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Chapter One

Scotland November 1512:

A heavy frost sat on the frozen earth, and a full moon shone clearly between the heavy clouds dotting the sky. Lady Callie Whitcomb looked over her shoulder as she raced through the deepening gloom toward the lighted tavern ahead. Every shadow, every mournful sigh of the wind sweeping through the trees, every chilling animal sound filled her with terror. Fear for her life drove her to put all thoughts of danger aside. He would follow her, find her, and drag her home.

Home.

"Don't think of that now," she reminded herself fiercely, even while tears stung in the back of her throat and fear made her limbs tremble. "Don't ye dare think of home. It no longer exists." Nothing and no one could coax her back or make her believe there was naught but terror in the home where she'd been born.

"I will never marry Lord Huntington. Never!" she whispered fiercely, the chill night air solemnly echoing her words.

Her stepbrother, Archibald Covington III, made sure she could never return.

"There ye be, lass! I've been waiting for ye."

The voice rose from nowhere and surprised her. Her heart froze, lurched, then began an erratic beat, while raw nerves snapped, sending a myriad of sensations racing down her spine.

"Archibald--" she whispered, panic sweeping through her. "He's found me." All she could hear was the pounding of her own blood in her ears.

Before she could reach her destination, before she could find safe refuge from him, his men had found her. No! Not now. Not when she thought she had eluded them all.

A wave of fear sweeping through her reminded her, that if caught, she would be taken back to Archibald and forced to marry Lord Huntington.

"I'll help ye down, lass."

"No."

Before she could react and spur her horse forward, callous, rough hands centered on her waist then pulled her from her mount.

"No!" She cried out to no avail. Regaining her wits, she beat fiercely upon the man's broad chest, tearing at his face and his thick beard with her fingers.

"Ach, lass! Hold still! I mean ye no harm. Stop this--" His voice was gruff and impatient.

Fear for her life had spurred her haste. Terror that she might see Huntington or Archibald with each turn of the road haunted every hour of her journey. Archibald had retainers everywhere. Messages would have been sent. A highlander could be bought.

"Ruffian! Unhand me! Ye barbarous Scotsman."

If Archibald had guessed what path she followed...

"Verra well, ne'er let it be said that I dinna do a lass' bidding." Just as suddenly as he'd grabbed her, his hold upon her vanished. She stumbled backward.

Instantly, she found herself sitting on the frozen earth. The man towering above her watched her with concerned dark eyes. Despite the scar stretching from forehead to chin, his mouth quirked upward in a humorous slant.

"Ye be a handful, lass."

"Get away from me!" Confusion blindsided her. If this man had anything to do with Archibald or Lord Huntington, he would have never let her go. Yet she could take no chances.

His arms outstretched, his hands beckoning her to him, he smiled. "Now calm down."

Crab-like, she scurried backwards. "I will not go with ye. I would rather die." Despite her proper upbringing, she wanted to scream her frustration and bellow with anger.

"Hawke is waiting for ye, lass. There is no need for this panic. He means ye no harm." The man stepped forward, bending over her as if to lift her from the ground.

"Hawke?" Callie did not want to meet Hawke. She sought Colin MacPherson. She stood before the man could touch her again, quickly dusting the dirt and leaves from her hands and moving sideways, ready to bolt. But the giant moved quickly and lethally, his huge hand closing over her upper arm. He pulled her along with him, heading toward the tavern.

"Aye, Hawke. Ye sound as if ye've ne'er heard of the mon. Well, I suppose 'tis good ye dinna let on about your identity to just anyone. He waits for ye and the papers ye were to bring with ye."

To no avail, she dug in her heels. "I have no papers." Only the letter her father had written before he died and that was meant for Colin MacPherson, not some man named Hawke.

"'Tis all right, lass. Ye dinna need to tell me anything."

"No! It is not all right. I won't go with ye. I won't go back."

"We've got her, Hawke."

"Aye, I see that ye have." Laughter rang out from the shadows of the tavern. "Bring the wee lass inside where we can talk."

"Nay, ye have no right." Callie stiffened, searching the porch, every nerve strung taut. "I am not chattel ye can push here and there."

Music, sounds of laughter, the scent of ale and peat smoke floated and clung to the heavy night air. A man moved forward, silhouetted by the backlight of the tavern.

"I have every right," he said, but he made no move to change her situation or to tell his henchman to unhand her.

Struck by his size and with every nerve tightened, she inhaled a deep, ragged breath. When he stepped into a pool of light, she nearly gasped aloud. Moonlight gave his strong, well-chiseled features definition and there was a strange, vulnerable expression on his face.

Oh, but he was tall and his hair was as black as the night and the shadows surrounding him. His long, dark hair was pulled back and secured at his nape with a leather strap, his muscles rippling with every movement. At his side, he'd strapped a claymore, and a dirk was tucked into the top of his knee-high stocking.

Behind her, Pansy moved uneasily, then trotted off into the darkness. "Pansy--"

"Dinna fret, lass. Hawke will send a mon after your pony."

"Hawke," Callie said his name aloud, returning her attention to the man on the porch. She sensed his attention bone-deep, and her heart thundered, every instinct within calling out for her to flee. They thought she was someone she wasn't. Sensations she'd never felt before swept through her. She'd always known Archibald was wicked, but if she hadn't seen his evil with her own eyes, she would have never believed him capable of such horrific deeds.

She didn't want to remember. In the dusk of the evening, she had been where she wasn't supposed to be, retrieving a doll for Archibald's little sister. She'd followed the doll as it rolled endlessly down the steep embankment. Then she'd seen her stepbrother and the man she was supposed to marry, Lord Huntington, killing a man, the dagger piercing the victim's heart.

The next day she had risen before dawn and taken only one bag. With all her money sewn into the hem of the dress she'd bought from one of her servants, she'd donned her warmest cloak, saddled her mare, Pansy, and left the keep. No one had stopped her or sounded an alarm. Callie had told no one about the murder because she trusted no one. She'd been too terrified of the very walls in the castle to tell anyone. She hid her face, pressing her cheek and her nose into his back, clinging more tightly to Hawke. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, she could hear the even beat of his heart, the steady flow of his breath into and out of his chest. He reminded her of strength and courage, of Scottish heather and mist. His midnight black hair fell free from the leather thong binding it. The strands clung to her eyebrows and whispered across her cheek. Strangely, his hair was soft, silken. She wondered at that. She had never touched a man's hair, or felt the softness of the locks slide across her face.

And she had never before held herself so close to a man that she could hear the beat of his heart and feel his muscles rippling beneath her fingertips.

A shiver wracked her body, and it seemed he felt her tremble against him.

"Are ye all right?" he asked, but he didn't slow the steed, nor did he seem to want a reply. She moved closer against him, tightening her grip and letting the warmth of his body ward off the freezing night, her fears and the aching loneliness she'd felt since her father died.

A light snow began to fall, and she wondered when the clouds had arrived to cover the moon. The snow was both a blessing and a curse. The horse would leave a trail a child could follow. If snowflakes continued to fall, they might well cover the tracks left behind by Hawke's horse.

The sky was dark now, so very dark she could barely see her hand in front of her face.

With time, she drifted to sleep, and when she woke, one of his strong hands held both of hers together at his waist. Dawn was beginning to deepen the sky with muted colors, mauve, a soft apricot and the deepest amethyst. Now the snowfall was light. He'd slowed the horse to a walk.

Thick forest rose to meet the sky on one side, and vertical granite walls rose on the other side. They followed a path that curved and led upward into the rocks.

The constant ache in the pit of her stomach made her realize how very hungry she was. She'd eaten nothing at the tavern and at the moment, she couldn't remember the last time she'd had any food at all.

This was the sixth day of her self-imposed exile.

As if he guessed at her exhaustion, Hawke gave encouragement. "We'll stop soon. What is your name?"

"Callie," she said but offered nothing more.

"Well, ye've done well, Callie." His deep voice rumbled against her cheek. The compliment warmed her heavy heart and soothed the ache in her muscles.

"Thank ye," she said, so softly she wasn't sure if he would hear.

"And ye are welcome. But there is no need of thanks. I speak only the truth."

"As do I," she told him, closing her eyes and willing herself to hang on a few minutes longer. He'd said they would be there soon. Wherever there was.

* * *

Callie. Hawke let the name linger in his mind. A prickly sensation slivered down his spine, yet he pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to dwell on the sudden gut reaction he had to the name.

Hawke couldn't help himself. He'd taken an immediate liking to this wee lass with hair the color of brightest sunshine. Unlike anyone--man or woman--he'd ever met before, with her crystal clear, blue eyes she'd held his gaze and challenged him in return. She had not turned from him. Nor did it seem he frightened her. Even though she'd not wanted to admit to carrying the documents he sought, Covington's men had been following her, and she had acted quickly and expeditiously.

If she'd hung back at all, he would have left her in the tavern to fend for herself. A small wave of guilt swept through him. Well, he'd learned a long time ago a man had to watch his own back, and he suspected she had learned the same. For this short interlude they would do well together.

Indeed, they would.

Snuggled against him, she was warm and soft, fragile, yet strong. She smelled of sweetest roses and made him think of unchecked courage. He never before associated courage with a woman. But here it was in a neat little bundle of femininity. Courage. Her tiny sounds through the night as she slept had filled him with a burning need to hear sounds such as those when he made love to her. Her small fingers pressing gently into his belly and resting even lower when she'd fallen asleep had nearly undone him.

No getting around his needs, he wanted her, nay burned for her and he would have her before this clandestine business with her was over. He had no doubt that he could easily convince this lady to come to his bed.

Arrogant, he told himself with a soft chuckle. But he wasn't really. She was a servant girl. Surely she'd had countless lovers. One more would never matter. He would see to her pleasure, give her gifts that would make her smile and laugh.

Inwardly, he groaned. Business first. He had to have the information he looked for and soon. If she didn't carry the documents he sought and proof of Covington's treachery, he would have to gain access to the English Lord's castle.

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a loaf of bread. Tearing off a large hunk, he offered the piece to her.

She accepted the bread. He thought he could hear her sigh of pleasure.

"Ye always eat and ride?" she asked.

He liked the sound of her voice, a little too high for a lady grown, but it was soft and she was well-spoken. She carried herself with the poise and grace of a lady born. Perhaps she wasn't used to serving the rich folk. Perhaps she was a governess, born on the wrong side of the bed sheets, a bastard. He paused thoughtfully, letting the idea sink home.

"When I have to," he told her. "We do have Covington's men chasing us."

"I think not, well," she paused, "they are Covington's men, but if I'm right, he sent them to bring me home."

"Bring ye home?" Hawke queried, his mind racing. He didn't want to be wrong about her.

Against his back, he could feel her nod. But she didn't answer right away. "I ran away."

She was Covington's mistress. Beneath his breath, he swore. So, he had been wrong, and he'd fled the tavern before he could meet his contact. Months might very well pass before he would have another opportunity. Somehow, he didn't mind. Not with this pretty little thing tucked tight against him, her curves beckoning him.

He could live with that very nicely.

"That's all ye've got to say? Ye saved my life, and I am indebted to ye."

"Then I would collect," he told her, his voice growing husky with the pent up desire he felt for her. He'd felt her breasts pushed against his back for hours now, and he longed to know the taste and texture of their rosebud tips, yearned to know if her passion would rise within her until a sweet, hot tempest flowed between them.

"A gentleman would not say such a thing," she told him, her voice soft, slightly teasing.

Despite her dire situation, she flirted with him, he realized. And he liked the idea. He threw his head back and laughed. "What makes ye think I am a gentleman?"

He felt her sharply indrawn breath, and felt the slight tremble of her fingers where they rested on his belly. Truly, he should not tease her so shamelessly.

"Because ye rescued me. Dispatched Covington's men as if they were children. Because I have put my trust in your hands, and I don't know who ye are or what ye are. Ye could be--"

She stopped abruptly.

"A murderer?" he questioned

"Yes."

"I assure ye I'm not a murderer. But neither do I pretend to be a gentleman."

"Then what are ye?" she asked.

"A man in dire trouble." He meant to tease.

"Because of me," she said, taking his words far too seriously. "I am sorry."

They fell silent then. The terrain changed slightly, the snow continuing to fall. When he looked back, their tracks were covered.

Several times they stopped and she stretched her legs, seeing to her needs. Each time she dismounted, he could tell it grew harder for her to get back onto the horse. Every muscle and joint in her body must ache. Each time he forced them to move on his concern for her grew.

Now the sun, its glow muted behind clouds, was slowly dropping in the sky. Soon the large orb would rest on the western horizon.

She pressed her hands tighter against him, and he inhaled sharply. "Where are we going? And I thought ye said we'd be there soon. That was this morning. By the look of the sun, we are nearing evening."

"Ah, I think I like that. A woman who can tell time by the height of the sun."

He laughed when she graced him with an unladylike snort. "It is nothing. My father taught me."

"If ye have a father, then why is Archibald Covington searching for ye? If ye have a home, why are ye running? And who are ye running too?"

"My father died a few months past. I was seeking Colin MacPherson."

"The MacPherson?" he asked. For some reason he couldn't explain to himself, he had no desire to tell her she had found the man she sought.

"Aye."

Her voice was so soft and filled with pain, his heart burned with the sorrow she felt. He remembered when his own father had died and the ache that would never go away. That pain still lingered when he recalled the man who had loved him and raised him.

"And so ye have no one save the wicked Archibald Covington to count on and protect ye."

"I have no one."

She must trust him completely, or she was not as wise as he had thought. Of course, he acknowledged being wise was not always the same thing as being smart. Vulnerable and alone in a world he didn't think she was used to, she had been forced to put her life in his hands.

He, Colin MacPherson, was an honorable man, but he hadn't bargained for this woman to come into his life. He was loyal to his clan, but he held no loyalty for a stranger. Yet what if she wasn't as she seemed? Her fingers--holding tight across his middle--were soft, her nails well-groomed. This lady was used to a life of ease.

So who was she really?

"Ye, sir," she spoke suddenly, "have evaded my question long enough."

Suddenly they emerged from the forest. Straight ahead she saw a castle rising from the ocean, a narrow land bridge connecting it to the shoreline.

"I doubt if Covington's men will venture this far into the highlands. If they do, I will welcome them. Then we will decide what to do."

"He is not really that smart nor does he have a whit of patience. I'm sure he will abandon the search quickly," she told him.

"Perhaps--"

"Ye don't believe me."

"Ye haven't told me why he sent them after ye, lass."

She fell silent, and Hawke didn't like the quiet. Indeed, her reticence told him more than she would ever know. The reasons for the search were grave, and if he guessed correctly, he doubted Covington would call the men home until she was found.

* * *

"Ye lost them?" Archibald Covington screamed at the messenger, his disbelief changing to a simmering anger with the incompetence of his men. "A lady who has never been on her own eluded my men? She escaped without a trace? Ye say she met a man?"

The messenger nodded. "It wasn't just any man. It was Hawke. No one has ever taken The MacPherson by surprise, least of all a dozen of your retainers."

Slowly, Archibald began to shake with fury, his face contorting with rage. "Hawke!" His fist landed hard on the table, shattering the wooden furniture, the pieces clamoring on the floor. "Hawke! He has taunted and teased from a safe distance. He threatens, yet he is too afraid to enter my lands. The rumors... they are false!" He whirled on the man. "I want them, Hawke and Lady Callie. Don't stop the search until she is found. I want her alive, ye hear me. I want her alive because she will marry as I see fit." His body heated with the rage simmering and sweeping within. "She has no say."

"I will deliver the message." The man bowed and quickly backed from the room, leaving behind a furious Archibald.

Archibald paced the length of the room, thinking, and dreaming up a horrific torture for his darling, spoiled stepsister. A torture that would last for years if her aging husband lived that long.

For the first time, Archibald smiled.

And he prayed the elderly husband he chose for Lady Callie wouldn't live very long, because he had another man in mind when the first husband died. He'd arranged it all, right down to the distribution of the inheritance. He would gain all that was hers. Everything. The money. The lands. The title.

She didn't deserve Simon Huntington. He would have to wait to marry her.

Callie would once more be left with nothing. She would be vulnerable and at his mercy.

Archibald laughed and rubbed his hands together. The gesture was an invitation for his mistress to join him. He poured them both a glass of wine and settled on a huge chair in his bedroom. The Lady Anne ventured from the other room, through the connecting doors.

She was widowed and she always proved to be perfect company. She did as he asked and never voiced an opinion unless it was to agree with him.

He handed her the glass. She sipped, her head tilting slightly and her eyes beckoning him, her dark, sooty lashes fluttering softly against her alabaster cheeks. She was pretty with large, voluptuous breasts and hips that flared provocatively from a tiny waist. But what he liked best about Lady Anne was that she was more than willing to do whatever pleased him.

"Come here," he said and patted his thighs. Ah, but she smelled of lavender. He'd bought the perfume from a ship just in from France.

She purred and walked slowly, her gently rounded hips swinging enticingly, one hand on the tie that kept her robe closed. She tugged slightly and the fastenings fell free, the robe slipping from her slender arms to pool on the floor.

He could see her body now, outlined beneath the gauze-like veil of fabric flowing around her. He wanted to taste her, explore the very essence of her and most of all he wanted her to touch him everywhere. He groaned with need, and she smiled, bending over him so that he had a perfect view of every sweet part of her. She touched her mouth to his, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips. When he opened to her, her tongue darted inside then out, quickly again and again in a parody of the sex act.

He enclosed both her breasts in his hands and squeezed. She would stay the night. Oh, yes, she was his for the night.

"Oh, Archi," she moaned softly. her gown slipping from her body until she was beautifully naked in front of him. She straddled his thighs, and his fingers found her moist, hot center.

"Anne," he said, unfastening his britches.

But it wasn't Lady Anne he thought about. It was his beautiful stepsister, Callie.

He would have her one day, he vowed.

Indeed, he would have her within his power.

Chapter Two

A battle cry wrent the air. Thundering hooves pounded the frozen earth.

Hawke and his men stopped their horses before they turned toward the woods. Once again blue and white blurred together into one long column. Morning sunlight glinted against finely honed steel.

"'Tis Covington's retainers." Hawke's voice sent a cold chill down Callie's spine. She had prayed he wouldn't follow even though she was sure her prayers would go unanswered. Archibald wanted the money and the power her marriage to Lord Huntington would bring him. He had bargained her away as if she were chattel.

Nay, a thousand times nay. Blood pounded in her ears as loud as the hoof beats descending upon them.

"They followed us." Hawke was grim, his body tense. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. When he turned in his saddle, Callie saw that his eyes had narrowed and his dark brows were drawn together.

"Covington wants me. 'Tis naught to do with ye or your clan," Callie's voice shook, fear spiraling through her. She gripped Hawke tighter, her fingers pressing into his hard flesh. "Don't let them take me. Please," she whispered to him a shudder racing through her. "I'd rather die."

"We will speak of this further when ye are safely tucked behind my battlements," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his voice ringing in her ears.

His stallion danced, seemingly eager to meet the enemy. Yet Hawke turned the steed, setting his sights on the castle and Callie's safety. "For now, hold tight. Ian, Lachlan, see what it is they want. I'll be right back."

He turned the stallion and they bolted forward, racing across the narrow pathway to the castle. The roar of the wind and the stinging frozen air swept around her. She gripped him tighter, clinging to him and then she closed her eyes.

"Dinna look down, lass," he warned her yet the wind swallowed his words as she stared at the ocean waves crashing against jagged rocks below. Salt spray rose toward them, reaching out icy tentacles, threatening to pull them from the narrow pathway.

Ian and all Hawke's men remained behind, guarding their backs. Yet she heard no sounds of battle, no clashing of swords or piercing screams.

Callie pressed her cheek against Hawke's back and tried to ease the terror welling deep inside. For the briefest moment she put her fear to rest. Nestled so close to Hawke she could almost imagine safety. He smelled of mist and heather and the Highlands. She closed her eyes and wished. Yet her wishes were empty, her dreams no longer viable. She had no home, no safe place to sleep. And now she rushed forward, her future cloudy. She had placed herself in the hands of a man she knew only by reputation.

Hawke.

Her stepbrother called him Hawke. And he spat his name as if it were evil. Yet somehow she knew Hawke would give her a home and protection. In the light of day, his features were no longer hazy from the darkness of night. When she'd first encountered him at the tavern, she'd hoped she'd found Colin MacPherson. She knew she had not. Hawke did not look like the man she remembered. She recalled a handsome young man, no more than twenty-two, clean-shaven and with a glint of amusement in his eye. This man's features were hard and rough-edged, his skin was darkened by the sun, his long black hair gave him a sensual dangerous look the other man had not worn.

Aye but her memory might well play havoc with her. At the time, she'd been no more than twelve. She was riding with her father when they'd been set upon by bandits. Her father had been severely wounded. In a rundown hunting lodge Colin MacPherson had tended her father, had treated him with the greatest care. Colin had stayed with them until her father could travel.

I am in your debt, she remembered her father saying. If ever in the future ye are in need of a favor, young man, dinna hesitate to call on me.

The scene vivid in her mind, she repeated each word to herself, and prayed Colin MacPherson felt the same loyalty to her as her father to him. She was prepared to tell Colin exactly why he must help her, and why he must stand against her stepbrother's retainers. She would do anything to gain Colin MacPherson's protection. She shuddered at the thought. Anything might well encompass a great deal of things she would rather not do. Yet the thought of the murder she saw her stepbrother as well as her betrothed commit and the treachery surrounding him made her willing to do most anything Colin MacPherson asked of her.

Now she rode toward The MacPherson castle.

And she was about to put her life into his hands.

* * *

Who was this lady who appeared at the Boar's Head Inn? Who was this lady who had one of the most powerful lords in England sending retainers after her? Had she committed some crime against Covington? If she had, Hawke applauded her.

Indeed, he would not hesitate to grant her sanctuary and his protection. She was small and fragile. She clung to him as they rode hell-bent toward the entrance of his castle, the huge wooden doors opening for them. Her delicate fingers pressed into his belly, he suddenly felt the overwhelming need to know all he could about her.

He wanted to understand what had caused her to flee her home unchaperoned and alone. He wanted to know all about her, to understand everything. Ah, but he wanted her in his bed, beneath him, wrapping loving arms around him.

He shouted to the men above as they rode through the portcullis. "Send five of my best men to help the others," he cried out.

His horse roared into the courtyard. He did not dismount but helped the lady from his stallion and into the able hands of one of his men.

"See to her needs."

"Colin?" his sister questioned, striding toward him, her long hair blowing in the wind, her skirts tangling around her legs.

Suddenly, Callie's gaze froze upon Hawke, her features turning ashen.

"What is happening?" Lainie looked from Hawke to the girl.

"Huntington has come to our very walls." Quickly, and with no more said, Hawke turned his horse and stampeded through the gates. With the roar of the surf below him, he crossed the narrow pathway toward his brother, to join the others who would fight for him if necessary.

He reached his men. Their swords were drawn, but there had been no blows between them. Ian leaned nonchalantly, one broad, well-muscled forearm resting on the saddle. A harsh smile graced Ian's features.

"Ian." Hawke reined in his horse, the beast skittish, his sides heaving. "Who are these men? And what do they want?" he questioned even though he knew the answer to the first part and guessed at the second.

"They want the girl. That is all. They don't want trouble," Ian said, his voice sounding bitter, the muscles in his back tense, his eyes focused on the men.

"Why?" Hawke stiffened. He did not mean to turn the girl over to them. He knew what Covington could do to a woman's reputation--how he could ruin her life. He held no loyalties to the girl yet there was something about her that drew him, fascinated him. Her raw courage in the face of such danger intrigued him.

His voice was hard-edged and with a low growl, Ian spoke to Hawke. "It seems the Lady Callie Whitcomb has run away from him. She is his stepsister and was supposed to marry Lord Huntington two days past."

Colin heard nothing after the surname Whitcomb. Anger surged within. A fine sweat broke out upon his brow and horrific memories returned full force to hit him in the gut.

"Holy Christ," Hawke muttered softly, his fingers tightening on his reins, anger suddenly burning through every pore of his body.

"I thought that is what ye'd say." Ian stared at his brother, awaiting orders. "Ye will send her back then? Give her over to Covington?"

Hawke said nothing, did not even flinch at the thought of returning the Lady Callie Whitcomb to anyone. Nay she was his now. "A Whitcomb, ye say?" he asked, slowly mulling over all the implications.

"So, do we hand her over, big brother?" Ian asked again, his gaze focused on Hawke.

Lachlan swore beneath his breath, his blue eyes glittering with unspoken anger. "How dare the wee lass deceive ye."

The wind shifted and whirled. Behind them the heavens roared with a loud booming thunder. Horses shifted. Hands tightened around finely honed weapons.

Suddenly armor clanged. Claymores and swords were unsheathed. Tension saturated the air while the wind howled around them. Heavy dark clouds grew blacker with each passing moment and the snow threatened to fall once more.

"Never." Colin gritted out between clenched teeth, his hands tightening on the saddle horn. Tension knifed between the men, the implications clear to all who knew the history between the two families.

"Ye heard The MacPherson." Ian turned to one of the Englishmen. "She stays with us. Tell Lord Covington he will never see the lass again."

"Lord Covington will not give in so easily on this matter. He will return with enough men to lay siege if ye persist in this. Her betrothed will be with him and together they will destroy ye. English law is on our side."

Hawke rode forward. "Tell Huntington the lady is no longer a virgin." His voice was hard-edged and cold. "She will not honor him as his wife. She will bring to him only betrayal and another man's child."

He would not touch Lady Whitcomb, nor would he defile his own hands by taking her to his bed, but no one else had to know. His greatest enemy's daughter had just fallen into his hands, and he vowed his revenge would be sweet and justifiable.

He'd waited what seemed a lifetime for this. And he'd all but given up hope when Lord David Whitcomb died.

Now the old man would watch them from the pits of hell and he would cringe, would weep with despair over his evil misdeeds and he'd pray for his daughter's deliverance.

Because Colin MacPherson would never forget the day Lord Whitcomb had callously condemned his father to die. Colin had been ten years old and he'd watched the trial, heard the execution command. Seared into his memories was the sight of his father's head on a pole in the courtyard of Whitcomb's castle, a brutal reminder that thievery as well as treachery would be dealt with harshly. Oh yes, Colin's father had stolen from Whitcomb, but only after Whitcomb's men had brutally raided his own castle, killing his wife.

The rivalry had lasted four long years. Colin had been too young to carry on the feud, but he'd vowed his revenge. He remembered the day when Lord Whitcomb had been set upon by bandits in the forest. Colin had not known who he was when he rescued him. The man had aged, his once dark hair almost snow white and the young girl who had been with the lord could not have been more than twelve or thirteen.

He didn't regret saving the Englishman, only that he'd not known who he had saved until he'd left the pair with the Lord's retainers.

Yet there was nothing he could do about the situation. Nothing he could do until now. He would never fight an injured man or take revenge upon someone who could not defend himself. Lady Callie had thought him a friend, and she'd come to him for help. She must have never known about her father's treachery, and foul misdeeds.

About the seething hatred between the two families.

Soon she would know everything.

His blood ran hot and thoughts of vengeance long denied him raced through his head.

She was beautiful.

He had seen through the dirt and the weariness from the days of travel she must have endured to reach MacPherson land. He had noticed her delicate beauty and had been instantly seized by the need to know her intimately.

Ah, he thought, even as he turned his horse toward the castle, revenge could be very sweet indeed.

Hawke felt Ian's presence beside him, felt the pressure of his gaze sear his back. Ian had not been there. He had not seen what the Englishman had done to their father. Nor did Ian feel the same burning need for restitution. Hawke knew he would have a battle on his hands. He did not wish to argue with his siblings, but he would have his way in this matter.

"What are your plans for Lady Whitcomb?" Ian asked even as he dropped back to follow Hawke across the narrow pathway to the castle.

His plans were his own. "I haven't decided."

"She is a lass and guilty of no wrongdoing. Ye cannot think to punish her for her father's sins."

"And why is that?" Hawke asked disdainfully, knowing his brother would give him an earful. And yet Ian was right. She was not guilty of her father's crimes.

"Ye know why."

"Enlighten me, little brother." Someone had to pay for the cruelty to his family. The lord was dead and so now his daughter would pay.

Ian snorted. "Ye are pig-headed and a fool as well. If ye cannot see this is wrong..."

"Perhaps I am a fool," Hawke acknowledged, quickly cutting his brother's forthcoming lecture off. "But I will never let her go. She will not find happiness, peace or security in this lifetime. She is mine now to do with as I please. And she has come to me of her own free will, seeking aide. I will not desert her in her time of need. I promise that behind these walls she will find safety from her enemy."

"Which enemy, Hawke? Ye, Covington or the Lady Whitcomb's betrothed?"

Hawke shook his head, unable to reply, knowing he was just as much Callie's enemy as the other men. The brothers rode into the courtyard and dismounted, handing their horses over to the groomsmen.

"Where is she?" he questioned, slapping his gloves on his thighs as he walked toward the great hall. He searched the room, his gaze raking over everyone. Finally, he saw his sister, Lainie. She had been there when he'd ridden into the bailey with Lady Whitcomb.

Lainie turned to him, a smile lighting her beautiful face. She was radiant and headstrong, impulsive and more of a handful than he liked to admit. What she needed was a brave Scottish highlander for a husband, children at her breast and a home of her own.

"I put her in a solar. Lady Callie was tired, nay, exhausted from her travels. I gave instructions for the servants to make her comfortable. A bath has been sent to her as well as clean clothes and food."

He felt the growl slowly grow from the pit of his stomach. "Put her in the tower. The southern tower. It is dry and warm. No harm will come to her there. And, she will not be able to bring harm to any MacPhersons."

Her hiss of rapidly indrawn air rattled him slightly. He had not expected the fight to begin so soon.

"Nay," she cried out. "Ye cannae mean to treat her so. What has she done to warrant such a cruel isolation? She is a Lady born." Lainie replied.

"Ye do not know who she is. I cannot trust her. She is an enemy and a prisoner. She is English. That is enough." Hawke turned from his sister, the threat hovering in the tone of his voice.

"She is a well-born lady. She does not deserve to be locked in the tower. That is all I need to know." Lainie rested her hand on her brother's shoulder. He would not turn and look at her. He could not bear to stare into her eyes, for truly he might give in to Lainie's wishes.

"I said nothing of locking her there but I will place a guard at her door. She will not be allowed to roam the castle. But she will be given everything she asks for."

"Colin MacPherson!" Her face had grown red with anger and her tiny hands were fisted at her sides. She looked ready to kill.

"She is a Whitcomb," Hawke said, barely able to utter the hated name.

"That doesnae..." Lainie MacPherson stopped. Her shoulders slumped with the newfound knowledge. "I am sorry, Colin, but it is not right for ye to put her in the tower. There is only a flea infested pallet for a bed. 'Tis where ye put your enemies before the ransom money is delivered. Ye cannot presume to..."

"I could have her sent to the dungeon," he interrupted angrily. "I could do far worse to her. For Lady Whitcomb there will be no ransom. And ye exaggerate mightily. The mattress is not and never has been flea infested."

"Nay," but Lainie's protest had grown weak. "Colin, 'tis not like ye."

Lainie was right and a swift jolt of pain hit him. He had never hurt a woman or touched a lady in anger. Now he was contemplating ruining Callie Whitcomb's reputation which would tear her life into shreds. Strangely, he could not feel any joy at the thought of her pain.

He told himself to forget she was a lady, to forget she had done nothing wrong as he strode toward the solar where Lainie had put the Lady Whitcomb for a night of rest. Once again, he vowed his revenge. But he was no longer so sure he could exact restitution.

He slammed his fist against a wall and reveled in the self-induced pain. The need had festered in his soul for fifteen long years. Now that he had the opportunity he'd waited for, he didn't know if he could carry out his plan.

Not bothering to knock on her door, he pushed his way through the entrance. She stood at the window, her back to him. Her hands rested on either side of the casement and her slender form slumped slightly. Her sobs were heard clearly in the silence of the room.

She turned to him, tears streaking her face. "My Lord." Her voice trembled but she held her head high and her tear-filled gaze focused upon him. "Might I beg your protection and the safety of your home? I have nowhere else to go, no friends to turn to save ye."

* * *

Lord Huntington entered the hallway of the Whitcomb estate, racing up the tower stairs. Two steps at a time, quickly and with a determined purpose, he moved with deadly precision. If he could have bludgeoned Lady Callie's stepbrother, he would have gladly done the deed.

The snake.

He hated Archibald with a passion so great his fury made him shake. Wanting Callie for so many years had not appeased his anger at learning she'd disappeared. No, he was beyond furious, and Archie would pay dearly if he could not rescue the girl. Damn Hawke to hell.

Damn Archibald's ineptness.

If he guessed right, the Lady Callie Whitcomb would no longer be a virgin if many more days passed with her in the custody of the notorious rogue, Hawke. Oh, Hawke was a lady's man, nothing more. He would easily seduce the innocent Callie. With his wit, his charm, and his well-practiced loving, he would have her melting inside.

And he, Lord Simon, would not, could not accept a lady as his wife unless he was assured of her virtue. That was why he'd made the trip to Archibald's castle. That was why he'd planned on sampling the fair lady before he wed her.

Before he wed, he had to know if the lady of choice was a maiden still.

He shuddered at the thought of another man having her first. God, he'd waited an eternity to taste Callie's sweetness. Her father had refused his suit and the offer of a betrothal. He'd all but given up having the lady. But when Lord Whitcomb died and Callie's stepbrother assumed her guardianship, he'd laughed with glee. Archibald Covington could be easily bought. And he'd paid dearly for the right to wed Callie.

Damn Archie's hide to hell! He'd lost her and all his men couldn't find a slip of a girl in a wilderness. Stories abounded, and he'd heard she'd fled to MacPherson castle. She had not known of the violent hatred between The MacPhersons and the Whitcombs. Her father had never told her about the betrayal.

Her father had never told her that he, Simon Huntington, had planted evidence, evidence that would convict James MacPherson of murder. Callie had never heard the story about the trial and the sentencing, a sentence that would have been carried out with great humanity if Huntington had not stepped in and taken over the execution. No one knew he'd had James' decapitated head placed on a pole for all to see.

Not even Colin MacPherson knew.

"What have ye learned?" Simon burst into Archie's study, startling the man, if he could be called a man. Simon's gaze strayed to Archie's sagging belly and his weak chin.

Archie cleared his throat, his eyes seeming to cross at the sight of Simon. "Nothing. Nothing at all. We have no further word. She is still at The MacPherson castle."

"Just as I thought. If she's not a virgin when she returns to your care, the deal is off. I still want her, but I won't wed used merchandise. And the price will be cut in half. She won't be worth nearly so much as I've offered if Hawke has had her. And," he paused, "if she carries Hawke's bastard..."

He left the rest unsaid. But he didn't trust Archie, and the rumors that Archie had betrothed Callie to another man troubled him.

With his hands on the desk, he leaned toward Archie until they were mere inches apart. "I'm understood?" he asked, his voice dangerous. "Callie is mine!"

Once again, Archie cleared his throat. "Yes, she is yours whether ye are still willing to wed her or not."

"Good." Simon moved back. Slowly, he strode around the room, looking at objects, reading the titles of the books on the shelves. Then he turned. "Send for me immediately when ye have her in your possession again." Simon was unwilling to admit to Archie that he had plans of his own, men within The MacPherson castle with orders to bring the lass to him.

Archie rose, his hand extended to Lord Huntington, but Huntington did not return the gesture of friendship. "I will do that."

Simon liked the fear in Archie's voice, reveled in the way his sagging, weak chin shook with terror. Archie would not sleep well this night.

Turning, Simon exited the room and in a few minutes the castle as well. He rode hard and fast through the small village near the castle. Stopping at an inn, he found a woman to see to his needs.

Ah, he thought, when he held Callie in his arms, it would be heaven on earth.

Chapter Three

The memory of his father's head on the pole at the Whitcomb castle haunted him. Renewed anger swept through Hawke. Callie Whitcomb did not deserve his protection or the shelter of his home. And beg? Yes, she would beg him for every morsel and every stitch of clothing she received. By her own admission, she could not or would not return to her stepbrother.

No, she was at his mercy--beholden to him.

Forgive and forget past discretions?

Never!

"Why should I give ye shelter?" His voice purred and a small smile rippled within. He did all he could to keep his feelings in check. The satisfaction he felt at having her under his roof was difficult to hide.

"Please, sir..." Callie began, but he waved his hand, motioning her to stop speaking.

"I will see to your basic needs." And nothing more. "Ye can live here, but what do ye offer in return?" He wondered if she'd brought a bargaining tool. She could not buy his protection. He needed nothing she could give.

Yet curiosity rose to the forefront of his thoughts.

What indeed did she have to offer him?

Only her body. He looked at her thoughtfully. Beneath the ragged clothing, she possessed curves that would nicely fill any man's hands. The memory of her body pressed against him remained vivid. He never wanted her in his bed, but he thought of his brother and of Lachlan. And he remembered his words to Huntington's retainers.

She is no longer a virgin.

The thought of Huntington's anger made him smile with satisfaction. Huntington must have wanted her, must have anticipated her body beneath his own. Returning his attention to Callie, he marveled at the stiffening of her shoulders, the thinning of her lips and the slight tilt to her uplifted chin.

A Lady born and bred, he mused. Ah, but she would no longer possess the status of a lady. By surrendering herself to his mercy, she would become a common serving wench.

"Anything." She paused, her eyes filled with pain and unshed tears. "Anything ye wish, My Lord." She swallowed hard and he wondered at her thoughts.

"Anything?" he queried thoughtfully.

He watched her swallow again; saw the rapidly beating pulse at the base of her neck, the stiffening of her spine.

"I will work--do any job," she told him in a barely audible whisper. "If necessary I," but she hesitated.

He shook his head and strode toward her. "I have enough servants. Perhaps I want something else." His brows drew together. Blatantly he looked her over, raking his gaze from the tips of her toes to her eyes. Then he watched her shudder. Ways to humiliate her further came to mind, but he could not utter the words that would cause her more shame.

She sucked in a deep breath of air before speaking. "I--" At her sides, her hands fidgeted, clenching and unclenching the fabric of her tattered, soiled skirts.

He hated the tension and the fear he saw sweep through her, and abhorred the insecurity he caused, guessing she offered herself only because she saw no alternative. To his knowledge, she had no bargaining tool save herself--no gold sewn into the hem of her gown--no secret documents that might prove Archibald guilty of treason. For years now, Hawke had sought proof of Covington's treacherous ways.

Covington's name had been linked to treason more than once.

"I have enough women in my bed, but if ye wish, I'm sure I could find another man for ye. Lachlan perhaps or even Ian." He watched her confusion rise. Yet strangely, the satisfaction he wanted, nay, needed to feel, did not surface.

He'd never treated a lady this way before.

He'd never stooped so low.

"Then I--" she began again. "I. Nay! I do not want--" Her hands were held out in front of her as if the simple gesture warned him away.

"What do ye offer then? Ye are too finely shaped and too delicate for hard labor in the kitchen, yet if ye refuse my offer--" He allowed his words to hang over her. She could put her own ending to the sentence.

"To become a whore? That is no offer." Her indignation and stubborn determination to cling to moral values she could no longer claim further satisfied his need for revenge.

"A whore? I would not have put it so harshly. A mistress perhaps or a paramour."

Her shoulders trembled. She moistened her lips.

"I would work hard. I am stronger than I look."

He walked around her, studying her, wishing she did not carry the name Whitcomb. "I doubt it."

"I obey orders."

He laughed, one eyebrow slanted upward.

"I have come to the conclusion ye have nothing to offer me and ye refuse to keep company with my men."

"I would fail miserably," she whispered, her voice trembling.

His sigh was heavy. "Well then, I suppose I will have to trust your word and find a place in the scullery for ye to work. Nothing is free."

"I did not ask for charity." Her chin rose a notch.

"I would much prefer to give ye a life of ease but I would never force ye."

Hawke did not like the gut-wrenching feeling in the pit of his stomach nor did he want to believe something about her pulled at his heart. The need to take mercy upon her consumed him and quickly assumed a powerful emotion that even now seemed to be possessing the biggest spot in his mind.

Mercy?

Lord David Whitcomb had not chosen to show his father mercy. Mercy was not viable.

Nay, he would not allow her sorrow-filled eyes or the defeated slump of her shoulders to shake him from his hardened resolve. Indeed, he would go forth with his plans to avenge his father.

"I understand," she told him, her fingers woven tightly together, a hint of a smile rising.

"Good."

"When do I start?" she asked, wiping a sodden tear from beneath her eye.

Perhaps she should show more revulsion at the thought of working. Perhaps this would not garner the restitution he sought from her. He needed her to suffer.

"Tomorrow morning."

She nodded and turned from him as if she were dismissing him. He would not allow the impertinent offspring of his enemy to be rid of him so easily. "I've changed my mind. Ye begin now. Follow me."

"Now?" she queried, her voice soft. Her entire body shook with fatigue or fear mayhap. Yet she did not speak of it.

Somewhere in the depth of his soul, he should feel triumph because he wanted this young lady to fear him. And yet...

Confusion and disillusionment warred within him.

"What better time to start than the present?" he asked, letting his question hang.

He thought she might have stumbled when she stepped forward, but she hid her distress and fatigue beneath veiled features. Yet within her eyes was renewed spark, a fire of determination and perhaps bewilderment.

"Of course," she said. "Now would be good."

He admired her fierce pride.

She had thought to garner a safe haven, had thought he was loyal to her father and would treat her as a lady. But she'd lost that title the moment she stepped onto his land.

"Callie," he motioned once more for her to follow, unsure as to the safety of turning his back to her. His own sister kept a dirk hidden in her stockings. Lainie would have used the weapon on him by now.

"Lady Whitcomb," she told him, her chin tilting upward. "Call me Lady Whitcomb."

He smiled. "Callie," he said to put her in her place. Strangely, he felt no satisfaction in goading her.

Once more, her shoulders stiffened but she stepped past him, her bearing regal, pretending to ignore him. Born and bred to nobility, he would never beat her down, he mused thoughtfully, suddenly very intrigued by her and mesmerized by her mercuric determination.

With her back to him, she spoke. "Might I have something to eat?" she asked, her back still turned to him. "Before I go to work."

"When ye are finished with the chores cook assigns to ye, ye may eat." He imagined her brows drawing together in concentration and perhaps anger. He felt only admiration for her.

She whirled then and nearly lost her balance on the stairs. He reached out to catch her from falling. Unnervingly, she was pressed next to him, the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest sending unwanted sensual feelings flaming within him. As if she were on fire, and disgusted with himself, Hawke quickly set her away. The distance between them did little to dowse the inferno she'd unintentionally sent racing inside.

She smoothed her skirts and once more looked at him with sorrow-filled blue eyes. Her wheat-blond hair tangled in disarray around her face and neck. Truly, he should offer her a bath and food before he sent her to the kitchen to work.

"What have I done to anger ye so?" she queried, her voice shaking. "I do not understand." Unshed moisture once again welled in her eyes.

"Nothing." he said, one eyebrow quirking upward, the smile on his lips slowly widening. "Ye, my dear, have done nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Then--"

"Enough! Perhaps someday I will explain human nature and the treachery that came many years ago. For now, I would rather ye wonder."

"My father vowed his loyalty to ye."

"Ah," he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And ye believe I have done the same. Foolish child," he said. "Therein lies your most grievous mistake. Ye should never trust loyalty to be returned. It rarely is."

"Hawke?" Lainie stood on the steps, a tray of food in hand, so intrigued by Callie, he had not heard his sister approach. Thoughtfully, he wondered just how much of the conversation Lainie had heard.

Lainie put the tray on a table then turned to her brother. "I'd like to speak with ye--in private." Lainie grabbed her brother's arm and led the way from the room, making sure the door closed behind her.

"What is it, little sister?" Hawke asked, his tone condescending.

"How dare ye speak to her in that manner. She is a guest, and she is hungry and tired. What are ye doing dragging her down the stairs to work in the kitchen? I don't care if ye are laird of this castle, I will not allow ye to abuse the lass. She has come here seeking your protection and a safe haven. Ye cannot treat her this way."

"I can treat her in any manner I wish," he said, hoping Lainie would mind her own business. And feeling the guilt swamp him.

Lainie stepped closer to her brother, her hand resting determinedly on his chest. Hawke felt the need to laugh at his little sister, yet he tempered the emotion. Allowing his softer side to surface was not something he wanted to happen.

His sister's eyes sparked. "Take heed, Colin MacPherson. The wee clootie in your head has taken over your heart. Ye are not this kind of man. Ye could never harm her no matter how much your heart wishes to do just that very thing. The treachery was not of her making."

Callie opened the door. "'Tis all right," she spoke softly. "I will do what he asks and then I will eat. He has done me no harm. He has only asked me to work for my keep." Callie handed the tray back to Lainie, turning and continuing down the steps as if neither he nor his sister existed.

"Leave the tray in the south tower," Hawke told Lainie while watching Callie regally descend the stairs. Once again, she had casually dismissed him.

A spark of admiration coupled with anger flared within. Her royal highness, he mused thoughtfully.

"Nay, she will not sleep there. She will sleep here, in this room," Lainie determinedly told her brother.

"Ye have overstepped your bounds, Lainie," Hawke growled low. "Do as I say or I will have ye locked in your solar until ye agree to marry the man I pick for ye."

Lainie turned ashen. Her sharply indrawn breath told Hawke he'd won this round. Her shoulders began to shake, her fingers tightly clenching the fabric of her skirt. Hawke knew how very much she did not wish to wed Lachlan, although the highlander was a dear friend. She wanted a marriage of love, not convenience. He'd scoffed at her and told her many times love did not exist. He told her love was magic woven by poets for the weak and lonely.

"Very well," Lainie said, rebounding from Hawke's threat. "But I will find a way to help her. She will no' be left to fend off the fleas and the biting cold."

Hawke raked his hands through his hair. "I don't doubt it for even a moment. Be forewarned, the girl is mine. Do not interfere." He paused thoughtfully. "Perhaps I will demand a ransom for her. What do ye think Huntington or Covington would give for her?"

"Ye will not. I have heard what ye told Covington's retainers. The information will travel throughout England like a wildfire. Ye tarnished her reputation with your words and the spite ye hold for her father. He will not take her back and if he does, Huntington will use her brutally. He will treat her as if she were a common whore. It seems to me ye have exacted enough revenge on this innocent woman to satisfy the darkest part of your soul."

"'Tis what I want," Hawke growled deep in his throat. "If I sent her back to her stepbrother and Huntington, they would find a husband for her and I would still be left with the bitterness, the pain and the memory of Lord Whitcombs actions against my father."

"Sell her, ye mean. With your callous and uncaring words ye have turned her into chattel to be used by any man with the means to pay for her."

"Nay. She will be safe here."

"Your arrogance does not become ye, Colin. If our mother were to see ye behave this way, she would find a torture of her own to inflict upon ye."

"'Tis not arrogance driving me."

"Ye don't know what ye want. Retaliation against those weaker than ye has never been a driving force. Ye will never harm her. I know ye. But ye will bluster and storm around in a maddening mood, making everyone walk a wide berth around ye. Already ye are unbearable."

"Hawke. Hawke, come quick," Lachlan called out to him from below. "The lass has collapsed."

His heart in his throat, Hawke raced down the steps, Lainie behind him. "What?"

Hawke knelt beside Callie, his work-roughened finger touching the pulse at the base of her neck. The beat of her heart was weak and the blood had left her face.

She was such a wee slip of a girl.

With the softest skin he'd ever touched.

Yet she'd survived.

Hawke scooped her into his arms and rising with her, he started toward the south tower. Beneath his breath, he swore, then turned up the stairs toward the solar, the room his sister had given Callie. He scowled at Lainie's knowing smile and stalked past her. Kicking in the door, he yelled at the servants to bring food and water, warm bedding and candles.

This was only temporary, he told himself.

Gently, he settled her on the bed, knowing he was a man well and truly damned.

Lainie suddenly stood beside him. Her smile had grown wider. "She is weak. I'm sure the journey here was not easy. We do not know what she had to endure."

"I'm sure she found many willing men to ease her way," Hawke told her.

"Ye will not give over on this issue will ye, Colin? Many times I have thought better of ye." Lainie stepped closer, pulling up a chair, to sit close to Callie.

Hawke bent over Callie, touching her cheek, her forehead and her pulse, examining her while Lainie hovered. She was too cold and too pale. He motioned to Lainie to bring him a thick, warm, blanket. At this moment, talking to his all-knowing sister was not something he wished for. And he did not like the triumphant gaze Lainie shot him.

"Ye must learn forgiveness." Lainie gave the covering to Hawke. "'Tis something ye've never been able to do. It is time ye learned."

"Never." His words stung deeply. Memories of his father assailed him. "Never," he said more softly. "If ye had been there and seen what Lord Whitcomb did to our father, ye would not find the ability to forgive either. Ye were but two years old when our mother was slain and when our father was executed unjustly." His hands tightened around the blanket until his knuckles were white.

Her hand rested on his. "It is time for the feuding to end. When all this transpired, she would not have been much older than I was. She is not a part of this and never has been. She is innocent. Do not exact your revenge on someone weaker than yourself."

Indeed, when he looked upon her she did appear an angel--innocent of all wrongdoing. Her hair had come loose and flowed softly over the pillows. Now that she rested, color had begun to return to her cheeks. Yet she didn't wake. Her breath was shallow. An immediate surge of fear for her life swept through him. If she died, he would never find the satisfaction he sought.

"She is only tired," Lainie told him, but he wasn't at all sure of the truth of her words.

"I will stay with her," Hawke said.

"Nay, ye will not. Ye've done enough to tarnish her reputation."

But the glare Hawke sent Lainie sent her scurrying from the room, and he was left alone with Callie and with his thoughts and memories of his father.

* * *

Callie did not regret leaving Archibald or fleeing the unwanted marriage to Simon Huntington, yet she knew she would miss her home and the lands she should have inherited. Tossing restlessly, Callie closed her eyes and slept. She dreamed about her stepbrother and a time long ago, a time when her life should have been free of care and fear. She had only been six years old when Archie came into her life.

The sun shone brightly on the crisp autumn day. Archie, her new stepbrother, had run off, leaving her behind in the tiny wooded glade. She stamped her foot, the beginnings of a tantrum. He wasn't supposed to leave her. But he always did. This time they'd ventured farther into the woods than they'd ever gone before. This time she didn't know where she was. She could hear him taunting her, calling out to her, telling her she was just a horrid, little coward. She shivered despite the heat and wished Archie would stop teasing her. She didn't like him when he teased her.

Yet suddenly she couldn't hear him. All, save the chirping of a few birds, was quiet. Silence filled the air, and she began to shake with fear. She didn't know what to do or where to go. "Archie, where are ye? Where did ye go?" she cried out. She ran, darting one way and then another. Tears welled in the back of her throat, and slipped down her cheeks. Still, she ran and cried, calling out his name even while she knew she would never find her way home.

She was lost in the woods, and she was hungry and tired. What was she going to do? She wanted to eat the blueberry muffins she saw the cook making this morning. She wanted to sleep in her own bed. She wanted the forest and her new stepbrother to vanish.

She sat down. Her father had told her he would always find her if she lost her way.

Callie hugged her knees to her chin. She cried and waited. The forest grew darker, and her stomach rumbled loudly.

"Callie." She woke with a start and a blinding headache. Lainie stood over her, the scent of hot broth making her stomach rumble anew, reminding her that in the past few days she'd had almost nothing to eat. Hunger filled every nerve, every sense.

She moaned and brought her hand to her head. The flesh was hot and dry, her mouth parched. Every part of her ached.

"Water," she croaked.

"Ye're awake." Lainie bent over her and helped her to a sitting position. "Now sip this slowly. Ye were having a bad dream... Do ye want to talk?"

Callie nodded, her head still pounding as she did Lainie's bidding. Slowly she drank the water, feeling better as each second passed.

Lainie fed her.

"Why does Colin hate me so?" she asked, not understanding but realizing she'd made a horrific mistake by assuming Colin MacPherson was a friend and loyal to her father. "I have done nothing to him."

Lainie shook her head, her eyes sad. She brushed away a tear. "I cannot say."

"But ye know why." Callie wanted to scream with frustration.

"Aye, I do but it does not matter. He will no' change his mind and see ye for yourself. I have talked until I was blue in the face and all he does is threaten me with an unwanted marriage."

"I understand," Callie said.

"Nay, ye do not, but I pray someday ye will know what drives him and will forgive him."

Callie leaned back and closed her eyes, the pounding in her head easing slightly. The man she'd risked her life to find despised her. He was not loyal to her father as she had thought. She was indeed in grave danger.

"What is to become of me?" Callie asked. "I cannot stay here."

"Of course ye can."

Callie shook her head. "I have nowhere to go."

"Your home is here now."

"Nay, Hawke is sure to hand me over to Archibald when he comes for me."

"Even if ye had somewhere to go, Colin would never let ye leave. He has his own plans for ye."

"Ah, she is awake. 'Tis about time." Hawke sauntered into the solar, his long strides beating a soft cadence on the stone floor. The glance he shot his sister was warm--yet filled with warning.

Lainie bent close and whispered to Callie. "I will return shortly. Don't let the ogre get the best of ye. He is softhearted. And tell him nothing. He won't listen anyway."

Callie grimaced. Softhearted? Not this man with the steel, unrelenting eyes and the hard, chiseled features. She saw only ruthlessness and danger in this man.

She would do well to keep her distance. Yet now, confined to the bed, distance was impossible. A fine trembling swept through her.

"My sister will bring food and clothes. She has ordered a bath for ye." Hawke spoke softly, his tone light, and yet she sensed his tension.

Lainie hovered near the doorway, unmoving.

Callie nodded, keeping her hands folded demurely in front of her. Truly, she didn't know what to say to Hawke. All she thought of would make this horrific situation worse. Still, she owed him her life. He could have turned her over to Huntington. He could have forbidden her entrance to the castle.

But he'd done none of those things.

Soon he would have her working in the kitchen. Nay, she would endure anything to keep from going back to England.

"I plan on offering a ransom." He watched her, schooling his own features so she could not read his expression.

"Nay!" Callie sat up so quickly her head thundered in pain. "Ye cannot do that."

Lainie approached her brother. "After what ye told Covington's men, no one would pay for her return. Why do ye taunt her with such things: things ye have no intention of proceeding with?"

"She cannot stay in this room and I will not allow ye to stand in my way every time I try to put her in the tower," Hawke nearly growled. "I cannot stand to look upon her."

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