Bride of Lochbarr. Margaret Moore

your own hands. Father is a thane, and chieftain. If he goes to the king—”

      “Aye, if he goes. And if he doesn’t?”

      “Then that’s the way it must be. We can make alliances of our own.”

      Adair knew that—in his head. But his heart, which saw only a woman in jeopardy, had already decided otherwise. “I’ll be making an alliance of sorts. Lady Marianne will be grateful for our help. And once Father realizes that she truly doesn’t want Mac Glogan, and the sort of brute her brother is—”

      “This isn’t some little mishap or misunderstanding, or another fight with Cormag,” Lachlann exclaimed. “This could lead to real trouble with the Normans. And even if you do help her, she’ll probably go running back to Normandy and forget all about you. She’s not Cellach, you know.”

      Adair threw himself into his saddle and glared at his little brother. “I know she’s not Cellach.”

      But for the sake of the girl he couldn’t save, he’d rescue another. “I’m going to Dunkeathe, and there’s an end to it.”

      “Very well, Adair, go back,” Lachlann said, throwing up his hands. “But if you’re caught, your life could be the price. Are you really willing to rot in that Norman’s dungeon, or even hang, for this Norman woman?”

      Resolute, Adair looked down at his younger brother. “Aye, I am.”

      “No good can come of this, Adair.”

      “I have to do what I have to do, Lachlann. And I cannot wait.”

      With that, Adair punched Neas’s sides with his heels and galloped down the path toward Dunkeathe.

      

      SHE COULDN’T BREATHE.

      Startled awake, frantic, too terrified to scream, Marianne struggled against the strong hand pressing against her mouth. Desperately attempting to hit the man holding her even though she couldn’t see him in the dark, she tried to get up.

      “Wheesht!” the man whispered harshly in her ear. “I’ve come to help you.”

      A Scot. The Scot—Adair Mac Taran.

      His hold loosened and the moment it did, she scooted backward on the bed, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.

      He was dressed in those same peasant’s clothes, and he held a sword in his hand. Surely he hadn’t fought his way into her room. She would have heard that. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a whisper, mindful of her brother in his chamber close by, and Herman at the foot of the stairs.

      “I told you. I’ve come to help you. Come, get up and get dressed. We haven’t much time.”

      He rose and held out his hand, obviously expecting her to take it. “The guards I knocked out might wake soon, or somebody might realize they’re not at their posts.”

      She stared at him, aghast.

      “Don’t be afraid. We can be well away from here before anybody realizes you’re gone. Now get dressed. You won’t be able to take anything. We can’t carry it down the wall.”

      The wall? He wanted to her to climb out the window and down the wall, like some kind of monkey? She could see the end of a rope tied to something metal braced against the inside window frame. He must have thrown it from outside, like a grapple.

      She wasn’t about to risk falling to her death and she wasn’t going anywhere with this stranger, this Scot, for any reason.