Highland Sinner by Hannah Howell Page B

table. Talk was idle for a few moments and Tormand watched his kinsmen flirt with Morainn. The annoyance he felt over that troubled him so much that he was beginning to think coming to see her had been a very bad idea. Then she fixed her sea-blue eyes on him and he felt his heart skip in welcome.
    This was not good, he mused. Not good at all. Unfortunately, he did not have any urge to flee what was Page 36
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    beginning to feel too much like a trap too many of his kinsmen had fallen into—the kind that ensnared a man’s heart.
    “’Tis pleasant to have company to break up the tedium of the day,” Morainn said, “but I dinnae think ye rode here just to introduce your kinsmen, Sir Tormand.”
    “Nay, especially since I didnae invite the fools to ride with me and Simon,” Tormand replied, and sent his grinning kinsmen a brief scowl. “They have decided I need to be protected and stick like burrs.”
    Morainn felt a strong twist of envy in her heart. Even though Tormand was glaring at the others, she knew he cared for them. They were family and she sensed that those bonds were both deep and wide. She had never truly had a family. Once her father had left, shortly after her birth according to her mother, her mother had apparently lost interest in being a true loving mother. She had never harmed Morainn, but the woman had rarely displayed any true affection for her only child. Morainn had spent her growing years being made to feel little more than a burden.
    She hastily shook aside the envy and regrets. Her mother had made sure that her child had always had food to eat, clothes to wear, and a roof over her head. She had also taught Morainn everything she knew about the healing arts, the one thing Anna Ross had actually felt passionate about. That knowledge had allowed Morainn to make a life for herself after she had been banished from the town. For that alone, Morainn knew she owed her mother a lot. She may not have had the close, loving family these Murrays obviously did, but she had been gifted with far more than too many others got.
    “We heard that ye had visions,” said Tormand, thinking it a poor start to the conversation, but not sure how else to broach the subject of why they were there.
    Fear of the consequences of admitting such a thing made her hesitate, but then Morainn recalled Sir Tormand’s defense of her before the angry crowd. “Aye, sometimes,” she replied. “Visions, dreams, call them what ye will.”
    “They make her scream in the night,” said Walin.
    “Ah, weel, nay always.” Morainn handed Walin an oatcake in the hope that it would keep him silent for a while. “I cannae have a vision just because someone needs one, however. They come to me when they wish to. They are nay always clear in what they try to tell me, either.”
    Hearing the hesitancy in her voice, Tormand said, “Dinnae fear to speak of it to us. The Murray clan is littered with people who have such gifts. Mostly the lassies.” He heard his kinsmen murmur their agreement to that claim. “We dinnae think ye are truly a witch simply because ye have these dreams. We Murrays call them gifts for a reason.”
    It was difficult not to gape at the man. She glanced around at the other men, but saw no sign that Tormand was lying. They all just watched her silently, a hint of compassion in their eyes as though they understood exactly how difficult it was to have such a gift as hers. Morainn knew some people who thought of her gift as God-given, and not of the devil, but she had never met anyone who freely admitted to having such things in their bloodlines. There was even the hint of pride in Sir Tormand’s voice as he spoke of it.
    “Then, wouldnae ye prefer going to them?” she asked.
    “If one of them had seen anything, then I would have been sent word of it. Several of them sensed there was some trouble coming my way, that I could be in danger, but nay