He exhaled, seeing her face in his mind, the contentedness of her smile as she looked back at him when they rode home from Loch Hempriggs. The mischievous spark to her voice as she laughed while they galloped across the moor. The depth of her beautiful gray eyes as she stared into his, seeing him, really seeing him, not the conqueror, not the chief of the mighty Sinclairs. Just Cain.

He could bind her to him forever, never let her go. Like his falcon, she could have a bit of freedom but always come back to him.

“Nay,” he said, his voice echoing off the smooth granite. She was not a pet. Ella was a woman, a clever, beautiful, passionate woman. To tame her would be to crush her spirit. He would be no better than her father. Cain would not brand her with fiery iron, but he would brand her with his name.

“I cannot lose her.” He looked up at the image of the horsemen. In the past, the image had always helped him focus, but not now. Now it only fanned the rage leaping wildly inside him. Free her.

“Nay!” he yelled, his voice a ferocious growl to crush the silence in the room. “I will not!” So much fury welled up inside Cain that he strode to the altar, hefting up one of the marble horses, the one with a rider wearing a crown. Pulling back, he hurled it at the four horsemen. It shattered through the stained-glass image, exploding it, shards and pieces of soldered metal crashing down over the white tablecloths below.

The door swung inward, and Cain spun around, his sword singing as it slid free. Seething, he breathed heavily, welcoming anyone who might want to fight.

His aunt, Merida, stood there, her sharp gaze taking in the empty room and broken glass below the huge jagged hole, finally stopping on Cain. She tipped her head, her face calm. “I thought perhaps your da had come back to life to rage at the heavens for not welcoming him there.” Her brow rose in question.

Cain sucked in air through his nose like a demonic horse bent on violence. Slowly he lowered his sword. “I am the bloody first horseman. And…” He took a deep breath. “I do not want to conquer.” He exhaled long, the admission rolling from him like a boulder he had carried…since he was nine years old.

Merida planted hands on her hips. “Yes, ye do. Ye always like to win. It is part of who ye are.”

He shook his head. “Some things…cannot be won.”

Her lips pinched inward for a moment before she relaxed them, and she folded her hands to lay in front of her skirt. “Winning is not always taking, Cain.” She looked hard at him, scrunching her nose. “Take, take, take. There is a difference between that and winning.”