Author: Shona Thompson

Prologue

Loch Naver, Scotland, 1511 A.D.

Katherine Morgan stood on the shores of Loch Naver, skipping stones across the water’s surface. She turned around to see her mother lying on a plaid in the summer sun, reading a book of poetry. The light glistened in her hair, forming a halo around her head. Katherine stared at her in awe. She was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Everyone said so. The child turned to look at her reflection in the calm water. She was remarkably similar to her mother, but she bore little, if any, resemblance to her father. Her hair was long and hazel brown, her eyes a bright emerald green. Her face was flawless, with perfectly proportioned petite features.

Hearing a sound from behind her, Katherine turned to look at her mother once more. She stood up and turned to smile at her daughter. The breeze floated her lavender scent to Katherine’s nose, and she smiled back. She found everything about her mother comforting, from the warm brown of her eyes to the lovely lavender aroma that enveloped her with every hug. Even though there was a slight sadness about her that Katherine had long sensed, an air of mystery. But her mother was strong in spirit and possessed a beautiful heart. To Katherine’s mind, she was perfect.

“I must return to where we left the horses to fetch our food. Dinnae go near the water, my love. I will be back soon,” her mother said. They had ridden from their castle in Strathnaver and tied their horses near where the River Naver enters Loch Naver. They had then proceeded on foot until they found the perfect spot for their outing together.

Katherine smiled and nodded, waving her little hand in confirmation that she had heard her words and would obey. She watched her mother disappear, then turned to skip another small stone across the water’s surface. She felt happy because she was getting better at it. It was not the first time her mother had left her to play alone while she disappeared for brief periods. Being a compliant child, Katherine had never followed her, but she always wondered where she went on her walks.

The little girl watched the small stones bouncing off before sinking into the water and was mesmerized by the sun’s rays dancing on the surface. She had instinctively closed her eyes at the bright light when she was suddenly pushed forward into the water and dragged under. Katherine felt a rough hand holding her head beneath the water’s surface as she struggled to free herself. But her tiny six-year-old body could not fight her way free of her attacker and could feel her lungs burning with the lack of air. For one brief moment, her head broke above the surface and she gulped in a mouthful of air. The scent of lavender oil filled her nostrils as the sound of her mother’s sobs fell upon her ears before her head was thrust once more beneath the water and she lost all consciousness. Her last thoughts were of her mother.

Why?

Chapter One

Strathnaver, Scotland, 1526 A.D.

The scent of lavender floated through the air, water filled her lungs, and darkness overtook her senses. Katherine sat straight up in bed, shivering, and cried out for her mother to stop. Tears were falling down her cheeks and she was struggling to breathe. “It is a dream, lass, nae more,” said the nun who emerged from the darkness with a candle and a quaich of tea. “I heard ye screaming in the night once more and thought ye might need this.” She handed her the tea and sat on the edge of the bed until Katherine was calm.

“It was so real. It is always so real. It is as if I am drowning all over again,” said Katherine.

“But it was too long ago. Yer mother is gone and cannae hurt ye any longer,” said the nun softly, smoothing back her hair and making reassuring humming sounds.

When Katherine had regained consciousness all those years ago, she had found her mother dead on the ground and her father pulling her safely up into his arms. From that day forward, she had never been the same. She had lost every memory of the incident and her life before that. Soon after, her father had sent her to live with the nuns as Katherine’s face was a constant reminder of the wife he had lost. He never overcame the tragic circumstances of her death. And with his wife, he had also lost his faith and trust in people. Katherine had rarely visited her family home for the holidays and special clan gatherings until the king summoned her to be wed to the Viking beast of the Orkney Islands.

Now her father was rotting in the king’s prison for his fraudulent and violent crimes against the king and Clan Leòideach. Instead of obeying the king and marrying Katherine to Laird Leòideach, her father had killed a band of traveling Romani, kidnapped their young women, and forced one of them to wed the laird in Katherine’s place. Katherine had known nothing of the violence that her father had unleashed on her. She had believed the Romani woman to be a willing party to the deception, enjoying the benefits of marrying a laird. She had not known that her father, Alistair Morgan, held the woman’s sisters captive upon threat of death. It had been a daunting realization that he was capable of such violence, but Katherine owed him her life, and as his daughter, she owed him her loyalty.

When her father had been arrested and imprisoned, he entrusted one of his men with the control and protection of the clan until he would be released or Katherine would wed. But she had returned to the nunnery; it was the only place she had ever felt safe. With the anguish of everything that had happened during and after the battle with Clan Leòideach, Katherine’s nightmares had returned.

“Now that ye are feeling better, I should tell ye that a letter has come for ye,” said Sister Isla. The nun handed her an envelope with the king’s wax seal stamp.

“Is it about my father?” Katherine asked.

“I dinnae ken, lass. I didnae open it as it was formally addressed tae ye,” replied the nun. “I willnae take the candle, ye will need it.” Then she arose and took back the empty quaich of tea, leaving the room to give her some privacy.

Katherine took a deep breath, preparing for whatever might lie beneath the king’s seal. She prayed that it was not anything bad about her father. She broke open the wax seal and unfolded the note. It was a summons. As she was reading, Katherine felt her skin prickle with fear and bile rise to her throat.

She was to be wed in exchange for her father’s freedom; this time, the king himself would be a witness. This time there was no way out. The king had sent men to the nunnery with orders to deliver the letter to Katherine and take her to him with all haste, and according to the letter, they were waiting outside.
She had to leave now.

***

Orkney Islands, Scotland

Tor Leòideach lay in bed staring at the ceiling above him. His favorite mistress was beside him, soft and pliant, breathing gently in her sleep. As the laird’s brother and commander of the clansmen, he could have lain with any woman he wished, but Sophie was the best. She always gave him what he needed and never asked for anything in return. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement and she knew how to be discreet. The only inconvenience about her was that she would immediately fall asleep after they were intimate, so he could seldom bring her to his chamber. It was not a secret that he had mistresses. Still, since his older brother, Dunn Leòideach, had had an unfortunate problem with his own before marrying his wife, Tor was attempting to avoid any such entanglements of jealousy and rage.

At least it worked out for Dunn. He loves his wife. I willnae allow myself that luxury.

Dunn had been commanded to wed Katherine Morgan, daughter of Alistair Morgan, despite the long-standing feud between Clan Morgan and Clan Leòideach. When Alistair Morgan had received the news that his daughter was to be wed to Dunn, he replaced her with a Romani woman named Katarina Buckland on the day of the wedding. Fortunately, Dunn had fallen in love with her and they were now happily married.

The king, however, furious at Alistair Morgan’s defiance, had ordered Tor to wed Lady Katherine in his brother’s stead. Tor had fought it at first, but the king had threatened him that if he had not obeyed, what little had remained of his clan’s lands and wealth would have been forfeited. So, despite his bitterness and frustration, Tor resigned and agreed to marry his mortal enemy’s daughter for the sake of his clan.

I refuse tae live with Clan Morgan. The king may command me tae wed its heiress, but I willnae live there. It is enough that I must deliver my soul tae the devil, I need nae surrender my manhood as well.

There was a quiet tap at the door. Rising carefully from his bed so as not to awaken Sophie, he put on his trews and walked over to the door. His brother, Dunn, stood waiting with a somber look on his face. “Whisky?” he asked, cocking his head toward the hall.

“Aye,” Tor nodded and grabbed his shirt from the floor before following his brother. Descending the stairs, the brothers walked together into the great hall. They approached the large fireplace and sat in front of the subdued blaze.

Dunn poured them both a drink and said in a sad voice, “I am sorry.” His eyes showed his sincerity. “I never meant for ye tae be punished for my actions.”

Tor shook his head. “Katarina is a worthy wife. The love that ye share with her now reminds me of our parents’ love. And it is rare. Ye are nae responsible for the actions of Alistair Morgan or the Crown,” he said.

“It does nae make me feel any less guilty for it,” said Dunn. “It was my duty and I didnae fulfill it.”

“There is nae need for ye tae feel guilty, brother. Ye didnae ken that at the time. Regardless of how it happened, now ye and Katarina are happy and bound by God. It is nae longer yer duty tae perform. Enjoy yer wife and leave me tae deal with my duty,” said Tor.

Dunn studied Tor’s face for a moment before nodding. “As ye say, but ye are nae alone in this. Katarina and I will aid ye in any way that we can. After what Lady Katherine did for us to help end the battle and bring her father to justice, she has earned the right to some respect,” said Dunn.

Tor nodded slowly in thought. “Aye, that was brave of her, I grant ye. Foolish but brave,” he said.

“Perhaps there is hope?” Dunn asked, his brows raised more as a prayer than a question.

“Perhaps, but I would nae place my faith in it. It is a marriage of political necessity. Without it, we lose all that is left to us,” said Tor.

Dunn nodded. “Let us pray that it brings an end to the Crown’s animosity.”

The soft patter of footsteps heralded the arrival of Dunn’s wife, Katarina. Both brothers smiled when they saw her cradling her pregnant belly. She came forward and kissed her husband. “I missed ye in our bed, husband,” she said and smiled at him sweetly. She then turned her smile to Tor, her eyes full of sympathy. “I am greatly pleased that the king allowed ye to return for Lammastide. It is wonderful to have everyone together,” she said.

“The king gave me a year’s reprieve from my forced marriage on condition that I did as his regent asked and performed mercenary duties as required. I could nae refuse. A year more of freedom was too much of a temptation, but that time has come and gone. My time of service to the king is done and I am to settle. I must leave at dawn for Edinburgh. The king will be present to oversee my marriage to Lady Katherine Morgan,” said Tor.

“Does the lass ken that she is tae wed ye? We have nae seen nor heard of her since the battle,” Dunn asked, taking his wife’s hand and bringing it to his lips. He had come close to losing her that day.

Tor shook his head. “The Crown forbade me tae go tae her and speak with her about it. The king’s regent said he would do what needed tae be done. I was simply tae obey or else risk everything that has remained to us,” he said.

Dunn shook his head. “The poor lass.”

“I can only assume that she will be as displeased as I am about the arrangement,” Tor said.

The sound of more masculine footsteps sounded on the hall floor, making them all turn to see who else was awake at such a late hour. Andrew came striding across the floor to Katarina’s side; his brow furrowed in worry. He looked at her sternly and said, “What are ye doing out of bed? Ye should be resting,” he said to her.

Dunn and Tor exchanged an amused smile. Andrew was the baby’s godfather and took his duties very seriously. His brother, Bran, had died attempting to save Katarina’s life. To honor his memory, if the baby was a boy, they would name him Bran.

“I could say the same of ye,” Katarina raised an accusing brow. Andrew had been injured breaking up a fight between two men at the Lammastide feast, and Katarina had tended to his wounds.

The man gestured toward the bandage around his leg. “Ye sewed me up just fine, dinnae worry about it. It was nae my fault, anyway. I was doing my duty and ensuring all was well,” Andrew said with a smirk.

Katarina smiled at him fondly and said, “Indeed, all is well. It is Tor that ye should be concerned for.”

Andrew turned a sympathetic eye to Tor. “I am sorry tae hear of yer fate, lad. It is nae fair or right what ye are being asked tae do. Ye willnae hold it against me that I held a knife tae Lady Katherine’s throat at the battle, will ye?” he asked.

Tor shook his head. “Nae, I willnae. Ye are the reason we were able tae bring our people home. We all could have died that day if ye had nae done what ye did. Ye dinnae owe me an apology of any kind. How my new wife will feel about it, I cannae say,” he said shrugging his shoulders.

Andrew nodded in acceptance. “I only did what any of ye would have done if ye had the opportunity.”

Katarina moved to sit down in one of the chairs. “We are eternally grateful tae ye, Andrew,” she said.

Giving up on the idea of getting Katarina to go back to bed, Andrew joined them and sat down across from her. Turning to Dunn, he held his gaze in concern. “Have ye told the clan of the lass Tor is to wed?” he asked him.

Dunn shook his head. “Nae, only a few trustworthy men ken. We will inform the clan once it is done. Right now, there is nae reason tae complicate things. They will ken when it is unavoidable. Our people’s animosity toward Clan Morgan has grown exponentially since they attacked our island and our subsequent battle at Strathnaver. Lady Katherine attempted to aid us, but that willnae suffice for the majority of our clansmen,” he answered.

Andrew shook his head. “Nae, it willnae. Though it has been over a year since the battle, upon my return from Rome, it was made clear to me that the rumblings have yet to die down. The Crown should have killed the bastard Alistair Morgan and been done with it instead of keeping him alive in prison. Many fear that he will be released and return to continue his former atrocities,” he said.

“I worry about her, though,” Katarina cut in with a frown of concern. “It is not a simple matter tae wed a stranger, especially if that stranger is yer family’s sworn enemy. It is not easy tae leave behind everything ye have ever known and join yer life tae another’s. Have ye told the king that ye have no intention of living in the Clan Morgan castle?”

Tor shook his head. “I have nae. I dinnae intend tae tell him anything that I dinnae have tae,” he answered.

“It is wise tae avoid being defiant, it could come with unforeseen consequences,” Dunn warned.

Tor nodded slowly. “Aye, it could, but I am hoping that my recent work for the Crown has earned me some goodwill. It is nae enough tae remedy for the bad blood between us completely, but it is a start,” he said.

“Yer father and grandfather stood for what they thought was right. They would nae have wished such hardships upon ye, but I ken that they would be proud of ye. My father often spoke of yer grandfather’s feats in battle. He was proud to fight by his side,” said Andrew.

Dunn and Tor nodded together, sharing a look of understanding. They had lost everything and were now building new lives for themselves, but it was not easy. “Aye, they were good men,” Dunn agreed, pulling Katarina up from her chair and into his arms.

Tor smiled at the sight of them together and his mind turned to what awaited him above the stairs. “I will try to sleep for whatever remains of the night,” he said and stood up. Tor bid them all a good rest and returned to the warm embrace of Sophie. Tomorrow he would be a married man.

Chapter Two

Strathnaver, Scotland

Katherine packed what few belongings she had with her to the nunnery and stepped out into the corridor, where the nuns stood lined up to bid her farewell. Dawn had not yet crested the horizon, but even the most elderly among them had arisen to see her off. She would miss them dearly. She hugged each nun, spoke a few kind words, then walked out into the predawn shadows. The king’s men stood waiting for her impatiently.

“How do we ken that this is the true Lady Katherine Morgan?” one of them asked, eyeing her with distrust.

Katherine stood to her full height, straightened her shoulders, and said, “I am Lady Katherine Morgan.”

“The king will ken the truth of it,” said one of them. The one who seemed to be in charge of the other two motioned for her to climb atop a horse. When she did not move fast enough to please him, the other two lifted her off the ground and placed her roughly upon the saddle.

“The king would nae approve of such rough treatment,” Katherine chastised them, even though her pride was more bruised than her body.

“The king gave nae command to be gentle. He only ordered tae bring ye to him, whether ye were willing or nae,” the man in charge said, grabbing her horse’s reins and urging his own horse forward.

The journey to Edinburgh was challenging and long. The men only stopped to water their horses. They spent the first night in Inverness at an inn where Katherine had been assigned a room, forbidding her from leaving, and a man stood guard outside her room all night. Until the next morning, she only saw the innkeeper’s wife, who brought her supper and then quickly left. The men awoke her before dawn and continued their journey all day and into the night before finally arriving at their destination.

When she arrived in Edinburgh, she was taken to the King’s Castle and shown to a chamber. Maids undressed her and bathed her, scrubbing her thoroughly. Despite how she had been treated since leaving the nunnery, Katherine kept her tongue. She only wanted to get through it. It was humiliating and degrading, and she was powerless to stop it. Her father’s life was in the hands of the king. Katherine must obey his every command or risk being orphaned entirely.

Once the women had finished washing her, they helped her put on a nightgown, and the oldest woman ushered her into bed. “Rest now, lass. Upon the morn, ye will be wed.”

Katherine finally found her voice. “Who am I to wed?” she asked.

“That is nae mine to ken, lass.”

“Well, it is mine, but I still dinnae ken,” Katherine retorted in distress.

The older woman studied her face briefly, then patted her arm and said, “Aye, ye should ken, but alas, many girls are nae allowed such knowledge until it is too late.” Pulling the covers under Katherine’s chin, the woman moved toward the door. “Rest, the morn will come before ye are ready.” With her words hanging in the air between them, the woman left the chamber and closed the door behind her.

Katherine lay there in the silent, low light of the fire and wept until sleep finally claimed her.

***

Edinburgh, Scotland

Tor stood in the king’s chapel awaiting his bride. Footsteps sounded in the hallway behind him and he turned to see a priest enter the room. “I am here to hear yer confession, my son,” he said.

Tor complied and knelt to confess his sins. In defiance of being forced to marry a woman he did not want, he gave the priest a colorful rendition of his usual confession. After hearing everything, the priest simply nodded and gave him a stern look before absolving him of his sins and assigning him penance. His anger had given way to resignation.

He heard a commotion in the hallway a few minutes later, and the king, his regent, and various other royal household members entered the chapel. They all sat down after greeting Tor with a nod. He rose and bowed before the king, who acknowledged the bow and took his place of prominence. At that moment, his bride appeared and stood in the doorway.

Tor’s jaw almost dropped to the ground. He’d never seen her before as he had been outside the castle walls during the battle. She was stunning, with hazel brown hair that sparkled in the candlelight, her eyes were a beautiful bright emerald green. Her complexion was impeccable. Her features were all perfectly proportioned. A more beautiful woman he had never seen.

It is nae wonder Morgan chose Katarina as Katherine’s replacement in her marriage to Dunn. They are very much alike in nearly every aspect. They could pass as sisters.

Tor shook his head to clear his mind. He had heard that she was beautiful, but nothing had prepared him for how his body and mind would respond to her presence. He saw a flicker of fear and doubt enter her eyes and he stepped forward, offering her his hand in reassurance. “My Lady,” he murmured, then bowed and kissed her hand. “Shall we?” With a curt nod from his bride, they both turned to face the priest.

***

Katherine awoke with a start to find a bevy of maids surrounding her bed, each holding an item of clothing. “My lady,” the kind older woman from the night before greeted her. “It is yer wedding day.”

Sighing, Katherine arose and let the women undress and redress her. She had not even been given the courtesy of bringing her breakfast. The king and his regent must be in a hurry. She still did not understand what the Crown had to gain from that marriage, as she still did not know who her husband was to be. She had narrowly escaped being wed to the Viking beast of the Orkney Islands. She assumed that anyone would be better, judging by the things she had heard about him. She had never cared for men who kept many mistresses or reveled in being so infamous. The stories her father had told her about Laird Leòideach and his family were filled with violence and hatred.

Once dressed, the maids brushed her hair and placed a silver circlet upon her head. One of them held up a polished piece of metal for her to see her reflection. The dress was lovely. Whoever had created it had been kind enough to consider Katherine’s heritage. It was a lovely Morgan blue, with silver thread vined through the fabric in beautiful flowing lines. “Thank ye for yer kindness,” she murmured, resigned to make the best of her situation. Her marriage was the only thing to save her father from death. If she wed, he would be free. In the end, that was all that mattered to her.

Squaring her shoulders, Katherine turned and left her chamber to find the king’s men waiting for her. “If ye will follow me, my lady,” one of the men stepped forward and offered her his hand to lead her to the chapel.

Katherine hesitantly accepted his hand and followed him down the corridor, down a set of stairs, out through a courtyard, and into a small stone chapel. Inside, she found the king, the king’s regent, their families, and the largest man she had ever seen aside from Dunn Leòideach. The man could have passed as his twin were it not for the lack of a large scar down the side of his face. This Viking beast had long blond hair with a single small braid down the front, sharp icy blue eyes, and muscles that bulged through his clothes from his arms and legs. His shoulders were broad and he towered over her in height.

The giant of a man stepped forward and took her hand to kiss it. “My Lady,” he murmured for her ears alone. “Shall we?”

Fear and something else she did not understand challenged her senses, giving her goosebumps. Unable to do anything else, she took his hand and let him lead her to the priest. The feel of his skin was warm and firm. His hand could have easily swallowed hers whole, however, he exhibited nothing but gentleness. How a man of his apparent brute strength could be so gentle, she knew not. In a daze of fear and wonder, she had not realized that the priest was already speaking to them.

“Repeat after me, my son.” The priest took a deep breath and then began. “I, Tor Leòideach, take thee, Lady Katherine Morgan, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”

The man nodded and turned to face her, meeting her eyes. Then he repeated the priest’s words.

Katherine felt a cold numbness pass over her as the realization of what they were doing fully washed over her. If she were to be honest with herself, deep down, she had known that there was a possibility that she might be married off to another member of Clan Leòideach as the king had originally desired. But she had not allowed herself to give this knowledge true thought. She had escaped being wed to one Viking beast, only to be chained to another. How could God be so cruel?

“My lady, if ye will repeat after me,” the priest asked.

The words stuck in her throat and Katherine could only hesitantly mutter something resembling consent, which came out as more of a choked cough than recognizable words. “If I must,” she said.

The priest gave her a sympathetic look, then continued, “I, Lady Katherine Morgan, take thee, Tor Leòideach, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereunto I plight thee my troth.”

Katherine looked at Tor and swallowed hard. Clearing her throat, she repeated the priest’s words.

The king’s regent took a step forward, holding a small knife. Tor extended his arm, and the regent made a small cut on the inside of Tor’s wrist, then took Katherine’s hand and did the same. He put their hands together so the blood from their cuts blended, then took a piece of ribbon and tied their hands together. Tor looked Katherine in the eyes once more, and when he did, she thought she saw something resembling sadness and resolve in his eyes. “Ye are blood of my blood, and bone of my bone. I give ye my body, that we two might be one. I give ye my spirit, till our life shall be done,” Tor said.

Katherine’s heart raced faster as she heard his words and saw the look in his eyes. He clearly did not want to marry her any more than she did. She had no choice but to repeat his words.

And with that, she was bound forever to her hereditary enemy.

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Prologue

Carrick, Highlands, 1741

The wind blew tirelessly along Loch Goil, causing the water to roil. The man beside him shivered as well and wrapped his cloak tightly around himself, pressing against the wool to keep warm.

Tonight was strange, not only because of the task he’d been assigned, but there was something in the air too. Many of the superstitions his mother had told him about were at work tonight, he knew. There was a new moon in the sky, indicating impending doom. The persistent cold in the summer was also dangerous. His mother once said that such weather predicted a harsh winter and dark times.

“Aye, something is ill at work tonight,” he muttered, looking from the water to the surrounding woods. The forest was black, the trees sucking out whatever light there was. If the person he was to meet didn’t come soon, he would abandon the task.

“Little good will come from tonight. I am sure of it,” he muttered again, hoping danger didn’t lurk nearby.

A twig snapped under footfall, and he turned, peering into the darkness. But nothing moved which reminded him of another tale.

When sounds occur without movement, a ghost or a witch is at work.

He brought his cloak tighter once more and paced, breaking twigs under his own heavy boots. Soon, someone else’s footsteps neared, and he stopped, squinting to see through the thick shadows.

At last, a hooded figure appeared, their features masked entirely, holding something tightly.

“Who goes there?” he called, praying no ghost walked toward him.

“The person ye have come tae meet,” she answered, her voice soft and lyrical in the night. It was such a contrast to what he expected that he angled his head to gain a better glimpse.

She walked through the trees before stopping at the loch, mere inches from the water’s edge, when she turned to face him, lifting her head. She didn’t drop the hood, but she was close enough him to see something of her.

Two large blue eyes stared at him, unblinking. Her features were bold and distinctive. Her lips were pressed together, and her cheeks were flushed, suggesting she had hurried to meet him.

“Ye ken what I have come tae ask of ye?” she asked, stepping forward once more.

“The message I was given, it was…” he trailed off, his eyes darting down to what she carried. When he first heard about a woman who wanted to give her child to another, he couldn’t believe it. He now realized she was carrying two babies in her arms. They were just bairns, only a few days old at most, possibly less. “Ye wish tae be free of one of yer children, ma’am?”

“Tae hear the words spoken in such a way,” she paused and closed her eyes. Only when she opened them again did he see traces of tears. “’Tisnae what my heart wishes tae do, but my head kens ’tis the wisest thing. Aye, ‘tis what must be done, even though I daenae wish it.”

“Ye speak in riddles, ma’am.” The man shifted his weight nervously. This was his task in life, doing odd jobs that were asked of him and finding solutions for the awful predicaments of others. But this particular job pulled at his heart, flooding him with guilt. He couldn’t understand why a mother sought to be free of her child.

“Here, ye must take her.” The woman stepped forward, turning to reveal the faces of her babies. She passed one into his arms.

The bairn shifted and opened her eyes, revealing the same blue eyes as her mother. She was a sweet baby, a lovely one; certainly not one to be passed to a stranger in the night in the middle of Carrick Forest.

Hesitating, the man looked at the woman before him. “I hope ye ken what yer doing, ma’am.”

“As do I.” When the second baby stirred in her arms, she shifted her hold on the bairn and bent down, kissing its forehead. As moonlight fell on the wee bairn, the man froze, his eyes darting between the two babes.

“Nay, ‘tisnae possible,” he muttered, astonished. He grew numb with fear, so strong that he nearly passed the baby immediately back to the woman. They were identical, possessing the same exact eyes, the same noses, even the same shocks of auburn hair on their heads. In every way they were mirror images of one another.

“What is wrong?” the woman asked, noting that he proffered the child forward.

“If ye think I will have anything to do with a witch’s child, yer wrong,” he chided. “Take yer child back.”

“Nay! Do ye nae see? This is why ye must help me.” She stepped back, showing no intention of returning the child. “The world thinks as ye do, dinnae they? They will see two identical bairns and condemn both mysel and the child, even though we are innocent.”

His grasp on the child went limp. It was common knowledge that only a witch could produce identical children. The last woman to do such a thing in his village had been thrown in a dungeon. He couldn’t remember what became of her children, but he was sure it was nothing good.

“Please,” the woman whispered desperately. “I am nae witch, yet they will brand me as such; they could kill my daughters.” The look of abject fear on her face made him tighten his arms around the bairn again. When she wriggled in his grasp, he looked down as she smiled in her sleep, a healthy pink blush on her cheeks. The bairn hardly seemed like the spawn of the devil. She was a sweet thing, born innocently into a sordid world.

“If yer conscience fears taking her, then perhaps this will help ye.” The woman reached into her cloak and pulled out a leather purse that jingled audibly, leaving no doubt as to its contents.

“How much?” he asked. She passed him the leather purse to see for himself. So many silver and gold coins glimmered in the bag that he stilled. Those coins could solve many of his problems. All he had to do was take the wee lassie. “What do ye wish for me tae do with her?”

“Find her a home,” the woman said, sighing with relief at his acquiescence. “Give her tae someone with compassion, love. Maybe the village healer or a family that cannae have a child of their own. I cannae live happily to ken she might go somewhere without love.”

The man pocketed the money. He had to know one more thing first, for his own peace of mind. The two bairns were so alike in every way, he had to know why this particular one was being surrendered.

“Why this one?” he asked, listening closely.

“Because it must be one of them,” the woman said. A silent tear slid down her cheek; she made no effort to wipe it away. “She was the second born. Please, tell me ye will help her. Please?”

The man paused only to shift his weight between his feet. When he heard the bag of coins move in his pocket, he knew he couldn’t refuse, no matter how mad the situation seemed.

“Ye have my word,” he promised. The woman smiled as another tear fell, bending down to look at her second daughter one last time.

“Goodbye, my love. I hope ye will learn one day how much yer mother loved ye.” She pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead and stepped back, her feelings giving way to sobs at last. “Farewell,” she bid the man. “Thank ye.” The latter was barely heard, so lost was she in tears. She turned and fled through the trees.

When the sound of her footsteps disappeared, the man turned to the bairn sleeping blissfully, her eyes half-lidded. As he adjusted her wrappings, a glint of gold flashed at her neck. He shifted the blanket just enough to see a finely made necklace. Wherever the woman had come from, it was a position of some wealth. The necklace was a gold chain with a thick locket at the center, too big for a newborn. In the center of the locket a name was engraved: Scarlett.

“Well, Scarlett,” the man whispered. “‘Tis good tae meet ye. Let us find ye somewhere tae live, eh? A home tae call yer own.” He glanced at the shadows where the mysterious woman had disappeared. “And let us hope that if yer a witch’s daughter, the curse will follow ye nae more.” Turning his eyes to the new moon, he shuddered, wondering if all his mother’s warnings and superstitions were coming true. He fled, holding the babe tightly, making his way through the night. Despite his haste and the cold, Scarlett didn’t cry once and continued to sleep soundly in his arms.

Chapter One

Lochgoilhead, Highlands, 1760

“In the name of the wee man, Scarlett, would ye hurry! My old bones are weary; they’re calling for me bed.”

Scarlett turned away from the deep voice, raising a hand to play absentmindedly with the necklace around her neck. Every night, it was the same. Athol was as irritable as ever, insisting on her working while he sat back and did little to maintain his tavern. Scarlett looked over her shoulder to see age finally taking its toll on him. His long dark hair was greying and he wore it loose around his shoulders. Scarlett assumed he was attractive when he was younger. These days, he appeared haggard, his face sagging with time past.

“Scarlett!” he snapped.

“Keep yer hair on,” she muttered, her tone as sharp as his. “Shouting at me willnae make me move quicker, though ye like tae think it does,” she spoke bitterly, hearing him grunt once as always.

Long ago, she had learned that keeping quiet was not an option as no good came from silence when there was much to be said. Athol once told her that her spirit was as fiery as the color of her hair.

Aye, maybe it is.

She turned away and cleared the last few tables in the tavern. The tallow candles burned down to the last wax stumps beaded as hot wax dripped on the tables. Scarlett blew out each one in turn, gradually darkening the space. Soon, the only part of the room illuminated by candlelight was the corner where Athol sat.

On one side of him was a drunken friend, Patrick, a regular at the tavern and a gambler. On Athol’s other side was one of the many ladies of the night that frequented the place. She peddled her trade well, for Scarlett had observed over the years how she was never short of customers despite her age and the pox scars on her skin. Athol was undoubtedly one of her best.

“Ye nearly done, Scarlett?” Athol called, his head inclined to the woman as she kissed his neck. She touched Athol’s shirt and reached beneath the ties, reaching for his skin.

Scarlett looked away, her cheeks burning at the mere thought of what the courtesan dared to do in a public place. Such heated touches weren’t things she knew of, though plenty of men had tried their luck over the years. One or two had mistaken her for a courtesan and tried to persuade her to join them in their beds. When they became too forceful, she’d pull a knife to make her refusal plain. She touched the knife resting in the belt that hung securely around her waist.

If I don’t protect myself in this world, nae one else will do it for me.

She’d mastered the knife long ago. It was necessary when working in such an environment. She’d once seen a soldier turn the knife in his hand several times before throwing it across the tavern and landing perfectly in the center of a timber beam. After that, she’d practiced with her own knife, throwing it across the courtyard behind the tavern. Days became months, then years, and she could now throw a knife perfectly at any target.

She stepped behind the bar and dipped the empty tankards into a bowl of soapy water to clean them of any leftover ale or spittle. She’d done it every night for years.

One of her earliest memories was standing at this bar, peering over the edge with her nose just above the wooden counter, watching the courtesans and drunkards pass by. At first, she mistook Athol for a fatherly figure who watched over her, but it quickly became clear that this was not the case.

He was her guardian, yes, but not a father. Not at all. Three years ago, when she turned sixteen, one of the regulars tried to buy her for the night. Athol had gladly taken the money, ready to sell her. It was only Scarlett’s wit and her quick use of the knife that saved her. That night she’d thrown so many curses at Athol that whatever tenderness or kindness might have existed between them vanished completely.

“Ah, tae be far away from this place,” Scarlett whispered as she turned her attention to the tankards and washed them clean. Most evenings, she dreamed of faraway places. Somewhere far from the stench of the regulars who never bathed enough and far from the overly-perfumed women stinking of bergamot and pungent fruit. If only she possessed the freedom to go wherever she liked. She longed to know what the borders of Scotland looked like, maybe the ocean too.

“How much longer, eh?” The sudden voice so close to her made Scarlett jump. Not wanting Athol to know how much he startled her, she barely avoided dropping a tankard in the water.

“I will finish shortly,” she said tightly, glancing at him over her shoulder. It was plain obvious that he wished to see her gone so as to bed the courtesan as soon as he could. “Ye can retire if ye choose. I will see tae the last,” She nodded at the last few tables.

Athol needed no further encouragement. He smiled a wicked grimace that revealed his toothless gums, then he took the lady’s hand and disappeared. Scarlett practically gagged as she imagined what they would soon be doing. She thrust the picture from her mind and went over to Patrick, still sitting drunkenly in the corner.

“Out with ye. ‘Tis time ye went home tae that wife of yers,” she said firmly. The man downed the remains of his tankard, showing no sign of leaving. His eyes flitted over the front of her dress.

Feeling the intent of his gaze, Scarlett tugged at her dress, a poorly made arisaid of cheap material that Athol purchased from a courtesan. Yet, even in that poor dress, she felt disgusting. Patrick’s lingering eyes had that effect.

“Be gone, now,” she ordered, waving a hand at the door.

“I could keep ye company for the night, Mistress Scarlett,” he offered, smiling luridly in a way that made her shudder.

“I’d sooner have a spider as bedfellow rather than ye,” she said coldly, smiling at his look of outrage. “Be gone, or I’ll tell yer wife what sort of comments ye make here.”

Patrick needed no further encouragement to hasten to the door, but not before giving her another unwelcome look. Scarlett kicked the door shut behind him, glad to release her anger on something, even if just wood. She even turned and slammed it once with the flat of her hand, enraged at being trapped in such a godawful place.

“Good riddance,” she muttered as she thrust the key into the lock and turned it heavily. “If only it were possible tae be rid of ye all for good.”

Resuming her work, guilt began to grow in her gut. She used to dream as a child that this wasn’t her life to live, that one day a parent would walk through the door and claim her as their own—that she’d know love. There would be no lurid looks, groping hands, or harsh words, just tenderness and kindness. But she had long since given up such hopes.

I suppose I should be thankful Athol gave me a home. Aye, it is more than me own parents did for me.

That was the only thing she had to thank Athol for: providing her with a roof over her head. Many would have been happily rid of her, but Athol never abandoned her. Any gratitude she felt for him was drowned by his inattention and the vile way he lived his life. She always and steadfastly refused to live the way he did. He still expected her to be a courtesan someday, she knew that, but she never intended to give in to such a request just so he could make money off her.

Men looked at her, but she never knew if it was because they found her attractive, or if they were simply tempted by the hope of a night’s romp with someone young like her, since most women of the night hereabouts were old and carried unfortunate diseases.

Turning from the bar, Scarlett reached to put the tankards away when the long sleeve of her arisaid caught on a shelf of glasses, dragging one of the expensive goblets to the floor.

“Nae!” she murmured as the goblet shattered into pieces on the floor. Sighing, she paused and looked to the ceiling, fearing the sound might bring Athol running. Fortunately, he was too distracted to take action. Once, years ago, when she broke a glass, he struck her across the cheek in anger. She’d warned him never to hit her again, or there would be consequences. So far, he hadn’t tested her threat.

Dropping to her knees, Scarlett hurried to pick up the pieces. With a bit of luck, Athol might never notice the goblet was missing. But her task was disturbed when a quiet knock came at the door.

“Nae tonight,” she whispered. “Go home, Patrick.” She feared he’d come back to try his luck again. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had attempted such a thing. The last time a man had crept into the tavern to persuade her to share favors, her knife found a spot in his hand, making plain the fact that he wasn’t welcome. He hadn’t taken no for an answer, and she’d had no choice in the end but to defend herself.

When a second knock was heard, she hesitated, leaving the glass shards behind her. Men like Patrick never knock softly.

Out of curiosity, she went to the door and turned the key in the lock. She was too slow for whoever came calling, for they knocked again. Scarlett pulled the door open, growing irked by the caller’s impatience.

“For the wee man’s sake, ye daenae have tae knock so many times, I…” she trailed off, for the sight that greeted her was not what she had expected. On the other side of the door, she saw her own self looking back at her.

The lass had the same bright blue eyes, arched brows, auburn curls framing her face, and full lips pressed together uncertainly.

This isnae possible.

Chapter Two

Nae more of this. I cannae stand tae listen tae any more of this!

Noah’s temper flared. He imagined it as a pane of glass shattering into dust.

The council, who had all turned to stare at him, were silenced when he slammed his fist on the table. They exhibited the same fear that they frequently did these days. Even the older councilmen who had known him as a boy were terrified of him.

“I cannae listen tae this,” he said aloud, looking at each councilman. They sat silently around the circular table. The only man on the council to return Noah’s look was his brother, Ian. With a lazy smile, Ian offered a wave of his hand, urging him to be calm.

“Ye expect me tae sit here while ye bind my life tae another? Nae, I willnae do it.”

“It is imperative, my laird,” the boldest councilor leaned forward.

“Go on, Trevelyan,” Noah urged. “Speak yer mind.” He was the eldest member of the council, with the courage of twelve strong men. Secretly, he respected him for speaking repeatedly when others on the council would not, but that didn’t mean he agreed with everything the man said.

“Ye must marry, my laird,” the man urged, his hands on the table in front of him. “Ye need an heir, and this clan needs the coin marriage will bring.”

“So ye say,” Noah sighed. “Yet, ye surely understand this isnae just a matter for the clan?” he said, eyeing Trevelyan alone. “Ye are asking me to wed a woman I have never met, and what for? Tae give ye peace of mind only.”

“There is naething tae object tae in the woman, my laird,” Trevelyan noted eagerly. “She is obedient, aye, many have said so. She is meek and quiet. Ye’d have a good and dutiful wife. She comes with a wealthy dowry, and that is what yer clan needs more than anything else. I ken ye tae be a wise laird. Ye ken we need the money.”

Noah pinched the bridge of his nose, appreciating Trevelyan outwitting him; they did need the money. The clan faced ruin if the coffers were not replenished with more money. War and poor harvests had rendered them nearly destitute. They needed a way to recover, and money was a crucial means to that end.

“We can find money other ways,” Noah insisted.

“Yet this would be the fastest way. Yer brother has met her, have ye nae, sir?” Trevelyan appealed to Ian sitting at Noah’s side. “He can surely offer an opinion on the lass.”

Noah was not the only one to pay close heed to Ian’s opinion. The other councilors sat forward too, all waiting for Ian to speak. He swallowed uncertainly, his eyes meeting Noah’s.

Ach, he hates being put on the spot.

Ian preferred lightheartedness, jesting and lightening the mood. He rarely offered serious advice, so naturally, he was uncomfortable now.

“She is a beautiful woman,” Ian began, “and aye, as Trevelyan said, she is quiet and obedient. I dinnae think she would cause ye any trouble.”

Yet there was something else in Ian’s look. A muscle in his jaw twitched, revealing he could add more, though he wouldn’t speak of it now.

“If the council would abide by my wishes, I would ask them to leave. I wish tae discuss matters in private with my brother,” Noah said, waving a hand dismissively. Trevelyan bristled to be ousted like a lapdog, as did many of the other councilors, though Noah didn’t care much at the moment.

The councilors stood and shuffled out, whispering and muttering as they left, casting begrudging glances over their shoulders.

“Ye should be kinder tae them, Noah,” Ian noted. “They only wish the best for ye.”

“They wish tae control me, that is a different thing. Now, let us talk openly, brother, without their eyes watching us.”

“Drink this, brother, it will warm yer bones. Ye look cold.” Noah placed a goblet in front of Ian, filling it with mead. His brother reached for it quickly, gulping it down before leaning back and sighing contentedly.

They frequently rode across the estate together in the mornings, and that day was no exception. The cold had taken its toll on Ian, who shivered in the council chamber, trying to warm up. Noah supported him by clapping him on the shoulder.

Aye, I will always protect him. Even when he isnae aware that I do it.

“We should be talking about yer bride,” Ian said, placing a hand over his glass before Noah could top it off. He got to his feet and collected a goblet for himself, pouring some of the golden liquid before he began.

“Tell me of her,” Noah said, tired of the subject. “Ye will tell the truth better than any of the others would.”

“They arenae as bad as ye treat them,” Ian noted.

“Ye’d think as I do if ye were in my shoes. Besides, I ken how tae keep them guessing,” he winked.

Only to his brother could Noah reveal his true heart. He was pleased the council believed him to be foul-tempered, even bullish. It kept them in line, and council meetings were easier to control.

“Tell me of this lass ye went tae meet,” Noah waved, steering the conversation back to the problem at hand.

“Well, where tae begin?” Ian made his way to the castle window. Noah followed him and they stood by the stone ledge beneath leaded glass panels. “For starters, she is a beauty. In fact, I’d say she has a beauty about her that even yer mistresses couldnae match.”

“Ha! Now that is a challenge.” Noah tipped his head back, swallowing the liquid in his glass. He had his mistresses to satisfy his lusts. It was hard to imagine any woman being as beautiful as some of them. “Yet, the summary of a woman isnae in her beauty.”

“Nay, I accept that.” Ian nodded. “The lass I met for ye was kind, demure, well-spoken, too. She has the temperament ye would want in a wife, and she would be obedient tae ye, I am sure of it.”

“Obedient…” Noah toyed with the word, finding it not as much to his liking as Ian supposed it was. “Ye wish me tae marry a meek woman?”

“I didnae say she was meek!”

“Aye, but that is what she will be. I cannae imagine a duller lass than one who does everything I ask of her.” He shook his head and reached for the mead bottle, topping his glass.

“Would ye want a different woman for marriage?”

“I dinnae wish tae marry at all. I ken it is what the council wants of me, but after what we saw of our parents’ marriage…” He paused, a lump catching in his throat. “Can ye blame me for nae wanting to marry?”

“Nae.” Ian sighed and tipped his head against the window beside them. “Yet, nae every marriage ends as horribly as theirs did.”

“Aye, ‘twas cataclysmic.” Noah looked out the window. Their parents’ marriage wasn’t one they discussed very often, for the turn it took was unbearable to speak of, even haunting.

Nae woman should conspire tae kill her husband.

But that was exactly what had happened. Noah and Ian’s mother had been unfaithful, and her jealous lover had murdered their father, the last laird. That day, Noah became laird and discovered the truth. The lover was sentenced to death but escaped the day before the execution, and his mother committed suicide, unable to bear the heartbreak. Noah couldn’t decide which hurt more: his father’s death at the hands of another or his mother’s death at her own.

“Ye think I wish tae put myself in the same position?” Noah asked as he gazed out at the estate. From there, he noticed snowflakes falling, becoming deeper by the minute. Soldiers conducting drills on the lawn struggled to stay upright as the snow continued to fall.

“Ye wouldnae be marrying a woman like our mother,” Ian assured him. “This lass, she would be obedient tae ye, I am certain of it.”

Noah fell quiet and looked into his glass. He wasn’t sure what he disliked about having an obedient wife. Perhaps it was that she sounded lifeless. It should have been something he desired, given what the last lady of the clan had done.

“I have seen many marriages where the couples are happy. It is possible for love tae exist, and respect, too,” Ian pointed out.

“Love?” Noah scoffed at the idea, shaking his head.

“I would have thought ye kent something of it, brother, after all the women that traipse into yer chamber,” Ian smiled.

“Ye grow cheeky in yer old age,” Noah teased as Ian laughed.

“Aye, all grown now.” Ian sat up tall.

Noah was glad to laugh, for he didn’t want to rebuff his brother. The truth was that all the women who came to his chamber came for one reason only—to satisfy his physical needs. He never wanted to know anything about them.

I willnae suffer the same fate as my father.

“This conversation is academic, unfortunately.” Noah stood, looking at the council table covered with paperwork, most of it showing the clan’s less-than-satisfactory financial state. “I need money, and the bride comes with a dowry, aye?”

“Aye, she does, and a good one,” Ian called from his position at the window.

“Then, despite what I wish for, and despite the fact I’d rather jump out of this window than wed, I have nae choice.” He set the cup on the table and perched on the edge of his seat. He imagined the council members at the table talking of the people’s troubles and how to help them, if only they had the money.

What I want is second tae what the people need.

“We need the money,” he said, talking more to himself than his brother. “Aye, I will have tae marry, and I will have tae find a way tae make it work.” He thrummed with frustration just from the thought of it.

“She is a good choice,” Ian said thoughtfully. “She will make ye a better bride than ye think, I have nae doubt.”

“I am glad at least ye are confident.” Noah shook his head, unconvinced. “What is her name?”

“Lady Eloise MacLaren.”

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Prologue

MacNeil’s Castle, 1589

The crawlspace was damp, narrow, and clearly not made for human passage, as the roughness of the walls snagged her cloak and skirts. Yet, Ciara MacNeil wormed her way through, determined to see her journey to its end. It was one she had made several times before, often bearing bannock or water for the prisoner who lay at her destination.

But this time was different. She journeyed bearing no gifts, and a nervous sweat dotted her brow. Once again, she thanked the stars that she was not distressed by tight spaces, as she would probably have fainted given how hard her heart was pounding.

Ciara could still hear the commotion outside. Clan MacDonald had attacked just as she had retired for the night and there was shouting in the castle as her father’s soldiers rushed to stop them.

I have to hurry. I dinnae have much time left!

Ciara knew why they had come. The woman. The beautiful blonde woman with sad grey eyes that had been dragged in by her father two weeks ago, and locked in the dungeon where she did not belong. That woman was Lillie MacDonald. Ciara had watched from her window as they dragged her by her luscious tresses, unbothered that she had bloodied her feet as she dug them into the ground, defying them.

Ciara’s father, Keir MacNeil, was proud of his new acquisition. And before long, everyone knew that he had imprisoned the sister of Laird Aidan MacDonald.

To what end did he torture her? For unreasonable hatred, taking root in an old feud. Ciara growled low in her throat. As if killing the previous Laird MacDonald and his wife was not enough. Her father continued to torment their poor family.

Ciara hated his rule. He was a terrifyingly wicked man who knew no kindness or mercy for anyone, not even her, his own daughter. She always spoke against his heartless acts of war, and this time was no different. However, like always, her words fell on deaf ears, and she was forced to flee before one of the dishes he threw in her direction actually met its mark.

She took matters into her own hands and began to take food and warm clothes to the prisoner secretly. She was horrified at what Keir had done when she saw the woman. Lillie looked to be about her own age, but the hopeless and startling emptiness in her gaze made her seem like she was a hundred years older. Her hands and feet were bound in heavy ropes too tight to untie. The knots were so firm that the woman’s wrists and ankles were red and swollen. She looked like she had taken quite a beating too.

At first, Lillie MacDonald had been wary of her, eyes wide with distrust. Eventually, she allowed Ciara to massage her hands and legs, to ease what pain she could. If only she could cut the ropes. But she knew that if she did, her father would notice. Ciara had discovered that the soldiers had ceased beating Lillie, and were now trying to break her spirit by leaving her hungry instead. However, it had not been working since Ciara kept bringing her food without their knowledge, sneaking into the prisons at night whenever she could.

She was happy that Lillie’s people had come for her. Whatever her father had planned for the young woman was not going to be good, and she was determined to make sure that Lillie escaped safely.

Ciara finally reached the end of the secret passageway and wriggled into the dungeon. Like she always did, she checked the hood of her cloak, making sure it was firmly over her head, leaving her face in shadow. She tied it at the neck for added security.

She could not afford for the cloak to come off. Ciara’s vibrant red hair could not be mistaken for anyone else’s, under any lighting. There was only one other person who had hair like hers, and that was her father. If Lillie knew she was the daughter of the man who had captured her, she might not trust her anymore. Or even worse, she might let someone know she was helping her. So every time she visited Lillie, Ciara tied her hair in a ponytail so tight that she could feel it pulling at her scalp, and then she wore a cloak over it.

She grabbed the keys hanging on the wall and hurried to the cell, trying to be as quiet as possible—a problem most of the time as her clumsiness knew no bounds.

Ciara found Lillie on the ground, her hair covering her face. Her body was limp, and she looked dead. If she had not known better, she would have thought actually thought so. However, the girl was just sleeping, completely exhausted after having been abused and starved all day.

Usually, Ciara would have brought food, but today she had come with a knife instead. She hurried over to Lillie’s feet and sawed at the ropes until they came loose, revealing the raw skin beneath. She quickly did the same for her hands as well and tried to make Lillie sit up, waking her in the process.

There was a bruise on her face as though she had been slapped, yet this did not stop her from giving Ciara a weak smile when she touched her hand, recognizing her. Over the time she had spent in captivity, Lillie had grown to recognize her by simple touch. Her face twisted in confusion, as Ciara began trying to lift her up.

“Wait… what are ye…” Lillie struggled to speak.

“We have to go. Yer people are here to save ye. If ye dinnae get up now, ye may never be able to escape from here,” Ciara whispered fiercely, hoping to ignite the woman’s will to survive. She held out her hand for Lillie to take.

It worked. The other woman looked at her hand for a while, and then took it. Lillie leaned on Ciara, wincing because of her weak and sore ankles. They were slower than Ciara would have liked, but they finally made it to the end of the secret path leading out of the dungeon.

The passageway was like a mouth to hell. It was hard to traverse alone but almost impossible now they were two. Now dragging Lillie, whose determination was not enough to give her all the strength she needed, Ciara’s heart was beating twice as hard. Finally, the girls breached the doorway after what seemed like eternity. The cold night air hit their faces, and they collided with two huge men who had been running toward the doorway.

Ciara and Lillie toppled backward. Panic arced through Ciara, and she grabbed her cloak, keeping it over her head even as she fell, trying to hold Lillie as well.

“Lillie!” one of the men exclaimed. He scooped the weak girl in his strong arms, not looking at Ciara. She watched from her spot on the ground as the two men hugged the girl one by one. She sighed in relief as she realized that these were MacDonald clansmen.

The two men were tall, towering over her like trees. They were broad too, filling up their hooded armor in a way that she hadn’t realized was possible. For some reason, she found herself drawn to the bigger man. The air around him was tenser, and he seemed more dangerous. But somehow, this sparked something inside of her, something unfamiliar: a strange magnetic pull.

She shook her head to clear the strange thoughts away, for this was not the time to consider anything else but how to return unnoticed. Now that she had completed her mission, all she had to do was hurry back to her chambers before her father realized she was gone.

But just as she was about to slip away, someone grabbed her by the arm. Turning around, she saw the bigger man holding her. With a small yelp, Ciara made sure to hold onto her hood, keeping it over her face with her free hand.

“Who are ye?! Where were ye taking her?” he hissed, his grip on her arm so tight that she feared it might fall off. Blonde hair peeked out from beneath his hood, and his gray eyes felt like shivs piercing her skin as he glared at her. His rugged features were contorted in a mixture of rage and distrust, but Ciara was not sure that was the reason for the quick beating of her heart.

“Nay! Leave her be! She saved me!” Lillie yelled weakly. “I am only alive because she helped me.”

The grip on her arm loosened immediately. The man’s gaze softened, understanding the situation. Ciara saw him wonder what he should do and noticed how his expression was sincere as he bowed his head to her.

“Thank ye, then. Thank ye truly,” he said.

His eyes pierced hers, and she felt her whole body tremble. The enormous, handsome beast stroked her shoulder tenderly before releasing her from his grip.

Ciara was flustered. Receiving such sincere praise was unusual to her. She nodded stiffly and spun on her heel without looking back, running for the shadowed path that would take her back to the castle.

The man was nothing but danger, and she had had enough danger to last her a lifetime.

Ciara was sure that the MacDonald party would be able to escape on their own from that point, so all she had to worry about now was herself. She moved as quickly as she could. She just needed to get to her chambers.

If I can get there, nae one will know what I have done.

She slipped into the cellar. She was just about to turn the corner and see the heavy wooden door of her chamber when she bumped into someone again.

This time she did not bother holding onto her cloak when she fell backward, landing on the ground. Her heart skipped a beat, and her body went numb. The tall, domineering man she had stumbled into glared down at her with eyes that felt like bottomless pits of darkness. His red hair created a halo of fire around his head, making him resemble a divine being of judgment.

If looks could kill, she’d be dead and buried under his murderous gaze.

“Father! I-I…” Ciara stuttered as she got to her feet.

He knew. Oh, how well he knew what she had done. It was clear from the silent rage Keir MacNeil was exuding, just standing there.

As they stood there in pained silence, neither breaking eye contact, a soldier ran in. “The invaders have escaped, sire! They got away with the prisoner!”

Like kindling to a flame, the words of the soldier incited her father to move. Keir was so quick that Ciara could not react. The next moment, the back of his hand met her cheek so hard that blood filled her mouth, and she spun around before crashing to the ground again.

Chapter One

MacNeil Castle, Six Months Later

A resounding thwack! echoed in the mostly empty dining room, as once again Ciara’s face was met with the full force of her father’s blow. Her head fell to one side, her red hair obscuring most of her face, as a single line of blood trailed out of her mouth.

After her betrayal half a year ago, she had grown accustomed to this type of treatment. Her father had hit her for the first time that day, and he hadn’t let up since.

This time, Keir had lashed out at her at the dining table as they sat for their evening supper. The servants turned away, acting as though they could neither see nor hear the abuse. A bitter smile lifted the corners of Ciara’s mouth, and she turned her head to glare at him, meeting the simmering rage in his eyes with her own.

“Careful now, father. Ye might make the mistake of breaking the goods ye mean to sell,” she spat.

Keir MacNeil threw his head back and laughed sardonically. “As though ye are worth being considered ‘goods’. A problem! That is what ye are! One that I am more than glad to be rid of,” he said viciously.

“If ye wish to be rid of me so badly, then dae it another way! Throw me to the sea! Kill me yerself! Anything else would dae. But daenae sell me off to wed Laird Morrison!” Ciara shouted, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet, almost leaning over her father on the table.

He jumped to his feet immediately and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Ye willnae shout at me, lass!” He shook her violently before letting her go. “Into the sea? Ye dinnae deserve the peace of death after what ye did. If ye had nae freed that lass, she would have been the one going to Laird Morrison to line my pockets with gold. Since ye decided to free her, ye can take her place. Maybe ye will finally be useful to me for once!”

With her lower lip trembling, Ciara spun on her heel and fled the room, yearning for the solitude of her chambers.

She slammed her door and pressed her back against it, biting her lower lip so that she would not cry. It was her last night in the keep. Ciara was not sure why she had bothered starting this fight with her father. Perhaps it was hope—a small part of her wishing that her father would find love for her somewhere in his heart.

“A fool I was,” she muttered bitterly, running to her bed and pulling out the traveling bag she had prepared. Wiping the blood off her mouth, she quickly changed out of her heavy formal gown, choosing a simple tunic that she could move faster in. She tied her hair in its usual style and donned her cloak.

Ciara had made the decision to run away the moment her father had received the first payment from Laird Morrison, with which her father had paid off his debts. At first, she had thought her father was cruelly joking when he had announced that he was giving her away to be wed. She had told herself that he had been trying to scare her.

She had been wrong.

Laird Morrison was just as wicked as her father and looked like a beastly ogre. It was said that he was particularly evil to the women he shared his bed with because it angered him to know they would never lay with him willingly. His lovers were either disfigured by his hand or killed after a while. Her father knew this, yet he was sending her away, condemning her to a life that was not worth living.

Ciara did not regret helping Lillie MacDonald escape, especially now that she knew her father’s plans had been to break her into a plaything for Laird Morrison. She shivered at the thought. She would never have stood aside and watched such a terrible thing happen. She looked out the window as the night grew dark and cold, the moon coming out to drape her with light.

It was on a night like this that she had set Lillie MacDonald free. Would she have been better off running away with her then? She vividly remembered the face of the man who had grabbed her. Although he had been scary at first, he had apologized and seemed gentle with Lillie.

There was no way she could have known back then the extent of her father’s wickedness, how he held no pity, not even for his own daughter. Ciara knew her father did not like her much. It was one of the first things she had learned as a child. Her wet nurse, who had been retained to take care of Ciara into early childhood, told her that she was a cursed child, and that her father hated her because she killed her mother by being born.

It must have been true since Keir had the woman taken and cut off her tongue for daring to mention his late wife. Ciara believed that he had loved her mother and could not stand to be around her because she reminded him of what he had lost. Of course, he never told her all this. He could have just been a monster.

Ciara put one last gown in her travel bag before she sneaked out of the door, praying she did not make a sound. If her father heard her, she would meet her maker, she was sure.

She sighed. Once, she had tried her best to be a perfect daughter, but that had not lasted long. She was now unable to keep her mouth shut when she saw him do things she did not agree with.

Their relationship quickly soured, and they argued often. However, he’d never hit her until that fateful day, when he had decided she was a traitor. Now he struck her daily.

There was a small ship at the docks that would be leaving that night. Ciara had already secured herself passage. All she had to do was get there. She strapped her bag to herself. She had packed only a few things, as the old captain had suggested. It was not as though she could carry a lot while she escaped anyway.

The one thing that was good about her lonely childhood was that she had had the time to explore the castle. She knew it like the back of her hand. Slipping into another hidden passageway between the walls, Ciara moved quickly and quietly like a cat. She arrived at the stables and was somewhat tempted to take a horse.

It would certainly make her journey quicker. But there was no way she could escape with it unseen. The doors came into view when she saw Alfie, her father’s most trusted soldier, walking toward the stables, leading his horse.

Ciara froze, her heart leaping into her mouth. She was right out in the open, with nothing to hide her at all. She turned back immediately, rushing deeper into the stables and looking around in a panic for a place to hide. But where? Finding none, she jumped behind a stack of hay. Alfie was a fearsome warrior, and blindly loyal to her clan. But for all his muscles and height, he was hardly intelligent.

While he was not very smart, he was cocky, always seeming to think that he was cleverer than others. Above all, he was drunk on the power her father bestowed upon him. Alfie always made fun of Ciara, telling her that if she had been a man she would have been able to win her father’s favor the way that he did. He bothered her to no end.

The stable doors opened wider as he entered with his horse. “Ochhh, Lady Ciara?” he called tauntingly as he looked around.

Och, just my luck! Of course, he saw me!

Ciara sat up out of the hay, and Alfie’s eyes widened when he saw her. He had the same look in his eye as a dog when it found a toy it enjoyed playing with. “Miss Ciara! I ken I saw ye!” He bounded over and lifted her out of the hay like she weighed nothing.

“It is nice to see ye too, Alfie,” Ciara said, allowing herself to hang limply in his arms, resigned to her fate. There was no need to try and fight him now that she had been caught. Doing so would only make things more difficult for her. She just had to play along for a bit. She could not let this opportunity pass her by.

“What are ye doing in the stables?” He paused. “Did the laird finally decide to kick ye out of the castle? What better place for ye than the stables, aye!”

His eyes were shining with malice, and she almost shook her head. It was clear that he hated her because she had what he did not: the privilege of being her father’s only legitimate child. It was not her business how Alfie managed his jealousy. She just wished that he did not take his foolish insecurities out on her.

“Aye, ye are right. My father decided to toss me into the stables to work since I am so useless to him,” she said sarcastically.

Alfie could not read her tone. His eyes brightened with true joy and hope. “Really? Is that really true?” He was so excited that he shook her. She grabbed his forearms, trying to get him to stop before he gave her a headache.

This bampot! Does he really think Father would send me to the stables at this time of night?

Oh, but Alfie really did. It was clear from the excitement on his face. Ciara raised her eyebrows as an idea formed in her head. She could not believe this was going to work, but given Alfie’s stupidity… If she played her cards right…

She immediately feigned a forlorn expression, looking as pitiful as she could. “He kept praising ye,” she lied. “He said he wished that I had nae been born and that he had ye as a son instead.”

That was an absolute lie. Her father had always said how Alfie would be much more useful if he were brighter. Still, hearing this soothed Alfie’s pride, and soon he was grinning, putting her down.

“Can ye blame him? I already told ye that was how he felt!” He preened like a peacock showing off its feathers. “As expected, I didnae think he would throw ye out so quickly, but I suppose that is why the laird is so great. Alright, go on then. I will leave ye to yer work!”

Ha! I cannae believe that actually worked! I wonder… Can I push this further, or would that be testing my luck too much?

She made herself look even more pitiful. “My father also punished me with having to deliver the horse dung to the farmers before morning.” She pointed to the cart at the back of the stable, filled with horse manure. She faked a horrified look and covered her nose. “Can ye take it for me instead?” she asked.

Alfie laughed meanly. “Och, ye poor thing! Ye have been living a life ye didnae deserve, and now ye daenae ken how to dae the things that suit ye.” A sinister smile spread across his face. “Dinnae worry. I will help ye.”

Chapter Two

Aidan MacDonald woke up abruptly as pain exploded in his head—the pain of something smashing into his nose. He cursed as he darted back, grabbing his nose from where blood was just beginning to trickle. Holding his head up, he blinked at the ceiling.

“That’s the cursed fifth time this week,” he muttered groggily.

He glanced to the side. He was several feet away from his bed and had bumped into the wall beside his locked window. He sighed in exasperation and rolled his shoulders. Moving to his bedside, he found the bowl of water that waited for him when he awoke. He splashed his face, slicking back his hair when he was done. He hated that he had not grown out of it yet.

Aidan was a sleepwalker, something that pained him to admit. He had to sleep with his doors and windows locked ever since his brother had walked into the study one night a few years ago, just in time to stop him from falling out of the window. His study was at the top of the keep’s highest tower. It was then that he acknowledged the danger of his ailment.

There were times when his sleepwalking was better, when he only walked a few feet from his bed. It grew worse when his emotions were in disarray, like when his parents had died, or when his sister had been kidnapped. Things had gotten pretty bad then. He had tried to ignore it for too long, even when he woke up at the bottom of the stairs, wondering how he had survived such a fall, or awoken in the courtyard with no knowledge of how he had gotten there.

It was only after he quite literally nearly killed himself that Aidan finally began to take his condition seriously. He suggested tying himself to his bed but his brother, Darragh, had refused, claiming he would not let him chain himself like some prisoner, that it was enough simply to lock the windows and doors.

“Nae enough to keep me from nearly breaking my nose,” he said to himself. Aidan had thought that the sleepwalking would subside now that he had found Lillie. It had been half a year since they had found her bruised and dirtied, led to safety out of the MacNeil dungeons by a mysterious woman. If anything, his sleepwalking was even worse than before.

Aidan’s fingers balled into a fist at the thought of Keir MacNeil. He had too many reasons to hate the man. Not just for killing his parents, but for what he did to Lillie. When he and Darragh had first seen their sister again, they were just glad to have her back alive. They were relieved beyond words.

After the healer began treating her, however, that relief transformed into anger. Her body was evidently beaten, covered in all sorts of bruises. Lillie could not walk, nor hold anything properly for three months because of her injuries. Aidan had been focused on her throughout, trying to make sure she recovered completely.

Back then, he could understand why his sleep was so poor. He was worried about his sister’s health. But six months had passed since then, and although Lillie was still much more subdued than she had been before the kidnapping, she was physically healthy. Despite all that, Aidan’s rage was never quelled.

He couldn’t let Keir MacNeil get away with what he’d done. They had invaded his castle, but Keir was powerless to retaliate since Aidan had found his sister. The bastard would have most likely claimed they had started a war with him if they hadn’t found her.

Instead of plotting his revenge, Aidan had assigned his soldiers to guard their borders vigilantly, taking a defensive stance instead, guarding his sister and protecting his clan from any further attacks. Now he was done being defensive.

He pulled on a shirt after making sure that his nose wasn’t broken and that he was no longer bleeding. The sun was not up yet, but he wondered if Darragh was. He could not go back to sleep, so he figured that they might as well discuss their plan for avenging Lillie.

And abducting Ciara MacNeil.

Everything had been going well or so Ciara thought. She had successfully fooled Alfie into thinking her father had sent her to the farms. Vindictive as he was, he had taken one of the smaller horses and connected it to the manure cart, before pointing her in the direction of the farms, explaining how to get there as though she were a child. She had known that he was going to send her off gladly because he wanted to see her struggling.

She bid him goodnight at the gate. Once she got a safe distance away, she disconnected the manure cart and rode the horse to the docks where she got on the boat—a birlinn that had seen many travels. She was certain she would never see Alfie or her father again. God’s teeth, she had to make it so.

She was supposed to be running away to join Iona’s Nunnery. She had thought about it long and hard before she made her decision.

The truth was that Ciara had never envisioned herself as a nun. Her dreams involved finding love one day and maybe start a family of her own. She still wished to. Yet, for some reason, every time she thought of starting a family, the face of the man beside her belonged to that man the night she set Lillie MacDonald free.

Silly lass!

The nunnery was her only hope now. It was the only place that would take her without asking too many questions, and also the only place without men she needed to be wary of. It was a terrible reason to devote herself to God, she knew. But she had no choice. She began wondering whether it was God’s punishment for her selfishness.

The birlinn had gotten away from the docks. Instead of the sun rising as the hours passed, the sky appeared to darken as the moon vanished and thick black clouds rolled in. Ciara, like everyone else on the boat, was nervous. People who had been sitting alone were now clutching each other and looking around worriedly. The boatman made it all worse as he was looking at the skies with pure horror, muttering to himself about bad luck and how he had made a mistake by sailing out that day. She looked over the water, uneasy trembles shaking her body as the birlinn began to rock a lot more than it had before, the waters battling beneath it.

The sea was black like ink and seemed to stretch on forever. Thunder boomed overhead, and everyone jumped and screamed as it was immediately followed by a clacking flash of lightning. Ciara’s heart began to pound as she gripped the side of the birlinn and lowered herself, holding on for dear life.

A woman near her clasped her hands and began to pray, begging God not to let her die at sea. This did nothing to help her calm down, much like it did nothing to keep the rain from pouring. The rain fell upon them like judgment from the heavens, whipping their skin and making it hard to breathe. Even worse, the waves got higher and higher, splashing water into the birlinn, which was now filling slowly with rain.

The panicked people around her were screaming and scooping up water to toss back into the sea, which was futile because the sea simply spat more over them, drenching them.

“Och nay… This is bad! I ken I told Father to toss me into the sea instead of marrying me off, but I didnae mean it,” Ciara muttered. She could see dark waves in the distance, huge and terrifying as they danced up and down. Their little birlinn careened at the top of several waves, with only luck to determine whether or not it would tip.

Ciara’s knuckles were white on the side of the boat as she held on, shivering from the cold and the fear at the thought that she might be plunged into the unknown depths of the sea.

Without realizing it, she too began to pray. “Please! Please, God, if ye are there daenae let me die! I shouldnae have dared to say I would rather drown in the sea! I shouldnae have tried to give myself in service to ye for selfish reasons! Please, spare my life!”

The response to her prayer was delivered by the sound of another boom of thunder. Ciara shook in terror. Is that a ‘nay’? As though in answer to her question, a huge wave began to rise right by the side of their boat. Ciara followed it with her eyes, her mouth open in horror as her fellow passengers began to scream.

“Row out of the way!”

“How?! There is naewhere to row to!”

“The wave is too big, we cannae outrun it!”

“We are going to die!”

The wave rose so high that it seemed to touch the sky. And then, from the very top, it began to come down on them. Indeed, Ciara was sure this was what it felt like to see death. There was no way to brace for it, no way to prepare. She was too afraid to even draw breath, but that would have been useless anyway, as the water came crashing down on them. All the air in her lungs was knocked out of her.

She could see the bodies of the other people on the birlinn around her, as well as the boat which had, by some miracle, stayed intact. They all swam for it desperately. Ciara tried not to think about the empty darkness of the sea, and what might be lurking within it. She was already too afraid to breathe.

She managed to breach the surface again, gulping in air like she was starved and holding onto the side of the birlinn. She looked around. Only two others had made it, and just like her, they were spluttering for air.

“We should try to get back on the boat!” Ciara yelled through the crashing of the waves. She tried to near one of the men who was struggling to stay above the water. She had to help him, but she grew wearier with each second. As she swam toward him, she noticed the horror etched on the faces of the two men who had made it to safety with her. They were looking up at something.

Ciara had a bad feeling. She turned slowly, just in time to see an even taller wave coming down on them. There was no time to say any prayers. The next second, the water hit her, and her vision went black.

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Prologue

Orkney Islands, Scotland 1516

Dunn Leòideach sat straight up in bed, panting and covered in sweat. His hands gathered into fists around the bedcoverings as he attempted to get his emotions under control. He had dreamt about her again: his mother. It had been fifteen years but, in his dreams, it was as real and vivid as if he were witnessing it for the first time.

He had been sixteen summers when his younger brother Tor came to retrieve him from the University of Aberdeen and told him that their father had been killed. When they returned home, their mother had greeted Dunn with a kiss, told him the tale of his father’s death, and left the great hall to retire to her bedchamber; clear to all that she wished to be alone in her grief. Only a few moments later, a scream had transfixed the air in the courtyard beyond. Dunn and Tor dashed outside and discovered their mother dead on the stones. She had leapt from her bedchamber window. Her lifeless face had haunted his dreams since that day, tormenting his soul.

A hand reached out through the darkness, removing Dunn from his sorrow-filled thoughts. “Was it the same dream again?” Esmerelda’s voice offered consolation.

“Aye,” Dunn sighed, laying back down and drawing her into his arms.

“Do ye wish tae talk about it?”

Unsure of the answer, he said nothing. Esmerelda was getting too close again, and he did not like it. He felt unspeakable pain when he remembered his parents’ lives cut short. Deciding that he did not want to talk about it, he rolled over on top of her as a means of distraction.

“Enough,” he growled, kissing her with the passion of a possessed man. The fact they were both already naked allowed him to bury his shaft deep inside of her with one swift motion.

“My laird,” Esmerelda cried out in ecstasy as he drove into her over and over again until he was spent. He poured all of his rage and sorrow into her, attempting to leave it there. Yet, no matter the pleasure of the act, his heart remained drenched in torment.

When they both reached their climax, Dunn rolled off of her and stepped barefoot onto the cool stone floor. Naked, he walked over to the table and poured them both a dram of whisky. He extended hers, and she took it gratefully. Taking a long slow sip, Esmerelda looked at him with concerned eyes. He did not like it. She was his favorite in bed, dark and beautiful as she was, but that was as far as he was willing for the connection to go. Any time a woman got close to his heart, he would send them away. He could not bear the thought of letting someone in to the point that they could do him true emotional harm. And whenever he were to bed a woman, he made certain that they understood his intentions.

“Dinnae look at me like that,” he chastened, grabbing his shirt from the end of the bed.

“Will ye be returning upon the morrow?” Esmerelda asked, hope sparkling in her eyes.

Dunn studied her face, not liking the longing he saw there. She was forming feelings for him—strong feelings at that. He would have to put a stop to it before things got more complicated than they already were. “Aye, but I will be bringing two other women with me.”

Esmerelda’s eyes turned to flames. “Why would ye do such a thing? Am I nae enough for ye?”

“I am laird here. I can do as I please. It is nae yer place tae question my ways, Esmerelda. Have I ever said that I would be loyal tae ye?” Dunn asked, his eyes meeting her gaze as he put on his boots.

“Dinnae do this. Have I nae done everything that ye have asked o’ me in bed, every wicked and blasphemous thing? How am I nae enough for ye?” A thought seemed to cross her mind as her lip curled in jealousy. “Is this about yer coming wedding tae the Morgan lass?”

Dunn shook his head with one violent motion. “Nae, dinnae speak o’ it! I would rather die a thousand deaths than wed the daughter o’ the man who killed my faither!”

“The king has commanded it, Dunn. Ye have nae choice if ye wish tae hold on tae what lands ye have left.”

He growled in response, knowing she was right. His grandfather had sided with the Lord of the Isles against the Scottish crown. When the lordship of the Isles had been lost to the Clan MacDonald, those involved had been punished. Dunn’s grandfather was killed on the battlefield opposite the grandfather of the woman Dunn was to marry. In spite of this loss, the clan had still been punished, and the mere thought of it turned his stomach sour.

The nightmarish image of his mother’s lifeless eyes flashed through his mind once more. When Dunn’s father had been killed in a disagreement between himself and the current Morgan chief while attending the royal marriage of England’s Prince Henry and Catherine of Aragon, the king had sided with the Morgan laird in the argument. The laird was not punished for killing Dunn’s father, and Dunn’s family had been denied any form of retribution.

With the loss of both his grandfather and father, Dunn had been forced to take on the lairdship of his clan at the young age of sixteen. The tributes they had been forced to pay to the king for his grandfather and father’s actions had left the clan impoverished. But the one thing that they were rich in was men trained for battle which rendered them a strong ally and a formidable foe. Dunn had made certain that their reputation for ferocity in warfare was well known. If he could not avenge his father, then he would inspire fear of him, and his men would keep any further threat from their doors. This had worked well until the regent for King James V had decided that in order to tame the Viking beast of the Orkneys, as Dunn was known, he would be forced to wed the daughter of Alistair Morgan, his mortal enemy.

“Our people cannae suffer by my hand,” Dunn acknowledged her words. “But whether I wed the lass or I dinnae, it has nothing tae do with ye. Ye kenned from the beginning what this betwixt us was, Esmerelda. It is nothing more than pleasure. It will never be more.”

The flames returned to Esmerelda’s eyes, and she lashed out at him, slapping him across the face. Dunn pulled her into his arms and attempted to placate her with kisses. He was well aware of the effect his masculine beauty had on women. With his tall form, broad shoulders, blond hair, and blue eyes, he struck quite a figure. In all of his years bedding women, not one had ever said no. To his surprise, she shoved him away and spat at his feet. “I curse ye for a whoremonger!”

Dunn released her and moved toward the door. “I would nae be throwing stones when ye yerself enjoy my brother’s bed as well as mine.”

Esmerelda’s cheeks flushed red. “Harken me well, Dunn Leòideach! I curse ye tae love one o’ my kind. She will break yer heart, as ye have done mine, and when she has, ye will return tae me. Ye will beg for my mercy tae release ye.”

Dunn snorted in indignation. “I could never love ye or any other woman. Ye ken well enough that I cannae wed a witch o’ the luchd siubhail. The clan elders would nae allow it. If I am tae wed, it must be tae a virgin o’ good family.”

“Mark me, laird! Ye will love a Romani woman, and she will be yer end.”

Chapter One

Strathnaver, Scotland, Six Months Later

Katarina Buckland smiled as she watched her two younger sisters, Idalia and Leonor, dance around the fire in the center of the encampment. Their eyes gleamed in the fire’s light as their hair whipped around in glorious cascades of ebony. Her father was playing his favorite instrument, a stringed piece with a bow called the Lira da Braccio. It had been given to him by Sixtus IV when he had performed for the Pope in Rome. Her mother’s beautiful voice filled the night air with the sweetest melancholy.

Katarina’s eyes lingered on Idalia, and her heart lightened in relief at her sister’s joy. They had just barely escaped with their lives. Idalia had been promised to the son of another Romani family, August Raymond, but their father had learned the truth about August’s violent nature and had refused to honor the engagement. The Raymond family had attempted to exact retribution, but the senior Buckland had known what was to come and had escaped with his family into the night. They had left England and traveled the length of Scotland to find a place of refuge. On this night, they had stopped to camp beside Loch Naver.

“Come join us,” Leonor urged Katarina, eyes dancing with delight.

Smiling, Katarina stood and joined them. Throwing herself into the music felt liberating. She twirled and whirled in abandon, letting the world and its cares fall away. We are safe. No one will find us here.

A cry broke through the night, silencing the music. Katarina stopped twirling to find a line of soldiers, twenty-four in number as far as she could see, encircling them. They were all wearing blue tartan trews and deadly expressions. Katarina met her father’s eyes across the fire. “Run,” he roared as he dropped his instrument to take up his sword.

Katarina immediately obeyed, grabbing her sisters by the hand, and raced into the darkness. Finding a hollowed-out tree trunk, she shoved her sisters inside. “Stay here and do not utter a sound,” she commanded as she turned back in the hopes of helping her parents.

What she saw upon arriving back was unlike anything that she had ever witnessed before. Blood seemed to rain from the sky as the soldiers slashed their way through the camp. Katarina saw her father and mother fighting back-to-back in the center of the encampment—her grandfather was sitting on the ground, sobbing and holding her dead grandmother in his arms. Before Katarina could utter a warning, a soldier’s blade pierced her grandfather’s back, and he slumped over in death, still cradling his beloved.

In outrage, Katarina stooped to pick up the sword of a fallen soldier and waded into the fray. She had been trained to fight from a young age for her own protection, but she had never fought an enemy like this before. The men fought with a well-trained ferocity that was brutally efficient. They were well beyond her skill level, but she did not let that stop her. This was life or death, and she would die to protect her family if that was what God demanded of her.

Engaging with the closest soldier, she got a good slice into his neck before he even registered her presence. Katarina felt the sword make contact, and her stomach rolled as blood came spurting out to soak her face and hands. The soldier fell to the ground, dead upon impact. His cold empty eyes stared up at her in accusation. Bending over, she vomited into the grass, unable to stop herself. Swiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she stood just in time to see a soldier charging toward her.

God in heaven, save us!

This time, she did not have the element of surprise and was quickly overpowered. In three blows, the soldier had disarmed her. With a punch to the face, he brought her to her knees. Another blow to the head made her vision blur and her body sway. She could feel herself falling between the lines of consciousness and the realm of the dead. As she lay bleeding in the grass, she saw her father turn to help her, but he was cut down mid-stride. Her mother screamed in agony at the sight and fell to her knees beside him. One of the soldiers grabbed her mother up by the hair and dragged her to the tree line. The woman fought with all of her strength, but it was to no avail.

Katarina lay frozen in horror upon the ground as her mother was brutally raped by one soldier after another. She attempted to rise, to fight, to somehow save her life, but she could not. Her body had sustained too much damage, and she was too weak to move. She could not even move her head to look away.

When her mother’s screams stopped, Katarina knew that she was gone.

The soldiers continued to rape her until the last one cut her throat for good measure, then moved on to another woman. When they came for Katarina, she braced herself for the end, praying that they would kill her first before defiling her body. To her surprise, the soldier who lifted her skirts was stopped by what appeared to be the group leader. “Stay yerself, Hamish. Virgins are worth more intact.”

Growling, the one referred to as Hamish dropped her skirts and hauled her up off of the ground. As Katarina could not walk of her own accord, the soldier was forced to carry her. She attempted to grab for the man’s knife, but her coordination was altered by the head wound. She could not manage it. The soldier tossed her into the back of a wagon, and her head hit the hard wooden floor.

“Katarina!” Her sisters’ voices crying out her name was the last thing she heard before the world went black, and she slipped into blessed oblivion.

***

Alistair Morgan stared down at the women in his prison cell and snorted in disgust. “How are any o’ these pitiful creatures supposed tae pass for my bonnie daughter?”

“My laird.” His master of arms bowed in respect. “Bathed and mended, they will make for an acceptable alternative. Nae one outside o’ our own people and the nuns o’ the nunnery where she was hidden away has ever laid eyes upon Lady Katherine. She is known for her beautiful eyes, but that is all that is kenned o’ her.”

Alistair stood, considering the words. He nodded, then motioned to one of the girls lying on the floor unconscious. “Pry open her eyes.”

One of his soldiers, Hamish, moved to obey. “They are green, my laird.”

“Out o’ all the lassies, she looks the most like my Katherine.”

“Aye, my laird.”

Alistair made a sound of self-satisfaction. “Have her bathed and dressed in Katherine’s clothes. I wish tae see for myself that she is a presentable decoy.”

“Aye, my laird.” Hamish let the young woman’s head fall back to the stone as two of the other girls cried out in protest at the rough treatment. “What should we do with the rest o’ them?”

Alistair waved a hand as if they did not matter. “After I am satisfied that I have found a replacement for Katherine, they can be sold, distributed among the men, or killed. I care not. The young boys can be trained to join our fighting men. In time, they will forget their life as luchd siubhail.”

Alistair left the cell and climbed the steps to the great hall. He found his daughter sitting beside the fire, working on her latest tapestry—her needlework was exquisite, just as her mother’s had been. She looked up and smiled at his approach. “Faither, have ye enjoyed a productive day?”

Alistair bent to kiss her forehead and nodded. “Aye, I do believe that I have. I have found a way for ye nae tae have tae marry that brute o’ a man from the north.”

She smiled in gratitude. “How?”

“I have found a lass who will take yer place in the marriage bed. She is nae as bonnie as ye are, but she will suffice. She is one o’ the luchd siubhail.”

Katherine frowned. “I ken that they are luchd siubhail and that ye believe them tae be o’ nae real consequence, but I must admit to feeling pity for the woman ye have chosen. If she is tae wed the Viking beast o’ Orkney, should she nae be given a choice? I have never laid eyes upon him myself, but his reputation is fierce. I will nae have another woman suffer for me. If the king wishes this torment on me, then I will do as the king wishes.”

“Ye need nae worry, Katherine. Ye will never have tae face any man ye dinnae wish tae. I will protect ye. The king asked too much when he pledged yer hand tae that brute. I will nae have my daughter sullied in such a manner. Ye are meant for a better man than he. The lass is willing tae take yer place,” he told the lie with ease, with her being none the wiser. If he was to get her to agree, he would have to make the deception true.

“Ye are certain she is willing?”

“Aye, I am,” he lied again, nodding.

“And I will be allowed tae wed whomever I choose?”

“Aye, ye will wed a man o’ noble birth and bearing, perhaps even o’ royal blood. I will arrange it myself.”

“A prince perhaps?” Katherine asked hopefully, the fear she had of having to wed the king’s choice finally leaving her eyes.

“Mayhap even a king.” He smiled down at her dotingly.

Alistair Morgan was a cruel man. He knew it and felt no shame for it. However, when it came to his daughter, he oozed sweetness. She was his one true love in life, and he doted on her every whim. When the king’s missive had arrived demanding that she be united in marriage to the Viking beast of Orkney, he had immediately put into action a plan to trick both the brute and the king. It had taken him six months to find a woman who looked enough like his daughter, but at long last, he was close to achieving his goal.

“What if the king discovers yer ploy?” Katherine fretted her lip between her teeth.

“By then, it will be tae late. The decoy and the Viking will have been wed before God and the law.”

“The king would be displeased.”

“Aye. He could punish us for the deception, but I have a plan in place tae ensure that he will never ken the truth o’ the matter.”

“How is that, Faither?”

He smiled ominously at the thought of his plan. “Ye leave that tae me.” He knew if he told her, she would never agree. For the Viking and the decoy would not live long enough for the truth to be told.

***

Katarina awoke to a splitting headache. Her head was pounding with pain to the point where she could feel her heartbeat pulsate in her eyeballs. Suddenly, she felt hands upon her person, grabbing and pulling at her. She could hear women crying all around her, and for a moment, she was confused. The memory of what had happened before she lost consciousness came flooding back all at once with such fierce vividness that she retched onto the stones beneath her cheek. A hard slap to the face jolted her fully awake.

“This is the one the laird wants?” a man’s voice questioned from above. She opened her eyes to find three men standing over her. “She is nae much tae look at in her present state.”

Katarina looked down at herself. She was covered in blood, her dress was rucked up around her hips, causing her to fear the worst. Did they… She could not bring herself to put the action into words, even in her mind. Hesitantly, she glanced under her skirt but did not see blood coming from between her legs. She had bruises on her limbs, but that seemed to be the extent of the damage there. Her head hurt worse than any other part of her body.

“Aye, she is the one. It is the eyes, ye ken.” The one called Hamish gestured toward her face. “They’re green like Lady Katherine’s.”

“Och, aye. I see it now.” The questioning soldier nodded in agreement. “Who is tae bathe her?”

“The laird is tae send one o’ the maids down. She will stay in the captain’s quarters.”

Nodding in agreement, the soldiers each grabbed one of Katarina’s arms and hoisted her up onto her feet. She was too stunned to speak, but she could hear her sisters crying out in protest behind her. She was dragged down a long stone corridor until they reached a solid wooden door at the end. One of the soldiers pounded on it with his fist, and it gave way to reveal a sturdy woman of middle age.

“Och, what have ye done tae the poor lass?” the woman asked, bustling forward to take Katarina into her ample arms.

“Calm down, Agnes,” Hamish ordered, his tone brusque but not without warmth for the older woman. “It is the laird’s wishes that we be carryin’ out.”

The older woman looked Katarina up and down in sympathy. Sighing, she shook her head in disapproval. “Help me get her in the bath. I cannae say I approve o’ his lairdship’s choice, but it is nae my place tae say.”

“It is nae,” Hamish agreed. “Send for me when she is done.” He and the other soldier hauled Katarina over to a chair near the tub that had been placed by the hearth, and then they left the room.

The woman named Agnes clucked her tongue in disapproval as she removed Katarina’s clothing. Her skin was covered in bruises and abrasions but nothing fatal. She would live if the head wound did not kill her first. Once Katarina was naked, Agnes inspected the wound on her head. “There was nae cause for such violence tae a young lass such as yerself.”

Katarina silently agreed with the woman but said nothing. She had yet to find her voice in the haze of fear, panic, pain, and what appeared to be a severe concussion, if the world spinning around her was any indication. Agnes, having finished her examination, lifted her into the tub. Unexpectedly, the woman was as strong as an ox. Drawing a pitcher of warm water from the tub, she poured it over Katarina’s head. The water stung the wounds on her scalp but felt good otherwise. After everything that she had endured, the warm water offered some solace to her aching body.

“Now that’s better, is it nae?” Agnes asked as she took a handful of soap and began to gently wash Katarina’s hair. “We will have ye looking bonnie in nae time at all.”

An image from her childhood flashed through Katarina’s mind, nearly choking her from the pain of her recent loss. Her mother had washed her hair just so. But with that memory came the horrific images of her mother’s demise. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run or fight. But being too weak and stunned to do any of those things, she sat in the tub and wept instead. She wept for everything that had been, that which had been lost, and for fear of what was to come.

If Agnes had noticed her crying, she said nothing. She went about her business, scrubbing her clean and making tsking sounds as she went. When Katarina was finally clean enough to suit the older woman, Agnes helped her stand up. As she stood there, the woman poured another pitcher over her body from her head to her toes to rinse away the remaining soap.

“That is better. The laird will be pleased. Ye are ready.”

“Ready for what?” Katarina feared to even ask.

“Ready for the wedding, o’ course.”

“What wedding? Who is getting married?”

“Ye are, lass. The wedding is yers.”

Chapter Two

Katarina stood in stunned silence. Mine?

Without warning, the door to the room swung open, exposing the menacing countenance of a man old enough to be her father. His eyes raked over her naked form as he circled her in examination but she was powerless to stop him or cover herself. She was barely able to remain standing of her own accord. “What is yer name?” he asked, his voice demanding.

Katarina struggled to find her voice, but when she at long last spoke, it came out more as a hoarse squeak than actual words. Agnes took pity on her and wrapped her in a warm blanket, assisting her out of the tub and onto the chair.

“Speak up,” the man ordered impatiently. “Ye are nae a mouse.”

Katarina’s anger flared, giving her strength. “Katarina Buckland,” she managed to answer hoarsely. “Who are you?”

“I am Laird Alistair Morgan.” He shook his head in disapproval of her. “Och, ye dinnae speak properly. The Viking will ken that ye are nae my daughter.”

Katarina frowned in confusion.

“Ye are nae Scottish?”

Katarina shook her head and immediately regretted it. She looked to Agnes for help, but the woman remained silent. She must be afraid of him too.

“Repeat after me, exactly as I say it. Do ye understand?” He glared down at her as if she were an imbecile.

Katarina was furious and mimicked him harshly. “Do ye understand?”

His brows arched in surprise. “That is nae bad. Try again.”

“That is nae bad,” she repeated mockingly.

The man, clearly not realizing he was being mocked, nodded his approval. “That’ll do. From this day forward ye will speak as a true Scotswoman. If I hear ye speak in any other way, I will have ye beaten. Ye will undergo lessons on how tae be a Scottish noblewoman o’ good breeding. Ye will learn quickly, or ye will be punished. Ye are tae take my daughter’s place and wed the Viking beast o’ Orkney. Ye will pretend tae be her until a time o’ my choosing. Do ye understand?”

“And if I refuse?” Katarina knew that she was playing with fire, but she no longer cared what happened to her—she only cared about her sisters.

“I will kill the rest o’ yer family.”

Katarina attempted to lie. “I have no family. Your men killed them all.”

The man stepped forward and slapped her across the face. “Speak correctly even when ye lie, or ye will be disciplined. We both ken that yer sisters are rotting away in the bowels o’ my home even as we speak. I can either let my men have their way with them and then kill them, or I can keep them safe and alive. The choice is yers.”

Katarina swallowed the bile that threatened to choke her. “When am I tae be wed?” she asked, gritting her teeth in determination. She would not let this man win. He would not touch a hair on her sisters’ heads, not if she had any say in the matter.

“Ye have a fortnight tae learn all ye need tae. Should ye fail, ye will wish that I had killed ye.” With that, he turned and left the room.

***

Orkney Islands, Scotland

Dunn and his brother Tor had just finished butchering a stag for the kitchens. Covered in blood, they headed down to the beach to bathe. “Have ye decided what ye plan tae do about the king’s order?” Tor asked as he removed his shirt and shoes.

Dunn shook his head as he did the same. “I dinnae ken that I have a choice. It has been six months, and the lass has nae died, nor has Morgan refused. Our clan is in nae position tae be denying the king anything. We dinnae have much left for him tae take.”

“Ye plan tae wed her then?”

“I dinnae see that I have a choice. The king commanded me tae. But he did nae say that I had tae bed her. Nae bairn o’ mine will bear Morgan blood.” Dunn dove into the water and resurfaced a short distance away.

Tor snorted. “When have ye ever turned down a lass that wished tae lay with ye?”

“There is a first time for everything.”

“It is said that Lady Katherine has eyes as green as emeralds. It is said that just one look o’ those emerald eyes and a man’s soul is lost.”

It was Dunn’s turn to snort in disbelief. “Ye cannae believe anything a Morgan says. Nae man in Scotland has laid eyes on Lady Katherine unless he was o’ her own clan. She is probably ugly as a pig’s snout. The tales o’ her beauty are only spoken o’ as a farce.”

Tor dove into the water and came up beside Dunn. “Beauty or nae, it is a dangerous match.”

“Aye, it is at that. Nae doubt she will serve as a spy tae her own faither against us. A Morgan cannae be trusted.”

“Ye will be in danger long ‘afore ye wed her. Simply traveling to retrieve her puts ye in danger. Where would our people be if ye were lost?”

“Under yer trustworthy care,” Dunn answered with a reassuring smile. “If aught were to befall me, ye would do what is needed.”

“I was nae trained tae be laird,” Tor reminded him. “Trained to be a warrior at yer side, aye, but nae laird.”

“Ye have been by my side for five and ten years. Ye have seen what my eyes have seen, heard what my ears have heard. Ye will do well.”

Tor shook his head. “I dinnae want it.”

“Nor did I,” Dunn reminded him.

“It is yer birthright.”

“Aye,” Dunn nodded in acknowledgment, “but nae one I asked for.”

Tor’s eyes filled with understanding. Dunn had been thrust into the role too young before he was ready, and despite the pain and uncertainty, he had performed admirably. “Let me go in yer stead. Let me retrieve yer bride. I will learn all I can o’ her along the journey and report tae ye what I find.”

“The king was clear that I must retrieve her myself.”

“After our faither died, the king forced ye tae swear an oath that ye would nae step forth onto Morgan lands. Now, he asks ye tae do the very thing that ye swore ye would nae. If ye dae retrieve her, ye will be breaking that oath. It feels like a trap tae me. Let me go. I will return tae ye unharmed, I swear it.”

Dunn gave this some thought. Tor was right. He had sworn a vow, an unbreakable vow upon pain of death. He studied his brother’s face. They were near identical, save for some minor differences. They both had long blond hair and blue eyes, but Tor wore his with a single small braid near his face, whereas Dunn wore his back in a long braid with the sides shaved, granting him a more menacing look in battle. A scar ran down the side of Dunn’s face from forehead to jawline, but instead of detracting from his beauty, it simply added a more dangerous air. Tor had a small scar on his chin and another at the nape of his neck. If only Laird Morgan had never seen either of them before or had only seen them as children, they might have been able to fool him by trading places. However, Dunn knew they couldn’t pull off such a trick.

He shook his head. “I cannae let ye do this. If there is any danger tae be had, then it is mine. Ye will remain here and look after our people. If this is a trick o’ Morgan’s, they will need ye tae lead them. Can I trust ye tae do this for me? Give me yer word ye will nae follow after me.”

“Aye,” Tor nodded solemnly. “Ye have my word. I will protect our people, but ye have tae promise me that ye will look after yerself. Dinnae fall prey tae Morgan’s wiles.”

“Aye, ye have my word as well.” Dunn made the promise even though he knew there was no certain way to keep it. Exiting the water, he donned his clothing once more, waving to his brother to carry on swimming. “I must prepare. I will come and find ye before I depart.”

“How does one prepare for what ye are about tae do?” Tor wondered, his voice tinged with sympathy.

“I dinnae ken.” Dunn shook his head. “But I dinnae have a choice.”

***

Strathnaver, Scotland

Katarina stood in front of the fireplace as Agnes dressed her in Lady Katherine’s clothing. The gown was beautiful, red with golden thread that accented her dark hair and sensuous curves. She looked at her image in the polished metal of the shield hanging on the wall. Her emerald-green eyes shone in the firelight as if something from one of her father’s dragon stories. They burned with a fury that threatened to melt anyone who dare cross her path, yet beneath that fury lay a deep abiding sorrow. A single tear slid down her cheek, disappearing in the raven curls of her hair.

The door opened, and a guard stepped inside. “His Lairdship has instructed me tae take ye tae see yer sisters.”

Katarina’s head snapped around to stare in surprise at the guard’s face. The quick motion made her head feel like it would explode, and she teetered precariously for a moment. “Sit ye down here, lass,” Agnes instructed, taking her by the arm.

“The laird instructed this?” Katarina asked, confused as she allowed Agnes to guide her to the nearest chair. She had assumed from the way Laird Morgan had spoken to her before that he would keep her sisters from her to make her pliant.

“Aye, he did.” The guard’s eyes traveled over her in the dress. A spark of lust flared within their depths, but he said nothing about his thoughts. “If ye are able tae walk, I will take ye tae them.”

Katarina leveraged herself up out of the chair and stood uncertainly, clinging to the wooden frame. She took a tentative step forward, then another. “I can walk,” she confirmed, more to convince herself than the guard.

Agnes stepped forward and offered Katarina her arm. “I will help ye, lass.”

“The laird said that she is tae come alone,” the guard interrupted, raising his hand to stop Agnes.

The woman frowned but obeyed, releasing her hold on Katarina’s arm.

Katarina moved toward the door—unsteady but mobile enough to do it herself. She followed the guard down the corridor to the cell he had first taken her from. When he opened the door, she noticed all of the other women had been moved to places unknown. She did not want to know where for the mere thought of it made her sick to her stomach. All that remained were her sisters. “Katarina!” they cried as one, clambering up from the stone floor to throw their arms around her.

“Where did they take you?” Idalia demanded to know, her eyes filled with tears.

“What are you wearing?” Leonor asked, her eyes traveling down the length of the red dress.

“I have come to an agreement with the laird. He will allow ye both to live if I marry his daughter’s betrothed in her place.”

“This cannot be true,” Idalia wept, shaking her head in denial.

“Do not do this,” Leonor demanded, grasping Katarina’s hand firmly.

“She does nae have a choice,” the laird’s voice commanded from the cell doorway. “If she does nae do as I have instructed, she and ye will die brutally at my hand, yer maidenhead having been soiled by my men.”

“Ye cannot do this,” Idalia sobbed, placing herself between Katarina and the laird.

The laird stepped forward and slapped Idalia’s face. “I can and I will. I am the laird, lass. Learn yer place.”

Katarina took Idalia by the shoulders and moved her back a safe distance. “Do not touch her.”

Laird Morgan stepped forward and grabbed Katarina by the jaw. “Ye will speak as a Scotswoman, or ye will nae speak at all.” He shoved her back, making her crash against her sisters.

Katarina righted herself and squared her shoulders, her blood boiling. She would strangle the man with her bare hands if she could. “If I do this, ye are nae tae lay a hand on either o’ my sisters, nae ye or yer men,” she spoke as instructed, praying that she did so correctly. “Nae a finger or a boot.”

The laird chuckled at the specific nature of her request. “Ye are learning,” he noted with approval. “I will nae lay a hand, finger, or boot on yer sisters. Nor I or my men will ever touch them, provided ye do exactly as I say.”

“How will I ken that ye have kept yer word?”

He studied her face for a moment in thought, then nodded. “In a month’s time, ye may return tae ascertain their well-being. Yer husband will expect such a visit tae be made on yer behalf as my beloved daughter. Nothing will appear amiss about it. Until that time, dinnae seek them out, or I will follow through with my threat.”

“How can I trust ye?” Katarina asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Ye have nae choice.”

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