Evelyn scolded the wolf again as she grabbed for the now slobbery, panicked sheep, who once more ran in frantic circles. She pulled the sheep to one of the pens and shut it safely behind the gate.
The door to the hut thudded again. “Woman, you had better—aaghhh!”
The highlander’s shout was drowned out by a ferocious snarl and Evelyn cringed, trying not to imagine long fangs sinking into the man’s thick neck. Then she heard a shuddering squeal and the snarling was abruptly silenced.
Evelyn rushed to the door again and pressed her ear to it—she couldn’t bear to look through the knothole at the carnage that lay inevitably beyond.
“Sir?” she called. “Sir, are you injured?”
A beat of silence and then a loud groan.
“Oh God, forgive me,” Evelyn breathed. She looked to Alinor. “We’ve killed him!”
The wolf whined.
“I know, he did ask for it, but—” Her conscience kicked at her. “Sir!” Evelyn shouted at the door once again. “Sir, answer me!”
“Och, lass,” the highlander moaned. “They got me, they did. Oh, the pain!”
Alinor lay down near Evelyn’s feet and covered her muzzle with one paw.
A strangled cry of dismay burst from Evelyn’s throat. She drew her dagger from her belt and then grabbed for the bar. “Hold on! I’m opening the door!”
No sooner had the rough length of wood scraped clear of the brackets than the door flew open, knocking Evelyn to the dirt on her backside, her dagger skittering across the floor. The highlander ducked inside quite ably, his face dark with rage. He slammed the door shut and replaced the bar.
He turned back to Evelyn, murderous fury sparking to life in his amber eyes. He bore not one scratch on his person, although the length of his sword was bloodied.
Alinor scrambled to her feet and fled to the other pen.
“You…you lied to me!” Evelyn stuttered.
“I’ll do worse than that,” he growled, seizing her arm and jerking her to her feet. He swung her toward the door and his brogue was thick as peat smoke with his next words. “I’ll have nae sneaking, backstabbing, sheep-stealing, English filth in me house.”
The highlander kept tight hold of Evelyn as he slid his sword into the sheath on his belt and then reached for the bar on the door, and Evelyn knew he intended to toss her to the grays.
“You can’t! You can’t!” she screamed, flailing at him as he struggled to lift the bar and retain hold of her. She could fight neither the man nor the beasts beyond the door physically. Her mind raced and she latched on to the one excuse that filtered to the top of her panicked thoughts. “I’m…I’m not English—I’m Scots!”
The man paused, looked down at her with one wry eyebrow raised. “Och, aye—blind I must be, and deaf as well, to nae have noticed yer gentle brogue and fine highland costume before now.” He shook her. “Liar.”
“Nay, listen!” Evelyn insisted, assembling the details of the lie so quickly they began to flow out of her mouth like water. “Listen, I”—she swallowed—“I was born and raised in England, yea. But my mother…my mother was Scots. She was born near Loch Lomond.”
“Well, what are you doing on MacKerrick lands, then? And where is your kin, hmm? You’re nae claiming to have MacKerrick blood in your veins now, are you?”
“Of course not.” Evelyn tried to laugh. “That’s ridiculous. I…I was accompanying a member of my family—my kin—back to her beloved highland home to die.” Evelyn cleared her throat. “Ah, my great-aunt. ’Twas her dying wish, you see. I can take you to her body, should you require proof.”
The highlander smirked. “Unlikely, English. But I’ll humor you through one more falsehood before I toss you out on your skinny arse. Give me the name of your kin, then. You can do that, can you not?”
Evelyn nodded frantically. “Of course.”
“Well?” the man fairly shouted.
“’Tis…Buchanan,” Evelyn squeaked. “My great-aunt was Minerva Buchanan.”
The highlander’s face went the color of the snow piled outside the hut and he dropped Evelyn’s arm as if it were afire. He staggered backward.
“Minerva Buchanan?” he repeated in a croaking voice.
Evelyn was unsure if her answer spelled good or ill for her immediate future, but felt she had no choice now but to press on. “Yea. Sister to Angus Buchanan.” She licked her lips, winced. “Did you know her?”
The highlander shook his head faintly and stared at Evelyn as though she were one of the grays from the forest. “Nae. But my uncle did, before he died. Ronan MacKerrick.” His eyes flicked about the hut. “This was his cottage.”
Evelyn instantly recalled the moments before the old healer’s death, and the moan of the man’s name on her lips.
“Of course,” Evelyn said, breathing a huge, silent sigh of relief. “She spoke of Ronan. I—I’m sorry to hear that he’s passed.”
The highlander’s eyes narrowed. “Have you…have you seen your Uncle Angus, gel?” he asked. “Does the Buchanan know you’re here, on MacKerrick lands?”
“Ah…nay,” Evelyn stammered. “I fear Minerva led us quite astray before she passed, and I have no idea in which direction the Buchanan village lies—I’ve never been there, you see. Is…is it far?” she asked, praying that it was. Too far, any matter, for this man to take her there immediately and out her lie.
“’Tis a town, nae a village,” he said absently. “And ’tis verra far, indeed, for winter travel.” The highlander spoke almost gently now, and Evelyn’s heart was buoyed with desperate relief. He placed one of his large, bony palms upon his chest. “I am Conall MacKerrick. Ronan’s own nephew.”
“And I am Evelyn…Buchanan Godewin.” God forgive my lying tongue.
For the first time, a genuine, if bewildered, smile cracked the highlander’s face. His eyes were alight with amber fire and their sparkle nearly took Evelyn’s breath.
“Welcome home, Eve.”
Chapter Three
“Well.” The willowy woman looked quite taken aback, in Conall’s opinion. She opened her lips as if she was about to speak again but then pressed them back together and twisted one hand in the folds of her skirt. She was quite fetching, Conall had to admit, discomfited as she was, and thinking hard about something.
“Well, indeed,” Conall said. His own head was still spinning with the realization of their predicament. He needed time to sort it out, to make sense of it all.
“Well,” Evelyn said again. She seemed to stand taller in her threadbare gown, which at one time had likely been quite fine. “Thank you very much for the welcome.”
