Someday he would make the cowards pay for their murdering ways!
Iain MacKinnon slid down from his father’s knee and came toward him. He was younger than Broc, but not by many years—perhaps five to Broc’s seven, although Broc couldn’t be certain. He came and stood before Broc, looking him square in the eyes. His expression was sober and somehow as dignified as his da’s. He nodded and said, “’Twill be alright, Broc Ceannfhionn.”
Broc didn’t believe this was true, but he didn’t argue. He narrowed his eyes at the name Iain had bestowed upon him—Broc the Blond. No one had ever called him that, but it didn’t seem such a bad thing to be called. He nodded back, thanking Iain wordlessly for his comfort—even though five was far too young to know anything at all. When the boy was seven at least, he might better understand.
“You can share my room,” the boy offered. “I’ll show you where it is.”
Broc peered up at Alma. He wanted to go with her, instead, to help put all the ghosts to rest.
She reached out to catch his chin, lifting his face. “Sweet Broc, ye’ll do well enough here.”
Another tear slipped past his guard.
“Forget the anger, child,” she advised, “remember the love. Make your sweet minny proud! Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strong bairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.”
He swallowed hard, realizing he’d never see her again. His last tie to his kinsmen would be severed the instant she walked out the door.
But his da would want him to be a man.
He gazed at her tender countenance one last time, his eyes stinging sorely, but he didn’t shed a single tear as he turned to follow Iain MacKinnon from the hall.
He would remember Alma’s words always, but he never once looked back.
CHAPTER 1
Ablackbird chased its mate across the sunlit sky. The pair fluttered together into a nearby tree, chirping merrily as lovers are wont to do.
Broc felt somehow empty at the sight of them. It was the second time during the span of the day that the feeling had come over him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what troubled him, but he was restless.
It was a beautiful summer day with every tree a verdant green. The scent of something delightful but elusive hung in the air like an invisible mist, teasing his nostrils. Something like sweet pollen mayhap, though he couldn’t name the flower of its origin.
He stopped to watch the birds mating upon a branch overhead. Furious little creatures, they struggled together as though battling. His brows drew together as he watched them pair off. God’s truth, it seemed everything and everybody was mating except him.
He was the last of his clan.
It hadn’t much bothered him before today. He hadn’t allowed it to darken his thoughts. But after Gavin Mac Brodie’s sermon at his brother’s wedding, he found himself remembering an old woman’s blessing.
Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strongbairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.
The echo of her voice had faded through the years. But her words came back to haunt him.
They left him strangely bereft.
If someone had asked him only a few months before if his best friend might ever wed, Broc would have laughed in their face and shaken his head with absolute conviction. But Colin was now a married man, and Broc had never seen him so joyful. He was pleased for them. And yet... in the aftermath of their nuptials, he found himself obsessing over an old woman’s last words and craving something he couldn’t name.
He turned away from the birds and continued on his journey home. In times past, Merry, his dog, would have been at his heels, and he might have had to drag her barking away from the damned tree.
He missed the sweet mutt.
He sighed and pushed her memory away, only to be besieged by another more poignant.
Always it hovered on the edge of his consciousness—the sound of his parents laughing together.
The two of them had been deeply devoted to each other, and his da had so obviously cherished his mother that as a child Broc had felt enriched by their love. But as happy as his childhood had been, despite the hardships, his memories were tainted with the hideousness of their death.
He could never think of them without remembering his mother’s screams.
He had no idea that he had stopped again, nor that he sat upon the ground, but he was left reeling by the images that accosted him. Even after all these years his kinsmen’s faces haunted him. He plucked a woodland flower from the soil and crushed it in his fist, his gut burning with remembered rage.
