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the time it of its construction, its builder, Duncan, son of Dugald, son of the mighty Somerled, had been invested with the title of
ri Innse Gall
, King of the Isles. A title the MacDougalls still took to heart.
    The castle did indeed befit a king. The Great Hall took up the entire first floor of the eastern range, spanning about one hundred feet by thirty feet. The wood-beamed ceilings had to be at least fifty feet at the highest point. Intricately carved wooden paneling fit for the nave of a church adorned the eastern entrance wall, while the others were plastered and decorated with colorful banners and fine tapestries.
    A massive fireplace on the inner long wall of the castle provided heat, and two double lancet windows on the opposite outer wall allowed for an unusual amount of natural light. Trestle tables and benches lined the main floor of the room, and a dais had been erected at the end of the room opposite the entrance. In the middle of the massive wooden table that spanned its length was a large wooden throne.
    Though Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, the chief and head of Clan MacDougall, still occupied that chair, it was the cold-hearted bastard seated to his right who wielded its power. Alexander MacDougall was an old man—at least seventy by Arthur’s reckoning; years ago, he’d delegated his authority to his eldest son and heir, John, Lord of Lorn.
    This was the closest Arthur had been to the man who’d killed his father in years, and the intense hatred that gripped him surprised him. He wasn’t used to such fierce emotion, but his chest burned with it.
    He’d been waiting so many years for this moment, he thought it might be anticlimactic. It wasn’t. If anything, he was surprised by how anxious he was to see it done. It would be easy—and damned tempting—to surprise him with a dirk in his back. But unlike his enemy, he would kill him face-to-face. On a battlefield.
    And killing Lorn wasn’t part of his mission. Yet.
    His enemy had aged, he realized. Gray now streaked his dark hair and the lines that marked his face had started to sag. Arthur had heard rumors of an illness and wondered if there might be some truth to them. But the eyes were the same. Cold and calculating. The eyes of a despot who would stop at nothing to win.
    Afraid of what he might unconsciously reveal, or that MacDougall would somehow be able to sense the threat, Arthur forced his gaze away from the dais.
    He had to be careful.
Damned
careful to give nothing away. If he was discovered, Arthur knew the best he could hope for was a quick death. The worst was a long one.
    But he wasn’t overly concerned. There were at least a score of knights and five times that many men-at-arms who’d answered Lorn’s call. He wouldn’t be noticed. Neil was right; he was good at fading into the background and not drawing attention to himself.
    Though he wished he could say the same for his brother. He winced as Dugald let out a loud bellow of laughter, cuffing his squire in the jaw with the back of his hand. Blood dripped from his lip.
    Arthur felt a twinge of sympathy for the lad, having been on the bad side of his brother’s fist more times than he could count when he was a youth. But sympathy wouldn’t do the lad any good. Not if he wanted to be a warrior. It was part of the lad’s training, intended to toughen him up. Eventually he would learn to stop reacting. Not feeling would take longer.
    “What lass is going to notice a whelp like you with me around?” Dugald laughed.
    The squire blushed hotly, and Arthur felt even sorrier for him. The lad was going to be miserable until he learned to control his emotions. Dugald would hone in on that weakness until it was pounded out of him. Like their father, being a warrior—a fierce warrior—was all that was important to him. Except for the lasses.
    Dugald might be an overbearing braggart at times, but it was not without cause. Though not quite as tall as Arthur, his brother was