Scotland, 1301

People in the village knew little about McGill. He had appeared one day with a load of riches and had taken over the old castle. For the first time in living memory, the village had a lord.

Duncan leaned on his hoe and wiped the sweat running from his sandy-red hair and down his brow with the back of his bulging arm. He watched the keep as if it would tell him something of its occupant, but the cold stone said nothing to him from its perfect position on the hill. Just high enough to command the valley below, but low enough to take shelter from the frequent storms that swept over the highlands.

Villagers saw McGill only rarely, only when he personally dealt with a tenant who was late on their taxes. Usually, his minions handled such matters. This was a good thing. Several villagers who had had direct contact with McGill seemed to vanish. The old women whispered about how McGill would kill them, drink their blood, and use the skins of farmers to make a new saddle for his towering, snorting black stallion.

He chuckled to himself over the foolishness of old women as he turned back to the field he needed to finish before sundown.

"Ho! Duncan! Duncan Campbell!"

Duncan sighed to himself. So much for getting done in the field early today, he thought. He turned toward the voice calling his name.

"Ho, Gilroy." Gilroy McBarens was regarded by most villagers to be someplace on the social ladder between the town drunk and the village idiot. Duncan knew Gilroy resided much closer to the former.

"Hae ye heard, Duncan?"

"Heard what?"

"Why, the news!" Gilroy looked around as if someone were watching him. "McGill is taking a bride."

"Means naught to me."

Gilroy rolled his eyes. "It should, ye dunderhead. Often, when the lord takes a woman, it bodes well for the clans."

"Why would it? Will the man be too busy fucking to pay heed to his keep?"

"Well, no, but with a wee lassie in his bed, he'll be a sight more civil."

"You're a dreamer, Gilroy." Duncan clapped his scrawny friend on a bony shoulder with a well-muscled hand. "A simpleminded drunken dreamer."

"Aye, maybe I am." He smiled, great dark gaps showing between his dirty teeth. "Will ye be coming to the pub later? Some o' The Bruce's men will be there."

"The English will skin the lot of ye one day." He glanced up at the sun. "Aye, I'll be there. If ye leave me to finish my work."

Scotland, Present Day

Valerie jumped when Roland touched her arm. A small frown flitted over his face. "What's wrong, baby?"

Perhaps it was the cold wind leading the coming storm that made her shiver a little. She managed a smile. "Nothing at all. I was just thinking how beautiful this place must have been seven hundred years ago."

"Yeah, I can only imagine." Roland slipped his arm around her waist. Even after more than a year of marriage, his heat against her body made her heart race. He nodded toward where Stanley Markinson stood leaning casually against a section of crumbling wall some fifty yards away. "I think he can see it back then."

Was Markinson watching the approaching storm, them, or just her? She pulled her gaze from the novelist's eyes. "Yes, maybe he can."

Roland hesitated a moment. "Are you having those crazy thoughts again?"

"I guess that's one word for them." For nearly a year now, she'd had the feeling that she wasn't alone. Not that someone was watching her or was with her, but in the sense that someone was in her. Sometimes, she had thoughts that seemed to come from another person, another brain.

The events had frightened her enough at first that she did some research, but not too much. As was always the case, a little knowledge was a dangerous thing. She had convinced herself she had either schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder.

One nice thing about being Mrs. Roland Westwood was that she could not only afford the best psychiatrists money could buy, but she could also get in to see them in a day. And they made house calls for her.

After a huge battery of psychological tests and about sixty hours of talking, the headshrinkers had decided that she suffered from stress and nothing more. They assured her that at twenty-eight years old, showing symptoms of schizophrenia would be very rare. They produced articles to show her that real multiple personality disorder was even rarer.

So, she took the anxiolytic medicines and bided her time. It got better. She still sometimes had the idea that someone was watching her every move, and she also believed that sometimes she did things she couldn't remember. But it was better. She didn't have the feelings every waking moment now. She could focus on her life and the great man she'd literally stumbled on more than a year ago. Valerie turned in Roland's arms to face him. "Not really. At least no more than normally." She stretched up to kiss him.

He pulled away from her lips. "Just tell me if starts again, OK?"

"I will." She put on her best pout. "Now, shut up and kiss me."

As Roland pressed his lips to hers, he turned slightly. Valerie opened her eyes and looked across the battlement.

Stanley Markinson stood watching them.