Six months earlier, August 1297.

Enya examined Fiona’s arm, cradling the fragile limb in her hands. Fiona was an old woman—she had been ever since Enya could remember, and now her bones seemed more brittle than ever, to the point where Enya visited her little cottage often in order to help her as much as she could. Though there was nothing she could do to strengthen her limbs, much to her chagrin, she could at least heal her whenever she broke a bone or sprained a joint, lessening her pain as much as she could.

“How did ye even dae this, Fiona?” she asked, tutting to herself. “I’ve told ye tae be careful.”

“When ye’re me age, lassie, it doesnae matter how careful ye are,” Fiona said, her pale, rheumy eyes staring up at her. “Dinnae fash. I ken how tae take care o’ meself.”

Enya didn’t know whether that was true. After all, Fiona lived in a cottage in the middle of the woods, away from everyone else even now in her advanced age. Were something to happen to her and she could not send for help, there would be no one there to help her.

Enya didn’t know why she insisted on being away from people, though she supposed it would be the same for her if she didn’t have her family to rely on. Fiona, like the MacLeods had a power, though neither her nor any of Enya’s siblings knew what that power was. All they knew was that she preferred to keep herself isolated and that they were the only ones with whom she was so well acquainted—which was to say not well at all.

Even with Enya’s frequent visits to her, Fiona remained a mystery to her. Her cottage was small, holding just the necessities within its four walls—a rickety bed, two wooden chairs, a small table, and a stove—but she had somehow managed to plant a sprawling garden, even as she lived in the middle of the forest. Enya didn’t know whether she had simply found a large clearing or she had cleared out the area herself as a younger woman—either seemed likely, and even if she asked, she knew she would receive no satisfactory answer. Especially in the summer, though, the air always smelled of flowers, their scent permeating every part of Fiona’s home.

Pressing her fingers against the fracture, Enya let her energy pour from he hands to Fiona, healing her. Warmth spread over her hands, as always, along with that familiar tingling sensation which told her the job was being done. Within moments, Fiona was as good as new, stretching her arm to test it.

“Ach, thank ye, Enya,” Fiona said, taking her hand in hers and giving it a gentle pat. “Ye’re a good lass. I dinnae ken what I’ll dae without ye now that ye’ll be gone.”

Enya frowned at that, confusion and a vague sense of dread settling heavy over her shoulders. “What dae ye mean?” she asked. “I am nae goin’ anywhere.”

“Aye,” said Fiona with a nod. “Ye are.”

She was used to Fiona speaking in riddles, but she usually avoided saying anything too personal to Enya. Saying something like this was as rare as it was jarring and she needed to learn more. Where was she going? How long would she be gone?

Before she could ask any of those questions, though, Fiona added, “Ye must be careful with yer power. It is a lovely thing. A magnificent thing. But ye ken what will happen if ye push yerself tae the brink.”

Enya did, in fact, know. There were plenty of warnings in her mother’s journals regarding those who inherited this gift and how they could perish if they tried to bring someone back from the dead. Not only that, but her mother had drilled it into her mind that she could never even attempt such a thing, and Enya had promised time and time again that she never would.

“I’m nae a fool, Fiona,” said Enya with a chuckle. “I ken me limits. It would be foolish tae toy with nature like this.”

Fiona laughed, shaking her head, and though the sound was not particularly strange, there was something about it which sent a shiver down Enya’s spine. It sounded like an omen, like a warning, and a chill settled in Enya’s stomach as she tried to busy herself with her coat. Sometimes she stayed with Fiona for a while longer, keeping her company until it was time to return to the castle, but after this, she had the urge to flee.

“Indeed, ye will, lassie,” said Fiona from where she sat on one of the chairs, its legs unstable and wobbling as she leaned forward to take a better look at Enya. “Ye may think ye would never dae such a thing, but there is a man fer whom ye will risk everythin’.”

“How dae ye ken?” Enya asked, thinking that maybe at least this time, Fiona would reveal something about her abilities, but Fiona only smiled knowingly. She had hoped that maybe if Fiona avoided answering, like she had, it would have been easier to discard her warning as nonsense, but there was something about her mannerisms which told Enya she was telling the truth.

“I ken many things.”

For a few moments, the two of them looked at each other and Enya felt as though Fiona was looking straight through her, as though she was entirely transparent and all her thoughts and feelings were laid bare.

Then, Enya chuckled awkwardly in an attempt to break the tension between them. Maybe she was simply imagining things. Maybe Fiona was simply an old woman and she didn’t know what she was talking about. But even if what she was saying was true, now Enya knew; she had been warned.

And she was never going to attempt bringing someone back from the dead. She knew how her gift worked and she knew that if she risked such a thing, there was a very good chance that she, too, would end up dead.

“Ye’ll have tae choose,” Fiona said just as Enya was about to say goodbye and take her leave. “Yer life or the life o’ a man who is promised tae another.”

It was that which gave Enya pause more than anything else. She could see how she could perhaps come to a point where she would risk her life for her family—for her siblings, for her dear friend Ava, for someone who was so close to her that losing them would be unbearable. But a man who was promised to another? Why would she ever consider such a thing, let alone attempt it?

This is madness. Fiona doesnae ken what she’s sayin’.

“Why would I risk me life fer a man who is spoked for?” she asked, incredulous. “Come now, Fiona . . . dinnae try tae scare me.”

“I’m nae tryin’ tae scare ye, lass,” Fiona said and that, too, sounded so sincere that it helped Enya feel a little more at ease. Maybe it was true, then. Maybe Fiona wasn’t trying to scare her at all, but rather warn her that she was going down a dangerous path, even if she didn’t know it. “Even if he is promised tae another, yer hearts belong tae each other. Ye will love him as he will love ye.”

A strange sense of loss gripped Enya then, as though she was experiencing the heartbreak that was to come. Never before had she felt like this, as though a part of her was being torn, permanently removed and lost to time.

Was this nothing but a glimpse of what was to follow? Was she going to love this man only to watch him with another woman in her place?

It all felt so distant, but at the same time real, as though it was already happening to her. It was a jarring sensation, leaving her unmoored and uncertain of her own feelings, of what was real and what wasn’t. Who was this man? Had she already met him? If she hadn’t, how could she already feel this loss deep in her gut, like a blade plunged into her?

“Dinnae fear,” said Fiona as she pushed herself off the chair with some difficulty, hobbling over to Enya to place a hand on her shoulder. “But choose wisely.”

As Fiona guided Enya to the door, Enya stopped and turned to face her once more. “Ye said I would go . . . somewhere,” she said. “Is that what ye meant?”

For a moment, Fiona looked at her with a confused frown, head tilted to the side. Then, understanding dawned on her and she laughed, shaking her head.

“Ach, nay,” she said. “But there are travels ahead o’ ye. They will come tae pass, but what happens after is in yer hands.”

That was some relief, at least, to hear that her death wasn’t predetermined and that she could create her own fate. She didn’t know where her travels would take her, but she had the feeling they would lead to that man, and she couldn’t help but hope they wouldn’t come for a long time.

“Go now,” said Fiona as she grabbed a basket from the windowsill by the door, filled with flowers and jams and honey. She always insisted on thanking Enya like this and wouldn’t allow her to leave if she didn’t take what was offered. “I’ll see ye in a few weeks.”

“Take care, Fiona,” Enya said, a mock chiding seeping into her tone, as though she was talking to a particularly careless and rambunctious child. “An’ be careful this time.”

As she headed down the path back to the castle, Fiona’s words echoed in her mind.

Yer hearts belong tae each other. Ye will love him as he will love ye even if he is betrothed to another.

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Chapter One

Isle of Skye, December 1297

Enya MacLeod would have never thought that a wedding could be more miserable than a funeral. Had someone asked her a mere few weeks prior, she would have said that she would look forward to a wedding in the family—she or one of her siblings falling in love and marrying the person of their dreams, giving the entire MacLeod Clan a reason to celebrate and rejoice. Now, though, she knew differently, that not all weddings were such pleasant events.

Her sister’s wedding with Laird Cillian MacDonald certainly wouldn’t be.

Thora’s deep blue eyes scanned the horizon as they walked to the shore, searching for the vessel that would take them to Jura. The boat rocked violently on the waves, the wind around them disturbing the surface of the water and whipping their cheeks. It was, predictably, a cold day, the sky as grey as steel stretching above them, and dark, heavy clouds hanging like a threat as they made their way through a slurry of ice and mud. Enya privately cursed the king for forcing them to travel in such weather. At any moment, a snowstorm could begin to rage and their journey would become not only unpleasant, but also possibly dangerous.

For if there was one certain thing, it was that the journey was definitely going to be unpleasant, even without what awaited them in Jura.

“I still dinnae understand why we must travel there in such circumstances!” Enya complained, not for the first time that day. Her voice, though loud to the point of strain on her vocal cords, barely carried over the whistling wind. None of the guards who followed her and Thora could hear them, but even if they could, Enya refused to keep her comments to herself. She wanted everyone to know just how displeased she was with this arrangement, just how much she disagreed with what the king had ordered.

They could have at least waited until the Yule celebrations were over, just like their older brother, Domhnall, had requested. The king had been firm in his decision, though; Thora was to travel to Jura right away to meet her betrothed, despite if the weather was terrible and even if the only one who could accompany her was Enya, as their other siblings were required to stay in Castle MacLeod for the celebrations.

“Perhaps it is better this way,” said Thora with a small shrug. Her dark, almost raven-black hair was plaited neatly over her shoulder, sitting against the decorated silk of her blue dress. It hadn’t been her choice, that dress, but rather the choice of their maids, who had been instructed by Domhnall to ensure Thora looked nothing short of the perfect for Laird MacDonald.

Thora was being paraded like a prized horse. Though Enya was slow to anger and always had been the calmest and gentlest of her four siblings, to the point that everyone commented on her disposition, this particular matter enraged her unlike anything else. Ever since that fateful day, when Domhnall had announced to them all that one of the twins would have to wed Laird MacDonald at the king’s request, Enya’s rage threatened to bubble over and spill out of her in a torrent of cursing that would put to shame even the foulest of her brother’s men. From the beginning, the choice had been obvious and non-negotiable. Thora was the older of the two, even if only by a few minutes, and so she would have to be the one to suffer this union, while Enya would be left to wonder if she, too, would soon be sold off to a man for another alliance.

It was the way it had always been done. Most noble girls married for convenience, not for love. It would be no different for Thora and Enya, but that didn’t mean it was an easy truth to accept.

“How could it be better?” Enya asked. “All o’ this is madness! He should be the one visitin’ ye, at least.”

That had been another point of contention for Enya. She didn’t understand why Thora had to be the one to make this journey when she was the one who was supposed to be courted. Laird MacDonald had been adamant, though, that he couldn’t leave his home right before the Yule celebrations, just like Domhnall, and so now Thora was the one who had to endure the long journey in choppy seas.

“Aye, but at least this way, it will all be over soon,” said Thora, though she didn’t quite believe it herself, Enya knew. It was simply a way of comforting her, a way to fool her into thinking everything would be fine, when they both knew this was only the beginning. Once she was wedded to Laird MacDonald, she would have her entire life ahead of her—a life she would inevitably have to spend by his side. “I will go there an’ once I meet him—”

Suddenly, Thora came to a halt, her boots crunching against the frozen soil. Her eyes took on that familiar, glazed look, as though a veil had been pulled over them, and her body went stiff, like she was herself carved out of ice.

Around them, the air stilled. The tell-tale scent of an oncoming storm permeated the air, thick and heavy in her throat as Enya took a deep breath. Where there had been the cawing of birds and the whistling of the wind around them only moments prior, now everything had fallen silent. Even the waves couldn’t be heard, though Enya could see them clearly in the short distance, savagely beating the boat.

Enya glanced at the group of guards who were following them—no more than half a dozen and all of them trusted men, but none of them knew the truth of what was happening to Thora and Enya wanted to keep it that way. Then, she glanced back to her sister, whose eyes were moving rapidly in small increments, almost as though they were vibrating.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended, and Thora blinked, the focus returning to her gaze. Her eyes were wide, though, concern clearly etched into her features, and Enya knew that whatever it was she had seen, it was far from good.

Like all MacLeod siblings, Thora had a gift, and hers was peering through the curtain of time to see into the future. No matter how much time passed, no matter how used she was to her powers, some visions left her disoriented and shaking, fear gripping her at the prospect of the future she had seen coming true.

This was one of those instances, Enya knew. Thora’s pale skin now looked waxen, drained of all color. Her hands trembled and so did her breath as she exhaled, the air in front of her lips fogging up with the warmth of her body.

Before Enya even had the chance to say anything, Thora turned to the guards and said, “One moment, please! I must relieve meself!”

The guards, stunned by the bold declaration, said nothing as Thora grabbed Enya’s hand and dragged her away, past the first line of trees that lined the path to the shore and into the thicker part of the forest—as far as they would go while still being near enough to the guards so that none of the men would worry or come looking for them. Enya followed blindly, feet tripping over a few roots that poked through the soil, curling like serpents around her shoes.

Once Thora determined they were far enough from the guards, hidden from their curious gazes and their eavesdropping ears, she came to a halt and turned to face Enya, white as the foam that tipped the waves.

“I saw Ava,” Thora said, and her voice trembled with fear.

“Ava?”

Enya felt the cold hand of terror curl its fingers around her heart, too. What could have Thora seen that made her so afraid? Could it be that something was about to happen to Ava?

The girl was like another sister to them, a friend so dear that Enya would never be able to bear it if something happened to her. The mere thought filled her with a roiling panic and she gripped Thora’s hands, both of them turning to each other for comfort.

“Somethin’ is wrong,” Thora said. “Nae with Ava, but with the MacKinnon Clan. Her father doesnae ken, but somethin’ terrible is about tae happen.”

Ava’s father, Laird Finley MacKinnon, was not the kind of man who was easily fooled by foes, and so whatever it was Thora was sensing had to be serious, Enya thought. It had to be more than a minor threat, and judging by Thora’s reaction, it was going to happen soon.

“I must warn her,” Thora said.

“Aye,” said Enya, nodding. “We shall send her a letter from Jura.”

“Nay. I have tae go tae her.”

Frowning, Enya asked, “But how will ye dae that? We are supposed tae be on the boat, headin’ tae MacDonald Castle. We’ll send her a letter an’ explain—”

“Ye ken I cannae dae that.”

Thora’s words silenced Enya and she swallowed nervously in a dry throat. She supposed her sister was right. They had long decided they would never do anything that would risk revealing their gifts to anyone they didn’t implicitly trust, and so even a letter would be too much of a risk. If Thora wanted to warn Ava of the upcoming catastrophe, she had to visit her herself and tell her face to face.

But how could she, when she was supposed to be meeting Laird MacDonald?

“I’ll go,” said Enya. “Tell me what ye saw an’ I’ll go tae her an’ warn her.”

“I dinnae ken precisely what I saw,” said Thora, despair tinting her words. Her gift wasn’t always precise, as the nature of the future was fluid. Even the smallest decision could change what she saw, and though many of her visions were accurate, some of them were more obscure, their real meaning hiding in the shadows of time. “An’ I dinnae ken what else I may see. I must be the one tae go tae her, in case somethin’ else is revealed tae me.”

The two sisters stared at each other at a loss for what to do. Thora had to warn Ava and she also had to be on that boat, and nothing Enya could do would help her.

“Ye’ll go in me stead,” said Thora then and as Enya watched her, uncomprehending, she began to undo the plait in her hair.

“What dae ye mean?”

“Ye’ll pretend tae be me,” said Thora, as though it was a plan that had any merit at all. “We’ll simply tell the guards that… that ye’re nae feelin’ well because ye are sufferin’ yer monthly courses an’ ye will come tae Jura in a few days. But it will be me who goes back with them.”

“Thora… this will never work,” said Enya. “An’ besides, I dinnae think they will let ye head back tae the castle because o’ this.”

“They will be too embarrassed to argue,” Thora pointed out. By then, her dark hair was flowing freely down her shoulders, just like Enya’s, and she began undressing, pulling her tunic off. “An’ nae one can tell us apart, so nae one will ken anythin’ is different.”

“Our siblings can tell us apart!” Enya said. Being twins meant that most people confused them all the time, unable to tell who was who, but their family had known them all their lives. No one would mistake the one for the other, especially if they spoke to them.

“I will leave afore anyone sees me,” said Thora with such confidence that it was easy to believe her. It was a hasty plan—a mad plan, one that Enya never thought would work, but Enya was already being swayed, pulled along by Thora’s enthusiasm. “This is the only way, Enya. Come, give me yer clothes.”

Enya hesitated for a moment, but then she removed her tunic and the two of them swapped their clothes, dressing again quickly. Enya hastily plaited her hair for good measure, making sure it looked similar to the style Thora had been wearing, and by the time the two of them headed back to the path to meet with their guards again, Enya was confident none of those men would be able to tell the difference.

Still, the plan was terrible. Enya was plagued by the irrational fear that the moment Laird MacDonald would lay eyes on her, he would know she was a fraud, even though he had never met her or Thora.

What happens if we’re found out? Domhnall will be so angry with us!

“Are ye alright?” the leader of their small group, an older guard named Bram, asked Thora. So far, it seemed that no one had suspected a thing. None of the men questioned them; none of the men even gave them any strange looks.

“Nay,” said Thora, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I am in terrible pain.”

As she spoke, Thora curled in on herself, clutching at her stomach, and Bram rushed to her, holding her upright with a hand on her arm. “What is wrong, me lady? Are ye hurt?”

“Nay, nay,” said Thora. “Me monthly courses… I didnae exp—”

“Alright!” said Bram, quickly putting an end to the conversation. Enya would have laughed had she not been paranoid their plan would be uncovered. “Is there anythin’ we can dae about it?”

“I must return tae the castle,” Thora said and her performance of a weak, sickly girl was so convincing that even Enya began to feel for her. “I will join me sister in Jura in a few days. I dinnae think I will be able tae go on the boat.”

“I understand me lady, there is nay need tae say more…”

Bram glanced back and forth between the two of them, clearly not knowing what to do. Jumping in before he could to and argue, Enya said, “That is alright, Bram. I will be fine on me own. An’ I’ll have ye an’ the men tae look after me. Th—” she took a deep breath, correcting herself, “Enya should return tae the castle.”

There was only a moment of hesitation before Bram nodded and gave his men orders to split into two groups—one of them would go to Jura and the other would return to the castle. Once everything had been arranged, Enya said goodbye to her sister and watched as the party left, heading back to the castle, before she was taken to the boat.

“Ye will be alright, me lady, dinnae fash,” Bram said as they finally reached the boat. The wind had picked up again and here, in the port, brine whipped Enya’s cheeks. She could taste salt on her tongue, the sea a stormy grey. “We are here with thee.”

“I ken, Bram,” Enya said with a soft smile, even as her chest tightened at the thought that she was deceiving them all. Those were good men, loyal men who would do anything for her and her family. Enya couldn’t think of anything worse than blatantly lying to them like this, even though it was necessary. “Thank ye. I’ll be fine, I promise ye.”

Satisfied with Enya’s promise, Bram bowed and turned around to bark orders at his men, leaving Enya alone to lean over the side rail, looking out towards the Isle of Jura. Laird MacDonald awaited her there and everything she would do in his presence would have an impact on Thora’s relationship with him.

Could they switch without him noticing, she wondered, or would he know right away?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe if she played her cards right, Thora would never have to come to Jura and she would never have to marry a man she didn’t love. Enya was known for her quiet, mild manners but she also knew a thing or two about causing trouble. And if she caused enough trouble for Laird MacDonald, then perhaps the man would decide he didn’t want to marry Thora at all.

Och aye… that is what I’ll dae! I will make sure he despises me with all his heart.

Chapter Two

The wind howled through the castle, the hallways seemingly amplifying the wailing sound. Rain battered onto the walls, falling in thick, relentless drops that drummed against the roofs as thunder broke in the distance. Every now and then, the dark sky was sharply illuminated by lightning, the flash of white throwing the horizon into sharp relief.

Cillian paced back and forth near the castle doors. This was the day he would meet his future wife, and it was only fitting that the weather be as miserable as he was.

While the guards by the door did their best to pretend they weren’t staring at him as he wore a path on the stone floor, Archibald, his war chief and best friend, made no attempts to hide the fact that he was staring. He was worried, Cillian knew, though he had no reason to be. Cillian would grit his teeth and bear this, like he did with everything else he didn’t want to do.

The king’s order to marry a stranger, a woman he had never even met—it was a disgrace. Cillian tried to convince himself the king didn’t mean for it to be like that at all and if he were honest, that was most likely the case, even though it felt like a personal attack. The union of the MacDonald and MacLeod Clans was a logical step, a good plan, a political move that would strengthen not only the two families, but the king’s rein as well. Cillian could recognize a good – and even necessary in this case – strategy, though that didn’t mean he had to appreciate being a pawn in someone else’s plan.

He had always known his hand would go to the woman who would offer his clan the most benefits. There was no room for love in his life, not as the laird of his clan, and so the fact that he was marrying Thora MacLeod should not have rattled him this much. And yet, at the mere thought of meeting that woman, bile rose to the back of his throat. He had been denied a choice. Ultimately, it was that which bothered him the most.

That, and the fact that this Thora MacLeod was nowhere to be found. She was supposed to have arrived that morning, and yet it was already afternoon and there was no sight of her. There was a storm outside, that much was true, and it was a vicious one, but her boat should have docked long before. The fact that she hadn’t yet arrived could mean she had done something to cause this delay.

Cillian cursed under his breath, but he didn’t stop his incessant pacing. Across from Archibald, Duncan, another of Cillian’s close friends, leaned against the wall with that easy confidence he always seemed to exude. His fingers toyed with the handle of his blade absent-mindedly and the smirk he gave Cillian when their gazes met was almost enough to infuriate him to the point of spontaneous combustion.

“What?” Cillian growled, the two guards by the door flinching at the sudden sound of his voice.

Duncan shrugged a shoulder, seemingly indifferent to Cillian’s suffering. His green eyes tracked every movement he made, but offered no sign of compassion like Archibald’s did.

“I wonder how long we’ll have tae stand here like this,” Duncan said. “Why must we wait fer her here? Let us move tae the drawin’ room an’ have some wine.”

“She may be tardy, but we must still welcome her properly,” said Archibald, always the voice of reason. “It is only good manners. Dinnae forget she is the sister o’ Laird MacLeod.”

“So?” asked Duncan. “She could be the king himself. I’d still want that wine.”

“We’re stayin’,” Cillian said with a finality to his tone. Archibald was right, though Cillian could definitely use a drink, and so Duncan’s suggestion was more than appealing. He wouldn’t risk appearing rude to Thora MacLeod, though, not so much because he cared what she would think, but simply to show her that even though she was late, Cillian was above such things and would still give her the welcome befitting a woman of her position.

He would show her he was better than her.

Duncan raised his hands in mock surrender and Archibald leaned against the opposite wall, facing him, but both men fell silent, going back to simply watching Cillian as he paced. With nothing else to keep Cillian occupied, he could hear every drop that fell against the walls, every sound the wind made, all of it cresting into a terrible cacophony that would drive him mad if he did nothing about it.

Just as he was about to relent, though, and tell Duncan that perhaps his idea wasn’t so bad after all, the doors opened with a sudden bang, the wood crashing against the stone wall as the wind ripped it out of the hands of the guards posted outside. There, in the middle of the threshold, stood a small figure dressed in a thick, wool cloak, drenched from head to toe. With heavy, weary footsteps, the figure approached Cillian and threw the hood back to reveal a pair of eyes like the deepest sea and a mop of dark hair that dripped water on his floors.

In fact, the entire woman was dripping water on his floors, her clothes soaked so thoroughly that he would be surprised if they were not twice their usual weight.

Who is this? Surely, it’s nae Thora MacLeod.

Though Cillian had never seen Thora, he had heard descriptions of her, and though the woman standing in front of him had blue eyes, like he had been told, she looked nothing like a noble girl. A small thing, short and waifish, she seemed more suited to the kitchens or to serving wine to men like him. All the noble girls he had met in his life were robust, well-fed and leading easy lives. This girl was likely a servant or a traveler. Either way, she was none of Cillian’s business.

Where is Thora MacLeod? What could be takin’ her so long?

Irritation spread through his veins like fire. He only wished something had truly happened to the woman, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around the delay.

He looked at the woman briefly, wondering what she wanted and why she remained there, as though she was waiting for something. Whether a traveler or a servant, Cillian didn’t appreciate the unwavering stare the woman gave him. She had the audacity to stare at Cillian with what seemed like a mixture of curiosity and dislike, sentiments that didn’t become a servant.

There was an air of superiority about her, something in the way she held her back straight and her eyes raised that spoke of a challenge, and Cillian belatedly realized everyone in the room had gone silent, waiting to see what would happen.

“If ye need assistance, miss, I’m sure someone in the kitchens can help ye,” he told her in an impatient tone. “If ye’re lookin’ fer employment or board, however, then we can offer neither.”

“Employment?” the woman asked with a frown. “I willnae be dismissed like this!” the woman said, bringing Cillian to a sudden halt again. “Laird MacDonald, this is far from the welcome I expected tae receive. Are ye an’ yer men always so terribly hospitable tae all yer guests?”

It occurred to Cillian, then, that the girl was, in fact, Thora MacLeod and he had been wrong to assume otherwise. Not only that, but she seemed to have plenty to say to him and plenty for which to complain.

“I make this journey tae visit ye in yer home,” she continued. “I brave the seas in this storm an’ then I come tae yer door, drenched an’ weary an’ in need of shelter and warmth, an’ this is how ye receive me? Such arrogance! Never have I met a man like ye in me life an’ fer that, I am glad.”

There was another spike of irritation within Cillian at her accusations, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny he was intrigued by this girl with the fiery character hidden behind deep blue eyes and a face like a doll’s.

“Fergive me, I wasnae aware o’ yer identity, Miss MacLeod,” Cillian said coldly. He was exhausted and if he were honest, he wanted nothing to do with this marriage at all. “Had I kent, I can assure ye I would have arranged a better welcome. But ye were also terribly late.”

“In case ye havenae noticed, there is a storm outside!” Thora said, pointing a furious finger at the castle doors. “O’ course we were delayed!”

Cillian stared at her, unimpressed by her tantrum and the fact that she wasn’t apologetic at all either. “Surely, yer trip could have been planned better.”

Thora seemed to have no response for this. She only stared at him in disbelief, her mouth hanging open as though she could hardly believe her own ears. Perhaps no one had told her of Cillian’s temperament, but he thought that was her family’s mistake. He had a reputation. They should have told her he wasn’t one of those charming princes who only existed in fairytales.

“I suppose ye have arranged fer accommodation,” Thora said as she stomped towards him, trailing water and mud everywhere. “Or have ye forgotten, like ye forgot about yer manners?”

As she approached Cillian, Thora slipped on the stone floor and desperately tried to reach for something, only for her hands to grasp nothing but air. Cillian was right there, though, and grabbed her just in time, holding her upright against him.

For a moment, their gazes met and from up close, Cillian could see the flecks of gold in Thora’s eyes, along with the fury that burned behind them. He could only smirk, though, his amusement with her antics to distract him from everything else.

Behind him, a snort of laughter echoed in the room. Cillian recognized the sound as one belonging to Duncan, and he watched in fascination as Thora’s cheeks turned a bright pink, blood flooding to her face. Before Cillian could say anything, Thora slapped his hands away from her and straightened, smoothing her cloak over her torso in an attempt to calm herself.

“Ye will regret this,” she warned as she made to walk past Cillian once more, this time with slower, more careful steps. “Ye will wish ye had never met me.”

Cillian couldn’t help but watch Thora as she walked out of sight, disappearing behind the nearest corner. He didn’t know where she was going. As far as he knew, she had no idea where she was going either, since the stairs to the upper floor, where her chambers were meant to be, were to the other side.

Ach, well… a servant will help her.

“Seriously,” Archibald mumbled under his breath and Cillian turned to see him as he glared at Duncan. “Was any o’ this truly necessary?”

“It is what it is,” said Duncan. “The lass seems more trouble than she’s worth. Conceited wee thing… she should have shown Cillian more respect.”

Archibald remained silent, but Cillian could see the way his jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as he forced himself to swallow his words. Cillian was glad for it; the last thing he needed was for Archibald and Duncan to get in an argument over this, when he had so much else to worry about.

Now that he had met Thora, his anger had been replaced by curiosity. He couldn’t say he was happy about the arrangement; quite the opposite, in fact, as he still had no desire to marry her and he still knew next to nothing about her. The little he did know, though, told him this was going to be far from a simple betrothal.

It would be war.

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October 1587, three months earlier

“Alana, are ye sure we’re goin’ the right way?” Liam asked his sister-in-law doubtfully as they pushed their way through the dripping forest a half-day’s ride from Castle Lennox.

They had made the trip on the suggestion of Maddison, Lady Lennox. Alana, being the healer of Castle Lennox, was in search of a special medicine made from a particularly rare herb only found in the south of England. It might as well have been the moon, and Alana had so far had no success in tracking it down. It was Maddison’s hastily drawn map which she was consulting now.

“Hmm, I’m nae sure, but accordin’ tae the map, we should be very near the cottage,” she said.

“Gimme the map, maybe I can work out where we are,” Liam said, holding out his hand. Alana passed it to him, and they studied it together.

“There’s the main track, and there’s where it branches off tae the left.” He pointed to the markings and then looked around. “We passed the burnt pine a while back, so the turning should be around here somewhere.”

“The map’s nae tae scale. Maybe we just havetae go a wee bit further tae come tae the right path,” Alana suggested.

“Aye, maybe so. Come on then, let’s keep goin’.” They continued picking their way through the sodden undergrowth.

Suddenly, they were both distracted by the sound of something large moving through the trees nearby. Their heads snapped towards the sound.

“Can ye see what it is, Liam?” Alana asked, clutching his arm nervously.

He shook his head, unable to see anything to account for the sound. “Probably a deer or a boar,” he said, tensing as he realized that whatever was responsible for the loud rustling and snapping of twigs and branches was coming towards them.

“Get behind me, Alana. If ’tis a boar, it could be dangerous.” Liam gently pushed her back. Silently, he unsheathed his sword, his hackles rising because he could see nothing before them. He jumped when Alana suddenly let out a shrill scream behind him.

“What is it?” he asked her, his heart thudding in his chest as he scanned the trees.

She grabbed his arm and pointed dead ahead. “There, look, by the big oak tree!” She shrank back behind him.

Liam looked, and to his utter amazement, saw in front of them, less than fifty fete away, a large, black, shaggy head poking out from behind the trunk of an oak tree. The head was pointed their way, along with a set of dark-brown eyes almost as big as saucers.

“What the hell is that?” Liam whispered; his blade poised to defend them. “I’ve nae seen anythin’ like it before.”

“Me neither,” Alana replied, her voice shaking.

“Stay absolutely still,” he instructed, keeping his eyes on the bizarre creature as it slowly emerged from behind the trunk. Liam’s mouth went dry as he studied it. It was the size of a small pony, its broad head as big as his shield. The thing had large ears that flopped over, a long muzzle like a wolf’s, with many thick, white whiskers sticking out of it. A large black nose almost as big as his fist sniffed at them from a distance. The strange beast had four legs, and was covered in coarse, shaggy black fur.

It did not bare its teeth like a wolf, nor did it make any menacing moves towards them. It simply stood by the tree as though inviting them to observe it, staring at them fixedly with its large, peculiarly soulful, dark-brown eyes.

After a few moments of this tense stand-off, Liam murmured over his shoulder, “’Tis definitely nae a wolf. It daesnae seem tae intend tae attack us.”

“Nay. D’ye think it could be some sort of… dog?” Alana ventured in a frightened whisper. “What’s it doin’ now?” she asked as the thing went down on its forepaws, like a dog wanting to play. Some of the tension drained from Liam, and he lowered his blade. “Look, Alana, ye’re right, I think ’tis a dog, and ’tis waggin’ its tail!”

“Aye, I think it must be the dog Maddison told me about, the one that belongs tae the witch. She said ’tis enormous, and that it has the eyes and mind of a man.”

As if endorsing her words, the dog opened its jaws wide, showing two rows of pointy white fangs, and gave a tremendous yawn, which ended with a soft sighing that sounded uncannily human. It stood up and slowly turned around, as though it would depart.

“It wants us tae follow it, I think,” he told Alana, sheathing his sword.

She nodded beneath her hood. “Aye, it looks like it. D’ye think the witch sent it tae find us?”

“Dinnae be so foolish. How could she when she daesnae even ken we’re comin’?” he scoffed.

“Maddy told me that Selma has many strange powers. When they went tae see her before, they called unannounced, but somehow, she was expectin’ them.”

“Coincidence,” he muttered, his eyes still on the dog. “Come on, let’s follow it. If it truly does belong tae the witch, it may lead us tae her cottage,” Alana said, stepping after it.

“Aye, all right. We’re lost anyway.” Liam agreed. So, they followed the dog, and in a surprisingly short time, they came to the edge of a large clearing.

There stood a cottage with a broken-backed roof of thatch. A stream of gray smoke rose into the air from the crumbling chimney. The small windows were covered with what appeared to be oiled cloth, and no light could be seen from the outside. In between was a scarred front door.

“This looks like the home of a witch if ever I saw one,” he murmured, surveying the gloomy, run-down place. The rain only made it appear more dismal than it already was. A sense of foreboding washed over him.

The shaggy creature headed at its leisurely pace straight for the cottage, with Liam and Alana following at a safe distance. But they both stopped when the door swung open before the dog reached it, fully expecting to see someone standing there to greet them. But there was no one, and all was darkness within.

A chill ran up Liam’s spine. He felt Alana’s hand grope for his, and he clasped

hers tightly, suddenly grateful for the human warmth and companionship it offered.

“Liam, did ye see that?” she breathed in a quavering voice. “The door opened on its own. How is that possible?”

“I dunno, but it gives me the willies,” he admitted, watching the giant dog pad through the open door and into the cottage. He would rather have been on the battlefield facing his worst foes than standing there.

“Should we go in?” she asked.

“We should at least go and see if anyone’s home,” he reluctantly agreed.

“Ye mean see if the witch is home.” She gripped his hand tightly.

He did not reply but put his other hand on the hilt of his sword and walked slowly towards the door, with Alana trailing behind him. The darkness beyond the open door seemed to beckon them inside.

“We’d best knock first,” Alana suggested in a whisper.

“Go on then,” he replied, “I have me hands full.” His heart was thudding in his ears.

Hesitantly, she raised her hand and was about to knock when a scratchy, irritable voice from inside suddenly called out, “Well, are ye gonnae stand out there all day, or are ye comin’ in? ’Tis cold on me old bones, and ye’re lettin’ in the rain.”

They almost jumped out of their skins and looked at each other with alarm. Get a hold of yersel’, man, Liam told himself sternly. He pulled back his shoulders and stood tall. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. Letting go of Alana’s hand, he took a deep breath and stepped slowly over the threshold into the gloom. He felt Alana holding onto the back of his jerkin as she followed him in.

A low cackle came from his left. He looked over and saw a small, hunched figure stirring a pot hanging over the fire blazing in the hearth with a long spoon.

“By the old Gods, ye took yer time gettin’ here.” The figure turned its head and looked over its shoulder. It revealed itself to be an ancient woman with a lined face and milky eyes. In the firelight, she looked almost devilish, her toothless mouth a dark, grinning cavern. “I havenae all day tae spend waitin’ fer ye, ye ken? I’m a busy woman. I had tae send out Grim tae find ye and bring ye here.”

She turned back to her pot, stirring the bubbling contents with a long spoon. Liam stared at her thick hank of wispy white hair that fell to the earthen floor from beneath a knitted cap. His skin prickled with unease. If ever there was a model for a witch, she was it. Grim?

It was then he noticed the gigantic hound laying on the floor a few feet from its mistress, near an old wooden settle, seemingly fast asleep.

The witch said in a gentler voice, “Well, now ye’re here, ye’d best come on in and warm yersel’s by the fire. Old Grim’ll nae hurt ye.”

“Thank ye kindly. Are ye Miss Selma?” Alana asked, stepping out bravely from behind him. Liam felt safer staying near the door.

“Aye, lassie, I’m Selma. Give me a hand up, will ye?” A tiny, gnarled paw appeared from beneath what resembled a pile of rags and groped in the air.

“Och, of course.” Alana hurried over, took the witch’s hand in hers, and supported her as she hauled herself to her feet, her bones cracking.

“Ach, thank ye, dear,” Selma said, bestowing on Alana one of her toothless smiles as she brushed down her layers of rusty garb.

She’s nae more than a harmless old lady, Liam told himself. ’Tis just this awful place that puts ye on edge.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Selma shot him a mirthful glance. “Aye, that’s right, lad, ye keep on believin’ that, eh? Old Selma’s just a wee old lady, nae harm in her at all. And there’s nae such things as witches.” She let out one of her low cackles, chilling his blood.

Selma hobbled over to a battered armchair by the hearthside and lowered herself into it. She smiled at Alana. “Ye’re pretty fer a healer, arenae ye, lassie?”

“H-how dae ye ken I’m a healer,” Alana asked, going pale.

“Ah, there’s nae much I dinnae ken, pet,” Selma replied. “That’s me blessin’ and me curse.” Her pale eyes fixed on Liam, increasing his unease, though he tried to conceal it. She was rapidly converting him from skeptic to believer.

But while staring at him, she carried on talking to Alana. “See that little bottle on the table there, lass? The one with the red wax seal?”

Alana looked over. “Aye, I see it. D’ye ye want me tae fetch it over fer ye?”

“Nay, hinny. That’s the medicine ye came fer.”

Alana stared at her with surprise. “But how could ye—”

The witch grinned. “I told ye, there’s nae much old Selma daesnae ken. Dinnae fash yersel’ about it. Just take the bottle. Give yer patient three spoonful’s each day, mornin’, noon, and evenin’. He’ll be right as rain soon enough.”

“Och, thank ye, Miss Selma, I’m very grateful tae ye. What will ye take fer it?” Alana asked, her relief clearly overcoming her fear.

“Naethin’ ye can give me, pet. Tae ken ’tis helpin’ a poor soul who’s sick is more than enough thanks. Ye ken I like tae use me powers fer healin’ where I can.”

Alana smiled. “Aye, I ken ye’re a good woman because me sister-in-law told me so. Ye helped tae cure her of a terrible melancholy.”

“Aye, I remember. But the sword cured her, nae me.”

Liam’s skin prickled again. The witch knew who Alana was talking about without even asking Maddison’s name. But how?

“Well, if ye willnae take any payment fer the medicine, is there somethin’ we could dae fer ye perhaps before we go? Dae ye need anythin’ mendin’, or can Liam here chop some wood fer ye?”

“Nay, I have me friends who keep me well supplied with whatever I need, but I appreciate yer kind offer.” To Liam’s great discomfort, the witch continued looking at him. Then she said, “But I have somethin’ tae tell yer man there though.”

He felt himself blanch. “Tell m-me?” he stuttered, finding it hard to meet her stare.

“Aye. A wee bird told it tae me this mornin’ and said I’m tae tell it tae ye when ye get here. I never thought ye’d take such a long time!” She laughed as though tickled by his obvious discomfiture.

“But ye dinnae ken me. We’ve nae met before. How can ye have somethin’ tae tell me?” he asked, goosebumps breaking out all over him.

“I’m tae tell ye that ye’re about tae meet the love of yer life. But when ye dae, ye’ll be tempted tae succumb tae yer fears.” Her eyes seemed to glow in the dim light. “If ye dae, ye’ll lose her fer sure, and happiness will never be yers.”

He was shaken and had no clue how to respond the witch’s supposed prophecy. It was a relief when Alana retrieved the bottle and came back to his side. “Thank ye, Miss Selma,” she said. “Since ye’re busy, we’ll take our leave now. I should get back and give me patient the medicine as soon as possible.”

“Aye, of course,” Selma agreed with a nod. She looked at Liam once again. “Heed me words, lad,” she told him sternly. He did not need reminding of them, nor did he reply. Instead, he backed away towards the door, with Alana following behind. But before he could reach it, it swung open by itself.

A chill ran down his back as he hurried through it, feeling grateful for the rain and cold which greeted him outside. The door closed behind them, muffling the sound of the old witch’s laughter. It echoed in his mind along with her prophecy all the way back through the wood. He did not even have time to think how easy it was to find their way back to the main track.

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Chapter One

February, 1587

The shore of Clan MacAlister

“Ach! I’m gonnae suffocate if I dinnae get out of this blasted wedding gown right this instant!”

Ivy MacAlister cursed under her breath in frustration, her arms straining to reach behind her back, fingers numbed by the cold, tearing impatiently at the fastenings of the elaborate gown. The delicate material of her copious skirts was already damp from the cold, sea-laden night air, and the expansive folds were clinging to her limbs, hampering her movement as if they would consume her.

Hurry, hurry! They must be after me by now! I need tae get on the boat and be gone!

The gown seemed to her the perfect symbol of the cruel fate awaiting her if she failed to get to the opposite shore, the lights of which beckoned in the distance across the water, as soon as possible.

Get on with it, they could be here at any moment!

“Finally!” she hissed to herself, managing to get enough of the fastenings undone behind her to gradually manhandle the gown, with its tight bodice, down over her hips. It fell like a puffball around her ankles. She kicked it aside with a sigh of relief. It lay on the sand next to the sword she had brought with her, strapped to her leg beneath her skirts, her only form of protection.

Shivering in the cold wind, she hurriedly got out of the rest of her bridal finery—her stays, her embroidered petticoats, her beribboned garters, silk stockings, satin slippers, and the strip of ribbon tied around her wrist for the handfasting at the ceremony—and rapidly pulled on the set of clothing the boatman had just given her.

She held her breath as she slipped into the rough, homespun outfit of a lad, complete with a worn pair of boots and a large cap and kerchief. These last two Ivy hoped would be useful in hiding her true identity from prying eyes, thus increasing her chances of getting away successfully. The disguise would buy her time to be thought a lad and not a young woman at all.

As she changed, every now and then she would peep above the rocks to make sure the boat was still there, pulled up on the beach, waiting for her. It was, but she knew that if she did not get a move on, the boatman was likely to leave without her, and people would already have begun searching for her.

On the way to her own wedding ceremony, she had insisted on stopping her retinue and disappearing into the forest to “answer a call of nature.” Her loyal maid Amy had promised to delay them for as long as she could, saying her mistress had likely lost her way among the trees. But the fact remained that at any second, guards could appear, grab her, and haul her back to face her horrible fate.

The strain of being under such terrible pressure was already showing on Ivy, making her trembling and breathless. She was flustered, for it had taken all her powers of persuasion to get the boatman to give her the clothes as part of the price of her passage. The day before, she had bargained hard with him to meet him here at this time and row her from the MacAlister lands to the safety of the opposite shore, paying a hefty sum.

Today, she had arrived on the beach at the hidden inlet at the appointed time, panting, out of breath from running down the embankment through the trees in her heavy, cumbersome wedding gown. When she saw the boat and raced down to the waiting boatman, her heart full of hope, she was horrified to discover he had gotten cold feet.

“I dinnae think I should have agreed tae take ye,” he had grumbled from beneath his grizzled beard, “I mean, comin’ down here in yer weddin’ dress? It all seems very fishy tae me. I have the feelin’ I could get intae a lot of trouble over this. Nay, ’tis nae worth the risk.”

“But I’ve paid ye well!” Ivy had cried, terrified she would be unable to change his mind. “Ye havetae take me!”

“’Tis me boat, lassie, and I dinnae havetae take ye if I dinnae wish it.”

Ivy had to think quickly. “I’ll pay ye more,” she had offered. “Here, take this.” She took off the pearl necklace from around her throat and placed it into his large, grubby paw. “That’s worth more than ye’ll make in a month of Sundays,” she argued, desperate to be gone.

Yet he still shook his head dubiously as he looked down at the expensive item.

“I’m nae sure I should be helpin’ ye at all. A runway bride? What if the groom comes lookin’ fer ye, askin’ questions and pokin’ his nose intae me business? I could get in trouble with the laird and have me license tae fish revoked. Why d’ye ye nae just take a horse and go overland if ye’re in such a hurry tae get away from yer man?”

“Because speed is of the essence, and he’ll be lookin’ fer me tae go by horse. This way buys me more time tae get away,’tis far quicker!” Ivy almost shouted, her fists clenching as she struggled to keep her panic from overwhelming her. She felt like hitting the man and stealing his boat! But she knew she would never make it across the choppy waters alone.

“What are ye so set on runnin’ away from?” he had asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

“A fate worse than death!” she had exclaimed, glancing over her shoulder, expecting to see the guards appear at any moment. “Ye’ve been well-paid, and if ye get me safely tae the other shore, I’ll gave ye these too.” She pointed to her pearl earrings, praying it would do the trick. To her utmost relief, it worked.

“All right then, but hurry up,” he had grudgingly agreed with a scowl. “I’ll nae wait longer than five minutes.”

“Thank ye, I’m very grateful.” She had snatched the pile of clothes he handed her and rushed behind the rocks to change.

As soon as she had assumed her disguise, she stuffed her long, dark hair under the cap and pulled it low down over her face. Then, she tied the kerchief over the lower half of her face, sure no one would be able to tell she was a female. Next, she rolled up all the wedding finery into the gown and tucked the bundle beneath her arm. She picked up the sword as well and ran to the boat. She threw the bundle into the boat and paused to secure the sword in its scabbard around her hips.

“Are ye gettin’ in then? If ye wantae go, we must go now, while the tides goin’ out,” he urged her gruffly.

“Aye, I’m comin’,” she replied, gingerly climbing abord the fishing boat and finding a place to sit among the folded nets and crab pots. The boatman took his seat by the rowlocks and took up the oars at last. With powerful, practiced stokes he pulled them out on the rushing tide to the sea. As they slowly left the shore behind, Ivy looked back at the looming castle and the lands that were her heritage. She felt no sorrow at leaving them behind, each pull of the oars that took her further away from the promise of a lifetime of misery mentally adding to her strength.

They were silent for a time, skimming across the waters, mingling with the other fishing craft out on the wider bay. Ivy gripped the pommel of the sword, trying to fathom the unbelievable events that had brought her to this. She was running from her own wedding, from her childhood home, her brother—her only remaining family—driven by the determination to escape the future he had planned for her.

She was happy to remain silent, sunk in her own thoughts. Besides, she was unused to being on the water and was starting to feel queasy. But the boatman had other ideas, and he soon began asking questions again, questions Ivy did not want to answer.

“Why d’ye have such a big sword, a lass like ye?” he wanted to know, glancing at the weapon.

Ivy glared at him fiercely, her irritation flaring at the mocking edge to his voice. “A lass like me? I warn ye, dinnae judge a book by its cover. ’Tis a mistake tae underestimate people ye ken naethin’ about, man or woman.”

He looked at her with an expression of alarm and, thankfully, asked no more questions for the remainder of the short voyage. She noticed with satisfaction that he rowed faster, clearly eager to be done with her, which she counted a blessing.

Another half an hour of silence brought them to the shore.

“Here ye are,” the boatman said as he stepped out into the surf and pulled the small craft up onto the gravelly beach. “I’ve done me part. Ye’re on yer own now, and good riddance tae ye.”

He grudgingly handed her out of the boat and stuck out his palm. “I’ll have the other part of me payment before ye go.”

Wordlessly, Ivy gave him the earrings, finding it unnecessary to thank him again, considering the extortionate price he had extracted from her for his trouble. She had counted on selling the jewelry and using it to fund her new life.

Still, she comforted herself as she ran up the beach and plunged into the tree line, I have me bracelets and rings. Those should fetch a good price when the time comes tae sell them. In addition, she had some coins and a few spare guineas now hidden in her boots. She hoped it would be enough to keep her from dire straits.

Once hidden in the forest, she felt much more secure and even congratulated herself on having successfully gotten so far. Carson will expect me tae be travelin’ overland by horse. He’ll start by searchin’ the highways, with nae a clue that I escaped by boat. Now all I need is tae get tae the town.

She hastily buried the bundled-up wedding dress at the base of a tree and then straightened up, steeling herself to follow through with the next part of her plan. She made her way through the forest, keeping off the main, well-used trackways despite her disguise. She hiked for what seemed like a couple of hours and felt cold and weary. Her feet were aching, being unused to the strange, ill-fitting boots. Plus, it was suddenly getting dark.

Night fell quickly at this time of year, it being February and still the depths of winter. But this evening, especially in the thick forest, it came earlier than usual, for the weather had deteriorated. The wind was whipping through the trees, setting them creaking and soughing, and when she looked up through the thrashing canopy, she could see the sky was dark and overcast with rain.

I either have tae find some transport or spend the night hiding in the forest, she said to herself. The last did not appeal to her, for it would mean losing all the time she had gained in leaving by boat. Plus, she would be much more visible in the daylight if searchers came to the town to look for her. Nae, she decided, I cannae risk hangin’ around here any longer than I havetae. If Carson catches up tae me, I might as well be dead. I must find some way tae leave tonight.

Yet as the darkness intensified, and the weather worsened despite the protection the trees offered, she knew the likelihood of finding a faster mode of travel was receding with every passing minute. She was verging on desperation when she suddenly heard a sound that sent hope surging in her breast—the neighing of a horse.

She crouched down and moved stealthily towards the sound, trying to make as little noise as possible. Soon, she heard men’s voices carrying on the wind, low and rumbling. Men meant more horses. The solution to her problem burst upon her. She would steal a horse!

The closer she got, with each careful step she took, the men’s voices growing louder. She stopped, crouching behind a thick tree trunk, listening intently to the sounds of someone moving stuff around, as though they were making camp for the night. Slowly, she edged forward until she was positioned behind a thicket. She laid on her belly to peer through the gaps between the thorny stems, to a small clearing on the other side.

The scene before her was lit by the occasional shaft of moonlight that managed to penetrate the leaden skies, and the dancing orange flames of the small fire. There she saw two men sitting on opposite sides of it.

She had to stifle a sharp intake of breath to see the size of them. In the dancing, red-tinged firelight, they cut intimidating figures as they ate and drank, keeping up their conversation in their low, deep voices. The one who had his back to her was wearing a fine coat of blue cloth that stretched over a broad, muscular back, and he had dark hair that was neatly tied back with leather strap. He wore a hat on his head.

The sight of the other man, whom she could see head on, gave her momentary cause to rethink her plan to steal a horse from them. Though she had trained as a fighter since she was a young girl and knew herself to be more than merely competent at defending herself and her clan, to lay eyes on the fearsome warrior seated a few yards away from her made her shudder with dread.

Even sitting down he seemed to be a wall of a man, made almost entirely of hard packed muscle. He was tall as well and was dressed far more casually than his companion, in leather trews, a lambskin coat, a padded leather vest beneath, worn over a shirt of fine cotton. Around his hips was slung a thick weapon belt, with a fine sword sheathed at his side and the horn handle of a dirk glinting in the dim glow of the fire at his waist. He looked like a formidable man of action.

When she looked at his face in the firelight, a strange shock went through her, a tingle of excitement such as she had never before encountered, for he was captivatingly handsome. A mass of wild, dark hair framed his face, the harsh planes and hollows of his chiseled features half lost in shadow, making his dark-eyed gaze beneath the black slashes of his eyebrows all the more beguiling. His lips were broad and firm, surrounded by laughter lines, and she almost lost herself for a moment in the warmth of his smile as he and his comrade joked with each other.

Whoever this fearsome man was, he was certainly a handsome specimen, and he stirred something deep in her belly that had nothing to do with fear. It made Ivy’s heart beat a little faster than it already was and caused her briefly to wish that her life was very different.

But ’tis nae, so now I havetae find some way tae steal one of those two horses they have tethered tae that tree over there. There’s naethin’ else fer it—I suppose I’ll just havetae wait until they go tae sleep before I take the horse.

She made herself as comfortable as she could and settled down to wait, unable to take her eyes off the huge warrior, even after the men had laid down on their bedrolls by the fire and wrapped themselves in blankets to sleep. She waited a good half hour before stealthily moving in a circle around the camp, towards the rear of where the horses were tied up.

The stallion, a great black beast with a white star on its forehead, was the nearest, with a big brown mare next to it. Ivy plucked handfuls of the tussocky grass that was growing thereabouts and showed herself to the pair, offering it to them on her palms. They whickered softly in contentment and snaffled it up straightaway, chomping loudly.

Ivy stroked the stallion’s nose and murmured soft words in its ear, begging it not to make a sound. To her immense relief, for she was as tense as a coiled spring about to be released, the pair of beasts were obligingly calm. Ivy continued to pet them in silence, preparing for the moment when she would mount the horse and gallop away to freedom.

Provided I can manage to ride through the forest in the dark without getting knocked out of the saddle or decapitated by a low hanging bough that is, she told herself nervously as she listened for the tell-tale snoring that would tell her for certain that the men she was just about to rob were fast asleep.

She forced herself to wait in silence, watching impatiently for the big warrior to rest easy. He tossed and turned restlessly for what seemed to Ivy like hours. All the time, she was on tenterhooks, waiting for him to settle down. In contrast, his well-dressed friend appeared to have no trouble in dropping off, for he soon started to snore loudly.

Still she waited. Finally, the warrior quietened and lay still, and though he did not start snoring, after a while, she judged it was safe for her to do what she had to do. She did not feel too badly about taking the horse, for the men could share the mare well enough. They would not be stranded.

She silently untied the stallion’s reins from the tree, all the while stroking its head and whispering calming words in its ear. The beast was as good as gold. This is it, she told herself, gripping the reins tightly with one hand and the crop of the saddle in one, swinging herself up into the saddle.

To her horror, as she did so, there came a sharp crack from beneath her boot that echoed around the small clearing like a gunshot. The surprised stallion neighed and stomped a little in response.

Under her breath, Ivy cursed herself for her clumsiness as she kicked up the stallion and went to get out of there before anyone could stop her, when she realized the snoring had stopped.

Chapter Two

Liam could not relax enough to get to sleep. However many times he had slept out in the open, which, as the war leader for the Clan Lennox, was often, he was never fully able to relax, always highly alert to his surroundings. He turned over yet again in his endless quest to get comfy on his bedroll.

It was particularly frustrating for him because, in sharp contrast to himself, his friend, the Laird Knox Stewart, had dropped off with ease, judging by the way he was snoring loudly and regularly. It made Liam feel somewhat annoyed and a touch envious and the reverberating sound only added to the physical discomfort of his aching back and his cold-stiffened limbs, which were keeping him awake.

The pair were on the way from Castle Lennox to Knox’s castle, and despite the need for their urgent arrival there, they had been delayed by the bad weather and had reluctantly agreed to make camp for the night. As Liam moved restlessly in his makeshift bed, with Knox’s discordant symphony echoing in his ears, he considered the job ahead of him.

He had met Knox through his brother Tadhg, at his wedding to Alana four years before. Tadgh and Knox had been friends for a while, after having been through a few scrapes together, and Liam and Knox had also hit it off immediately.

A recent threat from one of Knox’s neighboring clans, the MacAlisters, had made the laird fearful that an attack by Laird Carson MacAlister, supported by his friend and ally Laird Gael Hamilton, was imminent. Both lairds were well known to be ruthless, power-hungry men looking to enrich themselves by expanding their territories. And it seemed that Knox’s Clan Stewart was high on their list of targets for a takeover, even if they hadn’t made any move yet.

However, Knox was not a man to just roll over and give up in the face of the threat. He was a bold, courageous fellow, a veteran of many successful battles. He wanted to get his army up to speed quickly and give his men the best possible training to increase the chances of successfully repelling an attack by the MacAlisters and Hamiltons. That was the reason he had traveled to Castle Lennox and offered Liam the job of being his war captain until the threat was dealt with.

Hence, as they had sat over the fire, eating bread and dried meat and drinking tea with whisky, both men had cursed the bad weather that was keeping them from getting to Castle Stewart that same night.

The fear they shared was that an attack could already have taken place in their absence and that they would be too late to stop the castle from being overrun. Liam wondered if they were being watched now by MacAlister spies, and it amazed him that Knox could sleep so soundly with that possibility hanging over his head as well as the danger of an assault on his castle. But Knox was a cool customer.

The concerns nagged at Liam’s mind as he sought restful sleep. When he heard a loud crack and a frightened whinny coming from his horse, he instantly snapped into full alertness. He sat bolt upright, his pulse beginning to race, his eyes raking the darkness over by the horses. Someone is there! He was about to gently shake Knox awake and signal to him not to make a sound when he realized his friend was already sitting up and was looking back at him questioningly.

Together, they stared towards the horses. With his hand on the pommel of his sword, Liam’s eyes continued to search the shadows surrounding the beasts. He inhaled sharply as he made out the outline of a person atop his stallion, Douglas. Someone was trying to steal his horse!

The figure seemed quite small, and he assumed it must be a youth from a nearby village who had seen an opportunity and been unable to resist the challenge.

He and Knox exchanged glances in the dim light firelight, and he knew his friend had seen it too. With a silent nod of accord, they moved swiftly to their feet and crept towards the horse-thief, who was poised to take off when they both leaped up and dragged him down heavily to the ground.

“And where d’ye think ye’re goin’ with me horse?!” Liam shouted as they pinned the struggling miscreant to the ground. As they wrangled him, Liam realized he was right; the would-be robber was indeed a small, skinny youth, but he could not see the lad’s face. It was concealed by a cap pulled low, and a kerchief was tied over the lower half of his face, concealing it.

“Who the devil are ye?” Knox demanded, shaking the boy hard by the shoulders as they kept him pinned to the ground. “A MacAlister spy, is that it?” the Laird went on suspiciously, shaking the thief violently again.

But the youth fought so hard to get away, he managed to get a hand free and groped for the pommel of his sword. “Watch him, he’s goin fer his blade!” Liam warned Knox, clamping his hand down on the thief’s wrist and twisting it sharply. The boy cried out in pain as Liam deftly disarmed him.

“Who are ye? Identify yersel’ at once, or it’ll be the worst fer ye,” he growled menacingly at the hapless youth as they hauled him roughly to his feet, firing questions at him. Again, the boy refused to answer any of them. He refused to speak at all.

“Skinny, is he nae?!” Knox observed, holding the youth by his collar so that his feet were dangling, and he was gasping for air.

“Aye, and small too,” Liam observed, inspecting the thief more closely.

“He weighs about as much a feather. But ye can be small and skinny and still make a bloody good spy,” Knox pointed out as, between them, they dragged the potential spy towards a tree. Knox held him, while Liam fetched some rope to tie him. The fight seemed to have gone out of the boy, for the moment at least, and he meekly allowed himself to be secured to the tree trunk.

“Maybe ye’re a spy, or maybe ye’re a light-fingered lad from a nearby village, eh? Which is it?” Liam shouted in the prisoner’s face, to no avail.

“He’ll answer nae questions, it seems,” Knox observed, growling in the boy’s face, “but he’ll soon talk, I reckon, after we give him a bit of a—Jaysus!” Knox cried out, stepping back, shock written all over his face. “He’s a MacAlister spy all right, Liam,” he hissed, as if just discovering he had taken hold of a poisonous snake. “Look at this!”

He held out the hand he had crushed within his own, where a golden ring glinted in the red firelight.

“What is it?” Liam asked, bending down to look where Knox was indicating.

“A ring with the MacAlister emblem engraved upon it.”

“Christ, is it?” Liam exclaimed in shock, examining the ring. In the flickering firelight, he could just make out the sigil carved into the ring’s surface, two bears caught in a deadly embrace. “That means yer clan could be under attack as we speak!” he cried, shocked to his core by the horrifying possibility, as Knox obviously was too, and with good reason.

“Aye, that’s what I’m afeared of,” Knox admitted, his face white as he stared at the prisoner.

Liam thought quickly, figuring that Knox would be wanting to get back to his castle right away, to help fight off any incursion alongside his men.

“Look, Knox, I think ’tis best if ye take off now and ride on ahead for home as hard as ye can. If the castle is under attack as ye suspect, then yer men are bound tae be needin’ ye there tae lead them in the defense.”

“But what about ye and the spy?” Knox asked, his usually calm demeanor agitated.

“Dinnae worry about me, I can take care of mesel’ and him,” Liam assured his friend, jerking his chin at the captive. “Get goin’, and I’ll follow as fast as I can, with him in tow,” he told his friend, glancing back at the captive.

“Aye, all right, I’ll go straight away,” Knox replied, gathering up his stuff hurriedly, including his hat, which he rammed onto his head before running for his horse. He stowed his things quickly in his saddlebag and then, in one fluid movement, leapt nimbly into the saddle. “I’ll see ye at the castle as soon as ye can get there, all right?” he said, looking back at Liam and the boy tied to the tree.

“Make haste,” Liam shouted to his friend, watching Knox ride off, to be swallowed among the trees.

When the his friend had departed, Liam returned to the captive. Filled with a fresh sense of urgency, he grabbed him by the collar, shook him, and bellowed in his face, “Who are ye then? Are ye workin’ fer MacAlister, eh? Are ye alone, or are there more of ye spyin’ on us? Answer me!”

Infuriatingly, the lad would still not say a word, so Liam decided to interrogate him further and force him to speak. “Ye give me nae choice,” he told the lad before punching him twice in the ribs.

As soon as he had landed the blows, he regretted it, for the breath whooshed audibly from the skinny body, and the boy let out a grunt of pain. He sagged against the ropes binding him to the tree, moaning softly.

Christ, he’s weak, all right. Maybe I shouldnae have hit him so hard. I’d best be a wee bit more careful, otherwise I risk knocking him out completely, and then he’ll be useless fer information.

He kept firing questions at the lad, but to no avail.

“Why will ye nae answer me? Are ye deaf or stupid or what?” he demanded. By now, he hardy had any expectation that the lad would answer, since he had been stoically silent for so long. Thus, he was genuinely shocked when he finally did speak.

However, the boy volunteered no information, as Liam had hoped he would. Instead, he gasped out in a high, strained voice that sounded weirdly artificial, “I’m nae a spy! I was just after yer horse! What are ye gonnae dae tae me?”

The lad hasnae even dropped his balls by the sound of it, Liam thought to himself, growing more puzzled by the second about this curious captive.

“There’s only one thing I can dae since ye willnae answer me questions,” he replied.

“I answered yer question! I told ye, I’m nae a spy, just a village lad and a horse thief,” the prisoner protested again.

Liam shook his head. “I dinnae believe ye. So, if ye willnae tell me otherwise, and ye’re wearing that ring bearing the seal of the MacAlister’s, I can only conclude that ye are indeed a spy workin’ fer Carson MacAlister. Ye leave me with nay other option than tae take ye tae Castle Stewart fer a proper interrogation.” He saw the youth’s dark eyes fly wide with panic as he added menacingly, “Ye’re our property now.

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