Craving the Highlander's Touch by Willingham Michelle Page A

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    A minute later, the heavy chain struck the ground at his feet. His wrist was raw, but he held steady, waiting for her to release his other hand.
    “What is your name?” she asked, as she unfastened the second iron band.
    “Finian,” he answered. “I’m the MacLachor chief. Or…I was, before this.” There were hardly any MacLachors left now. Perhaps a dozen or fewer, after they’d attempted to attack Harkirk’s fortress. So many of his men had died…and he should have been among them.
    Lady Harkirk folded her hands in her skirts and retreated. “If you follow me, I’ll show you a way outside the fortress. That’s all I can do for you. You’ll have to make your own escape.”
    “Why would you offer me help?” Finian asked. He struggled to make his feet move, wincing at the pain as he took one step, then another. “Surely Harkirk would be furious.”
    “I’ve been his prisoner for four years now. I don’t need anyone else to endure what I have.” She swallowed hard. “If I could free the others, I would. But he keeps them locked away, nearer to his soldiers. I don’t know why he put you here.”
    “Because they caught me trying to escape last night. He intends to make an example of me.” The MacKinloch chief had cut him free, but physical weakness had prevented Finian from getting very far. Even now, the fierce cold made it hard to move. His limbs felt as though they were wooden, and he couldn’t stop himself from trembling as he rested his hand against the wall.
    Lady Harkirk removed her cloak and set it around his shoulders. Finian stared at her, unable to understand her kindness. They were strangers, for God’s sake. He was going to kill the man she’d pledged her life to.
    But she was looking at him with uncertainty, as though she saw something good within him. As if he were someone worth saving.
    She was wrong. There was nothing left of his blackened soul.
    “I can’t accept this,” he said, holding out her cloak.
    “You need it more than I do.” And with that, she fled. Before she could reach the exit, he caught up to her, blocking her way.
    “Why me?” he demanded. “I’m the last person who deserves this.”
    She didn’t speak, keeping her gaze to the floor. Her skin was pale, her hands trembling. Finian’s hand curled against the wall. She had to know that he was unworthy of her mercy. “It’s my fault. This battle…the loss of my men’s lives.” He pressed the cloak at her, as though it were on fire. “If the MacKinloch’s daughter dies, it will be on my soul.”
    Alys started to speak, but held her tongue. In her eyes, he saw the quiet condemnation. Had she not already freed him, he guessed she would have left him in chains.
    “Then make amends for what you did.” She touched his chest, moving away. “Or go, if that’s your wish.”
    She spoke as if she expected him to walk away from his crime.
    Make amends. He doubted if there was anything he could do. His body was so cold, his limbs felt as though they were sinking in mud. If he dared to rise up against Harkirk for the sake of the young girl, he wouldn’t survive.
    He raised his eyes to Lady Harkirk. “I deserve to die.”
    She held out the cloak again. “That’s not for me to decide.”
    Finian kept her gaze for a long moment. She’d offered him the cloak off her back. A heaviness encircled his heart, for she was right. He could make amends. He could sacrifice himself up for the sins he’d committed and try to save the MacKinloch child.
    He took the cloak and wrapped it around his frigid skin. The garment held the warmth of her body and the faint scent of herbs, almost as if she were holding him in an embrace.
    By God, it had been so long since his wife, Gillian, had died. He hadn’t touched a woman in years. The harsh loneliness gripped him, and he pulled the cloak tightly against his broken, bloodied body.
    “If you’re truly sorry for what you did, you could help them,” Lady Harkirk said