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burning down Dunnottar every time it changed hands, the hastily patched ruin of the keep was drafty, cold, and unfinished. They were stationed at Dunnottar only until the Bruce’s men relieved them, which was expected any day now, so no further repairs would be made. The Greathall opened to the night sky where the roof should have been, so the kitchen was substituted for the dining hall. Tonight, unfortunately, it was a gathering place as well.
    “The bearer of the flask,” Galan prodded helpfully.
    Circenn scowled. He had hidden the flask in his sporran, hoping for time to resign himself to fulfilling his oath. Several years ago, he’d informed the Douglas brothers of the binding curse he had placed on the chest and of the vow he had sworn to Adam Black. He had felt more comfortable knowing that when it did appear, if for some reason he was unable to fulfill his oath, this trusted pair would see it finished.
    But what did one do when oaths were in direct opposition to each other? To Adam, he had sworn to kill the bearer of the flask. Long ago, at his mother’s knee, he’d sworn never to harm a woman for any reason.
    Galan merely shrugged at Circenn’s scowl and said, “I told Duncan she had arrived. I saw the flask in her hand. We have been awaiting its return. Shall we remove the body?”
    “That might be a bit awkward. ‘The body’ is still breathing,” Circenn said irritably.
    “Why?” Duncan frowned.
    “Because I have not yet killed her.”
    Galan appraised him for a moment. “She
is
lovely, is she not?”
    Circenn didn’t miss the accusation. “Have I ever allowed loveliness to corrupt my honor?”
    “Nay, and I am certain you will not now. You have never broken an oath.” Galan’s challenge was unmistakable.
    Circenn sank into a chair.
    At thirty, Galan was the second eldest of the five Douglas brothers. Tall and dark, he was a disciplined warrior who, like Circenn, believed in strict adherence to rules. His idea of a proper battle included months of carefulpreparation, intense study of the enemy, and a detailed strategy from which they would not waver once the attack was begun.
    Duncan, the youngest in the family, held a more nonchalant attitude. Six feet tall, he was ruggedly handsome, always had a day’s growth of beard so black that it made his jaw look blue, and his plaid was usually rumpled, hastily knotted, and looked like it was about to slip off. He drew lasses like flies to honey and wholeheartedly availed himself of the fairer sex’s attraction to him. Duncan’s idea of a proper battle was to wench right up to the last minute, fall out of bed, then dash off with a plaid and a sword and plunge into the melee, laughing all the while. Duncan was a bit unusual, but all the Douglases were forces to be reckoned with in one way or another. The eldest brother, James, was the Bruce’s chief lieutenant and a brilliant strategist.
    Galan and Duncan had been Circenn’s trusted council for years. They’d warred together, implemented attacks and counterattacks under Robert the Bruce’s standard, and trained vigorously for the final battle they prayed would soon liberate Scotland from the English.
    “I am not certain I see what harm this woman might do to our cause,” Circenn hedged, cautiously gauging their reaction to his words. Silently, he was gauging his own reaction as well. Usually his rules comforted him, gave him a sense of purpose and direction, but every ounce of his conscience rebelled at the thought of killing the woman abovestairs. He began to tally the possible repercussions of allowing her to live, besides destroying his honor.
    Galan laced his fingers together and studied his calluses while speaking. “I scarce think that matters. You swore an oath to Adam Black that you would eliminate the bearer ofthe flask. While I can see that a woman might evoke sympathy, you have no knowledge of who she really is. She was dressed strangely. Could she be of Druid descent?”
    “I think