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from the cave were even more caves, though they appeared smaller. And in between was the large open space where she had fallen.
    Oh, God. Warriors.
    She gripped the stone slab she sat on with both hands and tried to keep her breathing steady. She had never feared the Warriors before Deirdre had taken her prisoner. Mostly because, in her opinion, they weren’t to blame for what was inside them.
    Now that she had come in contact with those in Deirdre’s control, she had a different opinion of the men.
    â€œAre you the one who threw me after I fell?” she asked the man. He stood to her left, still as a statue.
    There was a moment’s pause and then, “Aye.”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œWhat is so important about my name?”
    She was taken aback by his hard tone and the anger. Why should he care about giving his name?
    There was a loud sigh, then a shadow moved at the entrance of the cave. The torchlight glanced off his skin, but it was enough that she saw the milky expanse of his chest and the tattered breeches that hung on his hips.
    She recalled looking into his white eyes, eyes of a Warrior. When the god was loosened and shown for everyone to see, the Warrior’s skin turned whatever color the god had chosen. Added to the claws, their eyes changed as well, the color taking over the entire eye.
    â€œYou have nothing to fear from us,” the white Warrior said. “I am Arran MacCarrick, held here by Deirdre until I either turn to her side or die.”
    â€œHow many are you?” she asked hesitantly.
    Another form moved at the entrance. This time, he jerked the torch out of its holder and brought it toward her. Marcail looked into two very similar faces, their skin a pale blue, with matching kilts, but one with long hair and the other short.
    â€œWe’re Duncan and Ian Kerr,” the long-haired one holding the torch said. “And that,” he pointed across from him, “is Quinn MacLeod.”
    Marcail jerked her face to the Warrior hidden in the shadows. It all made sense now. Deirdre had flaunted that she held a MacLeod, but Marcail hadn’t believed her. “You didn’t want me to know you were a MacLeod?”
    Quinn snorted. “Why would I want you to know that? After everyone heard you declare it would be the MacLeods who brought Deirdre down, yet one is captured in her mountain? It doesna exactly inspire confidence, does it?”
    With the torch now close enough, she could see him standing tall and powerful with his fists clenched and looking as fierce as a Highlander about to enter battle.
    She wanted to see his face clearly, to ingrain his image in her mind. The only thing she could see about him besides his plain red linen tunic and threadbare breeches was his hair. It was the color of caramel and hung in long thick waves past his shoulders and around his face.
    It wasn’t until she let her gaze fall to the ends of his hair that she spotted the gold torc around his neck. The wide metal was twisted into a braid as big around as her middle finger. And at each end of the torc was awolf’s head, its mouth opened on a snarl. The image of such a cunning and intelligent creature seemed to fit the youngest brother of the MacLeods.
    Marcail rose and faced Quinn. She caught a glimpse of his skin as it faded from black to that of a man who had spent plenty of time in the sun.
    She wondered why he didn’t want her to see him in his Warrior form, but she would sooner or later. She had the most important part, though; his god color was midnight.
    â€œThank you for saving me.”
    He shook his head, his hair fanning over his brawny shoulders. “I’m not so sure I did. Every Warrior in the Pit wants you for his own now.”
    She wondered if he wanted her as well. His words caused her to glance over her shoulder to the three other Warriors. They watched her intently. One of the twins inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring as if he were