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sleeves, and adjusting his plaid.
    No one else moved.
    “Say farewell to yer mother, lass,” he gave Bree an encouraging smile. “We’ll be heading home to Skye, then.”
    Jenet reeled, crying pitifully, “Can you leave me?”
    Bree stared, stricken, as her mother held out pleading hands. Her mother loved her. She wanted her to stay. She could not abandon her, especially now, with Wat sure to be angry. She took a tottering step forward.
    “Think, lass. I’m offering ye freedom,” Domnall growled in a harsh reminder. “I’ll nae be selling ye to a lusting drunkard for a few sheep!”
    Bree flinched.
    A loud moan drew their attention to Wat leaning against the door, his face bloodied, and his lips gasping for air. As Jenet rushed to his side, he mumbled incoherently and lifted a shaking hand towards Domnall.
    “Aye!” Domnall shrugged unapologetically. “No man touches my daughter and walks away unscathed! No man!”
    A strange warmth crept into Bree’s heart.
    “Come with me, lass. No man will raise a hand to ye. I swear on my life’s blood and honor as a Highlander.”
    “Bree!” Jenet wailed plaintively.
    It was only then Bree realized she was walking away. She was leaving. She choked a whispered farewell under her breath.
    Picking up her skirt, she ran.
    In a near state of panic, she burst into the castle kitchen. What had she done? Did she have a choice? It was too late now. It would be folly to stay. As soon as he recovered, Wat would kill her.
    Leaning against the wall, she clutched her queasy stomach, but the sound of approaching voices spurred her into action. She could think later. She didn’t want to be present when Domnall and Afraig arrived.
    Flying about the room, she grabbed the nearest loaf of bread, a wedge of dried cheese, and a bottle of ale for Aislin’s supper. As the outer door swung open, she bolted up the stairs and down the dark passage.
    Again, doubt assailed her. What had she done? How could she have chosen a stranger over her own mother? Was he really even her father? Again, she reminded herself she had no choice. Emotions churning, she knocked on Aislin’s door. At the muffled response, she stepped inside.
    The chamber was dark; she could barely see. Aislin lay on the bed, sideways, as if she’d fallen. A deep crimson stained the counterpane and the glass shards of a wine bottle littered the floor. It was not the first time she’d come upon Aislin drunk. With a sigh, Bree set the tray on the table and lit the candle.
    “Afraig…” Aislin whispered, weakly.
    Frowning, Bree glanced her way.
    It was not wine. It was blood. Blood stained the lower half of Aislin’s gown, dripping from the bed to form a pool on the floor.
    Bree screamed.
    Vaguely, she recalled running to Afraig and Domnall. Their faces had registered complete shock. She followed them back to Aislin’s chamber. The second time, however, she remained outside the door.
    Afraig cursed. Picking up the broken bottle on the floor, she sniffed its contents. “Ye fool! ‘Twas too late for juniper berries!” she hissed, turning to Domnall. “There’s naught I can do now.”
    Aislin moaned.
    “Bree, lass, help me fetch the priest,” Domnall said grimly. “’Twill nae be long before the end.”
    It was not, but she did survive the night.
    They kept a vigil at the foot of the bed, and the village priest gave her last rites, intoning prayers in a hushed voice. As the sun rose, Aislin breathed her last. Her white lips moved wordlessly as her hand fell lifeless from the bed.
    The vision of that grey hand stayed with Bree even as Afraig guided her to the kitchen table. Someone placed a steaming bowl of porridge next to her, but she had no appetite. She merely observed it growing cold.
    Domnall and Afraig had been arguing for several hours, speaking mostly Gaelic, but sprinkled with sufficient amounts of English that she understood Domnall wished to leave immediately. The MacDonald must know of Aislin’s demise. There