be careful where he stepped
among the rocks and heather so as not to further injure his toe, he
made good progress across the damp ground until a distant noise met
his ears. Hoof beats.
    He turned. A horse and rider approached at a
trot from behind. God’s bones! He’d been spotted. Glancing about
for cover, he found no bushes nearby. Only a large rock. Teeth
gritted against the piercing pain in his foot, he limped forward
and crouched behind the rock.
    “Who are you?” the rider called out in
Gaelic. Too close, the man drew up, but Alasdair dared not peer
out.
    The horse clomped closer. A sword swished
from a sheath in a metallic hiss.
     
     

Chapter Three
     
    After returning from a visit to a sick
clanswoman, Gwyneth stepped inside the byre and found it empty.
    Good lord! Where was MacGrath?
    She darted outside again and surveyed her
surroundings. Nothing moved but the cattle and sheep. Had Donald
captured MacGrath while she, Mora and Rory had been gone? Or had he
left? Surely if Donald had come, he or his men would have tracked
her down and