She sat at the dais beside the bailiff and the seannachie along with other high-ranking men of the clan, the room buzzing with the loud voices of the guardsmen who’d decided to drown the hardships of the day in a hearty amount of cuirm. Her gaze shifted more than once toward the door, wondering what was keeping them. It was only the concern that the lady of the keep would feel for her guests, she told herself. But the longer the delay, the more obvious the lie. Her concern was for one man. Patrick Murray fascinated her. Everything about him seemed intense—larger than life—from his impossibly handsome face to his strength to the darkness and turmoil she sensed simmering just below the surface. As the minutes ticked by, she became even more convinced that something was wrong. So when the young Murray warrior she’d spoken to earlier—Robbie, she recalled—appeared at the entry to the great hall, his eyes frantically scanning the room, she practically leapt to her feet and hurried across the crowded room.
