Chapter One

Lowlands Border Town, September 20, 1320

“So, just tae be clear, ye want me tae seduce yer daughter and win her hand. And that, even though ye ken that she doesnae want tae be wed?” Laird Alistair MacDuff sipped at his mead as he pondered the request that had been laid before him. “And the lass has nay inkling that yer plannin’ this?”

“Nay. She’d never accept it.” Laird Bruce Cameron shook his head. “And in truth, nay more would I, save that we need the aid o’ her maither’s clan. These past years, we’ve been supplying border guards and warriors tae the cause o’ defending the Highlands, and we’re in sore straits for defending ourselves. Worse, an outer wall o’ the keep was damaged in the summer storms, and I’ve nae the gold tae repair it.”

Alistair grunted in response. He was familiar with the demands of war, his own clan having supplied two groups of warriors to the Battle of Bannockburn six years before. True, it had been under his father’s leadership, rather than his own, but he had led one team of their warriors into the field, and he remembered it well.

Of course, that had been before his clan had been attacked by their rival, Clan MacTavish. In the past two years, they’d been forced to consolidate their warriors in defending their home. Especially after the battle a year prior, which had resulted in his father’s death and his ascension to the lairdship.

Now, they had few warriors to spare, and little more gold. Though, if the repairs were minor enough, he might help. “How severe is the damage?”

“Tree took part o’ the outer battlements and shattered the postern gate on that side. There’s damage tae the main keep walls as well, broken window shutters and some cracks in the stone. We’ve patched it as well as we can, but we’re in need o’ proper stone masons and carpenters, as well as supplies.”

Alistair winced. Those sorts of repairs were difficult and costly, and could beggar a clan. It was certainly far beyond his means to offer any meaningful assistance in that area. “And yer kin-by-marriage willnae help ye without ye meetin’ their conditions?”

Laird Cameron sighed. “Me late wife’s clan has never forgiven me fer marryin’ the woman I loved when she could have wed a laird with greater standing. So they’ve conditions fer aidin’ me, and Niamh’s marriage is the foremost. Specifically, her marriage tae a Highland Laird such as ye.”

Alistair took another swallow of his drink as he considered the matter. He’d never met Niamh Cameron, not that he could recall, and knew almost nothing about her. Likewise, she probably knew nothing of him, either. With the Autumn Equinox Festival tomorrow, there would be plenty of opportunities to ‘accidentally’ meet Niamh and charm her.

Alistair grimaced. He couldn’t say he liked the idea of seducing a lass into falling in love with him, but that was far less disconcerting than the idea that he might fall in love with her in turn. The first was inconvenient and uncomfortable, but the latter scenario could have dire consequences for them both.

Alistair’s hand strayed to the ring he wore on a cord around his neck. That was the real danger, that he might come to care for the lass, and endanger them both.

On the other hand, sooner or later, Niamh was sure to find out the truth – that their meeting and courtship had been planned. No doubt, she’d be furious. And her anger, in turn, would cool any feelings he had for her as well, leaving them like many spouses in arranged marriages – coolly civil, but hardly passionate. That, he could live with.

Besides, it wasn’t as if the wedding wouldn’t benefit him. The feud with Clan MacTavish was a bloody one, and more than one of his kin and council had commented on the need for an heir to secure the lairdship and his bloodline. A wedding would convince them that he was paying at least some attention to their demands.

Alistair steeled himself, then met his fellow laird’s gaze. “How soon dae ye wish the wedding tae tak’ place?”

Laird Cameron’s expression shifted uncomfortably in a blend of relief and sorrow. “As soon as me daughter can be coaxed intae it. Fer our clan’s sake, the sooner the better.”

Since that matched both his inclination and the needs of his clan as well, Alistair nodded. “I can make it soon, I’m thinking. Unless… is it marriage or aught else she fears?”

“She doesnae want tae wed, but ‘tis other things she fears. I cannae speak more o’ it though. Ye should ask her about it yerself, should ye have the chance.” Laird Cameron shook his head.

“’Tis enough. So long as ‘tis nae the wedding itself she’s so adamantly afeared o’, I can work around anything else.”

In truth, it might be better for both of them if she was resistant to the wedding for reasons other than simply having a husband. It would make it easier for them to develop a polite, perhaps even cordial marriage, if she was willing to wed and he was willing to yield to her concerns on whatever truly frightened her.

He considered. Autumn Equinox would be their first meeting. “Say, a wedding by Samhain?”

It would mean a very swift seduction and courtship, swifter than might be expected, but it would also give Laird Cameron enough time to provide proof of the wedding to his kin-by-marriage, and a chance that the repairs might be underway before the full brunt of winter hit Highlands and Lowlands alike.

Alistair knew from his own experience that breached windows and walls in the main keep in winter could be dangerous for the health of the clan folk living there. And if the outer wall were not repaired by spring, it would be an invitation to brigands and enemy troops alike to attack.

“Samhain is acceptable, though ye ken I’ll nae protest if ye can convince her tae come tae the altar sooner.”

“We’ll see.” Alistair considered further. “I’ll dae me best tae bring her tae the altar by her choice, but if somehow she realizes the truth, will ye wish the arrangement annulled, or shall the wedding proceed?”

Laird Cameron winced. “I wish I could say that the arrangement rests on her willingness, but in truth…” he shook his head. “The needs o’ the clan are too great, and ‘tis past time me daughter had someone besides me tae be looking after her safety. She’s seen a score o’ years, and ‘tis best she settles down afore she gets past what most would consider marryin’ age.”

“Then are we calling this a betrothal agreement? So long as ‘tis understood that I dinnae introduce meself tae the lass that way?” Alistair was determined to be clear on the matter. He didn’t want to be accused of overstating or overstepping his position when he started pursuing the lass.

“Aye, though I’d prefer if we kept it a verbal agreement rather than a written one.” Laird Cameron gave him a wry look. “Me daughter is curious as a cat and twice the troublemaker when she’s o’ a mind. A written contract she might find, and then there’s nae tellin’ what she’d dae.”

Yer word is sufficient fer me, and I’ll trust mine is the same.” Alistair lifted his tankard in a toast to seal the bargain, and Laird Cameron followed suit.

He drained the rest of his tankard and rose from his seat. “If there’s naught else tae discuss, best I seek me bed. I wouldnae wish tae be at less than me best if I’m tae seek out yer daughter and try tae win her heart, and her hand.”

Laird Cameron nodded. He looked weary, and Alistair couldn’t fault him. They were both in difficult positions and forced into doing things they weren’t entirely proud of for the sake of their clans and their kinsmen.

Back in his room, he went over the description Laird Cameron had given him.

‘Look fer a slender lass with hair the color o’ deep autumn leaves and eyes the color o’ summer meadows. She’s slim like a reed, and fair-skinned, save for the dots o’ darker sun-color across her nose, cheeks and forearms, like she’s been sprinkled with fairie kisses. She’ll be unescorted, wearin’ a Cameron tartan, and carryin’ a well-worn satchel.’

She certainly sounded pretty enough, and easy to identify, but only tomorrow would reveal the truth.

Alistair settled into his bed, his mind turning over the different methods by which he might make the best first impression.

Niamh Cameron… I look forward tae meeting ye. And though I ken I can never love ye, if the fates are kind, then mayhap at least we can have the comfort o’ a cordial relationship and the knowledge we saved both our clans.

Chapter Two

The next day…

“Och, I cannae believe ‘tis so late already!” Niamh checked her hair once more, ensuring that the plaits that bound it back from her face were neat and even, then turned and scooped up the parchment list she’d been perusing a moment before. “I’d best be hurryin’ or Grace will be addin’ ‘Cannae be on time’ to me list!”

The thought made her chuckle, even as she folded the parchment and tucked it away. Every year, she and her best friend, Grace, met at the Autumn Equinox Festival to talk and share their respective ‘list of sins’. Though it had long since become a source of amusement between them, for the two girls, it had a second, far more important purpose.

The list was all the things they’d each done over the year to avoid being considered marriageable material. They were both determined to be spinsters – Grace wished to defy her cruel, greedy uncle, and Niamh had no wish to face the expectations that came after marriage.

She was rather proud of her list this year. She’d managed to step on the toes of no less than a dozen hopeful young men at dances, gotten drunk three times, and committed a host of other improprieties that had turned aside the interests of every man her father had attempted to introduce her to.

Now in her twentieth year, she only had a few more years before she would be considered too old to be a wife to anyone – unless some widower who already had heirs decided he wanted a gentle young caretaker in his later years.

But that was a concern for later. For now, she was going to meet Grace, and the two of them could enjoy sharing their respective lists before they went to explore the festival together.

Grace had said she would be waiting near the minstrel’s platform, in the little patch of woodland that stood behind it. With the tensions of recent years, Grace was shy of wandering the fair alone. A single word would reveal her English parentage, and they’d had folk take offense more than once.

It wasn’t Grace’s fault, and she’d no part of the fighting, and yet, people could be suspicious and cruel. Niamh increased her pace at the thought.

She was so intent on making her way that she didn’t see the man stepping out of the smithy stall until she crashed into him.

Niamh staggered, dropping the roll of parchment as she stumbled. Then a firm hand caught her elbow, and she found herself looking up into the amused eyes of the man she’d just run into.

He was tall, and as well-muscled as any of her father’s warriors, if not more so. His midnight-hued hair was bound firmly at the nape of his neck in a warrior’s tail, leaving a clear view of piercing green eyes and a strong, square jaw. At her appraisal, one eyebrow rose, a small smile quirking one corner of the stern-looking mouth before he spoke. “In a hurry are we, lass?”

Niamh colored. “’Tis nay business o’ yers, but I’m on me way tae meet a friend, and I dinnae want tae be late.”

“So ye’d rather be rude instead, is that it?”

“I didnae intend tae run intae ye!”

He made a soft noise, like a muffled laugh. “Och, I ken that, but ye’ve neither apologized, nor given yer name or any other courtesy.”

She hadn’t, that was true, but she didn’t feel like admitting it. “Ye’ve scarce introduced yerself either. And ye’ve nae call tae be holdin’ me so close.”

“Well, when a lovely creature such as yerself runs intae me without so much as a ‘by yer leave’, I cannae help being curious and wantin’ tae ken more about her.” His gaze flicked downward. “Och, and what’s this?”

To Niamh’s horror, he bent down and picked up her list, which had not only fallen to the ground, but unfolded as well. He read the first line with a smirk on his face. “Niamh’s list o’ sins, is it?”

“Give that back tae me!” She grabbed for the parchment, but he flicked it out of her reach with a grin. “That’s nae any o’ yer business.”

“Och, and why nae? I could add tae this list o’ misbehaviors.” He pretended to scrawl something in the air. “Is rude tae strangers, mayhap? Or perhaps ‘inclined tae collide with random men’?” He glanced at the list again. “Though, I’ll own yer list seems quite long enough already.”

Niamh felt as if her cheeks were afire, and she was acutely aware of the festival goers who were watching with amusement. “If I give ye me name and an apology, will ye give me back my list?”

“Aye.”

“Very well. I’m Niamh Cameron, and I’m sorry fer runnin’ intae ye.”

He smiled and deposited the folded parchment in her hand. “Yer apology is accepted, though I cannae say I’m sorry for our collision. Be that as it may…” His hand cupped her chin as he leaned closer to her. “Me name is Alistair MacDuff, and I’m very pleased tae meet ye.”

Niamh flushed and pulled away from his hand. “Och, I dinnae recall givin’ ye permission tae touch me in such a manner, sir. And ye’ve taken liberties enough, reading me list.”

Alistair smiled. “Aye… I’ll own I’ve been a wee bit forward with ye, me lady, but truth is, ‘tis been a fair long time since I met such an intriguing lass.”

“’Tis been some time since I met so bold a rogue, and yet I dinnae see it as a reason fer bein’ uncouth and improper,” Niamh retorted.

One dark eyebrow rose, a teasing smirk tugging his stern mouth. “And yet, yer list would lead me tae believe yer the sort tae like a bit o’ rogue in yer menfolk.”

“Then ye’re fair deceived, fer in truth I’d like nae any sort o’ man at all, and the list…” Niamh stopped before she revealed that particular secret. “The list contains me reasons why I feel nae any sort o’ man should want me.”

“Is that so? Perhaps I should beg another look, fer I didnae see aught that was so objectionable. But then…” Alistair smiled, and Niamh felt her heart skip a bit in spite of herself. “I confess I admire a pretty lass with character and a ready wit.”

“Then ye’re looking in the wrong direction, fer there’s many a fairer lass at this festival, and plenty o’ them with more wit and grace than meself.”

“So ye say, mlady, but I prefer tae judge fer meself. One man’s dross is another man’s gold, and I think ye gleam bright indeed.”

Niamh felt herself blushing under the compliment. “Then yer eyes or yer wits are addled. Or else, ‘tis a joke ye intend to tell.”

“Nay jest. And nay addled wits, nor too much mead and ale, if that’s what yer thinkin’, me bonny lass.” Alistair tipped his head. “But if ye think I jest, then perhaps a wager? Spend the day attending the festival with me, and if I havenae indeed convinced ye by sunset o’ me sincerity, then claim a forfeit if ye like. But if I have, then ye’ll give me leave tae call on ye again.”

It was an intriguing offer, but Niamh shook her head. “Nay. I cannae. I told ye afore, I’m meeting a friend, and I promised tae walk the festival with her.”

“A friend’s a bonny chaperone, since ye think me a rogue.” Alistair stepped closer. “Walk the fair with me, lass. I can promise ye a day ye’ll enjoy, and one ye’ll remember fer many Autumn’s tae come.”

Niamh had no doubt he spoke the truth. But she also feared what his sincerity might mean for her own resolve. She opened her mouth to refuse him.

At that moment, a group of men, some half-dozen at the least, came staggering out of the nearby tavern, cursing and stumbling. The last was shoved from the building by an irate looking man that Niamh recognized as Seamus, the tavern keeper. “Dae yer brawlin’ and boastin’ elsewhere! I’ll nae have broken tables and chairs here, nor knife holes and flyin’ blades in me tavern, making the sensible folk afeared! If ye cannae act like proper clansmen, then dinnae come back until ye’ve regained yer wits!”

“Ye’ll regret losing our coin!” One of the drunken men was a bit more belligerent than his fellows.

“I’ll nae, fer I’ll save more than I’ll lose in nae havin’ tae replace me crockery and furnishins.” Seamus retorted. The tavern door closed firmly in the faces of the drunkards.

One of the men muttered something to a nearby clansman wearing the tartan of a different clan. Niamh was too far to hear what was said, but the effect was immediate. The second man let out a snarl and made a drunken swipe at the speaker, and the festival lane was soon embroiled in a brawl.

She’d scarcely registered the chaos heading her way when Alistair swept her up and behind him, putting himself between her and the tangled knot of flying fists and barely intelligible insults. Niamh scowled at his back. “What are ye daeing?”

“I couldnae leave so fair a lass in danger o’ bein’ harmed by these louts.”

“There’s guards at the festival. They’ll have heard the ruckus.” Her father’s guards were quick and strong, and she was confident they’d arrive to handle the matter before it got too out of hand.

“Aye. But until they arrive, permit me the honor o’ protecting ye.”

Niamh grimaced. She couldn’t say she disliked having Alistair’s protection, nor could she deny the tiny shiver of delight that passed through her at the knowledge that he was willing to stand between her and a gaggle of rowdy drunkards.

However, none of that changed the fact that time was passing, and she was surely late to meet Grace. That was vexing enough to cancel any enjoyment she might have felt in being watched over by such a handsome clansman. “If ye’d only left me well enough alone, I’d be far from here and in nay need o’ protecting.”

Alistair turned. “Are ye so sure o’ that? There’s more than one place taeday selling food and drink, and I’ll wager this isnae the only brawl the festival will see – or has seen already, if the time the guards are taking tae arrive is any indication.”

He might have been right, but Niamh wasn’t going to concede the point to him so readily. “Be that as it may, I’d nae be at risk o’ bein involved in this one if ye hadnae delayed me.”

“Mayhap, but ye’d also nae have anyone tae help keep ye safe.” He smirked at her.

Niamh glared back. “I never said I was in need o’ any such thing!”

As Alistair was about to respond, one of the men staggered out of the melee and slammed into him. Before Niamh could quite understand what was happening, she was backed up against the wall, Alistair’s hands planted against the stone on either side of her face. It was only when he shifted his weight to plant a boot against the drunkard’s gut and shove him back toward his fellows that she realized how close she’d come to being knocked down, perhaps even trampled.

Alistair gave her another of his crooked half-smiles. “Are ye so sure o’ that, lass? If I hadnae been between ye, the fool might have done ye harm. ‘Twould be a shame tae damage such a bonny face.”

Niamh’s cheeks felt hot as coals, her face flushed by her embarrassment and by the sensation of having a man so close to her. Alistair hadn’t made any move to straighten, and she could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across her face, smell the scent of spiced meat and mulled cider he’d consumed earlier in the day. “I…”

Her words trailed off as her eyes met his. Deep, glittering eyes that held a sheen like the emerald she’d seen in one of her mother’s rings, many years ago. They were mesmerizing, and Niamh looked away.

Looking down, she noticed a sturdy leather cord about his neck, from which hung a simple ring bearing a tri-corner eternity knot. The ring itself was far too small to fit a hand such as Alistair’s. Daes he have another lass he’s interested in?

The idea that he might be a rake, and simply toying with her stung more than it should. She raised her head to confront him about it, only to pause as he bent to murmur in her ear. “Ye say ye dinnae want protection, and ye’re angered that I’ve apparently delayed yer meeting with yer friend. But can ye really say ye object tae me company?”

“I cannae say I asked fer it, nor that I welcome it overmuch, yer current protection o’ me notwithstanding.” Her voice was quieter than she meant it to be.

“Why nae let me accompany ye? I dinnae mind having yer friend walk with us. And I’m sure ye’ll nae find me company lacking.” His smile deepened. “Besides, there’s our wager tae be concluded.”

“I’ve said it afore, I never agreed tae any wager.” Niamh hissed the words.

“But ye never refused it either.”

“I…”

Whatever she had intended to say was drowned out by a roar of sound as something happened within the melee. She started to lean forward to see around Alistair’s shoulders, when someone shoved, or fell, into his shoulder.

Caught off guard and off balance, Niamh stumbled, then froze as something brushed her cheek. Her head turned, just as Alistair shifted his weight.

Their lips met, and Niamh’s cheeks flamed crimson and all thought ceased as she tasted the spices on his mouth, felt the soft, slightly rough dryness of his lips, gently caressing her own, light as the edge of a bird’s wing. Then she came to her senses and she jerked backwards. Her hand rose to deliver a stinging slap to his jaw. “You rogue! I never gave ye permission tae kiss me!”

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Six months earlier, August 1297.

Enya examined Fiona’s arm, cradling the fragile limb in her hands. Fiona was an old woman—she had been ever since Enya could remember, and now her bones seemed more brittle than ever, to the point where Enya visited her little cottage often in order to help her as much as she could. Though there was nothing she could do to strengthen her limbs, much to her chagrin, she could at least heal her whenever she broke a bone or sprained a joint, lessening her pain as much as she could.

“How did ye even dae this, Fiona?” she asked, tutting to herself. “I’ve told ye tae be careful.”

“When ye’re me age, lassie, it doesnae matter how careful ye are,” Fiona said, her pale, rheumy eyes staring up at her. “Dinnae fash. I ken how tae take care o’ meself.”

Enya didn’t know whether that was true. After all, Fiona lived in a cottage in the middle of the woods, away from everyone else even now in her advanced age. Were something to happen to her and she could not send for help, there would be no one there to help her.

Enya didn’t know why she insisted on being away from people, though she supposed it would be the same for her if she didn’t have her family to rely on. Fiona, like the MacLeods had a power, though neither her nor any of Enya’s siblings knew what that power was. All they knew was that she preferred to keep herself isolated and that they were the only ones with whom she was so well acquainted—which was to say not well at all.

Even with Enya’s frequent visits to her, Fiona remained a mystery to her. Her cottage was small, holding just the necessities within its four walls—a rickety bed, two wooden chairs, a small table, and a stove—but she had somehow managed to plant a sprawling garden, even as she lived in the middle of the forest. Enya didn’t know whether she had simply found a large clearing or she had cleared out the area herself as a younger woman—either seemed likely, and even if she asked, she knew she would receive no satisfactory answer. Especially in the summer, though, the air always smelled of flowers, their scent permeating every part of Fiona’s home.

Pressing her fingers against the fracture, Enya let her energy pour from he hands to Fiona, healing her. Warmth spread over her hands, as always, along with that familiar tingling sensation which told her the job was being done. Within moments, Fiona was as good as new, stretching her arm to test it.

“Ach, thank ye, Enya,” Fiona said, taking her hand in hers and giving it a gentle pat. “Ye’re a good lass. I dinnae ken what I’ll dae without ye now that ye’ll be gone.”

Enya frowned at that, confusion and a vague sense of dread settling heavy over her shoulders. “What dae ye mean?” she asked. “I am nae goin’ anywhere.”

“Aye,” said Fiona with a nod. “Ye are.”

She was used to Fiona speaking in riddles, but she usually avoided saying anything too personal to Enya. Saying something like this was as rare as it was jarring and she needed to learn more. Where was she going? How long would she be gone?

Before she could ask any of those questions, though, Fiona added, “Ye must be careful with yer power. It is a lovely thing. A magnificent thing. But ye ken what will happen if ye push yerself tae the brink.”

Enya did, in fact, know. There were plenty of warnings in her mother’s journals regarding those who inherited this gift and how they could perish if they tried to bring someone back from the dead. Not only that, but her mother had drilled it into her mind that she could never even attempt such a thing, and Enya had promised time and time again that she never would.

“I’m nae a fool, Fiona,” said Enya with a chuckle. “I ken me limits. It would be foolish tae toy with nature like this.”

Fiona laughed, shaking her head, and though the sound was not particularly strange, there was something about it which sent a shiver down Enya’s spine. It sounded like an omen, like a warning, and a chill settled in Enya’s stomach as she tried to busy herself with her coat. Sometimes she stayed with Fiona for a while longer, keeping her company until it was time to return to the castle, but after this, she had the urge to flee.

“Indeed, ye will, lassie,” said Fiona from where she sat on one of the chairs, its legs unstable and wobbling as she leaned forward to take a better look at Enya. “Ye may think ye would never dae such a thing, but there is a man fer whom ye will risk everythin’.”

“How dae ye ken?” Enya asked, thinking that maybe at least this time, Fiona would reveal something about her abilities, but Fiona only smiled knowingly. She had hoped that maybe if Fiona avoided answering, like she had, it would have been easier to discard her warning as nonsense, but there was something about her mannerisms which told Enya she was telling the truth.

“I ken many things.”

For a few moments, the two of them looked at each other and Enya felt as though Fiona was looking straight through her, as though she was entirely transparent and all her thoughts and feelings were laid bare.

Then, Enya chuckled awkwardly in an attempt to break the tension between them. Maybe she was simply imagining things. Maybe Fiona was simply an old woman and she didn’t know what she was talking about. But even if what she was saying was true, now Enya knew; she had been warned.

And she was never going to attempt bringing someone back from the dead. She knew how her gift worked and she knew that if she risked such a thing, there was a very good chance that she, too, would end up dead.

“Ye’ll have tae choose,” Fiona said just as Enya was about to say goodbye and take her leave. “Yer life or the life o’ a man who is promised tae another.”

It was that which gave Enya pause more than anything else. She could see how she could perhaps come to a point where she would risk her life for her family—for her siblings, for her dear friend Ava, for someone who was so close to her that losing them would be unbearable. But a man who was promised to another? Why would she ever consider such a thing, let alone attempt it?

This is madness. Fiona doesnae ken what she’s sayin’.

“Why would I risk me life fer a man who is spoked for?” she asked, incredulous. “Come now, Fiona . . . dinnae try tae scare me.”

“I’m nae tryin’ tae scare ye, lass,” Fiona said and that, too, sounded so sincere that it helped Enya feel a little more at ease. Maybe it was true, then. Maybe Fiona wasn’t trying to scare her at all, but rather warn her that she was going down a dangerous path, even if she didn’t know it. “Even if he is promised tae another, yer hearts belong tae each other. Ye will love him as he will love ye.”

A strange sense of loss gripped Enya then, as though she was experiencing the heartbreak that was to come. Never before had she felt like this, as though a part of her was being torn, permanently removed and lost to time.

Was this nothing but a glimpse of what was to follow? Was she going to love this man only to watch him with another woman in her place?

It all felt so distant, but at the same time real, as though it was already happening to her. It was a jarring sensation, leaving her unmoored and uncertain of her own feelings, of what was real and what wasn’t. Who was this man? Had she already met him? If she hadn’t, how could she already feel this loss deep in her gut, like a blade plunged into her?

“Dinnae fear,” said Fiona as she pushed herself off the chair with some difficulty, hobbling over to Enya to place a hand on her shoulder. “But choose wisely.”

As Fiona guided Enya to the door, Enya stopped and turned to face her once more. “Ye said I would go . . . somewhere,” she said. “Is that what ye meant?”

For a moment, Fiona looked at her with a confused frown, head tilted to the side. Then, understanding dawned on her and she laughed, shaking her head.

“Ach, nay,” she said. “But there are travels ahead o’ ye. They will come tae pass, but what happens after is in yer hands.”

That was some relief, at least, to hear that her death wasn’t predetermined and that she could create her own fate. She didn’t know where her travels would take her, but she had the feeling they would lead to that man, and she couldn’t help but hope they wouldn’t come for a long time.

“Go now,” said Fiona as she grabbed a basket from the windowsill by the door, filled with flowers and jams and honey. She always insisted on thanking Enya like this and wouldn’t allow her to leave if she didn’t take what was offered. “I’ll see ye in a few weeks.”

“Take care, Fiona,” Enya said, a mock chiding seeping into her tone, as though she was talking to a particularly careless and rambunctious child. “An’ be careful this time.”

As she headed down the path back to the castle, Fiona’s words echoed in her mind.

Yer hearts belong tae each other. Ye will love him as he will love ye even if he is betrothed to another.

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Chapter One

Isle of Skye, December 1297

Enya MacLeod would have never thought that a wedding could be more miserable than a funeral. Had someone asked her a mere few weeks prior, she would have said that she would look forward to a wedding in the family—she or one of her siblings falling in love and marrying the person of their dreams, giving the entire MacLeod Clan a reason to celebrate and rejoice. Now, though, she knew differently, that not all weddings were such pleasant events.

Her sister’s wedding with Laird Cillian MacDonald certainly wouldn’t be.

Thora’s deep blue eyes scanned the horizon as they walked to the shore, searching for the vessel that would take them to Jura. The boat rocked violently on the waves, the wind around them disturbing the surface of the water and whipping their cheeks. It was, predictably, a cold day, the sky as grey as steel stretching above them, and dark, heavy clouds hanging like a threat as they made their way through a slurry of ice and mud. Enya privately cursed the king for forcing them to travel in such weather. At any moment, a snowstorm could begin to rage and their journey would become not only unpleasant, but also possibly dangerous.

For if there was one certain thing, it was that the journey was definitely going to be unpleasant, even without what awaited them in Jura.

“I still dinnae understand why we must travel there in such circumstances!” Enya complained, not for the first time that day. Her voice, though loud to the point of strain on her vocal cords, barely carried over the whistling wind. None of the guards who followed her and Thora could hear them, but even if they could, Enya refused to keep her comments to herself. She wanted everyone to know just how displeased she was with this arrangement, just how much she disagreed with what the king had ordered.

They could have at least waited until the Yule celebrations were over, just like their older brother, Domhnall, had requested. The king had been firm in his decision, though; Thora was to travel to Jura right away to meet her betrothed, despite if the weather was terrible and even if the only one who could accompany her was Enya, as their other siblings were required to stay in Castle MacLeod for the celebrations.

“Perhaps it is better this way,” said Thora with a small shrug. Her dark, almost raven-black hair was plaited neatly over her shoulder, sitting against the decorated silk of her blue dress. It hadn’t been her choice, that dress, but rather the choice of their maids, who had been instructed by Domhnall to ensure Thora looked nothing short of the perfect for Laird MacDonald.

Thora was being paraded like a prized horse. Though Enya was slow to anger and always had been the calmest and gentlest of her four siblings, to the point that everyone commented on her disposition, this particular matter enraged her unlike anything else. Ever since that fateful day, when Domhnall had announced to them all that one of the twins would have to wed Laird MacDonald at the king’s request, Enya’s rage threatened to bubble over and spill out of her in a torrent of cursing that would put to shame even the foulest of her brother’s men. From the beginning, the choice had been obvious and non-negotiable. Thora was the older of the two, even if only by a few minutes, and so she would have to be the one to suffer this union, while Enya would be left to wonder if she, too, would soon be sold off to a man for another alliance.

It was the way it had always been done. Most noble girls married for convenience, not for love. It would be no different for Thora and Enya, but that didn’t mean it was an easy truth to accept.

“How could it be better?” Enya asked. “All o’ this is madness! He should be the one visitin’ ye, at least.”

That had been another point of contention for Enya. She didn’t understand why Thora had to be the one to make this journey when she was the one who was supposed to be courted. Laird MacDonald had been adamant, though, that he couldn’t leave his home right before the Yule celebrations, just like Domhnall, and so now Thora was the one who had to endure the long journey in choppy seas.

“Aye, but at least this way, it will all be over soon,” said Thora, though she didn’t quite believe it herself, Enya knew. It was simply a way of comforting her, a way to fool her into thinking everything would be fine, when they both knew this was only the beginning. Once she was wedded to Laird MacDonald, she would have her entire life ahead of her—a life she would inevitably have to spend by his side. “I will go there an’ once I meet him—”

Suddenly, Thora came to a halt, her boots crunching against the frozen soil. Her eyes took on that familiar, glazed look, as though a veil had been pulled over them, and her body went stiff, like she was herself carved out of ice.

Around them, the air stilled. The tell-tale scent of an oncoming storm permeated the air, thick and heavy in her throat as Enya took a deep breath. Where there had been the cawing of birds and the whistling of the wind around them only moments prior, now everything had fallen silent. Even the waves couldn’t be heard, though Enya could see them clearly in the short distance, savagely beating the boat.

Enya glanced at the group of guards who were following them—no more than half a dozen and all of them trusted men, but none of them knew the truth of what was happening to Thora and Enya wanted to keep it that way. Then, she glanced back to her sister, whose eyes were moving rapidly in small increments, almost as though they were vibrating.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended, and Thora blinked, the focus returning to her gaze. Her eyes were wide, though, concern clearly etched into her features, and Enya knew that whatever it was she had seen, it was far from good.

Like all MacLeod siblings, Thora had a gift, and hers was peering through the curtain of time to see into the future. No matter how much time passed, no matter how used she was to her powers, some visions left her disoriented and shaking, fear gripping her at the prospect of the future she had seen coming true.

This was one of those instances, Enya knew. Thora’s pale skin now looked waxen, drained of all color. Her hands trembled and so did her breath as she exhaled, the air in front of her lips fogging up with the warmth of her body.

Before Enya even had the chance to say anything, Thora turned to the guards and said, “One moment, please! I must relieve meself!”

The guards, stunned by the bold declaration, said nothing as Thora grabbed Enya’s hand and dragged her away, past the first line of trees that lined the path to the shore and into the thicker part of the forest—as far as they would go while still being near enough to the guards so that none of the men would worry or come looking for them. Enya followed blindly, feet tripping over a few roots that poked through the soil, curling like serpents around her shoes.

Once Thora determined they were far enough from the guards, hidden from their curious gazes and their eavesdropping ears, she came to a halt and turned to face Enya, white as the foam that tipped the waves.

“I saw Ava,” Thora said, and her voice trembled with fear.

“Ava?”

Enya felt the cold hand of terror curl its fingers around her heart, too. What could have Thora seen that made her so afraid? Could it be that something was about to happen to Ava?

The girl was like another sister to them, a friend so dear that Enya would never be able to bear it if something happened to her. The mere thought filled her with a roiling panic and she gripped Thora’s hands, both of them turning to each other for comfort.

“Somethin’ is wrong,” Thora said. “Nae with Ava, but with the MacKinnon Clan. Her father doesnae ken, but somethin’ terrible is about tae happen.”

Ava’s father, Laird Finley MacKinnon, was not the kind of man who was easily fooled by foes, and so whatever it was Thora was sensing had to be serious, Enya thought. It had to be more than a minor threat, and judging by Thora’s reaction, it was going to happen soon.

“I must warn her,” Thora said.

“Aye,” said Enya, nodding. “We shall send her a letter from Jura.”

“Nay. I have tae go tae her.”

Frowning, Enya asked, “But how will ye dae that? We are supposed tae be on the boat, headin’ tae MacDonald Castle. We’ll send her a letter an’ explain—”

“Ye ken I cannae dae that.”

Thora’s words silenced Enya and she swallowed nervously in a dry throat. She supposed her sister was right. They had long decided they would never do anything that would risk revealing their gifts to anyone they didn’t implicitly trust, and so even a letter would be too much of a risk. If Thora wanted to warn Ava of the upcoming catastrophe, she had to visit her herself and tell her face to face.

But how could she, when she was supposed to be meeting Laird MacDonald?

“I’ll go,” said Enya. “Tell me what ye saw an’ I’ll go tae her an’ warn her.”

“I dinnae ken precisely what I saw,” said Thora, despair tinting her words. Her gift wasn’t always precise, as the nature of the future was fluid. Even the smallest decision could change what she saw, and though many of her visions were accurate, some of them were more obscure, their real meaning hiding in the shadows of time. “An’ I dinnae ken what else I may see. I must be the one tae go tae her, in case somethin’ else is revealed tae me.”

The two sisters stared at each other at a loss for what to do. Thora had to warn Ava and she also had to be on that boat, and nothing Enya could do would help her.

“Ye’ll go in me stead,” said Thora then and as Enya watched her, uncomprehending, she began to undo the plait in her hair.

“What dae ye mean?”

“Ye’ll pretend tae be me,” said Thora, as though it was a plan that had any merit at all. “We’ll simply tell the guards that… that ye’re nae feelin’ well because ye are sufferin’ yer monthly courses an’ ye will come tae Jura in a few days. But it will be me who goes back with them.”

“Thora… this will never work,” said Enya. “An’ besides, I dinnae think they will let ye head back tae the castle because o’ this.”

“They will be too embarrassed to argue,” Thora pointed out. By then, her dark hair was flowing freely down her shoulders, just like Enya’s, and she began undressing, pulling her tunic off. “An’ nae one can tell us apart, so nae one will ken anythin’ is different.”

“Our siblings can tell us apart!” Enya said. Being twins meant that most people confused them all the time, unable to tell who was who, but their family had known them all their lives. No one would mistake the one for the other, especially if they spoke to them.

“I will leave afore anyone sees me,” said Thora with such confidence that it was easy to believe her. It was a hasty plan—a mad plan, one that Enya never thought would work, but Enya was already being swayed, pulled along by Thora’s enthusiasm. “This is the only way, Enya. Come, give me yer clothes.”

Enya hesitated for a moment, but then she removed her tunic and the two of them swapped their clothes, dressing again quickly. Enya hastily plaited her hair for good measure, making sure it looked similar to the style Thora had been wearing, and by the time the two of them headed back to the path to meet with their guards again, Enya was confident none of those men would be able to tell the difference.

Still, the plan was terrible. Enya was plagued by the irrational fear that the moment Laird MacDonald would lay eyes on her, he would know she was a fraud, even though he had never met her or Thora.

What happens if we’re found out? Domhnall will be so angry with us!

“Are ye alright?” the leader of their small group, an older guard named Bram, asked Thora. So far, it seemed that no one had suspected a thing. None of the men questioned them; none of the men even gave them any strange looks.

“Nay,” said Thora, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I am in terrible pain.”

As she spoke, Thora curled in on herself, clutching at her stomach, and Bram rushed to her, holding her upright with a hand on her arm. “What is wrong, me lady? Are ye hurt?”

“Nay, nay,” said Thora. “Me monthly courses… I didnae exp—”

“Alright!” said Bram, quickly putting an end to the conversation. Enya would have laughed had she not been paranoid their plan would be uncovered. “Is there anythin’ we can dae about it?”

“I must return tae the castle,” Thora said and her performance of a weak, sickly girl was so convincing that even Enya began to feel for her. “I will join me sister in Jura in a few days. I dinnae think I will be able tae go on the boat.”

“I understand me lady, there is nay need tae say more…”

Bram glanced back and forth between the two of them, clearly not knowing what to do. Jumping in before he could to and argue, Enya said, “That is alright, Bram. I will be fine on me own. An’ I’ll have ye an’ the men tae look after me. Th—” she took a deep breath, correcting herself, “Enya should return tae the castle.”

There was only a moment of hesitation before Bram nodded and gave his men orders to split into two groups—one of them would go to Jura and the other would return to the castle. Once everything had been arranged, Enya said goodbye to her sister and watched as the party left, heading back to the castle, before she was taken to the boat.

“Ye will be alright, me lady, dinnae fash,” Bram said as they finally reached the boat. The wind had picked up again and here, in the port, brine whipped Enya’s cheeks. She could taste salt on her tongue, the sea a stormy grey. “We are here with thee.”

“I ken, Bram,” Enya said with a soft smile, even as her chest tightened at the thought that she was deceiving them all. Those were good men, loyal men who would do anything for her and her family. Enya couldn’t think of anything worse than blatantly lying to them like this, even though it was necessary. “Thank ye. I’ll be fine, I promise ye.”

Satisfied with Enya’s promise, Bram bowed and turned around to bark orders at his men, leaving Enya alone to lean over the side rail, looking out towards the Isle of Jura. Laird MacDonald awaited her there and everything she would do in his presence would have an impact on Thora’s relationship with him.

Could they switch without him noticing, she wondered, or would he know right away?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe if she played her cards right, Thora would never have to come to Jura and she would never have to marry a man she didn’t love. Enya was known for her quiet, mild manners but she also knew a thing or two about causing trouble. And if she caused enough trouble for Laird MacDonald, then perhaps the man would decide he didn’t want to marry Thora at all.

Och aye… that is what I’ll dae! I will make sure he despises me with all his heart.

Chapter Two

The wind howled through the castle, the hallways seemingly amplifying the wailing sound. Rain battered onto the walls, falling in thick, relentless drops that drummed against the roofs as thunder broke in the distance. Every now and then, the dark sky was sharply illuminated by lightning, the flash of white throwing the horizon into sharp relief.

Cillian paced back and forth near the castle doors. This was the day he would meet his future wife, and it was only fitting that the weather be as miserable as he was.

While the guards by the door did their best to pretend they weren’t staring at him as he wore a path on the stone floor, Archibald, his war chief and best friend, made no attempts to hide the fact that he was staring. He was worried, Cillian knew, though he had no reason to be. Cillian would grit his teeth and bear this, like he did with everything else he didn’t want to do.

The king’s order to marry a stranger, a woman he had never even met—it was a disgrace. Cillian tried to convince himself the king didn’t mean for it to be like that at all and if he were honest, that was most likely the case, even though it felt like a personal attack. The union of the MacDonald and MacLeod Clans was a logical step, a good plan, a political move that would strengthen not only the two families, but the king’s rein as well. Cillian could recognize a good – and even necessary in this case – strategy, though that didn’t mean he had to appreciate being a pawn in someone else’s plan.

He had always known his hand would go to the woman who would offer his clan the most benefits. There was no room for love in his life, not as the laird of his clan, and so the fact that he was marrying Thora MacLeod should not have rattled him this much. And yet, at the mere thought of meeting that woman, bile rose to the back of his throat. He had been denied a choice. Ultimately, it was that which bothered him the most.

That, and the fact that this Thora MacLeod was nowhere to be found. She was supposed to have arrived that morning, and yet it was already afternoon and there was no sight of her. There was a storm outside, that much was true, and it was a vicious one, but her boat should have docked long before. The fact that she hadn’t yet arrived could mean she had done something to cause this delay.

Cillian cursed under his breath, but he didn’t stop his incessant pacing. Across from Archibald, Duncan, another of Cillian’s close friends, leaned against the wall with that easy confidence he always seemed to exude. His fingers toyed with the handle of his blade absent-mindedly and the smirk he gave Cillian when their gazes met was almost enough to infuriate him to the point of spontaneous combustion.

“What?” Cillian growled, the two guards by the door flinching at the sudden sound of his voice.

Duncan shrugged a shoulder, seemingly indifferent to Cillian’s suffering. His green eyes tracked every movement he made, but offered no sign of compassion like Archibald’s did.

“I wonder how long we’ll have tae stand here like this,” Duncan said. “Why must we wait fer her here? Let us move tae the drawin’ room an’ have some wine.”

“She may be tardy, but we must still welcome her properly,” said Archibald, always the voice of reason. “It is only good manners. Dinnae forget she is the sister o’ Laird MacLeod.”

“So?” asked Duncan. “She could be the king himself. I’d still want that wine.”

“We’re stayin’,” Cillian said with a finality to his tone. Archibald was right, though Cillian could definitely use a drink, and so Duncan’s suggestion was more than appealing. He wouldn’t risk appearing rude to Thora MacLeod, though, not so much because he cared what she would think, but simply to show her that even though she was late, Cillian was above such things and would still give her the welcome befitting a woman of her position.

He would show her he was better than her.

Duncan raised his hands in mock surrender and Archibald leaned against the opposite wall, facing him, but both men fell silent, going back to simply watching Cillian as he paced. With nothing else to keep Cillian occupied, he could hear every drop that fell against the walls, every sound the wind made, all of it cresting into a terrible cacophony that would drive him mad if he did nothing about it.

Just as he was about to relent, though, and tell Duncan that perhaps his idea wasn’t so bad after all, the doors opened with a sudden bang, the wood crashing against the stone wall as the wind ripped it out of the hands of the guards posted outside. There, in the middle of the threshold, stood a small figure dressed in a thick, wool cloak, drenched from head to toe. With heavy, weary footsteps, the figure approached Cillian and threw the hood back to reveal a pair of eyes like the deepest sea and a mop of dark hair that dripped water on his floors.

In fact, the entire woman was dripping water on his floors, her clothes soaked so thoroughly that he would be surprised if they were not twice their usual weight.

Who is this? Surely, it’s nae Thora MacLeod.

Though Cillian had never seen Thora, he had heard descriptions of her, and though the woman standing in front of him had blue eyes, like he had been told, she looked nothing like a noble girl. A small thing, short and waifish, she seemed more suited to the kitchens or to serving wine to men like him. All the noble girls he had met in his life were robust, well-fed and leading easy lives. This girl was likely a servant or a traveler. Either way, she was none of Cillian’s business.

Where is Thora MacLeod? What could be takin’ her so long?

Irritation spread through his veins like fire. He only wished something had truly happened to the woman, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around the delay.

He looked at the woman briefly, wondering what she wanted and why she remained there, as though she was waiting for something. Whether a traveler or a servant, Cillian didn’t appreciate the unwavering stare the woman gave him. She had the audacity to stare at Cillian with what seemed like a mixture of curiosity and dislike, sentiments that didn’t become a servant.

There was an air of superiority about her, something in the way she held her back straight and her eyes raised that spoke of a challenge, and Cillian belatedly realized everyone in the room had gone silent, waiting to see what would happen.

“If ye need assistance, miss, I’m sure someone in the kitchens can help ye,” he told her in an impatient tone. “If ye’re lookin’ fer employment or board, however, then we can offer neither.”

“Employment?” the woman asked with a frown. “I willnae be dismissed like this!” the woman said, bringing Cillian to a sudden halt again. “Laird MacDonald, this is far from the welcome I expected tae receive. Are ye an’ yer men always so terribly hospitable tae all yer guests?”

It occurred to Cillian, then, that the girl was, in fact, Thora MacLeod and he had been wrong to assume otherwise. Not only that, but she seemed to have plenty to say to him and plenty for which to complain.

“I make this journey tae visit ye in yer home,” she continued. “I brave the seas in this storm an’ then I come tae yer door, drenched an’ weary an’ in need of shelter and warmth, an’ this is how ye receive me? Such arrogance! Never have I met a man like ye in me life an’ fer that, I am glad.”

There was another spike of irritation within Cillian at her accusations, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny he was intrigued by this girl with the fiery character hidden behind deep blue eyes and a face like a doll’s.

“Fergive me, I wasnae aware o’ yer identity, Miss MacLeod,” Cillian said coldly. He was exhausted and if he were honest, he wanted nothing to do with this marriage at all. “Had I kent, I can assure ye I would have arranged a better welcome. But ye were also terribly late.”

“In case ye havenae noticed, there is a storm outside!” Thora said, pointing a furious finger at the castle doors. “O’ course we were delayed!”

Cillian stared at her, unimpressed by her tantrum and the fact that she wasn’t apologetic at all either. “Surely, yer trip could have been planned better.”

Thora seemed to have no response for this. She only stared at him in disbelief, her mouth hanging open as though she could hardly believe her own ears. Perhaps no one had told her of Cillian’s temperament, but he thought that was her family’s mistake. He had a reputation. They should have told her he wasn’t one of those charming princes who only existed in fairytales.

“I suppose ye have arranged fer accommodation,” Thora said as she stomped towards him, trailing water and mud everywhere. “Or have ye forgotten, like ye forgot about yer manners?”

As she approached Cillian, Thora slipped on the stone floor and desperately tried to reach for something, only for her hands to grasp nothing but air. Cillian was right there, though, and grabbed her just in time, holding her upright against him.

For a moment, their gazes met and from up close, Cillian could see the flecks of gold in Thora’s eyes, along with the fury that burned behind them. He could only smirk, though, his amusement with her antics to distract him from everything else.

Behind him, a snort of laughter echoed in the room. Cillian recognized the sound as one belonging to Duncan, and he watched in fascination as Thora’s cheeks turned a bright pink, blood flooding to her face. Before Cillian could say anything, Thora slapped his hands away from her and straightened, smoothing her cloak over her torso in an attempt to calm herself.

“Ye will regret this,” she warned as she made to walk past Cillian once more, this time with slower, more careful steps. “Ye will wish ye had never met me.”

Cillian couldn’t help but watch Thora as she walked out of sight, disappearing behind the nearest corner. He didn’t know where she was going. As far as he knew, she had no idea where she was going either, since the stairs to the upper floor, where her chambers were meant to be, were to the other side.

Ach, well… a servant will help her.

“Seriously,” Archibald mumbled under his breath and Cillian turned to see him as he glared at Duncan. “Was any o’ this truly necessary?”

“It is what it is,” said Duncan. “The lass seems more trouble than she’s worth. Conceited wee thing… she should have shown Cillian more respect.”

Archibald remained silent, but Cillian could see the way his jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as he forced himself to swallow his words. Cillian was glad for it; the last thing he needed was for Archibald and Duncan to get in an argument over this, when he had so much else to worry about.

Now that he had met Thora, his anger had been replaced by curiosity. He couldn’t say he was happy about the arrangement; quite the opposite, in fact, as he still had no desire to marry her and he still knew next to nothing about her. The little he did know, though, told him this was going to be far from a simple betrothal.

It would be war.

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October 1587, three months earlier

“Alana, are ye sure we’re goin’ the right way?” Liam asked his sister-in-law doubtfully as they pushed their way through the dripping forest a half-day’s ride from Castle Lennox.

They had made the trip on the suggestion of Maddison, Lady Lennox. Alana, being the healer of Castle Lennox, was in search of a special medicine made from a particularly rare herb only found in the south of England. It might as well have been the moon, and Alana had so far had no success in tracking it down. It was Maddison’s hastily drawn map which she was consulting now.

“Hmm, I’m nae sure, but accordin’ tae the map, we should be very near the cottage,” she said.

“Gimme the map, maybe I can work out where we are,” Liam said, holding out his hand. Alana passed it to him, and they studied it together.

“There’s the main track, and there’s where it branches off tae the left.” He pointed to the markings and then looked around. “We passed the burnt pine a while back, so the turning should be around here somewhere.”

“The map’s nae tae scale. Maybe we just havetae go a wee bit further tae come tae the right path,” Alana suggested.

“Aye, maybe so. Come on then, let’s keep goin’.” They continued picking their way through the sodden undergrowth.

Suddenly, they were both distracted by the sound of something large moving through the trees nearby. Their heads snapped towards the sound.

“Can ye see what it is, Liam?” Alana asked, clutching his arm nervously.

He shook his head, unable to see anything to account for the sound. “Probably a deer or a boar,” he said, tensing as he realized that whatever was responsible for the loud rustling and snapping of twigs and branches was coming towards them.

“Get behind me, Alana. If ’tis a boar, it could be dangerous.” Liam gently pushed her back. Silently, he unsheathed his sword, his hackles rising because he could see nothing before them. He jumped when Alana suddenly let out a shrill scream behind him.

“What is it?” he asked her, his heart thudding in his chest as he scanned the trees.

She grabbed his arm and pointed dead ahead. “There, look, by the big oak tree!” She shrank back behind him.

Liam looked, and to his utter amazement, saw in front of them, less than fifty fete away, a large, black, shaggy head poking out from behind the trunk of an oak tree. The head was pointed their way, along with a set of dark-brown eyes almost as big as saucers.

“What the hell is that?” Liam whispered; his blade poised to defend them. “I’ve nae seen anythin’ like it before.”

“Me neither,” Alana replied, her voice shaking.

“Stay absolutely still,” he instructed, keeping his eyes on the bizarre creature as it slowly emerged from behind the trunk. Liam’s mouth went dry as he studied it. It was the size of a small pony, its broad head as big as his shield. The thing had large ears that flopped over, a long muzzle like a wolf’s, with many thick, white whiskers sticking out of it. A large black nose almost as big as his fist sniffed at them from a distance. The strange beast had four legs, and was covered in coarse, shaggy black fur.

It did not bare its teeth like a wolf, nor did it make any menacing moves towards them. It simply stood by the tree as though inviting them to observe it, staring at them fixedly with its large, peculiarly soulful, dark-brown eyes.

After a few moments of this tense stand-off, Liam murmured over his shoulder, “’Tis definitely nae a wolf. It daesnae seem tae intend tae attack us.”

“Nay. D’ye think it could be some sort of… dog?” Alana ventured in a frightened whisper. “What’s it doin’ now?” she asked as the thing went down on its forepaws, like a dog wanting to play. Some of the tension drained from Liam, and he lowered his blade. “Look, Alana, ye’re right, I think ’tis a dog, and ’tis waggin’ its tail!”

“Aye, I think it must be the dog Maddison told me about, the one that belongs tae the witch. She said ’tis enormous, and that it has the eyes and mind of a man.”

As if endorsing her words, the dog opened its jaws wide, showing two rows of pointy white fangs, and gave a tremendous yawn, which ended with a soft sighing that sounded uncannily human. It stood up and slowly turned around, as though it would depart.

“It wants us tae follow it, I think,” he told Alana, sheathing his sword.

She nodded beneath her hood. “Aye, it looks like it. D’ye think the witch sent it tae find us?”

“Dinnae be so foolish. How could she when she daesnae even ken we’re comin’?” he scoffed.

“Maddy told me that Selma has many strange powers. When they went tae see her before, they called unannounced, but somehow, she was expectin’ them.”

“Coincidence,” he muttered, his eyes still on the dog. “Come on, let’s follow it. If it truly does belong tae the witch, it may lead us tae her cottage,” Alana said, stepping after it.

“Aye, all right. We’re lost anyway.” Liam agreed. So, they followed the dog, and in a surprisingly short time, they came to the edge of a large clearing.

There stood a cottage with a broken-backed roof of thatch. A stream of gray smoke rose into the air from the crumbling chimney. The small windows were covered with what appeared to be oiled cloth, and no light could be seen from the outside. In between was a scarred front door.

“This looks like the home of a witch if ever I saw one,” he murmured, surveying the gloomy, run-down place. The rain only made it appear more dismal than it already was. A sense of foreboding washed over him.

The shaggy creature headed at its leisurely pace straight for the cottage, with Liam and Alana following at a safe distance. But they both stopped when the door swung open before the dog reached it, fully expecting to see someone standing there to greet them. But there was no one, and all was darkness within.

A chill ran up Liam’s spine. He felt Alana’s hand grope for his, and he clasped

hers tightly, suddenly grateful for the human warmth and companionship it offered.

“Liam, did ye see that?” she breathed in a quavering voice. “The door opened on its own. How is that possible?”

“I dunno, but it gives me the willies,” he admitted, watching the giant dog pad through the open door and into the cottage. He would rather have been on the battlefield facing his worst foes than standing there.

“Should we go in?” she asked.

“We should at least go and see if anyone’s home,” he reluctantly agreed.

“Ye mean see if the witch is home.” She gripped his hand tightly.

He did not reply but put his other hand on the hilt of his sword and walked slowly towards the door, with Alana trailing behind him. The darkness beyond the open door seemed to beckon them inside.

“We’d best knock first,” Alana suggested in a whisper.

“Go on then,” he replied, “I have me hands full.” His heart was thudding in his ears.

Hesitantly, she raised her hand and was about to knock when a scratchy, irritable voice from inside suddenly called out, “Well, are ye gonnae stand out there all day, or are ye comin’ in? ’Tis cold on me old bones, and ye’re lettin’ in the rain.”

They almost jumped out of their skins and looked at each other with alarm. Get a hold of yersel’, man, Liam told himself sternly. He pulled back his shoulders and stood tall. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. Letting go of Alana’s hand, he took a deep breath and stepped slowly over the threshold into the gloom. He felt Alana holding onto the back of his jerkin as she followed him in.

A low cackle came from his left. He looked over and saw a small, hunched figure stirring a pot hanging over the fire blazing in the hearth with a long spoon.

“By the old Gods, ye took yer time gettin’ here.” The figure turned its head and looked over its shoulder. It revealed itself to be an ancient woman with a lined face and milky eyes. In the firelight, she looked almost devilish, her toothless mouth a dark, grinning cavern. “I havenae all day tae spend waitin’ fer ye, ye ken? I’m a busy woman. I had tae send out Grim tae find ye and bring ye here.”

She turned back to her pot, stirring the bubbling contents with a long spoon. Liam stared at her thick hank of wispy white hair that fell to the earthen floor from beneath a knitted cap. His skin prickled with unease. If ever there was a model for a witch, she was it. Grim?

It was then he noticed the gigantic hound laying on the floor a few feet from its mistress, near an old wooden settle, seemingly fast asleep.

The witch said in a gentler voice, “Well, now ye’re here, ye’d best come on in and warm yersel’s by the fire. Old Grim’ll nae hurt ye.”

“Thank ye kindly. Are ye Miss Selma?” Alana asked, stepping out bravely from behind him. Liam felt safer staying near the door.

“Aye, lassie, I’m Selma. Give me a hand up, will ye?” A tiny, gnarled paw appeared from beneath what resembled a pile of rags and groped in the air.

“Och, of course.” Alana hurried over, took the witch’s hand in hers, and supported her as she hauled herself to her feet, her bones cracking.

“Ach, thank ye, dear,” Selma said, bestowing on Alana one of her toothless smiles as she brushed down her layers of rusty garb.

She’s nae more than a harmless old lady, Liam told himself. ’Tis just this awful place that puts ye on edge.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Selma shot him a mirthful glance. “Aye, that’s right, lad, ye keep on believin’ that, eh? Old Selma’s just a wee old lady, nae harm in her at all. And there’s nae such things as witches.” She let out one of her low cackles, chilling his blood.

Selma hobbled over to a battered armchair by the hearthside and lowered herself into it. She smiled at Alana. “Ye’re pretty fer a healer, arenae ye, lassie?”

“H-how dae ye ken I’m a healer,” Alana asked, going pale.

“Ah, there’s nae much I dinnae ken, pet,” Selma replied. “That’s me blessin’ and me curse.” Her pale eyes fixed on Liam, increasing his unease, though he tried to conceal it. She was rapidly converting him from skeptic to believer.

But while staring at him, she carried on talking to Alana. “See that little bottle on the table there, lass? The one with the red wax seal?”

Alana looked over. “Aye, I see it. D’ye ye want me tae fetch it over fer ye?”

“Nay, hinny. That’s the medicine ye came fer.”

Alana stared at her with surprise. “But how could ye—”

The witch grinned. “I told ye, there’s nae much old Selma daesnae ken. Dinnae fash yersel’ about it. Just take the bottle. Give yer patient three spoonful’s each day, mornin’, noon, and evenin’. He’ll be right as rain soon enough.”

“Och, thank ye, Miss Selma, I’m very grateful tae ye. What will ye take fer it?” Alana asked, her relief clearly overcoming her fear.

“Naethin’ ye can give me, pet. Tae ken ’tis helpin’ a poor soul who’s sick is more than enough thanks. Ye ken I like tae use me powers fer healin’ where I can.”

Alana smiled. “Aye, I ken ye’re a good woman because me sister-in-law told me so. Ye helped tae cure her of a terrible melancholy.”

“Aye, I remember. But the sword cured her, nae me.”

Liam’s skin prickled again. The witch knew who Alana was talking about without even asking Maddison’s name. But how?

“Well, if ye willnae take any payment fer the medicine, is there somethin’ we could dae fer ye perhaps before we go? Dae ye need anythin’ mendin’, or can Liam here chop some wood fer ye?”

“Nay, I have me friends who keep me well supplied with whatever I need, but I appreciate yer kind offer.” To Liam’s great discomfort, the witch continued looking at him. Then she said, “But I have somethin’ tae tell yer man there though.”

He felt himself blanch. “Tell m-me?” he stuttered, finding it hard to meet her stare.

“Aye. A wee bird told it tae me this mornin’ and said I’m tae tell it tae ye when ye get here. I never thought ye’d take such a long time!” She laughed as though tickled by his obvious discomfiture.

“But ye dinnae ken me. We’ve nae met before. How can ye have somethin’ tae tell me?” he asked, goosebumps breaking out all over him.

“I’m tae tell ye that ye’re about tae meet the love of yer life. But when ye dae, ye’ll be tempted tae succumb tae yer fears.” Her eyes seemed to glow in the dim light. “If ye dae, ye’ll lose her fer sure, and happiness will never be yers.”

He was shaken and had no clue how to respond the witch’s supposed prophecy. It was a relief when Alana retrieved the bottle and came back to his side. “Thank ye, Miss Selma,” she said. “Since ye’re busy, we’ll take our leave now. I should get back and give me patient the medicine as soon as possible.”

“Aye, of course,” Selma agreed with a nod. She looked at Liam once again. “Heed me words, lad,” she told him sternly. He did not need reminding of them, nor did he reply. Instead, he backed away towards the door, with Alana following behind. But before he could reach it, it swung open by itself.

A chill ran down his back as he hurried through it, feeling grateful for the rain and cold which greeted him outside. The door closed behind them, muffling the sound of the old witch’s laughter. It echoed in his mind along with her prophecy all the way back through the wood. He did not even have time to think how easy it was to find their way back to the main track.

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