Chapter 1

Applecross, Scotland 1566

“Hayden? Is that ye?” a voice called out of the croft.

“Aye, who else would it be climbin’ this far up the hill at this time?” Hayden said with a laugh as he walked past the well up toward the croft door. “Nae many men come this far up the hills, do they?”

His uncle appeared in the doorway of the croft, still wearing the fine clothes that showed he had only recently got back from another of his merchant’s trips.

The scent of spices hung in the air off his figure, the cinnamon and then cumin tickling Hayden’s nose.

“We may have a visitor someday. Ye never ken!” his uncle laughed as he turned and walked back into the croft.

I thought we liked it without visitors. The thought made Hayden smile as he followed his uncle into the croft. It was not something they often talked of, why they had come here. They usually left it unsaid, but deep down, Hayden was happy with their quiet lot in life, and he was even happier that he didn’t have to suffer many visitors from the past. That life is dead to me. This is me life now.

“How goes yer work at the inn?” Nathair asked as he walked inside the croft. The young maid that sometimes clambered up the hill from the nearby village to cook for them had clearly been and gone that day, for she had left food in the kitchen, steaming over a fire with fresh hunks of bread standing on the far grate. “Who would have thought the lad supposed to be a laird would now work at an inn?”

“Uncle…” Hayden lost his smile, his tone darkening. “We daenae talk about that.”

“Aye, maybe we should once in a while,” Nathair said thoughtfully as he reached for the bread.

Hayden took off his cloak, revealing a deep green jerkin slightly mottled from ale spilled at the inn.

“The work is fine,” Hayden said with a sigh. “The inn is busy, and the time passes quickly. That is all I wish for.”

“Ye arenae bored by it then?” Nathair asked with his dark eyebrows raised as he sat down beside the fire, warming his hands near the flames. Hayden set about spooning out some of the stew into two pewter bowls, flicking his eyes toward his uncle.

“Bored? Nay. It is peaceful. I like that.” Hayden pushed the bowl of stew into his uncle’s hands, hopeful it would keep him quiet and stop him from asking such questions.

“I have the impression ye arenae in the mood for conversation, laddie,” Nathair said quietly, adopting the old term he always used for Hayden.

“Will ye always call me ‘laddie’? Even when I’m old and grey?” Hayden asked, conveniently changing the conversation as he sat down on the other side of the fire.

“Ye forget, when ye’re old and grey, I’ll be older and greyer. Aye, ye will always be a lad to me.” Nathair’s words made Hayden laugh as he turned his focus on the stew.

It was good, made with cheap lamb, not that he minded, and chopped up turnip. It warmed his bones through, something he needed on a cold wintry day like that day, where the wind rattled through the windows, making the cloths they had hung up as curtains dance back and forth.

“Ye may nae be in the mood for talkin’, but ye may have to put up with an old man wantin’ to talk for a minute.” Nathair paused with his food as he sat back in his chair, making the thin wood creak beneath him. “I was thinkin’ of the day I left the castle behind this mornin’. Me journey took me past the clan. In some ways, it doesnae feel that long ago we left.”

“Doesnae it?” Hayden asked, realizing he would not escape this conversation without saying something his uncle wanted to hear. “It feels a long time ago to me, and I left after ye, takin’ nothin’ with me to remember it.”

“Aye, so ye did. I had to take somethin’ though.” Nathair raised his hand in emphasis, urging Hayden to look down at the ring on his uncle’s finger. His uncle’s skin was beginning to age, and the fingers were gnarled with the years that had passed, making the ring stand out all the more.

It was a thick band of gold, and in the very center was a small and unique engraving. The Mackenzie clan crest of a stag’s head in a circle was dappled on either side with two fine jewels and rubies.

Nathair was smiling as he looked down upon it, perhaps thinking of the person who had given him the ring, his own father, yet Hayden could not smile. The crest merely reminded him of his own father, Nathair’s older brother, making Hayden shift in his seat uncomfortably.

“I couldnae wear such a thing,” Hayden murmured as he returned his focus to the stew.

“Ye’d be surprised what ye can bring yerself to do,” Nathair lowered his hand again. “I see this conversation has run its course. Ye daenae like talkin’ of the old days.”

“Nay, I daenae. I should tell ye what ye have missed while ye have been travellin’.” Hayden sat back in his seat, adopting a more relaxed countenance now their conversation about the past was done. “The farmer, Kendrick, he has disappeared.”

“Kendrick? Och, the man that goes everywhere with that black dog at his ankles?”

“Aye, that’s the man. He’s vanished,” Hayden said slowly. “Nay one kens where he has gone.”

“That drunkard has probably fallen asleep in a ditch somewhere. Daenae worry on it too much,” Nathair dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.

There was a sound beyond the croft windows, something that stood out against the whistling wind. It was footsteps against the earth, making Hayden and Nathair fall still.

“Ye were nae expectin’ a guest, were ye?” Hayden asked to be sure, earning a shake of Nathair’s head.

Hayden hurried to his feet, placing down the stew and moving toward the door. Beyond it, was the sword he kept permanently in its scabbard, reluctant to let anyone see the clan markings upon the blade. He hitched the weapon high in the air and thrust open the door, ready to meet whoever had come to creep up on the croft.

“Who goes there?” he called loudly, earning a yelp of surprise in reply from a boy atop a horse climbing up the hill toward the croft.

“Careful, ye scared the boy half to death.” Nathair laughed as he came up behind him, urging him to lower the scabbarded weapon. “Why ye come up this far, boy?”

Hayden didn’t take his eyes off the young man. He was dressed rather finely to be out this far in the high hills. His cloak was studded with beads, and the high collar bore the hint of a ruff around his neck.

“I come with a message,” the boy said, looking between the two of them. He appeared rather like a fish out of water to Hayden’s mind, unused to the wild moor he stood on as he climbed down from his pony. He struggled so much with the dismount that he stumbled and nearly fell over entirely among the bracken. Hayden held in a laugh and stepped further out of the croft, coming to meet the boy.

“We daenae get messages here. Ye must have the wrong place.” Hayden shook his head, ready to send the boy back down the hill again.

“I am lookin’ for Hayden Mackenzie.”
Hayden froze, with his fingers tightening around the scabbarded weapon at his hip. In this area, no one knew his true surname. He had given the folk at the inn a false one to keep his identity hidden.

“How do ye ken me, boy?” he asked, turning his focus back on the young man.

“I have a message for ye. From yer brother.”
Hayden turned his eyes on his uncle, seeing the same curiosity in his brow that he was sure was in his own. Out of everyone, Hayden’s brother was the only one who knew where he was.

“Very well, speak yer message,” Hayden urged with a wave of his hand.

“He needs yer help.” The messenger spoke in a rush as if he was fearful of something. “Many things have happened, and he asks to see ye most urgently.”

“Where?” Hayden asked, feeling his body grow still. I daenae go back to the clan. That is me rule.

“The tavern on the far side of Applecross. They call it The Black Stag. Do ye ken it?”

“Aye,” Hayden nodded. It was hardly the finest of establishments, home to criminals and thieves, certainly a good place for someone to hide without too many questions being asked.

“He will meet ye there tonight after the sun has gone.”

“Ye forget, boy, Hayden has nae said ‘aye’ yet.” Nathair’s words made Hayden look to his uncle another time. “Ye said ye were done with that life. Remember?”

“Aye, so I did.” Hayden ran a hand through his short hair. It was beginning to grow longer now and a little unruly. It allowed him to pull at the locks in frustration before turning back to the messenger. “How urgent is it that he see me?”

“He is desperate,” the boy said slowly. “He rode so hard out of the castle that the animal threw a shoe. Say ye will come?”

Hayden couldn’t say no. Not when his brother was asking for him. He is the one man in that castle I still love.

“If me brother asks it, then aye, I will come.”

***

Hayden stood outside the tavern for a minute, peering in through one of the few glass windows the building had. There was so much candlelight inside that for a second, Hayden’s reflection was the only thing he could see. He was so tall he had to bend down to see in the window, where he could see his fair hair looked paler than normal in the moonlight. The beard that had grown across his chin was a little unruly, but it was the eyes that stunned him the most.

He looked away from the dark blue eyes that reminded him so much of his father and walked into the tavern.

The moment he opened the door, heads swiveled toward him. Some were clearly looking him up and down, trying to judge by his height how much of a threat he was to them. Others were evidently thieves, their gazes judging the clothing he wore. They must have judged him a poor target, for they soon turned away, allowing Hayden to walk into the tavern.

“Hayden?” Brandon’s voice urged him to turn toward the corner of the tavern.

Through the candelabras full of lit candles and past the tables where men were drunkenly half prostrate across tabletops, there was a figure in the very corner he knew well.

“Brandon,” Hayden said with a smile, crossing quickly toward his brother. Bearing the same hair, though, with the dark eyes of their mother, Brandon stood to his feet, much shorter than Hayden.

The two brothers embraced warmly. Hayden couldn’t stop the relief that swelled through him at seeing his brother again after so long. It showed how much something had been missing this past year. Without Brandon at his side, Hayden had become rather empty.

“For the wee man, brother,” Brandon said, his voice deep indeed these days. “It has been too long since I saw ye last.”

“It has been too long,” Hayden agreed and stepped back, clapping his brother around the shoulder. “I wish to share a drink with ye and be merry, but both yer messenger’s words and the look on yer face tells me this is nay time to be merry. Ye have nae come just to see me, have ye?”

“I wish I could say that I had.” Brandon sighed and sat back down at the table before sliding a tankard of ale toward Hayden, urging him to take it. Hayden sat opposite his brother, feeling the chair creak dangerously beneath him before he lifted the tankard to his lips and took a big gulp. “I am pleased to see ye are well.”

“And I ye,” Hayden said, lowering the tankard again. “Speak yer mind, brother. If ye have come so far to see me, then whatever bothers ye must be great indeed.”

“Very well.” Brandon nodded and sat forward, resting his elbows on the table and making his cloak fall open. It revealed the rather fine clothes, urging Hayden to reach across the table and close the cloak back up again. Brandon flinched at the close touch. “What did ye do that for?”

“Protectin’ ye. There are thieves here that will nae hesitate from stabbin’ ye just to get hold of yer purse. Best be careful nae to show them those fine clothes of yers,” Hayden explained as he lowered his hand.

Brandon looked taken aback and tightly closed the cloak around his throat, sending a wary look around the tavern.

“Begin, brother,” Hayden urged him on.

“Our faither is dead. Did ye hear?” Brandon’s blunt question made Hayden pause with the tankard half lifted in the air. His expression must have been enough to answer his brother. “Ye had heard.”

“I heard a whisper.” That same hollowness returned to Hayden’s chest, the same he had felt the day he had heard of his father’s passing. What was he supposed to do? Weep for this man? He didn’t love the man enough to weep for him. All he felt was emptiness; it acknowledged that his father was gone and the pain that remained, without Hayden longing for the man to rise from his grave. “I didnae ken if it was true. I imagine I cried nay more than ye did.”

“Nay tears at all? Then we are alike indeed,” Brandon nodded. “Ye could take yer place now… surely ye ken that.”

“Nay,” Hayden spoke sharply, lowering the tankard back down to the table with a thud to emphasize his words. “Brandon, ye and I had this conversation long ago. I daenae wish to have it again.”

“As ye wish,” Brandon fidgeted with his hands before looking up to Hayden another time, flicking the fair hair back from his forehead to look him in the eye. “Then let us discuss another matter. These last months, they have been dark indeed.”

“Dark? In what way?” Hayden’s interest was piqued, noticing the haunted look that appeared on his brother’s face, with the eyes hooded.

“Murder, brother. I talk of murder.”

Chapter 2

“Murder?” Hayden repeated, uncertain he had heard his brother right.

“Aye,” Brandon’s voice turned deeper and quieter, prompting Hayden to lean forward to hear his brother better. “So many deaths in our castle walls these last months that we have barely buried the last before news reaches us of another. It is too awful to bear. It is as if the devil himself walks our castle corridors.”

“Devils daenae walk, Brandon. They stay in hell where they belong.”

“This one hasnae done so. Someone is killin’ the men of our clan.” Brandon grew angry. It was an emotion Hayden had barely seen in his brother over the years. His whisper became seething as he bent across the table. “I cannae bear it anymore. I cannae see another man I trust die at this devil’s hands. The last death was me own General, me man-at-arms. Killed in the middle of the night. His throat slashed.”

The words took the vigor out of Brandon, forcing him back in his chair. He lifted his hand to his throat and placed it there, clearly thinking of the wound he had seen.

“Brother, I am so sorry,” Hayden muttered, seeing his brother’s hand tremble. “I think ye need another drink.” He pushed back his chair, ready to stand to his feet and fetch that drink, when Brandon veered sharply forward, taking his wrist and stopping him from going anywhere.

“I need yer help.”

“Me help? What can I do?”

“I daenae ken who the killer is. Nay one does. I daenae ken who I can trust in me own walls. What if I place me trust in the very man who turns out to be this devil?”

“Brandon, ye are startin’ to sound like a man possessed. Calm yerself.”

“Ye would be this panicked too if ye had seen the things I have seen,” Brandon snapped. Heads turned to look at them with curiosity. Hayden lifted a hand to his brother, urging him to lower his voice. They didn’t need those in the tavern to hear of this business. “I need someone in the castle I can trust, Hayden. Someone I ken without a doubt has nothin’ to do with these murders. Someone who can help me find this killer.”

Hayden pulled his wrist free of his brother, realizing just what he was referring to.

“Ye want me to come to the castle?” He was already shaking his head, even before he had finished speaking. “Brandon, ye ken I swore never to go back there.”

“I ken, but I am desperate,” Brandon explained with his hands outstretched.

“Our faither isnae there anymore.”

“His memory is there,” Hayden said quietly. “I cannae go back there when I remember what he said to me, what he expects. Nay, it isnae possible.”

Hayden saw the disappointment on his brother’s face. It made the guilt swell within Hayden, urging him to run his hands through his fair hair another time.

“I am sorry, Brandon. If I could help ye from afar, I would. I would do so in a heartbeat. Yet I cannae go back to the castle. I am truly sorry.”

Brandon nodded slowly. The disappointment was evident, even as he raised his eyes to Hayden and attempted to smile. The smile didn’t last long before it flickered and faded completely.

“I kenned it was a lot to ask. I remember why ye left. Most men wouldnae come back after that.” Brandon stood to his feet. It was so sudden that Hayden was startled, leaning back in his chair. “I wish I had time to exchange pleasantries, but I fear I daenae. I must get back to the castle. I am increasin’ the guard to stop anyone else from dyin’.”

“Brandon, one more drink?” Hayden asked, reaching for his brother. “Let me hear how ye are before ye go.”

“One more drink then,” Brandon said uncertainly. “Yet trust me. Ye daenae want to hear how I am. I will only talk of death.”

***

Hayden urged the steed away from Applecross village toward the hills. On one side of him, the ocean stretched out. Wild and vicious, each wave crashed against the shore with a kind of sizzling anger, yet Hayden took no notice. He gave the waves no more attention than he did the frost-dappled grass that was crunching beneath his horse’s hooves.

“Home, Bhaltair,” he called. “Home now.”

The horse neighed as if in agreement with him. It was time they rested their weary bones.

Hayden kept looking behind him as though he half expected his brother to follow him up the hills, but he did not. Brandon had taken his leave rather quickly from the tavern, stepping out the door to reveal three guards that had followed him, all secretly keeping watch over him. Hayden had barely recognized the guards’ faces as he had been gone from the castle for so long. He was just glad Brandon was being watched over as he took his leave from the tavern with his guards with him.

“The new laird. I hope he does a better job of it than our faither did,” Hayden muttered to himself, his thoughts still on Brandon as Bhaltair took him up the hill.

They only went a few steps more when Hayden felt the horse’s muscles stiffen beneath him. He whinnied, abruptly, high into the sky.

“Woah…” Hayden took hold of the reins, urging the horse to fall still. It was a difficult task, with the normally so calm steed now wild, almost feral. “What are ye doin’? Ye’ll kick me off in the sea in a minute!” He kicked the horse’s flank with his heel, but it did little to rest him.

As Hayden tightened one of the reins around his wrists, the better to hold onto the steed, he began to realize what it was that could have upset the animal.

Something was burning. It was acrid and smokey, so strong that it hit the back of Hayden’s throat, turning it dry. “Burnin’.”

The horse turned its nose back up the hill, urging Hayden to look ahead. In the distance, there was an orange orb leaking into the night sky. An orb so great that seeing the stars had become impossible.

“Nay,” Hayden said, urging the horse forward. “It is nae the croft. It cannae be!” He dug his heels in another time, and on this occasion, Bhaltair obeyed his orders. The black steed leaped forward, bending his nose down in the urgency with which they rode. Hayden leaned over the head of the steed, prompting him on at a greater speed.

The hill began to flatten out, revealing just where the orb was coming from. It was the croft, after all.

“Uncle Nathair!” Hayden bellowed the words as he grew nearer to the croft. The burning smell was strong, with black smoke filling the air. Flames were curling through the windows of the croft. “Nathair!”

Yet Hayden’s panicked cry went unanswered.

The horse tried to back away. Hayden jumped down from the animal, slapping it on the rear to be certain to send it scuttling back from the flames before he advanced.

“Nathair!” He wrapped his cloak around his arms, about to use it as a shield to barge his way into the house and find his uncle when there was a boom of wood snapping.

Hayden was forced to scramble backward as the thatched roof half caved in. Part of the roof was still intact as the other half fell away. The straw disappeared into the house, along with timber beams that cracked and echoed into the air.

“Nay,” Hayden muttered, uncertain how to get into the house at all. The flames could kill him. “Uncle!”

This time, there was an answer to his bellow, yet the sight that greeted him chilled him to the bone, despite the heat coming off of the fire.

The door burst open, half-broken off its hinges as a figure stumbled forward.

It had to be Nathair, yet his body was no longer his – it belonged to the fire, engulfed in it. There was not an inch of his body that was not alight. The clothes were blackened, his face too, the hair curling in smoke in such a way that the color was gone.

Nathair called out, no words, but just a scream, his voice so marred with pain that the voice was practically unrecognizable.

“Nay,” Hayden muttered. Hayden stumbled forward, his boots tripping on the mounds of the earth beneath him as he hastened toward his uncle. There was nothing he could do. Not now. Though he wished he could, desperately. His hands lifted in the air toward the figure, somehow hoping he could pull the flames free of him.

“Nay…” Hayden murmured into the air. “God’s wounds!”

Behind the figure, the croft was lit in flames. The entire roof was caving in, with the sounds of the thatched roof cracking and snapping in the fire.

Hayden had never known heat like it. Every time he tried to get closer to the house and the man, the warmth hit him with full force, demanding he step back again, stumbling away with his hands over his face. He could feel the heat sizzling at the edge of his hair when he got closer, forcing him away, further from the man.

A scream erupted from the body. The voice practically bore into Hayden’s soul as he watched his uncle burn.

He was beyond recognition, with his face blackened as he clawed at it with his own hands.

There has to be somethin’ I can do! The words tore through Hayden, spurring him into action. He scrambled further away from the croft, down the hill a little toward where a well was buried into the ground. He threw the bucket down the well with a rope attached to the handle, barely able to hear the splash it made in the water above the sounds of the fire. Hitching it back up again, he fumbled to untie the rope before running back up the hill toward the man still burning in flames.

He tossed the bucket of water toward the man, dousing him in the water. It was only enough to dampen some of the flames, the bucket too small to hold much at all.

Hayden stood back, the bucket limp in his hands as he realized what little good he had done. The man had stopped shouting his name now. His body had grown weak; he capitulated to the ground on his knees.

I cannae lose me uncle! God have mercy. There must be a way to stop this.

“Nay. I have to do somethin’,” Hayden muttered in a hissed whisper, feeling the anger burning through him, as strong as the flames that were now ravaging his home. It was not a fire that would be put out, the want of justice, of revenge.

Hayden ran back down the hill toward the well. He would not give up. He couldn’t. He would do what he could to save his uncle.

He lost track of how many times he collected buckets of water and threw them on the fallen form of his uncle. All he knew was that by the time of the third bucket, his uncle was on the ground, unmoving. The fingers were still, no longer clawing toward him in desperation, and the eyes stared glacially outward, the color marred by the white around the irises having turned a deep red.

Hayden threw a final bucket of water over his uncle. With the flames put out for good over the unconscious man, he reached down, taking his uncle’s arm, and dragged him away from the fire across the earth. The cloth felt unnatural beneath Hayden’s touch, and the skin was hardened. Bile rose in his throat at the stench of the burned skin.

Once they were a few feet from the house, safe from the burning building, at last, Hayden dropped down to his uncle. He reached for his uncle’s wrist, trying desperately to search for a pulse, but the skin had morphed too much for him to do it easily. Instead, he moved his fingers to his uncle’s neck, trying to find a pulse there.

Nothin’. Hayden reared back from his uncle with horror, pushing away across the ground before falling still, feeling the tears sting his eyes.
His uncle had gone. His spirit had left that scarred body so much that the body almost felt foreign to Hayden.

He’s nae here anymore. Hayden bent forward, unafraid to stop the tears. They wracked his body, making his tall frame weak for a minute. He rested his forehead against the ground, his face in the grass. “Ye cannae die, Nathair. Ye cannae die.”

He knew well enough his words were pointless, but they came anyway. As if they were some sort of desperate plea with God to bring his uncle back to life.

There was another crack in the house, and Hayden snapped his head up, looking toward the building. The rest of the roof caved in, cascading sparks in a flurry, leaving but a carcass of the croft behind.

Hayden’s home had gone, just as the uncle he loved had gone too.

Bhaltair neighed sharply into the night. For a moment, Hayden thought it was the animal’s way of showing despair until the horse did it again, louder this time. Hayden turned his gaze on Bhaltair, watching as the animal pawed at the ground with one hoof. Hayden slowly moved to his feet and moved to the horse, looking down at what had caught the animal’s interest so much.

It was an iron ball, half-cracked open with a burnt rag pressed in the top.

A grenade? Hayden bent down, prodding the pieces of the broken ball. His uncle owned no such weapon, and neither did he. Yet here one was feet from where his home was burning down.

This was nay accident. Hayden stood to his feet and turned away from the grenade, knowing all he needed to know. This was murder.

He crossed back to his uncle, kneeling beside him. He tried to rest a hand on his uncle’s forehead, longing to say goodbye properly, yet the skin was still too warm, and he was forced to back up away from his uncle, unable to get too close. He was blackened beyond recognition. The only thing that was still visible and recognizable as his uncle was the presence of the ring upon his finger.

“I swear to ye, on everythin’ that is left in this world that I hold dear, ye will be avenged. Whoever did this to ye, whatever the reason for it, they willnae escape justice.” Hayden felt the steed walk back toward him. Either Bhaltair was escaping the flames or coming to Hayden for comfort. It made Hayden lift his hand and take hold of the steed’s reins, pulling himself to his feet. “We cannae stay here, Bhaltair.”

The horse grunted as if in acknowledgment.

“After the burial, we go to Brandon. There are now many deaths that need investigatin’, it would seem. Maybe this one has somethin’ to do with what is happenin’ at the castle.”

He reached forward and pulled the ring free of his uncle’s body. It was an awful thing, leaving Hayden to grimace at the touch of the burned skin and look away, unable to stare too long at the blackened body. With the ring free, he held it in the palm of his hand. It would need to be cleaned.

A final boom was behind him, urging Hayden to grimace and look around at his home as it burned down. The stones were blackened as some fell from their place, hitting the earth with the heaviest thuds that echoed through the ground, reaching where Hayden’s feet were planted.

“Who would do this to ye, Nathair?”

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter One

Maxwell pulled his sword out of the last brigand, and the man fell to his knees. His face planted in the soil, unmoving, and his hand was still gripping his chipped sword. Maxwell withdrew his bloody sword, the bright red liquid sliding off.

As weapons kept clashing between men below, a cloud, like a fluffy plate, wafted past the late afternoon sun. The air was warm despite a whistling wind that was too weak to swirl the molten red leaves off the forest floor but promised a comforting chill later after the sunset.

The battle between his band, the Red Hawk scouts, and a common group of outlaws ended, and they had triumphantly won. He knew he had to praise their skills because they were too small of a group to outnumber them. Usually, Maxwell and his scouts didn’t want any of this, but the outlaws couldn’t help but push. They were notoriously fueled by greed.  He knew it would be their downfall.

Maxwell turned to the rest of his band; none were gravely injured, only a few scratches and nicks here and there. As he opened his mouth to speak, he caught sight of something moving amongst the pile of bodies. The other members saw it as well. A brigand was still alive.

“Seize him.” Maxwell ordered fast enough.

The order was acted on immediately. Two of his scouts rushed over to the moving body, who tried to scramble away after realizing he had been caught. A kick to the legs did the trick, and the man fell to his side with a low groan, face scrunched up in pain. He was held down with a foot on his chest and another dangerously hovering over his throat. He was old, Maxwell noticed. The gray hair on his head, the sagging on his face, he was old enough to be a grandfather.

“Please! Please spare me. Do nae kill me. I have a family!” This earned snickers from the rest of the scouts as Maxwell closed in on the man, unsheathing his sword. He almost felt pity for the unfortunate man because he was now alone. Yet, he had a duty to protect his group.

“We have families to return to as well. I am sure ye did nae think of that when ye attacked us, did ye?” Maxwell pressed the tip of his sword to the trembling man’s forehead.

“I beg yer forgiveness! Please, I can pay ye.” This caught Maxwell’s interest. “Aye, I can pay ye. Look.” The man fumbled with his breeches before taking out a gold pendant enclosed around a red gem. Maxwell narrowed his eyes at the man before snatching the pendant from his hands. The rest of his scouts quickly gathered around him, each wanting to catch a glance at the payment.

Maxwell sheathed his sword as he flipped the pendant over, and surely behind the pendant was a familiar crest. The crest of the Macmillan clan. Eyeing the brigand on the floor, Maxwell tossed the pendant back at him. “Ye want to pay us with stolen goods?”

“Nae! They are nae stolen, I promise ye.” The man pleaded, but his words caused Maxwell to raise a sharp brow at him.

“They? Ye have more?” Upon realizing his mistakes, the man went wide-eyed, head shaking just the slightest, but Maxwell did not need to hear any more from him. “Search their wagon. Every bag, every sack, and every box. Find those gems.” The scouts set to work on the wagon, emptying whatever they could get their hands on. As predicted, the scouts dragged off a fur bag from the wagon, setting it down before Maxwell, who pried it open to be met with not just gems but gold and silver as well.

“Let him go.” Maxwell turned to his men and beckoned for them to allow the brigand to get to his feet. “If I am nae mistaken, ye got this from the Macmillan clan? The pendant has a crest on the back of it.”

“Aye, but I swear, I didnae steal from them. They made me stay back and watch the wagon. Please dinnae kill me.” Maxwell tossed the bag to one of his men with a low chuckle before stretching out his hand to the brigand. The man reached out to touch the hand but was slapped away.

“Dinnae touch me. Give me the pendant. What else did ye steal with yer group? Give it all to me.” The old man nodded, dipping his hands in his breeches to pull out a handful of necklaces as well as the pendant from the ground, handing it over as fast as he could.

“Is this all?” Maxwell asked, not trusting the man.

“Aye, I swear, that is all I took. I wanted to-”

“I didnae ask ye what ye wanted to do with it. Ye are old, way past yer youth. Even if I kill ye, it will make nae difference.” The older man let out a whimper as he inched away.”So, I’ll spare ye.” Maxwell dipped his hand in his breeches, taking out a gold coin and tossing it at the old man. ” But, if I ever see ye in these forests again, I won’t pardon ye.”

The man stuttered out his gratitude as he hurried over to one of the three horses that pulled the wagon, galloping away as fast as he could.

“What will we do with the bodies?” Maxwell turned to Kenzie MacDonald, a great warrior amongst them who had asked the question, and found him kicking lightly at one of the bodies. Maxwell sent a disapproving frown towards the massive, dark-haired man, and Kenzie backed off.

“Leave them. They would have done the same fer us. We can bring the horses along. They’ll die if we leave them here.” Eon chuckled at his leader.

“Ye worry about horses after we killed men. What runs through yer head, Maxwell?” Maxwell paid the man no heed as he turned to the rest of his men with a sigh.

Running into the brigands was entirely out of his prediction. He had hoped they could get to the next village without a hassle until they showed up. They were thieves, and Maxwell had no idea what havoc they might have caused in the village they were coming from. However, it would be a wise move if he avoided going there entirely for the time being. They also had new tasks to carry out. His eyes darted to the bag of jewels. They had to return that.

Surely, he could let the scouts keep it, but it would go against their honor. It would still be considered stealing if they were caught with it. It did not matter if they were not the ones who carried out the first theft. Some of the items were marked. Selling it would be almost impossible, but of course, Maxwell had to listen to what his group was thinking.

He knew that some called the Red Hawks mercenaries, some called them thieves, some called them a merry band of men, but what could not be disputed was the strength and skill of each member. He wasn’t a stranger to the absurd rumors about him and his men. He even had a few good laughs about them. It even made him proud of the members he had gathered.

“Sir, what will we do with the bag?” Kenzie piped up, and the rest of the scouts turned to him. While Kenzie was an excellent archer, rarely missing his aim, his frequent complaints about anything he deemed a bad idea had earned him an unfavourable alias; the nagging wife.

“We have to return it, of course,” Freya replied almost immediately though her attention was mostly with the bloody sword she was trying to clean. “Why dae ye even have to ask what we are to do with it, Kenzie?” she raised her eyebrows questioningly, while Maxwell watched the encounter between them.

Freya Docherty was the only woman amongst the scouts, and she had done well in earning her spot. Frankly, she was the only woman Maxwell had ever met that could hold out for a good time in a duel with him.

“But this is a lot, and winter is almost here. We need a comfortable inn to stay till spring.” Kenzie said almost under his voice, trying to avoid Maxwell’s face. “I am nae saying we should take it all.” He added gently.

“I understand ye, Kenzie. Yer worries are genuine, and I understand that this is a lot, enough to ensure a warm winter. Winter will come and go, but if we take even a wee bit of this, we would have become thieves ourselves.” Maxwell turned to fave the others as he continued, “A stain in our robe, is it nae? We have just enough resources to last us through the winter, a job is most likely to surface soon, and if ye are still worried, we can stay the winter at me clan.”

Maxwell added the pieces that the thieve had handed over into the bag. “But the rest of ye might nae feel the same way, so why don’t we take a vote. If ye want us to keep the jewels, ye may step aside.”

Everyone always got a say in whether to stay for the night somewhere or about what job to take. This led to counting heads, as Eon, the oldest of the members, had put it. They always went with what the majority wanted, which meant no actual leader existed. But even though Maxwell continually mentioned it, his men still regarded him as the one, even refusing to call him by name except for Eon.

Maxwell watched as Archie, another scout, and Kenzie stepped aside while the others stayed put. In the band of four men and one woman, they were outvoted.

“Dinnae take that to heart, men. Look on the bright side. We could get rewarded by the Macmillan clan. They might let us stay the winter. Dinnae fret, Kenzie. We will be just fine.”

A new adventure awaited them, a new task to complete. Yet, they could also suffer a harsh winter that might turn the others against Maxwell, and it was a risk he had to take. Since he left his clan, Maxwell only lived for his men. He thrived amongst them more than he would have beside his older brothers. His father made that painfully clear while growing up.

Maxwell was first to rise and enter the courts when he was at his clan, but he was only asked to stand guard outside when the time came for important meetings. All it took was a look from his father for Maxwell to know his presence was no longer needed.

However, he did love the thrills and benefits that came with life outside his clan. It was satisfying but only up to a point. He did not know what he longed for; but, he obviously needed something else. Something unique to add to all he already had.

The Red Hawks set towards the south for the Macmillan clan late that afternoon. As they guarded the sack of jewels, they hoped Laird Macmillan was generous enough to offer them a reward of some sort. However, what lay ahead proved otherwise.

***

It was quiet in the Macmillan clan. A little too quiet considering that yet another theft had occurred. Their treasury had been looted two days ago. The day before had been full of ruckus, guards scrambling on the orders of the head guard and Laird Macmillan to find the thieves. Lady Olivia Macmillan stared out of her window at the top of the reddish trees behind her bedroom chambers that the high walls did not obstruct. She waited for a call, a cry even, anything to alert her of the current situation of their stolen jewels.

Stretched out on her bed, her younger sister, Blaire, unfurled yet another sealed envelope before her face scrunched up. “Such horrid handwriting.” She tossed the letter aside, joining the growing pile on the wooden floor before she picked another one from the stack before her. “Ye are awfully quiet.”

“Well, I have nothing to talk about. Have ye heard anything all day? Anything at all?” Olivia inched closer to her sister, who shook her head, with her brown eyes scanning the letter in her hands.

“Oh, this one is quite poetic. Read it.” The letter was thrust towards her, but Olivia tossed it with the other opened ones, caring for one thing only.

“Blaire, the keep is very still. It has been all day. Do ye think they caught the thieves?”

“I doubt it. Those jewels are gone.” Blaire picked up another envelope. Olivia resumed her position by the window with a sigh as she looked below to see if the guards had any luck. She would not consider the content of any suitor’s envelope now, she would rather focus on the jewels. That was a problem for another time, one she hoped wasn’t near. A knock on her door caused both girls to sit straight, only relaxing when their father slipped into the room. Laird Macmillan raked a hand through his thinning red hair, taking a deep breath before he started.

“We still cannae find them, but the jewels are nothing to be worried about.” Olivia almost knew what would follow. “But we have to be able to strengthen our defense. If common thieves can get in, who knows what else could pay us a nae so friendly visit. In the meantime, we must discuss the matter of your marriage.” He added sternly.

“Father, I will nae marry someone I dinnae ken just because-” Olivia started, but her father raised a hand to silence her.

“Ye need to understand, Olivia. Most marriages between people of our position are planned, and it always ends fine. Yer mother and I were arranged to wed, and we came to love each other over the years. We had ye and yer sister, is that nae enough proof that this will lead to happiness?”

“Father, I can nae marry someone I do nae even know. I have never even seen some of these men in me life.” Olivia gestured towards the pile of letters on the ground. “I want to be able to make me own decision, and I have decided I do nae want any of them.” She tried to sound as determined as she felt, hoping that this time she would convince him.

“And should the clan continue to suffer because of that decision? The more ye neglect this marriage issue, the weaker our defenses become. The villagers are getting terrified, the settlers have even gone as far as packing up and leaving. Our numbers are falling. Please, Olivia, ye are a beautiful lass at her prime. This is the best age fer ye to find a suitable husband from a strong clan. The stronger his clan is, the stronger this clan will be. We will be able to protect the keep and the villagers. We are already suffering so badly from terrible people like thieves. If a larger clan raids us, we will be done fer.” Her father became even more persistent by the minute.

Olivia knew the risk of her refusals. Her clan would continue to suffer, weakening with each attack. For all she knew, a larger, rival clan could be behind the thieves, waiting till they were on their knees before they struck.

The aftermath of a raid was not something Olivia ever wanted to befall her clan. Women and children would be carted off. Men slaughtered like animals. Her clan would be reduced to nothing but ashes. She knew all this, but she was disgusted by the fact that she had to be married off to a complete stranger just for protection.

“And as much as I hate to do this, Olivia, if ye do not choose a man by spring, I will be forced to choose one fer ye meself.” This received a cry of protest from the girls, but Laird Macmillan only shook his head at them.

“And if ye refuse to marry him, I will have to marry yer sister off before ye.” Olivia turned to her sister, then her father, mouth agape at his solution. Never had she thought her father would say that. Blaire was still too young to be married away. It would be pure wickedness.

“Father, ye want to sell us off like livestock? Blaire is too young to be married! I refuse to let ye do this to her.” Olivia stepped up to her father, and her brows were pulled further downwards as the fury stirred within her.

“It is what I must do. I have a clan to protect!” He growled.

“At the expense of yer own daughters?” Olivia snapped back. “Ye are willing to marry off one of us to any man as long as it will add to yer defense.” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Think about it, Olivia. Do nae force me to give yer hand. I expect yer answer during supper.” As fast as he had slipped on, Laird Macmillan excused himself, leaving behind one furious daughter and the other with clothes drenched in tears.

Chapter Two

Brittle leaves flew past Maxwell’s blond head, landing on the ground behind him. The loud crunching of them beneath their horses’ hooves was the only sound for miles other than the occasional grunts from the Red Hawk’s horses. The sun had only started to climb up to its highest position in the sky. They had been on the road for almost a day with no sight of the clan.

“Shall we look at the map again?” Freya asked one of the scouts as he raised the map in his hand. “Perhaps we’ve made a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Ye looked at it a while ago, so unless routes have picked themselves up and changed, I think that’s unnecessary.” Archie countered, earning a small smack in the face that almost made Frey lose her balance on her horse because of her movement.

“Stop it, the both of ye!” Eon snapped at the grumbling men. “The less noise we make, the fewer enemies we are sure to attract. Dinnae forget what we are carrying. We should arrive at the clan soon, right, Maxwell?”

Maxwell shrugged. “Hopefully.”

“Hopefully? My goodness, we’re lost, are we nae?” Kenzie asked as he hastened his horse to ride next to Maxwell.

However, as Maxwell had assured them, they caught sight of the clan’s walls just ahead of the reddening trees. The sun had started to scorch down on them by the time they reached the clan’s walls. As expected of a small clan, their gates were not opened to just anyone. A handful of guards protected the entrance, armed to the teeth as if headed for war. Their spears crossed over the gates, shielding them from going through.

“Who are ye and state yer reason of arrival.” One of the guards on the right asked as he stepped up to them, with his hand going to the sword by his side.

“We come in peace. We only request a meeting with yer laird.” Maxwell spoke for the group confidently, and the guard eyed him. “We happened to find something of his and would like to return it.”

“What is it?” The guard asked suspiciously now.

“As I said, I request an audience with yer laird only.”

“Laird Macmillan’s time is too precious to be wasted on unknown affairs. Leave.” The guard unsheathed his sword, and behind Maxwell, his men were about to do the same but were stopped by his order.

“Stand down.” Maxwell ordered his group, then faced the guards, “We mean ye and yer clan nae harm. If ye want us to leave, then we will. We have more jewels than ye could even pay us with.” This caused the guard to relax, his stance dissolving immediately.

“Ah, now ye want to hear me out?” Maxwell said mockingly.

“Explain yerself.” The guard on the right stepped forward and the previous guard reclined with a bow. It seemed the man was of higher authority to Maxwell, perhaps even the head guard, judging from his clothes.

“Who are ye?” The second guard asked.

“I am Maxwell Murphy, a member of the Red Hawks. I only come to return what belongs to ye. Me men and I stumbled upon a group of unruly men this time yesterday. We retrieved some precious items from them and the information that they had come from yer clan. We only mean to give them back.”

The man nodded, a bad combing through his beard. “I see. And ye wish to speak directly to Laird Macmillan? Well, that is nae issue. Pardon me subordinate, the clan has been on edge after that horrible experience. I am Harold Robinson, the head guard of the Macmillan Clan. At this time, we dae nae and cannae trust anyone. Ye have to hand those to me, and I will give it to Laird Macmillan. Even if ye seek rewards, I can give ye a few things to thank ye.”

The man was probably as old as his eldest brother, his face almost flawless if not for the slight drooping at the corner of his lips. He stood tall, head held high to stand as tall as Maxwell himself.

“It would, but I’d rather hand it to Laird Macmillan himself. That should really be no issue, should it?” Maxwell raised a brow at the head guard. They were being protective of their laird, a little too defensive. This led Maxwell to think that the clan was temporary without a laird. The absence of a laird meant an easier clan to raid. “Or is yer laird nae on the seat?”

“T’is nothing like that. I will take ye to him.” The head guard guided them past the clan’s walls into the village. Although it was known the Macmillan clan was not very dominant, he had heard his father speak of it perhaps a few times. However, nothing significant could be said about it.

The village itself was small, not as populated as he had hoped, even the market when they rode past what should have been a colorful scene. The buildings were well kept, the children looked well-fed. Maxwell could tell their laird was kind to them. He could easily pick up things like that from the years he spent in his clan but still, he was inclined to ask. “Why are there are only a few people outside?

“Maxwell, was it nae?” The head guard said as he glanced back momentarily at Maxwell, who nodded.

“Laird Macmillan has instructed a curfew. T’is almost time fer them to return home.”

“I suppose the curfew was to catch thieves?”

“At least to keep the people safe.” The guard responded, and Maxwell nodded, looking back at his men and locking eyes with Eon, who rode up to meet his pace.

“I feel uneasy. Perhaps we should just hand the bag to the head guard and leave. This place is unsettling.” Eon whispered just loud enough for Maxwell to hear.

“I do feel something is off about the guard’s explanation but listen to me carefully. Even if they become hostile, do nae draw yer sword. Do nae fight.” Maxwell replied as they soon started to approach a walled fortress.

“Are ye sure, Maxwell?”

“Aye. Act ignorant. We are almost at the keep. Spread the word to the others. Do nae fight unless I give ye the order.” Eon nodded before falling behind. Maxwell could hear them whispering behind him, but it went silent when they reached the fortress, the gates slamming down behind them.

“Come with me. I can take ye to the hall to meet Laird Macmillan.” Harold Robinson motioned with his head.

Maxwell took a look at his surroundings, guards posted at every corner of the entrance, the door that led into the fortress was wide open, and he could see a guard and a few maids hurry past it.

“Nae. Me men and I have places to be. Have him come to us.” Maxwell quickly took notice of the head guard’s change in demeanor. Going further into the keep would put his men in danger, a risk he didn’t want to take, so he strengthened his resolve.

“Ye ask Laird Macmillan to come to see ye instead? Such audacity.” Harold stepped up to Maxwell’s horse, hand on the weapon’s hilt by his side.

“I wouldnae do that in front of a horse—especially nae in front of a horse that has seen enough bloodshed to associate a blade with death. And besides, I trust me horse to protect me if the need arises. All I ask fer is yer laird. Let him come to us, we’ll hand over the bag to him, and leave.”

“And why can ye nae give it to me?” Harold asked, retracting his hand from his weapon.” I am the head guard. I can go to Laird Macmillan directly.”

“Aye, that is because I do nae trust ye. I have seen yer defense. Even if the thieves came into the clan under the pretense of merchants, there should nae be an easy way fer them to make their way into a keep such as this. Yer walls are almost as tall as the trees in the forest, there is only one visible entrance, and they guard that,” Maxwell gestured to the four-armed guards similar to the ones at the gates of the clan, “and I do nae think ye had any event of some sort that would require ye to leave yer gates wide open. Other than that, there are guards in every corner of the yard and more inside the keep. I can nae think of any way a thief could make his way in to steal something like this, let alone a whole band of them.”

“So are ye saying I let them in?” Harold crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes flashing angrily, “That I helped them.”

“Nae, I have said nae such thing. On the contrary, ye said it yerself.” Maxwell replied casually. Stoking his anger was of no use to him.

Harold huffed, shaking his head with a sigh as he motioned for them to wait before disappearing into the keep.

Maxwell’s men quickly surrounded him, Kenzie muffling his laughter with a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Are ye sure ye should be taunting him like that?” Archie asked as Kenzie’s laugh died down into snickers. “We are gravely outnumbered, and Eon said ye didnae want us to fight. Why?”

“If they become hostile towards us, the most they can do is turn us away, chase us off, but if we fight, we risk getting injured. I ken each of ye are strong in yer own way, but we cannae possibly take on an entire army.”

“We can. We’ve fought more experienced men. These ones look like they would collapse under the weight of full armor.” Eon scoffed as he cracked his knuckles.

“Eon, we had fought bigger groups because we were hired to. Let us just be nice, listen to Sir Maxwell and trust his judgment.” Kenzie countered. “And besides, we have to find a place to stay fer the winter.”

“Why are ye so worried about finding a place fer the winter? Will ye hibernate during this time, and ye do nae want us to ken?” Eon teased right back, earning a scoff and a grumble from Kenzie.

Eon opened his mouth to talk when Maxwell noticed Harold returning, and behind him was an older man. The guards immediately bowed at his arrival, Maxwell knew he was facing Laird Macmillan. The man was not what Maxwell was expecting. A young laird at most or at least someone younger.

“Get down from yer horse. Ye are in the presence of Laird Macmillan!” Harold snapped at them, and the scouts turned to look at him. Maxwell nodded, sliding off his horse, and his men did the same, copying his every move as he bowed before Laird Macmillan.

“Forgive us, me laird. It has been quite a while since we have been in front of a laird.”

“I see. Me head guard told me ye have something of ours, but ye refused to give it to him.” Although he wasn’t young, Laird Macmillan spoke firmly.

Maxwell rose to retrieve the sack of jewels from Kenzie and placed it carefully in front of Laird Macmillan. Then again, he crouched.

“Where did ye find this?” The laird asked with suspicion in his voice.

“Our paths crossed with that of the thieves, and they attacked us. This is what we took from them along with the information that they belonged to ye from the last one of them.” Maxwell replied immediately as Laird Macmillan handed the bag to his head guard.

“So ye want me to believe that ye found this many jewels, and ye returned it without taking anything?” Maxwell did not need to raise his head at Laird Macmillan to know he was sneering. “That seems a little far-fetched.”

“Me men and I never take things that do nae belong to us. We each have our honor as a man and as a group.” Maxwell said proudly, trying to convince the man.

“And I say ye lie.” Laird Macmillan stepped up to Maxwell, who rose back to his feet, towering over Laird Macmillan.

“Maxwell Murphy, was that nae what ye told me guard? I say ye were the ones that stole it in the first place.”

“If we were, then why would we return with it?” Maxwell was caught off-guard by Laird Macmillan’s faithless reasoning, but he knew he had to control his irritation.

“Our items are marked. Nae merchants would be stupid enough to buy marked items even if they would be sold overseas. Ye couldnae dump them; they would have nae meaning to anyone that finds it. Even if ye had told me ye accidentally found this, I wouldnae have believed ye. Ye could’ve tooled some of it and planned to return the rest for reward money, from what I can see. Yer plan is to rub us twice! “Laird Macmillan’s words stiffened the guards around him, and they slowly gathered into an attacking formation behind him.

Before Maxwell could say a word, Eon spoke up, “Perhaps the thieves had taken a little out of it; we wouldnae ken. We did notice some were marked, but we have nae gone through the whole bag. We have only returned yer items to ye, and we will nae stand here and be insulted!” Eon stepped forward, and the rest of the scouts joined.

“If ye can nae be grateful, that is fine, but do nae insult us any longer lest we lose our temper.” He continued angrily.

Laird Macmillan scoffed, stepping in front of Eon. “Watch how ye speak to me, lad. I am Laird Macmillan of-”

“We frankly do nae care who ye are. Ye are nae our leader, and we will nae let ye speak to him like that. Ye have yer jewels. We will be taking our leave now.” Kenzie cut Laird Macmillan off before turning towards their horses, leaving Maxwell still in front of Laird Macmillan.

Maxwell gave a deep bow to Laird Macmillan. “Forgive me men. If ye won’t have us, then we must leave.” Speaking with a dampened spirit, Maxwell gently raised his head and began to turn away.

Unblinking, arms folded, and legs spread, Laird Macmillan spoke again, “Nae, nae. Nae so fast.” As he started to talk, the guards moved past him and towards the paused Maxwell.

“Ye stole from me, and when ye have taken what ye need, ye return the branded ones to me. Ye are still thieves. Ye disrespect me, calling me out to see ye and even insult me to me face. Do ye think I will simply let ye go that easily? Without producing what ye have stolen?”

“Me laird, ye have nae proof that we are actually the thieves who stole from ye, and I can nae tell if yer rash conclusions are due to yer anger or yer frustration. I had a feeling ye might act this way. If ye arrest us, ye can nae hold us fer long and I will nae let ye insult me or me men…” Maxwell said as the guards in the yard started to circle him, and his men with spears pointed with intent.

Laird Macmillan cut in before he could finish, “Oh, we will just have to see about that, won’t we?” Laird Macmillan turned to head guard.

“Seize them and throw them in the dungeons. I will address their punishments when I am ready.” He said dismissively.

Maxwell looked at his men. They looked back, awaiting an order to attack. But Maxwell laid down his sword, and so did they, albeit begrudgingly.

He was starting to feel afraid of what was to become of his band, but one thing was sure; they would find a way out.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Prologue

19^th October 1579

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Ralf McAlpine paced outside of his wife’s bedchamber, listening to her screams tear the wooden door and echo down the stone corridor. A deep pain-filled moan followed the scream, accompanied by a whimpering in broken English, “I will surely perish.”

Hearing his wife’s proclamation, Ralf barged through the door and stood glaring at the midwife. “She will nae die, nor the bairn, do ye hear me, witch!” he shouted in the elder woman’s face. “She dies, then so shall ye.”

The midwife’s face blanched white in fear, but she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath to steady herself. “If my lady does survive, she will nae e’er be able tae bear another bairn, or she and the bairn will indeed die.”

Ralf stifled a roar, clenching his teeth. “Then ye had better pray that it is a son.” Turning, he moved to stand beside the fireplace, opting not to leave the room again. Whatever was to happen, he would be there to witness it. The smell of blood and shite filled the air nearly making him lose his wame. He was all too familiar with the smells of battle and slaughter, but this was different. Fear clutched at his heart. He fisted his hands so tightly that his knuckles popped and turned white.

His concern was not born out of love for his wife, as much as it was for what might become of his progeny. As he stood brooding, staring into the flames, he reflected upon how he had come to be in such a miserable state. His father had arranged the marriage, much to Ralf’s objections, to a wealthy young noblewoman from Luxembourg. It was not a usual match for a highland laird, but the clan needed money and the young woman’s family was anxious to have her wed. Anna Maria Weiss was a plain, pious woman who wanted nothing more than to become a nun. She had managed to chase away all other suitors with her proclamations that she was already married to God. Her family, growing desperate, sent her to live with an aunt and uncle in Scotland, in hopes that they might have better fortune in finding a suitable husband. In the end, she had been bartered like cattle in a business arrangement between two greedy men: Ralf’s father, and Anna Maria’s uncle. Ralf, disappointed in being bound to such a pitiful creature, had treated her very poorly as a matter of angry rebellion from day one of their forced marriage. Anna Maria suffered many miscarriages since then, and he knew without a doubt that this bairn was their last hope for a legitimate heir.

He was not certain how much time passed, it felt as if it had taken a great many hours, but after much screaming, a series of prayers to God, and exhaustive pushing, his wife finally collapsed against the pillows, spent. An infant’s wail broke the momentary stillness, and Ralf let out the breath that he had been holding. “Thanks be tae God,” he murmured as he came forward eagerly. “What is it?”

The midwife looked up at Ralf with somber eyes. “’Tis a lass, my laird. Ye have a bonnie wee daughter.”

Ralf’s heart stopped in his chest with a resounding thud of desolation before it began racing once more in fury. “I should have gone tae Edinburgh tae see the king take his rightful place upon the throne,” he announced, hoping to cause his wife as much pain as her failure to produce an heir had caused him, then turned and left the room. Out in the hall, he slammed his fist into the stone wall until a servant came scurrying from one of the nearby rooms to see what was happening.

“My laird,” a quiet feminine voice inquired, concerned, “is all well?”

Ralf, too heartbroken and angry for words, simply grabbed the young woman by the arm and hauled her back into the room that she had been cleaning. Throwing her onto the bed, he proceeded to lose himself inside of her in a blind fury. When he was done, having poured all his anger and grief into the poor lass, he arose, straightened his kilt, and glowered down at her. “Dinnae lay with any other man until ye have had yer courses. If ye come with bairn, ye will tell me immediately. Do ye ken what it is I am commandin’ ye?”

The young woman nodded in teary silence. Ralf glared at her until she found her voice. “Aye, my laird.”

Nodding, Ralf left the room and returned to his wife’s bedchamber. From the look on her face, he knew that she had heard the entire exchange. He stood staring down at her, sighing in resignation. “Ye have what ye have always wanted, wife. I will nae lay with ye e’er again.”

Anna Maria nodded, a look of serenity passing over her features. “Thank you, husband.”

Turning his gaze to the child at her breast, he grunted. “What have ye chosen tae name her?”

“Amelia,” she answered with a gentle smile at the child, “after the saint from my own land.”

Ralf grunted in disapproval but said nothing. He would allow it. Though she had failed to give him a son, she had at long last given him a living child, and for that he supposed he owed her some small courtesy. “Amelia, then.” Nodding, he turned and left the room, not bothering to return.

25^th July, 1603

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Ralf McAlpine sat upon the raised dais within the hall of his highland stronghold, covered in blood and scowled in thought. The hall was festooned in decorations. Laughter accompanied by lively music filled the air, as the people under his care celebrated the ascension of the Scottish King James VI to the English throne as James I. A shouted toast went up from one of the men among the crowd, “The bitch English Queen Elizabeth Tudor is dead! Long live the King!”

A chorus of agreement followed, “Long live the King!” Ale cups were raised and downed in copious amounts by nearly all in attendance, except for the laird’s guards, who had to remain vigilant.

Instead of raising his own cup, Ralf continued to scowl in disapproval at his only child, Amelia. Even the lauded Virgin Queen has a male heir who shares her blood tae take the throne. All I have is a paltry lass who does nae command respect o’ any man. He and the other fighting men of the clan had returned from a skirmish along their borders with a raiding party. With rapidly declining health robbing him of his once commanding vigor, the enemies had already begun closing in.

He knew that any opportunity to create a legitimate male heir to protect the clan had long since passed. If he were being honest with himself, the chance of ever making an heir had met its end long before his wife had gone to be with God. They had not lain together for many years before her passing, while he had attempted to pup half the young lassies in the clan. Sighing, he belatedly lifted his cup and downed the ale within so as to calm the questioning glances he was receiving from his personal guard. Waving his hand, he summoned the clanswoman waiting with the pitcher to refill his cup.

“’Twas a good victory, my laird,” she praised him.

Grunting in disgust, he gulped down another cup of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if to wipe away the memories with it. “More,” he commanded the clanswoman, and she obeyed.

“Is aught amiss, my laird?” his daughter’s guardsman Lucas McAlpine, inquired having seen the daggers of disapproval emanating from Ralf’s eyes toward Amelia.

“I should have had a son,” Ralf grumbled, piercing Lucas with a look that disallowed any form of argument. Lucas wisely chose not to reply. He heard it many times before, especially when Ralf was in his cups.

Ralf sat in stony silence, thinking about what to do. I could wed the lass tae one o’ the clan’s men. He looked at the marriageable men around the room, weighing the abilities of each one as a future leader. In his opinion, any man who was not himself would fall short. Snorting at the thought, he shook his head and attempted to consider each one with as open a mind as he could manage. It was not his strength. He tended to judge a person’s worth rather quickly and, once his mind was set, he seldom changed it. They were fighting men to be sure, skilled with the sword and bow, but not as skilled at diplomacy. He needed someone who could wield his brain as well as he wielded a blade. There was also the problem of an arranged marriage. He and his wife had suffered greatly because of just such an arrangement, and as rough a man as he was, he was not so heartless as to wish such misery on his own daughter. He loved her in his own way, and he did provide for her, but he did not respect her as a woman enough to make her his sole heir. She is a lass, and lassies cannae lead armies in tae battle. She must wed a warrior, and I will make her husband the laird when I am gone, and my grandson will be laird after that. There is nae other way tae secure the clan’s safety and see tae it that my line continues.

He thought over his plan for a time, considering all the possible factors and when he was satisfied that it was the best way, the only way, to move forward, he nodded and relaxed a bit more into his chair. He downed another cup of ale and grunted in satisfaction. Now, all he needed to do was tell Amelia. The slight smile that had begun to form on his face vanished into a frown. The lass will nae take the news well at all, but she will have nae choice in the matter. Not in any hurry to have such a negative discussion and bring about what he considered to be the shrill displeasure of a woman’s angry protests, he determined to put off the discussion until a later time. Perhaps on my death bed, he mused to himself with some small amount of humor at the thought of what his last words might be. Nae, he shook his head. It must be soon, afore ‘tis tae late tae enforce it. I will nae have my will overruled once I am gone. She will need tae wed afore I am tae meet my maker or there will be nae but conflict and chaos within the clan. I will nae have that as my legacy. Amelia will simply be forced tae accept her fate. For if she does nae, the clan will surely meet its end.

Chapter One

19th December 1603

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Amelia McAlpine stared down at her father’s wizened gray face in disbelief. Surely, he had not said what she thought. “Faither?” she questioned, hoping her ears would hear something different the second time.

“Ye heard me, lass. Ye must wed, and ‘twill be yer husband who is laird, nae ye,” the laird repeated. “There is nae time tae wait any longer. Ye must choose a man tae wed that can lead this clan when I am gone, or I will choose one for ye. Ye must wed with all due haste, Amelia, afore ‘tis tae late and ye lose yer place. I want it tae be my grandson that is laird someday, nae the devil spawn o’ that theivin’ Michael Rossell.”

In battle, Michael Rossell was a neighboring laird whose father had stolen MacAilpein land from Amelia’s grandfather, Charles. The bastard born son of a Russell chieftain, Michael’s father, Hugh, had left the clan lands at Aberdeenshire, taken the old French name of de Rosel for himself and merged it with the more recent Russell spelling, and moved further west to claim territory in Argyll by any means necessary—including deception and bloodshed. Amelia’s grandfather had never gotten over it and instilled a great hatred for the Rossell family into his son, Ralf. Ralf, in turn, became such a fierce warrior and inspired terror into the hearts of all who attempted to cross him. It was this fear that had kept them safe for now, but that time was coming to a close.

“Ye ken that he is just waitin’ for me tae die, so that he can take advantage o’ ye bein’ nae but a weak lass who cannae defend her people. Ye need a warrior tae protect ye and the clan.”

A flash of hurt and anger filled Amelia’s breast, but she tamped it down. Her father had been nothing but terrible to her mother all their married lives. It should come as no surprise to her that he would continue the legacy by underestimating her at every turn. He knew naught of the person she was or the warrior’s heart that lay within. Instead, she asked, “How long have ye been plannin’ this?”

“Since our own King James was made king o’ England.”

Amelia nodded her head. He had taken a decided turn for the worse after that night of celebrations and had never fully recovered. “And ye say ‘tis my choice who tae wed?”

“Aye.” Her father nodded his head, then coughed, the motion sending shudders through his body. It would not be long now. “Ye must choose a man and quickly, lass. I have given ye the gift o’ choice, a gift yer maither and I ne’er had, but it is a brief gift that if not acted upon will result in a similar fate for yerself and some other man o’ my choosing.” He caught her hand in his and held her eyes for a moment. “Ye must choose a fightin’ man, lass, for only a cleverly brutal man will be able tae save ye.”

Amelia, angry and unsettled, pulled her hand free. Turning away from the bed, she left her father’s bedchamber and descended the stairs to the great hall. The castle was abuzz with preparations for the coming Yuletide. The castle servants and clans people worked with anticipation of the festivities preparing all manner of food and cleaning every corner of the castle. It was a time of joy that brought a little warmth to the cold winter months. Entering the kitchen, she was greeted by the castle’s jovial cook, Maggie. Maggie had been a Campbell by birth but had fallen in love with a MacAilpein warrior and as a result, had spent most of her adult life working for Amelia’s father. She had been somewhat of a substitute mother for Amelia since Anna Maria’s passing.

“Och, there ye are, lass. I was beginnin’ tae think that ye had changed yer mind about goin’.” Maggie bustled over to Amelia with a basket filled with food. “I ken yer faither does nae approve o’ ye visitin’ the prison, but he did nae forbid ye, did he?”

“Nae, he did nae forbid me.” Amelia shook her head. Maggie’s husband had been arrested and died in prison for a crime that he had not committed. In his memory, Maggie and Amelia had gone at Yuletide over the years since his death to visit the Edinburgh prison to comfort any Highlanders that might be held there.

“I dinnae care about the English prisoners, ye ken, but I will nae have a good Highland man suffer any longer in this cold weather than is needed,” Maggie declared, straightening her dress. She grabbed her cloak from the wall and wrapped it around her ample girth. Amelia followed suit and donned her own cloak. Baskets in hand, and Amelia’s guardsman Lucas on their heels, the two women made their way to the stables.

The clan’s priest, Father Jacob, greeted them at the stable doors. “’Tis a fine mornin’ for it,” he called out with a smile.

Lucas scowled in disapproval of their errand, but Amelia and Maggie nodded in agreement. “’Tis indeed, Faither,” Maggie replied, allowing the priest to take her basket. “My apologies for keepin’ ye waitin’.”

“Och, think nothing o’ it.” The priest waved her concerns away as he helped her up onto the waiting horse.

“’Twas my fault, Faither,” Amelia admitted, accepting Lucas’ hand up onto her favorite highland pony. “I was visiting with the laird.”

Father Jacob nodded his head gravely. “’Tis sorry I am for the laird’s ill health. He is e’er in my prayers.”

“And mine.” Amelia nodded in acknowledgment, not quite able to bring herself to speak further on the matter. Everything her father said was still playing havoc with her emotions and she was doing her best not to cry or start yelling out her frustrations.

Once they were all mounted and out upon the road, Father Jacob pulled his horse up beside Amelia’s and met her gaze. “Tell me what it is that troubles ye so, lass. I can see it in yer eyes that ye are greatly displeased. Is there something more with yer faither?”

Amelia looked around her at her fellow riding companions and could see in their eyes that they all wished to know the answer to the priest’s question. All except for Lucas who already knew having been present in the room at the time. “Faither has decided that I am tae wed and has chosen tae leave the clan tae my future husband, and nae tae me.”

Maggie frowned but nodded. She was not at all surprised, having known the laird a very long time. “I was afeared he would make such demands o’ ye.”

“Who has he chosen for ye, lass?” Father Jacob asked kindly, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on her arm.

“He is allowing me tae choose, but only if I do so with all haste. If I delay in any way, he will make the choice for me.” Amelia nearly choked on the words. Either way, she was going to be forced into a loveless marriage of convenience just as her mother had been. Her heart ached at the thought.

“That is good.” The priest nodded. “Most generous o’ him, I would say, as many faithers would nae be so thoughtful.”

Amelia sighed knowing that he was right. “I ken that, but it does nae make it any less difficult to bear.”

“Do ye have a lad in mind?” Maggie asked, a glint of the matchmaker coming out in her eyes and tone.

“Nae, I dinnae,” Amelia answered, shaking her head regretfully. She had never felt anything more than a sense of family loyalty to any of the men within the clan. It would have been easier had she at least been attracted to one of them. “Please keep this tae yerselves. I dinnae want every unwed man in the clan attemptin’ tae win my hand by some foolish attempt at bravery or worse.”

“Aye,” they all agreed, nodding. It was not hard for them to imagine just how terribly such a scene could go. It was a thing such as this that could tear the clan apart if not handled properly.

“Perhaps someone from another clan?” Maggie offered helpfully. “I was a Campbell, ye ken, when I wed my dear Fergus.”

Amelia smiled warmly at the older woman but shook her head. “Nae, I have nae attachments tae any lad from any clan.”

Lucas snorted. “And a good thing tae. We cannae have another clan comin’ in and takin’ everythin’ that we have worked for.”

Maggie frowned and swatted Lucas’ arm for the insult. “Haud yer wheesht, man, ye dinnae ken what ye speak.”

“Lucas has a point, Maggie. Nae every highlander would be as loving and loyal tae our clan as ye have been,” Amelia remarked. “The same could be said o’ marryin’ within the clan; however, as there are many who would take advantage o’ the power afforded the laird. We dinnae have time for infighting while we sort ourselves out, men competing for my hand. Any sign o’ weakness and Michael Rossell will be at our gates with an army.”

The group fell silent in thought, each attempting to come up with a solution to the problem that would be best for the clan and for Amelia as well. None of them wanted to see her endure the same sorrow that her mother had endured. “Who could ye wed that would be the least risk tae ye and the clan?” Maggie finally pondered aloud. “Could ye lie and say ye were wed?”

Father Jacob grunted in disapproval. “You would risk her immortal soul?”

“Nae, I would nae.” Maggie shook her head sheepishly. “Forgive me, Faither, for speaking it.”

The priest nodded and made the sign of the cross. “Even if ye did attempt such a lie, I would nae be able tae lie. ’Twould be I who performed the ceremony, ye ken.”

“Aye.” Maggie nodded, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment at the thought of asking a priest to lie.

“It cannae be a lowlander. ‘Twould hardly be better than a sassenach,” he bit out this last with a tone of disgust. While much of lowland Scotland had converted to Protestantism, Catholicism still had a stronghold in the highlands. To have a Protestant laird was unfathomable to the guardsman’s staunchly Catholic heart.

“Aye, agreed.” Father Jacob nodded emphatically.

“I would never wed either a lowlander or a sassenach. I will wed a highlander or nae man at all,” Amelia reassured them.

The group once more nodded in unison, glad to at least have that small assurance. As they rode along, they went through the list of unwed men within the clan. Some were too mean or abusive to even be considered as candidates, but most were simply either too old, too young, or lacked the leadership skills required to be laird. The clan had some very good warriors, but not all warriors were meant to be leaders. Leadership took a special kind of mental strength, a ruthlessness against one’s enemies combined with a compassion for humanity, in general, that was difficult to master, along with a strategic mind and fortitude of spirit that would outlast all of mankind and nature who might try and tear them down. Not all lairds had these qualities, but Amelia knew her father expected her to choose the very best man for the position.

They stopped overnight at a roadside inn where the two women shared a room, with the priest in the room next door. Lucas slept in the hallway outside of Amelia’s room as was his duty. Amelia did not envy him such an uncomfortable position, but should anything happen to her on the journey, her father would have the guardsman killed. “Edinburgh will be somewhat different without the king in residence, I should think,” she mused as the women settled into bed for the night.

“I expect it will be little changed. The king does nae affect the daily life o’ folks much, ye ken,” Maggie replied, her features already relaxing into sleep. Each year the ride was getting harder for the older woman. Soon she would not be able to make the trip at all. The laird was displeased to be without his cook so close to Yuletide, but Fergus had been a good warrior and so he let Maggie go to honor her husband’s memory. It took them about two days of hard riding to get to Edinburgh, they would stay a day to visit the prison, then ride the two days back, arriving back at the castle just in time to put the final arrangements together for the festivities.

“’Tis nae much like havin’ a laird then is it,” Amelia observed.

“In some ways it is, but ye are right. In many ways, a laird does much more for his people than a king, but dinnae let the king’s men hear ye say it. The king needs the lairds, he kens that well enough I would suppose, but the lairds need the king too. ‘Tis he that protects us from the English.”

Amelia understood that, but she could not help wondering about how the king being the ruler of both Scotland and England, would affect his loyalties towards his own people. “Let us pray that he loves his Scottish subjects as much as a laird loves his own clan.”

“Aye,” Maggie murmured, then drifted off to sleep leaving Amelia alone with her thoughts.

She had been giving a great deal of thought to the responsibilities of leaders in all their many forms of late. Since her father’s ailing health had taken a steep turn for the worse, she had been studying and preparing to take her place as lairdess. Her father’s announcement before she departed that morning came as quite a shock in some ways, but not so much in the fact that she knew her father did not respect her abilities. He considered her to be too tenderhearted and compassionate for the role. Her father also did not believe that women should be in positions of power over men. She had sat through more than one tirade of his complaining about the Scottish and English cousin queens. He staunchly believed that all difficulties would have been solved had both parties been men.

Amelia just as staunchly disagreed citing all the many kings who had failed to achieve peace between the two kingdoms; however, her father saw King James as proof of his beliefs coming to fruition. Amelia argued that such a pass was more an issue of blood than sex. Her father had argued that a king would not have remained a virgin and risked the throne as the English queen had, but he conceded that such actions had led to the combining of crowns and kingdoms when James became king. No matter how many times they discussed the subject, Amelia had never been able to change her father’s mind toward women leaders.

Amelia spent a restless night tossing and turning, thinking of what she would do in response to her father’s demands. She knew that the clan needed protection from Michael Rossell and his men, but at what personal cost to her? She feared the worst. Come the dawn, she had very little sleep but arose and prepared herself the best that she could for the day ahead. When they arrived in Edinburgh, they first stopped at the prison so that Father Jacob might arrange their visit on the morrow with the warden, then retired to a nearby inn for the night. Once again Maggie fell asleep quickly leaving Amelia alone with her thoughts. Exhausted beyond measure, Amelia fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of abusive husbands and enemies at the gates.

Chapter Two

When morning arrived once more, Amelia arose and put on the nice clothes that she brought to bring some cheer to the prisoners. “Ye look like a right lady, lass.” Maggie beamed with pride. “Those lads will think an angel has come tae visit.”

Amelia smiled and kissed the older woman on the cheek. “Are ye well?” she inquired, worrying about the older woman’s emotions on such a difficult day of remembrance. The prison was the last place she had ever laid eyes upon her husband.

“Aye, lass. Fergus is nae here, ye ken. He is in a far better place now.”

The two women exchanged a warm reassuring smile, then left the room to meet Lucas and Father Jacob in the hallway. They went down to the tavern below, broke the fast, then walked the short distance to the prison. The Old Tolbooth Prison was well known for its mistreatment of prisoners. The men within lived in terrible conditions, many becoming quite ill, if not dead. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, had ordered the old building to be repaired, but that had not alleviated the suffering from within. As they passed St. Giles’ Cathedral, Amelia said a prayer for the poor doomed men.

Passing through the gates, Lucas spat upon the threshold, eyeing the guards with suspicion. The guards did nothing. Amelia was not certain whether it was Father Jacob’s presence that kept them safe, or whether the guards truly cared not what they did. Once they reached the interior, the warden came out to greet them. “Father.” He nodded to the priest. “Lady McAlpine, it is good tae see ye once again. Ye are a bright light tae my year.” He bowed over her hand. The warden was a man that Amelia had never quite been able to figure out. She had heard of the cruel things done within the prison, had seen some of the effects in the prisoners, and yet he had always treated her with the utmost courtesy. She assumed that it was her station as a Scottish lady that earned her such regard compared to the thieves and murderers that he was used to dealing with, but she could not help wondering if his courtesy was genuine or all an act. She could not fathom a man who could do what he did to his fellow men, no matter how low they might be, and still have any kind of a soul remaining to him.

Removing her hand from his grasp, Amelia acknowledged his greeting with as much charm as she could manage given the way he made her skin crawl. “I am pleased tae be o’ service. Might we deliver our gifts o’ food and cheer tae the prisoners now?”

“Aye, o’ course.” The warden nodded and motioned for two of his guards to accompany them. “My men will see that ye are unharmed.”

“Our thanks.” Amelia nodded in gratitude, then turned away from him as quickly as courtesy would allow. She did not like visiting the prison, but she knew how much it meant to Maggie, so she put on her most lady like face and walked into the darkened corridor ahead.

The guard led them down the length of one stone corridor, descended a set of stairs, down to another. When they reached the desired level, the guards unlocked the door and stepped inside, bellowing for the prisoners to get in line and to behave themselves. The corridor filled with the sounds of men groaning and coughing, as well as the occasional clinking of chains. The men gathered at the doors to their cells, too many men to a room for any comfort to be had. The air smelled of fetid flesh and putrid waste. It was enough to make a person gag, but Amelia somehow managed to hold on to the contents of her stomach. Every year the smell was intolerable, no matter how many times she had requested that the warden do something about it. Maggie and Father Jacob entered the first cell, while Amelia and Lucas went on to the next one passing out bannocks and small bags of oats. Most of the prisoners were Lowlanders, some Borderers, with the occasional Englishman.

“Have ye any highlanders here?” Amelia asked, not wanting to neglect one of her own kind.

“Aye, we have one, but he is a murderer and is certain tae be hanged,” the guard assigned to them answered. “A fine lady such as yerself does nae need tae be concerned with the likes o’ him.”

“Nevertheless,” Amelia replied sternly, “I wish tae see him.” She knew that it was important to Maggie to tend to any Highland prisoners, and Amelia preferred that it be she who faced a murderer and not her elder clanswoman.

“I dinnae like this, lass,” Lucas protested at her side.

“All will be well, Lucas. Fear nae. I have ye tae protect me, do I nae?”

“Aye, ye ken that ye do, but I still dinnae like it,” Lucas grumbled. “If he lays a hand on ye, he will nae need a noose.” His hand reached for the blade at his belt to punctuate the threat.

Amelia reached out a hand to steady her clansman. “There will be nae need for violence.” Standing to her full height, Amelia nodded for the guard to open the cell door. What she saw within, she would never forget. The man had been poorly treated, beaten, bruised, bloodied, dirty and stinking, but in spite of all of that, the man stood tall towering over her, a fierce pride emanating from bright blue eyes peering out at her behind filthy blond strands of hair. The man was taller than most, slender of form due to the poor nutrition of his current home but had somehow managed to remain well-muscled. His features were strong, chiseled, firm. Even in the disgusting environs to which he had been condemned, he was stunningly handsome. There was an air of danger to the man to be certain, but that only added to his charisma. Amelia took a step forward and handed the man a bannock.

“They say that ye are a highlander?” she asked.

“Aye.” The man nodded in confirmation.

“What is yer name?” she asked, intrigued by him.

“Who wishes tae ken it?” he inquired, causing the guard to bark at him to answer.

Amelia ignored the guard and answered, “My name is Amelia McAlpine. I am the daughter o’ Laird McAlpine.”

“A lady, is it?” the man noted, eyeing her up and down. “Well, aren’t I the lucky lad?” He chuckled at her mockingly with an edge of salaciousness to his manner. Bowing with the smooth lines and gestures of a practiced gentleman, he introduced himself, “Cameron Kyall, my lady, but you may call me Ron.” The familiar air in which he spoke to her made Amelia feel most uncomfortable, while her pulse quickened in excitement.

Blushing, Amelia attempted to hold herself together. Standing ramrod straight, her brow furrowed in question. “Kyall? That is a lass’ name. I dinnae ken any clan o’ such a surname.”

“’Tis my maither’s name. She belonged tae the Clan Cameron. I have nae clan o’ my own.”

“A bastard,” Lucus grunted under his breath.

“Aye.” Ron nodded. “Do ye have a problem with that, big man? Though I dinnae ken what business it is o’ yers.”

The men stood eyeing each other as if sizing up for a fight. As tall as the Highland prisoner was, Lucas was even taller and more broadly built. His red hair and beard glowing like the very flames of hell in comparison to the younger man’s pitifully unkempt state. Concerned, Amelia stepped between them. The last thing that she needed was for her guardsman, and captain of the clan’s fighters, to be imprisoned for killing an already condemned man.

Turning to the guard, Amelia asked, “Who is this man accused o’ murdering?”

“His own mother,” the guard answered spitting at the prisoner’s feet, “and for the attempted murder o’ a laird.”

“Which laird?”

“That is nae o’ yer affair,” the prisoner ground out. “And I did nae kill my maither!”

Amelia stood staring at him for a moment and found that she believed him. “Which laird?” she asked again.

“Rossell,” the guard answered.

“Michael Rossell?”

“Aye, that would be the one,” the guard nodded.

In that instant, the spark of an idea flared within Amelia’s mind. “He is condemned to hang for his crimes? There is nae chance o’ a reprieve?

“He will hang as surely as I am standin’ here,” the guard assured her.

Turning back toward the prisoner, Amelia took a step forward and met his blue eyes head-on. “Ron,” she began using his chosen moniker, “how would you like to marry me?” A stunned grunt sounded from behind her, and a second later, Lucas had ahold of her arm and was physically hauling her out of the prison cell.

“Have ye lost yer mind, lass?” he practically roared as he hauled her down the corridor. “Offerin’ yer hand tae a murderer? I have ne’er seen the like.”

At hearing Lucas’ protestations, Father Jacob and Maggie came running out of the next cell. “What did ye just bellow?” Maggie asked, out of breath.

“This numpty just offered her hand in marriage to a condemned murderer,” Lucas informed them still yelling in anger and astonishment.

“Ye did nae, lass? Tell me it is nae so,” Maggie exclaimed, taking Amelia’s hand in hers.

“Aye, I did,” Amelia confirmed, but before she could open her mouth to explain further the little group of people had her out of the prison, across the street, and back at the inn pushing food and ale upon her as if she had fallen prey to a bout of lunacy brought on by malnutrition. Finally, Amelia had had enough, and she stood up forcefully from where they had placed her on a bench at a side table. “Enough! I am nae hungry, thirsty, or mad. What we need is a man who will keep Michael Rossell and his warriors at bay. Ron Kyall is the perfect man. The reputation of such a violent man would keep our enemies at bay and he will be executed soon, so there is nae risk o’ him e’er comin’ and leadin’ the clan. In every way that matters, I would be laird, and all would be forced tae accept it.”

Lucas shook his head. “’Twould ne’er work, lass. Yer faither would nae allow ye tae wed a condemned maither murderer, e’en if the lad did try tae kill his mortal enemy.”

“I dinnae believe that he killed his own maither. You can see it in his eyes that he was nae lyin’ about that,” Amelia argued.

“Yer faither would ne’er allow it,” he repeated firmly shaking his head.

“Aye, I ken yer faither well, lass, and Lucas is right. The laird would nae allow it,” Father Jacob confirmed, giving Amelia a pitying look. It was clear that he thought she had succumbed to hysterics.

Amelia growled low in her throat, “Faither need nae ken the truth o’ it. We could say that I married an army captain instead and that he is away tae the Americas for a time. Such a lie would stand until Faither…” She stopped speaking, unable to say the actual words.

“Until His Lairdship dies,” Maggie finished for her shaking her head in sympathy.

“Aye,” Amelia nodded, swallowing the tears that threatened to overtake her. “Then I would be free tae do as I wish concerning the truth o’ the matter. Ron Kyall could be wielded as a weapon against Rossell, his violent reputation against all other enemies, and nae one would e’er need tae ken that he had died until it was tae late tae do anythin’ about it. It would give me a chance tae show that I can lead the clan without question.”

“And if the clan disagrees?” Lucas asked, not yelling this time, but his voice was still quite gruff.

Amelia sighed and sank back down onto the bench. “Then I will marry another man and produce an heir.”

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