Author: Shona Thompson

Prologue

Keep Leòideach, Orkney Islands, 1509…

What ended in a scream had begun with a kiss.

Adamina could still feel the imprint of her mother’s lips on the crown of her head. The ghost of her hands curled around her shoulders, pinning Adamina to her spot at the edge of her bed. She could feel the hair standing up on the back of her neck, despite having awoken from her dream.

She glanced down at the leatherbound journal in her lap, running her hand over its rough cover. The book had been a permanent fixture at her mother’s writing desk—along with all the other things which, like the great Lady Leòideach, were now gone and buried.

Squinting down at the now open pages, Adamina tried to make sense of what her mother had written. Her father had always bemoaned her struggle with words. At thirteen, reading, writing and more were expected of her as a young lady. Her brothers were encouraged to be boorish at the best of times, fighting and exploring the island to their satisfaction. Adamina, however, had been commanded to stay inside from the moment she was born, watching her brothers spar from the window of her mother’s chambers. If not for her mother’s presence at the keep, Adamina might have fought harder for her freedom. Dunn and Tor would not have minded her presence outside, that much she knew.

Their parents had been the driving force behind their separation, even in their deaths.

Adamina tended an ear for her brothers’ voices. Their arguing echoed through the keep, keeping her from sleep just as aptly as her fresh grief. She could not make sense of what they were saying, but she doubted the object of their anger had changed much from that morning, when they had lain their mother to rest.

The Morgan clan has struck the final blow. Faither is gone with the sword, now Maither in her sadness. Dunn and Tor willnae rest until one or both clans are dead and buried too.

A familiar footfall sounded in the hallway, and Adamina’s breath hitched in response. She hastened to tuck her mother’s journal under the coverlets of her box-bed, fearing that the maids would tell Dunn if they caught her with it.

Moonlight streamed through the open window before her. Adamina focused her attention on the low-hanging moon as she wiped away her tears. The door creaked open, and she braced herself for another half-hearted attempt at consolation.

“Is the wee lady nae yet sleeping?” came a voice from the doorway. “Ach, but what would yer faither say tae ken ye out of bed so late, bairn?”

“Me faither isnae here,” Adamina murmured, glancing over her shoulder. She scowled at her new warden—a woman named Maile, who had been called up to the islands from Edinburgh to complete Adamina’s education. “He cannae say a thing tae me nay more, much less worry about me rest.” Adamina steadied her voice. “Besides, I am on the bed, if nae in it.”

Curling her legs beneath her, Adamina started when the door groaned further open behind her. She watched over her shoulder as Maile silently placed a trencher of petticoat tails on the drawers by the door. Unlike Adamina, Maile was an expert with words, but she knew little about young lasses and their troubles. The woman pressed her lips together in something halfway resembling a smile, then moved to close the door again, leaving Adamina to her grief.

“Things will be brighter by the matins, bairn,” Maile said tenderly, closing the door behind her as she left.

Adamina sat motionlessly for a moment, considering Maile’s kindness. When she heard the woman’s footsteps retreat at last, she crept to the drawers and inspected the fare that Maile had brought with her. The sweetmeats were decorated with caraway seeds, cut into the shape of little suns. They were Adamina’s favourite treat, but that night she could not rouse her appetite at the sight of them.

Returning to her nest, she kneeled beside the bed and slipped the journal free from its hiding spot. Turning to one of the first pages, she ran her finger along the first line, mouthing the letters one by one. The echo of her mother’s voice rang in her ears, but the words would not manifest on her own tongue.

“Twelve… Twelfth of…” Adamina shook her head, brushing a few stray blonde hairs from her eyes before trying again. “Twelfth of Jan—”

She paused her reading. Something had clipped against the window frame, and Adamina sought the source of the sound. Finding no answers in the darkness, she chalked it up to the wind dropping fruits from nearby trees. Turning once more, she froze when another small clicking noise sounded behind her.

Taking a nearby brass candlestick in her hand and pocketing the snuffer in case of danger, she crept towards the window, hissing as her foot landed on a small, sharp pebble.

Her heart leapt into her throat as another pebble flew in from the open window and landed at her feet. Steeling herself, she leaned out of the window, gasping as a final pellet arched its way up to her and landed on her shoulder.

“Ewan!” she growled, catching sight of her friend down below.

He was standing between the walls of the keep and the hedges, a fistful of stones hovering in midair. His dark hair was glinting in the moonlight, lapping at the sides of his young, boyish face. He released his handful of pellets at once, and they fell in a waterfall down to his feet. Baring his teeth at her in a grin, he greeted her warmly.

“Me apologies, lass! Ye ken me aim has forever been lacking,” he whispered, quietly dusting off his hands on his rough linen trousers.

Adamina wrestled with a smile. “I ken ye are a fool,” she shot back, craning her head out of the window to check for danger. Confident they were alone, Adamina rested the candleholder on the windowsill and settled in for the show. “Ye shouldnae be here so late, Ewan. If Dunn or Tor were tae see ye—”

“Och, ye ken they willnae dae a thing, Ada. I could hear yer brothers braying from the village.” He placed a hand on his hip, puffing out his cheeks as he looked around him. “The coast is clear,” he said quietly. “Shall I come up, or will ye come down?”

“Come down? Dressed like this? Bampot! I will catch me death!” Struggling to hold back her laugh, Adamina conceded her defeat. “I suppose ‘tis better ye come up than draw attention tae yerself down there.”

Retrieving the candlestick, Adamina stepped back to allow Ewan room to enter. His aim may have been lacking, but Ewan was a strong lad of fifteen—who had arguably too much experience scaling the walls of the keep in his visits to Adamina. Placing his feet perfectly in the spaces between the flagstones, he hoisted himself up, navigating with ease the twenty or so feet between the ground and the window of Adamina’s sleeping chambers. She saw his hands first, knuckles tensed around the window frame, before he pulled himself up and crouched on the sill.

He paused a moment, scanning her room. His body was bathed in moonlight, concealing much of his face in the darkness. Adamina tensed at the sight of him, and her breast swelled with a war of emotions. For most of the day, she had managed to bridle the worst of her feelings, but Ewan had a way of getting her to open up, and this she feared most of all.

“Far be it from me to question a lass in mourning, but…” Ewan said with a serious voice. He furrowed his brow, and she braced for the worst. “Have ye been baking, Adamina?”

It was just like Ewan to be making jokes at such a time. Adamina cried out in feigned outrage, slamming down the candle holder and storming over to the window. She grabbed hold of Ewan’s shoulders, playfully fisting the fabric of his patchwork tunic and shaking him softly.

“Ye better get inside, now,” she exclaimed, “before I change me mind and send ye hurtling tae yer death.” She released him and turned away. “Ach, ye cannae play with me like that, Ewan! Ye are so cruel…”

“Aye, but ye’re smiling now,” Ewan said. She heard his boots connect with the floor as he hopped into the room. “I can hear it in yer voice, even if ye dinnae deign tae look at me.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder, losing the battle against her smile as Ewan pushed past her and made for the sweetmeats. He took one for himself and offered Adamina another, but she refused with a shake of her head. Ewan shrugged, taking a bite of shortbread and settling against the dresser. He cast the other back on the trencher, and its rattle against the wood brought Adamina back to her senses.

“Now that ye have completed yer pillage,” she began tentatively, “will ye tell me why ye have come? Certainly there is naething tae be said that cannae have waited fer the morning.”

“I could have waited, aye. But I didnae want tae.” Ewan’s expression twisted then, even as he tried to hide his distress by licking clean his fingers. His round hazel eyes filled with worry. “We didnae have the chance tae speak afore yer ma’s rites.”

“I ken…” Adamina shrugged one-shouldered, drawing her arms around herself to ward off her sudden chill. Her mind flashed with memories of her mother’s interment—her silver shroud; her long, flowing hair; her peaceful countenance after so many weeks spent in agony. “If ye mean tae comfort me, dinnae. I have nay need fer more sympathies—and nay need fer more trouble either, Ewan.”

She eyed her friend carefully, hinting at her brothers’ growing unease with their closeness. It was no surprise Ewan had not managed to speak with her that morning. In their grief-fuelled anger, Dunn and Tor had all but forbidden their sister from spending any more time with him than necessary, especially where the other clan members could see. Adamina thought their worrying was farcical. She and Ewan had been friends their entire lives, and Ewan had always been considered kindly by the Leòideach heirs. Nothing—not the differences of their birth, not even their advancing ages—would keep them apart so long as Adamina had her say.

Ewan said nothing at this, clearly understanding her meaning but not wanting to push his luck. He dipped his head low, and his dark hair glinted gold in the candlelight. Even in his embarrassment, Ewan looked warm and inviting. Years ago, Adamina might have allowed herself to be held by him and comforted, but things between them had changed since they had become adolescents and she knew it would not be appropriate.

Before her father’s passing, Laird Leòideach had made mention of matches and marriage for his only daughter but Adamina had never considered taking a husband before with any seriousness. There had always been more pressing things to worry about, like the wellbeing of their clan, her brothers’ antics, when next she could hope to be allowed to spar with Ewan. Her duties as a Leòideach daughter, the commodity of her young body—these things had not preoccupied her until they had been brought to her attention.

Sighing, she directed her attention to Ewan, wanting to apologise for her frosty reception. He had turned from her slightly, and in so doing had revealed a fresh welt on the side of his eye. Halfway concealed by his hair, the bruise had forgone Adamina’s notice.

She realised at once that Ewan had not only wanted to check on her. He had needed an escape from the tyranny of his own household.

“Is that the mark of yer faither’s hand again?” she asked.

Ewan barely moved, but a mirthless laugh rumbled low in his throat. He mussed his hair, dragging it back over his injury. That was his way—never wanting to inconvenience others with his troubles, and especially not Adamina. It was the part of Ewan that she liked the least. She wanted to provide him the same protection that he was always so eager to provide her. It frustrated her that he did not let her.

“I didnae mean fer ye tae see,” he murmured, crossing his arms over his chest. “That isnae why I came, Adamina.”

“I havenae doubt about that. But even if ye had come fer that reason, I wouldnae have minded,” Adamina assured him. “Let me see?”
Her other fears dissipated immediately, and Adamina crossed the room to inspect the mark. She pushed back his hair slowly, careful not to injure him further. Ewan let her, wincing as she ran her fingers over the raw swell beneath his eye.

It was not the first time she had seen Ewan’s face blemished by his father’s anger. Cam of Clan MacGregor was known throughout Orkney as a fierce warrior and a brilliant councilmember. He had trained many of her father’s men in the way of the bow, and he knew more about the history of the isles than even the clan elders.

To Adamina, who had witnessed second-hand the worst of him, he was little more than a brute. His other talents could not possibly impress her while she knew what sort of monsters resided deep within his breast.

“I could sneak some herbs from the infirmary,” she suggested carefully. “It wouldnae take more than a moment.”

“I ken as much—ye and yer deft fingers,” Ewan joked half-heartedly. He scowled when she drew back, but quickly purged his expression of all weakness. Taking her hand in his own, he lowered it before releasing her. “Ye will heal me more by speaking with me, Adamina.”

“Aye, but I dinna ken what ye wish fer me tae say.” Adamina put some space between them, returning to her bed. Her gaze drifted over her mother’s journal, and she heaved a deep sigh. “Nae a thing I say will change what has happened. Like that mark on yer face, the only salve fer me heart is time.”

“Ye might start by telling me what that is,” Ewan said. He gestured for her mother’s journal, and Adamina stepped before it instinctively. “Dinnae try tae hide it now,” he teased, crossing the room. “Yer secrecy means it must be important.”

He sidled up beside her and reached for the diary, pausing as though to ask her permission. Adamina nodded, watching as he carefully extracted the journal from the woollen coverlets. Ewan turned the book over in his hands, then pried it open gently. He narrowed his eyes at the first page, reading the first lines in silence.

Despite Adamina’s better education, Ewan was the one between them who really knew how to read. Cam’s ambition was a hungry beast, sated only by Ewan’s many successes. Like all things forced upon him by his father, reading was one of the skills at which Ewan excelled. He had mastered the written word at the age of eight, and he had spent the years since reading what Adamina could not when she needed him.

Ewan’s face contorted suddenly, and Adamina’s anxiety roiled within her.

“This was Lady Leòideach’s diary,” he stated breathlessly, closing the book immediately. He kept his thumb between the pages and cast a glance at Adamina. “Why would ye take this?”

“I didnae take it,” she protested, moving to the window so he could not look at her. “She gave it tae me on the night she…” Her eyes smarted, and she choked on her next words. Composing herself, she continued. “Maither used tae read her entries to me, sometimes as she wrote them. I cannae say why she thought tae leave me such a wretched thing. I dinna need tae read proof of her misery, of her madness. I saw it while she still lived with me own eyes.”

“Ye dinnae want me tae read it tae ye?” Ewan asked. She heard him take a step toward her, then dither. “It seems some parts were written tae ye, Adamina. She meant fer ye tae see them.”

“Dinnae matter tae me now.” Adamina sought purchase on the windowsill. “As I said tae ye, I already ken what lessons she penned fer me. They live here.” She pointed at her heart, digging her finger in deep.

Adamina gasped as Ewan appeared beside her, holding the diary aloft. She darted her gaze from his face to the cover of the journal. The gentle pity in his expression was too much for her to bear.

The first of her tears fell, and she cursed herself under her breath for her weakness. Wiping madly at her face, she whimpered as the full force of her grief wracked her small body. Ewan wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close. He breathed into her hair, pleading with her to be quiet, reassuring her that she would be all right.

Ewan was the only person in the world who could say as much and make Adamina believe it. But not even he could comfort her this time—not after what her mother had said when she had handed Adamina the diary, the night that she had jumped from the keep.

“Ye should go,” Adamina said into his chest. “Afore me brothers see ye. Afore—”

“I willnae,” he replied, holding her more tightly. “Ye have naething tae fear from me.”

Adamina shivered against him, deaf to his sweet protestations. He had opened the journal, and now she could think of nothing else but her mother’s parting words.

“If a maither must teach her daughter anything, Mina, it is tae fear love more than death.”

Chapter One

Brodgar Forest, Orkney Islands, 1519…

“Nae, I dinnae believe a word of it!” Adamina cried, clambering over a fallen tree. She hopped off the trunk, casting a glance over her shoulder at Ewan. “Ye may be correct most of the time, councilman, but I am right in this. That babe doesnae look a thing like Wille—he looks like Wille’s brother!”

Ewan paused in his march, shooting her an exasperated look. Adamina seemed adamant, but her thin, pink lips were curled in a smile. Readjusting the strap of his bow, Ewan sighed.

Adamina merely laughed at him, climbing back over the tree to join him. Threading her arm through his own, she urged him forward. She was right to lead the way. It was almost dark, and it was no time to be loitering in the woods. Ewan thought it had been a mistake to indulge her in the first place. After everything that had happened on Orkney over the last few years, the laird had been rightly wary about letting Lady Adamina out of his sight.

The business with the new Lady Leòideach was fresh in Ewan’s mind. He had witnessed the feud between Clans Morgan and Leòideach explode first-hand, having risen to the rank of councilman in the meantime. After all, he had gone as a soldier and saved the life of Katarina Buckland, the beautiful Romani woman now wed to Dunn Leòideach, the Laird of Clan Leòideach and Adamina’s older brother, by the King’s decree.

The match between Katarina and Dunn had been paved with strife. Katarina had been forced by Laird Morgan to pretend to be his daughter Katherine, taking the place of Dunn’s betrothed in her stead. The plot was revealed in time, but the new laird’s nascent feelings could not be helped. Katarina was the lady of their clan now, and the mother of his heir, and the laird would not have it any other way.

While the particular threat had been squashed by the death of Laird Morgan a few months later, there was no telling what other enemies would present themselves now that Katherine Morgan’s father had been dealt with. She was now married to Tor, Adamina’s other brother, though Ewan had not seen either of them since they had settled on the Morgan land. Their departure had meant an end to the Leòideach struggles—but like all things, this peace was not to last.

Ewan felt fear stir in his breast as he considered the recent Gypsy threat, quelled just a year gone. His friend Bran, a warrior of extreme renown, had fallen into disfavour with the Gypsy King himself, August Raymond, and the consequences of their feud had been felt across Orkney.

The island had settled uneasily into peace, but Ewan, who had only ever known strife, was still on his guard. Adamina seemed determined to have some fun now that the fighting was over. This scared Ewan more than he dared to admit, knowing that her free-spirited attitude was a mask for all the other troubles that plagued her.

Ewan knew all too well that the more she smiled, the heavier her burdens weighed on her heart. Adamina may have thought that her antics fooled him but they didn’t and never would. She sensed the winds of change, as did he. But he didn’t know in whose favor they would blow.

“Is that why ye dragged me down tae Wille’s croft this eve?” Ewan asked after a moment, allowing himself to be shepherded forward by her. She looked up at him teasingly, and he supplied her a scowl. “I didnae think ye tae be a gossip, melady.”

“Och, ye ken I hate when ye call me that!” She nudged him in the side, and Ewan was not quick enough to dodge the blow. “And ye ken even more that I am a gossip!”

Despite her small size and beauty, Adamina was fiercely strong when she wanted to be. Long underestimated for being the only Leòideach daughter, Ewan had no doubt she would try to assert herself more now that both of her wild Viking brothers were settled in their marriages. With Tor gone to lead Clan Morgan with his new bride Katherine, Dunn was in more need than ever of his sister’s support. The change suited Adamina, who had always longed to be taken more seriously.

Except, of course, when she did not.

“My intentions were only braw. I brought a basket from the keep out of the goodness of me heart. A few bonnie births are just what we need after so much rottenness these last few years,” Adamina argued, brushing the blonde hair from her face. “It isnae me fault that Wille’s young wife has been straying far from home.”

“If ye suspect the brother, should that nae be straying in the home?” Ewan narrowed his gaze at her, then cursed himself for playing along. “Ach, but we shouldnae claim such things when there isnae proof,” he said. He detached himself from Adamina to help her over a rough patch of the forest floor. Testing the ground ahead of her, he reached out a hand for her to take. “Besides, Wille looks exactly like his brother. I dinnae ken what ye think ye have heard about young Canny, but she is as honourable a woman as ever there was. More honourable than ye, anyway,” he joked.

Adamina grimaced as she hopped over the network of tree roots, taking his hand as she did so. Her foot caught on something beneath her and she stumbled forward suddenly, crashing into him. Ewan held firm, breathing a small, “Umph,” as he steadied them in the twilight.

His arms wrapped around her on instinct, and he felt his body tense. The day had been warm, and Adamina had snuck from the keep in a thin, embroidered cotton smock. Pressed up against him in her error, she revealed to him every hill and valley of her body. He could feel her nipples through the thin fabric of her gown, and Ewan started in response.

Though Ewan and Adamina had been best of friends, almost fraternal, their whole lives, over the past decade he had watched Adamina blossom into a woman. But it was one thing to admire her from afar as a good friend, and another to feel the evidence of her womanhood pressed against him. He needed to move her, and quickly.

Unable to temper his body’s reaction—a constant ache in his loins for her that had started a few years prior—he immediately pulled Adamina off of him. As he held her at arm’s length, he could swear he saw her face flush in the dim light,.

“Are ye…” He swallowed hard. “Are ye unharmed?”

“Aye,” Adamina replied, recovering quickly from their mistake and shoving Ewan away playfully. “In body, at least. But ye are so inconsiderate as tae me poor soul.”

“Call me what ye like,” he replied, shrugging off his sheepskin cloak and revealing the long plaid beneath it. Whistling to get Adamina’s attention, he placed the cloak over her shoulders, relaxing as she settled into the garment. “Inconsiderate beast or nae, I willna ever forgive meself if ye freeze tae death afore we reach the keep. Pout all ye like, but that smock is much too light.”

“I am nae cold,” she protested, despite stroking her cheek gratefully against his cloak. She took on a scorned air, cocking her head to the side as she tightened the black sheepskin around her. “And I am nae dishonourable, councilman. If either one of us has aught to be ashamed, ‘tis ye. Dinnae think I havenae noticed ye lingering about the keep after the sun has set. What is the name of the bonnie lass who has claimed yer heart? Let me think…”

She forced a wounded sigh, and Ewan shot his eyes heavenward. He said nothing in reply, continuing with their walk and urging her to do the same. She fell into step quickly, tapping a finger to her lips sarcastically as she pretended to think. She knew full well who Ewan was taking off with. He could keep nothing from her, no matter how much he might want to.

“Ach, of course! The fair maiden, Effy!” she declared, skipping ahead of him and crying the woman’s name. “All the other maids look at ye as longingly as she. Dae their hearts nae interest ye as well? For certainly ye have captured them!”

“Ye have her name, I’ll give ye that. But it isnae her heart which interests me, and she kens it,” Ewan muttered, wishing they were speaking of anything else. Adamina asked often about his conquests, always interested to know more. It was not behaviour befitting a lady, but Adamina did many things other fine women would balk at. “Will ye nae stop with these games, melady? We should be hurrying tae the keep afore Dunn notices ye missing.”

At this, Adamina stopped walking altogether. She turned on her heel slowly, likely dragging out her reaction to punish him. Ewan could not deny how beautiful she looked against the thick, dark forest around them, even in her forced anger—like a beacon of light upon an otherwise dark canvas. Even though he had taken Effy and many other lasses into his bed, he still thought that Adamina was the most beautiful creature of all. His admiration for her was one of the many things that had weathered their friendship over the years, and like every time before, Ewan forced himself to forget just how much he pined for her.

The death of Adamina’s parents had changed them both beyond recognition. Ewan had forced himself to become a man before his time, hoping to be there for Adamina whenever she needed him. Adamina, however, had pushed him away, trying to deal with everything alone.

They had settled into their new friendship over the years, and neither of them much spoke about what might have been between them if things had been different. Ewan was convinced she had had feelings for him before tragedy hit her family as a young girl but he doubted Adamina regretted the dissipation of their young misguided feelings. He knew that a part of her associated his presence with those long years of grief and he was also aware that another part of her did not want to take a husband at all, no matter his name. These misguided excursions were the only unadulterated moments of companionship they could allow themselves anymore; the rest were spent under the watchful eye of her brother and the rest of the clan.

Even when Adamina drove him mad with her teasing, Ewan relished every second in her company, sharing her adventures and shepherding her through the night.

“Ye are nae usually so prickly,” Adamina was saying now, eyeing him from head to toe. She crossed her arms over her chest and stepped towards him. “What is troubling ye, Ewan? Dinnae fib, now. I ken when something is wrong. Is it… Are ye thinking of yer faither today?”

Ewan bristled at the suggestion, having refused to consider his father at any length since his death. His throat constricted in response, and he quickly sought to change the subject. Some things were better left alone—especially when the truth of them could not be spoken in full.

“It is naething ye need concern yerself with,” Ewan replied coolly, turning his gaze elsewhere. Adamina sentenced him to a charged moment of silence, forcing Ewan to answer her out of awkwardness. “If ye are determined tae ken the truth, there is a meeting early on the morrow. The council dinnae yet ken what the laird wishes to discuss, but a meeting called under such short notice cannae mean naething braw. It worries me. ‘Tis the truth, me only truth.”

“Dunn has said naething tae me about a meeting, and I havenae noticed a change in his good humour.” She made a contemplative little noise. When Ewan looked up, she was playing with the ends of her hair, her expression far away. “Perhaps ‘tis naething at all. But if it does amount tae aught, ye will tell me, willnae ye?”

Ewan nodded, partly out of habit, partly in promise. An owl flew overhead, filling the air with the echo of its call. A shiver ran down Ewan’s spine as he followed the path of the bird northward. The forest seemed to shift with its passing, and he held up a finger to silence Adamina before she could speak further.

Knowing the forest like he knew his own soul, he whipped his head around to survey the stretch of woods to his left. The way was thick with thousand-year-old oaks, concealing whatever danger might have been lurking nearby. His heart thumped hard in his chest, alerting him to the threat he could not yet see.

But I sense it… Aye, something is lurking nearby, something desperate and hungry.

Returning his sight slowly to Adamina, he put a finger before his mouth and commanded her to run, her blue eyes filled with understanding and fear. She nodded only once, full of trust in him after all these years. Bursting into a sprint, she shot through the trees before her.

Ewan heard it then—a set of snarls on the wind.

The wolves raced out from behind the western trees. Their grey coats rolled and glistened in the grey twilight as they bared their fangs to Ewan, snapping at him in warning. He counted two, knowing more might be about. If they had dared present themselves to him, he knew they would be wounded, desperate for blood.

Yanking on the strap of his bow, he held his breath and launched himself after Adamina. The wolves thundered after them, growling in their chase. Ewan angled his bow as he sprinted forward with all his might, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he prepared to take a shot, and muttering a prayer beneath his breath.

He glanced up only once, hoping to find Adamina as a spot on the horizon, safe from harm. If one of them was to die that night, Ewan knew it must be him.

When he saw her at last, his heart dropped. Adamina was standing only paces from him, a dagger readied in her hand.

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Prologue

MacLeod Castle, Scotland

Darkness enveloped Lara as she slowly made her way down the narrow hallway, moving as silently as possible to avoid waking the others. She despised the oppressive blackness that clung to the ancient stones of the keep but didn’t dare light a candle. That would draw unwanted attention.

No, better to make her way to the kitchens below by memory alone. There, she could find brief respite in the solitude and enjoy a small piece of cake, with a steaming cup of tea. She’d always had a sweet tooth, even as a young lass. Many a night she had slipped down to the kitchens this way to satisfy her craving for something sweet and warm.

As she descended the winding staircase, she thought she heard footsteps approaching. Who could it be? Had somebody been following her? Heart racing, she quickly hid under one of the long wooden benches, just in time before two figures entered. Holding her breath, Lara pressed herself into the shadows, praying the darkness would keep her hidden. Fear coiled within her as the footsteps drew nearer, and she had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. The footsteps stopped just shy of her hiding place. Lara’s pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to run, to scream, but she remained paralyzed under the bench, praying for them to leave.

“Can you believe our sister is getting married in just a few weeks?” Quinn chuckled. “Who would have thought Lara would be the first?”

A wave of relief washed over her as she realized it was just her two brothers. She surreptitiously peeped from her hiding place out to watch them.

With his long dark hair tied up and his light eyes shimmering with amusement, Quinn, laughed softly. “Aye, our Lara may be wild, but she’s finally settlin’ down. Gregor must be quite a man tae tame her.” His voice was gentle, a contrast to his rough exterior. Lara bristled slightly at the suggestion she needed ‘taming,’ but kept silent as her big brothers carried on.

Quinn continued, his light eyes turning serious. “I’ll admit I had my doubts about the match at first,” he confessed, his imposing height and muscular frame belying the sincerity in his voice. “But Gregor has proven himself an honorable ally. This marriage could be the thing that finally unites our clans against the MacNeils.”

Beside Quinn, Gil nodded in agreement. At twenty-eight, Gil was a handsome man, tall and muscular like his brother. His long dark hair and blue eyes made him a sight to behold. “Aye, with Gregor’s men and resources, we might finally end that bloody feud for good. He may be the best thing tae happen tae the Mackenzies in years, dinnae ye think?”

His hair fell slightly over his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “The feud with the MacDonalds,” he began, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room, “is a finally closed chapter.”

Despite herself, Lara felt a twinge of unease at their words. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the man she was supposed to marry. Gregor was persistent, yes. And he clearly loved her, in his own way—if that was what love should be, of course. But still . . .

Gil’s blue eyes twinkled with mirth as he leaned back, his muscular arms crossing over his chest. “Remember when our wee Lara used tae hide beneath the table whenever guests came over?” he began, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

God’s teeth!

Quinn chuckled, his light eyes dancing with amusement. His hair bounced with his laughter. “Aye, I do. She used tae squeeze herself intae the tiniest of corners, thinking nae one could see her.”

Gil joined in the laughter, his handsome face breaking into a broad grin. “And the best part was, she’d peek out from under the tablecloth, her little eyes wide with curiosity, watching everyone’s feet move around.”

Quinn’s laughter grew louder, his usually cold exterior softened by the shared memory. “And then she’d suddenly burst out from under the table, startling the living daylights out of our guests. I swear, I’ve never seen the old MacNeil jump so high!”

The two brothers roared with laughter, their jovial voices echoing around them. Lara, despite herself, found a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The memory was embarrassing, yes, but also precious. She’d been so young, so innocent then. It had been a simpler time, a time she often longed for amidst the complexities of her present life.

As the laughter subsided, Gil wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Aye, but I suspect our Lara still has a fondness for hiding under tables,” he said, shooting a teasing glance in her direction.

Quinn’s eyes glinted in agreement as he tried to suppress another laugh. “Aye, that she does. It’s a wonder she hasnae taken tae doing that with Gregor’s men around.”

Gil looked towards the door, “If Elsie heard us laughing, she might come tae check on us. Ye ken how she worries.”

Quinn nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes. He turned to Lara, his voice softer but still filled with brotherly affection. “If ye hear footsteps again, Lara, dinnae be afraid. It’s likely just Elsie coming tae see what all the noise is about. Ye ken how she hates tae miss a good laugh.”

Lara came out from her hiding place and looked up at him, nodding, her cheeks flushed.

Gil’s deep blue eyes shone with mischief, and Lara couldn’t help but wonder what was running through his mind. He reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his palm spreading through her. “Dinnae be embarrassed, lass. Ye were only a child then, and ye couldnae have known how to behave. Ye’ll do fine when the time comes.”

Quinn smiled down at her, his light eyes filled with pride. “Aye, ye’ll make a fine wife, lass. Gregor is a lucky man.”

Lara’s heart swelled at the praise. She knew they’d be proud of her, but the way they looked at her right then, well, she felt she could take on the world.

“We’d best get down to the tavern. Goodnight, Lara.” Quin nodded towards her, and with that, he and Gil were off, leaving her with their kind words and a bittersweet ache in her heart.

Pouring herself some tea, she listened for any sounds in the keep. Elsie may have heard Quinn and Gil as well and would eventually come to check on her. Lara smiled softly, touched by her sister’s protectiveness. Though they bickered, as all siblings did, she knew Elsie only wanted the best for her.

When she heard light footsteps approaching, Lara chuckled. “Dinnae worry Elsie, it’s only me down here,” she called out gently.

But the hand that suddenly clamped down over her mouth was too large to belong to her sister. Lara’s screams became muffled whimpers as a strong arm wrapped around her, dragging her from the kitchen and toward the outside door.

She fought with all her strength, but it was no use against her attacker’s brute force. Pain exploded in her head, and as everything faded into blackness, all she felt was terror and confusion. Why was this happening? Who wished her such harm?

The last coherent thought she had was a fervent wish that Elsie had come looking for her after all.

Chapter One

Six months later
MacNeil’s castle, Scotland

Darragh MacDonald dragged his weary body through the cold stone halls of the MacNeil castle, the day’s frustrations still simmering under his skin. He was taking on all the clan’s responsibilities while his brother was away, and they were weighing on him like stones. His footsteps echoed through the grand hallways, the sound bouncing off the ancient stone walls, bringing some life to the otherwise quiet castle.

In the dim light cast by flickering torches, the shadows of the castle seemed to stretch and distort, playing tricks on Darragh’s tired eyes. The portraits of the MacNeil ancestors leered at him from their lofty positions, their faces stern and unfeeling. The weight of their gazes was almost tangible, a reminder of the lineage he was obliged to uphold. The MacNeils had always been their greatest enemies, but now, with the laird dead, the responsibility of the leaderless clan had become entirely the MacDonald’s.

His hand brushed against the rough, cold stone as he leaned heavily against a wall. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the damp, earthy scent that permeated the ancient castle, the echo of ages past, of battles fought and won, of lairds and their ladies who had walked these halls before him.

He pushed away from the wall and continued his journey. The castle, once alive and bustling, now seemed more akin to a mausoleum, a monument to the past. The servants had retired for the night, leaving the corridors eerily silent. As he trudged onward, the only sounds were the whisper of his robes against the stone floors and the distant hoot of a tawny owl from the castle’s battlements.

Reaching the imposing wooden doors of the great hall, he paused. The hall, usually a place of raucous laughter, sumptuous meals, and robust debates, was now silent. The long, wooden trestle tables were bare, save for a few forgotten tankards and the remnants of the evening’s feast. The once roaring hearth was reduced to a smoldering pile of embers.

He glanced up at the grand tapestry hanging above the hearth, the MacNeil crest proudly displayed. The castle, the land, the people; they were all his responsibility now. Darragh and his brother Aidan had decided he would take over the MacNeil clan while Aidan dealt with the responsibilities of their own clan. However, it was no easy feat. He despised Laird Keir MacNeil for murdering his parents and for then abducting his sister Lillie and imprisoning her. If it hadn’t been for Ciara, Laird MacNeil’s daughter and now Aidan’s wife, who had helped Lillie escape from the dungeons where she was held, his sister would have probably died as well.

Darragh entered the late laird’s study, a room steeped in history. Old books, their leather-bound spines cracked with age, lined the shelves from floor to ceiling. Dust particles hung suspended in the air, filtering the weak light from the single window. The faint scent of parchment and ink filled the room, a heady aroma that spoke of wisdom and knowledge.

The heavy wooden desk, scarred by time and use, stood as a testament to the many MacNeil lairds who had sat behind it, pondering over the fate of their clan. Darragh ran a hand over the surface, feeling the grooves and indentations under his fingertips.

Suddenly, the distant sound of running troops echoed through the castle. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath hitching. Darragh froze, a wave of panic surging through him. The sound triggered the by now well-known reaction in his body, sweat running down his back, clammy hands, and the sense of being outs of his own body, a constant, cruel reminder of the battles he’d fought, of the friends he’d lost.

His mind cast him back to a different time, a different place. The roar of cannons, the clash of swords, the screams of the dying; they all came rushing back to him. The study, the castle, it all faded away, replaced by the haunting echoes of war.

All this was followed by a feeling of dizziness that had more than once caused him to lose consciousness. Darragh clutched the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He forced himself to draw in a deep breath, trying to ground himself. He concentrated on the feeling of the cold stone under his feet, the rough grain of the wood beneath his hands.

He wasn’t on the battlefield. He was in the study, in the castle. But the echoes of the past still rang in his ears, a ghostly cadence that sent chills down his spine.

The panic began to recede, ebbing away like the tide. The castle came back into focus, the smell of parchment and ink replacing the stench of gunpowder and blood. The sound of the running troops grew fainter, the echoes dying away, leaving him in the silence of the study.

Darragh took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm amidst the cacophony outside. His heart continued its wild drumming, but he willed it to slow, to steady. He’d survived worse situations, he reminded himself. He’d faced death and lived to tell the tale.

With a grimace, Darragh pulled off his shirt, the fabric catching on the rough edges of his numerous scars. The chill of the castle seeped into his exposed skin, but he barely noticed, his attention fixated on the ugly marks marring his body. They were a mosaic of pain, each scar a story of survival, each one a testament to his resilience.

His reflection in the antique mirror on the wall haunted him. The man staring back at him was a warrior, a survivor. His eyes, once bright and full of life, now bore the weight of his past. His body, once unmarred, was now a canvas of pain.

The light from the flickering torches danced across his skin, highlighting the raised lines and jagged edges of his war wounds. He traced a particularly long scar with his fingers, the memory of the blade that left it still vivid in his mind. The pain, the fear, the desperation; it all came rushing back.

Yet, staring at his reflection, Darragh felt a flicker of pride. His scars were not just reminders of the horrors he’d endured. They were badges of honor, proof of his strength and his courage. He’d faced the worst that life could throw at him and emerged victorious.

With a final glance at his reflection, Darragh pulled his shirt back on, covering his scars, although they would always be there, still a part of him. He carried them with him, a constant reminder of his past, of his battles, of his survival.

The tumult outside grew louder, but Darragh was unfazed.

He sifted through the papers on the laird’s old desk, discovering documents detailing the brutal war between the MacNeil Clan and the MacLean Clan, a feud that had claimed too many lives. He scanned the faded ink, the reports of battles lost and won, of men who had died far too young. Each document was a piece of the bloody tapestry of their shared history.

A gasp escaped his lips when he read about how Laird MacNeil had kidnapped Laird MacLean’s wife and then murdered her. Now things made more sense, at least he could better understand his former enemy, Harris MacLean’s, reasons for acting as he did. As he set the papers aside, he thanked the heavens the feud was now a part of history, no longer a threat to his clan or the MacNeil Clan.

The dusty tomes lining the shelves beckoned to Darragh like sirens of lore. He trailed his fingers along their cracked spines, tempted to pull one out and unfold its ancient secrets. But his attention snagged on an ornate glimmer peeking out from the shadows.

Darragh nudged aside a pile of books, releasing a puff of dust that danced in the slanted sunlight. Before him stood a metal handle, intricately forged with swirling vines and leaves. It glinted with promise, out of place amid the faded leather covers surrounding it.

Unable to curb his curiosity, Darragh grasped the handle. It was cold and heavy in his palm. He gave it an exploratory tug, and to his surprise, the entire bookcase creaked and swung open, leading into unfathomable darkness.

Darragh’s heartbeat quickened, thudding against his ribs. What mysteries lay shrouded in this clandestine passage? He grabbed the closest lamp, and, steeling himself, Darragh stepped into the shadows, the bookcase grinding shut behind him. Lamp in hand, wary yet undaunted, Darragh delved into the unknown. With a fortifying breath, he followed, one step at a time.

Chapter Two

Six months later
MacNeil’s castle, Scotland

Lara traced the cracks in the stone walls with her eyes, counting each one for the thousandth time. The dim torchlight never changed, marking the endless passage of identical days trapped within these featureless walls. The cell seemed to grow smaller each day, the walls closing in as Lara’s hope faded. Insects crawled among the cracks in the damp stone, feasting on mold and fallen crumbs. Water dripped constantly from the ceiling, pooling in a moldy puddle by the waste bucket in the corner.

Lara spent her days perched on the edge of the thin mattress, too exhausted to move yet unable to sleep. Her skin had grown pale from lack of sunlight, her thin frame weakened by the meager rations she was given. The guards’ jeers and slurs rang in her ears, chipping away at her crumbling resolve.

On her worst days, Lara imagined clawing at the stone walls until her nails cracked and bled. Only the memory of open skies and green hills kept her tethered to consciousness, though the memories seemed to fade with each passing day.

There was nothing but the bed and a few tattered books. Most of the guards were callous, following orders to keep her imprisoned, but one older guard had shown her kindness. Lara noticed how he stealthily slipped her the books, glancing furtively up and down the hallway before shutting the cell door quietly behind him.

His voice was hushed as he muttered, “Something tae keep your mind busy. Dinnae let the others see.” Lara handled the fragile pages with care, gently smoothing out folded corners and wiping dust from the worn covers. They were her only escape from this place, transporting her to faraway lands and adventures through their pages.

Slowly Lara rose from the bed and walked cautiously to the massive door. She placed her ear against the cold metal, listening for any sign that the guards had noticed her movement.

Silence.

She slipped her hand under the thin mattress and withdrew a worn copy of a book she had read so many times the spine was falling apart.

As she sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, chapters and characters floated through her mind, briefly transporting her from the prison cell. Lara devoured every word, committing passages to memory like a mantra to ward off the oppressive solitude. A familiar loud clang interrupted her reading. The slot at the bottom of the door swung open, and a metal tray was shoved through, carrying the day’s meager meal.

Lara shoved the book under her thin dress and pressed it against her stomach, trying to hide the bulge with her arms. As she stood to collect the food tray, the guard’s suspicious gaze raked over her. Lara’s heart hammered as she met his eyes briefly, hoping her fear did not show. Lara breathed an inward sigh of relief when he didn’t seem to suspect anything and moved to eat, desperate to remain invisible to the guards watching her imprisonment.

The guard grunted. “Hurry up in there, would ye? I dinnae have all day.”

Lara ate as quickly as she could, hunger gnawing at her belly.

The guard’s nightstick rapped loudly against the cell door. “Quickly!” he barked.

Lara stiffened at his harsh tone and quickly swallowed the last mouthful of bread. Her hands trembled as she slid the tray back through the slot, a faint quaver in her voice as she muttered, “Here, sir.”

The guard scoffed. “Bet ye’re missing yer cozy hills and bagpipes. Too bad ye’ll be rotting in here forever.”

Lara balled her hands into fists, her bitten nails digging into her palms. She bowed her head to hide the tear welling in her eye, determined not to give in to her sorrow.

The guard sighed irritably. “Ach, quit yer moping.” With that, he slid the slot shut and stalked away, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Lara was left alone in the chilling silence once more, the guard’s harsh words stinging. Curling up on her thin cot, she pulled out the tattered book again and began to read, hoping its pages would offer more kindness than the guard had shown.

After a few pages, she heard a tiny scratching sound. A small rat scurried out from a crack in the stone wall and stopped to nibble on some crumbs on the floor. Lara froze, not daring to move or make a sound. She hated rats, with their beady eyes and twitching noses. But she knew any noise could scare it into attacking her.

The rat looked up and saw Lara staring at it. It tilted its head curiously then went back to eating. Lara slowly turned the page, trying to focus on her reading and ignore the tiny rodent.

The animal finished its meal and started wandering around the cell, investigating Lara’s few belongings. It ran across her blanket then climbed up the bedpost out of sight.

Lara could hear the rodent scurrying above her, sending dust raining down. Her heart pounded as panic crept in. What if it fell on her face while she slept? She thought of the guard’s cruel words and shuddered at the thought of calling for help.

Gripping her book, Lara prayed the rat would leave on its own. She tried reading again but couldn’t focus, anxiously listening for any movement above her. Lara strained to hear the guards’ whispered conversation outside her cell. Snippets of words drifted through the small door slot.

“. . . murdered nearly a week past. Keir’s dead.”

“Violent death . . . a MacDonald I heard.”

The guards moved out of earshot, and Lara sank back on her thin bed, clutching the rough blanket.

So, Laird Keir MacNeil was dead. That snake who had tormented her during her long captivity, depriving her of food and water for days, laughing as she weakened and begged for mercy. The cruel glint in his eye as he inflicted every minor punishment he could devise was carved on her heart.

The rodent scurrying in the corner now went unnoticed. All Lara felt was savage glee that Keir was dead, that his reign of terror over her had at last been brought to an end, albeit not by her own hand.

Curling up on the thin mattress, Lara allowed herself a moment of vicious satisfaction. Keir was gone, and for now that was enough.

Lara pressed her ear to the cell door, listening as the two guards argued in hushed tones outside.

“Without the Laird, who’ll tell us what tae do with the lass?” one guard asked.

“Damned if I ken,” replied the other. “I’m nae acting without orders, that’s for sure.”

They fell silent, and Lara retreated from the door, cursing her confinement. Even with Keir dead, she remained trapped, the guards too fearful to release her without orders from above.

Lara paced the tiny cell, fingers tracing the rough stone walls as she had countless times before. Though Keir NacNeil’s demise brought her satisfaction, it changed nothing about her circumstances. Her freedom remained as elusive as ever.

The guards began conversing again. “She can rot in there for all I care,” said one. The other chuckled darkly.

Lara balled her hands into fists. What little hope she’d gained from her captor’s death faded as the guards’ callous words reached her ears. They would not release her out of decency or pity, but only when commanded from above.

With a sigh, Lara sank down on the thin mattress. She closed her eyes and fell into a light slumber. She was awoken by a sound.

She stared blankly at the stone ceiling above her, not moving an inch as the heavy wooden door slowly creaked open. The grating sound of iron hinges turning echoed off the bare walls. Lara continued gazing upward, eyes half-lidded. She knew with dull certainty it was only the guards, come to bring her meal of stale bread and greasy meat.

The footfalls that entered the cell were heavy, booted—the tread of a large man—yet at the same time surprisingly stealthy. There was no reason to stir, no point in engaging with her captors beyond what was absolutely necessary. So, Lara remained still upon the bed, hands folded limply across her stomach, as the steps drew nearer. She did not so much as turn her head when the figure almost reached her bed.

Then, a pool of light broke through her closed eyelids, forcing them open. Squinting against the unaccustomed glare of what she made out to be an oil lamp, Lara’s heart clamored in her chest as she struggled to make out the stranger’s features. She could tell only that he was tall, with a muscular build. His face was obscured in shadows. But then he held the lamp higher, and his face was revealed in detail. Lara’s pulse quickened, and she gasped at the sight which met her eyes.

A fearsome warrior stood before her, tall, broad chested, occupying most of the cell, and looking as if he could break her in two with one hand. She scampered backwards, seeking protection against the wall, panicking as she took in the intruder’s long, curling fair hair that fell beyond his shoulders and was knotted by a leather thong. Thick, stray locks the color of ripe wheat fell over a pair of gleaming black eyes that were fixed upon her.

For such a frightening figure, his features were surprisingly boyish, his lips firm and well-shaped, the planes of his face angular and perfectly symmetrical, with a strong chin beneath dark stubble. Yet she saw that his handsome looks were somewhat marred by a tracery of scars, clearly marks of past battles, that seamed his face.

Lara recoiled, her back pressing against the cold stone wall. This fearsome stranger was clearly no liberator. She trembled uncontrollably as he approached her where she cowered on the rotten straw, his hulking frame seeming to fill the cell.

He reached out a massive hand, bent, and grasped her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes, his touch surprisingly gentle. Lara choked back a scream, her mind flooding with visions of the unspeakable violence this disfigured giant could inflict upon her helpless form. As she stared up at him, heart hammering wildly, she realized with dread that her nightmare was only just beginning.

Lara’s breath froze in her lungs. Was he here on MacNeil’s orders, to drag her to some new torture?

The man let go of her chin and stood up. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Are ye all right, lass? What are ye doing here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Lara’s eyes snapped wide in surprise at the gentle tone. She studied the scarred face hovering over her, noting the concern in his dark eyes. He was younger than she expected, perhaps only a few years her senior.

“Can ye stand? Here, let me help ye.” He extended a hand cautiously, as if afraid she might startle and flee.

Lara hesitated, then placed her palm in his, allowing him to gently assist her to her feet. His hand was huge and calloused, made for war, but the grip was tender, as if he was mindful of her frailty.

“What’s yer name?” he prompted when she remained silent.

“Lara,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from lack of use.

As the stranger helped her stand, Lara acted on pure instinct born of horror and desperation. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she wrenched away from him and made a frantic bolt for the open cell door. Freedom was so close, just a few strides away.

But the strange man moved with startling speed, catching her arm before she could escape. She cried out in dismay and whirled on him, claws extended to rake his face.

He captured her delicate wrists in his hands, firmly yet gently. “Easy, lass, I’ll nae hurt ye,” he rumbled. Though he could have easily overpowered her, he did not force her compliance.

Chest heaving, Lara stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. She trembled in his grasp like a captured bird. Slowly, he released her hands and stepped back, showing he did not intend to restrain her.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice low and soothing. “I only wish tae help ye leave this place, but if ye run off, the guards will likely catch ye. Now, ye must tell me why ye’re here.”

Lara hesitated, wavering between trust and fear. There was concern in the man’s scarred face, and his touch had been free of malice. Perhaps she had mistaken his intentions. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

“Ye need nae be afraid,” he murmured.

Lara sagged in defeat. Even if she managed to slip past this stranger, she knew the guards outside would recapture her at once. For now, the only hope of freedom lay in listening to what he had to say. And maybe telling him the truth about what had happened to her. But not just yet.

“Why should I trust ye?” she asked, eyeing him doubtfully.

The stranger paused and nodded slightly. “Ye have nae reason to as of yet.” He shifted his massive frame, causing Lara to flinch back instinctively.

“Please, be at ease,” he rasped. “I mean ye nae harm. My name is Darragh, and I’ve come tae set ye free.”

Lara hesitated. Is he sincere? No, I cannae trust him. If he’s saving me as he claims, he’ll surely want something in return. Most likely gold, a ransom from me faither no doubt. “And at what cost are ye saving me?” she challenged him. “What do ye gain from me escape?”

A flash of irritation crossed Darragh’s face before he schooled his features, but it was enough to confirm Lara’s suspicions that he was hiding something. “I gain nothing,” he replied. “I simply wish tae help one in need.”

Lara studied his brutal visage, taking in the hard lines of his jaw, the mesh of scars covering him, and the thick, muscular arms clearly accustomed to inflicting violence. She thought of the cruelty of her captors and how unlikely it seemed that this scarred brute had come to save her merely out of kindness.

As Lara remained silent, Darragh took a step towards her, causing her to flatten herself against the wall. His massive frame filled the door of the tiny cell until she felt like a helpless rabbit in the sights of a hulking predator ready to pounce.

“Come,” he beckoned, extending a hand.

Lara eyed his hand warily, not missing how his tight grip could easily crush her fingers. Though he promised freedom, everything about him spoke of menace and deceit. Lara thought of the guards’ taunts and blows, and wondered if this stranger’s intentions were any less cruel.

His reassuring words swam in Lara’s head like lifeless fish, devoid of meaning. Freedom was an illusion, an empty promise meant to tease her fraying senses.

Yet when she searched his scarred face for any sign of deception, she saw only a guarded sincerity. Perhaps he was not trying to fool her but had his own secrets to keep. Her panic began to subside, to be replaced by a flicker of hope.

“But why are ye freeing me?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Because nae one deserves tae be trapped like this,” Darragh replied.

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Prologue

Glenfinnan, Highlands, 1757

The young woman stood at the top of the cliff with the toes of her boots precariously close to the edge. The wind rippled up the side of the chalk face, buffeting her hair and clothes. It would be so easy to leap off, to try to fly like one of those seagulls that kept flitting by. Around her, heather shivered in that same breeze, abruptly stopping at the edge of the sheer cliff.

The girl craned her neck a little more, bending down to look at the base of the cliff. Far below was the beach, the shingle mere stones and larger jagged rocks that had tumbled down from the cliff. The ocean foamed as it reached the shore, hissing loudly, competing with the sound of the wind.

It was the perfect spot. Behind her, the highland hills grew tall, the green undergrowth lush and thick, hiding her position from the main tracks and roads. No one would know she was here, just as no one would know that Lillie was here either, once she arrived.

The girl looked around her shoulders, searching for Lillie, but there wasn’t any sign of her yet.

“Aye, it has tae be done,” the young woman whispered to herself. It was necessary, that was all, not something she would take pleasure in, but merely something that she could not avoid doing herself.

As the toes of her boots shifted beneath her, some of the loose stones fell away, dropping down the cliff. She stepped back from the edge, watching them drop. It was a long way to fall.

“Well, this is a strange place tae meet, aye?” a voice the woman knew well called to her. She backed up further from the cliff edge and turned to face Lillie.

Tall, beautiful, with long black hair that was pinned into mad curls, Lillie was striking in appearance. Many men had noticed over the years how beautiful she was, but that was soon going to end.

“Are ye well?” Lillie asked hurriedly, her smile fading as she moved toward the young woman. “Ye are worrying me.”

“It is nothing.” The woman shook her head. “I merely wanted some time alone with ye before yer wedding. I am nae sure what chance we will have tae talk after ye are wed.”

“Ah, I cannae tell ye how excited I am.” Lillie giggled and moved past her, walking to the edge of the cliff. She laid a hand to her stomach, smiling as she stared out at the horizon, where the blue ocean mixed with the clouds. “Murdoch and I… we kissed fer the first time last night.”

The young woman nearly retched. She turned away and held her trembling fingers to her lips, doing her best to hide her temptation.

“Aye, that is wonderful,” she forced herself to say. “From yer excitement, I can guess it was a good kiss.”

“Och, I could barely describe it tae ye.” Lillie giggled another time and turned away from the cliffs, walking back toward the girl. She managed to push down her trembling fingers and force a smile. “I cannae tell ye how happy I am.”

“I can see that.” The woman nodded, her cheeks twitching and aching to maintain that smile.

Why Lillie? Why does he have tae marry Lillie of all people?

“I always thought the marriage was tae be one of arrangement,” the woman whispered. “Murdoch’s father wanted an alliance between the clans.”

“Aye, but who are we tae argue with fate when I’m betrothed tae a man such as he.” Lillie smiled and looked away again. Her dark hair moved in the breeze.

The girl lifted a hand, almost taking hold of that hair. She could pull on it, tear it, watch the beautiful locks fall from Lillie’s head and hear her scream. Fortunately, they were so isolated out here that no one would ever hear that scream.

“What do ye think of him?” Lillie asked, turning back so swiftly that the young woman lowered her hand sharply.

“I think…” she swallowed around a lump in her throat, knowing she could not tell the truth.

I love him.

“I think ye two will make a fine match.” Her false answer must have pleased Lillie for she smiled and turned away again.

“It is a beautiful spot here. How come ye wished tae meet here?”

“Let me show ye.” The girl walked forward, beckoning Lillie to join her at the cliff edge. When she put her toes by the last stones, Lillie took her arm.

“Be careful. It is beautiful here but also dangerous.”

“Aye, I ken.” The young woman curled her finger then pointed down at the water. “Look. Tell me what ye see.”

Lillie bent forward over the cliff edge, her dark brows furrowing as she stared at the ocean.

“I see the beach. That is all.”

“Look further,” the young woman urged.

As Lillie stretched her neck out, the girl saw her chance. She took a small step back then thrust into Lillie’s shoulders, trying to push her over the cliff.

“What are ye doing –?” Lillie cried and struggled on the edge. She reached back to the girl, gripping her, trying to stay up.

The young woman fought harder. Maybe Lillie was taller, but she was stronger. She took hold of Lillie’s elbows, grappling and tussling.

“What? Why are ye doing this? Nay. Nay!” Lillie screamed as the woman stamped down on her foot. It dislodged Lillie’s footing on the cliff edge. She toppled backward, falling out into the open air as the woman released her and scurried back.

She saw Lillie disappear, falling through the air, but she hung back. She couldn’t bear to see the impact on the beach. There were a few seconds of dead air, the scream piercing, competing with the cries of the gulls and the cormorants that had made their nests within the cliffs, then there was a loud thud and the shout stopped dead.

Slowly, the young woman stepped forward, moving back to the edge of the cliff. Lillie had landed on the beach. Her head was turned at an unnatural angle, her hair wild about her ears and her skirt tangling in the wind.

“Now, there will be nay wedding.”

Chapter One

Chattan Castle, Highlands, 1762

“Are ye certain ye wish me tae read this?” Ian asked, waving the letter in the air.

“Aye,” Murdoch said gravely as he pulled out a fresh shirt from the oak coffer and moved to the standing looking glass to see his own reflection.

“One of these days, I could just teach ye tae read, ye ken that?” Ian’s voice was soft, the kind of tone that he only ever showed Murdoch behind closed doors. In public, Ian was always loud and jesting, constantly smiling, even more so since he had married his wife Aila, the year before.

“I ken, but when would ye have time?” Murdoch said, forcing the jest from his lips. “Ye spend so many hours of yer day with that wife of yers.” He glanced in the mirror’s reflection, looking at his friend.

Ian laughed, tipping his head back and making the dark blond hair around his ears dance.

“Well, I could hardly argue that she is easy tae stay away from, could I?”

They smiled together as Murdoch fidgeted with his shirt in his hands. He’d since discovered that when Aila had first come to the Laird Chattan’s castle, the Laird being Ian’s brother Noah, that she’d had something of a liking for Murdoch.

I never could return that affection. Nay, I will never care for a woman again.

In the end, everything had worked out for the best. Aila and Ian had grown closer and fallen in love. In his darkest moments Murdoch might admit he felt some envy over their happiness together, but it always lasted only a short while. It wasn’t the kind of happiness he could have in his own life.

“Right, here we go, I’ll read it fer ye.” Ian waved the letter in the air then cleared his throat, as if preparing to give some great speech as an orator.

Murdoch paused with his shirt, looking at his own reflection in the mirror. The scars on his broad chest were strongly visible in the evening light, the white gashes slashing across his skin. He seemed to get scars readily these days and had barely survived some of the wounds he’d received these last few years, but he was a soldier, and they were his occupational hazard.

Hurrying to pull the shirt on over his head, he looked at the black hair that curled at his temple, wild and refusing to lay flat and neat. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair, and he’d seen more than one person in his life leap back from him when they looked in his eyes, afraid of him.

“Are ye listening?” Ian called.

“Nay. My apologies, please, read again.” Murdoch didn’t want people to know he couldn’t read. It was an embarrassment, and Ian was one of the only two people in this world who knew Murdoch had never been taught, the other being Ian’s brother, Laird Noah Chattan, the man Murdoch fought for as one of his clan soldiers.

“Ye are distracted,” Ian said, walking across the chamber and moving toward Murdoch as he pulled a waistcoat over his shoulders. “Would it have something tae dae with admiring yer reflection?” Ian teased him with a chuckle.

“More like wanting tae run and hide from it.” Murdoch turned his back on the mirror and waved a hand impatiently at Ian. “What does it say?”

Ian cleared his throat once more and turned his attention to the letter.

“‘My son, it is time ye came home. I ken these last five years havenae been easy. The wee man above us all only kens what ye have felt after all that happened tae ye, but we cannae run from our ghosts ferever. At least now I have good news tae tell ye, good news that I hope ye will come home tae celebrate.

Yer brother Clyde is returning from war, serving our king, at last. Upon his return, we will celebrate his betrothal tae Harper, and the two families shall be joined at last. Through the alliance of the clans, our own will be stronger…” Ian trailed off and lowered the letter.

Murdoch winced, looking at his friend who he had often considered like a brother.

“Dinnae look at me like that,” Murdoch said, shaking his head.

“Like what? Like I am seeing ye fer the first time?” Ian stepped forward, brandishing the letter between them as if it were a weapon. “Ye have a brother, Murdoch!? Ye never said that.”

“I have been praying he was still alive ever since he went tae war. We havenae seen each other in a long time.”

“Why would ye keep this a secret? Why nae tell me?” Ian asked, walking around Murdoch as he took some boots out of a coffer and sat down on the lid, pulling them on.

“I have told ye some secrets,” Murdoch said, his voice growing deeper. “Is that nae enough? Ye ken more than most, Ian.”

“Aye, aye, I ken that.” Ian looked away, brushing a hand into his fair hair in plain stress. “I ken ye have yer demons, but this? Why keep such a secret?”

“Something tells me ye are going tae be even angrier when ye see who has signed that letter.”

“It is from yer father, aye, I read that…” Ian’s voice faded as he looked down at the bottom of the letter. Murdoch had hinted to Ian when they had first met five years ago that he was the son of a laird. What he hadn’t explained was which laird his father was. “Laird Maclean? Murdoch!” Ian moved swiftly across the room.

Murdoch leapt over the coffer, a chuckle escaping him when he saw the shock on his friend’s face.

“I’m reminded of our sword fight the other day. Ye looked ready tae kill me then as well.”

“We were parrying, though I’m tempted tae hurt ye now,” Ian said, chasing him around the coffer. “Ye kept this a secret!?”

“Nae exactly. I just told ye I didnae like talking about my past, and ye eventually stopped asking.”

“Aye, I can see what a fool I was now tae dae that! Tell me this. Are ye the eldest son? Or is it yer brother, Clyde?” Ian asked, waving the letter in the air. Murdoch winced, not needing to say the words for Ian to understand. “In the name of God. Wait until Noah hears we have another heir tae a lairdship under our roof.”

“I’ve been avoiding that truth fer a long time, Ian. Ye can guess well enough why that is, can ye nae?” Murdoch caught his eye as they stopped their cat and mouse game either side of the coffer. Ian’s humored smile fell away, and he grimaced, the lines of his long face contorting painfully.

Ian knew to a certain degree why Murdoch was haunted. Once, after a heavy amount of ale and whisky, Murdoch had revealed to his friend how he had been betrothed many years before. All he’d revealed to Ian was that he had lost her. Ian knew no more.

It was Murdoch’s greatest secret that his betrothed, Lillie, had been found at the bottom of a cliff a day before they were due to get married. What was clear from the torn gown and the bruises she bore was that she had been pushed.

It was murder.

An image appeared in his mind. Lillie had been stunning, and her beauty was not the only thing endearing about her. Kind, confident, and always buoyant, she easily charmed people. Murdoch had never thought of himself as being in love with her, but he was so fond of her at the time, it wouldn’t have surprised him if he would have one day fallen in love with her, but he never got the chance to find out. That future was snatched away from him by a murderer that had never been found.

After Lillie was killed, much had changed.

“What happened, Murdoch? Truly,” Ian said, stepping toward him, that soft tone appearing again. “After ye lost yer betrothed.”

“I left.” Murdoch’s answer was simple as he pulled on his open doublet over his shoulders. He kept the whole truth to himself. His father, Laird Fergus Maclean still wanted an alliance between his clan and the Grants, so his brother was betrothed to Lillie’s sister, Harper. Yet the shadows were cast over them all. Murdoch came to the Chattans to fight for a cause he believed in, and Clyde went to war for the king. His marriage was postponed until he returned, which seemed to be now – five years later.

Murdoch turned away, moving to check his appearance in the mirror once more. His gaze turned away from the heavy lines of his face and he looked toward the letter in Ian’s hand.

“Ye keep many secrets, me friend.” Ian approached and folded up the letter, passing it back into Murdoch’s grasp. “Yer father begs fer yer presence fer the wedding. He talks of healing old wounds and rifts.”

Murdoch took the letter and held it delicately, his fingers pressed against the parchment.

“So? Will ye go?” Ian asked.

Murdoch slowly nodded. Perhaps it was time to face the ghosts of the past after all. And above all – he missed his brother.

“Dae me a favor,” Ian whispered in Murdoch’s ear as they entered the great hall. The table had been laid out grandly for dinner, with vast trenchers of food presented. The scents of cooked chicken and spices hung in the air. The fragrance of clove-scented red wine hovered the most, and Murdoch reached for the nearest pewter jug full of the wine as he reached the table. He was in need of a strong drink.

“What is that?” Murdoch asked his friend.

“At least smile a little,” Ian elbowed him good-naturedly, trying to rouse a little one from him. “Ye’d think yer face had been turned tae stone.”

Murdoch forced himself so much that Ian chuckled.

“On second thoughts, ye were better as ye were.”

Murdoch smiled genuinely this time, though it didn’t last long. He took his seat at the table, so busy thinking of that letter that he scarcely paid attention to who else was there for dinner.

I have tae go back. I have tae face Lillie’s family again.

Turning his focus to the table, Murdoch looked around at the other diners. At the head of the table was Laird Noah Chattan, with his wife, Scarlett, and their son, Aiden, in her lap, although he was soon to be taken to bed. Growing older, the boy could now sit up and chew on the chunks of chicken that Scarlett put into his hands, but still they preferred to keep him away from noisy places like this. Beside Laird Chattan was Ian, and next to him his wife, Aila. On the far side of the table was Avery, Scarlett’s brother, and his wife, Callie, Aila’s sister. It was one crazy family, Murdoch had to admit. Callie’s other sister, Fiadh, sat at the foot of the table, and beside her was Elliot, Murdoch’s fellow soldier and a good friend.

The connections around the table were complicated, and had not only been formed by the love that connected the married couples, but also the trials and dangers that had thrust these people into one another’s paths. Murdoch had been a part of it all, watching the various times his friends had come close to death. Some of those trials were the reasons he bore so many scars today.

There was another at the table that Murdoch was reluctant to look at. Slowly and delicately, she sat down beside Murdoch.

Ah, Eloise.

She was Scarlett’s twin sister. They bore the same rich auburn hair, the bright, even icy, blue eyes, and the petite features. Excessively pretty, she was hard to look away from once Murdoch allowed himself to sneak a peek.

She is Lady Scarlett’s sister. Aye, she is out of bounds.

Yet there were other reasons Murdoch did not want himself to be attracted to Eloise. He’d vowed never to consider a woman in his life again, after what had happened to Lillie. And there was also the matter of Eloise’s character.

She was so refined, well spoken, and well-mannered that Murdoch felt like an illiterate and bumbling fool of a soldier next to her. More than once her small nose had wrinkled in conversations between them.

Clearly, she thinks me a bampot.

“Well, how are ye, Callie?” Lady Scarlett called from the head of the table. “God kens I struggled with my sickness when I was carrying Aiden. How are ye faring?”

“Ugh,” Callie grimaced, making many around the table chuckled, apart from her husband, Avery, who looked at her with concern. “Me stomach turns just at the sight of all this food. Do me a favor, Eloise.” She pushed the trenchers away from herself and toward Eloise on the opposite side of the table. “Take it all away from me.”

“With pleasure,” Eloise assured her, her pronunciation so perfect that Murdoch sighed under his breath.

Why does she have tae be so perfect all the time?

It infuriated him. He stabbed his knife at the chicken on his plate a little more harshly than he had intended.

“How are the soldiers’ drills progressing?” Laird Chattan asked of his brother. Ian eagerly nodded, looking to Murdoch for his agreement.

“Well, although some of the men arenae used tae fighting yet when they’re exhausted.”

“Aye, their stamina needs improving,” Murdoch said, reaching for the trencher of saffron-soaked leeks that Eloise passed him. When their fingers brushed on the bowl, she pulled back sharply, and he had to tighten his hold on the bowl to stop it from falling. He glanced at her, sensing how much she looked down at him, for she could not even bear his touch.

She refused to look at him but stared down at her trencher instead.

Murdoch could never understand why people confused Eloise and Scarlett. To Murdoch’s mind, they were entirely different, even though they were twins. Scarlett was spirited in character, sometimes even overbearing, whereas Eloise was quiet and timid like a mouse, so concerned with modesty and decorum that she often times looked stern. It was an expression he had never seen in Lady Scarlett’s face.

“We need tae run drills with the men,” Murdoch continued on, returning his focus to Ian and Laird Chattan. “Wake them at the middle of the night and make them run their drills. Aye, that should do it.”

“Then it’s settled.” As Laird Chattan turned to his brother to make the arrangements, Murdoch caught sight of Eloise shifting in her seat.

“In the middle of the night…” she said under her breath.

“I beg yer pardon?” He turned to look at her, his voice lowered to a whisper.

“In the middle of the night,” Eloise said simply, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. She smiled, as if it were only natural for her to correct his grammar.

Murdoch sat back, losing interest in his food as he gazed at her.

“I dinnae remember asking for a teacher, Eloise,” he said sharply. No one else at the table seemed to notice their conversation, for they were all laughing at some tale Ian was telling about the soldiers.

“I wasnae being a teacher. I was assisting ye.” She reached for her goblet of wine and lifted it to her lips, but evidently finding it empty she lowered it, her brow wrinkling as she stared into the cup.

“Then I didnae ask for assistance.”

“What is so wrong in that?” She looked up at him from the goblet. “I wouldnae mind if ye corrected me on how tae use a dagger.”

“That feeble thing.” He thrust a finger down at the dagger she always wore at her hip. He’d noticed it many times, wondering why a fine lady such as she felt the need to wear a dagger even in a room like this.

Nay one here would hurt her. Does she wear it out of habit?

“That doesnae even deserve the name dagger or dirk. It could be snapped in two.”

“Ye give yer opinion very decidedly.”

“Strange, I was just thinking the same about ye.” He held her gaze. Usually, he stayed quiet at events such as this. Ian, Elliot, Avery and Noah were the ones he talked to most, but Eloise seemed to have drawn something out of him tonight.

“Something is wrong with ye this evening,” she said, her cheeks blushing crimson red as she bent her head forward and reached for the pewter jug on the table. He reached for it at the same time, ready to top up his own goblet. Their hands collided on the jug, and she pulled back sharply.

“Aye, apparently there is something wrong with ye too. Worried me touch will burn ye, Eloise?” he asked, snatching up the jug to top up his wine. He topped up hers first, watching as her lips pursed together. “Let me guess. I am pouring the wine wrong now too.”

“I didnae say that.”

Murdoch looked away, replacing the jug on the table. He was hardly going to admit to Eloise that she was right, that something more was upsetting him.

I dinnae wish tae go home, though I ken I must.

He had no choice but to return home for Clyde’s wedding, even though he feared the consequences. If he returned, he didn’t doubt his father would demand it was time he married, something he could not contemplate.

I must avoid it. At any cost!

Murdoch realized that Eloise was staring at him. He jerked his head sharply toward her only to see her blushing and abruptly looking away.

“Ye think me rude fer correcting ye,” she whispered.

“And ye think me an idiot.” His sharp tongue had her staring at him again, wide eyed.

What is wrong with me tonight?

“Nay, are ye serious?” Ian laughed loudly about something, capturing Murdoch’s attention. He turned around, trying to shake himself free of Eloise’s arresting gaze. “What women are these?”

Murdoch sat forward, trying to understand the conversation he had mostly missed.

“I dinnae ken.” Noah laughed too, shaking his head. “I have it on good authority from the guards that there are such women in this clan. They offer their services as escorts tae men in need of company. They act as wives, sisters, ye name it. It helps men tae hide their secrets.”

“How exciting!” Elliot declared from the other side of the table, rubbing his hands together. “Where does one find such women?”

“Down, Elliot,” Laird Chattan said with a laugh. “We all ken what secrets ye have in mind when it comes tae women.”

As all around the table laughed, Murdoch sat back, an idea occurring to him. Perhaps there was a way to avoid being thrust into a marriage by his father. He had to appear as if he was already married.

Aye, where would a man find one of these women tae act out a part?

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