Chapter 1
Ablackbird chased its mate across the sunlit sky. The pair fluttered together into a nearby tree, chirping merrily as lovers are wont to do.
Broc felt somehow empty at the sight of them. It was the second time during the span of the day that the feeling had come over him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what troubled him, but he was restless.
It was a beautiful summer day with every tree a verdant green. The scent of something delightful but elusive hung in the air like an invisible mist, teasing his nostrils. Something like sweet pollen mayhap, though he couldn’t name the flower of its origin.
He stopped to watch the birds mating upon a branch overhead. Furious little creatures, they struggled together as though battling. His brows drew together as he watched them pair off. God’s truth, it seemed everything and everybody was mating except him.
He was the last of his clan.
It hadn’t much bothered him before today. He hadn’t allowed it to darken his thoughts. But after Gavin Mac Brodie’s sermon at his brother’s wedding, he found himself remembering an old woman’s blessing.
Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strong bairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.
The echo of her voice had faded through the years. But her words came back to haunt him.
They left him strangely bereft.
If someone had asked him only a few months before if his best friend might ever wed, Broc would have laughed in their face and shaken his head with absolute conviction.
But Colin was now a married man, and Broc had never seen him so joyful.
He was pleased for them. And yet... in the aftermath of their nuptials, he found himself obsessing over an old woman’s last words and craving something he couldn’t name.
He turned away from the birds and continued on his journey home. In times past, Merry, his dog, would have been at his heels, and he might have had to drag her barking away from the damned tree.
He missed the sweet mutt.
He sighed and pushed her memory away, only to be besieged by another more poignant.
Always it hovered on the edge of his consciousness—the sound of his parents laughing together.
The two of them had been deeply devoted to each other, and his da had so obviously cherished his mother that as a child Broc had felt enriched by their love. But as happy as his childhood had been, despite the hardships, his memories were tainted with the hideousness of their death.
He could never think of them without remembering his mother’s screams.
He had no idea that he had stopped again, nor that he sat upon the ground, but he was left reeling by the images that accosted him.
Even after all these years his kinsmen’s faces haunted him.
He plucked a woodland flower from the soil and crushed it in his fist, his gut burning with remembered rage.
Nay, it was better never to open one’s heart at all, better never to be left so defenseless.
The little boy he had been was long dead now.
The man he had become was far stronger alone.
His devotion was reserved the clan that had embraced him as a child and made him one of its own.
Aside from his clan, he didn’t want to cleave to anyone.
A wife would be little more than a burden—one he couldn’t afford.
A dog’s growl startled him from his reverie.
For an instant, he forgot Merry was dead and mistook the sound for that of his old companion.
He turned, expecting to find her black eyes watching him, and instead saw a strange, overgrown hound instead.
The animal’s teeth were bared, but something about the eyes seemed docile and harmless, mayhap even afeared.
Its coat was bedraggled, wet and dirty, mayhap from a trek through the bog.
It was in desperate need of a bath, food and a warm place at someone’s feet.
It was just so that he’d found Merry. He’d had to win her over, as well. The memory brought a wistful smile to his lips.
But then he thought about the brutal way she’d died and how much it had hurt to lay her to rest, and that empty feeling returned.
It was too damned difficult to lose the people you loved, and it seemed to Broc that everything he loved most, he lost.
Some part of him wanted to rise up now and brush himself off, walk away from this beast, but he didn’t. He sat there, making no move either to leave it or approach it.
The animal’s bright eyes stared back at him.
Broc didn’t avert his gaze. He tried to convey to the beast that no harm would come to it. He removed from the pouch at his waist a small sliver of smoked meat and offered it as a token of his friendship.
He spoke to it softly, and the animal laid its ears back, cocking its head curiously. Broc smiled and continued to gaze at it, willing it to come to him. Extending his hand, he began to coo to it, and soon it lowered its head and took a step forward.
It took yet another when Broc made no move to close the distance between them.
“That a girl,” he crooned, though he had no idea the sex of the beast. Gender didn’t matter much with anything that traveled on four legs, he decided, as he waved the meat at the animal, cajoling it nearer.
It wasn’t long before the hound was at his side, shaking its wet coat and spattering him in the face with stinky bog water.
Broc chuckled and rubbed the pate of its head vigorously, rewarding it for its bravery.
He handed over the meat. The poor beast snatched it quickly, devouring it in one gulp, then peered up at him as though expecting more.
Broc laughed, patting it. “There ye go,” he said again, and stood, continuing to pet it. Its coat was soft, though it was damp and dirty. It was obviously hungry as well, but he had nothing else to feed it. Still, it looked up at him appreciatively, and his heart melted.
He was a fool for animals—they were loyal without fault and always grateful.
Aye, who needed women when they were never appeased and rarely faithful?
Let Colin and Leith and Iain and the rest of the lads have their fill of them.
He was better off alone. He wasn’t about to saddle himself with some nagging, complaining bitch.
Nay, a dog was all the companion he needed.
If you tossed dogs a few scraps, they followed you blindly till the day they died.
He should take this one home, he decided, as he stroked its head, feed it, mayhap bathe it, as well.
He’d learned the merits of bathing his animals.
His laird’s wife had taught him how to rid the beasts of fleas, and since he didn’t seem to be able to keep them off his bed, it served him well to heed her advice.
“Good lass,” he said, and the animal lowered its head, enjoying his attentions.
He wondered where the hound had come from and to whom it belonged.
He didn’t recall ever seeing it before today.
Hungry it might be, but it didn’t appear famished, so it couldn’t have come very far.
If it ran off after he cleaned it up a bit and fed it, he would certainly understand.
He started to walk away, hoping it would follow. The hound took a few steps, then stopped abruptly, and Broc stopped as well, determined to befriend it. And then all at once it began to bark as though it wanted him to stay.
Or mayhap follow.
“What is it, lass?” he asked and took a tentative step toward it. The hound took a step back, and Broc scratched his head, trying to figure out what the moody beast was trying to tell him.
Must be a bitch, he decided, because she didn’t seem to be able to make up her bloody mind whether she liked him or not.