"No one has reported finding a body," Nolan said, rubbing the tender spot on his scalp where that witch had clouted him.

Torrin's dark brown brows lowered and he shook his head. "Mayhap some damned outlaw kidnapped her and is even now torturing or abusing her."

Nolan almost grinned at that image, but managed to control himself. He hoped someone did abuse her severely after what she'd done to him.

"I simply don't understand why she would slip out of the castle. Surely she knows the dangers of traveling without protection."

"Does anything women do make sense? Most of them are daft, including my own wife."

Torrin glared at him for a long moment. Aye, Nolan knew his brother rarely approved of his viewpoint. But Nolan was simply being honest; he had little patience for women and their thoughts and actions. He wanted to bed them, not listen to their imbecilic ideas.

"I already sent a missive while I was in Lairg, notifying her brother," Torrin said, pacing to the mantel. "If she's returned home to him, she'll not get out of the arrangement so easily. I want her and the clan needs that land."

"Aye, no doubt she is a scheming and conniving bitch."

Over his shoulder, Torrin pinned Nolan with a glare. "She didn't strike me as such when I met her."

"Well, I never trusted her. You can tell by the look in her eye that she's a rebel. 'Tis doubtful she'd obey a word you said. I wouldn't want a disobedient wife. Besides that, she's probably barren."

"We don't know that," Torrin snapped. "'Haps her first husband was impotent. He was around three score years, after all. She's the loveliest lady in these parts. She appears healthy and capable of birthing bairns." Torrin shrugged. "But maybe I'll negotiate for a temporary marriage now, if I can find her. That way, I can make certain she's fertile before I marry her."

Nolan nodded, wishing he could find out if she was fertile. He almost had. "'Tis a good idea, and if you find out where she is, I'll be happy to go retrieve her for you, brother."

***

The next day, Maighread Gordon strode through the front door of Dunnakeil as if she were queen of all of Scotland and England too. Disgust stabbed through Dirk and nausea rose within him. Strangely, he felt as if he were fifteen summers again, rather than a man full grown.

Damn her.

He squared his shoulders and ground his teeth together. She was no longer a match for him. He was a highly-trained, skilled fighter, and she was a thin, gray-haired widow.

Her eyes lit on him, then widened. Her face blanched. But she quickly hid her astonishment. Or was it fear? Aye, she had to be a wee bit afraid of him now, given his size. Regardless, 'twas clear she recognized him.

Her scathing green eyes raked over him in exactly the same manner they used to. If ever evil had stood in this room, 'twas now.

Haldane entered behind her, as did two more ladies, several servants and her men-at-arms. She traveled with a large party, and each of them would require watching.

He knew she couldn't resist coming to see for herself if indeed Dirk MacKay had risen from the dead.

"Who is this imposter I hear has come to take over the clan and castle?" Maighread asked in a raised voice to the room at large.

Chapter Thirteen

Dirk's stepmother thought him an imposter?

He snorted and sent her a contemptuous smirk. Her words were so daft they didn't deserve a response. 'Twas obvious she'd recognized him the instant she'd entered the great hall. She was the same as she'd always been—a liar and manipulator.

"He is no imposter, m'lady," Uncle Conall said, sounding as annoyed as Dirk felt as his voice echoed off the high ceiling. "He is in truth Dirk MacKay, son of Laird Griff, as you can plainly see."

"Nay." Maighread's eyes narrowed on Dirk. She pointed an accusing finger and moved forward, but stopped three feet away. "That is not Dirk MacKay. He has been dead for many years."

Dirk couldn't stop his sinister smile as hatred and a vile need for revenge coursed through his veins. He'd never harmed a woman, but was sore tempted now. He clenched his fists in restraint.

"I'm certain you wished me dead, stepmother. But I'm not," Dirk said.

"I would never wish you or anyone dead. But you cannot prove you are the man you claim to be." Her condescending, harpy voice grated on his nerves.

"Ask me anything you like. Maybe you'd like me to recite my ancestry back to the tenth century."

"Hmph." Her haughty look told him she was less than impressed. "You could learn that from anyone in the clan."

"Ask me something about my childhood. Something only I would know." Brow lifted, he waited while her mouth opened and closed mutely. "Afraid you might be proven wrong?" he asked.

"We all remember Dirk, m'lady," his father's senachie, Phelan, said. "All the older members of the clan do. We were present at his birth and watched him grow from a wee bairn to a tall, strong lad."

"That lad looked nothing like this imposter," Maighread proclaimed, scanning the clan elders. "Have the lot of you gone senile?"

The elder men frowned and exchanged vexed glances, some giving her the evil eye. But she ignored them, instead glaring intently at Dirk.

"I'm a wee bit larger than the last time you saw me," Dirk said, crossing his arms over his chest. Standing straight and tall, he towered over her. The first time he'd seen her, when he was around four or five, she'd dwarfed him and stared down at him as if he were a loathsome, mud-covered mongrel pup.

The last time he'd seen her, when he was fifteen, they had been of about the same height. But now, he was at least a foot taller than she.

"He looks like his father and his grandfather," Ranald, his father's sword-bearer, said.

"He looks nothing like my dear, departed Griff, God rest his soul," she said with deceptive piety. "And I never saw his grandfather so how would I know?"

"'Tis him, m'lady. He has the birthmark," Phelan said with calm confidence.

Dirk had always liked the man and his dramatic stories which glorified his father's battles and hunting expeditions.

"What birthmark?" Maighread demanded.

"On his back, Mother," Haldane said.

"Dirk never had a birthmark."

"You didn't give birth to Dirk nor were you a mother to him when he was a wee lad. How would you know whether he had a birthmark or not?" Uncle Conall asked.

"I… well." She sputtered for a moment.

"Open your eyes," Conall said. "You can clearly see 'tis Dirk."

"Were you not the one who said Dirk fell off a cliff and died?" Maighread demanded. "Did you lie?"

"Aye, someone tried to murder him," Conall said, his dark gaze boring into his sister-in-law. "I lied to protect him. He was several feet down the side of a cliff where someone had pushed him. Without doubt, a hired assassin. I threw a rope down to Dirk and pulled him back up. Then, I helped him slip away to another part of the Highlands so he would be safe until he was grown."

"I wonder…" Dirk said. "Why did the assassin say to me, 'Lady MacKay sends her regards,' right before he pushed me off the edge?"

Murmurs and grumbles moved through the great hall as two dozen or more clansmen looked on, taking in every word.

Maighread gasped, her face turning pale. "I have no inkling! But it proves naught. Anyone could say that to implicate me. But since you're not really Dirk, you made it up, of course."