Why didn't they speak to her? She felt as though they'd been staring at her for at least an hour, yet knew probably just a minute or two had actually passed.

Fearless, she ordered herself. I must be fearless.

Oh Lord, Oh Lord, Oh Lord…

"I am Lady Brenna."

She waited for someone to attack her. No one moved. And then, just as she was about to demand that they tell her their intentions and be quick about it, the Scots surprised the breath right out of her. As one, they dropped to their knees, put their hands over their hearts, and bowed their heads to her. Their united show of respect stunned her. No, no, not respect, she thought. Weren't they mocking her? God's truth, she couldn't tell.

She waited until all of them had regained their feet before trying to locate the leader so she could address him. None of them was giving her hints. The blue paint made for more confusion. Their faces were like masks with their grim expressions.

She settled on the biggest of the lot, a dark-haired warrior with gray eyes. She stared directly at him, willing him to speak to her, but he didn't say a word.

Oh, Lord, Oh, Lord…

"Why won't you speak to me?"

The one she'd been staring at suddenly smiled at her. "We were waiting, mi'lady," he explained in a deep, forceful voice.

She frowned over his half-given answer. Since he'd spoken in Gaelic, she decided to accommodate him. She and her sisters had conquered the language at her father's nagging insistence, and she was thankful he'd gotten his way. This outcast's dialect was certainly different from what she'd learned, but she was still able to catch enough to understand what he was saying to her.

"Waiting for what?" she asked in Gaelic.

The Scot looked surprised. He was quick to hide his reaction by staring into the distance.

"We were waiting for you to finish your prayer."

"My prayer?" she asked, thoroughly confused

"You seem to have gotten stuck on the beginning, lass. Couldn't you remember the rest of it?" another Scot asked her.

"Oh, Lord, Oh, Lord…"

"There she goes again," yet another warrior whispered.

Good God Almighty, she'd been praying out loud.

"I was praying for patience," she announced with as much dignity as she could summon. "Who are you?"

"MacAlister's men."

"The name means nothing to me. Should I know him?"

A warrior with a rather nasty-looking scar across his brow and down one side of his nose stepped forward.

"You know our laird very well, mi'lady."

"You are mistaken, sir."

"Please call me by my name, mi'lady. It's Owen, and I would be honored if you would."

She was having extreme difficulty understanding why the heathen was being so outrageously polite to her, given her horrific situation. Were they going to kill her or not?

"Very well, I shall call you Owen."

The warrior looked thrilled by her acquiescence, but she felt like throwing her hands up in despair. "Owen, are you going to kill me and my father's loyal soldiers?"

They all seemed taken aback by her question. The one with the gray eyes answered her. "Nay, Lady Brenna. We would never harm you. Each of us has just vowed to protect you until the day we die."

The other warriors quickly nodded agreement.

They were out of their minds, she decided then and there. "Why in heaven's name would you want to protect me?"

"Because of our laird," Owen answered.

They were determined to talk about their leader, which was all well and good because she really wasn't able to pay attention to a word they said now. She was overcome by blissful relief. If Gray Eyes had told her the truth, no one was going to die, and all of her fears had been for naught. Thank you, God.

She wasn't about to celebrate just yet, however, because the intruders still hadn't explained why they had come here. They didn't look the sort to be paying a social call, and she knew she would have to find out their real motive before she could ever hope to figure out a way to get them to leave.

She'd best stay on her guard, while she tried to get some answers.

"I know you're Scots," she began, surprised her own voice sounded so weak. "But exactly where in Scotland do you call home?"

Gray Eyes looked appalled. "My name is Quinlan, mi'lady, and we don't consider ourselves Scots. We're Highlanders."

The other men nodded their agreement.

She had just learned an interesting fact. Highlanders didn't want to let go of the old, dusty habits of their ancestors. The way these men were dressed, in such primitive attire, was an indication, and if she hadn't been so rattled, she would have realized how they felt before she'd tried to address them.

She couldn't imagine anyone having such a backward attitude, but she wasn't going to make them angry by telling them so. If they wanted to be savages, she certainly didn't care.

"You are Highlanders. Thank you, Quinlan, for taking the time to instruct me."

He inclined his head to her. "I would thank you, mi'lady, for seeking instruction from your humble follower."

She let out a loud sigh of frustration. "Please don't take offense, but I really don't want you to follow me anywhere."

He smiled at her.

"You aren't planning to leave anytime soon, are you?" She sounded pitiful.

His eyes sparkled devilishly. "Nay, mi'lady, we aren't."

"You really don't remember our laird?" Owen asked.

"Why would I remember him? I've never even met the man."

"You asked him to marry you."

"You are mistaken, Owen. I did no such thing."

"But, mi'lady, I was told you asked him three times."

"Three times? I asked him…"

She suddenly stopped. Three times. Good God, he couldn't be talking about… She shook her head in disbelief. No, no, that was years ago, and he couldn't possibly know what she'd foolishly done.

Only Joan knew about her plan to find a husband, and she would never have told anyone outside of the family. Brenna didn't have an actual recollection of proposing-she'd been too young at the time to remember it now-but her sister had told her the story so many times, she felt as though it had happened only yesterday. Like any sister, Joan had delighted in tormenting Brenna about her outrageous behavior. She especially loved to linger over the part about the piglet.

Why Brenna had wanted to catch her own husband or steal a pig to raise as her own pet she couldn't guess now, and the only excuse she could come up with was that she had been very, very young.

"It happened a long time ago, mi'lady," Owen said.

They knew. How they'd found out was beyond her comprehension, but then she was so rattled, she could barely think straight at all.

"This man denied my request… didn't he?"

Quinlan shook his head. "Twice he sent back his refusal, but it's our understanding you're still waiting to hear his answer to your last proposal."

"I am not waiting to hear his answer." Her voice was emphatic.

"It would seem to us that you are," Owen insisted.

Neither man appeared to be teasing her. Honest to God, they looked sincere.

What in thunder was she going to do?

"I keep waiting for you to laugh, but you aren't going to, are you, Quinlan?"

He didn't bother to answer her. In fact, all of them were quite content to stand there talking to her. Their behavior was most Peculiar. These warriors didn't seem the sort to want to linger anywhere, but they were lingering now. Were they waiting for something to happen, and if so, what?

Brenna didn't like having to be patient. She had the sinking feeling she wasn't going to find out their plans until they felt like explaining, though.

She refused to believe they had come all this way just to remind her of a proposal she'd made years ago, and they couldn't possibly expect her to honor it now. She didn't believe their nonsense about being her humble followers either.