The Highlander's Touch

“You what?” Duncan asked, watching him with fascination. When Circenn didn’t reply, he pushed, “Will you refuse to kill her? Will you break a forsworn oath?” Duncan’s incredulity was etched all over his handsome face.

“I didn’t say that,” Circenn snapped.

“You didn’t not say it,” Galan said warily. “I would appreciate it if you would clarify your intentions. Do you plan to kill her or not?”

Circenn rubbed his jaw again. He cleared his throat, trying to form the words his conscience demanded he say, but the warrior in him resisted.

Duncan’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Circenn thoughtfully. After a moment, he glanced at his brother. “We know what Adam is like, Galan. His way has oft been swift, unnecessary destruction, and enough blameless lives have been taken in the quest to secure the throne. I propose Circenn take the time to discover who the woman is and whence she comes prior to passing sentence. I cannot speak for you, Galan, but I doona wish the blood of another innocent on my hands, and if we urge him to kill her, the deed becomes ours as well. Besides, recall that although Circenn swore to kill the bearer of the flask, nothing in his oath addressed timeliness. He might wait twenty years to kill her without breaking his oath.”

Circenn glanced up at Duncan’s last words, surprised. He hadn’t considered that possibility. In truth, his oath had not contained one word specifying how swiftly he must kill the bearer of the flask—hence it was neither amoral nor a violation of his oath to refrain for a short time in order to study the person. One might even argue that it was wise, he decided. You split hairs with a battle-ax. Adam’s words, from six years ago, surfaced in Circenn’s mind to mock him.

“But you had best be aware,” Galan warned, “that if you doona kill her, and should any of the Templars discover who she is and the nature of the oath you swore, the knights will lose faith in your ability to lead. They will see a vow broken as an unforgivable weakness. The only reason they agreed to fight for our country is because of you. Sometimes I think they would follow you into hell. You know they are fanatic in their beliefs. To them, there is no justification for breaking an oath. Ever.”

“Then we will not tell them who she is or what I swore, will we?” Circenn said softly, knowing the brothers would support his decision whether they agreed with it or not. The Douglases always stood behind the laird and thane of Brodie—an ancient blood oath had united the two clans long ago.

The brothers studied him, then nodded. “It will remain between us until you reach your decision.”

* * *

Breathing deeply of the crisp, cool air, Circenn paced the courtyard while the woman waited in his chambers for mercy that was not his to grant. He struggled to harden himself against her. He had lived so long by the rules that he almost hadn’t heard his conscience clamor when he’d raised his sword to her neck. While his warrior’s training had insisted he honor the vow, a thing he had thought dead in him had undermined his resolution.

Compassion. Sympathy. And an insidious little voice that had softly, but relentlessly, questioned the sagacity of his rules. He had recognized that voice; it was doubt—a thing he hadn’t suffered for an eternity.

I swear to kill the bearer of the flask, he had pledged years ago.

A warrior’s oaths were his lifeblood, an unbreakable code by which he lived and died. Circenn Brodie’s rules were the only thing standing between him and a swift descent into chaos and corruption. What was the solution?

She must die.

She.

By Dagda, how could it be a woman? Circenn liked women; he had adored his mother and treated all women with the same deference and courtesy. He felt women exhibited some of the best characteristics of humanity. Circenn was Brude, whose line of royal succession was matrilineal. Years ago, when Circenn had sworn his oath to Adam Black, he had not once considered that the flask might be found by a woman, and such a delightful one at that. When he’d torn the strange bonnet from her head, her thick hair had cascaded nearly to her waist in a fall of copper and gold highlights. Green eyes, uptilted at the outer corners, had widened with fear, then quickly narrowed with anger as she’d pronounced the bonnet a gift from her da. It was only fitting that he return the family heirloom, no matter how ugly it was.

Unusually tall for a woman, and lithe, her breasts were full and firm, and he had glimpsed the press of her nipples against the thin fabric of her strange garment. Her legs were generously long—long enough to wrap around his waist and permit her to comfortably cross her ankles while he buried himself between them. When she had bent to retrieve her bonnet he’d nearly snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her against him, and let his demanding nature take free reign. And then slit her throat when your desire was sated?