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"Brodie, whatever are you doing? What's come over you tonight?"

"Drink it," he snarled.

One shoulder moved in the slightest of shrugs. And there it was again, the elusive quality that had once entranced him and now drove him to helpless rage. In a single gesture she dismissed him, as though she was so far above him that nothing he said or did could ever truly touch her. He didn't take his eyes from her as she finished every drop and lowered the cup. Then he stepped back and sheathed the dagger.

"All right, then."

"Are you well, husband?" Her voice held just the right touch of concern. Oh, she played her part ably enough when it suited her, but he wasn't taken in. 'Twas well known a true witch could not feel love. But even a witch could bear a son, and by God, he'd have that much from her.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her hard against him. Ah, he'd finally reached her. The fear springing to her eyes sent a thrill of excitement racing through his veins.

"Oh, I'm well, wife," he said.

Her slender body stiffened, as though she braced herself against a blow. She'd had blows from him before—well earned, every one of them—but tonight he had other plans.

He released her and walked to the flagon—one he'd fetched himself—and poured, draining the mazer in thirsty gulps. When it was finished, he poured himself another. God knew a man needed something to warm his blood if he was to take this bony, whey-faced witch to bed.

But take her to his bed he would. Tonight was Beltane Eve, and even if Brodie was in name a Christian, he was still half pagan in his heart. Tonight he would beget a son. And then he would rid himself of the witch he'd married, lest she taint the boy who would one day be his heir.

Deirdre Maxwell watched her husband drain the second mazer, then bent her head to hide the relief in her eyes. Brodie thought himself so clever, but he was truly a great fool. What she had brought him was just ale, nothing more or less.

It was the flagon she had drugged.

CHAPTER 3

Alistair stood, arms crossed, a cynical smile curling his lips as Fergus put one gnarled hand on the bull's head and chanted softly. First he has me reiving cattle, now he's singing to the livestock. And isn't that just my luck? I've left it too late and he's lost what wits he had.

Fergus glanced over at him, frowning. "This is no game," he said. "Listen well and remember what ye hear."

Alistair bent his head. Let the man sing, then. But as he began to concentrate on the words, his skepticism faded into a dreamlike wonder. The chant, a blessing and a prayer, wound through the still spring air, swelling as the sun moved slowly to the west. By the time the shadows touched the blossom-studded meadow, Alistair had become part of the song. Moving as if in a dream, he took his dagger and laid it against the animal's throat. Its life's blood pulsed through the steel and up his arm, mingling with his own heartbeat.

The chant rose and held, then stopped abruptly. Alistair drew the blade in a quick, sharp motion. The beast started, tried to run, and Alistair felt its panic in his breast. Then the melody began again, gently now, a song of sunlight and green meadows. The animal snorted, lay down, and twitched feebly as its blood sank into the thirsty earth.

When it lay still Alistair drew one sleeve across his face, smeared with blood and tears.

"Now what?" he asked hoarsely.

"Skin it," Fergus answered. "Skin it whole. Then bring its hide to me."

Alistair obeyed without question. It was a long job and by the time he dragged the hide to the cave's entrance, he was spattered head to foot in blood. Fergus was waiting there, seated on the flat stone, a goblet set beside him.

Fergus looked at the hide and then at Alistair. "Good," he said briefly, picking up the goblet. "Now drink this."

Alistair drained the goblet. It tasted of herbs and honey and something bitter underneath. As he swallowed the last of it, he was dimly aware that his fingers had gone numb and a peaceful languor was moving through his limbs.

When he set the goblet back on the flat stone, the sunlight struck its surface in a shower of golden sparks. He stared at it, transfixed, and an image formed before his eyes, a slender, dark-haired lass—or no, he thought dizzily, no ordinary lass, but a queen—gliding quickly through a forest.

"What do ye see?" Fergus asked softly.

The scene before Alistair's eyes blurred and changed. "Death," he whispered. "Eight men lying on the moor, lying in their blood. And Ian..."

With a cry of horror, he struck the cup aside.

"It was meant to be me that day, not him!" he burst out angrily. "God—or the devil—made a mistake. It was all wrong, I knew it then...and I know it now. 'Tis as though—as though I did die that day—and all that's happened since is nothing but a dream."

He had said it at last, the thing he had sworn never to tell another living soul. But now that it was said, he felt no fear, just relief that it was out. Fergus didn't seem at all perturbed. The old man didn't look at him as though he had no business walking free. He simply nodded as if what Alistair had said was the most natural thing in the world.

"Is there more or is that the end of it?"