“Because he values peace over his own kin.” His words echoed his earlier conversation with Katherine. But it was the truth.
“You know as well as I do that there was no love lost between your father and the Macgillivray chief.” Iain’s tone was firm but there was a note of sympathy as well. “And though the holding ’tis a bonny one, ’tis of no strategic significance to the clan.”
“Well, surely he canna hold with the notion that I killed my father. We were no’ at odds. And besides, as I said, I’d only just returned to Dunbrae.”
“True enough. But you wouldn’t be the first son to grow restless playing second fiddle.” Ranald wasn’t trying to goad him, but Bram reacted anyway, his tone harsher than he’d intended.
“But ’tis no’ true.” He drew a breath and forced himself to calm. Nothing was gained in losing control. He was among family. Family he could trust. Iain and Ranald would help him. Of that he was most certain. “If I had killed my father, why then would I have run? The tower was taken. I surely would have stayed to celebrate the victory.” The words choked him, but it was still a point well made.
“I agree.” Iain nodded. “There is much to the story that doesn’t ring true.”
“But Ian Ciar believes the lies.”
“Your great uncle hears what he wants to hear.” Ranald shrugged.
“Right now, emotions are holding sway,” Iain said. “Anger and fear are ruling the day.”
“And so now I am hunted not only by my enemies but by my kin as well?”
“We heard nothing that would indicate that the Macgillivray is taking action against you,” Iain was quick to assure.
“But we heard nothing to the contrary either,” Ranald added. “And in light of the accusations against you, Malcolm petitioned your great uncle for Dunbrae.”
“Which he, no doubt, granted.” Bram blew out a frustrated breath. There was a long history of anger between Bram’s uncle Malcolm and his father. And their uncle, Ian Ciar, had always favored Malcolm.
“Aye. He did,” Iain said, anger sparking in his eyes.
“Then my great uncle believes I’m a traitor.” Bram fisted his hands. “And what of Moy? Does your uncle think I am a killer?”
Iain sighed, his expression apologetic. “My uncle has more important matters to deal with. He’s been called to Stirling to meet with the king. There’s talk of a marriage between James and Margaret of Denmark. James is seeking support from the chieftains.”
“Support he’s no’ likely to get,” Ranald mumbled.
“So I’m on my own, then,” Bram said, not surprised. Great men were interested only in the things that made them greater. And his father’s holding was but a small one on the far edge of both the Macgillivray and Chattan lands. And, as Iain had said, the remote mountain valley was of little strategic use.
“Nay, you’re no’ alone,” Iain said, his tone commanding. “You’ve got the two of us and the men under our command.”
He kissed her neck and then the hollow between her breasts. Lily sucked in a breath, his touch sending shards of electricity arcing through her. Slowly, so very slowly, his lips caressed her skin, moving up the soft slope of her breast to pull the nipple into his mouth.
Her body contracted as he tugged, desire threatening to tear her apart. “You’re real,” she whispered, her heart singing with the realization. Bram was real. She arched upward, wanting more. Wanting him…
But suddenly the room faded and he was gone. Instead she stood high on a rocky precipice looking down into a narrow gorge. The wind whipped through her hair, its frigid breath leaving her uneasy. Across the way in the distance she could see Duncreag, the stone walls white in the pale moonlight, mereextensions of the rock surrounding them. From this vantage point it was easy to imagine its former grandeur.
The gorge below was narrow, carved by an ancient river perhaps. The path, such that it was, veered upward sharply toward the fortress, a series of switchbacks climbing up the mountain, carefully designed so that travel would be truly safe only with the cover of night. It was barely wide enough for a single horse to pass.
An odd way to think of it, but even before she could complete the thought she saw them. Riders. A dozen or more. Unease turned to fear. Somehow she knew, even without being told, that these were not friends, their intent anything but benign.
Her mind flashed back to Bram. He’d said that his enemies would come after him. And somehow in her heart she was certain that these were those men. Some still sane part of her mind knew that she was dreaming. That this was simply an extension of her fantasy. But somewhere deep in her soul she was equally certain that the danger was real. She had to get to Bram to warn him.
She looked beyond the gorge, out across the valley, a ribbon of silver marking the path of the river. But there was no light where the cottage should be. Nothing to indicate that he was there. Perhaps he had gone to Duncreag. Her gaze moved back to the tower. In this light it looked invincible.
But no one knew there was danger.
She tried to take a step, realizing only then that she was nothing more than a spirit. A wisp of nothing. She was here and yet she wasn’t. Her heart cried out. She needed to find him. To warn him. Real or fantasy, she needed him to live. To survive. If only so they could find each other in their dreams.
The men below continued on, winding their way higher, their movements cloaked by the darkness and the sound of the wind as it whistled through the gorge. Above her, the towerwas dark, stark against the sky. It was late, the inhabitants most likely sleeping in their beds. Which meant that Bram would be caught unaware.
She screamed, but if she had a voice, the wind whipped it away. Was this a punishment then? Another death to carry in her heart? How had he come to mean so much to her in so little time?
