***

The next day, Dirk stood on the shore overlooking Balnakeil Bay. Although the icy wind was not as severe as it had been the day before, it still stung his eyes. He tugged the wool mantle tighter about his shoulders. The wide golden-sand beach spread out before him, and six fine wooden galleys of different sizes were moored near the shore. He didn't want to contemplate putting Isobel on one of those and taking her south. The kiss they'd shared the night before in the stables made him even more hesitant. But he would have to take her to her brother at some point.

Beyond the galleys in the bay, the sand dunes, held in place by marram grass, extended as far as he could see toward Faraid Head, the cliffs beneath them jutting two miles out into the sea. As a child, he'd loved playing with his cousins among those dunes. He could almost hear the echoes of mock battles with wooden swords. They'd climb to the top of the dunes and slide or roll down.

But there was also a more sinister side to Faraid Head—the three-hundred foot cliffs where he'd almost lost his life.

Now, the salty air smelled just as it had back then. He could not believe so much time had passed.

He glanced back at the castle, perched upon its gigantic black rock. He'd needed to get outside. Although crowded, the castle felt empty without his father's loud, jovial laugh.

Griff MacKay had been a tall, broad-shouldered man with more presence than anyone else in the clan. When he spoke, people listened. When he went to battle, his enemies' faces blanched with fear.

Although Dirk had loved, admired and respected Da above anyone, he had to admit his father had been rather naïve, trusting his second wife over everyone. And now she would probably arrive here in a matter of a day or two. He didn't think the cold or the wind would keep her away. She'd lived here on the north coast for over twenty years and was used to the weather.

Although he was wary of Maighread, he didn't fear her. He expected her to start with her scheming and plotting. She would try to discount him and his claim. But she wouldn't be able to argue with his father's senachie and the other elders who had been members of the clan far longer than either of them. Men his father's age and older, men who'd known Dirk from birth. They had sharp wits and sound minds.

Since Maighread couldn't do anything legally to prevent him from becoming chief, she'd again sink to underhanded deeds, as was her habit. She would try to murder him again; he had no illusions about it. He'd already talked to Rebbie, Conall and Keegan about this and security around the castle.

Since Maighread and Isobel's mother had been good friends, he didn't think Maighread would try to hurt Isobel. The only way she would think to use the lass to get her way would be if Maighread realized Dirk was intensely attracted to Isobel. For her safety, he would have to hide his interest in her.

Still, he needed to warn her of possible dangers from Maighread or Haldane. Once Dirk was chief and knew who he could trust, he could assign personal bodyguards for Isobel, himself and anyone who might be in the line of Maighread's revenge. Because once Aiden was no longer chief, she would definitely want revenge against him. She might use his friends or family members, anyone he cared about, to exact that revenge.

Waves crashed upon the rocky beach to his left, the water sliding quickly down over the sand. Downwind, a piper played a hymn, in the village perhaps.

A lone figure walking on the beach in the distance caught his attention, the dark clothing standing out against the gray ocean and white breaking waves. He could not tell if the figure was male or female, but they didn't appear to be searching for shellfish. The beach was pleasant in summer, but this late into autumn the beach was too chilly and windy to be truly enjoyable.

Dirk turned to view the orange and gold sunset that hung over the grassy hills. He ran his gaze along the kirk wall. Behind it was the cemetery and the new church—his father's final accomplishment.

Leaving the shore, Dirk strode toward the wall, opened the gate and entered the cemetery where many of his ancestors were buried. Conall had told him that his father had been interred within the church walls.

Upon entering the building, he paused in the silence and cold still air. The place smelled of fresh mortar and rock dust. Of a sudden, he missed the ancient chapel that had been here before he'd left. It was several hundred years old, but in poor condition. Walking up the aisle, he saw they had reused the colorful stained glass window. It had not been too many years since the whole of Durness had converted from Catholicism to Protestantism, and he was glad to see they'd recognized the value of the window.

He found his father's tomb near the front but off to the side. The gentle light of sunset gleamed through the gold and red stained glass, highlighting Griff MacKay's name and the carving of his visage—a high proud forehead, a strong brow, a firm mouth that had issued many a stern order but also enjoyed a good laugh. It was a good likeness of him.

"I'm sorry I didn't return before you passed, Da," Dirk whispered.

If only he could've seen his father alive one last time. He had never regretted anything so much. Tracing his fingers over his father's face in the stone, he wondered what Da would've thought of him now. Would he have been glad to see he hadn't died twelve years ago? Would he be proud of the man Dirk had become during those absent years?

Aye, Dirk had to believe he would. He'd want a detailed recounting of all Dirk's adventures during his travels. He'd want to know about each of the battles he'd fought.

"You have returned, my chief."

His thoughts scattering, Dirk jerked around. The minister, black-clothed and gray-haired, stood behind him.

Chief? Not yet, but soon.

Dirk strode toward him. "'Tis good to see you again, Reverend."

"I'd heard you were back. I cannot believe how like Griff MacKay you look," Reverend MacMahon said, his mouth agape as he shook Dirk's hand.

"That's what I've been told." Dirk was proud that he resembled his father in some small way, even if they did differ in personality.

The minister turned serious. "A few weeks ago, your Uncle Conall told me what happened when you were a lad." He shook his head. "Such greed and evil I can hardly fathom."

"Indeed."

The minister's expression eased into what might be considered a faint grin for the stern man. "It appears we'll have to remove your memorial plaque."

"Memorial plaque?"

"Aye, 'tis outside on the kirk wall, with Faraid Head in the background. Your father wanted it there. Sometimes he would come here and stare at it for a long while. Or 'haps he was staring toward Faraid Head, hoping to see you returning from amongst the dunes."

Dirk frowned. Guilt cut through him when he imagined his father's grief at thinking he'd died. "I hate that I caused him pain, but it couldn't be helped."

"'Tis true. You did what you had to in order to survive. He sent search parties around the shoreline, looking for you. After many weeks, he gave up the hunt and accepted that you must have died. Then we had a memorial service for you. 'Twas lovely, I must say." Reverend MacMahon gave a wry grin.

"Well, I thank you for that, then." Uncomfortable with the subject at hand, Dirk scanned the walls and the lofty ceiling. "The new church is beautiful. Well built."

"Aye. Your father was determined to finish the project before he passed, and thanks be to God he did see it completed. He enjoyed coming here and watching while the craftsmen and stonemasons worked. We kept the original stone floor."