He tried to focus on doing his job, his duty for Dirk and the clan, and not the fact that he was bringing the woman he loved to a place where he might have to leave her. Nay, he would not. He was taking her out of here, one way or another. “Well, ’tis about time,” a deep, rough voice called out. A man, dressed in the Lowland or English style, stood from his elevated seat at the high table, stepped down and strode forward to greet them. Keegan assumed he was Chief Ambrose Murray, Seona’s father. He was stocky, with gray hair. His clean-shaven face was flushed, either from being too close to the fire or too much whisky. With a narrow-eyed gaze, he inspected Seona first. “A good eve to you, Father.” She curtsied, keeping her eyes downcast. Keegan frowned, his instincts going on high alert for he sensed her fear. “Seona,” Murray said, then lifted his gaze to scan over the faces of those who had come inside. Several of the guards and servants had remained outside, seeing to the horses and making sure the healer attended the injured men’s wounds.
