Chapter 1

Violet could feel the eyes of the parlor maid on her. The butler, Rogers, was professional enough not to let his disdain or astonishment show on his face. Oliver’s absence nagged at everyone in the house, as no one could possibly have a good reason to be about in weather like this. It was up to Violet, as the mistress of the house, to project calm.  She could not let her worries show and her pacing was a major breech of decorum.

The parlor maid had no such concerns.  She was young enough and was considered sufficiently “unrefined” that she could be as emotional as she wished. She could even stare at Violet as her mistress fretted.

A gust of wind blew so hard she heard a tree fall somewhere in the distance. Trees were rare enough in London these days, and it was a pity to lose that one.

“Miss, if you could be at ease, I am certain His Excellency will return from his errands soon. You would not like him to be rushing home in such weather, I am sure.”

The maid, who was so new Violet could not remember her name, stepped forward.

Violet forced a smile. Perhaps it was kind of the maid to want to reassure her. Perhaps it was condescending. Perhaps it was both. Violet would not lash out or turn the girl away for such a small infraction either way.

“Of course. I am sure he’ll want tea when he arrives, however.”

The maid took the hint and disappeared. Violet thought she saw a modicum of respect in the butler’s eyes. She returned to her knitting. She was not especially gifted at the art, but it kept her busy and calmed her nerves. Today, she worked on gifts for residents of the almshouse. She was no great artist, but she could offer up her services to keep people warm and dry. If she focused on that and not on the howling wind or driving rain, she would be much better off.

The door flew open, and both Violet and Rogers jumped. Under normal circumstances, the footman would have kept things quiet enough to leave Violet undisturbed. Instead, the wind blew the thing open with so much force it must have left a dent in the wall.

“I will see to this, ma’am.” Rogers stalked into the hall, an iron poker in his hand.

Violet’s mouth went dry. London could be dangerous, to be sure, but not the better parts. Violence did not come to the homes of the nobility. She gripped her knitting needle in her hand. She would not go without a fight. Upraised male voices, mostly speaking in heavy Scottish accents, reached her ears. Some of them did not even seem to be speaking English, which made Violet shudder. After a moment, though, she picked out her brother Oliver’s voice among them.

Oliver spoke in a weaker voice than was his custom, but it was him and he did not sound as though he were under duress. “Rogers, these men are my guests. They have assisted me in a private matter. Please, have rooms prepared for them, and tell Cook to set extra places at supper.”

Violet flinched. She could do that here, where no one could see her. Scots, as guests? From the sound of things, there must have been a full army of them. Cook would be hard pressed to stretch a meal to serve everyone, never mind at such short notice. Then she heard boots on hard wood. She barely had time to put her knitting down and pull herself together before her brother and his band of Scotsmen walked into the parlor.

Oliver looked terrible. One of his eyes was swollen shut and bruised, and his blood dripped from a massive split in his lip. The fine coat in which he had left that afternoon was gone, and the shirt and waistcoat underneath were not only soaked through but covered in blood and filth. His breeches were in no better shape, torn to rags and stained.

When he saw her, though, he managed a bloody smile. “Sister, dear!”

With a greeting like that, she could not stand on ceremony. She could only run to him. “Brother!” She examined every wound. “What in the world has happened to you? We must clean these out and bandage them this instant.” She found a bell pull and rang for one of the maids. She did not care who responded. “And we must get you out of those ruined clothes and into something warm just as soon as we can.”

“First things first, Sister, although your tenderness toward my welfare warms my soul. I must introduce my new friends to your acquaintance, for it is sure I would not have lived without their intervention. Allow me to present Bryan Grant of Strathspey and his men.”

Bryan Grant must have been the man standing more forward of the Scotsmen. They wore identical woolen kilts in a kind of dark blue, green, and black tartan Violet was sure she had seen around. Bryan Grant bowed ever so slightly at the waist, his wild black hair falling into his face as he did.

“A pleasure.”

His face was handsome, but cold and stern. Of course, Violet knew the life of men in the highlands would not lead to openness and ready affection.

“Likewise.” Violet had heard of Bryan Grant. He had attracted the notice of more than a few of the ladies on the London circuit in recent weeks for his tall bearing and his reputation for bravery. Of course, his brooding aura and Highland manners ensured any admiration was brief. Violet could understand the reactions of her friends and associates, although she had not had the opportunity to meet him personally until now. Even soaked to the bone and somewhat bedraggled from whatever had befallen poor Oliver, he cut a dashing figure. His green eyes seemed to cut through any masks or illusions a person might try to weave. She could not hide anything with a man like that. He would know just how deep her emotions ran…

The thought brought her up short.  He was handsome, but she should be long past being affected by anything of the sort. And he was a stranger, she should not be concerned about showing deep emotion in front of him.  She should have none where he was concerned, other than as they related to her brother. What in the world could be going on with her?

Mr. Grant unsettled her, stirring up womanly feelings that she was sure she had thrown out the window. She did not like it. Unsettling as he was, he was still her guest. She bowed to him.

“Mr. Grant. Thank you for your kindness to my brother. We are in your debt.”

“Was that nae what got him into trouble in the first place?”

The corners of Bryan’s mouth twitched. According to reports, it was as close as he had ever come to smiling.

Violet was too well bred to react. The two maids who had just entered the room in response to her summons had no such struggle. Rose, the older one, gasped and covered her mouth. Agnes, the younger, dropped the duster she had been carrying.

Oliver just chuckled ruefully. “I suppose that will teach me to delay payment to men who cheat at cards.”

Bryan raised his eyebrows and nodded playfully. “Ah, so ye only lost the gamble because they cheated.”

“You say it like that, but I mean it, I would have won otherwise and would not be in this debt,” Oliver said, putting his hands on his hips.

“Nay, if ye had nae bet in the first place ye would nae be in this mess.” Bryan joked, causing his men to laugh and the maids to bite the insides of their cheeks to keep themselves from laughing at their master.

Oliver rolled his eyes and grumbled. “You are just using this opportunity to scold me for gambling.”

Violet wondered if shame could kill. She loved Oliver, but sometimes his proclivities made her wish the ground would open up and swallow her whole. She wished it would swallow one of them whole, anyway.

She plastered a bland smile onto her face and turned to the maids. “If you could ensure these gentlemen have clean and dry clothing to change into while their own clothes dry, it would be helpful. Also, we’ll be needing bandages and compresses for Lord Oliver, thank you.”

Bryan nodded once. “Ye are too kind.”

Rogers returned with footmen to escort Bryan and his men to their rooms. Only Oliver and his valet remained, and Violet could be as effusive as she wished in her concern for her brother.

“You must let me look at you. Oh my goodness, what have they done? It is sheer luck that these Scotsmen happened along when they did. Who knows what might have happened otherwise? Oliver, you must leave off gaming. I ask you this not as a dependent, but as a sister who loves you and thinks only of your welfare.”

At that, Oliver nodded, despite his face saying he had heard her say this a million times and it was getting old. It was in times like this that Violet missed her mother, wishing she could be strict on Oliver, but it was difficult when he was her older brother.

“I will do my best, sister,” he said, getting up to leave.

Violet watched him go. Then she retreated to her own quarters. Supper would not be long, but she felt little need to sit around in the parlor waiting for it. She could knit in her room just as easily as she could in the parlor.

In her room, she found she had received a letter from her cousin Beatrice at some point during the day. Beatrice’s husband had been named governor of Jamaica two years ago, and Violet always enjoyed her letters. She had sometimes wondered what it might be like to travel to someplace so far and exotic as Jamaica, or even Wales, but fate did not have such a journey in store for her.

She tried to make the best of it, although it was not always easy. In the earliest days of her disappointment, she had found it miserable.  She had expected to be in Italy exploring the glories of Rome, and she could not even get to Bath. She had taught herself to accept her fate with patience and effort, but it had not been easy. Some days, she was embarrassed to say bitterness could win out.

When she read Beatrice’s latest dispatch, she could honestly say today was not one of them.

“Dearest Violet, you can not imagine how things are here. Everyone is sick with yellow fever, five of the servants have died from it, and no end to this plague is in sight. All enjoyment and gaiety is at an end as Lord Edmund tries to keep order on the island.”

Violet shuddered. She had heard of yellow fever in other places, such as the American colonies or in the tropics. Thankfully, it had never been found in England. They did get occasional outbreaks of other diseases, and Violet considered herself lucky to have avoided them. Her own parents had lost their lives to typhoid fever. The tropics seemed to be home to so many more illnesses than England. Still, she wished she could see more of the world than London and, on rare occasions, the family estate in Chipping Norton.

Any hopes of travel were long since behind her.  Her brother, who was a man in the prime of his life, could not even safely travel to his club. Violet was a woman on her own.  She had aged past the point where she could reasonably hope to attract a man to escort her somewhere, and she had little need for it anyway since she had shut herself away from the eyes of high society.

Things had not always been like this. When her parents were alive, they had been there at the center of all the excitement in town. The tea parties and balls and every trip to the theater or bookstore were colorful events that they were always privy to. The days when she could hope for such frivolities were long gone, however. And good riddance, too. She had been foolish back then. Her life now might not be terribly exciting, but how much worse would it be with a fickle man?

She wrote back to Beatrice, without mentioning Oliver’s fight. He did not need their extended family knowing about their problems, and Beatrice did not need to add to her worries. When her letter was finished, she returned to her knitting and finished the hat. It was not pretty, but it was serviceable and it was better than the last one she had made. She set it aside to add to the bundle she was sending to the almshouse and went back downstairs to prepare for dinner. The household staff would see to the actual food, but as the lady of the house, responsibility for hospitality fell on her.

Her route from her room to the kitchens passed her brother’s study, and she heard her brother speaking with Bryan Grant as she passed. Bryan’s rumbling brogue had a pleasant sound, even though she had to work hard to understand him. She thought she heard a mention of marriage once or twice, but perhaps someone had caught Oliver’s eye? Despite her heart skipping a beat, she could only count that as a general good. Perhaps a wife would help Oliver settle down and abandon his dangerous lifestyle.

It would be good, for him, but not necessarily for her… if Oliver got married, the chances that his wife would tolerate him having his sister depending on him would be very low. In the first place, for a viscount, Oliver was terribly poor and in debt. They were living in a small house they purchased after being forced to sell the family home in the capital. It was a miracle that they had even survived at all, finding food to eat and able to pay the few servants what little they could afford, and this was because Oliver continued to shave off what land they had in their fief to other lords around them. If Oliver got married, they would need to move to his fief down in the north away from all the life in the capital. A woman marrying into such a life would no doubt despise Violet as an unnecessary mouth to feed, and she would not be wrong. Moving to their fief might seem like it was the safest move financially, but in fact it was not. If they moved to the fief, they would need to take up the responsibility for it, and that would drag them into deeper debt that would make Violet’s unneeded presence at the table glaringly obvious.

She had no idea where she would go if Oliver sent her away. She would have to take residence at an inn, perhaps? The life would be very difficult, as it was not easy for a woman to live on her own, especially when everyone was well aware that she was alone. She would be open for every attack under the sun and would be disrespected by everyone since they knew she had no backing. Her heart was thumping even as she tried to convince herself that she should be happy for her brother if he truly was getting married.

In fact, it could also not be her brother getting married, but the Scotsman Bryan. It made sense that he would be the one getting married, he was much more of a catch than her brother anyway. Despite how she thought about it, it still made her nervous, which irritated her. How close were they that they could discuss such matters anyway? If Oliver was considering getting married, why would he tell the Scotsman first instead of her?

She still could not understand how they had met in the first place. What kind of business could bring a Scot – and a highland Scot at that – down to London? She could think of nothing, but she supposed it was none of her business.

The kitchen was a flurry of activity, and Cook was in a fouler mood than usual when Violet walked in. She could hardly blame the woman.

“Did the viscount honestly believe we would be able to accommodate the sudden increase at dinner of eight?”

Cook had worked for Violet’s parents. She might have worked for Violet’s grandparents. All Violet knew was that Cook’s strong arms and red face had been the most constant force in her life, and she hoped never to lose them.

“I think my brother knew you were talented enough to make it happen, if anyone could.” She was going to have to really pour on the sweet talk, but she managed somehow. “These men saved Lord Oliver’s life. He could hardly condemn them to whatever swill an inn might offer.”

Cook grumbled, but her shoulders relaxed. “It is not going to be as elegant as you might prefer at a dinner party. There was no time, ma’am.”

“I know, Cook. We’ll be pleased with whatever you have.” It was not as though they had any choice. “We always are.”

She made her way to the dining room next to ensure the proper number of place settings and their disposition. And just like that, it was time for the evening meal.

The Scotsmen had all changed into different kilts, scarlet this time and seemingly more formal. Violet knew there were different meanings to the different forms of dress the Scots wore, but she had not taken the time to focus on them. She had to admit it was an impressive sight to see arrayed around her dining table, something outside of the ordinary. They seemed taller than the English men she saw more frequently, and more muscular as well.  The life they led would lead to a stronger physique than English men, whose lives were safer and more sedate. While their manners were somewhat rougher than her usual guests, she suspected they were more genuine.

Rogers directed two maids to serve the soup course, but before they could begin, Oliver raised his glass. “A toast, if you please. To Clan Grant – the greatest group of friends a man could want.”

The Scotsmen raised their glasses and heartily joined in. “To Grant!”

Violet joined the salutation, with suitable decorum of course. She could understand her brother’s desire to celebrate his saviors, but surely tonight’s hospitality was sufficient. Perhaps he had been hit on the head. She did not want to think he had another motive. Her gaze clung to Mr. Grant’s strong form briefly. If Oliver had other ideas on his mind, she could not fathom what they might be.

Chapter 2

Bryan had sat through any number of these English dinner parties. Tonight’s dinner was less odious, because most of the participants were Scottish and because it was being held by his friend Oliver. It was still a ridiculous, formal affair that seemed to serve little purpose other than wasting money Oliver did not have. If he had possessed the money, he would not have needed Bryan and his men to rescue him.

Then again, the English could be strange. They would rather spend a fortune on display than pay their bills. It did not make sense to Bryan, but he supposed it did not have to. He would be back in Strathspey soon enough. he had endured enough of these English and their odd mannerisms to last a lifetime. This trip had been simple enough, he had come to make trade, but it was the first time he had been forced to come this far into England.

Of course this was all Oliver’s fault, although not a bad fault. Oliver had been helping him as he introduced him to an English merchant who bought his wares at a much higher price than he usually was able to sell. It was part of the reason why Oliver was a friend he trusted despite his horrible habits. Although he had seen Oliver in an unfortunate light today, he did not lose any of the trust in him. As unreliable as the events of the day made him seem, he had moments where what Bryan believed to be his true character seeped through.

He had met the English man for the first time a few months ago. He had been trying to get his previous trading partner to stop the attempts at cheating him and failing. Since he did not have any other connection to England, he was at a disadvantage in every sale, and Mr. Tudor had known this fact and used it well. Oliver had happened to be in Mr. Tudor’s company that fateful day, and at first glance he looked every bit the degenerate nobleman, with his shirt untucked and unbuttoned at the top, and a bottle of whiskey in his hand.

It seemed he was there to convince Mr. Tudor to buy some of the land he owned in the north, so he was every bit the ruined nobleman. Tudor was mocking him along with the other Englishmen in his circle, but Oliver had seemed too out of it to deduce their mockery laced in fanciful words. Bryan had started to pity Oliver until the negotiations were done and Tudor had showed them both out of his office, finishing his deal with Oliver and cheating Bryan out of half his expected earnings.

Once they left the office, Bryan was left shell-shocked as the sway in Oliver’s gait vanished and he became sober immediately as he lit a cigar and brought out a list, mumbling as he crossed off each need that would be filled from the money he had just received. Bryan could not believe it. Had he just… acted like a fool in front of Tudor so he could receive a favorable sale? Catching him staring, Oliver had given him a wink.

“Are you surprised? I saw you pitying me in there. You were not wrong in your assessment of me, I am every bit the degenerate, I just know how to get things done when I really need to. Tudor is a nasty man, but an easy man to fool. Since he thinks me stupid, I was able to sell him a useless piece of land for the price of a decent one, because he imagined that my pricing must be in his favor already, and that he was doing a degenerate like me a favor,” Oliver had said, “Acting smart in front of a man like that will get you nowhere, my friend.”

With those words and a pat on his shoulder, Oliver had left him and sauntered down the hall, resuming his drunken sway. Bryan had stood with his jaw hanging open for a few moments before he ran after Oliver, offering him a drink of friendship. Oliver, not one to turn down a free drink, accepted his invitation, and by the end of the evening, Bryan had contact with his new trading partner, as well as a new friend. Even as he returned to the Highlands back then, he kept contact with Oliver, half for the purpose of establishing the next sale with the man Oliver introduced him to, and half to keep in touch with his odd friend. He had just finalized his sale when he and his men happened upon Oliver being beaten black and blue and rescued him. His first words had been, “I told you I was a real degenerate.”

Oliver’s sister sat at the other end of the table, charming the men as much as an English girl could. If she was uncomfortable around so many rough Highland men, she did not show it. She spoke to them as if they had all been raised in the same drawing rooms their entire lives, and never flinched if they let an oath slip or made a joke that would have sent a lesser woman into a faint. In short, she was a good hostess.

She was a beautiful hostess as well, with a slender body and alluring violet eyes from which she had doubtless gained her name. How she had become a spinster with looks and manners like hers, he did not know. She could grace the head of any man’s table, and his arm as well. He could almost imagine the warmth of her body beside his. He wondered if there was more to her as well, just as there was more to her brother.

He had met other English women at these parties, as establishing business with his new trading partner meant he had been dragged to quite a number of events, and he had felt their eyes on him. He knew they admired his figure. Highland men were the latest craze in the drawing-rooms of London – from a distance. As soon as men like Bryan opened their mouths, the Londoners’ romantic illusions fell away, so Bryan kept his distance.

Oliver’s sister seemed to be an exception, but then so was Oliver. His interests were trivial, but he was a solid friend nevertheless, and since Bryan had met him, he had always been willing to back anything Bryan suggested. He had far more intelligence than his habits suggested, it was a shame he had fallen into the frivolous habits of the English nobility. He would have made a good Scotsman.

“Do you ever think about marriage, Bryan?” Oliver toyed with his wine glass.

Bryan jumped. He had gotten lost in his thoughts again and had not been paying such close attention as he should. “Nae in several years, I am afraid. I can nae imagine the state after losin’ me Sophia.”

Oliver bowed his head, as did Bryan’s men and Lady Violet. After a decent moment of silence, though, Oliver sighed. “It is a dilemma, of course. I have a sister I’d like to see married, but she is a spinster. Today’s events make me more concerned to see her in the marriage state.”

Lady Violet’s cheeks turned scarlet from clear embarrassment. It was the first time her solid form as hostess had cracked and Bryan could see how rattled she was.

“Brother!” her voice cracked across the table like a whip, but she softened it once she had gotten her brother’s attention, “Our guests do not need to hear about trivialities like that. Mr. Grant, you have been fighting in the Indies, I believe?”

“Nae in several years, I am afraid. Most of me time is spent in service to me clan now. Bein’ me uncle’s general leaves me little time for other work.” Bryan could have laughed, but he thought Violet might kill him with her dessert fork. He obligingly shifted topics to his time in the Indies and the fighting he did on behalf of Clan Grant.

He hardly wanted to reminisce about Sophia in front of Oliver and his sister, either. His grief for Sophia was eternal, and it was not for public consumption. Even now, the mere mention of her name had him seeing memories of her slender fingers in his and her brown eyes shining with joy as she led him through the flowery plains near his uncle’s castle. He squeezed his fingers into a fist to keep himself from such memories and focused on his food.

After dinner, when Bryan and Oliver retired to the billiard room, Bryan took a moment to gently chastise Oliver for his words. “Ye need nae have brought up your sister’s state at dinner. The poor lass turned scarlet.”

“I know, I know,” Oliver sighed, “If it were anyone else, I would not have brought it up. Her status has been on my mind of late, and then after today it seems so much more urgent. If something happened to me, how could I protect her from predators? How would I keep her safe from men who wanted the fief and title her name came with, or worse? I am anxious to see her safely married, but she has so little interest she has avoided even the assemblies since she was younger than twenty.”

Oliver truly sounded worried and Bryan thought back to the sister in question. She was pretty, and not so very old as to be past marriageable age.

“How old is she?” he asked, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Six and twenty. She says she has no use for men, but you see how well she manages my household. She is an excellent hostess. She is full of affection toward me. She is well educated and she has an excellent disposition,” his friend said, his voice full of love for his sister.

Oliver slumped, which must have been painful given the beating he had taken only that day. “You never think of marriage, then?” Oliver seemed to pout.

The way he was talking, Bryan wondered if there was something his friend was aiming for. He decided to answer honestly. “I’d be lyin’ if I said I did nae want a son, an heir. What man does nae want that?” Bryan hesitated before his confession. He knew he should not be saying such things to someone like Oliver, even if he was the best among the English. “The problem is, it would be cruel to ask a woman to be me wife, or to bear me child, since I ken that I could nae care for her.”

Oliver blinked at him. “Never?”

“Nay. I could never love a woman after me Sophia. She was me world. I can barely even look at a woman since she died.” Even the mention of Sophia’s name brought tears to Bryan’s eyes, but he forced them back. A man had to have some standards, and weeping in front of some Saxon, no matter how good the friendship, was where Bryan drew the line. “It would be ghastly for her. I can nae do it.”

“Hm.” Oliver rubbed at his jaw, a reflexive action from being deep in thought, then winced as the pain from his injuries hit him. “But if you found a woman who likewise had no interest in marriage, your conscience would be clear, yes?”

Bryan scoffed. “Ye must have gone daft. Such a woman would never allow me to touch her to get an heir – and I will nae stoop so low as to take her by force, whatever ye may have heard about Scotland.”

Oliver shuddered and put a hand to his chest, his wide eyes proving that he had never even considered it. “Perish the thought. I’d never suggest or even think such a thing,” his friend said in a serious tone, before continuing in a more subdued voice and scratching his neck, “However, it seems we have complementary problems that might solve each other. I have a sister who needs the protection of a husband, but does not want one. You need a wife to give you an heir, but you do not want a wife who expects love.”

Bryan stared at his friend. He had thought it suspicious, the direction Oliver had steered the conversation, but for Oliver to truly say it… “I did nae see ye gettin’ hit in the head. I might have missed it, though. I came to the scene late,” he said, causing Oliver to breathe out a short laugh.

“I assure you that my head is perfectly fine. Think about it, Grant! This would solve both our problems. I know you to be one of the most honorable men in the world. I know you would never take advantage of her, and you have enough of your own wealth that she would never be an object of prey to you. She has enough of a dowry to not be a burden to you, and of course, I will help,” Oliver said, his full intentions now on display.

He seemed to have no reservations marrying his sister to a Scotsman and truly seemed to mean it when he said he trusted Bryan. However, how would the lady feel about moving to the Highlands, no matter how short the time?

“I’ve nay use for an English title. Me heir will live in Scotland. And as much of a degenerate ye are, I can nae say that ye deserve to lose yer title,” Bryan said, dismissing any thoughts that might have come to light about him marrying for the viscount title.

Oliver just laughed. “Is it that you do not find her attractive?”

Bryan rolled his eyes. “A stone would find her attractive, Oliver. She is a bonny lass. I am nae good for her, though. You can nae want me to bring her up to Scotland and then, in essence, leave her there to rot while I go fightin’ for me clan. We have a lot of enemies, me friend. Most of what ye hear about Scotland is nae true but some of it is, and if ye thought she was at risk here in London, ye have nae seen Strathspey when we get a good grudge goin’.” He was not sure that Oliver understood very well what he was offering and, as a friend, he had to tell him.

“That could happen anywhere. And you are not in the habit of killing women and children.” Oliver shook his head. “I am not so worried about that. I am more worried about vile men who would hold her hostage for my debts, or who would think they could get at my title through her. Or who might try to take advantage of her spinster state to make a scandal. I overheard two men talking about doing exactly that to Lord Withers’ daughter the other day. I love her. My parents left her in my care, and I have an obligation to make sure she has some security.”

From the words he spoke, Bryan could see Oliver’s true feelings and how worried he was.

“So find her a proper husband. An English husband,” Bryan emphasized the word English as strongly as he could, since Oliver did not seem to be at home to reason right now, “Me whole life has been Clan Grant since I could walk. Yer sister is a delicate English noblewoman, used to London and all of its conveniences. Ye cannot want her to pick up and move to a remote holding so far in the north of Scotland we’ve got more sheep than people.”

“Even better,” Oliver beamed at him, “If it brings her farther away from the people who want to harm me, then it can only be to her benefit.”

“Has she ever been outside of London?”

“She’s been to our family holding in Chipping Norton.” He shrugged. “I am sure she’ll be over the moon to see Scotland. She is always writing to this cousin or that. Who is it? Oh yes, Beatrice, who is married to the Royal Governor of Jamaica. She would love to see something of the world, I assure you.”

“Most of what she will see is sheep, Oliver. Strathspey is nae Jamaica.”

“Well, no, of course not. You do not have yellow fever in Strathspey, have you?” He patted Bryan on the back. “Look, this is a perfect solution for both of you if you would just open your heart a little. She truly is not going to want you to court or woo her. She is more likely to chase you off with a broom if you tried.”

“Yer sister would nae ken what to do with a broom if her life depended on it. She has had servants doin’ everythin’ for her and that is just nae how it is in Scotland.” Bryan shook his head. “She would nae survive there. Nae happily.”

“Violet will be fine, Bryan. She is a lot tougher than you think she is. Do not worry so much. She is still young enough to give you the heir you want, and she is old enough to know how to care for it the right way. She is pretty, she is smart…” Oliver continued listing all his sister’s good points.

“What do ye expect me to do with her? She’ll be miserable up there after the life she has led here.”

“Are you miserable?” Oliver blinked. “Because you can take her back to the Chipping Norton house if you like.”

The thought of living permanently anywhere but in Scotland made Bryan want to be sick. He gave Oliver a face. “Nay, obviously. I love Scotland. I am just trying to show some concern for yer sister here. It is different for one who was born there and one who was born here.” He could not understand why none of these were concerns for Oliver, but he felt like they should think of the lady involved.

Oliver’s sunny smile fell. “My friend, it is a very nice idea for women to marry for love, but the truth is that it almost never happens for women of our class. There is a polite fiction, of course, but in reality, women marry whom they are told to marry for the reasons they are told to do so. There is far too much at stake to leave such an important decision to the whims of a young girl who is of necessity sheltered from the realities of life until after marriage. Although Violet cannot be listed as one of the young and naive girls as she is now a grown woman, the same still applies. It is kind of you to want to be sensitive to what you perceive as Violet’s needs. I will mention that to her when I tell her. But Violet knows better than most that marriage is a transaction. Everyone involved gets something they need from the deal. It may not be romantic, but it is the way things work and right now and it is the only way I can ensure my sister is safe.”

Oliver’s words landed with the impact of a punch. He and Sophia had loved each other since they were children, before love could be romantic or physical. There had never been any doubt that they would choose each other, regardless of relative advantage or disadvantage to their families. He did not want to imagine a world where children – of either sex – were treated as chattel on a market for competitive advantage.

But then again, this was England. These weren’t his people. This was not his culture. All he could do was make sure his heirs, should he have any, were kept safe and secure from this type of banal mercantilism.

“Fine. I will dae it. But we have to make sure the poor girl kens what she is gettin’ into. I am nae signin’ on to take a girl up into the highlands who thinks she is livin’ in some kind of fairy tale, who only gets upset that I do nae have the time to be waitin’ on her hand and foot.”

Oliver laughed. “I think you will find, brother-in-law, that Violet is exactly as independent as you could wish.”

The degree to which Bryan wished Violet to be independent was fully, and far away from him. That might not have been entirely true. Violet was a beautiful woman, the kind who drew the eye of men anywhere she went. He had heard Lady Violet’s name mentioned more than once during his time here in London, and while he had never put her together with his friend’s sister, he had understood her to be a beauty. He would not have any problem performing the physical part of the marriage, that much was certain, but that was not something to mention to her brother.

It was the rest of it that made him think this was the worst possible idea. What would his friends and family back in Strathspey think when he returned with this new, English bride? He had not mentioned it to any of them that he was in search of a bride. Although they continued to nag him, he knew they had mostly given up. Would they welcome her? Or would they clash with her and remind him that she could not hold a candle to even the memory of Sophia?

There was only one way to find out, and that was by doing.

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

Chapter 1

May didn’t care how loud her boots sounded as they pounded on the stone of the hallway. The castle was alive with activity in the peak of the summer daylight, but the buzz of the place only left May with a heavy feeling of dread.

She rushed through the halls of the castle, hugging her arms close to her chest despite the warmth of the day. May could feel her heart racing in her chest and swallowed thickly as she turned the corridor quickly, making sure not to crash into any of the rushing servants that were coming the other way.

“Sorry,” she muttered, as she walked even faster and bumped the shoulder of a maid.

May could hear the whispers of servants following her down the hall, they were all gossiping about what she could possibly be in so much of a rush for.

It was no secret that her father was ill. May knew that the news had traveled amongst the staff of the castle without stopping, like a river that had nothing to halt its current.

“Is the news true?” May asked, as she burst into the room.

The scene in front of her came to a halt as soon as she entered. May glanced around to see that there was a healer by the bedside of her father and several servants around the room.

“Leave us,” Alistair said, and held his hand up feebly. She winced at how weak her father had become, but it wasn’t enough to cloud over her anger.

May waited for the click of the door before speaking again.

“I want to ken if it’s true.”

“Is what true, May?” he questioned, and sat up slowly, painfully slowly.

“I heard the news. Ye are going to marry me to a stranger and decided to tell the entire kingdom before ye told me?” May snapped.

“I am doin’ what is best for our clan,” Alistair responded.

“I ken that the finances are bad. I just dinnae think that ye would marry me off so soon, I was surprised to find that out from others.”

“I’m sorry that ye had to hear from others, but ye ken that this would happen one day. A marriage of convenience will keep our clan alive.”

May knew that it was her destiny, but that didn’t make it any easier to process.

“I cannae dae that, not with the current situation that we find ourselves in,” her father shook his head.

“And by doing this, I will save the clan?” May asked in a quieter tone.

“Aye, me child. Ye will be doin’ something that will help us all, I promise. Our funds are running low, and I cannae raise the taxes again, it will ruin our people.”

“Father, ye are too sick to be making such decisions. Have ye consulted with your advisors about any of this?”

“Aye, and they tell me to have ye matched in a strong marriage. One that will fund our lands and will allow us to prosper once more,” Alistair coughed as he spoke.

May nodded at her father’s words, she knew that a time like this was bound to happen, however, she wasn’t ready for it at all.

“I wish that there was another way,” she sighed.

May noticed that her father’s cough wouldn’t go away. The coughing persisted and the sound grated around the room, cutting through their conversation with no mercy. His brows were furrowed, skin slightly more pale than usual, and there was a definitive amount of sweat on his brow.

“Healer! We need a healer in here!” May called back toward the door.

Almost instantly, the healer was brought back into the room, the kind of service that was to be expected for a sick Laird.

May watched while biting at the nails on her right hand, and she knew that it wasn’t proper for a lady like herself to do so, but she needed some way to control her stress. Seeing her father so ill was something that she had never imagined would come to be. Her mother and brother had died when she was so young, the sickness had been relentless, passing through the land like a ravaging fire. She dreaded to think that she was going to see her father succumb to a similar fate.

May thought of the moment six years ago when she had broken Iain out of the cell that her father had imprisoned him in. It had been so thrilling, yet so devastating. It had broken her heart at the time, and still to this day, she could feel the dull ache in her chest from where her feelings had been shattered.

She thought often of the man with dark hair who had her heart. He had been right all of those years ago; she wouldn’t ever find a love like theirs, it seemed that she was doomed to live out that prophesy. Especially now that she was to marry a man from a clan that she knew little about, a stranger that could be the worst decision her sick father had ever made. The thought of living out the rest of her life unhappy was devastating to May.

She could see that her father was slowly slipping into sleep, his head lulled forward slightly, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Will he be all right?” May dared to ask. However, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer after all.

“He needs to rest,” the healer said with pursed lips. May didn’t feel as though he was finished with speaking though, and her fear was realized when he continued. “I’m sorry, but if his coughing continues like this… I’m nae sure how much longer he has left.”

May let the words sink like a stone in her mind. She was terrified of the outcome that had been laid out for her, she was going to have to marry whoever her father said, even if it was his dying wish.

She blinked away her tears and tried not to think about how different her life would have been if she had run away with Iain all those years ago. May didn’t want to even wonder if she would have been happier because she knew that she would have been.

“I see,” May nodded. Inside she felt like a piece of herself was dying, but she knew that she needed to remain strong in front of the people that she might soon be in charge of. In reality, she wanted to fall to the floor and cry until she felt better.

She glanced over at her father, wishing that she could touch him. All she wanted was to feel his embrace and comfort. However, the sickness drew her away. She was the last healthy member of her family, and May knew that she couldn’t jeopardize that by seeking comfort.

May sat in the room while her father slept for some time. She needed the quiet of the room to organize her thoughts and better understand what was the best way for her to accept her fate. Every time that he turned in his turbulent sleep, May winced, hoping that her father wasn’t in too much pain and would be all right. She shuddered and hugged her arms to try and make herself feel any kind of comfort.

After a while, she allowed her heavy eyes to close. Overcome with emotion, May felt exhausted by the day, even before she had found out the news throughout the town. She had felt foolish to have not known of this news before other members of the town. It had been a surprise, one that she hadn’t welcomed either.

Closing her eyes had been a mistake. May knew that instantly, despite the fact that she was so tired. Behind her eyes flashed images of Iain in his youth. She wondered how he would look after six years apart. However, there was no hope anymore.

She pictured him smiling, laughing, and holding on to her hand as though it were a lifeline. He really had loved her, and May couldn’t get over the fact that she had thrown it away for the very purpose that she now found herself in.

When she awoke, May realized that the wetness on her cheeks were tears that she had shed for her lover. She had not cried over him for a very long time, but the new prospect of marriage meant that she was going to truly never be able to see him again.

“May? Are ye there?” her father spoke through his wheezing.

“Aye, father, I’m here,” May said groggily while rubbing her eyes. She moved off of the uncomfortable wooden chair in the corner over to his bedside. May hadn’t kept track of when the healer had left, but it was evident that a couple of servants had come and gone since she had fallen asleep.

As though kept at bay by a wall that she couldn’t see, May stayed back as far as she could bear, but it was incredibly difficult while her father was so ill.

“Ah, me child,” Alistair breathed out weakly. He settled back into his bed with the knowledge that his daughter was close by.

“Father, I will marry whoever ye say I should. I will do it, I promise,” May nodded eagerly.

She wanted to put his mind at ease during such a sickness.

“Ye are too good to me, child,” he breathed out, “Ye will dae good for this clan, I always knew that ye would.”

May smiled and felt her heart warming at her father’s praise. She couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness following the welcomed moment.

“I will make the arrangements soon,” Alistair whispered, “I will send off the letter of agreement to the proposal and we will have all of the official arrangements made quickly. Trust me, I’m sure that ye will find the arrangement interesting, Diabhal has quite the reputation.”

May felt dizzy as she finally left the room. She felt as though she had been in there for a small eternity. She didn’t know much of this Diabhal, but she didn’t welcome the idea of becoming his wife either way. May wanted to find out more about him and this reputation that her father spoke about and quickly decided that she would use her remaining time in the castle to do so.

Everything was going to happen so quickly after that day, she just knew that things were going to slowly slip out of her control. Her father was going to make all of the plans, and she was soon going to be traveling off to a different land to marry a man that she had never met before.

“Is everything all right, ma’am?” one of the servants asked, as she passed them in the hall.

“I’m fine,” May muttered without looking up. She quickly made her way back down the corridor that she had previously stalked up to reach her father and toward her chambers. These were going to be the last days that she spent around the castle before she was moved off to be with a Laird. May suddenly found herself filled with a stony reverence for the walls around her.

It was where she had grown up and it was where she had shared so many memories that had made her the woman that she was that day.

Those were the very halls that she had once walked with Iain, a time that had been filled with so much happiness and joy that she couldn’t help but feel bitter at her circumstance. She wondered where in the land Iain had gone to, what he was doing with his life. But most of all, May wondered if he was happy.

Chapter 2

“I dinnae ken what more we can dae to make them see,” Bruce sighed as he rubbed his eyes with his hand. As the leader of the McAlister clan, it was his job to make sure that his neighbors were paying their debts and that he wasn’t losing out on any deals that were negotiated.

Iain glanced across the table at Bruce. He clenched his jaw, offering no possible solution that would help the cause.

“We have not received any news?” he questioned in response.

“Nae yet, but we haven’t received any messengers yet today. Perhaps we will be lucky and will receive something that can help us.”

“They owe a lot to the clan,” Iain spoke in a bitter tone, “We have given them lots of support, I thought that it would have been an easy decision for them to accept this proposal.”

“I hear that Alistair is very ill,” Bruce responded with a slight shrug.

Iain couldn’t deny that he felt a small pang of justice at this news. The man who had once imprisoned Iain within a cell just for loving his daughter. He didn’t like to admit the way that he felt as though he was now equal with May’s father, knowing that he was so sick. His feelings did extend to May, as he thought about how hard it must be for her with her father falling ill.

“Any word on how serious it is?” Iain questioned, trying his best to sound as though it was simply a way to make conversation.

“I have heard that there is a possibility that it could be quite serious,” Bruce nodded.

Their conversation was cut off by the sound of the doors opening to the great hall. Outside, the noise of rain pelting into the castle walls was growing louder as the storm drew nearer over the nearby Glen.

“Yes?” Bruce spoke up, his voice booming and bouncing off of the stone walls around them. A servant scuttled into the room holding a lone piece of parchment in his hands. His hair was wet from the weather and his boots squelched against the floors.

Bruce quickly took the message from the servant, dismissing him without a second look. Iain watched in anticipation as his adopted father read through the message. His expression didn’t give too much away as to what the letter contained.

However, Iain couldn’t help but hope that it was an acceptance of his proposal to marry the only heir of the McIver clan.

“Well?” Iain asked impatiently, as he watched Bruce place the parchment on the table and sit back in his chair.

“We have received news from the McIver clan,” he began with pursed lips. Iain was really finding it difficult to fathom even a guess to the outcome of what had been said. “We have an acceptance to the proposal.”

*

Iain paced through the castle and thought about the news that had been announced the day before. He knew that Bruce was eager to make sure that the contract was seen through, however, there was still an obvious reluctance in his eyes.

It stemmed from the fact that Bruce would be losing his only son, and even though they weren’t related, their bond was strong. Iain could see that Bruce was still hesitant about being left alone after spending so many years with him.

“Ye need to keep yer priorities in check, lad,” Bruce said from the window, causing the young Laird to look up from his seat in his chambers. Iain’s eyes narrowed and filled with a darkness that even concerned his guardian.

“Aye, I will be, I ken what I’m doin’.”

“I just dinnae think it’s wise to be so focused on the past, so focused on an event that occurred so many years ago. The past can haunt ye, but many times it can only dae so if ye let it.” Bruce spoke on the back of his many years of experience.

Iain wanted to roll his eyes at the comments, however, he had been taught better than that and knew that it would not sit well with the older man. He wanted to teach May a lesson and show her that she made a huge mistake all those years ago.

“It will still be a smart match,” Bruce continued. “The girl is after all of noble blood, and so it will dae ye some good to have a proper connection to a laird than simply being a ward.”

Iain felt his nostrils flare involuntarily at Bruce’s words. He had once been nothing but a soldier in the army that belonged to May’s father, he had served with all that he had and still couldn’t garner the respect of many people. But once Bruce had taken him in, things started to change.

He distanced himself from the young soldier who had fallen in love with the Laird’s daughter, Iain pushed that man to the boundaries of his being. His time as a sell-sword had once shamed him, now they were times that he reflected on often, times that he could use to guide his journey into the future.

“I ken that it will dae me good,” Iain nodded to Bruce, “When will we be leaving?”

“We can make haste as soon as possible,” Bruce sniffed, and sat up in his seat, “We will want to get on the road in the morning so that we will reach MacIver’s land by the afternoon. It will be a long day of riding, but now that we’ve got confirmation, it will only be a matter of time.”

Bruce had made his thoughts clear; Iain wasn’t to lose sight of the reason for this marriage, it would be to strengthen claims of nobility, Iain recited in his head. However, he couldn’t help but anticipate the look that would fall over May’s face when he saw her again.

He hoped that it would be similar to the way he had felt when May told him she would not run away with him. It was a sharp cutting sensation that had torn through his chest, allowing a heavy and jagged weight to sink into his gut. It was like being wounded in battle, a sensation that Iain could never forget.

“Ye seem troubled, lad,” Bruce called, as servants started to slowly and tentatively return to the room.

“Nae, I’m just pensive. I want to get the formalities of this affair over with,” Iain sighed. He knew that it would do him no good to reveal everything that he was thinking to his guardian, although something told him that Bruce understood exactly what he was thinking about.

“Aye, I remember when my marriage contract had been confirmed, that week went by in such a haze.”

Iain nodded slowly, the last thing that he wanted were any rumors to leak from the walls in the form of slimy gossip.

He pushed a hand through his hair, chestnut strands catching the light coming through the window and projecting the illusion that he was almost blonde. Iain followed his guardian’s glance out of the window and to the scenery that stared back at them.

“As of late, do ye feel that the rain has been as constant as the sun setting every day?” Iain sighed. He was no stranger to the highland weather, he knew it like a second skin after all of the time that he had spent up there. However, he couldn’t help but think of the world he had merely glimpsed when he was a mercenary. It had been thrilling for him to not know the ground underneath his feet for the first time, to discover for himself already discovered land.

“Lad, I have always held yer council close in my decision making, but I ken that yer thoughts are nae aligned if ye are goin’ to talk about the weather like this,” Bruce said while chuckling.

He slowly pushed away from the wall, prompting the servants around the room to flinch and stand to attention like pretend soldiers. It would be futile to get in the way of the Laird, for he was not known for being reasonable all of the time.

Iain looked down at his lap at the comment his guardian had made in front of the many servants. A dull heat was moving up into his cheeks and fueling a sense of embarrassment even more.

He only looked up at the feeling of a gloved hand on his shoulder.

“I ken that this is goin’ to be difficult for ye, but just remember how necessary this will be for ye to secure yer claim to this Lairdship.”

Bruce could be soft with him when he wanted to be, however, Iain didn’t appreciate it that day. He clenched his jaw and shifted in his seat until the familial hand moved off of his shoulder. Iain felt his reputation was like a stone wall that was constantly under siege and he was the only one there to fight and keep it standing.

Iain remained in the great hall for a moment longer before rising from his own chair and stalking out of the large room, his brisk footsteps echoing like a warning against approaching him.

*

Iain paced about the castle like a restless animal that had been caged. His jaw was perpetually clenched and he didn’t feel at all like engaging with any of the servants. Instead, his thoughts drifted back to the castle that awaited him at the end of their journey, a place that had once been familiar and welcoming. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of reception awaited his return. It had been six years, after all.

He walked past the walls of the castle and out into the woodlands that surrounded the land. It was to be his land soon, however, Iain was patient. He paced through the trees and stalked into the shadows to avoid anyone who he might encounter. Iain wanted to be completely alone and with his thoughts; there was still the inner conflict that he lived with as to how he should act around May. The boyish, vulnerable side of him wanted nothing more than to go to her and embrace her, he wanted to promise her that he would never leave and that they could finally be together. But the other side, the side who had seen more of the world, still felt anger towards her. He wanted nothing more than to show her that she would pay for the way that she had betrayed him.

Iain’s nostrils flared and he tried his hardest to contain his anger, however, he ended up taking it out on a nearby tree. With both hands gripping his sword, he swung ferociously until the sharp blade found purchase against the bark with a dull thud. The noise reverberated around the quiet forest and was only followed with his heavy panting. Iain realized at that moment that he was more confused than ever on how he felt about May.

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

Prologue

“Lord in Heaven!”

Evanna peered out her window at the ground below. She bit her lower lip, and a frown creased her brow as she considered the fall. The owl that lived in the tree across her window bent its head to the side and hooted skepticism too. Evanna sighed and stepped back inside her room. This complicated things.

Evanna MacLeod was running away from home, and it was all father’s fault. He was being obstinate and completely dismissive of her feelings. Of course, he didn’t understand. How could he? He had been to London once in his life and had never expressed the desire to go there again. The green hills and deep pools of Glenlivet were all anyone ever needed as far as he was concerned, and he felt no need to leave it. Nor did he understand Evanna’s need to see the world and be part of London society.

“It’s naught but posh English bastards with long sticks up their arses,” her father had laughed when she had told him she wanted to visit. “They’ll lay rot to yer sweet nature.”

“But Clara said the balls are heaps of fun,” Evanna had protested. “Imagine the gowns, the jewels, the people! Oh, Da, please let me go.”

“That Clara has nae a lickspittle of sense between her ears, and I will nae have ye learnin’ her foolish ways. I love her father like a brother, but he is much too lax with her upbringing.”

“But, Da-”

“I said nae! There’s naught in London that Glenlivet does nae do better. Write to Clara and ask her to come to visit if ye miss the lass, but yer nae going, and that’s the end of that! Here, have some berries with cream and wipe that frown off yer bonny brow, eh?”

And that had been the end of the argument as far as Laird Julius MacLeod was concerned. Slap her wrist then take away the sting from the punishment by giving her a sweet treat or present – that had always been her father’s way. But it wasn’t going to work anymore. Evanna was seventeen now and had moved on from throwing tantrums. She had bitten the inside of her cheek and kept her own counsel. It wasn’t over. Not till she had her way.

Evanna couldn’t explain why she craved to see the outside world. The only child of the Laird, she had never felt the lack of a motherly figure until the day Lady Ashby had come to visit in her fancy carriage. Tall, dark, and statuesque, Lady Ashby had stood in their courtyard in wine-red silks, a picture of beauty and grace. Little Clara had hidden behind her mother’s skirts, a perfect copy of Lady Ashby.

Evanna, seven at the time, had been mortified by her own dirty stockings and torn smock. But Lady Ashby hadn’t paid any mind. She had embraced Evanna with open arms—the heady scent of honey and wildflowers enveloping the little girl.

Though Evanna hadn’t learned much by way of comportment and ladylike manners in the ensuing years, she knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. She wanted to be just like Lady Ashby.

But that wasn’t the only reason she wanted to run away. Heartache was part and parcel of her desire to leave home for more hopeful lands. But she refused to think about that now. She had much more pressing matters that required her full attention.

Out the window wasn’t an option. She’d break her neck and die, or worse, break her leg and have to face the wrath of her father. Tucking the makeshift rope of tied bedsheets under the bed, Evanna straightened herself to consider her options. The only way out was through the annex that connected the main hall and the church. It was risky. She had a higher chance of getting caught. But she had no other choice.

The church doors were never locked. Something about keeping God’s house open at all hours to absolve the sins of the wicked. Evanna could just picture Father Gilmore, their priest, looking at her from under his bushy gray eyebrows, pinning her to the spot.

Dismissing the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, Evanna started preparing for her escape.

Would it be wicked to use God’s church as a means to disobey her father’s command and run off to a world of balls, gowns, and men in London?

Maybe.

All right! Very likely.

But she had to go.

Stripping down to her shift, Evanna pulled on a pair of riding breeches. She glanced in the mirror and cupped her breasts. They were full and filled both her palms easily. She frowned at their abundance. A length of cotton cloth was produced from her chest of drawers and she started binding her breasts. It hurt and restricted her breathing but there was nothing else for it. Once she was done, she pulled on a loose cotton shirt. These were her customary riding clothes, and though they would help her blend into the night, she feared recognition above all else.

Careful not to make any noise, she slipped on her riding boots before moving on to the most difficult task at hand.

Pulling out a pair of stockings, scissors, hairpins, and a brush, Evanna sat down in front of her mirror and began taming her mass of golden curls. They fell every which way and reached just below her buttocks. Many governesses had come and gone, each and every one had despaired of Evanna’s untamed spirit matched perfectly by her wild hair.

Evanna sat down to accomplish the impossible. She brushed her hair and pinned it to her head. Unruly strands poked out and she pinned them down too till her head resembled the raggedy mess of Stephen the scarecrow.

Throughout the laborious work, she eyed the scissors. As her arms tired, she considered chopping the whole mess off, but Lady Ashby’s reaction to her shorn head stayed her hand.

“Gah! If only Da would listen to reason. I would nae have to take such desperate measures.”

Biting her full lips, she cut up the pair of stockings and tied it around her head, trapping the wild wisps. Her high cheekbones and pointed chin made her look like a wastrel young boy from the docks. Her blue eyes flashed in determination; she swept her hand against the hearth and rubbed some ash across her brow, cheeks, and clothes. As disguises went, this was a very good one.

For the final touch, she fished out a dirty cap from the bottom drawer of her writing desk and pinned it securely on her head. She looked at herself in the mirror. No one would recognize her, not even her father. Evanna flashed herself a roguish smile and tipped her hat as she’d seen men do when the pretty maids passed by in the village.

Satisfied she got up and dug out the satchel she had packed two nights previously with money she had stolen from her father. Laird Julius MacLeod was rich enough not to miss a little gold and silver. His only child, on the other hand? She was sure he would miss her, but then he should have let her go with his blessings.

The day she had decided to run away, she had written a detailed note to her father explaining where she had gone and why. She placed that on top of her pillow for the maids to find in the morning.

“I’m sorry, Da, but ye left me no choice.”

Adjusting the satchel across her now diminished chest, she sent up a prayer and gently opened her bedroom door. Heart beating against her chest she tiptoed down the hall, making sure to avoid the creaking step halfway down the stairs.

During the day the castle was a cheerful place. High, narrow window alcoves bathed the hall in natural light and brought out the different hues of the many tapestries that hung there. Now, in the dead of night, with nary a candle to light her way, the same beloved castle was a dark, brooding place that hid shadows and potential discovery at each corner.

Throat suddenly dry, Evanna swallowed and covered the distance as quickly and quietly as she could. The annex door loomed like the door to the Otherworld with fairies and fauns waiting for her in the dark.

Evanna hesitated a moment then sprinted lightly down the annex. It was a short distance to the church, and the annex had been built to ensure safe, dry passage to and from the church in case of rain or storms. It was also discreet. Many Lairds had used the annex to smuggle in healers when they were trying to hide embarrassing ailments, or as places to discuss secret plots and exchange treasonous information.

There were no ornaments or decorative hangings here. People hardly noticed anything about the annex as they rushed through it as Evanna did now. She only slowed down when she reached the entrance to the church.

Lit candles in front of the altar shed a little light in the gloom. Evanna peered in to make sure no one was there. Her eyes landed on the large cross hanging at the far wall and guilt stabbed at her again. She was unruly, spoiled, uncouth, and unrefined, but she was still God-fearing.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she mumbled under her breath as she crept forward.

A loud creak made her jump out of her skin. She scuttled back into the shadows of the annex. The church door opened. Moonlight spread on the floor like spilled milk. A large looming shadow stood in the doorway.

Evanna watched with bated breath as the tall, broad figure walked into the church, went right up to the altar, and knelt.

“O my God.” The person began to pray and Evanna gasped as she recognized the voice. “I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. And I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell. But most of all because they have offended Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love.”

Aleck Bryce knelt and recited the Act of Contrition. Evanna watched as he prayed, his dark hair hiding his face. What sin could Aleck be asking forgiveness for?

Dear God, I pray whatever his sins may be, he is granted some peace. My God kens he has nae left me with any, Evanna thought with some bitterness.

Evanna fought back hot tears and considered her hands in the dimness of the passage.

Three years ago, when Clara had visited last, a troop of traveling performers had come to stay in Glenlivet. They had jugglers, fire eaters, and bears, but the gypsy woman had captured their imaginations.

She had been unlike anything Evanna had imagined. For one, she was young and beautiful. Her dark eyes flashed and danced as she spoke. The clothes she wore were conservative and there was nary a bead on her person. Finally, face-to-face with the gypsy, Clara had been too afraid to proffer her hand for a reading, but Evanna, in true MacLeod fashion, had thrown caution to the wind and extended her hand.

Immense wealth, honorable family… the reading had started by pointing out the obvious. Evanna was beginning to fear fraud when the gypsy frowned and traced a line on Evanna’s hand. Evanna had shivered as if a cold finger had slid down her spine.

“I see a great journey, many adventures. But – I also see great tragedy and heartache.” The gypsy had smiled apologetically and gently tucked Evanna’s fingers over her palm. “He who you desire will never be yours.”

Evanna MacLeod watched Aleck Bryce with longing. Truth be told she wasn’t running to London, as much as she was running away from Glenlivet. And Aleck Bryce was the reason for it.

Aleck was the son of Callum Bryce, Laird Julius MacLeod’s most trusted noble, and his right-hand man. When Callum Bryce had died from a gangrenous wound sustained when protecting the castle from raiders, he had bestowed his second son Aleck, only thirteen at the time, to the Laird as a sworn sword. Aleck had been part of the household ever since and Evanna’s heart’s desire.

Tall, dark, and brooding, Aleck had never had a way with words, but Evanna had been smitten at first sight. She was his shadow; following him wherever he went, eating from the same bowl, and insisting on training with him as well. She would have slept in the same bed too if her governess hadn’t complained to the Laird.

Aleck Bryce had been the love of her short life. Her whole day was planned around him: when to wake up, when to train, when to ride, when to eat. She would spend hours in the courtyard watching him train with a broadsword, musket, and flintlocks. Her heart would skip a beat as she observed sunlight glisten off his sweating skin, the muscles rippling like taut waves underneath. His broad back narrowed down to compact hips and extended to long legs. Evanna worshipped him.

And what did she get in return? Cold indifference. It was like she didn’t exist for him, or if she did, she was no more than an annoying fly buzzing around a great horse’s mane.

Now here he was, bent on his knees. Part of her wanted to go to him, tuck his dark hair behind his ears and kiss his brow smooth of all worry. She wanted to just imagine his limpid green eyes widening in shock. But she couldn’t. Aleck Bryce didn’t want her. He had made that quite plain.

Shaking the distracting thoughts out of her head, she considered what to do. Here she was running away, and who should come in her path but the very man who she was running away from. Evanna began to pray.

Dear God, I ken I have nae been regular with my prayers, she muttered under her breath. Please forgive me and let me go to London. I will bring ye a golden cross for the altar when I return. Please, God!

Father Gilmore would be horrified if he knew she was bribing God, but she was out of ideas.

Speaking of Father Gilmore! As if her thoughts had conjured the man, he came gliding through the back chambers, head bent and brooding.

“Aleck?” he said. “Are ye alright, son?”

“Nae, Father,” Aleck stood up. “I am troubled by dreams.”

Evanna listened fascinated. What kind of dreams could make a giant like Aleck cower in church?

“The same?” Father Gilmore inquired.

“Aye.”

“Come. A confession should lighten yer heart.”

He guided Aleck to the confessional. Evanna couldn’t believe her luck. God did listen to her prayers! She waited for both men to enter the confessional and the curtains to slide into place. Then she tiptoed to the open door. The night was bathed in moonlight, a slight breeze swung the tall grass to-and-fro, creating enough noise for her to slip out of the house and away. With one fleeting glance of gratitude to the altar, she ran out into the glowing night.

The cold air grasped at her cheeks like icy fingers, the last remaining bite of winter still in its embrace, but she didn’t care. She ran off down the hill to the dirt road that emerged through the fields. Once she reached the road, she began walking west towards the village where a horse was waiting for her. She had arranged it a week ago. Evanna was nothing if not thorough.

“London, here I come!” she whooped as she jumped into the air in excitement. Childhood behind her, she had the world opening up in front of her, and she couldn’t wait to see it all.

Chapter 1

Aleck felt tainted.

He sat on the grassy knoll not far from the stables watching the sunrise above the horizon. The yellow rays chased the darkness away, but his mind was still full of gloom as he recalled last night’s confession.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he had begun. “It has been three days since my confession. I have sinned against my Laird.” Aleck had hesitated, as he always did.

“And what is the nature of yer sin?” Father Gilmore prompted.

It was the same every time. Aleck would begin and Father Gilmore would guide him. Aleck often wondered how Father Gilmore could still show him kindness after hearing his confessions. But then Father Gilmore was a man of God, and Aleck was steeped in sin.

“I dreamt that I stole from my Laird, I corrupted his wells with poison, and I coveted his seat.” Aleck drummed them off quickly, hoping that if they came out in a rush, he could be rid of them faster. But the taint remained. Like always.

“The Devil is wicked, but he is also clever,” Father Gilmore had spoken through the partition, his words measured and reassuring. “He kens ye harbor nothing but love and loyalty for yer Laird. He kens yer fear of disappointing MacLeod and uses it as a tool against ye.”

It was well-meant but Aleck wasn’t convinced.

The dreams left him feeling like he was covered in a thin layer of corruption and filth. No amount of scrubbing in the bath or washing himself rubbed it off.

Nasty dreams. Filthy dreams. Punishable dreams if anyone found out.

They mustn’t! They wouldn’t. Aleck made sure of that. Even in confession he never told too much. He would mention the betrayal, the poisoned wells, the coveted seat but never what came after – the main event. Maybe that’s why he felt polluted – he had made no proper confession of his sin to God.

The early morning sun beat down the soft winter mist, forcing it to disperse. Aleck was glad of it. Winter had been exceedingly harsh this year, and he looked forward to the spring. He got up, brushed the grass and dew off the seat of his breeches, and walked towards the training yard on the other side of the castle.

Many of the Laird’s men-at-arms were already gathered there, loosening their limbs for the morning’s rigorous training. Aleck spotted Joseph Algee and Royce Glackin by the far wall, feasting on bannocks. They were second sons to minor nobles and Aleck’s friends. Joseph was tall and wiry and resembled a nanny goat. Royce was built like a barrel and just as short.

“Ye look a sight, Bryce,” Joseph nodded in greeting.

Royce threw a bannock to Aleck. He caught it gratefully. The bread was still hot and tasted of manna so early in the morning. It lightened his dark mood.

“Where were ye last night?” Joseph asked.

“Were ye worried for me, love?” Aleck teased, blowing him a kiss.

“Not on yer life.” Joseph grimaced.

“What do ye think Lockard’s got planned for today?” Royce asked.

“Mud, muck, and misery, no doubt,” Joseph mumbled through his full mouth. Flecks of semi-decimated bread flung out of his mouth like people jumping out of a castle on fire. “When do ye think we’ll get a turn on the muskets?”

“When yer aim with the bow and arrow gets better,” Aleck laughed.

“Muskets are nae the same as bows and arrows,” Joseph protested. He was taller than Aleck, with a spatter of dark freckles all over his pale body. Though twenty-one, he was a simple man without the graces of his station. “Lockard should ken we will nae get any good at it if we do nae practice.”

“He’s a right bastard,” Royce agreed. “There are only a few muskets to go about, and he’s made sure only his favorites get to practice.” He eyed Aleck with a mixture of resentment and admiration. Immensely competitive, he and Aleck shared a complicated relationship. Aleck knew he could count on Royce in trouble, but on the practice yard, they were always being pitted against each other.

“Gunpowder’s expensive.” Aleck shrugged.

Joseph continued as if he hadn’t heard Royce’s quip. “If he makes me work the lance one more time, I swear to Jesus, I’ll—”

“Ye’ll do what, lad?”

The three men turned around to find Lockard, an old man with more scars on him than the dummy standing in the practice yard. He was Laird MacLeod’s Master at Arms and had been with him when they fought the Seven Years’ War. Lockard was as old as sin and just as cruel on the training ground.

The bannock lost its taste. Aleck swallowed quickly and got up. Lockard would have them do unnecessary exercises now, just to prove a point. Might as well get ready for it.

“Ye accuse me of playing favorites, Glackin.” Lockard jabbed a crooked finger in Royce’s chest. “That’s an accusation I do nae take lightly. So, I’ll give ye a chance to prove yerself, eh? Why don’t ye try yerself out against my best man?”

“Sir, I-” Royce glanced nervously at Aleck.

“Nae Bryce, boy.” Lockard snarled. “Colin! Fergus! Davis! Come show these mewling kittens what real fighters are like!”

Aleck stared down at the old man. He was frail now, but you could tell he had been a formidable opponent not so long ago.

Nodding to Joseph and Royce he led them to the middle of the muddy practice yard where Colin, Fergus, and Davis stood flexing their considerable muscles. They were a few years older than Aleck, Joseph, and Royce and battle-scarred.

Aleck knew he could hold his own, but he wasn’t so sure about Joseph who was reed-thin, and Royce who let his emotions guide his actions.

The crowd parted and formed a parameter around the six men. Some of the men began calling out their favorites. It was a break from their usual morning exercises, and the men were enjoying themselves at the expense of the three in trouble. Aleck even saw Simon, a runty little rascal, take bets on the side where Lockard couldn’t spy him. By the looks Simon gave them, Aleck and his friends weren’t the favorites to win.

“Are ye sure ye’ve naught any gypsy blood in yer family, Jo?” Aleck asked, eyeing up their opponents.

“Nae. Why’d ye say?”

“Ye were right on all counts. Mud, muck, and misery. We just have to make sure it’s not us will be the miserable ones.”

“Ye have a plan, Bryce?” Royce asked, turning his head to get the crick out of his neck.

“The beginnings of one.” Aleck bit his lip as he considered their options. “Royce, ye take on Davis. He’s taller but ye can unbalance him. Once he’s in the mud make sure he gets an eye full.”

“Compromise his vision.” Royce nodded. “Got it.”

“Jo, Colin’s yer man. He fell off a horse recently, and his left leg is still bruised and sore. Strike it. Hard and without mercy. If ye do nae, ye’ll be begging for his.”

Joseph swallowed but nodded so his hair wobbled into his eyes.

That left Fergus, the most menacing of the three. Aleck knew him well. He knew everyone in the yard well. They were his friends, his brothers. And so, he knew that Fergus was the best fighter among them. He was also brutal and wouldn’t take it easy just because they were all loyal to Laird MacLeod.

“Are ye waiting for your mothers to clean yer dirty nappies?” Lockard snarled. “Get on with it.”

Aleck licked his lips and nodded to Fergus, acknowledging him as his opponent. The other two paired off with their opponents.

“Fergus,” Aleck greeted, as he walked closer to the hulking man.

“Aleck.” Fergus nodded back.

The two lunged at each other. Aleck managed to avoid the first few blows but the third hit him square across the jaw. A cheer went up in the crowd.

Laughing at Fergus as he rubbed his stinging cheek, Aleck feinted this way then that, making Fergus dance on his feet.

Fergus threw punches that hit the air while Aleck danced around him like a fly buzzing about a cow’s head. Fergus did look like a dull ox grazing in the pasture with his wide-set eyes, and a large forehead. This wasn’t how Fergus usually fought. A big man, he was used to pummeling his opponent into the ground. But Aleck wouldn’t let him land a punch.

Frustrated beyond belief, Fergus roared and lunged in for a punch to the gut, but it was just the move Aleck had been waiting for. He stepped aside, easily avoiding the fist, planted a punch of his own in Fergus’s side, speeding Fergus’ descent into the mud face-first by landing a kick on his backside.

The crowd cheered. Aleck had enough time to grin at Lockard who was frowning darkly before he strode forward to help Joseph tackle Colin to the ground. Royce was roaring as he sat on Davis’s back, making sure he couldn’t get up.

Ruffling Joseph’s hair, Aleck walked over and held a hand out to Fergus. The man looked up at him, and for a moment Aleck thought he’d rip his arm out, but Fergus laughed, a sound similar to cannon fire, and took Aleck’s hand gratefully.

Lockard didn’t look amused, but he wasn’t scowling either, so Aleck thought the matter put to rest.

“That showed them, eh?” Joseph slapped Aleck on the back.

“Wipe that smile off yer face, if ye ken what’s good for ye,” Aleck muttered. Joseph had no sense. “Do ye want to give Lockard a chance to foist us with stable cleaning duties, do ye?”

Joseph looked suitably horrified.

Aleck was about to pick up his lance for practice when someone called his name.

“Aleck!” Margret, the chambermaid came running towards him, her cheeks flushed, eyes wide. “The Laird needs ye. Now!”

“What’s happened?”

“Come fast!” She didn’t wait for him to follow. She sprinted back across the yard and towards the kitchens, resembling a headless chicken.

Aleck looked at his friends, shrugged, and followed Margret at a leisurely pace. What could be the cause of so much commotion so early in the morning? Aleck wasn’t sure, but he had a very good idea who was responsible.

“I donnae care how many people find out, I need her brought home now! Evanna will nae step a foot out of her room, so help me God!”

Of course, Aleck sighed as he entered his Laird’s bedchamber. Evanna MacLeod. It’s like the lass was sent to cause nothing but grief to her poor father.

Laird MacLeod was a powerful man, not only in wealth and social stature but also physically. He was tall with a large gut and an even larger beard that he liked to fist when he was agitated or thinking on a grave matter. His hands were so firmly grasped around his beard at that moment that Aleck was sure he’d rip most of it out if he wasn’t careful.

“Ye asked for me, my Laird?” Aleck made his presence known.

“Ah! Aleck! Just the man I need. Read this.” Laird MacLeod thrust a note in Aleck’s face. “The foolish, insolent, stubborn girl!” Aleck read the note. It was brief, written in a spidery hand no proper lady would ever admit ownership to. But Evanna MacLeod was a law unto herself. She was the only lady Aleck knew who could out spit a street urchin and out drink many men, and burp just as loudly after.

Dear Da,

I’ve decided to go to London anyway. Clara has enough dresses for both of us, so you need not send any. I’ve borrowed sixteen gold pieces from your purse. I shall return them when I come back. 

Your devoted daughter,

Evanna.

“What makes her think she’s ready to be presented? Can nae tie her hair, will nae learn how to sing or speak like a lady, and she’s gone off to make a sorry fool of herself in London! What kind of men do ye think she’ll attract, eh? The kind that’ll take her down dark alleys and the path of sin. That damned fool!” The Laird raged on as Aleck read.

Aleck folded the note and handed it back to the Laird. “What would ye have me do?”

The Laird stopped his pacing and rested his hand on Aleck’s shoulder. The weight was grave, and the squeezing fingers emphasized the importance of the Laird’s next words.

“Yer the only man I can trust with my daughter, Aleck. Bring the fool back.”

“And if she refuses?”

The Laird’s nostrils flared, and his eyes shone with worry. “Then ye convince her in any way possible. I will nae have my only child out there in the wild fighting the unknown. I ken ye have little patience for her childish ways, and I suppose I am to blame for it. But, please, ye must find her and protect her.”

Aleck nodded solemnly and held the Laird’s hand. “Ye have my word. I’ll bring her back.”

“Go! Quickly. Might be ye can catch her on the road.”

Aleck didn’t stick around to hear more. There was nothing more to be said. He made one quick stop to his room where he packed spare clothes, his sword, a small dagger, and a little money. Once that was done, he ran towards the stables where a horse was waiting for him. Peter, the yard boy, handed him a sack full of food, and Aleck was on his way.

The day had started as ordinary, but now he was galloping down the country road, blowing up dust, the wind slapping his cheeks. Blood rushed to his temple when he thought of Evanna and her idiotic ways. She had gone and landed herself in hot soup again. How many times would she bring shame to her father, the man he had sworn to protect? Aleck wasn’t sure if he would find her on the road, or in London. One thing he knew for sure, he would keep his promise to the Laird—he would keep his promise to his father.

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