Madden Kinnaird sat in the library of Rósmire Castle drinking brandy with his best friend, Keelin Macrae. She was visiting her sister, Edith, lady of Rósmire Castle, where Madden was a skilled warrior and advisor to the laird. Edith had married the Laird Braden Hamilton and they had a newborn baby together named Teigue. Keelin had come for the birth and stayed to help her sister.
“Give me yer hand,” Keelin requested.
“My hand?” Madden asked in confusion. “Why dae ye need me hand?”
“There was a gypsy woman at the last gathering from Wick, and she taught me how tae read palms. I want tae read yer future,” Keelin explained.
Madden chuckled. “I doubt that ye will see very much, but if it pleases ye.” He surrendered his hand to her for examination.
Keelin sat looking at his palm for quite a while in silence.
“Is there nothing tae read, lass? Dae I nae have a future?” He asked in jest.
“Haud yer wheesht. This is harder than it looks,” she reprimanded him returning to silence.
At long last, she finally looked up at him with a smile. Madden laughed at the pleased look on her face. “What did ye see that has ye so pleased? Dae I have a future after all?”
“Aye, ye do indeed,” she informed him with a wide smile. “Ye will soon meet the woman who is tae become yer wife.”
“I willnae,” Madden argued, shaking his head. “I have nae interest in marriage at this time.”
“Whether ye have any interest or nae, it is going tae happen. Ye will meet this woman, ye will marry, and ye will have three bouncing bairns,” Keelin argued.
Madden shook his head. He had no interest in finding a wife. When his mother, Elaine, had been ill, he had taken her to France to see a physician that was believed to work miracles. While there, Madden had fallen in love with his mother’s nurse. He had planned to wed the lass, but she had proven unfaithful, as she was married to another. Madden had been heartbroken. Soon thereafter his mother had died, and he had torn through France drinking, whoring, and fighting his way through his grief until a near death experience had awakened him to his foolishness and he had returned to Scotland a different man.
“Life is nae that simple, Kee,” Madden explained with a sigh.
“I did nae say that it would be simple. Ye will have a difficult beginning.”
“What kind of difficulty?”
“I dinnae ken. Yer palm does nae tell me everything. Given yer reputation, ye will probably have yer way with the wrong woman. There is something about being unfaithful that is coming through. I dinnae ken if it is ye or nae. It will all be well in the end as ye find yer truest love, just as yer maither and faither did.”
Madden frowned. “My maither and faither had to flee their own families tae be together. That is how they came tae be here on Hamilton lands. They were never unfaithful tae one another. True happiness can nae be found in infidelity.”
“Ye will see,” Keelin gave him a knowing eye.
“And when dae ye propose that this mystery wife of mine will appear?”
“I am reading yer palm, nae a calendar,” Keelin laughed.
“Ye saw that someone was unfaithful and that was nae in my palm.”
“True,” she nodded. “I will try.” Keeling closed her eyes. She squinted them shut in concentration, then opened them with a wide smile of satisfaction. “Ye will meet her this summer.”
“But it is summer now,” Madden pointed out, laughing. “Where dae ye believe that ye are getting this insight from anyway?”
Keelin shrugged her shoulders. “I dinnae ken from whence it came. I simply felt it. Mayhap it is God, mayhap it is the spirits of our ancestors. It doesnae matter. Ye will meet yer wife this summer.”
“I would nae perform this palm reading fer just anyone, Kee. Ye might be mistaken fer a witch and put tae death.”
“I will be careful. I promise.”
Curiosity got the better of him and he could not help but ask. “And how shall I meet this wife of mine?”
Keelin’s smile took on a mischievous turn. “I dinnae ken, Madden. Maybe the gods will be gracious, and she will fall intae yer lap from the sky.”
The door to the library swung open and the Laird Braden Hamilton entered. He looked at his dearest friend and his sister-in-law with a smile. “Just the two people that I wished tae speak with.”
“Oh?” Madden raised an eyebrow, passing Braden a drink.
Braden took it gratefully and took a sip. “That is good.”
“Aye, it is. It was part of that last batch I brought over from France,” Madden replied.
Braden nodded. “It is on the matter of travel that I wish tae speak with ye. As ye are aware, Keelin will be returning home upon the morrow.”
“Aye,” Madden nodded.
“The man who I had arranged tae escort her has come down with an ague and can nae longer accompany her. I was wondering if ye would be up tae the task.”
Madden nodded. “Aye, I can escort her safely home.”
“I would like tae stop and see me cousin Arran, laird tae the Clan MacKay, on the way home,” Keelin added, looking at them both with hopeful eyes.
“Aye, I believe that we can arrange that,” Madden nodded.
Braden nodded, pleased. “Good. I thank ye, me friend.”
“We can nae entrust her tae just anyone now, can we?” Madden gave Keelin a wink.
Braden shook his head. “Nay, we cannae. She is a braw lass tae be certain. Me wife would have me innards for haggis if anything happened tae her sister.”
“Aye, she would at that,” Keelin laughed at the image his words painted.
Braden nodded. “Speaking of me wife, I am away tae bed. I will see ye both away in the morning.” Braden finished his drink, handed Madden back the glass, then left them to their own devices.
Keelin stood, finishing the last of her drink as well. “I will bid ye a good night as well.”
Madden looked up in surprise. “Ye dinnae usually go tae bed this early,” he remarked.
“I am nae going tae bed,” she retorted with a mischievous smile.
Madden raised a brow in question. “Where are ye going then?”
Keelin threw him a wink. “Aiden.”
Madden laughed. “Ye are going tae drive that poor lad tae madness. Ye have been toying with him and the other lads as if ye were a cat with a mouse from the moment that ye stepped foot in the castle.”
Keelin shrugged. “I dinnae allow any of them tae touch me. Me reputation and virtue are still intact.”
“Heaven help the lad ye finally allow tae kiss ye. The other will be standing in line tae fight him fer the honor.”
Keelin laughed. “Fighting will nae earn a man a kiss from me. It takes a lot more than that tae win me affections.”
“I am afraid tae ask,” Madden laughed in reply shaking his head at her. “Be careful, Kee.”
“I always am,” she replied, then closed the door behind her.
Madden sat in the library alone finishing his drink.
One day she will find her match and neither of them will ken what tae dae with the other.
Thinking about finding a spouse reminded him of Keelin’s predictions. He looked down at his hand, studying the lines of his palm and wondered whether anything she had said was true. He could not help but wonder if there truly was a woman waiting for him in the near future or if it had all been in Keelin’s imagination. Shaking his head, he downed his drink and stood to ready himself for the next day’s journey. “True or nae, I have nae need of a wife.”
***
The next morning, Madden and Keelin set out on horseback after having bid Braden and Edith farewell. The sisters had exchanged hugs and tears.
“Come back soon,” Edith instructed her sister.
“I will.”
Braden gave his sister-in-law a hug. “We thank ye fer coming tae help with the bairn. It meant a lot tae yer sister.”
“Always,” Keelin replied, giving him a squeeze, then had mounted her horse and rode through the gates.
As they rode out of the castle courtyard, Madden started laughing.
“What are you laughing about?” Keelin asked, sniffling and wiping the tears from her cheeks.
Braden shook his head. “I am nae laughing at ye, Kee. I am laughing at the poor men standing on the ramparts that look like they have been gut punched.”
Keelin looked back at the men that he was referring to. Sure enough, every last one of the men that she had flirted with were standing on guard duty looking as if someone had stolen their favorite horse. Chuckling, she turned back towards the road. “They will recover.”
Braden snorted. “Nae likely.”
They rode on in companionable silence, stopping to take care of the horses’ and their own needs along the way. The journey went blessedly without incident. When night fell, they stopped at a village inn and arranged for two rooms and a meal. When Keelin went to bed early, tired from the ride and emotionally drained from having to leave her sister behind once more, Madden, restless and unable to sleep, went for a walk.
And all he could think about was the mystery woman he was supposed to meet just about… now.
Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
“By this time tomorrow, ye will be someone else’s problem,” Madden Kinnaird teased his best friend, Keelin Macrae, as she stuffed yet another bannock into her mouth, washing it down with large gulps of ale. She was drawing quite a few stares from the other men in the room, some of judgmental disgust, others of interest. Keelin was a beautiful young woman, but she was not what one might call a lady of delicate sensibilities. “Ye eat like one of the animals in the stable.” He laughed as she kicked him under the table.
“Ye will miss me and ye ken it all tae well,” she retorted, wiping her mouth with a cloth.
They had stopped at an inn for the night to allow the horses to rest and to eat on their way to visit Keelin’s cousin, the Laird Arran MacKay. Keelin had been at Castle Rósmire for the last several months assisting her sister, Edith, with her newborn infant son Teigue. Madden worked as a warrior and advisor for Edith’s husband, the Laird Braden Hamilton, and had been entrusted with Keelin’s care as she returned home to the rest of her family. Along the way, she had requested to visit her cousin Arran. Madden, unable to refuse her anything, had acquiesced.
“Aye, I will at that,” he admitted. His eye was caught by a passing barmaid with an ample bosom and hips that were made for grabbing ahold of. He turned his head, watching her walk away.
“Ye only wish tae be rid o’ me so that ye can go about chasing after loose skirts,” Keelin called him out on his well-known womanizing behavior. “It has nothing tae dae with me table manners, or lack thereof.”
Madden turned his attention back to Keelin. “I cannae rightly be chasing after the lassies when I have ye in tow, now can I? Women tend nae tae want tae kiss me when ye are sitting there giving them yer judgmental glare.”
Keelin laughed. “Good. Perhaps it will keep ye alive longer. Many a wandering cockerel has met his conclusion at the end of a blade.”
Madden shook his head. “I dinnae have me way with married women. Ye ken that.”
“Husbands are nae the only ways that ye could die if ye are letting yer tauger rule yer choices,” she pointed out, raising her brow in judgement. “Ye would nae be near as braw a lad with the pox.”
“Kee!” Madden chastised. “If yer faither and maither heard ye speak with such language, they would have both of our heads.”
Keelin shook her head. “Me family ken how I am well enough. They ken how ye are as well.” She cocked her head to the side studying his face for a moment. “I ken ye are nae as ye were afore ye left fer France. Many a time Braden has said ye are slower tae anger now and more prone tae thinking things through. Ye have changed.”
Madden knew she was right. He nodded in agreement, accepting the compliment. “For the better, I hope,” he murmured, thinking back to all of the pain that had been the catalyst for the changes that he had made.
“Aye fer the most part, ye are better. Yer distrust of any woman that is nae as a sister tae ye, however, is going tae cause ye more trouble than nae,” she warned.
Madden shrugged. “I would give up women altogether, but alas I am nae a monk. A man has his needs.”
Keelin snorted. “Nae, ye are nae a monk tae be certain. Nae a man or woman alive would ever mistake ye fer one.” She gave him a sympathetic look. She did not know everything that had happened in France or why he felt the way that he did about the feminine sex, but she knew that it had to have been something terrible to alter him as it had. “I dinnae expect ye tae be a monk. I simply urge caution when choosing a bed mate.”
Madden nodded. “I have heard ye, Kee, and I thank ye fer the caring o’ me immortal soul.”
Keelin laughed. “I dinnae ken about yer soul, but I would rather have ye among the living as nae. Pox-riddled in a grave is nae a good look fer any man, even one as bonnie as ye.”
Madden made a face. Not wanting to think about France, women, or the pox, he attempted to change the subject. “What about ye? I saw how ye were with the guards at the castle.”
Keelin shook her head, a mischievous light in her eyes. “There is nothing tae ken. Me virtue is intact. I have done nothing tae compromise meself.”
“Keep it that way,” Madden advised, giving her a look of warning. “Ye dinnae want tae be forced tae live yer life with a man that is undeserving o’ ye.”
Keelin cocked her head to the side, her brow raised in question. “And what of ye? The same fate could await ye. Dae ye nae fear getting a woman with child and being forced tae wed her at the point of a blade?”
Madden shook his head. “I will nae wed.”
Keelin frowned at him in concern. “Ye would nae leave a lass tae be dishonored. I ken ye better than that.”
Madden shook his head. “Nae, I would nae abandon her or the child. I would care fer the bairn, but I would nae wed the lass. I would arrange fer her tae wed another more suitable husband and pay the dowry and the bride price.” He knew that it made him sound heartless, but the exact opposite was true. He would not saddle any lass with a loveless marriage. His parents had truly loved one another, and he had sworn to his mother on her death bed that he would not wed for anything less than the truest of loves. As he no longer believed that such a thing was possible for him, he had resolved himself to never marry.
Keelin’s brow wrinkled in concern. She held his eyes in sympathy. “Ye have changed. What happened in France, Madden? Why dae ye never speak about it?”
Madden had known that this conversation was coming. Both Braden and Keelin had been asking a great many questions about his time in France in the year since his return. Neither of them, despite being his dearest friends in all of the world, knew the fullness of his story and it bothered them. He could see the concern in their eyes every time that they asked him about it. He knew that they wanted to help him, to ease the grief of his mother’s passing, but in truth there was nothing that either of them could do.
When his mother had fallen ill, Madden had taken her to a physician in France who was believed to be a miracle worker. While there, he had fallen in love with his mother’s nurse. They had shared a bed together, spoken of a future together. He had planned to wed her, but then had discovered that she was wed to another already and that she had been using him to make her husband jealous. She had shared his bed to get revenge for her husband having been unfaithful to her. Shortly thereafter, Madden’s mother had died. Madden had taken his sorrow and heartbreak out on the enemies of France, working as a mercenary until a near death experience had made him see the light and pushed him to return home.
“Me maither died,” Madden snapped, not wanting to talk about it further. He knew that his voice was harsher than was necessary, but every time that the subject was broached it felt as if he was drowning in the pain all over again. He had worked hard within himself to move on from it as best as he could. He did not appreciate being forced to feel it all again. “What more dae ye want?”
“Madden,” Keelin said his name, her tone was firm but compassionate. “I ken that yer maither died, but the distrust that ye are carrying around with ye was nae caused by yer maither.”
Madden shook his head. “Nae, it is nae. She was a good woman, and I will nae have anyone believe otherwise by me actions or have her memory dishonored.”
Keelin nodded knowingly. “Ye are going tae have tae tell me what happened at some point. Ye cannae live yer life with such pain inside of ye and nae once speak of it tae anyone. It will eat ye alive from the inside.”
Madden sighed. “I am sorry, Kee. I didnae mean tae be rude. I dinnae care tae speak of it.”
“Was there a woman in France? Someone who hurt ye? Someone who was unfaithful?”
Madden looked up at Keelin in surprise. “How did ye ken such a thing?”
She gave him a knowing look. “The distrust that ye brought back with ye could only be born of such a thing.”
Madden looked at Keelin with new admiration. “Ye are wiser than ye look.”
“I will take that as a compliment,” she retorted, giving him a warning look not to argue with her if he had meant it in any other way.
“Ye should,” he nodded, smiling.
“Tell me what happened in France,” Keelin requested, her tone leaving no doubt that she felt it was long past time. “Tell me what happened with this woman.”
Madden sighed but nodded in surrender. He owed her the truth. It was not kind of him to let her fret and worry. “As ye well ken, when me mother was ill, I took her tae see a physician in France,” he began.
“Aye,” Keelin nodded in confirmation.
“While we were there, I formed an attachment tae her nurse.”
“An attachment?” Keelin eyed him inquisitively.
“I fell in love with her,” Madden admitted grudgingly.
Keelin nodded. “So, what happened?”
Madden shrugged his shoulders. “She was married.”
Keelin’s brows arched in censure. “Ye did nae ken?”
“Nae, I did nae ken that she was another man’s wife.” He would have been insulted had it been anyone else but Keelin that had asked. “In fairness, I did nae ask. I simply assumed that when she crawled in tae me bed that she was free tae dae so.”
Keelin gave him a sympathetic look. “Did ye wish tae wed her yerself?”
Madden nodded. “Aye, I did. That is how I discovered that she was wed tae another. Soon thereafter me maither died. I was destroyed and was nae good fer anything but fighting and drinking and whoring me way through France.”
Keelin nodded in understanding. “That is why it took ye so long tae return.”
Madden nodded, sighing. “Aye, I could nae come back tae me life here with how I was feeling. I was destructive tae meself and tae others. It took nearly dying fer me tae see sense and tae return home.”
“I am glad ye did come home, otherwise we would never have met. Ye are a sight better of a companion tae travel with tae escort me home than an auld stodgy guard” Keelin smiled at him in compassionate understanding. “I thank ye fer finally telling me the truth.”
“I would appreciate it if ye kept what I have told ye tae yerself,” he requested, not wishing his pain to be known far and wide. “I will tell Braden about what happened in France, when and if I feel that he needs tae ken it.”
Keelin nodded. “Yer secrets are safe with me, Madden. Ye ken that.”
“Aye, I dae.” He gave her a sheepish smile. “I thank ye fer yer discretion.”
“Always.” She reached over and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
Wishing to change the subject, Madden turned the conversation towards Keelin. “Tell me of this cousin of yers.”
Keelin smiled at the thought of her favorite cousin. “Arran is me maither’s first cousin, but they are as close tae one another as braither and sister. They grew up together.”
“Ah, that is why I have heard ye call him Uncle Arran.”
“Aye,” Keelin nodded. “He has been more of an uncle tae me than any other man ever has.”
“I have heard things about the MacKay lairds of the past from yer cousin’s line,” Madden mused. “If their reputation has any truth tae it, they were nae all good men.”
Keelin shook her head. “Arran is a good man, unlike his faither. Ye and Arran both have quite a lot in common. He fought in France as well fer many years. When both of his parents died on the same day, Arran’s sister sent word fer him, and he came home. He has done well fer the clan since becoming laird.”
“How did his parents die?”
Keelin frowned at the memory. “Uncle Rory, Arran’s father, was drunk. He stumbled and fell dragging his wife, me Aunt Ella, down with him. He hit his head on the stone of the hearth landing on top of her as he fell. He died instantly. She died a week later, having never awakened. They were visiting a friend at the time. It was so sudden. We never got tae say goodbye.”
Madden reached out and patted her hand in compassion. “I am sorry fer yer loss.”
Keelin shook her head. “I was never fond of Uncle Rory, but I loved me Aunt Ella very much. She was me maither’s sister, we all miss her.”
Madden nodded in understanding. “I have seen the drink make men dae terrible things.”
“It was a bloody awful waste of a life,” Keelin replied, anger in her eyes.
“What of Arran’s sister? What became of her?”
“She is married tae the laird of her grandmother’s clan. I have nae seen her in years. We exchange the occasional letter, but that is it. We were once quite good friends when we were children. I miss her.”
“Perhaps ye will see each other when we arrive at her braither’s castle.”
Keelin shrugged her shoulders. “I doubt it. From what I have heard, her husband does nae allow her tae visit her braither very often.”
Madden frowned. He did not care for men who were overly controlling of those under their care. “A lass should nae be kept from her family. I saw the effect being estranged from her family had on me maither. She and me faither were not given their families’ blessings tae wed. They tried tae forget one another but they could nae. They married against their families’ wishes and were shunned fer it. That is how they came tae live on Hamilton lands. Me maither loved me faither, and they had a braw life together, but when he died, all of the family that she had left was me. It was nae an easy time fer her.”
“Now she is with yer faither, and they are happy together once more.”
“Aye,” Madden nodded. “They are. They were good people.”
“I am sorry that ye dinnae have a family of yer own.” Keelin gave him a sympathetic look.
Madden shrugged his shoulders. “I dae have family. I have ye, and Braden, and now Edith and their wee bairn.”
“Aye, ye have us,” Keelin smiled, nodding in reassurance. “But I still believe that we should find ye a wife tae make ye wee bairns of yer own.” She lifted a brow wiggling it suggestively. “Perhaps yon barmaid? She had birthing hips.”
Madden shook his head, laughing. “I dinnae believe that the world is ready fer me tae have bairns. Can ye imagine the trouble the wee lads and lassies would get in tae? I dinnae believe it tae be a wise course of action.
Keelin gave him a look of disagreement but did not push him further. “As ye wish. It is yer life.” Stretching, she pushed away from the table and stood. “I am away tae bed.”
“Ye dinnae want tae join me fer a dram?”
Keelin shook her head. “Nae, I am tired tae the bone and wish tae be well rested when we arrive at Arran’s castle. Besides, ye will have better luck in finding a bed partner if ye dinnae have me tagging along.”
Madden gave her a reproachful look. “Ye dinnae behave as a lady is expected tae behave, nor speak as one is expected tae speak.”
Keelin laughed. “I never claimed tae be a lady. The way I behave and speak is why ye adore me as ye dae. I wouldnae be nearly as much fun if I behaved as a proper lady should.”
Madden chuckled. “I cannae deny it.”
“I will see ye in the morning,” Keelin promised. Standing, she laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then left the table and climbed the stairs to her room. He watched her until she was out if sight to make certain that none of the other men in the room gave her a hard time. Madden had ensured that she had been given a room with a sturdy bar over the door so that he could rest assured of her safety. His room was next to hers as a secondary means of protection.
Throwing back the last of his ale, he stood and left the inn to go and check on the horses. He eyed the tavern down the street considering his options for a bed companion. The barmaid had been attractive, but she was the innkeeper’s daughter and that could get complicated. He did not wish to be barred from the inn when they were in need of rest. They would most likely need to stay there again on the way through to Keelin’s parents’ lands. If he were being completely honest with himself, he was too tired to be chasing after skirt.
It is tae bad a bonnie lass could nae simply drop in tae me lap as a gift from God without requiring any effort on me part tae bring her tae me bed. He chuckled at the ridiculous image and entered the stables.
After checking on the horses, he made his way around to the side of the building where the innkeeper had placed a table and chairs for his guests. Lowering himself down onto one of them, he leaned back and closed his eyes. The sounds from the inn filtered through the walls, men talking, laughing, and shouting. There were pots and pans banging around in the kitchen. A dog barked in the distance, setting off another dog in response, which set them both to howling. Madden doubted that he would sleep very well. When traveling alone he would usually sleep out in the open, but with Keelin, he had not wanted to risk her safety.
Keelin was a good traveling companion. It had been a trouble-free ride with pleasant conversation. Madden looked forward to meeting her cousin, the Laird Arran MacKay, and exchanging war stories. Keelin had said that they had a lot in common. They had both lost their parents. They had both fought in France. They both cared about Keelin and her family. Madden figured that on those commonalities alone that they could strike up an amiable acquaintance.
Lost in his own thoughts, he did not have any warning when a large lump of warm flesh and fabric came tumbling down from above him and landed hard onto his lap. “Och!” He shouted in protest as his eyes flew open and he came face to face with a dark-haired, grey-eyed lass. Within the next breath, before Madden had a chance to react, she squarely punched him in the face.
“Unhand me!”
Chapter Two
Isabelle Sutherland sat by the hearth reading her favorite book as she distractedly played with her mother’s necklace. From the day that her mother had died, she had never taken it off. It was the only thing that she had left of her. It was her comfort in times of distress, and unfortunately, she was often in distress.
“Isabelle!” She was pulled out of her quiet contemplation by her husband, Bain, as he stormed into the room. “There ye are. I have been looking fer ye.”
“Where else would I be?” she asked. “Ye banished me tae this room upon our arrival.”
Isabelle knew that her tone was not respectful, but he controlled everything about her life and never allowed her to go anywhere or do anything without him or his second in command, Athol, accompanying her. Bain, old enough to be her father, was constantly accusing her of being unfaithful with the younger men of the clan. They had never loved each other, and it showed in their every interaction with one another. Theirs was a marriage of dire necessity and nothing more.
He gave her a warning look, before continuing. “We must leave at first light if we are tae reach yer braither’s stronghold afore dusk. We cannae afford tae stay the night in another inn.”
“We could have slept out in the open and nae paid fer one tae begin with,” she reminded him.
Bain gave her another warning glare. “I will nae have it said that me wife sleeps in the dirt among unwashed men.”
“It would nae have been the first time. I slept out of doors often as a child when me family travelled.”
Bain waved away her logic. “It is of nae consequence. Once I have secured a loan from yer braither, our financial concerns will be brought tae an end.”
“A loan must be paid back. It is a temporary measure at best. It is also possible that me braither will nae loan ye the money. He would never dae anything that might cause his own people tae suffer,” Isabelle pointed out. “Would it nae be better tae admit tae the king and tae the clan that yer business speculations failed and that ye cannae pay yer taxes or provide fer the clan fer the winter?”
Fire flared from Bain’s eyes, and he strode across the room, pulling her up by the wrist. The book that she had been reading clattered to the floor. “Dinnae question me! Yer braither will give me the money, and ye will see that he does, or I will tell him of how yer parents truly died and how ye came tae wed me.”
Isabelle struggled against his grasp to no avail. “It has been eleven years. Will ye ever cease threatening me with blackmail?”
“Nae, I will nae. Speak another word and ye will discover just how true me threats are.” The menacing tone of his voice let her know that he was not to be tested. She closed her mouth and did not say another word, as instructed. With her falling silent, Bain let go of her wrist. Blood rushed back into her hand, causing it to tingle as if she had stuck pins in it. The skin of her wrist was already starting to turn red. “I am going tae the tavern fer a dram with Athol. I have placed a guard outside of yer bedchamber door. Ye are tae remain in this room fer the rest of the night. The innkeeper’s wife will bring ye yer food.”
“Dae ye nae plan tae return?”
Bain laughed. “What would I have reason tae return fer? Why would I choose tae lie with a barren bitch, when there are fertile young lassies at the tavern who I dinnae have tae fight with tae take me intae their beds?”
“I am yer wife. Ye are me husband. Yer whoring shames us both.” Isabelle feared that her brother might hear of Bain’s activities this close to his lands. She did not wish to stand before her brother, having brought such shame to their family name.
Bain snorted. “Ye are nae wife tae me. Were ye a true wife, ye would have produced me an heir. As ye are nae able tae, I must pup a bastard on tae whores in hopes of producing a male heir. The only one shaming us is ye.” Turning, Bain left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Isabelle crossed the room and placed the bar over the door. Neither he, nor any of his men, would be allowed to enter this night. The last thing that she wished to endure before seeing her brother was to have her drunken husband forcing himself upon her. She did not need any more bruises. It was going to be difficult enough to hide the ones that she already had.
Anger surged up within her, threatening to overwhelm her entire being. She despised her husband for all of his abuses. She wished like anything that she could lash out at him in some way, but she had no way of hurting him. He held all of the power in their marriage. The only way that she could even put a dent in his armor would be to cheat on him with another man. Even then, it would only be a wound to his pride, not to his heart.
He would have tae have a heart tae hurt it, and he does nae have one. The only positive outcome of such an action would be me own secret knowledge that I had betrayed him in some small way.
She sighed shaking her head.
What man would I be able tae dae such a thing with? It cannae be one of his own men and I am never around any other. Bain has me guarded night and day.
Isabelle snorted.
Dinnae fool yerself, Isabelle. Ye may be brave, but ye are nae that brave. Ye may nae wish fer yer body tae be possessed by the likes of Bain Sutherland, but ye lack the courage tae surrender yerself tae a strange man simply fer the pleasure of vengeance. Ye are trapped and ye ken it. After all of these years, ye would think that ye would have accepted it by now.
Leaving her book abandoned where it had fallen on the floor, she walked over to the open window and looked out at the starlit night. Reaching up, she clutched her mother’s necklace in her hand. The coolness of the metal and stones against the palm of her hand brought her comfort. She missed her mother so very much each and every day, but it was in moments like this that she missed her the most. If anyone could have understood the pain that she felt in her marriage, it would have been her mother.
Isabelle missed her brother as well, but she could not be around him without feeling guilty for what she had done and for keeping it from him. The thought of facing him after all of these years made her nervous.
The farther away from Arran I am, the better fer him.
The memory of the day her father died flashed through her mind and her hand jerked in an emotional response to the pain and panic that flooded back into her being. To her great dismay, the jerking motion broke free the necklace from her person and she watched in horror as it plunged down into the darkness below. Her hand shot out in an attempt to catch it, but she was too late.
“Nae!” She silently cried out in distress. She could feel the panic and sorrow rising up within her as tears filled her eyes. To her great relief, the necklace came to rest on a lantern hook just below the window.
Leaning out the window, she hung onto the wooden frame as she attempted to retrieve the necklace. She leaned as far as she could, but it was just out of her reach. Unable to regain the necklace while holding onto the frame with her hands, she let go and used her legs to hold onto the windowsill. Unfortunately, her dress got in the way and did not allow her to grab ahold of the frame with enough force to maintain her balance. The moment that her hand was just about to grasp the necklace, her body gave way, and she plunged down into the darkness below.
“Ah!” She cried out in fear as she fell.
She fully expected to land on the hard ground and be injured, but instead she landed right onto the lap of a complete and total stranger. Taken aback and panicking that any moment one of her husband’s men would find her in such a compromising position, she reached out and punched the man square in the face.
“Unhand me!” She demanded with as much authority as she could manage, given her vulnerable position.
The man groaned and then raised his hands as if in surrender. “What were ye doing, lass? If ye wished tae sit on me lap, all ye need dae is ask.”
Isabelle scrambled up off of his lap and put some distance between them. “I was attempting tae retrieve me necklace.” She motioned above his head to where the necklace still dangled from the lantern hook. “I fell out of the window.”
The man stood and turned to look up to where she pointed. “Ye fell from that window?” His brows arched in surprise.
“Aye, I did,” Isabelle admitted, lifting her chin in defiance.
He turned back to look at her. His face was shadowed, and she could not make out his individual features, but his tone left no doubt as to his disapproval. “What were ye thinking? Ye could have fallen and broken yer neck.”
“Ye have nae right tae chastise me,” Isabelle retorted, her pride wounded. “I dinnae ken who ye are, nor dae ye ken who I am. I owe ye nae explanations.”
“Perhaps nae, but ye did fall on me,” he pointed out.
“Fer that I apologize. It was nae me intent. Did I hurt ye when I fell?”
The man shook his head. “Nay, nae too much, I am nae harmed, although that was quite a fall. Good thing ye are as light as a feather. What value does this necklace have that ye would risk yer neck fer it?”
“It was me maither’s,” she explained. The word was hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.
“I take it that she is nae longer with ye, lass?” His tone had gentled, holding empathy where it had held judgement but a brief moment before.
“She is nae.” Isabelle could feel the tears welling up in her eyes and she tried her best to fight them back. “She died many years ago.”
“I sorrow fer yer loss. I tae lost me maither, and me faither afore that.”
“As did I,” Isabelle admitted.
“So, we are both orphans,” he observed. “God rest their souls.”
They stood there for a moment in shared loss.
“Well, we had best get ye that necklace back.” The man turned back and eyed the distance to the necklace. Stepping up onto the chair he had just been sitting in, he used it to step up onto the table. He tested the table’s stability by wiggling its legs, but it held. “Hand me that chair, would ye, lass?”
Isabelle stepped forward and lifted the chair up onto the table. “Yer are nae going tae climb on that are ye? That does nae look stable,” she cautioned.
“Aye, it is foolish, I will admit, but needs must.” Securing the chair on the table, he turned back to her. “Would ye hold the legs fer me?”
“Aye,” Isabelle agreed, and taking the legs in her hands, she held on tightly. “Be careful,” she warned. She did not wish to be responsible for bringing him, or any other person, to harm.
The man nodded, then climbed up onto the chair. He reached up as high as he could but came short of the lantern hook. Taking in his options, he used the structural elements of the side of the building to scale the wall and retrieved the necklace, whereupon he placed it inside of his shirt to keep it safe. “I have it,” he confirmed to reassure her. “It appears tae be undamaged.” As he was closer to the window than the ground, he climbed up into her room and poked his head back out of the window. “I will meet ye down in the dining room,” he called back down to her.
“Nae!” Isabelle cried out in panic. She knew that Bain’s man would still be standing outside of her bedchamber door. She scrambled for a believable explanation that did not reveal the shame and abuse that she was forced to endure every day. “Are ye mad? Ye cannae be seen coming out of me bedchamber, ye will shatter me reputation.”
“Och, lass. I did nae think. Me apologies. I will come back down.”
“First, help me tae climb up there,” Isabelle instructed. She could not be seen returning to her room either when she had not been seen to leave it to begin with. Her husband would hear of it, and she would never be left alone in her own room again. She would not put it past her husband to bar every window in the castle once they returned home if he discovered what she had done.
“Are ye certain that ye wish tae climb, lass? It isnae as easy as it looks. Could ye nae simply walk around tae the front of the inn? It would be safer fer ye.”
“What would be the fun in that?” Isabelle retorted with a bravado that she did not feel in an attempt to hide her fear of being caught and punished.
She climbed up onto the table, and then onto the chair. She followed the man’s steps exactly, climbing up the side of the building as he had done, careful not to let her dress get in the way. It was far more difficult than it had looked when he had done it. When she finally reached the lantern hook, she could not find any other way to get to the window. The man had simply hefted himself up with his arms, yet she did not possess the upper body strength to do the same. She looked up at him in uncertainty.
“I have ye, lass,” he reassured her, and leaned out of the window. Grabbing her wrists, he hefted her back up into the room. Before she knew what was happening, they fell together into the room onto the floor, Isabelle falling on top of him. Mortified, she scrambled to her feet as quickly as possible, feeling her cheeks warming.
“I thank ye fer yer help. Were it nae fer ye, I might have broken me neck.”
Laughing, the man stood up, shaking his head. “It has been a livelier evening than I expected.” In the light of the fire from the hearth, they could finally see each other without the shadows of the night obscuring their view. His brows arched in surprise as he took her in. “Och, lass, did I hurt ye?” he asked, gesturing towards the bruises on her wrists.
Isabelle shook her head. “It is from the fall,” she lied. She was not about to tell him of the abuses that she endured. He was a total stranger and for all that she knew he could know her husband.
She let her eyes sweep over his form as he looked around the room in curiosity. He was a large mountain of a man, tall, muscular, with long blonde hair tied up into a knot with a leather strap, and dark eyes that threatened to swallow her whole. He was a beautiful Viking of a Highland man. He was so big that he made the room feel entirely too close. Isabelle gulped and turned away to hide the effect that his presence in the suddenly tiny room had on her.
“Are ye well, lass? Did ye hurt yerself elsewhere in the fall?” His concerned voice caused her to turn back towards him.
“A bit perhaps, but I am well,” she reassured him.
“Shall I fetch ye a healer?”
Isabelle shook her head. “Nae, I will be well. Dinnae fash.”
They stood there looking at each other for a moment. Isabelle could feel herself blushing under his gaze.
“Me name is Madden,” he finally introduced himself, breaking the silence.
“Isabelle,” she reciprocated, offering him her hand out of habit.
He took it in his and kissed it. “Me lady,” he murmured against her skin, then raised himself back up to his full height, standing closer than before. He retrieved the necklace from his shirt and handed it to her.
“I owe ye for this,” Isabelle thanked him, taking the necklace. “I am grateful for yer help.”
“How can I refuse a debt of gratitude from such a bonnie lass.” He smiled at her charmingly.
“As I will most likely never see ye again, I dinnae ken how I can repay ye fer yer kindness. I would pay ye coin, but I dinnae have any tae give.” Isabelle looked around the room to see what she might offer him.
“I was considering going tae the tavern fer a dram. Ye could accompany me,” Madden offered.
Isabelle could not do as he asked, but she did not wish to tell him why. “We could have a dram together here. I have a flask in me belongings,” she offered. “But we must be quiet. Me clansmen are resting in the adjacent rooms and could be strolling around”.
Madden smiled wider and nodded in agreement. “Aye, we could at that. And I will be as quiet as a mouse.”
Isabelle motioned for him to take the seat opposite where she had been reading earlier. She listened at the door to make certain that the guard had not heard anything, then ruffled through her belongings to find her flask of medicinal alcohol. Retrieving the flask, she joined him in front of the hearth. Sitting down across from him, she noticed that he had picked her book up off of the floor.
“This is a good one,” he remarked, handing it back to her.
“Aye, it is,” she agreed, smiling. “It is one of me favorites.”
“Dae ye enjoy reading?” he asked with a curious light in his eyes.
“Aye, I dae. I have more books in that bag than I dae clothes,” she admitted motioning towards the bag that she had retrieved the flask from. “I always travel with them.”
Madden smiled, nodding in approval. “I admire a woman of learning.”
Isabelle cocked her head to the side, studying him quietly. She extended him the flask and he took it gratefully.
“What is that look about?” he asked, with an interested light in his eyes.
Isabelle shook her head. “Nae all men admire a woman of learning.”
“Then they are fools,” he shrugged. “What is life without books?”
“Indeed,” she agreed with a smile.
He took a sip from the flask and handed it back to her. Isabelle accepted it and took her own small sip. She handed the flask back to him and decided to put her book back in the bag to keep it from being further abused. When she rejoined him, she found him staring into the flames of the fire as if it held the secrets of the world in its depths. He looked up at her when she approached and smiled apologetically.
“Me apologies.”
Isabelle shook her head. “There is nae need tae apologize. Dae ye wish tae share what had ye so deep in thought?”
He shook his head. “I was just thinking of me time in France. A friend of mine recently drew me mind back tae that time and it has lingered in me thoughts since.”
Isabelle nodded in understanding. “Travel teaches us much about ourselves and life as a whole.”
Madden’s brows lifted in surprise. “Indeed, it does. Have ye traveled much yerself?”
“Nae as much as I would like. I have been tae France, but I was a much younger lass and it was nae fer very long. How was yer time there?”
Madden shook his head. “That is a complicated question.”
“Ye need nae share if ye dinnae wish tae dae so.”
“I went tae France tae find a cure fer me maither, but there was nae cure tae be had. She died before we could return home.”
“I am sorry.”
He nodded in acceptance of her condolences. “After she died, I lost meself fer a time in war and women.”
“The king of distractions.” She gave him an understanding look.
Madden nodded. “Aye, the king of distractions indeed. It took nearly dying meself fer me tae realize that I needed tae change me ways, and so I did. I have been back home fer about a year now and I ken without a doubt that it was the right thing tae dae.”
“Well, fer me sake, I am glad that ye returned. Had ye nae helped me, I dinnae ken what would have happened.”
“Ye would have broken yer neck, that is what would have happened.” He studied her face for a moment. “I ken what I want in payment fer my help.”
Isabelle chuckled. “Once a mercenary, always a mercenary.”
He grunted at her jest as if he was not quite certain what to think about it.
She gave him an apologetic look. “What is it that ye wish fer?”
“A kiss.” He said it so nonchalantly that she thought she had heard him wrong.
“A what?”
“A kiss,” he repeated. “In payment fer saving yer life, I would like fer ye tae kiss me.”
“Why?” She asked dazed.
“Ye are a bonnie lass whose company I enjoy. Why would I nae wish tae kiss ye?”
Isabelle shook her head. “Nae, I will nae kiss ye. I dinnae ken ye well enough tae share something so intimate.”
Madden snorted. “A kiss is nae intimate. I have kissed many strangers.”
“That I dinnae doubt,” she retorted.
“Kiss me,” he murmured, as he drew her chair towards him across the floor.
“Nay,” she shook her head.
“Why nae? Dae ye find me tae be repugnant? Or me character tae be displeasing?”
Isabelle shook her head. “Nae, I dinnae.”
“Then why dae ye nae wish tae kiss me?”
Isabelle did want to kiss him. It was her husband that was the problem, but she was not about to tell a complete and total stranger that. She searched her mind for an excuse, any excuse but the real one. She came up with nothing. She wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss her. She thought back to her notion of revenge against her husband by cheating on him with another man and all sense of resistance left her spirit.
“I want tae kiss ye,” she admitted, blushing as she did so.
A smile spread across Madden’s face. He stood up, pulling her up out of her chair to stand in front of him. Reaching up, he brushed the hair back from her face, cupping her cheek gently. His eyes met hers and she nodded her consent. Lowering his head, he brushed his lips against hers gently at first, then with more intensity. Isabelle, never having been kissed in such a caring manner, became lost in the sensation, and leaned into him, kissing him back with equal fervor and passion. Her nails dug into his shoulders, as her body pressed against the hardened length of his manhood. It was as if a feral spirit had taken over her body.
His lips moved to her neck, throat, and then down to her breasts. Isabelle threaded her fingers through his hair, pressing his head closer. His palm reached up to cup her breasts, his thumb running over the hardened peek, driving her body into a frenzy. “Oh,” she gasped, her breath coming quickly as she pulled his head back up to kiss her lips. Their tongues danced around each other, mimicking what their bodies truly craved. Isabelle moved her hips in a gyrating motion against his hardened length, showing him what she needed.
“Och, lass, if ye want me tae stop, ye had best tell me now,” Madden groaned, his forehead leaning against hers. His breath came quickly showing her that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
“I dinnae want ye tae stop,” she answered, leaning her head back to look him in the eyes. “Dinnae stop.”
That was all of the encouragement that he needed. Lifting her up into his arms, he carried her over to the bed. Setting her down upon the edge, he took a step back and removed his shirt. The room was too dimly lit to make out every detail, but no amount of darkness could have hidden the sheer masculine power of his body. Madden’s chest, shoulders, arms, and abdomen were pure defined muscle. He stepped back towards her and she reached out to run her hands over the exposed skin.
“It is yer turn,” he murmured with a smile.
Isabelle looked up into his eyes, then lifted her arms. Grasping her dress by the skirt, he pulled upwards and lifted it up over her head. He let it fall to the floor, leaving her standing in nothing but her shift. Lowering his head, he kissed each breast, rasping each nipple gently with his teeth through the thin fabric. Ripples of pleasure spread over Isabelle’s body. Kissing his way back up to her lips, he caressed her, then pulled her shift up over her head and let it fall to the floor with her dress.
Taking a step back, he let his eyes travel the length of her body. Isabelle worried about him seeing the bruises, but when she looked down at herself, she was relieved to see that the dimness of the fire’s light covered them, casting them in shadow. “Bonnie,” he breathed, as he let the rest of his clothing fall to the floor and stood in front of her in all of his naked glory.
Isabelle’s eyes widened at the size of his hardened manhood standing erect in the air between them. “Ye are a braw lad tae be sure,” she replied breathily.
He grinned at her, then stepped forward and lifted her up into his arms, laying her down on the bed.
Placing his body over hers, he reclaimed her lips. Isabelle could feel the tip of him pressed against the inside of her thigh and she moved her hips, pressing harder against it. His shaft jerked in reply, coming to nestle against the soft curls of her nether hair. Madden’s head lowered from her lips down to her breasts. He licked and suckled each nipple in turn, driving her into a frenzy of madness as she clutched his head.
“Madden,” she breathed.
“Dae ye wish fer me tae stop?”
“Nae, dinnae stop!”
Smiling, he lowered his head to her breasts once more, then continued to kiss his way down to her nether curls. Flicking his tongue out between her lower lips, he caressed the hidden pearl within. Isabelle nearly came off of the bed. She clutched at his shoulders, digging her fingers into his muscles as he began to stroke the length of her cunt with his tongue, then sucked the bud into his mouth as he had done her nipples. He circled his tongue around it again and again, then pressed it inside her, only to move back to circling it. When he felt her legs quivering uncontrollably and she started moaning his name he stopped.
“Madden, I need ye,” she breathed, panting.
Coming up to hover over her once more, Madden looked deep into her eyes. He wanted to be inside her when she fell over the edge, but he had to ascertain something beforehand. “Are ye a virgin, lass?”
She shook her head. “I am nae a virgin,” Isabelle answered honestly.
He nodded. There was no judgement in his face. “Good, I didnae wish tae take that from ye or cause ye pain.”
“I am nae a virgin, but what experiences I have had have nae been pleasant,” she admitted. “It has never once been pleasurable.”
“We will be changing that this night,” Madden replied, caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Two people lying together in this way should always be pleasurable.”
Having ensured that he would not cause her pain, he thrust his manhood into her, filling her in a single stroke.
Isabelle gasped at the sudden wave of sensation that coursed through her as he began to move inside of her. He reclaimed her lips as he kept thrusting inside of her, using one of his hands to hold himself up, while the other hand teased her nipples. The myriad of sensations caused Isabelle’s head to spin. She had never felt so much pleasure in her entire life.
“I didnae ken that it could feel this way,” she gasped against his lips.
“Just wait,” he breathed in promise as he began to move faster inside of her. As he picked up speed, the feelings inside of Isabelle grew and grew until she feared she might explode.
“Madden!” she started to cry out his name, and quickly covered her mouth. She knew that she needed something from him, but not what. Within the next moment, Isabelle fell over the cliff of pleasure into blissful oblivion.
Madden followed after her, spilling his seed deep inside of her, not able to stop himself. “Isabelle,” he breathed, leaning his forehead against hers as he emptied himself into her. Removing himself from her, he laid down on the bed beside her, drawing her into his arms. “How dae ye feel, lass?”
“Good,” Isabelle answered with a pleased smile. “I didnae ken that it could feel that way.”
“It should always feel that way,” he murmured, kissing her forehead. “It saddens me that ye have nae been pleasured as ye should have been.” He did not ask any questions about who she had been with or why, he simply accepted her as she was.
“Is it always this way fer ye?”
Madden lay in thought for a moment, then shook his head. “It is always pleasurable, but being with ye was better than most.”
Isabelle felt some small amount of pleasure at his words. “Thank ye,” she whispered.
Madden looked down into her face, his eyes meeting hers. “Ye should be pleasured every day of yer life. A lass such as ye should never be forced tae bed a stranger tae find pleasure. It is I who should thank ye fer the honor of having shared yer bed, and I dae,” he murmured lowering his head to kiss her softly.
Isabelle kissed him back, softly, sweetly. A sound from outside of the door reminded her that they were not truly alone. She wished like anything that he could stay there with her through the night, but she knew that he could not. “I am sorry, but ye must go,” she whispered.
He nodded in understanding. Rising from the bed, he retrieved his clothing from the floor. Once he was dressed, he bent over the bed and kissed her one last time. “Ye are bonnie in every way.” He moved towards the door and panic seized Isabelle’s heart.
“Ye cannae go through the door,” she reminded him. “Me fellow clansmen would be certain tae see ye.”
Madden nodded in understanding, then moved back towards the window. “I would nae wish tae be responsible fer ruining yer reputation.”
Sighing in relief, Isabelle arose from the bed, donning her shift. Walking over to the window, she bid him a final farewell. “Go carefully,” she advised, as he lowered himself over the side of the window and found a foothold on the wall. Isabelle watched as he made his way back down to the table and chairs below, then dismounted to the ground. Raising his hand in farewell, he smiled up at her one last time, then disappeared into the darkness leaving nothing but the memory of himself and the throbbing between her legs.
“Let me be yer lady’s maid,” Odhrán jested, needing no second bidding. He was in a state of blissful excitement, his erection pressing urgently against the front of his trews as if it would burst free at any moment. The way Maddison was looking at him with such frank desire, her lips swollen with his kisses, hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders, was fueling his lust. His eagerness to get her naked had him eagerly undoing the fastenings of her dress, humming a happy little tune as he did so.
“Ye sound like a man who’s enjoyin’ his work,” she said teasingly, smiling at him over her shoulder.
“Och, I am, I surely am,” he said, immersing himself in the erotic experience of peeling her gown away so that it slipped down from her shoulders, revealing the soft white expanse of skin hidden there. “Yer skin is so lovely, Maddison, so white and pure,” he marveled, breathing deeply to control his ardor, his fingertips gently brushing her back and neck with wonder.
His excitement increased when he felt her shiver against him in obvious arousal, and he hardened further to feel how her whole body seemed to thrill at his slightest touch. Her floral scent filled his nostrils, adding another dizzyingly sensual element to the experience for him. With a sharp breath, he pushed her hair aside and pressed his mouth to the soft nape of her neck, sucking and nuzzling her warm skin, his teeth grazing her in soft, playful bites.
“D’ye ken, ye’re the only man who has ever seen me like this?” she whispered, moaning as he trailed tiny kisses across her skin, to his intense gratification.
“Good. That’s as it should be,” he breathed in her ear, wanting to make his mark on her. “This is mine, all mine.” Closing his eyes in bliss, he reached around and cupped her naked breasts, squeezing and rolling them luxuriously in his palms. They fitted there perfectly, and he savored the wonderful feeling as his fingers toyed with her hardened peaks, sending fresh shivers of anticipation running through his body. He thrilled to feel her trembling as she lay back against his chest, gasping under his teasing caresses. He struggled to keep the demands of his body in control as his senses reeled, almost overwhelmed by both her beauty and her state of wanton abandon. The throbbing between his legs was growing more insistent.
I need tae get her out of her clothes! I have tae have all of her…
“Och, Odhrán, ye make me feel so good,” she breathed raggedly, covering his hands with her own, encouraging him to continue fondling breasts and ravish her neck.
“Mmm, I could eat ye all up,” Odhrán murmured, nuzzling her neck hungrily as if preparing to carry out his threat.
“Och, I wish ye would, Odhrán,” she sighed, making him smile and double his caresses. With a low grunt of satisfaction, he lifted Maddison up slightly. Her gown fell loosely about her shapely hips, revealing the exquisite architecture of her waist. The sinuous curves stirred something primal deep in his belly. It was almost painful to have to contain himself, but he wanted to savor every part of her, and every second of their intimacy.
“Ye’re so delicious, Maddy, so beautiful. I cannae believe ye’re mine,” he whispered, taking deep, ragged breaths to contain his lust.
“Please, dinnae stop,” she begged him, “I cannae get enough of what ye dae tae me.”
“I’m never gonnae stop, unless ye make me,” he murmured, unlacing her stays with lascivious determination. When he had loosened them enough, she willingly lifted her arms so he could pull them over her head before untying her petticoat strings. Odhran watched with greedy eyes while she wriggled out of the them and turned to face him. Entirely naked now, her teasing smile and smoky gray eyes filled with lust, she reached for him.
“Stay, let me look at ye, I want tae feast me eyes on ye,” he murmured, his erection huge and butting against her as he gently held her back by her arms. She obeyed, eyes molten, her tongue wetting her lips in expectation, while Odhrán allowed his eyes to rove freely over the pale, perfect symmetry that lay before him.
Transfixed, with both hands, he traced the globes of her breasts and the graceful indent of her waist, then the twin curve of her hips, letting out a low whistle, dazzled afresh by her beauty. The fight to control himself ramped up a notch, and an involuntary groan burst from his lips, dazed as he was by his passion for her.
“I still think I must be dreamin’, Maddy. I’ve had so many dreams about ye like this, it hardly seems real. Ye’re far more beautiful than I could ever have dreamed.” He buried his face in her breasts with a groan, his hands blindly roving over the beguiling curves of body in rapturous delight. He allowed the fingertips of one hand to slide over the firm roundness of her behind, then between her thighs, hungry to part her intricate folds and stroke her there for her pleasure.
“Odhrán!” she cried out, writhing helplessly under his touch.
“Och, ye’re burnin’,” he whispered in her ear, delving into the slick warmth of her swollen sex, his passion flaring. How he did not simply leap on her and ravish her then and there he hardly knew. But seeing her like this, begging for his touch, her usual neat composure shattered… to know he was responsible for reducing her to this state… it was as if, against all the odds, Maddison was made for him and he for her.
“I want ye so much,” she moaned, opening her legs further when his questing fingertips found her rosebud, teasing it, rubbing it with his thumb. Reveling in her ecstatic response but intent on taking her higher still, he parted her moist folds and stroked her entrance. “Och, ye’re so ready fer me, so wet,” he groaned, still more inflamed by the fact she wanted him so badly.
“Ah, Odhrán, touch me there, ah yes! More, please,” she panted, driving him almost over the edge of his control as she shifted slightly and straddled his lap, opening herself wider still.
“D’ye want me now?” he asked, making her gasp as his fingers penetrated her soaking entrance, one at first, sliding in easily, sending a jolt through her body and making her gasp aloud. When he added two more and began slowly, rhythmically, moving them in and out while strumming her bud with his thumb, the series of small, mewling cries that fell from her lips and the shuddering of her body made him frantic to plunge inside her and satisfy his lust. But he held back, determined to put her pleasure before his.
“I want ye so bad, I cannae wait much longer,” she panted, moving her body to match the rhythm of his fingers, thrilling Odhrán as she wrapped her hands in his hair and covered his face and mouth and chest with passionate kisses, bites, and caresses. Loving every moment, he continued to toy with her, watching her flushed face in delighted fascination.
“D’ye remember, Odhrán, ye asked me if I ever thought of ye this way after I was set free from here and went back tae me family?” she suddenly asked him, her breathing shallow and uneven as she rode his hand.
“Aye, I remember. And ye got angry with me and told me that this would never happen again,” he murmured, nuzzling her breasts, his fingers probing her more deeply.
“Ah, ah! That was because I did nae wantae admit that I did think of ye. I did nae want tae admit it, even tae mesel’,” she panted as he sucked and nuzzled at her hardened peaks. “But I did think of ye. Often. Every day. Every night. I tried nae tae, but I couldnae help it. I’d come tae care fer ye. And when I found out who ye were, and that ye’d lied tae me, I was so hurt I wanted tae die.” She bucked against his probing more frantically. “This is the first time I have ever spoken this truth, even to mesel’.”
Awash with furious passion, with one arm, Odhrán crushed her to him, ravaging her mouth, adding another finger and plunging deeper inside her.
“I’m so in love with ye, Maddison, it hurts,” he growled. “Thank ye fer tellin’ me the truth. Ye dinnae ken how happy it makes me tae hear ye say that.” His fingers hit a spot that made her moan loudly, and her whole body shivered against his. The quivering of her soft flesh was so exciting to him, it made it even more difficult not to simply dive into her. His erection was rock hard and throbbing, craving the deliciously snug harbor of her sex. With an extreme effort of will, he continued to hold himself back.
“It means everythin’ tae me tae ken ye were thinkin’ about me, even if it was bad things. I ken I deserved it,” he confessed hoarsely, kissing her back hungrily,
“But ye didnae deserve it,” she whispered into his mouth, clinging to him as she rose and fell against his hand. “I was wrong. I didnae ken who ye really were. I thought ye were like yer faither, though I kent ye couldnae be, because of all ye did fer me, tae keep me alive.” She clutched him to her, and Odhrán sensed her muscles tightening around his fingers, knowing the waves of ecstasy must be starting to overwhelm her. Eager to bring her to her peak, he rammed his fingers into her faster and faster, pinning her in place with his other hand on her waist, watching excitedly as she writhed and moaned against him, clearly approaching her climax.
“Ye even killed yer faither fer me,” she gasped out, holding him tightly as her body stiffened and she let out a series of loud cried as she bucked against him in the intensity of her pleasure. Odhrán’s heart swelled once more with pride to be the man who could make her lose control this way by delivering such blissful release. Now, he could seek his own.
“I’d kill that bastard a thousand times over fer ye, Maddy,” he whispered fiercely in her ear, holding her close as she recovered from her ecstasy, his ardor almost at boiling point. “And any other bastard that tries tae take ye from me.”
“Nae one is ever gonnae take me from ye, Odhrán,” she panted, reaching for the fastenings of his trews and almost tearing them aside with a greedy enthusiasm that made the fire within him burn higher still. She flung them open, allowing his manhood bursting forth from its nest of hair, tall and proud.
“Ooh, it that all fer me?” she asked coquettishly, taking his shaft in her hands and bending to run her tongue up and down its length.
“For ye and ye alone, me lady,” Odhrán said, groaning, his lust finally overwhelming him. He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her forward, and slowly impaled her on his length. She gave a satisfying gasp as he speared her, filling her to the hilt. To be inside her, held tightly by her hot, slick walls felt… exquisite. Lost in the sensation, for some time, he did not move, only stared into Maddison’s eyes as they kissed leisurely.
“I have tae tell ye the truth about somethin’ too,” he told her, lifting her by the hips and then thrusting deeply into her again with a satisfied grunt.
“Ach! Odhrán!” she cried out, sinking down on him with a moan, nipping his lip with her teeth. “I never kent it could feel this way.”
“Me neither,” he admitted, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from her flushed face and marveling again at her incredible beauty. It was the truth. He had had his fair share of sexual dalliances in the past, and at the time, he had thought himself well enough satisfied. Romantic love had been something he had dismissed out of hand, hardly believing it existed. Love for or with a woman had been something that simply did not feature in his thoughts. Until Maddison.
Maddison had changed everything, turned his life upside down. She had always been special. From the first, as his father’s prisoner, she had elicited feelings he could hardly credit owning. The love he had discovered within him had been a secret torment, eating away at him, even after their marriage. He had resigned himself to never winning her affection, let alone her love.
But now, the woman he adored, who had sworn to hate him, was unashamedly offering him her body, begging for him to do all the things to her he had been secretly dreaming of for so long. Inexperienced as she was, she was taking him to heights of physical passion that shook the foundations of his world. The feeling of being home at last, of being right where he belonged, was as dizzying as it was fulfilling. He wanted it to last forever.
Their intimacy encouraged him to unburden his heart to her. “Maddy, I want tae tell ye somethin’.”
“Tell me,” she said softly, moving slowly upon him, her inner muscles gripping him tantalizingly.
With a groan, willfully delaying his gratification, he said, “Well, after me faither died, I found a letter, from me faither tae Rollo. I saw it first.” He buried his face in Maddison’s breasts as he pulled out of her, then thrust into her heat again, burying himself deeply inside her, so that she fell against him and moaned against his lips.
“Me faither was obsessed with destroyin’ yer clan. He was betrothed tae yer maither once, but she fell in love with yer faither and ran away with him. Me faither never forgave her. In the letter, he said he wanted Rollo tae carry on his work of destruction after his death. I could nae stand the thought of ye being in danger, nor yer family. The only way tae protect ye was tae have ye close.”
“And the only way ye could have me close was tae marry me,” she murmured, looking in his eyes as again, she rose up and then back down upon his shaft. She was moving faster now, her velvety interior yielding to him yet at the same time holding him tightly, sending waves of bliss rushing through him with every motion.
“Right,” he muttered, unable to resist the urge to quicken his thrusts to match hers, while savoring the way her breasts were bouncing against his face. “And I kent ye’d never agree tae wed me. So, I went tae see the King.”
They were both panting hard now and hanging on to each other as if for dear life, kissing, sucking, biting any naked flesh they could find as they labored together in search of blissful release. Odhrán relished the thought that just as she was bringing him to the peak of ecstasy, he was doing the same to her. That sent him over the edge, and he gave in to his primal need for her.
“Och, God, Odhrán, Odhrán!” she cried out frantically as he groaned and stiffened inside her, his senses overwhelmed. They came together in a great, shuddering rush, clinging to each other.
“Maddy, me Maddy!” Odhrán could not help crying out in his frenzy, his hands tangling in her glorious hair as she fell against him, spent.
They lay together, covered in sweat, regaining their breath. To Odhrán, the room seemed to spin around them, and the air shimmered and danced. His body was completely sated. With Maddison, he had gained the pinnacle of physical satisfaction which he knew nothing could ever equal. He realized that he finally understood what it meant to make love to someone with your heart, your body, and your soul.
God, please, let me have this one thing. Let her nae be taken from me.
Don’t miss your link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Prologue
1585, The Western Highlands, Scotland The dungeons, Lennox Castle
Odhrán, son of Murphy, Laird Lennox, ran down the stairs into the chilly, malodorous dungeons of his father’s castle. At the bottom, he slowly walked to where he could position himself to see through the metal grill in the door of the first cell on the right. Then, he paused for several moments, just looking at the prisoner inside.
The sight of her made his heart stop. For though she looked tired and miserable, with her long dark hair, large dark eyes, and porcelain skin, Maddison Kincaid was without a doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
As he allowed his eyes to dwell on her, Odhrán was startled to hear the door above him open and someone come down the stairs. Scared it might be his father, he held his breath as he scrambled for an explanation as to why he was there. He only breathed again when he saw his best friend, the war leader Liam MacTavish, appear around the bend in the stairs.
Liam paused when he saw Odhrán standing and looking up at him, then he ran down the remaining steps as Odhrán came to meet him.
“Odhrán, what are ye doin’ here again?” Liam asked as the pair smiled and slapped each other’s backs in a hearty greeting.
“Naethin’ much,” Odhrán replied, feeling a little embarrassed to have been caught. “Just checkin’ on the prisoner.”
Liam glanced over at the cell containing Maddison and laughed. “I ken ye’ve been down here twice today already. I’ve seen ye. Checkin’ on the prisoner quite often, are ye nae? Anyone would think ye’re sweet on the lassie,” he said teasingly.
Knowing his cheeks were flushing a little, for Liam had hit the nail on the head, Odhrán laughed too and punched his friend on the arm affectionately. He did not mind Liam knowing the truth, for he knew all his secrets were safe with him.
“I’m just bringin’ her this book tae read,” he told Liam, lowering his voice and showing it to him. “The hours pass slowly fer her in here, so I bring her books tae occupy her mind.”
“Well, I’ll nae be the one tae say ye’re goin’ soft,” Liam replied laughingly, automatically lowering his voice to a mere whisper as well. He glanced at the book and nodded. “She’s a nice lassie. ’Tis a right shame yer faither hates her family and her clan so much that he would kill her parents and braither like that and then keep her locked up here.” He shook his head, the harsh planes of his face softening as he glanced at the cell door.
“Aye, tae tell the truth, Liam, I dinnae ken how I’ve managed tae persuade him tae keep her alive this long. There’s nae a day that passes when he doesnae say he wants tae kill her. I wish I kent why he hates her family so much and could get him tae stop this feud and let her go. I cannae see any real reason fer it. I mean, what have the Kincaids done tae hurt us? Naethin’. ’Tis another of Faither’s obsessions, I suppose.”
“Aye, ’tis a mystery all right,” Liam agreed. “Ye ken what he’s like, he holds a grudge, and once he’s set on somethin’, he’s like dog with a bone. He’ll nae leave off until he’s got what he wants, and that seems tae mean wipin’ out the Kincaid family and the whole clan. Mayhap we’ll never find out the truth behind the feud but at least ye’ve been able tae string him along thus far by tellin’ him it makes more sense tae keep her alive and use her fer a deal with her braithers than kill her outright.”
Odhrán nodded. “The trouble is, I dinnae ken how long I can keep it up. I’m afeared fer her life every day, Liam,” he confessed to his friend, drawing a little closer to him and lowering his voice even further. “She doesnae ken who I really am. She thinks I’m just a servant of the laird. If she finds out I’m the son of the man who murdered her family and imprisoned her, she’ll never forgive me fer it,” he confided in Liam. “Especially nae when she realizes how I’ve been lyin’ tae her all this time.”
“Aye, I see what ye mean. But what ye’re doin’ is very risky. If yer faither finds out what ye’ve been up tae, he’ll likely slit yer throat as well as hers. If ye go against him, he willnae care if ye’re his only son. Ye havetae think of yerself. Why must ye come down here tae see her so often?”
“I feel sorry for her, and I wantae dae everythin’ I can tae make her incarceration bearable.” He did not add that simply laying eyes on the girl for one second after her kidnapping had been enough for him to fall for her, nor that he could not go a day without seeing her.
“Well, take me advice, Odhrán, dinnae be so careless as tae stand here gawking at her. If someone sees ye and tells yer faither, ye ken he’ll be furious. He’ll likely use it as an excuse tae give the lairdship tae that bastard cousin of yers, Rollo,” Liam warned him kindly.
Odhrán scowled on hearing the loathsome name. “Dinnae mention that dog tae me. He’s the bane of me life. Faither’s been on and on at me tae find a wife and get him some grandbairns, but ye ken I’ve nae wish tae marry just now. ’Tis true, nae a day goes by that he doesnae bang on about who’d make the better heir. His obsession with grandbairns and continuin’ the Lennox legacy makes him prefer Rollo because he is wed and already has a clutch of bairns tae show fer it. I’m right sick of it,” he complained, bile rising in his throat.
“I ken, and I feel bad fer ye. Rollo’s a right smug bastard, always suckin’ up tae him, tae be sure. I cannae stand him, and neither can most of the men. Besides, ’tis nae natural fer a faither tae treat his only son like that, in me opinion. But that only means ye have tae be extra careful about the laird findin’ ye down here so often, givin’ the lassie books, and so on.”
“Aye, I ken, me friend. I thank ye fer yer warnin’. Mayhap Rollo will nae live long enough tae inherit the lairdship that’s mine by rights, eh?” Odhrán said, with the usual tension he felt when thinking of his father and cousin gripping him. It always gave him a queasy feeling, as well as a feeling that time was somehow running out for him. He wished he dared tell Liam about his deepest thoughts, not just about getting rid of Rollo, but of his father too, permanently. He tried to push the unease aside and focus on the moment. “Anyway, I’m sure ye have plenty tae keep ye busy, me friend, so ye can push off. I’ll meet ye and yer braither fer a drink later on, eh?” he told Liam with a shove.
“All right, I’ll meet ye in the Blue Boar after dinner. But mark me words, Odhrán,” Liam said earnestly. “Be careful. Next time, it might nae be me comin’ down those stairs.” He sprang back up the steps on his powerful legs, and Odhrán was left alone. His heart in his mouth, he approached Maddison’s cell.
“Maddison, ’tis me,” he called softly. A pale ghost got up from the bed of straw where she had been sitting. She came up to the grill and regarded him with her big dark eyes.
“Hello. ’Tis good tae see a friendly face around here,” Maddison told him in her lilting voice.
“I’ve brought ye another book,” he said, passing it through the grill to her. ’Tis an adventure. It may help tae pass the time.”
“Thank ye,” she replied, taking the book from his hand and giving him a wan smile that made his heart skip in his chest. “I’ve almost finished the last one, so this will come in handy. ’Tis very boring and lonely in here.”
The sadness in her eyes as she spoke moved Odhrán deeply. He wanted nothing more than to tear down the cell door, grab her by the waist, and ride like hell with her back to her home and her brothers, anything to make her happy.
“How are ye bearin’ up?” he asked, leaning against the door to get a better view of her and the cell. To his relief, it looked fairly clean, and she had blankets. It was no more than Odhrán expected because he had been bribing the dungeon master for his cooperation and silence.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose. But the help ye give me is a great comfort, and yer company too,” she told him.
“I’m glad tae be of some help tae ye,” he said, wishing he could do far more.
“I dinnae wish tae get ye intae trouble by askin’ this, but can ye tell me if there’s been any sign of me braithers searchin’ fer me?” she suddenly asked, her face creased with anxiety. “’Tis been almost a year now since I’ve been locked up here, and I’ve had nae word of them.”
Odhrán’s heart dropped. Of course, he well knew that her brothers, Diarmaid and Ciarán, both formidable warriors, had been scouring the land far and wide for any sign of her for the last year. He guessed they had already worked out where she might be, and who had murdered their parents and brother before kidnapping her. But he was also sure his father was right: without proof they would not dare act.
Even if somehow they found proof, they would need help to attack the Lennox castle, for it held the largest clan army in the West Highlands. But he could not tell Maddison any of that, however much he wanted to comfort her. His father would kill the both of them if he did and he got wind of it.
“I dinnae ken, I’m sorry. I’m just a servant around here,” he lied, hating himself for doing it.
“I ken. I shouldnae have asked ye,” she apologized. Then, he saw a spark in her eyes, and she clenched her small fists at her sides. “Ach, there’s nae one I hate more than Murphy and his son, fer what they’ve done tae me and me family. Every day, I pray me braithers will find me and put an end to those two monsters,” she murmured.
“Aye, that’s understandable,” Odhrán replied, feeling like his poor heart was breaking for her, and for himself. He was unused to feeling so much emotion for anybody. There had never really been anyone for him to care about that much. His mother had died shortly after giving birth to him, and the only affection he remembered receiving was from his old nursemaid, now long dead.
Nevertheless, it physically hurt him to know Maddison was suffering. He so wanted her to know how much he cared about her, but the whole situation was impossible, thus he had no choice but to keep it all secret from her. And from everyone, except perhaps Liam and his brother Tadhg.
But that did not mean he did not think about it, and about how much better his life would be without his father and Rollo in it.
But even if I was Laird Lennox, it would nae change a thing. If Maddison ever learns who I really am, she’ll nae forgive me. She’ll never be me wife, however much I want her.
Chapter One
1586, Lennox Castle
Odhrán took his place as Laird Lennox at the head of the council table feeling deeply uneasy. He was well aware that only five months after the death of his father and the lairdship passing to him, he was still on thin ice. His position as laird was by no means certain. And as always, he had his father to thank for it.
“Well, let’s get down tae business, gentlemen,” he said, making sure to sound strong and determined as his eyes swept around the table, where his councilmen were taking their seats. “There’s nae time tae waste.”
“Aye, me laird,” intoned Angus Bowman, who had been his father’s chief advisor for many years, shuffling the papers in front of him. “The most important matter is that of yer faither’s will.”
“Aye, I ken it,” Odhrán said with a sharp nod, exchanging a look with Liam and Tadhg that expressed his impatience and their sympathy. “Get on with it then.”
Angus cleared his throat and spoke up clearly. “As ye ken, the old laird left a will saying that if ye dinnae have a wife and a bairn on the way a year after taking the lairdship, the council should gather and decide if ’tis better fer yerself tae continue as laird or fer Rollo tae take over.” The old advisor paused to look at Odhrán before he went on, “’Tis already five months since ye became laird, and there’s nae sight of a wife, let alone a bairn.”
Angus’s words drew a collective muttering from the councilmen, though Odhrán found it impossible to tell whether they were happy or not about the terms of the will. He’d been fuming ever since he’d first heard of them. Even in death, it seemed his father continued to torment him.
“So, what d’ye all think on this?” Odhrán asked through gritted teeth. Once more there were hushed murmurings around the table.
“Frankly, me laird, there’s nae many of us are happy about it,” piped up Renly Cooper, who dealt with the clan’s finances. “But the will is a legally binding document, and ye can be sure Rollo kens about it. Yer faither kept his counsel, so even if we destroy it, he’ll challenge yer right tae inherit.”
“Aye, none of us can see a way tae prevent him legally takin’ over the lairdship except by ye marryin’ and trying tae get a bairn started in the next six months,” Angus added, sounding surprisingly downcast.
“Wheesht!” Liam put in with some impatience. “He’ll nae be able tae inherit if he’s dead. If we dinnae want him as our laird, why nae just kill him?”
“I’d be happy tae dae the job,” Tadhg said, nodding vigorously. “The man’s a snake. He’s nae even a good master tae his own folks. All the headway we’ve made as a clan in improving relations with our neighbors over the last few months with Odhrán here at our head will be lost if he takes over.”
“Aye, even his wife doesnae much like him, the poor lass, so I hear,” Renley said, eliciting nods and words of agreement from his fellows.
“Ach, I wish it was that easy, me friends,” Angus told them , shaking his head morosely. “But ’tis a legal matter. If we just go and kill him, I reckon everyone will ken who’s responsible at once. He has many allies. It could mean war.”
“I’m touched by yer support,” Odhrán said, meaning it. He had not really expected to learn so much about how they all felt about the matter. It was encouraging that they liked his style of lairdship, which was so different to that of his father.
However, there was more than one important thing the council was so far unaware of, bar Liam and Tadhg. He did not want to marry. Or, more specifically, he did not want to marry just anyone. In fact, the only woman he wanted to marry hated his guts. The only solace for his broken heart in the whole mess was knowing that Maddison was back home safe with her family again, following a violent attack on Lennox Castle by her brothers and their allies that had ended in his father’s death.
And there was more than just the will. When going through his father’s desk, which now belonged to him, he had found a letter from his father addressed to Rollo. Furious, he had torn it open and read it.
If ye become Laird Lennox, ye must finish what I started and kill all the surviving Kincaids. Me spirit willnae rest until ye have wiped out the whole family and clan tae the last man.
Odhrán had almost choked on his hatred for his father as well as his fear for Maddison on reading those words. He knew Rollo would enjoy carrying out his father’s wishes should he ever become Laird Lennox. But Maddison’s life and her clan had to be protected at all costs against this new threat. Immediately, he had thought the best way to do that would be to have her close, ideally as his wife. But he had known with a sinking heart that it was out of the question. She, her family, and the whole Kincaid clan despised him. They would never countenance such a union.
But though he hated his father and Rollo as much as Maddison and the Kincaids hated him, he was still his father’s son. He had never been one to give up easily, however bad the odds seemed.
There must be a way.
Now, standing before the council and hearing what they had to say, he was encouraged to put forth the plan that had been slowly forming in the deep, dark depths of his mind for some time.
“There’s only one lass I’ll consider as a wife,” he said in a tone that, he hoped, brooked no argument.
The councilmen’s ears pricked up, and they all looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and expectancy.
“Oh? And who might that be, me laird?” Angus asked.
“Maddison Kincaid.”
He might as well have thrown a fox into the henhouse for all the furor that caused. Only Liam and Tadhg appeared unsurprised.
Angus spluttered out, “I’m sorry, me laird, but did ye say Maddison Kincaid?”
“Ye ken I did,” Odhrán confirmed with a nod, creating fresh turmoil amongst his advisors.
“The lass yer faither kept locked up here fer a year until her braithers attacked us and killed him and took her away?”
“Aye, the very same.”
“May we ask why her in particular, me laird?” Renley asked.
“It’ll put an end tae this feud me faither had with the Kincaids once and fer all. It’ll be of benefit tae all of us if it’s done with,” Odhrán explained, growing bolder as they seemed receptive to his idea.
“Well, fair enough,” Renley said after a few moments of quiet discussion among the councilmen. “If that’s the lass ye want, me laird, then we’ll back ye. But d’ye nae think it likely her braithers will nae countenance such a match, even if she agrees tae it? Which I dinnae think there’s much chance she will. Nae counting that they killed yer faither…”
“If the laird’s willin’ tae put that aside fer the sake of improvin’ relations between our two clans then we should support him. After all, the old laird was nae much of a faither tae him, and he didnae exactly act in ways tae improve our relations with other clans either,” Angus pointed out. “That wasnae good fer any of us.”
Once again, Odhrán was touched by the councilmen’s understanding of the difficulties he had faced when his father had been alive. The old man had been a bully and a brute. The only trouble was, they were lacking a vital piece of information that may have radically changed any decision they might choose to make about their future laird.
The council did not know that the Kincaids had not killed the old laird. It had been Odhrán himself who had ended his father’s life, all to protect Maddison. Odhrán was that most wretched of creatures—a parricide. It was such a horrible thing to have done that, however bad his father had been, he could not even reconcile it with himself, let alone tell anyone else the truth about what he had done. All but his best friends, that was. Thus, deep down, he knew he’d never be at peace with what he had done.
“True enough. But other clan feuds that have lasted decades have been ended by such marriages, and both clans have prospered,” Renly said. “There’s nae harm in tryin’ if that’s what the young laird wants.” Murmurs of agreement came from the others.
“So, d’ye have any ideas how we could go about securin’ their agreement, then, me laird?” Tadhg asked, looking at Odhrán with a hint of encouragement in his eyes. He and his brother already knew a little of Odhrán’s thoughts and plans on this subject.
“Aye, as it happens, I dae,” Odhrán replied, flashing a grateful glance at Tadhg.
“Well, let’s hear it then, me laird,” Renley said. “If there’s any chance of it workin’, we’ll back ye all the way rather than have Rollo as our laird.”
“All right,” Odhrán replied, optimism welling up inside him and replacing the guilt he felt as the man who had killed his father. “So, here’s me plan.”
“What dae ye think?” Gilchrist asked, holding Kyven’s gaze with his own. The way her hand was running up and down his arm, a comforting touch, was making such warmth spread through him that he surprisingly had no wish to return to the room where his brothers were.
Aye, I’ll stay with ye, Kyven.
“Live out that fantasy of yers,” he suggested. “Paint me.”
In the light of the candle he carried, he saw her eyes flicker. There was a glint of both mischief and happiness in them. She nodded.
He shifted her hand from his arm to his palm, then towed her through the room.
“What about yer brothers?” she asked after a minute of intimate silence.
“They’ll understand.” Gilchrist knew well enough that neither of his brothers would object to them not returning to the room. He could talk more tomorrow with them, but for now, it was late. He wanted to be alone with Kyven.
He led her through the castle, down familiar corridors that he had not walked in years. Little had changed. Far in the east wing, he brought the two of them to a stop outside a large cabinet. He placed the candle on a ledge nearby and opened the door.
“What’s this?” Kyven asked, doing her best to peer around his arm. “Paints!” She hurried around him and stepped into the cabinet.
It was quite large, big enough for a variety of shelves to be stacked on three walls and just big enough to allow Kyven to set a canvas she found on one of those shelves and stand back, peering in the candlelight.
“I used tae hide from the world in here when I was little,” Gilchrist confessed. She turned her head around him, a mischievous smile spreading across her lips. “I’d quite like tae hide again.”
He took the candle from the ledge nearby and carried it into the cabinet, shutting the door behind them. She laughed and hurried to pull out the paints.
Kyven bit her lip, blushing. She had blushed the night before too, when they had made love in the bath. Just the memory of it, the way her back had arched as he had entered her, or the way her hands had gripped his shoulders, made his body hard now for the want of her again. Would she moan his name in this cabinet? Would she cry out? Or maybe she would bite her lip again in the effort to hold in that sound and not be discovered?
“I want ye…” She turned to face him. The words made a pleasant shudder start deep within his abdomen. “Over here.” She took his arms and playfully steered him across the room until he was sat on a barrel in the corner. “Sit there and look…”
Gilchrist raised his eyebrows questioningly. She smiled a little more, making him wonder why he had agreed to painting at all when they could be doing something else.
“Just look at me,” Kyven pleaded, her voice turning a pleasant lighter tone.
She turned back to her canvas, finished preparing the paints, but didn’t start working on the canvas. She turned back again, yellow light falling on half of her face.
“Would ye…?”
“What?” he asked, encouraging her on.
“Would ye let me paint ye without clothes?” she asked.
Gilchrist chuckled, at first believing she was in jest, but she just continued to stare at him. His laughter faded. The idea seemed mad and wild, then he remembered where they were. Tucked away in this corner of the castle in a cabinet, no one would ever find them this late in the evening. They were alone, in their own world.
He untied the jerkin, slowly unfurling it from his shoulders. The shirt followed, as he dropped it to the ground, then he stood and pulled off his boots. Gilchrist was all too aware of the anticipation in the air and the way she stared at him, her hands tightening around the paint brushes.
He held her gaze as he reached for his trews and pulled them down next. Without a word, he sat down on the barrel again and waited for her to begin.
Kyven grinned, then turned to the canvas. He couldn’t see what she was drawing, but he saw her work fast. At all times, he watched her eyes and hand movements, the way her brushes darted fast across the canvas, and how her gaze drank in the sight of him. When she gazed at his chest and length, she bit her lip again, in that habit of hers. He nearly lost all restraint at that moment, tempted to tell her to abandon the paints and go warm him up.
“How can ye be hard now?” she said eventually in a playful whisper. “I am nae touching ye.”
“Ye are painting me,” he reminded her. “And we were alone.” It was enough to make his imagination run mad. She giggled lightly, her gaze most particularly on his length now. She seemed to be slowing in her painting. “How does it look?”
“It’s a good start. Tae get it right though I’ll need many hours.”
“More hours of being naked with ye, Kyven? As ye wish.”
She trembled, though it was clearly with an excited pleasure. She placed the paints down on the edge of a shelf nearby and moved toward him. He sat tall, feeling the tension in the air as she came so close.
“Next time, dae me a favor.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Move yer arm like this.” She adjusted his arm to the side, so his hand brushed the skirt of her gown. He toyed his fingers in the edge of that skirt, pulling her a little toward him. “That was nae the idea,” she said with a laugh.
“Ye come toward me and expect me tae behave?” He challenged her.
“I havenae finished yer portrait.”
“Ye can finish it another time.” He tugged on her skirt again, moving it aside now, so he could feel her bare leg. He reached out, brushing her temptingly down the inside of her thigh. Her lips parted and a breathy sound escaped her.
“Ye tempt me,” she whispered. “Ye always did. Ye seem tae have…” Her eyelids fluttered closed as he moved toward her. He placed a single kiss on the base of her throat, listening as she gasped. He moved his hand higher up her thigh again, getting closer and closer to her bare hip beneath the covering of her gown. “Power over me.”
“Power, eh?” Gilchrist murmured against her skin. His kisses traveled down her collarbone and toward the top of her gown. “Shall we test that power?”
Kyven didn’t say no. Another breathy moan escaped her as his fingers toyed outside of her. He passed them over her center, not quite touching her and indulging in pleasure, but teasing her with what they could do.
He stood up off the barrel, moving his hand to her hip beneath the gown. “Sit on the barrel,” he urged.
Her hands gripped his bare arms as they moved around one another. He lifted her to sit on the barrel as she was a little short to sit there herself. She bit her lip again. He bent over her, urging her to lean back against the wall behind her head. The two of them were panting now with the anticipation of what was to come.
Taking hold of her skirt, Gilchrist drew it up her legs and toward her hips, revealing her bare legs. One of those legs shuddered as he raised it up over his hip.
“Nae a word this time,” he whispered to her. “Nae a word, nae a sound, if we dinnae want tae be discovered.”
She nodded, her hands reaching out behind her. One palm gripped to a shelf nearby as the other flattened to the wall over her head.
It was surely forbidden, what they were doing now. Not just making love outside of the bounds of marriage but tucked away together in this cupboard. The illicitness of the moment somehow made Gilchrist harder still, determined to take her, but not yet. First, he wanted to watch her in her pleasure, to drink in the sight of her.
He moved his fingers from his hips to her center. With one hand, he held the inside of her thigh out, creating space for his body. His fingers moved down the length of her opening, teasing her, brushing back and forth. Her lips parted. Clearly, she wanted to moan, but when he reminded her not to, playfully dominating her, by pretending to glare at her, she clamped her lips together again, fighting a perfect smile.
He slid his fingers down a little, overwhelmed by the feeling of how wet she was for him already. Her leg shook beneath his grasp too. He slipped his fingers inside of her, his own lips parting at the sensation of how warm and wet she was. Her head tilted back against the wall, her eyes closing though her lips opened to make a perfect ‘o’ shape. No sound escaped her though.
“Look at me,” Gilchrist took a possessive hold on her chin and pierced her eyes, which only made his shaft get harder.
He decided to make it more difficult for Kyven, moving his fingers in and out of her at a faster pace now, seeing if she could stay quiet. Her hand gripped tighter to the shelf and her back arched in this strange but exciting position on the barrel, her eyes not leaving his. When he changed the angle of his hand, moving so his thumb was over that bud of nerves above her center, brushing it just once, their connected gaze got more intense and he moved his thumb again, firmer this time.
Those breathy sounds were impossible for her staunch. His length grew harder for wanting her and those noises.
“Ah…”
“Nae a sound,” he ordered, then bent over her, moving his lips toward her core. She shuddered even more, in clear excitement about what he was going to do. He kept his fingers inside of her, moving in and out, reaching deep, as his tongue stayed outside, pleasuring her. She lost the battle, starting to make sounds now. He held her thigh down harder, keeping her legs apart, basking in the warmth of those noises she made.
She was on the edge; he could feel it. Her head moved from side to side and her body writhed beneath his touch as much as it possibly could. He lifted his body from her, not quite ready yet to give her a release.
“Nay, why?” Her eyes opened, and she looked at him pleadingly, but he shook his head. He was in control of their pleasure, and what they were sharing was certainly not going to end just yet.
“Patience, my love,” he took hold of her hips and quickly lowered her back to the floor.
“Turn around,” he ordered. She did so, leaning her legs against the barrel as her hands planted themselves flat to the wall in front of her. “Brace yerself.”
She parted her legs, just a little, but enough to create a space for him. He reached beneath that skirt again, taking hold of her hips and urging her to lean forward. When her rear was on show, basked in the light of the candle, he bent down and playfully nipped the curve of her butt. She gasped in surprise, then shuddered, clearly still fighting that battle to stay quiet. When she was dithering, he moved his length toward her, nudging her entrance, teasing them both with the sensation.
Her back arched for wanting him. Gilchrist still held himself back, watching her and drinking in the sight. He had imagined them making love in so many ways, but each time they did, it was more exciting than he had thought possible.
He slid himself completely inside of her, watching as her hands turned white against the wall. She rocked back into him, clearly wanting more of this feeling.
He lost his control and suddenly entered her fast, repeatedly. The tempo he built up was so quick and full of need, he could feel her bracing herself indeed against that barrel, absorbing each thrust of his hips toward her.
Gilchrist tilted his head back, the better to watch all of her as he entered her, and to watch exactly what they were doing. Her body was always ready for him, wanting him, as he wanted her.
He ran his hands over her rear, squeezing a little, then gripping to her hips so he could move faster still. Kyven gasped all the more, now not knowing what to do with her hands. Sometimes she reached back with one toward him, gripping to his arm, other times it went to the barrel beneath her, then back to the wall. She was frantic in her pleasure, and the sounds could not be stopped now. They fell from her lips, an intoxicating sound that drove him mad.
He was coming close now, nearing his end. He dreamed of finishing inside of her, of the two of them reaching that climax together, but he could not do it. A small voice in the back of his mind told him the danger of it – he could not get the Lady of the McDougall’s with child when he might not be permitted to marry her. He would never do that to her.
Gilchrist held his pleasure back as much as he possibly could, fighting the overwhelming sensations, determined to see her reach her edge. Then it happened. She bucked back against him, breathy sounds escaping her as her hands planted flat to the wall in front of her.
“Oh…” She moaned as her body tightened around their connection.
It was tipping him toward his edge fast, the feeling of her tightening. He had to pull himself out. He only had to pump his length twice before he finished, releasing against the side of the barrel, catching her leg too with his seed as their grunts and groans filled the air.
They were both still breathing heavily, holding onto one another as they came down from their high.
“So much fer being quiet,” she said eventually, prompting him to laugh. He turned her around and sat her on the barrel again when her legs shook, unable to keep her standing.
“I love ye,” he said without hesitation, moving to capture her lips. She embraced him tight, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he stood between the gap of her legs. “Ye dinnae mind, dae ye? Being here, I mean. In the clan of Gregor, considering…”
What me father did.
He could not bring himself to say the words. He was still basking in the pleasure of what they had shared.
“I am happy tae be here,” she whispered against his chest. “Clan Gregor and ye are one in me mind now. I dinnae think I have ever felt so safe, anywhere before.”
Gilchrist held her tight, without any intention of letting her go to somewhere she didn’t feel safe again.
Don’t miss your link for the whole series at the end of the preview.
Prologue
Inverlochy, Scotland, 1757
“Where are ye?” Michael whispered into the air. The cold breeze pulled at his dark hair, as if the wind itself was made of strong fingers trying to pull him back. However, nothing would stop him from marching on to reach the very spot where he met Elisa every Sunday, without fail.
Between the two great hills that dominated the landscape like sleeping giants, he jumped onto a vast boulder, looking down at the valley and toward the nearest village. From this high up, he could see the blackened heather competing with the rough grass of the Highland hills. Everything shivered in the breeze.
It was an ominous sign.
Michael had heard such things from his eldest brother for years now. Laird Braydon, as most addressed him, was superstitious when away from the prying eyes of his clan’s men.
‘Aye, a strong wind bodes ill, Michael. Ye be warned of it. It means there’s something stirring in the air. Somethin’ coming for us all.’
Michael was not superstitious though. He shrugged the thought off, his tall figure dropping down from the vast grey stone as he hurried toward the village to meet his love, Elisa.
Nae long now and we will be wed.
He could practically hear the music that would play at their wedding.
A boot scuffed a stone.
Michael whipped his head around, coming to a sudden halt in the heather. Someone was there. No wind could brush a stone like leather. No, there had to be someone there, someone who was now doing their best to hide and avoid discovery. All Michael could see were the Douglas firs, the crests of the great hills and the still-quivering heather.
I willnae doubt me senses. Someone is there.
Michael’s brothers, Braydon and Tynan, had taught him well. Not only how to hunt a stag in the woods, but also how to turn a man following you from predator into prey. How to behave to raise the least suspicion.
Brushing his dark hair away from his forehead, he wrapped the black and navy tartan strip he wore tighter around his shoulders and walked on, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Under the cover of the tartan, his hand reached for the dirk in his belt, clutching it firmly between his fingers. He trained his ears to listen beyond the whistling of wind.
There came a scuff again, but there were two sets of footsteps now.
Michael whipped around, pulling the dirk clear of his belt and brandishing it in the air, but before Michael could do anything with the dirk, he found his wrist clamped in a thick fist, and a sharp knee was driven into his gut.
“Oof!” He crumpled forward in pain, listening as the dirk he’d been clutching fell to the ground with a dull thud. He was pushed back, his vision a blur of darkened shadows, hair tangled in the wind, masked faces, then all fell still as he was thrown against the nearest tree trunk . The fir only shook a little when Michael’s weight was thrown against it. The branches quivered, as if the attack disturbed it no more than the wind.
“What the – in the name of the wee man!” Michael roared, thrusting back at his attacker, hands scrambling as he reached for another weapon. “Are ye trying tae kill me ye great –”
He could not say anymore as an arm was thrust across his neck. Pressed against that tree, it was as if his neck was nothing more than a twig to his attacker, something that could be snapped at any moment.
“Nae a word, Michael Gregor,” a familiar voice rasped out.
Michael looked at the two men before him. The one pinning him to the tree had only his eyes on show, the rest of his face hidden behind dark red and green tartan. Yet the grey eyes were as familiar as the voice.
“Dinnae bother hiding yer face from me, Shay.” Michael managed the words despite the pressure on his throat.
Shay tore the tartan from his face, as did his accomplice, who stood a short distance behind him.
Shay Lamont, son of a neighboring laird, was almost as pale as the snow on the tops of the hills. His blond hair was more white than yellow too. It was almost like looking into a man made of ice, his gaze and touch as cold as Michael feared it would be.
Behind him stood Shay’s dearest friend. Larry, a short but burly fellow, stocky in build with a shock of dark red hair, was now nursing a blackened eye and a bruised jaw that he rubbed feebly as he took off his tartan strip.
“How’s the eye?” Michael asked Larry, goading what he already knew to be a dangerous situation.
“Enough!” Shay spat, adjusting his grasp and flattening Michael to the tree even more, risking to break Michael’s neck. He raised a dirk at the same time, pressing the tip of the ornate blade to Michael’s chin. “Another move, and ye die, Gregor. Ye understand? Ye die!” he hissed angrily.
This time, Michael chose not to goad him. He refused to flinch though and didn’t so much as blink. He merely stared back at Shay, waiting for what would happen next.
“Ye and yer brothers may have got the jump on us once, but it willnae happen again,” Shay muttered darkly.
Michael couldn’t resist. The voice in his head was determined to say his piece.
“Is one attack nae enough fer ye? Ye already threatened me once about going tae meet Elisa. How did that work out fer ye, eh?” Michael’s eyes darted between the two men. Shay’s bruises were not so easy to spot, but they were there. One milky green one on his neck was showing against the pallor of his skin.
“She willnae marry the youngest brother of a laird,” Shay spat once again. “She needs an heir. Ye hear me, Michael? Ye arenae good enough tae lick her boots.”
“She seems tae think differently.”
“Ye are just a boy, and she is just a girl. In time, she will see things differently. She’ll want the heir tae a lairdship. She will want… a man.”
Michael said nothing. He glowered back at Shay, trying to think of a way out of this situation. Even if he fought Shay off, Larry had to be dealt with too. He was not fooled by the miserable way in which Larry kept touching the bruises on his face. His stocky build counted for a lot in a fight and the long thin scar running from his chin to his collarbone showed he was not afraid to risk injury in order to win.
“This is yer final warning, Gregor,” Shay muttered again. “Ye willnae be seeing Elisa anymore.”
“We are tae be married,” Michael reminded him. “Ye tried this before yet ye dinnae remember the punishment me brothers and I dealt out tae ye, dae ye? Dinnae get involved in our business, Shay. Go back tae yer own clan.”
The dirk was raised. Pressed deep into Michael’s cheek, he felt the prick on his skin and imagined the bead of blood pooling at the blade. Michael’s stomach clenched tightly. At that moment, Shay could quite easily murder him. It would be all too easy.
“I’ll only return when I take Elisa with me,” Shay said warningly.
Michael blinked for the first time, an image of Elisa appearing in his mind. Mild in manner, delicate, fair golden hair and bright green eyes, Elisa could ensnare nearly any man she met, but she had chosen Michael. She wished to marry him as he did her. They didn’t care if they were still young, that Michael hadn’t yet seen his twenty-first summer, and she hadn’t seen her eighteenth. They were determined to wed regardless, and the betrothal had been blessed both by Laird Braydon and Elisa’s father.
“She isnae yers tae take,” Michael took on a darker tone. “Go home, Shay. Like the white lamb ye are, go home with yer tail between yer legs.”
Rage enveloped Shay’s face. The lines around his eyes and neck became taut, his grey eyes now nearly red.
“Ye think a betrothal is enough tae stop me? Or a few bruises dealt by yer weakling brothers?” He spat on Michael, but still Michael refused to flinch. “A pathetic excuse fer a laird yer brother, barely more than a child himself.”
Michael’s body tightened now. His hand down at his side balled into a fist.
“Or Tynan, eh? What a man is he? What a pathetic creature, responsible for his own father’s death. It’s a wonder he didnae kill himself years ago with the guilt.”
“Ye bast –” Michael tried to rage against him. His brothers, two of the best men born on this planet, did not deserve such insults. He attempted to push Shay off him, but he pressed that dirk harder into his face now. Larry also stepped closer beside him, revealing a long thin rapier he had kept hidden behind his back up until now.
“Dinnae move,” Shay warned once more. “There’s something ye’ll want tae ken, Michael Gregor. Something ye’ll wish tae hear from me.” He jerked his head in silent instruction at Larry who stepped forward once more, reaching into the pocket of his tunic before producing something.
Michael strained to see what it was but was dealt with another blow to his stomach by Shay.
Winded, he buckled forward onto his knees, landing on a great stone which bruised his leg so badly, he had no chance of standing. Gasping for breath, he looked up, peering through his strands of dark hair to see Shay standing over him. Shay still grasped the dirk threateningly, but in his other palm, he now held something. He raised it high then let it drop to the ground in front of Michael. It drifted like a feather, strands falling apart in the wind. The golden wisps shimmered in what little light bled through the clouds at all.
“Her hair,” Shay said, though Michael hardly needed to hear the words, for he’d guessed as much. “Elisa’s hair. She’s so small, is she nae? So delicate. She could be snapped like a baby bird.”
“Ye demon –”
“Nay more words.” Shay moved the dirk toward Michael once again. “Heed me warning this time. Ye willnae pay attention tae a threat against yer own life, I ken that much, so I must make another threat altogether. Ye will leave.”
Michael raised his eyebrows.
“Leave.” Shay spoke in emphasis. “Ye will leave this clan and never return. If ye so much take a step back into these borders, Elisa will die, and she willnae be the only one. Yer beloved brothers will meet their ends too.”
“Ye would never get near them. They are too well trained.”
“Ye want tae find out?” Shay asked, a malicious smirk spreading across his lips. “Elisa will be the easiest tae hurt. She will die first, but it will be easy enough tae get tae yer brothers. Tynan enjoys a drink at the tavern, fer instance. And Laird Braydon Gregor has many weaknesses of his own. I ken them all.” He stepped forward, threateningly. “One way or another, I will kill them, unless I have yer agreement.”
Nay, I cannae dae it.
Every fiber of his being screamed against the idea. This clan was Michael’s home. He loved his brothers, and it was the only life he had ever known. But looking up into Shay’s eyes, he saw the danger. Was it not rumored that Shay had already killed a man? And people claimed Shay’s own father was questioning him about a woman’s death.
“Dinnae doubt me,” Shay said, his tone now so dark it made Michael’s heartbeat thunder in his chest. “Ye will live tae regret it. All around ye will die, Michael Gregor, but ye will live. Aye, I’ll make sure of that, so ye can grieve them and mourn them, and let the guilt drive ye mad until ye throw yerself in River Lochy tae meet yer own death. It would be so easy. I could orchestrate it tae blame the McDowells, so they would face the responsibility fer yer brothers’ deaths, nae I.”
Images flashed in Michael’s mind. He saw Elisa’s smile, her bright green eyes, then he saw his brothers together, their matching dark hair and pleasant smiles. How could Michael let himself be the cause of all their deaths? He could not let it happen.
“Dae I have yer agreement?” Shay pushed the dagger toward him.
Wild ideas circled in his mind. Michael could kill Shay now just for making the threat, but what then? He would be hanged for murder, and that would destroy Braydon’s and Tynan’s lives regardless.
I have nay choice.
Reluctantly and very slowly, he offered a single nod.
“Good.” Shay backed up, grasping Larry’s arm and urging him to run away first before he followed. “Be gone by the end of the day, or Elisa willnae see the sun rise tomorrow.”
Michael still could not stand. He shifted to his haunches and stared at the retreating figures of Shay and Larry, deep in thought.
Braydon and Tynan wouldn’t let him go. If he went to them now and told them the truth, they’d insist a man like Shay could not hurt them. Yet Michael couldn’t take that chance. If he was really going to protect them, keep them and Elisa safe, then he’d have to think of another way to leave, a way that would ensure that neither Braydon nor Tynan would come looking for him again.
A plan of where to go and hide was forming fast in his mind. Shay was not the only enemy of his brother’s, for so were the McDowells. Where better to hide than in the enemy clan? Somewhere where he could shed his name and become someone new. He would no longer be Michael, but a new man, with a new Christian name. “Pray, forgive me for what I am about tae do.”
Chapter One
McDowell Castle, Scotland, 1765
Kyven stuck her head through the doorway, peering at someone she knew she should not be watching.
Captain Gilchrist was sitting in his usual chair in the library of McDowell Castle. It was surprising to find a soldier, a military leader at that, so often in this room, reading alone or in her company. It was their tradition for him to read aloud as she sat nearby, painting and drawing, but not today. On this day, she’d had much to do, and now that she was free, as the sun set, she had come to find him.
Seemingly unaware of her presence, she watched him sitting in the vast Flemish baroque chair that he always occupied, his uniform pulled tightly across his tall and broadly muscled frame. His legs were a little apart, the book resting on just one large palm.
Kyven’s mouth turned a little dry. His black hair was cropped short these days, though he had once worn it longer, and she could remember the way the ends used to tease his forehead. The stubble across his chin was growing longer too, and she wondered if that dark hair on his angular jaw was soft or sharp to the touch. The blue eyes, dark like a stormy ocean, were trained on the book, calmly moving from one word to the next.
A candle beside him kept him company and the fire that burned in the hearth gave out a soft glimmer, the only sources of orange light in the room to compete with the black sky. At this time of year, it grew dark so early, most of the day seemed black. So often had Kyven thought of Captain Gilchrist as a source of light in that darkness, despite his quiet, nearly always silent manner.
“Since when did the lady of the clan become a spy?” Captain Gilchrist asked without looking up from his book, his deep voice making something in her stomach quake.
His voice always had this effect on her. It was as if he could reach into her very soul just with his words.
“How did ye ken I was here?” she asked, stepping into the room and moving her hands to her hips.
At last, Captain Gilchrist looked up from what he was doing. He raised one dark eyebrow in her direction, not quite smiling, as he rarely smiled, though there was a lightness in his gaze.
Sometimes I feel it is only I who kens him well enough tae understand what that look means.
“It’s unusual fer ye nae tae be here,” he said quietly, returning his blue eyes to the book. “Though many wonder why we enjoy spending time here reading together.”
“It is me library,” she reminded him teasingly, moving to kneel on the hearth rug and turn her body to the fire. She extended her hands toward the flames, trying to warm her body. “Maybe people should question why ye are in me library so much.”
“Fer the books,” he said simply, turning the page.
“Sometimes people wonder if ye come fer another reason,” she continued to tease him. He raised an eyebrow again, showing what he thought of those words, though he didn’t look away from the book.
She laughed softly, trying her best to release the sudden tension in the air. She often teased him in that way, for it was what everyone said of the two of them.
Even her maid had wondered if the two of them were secret lovers as they spent so much time with one another. Kyven’s particular reply to that question had been sharp, tart, and an attempt to cover a secret hurt.
“Captain Gilchrist would nay more look at me fer a wife than he would his dog. I am simply someone tae keep him company in that library.”
Though, of course, she wished he would look at her in that way. There had been a time when she had thought he was fond of her, but that was a long time ago now. After the first couple of years of dancing around one another, Gilchrist had never made a move or even truly flirted with her. It had only ever been a jest.
“What is it, Kyven?” he whispered.
She startled, wondering if he had noticed just how much she was staring at him. It was a habit of hers, one she indulged in far too much.
He doesnae think of me in that way.
She turned her focus on the fire, watching as the yellow flames licked the wood.
“It’s just today,” she murmured with a sigh. “It’s been a busy day, going tae the mausoleum.”
“Ah.” He closed the book sharply and rubbed the brow of his forehead. “I’m sorry, Kyven. I didnae even think about what today is fer ye.”
“It doesnae matter.”
“Of course it matters.” He sighed and placed the book on the table beside him.
Turning in the chair to face her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He came so close, her breath hitched in her throat. She wet her lips, trying her best not to think about his proximity, or how she felt a heat not just from the fire, but from him.
“How was it?” he asked, his voice soft.
“As it usually is,” she murmured. “Me father’s death… I feel the usual ache, the grief, the anger at the Gregors fer what they did tae him, although it was a long time ago now. But at least the sharpness of the pain isnae as bad as it once was.”
Gilchrist shifted in his seat. For a moment, she thought he was uneasy, but then she presumed it was just because the subject they were discussing was death.
Who could ever be easy when speaking of it?
“Hmm.” He nodded slowly. For a moment, she thought he might say more, perhaps speak of his own father. In all the time she had known him, he had never mentioned his own family. He must have had a father, but was he dead? Or was he still alive? And if so, why did Gilchrist never speak of him? “I am sorry,” he whispered to her. “I ken it is of little comfort, but it will get even easier in time. Trust me.”
Maybe his father is dead.
She was about to ask him. Was it so wrong to want to know something about Captain Gilchrist’s life after knowing him for eight years? She had first met him when she was scarcely more than a child, and he had appeared, acclaimed by the captain of their army at the time. Just a stranger, Gilchrist had come across some of his scouts on the road as they were being attacked by bandits. Stepping in and saving their lives had earned him such praise that he had been quickly enlisted in their own army and had advanced fast through the ranks to become their new captain.
That scrap of his life was all she knew of him, though she longed to know more. Yet she feared he would shut down and refuse to answer her if she asked more, as he had done in the past.
“It’s nae just that,” she said instead. “After what me family did recently, can ye blame me fer feeling a little… lost on a day like today?”
“Nae at all.” He slowly shook his head, turning his face to the fire and also staring at the flames. “Yer sister is gone though. She cannae hurt ye or anyone in this life again.”
“Aye. I ken.” Yet it was sometimes hard for Kyven to accept.
After her father had died, her uncle had come to take care of the clan. After his passing, the lairdship had been given to Kyven’s older sister, Imogen. A less loving sisterly relationship would be hard to find. Imogen had always blamed her for killing their mother in childbirth and so the women never got along.
When Imogen had become lady of the clan, she had lied about taking a husband, Elliot Sutherland. She blackmailed and manipulated him into doing her bidding by imprisoning his father, while keeping a lover by the name of Ossian Macauley. He was a foul man whose greed had been fanatical. In the end, both Ossian’s and Imogen’s greed and manipulative actions had seen them falling to the bottom of a cliff together.
A year had passed since then, but Kyven was still haunted by her elder sister dying in such a way. She was never sure whether to grieve her or not.
“Kyven?” Gilchrist’s deep voice called her back to the present, and she looked at him, turning her head his way. The heat he emanated made her warm again, and it somehow made it easier to forget the darkness of the past. “All will be well. I promise ye that.”
“How can ye ken that?” she asked, her voice shaking a little. “The council insist I marry, so a new laird can be found fer the clan.”
“There are some good things tae marriage,” he said, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips.
“Ye mean like the happiness we have found in this room?” she asked, feeling brave but regretting the words a second later.
“Aye, maybe yer husband will read tae ye, as I dae.”
A sudden coldness washed over her body, and she looked away from him, into the flames.
He will never look at me as a possible wife.
She had to push away all the pictures she’d ever had of her and Captain Gilchrist together. She had often dreamt of the two of them, sitting in this room, reading and drawing into the late hours. What would it be like if a small child ran between them, with her green eyes and Gilchrist’s black hair? She always pretended in front of other people that she couldn’t care less for Gilchrist but deep inside, her truth was different.
“Knock, knock,” a familiar voice called from the doorway.
Kyven looked around, surprised to be disturbed in this room. She considered the library her haven, her place to be alone with Gilchrist.
In the doorway stood Aaden. He had been Elliot’s man-at-arms when he had stood in place of the laird of the clan, and still occupied the position, though he was not their war leader. These days, that role resided with Captain Gilchrist.
Aaden’s dark blond hair was ruffled, as if a lover had just trailed a hand through it. His rather full beard these days was neat in comparison and as he leaned on the doorframe, she noticed one of the laces of his doublet was tied at an odd angle, as if he had just thrown it on. She sighed loudly, realizing he must have seduced one of her maids again.
“Nae disturbing, am I?” he said with a mischievous smile, leaning on the frame. “Only, ye’d think the two of ye might be locked in an embrace, based on the amount of time ye spend alone in this room together.”
“Aaden!” she snapped at him, her face blushing as purple as a beetroot. She refused to turn around and meet Gilchrist’s eye. “Just because ye jump into bed with every woman in me clan, doesnae mean every man is like ye.”
“Nae every woman.” Aaden winked at her. “I havenae found a bed with ye in it yet, have I?”
“Aaden.” Gilchrist’s warning tone only made Aaden laugh all the more, tipping his head back and guffawing.
“Ye ken I would never dae that tae me lady.” He bowed ostentatiously. “Now, before I can tease ye and make poor Lady Kyven’s face even redder, ye are needed Gilchrist. The scouts have returned and seen movements of the other clans’ soldiers. They wish tae talk tae ye.”
“I’m coming.” Gilchrist stood. Kyven looked up at him, wondering if the fear showed on her face.
It was something the council had talked to her about an awful lot, how without a laird in place, someone could seek to take advantage of their weakness as a clan and attack to take the land for themselves.
“It will be nothing tae worry about,” Gilchrist said, pausing beside her, his voice deepening. “Trust me,” he added. “Any soldier would have tae fight me tae get here, and I’ll be as ruthless as the devil in his fiery hell tae stop them.” With these impassioned words, spoken so calmly he might as well have been talking about the weather, Kyven shuddered in a kind of delight.
She waited, watching as Gilchrist left. Aaden didn’t follow him thought, just standing in the doorway, staring at her.
“Ye dinnae need tae blush so much now. He’s gone.”
“Then dinnae make such comments like that in future. Ye are simply poking at something that isnae there.”
“Ah, Kyven.” He sighed loudly and stepped into the room. “I could jest about ye and Captain Gilchrist all day, but unfortunately, business calls and the council want ye.”
“What fer?” she asked, noting that all traces of humor had left Aaden completely.
“Ach, I’m freezin’. Remind me again why we’re doing this,” Ciarán Kincaid grumbled, dodging yet another low-hanging branch as he and his brother Diarmaid, Laird of Kincaid, pushed their way under the dripping trees in the rain-soaked forest. Their ride from castle Kincaid at dawn that morning had brought them miles from home, in abysmal Scottish Highland weather, and they were both drenched and cold.
“Ye shouldnae complain, Brother!” Diarmaid glanced at Ciarán sideways. Then he added grimly, “Maddison hasnae been right since we freed her from Murphy Lennox’s dungeons. We have tae dae somethin’ tae bring our sister back tae her old self.”
“But this, Diarmaid? A magic sword? I still cannae believe ye’re serious about this. ’Tis an old wives’ tale, surely, and a waste o’ time. I mean, there’s nae even a track tae follow.”
His brother stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “Maybe so, but if there’s even just a slim chance tae help our sister, I’ll crawl across the mountains on me hands and knees,” he said fiercely. “And I expect ye tae dae the same.”
“Dinnae try tae suggest I wouldnae,” Ciarán defended himself as they resumed walking. “But as I’ve said from the start, I have grave doubts that this is the best way tae go about helping her. I ken I agreed tae all this, but I have tae admit, it feels foolish.”
“D’ye think I dinnae feel like an idiot as well? Traipsin’ through a bloody wood, miles from home, lookin’ fer some sort o’ witch, and a blade supposed tae have healin’ powers?” his brother replied irritably, forcing his way onward through the thick undergrowth after having tied their horses to some trees in a nearby clearing to rest and drink. With every step, their boots squelched noisily on the soft, wet forest floor.
“She’s nae a witch, so when we find her, if we find her, for the Wee Man’s sake, dinnae call her that! She’s likely tae laugh at us and send us on another wild goose chase, if ye dae.” Ciarán warned. “She’s a respected cailleach, a wise woman.”
“I ken that, ye fool! I dinnae believe much in witches or magical blades either, but I’m willin’ tae dae anything tae help Maddison, however farfetched it sounds. I just cannae stand tae think of her like she is now, a shadow of hersel’ after that bastard Murphy Lennox snatched her in the middle of the night and kept her locked up fer a whole year! A wee girl like that, the cruelty of it!”
“Aye, she disnae sleep nor eat, she’s wastin’ away, and even Lillie cannae comfort her enough tae bring her out o’ it, although it seemed to helpin’ at the start. And tae think yer wife suffered the same fate with Keir MacNeil and understands more than most what Maddison went through,” Ciarán observed, bitterness in his voice. “It seems our troubles are nae over yet.”
“Dinnae forget, Maddison didnae ken our parents and brother had been killed too, the night Lennox’s men took her. She’s only been back home a month, and she’s mournin’ for Faither, Maither and Rónán as well as tryin’ tae get over her ordeal,” Diarmaid pointed out, dashing the water drops that fell from the trees onto his face and shoulders away with an impatient hand. “I wish I could have killed that brute Lennox mesel’, but Odhrán got in there first.”
“Aye, ’tis hard tae imagine anyone killin’ his own faither, I never thought tae see such a thing right in front of me eyes. Odhrán must have hated him as much as we did,” Ciarán said in tones of disbelief.
“But this sickness she has, ’tis nae something that we can cure. Nor any healer, so desperate measures are needed’. Thus, we find ourselves in this bloody wood, searchin’ for a supposedly magical sword that can heal all ills. So kindly quit yer moanin’, will ye?” the laird told him with some force.
“Dae ye really think this cailleach has the powers tae help her?”
“We’ll soon find out,” Diarmaid said, stopping by the trunk of a large tree and peering ahead into the wet gloom, the whole scene radiating a misty, other-worldly look. “Is that a cottage up ahead, or am I seein’ things?”
Ciarán halted behind him, squinting, trying to make out what lay ahead of them. “It looks like a clearin’, and, aye, I think I see the outline of a cottage.” Indeed, the larger trees had begun to thin out slightly, and he realized they were standing at the edge of a small clearing.
“Come on,” Diarmaid urged as they warily stepped out into the open space. Immediately, they felt the heavy rain upon them, now that they had forsaken the mild protection of the overhead canopy. It took only a few strides of their long legs to carry them across the muddy expanse to a small cottage whose thatched roof was so low, parts of it actually brushed the ground, with a sunken door of scarred timber and two small windows of oilcloth.
A wisp of gray smoke twisted up from the chimney at the gable end, dispersing in the gray overhead. An overflowing rain barrel and a chopping block stood outside. The sound of pigs and at least one cow could be heard from a small wooden outbuilding at the rear. It all looked peaceful enough, a familiar domestic scene, but Ciarán glanced left and right out of habit to ensure there was no danger within sight.
His heart thumped in his chest as he and Diarmaid approached the front door of the decrepit dwelling. But before they could knock, the door swung open by itself, and they found themselves facing an ancient, bent crone dressed all in black. If she was not actually a witch, she could certainly pass for one in Ciarán’s view.
“If ye’re so set on being non-believers, dinnae take another step,” the crone told them, her voice a scratchy cackle, “’Tis best if ye go now.” She began to shut the door. Despite his disappointment, Ciarán’s anxiety rose.
“Nae, Madam, please, dinnae dae that,” he blurted out, while Diarmaid strode forward and put his hand on the door, preventing her from closing it.
“We must speak with ye,” his brother said in a commanding tone. “’Tis a matter of great importance.”
The old woman looked at them sharply, with sunken black eyes. “Aye, I ken, but nae important enough fer ye tae believe I have powers that can help yer sister, eh? Ye think I’m just a silly old woman, and I’m nae inclined tae help ye, so be off with ye, the pair of ye.” She pushed the door again.
“Madam, please, we beg ye, hear us out before ye send us away. Ye say we dinnae believe in ye, but we’ve come so far tae see ye, that we must believe in a way, eh? ’Tis just we’ve never met anyone with yer powers before, so we dare nae hope ye can help us,” Ciarán pleaded respectfully, going right up to the door and looking her straight in the eyes. “Please, just hear us out.”
“Aye, I’ll make it worth yer while,” Diarmaid put in, but the woman sneered at him.
“I need naething ye can give me, Laird o’ Kincaid,” she said, the uncanny way she appeared to know who they were setting the hairs on Ciarán’s neck bristling. “So dinnae think tae sweeten me with yer bribes. Yer braither here has the right idea, showin’ a little respect for his elder and better.” She nodded at Ciarán and gave him a toothless smile. Somehow, for the smile was strangely chilling, he managed to return the gesture. “All right, ye can come in.” Finally, she stepped away from the door and admitted them into her hovel.
The two huge warriors stepped into the single room, and Ciarán felt like a giant in a doll’s house. He and Diarmaid had to duck beneath the low, smoke-blackened rafters, to avoid banging their heads or colliding with the assortment of bales of greenery, various vegetables, and the drying carcasses of small animals and birds, as well as pots and pans of all shapes and sizes hanging there. The smell was thick and rank, and it tickled the inside of his nose. He tried not to breathe.
“We’ve come—” Diarmaid began, but the crone cut him off as she crossed to the hearth, where a peat fire was blazing, making the room overly hot.
“Wheesht yer noise,” she told him with a stern look, placing a kettle over the flames on a hook. “We’ll have a dish ’o tea before we talk.” Despite his trepidation, Ciarán had to smile to see the look on Diarmaid’s face at being thus admonished. The Laird of Kincaid was not used to being spoken to in such a forthright manner.
“Sit ye down, the both of ye. Ye’re makin’ the place look untidy,” she told them with an amused cackle at her own wit, gesturing with her head at an old, battered settle. Ciarán and Diarmaid turned to do as she bade them, only to notice for the first time that the settle in question was in fact occupied by an enormous black hound. The beast was stretched out along the whole seat and appeared to be fast asleep.
“Ach, the auld thing,” the woman muttered, startling both men when she suddenly cried sharply, “Grim! Get up and move yer carcase!” The dog jumped and snorted, coming awake. It raised it huge head and looked balefully at the visitors, who took a step back. “’Tis all right, he’ll nae hurt ye. Nae unless I say so,” she added with another unnerving cackle.
“Here, Grim, here’s a nice wee bone fer ye.” At the sound of the word “bone,” the dog’s lithe, black form slithered from the settle. It placed its paws, the size of dinner plates, Ciarán estimated, foursquare on the dirt floor and shook itself vigorously, ending with a loud sneeze. Then it ambled over to its mistress and, with the politeness of a well-bred lady, took the proffered bone before settling down contentedly before the hearth to chew on it. “Ach, ye wouldnae think it tae look at him, but he’s as gentle as a lamb.”
“He is indeed a fine-looking hound,” Ciarán said, eyeing Grim’s massive form doubtfully. “He’s as big as a full-grown deer.”
“Aye, bred tae hunt wolves,” the woman said, bringing three beakers of tea with her when she finally came to join them, handing the brothers one each before seating herself comfortably opposite them in an old chair. “And ye get a few of them around here, I can tell ye, two-legged ones mostly.” She cackled again, and Ciarán’s unease grew.
She flashed him her toothless smile again and added, “They think they can take advantage of an auld woman living alone out here in the forest. But Grim soon teaches ’em how wrong they are.” She laughed like a creaking barn door, sending an involuntary shiver up Ciarán’s spine.
Wheesht, man, what’s wrong with ye? Ye’re nae a bairn, tae be so afraid o’ this auld one! He glanced over at his brother, who, like himself, stood not an inch less than six feet three in his stockinged feet and was a veteran of many fierce battles. He took strength from seeing that he appeared similarly cowed by this diminutive woman of the woods and her giant dog.
“We—” Diarmaid began again.
“Aye, I ken. Ye’ve come tae find the Blade of Osheen,” the crone said matter-of-factly. “Ye wish tae cure yer sister of her melancholy.”
Ciarán and Diarmaid stared at her, then at each other, their jaws falling slightly open. Again, the hairs on the back of Ciarán’s neck prickled.
“How d’ye ken us and what we’ve come fer?” he asked somewhat nervously, half afraid to drink the tea she had given them. There could be anything in it.
“How else am I tae prove tae two unbelievers that I have powers, eh?” she asked drily. “Grim heard ye comin’, and he told me, and I looked intae the fire and saw ye. And I kent who ye are, and why ye’ve come tae see me,” she told them, as if what she was saying was as ordinary as remarking what dire weather it was. A deep feeling of unease settled in Ciarán’s bones even as his wet clothing began steaming in the over-heated room.
“Then, can ye help us? D’ye have this Sword of Osheen?” Diarmaid asked hesitantly. Ciarán could hear the note of hope in his brother’s voice.
“Aye, I can help ye. I’m bound tae help ye,” she added mysteriously, glancing at Ciarán in a way that unnerved him further. “But I dinnae have the blade mesel’.”
“Then can ye tell us how tae get it?” he asked, his unease mixed with wavering hope.
She nodded. “Aye, I can, but first I must warn ye about this sorcerous blade ye seek. What d’ye ken of it?”
“All we ken is that ’tis said it can cure sickness,” Diarmaid said.
“Aye, that’s right, it can. And aye, it can cure yer sister. But I warn ye, the magic it holds is dark. It should be used only once.”
“How do we use it? Tae cure Maddison, I mean?” Ciarán asked, leaning forward, turning the beaker of tea between his fingers.
“Ye have tae make a wee cut in the skin just above her heart, and the darkness there will be healed. But I’ll tell ye again, ’tis a very powerful blade, and a lot of people forget themselves once they have it. There’s many folks who’ve possessed it and tried tae misuse it fer their own gain. All of them are dead.”
A shiver passed through Ciarán at her grave warning. “We have nae intention of misusing it. We only want it tae heal Maddison.”
The crone nodded at him. “Aye, I ken, but I must warn ye of the terrible dangers at play with powerful forces such as this.”
“We take note of yer warning, Madam. Can ye tell us how we can find the sword?” Diarmaid asked with some urgency, clearly wanting to be gone from such eerie company.
“Aye, but ye must both swear tae follow me instructions, or it could be death fer ye.”
The brothers looked at each other for a moment before saying in unison, “We swear on our souls.”
“All right then,” she said, nodding. “Ye’ll have tae search fer it, mind ye.”
“We intend tae,” Diarmaid told her firmly.
“Aye, we’ll find it all right,” Ciarán seconded.
But the crone shook her head. “Nay, nae him,” she said, pointing at Diarmaid before gazing piercingly at Ciarán. “’Tis ye who must go, and ye must go alone.”
Ciarán stared at her, mystified. “What? But why?”
“’Tis yer destiny,” she told him, once again making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. He looked at Diarmaid, who shrugged.
“Very well, if ye say I must dae it alone, then I will,” Ciarán told her emphatically. “I dinnae care, as long as I find the blade and Maddison can be cured. But d’ye have any idea where I should start me search?”
“Ye’re a good lad,” the old woman said, smiling at him. “Aye, I dae. Now, the last I heard, t’was rumored the sword is in a wee village called Brockside, nae so far away from here. That’s where ye should start.”
“Thank ye kindly, Madam,” Ciarán said, grateful for the information but equally grateful to be leaving. Not wishing to offend, he drank his tea in one go, which turned out to be delicious and strangely invigorating. He watched as Diarmaid did the same, clearly also not wishing to offend their hostess. They both placed their beakers carefully on the low table before them.
“Aye, thank ye. We’re very grateful fer yer help. Will ye nae let us recompense ye fer yer time and trouble?” Diarmaid asked as they both stood up carefully to avoid banging their heads. But the old woman shook her head, a flash of annoyance in her hooded eyes.
“I telled ye, I want naething’ ye’ve got,” she said to him sharply. Then she looked at Ciarán. “But I want ye tae promise me, lad, that when ye’ve found the blade and cured yer sister, ye’ll bring it tae me. I intend tae destroy it once and for all. Far too many souls have lost themselves because of its evil influence.”
“Agreed,” Ciarán said without hesitation. He would just as soon not hang on to such a malign object. “I’ll happily bring it back tae ye.”
“Aye, we swear tae return it tae ye as soon as Maddison’s better,” Diarmaid promised.
The brothers moved towards the door, and the crone got up to see them out. The huge dog was still chewing contentedly on its bone by the fire as they left and did not even lift its head as they existed the cottage back into the gloomy wet afternoon.
“Me name’s Selma,” the crone called after them as they made their way across the puddle-filled, muddy clearing, seeking the partial shelter of the forest. “Dinnae forget, Ciarán, tae return the blade tae me when ye’re done with it.” With that she shut the door.
“How the hell does she ken me name?” Ciarán asked Diarmaid with a shudder that was nothing to do with the dank weather.
“Dinnae ask me,” his brother replied tersely, his face pale in the gloom. Ciarán could see that he too had been spooked by Selma’s uncanny powers.
“I suppose we have tae believe in the powers the sword is supposed to have now,” he said, as they began their journey back through the stretch of forest to the place where they had left their horses.
“Mmm,” was all Diarmaid would say on the matter, and Ciarán did not blame him for his reticence. Their meeting with the cailleach was simply too strange to dwell upon. So, he turned his mind to the village of Brockside and how to find its location, so that he could get there as quickly as possible.
Chapter Two
These days Tegan MacFarlane avoided approaching her childhood home from the front. Instead, she chose to turn off the main way and guide her horse down the twisting track that led by degrees down the thickly wooded hill, to eventually emerge at the rear of the MacFarlane’ Keep.
After ten minutes of slow riding below the canopy of fragrant pines, she reached the small plateau that hung about sixty or so feet above the back of the extensive, granite-built house and surrounding buildings and grounds, giving her a full view of the roofs, courtyards, garden, and stables below.
It all looked so painfully familiar, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the young woman standing on the stone steps by a set of green-painted rear doors, beneath a wooden porch. In her mid-twenties, she was tall and slender, with long, straight brown hair that was caught at her fair brow by a simple golden circlet and provided a bright contrast with the bright mustard color of her dress. In her arms she was cradling an infant wrapped in a woolen shawl.
Tegan smiled and put two fingers to her lips, letting out a shrill whistle that made her horse whicker. The woman below looked up, her face splitting into a huge smile when she caught sight of Tegan.
“Sister! There ye are. We’ve been waitin’ fer ye,” she called, rocking the child gently from side to side. “Come and meet yer new niece!”
“I’m comin’,” Tegan called, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and excitement. “I cannae wait tae see her.” She clicked her tongue, and the horse proceeded to carry her down the remaining stretch of track until its hooves left the soft earth and clip clopped onto the cobblestones of the courtyard.
Tegan quickly dismounted, throwing the reins over the saddle and letting the horse wander off to nibble at the juicy grass growing between the cobblestones. Her sister had come down the steps to meet her, and Tegan hurried towards her and the new arrival.
“Och, Ailis, she’s beautiful,” she said cooing over the tiny, pink-cheeked baby, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to protect her at all costs. “She’s so tiny!”
“Aye, that’s often the case with babies, so I’m told,” Ailis joked before adding, “but this one’s very tiny because she came a wee bit early, she was in such a hurry to be in the world. See how strong she is!” Ailis smiled to see her daughter clutch Tegan’s outstretched finger in her miniature fist and promptly try to stick it into the tiny rosebud of her lips.
“Och, she’s perfect,” Tegan was saying when she suddenly noticed what her niece was about to do and rapidly tugged her finger away. “Nay, little one! That wouldnae taste good,” Tegan said, unable to wipe the grin off her face. But Sorcha refused to release her finger, merely gazing up at her aunt with swimming blue eyes the color of a summer sky. The child appeared full of wonder. “Look, she’s smilin’ at me,” Tegan said, delighted by the baby’s toothless smile. She silently vowed to do her best to make Sorcha’s life a happy one.
“I hate tae spoil things fer ye, Tegan, but that’s likely just wind,” Ailis said then, laughing and jerking her from her thoughts.
Tegan put on a mock frown. “Nay,” she retorted, not taking her eyes from her niece as the pair played a gentle game of tug-o-war with her finger, “she kens her Auntie Tegan right enough, dinnae ye, me bonny wee Sorcha?” As if in reply, the baby gave a gurgling chuckle, and her little pink face seemed to light up. “Ye see? Ach, ye have me wrapped around yer finger already, child,” Tegan added, once more almost overwhelmed by the love she felt for Sorcha.
“Let’s go inside,” Ailis said, leading the way up the steps and into the back regions of the house where they had grown up. They came into a warm, spacious parlor. Ailis sat on the large, old settle near the hearth, arranging her skirts and balancing the tightly wrapped package that was baby Sorcha on her lap.
“Brrr, ’tis nae so warm in here,” Tegan observed, pulling off her hide gloves and tossing them down onto a chair before going straight to the fireplace. “Ye need another couple of logs on the fire, Ailis, ye havetae keep yerself and the baby warm, ye ken?” She picked up a few of the small logs stacked by the hearth and added them to the fire before poking the low-burning embers into life. Then, she sat down in the chair opposite her sister and looked at her keenly.
“I’m all right,” Ailis assured her, “just tired after the birth, is all. But Meg’s been feedin’ me up, making me drink that awful beef tea and swallow raw eggs, tae build me up, she says,” she added, referring to their old, faithful cook and housekeeper.
“Well, just ye make sure ye do as she says. She kens what she’s talkin’ about, having raised five bairns herself. Ye cannae take any chances… nae after…” Her voice trailed off as Ailis suddenly grew paler still.
“I ken, Tegan.” She held Sorcha close to her breast. “After losin’ the first babe, this one’s even more precious tae me. I’ve nae intention of losin’ her too.”
“Aye, she’s precious all right. But so are ye tae me, Ailis. Losin’ a babe takes it out of ye, may the wee one’s soul rest in peace, but havin’ a babe does too, so promise tae mind Meg’s words.” Tegan had been desperately worried to see how last year’s miscarriage and the pregnancy with Sorcha had taken their toll on her beautiful, poised sister.
Ailis smiled at her weakly. “I promise.” She sighed, staring dotingly down at her daughter, who gurgled as she gripped her mother’s little finger and sucked on it with gusto. “Aye, it was a rough pregnancy, all right,” Ailis went on. “For certain, I was sick more often than I was well. There were some days when I felt so weak I thought I’d lose her too. But it was all worth it to have Sorcha here safely, and I have every intention of getting me strength back so I can give her all the love and care she needs. And now ye’re here, I’m truly happy.” She beamed at Tegan.
“Och, ye ken I love tae see ye happy, Ailis,” Tegan replied, her gaze fixing on little Sorcha’s face before she added, “and now there’s this little one tae think about as well. Here,” she said, approaching her sister with her arms outstretched. “Let me hold her.”
Chuckling, Ailis handed the bundle over into Tegan’s hands. Hiding her nervousness at handling her niece for the first time, Tegan sat down once more, laying the baby down in her lap so they were face to face. They beamed at each other, but she noticed Ailis was staring at her with concern in her eyes.
“What is it?” she asked, marveling again at the strength of Sorcha’s grip.
“Yer face. Ye have a nasty gash on yer cheek. How did ye get that, Tegan? Fighting, I suppose,” Ailis said, sounding worried. “Have ye had it seen tae?”
“Dinnae fuss, Ailis. ’Tis naught but a scratch. Of course, it was from a fight,” she said.
“But why d’ye always have tae be fightin’? Ye ken ye’ll have a scar there too now, eh?” She inclined her head at Tegan, still eyeing the wound beneath her eye.
“Are ye pullin’ me leg, Ailis? I’m a warrior. I’m a trained soldier fer the clan. That’s me job. I’m gonnae get the odd scar.” She brushed her hand ruefully across the gash on her cheek. “Sheep rustlers. One tried tae have a go at me with his dirk, so I had tae break his arm before he was carted off tae face the Laird’s justice.”
“Well, it looks sore. Ye should let me tend tae it,” Ailis told her, moving to rise.
“Nay, stay where ye are!” Tegan cried, putting up a hand. “Dinnae dare move. I’ve told ye, ’tis naething,” she added dismissively, wanting Ailis to relax.
Ailis sank back into the settle. “Well, I dinnae like tae nag ye, Tegan, and I ken ye’re a trained warrior—”
“One o’ the best in the Sutherland—” Tegan filled in with obvious pride, crossing her leather clad legs.
Ailis nodded. “Granted, one o’ the best in the whole of Sutherland, to be sure. I can put up with ye dressing like a man, and I ken ’tis too late fer the rest of yer poor benighted body, but can ye at least try tae nae get anymore scars on yer face? How am I supposed tae find ye a man tae marry if ye carry on this way?”
Tegan burst out laughing, knowing full well her sister was teasing her. “Very funny, as usual. Except that would mean ye’d have tae keep lookin’ fer that man fer yer whole life, because nay such man exists!”
“Well, if ye keep getting’ yer face all bashed up and wearing men’s clothes, he certainly willnae.”
Tegan snorted with laughter. “I cannae argue with ye there, Sister. But ye ken well why I have tae dress like a man—because nae one, neither man, woman, child, nor beast, will take a warrior wearing women’s clothes seriously. Wheesht! Can ye see me ridin’ across the moors, chasing some brigand, in me best ball gown?”
They both dissolved into giggles then, but they unfortunately soon died away when Logan Ross suddenly enter the parlor.
“Husband,” Ailis said, plastering what Tegan could tell was a false smile on her lips. “What a nice surprise.”
Logan scoffed. “Nae from me point of view,” he said, scowling at Tegan. “Why is she here?” he demanded.
Tegan hated to see Ailis trembling as she replied, “Tegan is me sister, all the family I have left—” she began.
“All the family ye have left?!” Logan hissed. “I’m yer bloody family, woman! I’m yer husband. Ye’ve nae need fer a sister, especially nae one lookin’ like a man.” He paused to sneer at Tegan.
“Dinnae speak tae her like that, Ross,” Tegan said warningly, getting up and putting herself between him and Ailis.
“How dare ye tell me what tae dae in me own house,” Logan hissed. “And ye havenae answered me question. What are ye doing here?”
“I’ve come tae see the babe, of course,” Tegan said, just as Sorcha began fretting.
“Shush, now, hinny, nae need tae cry,” her mother soothed her, to no avail.
“Will ye shut the brat up, woman? All it does is cry. How is a man supposed tae live this way? Now, if ye’d given me a son… well, a son should have a fine pair o’ lungs. But another lassie? What good is a lassie tae me? A man like me needs a fine, strong son.”
Sorcha seemed to understand and yelled even harder, as if the very sound of his voice upset her. Tegan could understand why. Her hand itched to fly to her dirk and slit the man’s gullet. But she knew she could not.
“I said shut her up, will ye?!” Logan yelled at Ailis, who looked at him helplessly, her eyes shining with tears.
“Ach, I’m goin’ tae me study, fer some peace and quiet,” he spat and slammed out of the room.
“Shut the door, why dinnae ye?” Tegan could not resist shouting after him.
“Ach, dinnae dae that, Tegan, please!” Ailis begged her, wringing her hands and staring at the door anxiously, as if Logan would come barging back through it at any moment. Ye just make it harder fer me.”
“I’m sorry, Ailis, I dinnae mean tae. He’s just such a—” However, her sister did not seem to hear her and continued speaking almost distractedly.
“But I have tae admit that lately he’s been worse than ever. He always seems tae be in a bad temper.”
“Oh, what a surprise!” Tegan said drily.
“Aye, ’tis because he’s searching fer a sword or something like that, some enchanted blade of sorts. He claims tae need it desperately—he wouldnae say why—but he’s had nae luck findin’ it thus far. And every day, he gets angrier about it.”
“He’s an idiot,” Tegan said with small laugh as an idea took root in her mind. “What grown man believes in such things?”
“Me husband, for certain. ’Tis all he talks of.” Ailis sighed.
“Och, well, ’tis an auld wives’ tale, nae doubt. Now, I’ll order us up some tea and shortbread, shall I? Ye put yer feet up fer a wee while, and I’ll go and get Meg tae dae the honors.”
“Och, would ye? I’d love that,” Ailis said gratefully, stretching her feet out towards the fire.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Tegan told her, going out to the kitchen, placing her order with Meg and then taking the kitchen backstairs, making for Logan’s study. She had an idea. She could use this obsession of Logan’s with this mysterious blade to her and Ailis’s advantage.
Odhrán arrived early for the meeting with his father in the old man’s study. While he waited, he took in the familiar room, the walls redolent with woodsmoke, whisky, and power.
One day, this’ll be mine.
Leaving the door open, he took the opportunity of his father’s absence to cross the floor to the enormous carved desk that stood near the far wall, to the right of the mighty hearth. A fire had been lit and was throwing out a feeble heat that barely warmed the chilly air.
Odhrán saw parchments spread across the surface of the desk. Out of curiosity, he rifled through them to see if they held anything of note. To his disappointment, they dealt only with the domestic affairs of Clan Lennox, merely confirming what he already knew: the clan’s fortunes continued to grow.
He listened for a moment, but there were only the faint calls of life from the hallways and passages of his home. No sign of his father yet. Odhrán slipped around the desk and carefully lowered himself into his father’s chair.
It was more of a throne really, an oaken, box-like structure, with a high back carved with the arms of the Lennoxes, a hawk in flight with a lamb clutched in its talons. He ran his hands over the polished wood of the arms, thinking the seat befitting of a powerful laird.
“Get out of there, boy,” came a gruff voice from the doorway. “Ye’re nae the laird yet.” Startled, his heart skipping a beat, Odhrán sprang up out of the chair and stepped aside as the tall, burly figure of his father approached.
“I was just waitin’ on ye, Faither,” he said, watching while his father removed his plaid from his shoulder and threw it on a nearby settle before taking his rightful seat.
“Aye. I can see that,” the laird rumbled without warmth, laying his large, battle-scarred hands on the desk and looking at his son out of his sharp, cold, gray eyes.
“Mayhap ye’ll sit here one day, but I warn ye again, if ye dinnae find yersel’ a good wife soon, ye’ll nae sit here at all.”
Odhrán bristled inwardly, sick and tired of hearing the same threat repeated over and over those last few years. He threw himself into a nearby chair and stretched out his legs.
“’Tis hard tae find a laird willing tae let his daughter marry a Lennox when the reputation of the clan stands so low,” he said, not daring to add the fact that everyone knew that was all due to the old man’s aggressive, acquisitive, often brutal dealings with the other, more reputable and powerful highland clans. “Ye ken well we have more foes than friends.”
“Ach, I care naught fer any of that. I’ve made us rich, and the others fear our army. We’re powerful, and the rest dinnae like it.”
“Aye, ’tis true enough, but it disnae make things easy fer me,” Odhrán pointed out.
“Enough with yer excuses, boy,” his father said scathingly, his grizzled face creased into the mask of disapproval Odhrán knew so well. “Yer blether disnae change the situation. ’Tis ye who must secure our future. Ye must find a wife and give her sons, without delay.”
“What about the MacCraven or the McGivens’ lassies? Their faithers seem keen fer one o’ them tae wed me,” Odhrán suggested.
His father shook his head, his impatience, never far from the surface, clearly beginning to rise.
“Nay, nay, boy, have I nae told ye many a time? I dinnae want ye tae marry any old laird’s daughter, ye must wed a lass of good blood, from one o’ the high clans, tae give ye bairns o’ pure blood. We Lennoxes have
the gold and the power. And if ye marry the right lass from the right clan, she’ll bring her good reputation with her. That’s our future, and it depends on ye, boy!”
“All right, all right, ye dinnae have tae tell me again, Faither.” Odhrán nodded, hiding his irritation at hearing the familiar refrain.
“If ye cannae dae it soon, then I’ll be forced tae make a proposal to yer cousin, tae make him the next heir. Rollo already has a wife and bairns, and that’s what the clan want in a laird, nae a man who cannae even get a decent lass tae wed him,” his father told him in his typical brutal fashion.
Even as he seethed with concealed hatred for his father, Odhrán’s blood froze at the terrible possibility of losing his birthright to his cousin Rollo Lennox, something the Laird now threatened him with almost daily.
In yer dreams, auld man. That’ll never come to pass. Fer if I have tae, I’ll kill ye and Rollo both tae ensure me birthright. ’Tis me who’ll be the next Laird ’o Lennox!
Comforted by his secret resolution, he decided it was a good moment to put his plan before his father, hoping it would finally stop the old man’s endless threats and nagging, and ensure his own future as laird.
“Nay, Faither, ye dinnae need tae dae that. I’ve nae been idle on that score, I promise ye,” he said in a conciliatory tone, encouraged by the spark of interest in the laird’s eyes as he looked at him. “I’ve been doin’ some research, and I’ve come up with a good plan, one that’ll make us some money, and get me a high-born lass fer a wife.”
“Is that so, lad? Let’s hear it then,” the Laird replied with interest, steepling his hands beneath his chin as he leaned on the desk and regarded his son.
“Aye. I’ve been lookin’ into which o’ the clans of high repute are crumbling for lack of gold but have an unmarried daughter who’s the heir tae their faither’s lairdship.”
“And?”
“Well, it seems there are five o’ them,” Odhrán explained, watching the old man’s face carefully. “So… I came up with the idea of holding an auction.”
“Wheesht, boy, what dae ye mean, an auction?” the laird demanded to know, an edge to his voice.
“’Tis like this,” Odhrán said. “We invite these impoverished lairds tae take part in an auction where they can offer their daughters for sale tae the highest bidders as potential brides. They’re in such poor straits financially, they’ll have nae choice but to partake. They’ll be happy enough tae make some money out of it and have their lassies wed tae a laird, but we’ll take our cut o’ the money paid for the lassies tae.”
Rather than crushing the notion out of hand as Odhrán had half expected he would, his father considered his words in silence. Feeling optimistic, Odhrán continued.
“I aim tae get as many high clans as possible involved in the auction, each bidding fer one o’ the lassies. It’ll maybe give us the chance tae improve relations with some o’ those clans who are nae already opposed tae us.” He sat back in his seat and looked at his father, secretly praying he would agree. Hope sprang up in his breast when the old Laird nodded.
“Aye, ’tis nae a bad idea, laddie, nae bad at all. As ye say, it could work in our favor with the other clans. It’ll make people realize how powerful Clan Lennox really is, and get ye a blue-blooded bride tae boot,” he said, his sour face brightening. Odhrán could tell he was envisioning the outcome he so fervently wished for. “Go ahead, lad, and get it set up as soon as ye can,” his father instructed, already looking at the parchments on his desk.
Odhrán stood up, sensing dismissal. He was both pleased and relieved at his father’s acceptance of the plan. It had taken him a lot of thought and a lot of work to come up with the idea and do the necessary research. He made for the door, eager to leave, for he had other pressing business elsewhere to attend to.
“Wait, boy,” came the terse command. With another skip of his heart, Odhrán halted and turned.
“Aye, Faither, what is it?”
The laird did not even look at him as he asked, “That Kincaid lass we have stowed in the dungeons, what are ye going tae dae about her? ’Tis maybe time we got rid o’ her, eh?”
Odhrán froze, his mind scrambling for the right words. His fists clenched at his sides, fighting to remain calm as he turned back to his father.
“I ken ye want tae further yer vengeance against the Kincaids by killin’ her, Faither,” he said reasonably. “But as I’ve already told ye, she’s worth more alive than dead at present. She could come in handy as a bargaining chip.”
“Aye, I suppose ye’re right,” the laird grunted, clearly disappointed. “All right, off ye go then, and go about yer business,” the laird ordered him with a wave of his hand, not looking up at Odhrán as he left the study, closing the door firmly behind him.
His heart beating fast, he leaned his back against it for a few moments, relief and rage flowing through him by turns.
T’was a narrow escape, and but a temporary reprieve. I dinnae ken how much longer I can put him off. I’m going tae have tae act sooner than planned if I’m tae be laird and have the freedom tae dae as I wish. ’Tis the only way.
When he felt sufficiently composed, he pushed himself from the door, pulled himself up to his full height, and strode off down the hallway, towards the exit of the great stone keep. Once outside in the cobbled courtyard, he skirted the wall of the keep until he came to a heavy wooden door, covered with fearsome looking ironmongery.
Opening it, he sped down the interior stone staircase, descending into a murky gloom pierced only by a few flaming torches. The stench of collected human misery made him cough as he stepped into an area off which several thick doors led, each with heavy locks on the outside and a barred grille high up. Gripped by anxiety, he went to one at the end of a row of four.
“Maddison, ’tis me,” he whispered through the grille, holding his breath in fear. “Are ye all right?” He tensed when he heard a light rustling from within. When a small, pale face dominated by a pair of large, sad, dark eyes appeared in the dim light beyond the grille, he breathed out. Small, grimy hands clutched the inside of the bars.
“Odhrán, ye’ve come,” came a low, croaking voice that suggested it was rusty from lack of use. “Aye, I’m all right.”
“Och, Maddison, ye dinnae ken how sorry I am that I dare nae let ye out, but they’d kill us both if I did,” he told her apologetically, his heart aching for her, silently cursing himself for being a coward.
“I ken it well,” she replied sadly, staring at him through the bars until he thought his heart would burst with shame and anger. And love.
She hesitated before asking, “Is there nae any news about me braithers?”
He shook his head despondently. “Naething,” he told her, hating himself for lying to her. He knew very well her brothers had been scouring the highlands for her since her disappearance a twelvemonth ago.
“Oh. But I ken they’ll nae give up lookin’ fer me,” she responded with a deep sigh of disappointment that cut him like a blade. “That they’ll come and free me.”
“I’m sorry, lass. I wish I could dae more fer ye, but ye ken Laird Lennox’s army outnumbers that of any clan in these parts. ’T’would be certain death fer anyone tae try tae mount an attack on the castle tae free ye,” he told her with genuine regret.
“I ken the laird wants me dead, just as he murdered me faither, maither, and braither, and I’m grateful fer all ye dae fer me, Odhrán. But I dinnae ken how much longer I can stand this place. Sometimes, I think ’tis worse than bein’ dead. And what would I go home tae, with naething left o’ me family?”
“Ach, dinnae say so, lassie.”
Her despondency pained him in ways he was unused to, for he had never felt himself capable of ever loving anyone before setting eyes on Maddison Kincaid as his father’s prisoner. The old man had drummed into him that love equaled weakness and was something to be beaten out of a boy with a rod. A Lennox had no use for love.
Yet slowly, over the months of her captivity, Odhrán had felt himself falling in love with his beautiful, gentle, brave captive, though it had taken him some time to realize that was what was happening. And there was no stopping it.
But he dared not tell her so, nor even whose son he was, for what lass could love a man like him? If she ever found out he was Odhrán Lennox, son and heir to Laird Murphy Lennox, she would instantly despise him. She would see him as being just like his father, her captor, a brutal monster who wanted to slit her throat, just as he had those of her parents and brother, a man who would go to any lengths to get what he wanted.
Wishing he could show her he was different from his father and desperate to give her some hope, he reached up through the bars and caressed her cheek gently with his fingertips.
“Dinnae dae that,” she said, flinching away. Pain stung him, and a wave of hatred for his father and sorrow for what he was about to do washed over him. The auction would get him the wife his father wanted for him, but he had fallen head over heels for Maddison and wanted her for his wife. The only way that could happen was if he was the laird.
“Did ye bring anything fer me?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts. He suddenly remembered he had.
“Aye, here ye are,” he replied, groping in his coat and pulling out a package wrapped in cloth. Glad to do what little he could to make her more comfortable, he passed it to her through the bars. “’Tis just some bread, a peck o’ cheese, and a couple o’ slices o’ roast beef, to keep ye going, and a wee flask o’ water and whisky,” he told her as she eagerly took the small bundle from him. “D’ye have plenty o’ clean water to drink?” One of his worst secret fears was that Maddison would die from some fever from drinking contaminated water.
“Aye, as clean as it can be in this place. Thank ye fer the food. ’Tis very welcome,” she told him.
“I’ll talk to the jailor, make sure ye get clean water, and I’ll tell him tae clean yer cell out and bring ye candles,” he promised, confident at least that a threat or two would persuade the jailor to do his bidding without his father finding out. If he did, Odhrán inwardly vowed to kill the jailor and tell his father once again that it stood to reason to keep the girl alive as a possible pawn to use against her clan.
“I havetae go now,” he told her, hating to leave her there. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can tae see ye again and bring some more food, and some clean clothing too.”
“Thank ye, Odhrán. Could ye maybe bring me something to read as well? The hours are long here,” she asked, giving him a faint smile that stabbed at him as she backed away into the gloom, clutching the package of food.
“Aye, of course. I’ll see what I can find,” he promised. Then, he forced himself to retrace his steps out of the prison to the outside world, breathing deeply to rid his nostrils of the stench.
That auld bastard must die.
Chapter One
Lillie peeked about her nervously as she walked, pulling the hood of her cloak further over her head, the better to disguise her identity from those she passed on her way through the village.
She was garbed in the simple outfit of a lowly maid, having changed out of her gown in her room before slipping hurriedly down the castle’s backstairs and out of the gates. She hated the subterfuge, but since being rescued by her brothers a year ago after six long months spent in the dungeons of the cruel Laird Keir MacNeil at his castle stronghold, helped by his daughter Ciara, Aiden and Darragh would not let her out of their sight unless she had at least a dozen armed guards with her at all times.
It was stifling, another form of incarceration to her. There were times when she just needed a break from the continual surveillance, or she felt she would go mad. Today was one of those times.
The only brief respite to be had was to assume her disguise and go down to the nearby village to meet her best friend, Hannah Tavish. Hannah was the daughter and apprentice of Maria, the healer at Castle MacDonald, a beautiful, lively girl the same age as Lillie, twenty-one.
Lillie was on her way to the healer’s cottage now, for the two girls had an excursion planned. Usually, they stuck to the local market, often buying the herbs and spices Maria needed for the infirmary as well as shopping for themselves. Today, however, they intended to travel further afield, to the village of Kirkauld, about three hours walk away.
Kirkauld was an unsavory, dangerous place for two young women of good repute to wander about, full of whore houses and the like, where courtesans plied their wares. Naturally, it drew the kind of low men who sought their services, meaning it was also full of rough taverns where drunkenness and violence was an inevitable part of village life.
Thus, Hannah had arranged with Laird MacDonald and the Captain of the Guard to have an armed escort, though, of course, the Laird had no idea his own sister would be accompanying Hannah on the journey. He would never have allowed her to go. They were to buy the herbs Maria needed for her concoctions that could not be found anywhere else nearby and bring them back.
When Lillie arrived at the cottage, she tapped lightly on the door. It was opened almost immediately by Hannah, a shapely girl with long, dark hair and bright blue eyes.
“Ach, there ye are, Lillie,” she said, smiling as she pulled Lillie inside and shut the door. The girls greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek.
“Are ye ready to go?” Lillie asked, eager to set out and have a change of scene.
But Hannah shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, Lillie, but there’s been a change of plan. We cannae go today.”
Lillie felt the disappointment keenly. “Why is that? Has something happened?”
“Aye, I’m afraid so. There’s been an outbreak of a sickness in the village. Me maither’s been working all night to treat the patients, but there’s just too many of them tae handle by hersel’. She needs me tae stay here and help her. But I’ve arranged fer us tae go in three days’ time instead, on Wednesday,” Hannah explained.
“Oh, what a shame…” Lillie told her, dismayed at missing out on the trip, though she understood her friend’s situation.
“We are also nae happy about. We’re nae sure we’re going tae have enough of the right herbs tae treat everybody, so we just have tae hope we’ll nae run out before Wednesday,” Hannah told her, her expression anxious as she went on. “But I cannae just send the guards to get the herbs, fer they willnae ken what tae buy.”
“All right, dinnae worry, it cannae be helped,” Lillie soothed her, squeezing her friend’s hand briefly.
“I hate tae let ye down and leave ye hangin’, but I have tae go now tae help me maither up at the castle.” Hannah said, as she picked up a large wicker basket full of greenery and slung it over the crook of her arm. “Will ye be all right? We can walk back the castle together, eh?”
Lilie thought for a moment. She was free of her guards for the afternoon and did not fancy returning to the castle just yet.
“Nay, that’s all right, Hannah, ye go ahead without me. I’ll have a wee wander about the village, make the most of me freedom.”
“Very well but dinnae get intae any trouble, will ye? Maybe I’ll see ye later, eh?” Hannah replied as the pair exchanged pecks on the cheek and she hurried off towards the castle. Lillie looked after her, feeling at a loose end. Then, as she cast about the village, an idea came to her.
Things seemed calm, with folks just going about their business. In fact, things had been calm for a long time since her return from being kidnapped and imprisoned by the evil and, thankfully, now-dead Laird of MacNeil. She knew the way, so why should she not go to Kirkauld by herself and get Maria and Hannah the herbs they needed? She had money, and she knew exactly what to buy.
She considered it, reasoning that the worst that could happen would be getting in trouble with her brothers if they found out. But she could make sure they would not by saying she had been in the village with Hannah all afternoon. The market at Kirkauld was only three hours away and she was already wearing her maid’s disguise.
How much danger could there be?
Deciding she deserved an adventure and picturing the pleased faces of Hannah and Maria when they came home to see she had everything they wanted, she set off. It was a long walk through beautiful moorland. The weather was fair, and the road was quite busy, so she felt safe, gaining confidence with each step that she had made the right decision.
Eventually, she reached the outskirts of Kirkauld, feeling pleased with herself. But as she made her way up the busy main street and approached the bustling market, she could not help noticing what a rough place it was.
Wild fiddle music and loud, drunken singing poured from the many inns lining the street. Rouged women in gaudy, revealing gowns unfit for polite company either lounged about against walls and doors, giving come hither looks to the men passing by or chattered and laughed with other groups of unsavory looking characters.
She had to sidestep a man who was brawling loudly with a woman wearing a stained gown of red silk—clearly a whore who had evidently been shortchanged, judging by the insults she was screaming at him—. From what Lillie could see, the man was getting the worst of it.
“Hey, hinny, would ye nae like a good time, eh?” a strange man with barely any teeth and a scarred face called to her as she passed by. She stepped up her pace, seeing the relative safety of the market.
“Now, who’s this braw, wee lassie we have here, eh?” leered another man, dressed like the commonest brigand, from a doorway as she hurried by. Yet another man tried to reach out and grab her arm. She swerved to avoid him, sickened by the smell of stale beer oozing from him.
She shuddered, realizing she may have made a big mistake in coming on her own, understanding exactly why Hannah had arranged for them to have an armed escort. But now that she had come all that way, she was loath to give up without getting what she had come for. Resolving to leave as soon as she had finished her shopping, she pressed ahead, towards the colorful stalls of the market just up ahead. There, she felt, she would be safer.
Once within the market’s boundary, she headed straight to the stall she knew would have at least some of the herbs she sought. They did, and so she bought them, then moving on to find the remaining supplies she wanted. She was browsing a stall not far from the northern edge of the market’s confines, concentrating on inspecting the stallholder’s wares, when she suddenly felt a hand grab her arm and pull her aside. Her heart plummeted to her boots, thinking for a split second that it was one of her brothers. An explanation for her presence leapt to her lips as she whirled to see who had caught hold of her.
To her horror, it was a strange man, a rough looking fellow in a stained leather jerkin, his hair unkempt, with no clan insignia to mark him out.
“Let go of me! Who dae ye think ye are?” she cried out, yanking her arm away. But the grip of the stranger’s hand only tightened, and she found she could not break free as he dragged her along, behind the booths.
“Ow, let go, I tell ye, ye’re hurting me!” she shouted, kicking at him. But it made no difference, for he ignored her and seemed impervious to her kicks. He headed for a horse tethered nearby and grabbed a rope from his saddle. “Help! Help me, please, someone!” she yelled, trying to fight him off as he slung her to the ground and began tying her wrists and feet together tightly. Soon, she was trussed up and unable to move.
Nobody took the slightest notice of her shouts for assistance when he tossed her into the saddle and mounted behind her before kicking up the horse and galloping away into the nearby tree line.
There, she saw a small group of men on horseback gathered beneath the trees.
The little village of Roster, Scottish Highlands, Winter 1518…
Edith stared at the coins in her hand, the cold metal biting against her bare palm. Snowflakes collected between the folds in her clothes, pausing a moment, as though deliberating their egress, before melting into the fabric. She clasped her fingers around the coins and sucked in a fortifying breath, before turning towards Keelin, her sister, who was wandering nearby with her tongue stuck out to taste the falling snow.
It was unusual for the Macrae girls to roam the villages under their father’s lairdship alone, but times were anything but ordinary back at the keep. Their father, a most agreeable laird by the name of Noah, had been called out to the nearby village of Roster to mediate a quarrel between the local crofting guilds. He had encouraged his daughters to take a walk, but stay nearby, hoping that a change of scenery would allow anxious Edith a moment’s reprieve from her own thoughts.
Unbeknownst to her father, Edith had other ideas, formed long before their carriage had set off out of Wick. Most other young women would not have dared to orchestrate such a plot behind their father’s back, but for as long as Edith could remember, the odds had been in her favour.
“Come now, Keelin,” she cried over her shoulder. Tucking an errant strand of dark hair back beneath her cloak, she forced a smile to conceal her nerves. “I think I ken the way from here.”
Edith pointed to a small croft in the distance. A lazy ribbon of smoke rose from its rounded chimney, beckoning Edith forward like a curled finger. Their father had gone into a longhouse near the village square, close to where they had left the carriage. The trek to the little croft would take ten minutes, if the young women were lucky. It stood at the edge of a field on the outskirts of Roster, rising alone from the barren earth. Behind the fields, mountains shrouded by mist reached up to the heavens, at the base of which Edith could discern an unmoving grey loch.
“And ye’re certain this is the place?” Keelin asked, skipping towards her sister. She thrust her arm through Edith’s, clutching her close as the wind intensified. “Seems a right wee naething by me eye, Ettie.”
“Have I ever been wrong about these things?” Edith asked, keeping her eyes on the horizon. Her voice was barely audible above the howling of the wind, yet such clement weather had not been felt for weeks. Edith could not recall the last time the snow had abated enough for travel. “The clan has kent of this place for years. I have heard tales about her since I was a wee lass.”
“Yet ye cannae bring yerself to speak her name. A Cailleach is what she is…” Keelin murmured, encouraging Edith to pick up their pace. “I think these tales are all rubbish, piuthar. There is nae one in the world with magic enough to heal our Ma.” She averted her gaze to Edith’s closed fist. “I say we take yer wee pittance and buy her something braw instead. I saw a bakehouse by the crofters’ longhouse.”
“Any excuse to fill yer belly,” Edith joked. She gave the coins in her hand another squeeze, steeling her courage. “I am one-and-twenty, Keelin. It will nae be long until Faither seeks tae wed me off. If I dinnae act a fool now, when shall I ever get the chance again? Ye will have tae forgive me fer wanting to believe in a wee bit of magic for once.”
“Ye can consider yerself forgiven once we get out of this blasted cold.” Keelin groaned, shielding her eyes from the snow. “Let’s make haste before Faither finds out where we’ve gone, or before our bones turn to ice inside us.”
Having arrived at the edge of the village, the sisters came face to face with a low wooden fence. Edith bunched up her skirts and began mounting it before Keelin could complain, hoisting one leg over the top and climbing over the other side. She landed on the other side with a little hop, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited for her sister to follow.
For her part, Keelin cursed under her breath and picked up her skirts as well. She clambered over the fence, perching herself on top for a moment while Edith waited. Her cheeks were nipped red beneath her thick wool shawl, her golden hair beating against the sides of her face in the wind.
“I cannae hardly see me hand in front of me, Edith. I cannae— Ach!”
Upon landing on the other side, Keelin’s ankle twisted beneath her. With a cry, the younger Macrae sister went tumbling forward, colliding into Edith. The women fell into a heap on the ground, kicking up snow as they tried to right themselves. Edith gasped. The coins she had been holding had flown out of her hand, buried into the snow beneath them.
“Naeeee!” Edith cried, clambering immediately to her knees. She grappled for her sister’s arm, pulling her upright. “Keelin, are ye all right?”
“Dinnae bother with me!” Keelin pushed Edith out of the way and began raking back the snow around them, working furiously. “We’ve lost all our money!”
Edith couldn’t help but laugh. She began searching with Keelin, peeling back the snow until the white gave way to black. Her fingers burned as she scoured the ground, searching for the missing coins.
“I’ve found one!” Keelin shouted in celebration, holding the glinting coin aloft over her head. “How many did ye have in all?”
“Three shillings,” Edith replied. She pressed her lips together as she continued her search. If they didn’t retrieve the coins, and soon, she wouldn’t have enough to visit the Cailleach’s home. Eventually, she felt something hard and pried it free. “I’ve got another,” she said, collecting it in her palm with the coin that Keelin had found.
Her hands were raw and cracked by the time the third coin appeared before her. With a sigh of relief, she turned to Keelin, pinching the missing coin between her thumb and forefinger. Fully prepared to gloat, she was instead struck dumb as another coin caught her eye, settled between a parted sheet of snow, much older than the others.
“Four?” Edith gasped. She snatched the coin off the ground and wiped it clean. “This isnae mine… We’ve found an extra pound. What was it doing buried here?”
Keelin bared all of her teeth in a grin. Holding out her hand, she giggled as Edith handed the coin over to her for inspection. “Dinnae ask me. Ye’re the one with all the braw luck.” With a groan, Keelin pushed herself into a stand, then tended a hand for Edith to take.
“Ye fell into me nae two minutes ago,” Edith reminded her. Keelin pulled her into a stand, and she quickly brushed herself off. “I would nae call that braw luck.”
“Och, I dinnae ken.” Keelin winked and flicked her coin in the air. “We found this, didnae we? Now we can take a trip to the bakehouse once ye’re done being tricked out of all yer money.”
Warm bread seemed a distant prospect as Edith arrived on the path leading up to the Cailleach’s croft. The road was narrow and blanketed white, the snow untouched. No one had come up or down the path for at least two days. The smell of smoke was rising from the house. Edith could see no livestock nearby, no fire from the short windows.
“Looks abandoned,” Keelin commented, still hanging off of her sister’s arm. She shivered not from the cold but from fear. “Edith, I dinnae like this. We should turn back now before it’s too late.”
Edith balled her hands into fists, shaking her head. “I have to see fer meself,” she whispered, snaking her arm free from Keelin’s grasp. “Ye stay here until I’m done,” Edith ordered, taking her sister by the shoulders. “I will nae be a minute.”
Her sister made an angry little noise but eventually retreated. Turning from the view of the village down below, Edith steadied her breath and began approaching the croft.
The main building was round and built of stone. Its thatched roof looked too thin to hold the snow which had accumulated upon it. Yet something about the building seemed comforting, like many of the things which had stood for time immemorial.
“A wee bit of magic,” Edith thought to herself.
The front of the croft was barred off by a fence and gate. With no one around to stop her, Edith picked up the latch and allowed herself in, closing the gate back behind her. The front door, before abstracted by the snowfall, came into view all at once. The curved door panes had been painted in red. An iron door-hanger hung proudly at the centre in the shape of a cross. Edith had heard the people of Wick, where her father seated, describe the crone’s door as a perfect match to the one before her.
Edith swore she saw the flicker of firelight on the other side, but the light was dimmed almost as soon as she spotted it. Approaching the door nervously, she held out a hand for the knocker once she arrived. Two thuds came in quick succession, after which followed a moment of harrowing silence.
The silence was broken by the sound of the door creaking slowly open.
“Hello?” Edith asked, taking a step nearer. “I have come seeking…” She wracked her brain, utterly unable to form a coherent sentence, despite the fact that she had imagined this moment for weeks. “Me Ma needs aid. I have heard that ye can help people like her—people like us. May I…” She paused to gulp. “May I please come in?”
She saw the Cailleach before she heard her. In the sliver of space between the open door and its frame, two shining eyes appeared. Edith forced herself to remain calm. She would not allow her fear to get the better of her now.
“I have money,” Edith said, closing the space between herself and the door.
Almost immediately the eyes disappeared, and the door swung open. Casting a final glance at Keelin, Edith picked up her skirts and crossed the threshold.
The warmth of a fire wreathed around her immediately, and so different was the air in the house from the cold outside that it took Edith’s breath away. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness within. The snow had been blinding outside.
“Close the door, lass. Or have ye nae any manners?” came the crone’s voice. “Close it, then come over here where I can see ye…”
Edith nodded and turned to close the door. The house seemed larger on the inside than it had appeared outdoors. The air was pregnant with the smell of burning wood, lavender and dust, and something sweet that Edith couldn’t place. A brightly burning hearth was located in the middle of the room, and a threadbare armchair had been positioned before it, stacked with all manner of books.
She glanced to the right, where the voice had come from. An archway blocked her path, over which hung a collection of dried plants. Through it, she could see what appeared to be a small kitchen. A figure was walking back and forth, and whatever they were doing was making an ungodly amount of noise. Taking an instinctive step back, Edith froze as the figure stepped into the main room.
“Dinnae seem so surprised, love. I would be a poor Cailleach indeed if I didnae provide me visitors with tea.”
She had spoken her title with venom. The woman was nothing like Edith had thought her to be. She was old—how old, Edith couldn’t determine. Her hair was grey in parts and white in others, trailing over her shoulder in a long, thick braid. Her eyes were small, perhaps blue, beneath the heavy curtain of her eyelids. White skin, freckled with age spots, appeared at the edges of her thick, dark green smock.
As a girl, Edith had pictured a hag like in the fairy tales when she had heard tales of Roster’s Cailleach: leathery skin, claws for fingers, feathers and bones adorning her hair, her skin frosted over with magical ice…
“Ye are the woman I’m looking fer?” Edith asked now, needing to make sure. She watched as the crone carried a wooden tray of tea to a nearby table. She was perpetually hunched over, but nothing about her was threatening except her low, rasping voice. “I cannae stay long, I’m afraid. But I am in dire need of yer help.”
The Cailleach paused, hovering over the tea set. She seemed to contemplate Edith’s words for a moment, giving her a sideways glance. Eventually, she returned to making her tea, preparing two cups despite Edith’s protestations.
“Ye’ve really done it now, Edith,” the Macrae girl thought to herself. “Dinnae anger the Cailleach, or else she will lock ye up and eat ye, like the stories say.”
A little laugh erupted from the old woman’s throat. Edith flushed, wondering what had caused it. For a second, she wondered whether the crone had heard her thoughts. But such magic was impossible. The aid she had come seeking for her mother, while some called it magic, could have been nothing more than well-practised herbalism and luck.
The thought convinced Edith to stay. When the Cailleach offered her a cup of amber-coloured tea, she took it. Giving it a whiff, Edith recognised the smell of rosehip and blackcurrants. Lacking a decent place to sit, she remained standing while the old woman moved to the armchair before the hearth. She quickly cleared away her books, then gestured for Edith to come and kneel by the fire.
“I kent ye would come,” the Cailleach said, looking down at Edith from her seat. The armchair dwarfed her, making the woman appear even smaller than she was.
“Ye kent because ye are a seer, like the stories tell?” Edith asked, leaning forward.
The old woman laughed, dancing the wrinkles on her face. “Perhaps… Or perhaps I saw ye walk up from the village.” She grinned and took a sip of her tea. “Such a nasty tumble ye took over the fence. Is that sister of yers always so full of trouble?”
Edith’s eyes widened. How did she know that Keelin was her sister? If the crone had been watching, then she had likely seen some similarity between the girls. Despite the fact that Edith had dark hair and Keelin’s was fair, their faces bore striking similarities. Both had inherited the cornflower blue eyes of their mother. Both had long faces with pointed chins and full lips.
“She can be a handful at times, but I would nae have done anything interesting in me life without her,” Edith admitted tentatively. She stared down into her drink and took a quick sip. The tea tasted earthy and tart, coating the back of her tongue. “Grateful though I am fer yer hospitality, I really cannae stay overlong. Ye see—“
“Ye see,” the Cailleach interrupted, “time is of the essence. Ye have come fer yer maither, have ye nae?” She craned her neck forward, sizing Edith up with her beady little eyes. “Ye have come all this way hoping that I might have something to cure her.”
“I…” Edith’s hands trembled around her teacup. “Aye. That is why I have come.”
“The kind laird’s daughter.” The woman smiled, but there was no benevolence in her expression. “So far from home. Even here we have heard about the lady’s illness. What has it been now, bairn? Three years? Four?”
“Six,” Edith rasped. She pressed her eyes shut and forced her hands to still. “Six years.”
Everyone in Caithness knew about the mysterious illness of Lady Macrae. Over the course of a fortnight, her health had collapsed, leaving the once beautiful and vibrant woman a shell of her former self. The lady could barely speak, barely move. An army of healers and physicians, some of them even Beatons, had come to Wick hoping to cure her and seal their celebrity. Nothing had worked., no tonics, no treatments, no amount of rest. Only a miracle could restore her.
As though reading her mind, the Cailleach nodded. She set aside her cup of tea and reached out her hands. Edith hesitated for a moment. She opened her now sweating palm and deposited three shillings into the crone’s crooked hand.
The woman counted them wordlessly: clink, clink, clink. Satisfied, she rose from her seat and bid Edith to remain kneeling with a flick of her wrist. The woman hurried into her hidden kitchen, and a similar cacophony to the one she had produced earlier rang out. Edith’s heart began beating hard in her chest, didn’t cease thumping until ten minutes later, when the crone returned with three small vials.
The first contained a black powder, the same consistency as sand. The second held a collection of herbs, the likes of which Edith had never seen. The third was empty.
“What am I tae dae with these?” Edith asked, looking between the vials and the woman. The Cailleach thrust the first two into her arms. Quick as lighting, she reached forward with something sharp. Edith gave a cry out of shock, darting backwards. “What are ye doing?!”
A small blade appeared in the old woman’s hand. In the other, she held a lock of Edith’s dark hair. With a delighted little hum, the crone retreated back into her kitchen. Edith bundled the vials in one arm, and reached for her chopped hair with her free hand.
“A little parting gift, from ye tae me and back again,” said the Cailleach when she returned. Her hand travelled in the air, settling on Edith’s chin. Pinching it between her thumb and forefinger, she contemplated the young woman’s face. “Such a canny thing… And yer name… Have ye any idea what yer name means, Edith?”
She was almost certain that she hadn’t revealed her name as of yet. Again, she decided that the crone’s knowledge was entirely reasonable. If she knew of Laird Macrae, it stood to reason that she should have heard the names of his daughters. The stealing of her hair was a truth less easy to swallow. Edith had heard tales of hags using blood and bile and all sorts in their brews. Was it possible that the Cailleach intended to do the same? She remained silent, preferring not to know the answer.
“It means blessed,” said the old woman. A smile spread across her face. “And yer blood is blessed. Born under a lucky star, ye were. Surely ye must have kent it. Such strange things have happened to ye, have they nae?” The woman laughed. Edith was unsure of what she was speaking. It was almost as though the crone was looking right through her. “Stranger things will happen yet. There is another, born under a similar and yet different star. The path of that one… Och…” The lady clamped a hand over her heart. “He walks a path paved with misery where yers is paved with delight. Should ye meet… But aye, ye must meet. Aye, that’s it. Indelible.”
“I dinnae see what any of this has to dae with me Ma, or me hair.” Edith furrowed her brow, eyes darting towards the door. If she was quick enough, she may have been able to make it. The Cailleach was old, clearly demented. While there was no telling what more she could do to Edith, she needed to discover what she could about her mother’s cure first. “What have ye given me?”
“In those, ye mean?” She pointed towards the vials. “The first is a tonic to be dissolved into yer maither’s water. She has too much light in her. It eclipses all else, and in the absence she withers away. The black will clear that out. There is nae remedy that can stop time however, bairn. The cure will last a year, maybe a wee bit more, if our Morrígan permits it.” Nodding, she released Edith’s chin at last. “The herbs are naething special—merely a blend tae help restore the lady’s health. Take them tae the Beaton in Wick. He will provide more should the store deplete.”
“All right,” Edith said, taking a step back. “Then I will—“
“And of the rest I have given ye? Are ye nae curious of the truth?” The Cailleach scowled, as though she couldn’t understand Edith’s actions. “Dinnae ye care fer the truth? All things are a balance, lass. Yer maither, fer example, has fallen out of balance with life. A little death, too much death.” She suckled on her lower lip, pacing back and forth.
Edith saw her chance to leave and took it, proceeding to the door in three long strides. A hand came out of nowhere, pressing the door shut.
“Och, Edith. Poor, sweet Edith…” the Cailleach whined, averting her eyes to the ground. She whipped her head up, and blinked. “Heed these words, bairn. Yer mother’s illness was a black mark on the otherwise spotless canvas of yer life, but fall she had tae, in order tae bring ye tae me and avert a greater disaster. Ignore a blessing and it shall vanish.” She rose her voice to a shout: “Dinnae let it vanish! See with yer heart what ye cannae see with yer eyes!”
Edith started. She wanted to run, feeling sick, but there was truth to the old woman’s words. Her good luck had been a buttress against the worst of life. The clement weather that day, the coin in the snow, were but drops in a pool of other auspices.
“It isnae luck, but chance,” Edith argued weakly, her heart pounding.
Her rebuttal amused the Cailleach endlessly. She laughed into Edith’s face, slipping a hand down and curling it around the doorhandle. If Edith wanted to escape, she needed to play the crone’s games and listen to whatever mad premonition the woman wanted to voice.
“Are they nae the same? Chance is the word fer the non-believer,” the Cailleach replied. “Ye must believe, blessed one. If ye dinnae, another will come tae swipe up the fortune that ye have failed tae protect. Aye…” The look in the woman’s eyes was far off as they darted back and forth in furious thought. “The words form on me tongue. Dinnae allow another tae steal the luck of yer star. If the fate-drinker should come begging, ye turn him away. If ye dinnae, seek nae other tae restore ye, or cursed fer all yer days ye will be.”
“What?” Edith shook her head, confused. “What are ye saying?”
“So little fun is there in saying the truth outright, but that is a consequence of youth, is it nae? Wanting more, wanting everything in the immediacy.” The woman’s faced blanched, and she took a step back, harrowed by visions that Edith could not see. “That desire will be yer downfall if it will nae be tempered. The fate-drinker is a man of these lands and yer paths will cross because they must. It’s meant tae be. Through a kiss, he will try tae steal the luck from ye tae fill the void in his heart, fer he is the unluckiest man on this earth. Ye cannae let him, lass, or ye yerself will inherit the doom that lives in his heart. Ye will exchange yer luck fer his. Only another kiss with him can return yer luck. But beware! If ye kiss another before then, the bond between ye and the fate-drinker will break … and yer good fortune will be gone forever!”
Transfixed by the strange woman’s ramblings, Edith could dae nothing but nod. The gesture appeared to satisfy the Cailleach, as she ripped open the door for Edith to step out.
Without looking behind her, Edith crossed out into the cold. When she turned back to look at the house, the light in the windows was gone. All that remained was the Cailleach’s strange premonition, and the swirling, sickening feeling in Edith’s gut that the old woman had been right.
Pushing down her rising scepticism, she turned back to the path where Keelin waited. The Cailleach was mad, but Edith would not test her luck until her mother was well again. If a kiss would be her undoing, then she had to avoid it with her life… How hard could that be?
Chapter One
Dornoch, Scottish Highlands, Winter 1519. One year later…
There were many things at which Braden Hamilton had succeeded, but every accomplishment of his had been fought for tooth and nail. Luck was not a lady that he knew, and any star under which he had been born was black as the night’s sky.
As he stood on the uppermost balcony of Castle Rósmire, Braden took a moment to observe the activity in the courtyard below. From beyond the wind-beaten walls of the keep, the old iron-monging burgh of Dornoch rose proudly from a patch of grey earth. The landscape would soon be draped in snow, two weeks were they from the first day of Yule.
“By that time, I can only hope some of the ill wrought upon me clan this last year will be forgotten tae the festivity and the fires,” Braden thought, unable to stir any real hope in his breast as he considered the future of his sept.
Rolling back his shoulders, he took a moment to breathe and reflect on all that had happened in the past twelve months. His life, another thing which had needed to be fought for, had almost been robbed from him at the hands of his power-hungry cousin, Irving. The Hamilton Beast, as he had come to be known in death, had tried to take what had been Braden’s by force: his title as clan chief, his home, his very name.
Having sought to impersonate Braden and marry his bride in his stead, Irving had found himself on the wrong side of the blade. The Leòideach Clan, a collection of Viking lairds from the island of Orkney, had not taken kindly to Irving’s attempt at duping them. Felled by the woman who had been offered to Braden as a wife, Irving had met his end far from home, where he belonged.
When news of Irving’s death had reached Braden’s ears—who at that time had been taken in and nursed back to health by the monks of a monastery on Orkney—he had known what had had to be done. The return of the rightful laird to Clan Hamilton, two weeks later, had helped put things to order, but Braden still felt the effect of Irving’s attempt at usurping him on their clan, having poisoned them with doubt.
Try as they might have to hide their lack of faith in their leader, the whispers had been plentiful, and they had reached Braden’s ears eventually.
“Can we trust a laird whose own blood dinnae have faith in him?” one had said.
“Braden was cursed from the day he watched his Da die—cursed to watch everything he touches burn tae ash,” had said another.
“Irving Hamilton was nae a hero, but he did what needed to be done. Could we say the same of his cousin, when the time comes? The pressure from enemy clans is rising by the day. Shall we forget MacLeod’s threats? Braden is more likely to drown than rise tae his challenge.”
There was nothing to be gained by tormenting himself with the opinions of those who did not believe in him. Braden may have been cursed, but he knew better than most that stubbornness always championed in the end.
Spying an approaching cart in the distance, he turned from the view of Dornoch and his clan, returning inside where the fire was burning hottest.
The keep was thrumming with activity early that afternoon. Maids carrying coal scuttles were making their journeys through Castle Rósmire to ensure that Braden and his men would be safe from the rising cold. His counsellors had been called to the keep that day and would be arriving within an hour for their latest meeting. There was much that needed to be discussed before the snow fell, threats which would not wait for Yule time to come and go.
Slipping into the outside staircase, Braden hissed as the cold wreathed around him. He tightened his fur cloak around his shoulders, felt his cropped hair ruffle in the wind. It was but a short walk down the spiralling staircase to the floors below. Yet even the humblest path Braden walked had always been paved with trouble…
It was as though the heavens themselves had burst open atop him. A stream of frigid water cascaded from the window above, drenching him from head to toe, so powerful in its decent that it almost knocked the laird off the battlements. Braden gave a tremendous cry as his clothes were soaked through, chilling him to the bone immediately.
Ears ringing, he stopped and gazed upwards once his shock had passed. A maid was hanging out of a window, an empty pale of water in hand. From the smell of soap now seeping into his garments, Braden surmised the water had originated from his bath, taken mere hours before. The maid’s face flashed red when she noticed him, her mouth falling agape as she struggled to voice an apology.
“Heaven and earth! Melaird, forgive me! I-I hadnae any idea that ye were there,” she brayed, her face twisting with her shame. Her voice broke as she began to wipe, likely fearing some sort of punishment. “Och, please forgive me. Please!”
Braden raked a hand through his wet hair, shaking it out and waving her apologies off. He slipped out of his fur cloak, revealing his dampened coat and trews. The cold was gnawing at his skin, sticking to him and turning the water to ice.
“It’s all right, lass. Ye could nae see,” he urged, forcing himself to remain calm. He tried to say something else, but the woman was gone by the time he looked back up again.
Immediately shivering, he darted quickly back inside. Having reached the second storey of the keep, he changed course, headed not for his study down below but towards his sleeping chambers, where a warm hearth and a change of clothes awaited. The way was clear as he approached his chambers, and for that at least, Braden was glad. Upon reaching the door, however, he got the sense that something was awry within. He examined the handle closely, pressing his cold hand against it and finding it strangely warm.
“Someone is in here,” he thought. “But who…? Me attendants are elsewhere.”
His free hand snaked through the air and hovered above the dirk at his waist. Sucking in a steadying breath, he forced the door open with a vicious swing. It arced noiselessly on its hinges, revealing the lustre of the fire within. Braden shivered at the change in temperature, feeling his hackles rise as a shadow moved before the flames.
The next thing he heard was the sound of laughter. All things considered, much worse could have awaited him, as images of assassins lurking in the dark flashed in his mind’s eye.
“Look at the sight of ye,” cried Madden Kinnaird, placing his hands disapprovingly on his hips. “Three years away and I’ve come back to a keep turned on its head.” The handsome young man smiled, dropping his eyes. “Aye, but it’s braw to see ye, melaird.”
“Madden?” Braden murmured, promptly stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, dripping water over the threshold. “What are ye doing here? Why nae send word if ye had planned a return to the Highlands?”
“And ruin the surprise?” Madden laughed heartily, settling into the fur-lined chair before the fire. He swung one leg leisurely over the other, reaching for an apple from the low-standing table beside him. He took a bite, then gobbed: “Never mind surprises. I didnae want to draw any attention to the clan for nae braw reason. Last I recall, Irving used to intercept all yer messages. And he was nae champion of mine. Alas, it seems I need nae to have concerned meself with that. What is it they call him now. The Hamilton Beast? I heard whispers as I snuck through Dornoch… Och, Braden. What has happened?”
A chill ran down Braden’s spine at the mention of his cousin. While he had come to terms with Irving’s betrayal, the memory of his attack still caused his stomach to churn. He pressed his eyes shut, forcing away the memory of Irving’s blade, slicing through the skin below his rib. Pain ghosted beneath his heart, and he levelled his breathing. He would not allow himself to show any weakness while he was still so vulnerable.
Braden had never been the greatest fighter. He could wield a sword as well as any other clansmen, but there was nothing impressive about his technique. The real strength of his character took root in his trust, his kindness, his wit. Those qualities had eventually proved his downfall. Now he had nothing but regret, his heart filled with embers stoked by a need for vengeance, wanting to avenge himself, his honour.
“If ye ken enough to call him that, then ye will ken that I have nae desire to speak of him,” Braden replied sullenly. He held up a hand when Madden tried to rise from his seat, gesturing to his wet clothes. “A moment.”
He clicked his tongue against his palate and slipped into the adjoining room, then proceeded to undress himself. He felt Madden watching him quietly in the silence. Braden made sure to turn away, not wanting to reveal the ugly scars that decorated his chest. He paused for a moment to observe himself in the looking glass.
He was much smaller in body than Irving had been. Though, in truth, Irving had been larger than any highlander that Braden had ever seen. Braden was strong but lithe, having always possessed more grace than brute strength. His hair, a light, reddish blonde colour the same shade of his father’s, had been cropped short after his brush with death. The eyes that stared back at him he scarcely recognised from before his fall.
“Good,” Braden thought. “Let that old laird lay on the strand where Irving left him tae die, and all his bad luck with him.”
Once he had procured some dry clothes, he returned to the fire where Madden was sitting. His friend looked up at him, having set his apple aside and leaned forward.
“Ye were always like a brother to me,” Braden said, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I ken what ye will say. Ye wish ye had been here to aid me.”
“Aye,” Madden said, nodding. “Ye kent what I would say.”
“Let those things remain unspoken. We can only focus on the future, now. I am alive. The Clan is mostly whole. Irving is long buried.” Braden felt the whisper of a smile form on his lips. He had not made the same mistake as his cousin. He had watched Irving’s body burn with his own eyes, until nothing had remained of him but bone and ash on the pyre. “And me most trusted advisor is returned tae me,” he added.
Madden turned in his seat, his brown eyes wide with hope. “Ye intend to restore me tae me place at yer side? Ye dinnae curse me fer staying across the sea for so long?”
“Ye went on me own order sto appease the Frangachs and Sassenachs alike, the least we could dae after Flodden. I take it Uncle Hendrie was glad tae see the back of ye, after hosting ye so long in Paris,” Braden teased, clapping him on the back and stepping away. He extracted his family’s ancestral blade from its display case, slipping it into his sheath ahead of the council meeting. “Aye, I would be a mighty hypocrite tae refuse ye the title that sent ye there in the first place. What’s more…” Braden stared down at the blade, which glinted in the firelight before he thrust it into its sheath. “I cannae think of a better man to help turn the keep back on its head, can ye?”
Madden was not prone to bursts of great emotion, but Braden saw joy sweep across his face before being quickly extinguished. He nodded, sealing his return to Dornoch and to the Hamilton Clan as the laird’s personal guard, when Braden needed him most.
A knock rapped on the door, interrupting the two men. Braden called for the guest to enter, surprised to see a maid appear. She was the one who had earlier tipped the pale of water on top of him. She wrung her hands before her, fiddling with a cloth of some sort, clearly desperate to make amends, likely on the order of the head housekeeper.
All too quickly, Madden hopped out of his seat, focused on an entirely different task now that a pretty young woman had presented herself to them. Braden laughed under his breath, turning back to the display case to close it.
“What’s the meaning fer yer call, lass?” Madden asked, pausing in the doorway. Braden glanced over his shoulder, watching as the tall, well-built Highlander wrapped an arm around the small woman’s shoulders. “Has the laird been cruel with ye?”
The words were teasing. Braden was no stranger to the comforts only a woman could provide, but he never touched the maids at the keep, and Madden knew it. In fact, since his return from the dead, he had not partaken in bed sport of any kind, having not wanted to, even while the clanswomen down in the burgh had been all too eager to welcome him home with their loving ministrations.
“I only meant to…” the maid trailed off, looking up at Madden with big, round eyes. Her face was flushed pink. Madden had not lost his touch on the Continent. He had been a menace before his departure, forever engaging in some flirtation with the poor yet receptive lasses of the clan. The maid hummed out of nervousness then turned to Braden. “Melaird, pray accept me apologies fer tipping that water on yer head. I never thought—“
The maid’s apology was cut off by a burst of laughter from Madden. He hopped away from the maid. “That’s what happened tae ye?” he roared, wiping a tear from his eye. “Och, ye’ll have tae forgive me too, melaird.”
Braden shook his head, clicking the display case shut. He swallowed down his niggling pride and forced a smile. “Ye can take me apologies and head on down the stairs, lass. Tell Isabele not to punish ye on account of me poor luck,” he added to the maid, knowing that the castle’s housekeeper took no prisoners.
He heard the scuttling of her feet, and then a door closed. Sighing, he returned his gaze to Madden, half expecting another round of teasing. His friend was staring after the door. He pointed towards it with its thumb.
“I dinnae recall that fair lass roaming these halls before me departure,” he said, shrugging. “Now, dinnae be getting the wrong ideas, melaird. I intend to be on me best behaviour, at least until I’ve settled in again.” He took on a rare contemplative air. “I saw carriages and riders coming through the burgh up tae the keep. Have I arrived in time fer a council meeting, or some such thing?”
“Ye have,” Braden replied, and gestured towards the door. As the men arrived in the hallway, he made certain to lock it behind him. “I’ve called the councilmen up before Yule. There is something on me mind which I wish to discuss with them.”
“Well, dinnae keep me waiting,” Madden said as they took up their walk. He stopped suddenly, putting a hand out to stop Braden from walking any further. Squinting, he observed Braden carefully in the light. “’Tis not like ye to be secretive. Has time changed ye, or is the topic of this meeting nae something of which ye wish to speak?”
With a drawn-out groan, Braden checked that the hallway was clear. He supposed the truth resided somewhere in the middle, and decided that speaking about the matter with Madden first might do something to help ease his apprehension.
“I have nae had a braw time, after having come back from Orkney. I ken what the clan thinks of me—ye will ken it soon enough, if ye didnae hear the gossiping in the burgh already. And I also ken that the opinion of our allies regarding me return differs greatly from that of our foes.”
“Ach, tis not so difficult tae imagine.” Madden nodded, dropping his voice low. “Tae some, ye must be a hero. Nae… A legend in the making: the man who eschewed his own death.”
“And to others,” Braden interjected, “I am the laird who could nae retrain control over his own clan. Who allowed his own flesh and blood to murder him, no matter whether he lived or died.” He shook his head, pushing the worst of his thoughts away. He glanced through a nearby window. Behind the glass, a light snowfall had begun. “I cannae wait fer time tae amend their opinions of me. I must act… Before Irving’s attempt on me life, I had planned tae take a wife.”
He smiled at the memory of Lady Adamina, the sister of the Viking Laird of Clan Leòideach. Though beautiful and spirited, Braden doubted they would have made a happy match in the end. Her heart had belonged to another, one of her brother’s advisors. She had managed to secure her own happy ending with him, even despite Irving’s interference.
Braden had put all other alliances on hold since his return, but the months were ticking ever forward. It was only a matter of time before someone else sought to make war with them, now that Irving was dead.
“This is what I wish to broach at the meeting,” Braden explained, feeling himself shrink under Madden’s anxious gaze. “Yule is fast approaching, and with it, I see a chance to rebuild the bridges between our clan here in Caithness and the lairds of the other highland seats.
“A long feast,” Braden continued. “Tae be held during Yule, during which time,” he held up a finger, “I may find meself securing a wife. The most powerful lairds that we ken must come, and they must see that I will nae be unseated again. This will nae be a time fer allies alone, but fer enemies too, that they might become something different.”
Madden furrowed his brow, having clearly picked up on Braden’s cautious tone. “And of these enemies,” he said warily, “are there none that will be refused an invitation? It is nae me place tae question ye, melaird. But some rivalries cannae—shouldnae—be fixed.”
Braden listened carefully, knowing exactly to whom Madden referred, but he could not agree. If he had any chance of restoring his clan’s faith in him, he needed to nip all threats in the bud before they could bloom with blood.
“If ye mean the young MacLeod laird…” Braden said. “Aye. I intend to have him be kent by us. He remembers our history. Too long have we existed in silence. He will come, we will meet, and hopefully we will forge a new future in peace.”
His friend’s face turned white, his lips pressed tightly together. Braden could see his own tortured memories reflected in Madden’s eyes. They had both only been children the last time a MacLeod clan chieftain had set foot on Hamilton soil. But they both remembered. How could they forget? The face of his father’s killer would likely haunt him forever.
When the last clan chieftain had died mere months after taking the life of Braden’s father, his son Lewis MacLeod had inherited the title. He and Braden had never met, but tensions were still alive from the times of their father’s feud, stoked by the memories of what had been lost, threatening to flame with every year that passed.
Silent threat that he was, Braden needed to see Lewis with his own eyes. Irving’s ploy had delayed their inevitable meeting by a year, but it could not be postponed forever. Forging such an unlikely alliance would help Braden’s cause massively.
And if he could not guarantee an alliance with Laird MacLeod, then he would make sure to smother a new war before it could begin…
Fiadh’s long fingers ran over the fresh mark on her face. The wound was surprisingly deep, starting from beside her eye all the way down to her chin. It was more of a gash than a scratch. Closing her eyes, she shut out the image of her reflection, not wanting to think about it. Yet in the ensuing darkness, the moment the wound had been inflicted on her returned to her.
Ossian had struck her with a blade, lashing out as she argued with him. She’d dropped to the stone floor of his chamber, cradling her face as she felt the warm blood on her skin.
“Dae ye nae understand, Fiadh?” His voice had boomed at her. “Ye are mine now!”
Fiadh opened her eyes again and inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself. That had been last night. This morning, at least she was not with him.
She stood at the far end of her own chamber, away from the bed where she hated to sleep. She stared at her reflection, her green eyes reminding her of her youngest sister, Callie, and her long brown hair reminiscent of her sister Aila. She had always looked like them, but recently she had started seeing more and more of a similarity as she looked in the mirror. She half wondered if that was because she was looking for them in the reflection, wishing she could see them again.
She stepped back, for she despised seeing the puckered skin and the ridged red mark of what her husband had done to her. In time, she supposed she would have a scar, and then she would look just like him, a mirror image of the scar running down his face.
He has marked me like him now. Aye, he means tae make me his forever.
She felt sick and tried to quell the feeling of nausea.
“Me lady?” a voice called from the doorway.
Fiadh flinched in surprise, not having realized she had left the door open. She forced a smile for the young maid who quivered in the doorway. That poor girl seemed to shake wherever she went in this castle. Fiadh had learned long ago how not to shake to hide her fear. If she showed one ounce of fear to Ossian, he took advantage of it.
“Aye?”
“The laird is waiting fer ye in his study.”
“Thank ye. I shall go there now.” Fiadh waited until the maid retreated before letting her smile falter. She looked at her reflection one last time, her eyes dancing across the scar.
Let him hate the sight of it, and the sight of me so that maybe someday, he will decide he has had enough of me.
She straightened the skirt of her rich navy tartan gown and walked out of the room with her head held high. In the corridors she passed the servants, who mostly kept their eyes averted. One or two offered her a sympathetic smile and others cowered back when they saw the mark on her face, clearly fearful of the man who had caused it.
As Fiadh reached Ossian’s study, in what felt to her like the darkest part of the castle, with the gray-stone walls high and tapestries enshrouding every surface, she knocked on the door and waited. At least obeying his summons on this occasion would bring her momentary peace.
“Come,” he barked from inside.
She opened the door and strode in, placing herself as he had often demanded of her, standing at the very edge of the wolf-skin rug, so only the toes of her leather boots touched it. She curtsied, nearly dropping to her knees. She only raised her chin an inch, her eyes darting to Ossian as he sat lazily in his wing-backed chair, his boots upon the desk in front of him.
“Ye took too long tae come.”
“I came as soon as I was summoned, me laird” she answered calmly. Raising her voice now would merely earn her another wound. He looked up from the maps he had been examining, their eyes meeting. Those orbs were as black as she judged his soul to be. She often looked at the sky in the night, and thought Ossian was like the darkness between the stars. Endless, a pure abyss of nothing. His eyes wandered down her, drinking her in thirstily.
She’d grown used to that look. A few times, she had managed to fight him off, but not nearly as many times as she would have liked to.
I made this sacrifice fer a reason, I must nae forget.
He’d originally wanted to marry her younger sister Aila, but Fiadh would have gone to any lengths to protect her from such a fate. She chose to offer herself up in her sister’s place and Ossian had jumped at the opportunity.
She could still remember the way he had gripped her in the saddle in front of him on a horse, as they rode away from her father’s brothel together. Fiadh had detested the place, which stood on the side of the mountain, overlooking the loch like a dark shadow. She well remembered the shouts of the courtesans who worked for her father. Fiadh and her sister Aila had worked there as well, as maids, but Fiadh had always lived in fear that one day he would ask her to be a courtesan. Her younger sister, Callie, had taken care of their ill mother, while their father gambled away all their money, after turning their home into a house of pleasure to feed his addiction.
As she had sat in the saddle, glancing back and thinking of the sister she was leaving behind, Ossian had grasped one of her hips and her neck, holding her chin high.
“Aye, statuesque… ye’ll make a fair lady after all.”
Often, he’d repeated that word since, statuesque… she held onto it, hoping that someday it would make her feel like a statue. Immovable, hard as stone, when his words or his fists would not hurt her anymore.
“Stand.” He flicked his fingers, urging her to what he said. As she did so, her eyes darted down to the ring on his finger. The metal shone, despite its age, and a black stone was set in the very middle, etched with a strange geometric emblem. She had seen it many times, he rarely ever took it off.
He treasures it as he treasures nothing else.
“If yer sister doesnae stop looking fer ye, I shall have tae take action.”
“What dae ye expect me tae dae?” Fiadh kept her voice calm as she lifted her gaze to meet Ossian’s. He had revealed to her two days before that there were whispers Aila was hunting for her. “I did me best tae disappear, as ye asked of me.”
“If she keeps causing trouble,” he paused as he slowly stood, his movements and his great height dominating the room, “ye ken I shall have tae stop her another way. I shall have tae see her in a grave, Fiadh. Is that what ye want?”
Fiadh stepped back, moving away from the wolf-skin rug. She felt nauseous, and for a moment she thought she might actually throw up all over the rug.
“Nay. Please dae nae hurt her.” Fiadh shook her head, her voice pleading. “I am sure she will give up in time, just leave her be.”
Slowly, Ossian walked around the desk, his boots striking the ground, his long dark hair flicking around his ears. When he reached her side, his hand lifted toward her. More than anything, Fiadh wished to flinch away, but the last time she had done so, he’d struck her. She stayed perfectly still, feeling his large hand as it closed around her neck. His fingers splayed up under her chin, tipping her face back.
“My statue, eh?” he whispered sickeningly, moving his lips down to the curve of her neck. Fiadh screwed her eyes up tight, praying he would not touch her or kiss her again. She despised the feeling of his scratchy beard against her skin. His touch made her toes curl with fear and her insides squirm. She couldn’t even imagine what it was like to long for a man’s touch. She could live her life contentedly without it. In fact, it was what she hoped for, a future where no man ever touched her.
He reached down and slid off the scarf at the base of her throat. The dark blue silk whipped across her skin.
“Remember what this means, aye?” He nodded at her scar, wrapping the scarf around his hand. “Nay other man can come near ye. Remember that.”
She didn’t nod or utter any words, and just looked him in the eye.
He has made that plain, many times.
A second knock came to the door.
“Enter,” he called to the door. Then he dropped the scarf on the chair beside him and turned his back on her. “Ye can go now.”
Fiadh left as quickly as she could, slipping by the gentleman that had come to call on Ossian. She only caught the briefest of glimpses of him, dark red hair was graying around his ears and a long beard, tied just under his chin. As he walked into the room, his hand outstretched in front of him, Fiadh saw the same ring that Ossian wore.
As she halted in the corridor, she blinked, thinking. So many times, she had seen that ring now. It granted Ossian access to a group of other men, that much she understood, but nothing more.
She raised her hand, feeling for her scarf, but remembering it was still in his study. She turned to the door again, yet she didn’t dare enter without permission. She raised her hand to knock when she heard Ossian’s voice inside.
“When will the first meeting be?” he asked, impatiently, his tone sharp.
Fiadh lowered her hand once more, angling her head and pressing her ear to the door so she could hear every word.
“Soon,” the other man answered, his voice strangely light compared to the deep tones of Ossian. “When Yuletide comes and goes, we’ll meet. We’ll pull the clan forces together. When that is done, nothing will stop us from taking the clan lands.”
What clan? What clan lands will they be stealing?
Fiadh placed the palm of her hand to the door, silently moving on her toes as close as she could get, straining to listen as Ossian lowered his voice.
“We must act faster than that,” Ossian pleaded. “I have people in me land. People who would cause trouble. We need tae act now.”
“It is impossible and out of me hands. Aye, I would be glad tae act sooner, Ossian, but we must wait. The other men in our circle need time tae prepare. Once they are ready, we will attack together, and we will be stronger fer it.”
“Aye. Aye, I ken ye are right.” Yet Ossian’s tone was one Fiadh knew all too well. He wasn’t happy, even if he pretended to be in order to hide his true feeling to the man he actually respected, which was a rarity. Ossian liked to dominate conversation and those around him. The other men who wore the same ring as him were the only ones Ossian ever deigned to bow his head to. “The Chattan clan willnae be able tae halt the might of so many men, will they?”
“Nay indeed,” the other man laughed. “Poor Laird Chattan. I almost feel sorry fer him and his people.” That laugh grew louder.
Fiadh backed up from the door, feeling as if her breath had been stolen from her body.
The Chattan clan… the people…
She knew who was there. She may not have been allowed to receive letters from her sisters, but she knew well enough from Ossian’s spies where her sisters lived these days. Her youngest sister Callie was married to a man called Avery, and she worked in Laird Chattan’s castle as his healer. Aila lived within the same castle walls.
This cannae be. What will become of them?
Fiadh walked down the corridor, fearful of being caught listening to Ossian’s conversation. Involuntarily, her hand lifted, and her fingers lightly moved over her scar. She couldn’t let her sisters be hurt. It was the point of her being, the very reason she kept breathing. To see them safe from men like Ossian.
I will dae what I can fer ye, me sisters. I shall stop this attack.
There was certainly one thing she could do to frustrate Ossian’s aims. If she stole his ring, the others in his circle would refuse to recognize him as one of them. Somehow, she had to take it from him.
Chapter One
One Year Later
“Dinnae run. Dinnae run now.”
Fiadh fidgeted with the black ring, turning it around her finger repeatedly. In the dull light that came from one of the candles nearby, she stared down at that ring, examining the angular pattern that had been carved into the black stone. It was a harsh triangle, with three lines that crossed through the very middle.
This was nae an easy thing tae take.
She could still remember the night she had stolen it, vividly. It was the night before Aila and her husband, Ian, had found Fiadh at the castle. Ossian had come to Fiadh’s bed again. Her terror and fear of him had done nothing to dissuade him, and it was only by the grace of God that he’d had too much liquor to possibly finish the deed he had started. As he’d passed out on her bed, she’d scrambled back from the mattress, covering her body with a chemise and two shawls, desperate to hide her body from him. When she realized he had not budged when she had removed his arm and leg from her, she had suddenly had the idea of trying to remove the ring from the hand that had just been draped over her. It had slid off without much resistance while he had continued to snore undisturbed. She had hidden it in the pocket of her chemise, praying he would not realize it was gone come morning or that he would think he had simply misplaced it.
That was a long time ago now.
The day after, Aila and Ian had arrived at the castle with Ian’s friends from the Chattan Clan. Two men, Elliot and Murdoch, had stormed the rooms where Fiadh was being held. She could still remember the ferocity with which they had fought to free her.
When Ossian had been struck with an arrow on the drawbridge in front of the castle, Fiadh had not known whether he’d survive such a wound. Nor did she ever find out if he had noticed the missing ring in the chaos of that day. Elliot had been the one to make her move, shaking her away from the terror that had taken hold of her. He’d urged her onto the same horse as Murdoch, his strangely jokey humor breaking through her fear.
“Trust us. We’re going tae get ye out of here.” He’d winked and returned to his own horse, leaving her staring after him in surprise.
Fiadh now released the ring as she toyed with it, reaching for something else. Her dark brown hair was tied up with a single green ribbon. The dark green silken ends hung down over her shoulder, reminding her of the bearer of that gift.
Elliot.
The last time they had seen each other at the Chattan castle, he’d left not seeming quite like his usual self. His humor, his constant need to jest, had slipped away. He’d taken Fiadh to the side and offered up his gift of the green ribbon.
“Tae remember me.” These had been his parting words. Before she had even asked why it sounded like he was saying goodbye for good, he had rode away, and she was left staring after him.
“Nae now. There are other things tae think about,” she whispered as she released the ribbons and placed her palms flat on the small wooden table in front of her, pockmarked by the wood worm as she waited for her visitors, with the blackened ring staring up at her.
She had come to the back room of a tavern in Bannockburn. This was the place she had heard whispers about. It seemed men who were part of this circle would sometimes meet in this room. The innkeeper had been most reluctant to let her in here at first, but when she showed him the ring, he’d had no choice.
There was a sound at the door and Fiadh stood up, not wanting to seem small and insignificant as she waited at the table. In the shadows cast by the great timber beams and the darkness of the night, it was difficult to make out the two figures that walked into the room. The first was hulking, the second smaller and lither. He halted when he saw her, his boots squeaking on the flagstone floor as his face appeared in the candlelight.
“Who are ye?” the smaller man barked, with his voice as high pitched as a robin’s chirp.
“I am here tae find out where and when the next meeting with the whole circle will be.” She held out her hand, keeping her manner calm as she presented the ring to him.
The small man stepped forward, peering at the ring before he nodded to the man beside him.
“Ye are nae part of the group.” He shook his head. “Nay lass is permitted.”
“Nay? Then why dae I have the ring?” Her question seemed to puzzle him. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes never blinking as he looked at her. “I am nae here tae cause trouble. I just want tae ken when the next meeting will be.”
Her sisters thought they were all safe. They had their happy lives, and Fiadh was reluctant to disturb that illusion. But she could not pretend that everything was easy and at peace. Whether Ossian was alive or not didn’t change the fact that a circle of men, possibly including other clan lairds, intended to attack the Chattan clan. For her sisters’ sake, Fiadh had to discover the truth.
“Ye hunting fer secrets, pet?” The larger man walked around her.
Fiadh was the tallest woman in most rooms, but she couldn’t compete with his great height. He moved to stand behind her, like a stalking bear. She looked at him sharply, then down at the ground between them, issuing a silent order to step back. When he made no move to do so, she laid a hand to the long basilard at her hip, thrust into a scabbard on her belt.
She had learned long ago that a dirk was not enough of a threat. She needed the longer blade to make her intentions understood.
Nay man will ever touch me again.
“Just one,” she answered simply. “I am here tae find out about this meeting. Tell me where it is, and I shall be on me way.”
“Ye see, we thought this might happen,” the man with the high-pitched voice said, urging her to look back at him as he placed his hands flat down on the table between them. “When we heard there was a lass asking around about our circle, we had tae find a way to draw ye out, lass.”
Fiadh tried not to show the shock on her face and kept her lips pressed firmly together.
I have fallen in a trap.
She had believed the lie she had been told when asking around, that this was a meeting place for such men. She must have simply been told it to capture her.
“Now, pet.” The large man moved toward her again. “Tell us where ye got that ring and we may leave ye unharmed.”
She reached for the basilard and didn’t hesitate in pulling it out, turning it threateningly toward him. He backed up instantly, holding his palms in the air as if he were calming a wild animal.
“There now.” He smiled, rather wickedly, as if she had amused him. “Why dae ye want tae go causing trouble? I am sure ye and I could have some fun, pet.” He reached for her, moving sharply, but Fiadh was too quick. She had long grown accustomed to avoiding the advances of a man, and she would not be taken in now.
She drove the basilard down across his wrist. An almighty bellow erupted from his lips as Fiadh turned and grabbed the table, upturning it toward the smaller of two the men. It collided against him, knocking his body to the floor, just as the candle dropped to the flagstone floor, the light snuffing out.
Fiadh ran in the darkness for the door, relieved to find it open. She sprinted through the busy inn room, casting a quick glare at the innkeeper who either intentionally or inadvertently had helped to set her trap. He looked back, his gaze so sharp she realized that he too must have been a part of it.
Run, Fiadh!
She leapt toward the door, pushing through various drunkards who called out in complaint.
“That one of yer harlot lasses making a run fer it, keeper?” one man shouted at the innkeeper. “Ye need tae keep her locked up like a dog!” As laughter ran out, Fiadh was tempted to take a swipe at him with the basilard.
She reached for the door, kicking it open and bursting out into the street. It was a black night, with the only light in the cobbled road coming from the lanterns in the windows of the tavern. She ran into that darkness, backing up from the tavern and not looking where she was going – when she backed straight into something. Then a hand reached her shoulder…
“Ah!” she yelped, turning around to face her capturer.
“Fiadh?” a confused voice said in the darkness.
***
Elliot caught Fiadh around the waist as he moved her into the light falling from the tavern windows.
It cannae be her. What is she doing out here?
He’d left her behind at Chattan Castle, not that it had been easy to do so. He had had to return to McDowell castle across the border. He’d said goodbye and presented her with a gift, in the slim hope that Fiadh would read into it what he truly wished to say to her.
Elliot carried more than one secret with him these days. One of those secrets was what he felt for Fiadh, and the other was the reason he had had to leave, and why she could never know what he truly felt.
“Fiadh?” he said again when he saw her clearly in the rich orange light from the lanterns. She was red in the face from running, her chestnut hair falling out of its updo, and her green eyes almost golden in this light. In her hands was a basilard, and he took the handle with her hand, looking at the way she clung onto it as she fought hard to catch her breath.
“In the name of the wee man, what are ye doing with this? Come tae get revenge on me, eh?” he said with an easy smile. “All those times I should have asked ye tae dance at the Chattan feasts and didnae?”
“Elliot!” she snapped, her voice harsh. “Now is nae the time.” She tried to run away, but he couldn’t let her go that easily. It was Fiadh!
“What is it? What is wrong?” He wrapped his arm around her, protectively. Ever since he had helped her free from Ossian Macauley castle last year, he’d been protective of her. It was somehow easy to take her in his arms and surprisingly, Fiadh had never pulled back, even though she was far too beautiful for him. Those green eyes flashed in panic, the full lips parting, making that white scar of hers flash in the amber light.
“We need tae run. Now.” She pulled on his arm, that basilard quivering between the two of them.
“Fiadh…” He trailed off as the tavern door behind her burst open once again. Two men piled out, one small and another so comically large that he had to bend down to avoid hitting his head on the timber beam.
“Ah.” Elliot froze as he saw the way the men were looking at Fiadh. “Dae ye wish tae tell me what is going on, Fiadh? As I am nae sure it is best ye leave it up tae me tae figure this out meself.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I may come tae all sorts of the wrong conclusions.”
“How can ye jest at a time like this!?” she spluttered and pulled the basilard away from his grasp, holding it in front of her as she backed away down the cobbled street.
“What other way is there tae be?” He winked at her and reached for his sword, sliding it out of the scabbard he kept discretely tucked under his belt. “So, my good men, what will it be?” He moved to stand in front of Fiadh, making her back up further in surprise. “I was coming here for a quiet dinner before I continue on my journey. Ye can either let me have that dinner and run away now, or I’ll have tae deal with ye first.”
“Kill him,” the small man ordered to the large one with a jerk of his head.
“Ah, shame. I was looking forward tae that pigeon pie.” He smiled easily then swiped out with the sword, long before the hulking figure before him could even get close. That lunge was a pure distraction before he reached forward again and again. He struck the man in the shoulder first then slid upward, cutting the man under his chin. He swung around and elbowed the man in the gut, forcing him to bend down, winded, just far enough for Elliot to strike the hilt of the sword across the back of his head.
The man dropped flat to the cobbles, so hard that the lanterns in the windows nearby shuddered, the flames dancing back and forth.
“Now, fer ye.” Elliot moved toward the other man.
Abruptly, the man reached for something beneath his shirt, his fingers trembling. He pulled out an antler horn attached to a string and blew into the end. The cacophonous and hooting sound rang out between them.
“Ah, Fiadh?” he called to her, backing up.
“Aye?” She was already inching back herself.
“Time tae run. I think that means there is more of them.” He reached for her free hand, grasping it and pulling her away.
Elliot sprinted down the hill with Fiadh close behind him. His boots narrowly managed to avoid slipping in the puddles and on the damp stones, but Fiadh was not so lucky, and she fell into him more than once.
“Eager tae see me again, are ye?” he teased her as they reached the bottom of the hill.
“Elliott!” she snapped.
“I’ll take that as an ‘aye.’ We hardly have time fer ye tae drop tae yer knees and thank God fer me presence now.”
“Ye are so arrogant. Ah!”
He cut her off as they rounded a corner to find his horse tied to a hitching rail by a trough. He grabbed Fiadh’s waist and tossed her onto the back of the saddle. She put her basilard away as he put his sword away, then he climbed off in front of her.
“Ye ken me, Fiadh,” he said, grasping at the reins and freeing the horse from its place. “I’ll always dae what I can tae see ye smile.”
“Right now, I’ll settle fer being far away from here.”
“Yer wish is me command.” Elliot flicked the reins, urging the horse to dart away down the street as quickly as possible. They rode with such speed that Fiadh was forced to wrap both arms around his waist.
Elliot tried not to think of that feeling. If he concentrated on it too much, then he would be distracted indeed, his mind going to places it should not go.
How many times since he had met Fiadh had he wondered what could happen between them? How many times had he looked her in the eye, distracted by the small smiles she would sometimes give when he went out of his way to jest with her? Far too many!
It didn’t help that he often dreamed of her. It seemed no other woman could distract him from her, even if he tried. A need for Fiadh burned in his veins, and it would not be sated.
They left the town with the horn still being blasted somewhere in the distance. Elliot turned the horse’s paths between the trees, into the nearest copse, intent on hiding from anyone that came running. When they were far enough away for the sound of the horn to fade, with only the hoots of owls nearby to keep them company, Elliot slowed down.
He caught his breath as the horse bowed his nose toward the ground. He then halted the horse completely and turned around. Fiadh leaned back from him, her arms no longer wrapped around his waist so tightly, though her fingers still danced along the edge. It made a stirring curl in his abdomen, one he had to quell sharply.
“What is it?” she asked, that same innocent look that was always in her eyes.
“Dinnae give me that.” He shook his head sharply. “Ye wish me tae pretend I didnae just find ye running from a tavern with two men at yer heels, and a basilard in yer hand?”
“Ye’ve been in worse fights, I am sure.”
“Ah, ye ken I like it when ye jest.” He smiled, but it fell as fast as it appeared. “Yet I cannae bear tae banter when I have just made one man bleed and ye and I have raced into a forest tae hide. So, tell me, Fiadh. What on earth have I just rescued ye from?”
She bit her lip, looking down between them. At that look, Elliot was nearly driven mad.
Och, there are many other ways I could make ye bite yer lip, Fiadh. Just give me the word, and I will.
“We need tae find somewhere tae hide, Elliot.” Her evasive answer made his brows raise.
“I see ye are as enigmatic tonight as ye have always been.”
