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Graeme appeared pleased by her statement. He was clearly proud of Highgate End and his role in its survival. She’d learned from one of her husband’s men that when Graeme had been named the new chief of Clan Scott four years earlier at only five and twenty, upon his father’s death, some of the elders had worried he was too young. He was the youngest chief in their history, but he took his duty to protect his clan seriously. His leadership had impressed them all.

“You’ve nothing to fear,” he said, slowing as they approached.

“I’m not . . .” Well, actually she was a mite nervous. “But an Englishwoman—”

He nodded. “’Tis as I said. Some will resent that, but most will not care. Like Lyndwood, Clan Scott recognizes the necessity of keeping the peace with our southern neighbors.”

Quiet descended between them as their party skirted the village to the east and approached the castle from the west. Graeme opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted when two men on horseback bounded toward them, seemingly from nowhere, too quickly for it to be a simple welcome. Something was amiss.

Graeme halted, and all of the others followed his lead.

“Graeme,” one of the men said, stopping in front of them.

“What is it?”

From the man’s resemblance to Graeme, he could only be his brother, Aidan. He had the same deep-set eyes and fierce expression as her husband, though he was slightly shorter and had longer hair. Gillian had only learned Graeme had a brother that morning.

“An attack, yesterday.” He shifted his gaze to her, then back to Graeme. The question hung in the air between them, forcing Graeme to introduce her.

“My wife,” he said. “Lady Gillian, daughter of John Bowman, Lord Lyndwood. This is my brother, Aidan.”

If Graeme’s brother hadn’t looked so serious just a moment ago, Gillian would have laughed at his expression. She hadn’t realized a person could look so shocked.

“Your—”

“I will explain later,” Graeme said, wresting his brother’s attention away from her. “An attack?”

“English reivers, but well-organized ones. They took more than twenty sheep from old Donnan.”

“And?” Graeme’s voice was more barbed than his normal tone.

“His wife—”

“If they hurt Grace . . . ,” Graeme roared.

His brother’s expression told the tale.

“Goddamn bastards,” he shouted.

Despite the vehemence in his voice and the rage that had clearly welled up inside him, Gillian wished she could go to him. The urge to comfort this decidedly dangerous man she hardly knew nearly overwhelmed her.

Gillian didn’t know who Grace was, but that didn’t matter. Graeme had cared for her, and she wished she could take Aidan’s words back. Or stop the raid from happening. She wished she could comfort his pain.

“A slewe dogge followed their tracks across the border but lost their scent near Ettrick. We’d petition for a cold trod but don’t know which reivers did it. Only that they were English.”

Gillian pretended not to notice the stares.

“We’ll find them,” Graeme said, a bit more calmly. He looked at her as he helped her dismount. “I apologize this is such a sorry homecoming for you, but I must go—”

Gillian tried to smile. The last thing she wished to be was a burden.

“Malcolm,” he called behind them. “Escort my wife to the castle. See that she is settled.”

Both of the brothers glanced at her before they took off—Graeme with regret and his brother with open curiosity—away from the castle and toward the village.

“My lady.” Malcolm gestured for her to mount up behind him. Once closer to the castle, they circled two of the four towers before arriving at the gatehouse. Both iron gates were opened to them. The inner ward, similar to her own at Lyndwood, was filled with people, mostly servants.

And chickens. Everywhere.