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marrying, and producing heirs.
    Alan had first traveled north from London to finish some business at his grandfather’s estate. In August, his uncle succumbed to a fever and in September Alan finally came to claim his birthright.
    “Good, now tug the thread tighter—it’s necessary to close the wound as tightly as ye can so it doesna fester.”
    Moira pulled hard on the thread, and a gasp leaked from Alan’s throat before he could stop it.
    “Oh no!” she exclaimed. He raised his lids to see her looking down at him, her brow furrowed. “I’m so sorry, Alan.”
    “It’s all right, lass,” he said from between his teeth.
    Mary MacNab snorted. “Don’t allow their whining to stop ye from what ye must do, Moira. For if you do, ye’ll be ineffective, and they’ll rot from the inside out.” She yanked on the thread, but Alan was prepared and merely released a harsh breath.
    He squeezed his eyes shut again and saw Sorcha, with her piercing eyes and black hair, in his mind’s eye. She was small and lithe, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with those wicked, beautiful, cat-shaped green eyes. The first time he’d seen her, she was leaving her father’s house with her sister as he was dismounting at the gate, planning to visit her father, his own father’s old friend. He’d stared after her in awe, scarcely able to breathe.
    Later, when Stewart had mentioned that he was searching for a husband for her, Alan leaped at what seemed like a perfect opportunity. She was six years younger than him, at twenty-two, with the proper background and Highland pedigree—her mother was a daughter of the MacDonald of Keppoch, and her father descended from the MacLeods. And the way her eyes flashed when she looked at him— perfect .
    Her family loved her unconditionally, that much was clear. Alan didn’t know her well, but beyond her beauty she did not seem a vapid creature like so many of the young ladies he’d known in England.
    “Now tie off the end like this,” Mary said. The women had worked all the way across his back, down from his right shoulder at a steep angle. His muscles spasmed as Mary tugged and pulled brutally at his flesh. At Mary’s command, Moira used her light touch to smear warm, melted butter along the entire length of the wound. Then Mary smacked him on the arse. “All right, MacDonald. The worst of it is done.”
    Alan groaned softly and rolled to his side, watching as Mary opened a pouch full of smooth pebbles, which she and Moira silently placed in a circle round his bed. When he raised an eyebrow in question, she snapped, “Dinna give me that superior English look, lad. These are enchanted stones, soaked in silvered water. They’ll be warding off the evil wee beasties that wish to kill ye through the wound.”
    After the circle was in place, she intoned a brief charm, and finally nodded in satisfaction. As Moira collected the stones and stored them in the pouch, Stewart led Mary outside, no doubt to discuss an exchange for her services. Alan rubbed at the bristle on his jaw. He’d take care of Mary’s payment later, in a way so as not to embarrass Stewart. Though they held a high status in Glenfinnan, Sorcha’s family possessed little real money, whereas Alan’s inheritance from his grandfather had made him rich—by Highland standards, that was. Though certainly not nearly as rich as the Earl of Camdonn.
    Stewart sent the boys to escort Mary home and came back inside. Moira placed warm bowls of barley broth before them, and though it seemed odd to Alan to eat at this hour, Moira insisted it would help him heal. He had to admit, the tasty, fragrant soup warmed him.
    The sun would rise in another hour. What was Sorcha doing now? The thought made his gut ache with misery.
    Her father sat across the table from Alan, eating silently. When he finished, he set his spoon in his bowl and pushed it away. Then he clasped his hands on the tabletop and met Alan’s gaze.
    “What happened tonight,