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A familiar voice made him turn.

Maol hadn’t spoken. No, his bodyguard had wisely held his tongue, a still and silent shadow waiting a few yards back. Instead, a broader figure approached. A big man with a bandaged head.

Gregor.

Niall’s mouth twisted. The druid was the last person he wanted to see right now; nonetheless, the dogged bastard had sought him out.

Gregor passed Maol without acknowledging him and stepped up next to Niall. In the light of the brazier burning a few yards away, his heavy features were pinched. He must have been in pain, for he’d taken quite a blow to the head earlier. They’d found him unconscious, surrounded by corpses. However, the druid wasn’t that easy to kill, it seemed. And just as well, for Niall needed his skills.

With those two tattooists gone, Gregor was the only one here capable of doing the work.

“Of course, all will be well,” Niall ground out, his gaze swinging back to the pine-covered slope that blocked his view east. “My warriors will track them down. They’ll kill my brother and that Shee bitch … and drag Kayla and Ailsa back here.”

“Aye, sire.”

Something in Gregor’s voice made Niall stiffen.

Slowly, he turned his head, his gaze settling upon the druid once more. “Go on … say it,” he growled.

Gregor inclined his head. “Say what?”

“You wanted me to string Darach up by the throat on the day he arrived here, but I knew better.”

“You did,” Gregor replied cautiously. “He’s your brother, after all.” The druid hesitated then. “Blood can make things … complicated.”

Heat rolled over Niall.

Aye, it could.

For an instant, he didn’t see the man who’d betrayed him, but the gangly boy who’d followed him around Braewall’s broch with a wooden practice sword clutched in his fist.

Sourness flooded his mouth.

Darach was a weakness, one he could no longer afford. He’d fooled himself. Let himself hope that his younger brother might join him, might look up to him, but there was a reason he’d hunted him all these years.

His brother would never submit. He’d die first.

So be it.

“Not anymore,” he replied.

Darach followed Ailsa into the cave to find the fire merrily burning in the hearth. It glowed like a beacon, burnishing the damp walls. The smoke drifted up, disappearing through a crack in the ceiling.

Kayla and Fern were seated cross-legged around the fire, furs around their shoulders, hands outstretched to warm themselves. Setting down the silvery lantern near the entrance, Darach moved over, behind where Ailsa lowered herself before the fire, to the clothing he’d left here.

Fern had done well, he thought, as he pulled on leather breeches and a leather vest, gritting his teeth as his aching muscles and bruised ribs protested. The clothing was slightly loose at present, but once he put on weight, it wouldn’t be.

She’d told him she’d have breeches, a tunic, and a vest waiting for him, and she’d even provided a heavy pair of boots. He didn’t don those now. Instead, he padded barefoot over to the fire and seated himself gingerly upon one of the plush furs—a wolf pelt.

Across the fire, Fern ran a critical eye over him, giving what appeared to be a nod of approval.

Darach’s gaze flicked to Ailsa, checking her reaction too. However, she wasn’t looking his way. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed upon the dancing flames. They reflected in her dark eyes.

Darach frowned. He’d tried to reassure her earlier, but he wasn’t sure he’d succeeded.

“Feeling better?” Fern asked.

“Aye,” he replied, flashing her a smile.