The steep heather-covered brae was slowly losing its purple hue and velvety texture for that of the pale, dry color of ripe wheat. A grove of mountain ash in the nearby wood dropped their fiery colored leaves in continuous procession as the crisp breeze ruffled through their branches, layering the ground with those weakened with death, setting the forest aflame in this time of autumn.
A lone bird had tarried too long; his cry cleaved the morning stillness in his futile effort to find a companion for the long trip to the warmer climes. The sun's rays held little warmth as they peeked through the clouds moving swiftly over the land. Like a great eye, its lid slowly closing in a capricious wink when the giant puffs of cotton moved before it, shutting out the semi-brightness of waning days.
The sharply rising slope of dried heather stood motionless until, breaking its summit, two kinsmen came into view, their helmets reflecting the sun. Bent close together, they appeared in deep conversation. The hammered metal of the harness clanked against the full armor of the horse of the larger rider, as they stepped casually along the path. The smaller rider's horse wore only the leather saddle and bridle, undressed for battle. The leather saddles sighed a steady rhythm in harmony with their peaceful surroundings.
The two riders traversed the hillside to a grass-filled glen, their mounts moving slowly, as they picked their own way around the boulders strung hither and yon in their path. The steeds moved, uncaring of the clear trail they left in the fine layer of shimmering frost, which still blanketed the land in the morning hour. All trace of their passing would soon flee when warmed from the rays of the day's sun.
Both kinsmen were dressed in leather jerkins and leggings. Their woolen plaids bearing the bright red and green of the Comyn clan were draped from their shoulders. Black leather boots covered their legs to the thigh. Their shields were carried slung across the saddle pommel in an attitude of peace, and the stiff gauntlets were tucked in their belts. They were not traveling in haste to battle but were moving at a more leisurely pace enjoying the morning briskness.
The larger of the two, green eyes shadowed beneath his helm looked on sullenly at the gaiety of his kinsman. A sword dangling at his side was revealed in the glint of the scabbard at his waist. The smaller rider wore only the short scabbard holding a sgian-dubh; a jewel encrusted dagger at the side of his leg.
The men of Scotland were never without a weapon unless in bed, and then it was always within arm's reach. If they had laid aside their dirk or heavier claymore they had only to bend to have the deadly sgian-dubh in their hand. It was commonly worn by the men in a scabbard on the calves of their legs. Though the sight of such a weapon on a female was indeed rare.
Two pair of green eyes shadowed beneath their helms, looked to have been brothers. The older and much larger of the two, who had not yet seen his first score of years, scowled heavily, riding in silence, listening to his younger companion.
"Damn the black Laird of Badenock! I am sick of looking at four walls when my life's blood hungers for the open countryside of the Highlands! The joy of feeling the crisp air in my face. If I thought I would have to spend the rest of my life cloistered behind impenetrable walls as I have been these last few weeks, I would choose instead the gibbet."
Able to contain himself no longer, the silent partner interrupted vehemently.
"Why I let you talk me into this I'll never know. Sir John will surely have my head if he gets word of this escapade. He gave strict orders that you were to remain inside the castle gates, ye ken, and once again you've deliberately defied him." Slowly his gaze wondered the near horizon, his hands resting on the pommel, holding his reins loosely. The scowl transformed into a smile. "Still and all, it is a bonny morn." His easygoing nature once more rising to slough off the worry and doubt he had borne on this day.
"Come," spoke the smaller Comyn, seeing his good humor return. "Let's see if that great stallion of yours is all you claim him to be. I'll wager a silver bawbee that my horse can outrun yours to the MacBaron borders. Well? Must I throw down my gauntlet?"
With a slight nod Fergus kicked his mount up the hillock in pursuit of the silver coin. The two had played this same game often enough and it caused Fergus no small amount of frustration that at no time could he best the other rider. Openly he blamed his losses on the lesser weight of his competitor, but grudgingly conceded that the better horseman of the two was consistently the winner.
After cresting the rise, Fergus skillfully guided his steed down through the boulder-strewn brae. He bent low over the velvet brown ears, shouting words of encouragement. He rode well, astride the large-boned bay in full battle regalia, making an impressive sight. His quick start had given him a slight edge over the challenger and he pressed forward, trying to take advantage of it.
"If I reach yon glen first, I've got ye!" he shouted triumphantly over his shoulder.
"You know the danger of making idle threats, brother," came the rejoinder from far nearer than a minute earlier. And this race proved to be no exception. Stretched low over the stallion's neck, he felt his companion draw close, the other steed's hooves matching the pounding beat of his destrier. Then his opponent whipped past him with a loud guffaw. For while it was true that Fergus rode the larger animal, it was also a fact that the smaller horse possessed a keener agility that made quick, smooth work of the meadow maze. With matching strides they burst into the clearing, their mounts stretching for the finish. The smaller horse and rider seemed as one, flying unbridled across the field, outdistancing the bay. The heavy armor began to take its toll on the stallion's endurance, leaving a fine layer of glistening sweat upon his body. His breathing was more labored and white flecks of foam beaded the corners of his mouth. Mindful of the heavy load his mount carried, Fergus finally eased back on his reins, conceding the contest.
When he reached the stretch of the Reelig Glen Forest that marked the boundaries of MacBaron land, he reined his horse to a halt. His companion, who awaited his arrival, sat astride the saddle at a rakish slant, grinning victoriously up at him. Reluctantly Fergus reached under his leather jerkin for a small pouch, withdrawing the promised silver coin and held it out in his open palm.
"Drat it, Candelinn," he cursed his sister lightly. "How do you do it? I have more experience at being a horseman than you and yet you always sail by me as if I were a stripling lad."
With a flippant wave of her slender, well-shaped hand, she dismissed the look of consternation on her brother's face and laughed away her victory.
"Mayhap, you're correct, Fergus, in saying it's the difference in our weight. Why you men have to ride in full regalia I shall never understand. Even without your arms and shield you would still burden you steed in chain mail beneath your jerkin. 'Tis no wonder your poor stallion can't keep up with my sprightly mare."
Fergus looked fondly upon his sister, her green eyes flashing mischievously. Her blazoned hair was slipping defiantly from beneath her helm and showing around the edge of her coif in wild abandon. Less like a lad she could never look, he thought, shaking his head in amusement.
"That unruly hair of yours is going to be our undoing, Candelinn. No one could possibly look at those tresses and think they belonged on the head of a lad. Mayhap we'd best turn back afore it's too late. We're going to have trouble aplenty getting through MacBaron lands without the stalkers of that wild band noticing a strange lass within their reach. 'Tis a dangerous thing we do. Rumor leaves little doubt of their gentleness with the fairer sex. And with the surname of Comyn, we would probably not be allowed to live." Even as he spoke, Fergus looked about suspiciously, his manly bravado giving way to youthful insecurity. He sucked in his lower lip nervously, emphasizing the finely chiseled jawline still discernible through a sparsely thatched growth of beard. Quickly he looked at his sister, unconsciously acknowledging her as the stronger of the two, awaiting her decision. Her stronger personality had led them both the last few years, not only in childish mischief but also to outright disobedience of their cousin, the Comyn Laird.
Candelinn's skin prickled at the mention of the clan MacBaron. They had been enemies of the Comyn's for years; since Archibald Comyn, a cousin of her great-great-grandfather, had kidnapped one of the MacBaron maidens and kept her his captive, before finally marrying her after she gave him a son. Since that time, tales were told far and wide of the wicked things the clan MacBaron had done to any female wearing the familiar red and green colors of the Comyn clan. Stories that burned the ears of the MacBaron clan and added to the cold war that simmered between the two. Often Candelinn had sat listening to the men gathered round the roaring fire in the hall on cold winter evenings as they told and retold of how seven years before, one of her clan had fought one of the Earl of Carrick's clan, a good friend of the MacBaron, at Peebles, Scotland. Deep in the forest of Selkirk a council of the realm had been called, presiding over jointly by Sir John Comyn and Sir Robert Bruce. An argument had erupted between Malcolm Bruce, one of the Earl of Carrick's following and one of the Comyn clan. In the ensuing brawl, John Comyn leaped upon the earl, seizing him by the throat. The fight was broken up by the MacBaron Laird, but tempers continued to rage. Before the day was over Sir Robert Bruce had resigned in disgust and he and the MacBaron had stormed from the council. To make matters worse, Candelinn's cousin, Sir John Comyn, was fighting Robert the Bruce for the crown of Scotland. For Scotland was now being ruled by King Edward of England. No true Scotsman could yield under the yolk of foreign rule. It was widely known that the MacBaron was a close friend of Robert the Bruce and wanted him on the throne, which only served to intensify the hatred between the two clans.
Candelinn tucked her hair back into the coif under her helm and squared her shoulders, pushing the distressing thoughts from her mind as she did so.
"They'll never guess I'm a lass, brother, never fear."
Fergus chuckled. "I'm sure there will be no doubt, especially with the way you sit so straight in the saddle. I think it time you found a larger jerkin for yourself," he teased, glancing at the leather jerkin stretched tightly over her breast, unable to suppress her obvious womanhood. "Perhaps you should lean a little forward against the pommel like a bent old man, if you are so intent on this journey." His brows twitched lecherously as he sat grinning broadly.
"Fergus! Heed your brashness!"
"Och, fair damsel," he mocked. "'Tis no doubt your tender ears have heard more randy words than these while hiding behind the stairs listening to the warriors and huntsmen tell their tall tales. Aha!" he pursued the issue. "I see by your blush that you didn't think you were seen. But never fear, I am probably the only one that recognized that fiery head of yours." His countenance changed to that of solemn protector. "In all truth, Candelinn, I don't think we should cross MacBaron land."
"Still your doubts, " she said. "We've gone through all this before and I must see Helena. You know she is to be married in a month's time and we won't be able to see each other. I've begged Sir John and he forbids me to have anything to do with her, simply because she is betrothed to the younger brother of The MacBaron! Furthermore, it was an honest wager you lost with the bow and yard-arrow. St. Columba! How was I to know that my aim would be so true? Say me aye or nae. Would you be less than a man and go back on your word to take me to see Helena as fair payment for your bet?"
"Aye, Candelinn, aye," he shrugged in surrender. "You win," he answered her shortly, unwilling to argue further. "Let's away afore darkness comes and we are but halfway there."
Fergus was the older by two years, and as they rode abreast he looked at his sister appraisingly. Though to the eye she appeared such a tender young lass, yet she was surer of arm and sharper of eye than many other lad near their age.
Since their parent's death of the fever, five years earlier, and their lands being confiscated by King Edward of England, they were forced to live with their cousin, Sir John Comyn. Since that time Fergus's feelings of protection had grown naturally stronger. Their parents had allowed their daughter full rein in her wild and boyish ways and now Sir John struggled in vein to dominate and control her irrepressible actions. But his heavy-handed ways were too restricting on her restless, growing spirit. Instead of becoming the more timid and dutiful maid, Candelinn was even more determined to hold onto her rebellious ways, thwarting her cousin's ideas of propriety at every turn.
Fergus chuckled to himself as he thought back to the day before, when bored of listening to the men, while drinking their ale, retelling of their courageous adventures, he had let Candelinn challenge his aim with the bow. There were times when he thought her more lad than lass. He laughed outright at the thought, perhaps if need be she could protect him instead of the other way around.
Fergus led the way, cautiously skirting the boundaries of the vast MacBaron lands but never quite trespassing upon them. Kenneth de Keith owned the lands bordering on the other side of the wild MacBaron clan and that was to be their destination. Since brother and sister had to move as stealthily as possible, both knew it would be almost nightfall before they reached their destination.
Silently they journeyed throughout the day, stopping only once by a small burn, shadowed by a copse of birch, to water the horses. They refreshed themselves and shared the dried venison and flat bannock cakes they had carried in a leather pouch.
Candelinn broke the silence. "Fergus, do you ever wonder what is going to happen to us?"
His eyes quickly glanced the perimeter, trying desperately to see through the trees for any unseen enemy. His hand nervously fondled the handle of his sword.
His quick movements were not lost to Candelinn so she hurriedly continued. "I don't mean right now, you dolt! I mean in years to come. Our chief wants to be the next King of Scotland and I suppose we owe him our loyalty. He'll probably want me to marry someone who has the men to help him attain his goal. And you? You'll have to bear his arms in the battle against the other clans. I tell you, I just don't like the man. Oh, I know we owe him a debt of gratitude for taking us in when our parents died but Fergus, there's no warmth in the chief of the Comyn's. He's hard and cruel to all his people. I sometimes think of our fate living under the rule of the Red Comyn. I vow to you before all the saints, that I will never marry a man unless he is of my own choosing, not someone picked out by our cousin to further his ambitions." She sighed wistfully, her eyes pinched in thought, her face solemn.
"Well, I guess we cross that moor when the time comes, Candelinn. It may be bottomless bogs in spots but we have each other, so we'll survive anything our chieftain hands us. We could always escape to live in the heather, " Fergus answered bravely determined to show his manly strength. His sister smiled at his heroic outburst but didn't comment. After their light repast they resumed their journey, but with much more caution, the farther they traveled from Comyn lands.
Occasionally they had seen other riders in the far distance, but were unable to discern clearly the color of their plaid. Always they appeared in groups of a half dozen or more, for traveling with less than that often proved a serious mistake. Not only rival clans, but also roving bands loyal to no tartan plaid scoured the countryside, eager to set upon easy prey, such as Fergus and Candelinn provided, traveling, as they were alone and with only his heavy claymore and her small sgian-dubh. They were a foolhardy twosome, something Fergus pointed out at every opportunity. More than once they were forced to take cover when a band of men passed their way. But fortunately none of the groups appeared to be seriously hunting for fresh tracks this day and they made their way stealthily to safer ground. Candelinn's tired body had long since started to ache from so many hours in the saddle when they at last passed the village of Keithtown and a familiar sight loomed up ahead. The Keith Laird's castle, its rugged outline barely visible from the flickering torchlights reflecting about its tall, round turrets. Fatigue was instantaneously replaced with renewed energy, as only the young are capable of doing. With an excited call to her brother, Candelinn pushed her mount forward and reached the gate first. She reined in and sat waiting, an impudent smile upon her face as Fergus slowly joined her at the portcullis.
"Who goes there?" Shouted the watchman at the gate.
"'Tis Fergus Comyn and his sister Candelinn to visit Helena de Keith," he answered. "Open up, man! The hour grows late and we would like to pass some friendly words with her afore it is time to retire."
Cautiously the guard reached out, holding his torch aloft, verifying the presence of only two riders.
"From the clan Comyn, ye say." It was more a question than a statement. "Doff ye're helmet lad, so I may see ye in the light."
Obediently Fergus removed his helmet, placing it on the saddle pommel before him. He pushed his coif back onto his shoulders, showing the guard his telltale hair. Impatient as he was to rest his weary body beside a warming fire, he understood the necessity of the guard's caution. Few people traveled after dark, and it was not unheard of for a lone rider to appear at the gates of a castle under the guise of friendship while his men waited in ambush outside the circle of torchlight. But the Comyn red hair was well known in the highlands so it was the automatic password for entry.
Satisfied at last, the guard retreated inside to open the gates.
"Good God, lad, what brings ye out at this time o' night?" The watchman hollered through the heavy planking of the gate.
"Who else, but my sister," Fergus answered disparagingly, his patience wearing thin as he grew chilled in the night air.
"Poor sport," his companion teased, her spirits clearly restored with their arrival.
"Hmmphh!" Came the answering voice in the dark.
The iron portcullis slowly raised like the opening jaws of a fabled monster to the accompanying sounds of heavy chains screeching their protest. The two horses stepped forward, passing beneath its jagged teeth, their hooves echoing on the cobblestones. Now that they had reached their destination, they moved unhurriedly across the courtyard and the pair dismounted before the stairs of the castle.
The door of the keep opened wide allowing the light from within to spill down the steps as the dogs leapt forward, their voices barking a warning as they hurtled out into the night air to meet the newcomers. Their tone changed to one of welcome as they recognized a familiar scent.
The two riders dressed in the easily discernible Comyn plaid waited silently, revealed in the splash of light on the cobbles.
Helena herself stood at the top of the stairs, her shadow reaching to the hooves of the horses standing in the courtyard below her. With a cry of surprised joy, she hurried to greet her guests. She lifted her skirt out of her way as she ran down the timeworn stone steps.
"Oh, Fergus!" she cried, "You're a welcome sight." Barely glancing at the other young visitor, she continued, scanning the darkness for a third rider. "But where is Candelinn? Did she not come with you? Or did Sir John forbid it?" Her voice was full of disappointment and not a little sarcasm.
Candelinn, understanding that her friend did not recognize her, could not resist the temptation to tease, and spoke up with a voice, several octaves lower than her own.
"What need ye with Candelinn when two braw lads have come so far, braving unimaginable perils to rest their weary eyes upon a maiden so fair?" With a great show of boldness, Candelinn sauntered up to Helena. She threw her arm familiarly across her shoulders and spoke boldly.
"What?" No friendly kiss for two lonesome highlanders who have traversed so far. Why, we were even brave enough to cross the wild MacBaron lands to see you on this fair eve."
Helena's reaction was one of indignant shock. "Why you... you!" She raised her hand to slap the face of the presumptuous lad who dared to be so forward. When she stepped back to take her swing, the light from within shone directly on the familiar green eyes, crinkling with barely restrained laughter. Helena hesitated as she recognized the face of her closest friend.
"Candelinn, you bawdy piece of baggage!" She hugged her friend close. "What will you think of next? So you're back to wearing your men's breeks. I thought your cousin forbid it?" Though she knew her friend enjoyed her escapades when dressed like a lad, Helena had never really understood it.
"To speak the truth, Helena, Fergus would not bring me unless I dressed as such. Hefeared I would be ravaged by a wild MacBaron if I came as myself. But I so wanted to see you before your wedding, there was naught else I could do."
Helena looked hesitantly from Candelinn to Fergus and back again. "Candelinn, before we go inside, I must forewarn you," she stammered, wringing her hands together. "Richard, my husband to be and... and the MacBaron chief are both here at the castle. They are discussing the final arrangements of the wedding with my father." When she saw the shocked looks on her friends' faces she rushed on. "But I promise you that no harm will come to either of you. You are my dearest friend, Candelinn, and I'm sure that is enough for Richard. Besides, my father will protect you." She said as an afterthought.
"But what of the MacBaron chief?" Fergus spoke up rather harshly, his words echoing hollowly about the courtyard as his hand slid unconsciously over the handle of the claymore carried at his waist. Candelinn's hand also moved to her dirk. Both prepared to defend themselves.
"Helena shrugged helplessly. "I cannot say for certain. He does not speak overmuch and when he does everyone in the room hears his voice. I must admit he frightens me more than a little."
"I think we had best depart, Candelinn. No good can come from meeting a sworn enemy of the Comyn clan," spoke Fergus hastily, his hand never leaving his heavy sword. His head swiveled, trying to penetrate the darkness surrounding them. He was apprehensive just knowing any of the MacBaron clan was in the vicinity. A laird never traveled alone. His guard of eight or ten men always accompanied him. But the thought of the chief alone being this close made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
"You are right, Fergus. Their treachery is well known among the Comyns so we will not tempt fate in their favor," agreed Candelinn, turning as if to leave.
"Please, don't go," begged Helena. "You've come all this way and you shouldn't travel further tonight. Your father and mine were dear friends, so rest assured my father would see you come to no harm. Please come in, Candelinn. It is time for our evening meal and I know you both must be starved."
Fergus stood watching Candelinn, awaiting her decision. At her nod, he relaxed his guard, the thought of an all night ride not inviting.
Candelinn, whose vibrant, alive beauty so contrasted with the delicate grace of the other, put her arm through Helena's and together they walked up the stone steps, talking over the forthcoming marriage.
They were oblivious of Fergus, handing their reins to the clansman, waiting nearby. He brought up the rear, scowling at the thought of sharing a meal with a MacBaron, and especially the chief of the clan.
When the two women reached the top of the stairs, Candelinn threw back her head to laugh at something Helena was saying, and nearly walked into a tall dark form frowning down at her. The sound of her laughter never left her mouth and she almost lost her balance. She stepped back at the large man blocking their path. He was of medium build and extremely handsome, his dark brows were pulled together dangerously, his deep brown eyes staring daggers through her. Helena moved quickly away from Candelinn, going to his side. His scowl was like a dark thundercloud as his arm circled her waist possessively.
She looked up at him beseechingly. "Richard, I want you to meet my very best friend, Candelinn de Comyn and her brother, Fergus. Candelinn, this is Richard MacBaron, my betrothed."
Richard's scowl turned to puzzlement as he looked from Helena to the lad in the Comyn plaid. The darkness of the courtyard acted as a shield against close scrutiny, preventing him from noticing the obviously feminine form beneath the male clothing.
As she watched his skeptical appraisal of her, Candelinn suddenly realized that she was still wearing the helmet bearing the Comyn arms.
"Och... my helm, I forgot," she grimaced and quickly removed it. She loosened the coif and pushed it back letting her hair fall free. The long thick masses of fiery hair dropped to her waist. She put forth her hand, determined to be pleasant.
Richard finally smiled, trying to thwart the jealousy he had felt at first. He nodded down at her from his extreme height.
"I've heard much about you, Candelinn," he greeted her warmly, bowing from the waist.
Candelinn could not answer. She stood frozen, her feet rooted to the stone step. Her skin shivered as if a cold wintry breeze has just blown down from the snow-capped Grampians. Behind Richard was a giant. He was standing in the lighted doorway almost blocking the light from within the room. He was the most imposing man she had ever seen and his aura of strength reached out and engulfed her. He was as dark as Richard and attired as was his brother in the plaid of the clan MacBaron, but there the resemblance ceased.
His kilt was mostly black, with red stripes running though it crisscrossing into a chequered pattern, showing bronzed, extremely muscular legs beneath it. He had a heavy woolen plaid of the same material draped from his left shoulder, held in place by a large gold brooch bearing the clan crest. His leather belt, holding his lambskin sporran, encircled his narrow hips, emphasizing his broad chest and shoulders. He had evidently laid aside his sword, but the jeweled hilt of his dagger was prominent on his calf.
How she managed to notice his clothing, Candelinn wondered afterward, for it seemed as though her eyes had never left his. They were large and dark brown surrounded by thick black lashes. While his rugged good looks resembled his younger brother, his manner reflected the self-assured strength of the leader of the large clan MacBaron. She'd heard his age was almost one score and ten, though it was hard to tell, and his features were hard, masculine, with a touch of savage cruelty, gentled only by a slight curving of his lips as he returned her gaze. His shoulders were twice as wide as his brother's and iron-thewn muscles rippled beneath his velvet tunic as he approached them.
Angus's eyes never left the vision of the lass, as he made his way closer. He felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her thick masses of hair, in disarray around her face and shoulders, looked as if she had just crawled out of bed. His mind dwelled on that thought and he was disturbed at the fact that his body began to warm as his imagination started to get carried away.
Candelinn felt her body turning hot from the toes up, leaving her slightly flushed. She realized that while bowing low he had slowly looked her over, devouring her as he silently appraised, before his gaze came to rest on her jade green eyes. His expression still held hers with a hint of arrogance as he raised one eyebrow in silent mockery of her dust-stained male attire.
While Helena made introductions, Candelinn raised her chin, nobly determined to regain her composure. So this was Angus MacBaron! Though her hands were shaking, outwardly, she tried to put on a front of controlled haughtiness against the chief of the MacBaron clan.
How she wished she hadn't listened to Fergus and worn these men's clothes, she thought, pulling at her jerkin in an unconscious effort to straighten it. The main reason for his caution was standing here before her now. She could have worn her new gunna, after all, even if it meant riding sidesaddle, which she hated. But why did it bother her? Why should she care what this man, her clan's enemy thought? Her mind made up, she tried to ignore the powerful feelings that were trying to control her body. She raised her chin higher, flinging her hair behind her shoulders. Her eyes only reached his chest and she had to look a long way up to stare defiantly into his eyes, silently challenging him. The man was way too handsome by far.
The MacBaron chief's look changed to one of humor as he watched the wee sprite before him, her expression mirroring her convictions. As if reading her mind, one side of his mouth slanted upward in cynical answer to the invisible gauntlet thrown at his feet. Good God, she was lovely! Before her arrival, he had felt bored with the proceedings leading to his brother's wedding. Now, of a sudden, he was looking forward to the rest of the evening.
Everyone was talking around her, while Fergus was calmly shaking hands with the two men, seeming actually pleased to meet them. What by all that's holy, she silently questioned, could he be thinking of? These men were their family's sworn enemies and yet here stood Fergus traitorously smiling at the two men like long lost friends. As always, Fergus got over his anger quickly. It was simply too much! She shook her head disgustedly, which did not go unnoticed by The MacBaron.
Before Candelinn could reach Fergus's side to give him a well placed kick on the ankle, Helena interrupted. She invited them all back into the hall where her father and mother and the rest of the Keith clan waited. Candelinn noticed Fergus capture Richard MacBaron in conversation as the two followed Helena through the wide arched doorway, leaving her behind to find her own way. Fergus would have much to answer for on the ride home.
Before Candelinn could make a move to follow them, the mountain blocked her path. Her body tensed and for the briefest instant, uncertainty showed in her face as she looked up once again into the eyes of The MacBaron.
Laughter flickered in the brown orbs as he offered her his arm.
"Mistress Comyn," he spoke for the first time, softly, continuing to hold out his arm for her to take. He sensed the anger and frustration she felt for being left alone in the cold passageway with him. For a second he thought she may faint, but quickly changed his mind. Nae, this lass would never faint for such a paltry reason. He could tell from these brief moments, she had courage and fire. And he found he was glad this was so. He stood waiting.
The gentle rolling brogue in his deep rich voice threw her off guard. Those two words spoken as a caress possessed her completely. The feeling of his power surrounded her and she stepped back involuntarily, losing her balance.
Strong arms caught her, and brought her up against his chest. He waited as she regained her footing. For the briefest moment longer, his hands lingered on her, his strong fingers spanning her waist.
Candelinn's blood raced through her veins as her heartbeats sped faster and faster. His touch bound her as if in chains and she held her breath lest her shallow breathing gave her away.
"You are safe lass." his warm breath ruffled the top of her head.
She wanted to yell no, she wasn't safe at all! Her traitorous body was acting ridiculously out of character. But instead she nodded at his chest, the top of her head touching beneath his chin.
Angus stepped back, giving the lass some room. However, he kept his hands around her waist, until he was sure she could make it up the last of the steps. He had fought the urge to kiss her, when her breasts touched his chest. "The way is dark," he gave her an excuse for her near fall. He offered her his arm once again. "Even a wee Comyn lass may have need of the MacBaron, in this darkened corridor." He teased her, trying to disguise the smoldering hunger fanned into flame by a single touch.
"I do not need the helping hand of a MacBaron," she said sarcastically, regaining her composure and a spark of anger at his teasing remark. "If you would just remove your body from in front of me, I could get through."
He chuckled and stepped back, giving her more room. Aye, she had courage. "You never know when the tides of fate will be against you, Mistress Comyn. Mayhap, someday you will be grateful for the hand of a MacBaron."
Candelinn stumbled once again on the step in front of her. Quickly she regained her balance before he could grab her a second time. She flounced passed him as best she could, dressed in breeches and jerkin. As she moved in front of his giant frame she whispered. "I'm quite able to manage on my own, thank you." She heard a soft chuckle behind her and her back stiffened indignantly.
"I think not, lass," his words penetrated the darkness.
By the time Candelinn had entered the castle, she was in such a rage as would do the reputation of the redheads proud. Flaying the night air with silent curses, she stomped across the hall and fairly flung the door wide as she stormed into the room. The sound of heavier footsteps echoed unhurriedly behind her.
