It wasn’t just that the lad was a Harboth that made him so annoying. No, it was something about the way he looked—the ripe barley color of the hair that hung in a thick braid down his back, the eyes as blue as a deep cold loch, his wide full lips. Only the strength evident in his square jaw and the width of his shoulders saved him from being as beautiful as a maiden. It wasn’t Burke’s looks that stayed Rowan’s hand or the flag of truce the younger man carried. It was the fact that the words he’d shouted as he rode toward Rowan’s band of warriors carried the ring of truth. There was another reason as well but Rowan carefully refused to think about it. “So,” Rowan said, keeping his attention fully on the current problem, “if the Harboths didn’t take my cattle, who did?” Behind him someone muttered, it was Angus, he thought, “He’s too pretty to trust.” “But the tracks don’t lead toward Harboth land,” Aidan pointed out. “He’s still a Harboth.” “Aye,”
