Author: Shona Thompson

Prologue

Inverlochy, Scotland, 1757

“Where are ye?” Michael whispered into the air. The cold breeze pulled at his dark hair, as if the wind itself was made of strong fingers trying to pull him back. However, nothing would stop him from marching on to reach the very spot where he met Elisa every Sunday, without fail.

Between the two great hills that dominated the landscape like sleeping giants, he jumped onto a vast boulder, looking down at the valley and toward the nearest village. From this high up, he could see the blackened heather competing with the rough grass of the Highland hills. Everything shivered in the breeze.

It was an ominous sign.

Michael had heard such things from his eldest brother for years now. Laird Braydon, as most addressed him, was superstitious when away from the prying eyes of his clan’s men.

‘Aye, a strong wind bodes ill, Michael. Ye be warned of it. It means there’s something stirring in the air. Somethin’ coming for us all.’

Michael was not superstitious though. He shrugged the thought off, his tall figure dropping down from the vast grey stone as he hurried toward the village to meet his love, Elisa.

Nae long now and we will be wed.

He could practically hear the music that would play at their wedding.

A boot scuffed a stone.

Michael whipped his head around, coming to a sudden halt in the heather. Someone was there. No wind could brush a stone like leather. No, there had to be someone there, someone who was now doing their best to hide and avoid discovery. All Michael could see were the Douglas firs, the crests of the great hills and the still-quivering heather.

I willnae doubt me senses. Someone is there.

Michael’s brothers, Braydon and Tynan, had taught him well. Not only how to hunt a stag in the woods, but also how to turn a man following you from predator into prey. How to behave to raise the least suspicion.

Brushing his dark hair away from his forehead, he wrapped the black and navy tartan strip he wore tighter around his shoulders and walked on, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Under the cover of the tartan, his hand reached for the dirk in his belt, clutching it firmly between his fingers. He trained his ears to listen beyond the whistling of wind.

There came a scuff again, but there were two sets of footsteps now.

Michael whipped around, pulling the dirk clear of his belt and brandishing it in the air, but before Michael could do anything with the dirk, he found his wrist clamped in a thick fist, and a sharp knee was driven into his gut.

“Oof!” He crumpled forward in pain, listening as the dirk he’d been clutching fell to the ground with a dull thud. He was pushed back, his vision a blur of darkened shadows, hair tangled in the wind, masked faces, then all fell still as he was thrown against the nearest tree trunk . The fir only shook a little when Michael’s weight was thrown against it. The branches quivered, as if the attack disturbed it no more than the wind.

“What the – in the name of the wee man!” Michael roared, thrusting back at his attacker, hands scrambling as he reached for another weapon. “Are ye trying tae kill me ye great –”

He could not say anymore as an arm was thrust across his neck. Pressed against that tree, it was as if his neck was nothing more than a twig to his attacker, something that could be snapped at any moment.

“Nae a word, Michael Gregor,” a familiar voice rasped out.

Michael looked at the two men before him. The one pinning him to the tree had only his eyes on show, the rest of his face hidden behind dark red and green tartan. Yet the grey eyes were as familiar as the voice.

“Dinnae bother hiding yer face from me, Shay.” Michael managed the words despite the pressure on his throat.

Shay tore the tartan from his face, as did his accomplice, who stood a short distance behind him.

Shay Lamont, son of a neighboring laird, was almost as pale as the snow on the tops of the hills. His blond hair was more white than yellow too. It was almost like looking into a man made of ice, his gaze and touch as cold as Michael feared it would be.

Behind him stood Shay’s dearest friend. Larry, a short but burly fellow, stocky in build with a shock of dark red hair, was now nursing a blackened eye and a bruised jaw that he rubbed feebly as he took off his tartan strip.

“How’s the eye?” Michael asked Larry, goading what he already knew to be a dangerous situation.

“Enough!” Shay spat, adjusting his grasp and flattening Michael to the tree even more, risking to break Michael’s neck. He raised a dirk at the same time, pressing the tip of the ornate blade to Michael’s chin. “Another move, and ye die, Gregor. Ye understand? Ye die!” he hissed angrily.

This time, Michael chose not to goad him. He refused to flinch though and didn’t so much as blink. He merely stared back at Shay, waiting for what would happen next.

“Ye and yer brothers may have got the jump on us once, but it willnae happen again,” Shay muttered darkly.

Michael couldn’t resist. The voice in his head was determined to say his piece.

“Is one attack nae enough fer ye? Ye already threatened me once about going tae meet Elisa. How did that work out fer ye, eh?” Michael’s eyes darted between the two men. Shay’s bruises were not so easy to spot, but they were there. One milky green one on his neck was showing against the pallor of his skin.

“She willnae marry the youngest brother of a laird,” Shay spat once again. “She needs an heir. Ye hear me, Michael? Ye arenae good enough tae lick her boots.”

“She seems tae think differently.”

“Ye are just a boy, and she is just a girl. In time, she will see things differently. She’ll want the heir tae a lairdship. She will want… a man.”

Michael said nothing. He glowered back at Shay, trying to think of a way out of this situation. Even if he fought Shay off, Larry had to be dealt with too. He was not fooled by the miserable way in which Larry kept touching the bruises on his face. His stocky build counted for a lot in a fight and the long thin scar running from his chin to his collarbone showed he was not afraid to risk injury in order to win.

“This is yer final warning, Gregor,” Shay muttered again. “Ye willnae be seeing Elisa anymore.”

“We are tae be married,” Michael reminded him. “Ye tried this before yet ye dinnae remember the punishment me brothers and I dealt out tae ye, dae ye? Dinnae get involved in our business, Shay. Go back tae yer own clan.”

The dirk was raised. Pressed deep into Michael’s cheek, he felt the prick on his skin and imagined the bead of blood pooling at the blade. Michael’s stomach clenched tightly. At that moment, Shay could quite easily murder him. It would be all too easy.

“I’ll only return when I take Elisa with me,” Shay said warningly.

Michael blinked for the first time, an image of Elisa appearing in his mind. Mild in manner, delicate, fair golden hair and bright green eyes, Elisa could ensnare nearly any man she met, but she had chosen Michael. She wished to marry him as he did her. They didn’t care if they were still young, that Michael hadn’t yet seen his twenty-first summer, and she hadn’t seen her eighteenth. They were determined to wed regardless, and the betrothal had been blessed both by Laird Braydon and Elisa’s father.

“She isnae yers tae take,” Michael took on a darker tone. “Go home, Shay. Like the white lamb ye are, go home with yer tail between yer legs.”

Rage enveloped Shay’s face. The lines around his eyes and neck became taut, his grey eyes now nearly red.

“Ye think a betrothal is enough tae stop me? Or a few bruises dealt by yer weakling brothers?” He spat on Michael, but still Michael refused to flinch. “A pathetic excuse fer a laird yer brother, barely more than a child himself.”

Michael’s body tightened now. His hand down at his side balled into a fist.

“Or Tynan, eh? What a man is he? What a pathetic creature, responsible for his own father’s death. It’s a wonder he didnae kill himself years ago with the guilt.”

“Ye bast –” Michael tried to rage against him. His brothers, two of the best men born on this planet, did not deserve such insults. He attempted to push Shay off him, but he pressed that dirk harder into his face now. Larry also stepped closer beside him, revealing a long thin rapier he had kept hidden behind his back up until now.

“Dinnae move,” Shay warned once more. “There’s something ye’ll want tae ken, Michael Gregor. Something ye’ll wish tae hear from me.” He jerked his head in silent instruction at Larry who stepped forward once more, reaching into the pocket of his tunic before producing something.

Michael strained to see what it was but was dealt with another blow to his stomach by Shay.

Winded, he buckled forward onto his knees, landing on a great stone which bruised his leg so badly, he had no chance of standing. Gasping for breath, he looked up, peering through his strands of dark hair to see Shay standing over him. Shay still grasped the dirk threateningly, but in his other palm, he now held something. He raised it high then let it drop to the ground in front of Michael. It drifted like a feather, strands falling apart in the wind. The golden wisps shimmered in what little light bled through the clouds at all.

“Her hair,” Shay said, though Michael hardly needed to hear the words, for he’d guessed as much. “Elisa’s hair. She’s so small, is she nae? So delicate. She could be snapped like a baby bird.”

“Ye demon –”

“Nay more words.” Shay moved the dirk toward Michael once again. “Heed me warning this time. Ye willnae pay attention tae a threat against yer own life, I ken that much, so I must make another threat altogether. Ye will leave.”

Michael raised his eyebrows.

“Leave.” Shay spoke in emphasis. “Ye will leave this clan and never return. If ye so much take a step back into these borders, Elisa will die, and she willnae be the only one. Yer beloved brothers will meet their ends too.”

“Ye would never get near them. They are too well trained.”

“Ye want tae find out?” Shay asked, a malicious smirk spreading across his lips. “Elisa will be the easiest tae hurt. She will die first, but it will be easy enough tae get tae yer brothers. Tynan enjoys a drink at the tavern, fer instance. And Laird Braydon Gregor has many weaknesses of his own. I ken them all.” He stepped forward, threateningly. “One way or another, I will kill them, unless I have yer agreement.”

Nay, I cannae dae it.

Every fiber of his being screamed against the idea. This clan was Michael’s home. He loved his brothers, and it was the only life he had ever known. But looking up into Shay’s eyes, he saw the danger. Was it not rumored that Shay had already killed a man? And people claimed Shay’s own father was questioning him about a woman’s death.

“Dinnae doubt me,” Shay said, his tone now so dark it made Michael’s heartbeat thunder in his chest. “Ye will live tae regret it. All around ye will die, Michael Gregor, but ye will live. Aye, I’ll make sure of that, so ye can grieve them and mourn them, and let the guilt drive ye mad until ye throw yerself in River Lochy tae meet yer own death. It would be so easy. I could orchestrate it tae blame the McDowells, so they would face the responsibility fer yer brothers’ deaths, nae I.”

Images flashed in Michael’s mind. He saw Elisa’s smile, her bright green eyes, then he saw his brothers together, their matching dark hair and pleasant smiles. How could Michael let himself be the cause of all their deaths? He could not let it happen.

“Dae I have yer agreement?” Shay pushed the dagger toward him.

Wild ideas circled in his mind. Michael could kill Shay now just for making the threat, but what then? He would be hanged for murder, and that would destroy Braydon’s and Tynan’s lives regardless.

I have nay choice.

Reluctantly and very slowly, he offered a single nod.

“Good.” Shay backed up, grasping Larry’s arm and urging him to run away first before he followed. “Be gone by the end of the day, or Elisa willnae see the sun rise tomorrow.”

Michael still could not stand. He shifted to his haunches and stared at the retreating figures of Shay and Larry, deep in thought.

Braydon and Tynan wouldn’t let him go. If he went to them now and told them the truth, they’d insist a man like Shay could not hurt them. Yet Michael couldn’t take that chance. If he was really going to protect them, keep them and Elisa safe, then he’d have to think of another way to leave, a way that would ensure that neither Braydon nor Tynan would come looking for him again.

A plan of where to go and hide was forming fast in his mind. Shay was not the only enemy of his brother’s, for so were the McDowells. Where better to hide than in the enemy clan? Somewhere where he could shed his name and become someone new. He would no longer be Michael, but a new man, with a new Christian name. “Pray, forgive me for what I am about tae do.”

Chapter One

McDowell Castle, Scotland, 1765

Kyven stuck her head through the doorway, peering at someone she knew she should not be watching.

Captain Gilchrist was sitting in his usual chair in the library of McDowell Castle. It was surprising to find a soldier, a military leader at that, so often in this room, reading alone or in her company. It was their tradition for him to read aloud as she sat nearby, painting and drawing, but not today. On this day, she’d had much to do, and now that she was free, as the sun set, she had come to find him.

Seemingly unaware of her presence, she watched him sitting in the vast Flemish baroque chair that he always occupied, his uniform pulled tightly across his tall and broadly muscled frame. His legs were a little apart, the book resting on just one large palm.

Kyven’s mouth turned a little dry. His black hair was cropped short these days, though he had once worn it longer, and she could remember the way the ends used to tease his forehead. The stubble across his chin was growing longer too, and she wondered if that dark hair on his angular jaw was soft or sharp to the touch. The blue eyes, dark like a stormy ocean, were trained on the book, calmly moving from one word to the next.

A candle beside him kept him company and the fire that burned in the hearth gave out a soft glimmer, the only sources of orange light in the room to compete with the black sky. At this time of year, it grew dark so early, most of the day seemed black. So often had Kyven thought of Captain Gilchrist as a source of light in that darkness, despite his quiet, nearly always silent manner.

“Since when did the lady of the clan become a spy?” Captain Gilchrist asked without looking up from his book, his deep voice making something in her stomach quake.

His voice always had this effect on her. It was as if he could reach into her very soul just with his words.

“How did ye ken I was here?” she asked, stepping into the room and moving her hands to her hips.

At last, Captain Gilchrist looked up from what he was doing. He raised one dark eyebrow in her direction, not quite smiling, as he rarely smiled, though there was a lightness in his gaze.

Sometimes I feel it is only I who kens him well enough tae understand what that look means.

“It’s unusual fer ye nae tae be here,” he said quietly, returning his blue eyes to the book. “Though many wonder why we enjoy spending time here reading together.”

“It is me library,” she reminded him teasingly, moving to kneel on the hearth rug and turn her body to the fire. She extended her hands toward the flames, trying to warm her body. “Maybe people should question why ye are in me library so much.”

“Fer the books,” he said simply, turning the page.

“Sometimes people wonder if ye come fer another reason,” she continued to tease him. He raised an eyebrow again, showing what he thought of those words, though he didn’t look away from the book.

She laughed softly, trying her best to release the sudden tension in the air. She often teased him in that way, for it was what everyone said of the two of them.

Even her maid had wondered if the two of them were secret lovers as they spent so much time with one another. Kyven’s particular reply to that question had been sharp, tart, and an attempt to cover a secret hurt.

“Captain Gilchrist would nay more look at me fer a wife than he would his dog. I am simply someone tae keep him company in that library.”

Though, of course, she wished he would look at her in that way. There had been a time when she had thought he was fond of her, but that was a long time ago now. After the first couple of years of dancing around one another, Gilchrist had never made a move or even truly flirted with her. It had only ever been a jest.

“What is it, Kyven?” he whispered.

She startled, wondering if he had noticed just how much she was staring at him. It was a habit of hers, one she indulged in far too much.

He doesnae think of me in that way.

She turned her focus on the fire, watching as the yellow flames licked the wood.

“It’s just today,” she murmured with a sigh. “It’s been a busy day, going tae the mausoleum.”

“Ah.” He closed the book sharply and rubbed the brow of his forehead. “I’m sorry, Kyven. I didnae even think about what today is fer ye.”

“It doesnae matter.”

“Of course it matters.” He sighed and placed the book on the table beside him.

Turning in the chair to face her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He came so close, her breath hitched in her throat. She wet her lips, trying her best not to think about his proximity, or how she felt a heat not just from the fire, but from him.

“How was it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“As it usually is,” she murmured. “Me father’s death… I feel the usual ache, the grief, the anger at the Gregors fer what they did tae him, although it was a long time ago now. But at least the sharpness of the pain isnae as bad as it once was.”

Gilchrist shifted in his seat. For a moment, she thought he was uneasy, but then she presumed it was just because the subject they were discussing was death.

Who could ever be easy when speaking of it?

“Hmm.” He nodded slowly. For a moment, she thought he might say more, perhaps speak of his own father. In all the time she had known him, he had never mentioned his own family. He must have had a father, but was he dead? Or was he still alive? And if so, why did Gilchrist never speak of him? “I am sorry,” he whispered to her. “I ken it is of little comfort, but it will get even easier in time. Trust me.”

Maybe his father is dead.

She was about to ask him. Was it so wrong to want to know something about Captain Gilchrist’s life after knowing him for eight years? She had first met him when she was scarcely more than a child, and he had appeared, acclaimed by the captain of their army at the time. Just a stranger, Gilchrist had come across some of his scouts on the road as they were being attacked by bandits. Stepping in and saving their lives had earned him such praise that he had been quickly enlisted in their own army and had advanced fast through the ranks to become their new captain.

That scrap of his life was all she knew of him, though she longed to know more. Yet she feared he would shut down and refuse to answer her if she asked more, as he had done in the past.

“It’s nae just that,” she said instead. “After what me family did recently, can ye blame me fer feeling a little… lost on a day like today?”

“Nae at all.” He slowly shook his head, turning his face to the fire and also staring at the flames. “Yer sister is gone though. She cannae hurt ye or anyone in this life again.”

“Aye. I ken.” Yet it was sometimes hard for Kyven to accept.

After her father had died, her uncle had come to take care of the clan. After his passing, the lairdship had been given to Kyven’s older sister, Imogen. A less loving sisterly relationship would be hard to find. Imogen had always blamed her for killing their mother in childbirth and so the women never got along.

When Imogen had become lady of the clan, she had lied about taking a husband, Elliot Sutherland. She blackmailed and manipulated him into doing her bidding by imprisoning his father, while keeping a lover by the name of Ossian Macauley. He was a foul man whose greed had been fanatical. In the end, both Ossian’s and Imogen’s greed and manipulative actions had seen them falling to the bottom of a cliff together.

A year had passed since then, but Kyven was still haunted by her elder sister dying in such a way. She was never sure whether to grieve her or not.

“Kyven?” Gilchrist’s deep voice called her back to the present, and she looked at him, turning her head his way. The heat he emanated made her warm again, and it somehow made it easier to forget the darkness of the past. “All will be well. I promise ye that.”

“How can ye ken that?” she asked, her voice shaking a little. “The council insist I marry, so a new laird can be found fer the clan.”

“There are some good things tae marriage,” he said, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips.

“Ye mean like the happiness we have found in this room?” she asked, feeling brave but regretting the words a second later.

“Aye, maybe yer husband will read tae ye, as I dae.”

A sudden coldness washed over her body, and she looked away from him, into the flames.

He will never look at me as a possible wife.

She had to push away all the pictures she’d ever had of her and Captain Gilchrist together. She had often dreamt of the two of them, sitting in this room, reading and drawing into the late hours. What would it be like if a small child ran between them, with her green eyes and Gilchrist’s black hair? She always pretended in front of other people that she couldn’t care less for Gilchrist but deep inside, her truth was different.

“Knock, knock,” a familiar voice called from the doorway.

Kyven looked around, surprised to be disturbed in this room. She considered the library her haven, her place to be alone with Gilchrist.

In the doorway stood Aaden. He had been Elliot’s man-at-arms when he had stood in place of the laird of the clan, and still occupied the position, though he was not their war leader. These days, that role resided with Captain Gilchrist.

Aaden’s dark blond hair was ruffled, as if a lover had just trailed a hand through it. His rather full beard these days was neat in comparison and as he leaned on the doorframe, she noticed one of the laces of his doublet was tied at an odd angle, as if he had just thrown it on. She sighed loudly, realizing he must have seduced one of her maids again.

“Nae disturbing, am I?” he said with a mischievous smile, leaning on the frame. “Only, ye’d think the two of ye might be locked in an embrace, based on the amount of time ye spend alone in this room together.”

“Aaden!” she snapped at him, her face blushing as purple as a beetroot. She refused to turn around and meet Gilchrist’s eye. “Just because ye jump into bed with every woman in me clan, doesnae mean every man is like ye.”

“Nae every woman.” Aaden winked at her. “I havenae found a bed with ye in it yet, have I?”

“Aaden.” Gilchrist’s warning tone only made Aaden laugh all the more, tipping his head back and guffawing.

“Ye ken I would never dae that tae me lady.” He bowed ostentatiously. “Now, before I can tease ye and make poor Lady Kyven’s face even redder, ye are needed Gilchrist. The scouts have returned and seen movements of the other clans’ soldiers. They wish tae talk tae ye.”

“I’m coming.” Gilchrist stood. Kyven looked up at him, wondering if the fear showed on her face.

It was something the council had talked to her about an awful lot, how without a laird in place, someone could seek to take advantage of their weakness as a clan and attack to take the land for themselves.

“It will be nothing tae worry about,” Gilchrist said, pausing beside her, his voice deepening. “Trust me,” he added. “Any soldier would have tae fight me tae get here, and I’ll be as ruthless as the devil in his fiery hell tae stop them.” With these impassioned words, spoken so calmly he might as well have been talking about the weather, Kyven shuddered in a kind of delight.

She waited, watching as Gilchrist left. Aaden didn’t follow him thought, just standing in the doorway, staring at her.

“Ye dinnae need tae blush so much now. He’s gone.”

“Then dinnae make such comments like that in future. Ye are simply poking at something that isnae there.”

“Ah, Kyven.” He sighed loudly and stepped into the room. “I could jest about ye and Captain Gilchrist all day, but unfortunately, business calls and the council want ye.”

“What fer?” she asked, noting that all traces of humor had left Aaden completely.

“They have found a husband fer ye.”

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Chapter One

“Ach, I’m freezin’. Remind me again why we’re doing this,” Ciarán Kincaid grumbled, dodging yet another low-hanging branch as he and his brother Diarmaid, Laird of Kincaid, pushed their way under the dripping trees in the rain-soaked forest. Their ride from castle Kincaid at dawn that morning had brought them miles from home, in abysmal Scottish Highland weather, and they were both drenched and cold.

“Ye shouldnae complain, Brother!” Diarmaid glanced at Ciarán sideways. Then he added grimly, “Maddison hasnae been right since we freed her from Murphy Lennox’s dungeons. We have tae dae somethin’ tae bring our sister back tae her old self.”

“But this, Diarmaid? A magic sword? I still cannae believe ye’re serious about this. ’Tis an old wives’ tale, surely, and a waste o’ time. I mean, there’s nae even a track tae follow.”

His brother stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “Maybe so, but if there’s even just a slim chance tae help our sister, I’ll crawl across the mountains on me hands and knees,” he said fiercely. “And I expect ye tae dae the same.”

“Dinnae try tae suggest I wouldnae,” Ciarán defended himself as they resumed walking. “But as I’ve said from the start, I have grave doubts that this is the best way tae go about helping her. I ken I agreed tae all this, but I have tae admit, it feels foolish.”

“D’ye think I dinnae feel like an idiot as well? Traipsin’ through a bloody wood, miles from home, lookin’ fer some sort o’ witch, and a blade supposed tae have healin’ powers?” his brother replied irritably, forcing his way onward through the thick undergrowth after having tied their horses to some trees in a nearby clearing to rest and drink. With every step, their boots squelched noisily on the soft, wet forest floor.

“She’s nae a witch, so when we find her, if we find her, for the Wee Man’s sake, dinnae call her that! She’s likely tae laugh at us and send us on another wild goose chase, if ye dae.” Ciarán warned. “She’s a respected cailleach, a wise woman.”

“I ken that, ye fool! I dinnae believe much in witches or magical blades either, but I’m willin’ tae dae anything tae help Maddison, however farfetched it sounds. I just cannae stand tae think of her like she is now, a shadow of hersel’ after that bastard Murphy Lennox snatched her in the middle of the night and kept her locked up fer a whole year! A wee girl like that, the cruelty of it!”

“Aye, she disnae sleep nor eat, she’s wastin’ away, and even Lillie cannae comfort her enough tae bring her out o’ it, although it seemed to helpin’ at the start. And tae think yer wife suffered the same fate with Keir MacNeil and understands more than most what Maddison went through,” Ciarán observed, bitterness in his voice. “It seems our troubles are nae over yet.”

“Dinnae forget, Maddison didnae ken our parents and brother had been killed too, the night Lennox’s men took her. She’s only been back home a month, and she’s mournin’ for Faither, Maither and Rónán as well as tryin’ tae get over her ordeal,” Diarmaid pointed out, dashing the water drops that fell from the trees onto his face and shoulders away with an impatient hand. “I wish I could have killed that brute Lennox mesel’, but Odhrán got in there first.”

“Aye, ’tis hard tae imagine anyone killin’ his own faither, I never thought tae see such a thing right in front of me eyes. Odhrán must have hated him as much as we did,” Ciarán said in tones of disbelief.

“But this sickness she has, ’tis nae something that we can cure. Nor any healer, so desperate measures are needed’. Thus, we find ourselves in this bloody wood, searchin’ for a supposedly magical sword that can heal all ills. So kindly quit yer moanin’, will ye?” the laird told him with some force.

“Dae ye really think this cailleach has the powers tae help her?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Diarmaid said, stopping by the trunk of a large tree and peering ahead into the wet gloom, the whole scene radiating a misty, other-worldly look. “Is that a cottage up ahead, or am I seein’ things?”

Ciarán halted behind him, squinting, trying to make out what lay ahead of them. “It looks like a clearin’, and, aye, I think I see the outline of a cottage.” Indeed, the larger trees had begun to thin out slightly, and he realized they were standing at the edge of a small clearing.

“Come on,” Diarmaid urged as they warily stepped out into the open space. Immediately, they felt the heavy rain upon them, now that they had forsaken the mild protection of the overhead canopy. It took only a few strides of their long legs to carry them across the muddy expanse to a small cottage whose thatched roof was so low, parts of it actually brushed the ground, with a sunken door of scarred timber and two small windows of oilcloth.

A wisp of gray smoke twisted up from the chimney at the gable end, dispersing in the gray overhead. An overflowing rain barrel and a chopping block stood outside. The sound of pigs and at least one cow could be heard from a small wooden outbuilding at the rear. It all looked peaceful enough, a familiar domestic scene, but Ciarán glanced left and right out of habit to ensure there was no danger within sight.

His heart thumped in his chest as he and Diarmaid approached the front door of the decrepit dwelling. But before they could knock, the door swung open by itself, and they found themselves facing an ancient, bent crone dressed all in black. If she was not actually a witch, she could certainly pass for one in Ciarán’s view.

“If ye’re so set on being non-believers, dinnae take another step,” the crone told them, her voice a scratchy cackle, “’Tis best if ye go now.” She began to shut the door. Despite his disappointment, Ciarán’s anxiety rose.

“Nae, Madam, please, dinnae dae that,” he blurted out, while Diarmaid strode forward and put his hand on the door, preventing her from closing it.

“We must speak with ye,” his brother said in a commanding tone. “’Tis a matter of great importance.”

The old woman looked at them sharply, with sunken black eyes. “Aye, I ken, but nae important enough fer ye tae believe I have powers that can help yer sister, eh? Ye think I’m just a silly old woman, and I’m nae inclined tae help ye, so be off with ye, the pair of ye.” She pushed the door again.

“Madam, please, we beg ye, hear us out before ye send us away. Ye say we dinnae believe in ye, but we’ve come so far tae see ye, that we must believe in a way, eh? ’Tis just we’ve never met anyone with yer powers before, so we dare nae hope ye can help us,” Ciarán pleaded respectfully, going right up to the door and looking her straight in the eyes. “Please, just hear us out.”

“Aye, I’ll make it worth yer while,” Diarmaid put in, but the woman sneered at him.

“I need naething ye can give me, Laird o’ Kincaid,” she said, the uncanny way she appeared to know who they were setting the hairs on Ciarán’s neck bristling. “So dinnae think tae sweeten me with yer bribes. Yer braither here has the right idea, showin’ a little respect for his elder and better.” She nodded at Ciarán and gave him a toothless smile. Somehow, for the smile was strangely chilling, he managed to return the gesture. “All right, ye can come in.” Finally, she stepped away from the door and admitted them into her hovel.

The two huge warriors stepped into the single room, and Ciarán felt like a giant in a doll’s house. He and Diarmaid had to duck beneath the low, smoke-blackened rafters, to avoid banging their heads or colliding with the assortment of bales of greenery, various vegetables, and the drying carcasses of small animals and birds, as well as pots and pans of all shapes and sizes hanging there. The smell was thick and rank, and it tickled the inside of his nose. He tried not to breathe.

“We’ve come—” Diarmaid began, but the crone cut him off as she crossed to the hearth, where a peat fire was blazing, making the room overly hot.

“Wheesht yer noise,” she told him with a stern look, placing a kettle over the flames on a hook. “We’ll have a dish ’o tea before we talk.” Despite his trepidation, Ciarán had to smile to see the look on Diarmaid’s face at being thus admonished. The Laird of Kincaid was not used to being spoken to in such a forthright manner.

“Sit ye down, the both of ye. Ye’re makin’ the place look untidy,” she told them with an amused cackle at her own wit, gesturing with her head at an old, battered settle. Ciarán and Diarmaid turned to do as she bade them, only to notice for the first time that the settle in question was in fact occupied by an enormous black hound. The beast was stretched out along the whole seat and appeared to be fast asleep.

“Ach, the auld thing,” the woman muttered, startling both men when she suddenly cried sharply, “Grim! Get up and move yer carcase!” The dog jumped and snorted, coming awake. It raised it huge head and looked balefully at the visitors, who took a step back. “’Tis all right, he’ll nae hurt ye. Nae unless I say so,” she added with another unnerving cackle.

“Here, Grim, here’s a nice wee bone fer ye.” At the sound of the word “bone,” the dog’s lithe, black form slithered from the settle. It placed its paws, the size of dinner plates, Ciarán estimated, foursquare on the dirt floor and shook itself vigorously, ending with a loud sneeze. Then it ambled over to its mistress and, with the politeness of a well-bred lady, took the proffered bone before settling down contentedly before the hearth to chew on it. “Ach, ye wouldnae think it tae look at him, but he’s as gentle as a lamb.”

“He is indeed a fine-looking hound,” Ciarán said, eyeing Grim’s massive form doubtfully. “He’s as big as a full-grown deer.”

“Aye, bred tae hunt wolves,” the woman said, bringing three beakers of tea with her when she finally came to join them, handing the brothers one each before seating herself comfortably opposite them in an old chair. “And ye get a few of them around here, I can tell ye, two-legged ones mostly.” She cackled again, and Ciarán’s unease grew.

She flashed him her toothless smile again and added, “They think they can take advantage of an auld woman living alone out here in the forest. But Grim soon teaches ’em how wrong they are.” She laughed like a creaking barn door, sending an involuntary shiver up Ciarán’s spine.

Wheesht, man, what’s wrong with ye? Ye’re nae a bairn, tae be so afraid o’ this auld one! He glanced over at his brother, who, like himself, stood not an inch less than six feet three in his stockinged feet and was a veteran of many fierce battles. He took strength from seeing that he appeared similarly cowed by this diminutive woman of the woods and her giant dog.

“We—” Diarmaid began again.

“Aye, I ken. Ye’ve come tae find the Blade of Osheen,” the crone said matter-of-factly. “Ye wish tae cure yer sister of her melancholy.”

Ciarán and Diarmaid stared at her, then at each other, their jaws falling slightly open. Again, the hairs on the back of Ciarán’s neck prickled.

“How d’ye ken us and what we’ve come fer?” he asked somewhat nervously, half afraid to drink the tea she had given them. There could be anything in it.

“How else am I tae prove tae two unbelievers that I have powers, eh?” she asked drily. “Grim heard ye comin’, and he told me, and I looked intae the fire and saw ye. And I kent who ye are, and why ye’ve come tae see me,” she told them, as if what she was saying was as ordinary as remarking what dire weather it was. A deep feeling of unease settled in Ciarán’s bones even as his wet clothing began steaming in the over-heated room.

“Then, can ye help us? D’ye have this Sword of Osheen?” Diarmaid asked hesitantly. Ciarán could hear the note of hope in his brother’s voice.

“Aye, I can help ye. I’m bound tae help ye,” she added mysteriously, glancing at Ciarán in a way that unnerved him further. “But I dinnae have the blade mesel’.”

“Then can ye tell us how tae get it?” he asked, his unease mixed with wavering hope.

She nodded. “Aye, I can, but first I must warn ye about this sorcerous blade ye seek. What d’ye ken of it?”

“All we ken is that ’tis said it can cure sickness,” Diarmaid said.

“Aye, that’s right, it can. And aye, it can cure yer sister. But I warn ye, the magic it holds is dark. It should be used only once.”

“How do we use it? Tae cure Maddison, I mean?” Ciarán asked, leaning forward, turning the beaker of tea between his fingers.

“Ye have tae make a wee cut in the skin just above her heart, and the darkness there will be healed. But I’ll tell ye again, ’tis a very powerful blade, and a lot of people forget themselves once they have it. There’s many folks who’ve possessed it and tried tae misuse it fer their own gain. All of them are dead.”

A shiver passed through Ciarán at her grave warning. “We have nae intention of misusing it. We only want it tae heal Maddison.”

The crone nodded at him. “Aye, I ken, but I must warn ye of the terrible dangers at play with powerful forces such as this.”

“We take note of yer warning, Madam. Can ye tell us how we can find the sword?” Diarmaid asked with some urgency, clearly wanting to be gone from such eerie company.

“Aye, but ye must both swear tae follow me instructions, or it could be death fer ye.”

The brothers looked at each other for a moment before saying in unison, “We swear on our souls.”

“All right then,” she said, nodding. “Ye’ll have tae search fer it, mind ye.”

“We intend tae,” Diarmaid told her firmly.

“Aye, we’ll find it all right,” Ciarán seconded.

But the crone shook her head. “Nay, nae him,” she said, pointing at Diarmaid before gazing piercingly at Ciarán. “’Tis ye who must go, and ye must go alone.”

Ciarán stared at her, mystified. “What? But why?”

“’Tis yer destiny,” she told him, once again making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. He looked at Diarmaid, who shrugged.

“Very well, if ye say I must dae it alone, then I will,” Ciarán told her emphatically. “I dinnae care, as long as I find the blade and Maddison can be cured. But d’ye have any idea where I should start me search?”

“Ye’re a good lad,” the old woman said, smiling at him. “Aye, I dae. Now, the last I heard, t’was rumored the sword is in a wee village called Brockside, nae so far away from here. That’s where ye should start.”

“Thank ye kindly, Madam,” Ciarán said, grateful for the information but equally grateful to be leaving. Not wishing to offend, he drank his tea in one go, which turned out to be delicious and strangely invigorating. He watched as Diarmaid did the same, clearly also not wishing to offend their hostess. They both placed their beakers carefully on the low table before them.

“Aye, thank ye. We’re very grateful fer yer help. Will ye nae let us recompense ye fer yer time and trouble?” Diarmaid asked as they both stood up carefully to avoid banging their heads. But the old woman shook her head, a flash of annoyance in her hooded eyes.

“I telled ye, I want naething’ ye’ve got,” she said to him sharply. Then she looked at Ciarán. “But I want ye tae promise me, lad, that when ye’ve found the blade and cured yer sister, ye’ll bring it tae me. I intend tae destroy it once and for all. Far too many souls have lost themselves because of its evil influence.”

“Agreed,” Ciarán said without hesitation. He would just as soon not hang on to such a malign object. “I’ll happily bring it back tae ye.”

“Aye, we swear tae return it tae ye as soon as Maddison’s better,” Diarmaid promised.

The brothers moved towards the door, and the crone got up to see them out. The huge dog was still chewing contentedly on its bone by the fire as they left and did not even lift its head as they existed the cottage back into the gloomy wet afternoon.

“Me name’s Selma,” the crone called after them as they made their way across the puddle-filled, muddy clearing, seeking the partial shelter of the forest. “Dinnae forget, Ciarán, tae return the blade tae me when ye’re done with it.” With that she shut the door.

“How the hell does she ken me name?” Ciarán asked Diarmaid with a shudder that was nothing to do with the dank weather.

“Dinnae ask me,” his brother replied tersely, his face pale in the gloom. Ciarán could see that he too had been spooked by Selma’s uncanny powers.

“I suppose we have tae believe in the powers the sword is supposed to have now,” he said, as they began their journey back through the stretch of forest to the place where they had left their horses.

“Mmm,” was all Diarmaid would say on the matter, and Ciarán did not blame him for his reticence. Their meeting with the cailleach was simply too strange to dwell upon. So, he turned his mind to the village of Brockside and how to find its location, so that he could get there as quickly as possible.

Chapter Two

These days Tegan MacFarlane avoided approaching her childhood home from the front. Instead, she chose to turn off the main way and guide her horse down the twisting track that led by degrees down the thickly wooded hill, to eventually emerge at the rear of the MacFarlane’ Keep.

After ten minutes of slow riding below the canopy of fragrant pines, she reached the small plateau that hung about sixty or so feet above the back of the extensive, granite-built house and surrounding buildings and grounds, giving her a full view of the roofs, courtyards, garden, and stables below.

It all looked so painfully familiar, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the young woman standing on the stone steps by a set of green-painted rear doors, beneath a wooden porch. In her mid-twenties, she was tall and slender, with long, straight brown hair that was caught at her fair brow by a simple golden circlet and provided a bright contrast with the bright mustard color of her dress. In her arms she was cradling an infant wrapped in a woolen shawl.

Tegan smiled and put two fingers to her lips, letting out a shrill whistle that made her horse whicker. The woman below looked up, her face splitting into a huge smile when she caught sight of Tegan.

“Sister! There ye are. We’ve been waitin’ fer ye,” she called, rocking the child gently from side to side. “Come and meet yer new niece!”

“I’m comin’,” Tegan called, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and excitement. “I cannae wait tae see her.” She clicked her tongue, and the horse proceeded to carry her down the remaining stretch of track until its hooves left the soft earth and clip clopped onto the cobblestones of the courtyard.

Tegan quickly dismounted, throwing the reins over the saddle and letting the horse wander off to nibble at the juicy grass growing between the cobblestones. Her sister had come down the steps to meet her, and Tegan hurried towards her and the new arrival.

“Och, Ailis, she’s beautiful,” she said cooing over the tiny, pink-cheeked baby, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to protect her at all costs. “She’s so tiny!”

“Aye, that’s often the case with babies, so I’m told,” Ailis joked before adding, “but this one’s very tiny because she came a wee bit early, she was in such a hurry to be in the world. See how strong she is!” Ailis smiled to see her daughter clutch Tegan’s outstretched finger in her miniature fist and promptly try to stick it into the tiny rosebud of her lips.

“Och, she’s perfect,” Tegan was saying when she suddenly noticed what her niece was about to do and rapidly tugged her finger away. “Nay, little one! That wouldnae taste good,” Tegan said, unable to wipe the grin off her face. But Sorcha refused to release her finger, merely gazing up at her aunt with swimming blue eyes the color of a summer sky. The child appeared full of wonder. “Look, she’s smilin’ at me,” Tegan said, delighted by the baby’s toothless smile. She silently vowed to do her best to make Sorcha’s life a happy one.

“I hate tae spoil things fer ye, Tegan, but that’s likely just wind,” Ailis said then, laughing and jerking her from her thoughts.

Tegan put on a mock frown. “Nay,” she retorted, not taking her eyes from her niece as the pair played a gentle game of tug-o-war with her finger, “she kens her Auntie Tegan right enough, dinnae ye, me bonny wee Sorcha?” As if in reply, the baby gave a gurgling chuckle, and her little pink face seemed to light up. “Ye see? Ach, ye have me wrapped around yer finger already, child,” Tegan added, once more almost overwhelmed by the love she felt for Sorcha.

“Let’s go inside,” Ailis said, leading the way up the steps and into the back regions of the house where they had grown up. They came into a warm, spacious parlor. Ailis sat on the large, old settle near the hearth, arranging her skirts and balancing the tightly wrapped package that was baby Sorcha on her lap.

“Brrr, ’tis nae so warm in here,” Tegan observed, pulling off her hide gloves and tossing them down onto a chair before going straight to the fireplace. “Ye need another couple of logs on the fire, Ailis, ye havetae keep yerself and the baby warm, ye ken?” She picked up a few of the small logs stacked by the hearth and added them to the fire before poking the low-burning embers into life. Then, she sat down in the chair opposite her sister and looked at her keenly.

“I’m all right,” Ailis assured her, “just tired after the birth, is all. But Meg’s been feedin’ me up, making me drink that awful beef tea and swallow raw eggs, tae build me up, she says,” she added, referring to their old, faithful cook and housekeeper.

“Well, just ye make sure ye do as she says. She kens what she’s talkin’ about, having raised five bairns herself. Ye cannae take any chances… nae after…” Her voice trailed off as Ailis suddenly grew paler still.

“I ken, Tegan.” She held Sorcha close to her breast. “After losin’ the first babe, this one’s even more precious tae me. I’ve nae intention of losin’ her too.”

“Aye, she’s precious all right. But so are ye tae me, Ailis. Losin’ a babe takes it out of ye, may the wee one’s soul rest in peace, but havin’ a babe does too, so promise tae mind Meg’s words.” Tegan had been desperately worried to see how last year’s miscarriage and the pregnancy with Sorcha had taken their toll on her beautiful, poised sister.

Ailis smiled at her weakly. “I promise.” She sighed, staring dotingly down at her daughter, who gurgled as she gripped her mother’s little finger and sucked on it with gusto. “Aye, it was a rough pregnancy, all right,” Ailis went on. “For certain, I was sick more often than I was well. There were some days when I felt so weak I thought I’d lose her too. But it was all worth it to have Sorcha here safely, and I have every intention of getting me strength back so I can give her all the love and care she needs. And now ye’re here, I’m truly happy.” She beamed at Tegan.

“Och, ye ken I love tae see ye happy, Ailis,” Tegan replied, her gaze fixing on little Sorcha’s face before she added, “and now there’s this little one tae think about as well. Here,” she said, approaching her sister with her arms outstretched. “Let me hold her.”

Chuckling, Ailis handed the bundle over into Tegan’s hands. Hiding her nervousness at handling her niece for the first time, Tegan sat down once more, laying the baby down in her lap so they were face to face. They beamed at each other, but she noticed Ailis was staring at her with concern in her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, marveling again at the strength of Sorcha’s grip.

“Yer face. Ye have a nasty gash on yer cheek. How did ye get that, Tegan? Fighting, I suppose,” Ailis said, sounding worried. “Have ye had it seen tae?”

“Dinnae fuss, Ailis. ’Tis naught but a scratch. Of course, it was from a fight,” she said.

“But why d’ye always have tae be fightin’? Ye ken ye’ll have a scar there too now, eh?” She inclined her head at Tegan, still eyeing the wound beneath her eye.

“Are ye pullin’ me leg, Ailis? I’m a warrior. I’m a trained soldier fer the clan. That’s me job. I’m gonnae get the odd scar.” She brushed her hand ruefully across the gash on her cheek. “Sheep rustlers. One tried tae have a go at me with his dirk, so I had tae break his arm before he was carted off tae face the Laird’s justice.”

“Well, it looks sore. Ye should let me tend tae it,” Ailis told her, moving to rise.

“Nay, stay where ye are!” Tegan cried, putting up a hand. “Dinnae dare move. I’ve told ye, ’tis naething,” she added dismissively, wanting Ailis to relax.

Ailis sank back into the settle. “Well, I dinnae like tae nag ye, Tegan, and I ken ye’re a trained warrior—”

“One o’ the best in the Sutherland—” Tegan filled in with obvious pride, crossing her leather clad legs.

Ailis nodded. “Granted, one o’ the best in the whole of Sutherland, to be sure. I can put up with ye dressing like a man, and I ken ’tis too late fer the rest of yer poor benighted body, but can ye at least try tae nae get anymore scars on yer face? How am I supposed tae find ye a man tae marry if ye carry on this way?”

Tegan burst out laughing, knowing full well her sister was teasing her. “Very funny, as usual. Except that would mean ye’d have tae keep lookin’ fer that man fer yer whole life, because nay such man exists!”

“Well, if ye keep getting’ yer face all bashed up and wearing men’s clothes, he certainly willnae.”

Tegan snorted with laughter. “I cannae argue with ye there, Sister. But ye ken well why I have tae dress like a man—because nae one, neither man, woman, child, nor beast, will take a warrior wearing women’s clothes seriously. Wheesht! Can ye see me ridin’ across the moors, chasing some brigand, in me best ball gown?”

They both dissolved into giggles then, but they unfortunately soon died away when Logan Ross suddenly enter the parlor.

“Husband,” Ailis said, plastering what Tegan could tell was a false smile on her lips. “What a nice surprise.”

Logan scoffed. “Nae from me point of view,” he said, scowling at Tegan. “Why is she here?” he demanded.

Tegan hated to see Ailis trembling as she replied, “Tegan is me sister, all the family I have left—” she began.

“All the family ye have left?!” Logan hissed. “I’m yer bloody family, woman! I’m yer husband. Ye’ve nae need fer a sister, especially nae one lookin’ like a man.” He paused to sneer at Tegan.

“Dinnae speak tae her like that, Ross,” Tegan said warningly, getting up and putting herself between him and Ailis.

“How dare ye tell me what tae dae in me own house,” Logan hissed. “And ye havenae answered me question. What are ye doing here?”

“I’ve come tae see the babe, of course,” Tegan said, just as Sorcha began fretting.

“Shush, now, hinny, nae need tae cry,” her mother soothed her, to no avail.

“Will ye shut the brat up, woman? All it does is cry. How is a man supposed tae live this way? Now, if ye’d given me a son… well, a son should have a fine pair o’ lungs. But another lassie? What good is a lassie tae me? A man like me needs a fine, strong son.”

Sorcha seemed to understand and yelled even harder, as if the very sound of his voice upset her. Tegan could understand why. Her hand itched to fly to her dirk and slit the man’s gullet. But she knew she could not.

“I said shut her up, will ye?!” Logan yelled at Ailis, who looked at him helplessly, her eyes shining with tears.

“Ach, I’m goin’ tae me study, fer some peace and quiet,” he spat and slammed out of the room.

“Shut the door, why dinnae ye?” Tegan could not resist shouting after him.

“Ach, dinnae dae that, Tegan, please!” Ailis begged her, wringing her hands and staring at the door anxiously, as if Logan would come barging back through it at any moment. Ye just make it harder fer me.”

“I’m sorry, Ailis, I dinnae mean tae. He’s just such a—” However, her sister did not seem to hear her and continued speaking almost distractedly.

“But I have tae admit that lately he’s been worse than ever. He always seems tae be in a bad temper.”

“Oh, what a surprise!” Tegan said drily.

“Aye, ’tis because he’s searching fer a sword or something like that, some enchanted blade of sorts. He claims tae need it desperately—he wouldnae say why—but he’s had nae luck findin’ it thus far. And every day, he gets angrier about it.”

“He’s an idiot,” Tegan said with small laugh as an idea took root in her mind. “What grown man believes in such things?”

“Me husband, for certain. ’Tis all he talks of.” Ailis sighed.

“Och, well, ’tis an auld wives’ tale, nae doubt. Now, I’ll order us up some tea and shortbread, shall I? Ye put yer feet up fer a wee while, and I’ll go and get Meg tae dae the honors.”

“Och, would ye? I’d love that,” Ailis said gratefully, stretching her feet out towards the fire.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Tegan told her, going out to the kitchen, placing her order with Meg and then taking the kitchen backstairs, making for Logan’s study. She had an idea. She could use this obsession of Logan’s with this mysterious blade to her and Ailis’s advantage.

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Prologue

Odhrán arrived early for the meeting with his father in the old man’s study. While he waited, he took in the familiar room, the walls redolent with woodsmoke, whisky, and power.

One day, this’ll be mine.

Leaving the door open, he took the opportunity of his father’s absence to cross the floor to the enormous carved desk that stood near the far wall, to the right of the mighty hearth. A fire had been lit and was throwing out a feeble heat that barely warmed the chilly air.

Odhrán saw parchments spread across the surface of the desk. Out of curiosity, he rifled through them to see if they held anything of note. To his disappointment, they dealt only with the domestic affairs of Clan Lennox, merely confirming what he already knew: the clan’s fortunes continued to grow.

He listened for a moment, but there were only the faint calls of life from the hallways and passages of his home. No sign of his father yet. Odhrán slipped around the desk and carefully lowered himself into his father’s chair.

It was more of a throne really, an oaken, box-like structure, with a high back carved with the arms of the Lennoxes, a hawk in flight with a lamb clutched in its talons. He ran his hands over the polished wood of the arms, thinking the seat befitting of a powerful laird.

“Get out of there, boy,” came a gruff voice from the doorway. “Ye’re nae the laird yet.” Startled, his heart skipping a beat, Odhrán sprang up out of the chair and stepped aside as the tall, burly figure of his father approached.

“I was just waitin’ on ye, Faither,” he said, watching while his father removed his plaid from his shoulder and threw it on a nearby settle before taking his rightful seat.

“Aye. I can see that,” the laird rumbled without warmth, laying his large, battle-scarred hands on the desk and looking at his son out of his sharp, cold, gray eyes.

“Mayhap ye’ll sit here one day, but I warn ye again, if ye dinnae find yersel’ a good wife soon, ye’ll nae sit here at all.”

Odhrán bristled inwardly, sick and tired of hearing the same threat repeated over and over those last few years. He threw himself into a nearby chair and stretched out his legs.

“’Tis hard tae find a laird willing tae let his daughter marry a Lennox when the reputation of the clan stands so low,” he said, not daring to add the fact that everyone knew that was all due to the old man’s aggressive, acquisitive, often brutal dealings with the other, more reputable and powerful highland clans. “Ye ken well we have more foes than friends.”

“Ach, I care naught fer any of that. I’ve made us rich, and the others fear our army. We’re powerful, and the rest dinnae like it.”

“Aye, ’tis true enough, but it disnae make things easy fer me,” Odhrán pointed out.

“Enough with yer excuses, boy,” his father said scathingly, his grizzled face creased into the mask of disapproval Odhrán knew so well. “Yer blether disnae change the situation. ’Tis ye who must secure our future. Ye must find a wife and give her sons, without delay.”

“What about the MacCraven or the McGivens’ lassies? Their faithers seem keen fer one o’ them tae wed me,” Odhrán suggested.

His father shook his head, his impatience, never far from the surface, clearly beginning to rise.

“Nay, nay, boy, have I nae told ye many a time? I dinnae want ye tae marry any old laird’s daughter, ye must wed a lass of good blood, from one o’ the high clans, tae give ye bairns o’ pure blood. We Lennoxes have

the gold and the power. And if ye marry the right lass from the right clan, she’ll bring her good reputation with her. That’s our future, and it depends on ye, boy!”

“All right, all right, ye dinnae have tae tell me again, Faither.” Odhrán nodded, hiding his irritation at hearing the familiar refrain.

“If ye cannae dae it soon, then I’ll be forced tae make a proposal to yer cousin, tae make him the next heir. Rollo already has a wife and bairns, and that’s what the clan want in a laird, nae a man who cannae even get a decent lass tae wed him,” his father told him in his typical brutal fashion.

Even as he seethed with concealed hatred for his father, Odhrán’s blood froze at the terrible possibility of losing his birthright to his cousin Rollo Lennox, something the Laird now threatened him with almost daily.

In yer dreams, auld man. That’ll never come to pass. Fer if I have tae, I’ll kill ye and Rollo both tae ensure me birthright. ’Tis me who’ll be the next Laird ’o Lennox!

Comforted by his secret resolution, he decided it was a good moment to put his plan before his father, hoping it would finally stop the old man’s endless threats and nagging, and ensure his own future as laird.

“Nay, Faither, ye dinnae need tae dae that. I’ve nae been idle on that score, I promise ye,” he said in a conciliatory tone, encouraged by the spark of interest in the laird’s eyes as he looked at him. “I’ve been doin’ some research, and I’ve come up with a good plan, one that’ll make us some money, and get me a high-born lass fer a wife.”

“Is that so, lad? Let’s hear it then,” the Laird replied with interest, steepling his hands beneath his chin as he leaned on the desk and regarded his son.

“Aye. I’ve been lookin’ into which o’ the clans of high repute are crumbling for lack of gold but have an unmarried daughter who’s the heir tae their faither’s lairdship.”

“And?”

“Well, it seems there are five o’ them,” Odhrán explained, watching the old man’s face carefully. “So… I came up with the idea of holding an auction.”

“Wheesht, boy, what dae ye mean, an auction?” the laird demanded to know, an edge to his voice.

“’Tis like this,” Odhrán said. “We invite these impoverished lairds tae take part in an auction where they can offer their daughters for sale tae the highest bidders as potential brides. They’re in such poor straits financially, they’ll have nae choice but to partake. They’ll be happy enough tae make some money out of it and have their lassies wed tae a laird, but we’ll take our cut o’ the money paid for the lassies tae.”

Rather than crushing the notion out of hand as Odhrán had half expected he would, his father considered his words in silence. Feeling optimistic, Odhrán continued.

“I aim tae get as many high clans as possible involved in the auction, each bidding fer one o’ the lassies. It’ll maybe give us the chance tae improve relations with some o’ those clans who are nae already opposed tae us.” He sat back in his seat and looked at his father, secretly praying he would agree. Hope sprang up in his breast when the old Laird nodded.

“Aye, ’tis nae a bad idea, laddie, nae bad at all. As ye say, it could work in our favor with the other clans. It’ll make people realize how powerful Clan Lennox really is, and get ye a blue-blooded bride tae boot,” he said, his sour face brightening. Odhrán could tell he was envisioning the outcome he so fervently wished for. “Go ahead, lad, and get it set up as soon as ye can,” his father instructed, already looking at the parchments on his desk.

Odhrán stood up, sensing dismissal. He was both pleased and relieved at his father’s acceptance of the plan. It had taken him a lot of thought and a lot of work to come up with the idea and do the necessary research. He made for the door, eager to leave, for he had other pressing business elsewhere to attend to.

“Wait, boy,” came the terse command. With another skip of his heart, Odhrán halted and turned.

“Aye, Faither, what is it?”

The laird did not even look at him as he asked, “That Kincaid lass we have stowed in the dungeons, what are ye going tae dae about her? ’Tis maybe time we got rid o’ her, eh?”

Odhrán froze, his mind scrambling for the right words. His fists clenched at his sides, fighting to remain calm as he turned back to his father.

“I ken ye want tae further yer vengeance against the Kincaids by killin’ her, Faither,” he said reasonably. “But as I’ve already told ye, she’s worth more alive than dead at present. She could come in handy as a bargaining chip.”

“Aye, I suppose ye’re right,” the laird grunted, clearly disappointed. “All right, off ye go then, and go about yer business,” the laird ordered him with a wave of his hand, not looking up at Odhrán as he left the study, closing the door firmly behind him.

His heart beating fast, he leaned his back against it for a few moments, relief and rage flowing through him by turns.

T’was a narrow escape, and but a temporary reprieve. I dinnae ken how much longer I can put him off. I’m going tae have tae act sooner than planned if I’m tae be laird and have the freedom tae dae as I wish. ’Tis the only way.

When he felt sufficiently composed, he pushed himself from the door, pulled himself up to his full height, and strode off down the hallway, towards the exit of the great stone keep. Once outside in the cobbled courtyard, he skirted the wall of the keep until he came to a heavy wooden door, covered with fearsome looking ironmongery.

Opening it, he sped down the interior stone staircase, descending into a murky gloom pierced only by a few flaming torches. The stench of collected human misery made him cough as he stepped into an area off which several thick doors led, each with heavy locks on the outside and a barred grille high up. Gripped by anxiety, he went to one at the end of a row of four.

“Maddison, ’tis me,” he whispered through the grille, holding his breath in fear. “Are ye all right?” He tensed when he heard a light rustling from within. When a small, pale face dominated by a pair of large, sad, dark eyes appeared in the dim light beyond the grille, he breathed out. Small, grimy hands clutched the inside of the bars.

“Odhrán, ye’ve come,” came a low, croaking voice that suggested it was rusty from lack of use. “Aye, I’m all right.”

“Och, Maddison, ye dinnae ken how sorry I am that I dare nae let ye out, but they’d kill us both if I did,” he told her apologetically, his heart aching for her, silently cursing himself for being a coward.

“I ken it well,” she replied sadly, staring at him through the bars until he thought his heart would burst with shame and anger. And love.

She hesitated before asking, “Is there nae any news about me braithers?”

He shook his head despondently. “Naething,” he told her, hating himself for lying to her. He knew very well her brothers had been scouring the highlands for her since her disappearance a twelvemonth ago.

“Oh. But I ken they’ll nae give up lookin’ fer me,” she responded with a deep sigh of disappointment that cut him like a blade. “That they’ll come and free me.”

“I’m sorry, lass. I wish I could dae more fer ye, but ye ken Laird Lennox’s army outnumbers that of any clan in these parts. ’T’would be certain death fer anyone tae try tae mount an attack on the castle tae free ye,” he told her with genuine regret.

“I ken the laird wants me dead, just as he murdered me faither, maither, and braither, and I’m grateful fer all ye dae fer me, Odhrán. But I dinnae ken how much longer I can stand this place. Sometimes, I think ’tis worse than bein’ dead. And what would I go home tae, with naething left o’ me family?”

“Ach, dinnae say so, lassie.”

Her despondency pained him in ways he was unused to, for he had never felt himself capable of ever loving anyone before setting eyes on Maddison Kincaid as his father’s prisoner. The old man had drummed into him that love equaled weakness and was something to be beaten out of a boy with a rod. A Lennox had no use for love.

Yet slowly, over the months of her captivity, Odhrán had felt himself falling in love with his beautiful, gentle, brave captive, though it had taken him some time to realize that was what was happening. And there was no stopping it.

But he dared not tell her so, nor even whose son he was, for what lass could love a man like him? If she ever found out he was Odhrán Lennox, son and heir to Laird Murphy Lennox, she would instantly despise him. She would see him as being just like his father, her captor, a brutal monster who wanted to slit her throat, just as he had those of her parents and brother, a man who would go to any lengths to get what he wanted.

Wishing he could show her he was different from his father and desperate to give her some hope, he reached up through the bars and caressed her cheek gently with his fingertips.

“Dinnae dae that,” she said, flinching away. Pain stung him, and a wave of hatred for his father and sorrow for what he was about to do washed over him. The auction would get him the wife his father wanted for him, but he had fallen head over heels for Maddison and wanted her for his wife. The only way that could happen was if he was the laird.

“Did ye bring anything fer me?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts. He suddenly remembered he had.

“Aye, here ye are,” he replied, groping in his coat and pulling out a package wrapped in cloth. Glad to do what little he could to make her more comfortable, he passed it to her through the bars. “’Tis just some bread, a peck o’ cheese, and a couple o’ slices o’ roast beef, to keep ye going, and a wee flask o’ water and whisky,” he told her as she eagerly took the small bundle from him. “D’ye have plenty o’ clean water to drink?” One of his worst secret fears was that Maddison would die from some fever from drinking contaminated water.

“Aye, as clean as it can be in this place. Thank ye fer the food. ’Tis very welcome,” she told him.

“I’ll talk to the jailor, make sure ye get clean water, and I’ll tell him tae clean yer cell out and bring ye candles,” he promised, confident at least that a threat or two would persuade the jailor to do his bidding without his father finding out. If he did, Odhrán inwardly vowed to kill the jailor and tell his father once again that it stood to reason to keep the girl alive as a possible pawn to use against her clan.

“I havetae go now,” he told her, hating to leave her there. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can tae see ye again and bring some more food, and some clean clothing too.”

“Thank ye, Odhrán. Could ye maybe bring me something to read as well? The hours are long here,” she asked, giving him a faint smile that stabbed at him as she backed away into the gloom, clutching the package of food.

“Aye, of course. I’ll see what I can find,” he promised. Then, he forced himself to retrace his steps out of the prison to the outside world, breathing deeply to rid his nostrils of the stench.

That auld bastard must die.

Chapter One

Lillie peeked about her nervously as she walked, pulling the hood of her cloak further over her head, the better to disguise her identity from those she passed on her way through the village.

She was garbed in the simple outfit of a lowly maid, having changed out of her gown in her room before slipping hurriedly down the castle’s backstairs and out of the gates. She hated the subterfuge, but since being rescued by her brothers a year ago after six long months spent in the dungeons of the cruel Laird Keir MacNeil at his castle stronghold, helped by his daughter Ciara, Aiden and Darragh would not let her out of their sight unless she had at least a dozen armed guards with her at all times.

It was stifling, another form of incarceration to her. There were times when she just needed a break from the continual surveillance, or she felt she would go mad. Today was one of those times.

The only brief respite to be had was to assume her disguise and go down to the nearby village to meet her best friend, Hannah Tavish. Hannah was the daughter and apprentice of Maria, the healer at Castle MacDonald, a beautiful, lively girl the same age as Lillie, twenty-one.

Lillie was on her way to the healer’s cottage now, for the two girls had an excursion planned. Usually, they stuck to the local market, often buying the herbs and spices Maria needed for the infirmary as well as shopping for themselves. Today, however, they intended to travel further afield, to the village of Kirkauld, about three hours walk away.

Kirkauld was an unsavory, dangerous place for two young women of good repute to wander about, full of whore houses and the like, where courtesans plied their wares. Naturally, it drew the kind of low men who sought their services, meaning it was also full of rough taverns where drunkenness and violence was an inevitable part of village life.

Thus, Hannah had arranged with Laird MacDonald and the Captain of the Guard to have an armed escort, though, of course, the Laird had no idea his own sister would be accompanying Hannah on the journey. He would never have allowed her to go. They were to buy the herbs Maria needed for her concoctions that could not be found anywhere else nearby and bring them back.

When Lillie arrived at the cottage, she tapped lightly on the door. It was opened almost immediately by Hannah, a shapely girl with long, dark hair and bright blue eyes.

“Ach, there ye are, Lillie,” she said, smiling as she pulled Lillie inside and shut the door. The girls greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek.

“Are ye ready to go?” Lillie asked, eager to set out and have a change of scene.

But Hannah shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, Lillie, but there’s been a change of plan. We cannae go today.”

Lillie felt the disappointment keenly. “Why is that? Has something happened?”

“Aye, I’m afraid so. There’s been an outbreak of a sickness in the village. Me maither’s been working all night to treat the patients, but there’s just too many of them tae handle by hersel’. She needs me tae stay here and help her. But I’ve arranged fer us tae go in three days’ time instead, on Wednesday,” Hannah explained.

“Oh, what a shame…” Lillie told her, dismayed at missing out on the trip, though she understood her friend’s situation.

“We are also nae happy about. We’re nae sure we’re going tae have enough of the right herbs tae treat everybody, so we just have tae hope we’ll nae run out before Wednesday,” Hannah told her, her expression anxious as she went on. “But I cannae just send the guards to get the herbs, fer they willnae ken what tae buy.”

“All right, dinnae worry, it cannae be helped,” Lillie soothed her, squeezing her friend’s hand briefly.

“I hate tae let ye down and leave ye hangin’, but I have tae go now tae help me maither up at the castle.” Hannah said, as she picked up a large wicker basket full of greenery and slung it over the crook of her arm. “Will ye be all right? We can walk back the castle together, eh?”

Lilie thought for a moment. She was free of her guards for the afternoon and did not fancy returning to the castle just yet.

“Nay, that’s all right, Hannah, ye go ahead without me. I’ll have a wee wander about the village, make the most of me freedom.”

“Very well but dinnae get intae any trouble, will ye? Maybe I’ll see ye later, eh?” Hannah replied as the pair exchanged pecks on the cheek and she hurried off towards the castle. Lillie looked after her, feeling at a loose end. Then, as she cast about the village, an idea came to her.

Things seemed calm, with folks just going about their business. In fact, things had been calm for a long time since her return from being kidnapped and imprisoned by the evil and, thankfully, now-dead Laird of MacNeil. She knew the way, so why should she not go to Kirkauld by herself and get Maria and Hannah the herbs they needed? She had money, and she knew exactly what to buy.

She considered it, reasoning that the worst that could happen would be getting in trouble with her brothers if they found out. But she could make sure they would not by saying she had been in the village with Hannah all afternoon. The market at Kirkauld was only three hours away and she was already wearing her maid’s disguise.

How much danger could there be?

Deciding she deserved an adventure and picturing the pleased faces of Hannah and Maria when they came home to see she had everything they wanted, she set off. It was a long walk through beautiful moorland. The weather was fair, and the road was quite busy, so she felt safe, gaining confidence with each step that she had made the right decision.

Eventually, she reached the outskirts of Kirkauld, feeling pleased with herself. But as she made her way up the busy main street and approached the bustling market, she could not help noticing what a rough place it was.

Wild fiddle music and loud, drunken singing poured from the many inns lining the street. Rouged women in gaudy, revealing gowns unfit for polite company either lounged about against walls and doors, giving come hither looks to the men passing by or chattered and laughed with other groups of unsavory looking characters.

She had to sidestep a man who was brawling loudly with a woman wearing a stained gown of red silk—clearly a whore who had evidently been shortchanged, judging by the insults she was screaming at him—. From what Lillie could see, the man was getting the worst of it.

“Hey, hinny, would ye nae like a good time, eh?” a strange man with barely any teeth and a scarred face called to her as she passed by. She stepped up her pace, seeing the relative safety of the market.

“Now, who’s this braw, wee lassie we have here, eh?” leered another man, dressed like the commonest brigand, from a doorway as she hurried by. Yet another man tried to reach out and grab her arm. She swerved to avoid him, sickened by the smell of stale beer oozing from him.

She shuddered, realizing she may have made a big mistake in coming on her own, understanding exactly why Hannah had arranged for them to have an armed escort. But now that she had come all that way, she was loath to give up without getting what she had come for. Resolving to leave as soon as she had finished her shopping, she pressed ahead, towards the colorful stalls of the market just up ahead. There, she felt, she would be safer.

Once within the market’s boundary, she headed straight to the stall she knew would have at least some of the herbs she sought. They did, and so she bought them, then moving on to find the remaining supplies she wanted. She was browsing a stall not far from the northern edge of the market’s confines, concentrating on inspecting the stallholder’s wares, when she suddenly felt a hand grab her arm and pull her aside. Her heart plummeted to her boots, thinking for a split second that it was one of her brothers. An explanation for her presence leapt to her lips as she whirled to see who had caught hold of her.

To her horror, it was a strange man, a rough looking fellow in a stained leather jerkin, his hair unkempt, with no clan insignia to mark him out.

“Let go of me! Who dae ye think ye are?” she cried out, yanking her arm away. But the grip of the stranger’s hand only tightened, and she found she could not break free as he dragged her along, behind the booths.

“Ow, let go, I tell ye, ye’re hurting me!” she shouted, kicking at him. But it made no difference, for he ignored her and seemed impervious to her kicks. He headed for a horse tethered nearby and grabbed a rope from his saddle. “Help! Help me, please, someone!” she yelled, trying to fight him off as he slung her to the ground and began tying her wrists and feet together tightly. Soon, she was trussed up and unable to move.

Nobody took the slightest notice of her shouts for assistance when he tossed her into the saddle and mounted behind her before kicking up the horse and galloping away into the nearby tree line.

There, she saw a small group of men on horseback gathered beneath the trees.

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Prologue

The little village of Roster, Scottish Highlands, Winter 1518…

Edith stared at the coins in her hand, the cold metal biting against her bare palm. Snowflakes collected between the folds in her clothes, pausing a moment, as though deliberating their egress, before melting into the fabric. She clasped her fingers around the coins and sucked in a fortifying breath, before turning towards Keelin, her sister, who was wandering nearby with her tongue stuck out to taste the falling snow.

It was unusual for the Macrae girls to roam the villages under their father’s lairdship alone, but times were anything but ordinary back at the keep. Their father, a most agreeable laird by the name of Noah, had been called out to the nearby village of Roster to mediate a quarrel between the local crofting guilds. He had encouraged his daughters to take a walk, but stay nearby, hoping that a change of scenery would allow anxious Edith a moment’s reprieve from her own thoughts.

Unbeknownst to her father, Edith had other ideas, formed long before their carriage had set off out of Wick. Most other young women would not have dared to orchestrate such a plot behind their father’s back, but for as long as Edith could remember, the odds had been in her favour.

“Come now, Keelin,” she cried over her shoulder. Tucking an errant strand of dark hair back beneath her cloak, she forced a smile to conceal her nerves. “I think I ken the way from here.”

Edith pointed to a small croft in the distance. A lazy ribbon of smoke rose from its rounded chimney, beckoning Edith forward like a curled finger. Their father had gone into a longhouse near the village square, close to where they had left the carriage. The trek to the little croft would take ten minutes, if the young women were lucky. It stood at the edge of a field on the outskirts of Roster, rising alone from the barren earth. Behind the fields, mountains shrouded by mist reached up to the heavens, at the base of which Edith could discern an unmoving grey loch.

“And ye’re certain this is the place?” Keelin asked, skipping towards her sister. She thrust her arm through Edith’s, clutching her close as the wind intensified. “Seems a right wee naething by me eye, Ettie.”

“Have I ever been wrong about these things?” Edith asked, keeping her eyes on the horizon. Her voice was barely audible above the howling of the wind, yet such clement weather had not been felt for weeks. Edith could not recall the last time the snow had abated enough for travel. “The clan has kent of this place for years. I have heard tales about her since I was a wee lass.”

“Yet ye cannae bring yerself to speak her name. A Cailleach is what she is…” Keelin murmured, encouraging Edith to pick up their pace. “I think these tales are all rubbish, piuthar. There is nae one in the world with magic enough to heal our Ma.” She averted her gaze to Edith’s closed fist. “I say we take yer wee pittance and buy her something braw instead. I saw a bakehouse by the crofters’ longhouse.”

“Any excuse to fill yer belly,” Edith joked. She gave the coins in her hand another squeeze, steeling her courage. “I am one-and-twenty, Keelin. It will nae be long until Faither seeks tae wed me off. If I dinnae act a fool now, when shall I ever get the chance again? Ye will have tae forgive me fer wanting to believe in a wee bit of magic for once.”

“Ye can consider yerself forgiven once we get out of this blasted cold.” Keelin groaned, shielding her eyes from the snow. “Let’s make haste before Faither finds out where we’ve gone, or before our bones turn to ice inside us.”

Having arrived at the edge of the village, the sisters came face to face with a low wooden fence. Edith bunched up her skirts and began mounting it before Keelin could complain, hoisting one leg over the top and climbing over the other side. She landed on the other side with a little hop, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited for her sister to follow.

For her part, Keelin cursed under her breath and picked up her skirts as well. She clambered over the fence, perching herself on top for a moment while Edith waited. Her cheeks were nipped red beneath her thick wool shawl, her golden hair beating against the sides of her face in the wind.

“I cannae hardly see me hand in front of me, Edith. I cannae— Ach!”

Upon landing on the other side, Keelin’s ankle twisted beneath her. With a cry, the younger Macrae sister went tumbling forward, colliding into Edith. The women fell into a heap on the ground, kicking up snow as they tried to right themselves. Edith gasped. The coins she had been holding had flown out of her hand, buried into the snow beneath them.

“Naeeee!” Edith cried, clambering immediately to her knees. She grappled for her sister’s arm, pulling her upright. “Keelin, are ye all right?”

“Dinnae bother with me!” Keelin pushed Edith out of the way and began raking back the snow around them, working furiously. “We’ve lost all our money!”

Edith couldn’t help but laugh. She began searching with Keelin, peeling back the snow until the white gave way to black. Her fingers burned as she scoured the ground, searching for the missing coins.

“I’ve found one!” Keelin shouted in celebration, holding the glinting coin aloft over her head. “How many did ye have in all?”

“Three shillings,” Edith replied. She pressed her lips together as she continued her search. If they didn’t retrieve the coins, and soon, she wouldn’t have enough to visit the Cailleach’s home. Eventually, she felt something hard and pried it free. “I’ve got another,” she said, collecting it in her palm with the coin that Keelin had found.

Her hands were raw and cracked by the time the third coin appeared before her. With a sigh of relief, she turned to Keelin, pinching the missing coin between her thumb and forefinger. Fully prepared to gloat, she was instead struck dumb as another coin caught her eye, settled between a parted sheet of snow, much older than the others.

“Four?” Edith gasped. She snatched the coin off the ground and wiped it clean. “This isnae mine… We’ve found an extra pound. What was it doing buried here?”

Keelin bared all of her teeth in a grin. Holding out her hand, she giggled as Edith handed the coin over to her for inspection. “Dinnae ask me. Ye’re the one with all the braw luck.” With a groan, Keelin pushed herself into a stand, then tended a hand for Edith to take.

“Ye fell into me nae two minutes ago,” Edith reminded her. Keelin pulled her into a stand, and she quickly brushed herself off. “I would nae call that braw luck.”

“Och, I dinnae ken.” Keelin winked and flicked her coin in the air. “We found this, didnae we? Now we can take a trip to the bakehouse once ye’re done being tricked out of all yer money.”

Warm bread seemed a distant prospect as Edith arrived on the path leading up to the Cailleach’s croft. The road was narrow and blanketed white, the snow untouched. No one had come up or down the path for at least two days. The smell of smoke was rising from the house. Edith could see no livestock nearby, no fire from the short windows.

“Looks abandoned,” Keelin commented, still hanging off of her sister’s arm. She shivered not from the cold but from fear. “Edith, I dinnae like this. We should turn back now before it’s too late.”

Edith balled her hands into fists, shaking her head. “I have to see fer meself,” she whispered, snaking her arm free from Keelin’s grasp. “Ye stay here until I’m done,” Edith ordered, taking her sister by the shoulders. “I will nae be a minute.”

Her sister made an angry little noise but eventually retreated. Turning from the view of the village down below, Edith steadied her breath and began approaching the croft.

The main building was round and built of stone. Its thatched roof looked too thin to hold the snow which had accumulated upon it. Yet something about the building seemed comforting, like many of the things which had stood for time immemorial.

“A wee bit of magic,” Edith thought to herself.

The front of the croft was barred off by a fence and gate. With no one around to stop her, Edith picked up the latch and allowed herself in, closing the gate back behind her. The front door, before abstracted by the snowfall, came into view all at once. The curved door panes had been painted in red. An iron door-hanger hung proudly at the centre in the shape of a cross. Edith had heard the people of Wick, where her father seated, describe the crone’s door as a perfect match to the one before her.

Edith swore she saw the flicker of firelight on the other side, but the light was dimmed almost as soon as she spotted it. Approaching the door nervously, she held out a hand for the knocker once she arrived. Two thuds came in quick succession, after which followed a moment of harrowing silence.

The silence was broken by the sound of the door creaking slowly open.

“Hello?” Edith asked, taking a step nearer. “I have come seeking…” She wracked her brain, utterly unable to form a coherent sentence, despite the fact that she had imagined this moment for weeks. “Me Ma needs aid. I have heard that ye can help people like her—people like us. May I…” She paused to gulp. “May I please come in?”

She saw the Cailleach before she heard her. In the sliver of space between the open door and its frame, two shining eyes appeared. Edith forced herself to remain calm. She would not allow her fear to get the better of her now.

“I have money,” Edith said, closing the space between herself and the door.

Almost immediately the eyes disappeared, and the door swung open. Casting a final glance at Keelin, Edith picked up her skirts and crossed the threshold.

The warmth of a fire wreathed around her immediately, and so different was the air in the house from the cold outside that it took Edith’s breath away. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness within. The snow had been blinding outside.

“Close the door, lass. Or have ye nae any manners?” came the crone’s voice. “Close it, then come over here where I can see ye…”

Edith nodded and turned to close the door. The house seemed larger on the inside than it had appeared outdoors. The air was pregnant with the smell of burning wood, lavender and dust, and something sweet that Edith couldn’t place. A brightly burning hearth was located in the middle of the room, and a threadbare armchair had been positioned before it, stacked with all manner of books.

She glanced to the right, where the voice had come from. An archway blocked her path, over which hung a collection of dried plants. Through it, she could see what appeared to be a small kitchen. A figure was walking back and forth, and whatever they were doing was making an ungodly amount of noise. Taking an instinctive step back, Edith froze as the figure stepped into the main room.

“Dinnae seem so surprised, love. I would be a poor Cailleach indeed if I didnae provide me visitors with tea.”

She had spoken her title with venom. The woman was nothing like Edith had thought her to be. She was old—how old, Edith couldn’t determine. Her hair was grey in parts and white in others, trailing over her shoulder in a long, thick braid. Her eyes were small, perhaps blue, beneath the heavy curtain of her eyelids. White skin, freckled with age spots, appeared at the edges of her thick, dark green smock.

As a girl, Edith had pictured a hag like in the fairy tales when she had heard tales of Roster’s Cailleach: leathery skin, claws for fingers, feathers and bones adorning her hair, her skin frosted over with magical ice…

“Ye are the woman I’m looking fer?” Edith asked now, needing to make sure. She watched as the crone carried a wooden tray of tea to a nearby table. She was perpetually hunched over, but nothing about her was threatening except her low, rasping voice. “I cannae stay long, I’m afraid. But I am in dire need of yer help.”

The Cailleach paused, hovering over the tea set. She seemed to contemplate Edith’s words for a moment, giving her a sideways glance. Eventually, she returned to making her tea, preparing two cups despite Edith’s protestations.

“Ye’ve really done it now, Edith,” the Macrae girl thought to herself. “Dinnae anger the Cailleach, or else she will lock ye up and eat ye, like the stories say.”

A little laugh erupted from the old woman’s throat. Edith flushed, wondering what had caused it. For a second, she wondered whether the crone had heard her thoughts. But such magic was impossible. The aid she had come seeking for her mother, while some called it magic, could have been nothing more than well-practised herbalism and luck.

The thought convinced Edith to stay. When the Cailleach offered her a cup of amber-coloured tea, she took it. Giving it a whiff, Edith recognised the smell of rosehip and blackcurrants. Lacking a decent place to sit, she remained standing while the old woman moved to the armchair before the hearth. She quickly cleared away her books, then gestured for Edith to come and kneel by the fire.

“I kent ye would come,” the Cailleach said, looking down at Edith from her seat. The armchair dwarfed her, making the woman appear even smaller than she was.

“Ye kent because ye are a seer, like the stories tell?” Edith asked, leaning forward.

The old woman laughed, dancing the wrinkles on her face. “Perhaps… Or perhaps I saw ye walk up from the village.” She grinned and took a sip of her tea. “Such a nasty tumble ye took over the fence. Is that sister of yers always so full of trouble?”

Edith’s eyes widened. How did she know that Keelin was her sister? If the crone had been watching, then she had likely seen some similarity between the girls. Despite the fact that Edith had dark hair and Keelin’s was fair, their faces bore striking similarities. Both had inherited the cornflower blue eyes of their mother. Both had long faces with pointed chins and full lips.

“She can be a handful at times, but I would nae have done anything interesting in me life without her,” Edith admitted tentatively. She stared down into her drink and took a quick sip. The tea tasted earthy and tart, coating the back of her tongue. “Grateful though I am fer yer hospitality, I really cannae stay overlong. Ye see—“

“Ye see,” the Cailleach interrupted, “time is of the essence. Ye have come fer yer maither, have ye nae?” She craned her neck forward, sizing Edith up with her beady little eyes. “Ye have come all this way hoping that I might have something to cure her.”

“I…” Edith’s hands trembled around her teacup. “Aye. That is why I have come.”

“The kind laird’s daughter.” The woman smiled, but there was no benevolence in her expression. “So far from home. Even here we have heard about the lady’s illness. What has it been now, bairn? Three years? Four?”

“Six,” Edith rasped. She pressed her eyes shut and forced her hands to still. “Six years.”

Everyone in Caithness knew about the mysterious illness of Lady Macrae. Over the course of a fortnight, her health had collapsed, leaving the once beautiful and vibrant woman a shell of her former self. The lady could barely speak, barely move. An army of healers and physicians, some of them even Beatons, had come to Wick hoping to cure her and seal their celebrity. Nothing had worked., no tonics, no treatments, no amount of rest. Only a miracle could restore her.

As though reading her mind, the Cailleach nodded. She set aside her cup of tea and reached out her hands. Edith hesitated for a moment. She opened her now sweating palm and deposited three shillings into the crone’s crooked hand.

The woman counted them wordlessly: clink, clink, clink. Satisfied, she rose from her seat and bid Edith to remain kneeling with a flick of her wrist. The woman hurried into her hidden kitchen, and a similar cacophony to the one she had produced earlier rang out. Edith’s heart began beating hard in her chest, didn’t cease thumping until ten minutes later, when the crone returned with three small vials.

The first contained a black powder, the same consistency as sand. The second held a collection of herbs, the likes of which Edith had never seen. The third was empty.

“What am I tae dae with these?” Edith asked, looking between the vials and the woman. The Cailleach thrust the first two into her arms. Quick as lighting, she reached forward with something sharp. Edith gave a cry out of shock, darting backwards. “What are ye doing?!”

A small blade appeared in the old woman’s hand. In the other, she held a lock of Edith’s dark hair. With a delighted little hum, the crone retreated back into her kitchen. Edith bundled the vials in one arm, and reached for her chopped hair with her free hand.

“A little parting gift, from ye tae me and back again,” said the Cailleach when she returned. Her hand travelled in the air, settling on Edith’s chin. Pinching it between her thumb and forefinger, she contemplated the young woman’s face. “Such a canny thing… And yer name… Have ye any idea what yer name means, Edith?”

She was almost certain that she hadn’t revealed her name as of yet. Again, she decided that the crone’s knowledge was entirely reasonable. If she knew of Laird Macrae, it stood to reason that she should have heard the names of his daughters. The stealing of her hair was a truth less easy to swallow. Edith had heard tales of hags using blood and bile and all sorts in their brews. Was it possible that the Cailleach intended to do the same? She remained silent, preferring not to know the answer.

“It means blessed,” said the old woman. A smile spread across her face. “And yer blood is blessed. Born under a lucky star, ye were. Surely ye must have kent it. Such strange things have happened to ye, have they nae?” The woman laughed. Edith was unsure of what she was speaking. It was almost as though the crone was looking right through her. “Stranger things will happen yet. There is another, born under a similar and yet different star. The path of that one… Och…” The lady clamped a hand over her heart. “He walks a path paved with misery where yers is paved with delight. Should ye meet… But aye, ye must meet. Aye, that’s it. Indelible.”

“I dinnae see what any of this has to dae with me Ma, or me hair.” Edith furrowed her brow, eyes darting towards the door. If she was quick enough, she may have been able to make it. The Cailleach was old, clearly demented. While there was no telling what more she could do to Edith, she needed to discover what she could about her mother’s cure first. “What have ye given me?”

“In those, ye mean?” She pointed towards the vials. “The first is a tonic to be dissolved into yer maither’s water. She has too much light in her. It eclipses all else, and in the absence she withers away. The black will clear that out. There is nae remedy that can stop time however, bairn. The cure will last a year, maybe a wee bit more, if our Morrígan permits it.” Nodding, she released Edith’s chin at last. “The herbs are naething special—merely a blend tae help restore the lady’s health. Take them tae the Beaton in Wick. He will provide more should the store deplete.”

“All right,” Edith said, taking a step back. “Then I will—“

“And of the rest I have given ye? Are ye nae curious of the truth?” The Cailleach scowled, as though she couldn’t understand Edith’s actions. “Dinnae ye care fer the truth? All things are a balance, lass. Yer maither, fer example, has fallen out of balance with life. A little death, too much death.” She suckled on her lower lip, pacing back and forth.

Edith saw her chance to leave and took it, proceeding to the door in three long strides. A hand came out of nowhere, pressing the door shut.

“Och, Edith. Poor, sweet Edith…” the Cailleach whined, averting her eyes to the ground. She whipped her head up, and blinked. “Heed these words, bairn. Yer mother’s illness was a black mark on the otherwise spotless canvas of yer life, but fall she had tae, in order tae bring ye tae me and avert a greater disaster. Ignore a blessing and it shall vanish.” She rose her voice to a shout: “Dinnae let it vanish! See with yer heart what ye cannae see with yer eyes!”

Edith started. She wanted to run, feeling sick, but there was truth to the old woman’s words. Her good luck had been a buttress against the worst of life. The clement weather that day, the coin in the snow, were but drops in a pool of other auspices.

“It isnae luck, but chance,” Edith argued weakly, her heart pounding.

Her rebuttal amused the Cailleach endlessly. She laughed into Edith’s face, slipping a hand down and curling it around the doorhandle. If Edith wanted to escape, she needed to play the crone’s games and listen to whatever mad premonition the woman wanted to voice.

“Are they nae the same? Chance is the word fer the non-believer,” the Cailleach replied. “Ye must believe, blessed one. If ye dinnae, another will come tae swipe up the fortune that ye have failed tae protect. Aye…” The look in the woman’s eyes was far off as they darted back and forth in furious thought. “The words form on me tongue. Dinnae allow another tae steal the luck of yer star. If the fate-drinker should come begging, ye turn him away. If ye dinnae, seek nae other tae restore ye, or cursed fer all yer days ye will be.”

“What?” Edith shook her head, confused. “What are ye saying?”

“So little fun is there in saying the truth outright, but that is a consequence of youth, is it nae? Wanting more, wanting everything in the immediacy.” The woman’s faced blanched, and she took a step back, harrowed by visions that Edith could not see. “That desire will be yer downfall if it will nae be tempered. The fate-drinker is a man of these lands and yer paths will cross because they must. It’s meant tae be. Through a kiss, he will try tae steal the luck from ye tae fill the void in his heart, fer he is the unluckiest man on this earth. Ye cannae let him, lass, or ye yerself will inherit the doom that lives in his heart. Ye will exchange yer luck fer his. Only another kiss with him can return yer luck. But beware! If ye kiss another before then, the bond between ye and the fate-drinker will break … and yer good fortune will be gone forever!”

Transfixed by the strange woman’s ramblings, Edith could dae nothing but nod. The gesture appeared to satisfy the Cailleach, as she ripped open the door for Edith to step out.

Without looking behind her, Edith crossed out into the cold. When she turned back to look at the house, the light in the windows was gone. All that remained was the Cailleach’s strange premonition, and the swirling, sickening feeling in Edith’s gut that the old woman had been right.

Pushing down her rising scepticism, she turned back to the path where Keelin waited. The Cailleach was mad, but Edith would not test her luck until her mother was well again. If a kiss would be her undoing, then she had to avoid it with her life… How hard could that be?
 

Chapter One

Dornoch, Scottish Highlands, Winter 1519. One year later…

There were many things at which Braden Hamilton had succeeded, but every accomplishment of his had been fought for tooth and nail. Luck was not a lady that he knew, and any star under which he had been born was black as the night’s sky.

As he stood on the uppermost balcony of Castle Rósmire, Braden took a moment to observe the activity in the courtyard below. From beyond the wind-beaten walls of the keep, the old iron-monging burgh of Dornoch rose proudly from a patch of grey earth. The landscape would soon be draped in snow, two weeks were they from the first day of Yule.

“By that time, I can only hope some of the ill wrought upon me clan this last year will be forgotten tae the festivity and the fires,” Braden thought, unable to stir any real hope in his breast as he considered the future of his sept.

Rolling back his shoulders, he took a moment to breathe and reflect on all that had happened in the past twelve months. His life, another thing which had needed to be fought for, had almost been robbed from him at the hands of his power-hungry cousin, Irving. The Hamilton Beast, as he had come to be known in death, had tried to take what had been Braden’s by force: his title as clan chief, his home, his very name.

Having sought to impersonate Braden and marry his bride in his stead, Irving had found himself on the wrong side of the blade. The Leòideach Clan, a collection of Viking lairds from the island of Orkney, had not taken kindly to Irving’s attempt at duping them. Felled by the woman who had been offered to Braden as a wife, Irving had met his end far from home, where he belonged.

When news of Irving’s death had reached Braden’s ears—who at that time had been taken in and nursed back to health by the monks of a monastery on Orkney—he had known what had had to be done. The return of the rightful laird to Clan Hamilton, two weeks later, had helped put things to order, but Braden still felt the effect of Irving’s attempt at usurping him on their clan, having poisoned them with doubt.

Try as they might have to hide their lack of faith in their leader, the whispers had been plentiful, and they had reached Braden’s ears eventually.

“Can we trust a laird whose own blood dinnae have faith in him?” one had said.

“Braden was cursed from the day he watched his Da die—cursed to watch everything he touches burn tae ash,” had said another.

“Irving Hamilton was nae a hero, but he did what needed to be done. Could we say the same of his cousin, when the time comes? The pressure from enemy clans is rising by the day. Shall we forget MacLeod’s threats? Braden is more likely to drown than rise tae his challenge.”

There was nothing to be gained by tormenting himself with the opinions of those who did not believe in him. Braden may have been cursed, but he knew better than most that stubbornness always championed in the end.

Spying an approaching cart in the distance, he turned from the view of Dornoch and his clan, returning inside where the fire was burning hottest.

The keep was thrumming with activity early that afternoon. Maids carrying coal scuttles were making their journeys through Castle Rósmire to ensure that Braden and his men would be safe from the rising cold. His counsellors had been called to the keep that day and would be arriving within an hour for their latest meeting. There was much that needed to be discussed before the snow fell, threats which would not wait for Yule time to come and go.

Slipping into the outside staircase, Braden hissed as the cold wreathed around him. He tightened his fur cloak around his shoulders, felt his cropped hair ruffle in the wind. It was but a short walk down the spiralling staircase to the floors below. Yet even the humblest path Braden walked had always been paved with trouble…

It was as though the heavens themselves had burst open atop him. A stream of frigid water cascaded from the window above, drenching him from head to toe, so powerful in its decent that it almost knocked the laird off the battlements. Braden gave a tremendous cry as his clothes were soaked through, chilling him to the bone immediately.

Ears ringing, he stopped and gazed upwards once his shock had passed. A maid was hanging out of a window, an empty pale of water in hand. From the smell of soap now seeping into his garments, Braden surmised the water had originated from his bath, taken mere hours before. The maid’s face flashed red when she noticed him, her mouth falling agape as she struggled to voice an apology.

“Heaven and earth! Melaird, forgive me! I-I hadnae any idea that ye were there,” she brayed, her face twisting with her shame. Her voice broke as she began to wipe, likely fearing some sort of punishment. “Och, please forgive me. Please!”

Braden raked a hand through his wet hair, shaking it out and waving her apologies off. He slipped out of his fur cloak, revealing his dampened coat and trews. The cold was gnawing at his skin, sticking to him and turning the water to ice.

“It’s all right, lass. Ye could nae see,” he urged, forcing himself to remain calm. He tried to say something else, but the woman was gone by the time he looked back up again.

Immediately shivering, he darted quickly back inside. Having reached the second storey of the keep, he changed course, headed not for his study down below but towards his sleeping chambers, where a warm hearth and a change of clothes awaited. The way was clear as he approached his chambers, and for that at least, Braden was glad. Upon reaching the door, however, he got the sense that something was awry within. He examined the handle closely, pressing his cold hand against it and finding it strangely warm.

“Someone is in here,” he thought. “But who…? Me attendants are elsewhere.”

His free hand snaked through the air and hovered above the dirk at his waist. Sucking in a steadying breath, he forced the door open with a vicious swing. It arced noiselessly on its hinges, revealing the lustre of the fire within. Braden shivered at the change in temperature, feeling his hackles rise as a shadow moved before the flames.

The next thing he heard was the sound of laughter. All things considered, much worse could have awaited him, as images of assassins lurking in the dark flashed in his mind’s eye.

“Look at the sight of ye,” cried Madden Kinnaird, placing his hands disapprovingly on his hips. “Three years away and I’ve come back to a keep turned on its head.” The handsome young man smiled, dropping his eyes. “Aye, but it’s braw to see ye, melaird.”

“Madden?” Braden murmured, promptly stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, dripping water over the threshold. “What are ye doing here? Why nae send word if ye had planned a return to the Highlands?”

“And ruin the surprise?” Madden laughed heartily, settling into the fur-lined chair before the fire. He swung one leg leisurely over the other, reaching for an apple from the low-standing table beside him. He took a bite, then gobbed: “Never mind surprises. I didnae want to draw any attention to the clan for nae braw reason. Last I recall, Irving used to intercept all yer messages. And he was nae champion of mine. Alas, it seems I need nae to have concerned meself with that. What is it they call him now. The Hamilton Beast? I heard whispers as I snuck through Dornoch… Och, Braden. What has happened?”

A chill ran down Braden’s spine at the mention of his cousin. While he had come to terms with Irving’s betrayal, the memory of his attack still caused his stomach to churn. He pressed his eyes shut, forcing away the memory of Irving’s blade, slicing through the skin below his rib. Pain ghosted beneath his heart, and he levelled his breathing. He would not allow himself to show any weakness while he was still so vulnerable.

Braden had never been the greatest fighter. He could wield a sword as well as any other clansmen, but there was nothing impressive about his technique. The real strength of his character took root in his trust, his kindness, his wit. Those qualities had eventually proved his downfall. Now he had nothing but regret, his heart filled with embers stoked by a need for vengeance, wanting to avenge himself, his honour.

“If ye ken enough to call him that, then ye will ken that I have nae desire to speak of him,” Braden replied sullenly. He held up a hand when Madden tried to rise from his seat, gesturing to his wet clothes. “A moment.”

He clicked his tongue against his palate and slipped into the adjoining room, then proceeded to undress himself. He felt Madden watching him quietly in the silence. Braden made sure to turn away, not wanting to reveal the ugly scars that decorated his chest. He paused for a moment to observe himself in the looking glass.

He was much smaller in body than Irving had been. Though, in truth, Irving had been larger than any highlander that Braden had ever seen. Braden was strong but lithe, having always possessed more grace than brute strength. His hair, a light, reddish blonde colour the same shade of his father’s, had been cropped short after his brush with death. The eyes that stared back at him he scarcely recognised from before his fall.

“Good,” Braden thought. “Let that old laird lay on the strand where Irving left him tae die, and all his bad luck with him.”

Once he had procured some dry clothes, he returned to the fire where Madden was sitting. His friend looked up at him, having set his apple aside and leaned forward.

“Ye were always like a brother to me,” Braden said, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I ken what ye will say. Ye wish ye had been here to aid me.”

“Aye,” Madden said, nodding. “Ye kent what I would say.”

“Let those things remain unspoken. We can only focus on the future, now. I am alive. The Clan is mostly whole. Irving is long buried.” Braden felt the whisper of a smile form on his lips. He had not made the same mistake as his cousin. He had watched Irving’s body burn with his own eyes, until nothing had remained of him but bone and ash on the pyre. “And me most trusted advisor is returned tae me,” he added.

Madden turned in his seat, his brown eyes wide with hope. “Ye intend to restore me tae me place at yer side? Ye dinnae curse me fer staying across the sea for so long?”

“Ye went on me own order sto appease the Frangachs and Sassenachs alike, the least we could dae after Flodden. I take it Uncle Hendrie was glad tae see the back of ye, after hosting ye so long in Paris,” Braden teased, clapping him on the back and stepping away. He extracted his family’s ancestral blade from its display case, slipping it into his sheath ahead of the council meeting. “Aye, I would be a mighty hypocrite tae refuse ye the title that sent ye there in the first place. What’s more…” Braden stared down at the blade, which glinted in the firelight before he thrust it into its sheath. “I cannae think of a better man to help turn the keep back on its head, can ye?”

Madden was not prone to bursts of great emotion, but Braden saw joy sweep across his face before being quickly extinguished. He nodded, sealing his return to Dornoch and to the Hamilton Clan as the laird’s personal guard, when Braden needed him most.

A knock rapped on the door, interrupting the two men. Braden called for the guest to enter, surprised to see a maid appear. She was the one who had earlier tipped the pale of water on top of him. She wrung her hands before her, fiddling with a cloth of some sort, clearly desperate to make amends, likely on the order of the head housekeeper.

All too quickly, Madden hopped out of his seat, focused on an entirely different task now that a pretty young woman had presented herself to them. Braden laughed under his breath, turning back to the display case to close it.

“What’s the meaning fer yer call, lass?” Madden asked, pausing in the doorway. Braden glanced over his shoulder, watching as the tall, well-built Highlander wrapped an arm around the small woman’s shoulders. “Has the laird been cruel with ye?”

The words were teasing. Braden was no stranger to the comforts only a woman could provide, but he never touched the maids at the keep, and Madden knew it. In fact, since his return from the dead, he had not partaken in bed sport of any kind, having not wanted to, even while the clanswomen down in the burgh had been all too eager to welcome him home with their loving ministrations.

“I only meant to…” the maid trailed off, looking up at Madden with big, round eyes. Her face was flushed pink. Madden had not lost his touch on the Continent. He had been a menace before his departure, forever engaging in some flirtation with the poor yet receptive lasses of the clan. The maid hummed out of nervousness then turned to Braden. “Melaird, pray accept me apologies fer tipping that water on yer head. I never thought—“

The maid’s apology was cut off by a burst of laughter from Madden. He hopped away from the maid. “That’s what happened tae ye?” he roared, wiping a tear from his eye. “Och, ye’ll have tae forgive me too, melaird.”

Braden shook his head, clicking the display case shut. He swallowed down his niggling pride and forced a smile. “Ye can take me apologies and head on down the stairs, lass. Tell Isabele not to punish ye on account of me poor luck,” he added to the maid, knowing that the castle’s housekeeper took no prisoners.

He heard the scuttling of her feet, and then a door closed. Sighing, he returned his gaze to Madden, half expecting another round of teasing. His friend was staring after the door. He pointed towards it with its thumb.

“I dinnae recall that fair lass roaming these halls before me departure,” he said, shrugging. “Now, dinnae be getting the wrong ideas, melaird. I intend to be on me best behaviour, at least until I’ve settled in again.” He took on a rare contemplative air. “I saw carriages and riders coming through the burgh up tae the keep. Have I arrived in time fer a council meeting, or some such thing?”

“Ye have,” Braden replied, and gestured towards the door. As the men arrived in the hallway, he made certain to lock it behind him. “I’ve called the councilmen up before Yule. There is something on me mind which I wish to discuss with them.”

“Well, dinnae keep me waiting,” Madden said as they took up their walk. He stopped suddenly, putting a hand out to stop Braden from walking any further. Squinting, he observed Braden carefully in the light. “’Tis not like ye to be secretive. Has time changed ye, or is the topic of this meeting nae something of which ye wish to speak?”

With a drawn-out groan, Braden checked that the hallway was clear. He supposed the truth resided somewhere in the middle, and decided that speaking about the matter with Madden first might do something to help ease his apprehension.

“I have nae had a braw time, after having come back from Orkney. I ken what the clan thinks of me—ye will ken it soon enough, if ye didnae hear the gossiping in the burgh already. And I also ken that the opinion of our allies regarding me return differs greatly from that of our foes.”

“Ach, tis not so difficult tae imagine.” Madden nodded, dropping his voice low. “Tae some, ye must be a hero. Nae… A legend in the making: the man who eschewed his own death.”

“And to others,” Braden interjected, “I am the laird who could nae retrain control over his own clan. Who allowed his own flesh and blood to murder him, no matter whether he lived or died.” He shook his head, pushing the worst of his thoughts away. He glanced through a nearby window. Behind the glass, a light snowfall had begun. “I cannae wait fer time tae amend their opinions of me. I must act… Before Irving’s attempt on me life, I had planned tae take a wife.”

He smiled at the memory of Lady Adamina, the sister of the Viking Laird of Clan Leòideach. Though beautiful and spirited, Braden doubted they would have made a happy match in the end. Her heart had belonged to another, one of her brother’s advisors. She had managed to secure her own happy ending with him, even despite Irving’s interference.

Braden had put all other alliances on hold since his return, but the months were ticking ever forward. It was only a matter of time before someone else sought to make war with them, now that Irving was dead.

“This is what I wish to broach at the meeting,” Braden explained, feeling himself shrink under Madden’s anxious gaze. “Yule is fast approaching, and with it, I see a chance to rebuild the bridges between our clan here in Caithness and the lairds of the other highland seats.

“A long feast,” Braden continued. “Tae be held during Yule, during which time,” he held up a finger, “I may find meself securing a wife. The most powerful lairds that we ken must come, and they must see that I will nae be unseated again. This will nae be a time fer allies alone, but fer enemies too, that they might become something different.”

Madden furrowed his brow, having clearly picked up on Braden’s cautious tone. “And of these enemies,” he said warily, “are there none that will be refused an invitation? It is nae me place tae question ye, melaird. But some rivalries cannae—shouldnae—be fixed.”

Braden listened carefully, knowing exactly to whom Madden referred, but he could not agree. If he had any chance of restoring his clan’s faith in him, he needed to nip all threats in the bud before they could bloom with blood.

“If ye mean the young MacLeod laird…” Braden said. “Aye. I intend to have him be kent by us. He remembers our history. Too long have we existed in silence. He will come, we will meet, and hopefully we will forge a new future in peace.”

His friend’s face turned white, his lips pressed tightly together. Braden could see his own tortured memories reflected in Madden’s eyes. They had both only been children the last time a MacLeod clan chieftain had set foot on Hamilton soil. But they both remembered. How could they forget? The face of his father’s killer would likely haunt him forever.

When the last clan chieftain had died mere months after taking the life of Braden’s father, his son Lewis MacLeod had inherited the title. He and Braden had never met, but tensions were still alive from the times of their father’s feud, stoked by the memories of what had been lost, threatening to flame with every year that passed.

Silent threat that he was, Braden needed to see Lewis with his own eyes. Irving’s ploy had delayed their inevitable meeting by a year, but it could not be postponed forever. Forging such an unlikely alliance would help Braden’s cause massively.

And if he could not guarantee an alliance with Laird MacLeod, then he would make sure to smother a new war before it could begin…

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