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Chapter One

“Ach, I’m freezin’. Remind me again why we’re doing this,” Ciarán Kincaid grumbled, dodging yet another low-hanging branch as he and his brother Diarmaid, Laird of Kincaid, pushed their way under the dripping trees in the rain-soaked forest. Their ride from castle Kincaid at dawn that morning had brought them miles from home, in abysmal Scottish Highland weather, and they were both drenched and cold.

“Ye shouldnae complain, Brother!” Diarmaid glanced at Ciarán sideways. Then he added grimly, “Maddison hasnae been right since we freed her from Murphy Lennox’s dungeons. We have tae dae somethin’ tae bring our sister back tae her old self.”

“But this, Diarmaid? A magic sword? I still cannae believe ye’re serious about this. ’Tis an old wives’ tale, surely, and a waste o’ time. I mean, there’s nae even a track tae follow.”

His brother stopped suddenly and turned to face him. “Maybe so, but if there’s even just a slim chance tae help our sister, I’ll crawl across the mountains on me hands and knees,” he said fiercely. “And I expect ye tae dae the same.”

“Dinnae try tae suggest I wouldnae,” Ciarán defended himself as they resumed walking. “But as I’ve said from the start, I have grave doubts that this is the best way tae go about helping her. I ken I agreed tae all this, but I have tae admit, it feels foolish.”

“D’ye think I dinnae feel like an idiot as well? Traipsin’ through a bloody wood, miles from home, lookin’ fer some sort o’ witch, and a blade supposed tae have healin’ powers?” his brother replied irritably, forcing his way onward through the thick undergrowth after having tied their horses to some trees in a nearby clearing to rest and drink. With every step, their boots squelched noisily on the soft, wet forest floor.

“She’s nae a witch, so when we find her, if we find her, for the Wee Man’s sake, dinnae call her that! She’s likely tae laugh at us and send us on another wild goose chase, if ye dae.” Ciarán warned. “She’s a respected cailleach, a wise woman.”

“I ken that, ye fool! I dinnae believe much in witches or magical blades either, but I’m willin’ tae dae anything tae help Maddison, however farfetched it sounds. I just cannae stand tae think of her like she is now, a shadow of hersel’ after that bastard Murphy Lennox snatched her in the middle of the night and kept her locked up fer a whole year! A wee girl like that, the cruelty of it!”

“Aye, she disnae sleep nor eat, she’s wastin’ away, and even Lillie cannae comfort her enough tae bring her out o’ it, although it seemed to helpin’ at the start. And tae think yer wife suffered the same fate with Keir MacNeil and understands more than most what Maddison went through,” Ciarán observed, bitterness in his voice. “It seems our troubles are nae over yet.”

“Dinnae forget, Maddison didnae ken our parents and brother had been killed too, the night Lennox’s men took her. She’s only been back home a month, and she’s mournin’ for Faither, Maither and Rónán as well as tryin’ tae get over her ordeal,” Diarmaid pointed out, dashing the water drops that fell from the trees onto his face and shoulders away with an impatient hand. “I wish I could have killed that brute Lennox mesel’, but Odhrán got in there first.”

“Aye, ’tis hard tae imagine anyone killin’ his own faither, I never thought tae see such a thing right in front of me eyes. Odhrán must have hated him as much as we did,” Ciarán said in tones of disbelief.

“But this sickness she has, ’tis nae something that we can cure. Nor any healer, so desperate measures are needed’. Thus, we find ourselves in this bloody wood, searchin’ for a supposedly magical sword that can heal all ills. So kindly quit yer moanin’, will ye?” the laird told him with some force.

“Dae ye really think this cailleach has the powers tae help her?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Diarmaid said, stopping by the trunk of a large tree and peering ahead into the wet gloom, the whole scene radiating a misty, other-worldly look. “Is that a cottage up ahead, or am I seein’ things?”

Ciarán halted behind him, squinting, trying to make out what lay ahead of them. “It looks like a clearin’, and, aye, I think I see the outline of a cottage.” Indeed, the larger trees had begun to thin out slightly, and he realized they were standing at the edge of a small clearing.

“Come on,” Diarmaid urged as they warily stepped out into the open space. Immediately, they felt the heavy rain upon them, now that they had forsaken the mild protection of the overhead canopy. It took only a few strides of their long legs to carry them across the muddy expanse to a small cottage whose thatched roof was so low, parts of it actually brushed the ground, with a sunken door of scarred timber and two small windows of oilcloth.

A wisp of gray smoke twisted up from the chimney at the gable end, dispersing in the gray overhead. An overflowing rain barrel and a chopping block stood outside. The sound of pigs and at least one cow could be heard from a small wooden outbuilding at the rear. It all looked peaceful enough, a familiar domestic scene, but Ciarán glanced left and right out of habit to ensure there was no danger within sight.

His heart thumped in his chest as he and Diarmaid approached the front door of the decrepit dwelling. But before they could knock, the door swung open by itself, and they found themselves facing an ancient, bent crone dressed all in black. If she was not actually a witch, she could certainly pass for one in Ciarán’s view.

“If ye’re so set on being non-believers, dinnae take another step,” the crone told them, her voice a scratchy cackle, “’Tis best if ye go now.” She began to shut the door. Despite his disappointment, Ciarán’s anxiety rose.

“Nae, Madam, please, dinnae dae that,” he blurted out, while Diarmaid strode forward and put his hand on the door, preventing her from closing it.

“We must speak with ye,” his brother said in a commanding tone. “’Tis a matter of great importance.”

The old woman looked at them sharply, with sunken black eyes. “Aye, I ken, but nae important enough fer ye tae believe I have powers that can help yer sister, eh? Ye think I’m just a silly old woman, and I’m nae inclined tae help ye, so be off with ye, the pair of ye.” She pushed the door again.

“Madam, please, we beg ye, hear us out before ye send us away. Ye say we dinnae believe in ye, but we’ve come so far tae see ye, that we must believe in a way, eh? ’Tis just we’ve never met anyone with yer powers before, so we dare nae hope ye can help us,” Ciarán pleaded respectfully, going right up to the door and looking her straight in the eyes. “Please, just hear us out.”

“Aye, I’ll make it worth yer while,” Diarmaid put in, but the woman sneered at him.

“I need naething ye can give me, Laird o’ Kincaid,” she said, the uncanny way she appeared to know who they were setting the hairs on Ciarán’s neck bristling. “So dinnae think tae sweeten me with yer bribes. Yer braither here has the right idea, showin’ a little respect for his elder and better.” She nodded at Ciarán and gave him a toothless smile. Somehow, for the smile was strangely chilling, he managed to return the gesture. “All right, ye can come in.” Finally, she stepped away from the door and admitted them into her hovel.

The two huge warriors stepped into the single room, and Ciarán felt like a giant in a doll’s house. He and Diarmaid had to duck beneath the low, smoke-blackened rafters, to avoid banging their heads or colliding with the assortment of bales of greenery, various vegetables, and the drying carcasses of small animals and birds, as well as pots and pans of all shapes and sizes hanging there. The smell was thick and rank, and it tickled the inside of his nose. He tried not to breathe.

“We’ve come—” Diarmaid began, but the crone cut him off as she crossed to the hearth, where a peat fire was blazing, making the room overly hot.

“Wheesht yer noise,” she told him with a stern look, placing a kettle over the flames on a hook. “We’ll have a dish ’o tea before we talk.” Despite his trepidation, Ciarán had to smile to see the look on Diarmaid’s face at being thus admonished. The Laird of Kincaid was not used to being spoken to in such a forthright manner.

“Sit ye down, the both of ye. Ye’re makin’ the place look untidy,” she told them with an amused cackle at her own wit, gesturing with her head at an old, battered settle. Ciarán and Diarmaid turned to do as she bade them, only to notice for the first time that the settle in question was in fact occupied by an enormous black hound. The beast was stretched out along the whole seat and appeared to be fast asleep.

“Ach, the auld thing,” the woman muttered, startling both men when she suddenly cried sharply, “Grim! Get up and move yer carcase!” The dog jumped and snorted, coming awake. It raised it huge head and looked balefully at the visitors, who took a step back. “’Tis all right, he’ll nae hurt ye. Nae unless I say so,” she added with another unnerving cackle.

“Here, Grim, here’s a nice wee bone fer ye.” At the sound of the word “bone,” the dog’s lithe, black form slithered from the settle. It placed its paws, the size of dinner plates, Ciarán estimated, foursquare on the dirt floor and shook itself vigorously, ending with a loud sneeze. Then it ambled over to its mistress and, with the politeness of a well-bred lady, took the proffered bone before settling down contentedly before the hearth to chew on it. “Ach, ye wouldnae think it tae look at him, but he’s as gentle as a lamb.”

“He is indeed a fine-looking hound,” Ciarán said, eyeing Grim’s massive form doubtfully. “He’s as big as a full-grown deer.”

“Aye, bred tae hunt wolves,” the woman said, bringing three beakers of tea with her when she finally came to join them, handing the brothers one each before seating herself comfortably opposite them in an old chair. “And ye get a few of them around here, I can tell ye, two-legged ones mostly.” She cackled again, and Ciarán’s unease grew.

She flashed him her toothless smile again and added, “They think they can take advantage of an auld woman living alone out here in the forest. But Grim soon teaches ’em how wrong they are.” She laughed like a creaking barn door, sending an involuntary shiver up Ciarán’s spine.

Wheesht, man, what’s wrong with ye? Ye’re nae a bairn, tae be so afraid o’ this auld one! He glanced over at his brother, who, like himself, stood not an inch less than six feet three in his stockinged feet and was a veteran of many fierce battles. He took strength from seeing that he appeared similarly cowed by this diminutive woman of the woods and her giant dog.

“We—” Diarmaid began again.

“Aye, I ken. Ye’ve come tae find the Blade of Osheen,” the crone said matter-of-factly. “Ye wish tae cure yer sister of her melancholy.”

Ciarán and Diarmaid stared at her, then at each other, their jaws falling slightly open. Again, the hairs on the back of Ciarán’s neck prickled.

“How d’ye ken us and what we’ve come fer?” he asked somewhat nervously, half afraid to drink the tea she had given them. There could be anything in it.

“How else am I tae prove tae two unbelievers that I have powers, eh?” she asked drily. “Grim heard ye comin’, and he told me, and I looked intae the fire and saw ye. And I kent who ye are, and why ye’ve come tae see me,” she told them, as if what she was saying was as ordinary as remarking what dire weather it was. A deep feeling of unease settled in Ciarán’s bones even as his wet clothing began steaming in the over-heated room.

“Then, can ye help us? D’ye have this Sword of Osheen?” Diarmaid asked hesitantly. Ciarán could hear the note of hope in his brother’s voice.

“Aye, I can help ye. I’m bound tae help ye,” she added mysteriously, glancing at Ciarán in a way that unnerved him further. “But I dinnae have the blade mesel’.”

“Then can ye tell us how tae get it?” he asked, his unease mixed with wavering hope.

She nodded. “Aye, I can, but first I must warn ye about this sorcerous blade ye seek. What d’ye ken of it?”

“All we ken is that ’tis said it can cure sickness,” Diarmaid said.

“Aye, that’s right, it can. And aye, it can cure yer sister. But I warn ye, the magic it holds is dark. It should be used only once.”

“How do we use it? Tae cure Maddison, I mean?” Ciarán asked, leaning forward, turning the beaker of tea between his fingers.

“Ye have tae make a wee cut in the skin just above her heart, and the darkness there will be healed. But I’ll tell ye again, ’tis a very powerful blade, and a lot of people forget themselves once they have it. There’s many folks who’ve possessed it and tried tae misuse it fer their own gain. All of them are dead.”

A shiver passed through Ciarán at her grave warning. “We have nae intention of misusing it. We only want it tae heal Maddison.”

The crone nodded at him. “Aye, I ken, but I must warn ye of the terrible dangers at play with powerful forces such as this.”

“We take note of yer warning, Madam. Can ye tell us how we can find the sword?” Diarmaid asked with some urgency, clearly wanting to be gone from such eerie company.

“Aye, but ye must both swear tae follow me instructions, or it could be death fer ye.”

The brothers looked at each other for a moment before saying in unison, “We swear on our souls.”

“All right then,” she said, nodding. “Ye’ll have tae search fer it, mind ye.”

“We intend tae,” Diarmaid told her firmly.

“Aye, we’ll find it all right,” Ciarán seconded.

But the crone shook her head. “Nay, nae him,” she said, pointing at Diarmaid before gazing piercingly at Ciarán. “’Tis ye who must go, and ye must go alone.”

Ciarán stared at her, mystified. “What? But why?”

“’Tis yer destiny,” she told him, once again making the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. He looked at Diarmaid, who shrugged.

“Very well, if ye say I must dae it alone, then I will,” Ciarán told her emphatically. “I dinnae care, as long as I find the blade and Maddison can be cured. But d’ye have any idea where I should start me search?”

“Ye’re a good lad,” the old woman said, smiling at him. “Aye, I dae. Now, the last I heard, t’was rumored the sword is in a wee village called Brockside, nae so far away from here. That’s where ye should start.”

“Thank ye kindly, Madam,” Ciarán said, grateful for the information but equally grateful to be leaving. Not wishing to offend, he drank his tea in one go, which turned out to be delicious and strangely invigorating. He watched as Diarmaid did the same, clearly also not wishing to offend their hostess. They both placed their beakers carefully on the low table before them.

“Aye, thank ye. We’re very grateful fer yer help. Will ye nae let us recompense ye fer yer time and trouble?” Diarmaid asked as they both stood up carefully to avoid banging their heads. But the old woman shook her head, a flash of annoyance in her hooded eyes.

“I telled ye, I want naething’ ye’ve got,” she said to him sharply. Then she looked at Ciarán. “But I want ye tae promise me, lad, that when ye’ve found the blade and cured yer sister, ye’ll bring it tae me. I intend tae destroy it once and for all. Far too many souls have lost themselves because of its evil influence.”

“Agreed,” Ciarán said without hesitation. He would just as soon not hang on to such a malign object. “I’ll happily bring it back tae ye.”

“Aye, we swear tae return it tae ye as soon as Maddison’s better,” Diarmaid promised.

The brothers moved towards the door, and the crone got up to see them out. The huge dog was still chewing contentedly on its bone by the fire as they left and did not even lift its head as they existed the cottage back into the gloomy wet afternoon.

“Me name’s Selma,” the crone called after them as they made their way across the puddle-filled, muddy clearing, seeking the partial shelter of the forest. “Dinnae forget, Ciarán, tae return the blade tae me when ye’re done with it.” With that she shut the door.

“How the hell does she ken me name?” Ciarán asked Diarmaid with a shudder that was nothing to do with the dank weather.

“Dinnae ask me,” his brother replied tersely, his face pale in the gloom. Ciarán could see that he too had been spooked by Selma’s uncanny powers.

“I suppose we have tae believe in the powers the sword is supposed to have now,” he said, as they began their journey back through the stretch of forest to the place where they had left their horses.

“Mmm,” was all Diarmaid would say on the matter, and Ciarán did not blame him for his reticence. Their meeting with the cailleach was simply too strange to dwell upon. So, he turned his mind to the village of Brockside and how to find its location, so that he could get there as quickly as possible.

Chapter Two

These days Tegan MacFarlane avoided approaching her childhood home from the front. Instead, she chose to turn off the main way and guide her horse down the twisting track that led by degrees down the thickly wooded hill, to eventually emerge at the rear of the MacFarlane’ Keep.

After ten minutes of slow riding below the canopy of fragrant pines, she reached the small plateau that hung about sixty or so feet above the back of the extensive, granite-built house and surrounding buildings and grounds, giving her a full view of the roofs, courtyards, garden, and stables below.

It all looked so painfully familiar, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the young woman standing on the stone steps by a set of green-painted rear doors, beneath a wooden porch. In her mid-twenties, she was tall and slender, with long, straight brown hair that was caught at her fair brow by a simple golden circlet and provided a bright contrast with the bright mustard color of her dress. In her arms she was cradling an infant wrapped in a woolen shawl.

Tegan smiled and put two fingers to her lips, letting out a shrill whistle that made her horse whicker. The woman below looked up, her face splitting into a huge smile when she caught sight of Tegan.

“Sister! There ye are. We’ve been waitin’ fer ye,” she called, rocking the child gently from side to side. “Come and meet yer new niece!”

“I’m comin’,” Tegan called, her heart swelling with a mixture of love and excitement. “I cannae wait tae see her.” She clicked her tongue, and the horse proceeded to carry her down the remaining stretch of track until its hooves left the soft earth and clip clopped onto the cobblestones of the courtyard.

Tegan quickly dismounted, throwing the reins over the saddle and letting the horse wander off to nibble at the juicy grass growing between the cobblestones. Her sister had come down the steps to meet her, and Tegan hurried towards her and the new arrival.

“Och, Ailis, she’s beautiful,” she said cooing over the tiny, pink-cheeked baby, suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to protect her at all costs. “She’s so tiny!”

“Aye, that’s often the case with babies, so I’m told,” Ailis joked before adding, “but this one’s very tiny because she came a wee bit early, she was in such a hurry to be in the world. See how strong she is!” Ailis smiled to see her daughter clutch Tegan’s outstretched finger in her miniature fist and promptly try to stick it into the tiny rosebud of her lips.

“Och, she’s perfect,” Tegan was saying when she suddenly noticed what her niece was about to do and rapidly tugged her finger away. “Nay, little one! That wouldnae taste good,” Tegan said, unable to wipe the grin off her face. But Sorcha refused to release her finger, merely gazing up at her aunt with swimming blue eyes the color of a summer sky. The child appeared full of wonder. “Look, she’s smilin’ at me,” Tegan said, delighted by the baby’s toothless smile. She silently vowed to do her best to make Sorcha’s life a happy one.

“I hate tae spoil things fer ye, Tegan, but that’s likely just wind,” Ailis said then, laughing and jerking her from her thoughts.

Tegan put on a mock frown. “Nay,” she retorted, not taking her eyes from her niece as the pair played a gentle game of tug-o-war with her finger, “she kens her Auntie Tegan right enough, dinnae ye, me bonny wee Sorcha?” As if in reply, the baby gave a gurgling chuckle, and her little pink face seemed to light up. “Ye see? Ach, ye have me wrapped around yer finger already, child,” Tegan added, once more almost overwhelmed by the love she felt for Sorcha.

“Let’s go inside,” Ailis said, leading the way up the steps and into the back regions of the house where they had grown up. They came into a warm, spacious parlor. Ailis sat on the large, old settle near the hearth, arranging her skirts and balancing the tightly wrapped package that was baby Sorcha on her lap.

“Brrr, ’tis nae so warm in here,” Tegan observed, pulling off her hide gloves and tossing them down onto a chair before going straight to the fireplace. “Ye need another couple of logs on the fire, Ailis, ye havetae keep yerself and the baby warm, ye ken?” She picked up a few of the small logs stacked by the hearth and added them to the fire before poking the low-burning embers into life. Then, she sat down in the chair opposite her sister and looked at her keenly.

“I’m all right,” Ailis assured her, “just tired after the birth, is all. But Meg’s been feedin’ me up, making me drink that awful beef tea and swallow raw eggs, tae build me up, she says,” she added, referring to their old, faithful cook and housekeeper.

“Well, just ye make sure ye do as she says. She kens what she’s talkin’ about, having raised five bairns herself. Ye cannae take any chances… nae after…” Her voice trailed off as Ailis suddenly grew paler still.

“I ken, Tegan.” She held Sorcha close to her breast. “After losin’ the first babe, this one’s even more precious tae me. I’ve nae intention of losin’ her too.”

“Aye, she’s precious all right. But so are ye tae me, Ailis. Losin’ a babe takes it out of ye, may the wee one’s soul rest in peace, but havin’ a babe does too, so promise tae mind Meg’s words.” Tegan had been desperately worried to see how last year’s miscarriage and the pregnancy with Sorcha had taken their toll on her beautiful, poised sister.

Ailis smiled at her weakly. “I promise.” She sighed, staring dotingly down at her daughter, who gurgled as she gripped her mother’s little finger and sucked on it with gusto. “Aye, it was a rough pregnancy, all right,” Ailis went on. “For certain, I was sick more often than I was well. There were some days when I felt so weak I thought I’d lose her too. But it was all worth it to have Sorcha here safely, and I have every intention of getting me strength back so I can give her all the love and care she needs. And now ye’re here, I’m truly happy.” She beamed at Tegan.

“Och, ye ken I love tae see ye happy, Ailis,” Tegan replied, her gaze fixing on little Sorcha’s face before she added, “and now there’s this little one tae think about as well. Here,” she said, approaching her sister with her arms outstretched. “Let me hold her.”

Chuckling, Ailis handed the bundle over into Tegan’s hands. Hiding her nervousness at handling her niece for the first time, Tegan sat down once more, laying the baby down in her lap so they were face to face. They beamed at each other, but she noticed Ailis was staring at her with concern in her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked, marveling again at the strength of Sorcha’s grip.

“Yer face. Ye have a nasty gash on yer cheek. How did ye get that, Tegan? Fighting, I suppose,” Ailis said, sounding worried. “Have ye had it seen tae?”

“Dinnae fuss, Ailis. ’Tis naught but a scratch. Of course, it was from a fight,” she said.

“But why d’ye always have tae be fightin’? Ye ken ye’ll have a scar there too now, eh?” She inclined her head at Tegan, still eyeing the wound beneath her eye.

“Are ye pullin’ me leg, Ailis? I’m a warrior. I’m a trained soldier fer the clan. That’s me job. I’m gonnae get the odd scar.” She brushed her hand ruefully across the gash on her cheek. “Sheep rustlers. One tried tae have a go at me with his dirk, so I had tae break his arm before he was carted off tae face the Laird’s justice.”

“Well, it looks sore. Ye should let me tend tae it,” Ailis told her, moving to rise.

“Nay, stay where ye are!” Tegan cried, putting up a hand. “Dinnae dare move. I’ve told ye, ’tis naething,” she added dismissively, wanting Ailis to relax.

Ailis sank back into the settle. “Well, I dinnae like tae nag ye, Tegan, and I ken ye’re a trained warrior—”

“One o’ the best in the Sutherland—” Tegan filled in with obvious pride, crossing her leather clad legs.

Ailis nodded. “Granted, one o’ the best in the whole of Sutherland, to be sure. I can put up with ye dressing like a man, and I ken ’tis too late fer the rest of yer poor benighted body, but can ye at least try tae nae get anymore scars on yer face? How am I supposed tae find ye a man tae marry if ye carry on this way?”

Tegan burst out laughing, knowing full well her sister was teasing her. “Very funny, as usual. Except that would mean ye’d have tae keep lookin’ fer that man fer yer whole life, because nay such man exists!”

“Well, if ye keep getting’ yer face all bashed up and wearing men’s clothes, he certainly willnae.”

Tegan snorted with laughter. “I cannae argue with ye there, Sister. But ye ken well why I have tae dress like a man—because nae one, neither man, woman, child, nor beast, will take a warrior wearing women’s clothes seriously. Wheesht! Can ye see me ridin’ across the moors, chasing some brigand, in me best ball gown?”

They both dissolved into giggles then, but they unfortunately soon died away when Logan Ross suddenly enter the parlor.

“Husband,” Ailis said, plastering what Tegan could tell was a false smile on her lips. “What a nice surprise.”

Logan scoffed. “Nae from me point of view,” he said, scowling at Tegan. “Why is she here?” he demanded.

Tegan hated to see Ailis trembling as she replied, “Tegan is me sister, all the family I have left—” she began.

“All the family ye have left?!” Logan hissed. “I’m yer bloody family, woman! I’m yer husband. Ye’ve nae need fer a sister, especially nae one lookin’ like a man.” He paused to sneer at Tegan.

“Dinnae speak tae her like that, Ross,” Tegan said warningly, getting up and putting herself between him and Ailis.

“How dare ye tell me what tae dae in me own house,” Logan hissed. “And ye havenae answered me question. What are ye doing here?”

“I’ve come tae see the babe, of course,” Tegan said, just as Sorcha began fretting.

“Shush, now, hinny, nae need tae cry,” her mother soothed her, to no avail.

“Will ye shut the brat up, woman? All it does is cry. How is a man supposed tae live this way? Now, if ye’d given me a son… well, a son should have a fine pair o’ lungs. But another lassie? What good is a lassie tae me? A man like me needs a fine, strong son.”

Sorcha seemed to understand and yelled even harder, as if the very sound of his voice upset her. Tegan could understand why. Her hand itched to fly to her dirk and slit the man’s gullet. But she knew she could not.

“I said shut her up, will ye?!” Logan yelled at Ailis, who looked at him helplessly, her eyes shining with tears.

“Ach, I’m goin’ tae me study, fer some peace and quiet,” he spat and slammed out of the room.

“Shut the door, why dinnae ye?” Tegan could not resist shouting after him.

“Ach, dinnae dae that, Tegan, please!” Ailis begged her, wringing her hands and staring at the door anxiously, as if Logan would come barging back through it at any moment. Ye just make it harder fer me.”

“I’m sorry, Ailis, I dinnae mean tae. He’s just such a—” However, her sister did not seem to hear her and continued speaking almost distractedly.

“But I have tae admit that lately he’s been worse than ever. He always seems tae be in a bad temper.”

“Oh, what a surprise!” Tegan said drily.

“Aye, ’tis because he’s searching fer a sword or something like that, some enchanted blade of sorts. He claims tae need it desperately—he wouldnae say why—but he’s had nae luck findin’ it thus far. And every day, he gets angrier about it.”

“He’s an idiot,” Tegan said with small laugh as an idea took root in her mind. “What grown man believes in such things?”

“Me husband, for certain. ’Tis all he talks of.” Ailis sighed.

“Och, well, ’tis an auld wives’ tale, nae doubt. Now, I’ll order us up some tea and shortbread, shall I? Ye put yer feet up fer a wee while, and I’ll go and get Meg tae dae the honors.”

“Och, would ye? I’d love that,” Ailis said gratefully, stretching her feet out towards the fire.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Tegan told her, going out to the kitchen, placing her order with Meg and then taking the kitchen backstairs, making for Logan’s study. She had an idea. She could use this obsession of Logan’s with this mysterious blade to her and Ailis’s advantage.

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Prologue

Odhrán arrived early for the meeting with his father in the old man’s study. While he waited, he took in the familiar room, the walls redolent with woodsmoke, whisky, and power.

One day, this’ll be mine.

Leaving the door open, he took the opportunity of his father’s absence to cross the floor to the enormous carved desk that stood near the far wall, to the right of the mighty hearth. A fire had been lit and was throwing out a feeble heat that barely warmed the chilly air.

Odhrán saw parchments spread across the surface of the desk. Out of curiosity, he rifled through them to see if they held anything of note. To his disappointment, they dealt only with the domestic affairs of Clan Lennox, merely confirming what he already knew: the clan’s fortunes continued to grow.

He listened for a moment, but there were only the faint calls of life from the hallways and passages of his home. No sign of his father yet. Odhrán slipped around the desk and carefully lowered himself into his father’s chair.

It was more of a throne really, an oaken, box-like structure, with a high back carved with the arms of the Lennoxes, a hawk in flight with a lamb clutched in its talons. He ran his hands over the polished wood of the arms, thinking the seat befitting of a powerful laird.

“Get out of there, boy,” came a gruff voice from the doorway. “Ye’re nae the laird yet.” Startled, his heart skipping a beat, Odhrán sprang up out of the chair and stepped aside as the tall, burly figure of his father approached.

“I was just waitin’ on ye, Faither,” he said, watching while his father removed his plaid from his shoulder and threw it on a nearby settle before taking his rightful seat.

“Aye. I can see that,” the laird rumbled without warmth, laying his large, battle-scarred hands on the desk and looking at his son out of his sharp, cold, gray eyes.

“Mayhap ye’ll sit here one day, but I warn ye again, if ye dinnae find yersel’ a good wife soon, ye’ll nae sit here at all.”

Odhrán bristled inwardly, sick and tired of hearing the same threat repeated over and over those last few years. He threw himself into a nearby chair and stretched out his legs.

“’Tis hard tae find a laird willing tae let his daughter marry a Lennox when the reputation of the clan stands so low,” he said, not daring to add the fact that everyone knew that was all due to the old man’s aggressive, acquisitive, often brutal dealings with the other, more reputable and powerful highland clans. “Ye ken well we have more foes than friends.”

“Ach, I care naught fer any of that. I’ve made us rich, and the others fear our army. We’re powerful, and the rest dinnae like it.”

“Aye, ’tis true enough, but it disnae make things easy fer me,” Odhrán pointed out.

“Enough with yer excuses, boy,” his father said scathingly, his grizzled face creased into the mask of disapproval Odhrán knew so well. “Yer blether disnae change the situation. ’Tis ye who must secure our future. Ye must find a wife and give her sons, without delay.”

“What about the MacCraven or the McGivens’ lassies? Their faithers seem keen fer one o’ them tae wed me,” Odhrán suggested.

His father shook his head, his impatience, never far from the surface, clearly beginning to rise.

“Nay, nay, boy, have I nae told ye many a time? I dinnae want ye tae marry any old laird’s daughter, ye must wed a lass of good blood, from one o’ the high clans, tae give ye bairns o’ pure blood. We Lennoxes have

the gold and the power. And if ye marry the right lass from the right clan, she’ll bring her good reputation with her. That’s our future, and it depends on ye, boy!”

“All right, all right, ye dinnae have tae tell me again, Faither.” Odhrán nodded, hiding his irritation at hearing the familiar refrain.

“If ye cannae dae it soon, then I’ll be forced tae make a proposal to yer cousin, tae make him the next heir. Rollo already has a wife and bairns, and that’s what the clan want in a laird, nae a man who cannae even get a decent lass tae wed him,” his father told him in his typical brutal fashion.

Even as he seethed with concealed hatred for his father, Odhrán’s blood froze at the terrible possibility of losing his birthright to his cousin Rollo Lennox, something the Laird now threatened him with almost daily.

In yer dreams, auld man. That’ll never come to pass. Fer if I have tae, I’ll kill ye and Rollo both tae ensure me birthright. ’Tis me who’ll be the next Laird ’o Lennox!

Comforted by his secret resolution, he decided it was a good moment to put his plan before his father, hoping it would finally stop the old man’s endless threats and nagging, and ensure his own future as laird.

“Nay, Faither, ye dinnae need tae dae that. I’ve nae been idle on that score, I promise ye,” he said in a conciliatory tone, encouraged by the spark of interest in the laird’s eyes as he looked at him. “I’ve been doin’ some research, and I’ve come up with a good plan, one that’ll make us some money, and get me a high-born lass fer a wife.”

“Is that so, lad? Let’s hear it then,” the Laird replied with interest, steepling his hands beneath his chin as he leaned on the desk and regarded his son.

“Aye. I’ve been lookin’ into which o’ the clans of high repute are crumbling for lack of gold but have an unmarried daughter who’s the heir tae their faither’s lairdship.”

“And?”

“Well, it seems there are five o’ them,” Odhrán explained, watching the old man’s face carefully. “So… I came up with the idea of holding an auction.”

“Wheesht, boy, what dae ye mean, an auction?” the laird demanded to know, an edge to his voice.

“’Tis like this,” Odhrán said. “We invite these impoverished lairds tae take part in an auction where they can offer their daughters for sale tae the highest bidders as potential brides. They’re in such poor straits financially, they’ll have nae choice but to partake. They’ll be happy enough tae make some money out of it and have their lassies wed tae a laird, but we’ll take our cut o’ the money paid for the lassies tae.”

Rather than crushing the notion out of hand as Odhrán had half expected he would, his father considered his words in silence. Feeling optimistic, Odhrán continued.

“I aim tae get as many high clans as possible involved in the auction, each bidding fer one o’ the lassies. It’ll maybe give us the chance tae improve relations with some o’ those clans who are nae already opposed tae us.” He sat back in his seat and looked at his father, secretly praying he would agree. Hope sprang up in his breast when the old Laird nodded.

“Aye, ’tis nae a bad idea, laddie, nae bad at all. As ye say, it could work in our favor with the other clans. It’ll make people realize how powerful Clan Lennox really is, and get ye a blue-blooded bride tae boot,” he said, his sour face brightening. Odhrán could tell he was envisioning the outcome he so fervently wished for. “Go ahead, lad, and get it set up as soon as ye can,” his father instructed, already looking at the parchments on his desk.

Odhrán stood up, sensing dismissal. He was both pleased and relieved at his father’s acceptance of the plan. It had taken him a lot of thought and a lot of work to come up with the idea and do the necessary research. He made for the door, eager to leave, for he had other pressing business elsewhere to attend to.

“Wait, boy,” came the terse command. With another skip of his heart, Odhrán halted and turned.

“Aye, Faither, what is it?”

The laird did not even look at him as he asked, “That Kincaid lass we have stowed in the dungeons, what are ye going tae dae about her? ’Tis maybe time we got rid o’ her, eh?”

Odhrán froze, his mind scrambling for the right words. His fists clenched at his sides, fighting to remain calm as he turned back to his father.

“I ken ye want tae further yer vengeance against the Kincaids by killin’ her, Faither,” he said reasonably. “But as I’ve already told ye, she’s worth more alive than dead at present. She could come in handy as a bargaining chip.”

“Aye, I suppose ye’re right,” the laird grunted, clearly disappointed. “All right, off ye go then, and go about yer business,” the laird ordered him with a wave of his hand, not looking up at Odhrán as he left the study, closing the door firmly behind him.

His heart beating fast, he leaned his back against it for a few moments, relief and rage flowing through him by turns.

T’was a narrow escape, and but a temporary reprieve. I dinnae ken how much longer I can put him off. I’m going tae have tae act sooner than planned if I’m tae be laird and have the freedom tae dae as I wish. ’Tis the only way.

When he felt sufficiently composed, he pushed himself from the door, pulled himself up to his full height, and strode off down the hallway, towards the exit of the great stone keep. Once outside in the cobbled courtyard, he skirted the wall of the keep until he came to a heavy wooden door, covered with fearsome looking ironmongery.

Opening it, he sped down the interior stone staircase, descending into a murky gloom pierced only by a few flaming torches. The stench of collected human misery made him cough as he stepped into an area off which several thick doors led, each with heavy locks on the outside and a barred grille high up. Gripped by anxiety, he went to one at the end of a row of four.

“Maddison, ’tis me,” he whispered through the grille, holding his breath in fear. “Are ye all right?” He tensed when he heard a light rustling from within. When a small, pale face dominated by a pair of large, sad, dark eyes appeared in the dim light beyond the grille, he breathed out. Small, grimy hands clutched the inside of the bars.

“Odhrán, ye’ve come,” came a low, croaking voice that suggested it was rusty from lack of use. “Aye, I’m all right.”

“Och, Maddison, ye dinnae ken how sorry I am that I dare nae let ye out, but they’d kill us both if I did,” he told her apologetically, his heart aching for her, silently cursing himself for being a coward.

“I ken it well,” she replied sadly, staring at him through the bars until he thought his heart would burst with shame and anger. And love.

She hesitated before asking, “Is there nae any news about me braithers?”

He shook his head despondently. “Naething,” he told her, hating himself for lying to her. He knew very well her brothers had been scouring the highlands for her since her disappearance a twelvemonth ago.

“Oh. But I ken they’ll nae give up lookin’ fer me,” she responded with a deep sigh of disappointment that cut him like a blade. “That they’ll come and free me.”

“I’m sorry, lass. I wish I could dae more fer ye, but ye ken Laird Lennox’s army outnumbers that of any clan in these parts. ’T’would be certain death fer anyone tae try tae mount an attack on the castle tae free ye,” he told her with genuine regret.

“I ken the laird wants me dead, just as he murdered me faither, maither, and braither, and I’m grateful fer all ye dae fer me, Odhrán. But I dinnae ken how much longer I can stand this place. Sometimes, I think ’tis worse than bein’ dead. And what would I go home tae, with naething left o’ me family?”

“Ach, dinnae say so, lassie.”

Her despondency pained him in ways he was unused to, for he had never felt himself capable of ever loving anyone before setting eyes on Maddison Kincaid as his father’s prisoner. The old man had drummed into him that love equaled weakness and was something to be beaten out of a boy with a rod. A Lennox had no use for love.

Yet slowly, over the months of her captivity, Odhrán had felt himself falling in love with his beautiful, gentle, brave captive, though it had taken him some time to realize that was what was happening. And there was no stopping it.

But he dared not tell her so, nor even whose son he was, for what lass could love a man like him? If she ever found out he was Odhrán Lennox, son and heir to Laird Murphy Lennox, she would instantly despise him. She would see him as being just like his father, her captor, a brutal monster who wanted to slit her throat, just as he had those of her parents and brother, a man who would go to any lengths to get what he wanted.

Wishing he could show her he was different from his father and desperate to give her some hope, he reached up through the bars and caressed her cheek gently with his fingertips.

“Dinnae dae that,” she said, flinching away. Pain stung him, and a wave of hatred for his father and sorrow for what he was about to do washed over him. The auction would get him the wife his father wanted for him, but he had fallen head over heels for Maddison and wanted her for his wife. The only way that could happen was if he was the laird.

“Did ye bring anything fer me?” she asked, pulling him from his thoughts. He suddenly remembered he had.

“Aye, here ye are,” he replied, groping in his coat and pulling out a package wrapped in cloth. Glad to do what little he could to make her more comfortable, he passed it to her through the bars. “’Tis just some bread, a peck o’ cheese, and a couple o’ slices o’ roast beef, to keep ye going, and a wee flask o’ water and whisky,” he told her as she eagerly took the small bundle from him. “D’ye have plenty o’ clean water to drink?” One of his worst secret fears was that Maddison would die from some fever from drinking contaminated water.

“Aye, as clean as it can be in this place. Thank ye fer the food. ’Tis very welcome,” she told him.

“I’ll talk to the jailor, make sure ye get clean water, and I’ll tell him tae clean yer cell out and bring ye candles,” he promised, confident at least that a threat or two would persuade the jailor to do his bidding without his father finding out. If he did, Odhrán inwardly vowed to kill the jailor and tell his father once again that it stood to reason to keep the girl alive as a possible pawn to use against her clan.

“I havetae go now,” he told her, hating to leave her there. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can tae see ye again and bring some more food, and some clean clothing too.”

“Thank ye, Odhrán. Could ye maybe bring me something to read as well? The hours are long here,” she asked, giving him a faint smile that stabbed at him as she backed away into the gloom, clutching the package of food.

“Aye, of course. I’ll see what I can find,” he promised. Then, he forced himself to retrace his steps out of the prison to the outside world, breathing deeply to rid his nostrils of the stench.

That auld bastard must die.

Chapter One

Lillie peeked about her nervously as she walked, pulling the hood of her cloak further over her head, the better to disguise her identity from those she passed on her way through the village.

She was garbed in the simple outfit of a lowly maid, having changed out of her gown in her room before slipping hurriedly down the castle’s backstairs and out of the gates. She hated the subterfuge, but since being rescued by her brothers a year ago after six long months spent in the dungeons of the cruel Laird Keir MacNeil at his castle stronghold, helped by his daughter Ciara, Aiden and Darragh would not let her out of their sight unless she had at least a dozen armed guards with her at all times.

It was stifling, another form of incarceration to her. There were times when she just needed a break from the continual surveillance, or she felt she would go mad. Today was one of those times.

The only brief respite to be had was to assume her disguise and go down to the nearby village to meet her best friend, Hannah Tavish. Hannah was the daughter and apprentice of Maria, the healer at Castle MacDonald, a beautiful, lively girl the same age as Lillie, twenty-one.

Lillie was on her way to the healer’s cottage now, for the two girls had an excursion planned. Usually, they stuck to the local market, often buying the herbs and spices Maria needed for the infirmary as well as shopping for themselves. Today, however, they intended to travel further afield, to the village of Kirkauld, about three hours walk away.

Kirkauld was an unsavory, dangerous place for two young women of good repute to wander about, full of whore houses and the like, where courtesans plied their wares. Naturally, it drew the kind of low men who sought their services, meaning it was also full of rough taverns where drunkenness and violence was an inevitable part of village life.

Thus, Hannah had arranged with Laird MacDonald and the Captain of the Guard to have an armed escort, though, of course, the Laird had no idea his own sister would be accompanying Hannah on the journey. He would never have allowed her to go. They were to buy the herbs Maria needed for her concoctions that could not be found anywhere else nearby and bring them back.

When Lillie arrived at the cottage, she tapped lightly on the door. It was opened almost immediately by Hannah, a shapely girl with long, dark hair and bright blue eyes.

“Ach, there ye are, Lillie,” she said, smiling as she pulled Lillie inside and shut the door. The girls greeted each other with a kiss on the cheek.

“Are ye ready to go?” Lillie asked, eager to set out and have a change of scene.

But Hannah shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, Lillie, but there’s been a change of plan. We cannae go today.”

Lillie felt the disappointment keenly. “Why is that? Has something happened?”

“Aye, I’m afraid so. There’s been an outbreak of a sickness in the village. Me maither’s been working all night to treat the patients, but there’s just too many of them tae handle by hersel’. She needs me tae stay here and help her. But I’ve arranged fer us tae go in three days’ time instead, on Wednesday,” Hannah explained.

“Oh, what a shame…” Lillie told her, dismayed at missing out on the trip, though she understood her friend’s situation.

“We are also nae happy about. We’re nae sure we’re going tae have enough of the right herbs tae treat everybody, so we just have tae hope we’ll nae run out before Wednesday,” Hannah told her, her expression anxious as she went on. “But I cannae just send the guards to get the herbs, fer they willnae ken what tae buy.”

“All right, dinnae worry, it cannae be helped,” Lillie soothed her, squeezing her friend’s hand briefly.

“I hate tae let ye down and leave ye hangin’, but I have tae go now tae help me maither up at the castle.” Hannah said, as she picked up a large wicker basket full of greenery and slung it over the crook of her arm. “Will ye be all right? We can walk back the castle together, eh?”

Lilie thought for a moment. She was free of her guards for the afternoon and did not fancy returning to the castle just yet.

“Nay, that’s all right, Hannah, ye go ahead without me. I’ll have a wee wander about the village, make the most of me freedom.”

“Very well but dinnae get intae any trouble, will ye? Maybe I’ll see ye later, eh?” Hannah replied as the pair exchanged pecks on the cheek and she hurried off towards the castle. Lillie looked after her, feeling at a loose end. Then, as she cast about the village, an idea came to her.

Things seemed calm, with folks just going about their business. In fact, things had been calm for a long time since her return from being kidnapped and imprisoned by the evil and, thankfully, now-dead Laird of MacNeil. She knew the way, so why should she not go to Kirkauld by herself and get Maria and Hannah the herbs they needed? She had money, and she knew exactly what to buy.

She considered it, reasoning that the worst that could happen would be getting in trouble with her brothers if they found out. But she could make sure they would not by saying she had been in the village with Hannah all afternoon. The market at Kirkauld was only three hours away and she was already wearing her maid’s disguise.

How much danger could there be?

Deciding she deserved an adventure and picturing the pleased faces of Hannah and Maria when they came home to see she had everything they wanted, she set off. It was a long walk through beautiful moorland. The weather was fair, and the road was quite busy, so she felt safe, gaining confidence with each step that she had made the right decision.

Eventually, she reached the outskirts of Kirkauld, feeling pleased with herself. But as she made her way up the busy main street and approached the bustling market, she could not help noticing what a rough place it was.

Wild fiddle music and loud, drunken singing poured from the many inns lining the street. Rouged women in gaudy, revealing gowns unfit for polite company either lounged about against walls and doors, giving come hither looks to the men passing by or chattered and laughed with other groups of unsavory looking characters.

She had to sidestep a man who was brawling loudly with a woman wearing a stained gown of red silk—clearly a whore who had evidently been shortchanged, judging by the insults she was screaming at him—. From what Lillie could see, the man was getting the worst of it.

“Hey, hinny, would ye nae like a good time, eh?” a strange man with barely any teeth and a scarred face called to her as she passed by. She stepped up her pace, seeing the relative safety of the market.

“Now, who’s this braw, wee lassie we have here, eh?” leered another man, dressed like the commonest brigand, from a doorway as she hurried by. Yet another man tried to reach out and grab her arm. She swerved to avoid him, sickened by the smell of stale beer oozing from him.

She shuddered, realizing she may have made a big mistake in coming on her own, understanding exactly why Hannah had arranged for them to have an armed escort. But now that she had come all that way, she was loath to give up without getting what she had come for. Resolving to leave as soon as she had finished her shopping, she pressed ahead, towards the colorful stalls of the market just up ahead. There, she felt, she would be safer.

Once within the market’s boundary, she headed straight to the stall she knew would have at least some of the herbs she sought. They did, and so she bought them, then moving on to find the remaining supplies she wanted. She was browsing a stall not far from the northern edge of the market’s confines, concentrating on inspecting the stallholder’s wares, when she suddenly felt a hand grab her arm and pull her aside. Her heart plummeted to her boots, thinking for a split second that it was one of her brothers. An explanation for her presence leapt to her lips as she whirled to see who had caught hold of her.

To her horror, it was a strange man, a rough looking fellow in a stained leather jerkin, his hair unkempt, with no clan insignia to mark him out.

“Let go of me! Who dae ye think ye are?” she cried out, yanking her arm away. But the grip of the stranger’s hand only tightened, and she found she could not break free as he dragged her along, behind the booths.

“Ow, let go, I tell ye, ye’re hurting me!” she shouted, kicking at him. But it made no difference, for he ignored her and seemed impervious to her kicks. He headed for a horse tethered nearby and grabbed a rope from his saddle. “Help! Help me, please, someone!” she yelled, trying to fight him off as he slung her to the ground and began tying her wrists and feet together tightly. Soon, she was trussed up and unable to move.

Nobody took the slightest notice of her shouts for assistance when he tossed her into the saddle and mounted behind her before kicking up the horse and galloping away into the nearby tree line.

There, she saw a small group of men on horseback gathered beneath the trees.

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Prologue

The little village of Roster, Scottish Highlands, Winter 1518…

Edith stared at the coins in her hand, the cold metal biting against her bare palm. Snowflakes collected between the folds in her clothes, pausing a moment, as though deliberating their egress, before melting into the fabric. She clasped her fingers around the coins and sucked in a fortifying breath, before turning towards Keelin, her sister, who was wandering nearby with her tongue stuck out to taste the falling snow.

It was unusual for the Macrae girls to roam the villages under their father’s lairdship alone, but times were anything but ordinary back at the keep. Their father, a most agreeable laird by the name of Noah, had been called out to the nearby village of Roster to mediate a quarrel between the local crofting guilds. He had encouraged his daughters to take a walk, but stay nearby, hoping that a change of scenery would allow anxious Edith a moment’s reprieve from her own thoughts.

Unbeknownst to her father, Edith had other ideas, formed long before their carriage had set off out of Wick. Most other young women would not have dared to orchestrate such a plot behind their father’s back, but for as long as Edith could remember, the odds had been in her favour.

“Come now, Keelin,” she cried over her shoulder. Tucking an errant strand of dark hair back beneath her cloak, she forced a smile to conceal her nerves. “I think I ken the way from here.”

Edith pointed to a small croft in the distance. A lazy ribbon of smoke rose from its rounded chimney, beckoning Edith forward like a curled finger. Their father had gone into a longhouse near the village square, close to where they had left the carriage. The trek to the little croft would take ten minutes, if the young women were lucky. It stood at the edge of a field on the outskirts of Roster, rising alone from the barren earth. Behind the fields, mountains shrouded by mist reached up to the heavens, at the base of which Edith could discern an unmoving grey loch.

“And ye’re certain this is the place?” Keelin asked, skipping towards her sister. She thrust her arm through Edith’s, clutching her close as the wind intensified. “Seems a right wee naething by me eye, Ettie.”

“Have I ever been wrong about these things?” Edith asked, keeping her eyes on the horizon. Her voice was barely audible above the howling of the wind, yet such clement weather had not been felt for weeks. Edith could not recall the last time the snow had abated enough for travel. “The clan has kent of this place for years. I have heard tales about her since I was a wee lass.”

“Yet ye cannae bring yerself to speak her name. A Cailleach is what she is…” Keelin murmured, encouraging Edith to pick up their pace. “I think these tales are all rubbish, piuthar. There is nae one in the world with magic enough to heal our Ma.” She averted her gaze to Edith’s closed fist. “I say we take yer wee pittance and buy her something braw instead. I saw a bakehouse by the crofters’ longhouse.”

“Any excuse to fill yer belly,” Edith joked. She gave the coins in her hand another squeeze, steeling her courage. “I am one-and-twenty, Keelin. It will nae be long until Faither seeks tae wed me off. If I dinnae act a fool now, when shall I ever get the chance again? Ye will have tae forgive me fer wanting to believe in a wee bit of magic for once.”

“Ye can consider yerself forgiven once we get out of this blasted cold.” Keelin groaned, shielding her eyes from the snow. “Let’s make haste before Faither finds out where we’ve gone, or before our bones turn to ice inside us.”

Having arrived at the edge of the village, the sisters came face to face with a low wooden fence. Edith bunched up her skirts and began mounting it before Keelin could complain, hoisting one leg over the top and climbing over the other side. She landed on the other side with a little hop, crossing her arms over her chest as she waited for her sister to follow.

For her part, Keelin cursed under her breath and picked up her skirts as well. She clambered over the fence, perching herself on top for a moment while Edith waited. Her cheeks were nipped red beneath her thick wool shawl, her golden hair beating against the sides of her face in the wind.

“I cannae hardly see me hand in front of me, Edith. I cannae— Ach!”

Upon landing on the other side, Keelin’s ankle twisted beneath her. With a cry, the younger Macrae sister went tumbling forward, colliding into Edith. The women fell into a heap on the ground, kicking up snow as they tried to right themselves. Edith gasped. The coins she had been holding had flown out of her hand, buried into the snow beneath them.

“Naeeee!” Edith cried, clambering immediately to her knees. She grappled for her sister’s arm, pulling her upright. “Keelin, are ye all right?”

“Dinnae bother with me!” Keelin pushed Edith out of the way and began raking back the snow around them, working furiously. “We’ve lost all our money!”

Edith couldn’t help but laugh. She began searching with Keelin, peeling back the snow until the white gave way to black. Her fingers burned as she scoured the ground, searching for the missing coins.

“I’ve found one!” Keelin shouted in celebration, holding the glinting coin aloft over her head. “How many did ye have in all?”

“Three shillings,” Edith replied. She pressed her lips together as she continued her search. If they didn’t retrieve the coins, and soon, she wouldn’t have enough to visit the Cailleach’s home. Eventually, she felt something hard and pried it free. “I’ve got another,” she said, collecting it in her palm with the coin that Keelin had found.

Her hands were raw and cracked by the time the third coin appeared before her. With a sigh of relief, she turned to Keelin, pinching the missing coin between her thumb and forefinger. Fully prepared to gloat, she was instead struck dumb as another coin caught her eye, settled between a parted sheet of snow, much older than the others.

“Four?” Edith gasped. She snatched the coin off the ground and wiped it clean. “This isnae mine… We’ve found an extra pound. What was it doing buried here?”

Keelin bared all of her teeth in a grin. Holding out her hand, she giggled as Edith handed the coin over to her for inspection. “Dinnae ask me. Ye’re the one with all the braw luck.” With a groan, Keelin pushed herself into a stand, then tended a hand for Edith to take.

“Ye fell into me nae two minutes ago,” Edith reminded her. Keelin pulled her into a stand, and she quickly brushed herself off. “I would nae call that braw luck.”

“Och, I dinnae ken.” Keelin winked and flicked her coin in the air. “We found this, didnae we? Now we can take a trip to the bakehouse once ye’re done being tricked out of all yer money.”

Warm bread seemed a distant prospect as Edith arrived on the path leading up to the Cailleach’s croft. The road was narrow and blanketed white, the snow untouched. No one had come up or down the path for at least two days. The smell of smoke was rising from the house. Edith could see no livestock nearby, no fire from the short windows.

“Looks abandoned,” Keelin commented, still hanging off of her sister’s arm. She shivered not from the cold but from fear. “Edith, I dinnae like this. We should turn back now before it’s too late.”

Edith balled her hands into fists, shaking her head. “I have to see fer meself,” she whispered, snaking her arm free from Keelin’s grasp. “Ye stay here until I’m done,” Edith ordered, taking her sister by the shoulders. “I will nae be a minute.”

Her sister made an angry little noise but eventually retreated. Turning from the view of the village down below, Edith steadied her breath and began approaching the croft.

The main building was round and built of stone. Its thatched roof looked too thin to hold the snow which had accumulated upon it. Yet something about the building seemed comforting, like many of the things which had stood for time immemorial.

“A wee bit of magic,” Edith thought to herself.

The front of the croft was barred off by a fence and gate. With no one around to stop her, Edith picked up the latch and allowed herself in, closing the gate back behind her. The front door, before abstracted by the snowfall, came into view all at once. The curved door panes had been painted in red. An iron door-hanger hung proudly at the centre in the shape of a cross. Edith had heard the people of Wick, where her father seated, describe the crone’s door as a perfect match to the one before her.

Edith swore she saw the flicker of firelight on the other side, but the light was dimmed almost as soon as she spotted it. Approaching the door nervously, she held out a hand for the knocker once she arrived. Two thuds came in quick succession, after which followed a moment of harrowing silence.

The silence was broken by the sound of the door creaking slowly open.

“Hello?” Edith asked, taking a step nearer. “I have come seeking…” She wracked her brain, utterly unable to form a coherent sentence, despite the fact that she had imagined this moment for weeks. “Me Ma needs aid. I have heard that ye can help people like her—people like us. May I…” She paused to gulp. “May I please come in?”

She saw the Cailleach before she heard her. In the sliver of space between the open door and its frame, two shining eyes appeared. Edith forced herself to remain calm. She would not allow her fear to get the better of her now.

“I have money,” Edith said, closing the space between herself and the door.

Almost immediately the eyes disappeared, and the door swung open. Casting a final glance at Keelin, Edith picked up her skirts and crossed the threshold.

The warmth of a fire wreathed around her immediately, and so different was the air in the house from the cold outside that it took Edith’s breath away. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the darkness within. The snow had been blinding outside.

“Close the door, lass. Or have ye nae any manners?” came the crone’s voice. “Close it, then come over here where I can see ye…”

Edith nodded and turned to close the door. The house seemed larger on the inside than it had appeared outdoors. The air was pregnant with the smell of burning wood, lavender and dust, and something sweet that Edith couldn’t place. A brightly burning hearth was located in the middle of the room, and a threadbare armchair had been positioned before it, stacked with all manner of books.

She glanced to the right, where the voice had come from. An archway blocked her path, over which hung a collection of dried plants. Through it, she could see what appeared to be a small kitchen. A figure was walking back and forth, and whatever they were doing was making an ungodly amount of noise. Taking an instinctive step back, Edith froze as the figure stepped into the main room.

“Dinnae seem so surprised, love. I would be a poor Cailleach indeed if I didnae provide me visitors with tea.”

She had spoken her title with venom. The woman was nothing like Edith had thought her to be. She was old—how old, Edith couldn’t determine. Her hair was grey in parts and white in others, trailing over her shoulder in a long, thick braid. Her eyes were small, perhaps blue, beneath the heavy curtain of her eyelids. White skin, freckled with age spots, appeared at the edges of her thick, dark green smock.

As a girl, Edith had pictured a hag like in the fairy tales when she had heard tales of Roster’s Cailleach: leathery skin, claws for fingers, feathers and bones adorning her hair, her skin frosted over with magical ice…

“Ye are the woman I’m looking fer?” Edith asked now, needing to make sure. She watched as the crone carried a wooden tray of tea to a nearby table. She was perpetually hunched over, but nothing about her was threatening except her low, rasping voice. “I cannae stay long, I’m afraid. But I am in dire need of yer help.”

The Cailleach paused, hovering over the tea set. She seemed to contemplate Edith’s words for a moment, giving her a sideways glance. Eventually, she returned to making her tea, preparing two cups despite Edith’s protestations.

“Ye’ve really done it now, Edith,” the Macrae girl thought to herself. “Dinnae anger the Cailleach, or else she will lock ye up and eat ye, like the stories say.”

A little laugh erupted from the old woman’s throat. Edith flushed, wondering what had caused it. For a second, she wondered whether the crone had heard her thoughts. But such magic was impossible. The aid she had come seeking for her mother, while some called it magic, could have been nothing more than well-practised herbalism and luck.

The thought convinced Edith to stay. When the Cailleach offered her a cup of amber-coloured tea, she took it. Giving it a whiff, Edith recognised the smell of rosehip and blackcurrants. Lacking a decent place to sit, she remained standing while the old woman moved to the armchair before the hearth. She quickly cleared away her books, then gestured for Edith to come and kneel by the fire.

“I kent ye would come,” the Cailleach said, looking down at Edith from her seat. The armchair dwarfed her, making the woman appear even smaller than she was.

“Ye kent because ye are a seer, like the stories tell?” Edith asked, leaning forward.

The old woman laughed, dancing the wrinkles on her face. “Perhaps… Or perhaps I saw ye walk up from the village.” She grinned and took a sip of her tea. “Such a nasty tumble ye took over the fence. Is that sister of yers always so full of trouble?”

Edith’s eyes widened. How did she know that Keelin was her sister? If the crone had been watching, then she had likely seen some similarity between the girls. Despite the fact that Edith had dark hair and Keelin’s was fair, their faces bore striking similarities. Both had inherited the cornflower blue eyes of their mother. Both had long faces with pointed chins and full lips.

“She can be a handful at times, but I would nae have done anything interesting in me life without her,” Edith admitted tentatively. She stared down into her drink and took a quick sip. The tea tasted earthy and tart, coating the back of her tongue. “Grateful though I am fer yer hospitality, I really cannae stay overlong. Ye see—“

“Ye see,” the Cailleach interrupted, “time is of the essence. Ye have come fer yer maither, have ye nae?” She craned her neck forward, sizing Edith up with her beady little eyes. “Ye have come all this way hoping that I might have something to cure her.”

“I…” Edith’s hands trembled around her teacup. “Aye. That is why I have come.”

“The kind laird’s daughter.” The woman smiled, but there was no benevolence in her expression. “So far from home. Even here we have heard about the lady’s illness. What has it been now, bairn? Three years? Four?”

“Six,” Edith rasped. She pressed her eyes shut and forced her hands to still. “Six years.”

Everyone in Caithness knew about the mysterious illness of Lady Macrae. Over the course of a fortnight, her health had collapsed, leaving the once beautiful and vibrant woman a shell of her former self. The lady could barely speak, barely move. An army of healers and physicians, some of them even Beatons, had come to Wick hoping to cure her and seal their celebrity. Nothing had worked., no tonics, no treatments, no amount of rest. Only a miracle could restore her.

As though reading her mind, the Cailleach nodded. She set aside her cup of tea and reached out her hands. Edith hesitated for a moment. She opened her now sweating palm and deposited three shillings into the crone’s crooked hand.

The woman counted them wordlessly: clink, clink, clink. Satisfied, she rose from her seat and bid Edith to remain kneeling with a flick of her wrist. The woman hurried into her hidden kitchen, and a similar cacophony to the one she had produced earlier rang out. Edith’s heart began beating hard in her chest, didn’t cease thumping until ten minutes later, when the crone returned with three small vials.

The first contained a black powder, the same consistency as sand. The second held a collection of herbs, the likes of which Edith had never seen. The third was empty.

“What am I tae dae with these?” Edith asked, looking between the vials and the woman. The Cailleach thrust the first two into her arms. Quick as lighting, she reached forward with something sharp. Edith gave a cry out of shock, darting backwards. “What are ye doing?!”

A small blade appeared in the old woman’s hand. In the other, she held a lock of Edith’s dark hair. With a delighted little hum, the crone retreated back into her kitchen. Edith bundled the vials in one arm, and reached for her chopped hair with her free hand.

“A little parting gift, from ye tae me and back again,” said the Cailleach when she returned. Her hand travelled in the air, settling on Edith’s chin. Pinching it between her thumb and forefinger, she contemplated the young woman’s face. “Such a canny thing… And yer name… Have ye any idea what yer name means, Edith?”

She was almost certain that she hadn’t revealed her name as of yet. Again, she decided that the crone’s knowledge was entirely reasonable. If she knew of Laird Macrae, it stood to reason that she should have heard the names of his daughters. The stealing of her hair was a truth less easy to swallow. Edith had heard tales of hags using blood and bile and all sorts in their brews. Was it possible that the Cailleach intended to do the same? She remained silent, preferring not to know the answer.

“It means blessed,” said the old woman. A smile spread across her face. “And yer blood is blessed. Born under a lucky star, ye were. Surely ye must have kent it. Such strange things have happened to ye, have they nae?” The woman laughed. Edith was unsure of what she was speaking. It was almost as though the crone was looking right through her. “Stranger things will happen yet. There is another, born under a similar and yet different star. The path of that one… Och…” The lady clamped a hand over her heart. “He walks a path paved with misery where yers is paved with delight. Should ye meet… But aye, ye must meet. Aye, that’s it. Indelible.”

“I dinnae see what any of this has to dae with me Ma, or me hair.” Edith furrowed her brow, eyes darting towards the door. If she was quick enough, she may have been able to make it. The Cailleach was old, clearly demented. While there was no telling what more she could do to Edith, she needed to discover what she could about her mother’s cure first. “What have ye given me?”

“In those, ye mean?” She pointed towards the vials. “The first is a tonic to be dissolved into yer maither’s water. She has too much light in her. It eclipses all else, and in the absence she withers away. The black will clear that out. There is nae remedy that can stop time however, bairn. The cure will last a year, maybe a wee bit more, if our Morrígan permits it.” Nodding, she released Edith’s chin at last. “The herbs are naething special—merely a blend tae help restore the lady’s health. Take them tae the Beaton in Wick. He will provide more should the store deplete.”

“All right,” Edith said, taking a step back. “Then I will—“

“And of the rest I have given ye? Are ye nae curious of the truth?” The Cailleach scowled, as though she couldn’t understand Edith’s actions. “Dinnae ye care fer the truth? All things are a balance, lass. Yer maither, fer example, has fallen out of balance with life. A little death, too much death.” She suckled on her lower lip, pacing back and forth.

Edith saw her chance to leave and took it, proceeding to the door in three long strides. A hand came out of nowhere, pressing the door shut.

“Och, Edith. Poor, sweet Edith…” the Cailleach whined, averting her eyes to the ground. She whipped her head up, and blinked. “Heed these words, bairn. Yer mother’s illness was a black mark on the otherwise spotless canvas of yer life, but fall she had tae, in order tae bring ye tae me and avert a greater disaster. Ignore a blessing and it shall vanish.” She rose her voice to a shout: “Dinnae let it vanish! See with yer heart what ye cannae see with yer eyes!”

Edith started. She wanted to run, feeling sick, but there was truth to the old woman’s words. Her good luck had been a buttress against the worst of life. The clement weather that day, the coin in the snow, were but drops in a pool of other auspices.

“It isnae luck, but chance,” Edith argued weakly, her heart pounding.

Her rebuttal amused the Cailleach endlessly. She laughed into Edith’s face, slipping a hand down and curling it around the doorhandle. If Edith wanted to escape, she needed to play the crone’s games and listen to whatever mad premonition the woman wanted to voice.

“Are they nae the same? Chance is the word fer the non-believer,” the Cailleach replied. “Ye must believe, blessed one. If ye dinnae, another will come tae swipe up the fortune that ye have failed tae protect. Aye…” The look in the woman’s eyes was far off as they darted back and forth in furious thought. “The words form on me tongue. Dinnae allow another tae steal the luck of yer star. If the fate-drinker should come begging, ye turn him away. If ye dinnae, seek nae other tae restore ye, or cursed fer all yer days ye will be.”

“What?” Edith shook her head, confused. “What are ye saying?”

“So little fun is there in saying the truth outright, but that is a consequence of youth, is it nae? Wanting more, wanting everything in the immediacy.” The woman’s faced blanched, and she took a step back, harrowed by visions that Edith could not see. “That desire will be yer downfall if it will nae be tempered. The fate-drinker is a man of these lands and yer paths will cross because they must. It’s meant tae be. Through a kiss, he will try tae steal the luck from ye tae fill the void in his heart, fer he is the unluckiest man on this earth. Ye cannae let him, lass, or ye yerself will inherit the doom that lives in his heart. Ye will exchange yer luck fer his. Only another kiss with him can return yer luck. But beware! If ye kiss another before then, the bond between ye and the fate-drinker will break … and yer good fortune will be gone forever!”

Transfixed by the strange woman’s ramblings, Edith could dae nothing but nod. The gesture appeared to satisfy the Cailleach, as she ripped open the door for Edith to step out.

Without looking behind her, Edith crossed out into the cold. When she turned back to look at the house, the light in the windows was gone. All that remained was the Cailleach’s strange premonition, and the swirling, sickening feeling in Edith’s gut that the old woman had been right.

Pushing down her rising scepticism, she turned back to the path where Keelin waited. The Cailleach was mad, but Edith would not test her luck until her mother was well again. If a kiss would be her undoing, then she had to avoid it with her life… How hard could that be?
 

Chapter One

Dornoch, Scottish Highlands, Winter 1519. One year later…

There were many things at which Braden Hamilton had succeeded, but every accomplishment of his had been fought for tooth and nail. Luck was not a lady that he knew, and any star under which he had been born was black as the night’s sky.

As he stood on the uppermost balcony of Castle Rósmire, Braden took a moment to observe the activity in the courtyard below. From beyond the wind-beaten walls of the keep, the old iron-monging burgh of Dornoch rose proudly from a patch of grey earth. The landscape would soon be draped in snow, two weeks were they from the first day of Yule.

“By that time, I can only hope some of the ill wrought upon me clan this last year will be forgotten tae the festivity and the fires,” Braden thought, unable to stir any real hope in his breast as he considered the future of his sept.

Rolling back his shoulders, he took a moment to breathe and reflect on all that had happened in the past twelve months. His life, another thing which had needed to be fought for, had almost been robbed from him at the hands of his power-hungry cousin, Irving. The Hamilton Beast, as he had come to be known in death, had tried to take what had been Braden’s by force: his title as clan chief, his home, his very name.

Having sought to impersonate Braden and marry his bride in his stead, Irving had found himself on the wrong side of the blade. The Leòideach Clan, a collection of Viking lairds from the island of Orkney, had not taken kindly to Irving’s attempt at duping them. Felled by the woman who had been offered to Braden as a wife, Irving had met his end far from home, where he belonged.

When news of Irving’s death had reached Braden’s ears—who at that time had been taken in and nursed back to health by the monks of a monastery on Orkney—he had known what had had to be done. The return of the rightful laird to Clan Hamilton, two weeks later, had helped put things to order, but Braden still felt the effect of Irving’s attempt at usurping him on their clan, having poisoned them with doubt.

Try as they might have to hide their lack of faith in their leader, the whispers had been plentiful, and they had reached Braden’s ears eventually.

“Can we trust a laird whose own blood dinnae have faith in him?” one had said.

“Braden was cursed from the day he watched his Da die—cursed to watch everything he touches burn tae ash,” had said another.

“Irving Hamilton was nae a hero, but he did what needed to be done. Could we say the same of his cousin, when the time comes? The pressure from enemy clans is rising by the day. Shall we forget MacLeod’s threats? Braden is more likely to drown than rise tae his challenge.”

There was nothing to be gained by tormenting himself with the opinions of those who did not believe in him. Braden may have been cursed, but he knew better than most that stubbornness always championed in the end.

Spying an approaching cart in the distance, he turned from the view of Dornoch and his clan, returning inside where the fire was burning hottest.

The keep was thrumming with activity early that afternoon. Maids carrying coal scuttles were making their journeys through Castle Rósmire to ensure that Braden and his men would be safe from the rising cold. His counsellors had been called to the keep that day and would be arriving within an hour for their latest meeting. There was much that needed to be discussed before the snow fell, threats which would not wait for Yule time to come and go.

Slipping into the outside staircase, Braden hissed as the cold wreathed around him. He tightened his fur cloak around his shoulders, felt his cropped hair ruffle in the wind. It was but a short walk down the spiralling staircase to the floors below. Yet even the humblest path Braden walked had always been paved with trouble…

It was as though the heavens themselves had burst open atop him. A stream of frigid water cascaded from the window above, drenching him from head to toe, so powerful in its decent that it almost knocked the laird off the battlements. Braden gave a tremendous cry as his clothes were soaked through, chilling him to the bone immediately.

Ears ringing, he stopped and gazed upwards once his shock had passed. A maid was hanging out of a window, an empty pale of water in hand. From the smell of soap now seeping into his garments, Braden surmised the water had originated from his bath, taken mere hours before. The maid’s face flashed red when she noticed him, her mouth falling agape as she struggled to voice an apology.

“Heaven and earth! Melaird, forgive me! I-I hadnae any idea that ye were there,” she brayed, her face twisting with her shame. Her voice broke as she began to wipe, likely fearing some sort of punishment. “Och, please forgive me. Please!”

Braden raked a hand through his wet hair, shaking it out and waving her apologies off. He slipped out of his fur cloak, revealing his dampened coat and trews. The cold was gnawing at his skin, sticking to him and turning the water to ice.

“It’s all right, lass. Ye could nae see,” he urged, forcing himself to remain calm. He tried to say something else, but the woman was gone by the time he looked back up again.

Immediately shivering, he darted quickly back inside. Having reached the second storey of the keep, he changed course, headed not for his study down below but towards his sleeping chambers, where a warm hearth and a change of clothes awaited. The way was clear as he approached his chambers, and for that at least, Braden was glad. Upon reaching the door, however, he got the sense that something was awry within. He examined the handle closely, pressing his cold hand against it and finding it strangely warm.

“Someone is in here,” he thought. “But who…? Me attendants are elsewhere.”

His free hand snaked through the air and hovered above the dirk at his waist. Sucking in a steadying breath, he forced the door open with a vicious swing. It arced noiselessly on its hinges, revealing the lustre of the fire within. Braden shivered at the change in temperature, feeling his hackles rise as a shadow moved before the flames.

The next thing he heard was the sound of laughter. All things considered, much worse could have awaited him, as images of assassins lurking in the dark flashed in his mind’s eye.

“Look at the sight of ye,” cried Madden Kinnaird, placing his hands disapprovingly on his hips. “Three years away and I’ve come back to a keep turned on its head.” The handsome young man smiled, dropping his eyes. “Aye, but it’s braw to see ye, melaird.”

“Madden?” Braden murmured, promptly stepping inside. He closed the door behind him, dripping water over the threshold. “What are ye doing here? Why nae send word if ye had planned a return to the Highlands?”

“And ruin the surprise?” Madden laughed heartily, settling into the fur-lined chair before the fire. He swung one leg leisurely over the other, reaching for an apple from the low-standing table beside him. He took a bite, then gobbed: “Never mind surprises. I didnae want to draw any attention to the clan for nae braw reason. Last I recall, Irving used to intercept all yer messages. And he was nae champion of mine. Alas, it seems I need nae to have concerned meself with that. What is it they call him now. The Hamilton Beast? I heard whispers as I snuck through Dornoch… Och, Braden. What has happened?”

A chill ran down Braden’s spine at the mention of his cousin. While he had come to terms with Irving’s betrayal, the memory of his attack still caused his stomach to churn. He pressed his eyes shut, forcing away the memory of Irving’s blade, slicing through the skin below his rib. Pain ghosted beneath his heart, and he levelled his breathing. He would not allow himself to show any weakness while he was still so vulnerable.

Braden had never been the greatest fighter. He could wield a sword as well as any other clansmen, but there was nothing impressive about his technique. The real strength of his character took root in his trust, his kindness, his wit. Those qualities had eventually proved his downfall. Now he had nothing but regret, his heart filled with embers stoked by a need for vengeance, wanting to avenge himself, his honour.

“If ye ken enough to call him that, then ye will ken that I have nae desire to speak of him,” Braden replied sullenly. He held up a hand when Madden tried to rise from his seat, gesturing to his wet clothes. “A moment.”

He clicked his tongue against his palate and slipped into the adjoining room, then proceeded to undress himself. He felt Madden watching him quietly in the silence. Braden made sure to turn away, not wanting to reveal the ugly scars that decorated his chest. He paused for a moment to observe himself in the looking glass.

He was much smaller in body than Irving had been. Though, in truth, Irving had been larger than any highlander that Braden had ever seen. Braden was strong but lithe, having always possessed more grace than brute strength. His hair, a light, reddish blonde colour the same shade of his father’s, had been cropped short after his brush with death. The eyes that stared back at him he scarcely recognised from before his fall.

“Good,” Braden thought. “Let that old laird lay on the strand where Irving left him tae die, and all his bad luck with him.”

Once he had procured some dry clothes, he returned to the fire where Madden was sitting. His friend looked up at him, having set his apple aside and leaned forward.

“Ye were always like a brother to me,” Braden said, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I ken what ye will say. Ye wish ye had been here to aid me.”

“Aye,” Madden said, nodding. “Ye kent what I would say.”

“Let those things remain unspoken. We can only focus on the future, now. I am alive. The Clan is mostly whole. Irving is long buried.” Braden felt the whisper of a smile form on his lips. He had not made the same mistake as his cousin. He had watched Irving’s body burn with his own eyes, until nothing had remained of him but bone and ash on the pyre. “And me most trusted advisor is returned tae me,” he added.

Madden turned in his seat, his brown eyes wide with hope. “Ye intend to restore me tae me place at yer side? Ye dinnae curse me fer staying across the sea for so long?”

“Ye went on me own order sto appease the Frangachs and Sassenachs alike, the least we could dae after Flodden. I take it Uncle Hendrie was glad tae see the back of ye, after hosting ye so long in Paris,” Braden teased, clapping him on the back and stepping away. He extracted his family’s ancestral blade from its display case, slipping it into his sheath ahead of the council meeting. “Aye, I would be a mighty hypocrite tae refuse ye the title that sent ye there in the first place. What’s more…” Braden stared down at the blade, which glinted in the firelight before he thrust it into its sheath. “I cannae think of a better man to help turn the keep back on its head, can ye?”

Madden was not prone to bursts of great emotion, but Braden saw joy sweep across his face before being quickly extinguished. He nodded, sealing his return to Dornoch and to the Hamilton Clan as the laird’s personal guard, when Braden needed him most.

A knock rapped on the door, interrupting the two men. Braden called for the guest to enter, surprised to see a maid appear. She was the one who had earlier tipped the pale of water on top of him. She wrung her hands before her, fiddling with a cloth of some sort, clearly desperate to make amends, likely on the order of the head housekeeper.

All too quickly, Madden hopped out of his seat, focused on an entirely different task now that a pretty young woman had presented herself to them. Braden laughed under his breath, turning back to the display case to close it.

“What’s the meaning fer yer call, lass?” Madden asked, pausing in the doorway. Braden glanced over his shoulder, watching as the tall, well-built Highlander wrapped an arm around the small woman’s shoulders. “Has the laird been cruel with ye?”

The words were teasing. Braden was no stranger to the comforts only a woman could provide, but he never touched the maids at the keep, and Madden knew it. In fact, since his return from the dead, he had not partaken in bed sport of any kind, having not wanted to, even while the clanswomen down in the burgh had been all too eager to welcome him home with their loving ministrations.

“I only meant to…” the maid trailed off, looking up at Madden with big, round eyes. Her face was flushed pink. Madden had not lost his touch on the Continent. He had been a menace before his departure, forever engaging in some flirtation with the poor yet receptive lasses of the clan. The maid hummed out of nervousness then turned to Braden. “Melaird, pray accept me apologies fer tipping that water on yer head. I never thought—“

The maid’s apology was cut off by a burst of laughter from Madden. He hopped away from the maid. “That’s what happened tae ye?” he roared, wiping a tear from his eye. “Och, ye’ll have tae forgive me too, melaird.”

Braden shook his head, clicking the display case shut. He swallowed down his niggling pride and forced a smile. “Ye can take me apologies and head on down the stairs, lass. Tell Isabele not to punish ye on account of me poor luck,” he added to the maid, knowing that the castle’s housekeeper took no prisoners.

He heard the scuttling of her feet, and then a door closed. Sighing, he returned his gaze to Madden, half expecting another round of teasing. His friend was staring after the door. He pointed towards it with its thumb.

“I dinnae recall that fair lass roaming these halls before me departure,” he said, shrugging. “Now, dinnae be getting the wrong ideas, melaird. I intend to be on me best behaviour, at least until I’ve settled in again.” He took on a rare contemplative air. “I saw carriages and riders coming through the burgh up tae the keep. Have I arrived in time fer a council meeting, or some such thing?”

“Ye have,” Braden replied, and gestured towards the door. As the men arrived in the hallway, he made certain to lock it behind him. “I’ve called the councilmen up before Yule. There is something on me mind which I wish to discuss with them.”

“Well, dinnae keep me waiting,” Madden said as they took up their walk. He stopped suddenly, putting a hand out to stop Braden from walking any further. Squinting, he observed Braden carefully in the light. “’Tis not like ye to be secretive. Has time changed ye, or is the topic of this meeting nae something of which ye wish to speak?”

With a drawn-out groan, Braden checked that the hallway was clear. He supposed the truth resided somewhere in the middle, and decided that speaking about the matter with Madden first might do something to help ease his apprehension.

“I have nae had a braw time, after having come back from Orkney. I ken what the clan thinks of me—ye will ken it soon enough, if ye didnae hear the gossiping in the burgh already. And I also ken that the opinion of our allies regarding me return differs greatly from that of our foes.”

“Ach, tis not so difficult tae imagine.” Madden nodded, dropping his voice low. “Tae some, ye must be a hero. Nae… A legend in the making: the man who eschewed his own death.”

“And to others,” Braden interjected, “I am the laird who could nae retrain control over his own clan. Who allowed his own flesh and blood to murder him, no matter whether he lived or died.” He shook his head, pushing the worst of his thoughts away. He glanced through a nearby window. Behind the glass, a light snowfall had begun. “I cannae wait fer time tae amend their opinions of me. I must act… Before Irving’s attempt on me life, I had planned tae take a wife.”

He smiled at the memory of Lady Adamina, the sister of the Viking Laird of Clan Leòideach. Though beautiful and spirited, Braden doubted they would have made a happy match in the end. Her heart had belonged to another, one of her brother’s advisors. She had managed to secure her own happy ending with him, even despite Irving’s interference.

Braden had put all other alliances on hold since his return, but the months were ticking ever forward. It was only a matter of time before someone else sought to make war with them, now that Irving was dead.

“This is what I wish to broach at the meeting,” Braden explained, feeling himself shrink under Madden’s anxious gaze. “Yule is fast approaching, and with it, I see a chance to rebuild the bridges between our clan here in Caithness and the lairds of the other highland seats.

“A long feast,” Braden continued. “Tae be held during Yule, during which time,” he held up a finger, “I may find meself securing a wife. The most powerful lairds that we ken must come, and they must see that I will nae be unseated again. This will nae be a time fer allies alone, but fer enemies too, that they might become something different.”

Madden furrowed his brow, having clearly picked up on Braden’s cautious tone. “And of these enemies,” he said warily, “are there none that will be refused an invitation? It is nae me place tae question ye, melaird. But some rivalries cannae—shouldnae—be fixed.”

Braden listened carefully, knowing exactly to whom Madden referred, but he could not agree. If he had any chance of restoring his clan’s faith in him, he needed to nip all threats in the bud before they could bloom with blood.

“If ye mean the young MacLeod laird…” Braden said. “Aye. I intend to have him be kent by us. He remembers our history. Too long have we existed in silence. He will come, we will meet, and hopefully we will forge a new future in peace.”

His friend’s face turned white, his lips pressed tightly together. Braden could see his own tortured memories reflected in Madden’s eyes. They had both only been children the last time a MacLeod clan chieftain had set foot on Hamilton soil. But they both remembered. How could they forget? The face of his father’s killer would likely haunt him forever.

When the last clan chieftain had died mere months after taking the life of Braden’s father, his son Lewis MacLeod had inherited the title. He and Braden had never met, but tensions were still alive from the times of their father’s feud, stoked by the memories of what had been lost, threatening to flame with every year that passed.

Silent threat that he was, Braden needed to see Lewis with his own eyes. Irving’s ploy had delayed their inevitable meeting by a year, but it could not be postponed forever. Forging such an unlikely alliance would help Braden’s cause massively.

And if he could not guarantee an alliance with Laird MacLeod, then he would make sure to smother a new war before it could begin…

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Prologue

Lockerbie, Scotland, 1762

Fiadh’s long fingers ran over the fresh mark on her face. The wound was surprisingly deep, starting from beside her eye all the way down to her chin. It was more of a gash than a scratch. Closing her eyes, she shut out the image of her reflection, not wanting to think about it. Yet in the ensuing darkness, the moment the wound had been inflicted on her returned to her.

Ossian had struck her with a blade, lashing out as she argued with him. She’d dropped to the stone floor of his chamber, cradling her face as she felt the warm blood on her skin.

“Dae ye nae understand, Fiadh?” His voice had boomed at her. “Ye are mine now!”

Fiadh opened her eyes again and inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself. That had been last night. This morning, at least she was not with him.

She stood at the far end of her own chamber, away from the bed where she hated to sleep. She stared at her reflection, her green eyes reminding her of her youngest sister, Callie, and her long brown hair reminiscent of her sister Aila. She had always looked like them, but recently she had started seeing more and more of a similarity as she looked in the mirror. She half wondered if that was because she was looking for them in the reflection, wishing she could see them again.

She stepped back, for she despised seeing the puckered skin and the ridged red mark of what her husband had done to her. In time, she supposed she would have a scar, and then she would look just like him, a mirror image of the scar running down his face.

He has marked me like him now. Aye, he means tae make me his forever.

She felt sick and tried to quell the feeling of nausea.

“Me lady?” a voice called from the doorway.

Fiadh flinched in surprise, not having realized she had left the door open. She forced a smile for the young maid who quivered in the doorway. That poor girl seemed to shake wherever she went in this castle. Fiadh had learned long ago how not to shake to hide her fear. If she showed one ounce of fear to Ossian, he took advantage of it.

“Aye?”

“The laird is waiting fer ye in his study.”

“Thank ye. I shall go there now.” Fiadh waited until the maid retreated before letting her smile falter. She looked at her reflection one last time, her eyes dancing across the scar.

Let him hate the sight of it, and the sight of me so that maybe someday, he will decide he has had enough of me.

She straightened the skirt of her rich navy tartan gown and walked out of the room with her head held high. In the corridors she passed the servants, who mostly kept their eyes averted. One or two offered her a sympathetic smile and others cowered back when they saw the mark on her face, clearly fearful of the man who had caused it.

As Fiadh reached Ossian’s study, in what felt to her like the darkest part of the castle, with the gray-stone walls high and tapestries enshrouding every surface, she knocked on the door and waited. At least obeying his summons on this occasion would bring her momentary peace.

“Come,” he barked from inside.

She opened the door and strode in, placing herself as he had often demanded of her, standing at the very edge of the wolf-skin rug, so only the toes of her leather boots touched it. She curtsied, nearly dropping to her knees. She only raised her chin an inch, her eyes darting to Ossian as he sat lazily in his wing-backed chair, his boots upon the desk in front of him.

“Ye took too long tae come.”

“I came as soon as I was summoned, me laird” she answered calmly. Raising her voice now would merely earn her another wound. He looked up from the maps he had been examining, their eyes meeting. Those orbs were as black as she judged his soul to be. She often looked at the sky in the night, and thought Ossian was like the darkness between the stars. Endless, a pure abyss of nothing. His eyes wandered down her, drinking her in thirstily.

She’d grown used to that look. A few times, she had managed to fight him off, but not nearly as many times as she would have liked to.

I made this sacrifice fer a reason, I must nae forget.

He’d originally wanted to marry her younger sister Aila, but Fiadh would have gone to any lengths to protect her from such a fate. She chose to offer herself up in her sister’s place and Ossian had jumped at the opportunity.

She could still remember the way he had gripped her in the saddle in front of him on a horse, as they rode away from her father’s brothel together. Fiadh had detested the place, which stood on the side of the mountain, overlooking the loch like a dark shadow. She well remembered the shouts of the courtesans who worked for her father. Fiadh and her sister Aila had worked there as well, as maids, but Fiadh had always lived in fear that one day he would ask her to be a courtesan. Her younger sister, Callie, had taken care of their ill mother, while their father gambled away all their money, after turning their home into a house of pleasure to feed his addiction.

As she had sat in the saddle, glancing back and thinking of the sister she was leaving behind, Ossian had grasped one of her hips and her neck, holding her chin high.

“Aye, statuesque… ye’ll make a fair lady after all.”

Often, he’d repeated that word since, statuesque… she held onto it, hoping that someday it would make her feel like a statue. Immovable, hard as stone, when his words or his fists would not hurt her anymore.

“Stand.” He flicked his fingers, urging her to what he said. As she did so, her eyes darted down to the ring on his finger. The metal shone, despite its age, and a black stone was set in the very middle, etched with a strange geometric emblem. She had seen it many times, he rarely ever took it off.

He treasures it as he treasures nothing else.

“If yer sister doesnae stop looking fer ye, I shall have tae take action.”

“What dae ye expect me tae dae?” Fiadh kept her voice calm as she lifted her gaze to meet Ossian’s. He had revealed to her two days before that there were whispers Aila was hunting for her. “I did me best tae disappear, as ye asked of me.”

“If she keeps causing trouble,” he paused as he slowly stood, his movements and his great height dominating the room, “ye ken I shall have tae stop her another way. I shall have tae see her in a grave, Fiadh. Is that what ye want?”

Fiadh stepped back, moving away from the wolf-skin rug. She felt nauseous, and for a moment she thought she might actually throw up all over the rug.

“Nay. Please dae nae hurt her.” Fiadh shook her head, her voice pleading. “I am sure she will give up in time, just leave her be.”

Slowly, Ossian walked around the desk, his boots striking the ground, his long dark hair flicking around his ears. When he reached her side, his hand lifted toward her. More than anything, Fiadh wished to flinch away, but the last time she had done so, he’d struck her. She stayed perfectly still, feeling his large hand as it closed around her neck. His fingers splayed up under her chin, tipping her face back.

“My statue, eh?” he whispered sickeningly, moving his lips down to the curve of her neck. Fiadh screwed her eyes up tight, praying he would not touch her or kiss her again. She despised the feeling of his scratchy beard against her skin. His touch made her toes curl with fear and her insides squirm. She couldn’t even imagine what it was like to long for a man’s touch. She could live her life contentedly without it. In fact, it was what she hoped for, a future where no man ever touched her.

He reached down and slid off the scarf at the base of her throat. The dark blue silk whipped across her skin.

“Remember what this means, aye?” He nodded at her scar, wrapping the scarf around his hand. “Nay other man can come near ye. Remember that.”

She didn’t nod or utter any words, and just looked him in the eye.

He has made that plain, many times.

A second knock came to the door.

“Enter,” he called to the door. Then he dropped the scarf on the chair beside him and turned his back on her. “Ye can go now.”

Fiadh left as quickly as she could, slipping by the gentleman that had come to call on Ossian. She only caught the briefest of glimpses of him, dark red hair was graying around his ears and a long beard, tied just under his chin. As he walked into the room, his hand outstretched in front of him, Fiadh saw the same ring that Ossian wore.

As she halted in the corridor, she blinked, thinking. So many times, she had seen that ring now. It granted Ossian access to a group of other men, that much she understood, but nothing more.

She raised her hand, feeling for her scarf, but remembering it was still in his study. She turned to the door again, yet she didn’t dare enter without permission. She raised her hand to knock when she heard Ossian’s voice inside.

“When will the first meeting be?” he asked, impatiently, his tone sharp.

Fiadh lowered her hand once more, angling her head and pressing her ear to the door so she could hear every word.

“Soon,” the other man answered, his voice strangely light compared to the deep tones of Ossian. “When Yuletide comes and goes, we’ll meet. We’ll pull the clan forces together. When that is done, nothing will stop us from taking the clan lands.”

What clan? What clan lands will they be stealing?

Fiadh placed the palm of her hand to the door, silently moving on her toes as close as she could get, straining to listen as Ossian lowered his voice.

“We must act faster than that,” Ossian pleaded. “I have people in me land. People who would cause trouble. We need tae act now.”

“It is impossible and out of me hands. Aye, I would be glad tae act sooner, Ossian, but we must wait. The other men in our circle need time tae prepare. Once they are ready, we will attack together, and we will be stronger fer it.”

“Aye. Aye, I ken ye are right.” Yet Ossian’s tone was one Fiadh knew all too well. He wasn’t happy, even if he pretended to be in order to hide his true feeling to the man he actually respected, which was a rarity. Ossian liked to dominate conversation and those around him. The other men who wore the same ring as him were the only ones Ossian ever deigned to bow his head to. “The Chattan clan willnae be able tae halt the might of so many men, will they?”

“Nay indeed,” the other man laughed. “Poor Laird Chattan. I almost feel sorry fer him and his people.” That laugh grew louder.

Fiadh backed up from the door, feeling as if her breath had been stolen from her body.

The Chattan clan… the people…

She knew who was there. She may not have been allowed to receive letters from her sisters, but she knew well enough from Ossian’s spies where her sisters lived these days. Her youngest sister Callie was married to a man called Avery, and she worked in Laird Chattan’s castle as his healer. Aila lived within the same castle walls.

This cannae be. What will become of them?

Fiadh walked down the corridor, fearful of being caught listening to Ossian’s conversation. Involuntarily, her hand lifted, and her fingers lightly moved over her scar. She couldn’t let her sisters be hurt. It was the point of her being, the very reason she kept breathing. To see them safe from men like Ossian.

I will dae what I can fer ye, me sisters. I shall stop this attack.

There was certainly one thing she could do to frustrate Ossian’s aims. If she stole his ring, the others in his circle would refuse to recognize him as one of them. Somehow, she had to take it from him.

Chapter One

One Year Later

“Dinnae run. Dinnae run now.”

Fiadh fidgeted with the black ring, turning it around her finger repeatedly. In the dull light that came from one of the candles nearby, she stared down at that ring, examining the angular pattern that had been carved into the black stone. It was a harsh triangle, with three lines that crossed through the very middle.

This was nae an easy thing tae take.

She could still remember the night she had stolen it, vividly. It was the night before Aila and her husband, Ian, had found Fiadh at the castle. Ossian had come to Fiadh’s bed again. Her terror and fear of him had done nothing to dissuade him, and it was only by the grace of God that he’d had too much liquor to possibly finish the deed he had started. As he’d passed out on her bed, she’d scrambled back from the mattress, covering her body with a chemise and two shawls, desperate to hide her body from him. When she realized he had not budged when she had removed his arm and leg from her, she had suddenly had the idea of trying to remove the ring from the hand that had just been draped over her. It had slid off without much resistance while he had continued to snore undisturbed. She had hidden it in the pocket of her chemise, praying he would not realize it was gone come morning or that he would think he had simply misplaced it.

That was a long time ago now.

The day after, Aila and Ian had arrived at the castle with Ian’s friends from the Chattan Clan. Two men, Elliot and Murdoch, had stormed the rooms where Fiadh was being held. She could still remember the ferocity with which they had fought to free her.

When Ossian had been struck with an arrow on the drawbridge in front of the castle, Fiadh had not known whether he’d survive such a wound. Nor did she ever find out if he had noticed the missing ring in the chaos of that day. Elliot had been the one to make her move, shaking her away from the terror that had taken hold of her. He’d urged her onto the same horse as Murdoch, his strangely jokey humor breaking through her fear.

“Trust us. We’re going tae get ye out of here.” He’d winked and returned to his own horse, leaving her staring after him in surprise.

Fiadh now released the ring as she toyed with it, reaching for something else. Her dark brown hair was tied up with a single green ribbon. The dark green silken ends hung down over her shoulder, reminding her of the bearer of that gift.

Elliot.

The last time they had seen each other at the Chattan castle, he’d left not seeming quite like his usual self. His humor, his constant need to jest, had slipped away. He’d taken Fiadh to the side and offered up his gift of the green ribbon.

“Tae remember me.” These had been his parting words. Before she had even asked why it sounded like he was saying goodbye for good, he had rode away, and she was left staring after him.

“Nae now. There are other things tae think about,” she whispered as she released the ribbons and placed her palms flat on the small wooden table in front of her, pockmarked by the wood worm as she waited for her visitors, with the blackened ring staring up at her.

She had come to the back room of a tavern in Bannockburn. This was the place she had heard whispers about. It seemed men who were part of this circle would sometimes meet in this room. The innkeeper had been most reluctant to let her in here at first, but when she showed him the ring, he’d had no choice.

There was a sound at the door and Fiadh stood up, not wanting to seem small and insignificant as she waited at the table. In the shadows cast by the great timber beams and the darkness of the night, it was difficult to make out the two figures that walked into the room. The first was hulking, the second smaller and lither. He halted when he saw her, his boots squeaking on the flagstone floor as his face appeared in the candlelight.

“Who are ye?” the smaller man barked, with his voice as high pitched as a robin’s chirp.

“I am here tae find out where and when the next meeting with the whole circle will be.” She held out her hand, keeping her manner calm as she presented the ring to him.

The small man stepped forward, peering at the ring before he nodded to the man beside him.

“Ye are nae part of the group.” He shook his head. “Nay lass is permitted.”

“Nay? Then why dae I have the ring?” Her question seemed to puzzle him. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes never blinking as he looked at her. “I am nae here tae cause trouble. I just want tae ken when the next meeting will be.”

Her sisters thought they were all safe. They had their happy lives, and Fiadh was reluctant to disturb that illusion. But she could not pretend that everything was easy and at peace. Whether Ossian was alive or not didn’t change the fact that a circle of men, possibly including other clan lairds, intended to attack the Chattan clan. For her sisters’ sake, Fiadh had to discover the truth.

“Ye hunting fer secrets, pet?” The larger man walked around her.

Fiadh was the tallest woman in most rooms, but she couldn’t compete with his great height. He moved to stand behind her, like a stalking bear. She looked at him sharply, then down at the ground between them, issuing a silent order to step back. When he made no move to do so, she laid a hand to the long basilard at her hip, thrust into a scabbard on her belt.

She had learned long ago that a dirk was not enough of a threat. She needed the longer blade to make her intentions understood.

Nay man will ever touch me again.

“Just one,” she answered simply. “I am here tae find out about this meeting. Tell me where it is, and I shall be on me way.”

“Ye see, we thought this might happen,” the man with the high-pitched voice said, urging her to look back at him as he placed his hands flat down on the table between them. “When we heard there was a lass asking around about our circle, we had tae find a way to draw ye out, lass.”

Fiadh tried not to show the shock on her face and kept her lips pressed firmly together.

I have fallen in a trap.

She had believed the lie she had been told when asking around, that this was a meeting place for such men. She must have simply been told it to capture her.

“Now, pet.” The large man moved toward her again. “Tell us where ye got that ring and we may leave ye unharmed.”

She reached for the basilard and didn’t hesitate in pulling it out, turning it threateningly toward him. He backed up instantly, holding his palms in the air as if he were calming a wild animal.

“There now.” He smiled, rather wickedly, as if she had amused him. “Why dae ye want tae go causing trouble? I am sure ye and I could have some fun, pet.” He reached for her, moving sharply, but Fiadh was too quick. She had long grown accustomed to avoiding the advances of a man, and she would not be taken in now.

She drove the basilard down across his wrist. An almighty bellow erupted from his lips as Fiadh turned and grabbed the table, upturning it toward the smaller of two the men. It collided against him, knocking his body to the floor, just as the candle dropped to the flagstone floor, the light snuffing out.

Fiadh ran in the darkness for the door, relieved to find it open. She sprinted through the busy inn room, casting a quick glare at the innkeeper who either intentionally or inadvertently had helped to set her trap. He looked back, his gaze so sharp she realized that he too must have been a part of it.

Run, Fiadh!

She leapt toward the door, pushing through various drunkards who called out in complaint.

“That one of yer harlot lasses making a run fer it, keeper?” one man shouted at the innkeeper. “Ye need tae keep her locked up like a dog!” As laughter ran out, Fiadh was tempted to take a swipe at him with the basilard.

She reached for the door, kicking it open and bursting out into the street. It was a black night, with the only light in the cobbled road coming from the lanterns in the windows of the tavern. She ran into that darkness, backing up from the tavern and not looking where she was going – when she backed straight into something. Then a hand reached her shoulder…

“Ah!” she yelped, turning around to face her capturer.

“Fiadh?” a confused voice said in the darkness.

Elliot caught Fiadh around the waist as he moved her into the light falling from the tavern windows.

It cannae be her. What is she doing out here?

He’d left her behind at Chattan Castle, not that it had been easy to do so. He had had to return to McDowell castle across the border. He’d said goodbye and presented her with a gift, in the slim hope that Fiadh would read into it what he truly wished to say to her.

Elliot carried more than one secret with him these days. One of those secrets was what he felt for Fiadh, and the other was the reason he had had to leave, and why she could never know what he truly felt.

“Fiadh?” he said again when he saw her clearly in the rich orange light from the lanterns. She was red in the face from running, her chestnut hair falling out of its updo, and her green eyes almost golden in this light. In her hands was a basilard, and he took the handle with her hand, looking at the way she clung onto it as she fought hard to catch her breath.

“In the name of the wee man, what are ye doing with this? Come tae get revenge on me, eh?” he said with an easy smile. “All those times I should have asked ye tae dance at the Chattan feasts and didnae?”

“Elliot!” she snapped, her voice harsh. “Now is nae the time.” She tried to run away, but he couldn’t let her go that easily. It was Fiadh!

“What is it? What is wrong?” He wrapped his arm around her, protectively. Ever since he had helped her free from Ossian Macauley castle last year, he’d been protective of her. It was somehow easy to take her in his arms and surprisingly, Fiadh had never pulled back, even though she was far too beautiful for him. Those green eyes flashed in panic, the full lips parting, making that white scar of hers flash in the amber light.

“We need tae run. Now.” She pulled on his arm, that basilard quivering between the two of them.

“Fiadh…” He trailed off as the tavern door behind her burst open once again. Two men piled out, one small and another so comically large that he had to bend down to avoid hitting his head on the timber beam.

“Ah.” Elliot froze as he saw the way the men were looking at Fiadh. “Dae ye wish tae tell me what is going on, Fiadh? As I am nae sure it is best ye leave it up tae me tae figure this out meself.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I may come tae all sorts of the wrong conclusions.”

“How can ye jest at a time like this!?” she spluttered and pulled the basilard away from his grasp, holding it in front of her as she backed away down the cobbled street.

“What other way is there tae be?” He winked at her and reached for his sword, sliding it out of the scabbard he kept discretely tucked under his belt. “So, my good men, what will it be?” He moved to stand in front of Fiadh, making her back up further in surprise. “I was coming here for a quiet dinner before I continue on my journey. Ye can either let me have that dinner and run away now, or I’ll have tae deal with ye first.”

“Kill him,” the small man ordered to the large one with a jerk of his head.

“Ah, shame. I was looking forward tae that pigeon pie.” He smiled easily then swiped out with the sword, long before the hulking figure before him could even get close. That lunge was a pure distraction before he reached forward again and again. He struck the man in the shoulder first then slid upward, cutting the man under his chin. He swung around and elbowed the man in the gut, forcing him to bend down, winded, just far enough for Elliot to strike the hilt of the sword across the back of his head.

The man dropped flat to the cobbles, so hard that the lanterns in the windows nearby shuddered, the flames dancing back and forth.

“Now, fer ye.” Elliot moved toward the other man.

Abruptly, the man reached for something beneath his shirt, his fingers trembling. He pulled out an antler horn attached to a string and blew into the end. The cacophonous and hooting sound rang out between them.

“Ah, Fiadh?” he called to her, backing up.

“Aye?” She was already inching back herself.

“Time tae run. I think that means there is more of them.” He reached for her free hand, grasping it and pulling her away.

Elliot sprinted down the hill with Fiadh close behind him. His boots narrowly managed to avoid slipping in the puddles and on the damp stones, but Fiadh was not so lucky, and she fell into him more than once.

“Eager tae see me again, are ye?” he teased her as they reached the bottom of the hill.

“Elliott!” she snapped.

“I’ll take that as an ‘aye.’ We hardly have time fer ye tae drop tae yer knees and thank God fer me presence now.”

“Ye are so arrogant. Ah!”

He cut her off as they rounded a corner to find his horse tied to a hitching rail by a trough. He grabbed Fiadh’s waist and tossed her onto the back of the saddle. She put her basilard away as he put his sword away, then he climbed off in front of her.

“Ye ken me, Fiadh,” he said, grasping at the reins and freeing the horse from its place. “I’ll always dae what I can tae see ye smile.”

“Right now, I’ll settle fer being far away from here.”

“Yer wish is me command.” Elliot flicked the reins, urging the horse to dart away down the street as quickly as possible. They rode with such speed that Fiadh was forced to wrap both arms around his waist.

Elliot tried not to think of that feeling. If he concentrated on it too much, then he would be distracted indeed, his mind going to places it should not go.

How many times since he had met Fiadh had he wondered what could happen between them? How many times had he looked her in the eye, distracted by the small smiles she would sometimes give when he went out of his way to jest with her? Far too many!

It didn’t help that he often dreamed of her. It seemed no other woman could distract him from her, even if he tried. A need for Fiadh burned in his veins, and it would not be sated.

They left the town with the horn still being blasted somewhere in the distance. Elliot turned the horse’s paths between the trees, into the nearest copse, intent on hiding from anyone that came running. When they were far enough away for the sound of the horn to fade, with only the hoots of owls nearby to keep them company, Elliot slowed down.

He caught his breath as the horse bowed his nose toward the ground. He then halted the horse completely and turned around. Fiadh leaned back from him, her arms no longer wrapped around his waist so tightly, though her fingers still danced along the edge. It made a stirring curl in his abdomen, one he had to quell sharply.

“What is it?” she asked, that same innocent look that was always in her eyes.

“Dinnae give me that.” He shook his head sharply. “Ye wish me tae pretend I didnae just find ye running from a tavern with two men at yer heels, and a basilard in yer hand?”

“Ye’ve been in worse fights, I am sure.”

“Ah, ye ken I like it when ye jest.” He smiled, but it fell as fast as it appeared. “Yet I cannae bear tae banter when I have just made one man bleed and ye and I have raced into a forest tae hide. So, tell me, Fiadh. What on earth have I just rescued ye from?”

She bit her lip, looking down between them. At that look, Elliot was nearly driven mad.

Och, there are many other ways I could make ye bite yer lip, Fiadh. Just give me the word, and I will.

“We need tae find somewhere tae hide, Elliot.” Her evasive answer made his brows raise.

“I see ye are as enigmatic tonight as ye have always been.”

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Prologue

Keep Leòideach, Orkney Islands, 1509…

What ended in a scream had begun with a kiss.

Adamina could still feel the imprint of her mother’s lips on the crown of her head. The ghost of her hands curled around her shoulders, pinning Adamina to her spot at the edge of her bed. She could feel the hair standing up on the back of her neck, despite having awoken from her dream.

She glanced down at the leatherbound journal in her lap, running her hand over its rough cover. The book had been a permanent fixture at her mother’s writing desk—along with all the other things which, like the great Lady Leòideach, were now gone and buried.

Squinting down at the now open pages, Adamina tried to make sense of what her mother had written. Her father had always bemoaned her struggle with words. At thirteen, reading, writing and more were expected of her as a young lady. Her brothers were encouraged to be boorish at the best of times, fighting and exploring the island to their satisfaction. Adamina, however, had been commanded to stay inside from the moment she was born, watching her brothers spar from the window of her mother’s chambers. If not for her mother’s presence at the keep, Adamina might have fought harder for her freedom. Dunn and Tor would not have minded her presence outside, that much she knew.

Their parents had been the driving force behind their separation, even in their deaths.

Adamina tended an ear for her brothers’ voices. Their arguing echoed through the keep, keeping her from sleep just as aptly as her fresh grief. She could not make sense of what they were saying, but she doubted the object of their anger had changed much from that morning, when they had lain their mother to rest.

The Morgan clan has struck the final blow. Faither is gone with the sword, now Maither in her sadness. Dunn and Tor willnae rest until one or both clans are dead and buried too.

A familiar footfall sounded in the hallway, and Adamina’s breath hitched in response. She hastened to tuck her mother’s journal under the coverlets of her box-bed, fearing that the maids would tell Dunn if they caught her with it.

Moonlight streamed through the open window before her. Adamina focused her attention on the low-hanging moon as she wiped away her tears. The door creaked open, and she braced herself for another half-hearted attempt at consolation.

“Is the wee lady nae yet sleeping?” came a voice from the doorway. “Ach, but what would yer faither say tae ken ye out of bed so late, bairn?”

“Me faither isnae here,” Adamina murmured, glancing over her shoulder. She scowled at her new warden—a woman named Maile, who had been called up to the islands from Edinburgh to complete Adamina’s education. “He cannae say a thing tae me nay more, much less worry about me rest.” Adamina steadied her voice. “Besides, I am on the bed, if nae in it.”

Curling her legs beneath her, Adamina started when the door groaned further open behind her. She watched over her shoulder as Maile silently placed a trencher of petticoat tails on the drawers by the door. Unlike Adamina, Maile was an expert with words, but she knew little about young lasses and their troubles. The woman pressed her lips together in something halfway resembling a smile, then moved to close the door again, leaving Adamina to her grief.

“Things will be brighter by the matins, bairn,” Maile said tenderly, closing the door behind her as she left.

Adamina sat motionlessly for a moment, considering Maile’s kindness. When she heard the woman’s footsteps retreat at last, she crept to the drawers and inspected the fare that Maile had brought with her. The sweetmeats were decorated with caraway seeds, cut into the shape of little suns. They were Adamina’s favourite treat, but that night she could not rouse her appetite at the sight of them.

Returning to her nest, she kneeled beside the bed and slipped the journal free from its hiding spot. Turning to one of the first pages, she ran her finger along the first line, mouthing the letters one by one. The echo of her mother’s voice rang in her ears, but the words would not manifest on her own tongue.

“Twelve… Twelfth of…” Adamina shook her head, brushing a few stray blonde hairs from her eyes before trying again. “Twelfth of Jan—”

She paused her reading. Something had clipped against the window frame, and Adamina sought the source of the sound. Finding no answers in the darkness, she chalked it up to the wind dropping fruits from nearby trees. Turning once more, she froze when another small clicking noise sounded behind her.

Taking a nearby brass candlestick in her hand and pocketing the snuffer in case of danger, she crept towards the window, hissing as her foot landed on a small, sharp pebble.

Her heart leapt into her throat as another pebble flew in from the open window and landed at her feet. Steeling herself, she leaned out of the window, gasping as a final pellet arched its way up to her and landed on her shoulder.

“Ewan!” she growled, catching sight of her friend down below.

He was standing between the walls of the keep and the hedges, a fistful of stones hovering in midair. His dark hair was glinting in the moonlight, lapping at the sides of his young, boyish face. He released his handful of pellets at once, and they fell in a waterfall down to his feet. Baring his teeth at her in a grin, he greeted her warmly.

“Me apologies, lass! Ye ken me aim has forever been lacking,” he whispered, quietly dusting off his hands on his rough linen trousers.

Adamina wrestled with a smile. “I ken ye are a fool,” she shot back, craning her head out of the window to check for danger. Confident they were alone, Adamina rested the candleholder on the windowsill and settled in for the show. “Ye shouldnae be here so late, Ewan. If Dunn or Tor were tae see ye—”

“Och, ye ken they willnae dae a thing, Ada. I could hear yer brothers braying from the village.” He placed a hand on his hip, puffing out his cheeks as he looked around him. “The coast is clear,” he said quietly. “Shall I come up, or will ye come down?”

“Come down? Dressed like this? Bampot! I will catch me death!” Struggling to hold back her laugh, Adamina conceded her defeat. “I suppose ‘tis better ye come up than draw attention tae yerself down there.”

Retrieving the candlestick, Adamina stepped back to allow Ewan room to enter. His aim may have been lacking, but Ewan was a strong lad of fifteen—who had arguably too much experience scaling the walls of the keep in his visits to Adamina. Placing his feet perfectly in the spaces between the flagstones, he hoisted himself up, navigating with ease the twenty or so feet between the ground and the window of Adamina’s sleeping chambers. She saw his hands first, knuckles tensed around the window frame, before he pulled himself up and crouched on the sill.

He paused a moment, scanning her room. His body was bathed in moonlight, concealing much of his face in the darkness. Adamina tensed at the sight of him, and her breast swelled with a war of emotions. For most of the day, she had managed to bridle the worst of her feelings, but Ewan had a way of getting her to open up, and this she feared most of all.

“Far be it from me to question a lass in mourning, but…” Ewan said with a serious voice. He furrowed his brow, and she braced for the worst. “Have ye been baking, Adamina?”

It was just like Ewan to be making jokes at such a time. Adamina cried out in feigned outrage, slamming down the candle holder and storming over to the window. She grabbed hold of Ewan’s shoulders, playfully fisting the fabric of his patchwork tunic and shaking him softly.

“Ye better get inside, now,” she exclaimed, “before I change me mind and send ye hurtling tae yer death.” She released him and turned away. “Ach, ye cannae play with me like that, Ewan! Ye are so cruel…”

“Aye, but ye’re smiling now,” Ewan said. She heard his boots connect with the floor as he hopped into the room. “I can hear it in yer voice, even if ye dinnae deign tae look at me.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder, losing the battle against her smile as Ewan pushed past her and made for the sweetmeats. He took one for himself and offered Adamina another, but she refused with a shake of her head. Ewan shrugged, taking a bite of shortbread and settling against the dresser. He cast the other back on the trencher, and its rattle against the wood brought Adamina back to her senses.

“Now that ye have completed yer pillage,” she began tentatively, “will ye tell me why ye have come? Certainly there is naething tae be said that cannae have waited fer the morning.”

“I could have waited, aye. But I didnae want tae.” Ewan’s expression twisted then, even as he tried to hide his distress by licking clean his fingers. His round hazel eyes filled with worry. “We didnae have the chance tae speak afore yer ma’s rites.”

“I ken…” Adamina shrugged one-shouldered, drawing her arms around herself to ward off her sudden chill. Her mind flashed with memories of her mother’s interment—her silver shroud; her long, flowing hair; her peaceful countenance after so many weeks spent in agony. “If ye mean tae comfort me, dinnae. I have nay need fer more sympathies—and nay need fer more trouble either, Ewan.”

She eyed her friend carefully, hinting at her brothers’ growing unease with their closeness. It was no surprise Ewan had not managed to speak with her that morning. In their grief-fuelled anger, Dunn and Tor had all but forbidden their sister from spending any more time with him than necessary, especially where the other clan members could see. Adamina thought their worrying was farcical. She and Ewan had been friends their entire lives, and Ewan had always been considered kindly by the Leòideach heirs. Nothing—not the differences of their birth, not even their advancing ages—would keep them apart so long as Adamina had her say.

Ewan said nothing at this, clearly understanding her meaning but not wanting to push his luck. He dipped his head low, and his dark hair glinted gold in the candlelight. Even in his embarrassment, Ewan looked warm and inviting. Years ago, Adamina might have allowed herself to be held by him and comforted, but things between them had changed since they had become adolescents and she knew it would not be appropriate.

Before her father’s passing, Laird Leòideach had made mention of matches and marriage for his only daughter but Adamina had never considered taking a husband before with any seriousness. There had always been more pressing things to worry about, like the wellbeing of their clan, her brothers’ antics, when next she could hope to be allowed to spar with Ewan. Her duties as a Leòideach daughter, the commodity of her young body—these things had not preoccupied her until they had been brought to her attention.

Sighing, she directed her attention to Ewan, wanting to apologise for her frosty reception. He had turned from her slightly, and in so doing had revealed a fresh welt on the side of his eye. Halfway concealed by his hair, the bruise had forgone Adamina’s notice.

She realised at once that Ewan had not only wanted to check on her. He had needed an escape from the tyranny of his own household.

“Is that the mark of yer faither’s hand again?” she asked.

Ewan barely moved, but a mirthless laugh rumbled low in his throat. He mussed his hair, dragging it back over his injury. That was his way—never wanting to inconvenience others with his troubles, and especially not Adamina. It was the part of Ewan that she liked the least. She wanted to provide him the same protection that he was always so eager to provide her. It frustrated her that he did not let her.

“I didnae mean fer ye tae see,” he murmured, crossing his arms over his chest. “That isnae why I came, Adamina.”

“I havenae doubt about that. But even if ye had come fer that reason, I wouldnae have minded,” Adamina assured him. “Let me see?”
Her other fears dissipated immediately, and Adamina crossed the room to inspect the mark. She pushed back his hair slowly, careful not to injure him further. Ewan let her, wincing as she ran her fingers over the raw swell beneath his eye.

It was not the first time she had seen Ewan’s face blemished by his father’s anger. Cam of Clan MacGregor was known throughout Orkney as a fierce warrior and a brilliant councilmember. He had trained many of her father’s men in the way of the bow, and he knew more about the history of the isles than even the clan elders.

To Adamina, who had witnessed second-hand the worst of him, he was little more than a brute. His other talents could not possibly impress her while she knew what sort of monsters resided deep within his breast.

“I could sneak some herbs from the infirmary,” she suggested carefully. “It wouldnae take more than a moment.”

“I ken as much—ye and yer deft fingers,” Ewan joked half-heartedly. He scowled when she drew back, but quickly purged his expression of all weakness. Taking her hand in his own, he lowered it before releasing her. “Ye will heal me more by speaking with me, Adamina.”

“Aye, but I dinna ken what ye wish fer me tae say.” Adamina put some space between them, returning to her bed. Her gaze drifted over her mother’s journal, and she heaved a deep sigh. “Nae a thing I say will change what has happened. Like that mark on yer face, the only salve fer me heart is time.”

“Ye might start by telling me what that is,” Ewan said. He gestured for her mother’s journal, and Adamina stepped before it instinctively. “Dinnae try tae hide it now,” he teased, crossing the room. “Yer secrecy means it must be important.”

He sidled up beside her and reached for the diary, pausing as though to ask her permission. Adamina nodded, watching as he carefully extracted the journal from the woollen coverlets. Ewan turned the book over in his hands, then pried it open gently. He narrowed his eyes at the first page, reading the first lines in silence.

Despite Adamina’s better education, Ewan was the one between them who really knew how to read. Cam’s ambition was a hungry beast, sated only by Ewan’s many successes. Like all things forced upon him by his father, reading was one of the skills at which Ewan excelled. He had mastered the written word at the age of eight, and he had spent the years since reading what Adamina could not when she needed him.

Ewan’s face contorted suddenly, and Adamina’s anxiety roiled within her.

“This was Lady Leòideach’s diary,” he stated breathlessly, closing the book immediately. He kept his thumb between the pages and cast a glance at Adamina. “Why would ye take this?”

“I didnae take it,” she protested, moving to the window so he could not look at her. “She gave it tae me on the night she…” Her eyes smarted, and she choked on her next words. Composing herself, she continued. “Maither used tae read her entries to me, sometimes as she wrote them. I cannae say why she thought tae leave me such a wretched thing. I dinna need tae read proof of her misery, of her madness. I saw it while she still lived with me own eyes.”

“Ye dinnae want me tae read it tae ye?” Ewan asked. She heard him take a step toward her, then dither. “It seems some parts were written tae ye, Adamina. She meant fer ye tae see them.”

“Dinnae matter tae me now.” Adamina sought purchase on the windowsill. “As I said tae ye, I already ken what lessons she penned fer me. They live here.” She pointed at her heart, digging her finger in deep.

Adamina gasped as Ewan appeared beside her, holding the diary aloft. She darted her gaze from his face to the cover of the journal. The gentle pity in his expression was too much for her to bear.

The first of her tears fell, and she cursed herself under her breath for her weakness. Wiping madly at her face, she whimpered as the full force of her grief wracked her small body. Ewan wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close. He breathed into her hair, pleading with her to be quiet, reassuring her that she would be all right.

Ewan was the only person in the world who could say as much and make Adamina believe it. But not even he could comfort her this time—not after what her mother had said when she had handed Adamina the diary, the night that she had jumped from the keep.

“Ye should go,” Adamina said into his chest. “Afore me brothers see ye. Afore—”

“I willnae,” he replied, holding her more tightly. “Ye have naething tae fear from me.”

Adamina shivered against him, deaf to his sweet protestations. He had opened the journal, and now she could think of nothing else but her mother’s parting words.

“If a maither must teach her daughter anything, Mina, it is tae fear love more than death.”

Chapter One

Brodgar Forest, Orkney Islands, 1519…

“Nae, I dinnae believe a word of it!” Adamina cried, clambering over a fallen tree. She hopped off the trunk, casting a glance over her shoulder at Ewan. “Ye may be correct most of the time, councilman, but I am right in this. That babe doesnae look a thing like Wille—he looks like Wille’s brother!”

Ewan paused in his march, shooting her an exasperated look. Adamina seemed adamant, but her thin, pink lips were curled in a smile. Readjusting the strap of his bow, Ewan sighed.

Adamina merely laughed at him, climbing back over the tree to join him. Threading her arm through his own, she urged him forward. She was right to lead the way. It was almost dark, and it was no time to be loitering in the woods. Ewan thought it had been a mistake to indulge her in the first place. After everything that had happened on Orkney over the last few years, the laird had been rightly wary about letting Lady Adamina out of his sight.

The business with the new Lady Leòideach was fresh in Ewan’s mind. He had witnessed the feud between Clans Morgan and Leòideach explode first-hand, having risen to the rank of councilman in the meantime. After all, he had gone as a soldier and saved the life of Katarina Buckland, the beautiful Romani woman now wed to Dunn Leòideach, the Laird of Clan Leòideach and Adamina’s older brother, by the King’s decree.

The match between Katarina and Dunn had been paved with strife. Katarina had been forced by Laird Morgan to pretend to be his daughter Katherine, taking the place of Dunn’s betrothed in her stead. The plot was revealed in time, but the new laird’s nascent feelings could not be helped. Katarina was the lady of their clan now, and the mother of his heir, and the laird would not have it any other way.

While the particular threat had been squashed by the death of Laird Morgan a few months later, there was no telling what other enemies would present themselves now that Katherine Morgan’s father had been dealt with. She was now married to Tor, Adamina’s other brother, though Ewan had not seen either of them since they had settled on the Morgan land. Their departure had meant an end to the Leòideach struggles—but like all things, this peace was not to last.

Ewan felt fear stir in his breast as he considered the recent Gypsy threat, quelled just a year gone. His friend Bran, a warrior of extreme renown, had fallen into disfavour with the Gypsy King himself, August Raymond, and the consequences of their feud had been felt across Orkney.

The island had settled uneasily into peace, but Ewan, who had only ever known strife, was still on his guard. Adamina seemed determined to have some fun now that the fighting was over. This scared Ewan more than he dared to admit, knowing that her free-spirited attitude was a mask for all the other troubles that plagued her.

Ewan knew all too well that the more she smiled, the heavier her burdens weighed on her heart. Adamina may have thought that her antics fooled him but they didn’t and never would. She sensed the winds of change, as did he. But he didn’t know in whose favor they would blow.

“Is that why ye dragged me down tae Wille’s croft this eve?” Ewan asked after a moment, allowing himself to be shepherded forward by her. She looked up at him teasingly, and he supplied her a scowl. “I didnae think ye tae be a gossip, melady.”

“Och, ye ken I hate when ye call me that!” She nudged him in the side, and Ewan was not quick enough to dodge the blow. “And ye ken even more that I am a gossip!”

Despite her small size and beauty, Adamina was fiercely strong when she wanted to be. Long underestimated for being the only Leòideach daughter, Ewan had no doubt she would try to assert herself more now that both of her wild Viking brothers were settled in their marriages. With Tor gone to lead Clan Morgan with his new bride Katherine, Dunn was in more need than ever of his sister’s support. The change suited Adamina, who had always longed to be taken more seriously.

Except, of course, when she did not.

“My intentions were only braw. I brought a basket from the keep out of the goodness of me heart. A few bonnie births are just what we need after so much rottenness these last few years,” Adamina argued, brushing the blonde hair from her face. “It isnae me fault that Wille’s young wife has been straying far from home.”

“If ye suspect the brother, should that nae be straying in the home?” Ewan narrowed his gaze at her, then cursed himself for playing along. “Ach, but we shouldnae claim such things when there isnae proof,” he said. He detached himself from Adamina to help her over a rough patch of the forest floor. Testing the ground ahead of her, he reached out a hand for her to take. “Besides, Wille looks exactly like his brother. I dinnae ken what ye think ye have heard about young Canny, but she is as honourable a woman as ever there was. More honourable than ye, anyway,” he joked.

Adamina grimaced as she hopped over the network of tree roots, taking his hand as she did so. Her foot caught on something beneath her and she stumbled forward suddenly, crashing into him. Ewan held firm, breathing a small, “Umph,” as he steadied them in the twilight.

His arms wrapped around her on instinct, and he felt his body tense. The day had been warm, and Adamina had snuck from the keep in a thin, embroidered cotton smock. Pressed up against him in her error, she revealed to him every hill and valley of her body. He could feel her nipples through the thin fabric of her gown, and Ewan started in response.

Though Ewan and Adamina had been best of friends, almost fraternal, their whole lives, over the past decade he had watched Adamina blossom into a woman. But it was one thing to admire her from afar as a good friend, and another to feel the evidence of her womanhood pressed against him. He needed to move her, and quickly.

Unable to temper his body’s reaction—a constant ache in his loins for her that had started a few years prior—he immediately pulled Adamina off of him. As he held her at arm’s length, he could swear he saw her face flush in the dim light,.

“Are ye…” He swallowed hard. “Are ye unharmed?”

“Aye,” Adamina replied, recovering quickly from their mistake and shoving Ewan away playfully. “In body, at least. But ye are so inconsiderate as tae me poor soul.”

“Call me what ye like,” he replied, shrugging off his sheepskin cloak and revealing the long plaid beneath it. Whistling to get Adamina’s attention, he placed the cloak over her shoulders, relaxing as she settled into the garment. “Inconsiderate beast or nae, I willna ever forgive meself if ye freeze tae death afore we reach the keep. Pout all ye like, but that smock is much too light.”

“I am nae cold,” she protested, despite stroking her cheek gratefully against his cloak. She took on a scorned air, cocking her head to the side as she tightened the black sheepskin around her. “And I am nae dishonourable, councilman. If either one of us has aught to be ashamed, ‘tis ye. Dinnae think I havenae noticed ye lingering about the keep after the sun has set. What is the name of the bonnie lass who has claimed yer heart? Let me think…”

She forced a wounded sigh, and Ewan shot his eyes heavenward. He said nothing in reply, continuing with their walk and urging her to do the same. She fell into step quickly, tapping a finger to her lips sarcastically as she pretended to think. She knew full well who Ewan was taking off with. He could keep nothing from her, no matter how much he might want to.

“Ach, of course! The fair maiden, Effy!” she declared, skipping ahead of him and crying the woman’s name. “All the other maids look at ye as longingly as she. Dae their hearts nae interest ye as well? For certainly ye have captured them!”

“Ye have her name, I’ll give ye that. But it isnae her heart which interests me, and she kens it,” Ewan muttered, wishing they were speaking of anything else. Adamina asked often about his conquests, always interested to know more. It was not behaviour befitting a lady, but Adamina did many things other fine women would balk at. “Will ye nae stop with these games, melady? We should be hurrying tae the keep afore Dunn notices ye missing.”

At this, Adamina stopped walking altogether. She turned on her heel slowly, likely dragging out her reaction to punish him. Ewan could not deny how beautiful she looked against the thick, dark forest around them, even in her forced anger—like a beacon of light upon an otherwise dark canvas. Even though he had taken Effy and many other lasses into his bed, he still thought that Adamina was the most beautiful creature of all. His admiration for her was one of the many things that had weathered their friendship over the years, and like every time before, Ewan forced himself to forget just how much he pined for her.

The death of Adamina’s parents had changed them both beyond recognition. Ewan had forced himself to become a man before his time, hoping to be there for Adamina whenever she needed him. Adamina, however, had pushed him away, trying to deal with everything alone.

They had settled into their new friendship over the years, and neither of them much spoke about what might have been between them if things had been different. Ewan was convinced she had had feelings for him before tragedy hit her family as a young girl but he doubted Adamina regretted the dissipation of their young misguided feelings. He knew that a part of her associated his presence with those long years of grief and he was also aware that another part of her did not want to take a husband at all, no matter his name. These misguided excursions were the only unadulterated moments of companionship they could allow themselves anymore; the rest were spent under the watchful eye of her brother and the rest of the clan.

Even when Adamina drove him mad with her teasing, Ewan relished every second in her company, sharing her adventures and shepherding her through the night.

“Ye are nae usually so prickly,” Adamina was saying now, eyeing him from head to toe. She crossed her arms over her chest and stepped towards him. “What is troubling ye, Ewan? Dinnae fib, now. I ken when something is wrong. Is it… Are ye thinking of yer faither today?”

Ewan bristled at the suggestion, having refused to consider his father at any length since his death. His throat constricted in response, and he quickly sought to change the subject. Some things were better left alone—especially when the truth of them could not be spoken in full.

“It is naething ye need concern yerself with,” Ewan replied coolly, turning his gaze elsewhere. Adamina sentenced him to a charged moment of silence, forcing Ewan to answer her out of awkwardness. “If ye are determined tae ken the truth, there is a meeting early on the morrow. The council dinnae yet ken what the laird wishes to discuss, but a meeting called under such short notice cannae mean naething braw. It worries me. ‘Tis the truth, me only truth.”

“Dunn has said naething tae me about a meeting, and I havenae noticed a change in his good humour.” She made a contemplative little noise. When Ewan looked up, she was playing with the ends of her hair, her expression far away. “Perhaps ‘tis naething at all. But if it does amount tae aught, ye will tell me, willnae ye?”

Ewan nodded, partly out of habit, partly in promise. An owl flew overhead, filling the air with the echo of its call. A shiver ran down Ewan’s spine as he followed the path of the bird northward. The forest seemed to shift with its passing, and he held up a finger to silence Adamina before she could speak further.

Knowing the forest like he knew his own soul, he whipped his head around to survey the stretch of woods to his left. The way was thick with thousand-year-old oaks, concealing whatever danger might have been lurking nearby. His heart thumped hard in his chest, alerting him to the threat he could not yet see.

But I sense it… Aye, something is lurking nearby, something desperate and hungry.

Returning his sight slowly to Adamina, he put a finger before his mouth and commanded her to run, her blue eyes filled with understanding and fear. She nodded only once, full of trust in him after all these years. Bursting into a sprint, she shot through the trees before her.

Ewan heard it then—a set of snarls on the wind.

The wolves raced out from behind the western trees. Their grey coats rolled and glistened in the grey twilight as they bared their fangs to Ewan, snapping at him in warning. He counted two, knowing more might be about. If they had dared present themselves to him, he knew they would be wounded, desperate for blood.

Yanking on the strap of his bow, he held his breath and launched himself after Adamina. The wolves thundered after them, growling in their chase. Ewan angled his bow as he sprinted forward with all his might, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he prepared to take a shot, and muttering a prayer beneath his breath.

He glanced up only once, hoping to find Adamina as a spot on the horizon, safe from harm. If one of them was to die that night, Ewan knew it must be him.

When he saw her at last, his heart dropped. Adamina was standing only paces from him, a dagger readied in her hand.

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Prologue

MacLeod Castle, Scotland

Darkness enveloped Lara as she slowly made her way down the narrow hallway, moving as silently as possible to avoid waking the others. She despised the oppressive blackness that clung to the ancient stones of the keep but didn’t dare light a candle. That would draw unwanted attention.

No, better to make her way to the kitchens below by memory alone. There, she could find brief respite in the solitude and enjoy a small piece of cake, with a steaming cup of tea. She’d always had a sweet tooth, even as a young lass. Many a night she had slipped down to the kitchens this way to satisfy her craving for something sweet and warm.

As she descended the winding staircase, she thought she heard footsteps approaching. Who could it be? Had somebody been following her? Heart racing, she quickly hid under one of the long wooden benches, just in time before two figures entered. Holding her breath, Lara pressed herself into the shadows, praying the darkness would keep her hidden. Fear coiled within her as the footsteps drew nearer, and she had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. The footsteps stopped just shy of her hiding place. Lara’s pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to run, to scream, but she remained paralyzed under the bench, praying for them to leave.

“Can you believe our sister is getting married in just a few weeks?” Quinn chuckled. “Who would have thought Lara would be the first?”

A wave of relief washed over her as she realized it was just her two brothers. She surreptitiously peeped from her hiding place out to watch them.

With his long dark hair tied up and his light eyes shimmering with amusement, Quinn, laughed softly. “Aye, our Lara may be wild, but she’s finally settlin’ down. Gregor must be quite a man tae tame her.” His voice was gentle, a contrast to his rough exterior. Lara bristled slightly at the suggestion she needed ‘taming,’ but kept silent as her big brothers carried on.

Quinn continued, his light eyes turning serious. “I’ll admit I had my doubts about the match at first,” he confessed, his imposing height and muscular frame belying the sincerity in his voice. “But Gregor has proven himself an honorable ally. This marriage could be the thing that finally unites our clans against the MacNeils.”

Beside Quinn, Gil nodded in agreement. At twenty-eight, Gil was a handsome man, tall and muscular like his brother. His long dark hair and blue eyes made him a sight to behold. “Aye, with Gregor’s men and resources, we might finally end that bloody feud for good. He may be the best thing tae happen tae the Mackenzies in years, dinnae ye think?”

His hair fell slightly over his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “The feud with the MacDonalds,” he began, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room, “is a finally closed chapter.”

Despite herself, Lara felt a twinge of unease at their words. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the man she was supposed to marry. Gregor was persistent, yes. And he clearly loved her, in his own way—if that was what love should be, of course. But still . . .

Gil’s blue eyes twinkled with mirth as he leaned back, his muscular arms crossing over his chest. “Remember when our wee Lara used tae hide beneath the table whenever guests came over?” he began, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

God’s teeth!

Quinn chuckled, his light eyes dancing with amusement. His hair bounced with his laughter. “Aye, I do. She used tae squeeze herself intae the tiniest of corners, thinking nae one could see her.”

Gil joined in the laughter, his handsome face breaking into a broad grin. “And the best part was, she’d peek out from under the tablecloth, her little eyes wide with curiosity, watching everyone’s feet move around.”

Quinn’s laughter grew louder, his usually cold exterior softened by the shared memory. “And then she’d suddenly burst out from under the table, startling the living daylights out of our guests. I swear, I’ve never seen the old MacNeil jump so high!”

The two brothers roared with laughter, their jovial voices echoing around them. Lara, despite herself, found a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The memory was embarrassing, yes, but also precious. She’d been so young, so innocent then. It had been a simpler time, a time she often longed for amidst the complexities of her present life.

As the laughter subsided, Gil wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Aye, but I suspect our Lara still has a fondness for hiding under tables,” he said, shooting a teasing glance in her direction.

Quinn’s eyes glinted in agreement as he tried to suppress another laugh. “Aye, that she does. It’s a wonder she hasnae taken tae doing that with Gregor’s men around.”

Gil looked towards the door, “If Elsie heard us laughing, she might come tae check on us. Ye ken how she worries.”

Quinn nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes. He turned to Lara, his voice softer but still filled with brotherly affection. “If ye hear footsteps again, Lara, dinnae be afraid. It’s likely just Elsie coming tae see what all the noise is about. Ye ken how she hates tae miss a good laugh.”

Lara came out from her hiding place and looked up at him, nodding, her cheeks flushed.

Gil’s deep blue eyes shone with mischief, and Lara couldn’t help but wonder what was running through his mind. He reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his palm spreading through her. “Dinnae be embarrassed, lass. Ye were only a child then, and ye couldnae have known how to behave. Ye’ll do fine when the time comes.”

Quinn smiled down at her, his light eyes filled with pride. “Aye, ye’ll make a fine wife, lass. Gregor is a lucky man.”

Lara’s heart swelled at the praise. She knew they’d be proud of her, but the way they looked at her right then, well, she felt she could take on the world.

“We’d best get down to the tavern. Goodnight, Lara.” Quin nodded towards her, and with that, he and Gil were off, leaving her with their kind words and a bittersweet ache in her heart.

Pouring herself some tea, she listened for any sounds in the keep. Elsie may have heard Quinn and Gil as well and would eventually come to check on her. Lara smiled softly, touched by her sister’s protectiveness. Though they bickered, as all siblings did, she knew Elsie only wanted the best for her.

When she heard light footsteps approaching, Lara chuckled. “Dinnae worry Elsie, it’s only me down here,” she called out gently.

But the hand that suddenly clamped down over her mouth was too large to belong to her sister. Lara’s screams became muffled whimpers as a strong arm wrapped around her, dragging her from the kitchen and toward the outside door.

She fought with all her strength, but it was no use against her attacker’s brute force. Pain exploded in her head, and as everything faded into blackness, all she felt was terror and confusion. Why was this happening? Who wished her such harm?

The last coherent thought she had was a fervent wish that Elsie had come looking for her after all.

Chapter One

Six months later
MacNeil’s castle, Scotland

Darragh MacDonald dragged his weary body through the cold stone halls of the MacNeil castle, the day’s frustrations still simmering under his skin. He was taking on all the clan’s responsibilities while his brother was away, and they were weighing on him like stones. His footsteps echoed through the grand hallways, the sound bouncing off the ancient stone walls, bringing some life to the otherwise quiet castle.

In the dim light cast by flickering torches, the shadows of the castle seemed to stretch and distort, playing tricks on Darragh’s tired eyes. The portraits of the MacNeil ancestors leered at him from their lofty positions, their faces stern and unfeeling. The weight of their gazes was almost tangible, a reminder of the lineage he was obliged to uphold. The MacNeils had always been their greatest enemies, but now, with the laird dead, the responsibility of the leaderless clan had become entirely the MacDonald’s.

His hand brushed against the rough, cold stone as he leaned heavily against a wall. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the damp, earthy scent that permeated the ancient castle, the echo of ages past, of battles fought and won, of lairds and their ladies who had walked these halls before him.

He pushed away from the wall and continued his journey. The castle, once alive and bustling, now seemed more akin to a mausoleum, a monument to the past. The servants had retired for the night, leaving the corridors eerily silent. As he trudged onward, the only sounds were the whisper of his robes against the stone floors and the distant hoot of a tawny owl from the castle’s battlements.

Reaching the imposing wooden doors of the great hall, he paused. The hall, usually a place of raucous laughter, sumptuous meals, and robust debates, was now silent. The long, wooden trestle tables were bare, save for a few forgotten tankards and the remnants of the evening’s feast. The once roaring hearth was reduced to a smoldering pile of embers.

He glanced up at the grand tapestry hanging above the hearth, the MacNeil crest proudly displayed. The castle, the land, the people; they were all his responsibility now. Darragh and his brother Aidan had decided he would take over the MacNeil clan while Aidan dealt with the responsibilities of their own clan. However, it was no easy feat. He despised Laird Keir MacNeil for murdering his parents and for then abducting his sister Lillie and imprisoning her. If it hadn’t been for Ciara, Laird MacNeil’s daughter and now Aidan’s wife, who had helped Lillie escape from the dungeons where she was held, his sister would have probably died as well.

Darragh entered the late laird’s study, a room steeped in history. Old books, their leather-bound spines cracked with age, lined the shelves from floor to ceiling. Dust particles hung suspended in the air, filtering the weak light from the single window. The faint scent of parchment and ink filled the room, a heady aroma that spoke of wisdom and knowledge.

The heavy wooden desk, scarred by time and use, stood as a testament to the many MacNeil lairds who had sat behind it, pondering over the fate of their clan. Darragh ran a hand over the surface, feeling the grooves and indentations under his fingertips.

Suddenly, the distant sound of running troops echoed through the castle. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath hitching. Darragh froze, a wave of panic surging through him. The sound triggered the by now well-known reaction in his body, sweat running down his back, clammy hands, and the sense of being outs of his own body, a constant, cruel reminder of the battles he’d fought, of the friends he’d lost.

His mind cast him back to a different time, a different place. The roar of cannons, the clash of swords, the screams of the dying; they all came rushing back to him. The study, the castle, it all faded away, replaced by the haunting echoes of war.

All this was followed by a feeling of dizziness that had more than once caused him to lose consciousness. Darragh clutched the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He forced himself to draw in a deep breath, trying to ground himself. He concentrated on the feeling of the cold stone under his feet, the rough grain of the wood beneath his hands.

He wasn’t on the battlefield. He was in the study, in the castle. But the echoes of the past still rang in his ears, a ghostly cadence that sent chills down his spine.

The panic began to recede, ebbing away like the tide. The castle came back into focus, the smell of parchment and ink replacing the stench of gunpowder and blood. The sound of the running troops grew fainter, the echoes dying away, leaving him in the silence of the study.

Darragh took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm amidst the cacophony outside. His heart continued its wild drumming, but he willed it to slow, to steady. He’d survived worse situations, he reminded himself. He’d faced death and lived to tell the tale.

With a grimace, Darragh pulled off his shirt, the fabric catching on the rough edges of his numerous scars. The chill of the castle seeped into his exposed skin, but he barely noticed, his attention fixated on the ugly marks marring his body. They were a mosaic of pain, each scar a story of survival, each one a testament to his resilience.

His reflection in the antique mirror on the wall haunted him. The man staring back at him was a warrior, a survivor. His eyes, once bright and full of life, now bore the weight of his past. His body, once unmarred, was now a canvas of pain.

The light from the flickering torches danced across his skin, highlighting the raised lines and jagged edges of his war wounds. He traced a particularly long scar with his fingers, the memory of the blade that left it still vivid in his mind. The pain, the fear, the desperation; it all came rushing back.

Yet, staring at his reflection, Darragh felt a flicker of pride. His scars were not just reminders of the horrors he’d endured. They were badges of honor, proof of his strength and his courage. He’d faced the worst that life could throw at him and emerged victorious.

With a final glance at his reflection, Darragh pulled his shirt back on, covering his scars, although they would always be there, still a part of him. He carried them with him, a constant reminder of his past, of his battles, of his survival.

The tumult outside grew louder, but Darragh was unfazed.

He sifted through the papers on the laird’s old desk, discovering documents detailing the brutal war between the MacNeil Clan and the MacLean Clan, a feud that had claimed too many lives. He scanned the faded ink, the reports of battles lost and won, of men who had died far too young. Each document was a piece of the bloody tapestry of their shared history.

A gasp escaped his lips when he read about how Laird MacNeil had kidnapped Laird MacLean’s wife and then murdered her. Now things made more sense, at least he could better understand his former enemy, Harris MacLean’s, reasons for acting as he did. As he set the papers aside, he thanked the heavens the feud was now a part of history, no longer a threat to his clan or the MacNeil Clan.

The dusty tomes lining the shelves beckoned to Darragh like sirens of lore. He trailed his fingers along their cracked spines, tempted to pull one out and unfold its ancient secrets. But his attention snagged on an ornate glimmer peeking out from the shadows.

Darragh nudged aside a pile of books, releasing a puff of dust that danced in the slanted sunlight. Before him stood a metal handle, intricately forged with swirling vines and leaves. It glinted with promise, out of place amid the faded leather covers surrounding it.

Unable to curb his curiosity, Darragh grasped the handle. It was cold and heavy in his palm. He gave it an exploratory tug, and to his surprise, the entire bookcase creaked and swung open, leading into unfathomable darkness.

Darragh’s heartbeat quickened, thudding against his ribs. What mysteries lay shrouded in this clandestine passage? He grabbed the closest lamp, and, steeling himself, Darragh stepped into the shadows, the bookcase grinding shut behind him. Lamp in hand, wary yet undaunted, Darragh delved into the unknown. With a fortifying breath, he followed, one step at a time.

Chapter Two

Six months later
MacNeil’s castle, Scotland

Lara traced the cracks in the stone walls with her eyes, counting each one for the thousandth time. The dim torchlight never changed, marking the endless passage of identical days trapped within these featureless walls. The cell seemed to grow smaller each day, the walls closing in as Lara’s hope faded. Insects crawled among the cracks in the damp stone, feasting on mold and fallen crumbs. Water dripped constantly from the ceiling, pooling in a moldy puddle by the waste bucket in the corner.

Lara spent her days perched on the edge of the thin mattress, too exhausted to move yet unable to sleep. Her skin had grown pale from lack of sunlight, her thin frame weakened by the meager rations she was given. The guards’ jeers and slurs rang in her ears, chipping away at her crumbling resolve.

On her worst days, Lara imagined clawing at the stone walls until her nails cracked and bled. Only the memory of open skies and green hills kept her tethered to consciousness, though the memories seemed to fade with each passing day.

There was nothing but the bed and a few tattered books. Most of the guards were callous, following orders to keep her imprisoned, but one older guard had shown her kindness. Lara noticed how he stealthily slipped her the books, glancing furtively up and down the hallway before shutting the cell door quietly behind him.

His voice was hushed as he muttered, “Something tae keep your mind busy. Dinnae let the others see.” Lara handled the fragile pages with care, gently smoothing out folded corners and wiping dust from the worn covers. They were her only escape from this place, transporting her to faraway lands and adventures through their pages.

Slowly Lara rose from the bed and walked cautiously to the massive door. She placed her ear against the cold metal, listening for any sign that the guards had noticed her movement.

Silence.

She slipped her hand under the thin mattress and withdrew a worn copy of a book she had read so many times the spine was falling apart.

As she sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, chapters and characters floated through her mind, briefly transporting her from the prison cell. Lara devoured every word, committing passages to memory like a mantra to ward off the oppressive solitude. A familiar loud clang interrupted her reading. The slot at the bottom of the door swung open, and a metal tray was shoved through, carrying the day’s meager meal.

Lara shoved the book under her thin dress and pressed it against her stomach, trying to hide the bulge with her arms. As she stood to collect the food tray, the guard’s suspicious gaze raked over her. Lara’s heart hammered as she met his eyes briefly, hoping her fear did not show. Lara breathed an inward sigh of relief when he didn’t seem to suspect anything and moved to eat, desperate to remain invisible to the guards watching her imprisonment.

The guard grunted. “Hurry up in there, would ye? I dinnae have all day.”

Lara ate as quickly as she could, hunger gnawing at her belly.

The guard’s nightstick rapped loudly against the cell door. “Quickly!” he barked.

Lara stiffened at his harsh tone and quickly swallowed the last mouthful of bread. Her hands trembled as she slid the tray back through the slot, a faint quaver in her voice as she muttered, “Here, sir.”

The guard scoffed. “Bet ye’re missing yer cozy hills and bagpipes. Too bad ye’ll be rotting in here forever.”

Lara balled her hands into fists, her bitten nails digging into her palms. She bowed her head to hide the tear welling in her eye, determined not to give in to her sorrow.

The guard sighed irritably. “Ach, quit yer moping.” With that, he slid the slot shut and stalked away, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Lara was left alone in the chilling silence once more, the guard’s harsh words stinging. Curling up on her thin cot, she pulled out the tattered book again and began to read, hoping its pages would offer more kindness than the guard had shown.

After a few pages, she heard a tiny scratching sound. A small rat scurried out from a crack in the stone wall and stopped to nibble on some crumbs on the floor. Lara froze, not daring to move or make a sound. She hated rats, with their beady eyes and twitching noses. But she knew any noise could scare it into attacking her.

The rat looked up and saw Lara staring at it. It tilted its head curiously then went back to eating. Lara slowly turned the page, trying to focus on her reading and ignore the tiny rodent.

The animal finished its meal and started wandering around the cell, investigating Lara’s few belongings. It ran across her blanket then climbed up the bedpost out of sight.

Lara could hear the rodent scurrying above her, sending dust raining down. Her heart pounded as panic crept in. What if it fell on her face while she slept? She thought of the guard’s cruel words and shuddered at the thought of calling for help.

Gripping her book, Lara prayed the rat would leave on its own. She tried reading again but couldn’t focus, anxiously listening for any movement above her. Lara strained to hear the guards’ whispered conversation outside her cell. Snippets of words drifted through the small door slot.

“. . . murdered nearly a week past. Keir’s dead.”

“Violent death . . . a MacDonald I heard.”

The guards moved out of earshot, and Lara sank back on her thin bed, clutching the rough blanket.

So, Laird Keir MacNeil was dead. That snake who had tormented her during her long captivity, depriving her of food and water for days, laughing as she weakened and begged for mercy. The cruel glint in his eye as he inflicted every minor punishment he could devise was carved on her heart.

The rodent scurrying in the corner now went unnoticed. All Lara felt was savage glee that Keir was dead, that his reign of terror over her had at last been brought to an end, albeit not by her own hand.

Curling up on the thin mattress, Lara allowed herself a moment of vicious satisfaction. Keir was gone, and for now that was enough.

Lara pressed her ear to the cell door, listening as the two guards argued in hushed tones outside.

“Without the Laird, who’ll tell us what tae do with the lass?” one guard asked.

“Damned if I ken,” replied the other. “I’m nae acting without orders, that’s for sure.”

They fell silent, and Lara retreated from the door, cursing her confinement. Even with Keir dead, she remained trapped, the guards too fearful to release her without orders from above.

Lara paced the tiny cell, fingers tracing the rough stone walls as she had countless times before. Though Keir NacNeil’s demise brought her satisfaction, it changed nothing about her circumstances. Her freedom remained as elusive as ever.

The guards began conversing again. “She can rot in there for all I care,” said one. The other chuckled darkly.

Lara balled her hands into fists. What little hope she’d gained from her captor’s death faded as the guards’ callous words reached her ears. They would not release her out of decency or pity, but only when commanded from above.

With a sigh, Lara sank down on the thin mattress. She closed her eyes and fell into a light slumber. She was awoken by a sound.

She stared blankly at the stone ceiling above her, not moving an inch as the heavy wooden door slowly creaked open. The grating sound of iron hinges turning echoed off the bare walls. Lara continued gazing upward, eyes half-lidded. She knew with dull certainty it was only the guards, come to bring her meal of stale bread and greasy meat.

The footfalls that entered the cell were heavy, booted—the tread of a large man—yet at the same time surprisingly stealthy. There was no reason to stir, no point in engaging with her captors beyond what was absolutely necessary. So, Lara remained still upon the bed, hands folded limply across her stomach, as the steps drew nearer. She did not so much as turn her head when the figure almost reached her bed.

Then, a pool of light broke through her closed eyelids, forcing them open. Squinting against the unaccustomed glare of what she made out to be an oil lamp, Lara’s heart clamored in her chest as she struggled to make out the stranger’s features. She could tell only that he was tall, with a muscular build. His face was obscured in shadows. But then he held the lamp higher, and his face was revealed in detail. Lara’s pulse quickened, and she gasped at the sight which met her eyes.

A fearsome warrior stood before her, tall, broad chested, occupying most of the cell, and looking as if he could break her in two with one hand. She scampered backwards, seeking protection against the wall, panicking as she took in the intruder’s long, curling fair hair that fell beyond his shoulders and was knotted by a leather thong. Thick, stray locks the color of ripe wheat fell over a pair of gleaming black eyes that were fixed upon her.

For such a frightening figure, his features were surprisingly boyish, his lips firm and well-shaped, the planes of his face angular and perfectly symmetrical, with a strong chin beneath dark stubble. Yet she saw that his handsome looks were somewhat marred by a tracery of scars, clearly marks of past battles, that seamed his face.

Lara recoiled, her back pressing against the cold stone wall. This fearsome stranger was clearly no liberator. She trembled uncontrollably as he approached her where she cowered on the rotten straw, his hulking frame seeming to fill the cell.

He reached out a massive hand, bent, and grasped her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes, his touch surprisingly gentle. Lara choked back a scream, her mind flooding with visions of the unspeakable violence this disfigured giant could inflict upon her helpless form. As she stared up at him, heart hammering wildly, she realized with dread that her nightmare was only just beginning.

Lara’s breath froze in her lungs. Was he here on MacNeil’s orders, to drag her to some new torture?

The man let go of her chin and stood up. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Are ye all right, lass? What are ye doing here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Lara’s eyes snapped wide in surprise at the gentle tone. She studied the scarred face hovering over her, noting the concern in his dark eyes. He was younger than she expected, perhaps only a few years her senior.

“Can ye stand? Here, let me help ye.” He extended a hand cautiously, as if afraid she might startle and flee.

Lara hesitated, then placed her palm in his, allowing him to gently assist her to her feet. His hand was huge and calloused, made for war, but the grip was tender, as if he was mindful of her frailty.

“What’s yer name?” he prompted when she remained silent.

“Lara,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from lack of use.

As the stranger helped her stand, Lara acted on pure instinct born of horror and desperation. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she wrenched away from him and made a frantic bolt for the open cell door. Freedom was so close, just a few strides away.

But the strange man moved with startling speed, catching her arm before she could escape. She cried out in dismay and whirled on him, claws extended to rake his face.

He captured her delicate wrists in his hands, firmly yet gently. “Easy, lass, I’ll nae hurt ye,” he rumbled. Though he could have easily overpowered her, he did not force her compliance.

Chest heaving, Lara stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. She trembled in his grasp like a captured bird. Slowly, he released her hands and stepped back, showing he did not intend to restrain her.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice low and soothing. “I only wish tae help ye leave this place, but if ye run off, the guards will likely catch ye. Now, ye must tell me why ye’re here.”

Lara hesitated, wavering between trust and fear. There was concern in the man’s scarred face, and his touch had been free of malice. Perhaps she had mistaken his intentions. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

“Ye need nae be afraid,” he murmured.

Lara sagged in defeat. Even if she managed to slip past this stranger, she knew the guards outside would recapture her at once. For now, the only hope of freedom lay in listening to what he had to say. And maybe telling him the truth about what had happened to her. But not just yet.

“Why should I trust ye?” she asked, eyeing him doubtfully.

The stranger paused and nodded slightly. “Ye have nae reason to as of yet.” He shifted his massive frame, causing Lara to flinch back instinctively.

“Please, be at ease,” he rasped. “I mean ye nae harm. My name is Darragh, and I’ve come tae set ye free.”

Lara hesitated. Is he sincere? No, I cannae trust him. If he’s saving me as he claims, he’ll surely want something in return. Most likely gold, a ransom from me faither no doubt. “And at what cost are ye saving me?” she challenged him. “What do ye gain from me escape?”

A flash of irritation crossed Darragh’s face before he schooled his features, but it was enough to confirm Lara’s suspicions that he was hiding something. “I gain nothing,” he replied. “I simply wish tae help one in need.”

Lara studied his brutal visage, taking in the hard lines of his jaw, the mesh of scars covering him, and the thick, muscular arms clearly accustomed to inflicting violence. She thought of the cruelty of her captors and how unlikely it seemed that this scarred brute had come to save her merely out of kindness.

As Lara remained silent, Darragh took a step towards her, causing her to flatten herself against the wall. His massive frame filled the door of the tiny cell until she felt like a helpless rabbit in the sights of a hulking predator ready to pounce.

“Come,” he beckoned, extending a hand.

Lara eyed his hand warily, not missing how his tight grip could easily crush her fingers. Though he promised freedom, everything about him spoke of menace and deceit. Lara thought of the guards’ taunts and blows, and wondered if this stranger’s intentions were any less cruel.

His reassuring words swam in Lara’s head like lifeless fish, devoid of meaning. Freedom was an illusion, an empty promise meant to tease her fraying senses.

Yet when she searched his scarred face for any sign of deception, she saw only a guarded sincerity. Perhaps he was not trying to fool her but had his own secrets to keep. Her panic began to subside, to be replaced by a flicker of hope.

“But why are ye freeing me?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Because nae one deserves tae be trapped like this,” Darragh replied.

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Prologue

Glenfinnan, Highlands, 1757

The young woman stood at the top of the cliff with the toes of her boots precariously close to the edge. The wind rippled up the side of the chalk face, buffeting her hair and clothes. It would be so easy to leap off, to try to fly like one of those seagulls that kept flitting by. Around her, heather shivered in that same breeze, abruptly stopping at the edge of the sheer cliff.

The girl craned her neck a little more, bending down to look at the base of the cliff. Far below was the beach, the shingle mere stones and larger jagged rocks that had tumbled down from the cliff. The ocean foamed as it reached the shore, hissing loudly, competing with the sound of the wind.

It was the perfect spot. Behind her, the highland hills grew tall, the green undergrowth lush and thick, hiding her position from the main tracks and roads. No one would know she was here, just as no one would know that Lillie was here either, once she arrived.

The girl looked around her shoulders, searching for Lillie, but there wasn’t any sign of her yet.

“Aye, it has tae be done,” the young woman whispered to herself. It was necessary, that was all, not something she would take pleasure in, but merely something that she could not avoid doing herself.

As the toes of her boots shifted beneath her, some of the loose stones fell away, dropping down the cliff. She stepped back from the edge, watching them drop. It was a long way to fall.

“Well, this is a strange place tae meet, aye?” a voice the woman knew well called to her. She backed up further from the cliff edge and turned to face Lillie.

Tall, beautiful, with long black hair that was pinned into mad curls, Lillie was striking in appearance. Many men had noticed over the years how beautiful she was, but that was soon going to end.

“Are ye well?” Lillie asked hurriedly, her smile fading as she moved toward the young woman. “Ye are worrying me.”

“It is nothing.” The woman shook her head. “I merely wanted some time alone with ye before yer wedding. I am nae sure what chance we will have tae talk after ye are wed.”

“Ah, I cannae tell ye how excited I am.” Lillie giggled and moved past her, walking to the edge of the cliff. She laid a hand to her stomach, smiling as she stared out at the horizon, where the blue ocean mixed with the clouds. “Murdoch and I… we kissed fer the first time last night.”

The young woman nearly retched. She turned away and held her trembling fingers to her lips, doing her best to hide her temptation.

“Aye, that is wonderful,” she forced herself to say. “From yer excitement, I can guess it was a good kiss.”

“Och, I could barely describe it tae ye.” Lillie giggled another time and turned away from the cliffs, walking back toward the girl. She managed to push down her trembling fingers and force a smile. “I cannae tell ye how happy I am.”

“I can see that.” The woman nodded, her cheeks twitching and aching to maintain that smile.

Why Lillie? Why does he have tae marry Lillie of all people?

“I always thought the marriage was tae be one of arrangement,” the woman whispered. “Murdoch’s father wanted an alliance between the clans.”

“Aye, but who are we tae argue with fate when I’m betrothed tae a man such as he.” Lillie smiled and looked away again. Her dark hair moved in the breeze.

The girl lifted a hand, almost taking hold of that hair. She could pull on it, tear it, watch the beautiful locks fall from Lillie’s head and hear her scream. Fortunately, they were so isolated out here that no one would ever hear that scream.

“What do ye think of him?” Lillie asked, turning back so swiftly that the young woman lowered her hand sharply.

“I think…” she swallowed around a lump in her throat, knowing she could not tell the truth.

I love him.

“I think ye two will make a fine match.” Her false answer must have pleased Lillie for she smiled and turned away again.

“It is a beautiful spot here. How come ye wished tae meet here?”

“Let me show ye.” The girl walked forward, beckoning Lillie to join her at the cliff edge. When she put her toes by the last stones, Lillie took her arm.

“Be careful. It is beautiful here but also dangerous.”

“Aye, I ken.” The young woman curled her finger then pointed down at the water. “Look. Tell me what ye see.”

Lillie bent forward over the cliff edge, her dark brows furrowing as she stared at the ocean.

“I see the beach. That is all.”

“Look further,” the young woman urged.

As Lillie stretched her neck out, the girl saw her chance. She took a small step back then thrust into Lillie’s shoulders, trying to push her over the cliff.

“What are ye doing –?” Lillie cried and struggled on the edge. She reached back to the girl, gripping her, trying to stay up.

The young woman fought harder. Maybe Lillie was taller, but she was stronger. She took hold of Lillie’s elbows, grappling and tussling.

“What? Why are ye doing this? Nay. Nay!” Lillie screamed as the woman stamped down on her foot. It dislodged Lillie’s footing on the cliff edge. She toppled backward, falling out into the open air as the woman released her and scurried back.

She saw Lillie disappear, falling through the air, but she hung back. She couldn’t bear to see the impact on the beach. There were a few seconds of dead air, the scream piercing, competing with the cries of the gulls and the cormorants that had made their nests within the cliffs, then there was a loud thud and the shout stopped dead.

Slowly, the young woman stepped forward, moving back to the edge of the cliff. Lillie had landed on the beach. Her head was turned at an unnatural angle, her hair wild about her ears and her skirt tangling in the wind.

“Now, there will be nay wedding.”

Chapter One

Chattan Castle, Highlands, 1762

“Are ye certain ye wish me tae read this?” Ian asked, waving the letter in the air.

“Aye,” Murdoch said gravely as he pulled out a fresh shirt from the oak coffer and moved to the standing looking glass to see his own reflection.

“One of these days, I could just teach ye tae read, ye ken that?” Ian’s voice was soft, the kind of tone that he only ever showed Murdoch behind closed doors. In public, Ian was always loud and jesting, constantly smiling, even more so since he had married his wife Aila, the year before.

“I ken, but when would ye have time?” Murdoch said, forcing the jest from his lips. “Ye spend so many hours of yer day with that wife of yers.” He glanced in the mirror’s reflection, looking at his friend.

Ian laughed, tipping his head back and making the dark blond hair around his ears dance.

“Well, I could hardly argue that she is easy tae stay away from, could I?”

They smiled together as Murdoch fidgeted with his shirt in his hands. He’d since discovered that when Aila had first come to the Laird Chattan’s castle, the Laird being Ian’s brother Noah, that she’d had something of a liking for Murdoch.

I never could return that affection. Nay, I will never care for a woman again.

In the end, everything had worked out for the best. Aila and Ian had grown closer and fallen in love. In his darkest moments Murdoch might admit he felt some envy over their happiness together, but it always lasted only a short while. It wasn’t the kind of happiness he could have in his own life.

“Right, here we go, I’ll read it fer ye.” Ian waved the letter in the air then cleared his throat, as if preparing to give some great speech as an orator.

Murdoch paused with his shirt, looking at his own reflection in the mirror. The scars on his broad chest were strongly visible in the evening light, the white gashes slashing across his skin. He seemed to get scars readily these days and had barely survived some of the wounds he’d received these last few years, but he was a soldier, and they were his occupational hazard.

Hurrying to pull the shirt on over his head, he looked at the black hair that curled at his temple, wild and refusing to lay flat and neat. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair, and he’d seen more than one person in his life leap back from him when they looked in his eyes, afraid of him.

“Are ye listening?” Ian called.

“Nay. My apologies, please, read again.” Murdoch didn’t want people to know he couldn’t read. It was an embarrassment, and Ian was one of the only two people in this world who knew Murdoch had never been taught, the other being Ian’s brother, Laird Noah Chattan, the man Murdoch fought for as one of his clan soldiers.

“Ye are distracted,” Ian said, walking across the chamber and moving toward Murdoch as he pulled a waistcoat over his shoulders. “Would it have something tae dae with admiring yer reflection?” Ian teased him with a chuckle.

“More like wanting tae run and hide from it.” Murdoch turned his back on the mirror and waved a hand impatiently at Ian. “What does it say?”

Ian cleared his throat once more and turned his attention to the letter.

“‘My son, it is time ye came home. I ken these last five years havenae been easy. The wee man above us all only kens what ye have felt after all that happened tae ye, but we cannae run from our ghosts ferever. At least now I have good news tae tell ye, good news that I hope ye will come home tae celebrate.

Yer brother Clyde is returning from war, serving our king, at last. Upon his return, we will celebrate his betrothal tae Harper, and the two families shall be joined at last. Through the alliance of the clans, our own will be stronger…” Ian trailed off and lowered the letter.

Murdoch winced, looking at his friend who he had often considered like a brother.

“Dinnae look at me like that,” Murdoch said, shaking his head.

“Like what? Like I am seeing ye fer the first time?” Ian stepped forward, brandishing the letter between them as if it were a weapon. “Ye have a brother, Murdoch!? Ye never said that.”

“I have been praying he was still alive ever since he went tae war. We havenae seen each other in a long time.”

“Why would ye keep this a secret? Why nae tell me?” Ian asked, walking around Murdoch as he took some boots out of a coffer and sat down on the lid, pulling them on.

“I have told ye some secrets,” Murdoch said, his voice growing deeper. “Is that nae enough? Ye ken more than most, Ian.”

“Aye, aye, I ken that.” Ian looked away, brushing a hand into his fair hair in plain stress. “I ken ye have yer demons, but this? Why keep such a secret?”

“Something tells me ye are going tae be even angrier when ye see who has signed that letter.”

“It is from yer father, aye, I read that…” Ian’s voice faded as he looked down at the bottom of the letter. Murdoch had hinted to Ian when they had first met five years ago that he was the son of a laird. What he hadn’t explained was which laird his father was. “Laird Maclean? Murdoch!” Ian moved swiftly across the room.

Murdoch leapt over the coffer, a chuckle escaping him when he saw the shock on his friend’s face.

“I’m reminded of our sword fight the other day. Ye looked ready tae kill me then as well.”

“We were parrying, though I’m tempted tae hurt ye now,” Ian said, chasing him around the coffer. “Ye kept this a secret!?”

“Nae exactly. I just told ye I didnae like talking about my past, and ye eventually stopped asking.”

“Aye, I can see what a fool I was now tae dae that! Tell me this. Are ye the eldest son? Or is it yer brother, Clyde?” Ian asked, waving the letter in the air. Murdoch winced, not needing to say the words for Ian to understand. “In the name of God. Wait until Noah hears we have another heir tae a lairdship under our roof.”

“I’ve been avoiding that truth fer a long time, Ian. Ye can guess well enough why that is, can ye nae?” Murdoch caught his eye as they stopped their cat and mouse game either side of the coffer. Ian’s humored smile fell away, and he grimaced, the lines of his long face contorting painfully.

Ian knew to a certain degree why Murdoch was haunted. Once, after a heavy amount of ale and whisky, Murdoch had revealed to his friend how he had been betrothed many years before. All he’d revealed to Ian was that he had lost her. Ian knew no more.

It was Murdoch’s greatest secret that his betrothed, Lillie, had been found at the bottom of a cliff a day before they were due to get married. What was clear from the torn gown and the bruises she bore was that she had been pushed.

It was murder.

An image appeared in his mind. Lillie had been stunning, and her beauty was not the only thing endearing about her. Kind, confident, and always buoyant, she easily charmed people. Murdoch had never thought of himself as being in love with her, but he was so fond of her at the time, it wouldn’t have surprised him if he would have one day fallen in love with her, but he never got the chance to find out. That future was snatched away from him by a murderer that had never been found.

After Lillie was killed, much had changed.

“What happened, Murdoch? Truly,” Ian said, stepping toward him, that soft tone appearing again. “After ye lost yer betrothed.”

“I left.” Murdoch’s answer was simple as he pulled on his open doublet over his shoulders. He kept the whole truth to himself. His father, Laird Fergus Maclean still wanted an alliance between his clan and the Grants, so his brother was betrothed to Lillie’s sister, Harper. Yet the shadows were cast over them all. Murdoch came to the Chattans to fight for a cause he believed in, and Clyde went to war for the king. His marriage was postponed until he returned, which seemed to be now – five years later.

Murdoch turned away, moving to check his appearance in the mirror once more. His gaze turned away from the heavy lines of his face and he looked toward the letter in Ian’s hand.

“Ye keep many secrets, me friend.” Ian approached and folded up the letter, passing it back into Murdoch’s grasp. “Yer father begs fer yer presence fer the wedding. He talks of healing old wounds and rifts.”

Murdoch took the letter and held it delicately, his fingers pressed against the parchment.

“So? Will ye go?” Ian asked.

Murdoch slowly nodded. Perhaps it was time to face the ghosts of the past after all. And above all – he missed his brother.

“Dae me a favor,” Ian whispered in Murdoch’s ear as they entered the great hall. The table had been laid out grandly for dinner, with vast trenchers of food presented. The scents of cooked chicken and spices hung in the air. The fragrance of clove-scented red wine hovered the most, and Murdoch reached for the nearest pewter jug full of the wine as he reached the table. He was in need of a strong drink.

“What is that?” Murdoch asked his friend.

“At least smile a little,” Ian elbowed him good-naturedly, trying to rouse a little one from him. “Ye’d think yer face had been turned tae stone.”

Murdoch forced himself so much that Ian chuckled.

“On second thoughts, ye were better as ye were.”

Murdoch smiled genuinely this time, though it didn’t last long. He took his seat at the table, so busy thinking of that letter that he scarcely paid attention to who else was there for dinner.

I have tae go back. I have tae face Lillie’s family again.

Turning his focus to the table, Murdoch looked around at the other diners. At the head of the table was Laird Noah Chattan, with his wife, Scarlett, and their son, Aiden, in her lap, although he was soon to be taken to bed. Growing older, the boy could now sit up and chew on the chunks of chicken that Scarlett put into his hands, but still they preferred to keep him away from noisy places like this. Beside Laird Chattan was Ian, and next to him his wife, Aila. On the far side of the table was Avery, Scarlett’s brother, and his wife, Callie, Aila’s sister. It was one crazy family, Murdoch had to admit. Callie’s other sister, Fiadh, sat at the foot of the table, and beside her was Elliot, Murdoch’s fellow soldier and a good friend.

The connections around the table were complicated, and had not only been formed by the love that connected the married couples, but also the trials and dangers that had thrust these people into one another’s paths. Murdoch had been a part of it all, watching the various times his friends had come close to death. Some of those trials were the reasons he bore so many scars today.

There was another at the table that Murdoch was reluctant to look at. Slowly and delicately, she sat down beside Murdoch.

Ah, Eloise.

She was Scarlett’s twin sister. They bore the same rich auburn hair, the bright, even icy, blue eyes, and the petite features. Excessively pretty, she was hard to look away from once Murdoch allowed himself to sneak a peek.

She is Lady Scarlett’s sister. Aye, she is out of bounds.

Yet there were other reasons Murdoch did not want himself to be attracted to Eloise. He’d vowed never to consider a woman in his life again, after what had happened to Lillie. And there was also the matter of Eloise’s character.

She was so refined, well spoken, and well-mannered that Murdoch felt like an illiterate and bumbling fool of a soldier next to her. More than once her small nose had wrinkled in conversations between them.

Clearly, she thinks me a bampot.

“Well, how are ye, Callie?” Lady Scarlett called from the head of the table. “God kens I struggled with my sickness when I was carrying Aiden. How are ye faring?”

“Ugh,” Callie grimaced, making many around the table chuckled, apart from her husband, Avery, who looked at her with concern. “Me stomach turns just at the sight of all this food. Do me a favor, Eloise.” She pushed the trenchers away from herself and toward Eloise on the opposite side of the table. “Take it all away from me.”

“With pleasure,” Eloise assured her, her pronunciation so perfect that Murdoch sighed under his breath.

Why does she have tae be so perfect all the time?

It infuriated him. He stabbed his knife at the chicken on his plate a little more harshly than he had intended.

“How are the soldiers’ drills progressing?” Laird Chattan asked of his brother. Ian eagerly nodded, looking to Murdoch for his agreement.

“Well, although some of the men arenae used tae fighting yet when they’re exhausted.”

“Aye, their stamina needs improving,” Murdoch said, reaching for the trencher of saffron-soaked leeks that Eloise passed him. When their fingers brushed on the bowl, she pulled back sharply, and he had to tighten his hold on the bowl to stop it from falling. He glanced at her, sensing how much she looked down at him, for she could not even bear his touch.

She refused to look at him but stared down at her trencher instead.

Murdoch could never understand why people confused Eloise and Scarlett. To Murdoch’s mind, they were entirely different, even though they were twins. Scarlett was spirited in character, sometimes even overbearing, whereas Eloise was quiet and timid like a mouse, so concerned with modesty and decorum that she often times looked stern. It was an expression he had never seen in Lady Scarlett’s face.

“We need tae run drills with the men,” Murdoch continued on, returning his focus to Ian and Laird Chattan. “Wake them at the middle of the night and make them run their drills. Aye, that should do it.”

“Then it’s settled.” As Laird Chattan turned to his brother to make the arrangements, Murdoch caught sight of Eloise shifting in her seat.

“In the middle of the night…” she said under her breath.

“I beg yer pardon?” He turned to look at her, his voice lowered to a whisper.

“In the middle of the night,” Eloise said simply, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. She smiled, as if it were only natural for her to correct his grammar.

Murdoch sat back, losing interest in his food as he gazed at her.

“I dinnae remember asking for a teacher, Eloise,” he said sharply. No one else at the table seemed to notice their conversation, for they were all laughing at some tale Ian was telling about the soldiers.

“I wasnae being a teacher. I was assisting ye.” She reached for her goblet of wine and lifted it to her lips, but evidently finding it empty she lowered it, her brow wrinkling as she stared into the cup.

“Then I didnae ask for assistance.”

“What is so wrong in that?” She looked up at him from the goblet. “I wouldnae mind if ye corrected me on how tae use a dagger.”

“That feeble thing.” He thrust a finger down at the dagger she always wore at her hip. He’d noticed it many times, wondering why a fine lady such as she felt the need to wear a dagger even in a room like this.

Nay one here would hurt her. Does she wear it out of habit?

“That doesnae even deserve the name dagger or dirk. It could be snapped in two.”

“Ye give yer opinion very decidedly.”

“Strange, I was just thinking the same about ye.” He held her gaze. Usually, he stayed quiet at events such as this. Ian, Elliot, Avery and Noah were the ones he talked to most, but Eloise seemed to have drawn something out of him tonight.

“Something is wrong with ye this evening,” she said, her cheeks blushing crimson red as she bent her head forward and reached for the pewter jug on the table. He reached for it at the same time, ready to top up his own goblet. Their hands collided on the jug, and she pulled back sharply.

“Aye, apparently there is something wrong with ye too. Worried me touch will burn ye, Eloise?” he asked, snatching up the jug to top up his wine. He topped up hers first, watching as her lips pursed together. “Let me guess. I am pouring the wine wrong now too.”

“I didnae say that.”

Murdoch looked away, replacing the jug on the table. He was hardly going to admit to Eloise that she was right, that something more was upsetting him.

I dinnae wish tae go home, though I ken I must.

He had no choice but to return home for Clyde’s wedding, even though he feared the consequences. If he returned, he didn’t doubt his father would demand it was time he married, something he could not contemplate.

I must avoid it. At any cost!

Murdoch realized that Eloise was staring at him. He jerked his head sharply toward her only to see her blushing and abruptly looking away.

“Ye think me rude fer correcting ye,” she whispered.

“And ye think me an idiot.” His sharp tongue had her staring at him again, wide eyed.

What is wrong with me tonight?

“Nay, are ye serious?” Ian laughed loudly about something, capturing Murdoch’s attention. He turned around, trying to shake himself free of Eloise’s arresting gaze. “What women are these?”

Murdoch sat forward, trying to understand the conversation he had mostly missed.

“I dinnae ken.” Noah laughed too, shaking his head. “I have it on good authority from the guards that there are such women in this clan. They offer their services as escorts tae men in need of company. They act as wives, sisters, ye name it. It helps men tae hide their secrets.”

“How exciting!” Elliot declared from the other side of the table, rubbing his hands together. “Where does one find such women?”

“Down, Elliot,” Laird Chattan said with a laugh. “We all ken what secrets ye have in mind when it comes tae women.”

As all around the table laughed, Murdoch sat back, an idea occurring to him. Perhaps there was a way to avoid being thrust into a marriage by his father. He had to appear as if he was already married.

Aye, where would a man find one of these women tae act out a part?

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Prologue

Corrow, Highlands, 1758

“Claret, sweetmeat, doucets, and figs…aye, that should be enough.” Aila examined the the platter in her hands while muttering to herself, ensuring she had gathered everything her father had requested. The tray was merely silver-plated, lacking the authenticity of real silver, and the copper beneath was starting to show through. Her father, Gowan, would detest the sight of the copper, but she had skillfully arranged the figs to conceal their inability to afford the finest luxuries in life.

Walking through the brothel, Aila winced at the echoes emanating from upstairs. The fabricated moans of the women resonated within the walls, harmonizing with the grunts of men indulging in pleasure. Every day felt the same, enduring these infernal sounds.

I miss Callie. Aye, she could have brought some light to this wretched place.

Aila sighed, readjusting the tray in her hands. The previous year, she had aided her younger sister in escaping this inferno on Earth—her father’s brothel. Callie possessed a knack for wit and good humor, which had made this place bearable until the day Aila knew Callie had to flee. Finding solace in the fact that one of them was liberated from this place, it left Aila and their eldest sister, Fiadh, behind

Perhaps someday we can also escape this place.

As Aila turned a corner in the house, she winced as a woman’s cries grew louder from above. They reached a point where she no longer discerned whether it was pleasure or pain that the woman was enduring.

I’d rather be anywhere but here!

Aila approached her father’s door when the tray slipped from her hands. The doucets rolled off, tumbling onto the floor and rug.

“Nay!” Aila muttered, dropping to the rug and hastening to retrieve them.

“Aila? What’s happenin’?” Fiadh descended the corridor. The taller of the two, she had to stoop her lanky form to assist Aila in picking up the doucets.

“Father requested a platter. I fear whom he intends for me to meet in this chamber,” Aila whispered as she hurriedly gathered the pastries. When Fiadh noticed some fluff on one of the pastries, she blew it away and returned it to the tray. “Fiadh!”

“He will never ken.” Fiadh winked.

A small chuckle escaped Aila. She was grateful for the moment of relief as she smiled at her sister. Much like herself, Fiadh possessed chestnut brown hair, though Aila’s often cascaded loosely around her shoulders, defying any updo she attempted, while Fiadh’s remained perfectly pinned at the nape of her neck. They both bore high cheekbones and wide smiles, but whereas Aila’s eyes were blue, Fiadh’s possessed a rich green hue.

“Aila? Where are ye?” Gowan barked from within the chamber.

Both Aila and Fiadh froze, exchanging wide-eyed glances.

“Ye dinnae think he wants us tae…” Aila trailed off, her throat tightening. Until now, her father had tasked her with aiding the courtesans in their duties. He ran the brothel, pretending to the clients that Fiadh was the true owner, though it was a mere facade, for she had naught to do with it. Like Aila, Fiadh scurried around their abode, changing linens, providing sustenance, and consoling the courtesans when they were treated too roughly by their patrons.

“Nay.” Fiadh’s whisper was harsh as she helped Aila to her feet, placing the final doucets on the tray. “We’ll never become like those lasses, Aila. No matter what, I’ll no’ allow it. We protect each other, aye?” Fiadh bumped her shoulder, a gesture they had shared since they were bairns.

“Aye.” Aila smiled, returning the bump.

“Aila!” Gowan barked from within the room once more, causing them both to flinch.

“Come on. We’re running out o’ time.” Fiadh opened the door and led the way inside.

“Maybe this tray is o’erflowin’,” Aila murmured behind her. She didnae watch her path, so as she followed Fiadh, she didnae notice her sister had stopped. Aila accidentally bumped into Fiadh’s back, causing more doucets and figs to tumble to the floor. This time, an entire claret jug joined the spill.

Fiadh turned, attempting to catch the jug as Aila reached out with one hand to salvage the figs. She failed miserably. As the jug landed on her arm, she lost her balance, taking Fiadh down with her.

“Ah!” Fiadh cried out as they tumbled together onto the floor. Aila took the brunt of the impact, landing face-first in one of the doucets, with the pastry crumbling over her cheeks and lips.

Och, well, that didnae go according tae plan.

“My apologies, this is no’ how my daughters usually behave. Aila! Fiadh! What’s amiss with the pair o’ ye?” Gowan’s voice echoed from across the room.

“We’re sorry, Father.” Fiadh quickly stood, lifting herself off Aila and inadvertently pushing down on her sister’s back in the process.

“Oomph!”

“Sorry.” Fiadh hurriedly helped Aila up. The tray lay completely flattened on the floor, with every edible item now squished on the boards or splattered on Aila’s blue gown. She stared at the mess, then attempted to scrape the pastry flakes from her cheeks.

A rich laugh resonated through the room, unfamiliar to Aila’s ears. She paused in her task, looking up to see a man she had never laid eyes upon before. He occupied a vast armchair in her father’s study. In his mid-thirties, he possessed long black hair curling around his ears and icy blue eyes that flickered between the two lasses. The laughter held no pleasantness but rather an air of belittlement.

Aila took a step a forward, despising the sound, but Fiadh yanked her back, resulting in both of them further crushing the food beneath them.

“Well, well, quite an impression yer daughters make.” The man’s gaze lingered on Aila, sending a shiver down her spine. She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, uncertain where to direct her gaze. Tearing her eyes away from his, she looked down at her feet instead, noticing cream splattered on her boots. There was a ferocity in his demeanor that filled her with fear. “She’s even fairer than when I saw her from a distance.”

“Aila, step forward,” Gowan commanded. “Give him a better view o’ ye.”

“What did ye say?” Aila’s voice rose, lifting her chin defiantly. Her father stood a few feet away, his dark hair impeccably slicked back. His grey eyes widened, clearly displeased with her defiance.

Fiadh subtly grasped Aila’s elbow, attempting to hold her back.

“Step forward,” Gowan’s words dripped with venom, leaving Aila with no choice. She stepped away from the food and locked her gaze with the stranger in the room. “What do ye think, Ossian?”

Ossian leaned forward in the armchair, his movements deliberate, and tilted his head to the side, observing Aila with the intensity of an eagle eyeing its prey. The icy glare caused her hands to tremble. She linked them behind her back, attempting to conceal the shaking.

I feared it all along. My father intends tae make me one of the courtesans!

Aila prepared her body to sprint from the room.

“A fair face…and quite a spectacle.” Ossian nodded, observing the spilled food.

“The two o’ ye…ye are an embarrassment.” Gowan’s restless shifting revealed his desire to say more. “Fiadh, leave us. Fetch more food. I must talk to Aila alone.”

Fiadh touched Aila’s arm, yet she stood her ground.

“Fiadh,” Gowan warned in a low tone.

“I am staying with my sister.” Fiadh’s determination caused Aila to turn and offer her a grateful smile.

Thank the heavens for ye, Fiadh.

Gowan clearly wished to continue the argument, but he must have feared causing a scene in front of his guest. He glanced at Ossian before giving a reluctant nod.

“Aila, sit.” Gowan pointed to the chair beside him. Aila approached and took the seat across from Ossian, perching on the edge. Gowan sat beside her, moving so close that she could see his foot perilously close to a low-lying dumbwaiter table.

“It is a pleasure tae meet ye, Aila,” Ossian spoke, leaning forward. “A great pleasure indeed.”

She sensed the insincerity in his pleasantries and narrowed her gaze, unwilling to entertain his false words.

“Aye, she will do fine,” Ossian looked at Gowan. “I will marry her.”

Aila’s jaw dropped open. She had been so convinced that Gowan intended to force her into the life of a courtesan that she had never considered this outcome.

I am being sold as a wife!

Her eyes darted toward the imposing figure of Ossian. The mere thought of not just sharing his bed once, but for a lifetime, made her tremble uncontrollably.

“Nay.”

“I beg yer pardon?” Ossian’s dark gaze snapped back to her.

“I said nay.” Aila found her voice firm. “I have no interest in marriage, and I will nae wed ye.”

Gowan stomped on her foot beneath the table. She leapt to her feet before he could harm her further, circling the chair with a limp. Fiadh stood beside her, offering support and positioning herself between Aila and Gowan, prepared to shield her if he pursued.

For far too long, Aila had remained silent. While Fiadh and Callie had never hesitated to express their thoughts to Gowan, Aila had always held her tongue. She had witnessed little good come from being outspoken.

Now, everything has changed.

“I am flattered…” She swallowed hard, trying to find some semblance of composure in this dreadful situation. “But I cannae marry ye.”

Ossian leaned back in his chair, his unwavering gaze fixed upon her.

“Ye dinnae understand, Aila.” Gowan stepped around Fiadh, forcefully pushing her aside and causing Aila to stumble, nearly losing her balance as she was separated from her sister. “The decision has already been made. Ye are tae pack yer bags now.”

“Father?” Aila shook her head, staring at him in disbelief. “Ye would send me tae a future I dread? For what purpose?”

“Nay more, Aila, nay more.”

“I will nae be silenced!” Aila shouted defiantly, her voice resounding through the room. It felt as though her words erupted from the depths of her being, a powerful explosion. “I will nae marry him, and nae words ye speak will compel me to do so.”

Aila fled from the room, sprinting so fast that she nearly slipped on the scattered food, yet managing to maintain her balance. Swinging the door open, she raced down the corridor, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. She sought refuge, heading towards the servants’ staircase, desperate to find a hiding place. Midway down the stairs, she succumbed to her emotions, sitting on a step and resting her head against the banister, sobbing as she tried to shield herself from the world.

“Aila?” Fiadh’s voice trailed after her. “Aila, I’m here.” Fiadh appeared on the stairs behind her. Instead of pulling Aila up and urging her to move, she sat down beside her, enfolding her in a comforting embrace. Aila’s tears no longer fell on the banister but on her sister’s shoulder.

“How could he do this?” Aila pleaded, her words stuttered through her tears.

“Our father has nay heart. Ye and I ken that too well.”

“I am nae one of his courtesans, yet he treats me as if I’m some commodity to be sold! It’s nae a matter of him lacking a heart, but of him possessing the darkest soul on this earth.”

“Aye, I cannae argue with that.” Fiadh gently wiped away Aila’s tears, cupping her cheeks. “Aila, trust me. Nae harm will befall ye. Ye will nae have to marry that man. I’ll ensure it.”

“Ye cannae make such a promise—”

“But I am making it. Trust me.” Fiadh pulled Aila closer, allowing her to cry. Aila buried her face in the fabric of Fiadh’s gown and did not lift her head for some time, consumed by her sorrow.

“Aila? Aila! Yer father needs tae see ye.”

Aila awoke in her bed to find one of the maids rudely shaking her. Rolling over, she pushed the maid away.

“Chelsea, what are ye daeing?”

“Ye cannae go back tae sleep. Yer father wants tae see ye right away, and I cannae bear his wrath.” Chelsea left the room before Aila could fully comprehend her words. Slowly, she climbed out of bed and dressed herself. She didn’t bother tying up her hair but instead combed it so that it hung loose past her shoulders. With a heavy heart, she walked out of her room, taking slow steps.

She loitered outside her father’s study, unwilling to face him after what had transpired the previous evening. She hadn’t heard if Ossian had departed, and the thought of him still lurking in the house filled her with dread.

Nay matter what my father says, I will still refuse. I’ll never consent tae marry that man!

She paced back and forth outside her father’s study, delaying the inevitable. Eventually, she took a deep breath and pushed open the door. She wrinkled her nose at once. It was evident that one of the courtesans had spent the night with her father, as the room reeked of their cloying perfume—a nauseating floral blend.

“Father?” Aila called out in a hushed voice. He stood up from his armchair, surveying some papers. To her relief, Ossian was nowhere to be seen. However, her father’s expression mirrored the gravity he had worn on the day he discovered Callie had fled.

Aye, he will hate me for this.

Suddenly, he grinned. The abrupt change caught her off guard.

“Father, I…” Struggling to find the right words, she swallowed hard and stood a little taller. “I’m sorry for what happened last night. I apologize for ruining yer deal, and I promise ye, I’ll work twice as hard to cover the losses incurred.” She paused, surprised to see him still smiling. It was not the reaction she had expected.

“Ye’ll have tae work twice as hard, aye.” He stepped forward, slamming the papers he held onto the table before shifting his focus to her. “But ye’ll do it, nae because of the deal, but because Fiadh is nae here tae do her own work anymore.”

“I beg yer pardon?” Aila glanced around the room, half-expecting Fiadh to emerge from the shadows, but it was just the two of them. “Where is she?”

“She offered herself in yer place.” He frowned, as if the very notion confounded him. “She was determined that ye wouldnae wed that man. Ha! A peculiar decision, indeed.” He circled around her, and she instinctively turned to face him, feeling trapped like a caged animal. “By now, she’ll have taken her place, ready tae be Laird Ossian Farquharson’s new lady.”

Aila couldn’t utter another word. Her blood turned cold as she comprehended the full extent of what had transpired and how her father had delivered the news devoid of any emotion.

Fiadh is gone, and she sacrificed her own happiness sae that I wouldnae have tae marry that man.

“Fiadh,” Aila whispered, her voice breaking as her heart shattered into pieces.

Chapter One

Three years later, Clan Chattan

“Ah, come now, Aila! I ken ye were up tae somethin’.” Ian peered around the castle wall, observing the young woman as she stealthily moved away from the premises. She cast nervous glances over her shoulder, her striking blue eyes scanning the surroundings. It was evident that she was cautious about being followed, but she had yet to spot Ian. “Whaur are ye gan?” Ian whispered to himself, keeping a safe distance while he observed her.

Aila had been residing in Laird Chattan’s castle for a few months now, and not a single day had passed without Ian suspecting something amiss. As Laird Noah Chattan’s brother, it fell upon Ian to ensure the well-being of all castle guests, particularly since Lady Scarlett Chattan had recently given birth to their son, and her attention was preoccupied. Ian took this responsibility seriously, and the moment he had encountered Aila, he sensed that something was awry.

What are ye hidin’, lass?

As Aila sneaked away from the castle, pulling up the hood of a dark black cloak to conceal her face, Ian discreetly followed suit. Since she wasn’t mounted on a horse, he saw no need to do so either. He trailed behind her on foot, traversing the drawbridge where the stench of horse manure filled the air, and passing by the market stalls at the town’s periphery, where the enticing aromas of freshly baked bread and cured hams lingered. Aila never paused to peruse the market; instead, she strode forward with determination, swiftly departing the town and venturing into the forest.

“I kent she was up tae somethin’, yet naebody believed me,” Ian muttered to himself, pausing by a stall. He exchanged a few loose coins with the vendor and procured a large leather hat, which he pulled down low over his brow, obscuring his long face and the dark blond hair cascading around his ears.

When Aila had first arrived at the castle, it had been a tumultuous time. Her sister, Callie, who had served as a healer for the Chattans, had been injured during a mission she and her now-husband Avery undertook to dismantle the brothel they once belonged to. Ian had heard firsthand accounts from Callie and Avery themselves about Gowan Mathieson’s tyranny, exploiting women and forcing them into selling their bodies for his own gain. He had falsely pinned the reputation of the brothel owner on his eldest daughter, Fiadh, but his dominion over that establishment and the courtesans had come to an end. Callie and Avery managed to escape as Gowan attempted to murder them both with the assistance of his courtesan, Ella. Callie had brought her sister Aila along in their escape.

Since then, Gowan had been arrested for evading taxes and tithes, languishing in the dungeons of the neighboring clan under Laird Buchanan’s jurisdiction. He had left behind an empty brothel house. Callie rejoiced at her father’s demise, his malicious ways finally put to an end. However, Ian remained unsure of Aila’s true sentiments.

She was always so reticent, preferring to fade into the shadows of a crowded room. Unlike her outspoken sister, Aila seldom spoke and kept to herself. Her enigmatic behavior left Ian suspicious, yet when he shared his misgivings with others, he encountered a dearth of evidence.

“All I’m sayin’, brother, is that she was with Gowan Mathieson for many a year,” Ian had warned his brother, Laird Noah, the night prior. “Ye cannae be certain o’ what lies in her heart, unlike Callie, who escaped and forged her own path. For all we ken, Aila might sympathize with her father and now be harboring secret intentions. She could even be plotting his release from that dungeon one day.”

“Ian, ye have nae proof.” Noah was a steadfast and just laird, as well as a good brother. Though they shared a dram o’ whisky, Noah did not dismiss Ian’s suspicions but demanded concrete evidence. “If ye wish to be certain that she cannae be trusted, then ye must find some evidence to support yer claims.”

“Very well. I shall find that evidence.”

Noah withdrew to attend to his wife and son, leaving Ian alone with his whisky. Once again, he caught a glimpse of Aila skulking about the castle in the dead o’ night. And now, she was up to her old tricks this morning.

I shall find that evidence, even if it means tailing Aila wherever she goes.

He trailed her through the town and into the forest. Here, he had to keep an even greater distance, for she chose a path through the trees that was seldom trodden, and his presence behind her would have been too apparent. As he tracked her amidst the Douglas firs and past a shimmering loch, constantly seeking refuge behind neighboring trees, Ian reminded himself of his purpose.

I dinnae trust Aila, and as a brother to the Laird, it is my duty to keep this clan safe, regardless of the foe.

Aila froze on the trail and turned around. Ian swiftly pressed himself against the nearest oak tree, melding into its trunk to conceal himself. He listened intently, but the ground did not echo beneath her footsteps, nor did twigs snap. She had stopped and showed no intention to move forward.

Ian dared to steal a glance, observing her from behind the tree.

Therein lay one complication with his suspicions of Aila, now starkly evident as she scanned the spaces between the trees, searching for something or someone.

Aye, she possesses a grace.

Aila’s movements exuded an enchanting elegance. From the very first night she arrived at the castle, he knew she was a beauty. Her piercing light blue eyes seemed to delve deep within him. Her chestnut brown hair, forever escaping its confines, enticed any man who passed her with its soft curls.

Her allure infuriated Ian. He understood he should feel naught but indifference towards a woman who behaved with such secrecy and suspicion.

Abruptly, she stiffened and peered through the trees. Apparently, she had found whatever or whomever she sought. Departing from the trail, she ventured deeper into the woods. Ian trailed at a distance, endeavoring to divert his gaze from the fact that, as she walked, she swept the hem of her cloak to the side, revealing the snug fit of her dark sapphire blue gown adorned with a tartan strip across the brocade. It accentuated the curves of her figure in a manner more enticing than it should have been.

Concentrate, Ian!

He chided himself as he pursued her, concealing himself behind a colossal gray boulder when he witnessed her halt beside another person. They stood too far away for him to discern their conversation, and he dared not draw nearer lest he be discovered. Nonetheless, Ian gleaned one detail about the man she encountered.
Weapons adorned his hip, and a thick cloak cloaked his shoulders. A long, slender white scar traced a path from his bald head down his cheek.

Wait…is that a mercenary?

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Prologue

Strathnaver, Scotland, 1516 A.D.

Idalia Buckland sat huddled with her sister, Leonor, on the cold stone floor of their shared prison cell, feeling alone and desperate. They had been taken captive by the dastardly highland laird, Alistair Morgan, who had killed their entire family, with the exception of Idalia, Leonor, and their eldest sister Katarina. Katarina had been bartered as a slave into a forced marriage and they knew not whether she was dead or alive.

Leonor shivered, burrowing closer into Idalia’s side. She burned with fever, fading in and out of coherency. Idalia had done everything she could within their limited circumstances to bring down her sister’s fever, but to no avail. She feared that if they could not escape soon, Leonor was going to die. God in Heaven, help us! She prayed for divine intervention, but none came. Her sister shivered again, and Idalia wrapped her own dress around her in an effort to make her more comfortable.

An image of her mother’s face flashed through her mind as tears began to fall once more. They had cried a great many times since their captivity. The pain of their loss had been excruciating. Idalia had no notion as to how long they had been kept prisoner. Without a way to see daylight, days and nights had melded together as one long never-ending span. They had been allowed the occasional candle when someone had brought them their meals and water, what limited times those had been, and to empty their necessary bucket.

One moment she had been dancing with her sisters around their campfire after having narrowly escaped from an unwanted betrothal, the next moment they were under attack. The men had been slaughtered immediately, while the women had been raped and murdered at the soldiers’ leisure. The only thing that had saved Idalia, Leonor, and Katarina was that they were virgins, untouched by the hands of men, and looked similar to the Laird Morgan’s daughter. It was that similarity which had caused Katarina to be traded in marriage to an islander from Orkney in place of the Lady Katherine Morgan. That was all Idalia knew of her eldest sister’s fate. Katarina had traded her own life for those of Idalia and Leonor. The guilt of that knowledge haunted Idalia’s every waking hour.

Katarina had tried to hide them during the attack, but they had been found and carted off to the Morgan stronghold. As they had been bound and loaded into a wagon, Katarina had been dumped into the wagon next to them, bleeding and barely conscious. She had attempted to fight off their attackers but had failed. Their entire Romani encampment had tried to fight, yet had been unceremoniously defeated in every way. As the wagon had rolled through the carnage, the last thing they saw of their parents and grandparents were their dead mutilated bodies lying upon the ground.

The memory of the attack caused Idalia to quickly rise and run to the waste bucket in the corner as she retched what little remained in her stomach back out. The smell filled the small stone cell, causing her to vomit again. “Oh, God,” she groaned in abject misery.

As she stood to rejoin Leonor, she was stopped by the sound of rattling outside of the cell door. Hope filled her heart that someone had at long last answered her plea for a healer to be brought for her sister. She took a step toward the door, but quickly retreated when it swung open, and the face of August Raymond stood in the shadowed light of the corridor beyond. The very man from whom her family had run and, in so doing, been slaughtered, now stood before her.

She looked around at the cell, trying to find something to stop him with but to no avail. There was no man more vile than the one who stood in front of her. August Raymond was a man with a heart as black as soot. He was cruel and cold-hearted. It was unfortunate that his position as leader of the gypsy clan provided him with power to do anything he wanted. He was a mountain of a man, with green eyes and dark hair. His olive skin was covered in a white shirt that was stained with blood.

Idalia frowned as he grinned at her menacingly. When he had proposed to marry her, she had been relieved by her family’s refusal and had thought that was the end of it. She would have laughed at her naiveté were it not for fear that she would not stop if she did. Of course, he was the type of man to never let go of what he wanted, no matter what it cost. And it had cost her a lot to refuse him.

He held a knife to the throat of one of the guards who had been bringing them food. Without saying a single word, he slit the man’s throat right in front of her. The guard dropped like a stone, his face a mask of surprise and pain, as blood spurted out across the cell’s stone floor.

“You?” Idalia breathed in terror and disgust as the guard’s blood flowed across the floor to pool at her feet.

August’s face split into a menacing grin. “Did you think you could escape me?”

In spite of herself, Idalia inched backwards in fear. “I had hoped. How are you here?” She looked past him to the corridor beyond but saw none of the other Morgan men who had been guarding them. She was not sure which was worse – being held hostage by Alistair Morgan or kidnapped by August Raymond. Neither option was desirable, but she would have to decide quickly which one would get her sister the help she so desperately needed.

“Your captors will not be coming to your aid. It was foolish of Alistair Morgan to place only one guard. It is clear he thought no one would find you here, or care enough to look.” He laughed, a hollow sound that caused Idalia’s skin to crawl with apprehension.

Doing her best to push her fear aside, she leaned down and gathered her sister into her arms. “Leonor is sick. She needs a healer.”

August shook his head in indifference. “I came here for you, not your sister. She can remain here. I have no time to carry a sick woman who cannot even stand of her own accord.”

“I will not leave her here alone,” Idalia shook her head in refusal. “If you wish for me to go with you, you must provide my sister with a healer.”

“I would rather kill her here and now myself than allow you to have your way. You fled from me, and in doing so, you have forfeited all rights to an opinion on your fate or kindness from me. You are now mine, body, mind, and soul. I own you.”

Idalia’s heart raced as he stepped into the cell and reached out his hand to grab her. Yanking her up onto her feet, he began pulling her from the room. Leonor called out for her, attempting to get to her knees, but she collapsed back against the stones, too weak to stand. Idalia fought back, punching, and slapping at August’s face and torso. Shaking her, he slapped her across the face. Lifting her up off of the ground, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her out of the room into the corridor.

Idalia cried out in protest. “I will not leave Leonor! Put me down!”

“You will do as I say, when I say.” August smacked her on the bottom so hard, the sound echoed down the passageway.

A deep voice emerged from the darkness at the end of the corridor. “Put the lass down,” the voice commanded, as hard as steel.

“I will not,” August replied, turning to face the threat before him. “I know your voice. Come forward into the light so I might see your face.”
The stranger took a step forward into the candle’s light, his blade held firmly in hand. He was tall, muscular, dark of eye and hair, with a strong masculine air about him. His arm lay limp at his side, blood dripping from his shoulder to spatter on the stone floor. “Let the lass go, August.”

“I will not, MacLeod,” August refused, shaking his head.

Idalia’s brows raised in surprise. The men knew each other. “Please, help me!” she begged the stranger, praying he would be able to overcome August in a fight if it came to it, but she had her doubts given the state of the man’s arm.

“Silence!” August commanded, giving her another sharp smack.

“Ye were warned,” the stranger ground out through clenched teeth, taking a step toward August.

“Take another step and I will kill the girl,” August threatened.

The stranger stopped, eyeing Idalia as if weighing the risk. “What is she to ye?”

“She is my betrothed.”

“I am not your betrothed! I am nothing to you and never will be!” Idalia argued loudly. She would not allow August to talk the stranger into allowing him to keep her. “Please, MacLeod,” she used the name August had used. “My sister is ill and needs a healer. Please help us!”

The stranger took another step forward. August reacted by dropping Idalia to the floor and withdrew his own blade. She grabbed at his arm attempting to keep him from killing the other man, but August just shrugged her off. Turning, he hit Idalia in the head with the hilt of his sword, then stepped forward to engage the stranger in battle. The sound of sword against sword was the last thing she remembered as the darkness overtook her.

Bran MacLeod stood behind the door of his prison cell, awaiting the guard’s usual rotation of food delivery. He had managed to steal a small sgian dubh off of his guard the last time he had been brought his meal but had not had enough time to put the knife to use, not with another man appearing in the doorway. Now, he waited in silence for the earliest opportunity.

He had been captured while attempting to help his laird’s wife, the Lady Katarina, escape the clutches of their rival clan’s laird, Alistair Morgan. He had been wounded in the battle, but his arm had healed to such an extent that he felt he could overpower his guards and escape. He sent another prayer heavenward that the Lady Katarina had made it safely back to Orkney.

When the sound of metal on metal announced the key being turned in the lock, Bran braced himself for attack. The door swung open, and a guard stepped in with a trencher of food and a cup of water. His hands were full, his dirk balanced precariously in his hand under the trencher. Bran took advantage of the moment and leapt on the guard, bringing the blade up between the man’s ribs hoping to reach the heart. Unfortunately, he missed, and the guard lashed out with his weapon, slicing into Bran’s wounded shoulder. Desperate, and not willing to spend another moment being held captive to the likes of Alistair Morgan, Bran dropped and rolled, then came up behind the guard to sink his blade into the man’s kidneys slicing through the artery.

The guard dropped like a stone to his knees, then fell flat on his face. His now sightless eyes staring out to the side as if asking Bran for mercy. Bran gave him none. Rising to his feet, he cursed softly at the state of his shoulder. He bent down to take the guard’s blade, then stepped out into the corridor, shutting the door behind himself. He did not need any of the other guards to come across his body until long after Bran was gone. Making his way down the dark corridor, he was about to turn to where he thought he had been dragged into his cell upon his capture, when he heard a commotion at the other end of the passageway.

A young woman’s voice cried out in protest. “I will not leave Leonor! Put me down!”

“You will do as I say, when I say,” the all too familiar voice of August Raymond echoed down the hallway followed by a loud smacking sound as if he had struck the girl.

Bran recognized the name the girl had mentioned as one of the Lady Katarina’s sisters. He could not leave them to their fate, especially not at the hands of a man such as August. August Raymond was a terrible man and to leave her with him was to let her go off to certain death. Sighing, Bran stepped forward. “Put the lass down.”

“I will not,” August replied, turning to face Bran’s position. “I know your voice. Come into the light so that I might see your face.”

Bran stepped forward into the candle’s light, his blade held firmly in hand. “Let the lass go, August.”

“I will not, MacLeod,” August refused, shaking his head. His eyes only registered a small amount of surprise at seeing Bran again after so many years.

The girl’s brows raised in surprise as realization dawned in her eyes that they knew each other. A moment of guilt flickered through Bran’s mind, but he shoved it away. “Please, help me!” she begged him, her eyes frantic with fear.

“Silence!” August commanded, giving her rearend a sharp smack. Bran recognized the sound he had heard earlier.

Seeing a man strike a woman caused Bran’s blood to boil with anger. “Ye were warned,” he ground out through clenched teeth, taking a threatening step toward August.

August shook his head, giving Bran a warning look. “Take another step and I will kill the girl,” he threatened, and stopped Bran in his tracks.

He eyed the lass flung over August’s shoulder, weighing the risk of helping her, versus leaving and simply following them back to the Romani encampment, to then retrieve her. The murderous look in August’s eyes told him the latter was not an option. “What is she to ye?”

August laughed, pride entering his eyes. “She is my betrothed.”

“I am not your betrothed! I am nothing to you and never will be!” the girl argued loudly. She turned her gaze to meet Bran’s. “Please, MacLeod,” she used the name August had used for him. “My sister is ill and needs a healer. Please help us!”

Making up his mind, Bran took another step forward. August reacted by dropping the lass to the floor and withdrawing his own blade. The girl grabbed at August’s arm, clearly attempting to keep him from killing Bran, but August just shrugged her off. Turning, he hit her on the head with the hilt of his sword, then stepped forward to engage with Bran in battle. The girl slumped unconscious onto the floor. Bran raised his blade to defend against August’s attack.

“Ye should nae have come back,” Bran told him, fighting off another blow. “Ye were fortunate to survive the first attack ye made on our people by the loch. We searched for ye but found nae trace o’ ye. I had hoped ye were gone from these lands.”

“I will nae leave without what is mine,” August grunted as he lashed out at Bran, taking advantage of Bran’s wounded shoulder.

“Ye will leave without the lass.”

“I will not,” August stubbornly refused.

“I will kill ye.”

“You may try, but then who will care for and protect your daughter? I have left clear instructions as to what will become of her should I not return.”

Bran’s heart sank at the mention of his child. He had had an affair with August’s sister while he had been fostered to a border clan with connections to his mother’s family. That had been six years before. Six long years without him seeing his own blood; or ever being able to hug his daughter. Six years with him being a failure of a father.

August had forbidden Bran access to the girl or her mother, as he did not approve of a non-Romani spouse for his sister. As the leader of his clan, August had the last say, and Bran had been forced to honor that as the mother of his child commanded him to leave. He had never been given the chance to meet his own daughter and it was the thought of finally getting to see her and hold her in his arms that kept him going and had him resolved to find a way out of there. “Ye would nae harm yer own niece. Nae even ye are that evil.”

“I could and I would.”

A soft moan announced that the girl at August’s feet had returned to consciousness. August ignored her. Bran stepped forward, with the intention of taking the man alive in order to protect his own child, but August saw his attack coming and reached down to grab the lass and placed her between them. Bran managed to just stop his blade before it harmed the girl, while August held a blade to her throat.

“August, dinnae do this.”

“I will if you do not let me take her.”
The sound of men coming down the corridor announced the arrival of more guards. One of August’s men ran up behind him in warning, surprise showing on his face at seeing Bran. “The Morgan guards are coming.”

August nodded in acknowledgement. “Take Idalia.”

Bran stepped forward. “Take me instead.”

August’s brows arose in surprise, then a greedy light entered his eyes. “I will consider your proposal under one condition.”

Bran cocked his brow in question, as the sound of guards’ feet caused his spine to tingle in warning. “Name it.”

“You will be my mercenary. You will do as I say.” August raised a hand before Bran could answer him. “If you say no, I will kill Idalia and I will kill your daughter.”

Given no other choice, Bran gave a single nod.

August released the girl, letting her fall to the floor. He turned to his men now all standing behind him. “Take him,” he commanded, then turned and walked away, leaving Bran to be bound and hauled out of the prison by his band of Romani men.

As Bran walked past the girl lying on the stone floor, he met her eyes, bleary and confused. “Yer sister is looking for ye,” he informed her, hoping that it would bring her some comfort and hope. “If I ken anything about the Lady Katarina, she will find ye, lass. When she does, dinnae mention me, for I am already dead.” With those last parting words, he left the beautiful, brown-eyed Romani lass in the darkness, alone.

“Who are you?” she whispered to his retreating back, but Bran did not answer. It was better for them both if she never discovered the truth.

Chapter One

Orkney Islands, Scotland, 1518 A.D.

Idalia stood on the shores of her new island home and stared out across the sea toward the mainland. It had been well over a year since her sister, Katarina, had rescued her and Leonor from their captivity. Once Alistair Morgan was safely in the king’s prison, Idalia and Leonor had gone to Rome to inform their aunt of everything that had happened to their family. They had been escorted there and back under the protection of Katarina’s husband’s men. Idalia was grateful that her sister had found love and happiness in spite of the circumstances that had led to her and Dunn’s marriage.

Dunn and Katarina were currently visiting Dunn’s newlywed brother Tor and his bride, the former Lady Katherine Morgan, who had turned out to be the daughter of their uncle and not Alistair Morgan. Katarina had taken her newborn son to meet his Uncle Tor, and had also taken their aunt, who was visiting from Rome, to meet Katherine. Idalia had not wished to step foot within the Morgan stronghold ever again and had elected to remain behind on Orkney with Leonor and Adamina to help take care of her new clan.

In truth, Idalia spent every waking hour attempting to forget what had happened to them, but the nightmares refused to stop. Every night she dreamt of the men who had hurt her family and the man who had been responsible for their being forced to run for their lives to begin with, August Raymond.

I need a woman of the old ways to see where August Raymond is now. I need a seer. I cannot go on with my life, I cannot make any decisions about how and where to live, without knowing where he is and if he has given up on trying to wed me. I will not promise my life to a man who only wishes to take it from me by force. I will not surrender my life, nor those of any of my remaining family, to him or any other vile man. I have lost enough. We have lost enough.

Leonor joined her on the shore, hooking her arm through Idalia’s. “Thinking?” she asked, laying her head on her sister’s shoulder.

Idalia nodded. “I am never going to find peace unless I know that August Raymond is gone from our lives forever. I need to find a seer.”

“Katarina said there is another of our kind here on the island. She has some gifts, but I do not know more than that. Perhaps she can help you.”

Idalia nodded. “Who is she?”

“Esmerelda,” Leonor said and shook her head. “I do not know her surname, but apparently she was a former lover of Dunn’s and Tor’s before their respective marriages.”

Idalia snorted in laughter. “Both of them?”

Leonor giggled, nodding. “That is what Katarina said.”

“We should go and speak with her. Do you know where she lives?”

Leonor nodded. “Katarina said she has a cottage further down the shore.”

Idalia gestured toward the path along the shoreline. “Lead the way.”

Leonor nodded, and they walked arm in arm along the shore in search of Esmerelda’s cottage. Once they had arrived, Idalia knocked on the door; it was opened by a beautiful darkhaired woman. “It took ye long enough to seek me out,” she greeted them with a nod.

Idalia looked at her in surprise. “My sister said you have the gift.”

Esmerelda shook her head. “Only a little. I am nae as skilled as those who came before me. My grandmother knew much more.”

“Can you tell me what I seek?”

Once again, Esmerelda shook her head. “I cannae read yer mind, lass. Ye must speak.”

Idalia felt foolish for her childlike faith in the words of a seer, but she had been taught to respect the old ways from a very young age. “August Raymond? Is the threat against me and my family over?”

Esmerelda met Idalia’s eyes and held them intensely; she reached out and took Idalia’s hands in hers. After several moments had passed, Esmerelda let her hands drop and took a step back. She shook her head. “I cannae see.”

“Our sister said that you saw her coming. She said that you told Dunn he would love one of our kind,” Leonor reminded her.

“Aye, I did, but when I look into yer future, I dinnae see anything. Perhaps I am nae strong enough.” Esmerelda gave Idalia a sympathetic look.

“Is there another who might be strong enough to see?”

Esmerelda thought on it for a moment. “Perhaps,” she nodded slowly. “There is a woman on the mainland who might be able to help ye, but I ken very little of her. She is a practitioner of the old ways, but she keeps herself hidden away. She does nae wish to be burned as a witch, ye ken? She is nae of the traveling Romani but is of the Highlands by birth.”

“Do you ken where I can find her?”

Esmerelda shook her head. “I can try to send word through other women of our kind and see if she can be found. If I hear from her, I will send word to ye.”

“I thank you, sincerely, for your help in this.”

Esmerelda shook her head. “I cannae promise ye that anything will come of it, but if this woman can bring ye peace of mind, it is the least I can do for a fellow woman of the Romani. There are certainly more of us on the island now.”

Idalia nodded. “Our family is blessed that Katarina found love with the laird here, giving us all a place to live.”

“And yet, ye need to ken more to believe that ye are truly safe here.” Esmerelda gave Idalia a knowing look.

“I do.”

“Then let us pray that ye find the answers that ye seek.”

A fortnight later . . .

The castle chamberlain greeted Idalia as she came down the stairs to break her fast. “A letter arrived for ye.” He handed her a slip of paper, sealed with plain candle wax.

Idalia opened the paper and read its contents quickly, scanning it to see who had sent it. Leonor came to stand beside her. “Who is it from?”

“A seer,” Idalia murmured. “I do not know if it is the one Esmerelda spoke of, but she has promised to help me.”

“Where?”

“I must travel to the mainland. She is old and does not travel well.”

“I will go with you. We should take a guard with us.”

“I will speak with Adamina, but the letter says I must go alone.”

Leonor shook her head. “That is not wise. You should not be going anywhere alone and unguarded. What if August Raymond is waiting for you?”

“Dunn’s men have searched far and wide for him, but there has been no sign of him anywhere. He could be dead. I seek the seer to ensure our safety, not to place us in further danger. I will be cautious, Sister, don’t worry. I will not be foolish in my desire for peace.”

“You cannot go alone, no matter what the old crone says.”

Idalia nodded. She did not wish to argue with her sister, nor did she wish to be reckless, she simply wanted to know one way or the other. In her heart, she secretly hoped that the seer would be able to help her to commune with those she had lost. She would give anything to speak with her mother again. “Let us go and speak with Adamina. We can make a plan after that.”

The two sisters walked over to the raised dais and told Adamina about their plan to go and speak with the seer. Adamina gave them both a sympathetic look but shook her head. “I cannae allow ye to go without a guard, and we dinnae have any men to spare, with my brothers both being gone and the guard that Dunn took to protect his wife and bairn. Ye must wait until Dunn returns, Idalia. Ye may speak with him on the matter then.”

Leonor agreed to Adamina’s command, but Idalia chafed against it. She tried to make Adamina see her side of it all, but as much as the other woman sympathized with her plight, she would not give her permission or her clansmen to make the trip possible. In the end, Idalia walked away upset and more determined than ever to see her plan through.

She did not like living under the rule of others. She was a free spirit, used to roaming the world at will. She had only ever had to answer to her parents and her God. Outside of that, she had been free to do as she willed. She was not adjusting very well to the stationary life under the rule of men who were not of her blood. She longed to be free to roam once more, but she could not do that if August Raymond was still out there seeking to take her. The only way she could achieve the freedom she sought was to have confirmation, whether by his dead body or the sworn word of a seer who could tell her more about her future.

Going against Adamina’s edict, Idalia prepared to leave Orkney to meet the seer on the mainland. She had a plan that would fool everyone on Orkney and any of August Raymond’s men that might be awaiting her on the other shore. She had managed to sneak off without attracting her sister’s attention. Somehow, that had been the easy part. After they returned home, Leonor had comforted her with the fact that the men would be returning soon and then they could go with her. She had then left Idalia alone to brood in peace, and it was not long before Idalia got the idea to sneak off.

She sighed as she got up. She wished she did not have to leave like this, but Leonor would not understand her unease and she would wish to go with her, which Leonor did not want. She tiptoed away, closing the doors quietly to avoid alerting her sister. Idalia released the breath she had been holding when she passed a bend and was no longer visible from the house. She hurried to the stables, peeking inside before entering the building, making sure no one was in there. She frowned when she saw the stableboy, realizing she needed to find a way to distract him.

“G’day miss,” he greeted her, standing to his feet.

“Ah, g’day. It is quite a fine day for a ride, and I think I would like to do so. Please saddle my horse,” she replied, trying to sound as normal as possible.

“Aye, miss. Right away.” He dusted himself off.

“Yes. I think I shall pay a visit to Esmeralda down at the shoreline,” she rambled on, then smiled at the stableboy to stop herself from speaking any more words. She supposed it would do good for him to know that information. It would buy her some time if they thought she had simply gone to visit Esmeralda instead of going against Adamina’s edict. Smiling, the boy nodded and went off to do as he was asked.

While he was occupied, Idalia slipped into his sleeping quarters. She looked around the small space and stifled a happy cry when she saw a set of his clothes hanging on a peg on the wall. They smelled less than ideal, of horse manure and male sweat, but it was all she could find. Quickly, she stuffed them under her skirt and cringed in disgust at the feel of them against her skin as she held them between her thighs. She hurried as much as she could back to the stall, grimacing when the scratchy fabric irritated her thighs. She blew out a breath when she reached the stall, to see the lad had retrieved her favorite horse and had clearly not noticed her absence. He turned away just as she mounted the beast in one swift motion, being careful not to drop the lad’s clothing in the process.

Idalia was a skilled horsewoman and moved with an easy grace in the saddle. The boy blushed when she flashed him her most brilliant smile; then she turned the horses head and rode out of the castle gates. Instead of riding to Esmerelda’s, Idalia rode until she was out of sight of the castle, then hid in some rocks to change her clothes. She bundled her hair up into a hat and left her dress hidden in a bag of food she had managed to bring from the kitchen. Dressed in the stolen shirt and breeches, hoping she made a passable boy, she turned her horse and rode along the beach to the farthest fishing hut she knew of. There, she convinced the man to take her across the sea to the mainland, pretending to be the son of one of the islanders who wished to go and visit family across the sea. The older fisherman, having no reason to doubt her word, agreed, and took Idalia out onto his boat.

By the time Idalia stepped foot on Scotland’s shores, she was so nervous that she thought she might be sick to her stomach. She was tempted to turn back, but she squared her shoulders, paid the man for his service, and continued on her journey. Dressed as a boy, Idalia garnered little to no attention from those she passed along the way, which were, thankfully, few. She followed the hand-drawn map that had been included in the letter with instructions on how to get to the seer’s place of abode.

The journey was not without its difficulties. Idalia jumped at everything that sounded remotely human. Her eyes searched behind every tree, every hill, every stone wall. The men who had killed her family had come out of the darkness, but that did not mean that threats did not exist in the light of day as well. She kept a wary eye out the entire way across the Scottish Highlands as she traveled to where the seer had instructed. She wished she could have brought guards along with her, including her sister, but it had not been possible. Idalia felt a moment of guilt for leaving her sister behind to worry, but she shook it off. What she was doing was for them all, including Leonor.

She arrived at the seer’s cottage and dismounted, searching the area for any possible threats before she moved to knock on the door. Not finding anything, she moved to the door and raised her hand to knock. Before she had a chance to hit the wooden portal with her fist, a weathered old woman opened the door and stared up into her face suspiciously. “Ye the Romani lass?”

Idalia nodded her head in confirmation. “I am. Are you the seer whom I seek?”

“I am.” The old woman stepped back, allowing Idalia to enter her house. She motioned for Idalia to sit down at the roughhewn table in the center of the one-room cottage. Idalia obeyed. “Tea?”

Idalia nodded her head politely. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

The old woman turned and shuffled over to a pot of water heating over the fireplace. Idalia studied the room around her as the seer worked. It was a sparse room, with herbs hanging from the ceilings. Other than the table and chairs, there was a small bed in the corner, but no other furniture. The old woman returned to the table and handed Idalia a steaming hot cup of tea. It smelled of mint and flowers. Idalia smiled in gratitude and took a good long sip. The tea was soothing after her long journey. She took another long drink, then set her cup down to meet the seer’s eyes.

“What have ye come for, lass? What is it that troubles ye?”

“I seek to know the fate of August Raymond. Is he dead or alive? Does he seek me still? Or has he released me from his obsession? Am I, and what remains of my family, free to roam about the land as we once did?” Idalia stopped to take a breath and grew a bit dizzy. “Where is August Raymond?” she barely whispered the last as she clung to the table to steady herself.

“All will be revealed to ye soon enough,” the seer murmured as blackness swallowed Idalia whole and a cloth sack descended over her head.

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Prologue

Corrow, Highlands, 1757

“Nay, nae again.” Callie raised her hands and flattened them to her ears with such vigor that the ends of her ears hurt, but she did not stop.

She would have done anything, including endure any discomfort or pain, to drown out the sounds echoing overhead. She cast a tired glance at the ceiling of her father’s study. It was as if the hanging candelabra shook in response to what was going on above her. She pressed harder, but the sounds persisted: the man’s guttural moans, grunts, and the pretend yelps of the woman who was pretending to be pleased.

“It’s all in making them believe ye want them, lassie. That’s what ye have tae do.”

One of her father’s oldest courtesans had said this to Callie one day. She had wrinkled her nose in response, trying not to gag when she saw the man the courtesan had led into her chamber. Furthermore, she couldn’t imagine summoning any sort of false passion for every man who came by and paid his shilling.

“Nay more of this.” Callie hastened to the window as if somehow it would give her an escape from this life, but the view only reminded her of just how trapped she was. The lead lights of the windows resembled the bars of a prisoner’s cell, beyond which Loch Goil shimmered in the distance.

Ach, tae be free of here!

The house was surprisingly fine from the outside. It was built of old timber and wattle and daub and stood high on the bank of hills surrounding Loch Goil, flanked by pine trees. It was conveniently located above a busy track road, so those who were unaware of the brothel frequently ended up there as passing trade. Despite the number of people who usually passed through the corridors, the house felt lonely and isolated to Callie.

When the sounds above her faded, she released her ears and pushed her long black hair behind her ears, raising her large gray eyes to the ceiling. It had stopped shaking for the moment but she didn’t doubt it would start again just as soon as another man arrived.

“This is sickening.”

“What is, Callie?” The voice had her turning round so sharply that she knocked her thin arm against the glass and banged a nerve inside her elbow that made her wince. She shook it out as she turned to face her father.

Gowan crept into his study and stood in the open doorway. He no longer wore pauper’s clothes, which would have revealed his true, impoverished background. Instead, he had become arrogant, now wearing a fine waistcoat and elegant jacket that didn’t quite fit his rough and aging features. His gray eyes pierced her soul until she ran her hands up and down her arms, terrified and trying to hide a shiver.

“Ye called me here, Father. What it is ye want?” she asked without hesitation. Callie was never one for wasting time with pleasantries, and she certainly didn’t wish to waste time with her father. Ordinarily, she would have been spending her days nursing her mother through her sickness, avoiding Gowan entirely. But now that she had died, she no longer had the luxury of losing herself in the research and preparation of the herbal remedies she had used to relieve her mother’s pain. Instead, she was forced to speak with her father whenever he demanded it.

“My debtors are coming.” Gowan closed the door hurriedly behind him and crossed the room toward her. There was something balled in his hand, though she couldn’t quite see what it was. Turning her back to the window, she longed to escape, conscious only of the cold sensation from the glass that pressed through her gown.

“That is what debtors do, Father. They come for what they are owed if ye dinnae pay them.” Callie raised her eyebrows, already knowing his response. Gowan revealed a snide curl of his lips and shook his head.

“Ye dinnae understand business. Ye never did. Yer head is too much in the clouds, messin’ wi’ all yer potions—”

“Medicines. I am nae a witch,” Callie corrected him, though he continued on as if she hadn’t spoken at all, flicking his untidy dark hair back from his bulging cheeks.

“Ye have tae use money in this business to get ahead if ye want any sort of quality of life.” He gestured a hand at the fine room they were standing in.

Callie scoffed, and her father flinched but didn’t comment on her reaction. Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the supposed finery of the space. It was obviously a grand structure, but it was dilapidated and falling apart in places. Even the settle benches and Savonarola chairs her father had placed in the space were in disrepair. He had created the illusion of a well-to-do brothel for his clients, but it was a deception. It reminded Callie of a cracked eggshell—it appeared perfect on one side, but was broken beyond repair on the other.

“I need tae avoid the debtors, so I shall be hiding. From now on, yer sister, Fiadh, shall be the face of the business,” Gowan said nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just revealed shocking news.

“Fiadh?” Callie repeated, her voice breathy. Fiadh was her oldest sister, beautiful and smart but troubled. She despised the business just as much as her, but she had been forced to work for their father when she was Callie’s age. In the business, Fiadh was referred to as his “helper.” Callie could swear Fiadh was getting paler and gaunter by the day.

“Aye, it must be done. Now yer mother is gone, we must make changes. I shall still be in control, but what the clients will see is Fiadh as the owner.”

The cavalier way he spoke of her mother’s death, without a hint of remorse or even a twitch around his eyes, made Callie feel sick again. She turned her back on him and looked out of the window. Her eyes danced across the nearby hills and the pine trees.

This life . . . it is as if the flames of hell have broken through to this realm.

“Now, there is one more change we must discuss.” Her father thrust the item forward in his hand, holding it at her side. A skirt fell from his fingers, revealing a dress made of so little fabric that it left nothing to the imagination when worn.

She was to be his helper in the business now, it seemed. She’d be the one serving drinks and cleaning the rooms for the courtesans, as well as luring men into the building for business.

“Nay.” Her voice was sharp.

The gown was flung at the window. It thudded softly against the glass and made Callie jump back, turning to face her father, who was breathing heavily. His round face was now puce.

“Dinnae challenge me on this,” he warned, pointing a finger at her. “Ye are nae a bairn anymore, and we need the money. Ye took care of yer mother as she laid dying, ye had yer purpose. Now that’s gone, we move on.”

“She passed last week. Ye speak of her as if she meant nothing tae ye at all. She was yer wife!”

“Ye will do this, ye understand me? Ye will do this—” He strode toward her, bearing down on her, and she scurried back like a rat fleeing a flood, putting a Savonarola chair between them.

“Father!” Another voice cut him off, and they both came to a stop, with Callie’s hands braced on the back of the chair and Gowan staring at her, breathing heavily through his nose. “Father?” Aila’s voice said again.

Callie turned to see her elder sister in the doorway. She was much like Callie in looks, with the same dark hair and gray eyes which were perhaps a little paler than her own. She had been crying. The skin around her eyes was red and, judging by the tussled look of her gown, it appeared as if someone had tried to pull it off her. She adjusted the ripped shoulders and sleeves, trying to set them straight.

One of the clients did that tae her!

Callie felt rage simmering in her gut at the sight of her sister’s torn gown.

“What is it?” Gowan barked.

“A client wants tae speak tae ye. At once.”

“We will talk of this later,” Gowan warned Callie and left the room. Aila hurried across the room, closing the door behind him. She picked up the thrown gown from the floor and held it in shaking fingers as Callie collapsed into the chair she had been holding onto.

“He . . . he . . .” Callie struggled to find the words.

“I can guess. Ye dinnae need tae speak of it.” Aila’s voice was as tremulous as Callie’s own. “We must do something. History cannae keep repeating itself like this.”
“What do ye mean?” Callie raised her eyes from the dress and stared at her sister’s face. Where her own features were round, with heart-shaped cheeks, Aila’s were narrow and elegant. Those angular features were now so tense that she no longer looked like herself, but a haunted version of the woman she had once been.

“I mean that what Fiadh and I suffer, ye shall nae. Believe me, Callie. I will nae see this happen all over again.”

“Ye think I can escape this life? And ye once called me naïve,” Callie said, trying to force a laugh. She had always been known as the joker among her sisters, though it had become more and more difficult over the years to find a reason to laugh freely. Aila managed the smallest of smiles in return.

“Maybe I am, but I am nae going tae give up now.” She moved quickly across the room, dropping her gown behind her and taking Callie’s hand with such force that the latter was forced to stand and follow her sister out of the room.

“I take it we are going somewhere.”

“Aye, ye could say that.”

Aila led her through the study and down the corridor to the back rooms of the house, where Gowan was less concerned about the appearance of the aging walls. The wallpaper was peeling and the candles in the sconces were short and stubby. Aila hurried until they arrived at the kitchens and the adjacent storerooms.

“Why are we here?” Callie asked as her sister led her into one of the storerooms, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“I’ve left these here for some time. I kenned they would be needed at some point.” Aila prized open a crate from the corner of the room and revealed a set of clothes. There was a pair of dirty and dark brown trews, along with a grubby white shirt, a black waistcoat, a plaid cap, and a large man’s jacket.

“What are these?” Callie tentatively took the clothes as her sister thrust them toward her.

“Ye put these on. Ye can disappear into the crowd of boys that deliver the ale here from the brewery. Our father will nae think tae look for ye amongst them.”

“What?” Callie hesitated, stunned at the words. “Ye wish me tae run away?”

“Do we have a choice? Quickly, Callie, put them on, I beg of ye.” Aila thrust her face to the ajar door and watched as Callie changed clothes.

She removed her gown and chemise, revealing only her stays, and proceeded to put on the boy’s clothing. She tucked her long, dark hair under a wide-brimmed cap before turning to face her sister.

“Ye cannae expect me tae leave, surely?” Callie’s throat felt dry. “What other life would I ken? Why I should leave, and ye stay? It’s nae fair!”

“Any other life is better than this, do ye nae think?” Aila took her hand and dragged her back out of the room. “Keep yer head down.”

Callie was convinced it was a mad idea, but when a young scullery maid passed them by in the kitchen and didn’t even glance at her, she began to have second thoughts.

Aye, maybe this could work.

“Ye can take Fiadh’s horse. Go tae our aunt and stay with her awhile. She will surely be able tae offer ye a better life than this one.”

“Our dear aunt.” As Callie thought about her mother’s sister, she remembered how Gowan had been afraid that she might report the brothel or rescue his daughters from the house. As a result, Gowan had hardly let her enter the house in the past ten years. “Ye must be mad though if ye think I am leaving this house without ye.” Callie pulled on Aila’s hand, drawing her sister to a sudden halt in the corridor. “I will nae leave ye behind.”

“I am nae mad, but ye are leaving, alone.”

“Aye, mad as a coot—och!” Callie was jerked forward by her sister and barely managed to stop herself from falling over. They passed through two laundry rooms before exiting the house and hurrying to the stables.

“We’ll use some of the horsehair tae make ye a mustache,” Aila told her as they entered.

“Madder than two coots!” Callie tried to jest, but Aila managed only a weak smile. Callie was pushed into a corner of the stable while her sister gathered a bunch of horsehairs. Her sister separated the hair and formed it into a fake mustache, which she stuck to Callie’s upper lip using a substance similar to melted wax, which hardened quickly. “What is this?” Callie asked, grimacing at the cold touch of it on her upper lip.

“Candlewax,” Aila told her, Callie expressed her skepticism with a raised eyebrow, causing her sister’s smile to quickly fade. “There, ye will do now.”

Callie looked down at herself and tried to hold back a sneeze, for the mustache itched and tickled her nose.

“How do I look?”

“Like a lad!”

“Aye, well, I suppose that’s the idea.” Callie laughed, though it halted quickly, for two shadows joined them in the stable just then. She was filled with fear and felt her heart pounding in her chest. Everything was happening too fast, and she couldn’t abandon her sisters. Alia bravely positioned herself in front of Callie as the two shadows materialized into familiar faces.

Callie let out a sigh of relief upon recognizing one of them as an acquaintance who was leading his horse into the stable. The other person was Fiadh, who was following him.

“Aila, what is going on?” Fiadh asked. “Who is—oh . . .” She trailed off as her eyes found Callie’s.

Callie’s older sister came to a sudden stop as if she had turned to stone. She said nothing more but just stared at Callie.

“Who is this, Fiadh?” The man frequently visited one of the courtesans at the house, and he had repeatedly made advances towards Fiadh. However, she had refused his offers, stating that she was simply a helper in the business.

Aye, maybe someday Fiadh will have her revenge.

As Callie felt a tickle in her nose, she worried that she might sneeze and give away her disguise as a boy. She held her breath and avoided getting too close to the gentleman, fearing that any suspicion could spread throughout the brothel quickly. If anyone caught on to her escape plan, it wouldn’t take long before Gowan knew too.

Callie began to feel an intense tickling sensation that made her sneeze violently. She quickly used her hands to hold onto her mustache, preventing it from falling off.

“He . . . he . . .” Fiadh stuttered, plainly struggling to find an answer to her elder sister’s question. Fiadh’s eyes settled on Callie as the gentleman stepped forward, taking a closer look at her. Callie backed up, her boots scuffing in the loose straw.

“He’s one of the ale lads, sir,” Aila answered quickly and smiled. “Aye, he was a little lost in our stable, so I am showing him the way back to the road. Is that nae so?” She looked at Callie and elbowed her. Without knowing if she could pull off a boy’s voice convincingly or not, Callie decided to nod instead. She pressed the mustache to her lip again and lowered her hands, offering a smile and feeling like a fool. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Aila trying to hold back her smile.

“I—” The gentleman stepped toward her, and Callie moved back again, certain her identity had been discovered.

“Fear nae, sir, my sister can deal with this. May I escort ye tae the house?” Fiadh asked and laid a hand to the gentleman’s arm. That touch seemed to calm him a little, and he nodded, turning away. Callie released a stuttered breath at his movement, feeling the fear settle in her stomach. Fiadh followed him, casting a wild-eyed and questioning glance over her shoulder before she left and hurried after him across the yard.

“I’ll explain tae her what is happening,” Aila whispered to Callie. “Ye prepare a horse quickly, now.” Callie sneezed again, and her sister rolled her eyes. “And would ye desist with yer sneezes? Ye will nae fool anyone if ye continue in such a way!”

“Aye, I’d like tae see ye try this. I feel as if a dead rat is stuck to my upper lip.”

Aila didn’t smile at the joke this time and quickly ran towards the house, leaving Callie to take care of saddling a horse. Despite the itching on her lip becoming unbearable, she managed to gather the reins and prepare to set off, sneezing several times in quick succession.

The sound of footsteps reached her ears between the sneezes. Without knowing who was returning to the stable, she feared it would be Gowan.

What will he say if he sees me like this? He’ll never forgive me for it. He might throw me tae his clients as a dead deer is thrown tae the wolves!

She tried to hide in a bale of hay, but that only made the sneezing worse.

“Are ye certain of this?” Fiadh’s voice sounded in the stable. “Our sister thinks hiding in the hay will keep her safe. Yer sneezing gives ye away, Callie. Come out.”

Relieved that it was only her sisters, she stepped out.

“I am nae convinced this idea will work either.” Callie pressed the mustache flat to her lip, trying to scratch the itching of her nose. “Aila is certain of it.” Her sisters stood before her, both fidgeting restlessly, sad smiles on their faces.

“We have tae try.” Aila moved toward Callie and embraced her tightly. “Run, Callie. Run as fast as ye can and find our aunt. Do anything ye can tae escape this life.”

“She is right.” Fiadh moved around the two of them and held open her arms, embracing them both. “Ye find a better life than this, Callie. Promise us that?”

“How can I leave ye?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat and tears streaming down her cheeks, for she could not keep them at bay any longer. She might have fantasized about leaving this house at times, but actually going was proving much harder than she could ever have thought.

“Ye must.” Fiadh sniffed and held back tears as she released them from her embrace. “Go now, before Father finds out.”

“I-I . . .” Callie stepped speechless toward the horse. Before she could climb into the saddle, there was one more thing she had to say to her sisters. “I promise I will come back tae ye someday. I make ye this vow, tae help ye to escape too.”

Her sisters smiled, but there was sorrow in their expressions, probably believing this was not possible.

Chapter One

Three Months Later
Inverary, Highlands

She has tae be somewhere. Nae woman can just disappear, nae without a trace.

Avery paced up and down in front of the tavern. In the heavy downpour, the rain fell relentlessly. With the moon peeking between the clouds, each droplet glistened in that silver light like long thin gems falling from the sky. By the time they hit the earth, they mixed with other droplets to form vast muddy puddles. It was these puddles Avery kept marching through, splashing his long leather boots and his already muddied trews.

Lifting his chin, which was dappled with stubble, for he hadn’t bothered to shave recently, he glanced up and down the street. This late into the night, barely anyone was still awake in the town. Only a few people inside the tavern could be heard making merry so late at night.

Avery glanced long enough at the tavern window to see men well in their cups, leaning against one another to keep standing. In the tavern, some patrons leaned forward over their tankards while others were already passed out with their faces resting on the wooden tables.

Some place tae spend yer life.

Avery shook his head and returned to his pacing. He scratched his jaw and lifted the hat on his head, giving in to his nervous habit of ruffling the dark hair at his temples before replacing it. Then, he turned back the other way to continue his pacing. Soon, he would have an answer to the question he had been seeking for so long.

“Where is he?”

“Sir?” A voice close by disturbed Avery’s thoughts. He turned to look at a man striding out of the tavern hurriedly. He wasn’t as tall as Avery nor as strong in stature. In fact, he was relatively small and slight. But Avery had worked with him enough times to know the man possessed other useful skills besides fighting that was invaluable when it came to spying and the exchange of important intelligence across the highlands.

“Talbot?” Avery stepped forward, offering his hand. Talbot shook it heartily, raising his head and revealing an easy smile.

“Nae a good night for meeting outdoors, is it?” He laughed as he spoke.

“Aye, we have had better nights.” Avery released Talbot’s hand and nodded. “What have ye found for me?” He waited with bated breath for some news. For the last few years, he’d worked with Talbot, providing information and spying when needed.

I have tae find Ella.

“I have heard something of her, sir, of Ella Ogilvy.”

Just hearing her name made Avery feel transported. He was no longer standing in the rain outside a poorly reputed tavern but was back in his father’s castle. He was younger, a boy of nineteen, with the maid, Ella, sitting beside him. They were sharing a flagon of mead, and she was so close to him that he could smell her perfume. The scent was one of honey and peonies, a lovely scent that has stayed with him to this day. Her long brown hair escaped its confines and curled around her shoulders, taunting him with the thought of running his fingers through those silky locks. Her beautiful blue eyes never left him, and her full lips frequently parted in laughter.

It had been a happy time, the happiest Avery had ever known, and he longed to have it back. But his relationship with Ella had come crashing down the day when his father, Kendrick MacTavish, had discovered the affair.

“Nay gentleman marries a maid, ye bampot. She’s after yer wealth.”

Those words had plagued Avery ever since. Kendrick had kept his word, and when Avery continued his affair with Ella, she was banished from the castle just as he was about to propose marriage to her. Avery had vowed never to forgive his father for the personal betrayal and had left the castle soon after, looking for Ella, and hadn’t returned since.

He’d left behind his younger sister, though, which was his one regret.

I’ll be back someday, Eloise. First, I must find Ella.

He’d started life as a scout, but his experience had soon changed once he’d become involved with men like Talbot. He became a spy and a warrior, sometimes for hire, though he only ever worked for the right man. These days, few men could match him when it came to his skills with the sword. He’d worked hard for other men he believed were fighting for just causes, and now, it was time to reap the rewards of that hard work and loyalty to others. It was time for them to help him find Ella.

“What have ye heard?” He begged. The man nodded toward the overhanging eaves of a nearby house, and they dashed under the ledge, out of the rain, which was now so heavy that it muffled their words.

“I warn ye, my friend,” Talbot heaved with a heavy sigh, “if ye care for this woman the way I suspect ye do, then ye are nae going tae like what I have tae tell ye.”

“I have hardly been happy the last few years, so what difference will this make?” Avery shrugged his shoulders. “I must ken the truth. Please, Talbot, nae further delays. What have ye heard of her?”

“I heard the name whispered between men. They visit a certain brothel, though I have nae heard exactly where this brothel is.”

Avery stiffened. His entire body hardened as if an iron rod had replaced his spine.

“They say a woman by the name of Ella Ogilvy is there. I am sorry, sir, but she is a courtesan.”

Avery swayed and reached for the wall beside him. Planting his hand on it, he kept himself standing.

How can innocent Ella be a courtesan?

The memory of her danced before his eyes once more, as if she were present with him. She had worn a beautiful blue dress that suited her perfectly and made her eyes sparkle. She had playfully taunted him, urging him to come closer, and he couldn’t resist her charm.

“I’ve heard of such women who have nae chances, nae money tae their names, ending up in such places before,” Talbot explained in a rush. “When they have nae friends, nae one tae help them, places like these brothels take advantage of such women. I asked around about this brothel, tae ken as much as I could about it, tae warn ye of them.”

“And? Who owns the brothel?”

“The Mathieson family.” Talbot grimaced at the words. “The whispers then became confusing. The father may have once owned it, but who kens if he’s still alive? It’s the eldest daughter who runs the business now, Fiadh Mathieson. They say she is fearsome and makes ladies do disgusting things to men willing tae pay extra for their own pleasure. She pockets the money she gets from her courtesans’ endeavors and keeps the women under her roof as if they are her pets.”

Avery turned and leaned completely against the wall, his head forward. Ella being manipulated in this way, used by men and at the command of another woman, sickened him to his core.

“The world is a grotesque place,” Avery muttered, reeling in shock. “A woman would do that tae her kin? Tae ladies such as her?”

“It is what I hear.” Talbot nodded slowly. “There are reputedly many under the Mathieson roof. There are other sisters, but Fiadh is the one in control. When I heard Ella Ogilvy’s name whispered, there was a suggestion that Fiadh had brought her into the brothel herself. She found Ella on the road and offered her another life. Poor woman.” He inhaled sharply. “She must have thought she was being offered sanctuary—”

“Nae tae lay her head in hell itself.” Avery cursed and leaned forward, palms to his knees. All he could think about was Ella being forced to give her body to men who didn’t deserve her, all because she had no choice in life. “This Fiadh woman has violated her as if she had done the deed herself.”

“Aye, I agree with ye.” Talbot mimicked Avery’s stance and leaned on the wall beside him. “It is a sick world we live in, but at least now ye know where Miss Ogilvy is. What will ye do now, sir? Now that ye ken.”

Avery swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. It was difficult, but he eventually managed to stand up straight, staring out at the rain that continued to fall. Thunder rolled in the distance as lightning flashed over the nearby hills.

I promised her we would marry someday. I made a vow to protect her and look how poorly I have kept tae my vow!

He could still recall the last time he saw her. Her blue eyes were red from crying, and her lips were pressed together in a thin line. Her delicate hands had curled around his, clinging to him. Kendrick had already told her she’d have to leave, but Avery didn’t think his father would follow through on his threat. He realized how wrong he had been the next morning when he awoke to find Ella no longer in the castle.

“They have violated her, brutalized her. God only kens how many times she has been assaulted, just at the whim of men who want quick satisfaction.” Avery spat the words, unable to hold back his fury. He turned to face his friend, noticing that Talbot had actually taken a step away from him, clearly a little afraid. “I cannae let the world continue in this grotesque way.”

“What will ye do? Ye intend tae go after her and get her out of there?” Talbot smiled, nodded, and rubbed his chin. “Aye, it is a good thought. Though be warned. If what I hear of Fiadh Mathieson is true, she will nae let one of her courtesans go without a fight. I heard a story of one of the women being shackled tae the bed.”

“In the name of the wee man!” Avery cursed and turned on the spot, his hand reaching for the hilt of the sword that always rested in his belt. “Then this must end. It must end soon, and I will make sure that Fiadh Mathieson cannae hurt any others in this world.”

“Ye will?” Talbot hesitated, plainly having sensed the vow before Avery could even utter it.

“Fiadh will pay the price of death. Her brothel will be burned tae the ground, and that family will never hurt another woman like Ella again.”

“Callie! Callie? They want us.” A young woman was shaking her, forcing her awake.

“Five minutes more,” Callie pleaded, turning over on the ground. The grassy mound served as a pillow and the torn jacket she was carrying was her blanket.

“Nae more minutes, ye fool. They want us. Ye ken what happens tae those they have nae use for anymore, do ye nae?” The woman’s words made Callie’s eyes shoot open.

It was already evening, but she hadn’t slept much the night before, so she napped during the day. The men she now spent her time with were demanding in that way.

Thefts happen best at night, do they nae?

“Aye, Hettie, I’m coming,” Callie murmured. The young woman half smiled and hurried off through the camp, leaving Callie to prepare herself. She sat up from the grassy mound and looked around. A little distance away, there was a blanket laid over some branches as some sort of shelter. The fire had burnt down to its ashes, and breadcrumbs were visible on the ground beside it.

I see they decided nae tae share their food tonight.

Callie sighed and got to her feet. She no longer straightened her gown or her hair when she rose, because what was the point? This was no life to live, but it was the only one she had. She’d gone to her aunt’s house after escaping her father’s brothel, only to discover that her aunt had died. She’d stolen from the street to survive. That’s how the highwaymen found her. One of them caught her trying to pickpocket from his own belt. Instead of murdering her right there and then, he’d been impressed and urged her to join his group. She should be grateful, shouldn’t she?

“What other choice did I have?” Callie muttered as she left the camp, following the path the one other woman had taken. Hettie had dived between the trees, heading toward the river, and Callie trailed behind her at a much slower pace. She soon found the highwaymen standing by a large boulder on the side of a loch, with Hettie running up to meet them.

Hettie attempted to seduce Torkell by linking her arm with his and he responded with his typical flirtatious smile. However, he quickly redirected his focus to a map he had placed on a nearby boulder.

“Ah, Callie. I see ye have decided tae join us at last. Ye have grown lazy,” he called to her, his eyes red with his own tiredness despite his words. He tossed his auburn hair, which was tied into a thick ponytail, over his shoulder.

“Have ye nae heard of sleep, Torkell? It’s what ye do when ye’re tired,” she reminded him in jest, crossing toward the others at the boulder. “If ye did it more, yer eyes would be less red.”

The two other men sniggered, though they stopped the moment Torkell looked at them. Blair was the oldest and shortest of the group. Stocky in build, he was strong and able to dart into small gaps because of his lack of height. He was prized as an excellent thief by Torkell, but not as much as Wallace. The tall figure stood beside Callie, staring at her as he always did.

She shifted away from him, trying to keep some distance between them. More than once, she had woken to find him pulling at her gown at night, begging for one night with her. She’d refused every time. When he would not listen, she’d threatened him with a dirk she kept in her belt. He hadn’t bothered her again but still looked and asked relentlessly.

“Tell her,” Torkell ordered.

“We have our next targets.” Wallace pressed down a dirk in the middle of the map stretched out on the boulder. “A passing English duke is tae travel through Kenmore tomorrow night with a few of his friends. They number five in total. That’s the target.”

“A duke?” Callie stammered out the words. “Ye are getting bolder, Torkell. I didnae ken ye had a death wish.”

“Ye of little faith,” Wallace whispered and moved toward her. She sidled away again. “Ye and Hettie are tae draw the men away from their path. Tease them, promise them something.” He winked at her, and she had to stop herself from gagging, crossing her arms over her torn dress. “We will then rob them.”

“Five is too many,” Callie snapped. “Turning one head, or maybe two between us, aye, it can be done.” Sadly, Callie had seen it work many times. “Yet five is too many, ye ask too much.” She turned her head back to Torkell. “Dinnae be a fool. Ye ken we cannae do it.”

“Ye can do it,” Torkell said confidently, looking at Hettie at his side. “We’ll make the preparations. Tomorrow morning, we’ll go into town.” He turned away, with the lass still holding his arm, and Blair followed behind them, yapping at Torkell’s heels like a dog wanting attention.

Callie stared down at the map, looking at the small town of Kenmore. The roads were narrow and there were few hiding places.

Five men . . . we’ll end up dead!

“Ye ken it will work, Callie,” Wallace whispered in her ear, and she leaped back, colliding with the boulder in an effort to put some distance between them. His fair hair around his ears twitched in the breeze as he smiled at her. He was ruggedly handsome, but Callie had never liked the idea of sharing a bed with someone as repulsive as Wallace. His leering and the hands that would grab at her in the middle of the night terrified her. “Ye want persuading it will work? I can show ye the power ye have over a man.” He moved toward her again, and she snatched her dirk from her belt, pushing it between them.

“Nay, Wallace. I have told ye, nay.” She held his gaze, never once blinking.

“One of these days, ye will forget where ye have put that thing.” His eyes narrowed and the threat was obvious.

He means tae force me one day.

“Nay.” She backed away from him, her dirk outstretched. She turned and ran, pelting back toward the camp when a strong thought took hold of her.
When they realized they were being robbed, five men meant certain arrest, if not certain death.

I have tae get out of here!

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