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High on the battlements, Catalin stood at an
embrasure studying the men squatting in the dirt beneath an ancient
tree. Were they playing some battle game? She easily recognized
Ranald’s form, for who else at Raptor had a body so imposing?

He scratched in the dirt. His father and the
other men leaned forward to study what he did there. After a bit,
she noted his head turned toward two men nearby, then he stood to
join them.

Join them? Nay. His body looked as hard as
the merlon she leaned against, for his hands jerked up to yank off
his tunic. His mask followed. When he slammed it to the ground, it
sent up a small cloud of dust.

She felt his tension as if he were but a
hand’s-width away. Seeing their swords flash in the sun, her
fingers went to her throat. Too far to see, but she knew they both
drew blood by the way their bodies curved away from the strike. Not
serious, though, for neither seemed to note it.

The man was a good fighter, but Ranald was
ready for his every move. Unexpected pride filled her chest as she
watched.

A flash below drew her gaze away. Lady
Muriele was at the well filling a tall pewter goblet from a freshly
raised bucket. She must be thirsty indeed to require so much
water.

It was not for her to drink? The lithe figure
hurried across the courtyard, past the orchards, the barracks, the
stables and on toward the men’s training ground. She did not intend
to intrude, did she? Why, Ranald was near naked, his muscled body
gleaming with sweat, his braies his only covering.

Her eyes narrowed to mere slits. She ground
her teeth until her jaw ached. Why did Lady Muriele stand so close?
Ranald took the offered water. Huh, the nerve of her. She stood
nearly touching a man almost as bare as the day he was born!
Catalin snorted. No doubt, Ranald gloried in the woman’s
inspection.

Seeing Ranald fling his arm in a gesture
toward the keep, she smiled with satisfaction. Humph! ‘Twas good
she hurried, else Catalin would be tempted to stomp out there after
her.

She swallowed. This anger was not jealousy.
How could she be jealous of a man she had not wished to marry?

Her babe took that moment to give her a
resounding kick, the strongest one so far. Her hands firmly cupped
her rounded belly, hidden by her loose-fitting, yellow tunic. The
babe reminded her of a kindness she had not acknowledged.

Not long after they wed, a potion appeared on
her bedside table each morn. Hannah told her Ranald had mixed the
herbs and claimed he had much success in the Abbey Infirmary with
the brew for easing upset stomachs. Once Catalin swallowed it and
rested a short time, she was delighted to find no trace of
dizziness or nausea remained.

It shamed her that she had yet to thank him
for it. She bit her lip and stared out into the bailey, not really
seeing. Her cupped hands felt the soft movements beneath. By the
size of her stomach, she feared it would be a large bairn.

This morn, Ada had leaked the news of her
breeding to Ranald’s father. How would they get away with claiming
it as Ranald’s when Moridac had bedded her in December? It was
early February when Ranald appeared, and by Hannah’s reckoning, the
babe would be due in September. Everyone was bound to know it was
not his when she gave birth to a fully formed babe afore time.

She remembered his determined face that first
morn when he had said, “If he looks like Moridac, he will look like
me. If I say the child is mine, who can say me nay?” The memory
soothed her, but unease swept her anew when her nape prickled.

“I thought as much.”

Catalin jumped so hard she nearly lost her
balance. Chief Broccin grabbed her shoulders and pulled her back
from the open embrasure. Once she stood firm, he released her and
rubbed his hands with glee.

“Ye carry a bairn. But who is the father?
Moridac or Ranald?”

“Ranald, of course.” Catalin made her voice
hard and firm, and buried her hands in her tunic pockets to hide
their trembling.

“Hmpf. I saw ye cup yer belly. By its size,
it would have to be a giant to be Ranald’s.” He reached forward as
if to feel her stomach for himself, a gleam in his eye.

“You will not touch me!” Catalin folded her
arms across her waist. Blood rushed from her face, leaving her
slightly dizzy.

“Dinna be foolish, lass. I would not harm ye.
Ye carry my son’s seed.” He stepped back, hands held up waggling
back and forth showing he was keeping away.

“Why are ye not resting, Catalin?” Ranald
appeared on the last step leading up to the wall walk. He was at
her side in a heartbeat, placing a firm arm around her shoulders
for support.

Tension flowed like physical waves from his
skin. He had thrown his tunic over his head, for it had not settled
in position over his shoulders. Though he smelled of sweat and
dust, leather and weapons, she was thankful for his close
presence.

“I thought to take the sun. It is warmer here
than inside the keep.”

Feeling Ranald’s muscled leg pressed against
her own and his hard body so close, she shivered and envisioned his
bare flesh beneath the tunic. Catalin looked up into dark eyes,
eyes that changed from black to the color of a dark plum when in
the sunlight. She reached up to free a hank of midnight hair, damp
and wavy, imprisoned by the top of his mask.

Ranald flinched, then held steady until she
finished.

“Catalin is breeding, yet ye did not tell
me.” Chief Broccin glared at him. “Dinna think to claim it. The
seed is Moridac’s. Her belly grows too large for it to be
yers.”

“I do claim the seed as mine, not his.”

“Ye are a fool. The proof will be at the
birthing.” Chief Broccin, his chest stuck out, scowled. “When ye
take Hunter Castle, ye will both reside there. The child will
remain with me.”

Catalin gasped and gripped her stomach, as if
to protect the babe yet to be born.

“The bairn remains with its mother.” Ranald’s
voice was cold as ice. “When it is birthed, I will claim it as
mine.”

“Not if I dispute its parentage, ye willna,”
his father shouted. “This bairn is all I have left of my son!”

“Listen, and listen well. If ye dispute my
claim, do ye know what will happen?” Ranald’s voice was soft,
silky. Menacing.

Catalin shivered as cold dread swept her.

“Happen? Aye! I will raise it as my son to
take over Raptor after me.
That
is what will happen.”
Chief Broccin planted his fists on his hips and glared at
Ranald.

“Nay, ye willna. Catalin is
my
wife.
Though betrothed to Moridac, they had not said the final vows. If
ye name the child a bastard, I will see it sent to the church.” He
stopped and spoke slowly, deliberately. His nostrils flared, and a
snarl curled his lips. “If a boy, I will rid myself of him as ye
did me. The Abbot at Kelso will raise him to become a monk. Be it a
girl, she will live at Saint Anne’s Abbey with the good
sisters.”

Catalin gasped and tried to wrench away from
him. Ranald clamped her tight against his side. He felt her draw
breath to speak, but he would not allow it.

“Be silent, woman! I have not given ye leave
to speak.”

She felt as rigid as if he grasped a young
apple tree tight to his side. He stared into his father’s eyes, not
flinching at the hate radiating there. His father wanted this bairn
because it was Moridac’s. If it were Ranald’s seed, he wouldna
care, would shrug at Ranald’s threat to cast it away as he had done
him. He held tight to his anger, fearing what could happen there
atop the highest point of the keep. In times of peace, the merlons
had no protective shutters fastened between them. A person could
easily fall if nudged by an angry wind. He tightened his arm around
Catalin.

“Jesu, Ranald! From the look on yer face,
it’s no wonder the villagers have named ye the Black Raptor.”

Raik stepped up behind Broccin, drawing
Ranald’s gaze to him. Elyne followed, panting, from running up the
steep wooden stairs. She took one look at her father, then at
Ranald and Catalin, and moved to stand between them and the
laird.

“Come, Catalin. We have the solar to
ourselves again. We should start garments for the babe, but I need
ye to tell me what ye would prefer.”

Ranald released his arm around Catalin and
glanced down at her face. Her eyes were wide, fear and horror
warring with each other. He watched Elyne lead her down the stairs,
one hand behind her making sure Catalin stayed close to the wall.
The stairway had only a flimsy railing meant for steadying a
person, not supporting them. Once the women were on firm ground, he
relaxed.

“I willna stay and listen to the ranting of a
fool,” Chief Broccin blustered. “Ye canna do as ye say.”

“I have no use for another man’s seed to take
from what rightfully belongs to my own. Do ye remember the last
words I heard from yer lips those many years ago? Nay?”

His father, silent, glared at him. Ranald
roughened his voice, doing a fair imitation. “‘He is of no use to
me now...dump him at Kelso and return.’”

Ranald spread his legs farther apart and
folded his arms across his chest. His chin lifted, jutted. His
voice softened to near a whisper.

“Ye want to chance I will not do it? Hm?”

Chief Broccin glared at him, his chin
jutting.

Ranald’s voice lifted to near a snarl.

“Try me.”

Raik studied Ranald’s set face, curious as to
what unusual feat his anger would unleash. His cousin’s dark eyes
gleamed between lowered lids as he stared at his father’s left ear
as if it fascinated him. Raik’s lips quivered as he held back a
grin. He rocked back on his heels to watch events unfold.

“Dinna think to threaten me!” Broccin
snorted, his head lowered like an angry bull.

Ranald’s chin dipped, his lips twitched,
baring his teeth. His gaze took on such an added intensity you
could near see heat shimmering from his eyes. It would take but a
few foolish prods from the laird, and they would lock horns and
fight as savagely as any beasts.

One had to listen closely and watch Ranald’s
lips, for his voice was like a whisper of silk on the air.

“Ye heard what I said. Nay, not only said,
but promised if ye thwart me in this.”

Broccin shook his head to the left, frowned.
One hand rose to brush his ear. It had turned shiny pink.

The air around his uncle sweltered. Raik
stepped back a pace where it was as delightfully cool as any May
afternoon. Strange. But then, knowing from whence the heat came,
maybe not.

Ranald’s form looked to waver and glow, not
unlike heat waves rising from a plowed field in the distance. The
knuckles strained white on his fisted hands as Ranald held tight to
his soaring temper. Broccin would be lucky to come away from this
challenge with only a bit of reddened flesh.

“Ye see,
my loving sire
, I have
naught to lose if ye prove the bairn is not mine.” Ranald scraped
one hand over his chin, mulling over his words while still staring
at Broccin’s ear. “Why would I wish to claim a son who is not of my
seed? To give him first rights to Raptor, leaving my own future son
without?”

“Hell’s pests!” Broccin swatted the air
around his head. His ear was fiery red and beginning to swell. “How
have bees flown so high?”

“Mayhap ye brought one from the orchard on
yer clothing? It looks like the small pest has feasted on yer
flesh.” Raik tried his best not to chuckle.

“Best ye seek Aunt Joneta for something to
soothe it,” Ranald said in an emotionless voice.

“Dinna think this is settled,” Broccin
spluttered and stomped over to the landing, his arms flapping like
wings as he swatted the air around him. “We will see who has the
last word here.”

His voice faded as he pounded down the
stairs.

“Interesting.” Raik nodded his head. “So,
that is how it was done.”

“What was done?”

Ranald opened his clenched hands, rolled his
shoulders and took deep, cleansing breaths, as he relaxed and
cooled his anger.

“How ye lit the candles that night in the
Infirmary. I wasna as fevered as I thought.”

Ranald’s gaze flickered to him.

Suddenly, Raik laughed.

“Satan’s rotten teeth!” Ranald’s temper had
yet to cool to normal. “What do ye find so amusing?”

“Ye.” Raik grinned at his cousin. “Knowing
ye, I would be willing to bet not once did ye use yer temper to
stay warm on the most frigid nights at Kelso.”

Ranald’s face relaxed. His lips twitched at
the corners. Raik laughed all the harder.

“Ye would win.” Ranald shook his head and
grinned. “I didna even think of it, since no one prodded my
temper.”

“Yer father seems smitten by Satan, the way
he is determined to get his hands on Catalin’s child.” Raik shook
his head and frowned.

“Aye. He would label the child a bastard in
order to keep him close.” Ranald snorted. “He ne’er concerned
himself with Moridac or me for years on end, leaving Domnall to
fill in the gap as father.”

“Aye. Though, after he threw ye away, he kept
Moridac forever in his sight.”

Ranald heaved a sigh then pressed his lips
together. He glanced at Raik, then across the curtain walls toward
the darkening forests beyond the castle. So many things he wanted
to learn about those years he was away. It was best he sought
answers now.

“I often felt a pull from Moridac. It was
like he called to me, yet he never came to see how I fared.” His
chest ached, reliving the loneliness and fear in those early months
at Kelso.

“Aye, he called to ye. In his deepest sleep,
he would cry out yer name. He grieved over yer separation, got so
lean from not eating that the laird near forced food down his
throat.”

“Why did he not come to me?”