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Father Nicholas, the village priest, came out of the simple stone church. “Ah, everyone is here,” he said as he looked at them with a kind smile. “Shall we begin?”

“It seems we’re missing the bride,” said James, his English accent melodic.

“Oh.” Father Nicholas glanced around the small crowd.

“She’s coming.” Raghnall’s jaw tensed. “She’s coming.”

Angus’s heavy gaze fell on him. Raghnall swore the man could see through him. “Where does this Èibhlin come from, anyway?”

“She’s a local lass,” Raghnall said through gritted teeth. “Ye’ll be happy, brother. A wife, just like ye ordered.”

“Dinna ye bite, brother.” Angus picked a stone off the ground with the edge of his shoe and kicked it. “Ye ken ’tis for yer own good. A wife will ground ye.”

Raghnall scoffed. “Ye ken nothing.”

David came to stand next to Raghnall. The lad, unlike any other time Raghnall had seen him, wore a rich tunic—almost indigo, with intricate, Celtic interwoven patterns around the neck. His hair was longer and wilder now, and he even sported a short beard, which was the most facial hair Raghnall had seen on him. It made him look older than his years, as did the sadness and the guilt of a man who’d had to kill.

An experience Raghnall had known for years. Death, it seemed, followed Raghnall like a loyal dog.

“Want me to go and look for her?” David asked Raghnall in his usual odd manner of missing words in a sentence and still being able to convey his meaning.

“Thanks, lad.” Raghnall looked around his family. “I ken she’ll come.” He wasn’t usually one to ask for favors, but he swallowed his pride, for Seoc, and met Angus’s dark eyes. “Please, just wait a wee bit.”

“Of course, brother,” Angus said and hugged Rogene, who gave Raghnall a reassuring smile. “We will wait as long as it takes.”

Raghnall’s chest squeezed at the sight of love and tenderness between his older brother and his wife. The love they shared was unmistakable. Raghnall had known this was it for his brother as soon as he saw how Angus looked at Rogene.

Watching them now, Raghnall thought of Mòrag and how part of him wished he had someone like Angus had Rogene.

But he had resolved four years ago, holding the dying woman he loved in his arms, to never love again.

Because loving meant losing, sooner or later.

They all chatted a bit, though everyone’s eyes darted to the streets and houses around them. The news of the wedding of the youngest Mackenzie son, who’d returned, had spread quickly over the past few days, and a good crowd was gathered around them. Would a female figure appear from behind one of the thatched-roof houses or squeeze between the villagers?

But Èibhlin’s small figure didn’t step out from behind the crowd, and no one came to tell him any news. The shorter the shadows grew, the heavier Raghnall’s heart weighed.

She may have tricked him. Changed her mind or decided to save herself and run.

When the sun was up high, indicating it was midday, Angus sighed heavily and came to Raghnall. He bit his lower lip mournfully. “I am sorry, brother. We waited half a day…”

“She’ll come,” Raghnall said, although even he could hear the doubt in his own voice.

“Ye’ll find another bride,” Laomann said as he clapped Raghnall on the shoulder.

“’Tis good ye didna tie yerself to a woman who canna keep her word,” Angus added. “We’re going back to the castle. Ye’ll find a better woman.”

As his family gave him benevolent smiles and nods and turned to go to the pier and board the boats to the castle, Raghnall stood, helplessly clenching and unclenching his fists.

No, this couldn’t be it. Seoc was on his way. Raghnall needed the estate. He needed the lands to provide for the lad he considered his son…

But as he stood in front of the church in the middle of the empty square, he knew that yet again destiny had had her say and taken hope out of his hands like a bully took candied fruit from a child.

Chapter 3

“Lass…” Someone shook her shoulder.

Bryanna opened her eyes. Above her was a dark stone ceiling and, illuminated by real flames, two faces were leaning over her. One was an older man in his fifties, deep creases of wrinkles on his face. The other was a young, dark-haired man with chin-length hair. Both stared at her as though she were a ghost.