Chapter One

Of all the preening peacocks Uncle William has tried to foist on me, this one is by far the worst! Why, Lord Ambrose is old enough to be my father, boring as watching grass grow, and as ridiculous as the feathers on this hat he insists I wear as his courtship gift!

Grace Lancaster sighed and made an effort to maintain her rigid smile and polite appearance of attention as Lord Ambrose Fairgave finished off yet another tale of his hunting exploits with “..and that is how we brought down the beast. I have his head mounted in my hunting lodge. Splendid acquisition.”

Lord Ambrose had mentioned an astounding number of trophies hanging in said hunting lodge in this past candle-mark during his one-sided conversation. She managed a stiff nod.

The ridiculous peacock feathers on the idiotic hat bobbed over her ear and tickled dreadfully. She longed to knock it to the floor. Or better yet, throw it back into Lord Ambrose’s jowly and pompous face. Unfortunately, Uncle William was watching, and she knew from painful experience that he would not abide openly disrespectful behavior.

He barely tolerated her supposed clumsiness and awkwardness as it was, anything more blatant would have consequences she had no desire to discover.

Grace forced herself to smile politely. “That is rather impressive, Lord Ambrose. You have much skill in hunting.”

As if there was any skill to surrounding a wild animal and harrying it with dogs and spears until it dies.

“Hunting’s the best practice to maintain one’s strength for another clash with those ruddy heathens across the border. Not much better than beasts… you know boar hunting techniques work best, when chasing down one of those rascals on the field…”

And he was off again, regaling them with another of his tales, about a boar he’d chased through the woods at some time in his ‘younger days’.

At this point, Grace wasn’t even certain that it was a new story. Lord Ambrose’s hunting tales all sounded the same to her. The only thing she could be certain of, right at that moment, was that she needed a respite.

She rose from her seat, earning a look of bemusement from Lord Ambrose and a look of ire from her uncle. “Forgive me for interrupting, Lord Ambrose, but I fear I must excuse myself a moment.”

She barely waited for her uncle’s stiff-necked nod before turning and making her way toward the door that led outside to the privy. The feathers on the hat waved merrily, and she could hear the snickers of amusement that followed her – not even the most sober of patrons or serving girls could mask their amusement at the picture she presented, mincing her way through the tavern wearing a hat better suited for a costume ball.

Grace winced, and made an effort to keep her gaze forward and her chin up. She knew she looked ridiculous, embarrassingly so. But what could she do about it? It wasn’t as if she could remove the hat and toss it in the midden heap, where she was certain it deserved to be. Uncle William would never tolerate her committing such a slight.

With a grimace of carefully concealed distaste, Grace made her way to the small privy. She did her business quickly, encouraged by the smell as much as the rough quarters. She did wish Uncle William had hired a room, where she might have used a chamber pot, but of course he would never consider such an expense worthwhile.

At least in the privy, she was free to temporarily remove the ridiculous hat.

Once she was finished and had cleaned up as much as she was able, she reluctantly re-donned the offending headwear, then made her way back toward the dining area.

As she turned the corner into the main serving area, intent on getting back to the table and finding some excuse to permanently end the conversation, she was so fixed on her thoughts, she did not hear the heavy footsteps or realize there was someone else coming round the same corner until she crashed into a solid, unyielding male torso, attached to a muscular arm that was holding a full tankard of ale.

Grace hit the floor with a gasp. The man she’d run into stumbled on the rushes that covered the tavern floor. The tankard wavered, sloshing beer over both of them.

Within the space of a moment, Grace found herself on the dirty tavern floor, beer trickling over her face, her dress, and even the deplorable hat.

In the momentary silence, the first gasps of laughter were clearly audible. Grace felt her cheeks burning as she levered herself to her feet, her face hot with embarrassment. Cold, sticky, and humiliated, she spoke the first words that came to mind. “Have you no manners, sir, to knock a lady down and not even offer her a hand up?”

“I’d ask the same o’ ye- you, m’lady. Have ye na- no manners, to spill a man’s drink and offer no apology?” There was an odd accent to his words, but a familiar one, for all he seemed to be making some effort to conceal it.

“’Tis a gentleman’s place to apologize for his carelessness,” she countered, jerking her chin up as she got a good look at him for the first time.

He was tall, with the muscles of a trained warrior, and a ruggedly handsome appearance. His hair was dark, tied back roughly but neatly, and his eyes were a deep, glittering green, like summer grass looked at through morning dew.

And then he spoke again, and any fascination she might have had with his appearance was drowned in irritation. “’Tis a tavern, girl, na- not a pretty castle dance floor. If ye’ve not the sense to realize what sort o’ folk come here and what the risks are, ye- you’re as ridiculous as that hat ye’re wearing, and as soft as ye- your pretty little dress.”

The words stung, and all the more because the outfit she wore wasn’t one she would have chosen, had she known her uncle intended to meet her supposed ‘excellent suitor’ in a tavern like that. And the hat… “How dare you mock a lady!”

“’Tis nae mockery, just the truth, la- girl.”

Her ear caught the odd pronunciation of the word ‘not’ and the half-spoken ‘lass’, and the pieces clicked into place. The man was wearing trews and a heavy linen shirt and vest, with not a bit of tartan anywhere in sight, but she knew him for what he was. “You are a Scotsman.”

“Highlander, aye. An’ what o’ it?” He appeared not to care that he’d been discovered, despite his earlier efforts.

“What is a Scotsman doing here?” Technically, they weren’t that far from the Lowland border, but they were still on the English side of it. And besides, he was a Highlander, he’d said. Like the man who’d stolen her friend Niamh away, the day of the Harvest Festival.

The bitterness of that memory only added to her anger. It didn’t help that his only answer was a twist of his lip and a curtly spoken “Drinkin’. Or I would be, had I nae been accosted by a shrew of an English lass in a temper.”

“I am not… you know nothing of me, to make such statements!” Grace felt her fists clench tightly against the fabric of her dress. “And you are the one who bumped into me.”

“Dinnae care.” He gave her a look full of such mocking that it stung, and his words were no better as he waved an exaggerated bow with his near-empty mug. “Apologies, girl, fer spillin’ ale on yer dress. Well, I’m off fer another mug. And ye can…”

“Do not presume to tell me what I can and can’t…”

“Grace!” The single word, spoken in a tone as sharp as a knife blade, carried clearly across the noise of the tavern. Grace winced and turned to look at her uncle.

Lord Ambrose looked distinctly unimpressed, even a little disgusted, by the man standing in front of her. Uncle William looked about ready to burst a blood vessel in his anger. Likely, he would have already started yelling, had they not been in public.

Abruptly, she realized how it must look, her speaking to a Highlander. Certainly, they’d been arguing, but who would know that, or what their discussion had been about? It was far too easy for someone to get the wrong impression.

She ought to have sniffed, raised her chin, and brushed past him the instant she’d realized the truth, but it was too late now.

“Excuse me.” She turned away from the man without another word and rejoined her uncle and his guest, sitting with as much grace as her ale-soaked skirts would allow.

“You didn’t tell me your niece was the clumsy sort. And associating with one of those… savages.” Lord Ambrose was frowning.

“She is not, generally,” Uncle William scowled at her. “What were you doing, talking to that brute?”

“I… wished for him to apologize for dousing me with ale.” There was nothing she could say that her uncle would accept, and she knew it. But even so… she had to try. “He was being unconscionably rude…”

“They’re all like that. Barbarians.”

“You should have walked away instead of engaging in conversation with him. What if people thought you were a sympathizer with those beasts?” Uncle William’s scowl was dark as a thundercloud. “Next time, you ought to keep your mouth shut and walk away. Perhaps a slap to remind him of his place, but not… conversation.” The frown deepened. “Better yet, have enough awareness and grace to prevent a ‘next time’ from occurring.”

“Indeed. Indeed. I have to say, Lord Lancaster, your daughter doesn’t much live up to her name, now does she?”

“Pardon, Lord Ambrose, but Grace is my niece. I took her in after my brother and his wife were killed in the border wars.” Uncle William’s voice was cold, and Grace felt the sting of it, knowing as she did that the harsh words were meant to remind her of her place, and her position.

She was an orphan without a title or name of her own, living under her uncle’s roof and his sufferance. She was not supposed to embarrass him in any way, and talking to a Highlander? One of the Scottish barbarians who had been responsible for his brother’s death? That was a mistake, a shameful one.

The good Lord above only knew what her uncle would say if he ever discovered that her oldest and dearest childhood friend was from Clan Cameron, whose lands bordered what had once been her father’s.

“I don’t know about this.” The heavy, disappointed tone brought her attention back to Lord Ambrose, and a lump lodged in her throat. The lord was shaking his head. “Your niece is pretty enough, young too. But it seems her education is lacking. Not the proper sort for a lady, you know. I need a wife who can make a proper showing of it, not the sort of woman who talks to barbarians and can’t keep her feet in a crowd.”

He shook his head again and rose from the table. “I think it’s best I bid you both a good day. Time is precious for all of us, with the spring turning into summer. I think it’s time we all returned to our duties. Lord Lancaster.”

He bowed to Grace, but there was no warmth to his movement. “You can keep the hat, young lady. Hopefully, you’ll grow into it one day.”

Then he was gone, and Grace was left in her cold, sodden dress, to face her uncle’s wrath.

It was not long in coming. “I arrange a meeting. I sing your praises to a wealthy and well-connected suitor. And you…” Uncle William’s eyes flicked over her dirty skirt, the bedraggled hat, and the ale soaked fabric. “… You ruin your dress, insult his Lordship’s gift with your obvious disdain for it, and cannot make it to the privy and back without causing a scene, making a fool of yourself, and getting soaked in cheap drink, as if you were a dockside tavern wench. A poor showing indeed, and that is without mentioning your foolishness in speaking to a barbarian of the Scottish persuasion.”

Grace swallowed hard. She wanted to protest that it had been an accident, and that she had only demanded an apology. But she knew better. Uncle William would not hear a word she had to say.

It was her own fault, in part. She and Niamh had made a game of making themselves seem unsuitable for marriage, and they had played it for years. But Niamh was gone, and without her, the game had lost any amusement for Grace, especially in the face of her uncle’s growing exasperation. And what was worse this time, was that she hadn’t genuinely tried to drive Lord Ambrose away. It had simply been the result of a moment of inattention and clumsiness.

Uncle William continued, and the softness of his voice did nothing to disguise the venom of his words. “This is becoming disgraceful. You are all but a laughingstock among the peers of England. So heed my warning well, Grace. You shall behave with every bit of decorum, grace and attention you have at your command when the next suitor comes. If you fail again, then I will not invite you to meet the one that follows, until the day you meet him at the altar.”

Uncle William rose, and bent to whisper poisonously in her ear. “Never forget, dear niece, I can arrange a marriage for you without your input or your presence. And I shall, if you continue to embarrass me.”

Then he was gone, calling for the tavern keeper to settle his account, and for a boy to hitch up the carriage. Grace was left to gather herself and her things, her stomach churning.

Uncle William had been the one to arrange the meeting there. He’d known she would be at a disadvantage, in this tavern where she looked like a peacock among barnyard fowl. Perhaps the encounter with the Scotsman had been an accident, but… it felt as if her uncle had wanted her to fail to meet Lord Ambrose’s expectations.

Oh, he was angry enough, but she knew her uncle. Being angry at her faults wouldn’t stop him from looking forward to the day he could marry her off to whoever he chose, and claim the Lancaster fortune entirely, minus her dowry.

And if he could choose a husband who was altogether unsuitable and would make her miserable? He would find that all the more delightful. Uncle William was that sort of man.

Time was running out. If she did not escape his trap soon, she would be shackled to someone who might be worse even than Lord Ambrose. And yet, as she shuffled to her feet and made her way to the door, the stupid feathers still flopping about her face, she had no idea what she could do about the situation.

Oh, I wish Niamh were here! She would surely think of something to aid me!

Chapter Two

“Thrice-cursed English… ye’d think they could stand tae build smaller castles and less crooked roads.” Ewan MacDuff, Overseer and Potential Laird MacTavish, scowled up at the imposing structure before him.

It was a fortress, overlooking a moderate town. More importantly, it was known to the locals as the current residence of Lord William Lancaster and his only niece, Grace Lancaster. And it was Grace Lancaster he’d been sent to find.

It had taken longer than he’d expected to find where the Lancaster family lived. In the Highlands, he knew where every family was, every clan seat, and where every laird and heir was likely to be found. But English soil was foreign to him, and the lords weren’t like the Highland lairds he knew.

It was exasperating, and the encounter of the night before, along with the letter he’d received by swift messenger some three days prior, made his mood no better.

The words of the message had been short, but they were seared into his brain regardless.

A contender fer the lairdship has appeared. Gael MacTavish, o’ a cadet line originating from a bastard o’ the previous laird’s grandfaither, with a wife and a child. Ye must return swiftly, or I fear the Council shall accept his claim.

Devlin

Gael MacTavish. Why the man hadn’t stepped forward two seasons ago, when the previous Laird MacTavish had been killed by Ewan’s brother, was a mystery. But it wasn’t one he had time to put much thought into.

He had to get back to his lands, to sort the issue out. Unfortunately, he was honor bound not to return until he’d located the childhood friend of his brother’s wife and secured her agreement to return with him.

He’d thought it would be a simple matter, until he’d been told her name and that she lived across the English/Lowlands border. Now, here he was, half a moon away from his lands, and it was only yesterday that he’d learned where to find her.

Lancaster. There was a whole region of ‘Lancaster’ folk. But of course she had to be daughter – and niece – of one of the Lord Lancasters, rather than one of the simpler folk that bore the same name.

Niamh was a wonderful woman, and a perfect wife for his brother Alistair, but he did wish she’d chosen to have a proper Lowland lass as her best friend, rather than an English noblewoman.

Still, that was none of his concern. His concern was finding the lass and delivering the message Niamh had put into his hands the day he’d left.

Ewan smoothed his hair into a semblance of neatness, checked once more that he was wearing no identifiable signs of his origin – a Scotsman would never be permitted entry into a lord’s home – and that his appearance conformed to that of a border messenger, as much as it could when he was far more heavily muscled than most. Once he was satisfied that he’d not get turned away from the gate immediately, he made his way forward.

The guards had some sense, for they stopped him immediately. Had the urgency of his errand not been prickling under his skin like the touch of a stinging nettle, he would have approved of it. And if they’d been proper Scotsmen, clansmen, instead of English lackeys.

He forced himself to maintain a reasonable expression. “I’ve a message for Miss Grace Lancaster. From a friend of hers.” He held up the missive Niamh had given him. “She asked it be tak’n directly to the lady.”

It was an effort to mimic the English way of speaking, and he knew quite well that his Highland accent was noticeable despite his best efforts. Even so, he made the effort, and was rewarded with a slight relaxation in the guards.

They probably thought he was some border peasant looking to earn coppers as a messenger. Well, whatever they assumed, as long as he wasn’t chased away before meeting the lass he’d come so far to find, he would let them assume it. Perhaps one day he’d have the pleasure of proving them wrong on the battlefield.

“Who is the message from?”

“Lady… her name is Niamh.”

The guards considered, then nodded and led him into the keep, into a small antechamber. “Wait here.” One man went to, presumably, tell Lady Grace Lancaster that a messenger had arrived, while the other went to the door to keep watch.

Ewan took the time to look around the sparsely furnished chamber. It was obviously not meant for greeting guests of any note – in the Highlands, it would have been embarrassing to have a room so sparsely furnished to meet anyone, even a messenger. The walls were almost completely bare, there was only one chair, and a small table, and the fireplace was not only unlit, but looked as if it hadn’t been touched in almost a season.

It was the sort of room where you sent visitors you wanted to see the back of as soon as possible. On the one hand, he was somewhat offended by the lack of even minimal courtesy – they’d not even offered him refreshment – but on the other, he was just as glad to get out of there as soon as possible. He had no time for courtesies.

He was there to deliver a message, secure a travel companion, and leave.

The door swung open, and a young woman entered. She was slim, pretty in a delicate sort of way, with hair the color of sun-ripened wheat, which fell in a soft wave of gold down the back of her neck.

She looked familiar, but he couldn’t think why. Then he saw the bright blue eyes.

The girl in the ridiculous feathered hat. The one he’d bumped into the night before. His heart thumped into his boots, just as her eyes widened in recognition.

“You!”

“Ye’re Grace Lancaster?”

A tense silence fell, and Ewan could see the lass struggling to regain her composure. He felt much the same way. Of all the people he’d expected to encounter in a tavern, Lady Grace Lancaster was not one of them. And of all the people he’d expected to find in that estate, the lass with the foolish hat was not someone he would have anticipated.

It was she who broke the silence, her eyes wary and sharp with resentment and anger. “I am Grace Lancaster. And who might you be? Aside from the boorish lout who managed to upset my evening plans last night, and without even an apology for his actions.”

Ewan flushed, but he deserved the rebuke and he knew it. “Ay… yes. I was a lout last night.” He swallowed hard. “I… I apologize fer me poor manners. I was irritable, and rude.”

For a moment, he thought she’d throw him out. Then she nodded. “Your apology is accepted. And your name? You still have not introduced yourself.”

“Me name’s Ewan.” He glanced at the door, shut but still guarded from the outside, hoping to convey his meaning. It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear his clan name, and guess his full identity, not here in English territory. Still… “I think ye’ve met me brother, Alistair.”

Alistair had warned him that the brief encounter between himself and Niamh’s friend had not been cordial. From the way her face darkened in anger, it seemed his brother had understated the unpleasantness of it. Even so, she managed to remain civil. “Why have you come here? The guard said you had a message for me.”

Ewan nodded. “I’ve come with a message, and an urgent request, from yer friend, Niamh. Niamh MacDuff, nee Cameron.”

Her whole expression changed in an instant. Yearning, so deep it cut like a blade. Hope. Then wariness and fear. In the space of two breaths, she went from hopeful and happy to a guarded cautiousness not unlike that of a hunted deer. “How do I know you have truly been sent by Niamh? Why would she not come herself?”

“She’s nae in a fit state tae be traveling.”

“Is she hurt? Ill? Captive?”

“None o’ those things.” Ewan started to speak again, but Grace cut him off.

“Wait. I still have no proof that you have come from Niamh. You could be attempting to trick me.”

Ewan huffed. “Why would I dae that?”

“To use me as a hostage against my uncle. To kidnap me for your own nefarious ends.”

Ewan strangled the growl that wanted to rise in the back of his throat. One threatening move, and the guards would no doubt be on him like hounds on fresh meat. “If I wanted tae kidnap ye, I’d nae dae it coming through the front gate.”

“And how can I know that?” She shook her head. “You could even be a spy from Uncle William. He has been looking for an excuse to…” She trailed off and shook her head again. “I do not know how to trust that you are who you say you are.”

Ewan sighed. He had little patience for such intrigue on the best of days, and this was far from one of his better mornings. “I’ve the message here fer ye tae read. And if ye need proof o’ who sent me… Lady Niamh gave me a message.”

“What message?”

Ewan steeled himself. He’d memorized the message dutifully enough, but even after all this time carrying it in his head, it still sounded ridiculous to him. Though, if it would get the girl to agree to come with him…

“She said ‘tell me heart-sister that me list o’ sins has grown little longer, and I pray her fortune’s such that her own has done likewise, though fer different reasons.’ That was the whole o’ it.”

He’d no idea what the words meant, but it was clear from the way her whole expression softened with relief and dawning hope that Grace Lancaster knew exactly what the message referred to. Tears sparkled in her blue eyes for a moment, then she wiped them away and held out her hand. “The letter, please.”

Ewan handed it over, and watched as she broke the seal and read it. Every second chafed at him, but he understood the necessity of it. He tried to remain calm, but there was a part of him that begrudged every instant spent reading, rather than packing and riding.

Finally, Grace looked up. “She says she is wed, to Laird Alistair MacDuff, by the blessing o’ her father. And with child – a firstborn. She wishes for me to come to attend the last months of her child-bearing, and the birth of the babe.”

“’Tis truth, all o’ it.”

“She… married? That man…?” She stopped, evidently remembering that he was his brother. “I… I didn’t think she would ever… we swore… and she… she always said she would never bear children…”

“Much has changed. And it wasnae an easy change fer either o’ them, so far as I recall. But her maither’s kin live among our clan, and I’ve heard that had somethin’ tae dae with her change o’ heart.”

Not that Ewan knew the details. He’d not even known that Niamh was terrified of childbirth and had once sworn never to risk it until Alistair had told him in confidence, before asking him to deliver the message to Grace.

“Niamh never knew her mother.”

“Even so, her mother was Highland born, and her kin are kin tae the MacDuff clan. Our cousin, the clan healer, is the daughter o’ a younger sister, I think. Or mayhap her mother’s mother was the younger sister.” Bloodlines were not something he kept track of. That was more the sort of thing Alistair and Catriona paid attention to.

Although, perhaps if he’d showed more interest in the matter, he would have seen the danger Gael MacTavish represented sooner – before whatever happened that had caused Devlin to send him such an urgent warning.

“I… see. But… it hasn’t even been a year since she was taken from here…” Grace looked almost hurt.

“’Twas a difficult time. Bonds can be forged fast, in such trials. And Alistair and Niamh were never indifferent tae one another, nae since I met her.” Whatever had occurred on the journey between the Cameron clan and the Highlands, it had brought those two together, even before the wedding. Oh, they’d fought, and still did, but even then he’d seen the beginnings of the relationship between them, even deeper and stronger than the love his brother had felt for his previous betrothed Constance MacBeth.

Well, whatever happened between Alistair and Niamh, ‘twill nae be repeatin’ between me and this English lass… assuming I can convince her tae accompany me at all.

“Tell me what happened, please?”

Ewan grimaced before he could stop himself. “I dinnae ken all the details, but even what I dae ken ‘tis a long tale. Too long fer a messenger delivering a message. If ye want the story, ye’ll have tae come with me.”

Grace nodded, her eyes going back to the missive. “Yes. Niamh did say she wants me to go… and I do so want to see her again. I have missed her, and our meetings. But I…”

“If ye want to come, then come. Make yer excuses. I’m sure yer guardian willnae mind ye goin’ tae see a friend.”

There was a flash of heat in her eyes when she responded. “If you think that, Master Ewan, then you do not know my guardian. Uncle William would never approve my going to visit another lady, escorted or no, unless it were perhaps a member of the royal court. And even then he would insist on accompanying me himself.”

Ewan scowled. “He’ll find himself in dire straits, if he wishes tae follow ye intae the Highlands.”

“There is not gold enough in the world to convince Uncle William to let me travel to the Highlands, not even with an invitation from a Lady. And if you knew anything of my uncle’s character, you would realize that his hatred runs deep indeed, that he would scorn wealth for such reasons.”

Clan MacDuff wasn’t particularly wealthy, in any case. They were still recovering from the Border Wars, and from Fergus MacTavish’s depredations. Alistair had forbidden him to empty the MacTavish coffers to repay Clan MacDuff, saying it would only incite anger and rebellion among the recently conquered clansmen.

But that was not the point, not now. Ewan sighed. “Then are ye refusing?” It would break Niamh’s heart, but if the lass refused to go with him, then there was little he could do.

“No. I would not abandon Niamh like that, not if she has asked for me. I am only pointing out that my uncle will never permit me to accompany you.”

“Then…”

“There is only one logical solution. We shall have to find some way for you to ‘kidnap’ me.”  

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One year earlier

The tavern was unusually crowded that day, with people milling about, drinking and feasting on what Fia could only think of as mediocre stew. Duror had never been particularly popular as a destination or even as a rest stop, but there were travelers there that day on their way to a nearby town, so there were more people in the small tavern than Fia had ever seen.

Nevertheless, she and Callum had managed to secure a table—a small one, near the entrance, right under a window that let in the scant light from outside.

It was a cold day with grey clouds gathering above, but it was nothing strange for Duror. If anything, Fia would have been more surprised if it had been sunny.

The tavern smelled more of spilled ale and wine than ever, the tables and floors sticky with it. The crowd was not particularly rowdy, but it was loud, mostly men who were looking for a good time on their travels, and Fia had already begun to feel the first stirrings of a headache in the back of her forehead.

However, nothing could ruin Fia’s day. It didn’t matter how crowded and loud the room was, or even that she wasn’t feeling so well. The only thing that mattered was that Callum had come to see her, and he was staying for at least a couple of hours.

It wasn’t often that she saw him those days. Though at the very beginning of their courtship he had been around all the time, now he was so busy with his duties in the castle that Fia felt like she rarely saw him. But that was the life of the soldier, she supposed, especially a high-ranking one like Callum. His father was the war leader of Clan Stuart; he, as his son, had to act accordingly, giving his all to the clan and its laird.

Still, Fia couldn’t help but think he was working too hard. She only wished he could rest a little and maybe go to see her more often. Until they were a married couple and could live together in the castle, she didn’t know how she could bear to see him only once every few weeks.

Sometimes she even saw him around Duror unexpectedly or one of her neighbors did, but she tried to keep a level head and not hold a grudge against him when he went without notifying her or seeing her. There were rumors about him—of course there were, seeing as he was a handsome man, with his dark hair and grey eyes, the chiseled jaw, the strong, straight nose, and that smile that had every woman in the village falling for him—but she never listened to them. People could say whatever they wanted. Fia knew the real him, and she knew that the only reason he ever came to Duror without seeing her was because he was, once again, busy. She had complained the first time it happened, accusing him of not wanting to see her, but that had only served to hurt him. She still remembered the look in his eyes at her harsh accusation, the way he had stared at her, utterly betrayed; the soft tone of his voice telling her that this was precisely why he hadn’t told her he was coming, because he had known she would be disappointed and get angry at him.

After that time, she had never dared complain again.

Pushing all those memories out of her mind as she watched him approach with two cups of wine in his hands, Fia sat a little straighter in her seat, smiling at him. Callum took his seat across from her, handing her her drink, but said nothing as he looked around, his gaze passing over the crowd.

Some of them were from the castle, Fia knew, though she couldn’t always tell them apart from the villagers. It was only those select few men who stood apart from anyone else, much like Callum, whom she could recognize as being from the castle, simply because of how well-groomed and well-dressed they were.

Two of them, specifically, caught her eye—a man with brown hair gathered at the nape and green eyes, with a kind of rough handsomeness to him that would surely make him popular with the ladies, but also a seemingly cold and closed-off demeanor that would push them away at the same time, and then another man next to him, someone Fia had never seen before.

Someone the likes of whom she had never seen before either.

He, too, had a rugged look, his exposed forearms covered in scars, some bigger and others smaller, most of them looking old and silvery over his pale skin. He had short, dark hair, black as the night sky, and a pair of blue eyes that, once they glanced her way, completely captivated Fia.

There was something about that man. The mere sight of him made her heart beat faster, her stomach filling with butterflies. She could feel her cheeks heat as she gazed at him, her thighs pressing together on their own accord.

“What are ye starin’ at like that?” Callum demanded and Fia jumped, startled by the sudden sound of his voice. Then, she blushed an even deeper scarlet, the blood rushing to her head at the thought of how shameful her actions were. “Close yer mouth, it looks unattractive.”

Fia snapped her mouth shut, her gaze falling to her cup of wine. She didn’t know what had gotten over her, staring at a stranger like that, with Callum right there in front of her! Thankfully, he didn’t seem to have noticed. Fia didn’t want to know what would happen if he knew what had gone through her mind at the sight of that man, but she was certain she would never hear the end of it.

“I thought…” she started, desperate to change the subject. “I thought perhaps afterwards we could take a walk in the woods? Or perhaps in the market? It’s been so long since we last saw each other. Ye can stay fer a few hours, can ye nae?”

Callum dragged his gaze back to her from where he was looking at a group of women at the other side of the room. Fia couldn’t help but wonder if he knew them, but he said nothing on the matter.

“Why?” he asked, sounding a little bored. “Isnae it fine enough here?”

“Aye,” said Fia. “But I thought—”

“Fia, I walk around all day, every day,” Callum said with a weary sigh. “If I wished tae walk around more, I’d stay in the castle, workin’. All I wish tae dae today is sit an’ enjoy me drink.”

Fia had nothing to say to that. She understood, of course, that Callum was tired and she didn’t doubt how hard he worked, but she also didn’t think a leisurely stroll would tire him out so much. Still, she said nothing as he went back to gazing around the room, knocking the rest of his wine back.

“Will ye drink that?” he asked her, pointing to her own cup. Fia shook her head and pushed it towards him, watching him as he knocked that one back, too, finishing it in one big gulp.

For a while, silence stretched over their table. Fia wracked her brain for something to tell him, anything to get the conversation going, but each time she thought of a topic, she had the same realization—Callum would find it either frivolous or dull and cut the conversation short. So, she didn’t even bother trying, drumming her fingers nervously against the table instead.

The wood was sticky under her fingers. The atmosphere in the tavern was stifling, the air heavy with alcohol and the smell of people. But Fia was simply glad to be there with Callum, to know that he still loved her and was still serious about them.

Everything would be better once they were a married couple, she told herself. Then Callum would be able to see every day just how much Fia adored him. She would take care of him, of the household, of their children. She would do anything to make him happy.

Eventually, she let her own gaze roam around the room. It kept drifting back to that man, the one with the blue eyes. Despite his ruggedness, Fia thought, there was a warmth to him, something in his smile that told her he was a good man. Then again, everyone always told her she wasn’t the best judge of character.

Just as she was about to force herself to look away, the man looked straight at her and time seemed to stop. When he caught her looking, though, he only smiled and raised his cup in a toast, never once breaking eye contact as he downed his drink.

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Chapter One

October, 1587. Duror village.

One down, one tae go.

Fia MacKenzie’s small cottage stood in the fringes of Duror, near Castle Stuart and was—insofar as anything that received Fia’s care and attention could be characterized as such—a mess. She hadn’t had the time to take care of everything in the house that day, as word had spread fast that Mrs. Findley, the old healer of the village, had finally retired in her old age, too tired to keep the constant stream of patients who needed her help. The old woman had already directed everyone to Fia’s door, and so within a single day, Fia had gone from a midwife and someone who occasionally assisted the old woman to a fully-fledged healer herself.

It was a dream come true, but even a dream could prove challenging and after no fewer than seven people asking for her help on her very first day on the job, she was as exhausted physically as she was mentally.

There was still one more thing that needed to be done, though. One dream that needed to be realized.

Her hands trembling with excitement, Fia flitted around the room, sweeping the floor that was already free of dust, rearranging the vials and jars of pastes on the rickety shelf, and hiding away every unsightly little thing—a half-broken cup they could not yet afford to replace, her shawl, which she had patched countless times, a bannock, now hard and dry, that she was saving for later.

“Ye’ll drive yerself mad,” Bane said with a chuckle as he put on his cloak, fastening it around his neck with the same brooch as always; the one Fia had made for him in one of her limited attempts to learn the art of smithing. It ran in the family, but she had no real knack for it, perhaps because despite their familiar bond, they shared no blood. “Calm down. The house is fine.”

“It cannae be fine,” Fia pointed out. “It has tae be perfect. Everythin’ has tae be perfect.”

“Everythin’ is perfect,” Bane said as he slapped his hand on the top of Fia’s head and gently ruffled her hair. Screeching, Fia shoved him away and rushed to the looking glass, desperately trying to fix the few blonde strands that he had ruined while Bane laughed and headed to the door. “Dinnae fash. Ye’re too good fer Callum anyway.”

Fia didn’t roll her eyes at Bane, but only because she managed to control herself. It was something she had heard plenty of times before. In the year Callum had been courting her, Bane had never once warmed up to him and Fia worried the feelings were mutual. He and Callum had been cordial to each other, but whenever either of them was alone with her, they didn’t hesitate to tell her precisely what they thought about each other.

Callum attributed Bane’s hostility to jealousy, but Fia knew better than that. Bane may not have been a brother by blood, but he was a brother by fate. Life had brought them together so they could become a family, and there was nothing that could convince Fia otherwise.

Bane, on the other hand, attributed Callum’s hostility to the latter being strange and unlikable. Despite Fia’s insistence that Callum was a good, honest man, Bane simply would not believe it.

But he would soon. Now that Callum was coming over to ask for her hand in marriage, Bane would surely change his mind.

“I’m really nae, Bane,” Fia said, not for the first time. “He’s a good man. I promise.”

“Why is he comin’ here?” Bane asked, voicing the very same question Fia had been afraid to ask out loud for days, ever since Callum had promised her he would go to her cottage. “Why is he nae takin’ ye fer some mulled wine or some ale? That’s what I would dae if I were him an’ wished tae make a lass me wife.”

Fia forcefully swallowed down that familiar by then knot in her throat. She had asked Callum the same thing many times over the span of the last year—why did they always meet in secret? Why did he always refuse to see her anywhere other than at her cottage? Fia had never even visited his cottage in the castle grounds, though not for lack of asking.

“He doesnae like crowds,” Fia said. It was what Callum had told her time and time again, though she also knew he visited the tavern in Duror with his friends and fellow soldiers. Many had seen him there. Fia herself had seen him there one night as she was heading to the old healer’s cottage to help with an injured man. “It’s alright. I dinnae mind meetin’ him here.”

With a sigh, Bane let go of the doorknob and walked over to Fia once more, pulling her into a loose embrace. “Are ye certain ye wish tae dae this? There is still time.”

“I want it,” Fia said, nodding firmly. She had wanted nothing more in her life. “Ye ken I want it.”

“Ye ken what I think.”

Fia didn’t know if she wanted to hear it, but still, she asked, “What?”

Pulling back, Bane placed his hands on Fia’s shoulders, squeezing just slightly. “I think that ye simply dinnae wish tae be alone an’ ye have settled fer the first laddie ye found when ye could have someone much, much better.”

Bane was right; Fia did know what he thought, as he had expressed the same thought before, and just like the last time, Fia shoved his hands off her shoulders and took several steps back, scowling. It wasn’t true; no matter how much Bane insisted, none of it was true.

“Dinnae speak tae me as though I were a fool,” Fia said through gritted teeth. “I am a grown lass. Dae ye truly think I dinnae ken what I want?”

Bane let her go, one of his hands reaching up to thread through his light brown hair, making it even messier than before. She had the urge to fix it for him, to make sure he looked presentable, but she kept her hands to herself, maintaining the distance between them.

“I think ye ken what ye want,” he said. “I think ye ken that ye want companionship, but ye’re lookin’ fer it in all the wrong places.”

“I can take care o’ meself,” Fia snapped. “I dinnae need ye tae look out fer me.”

It was harsher than she intended. The two of them had been looking out for each other for years, even more so since the disappearance of his brother, Tav. Claiming that she didn’t need Bane’s help was not only hurtful to him, but also entirely false.

It was too late now, though. The words had already been spoken and there was no taking them back.

Anyone else would have yelled at her, Fia knew. Anyone else would have taken offence, perhaps even stormed out of the cottage, but all Bane did was take a few steps towards her and press a kiss to the top of her head in a brotherly manner. When he pulled back, he seemed more hurt than angry, giving Fia a small, sad smile.

“I ken ye dinnae mean that, so I’ll pretend ye didnae say it,” he said as he drew a deep breath through his nose and released it with a sigh. “I’ll leave ye tae speak with Callum an’ when I return, we will celebrate ye becomin’ the greatest healer this village has ever seen.”

Guilt flooded Fia, her bottom lip trembling as she grabbed Bane’s sleeve and gave it a small tug. Even in times like these, he was never anything but kind.

Apologies had never come naturally to her, and so instead, Fia said, “Thank ye.”

“Shut yer mouth, gnat,” said Bane with a chuckle, as he playfully swatted her hand away. He made his way to the door once more and just as he left the cottage, he looked at Fia over his shoulder. “Give Callum a slap from me.”

Before Fia could yell at him or reach for something to throw at his head, Bane was gone and Fia was suddenly left alone with nothing but her nerves and apprehension for company. As long as she had Bane there, it was easy to ignore the uncertainty, the weight in her stomach at the thought of what was to come. With him gone, doubt began to creep back into her mind, but she decided to simply keep herself busy as she waited for Callum. While she was sweeping the floor, even if there was no dust to speak of, she could think busy herself with something that was not torturing herself with doubt.

It was only minutes later that the knock on the door came and Fia froze, looking down at her dress. Though it was the best she owned, the one reserved for church and feasts, it was still plain—the wool dyed blue, with no embroidery or decorations save for the girdle she wore. That wasn’t what gave her pause, though; rather, it was the thought that she may have soiled it while cleaning.

Why would I wear this an’ sweep the floors?

There was another knock on the door, one which somehow sounded more impatient to her, and Fia hurried to put the broom away, taking a moment to dust her dress off before she opened it. At the other side stood Callum, just as she had expected, and Fia’s breath was cut short the moment she laid eyes upon him. It was always like this. Every time she saw him, it was like the first time. The excitement never faded, not even a year after he had first started courting her.

Callum stepped inside without a word, giving Fia a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He must have been tired, she thought. He must have had a rough day, training all day with his fellow soldiers, and yet he had come to her that night just as he had promised.

To Fia, he had always seemed to dominate the space in the small cottage. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his skin covered in battle scars that spoke of his bravery in battle. His grey eyes were always cautious—cold, someone else may have said, but Fia knew they could also hold warmth in their gaze.

Before Fia even had a chance to greet him, Callum pulled her into his arms, wrapping them tightly around her. She laughed at first, letting him pull her flush against him, but when his hands began to wander lower, sliding down her waist, she couldn’t help but reach for his wrists, stopping him.

“Callum… come now,” Fia said, trying to pull herself out of his embrace with little success. He was holding tightly onto her, clinging to her possessively even as she struggled, and after a few moments, she gave up trying to fight it. “Ye said ye wished tae talk.”

“I wish tae dae more than talk,” Callum said, in his raspy baritone. It was one of the first things Fia had noticed about him, that voice of his; one of the first things she had come to like. “I told ye I want ye, Fia. An’ tonight is the night.”

Callum had, indeed, told Fia that he wanted her, but she had also been perfectly clear with him. “An’ I told ye I willnae let ye bed me until we’re wedded. Ye agreed, remember? Ye said ye would make me yer wife.”

Callum hummed thoughtfully, his arms loosening a little around Fia, but not enough for her to slip away. “I did say that, did I nae? Well… perhaps I wish tae see if me future wife can satisfy me first.”

At first, Fia thought Callum must have been teasing her. It was in poor taste, she thought. Surely, he couldn’t be serious. It was only when she laughed and he didn’t that she began to think perhaps he wasn’t teasing her at all.

“What dae ye mean?” Fia asked, once again trying to get out of his grasp. This time, Callum let her, and she took a few steps backwards, putting some much needed distance between them. “Surely, ye jest.”

“Why would I jest?” Callum asked, hands on his hips as he regarded her with those steely grey eyes. “All the lasses dae it. Why dae ye think yerself any different?”

“I simply dinnae wish tae dae such things afore I’m wedded,” Fia said with a small shrug. She didn’t care what other women in the village did, nor did she judge them for their choices, but she knew what she wanted, and what she wanted was to have her first time with her husband. “Callum, didnae ye come here tae ask fer me hand?”

With a sigh, Callum began to pace around the room, fingers combing through his dark hair. When he came to a halt, he did so right in front of Fia, so close that she could feel his breath on her face.

“I came tae have what is mine,” Callum said, his tone dropping into something fake and sickeningly sweet. “It’s been a year. Ye have nae right tae withhold this from me any longer.”

Fia could do nothing but stare at Callum in disbelief. The man standing before her was nothing like the one who had been courting her. He was not the man she so desperately wanted to marry. He was not the man she thought him to be all this time.

How can it be? Is this who he truly is? Have I been so blind?

“I have nay right? Tae decide what tae dae with me own body? How can ye say that?” Fia asked as she stepped backwards, bile rising to the back of her throat. She couldn’t believe it, even if the evidence was right in front of her. That the past year had all been a lie, Callum had been wearing a mask the entire time and had only now revealed his true self. “Ye said—”

“Aye, aye… I said many things, I ken,” Callum said, so dismissive that his voice suddenly sounded foreign to Fia. Then, he chuckled to himself, the sound so cold and cruel it was like a physical blow to her stomach. “Dae ye wish tae ken the truth? I wasnae plannin’ on tellin’ ye tae spare yer feelings, but… well, it was all fer a bet. Me friends claimed I couldnae have someone as prudish as ye an’ I wished tae prove them wrong. An’ ye were so easy tae fool an’ so eager tae trust me. Did ye truly think I would ever wed a mere midwife? I’m about tae become the war leader o’ Clan Stewart an’ ye think I would wed a lass like ye? Ye’re beneath me station. Ye’re just a simple lass whose parents abandoned her an’ only has a fool like Bane near her.”

Callum’s words were like a lance to the heart, shattering Fia’s into pieces. She could feel it in her chest, a sharp ache that made it impossible to draw any air into her lungs, more painful than any physical wound. Her hand went up to her chest, fingers curling tightly around the fabric of her tunic since she could not grip her own heart, her eyes wide and brimming with tears as she looked at Callum as who he was for the first time.

“Get out o’ me home,” she said through gritted teeth. “Get out.”

With a roll of his eyes, Callum took a few steps closer, only for Fia to move back. “Ye have one more chance tae give me what I want,” he said.

“Or what?” Fia demanded, fury bubbling up inside her. She didn’t even try to contain it; she had no reason to. Callum had shown her nothing but disrespect and now his threats were far from subtle. “How dare ye threaten me? Ye can try tae take what ye want by force, but be warned that Bane, the one ye call a fool, has taught me how tae fight an’ I willnae let ye touch me without fightin’.”

The nerve o’ him! The mere impudence!

Callum paused for a moment, and it seemed to Fia that he was weighing his options. He was truly considering it, she realized with horror and disgust. He was truly trying to decide if he should take her by force.

“Get out o’ me house right the now!” she shouted, pointing a finger to the door. “Out!”

Callum laughed, but he did head to the door this time, shaking his head as though he was the one in disbelief. “Ye call this a house? It’s only a box with a door.”

Those were the last words he spoke to her before he left, slamming the door behind him. For what seemed like an eternity, Fia simply stared, frozen in her spot, the echo of his laughter and the ghost of his mocking gaze still lingering.

She didn’t know when she sank to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest as the tears began to stream down her cheeks unbridled and quiet. That was how Bane found her, though, a while later; curled up into herself, unable to do anything but cry.

She didn’t need to explain anything. He went to her, sitting onto the floor next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulders to pull her close. It was then that, for the first time since Callum had left, Fia managed to make a sound—a broken sob, one that soon turned into a howl of pain.

Callum had taken everything from her. He had taken her pride, her trust, her love, and he had trampled over it all, leaving nothing but dust behind. He had taken the man Fia loved and had killed him right in front of her eyes.

There was nothing left inside her but that gnawing humiliation, its talons digging into her guts and tearing her apart from the inside. A bet; it had all been for a bet, one Callum hadn’t even managed to win.

How embarrassin’! Tae be fooled by a fool!

Fia couldn’t accept it. She had been hurt and humiliated, stripped of her pride within moments, but a man like Callum didn’t deserve her tears. He didn’t deserve the ache that burned inside her, the grief that settled heavy on her shoulders.

What he deserved was to be just as humiliated, just as broken. What he deserved was to watch as Fia proved once and for all that she was neither weak nor small, and that it didn’t matter what anyone—especially Callum—thought about her and what she was worth.

One way or another, she would have her revenge.

Chapter Two

Two dozen men waited for his commands. Two dozen men, all of them well-versed in the arts of war and espionage, all of them knowing what was at stake.

Knox Stuart stood in front of them all, hands braced against the large, round table that stood in the middle of the room. For once, they were not in his study, but rather in the meeting chamber, the place his father had favored as a laird before him. With the entire council, as well as several soldiers gathered for his address, it seemed more proper to meet them there. Besides, the importance of their mission could not be overstated.

The Gordon Clan was getting close. Sooner or later, an attack would come, and Knox wanted to be ready. The future of Clan Stuart was in his hands now more than ever before and he feared that even the slightest mistake could set them off-course.

“Thank ye fer comin’,” Knox said, looking up at the men gathered around him. Some of them were older and had been holding the same position in the clan for years—wise men who knew their jobs well. Others, especially the soldiers, were younger and eager to prove themselves. Knox needed them all. He needed the wisdom of the elders and the fire and passion of the youngsters if they were going to face a threat as serious as the Gordon Clan. “I’m certain ye all ken why we gathered here. There have been reports that there is movement within the Gordon Clan. We must be prepared fer any eventuality.”

Next to him, his closest advisor and friend, Magnus MacLeod, stood a little straighter at the mention of the Gordons, his hands curling into fists. Everyone in the Stuart Clan knew the destruction and misery that the Gordons could bring. Everyone had experienced a side of their cruelty; some, like Knox, more than others.

“There will be a scoutin’ mission tae assess the Gordon forces,” Knox continued, his voice firm and unwavering. His men needed strong leadership in these trying times and no matter how much the thought of an attack unnerved him, he couldn’t let it show. They were all looking to him for guidance, for orders, for a plan of action. “We must ken just how many men they have at their disposal, what their plans are, if they are about tae stage an attack. It will be a small group… good soldiers an’ scouts who can go unnoticed. Stealth is of utmost importance here. If anyone is discovered, the entire mission will be wasted. Dae ye all understand?”

There was a chorus of assent among the men. The elders, those who had experienced the cruelty of the Gordon Clan firsthand, looked among themselves with some unease, but Knox could tell they were all just as eager to get the information they needed. Clan Stuart could not simply sit and wait for the attack to come. They had to prepare their men. They had to know as much as they could if they wanted to, not only win the war, but also do so with minimal losses.

“Me laird… I would like tae lead the charge.”

Knox dragged his gaze to the man who had spoken. It was none other than Callum Fraser, the son of the late war master. His father had been a competent man, one who had brought Clan Stuart to victory many times, and his death had left a vacant spot behind that was yet to be filled. It had already been too long since the man’s death and Knox knew better than anyone Callum wanted his father’s position, but he was not even half the man his father had been. How could Knox give him the rank of war master when Callum had proven himself precisely what Knox despised: power hungry and arrogant, overly ambitious to the point of fault. Callum was nothing like his father, but he could also be so persistent that the only way to keep the peace among his troops was to indulge him without giving him any real power.

He didn’t trust Callum otherwise. Any small disagreement could lead to him working against Knox and the clan.

When Knox didn’t immediately respond to Callum’s request, he continued, “Surely, a man as clever an’ capable as yerself can understand I am the best choice fer this. Me faither taught me well an’ I have an excellent track record in trainin’ an’ battle.”

How much battle has this lad seen? How can he claim tae be the best choice when so many others are here?

Knox looked once again at his men; at those who had truly fought battles for years, dedicating their hearts and bodies to the clan and their cause. All of them weathered, all of them sporting the scars of those battles. Callum had some of those scars himself, that much was true. He, too, had fought for the people of Clan Stuart, but he couldn’t claim to be the one with the most experience in that room.

And then there were those comments, the ones Callum always made in an effort to flatter him. Knox didn’t need someone like him to tell him whether or not he was clever or capable. Every other word out of that man’s mouth was cheap flattery, rehearsed and delivered for a very specific purpose. Och, how much Knox disliked Callum and the likes of him.

Barely suppressing a sigh, Knox pinched the bridge of his nose as he nodded. It would be easier to throw a bone at him. It would be easier to give him a task and keep him occupied.

“Very well,” Knox said. “I will assign some men tae ye. A small party o’ half a dozen soldiers. Ye’re tasked with comin’ up with a plan. Once it is ready, inform Magnus an’ we shall meet again tae discuss it further.”

The smile Callum gave him was one of complete satisfaction, but Knox wasn’t blind to the way he held himself, standing tall with his chest puffed out with pride. Anyone would be proud to be given such an important mission, of course, but Callum’s satisfaction didn’t stem from his desire to fight for the clan; rather, it was simply another achievement about which he could brag and which he could eventually use as a steppingstone to get what he truly wanted.

“O’ course, me laird,” said Callum, bowing to Knox. “Trust that ye willnae be disappointed.”

Knox offered Callum a small, tight-lipped smile. It was the sincerest gesture he could offer, which was to say it was not sincere at all, but it seemed to be enough for Callum, who stepped back without another comment.

“Well, with this settled, there is only the matter o’ strategy fer the attack, if it ever comes,” Knox said. “But ye all ken we are already workin’ on this an’ will continue tae dae so until we are ready fer anythin’ the Gordon Clan can dae. I want everyone tae report everythin’ tae me an’ Magnus from now on. All the plans, all the strategies, everythin’. I wish tae hear them meself.”

There was another round of whispered assent among the men. For the next hour, the meeting dragged on, his advisors and the soldiers discussing strategy and offering solutions to any problem they could think of. By the time the meeting was over, though, and everyone but Magnus and Knox had left the room, Knox was not any more at ease than he had been when the meeting had begun.

“Callum Fraser is a problem,” Knox said. Though he wouldn’t dare voice those concerns in front of everyone else, he knew he could trust Magnus entirely. The two of them had gone through much together, and Knox trusted him not only with his life, but also with his secrets. “He will dae anythin’ tae be named the next war master, but that will only happen once I’m dead.”

With a heavy sigh, Magnus laid a hand on his shoulder, giving Knox a gentle shake. “I agree with ye,” he said. “But even then, if I still live, I’ll make sure he doesnae get what he wants.”

Knox couldn’t help but laugh at that. Though Magnus was a rough man, large and imposing and serious more often than not, sometimes he could be unintentionally funny. This was one of those times, Knox thought. There was no doubt in his mind Magnus meant every word he said.

“Good,” Knox said. “He is a snake. Ye can see it too, can ye nae?”

“Och, I ken it,” said Magnus. “He will stop at naethin’ tae get what he wants. Why did ye make him the leader?”

“I had tae give him somethin’ until we ken how tae deal with him,” Knox pointed out. “An’ the council wishes me tae choose a war master, so if I must rush, then I must keep Callum occupied.”

“Aye, I suppose that’s true,” said Magnus. “Dae ye have anyone in mind?”

Knox shook his head. “Nay. Dae ye?”

“Nay,” said Magnus. “Ye also need tae find another healer.”

“Another healer?”

This was news to Knox and not particularly good news. Magnus’ wife, Effie, was the castle’s healer and she was more than competent at her job.

“The demands have grown too great,” Magnus said. “There is only so much Effie can dae an’ if there is an attack…”

Magnus didn’t need to finish his sentence for Knox to know what he meant. If Clan Gordon attacked, then there would be many who would need care and attention from a healer. Effie would not be enough on her own to meet such demands.

“Fine,” said Knox, nodding. “Dae we ken anyone who could help?”

“Perhaps we could find someone in Duror,” said Magnus. “It’s a big village. Surely, they have a healer.”

“Very well. See that it is done.”

The Gordon Clan had already taken too much from them—from him. Their laird, Alistair Gordon, had loomed over Knox’s shadow for years. He was responsible for his parents’ deaths. He was responsible for so many evil acts that Knox could not even name them all. And now they were about to attack again, threatening everything Knox held dear—his friends, his family, his people.

They wouldn’t be getting what they wanted, not if he had something to say about it. He would rather give his own life, sacrifice himself for the sake of those who trusted him and depended on him, than let the Gordons have even a sliver of his land or harm even one of his people.

There was much to be done. Knox was convinced an attack was imminent and with Callum leading the mission, he couldn’t rest assured everything would work out. The castle needed fortification and a new healer needed to be found. The men’s training would have to become more rigorous than ever, and Knox felt the need to be in control of all those things. Even if it meant sleepless nights and working tirelessly around the clock, he had to make sure the clan had no weak spots.

It was all his responsibility now. Everything rested upon his shoulders.  

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1306, The Summer Highlands/Lowlands Gathering and Festival

The weather was warm, and the air was full of the shouts of merchants, performers, and clan folk from all over Scotland. Twelve-year-old Alistair MacDuff straightened his kilt for what seemed like the tenth time in a candle-mark, and tried to remain still and poised, the way the son and heir of a laird should look.

He understood his presence was an exception, that his father, like most of the other lairds, was here to talk about the tensions with the English, and the increasing number of fights that were occurring along the borders of the Highlands, Lowlands, and the proper ‘English’ lands. He knew he’d only been allowed to come because he was an heir, and because he was of age to begin his weapon’s training, and to learn how to interact with other lairds.

Ewan hadn’t been permitted to come. That made Alistair feel proud and made the stillness and the stiffness of trying to behave like an adult easier. Ewan wasn’t old enough, and he wasn’t the heir to the lairdship, like Alistair was. Ewan had been left behind with the servants and the steward.

“Alistair.” His father’s voice brought his thoughts back to the present, and he flushed with embarrassment, to have been caught woolgathering.

“Aye, Faither?” He raised his chin and tried to look responsible and adult-like. He tried to ignore the itch of sweat down his spine, and the call of the musicians in the festival, the smell of the roasting meat and sweet sugary treats and the laughter of the few younger children who had accompanied their parents – mostly the sons and daughters of entertainers or merchants.

His father smiled at him, an amused smile that made Alistair want to pout. The smile said his father had noticed his distraction, and thought it the whimsy of a child, rather than something to be stern about, as he would have if Alistair had been older. “Go on lad. We’ll be talkin’ dull matters like grain and roads for now. Go and see what there is tae see. Ye can come back and tell me all about it, as I’ll nae be getting tae see much o’ the festival this year.”

Alistair flushed, trapped between his desire to do just that, his wish to be obedient, and his determination not to be treated like a child. “Faither…”

“Go. Get something yer braither might like, and a treat fer yerself. And something fer me. A new knife would be fine. Me boot knife is near dull with age.”

He still felt he was being humored, but at least it sounded like a real task. Alistair took the money pouch his father gave him and tucked it into his shirt, then bowed with as much grace as he was able. “As ye wish, Faither. Me lairds.”

Then he was free to escape the stuffy tent where all the lairds had been meeting and talking about troops and horses and strategies. Free to fill his lungs with the fresh summer air, and his ears with laughter and music. Free to find something delicious to fill his belly as well, and some sweet berry juice to cool his dry throat.

Laughter caught his ears, and he turned to see a small girl darting through the crowd. She looked to be scarcely half his age, with red hair and a simple cotton dress. A cloth belt at her waist said she was from Cameron Clan, or born into it, at least.

Alistair watched her dart around the minstrel’s stand, stopping every now and then to listen to the piping of the man’s reed pipes. Then he shook his head and went to find the weapon merchants and smiths. He would get food and a gift for Ewan next, but his mission for his father had to come first. That was what it meant, to be a responsible adult. Father had taught him that.

It wasn’t easy to convince the man who sold knives to let him look at them. It was even harder to tell, with his young, inexperienced eyes, if the knife he eventually chose was a good blade, though it felt good in his hand, and the edge was keen enough to leave a thin line of red on his thumb. He was certain, when he finally left the stall, that he’d done a poorer job of haggling than he wanted to admit, even though he’d managed to convince the man to take a silver and five coppers off the price.

His father could have gotten five silvers and a copper, he was certain. But it was hard to be taken seriously when you were still a ‘stripling youth’, as the armsmaster at home called him.

At least he’d gotten the knife, and he could roam and enjoy the festival properly now.

He found a stall selling hot meat pies and bought two, along with a mug of some sort of chilled juice. He was busy chewing his way through the first one, when he heard a shout, and looked up just in time to nearly be knocked clean on his arse as a small figure darted around a booth from another aisle and slammed into him.

His drink splashed, but he managed to keep it and the meat pies from hitting the dirt. The knife, of course, was secured to his belt, and the remainder of the money he had was safe in his shirt. Even so, the indignity of being nearly knocked over was enough to make him flush. He glared at his assailant, the expression melting slightly as he realized it was the same little girl he’d seen before. Up close, he could see she had green eyes, green as grass, and a pert mouth.

He might not be angry, but he saw no reason to let her know that. “Ye should watch where ye’re goin’. Ye could have knocked me down. Or gotten hurt.”

He expected a bashful apology. Instead, the little girl made a harrumphing noise that he’d only heard from irritated matrons at home, folded her arms, and stuck her tongue out at him impudently. “Ye dinnae get tae tell me what tae dae!” Then, before he could gather his wits to respond, she was off again.

Alistair stared after her. The cheek o’ that… that… that brat!

He was tempted to follow after the girl, perhaps even trip her up to prove his point. Then he reminded himself that he was no longer a child to engage in such actions. He was growing up, and it was important not to let such childish displays upset him.

With a sigh, he turned his attention back to his food and resolved to put the girl out of his mind. If she got kicked by a horse, or got her ears boxed by a merchant for being too sharp with him, it wasn’t Alistair’s problem.

Then he made his way to the stall selling toys, and felt his stomach tighten with frustration. The same little girl was there again, browsing the toys as he was. She spotted him, and her brow furrowed, before she ran off again. Alistair sighed and set about looking for a proper item for Ewan. He finally found a ball, and a simple wooden puzzle he thought his brother would like. He paid for them, a bit surer of his haggling skills this time, then went to explore the rest of the Festival.

Within a candle-mark, he was bemused and bewildered. The girl he’d noticed before seemed to be everywhere. He saw her at the field, attempting the games the older children played. He saw her at the story-teller’s stall, listening with rapt attention to the tale the bard wove, and found himself listening to her questions afterward with a small smile on his face. The bard had told a story of the Cauldron of Plenty, a tale Alistair had always found somewhat fanciful, and it sounded as if the girl was as uncertain as to the tale’s truth as he had been.

Then he saw her playing tag with other children her age, and chasing a small ball with single-minded determination that nearly sent her running into a passing farmer’s cart at one point.

After that, it was the clothing stall, where she haggled – unsuccessfully it seemed, but with great enthusiasm – for a dress that was several sizes too large for her. Later, he spotted her successfully bargaining for a bag of sweets from a different merchant.

Alistair tried to ignore her, but every time he spotted her, his eyes were drawn to her, as if she’d enspelled him.

She was so… unhindered. She spoke her mind, navigated the corridors around the Festival with an ease that he envied, and spoke to everyone in a forthright, forward fashion that should have earned her a clout on the ear in some cases. She played with children her own age, stopped to help a mother with a newborn bairn get some water, and chattered freely with everyone, from the merchants to the guards to the older children.

When one of the older boys tried to tease her, she didn’t cry, or back away in fear or uncertainty, like so many girls might have. Instead, she kicked his shins and stuck her chin out in defiance, leaving Alistair to muffle his laughter in his fist at the sight.

She was exasperating, and he was truly glad he had no duty to watch over her. She would have driven him mad in that case. Not even Ewan was so wild.

She was also intriguing. Alistair had been brought up to be a proper young man, and a proper heir to his father. He’d never seen anyone act so carelessly, or so freely, among others.

She was frustrating too, because Alistair knew quite well that if he’d spoken to the adults the way she did, he’d have taken a smack to his ear, and his father would have scolded him after. And yet, she seemed to get away with it almost effortlessly, as if she possessed some magic that allowed her to do and say whatever she wished.

It was a magic Alistair wished he had.

Finally, as dusk began to fall, he went back to the sweet sellers. He wanted to buy a last bag of treats, to take on the journey home. He might even save some for Ewan.

The little girl was there, nibbling on a honey biscuit. Alistair stopped in consternation, uncertain what to say or do.

She spotted him and marched right up to him. Alistair braced for kicked shins, or another sharp comment.

The little girl offered him the remainder of her honey cake, and a smile. “Hello. I’m Niamh. Who are ye?”

“Alistair.” He couldn’t seem to say anything else.

“Dae ye want a honey cake?”

“Aye. But… I can buy me own.” He fumbled for the proper coins and passed them to the amused sweet seller, then took the bag she offered in return. “But… thank ye.”

“I like tae share.” She continued to hold out the piece of honey cake. Feeling amused, Alistair accepted.

“Thank ye.” He ate it, then swallowed. “Are yer parents…”

“Niamh!” A shout echoed over the crowd, and the girl gave him an impish smile.

“’Tis me faither. I have tae go.” With a soft giggle, she reached up to pat his cheek with sticky fingers. “Will ye be here taemorrow?”

“Nae. Me faither and I have tae return home. But… but I…”

“Alistair.” His father’s voice carried over the diminishing noise of the festival. He flushed and tried to rub the honey off his face.

“I have tae go.”

Niamh nodded, then turned and darted away. Just before she was lost in the crowd, however, she turned and gave him one more cheerful grin, and a wave. Then she was gone.

Alistair turned to make his way back to his father, still dazed.

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