Laughter and music echoed around the great hall of MacDuff Castle, the ball for Miss Sorcha MacDuff, the daughter of Laird MacDuff already in full swing. The great hall was swirling with color, men dressed in their clans’ colors, women dressed in elegant dresses, all of them prepared to make an impression upon the belle of the ball. It was still early in the evening, but the guests had all gathered, feasting and dancing and making merry, eager to have a moment alone with the young woman.

Not Willelm, though; Willelm was there for an entirely different reason.

The MacDuffs were responsible for the destruction of his clan. All those years of war, all those years of strife because Laird MacDuff wanted to control the borderlands between the two clans, and to do so, he had sent his men to burn and pillage, taking the people’s homes and sometimes even their lives.

Willelm had had enough. No matter how much he had tried to negotiate with the man, no matter how many times he had tried to reach out to him, he had never gotten a response. His forces were depleted, his resources were depleted, and his entire clan was suffering because of it, those who had survived the war now threatened with famine and illness. Soon, there would be nothing left of them. They would all be wiped off the face of the Earth, and in the end, they would be wiped from history too, lost in the depths of time.

So Willelm had to do something radical to get the man’s attention; something of which he wasn’t proud, but something that needed to be done nevertheless.

He would kidnap his daughter and use her for negotiations. That was the only way the laird would listen to him, and though it pained him to have to stoop so low, he would do anything for his clan.

Willelm watched the young woman as she strolled around the room, politely speaking to everyone who stopped her. She seemed far from happy to be there, though, even if she hid it well. Willelm could see it in the strain around her eyes and in her smile, the way her face fell whenever she thought no one was looking. Had no one else noticed but him? Everyone seemed more than happy to be around her, showering her in compliments and well-wishes, and nothing betrayed whether they noticed something was wrong.

Was it too stressful for her, he wondered? Did she feel the pressure of expectations as they mounted upon her shoulders?

She will never ken what it truly means tae struggle. She will never ken true strife.

The only way for her to know was if her family fell into the same kind of fate as his. But even then, she was the laird’s precious and beloved daughter, so she would be protected from the worst of it, from the death and the war and the pain.

Then again, Willelm didn’t wish her such a fate—he didn’t wish it on anyone, not even his biggest enemy.

The MacDuff girl was beautiful, even Willelm could admit that, although he held a certain dislike for her due to her lineage. Her father was responsible for all of his pain, for the pain of his people, and so disliking his daughter and everyone else in that room was a very easy task. But even so, as he watched her, Willelm couldn’t help but take in her brilliant green eyes, the delicate features of her face, the soft bow of her rosy lips. Her hair, golden under the light of the candles, seemed to have a glow of its own, like a halo around her head.

Just like everyone else, Willelm needed a moment alone with her, but not because he wished to speak to her and try to charm her. He just needed to get her away from all those people, somewhere private from where he could grab her and take her back to the estate where he and his brother, Rory, had set up their operations as they tried to fight back against the MacDuffs when they deemed their clan’s castle in Lochindorb was unsuitable, both because of its state and because it was their known home. Getting her alone, though, was proving to be a difficult task. With all those people there clamoring for her attention, he hadn’t had the chance and he didn’t know how he ever would.

He began to stroll around the room seemingly aimlessly, though his gaze never left the girl. It was a cavernous room, big enough to host all those clansmen and women, the tables, a large area upon which they danced, and so Willelm had a large area to exploit. He was using the room like a battlefield—avoiding certain places where people who knew him gathered, approaching from the sides, using every inch of space afforded to him. It was the only way to keep himself from appearing too suspicious, though he doubted anyone paid him much mind. They were all too busy looking for or talking to the MacDuff girl, and no one cared much about him.

He approached her slowly, making sure to exchange a few pleasantries with those around him—people who wanted to know who he was, a few who already did. Willelm wasn’t used to making public appearances like this. Though it was part of the life of a laird, his life as the leader of his clan was very different, demanding fighting and blood instead of dances and wine. It was better that way, he reasoned; it was better if very few people knew who he was, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Willelm found the MacDuff girl by a table, pouring herself some wine. He watched her for a few moments, taking in her long, blonde hair that glittered like gold under the light of the candelabras, the delicate lines of her arms as she poured the wine, the way her deep red dress clung to her waist and highlighted her curves. In that room, she shone like a precious stone, and Willelm could see why everyone was so desperate for even a moment of her time. It wasn’t just that this was her ball, one thrown in her honor—it was her inherent magnetism, something about her that drew everyone to her like moths to a flame.

Taking the opportunity to talk to her, he presented his cup to her with a small smile, only for her to give him a puzzled look.

“Would ye be so kind as tae serve me some, as well?” he asked. “Or at least hand me the pitcher?”

The corner of her mouth ticking up for a brief moment, Sorcha poured some wine into Willelm’s cup and he held it up in a toast. “May ye find whatever it is ye’re searchin’ here.”

A husband, Willelm knew. That was the only reason anyone threw their daughter such balls—that or coming of age events, and this was not the latter.

“Och, somehow I doubt I will,” Sorcha said, much to Willelm’s surprise. A short, sudden laugh was torn out of him. It wasn’t the kind of answer he had expected from a girl who seemed so polite and so proper, and she seemed to realize that a little belatedly, her cheeks heating under the light of the chandeliers. “Forgive me, I didnae mean tae insult ye.”

“Nae insult received,” he assured her. Out of everyone in that room, he was perhaps the worst match possible for her. “Perhaps ye could try yer luck at the other side of the room.”

As he spoke, Willelm pointed at a group of young men who were paying more attention to each other than they did to Sorcha, laughing and joking and looking at the other young women in the room. Sorcha followed his gaze and she chuckled, shaking her head.

“I’m sure they would all be great husbands, but I’m afraid I simply wouldnae be a good wife tae them,” she said.

“Och?” Willelm asked, suddenly intrigued. “An’ why is that?”

Sorcha gave him a small shrug. “Because I would feel inclined tae slap them every few minutes.”

Despite himself, Willelm barked out another laugh, one that echoed around the room and drew the attention of a few people around him. He quickly swallowed back the rest of it, clearing his throat and hoping that very few had noticed.

The more invisible he was in that room, the better. He had managed to stay invisible all this time; he would not draw attention on him now.

Next to him, Sorcha smiled, a teasing, amused thing, and for a moment, Willelm had the wild thought that if their circumstances were different, he would be fighting for her hand.

But she was the daughter of his enemy and he wasn’t there to find a wife; he was there to find leverage.

“That would, indeed, make ye a terrible wife,” he agreed. “But a clever woman. Sometimes violence is necessary.”

“Dae ye truly think that?” Sorcha asked him, her brows knitting together as she turned her gaze to him.

It sounded like an honest question and Willelm found himself suddenly and oddly embarrassed to be nodding in agreement. “Aye… o’ course I dae.”

In response, Sorcha only hummed thoughtfully, as if she was considering his answer. In the end, though, she only gave him another smile, this time a polite one that he felt compelled to return, if only to keep up appearances.

“Well, I prefer peace meself,” she told him as she began to wander off, leaving him behind by that table. “Enjoy yer night.”

With that, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd, and Willelm followed her with his gaze until he could no longer spot her. She was gone in the sea of people, and they closed in around her, obscuring his view of her. He would find her again soon enough, he knew; it was his job, keeping an eye on her and knowing where she was at all times.

Outside the castle, his men waited for his signal. Once he gave it, they would come with him and help him take Sorcha back to the estate, where he would keep her until her father was ready to cooperate. It was a shame, he thought, that such a seemingly lovely young woman was Laird MacDuff’s daughter, but despite their brief, yet pleasant, interaction, he was certain she was otherwise insufferable.

She had to be; she was related to a monster.

Willelm dragged his gaze to the man himself, who was sitting with his wife at the head table, enjoying the night. He was dressed in his clan colors, wearing them proudly, and Willelm felt a wave of revulsion crash over him, bile rising to the back of his throat and leaving a bad taste in his mouth. How could Laird MacDuff sit there, so joyous and seemingly innocent, when every day he murdered innocent people? How could he throw such lavish balls, invite all those nobles to his home, and pretend to be the perfect host when he gave the orders for Willelm’s lands to be burned?

He couldn’t understand it, but he didn’t need to. All he needed to do was put an end to it, once and for good.

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Chapter One

MacDuff Estate, 1341

As a large, smooth hand was thrust right into her face, Sorcha MacDuff once again contemplated the necessity of a husband in a young woman’s life. It only took her a few seconds to come to the conclusion that, though necessary, a man could surely only be a burden.

“I would be honored tae have this dance, Miss MacDuff,” the man to whom the hand belonged to said. Sorcha followed the length of his arm with her gaze, looking up, up, until she finally got a good glance at his face under the incandescent glow of the candles.

Ach! He could be me faither!

The man standing before her was tall and plump, with ruddy cheeks and graying hair—surely, over thirty years her senior. Sorcha managed a polite smile, the same one she had borne all night as she tried to maneuver her way around the great hall of MacDuff’s Castle and the guests who had gathered there for the ball, and swiftly evaded the hand offered to her as she took a step backwards.

Who is he? I should ken his name.

Racking her brain for this man’s identity, Sorcha continued to slowly back away from him, but the man eagerly followed. Behind her, people parted to allow her to pass, but then her back hit something large and hard.

A pillar, one of those towering structures of dark stone that held the high ceiling; she had backed herself into a corner.

“Fergive me…” she said, and then, as though through divine intervention, remembered the man’s name, “Sir Cameron! I’m afraid I must decline. I… ach… I’m lookin’ fer—”

Sorcha let her gaze roam around the great hall, trying to find an excuse to get away from Sir Cameron’s clutches. It was far from an easy task. Not only had she had one cup of wine too many to cope with the constant bombardment of attention, but the large, laughing crowd disoriented her, the music swelled over her in waves, and the heat of the room felt suddenly suffocating.

All of that effort, all the decorations and the roasted meats and the flowing wine were wasted on her, her only desire being to hide away from the crowd.

At twenty years of age, she was ready to find a suitable match, and her parents, eager and helpful as always, had thrown the ball for her. At first, it had seemed like an exciting opportunity to find her future husband, someone she could one day love and wed, and with whom she could have a big family. But now that she had seen her options—one of whom was the shameless Sir Cameron, apparently—fleeing into the woods and starting a new life seemed more appealing.

“Me, I hope.”

Sorcha’s head whipped to the side at the sound of the rough, baritone voice right next to her. Though the voice was only vaguely familiar to her, the face, with the high, regal forehead, the slightly crooked nose, and the thin lips under a short, dark beard was one she immediately recognized.

“Laird MacLaren,” she said in greeting, attempting an awkward curtsy with her back against the pillar. “Actually—”

“Sir Cameron, may I?” Laird MacLaren asked, his gray eyes pinning the other man with a demanding gaze. For a moment, it seemed to Sorcha that this would end in an argument, but then Sir Cameron only bowed and retreated, giving one last smile to Sorcha—one she did her best to return.

It was always better to keep relations amicable, her mother said, despite personal preference.

“I’m terribly sorry, Laird MacLaren, but I’m lookin’ fer me braither,” Sorcha said, knowing that if there was anyone who could help her out of this, it would be Ruaridh. “Have ye seen him?”

“I havenae,” Laird MacLaren said distractedly, but when Sorcha tried to move away from the pillar, his hand reached out, fingers wrapping delicately around her wrist to stop her. “Perhaps we can look fer him together after this dance?”

Sorcha let out an awkward chuckle, her gaze flitting about the room over Laird MacLaren’s shoulders. “I’d like that very much, but I’m afraid I must find him right now.”

“I insist,” said Laird MacLaren, his hand tightening around her wrist. His tone had a sharp edge, one that she didn’t quite appreciate. When she tried to yank her arm out of his grip, though, Laird MacLaren refused to let go.

“An’ I insist that ye unhand me,” she said, her own tone turning icy. “As I said, I must speak tae Ruaridh.”

“I’m sure he can wait,” Laird MacLaren said as he took a step closer to Sorcha.

Ach, why willnae he leave me alone? This is hardly the behavior o’ a gentleman!

Laird Rhys MacLaren was nothing if not insistent, it seemed, though insistent was perhaps too light a word for him. His grip on Sorcha’s forearm was just forceful enough to keep her where she was, but gentle enough to not hurt her. The way he looked at her, though, revealed the cracks on his mask; irritation bled through them, those gray eyes piercing right through her.

Why cannae I find one man who is gentle an’ respectful in this room?

Everyone felt entitled to her time and her attention. On the one hand, she should have expected it. Every bachelor in the room had been invited specifically for her to choose the best. On the other hand, none of them appeared to be the kind of man she desired.

Mustering all of her tenacity, Sorcha glared at Laird MacLaren as she said, “Me braither is already lookin’ fer me. I think it would be wiser fer me tae find him afore he finds me.”

It was a subtle threat, but one that worked beautifully. Laird MacLaren let go of her and gave her a smile that was all teeth,glinting under the candlelight.

“So be it,” he said. “Perhaps later.”

“Perhaps.”

It was all Sorcha said before she stomped off, pushing her way through the crowd. She needed some fresh air, to get out of the great hall and have a few moments to herself, without anyone bothering her.

Even as she tried to make her way to the courtyard, though, people were still trying to stop her—men who wanted a dance, girls who wanted a moment of her time. Sorcha slipped past them all, trying her best to be as polite and as diplomatic as she could while rushing to avoid them, and by the time she finally burst through the front doors and out into the courtyard, her ears were buzzing and her head felt heavy on her neck.

The fresh air seemed to help, if only a little. She took one breath after the other, but the noise from the great hall spilled out there, too, through the windows.

“What are ye daein’ out here?”

Sorcha jumped at the sudden presence next to her, and for a panicked moment, she thought that she had already been discovered.

“Ach, ye scared me,” she told Ruaridh. “I thought ye were another one o’ me suitors.”

“Would that be so bad?” Ruaridh asked as he leaned against the nearest wall, his figure outlined by the faint moonlight. Even leaning to the side like that, he towered over Sorcha. His dark hair seemed to blend right into the wall behind him, but his green eyes glinted in the light of a nearby torch.

That was the only feature they shared. With Sorcha’s blonde hair and slender build, they only vaguely resembled each other.

“I’m tired o’ them all,” Sorcha admitted with a long-suffering sigh. “Have ye seen the men in there?”

“Och aye,” Ruaridh said with a soft chuckle. “They’re nae tae yer likin’?”

Sorcha turned her gaze to her brother, her eyes narrowing. “Are ye jestin’?”

“Surely, one o’ them must be tae yer likin’,” Ruaridh said, but Sorcha only shook her head. It made sense, logically, that one of them at least would be to her liking. If there was one such man in that room, though, she had not yet found him.

Perhaps I am the one with the problem.

“Come,” said Ruaridh after a long stretch of silence. Sorcha glanced at him with a frown, but he only nodded his head away from the keep and began to walk away, not waiting to see if Sorcha would follow. Rushing after him, Sorcha caught up after a few steps, but their destination didn’t become any clearer to her.

“Where are we goin’?”

“We’re goin’ tae the stables an’ ye’re goin’ tae yer spot tae have a moment tae breathe,” Ruaridh said, much to Sorcha’s surprise. “Dinnae take too long, though. I can only excuse yer absence fer so long.”

Sorcha’s spot, as Ruaridh had called it, was in the estate, a little farther into the woods—a clearing, small and verdant, where no one else went. It was a place just for her, a place where she went to retreat from the world.

But going there in the middle of the feast didn’t seem like such a good plan.

“What if people start lookin’ fer me?”

“I’ll tell them ye had tae… relieve yerself,” said Ruaridh with a shrug.

“Ye will dae nae such thing!” Sorcha said, slapping him on the arm. “That’s embarrassin’!”

“Alright, what dae ye wish fer me tae tell them, then?” Ruaridh asked.

“Literally anythin’ else,” said Sorcha just as the two of them reached the stables—a small, squat building of stone near the barracks. Inside, the horses were resting for the night and the stableboy was nowhere to be found. Ruaridh made quick work of Sorcha’s horse, though, saddling it and preparing it for the short trip as she watched, her arms crossed over her chest. “Ye willnae truly tell them that, will ye?”

Rolling her eyes at her, Ruaridh shook his head. “Nay. I’ll tell them I only just saw ye an’ that ye must be somewhere in the crowd.”

That sounded much better to Sorcha and she let her arms drop before she rushed to give her brother a hug. “Thank ye,” she said. “Ye’re savin’ me from the worst fate.”

“Och aye, I’m sure it’s a terrible fate tae have so many suitors,” he teased, but Sorcha figured a man like him could never understand the kind of decision she had to make. She was the one who would have to spend the rest of her life with the man she would choose—or should she fail to do so, the man her parents would choose for her. Ruaridh was free to do as he pleased; Sorcha was not.

With her horse ready, Ruaridh helped her climb onto the saddle and then she was gone, riding away from the chaos of the night with a torch in her hand. She didn’t stray too far from the keep. It was late and the wind whipped her face as she rode, seeping through her yellow kirtle and her overgown. In her hurry, she had neglected to pick up a cloak and now she regretted it dearly as the chill reached her bones, but it was too late for her to turn back. At the clearing, where the trees would block the wind, she would be warmer.

With that thought in mind, Sorcha pushed forward, the trees blurring into shadows as she rode through the forest. It was not long before she reached her usual spot; her beloved clearing, waiting there for her as it always did.

Jumping off the saddle, Sorcha led her horse to a patch of grass where it could graze as she relaxed, and then she slid down against the trunk of a large oak, sitting on the soft earth under its canopy. It was peaceful there; there was no one to bother her, no one to ask for another dance, no one to trap her against a pillar.

“Good evenin’.”

For yet another time that night, Sorcha jumped right out of her skin, a curse escaping her at the sound of the strange voice. Unlike the other two times, when she turned to look at the intruder, she didn’t recognize him and her heart leapt to her throat just as she leapt to her feet. The man was cloaked in shadow, and only when he stepped forward and was illuminated by the orange glow of the torch did Sorcha realize that he seemed vaguely familiar.

Blonde hair, green eyes… I must have seen him somewhere.

The man had been at the ball, they had exchanged a few words. He was dressed in fine clothes of wool and silk. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a patrician profile that would have made him the kind of man her parents would easily choose for her.

The kind o’ man I’d choose too.

There was something about him, though; something she couldn’t quite name that weighed heavily on her regardless.

“Good evenin’,” she said, though she kept her distance from him. “If ye have followed me here tae speak tae me, then I would much rather be left alone.”

What other reason did the man have to be there? This was a place just for her, a place where no one else had any reason to be. Still, the man laughed as if in disbelief, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Follow ye?” he asked. “Ye’re the one who followed me. I’ve been here fer a while.”

That didn’t sound right to Sorcha at all. Not only had she not followed the man there, but she was also certain he couldn’t have been there for hours, not if she had seen him at the feast. Frowning, she took a few more steps back on instinct, her hand brushing against the rough bark of the tree.

“I dinnae think I ken yer name,” she said, in an attempt to find out who the man was.

“I dinnae think ye ken it either,” the man said, which only deepened her frown. Surely, he had understood she was asking for it, but he refused to give it to her, and now he only grinned at her as she looked at him in confusion.

“Well, can I ken what it is?” Sorcha asked, but the man shook his head.

“Why would I tell me name tae the lass who followed me here?”

Sorcha couldn’t tell if the man was joking or not. Every single man she had spoken to that night had been strange, though, in his attempt to charm her, and perhaps this was no different. Maybe despite his good looks, he didn’t know how to speak to women.

How can he be so handsome yet so… strange?

“Well, I’m sure ye ken me name,” Sorcha pointed out. Everyone at the feast knew who she was, of course. Everyone had gone there to see her. “So I think it is only right that ye tell me yers.”

“Ye can call me whatever ye please,” said the man with a small shrug.

“Then I shall call ye peculiar,” Sorcha said, unable to stop herself from delivering a spunky response. For all she cared, the man was asking for it. “Perhaps even rude.”

The man’s laugh filled the small clearing, deep and resonant. “An odd choice, when ye could have called me anythin’ else ye wished. Dae ye truly think it so rude o’ me tae withhold me name?”

“O’ course!” said Sorcha, irritation flaring up inside her now. This man was teasing her, there was no doubt in her mind about that now, but she had had enough of people trying to get her attention in the most bizarre ways that night. If he truly wanted to get to know her, then he could try speaking to her and showing some interest in what she had to say. “First ye claim I followed ye here, when I clearly didnae, an’ now ye willnae even tell me who ye are. I ken ye followed me here, so why dinnae ye simply tell me what it is ye want from me?”

The man remained silent, only watching her with a lidded gaze that sent a shiver down her spine. From the very first moment she had seen him, something had seemed odd to her about him, and now it was only being confirmed again and again in her mind.

It didn’t really matter; she had had enough of men for one night, and even now that she had fled the feast, one of them had still managed to track her down. It would be better to head back to her chambers for a while, she thought. Then perhaps, she could get some moments of peace before having to return to the feast.

Never taking her eyes off the man, she said, “I should head back now. Everyone at the ball will start wonderin’ where I am.”

“I’m afraid I cannae let ye dae that.”

The man’s expression was entirely deadpan, entirely serious, and yet Sorcha found herself laughing, thinking that he must be teasing her again. When he didn’t laugh, though, but rather stared at her with a blank expression, she realized he was not teasing her at all, and her laughter was cut short.

The man approached her slowly, his footsteps quiet in the soft earth. Sorcha’s stomach dropped, the blood rushing in her veins. She had to get out of there; she had to escape.

“It would be best if ye didnae run,” said the man.

Despite the warning, Sorcha did just that.

Chapter Two

Running to her horse, Sorcha quickly jumped on. She wasted no time before galloping down the path, heading back towards the keep and thanking God that she had not strayed too far from it. But before long, she heard another set of hooves behind her, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that the man was already pursuing her.

Tugging on the reins, Sorcha urged her horse to go faster and faster, pushing it to its limits. Despite their combined best efforts, though, the man was gaining on her, getting closer and closer with every stomp of his horse’s feet. Still, Sorcha was confident she would have made it, if only it hadn’t been for the three men who jumped in front of her out of the shadows of the woods. They, too, were on horseback, and she doubted it was a coincidence that they were there. They all had to be working with the man pursuing her.

The three of them formed a wall in front of her that was impenetrable. Even if she had tried to ride past them, she would have collided with at least one of them, and that would only risk leaving her and her horse injured. Besides, her horse reared, too spooked to continue down its path, and for a moment all Sorcha could do was hold onto the saddle and the reins with all her might as she tried to stay on top.

Frantically, she looked around her, desperate for a way to escape. She could see none. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and her breath came in short puffs, her mind buzzing with all the terrible scenarios she was coming up with. She didn’t know what those men wanted from her, but there were a few things that came to mind.

How will I get out o’ here?

The keep was still too far. Even if she had tried to scream for help, none of the guards would have heard her. Her only hope was to find a way through, but that, too, was extinguished when one of the men reached for her and tossed her right off the saddle.

Sorcha landed with a thud on the ground, her breath rushing out of her lungs. For one terrible, painful moment, she could neither breathe nor move, and she thought that would be the end of her. Soon, though, she regained her strength and pushed herself up to her feet, stumbling as she tried to escape once more. Perhaps it was better this way; perhaps without her horse, she could weave through them and run through the woods back to the keep.

That was precisely what she did. Instead of following the path, she dashed into the thick forest, hoping the trees were thick enough for the riders not to follow. Every time she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the three of them still there, watching, and her heart soared with the hope that she could truly make it back in one piece. All she needed was to push herself a little longer, even if her lungs burned and her legs ached from the effort.

But the next time she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the man from the clearing pursuing her once more, this time on foot. He was fast; much faster than her, his feet covering the same distance in half the time it took her. Sorcha couldn’t help but cry out in fear as the man gained on her once more, before finally grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into a complete halt.

Sorcha screamed and thrashed in the man’s grip, kicking her legs out as she tried to get him to let go of her. Despite her slender frame, she was a strong woman, but she was still at a disadvantage against such large men. Her captor’s arms were like a vice around her, so strong that his grip was cutting off her air. Each mad kick of her legs, each struggle only served to hurt her, the man’s hands leaving bruises behind on her skin.

“While I’m enjoyin’ chasin’ ye, I dinnae wish tae hurt ye,” the man said, yelling to be heard over her shouts. “It’s time fer ye tae stop an’ be a good lass.”

As he spoke, the man dragged Sorcha, still screaming and kicking, back to the group, where the other men waited with rope and rags. Upon spotting the items, Sorcha’s will to escape only strengthened, and she thrashed like a rabid animal in the man’s arms, throwing her weight around in a desperate attempt to force him to let go.

At his whistle, two of the other men grabbed her, effectively immobilizing her despite her best efforts. With one of them holding her arms and torso and the other holding her legs, there was nothing she could do but scream for help—but even that stopped when her first captor shoved a rag in her mouth, effectively silencing her.

Her throat was hoarse. Bruises already bloomed over her skin, making every movement painful. As the man bound her hands behind her back and her ankles together, Sorcha’s strength evaporated, leaving behind only the husk of who she was.

She couldn’t fight anymore; even if she did, there was no point. There was one of her and four of them. No matter what she did, she could never escape their grasp.

As the man grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder, Sorcha huffed around the rag in her mouth as she was jostled. The man placed her precariously over his saddle before climbing on and adjusting her, so that she was leaning securely against his body, and as she was wriggled around and moved like a doll, Sorcha realized her hands and feet were only loosely bound—not loosely enough for her to run, but loosely enough to be gentle and leave no marks.

A considerate kidnapper… just what I needed.

“Time fer us tae return,” the man said as he began trotting down the path away from the keep. “They’ll be lookin’ fer her soon.”

Sorcha wanted to say that yes, indeed, someone would be looking for her, but she couldn’t utter a single word with that piece of cloth in her mouth. Still, she grumbled around it, trying to make herself heard, only for the man to ignore her completely as they rode through the dark forest.

One moment tumbled into the next, until Sorcha didn’t know where they were or even how much time had passed since they had left the estate. As they rushed through the darkness, the wind still whipped her cheeks and made her eyes water, but the man was a solid wall of warmth against her. Not only that, but he had made sure to wrap his cloak around them both, giving Sorcha another layer of clothing to protect her from the elements.

What kind of captor treated his victim like this? What kind of brigand made sure that the woman he had kidnapped was warm and comfortable?

But this man didn’t look like a brigand at all, and neither did those who were with him. He carried himself with grace, with the air of someone who had grown up much in the same way she had. Now that her panic had subsided, since the men didn’t seem interested in killing her and had refrained from touching her in any inappropriate ways, she couldn’t help but wonder who this man was and what he wanted to do with her.

He’s… handsome. Very much so.

It struck Sorcha as a strange thought to have in the middle of being kidnapped, but there was no denying the man’s allure. Even in the dim light of the moon, his features stood out to her, his attractiveness difficult to ignore. The fact that he had taken her from her home against her will, though, was more than enough to overshadow his good looks and instantly fill Sorcha with hatred for him.

There was one thing she knew for certain; he was no brigand, or at least not an ordinary one.

After what seemed—and must have been—hours of riding, a castle appeared in the short distance. It was nothing like Macduff’s Castle, though. Where their keep stood tall and gleaming in the sun, this one seemed decrepit, on the edge of collapse. Parts of the roof were missing. Stones from the walls had fallen off and were piled up near the structure around the corners. Even in the dark, the plants that surrounded it seemed neglected.

The man and his three companions came to a stop in the courtyard. Sorcha was unceremoniously pulled off the saddle, only for the man to slash off the rope around her ankles and drag her inside. Sorcha had no choice but to follow; she was pulled along like a puppet, her legs numb after the ride and her entire body aching from the exertion and the cold.

She hardly had any time to take in her surroundings. All she saw as the man guided her through the corridors were more dilapidated walls, some of them decorated with faded tapestries and portraits. The torches that illuminated their way were few and far in-between, casting large, looming shadows over the walls. By the time they stopped in front of a large, wooden door, Sorcha found herself glancing over her shoulder again and again, as if expecting a spirit to appear through the cracks in the wall.

The man didn’t knock before entering the room and pulling her inside. There was no one there save for one man, younger than the one who had captured her, but so similar in appearance that Sorcha could only guess they were closely related. The man was hunched over the desk, a single candle illuminating the stacks of paper in front of him as he worked, but when he heard them enter, he immediately looked up.

Sorcha refused to be intimidated by him, and so she stared right back, as defiantly as she could considering her circumstances. She didn’t know what these men wanted from her, but she knew that showing any sign of weakness would only worsen her position, and so she held her head high, refusing to cower.

“All good?” the man behind the desk asked, and at the other’s nod, he rounded the large piece of furniture to come stand closer. The entire room seemed to be furnished with expensive items that looked strange in this room and castle. Sorcha didn’t know what to make of the place.

“Nay trouble at all,” the man holding her said. “Well, she was some trouble, but we dealt with it.”

Sorcha turned to glare at the man for speaking about her like she wasn’t even there, though she supposed that was the least of her problems. When the other spoke, though, it took her a moment to focus on him instead.

“Miss MacDuff, me name’s Rory Comyn,” he said. “This is me braither, Laird Willelm Comyn. I can assure ye we mean ye nay harm, nay matter how it may seem tae ye now.”

Sorcha couldn’t help but roll her eyes at that, grumbling around the cloth once more, only for her words to be muffled. With a swift move, Willelm removed the gag from her mouth, and Sorcha drew in a sharp breath, glad to be rid of the thing.

“What was that?” Rory asked her.

“I said,” Sorcha began, rolling her shoulders back, though it hardly helped with the difference in height, “it doesnae seem like it.”

“That’s why he said it may nae seem like it, love,” Willelm said, and for a moment, Sorcha was so shocked at the pet name that she could do little other than stare at him in disbelief with her mouth open. Naturally, that only allowed Willelm to continue with his lies. “Nay harm will come tae ye if ye listen, we promise. Ye’re here because this is the only way tae force yer family tae negotiate with us an’ stop destroyin’ our lands.”

That was even more preposterous than the pet name. Sorcha couldn’t help the humorless laugh that escaped her as she shook her head, unable to believe her bad luck.

“Ye must have confused me with someone else,” she said. “Me family would never dae such a thing.”

“Miss Sorcha MacDuff,” Rory said. “We ken precisely who ye are an’ ye best believe we ken what yer family is daein’.”

When she heard her full name, Sorcha’s mouth snapped shut, her mind rushing through his words. Surely, her family couldn’t have done such a thing. Surely, those two men were mistaken.

“Me family would never destroy anyone’s lands an’ especially nae without a good reason,” she said.

But her words only prompted a laugh from Willelm, who shook his head in disbelief.

“What is so funny?” Sorcha asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, yer parents are clearly hidin’ plenty o’ things from ye,” Willelm said. “Our people are sufferin’ an’ they ken the truth. Yer family has been attackin’ us fer too long an’ we willnae stand fer it.”

“They wouldnae—”

“Aye, I heard ye the first time,” Willelm said, cutting her off. “Yer family would never dae this, sure. So, what would ye call burnin’ an’ pillagin’ another clan’s lands?”

Sorcha couldn’t believe her own ears. Her family was kind and fair. Her father was a good laird and man. Never before had she heard anyone complain about his decisions, and she was certain that these men were either wrong or that there was a good reason why her father was doing what he was doing.

“Well, what have ye done tae me clan?” she demanded. “I’m sure me faither has a very good reason tae attack ye, if what ye’re sayin’ is true.”

Rory parted his lips as if to speak, but it was Willelm who spoke first. “We dinnae wish tae hear any o’ yer reasons, as ye call them. All we’re interested in is showin’ yer family that their decisions have consequences.”

Consequences… they promised tae nae hurt me, but they very well could.

And alone as she was, in a strange place, with strange men, there would be no one there to help her.

“An’ how long dae ye expect me tae stay here?” Sorcha asked. Surely, they couldn’t keep her there forever, or even for as long as it would take to end this misunderstanding—because it had to be a misunderstanding. There was no way she would ever believe her father had done the terrible things they claimed. “When dae I get tae go home?”

“Go home?” Willelm asked, as if the mere notion amused him. “Ye’re nae goin’ home any time soon, lass. Ye’re ours now.”

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Two Months Before…

“I dinnae ken why I let ye talk me intae these bleedin’ things,” Lorne muttered. “Ye ken how much I hate things like this.”

Gavin laughed. “Think of this as a way tae broaden yer horizons.”

“Me horizons are broadened enough.”

“Yer horizons dinnae extend past the lands of our clan.”

“Tis far enough for me.”

His cousin sighed. “One of these days, when ye are Laird—if nae before—ye will need tae take a bride,” he said. “Where are ye goin’ tae meet a bride if ye dinnae look past our borders.”

“There plenty of suitable women within our clan.”

Gavin scoffed. “Perhaps ye’d like tae be matched with Isla?”

Lorne pulled a face. “Isla? She’s manlier than I am.”

“Well, tis nae sayin’ much really, but I think ye’re startin’ tae see me point.”

Laughing, Lorne punched Gavin in the shoulder. “Bleedin’ donkey.”

They dismounted in the yard of Castle Magillivray and took it in for a moment. Music and laughter drifted out of the open doorway of the keep. The party was already in full swing. A pair of stable boys appeared and took their horses from them, leading them away to be watered and fed. Lorne shifted on his feet, pulling his breeches down then tugging his black velvet doublet. He looked down at himself and frowned.

“I look like a fool,” he muttered.

“Aye. But any more so than any other day.”

Lorne grinned. “Dae ye take anythin’ seriously?”

“I try tae avoid it if I can.”

“Ye dae a good job of it.”

“Thank ye,” Gavin chirped. “I’m glad tae see me efforts dinnae go unnoticed.”

His cousin was dressed in blue and red velvet and looked every bit as foolish as Lorne felt. Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse though, it did. Gavin produced a pair of white masks and handed one over to him with a smile.

“Put this on,” he said.

“I’m nae puttin’ this on.”

“Tis a masked ball,” Gavin said. “Ye have tae.”

With a loud sigh, Lorne did as Gavin asked and tied the mask on. It covered the top half of his face, leaving nothing but his mouth exposed. If nothing else, at least nobody would be able to recognize him. That was the only positive Lorne could find in this. He did not know how he’d let his cousin talk him into this in the first place.

“Come,” Gavin said.

Feeling as if he was on a death march, Lorne walked alongside Gavin. They mounted the steps and through the front doors of the castle. They passed masked men and women, laughing and acting like children as they ran up and down the corridors. Following the sound of the music, they passed a group of women, young and comely with tight fitting velvet gowns. The women eyed them closely and approvingly as they passed.

“Ye see?” Gavin said. “Even ye should be able tae find a woman in a place like this. A comely women. Maybe even a woman who can put up with ye’re broodin’ self.”

Lorne huffed but said nothing. He was not looking for a woman of any kind. Marriage was not something he had given any thought to. Had no desire for. He knew that eventually, he would have to wed. It was inevitable. A Laird was expected to marry and produce an heir. But Lorne would cross that bridge whenever he came to it. He certainly didn’t expect he would find that bridge while he wore velvet and a mask.

Gavin turned to him and grinned. “In a place like this, with women as fine as these roaming the corridors, I’d reckon ye can find a woman even yer faither would approve of.”

Lorne scoffed. “I doubt it.”

His father did not approve of anything Lorne did. He had been chasing his father’s approval since he was a young boy, but nothing he did was ever good enough for the man. Lorne longed to see approval in his father’s face. Wanted nothing more than to see respect in his father’s eyes when he looked at him. But he never saw anything close to it.

Gavin stopped walking, forcing Lorne to stop short as well. He put his hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Yer faither wants thae best for ye. And he believes in ye,” Gavin said.

“He’s got a funny way of showin’ it.”

“Uncle Tiernan is tough. Hard. He rides ye only because he’s tryin’ tae get the best out of ye because he ken it’s in there,” Gavin said, tapping on Lorne’s chest. “Maybe ye dinnae find the woman of yer dreams here. Tis all right. But if nothin’ else, Cousin, then ye should have some fun tonight.”

“Fun,” Lorne muttered. “I couldnae tell ye what that is.”

The word was as foreign on his tongue as the concept was. His father did not approve of fun. He did not believe in being frivolous or acting like children. He would most definitely not approve of dancing and wearing velvet and masks. That was not his way. Which was why it was not Lorne’s way either, since he was trying so hard to cut himself into his father’s image. He thought—hoped—that if he was more like his father, the man would come to approve of him.

Gavin knew everything going through Lorne’s heart and mind right now and nodded solemnly. They had talked about it endlessly and an expression of compassion touched his features. But he swallowed it down and put that mischievous grin on his face.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Gavin said. “But tonight is nae for lamentin’ those things we dinnae have. Tonight is for drinkin’, dancin’, and behavin’ like a fool.”

“I’ll have tae take lessons from ye on that last point.”

Gavin laughed. “Then prepare tae study thae master.”

He let his cousin lead him to the castle’s great hall. They stepped through the doors and into an entirely different world. The hall was brightly lit and music echoed off the stone walls. A group of musicians sat off in a corner, playing a lively tune as throngs of people danced and laughed. The air around them was redolent with the aroma of a thousand different foods and household servants bustled around carrying trays bearing cups of wine as well as small finger foods.

Gavin stopped one of the servants and plucked a pair of cups off her tray then handed one of them to Lorne.

“Thank ye,” Lorne said.

“Tis only the beginnin’.”

He plucked a pair of roasted meat pastries off another passing tray and popped one into his mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he made a sound that bordered on the indecent.

“That was amazin’,” he said. “We need tae teach thae kitchen staff back home tae make those things.”

“I’ll be sure tae get the recipe,” Lorne muttered dryly.

“Come, cousin. Let us mingle.”

Lorne sighed and gave thought to running out, fetching his horse, and riding home. The only thing that kept him there was fearing what shame Gavin might bring down on their clan if he was left alone and unsupervised.

“Fine,” Lorne said. “Let’s go… mingle.”

“Ye need tae loosen up,” he said. “And just try tae pretend tae have some fun. If ye dae, who kens? Ye might have some by accident.”

They skirted the edge of the hall, ducking and dodging the people dancing and running about like children. Lorne offered a smile to those he passed, but it felt false on his face. He was trying. Pretending. But he wasn’t having any fun. His cousin on the other hand, laughed with everybody he met. He talked with everybody like they were old friends. People genuinely seemed to like Gavin. They gravitated toward him.

It was something Lorne had always envied about his cousin. That natural ability to connect with people. It was something he’d never been good at. He kept people at an arm’s distance. He didn’t open up to them the way Gavin could.

Gavin gasped and grabbed Lorne by the shoulder. He stood close but his eyes were elsewhere. Lorne tried to follow his cousin’s gaze but couldn’t see who or what he was looking at. He turned to Gavin.

“What in the bleedin’ hell has yer attention?” Lorne asked.

“Me future bride.”

He laughed. “Ye’re future bride, eh?”

“Aye. Small, auburn hair, fair, creamy skin,” he said. “She’s the most exquisite creature I’ve ever seen and I must go and speak with her.”

“Then go and speak with her.”

Gavin turned to a man standing next tae him. “Excuse me, good sir. The young woman with auburn hair in the green gown with thae white mask—she’s runnin’ about, dancin’, and has thae most captivatin’ smile. Ye wouldnae happen tae ken her name, would ye?”

The man chuckled. “Sounds like ye’re describin’ Beatrix Magillivray. Daughter of Laird Dunn Magillivray.”

“Beatrix Magillivray,” Gavin said with a note of wonder in his voice.

Lorne watched his cousin and saw that gleam in his eye he got when he was about to suggest they do something he knew would not end well. Gavin turned to him.

“Come, me cousin,” Gavin said. “We must go and meet me future bride.”

Against his better judgment, Lorne let Gavin lead him through the crowd, seeking out the auburn-haired beauty that had captured his attention. Lorne shook his head.

“Nothin’ good will come of this,” he said.

“Think positive, lad. Think positive.”

Lorne grimaced. He was positive nothing good would come of this. But he let Gavin lead him into the crowd anyway…

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Chapter One

March, 1715

Macgillivray Castle, Dunmaglass

Diana Macgillivray wanted to be anywhere but where she was. The grand ballroom was brightly lit, filled with music, and teeming with people, most of whom she didn’t know, in elegant attire and masks. The tables against the far wall were laden with food, the aroma of a thousand different delicacies filling the air, and the mood in the room was fun and festive. Laughter and conversation filled the hall as people made merry, but to Diana it sounded like the buzz of a swarm of flies on a carcass.

She adjusted the mask on her face, grumbling under her breath. Her mother had forced her to wear the heavy black gown and a black and white mask. It was uncomfortable, warm, itchy, and she wanted nothing more than to go back to her bedchamber. She had no interest and even less use for frivolous balls. She would never understand why people seemed to love those kinds of festivities as much as they did.

“Ye dinnae look tae be havin’ a good time.”

The tall, lean man her mother had introduced her to, Laird Finley Munro, sauntered over to where she stood. He moved with a casual grace, the swagger of a man who was well-trained with a sword, and the arrogance of one who knew he was handsome and drew the eyes of every woman in the hall. His dark-blond hair was wavy and perfectly cut, but his green eyes were flat.

She watched as clusters of gown and mask-clad women huddled together, stealing glances at him. Finley leaned against the wall beside her, making a show of pretending not to notice the attention he was receiving, but Diana could see he was eating it up. He was aware of the stir he was causing and loved it. It was one of the reasons Diana didn’t think he was anywhere nearly as handsome as he believed he was.

“Are ye nae havin’ fun, me lady?” he pressed. “’Tis a fine ball.”

“I’m nae one tae enjoy such frivolities.”

“Nay? Then what dae ye enjoy?”

His feigned interest in her was tedious and tiresome. She knew enough about Finley Munro to know his biggest interest in his life was himself.

“I enjoy readin’,” she said. “And betterin’ me skills as a healer.”

“A healer,” he said. “I’d heard ye were a healer.”

“Aye. People need tae be cared fer.”

He shrugged. “I suppose. Nae by a castle lady, however.”

Her lips curled downward as a sour expression stole over her face. His casual dismissal of the health and well-being of people lower than him turned her stomach. He took a sip of his wine, then turned to her.

“Dae ye ken who I am?” he asked.

“Aye. I ken who ye are, Laird Munro.”

His smile was wide and predatory. “Aye. ‘Tis right. And dae ye ken what I’m daein’ here?”

“I’d imagine the same as everybody else here,” she said. “Ye’re here tae eat, drink, dance, and laugh at jests that arenae all that funny.”

His chuckled was a deep rumble. “Ye dae have a sharp wit and sharper tongue, lass. I’d heard that about ye. Personally, I like a woman who isnae afraid tae speak her mind.”

She turned to him, a cruel smirk playing across her lips. “Is that so?”

“Aye. ‘Tis so.”

“And if she has a thought or opinion that differs from yers?” she asked. “Would ye still like a woman who spoke her mind then?”

He shrugged and flashed her a smug grin. “Hasnae happened. I’ve found most women tend tae think much the same way I dae.”

“Amazin’, that.”

“Aye. I thought so too,” he replied. “I suppose most women see me as a logical and rational kind of man and that me opinions are sound. ‘Tis hard tae disagree with that, eh?”

Hearing her mother’s voice in her head, telling her to always be a proper lady, Diana resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The man’s arrogance was trying. But despite her distaste, she managed to put a pleasant smile on her face.

“Aye, I suppose so,” she said evenly.

As the man’s eyes slid up and down her body, lingering on her full breasts, which were accentuated by the abomination of a gown she’d been forced to wear, Diana shuddered. Perhaps mistaking it for a rush of pleasure, Finley flashed her a wolfish smile.

“Ye didnae answer me question,” he said.

“And what question was that, me laird?”

“Dae ye ken what I’m daein’ here?”

“I assume ye received an invitation from me parents.”

“Aye. But then, I receive many invitations tae many events. Most I dinnae go tae. I tend tae find most gatherings borin’.”

“And why have ye graced us with yer presence then?”

“I came here thinkin’ I might be able tae find somebody tae court,” he said. “As laird of me clan, I’m expected tae marry and provide an heir.”

Diana made a point of glancing at the knots of women all around the hall, most of whom weren’t being particularly subtle about looking Finley’s way.

“Well, it looks as if ye have yer choice,” she said. “Ye’ve got quite the selection tae choose from, me laird.”

His chuckle was a deep rumble in his chest. He never glanced at the women in the hall though, never taking his gaze off her.

“I’m rather particular about the sort of woman I’d be willin’ tae take as me bride.”

“I’m certain whoever ye select will be very fortunate tae have yer affection.”

“Aye, she will be.”

Diana suppressed another shudder but edged a couple of steps away from the laird, searching for a way not just out of this conversation, but out of this tiresome social obligation altogether. She glanced at her parents Dunn and Elayne, who sat upon the dais at the far end of the hall. They were engaged in conversation with a couple of their noble friends and didn’t seem to be paying attention to her. As if her thought drew her mother’s attention, though, she turned and locked gazes with Diana. She felt pinned to the wall and unable to move.

In a blur of red and white silks, Diana’s younger sister, Beatrix, swirled in, laughing and smiling wide. She took hold of Diana’s hand then turned to Finley.

“I hope ye dinnae mind me borrowin’ me sister, me laird,” Beatrix said with a giggle. “I need her help with somethin’.”

Annoyance flashed across his features, but he quickly got himself under control and sketched a stiff bow. “Of course, Lady Beatrix.”

Diana let her sister pull her through the whirling, dancing crowd, somehow narrowly avoiding crashing into the people. Beatrix pulled her behind the curtain and into a small room to the right of the dais where her parents sat. Diana pulled the curtain aside gently and caught sight of her mother looking this way and that, searching for her. She smiled to herself.

“Ye’re welcome,” Beatrix said.

She sighed. “Thank ye, Beatrix. Though tae be honest, I thought ye would have rather enjoyed seein’ me squirmin’ under that man’s attention.”

“Believe it or nae, sister, I dinnae want tae see ye sufferin’.”

Beatrix and Diana were opposites in every meaningful way. Whereas Diana’s hair was the color of honey and was usually in a braid, or pulled back like it was now, Beatrix’s hair was a deep, rich auburn that she usually let spill free over her shoulders. Her eyes were dark and Beatrix’s were a vibrant green. Even their body types were different. Diana was slender and lithe, her sister shorter in stature and lusciously curvy.

Their personalities were as different as their physical traits. Diana was quiet and thoughtful. She was reserved and preferred spending her time at study or plying her knowledge to help heal others. Beatrix was… wild. She was a vivacious girl with a personality larger than her stature. She laughed easily and often and seemed to make friends wherever she went. People genuinely seemed to like her sister while they seemed to see Diana as more of a curiosity.

Diana laughed. “’Twas torture tae be nice tae that man. I appreciate ye pullin’ me away.”

Beatrix grinned at her. “I cannae lie. I enjoyed seein’ ye squirm a little bit. I only stepped in when ye seemed ready tae bolt yerself. Thought it might give ye some cover from Maither’s wrath.”

Her sister’s consideration was surprising to Diana since they didn’t have the warmest of relationships. Their differences in personality, as well as the different ways they saw the world around them, led to them frequently butting heads. Diana liked to say they spent more time at each other’s throats than they did being sisters to each other. It was a never-ending source of consternation for their parents, who just wanted their daughters to get along. Diana didn’t think that wish was going to be fulfilled. Not in this lifetime.

But every once in a while, Beatrix surprised her with a kind thought or gesture. This was one of those times, and like every other time it happened, Diana was taken aback and wasn’t quite sure how to react. She cleared her throat and smiled.

“’Twas very kind of ye, Beatrix. Thank ye.”

She flashed Diana a toothy grin. “’Twas nae all altruistic.”

“Nay?”

Beatrix shook her head. “As the second daughter, I cannae be courted or marry until ye are married. We may nae always get on, but that daesnae mean I want tae see ye trapped in a horrible marriage tae a horrible man. I want ye tae be happy, Diana. And as that man is nae goin’ tae make ye happy, which means ye’ll only drag yer feet on marryin’, the sooner we find somebody that makes ye happy, the sooner we can get ye married, and the sooner I can find a man of me own.”

Diana laughed. It was very much Beatrix’s logic. She had always been boy crazy and was looking forward to the day she was allowed to be courted. Self-serving or not, Diana appreciated her sister’s intervention.

“And is there any particular man ye’ve got yer eye on?” Diana asked.

Beatrix’s cheeks flushed and she smiled. “Aye. Come and see.”

Her sister pulled the curtain back a bit and pointed to a man standing to the side of the hall. He was holding a cup of wine and his mask in his hand and was talking with a couple of women who giggled and fawned all over him. The man was tall and lean, athletic and well built. He moved with the same sort of casual grace Finley did, telling Diana he was a swordsman. His hair was sandy brown and tousled, and his light brown eyes sparkled with the same sort of mischief that glinted in her sister’s eyes. They seemed like two sides of the same coin.

“He’s handsome,” Diana said. “What’s his name?”

“I dinnae ken,” she replied. “Nae yet. But I intend tae.”

“Aye, well, ye better nae let Maither and Faither catch ye learnin’ his name.”

Beatrix giggled and cast a mischievous grin at her. “I’m very good at nae lettin’ Maither and Faither catch me daein’ anythin’.”

“Beatrix!”

“What? I have tae be,” she replied. “If I didnae sneak around, I’d never get tae have any fun. Nae so long as ye remain unmarried.”

“Oh, so yer bad behavior is me fault.”

“Well… aye. It is,” she said with a laugh.

They laughed together in a way they hadn’t since they were children. Diana knew it wouldn’t last though. It never did. It wouldn’t be long before they were at each other’s throats for one thing or another again. But she would enjoy the peace and goodwill while it lasted.

“Ye’re incorrigible, dear sister,” Diana said. “Simply incorrigible.”

A cheeky idea occurred to her, so she grabbed her sister’s hand and pulled her out of the small antechamber.

“Where are we goin’ then?” Beatrix said with a giggle.

“Come with me.”

Feeling inexplicably emboldened, Diana marched her sister over to where the man she’d been eyeing was standing. When they were close enough, she gave Beatrix a small nudge with her elbow. Startled, her sister squeaked and dropped the lace and silk handkerchief she’d been holding. Diana watched the small square of cloth flutter and fall to the floor near the man’s boots. He offered Beatrix a smile filled with warmth and bent down to pick it up for her.

“I believe ye dropped this,” he said.

“Thank ye,” Beatrix said in a soft, breathy voice. “I’m Beatrix.”

“I’m Gavin, me lady. Gavin Davidson.”

Their gazes were locked and the conversation between the two started to flow. They spoke so fervently, it was as if the entire room around them had fallen away, leaving just the two of them in it. Smiling to herself, Diana turned to leave, wanting to give them some time and privacy to get to know each other and ran straight into a large, burly man. She bumped the cup of wine in his hand, spilling it all over the front of her dress, drawing a gas from her.

Och, damn it!

“Apologies, me lady,” the man said.

“Dae ye nae watch where ye’re goin’?”

Diana raised angry eyes to the man and felt her breath catch in her throat. He was a head taller than her and was broad through the shoulders and chest. His dark hair was wavy and fell just to his shoulders. Although dressed in finery, the man was rugged and handsome with strong features, a smooth, tawny complexion, and pale blue eyes that burned with an intensity that sent a flutter through her heart. But then she noticed that he looked… amused. And anger took the best of her.

“Beg pardon, me lady. ‘Twas an accident. I didnae mean tae—”

“Me gown is ruined!”

The fabric of her gown was soaked through, sticking uncomfortably to her skin, clinging to her curves in a way that was almost lurid. When she looked up again, she found the man eyeing her curiously, although she thought she could see desire as well. She felt her cheeks flush and the flutter of hummingbird wings in her heart. They stood there in silence for a moment, neither of them seeming able to find the words.

The air about them was filled with tension and the rest of the ball melted away. She no longer heard the laughter or the music. All she heard was her own breath and beating heart. The man was staring at her in a way she deemed inappropriate and Diana was appalled at herself because she sort of… liked it. She gave herself a shake, pulling herself out of the moment, as the sound of music and crowd around them rang in her ears once more.

The man licked his lips and straightened up. “Is there anythin’ I can dae tae help?”

“I think ye’ve done enough.”

Her cheeks still flushed and her heart still racing, Diana turned and fled rather than stand there in front of the man in a dripping wet gown. Instead, she dashed from the hall and sought refuge in her father’s salon.

She moved quickly to the table and a dry cloth, which she dipped into the basin of water and dabbed at the wine that had been spilled on her gown. The door to the salon opened behind her. Assuming it was Beatrix, she turned around. The acidic remark about the oaf who’d run into her withered and died on her tongue when she found not her sister, but the oaf himself standing in the doorway. She swallowed the lump in her throat and quickly composed herself.

“I came tae see if ye were all right, me lady,” he said.

“I’m fine fer havin’ had a cup of wine dumped all over me.”

She sniffed and glared at him coldly. A small grin flickered across his lips, stoking the flames of her indignation. How dare he laugh at her discomfort.

“Again, I apologize fer what happened,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “But if ye’d nae spun around so fast, ye might have seen—”

“Oh, so this is me fault?”

The man shrugged his broad shoulders. “Aye. At least partly.”

“How dare ye!”

He laughed. “’Tis nae me fault ye werenae lookin’ where ye were goin’.”

Her face was hot, and she could not quell the tremor in her heart. There was something about being near the man that set her insides ablaze and made her stomach churn. She’d never had that sort of reaction to a man before and it was as confusing as it was infuriating. Although the corners of his mouth continued to curl upward, the man held up a hand, a gesture of peace.

“Forgive me, me lady. I dinnae mean tae laugh.”

“Are ye sure about that?”

“Nae really. But it seems the right thing tae say.”

She huffed and stared hard at the man. “Ye’re an oaf.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m certain ye have.”

The sparkle in his eye and the smile that crept across his face only made those strange, disconcerting feelings rampaging through her grow in intensity. Her heart pounded like she was running, and her legs trembled. Fearing they would give out beneath her and spill to the floor of the salon, Diana cleared her throat and patted her hair as she stood with her back rigidly straight, attempting to reclaim some bit of her dignity.

As they stood there staring at each other, Diana became even more aware of the way her body was reacting to him. In addition to the flutter in her belly and the heat in her face, she realized she was growing warmer and feeling a strange flutter in a different, lower part of her body. It was disconcerting. As his icy blue eyes burned into hers, she realized they were alone in the salon. And if her parents happened upon them… it would not be good.

“’Tis inappropriate fer us tae be here alone,” she said.

“Aye. Probably.”

“Definitely,” she countered. “Ye need tae leave.”

“I came tae help ye, seein’s how it’s half me fault ye’re in here.”

“I dinnae need yer help.”

“Are ye sure about that?”

“Aye. I’m sure. Now, please leave.”

He didn’t move though, and continued staring at her, making that flutter in her belly all the more pronounced. Diana swallowed again but didn’t seem able to control her insides. The man was having a strange effect on her and if she was going to regain control over herself, she knew she had to get away from him.

“Are ye goin’ tae stand there or leave?” she demanded.

“Dae ye always obey the rules of what’s right and proper?”

“Aye. I dae.”

He smirked. “’Tis a shame. Slavishly followin’ the rules all the time isnae always fun.”

“’Tis nae about fun. ‘Tis about what’s right.”

“I disagree—”

“Please… leave.”

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he flashed her another smile and nodded. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the salon, gently closing the door behind him. When he was gone, Diana leaned against the table and let out a long, deep breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.

She poured herself a glass of her father’s whiskey and drank it down to steel her nerves, slow her racing heart. It took a couple of minutes, but she finally managed to regain her composure and let out a heavy sigh as she tried to banish images of the handsome, rugged man from her mind. As arrogant and annoying as he was, he’d had a profound impact on her that was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. And it was only then that she realized she’d never learned his name.

Chapter Two

May, 1715

Macgillivray Castle, Dunmaglass

Diana stretched out in her bed, a small smile playing across her lips as she enjoyed the book in her hands. This was her element. Other than healing the wounds of others, this was where she felt most comfortable. She was a simple woman who enjoyed simple things. She despised elegant balls and fancy social gatherings. It was the one thing most of the men who tried to court her did not understand about her. And if they did not understand her, Diana had no desire to marry them.

Her parents were giving her some freedom in choosing her suitors. She was grateful to them for that. However, she knew if she continued to reject suitor after suitor, their patience with her would eventually run out and they would make the decision for her. It was a thought that sent a chill rushing down her spine. It wasn’t that they would intentionally pick a bad man. It was just that she felt that nobody really knew her at all and that they might pick a man who was bad for her. It was a conundrum she had been grappling for some time.

Diana yawned and set her book aside. She wanted to sleep and push all thoughts of suitors and marriage out of her head. At least for a while. She knew once she woke, she would have to deal with them all again, as her mother would undoubtedly begin pestering her with a list of names of “suitable men” to court her. Of course, her idea of a suitable man differed greatly from Diana’s. She knew the time was coming when she was going to have to find the least objectionable man from the list her mother offered.

With a heavy sigh, she reached for the oil lamp but quickly pulled her hand back at the thunderous crash in the corridor beyond her door. Her heart pounding in her chest, Diana jumped out of bed and grabbed her robe, quickly pulling it on as she dashed to the door. Her hand trembling, fearing what was happening, she pulled the door open and peeked outside. Rather than the soldiers from an invading army as she’d half-expected, she found her sister, Beatrix, crouching down, picking up the remnants of a shattered vase.

“What,” she looked around and whispered, “the hell are ye daein’, Beatrix?”

Her sister gave a start as Diana rushed over to her. “I—I bumped intae the table and knocked the vase over. Help me clean this up, Diana. Please.”

“Where were ye?”

“I was… I was out.”

“At this hour? Out doin’ what?”

Beatrix’s cheeks flushed and a small smile curled her heart-shaped lips, telling Diana exactly what her sister had been out doing. She’d been out with a lad. Of course, she had. Diana sighed. Given that her parents’ bedchamber was just around the corner, she knew there was little to no chance they hadn’t heard the crash in the corridor.

“I will fix this. We need tae get out of the hallway,” Diana urged. “Maither and Faither will have heard ye break the vase fer certain—”

The sound of footsteps echoed around the corridor and sent a bolt of lightning through Diana’s veins. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she stood up and turned around, unsurprised to see their parents, Dunn and Elayne, standing behind them, cross looks on their faces.

“What is all this?” their father, growled.

Diana knew their parents were with Beatrix than they were with her. It was yet another issue that contributed to their often-sour relationship. It wasn’t Diana’s fault, but her sister would hear none of it. Her sister blamed her, often accused Diana of trying to ruin her life. It couldn’t have been further from the truth, but Beatrix believed it.

As angry as she was with her sister for her ridiculous accusations, some small part of Diana felt bad for Beatrix. She knew her sister was frustrated and only wanted to live her life… something she couldn’t do while being forced to live in Diana’s shadow. And it was a shadow that would only dissipate once she had married and had begun her life away from her family’s home.

“’Tis me fault,” Diana said. “I snuck out of me chambers tae fetch some sweetcakes from the kitchens. I bumped the table and Beatrix came out tae see what was happenin’. I’m sorry.”

Her father was no fool though. His eyes shifted from her to Beatrix, his face tightening. Diana knew he saw right through her.

“Beatrix, is this true?” Dunn asked.

Her sister’s eyes shifted to her then back to their father as she licked her lips. She nodded.

“Aye. ‘Tis true,” she squeaked.

“Then why are ye wearin’ a dress and a cloak?” he demanded. “Daesnae seem like somethin’ ye’d wear tae bed.”

Diana and Beatrix exchanged a glance, their mouths open, neither of them seemingly able to form a coherent word. Their parents looked at them disapprovingly.

“In me salon,” he growled. “Both of ye.”

Beatrix stepped forward. “Faither—”

“Now.”

Their parents turned as one, stalking down the corridor toward his salon expecting them to follow. Diana and Beatrix sighed and did. Their mother closed the door behind them when they stepped in. The chamber was cold, the fire having been banked long ago. Their father had already lit a couple of oil lanterns, casting the chamber in a dim, gloomy light. He shook out the match in his fingers then turned and crossed his thick arms over his broad chest and glared at them, his icy blue eyes glittering in the dim light.

“Now, what is this all about, girls?” he demanded. “What are ye daein’ creepin’ around the castle in the small hours?”

Diana racked her brain, trying to figure some way to cover for and protect her sister. Before she could say anything though, Beatrix stepped forward and raised her chin, her eyes glittering with defiance.

“I took a walk through the grounds,” she said. “With a lad.”

Their mother’s eyes widened, but their father’s face darkened. Diana swallowed hard, not sure what to say to mitigate what was coming. She had long known her fascination with men would get Beatrix into trouble at some point, though she never expected her sister to open the floodgates like that. But her sister stood strong, her chin lifted, her face betraying no fear.

Diana held her breath, waiting for the coming explosion from her father. Instead, her mother put a gentle hand on his arm and some bit of silent communication passed between them. His jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth, but he gave their mother a small nod and stepped back, letting out a long breath and tried to compose himself. Their mother stepped over to Beatrix, standing in front of her, a look of compassion on her face.

“And who is this lad, Beatrix?”

“His name is Gavin. Gavin Davidson.”

Their parents exchanged a knowing look, and Diana got the idea the name was familiar to them. It was only belatedly that she realized Gavin was the man Beatrix has been mooning over at the masked ball a couple of months ago.

“And what dae ye ken about this lad?” Elayne asked.

“I ken he’s the second born son of Clan Davidson. And we exchange letters often,” Beatrix said. “I ken that he’s sweet. Smart. He writes well.”

The way she spoke and the expression on her face told Diana her little sister was over the moon about this man. She could practically see hearts in her eyes as she described meeting him in secret.

She didn’t see this situation between Beatrix and this Gavin man ending well for her baby sister. She was going to have her heart shattered like glass. But then, Diana thought it might be for the best. It was time Beatrix learned to be an adult, learned some lessons about life and about love. Maybe it would finally temper her childish enthusiasm for boys.

“And why have ye been sneakin’ around behind our backs?” Dunn growled from where he stood across the room. “Why nae talk tae us about it?”

“Because ye never would have let me see him! Because of yer stupid bleedin’ rule about Diana always havin’ tae be with me,” she howled. “Diana only ever wants tae sit in her chamber and read or go muckin’ about in the mud fer her precious herbs. ‘Tis like I cannae have a life if me sister daesnae have a life.”

“Beatrix, love, ‘tis nae that we dinnae want ye tae have a life,” Elayne said gently. “But there’s an order tae things. There’s a way these things are supposed tae be done. And until yer sister is wed, ye cannae be courted. Tae dae it otherwise would be invitin’ scandal.”

“’Tis what I mean, Maither,” Beatrix whined. “She is nae interested in bein’ married.”

Diana bristled at her sister’s remarks. But she held her tongue because she could not really refute them. She had no interest in being wed. At least, not to any of the men her parents had been parading in front of her.

“What about Laird Munro?” Dunn asked. “Diana, ye’ve nae said nay tae him courtin’ ye. As I understand it, he’s very interested in ye. And he seems like a fine—”

Diana could hold her tongue no longer. “I’m nae interested in Laird Munro. Why would ye want me tae be interested in a man who allies with the English? A man who’s arrogant and hungers fer power and naethin’ more?”

Her mother turned to her. “Diana, he is a gentleman—”

“Tae yer face. But I had a chance tae talk tae him when ye werenae around and he was hardly a gentleman. He was arrogant and dismissive. He was condescendin’ and cruel,” Diana said as she shook her head. “Nay. I havenae said nay tae him because I didnae think I had tae. I didnae think ye’d see him as a suitable suitor.”

Beatrix stamped her foot. “Dae ye see?” she cried. “She’ll never marry. She’ll reject every suitor ye deem fit. And she’ll keep draggin’ this out until I’m old and gray. Ye might as well lock me away and call me a spinster now. I’ll never get tae be with Gavin because she’ll never find anybody good enough for her.”

“Stop whinin’ like a bairn,” Diana almost shouted. “Nae everythin’ is about ye! I willnae marry because ye want me tae, Beatrix.”

“Diana!” her mother snapped. “Hold yer tongue. There’s nay reason tae be hollerin’ at yer sister like that.”

Diana fell silent but glowered at her sister who shot her a smug look. Elayne and Dunn exchanged another look, once again giving her the sense they were communicating without words. It was a gift that couples who’d been married as long as they had seemed to possess and one, despite her sister’s words, Diana longed to have with somebody. She thought her parents had the ideal relationship. Her father valued her mother, sought her advice and counsel and truly took her words into account before making any decisions. That was the sort of relationship she wanted to have. It was also the sort of relationship she knew she’d never have with any of the men they had paraded before her.

“All right, Beatrix. We’ll allow ye tae see this Gavin lad,” she said. “But only if he brings his braither, the first-born son of Laird Davidson with him. From what I ken he’s nae married yet. Ye can get tae ken them both taegether. And ye’ll only ever be in Gavin’s presence if his braither and Diana are there as well.”

“Maither, Faither. ‘Tis nae fair,” Beatrix whined.

“Those are our terms,” Elayne said.

“Aye. Clan Davidson is an ally of ours and a match between Diana and their first-born son would be beneficial fer all,” Dunn said.

Beatrix turned to Diana, her eyes burning with something akin to desperation and anger. Diane looked back at her sister with a cool, frosty gaze. Beatrix was behaving like Diana owed her something. She did not. But thanks to the social norms being enforced by their parents, Beatrix’s future truly was beholden to Diana’s whims. She couldn’t be courted until Diana had agreed to marry. As much freedom as their parents had given them to choose their suitors—a rarity, to be sure—that was the one norm they strictly adhered to.

“Please, Diana,” Beatrix begged. “I love him. I dinnae want tae lose him.”

Perhaps making this sacrifice would improve her relationship with her sister. She really did want to be on good terms with Beatrix. But she wasn’t sure how it was going to help since she already knew this firstborn son of Laird Davidson was, more than likely, not going to be somebody she would be interested in marrying. The fact that he hadn’t offered himself up as a suitor already made her question whether he even had interest in courting her, which immediately made Diana uninterested in being courted by him.

But perhaps she could make Beatrix happy, for at least a little while. And perhaps, allowing her to see Gavin would somehow bring them closer together.

“Fine,” she said. “All right. “I’ll meet this man fer her sake.”

Beatrix threw her arms around her waist and thanked her profusely. Diana had to keep from rolling her eyes. But at least she’d make her sister happy.

At least for a little while.

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January, 1588

“As far as anybody else is aware, Constance is my eldest daughter, and at twenty, she is already well over marriageable age. The Earl of Belton has already expressed great interest in a match with her, and such a union would be highly advantageous to both of our families. I am determined that the wedding will happen. There is too much at stake for it not to go ahead,” said Lord Richard Ashbourne, Viscount Hexham, decisively.

Crouched in her hiding place behind the statue of Aphrodite in the garden of Ashbourne Manor, her childhood home, Constance Ashbourne stuffed her fist in her mouth to stifle her gasp of shock as her stomach plummeted through the floor.

Not expecting to encounter anyone, she had been caught unawares in the little rose arbour by the sound of approaching footsteps. Panicked, fearful of the harsh punishment her disobedience would inevitably earn following discovery, she had immediately dived behind the statue to wait it out. Never had she expected to overhear her father outline her future in his usual cold, business-like manner.

Stunned though she was to learn she was to be married to an earl, there was something else her father had said which struck her as deeply puzzling.

What did he mean by, “As far as anybody knows, Constance is my eldest daughter”?

“It sounds as though you have made up your mind on the matter, Richard,” she heard his closest friend and associate Lord Lionel Hammond observe. “But there is a considerable age gap between them, is there not? Belton must be approaching his sixties, probably too old to sire an heir. And Constance is but, what, twenty? I wonder what he wants with her? I cannot imagine she will be very happy about the match.”

Lord Ashbourne snorted in derision. “What he wants with her is his business, and Constance’s opinion on the matter is immaterial. She will do as I command,” he replied.

“Well, she has always struck me as a very obedient girl, timid almost. I’m sure she will do as she is told without any trouble,” Lionel said.

“You can be sure of it, Lionel. It will not be for nothing that I have raised her as my own all these years, knowing full well she is Kerr’s bastard. It is time she earned her keep by repaying me, and this marriage to Belton will go some way towards compensating me for the dishonor I have suffered by her mother’s infidelity with that Scottish barbarian.”

What?! What is he talking about?

Constance could hardly believe her ears, struggling to make sense of his words as they hit her like blows to the head, sending her mind reeling.

Bastard? Kerr? Dishonor? Mother’s infidelity?

It was hard to pay attention as the conversation went on, but she forced herself to keep listening.

“So, tell me, if you have already decided she is to wed Belton, what makes you think anything can stop it from happening?” Lionel asked.

“Ewan Kerr, that is what,” Lord Ashbourne replied with acute bitterness.

“I admit, I am puzzled,” Lionel put in. “As I understand it, Kerr has shown no interest in Constance for the last twenty years. It seems highly unlikely that he should he do so now, at least, not to the point where he would interfere in her betrothal.”

Lord Richard sighed with impatience. “It is her betrothed who may finally encourage him to actively meddle in my plans, and if he does, he could very well ruin them.”

“You think he will object to Belton? Because of the age difference, or because the man is commonly known to be debauched?”

“There is a possibility he may object to those aspects, yes. But I doubt he would wish to act upon it. Whatever else he is, he is no fool. As laird of his clan, he understands the necessary purpose of such strategic alliances. And since he has demonstrated no concern for Constance, I cannot see him being bothered by either of those things.”

“So, what then?” Lionel asked with obvious curiosity.

“Do you not remember your history, Lionel? Who was Belton’s father?” the Viscount asked.

“Um, you mean old Stanley, the fifth earl? But he is long dead. What does he have to do with it?”

“The same old Stanley who commanded the English forces against the Lowland Scots twenty-odd years ago, when they were based at Jedburgh. The one the Scots call Black Stanley, the Hammer of the Scots, whom they still summon as a spectre to frighten their children into obedience.”

“Ah! Yes, now I recall. He was famous for hanging thirty of their men on one day after winning some battle or other against them, was he not?”

“Yes, but it was fifty, not thirty. And three of them happened to be directly related to Ewan Kerr.”

“Oh, dear. I begin to understand your concerns.”

“Indeed. The Scots have long memories, and despite the fragile peace that exists between our two countries now, they are not very forgiving. I am worried that if Kerr should find out about 00 I intend Constance to marry, he will do more than simply object. The man is a blood-thirsty savage with a well-trained army at his disposal. He would think nothing of coming down here and trying to stop it by force.”

“Good Lord! Richard, if that is so, then as your closest friend, I feel I must counsel you that going forward with this match, however lucrative or prestigious it might be for you, would put your life and even those of your other children at great risk,” Lionel said, his voice laced with anxiety.

“Do you think I am not aware of that, Lionel? That is exactly why I am telling you all this.”

“Then my advice is to abandon this match with Belton immediately and find her another suitor. There are surely many others who would fit the bill equally as well in terms of benefits, and without the risk of being skewered by the sword of some Scottish devil. It is not worth it. Even if he did not try to kill you, he would almost certainly take Constance away with him back to Scotland, seeing as she is his daughter.”

Lord Ashbourne gave a sarcastic little laugh. “Yes, he undoubtedly would. He would have the full set then.”

“You mean the twin? What is her name again?”

“Agnes. As you know, she and Constance are supposedly identical to look at.”

“Good Lord, I still find it hard to believe the level of Eleanor’s betrayal. She never struck me as the sort. For a married woman to have such an illicit liaison is scandalous enough, but to compound it by giving birth to Kerr’s twin daughters is outrageous. It is no wonder you locked her up when you found out the truth.”

“The disgusting truth she and Kerr conspired to keep from me for years,” Lord Ashbourne spat angrily. “I only wish I could have punished her more harshly. By rights I should have killed Kerr and had Eleanor horsewhipped through the streets. But I had to protect mine and the family’s reputation at all costs. You understand that, do you not, Lionel?”

“Of course. You did the only thing you could do in the sordid circumstances, Richard. Any man in your position would have done the same.”

“Swallowing my need for vengeance all this time has been a hard pill to swallow, I admit. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to slit Kerr’s throat and watch him bleed out. You cannot imagine how galling it has been to me every single day since I found out the truth to have Kerr’s little bastard living in my house alongside my children, eating my food, costing me money, calling me father.”

“One would never suspect it, and she is such a lovely little thing,” Lionel observed.

“I see Kerr in her nonetheless. Marrying her off will be a relief. I shall hardly ever have to look on her face again afterwards. At any rate, you can see my problem.”

“Indeed, I do. And I urge you to give up this idea of marrying Constance to Belton.”

“Do I need to remind you that Belton is a cousin to the King? He has his ear, and he has promised me a direct line of communication. Think what that would mean, Lionel. Constance would very likely be made a lady in waiting to the Queen. And as it is natural that younger sisters should follow their elders, probably Amelia too. The prestige, the connections, the influence that could bring to me cannot be underestimated.” He paused, and when he next spoke, the excitement in his voice had turned to barely contained anger.

“It sticks in my craw to have to give that opportunity up because Kerr may find fault with my choice of his daughter’s husband. No, the more I think about it, the more it enrages me. I will not give it up! Constance will marry Belton, and Ewan Kerr be damned!”

His decisive declaration put an end to the discussion, and moments later, the two men rose and walked away. When their footsteps had faded, and she was sure it was safe to emerge from her hiding place, Constance leaned on Aphrodite to find the strength to stand. Her entire body was shaking, her mind reeling from the revelations that had just turned her world on its head. They whirled about confusingly, but at last, she managed to put them in some sort of order.

I am not the daughter of Lord Richard Ashbourne. My father is a Scottish laird called Ewan Kerr, with whom Mama had an affair over twenty years ago. And I have an identical twin sister called Agnes!!!

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Chapter One

April, 1588

Hexham, Northumberland, on the border of England and Scotland

“I think we can both agree, Lord Belton, that your marriage to Constance, my eldest daughter, will being many benefits for both of our families,” said Lord Richard Ashbourne, Viscount of Hexham, in honeyed tones. He was sitting in his favorite armchair next to the hearth in his private study at Ashbourne Manor, his family seat, a half-drunk glass of claret in his bony hand.

The Earl of Huntingford, George Belton, who was lounging in the armchair opposite the Viscount, nodded with obvious enthusiasm. “Indeed, Lord Ashbourne, I do heartily agree,” he replied, patting his paunch almost gleefully. His rubbery, liver-colored lips widened to reveal large, yellowing teeth. “As you know, I wish for an heir, and I am certain that Constance will give me many fine sons.”

Constance, who was perched stiffly on the very edge of a wooden settle a few feet away, with her hands clasped in her lap, feared she might be sick. She struggled to conceal the revulsion she felt towards the Earl as his pale, bloodshot eyes roved lasciviously over her from head to toe. He put her in mind of a hungry wolf about to devour his prey.

His insolent appraisal was a gross insult of the sort which would normally entitle any noble lady like herself to slap the Earl’s face and sweep from the room in high dudgeon. But however much Constance would have liked to do both of those things, she remained calmly in her seat, putting up with his lewd stare. For she was there at the command of Lord Ashbourne, the man whom, until very recently, she had believed unquestioningly to be her father, and she knew from bitter experience that to rouse his ire would bring harsh punishment.

She looked at him, the fine English gentleman who was supposed to protect her, at his hard features, and wondered if he had a heart at all in that bony chest of his. She thought not. How else could he have spent the previous twenty years raising her as his daughter alongside his two other children, and allow the Earl’s insulting behavior. By appearing to ignore it, he made his lack of affection plain.

But what did she expect? It was more likely to expect angels to descend from heaven and bear her away than to expect any protection or consideration from him. He cared nothing for her and never had. In his mind, she was naught but a useful gaming piece, to be deployed to his advantage in his relentless quest to enrich himself.

Truly, she heartily despised the man who had raised her, who claimed she was his daughter, and who wished to shackle her to this debauched man who was old enough to be her grandfather. Lord Ashbourne had always regarded her and his younger daughter Amelia as nothing more than his property, to be disposed of as he wished. Hence his plan to wed her to the influential Lord Belton.

She sat between the two men, vaguely listening while they decided her future as though she were no more a human being than the coalscuttle by the grate. Unpleasant though it was, she remained outwardly calm. Reaching inside her shawl, she touched the golden locket hanging there. It had been her mother’s. She had given it to Constance just before she had died sixteen years before. Constance treasured it and never took it off.

Now, it offered her comfort and strength, for it seemed the embodiment of the crucial, secret knowledge she had lodged in her heart for the last three months — a knowledge that would save her from marrying the Earl. For Constance had found out that Lord Richard Ashbourne had no true right to sell her in marriage. Indeed, legally, he had no claim to her as his daughter in any way. For the simple reason that he was not her father at all.

Her mind went back to that revelatory evening when she had accidentally overheard Lord Ashbourne talking with his oldest and most trusted friend, Lord Lionel Morton, in the manor gardens. Her life had been dramatically upended.

“The truth must never be known. She cannot find out who her real father is, not ever! If it ever got out, my reputation would be ruined, the Earl would call off the wedding, and I would lose the valuable business connections he has promised me as part of the marriage agreement. Not to mention how her true father might react if he were to find out who his daughter is engaged to. It must go ahead,” Lord Ashbourne had said vehemently.

“You are worrying too much, my friend. You only found out the truth yourself about Constance years after Eleanor had had her, and I’m the only one you’ve told about her affair with this Scottish laird, this Ewan Kerr. How could anybody else discover it now?” Lord Lionel had asked.

“Kerr has no idea that I know the truth about what happened between him and my wife all those years ago. He is unaware that I know she gave birth to twin daughters while I was away at court. Upon my return, it was easy for them to fool me into believing Constance was my child, while he took the other twin back to Scotland to raise as his own. They called her Agnes.”

The initial shock had died away with time, but those words from Lord Ashbourne remained impressed in Constance’s mind.

The Earl’s soft, plummy voice slithered into her consciousness, pulling her back to the present. “It is a union devoutly to be wished for, Lord Ashbourne,” he was saying, his eyes still crawling all over Constance. She stoically ignored him. “And since the King himself has given the union his blessing, I can see no reason why the ceremony cannot go ahead at the earliest opportunity.”

“Very good, then it is settled,” Lord Ashbourne replied, his thin lips stretching into an approximation of a smile. As always, Constance noticed, it lacked any genuine warmth. “Shall we say the wedding can take place six weeks from now? That should be sufficient time for the banns to be read and all the arrangements to be made.”

Plan all you like, you vile creatures, this wedding will never take place. For in six weeks’ time, I shall be long gone. I shall be living in Scotland with my twin sister Agnes, under the protection of my true father, Laird Ewan Kerr.

If they’ll have me.

***

Naturally Constance had been shaken to her very core by the revelations when she had discovered the truth.

Could it be true, she had asked herself over and over. Could her mother really have had an affair with that Laird Ewan Kerr twenty years before, and was he her father? Did she really have an identical twin sister called Agnes?

It was almost impossible to believe her mother could have done such a scandalous thing. Constance treasured many fond memories of her beautiful, gentle mother, who had passed away from an illness when Constance was but eight years old. The very idea of that gracious lady indulging in some sort of extra-marital romantic liaison with any man, let alone a Scottish laird, seemed outlandish.

If she had, then it would have been a betrayal of not just her husband, but of her family and country as well. The rebellious Scots were the enemies of the English Crown, and the Ashbourne family had sworn to fight for and uphold that Crown for over a century. Her mother would never have broken her sacred vows and willingly participated in such a terrible betrayal of her husband and family with a Scotsman. Would she?

She might if she loved him. She could not imagine how mother must have suffered being married to Lord Ashbourne. Perhaps she was very unhappy and sought solace in the arms of her true father. Thinking of it like that, the idea suddenly seemed very romantic.

Poor, dear Mother, perhaps she had felt she deserved a little happiness.

But Constance had been raised to believe that all Scots were brutes and savages, and it puzzled her greatly that her mother could have loved such a man. She wondered what he was like, her true father. He had given up one of his daughters and kept her mother’s secret, to protect her reputation, all these years. It did not seem to Constance like the sort of thing a brute or a savage would do.

All her life she had felt something was missing, as if she had somehow mislaid a part of herself, but she could never put her finger on it.

But now I know, I have a twin sister! Agnes is the part I have been missing!

How exciting it all was!

She was consumed with curiosity to see Agnes, to meet and talk with this Scottish lass who supposedly looked so like her. She had been dreaming of going to find her sister but knew Lord Ashbourne would never sanction it. Obedience to him was so ingrained in her, she had not though she would ever have had the courage to do it on her own.

But now, with the wedding to Earl Belton due to take place in six weeks’ time, the decision had been made for her.

I must go. I must find a way to leave Ashbourne Manor as soon as possible. I shall leave England and journey to the lands of my true father and be with Agnes. But if I am to get away from here without Lord Ashbourne knowing, I will need help.

She had hurried back to the house, in search of the only two people she could really trust at the manor, her brother and sister, Henry and Amelia. There had been no doubt in her mind that once she told them everything, they would understand her need to leave and give her all the help they could.

Chapter Two

Two nights after the awful dinner with Earl Belton, when the other occupants of Ashbourne Court lay sleeping, and the clock had just struck one in the morning, the three siblings quietly left the house and went to the stable block. Once inside, Henry lit a lantern, and in its dim, flickering light, the three had prepared for Constance’s departure.

“Constance, we do not know when we shall see you again, so please remember that Henry and I love you very much. We will be thinking of you every moment while you are away and praying that you reach your destination safely,” Amelia had beseeched her elder sister, her voice choked with tears as she clung to Constance, kissing her cheeks over and over again. “And I hope that when you do, all will come to pass happily, as you wish it. But please, be careful!”

In the shadowy recesses of the stables, the horses in their stalls whinnied and snorted softly, as though sensing the heightened emotions pervading the air.

Constance nodded. “I shall, my darling Amelia, I promise. God will watch over me on the journey. And look,” she paused to summon a smile as she gestured at the mannish outfit she was wearing beneath her long woolen cloak, “as Henry suggested, my disguise will help to protect me from unwanted attention. So, there is no need to be too worried for me, I assure you.”

Constance wished she felt as confident as she was trying to appear for the benefit of her younger sister. Not knowing when they would meet again, she took a few moments to commit to memory Amelia’s familiar petite figure, with her mass of light auburn hair, and her soft hazel green eyes, which always seemed to sparkle with good-humor and curiosity. Only seventeen, Amelia was sensitive and a worrier, and Constance had no wish to add to Amelia’s distress by openly displaying the sorrow and fear bubbling beneath her poised exterior.

“I shall miss you both very much, but I am sure all will be well,” she continued with false brightness, giving Amelia’s hands a final squeeze as they broke their embrace. “I am so very grateful for all the help you have given me, my dear one.”

“I shall pray for you every night,” Amelia promised, tears beginning to fall from her bright eyes.

“Thank you, darling, I shall do the same for you. May the Lord keep you and Henry safe while I am gone.” She planted a final kiss of farewell on Amelia’s soft cheek, her heart aching to leave her.

“There, Connie, you are ready to go,” her elder brother Henry said with his usual composure as he finished adjusting the girth strap on his sister’s favorite mare, Lucy. He made a show of checking the saddle was fixed securely in place before patting the horse’s flank and turning to face Constance. She smiled tremulously at him in love and gratitude. She suspected he was busying himself in an attempt to hide his emotions, putting a brave face on the situation just as she was trying to do, for Amelia’s sake. When their eyes met, her heart clenched to see the sadness and concern hidden there.

“I shall miss you.” He took her in his arms, hugged her, and kissed the top of her head. Pressed against his chest, Constance felt his heart beating fast beneath his coat and knew that his calm demeanor concealed a welter of conflicting emotions beneath.

“Thank you, brother, and thank you for all you have done to help me to get away without Father knowing,” Constance told him, trembling with overwhelming sorrow at their leave-taking. “I do hope you will not get into too much trouble for it.”

“Do not worry about Father. I know how to handle him,” Henry replied soothingly, pulling back to look her in the eyes and resting his hands on her shoulders. “The important thing is that you succeed in your quest.” His tone changed, becoming more earnest as he added, “Do not forget what I have told you, sister. Be under no illusion that this is an easy task you have set yourself.”

“You know I have to do it,” Constance said as much to bolster her own resolve as convince him all over again of the necessity of what she was about to do.

“I have tried my best to persuade you not to go, so I will not argue with you further,” he told her with sad resignation. “Take no unnecessary risks, stay alert for danger on the road, and do not trust anyone,” he warned her. “Do you have the knife I gave you, in case you run into any trouble?”

“Yes, I do.” Constance patted the waistband of her borrowed trousers beneath her cloak, where she had hidden the knife. “But just carrying it makes me feel nervous. I pray I never have any occasion to use it. It would be my downfall, never having used a knife as a weapon before.”

“Hopefully, you will not have to. The mere sight of it will deter any threat,” Henry said reassuringly, pulling the hood of her cloak up around her face and tucking in her hair. How she wanted to believe him, for in truth, she was terrified by what she was about to do.

“It is late, Connie,” Henry said. “You had better go. Here, let me help you up.” He leaned down and joined his hands, boosting Constance into the saddle. “It feels strange to ride astride like a man,” she murmured, settling herself and gently steadying Lucy beneath her with a light touch of the reins. “But I suppose I will soon get used to it again.” She was used to riding side saddle like the English lady she was, but as a child, Henry had taught her how boys sat when no one was around, after she had insisted endlessly that she wanted to copy him.

“You will, and it will be faster and safer this way,” Henry assured her, resting his hand on Lucy’s broad flank.

“And the sooner you reach your destination, the safer you will be,” Amelia chimed in, dabbing at her nose with a tiny lace hanky as she gazed up at Constance.

“It is but three or four days’ ride if you stick to the main highways, where there will be plenty of people about. You have the money I gave you for staying at the inns along the way?” Henry asked.

She nodded. “Yes, in my purse.”

“Good. Come, I shall open the gates for you,” Henry said, briefly checking the courtyard to make sure no one was watching them before taking hold of Lucy’s bridle and leading her out into the stable courtyard. Stifling sniffles, Amelia followed them as they walked slowly down the long drive between the shrubbery until they reached the mansion’s wrought-iron gates. Henry pushed them open.

“I hope I shall see you both again soon,” Constance told them, unable to keep her voice from cracking with emotion at last. Leaning down, she kissed them both on the cheek.

“Goodbye, sister, may God be with you and protect you,” Amelia sobbed.

“Be safe, Connie, and remember everything I have told you,” Henry urged her, his usual composure laced with quiet intensity.

Unable to speak for the lump in her throat, with tears she could hold back no longer escaping from her eyes, Constance nodded. She pressed her knees to Lucy’s flanks and walked the mare slowly out through the gates and into the lane. She turned the horse right, intent on following the lane to the main road leading north to the border. With a restraint that took almost all the strength she possessed, she looked back only once and waved at her brother and sister.

Henry was standing with his arm around the shoulders of Amelia, who was now openly weeping as though her heart would break. Constance knew exactly how she felt, for the pain in her chest was like nothing she had ever felt before. Part of her wanted to turn Lucy and abandon this mad idea of hers. But the other part was resolute and would not allow it. If she married the Earl, she would be forced to leave her beloved siblings anyway. It was that thought that pressed her to go further. So, she rode on down the moonlit lane, reminding herself of what a precious discovery lay at the end of her journey and how it would make everything worthwhile.

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Me Braither Ewan,

“I need tae speak tae ye.” Ewan waved his second-in-command and his steward into his study. “I need tae ken if ye can watch over the clan fer me fer at least a moon.”

“A moon?” Devlin frowned. “’Tis a long time tae be absent, and ‘tis the beginning o’ the season when bandits like to travel.”

“And ‘tis the beginning o’ planting season. We may need a laird’s authority fer work.” Malcolm agreed. “What could be so important?”

Ewan scowled. He knew both men had valid points, but Alistair had asked him to prepare for a journey, traveling to Niamh’s old home, and Ewan knew well that his brother wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.

Still, he couldn’t tell his new subordinates that he was running his brother’s errands. He was supposed to be the Overseer and potential laird of Clan MacTavish. He wasn’t supposed to be acting as Alistair’s second-in-command any longer.

And based on what Alistair had said, he couldn’t reveal his real errand – to seek out Niamh MacDuff nee Cameron’s English friend and bring her back to keep Niamh company in the final months of her child-bearing.

For such a long journey, he needed a good excuse. Fortunately, he and Alistair had thought of one, little though he liked it. “I ken, but with me braither bein’ wed tae a lass from Clan Cameron o’ the Lowlands, it seems a good idea tae go and arrange our own alliance with the clan.”

Malcolm nodded. “Aye. Makes sense. But then… ‘tis a long way tae ride. Could we nae consider alliances closer tae home?”

“Aye. But I’ve also…” Ewan paused. “Niamh had several friends – unwed lasses who are daughters o’ minor border lairds in the Lowlands. She suggested that one o’ them might be suitable fer courting. I thought it might be worth explorin’ considering me braither’s luck.”

“A border alliance through marriage is a braw idea. Have ye any lass in mind?” Malcolm frowned. “I’ve nae seen ye send any messages.”

“I’ve nae, but Niamh – me braither’s wife, has offered tae give me names and a letter o’ introduction tae her friends.” Ewan glared at both men, discomfited by the whole story he was spinning and the continued questions. “I need tae ken if ye’re willing tae watch over the clan while I’m travelin’.”

“The Council willnae be happy. On the other hand, if there’s a chance that the travel will lead tae acquiring a betrothal contract fer ye… that could convince them.”

“Would ye?”

Malcolm nodded. “If ye leave me a letter o’ authority, then I can handle the business o’ running the clan, with help from the Council.”

“And I can keep the warriors trained and ready, and make sure nae one is attackin’ our borders.” Devlin agreed.

Ewan breathed a sigh of relief. He had no desire to tell Alistair that he wouldn’t able to fulfill his request. He didn’t like the idea of escorting some English woman the length and breadth of the Lowlands and the Highlands, but better him than some other member of the clan.

Far too many Highlanders hated the English far too much to be trusted with someone precious to the lady of MacDuff Clan. And there were few warriors who could be trusted with the lass’s safety, hatred or not. They hadn’t the skills Ewan had, in weapons or in travel.

Securing permission from the Council took another day, and packing for the journey another day still. Ewan found himself both chafing at the delay, and wishing he could wait longer before leaving.

He read the letter from Alistair again. He had considered refusing. But in the end, he couldn’t. Alistair so rarely asked him for anything, and now he was asking for a favor, something important enough that he’d written a letter, rather than simply asking during one of their infrequent meetings.

Finally, all the preparations were in place. Ewan saddled his horse, then rode from MacTavish Keep to MacDuff Castle. The weather was fine, the air crisp with the new promise of the coming spring. Ewan breathed deep as he rode, far too aware that he would be farther from his home than he wanted to be for longer than he cared to think about.

He rode into MacDuff Castle that afternoon, to find Alistair waiting for him. “So ye want me tae seek out an English lass? By what name?”

“Grace Lancaster. She’s a friend o’ Niamh’s from childhood.” Alistair handed him a folded note. “She’s a petite lass with golden hair and blue eyes, and she lives in Lancaster, England.”

Ewan’s lip curled. “Are ye sure ‘tis necessary tae bring her so far?”

“Niamh asked me tae see she comes safely tae MacDuff Castle.” Alistair sighed. “I dinnae like the idea any more than ye dae. However…” He sighed again. “I’ve never mentioned it tae anyone else afore but ye should ken… Niamh’s mother died in bringin’ her intae the world. She’s always been terrified o’ birthin’ a child o’ her own, ‘tis why she was so difficult when first we married.”

Ewan grimaced in sympathy. “What daes that have tae dae with the lass ye want me tae find and bring north?”

“Niamh shared her fears and her worries with only one person, her friend and heart-sister, Grace. When the two o’ them became friends. And now that she’s carrying our firstborn, Niamh is determined tae have her ‘sister’ here beside her.”

“And ye want me tae aid ye.”

“Who else would I trust?” Alistair’s eyes softened. “I could ask another. Were the lass anything save an English lairdling’s kin, I might send someone else. But there are too many who would ‘fail’ the task out o’ hatred for the English, and I dinnae wish Niamh tae be without the friend she yearns tae see. Especially as she didnae get tae say farewell, an’ that was a fault o’ mine.”

“A fault o’ yers?”

“Aye.” Alistair grimaced. “I didnae tak’ well tae discovering me betrothed had dear friend who was English. We… exchanged heated words, when we first met. I didnae bother tae redress the poor impression I made, and she doubtless hates me, even more so if she kens how I carried Niamh from her home.”

“So she’ll have a grudge with ye, tae rival our dislike o’ her.” Ewan shook his head. “I dinnae like it, but ye are kinfolk, and so is Niamh now.” He clapped Alistair on the shoulder. “I’ll dae the best I can fer ye, braither.”

“I ken. I look forward tae the day I see ye again, and I wish ye good weather and safe travels.”

“Safe home and good health fer ye and yer bride.” Ewan embraced his brother, then took the satchel of supplies Alistair offered him for the journey.

Niamh emerged then, swollen with child, and embraced him as well. “Thank ye. I ken tis a great favor I ask ye.” She held his hand a moment. “I also ken that Grace may nae trust ye, and ye may need some way tae be sure ye’ve found the correct lass. So I have a message fer ye tae give tae her.”

Ewan nodded. Niamh smiled. “Tell her me list o’ sins has grown little longer, and that I hope her own list has done the same, fer different reasons.”

Ewan frowned. “What?”

“That is the message. Grace will ken what it means.”

Ewan repeated it several times in his head as the servants finished feeding and watering his horse.

Finally, all was ready. Ewan exchanged a final embrace with Alistair and Niamh, then mounted his horse once more.

Within a candle-mark, he was on the road, riding toward the English border and the mysterious Grace Lancaster.

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Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re all like that. Barbarians.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devlin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is the message from?”

“Lady… her name is Niamh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You!”

“Ye’re Grace Lancaster?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is she hurt? Ill? Captive?”

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

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

Ewan huffed. “Why would I dae that?”

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

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

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

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

“What message?”

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

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

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

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

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

“’Tis truth, all o’ it.”

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

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

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

“Niamh never knew her mother.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what happened, please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then…”

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

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One year earlier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that time, she had never dared complain again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye,” said Fia. “But I thought—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Chapter One

October, 1587. Duror village.

One down, one tae go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye ken what I think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why would I wear this an’ sweep the floors?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The nerve o’ him! The mere impudence!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How embarrassin’! Tae be fooled by a fool!

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

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

One way or another, she would have her revenge.

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Knox shook his head. “Nay. Dae ye?”

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

“Another healer?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Very well. See that it is done.”

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

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

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

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

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