HIS HORSE KNEW the lay of the land as well as he did, and it was eager to reach the stables at Blayde. It was easier to ride along the coastline than follow deer and game trails in the interior, even if the going was rocky at times. But when Blayde appeared high upon the cliffs ahead, Macleod abruptly halted the animal. It was dusk, the moon beginning to rise. He was breathing hard and as lathered as his horse.

      He hadn’t meant to cross this beach, the very same beach where he’d sent his family and kin to their graves at sea. He hadn’t been back to this small cove since the sea burials, not once. But suddenly he was at that precise cove. He could smell the smoke…he could smell the blood, the death.

      He slid from his horse and silently told it to go home. The stallion snorted, sending him an almost human glance before trotting away.

      Slowly, Macleod turned.

      Roiling white waves broke upon the shore and the rocks there. The surf was always rougher at night, boiling and dangerous. But as he stared, the waves gentled, softly lapping at the beach. The dark sand shimmered, becoming the color of pearls—except where it was stained with blood. The sky became lighter as dawn came and the red sun tried to rise in the gray, smoke-filled skies. A boy stood there on the beach, vowing revenge, filled with guilt and desperation and trying not to cry.

      He did not want to remember. Another man might hope to go back in time—especially considering that such a power might be attainable—but not he. He’d been told that the past could not be changed, and he believed it.

      He started walking toward the churning ocean. The boy knelt in the sand, watching the funeral pyres as they drifted out to sea.

      Although he was observing the boy with complete detachment, he was aware of a deep, dark tension. He paused, staring out across the ocean, but not at the rising moon. He still saw the bleak dawn horizon. The galleys were rocking upon the waves, their sails limp and flaccid, eighteen in all.

      He had lost everyone that day.

      But he’d found his mother’s amulet in the hand of a dead enemy soldier. Elasaid had worn a small talisman, never taking it off—a small gold palm with a bright white stone in its center, a pendant with great magical powers. He hadn’t been able to send it to sea. He kept it locked in his bedchamber in a chest.

      He had not been able to defend his father, his brothers or his mother, or anyone else. He had failed them all. Yet he had survived….

      He watched the boy, now on his knees. He began to vomit. Macleod almost felt sorry for him.

      It was worse this year, he somehow thought. The boy was closer than ever, when he hoped to forget his very existence. He closed his eyes. Why was the boy so close, after ninety-seven long years?

      He was never going to be able to make up for his failures, he thought grimly. He could murder a hundred MacDougalls, but William would remain in his sea grave, and Elasaid’s bones would still be dust.

      Suddenly Macleod tensed.

      He was not alone.

      Let me help you.

      Surprise stiffened him. She had returned.

      He began to breathe harder, afraid to move, remembering. The boy had been kneeling on the beach, watching the funeral ships as they drifted away, when he’d felt the woman’s soft, warm presence. He’d heard her, behind him. She had said, “Let me help you.” When he had turned, he’d thought he’d glimpsed a golden woman, but no one had been standing there.

      In that first decade after the massacre, she’d come to him in his dreams, offering comfort, whispering, “Let me help you.” In his dreams, she had been beautiful, strangely dressed, with long golden hair, a dozen years older than he was. She had been so vivid and so real that when he had reached out in his dreams he could touch her. Even though her audacity had angered him, he had wanted her immediately, the urgency stunning. But every time he had tried to bring her into his embrace, to take her to his bed, she had vanished.

      He had stopped dreaming of the massacre and the dawn burials years ago. But when he was very tired after a terrible and vicious battle, she would suddenly appear. He would feel her strong, comforting presence first. Then he would hear her. Let me help you. And when he turned he would see her shimmering apparition. It hadn’t taken him long to realize she was a ghost—or a goddess.

      She had been haunting him now for almost a century.

      Macleod was certain she was present now.

      Let me help you.

      Slowly, Macleod stood and turned.

      For one instant, he saw a flushed face, wide, concerned eyes and golden hair—and then he saw nothing but the beach and the cliffs above.

      It was dusk again. There was no smoke, and two stars had emerged in the growing darkness, along with the rising moon.

      He glanced warily around, straining to see in the twilight, but he no longer felt her presence. He knew she would come back. What he did not know was why. He did not care for her haunting. He preferred a flesh-and-blood woman to an elusive ghost or goddess. But one day he would detain her. One day he would find out what she wanted from him.

      He started toward the cliffs, where a path led up to Blayde. At least the boy was gone, too.