She stared out at the view over Balnakeil Bay and the golden sand beach where they'd talked, wrestled, and practiced archery, the distant cliffs on each side, protecting the bay. Cliffs that looked far more ominous now, for she'd almost lost her life out there.

With the MacBains and McMurdo skulking about, she couldn't walk on the beach anymore. She missed it. But she missed Torrin far more. It felt like he was a thousand miles away now. Tears burned her eyes, and she prayed he would be safe and return soon.

The sky was heavily overcast and the water of the bay dark, so unlike the sunny day she'd spent with Torrin out there. She still couldn't believe she'd been stealthy enough to knock him to the ground. She smiled, tears in her eyes, remembering the priceless look of shock on his face. 'Twas the day he'd first kissed her… and the day she'd fallen in love with him. Though she hadn't realized it until later.

Why did life have to be so difficult? Why couldn't she simply marry him, conceive and give birth like a normal woman? She would give anything to be normal, and the type of wife he needed.

He was the best of men, accepting, understanding and always affectionate with her. He hadn't faltered in his pursuit of her. Weeks ago, when she'd seen him on the opposite side of that ravine, barely able to stand, his clothing drenched in his own blood, while Haldane held the knife to her throat, she'd known then that Torrin's heart was true. And that he would give his life for her if he had to.

But to marry him would be too much of a risk. If she were to do that and then be unable to provide him an heir, she would be devastated. If only she knew what the future held. She could certainly envision a joyful future with him. She could dream of making love to him every night, and several months from now, holding a healthy newborn babe in her arms, while he smiled proudly and kissed her.

But 'twas only a dream.

***

After spending the night in Scourie, Torrin, Iain and the rest of their party drew closer to Munrick that evening. 'Twas only a couple of miles away. They had been traveling for two days through rough, rocky terrain, and Torrin was sick of riding. All the men and horses having to be ferried across a loch had also slowed their progress.

Maybe 'twas because of his recent injury that riding was tiring him more easily. Saints! He had to toughen himself up again. Or maybe 'twas because he missed Jessie so profoundly that he'd gotten little sleep the night before. He'd become used to her sleeping in his arms for the past week, and for her to suddenly not be there anymore was hell.

The sun was sinking low over the mountains, gleaming through the rosy clouds and sparkling off Loch Assynt below. Torrin would love for Jessie to see this view, for it would mean she was coming home with him.

Shouting and war cries snagged his attention. From the opposite direction, Highland warriors with swords and targes stormed down from the crest of the hill on foot.

Torrin's horse reared unexpectedly and almost unseated him.

"Damnation." He held on. Once the horse was on all fours again, he drew his sword and slashed at the marauders nearest him. "MacBain," Torrin growled, recognizing the knave amongst those fighting.

Torrin's abdomen was still healing, and therefore still weak and sore from the wounds, but he would not allow this miscreant to defeat him. Thankfully, with the dozen MacKays, Iain's men and Torrin's men, they were evenly matched.

Once Gregor MacBain had felled one of the MacKays, he charged Torrin. When he slashed Torrin's horse's flank, fury consumed Torrin. With a scream, the horse kicked at MacBain and spun. Torrin brought his sword down across MacBain's shoulder, slicing through his doublet and shirt. The man cried out and leapt back, blood soaking his clothing.

After grabbing his targe from his saddle, Torrin jumped to the ground, for an injured horse was unpredictable. The animal bolted away from the fighting.

Torrin was disappointed to see that he hadn't cut MacBain's sword arm, but the opposite one. Still, the cut would slow him down. The bastard's face was red and his teeth clenched. Good. Now he knew what Torrin had suffered. With his shoulder injured, MacBain had a difficult time holding his targe and dirk in fighting position, which left him vulnerable.

After sliding the leather straps of the targe onto his forearm and yanking his dirk from the scabbard on his belt, Torrin stabbed his sword toward MacBain's stomach, but he deflected the blow with his own blade.

MacBain bared his teeth and sliced at Torrin. He easily blocked it. Shoving his targe and dirk toward MacBain, he trapped the man's sword arm and jabbed his own sword toward MacBain's side. The blade slid deep into the flesh at near the same place MacBain had wounded him three weeks ago. MacBain screeched and stumbled back.

Pain burned across Torrin's leg. Damnation, the bastard had cut his thigh. Torrin redoubled his efforts and stabbed MacBain in the chest with his dirk, then again in the side.

Wide-eyed, the man cried out and dropped to the ground.

One of MacBain's men attacked Torrin from his right. He blocked his sword slash just in time. Seconds later, Torrin stabbed the man in the gut and cut his throat.

A horrid pain sliced across Torrin's back. Growling, he spun to find another of MacBain's men behind him.

"Coward!" Torrin yelled. He blocked his next blow with the targe, then drove the shorter man back with strike after strike. He shoved at the bastard with his targe, then used his dirk to stab him in the sword arm. The man howled in pain and tried to escape, but 'twas too late. Torrin slashed and stabbed with his sword, sending the bleeding man to the ground seconds later.

He turned to find some of the MacBains fleeing into the bush and up the hill. Several of them lay on the ground, dead or dying.

"How many did we lose?" he asked Struan, thirty feet away.

"Saints, Chief! You're badly injured again. We need to stop the bleeding."

Iain ran toward him, his shirt and doublet bloody.

"Are you wounded?" Torrin asked him.

"Only a few minor cuts."

Iain glanced down at Torrin's leg, below his sliced plaid. "You were cut badly. We have to get that bleeding stopped."

"Luag's dead!" Struan yelled, kneeling by him.

"Nay!" Torrin limped toward them, seeing that indeed his guard was unmoving, and drenched in blood, his eyes staring sightlessly. "Damnation." Luag had been by his side most every day since he'd become chief.

"Two of the MacKay guards were killed," Iain said. "And eleven of the MacBains."

Torrin shook his head, saddened by the death of Luag and also two of their allies. How he hated the MacBains. "Bastards," he growled. But at least he had killed their leader.

"Sit on the ground and let me see your wound," Iain said.

Torrin did, pulling up his plaid to bare the deep cut on his thigh. "One of the bastards sliced my back, too."

Iain muttered curses and pulled off his own shirt. He wrapped it around Torrin's leg twice and tied it tight. "That might slow the bleeding a little. Let me see your back."

Torrin pushed himself up, but when he stumbled, Iain helped him stand. He ripped the fabric of his shirt where it was sliced to better see the cut. "'Tis not as bad as the other one," Iain said. "But we need to get you to Munrick quick so the healer can stitch you up. We're only a couple of miles away."

"Aye," Torrin said, suddenly going lightheaded.

Sim found Torrin's horse and led him forward. Pain lancing through his leg and his back, Torrin examined the cut to the horse's flank. It had bled some but was not terribly deep. He believed the horse would recover.