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years supported him, but clearly that was not a valid assumption. And it was all too easy to make someone disappear into the ocean.
    Who had yanked the net and tripped him, knowing he would fall into shallow water? Nets didn’t move by themselves, and the timing was too perfect. That was no accident. But who ever had done it was a good actor. The faces peering down at him as he spluttered to standing in the hip-deep water all seemed genuinely surprised at his fall.
    He had to get the clan in his corner, or at least firmly under his control. He needed trustworthy allies, but more than that, he needed to discover who was conspiring against him. How else could he guard against the innocent expression of a friend, a man he’d worked and lived with for years, who would try to break his neck?
    He timed his ascent so the entire path was clear; saddened he had to be concerned about a companion pushing him off near the top. But that kind of fall, unlike the one he took from the boat, would surely kill a man. He needed eyes in the back of his head, and ears that could hear every word uttered by his people. Most of all, he needed to identify the man—or men—bent on sending him to the same fate as his predecessors.
    Inside the hall, the smell of smoke, brine, and fish permeated the air. Today’s haul had been enough to keep them fed for a week or more. If the weather and their salt supply held, he’d send the boats out again in a day or two. He wanted a good store of dried and salted fish against the coming winter when storms would keep the boats ashore.
    But first he wanted to rinse off the salt water and change into some dry clothes. He headed to his chamber after collecting a bucket of hot water from the cook. Inside, a small fire kept the room warm enough for him to strip to his skin, now prickling from the drying seawater. He wished he had someone to wash his back.
    Of all the women in the clan, the one whose face kept appearing in his mind was the one he could not become involved with. His charge. Coira. Why did she fascinate him? Because she was an enigma? Or beautiful? Or just a new woman about the keep?
    With a growl, he tossed a rag into the bucket, then wrung it out. The hot, clean water eased his muscles and relieved the prickles on the skin of his face, neck, and shoulders. Would her touch be soft and tentative? Or firm as she washed the sea salt from his body? He dipped the rag again, then stood over the bucket and wrung the cloth out behind his neck. Warm rivulets ran down his back and buttocks, and he imagined her fingers trailing there instead of droplets of water.
    Then he wiped down his chest to his belly, pausing before moving lower. Would she be so bold as to touch him there, too? To trail the warm rag across his skin? Or grasp him firmly with it and stroke away the salt? His cock twitched at the thought as droplets ran down his thighs. He squeezed more water into the curls below his navel, shuddering at the warm, wet sensation, imagining her hands, her mouth, there instead.
    Nay, this was foolish. He’d been too long without a woman; that was all. The scare today had his blood up. He quickly washed down his arms and legs, ignoring the need that clawed at his belly. Then he dunked his head in the remaining warm water to rinse the salt from his hair, slicked back the wet strands, and reached for another rag to dry off with.
    Someone knocked at the door, then opened it without waiting for a response. He had a brief impression of a lithe build and chestnut hair before recognition slammed into him.
    Coira!
    “I came to...oh!”
    Logen clutched the scrap of cloth to his unruly groin.
    Her hand clapped over her open mouth as she stared at him.
    “What are ye doin’ here?” Had his longings somehow summoned her?
    Coira whirled and presented her back to him. “I came to warn ye. I dinna think yer fall was an accident.”
    Logen pulled a shirt over his head and reached for his plaid, wrapping it about his waist,