Chapter 1

From the first moment she clapped eyes on him, Deva MacLean knew that here was the man she would marry. Just like that – it was so instant, so arbitrary, and so completely impossible.

The sun slid through the autumn skies, bringing a shaft of light into the woodlands where she was collecting fruit. Then she saw him.

An unknown young man, riding through the clearing as if he owned it. Correction; an unknown handsome young man.

Deva frowned. She had thought that she was alone, with just her maid, Allyth, somewhere behind her. This was private woodland, trespassers were to be shot first and questioned later, everyone knew that.

Wondering who he might be, Deva put down the basket she was carrying and forgot all about the apples to look closer. Leaning forward, she was about to ask him his business, when she stopped.

His eyes. Glinting through the trees, his fiery eyes drew her in, compelling her to look closer. And when she did, there was no going back. Because there, in front of her eyes, was a picture of perfection.

Just for a moment, who he was, and what he was doing in their lands, were secondary concerns. With her heart stuttering in her chest, Deva looked at the lad. He was unusually handsome, with waves of brown hair framing his strong facial contours. But it was the eyes that held her, glowering in the dim light like hot coals. Deva gazed at their incandescence; they were like nothing she had ever seen; a sun dipped in honey, their rays dazzling her.

Here, Deva brought herself up. She needed to get a grip, and fast. But as she turned to go, something caught her eye.

Something – or someone – had flitted across the glade, but almost immediately, vanished again. And now, a sound; hooves, galloping from somewhere across the glen. Anxiously, Deva looked around.

Nothing.

Then, overhead, an arrow soared, skimming the edges of the trees, and jettisoning into the clearing ahead.

“Get doon, laddie!” she hissed. But he did not hear. For a moment or two, Deva was torn. She wanted to go and help, warn him of the men coming. But a cursory glance told her she was much too far away to be any use. And besides, her long red hair was signposting to the entire world her presence. Right on cue, the wind picked it up and sent it flying across the gray winter skies like a flare.

Her heart thumping hard, Deva hesitated. What should she do? What could she do? She couldn’t just leave him to his fate.

But the hooves approaching reached a crescendo, and finally, she saw them. The two brigands who had fired the arrows came crashing through the ravine with a treacherous zeal.

Now arrows were falling like autumn leaves, searing through the copse close to his head. Heart in her mouth, Deva bit down a scream.

She needed to yell at him, holler, do whatever it took to get his attention, regardless of what it might mean for her.

Boldly, she opened her mouth. “Qu…” she started, but the words she was about to speak were ripped from her by a hand on her mouth.

“Shush!” The instruction was bold, but Deva did not turn. Although momentarily flushed, she was more annoyed than anything to be silenced.

“I watched them from across the glade—they’re armed an’ dangerous, an’ they might hear ye!” the voice warned her. But Deva shook her head ferociously.

“They need to hear!” she hissed, venom burning in her deep blue eyes. But then, she bit her lip and conceded that Allyth might be right. She always was.

Displeased, Deva turned to look at Allyth, her best friend and lady-in-waiting. She had not heard her approaching through the wet bracken and undergrowth.

“We dinnae ken who they are,” continued Allyth, looking at her, her light green eyes aflame, “It isnae safe, so get doon… Miss!”

Being too far away to affect much change, Deva complied. But her hands still shook as she hid in the undergrowth of the Scots Pine tree, which pricked at her uncomfortably.

Fortunately, the arrow had missed its mark, and the young man in the clearing continued his trot, cantering slowly on the jet-black stallion into the center of the woods.

Deva frowned from across the copse. It was as if he hadn’t seen the arrow at all! But with the two men still pushing their way through the woods, Deva’s anxiety rose like a crescendo.

Whatever the danger, she could not sit back and do nothing. Casting her reservations to one side, she leaned in through the foliage.

“Hoo!” her voice sung through the air. Beneath her, Allyth’s fingers dug in, urging her back, but Deva could not.

Maybe she had no desire to be spotted by these men – who were likely bandits. But equally, she couldn’t salve her conscience if something happened to the young man on the horse.

“Get doon,” pleaded Allyth, pulling her back to the safety of the bush. Reluctantly, Deva complied.

Deva peeked through the bushes and spied the lad, sauntering through the clearing as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Hoping fervently that he would be safe, Deva gawped.

She was just near enough to catch a glimpse of his soft-toned olive face. Fastening her eyes upon him, Deva devoured him greedily. This was the first proper look she had gotten, and it did not disappoint.

Even from this far back, she could see he was no ordinary rider. From the cut of his cloth and the patterned blue tartan he was wearing, it was clear that he was a man of some standing. And now he came closer into view, she could see that she had been right.

In the lad’s hand, a fine sgian-dubh glinted in the errant sunlight. By the looks of it, it was made of silver, and the deep colors of the base suggested rubies and diamonds.

But it was in his face that his nobility shone. She didn’t know how, but there was something in that thick brow that suggested breeding.

And when he turned, she could see she was not wrong. The strong jaw and the firm contours of his nose combined to produce a striking profile. Further down, the plushness of his lips only confirmed his outline. At once soft and determined, they combined a haughty masculinity, with just a hint of the feminine.

Inside her, something pulsated, sending a little jolt down below. It had been there from the first moment that she had seen him, making her sizzle and burn.

Then, Deva pulled herself up. This was not the time or the place for such thoughts. And she had other things to think about. Like staying alive.

“Get doon!” Allyth said again, dragging Deva from the spot they were standing in and further back, “I think they’ve spied us!”

A few moments passed, as Deva and her maid hid nervously in a shallow ditch. Pressed hard into the mud, Deva hardly dared breathe as the men charged past, without so much as a glance in their direction.

Inside, Deva felt her heart thunder. When it was certain they had gone, she hoisted herself up out of the ditch, tearing at her skirts and catching her hair in the process. Too bad she had spent all night in curling papers, but never mind. The only thing that mattered was that he had gotten free.

Deva emerged from the swamp, more mud than human, just in time to see him wandering along the glade, his beautiful face completely lost in thought.

Knocked for six, Deva gave a low whistle.

He hadn’t even noticed them! Not only was he unharmed, but the man hadn’t even realized that he was being used as target practice!

Deva could barely contain herself. She was in that strange place, hovering between laughter and tears, in near hysterics.

Then, Allyth snapped her out of her thoughts.

“We should go, Miss,” murmured her maid, and then she hesitated, “I wouldnae usually insist so, but yer father’s nae goin’ tae be pleased if we dinnae get back safe an’ sound…!”

“Och,” huffed Deva, “Father doesnae care for me… I’m nae but a prize to his highest bidder!”

A stab of anger ran through Deva, but her face stayed calm. Although she was not happy about the situation, she had just about reconciled herself to it. Being married off would get her out of the MacLean keep and away from her father.

“I’m sure that’s nae true,” murmured Allyth, but from the way that she shifted her eyes away, Deva knew she had hit her mark.

Warming to her theme, Deva continued, “Well, aye, it’s nae completely true, they’re nae even bidding for me, just throwing clumps o’ dirt in the air, or whatever…”

Allyth’s eyes cut into hers with a flash of mischief. “It’s a twenty-pound lump o’ granite Miss! Nae a lump o’ dirt!”

Although her words sounded serious, they were shot through with satire. Now that the men had passed, Allyth’s mood had restored. “An’ there’ll be a jousting contest too…. So, whoever wins will ha’ truly proven he is a man!”

Deva darted her a glance. “Nae, he’ll ha’ proven he’s a daft lummox who lifted a twenty-pound lump nae-one wants…” she said, acerbically, “If he thinks that’ll impress a lass, then he’s a bigger lump than the thing he’s throwing!”

Allyth grinned, before leading them back out onto the main passageway that led into the MacLean lands.

“An’ worse still, I’m to be this ninnyhammer’s glittering prize!” Deva concluded, with a quick glance up to the skies. The men on their horses had passed and now the biggest risk was the weather. Undoubtedly, it was going to rain.

Beside her, Allyth tugged her urgently, also mindful of the weather.

“All I ken, is that I’m to get ye back to the keep in one piece, else my life is nae goin’ tae be worth living,” said Allyth, “The men are coming for the tournament an’ ye have to welcome them in as the hostess, that’s if we can drag ye out o’ this bush an’ make’ ye presentable in time!”

“The tournament!” said Deva, “It’s all I hear. Well, maybe I can wait to be auctioned off as the glittering prize…!”

But even as she said this, Deva was well aware that her skirts were ripping, her arasaid muddied and her hair, literally, dragged through a hedge backward. Some glittering prize.

“There they go,” Allyth’s voice cut her out of her thoughts, and for a few minutes, the pair watched, as the brigands carried on into the empty canyon beneath them.

Deva waited as they disappeared into the distance, fervently hoping the young man was finally free of them.

For several minutes, Deva stared into the abyss, but the view of the clearing and the valley beyond were obscured by the side of the hills, cutting into their path.

Reluctantly, Deva let him go.

So much for her fancy notions. As if she was even free to give herself in marriage. Or do anything without the say-so of her father. Anything she might want came a poor second to whatever the mighty laird of the MacLeans had decreed.

She was to be bought and sold like a chattel. Or in this case, won as a trophy for flinging lumps of clay into the air.

Deva bristled at her fate but dampened herself down, determined to make the best of it. It was not to be, and there was nothing she could do about it. At least it looked as if the young man had gotten away.

He had gone, and he wasn’t coming back. Most likely, she would never see him again.

There was nothing else to say.

Chapter 2

“Sachairi?”

Niven called out, his voice ringing across the treetops in the glen. All around, an aura of silence met him. Even the birds had stopped singing, and now, there was a deadening quiet in the copse.

Bringing his bold face toward the copse, Niven looked to the horizon.

Nothing.

“Sachairi? Padraig?” he called again but was met with resounding silence.

Worried, Niven looked around. Squinting into the pale sun, he gazed futilely in search of his missing crew.

No-one.

And if that weren’t enough, he was also utterly, totally, and completely lost.

With a sigh, Niven tugged at a map, whilst inside his head, his uncle berated him. How could ye be such a walloper, son?

He had a point. How could he have veered so hopelessly off course? Losing his two companions was just the icing on the cake.

Hopelessly, Niven scanned the parchment in his hands. All he could see was trees, no mention of the valley, or the thin strip of land he was on. Then again, the map was at least ten years old, and by the looks of it, things had changed.

Reluctantly, Niven concluded that he was alone, and should press on ahead, hoping to catch up with the errant crew. Planning to give them a good drubbing when he finally found them, he looked around again.

Niven sighed. Maybe he didn’t mind so much. In fact, a little time alone would not be so bad. It was just unfortunate it was in such uncharted terrain.

Finally, the space and the silence gave him a chance to concentrate on all that had built up in his head since setting off that morning.

Sorcha. Just the sound of her name was enough to sharpen the spike in his heart. When he’d heard about the tournament, it’d sounded like a great way to impress her. Some jousting, and then, Highland games. He was certain to be a winner.

And yet, when he told her, all she did was laugh.

What, ye, toss a caber? Are ye sure, sonny, ye might do yerself a mischief!

Niven bristled at the memory. But it had been the kick he had needed, and from that moment onwards, he had made up his mind to do it.

And if he won, well, it wouldn’t exactly hurt, would it? And she had been the prime reason he had been so keen to do it. Of course, he had wanted to help Uncle Rory as well.

For years, he had wanted to unify the surrounding clans, and now, with the MacLean laird proposing his daughter as a prize, it seemed as if Rory’s ambition would be realized.

If Niven won, Rory would be marrying into the second strongest clan in the region, and potentially create an unstoppable force in the Highlands.

And Niven had his own reasons for taking part. If he would win, then maybe Sorcha would give him a second look; maybe even take his hand in marriage. It was about time someone did, he was twenty-eight after all.

By the time his uncle was twenty-eight, he had been married twice already, and now at the ripe old age of fifty, seemed set to do so again. Inwardly, Niven had begun to despair that he would ever make a match.

Pushing his wavy brown hair from his eyes, Niven sighed. He was grateful to Rory for taking him and his brother in after his parents died. But playing second fiddle to such a dynamic character was difficult.

It seemed that every woman who came within a mile of the wily old goat ended up head-over-heels in love with him, leaving little room for Niven’s prospects. This tournament had been his first real chance of proving himself, but that wasn’t going to happen if he never got there.

Putting down the tatty map, Niven was just about to give up and go with his instincts when something stopped him.

Lost in thought, he had not heard them approach. The footsteps crept through the undergrowth, advancing with stealth until it was too late to run.

The first thing that Niven knew about it was a hand, grabbing at him and a jab of cold against his chin.

Then, looking down, he saw.

A knife.

*****************

She wanted to grab his hand and warn him that he was being followed. From across the valley, Deva watched in horror.

The men could be seen cutting in through the wooded glade, across the ridge to the copse where he was.

“Nae again,” she cursed her heart quickening. She should have realized they wouldn’t have given up so easily.

Abruptly, she turned to Allyth. “I kennt we should have stopped and helped, afore,” she scolded, but it was herself she was angry with.

Seeing Allyth’s pale face cloud over, Deva felt a pang of guilt. She shouldn’t take it out on her. Leaving had been her decision, not her maid’s.

Now all she could do was watch, as the men dismounted and pushed their way across the glen, leaning on their bellies through the long grass.

Snakes.

Deva felt her stomach turn. She tried to warn him, but, just like before, he could not hear. Her heart beating in triple time, she glimpsed through cupped hands, the ambush.

“Nae,” she cried, futilely. She turned to Allyth.

“Come, to the horses,” she snapped, and this time she was in no mood to argue. Seeing the look in her mistress’s eyes, Allyth nodded and followed.

Together, they mounted the pair of Highland ponies, waiting by the roadside. With a brief pat of the mare’s head, Deva leaped up, and soon they were charging crazily over the muddy glen.

“Come on, lassie,” urged Deva, as her poor horse struggled to keep up.

Usually, she was more accustomed to sedate walks over less capricious terrain. In truth, the poor thing was getting on in age and really should have been put out to pasture years ago. But Deva was fond of her, having ridden her since childhood, and had pleaded to keep her against all odds.

“Ye can do it, Titania,” she murmured, as they rounded the glade, and came out to the lake in the center of the woods.

Then, she stopped. Without warning, she was almost upon them, and the two brigands were standing just in front.

But they hadn’t seen her at all. In fact, they only had eyes for the lad, alone on his horse.

Edging closer, the larger brigand came up to the horse rider, a sly grin on his face. In his hands, he held a knife to the lad’s throat.

Abruptly, he dragged him to the ground, sending the lad’s black stallion scurrying into the trees. Now, he had him in a headlock, with the knife glittering in his face.

“Ye’ve got two choices, lad. Say aye, an’ we only take all yer jewels, an’ yer coin …” grinned the mercenary.

“But say nae, an’ we still take yer jewels, an’ yer coin, an’ yer miserable life as well, so then, which is it to be?”

*****************************

“Think about this nice an’ careful,” sneered the brigand, “Because it might be the last decision ye make.”

Immediately, Niven’s eyes were on the slack-jawed man in front of him. For the time being, he was in control, but Niven could see lapses in his concentration.

Although he was pointing a knife at his throat, he wasn’t paying much attention to what he was doing. Instead of watching closely, he was looking around, guffawing with his friend.

Niven’s heart sped up, but inside, he remained cool. Neither of them were the brightest sparks. He had met their type before.

“So, come on, then, lad, speak up, has the cat got yer tongue?” the taller lad sneered, but crucially, he didn’t look.

Without waiting for another moment, Niven swung around, surprising the lanky brigand with his fist.

Before the man could even get to his feet, he had turned to deal with his friend – not the sharpest tool to start with. It was a gamble that paid off.

It seemed like neither of them had expected his resistance, and with one clean hit, Niven had dispatched the pair of them, sniveling and dribbling into the grass.

And before they had the chance to get up, Niven kicked back at them, just for good measure, before making for his own horse at the edge of the woods.

“An’ the answer’s nae,” he added, with a corpulent thump to the nearest robber. The weak and twisted brigand bent double, moaning in pain.

Without giving him a chance to get up, Niven sped away, but he didn’t get far before he tripped over something else, hidden deep in the undergrowth.

Whump! With no warning, Niven was flat on his face. Struggling through the weeds, he clutched his sides in sudden agony.

He looked to find his léine soaking with blood. Beneath him was a sword, glinting out from the thick rushes growing underfoot. And attached to it was a hand.

He had been stabbed.

Beneath him, the lank-haired brigand smiled, twistedly. Somehow, he had succeeded in crawling across the glen side, unseen, and puncturing him with a blade.

Immediately, Niven dropped it, and it tumbled into the mud beside him. Before the bandit could swipe it back, Niven fastened his fingers around it and took it for his own.

Immediately, he pointed it at the man’s face, who swerved it and momentarily, this was enough to deter them.

Dragging himself up, Niven tried to ignore the stinging at his sides and get himself together. With the sound of water running, coming down from the loch nearby, he examined the wound. On closer inspection, it seemed to be nothing more than just a glancing blow.

Feeling sure it would be alright, Niven got swiftly to his feet. There was no time to lose, with the two brigands slowly regaining themselves and moving forwards at speed.

“Here he is,” said the lanky man, his oily blond hair sticking close to his angular face, “he willnae get far now he’s had a tickle off auld Will…!”

They were already pulling themselves out of their pit and in hot pursuit. A quick glance told him they were worse for wear from their fall, so before they could get any nearer, Niven rounded on them once more.

Bringing his bow up to his eye, Niven took aim. The unsavory pair were advancing, ever closer, cut hazily against the steel-colored skies. And then, something odd.

For just a moment, it all blurred as if he was looking through a steamy window. Shapes jarred and danced in his eyes.

Just for a second, all was lost, then he came to. And before they had a chance to advance any closer, he pulled the bow, and a hail of bolts flew across the open glade.

Instantly one caught the dark-haired lad squarely in the forehead and he folded like an uprooted weed. Before he could suffer the same fate, his companion turned and fled, leaving Niven finally alone, in the center of the clearing.

Dazedly, Niven made for his horse, when suddenly the world swayed around him. This time, he could not blink his way free, and he groped, helplessly trying to find his feet.

But there was no way out of this miasma. The world swirled, crashing at his head, and casting him deep into a pit with no end.

It all faded, except for the voice.

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

Chapter 1

The manor’s great hall seemed smaller, the hundreds of people who were gathered there, along with the numerous lavish decorations made it appear cramped, overcrowded. The ladies’ skirts, blinding flashes of colour under the candlelight, twirled along with them as they danced, big, bright smiles on their faces that Marion could never hope to have on her own.

“Look at them,” her mother said, her tone dripping with contempt, a hint of her former accent that she so fervently tried to suppress making its way through and alerting Marion to the fact that she was angry. She was sitting next to Marion, and had done so the entire night, ensuring that Marion wouldn’t get any strange ideas in her head and join the others in their dance, or laugh along with them. “Dressed in their silks, drinking their weight in wine. They have no shame.”

Marion looked down at her own dress, a dull grey with no embellishments, matronly and unattractive. It was all her mother would allow her to wear, and it was somehow the most festive dress that she owned.

Across the room, her cousin Mary was enjoying the feast that her parents were throwing for her, a cup of wine in her hand and a smile on her lips. She was dressed in the finest silk, its red colour complementing her pale skin and dark hair.

Marion had been told that she could look like her had she only been pretty.

Sometimes, she would catch herself getting jealous of Mary, whose parents loved her so dearly and so clearly, and who was so beautiful that she was in everyone’s favour. Her jealousy would eat her up from the inside, bile rising to the back of her throat, wishing that she could be her.

And then she would stop herself, not because her mother had taught her that jealousy was a terrible sin and she would go to hell for it. No, she would stop herself because Mary was not only beautiful, but also kind and caring. She had never been anything but loving to Marion, even when no one else even noticed her.

Mary didn’t deserve her jealousy, or her wrath.

“And such a lavish feast,” her mother continued. “A waste of gold if you ask me. Your aunt and uncle just love to show their wealth, do they not? Your father and I . . . we both have gold, and we don’t act like this. It isn’t fit for pious people to behave in such a way. But then again, their family was never pious, wouldn’t you say, Marion?”

“Yes, Mother,” Marion said, knowing very well that she had no other choice than to agree with her, at least if she didn’t want her mother to drag her to the nearest room and yell at her until the morning.

She had found out the hard way many times in her life that her mother didn’t allow any room for disagreement in their family. Sometimes, Marion couldn’t help but wonder what her father was like before he met her mother, or even what her mother had been like before she met him.

Could they both have been normal people who just happened to bring the worst out of each other?

No, surely her mother was never normal, she thought. Marion couldn’t allow herself to think like that, because it would mean that marrying her father and having her was what had turned her mother into the woman that she was now.

It was a thought too devastating to bear.

“Pay attention, Marion,” her mother said, her voice a low hiss as she spoke. “You are not to become like them, ever, do you hear me? It is not proper to act in such a way.”

Marion looked at the people around her, who were all drinking, dancing, and having a good time, and then she turned to look at her mother with a frown. “What are we doing here then, Mother?” she asked. “If you don’t think this is proper, why did we come all the way here for this feast?”

“Because your father willed it so,” her mother said through gritted teeth. “Because he thinks it has been too long since we saw this part of the family, and that it would be improper to decline their invitation. And I suppose I agree, no matter how much I dislike the way they decide to spend their money. It is true . . . they have invited us here many times throughout the years. It would be rude to refuse to come.”

A part of Marion wished that they had left her behind at home. At least, if she had stayed home, then she wouldn’t have to sit and watch everyone else enjoy their night while she could not so much as smile.

Smiling was forbidden, her mother had told her that morning. It was too flirtatious, she said; it invited too much attention.

“And that Forsythe boy . . . who does he think he is?” her mother continued, clearly not having yet exhausted her arsenal of insults, as though she had never stopped. “Look at him. Isn’t he absolutely dreadful?”

Marion did look at him, though she did not see what her mother seemed to be seeing. There was nothing dreadful about John Forsythe in her eyes and, judging by the number of women that had gathered around him, all of them laughing and twirling their curls around their fingers as he spoke, no one else found him dreadful either.

He was the most handsome, most charming man that Marion had ever met, with his dark hair and blue eyes, and that smile that made Marion stumble over her own words like a fool. And yet, Marion had only spoken to him a handful of times, and even then, it had only been for a short time; she was always too ashamed of her looks and her old, drab dresses to say anything more than a mere greeting to him.

Marion didn’t speak to people; she watched them from afar and wondered what it was like to live one’s life. In her twenty-one years of being alive, she had never made any friends, never done anything but sit by her mother’s side in her hand-me-downs.

She had never lived.

“Excuse me,” Marion said, as she stood from her chair and made her way to the exit, but her mother was quick to follow close behind, weaving her way through the crowd.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked Marion, her lips pursed into a thin line. “I will not have you wandering around this manor all alone, who knows what you’ll do if I don’t keep my eyes on you!”

“I only need some fresh air, Mother,” Marion assured her, giving her a small, hesitant smile. She had never been good at lying, but her mother had never been good at confronting her in front of other people, and so it wasn’t a surprise to Marion when her mother turned around and left, a huff escaping her lips.

Marion watched her walk away for a few moments before she made her way out of the manor. She didn’t stop until she was by the manor walls, away from all the other people who had attended the feast, and for the first time in the entire night, she managed to breathe.

I wonder if anyone will know that I’m gone. I wonder if Mother will remember at all in the end.

No one ever noticed Marion, after all. She was certain that she could count the people who knew that she was there on the fingers of one hand: her parents, Mary, and Mary’s parents.

Such a lonely existence . . . pitiful, really.

Marion walked around the grounds alone, the wind whipping her face and seeping through the sleeves of her dress, but she didn’t even notice; her mind was preoccupied with other things, and the wind was only a small nuisance. She only stopped when she got to a small river that ran through the manor grounds, and she sat down onto a small boulder, watching the water run by.

Marion wondered, as she often did, what it would be like if she was someone else. She wondered how her life would be different if she was one of those girls in the beautiful dresses, if she spent her days dancing with handsome young men and talking to friends, if she had someone to whom she would like to send a letter.

She would be happy, she supposed. Every night, she would look forward to the next morning, and every morning she would be happy to be alive.

She wasn’t happy to be alive. She hated everything about her life.

What kind of life was it if her mother always controlled her, dictating what she could and couldn’t do, what she could and couldn’t eat, what she could and couldn’t wear? What kind of life was it if she was trapped in her chambers for most of her days, having no contact with other people? What kind of life was it if her mother only cared about her when it came to her finding a husband and ridding the rest of their family of her presence?

If nobody wants me, why should I live?

The water looked tempting. It would be cold, Marion knew, but after a while, it wouldn’t matter. She would only have to fight the urge to get out until her body would be too exhausted to register the temperature of the water, and then she would be gone.

Just like everyone wants.

Marion stood, approaching the bank of the river. It looked deep enough to her, at least in the half-light of the moon, and though it wasn’t powerful, she could still swim further away from the bank and hope for the best.

Or is it the worst?

She toed her shoes off, leaving them by the bank, and then stood on the grass. It always surprised her how much harsher the grass felt compared to the way it looked, and the chill of the ground made her flinch, but nothing stopped her from making her way towards the water.

She looked up, seeing the myriad of stars that were scattered along the sky, and for a moment, it gave her pause. She would miss seeing the stars, she thought. She would miss the stars, and the rays of sun warming her skin on a cold day, and the tarts that the head housekeeper liked to make. She would miss the scent of candles when they went out, and the softness of her bed after a long day.

Funny how we miss the most mundane things in the end.

She wouldn’t miss her mother, nor would she miss her father. That much Marion knew for certain, and she knew that they wouldn’t miss her either, even though they would be devastated to hear of her death, simply because taking her life would send her to hell, and it would also affect her family’s social standing.

To hell with it. What do I care about their social standing?

Marion took a deep breath and plunged her foot into the water, which only served to punch the very air she had just breathed right out of her lungs. It was freezing cold, much more so than she had imagined, and for a moment, she thought that it would be better, perhaps, if she found a fire by which she could sit and wait for the feast to be over.

But no, she had gone this far, and she wouldn’t hesitate now.

She put her other foot in the water, and then began to wade through the river, making her way towards its centre. Soon enough, she couldn’t reach the bottom anymore, and she was floating instead, moving her arms and kicking her legs on instinct.

It took several moments for her to convince her limbs to stop moving, and by then, her dress was drenched in water, heavy and inconvenient. Even if she tried to keep afloat, she knew that she wouldn’t manage to do so, not for long.

Marion let her body submerge itself, and then she didn’t fight it when her head fell under the surface of the river. It was dark there, the moonlight too weak to reach the waters, and Marion could hardly see anything around her.

Then, her lungs began to protest.

She could have never imagined what it felt like to drown, and in that moment, she wished that she had never found out. Her lungs were on fire, a burning in her chest unlike anything she had felt before, but that was hardly the worst pain that came with not breathing. Her head was pounding, the pressure so terrible that she worried her brain would explode before her lungs could fill up with water.

If only her mouth would obey her, she thought; if only she could draw in some water and finally drown herself.

But she didn’t want to drown. Just when she wanted to die the most, she realised that she’d much rather live. Perhaps her life wasn’t worth living as much as another life, as much as the lives of those people who were dancing in the great hall while she was drowning in the river, but she wanted to live it regardless. She wanted to watch them, at least, as they went on about their days and their nights, even if it meant that she would never get to do anything herself.

Marion began to kick her legs and swing her arms, but she soon realised that she wasn’t moving; at least not upwards. Her dress felt too heavy, soaked through and through with water, and her limbs felt like lead, exhausted as she was from the lack of breath. Even as she began to panic, fear coursing through her veins, her mouth would not open, not even for a moment, an ancient instinct that her body had to keep her alive at all costs.

She was going to die there, in the end, she thought. She was going to die there, only twenty-one years old, and a few people would mourn her, but most would not. Then, she would be forgotten, as she tended to be.

Marion tried to find some solace in the fact that at least she was ending her life on her own terms. It was the one thing that her mother hadn’t dictated, and she counted that as a victory. Her death was her own, and not even her mother could take that away from her.

She stopped struggling. She stopped trying to reach the surface, and instead allowed the water to push her to the bottom of the river, her skirt billowing around her.

She closed her eyes and finally, her lips parted, allowing the water in. The pain stopped.

There was nothing but darkness.

Chapter 2

The hand that grabbed Marion’s forearm was a vice around it, leaving a bruise behind that would not heal for days. It pulled her up, though, out of the water and onto the ground, where she lay coughing and gasping for breath.

There was someone there, someone who had saved her, and though he was talking to her as he rolled her on her side, urging her to spit out the water she had swallowed, she could hardly hear what he was saying.

Her ears buzzed, an incessant sound, and her raking coughs made her entire body hurt. Her vision was blurry at the edges, and even when she had spit out the water in her mouth, she still felt as though she was drowning.

“Are ye alright, lass?” a voice called from above her, and Marion rolled over onto her back to look at the man standing over her. She took note of his fiery red hair and green eyes, the familiar features, the Scottish accent that she hadn’t heard in such a long time.

“Eiric?”

Surely, it couldn’t be, Marion thought. She hadn’t seen Eiric in years, and the man had little reason to be there. Then again, he was Mary’s cousin too, and perhaps he had been invited to the feast, much like Marion and her family had been.

“Aye, it’s me,” he said, and Marion couldn’t help but smile. And yet, Eiric didn’t return her smile.

Once he ensured that she was alive and well, his entire demeanour seemed to change, and he stood up with a sigh, a hand running through his hair as he paced by the river. Marion stood, as well, though she did so with difficulty, her body still weak and her dress weighing her down.

“What do ye think ye’re doin’?” Eiric asked her, his tone accusatory. “What if I hadna been here, hmm? What then? Ye’d be dead by noo, do ye nae ken that? Have ye lost yer mind?”

“I . . . I slipped and fell,” Marion lied, for lack of anything better to say. She didn’t know how to explain her reasoning to Eiric, nor did she want to do so. It had been her own choice, and no one had a right to demand an explanation from her, not even Eiric.

“Nay, ye didna,” Eiric said. “I saw ye dive into the waters. I saw ye take yer shoes off and go in the river, Marion, so dinna tell me that ye simply slipped and fell. It was nae an accident.”

Marion looked him in the eyes, her own eyes narrowed, pinning Eiric down with her gaze.

“I just don’t want to live.”

It was the truth, plain and simple, and though Marion had been a coward at the face of death and had fought for her life in the end, she still didn’t want to live the kind of life that she had led for all those years. She didn’t know how she could possibly change it; all she knew was that she couldn’t live like that anymore.

She remembered the times that she had spent with him and his mother when the two of them were children. She hadn’t known it then, but those were the best moments of her life. Lady MacLeod had been as much of a mother to her as she was to Eiric while her family would visit theirs, and every night before their departure, she would beg the woman to let her stay there with them, screaming and crying.

Her mother dragged her out of the castle every single time.

Marion wasn’t expecting Eiric to reach for her, his fingers brushing a stray curl of her wet hair away from her face. He looked at her in a strange way, in a way that Marion had seen men look at other women, but not her, never her.

She couldn’t help but flinch, her entire body jerking away from him, and Eiric let his hand fall by his side, not attempting to get any closer.

“Why dinna ye want to live?” he asked her, much to Marion’s chagrin.

She had never tried to explain her situation to anyone before. She doubted that anyone would believe she was suffering, after all, since her parents were wealthy, and her upbringing must have seemed nothing less than perfect to an outsider.

What am I supposed to tell him? The truth?

She supposed she had no other choice.

“I may seem fortunate enough to you, but I don’t see it that way,” Marion said. “I grew up overlooked, uncared for. Look at this,” she said, pointing at her dress, its dull grey colour only looking worse when wet. “This is my life. And no . . . no, it’s not only about the dresses, though I’ve never worn a dress that wasn’t owned by someone else before. I . . . you’ll never understand, no one ever can, so there is no point trying to explain it to you.”

“I understand.”

Marion looked up at Eiric, blinking at him in confusion. How could he ever understand? How could he ever know what she had been through in her life?

“I remember,” he continued, a sigh escaping his lips. “Do ye? We were bairns, and yer family was visitin’ me family for a few weeks.”

“Yes, I remember,” Marion said. “It wasn’t only once. We visited a few times.”

“Aye, until yer maither didna wish to come to Scotland anymore,” Eiric pointed out. “Weel, I remember ye weel from back then, and I remember how yer maither and yer faither treated ye. I also remember that ye stood up for me, even when ye kent that yer maither wouldna agree. Ye dinna need to explain anythin’ to me . . . I remember it all.”

Marion was stunned speechless. She stared at Eiric, mouth agape, trying to wrap her head around the fact that not only did someone remember her, but he remembered her fondly.

“Let me ask ye this, lass,” Eiric said, snapping Marion out of her shock. “What do ye wish to do noo? Do ye wish to go back to yer family?”

Marion didn’t need to think about it before she shook her head. It was the last thing that she wanted, and she was certain that were she to go back, she would try to kill herself again, and perhaps next time, she would succeed.

“No,” she told Eiric. “Cruel as it sounds, I don’t think I wish to ever see them again.”

For a few moments, Eiric seem conflicted, frozen in place, but then he took Marion’s hand in his and led her away from the river and back towards the manor. She stumbled after him, trying to catch up to him as he pulled her along, but she didn’t follow him without protest.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked. “I can’t possibly go back to the manor looking like this!”

“We’re nae goin’ to the manor,” Eiric assured her.

Soon, they reached the stables, and Eiric made her hide behind a short wooden wall, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“Stay here,” he told her. “And promise me that ye willna do anythin’ foolish. I’ll be right back, and I dinna want to come here and see that ye’re gone on yer own, alright?”

“I promise,” Marion said, though she didn’t know how much she could trust Eiric. “What will you do?”

Eiric grinned at her, and Marion was surprised to find her heart skipping a beat, though she supposed it wasn’t too strange. Eiric was a handsome man, more so than John Forsythe, though in his own, rugged way. Where Forsythe was refined, polished from head to toe, Eiric was brutish, and seemed to her like the kind of hot-headed man who would challenge another man to a duel for the smallest offense.

“I’ll be back,” he told her, instead of answering her question, and soon he was gone, leaving Marion alone in the stables.

I hope he’s not lying about coming back. I hope he won’t just leave me here for the rest of the night.

But Eiric didn’t seem to her like the kind of person to do such a thing. He couldn’t possibly play such a cruel prank on her, she thought. He seemed earnest and kind, and Marion remembered just how sweet he had been to her when they were children, even though he was a good seven years older than she was. He had never made fun of her before, not like other children used to do. He had never been anything but thoughtful.

She wondered where Eiric would take her. She couldn’t help but ask herself whether she was being too trusting; Eiric was no stranger, certainly, but she was trusting him to take her anywhere he wished, without telling anyone.

It doesn’t matter where he takes me. My mother will find out, sooner or later, and she won’t let me get too far.

Marion waited, and then waited some more. She didn’t know what Eiric was doing, but she did know that he was taking a long time to return, and her doubts began to come back to her one by one, her experiences up until that moment making her think that he had abandoned her.

Perhaps I should go back to the manor.

How could she, though? She looked like a mess, much worse than she usually did in her mother’s old clothes. Her dress was still drenched, the heavy fabric refusing to get any drier, and her hair was still plastered to her head, though the roots had begun to dry off. Even her shoes were muddy after she put them on while she was still dripping wet, causing them to pick up what seemed to her like half of the dirt in the garden.

Her mind reeled with unwelcome, suspicious thoughts. Marion almost expected Eiric to come back with every single person in the manor, all of them laughing at her, calling her naïve for believing him and pathetic for trying to take her own life. She could almost hear them all, and among them, her mother.

She would have no qualms chastising her in front of everyone this time, not when she would know that she had dived into the river.

Marion’s heart thumped in her chest, and her hands began to shake at the thought that Eiric would humiliate her. She tried to push those thoughts out of her mind though, knowing that it was nothing more than her low self-esteem trying to trick her.

He would never do such a thing. He would never hurt anyone like that. He’s a sweet man.

Before Marion could panic any further, she heard some footsteps approaching, and she could do little other than cower behind the wall where she was hiding, in case it wasn’t Eiric, but rather someone else. She could hardly explain the situation to the stableboy, after all.

“Marion!” a voice whispered, and Marion immediately recognised it as Eiric’s. “Ye can come out noo. It’s alright.”

A relieved sigh escaped Marion’s lips. Her hands were still shaking, though not quite as much as before, but she stood and approached Eiric, a small smile on her face.

A smile that soon turned into a frown when she saw that he was holding a dress. Even though it looked like a practical, everyday dress, it was much more beautiful than anything Marion had ever worn. Its mossy green fabric was sturdy, yet still delicate, and she could only imagine someone like Mary wearing it; someone who was used to beautiful dresses and spending every day in extravagance.

“I brought ye a dress to change into,” Eiric said. “Mary gave it to me, she said ye can keep it.”

“Is that why you went back to the manor?” Marion asked, tentatively taking the dress out of Eiric’s hands and admiring it. She couldn’t understand how Mary could possibly part with it. Had it belonged to Marion, she would have never given it to anyone else.

Then again, Mary has several beautiful dresses. She probably doesn’t even like this one.

“Nay, nay . . . I went to the manor to arrange our escape,” Eiric said, a conspiratorial smile on his lips. He looked like a sly fox, delighted about his deception, and Marion would be damned if she had seen a man as attractive as he was.

She couldn’t help but wonder, though, if his kindness had something to do with the way that she perceived him. After all, there were many handsome men for whom Marion had fallen, daydreaming about a time when even one, any one of them, would pay attention to her. And yet, she had never felt the same kind of heat gather on her cheeks and in her belly every time that she looked at them.

It only happened whenever she looked at Eiric.

“Our escape?” Marion managed to mumble, despite her sudden embarrassment. “Where are we going? Wait, no . . . Eiric, I can’t go anywhere! I can’t simply leave! She’ll have my head! She’ll come and find me, wherever I am. There is nowhere for me to go but home, but thank you . . . thank you for the dress, and for going into all the trouble for me.”

“Marion?”

“Hmm?”

“Do ye always talk this much?”

Marion blinked a few times in surprise at Eiric’s comment. She could feel her cheeks burning once more, though this time her embarrassment was different, angrier. She certainly didn’t appreciate that comment, but she decided that perhaps Eiric was right; she talked too much whenever she got the chance.

“No, I usually don’t,” she said, her tone scathing. “I usually don’t talk at all, actually, unless I am spoken to, and even then . . . well, even then, I tend to not speak much. Forgive me for bothering you.”

Eiric seemed to freeze, his eyes wide as though in panic, before he rushed towards Marion, his hands reaching for her own and tangling through the fabric of the dress as he held them. It was Marion’s turn to freeze, then, her entire body going stiff when he touched her.

“Nay, forgive me,” Eiric said. “I didna mean to offend ye, Marion. It was merely a joke, a bad one. I only meant . . . och, I dinna ken what I meant, I’m a bampot.”

“It’s . . . alright,” Marion said with a small, confused frown. Eiric sounded sincere, very much so, and a wave of guilt crashed over her for thinking that he was trying to hurt her.

“Weel, lass . . . then I have one thing to ask ye,” Eiric said, his spirits rising once more as though nothing had happened—it was something that Marion envied, that ability to instantly forget. “Do ye trust me?”

Against her better judgement, Marion nodded in agreement.

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

Chapter 1

“Traveling alone, Miss? That’s mighty brave for a lassie oot here!”

The lad’s voice was curious but had an edge to it. They had traveled for many miles now, and this had been the cartman’s first attempt at conversation since leaving the McCallum lands.

With the wind and the rain whooshing in her ears, Teasag could barely hear, but as the tired horses slowed to a reluctant trot, she saw the lad look at her keenly.

A tired ache filled the young woman’s limbs. The rickety cart was barely meant for passengers, at least not the human sort. There had been three of them on the first leg of the journey, squashed in amongst the churns of milk that the cartman had been delivering.

The pair of elderly sisters traveling with her had talked nonstop since leaving the McCallum lands. And even now, their incessant prattle rang on in Teasag’s ears, and, she suspected, the young cartman’s too.

Since then, Teasag had reaped the peace of the open fields, watching distant men hard at work bringing in the harvest. All around, the air was thick with grain, flying about on the errant wind. That was until the rains had closed in, pushing against the landscape with the force of an ox.

But despite getting a lashing, Teasag had barely flinched. She was too lost in thought, wondering what might be in store for her when she reached her destination. As the night deepened around them, it became harder and harder for her to pick out even the most basic detail from the open moors around.

Soon, darkness had consumed the glen side, reeling with rain and gusts of wind. But Teasag was well accustomed to the weather, and as she sheltered from the cold rain, she barely noticed it. Slowly, the black night faded, sinking into a gray fog that clung to the distant town’s edges.

“Miss?” the young lad’s voice came again, but this time battling against the wind and her own thoughts.

Even as the cart bumped along the winding tracks into the town, Teasag was still deep in contemplation.

The cartman gave a slight cough as he slowed to a halt along the narrow-cobbled passageway on the outskirts of the village.

“Well, this is it,” he said, his reedy voice carrying on the wind. The young lad shifted his brown eyes onto her with concern. “Are ye sure there’s nae one to meet ye, lassie? A sweetheart or the like?”

Sweetheart, just the sound of that word was enough to send a dart into Teasag’s heart. As if she needed any more reminders that she was alone!

“Och, nae!” she bristled. Suddenly, she bolted upright, alert to the darkened alleyways surrounding them. Squinting into the grayed skies, she struggled to make out anything beyond a higgledy-piggledy mass of shapes. Slowly, they unraveled as houses, some small and one very big.

And before long, they had stopped right in front of the tallest one. In the distance, she could make out a flickering light. Then, a door opened, sending out raucous gusts of laughter.

Immediately, Teasag tensed.

“Nae sweetheart? Well, nae fash lassie, there’s an inn right here where ye can stop for the night, afore ye carry on in the morn,” said the lad kindly, his warm brown eyes fastening onto hers.

“Wh-where will ye be?” said Teasag, looking around, her mind racing. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would be the only passenger. She had assumed the elderly ladies would be traveling all the way to Blackness with her. However, the pair alighted at one of the tiny villages just over the McCallum clan border, shaking their frail bones and wrapping their hoods before shuffling out into the oncoming storm.

Now it seemed as if the young cartman, a lad she knew vaguely from the McCallum keep, was not going to be coming either.

“Me, I have lodgings wi’ a good pal further doon in the village,” the lad said, with a gappy smile. “There’s only room for one, if ye ken what I mean, miss, though,” he said, a knowing grin rippling through his sly face.

“Och,” said Teasag, realizing only too well what he meant. Her soft cheeks pinkened in the pale light. Her usually pale features were washed in a rosy glow from the open fields, and the sun’s kiss had emboldened the faint ring of freckles which covered her nose.

Of course, if Teasag could see herself, she would have instantly pulled a face. Most of her life was spent indoors, cultivating the cool white complexion of a French queen. She was not much given to the outdoors, and so far, the weather only reinforced her dislike.

“The Inn’s usually got plenty o’ space, though, I’m sure ye’ll find it good enough for ye, e’en someone who’s used to a laird’s keep!” he said, looking closely at her, concern etched into his young face. “That’s if yer sure yer nae meeting someone?”

“Nae!” said Teasag, trying not to sound as annoyed as she felt. Grasping her travel bag, she dismounted from the rickety cart. “Is it nae so hard to believe that a lass can be an’ her oon an’ mair than that, dinnae need a man!”

Her voice rang out, a little sharply into the darkened passageway leading to the front of the tavern. Just at that moment, the heavy oak door tore open, and two enormous men spilled out, almost falling on top of them in the narrow street.

“Watch it!” one of them roared at the cringing lad. Teasag shrank back, making herself as small as possible, as the two men, both smelling strongly of whisky, pushed back their way through them.

As they passed, one of them, a barrel-like man, turned to Teasag. “Dinnae need a man? I can change yer mind, darlin’!” he leered. For a moment, he lingered there, breathing whisky fumes over her, before staggering off, to both her and the lad’s relief.

As they went, Teasag cursed inwardly. It was bad enough being stranded out here, alone, without her actually advertising the fact to the entire town.

But the young cartman’s words had caught her off guard, bringing home that she was alone, in a strange town, with the sound of men’s laughter ringing in her ears.

“Well, see ye in the morn, Miss,” said the lad, winking to her. “They do a muckle clootie pudding in there, or so I’m told,” he said, before snapping the whip on the ponies and trotting slowly along the rain-soaked street.

Almost immediately, the heavy oak door opened again, bringing with it bawdy singing.

As their guffaws grew louder, Teasag’s face tensed. Inside, she could feel the whooshing of her heart, throbbing in her chest cavity. But this was stupid. She needed to get a grip and fast.

Her traveling clothes were soaked, and she had to find somewhere to rest for the night.

Gathering up her skirts, Teasag tightened her hood and pushed at the creaking door.

It was only a small country town tavern, just like the one back home.

Home the word resonated in Teasag’s head. It was many years since she had been back to Blackness. And when she had left, she had promised herself that her fortunes would be very different.

Her friend, Caitriona, at the McCallum castle, had persuaded her to pursue her ambitions. She’d started out as a lowly maid, but in the end, had married the laird!

Although marrying a laird might not be a path open to Teasag, it had inspired her to rethink her life. Caitríona’s story had reignited her passion for painting, something she had – even before leaving for the McCallum lands.

Yet, here she was, eleven years later, with little more than she had started with! And in that time, her mother had passed on, something that Teasag had still had not begun to process. She knew her mother would have wanted to see her settled by now, another reason to make something of herself this time.

Feeling a little braver and shaking herself down, Teasag steeled herself and pushed at the tavern door. After all, how bad could it be?

***

The door blew open, filling the room with a raging wind. It shook at her caul and thrust her blonde hair wildly until it was impossible for the girl to see.

Composing herself, Teasag shook down her hood and squared her shoulders to look around. Every eye in the room seemed upon her.

It did not last long. The men soon returned to their drinking, and Teasag made her way to the bar, through the stench of men.

Inside, the young woman’s heart pumped hard, keeping a strange, jerky time. Her usually tamed hair fell around her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face. As she tiptoed through the packed tavern, Teasag could not have known how alluring she looked to the hungry men.

Finally, Teasag made it to the bar. Momentarily, an older man flitted into view, but then he disappeared again, leaving a younger man in his stead. The bartender stood before her, his face hidden in a greasy mop of hair. Teasag waited for him to look up. When he didn’t, she coughed slightly.

“Excuse me,” she said, as wearily, the man looked up. When he did, Teasag choked a gasp. Every inch of his face was covered in marks and pocks. Teasag steadied herself at the bar and tried not to look shocked.

“Aye, an’ what can I get ye?” said the barkeep.

Teasag felt her mouth go dry. Judging by the look of him, he had had the pox, recently.

The man’s hooded eyes scanned hers curiously. In the flickering half-light, it was hard to make out what shade they were. The only color she could see was red, framing the edges of his eyes.

The barkeep glanced again up at her. “Nae from around here, are ye miss?” he said observantly.

“Nae,” replied Teasag, unable to stop herself from counting the lad’s pockmarks. Twenty-three on his face and another seven around his neck.

The bartender looked expectantly for her to elaborate, but she did not. “From oot o’ town, anywhere I ken, miss?” he continued, unabated.

“Nae,” she said again, abruptly. She usually loved to chatter, but right now, she wanted to take some refreshments and be left in peace. “I’m in toon for the night an’ I need to tak’ lodgings,” she said, trying her hardest to keep her eyes on the pockmarked barman and away from the men at her side.

“Aye, nae bother, lassie,” said the lad. “We can sort ye oot wi’ somethin’ I’m sure…”

“Thank ye,” she said to the barman. “An’ I’ll have a small ale when yer ready,” she continued.

As she spoke, Teasag’s tongue stuck to her mouth and scraped dryly against her throat. She had not drunk anything since that morning. One of the elderly ladies had drunk her water after swooning in the uncomfortable cart.  Now the inside of Teasag’s mouth was as dry as a cracked well.

“Och!” spluttered Teasag, as she coughed and her eyes watered as she groped for her handkerchief.

Dabbing at her mouth, Teasag pressed tight on the embroidered corner of the kerchief. Her eyes alighted on its’ motif, ‘MCM’.

Instantly, she felt homesick for the McCallum Keep and her friend, Caitriona. As her coughing fit subsided, Teasag kept the linen handkerchief pressed to her brow, thoughtfully.

It was not as if she had a new position lined up when she reached her destination, just a vague hope that somehow, she would make something of herself.

Now it was her own conceit that made Teasag’s cheeks fizzle and burn as doubts assailed her.

What if she could not? What would she do then? She could not stay with her brother Lorcal forever. Why on earth had she left everything she knew in the world for this?

Teasag downed the ale faster than she would have liked, her throat as dry as sawdust. The cold beer soothed her a little, but not enough to banish her cough.

As she drank, savoring the cold taste of the beer, she felt the uncomfortable sensation of eyes upon her. Trying her best to ignore the stares, Teasag looked toward the front of the bar. She was just thinking about ordering some food when a second coughing fit overtook her.

The men grouped around her, but Teasag didn’t notice them.

Coughing louder, she was suddenly struck on the back by a hard thump. Alarmed, the girl spun around so fast she nearly cricked her neck.  As she did, she felt the world spin with her.

Steadying herself, Teasag tried to stop the room from rotating. It was hot, her throat was parched, and she was beginning to feel nauseous.

“Och lassie!” chuckled an obese farmer with a bushy beard. He pressed his face to hers, tickling her with his ridiculous bristles. “Barman, get this lassie a whisky chaser; she’s drier than a nun’s gusset!”

“Get off me!” Teasag barked as bawdy laughter reverberated all around her. She pushed back at the man, hard, but it only made him more determined.

The more she tried to struggle, the more he tried to “help” her, and she was stuck fast in his disgusting arms.

“I’m just helping wind ye lassie,” said the man, his cheeks flushed with drink. He was almost completely beard, a thick, amorphous mass that looked and smelt like the animals he farmed. “A good slap an’ ye’ll be right!”

“Take yer hands off me!” she yelled, trying her hardest to hit him with her travel bag. The Bannock cakes cook had given her had lost their freshness but were still not tough enough to fend off an amorous farmer.

“No!” yelped Teasag, as the man’s sweaty hand grabbed her behind. “Get yer clarty hands off of me this instant! Landlord!” she cried, pushing back at the man and attempting to punch him. Her eyes scanned the room furiously for the bartender or the landlord, but she did not see them.

Panicking, Teasag changed tack.

“Will ye let me pass, please, sir,” she asked plainly. Inside, her heart was boiling, and she was ready to erupt and spit in the man’s eye. But she was outnumbered. Hoping to appeal to his better nature, she dropped her eyes and began to sidle free of his grasp.

With her heart pumping and the man blocking her in, Teasag suddenly felt hot. Her chest was getting tight, and she was finding it hard to breathe. Vaguely, she was aware of the noise around her; men pushing and shouting, spilling pints, and the shrill sound of breaking glass. Teasag couldn’t see what was going on but knew that all hell was breaking loose.

The bearded man pressed his hand into her bosom.

“So, then, young maid, what say ye get friendly wi’ me an’ my friends?” he asked, stroking her face. There could be no doubt of what he meant.

Inside, Teasag’s heart beat so hard that she thought it about to take off. Not only was she feeling clammy, but she was now beginning to feel faint. The noise and heat in the room were overwhelming. All she wanted to do was sit down and get away from this man.

Terrified, she struggled as hard as she could. The last thing she remembered was his hand covering her face as she screamed.

Then everything faded to black.

Chapter 2

“Get yer dirty hands off her!”

The young man burst across the crowded tavern and pushed the farmer out of the way. The farmer bristled behind his large beard; clearly, he was not letting go without a fight.

The girl was still pressed up against the wall, the terror showing in the whites of her eyes. That was when the young man could watch no longer. He had to do something to stop this.

Coming into the tavern had been a last-minute decision. In truth, he hadn’t wanted to stop on his journey to Blackness. But he had little choice. The men pursuing him were not letting up. They had been hot on his heels since leaving the village that morning. On reaching the White Hart Tavern, the lad had hurled himself into its dubious protection without a second thought.

Since then, he’d found himself drawn into things he’d not been expecting.

The lass had enchanted him from first glimpse, getting out of the ramshackle milk cart on the street corner, some half-hour back. And now he was helpless to resist coming to her aid.

Outside, rain lashed the windows with a fervor that only seemed to add to the charged atmosphere – where an enraged sheep farmer glared up at him.

“Bile yer heid!” spat the farmer, as behind him, a couple of his burly mates looked on. But the young man stood his ground.

“Come on, lads,” cried the elderly bartender, returning to see what the fracas was. He folded away his towel and came to stand beside the newcomer. “Why dinnae ye just leave it, an’ get back to yer drinks, eh?”

It was a modest proposition, but the angry farmer didn’t like it. He pressed his hot, red face towards the mild-mannered tavern owner.

“Haud yer wheesht, auld fella!” he barked, pushing the aged barkeeper out of the way, but the man got there first.

“Nae,” he said, firmly, the farmer’s hot breath on his chin.

The young man gave a quick glance to the girl, standing dazed by the wall. The fat farmer had released his grip on her, but she was still boxed in. Briefly, the young man made eye contact with her.

Close up, she was more lovely than when he had spotted her from across the room, her loose blonde hair falling softly behind her shoulders and a delicate rosebud at each cheek.

He was about to speak to her and ask if she was alright when the angry farmer pushed again. This time, he butted straight into the slight barkeeper, knocking him off his feet.

Smoldering with heat, the man found his temper rising. “Yer auld enough to ken better!” he said, squaring up to the red-faced farmer. “An’ auld enough to be her father! Have ye nae shame!”

Roughly, he shoved the stunned farmer back down so that he landed on his stool. The force of his landing was such that it broke beneath him, throwing him out onto the floor.

A few of the onlookers snickered, as angrily, the fat farmer rose to his feet. “Nae-one tells me what to do in my own local!” he snarled.

The man briefly checked the girl over. She was pale but unharmed.

By comparison, the silver-haired barkeep was a mess. He had cracked his head against the table and was now bleeding profusely.

The man tended to his wounds as the red-faced farmer slunk away.

He was about to push the farmer out of the building when something heavy pressed into him. He tensed, expecting trouble. But then saw the girl’s ashen face as she collapsed on top of him.

“Lass?” he asked, desperately propping the girl up and holding her still. Furiously, the lad looked about for somewhere to sit her down, and space opened up around them as the crowd helped them pass.

Slowly, he carried the girl over to a quiet seat at the far end of the tavern. Her scent mixed with the smell of spirits intermingled in the damp air.

“Lassie?” said the man, once she was seated. The girl looked at him, blinking unsurely. “You were in a swoon,” he explained to her. “Here, drink this.”

He brought a cup of ale to the woman’s lips and helped her to drink. Close up, she was just as flawless as from afar, her peachy skin still marked with the ghost of childhood freckles.

He didn’t know why, but this pricked at his heart. She looked so lost, almost like a child. But then, as she stared into his eyes, something seemed to click.

“Thank ye, sir,” she said primly. Now she was more aware, the woman composed herself, sitting ramrod straight on the uncomfortable barstool.

“Are ye sure yer alright, lass?” asked the man, before refilling her drink, unbidden. “Ye did go rather pale?”

Slowly, the lad watched as she drank the amber-colored ale, and the color returned to her cheeks.

Anxiously, the lad glanced around.

“Has he gone?” asked the woman, her eyes following his. She was so twitchy that she hadn’t yet looked at his face.

“Eh?” said the lad, distracted. His gaze penetrated the thick crowd, but it was to no avail. It was far too dark to see clearly. Still, if the men following him hadn’t already spotted him, then they were unlikely to do so now.

A low hum resumed over the tavern, and the lad smiled. “Do ye mean woolly Willie there? Nae fash lassie, he willnae bother ye again!” he announced cheerfully, before taking a dram of ale.

The girl looked at him quizzically but smiled. She still seemed to be looking for the farmer.

The lad chided himself for still being here. He had only intended to stay a short while. Now he was being sucked into the whirlpool of her eyes, and if he wasn’t careful, he would never get away.

Mindful of the need to keep moving, the lad scraped his chair. He was about to make his excuses and leave when the girl attempted to stand up. As she did, her sickening pallor returned.

“Lassie?” he said anxiously. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he steadied the woman, swaying in her seat. “Are ye alright?”

As the lad tightened his grip, all he could think about was the lushness of her lips and how much he wanted to dive in and kiss them awake.

It was then that he realized he could never let her go.

***

Everything had gone dark for a moment, and Teasag’s head spun.

“Lassie? Let’s sit ye down…,” the voice came closer. It had an edge to it, yet it was sweet at the same time. And like a single malt, it spread a warm tingle all the way through her.

It was his voice, the one who had saved her from the brutish farmer. Now, his sturdy arms were settling her back down in the seat. “Ye shouldn’t try to move lassie; ye could be hurt,” he scolded.

“I…I think I’m alright,” she said, shakily opening her eyes, and it took some time for her to readjust to the light.

“Just wait there, lassie,” said the man, patting her lightly upon the shoulder. “An’ this time dinnae try an’ get up!” And before Teasag had a chance to turn around, he had gone.

Looking about, Teasag found she was in an alcove against the back wall of the tavern. It was quiet here, but at the front, it still thronged with action.

The place was a mess with upturned drinks and what looked like a pool of blood on the floor.

“Och,” a low groan came from behind the wooden bar area, making Teasag look around anxiously.

“Dinnae try to move,” he warned her from across the bar. Obediently, Teasag stayed put. All she really wanted was the chance to see his face. Although he’d been sitting in front of her, she hadn’t looked at him properly. Either he’d turned his head away, or she’d been too dazed to see what he looked like.

It was only now, as she sipped at the refreshing ale, that her senses began to fully restore.

“I’ll be back soon, lassie,” the lad assured her, his voice pouring through her like honey. Maybe it was silly, but she felt as if she could trust him.

Squinting through the crowd, Teasag managed to make out the lad, pressed against the dark oak doors. For a moment, her heart faltered, wondering if he was simply going to walk away without her ever seeing his face.

But then, there was a hail of shouting, and Teasag’s heart quickened as she caught sight of the red-cheeked farmer being manhandled towards the door.

The lad managed to push the red-faced farmer outside with one or two others behind him as his friends slunk back to the bar. Finally, Teasag’s breathing returned to normal as he disappeared out of the door.

“An’ stay out!” the tall lad said, before turning his attention to the innkeeper. Now he was pacing over, crossing the packed tavern, to the bar.

Teasag tried to stand up, to see a little better but found she could not. The man’s face was lost in the crowd. When she saw him next, he was helping the innkeeper to his feet.

The silver-haired man groaned, and Teasag let out a gasp. The innkeeper’s cheeks were scratched and dripping with blood, both of his eyes were bruised, and from the way he was clutching his jaw, he had lost a tooth.

Whoosh! Teasag’s heart gave a giant shudder as she realized there had been a full-scale bar fight, with her at the center. She had been so rigid with fear that she had simply not noticed.

Immediately, Teasag felt a pang of guilt. It seemed as if the old man must have come to her aid but had been no match for the red-faced brigand and his friends.

“Is he hurt badly?” she asked, suddenly concerned. Forgetting the man’s advice to keep still, Teasag scraped back her chair with the instant effect of summoning the lad back over.

“Och, I cannae nae ha’ ye swooning on me again!” the young man chided. It was good-natured but insistent, and within a couple of seconds, he was there again, his warm hand upon her.

Teasag twitched as the man’s soft touch caressed her tense shoulders. His masculine scent assured her that he wasn’t one of the drunken teuchters in the tavern, and his caress resonated on her skin, making it buzz and glow. Teasag felt the warmth from his sturdy fingers seep through her shoulders and soothe her tired body.

This was crazy; she hadn’t even seen him properly, yet already she was heating up inside.

“Och, are ye sure yer alright, lassie, really?” he asked.

Teasag nodded. “Aye, sir, I am. Thanks to ye. I just needed a sit doon an’ something to drink, I think.”

“Well, ye seem to have caused quite a stir, young lassie!” said the lad, with a smile. He sat down next to her, relinquishing his grip while placing something warm around her shoulders.

To her surprise, she found she was shivering, although it was not through the cold. The man tucked an unfamiliar brat around her shoulders. Somewhere, she must have had lost her hood—probably in the earlier tussle, and her shoulders were unexpectedly bare.

Realizing she was in a state of undress, Teasag looked up sharply. “Och!” she murmured in her embarrassment.

“Nae fash,” smiled the lad, but her cheeks ripened with shame.

Now her eyes were upon him, and she felt drawn into his striking gaze. He had a crop of beautifully straight hair which shone around his shoulders. In the half-light, Teasag could not be sure what color it was; to begin with, it looked blond, the amber light picking out strands from his shoulders and illuminating them.  But in a different light, it looked warmer, with dark honeyed tones running through it.

It was probably that strange mid color, between brown and blond, and  Teasag’s fingers itched to touch it. Although she had not had much experience with men—she had never seen a man with such perfect hair.

As she gazed upon him, Teasag wished she had some paints. The only artist’s materials she had available were her quills and parchment. Still, the urge to note down the lad’s striking profile and unusually colored hair were overwhelming.

And it wasn’t just his hair she could picture on canvas; it was the rest of him too—especially his sparkling eyes, resonating with mischief in pale hues of blue and taupe.

“Ye just looked so cold,” said the lad, as she pulled the brat around her shoulders. Teasag looked, taking in the design of his plaid; like the brat around her shoulders, it was a deep shade of blue, with red and white pinstripes running through it. Immediately, she noticed how the dark blues complemented his penetrating eyes.

But where had it come from? She was unfamiliar with this tartan, and she had a good knowledge of all the nearby clans. That, and his clean, fragrant hair made Teasag wonder his rank.

Suddenly, a jolt of electricity jumped through her as she pictured the lad, a windswept noble, on an open crag side, posing for an official portrait.

“I, I,” faltered Teasag. By now, she felt anything other than cold. Her heart began to clamor once again as words drained away from her tongue. She was mesmerized.

The memory of the lad’s touch still lingered over her, and his heady scent came again, making her feel mildly intoxicated.

His almond-shaped eyes sparkled. “So then, all we need to do is get ye some scran then?” he asked with a wink.

Teasag found herself completely unable to turn away from him. She had so many questions; who was he? Where had he come from?

But she was utterly unable to ask them. Instead, she watched as he poured a dram of whisky into the wooden quaich before them.

“Och, I can do that in a wee while; it’s nae fash,” she finally said, her tongue falling loose. The lad finished pouring the drink and placed the quaich in front of her.

“Well then, to yer good health,” he said, encouragingly. Tentatively, Teasag picked up the roughly hewn cup. She looked unsure.

“Go on lass, it’s all for ye, by the look o’ things, ye need it more than do I!” he said, then he added. “I dinnae want ye to swoon on me again. Ye nearly knocked me over!”

Blushing, Teasag pressed the wooden quaich to her lips and drank the fiery single malt slowly. Immediately, a warm sensation ran through her, from her lips to her toes.

The lad smiled, a strange twisted half-grin. He looked as if he was amused. Teasag couldn’t help noticing how perfect his skin was. Even close up, she could barely detect a flaw in his soft, velvet-like complexion.

Bringing her eyes closer, Teasag inspected the lad’s face further. His complexion was the softest hue, like a watercolor, with just the hint of a tan.

Looking down, Teasag had to rip her eyes away from his muscular frame. His rippling biceps were doing strange things to her.

The lad’s brown-blond hair glistened in the candlelight as he brought his head closer, sending a scent of honey into the air above

“So then, miss, my treat, tell me what is it to be?”

The lad’s question caught her unawares. Without even realizing it, she had drifted off.

There he was, wearing a cockeyed smile, and his eyes glistened oddly. Teasag got the distinct impression he was laughing at her. Was there something she had said that was funny?

“What …is…it that pleases ye so, sir?” she asked plainly. She wasn’t usually given to beating about the bush, but all the same, Teasag was surprised at the directness in her own voice.

“Pleases me? Nae, nothing Miss, nothing pleases me, except ye!” said the lad, smoothly. Teasag found herself perspiring furiously.

“I was just asking ye if ye wanted some scran to share,” he said, smilingly.

Instantly, Teasag blushed. “Och,” she murmured.  A shiver went through her that had nothing to do with the wind and the rain outside.

“It’s been a long day,” she said, by way of apology. She fussed with her loose hair; she could only imagine the state she was in from the raging storm outside. To cap it all, she had lost her shawl somewhere in the crowd, but suddenly, she felt absolutely no desire to get it back, captivated as she was by this smooth young man’s intense gaze.

“I couldnae put on ye anymore,” she said primly, her fingers reaching anxiously over to her travel bag. Quickly, she poked inside it and brought out the silver coin that her friend had given her. It was still there, cold and hard against her hand. Next to it were the two tiny thimbles that had belonged to her mother: her entire worldly fortune.

“An’ if I’m to eat, then I can pay my own way, it’s quite alright,” she added.

“Nay,” said the lad, flashing his enigmatic smile once more. Teasag noticed his cheeks were unusually sculpted, giving his face an uncommonly handsome appearance. “Ye will nae pay, it’s my treat, but there’s just one thing…?”

He stared into her eyes, his bright blue gaze overwhelming her senses and sending an unexpected bolt of electricity shooting through her thighs. Inside, Teasag felt herself heat up.

“What is it?” she asked breathlessly. If she didn’t know any better, she would have thought he was about to kiss her. The noise and light in the room faded away until there was just her and him, alone in the tavern. The murmur of the crowd and lashing of the rain was barely audible above the omnipresent beating of her heart.

“I cannae share a meal wi’ a lass I dinnae ken the name of,” he said smoothly, with a sly glance toward her.

“Och,” said Teasag, as the rest of the world returned, and the backdrop of the noisy tavern grew louder. “I’m Teasag,” she said, extending her hand to his.

He kissed it formally.

“Teasag, a pretty name,” he added softly. “An’ I’m Neacal.”

Neacal. Teasag’s heart jumped a little. It was still reeling from the kiss he’d placed on her hand. Of course, there was nothing to read into this. It was merely a formal yet overblown act of manners. But to Teasag, it was as if she had been hit by lightning. Bolts reverberated all the way through her, and his touch lingered on her skin for long after he took his hand away.

“Pleased to meet ye,” she said simply, as Neacal stood to return to the bar. From the reappearance of the barkeep from the back of the room, it seemed that his injuries were not as bad as they looked. But Teasag only had eyes for the tall lad in front of her.

“Neacal,” she murmured. “I’ve nae met anyone called that afore,” she added. “Are ye from around here?”

“I’m from everywhere an’ nowhere, lass,” laughed the lad, his wide twisting smile running right across to his ears. “Ye’ll soon hear about me!”

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

Chapter 1

“He doesnae wish to eat, m’lord.”

Magnus let out a heavy sigh, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was nothing that he hadn’t heard before from his son’s governess, as he refused to eat more often than not, and no one, not even Magnus, could get through to him.

Ever since his wife had died, his son, Fergus, had turned from a cheerful, talkative little boy into a quiet, reserved child who wouldn’t listen to anyone. Sometimes, Magnus even wondered if anything that he told his son even registered in his brain, and if he was even paying any attention to him at all.

It was hard, Magnus couldn’t deny that. He also couldn’t deny that he was not the best father, perhaps, impatient and brash as he was. He knew how to be a father to his son; he didn’t know how to be a father to the child that his son had become.

“Then make him eat,” he told the governess, not even moving from where he sat behind his desk on his leather armchair. “I dinnae care if he wants to eat or not, it’s yer job to make him eat.”

“Aye, m’lord,” the governess said, giving him a small bow before she turned around to leave his study, only to bump into Fergus, who had sneaked into the room without being noticed.

He was good at sneaking into places, Magnus knew. In his five years in the world, he had had enough practice to remain unnoticed, and his small size only helped him, the colossal, mahogany furniture that were scattered around the study hiding him with ease.

“Ach, what are ye doin’ here, lad?” the governess asked Fergus, who simply looked at her without uttering a word.

Magnus took a deep breath before he stood up, deciding that perhaps he could try to get to his son one more time. It was his duty as his father, after all, but it also broke his heart to see his son like that.

Every time he tried to talk to him only to receive no answer, every time that he sat by his side only to have him look away, a part of his heart shattered. When Fergus had been born, Magnus had become the happiest man in the world, and the rush of love that he had for his son was unlike anything he had experienced. He loved his wife, of course; he loved her like a leaf loves the sun, and like a weary traveler loves a warm meal. He loved her completely and unconditionally, and when she died, she took a part of him with her.

Still, when Fergus was born, he loved him even more, despite never thinking that such a thing would even be possible. He had become his whole world, and he would do anything for that child.

That was why it hurt Magnus to see Fergus like that, and the fact that he didn’t know how to speak to him or how to make things better only made their relationship worse.

“Fergus,” Magnus said, as he crouched down next to his son. The boy didn’t even look at him, his gaze glued to the floor with his fingers wrapped around the fabric of his governess’ skirt. “Why dinnae ye wish to eat, lad?”

There was no reply from the boy; there never was. Times like those, Magnus thought that perhaps he should stop trying altogether, that there was no hope, no way to make Fergus speak to him. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to give up, even if he knew that in the end, he would end up shouting at his own child.

“Ye must eat, Fergus,” Magnus continued, a hand coming up to rest on the boy’s shoulder. Only then did Fergus look at him, and for a moment, Magnus was filled with the hope that he would finally speak, that he would say something, anything.

He didn’t.

Fergus only shrugged Magnus’ hand off his shoulder, and then his gaze fell back onto the floor.

Magnus was already getting impatient. He stood once more, hands on his hips as he looked at Fergus with a disapproving frown on his face, one that the boy didn’t even notice.

“Ye’ll do as yer told, do ye understand?” Magnus asked, “Ye’ll eat everythin’ on yer plate, or else.”

Fergus looked at Magnus once more, then, still silent, and the look that he gave him was more hostile than Magnus would have thought a five-year-old boy could ever muster. Deep down, Magnus feared nothing more than the possibility that his own son despised him. He often wondered whether it would have been better for Fergus to lose him rather than his mother.

Would Fergus be happier if he had died instead of her? Would he be like he used to be, jovial and talkative, a boy full of life?

Magnus didn’t know, nor could he possibly ever find out.

“Damn ye, say somethin’!”

The governess gasped in shock at Magnus’ words, a hand coming up to cover her mouth as she looked at him with wide eyes. Magnus could only curse himself under his breath for losing his patience and for saying such cruel words to a child, but then he simply walked back to his chair, sitting down with a defeated sigh.

“Take him,” he told the woman, “Take him, and make sure that he eats somethin’. Anythin’ that he wants.”

The woman only nodded, before she took Fergus’ hand and led him out of the room, leaving Magnus alone to wallow in his self-hatred.

He wondered where he had gone wrong. Many boys grew up without their mothers, and they were perfectly fine, happy, and healthy. What was it that he had done wrong? What was it that drove Fergus to act in such a way?

Magnus let his head fall in his hands. He wished that he could stop the world, even for just one moment. He wished that he would have the time to breathe, to exist as something other than simply the Laird of his clan and Fergus’ father.

And then, he remembered that perhaps he had an excuse to do just that.

His gaze scanned the desk in front of him, searching for the letter that he had received earlier that day. He found it among the mess of other papers on his desk, cluttered as it was, and he straightened it out with his hand before he began to read it once more.

“Le Havre

2^nd of February, 1789

Dear Magnus,

 I’m writing to you from port Le Havre in France, hoping that this letter finds you well.

 It seems to me that my days are numbered. I have fallen ill while traveling, and I know that death is near. Don’t mourn for me, but raise a glass to my memory.

 I am loath to ask you, but I want you to visit my sister, Adelleine, in my hometown. I want you to see if she is doing well after my death.

I have no money to leave to her or my family, but what worries me the most is that I will not be there for her and the rest of my  cousins. All I am asking from you is to pay her a visit and see if she is alright.

I hope to live long enough to hear from you, old friend.

Your dear friend,

Jacob

When Magnus had first read the letter, he could hardly believe that Jacob was in the clutches of death. The man had always been so full of life, so eager to travel and experience everything and anything, and to hear that he would have an untimely death was something that had shaken Magnus to his core.

He couldn’t ignore his best friend’s last wish, of course. He couldn’t pretend like he never received the letter, like he never read the words that Jacob had written to him. After all, Jacob was like a brother to him, and so he couldn’t help but feel as though he had a responsibility towards his sister and the rest of his family.

He would take care of them, Magnus decided. He would take care of them in Jacob’s memory, even though he hadn’t asked him to do anything more than pay Adelleine a visit.

Magnus remembered Adelleine, or at least the stories that he had heard about her from Jacob, who loved nothing and no one more than his own family. He remembered spending night after night with him on the ship’s deck, a smuggled bottle of whiskey shared between the two of them as they exchanged stories about their hometowns until the crack of dawn.

It had been a long time since then, but the memories hadn’t faded from Magnus’ mind. A part of him still longed for that kind of life, the sea calling out to him whenever he saw the shore, but of course, it wasn’t a life that he could lead anymore.

He had responsibilities. He had his clan and his son, and he had to be there for them.

He could spare a few weeks away, though, he thought. He could travel to Jacob’s hometown, since he knew that it wasn’t too far from the castle, and he would be back within in a few weeks. Surely, the castle and the clan would manage just fine without him for a few weeks, and Fergus . . . well, Fergus didn’t seem to need him at all, regardless of whether he was there or not. His governess would take good care of him, Magnus knew, and the boy wouldn’t have to listen to his own father shouting at him for refusing to eat.

It seemed to Magnus that taking a break would be good for everyone.

Magnus spent the night preparing for the trip, and got little sleep. He was excited to leave the castle for a while, along with all of his worries and responsibilities, and the part of him that longed for adventure had awoken once more inside him, eager to explore.

At first, he didn’t want to take anyone with him. He didn’t need guards, he didn’t need company, and he certainly didn’t need anyone to save him from brigands or fight his battles for him. Even though he was the Laird of his clan, he hadn’t allowed himself to get soft at the edges; he could still fight, and he could fight well.

Then, just when he awoke the following morning, ready to begin his travels, his right-hand man burst into his room without even knocking, a disapproving frown on his face.

“What do ye think yer doin’, m’lord?” Hendry asked him, and the tone in his voice did nothing to make the use of the honorific sound genuine. “Are ye leavin’? All on yer own? Where are ye even goin’? Dinnae ye think that it would be better if ye had told me about this?”

“I didnae tell ye because I kent what ye’d say,” Magnus said, a hand coming up to rub the sleep off his eyes. It didn’t become a Laird, he thought, to be seen in such a state of disarray, with his hair sticking up from his head and his body covered only by his night garments, but Hendry had never cared about such things, often barging into rooms without announcing his presence first.

“Weel . . . if ye kent what I’d say, then ye must have kenned that I’d stop ye, too,” Hendry said, “I willnae allow ye to leave this castle unaccompanied.”

Magnus couldn’t help but scoff at that, shaking his head at the other man. “I am the Laird! I can do anythin’ that I want!”

“Hmm . . . let me think about it, m’lord,” Hendry said. His hand came up to scratch at his chin, the man mockingly deep in thought before he turned to look at Magnus once again. “I dinnae think so.”  Hendry said, and in that moment, Magnus couldn’t help but think just how much Hendry looked and sounded like his mother, who would scold him in a similar way when he was a child. The thought brought a small smile to his face as he looked at the other man, which seemed to infuriate him even more.

“What will it take for ye to stop yer whinin’?”

Hendry seemed to consider that for a moment, and Magnus could only hope for a compromise. “Yer takin’ six guards with ye, or yer nae goin’ anywhere,” Hendry said.

“Six?” Magnus asked, incredulous, “Why do I need six guards with me? I’ll take one.”

“Four.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Deal.”

Magnus didn’t want to push his luck, not with someone like Hendry. It wouldn’t surprise Magnus in the slightest if he looked behind his shoulder while traveling, only to see Hendry following him.

He hoped that taking three guards with him would stop him from worrying so much, at least. It was a compromise that he was willing to make if it meant that it would give Hendry some peace of mind.

It startled him when his door was flung open once more all of a sudden, and he looked up to see none other but his younger sister, Isla, her hands on her waist as she glared at him.

“Where do ye think yer goin’?” she asked.

“Does nay one ken how to knock in this castle?” Magnus asked, instead of answering his sister’s question, “I’m nae wearin’ any clothes!”

“Och, dinnae try to avoid me question!” she scolded him, “Where are ye goin’?”

Magnus explained the same thing that he had already explained to Hendry, weary and impatient. Just like Hendry, Isla didn’t seem to like the plan at all. Her brows furrowed in that way that reminded Magnus not only of their father, but also of himself, and that seemed to run in the family, disapproving and stern.

“What about Fergus?” Isla asked.

“Isla, get out of me chambers!” Magnus told her, sounding just like he used to when they were both children, bickering about everything and anything, “I’ll tell ye everythin’ when I’m dressed!”

With a scoff, Isla left the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Magnus didn’t have time to even sigh—in relief that Isla had left or in annoyance, he didn’t know—before Hendry brought up the very same subject that she had, much to Magnus’ chagrin.

“What about Fergus?” Hendry asked, “Will ye take him with ye?”

“Nay . . . nay, the road isnae a place for a wee bairn,” Magnus said. The truth was that he simply wanted to get away from that issue, too, but he was too embarrassed to admit something like that, even to Hendry, who knew all of his secrets. “He’ll be better off stayin’ here, in the castle.”

Hendry gave Magnus the kind of look that he couldn’t quite decipher, the kind of look that the man gave him every time Fergus was mentioned. Magnus supposed that Hendry blamed him for Fergus’ behaviour, just like everyone else in the castle. Then again, they were all right; he was the one who should be blamed, Magnus thought.

“Verra weel,” Hendry said, never one to argue with his Laird for such matters, “When will ye be leavin’?”

“Right the noo,” Magnus said, as he finally stood from his bed, before he began to rummage through the room, looking for the clothes that he had discarded the previous night, “The sooner I leave, the better.”

“Did I really have to find out about this from the housekeeper? Did Isla have to find out through her?” Hendry asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Magnus, “Ye couldnae have told us both that yer leavin’?”

“Och, Hendry . . . it’s only for a few weeks,” Magnus said, “I’ll be back before ye ken I was gone. I am only doin’ a favour for a friend.”

“Do ye mind sharin’?”

Magnus paused then, even as his trews were pulled only halfway up his legs, and he looked at Hendry. “Remember Jacob?” he asked, “He came to visit the castle several years ago.”

“Aye, I remember him,” Hendry said.

“Weel . . . he’s either dead or dyin’,” Magnus explained, “And he asked me to visit his sister.”

Hendry simply nodded at that, a slow, understanding nod that told Magnus he knew just how serious the situation was, and for that, Magnus was grateful. He didn’t know what he would have said to Hendry if the man had tried to stop him from doing one last act of kindness for his friend.

“Of course,” Hendry said, “I’ll go get the men, m’lord.”

Chapter 2

The words kept floating in Adelleine’s mind, repeating themselves over and over. There was nothing that she could do to stop it, and there was nothing that she could do to avoid the one simple truth.

Jacob was dead. He was dead, gone forever, and Adelleine would never see him again, she would never talk to him again, she would never laugh with him again.

She couldn’t wrap her mind around the news. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that her beloved brother was gone from her life, because she knew that the moment she came to terms with it, she would also break into a hundred pieces.

She missed her brother terribly, and she wished that they would have had more time to spend together. She wished that things were different, she wished that he would have never left their home, but wishing did nothing but make her grief seem insurmountable.

There was no point in wishing. There was nothing that she could do to bring Jacob back.

“Adelleine . . .are you alright, girl ?”

Her Aunt Victoria was sitting next to her in their sparsely decorated kitchen, her hands on top of Adelleine’s own where she had laid them on the wooden table. Adelleine could barely hear her aunt’s words, the buzzing in her ears obscuring everything else, but when she gripped her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake, she finally looked at the other woman.

There were no tears in her aunt’s eyes, but then again, Adelleine couldn’t even remember if she had ever seen her cry. Victoria was a strong woman, and ever since her husband had died, she had been ruling over her family with an iron fist, even though it was her son, Fin, who had become the man of the house.

“I’m alright, Aunt Victoria,” Adelleine lied, and even to her own ears, it didn’t sound like a good lie. She could do nothing to conceal her grief and her pain, and the pity in her aunt’s face told her that she didn’t believe her either.

“It’s really a shame what happened to Jacob,” her aunt said, “Such a shame . . . he was a good man.”

“Yes.”

It was all Adelleine could say before the words died in her throat. How could she talk about him? How could she say anything about him when the wound was still so raw?

There was a stretch of silence between the two women, but it was one that didn’t last long. Soon, her aunt cleared her throat with a quiet cough, just enough to get her attention.

“We must find you a man to marry soon,” she said.

Adelleine could only frown at that, her mouth hanging open as she looked at her aunt. She stared at her in silence, blinking a few times as she wondered whether or not she had heard her right.

“Aunt Victoria, what . . . what does it matter?” she asked, “What does it matter whom I marry and if I marry at all right now? It doesn’t matter to me at all.”

“Well, it should,” her aunt said, her voice stern and cold, “You have no dowry, nothing to your name. I was hoping that your brother would be able to send you some money to marry, but now that he is dead, there is no money. There is nothing . . . nothing but yourself.”

That didn’t surprise Adelleine in the slightest. With the six daughters and the son that she had to raise, along with her and her brother—at least until Jacob had left for a life in the sea—her aunt had gone through the money that Adelleine’s parents had left her and Jacob in a short time. It was all she had had after their deaths, and it was money meant to secure her future, but she couldn’t blame her aunt.

She was a widow, after all, and she had to raise nine children on her own.

Of course, she would have liked to have kept some of the money, but as things were, she could only do as her aunt said. She had to find a man to marry, and she had to do so quickly, because she knew that her aunt wouldn’t be able to afford having her in the house for much longer.

“Who . . . who will I even marry?” Adelleine asked, “I can’t think of anyone with whom I’d like to share the rest of my life.”

“You don’t need to like the man you marry,” her aunt said with a small shrug, as though love didn’t matter to her at all. As far as Adelleine knew, Aunt Victoria had loved her husband dearly, and so she couldn’t understand how she could be so dismissive of feelings. “You only need to secure your future. Even if you never love him, you’ll have your children to love and care for. When it comes to your husband, you’ll only need to perform your duty.”

Adelleine wasn’t naïve; she knew precisely what kind of duty that was, and she couldn’t even imagine giving herself to a man that she didn’t love. How could her own aunt expect her to do so?

Aunt Victoria laughed, then, as though she could read her mind. She tutted at Adelleine, and then stood, walking around the table until she could put her hands on Adelleine’s shoulders.

“Don’t look so shocked, Adelleine,” she told her, “Sometimes we must do things that we don’t wish to do. It’s no different for you.”

Adelleine wondered what it was that her aunt had been forced to do, if anything at all. Aunt Victoria was hardly the kind of woman to do something that she didn’t wish to do, and Adelleine couldn’t help but think that her words didn’t apply to herself.

Of course, she didn’t dare say that to her.

Adelleine then began to think about her life. She began to think about what would happen to her, about the man that she would end up marrying only for stability and money, and the future that she saw ahead of her was a grim one. She sat on her chair, shoulders slumped under the weight of her aunt’s hands, and she stared at her own hands as she fidgeted with the end of her sleeve, her fingers bunching up the fabric until it was wrinkled.

What other option did she have? If she didn’t do as she was told, her aunt would one day throw her out of the house; and that day would come soon.

“I see . . .” Adelleine said softly, her hand coming up to wipe the tears off her face. She hadn’t even realised that she was crying, and she didn’t know what it was that she was crying about.

There were too many things that saddened her, too many to count and too many to handle.

“I have a few men in mind for you,” her aunt informed her cheerfully, as though it was good news, “All of them wealthy men, who would kill to have a girl as pretty as yourself.”

“Are they kind?”

That was all that mattered to Adelleine. She didn’t mind hard work, and so if she needed to work, she would. What she was worried about was marrying a cruel man, someone who would make her despise her life.

“I’m sure they are perfectly kind,” her aunt assured her, though Adelleine could hear the hesitation in her voice, “And what kind of man would hurt the mother of his children? Don’t worry. . . you’ll be just fine. No man will hurt you.”

It wasn’t much of a reassurance, but Adelleine decided to take it anyway. It was better than thinking that her life would soon be over, and that the only thing she would have to look forward to would be the births of her children.

She wanted more. Just like Jacob, she had always wanted to leave her hometown and see other places, to meet other people and create a life for herself, without having someone like her aunt to dictate what she should and shouldn’t do.

Jacob was born a man, though, and she wasn’t. She was a woman, and so she had a duty.

“Who do ye have in mind?” Adelleine asked, taking a deep breath to steady herself, “Who are the men?”

“Well . . . I’ve been thinking that your best choice is the baron,” her aunt said.

Adelleine froze, her eyes going wide. “Baron Caton?” she asked, “Aunt Victoria . . . he is twice my age! How can you say that? How can you think that he is a good match for me?”

“He’s a baron!” her aunt said, as though that made any difference to Adelleine.

She knew the man; everyone did. She had met him several times, especially since he seemed to have taken a liking to her family, and he often helped them financially, becoming a sort of benefactor for them. The baron was always polite, always with a smile and a kind word in his mouth, but there was something about him that Adelleine couldn’t quite pinpoint, something that made a shiver run down her spine every time she met his gaze.

And he was twice her age. He wasn’t an old man, but he wasn’t the kind of man that Adelleine would want for herself, either, regardless of the wealth that he had.

“Aunt Victoria, I beg you . . . don’t make me marry that man!” Adelleine cried, suddenly realising the gravity of the situation. When her aunt had her mind made up about something, there was no stopping her, and so Adelleine was certain that she would end up married to the Baron in no time at all. “I don’t wish to marry him! Please! Anyone but him!”

“Hush now!” her aunt hissed at her, leaning over so that she could look at Adelleine in the eyes, “Don’t say things like that, and don’t let anyone else hear you say that. The baron is your best option, don’t you see that? He can take care of you. He can give you anything that you ever wanted!”

“Tell me one thing, Aunt Victoria,” Adelleine said then, “Is he helping us because he wants me for his wife? Is he trying . . . is he trying to buy my affections and force me into this marriage?”

Her aunt stayed silent for several moments, her hands eventually sliding off Adelleine’s shoulders. She sat back on her chair, facing her, and worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

“All I know is that he has an infatuation with you,” her aunt admitted, “You’re a beautiful girl! Of course he wants you as his wife!”

“But is he trying to buy me?”

Adelleine couldn’t bear that thought. She didn’t want to be yet another pretty thing that the baron would put in his house, a pretty thing that he would play with until he would lose interest and move on. She didn’t want to be an object, and she certainly didn’t want the man to think that money was all that mattered to her.

“Oh,  don’t be foolish,” her aunt said, waving a hand dismissively, “He is only trying to be kind to us. No one is trying to buy your affections. That man could have any woman that he wanted, but he wants you. You’re a lucky girl, Adelleine. I don’t know how else to explain this to you so you can get it through your thick skull.”

Adelleine didn’t feel very lucky. She became more and more desperate at the thought that she would have to marry the baron, and it brought fresh tears to her eyes to think that she would be his. Her breath began to come out in shallow puffs, and she couldn’t stop her sobbing no matter how much she tried to bite those wails back.

There was a hint of pity in her aunt’s gaze, but not as much as the situation warranted in Adelleine’s eyes. She knew that Aunt Victoria didn’t feel sorry for her, at least not enough to put an end to her marriage to the baron before it had even started.

In that moment, she felt alone. She felt as though she had no one in the world anymore, and her entire world was crumbling down faster than she could rebuild it.

Jacob was gone. Her parents were long gone. Fin, her cousin, the only other person that she could trust and rely on, was far away, and her own aunt was willing to sell her to the highest bidder.

Adelleine didn’t care whether her intentions were pure or not. Perhaps her aunt was simply trying to ensure that she would have a good future in the only way that she knew, or perhaps she was trying to get that future for herself and her daughters. It didn’t matter either way; the result was the same for Adelleine.

Before Adelleine could protest any further, there was a knock on the door, and both she and her aunt looked at it with a frown. They weren’t expecting any guests, after all, and it was an odd thing for them to have guests in the first place.

Adelleine wiped the tears off her cheeks once more, taking a few deep breaths so that she would look presentable, and then she followed her aunt as she opened the door, standing a little further inside the house.

Behind the door, there was a man, tall and graceful, with black hair and a pair of brown eyes that reminded Adelleine of pools of honey. Behind him, there were three other men, who looked like guards, and Adelleine couldn’t help but wonder who the stranger was.

He was certainly very different than anyone else she had ever seen in her hometown. She had never seen clothes as fine as his, and she had certainly never seen a man being followed by guards.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, “I am lookin’ for Adelleine.”

Adelleine froze, her eyes narrowing as her brow furrowed.

Who could the man be? And what could he want from her?

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