AVAILABLE FILE FORMATS: HTML for the standard computer, PDF for Adobe Reader, MS Reader for the PC and Pocket PC, Mobipocket for Palm Pilot

Chapter One

Scotland Summer 1513:

For a moment the man's gaze met hers, bored into her heart, questioned. Blood curdling war cries rode the wings of death through the timeless night. Claymores clashed. Dark eyes the color of midnight flashed a challenge. The holy man's opponents hesitated, then lunged once more.

Moonbeams reflected light from the gold chain he wore around his neck. Brown robes fell from massive shoulders. Three more enemies appeared from the trees. The priest fell to the ground, wounded by the broadside of his enemy's weapon. Motionless, he lay on her flower-strewn meadow, blood staining the grass and wildflowers, marring the colorful, summer landscape.

Keely Gray woke, heart pounding a rapid staccato. She pressed against her throbbing temples with sweat-slick palms, hoping to ease the horrific pain that always accompanied the dreams. Death--the scent of blood, fear and treachery still hung heavy in the darkened hut. The prickling sensation radiating from her spine to encompass her body was too familiar.

She listened and heard nothing.

A dark void impaled her. The usual night sounds stilled. She heard no hoot of owl, no chirp of crickets, no croak of frogs, nor could she hear the mournful sighing of the wind through the branches of the old oak trees.

Silence emptied her heart as well as her soul, leaving only an ever-present loneliness.

Keely wanted nothing more than to cuddle deep into her bed and pull the covers over her head. Despite the unspeakable agony deep in the pit of her stomach, she rose from her pallet. Her limbs trembling, she slipped a shapeless tunic over her head and soft-soled shoes onto her feet. As she swept past the front door, she grabbed her woolen cloak.

Light from a full moon illuminated the path. She could see, but she could also be seen, the moonlight both a curse and a blessing. Approaching the meadow she'd watched in her dreams, she slowed her pace and waited. Her fingers wound tightly around the amber pendant she always wore, her only keepsake from her mother.

The sounds and scents hovering on the wind would tell her if danger still lurked. Caution guided her. A vigilance she'd learned long ago held her motionless.

A familiar dragging sound reassured her she wasn't alone. "Whipple?" she whispered.

A self-appointed guardian angel appeared as if from nowhere then nodded, though there was a wary cast to his faded blue eyes. "Aye, lass, I'm here. I heard ye leave your hut. I would not leave ye alone to face whatever dangerous mission awaited."

Keely waited for Whipple to close the distance between them before she spoke. "I would argue with ye about your appearance here at this great hour, but I ken it would do no good. Ye should not be here. Your heart--"

Whipple spat. "My heart is fine."

She determinedly stepped forward, approaching the meadow of her dream, knowing she wouldn't like what she found.

"Have it your way, then." Given a choice, Keely wouldn't have come to this meadow. But she had to know the truth--had she seen the future or something happening at that very moment?

Whipple didn't reply. On his clubfoot, he followed her, his trailing leg sliding behind him with a soft swish. The hard thud of his crooked oak cane followed at a slightly skewed interval.

Together they crested the hill. Below her, she saw her dream. A priest lay on the ground, his head twisted at an odd angle. For a moment her heart stopped. She bit down on her lower lip while she studied the man.

Keely tried to ignore the helplessness pooling deep within, and attempted to push the burgeoning tears away. A frisson swept over Keely's skin.

She approached the priest cautiously; he could be playing with her, waiting for her to get within reach of those powerful hands.

Warily, she eyed Whipple. A few moments of silent observation convinced Keely the stranger wasn't lying in ambush. He was too still, not visibly breathing. Keely feared the man was dead. He lay utterly motionless; his limbs at awkward angles, his head wound oozing blood. The slow welling of blood from the wound told her he was still alive. She kneeled beside the priest. "He's not dead, Whipple." Her fingers hovered above his weak pulse. She watched the slight rise and fall of his sturdy, broad chest. Yet she did not dare touch him.

Whipple inhaled sharply. "Do ye mean to take him to your hut, lass? I cannae allow ye to do such a dangerous thing. Ye have no idea who or what he is. Ye do not ken his purpose here or his intent."

"He is a priest. Besides, there is nothing else we can do."

She bent over until she was close enough to whisper in his ear.

"I will not hurt ye. I'm a friend. Do ye hear me?" She turned to Whipple. "He needs our help."

The priest groaned and when he moved, his monk's garment fell away from his face. She stifled the quick hiss of indrawn breath at her first sight of his strong, handsome features. Desperately, she pushed stirring emotions she'd never felt to the back of her mind. She clenched her fingers tightly into fists to keep from touching him, then tracing the line of his well-chiseled jaw and the cleft of his chin.

He was not the thin, pale man coupled with the scent of musty cobwebs and dark, dank places she expected him to be. He was not one who spent his time studying and in prayer. Not this man.

"Father?" Keely whispered, touching his shoulder, shaking him lightly, calling to him in a low, husky voice.

There was no sign that he heard.

Carefully, Keely sat back on her heels, fragrant meadow grasses brushing across her. She slid her fingers around his neck until she could press against the jugular. Her breath rushed out. She felt a fiery heat in the power and strength in his muscular neck, then finally, the slow, steady beat of his heart. From the swelling of his wound, she knew he would not waken soon.

"How do ye think to get the priest back to your hut? He's as huge as an oak tree."

Whipple's question accompanied by a hacking cough sent Keely's mind reeling and for a moment, away from the injured priest. She'd been unable to cure the old man's ailment despite all the ageless remedies she'd tried.

Whipple's question nagged at her. "How indeed?" she muttered, thinking of every possible way. She'd never encountered a problem so great as this one. Carrying him back was undeniably out of the range of possibilities. She certainly couldn't wait until dawn to gain the help of the village people. He might very well be dead by then.

With gentle fingers, Keely probed his head wound. Though it was puffy, there was no softness of crushed bone beneath. Nor was blood pooling in the meadow anywhere around his massive form, which meant he was in little danger of bleeding to death. He should recover.

"Take yer cloak off, sweetling."

"Whipple?"

Frown lines marred his ragged, aged features. "We've got to hurry. The men who did this to him may well return to see their evil deeds finished. I dinna want to be caught in the middle of such treachery."

Without further question, she removed her cloak and handed it to him. "Now roll him over."

When she touched the priest, she felt nothing but the warmth of his skin, his undeniable strength and power. Visions followed. Forests, a rippling stream, and a tall, proud castle creased the edges of her mind then faded. Vividly, she saw another man and a woman. She pulled back, her body shaking, sweat beading across her upper lip. Her heart leapt, stopped for a moment, then continued unevenly.

Whipple's tender expression knifed straight to her heart. "I'm sorry. I shouldnae have asked that of ye. I ken what a man's touch will do to ye."

"'Tis nothing," she whispered, yet knew how terribly she lied. The vividness of the vision she'd just seen haunted her.

Trembling with fatigue, the old man worked until pale and features drawn, the priest lay on her cape. "Can ye hold on to the plaid? We will have to drag him to your hut. He is heavy."

She nodded, feeling drained of all energy. "The visions are gone," she told him. "There is no other way. Stay by my side." She side-swiped hair that had fallen into her eyes. "This was a bonny thought ye had, Whipple. I was hard pressed to figure out a way to get this hulk of a man to my home. Still, it may take hours we don't have. He needs to be safely out of sight before the sun rises."

"Nay so bonny when the notion might have caused ye pain. Why do ye suppose it did not?" he asked but he didn't wait for an answer. With one hand he grabbed hold of the material. "Whenever ye're ready, lass."

She could not tell Whipple what she had seen, nor could she tell him how her head pounded. "All right, Whipple. Heave." She gave a great yank on the cape and Whipple sucked in his breath, pulling hard, but nothing budged. Once more, she gritted her teeth and, with straining muscles, the two of them tugged against the weight of the priest. Steadily they began to move. With great effort, the trio made their way to her shelter.

The eastern sky lightened. Morning birds twittered in the treetops announcing the arrival of the new day. Meager light filtered into her hut through the one window. Whipple helped her ease the priest onto her pallet before he left to cover their tracks.

Keely filled a basin with water. Whipple returned and stripped the priest of his robes, then covered him with a blanket.

She paused over the priest's strong form, hesitant to touch the man and wary of what always followed. Knuckles grazing his chest as she moved the blanket lower, she felt a searing warmth; a peace invaded her soul. This time no pain swept through her. Nor did her temples pound.

Instead, her heart raced madly. Her right hand rose to enfold the amber pendant she wore while she gingerly touched the amulet that lay nestled in dark hair on his bare chest. The amber in his piece was huge, and deep inside the hardened resin she saw the shadow of a bird.

A falcon.

The sun chose that moment to beam a ray of brilliant light through the tiny window, heralding the morning and the miracle unfolding. Then storm clouds must have tumbled in front of the sun. The room darkened and chilled.

Shivers wracked her body, fear claimed her mind, but the fear was not for the priest. The fear was for her own destiny.

Whipple watched, slowly moving closer, a flickering candle held high, his gaze challenging the defenseless priest. Despite the holy robes and the man's promise to God, Keely was sure she could hear the old man cursing.

"What is it? What is wrong with him that he doesnae move?" Whipple asked, bending over the priest, ignoring the drip of candle wax on the blanket. "His head is the only part of him that is truly injured."

"Wounds to the head often do strange things," she spoke softly. "I fear for him. Yet he is strong and young. He should weather this."

"Most likely at your expense," Whipple said, his disapproval obvious.

"What would ye have me do?" she queried, knowing the answer yet understanding the words had to come from Whipple.

"Nothing is different, lass, yet this frightens me. The bishop will be all too ready to make an example of ye."

Keely turned back to the priest. She cleansed the head injury of blood and dirt, her fingers lightly tracing an old wound. "He has unspeakable scars. Wounds that would pronounce him a fighting man, not a man of God." Her hands lingered on his flesh, on the ageless scars covering his body. When she traced a jagged white line, she felt his pain as if it were her own. "But aye, ye are right. He has nought a mark on him that should cause him to lie here so very still. He is not hot with fever, nor has he lost too much blood. Yet he is helpless--vulnerable to any who might mean him harm."

The swell of firm muscle beneath her fingers reminded Keely that this man would be far from helpless when he woke. He was dangerous.

"'Tis passing strange, lass. Does it not pain ye to touch him?" Whipple cleared his throat, his ever watchful gaze studying her, probing her for answers she did not want to give the old man.

"I feel nothing but the warmth of his flesh."

"Do ye ken why?" Whipple knelt beside the pallet and drew the man's covering to just below his chin.

"Nay, this has never happened before. Yet I saw a castle, and people. There was little pain and now there is none."

Whipple's bushy white eyebrows drew together, brutally scrutinizing the man on the bed. "I dinna like ye staying here alone with this man."

"Ye've said that before. Now, if ye have nothing new to add, I had best get on with my work. He needs healing and I have such skills."

"It cannae be helped," Whipple retorted. "I will check on ye in the morning." But Whipple didn't leave, he continued to study and watch.

The label of witch still stung heavy around her neck. She was no witch, no criminal. Her skills in the art of healing were well known and had nothing to do with the dark arts. While she worked to keep her visions a secret, many in her village and beyond knew her healing powers.

Gossip and rumors flew rapidly in the Borderlands.

People came to her for help.

Keely held the wounded man's hand with both of hers and tried to ignore Whipple's stinging, heartfelt words. The stranger's hands were large, rough and callused, warm within her own, strong, and once active. She closed her eyes and prayed for the health and well-being of the priest who slept fitfully on her pallet. She prayed her touch upon him would not cause her more pain nor create further visions in her mind. She loathed the visions and the stigma cast upon her because of them.

Whipple's touch upon her caused her no pain.

But Whipple was an old man, ancient in these times. According to his own recollection, he would celebrate his seventieth birthday when the snow fell again.

The man on her bed, in contrast to Whipple, was young and handsome, broad of chest, threatening. He did not belong here with her. Whipple was right to fear for her safety. This stranger was not only very handsome but virile, well-muscled, obviously powerful. His purpose here was unknown.

"Who are ye?" she whispered to no one.

She watched the man, continuing her study of him. An irregularity of feature in his face kept him from perfection. His forehead was broad, fine lines feathering from eyes set well apart and thickly lashed. His cheekbones were high and well defined above black beard stubble, his nose straight, his jaw fully reflecting a persistent nature.

"Why have ye come here? And why does it seem as if I've known ye before?"

She wondered about the color of his eyes. Beneath the blood, his hair was thick, straight as an arrow, and the color of a raven's wing. His hair tempted her to run her fingers through it, test its texture.

He is a man of God, she chided herself.

Yet that simple reminder did not ease her fears nor the temptations besieging her.

Whipple's hacking cough alarmed her again, bringing her back to the situation at hand. But then he cleared his throat and spoke more roughly than usual. "This mon is no' a priest."

Her heart stammered beneath her breast even while she agreed wholeheartedly with Whipple. "Do ye think there is treachery here? Perhaps 'tis why he pretends to be something he is not."

"Aye, deceit and lies abound here this night."

* * *

"Beauty--" He murmured the first thought plummeting into his pounding head. He felt as if he'd slept beneath a herd of stampeding warhorses.

The woman before him was beautiful. He closed his eyes and opened them in a futile attempt to clear his hazy vision and his screaming temples. Despite the pain lancing through his head with every beat of his heart, he willed himself to be patient and quiet.

Holy Christ.

He must have died and gone to heaven. The woman was a saint. Pushing against the bed with the intention of rising, he fell back. Pain throbbing mercilessly in his head was a clear indication he was not in heaven.

"What?" Beauty moved from the pot bubbling over the fire. "Ye're awake?"

Her large amber-colored eyes rested on him and set his pulse clamoring. Her long sooty lashes fluttered closed for a moment, and when she looked at him again, a softly feminine smile curved upward on rose-pearled lips.

He stared at her, inhaling the sweet scent floating around her, memorizing the soft curve of her hip, the gentle sway of her rounded breasts. She was beside him, close, warm, smelling of cinnamon and spiced apples.

"Now, ye cannot be falling back to sleep. I've questions for ye to answer." She sat on a small wooden stool near the bed, her voice sending ripples of pleasure through him.

He reached out to her, thinking to touch her and wondering if her skin was soft and smooth, but the slight movement caused him the greatest agony. Her hands, the color of alabaster, were clenched tightly in front of her. When the single beam of light slanted across the floor and rested on raven locks tumbling off her shoulders and down the front of her bodice, his body tightened in anticipation. Promises of fantasies beyond his imagination flashed through his mind.

"My head throbs," he said, closing his eyes tight and wondering if the lovely vision would still be there when he opened them again. If he would still hear her lilting, melodious voice. He prayed he was safe here. He shifted position with cautious movements, grimaced with pain and kept moving. He had to find out what his body could do.

"Well, 'twas a mighty blow that caught ye on the back of your head. Ye will not be feeling well for a spell yet." The woman spoke softly.

"A blow to my head?" he queried. "How?" He touched the back of his head. She'd bandaged it well, but he winced slightly when he encountered the wound.

"Me thinks ye should be asking yerself those questions. I was not there, and I have no answers for ye. I found ye in the meadow more dead than alive."

He lay back, studying the thatched ceiling in a meager attempt not to stare openly at the long line of her neck and the slender arms that seemed to hold within them so much strength.

"I don't remember anything." Truly he didn't. He searched his mind for something of his past but he could not even think of his name. He watched the woman's eyes widen sharply and knew she was about to tell him he lied. But she seemed to stop herself.

Staring at her hands in her lap, she spoke pointed words. "The memories will all return to ye with time."

She bent over, pulling up the cover, touching his forehead. Her fingers were strong and callused, her flesh warm, her breasts so close...

He drew in an unsteady breath, then tried to rise again and was once more foiled in his attempt. "I don't remember my name." Anger and frustration rushed through him. I don't remember my own name.

Her eyes shone the deepest amber, and they seemed to sparkle and dance before slanting with concern and setting off little warming flashes deep inside his loins.

"Ye don't remember your name?" she repeated, seemingly concerned.

He shook his head. "Nay, I have no memory of anything. My family. My country. Nothing." He must be trapped in some horrible dream; he watched her mouth flatten, the concern in her expression growing.

"Ye're a man of God. I found ye in holy robes."

"Nay!" His head nearly split apart on that resounding note. He wanted nothing more than to bellow in frustration, to shout out his rage at this injustice, to command some sweet, magical potion that would give him his memory back. Instead, he groaned, cautiously watching the Heaven-sent apparition float here and there around the room.

She pulled up a chair and set down a bowl of something noxious smelling. Despite the horrific odor, his stomach growled.

"Here, this will sooth what ails ye."

"Ye cannot mean for me to eat that!" Truly, he should stop bellowing. The pain shooting through his head, unbearable at best grew tenfold when he yelled.

"This will make the pain in your head go away."

"And what will it do to my innards?"

"Soothe and relax them, too. When ye drink this down, I'll give ye some meat broth. By then, ye'll be worn out and ready for another long sleep. A healing sleep, and perhaps when ye wake, ye will remember all that ye've forgotten."

"Nay, lass, ye cannot coax me to drink that horrid smelling gruel."

She ignored his negative words and hummed softly while she dipped and swirled the concoction in the bowl. His mind raced while he tried desperately for a way to make her believe he had swallowed the evil smelling potion while tucking it away somewhere.

"Obrian." She paused. "Until ye remember yer name, I'll call ye Obrian. 'Tis a fine name. It suits ye." She smiled and it nearly undid him, yet he would not be called by another man's name.

"Nay--" He almost cried out once more, outraged by the name. 'Twas not his name. He knew it, but to save his very soul, he could not remember anything more. Frustration and anger tore at him.

She set the bowl on the floor, then she lifted his head and placed a pillow beneath him.

"What then?" she asked and slipped a spoon full of her medicine between his lips when he thought to answer. The brew tasted worse than it smelled.

He choked the concoction down before holding up a restraining hand and shaking his head. "No more."

Frown lines creased her smooth brow. He sensed he'd angered her. "Ye must."

"Nay, I will eat the broth but no more of that."

To his surprise, she set the bowl aside. He had not believed she would give up so easily. "Very well," she said with a shrug to her shoulders, "have it your way. 'Tis your head that aches." She let him sip the chicken broth from a wooden cup while she held his head. Her hands were stronger than they appeared--and softer. "What would ye like me to call ye then? Perhaps David or Paul?"

"I don't know. I suppose Obrian will have to do until I can come up with a name I like better." His begrudging acceptance seemed to displease her.

"Obrian it is then." This time she smiled.

"What is your name?" he asked, meaning to learn as much about this lady as possible.

"Keely!" A raspy, unfamiliar voice gave him the answer he'd been seeking.

A golden smile lit her face. She whirled nearly knocking the broth on to the floor. "Whipple, I thought ye'd be by sooner. I've been expecting ye."

He heard Whipple step inside the room. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep. Borrowing trouble was not something he intended. One look at Whipple's stern and wary expression told him this weather beaten, leathery-skinned old man didn't like him or trust him.

"He's awake?" Whipple asked as he shuffled closer to the pallet. "Has he told ye who he is and what he is doing in these parts?"

Keely shifted her gaze to him and cocked her head slightly before turning back to Whipple. "Aye, he was awake a moment ago." She hesitated, clearing her throat of its tightness. "He remembers nothing."

Through slitted eyes, he watched the old man's frown lines deepen into furrows. Then, turning away, Whipple emitted a rude sound.

"Ye ken vera well 'tis not safe. He is no' holy man. His presence here can only mean trouble. Ye are in danger every second he stays. Someone meant to kill him. And they would have succeeded if not for your timely rescue."

"Obrian is so weak he cannae even sit up in bed." Keely replied sharply, even as chagrin for the affront she thought she'd given him showed expressively on her sweet features.

"He is a warrior and well ye ken it. He could run to Edinburgh and back right now and not even be breathing hard when he finished." Whipple spoke in a whisper and punctuated every other word with a sideways glance his way.

This was a reminder of how careful he had to be. He was in a strange place with no identity. His enemies were unknown to him as were his friends.

While Beauty cast a magical spell around him...

While his destiny and the reason for his appearance in a part of the country remained clouded.

He was a man with no identity.

Chapter Two

With a quick nod to the door and a glance over his shoulder, Whipple urged Keely outside. Whipple's aged face might have been carved from granite. His pale eyes glinted like blue steel in their deep sockets and his lips were drawn tight, disapproval radiating from him.

Before she stepped outside into the bright September sun, she glanced at the man on the bed. No holy man would have the battle scars he did. No man of God would own the well-muscled body, huge forearms and powerful thighs. Breathless and dizzy, Keely wrapped her arms around herself. At best, the gesture was a feeble attempt to ward off the heated sensations sweeping within.

In her dream, he had wielded his claymore with a great and cunning skill. His movements had been quick, his strikes clean and accurate. Before he'd been overpowered--he'd wounded his first two attackers.

Keely cherished the relief, the pure elation she felt upon his waking. Over the past five days, worry for the man had been her constant companion.

She brought her hand upward to shield her eyes from the glare. "What is it, Whipple? What have ye heard?"

Whipple bent low. His lips moved without speaking as he worked the saliva around in his mouth. His white brows drew together with grave concern. "Two of Henry's men arrived at the village this morn. They stay at the tavern and they have been asking questions."

"Questions?" Her heart skipped.

"Aye." He paused, his brows furrowing together. "About a priest." The harsh timbre in his voice sent chills down her spine.

"'Tis no reason to be alarmed. The King's men come and go often enough." She shrugged, stretching over-taxed muscles. "Ye know they always ask about these parts--the comings and goings of all those who pass by."

"They were looking for a man who fits that man's description." When he finished the sentence his words rushed out in a long hiss, his eyes nearly crossing. "Ye cannae keep that mon here."

"Did they give the man a name?"

"Nay." Whipple paused a moment. "They refused to give a name, merely offering a reward for information. All they would say is that he masquerades as a holy man. And that his clan has openly defied English law. This family they spoke of is ever loyal to the Scottish King. There are other men in these parts. Evil men. None ken who they are or what they want. But it is feared they will stop at nothing, even killing the innocent to get at this one."

She tried to ignore Whipple's pointed barb. Yet his words made her hands tremble and her knees weak. "We don't know if this is the man they seek. The men may very well be his friends and wish to help. But I will keep the secret. I want no threats to his life while he is ill and can remember nothing of his past. Ye say they were seeking out a priest. Well, we both ken that man is not a priest."

"Keely, the man inside your hut is the man they seek. 'Tis a pity we have no clue to his real identity."

She let Whipple's conjecture hang in the air. "Even though he has no memory of his life before this, he told me he was not a priest. He speaks the truth when he remembers it. He is a man of his word."

Keely saw Whipple's mouth harden. "What we dinna ken might well send us to the gallows. Ye must look through those herbs ye keep and find something to give him which will bring back his mind."

"I know of nothing that possesses such magic it can bring back one's memory."

"Well, ye best do some more studying."

"Perhaps," Keely said. "Perhaps I should."

Whipple growled his disappointment, letting his vigilant gaze sweep the hills beyond her hut. For the longest time he stared pensively at the horizon. "Ye should have gone to your father's after your mother died. He would have seen that ye have a proper husband."

"I do not seek a proper husband."

Whipple turned from her, a curse on his lips. "He would have seen ye were safe and wed by now with wee children to hold." His eyes grew misty. He swiped away a tear hovering beneath his cheekbone. "I can no longer protect ye. If ye have been honest with me in recounting your dreams, your life is in danger."

She stiffened, knowing what he spoke was true. She was different and she had always known it would haunt her. "Ye know I've been honest."

"Evil men roam these parts. I fear they look for ye. 'Tis your gift of sight and power with the healing herbs that brings them here. This man might be one of them. They will find ye, and how will I protect ye? I'm a crippled, old man."

"I have told only the truth. I know not from which direction the danger threatens."

"Ye ken well enough. 'Tis superstition that drives them. What they don't understand they fear."

"I've been careful, tending only those in this village."

"I fear your dream."

"I've told no one," Keely said, a lump forming in her throat.

Beneath her feet the earth rumbled, the pounding of hooves and clanking of armor grew loud. Emerging from atop the hill, eight men raced along its crest toward the village--eight warriors. They were a great distance from the hut. Still, Keely trembled.

Keely moved into the shadows, knowing the danger. Whipple followed. She pressed against the hut, praying the knights would not catch sight of her. The old man moved slowly to stand in front of her and give her time to ease inside before he turned and followed the soldiers.

She managed to slip into the cool darkness, only to find the man she thought would still be bed-ridden standing beside the fire, fully dressed.

* * *

Pride be damned, rising from the pallet and dressing himself had been a mistake. Now all the muted colors he saw blended and danced in a painful gray haze deep inside his pounding head. Weak as a newborn kitten and no memory of his name, he was at the mercy of any man or beast who might walk through the door.

He felt feverish.

Hot.

As he turned to look at Keely, pain nearly brought him to his knees. Thank God, only the lady who found him near death and saved him now stood in front of him. Saints be praised that damnable Whipple wasn't with her.

With her hands reaching toward him and her brows drawn tight, she stepped forward. "Ye should not be out of bed. What made ye do such a foolish thing?" She touched his side, pushing the shirt he wore away from his chest. "See, this tiny wound has opened and 'tis bleeding," she chided, her sweet breath weaving warm, magical spells that danced too close and whispered across his cheek.

Her velvet-toned voice set his pulse pounding in his brain and the incessant throbbing to thunder more painfully than he'd ever thought possible. With just her voice, she set a fever raging through his blood. Her amber eyes watched him with concern. He shifted his weight, leaning against the fireplace, until he could caress the cheek that was so close to him. The skin was smooth and fine grained, as soft as the underside of a dove's wing.

She touched the back of her hand to his forehead and frowned thoughtfully. She rose up onto her toes and was so close their lips nearly brushed. "Ye are boiling hot."

Indeed, he was feverish. "I ken that now. I did not think getting out of bed was foolish at the time." He wavered slightly, his grip on the brick fireplace tightening. He closed his eyes, "I would wish the pain away," his lashes fluttered shut, then opened once more. The whirling room did not vanish or stand still, nor did the raging heat surging within diminish. It was a heat he'd known before. His tiny wound had become red and swollen. What his enemy's sword had not accomplished, the festering of the wound might cause his death.

She reached out her hands, her eyes glittering with unshed emotion. Such a tender heart. She was a healer of spirit and soul as well as the body.

"Let me help ye back to the pallet. I don't believe ye can make it by yourself. Although I believe ye want to."

He remained propped on the fireplace, gritting his teeth in an effort to stay on his feet.

"Please, Obrian," Keely said, her voice husky with emotion. "Lie down. To heal ye must rest."

She moved closer to him and heaven help himself, he knew he could not walk the distance by himself. It galled him to think she was right. And it bothered him that he'd stolen the lady's bed. He'd seen her asleep on the floor.

"Thirsty," he mumbled.

Keely reached for the jar of water she kept within the house and helped Obrian to drink. The taste of the liquid brought back memories. He had drunk from this jar many times. Vividly, he remembered slender hands holding him upright and then easing him back down and stroking him until he fell once more into feverish sleep.

"Where is Whipple?" He did not like the way the old man's brows tightened when he watched him. Nor did he appreciate the way Whipple's gaze challenged, threatened and seemed to read what was inside his head even while he didn't have the slightest idea. Though he guessed the old man did not like him watching Keely.

His fists tightened. Frustration and rage rushed through him in a blaze of fury and anxiety.

Her gaze rose to meet his and issue a challenge of her own.

"He went to his own home. He needs his rest too. But he is wise enough to know when to stop."

"Unlike me?" he asked, sweat beading on his upper lip and forehead. The room blurred and moved, the floor shifting slightly. He closed his eyes, willing the walls of the tiny hut to stop moving when he opened them again. The ploy worked and his sigh was one of relief, although he knew the second of normalcy was short-lived. He would take advantage of his moment of lucidness.

"And why is that?" she questioned.

Good God, he was hot.

Her smile shifted to a frown of puzzlement or concern, he wasn't sure. She tucked a strand of long ebony hair behind her shell-white ear and unexpectedly moistened her lips. He had the briefest vision of tasting her there and proceeding to even more ripe and inviting places. He groaned aloud, the fever seemingly taking over all his senses.

"Ye have not to worry about your safety. I'm a man of honor." His voice cracked slightly. While his words said one thing, he could not stop his thoughts from returning to Keely. The genuine concern in her expression stunned him, caught him in the gut, and filled him with a callow wanting. Wanting to sample her mouth and savor her magic, to bury his face in her hair. Yet he continued with words that he somehow knew to be true and sincere. "I would never take advantage of an unwilling lass." Oh, but he'd take advantage of a willing one. Right now, if he could see straight. Damnation, but he didn't have the strength to do much of anything save lie down on the bed.

He rubbed his temples with both hands. A man of honor. He sensed that fact and somehow knew his vivid thought to be the truth. Yet he also sensed he wasn't above bedding a willing woman without the sanctity of marriage vows.

Nay, there were values he stretched but a moral code he clung to determinedly.

Perhaps he wasn't such an honorable man after all. Masquerading as a priest--a holy man was far from honorable. And there was nothing noble about the thoughts he had about this woman, his savior.

"Lean on me. I will help ye back to bed." Like a languid warm breeze in the summer, her voice floated softly in the ensuing silence. Her sincerity and innocent sensuality raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Even while he burned with fever, he wanted her with an intensity and passion he'd never felt before.

Back to bed--

Nay, in ways of the flesh, he was not a man of honor, nor did he want to be. Her scent caused waves of sensual need to pulse through him. Her soft curves pushed against him and made him ache to know and understand the woman, to learn all he could about Keely--her innocence, integrity and healing gifts.

"Do ye know what ye do here?"

"Aye, I believe so," she whispered softly.

Sighing deeply, he gave in to the weakness and the fever that would not seem to leave him alone.

She stepped close, and grasping his hand with hers, wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pressed her body even closer to his, supporting him the best she could. She was tall for a woman and very slender. The top of her head brushed his chin. He felt the silken softness of her ebony hair cascade across his arms and down his chest, territory she'd exposed when she'd inspected his wounds. Her sweetly feminine curves pressed into his chest, and his fingers, where they were draped across her shoulder, were nearly touching the rise of her breasts and the hardened crest he could see through the thin delicate fabric of her gown.

A molten inferno rushed through him. Was it fever or desire? He could not say.

Holy Christ!

A man who could barely stand had no business thinking of long languorous hours with a woman he could not have. She was a healer. She had rescued him. He had no business wanting her.

Each step pounded in his head. He didn't have the strength to do anything. When they reached the pallet, she turned slightly. If she eased his arm from her shoulder, he would slip to the bed.

He could bring her with him. He could lay with her and feel her beneath him.

"Keely," he said, stopping the natural flow of movement. If only for a moment, he wanted her on the bed beside him. Holding her would ease the torment of the unknown and the loneliness of the damned.

"Aye?" She turned, looking upward, her lips just below his own. Her tongue moistened her lips; once, twice.

Her breath smelled of sweetest mint and her smile held a wealth of knowledge he wanted to gain from her. She held the truth of the world in her mind and her heart. She could tell him things he did not know. But she could not tell him that which he wanted to know most. She could not tell him who he was.

"How long?" he asked in an attempt to channel his thoughts in a new direction.

"How long have ye been here?"

He nodded slightly.

"Five days."

His eyes opened wider.

"Ye've been very sick. I feared for your life," Keely explained. "That plus your injuries from the fight..." Her voice died. Automatically she reached forward and brushed back the curling lock of black hair that flowed over his forehead.

A fine trembling raced through him. He looked Keely over with heated emotions. His mind returned to thoughts of her and the warmth of her beauty and courage.

"Ye are too sweet," he told her blatantly, oblivious to the situation and the propriety. He could not think straight, his gaze absorbed and held fast by her own. The deepest part of her eyes holding secrets of past centuries. Ye are far too innocent and trusting.

She drew in a long ragged breath. Her eyes widened. Yet she failed to acknowledge his words.

He could hold himself upright no longer. Tumbling to the pallet, he closed his eyes and imagined pulling Keely beneath him.

Imagining her hair spilling free from the confining circle of cloth she'd used to keep the locks from falling into her face, he drifted into a deeper, all-consuming sleep and even more vivid dreams.

Dreams encompassed him. Silken strands of her hair spread across the bed enchantingly. Before he thought of the consequences, and before he could stop himself, his lips brushed hers. Encompassed in his dream he held nothing back.

"Obrian--" He thought he heard her say.

Nay, he whispered, his breath mingling with hers, his gaze locked with hers. Dinna stop something that is so right it seems the heavens above applaud us. I will not hurt ye. Yet he knew the dream would end. The inferno he'd dreaded rushed through him, eating at him, devouring his life's blood and threatening his very soul.

* * *

"Foolish, adorable Scotsman."

Keely sat by his bedside, bathing his raging fever with cooling water. For two days and two nights she'd run a damp cloth across him and spooned cool water between his parched lips. She'd slept with her head pillowed on the corner of the pallet in case he needed her.

"Ye rose too soon and tore open the one small wound on your side. "Tis infected now. The poultice should break the fever." She spoke softly to him, wondering when he'd wake and what she'd say to him.

The door creaked. A shadow entered. She recognized the sound of Whipple's footsteps. The old man leaned over Keely. He touched Obrian's cheek, then drew back. For a moment, his attention turned to Keely.

'Tsk, tsk, lass. Ye need to tend to yourself. Ye look bone-weary and exhausted beyond what is healthy," Whipple said, hovering like an old woman. "Ye've done all ye can for the time being."

She turned toward him, icy water dripping from the cloth she held in her hand. Her brows drew together in puzzlement. "Why do ye dislike him so? What has he done?"

Whipple stiffened, his hacking cough consuming him. He cleared his throat and muttered beneath his breath.

She straightened, squaring her shoulders. "Don't use that ploy with me, Whipple. I know ye can talk, and I know too ye have feelings about this man ye have not shared with me. I do not understand your seeming hatred, your wariness. The man needs help and I can ease his fever. Would ye have me turn him away? Ye ken I could never do such a thing," she chided gently before turning back to the nameless man sleeping restlessly on her pallet. She swept his chest with the cool, damp cloth. She'd bathed other parts of him too. And she'd not found him lacking in any way.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. Although some might argue, she was human and she was not indifferent to the great strength of the man she nursed.

These had been the longest days of Keely's life since her mother died five years before, leaving her fourteen-year-old daughter alone with no one to look after her. She'd thought of going to her father's home, but knew she could not live there. Watching this man battle injury and fever had drained Keely's very soul. He had been so hot, then drenched in cold sweat, then hot and restless once more, calling out names of people she didn't know, fighting battles she had never heard of, crying out in anguish over lost friends. She had tried to soothe and comfort him, had held him close in the cold hours before dawn, had bathed his big body in cool water when he was too hot and had warmed him with her own heat when he was too cold.

"I do not hate him, lass. 'Tis foolish. I'm an old man and through the years I've urged ye to seek a man of your own, a man who could love ye just as ye are. Now that ye've found a possible mate, I have misgivings."

She whirled to face him, her gaze lingering on the stoop of his shoulders and the deep lines around his care-worn face.

"Misgivings?"

Possible mate?

"Aye, misgivings," he murmured, turning his back to her and sorting through the pharmaceutical on her wall.

"Ye have no reason to feel that way." With the cloth Keely stroked Obrian's chest and his arms. She dipped the cloth into the cold water, then folded it and placed the worn fabric on top of his forehead. "He worries me. I pray he will wake, and I wish he'd remember who he is and why he is here."

"He will soon enough." Whipple walked close to Keely, his fingers wound tightly in front of him and his stooped shoulders squared. "I was a young man once. 'Tis not so very long ago; ye would have been attracted to me, perhaps. And I wish I could touch ye, lass. There has been many a time when ye needed comforting, and I could not, even as a father, hold ye in my arms and heal the dreadful sorrow that filled ye. Your life should never have been this hard."

She inhaled sharply, her focus riveting on his eyes, their glittering brilliance. "Whipple! Ye are like a father to me. Ye have always been there for me. I--"

"I understand your feelings, lass."

The old man looked bone-weary, ancient, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of what he'd just revealed.

"I do not think ye do," she told him, her gaze and her attention focused on Obrian once again.

"Nay. Ye have this well in hand. Ye do not need me here. I will check on ye in the morning. And where your heart is concerned, take heed."

"Very well." Yet the ensuing tension between the two hung dangerously in the little room. Obrian's labored breathing was the only sound.

Keely watched Whipple walk out the door. For the longest time she sat on the stool and stared outside, wondering what Whipple had been thinking of when he spoke to her so strangely.

Absorbed in her thoughts, Keely was surprised by Obrian.

"He searches for the gypsy witch!" Obrian's arm swept from the bed, hitting her. Knocking her from the stool, she landed on the dirt floor. "Nay!" he cried out and wrenched around, his body fighting the blanket she'd placed upon him.

"Obrian?" Keely rose from the floor, tentatively approaching him. "What is it?" The way he thrashed about, arms and legs flying everywhere, she didn't dare move too close.

"His men are everywhere. He searches for a witch. A lady who sees into the future. A gifted healer. A woman of great power." He moaned softly, then seemed to drift into a deeper sleep.

She inhaled sharply. "A witch?" Concerned for her well-being, she bent low over her patient. "There is no such thing."

She righted the toppled stool and sat down. While her heart thundered with fear, her hands trembled when she placed the cloth once again on his forehead.

Many called her a witch. In her dreams she'd seen King James' death. Once again, she wondered at the knowledge he possessed. How had he discovered the prophecy? She'd told no one save Whipple and he'd never betray her.

"Nay," he moaned and stilled, his hands clenching and unclenching the soft woolen blanket she'd covered him with. He trembled, his body shaking. When she touched him, his skin was freezing. She retrieved another blanket and draped the material over him. Still he shivered and moaned. "Cold," he whispered, "So very cold."

He reached for her. And despite his ravings, she gave him her hand. His was icy to the touch. He needed her warmth.

She knew she courted trouble.

Before she changed her mind, she climbed beneath the covers with him and pulled him close. Her body began to shake along with his. Yet as the minutes passed, she felt her warmth flow into his body, felt his frozen limbs turn warm. He eased into a restless sleep.

* * *

The afternoon sun fell beneath the hills and the darkness of the evening encompassed the tiny one-room hut. She barely knew this man. Yet her intense desire that he see her as a woman caught her on the raw. She knew she was becoming far too attached to this stranger. As soon as Obrian was healed he would leave with as little warning as he had come, going off to pursue his own future. Now that he slept and his temperature drew close to normal, she rose from the bed, leaving him to sleep and heal.

As she walked to the fire to check on the soup, she couldn't help wondering if Obrian would remember his name and ride off into the sunset, forgetting her.

Chapter Three

'Twas bliss. A sweet summer's song.

Her image was too enchanting, too mysterious, too elusive to hold. She danced through his imagination, a summer breeze, soft, sweet and languid.

Making love to Keely seemed so real, yet he sensed his memory was naught but a dream. Warmth filled and surrounded his body. He didn't want to wake from the all-encompassing, magical dream claiming him.

She trailed one long, slim finger across his jaw. For a moment, his body jolted then shuddered from the delicate yet fleeting contact. With his hands, he framed her face and memorized every detail, every curve and hollow.

Her lips parted as if she meant to speak, but the gesture was an invitation he wished to partake of and explore more thoroughly with a kiss.

She was untried and innocent. In his arms, she was every fantasy come true. Her fingers wove into his hair at the back of his neck and she pulled his lips to hers. He reveled in the dream and the hope that perhaps she wanted him, perhaps as much as he wanted her.

He kissed her, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, urging them to open for him. She sighed softly, her breath whispering across his lips, but she didn't grant him entrance.

He kissed her cheeks, her nose and she watched him, studying him with intense concentration and tilting her head a little bit sideways. Her amber eyes intensely passionate and shining with desire.

"Obrian," she whispered. The smile she gifted him with sent him spiraling heavenward.

And yet...

A wave of anger also swept through him. He wanted her to call him by his name. What is my name? He'd move heaven and earth to recall his name.

She ran her hands across his shoulders and paused, watching him, imploring him to remember.

"Open for me, sweet siren," he whispered softly, praying she'd do his bidding. "Open."

Quizzically, she looked upon him, the color of her eyes deepening. Gentle humor and awe rumbled up from his belly. "Your mouth, sweetling."

She appeared startled for a second. Then her tongue swept across her lips in a sensual ploy. Yet she was innocent of all intrigue. She knew not what that simple gesture did to him, how fire and flames raged within.

Or how his dream seemed real, so mercuric, so very evocative. His imagination played havoc with every sense he possessed.

Once more his mouth closed over hers, and this time her lips parted and his tongue found entrance. He touched the moistness, enticed her with an ageless dance, and the low rumble he emitted from deep within this time was not laughter but unchecked, raging desire.

Even in his dream, when he touched her, he lost himself within a cloud of visions and sensations so intense he nearly groaned aloud. He imagined the way she would move beneath him, responding to the ancient rhythm he set. Her breaths, her pulse and her very soul melded with his. Her arms encompassed him and he drifted on wings of brilliant light and mysterious music, forgetting that which he'd begun and all that he'd wanted from the lady.

Just as suddenly as she had appeared, she vanished from his dream. He was tired; exhausted bone-deep. All he could recount was wanting her and leaving her still moving beneath him, yet unable to give her the fulfillment she would surely crave. He needed her with an elemental desire he didn't understand. At the same time, he chided himself. She had taken him into her home, healed him, given him all he needed. And he repaid her with carnal thoughts.

A gentleman would not do that. Yet he sensed he was born into wealth and power. But that did not make him a gentleman.

So who was he? What was he? And where did he belong? Surely not in a peasant's hut, lusting after a beautiful fey creature.

His dream shifted and he relaxed, drifting into a healing sleep, one where dreams of times long past swept through his mind. He saw castles and parapets. He gazed upon a woman with long silken black hair. He knew her but he could not give her a name or an identity. He watched two men who laughed and wrestled each other to the floor, then jumped up slapping each other on the back.

All the while, he gazed upon, studied the people in his dream, and wondered if he knew them and what they meant to him. The dreams changed and he saw a holy man, his cloak pulled far over his head. Faceless. Voiceless. The man beckoned to him, gesturing for him to ride the huge black stallion standing so close to another man.

He was to depart on a journey in the name of the King. King James of Scotland. A fierce wave of hatred rushed through him. He shook his head at the holy man, his friend. He knew somehow that the holy man was not an enemy. Yet he knew he despised the duty that had been thrust upon him.

His words were swept away. Nay, he'd cried out, but no one heard his denial. Thought of duty, honor and loyalty rushed through him. He loved his country as well as his king.

He had no choice.

The King did not ask, he commanded.

He must do the King's bidding.

Yet she'd saved his life. Did he dream of Keely? If he did, he owed her a debt of gratitude. A life for a life. He was torn, a man caught between two worlds.

He sat bolt upright, his body shuddering. The room was dark. Rain fell heavily from the skies. He clenched his fists, his jaw tightening, desperately wishing he could regain his lost past. The clouds shifted. The night wind whistled and he lay back on the bed.

He must kill her.

* * *

"I have every faith in Hawke MacPherson's trusted servant. He's a man of his word. A Scotsman." Doughlas Gray paced the solar of his keep, his jaw set in a tight line, undeniable tension straining the air around him.

"Doughlas, ye must calm yerself. There is naught ye can do about this situation." Mary Gray, Doughlas' wife, stuck the needle into the cloth fiercely. Her gaze followed her husband's pacing back and forth across the room.

"If everything went as we planned, Hawke's retainer would have sent a message telling me they were safe and riding to the castle. I cannot rest until I know what has happened to my daughter. 'Tis been weeks--far too long." Doughlas stopped breathing, tried hard to keep his gaze fixed on the rolling landscape he had long ago memorized.

After a moment's pause, she inhaled deeply and spoke. "And ye kenned finding her might take even more time," Mary gently chided.

But Doughlas could not listen to her tender words. Words that were meant to reassure. The fear had already dropped into his stomach, churning his thoughts into useless circles. He'd left Keely alone and defenseless for so long. He should have never let her leave his protection, but her mother had insisted. Neither had felt at home in his keep.

He had not done enough to remedy their discomfort.

Until now, he'd never cared that she was a bastard, born on the wrong side of the sheets, nor had he thought of the consequences. He'd loved her mother, cared deeply for the ethereal, magical woman who bedeviled his nights and wreaked havoc on his days. Keely's mother had been the most beautiful woman he'd ever known.

And the most enchanting.

She was dead though, and now Keely's own life was threatened by the King. She had been branded a witch and the old man who he had sent to watch over her years ago could no longer protect her from the King's wrath.

"I could have ridden with the man Hawke sent. Then I would not be standing here feeling as useless and as helpless as a child," he growled deep in his throat.

"Nay, ye could not do such a thing. Ye have responsibilities. A clan to look after. Besides, the King would have known and would have sent men to follow. Ye did the right thing. He will protect her with his life."

"I'm not so sure." Doughlas impatiently waived his hands in the air. "Where are they? Why does it seem as if he dropped off the face of this earth?"

Mary rose and walked to her husband. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. "Ye rumble around like a great bear. Go then. Ye know where she lives, and heaven knows ye are of no value here. Ferret out the information ye seek so desperately that we may all know a small measure of peace."

"Ye are far too giving. But I cannot leave as well ye know. 'Tis harvest time and I have my people to think of. I sent Hawke's man because he can do the job and keep a secret. Ye are right. I must have patience."

"And faith."

She laughed softly, and he grimaced. She knew his ways and she knew full well he had little patience and less faith, but he would try.

Aye, this time he would try harder than ever before, because his daughter deserved a father who had all his wits about him. Her peril touched them all. He had always been loyal to the Scottish Kings. Keely deserved protection from them, not death threats.

He could imagine the scene he longed for with all his heart. Ian MacPherson would ride up on his huge black stallion, scooping his innocent daughter onto his saddle and riding off with her into the setting sun. He had handpicked Ian for this duty. When the time came to send for his daughter, he could not find Ian. No one knew where Ian was; not even his older brother Hawke. Doughlas had hoped Ian and Keely might be drawn to each other. A wedding was what he had hoped for.

Deep in his heart, Doughlas knew the rescue had not gone smoothly. Too much time had passed. If all had gone as he had planned, his daughter would be safely ensconced in his castle right now. She would be far away from the prying eyes and greedy hands of King James. She would be where he could protect and shelter her. Christ, how had word of his daughter's abilities traveled as far as Edinburgh?

And why had Keely been so trusting as to tell others what she'd seen in the dreams?

She had foreseen James' own death.

Nay, James would stop at nothing to find Keely.

What would he do when he caught her?

Doughlas shuddered. He had no idea and that frightened him more than knowing. Terror had a rightful place in his heart, yet he couldn't dwell on that fear nor could he act on it. He had to wait.

Had to have patience.

Mary moved away from him. He felt the loss of her heat when she unfolded herself from him and slipped away to gaze out the same window he'd fixed his sights on earlier. He wanted to see Ian and Keely ride from the woods and down the hill. He wanted to hear Ian yell the command to open the gates. And most of all he wanted to enfold Keely in his arms and beg her forgiveness.

But Ian MacPherson had not been sent. And so he had trusted his daughter's life with a man he did not know.

"I understand what ye are thinking, what ye will believe. But Keely will not blame ye, even though ye blame yerself," Mary said, her hands resting on the ledge of the window.

"She should."

"Nay, she will be like her mother, forgiving to a fault and very loving." She lifted her gaze to him for a brief time, then dropped her lashes.

He hadn't the slightest notion how to reply to his wife's statement. The subject had strayed far a field. Aye, Keely's mother had been forgiving. To a fault, he told himself. Keely's mother should have never allowed him to leave her alone. He should have insisted he marry Keely's mother and legally give his daughter his name.

He was almost relieved when a tap came on the door, then the servant's voice. "My Lord."

Doughlas opened the door to the man's incessant bowing. "What is it?"

"There is a messenger here to see ye, sir. Are ye in?"

A sudden feeling of dread rushed down his spine and settled in the pit of his stomach. He was expecting no one and a messenger at this time could only herald bad news.

"What does he want?"

"He doesn't say. Says only that 'tis urgent and he must speak with ye."

Christ, he wasn't ready for this fear for a child he hadn't seen in five long years, a child he'd sent away with an old man. Whipple, a trusted servant, a man he had once thought he could count on to protect and shelter Keely. Where was Whipple? Did he still tend to the child? Nay, she was a woman now?

The servant waited in his overly patient way, fingers laced at their tips, rocking up on his toes and then down again.

He needed to know. He couldn't very well send the messenger away or send someone else to hear the message. He had to meet with the man.

Doughlas scrubbed his fingers through his hair, wondering how this day could get any worse. "Send him in now."

"Right here?"

"Yes."

The servant looked to Doughlas' wife, then back to him. The servant questioned his willingness to let Mary hear what he said. He trusted Mary. She had often served as a calming force when the news was bad. She had come to know the same thrill when the news was good.

He needed Mary by his side.

The servant bowed his way out, closing the door behind him, leaving Doughlas alone with his wife.

She hadn't moved a muscle. She still leaned on the window, searching the grounds outside for a sign of the traveler and his precious jewel--Keely.

"They survive, Doughlas. Despite any bad tidings the messenger brings, I ken that they live and Keely will be brought safely home."

The messenger entered, let in by the servant. He stood stiffly and waited for Doughlas to beg him speak.

"Go on," Doughlas said, dreading the news yet unable to breathe without learning of it.

"The King's mon was struck down--" the man began, then cleared his throat.

Doughlas' heart lurched to his throat, his hands tightened into hard fists. "And my daughter?"

The man stepped back. "She has taken him into her home. When the King's men went back to claim the body he was not there. They searched the village nearby and found no one. Her life is in grave danger. The man she tends to was sent to kill her. He is a great warrior. None of your men could stand against him."

* * *

Keely ran her hands the length of Obrian's back. "Obrian?" she whispered, unsure how to proceed and hoping to wake him. During the night she'd decided to sleep on the pallet instead of the floor. She'd fallen asleep next to him and now he lay nearly on top of her, his great weight pressing her down.

"Obrian? Are ye awake yet?" She pushed ineffectually on his chest, hoping he would not wake up, yet roll off her at the same time.

He groaned but didn't budge.

Whipple had kept her sheltered and protected for the past five years. Her friend might well kill this Highlander if he were to find her in such a compromising position. For a moment, she let that thought rattle inside her head. She should take heed, should plan for the possibility Whipple might find them together. Instead, amusement rumbled in her heart, laughter not for the chance demise of this strong man but for the fatherly feelings Whipple always displayed. Whipple could no more kill this man than he could kill her. Her aged friend had always encouraged her to find a man who could protect her when he was gone. But the touch of others had always caused her great pain, the pounding in her head horrific, the vision intolerable.

Until this man.

This man's touch gave her pleasure.

"Obrian, ye need to roll off me." Her breath across his face made his long dark locks feather against her cheeks. Against her face, his hair was soft, silken.

"Obrian." She whispered his name once again.

Keely tried to slide out from under him but even in his sleep, his arms closed around her, pulling her close, trapping her against his chest. He felt warm and hard. He possessed rippling muscles. His body formed unfamiliar angles and planes. Curiously, she touched him, running her fingers down the vee of his unlaced shirt, learning the texture and the scent of the man. He smelled of the Highland, of mist and magic, heather and gorse. Desire and heat flamed inside, an inferno sweeping through her. Her cheeks grew hot.

The room darkened and a gentle rain began to beat a soft staccato upon her roof. She listened to the steady patter, her mind spinning fantastic tales of romance and adventure far from this hut--love stories.

She'd always yearned to travel and find adventure. She'd wanted to sail across the ocean to visit Egypt and France.

Then she slept and her dreams as always were real and vivid. Each time she woke, she was nestled in his arms; pressed close and protected from the ever-raging storms, and sheltered from the fighting that would take the King's life. She'd seen it all in her dreams. She'd spoken of the events only once.

Night passed.

The sun rose. This time he woke her with soft caresses and gentle kisses. His hand lay on her hip, his fingers working magically to spin a web of longing she could not escape. Slowly, his explorations followed a path until he cupped her breast with one hand.

She inhaled sharply, surprised by the sensations, yet knowing this was not right. "Obrian! Nay!" She cried out his name and pressed against his chest, escaping his hold impossible because he was still very much asleep.

She pushed his hand aside and he groaned, his eyes blinking open. Their jeweled blue clarity both reassured and disturbed Keely. She was glad he was no longer dazed by fever, yet being the focus of those intense eyes was unnerving. He might not remember his identity, but he had the strength, intelligence and determination to overcome any disability that was thrust upon him.

His grin stretched from ear to ear. "Beauty." He whispered softly the sound sending goose bumps down her arm. Even covered with beard stubble, Obrian was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.

She stared into his eyes, into his soul, and found only goodness, a man of truth and honesty. Yet for a moment, she paused. She thought she saw deceit and a great sense of betrayal and guilt, yet no remorse. She understood the guilt was for what he did now, and for the way he touched her and urged her response.

"Y-ye must stop." Her voice trembled with need.

Guilt and remorse had no place here. She'd tempted fate by choosing to lie here with him. He'd not forced her. She'd chosen to sleep with him on the bed instead of alone on the floor.

"Keely." His voice was husky yet smooth. She moistened her lips. He groaned softly in the back of his throat. His mouth was so close to hers he could have brushed her lips with a tender, sweet kiss. She longed to tell him how she felt. Instead, she touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. His thumb drew tiny circles at the base of her wrist.

"Obrian, please." She didn't know if she begged for his touch or for him to stop.

Her body leapt and shuddered, heating in response to his attentions. She wanted to explore in return. She thought of pushing his shirt upward and reveling in the texture of male flesh, the rippling of muscles and the hard planes and angles she'd discovered.

He pulled her beneath him.

But she didn't dare act so wantonly. "Ye lie on top of me."

"I ken it," he spoke softly, his voice husky, drawing her closer, weaving a spell around her she did not want to deny.

He pulled her tight, fitting his body to hers and she felt the pulsing of his shaft upon her belly, understood the urgent primal tension between them and longed for something she sensed he could give.

She wanted him desperately. Yet knowing she could not have him, she chose her words carefully. "Ye must let me up."

"Ah, lass, ye cannot mean to deny yourself such pleasure."

Whipple had warned her against this man as well as the ways of all men.

"Nay, Obrian. Ye cannot do this. Ye are weak, and ye've been in bed with a ragging fever. Ye might harm yerself."

His laughter rose from the back of his throat. "The fever was desire for ye. There is naught I can do to change your mind?"

Slowly regaining her senses, she pushed away from him, her hands flat on his chest, knowing if he kissed her, she would give in to her passion and the desire that rose so swiftly with his touch.

She had been taught right from wrong. They were not wed and in the eyes of God, this could not happen.

Yet he didn't heed her protest. He did not let her go. Instead, he closed his eyes and held fast to her, his hands so very still upon her.

"Obrian, ye cannot do this. 'Tis not right and we would both regret the deed." Her head roared and her heart thundered with rising passion, but she pushed her need and her longing for this man aside to do what was right, what she'd been taught.

"Ian," he said matter of fact. "'Tis my name. And I would not regret making love with ye, lass. Ye are a very beautiful woman." His fingers closed over her hand, dark against light, so very large his hand swallowed hers.

Keely's pulse gave an odd little skip at the sound of his name. She looked upon him with wonder. "Ye remember yer name? What else? What else do ye remember?" Despite the excitement this revelation brought, she feared the answers as much as she dreaded his not knowing.

"Only my name." His voice was solemn and she heard a hint of anger coupled with frustration. He squeezed her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles one at a time. "It will have to do for now."

"Ian. 'Tis a fine name." She shivered with each whisper of his breath against her skin. He traced her collarbone then upward to the throbbing pulse along her neck.

"And ye shall call me Ian."

"Ian," she breathed softly.

"Yes," he told her, his grin once again stretching from ear to ear.

"Do ye remember your last name? Or why ye wore the holy robes?"

He rolled away from her and stood, pausing a moment, seeming to need the second to regain his balance. Then he walked toward the fireplace.

She felt bereft and cold, yet she understood the urgent need to remember his past that he must surely feel.

Back and forth he strode while she lay on the pallet and watched each long stride cover the distance in the tiny room. She was struck once more by the magnificence of this man, the width of his chest, his height, his strength.

"Ye will not be staying here much longer then?" Her heart felt as if a knife had just pierced through it. His presence here meant danger for her. She understood that. But God help her, she didn't want him to leave.

Not yet. Not before she might know him better.

"Are ye telling me I must find a new shelter, lass?" He stopped his pacing, his keen gaze riveted upon her, dimples forming when he began to smile.

"I should. But nay. Ye may stay here as long as ye wish. As long as ye behave yourself."

He knelt by the side of the bed. "Whipple will be none too happy with that plan." His grin had broadened and with one callused fingertip, he traced a line on her shoulder.

She shivered, her body responding to the simple caress. "Nay, he will not, but I'm a grown woman. Although he has my best interests at heart, he has no right to tell me what I can and what I cannot do."

Ian turned her hand over and placed a kiss in the heart of her palm, his thumb gently caressing the underside of her wrist, his eyes focused on her. Her body flamed.

"Ye should tell me nay."

"Are ye hungry?" Ignoring his statement, she swung her legs over the side of the pallet. He set his hands upon her shoulders, keeping her from rising. An inferno swept through her.

"I will fix ye something to eat," Ian said. "Ye must rest."

She cocked her head to the side. "And will the food be edible? I've no wish to waste anything. Nor do I wish to starve."

One eyebrow shot upward. "Ye have no faith in my abilities?" His hands rested above his heart. "I am wounded deeply."

Laughter bubbled up from deep inside. "I did not mean to hurt your tender sensibilities."

"But--"

"Never mind. I will trust ye, Ian."

He smiled. "Ye should not do that, lass. 'Twould not be wise or prudent."

She rose and before he could stop her, she walked outside, needing distance between them. It was true. The English King's men searched for this man. Keeping him with her would bring disaster to her doorstep. But she sensed his need and the innate goodness in him. Ian. If men looked for him, they might very well be evil men, and she would do all in her power to keep them from him.

She paused mid-stride, wondering what she could do, what she must do?

Rain no longer fell but a gray mist blanketed the countryside, lending the hills an ethereal look. Perhaps it was time to move on, go to her father's home. She had lived this way because she and her mother had chosen this life. Neither had felt comfortable with the royalty her father surrounded himself with. Neither had wanted to be part of that life. Now her mother was dead and her mother's family had long ago packed the wagons and moved on, perhaps to other countries.

Keely could cling to the old ways no longer.

She continued on, walking to the stream near her home. The water rushed to the sea, just as her destiny was rushing her somewhere she wasn't sure she wanted to go. She would try to elude her future a while longer. Perhaps she would follow a path of her own choosing this time.

Slipping quickly from her dress, she left her shift on and waded into the crystal clear but decidedly cold water. She cleansed the sleep from her eyes, becoming more fully awake and alert with each passing second.

"Keely--" His voice cracked.

When she turned to speak to him, his back was turned to her.

"Ian?"

"I was worried. Ye had been gone too long for my taste and I decided to come after ye. I had not expected to find ye this way."

Changing the subject seemed prudent. "Have ye ever traveled in the Highlands?" she asked, wading from the water and slipping her dress over her head. She paused.

He looked her way. The corners of his mouth twitched and his jaw stiffened even while he shifted his stance, his fists tightening.

She didn't wait for an answer. "I did once--live with my father in the highlands. No matter how many times he sends for me, I will not leave."

She stood in front of him now. He seemed bigger, stronger, and more powerful than ever before. Towering above her, he stole her breath.

Fear and caution should be her constant companion. She had every reason to stay away from this man, yet all that he was drew him to her.

"I don't remember the Highlands. When ye mentioned it, I felt a calling deep inside. I could see mountain peaks reaching for the sky, canyons and wild, untamed rivers plummeting in wondrous waterfalls. I do not understand what I ken and how I ken it." His voice was filled with sorrow and an urgent need to discover the truth. "I don't know why I am here or where I came from. But I think I am here for ye. I cannot leave because I have no where to go."

"Whipple says it is long past time for me to leave this village. He has told me many times I should go to my father." She straightened, resolve uppermost in her mind. "I'm not leaving."

"Ye do not want to go?"

She shrugged. "This is my home. I won't leave. Ye may stay until ye are sufficiently healed to travel."

"And Whipple?" he queried softly. "He does not like me."

She nodded, a sadness welling inside. "I know. He has always protected me."

"Where does your father live? Who is your father?"

"He lives northwest of here--by the sea. I have taken a vow of silence where his name is concerned." She slipped her hand in his and pulled him toward the hut. "What did ye fix? I am suddenly very hungry.

To order or learn more!