"Do not be ashamed, runag. They are just as I imagined. Small and firm and the perfect size to fit in my mouth."

"In your mouth?" she asked, her eyes wide with puzzlement.

Her innocence was adorable. After such a difficult life, that she should come to him so obviously untouched seemed something of a miracle. That she had come to him at all was miracle enough.

He bent his head and encompassed the entire, lovely rosebud of one breast in his mouth. The salty tang of her skin was in perfect harmony with the lemony scent that clung to her.

"Oh," she sighed in wonderment as he flicked his tongue across the hardening nipple.

"You see. Perfect, just as I said."

The remainder of her garb came off with greater ease and less resistance. As each inch of her was revealed, he found more beauty to explore with his hands and mouth the velvet-skinned expanse of her belly, the swirl of dark red-tinged curls at the apex of her thighs, the unexpected length of her slender yet muscular thighs and calves.

His own clothes he removed with even greater alacrity, nearly frantic in his need to lie with her, naked skin to naked skin. When he knelt between her thighs and eased his way inside her, he shook with the effort to maintain his control, fearful both of hurting her and of reaching his pleasure before he found hers.

He needn't have worried. She wrapped her arms and legs around him the way she'd wrapped herself around his heart and urged him on. They rocked together as though they had made love like this hundreds of times before, each attuned to the other's rhythms and sensations as both climbed towards the precipice and then tipped over it, in unison, into rapture.

The only thing that marred his pleasure was that, when she cried out his name, he could not call out hers in return.

"You shall have to give your name for the wedding ceremony, you know," he observed some time later.

She lifted her head from its cradle in his shoulder and looked down at him, her expression guarded and a little sad. "You know I cannot," she whispered.

"What if I promised not to seek revenge upon your family for the raid?"

Her eyebrows flew up her forehead. "You would do that? For me?"

He stroked her hair. "Aye, lass, I would. In fact, perhaps I should be thanking them."

"Why?"

"Because if they had not tried to reive my cattle that night, I would never have met you."

He pulled her head down towards his and gave her what he meant to be a sweet and reassuring kiss, but the instant their mouths touched, his intent was entirely forgotten. Her lips parted, ardent and inviting, and her tongue darted daringly into his mouth. He groaned as a fresh wave of desire spiralled down through his loins. With no small effort, he broke the kiss and forced his raging need back under control. While he could make love to her a half dozen more times without consequence, the same could not be said for her. She would be sore enough on the ride back to Lochmorton as it was.

As he drew away, she reached up and traced her thumb across the scar that marred his left cheek. "Did it hurt terribly?" she asked.

He recognized that she was changing the subject, but decided to go along with it. "Aye. Like fire."

The memory of that day was as crisp as if it had happened yesterday, and yet as confused and chaotic as the events themselves. His father had insisted that they join their cousin, John, Lord Maxwell, in his campaign against Sir James Johnstone. With decades of enmity between the Maxwells and the Johnstones, there'd been no doubt that the battle would be bloody and ugly.

What both his father and Lord Maxwell had failed to anticipate was the formidable advantage the Johnstones' familiarity with the terrain of Dryfe Sands would give them despite their smaller numbers. Lord John had died in the ambush mere seconds after crossing the river. Duncan's father, along with a sizable portion of the Maxwell, Armstrong, and Douglas clan had followed him to the grave minutes later. Duncan himself had managed to escape with the routed army, but not before receiving the sharp tip of a Johnstone sword to the cheek. He had sworn on that day never again to enter a battle on territory he didn't know as well as his own newly-altered face. And never to forgive the Johnstones for their perfidy.

But he did not want the hostility those old memories inspired to interrupt the peaceful contentment of the moment, and so he placed his hand over hers and held it against his cheek. "But at least I know now never to trust a Johnstone."

"Aye, that you do," she said softly, resting her head back on the curve of his shoulder. For the time being, he decided to let the issue of her name rest. After a few moments of silence, she stirred in his arms.

"What is the trouble now, runag?"

"I need to ... that is ..." she stuttered, her cheeks pinkening. "I must go outside and relieve myself," she finished in an embarrassed rush.

Being a gentleman, of course he allowed her to get up and put on her shirt and breeches before heading out into the windy chill of the afternoon. And after what had just passed between them, it didn't occur to him to follow her outside to keep an eye on her. After all, he trusted her.

It was only when he heard the sound of horse's hooves that he realized the truth.

She hadn't needed to relieve herself at all. All along, she had planned to escape.

The border between Maxwell and Johnstone land was in sight. Jamie Johnstone, great-niece of Sir James Johnstone and one of his many namesakes albeit, as far as she knew, the only female one was nearly home.

Duncan Maxwell's big black stallion bore her over the rough, rocky terrain with breathtaking speed and ease. Saddled now with the roan mare he'd given her to ride, the laird of Lochmorton would never overtake them before she reached safety. Likely, he would not even try.

Free. She was almost free.

Why, then, did she feel as though her heart was being torn to shreds and pounded into the ground with every beat of the horse's hooves? Her throat was raw and her eyes burned, but still she rode towards the border.

This was for the best. If Duncan discovered the truth of who she was, he would hate her. He had said himself he had learned never to trust a Johnstone. Until that moment, she had held out the smallest sliver of hope that they could be happy, that perhaps he did not share in his family's ingrained hatred towards hers. But that had always been a slim and dangerous hope, for she had known from the beginning that he had been at Dryfe Sands, that he had lost his father there. The Lockerbie lick on his cheek told the tale of his participation in the battle, even if his tongue did not. And how could a man fail to despise the people who had killed his own father?

Her people.

She slowed the horse to a walk after the crossing the border. There was no indication that she was being followed, and although the animal showed no signs of tiring, even a horse as magnificent as Curaidh could not maintain such a breakneck pace indefinitely. It would be difficult to convince her brothers to return a horse as fine as he to the Maxwell stable, but she could not in good conscience keep him.

That alone told her a lot had changed. Once upon a time, she'd had no conscience at all.

Jamie Johnstone's days as a reiver were over.

Squinting in the darkness, Jamie closed the stall door behind Curaidh, wincing at the loud creak of the hinges. She paused for a moment, listening for any hint of a human presence, but heard only the annoyed snorts and curious whickers of horses whose nightly rest had been disturbed.

She took a deep, cleansing breath. It was ridiculous for her to be so on edge. No one would anticipate a reiver breaking into his stables to return a horse. A smile tickled her lips as she thought about Duncan's reaction on the morrow, when he discovered his prized steed had been returned though her brothers, ever the opportunists, had seen to it that the stallion had left a few "deposits" with several of the Johnstone mares in the months before they'd brought him back.

Of course, James and Robbie still thought this entire plan was mad and dangerous. And yet, perhaps because they felt some latent sense of guilt for her months of imprisonment in Maxwell territory a fate they considered several orders of magnitude worse than death they had acquiesced to her decision. And now, she was but a few steps from meeting them outside.

Not so mad or dangerous this ...

"Oof!" Just feet from the door, she came to an abrupt halt against an immovable object that felt remarkably warm and strangely malleable. Rather like a human chest. And a damnably familiar one at that.

Damn and blast!

"So, reiver, we meet again." Duncan's voice was low and gravelly and terribly arousing. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her flush against his body. Her eyes widened. It seemed she wasn't the only one who was aroused. "What did you come to steal this time?"

"You know as well as I that I have not stolen anything from you," she retorted. Please, let James and Robert have got away. As long as they were safe, she could bear any indignity at Duncan Maxwell's hands. She reckoned she deserved every one he could dish out after what she'd done.

"On the contrary," he murmured against the top her head, "you've stolen my heart. I was hoping you came to return it."

The raw, unconcealed pain in his voice took her aback.

"I I-" she stammered. Her heart hammered like a blacksmith's mallet against her breastbone. "I came to return Curaidh."

"I know," he said softly, grazing her ear with his lips as he spoke.

Gooseflesh rose on her skin, racing down her arm. She didn't know what to make of this strange situation. It seemed rather more like seduction than detention.

"What do you want?"

"I should think that would be obvious. I want you, Jamie Johnstone."

She gasped, incredulous. "You know my name!"

"Aye, lass."

"But but how?"

"You did not think I just let you escape, did you?"

She stared up at him blankly, a rather fruitless enterprise in light of the darkness. "What choice did you have? You had a slow horse and no clothes on."

"True, and I could not have prevented you from getting away ... not without shooting you, and though I'll admit I was sorely tempted, I might have missed and shot Curaidh instead. But in any event, 'twas simple enough to track where you'd gone, runag. And once I realized you were a Johnstone, it was only a matter of making inquiries of the right people to discover the rest."

Jamie's mind whirled. All these months, he had known who she was, who her family was, and yet he'd made no effort to exact justice for the raid. He could have petitioned the Warden for redress, or even the king, but obviously he had not.

"Since then, I've been waiting for you," he added, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "Not entirely patiently."

"What? But what on earth could have made you believe I would come back?"

He shrugged. "I know you, and I knew you would not steal from me. Not after what we shared."

"But I ran away-"

He pressed his finger to her lips to shush her. "I did not give you much choice, did I? Telling you I'd never trust a Johnstone. That was why you asked about the scar, wasn't it?"

"Aye," she admitted. "I wanted to know if you still hated my family for what happened at Dryfe Sands."

"And I did. Then, and for some time afterwards. And I was furious with you for breaking your promise."

"I didn't promise I would not escape. I promised not to try to," she pointed out.

He chuckled. "Aye, I recall now you were very specific when you made the promise. Notwithstanding, I was very angry and hurt. I considered coming after you, going to the Warden, demanding satisfaction from the king. But in the end, I realized this is the only thing that would ever bring me true satisfaction." His mouth swooped down and captured hers.

Aye, aye, he was right. This was the only thing she wanted, the only thing that truly mattered. She would never want anything else in life if only she could have this the pepper-sweet taste of his mouth, the warm, solid breadth of his body, and the truths they could only seem to communicate this way.

He lifted his head. "I am ready to declare an end to this branch of the Maxwell-Johnstone feud. What do you say we start a new alliance in its place?"

"I would love that, but what about my brothers? I am not so sure they'll go along."

"My brother, Ewan, is out there right now, negotiating a bride price for you. I think 'tis safe to say they'll find the terms favourable." His voice dropped an octave. "I'd even give them Curaidh in exchange for you."

Joy blazed in her heart. "I love you, Duncan Maxwell."

"As I love you, Reiver of my heart."

Forever Mine.

Donna Grant.

One.

The silence hung heavy and thick in the air. Just like the mist that swirled eerily, almost unnaturally, around the group of men lying in wait for their deadly enemy.

Braden MacAlister knew the time was right. He would attack and kill Niall MacDougall once and for all. Order would be restored to the land again.

And maybe then Braden could plan more than ambushes.

A horse snorted in the distance, the sound carrying in the stillness of the predawn hour. His foe was right on schedule. Braden had waited for this day for two years. He had planned and plotted and planned some more. All had to go perfectly.

His men, all marked outlaws like himself, were fierce Highlanders and vicious, brutal opponents in battle. They would be the ones to set things right. They would be the ones to end the malevolence.

The pass where Niall had to travel was narrow, confining him and his men between two mountains. Most would have gone around but Niall was a man who liked to prove he couldn't be taken.

A slow smile spread Braden's lips. Today, things were going to change.

The soft, four-toned whistle sliced through the early morning air. It was the signal from Keith that Niall neared.

Braden had seen this moment many times in his mind. He'd thought out every possibility. Every move. Every countermove. He was as prepared as he could ever be.

He released a long breath when he caught sight of the first horse as it came around the bend. Behind the guard, Braden spotted Niall's dark head, his hair tied in a neat queue at his neck. And with Niall was his company of twenty men.

Niall never travelled alone. He knew how much he was despised throughout Scotland. Everyone said it was just a matter of time before he was killed.

Another whistle, softer, but in the two-tone that meant trouble. Braden narrowed his gaze on his opponent. What was Niall up to?

And then Braden saw the wagon. The metal bars on the small upper windows told him all he needed to know about the occupants.

Prisoners.

Braden glanced across the road to his men. He waited for their nod of agreement to continue with their mission before he looked to the men beside and behind him.

Niall had taken from all of them in one form or another. Each warrior wanted his revenge, needed retribution for the atrocities. Each man wanted to be the one to strike the killing blow.