Chapter 1

“Think hard, lad. Ye only get one chance: yer gold an’ yer horse, or yer miserable throat!” the girl hissed, pulling the muffler tight against her face, and pressing the blade against the man’s cheek.

Everything in the woodland turned to silence; the birds overhead stopped singing, and she could hear the man’s heart beating hard against his chest.

“So, what’s it to be, eh?” she asked, pressing the dagger into his flesh. She had attacked him from behind, and in the black trews and léine, was indistinguishable as a woman. Only the delicately framed eyes rounded with long lashes gave her away.

She peered into the man’s face and was unprepared for what she saw. He was so young, the bewilderment palpable in his green eyes. The lad was so wildly handsome that she almost relented.

“Well?” she demanded menacingly. “Dinnae make me cut off yer bonny nose, laddie!” she said, watching his eyes widen in terror.

But it didn’t last for long. He began to punch and kick, fighting back against her slender grip. Although she had the knife, he was stronger, and it was impossible to hold him. Before long, he pushed her aside.

“Ye’ll nae get awa’ wi’ this! Ye’ll be caught and hung, ye scoundrel!” he shouted, getting to his feet.

“Nae ye dinnae!” she cried, forgetting to lower her voice. “The Spaniard at Glen Shiel thought he’d get away from my daddy’s blade too. His blood didnae wash off for weeks!”

The man’s green eyes flashed vehemently, and the woman’s heart gave a painful thump; did he recognize her?

Without waiting to find out, she pushed him back. In the distance, she heard hooves, and turning was nearly knocked sideways by a huge black stallion.

“Prince!” the man called as the girl dived for cover, away from the hooves of the charging horse.

“Gadzooks, it’s nae a horse, but one o’ Satan’s imps!” she yelled. The lad laughed before bringing the horse to a standstill.

He walked over to her, with a length of rope, which was surely for her hands. She was down on the ground, tangled and scratched in the undergrowth. The lad sneered, his green eyes glinting in the chilly winter morn.

“Dinnae think ye’ll get away wi’ this!” he scoffed. “I’ll come back for ye – if the devil hasnae taken ye first!”

Soon he was binding her tight against the sharp branches of the pine tree. She struggled, but it was to no avail. As he tied her, the girl watched him. He was strangely familiar. From somewhere, she could picture his face in her head.

Despite herself, she could not resist taking a closer look at the man she had been attempting to rob. He was about twenty years of age, tall and good looking, with a noble chin and a determined nose.

His complexion was smooth, and the skin looked so soft, the girl found herself wishing she could run her fingers over it.

It would have been easy to give in to her softer feelings. What fight she had left was being overwhelmed by the crushing tiredness that she felt. Her stomach ached for food.  It had been two days since she had eaten properly, foraging from croft to croft in the clanless zone. She was too weary and hungry to fight more.

But then she pulled herself up sharp. She was so close now – she could not afford to fail. She had to get his knapsack. Undoubtedly it contained jewelry, her only chance to get out of bandit country safely.

The young man was mounting his horse and about to ride off. Knowing she had to act fast, the girl struggled against her bonds. With a little effort, she had them loose.

Stealthily, she slipped her narrow wrists free and found her slingshot. She had one chance to get this right.

The stone catapulted through the air, across the clearing and straight into his face.

“Aargh!” he screamed and instantly fell from his horse. Unfortunately, his fall was broken by something soft and supple: her!

Without warning, she found herself buried under his weight. She fought hard to get free, pushing against him wildly, trying to move his muscular form off her body. They were close enough to kiss, and she could hear his breathing coming in waves.

For the briefest of seconds, the lad’s eyes were face to face with hers. He stared so hard that she blushed, heat racing through her body. The boy’s lips were pink and inviting.  For half a moment, she imagined kissing them.

Her reverie cost her the advantage. Within seconds, the man caught both her wrists in one strong hand, while the other hand gripped her face. Too late to scream, the girl’s eyes bulged, and her heart pounded. But he didn’t use his strong, pale hand to throttle her. Instead, he yanked down her scarf, exposing her face to the cold, March air.

There was a sharp intake of breath, as the lad stared at her, open-eyed. Despite her unmasking, the woman could not help but take amusement at his reaction.

“Gadzooks!” he exclaimed, looking visibly shocked. The girl smirked. Clearly, her disguise worked well; the lad had no idea that she was a female.

A thin veil of recognition passed over his face. She watched as it traveled down through his features. Instantly, he let her go.

Knowing that he no longer posed a threat, she got to her feet, straightening out her long, honey blonde hair, which had been set free from its cover.

Unmasked, the girl positively glowed in the dim morning light, amused at the lad’s entranced gaze.

“Well, hello!” she murmured, still catching her breath.

The lad stared uncomprehendingly into her face as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. His stare was so brazen that she felt like she had to deflect his gaze.

“Ye nae seen a woman afore, lad?” she mocked. “Put yer tongue back into yer heid!”

Then, getting up from her position on the ground, she walked tentatively around him. Now that she had made her connection, it seemed unlikely that he would continue with his attack.

“So then, ye’ve changed a wee bit since our last meet,” she said pertinently, raising a light brown eyebrow pointedly. “Long time, no see, laddie!”

The lad just stared into her eyes, as if he could not comprehend the words she was saying.

She could see by the way he was looking at her that he was trying to figure her out as if she were a puzzle.

He stood, running his bright jade eyes up and down, along and across her form. She had seen that look before on men’s faces and had reason to fear it. However, with this lad, she instinctively knew that she was safe.

It wasn’t even because she recognized him. The girl had learned, through bitter experience, that simply knowing a man did not preclude him from taking advantage of a girl if he thought that he could get away with it.

God knew, over the last few weeks and months, as she had picked her way through the Highlands from hunting lodge to hunting lodge, she had met more than her fair share of chancers.

So, she knew a good man when she saw one. From the honest glint in this lad’s eyes, there was no way he would take advantage. If anything, she was going to be the one to do that!

The girl did not wait around to find out if she was wrong. Without giving the lad a chance to get one over on her, she reached around for something, anything, to avoid him leaving her with nothing.

He had not only managed to get to his feet but had now summoned his enormous black stallion to his side, which was harrumphing and whinnying impressively in her direction. If she were not quick, he would jump on the horse and be gone forever!

Panicking, the woman looked about for some way to stop him. She desperately needed what he had, and there was no way that she could allow sentiment to get in the way.

However, she was disarmed, and her slingshot lay several feet away, near the wretched horse’s powerful hooves. Given the menace in its eyes right then, she felt little desire to try and acquire it.

She was defenseless!

He was about to leap up when she spied a very large stone, nestling at her feet. Without waiting to think it through, she hurled it straight at him.

The lad was in the middle of mounting the ferocious beast, when the stone hit him, squarely on the jaw, visibly injuring him.

Thump! The girl’s heart gave a jump as the lad tumbled unceremoniously towards her for a second time. But this time, the girl knew better than to get trapped beneath him and sidestepped to avoid his fall.

Wham! He landed in a sorry pile, not far from where she had been, but the girl wasted no time in getting free and preparing to run fast. To try and make good her escape, she picked a second stone from the ground and flung it at him, this time hitting him in the face.

“Aargh!” groaned the lad, clutching his face and rolling around in agony.

The girl tried to ignore his pitiful cries because she knew if she paid them heed, she might end up taking pity on him, which would never do!

Trying her hardest to push away the errant thought, the lass twirled around, just for a second, catching the red-haired lad straight in the eye.

He wasn’t hurt badly but was beginning to smart. She could not help herself from saying to him:

“Ye should ken better than to try and stop me, Beathan!”

She might as well have slapped him across the face; such was his surprise. It was hard for her not to laugh at his dismay.

“Aye, I ken ye, an’ yet ye dinnae ken me!” she quipped, smiling at his amazed face. “A lass could feel hurt!”

It was a jest, but something deep inside the girl’s heart stirred. She had been prepared for his recognition from the moment the mask had been pulled from her face. When it hadn’t happened, she had been stung slightly.

But there was no time for such thoughts now. Events were moving at such a speed that they were outpacing even the girl’s racing thoughts.

Without a second’s further consideration, she leaped towards the loosed horse. The animal was snarling and snorting like one of Satan’s beasts, but she paid it no heed. She had a way with horses and could tame it, the same trick she had with men.

The girl steadied the black horse and mounting the beast, was off, galloping across the soggy landscape, her hands tight against the horse’s back.

From down on the ground, in the ditch, the lad was stirring, but she was so far away that she could barely see him.

Raising his voice against the wind she heard the pierce of his cry, “Halt there! Stop, thief!”

But it was to no avail. As if he knew this, the lad yelled again, this time with something that stopped her heart in its tracks… her name.

“Ye’ll nae get away wi’ this…. Aye, lassie, I ken ye… Edme!”

Chapter 2

“Edme!” his voice rang through the trees in the small copse multiple times. “Edme! Edme! Edme!” the lad screamed his lungs right out of his chest, circling her heart with his cries.

For just one moment, Edme hovered astride the braying horse. Then, the lad issued a direct command to the animal.

“Prince!” he called plaintively. At the sound of its master’s voice, the horse immediately stalled, refusing to go further and threatening to throw the girl from its back.

“Stop it!” Edme screamed. The animal, which had behaved itself up until now, was rearing up into the air. At any turn, she could be cast asunder. “Help!”

She soon found herself flying through the air, like a stone from her slingshot. As she fell, time seemed to slow down, filling her with a strange calm. In the skies above, the birds beat their wings in flight, and a deadening quiet fell over the copse.

Even the stallion was temporarily silenced, mesmerized by the sheer grace of her fall. It was as if she was flying on gossamer wings; the only sound was the echo of her scream ringing out over the treetops and across the trees.

Internally, she raged. He had done this to her! If he had never removed her scarf, she would have been well on her way by now!

“Beathan!” she cursed, falling out of the sky and landing almost directly on top of him with a hearty smack.

But unlike his crash landing, it seemed that he was waiting for her, ready to break her fall with outstretched arms.

Thump!

With a crash, she landed straight into his waiting arms. It took Edme all her strength not to scream, but she just managed it.

All the same, she could not stop herself from shutting her eyes and scrunching herself into a ball to shield herself from pain.

But to her surprise, she did not feel any. As she checked herself carefully, there was barely a jolt to her frame.

“Aye, yer alright, I reckon!” she could hear his voice say. “An’ I doubt there’s anythin’ wrong wi’ yer eyes!”

Self-consciously, Edme opened her eyes. The sharp winter daylight pierced them painfully, as the world jarred into focus. Looking upwards, she had expected to see gray acres of sky. But instead, she found herself glaring straight into Beathan’s emerald eyes.

Beathan blinked. He was so close that she could feel his breath. He pored over her, checking for injuries, tending to her like a nurse.

Edme’s body tensed, and she removed herself from his grasp and stood beside him, albeit taking a few well-chosen paces back.

“Well, if it’s not the Maid of McKinley! So, is this what yer doin’ noo? Robbing folks?”

Edme could feel the lad’s cool gaze washing over her like winter rain. Instantly, she felt small and cheap.

“Well, come on noo! Ye were after my mother’s jewels weren’t ye! So come on an’ tell me just what it was that ye wanted them for!” he asked, not unreasonably.

Although a foot away, Edme could feel him bearing down on her, staring at her intently. But instead of returning his gaze, she turned away, clamming up.

“Tell me then, Maid McKinley, what is it that yer clan wants wi’ our clan’s precious stones?”

The question hung in the air, hauntingly, needling the girl visibly as she pretended to look away. Inside, her heart beat fast. She did not know what to say. She did not have an answer to give him for the question he asked. She pouted and turned away, much to the scorn of the lad watching her.

Beathan folded his arms and waited, with a smug expression on his face.

“Well, if ye will nae tell me, maybe the Laird can drag it out of ye,” he announced, a determination coming into his bright green eyes. “Or maybe even one of the guards! I daresay the Sheriff will take an interest too!”

At the mention of this, the girl’s eyes widened. Watching her reaction carefully, the lad continued.

“An’ wi’ all the robberies around here, I wouldnae be surprised if he hangs ye, just to mak’ an example!” he added, glancing slyly at her.

The girl visibly whitened, her already pale skin taking on an almost translucent quality.

In the lull that opened up between them, a flock of starlings flew overhead, their noisy intervention momentarily distracting them both.

Edme watched the lad as he raised his eyes up high, noting his firm physique and rugged shoulders. Then she smiled, a little coyly.

“Ye wouldnae dae that,” she declared softly, her eyes scanning his for a reaction.

He bristled slightly, but without taking his eyes off the noisy birds, he continued, “Och aye, wouldnae I? Is that a chance ye wannae take, lass?”

Edme could not see his face, but she fully imagined him to be laughing at her, despite his stern words.

“The laird takes the theft of his jewelry very seriously! An’ that’s nothing on what the lady might do. An’ I can tell ye, ye dinnae want tae get on the wrong side of her!” he added.

This time he did look at her, bringing his almost luminous bright green eyes down to bear on her. At that moment, Edme thought she detected just a shade of warmth. In his face, a glazed amusement passed over, as if he was having some sort of jest with her. Then, in an instant, it had vanished, and his face returned to its ice-cold bed of steel.

“So then, what’s it gonnae be, lassie?” Beathan inquired, almost snarling the words; his previous demeanor put on hold.

All the same, Edme held her nerve. One thing the last few months had taught her was to spot a performance when she saw one. The lad was bluffing; she felt sure.

“Ye either answer my questions, or ye come wi’ me to someone who will make ye!” he promised, stiffening in his pose and patting down his clothes.

His hands fumbled about for something that seemed to be missing. In the blink of an eye, the girl noted his empty dagger pouch.

Then, her deft eyes spied something, glinting in the March sun – his black sgian dubh. It was there, just nestling by a tree, maybe about half a foot away from where she was standing. Unable to believe her luck, Edme lunged to grab it.

“I think yer lookin’ for this!” she announced, flashing the ornate looking dagger towards him, just close enough to his person for him to try to snatch it.

Like a cat, teasing its prey, she held it close enough to elicit a response, but in the split second that he took to swipe at it, she retreated, laughing.

Frustrated, Beathan lurched forward again, still unable to catch the dagger.

“Here! Give it back!” he demanded as she laughed.

“Nae,” she replied, taunting him with the jewel-encrusted sword, jabbing it this way and that, with dramatic gestures, swiping through the air. “I will nae!”

“It’s hopeless, yer nae match for me, lassie!” Beathan reasoned, but under his pale soft skin she could see that beads of sweat were forming,

“Och, I ken yer strong, laddie,” praised the girl, pretending to be impressed. She glanced over at the boy’s taut muscles. It was hard not to be somewhat affected by the lad’s solid set of muscles. Although covered by a brightly checkered plaid, Edme could see the outline of his frame, from his well-defined shoulders to his muscular forearms sticking out of his sleeves.

She gave an involuntary shiver as she contemplated the look of his firm stomach and tried not to think of anything that lay beneath his sporran.

“So, yer strong,” she repeated. “But are ye quick?”

Before the meaning could be clear to him, Edme was off, running as fast as she could, her slender frame disappearing over the top of the hillside.

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

Edme!

The name burned in Beathan’s heart like fire. As he watched the McKinley filly speeding away again, Beathan could barely believe his eyes.

In despair, he shouted after her, hoping it would shame her into stopping. It did not.

“Edme! Edme McKinley! Come back here now, or ye’ll be the worst for it!” he called hopelessly after her.

God knows, Beathan had been having a bad enough day already. His mission had been simple: transport the Cairngorm brooch belonging to his mother from the Craig keep to the Duncan castle, which had been his grandmother’s home before marriage. This was mainly for safekeeping since, in recent times, attacks and skirmishes with the English and other bandits had seen a sharp increase.

So far, he had had to contend with a freak hail storm, an inexplicably spooked horse, and a loosed bull. His intended leisurely morning’s hunting had ended when he lost his father’s jeweled dagger and now this!

For a moment or two, Beathan watched in dismay as both sword and girl bobbed out of view, then he steeled himself. He wasn’t about to let them go without a fight!

“Edme! Stop!” he called, tearing after her.

Despite his intense fury – which was mainly at himself for allowing this to happen – Beathan could not help but feel slightly impressed at this slip of a lass who had somehow managed to get the better of him.

This chimed with Beathan’s vague memories of the slight, lively maid with honey streaked hair he recalled from Hogmanay gatherings at the McKinley castle. These were held annually and always well attended by the local clan Lairds.

If it was one thing that the Laird of McKinley knew, it was how to put on a good feast. Fondly, Beathan recollected childhood scenes in the vast McKinley castle with venison, haggis, pheasant, and other hearty dishes. This was washed down with wine and a local, single malt, which, even as children, they managed a wee dram.

But he couldn’t remember much of Edme, just a hazy recollection of a rather bossy wench with blonde tresses. Back then, she had been very much in her older brother’s shadow, and he could not remember having a lot to do with her, as girls barely entered his head back then, and when they did, they were more annoyances than acquaintances.

Well, that was one thing that had not changed! As Beathan watched the laughing girl run faster, he resolved that he would get the last laugh somehow. And it was not long before he got his chance!

Whump! A sharp cry sounded across the horizon, and Beathan watched the girl fall over and lay very still.

Unable to see if the girl was safe or harmed, Beathan sped along, over the craggy hillside and up to the spot where the fallen girl lay. It looked as though she had tripped over a branch and hit her head against a rock.

As he approached, Beathan took a sharp breath. The sight of her laying there so still, her shining honey-colored hair strewn recklessly about her whitened face, brought him up hard.

Everything about her seemed lifeless, her lithe limbs stretched out in various directions, and her eyes shut.

Beathan’s heart thumped painfully in his ribcage. With a sour twist, he saw his jeweled dagger lying on the wet grass before him as if it had been offered up by the Gods.

But he was so overwhelmed that he forgot to take it. Instead, he hovered over the girl’s unmoving form. Barely daring to breathe, he looked on.

Everything around him seemed to have stilled, slowed to a crawl almost, as if time itself had been halted.

Thump! Thump! Thump! His heart clamored loudly in his chest. She couldn’t be dead, could she?

His eyes widened in fear as he approached her cautiously, gently prodding her shoulder. There was no response.

“Edme?” he asked softly.

Heaven knows, Beathan had been trying his darndest to keep the trepidation out of his voice and act as if he was not affected. After all, she was a thief who had taken his dagger. There was not one person in the clan who would condemn him in any way for the course of events that had unfurled.

In reality, he would be wholly justified in walking away from the woman who had tried so hard to rob him. Perhaps he would even be doing the clan a favor, ridding them of such a troublesome wench.

It wouldn’t be the first time he had to injure someone in combat. Skirmishes with the English and their traitorous lackeys were becoming ever more frequent, and Beathan had had to assist his father, the Laird of Craig, many times in seeing them off. Just last year, he had been present at the battle at Glen Shiel, which had seen many of their best men slaughtered.

But that had been different, they had been under attack and fighting for the survival of the clan. Also, none of them had been women.

Beathan stared down at the pallid girl, lying rigid in the muddied bog, and gave an involuntary shiver. He tried to remind himself how this woman had just attempted to rob his clan of their jewels and their heritage.

However, just as he was about to pull away from the maid, he lingered. He could not do it. Despite his bravery in battle, Beathan still retained a softness inside. She was injured, and she needed help.

Pressing down closer against her, Beathan looked carefully for signs of life. It didn’t feel quite right, slipping his fingers in beneath her stays and checking for a pulse, but he did it anyway, knowing that every second she was unconscious put her further into danger.

“Edme, Edme,” he said softly, calling her name, trying to wake her.

Nothing. She did not so much as flinch when he brought his head close to hers. Panicking, Beathan went to check her airways. By placing an ear to her mouth, his face close to her bosom, he could tell she was not breathing.

Urgently, he pressed his mouth against her lips. They were so tender and a delicate shade of rosebud pink, their sweetness at odds with the girl’s usual brash manner.

She lay there, as pale as a corpse, her chest not responding to his compressions. Forcefully he breathed in through her airways, her honeyed perfume swirling in the air like a song.

After a few sharp breaths, he gave a slight pause, giving a chance for the girl to breathe alone. But there was nothing. Now panicking, Beathan worked harder, breathing in deep and rhythmically to her flattened lungs.

It seemed to take forever, and a deep silence fell over the glen as if everything was still and waiting for her to take a breath.

Beathan did not know how long he waited, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it felt like days. After several rounds, he was forced to stop to catch his breath. He was just about to continue when the girl took in a large breath.

She slowly came around, opening her eyes with a small groan. Sitting up, the girl tried to get to her feet.

“Nae ye dinnae!” said Beathan gently, pressing her back down. “There be plenty of time for that when we get back to the keep!”

Edme looked up. “The keep? How ye gonna get me there Master Craig?” she asked pointedly.

From behind him, Prince snarled impressively. Beathan glanced at the horse and laughed. The girl groaned, rolling her eyes.

Reading her mind, Beathan continued. “Dinnae ye fash, this time, I’m going to make sure ye cannae fall!” he grinned, fastening the wench’s hands securely behind her slender back.

As he tied her up, Beathan felt a sudden jolt of what could only be described as lust, racing its way up through him.

Beathan scowled. This was the last thing he needed now, to let unnecessary passions get in the way of a cool-headed decision. He had made that mistake once before. This time he resolved to make sure she did not escape.

“Come on, lass, be still. Ye need to keep yer strength up for meeting the Sheriff!”

The girl groaned as Beathan smiled. Helping her up gently, he fastened the tired girl onto his horse, ensuring she was firmly set. Then he leaped on in front and cracking the whip set the stallion off on a gentle trot back towards Craig keep.

“Well, the second attempt was better than yer first time!” drawled the girl, enigmatically as they went. Her voice was dreamy, but when he turned to look, Beathan saw a serious look shoot through her eyes. Then they turned mischievous.

“First time?” he asked, confused. “I barely ken ye, lassie. The first time for what?”

Beathan momentarily took his eyes off the path to look at her, uncertain.

“Och, Beathan!” she whispered coyly. “The first time ye kissed me, of course!”

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

Chapter 1

Ronald was dead.

There was nothing that Donal could do but watch as they buried his little brother—and even watching was proving difficult. Inside himself, he could only feel a vast void. It was the nothingness that only came when emotions were too much to bear; when a human mind reached its limits, and could only shut down to protect itself.

Donal didn’t cry. He didn’t shed a single tear. He did vomit, though, running as far away from the funeral as he could before his stomach began to revolt against him. The sight of his dead brother was unbearable.

After the funeral, all he could do was drink, coming close to joining his brother in the afterlife. It took him six months to stop drinking, and once he did, he knew he couldn’t stay in those parts for even one minute longer.

He also knew where he had to go: Castle Sween, the place where it had all begun.

In Donal’s memory, Castle Sween was a thing of wonder. He remembered the stone walls of the castle, towering over the surrounding land of Knapdale, the grand windows in the towers with a view of Loch Sween, and the seemingly endless green grass that covered the ground every summer.

Donal had been of only twenty years of age when he had last been there—six years prior, training under the General of the MacMillan clan. His father had insisted that he and his younger brother, Ronald, spend months in Castle Sween as a preparation for their future duties: Donal’s responsibilities as a laird and Ronald’s duties as his right-hand man.

For Donal, training under such a skilled man with a vast experience in battle was a gift for which he would forever be grateful. He had learned everything he knew from that man, and all that knowledge that he had gathered was what would one day make him the kind of laird that his clan, Clan Cameron, deserved.

Donal wished he could say that it had been the same for his brother, that he had become a man under the General’s supervision and guidance, but the truth was that Ronald had never made it past the age of four-and-twenty. He’d never had the chance to blossom into the man that he was supposed to become, never had the opportunity to grow up and take his place in the clan next to Donal.

Death had taken him young, creeping up on him earlier than anyone could have expected. His heart gave out, his family had told everyone. The Cameron clan was in mourning for weeks over the loss of the laird’s beloved son, the waste of his young life hanging heavy over them.

Donal had proof of the real cause of his brother’s death, though, and it wasn’t his heart; or perhaps it was, in a way. Ronald’s heart had given out because of a cruel, treacherous woman, and the sadness that engulfed him drove him to take his own life.

Donal had been the one who found Ronald, laying on the floor of his bedroom with a handkerchief clutched tightly in one hand and a small blade in the other. There had been so much blood; it had pooled around his body, spreading across the floor. The memory turned his stomach.

It was a sight that no older brother should ever have to face.

The rest was a blur in Donal’s mind from that day. He remembered picking up the handkerchief from Ronald’s hand, stained in his own blood, and reading the initials that were embroidered on the soft linen. V.M, the same initials that were signed at the bottom of a letter he found on Ronald’s desk, crumpled as though his brother had read it a million times.

Donal himself knew that letter by heart, reading it over and over, trying to make sense of what had happened to his brother, what was so dire as to drive him to take his own life.

               Ronald,

I do not wish to see you again. You are a fool for thinking I could ever love a man like yourself—a foppish, weak-souled idiot. I despise you utterly and completely.

Every time you left my sight, I began to laugh, thinking about all the promises you made to me for the future.

There will be no future between us. I only pretended to love you so that you would do as I said, which only served to make me laugh more.

No woman could ever love you, Ronald. You are, and always have been, the laughingstock of the MacMillan clan. There is no future in your horizons, and no promise of anything except humiliation for both yourself and a future wife. You will never amount to anything, and thus, I could never be with you.

As it happens, I have secured another’s affections, and he has all of the traits you lack—ambition, skill, intelligence. I shall not regret affiancing myself to him and fixing myself to his star. There is no hope of regaining my affections, Ronald; kindly move on, and have it as though we never crossed paths.

               Don’t write back to me. I don’t want to hear from you.

                                                                                                                           V.M.

That wretched woman was the reason for his brother’s death, and she was also almost the reason he would never finding eternal peace. His mother couldn’t bear to think that Ronald would not receive a proper burial, though, so his father had decided to keep his suicide a secret, instead telling the entire clan that he had died from a weak heart, a defect that they never knew he had.

No one had questioned it, but the image of Ronald’s wrists, slit open with that blade, had burned into Donal’s mind.

Ever since that day, Donal had committed his life to finding the woman responsible and bringing her to justice. He had all he needed; after all, he had the letter mentioning the MacMillan clan, and he had the woman’s initials.

Donal and Ronald had only ever met two women with those initials, and they were sisters. Vanora and Vika MacMillan were the daughters of the very man who had taken the two brothers under his wing, teaching them everything they needed to know; they were the daughters of the general.

There was only one thing Donal could do then, and that was to head to Castle Sween. It was up to him to discover which one of the two sisters was responsible for his brother’s heartbreak and his death, and he would make his brother proud; he would avenge him.

Had it not been for the reason behind his travel, Donal would have enjoyed it thoroughly. It was the end of August, the perfect time to travel, as the sun shone bright most days, bathing the Highlands in its warmth and light. Even the rainy days were comfortable, with gentle breezes instead of strong winds. If it were winter, Donal didn’t know if he would have had the courage to brave the journey.

As he approached Castle Sween, he felt as though he was a young lad again, back when he had first seen the place. Donal ran a hand through his hair, pushing his ginger mop back to take a better look at all the stones that lined its walls.

He remembered carving his name on one of them, next to Ronald’s own, the two of them leaving their marks there forever.

Donal patted his pocket as he rode through the castle gates, a habit that he had developed ever since beginning to carry that handkerchief and the letter with him at all times. He liked to remind himself every now and then that they were still there, safe in his pocket.

Naturally, Donal attracted the gazes of the clansmen the moment he rode into the castle grounds. He wondered how many of them remembered him, but if he were to judge by the strange mixture of joy and sympathy on their faces, he would say that he was still in everyone’s recollections.

He had no desire to listen to people’s condolences. He had already heard his fair share of them, and it did nothing to console him or bring his brother back. He had begun to avoid people’s pity whenever he could. Instead of lingering in the courtyard, he left his horse with the stable boy and headed inside the castle to find the man who had shaped him into the man that he was then.

He had barely taken a few steps, his shoes making that familiar click-clack on the stones, when he collided with another body, his bigger frame sending the other person tumbling onto the floor.

“Lord!” Donal exclaimed, rushing to help the girl that he had pushed down. “Are ye alright, lass?”

“Donal?”

The girl looked up at him, and at that moment, Donal realized who she was, just as she took his hand and used it to stand up.

“Vika?”

It couldn’t have been anyone else. Vika had hair like the sunshine and eyes like the deepest loch. Though she had changed a lot since the last time Donal had seen her, having been only a bairn back then, he immediately recognized her because of those very features.

Vika had grown into a fine young woman, though the flush on her cheeks and the childish grin on her face made her look like that child Donal had met six years ago.

Wherever Vanora went, Vika was always close behind, so Donal was not surprised when Vanora appeared from around the corner, alarmed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.

The two sisters couldn’t be less alike. Vanora took after their father, with her dark hair and brown eyes like two pools of amber, and Vika took after their mother. Had Donal not known that they shared the same parents, he would have never guessed that the two women were sisters.

“Donal!” Vanora said, rushing to him once she recognized him. “What are ye doing here? When did ye arrive?”

She was truly a sight, a few strands of her hair falling on her pale neck, her dress showing off her best assets.

So much unlike her sister, who preferred layers and drawing as little attention to her own fine figure as possible.

“We didnae ken that ye’d come!” Vika said. “Have ye told Father? He never told us!”

“I didnae tell him. And I only just arrived.” Donal smiled at the enthusiasm that the sisters were showing before he could stop himself. It was easy to fall back into old habits, being friendly with them and allowing himself to be charmed by them, but he had to remember that one of them was the reason his brother was dead.

He didn’t blame both sisters, of course. Until he knew which one had killed him, though, he would have to be careful with both of them.

They were women now. They were not the little children he’d once known, and it wasn’t only their looks that had changed. Vanora carried herself differently, confidence exuding from her, while Vika had opened up, so unlike the shy girl she once was.

“I barely recognized the twa of ye,” Donal continued. “Ye have changed so much.”

“Aye, so have ye,” Vika pointed out. “Ye didnae have that scar when ye were here.”

Vika reached over and poked Donal on the cheek, where he had a small scar from the time he’d gotten in a brawl. It was such a small detail that he was surprised Vika had noticed.

Vanora was frowning, though, head tilted to the side as she looked at Donal.

“And why did ye not tell Father?” Vanora asked. “He’d want tae ken that yer here.”

“Aye,” Donal said. “I wanted it tae be a surprise. I thought I’d go tae his study and see if he’ll remember his old student.”

“He will!” Vika assured him. “Father still talks about ye often, ye ken. I think he misses ye…he misses having a son.”

Donal had never considered that Cormag MacMillan could think of him as a son, and he felt a strange warmth radiate inside him when he heard Vika refer to him as such. It was unfair to the two sisters—that much Donal knew—but it also felt good to be appreciated and loved.

Besides, one of them was a murderer. He had no reason to feel bad for them.

The question was, which one was the one responsible? It was difficult to tell. After all, he had spent a lot of time with the two sisters in the past, and when he had first figured out that one of them had broken his brother’s heart with that cruel letter, he could hardly believe it.

Vika was the younger of the two, and she had always been a sweet, shy girl. Donal had a hard time suspecting her. Vanora had been a sweet girl, too, but now…now she was so different from her former self that Donal didn’t know what to believe. She was a beautiful woman, after all, and she seemed to know it. She must have broken the hearts of many men.

“Father is in his study the noo; ye can go and see him,” Vanora said. “Do ye want me tae take ye there?”

“No, no need,” Donal assured her with a wave of his hand. “I still ken where his study is, unless the old man decided he needed a change. I’ll find my own way; dinnae fash yerself.”

“We’ll see ye at supper, then?” Vika asked. “Mrs. Gallach will want tae prepare a whole feast for yer arrival.”

“Ach, no need for that, either, Vika,” Donal assured her. Mrs. Gallach, the head housekeeper of Castle Sween, had always been a sweet woman who worked too much. Donal didn’t want to put her into the trouble of preparing a feast last minute. “Please tell Mrs. Gallach that I dinnae need a feast. Whatever she had planned for supper is more than fine.”

“Aye, I’ll tell her,” Vika said. “It’s good tae see ye, Donal.”

With that, Vika rushed off to the kitchen to find Mrs. Gallach, but Vanora stayed behind. She leaned against the wall, a hand on her hip as she regarded Donal.

“Ye have grown since the last time I saw ye,” she said.

“So have ye.”

Donal remembered the last time he had spoken to Vanora as though it were yesterday. She had been of five-and-ten years then, while he had already turned twenty, a wee lass against a man. The last thing Vanora had told him was that she loved him, and the last thing Donal had told her was that he was too old to be with a child. Then he had laughed.

He regretted that now. Vanora had done nothing back then to deserve his mockery, and yet he had been so cruel to her. He didn’t know what to say. The woman standing before him was very much grown now, the child she used to be left in the past.

“Aye…I suppose people tend to do that,” Vanora teased, a hint of a smile crossing her lips.

She didn’t seem to be angry with him, Donal thought. He wondered for a moment if she still felt something for him, or if she had moved on to bigger and better things. Surely, a woman who looked like her—pale skin on display on her décolletage and a neckline specifically designed to show off the swell of her breasts—would have many admirers.

Could Ronald have been one of those admirers? That could very well be the case, and Donal wouldn’t be surprised if Vanora was the woman with whom his brother had been infatuated.

Before Donal could say anything, Vanora spoke again.

“I will make sure that Mrs. Gallach kens ye came. I dinnae trust Vika tae carry a glass of water, let alone relay information.”

“Thank ye.” Donal thought that simply saying that would be easier than asking Vanora why she didn’t trust her sister over something so simple. The two of them had always had a strange dynamic, and Donal had seen Vanora eclipse Vika many times, her natural charm and ability to make people instantly love her putting Vanora at the forefront.

Vanora turned around to walk away, but she stopped after taking only a few steps. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, her back turned to Donal before she finally turned around to meet his gaze.

“And Donal…it is verra nice tae see ye again. Truly.”

With that, Vanora made her way to the kitchen, leaving Donal standing there, stunned. She had sounded sincere, Donal thought, as though she had forgotten everything that had happened between them. How could that be, though? Allegedly, Donal had broken her heart, and even though it had been six years since that day, he would have thought that she would still hold a grudge against him.

It was yet another mystery that would have to wait. There was no way for Donal to find out if she had forgiven him; not quite yet, at least. He would ask her eventually, after he’d spent a few days at the castle. It was too early in his stay for him to stir the waters like that.

With a last glance at the place where Vanora had stood only moments earlier, Donal turned around and headed for Cormag’s study, eager to see his old teacher again. He only wished that Ronald could be there with him, that his travels were for recreation instead of sleuthing. As it were, Donal could hardly enjoy any of it.

There was no use to have such wishful thoughts, though. What was done was done, and Donal would never get his brother back.

All he could do was spend his time at Castle Sween figuring out which of the two women had taken his brother’s life—and avenge his premature death.

Chapter 2

Despite Donal’s insistence that there shouldn’t be a feast in his honor, Mrs. Gallach decided to throw one anyway, eager to give their guest a proper welcome.

It didn’t hurt that Vanora practically begged her for a feast.

Vanora hadn’t forgotten the last time that she had spoken to Donal. She didn’t think she could ever forget it—the way that he spoke to her as though he thought that she was nothing but a foolish child, breaking her heart for the first time in her life.

Part of her was still angry. Not because Donal had rejected her, but the way that he had done so. At ten-and-five years, she was indeed a child, and now that she was older, she understood why Donal didn’t see her the same way that she saw him. She only wished that he had been gentler about his rejection, instead of making her feel like a fool for telling him how she felt about him.

It was something that had shaped her as a woman. As she grew, the men around her began to pay attention, and while Vanora reveled in it, she never once allowed them to get too close, in case they ridiculed her the same way that Donal had.

Now, every time a man tried to approach her, she graced him with her attention, but never with her love.

She had thought about the day she would see Donal again many times in the past, wondering what she would do once she saw him. Would she hate him? Would she be flooded by the same feelings that she possessed for him six years prior?

It turned out that neither of those things was the reality. It was nice to see him, and Vanora couldn’t deny that it warmed her heart and quickened her pulse to have him right there in front of her. The words that he had told her before leaving all those years ago were still carved deep in her heart, of course—a wound that she doubted would ever heal. Yet she found herself getting flustered whenever she thought about him, just like when she was a girl.

Vanora also felt like she had something to prove to Donal. When she had confessed her love to him, he had thought of her as nothing more than a foolish child, but now she was a woman, one that many men desired. She wanted to show Donal that she was nothing like the innocent, naïve girl he’d once known. No matter how much she would deny it if anyone asked, the reason why she had talked Mrs. Gallach into throwing a feast was just so that she would have an excuse to doll herself up and impress Donal.

Now there she was, holed up in her chambers as she prepared for the feast. She donned her finest dress, one that she had reserved for a special occasion, as it was a gift from some English earl or duke whose name Vanora could not even remember, a sign of his affections towards her.

The satin fabric of her bodice and skirt was a soft blush, and adorned with ribbon bows and a looped trim. The low, rounded neckline only helped to accentuate her figure, as the corset that she was wearing underneath pinched her waist in. Breathing improperly was a small price to pay to look as she did, Vanora thought as she looked at herself in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the soft satin.

There was a knock on the door, and before Vanora could reply, Vika barged in and perched herself on the edge of her bed.

Vanora looked at her sister’s reflection in the mirror, taking in the heavy, forest green dress that she was wearing, the plain linen doing nothing for her shapely form or her pale skin.

It wasn’t as though Vika didn’t have her fair share of intricate, expensive dresses; she simply chose to not wear them unless she was forced to do so. Vanora kept her mouth shut instead of berating her, knowing that her sister would feel more comfortable in what she was wearing rather than donning something that would bring too much attention to her.

“You look verra nice,” Vika said, leaning back on the bed and propping herself up on her elbows in that way that Mrs. Gallach often called ‘unladylike.’ “Why dae ye look so nice?”

Vanora knew immediately what it was that Vika was asking, without her even having to elaborate. Is all this for Donal Cameron?

Her sister didn’t have to know everything. Vanora was even happy to lie to her own self and tell herself that she simply wanted to look nice for the feast, especially since the entire clan would be there.

“What? Can I nae look nice now?” Vanora asked, though the fact that she was defensive probably didn’t help her case. “I’ve never worn this dress…I thought it was time that I did.”

“Aye,” Vika said, sounding entirely unconvinced by her sister’s excuses. “Weel, if ye want to have some of the food, I suggest ye go down tae the hall now. Or will ye spend all night here?”

Vanora shot Vika a dirty look through the mirror before turning around and smoothing down her skirt with her hands. “How do I look?”

“I told ye, ye look verra nice,” Vika repeated once more. “Donal’s jaw will hit the floor when he sees ye…and so will everyone else’s.”

“I dinnae ken what ye mean,” Vanora insisted. “I dinnae care what Donal thinks, and I certainly dinnae care about what anyone else thinks. Their jaws can stay where they are for all I care.”

Vanora didn’t miss the amused look that Vika gave her, the one that made her look like she was much older than her ten-and-nine years; the one that made her look as though she knew things that Vanora never would.

“Shall we go, then?” Vanora asked, uncomfortable with having her little sister look at her as though she was older and vastly wiser.

“Aye,” Vika said. She stood up and followed Vanora. She took a pause, though, stopping in the middle of the room. “Before we go, can I have yer handkerchief?”

Vanora stopped walking too, and turned around to look at her sister. “My handkerchief? Why?”

“Mine was torn earlier today,” Vika said with a small shrug. “I forgot tae fix it, and I thought…weel, ye look so nice that no one will notice ye willnae have it. Everyone will be tae busy admiring yer dress, so I thought that perhaps ye’d give yours tae me for the night.”

Vanora softened at that, her eyes finding Vika’s own as she approached her and cupped her cheek with her hand. “Aye,” she said, “ye can have it. It disnae match the trimmings of the dress anyway.”

Vanora pulled out her handkerchief and handed it to Vika, who took it gratefully before following her sister out of the room. The two of them walked down the stairs and through the corridors of the castle, immediately attracting everyone’s gaze as they walked by them—or at least, Vanora did.

The hall was packed with tables and people, the clansmen of the MacMillan clan eager to see Donal once again. Vanora had always known that she wasn’t the only one who had immediately become fond of the man when she had first met him; everyone else had instantly adored him, too.

Vanora couldn’t blame them, especially since she, too, could see why people loved Donal so much. She thought back on all the times that Donal had done something kind, such as when he used to help the clan healer because he couldn’t bear to see people suffer from their illnesses, or when he had thrown himself into the freezing waters of Loch Sween to save a dog that had fallen in its depths. Whenever Donal wasn’t training with her father, he was bound to be found somewhere helping his fellow men and women.

It didn’t hurt that Donal had the looks to match, too. Vanora knew that girls would fall to his feet, and even married women would be willing to sin and betray their husbands for him. All Donal would have to do was ask.

Vanora herself had first been infatuated with his fiery red hair that always seemed to fall over his face, wild and unruly, and his green eyes, like the bushes and trees that surrounded the castle. Now that he was older, his features a little more mature, Vanora hadn’t failed to notice how the stubble on his face accentuated the strong lines of his jaw, the angles and corners of it.

It was at that moment, after having such thoughts about Donal, that Vanora realized she was in big trouble. Despite the way her heart beat fast in her chest when she thought about the man—so fast that she feared it would jump out of her body—and the way that her skin flushed and burned as though she was standing right next to a fire, she couldn’t allow herself to become attached once again.

Sure, she wanted to prove to Donal that she was not a little girl anymore, but that desire surely didn’t come from her wanting to win him over. Vanora had no interest in making him fall in love with her. She only wanted him to see what he had missed by rejecting her six years ago.

So what if her gaze traveled around the room, jumping from person to person to locate Donal? So what if she took a seat beside her cousin instead of her father, just because her cousin’s table had a better view of the entire room? She simply wanted to reconnect with Donal.

Her scouting for the man didn’t last long. The moment she had poured herself a cup of wine, a clansman approached her and asked her to dance. At first, she tried to resist, giving the man an excuse about being tired, but he insisted. Vanora soon found herself swirling around the room, all the while keeping an eye out for Donal.

Once her companion had taken his dance, other men began to flock to her, requesting a dance for themselves—and naturally, Vanora couldn’t refuse. She had already opened Pandora’s box, and she didn’t want to come off as rude or make the rest of the clan think she was favoring one clansman over the others. It would only serve to add fuel to the rumors that circulated about her throughout the castle.

A part of her liked the attention, but another, greater part of her sometimes wished it would stop. The way that the men, one after the other, demanded dances from her, along with her attention and affection, made her feel like a prized toy, handed from child to child until it broke. She had somehow found herself owing those men something, just because they liked the way she looked and because she was the general’s daughter. Everybody wanted to marry a girl like her, and they were all too busy to realize that the only thing they were doing in the process was erasing every hint of interest she had in them.

For once, Vanora longed to feel like a person rather than a means to an end, or some prized pig.

Still, she danced, and she smiled, and she allowed the men to talk away as they led her around the floor.

She didn’t even stop when she finally spotted Donal. He walked over to the laird’s table and took a seat between her father and Vika. She desperately wanted to join them. Instead, she watched as he and her sister spoke, her gaze glued on them even as the men she danced with twirled her around the room.

Vanora had to admit to a pang of jealousy in her gut, hot and sharp like a fire iron. Her eyes narrowed, and she could feel herself pouting, but she couldn’t force a smile anymore, not when she saw Donal laugh at something that Vika had said.

“Excuse me.”

It was all Vanora could manage to say before she stumbled away from her dancing partner, leaving him alone in the middle of the floor. Oh well, he would soon find someone else to dance with; Vanora was sure of that. She simply had to get out of the room and get some fresh air, the air in the hall suddenly heavy and stifling, thick like honey in her lungs.

Despite those moments when she seemed to have a secret that only someone beyond her years could have, Vika was young and innocent, and Vanora knew that she didn’t quite understand when men made advances towards women like her. Donal sat beside her sister, his hand almost brushing against hers on the table, his gaze locked on hers. Vika didn’t know what Donal was doing, but Vanora had seen many men do the very same thing, and so she knew better.

She had to go back in and separate them.

After taking a few deep, steadying breaths, Vanora made her way back to the hall, the impossibly tight corset that once seemed like a good idea now restricting her lungs to the point where she feared she would faint. She silently cursed whoever had decided to create corsets in the first place. Still, she plastered a smile on her face, ready to politely yet firmly interrupt whatever conversation Donal was having with Vika.

Yet when she got back to the hall, they were not having a conversation anymore. Instead, Donal was talking to her father, while Vika was talking and laughing with another man.

The sight gave Vanora pause, and she frowned a little to herself. Perhaps she had been quick to judge, and much too quick to become enraged with Donal. She didn’t want to think about what that meant. She didn’t want to admit that there was a possibility—no matter how small—that she still had deep, unavoidable feelings for the man.

What good would that do, after all? She would only end up getting her heart broken once again, and she wasn’t sure whether she could handle that one more time.

Just as she was walking to the Laird’s table, Donal’s eyes met hers, and she watched him stand up and approach her while she was glued on the spot, her feet heavy like lead and refusing to move. She swallowed dryly, trying to get rid of the knot in her throat that made breathing—and even looking at Donal—painful. The closer the man came, the harder her heart beat, until she was certain he could see her veins jump with every stroke of her pulse.

In the dim, incandescent light of the hall, Donal looked even more appealing, the deep shadows under his cheeks making him look severe, but also more handsome than ever.

Once he reached her, he offered Vanora his hand.

“A dance?”

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

Chapter 1

“Get yer dirty hands off of me!”

The red-haired girl snarled fearsomely, holding the sword up high in the direction of the brigands.

She hadn’t heard them coming, their footsteps silent as mice, or maybe the slithers of snakes, as they advanced through the bare winter landscape.

Probably it was the hounding wind, pursuing her since leaving the keep, which had blanched out all warning of their approach.

She should have expected it, she thought. This was bandit country, after all. The girl hitched up her skirts and trudged through the little pocket of trees, but there was no way out. She was trapped.

“Ah, she’s a wee spark this one. I like a lassie wi’ spirit!” said the brigand.

The man’s lean, weather-beaten face contorted in something that looked like pain, but from his bovine grunts, was evidently amusement. In an instant, he wrestled the dagger from the girl’s small hands. It wasn’t hard.

“Aye,” agreed a second man, coming forwards to leer closer at the girl. This one had greasy dirty blond hair that hung around his face. She could not help but flinch as he pressed his unattractive features towards her young face.

He smelled, and badly. The young girl was not used to such rough ways. Despite her bravado, she knew she was out of her depth. They could do anything to her now.

The young girl prayed silently up to the heavens for something, anything, to allow her to get away. Oh, where on earth were Robbie and Brodie—the bodyguards her father had assigned her? How she wished she hadn’t given them the slip.

Her clothes didn’t help either. She stared down at the heavy linen shift and fine tartan plaid—which looked impressive, but was almost impossible to walk in, even without the shoes. But her father had insisted.

“Yer a lady now, so start looking like one!” he said as his daughter pouted angrily. “Ye cannae go about like some serving wench!”

It wasn’t intentional, but his poor turn of phrase had pierced her heart. “Some serving wench”—the words rang through her ears, tauntingly. Without meaning to, her father had immediately invoked the circumstances of her birth.

Her parents had always been straight with her; she was adopted as a baby, —the child of a serving girl who died upon childbirth.

She remembered her mother telling her about her birth, and if she was vague about the details, she was clear about one thing.

“We chose ye, remember, which is more important than anything,” her mother Sine had explained. And she believed them. The girl knew that her parents loved her, but some days, it was too much.

“An’ if we’re strict, it’s for yer own good,” her father Finlay had shouted. “The clanless lands are just tae dangerous for a wee lassie!”

These were the last words her father had yelled at her as she slipped away. She hadn’t really put much thought into where she was going. She just needed to get away from them, from him. Sometimes he smothered her with his love.

And so, she had found herself running in impractical silk boots, out of the keep and across the moors to that forbidden place: the clanless.

Despite its risky status, the small plot of trees in the desolate glen was the best place for miles around to hunt deer, which she could do as skillfully as any man.

Almost as though it was chiding her, a whistle of wind blew across the woodland and straight into her face. It was so hard that it rippled her porcelain skin and sent her long, wavy red hair flying into the air.

An errant cloud scuttled across the noonday sky, bringing with it a sudden shaft of light that fastened upon the young lassie’s face. Even in the grips of panic, she was strikingly pretty, her jade green eyes gleaming out from her white-as-clay complexion. It outlined perfectly her snub nose and rosebud lips, drawing a line under her determined chin.

She didn’t want to hear it, but her father’s voice wafted into her head once more. “Whatever ye do, keep away from the clanless. Anything could happen to ye…ask yer mammie!”

Back in the reign of James VII, her father had rescued her mother, Sine, from vagabonds in almost identical circumstances—in this very spot.

But the girl hadn’t listened. Of course she hadn’t. Headstrong, she had simply tossed back her wavy red hair and bounded away from the claustrophobic keep, into the uncertain sunshine of a wild February day. Now his words replayed in her head, full of reproach.

But she wasn’t done yet! This trio of scoundrels might have the upper hand for now, but she was not going to give up without a fight! The girl was her mother’s daughter in every way, except blood. And if her mother had come out fighting, then so would she!

“I said let me pass,” she commanded imperiously. “I’m the Maid of Craig…once my father hears about this, ye’ll be sorry!”

If she’d hoped this would impress them, then she was to be disappointed.

“A dainty maid, ye say?” sneered the first one. He poked his crooked nose into her face.

She shrank back from his foul breath. He was thin and weathered, and his toothless jaw rendered him slightly pathetic, but his rangy arms were stronger than they looked. As he dug his dirt-stained fingers into her flesh, he leered.

“Aye, yer sweet as summer fruit…” he cackled lasciviously.

“Tak’ yer dirty paws off me! I’m not of age, nor am I chattel for sale!”

“Yer auld enough for what I have in mind,” he chuckled.

She felt herself go hot and cold simultaneously. The dagger that had been in her hands was now pressed deeply into his. Taking it, he ran the smooth contours of its silver handle down his callused digits.

The jewel-encrusted dagger was the only thing she had left of her grandfather, the former Laird of Craig. Her father would be heartbroken if she lost it. She wanted to weep, but it wouldn’t do to show weakness to these cowards.

“Give me that back!” screeched the girl. “I’ll kill ye with my bare hands if I have tae!”

“Easy, lassie!” laughed the dirty man, as his disheveled companions leered yet closer. “Ye dinnae want tae be saying things like that now!”

“She’s a real wildcat, this un’!” sneered the mousy blond one, as he drew nearer, too near. She spat venomously onto his greasy mane.

“You shouldnae ha’ done tha’!” the first one said. He turned his surly face round to hers, giving her a rough shake of the head as he did so.

“You don’t scare me!” she said, but it was a lie. Beneath the bravado, the young girl was trembling. Desperately, she tried to conceal her shaking hands. She hated to admit it, but her father had been right. This place was dangerous. Now she was trapped with no escape from these vagabonds.

Then, something startled them all—“Now scuttle off and find yer spine!” a voice commanded.

Stunned, she looked round to see a wild-looking boy of roughly her age—no more than fifteen—wielding a wide dagger straight at the throat of the main blackguard.

The frightened wretch was almost panting in terror. The lad had him in a headlock, neck taut against the blade. For a moment, the lank-haired bandit looked as if he might fight back. But the boy was too swift. Without seeming to move, he launched a knife into the bandit’s side, and he went down with a terrifying wail. This was more than enough for the third man. He ran off, leaving his friend at the young lad’s mercy.

The girl opened her eyes in amazement at the lad, juggling swords and fighting three men singlehanded. He wasn’t tall, but he was well-built, with ginger hair that tumbled crazily around his shoulders.

She could not help noticing that, although it was cold, he was only wearing a simple léine, overlaid with a raggedy scarf—which on closer inspection, may have been the remnants of a plaid cloak.

And his eyes…. she wasn’t a girl who was easily impressed, but the fire that crackled in his treacle brown eyes instantly ignited her. Whoever this lad was, he had come at just the right time!

“Come on, lassie, let’s gang awa’!” he hissed, suddenly turning to face her and marveling at what he saw.

The girl did not need a second invitation, she lifted up her skirts—which, the boy saw were of the finest quality—and placed a dainty foot forward.

“That’s if ye can run in all that finery!” he mocked. “What on earth made ye come out here on yer own?” he demanded, wrapping his strong, toned hand around hers as they ran. “Did ye lose yer mammie?”

This was more than the young girl could take. She stopped and bristled visibly. “Watch yer mouth, laddie. I’m fourteen tomorra’!”

“They’re getting away!” yelled one of the men. The lad didn’t waste any time looking back, but pulled on her arm to lead her away. She was rooted to the spot.

“Faster, come on!” pleaded the boy. The hot breath of the men was hard on their heels and almost touching the back of their necks.

“I’m trying!” squealed the girl frantically. But she was irredeemably mired in a ditch.

“If ye weren’t done up like the Queen o’ France, then we might not be in this shambles!” he said.

“Shut yer trap!” she hurled back, stubbornly refusing his gestures of help. “I was daein’ just fine without yer help!”

He laughed. “What? Aye, it really looks like it!”

Then he paused for a short while, looking her in the eye—although when she turned to look, he quickly glanced away.

“So, who are ye?” he asked, intrigued.

“I’m Freya, Maid of Craig! And ye’ll be sorry for mocking me!” she said in her stiffest voice. “So, what about ye?” she asked.

The lad was about to open his mouth when the words were taken from him.

“Get her, lads!” the greasy brigand’s voice burst suddenly into their midst. Without hesitation, the boy hoisted the stuck girl out of the muddy ditch, barely looking back. Then he ran as fast as he could with Freya draped over him.

“Put me down! Put me down!” she squealed, but he did not listen. Not until they were both over the ravine and past the little river which ran to the side of the wooded glen and back up the hillside to safety.

“You left my shoe!” Freya screeched. “Put me down…where are ye taking me!”

“I’m not taking ye anywhere!” the lad said, beginning to tire of her noise. “Just away from here…”

“Well, they’ve gone now, so stop!” she commanded.

He looked about him for a minute. The howling wind that had been circling the glen had finally dropped to a whisper, and the robbers had all disappeared. They were there alone; boy and girl, head-to-toe in mud, cast against the squally winter skies.

There was nothing for miles around, just small bramble bushes poking out from the barren lands. But none of it detracted from her beauty. She was such a picture, her bright ginger hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders. Her white petticoats completely submerged in thick layers of mud. The lad couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

“What are ye laughing at?” she flashed angrily.

“You! The state you’re in! Seems to me from the waist up, yer a noble maid, and from below, yer naught but a waif!”

Freya looked down. It was true. Her beautiful gown, the one that Sine had spent such a long time sewing, was completely ruined. She was going to go mad when she saw it. Worse still, she only wore one shoe now, and her feet were almost numb from the cold.

“What madness took hold of ye to come out like that, wee lassie?” he asked mockingly.

It was a good question, and she was asking herself the very same. “It was my father’s idea!” she found herself explaining to the boy.

He cast his mocking brown eyes over her disparagingly. They were large, honey-colored pools framed with dusky lashes that were overlain by a determined set of eyebrows.

And his hair—in the fleeting glints of sunlight that the cloud would permit—would turn from rusty amber to tawny red.

Suddenly, Freya felt a creeping irritation with the way this older boy was laughing at her. Impetuously she leaned down, scooped up a clod of wet earth, and aimed it squarely at the lad’s lugholes.

“There!” she steamed, triumphant, as he looked up in disbelief. “See how ye like being pelted with muck, if ye think it’s so funny!”

“Hey!” complained the lad, brushing the wet dirt from his shabby plaid. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t already wet and dirty enough.

“There’s more where that came from!” promised the fiery maid, reaching to pick up another handful. A sudden voice intercepted their play.

“Freya! What on earth are ye playin’ at—look at the state of ye!”

Both the girl and boy were rooted to the spot in surprise as the slender, but muscular, frame of Finlay came into view.

Only in his forties, Finlay cut a noble figure against the dark gray skies.
Not tall, but commanding somehow. He was known to be gentle and fair with his servants. However, Freya brought out his fiery streak.

“That is enough tomfoolery. Gather yer shawls and come with me. Robbie is bringing a cart…” her father said, displeased.

“That turncoat!” spat Freya, disgusted. She knew it was unfair. It was Robbie and Brodie’s job to follow her everywhere, but they could have come for her themselves. They didn’t have to summon her father. “Wait till I see that tattle-tale!” she blazed.

Maybe it was the spark in the girl’s nature, but as Finlay delivered his rebuke to Freya where they stood on the edge of the clanless territory, his eyes clouded momentarily with regret.

“I only wish ye could be trusted not tae scarper; then ye wouldn’t need guarding!” He paused, looking irritated. “What happened tae Robbie and Brodie? I might ay’ kenned ye’d get the better of them!”

It was true—Freya was too quick for the two hulks her father had appointed to guard her. Sometimes Freya wondered why on earth Finlay had chosen them to guard her. They were kind enough, but not exactly over-blessed in the brains department. And right now, judging by the look in his eyes, her father was wondering this too.

Freya screwed her eyes up and tried not to laugh at the memory of her father asking Sine one day if Freya had a crush on Robbie. Hiding behind the door, she had to contain her mirth.

Her mother cried out in amusement; “Dear Finlay, ye dinnae ken our lassie very well!” she had said, wiping away tears of laughter. “Robbie’s a nice lad, but he’s far too dimwitted for a bright spark like our Freya!”

And now, true to form, the spark inside Freya blazed with rage as she confronted her father defiantly. She was like the greatest flame in a fire, always burning—so like her mother in every way except for blood.

Finlay was about to take his daughter and get away from there, when for the first time, he noticed the boy.

To begin with, he hadn’t even seen him; he had been so still, almost camouflaged against the muddy landscape. Startled, Finlay reached into his leather pouch for his dagger.

“An’ who are ye, lad, an’ what are ye doin’ with my daughter…?” Finlay demanded of the strange boy. There was a tense moment as the boy came eye-to-eye with Finlay, silent in the muddied glen.

The poor lad was taken completely by surprise and said nothing—possibly terrified, maybe still working out a reply.

“Come on—tell me, who are ye!”

“That’s my son…” rang out a woman’s voice, making everyone look. “The rightful Laird of Craig!”

Chapter 2

The woman’s eyes flashed angrily against the stormy skies. She had appeared from out of the mountainous crags and now stood there, her dark hair billowing everywhere.

Both Freya and her father shared a look of confusion. In his differently-colored eyes, the telltale signs of annoyance were starting.

The only person who seemed to recognize the woman was the lad. He dropped his eyes to the ground in what looked like embarrassment.

“What did ye say?” shouted Finlay across the windswept vista. All around them were the bare shoulders of the wintery mountainside, still months away from the gentle greening of spring. As if to affirm the seasonal froideur, a sudden arctic blast launched an arsenal of hailstones. All four ducked for cover. The weather might have been doing its best to send them away, but it did not weaken Finlay’s resolve.

“Freya, are ye alright? If he’s done anything tae ye…?” started Finlay with suspicion.

“I’m fine, Father. Better still if ye’d have just let me on my own!” flashed Freya. She too was getting a good lashing of the snow and ice raging through the glen. Her answer did not satisfy Finlay one single bit.

“An’ ye, lad. Who are ye? Come on!” he snarled at the lad, who had still not spoken.

“He’s the rightful Laird of Craig,” spat the woman venomously. “Are ye deaf, as well as a murderer?”

Freya could see her father’s confusion was gradually giving way to anger. He was not the only one; the boy, too, looked perturbed.

“Mother,” he mumbled with displeasure.

The woman stayed in front of them, radiating anger. She was about the right age to be his mother, Freya supposed. But unlike her son, she was dark in complexion, with thick black hair raging around her ears.

She guessed she was about the same age as her mother, but she hadn’t aged as well. Her skin was as craggy as the landscape surrounding them, almost every inch of it furrowed and lined. Despite this, her stark and piercing blue eyes were still every bit as clear and cool as ever they had been.

Freya watched her father closely. His expression changed rapidly; “Nora…!” he said, giving a gasp that might have been recognition, but betokened rapid onset of apoplexy.

“Finlay,” said the woman, her pale eyes appraising him coolly. “I kent ye straight away…”

Finlay trained his eyes on Nora’s face. It didn’t seem as if he had recognized her straight away, but as he stared at the woman’s eyes, a look of realization passed through him. Nora’s eyes were just as blue as all those years ago, even if the flesh around them had withered.

“An’ the lad…?” asked Finlay, turning to the boy. He had been standing alone, by the prickly gorse bush that defined the mud lands.

“Wallace? He’s Seoras’s son. You know, yer uncle. The one ye killed…” she flashed him a look of utter hate. The wind took her words and thrust them into the air.

Freya and Wallace shared a glance. This was the first time she had heard his name.

Freya looked confused. Finlay had told her the history of Seoras and the clan well enough, but until that point, no-one knew of the existence of a son.

Following his daughter’s lead, Finlay stared in astonishment.

“I didnae think ye were married?” he questioned, curiously.

“I wasnae,” replied Nora through thin lips. There was a brief, embarrassed silence as the wind raced around the four of them again.

Finlay coughed. “But…ah… I don’t remember ye being with child…,” he said, screwing up his face in recollection. He looked as if he was casting his mind back to the night of their final battle, over fifteen years earlier.

“Aye, I hid it well,” replied Nora, glaring at him with her intense blue eyes. Freya watched as her father disengaged from her gaze and tried another tack.

“And this is where ye live?” asked Finlay, as if he could not believe it. He cast his eye about the barren lands dubiously.

Nora simply nodded and pointed to a line of crude-looking blackhouses, which Freya had not noticed, set into a dip of the horizon. If she strained her eyes hard enough, she could just make out a tiny crack of smoke arising from one of them.

Freya did not know much about construction, but even from here they looked rough and unkempt. And as Freya looked more closely at the woman, she saw her simple white plaid was muddied and torn. It was fastened about her shoulders in a rough knot, devoid of any pin. Her petticoats were in such a state that Freya had to avert her eyes. Nora watched the girl’s reaction to her with open hostility, envy burning in her eyes.

“We live in muck and shame,” she practically spat. “Down to ye. When ye exiled us, where did ye expect us tae go—a palace?”

Finlay raised his eyes and looked around at the blackhouses that lined the horizon. “Yer on clan lands. Ye are trespassing, madam!”

Nora cursed, sending a ball of spit racing in their direction. The dislike on her face was palpable. Instinctively, Freya moved closer to her father. Finlay placed a protective arm on her shoulder as the two of them closed ranks.

“Just who are ye, turning up like Lord and Lady Muck? If ye dinnae like it, boil yer head!”

An uneasy silence descended upon the party, in which not even the wind dared to breathe. Freya eyed her father watchfully. Normally, she wouldn’t think twice of jumping in and putting the woman in her place—but there was something stopping her. She looked deeply into Finlay’s face, but it was hard to read him or to know how he might react.

Freya stared at the boy, the outline of her father’s features echoing in Wallace’s own. It was so obvious; how could she not have seen it before?

Nora walked over to her son. From the expression on her face, it looked as though she had a few choice words for him, but for now, she simply stood there in defiance.

Finlay had had enough. On the horizon, a rickety cart wound unsteadily through the mud. Robbie and Brodie were coming, and they had back up. At this sight, Nora’s expression changed perceptibly.

“Now see that and hear good,” Finlay said, leaning towards Nora and her son. He dropped his voice and narrowed his eyes against the wind.

“Tak’ this bairn, yer bastard, and get right awa’ from our lands. Or ye’ll be the worse for it…” And with that, he ushered Freya away into the waiting cart.

It was a miserable, sodden journey through the wetlands. An entire hour passed without word between Finlay and his daughter. Every time he tried to look at her to start a conversation, she turned her perfectly proportioned face away from him, pouting. They drove on in total silence until reaching lands that surrounded the keep.

As soon as the cart came to a halt, Freya leaped up and away. Before anyone could so much as blink, she scaddled down across the rough pathway leading up to the keep and inside.

Finlay chased her into the house. “Freya!” Finlay called desperately after his daughter.

“Give her time,” said Sine softly.

Their daughter stomped up the draughty hallway and upstairs to her room, bringing with her an arctic blast that swept across the entire hall. “Aye, but…Freya!” he yelled. The door slammed dramatically.

His wife’s eyebrows arched in well-practiced acceptance. “Finlay, she’ll come down when she’s ready. Remember what I was like at that age!”

“Aye, yer right, of course,” said Finlay, going to embrace his wife.

The passing years had done nothing to diminish the strength of their feelings for each other. Sine was still every bit the girl that he had married—even now, more than twenty years on. Finlay pulled her willowy waist towards him, and for a moment, lost himself in caressing her long, jet-black hair.

“Nae one gray!” he murmured in admiration as the pair locked into an embrace. For once, the servants were doing something else, and they had the place to themselves. “Come here, ye wee strumpet!”

Finlay pulled his wife over to the chair by the fire, kissing her furiously. So consumed with passion were they that they didn’t hear the door opening, or the faint footsteps coming towards them.

“Well, you had me thinking I’d be given an upbraiding, but I reckon now the shoe is on the other foot!”

Finlay turned around quickly to see his daughter standing there, her previously petulant mood washed away. Instead, she was wearing a wicked grin that illuminated her features from ear to ear.

There was a pause while Sine grabbed frantically for her plaid, pulling it on speedily. Finlay’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

“The look on yer face, Father!” cackled Freya. Sine tidied her hair and tried to sit up.

It seemed as if Freya’s spirits were once more restored. Since there was no telling when her mercurial temper would strike again, Finlay nodded to his wife to leave father and daughter alone whilst all was well. Checking herself, Sine left the room, touching Freya’s shoulders as she went.

Recovering his composure and checking that his plaid and sporran were correctly in place, Finlay decided that there was no time like the present, and dived in headfirst.

“Freya—listen, lass,” he began. “Ye cannae just run off into the clanless lands like that. It’s nae safe for a wee lass on her own…”

“But I wasnae on my own, Father. There was Wallace…,” replied Freya, not missing a beat. Ever since meeting the lad, she had found herself thinking about him in a way she wasn’t used to. He was only a year or two older than her, but somehow, seemed so grown up.

“Aye, the wee laddie. Yer tae keep away from him—and his ma. Dae ye hear?”

“But Father,” protested Freya. “What for? He helped me out!”

Freya would never have admitted it, but she had actually been rather impressed by the way Wallace had singlehandedly seen off a trio of bandits. But to her frustration, her father would not hear a word of it.

“Hush,” he said, placing a finger to his daughter’s lips. “Listen well, Freya. There’s a good reason why ye need to take heed and avoid the clanless. They’re our sworn foe! Ye dinnae ken the half of it. Just believe me when I tell ye to stay away. For all of oor sakes!”

“But…” began Freya, but she could see her father was not to be moved. Sullenly, she dropped her eyes. “Alright,” she said softly.

“Good lass,” said Finlay. He could tell she was disappointed, but he could only hope that his daughter would trust him enough to do as he asked.

There was a pause. The fire snapped, momentarily pulling their eyes to it. As she brought her clear jade eyes over to see, Finlay caught the sheen of tears in them.

“What is it, Freya?” he asked softly.

Freya just shook her head but looked forward. “You called him a bastard…” she said. Instead of sounding accusing, her voice was simply troubled.

“Aye,” said Finlay, not quite understanding where this was leading.

“Is that what I am, too?” Freya said in a barely perceptible voice. She cast her worried eyes towards her father. “A bastard? Because I’m nae yer rightful daughter?”

It took a moment or two for the shock to register on Finlay’s face. He was simply stunned. When he did manage to recover himself, he spoke quietly.

“My God, Freya, I dinnae ever want tae hear ye say those words ever again!” said Finlay, aghast. “Whatever could have made ye think that!”

Freya did not have to say anything; the unspoken facts of her birth hovered in the air between them.

“Come here, hen,” said Finlay, opening his arms to his daughter. “Yer mine and yer mammie’s, and let that be an end to it. One day ye will find a man worthy of ye. But until that day, ye’ll just have to trust yer auld da!”

As the flames leaped and jumped in the homely hearth place, Freya allowed herself to be comforted by her father.

“I do, Father, an’ I’ll mak’ ye both proud!” she announced, her eyes shining.

“You already do!” said Finlay, taking her in his arms.

Meanwhile, a few short miles away across the land, another pair of young eyes were staring into the fire, where it smoked in the center of the barren room.

Wallace and his mother were seated together in front of a meager fire. But this room was not welcoming and warm like the laird’s keep. Here, the cold wind danced around. Its icy tentacles clinging to each miserable corner.

“Dinnae ever forget what he has taken from us—from ye!” his mother hissed. Ostensibly, she was mending stays by the light of the fire. In reality, there wasn’t enough light to see by, and she had run out of twine. Worse still, there was nothing to eat in the house tonight. Neither situation had improved her mood much.

Wallace shivered as he rearranged his position on the floor beneath the makeshift fire. There wasn’t enough firewood to keep it going, and even the peat they usually shoveled in was drying up. The best that could be hoped for was to poke the feeble pyre and cajole it back into some sort of life.

It was cold; freezing, in fact. Wallace rubbed his limbs and pulled the grubby blanket over his aching extremities. But it wasn’t the cold that bothered him.

“All this is down to that bawbag, Finlay!” seethed Nora. Her anger could have warmed half the village.

Everything about the small dwelling was squalid and makeshift. There was no chair, just a bed—of sorts—at the far corner. There was only one room, also home to various livestock depending on the season, and it smelled like it, too. Nora cast an eye despairingly around the ramshackle room and cursed aloud.

But her son was not moved by her words. Instead, he lifted his head contemplatively. “He didnae look like a monster…,” said Wallace thoughtfully, tending to the fire. It was in its death throes, kicking out more smoke than heat, making him cough drily.

“What? Well, he is. He killed his own uncle; never forget it. He slayed yer father and took it all away. And now that lassie—who’s nae even his—will tak’ yer place! Well, I’m nae gonnae let him!” ranted Nora.

Wallace rolled his eyes. He had heard it all before. For years, his mother had regaled him with tales of the laird’s wickedness. He had been raised on her bile, and like her, had grown to detest both Finlay and his daughter.

Meeting them for the first time had been something of a shock. Neither of them were what he had expected, but the lassie especially had captured his imagination. Despite all his mother’s efforts, he could not bring himself to hate this wee girl.

“What if I see her again?” asked Wallace softly. He was less given to the extremes of mood that his mother suffered from. He had been surprised to feel an affinity with this young girl—so clearly in possession of her own mind, even at such a tender age. “Would it really be so awful?” he asked innocently.

Nora’s eyes sparked, with irritation. For a moment, she scowled at her son. Then a slow smile spread across her twisted face.

“Awful?” she asked thoughtfully, looking into Wallace’s youthful eyes.

As she looked at him, Nora’s mind went whirring into action. So, her son had struck up an unlikely friendship with the girl? Maybe this was something worthy of consideration after all.

“Nae, it wouldnae be awful at all…” began Nora tentatively. She knew him too well to push the subject further. Instead, she simply sowed the seeds and then sat back to wait for them to take hold.

It wouldn’t be long, she knew, before the girl came back. When she did, she could be very useful indeed. But it wouldn’t do to tell Wallace all this, not yet. The less he knew, the more easily he could be used.

“So, ye dinnae mind then?” asked Wallace, puppy-like with excitement.

Nora smoothed down her instinctive desire to respond with a jibe and instead said, “Nae, son, I dinnae mind at all!”

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