Page 45 of Bond of a Bewitched Highlander

She stared at Brodie through the blur of tears. "Why did you nay tell me?"

He shook his head, his midnight eyes soulful and tormented. "You were at the funeral."

"I cannot remember." Covering her face with her hands, she gave the grief full rein.

"Och, lass. I'm sorry you lost him." Brodie rose and clasped her shoulder in a strong but gentle grip. 'Twas warm, comforting, and... unexpected.

"Nay. I am sorry." She wiped at her eyes and tried to get her emotions under control. "Tell me what happened, please."

He handed her a handkerchief. "You will be even more upset."

She shook her head and blotted at her eyes with the ivory linen. "I must know." Her stomach ached with emptiness and loss. "Da and I were always close."

When she'd been six summers, her father had taught her to ride a pony. She'd delighted in his retellings of legends and hauntings. He'd always brought her trinkets when he'd returned from his travels. She loved him dearly. If she had been at home at the time of his death, why couldn't she remember one thing about it? How could her brain be that traumatized from a head injury? And yet, she could remember him at her eighteenth birthday.

"He was a good man," Brodie said. "'Twas clear he'd spoiled you."

She searched Brodie's ebony eyes, stunned that he knew her da so well, when she could not even remember him. His eyes were somber and sad, as if he remembered the things she couldn't.

"What made you think he might have passed?" He leaned against the desk.

"The nightmare," she whispered.

"Tell me about it."

"A woman was talking to me. She said I should ask you to have your guards escort me to my brother's, and she mentioned Kincreag Castle. Which was Da's holding, last I remember."

"What did the woman look like?" Brodie's voice hardened.

"Ginger hair, skinny and raw-boned, maybe forty or forty-five summers in age."

"Saints," he hissed, standing straight again, his gaze fierce. He appeared incensed enough to charge into battle.

Her heartbeat quickened. "What?"

"Wilona MacRae," he growled through clenched teeth.

"Who is she?"

He hesitated. "'Tis best you do nay ken."

"I need to. She threatened to kill me."

"When?" he demanded.

"In my nightmare. It may sound mad, but 'twas so real. She said if I did nay go home, my life would be forfeit, and that I must stay away from you."

"Indeed?"

Elsea nodded.

"That evil bitch," he snarled, then caught himself. "Pray pardon. I should guard my tongue around ladies."

'Twas no worse than she'd heard from her brothers for years. "She did seem evil. Do you think 'twas real or a dream?"

"Lady Wilona MacRae is real, and she's a witch. 'Twould nay surprise me if she can visit people in nightmares."

"A witch? Good heavens." 'Haps she was in more danger than she'd realized. "Why did she wish me to stay away from you?"