The MacKinnon had risen. So, too, had his son, leaving her to sleep alone upon the breacan. Well, she berated herself. What had she expected? A morning kiss from the mighty MacKinnon? A waking hug from his son? Hardly! They weren’t her family, she reminded herself. They were her gaolers, naught more—no matter that they’d shared a sweet moment the night before. It meant naught. Less than naught. Save to her, it seemed. It had filled her with a sense of belonging so keen and so beautiful that this morning she could only mourn its loss.
