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Athol’s silence drew Gavin’s eyes to the
Highlander’s face. His expression had darkened visibly, and his
gaze was directed past the glen--in the direction of the abbey.

“If you do not wish to accompany me there, we
could meet back at the keep. My steward will accompany you and make
certain you are comfortable.” Gavin watched the changing shades of
color in the earl’s face.

“Aye,” the earl said finally. “I have no
desire to see the old woman or her sad pile of stones. I will meet
you back at Ironcross.”

As Gavin struggled to hide his satisfaction,
Athol’s sharp, gray eyes turned to the warrior’s face. “Tell me,”
he said in a conversational tone. “Were you welcomed there...when
you first visited them?”

“How would you know if I visited them
before?”

Though the Highlander never averted his eyes,
Gavin noted the changing hue in his face.

Athol’s voice was steady when he responded.
“I just assumed you had been there. The abbey ruins and the land
around it have been the undisputed property of the Ironcross lairds
for...the devil knows how long. I simply assumed you would have
wanted to meet her right away.”

After a pause, Gavin accepted the other man’s
reasoning. “As you say, I have been there before. She is an
interesting woman. But to answer your question, they are not the
most friendly lot, if I take your meaning correctly. But what makes
you ask?”

The Highlander leaned forward on his horse,
patting his steed’s ebony colored neck. “Well, I do not know how
much you have heard, but over the years quite a few of the peasants
from your lands have moved onto mine. Some looking for work, others
simply wanting the protection of a laird.”

Gavin had been told that much by the priest
and he nodded.

“The stories that these simple folk brought
with them always led me to think that there was something very
peculiar--perhaps even dangerous--about this abbey.” Athol stared
at his host. “And the old woman.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Stories about...” Athol waved a hand at the
direction of the glen. “About women being the ones there...strange
and savage women...living and working the fields. And other stories
about men being abducted from the lands around Ironcross and held
as slaves on the abbey lands. Wild stories about using these men
only for planting his seed in a wife. About them being drowned in
the loch afterwards...or burned!”

“And you believed these tales?” Gavin asked
incredulously.

“Of course not!” Athol just shook his head.
“I attributed it all to the excuses these men felt they needed for
leaving behind the lands their families had worked from the time of
Noah. But I suppose there is always anger in a man who sees women
who can survive without him. My opinion changed, though, when I
faced their hostility myself.”

Gavin's attention was riveted to the earl
now.

“That first summer Joanna came to Ironcross
Castle, I was a frequent caller. She was no stranger to the
Highl...”

“This was last summer, I assume.” Gavin could
hear the hostility in his own voice, and looked down the brook as
Athol’s gaze flashed toward him. Though this was certainly not the
time, something in Gavin wanted to wring the man’s neck.

“The summer before last,” the earl said
slowly. “The first summer that Ironcross became her home. I was a
constant
guest here. But she was sent back to court in the
fall, only to return the following fall with news of her...” He
stopped, his face as dark and as fierce as a winter storm.

Joanna had returned to Ironcross betrothed to
James Gordon, Gavin knew. How could he forget, his own face
hardening in anger. She was alive and still legally bound to him.
The hostility that both men were feeling almost crackled in the air
between them. In a moment, the visitor’s face cleared a bit, and he
continued with his story.

“Well, that is finished. But that first
summer, I soon found that she was a constant visitor to the abbey.
And any time I questioned her about the place, she showed such
enthusiasm for the people and what they were doing there that one
would have thought she had discovered a band of angels living among
the rest of us mortals.”

“And in her praises of the folk there, did
she also include the abbess Mater?” Gavin asked.

“Aye, her the most.” The Highlander nodded.
“That old woman was the source of all that was good at the abbey,
so far as Joanna was concerned. She looked at Mater with awe for
the old woman’s spiritual influence over her flock of followers.
She definitely admired and respected the woman.”

Gavin tugged at his ear and looked off at the
crest of the hill, working hard to stifle the questions that were
gnawing at him. Then what happened? he wanted to know.

“As I said, for most of my years as the laird
of Balvenie Castle, I had heard the stories about the abbey. But
when...when I set out to woo Joanna directly, I decided I needed to
know the truth about the place...and about Mater. So I accompanied
her there.”

“And did her description of the place--and of
Mater--agree with what you saw?”

Athol’s gray eyes fixed on Gavin's face.
“With the exception of Mater, I never saw a soul. ‘Twas quite odd,
being the beginning of harvest time, but the crops just stood
untended in the fields. No one was working the land at all. ‘Twas
the eeriest thing I think I ever saw. That first day, when we left,
I asked Joanna about it, and she just said that my presence must
have frightened the peasants off. Perhaps the next time, she said,
they might be more accepting.”

“Was it any different when you went
back?”

Athol gave an empty laugh. “Nay, ‘twas no
different. But stubborn as I am, I thought I could force my will on
a bunch of women. That is all I thought them to be. Frightened,
faceless, invisible women! In the end I was the one who was made to
feel invisible.”

“Through all of this,” Gavin asked, his face
grave. “How did Mater treat you?”

“She tolerated my presence, I think, because
of Joanna. But she never once spoke to me, or included me. I went
perhaps a half dozen times--until Joanna asked me to stop. It had
become very clear that my presence with her at the abbey was
putting some kind of pressure on her relationship with those women.
So, in the end, she choose them over me.”

Gavin looked away from the Highlander’s grim
expression. There was much to sort through in his words. But one
thing was immediately apparent--the force of the connection between
Joanna and those women, including Mater, had been stronger than
anything she’d felt for this man. It was clear Athol had thought
himself a suitor--and one with a claim to her hand in marriage. But
Joanna had rejected him, first by excluding him from her world and
then by becoming betrothed to another.

Gavin looked again in the direction of the
abbey. Though he had much to learn from Mater, the warrior chief
suddenly knew that whatever information Joanna had to share, it was
perhaps worth more than anything he could learn from Mater, Allan,
Athol, or any of the rest of them.

Joanna alone appeared to hold the key of the
past.

He hadn’t believed her.

Although she might have forgotten many of the
manners of day to day court life, she would never forget how fine a
weapon a look of scorn could be. It was clear to her now that Gavin
Kerr regarded her revelation to him as daft. And it was crystal
clear as well that he held the same opinion of her.

Indeed, she thought, she must be daft,
because she was clearly smitten by the man. There was no denying it
now, not after what had happened last night. Not after the way he’d
kissed her, caressed her in his chamber. Not after the way she had
felt in his embrace. Joanna knew now that Gavin Kerr had held the
same fascination for her as her portrait had for him. And she had
to admit--albeit reluctantly--that feelings for him had stirred
long before she’d come face to face with him. Well, she
was
daft, after all. And in the same stubborn manner that he’d carried
her picture back to his room time and time again, she too had been
driven by some mad desire to look in upon him night after night. As
difficult as it was to admit, she now knew the truth behind her
midnight jaunts to his chamber. True, her visits had then only
seemed to be a pleasurable thrill. But after meeting with him last
night, she knew now that thrill could easily become a habit. And
one to revel in at that.

But then, who was
he
to think her mad?
She could picture him in her mind now, hardly listening to the
truth--or anything else for that matter--if she were to say it. The
thought of him standing by the door, the gray smoke from the fire
still drifting about his magnificent body, flickered in her mind’s
eye, and she drew in a sharp breath.

Well damn him, she thought, forcing the
vision--reluctantly--from her thoughts.

Joanna leaned down and tried to focus on her
task, stabbing again at the hard earth beneath her fingers. She
hadn’t needed anyone for a long, long while; and she wasn’t about
to start asking for help now. Not when it concerned a fight
that
was hers by right
.

“Damn!” she cursed aloud as the dagger
slipped out of her hand. She listened for a moment, startled by the
echoing reverberation of her voice.

Moving the flickering wick lamp back a bit,
Joanna straightened and stretched her stiff joints--knees, back,
shoulders, and fingers--before kneeling again on the crypt floor.
Edging backward, the young woman resumed her digging, using the tip
of the dagger to extend the channel she had been working on for
weeks. She had to wash away all thoughts of him out of her mind.
She had to forget his stirring kisses, his roaming hands--touches
that had made her feel like a woman. She had to focus her mind on
one thing. Justice. This was why she was here. This was the reason
she had endured these endless months of darkness and loneliness and
pain. She had to proceed. She had to execute her plan.

After watching these women carrying out their
rituals month in and month out, she had crept into the crypt when
she knew she could search without fear of discovery. And she had
found the way. Joanna had discovered the small channel that had
been dug in a circle at the center of the vault. Over the channel
they would build their pyre of branches and reeds. And around this
circle, the women gathered. All of them at the full moon.

At the end of the circle, beyond where Mater
stood, there was a large container of oil. Joanna had watched
repeatedly how at the fevered height of their orgy, the old woman
would release the oil from the container into the channel.

She edged back again along her path. This was
her plan, simple and just. She had simply added an extension to the
channel. One that would bring the river of oil to the door and
block their only escape route. In the dim light, they would not
even know there was anything different. Not until the fire had
already been touched to the oil.

She could already feel the heat of the flames
around her. She had envisioned the scene so many times in her mind.
All of them still wild and unheedful in their frenzy. Her, standing
by the door, blocking their way, the flames leaping at her back.
For the rushes she would have quickly pulled from behind the crypts
closest to the door, the ones she’d soaked in oil and hidden, would
now be ablaze. Their only exit would be a smoky inferno. She’d feed
the fire and watch them scream and die. The same way she knew her
own parents had died. She would meet her own end in that room. But
then, this was her destiny.

If it was madness, Joanna thought, then so be
it. What other choices did she have? She was the one true heir to
Ironcross. She was the only one capable of handing out justice to
the she-devil.

***

He was a fool to think his reception would be
any different than the one they’d given him before. But still,
Gavin thought wryly, one could always hope.

Having left the few men who had come with him
by the river on the outskirts of the village, Gavin led the mare
carrying his offering of meat down the path toward the ruined abbey
gates. Just the same as last time, emptiness and silence were all
that greeted him.

Gavin tethered his horse to a small shrub by
the same hut where he had seen Mater last. This time, however, the
dying embers of an old fire and an empty block of stone beyond it
were all he found. Still unaffected by this lack of welcome, the
Lowlander turned to the mare and quickly unloaded the butchered
venison. Bringing it back to the fire, Gavin spread the hide of one
of the animals and laid the meat on it. As he worked, he was very
conscious of the weight of many eyes peering at him from the
darkness of the huts around him.

Moments later, after the laird had finished
with this portion of what he’d come here to do, he crouched down
beside the fire and started feeding kindling into the coals. Small
flames leapt up, and, though the day was still warm, Gavin
gradually added larger pieces of wood until he had a fairly large
blaze. For all any of the onlookers would be able to tell, he
looked as if he planned to spend the day. This, Gavin knew, would
be somewhat bothersome to the folk who had hurriedly left their
undone work in the fields. He knew the abbey had been feeding its
people and eking out an existence, without any help from the
Ironcross lairds, for a long while. He also knew that the growing
season was short enough in the Highlands. Losing out on a day’s
work, he was quite sure, would be a high price for them to pay.

It took some time, but at last Mater’s thin
frame emerged from the hut. Her disapproving scowl at his relaxed
position by her fire was a prize well worth waiting for. Gavin
smiled in greeting and stood up. She glared back at him before
casting a disdainful look in the direction of the meat.