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    Unforgettable
    Thunder awoke Ian Kerr from a
restless sleep haunted by troubled blue eyes. He wanted to reach out to the
owner of those eyes, tell the man that it would be all right. "All
right," he mumbled, forcing heavy lids up. His head felt thick and his
vision blurred.
    Lying still, he forced himself to
assimilate his surroundings as his head and vision slowly cleared. The floor
beneath him was earth, the wall he lay against as well. A fire crackled nearby,
providing warmth and a dim flickering light. His belly rumbled loudly, echoing
the thunder.
    Last he'd known, his brother Andrew,
and Agnes MacFarland had left him to cover their retreat. How had he come to
lie in an abandoned shepherd's bothy? Still, it was out of the storm that raged
outside, and for that he was grateful. A savory scent lingered in the air, and
Ian shifted upright to find the source of that enticing odor.
    "Ahh … " Agony seared his chest, and he clutched at it,
marveling as his fingers found a neat row of stitches. The pain jolted his
muddled brain and memories fought slowly to the surface. "The battle…"
The damned MacFarlands had left him to die on the roadside when one of their
untrained whelps landed a lucky blow with sword he'd been scarce able to lift.
    "Aye, easy there." The
soft burr drew his gaze to a thin man in a MacFarland tartan kneeling near the
small fire. The youth filled a bowl with pottage and crossed the small space
between them. The voice was familiar, the figure strange.
    "Where am I?"
    "Boden's old place. I
couldna get ye any further from the road. Wasna safe to take ye to the
farm." When the youth knelt and offered him the bowl, Ian was struck by
deep blue eyes, the steely blue of the sky before sunset, set in a fine boned
face, beardless, thin, fragile nearly, and very familiar.
    "Ye're a MacFarland."
He reached automatically for his blade, though the stripling was hardly
threatening in his appearance. Memories stirred of the recently fought battle. Those
were the eyes from his dream… "I remember ye from the fight. Ye were in
Andrew's bride's guard."
    Laughter lurked in the blue eyes
before the youth ducked his head. "I'm Brodick MacFarland. Agnes is my
sister." His cheeks flushed slightly, though it could have been a trick of
the flickering fire.
    Brodick returned to the fire and
filled another bowl of pottage for himself. Ian surveyed him cautiously. His
instinct said the other man was no threat…but their families were at war.
"Ye fetched the doctor for me?" Silently, he ate a few bites of
pottage, studying the slim figure, the thin chest and wiry arms. This was no
warrior, though he could plainly see the man wasn't as young as he'd first
thought.
    Brodick met his gaze again.
"I sewed ye up meself. I'm a student at Aberdeen. I'm sorry if 'tis no'
perfectly done. But I didna dare let anyone know you lived."
    Ian nodded. "Why?" This
youth hadn't participated in the mild battle; Ian's injury had been caused by a
startled looking stripling who'd vomited into the heather and thistle at the
roadside immediately afterward. Ian's clansmen had left him, their need to
escort Andrew's bride to safety most urgent. He caught a sidelong glance from
Brodick, and something in the darkening gaze sent a flicker of heat to his
groin. Clan MacFarland was known for beauty in a land where brawn was prized, Ian
wouldn’t have been so smitten with the sainted Agnes, but this one was
different…special. Where the other MacFarlands shared his creamy pale skin and
plump rosy lips, instead of the deep auburn hair the rest of the MacFarlands
sported, this one had been graced with a wild mane of black curls, cropped at
the shoulder. Ian's fingers itched to bury themselves in those curls, to test
their silky appearance with his fingertips.
    "Agnes wanted Kerr. From the
time their paths crossed in Aberdeen last fall, he's all the foolish lass
talked of…every letter Laird Kerr this, Andrew that. 'Twas for the best that
she go with him. Her