there as well and a hunger to give herself, heart and soul, to an all-consuming, unconditional love.
He knew that with a deep certainty. He knew that because he
recognized a kindred soul. He knew that, because in the deepest
depths of his heart, it was the same way with him.
Dar opened his eyes to pitch blackness and sighed. When would he ever face the reality of his life, and what he would
and wouldn't have no matter how he wished it otherwise? Most
times now, he managed to keep those niggling, ridiculously futile
desires firmly at bay, walled off in a secret, impregnable place in
his mind.
Indeed, he hadn't had to face them for months now. The
daunting tasks of staying alive and finding the next meal, shelter
from the driving rain, or a safe spot to sleep for the night had
been quite effective at banishing less primal needs. An outlaw in
constant fear for his life had little spare time left for futile hopes
and dreams.
But coming to Kilchurn, enemy territory though it was, had
apparently provided the respite sufficient to lure him back where
he chose never to go again. That, and the ardent desires meeting
Caitlin Campbell had stirred in him.
There was but one remedy, Dar decided, tossing aside his
blankets and moving to sit on the side of his bed, and that remedy
was action. He felt around for his cuarans and pulled on the soft,
knee-high leather boots, lacing them snugly. They were beginning
to wear thin again, especially the soles, and would soon need
patching. Dar didn't know how many more times he could sew
on another sole to the ever thinning leather sides, before even
they would give way. It would be barefoot after that, he supposed,
which was no worse a fate than that already suffered by most of
his remaining clan.
Once, as the second son of the clan chief, he had never lacked
for any necessity. Though Clan MacNaghten had never been a
prosperous clan, they had managed well enough. But Dundarave
Castle was now an empty shell.
Once the proscription had been imposed and it had been
necessary to desert the castle and take to hiding in the hills, its
former possessions were soon plundered by marauding, neighboring clans. Indeed, the Argyll Campbells with their headquarters at Inveraray, located just four miles southeast, had lost little time
in initiating the rapine.
Dar rose, adjusted the belted plaid he had chosen to sleep
in this night, and quietly headed for the door. Once out in the
corridor, the faint light of pitch-soaked torches illuminated the
long expanse leading to the dungeon. All was silent, just as he
expected it would be at this late hour. Nonetheless, Dar kept his
hearing acutely attuned for any untoward noise.
Several times, he caught the scratching of tiny feet, startled
squeaks, and skittering sounds as he surprised rats along the
way. Denizens of dark, undisturbed places, they were common
enough. The last time he had dared visit Dundarave one cloudy
winter's day just three month's past, the place had seemed infested with the vermin. But then the entire castle, a four-storied,
L-shaped tower house enclosed by a high wall, had already fallen
into disrepair.
Wooden shutters hung from broken, rusted hinges, if they
still hung at all. Snow had piled in various nooks and crannies in
rooms left unprotected by shutters, and the wind whistled unimpeded through the chambers and down deserted hallways. What
tapestries hadn't been carried off hung in tatters on the walls. And
not only rats had added to the carnage. Birds had built nests in
the ceilings and covered the floor with their droppings.
It was the damage done to the entrance at the foot of the stair
tower, however, that had most sorely torn at Dar's heart. Not only
had the finely carved front door been all but hacked to shreds,
but over the portal, the dog-toothed molded ornamentation and
family motto, "I hope in God," had been so defaced that one
could now hardly read it.
The callous and
He knew that with a deep certainty. He knew that because he
recognized a kindred soul. He knew that, because in the deepest
depths of his heart, it was the same way with him.
Dar opened his eyes to pitch blackness and sighed. When would he ever face the reality of his life, and what he would
and wouldn't have no matter how he wished it otherwise? Most
times now, he managed to keep those niggling, ridiculously futile
desires firmly at bay, walled off in a secret, impregnable place in
his mind.
Indeed, he hadn't had to face them for months now. The
daunting tasks of staying alive and finding the next meal, shelter
from the driving rain, or a safe spot to sleep for the night had
been quite effective at banishing less primal needs. An outlaw in
constant fear for his life had little spare time left for futile hopes
and dreams.
But coming to Kilchurn, enemy territory though it was, had
apparently provided the respite sufficient to lure him back where
he chose never to go again. That, and the ardent desires meeting
Caitlin Campbell had stirred in him.
There was but one remedy, Dar decided, tossing aside his
blankets and moving to sit on the side of his bed, and that remedy
was action. He felt around for his cuarans and pulled on the soft,
knee-high leather boots, lacing them snugly. They were beginning
to wear thin again, especially the soles, and would soon need
patching. Dar didn't know how many more times he could sew
on another sole to the ever thinning leather sides, before even
they would give way. It would be barefoot after that, he supposed,
which was no worse a fate than that already suffered by most of
his remaining clan.
Once, as the second son of the clan chief, he had never lacked
for any necessity. Though Clan MacNaghten had never been a
prosperous clan, they had managed well enough. But Dundarave
Castle was now an empty shell.
Once the proscription had been imposed and it had been
necessary to desert the castle and take to hiding in the hills, its
former possessions were soon plundered by marauding, neighboring clans. Indeed, the Argyll Campbells with their headquarters at Inveraray, located just four miles southeast, had lost little time
in initiating the rapine.
Dar rose, adjusted the belted plaid he had chosen to sleep
in this night, and quietly headed for the door. Once out in the
corridor, the faint light of pitch-soaked torches illuminated the
long expanse leading to the dungeon. All was silent, just as he
expected it would be at this late hour. Nonetheless, Dar kept his
hearing acutely attuned for any untoward noise.
Several times, he caught the scratching of tiny feet, startled
squeaks, and skittering sounds as he surprised rats along the
way. Denizens of dark, undisturbed places, they were common
enough. The last time he had dared visit Dundarave one cloudy
winter's day just three month's past, the place had seemed infested with the vermin. But then the entire castle, a four-storied,
L-shaped tower house enclosed by a high wall, had already fallen
into disrepair.
Wooden shutters hung from broken, rusted hinges, if they
still hung at all. Snow had piled in various nooks and crannies in
rooms left unprotected by shutters, and the wind whistled unimpeded through the chambers and down deserted hallways. What
tapestries hadn't been carried off hung in tatters on the walls. And
not only rats had added to the carnage. Birds had built nests in
the ceilings and covered the floor with their droppings.
It was the damage done to the entrance at the foot of the stair
tower, however, that had most sorely torn at Dar's heart. Not only
had the finely carved front door been all but hacked to shreds,
but over the portal, the dog-toothed molded ornamentation and
family motto, "I hope in God," had been so defaced that one
could now hardly read it.
The callous and
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