Prologue

MacNeil’s Castle, 1589

The crawlspace was damp, narrow, and clearly not made for human passage, as the roughness of the walls snagged her cloak and skirts. Yet, Ciara MacNeil wormed her way through, determined to see her journey to its end. It was one she had made several times before, often bearing bannock or water for the prisoner who lay at her destination.

But this time was different. She journeyed bearing no gifts, and a nervous sweat dotted her brow. Once again, she thanked the stars that she was not distressed by tight spaces, as she would probably have fainted given how hard her heart was pounding.

Ciara could still hear the commotion outside. Clan MacDonald had attacked just as she had retired for the night and there was shouting in the castle as her father’s soldiers rushed to stop them.

I have to hurry. I dinnae have much time left!

Ciara knew why they had come. The woman. The beautiful blonde woman with sad grey eyes that had been dragged in by her father two weeks ago, and locked in the dungeon where she did not belong. That woman was Lillie MacDonald. Ciara had watched from her window as they dragged her by her luscious tresses, unbothered that she had bloodied her feet as she dug them into the ground, defying them.

Ciara’s father, Keir MacNeil, was proud of his new acquisition. And before long, everyone knew that he had imprisoned the sister of Laird Aidan MacDonald.

To what end did he torture her? For unreasonable hatred, taking root in an old feud. Ciara growled low in her throat. As if killing the previous Laird MacDonald and his wife was not enough. Her father continued to torment their poor family.

Ciara hated his rule. He was a terrifyingly wicked man who knew no kindness or mercy for anyone, not even her, his own daughter. She always spoke against his heartless acts of war, and this time was no different. However, like always, her words fell on deaf ears, and she was forced to flee before one of the dishes he threw in her direction actually met its mark.

She took matters into her own hands and began to take food and warm clothes to the prisoner secretly. She was horrified at what Keir had done when she saw the woman. Lillie looked to be about her own age, but the hopeless and startling emptiness in her gaze made her seem like she was a hundred years older. Her hands and feet were bound in heavy ropes too tight to untie. The knots were so firm that the woman’s wrists and ankles were red and swollen. She looked like she had taken quite a beating too.

At first, Lillie MacDonald had been wary of her, eyes wide with distrust. Eventually, she allowed Ciara to massage her hands and legs, to ease what pain she could. If only she could cut the ropes. But she knew that if she did, her father would notice. Ciara had discovered that the soldiers had ceased beating Lillie, and were now trying to break her spirit by leaving her hungry instead. However, it had not been working since Ciara kept bringing her food without their knowledge, sneaking into the prisons at night whenever she could.

She was happy that Lillie’s people had come for her. Whatever her father had planned for the young woman was not going to be good, and she was determined to make sure that Lillie escaped safely.

Ciara finally reached the end of the secret passageway and wriggled into the dungeon. Like she always did, she checked the hood of her cloak, making sure it was firmly over her head, leaving her face in shadow. She tied it at the neck for added security.

She could not afford for the cloak to come off. Ciara’s vibrant red hair could not be mistaken for anyone else’s, under any lighting. There was only one other person who had hair like hers, and that was her father. If Lillie knew she was the daughter of the man who had captured her, she might not trust her anymore. Or even worse, she might let someone know she was helping her. So every time she visited Lillie, Ciara tied her hair in a ponytail so tight that she could feel it pulling at her scalp, and then she wore a cloak over it.

She grabbed the keys hanging on the wall and hurried to the cell, trying to be as quiet as possible—a problem most of the time as her clumsiness knew no bounds.

Ciara found Lillie on the ground, her hair covering her face. Her body was limp, and she looked dead. If she had not known better, she would have thought actually thought so. However, the girl was just sleeping, completely exhausted after having been abused and starved all day.

Usually, Ciara would have brought food, but today she had come with a knife instead. She hurried over to Lillie’s feet and sawed at the ropes until they came loose, revealing the raw skin beneath. She quickly did the same for her hands as well and tried to make Lillie sit up, waking her in the process.

There was a bruise on her face as though she had been slapped, yet this did not stop her from giving Ciara a weak smile when she touched her hand, recognizing her. Over the time she had spent in captivity, Lillie had grown to recognize her by simple touch. Her face twisted in confusion, as Ciara began trying to lift her up.

“Wait… what are ye…” Lillie struggled to speak.

“We have to go. Yer people are here to save ye. If ye dinnae get up now, ye may never be able to escape from here,” Ciara whispered fiercely, hoping to ignite the woman’s will to survive. She held out her hand for Lillie to take.

It worked. The other woman looked at her hand for a while, and then took it. Lillie leaned on Ciara, wincing because of her weak and sore ankles. They were slower than Ciara would have liked, but they finally made it to the end of the secret path leading out of the dungeon.

The passageway was like a mouth to hell. It was hard to traverse alone but almost impossible now they were two. Now dragging Lillie, whose determination was not enough to give her all the strength she needed, Ciara’s heart was beating twice as hard. Finally, the girls breached the doorway after what seemed like eternity. The cold night air hit their faces, and they collided with two huge men who had been running toward the doorway.

Ciara and Lillie toppled backward. Panic arced through Ciara, and she grabbed her cloak, keeping it over her head even as she fell, trying to hold Lillie as well.

“Lillie!” one of the men exclaimed. He scooped the weak girl in his strong arms, not looking at Ciara. She watched from her spot on the ground as the two men hugged the girl one by one. She sighed in relief as she realized that these were MacDonald clansmen.

The two men were tall, towering over her like trees. They were broad too, filling up their hooded armor in a way that she hadn’t realized was possible. For some reason, she found herself drawn to the bigger man. The air around him was tenser, and he seemed more dangerous. But somehow, this sparked something inside of her, something unfamiliar: a strange magnetic pull.

She shook her head to clear the strange thoughts away, for this was not the time to consider anything else but how to return unnoticed. Now that she had completed her mission, all she had to do was hurry back to her chambers before her father realized she was gone.

But just as she was about to slip away, someone grabbed her by the arm. Turning around, she saw the bigger man holding her. With a small yelp, Ciara made sure to hold onto her hood, keeping it over her face with her free hand.

“Who are ye?! Where were ye taking her?” he hissed, his grip on her arm so tight that she feared it might fall off. Blonde hair peeked out from beneath his hood, and his gray eyes felt like shivs piercing her skin as he glared at her. His rugged features were contorted in a mixture of rage and distrust, but Ciara was not sure that was the reason for the quick beating of her heart.

“Nay! Leave her be! She saved me!” Lillie yelled weakly. “I am only alive because she helped me.”

The grip on her arm loosened immediately. The man’s gaze softened, understanding the situation. Ciara saw him wonder what he should do and noticed how his expression was sincere as he bowed his head to her.

“Thank ye, then. Thank ye truly,” he said.

His eyes pierced hers, and she felt her whole body tremble. The enormous, handsome beast stroked her shoulder tenderly before releasing her from his grip.

Ciara was flustered. Receiving such sincere praise was unusual to her. She nodded stiffly and spun on her heel without looking back, running for the shadowed path that would take her back to the castle.

The man was nothing but danger, and she had had enough danger to last her a lifetime.

Ciara was sure that the MacDonald party would be able to escape on their own from that point, so all she had to worry about now was herself. She moved as quickly as she could. She just needed to get to her chambers.

If I can get there, nae one will know what I have done.

She slipped into the cellar. She was just about to turn the corner and see the heavy wooden door of her chamber when she bumped into someone again.

This time she did not bother holding onto her cloak when she fell backward, landing on the ground. Her heart skipped a beat, and her body went numb. The tall, domineering man she had stumbled into glared down at her with eyes that felt like bottomless pits of darkness. His red hair created a halo of fire around his head, making him resemble a divine being of judgment.

If looks could kill, she’d be dead and buried under his murderous gaze.

“Father! I-I…” Ciara stuttered as she got to her feet.

He knew. Oh, how well he knew what she had done. It was clear from the silent rage Keir MacNeil was exuding, just standing there.

As they stood there in pained silence, neither breaking eye contact, a soldier ran in. “The invaders have escaped, sire! They got away with the prisoner!”

Like kindling to a flame, the words of the soldier incited her father to move. Keir was so quick that Ciara could not react. The next moment, the back of his hand met her cheek so hard that blood filled her mouth, and she spun around before crashing to the ground again.

Chapter One

MacNeil Castle, Six Months Later

A resounding thwack! echoed in the mostly empty dining room, as once again Ciara’s face was met with the full force of her father’s blow. Her head fell to one side, her red hair obscuring most of her face, as a single line of blood trailed out of her mouth.

After her betrayal half a year ago, she had grown accustomed to this type of treatment. Her father had hit her for the first time that day, and he hadn’t let up since.

This time, Keir had lashed out at her at the dining table as they sat for their evening supper. The servants turned away, acting as though they could neither see nor hear the abuse. A bitter smile lifted the corners of Ciara’s mouth, and she turned her head to glare at him, meeting the simmering rage in his eyes with her own.

“Careful now, father. Ye might make the mistake of breaking the goods ye mean to sell,” she spat.

Keir MacNeil threw his head back and laughed sardonically. “As though ye are worth being considered ‘goods’. A problem! That is what ye are! One that I am more than glad to be rid of,” he said viciously.

“If ye wish to be rid of me so badly, then dae it another way! Throw me to the sea! Kill me yerself! Anything else would dae. But daenae sell me off to wed Laird Morrison!” Ciara shouted, pushing her chair back and getting to her feet, almost leaning over her father on the table.

He jumped to his feet immediately and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Ye willnae shout at me, lass!” He shook her violently before letting her go. “Into the sea? Ye dinnae deserve the peace of death after what ye did. If ye had nae freed that lass, she would have been the one going to Laird Morrison to line my pockets with gold. Since ye decided to free her, ye can take her place. Maybe ye will finally be useful to me for once!”

With her lower lip trembling, Ciara spun on her heel and fled the room, yearning for the solitude of her chambers.

She slammed her door and pressed her back against it, biting her lower lip so that she would not cry. It was her last night in the keep. Ciara was not sure why she had bothered starting this fight with her father. Perhaps it was hope—a small part of her wishing that her father would find love for her somewhere in his heart.

“A fool I was,” she muttered bitterly, running to her bed and pulling out the traveling bag she had prepared. Wiping the blood off her mouth, she quickly changed out of her heavy formal gown, choosing a simple tunic that she could move faster in. She tied her hair in its usual style and donned her cloak.

Ciara had made the decision to run away the moment her father had received the first payment from Laird Morrison, with which her father had paid off his debts. At first, she had thought her father was cruelly joking when he had announced that he was giving her away to be wed. She had told herself that he had been trying to scare her.

She had been wrong.

Laird Morrison was just as wicked as her father and looked like a beastly ogre. It was said that he was particularly evil to the women he shared his bed with because it angered him to know they would never lay with him willingly. His lovers were either disfigured by his hand or killed after a while. Her father knew this, yet he was sending her away, condemning her to a life that was not worth living.

Ciara did not regret helping Lillie MacDonald escape, especially now that she knew her father’s plans had been to break her into a plaything for Laird Morrison. She shivered at the thought. She would never have stood aside and watched such a terrible thing happen. She looked out the window as the night grew dark and cold, the moon coming out to drape her with light.

It was on a night like this that she had set Lillie MacDonald free. Would she have been better off running away with her then? She vividly remembered the face of the man who had grabbed her. Although he had been scary at first, he had apologized and seemed gentle with Lillie.

There was no way she could have known back then the extent of her father’s wickedness, how he held no pity, not even for his own daughter. Ciara knew her father did not like her much. It was one of the first things she had learned as a child. Her wet nurse, who had been retained to take care of Ciara into early childhood, told her that she was a cursed child, and that her father hated her because she killed her mother by being born.

It must have been true since Keir had the woman taken and cut off her tongue for daring to mention his late wife. Ciara believed that he had loved her mother and could not stand to be around her because she reminded him of what he had lost. Of course, he never told her all this. He could have just been a monster.

Ciara put one last gown in her travel bag before she sneaked out of the door, praying she did not make a sound. If her father heard her, she would meet her maker, she was sure.

She sighed. Once, she had tried her best to be a perfect daughter, but that had not lasted long. She was now unable to keep her mouth shut when she saw him do things she did not agree with.

Their relationship quickly soured, and they argued often. However, he’d never hit her until that fateful day, when he had decided she was a traitor. Now he struck her daily.

There was a small ship at the docks that would be leaving that night. Ciara had already secured herself passage. All she had to do was get there. She strapped her bag to herself. She had packed only a few things, as the old captain had suggested. It was not as though she could carry a lot while she escaped anyway.

The one thing that was good about her lonely childhood was that she had had the time to explore the castle. She knew it like the back of her hand. Slipping into another hidden passageway between the walls, Ciara moved quickly and quietly like a cat. She arrived at the stables and was somewhat tempted to take a horse.

It would certainly make her journey quicker. But there was no way she could escape with it unseen. The doors came into view when she saw Alfie, her father’s most trusted soldier, walking toward the stables, leading his horse.

Ciara froze, her heart leaping into her mouth. She was right out in the open, with nothing to hide her at all. She turned back immediately, rushing deeper into the stables and looking around in a panic for a place to hide. But where? Finding none, she jumped behind a stack of hay. Alfie was a fearsome warrior, and blindly loyal to her clan. But for all his muscles and height, he was hardly intelligent.

While he was not very smart, he was cocky, always seeming to think that he was cleverer than others. Above all, he was drunk on the power her father bestowed upon him. Alfie always made fun of Ciara, telling her that if she had been a man she would have been able to win her father’s favor the way that he did. He bothered her to no end.

The stable doors opened wider as he entered with his horse. “Ochhh, Lady Ciara?” he called tauntingly as he looked around.

Och, just my luck! Of course, he saw me!

Ciara sat up out of the hay, and Alfie’s eyes widened when he saw her. He had the same look in his eye as a dog when it found a toy it enjoyed playing with. “Miss Ciara! I ken I saw ye!” He bounded over and lifted her out of the hay like she weighed nothing.

“It is nice to see ye too, Alfie,” Ciara said, allowing herself to hang limply in his arms, resigned to her fate. There was no need to try and fight him now that she had been caught. Doing so would only make things more difficult for her. She just had to play along for a bit. She could not let this opportunity pass her by.

“What are ye doing in the stables?” He paused. “Did the laird finally decide to kick ye out of the castle? What better place for ye than the stables, aye!”

His eyes were shining with malice, and she almost shook her head. It was clear that he hated her because she had what he did not: the privilege of being her father’s only legitimate child. It was not her business how Alfie managed his jealousy. She just wished that he did not take his foolish insecurities out on her.

“Aye, ye are right. My father decided to toss me into the stables to work since I am so useless to him,” she said sarcastically.

Alfie could not read her tone. His eyes brightened with true joy and hope. “Really? Is that really true?” He was so excited that he shook her. She grabbed his forearms, trying to get him to stop before he gave her a headache.

This bampot! Does he really think Father would send me to the stables at this time of night?

Oh, but Alfie really did. It was clear from the excitement on his face. Ciara raised her eyebrows as an idea formed in her head. She could not believe this was going to work, but given Alfie’s stupidity… If she played her cards right…

She immediately feigned a forlorn expression, looking as pitiful as she could. “He kept praising ye,” she lied. “He said he wished that I had nae been born and that he had ye as a son instead.”

That was an absolute lie. Her father had always said how Alfie would be much more useful if he were brighter. Still, hearing this soothed Alfie’s pride, and soon he was grinning, putting her down.

“Can ye blame him? I already told ye that was how he felt!” He preened like a peacock showing off its feathers. “As expected, I didnae think he would throw ye out so quickly, but I suppose that is why the laird is so great. Alright, go on then. I will leave ye to yer work!”

Ha! I cannae believe that actually worked! I wonder… Can I push this further, or would that be testing my luck too much?

She made herself look even more pitiful. “My father also punished me with having to deliver the horse dung to the farmers before morning.” She pointed to the cart at the back of the stable, filled with horse manure. She faked a horrified look and covered her nose. “Can ye take it for me instead?” she asked.

Alfie laughed meanly. “Och, ye poor thing! Ye have been living a life ye didnae deserve, and now ye daenae ken how to dae the things that suit ye.” A sinister smile spread across his face. “Dinnae worry. I will help ye.”

Chapter Two

Aidan MacDonald woke up abruptly as pain exploded in his head—the pain of something smashing into his nose. He cursed as he darted back, grabbing his nose from where blood was just beginning to trickle. Holding his head up, he blinked at the ceiling.

“That’s the cursed fifth time this week,” he muttered groggily.

He glanced to the side. He was several feet away from his bed and had bumped into the wall beside his locked window. He sighed in exasperation and rolled his shoulders. Moving to his bedside, he found the bowl of water that waited for him when he awoke. He splashed his face, slicking back his hair when he was done. He hated that he had not grown out of it yet.

Aidan was a sleepwalker, something that pained him to admit. He had to sleep with his doors and windows locked ever since his brother had walked into the study one night a few years ago, just in time to stop him from falling out of the window. His study was at the top of the keep’s highest tower. It was then that he acknowledged the danger of his ailment.

There were times when his sleepwalking was better, when he only walked a few feet from his bed. It grew worse when his emotions were in disarray, like when his parents had died, or when his sister had been kidnapped. Things had gotten pretty bad then. He had tried to ignore it for too long, even when he woke up at the bottom of the stairs, wondering how he had survived such a fall, or awoken in the courtyard with no knowledge of how he had gotten there.

It was only after he quite literally nearly killed himself that Aidan finally began to take his condition seriously. He suggested tying himself to his bed but his brother, Darragh, had refused, claiming he would not let him chain himself like some prisoner, that it was enough simply to lock the windows and doors.

“Nae enough to keep me from nearly breaking my nose,” he said to himself. Aidan had thought that the sleepwalking would subside now that he had found Lillie. It had been half a year since they had found her bruised and dirtied, led to safety out of the MacNeil dungeons by a mysterious woman. If anything, his sleepwalking was even worse than before.

Aidan’s fingers balled into a fist at the thought of Keir MacNeil. He had too many reasons to hate the man. Not just for killing his parents, but for what he did to Lillie. When he and Darragh had first seen their sister again, they were just glad to have her back alive. They were relieved beyond words.

After the healer began treating her, however, that relief transformed into anger. Her body was evidently beaten, covered in all sorts of bruises. Lillie could not walk, nor hold anything properly for three months because of her injuries. Aidan had been focused on her throughout, trying to make sure she recovered completely.

Back then, he could understand why his sleep was so poor. He was worried about his sister’s health. But six months had passed since then, and although Lillie was still much more subdued than she had been before the kidnapping, she was physically healthy. Despite all that, Aidan’s rage was never quelled.

He couldn’t let Keir MacNeil get away with what he’d done. They had invaded his castle, but Keir was powerless to retaliate since Aidan had found his sister. The bastard would have most likely claimed they had started a war with him if they hadn’t found her.

Instead of plotting his revenge, Aidan had assigned his soldiers to guard their borders vigilantly, taking a defensive stance instead, guarding his sister and protecting his clan from any further attacks. Now he was done being defensive.

He pulled on a shirt after making sure that his nose wasn’t broken and that he was no longer bleeding. The sun was not up yet, but he wondered if Darragh was. He could not go back to sleep, so he figured that they might as well discuss their plan for avenging Lillie.

And abducting Ciara MacNeil.

Everything had been going well or so Ciara thought. She had successfully fooled Alfie into thinking her father had sent her to the farms. Vindictive as he was, he had taken one of the smaller horses and connected it to the manure cart, before pointing her in the direction of the farms, explaining how to get there as though she were a child. She had known that he was going to send her off gladly because he wanted to see her struggling.

She bid him goodnight at the gate. Once she got a safe distance away, she disconnected the manure cart and rode the horse to the docks where she got on the boat—a birlinn that had seen many travels. She was certain she would never see Alfie or her father again. God’s teeth, she had to make it so.

She was supposed to be running away to join Iona’s Nunnery. She had thought about it long and hard before she made her decision.

The truth was that Ciara had never envisioned herself as a nun. Her dreams involved finding love one day and maybe start a family of her own. She still wished to. Yet, for some reason, every time she thought of starting a family, the face of the man beside her belonged to that man the night she set Lillie MacDonald free.

Silly lass!

The nunnery was her only hope now. It was the only place that would take her without asking too many questions, and also the only place without men she needed to be wary of. It was a terrible reason to devote herself to God, she knew. But she had no choice. She began wondering whether it was God’s punishment for her selfishness.

The birlinn had gotten away from the docks. Instead of the sun rising as the hours passed, the sky appeared to darken as the moon vanished and thick black clouds rolled in. Ciara, like everyone else on the boat, was nervous. People who had been sitting alone were now clutching each other and looking around worriedly. The boatman made it all worse as he was looking at the skies with pure horror, muttering to himself about bad luck and how he had made a mistake by sailing out that day. She looked over the water, uneasy trembles shaking her body as the birlinn began to rock a lot more than it had before, the waters battling beneath it.

The sea was black like ink and seemed to stretch on forever. Thunder boomed overhead, and everyone jumped and screamed as it was immediately followed by a clacking flash of lightning. Ciara’s heart began to pound as she gripped the side of the birlinn and lowered herself, holding on for dear life.

A woman near her clasped her hands and began to pray, begging God not to let her die at sea. This did nothing to help her calm down, much like it did nothing to keep the rain from pouring. The rain fell upon them like judgment from the heavens, whipping their skin and making it hard to breathe. Even worse, the waves got higher and higher, splashing water into the birlinn, which was now filling slowly with rain.

The panicked people around her were screaming and scooping up water to toss back into the sea, which was futile because the sea simply spat more over them, drenching them.

“Och nay… This is bad! I ken I told Father to toss me into the sea instead of marrying me off, but I didnae mean it,” Ciara muttered. She could see dark waves in the distance, huge and terrifying as they danced up and down. Their little birlinn careened at the top of several waves, with only luck to determine whether or not it would tip.

Ciara’s knuckles were white on the side of the boat as she held on, shivering from the cold and the fear at the thought that she might be plunged into the unknown depths of the sea.

Without realizing it, she too began to pray. “Please! Please, God, if ye are there daenae let me die! I shouldnae have dared to say I would rather drown in the sea! I shouldnae have tried to give myself in service to ye for selfish reasons! Please, spare my life!”

The response to her prayer was delivered by the sound of another boom of thunder. Ciara shook in terror. Is that a ‘nay’? As though in answer to her question, a huge wave began to rise right by the side of their boat. Ciara followed it with her eyes, her mouth open in horror as her fellow passengers began to scream.

“Row out of the way!”

“How?! There is naewhere to row to!”

“The wave is too big, we cannae outrun it!”

“We are going to die!”

The wave rose so high that it seemed to touch the sky. And then, from the very top, it began to come down on them. Indeed, Ciara was sure this was what it felt like to see death. There was no way to brace for it, no way to prepare. She was too afraid to even draw breath, but that would have been useless anyway, as the water came crashing down on them. All the air in her lungs was knocked out of her.

She could see the bodies of the other people on the birlinn around her, as well as the boat which had, by some miracle, stayed intact. They all swam for it desperately. Ciara tried not to think about the empty darkness of the sea, and what might be lurking within it. She was already too afraid to breathe.

She managed to breach the surface again, gulping in air like she was starved and holding onto the side of the birlinn. She looked around. Only two others had made it, and just like her, they were spluttering for air.

“We should try to get back on the boat!” Ciara yelled through the crashing of the waves. She tried to near one of the men who was struggling to stay above the water. She had to help him, but she grew wearier with each second. As she swam toward him, she noticed the horror etched on the faces of the two men who had made it to safety with her. They were looking up at something.

Ciara had a bad feeling. She turned slowly, just in time to see an even taller wave coming down on them. There was no time to say any prayers. The next second, the water hit her, and her vision went black.

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Prologue

Orkney Islands, Scotland 1516

Dunn Leòideach sat straight up in bed, panting and covered in sweat. His hands gathered into fists around the bedcoverings as he attempted to get his emotions under control. He had dreamt about her again: his mother. It had been fifteen years but, in his dreams, it was as real and vivid as if he were witnessing it for the first time.

He had been sixteen summers when his younger brother Tor came to retrieve him from the University of Aberdeen and told him that their father had been killed. When they returned home, their mother had greeted Dunn with a kiss, told him the tale of his father’s death, and left the great hall to retire to her bedchamber; clear to all that she wished to be alone in her grief. Only a few moments later, a scream had transfixed the air in the courtyard beyond. Dunn and Tor dashed outside and discovered their mother dead on the stones. She had leapt from her bedchamber window. Her lifeless face had haunted his dreams since that day, tormenting his soul.

A hand reached out through the darkness, removing Dunn from his sorrow-filled thoughts. “Was it the same dream again?” Esmerelda’s voice offered consolation.

“Aye,” Dunn sighed, laying back down and drawing her into his arms.

“Do ye wish tae talk about it?”

Unsure of the answer, he said nothing. Esmerelda was getting too close again, and he did not like it. He felt unspeakable pain when he remembered his parents’ lives cut short. Deciding that he did not want to talk about it, he rolled over on top of her as a means of distraction.

“Enough,” he growled, kissing her with the passion of a possessed man. The fact they were both already naked allowed him to bury his shaft deep inside of her with one swift motion.

“My laird,” Esmerelda cried out in ecstasy as he drove into her over and over again until he was spent. He poured all of his rage and sorrow into her, attempting to leave it there. Yet, no matter the pleasure of the act, his heart remained drenched in torment.

When they both reached their climax, Dunn rolled off of her and stepped barefoot onto the cool stone floor. Naked, he walked over to the table and poured them both a dram of whisky. He extended hers, and she took it gratefully. Taking a long slow sip, Esmerelda looked at him with concerned eyes. He did not like it. She was his favorite in bed, dark and beautiful as she was, but that was as far as he was willing for the connection to go. Any time a woman got close to his heart, he would send them away. He could not bear the thought of letting someone in to the point that they could do him true emotional harm. And whenever he were to bed a woman, he made certain that they understood his intentions.

“Dinnae look at me like that,” he chastened, grabbing his shirt from the end of the bed.

“Will ye be returning upon the morrow?” Esmerelda asked, hope sparkling in her eyes.

Dunn studied her face, not liking the longing he saw there. She was forming feelings for him—strong feelings at that. He would have to put a stop to it before things got more complicated than they already were. “Aye, but I will be bringing two other women with me.”

Esmerelda’s eyes turned to flames. “Why would ye do such a thing? Am I nae enough for ye?”

“I am laird here. I can do as I please. It is nae yer place tae question my ways, Esmerelda. Have I ever said that I would be loyal tae ye?” Dunn asked, his eyes meeting her gaze as he put on his boots.

“Dinnae do this. Have I nae done everything that ye have asked o’ me in bed, every wicked and blasphemous thing? How am I nae enough for ye?” A thought seemed to cross her mind as her lip curled in jealousy. “Is this about yer coming wedding tae the Morgan lass?”

Dunn shook his head with one violent motion. “Nae, dinnae speak o’ it! I would rather die a thousand deaths than wed the daughter o’ the man who killed my faither!”

“The king has commanded it, Dunn. Ye have nae choice if ye wish tae hold on tae what lands ye have left.”

He growled in response, knowing she was right. His grandfather had sided with the Lord of the Isles against the Scottish crown. When the lordship of the Isles had been lost to the Clan MacDonald, those involved had been punished. Dunn’s grandfather was killed on the battlefield opposite the grandfather of the woman Dunn was to marry. In spite of this loss, the clan had still been punished, and the mere thought of it turned his stomach sour.

The nightmarish image of his mother’s lifeless eyes flashed through his mind once more. When Dunn’s father had been killed in a disagreement between himself and the current Morgan chief while attending the royal marriage of England’s Prince Henry and Catherine of Aragon, the king had sided with the Morgan laird in the argument. The laird was not punished for killing Dunn’s father, and Dunn’s family had been denied any form of retribution.

With the loss of both his grandfather and father, Dunn had been forced to take on the lairdship of his clan at the young age of sixteen. The tributes they had been forced to pay to the king for his grandfather and father’s actions had left the clan impoverished. But the one thing that they were rich in was men trained for battle which rendered them a strong ally and a formidable foe. Dunn had made certain that their reputation for ferocity in warfare was well known. If he could not avenge his father, then he would inspire fear of him, and his men would keep any further threat from their doors. This had worked well until the regent for King James V had decided that in order to tame the Viking beast of the Orkneys, as Dunn was known, he would be forced to wed the daughter of Alistair Morgan, his mortal enemy.

“Our people cannae suffer by my hand,” Dunn acknowledged her words. “But whether I wed the lass or I dinnae, it has nothing tae do with ye. Ye kenned from the beginning what this betwixt us was, Esmerelda. It is nothing more than pleasure. It will never be more.”

The flames returned to Esmerelda’s eyes, and she lashed out at him, slapping him across the face. Dunn pulled her into his arms and attempted to placate her with kisses. He was well aware of the effect his masculine beauty had on women. With his tall form, broad shoulders, blond hair, and blue eyes, he struck quite a figure. In all of his years bedding women, not one had ever said no. To his surprise, she shoved him away and spat at his feet. “I curse ye for a whoremonger!”

Dunn released her and moved toward the door. “I would nae be throwing stones when ye yerself enjoy my brother’s bed as well as mine.”

Esmerelda’s cheeks flushed red. “Harken me well, Dunn Leòideach! I curse ye tae love one o’ my kind. She will break yer heart, as ye have done mine, and when she has, ye will return tae me. Ye will beg for my mercy tae release ye.”

Dunn snorted in indignation. “I could never love ye or any other woman. Ye ken well enough that I cannae wed a witch o’ the luchd siubhail. The clan elders would nae allow it. If I am tae wed, it must be tae a virgin o’ good family.”

“Mark me, laird! Ye will love a Romani woman, and she will be yer end.”

Chapter One

Strathnaver, Scotland, Six Months Later

Katarina Buckland smiled as she watched her two younger sisters, Idalia and Leonor, dance around the fire in the center of the encampment. Their eyes gleamed in the fire’s light as their hair whipped around in glorious cascades of ebony. Her father was playing his favorite instrument, a stringed piece with a bow called the Lira da Braccio. It had been given to him by Sixtus IV when he had performed for the Pope in Rome. Her mother’s beautiful voice filled the night air with the sweetest melancholy.

Katarina’s eyes lingered on Idalia, and her heart lightened in relief at her sister’s joy. They had just barely escaped with their lives. Idalia had been promised to the son of another Romani family, August Raymond, but their father had learned the truth about August’s violent nature and had refused to honor the engagement. The Raymond family had attempted to exact retribution, but the senior Buckland had known what was to come and had escaped with his family into the night. They had left England and traveled the length of Scotland to find a place of refuge. On this night, they had stopped to camp beside Loch Naver.

“Come join us,” Leonor urged Katarina, eyes dancing with delight.

Smiling, Katarina stood and joined them. Throwing herself into the music felt liberating. She twirled and whirled in abandon, letting the world and its cares fall away. We are safe. No one will find us here.

A cry broke through the night, silencing the music. Katarina stopped twirling to find a line of soldiers, twenty-four in number as far as she could see, encircling them. They were all wearing blue tartan trews and deadly expressions. Katarina met her father’s eyes across the fire. “Run,” he roared as he dropped his instrument to take up his sword.

Katarina immediately obeyed, grabbing her sisters by the hand, and raced into the darkness. Finding a hollowed-out tree trunk, she shoved her sisters inside. “Stay here and do not utter a sound,” she commanded as she turned back in the hopes of helping her parents.

What she saw upon arriving back was unlike anything that she had ever witnessed before. Blood seemed to rain from the sky as the soldiers slashed their way through the camp. Katarina saw her father and mother fighting back-to-back in the center of the encampment—her grandfather was sitting on the ground, sobbing and holding her dead grandmother in his arms. Before Katarina could utter a warning, a soldier’s blade pierced her grandfather’s back, and he slumped over in death, still cradling his beloved.

In outrage, Katarina stooped to pick up the sword of a fallen soldier and waded into the fray. She had been trained to fight from a young age for her own protection, but she had never fought an enemy like this before. The men fought with a well-trained ferocity that was brutally efficient. They were well beyond her skill level, but she did not let that stop her. This was life or death, and she would die to protect her family if that was what God demanded of her.

Engaging with the closest soldier, she got a good slice into his neck before he even registered her presence. Katarina felt the sword make contact, and her stomach rolled as blood came spurting out to soak her face and hands. The soldier fell to the ground, dead upon impact. His cold empty eyes stared up at her in accusation. Bending over, she vomited into the grass, unable to stop herself. Swiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she stood just in time to see a soldier charging toward her.

God in heaven, save us!

This time, she did not have the element of surprise and was quickly overpowered. In three blows, the soldier had disarmed her. With a punch to the face, he brought her to her knees. Another blow to the head made her vision blur and her body sway. She could feel herself falling between the lines of consciousness and the realm of the dead. As she lay bleeding in the grass, she saw her father turn to help her, but he was cut down mid-stride. Her mother screamed in agony at the sight and fell to her knees beside him. One of the soldiers grabbed her mother up by the hair and dragged her to the tree line. The woman fought with all of her strength, but it was to no avail.

Katarina lay frozen in horror upon the ground as her mother was brutally raped by one soldier after another. She attempted to rise, to fight, to somehow save her life, but she could not. Her body had sustained too much damage, and she was too weak to move. She could not even move her head to look away.

When her mother’s screams stopped, Katarina knew that she was gone.

The soldiers continued to rape her until the last one cut her throat for good measure, then moved on to another woman. When they came for Katarina, she braced herself for the end, praying that they would kill her first before defiling her body. To her surprise, the soldier who lifted her skirts was stopped by what appeared to be the group leader. “Stay yerself, Hamish. Virgins are worth more intact.”

Growling, the one referred to as Hamish dropped her skirts and hauled her up off of the ground. As Katarina could not walk of her own accord, the soldier was forced to carry her. She attempted to grab for the man’s knife, but her coordination was altered by the head wound. She could not manage it. The soldier tossed her into the back of a wagon, and her head hit the hard wooden floor.

“Katarina!” Her sisters’ voices crying out her name was the last thing she heard before the world went black, and she slipped into blessed oblivion.

***

Alistair Morgan stared down at the women in his prison cell and snorted in disgust. “How are any o’ these pitiful creatures supposed tae pass for my bonnie daughter?”

“My laird.” His master of arms bowed in respect. “Bathed and mended, they will make for an acceptable alternative. Nae one outside o’ our own people and the nuns o’ the nunnery where she was hidden away has ever laid eyes upon Lady Katherine. She is known for her beautiful eyes, but that is all that is kenned o’ her.”

Alistair stood, considering the words. He nodded, then motioned to one of the girls lying on the floor unconscious. “Pry open her eyes.”

One of his soldiers, Hamish, moved to obey. “They are green, my laird.”

“Out o’ all the lassies, she looks the most like my Katherine.”

“Aye, my laird.”

Alistair made a sound of self-satisfaction. “Have her bathed and dressed in Katherine’s clothes. I wish tae see for myself that she is a presentable decoy.”

“Aye, my laird.” Hamish let the young woman’s head fall back to the stone as two of the other girls cried out in protest at the rough treatment. “What should we do with the rest o’ them?”

Alistair waved a hand as if they did not matter. “After I am satisfied that I have found a replacement for Katherine, they can be sold, distributed among the men, or killed. I care not. The young boys can be trained to join our fighting men. In time, they will forget their life as luchd siubhail.”

Alistair left the cell and climbed the steps to the great hall. He found his daughter sitting beside the fire, working on her latest tapestry—her needlework was exquisite, just as her mother’s had been. She looked up and smiled at his approach. “Faither, have ye enjoyed a productive day?”

Alistair bent to kiss her forehead and nodded. “Aye, I do believe that I have. I have found a way for ye nae tae have tae marry that brute o’ a man from the north.”

She smiled in gratitude. “How?”

“I have found a lass who will take yer place in the marriage bed. She is nae as bonnie as ye are, but she will suffice. She is one o’ the luchd siubhail.”

Katherine frowned. “I ken that they are luchd siubhail and that ye believe them tae be o’ nae real consequence, but I must admit to feeling pity for the woman ye have chosen. If she is tae wed the Viking beast o’ Orkney, should she nae be given a choice? I have never laid eyes upon him myself, but his reputation is fierce. I will nae have another woman suffer for me. If the king wishes this torment on me, then I will do as the king wishes.”

“Ye need nae worry, Katherine. Ye will never have tae face any man ye dinnae wish tae. I will protect ye. The king asked too much when he pledged yer hand tae that brute. I will nae have my daughter sullied in such a manner. Ye are meant for a better man than he. The lass is willing tae take yer place,” he told the lie with ease, with her being none the wiser. If he was to get her to agree, he would have to make the deception true.

“Ye are certain she is willing?”

“Aye, I am,” he lied again, nodding.

“And I will be allowed tae wed whomever I choose?”

“Aye, ye will wed a man o’ noble birth and bearing, perhaps even o’ royal blood. I will arrange it myself.”

“A prince perhaps?” Katherine asked hopefully, the fear she had of having to wed the king’s choice finally leaving her eyes.

“Mayhap even a king.” He smiled down at her dotingly.

Alistair Morgan was a cruel man. He knew it and felt no shame for it. However, when it came to his daughter, he oozed sweetness. She was his one true love in life, and he doted on her every whim. When the king’s missive had arrived demanding that she be united in marriage to the Viking beast of Orkney, he had immediately put into action a plan to trick both the brute and the king. It had taken him six months to find a woman who looked enough like his daughter, but at long last, he was close to achieving his goal.

“What if the king discovers yer ploy?” Katherine fretted her lip between her teeth.

“By then, it will be tae late. The decoy and the Viking will have been wed before God and the law.”

“The king would be displeased.”

“Aye. He could punish us for the deception, but I have a plan in place tae ensure that he will never ken the truth o’ the matter.”

“How is that, Faither?”

He smiled ominously at the thought of his plan. “Ye leave that tae me.” He knew if he told her, she would never agree. For the Viking and the decoy would not live long enough for the truth to be told.

***

Katarina awoke to a splitting headache. Her head was pounding with pain to the point where she could feel her heartbeat pulsate in her eyeballs. Suddenly, she felt hands upon her person, grabbing and pulling at her. She could hear women crying all around her, and for a moment, she was confused. The memory of what had happened before she lost consciousness came flooding back all at once with such fierce vividness that she retched onto the stones beneath her cheek. A hard slap to the face jolted her fully awake.

“This is the one the laird wants?” a man’s voice questioned from above. She opened her eyes to find three men standing over her. “She is nae much tae look at in her present state.”

Katarina looked down at herself. She was covered in blood, her dress was rucked up around her hips, causing her to fear the worst. Did they… She could not bring herself to put the action into words, even in her mind. Hesitantly, she glanced under her skirt but did not see blood coming from between her legs. She had bruises on her limbs, but that seemed to be the extent of the damage there. Her head hurt worse than any other part of her body.

“Aye, she is the one. It is the eyes, ye ken.” The one called Hamish gestured toward her face. “They’re green like Lady Katherine’s.”

“Och, aye. I see it now.” The questioning soldier nodded in agreement. “Who is tae bathe her?”

“The laird is tae send one o’ the maids down. She will stay in the captain’s quarters.”

Nodding in agreement, the soldiers each grabbed one of Katarina’s arms and hoisted her up onto her feet. She was too stunned to speak, but she could hear her sisters crying out in protest behind her. She was dragged down a long stone corridor until they reached a solid wooden door at the end. One of the soldiers pounded on it with his fist, and it gave way to reveal a sturdy woman of middle age.

“Och, what have ye done tae the poor lass?” the woman asked, bustling forward to take Katarina into her ample arms.

“Calm down, Agnes,” Hamish ordered, his tone brusque but not without warmth for the older woman. “It is the laird’s wishes that we be carryin’ out.”

The older woman looked Katarina up and down in sympathy. Sighing, she shook her head in disapproval. “Help me get her in the bath. I cannae say I approve o’ his lairdship’s choice, but it is nae my place tae say.”

“It is nae,” Hamish agreed. “Send for me when she is done.” He and the other soldier hauled Katarina over to a chair near the tub that had been placed by the hearth, and then they left the room.

The woman named Agnes clucked her tongue in disapproval as she removed Katarina’s clothing. Her skin was covered in bruises and abrasions but nothing fatal. She would live if the head wound did not kill her first. Once Katarina was naked, Agnes inspected the wound on her head. “There was nae cause for such violence tae a young lass such as yerself.”

Katarina silently agreed with the woman but said nothing. She had yet to find her voice in the haze of fear, panic, pain, and what appeared to be a severe concussion, if the world spinning around her was any indication. Agnes, having finished her examination, lifted her into the tub. Unexpectedly, the woman was as strong as an ox. Drawing a pitcher of warm water from the tub, she poured it over Katarina’s head. The water stung the wounds on her scalp but felt good otherwise. After everything that she had endured, the warm water offered some solace to her aching body.

“Now that’s better, is it nae?” Agnes asked as she took a handful of soap and began to gently wash Katarina’s hair. “We will have ye looking bonnie in nae time at all.”

An image from her childhood flashed through Katarina’s mind, nearly choking her from the pain of her recent loss. Her mother had washed her hair just so. But with that memory came the horrific images of her mother’s demise. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run or fight. But being too weak and stunned to do any of those things, she sat in the tub and wept instead. She wept for everything that had been, that which had been lost, and for fear of what was to come.

If Agnes had noticed her crying, she said nothing. She went about her business, scrubbing her clean and making tsking sounds as she went. When Katarina was finally clean enough to suit the older woman, Agnes helped her stand up. As she stood there, the woman poured another pitcher over her body from her head to her toes to rinse away the remaining soap.

“That is better. The laird will be pleased. Ye are ready.”

“Ready for what?” Katarina feared to even ask.

“Ready for the wedding, o’ course.”

“What wedding? Who is getting married?”

“Ye are, lass. The wedding is yers.”

Chapter Two

Katarina stood in stunned silence. Mine?

Without warning, the door to the room swung open, exposing the menacing countenance of a man old enough to be her father. His eyes raked over her naked form as he circled her in examination but she was powerless to stop him or cover herself. She was barely able to remain standing of her own accord. “What is yer name?” he asked, his voice demanding.

Katarina struggled to find her voice, but when she at long last spoke, it came out more as a hoarse squeak than actual words. Agnes took pity on her and wrapped her in a warm blanket, assisting her out of the tub and onto the chair.

“Speak up,” the man ordered impatiently. “Ye are nae a mouse.”

Katarina’s anger flared, giving her strength. “Katarina Buckland,” she managed to answer hoarsely. “Who are you?”

“I am Laird Alistair Morgan.” He shook his head in disapproval of her. “Och, ye dinnae speak properly. The Viking will ken that ye are nae my daughter.”

Katarina frowned in confusion.

“Ye are nae Scottish?”

Katarina shook her head and immediately regretted it. She looked to Agnes for help, but the woman remained silent. She must be afraid of him too.

“Repeat after me, exactly as I say it. Do ye understand?” He glared down at her as if she were an imbecile.

Katarina was furious and mimicked him harshly. “Do ye understand?”

His brows arched in surprise. “That is nae bad. Try again.”

“That is nae bad,” she repeated mockingly.

The man, clearly not realizing he was being mocked, nodded his approval. “That’ll do. From this day forward ye will speak as a true Scotswoman. If I hear ye speak in any other way, I will have ye beaten. Ye will undergo lessons on how tae be a Scottish noblewoman o’ good breeding. Ye will learn quickly, or ye will be punished. Ye are tae take my daughter’s place and wed the Viking beast o’ Orkney. Ye will pretend tae be her until a time o’ my choosing. Do ye understand?”

“And if I refuse?” Katarina knew that she was playing with fire, but she no longer cared what happened to her—she only cared about her sisters.

“I will kill the rest o’ yer family.”

Katarina attempted to lie. “I have no family. Your men killed them all.”

The man stepped forward and slapped her across the face. “Speak correctly even when ye lie, or ye will be disciplined. We both ken that yer sisters are rotting away in the bowels o’ my home even as we speak. I can either let my men have their way with them and then kill them, or I can keep them safe and alive. The choice is yers.”

Katarina swallowed the bile that threatened to choke her. “When am I tae be wed?” she asked, gritting her teeth in determination. She would not let this man win. He would not touch a hair on her sisters’ heads, not if she had any say in the matter.

“Ye have a fortnight tae learn all ye need tae. Should ye fail, ye will wish that I had killed ye.” With that, he turned and left the room.

***

Orkney Islands, Scotland

Dunn and his brother Tor had just finished butchering a stag for the kitchens. Covered in blood, they headed down to the beach to bathe. “Have ye decided what ye plan tae do about the king’s order?” Tor asked as he removed his shirt and shoes.

Dunn shook his head as he did the same. “I dinnae ken that I have a choice. It has been six months, and the lass has nae died, nor has Morgan refused. Our clan is in nae position tae be denying the king anything. We dinnae have much left for him tae take.”

“Ye plan tae wed her then?”

“I dinnae see that I have a choice. The king commanded me tae. But he did nae say that I had tae bed her. Nae bairn o’ mine will bear Morgan blood.” Dunn dove into the water and resurfaced a short distance away.

Tor snorted. “When have ye ever turned down a lass that wished tae lay with ye?”

“There is a first time for everything.”

“It is said that Lady Katherine has eyes as green as emeralds. It is said that just one look o’ those emerald eyes and a man’s soul is lost.”

It was Dunn’s turn to snort in disbelief. “Ye cannae believe anything a Morgan says. Nae man in Scotland has laid eyes on Lady Katherine unless he was o’ her own clan. She is probably ugly as a pig’s snout. The tales o’ her beauty are only spoken o’ as a farce.”

Tor dove into the water and came up beside Dunn. “Beauty or nae, it is a dangerous match.”

“Aye, it is at that. Nae doubt she will serve as a spy tae her own faither against us. A Morgan cannae be trusted.”

“Ye will be in danger long ‘afore ye wed her. Simply traveling to retrieve her puts ye in danger. Where would our people be if ye were lost?”

“Under yer trustworthy care,” Dunn answered with a reassuring smile. “If aught were to befall me, ye would do what is needed.”

“I was nae trained tae be laird,” Tor reminded him. “Trained to be a warrior at yer side, aye, but nae laird.”

“Ye have been by my side for five and ten years. Ye have seen what my eyes have seen, heard what my ears have heard. Ye will do well.”

Tor shook his head. “I dinnae want it.”

“Nor did I,” Dunn reminded him.

“It is yer birthright.”

“Aye,” Dunn nodded in acknowledgment, “but nae one I asked for.”

Tor’s eyes filled with understanding. Dunn had been thrust into the role too young before he was ready, and despite the pain and uncertainty, he had performed admirably. “Let me go in yer stead. Let me retrieve yer bride. I will learn all I can o’ her along the journey and report tae ye what I find.”

“The king was clear that I must retrieve her myself.”

“After our faither died, the king forced ye tae swear an oath that ye would nae step forth onto Morgan lands. Now, he asks ye tae do the very thing that ye swore ye would nae. If ye dae retrieve her, ye will be breaking that oath. It feels like a trap tae me. Let me go. I will return tae ye unharmed, I swear it.”

Dunn gave this some thought. Tor was right. He had sworn a vow, an unbreakable vow upon pain of death. He studied his brother’s face. They were near identical, save for some minor differences. They both had long blond hair and blue eyes, but Tor wore his with a single small braid near his face, whereas Dunn wore his back in a long braid with the sides shaved, granting him a more menacing look in battle. A scar ran down the side of Dunn’s face from forehead to jawline, but instead of detracting from his beauty, it simply added a more dangerous air. Tor had a small scar on his chin and another at the nape of his neck. If only Laird Morgan had never seen either of them before or had only seen them as children, they might have been able to fool him by trading places. However, Dunn knew they couldn’t pull off such a trick.

He shook his head. “I cannae let ye do this. If there is any danger tae be had, then it is mine. Ye will remain here and look after our people. If this is a trick o’ Morgan’s, they will need ye tae lead them. Can I trust ye tae do this for me? Give me yer word ye will nae follow after me.”

“Aye,” Tor nodded solemnly. “Ye have my word. I will protect our people, but ye have tae promise me that ye will look after yerself. Dinnae fall prey tae Morgan’s wiles.”

“Aye, ye have my word as well.” Dunn made the promise even though he knew there was no certain way to keep it. Exiting the water, he donned his clothing once more, waving to his brother to carry on swimming. “I must prepare. I will come and find ye before I depart.”

“How does one prepare for what ye are about tae do?” Tor wondered, his voice tinged with sympathy.

“I dinnae ken.” Dunn shook his head. “But I dinnae have a choice.”

***

Strathnaver, Scotland

Katarina stood in front of the fireplace as Agnes dressed her in Lady Katherine’s clothing. The gown was beautiful, red with golden thread that accented her dark hair and sensuous curves. She looked at her image in the polished metal of the shield hanging on the wall. Her emerald-green eyes shone in the firelight as if something from one of her father’s dragon stories. They burned with a fury that threatened to melt anyone who dare cross her path, yet beneath that fury lay a deep abiding sorrow. A single tear slid down her cheek, disappearing in the raven curls of her hair.

The door opened, and a guard stepped inside. “His Lairdship has instructed me tae take ye tae see yer sisters.”

Katarina’s head snapped around to stare in surprise at the guard’s face. The quick motion made her head feel like it would explode, and she teetered precariously for a moment. “Sit ye down here, lass,” Agnes instructed, taking her by the arm.

“The laird instructed this?” Katarina asked, confused as she allowed Agnes to guide her to the nearest chair. She had assumed from the way Laird Morgan had spoken to her before that he would keep her sisters from her to make her pliant.

“Aye, he did.” The guard’s eyes traveled over her in the dress. A spark of lust flared within their depths, but he said nothing about his thoughts. “If ye are able tae walk, I will take ye tae them.”

Katarina leveraged herself up out of the chair and stood uncertainly, clinging to the wooden frame. She took a tentative step forward, then another. “I can walk,” she confirmed, more to convince herself than the guard.

Agnes stepped forward and offered Katarina her arm. “I will help ye, lass.”

“The laird said that she is tae come alone,” the guard interrupted, raising his hand to stop Agnes.

The woman frowned but obeyed, releasing her hold on Katarina’s arm.

Katarina moved toward the door—unsteady but mobile enough to do it herself. She followed the guard down the corridor to the cell he had first taken her from. When he opened the door, she noticed all of the other women had been moved to places unknown. She did not want to know where for the mere thought of it made her sick to her stomach. All that remained were her sisters. “Katarina!” they cried as one, clambering up from the stone floor to throw their arms around her.

“Where did they take you?” Idalia demanded to know, her eyes filled with tears.

“What are you wearing?” Leonor asked, her eyes traveling down the length of the red dress.

“I have come to an agreement with the laird. He will allow ye both to live if I marry his daughter’s betrothed in her place.”

“This cannot be true,” Idalia wept, shaking her head in denial.

“Do not do this,” Leonor demanded, grasping Katarina’s hand firmly.

“She does nae have a choice,” the laird’s voice commanded from the cell doorway. “If she does nae do as I have instructed, she and ye will die brutally at my hand, yer maidenhead having been soiled by my men.”

“Ye cannot do this,” Idalia sobbed, placing herself between Katarina and the laird.

The laird stepped forward and slapped Idalia’s face. “I can and I will. I am the laird, lass. Learn yer place.”

Katarina took Idalia by the shoulders and moved her back a safe distance. “Do not touch her.”

Laird Morgan stepped forward and grabbed Katarina by the jaw. “Ye will speak as a Scotswoman, or ye will nae speak at all.” He shoved her back, making her crash against her sisters.

Katarina righted herself and squared her shoulders, her blood boiling. She would strangle the man with her bare hands if she could. “If I do this, ye are nae tae lay a hand on either o’ my sisters, nae ye or yer men,” she spoke as instructed, praying that she did so correctly. “Nae a finger or a boot.”

The laird chuckled at the specific nature of her request. “Ye are learning,” he noted with approval. “I will nae lay a hand, finger, or boot on yer sisters. Nor I or my men will ever touch them, provided ye do exactly as I say.”

“How will I ken that ye have kept yer word?”

He studied her face for a moment in thought, then nodded. “In a month’s time, ye may return tae ascertain their well-being. Yer husband will expect such a visit tae be made on yer behalf as my beloved daughter. Nothing will appear amiss about it. Until that time, dinnae seek them out, or I will follow through with my threat.”

“How can I trust ye?” Katarina asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Ye have nae choice.”

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Prologue

Fresh blood dripped from the silver dagger hanging limply by her side—the scarlet drops creating a dark stain in the thick mud at Ava’s feet. The sections of the blade that weren’t bloodstained glinted in the sunlight peeking through the throng of grey clouds overhead, mirroring the somber atmosphere.

The pungent smell of iron burnt her nostrils with a sickly-sweet sting. It wasn’t the first time that Ava Rose had smelled blood—no, she was more than familiar with the crimson fluid and its scent. The nausea twisting her stomach and making her sick had far more to do with the person to whom the blood belonged.

Boyd Cameron stared up at her from the ground, curled up in the fetal position just a few steps away, his hands bound together in front of him, and too weak to get up. But the way he looked at her revealed that he was well aware of what was going on around him. His beautiful green eyes were filled with pain and confusion—his normally neat blond hair had spilled from his ponytail and was caked with mud and fresh blood.

Even while lying on his side curled into a ball, Boyd was noticeably taller than any man she’d known. His height had always made him a formidable highlander. Her highlander.

Ava stared down at him, contemplating her next move. He didn’t deserve this… nae like this… A laird laying in the mud, wounded by me own hand. Wounded by someone he had come tae trust… Thoughts of who he really was nagged at her conscience.

This wasn’t a murderer who lay in front of her. This was Boyd Cameron. Laird to the villagers who surrounded them now. And the man she loved.

Me heart is breaking, I cannae dae this…

“Finish the job,” Tavish snarled from beside Boyd when Ava lingered for too long, towering over the wounded man in triumph. Tavish’s light green eyes were dark with murderous intent. Ava looked at the nasty grin across his face, letting her gaze fall to the sharp-edged dagger against her brother’s frail neck.

The agony of the situation had turned his skin even paler and ashier than usual. Dark circles under his eyes alerted Ava to the fact that his body had already taken as much as it could. How long had it been since he had his last dose of medication?

Focusing on her brother and drowning out the screams of excitement and confusion emanating from the unruly crowd, Ava shut her eyes. A single hot tear ran down her cheek. There was no other choice… She would have to do it. She opened her light blue eyes that shone with tears. Crossing the small divide between her and the man she loved with small, hesitant strides, she dreaded what had to be done with every fiber of her being.

Kneeling down before Boyd, she cupped his rough cheek and brought her face closer to his. “I am so sorry Boyd, I didnnae mean for things tae end like this…” she whispered with tears flowing over her pale cheeks. “I have tae dae this…” She leaned in closer and pressed a final kiss against his quivering lips.

The blood he’d lost, in addition to the dizziness from the potion, was beginning to have an effect. His skin paled noticeably. Boyd returned her kiss with a small grunt of pain as he strained to lift himself up, making her heart break with regret and sorrow for the man she loved and had betrayed.

“Dae it already!” Tavish screeched at her in his grating voice.

“Think about what ye are about tae dae, Ava!” Rory’s voice called to her from the side. The crowd parted slightly, revealing Boyd’s best friend being held back by a group of Tavish’s men dressed in kilts and traditional battle garb.

Grunting from the pain in his hand where the blood still flowed from his wound, Boyd looked up at Ava with a tumultuous, cross expression written on his ruggedly handsome face. His slurred words and slow movements were an indication that the potion was still having an effect on his body. “Ava… are ye really going tae dae this? After everything we’ve been through?”

She stood frozen as he spoke.

“I thought ye loved me as much as I love ye, Ava…” Boyd’s words trailed off as he saw her head turn toward her brother before he could even finish his sentence. “I thought we felt the same…” he whispered.

“Enough sentiment!” Tavish growled. His arms tightened around Neil as his anger and impatience grew.

Neil’s eyes pleaded with her again, tugging at her heart as his chest rose and fell with increasing effort. A coughing fit was not far off when he breathed like that. Time was running out.

Ava shut her eyes and gritted her teeth as thoughts of the past few weeks raced through her mind. They were interrupted by her brother’s pleas for help and Rory begging her to see reason. The moment had come to make her final decision. Turning slightly to the left, Ava raised her dagger high into the air. She knew what had to be done.

“Ava, nae! Dinnae dae it!” Rory’s voice was frantic with panic as he yelled over the onlookers’ heads. The crowd gasped in shock.

Tears flowed freely down her porcelain cheeks as Ava spun around and plunged the dagger’s blade into his hot flesh, all the way down to the hilt. Bone cracked, and blood spurted down her hands and onto her dark cloak. The sickening smell of fresh blood was nearly as unbearable as the number of hot tears spilling over her cheeks. The gurgling sounds of a man dying at her hand pierced her thoughts like the dagger that had penetrated the man’s flesh.

“I never wanted to dae this…” she whispered through her tears, her voice thick with emotion.

The crowd grew silent as Ava twisted the dagger one last time to ensure that the job had been executed correctly. Taking a step back, she could no longer control herself and sank to her knees, sobbing at what she had just done.

The clouds erupted with fine rain, which fell over the lifeless body lying in the street as she cried aloud and hugged her middle. Villagers were shocked. Some people covered their mouths, while others stood motionless, unable to believe or accept what they had just witnessed.

There was no going back now. The deed was done. Ava Rose had made her choice, and no number of potions nor pleading could take it back…

He was dead.

Chapter One

“One Month Earlier…”

Ava tossed her long black hair over her shoulder and straightened the dark traveling cloak she always wore on her missions. It was yet another dreary moor afternoon in the Scottish Highlands, and the wind rustled through the trees and underbrush.

“That one was rather quick. Ye was in and out in the shake o’ a lamb’s tail,” Skye said, her hazel eyes scanning the bushes of heather in case they were being followed.

“Aye. He thought luck was on his side when a young lass wondered so readily intae his house. I didnnae even have tae convince him tae let me in. He even readily accepted the tea mixture.” Ava’s stomach clenched with disgust at the way the man had licked his lips and scanned her from head to toe when he opened the door.

“The bastard had it coming. He was a bad man,” Skye added and balled her delicate fists at her sides as they walked. Her already pale skin whitened at the knuckles.

Ava clenched her jaw at the thought of what she’d just done. Skye was right about one thing: the man she had just poisoned was indeed a bad man. There was no denying that he shouldn’t be left in the world to ruin people’s lives.

Yet, she felt terrible. But she needed the money to help pay off the debts left behind after her parents’ deaths, as well as the care her brother required. When no other option presented itself, Ava had taken to hiring herself out as a paid assassin. Poison was her weapon of choice. Years of experience had taught her well.

Just by glancing at a pinch of powdered nightshade, she could determine whether it’d induce sleep or death. The purple plant that grew only in the dampest and darkest sections of Scotland’s moors was always present in her arsenal of potions, whether to kill or knock somebody out. She couldn’t afford even the slightest miscalculation.

She was as good as any healer in the village, even better, some would say. There was one thing that bothered her, however. Ava always struggled to come to terms with her own conscience after she’d successfully executed a mission.

“I ken what yer thinking Ava, I’ve known ye long enough. What ye did was right; he ruined that young lass’ life. Naething ye did can be worse than what he did tae her. Remember that,” her friend said.

Walking on without saying another word, Ava listened to her best friend prattle on about how bad the man was and how the world was better off without him in it. Years spent helping the village healer who looked after her brother once their parents had died, had equipped Ava Rose with a helpful, and sometimes deadly, knowledge of herbs and plants that she used to her advantage whenever the occasion arose. She wasn’t proud of the fact that she killed men for a living. But these men had brought nothing but misery and sorrow into the world, they deserved it.

“If ye hadn’t poisoned him, he would be free tae hurt another wee lass. Ye did the world a favor, Ava. Yer a hero in my eyes,” she smiled reassuringly at her friend with her thin lips. Everything about Skye was fine and delicate, from her height, slender body, and fairy-like features to her voice and the pretty floral dresses she wore. Ava was often worried that the tiniest gust of wind would blow her away. But her friend possessed a heart that was fiercer than any man she had ever met.

“I ken it might have been the right thing tae do in the eyes of the world at large,” Ava sighed heavily. “But was it right for me tae make that decision…” her words were less of a question and more of a statement.

Ava had been hired to carry out revenge on a man that had taken advantage of a young girl in the woods while she was out picking flowers. She was only fifteen. The girl’s father had wanted revenge and sought out Ava’s services in one of the taverns that she frequented for work. She only took on missions where she was absolutely certain that the target in question deserved what she was asked to do.

It was the only way she could earn enough money to support herself and her brother Neil. He suffered from a bad chest, and a myriad of other ailments, that required around-the-clock care from healers as well as herself. All of which didn’t come cheap. They barely kept their heads above water with the money she earned.

“I ken that the people I poison are bad people; it’s just that the question plagues me mind night after night…” she paused for a second, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “Is it really me decision, or yers, or anyone else’s for that matter? Tae decide when a life should end based on what they dae or did tae others? Should he nae have just gone tae jail or some other form of punishment?”

“Dinnae go down that path again,” Skye attempted to soothe her best friend’s conscience. “Ye dae what ye have tae, tae survive. And by doing so, ye rid the world of people that shouldnae be in it in the first place. Monsters like that should nae be allowed tae carry on living.”

Smiling half-heartedly, Ava looked at her friend as they walked. Skye was a blessing, she didn’t know what she would do without her. The young blond girl did everything in her power to help her and Neil whenever she could. She tagged along on Ava’s missions and acted as a distraction whenever was needed to complete the task at hand. A notorious flirt in the village, Skye could always be counted on to distract any potential disruptions.

“Cheer up lass, ye’re almost home,” Sky slipped her arm into the crook of her friend’s. “I’ll brew ye a nice cup o’ tea. Nice clean tea ye can trust,” she added with a teasing wink.

Ava was slightly taller than her friend with a more rounded figure and aristocratic features with a skin as pale and smooth as porcelain that oft had people mistaking her for nobility. Not wanting the attention that her beauty often drew from passers-by, Ava often wore dark dresses and cloaks with hoods that would conceal her identity.

She always pulled her hair up into a tight bun at the back of her head when she was on a mission, loosening it the second she was sure that the target was dead and nobody was following her.

Skye would always tell her that she looked like a young school marm with her hair tied back, and a proper lady with it hanging loose. That suited Ava just fine as she relied on her different appearances for the sake of anonymity.

The cluster of silver birch trees that grew so readily in the forest gave way to an opening that revealed a tiny wooden cabin. Ava’s great-grandfather had built the cabin with his own two hands, and their family had lived in it for generations thereafter. The structure made from oak wood stood in a clearing surrounded by hazel bushes that nestled the humble lodgings in a homely cocoon.

It consisted of a kitchen, two small bedrooms, four small windows peering out the front and sides and a sitting area that Ava had converted into her brother’s room with a wooden-frame bed. It was just easier to have Neil closer to the medication when he had one of his many coughing fits.

Ava felt a small amount of relief at the sight of her home. The only peace she had in the world was knowing that she had a safe haven to return to, where her brother was waiting. A tiny patch of peat surrounded the cabin, fed by the babbling stream that ran through the forest. She stopped for a second, pulling her friend back with her.

“What’s the matter?” Skye suddenly asked when she caught a glimpse of Ava’s face.

“Something isnae right,” she nodded toward the cabin. “The door is slightly open. Sophie was supposed tae be with Neil, she would never leave the door open in weather like this. She’s his healer. She kens what it would dae tae his chest.”

Skye frowned and followed her friend when Ava suddenly broke into a run.

She burst through the partially open door, her breath catching in her throat when her eyes fell on the scene before her. “Oh my Lord!” she exclaimed before rushing forward.

The young healer was bound by her hands and feet with a dirty rag shoved into her mouth. She was laying on her side on the bed that Neil usually occupied. The furniture in the cottage was strewn about the floor.

“Where is he?” Ava asked frantically as she hurried to undo the healer’s hands and remove the rag from her mouth. The rope had already cut welts into the girl’s pale skin. “Where is he?!” she asked a little more frantically when Sophie struggled to catch her breath, gagging and gasping for air once her mouth was free again.

“They…” she struggled to speak over her sobs. The lass looked as if she’d been roughed up a little. Tiny bruises covered her arms.

Skye took a deep breath and tried to calm them both. She brushed strands of Sophie’s long blond hair over her shoulder and wiped away her tears with her sleeve. “What happened here?”

Sophie took a deep breath and stared at Ava with her dark brown eyes filled with tears. Her body shook uncontrollably. “Four men came intae the cabin soon after ye left, Ava. I tried tae stop them, but…”

Ava shook her gently by the shoulders when she started to sob again. “Did they take Neil? Where is he?” she asked more gently. “I need tae know what happened.” Ava stayed close to Sophie while Skye boiled water for tea to calm their nerves.

Sophie nodded as even more tears fell into her lap. “They left a note for ye on the table over there,” She raised a frail arm and pointed to the table in the center of the room, which stored all of the herbs used to help Neil.

Ava left the lass immediately, hurriedly making her way across the room to pick up the single sheet of paper that lay amidst the herbs and potions. She quickly glanced at the slanted writing on the page before rushing back over to Sophie. “Please, read it! Ye ken, I cannae, please,” she asked frantically.

The lass took the note with a shaking hand before finding enough strength to read it aloud.

Ava Rose

Two weeks.

Ava could feel the blood draining from her face as she slumped down in the nearest chair. The letter was not signed but she didn’t need anyone to tell her who had written it.

Skye rushed over once she had seen to Sophie and gripped Ava’s shoulders. Her face was paler than usual. The mischief in her gaze vanished. “Ava, what are we going tae dae?”

“I will have tae get the money before the two weeks are up. There is naething else tae dae,” Ava said as she stood, regaining her composure, trying to think logically again once the shock left her body.

“How will we dae that, Ava? We would have tae dae hundreds o’ jobs tae make that kind o’ money. With those smaller, more ‘honorable’ missions that we take on, we cannae make enough in two weeks’ time.”

“I will have tae go tae The Dark Horseman, Skye, ye ken that,” Ava said quietly as she began to pick up the furniture that had been knocked over.

Skye gasped and stared at her friend with her jaw hanging open. “Ava… ye swore that ye would never go there,” she shook her head lightly in disbelief.

“What else can I dae, Skye? Tell me, and I’ll do it, I swear,” she turned around with tears in her eyes, her voice high with panic and frustration. “Neil has been taken and I dinnae have the money they are asking for. I have tae dae what’s necessary right now. The Dark Horseman is the only place that will bring in that kind o’ money in such a short time.” Her palms felt sweaty from worry. “Or dae ye suddenly have buckets o’ money ye are willing tae give? Last time I checked, ye were just as poor as I am.”

Without sparing a word, Skye rushed over and threw her arms around her best friend’s neck. “I ken lass, I ken…” She buried her face in Ava’s hair. “We will get Neil back in one piece.”

Ava cried softly as she held onto her friend, immediately regretting her harsh outburst. Skye was all she had, except for Neil. She gave Sophie a quick glance, only to see the girl was sitting on the edge of her brother’s bed with her head resting in her hands, her elbows propped up on her thin legs. Her hair hung about her face like a waterfall of gold. The hem of her dress was tattered and torn, presumably from putting up a fight with the men who had taken him.

“I will go with ye,” Skye whispered through tears of her own.

“Nae, ye willnae, The Dark Horseman is nae place for a lass as fine as ye. But I ken that I can count on ye for help when I need it,” she shut her eyes against the burden of what she knew she had to do. “And I ken that I will need all the help that I can get.”

In the space of a moment, the world around Ava got darker. She would do anything to get her brother back alive and well. Even if it meant breaking her own oath, and visiting The Dark Horseman alone, praying to find someone to kill.

Chapter Two

Steel clashed together with deafening metallic clinks as the full moon peeked through the clouds overhanging the quiet castle.

“We cannae keep doing this, Boyd!” Rory called to his friend as he gasped for breath. His dark hair hung over his deep blue eyes, matted in sections from sweat. “It’s the middle o’ the night.” He doubled over, placing his hands on his knees to support himself while catching his breath. Though exhausted, a slight smirk spread across his face.

“Dinnae tell me ye are giving up already,” Boyd wielded his sword again, forcing his best friend to straighten and block his attack with his own sword. Boyd’s long blond hair was tied back in a ponytail to keep it from falling into his light green eyes. He was a formidable highlander with a fierce reputation. Taller than most men, his muscular build and bulging muscle only added to the effect.

Their swords clashed together for the hundredth time that night as they both leaned in with effort, attempting to push the other back.

“It’s nae that I mind sparring with ye Boyd,” Rory grimaced, looking up at his opponent. “I just feel that there are other ways tae tire ye out at night and spend yer energy before bed.”

“Dinnae start again,” Boyd winced through gritted teeth, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead.

“Ye cannae escape women all the time, Boyd. Ye need tae bed a lass, even if it’s one of the local lasses, you neednae go all the way tae the brothel in town. One of yer own maids here at the castle will dae.”

Boyd looked up at Rory in shock. He had never before suggested such a thing. Where, for God’s sake, was that idea from? Taken by the distraction, Boyd stumbled back as his sword fell from his grasp, clattering to the courtyard’s cobbled ground after slicing a neat slit in his grey breeches.

Rory swung his sword triumphantly as if he had made his point clear. “Ye may nae think that sparring is enough tae slake yer lusts, but ye are distracted, Boyd. Ye need tae dae something about that before ye get yersel’ killed in battle. Or even worse, ye could make a mistake and get yer men killed…”

Boyd relented to defeat and let himself sink to his haunches before sitting back on the ground. “I dinnae think that bedding the maids would reflect kindly on me as Laird, Rory.”

Rory took in a satisfied breath and placed his sword back at his side and looked down at the laird panting on the ground. “Then begin the search for another wife, Boyd. It’s been a year since…”

“Exactly, it’s been only a year. I dinnae want tae talk about that,” he snapped quickly. “Ye ken that very well.”

“Ye can bark at me all ye want. Ye dinnae scare me,” Rory hunkered down in front of his friend so that they were eye-to-eye. “Ye need tae hear the truth, and I dinnae mind that it needs tae come from me,” he paused before lowering his voice slightly to a more sympathetic tone. “She’s nae coming back, Boyd… We’ve looked everywhere.”

Boyd pushed himself up angrily, glaring down at Rory, who rose and stared him down, determination mingled with pity. “Dinnae say things like that, ye dinnae ken if she’s been killed,” he reached down and picked up his sword again.

Rory raised his voice more sternly, losing his patience slightly as Boyd failed to listen to reason. Again. “We have searched damn near every corner o’ Scotland. Where else dae ye want the men tae search?” He flung his arm out in a broad gesture. “Under all the heather and peat? She’s gone, Boyd. They all are. Whatever may have happened, ye cannae live yer damned life digging in the past. Ye are Laird.”

Boyd glared at his friend, panting from the exertion of picking up his sword again. The sun was still setting when they began their evening sparring match, and his energy was depleted. But the mention of his lost betrothed fueled his rage. He charged at Rory once more, letting out a fierce battle cry.

Stepping aside with ease, his friend dodged his attack, knowing full well that the Laird’s judgment was clouded. Any talk of Cora never returning was a taboo subject where Boyd Cameron was concerned. Both Rory and Boyd himself knew that very well.

Boyd landed with a thud and a clatter on the stones, his sword scraping in the dirt as it sailed away from him toward the inner walls of the castle.

“I think I have made my point,” Rory said, staring down at Boyd who had rolled onto his back, offering his hand to help him up. Boyd took it and let his friend guide him up. Deep down, he knew that the search could not go on forever. But he was unwilling to accept the fact that he would never see the woman he loved ever again.

Night after night, she haunted his thoughts and dreams. Her beautiful face kept him awake, urging him to find her. Cora. Cora Steward. She had gone missing the night before their wedding under mysterious circumstances, along with his father and the rest of her family and bridal party. Boyd thought her disappearance was the end of him—he could still feel the panic and anguish he felt when he realized they were gone.

“I dinnae say these things tae hurt ye, Boyd. I want ye tae have peace again,” Rory said as he pulled him up. “Tae much time has passed, ye need tae mourn and move on. The clan has bigger things tae worry about.”

Boyd placed his hands on his hips and examined the earnest expression on his best friend’s face as he caught his breath again, panting for air. Everything Rory said rang true. But there was no snuffing out the spark of hope he felt inside. She couldn’t just be dead. She must still be out there, somewhere, waiting for me… Killing somebody’s memory was far harder than killing an actual person.

“I ken what ye are saying, but I cannae just stop looking for her. As for yer suggestion that I bed a lass…” he looked up at the castle window where her bedroom had been on that night while feeling his emotions ebbing to dangerous places.

“I have nae been able tae look at any other lass in that light since… I cannae bring mysel’ tae…” he looked down and shook his head. “I ken that everyone thinks the marriage was planned against our will… and that since it was arranged tae remedy the bad blood between the clans, that we didnnae care for each other with genuine affection…” his voice trailed off.

“But yer attraction was real,” Rory finished his sentence for him.

“Aye, nae just the attraction. She made me laugh and filled a void in my life I never even knew existed.” Boyd looked down at his soiled breeches and the scrapes on the palms of his hands. Tiny drops of blood were beading on the cuts. “It was love at first sight for me… I cannae be sure o’ her feelings on that score. But she did express a great fondness for me as well,” a sad smile tugged at his lips.

The marriage had been arranged by the lairds and the families of the opposing clans to settle the hostility that had long plagued the families for centuries. The plan had seemed like it was going to work up until the night before the wedding, when everything had gone terribly wrong. The families had been once again at war since then. Callum Steward, Cora’s uncle, had taken over as Laird after his brother had disappeared, along with the rest of his immediate family, Cora included.

Callum maintained that the Cameron clan must have had something to do with the disappearance, since the incident had occurred in their castle whilst his family were guests. To make matters even worse, Boyd’s father had gone missing along with the rest of the party, implicating them even further.

Boyd racked his mind but had failed to come up with a plausible explanation of what could have occurred. It is impossible that an entire group of people can go missing just like that without a trace…

Grief-stricken, his mother had taken her own life a short while after. Boyd felt desperately sorry for the pain she must have been feeling with the loss of her husband—it was a pain all too familiar with his because of how he felt for Cora.

Boyd thought back to the time he had first laid eyes on Cora Steward…

He’d been waiting impatiently in the grand entrance hall of the castle for the woman his parents had said he was to marry for the good of the clans. His hopes and dreams had been dashed when he was informed that he would no longer be able to choose his own bride. For Boyd’s heart was already set on a beautiful lass he’d noticed from another clan.

“It’s ye…” a quiet voice had suddenly said from just behind him.

Boyd had turned around to see a beautiful young lass with strawberry blond hair and golden-brown eyes. Her skin was flawlessly white with undertones of peach. Her pale pink gown made her perfect lips look even pinker. To his greatest shock and amazement, she was no stranger at all.

“Hello…” he had managed through his astonishment. “Are ye here with the party or… it cannae be,” his eyes searched her face hopefully with a slight amount of disbelief.

“When they said I was tae marry someone from yer clan, I hoped it would be ye,” she had smiled sweetly.

Boyd had laid eyes on her for the first time at a clan meeting to discuss the ongoing concerns between the families. He’d thought her the most beautiful lass he had ever seen in his life. They had talked and laughed together in a quiet corner of the banquet hall while the elders discussed their business.

She had been so polite and kind to him, that he’d thought her from a different clan. After all, there was no way that a member of the Steward clan would ever be so kind to a Cameron.

He’d fallen for her the instant he’d seen her. Cora’s laugh and gentle nature only sweetened the deal. Nonetheless, their clans were at odds, and would likely be for many years to come, as that night’s discussions had demonstrated. Boyd had made peace with loving her from afar. All the clans in attendance that night had been their rivals.

Cora’s smile broadened. “I hope it’s a pleasant surprise, nae?” she asked demurely, her long lashes brushing her cheeks whenever she looked down.

“More pleasant than ye could ever imagine,” he’d taken a step forward.

She’d laughed then and placed her soft hands in his when he’d held out his hands to her. “My heart was poundin’ so fast waiting tae see how ye would respond. I hoped ye’d be as keen as I am,” her soft and elegant voice reminded him of the meadow pipits in the height of spring.

His throat tightened when he recalled just how lovely she was. They never even had the chance to really get to know each other before tragedy struck. Boyd cleared his throat and adjusted his soiled white shirt to conceal the fact that he was choking up.

“Ye have braved more storms than any other man I ken,” Rory’s words yanked him from his thoughts and solitude. “And while I have the greatest sympathy with all the loss ye have dealt with and the ones ye are still strugglin’ tae accept… Ye are Laird now, Boyd. Ye need tae dae what is best for the clan, and nae just yersel’. As hard as it may be, this is the reality of being ye.”

“The clan must come first,” Boyd said bitterly and straightened his back, doubting that fate would deal him another pleasant surprise as it had done before.

“Aye, harsh, but true. I dinnae mean that ye must throw love out the window altogether and marry just for convenience. But at least be open tae the chance of meeting someone new. I ken how ye feel about Cora, and I am nae saying that anyone else can ever come close, but even if they dinnae. Ye dinnae have tae be alone for the rest of yer life. I want ye tae be happy again.”

Boyd loved Rory like a brother and knew that he would eventually have to take his suggestions on board should Cora never return. But a year seemed like such a short time to move on with your life after having lost so many people. How could their memory be erased so swiftly?

“Apologies, my Laird,” a man approached them from the shadow of the castle. “I dinnae mean tae interrupt yer conversation, but the council has called for a meeting at once.”

They raised their eyebrows and exchanged worried glances before looking back to the messenger. The man had obviously been in a hurry, his kilt was soiled with dirt, and his sandy hair was a mess.

“At this hour?” Boyd asked with concern.

“Aye, one o’ the scouts returned with some particularly disturbing news. It seems like we may expect an attack on our borders sooner than expected, my Laird.”

“Dammit,” Rory cursed under his breath. “I ken things had been too quiet o’ late.”

Boyd quickly retrieved his sword before following the messenger with haste. If this report proved to be true, he may just have to push his own feelings aside and find a bride for the sake of the clans. And soon.

Chapter 1

The street that stretched outside of Muriel’s window, with its carriages and taverns and the countless people that went about their business in a dazzling display of colors, had become so familiar to her in the years she had spent in Edinburgh. But now that her time at the women’s school she attended had come to an end, there was only one place she wanted to go—home.

Soon, her world would change from one of stone and grime to one of the sandy beaches and green hills stretching as far as the eye could see. Edinburgh had an undeniable charm, and Muriel had become accustomed to the smells that offended her nose when she first arrived and the crowds that never seemed to cease. She had even spent whole days without thinking of her home, too busy with her studies and the friends she had made to be homesick. And yet, now that her departure was imminent, she dreamt of the Isle of Barra nightly and woke with a tight, heavy chest.

“Did ye get all yer things?”

The voice coming from the door startled Muriel, but it was one that she knew well. She turned around with a smile and saw Caitriona there, the one girl that she would never forget, no matter how much distance or time separated them.

Caitriona was the opposite of Muriel in every way—sporting dark hair where Muriel’s was strawberry blonde, short where she towered over everyone, timid where she was labeled the troublemaker. It didn’t matter to either of them. They were best friends from the very first day they had met.

Muriel ran to her, pulling Caitriona into a tight embrace, one that had the girl huffing in surprise. “I did,” she said. “Well . . . apart from this.”

As she spoke, Muriel took a handkerchief out of her pocket. Her fingers were still red and swollen from the myriad times she had pricked herself on the needle, and the boredom of the task still lingered in her mind, but she was proud of the intricate embroidery she had managed to create. The golden thread she had picked blended nicely into the stark white fabric, making the entire square shine under the light, and in the corner, she had embroidered both their initials.

“What’s this?” Caitriona asked, her eyes widening as she examined the handkerchief. “For me?”

“Aye,” Muriel said. “If ye dinnae like it—”

“I adore it!” Caitriona was the one to pull her into an embrace then, and Muriel only knew that her friend was crying when she felt tears soak her shoulder. “Muriel . . . I ken how much ye hate embroiderin’. Ye didnae have to.”

“I wanted to. I wanted ye to have somethin’ to remember me by.” Muriel couldn’t stop her own tears from spilling down her cheeks, but she quickly wiped them off, masking them with a smile. “Promise me ye’ll write me often.”

“I promise. Ye must write me, too, dinnae forget,” Caitriona said, and then suddenly slapped her thighs with her hands, as though she was searching for something in her pockets. “Here it is! I almost forgot to give it to ye. It came today, from yer faither.”

The letter that Caitriona handed Muriel was still crisp and folded carefully, despite spending all day in the folds of her pocket. Muriel tore it open with trembling hands. Her father only wrote her whenever something serious had happened.

Dear Muriel,
Ye’ll be happy to ken that I have arranged a very advantageous marriage for ye. Ye are to marry Owen Macleod at once, so there will be nae time for ye to return to Barra. I have sent Liam Russell McAlpine to take ye to Lewis. His reputation is excellent, and he will ensure ye arrive safely. Dinnae fight the lad and do as he says.

Muriel’s gaze didn’t stray from the letter even after she finished reading it. She stared at the words, her mouth hanging open, her fingers curling tightly around the piece of paper.

He didnae even bother to sign it.

Her father loved her, there was no doubt about that. Some of her fondest memories were of the two of them together, even though she had spent most of her time at her mother’s house by the sea instead of in her father’s keep, which stood on the hill above, looming over the shore. He had even sent her to Edinburgh though he had admitted how much it pained him to see her go. Still, it had been necessary to save her from the torment of his wife, who despised her for being the result of her father’s infidelity and found ways to torture her both when she was staying with them and from afar. But there was one thing that her father loved more than her, and that was wealth and power. He was a pirate chieftain, after all. Muriel had learned that the moment she was old enough to realize that her father would never defend her against her stepmother. Her family was too rich for him to endanger their marriage.

And Owen Macleod is from a pirate clan, too. Neither of them will ever love me as much as they love gold.

She would even consider herself lucky if her husband loved her at all. All she had heard growing up were stories about young women who were sold into a loveless marriage, and as much as she despised that fate, it had come to be hers, too.

“What does it say?” Caitriona asked. In her horror, Muriel had forgotten she was even in the room.

For a moment, Muriel considered lying to her. There was no reason for Caitriona to worry, especially since Muriel was supposed to leave so soon. But she had never lied to her, and it felt wrong to start lying to her now.

“It’s from me faither,” she said. “He wrote that I am to marry.”

Caitriona remained silent for what felt like hours to Muriel. The girl searched her face, her gaze so intense that Muriel felt as though she was looking right through her.

“Ye’re nae happy about it,” Caitriona said.

It wasn’t a question. Muriel wondered just how miserable she must have looked for Caitriona to know immediately that she wanted nothing to do with that marriage. She could feel it, too, in the way the corners of her mouth dropped lower, jaw clenching with the effort it took to keep her eyes dry.

“Nae. I’m nae happy about it,” she confirmed.

Caitriona wrapped an arm around Muriel and pulled her toward the bed, the two of them sitting side by side. Muriel didn’t know what to say, and so she remained silent, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“What will ye do?”

Muriel drew in a sharp breath. What would she do? There was nothing for her to do but what her father ordered.

“I dinnae have any choice,” she pointed out. “So, I suppose I will go to Lewis and marry this Owen Macleod.”

“Can ye nae speak to yer faither?” Caitriona asked. “Ye said that ye and yer faither are on good terms. Maybe he’ll listen to ye if ye tell him that ye dinnae wish to marry.”

“We are, but ye dinnae ken him,” Muriel said, and some venom slipped into her tone. Her father had done many bad things in his life. He had hurt her mother, too, taking her from her home by force to be his mistress and then throwing her aside when he didn’t want her anymore. Perhaps she should have been expecting it, but he had never hurt her directly before. “Once he makes up his mind, there’s nae way to change it.”

“Sounds like someone else that I ken,” Caitriona said with a teasing smile. Muriel knew that she was right. She had grown up to be just like her father, which infuriated her mother more often than she liked to admit.

Not that Muriel could blame her. She had been his captive and had no reason to love him.

“Unfortunately, there’s one thing that I didn’t inherit from him.”

“And what’s that?” Caitriona asked.

“I’m nae a man.”

With a sigh, Caitriona nodded in agreement. Muriel lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with unshed tears stinging her eyes. Frustration bubbled up inside her, turning her stomach into a knot. If she had been a man, she would have avoided this fate. Maybe her father would even listen to her more, instead of always doing what he thought was best for her without ever consulting her.

Nae, he’s nae doin’ this because he thinks it’s best for me. He’s doin’ it because it’s best for him.

That was the sad truth, the one that was so hard for Muriel to swallow. If her father had been doing this from the goodness of his heart or out of concern for her, she would understand. But she was nothing more than payment to a man who would help her father expand his influence. She was as good as cattle.

“Perhaps it willnae be so bad,” Caitriona said, though even she sounded apprehensive. Muriel wasn’t the only young woman to hear of those stories of loveless marriages. They all knew how those husbands treated their women—as if they had no worth to them at all.

“And perhaps it will be,” Muriel said as she pushed herself back up, slouching as she sat next to Caitriona. “But what is the point in thinkin’ about it?

Nothin’ will change no matter how miserable I become, so I may as well nae think about it until I must.”

Caitriona nodded once again and, for a few moments, she remained silent. Then she said, “How will you get to Lewis? He cannae expect ye to go all alone.”

“He has sent a man to fetch me,” Muriel said, her mind going back to the name she had read in her father’s letter. Liam Russell McAlpine. Her father had mentioned his reputation, but Muriel had never heard of him. She could imagine him, though, an older man with salt and pepper hair, scars marking his face, maybe missing a finger or two. Those were the kinds of men who usually had a reputation.

“And ye must go soon?”

“As soon as he arrives, I suppose.”

Muriel didn’t know when that would be. She could have weeks ahead of her or she could have hours, and that scared her even more than anything else that was to come. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Caitriona and her other friends yet, though she doubted she would ever be. Now that she wouldn’t even be going back to Barra, she didn’t want to leave at all. Before she had received the letter, she had a visit with her mother to look forward to. Now, she doubted her father would even bring her to Lewis for her wedding.

“How about this,” Caitriona said. “I’ll gather the lasses tonight, and I’ll see if I can get a bottle or two of wine from Mrs. MacGillivray’s room.”

Muriel’s eyes widened in disbelief. It was a shock to hear Caitriona even mention stealing anything from the head of their school, let alone being the culprit. Muriel was usually the one to instigate any sort of trouble, and Caitriona usually tried to stop her.

“Caitriona! I cannae believe ye would even suggest that!” she said. “I thought ye were more proper than this.”

“It may verra well be the last night we spend together, lass,” Caitriona said.

“And if I am to do somethin’ rebellious before I leave this place, then this is the time to do it. I can still blame ye for it, and everyone would believe me.”

Muriel knew that Caitriona was joking, but she didn’t tell her that she would take the blame if they were caught. She was used to punishments, after all.

“Fine,” she said. “But dinnae get caught. Mrs. MacGillivray isna verra forgivin’.”

By the time Caitriona left Muriel’s room, it had been plunged into darkness.

Muriel stood and lit a few candles, just enough to have some light in the room, and then sat back down on the bed, taking in her surroundings.

She would never see any of it again. She tried to commit the dark blue, damask print wallpaper to memory, the old, creaky hardwood floor, the small bed with the lumpy mattress that she had somehow come to find comfortable. She wondered what her new home would be like, if it would be as warm and inviting as her little room, though she doubted it.

Muriel didn’t realize how much time she had spent deep in thought until there was an urgent knock on her door. Before she could answer, a crowd of girls spilled into her room, half of them giggling and half of them shushing the rest sternly. And among them, all was Caitriona, with the bottles of wine as she had promised.

“Has Mrs. MacGillivray gone to sleep?” Muriel asked in a hushed tone as she urged everyone inside the room, closing the door firmly behind them.

“Och, aye,” Caitriona said, getting comfortable on Muriel’s bed. “They all have. But we must still be quiet. Ye ken how well she can hear.”

It was true. Mrs. MacGillivray didn’t miss a single sound, and even when she was asleep, the girls had to tiptoe around the building if they didn’t want to get caught. Everyone seemed to remember that for a long while, at least until the first bottle was gone and the second one was opened. Caitriona was the only one who reminded the rest of the girls to be quiet, every now and then sneaking out of the room to make sure that all the teachers were still sleeping and couldn’t hear them, before slipping back inside.

“I dinnae want ye to leave,” Caitriona told Muriel when the other girls had retired to their rooms. The two of them were laying side by side on the floor, and Muriel could see the frosty blue of the morning through the window.

“I dinnae want to leave either,” she admitted. “Maybe I willnae have to. Maybe Owen Macleod will fall in love with another lass and tell me faither he doesna want me anymore. Or maybe Liam McAlpine will perish on his way to fetch me.”

Of course, even then, Muriel would have to go back to Barra. She knew that well. But it was nice to dream that she could stay in Edinburgh a little longer.

“Maybe we should hide ye!” Caitriona suggested. “So then even if this Liam McAlpine comes, he willnae be able to find ye!”

In her drunken state, Muriel found that idea excellent. All she had to do was hide for long enough for Liam McAlpine to give up. She didn’t consider the possibility of him arriving weeks later or her father sending a search party after her.

“Let’s do it,” Muriel said.

In a flurry of excitement, the two girls emptied as much out of the chest that stood by the foot of Muriel’s bed as they could—only there wasn’t nearly enough space for her to fit. Even so, she jumped inside, trying to contort her body to fit the tiny space of the chest, the whole time grunting and cursing under her breath. She was so focused on her task, so insistent on fitting in there, that she didn’t hear the door open.

Chapter Two

The job should be easy, easier than most that Liam had accepted in the past.

Transporting a noble girl from one place to the next was hardly a job fit for someone of his reputation and skill, but the money was good.

It didn’t take Liam long to locate the women’s school in Edinburgh where Angus MacNeil had sent his daughter. From the outside, the building was unassuming though well-kept, clearly maintained to the highest standard. For a moment, Liam hesitated at the door. It was still early in the morning, the dew from the night still clinging to the flowers surrounding the entrance, the sky still half-dark. It was better to leave as soon as possible, though. There was no sense in traveling around the wilderness late at night.

The door swung open before Liam could even knock, and he was met by the stern gaze of a small, older woman. Liam had faced many enemies throughout his life, but those eyes told him that he didn’t want to cross her.

“And who may ye be?” the woman asked.

“Liam Russell McAlpine,” Liam said hastily. “Angus MacNeil sent me to take his daughter to Lewis.”

The woman’s expression softened upon hearing those words, though not enough for Liam to feel at ease. She nodded for him to enter and then climbed the stairs.

When Liam didn’t follow, she turned around and pinned him with that stern look once more.

“Well?” she asked. “Do ye expect the lassie to bring her own things down here?”

Liam followed the woman, though not without a sigh. He didn’t like taking orders, especially when they came from people with an attitude.

When the two of them reached the room, Liam could hear noises from the other side of the door. The sound brought a frown to his face, and he wondered why it sounded as though there were many people in there.

The woman all but kicked the door down, revealing two very feminine but guilty faces staring at them. Liam couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, though it was cut short when the woman glared at him from the corner of her eye.

“Mrs. MacGillivray!” one of the girls said, shooting up to her feet from where she had been crouching down into a chest. The first thing that Liam noticed about her was how tall she was, taller than most of the women he had seen in his life. The second thing he noticed was how beautiful she was.

Even in the half-light of the room, her hair, a reddish blonde color, stunned him and her blue eyes were so dark they seemed almost violet, sparkling at him from under her eyelashes. She was a sight to behold, and Liam hoped that she wasn’t the girl he had been sent to fetch. He would hate to hand her over to someone else.

“Miss MacNeil, what are ye doin’? Why are ye in there?” Mrs. MacGillivray asked, her hands on her hips as she stared down at the girls. “Have ye been . . . drinkin’? Out, Miss Caileanach! Go to yer chambers this instant!”

At Mrs. MacGillivray’s shout, the other girl rushed out of the room, scrambling to get as far away from the woman as she could. Liam hardly noticed her, though. His mind focused on one thing: the woman had called the beauty Miss MacNeil.

So, she is Muriel MacNeil. Ach, weel . . . there are other bonny lasses out there.

Liam tore his thoughts away from the girl, reminding himself that he still had a job to do. Behind him, Mrs. MacGillivray had been joined by several other older women—teachers, Liam presumed—all of whom seemed to be very curious as to what had been going on in Miss MacNeil’s room, while his client had stepped out of the trunk and was putting her personal belongings back inside.

Liam walked over to her and offered her a hand with a chuckle, but Muriel refused it with an indignant huff. At that moment, Liam knew it was going to be a long trip to Lewis. There was nothing that Liam hated more than spoiled noble girls, and now he realized that Muriel was one of them. Even her beauty couldn’t make up for it.

“Miss MacNeil, I’m Liam Russell McAlpine,” Liam told her. “Yer faither—”

“I ken who ye are,” Muriel said. “I was hopin’ that ye wouldnae come so soon, but I suppose it cannae be helped. Will we be leavin’ immediately?”

“Aye,” Liam said. “The sooner, the better. I dinnae suppose that ye wish to travel in the dark and the cold?”

“I’d much rather nae,” Muriel said. She moved to the bed as she spoke, collapsing on it and covering her face with an arm. Liam looked at her, arms crossed over his chest, and knew precisely what the problem was.

The lassie is still drunk.

“How much did ye have to drink?” he asked her.

“I dinnae see how that concerns ye,” Muriel said.

“It concerns me because I’m the one who has to keep an eye on ye while we travel,” he told her. “What am I supposed to do if ye cannae even stand on yer feet?”

“Who said that I cannae?” Muriel said. “I am fine.”

“Is that so?” Liam asked, walking to the bed so he could stare down at her.

“Pack yer things, then. Let’s go.”

Muriel peeked out from under her arm just long enough to glare at him, and Liam only smiled back, smugly. He had traveled on his caps and hungover enough times to know that the trip that awaited Muriel would be anything but enjoyable. Still, as though powered by sheer force of will and stubbornness alone, Muriel stood and finished putting all her items in the trunk while Liam watched her.

By the time she was done, Liam could tell from her pale skin and the pained look in her eyes that she wasn’t feeling well, and he couldn’t help but feel bad for her. He pressed a hand on her shoulder, making her sit back down on the bed while he carried her things down the stairs, and then, once he was done, he offered an arm to her to hold.

This time, she didn’t refuse his assistance, and Liam led her to the horses.

Once there, she looked at Liam’s wagon with disdain.

“That’s it?” she asked. Liam didn’t know if she was more disturbed by the lack of a roof or the fact that it was tiny, nor did he care to ask.

“Ye’re lucky I brought one,” he said. “I wanted to have just horses, but yer faither didnae want that. We’d be travellin’ faster on a horse.”

“And what would happen to me things?” Muriel asked. “How would I take it all with me?”

“Not really me problem, lass,” Liam said with a shrug. Muriel’s only response was a glare, and once again, she refused any help from him as she climbed up into the wagon.

Liam tried to ignore Muriel as much as he could, even though she was huffing next to him, squirming in her seat every time they hit a bump on the road. He wanted to point out that none of it was enjoyable for him either, and that the last thing he wanted to be doing was spending days next to someone as unpleasant as her, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t have her complaining to her father that he wasn’t nice enough.

“So . . . what are ye?” Muriel said after several hours spent in silence. “A mercenary?”

“Aye, somethin’ like that,” Liam said.

“Do people hire ye to move brides like they’re cattle often?”

Ach . . . so that’s what it is.

Liam couldn’t imagine how Muriel—or any young woman in her position, in fact—felt about her wedding. If he were in her place, he would certainly be upset to be promised to someone against his will. He wondered, briefly, if that was one of the reasons why she was so disagreeable, but then again, none of it was his problem.

“I must admit that ye’re the first bride that I was hired to protect,” Liam said, choosing his words carefully. “Ye’re nae cattle, Miss MacNeil. I’m nae takin’ ye to a pen. I’m takin’ ye to yer future husband. Yer new home.”

“I may as well be cattle,” Muriel said, and her tone was so pained that once again, Liam’s heart ached for her. “What’s the difference? Me faither doesna care what I think; all he wants is to sell me to the highest bidder.”

“Ye should be more kind to yer faither,” Liam said. “The Macleod clan is a verra wealthy clan. Ye’ll have a verra comfortable life there.”

“Aye, wealthy enough for me faither to do anythin’ for that wealth.”

Bitterness laced Muriel’s tone, so strong that Liam was startled by it and decided he’d like to avoid having it directed at him at any point in time. He was getting the impression more and more that Muriel was not the kind of woman with whom he would want to argue, stubborn as she seemed to be. Liam didn’t argue with stubborn people. All it did was anger him.

“I dinnae ken what ye wish for me to say,” Liam said. “I am only here to do what I was paid to do. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”

“So ye dinnae care what I think about this marriage?”

“Why would I?” he asked. “I have nae say in it. I dinnae even ken ye, so why should I care? Ye’re just what I must transport.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Liam knew he had made a mistake. He had told Muriel that she wasn’t cattle only to imply then that she was merely an object.

“I didnae mean it like that,” he added quickly, trying to get ahead of the damage that he had caused. “I didnae mean—”

“I dinnae care what ye meant.” Muriel’s tone was curt, but Liam could almost feel the barbs hidden under her words.

Muriel fell silent then, and so did Liam. He didn’t know what to tell her, though he supposed it was better that way. The less they talked, the less annoyed both of them would get with each other, and that was the only way their journey could be painless. Liam simply enjoyed the silence and their surroundings, humming softly to himself as they passed through the land.

It was only much later when the sun had already begun to set, that Muriel spoke once more. “May I request that we sleep outside tonight?”

“Outside?” Liam asked. He would be lying if he said that Muriel’s request hadn’t surprised him. He was expecting her to balk at the mere thought of sleeping in the forest instead of a warm, comfortable room with a bed and a fluffy mattress.

“Aye, outside,” Muriel said. “We’ll pass by Loch Leven, will we nae? It seems like a good place to set up camp.”

“Are ye certain that ye dinnae wish to sleep inside?” Liam asked. “We can find an inn; there are towns nearby, and we still have some light.”

“Nae, I’d rather sleep outside,” Muriel insisted. “I wish to sleep under the stars. It’s been so long since I last did that, and noo seems like the perfect opportunity.”

Liam frowned, though he didn’t try to argue with her. It seemed strange to him that anyone would want to sleep outside in the cold when they could just find an inn with a room—and food and drink, which was perhaps even more important to him—but it wouldn’t be the first time that he slept outside. Besides, he didn’t want to antagonize Muriel too much, thinking that perhaps he just needed to show her that he was not her enemy. As long as her requests were reasonable, he had no problem fulfilling them.

“Verra weel, we’ll set up camp outside,” he said. “By the loch. But if ye get cold, dinnae blame me for it. I warned ye.”

“The fire will be enough,” Muriel assured him. “Besides, I’m the bairn of a pirate chieftain. Do ye really think that I’ve never spent a night in the cold before?”

“Och, I dinnae ken,” Liam said. “Ye dinnae seem like the kind of lass who would.”

“And what kind of lass do I seem to be?”

“The kind of lass who would complain about getting’ her dress soiled.”

The look that Muriel gave him was an amused one, as though she found the mere thought of being upset by something as trivial as that silly, and Liam had to re-evaluate his first impression of her as a spoiled girl.

Still, it didn’t make her any less infuriating.

“Ye ken nothin’ about me, so it would be better if ye kept yer assumptions to yerself,” she said politely, but with that same heat under her words that was a clear warning. “And whatever ye think ye ken about me is probably wrong.”

How can a lass so bonny be so frustratin’ at the same time?

Liam shook his head, but he didn’t say anything else. When they finally got to the lake, he tied the horses nearby and began collecting wood for the fire, while Muriel made her way around the clearing, examining the bushes that surrounded the lake with an interest that Liam found both strange and a little endearing. The heat of the fire was a pleasant change from the chill of the air, and for the first time, he realized just how stiff his fingers were after holding the reins for so many hours. Also, for the first time, he thought that maybe Muriel had been cold all along.

“Come sit by the fire, lass,” he told her as a way to get her warm without expressing his concern. Muriel joined him as he held his hands in front of the flames, trying to get the blood back into them.

“Look what I found,” she said, showing him some berries that she had in the folds of her skirt, which Liam regarded with suspicion.

“They’re nae poisonous, are they?”

“Of course nae,” Muriel said, and to prove it, she popped one in her mouth.

Liam took one, marveling at the sweetness that burst on his tongue when he bit into it.

Perhaps this willnae be so bad after all.

“I wish to talk to ye about somethin’,” Muriel said then, drawing a pained moan out of him. He already knew what she wanted to tell him—the same thing she had been telling him all this time.

Or perhaps I spoke too soon.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter 1

Applecross, Scotland 1566

“Hayden? Is that ye?” a voice called out of the croft.

“Aye, who else would it be climbin’ this far up the hill at this time?” Hayden said with a laugh as he walked past the well up toward the croft door. “Nae many men come this far up the hills, do they?”

His uncle appeared in the doorway of the croft, still wearing the fine clothes that showed he had only recently got back from another of his merchant’s trips.

The scent of spices hung in the air off his figure, the cinnamon and then cumin tickling Hayden’s nose.

“We may have a visitor someday. Ye never ken!” his uncle laughed as he turned and walked back into the croft.

I thought we liked it without visitors. The thought made Hayden smile as he followed his uncle into the croft. It was not something they often talked of, why they had come here. They usually left it unsaid, but deep down, Hayden was happy with their quiet lot in life, and he was even happier that he didn’t have to suffer many visitors from the past. That life is dead to me. This is me life now.

“How goes yer work at the inn?” Nathair asked as he walked inside the croft. The young maid that sometimes clambered up the hill from the nearby village to cook for them had clearly been and gone that day, for she had left food in the kitchen, steaming over a fire with fresh hunks of bread standing on the far grate. “Who would have thought the lad supposed to be a laird would now work at an inn?”

“Uncle…” Hayden lost his smile, his tone darkening. “We daenae talk about that.”

“Aye, maybe we should once in a while,” Nathair said thoughtfully as he reached for the bread.

Hayden took off his cloak, revealing a deep green jerkin slightly mottled from ale spilled at the inn.

“The work is fine,” Hayden said with a sigh. “The inn is busy, and the time passes quickly. That is all I wish for.”

“Ye arenae bored by it then?” Nathair asked with his dark eyebrows raised as he sat down beside the fire, warming his hands near the flames. Hayden set about spooning out some of the stew into two pewter bowls, flicking his eyes toward his uncle.

“Bored? Nay. It is peaceful. I like that.” Hayden pushed the bowl of stew into his uncle’s hands, hopeful it would keep him quiet and stop him from asking such questions.

“I have the impression ye arenae in the mood for conversation, laddie,” Nathair said quietly, adopting the old term he always used for Hayden.

“Will ye always call me ‘laddie’? Even when I’m old and grey?” Hayden asked, conveniently changing the conversation as he sat down on the other side of the fire.

“Ye forget, when ye’re old and grey, I’ll be older and greyer. Aye, ye will always be a lad to me.” Nathair’s words made Hayden laugh as he turned his focus on the stew.

It was good, made with cheap lamb, not that he minded, and chopped up turnip. It warmed his bones through, something he needed on a cold wintry day like that day, where the wind rattled through the windows, making the cloths they had hung up as curtains dance back and forth.

“Ye may nae be in the mood for talkin’, but ye may have to put up with an old man wantin’ to talk for a minute.” Nathair paused with his food as he sat back in his chair, making the thin wood creak beneath him. “I was thinkin’ of the day I left the castle behind this mornin’. Me journey took me past the clan. In some ways, it doesnae feel that long ago we left.”

“Doesnae it?” Hayden asked, realizing he would not escape this conversation without saying something his uncle wanted to hear. “It feels a long time ago to me, and I left after ye, takin’ nothin’ with me to remember it.”

“Aye, so ye did. I had to take somethin’ though.” Nathair raised his hand in emphasis, urging Hayden to look down at the ring on his uncle’s finger. His uncle’s skin was beginning to age, and the fingers were gnarled with the years that had passed, making the ring stand out all the more.

It was a thick band of gold, and in the very center was a small and unique engraving. The Mackenzie clan crest of a stag’s head in a circle was dappled on either side with two fine jewels and rubies.

Nathair was smiling as he looked down upon it, perhaps thinking of the person who had given him the ring, his own father, yet Hayden could not smile. The crest merely reminded him of his own father, Nathair’s older brother, making Hayden shift in his seat uncomfortably.

“I couldnae wear such a thing,” Hayden murmured as he returned his focus to the stew.

“Ye’d be surprised what ye can bring yerself to do,” Nathair lowered his hand again. “I see this conversation has run its course. Ye daenae like talkin’ of the old days.”

“Nay, I daenae. I should tell ye what ye have missed while ye have been travellin’.” Hayden sat back in his seat, adopting a more relaxed countenance now their conversation about the past was done. “The farmer, Kendrick, he has disappeared.”

“Kendrick? Och, the man that goes everywhere with that black dog at his ankles?”

“Aye, that’s the man. He’s vanished,” Hayden said slowly. “Nay one kens where he has gone.”

“That drunkard has probably fallen asleep in a ditch somewhere. Daenae worry on it too much,” Nathair dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.

There was a sound beyond the croft windows, something that stood out against the whistling wind. It was footsteps against the earth, making Hayden and Nathair fall still.

“Ye were nae expectin’ a guest, were ye?” Hayden asked to be sure, earning a shake of Nathair’s head.

Hayden hurried to his feet, placing down the stew and moving toward the door. Beyond it, was the sword he kept permanently in its scabbard, reluctant to let anyone see the clan markings upon the blade. He hitched the weapon high in the air and thrust open the door, ready to meet whoever had come to creep up on the croft.

“Who goes there?” he called loudly, earning a yelp of surprise in reply from a boy atop a horse climbing up the hill toward the croft.

“Careful, ye scared the boy half to death.” Nathair laughed as he came up behind him, urging him to lower the scabbarded weapon. “Why ye come up this far, boy?”

Hayden didn’t take his eyes off the young man. He was dressed rather finely to be out this far in the high hills. His cloak was studded with beads, and the high collar bore the hint of a ruff around his neck.

“I come with a message,” the boy said, looking between the two of them. He appeared rather like a fish out of water to Hayden’s mind, unused to the wild moor he stood on as he climbed down from his pony. He struggled so much with the dismount that he stumbled and nearly fell over entirely among the bracken. Hayden held in a laugh and stepped further out of the croft, coming to meet the boy.

“We daenae get messages here. Ye must have the wrong place.” Hayden shook his head, ready to send the boy back down the hill again.

“I am lookin’ for Hayden Mackenzie.”
Hayden froze, with his fingers tightening around the scabbarded weapon at his hip. In this area, no one knew his true surname. He had given the folk at the inn a false one to keep his identity hidden.

“How do ye ken me, boy?” he asked, turning his focus back on the young man.

“I have a message for ye. From yer brother.”
Hayden turned his eyes on his uncle, seeing the same curiosity in his brow that he was sure was in his own. Out of everyone, Hayden’s brother was the only one who knew where he was.

“Very well, speak yer message,” Hayden urged with a wave of his hand.

“He needs yer help.” The messenger spoke in a rush as if he was fearful of something. “Many things have happened, and he asks to see ye most urgently.”

“Where?” Hayden asked, feeling his body grow still. I daenae go back to the clan. That is me rule.

“The tavern on the far side of Applecross. They call it The Black Stag. Do ye ken it?”

“Aye,” Hayden nodded. It was hardly the finest of establishments, home to criminals and thieves, certainly a good place for someone to hide without too many questions being asked.

“He will meet ye there tonight after the sun has gone.”

“Ye forget, boy, Hayden has nae said ‘aye’ yet.” Nathair’s words made Hayden look to his uncle another time. “Ye said ye were done with that life. Remember?”

“Aye, so I did.” Hayden ran a hand through his short hair. It was beginning to grow longer now and a little unruly. It allowed him to pull at the locks in frustration before turning back to the messenger. “How urgent is it that he see me?”

“He is desperate,” the boy said slowly. “He rode so hard out of the castle that the animal threw a shoe. Say ye will come?”

Hayden couldn’t say no. Not when his brother was asking for him. He is the one man in that castle I still love.

“If me brother asks it, then aye, I will come.”

***

Hayden stood outside the tavern for a minute, peering in through one of the few glass windows the building had. There was so much candlelight inside that for a second, Hayden’s reflection was the only thing he could see. He was so tall he had to bend down to see in the window, where he could see his fair hair looked paler than normal in the moonlight. The beard that had grown across his chin was a little unruly, but it was the eyes that stunned him the most.

He looked away from the dark blue eyes that reminded him so much of his father and walked into the tavern.

The moment he opened the door, heads swiveled toward him. Some were clearly looking him up and down, trying to judge by his height how much of a threat he was to them. Others were evidently thieves, their gazes judging the clothing he wore. They must have judged him a poor target, for they soon turned away, allowing Hayden to walk into the tavern.

“Hayden?” Brandon’s voice urged him to turn toward the corner of the tavern.

Through the candelabras full of lit candles and past the tables where men were drunkenly half prostrate across tabletops, there was a figure in the very corner he knew well.

“Brandon,” Hayden said with a smile, crossing quickly toward his brother. Bearing the same hair, though, with the dark eyes of their mother, Brandon stood to his feet, much shorter than Hayden.

The two brothers embraced warmly. Hayden couldn’t stop the relief that swelled through him at seeing his brother again after so long. It showed how much something had been missing this past year. Without Brandon at his side, Hayden had become rather empty.

“For the wee man, brother,” Brandon said, his voice deep indeed these days. “It has been too long since I saw ye last.”

“It has been too long,” Hayden agreed and stepped back, clapping his brother around the shoulder. “I wish to share a drink with ye and be merry, but both yer messenger’s words and the look on yer face tells me this is nay time to be merry. Ye have nae come just to see me, have ye?”

“I wish I could say that I had.” Brandon sighed and sat back down at the table before sliding a tankard of ale toward Hayden, urging him to take it. Hayden sat opposite his brother, feeling the chair creak dangerously beneath him before he lifted the tankard to his lips and took a big gulp. “I am pleased to see ye are well.”

“And I ye,” Hayden said, lowering the tankard again. “Speak yer mind, brother. If ye have come so far to see me, then whatever bothers ye must be great indeed.”

“Very well.” Brandon nodded and sat forward, resting his elbows on the table and making his cloak fall open. It revealed the rather fine clothes, urging Hayden to reach across the table and close the cloak back up again. Brandon flinched at the close touch. “What did ye do that for?”

“Protectin’ ye. There are thieves here that will nae hesitate from stabbin’ ye just to get hold of yer purse. Best be careful nae to show them those fine clothes of yers,” Hayden explained as he lowered his hand.

Brandon looked taken aback and tightly closed the cloak around his throat, sending a wary look around the tavern.

“Begin, brother,” Hayden urged him on.

“Our faither is dead. Did ye hear?” Brandon’s blunt question made Hayden pause with the tankard half lifted in the air. His expression must have been enough to answer his brother. “Ye had heard.”

“I heard a whisper.” That same hollowness returned to Hayden’s chest, the same he had felt the day he had heard of his father’s passing. What was he supposed to do? Weep for this man? He didn’t love the man enough to weep for him. All he felt was emptiness; it acknowledged that his father was gone and the pain that remained, without Hayden longing for the man to rise from his grave. “I didnae ken if it was true. I imagine I cried nay more than ye did.”

“Nay tears at all? Then we are alike indeed,” Brandon nodded. “Ye could take yer place now… surely ye ken that.”

“Nay,” Hayden spoke sharply, lowering the tankard back down to the table with a thud to emphasize his words. “Brandon, ye and I had this conversation long ago. I daenae wish to have it again.”

“As ye wish,” Brandon fidgeted with his hands before looking up to Hayden another time, flicking the fair hair back from his forehead to look him in the eye. “Then let us discuss another matter. These last months, they have been dark indeed.”

“Dark? In what way?” Hayden’s interest was piqued, noticing the haunted look that appeared on his brother’s face, with the eyes hooded.

“Murder, brother. I talk of murder.”

Chapter 2

“Murder?” Hayden repeated, uncertain he had heard his brother right.

“Aye,” Brandon’s voice turned deeper and quieter, prompting Hayden to lean forward to hear his brother better. “So many deaths in our castle walls these last months that we have barely buried the last before news reaches us of another. It is too awful to bear. It is as if the devil himself walks our castle corridors.”

“Devils daenae walk, Brandon. They stay in hell where they belong.”

“This one hasnae done so. Someone is killin’ the men of our clan.” Brandon grew angry. It was an emotion Hayden had barely seen in his brother over the years. His whisper became seething as he bent across the table. “I cannae bear it anymore. I cannae see another man I trust die at this devil’s hands. The last death was me own General, me man-at-arms. Killed in the middle of the night. His throat slashed.”

The words took the vigor out of Brandon, forcing him back in his chair. He lifted his hand to his throat and placed it there, clearly thinking of the wound he had seen.

“Brother, I am so sorry,” Hayden muttered, seeing his brother’s hand tremble. “I think ye need another drink.” He pushed back his chair, ready to stand to his feet and fetch that drink, when Brandon veered sharply forward, taking his wrist and stopping him from going anywhere.

“I need yer help.”

“Me help? What can I do?”

“I daenae ken who the killer is. Nay one does. I daenae ken who I can trust in me own walls. What if I place me trust in the very man who turns out to be this devil?”

“Brandon, ye are startin’ to sound like a man possessed. Calm yerself.”

“Ye would be this panicked too if ye had seen the things I have seen,” Brandon snapped. Heads turned to look at them with curiosity. Hayden lifted a hand to his brother, urging him to lower his voice. They didn’t need those in the tavern to hear of this business. “I need someone in the castle I can trust, Hayden. Someone I ken without a doubt has nothin’ to do with these murders. Someone who can help me find this killer.”

Hayden pulled his wrist free of his brother, realizing just what he was referring to.

“Ye want me to come to the castle?” He was already shaking his head, even before he had finished speaking. “Brandon, ye ken I swore never to go back there.”

“I ken, but I am desperate,” Brandon explained with his hands outstretched.

“Our faither isnae there anymore.”

“His memory is there,” Hayden said quietly. “I cannae go back there when I remember what he said to me, what he expects. Nay, it isnae possible.”

Hayden saw the disappointment on his brother’s face. It made the guilt swell within Hayden, urging him to run his hands through his fair hair another time.

“I am sorry, Brandon. If I could help ye from afar, I would. I would do so in a heartbeat. Yet I cannae go back to the castle. I am truly sorry.”

Brandon nodded slowly. The disappointment was evident, even as he raised his eyes to Hayden and attempted to smile. The smile didn’t last long before it flickered and faded completely.

“I kenned it was a lot to ask. I remember why ye left. Most men wouldnae come back after that.” Brandon stood to his feet. It was so sudden that Hayden was startled, leaning back in his chair. “I wish I had time to exchange pleasantries, but I fear I daenae. I must get back to the castle. I am increasin’ the guard to stop anyone else from dyin’.”

“Brandon, one more drink?” Hayden asked, reaching for his brother. “Let me hear how ye are before ye go.”

“One more drink then,” Brandon said uncertainly. “Yet trust me. Ye daenae want to hear how I am. I will only talk of death.”

***

Hayden urged the steed away from Applecross village toward the hills. On one side of him, the ocean stretched out. Wild and vicious, each wave crashed against the shore with a kind of sizzling anger, yet Hayden took no notice. He gave the waves no more attention than he did the frost-dappled grass that was crunching beneath his horse’s hooves.

“Home, Bhaltair,” he called. “Home now.”

The horse neighed as if in agreement with him. It was time they rested their weary bones.

Hayden kept looking behind him as though he half expected his brother to follow him up the hills, but he did not. Brandon had taken his leave rather quickly from the tavern, stepping out the door to reveal three guards that had followed him, all secretly keeping watch over him. Hayden had barely recognized the guards’ faces as he had been gone from the castle for so long. He was just glad Brandon was being watched over as he took his leave from the tavern with his guards with him.

“The new laird. I hope he does a better job of it than our faither did,” Hayden muttered to himself, his thoughts still on Brandon as Bhaltair took him up the hill.

They only went a few steps more when Hayden felt the horse’s muscles stiffen beneath him. He whinnied, abruptly, high into the sky.

“Woah…” Hayden took hold of the reins, urging the horse to fall still. It was a difficult task, with the normally so calm steed now wild, almost feral. “What are ye doin’? Ye’ll kick me off in the sea in a minute!” He kicked the horse’s flank with his heel, but it did little to rest him.

As Hayden tightened one of the reins around his wrists, the better to hold onto the steed, he began to realize what it was that could have upset the animal.

Something was burning. It was acrid and smokey, so strong that it hit the back of Hayden’s throat, turning it dry. “Burnin’.”

The horse turned its nose back up the hill, urging Hayden to look ahead. In the distance, there was an orange orb leaking into the night sky. An orb so great that seeing the stars had become impossible.

“Nay,” Hayden said, urging the horse forward. “It is nae the croft. It cannae be!” He dug his heels in another time, and on this occasion, Bhaltair obeyed his orders. The black steed leaped forward, bending his nose down in the urgency with which they rode. Hayden leaned over the head of the steed, prompting him on at a greater speed.

The hill began to flatten out, revealing just where the orb was coming from. It was the croft, after all.

“Uncle Nathair!” Hayden bellowed the words as he grew nearer to the croft. The burning smell was strong, with black smoke filling the air. Flames were curling through the windows of the croft. “Nathair!”

Yet Hayden’s panicked cry went unanswered.

The horse tried to back away. Hayden jumped down from the animal, slapping it on the rear to be certain to send it scuttling back from the flames before he advanced.

“Nathair!” He wrapped his cloak around his arms, about to use it as a shield to barge his way into the house and find his uncle when there was a boom of wood snapping.

Hayden was forced to scramble backward as the thatched roof half caved in. Part of the roof was still intact as the other half fell away. The straw disappeared into the house, along with timber beams that cracked and echoed into the air.

“Nay,” Hayden muttered, uncertain how to get into the house at all. The flames could kill him. “Uncle!”

This time, there was an answer to his bellow, yet the sight that greeted him chilled him to the bone, despite the heat coming off of the fire.

The door burst open, half-broken off its hinges as a figure stumbled forward.

It had to be Nathair, yet his body was no longer his – it belonged to the fire, engulfed in it. There was not an inch of his body that was not alight. The clothes were blackened, his face too, the hair curling in smoke in such a way that the color was gone.

Nathair called out, no words, but just a scream, his voice so marred with pain that the voice was practically unrecognizable.

“Nay,” Hayden muttered. Hayden stumbled forward, his boots tripping on the mounds of the earth beneath him as he hastened toward his uncle. There was nothing he could do. Not now. Though he wished he could, desperately. His hands lifted in the air toward the figure, somehow hoping he could pull the flames free of him.

“Nay…” Hayden murmured into the air. “God’s wounds!”

Behind the figure, the croft was lit in flames. The entire roof was caving in, with the sounds of the thatched roof cracking and snapping in the fire.

Hayden had never known heat like it. Every time he tried to get closer to the house and the man, the warmth hit him with full force, demanding he step back again, stumbling away with his hands over his face. He could feel the heat sizzling at the edge of his hair when he got closer, forcing him away, further from the man.

A scream erupted from the body. The voice practically bore into Hayden’s soul as he watched his uncle burn.

He was beyond recognition, with his face blackened as he clawed at it with his own hands.

There has to be somethin’ I can do! The words tore through Hayden, spurring him into action. He scrambled further away from the croft, down the hill a little toward where a well was buried into the ground. He threw the bucket down the well with a rope attached to the handle, barely able to hear the splash it made in the water above the sounds of the fire. Hitching it back up again, he fumbled to untie the rope before running back up the hill toward the man still burning in flames.

He tossed the bucket of water toward the man, dousing him in the water. It was only enough to dampen some of the flames, the bucket too small to hold much at all.

Hayden stood back, the bucket limp in his hands as he realized what little good he had done. The man had stopped shouting his name now. His body had grown weak; he capitulated to the ground on his knees.

I cannae lose me uncle! God have mercy. There must be a way to stop this.

“Nay. I have to do somethin’,” Hayden muttered in a hissed whisper, feeling the anger burning through him, as strong as the flames that were now ravaging his home. It was not a fire that would be put out, the want of justice, of revenge.

Hayden ran back down the hill toward the well. He would not give up. He couldn’t. He would do what he could to save his uncle.

He lost track of how many times he collected buckets of water and threw them on the fallen form of his uncle. All he knew was that by the time of the third bucket, his uncle was on the ground, unmoving. The fingers were still, no longer clawing toward him in desperation, and the eyes stared glacially outward, the color marred by the white around the irises having turned a deep red.

Hayden threw a final bucket of water over his uncle. With the flames put out for good over the unconscious man, he reached down, taking his uncle’s arm, and dragged him away from the fire across the earth. The cloth felt unnatural beneath Hayden’s touch, and the skin was hardened. Bile rose in his throat at the stench of the burned skin.

Once they were a few feet from the house, safe from the burning building, at last, Hayden dropped down to his uncle. He reached for his uncle’s wrist, trying desperately to search for a pulse, but the skin had morphed too much for him to do it easily. Instead, he moved his fingers to his uncle’s neck, trying to find a pulse there.

Nothin’. Hayden reared back from his uncle with horror, pushing away across the ground before falling still, feeling the tears sting his eyes.
His uncle had gone. His spirit had left that scarred body so much that the body almost felt foreign to Hayden.

He’s nae here anymore. Hayden bent forward, unafraid to stop the tears. They wracked his body, making his tall frame weak for a minute. He rested his forehead against the ground, his face in the grass. “Ye cannae die, Nathair. Ye cannae die.”

He knew well enough his words were pointless, but they came anyway. As if they were some sort of desperate plea with God to bring his uncle back to life.

There was another crack in the house, and Hayden snapped his head up, looking toward the building. The rest of the roof caved in, cascading sparks in a flurry, leaving but a carcass of the croft behind.

Hayden’s home had gone, just as the uncle he loved had gone too.

Bhaltair neighed sharply into the night. For a moment, Hayden thought it was the animal’s way of showing despair until the horse did it again, louder this time. Hayden turned his gaze on Bhaltair, watching as the animal pawed at the ground with one hoof. Hayden slowly moved to his feet and moved to the horse, looking down at what had caught the animal’s interest so much.

It was an iron ball, half-cracked open with a burnt rag pressed in the top.

A grenade? Hayden bent down, prodding the pieces of the broken ball. His uncle owned no such weapon, and neither did he. Yet here one was feet from where his home was burning down.

This was nay accident. Hayden stood to his feet and turned away from the grenade, knowing all he needed to know. This was murder.

He crossed back to his uncle, kneeling beside him. He tried to rest a hand on his uncle’s forehead, longing to say goodbye properly, yet the skin was still too warm, and he was forced to back up away from his uncle, unable to get too close. He was blackened beyond recognition. The only thing that was still visible and recognizable as his uncle was the presence of the ring upon his finger.

“I swear to ye, on everythin’ that is left in this world that I hold dear, ye will be avenged. Whoever did this to ye, whatever the reason for it, they willnae escape justice.” Hayden felt the steed walk back toward him. Either Bhaltair was escaping the flames or coming to Hayden for comfort. It made Hayden lift his hand and take hold of the steed’s reins, pulling himself to his feet. “We cannae stay here, Bhaltair.”

The horse grunted as if in acknowledgment.

“After the burial, we go to Brandon. There are now many deaths that need investigatin’, it would seem. Maybe this one has somethin’ to do with what is happenin’ at the castle.”

He reached forward and pulled the ring free of his uncle’s body. It was an awful thing, leaving Hayden to grimace at the touch of the burned skin and look away, unable to stare too long at the blackened body. With the ring free, he held it in the palm of his hand. It would need to be cleaned.

A final boom was behind him, urging Hayden to grimace and look around at his home as it burned down. The stones were blackened as some fell from their place, hitting the earth with the heaviest thuds that echoed through the ground, reaching where Hayden’s feet were planted.

“Who would do this to ye, Nathair?”

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter One

Maxwell pulled his sword out of the last brigand, and the man fell to his knees. His face planted in the soil, unmoving, and his hand was still gripping his chipped sword. Maxwell withdrew his bloody sword, the bright red liquid sliding off.

As weapons kept clashing between men below, a cloud, like a fluffy plate, wafted past the late afternoon sun. The air was warm despite a whistling wind that was too weak to swirl the molten red leaves off the forest floor but promised a comforting chill later after the sunset.

The battle between his band, the Red Hawk scouts, and a common group of outlaws ended, and they had triumphantly won. He knew he had to praise their skills because they were too small of a group to outnumber them. Usually, Maxwell and his scouts didn’t want any of this, but the outlaws couldn’t help but push. They were notoriously fueled by greed.  He knew it would be their downfall.

Maxwell turned to the rest of his band; none were gravely injured, only a few scratches and nicks here and there. As he opened his mouth to speak, he caught sight of something moving amongst the pile of bodies. The other members saw it as well. A brigand was still alive.

“Seize him.” Maxwell ordered fast enough.

The order was acted on immediately. Two of his scouts rushed over to the moving body, who tried to scramble away after realizing he had been caught. A kick to the legs did the trick, and the man fell to his side with a low groan, face scrunched up in pain. He was held down with a foot on his chest and another dangerously hovering over his throat. He was old, Maxwell noticed. The gray hair on his head, the sagging on his face, he was old enough to be a grandfather.

“Please! Please spare me. Do nae kill me. I have a family!” This earned snickers from the rest of the scouts as Maxwell closed in on the man, unsheathing his sword. He almost felt pity for the unfortunate man because he was now alone. Yet, he had a duty to protect his group.

“We have families to return to as well. I am sure ye did nae think of that when ye attacked us, did ye?” Maxwell pressed the tip of his sword to the trembling man’s forehead.

“I beg yer forgiveness! Please, I can pay ye.” This caught Maxwell’s interest. “Aye, I can pay ye. Look.” The man fumbled with his breeches before taking out a gold pendant enclosed around a red gem. Maxwell narrowed his eyes at the man before snatching the pendant from his hands. The rest of his scouts quickly gathered around him, each wanting to catch a glance at the payment.

Maxwell sheathed his sword as he flipped the pendant over, and surely behind the pendant was a familiar crest. The crest of the Macmillan clan. Eyeing the brigand on the floor, Maxwell tossed the pendant back at him. “Ye want to pay us with stolen goods?”

“Nae! They are nae stolen, I promise ye.” The man pleaded, but his words caused Maxwell to raise a sharp brow at him.

“They? Ye have more?” Upon realizing his mistakes, the man went wide-eyed, head shaking just the slightest, but Maxwell did not need to hear any more from him. “Search their wagon. Every bag, every sack, and every box. Find those gems.” The scouts set to work on the wagon, emptying whatever they could get their hands on. As predicted, the scouts dragged off a fur bag from the wagon, setting it down before Maxwell, who pried it open to be met with not just gems but gold and silver as well.

“Let him go.” Maxwell turned to his men and beckoned for them to allow the brigand to get to his feet. “If I am nae mistaken, ye got this from the Macmillan clan? The pendant has a crest on the back of it.”

“Aye, but I swear, I didnae steal from them. They made me stay back and watch the wagon. Please dinnae kill me.” Maxwell tossed the bag to one of his men with a low chuckle before stretching out his hand to the brigand. The man reached out to touch the hand but was slapped away.

“Dinnae touch me. Give me the pendant. What else did ye steal with yer group? Give it all to me.” The old man nodded, dipping his hands in his breeches to pull out a handful of necklaces as well as the pendant from the ground, handing it over as fast as he could.

“Is this all?” Maxwell asked, not trusting the man.

“Aye, I swear, that is all I took. I wanted to-”

“I didnae ask ye what ye wanted to do with it. Ye are old, way past yer youth. Even if I kill ye, it will make nae difference.” The older man let out a whimper as he inched away.”So, I’ll spare ye.” Maxwell dipped his hand in his breeches, taking out a gold coin and tossing it at the old man. ” But, if I ever see ye in these forests again, I won’t pardon ye.”

The man stuttered out his gratitude as he hurried over to one of the three horses that pulled the wagon, galloping away as fast as he could.

“What will we do with the bodies?” Maxwell turned to Kenzie MacDonald, a great warrior amongst them who had asked the question, and found him kicking lightly at one of the bodies. Maxwell sent a disapproving frown towards the massive, dark-haired man, and Kenzie backed off.

“Leave them. They would have done the same fer us. We can bring the horses along. They’ll die if we leave them here.” Eon chuckled at his leader.

“Ye worry about horses after we killed men. What runs through yer head, Maxwell?” Maxwell paid the man no heed as he turned to the rest of his men with a sigh.

Running into the brigands was entirely out of his prediction. He had hoped they could get to the next village without a hassle until they showed up. They were thieves, and Maxwell had no idea what havoc they might have caused in the village they were coming from. However, it would be a wise move if he avoided going there entirely for the time being. They also had new tasks to carry out. His eyes darted to the bag of jewels. They had to return that.

Surely, he could let the scouts keep it, but it would go against their honor. It would still be considered stealing if they were caught with it. It did not matter if they were not the ones who carried out the first theft. Some of the items were marked. Selling it would be almost impossible, but of course, Maxwell had to listen to what his group was thinking.

He knew that some called the Red Hawks mercenaries, some called them thieves, some called them a merry band of men, but what could not be disputed was the strength and skill of each member. He wasn’t a stranger to the absurd rumors about him and his men. He even had a few good laughs about them. It even made him proud of the members he had gathered.

“Sir, what will we do with the bag?” Kenzie piped up, and the rest of the scouts turned to him. While Kenzie was an excellent archer, rarely missing his aim, his frequent complaints about anything he deemed a bad idea had earned him an unfavourable alias; the nagging wife.

“We have to return it, of course,” Freya replied almost immediately though her attention was mostly with the bloody sword she was trying to clean. “Why dae ye even have to ask what we are to do with it, Kenzie?” she raised her eyebrows questioningly, while Maxwell watched the encounter between them.

Freya Docherty was the only woman amongst the scouts, and she had done well in earning her spot. Frankly, she was the only woman Maxwell had ever met that could hold out for a good time in a duel with him.

“But this is a lot, and winter is almost here. We need a comfortable inn to stay till spring.” Kenzie said almost under his voice, trying to avoid Maxwell’s face. “I am nae saying we should take it all.” He added gently.

“I understand ye, Kenzie. Yer worries are genuine, and I understand that this is a lot, enough to ensure a warm winter. Winter will come and go, but if we take even a wee bit of this, we would have become thieves ourselves.” Maxwell turned to fave the others as he continued, “A stain in our robe, is it nae? We have just enough resources to last us through the winter, a job is most likely to surface soon, and if ye are still worried, we can stay the winter at me clan.”

Maxwell added the pieces that the thieve had handed over into the bag. “But the rest of ye might nae feel the same way, so why don’t we take a vote. If ye want us to keep the jewels, ye may step aside.”

Everyone always got a say in whether to stay for the night somewhere or about what job to take. This led to counting heads, as Eon, the oldest of the members, had put it. They always went with what the majority wanted, which meant no actual leader existed. But even though Maxwell continually mentioned it, his men still regarded him as the one, even refusing to call him by name except for Eon.

Maxwell watched as Archie, another scout, and Kenzie stepped aside while the others stayed put. In the band of four men and one woman, they were outvoted.

“Dinnae take that to heart, men. Look on the bright side. We could get rewarded by the Macmillan clan. They might let us stay the winter. Dinnae fret, Kenzie. We will be just fine.”

A new adventure awaited them, a new task to complete. Yet, they could also suffer a harsh winter that might turn the others against Maxwell, and it was a risk he had to take. Since he left his clan, Maxwell only lived for his men. He thrived amongst them more than he would have beside his older brothers. His father made that painfully clear while growing up.

Maxwell was first to rise and enter the courts when he was at his clan, but he was only asked to stand guard outside when the time came for important meetings. All it took was a look from his father for Maxwell to know his presence was no longer needed.

However, he did love the thrills and benefits that came with life outside his clan. It was satisfying but only up to a point. He did not know what he longed for; but, he obviously needed something else. Something unique to add to all he already had.

The Red Hawks set towards the south for the Macmillan clan late that afternoon. As they guarded the sack of jewels, they hoped Laird Macmillan was generous enough to offer them a reward of some sort. However, what lay ahead proved otherwise.

***

It was quiet in the Macmillan clan. A little too quiet considering that yet another theft had occurred. Their treasury had been looted two days ago. The day before had been full of ruckus, guards scrambling on the orders of the head guard and Laird Macmillan to find the thieves. Lady Olivia Macmillan stared out of her window at the top of the reddish trees behind her bedroom chambers that the high walls did not obstruct. She waited for a call, a cry even, anything to alert her of the current situation of their stolen jewels.

Stretched out on her bed, her younger sister, Blaire, unfurled yet another sealed envelope before her face scrunched up. “Such horrid handwriting.” She tossed the letter aside, joining the growing pile on the wooden floor before she picked another one from the stack before her. “Ye are awfully quiet.”

“Well, I have nothing to talk about. Have ye heard anything all day? Anything at all?” Olivia inched closer to her sister, who shook her head, with her brown eyes scanning the letter in her hands.

“Oh, this one is quite poetic. Read it.” The letter was thrust towards her, but Olivia tossed it with the other opened ones, caring for one thing only.

“Blaire, the keep is very still. It has been all day. Do ye think they caught the thieves?”

“I doubt it. Those jewels are gone.” Blaire picked up another envelope. Olivia resumed her position by the window with a sigh as she looked below to see if the guards had any luck. She would not consider the content of any suitor’s envelope now, she would rather focus on the jewels. That was a problem for another time, one she hoped wasn’t near. A knock on her door caused both girls to sit straight, only relaxing when their father slipped into the room. Laird Macmillan raked a hand through his thinning red hair, taking a deep breath before he started.

“We still cannae find them, but the jewels are nothing to be worried about.” Olivia almost knew what would follow. “But we have to be able to strengthen our defense. If common thieves can get in, who knows what else could pay us a nae so friendly visit. In the meantime, we must discuss the matter of your marriage.” He added sternly.

“Father, I will nae marry someone I dinnae ken just because-” Olivia started, but her father raised a hand to silence her.

“Ye need to understand, Olivia. Most marriages between people of our position are planned, and it always ends fine. Yer mother and I were arranged to wed, and we came to love each other over the years. We had ye and yer sister, is that nae enough proof that this will lead to happiness?”

“Father, I can nae marry someone I do nae even know. I have never even seen some of these men in me life.” Olivia gestured towards the pile of letters on the ground. “I want to be able to make me own decision, and I have decided I do nae want any of them.” She tried to sound as determined as she felt, hoping that this time she would convince him.

“And should the clan continue to suffer because of that decision? The more ye neglect this marriage issue, the weaker our defenses become. The villagers are getting terrified, the settlers have even gone as far as packing up and leaving. Our numbers are falling. Please, Olivia, ye are a beautiful lass at her prime. This is the best age fer ye to find a suitable husband from a strong clan. The stronger his clan is, the stronger this clan will be. We will be able to protect the keep and the villagers. We are already suffering so badly from terrible people like thieves. If a larger clan raids us, we will be done fer.” Her father became even more persistent by the minute.

Olivia knew the risk of her refusals. Her clan would continue to suffer, weakening with each attack. For all she knew, a larger, rival clan could be behind the thieves, waiting till they were on their knees before they struck.

The aftermath of a raid was not something Olivia ever wanted to befall her clan. Women and children would be carted off. Men slaughtered like animals. Her clan would be reduced to nothing but ashes. She knew all this, but she was disgusted by the fact that she had to be married off to a complete stranger just for protection.

“And as much as I hate to do this, Olivia, if ye do not choose a man by spring, I will be forced to choose one fer ye meself.” This received a cry of protest from the girls, but Laird Macmillan only shook his head at them.

“And if ye refuse to marry him, I will have to marry yer sister off before ye.” Olivia turned to her sister, then her father, mouth agape at his solution. Never had she thought her father would say that. Blaire was still too young to be married away. It would be pure wickedness.

“Father, ye want to sell us off like livestock? Blaire is too young to be married! I refuse to let ye do this to her.” Olivia stepped up to her father, and her brows were pulled further downwards as the fury stirred within her.

“It is what I must do. I have a clan to protect!” He growled.

“At the expense of yer own daughters?” Olivia snapped back. “Ye are willing to marry off one of us to any man as long as it will add to yer defense.” She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Think about it, Olivia. Do nae force me to give yer hand. I expect yer answer during supper.” As fast as he had slipped on, Laird Macmillan excused himself, leaving behind one furious daughter and the other with clothes drenched in tears.

Chapter Two

Brittle leaves flew past Maxwell’s blond head, landing on the ground behind him. The loud crunching of them beneath their horses’ hooves was the only sound for miles other than the occasional grunts from the Red Hawk’s horses. The sun had only started to climb up to its highest position in the sky. They had been on the road for almost a day with no sight of the clan.

“Shall we look at the map again?” Freya asked one of the scouts as he raised the map in his hand. “Perhaps we’ve made a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Ye looked at it a while ago, so unless routes have picked themselves up and changed, I think that’s unnecessary.” Archie countered, earning a small smack in the face that almost made Frey lose her balance on her horse because of her movement.

“Stop it, the both of ye!” Eon snapped at the grumbling men. “The less noise we make, the fewer enemies we are sure to attract. Dinnae forget what we are carrying. We should arrive at the clan soon, right, Maxwell?”

Maxwell shrugged. “Hopefully.”

“Hopefully? My goodness, we’re lost, are we nae?” Kenzie asked as he hastened his horse to ride next to Maxwell.

However, as Maxwell had assured them, they caught sight of the clan’s walls just ahead of the reddening trees. The sun had started to scorch down on them by the time they reached the clan’s walls. As expected of a small clan, their gates were not opened to just anyone. A handful of guards protected the entrance, armed to the teeth as if headed for war. Their spears crossed over the gates, shielding them from going through.

“Who are ye and state yer reason of arrival.” One of the guards on the right asked as he stepped up to them, with his hand going to the sword by his side.

“We come in peace. We only request a meeting with yer laird.” Maxwell spoke for the group confidently, and the guard eyed him. “We happened to find something of his and would like to return it.”

“What is it?” The guard asked suspiciously now.

“As I said, I request an audience with yer laird only.”

“Laird Macmillan’s time is too precious to be wasted on unknown affairs. Leave.” The guard unsheathed his sword, and behind Maxwell, his men were about to do the same but were stopped by his order.

“Stand down.” Maxwell ordered his group, then faced the guards, “We mean ye and yer clan nae harm. If ye want us to leave, then we will. We have more jewels than ye could even pay us with.” This caused the guard to relax, his stance dissolving immediately.

“Ah, now ye want to hear me out?” Maxwell said mockingly.

“Explain yerself.” The guard on the right stepped forward and the previous guard reclined with a bow. It seemed the man was of higher authority to Maxwell, perhaps even the head guard, judging from his clothes.

“Who are ye?” The second guard asked.

“I am Maxwell Murphy, a member of the Red Hawks. I only come to return what belongs to ye. Me men and I stumbled upon a group of unruly men this time yesterday. We retrieved some precious items from them and the information that they had come from yer clan. We only mean to give them back.”

The man nodded, a bad combing through his beard. “I see. And ye wish to speak directly to Laird Macmillan? Well, that is nae issue. Pardon me subordinate, the clan has been on edge after that horrible experience. I am Harold Robinson, the head guard of the Macmillan Clan. At this time, we dae nae and cannae trust anyone. Ye have to hand those to me, and I will give it to Laird Macmillan. Even if ye seek rewards, I can give ye a few things to thank ye.”

The man was probably as old as his eldest brother, his face almost flawless if not for the slight drooping at the corner of his lips. He stood tall, head held high to stand as tall as Maxwell himself.

“It would, but I’d rather hand it to Laird Macmillan himself. That should really be no issue, should it?” Maxwell raised a brow at the head guard. They were being protective of their laird, a little too defensive. This led Maxwell to think that the clan was temporary without a laird. The absence of a laird meant an easier clan to raid. “Or is yer laird nae on the seat?”

“T’is nothing like that. I will take ye to him.” The head guard guided them past the clan’s walls into the village. Although it was known the Macmillan clan was not very dominant, he had heard his father speak of it perhaps a few times. However, nothing significant could be said about it.

The village itself was small, not as populated as he had hoped, even the market when they rode past what should have been a colorful scene. The buildings were well kept, the children looked well-fed. Maxwell could tell their laird was kind to them. He could easily pick up things like that from the years he spent in his clan but still, he was inclined to ask. “Why are there are only a few people outside?

“Maxwell, was it nae?” The head guard said as he glanced back momentarily at Maxwell, who nodded.

“Laird Macmillan has instructed a curfew. T’is almost time fer them to return home.”

“I suppose the curfew was to catch thieves?”

“At least to keep the people safe.” The guard responded, and Maxwell nodded, looking back at his men and locking eyes with Eon, who rode up to meet his pace.

“I feel uneasy. Perhaps we should just hand the bag to the head guard and leave. This place is unsettling.” Eon whispered just loud enough for Maxwell to hear.

“I do feel something is off about the guard’s explanation but listen to me carefully. Even if they become hostile, do nae draw yer sword. Do nae fight.” Maxwell replied as they soon started to approach a walled fortress.

“Are ye sure, Maxwell?”

“Aye. Act ignorant. We are almost at the keep. Spread the word to the others. Do nae fight unless I give ye the order.” Eon nodded before falling behind. Maxwell could hear them whispering behind him, but it went silent when they reached the fortress, the gates slamming down behind them.

“Come with me. I can take ye to the hall to meet Laird Macmillan.” Harold Robinson motioned with his head.

Maxwell took a look at his surroundings, guards posted at every corner of the entrance, the door that led into the fortress was wide open, and he could see a guard and a few maids hurry past it.

“Nae. Me men and I have places to be. Have him come to us.” Maxwell quickly took notice of the head guard’s change in demeanor. Going further into the keep would put his men in danger, a risk he didn’t want to take, so he strengthened his resolve.

“Ye ask Laird Macmillan to come to see ye instead? Such audacity.” Harold stepped up to Maxwell’s horse, hand on the weapon’s hilt by his side.

“I wouldnae do that in front of a horse—especially nae in front of a horse that has seen enough bloodshed to associate a blade with death. And besides, I trust me horse to protect me if the need arises. All I ask fer is yer laird. Let him come to us, we’ll hand over the bag to him, and leave.”

“And why can ye nae give it to me?” Harold asked, retracting his hand from his weapon.” I am the head guard. I can go to Laird Macmillan directly.”

“Aye, that is because I do nae trust ye. I have seen yer defense. Even if the thieves came into the clan under the pretense of merchants, there should nae be an easy way fer them to make their way into a keep such as this. Yer walls are almost as tall as the trees in the forest, there is only one visible entrance, and they guard that,” Maxwell gestured to the four-armed guards similar to the ones at the gates of the clan, “and I do nae think ye had any event of some sort that would require ye to leave yer gates wide open. Other than that, there are guards in every corner of the yard and more inside the keep. I can nae think of any way a thief could make his way in to steal something like this, let alone a whole band of them.”

“So are ye saying I let them in?” Harold crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes flashing angrily, “That I helped them.”

“Nae, I have said nae such thing. On the contrary, ye said it yerself.” Maxwell replied casually. Stoking his anger was of no use to him.

Harold huffed, shaking his head with a sigh as he motioned for them to wait before disappearing into the keep.

Maxwell’s men quickly surrounded him, Kenzie muffling his laughter with a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Are ye sure ye should be taunting him like that?” Archie asked as Kenzie’s laugh died down into snickers. “We are gravely outnumbered, and Eon said ye didnae want us to fight. Why?”

“If they become hostile towards us, the most they can do is turn us away, chase us off, but if we fight, we risk getting injured. I ken each of ye are strong in yer own way, but we cannae possibly take on an entire army.”

“We can. We’ve fought more experienced men. These ones look like they would collapse under the weight of full armor.” Eon scoffed as he cracked his knuckles.

“Eon, we had fought bigger groups because we were hired to. Let us just be nice, listen to Sir Maxwell and trust his judgment.” Kenzie countered. “And besides, we have to find a place to stay fer the winter.”

“Why are ye so worried about finding a place fer the winter? Will ye hibernate during this time, and ye do nae want us to ken?” Eon teased right back, earning a scoff and a grumble from Kenzie.

Eon opened his mouth to talk when Maxwell noticed Harold returning, and behind him was an older man. The guards immediately bowed at his arrival, Maxwell knew he was facing Laird Macmillan. The man was not what Maxwell was expecting. A young laird at most or at least someone younger.

“Get down from yer horse. Ye are in the presence of Laird Macmillan!” Harold snapped at them, and the scouts turned to look at him. Maxwell nodded, sliding off his horse, and his men did the same, copying his every move as he bowed before Laird Macmillan.

“Forgive us, me laird. It has been quite a while since we have been in front of a laird.”

“I see. Me head guard told me ye have something of ours, but ye refused to give it to him.” Although he wasn’t young, Laird Macmillan spoke firmly.

Maxwell rose to retrieve the sack of jewels from Kenzie and placed it carefully in front of Laird Macmillan. Then again, he crouched.

“Where did ye find this?” The laird asked with suspicion in his voice.

“Our paths crossed with that of the thieves, and they attacked us. This is what we took from them along with the information that they belonged to ye from the last one of them.” Maxwell replied immediately as Laird Macmillan handed the bag to his head guard.

“So ye want me to believe that ye found this many jewels, and ye returned it without taking anything?” Maxwell did not need to raise his head at Laird Macmillan to know he was sneering. “That seems a little far-fetched.”

“Me men and I never take things that do nae belong to us. We each have our honor as a man and as a group.” Maxwell said proudly, trying to convince the man.

“And I say ye lie.” Laird Macmillan stepped up to Maxwell, who rose back to his feet, towering over Laird Macmillan.

“Maxwell Murphy, was that nae what ye told me guard? I say ye were the ones that stole it in the first place.”

“If we were, then why would we return with it?” Maxwell was caught off-guard by Laird Macmillan’s faithless reasoning, but he knew he had to control his irritation.

“Our items are marked. Nae merchants would be stupid enough to buy marked items even if they would be sold overseas. Ye couldnae dump them; they would have nae meaning to anyone that finds it. Even if ye had told me ye accidentally found this, I wouldnae have believed ye. Ye could’ve tooled some of it and planned to return the rest for reward money, from what I can see. Yer plan is to rub us twice! “Laird Macmillan’s words stiffened the guards around him, and they slowly gathered into an attacking formation behind him.

Before Maxwell could say a word, Eon spoke up, “Perhaps the thieves had taken a little out of it; we wouldnae ken. We did notice some were marked, but we have nae gone through the whole bag. We have only returned yer items to ye, and we will nae stand here and be insulted!” Eon stepped forward, and the rest of the scouts joined.

“If ye can nae be grateful, that is fine, but do nae insult us any longer lest we lose our temper.” He continued angrily.

Laird Macmillan scoffed, stepping in front of Eon. “Watch how ye speak to me, lad. I am Laird Macmillan of-”

“We frankly do nae care who ye are. Ye are nae our leader, and we will nae let ye speak to him like that. Ye have yer jewels. We will be taking our leave now.” Kenzie cut Laird Macmillan off before turning towards their horses, leaving Maxwell still in front of Laird Macmillan.

Maxwell gave a deep bow to Laird Macmillan. “Forgive me men. If ye won’t have us, then we must leave.” Speaking with a dampened spirit, Maxwell gently raised his head and began to turn away.

Unblinking, arms folded, and legs spread, Laird Macmillan spoke again, “Nae, nae. Nae so fast.” As he started to talk, the guards moved past him and towards the paused Maxwell.

“Ye stole from me, and when ye have taken what ye need, ye return the branded ones to me. Ye are still thieves. Ye disrespect me, calling me out to see ye and even insult me to me face. Do ye think I will simply let ye go that easily? Without producing what ye have stolen?”

“Me laird, ye have nae proof that we are actually the thieves who stole from ye, and I can nae tell if yer rash conclusions are due to yer anger or yer frustration. I had a feeling ye might act this way. If ye arrest us, ye can nae hold us fer long and I will nae let ye insult me or me men…” Maxwell said as the guards in the yard started to circle him, and his men with spears pointed with intent.

Laird Macmillan cut in before he could finish, “Oh, we will just have to see about that, won’t we?” Laird Macmillan turned to head guard.

“Seize them and throw them in the dungeons. I will address their punishments when I am ready.” He said dismissively.

Maxwell looked at his men. They looked back, awaiting an order to attack. But Maxwell laid down his sword, and so did they, albeit begrudgingly.

He was starting to feel afraid of what was to become of his band, but one thing was sure; they would find a way out.

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Prologue

19^th October 1579

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Ralf McAlpine paced outside of his wife’s bedchamber, listening to her screams tear the wooden door and echo down the stone corridor. A deep pain-filled moan followed the scream, accompanied by a whimpering in broken English, “I will surely perish.”

Hearing his wife’s proclamation, Ralf barged through the door and stood glaring at the midwife. “She will nae die, nor the bairn, do ye hear me, witch!” he shouted in the elder woman’s face. “She dies, then so shall ye.”

The midwife’s face blanched white in fear, but she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath to steady herself. “If my lady does survive, she will nae e’er be able tae bear another bairn, or she and the bairn will indeed die.”

Ralf stifled a roar, clenching his teeth. “Then ye had better pray that it is a son.” Turning, he moved to stand beside the fireplace, opting not to leave the room again. Whatever was to happen, he would be there to witness it. The smell of blood and shite filled the air nearly making him lose his wame. He was all too familiar with the smells of battle and slaughter, but this was different. Fear clutched at his heart. He fisted his hands so tightly that his knuckles popped and turned white.

His concern was not born out of love for his wife, as much as it was for what might become of his progeny. As he stood brooding, staring into the flames, he reflected upon how he had come to be in such a miserable state. His father had arranged the marriage, much to Ralf’s objections, to a wealthy young noblewoman from Luxembourg. It was not a usual match for a highland laird, but the clan needed money and the young woman’s family was anxious to have her wed. Anna Maria Weiss was a plain, pious woman who wanted nothing more than to become a nun. She had managed to chase away all other suitors with her proclamations that she was already married to God. Her family, growing desperate, sent her to live with an aunt and uncle in Scotland, in hopes that they might have better fortune in finding a suitable husband. In the end, she had been bartered like cattle in a business arrangement between two greedy men: Ralf’s father, and Anna Maria’s uncle. Ralf, disappointed in being bound to such a pitiful creature, had treated her very poorly as a matter of angry rebellion from day one of their forced marriage. Anna Maria suffered many miscarriages since then, and he knew without a doubt that this bairn was their last hope for a legitimate heir.

He was not certain how much time passed, it felt as if it had taken a great many hours, but after much screaming, a series of prayers to God, and exhaustive pushing, his wife finally collapsed against the pillows, spent. An infant’s wail broke the momentary stillness, and Ralf let out the breath that he had been holding. “Thanks be tae God,” he murmured as he came forward eagerly. “What is it?”

The midwife looked up at Ralf with somber eyes. “’Tis a lass, my laird. Ye have a bonnie wee daughter.”

Ralf’s heart stopped in his chest with a resounding thud of desolation before it began racing once more in fury. “I should have gone tae Edinburgh tae see the king take his rightful place upon the throne,” he announced, hoping to cause his wife as much pain as her failure to produce an heir had caused him, then turned and left the room. Out in the hall, he slammed his fist into the stone wall until a servant came scurrying from one of the nearby rooms to see what was happening.

“My laird,” a quiet feminine voice inquired, concerned, “is all well?”

Ralf, too heartbroken and angry for words, simply grabbed the young woman by the arm and hauled her back into the room that she had been cleaning. Throwing her onto the bed, he proceeded to lose himself inside of her in a blind fury. When he was done, having poured all his anger and grief into the poor lass, he arose, straightened his kilt, and glowered down at her. “Dinnae lay with any other man until ye have had yer courses. If ye come with bairn, ye will tell me immediately. Do ye ken what it is I am commandin’ ye?”

The young woman nodded in teary silence. Ralf glared at her until she found her voice. “Aye, my laird.”

Nodding, Ralf left the room and returned to his wife’s bedchamber. From the look on her face, he knew that she had heard the entire exchange. He stood staring down at her, sighing in resignation. “Ye have what ye have always wanted, wife. I will nae lay with ye e’er again.”

Anna Maria nodded, a look of serenity passing over her features. “Thank you, husband.”

Turning his gaze to the child at her breast, he grunted. “What have ye chosen tae name her?”

“Amelia,” she answered with a gentle smile at the child, “after the saint from my own land.”

Ralf grunted in disapproval but said nothing. He would allow it. Though she had failed to give him a son, she had at long last given him a living child, and for that he supposed he owed her some small courtesy. “Amelia, then.” Nodding, he turned and left the room, not bothering to return.

25^th July, 1603

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Ralf McAlpine sat upon the raised dais within the hall of his highland stronghold, covered in blood and scowled in thought. The hall was festooned in decorations. Laughter accompanied by lively music filled the air, as the people under his care celebrated the ascension of the Scottish King James VI to the English throne as James I. A shouted toast went up from one of the men among the crowd, “The bitch English Queen Elizabeth Tudor is dead! Long live the King!”

A chorus of agreement followed, “Long live the King!” Ale cups were raised and downed in copious amounts by nearly all in attendance, except for the laird’s guards, who had to remain vigilant.

Instead of raising his own cup, Ralf continued to scowl in disapproval at his only child, Amelia. Even the lauded Virgin Queen has a male heir who shares her blood tae take the throne. All I have is a paltry lass who does nae command respect o’ any man. He and the other fighting men of the clan had returned from a skirmish along their borders with a raiding party. With rapidly declining health robbing him of his once commanding vigor, the enemies had already begun closing in.

He knew that any opportunity to create a legitimate male heir to protect the clan had long since passed. If he were being honest with himself, the chance of ever making an heir had met its end long before his wife had gone to be with God. They had not lain together for many years before her passing, while he had attempted to pup half the young lassies in the clan. Sighing, he belatedly lifted his cup and downed the ale within so as to calm the questioning glances he was receiving from his personal guard. Waving his hand, he summoned the clanswoman waiting with the pitcher to refill his cup.

“’Twas a good victory, my laird,” she praised him.

Grunting in disgust, he gulped down another cup of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if to wipe away the memories with it. “More,” he commanded the clanswoman, and she obeyed.

“Is aught amiss, my laird?” his daughter’s guardsman Lucas McAlpine, inquired having seen the daggers of disapproval emanating from Ralf’s eyes toward Amelia.

“I should have had a son,” Ralf grumbled, piercing Lucas with a look that disallowed any form of argument. Lucas wisely chose not to reply. He heard it many times before, especially when Ralf was in his cups.

Ralf sat in stony silence, thinking about what to do. I could wed the lass tae one o’ the clan’s men. He looked at the marriageable men around the room, weighing the abilities of each one as a future leader. In his opinion, any man who was not himself would fall short. Snorting at the thought, he shook his head and attempted to consider each one with as open a mind as he could manage. It was not his strength. He tended to judge a person’s worth rather quickly and, once his mind was set, he seldom changed it. They were fighting men to be sure, skilled with the sword and bow, but not as skilled at diplomacy. He needed someone who could wield his brain as well as he wielded a blade. There was also the problem of an arranged marriage. He and his wife had suffered greatly because of just such an arrangement, and as rough a man as he was, he was not so heartless as to wish such misery on his own daughter. He loved her in his own way, and he did provide for her, but he did not respect her as a woman enough to make her his sole heir. She is a lass, and lassies cannae lead armies in tae battle. She must wed a warrior, and I will make her husband the laird when I am gone, and my grandson will be laird after that. There is nae other way tae secure the clan’s safety and see tae it that my line continues.

He thought over his plan for a time, considering all the possible factors and when he was satisfied that it was the best way, the only way, to move forward, he nodded and relaxed a bit more into his chair. He downed another cup of ale and grunted in satisfaction. Now, all he needed to do was tell Amelia. The slight smile that had begun to form on his face vanished into a frown. The lass will nae take the news well at all, but she will have nae choice in the matter. Not in any hurry to have such a negative discussion and bring about what he considered to be the shrill displeasure of a woman’s angry protests, he determined to put off the discussion until a later time. Perhaps on my death bed, he mused to himself with some small amount of humor at the thought of what his last words might be. Nae, he shook his head. It must be soon, afore ‘tis tae late tae enforce it. I will nae have my will overruled once I am gone. She will need tae wed afore I am tae meet my maker or there will be nae but conflict and chaos within the clan. I will nae have that as my legacy. Amelia will simply be forced tae accept her fate. For if she does nae, the clan will surely meet its end.

Chapter One

19th December 1603

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Amelia McAlpine stared down at her father’s wizened gray face in disbelief. Surely, he had not said what she thought. “Faither?” she questioned, hoping her ears would hear something different the second time.

“Ye heard me, lass. Ye must wed, and ‘twill be yer husband who is laird, nae ye,” the laird repeated. “There is nae time tae wait any longer. Ye must choose a man tae wed that can lead this clan when I am gone, or I will choose one for ye. Ye must wed with all due haste, Amelia, afore ‘tis tae late and ye lose yer place. I want it tae be my grandson that is laird someday, nae the devil spawn o’ that theivin’ Michael Rossell.”

In battle, Michael Rossell was a neighboring laird whose father had stolen MacAilpein land from Amelia’s grandfather, Charles. The bastard born son of a Russell chieftain, Michael’s father, Hugh, had left the clan lands at Aberdeenshire, taken the old French name of de Rosel for himself and merged it with the more recent Russell spelling, and moved further west to claim territory in Argyll by any means necessary—including deception and bloodshed. Amelia’s grandfather had never gotten over it and instilled a great hatred for the Rossell family into his son, Ralf. Ralf, in turn, became such a fierce warrior and inspired terror into the hearts of all who attempted to cross him. It was this fear that had kept them safe for now, but that time was coming to a close.

“Ye ken that he is just waitin’ for me tae die, so that he can take advantage o’ ye bein’ nae but a weak lass who cannae defend her people. Ye need a warrior tae protect ye and the clan.”

A flash of hurt and anger filled Amelia’s breast, but she tamped it down. Her father had been nothing but terrible to her mother all their married lives. It should come as no surprise to her that he would continue the legacy by underestimating her at every turn. He knew naught of the person she was or the warrior’s heart that lay within. Instead, she asked, “How long have ye been plannin’ this?”

“Since our own King James was made king o’ England.”

Amelia nodded her head. He had taken a decided turn for the worse after that night of celebrations and had never fully recovered. “And ye say ‘tis my choice who tae wed?”

“Aye.” Her father nodded his head, then coughed, the motion sending shudders through his body. It would not be long now. “Ye must choose a man and quickly, lass. I have given ye the gift o’ choice, a gift yer maither and I ne’er had, but it is a brief gift that if not acted upon will result in a similar fate for yerself and some other man o’ my choosing.” He caught her hand in his and held her eyes for a moment. “Ye must choose a fightin’ man, lass, for only a cleverly brutal man will be able tae save ye.”

Amelia, angry and unsettled, pulled her hand free. Turning away from the bed, she left her father’s bedchamber and descended the stairs to the great hall. The castle was abuzz with preparations for the coming Yuletide. The castle servants and clans people worked with anticipation of the festivities preparing all manner of food and cleaning every corner of the castle. It was a time of joy that brought a little warmth to the cold winter months. Entering the kitchen, she was greeted by the castle’s jovial cook, Maggie. Maggie had been a Campbell by birth but had fallen in love with a MacAilpein warrior and as a result, had spent most of her adult life working for Amelia’s father. She had been somewhat of a substitute mother for Amelia since Anna Maria’s passing.

“Och, there ye are, lass. I was beginnin’ tae think that ye had changed yer mind about goin’.” Maggie bustled over to Amelia with a basket filled with food. “I ken yer faither does nae approve o’ ye visitin’ the prison, but he did nae forbid ye, did he?”

“Nae, he did nae forbid me.” Amelia shook her head. Maggie’s husband had been arrested and died in prison for a crime that he had not committed. In his memory, Maggie and Amelia had gone at Yuletide over the years since his death to visit the Edinburgh prison to comfort any Highlanders that might be held there.

“I dinnae care about the English prisoners, ye ken, but I will nae have a good Highland man suffer any longer in this cold weather than is needed,” Maggie declared, straightening her dress. She grabbed her cloak from the wall and wrapped it around her ample girth. Amelia followed suit and donned her own cloak. Baskets in hand, and Amelia’s guardsman Lucas on their heels, the two women made their way to the stables.

The clan’s priest, Father Jacob, greeted them at the stable doors. “’Tis a fine mornin’ for it,” he called out with a smile.

Lucas scowled in disapproval of their errand, but Amelia and Maggie nodded in agreement. “’Tis indeed, Faither,” Maggie replied, allowing the priest to take her basket. “My apologies for keepin’ ye waitin’.”

“Och, think nothing o’ it.” The priest waved her concerns away as he helped her up onto the waiting horse.

“’Twas my fault, Faither,” Amelia admitted, accepting Lucas’ hand up onto her favorite highland pony. “I was visiting with the laird.”

Father Jacob nodded his head gravely. “’Tis sorry I am for the laird’s ill health. He is e’er in my prayers.”

“And mine.” Amelia nodded in acknowledgment, not quite able to bring herself to speak further on the matter. Everything her father said was still playing havoc with her emotions and she was doing her best not to cry or start yelling out her frustrations.

Once they were all mounted and out upon the road, Father Jacob pulled his horse up beside Amelia’s and met her gaze. “Tell me what it is that troubles ye so, lass. I can see it in yer eyes that ye are greatly displeased. Is there something more with yer faither?”

Amelia looked around her at her fellow riding companions and could see in their eyes that they all wished to know the answer to the priest’s question. All except for Lucas who already knew having been present in the room at the time. “Faither has decided that I am tae wed and has chosen tae leave the clan tae my future husband, and nae tae me.”

Maggie frowned but nodded. She was not at all surprised, having known the laird a very long time. “I was afeared he would make such demands o’ ye.”

“Who has he chosen for ye, lass?” Father Jacob asked kindly, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on her arm.

“He is allowing me tae choose, but only if I do so with all haste. If I delay in any way, he will make the choice for me.” Amelia nearly choked on the words. Either way, she was going to be forced into a loveless marriage of convenience just as her mother had been. Her heart ached at the thought.

“That is good.” The priest nodded. “Most generous o’ him, I would say, as many faithers would nae be so thoughtful.”

Amelia sighed knowing that he was right. “I ken that, but it does nae make it any less difficult to bear.”

“Do ye have a lad in mind?” Maggie asked, a glint of the matchmaker coming out in her eyes and tone.

“Nae, I dinnae,” Amelia answered, shaking her head regretfully. She had never felt anything more than a sense of family loyalty to any of the men within the clan. It would have been easier had she at least been attracted to one of them. “Please keep this tae yerselves. I dinnae want every unwed man in the clan attemptin’ tae win my hand by some foolish attempt at bravery or worse.”

“Aye,” they all agreed, nodding. It was not hard for them to imagine just how terribly such a scene could go. It was a thing such as this that could tear the clan apart if not handled properly.

“Perhaps someone from another clan?” Maggie offered helpfully. “I was a Campbell, ye ken, when I wed my dear Fergus.”

Amelia smiled warmly at the older woman but shook her head. “Nae, I have nae attachments tae any lad from any clan.”

Lucas snorted. “And a good thing tae. We cannae have another clan comin’ in and takin’ everythin’ that we have worked for.”

Maggie frowned and swatted Lucas’ arm for the insult. “Haud yer wheesht, man, ye dinnae ken what ye speak.”

“Lucas has a point, Maggie. Nae every highlander would be as loving and loyal tae our clan as ye have been,” Amelia remarked. “The same could be said o’ marryin’ within the clan; however, as there are many who would take advantage o’ the power afforded the laird. We dinnae have time for infighting while we sort ourselves out, men competing for my hand. Any sign o’ weakness and Michael Rossell will be at our gates with an army.”

The group fell silent in thought, each attempting to come up with a solution to the problem that would be best for the clan and for Amelia as well. None of them wanted to see her endure the same sorrow that her mother had endured. “Who could ye wed that would be the least risk tae ye and the clan?” Maggie finally pondered aloud. “Could ye lie and say ye were wed?”

Father Jacob grunted in disapproval. “You would risk her immortal soul?”

“Nae, I would nae.” Maggie shook her head sheepishly. “Forgive me, Faither, for speaking it.”

The priest nodded and made the sign of the cross. “Even if ye did attempt such a lie, I would nae be able tae lie. ’Twould be I who performed the ceremony, ye ken.”

“Aye.” Maggie nodded, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment at the thought of asking a priest to lie.

“It cannae be a lowlander. ‘Twould hardly be better than a sassenach,” he bit out this last with a tone of disgust. While much of lowland Scotland had converted to Protestantism, Catholicism still had a stronghold in the highlands. To have a Protestant laird was unfathomable to the guardsman’s staunchly Catholic heart.

“Aye, agreed.” Father Jacob nodded emphatically.

“I would never wed either a lowlander or a sassenach. I will wed a highlander or nae man at all,” Amelia reassured them.

The group once more nodded in unison, glad to at least have that small assurance. As they rode along, they went through the list of unwed men within the clan. Some were too mean or abusive to even be considered as candidates, but most were simply either too old, too young, or lacked the leadership skills required to be laird. The clan had some very good warriors, but not all warriors were meant to be leaders. Leadership took a special kind of mental strength, a ruthlessness against one’s enemies combined with a compassion for humanity, in general, that was difficult to master, along with a strategic mind and fortitude of spirit that would outlast all of mankind and nature who might try and tear them down. Not all lairds had these qualities, but Amelia knew her father expected her to choose the very best man for the position.

They stopped overnight at a roadside inn where the two women shared a room, with the priest in the room next door. Lucas slept in the hallway outside of Amelia’s room as was his duty. Amelia did not envy him such an uncomfortable position, but should anything happen to her on the journey, her father would have the guardsman killed. “Edinburgh will be somewhat different without the king in residence, I should think,” she mused as the women settled into bed for the night.

“I expect it will be little changed. The king does nae affect the daily life o’ folks much, ye ken,” Maggie replied, her features already relaxing into sleep. Each year the ride was getting harder for the older woman. Soon she would not be able to make the trip at all. The laird was displeased to be without his cook so close to Yuletide, but Fergus had been a good warrior and so he let Maggie go to honor her husband’s memory. It took them about two days of hard riding to get to Edinburgh, they would stay a day to visit the prison, then ride the two days back, arriving back at the castle just in time to put the final arrangements together for the festivities.

“’Tis nae much like havin’ a laird then is it,” Amelia observed.

“In some ways it is, but ye are right. In many ways, a laird does much more for his people than a king, but dinnae let the king’s men hear ye say it. The king needs the lairds, he kens that well enough I would suppose, but the lairds need the king too. ‘Tis he that protects us from the English.”

Amelia understood that, but she could not help wondering about how the king being the ruler of both Scotland and England, would affect his loyalties towards his own people. “Let us pray that he loves his Scottish subjects as much as a laird loves his own clan.”

“Aye,” Maggie murmured, then drifted off to sleep leaving Amelia alone with her thoughts.

She had been giving a great deal of thought to the responsibilities of leaders in all their many forms of late. Since her father’s ailing health had taken a steep turn for the worse, she had been studying and preparing to take her place as lairdess. Her father’s announcement before she departed that morning came as quite a shock in some ways, but not so much in the fact that she knew her father did not respect her abilities. He considered her to be too tenderhearted and compassionate for the role. Her father also did not believe that women should be in positions of power over men. She had sat through more than one tirade of his complaining about the Scottish and English cousin queens. He staunchly believed that all difficulties would have been solved had both parties been men.

Amelia just as staunchly disagreed citing all the many kings who had failed to achieve peace between the two kingdoms; however, her father saw King James as proof of his beliefs coming to fruition. Amelia argued that such a pass was more an issue of blood than sex. Her father had argued that a king would not have remained a virgin and risked the throne as the English queen had, but he conceded that such actions had led to the combining of crowns and kingdoms when James became king. No matter how many times they discussed the subject, Amelia had never been able to change her father’s mind toward women leaders.

Amelia spent a restless night tossing and turning, thinking of what she would do in response to her father’s demands. She knew that the clan needed protection from Michael Rossell and his men, but at what personal cost to her? She feared the worst. Come the dawn, she had very little sleep but arose and prepared herself the best that she could for the day ahead. When they arrived in Edinburgh, they first stopped at the prison so that Father Jacob might arrange their visit on the morrow with the warden, then retired to a nearby inn for the night. Once again Maggie fell asleep quickly leaving Amelia alone with her thoughts. Exhausted beyond measure, Amelia fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of abusive husbands and enemies at the gates.

Chapter Two

When morning arrived once more, Amelia arose and put on the nice clothes that she brought to bring some cheer to the prisoners. “Ye look like a right lady, lass.” Maggie beamed with pride. “Those lads will think an angel has come tae visit.”

Amelia smiled and kissed the older woman on the cheek. “Are ye well?” she inquired, worrying about the older woman’s emotions on such a difficult day of remembrance. The prison was the last place she had ever laid eyes upon her husband.

“Aye, lass. Fergus is nae here, ye ken. He is in a far better place now.”

The two women exchanged a warm reassuring smile, then left the room to meet Lucas and Father Jacob in the hallway. They went down to the tavern below, broke the fast, then walked the short distance to the prison. The Old Tolbooth Prison was well known for its mistreatment of prisoners. The men within lived in terrible conditions, many becoming quite ill, if not dead. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, had ordered the old building to be repaired, but that had not alleviated the suffering from within. As they passed St. Giles’ Cathedral, Amelia said a prayer for the poor doomed men.

Passing through the gates, Lucas spat upon the threshold, eyeing the guards with suspicion. The guards did nothing. Amelia was not certain whether it was Father Jacob’s presence that kept them safe, or whether the guards truly cared not what they did. Once they reached the interior, the warden came out to greet them. “Father.” He nodded to the priest. “Lady McAlpine, it is good tae see ye once again. Ye are a bright light tae my year.” He bowed over her hand. The warden was a man that Amelia had never quite been able to figure out. She had heard of the cruel things done within the prison, had seen some of the effects in the prisoners, and yet he had always treated her with the utmost courtesy. She assumed that it was her station as a Scottish lady that earned her such regard compared to the thieves and murderers that he was used to dealing with, but she could not help wondering if his courtesy was genuine or all an act. She could not fathom a man who could do what he did to his fellow men, no matter how low they might be, and still have any kind of a soul remaining to him.

Removing her hand from his grasp, Amelia acknowledged his greeting with as much charm as she could manage given the way he made her skin crawl. “I am pleased tae be o’ service. Might we deliver our gifts o’ food and cheer tae the prisoners now?”

“Aye, o’ course.” The warden nodded and motioned for two of his guards to accompany them. “My men will see that ye are unharmed.”

“Our thanks.” Amelia nodded in gratitude, then turned away from him as quickly as courtesy would allow. She did not like visiting the prison, but she knew how much it meant to Maggie, so she put on her most lady like face and walked into the darkened corridor ahead.

The guard led them down the length of one stone corridor, descended a set of stairs, down to another. When they reached the desired level, the guards unlocked the door and stepped inside, bellowing for the prisoners to get in line and to behave themselves. The corridor filled with the sounds of men groaning and coughing, as well as the occasional clinking of chains. The men gathered at the doors to their cells, too many men to a room for any comfort to be had. The air smelled of fetid flesh and putrid waste. It was enough to make a person gag, but Amelia somehow managed to hold on to the contents of her stomach. Every year the smell was intolerable, no matter how many times she had requested that the warden do something about it. Maggie and Father Jacob entered the first cell, while Amelia and Lucas went on to the next one passing out bannocks and small bags of oats. Most of the prisoners were Lowlanders, some Borderers, with the occasional Englishman.

“Have ye any highlanders here?” Amelia asked, not wanting to neglect one of her own kind.

“Aye, we have one, but he is a murderer and is certain tae be hanged,” the guard assigned to them answered. “A fine lady such as yerself does nae need tae be concerned with the likes o’ him.”

“Nevertheless,” Amelia replied sternly, “I wish tae see him.” She knew that it was important to Maggie to tend to any Highland prisoners, and Amelia preferred that it be she who faced a murderer and not her elder clanswoman.

“I dinnae like this, lass,” Lucas protested at her side.

“All will be well, Lucas. Fear nae. I have ye tae protect me, do I nae?”

“Aye, ye ken that ye do, but I still dinnae like it,” Lucas grumbled. “If he lays a hand on ye, he will nae need a noose.” His hand reached for the blade at his belt to punctuate the threat.

Amelia reached out a hand to steady her clansman. “There will be nae need for violence.” Standing to her full height, Amelia nodded for the guard to open the cell door. What she saw within, she would never forget. The man had been poorly treated, beaten, bruised, bloodied, dirty and stinking, but in spite of all of that, the man stood tall towering over her, a fierce pride emanating from bright blue eyes peering out at her behind filthy blond strands of hair. The man was taller than most, slender of form due to the poor nutrition of his current home but had somehow managed to remain well-muscled. His features were strong, chiseled, firm. Even in the disgusting environs to which he had been condemned, he was stunningly handsome. There was an air of danger to the man to be certain, but that only added to his charisma. Amelia took a step forward and handed the man a bannock.

“They say that ye are a highlander?” she asked.

“Aye.” The man nodded in confirmation.

“What is yer name?” she asked, intrigued by him.

“Who wishes tae ken it?” he inquired, causing the guard to bark at him to answer.

Amelia ignored the guard and answered, “My name is Amelia McAlpine. I am the daughter o’ Laird McAlpine.”

“A lady, is it?” the man noted, eyeing her up and down. “Well, aren’t I the lucky lad?” He chuckled at her mockingly with an edge of salaciousness to his manner. Bowing with the smooth lines and gestures of a practiced gentleman, he introduced himself, “Cameron Kyall, my lady, but you may call me Ron.” The familiar air in which he spoke to her made Amelia feel most uncomfortable, while her pulse quickened in excitement.

Blushing, Amelia attempted to hold herself together. Standing ramrod straight, her brow furrowed in question. “Kyall? That is a lass’ name. I dinnae ken any clan o’ such a surname.”

“’Tis my maither’s name. She belonged tae the Clan Cameron. I have nae clan o’ my own.”

“A bastard,” Lucus grunted under his breath.

“Aye.” Ron nodded. “Do ye have a problem with that, big man? Though I dinnae ken what business it is o’ yers.”

The men stood eyeing each other as if sizing up for a fight. As tall as the Highland prisoner was, Lucas was even taller and more broadly built. His red hair and beard glowing like the very flames of hell in comparison to the younger man’s pitifully unkempt state. Concerned, Amelia stepped between them. The last thing that she needed was for her guardsman, and captain of the clan’s fighters, to be imprisoned for killing an already condemned man.

Turning to the guard, Amelia asked, “Who is this man accused o’ murdering?”

“His own mother,” the guard answered spitting at the prisoner’s feet, “and for the attempted murder o’ a laird.”

“Which laird?”

“That is nae o’ yer affair,” the prisoner ground out. “And I did nae kill my maither!”

Amelia stood staring at him for a moment and found that she believed him. “Which laird?” she asked again.

“Rossell,” the guard answered.

“Michael Rossell?”

“Aye, that would be the one,” the guard nodded.

In that instant, the spark of an idea flared within Amelia’s mind. “He is condemned to hang for his crimes? There is nae chance o’ a reprieve?

“He will hang as surely as I am standin’ here,” the guard assured her.

Turning back toward the prisoner, Amelia took a step forward and met his blue eyes head-on. “Ron,” she began using his chosen moniker, “how would you like to marry me?” A stunned grunt sounded from behind her, and a second later, Lucas had ahold of her arm and was physically hauling her out of the prison cell.

“Have ye lost yer mind, lass?” he practically roared as he hauled her down the corridor. “Offerin’ yer hand tae a murderer? I have ne’er seen the like.”

At hearing Lucas’ protestations, Father Jacob and Maggie came running out of the next cell. “What did ye just bellow?” Maggie asked, out of breath.

“This numpty just offered her hand in marriage to a condemned murderer,” Lucas informed them still yelling in anger and astonishment.

“Ye did nae, lass? Tell me it is nae so,” Maggie exclaimed, taking Amelia’s hand in hers.

“Aye, I did,” Amelia confirmed, but before she could open her mouth to explain further the little group of people had her out of the prison, across the street, and back at the inn pushing food and ale upon her as if she had fallen prey to a bout of lunacy brought on by malnutrition. Finally, Amelia had had enough, and she stood up forcefully from where they had placed her on a bench at a side table. “Enough! I am nae hungry, thirsty, or mad. What we need is a man who will keep Michael Rossell and his warriors at bay. Ron Kyall is the perfect man. The reputation of such a violent man would keep our enemies at bay and he will be executed soon, so there is nae risk o’ him e’er comin’ and leadin’ the clan. In every way that matters, I would be laird, and all would be forced tae accept it.”

Lucas shook his head. “’Twould ne’er work, lass. Yer faither would nae allow ye tae wed a condemned maither murderer, e’en if the lad did try tae kill his mortal enemy.”

“I dinnae believe that he killed his own maither. You can see it in his eyes that he was nae lyin’ about that,” Amelia argued.

“Yer faither would ne’er allow it,” he repeated firmly shaking his head.

“Aye, I ken yer faither well, lass, and Lucas is right. The laird would nae allow it,” Father Jacob confirmed, giving Amelia a pitying look. It was clear that he thought she had succumbed to hysterics.

Amelia growled low in her throat, “Faither need nae ken the truth o’ it. We could say that I married an army captain instead and that he is away tae the Americas for a time. Such a lie would stand until Faither…” She stopped speaking, unable to say the actual words.

“Until His Lairdship dies,” Maggie finished for her shaking her head in sympathy.

“Aye,” Amelia nodded, swallowing the tears that threatened to overtake her. “Then I would be free tae do as I wish concerning the truth o’ the matter. Ron Kyall could be wielded as a weapon against Rossell, his violent reputation against all other enemies, and nae one would e’er need tae ken that he had died until it was tae late tae do anythin’ about it. It would give me a chance tae show that I can lead the clan without question.”

“And if the clan disagrees?” Lucas asked, not yelling this time, but his voice was still quite gruff.

Amelia sighed and sank back down onto the bench. “Then I will marry another man and produce an heir.”

If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Chapter 1

The noise of the tavern thundered in his ears as Flynn dropped his empty cup on the wooden table. The taste of ale lingered in his throat as he peeked at the cards in his hands. It wasn’t looking good. The game of Maw was one with many rules, but it was a game that Flynn McGhee was familiar with and one that he had become good at winning.

“How’s it looking?” Adam asked from beside him. His best friend was always looking out for him, but he was still in the card game too, which made him an opponent.

Flynn glanced at his cards before speaking. “It’s all right.”

He was lying, of course, but his friend didn’t need to know that yet. Flynn narrowed his dark eyes. It wasn’t looking like he was going to win, but he didn’t want to be the first to lose.

“Are ye sure about that?” Adam cast him another glance of concern. “This is nae the kind of game that ye want to lose.”

“If ye talk about the ‘Lady With Nay Name’ again, I swear…” Flynn’s voice trailed off as he chuckled and shook his head. “I dinnae believe that she could be so bad.”

“I dinnae think that ye understand,” Adam sighed while rubbing his eyes. He had always been a good friend to him. “Ye should never accept contracts from her. She makes our kind do the most awful things.”

Our kind. Flynn hated how his friend referred to them as though they were some other kind of species. They were sell-swords or mercenaries; the term differed depending on the passersby where they looked for work. Despite the loud chorus of voices coming from the tavern, Flynn still cringed at the volume that his friend spoke at. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of what they had to do to stay alive, but he was ashamed of the way that Adam talked about them as though they were below everyone else.

He was aware of the way that some of the locals would stare at them in the tavern. They were the group mercenaries that wore dark clothes and gathered in the corners like insects. As long as they brought no trouble to the establishments, they were able to stay—as though it were some kind of unwritten agreement between them and the landlord.

“Aye, the Lady With Nay Name is nae someone ye want to work with,” one of the other men playing the card game sniffed. “That’s why nobody wants to lose.”

Flynn’s eyes glanced back to his cards. There were five trick cards within the pile, and a player would need three to win. They’d been playing for over an hour, but Flynn had yet to pick one up. With each round, he knew that his chances of avoiding being the first to lose were getting slimmer.

“She is a wealthy woman, and any one of us would be a fool to refuse the sums that she hands out to do her bidding,” another man said. He was much older than the rest of them, with white speckles in his beard and cracked lines across his weathered skin. The man was missing a few teeth, and yet he was still playing the game with the intention of finding work afterward.

“She is nothing but an old wives tale,” Flynn muttered as he took another card from the pile. This time, he wasn’t able to hide his disappointment at the card he’d drawn.

“A wives tale that ye might be meeting soon, lad,” the old man chuckled as he waited for Adam to take his turn. His friend cast him a worried look, but Flynn still wasn’t concerned. He needed work, and he was starting to need work a lot more than before. Flynn didn’t feel that he was in the position to be picky over what jobs he took.

“I’m nae a lad anymore. I’ve done things for a few coins that I’m nae exactly proud of,” Flynn grumbled as he watched the game continue to unfold.

“And ye would be willing to kill women and children if this woman asked ye?” one of the men asked.

Flynn had already received the same talk from Adam before they’d decided to enter the game. He didn’t like the sound of it, but he’d been confident in his chances that he wouldn’t be the first one to lose. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she asked him to kill someone innocent; it would be a decision that he wouldn’t be able to take as lightly as he would if it were a man who had wronged another man.

“We kill people for a living,” Flynn answered, leaving his words to be interpreted as the others at the table wanted to.

They continued with the game. Their cups of ale were refilled and drained as the stack of cards also dwindled in size. There was a point when silence descended on the table, and each of the men looked up from their cards. Flynn swallowed thickly while rolling his shoulders back. His dark hair was stuck to his forehead due to the heat of the filled room, but he wasn’t going to show his discomfort to his fellow sell-swords.

He swallowed thickly, the ale making his head buzz and stomach bloat, but he was still trying to keep his mind sharp. Adam was shuffling in his seat and making no attempt to keep his composure, but the nervous glances that he shot at Flynn were beginning to grate on him.

“I’ve got one trick card,” the old man sighed after understanding what the silence meant.

“I’ve got one too,” the other man said while laying his cards down.

“Me too.”

All eyes darted between Adam and Flynn, the final two to reveal their cards, but Flynn already understood the outcome.

“I suppose that means that I win,” Adam said while breathing out a sigh of relief. A smile ghosted over his lips for just a moment before it disappeared as his eyes met his friend’s.

“And then that means…” the older man’s voice trailed off as the realization spread like an infectious disease over the table. Flynn clenched his jaw and kept his eyes on the table. He didn’t like the attention, and he didn’t like the way that they were all looking at him.

“Ye dinnae have to dae this,” Adam turned to his friend as the other men started to gather up the cards.

“I really dinnae think that I have that kind of choice,” Flynn laughed it off. “I have to follow the rules of the game. We knew what we were getting into.”

“Aye, but if ye leave now, then I can hold them off,” Adam started, but his friend held up his hand.

“I’m nae running,” he said while shaking his head. “Adam, I need work. I need this job. Even if it’s nae going to be pretty, I dinnae have much of a choice.”

“What about going back to an old client? Surely someone must need other work soon and—”

“I told ye what happened with the last people. It’s…complicated, and they are nae too pleased with me. I really dinnae have the luxury to be choosing these days.”

In his mind, he had already made the decision that he would be taking the work, but he knew that it wasn’t going to be a popular decision with his friend.

“Ye see that man over there?” one of the men pointed over his shoulder. Flynn followed the man’s finger until he saw the hooded figure standing by the exit of the tavern. He quickly tried to hide the grimace that sprung to his face instinctively. Even if he didn’t want to do the job, the hooded man would not allow the loser to leave without taking the contract. “He’s got the note from the lady with him.”

Flynn could feel the attention return to him as he rose from the table; the last thing that he wanted to show was any fear in front of the other men.

“Flynn…”
“It’s all right, Adam,” he said as his friend stood up next to him. “It’s honestly all right.”

Adam pursed his lips before nodding finally, although Flynn could still see that he wasn’t happy about it.

He turned back to the hooded figure, took a quick deep breath, and started across the tavern. The room was filled with men and women laughing and drinking. Music was playing from one corner, and Flynn slipped effortlessly through the crowd without being noticed. He made his way over to the figure, his nerves rising as he let his hand hover over the handle of his sword.

“Ye work for the Lady With Nay Name?” Flynn asked after clearing his throat.

The figure finally turned to him, although he kept his head down, the shadow of his hood obscuring his features from view. Flynn tried to peer closer, but it was no use.

“She has a job for me?” he continued speaking, not liking the silence that came as a response.

Instead, the figure dug into his pocket with a dark, gloved hand and pulled out a pouch of money. Flynn felt his breath rise and hitch in his throat as he examined the bag of gold that the man held out to him. He took the pouch with some hesitation, for it came with a letter that he was a lot less inclined to look at.

“This is the job?”

The man nodded but said nothing.

“And if I dinnae want to do it?”

Flynn stared up at the figure as he pushed his cloak aside to reveal his sword. Flynn didn’t need the man to speak to understand that he really didn’t have a choice anymore. With a huff, he turned his attention to the piece of sealed parchment that was in his hand. With some slight reluctance, he opened it and started to read through the instructions.

At first, his eyebrows were knitted in concentration as he deciphered the cursive words on the parchment. However, his eyes quickly widened as the realization of what he had to do hit him.

Chapter 2

Leah walked through the town with purpose. Her green eyes were narrowed as she made sure to get to her destination without dawdling or taking any detours. She was determined to get the yeast that her mother had asked for, and she knew that she had to do it quickly, while she still had the courage to do so.

The baker was a tough man to negotiate with, but Leah knew he could be persuaded. She bit her lip and pulled her curls back so that they were out of the way. Her dark hair complimented her green eyes like a forest tree.

The town was bustling with people. It was market day for the local farmers, a good time to sell their produce of the week. But Leah knew that she and her mother wouldn’t be able to treat themselves from the contents of the stalls; they would be living on the bread that her mother would make.

As soon as the baker saw her, his pink face fell, and he shook his head quickly. The customer in front of Leah was just leaving, and Leah stepped up to the counter with a rather sheepish smile on her features.

“Nay,” he said simply.

“Ye have nae even heard what I have to say!” Leah said with a groan.

“I dinnae have to hear what ye have to say. The answer is nay, unless ye can pay for it right here and now.”

Leah could feel the heat rise in her cheeks, but she ignored it and clenched her fists.

“I just need some yeast. My mother and I can—”

“I’m nae getting into another one of yer negotiations, Leah,” the baker sighed and rubbed his face. “Ye and yer mother already have debts with me that ye are yet to pay off.”

“I ken, but we’re waiting for some money from a wealthy woman to come in,” Leah quickly said. “She is paying us for the seamstress work that we’ve already done. We just have to wait for the money to come in, but—”

“It’s nae happening!” the baker shouted.

Leah suddenly felt very small as she stood on the other side of the counter. She was hungry, her mother was hungry, and she felt like a fool for not fighting for what she needed.

“Ye have my word. I promise ye that I will pay as soon as—”

“Ye want me to trust ye?” the baker scoffed as he shook his head. “Ye think that the word of a bastard means anything to me?”

Leah stopped her pleas and stared at the man as her mouth closed. She could feel the lump in her throat forming, but she didn’t want the man to see her cry. Instead, she channeled how she was feeling into a glare while clenching her fists.
“Get out of my shop!” he said, watching as Leah’s eyes widened, and she swallowed thickly. She knew that there was nothing more she could do or say that would help her cause, and so Leah turned on her heels and headed for the door.

She put the hood of her cloak up as she stepped out into the cool morning air, not wanting to invite the attention of passersby who might wonder why she was causing a scene in the bakery.

Leah walked through the rest of the town on her way home with her head down. She was dreading having to tell her mother that they weren’t going to have good bread for their meal. All she had needed was the yeast, and she had been willing to pay him back as soon as she had the money.

She winced at the thought of how he’d shouted at her in front of other customers. Even people out on the streets had heard him.

She wished that there was another baker in town who was unaware of her past and would simply smile as she entered the shop and comply with her requests.

Leah felt foolish for even thinking that the baker would take pity on her and give her the yeast. However, she was also concerned as to how her mother would react to this. Sometimes her mother would tell her that it didn’t matter, that they could manage without whatever she had failed to bring. Yet other times, it was as though Leah’s words would trigger a storm within her.

She tried to push the dread away as it rose up within her and simply continue on her journey home—her arms much lighter than she had been anticipating.

The rest of the walk went by in a blur. Leah didn’t look at the townspeople around her and, instead, just stared down at the ground. Their house was a little farther out, but she still arrived back too quickly for her liking.

“Did ye get the yeast?” The sound of her mother’s voice as Leah stepped into their small house filled her with dread. She didn’t want to talk about it, but she knew that her mother was bound to push at learning why she hadn’t succeeded in getting it.

“Nay.” Leah shook her head and wiped her eyes. She winced, knowing that her mother would detect the way that her eyes were red and puffy.

“What did he have to say this time?” her mother, Rosie, asked in a softer voice.

“He did nae want to loan us anything else, even though I promised that we would pay him as soon as the money came in. But he…he said that he does nae trust someone like me.”

Leah knew that she didn’t have to say it for her mother to understand. Rosie’s face was a picture of realization as she nodded slowly.

“That baker has always been a petty man. He refuses to see any further than his own large belly. There is nay way that he would show compassion,” Rosie murmured while turning back to the dough on the worktop.

They would be having flatbread. Again.

Without the yeast, the bread didn’t rise and, therefore, didn’t reap enough to last for as long as she knew that her mother would have liked. She ignored her mother’s futile attempts at hiding her disappointment and instead turned back to the various sewing tasks that she still had to complete that day.
“It’s fine,” her mother said, but the tone of her voice sounded strained. Leah knew that she didn’t want to have to say those words. Her mother’s lips were pursed, and she braced herself. “We can find a way manage without his yeast…again.”

She did her best to ignore the comment, but Leah knew that it was all her fault. Her mother’s words were like tiny sharp points that cut into her resolve, whether she meant it to or not.

Leah could feel tears rising up again as she tried to push her feelings away. The last thing that she wanted was for her mother to see how much the situation really affected her.

If she was being honest with herself, Leah was tired of having to tolerate how the people in the town treated her and her mother. She was looked at by those who knew their history as though she were nothing more than a pariah. Her mother had given birth to her outside of wedlock. Leah never had a chance to meet her father, who had been involved in a passionate affair with her mother before he disappeared. Rosie didn’t talk openly about the subject, and Leah had worked for years to pry any detail that she could from her.

“We could always move to a new town,” Leah suggested as she stared down at the work table. She knew her mother’s answer before she could speak the words.

“What about the business?”

The seamstress business was starting to provide them with a bit more money, but Leah didn’t feel as though it was reason enough to stay.

“We can pick it up in a new location,” Leah said with a shrug.

“This property belonged to my family. I cannae just leave it,” Rosie said after a long pause.

“But we can take the business with us. We’re able to work, and we could start again somewhere where nobody would ken who we are,” Leah said while looking up from the table.

“Leah,” Rosie sighed as her shoulders sagged.

“Nobody would have to ken that ye were nae married when ye had me. We could make up a white lie about who my father was and why he is nae around. We would nay longer have to dread walking into town with the feeling that the people around us dinnae like us all the time,” she continued.

“Stop this nonsense now,” her mother said. “We’re nae leaving my family’s house, and we’re nae going to move to another town. We have work here, and that’s all that ye should focus on for now.”

“It’s hard to work for the same people that hate me,” Leah murmured.

“They dinnae hate ye. I just think that they dinnae understand,” Rosie’s voice was softer as she spoke to her daughter.

“They would nae have to understand if my father was here. Nobody would talk to us the way that the baker spoke to me today,” Leah said back to her mother.

Rosie was silent for a moment as she narrowed her eyes. Leah knew that she had perhaps overstepped with her words.

“Will ye go and wash yer hands so that we can have some food?” Rosie murmured as she quickly got to work in the kitchen.

Leah remained where she was by the worktable for a moment before leaving the room, her anger still built up within her. All she wished for was that she could speak to her father just once. All she wanted was the answers that her mother would not give her.

She wondered who he was, what he was doing at that very moment. Leah knew that he wasn’t worried about them, because if that was the case, she assumed that he would be there at their sides. Instead, they were left alone. But Leah’s mother had insisted that it wasn’t his fault. She’d told her that they’d been separated for another reason. Yet that still didn’t make it any easier on Leah, for the identity of her father was still a mystery to her, and she had no idea how she was going to learn more about him.

Part of her longed for a time when he would come back—that one day there would be a knock at the door, and the entirety of her past would be revealed to her. She often wondered if he would become curious and seek her out. But Leah tried to banish those thoughts quickly from her mind whenever they arose. They had plagued her ever since she was a child, and now that she was an adult, she knew that she was going to have to move on with her life.

Her father wasn’t coming for them. She was never going to learn about who he was, not ever, and there was nothing she could do about it.

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Prologue

Paxton, Scotland

1492

The south wind buffeted the crow’s wings, carrying the salt-white scent of the sea, and the sickly-sour stench of blood and flesh. Sailing sideways on bent wings, the crow spied a field of green littered with ants. The sound of clashing iron swords and guttural screaming identified them as men. Carnage littered the verdant field, and many of the crow’s brothers and sisters were already picking on tasty treats.

Making up its clever mind, the crow landed on a severed head and picked at the wide, sky-filled eyes.

Kiethen McCaslin, only fifteen and fighting for his birthright, watched the murder of crows descend on the battlefield. Standard in one hand and his sword in the other, he sliced through the legs of his opponent. Only this was not like the practice yard where wood clashed with wood and the only injury would be to your ego.

His friends lay dead at his feet, and his father, Laird Seamus McCaslin, was losing ground. All around him was death and destruction, but more so, he saw the English overwhelm his clan’s forces. There was only one explanation for it.

They had been betrayed.

Aid from the McRae clan never materialized. North of the field, where their soldiers were supposed to join them earlier in the day, had remained empty, providing the English an opening from whence to attack. They had slipped through the gap like a sharp blade and sliced at their flanks.

Grunting with effort, Kiethen lifted his sword, parried, lifted, sliced, till he felt like a giant arm, at one with the sword, his body following each swing as he alternated between attacking and defending. As he fought, he kept a close eye on his father who fought with the same zeal and passion. Blood and mud splattered his clothes, filled his mouth till he tasted nothing else. The iron zing of it had settled into his teeth. He plunged the standard into the ground and picked up an abandoned shield.

He glanced at his father who punched a man then rushed at another, slicing his sword upwards and through the man’s belly. Proud of his father and laird, Kiethen took strength and charged. Knowing his father had not given up allowed him the strength to continue despite his aching limbs and weary heart.

His uncle, Callum McCaslin, was fighting not far off, leading a cohort of men on horses, trying to outflank the English. But they were like the plague of locusts sent to the pharaohs of old. Chop one down, and another would sprout up in his place.

Keithen’s attention was diverted as the next Englishman came at him suddenly, seeming larger as he approached him at high speeds. Kiethen felt the impact of his blows hammer through the shield and up to his arm. He dug his heels in and stood his ground, pulling at the last of his strength. Ducking sideways, he dodged the blow. His assailant lost his footing as his sword swung forward but met no target. At the same time, Kiethen plunged his sword forward, slicing through chain armor and into the man’s side. The horror in the man’s face was enough to tell Kiethen he had hit the mark.

Standing up, covered in gore and viscera, Kiethen beamed at his father. His smile faltered and fell. Laird Seamus McCaslin had his sword raised above his head, his expression fierce and foreboding as he faced their enemy and traitor Alistair McRae. His wide movement left his back too open, however, and he was not guarded enough on this bloody battlefield. An ill-fated spear from a soldier who had been watching, waiting for his perfect moment, sailed through the air and sliced through him. Laird McCaslin fell to his knees, holding the spear that had impaled his chest even as McRae smiled evilly and melted into the crowd of men.

The world fell away. There were no longer people around him, the sky was not present, and the earth did not hold them down any longer. All that existed was the knowledge that his father was dying before his eyes, and all was lost.

Kiethen ran as fast as his laden legs would carry him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Callum and the host of horsemen overwhelmed and subdued by the English. He saw them taking his uncle away, but his need to be with his father was so great that it did not register as important to him at the moment. Stumbling over a corpse he did not stop to examine, he cut up his cheek on a fallen blade. Not caring about the raw sting of pain or the free flow of hot blood down his jaw and neck, Kiethen got up and rushed forward till he was by his father’s side.

Laird Seamus McCaslin was on his back, his legs tucked under him. Kiethen had never seen his father from this vantage point. He had only ever looked up at his towering mass. The blue of his eyes was bright with pain. The spear had splintered when he had fallen down. Both hands held the shaft so tight his knuckles were white. Using all his strength, Kiethen watched as his father pulled the broken spear out of him, the muscles on his neck standing out from the effort.

“Kiethen!” he growled, his blood-smeared hands clasping at Kiethen’s shaking ones. “My boy! Ye must away from here. There is naught but death and carnage. Bring back reinforcements. Bring Damon and Steven! Where is Callum?”

“Damon and Steven are dead, Da,” Kiethen said. “They died fighting for ye. Uncle Callum’s been captured.”

“Brave men,” Seamus said through gritted teeth. “My brave men. Each man is worth a hundred Englishmen. Nae let anyone ever forget their sacrifice.”

“We willnae forget, and we willnae forgive.” His face darkened. “The McRae will pay for their betrayal.”

Laird Seamus McCaslin spat in disgust. “I should have ken better than to trust Alistair McRae. He always was a shifty bastard.”

“We will avenge our losses together, Da,” Kiethen promised.

“Nae, son,” Laird Seamus said. “I will nae live to see the sun set on this wretched day.”

Kiethen wanted to deny these words. He hoped that his refusal to accept the truth would change the reality of his father bleeding out on the green grass of his family lands. Laird Seamus must have read the emotions on his face because he held a hand up to Kiethen’s lips.

“There’s nae use denying it, lad. I die defending my clan’s honor and my lands. ‘Tis there a better death? But ye must live. The only hope clan McCaslin now has is ye living to take revenge. When Alistair is drunk on his success and sure of nae McCaslin left to challenge him, then ye will strike him down in the name of yer father and all the McCaslins that have laid their lives down today.”

Before he could respond, rough hands grasped him around the shoulder. Kiethen snarled and struggled. He looked up to see English soldiers, their red coats bright and gay against the backdrop of desolation.

“Unhand me!” Kiethen growled.

One of the soldiers took Kiethen’s face roughly by the hair and pulled it, forcing his head up. “He’s the son of the laird. Take him in. Captain Wellington wants him alive.”

“Nae!” Kiethen resisted and was smacked across the head with the hilt of a sword for his trouble. Ears ringing and stars blooming before his eyes, Kiethen struggled to make it back to his father. But the hands on him were dragging him further and further away. All he could see was his father’s reaching, blood-soaked hand. Kiethen reached for him. “I promise, father!” he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth. “I promise I will avenge thee!”

As they dragged him away, Kiethen saw his father’s reaching hand fall to the ground. And that moment crystalized in his memory as one he would never forget. Neither would he forget his promise.

The land would wait for him. And Kiethen McCaslin would be back to reclaim what was his.

Chapter One

Paxton, Scotland

1505

Dragonflies flitted over the water of the Plumb Burn. Yellow buttercups romanced the bees, and the daisies winked back at the sun. It was a peaceful afternoon. Underneath the willow sat Catriona Findley. Legs bare up to her knees, she was splashing her feet in the water and eating apples. There were never enough hours in the day to just sit down and enjoy the splendid beauty around her. But once in a while, Catriona managed to steal away an hour just for herself.

Sighing in ecstasy, Cat bit into a sweet, crisp apple and tilted her head back, eyes closed, to savor both the apple and the sun. Their village was scenic and full of great potential that could ensure a successful populace. However, her people were only allowed to view the splendidness of the village and not partake of it. They had all lived in servitude to the English for fifteen years, so everything that they saw belonged to the English.

Most of the families in her village survived on farming, and they would have been thriving if not for the fact that eighty percent of everything they harvested was sent to the English. Those who refused and tried to fight back had long since been sent to the coal mines to work, with the lives of their families in the village held in the balance.

The idea was that since they were so strong that they thought they could fight back, then they should use their strength to mine coal. The hours were long, and the work was bad for the health. In a way, it was a similar punishment to death. The punishment was the same for those who tried to hunt without the permission of the lord overseeing them.

The animals in the forest were considered to belong to the lord, so only his men were allowed to hunt. When his friends from England came, they would hunt with him for sport. Being caught in the forest attempting to hunt could lead to being sent to the mines immediately. The people were, as such, struggling in the midst of plenty.

They lived off whatever they could keep after Lord Wardlow collected his share for the English. There were times once a month when he would visit the village with a large pig and butcher it, giving the villagers the blood and meat and reminding them to be grateful as they were receiving sustenance out of his mercy.

It was in fact his way of ensuring that they stayed just on the brink of death without actually dying since they were still his workforce. The apple Catriona was eating was a guilty pleasure she had procured from the tree growing in their neighbor’s yard. All produce was usually guarded carefully, as Wardlow’s share must always be complete, but she took from them as she knew they usually did the same when their produce was short.

“If ye eat with yer eyes closed ye will nae catch the worms inside,” a voice suddenly came from above her.

Cat’s eyes flew open. Her brother Graham was grinning down at her with that stupid smile of his. Red curls glowing like a halo around his handsome face, green eyes sparkling brighter than any jewel, at nineteen Graham was a handsome boy, and when he was not teasing her to distraction, he was her closest friend.

Plopping down on the grass beside her, he took an apple from her lap and bit in. “Did ye steal these from the Clark orchard?” he asked, mentioning what she had just been thinking about.

“Borrowed,” Catriona said and chuckled. She could not help it. Graham always managed to make her laugh no matter how difficult the day had been. “Just like Mary Clark borrowed our plums last month when the collectors came for their produce.”

“How neighborly of the both of ye,” Graham said, taking another large bite out of his apple. “If ye can, borrow some fishing nets the next time yer down by their farm. I’d be much obliged.”

“Ye ken it does nae work that way.” Cat laughed. “Ye were supposed to chop wood for the fire. Are ye done so soon?”

“Nae,” Graham said, shaking his head and throwing the apple core into the burn. Cat watched as the core bobbed on the water, going downstream to meet up with the River Tweed. She wondered if a worm really was living in that core if it would make it to the English side of the river. “Ma sent me to look for ye,” Graham said, interrupting her thoughts.

“What?” Cat got up in a flash. “Why did nae ye say that first? She must be steaming at the ears because of the delay.”

“At ye, perhaps. She’s never angry with me.” He flashed her his charming smile, and though she wanted to slap him on the back of the head she could not help but smile.

It was true. Graham got away with a lot more than Cat did. At twenty-three, Cat handled most of the housework as well as looking after their cows and the small patch of vegetables in their backyard. Graham was given the responsibility of the wheat field and cutting wood, and even those he did with a laissez-faire attitude. But he always got away with it, not because he was spoiled or threw tantrums after, but because he had been only six when their father had been killed.

Catriona did not know why this was so. She had been ten that horrific day when news of the Battle on Paxton Green had come. Their father, Laird Garret Findley, had gathered all his clansmen and gone to answer Laird McCaslin’s call to arms. He had never made it back. Magda Findley had waited with her two children in their castle in Hutton till the news had arrived. And soon after that had come the horde of McRae men. They had kicked them out of their castle, calling them betrayers of the English, and burnt their home to the ground.

They had never returned, not even to look at the ruins.

Graham had been denied all of this and his birthright because of Alistair McRae, Viscount of Wardlow, the man who had betrayed all of the clans only for his own interest. He was the most reviled man in the country, but he was also the most powerful. No one could do anything about it. The man did as he pleased.

And Catriona was certain that Magda was looking for her because Lord Wardlow had something to do with it.

She ran back, skirts slightly raised, the grass tickling her bare ankles. Graham was behind her walking at a leisurely pace. They had been granted a cottage in Paxton, but it was a flimsy grant. An ax always hung above their heads that their home might be taken away. But that was how most of the families in Paxton lived. In their hearts they were burning the candle for Laird Seamus’s son, feeding it with the hope of his return.

Catriona wished for no such savior. All she wished for was a quiet life with her mother and brother and nothing else. She wanted them to prosper on their little piece of land.

A ten-minute walk from the burn, Bailey Cottage was a pretty affair. One side was completely overrun with Warwickshire rose. The pretty lilac-colored flowers had a heady scent that attracted bees and fueled Cat’s desire to start a honey business. Their mother was in the yard whacking a stick to the hearth rug. Cat instantly knew something was on her mind. The only time the rug came out for a good whack was when Magda was especially annoyed.

“Everything alright, Ma?” she asked, vaguely aware of her brother finally catching up to her.

Magda did not stop pounding at the rug. She only stopped long enough to tilt her head towards the house. Cat did not want to go in. She was sure it was something absolutely horrible. Graham sauntered into the yard, picked up his ax, and began chopping up wood.

Seeing no point in dragging the inevitable any further, Cat walked inside their small cottage. The front room and the kitchen had no wall between them; the only thing marking a partition was a large table that was used for everything, be it meals, prayers, chopping vegetables, or sewing and mending clothes. At the moment it held a large basket full of fresh fruit, churned butter, and a slab of meat decorated with rosemary, and on the chair, draped to its best advantage, was a wine-colored dress.

“Gifts from Lord Wardlow.” Magda walked into the cottage like the wind and placed the rug before the hearth. Picking up a spoon from the table, she stirred the contents of the pot on the fire. “He has requested yer presence at dinner tonight.”

For a moment Catriona just stood there, staring at the unwanted presents. Indeed this was the case. Her family was a bit different from the rest in terms of how they survived. They were a former noble family, and as such, they did not have a farm like the rest. Yet they managed, as Wardlow had gifted them the land with their house and a single fruit tree. And for their food, he provided for them amply.

Wardlow had begun doing this frequently ever since he took a shine to her after her breasts began to blossom. They did not ever talk about it then, but even her brother, who was much younger then, noticed that the way Wardlow looked at her was impure. He had once told her that the way Wardlow looked at her was like he wanted to eat her. It had taken a while to convince him that she would not be eaten. Her mother, who had previously been in a position where she had to beg their neighbors for work so that she could get a piece of bread to feed them, accepted Wardlow’s gifts with a grimace as she had no choice.

After the gifts, came the invitations to the castle. She had been going since she was sixteen years old. Wardlow did not touch her back then, but he had been grooming her to become his perfect mistress. He had brought in an English governess who taught her the ways of a proper English noble lady. She was made to read many books and learn how to manage a noble household. She was also forced to crotchet, paint, and knit, as those were fair pastimes for a lady. At least once every month she would be called to the castle, and as the years went by, her brother became increasingly upset by it.

At first she had thought it was because she could not spend time playing with him on those days and he just missed her. However, when he was fourteen and her eighteen, they no longer spent time playing, so it was obvious that he was only annoyed that she was being forced to visit Wardlow. It was also around that time that her lessons were no longer the reason she was summoned, but instead, it became the norm for her to accompany Wardlow.

He would have her follow him just to watch him ride his horse or have her sit beside him as his mistress when he had his English acquaintances visit him. His gifts became more frequent, and he expressed to her mother his wish to marry her. She had cried for days when the proposal came, and her brother had run away for the first time, not coming back for the whole day until evening when their mother went out to look for him. After that, they never spoke about it again.

She continued to receive invites to the castle, and they continued to receive gifts. They all ignored the pending issue of her marriage and pretended it did not exist while she did her best to avoid Wardlow’s advances. In this way, two years had passed, and she was still ignoring Wardlow’s marriage proposal. It was easy to ignore since he had just expressed his interest in marrying her but did not enforce it. Instead, he was trying to convince her to want to marry him.

“I do nae want to go.” Cat stepped away from the dress and the gifts. Nothing he did could make her want to marry him. It was her mother who continued to entertain his requests, as his interest in her was likely the only thing keeping their family from suffering.

“Ye can nae refuse, and ye ken it,” Magda said, adding more salt to the stew. “Wear the dress. Graham will take ye on the cart.”

“I said I will nae go!” Cat stomped her foot on the floor. The chopping of wood outside had stopped, so she knew that her brother was listening in. She felt like such a brat, throwing a tantrum when he could hear, but she could not help it. It was an evening visit…those were the worst of all. She had to be more vigilant, as a bit of ale or a mistake on her part could be the unfortunate event that will lead to Wardlow forcefully taking her.

Magda slammed the spoon down on the table, hard. “Ye want to defy him and bring his wrath down on us? Ye ken better than anybody that we do nae have the luxury to refuse Lord Wardlow. He is the only thing keeping us from homelessness and starvation.” Her mother shouted even though she was trembling. The chopping sound started again with a vengeance. It sounded as though Graham was trying to kill the wood.

There were tears in her mother’s fierce green eyes, and Cat noted how the silver lines in her red hair had increased tenfold. She was not an old woman, Magda Findley, but she had aged quickly. The death of a husband, the loss of a castle, and all her wealth, with two children to protect and care for, would do that to you. Magda was nothing if not a survivor. And even this anger was not meant for Cat; she knew that. It was meant for Lord Wardlow and the unfair circumstances she found herself in.

Cat wished she could help her mother out of these worries and anxieties. She wished to comb the grey out of her mother’s hair and smooth the lines on her beautiful face. So, without letting the disgust show on her face, she picked up the dress and felt its smooth fabric. It was rich silk, and expensive, but the cut was too tight and too low. It was humiliation stitched with fabric.

The desire to rip the dress up with her bare hands gripped her, but just as suddenly, it deflated. What would be the point of such a display? Lord Wardlow had them between a rock and a hard place, and he was grinding them down every chance he got.

“I ken ‘tis naught what ye want, and I wish I could tell that man nae,” Magda said, her tone deflated. Cat saw her mother hold the back of a chair for support. “I wish I could wear that dress and keep the wolf from our door. But if ye do nae go tonight they will come for Graham. Then they will take me, and then ye will still have to do what he wants.”

“I ken, Ma. I am sorry. I understand.”

It was the constant boot at their necks that made Cat’s blood boil, but the years had made her resilient. She could recall vividly, to the last detail, the last time she had seen her father. Laird Garret Findley, atop his bay horse, auburn hair tied by a leather strap. She could still see his warm smile and the wink he gave her before departing for battle. He had been her protector, the man who made her feel nothing in the world could ever harm her.

Now, she had only herself to rely on. And she knew how to protect herself, even from the likes of Lord Wardlow. She did as she was told, getting on the cart and ignoring the obvious tension in the air from her brother’s anger. This was the only thing that caused a strain in their relationship. As he grew older, he got more and more opposed to her relationship with Wardlow, and she knew that one day he would not stay quiet any more. She could not think about his feelings in that moment, however; she had to worry about herself.

Chapter Two

London, England

1505

A light rain was falling. The cobbled street had puddles in which street urchins plonked stones. The one to create the biggest splash won. Callum McCaslin watched them, distractedly. He was leaning against the wall of the butcher shop outside the prison.

It was larger than the prison he had escaped from three years ago, but if it was anything like the one he had been kept in then he feared for his nephew. His mind went back in time to before the Battle of Paxton. Kiethen had been fifteen when he’d seen him last, and a handsome lad. He wondered what the prison had done to him.

In the prison he had been kept they had denied him food, deprived him of exercise in the yards, and humiliated him every chance they got. On a trek through some remote English town, while being transferred to another prison, Callum and a few others had taken their chance and run away. Callum did not know what had become of the others, but he had managed to get back to Scotland and found refuge with his old friend Laird Derek Munroe.

Since that day, he had worked hard to find where they had taken Kiethen and to gather funds to pay his bond and release him. And now he was waiting outside the prison to meet his nephew. It was important to him that the first face Kiethen saw on leaving the shackles of prison was of family.

Absently, he played with the ring in his jacket pocket. It was a beautiful ruby ring that had been the wedding ring of his late sister-in-law. The memories came in hard and fast. The first time he had seen Lady Fiona was a day before her wedding day. She had been radiant, her grey eyes like diamonds, and Callum had fallen in love. It was not a love a man has for a woman but the love a devotee has for a goddess. After Lady Fiona had married Laird Seamus McCaslin, Callum had been certain they had brought a deity home and the jealous eyes of destiny would be turning towards Paxton.

And they had. It was small things at first. After the birth of Kiethen, Fiona and Seamus had struggled to conceive another child. Then Fiona’s health had started to fail her. The clans had developed a strained relationship, especially the McRae’s. Alistair McRae had always been sketchy, but his jealousy of Seamus had become more obvious.

Then the English had declared Seamus unfit to rule his own lands on a trumped-up charge, and the war lines had been drawn. Callum remembered how frightened Fiona had been the days leading up to the battle. She had worried for Seamus, yes, but her terror had been reserved for Kiethen.

Poor Fiona, Callum thought. What had happened to her was unforgivable. They had ignored the threat that was Alistair McRae, and he had struck them like a viper in the grass. But Kiethen must never know of what had actually happened to Fiona. It would break the lad, and Callum was not sure how broken he already was.

A bitter smile crossed his face, and he ran a hand through his hair. A few strands came away, clinging to his fingers. They were more grey than black. Time and grief had done this to him. He hoped it had not done much worse to Kiethen.

Muddled in thoughts, it took him a moment to realize that the prison doors had suddenly opened, and a man had stepped out. Callum was taken aback by the size of him. He had expected a lanky youth with knobby knees, but before him stood a tall man, strong of build, and with a confidence he had seen in few.

If he did not look like the spit of Seamus McCaslin, he would have doubted that Kiethen stood before him. He was not sure what he was expecting, but it had not been this healthy, handsome lad.

“Kiethen?” he asked, his smile uncertain. The face was the same as Seamus, the dark hair as well, but the grey eyes were Fiona’s.

“Uncle Callum!” Kiethen grinned and hugged him.

Callum was stricken speechless. It was like he was embracing his own brother. Tears sprung into his eyes, and before he knew it, he was sobbing quietly on Kiethen’s shoulder.

“I ken, uncle. I ken.” Kiethen stepped back and took Callum’s face in his hands. Callum felt how rough and callused they were. But the intensity in Kiethen’s eyes captured his attention. “We will avenge them. I have nae forgotten my promise to Da. We will make Alistair McRae pay for what he’s done to us.”

Callum could feel the strength of his muscles underneath his hands, and the hope that had laid seed in him three years ago bloomed fully.

***

 Wardlow Castle, Paxton, Scotland

Catriona fidgeted uncomfortably in her gown. It was too tight and pushed up her breasts so they were more exposed than she was used to. The gown was provocative and fit her like a second skin. A quick glance in the mirror earlier at the house had provided a good picture of what she looked like. Her auburn curls had been tamed into a low bun on the base of her neck, and her green eyes were demure but bright. The freckles she had hoped for by spending her days in the sun had never materialized. Instead, she had a sun-kissed complexion that glowed even at night. Despite her best efforts she still looked beautiful.

She was loath to imagine what Lord Wardlow had in mind for the evening. But this was not her first time avoiding his lecherous designs. Borrowing a shawl from her mother, she had pinned it over her shoulders so it hid most of her torso.

Graham had accompanied her to the castle, but he was not allowed inside. He never was. It made him angry, Cat could tell, but just like Magda could not stop the baskets from arriving, and Cat could not refuse the invitation to the castle, similarly Graham could not show he was a hot-blooded youth with revolution and revenge in his heart.

The hall was a picture of decadence. Torches were lit around the corners, and lanterns were placed on every table. More food than the county had seen in the past two months was laid on tables, being picked at by Lord Wardlow’s English guests. Music played, wine flowed, and Lord Wardlow sat in the center of it all.

The pockmark scars on his face were more pronounced in the torchlight, and his brown teeth looked like wooden stakes. He finished his tankard of wine and smiled wolfishly at Cat who was playing with the food on her plate. She adjusted her shawl and concentrated on keeping her distance from Lord Wardlow.

There were other young women from the village at the party as well. Catriona recognized Mary Clark, Sherry McTavish, Analise Brown, and Bonny Gillies, each in a fine dress being wooed and pursued by the English guests. They were smiling and laughing, but their eyes had the same trapped misery that she felt. They were there to entertain the guests, like pretty butterflies caught to please their captors. Soon, their wings would deflate, and like the rotten boys that lived in the castle, they would rip the wings off for their own pleasures.

Catriona shuddered at the thought.

“Ye look beautiful tonight, Catriona,” Lord Wardlow said, then belched into his hand and rubbed his portly stomach. “But why have ye got that ugly shawl on?”

“‘Tis a bit chilly tonight, Lord Wardlow,” she said, smiling benignly.

“I can warm ye up, if ye like,” he said, placing a hand on her thigh.

Cat jumped out of her seat. The dress had kept his skin from touching her skin, but she still felt scalded. Bile rose up her throat. She wanted to slap Lord Wardlow, but she had no choice but to stay.

“I think I saw a rat!” she said, by way of explanation for her reaction. “I’ll get Jack to kill it.”

She rushed out of the main hall, climbed the stairs to the upper hall, and went to the only place where she felt safe in the castle. Out beyond the library that was seldom used by the lord was the stone garden. Carved statues of beautiful women were placed in various parts of the garden, amidst blooming flowers and perfectly manicured bushes and vines. The indigo sky was scattered with diamond stars, and an owl hooted somewhere in the night. Cat wished she was a bird so she could fly off the ramparts and go back home.

Removing a veil of evergreen climbers, she stepped into a small nook and sat down on the small shelf. It was her safe haven in the castle, where she usually ran to when she wanted to escape the eyes of Wardlow on the days when she had her lessons and was left alone to practice. Over the years, it had become the norm that she would escape to the small, hidden nook in the garden to while away time until it was reasonably late enough and she had an excuse to go home. Tears threatened to spill, but she held them back. There was no room in her life for tears. They had moved from their castle to the cottage, but she felt like she was still running, looking for a safe place, looking for the safe arms of her father telling her that everything would be alright.

Fear was like a pack of dogs harassing her and her family, biting at their heels, making them run forward even when they stood in place. Cat looked up at the sky and wondered if this would ever end. Since the age of ten she had worked her fingers to the bone, broken her back in the garden, and strived to protect her family. Now, she felt her strength failing her. Like this afternoon, she had wanted to give up and refuse the invitation. It was a moment of weakness, and a moment that had shown her true frustration with their current life.

More often than not, she had caught herself thinking of the River Tweed and the English side. It would be a matter of minutes to find a boatman to ferry them across. But what good would that do? Lord Wardlow was not a Scotsman. Not anymore. He was an English lord, the Viscount of Wardlow. He had brushed off his Scottish roots as so much lint off of his coat and adopted the English ways. Their traditions, their kilts, the bagpipes, everything had been ordered destroyed.

Pulling the shawl closer around her neck, she sat and waited for enough time to pass before she could go down and escape back home.

***

Paxton, Scotland

 The boat bobbed on the water. The sun was at its zenith, pouring buckets of warmth down on the land. Ahead were verdant green fields and babbling burns. Behind him was a country that knew only how to invade, capture, exploit, and dismember.

“Ye can get off now,” the boatman said. “‘Tis safe to do so.”

Kiethen stopped to sniff the air. It was clean and filled up his lungs. He looked at the grassy bank, and lifting one foot and then the other, he stepped back on his country’s soil. It must have been the pull of his motherland because he felt more grounded on that soil than he had in his thirteen years in England.

“Does McRae ken we’re coming?” Kiethen asked Callum.

“Nae.” Callum shook his head. “The letter informing him of yer release from jail would still be on its way. Another week or so till he kens of it. Then ye’ll have to worry about his suspicions.”

“So, we must act swiftly,” Kiethen said. “We must head into Paxton now and talk to the locals.”

Kiethen walked forward, but after a while, he noticed that his uncle had not followed him. He turned, confused, to see his uncle looking at him with deep concern and…was that fear? Concerned, Kiethen went to him. The man had aged drastically in the thirteen years, and though he had the wide bone structure of the McCaslins, he was a frail man. Kiethen feared for his health. Callum McCaslin was the only family he had. He could not risk losing him too.

“What is it, uncle? What is wrong?”

“Must we go there so soon?” Callum asked. “I do nae say this to discourage ye, nor am I saying I do nae support ye in yer cause. It is my cause too. I just fear that they will recognize ye if ye show yerself now.”

“Who will?” Kiethen asked.

“Alistair,” Callum said. “Yer the spit of Seamus. Even I recognized ye, and ye did nae have to say a word.”

“Alistair McRae will nae ride out of his castle to look at a new tenant in his lands,” Kiethen laughed. “And I might be the spit of Da, but I also am clean shaven. McRae only ever saw Da with a beard. Ye recognized me cause ye have seen Da without.”

“I still think we should go to the Munroe castle and seek help there,” Callum insisted.

“And be betrayed again?” Kiethen asked quietly.

He saw the color drain from his uncle’s face, and he felt terrible for making Callum uncomfortable. “The Munroes paid for yer bail. Why would they betray us?”

“I am nae saying the Munroes will betray us. I am saying I would nae trust anyone to fight my fight other than my own people. The Munroes have control of their lands, and their people are free. They do nae feel the keen bite of desperation and deprivation that clan McCaslin feel. If I go seeking help from others without gathering strength from my own clansmen, then I appear weak,” he said. He was also hesitant to ask for help because if the Munroe clan did help them, he would owe them a great deal, and it might end up being a debt he could not pay. The only thing he had at the moment was his freedom, and he did not want to let that go so easily.

Callum hesitated, and Kiethen could see his words had had some impact. In all the years he had spent in the prison in England he had not wasted a moment. The journey from Scotland to England was all he had allowed himself to grieve his father and his lost lands. Once he had arrived in London and been imprisoned, he had dried his tears and gotten to work.

There were three elements he had worked on: his body, his mind, and his promise. Though the goalers had tried their best to deprive him of food and any means of improving his mind, he had been lucky get thrown in the same cell as Blair Sheen. A quiet Irishman who had a mountain of books and wisdom, the man was imprisoned for owing too much money. Sheen had shared half his food with the starving young Kiethen, and all of his books.

Then he had found a master swordsman amongst the prison inmates. William Trent had more scars on his body than he had hair. Bald from head to toe and constantly lathered in a layer of sweat, Trent had first declined to engage in any form of combat till Kiethen had wagered his meals for two days if Trent managed to win from him.

Kiethen had lost.

Then he had wagered three days of meals. He had lost again.

The third time he had wagered that if Kiethen lost, Trent could have his meals for the rest of the month, but if Kiethen won, then Trent would have to teach him the way of the sword.

Confident, Kiethen had entered the circle of men, only to be defeated within five minutes. Kiethen had been disappointed by the defeat, but something in his dedication struck Trent. The cantankerous swordsman had agreed to teach him everything he knew.

As for his promise, Kiethen had kept track of everything Alistair McRae had been up to in the past thirteen years. Lord Wardlow might have forgotten young Kiethen, but Kiethen had not forgotten him. Every new inmate would be interrogated by him for any and all information on Lord Wardlow, or anyone who was associated with Wardlow. Slowly, Kiethen had built a plan in his head, and now it was time to execute it.

“Come, uncle. I have been away from my lands for thirteen years. Can we nae go visit? After that I will tell ye my plan, and if ye still object, I will go to Munroe Castle with ye.”

Callum chewed his bottom lip and looked undecided, but finally he nodded. Kiethen could understand his uncle’s fear. If Callum was all he had, then Kiethen was all Callum had, and he did not want him hurt or taken away.

“But we do nae announce ourselves, eh?” Callum said, raising a warning finger. “Nae gathering young men and enticing them against McRae. Nae yet. Wait till I talk to Munroe and gather more allies.”

“I promise,” Kiethen said. “But then ye have to promise me one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Take me to my mother’s grave.”

Callum looked stricken, but then his face softened. He looked at the ground and nodded. “Aye, I promise. I apologize. I forgot that ye had nae visited. Fiona would have… Let’s go.”

Kiethen followed his uncle, the cloud of grief following them, its oppressive presence a constant companion. Kiethen knew his uncle had revered his mother too. She had been like a mother, sister, and friend all rolled into one. It was famously said that Seamus had married a goddess, and Callum had been so smitten he had not thought of marrying himself.

Yet, Fiona, the morning star, had loved Seamus McCaslin with such intensity that the news of his death had struck a blow to her very soul. She had passed away within days of a broken heart. Kiethen had never heard of a love like that from anyone else and doubted he was capable of it himself. That’s what made his mother so special and a queen among women. He missed her terribly.

But now he was back he would restore the McCaslin seat and reclaim everything that had been taken from him. He was sure his parents looked down upon him from heaven, and it was his mission in life to make them proud.

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