Previews

Chapter 1

“He doesnae wish to eat, m’lord.”

Magnus let out a heavy sigh, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was nothing that he hadn’t heard before from his son’s governess, as he refused to eat more often than not, and no one, not even Magnus, could get through to him.

Ever since his wife had died, his son, Fergus, had turned from a cheerful, talkative little boy into a quiet, reserved child who wouldn’t listen to anyone. Sometimes, Magnus even wondered if anything that he told his son even registered in his brain, and if he was even paying any attention to him at all.

It was hard, Magnus couldn’t deny that. He also couldn’t deny that he was not the best father, perhaps, impatient and brash as he was. He knew how to be a father to his son; he didn’t know how to be a father to the child that his son had become.

“Then make him eat,” he told the governess, not even moving from where he sat behind his desk on his leather armchair. “I dinnae care if he wants to eat or not, it’s yer job to make him eat.”

“Aye, m’lord,” the governess said, giving him a small bow before she turned around to leave his study, only to bump into Fergus, who had sneaked into the room without being noticed.

He was good at sneaking into places, Magnus knew. In his five years in the world, he had had enough practice to remain unnoticed, and his small size only helped him, the colossal, mahogany furniture that were scattered around the study hiding him with ease.

“Ach, what are ye doin’ here, lad?” the governess asked Fergus, who simply looked at her without uttering a word.

Magnus took a deep breath before he stood up, deciding that perhaps he could try to get to his son one more time. It was his duty as his father, after all, but it also broke his heart to see his son like that.

Every time he tried to talk to him only to receive no answer, every time that he sat by his side only to have him look away, a part of his heart shattered. When Fergus had been born, Magnus had become the happiest man in the world, and the rush of love that he had for his son was unlike anything he had experienced. He loved his wife, of course; he loved her like a leaf loves the sun, and like a weary traveler loves a warm meal. He loved her completely and unconditionally, and when she died, she took a part of him with her.

Still, when Fergus was born, he loved him even more, despite never thinking that such a thing would even be possible. He had become his whole world, and he would do anything for that child.

That was why it hurt Magnus to see Fergus like that, and the fact that he didn’t know how to speak to him or how to make things better only made their relationship worse.

“Fergus,” Magnus said, as he crouched down next to his son. The boy didn’t even look at him, his gaze glued to the floor with his fingers wrapped around the fabric of his governess’ skirt. “Why dinnae ye wish to eat, lad?”

There was no reply from the boy; there never was. Times like those, Magnus thought that perhaps he should stop trying altogether, that there was no hope, no way to make Fergus speak to him. Even so, he couldn’t bring himself to give up, even if he knew that in the end, he would end up shouting at his own child.

“Ye must eat, Fergus,” Magnus continued, a hand coming up to rest on the boy’s shoulder. Only then did Fergus look at him, and for a moment, Magnus was filled with the hope that he would finally speak, that he would say something, anything.

He didn’t.

Fergus only shrugged Magnus’ hand off his shoulder, and then his gaze fell back onto the floor.

Magnus was already getting impatient. He stood once more, hands on his hips as he looked at Fergus with a disapproving frown on his face, one that the boy didn’t even notice.

“Ye’ll do as yer told, do ye understand?” Magnus asked, “Ye’ll eat everythin’ on yer plate, or else.”

Fergus looked at Magnus once more, then, still silent, and the look that he gave him was more hostile than Magnus would have thought a five-year-old boy could ever muster. Deep down, Magnus feared nothing more than the possibility that his own son despised him. He often wondered whether it would have been better for Fergus to lose him rather than his mother.

Would Fergus be happier if he had died instead of her? Would he be like he used to be, jovial and talkative, a boy full of life?

Magnus didn’t know, nor could he possibly ever find out.

“Damn ye, say somethin’!”

The governess gasped in shock at Magnus’ words, a hand coming up to cover her mouth as she looked at him with wide eyes. Magnus could only curse himself under his breath for losing his patience and for saying such cruel words to a child, but then he simply walked back to his chair, sitting down with a defeated sigh.

“Take him,” he told the woman, “Take him, and make sure that he eats somethin’. Anythin’ that he wants.”

The woman only nodded, before she took Fergus’ hand and led him out of the room, leaving Magnus alone to wallow in his self-hatred.

He wondered where he had gone wrong. Many boys grew up without their mothers, and they were perfectly fine, happy, and healthy. What was it that he had done wrong? What was it that drove Fergus to act in such a way?

Magnus let his head fall in his hands. He wished that he could stop the world, even for just one moment. He wished that he would have the time to breathe, to exist as something other than simply the Laird of his clan and Fergus’ father.

And then, he remembered that perhaps he had an excuse to do just that.

His gaze scanned the desk in front of him, searching for the letter that he had received earlier that day. He found it among the mess of other papers on his desk, cluttered as it was, and he straightened it out with his hand before he began to read it once more.

“Le Havre

2^nd of February, 1789

Dear Magnus,

 I’m writing to you from port Le Havre in France, hoping that this letter finds you well.

 It seems to me that my days are numbered. I have fallen ill while traveling, and I know that death is near. Don’t mourn for me, but raise a glass to my memory.

 I am loath to ask you, but I want you to visit my sister, Adelleine, in my hometown. I want you to see if she is doing well after my death.

I have no money to leave to her or my family, but what worries me the most is that I will not be there for her and the rest of my  cousins. All I am asking from you is to pay her a visit and see if she is alright.

I hope to live long enough to hear from you, old friend.

Your dear friend,

Jacob

When Magnus had first read the letter, he could hardly believe that Jacob was in the clutches of death. The man had always been so full of life, so eager to travel and experience everything and anything, and to hear that he would have an untimely death was something that had shaken Magnus to his core.

He couldn’t ignore his best friend’s last wish, of course. He couldn’t pretend like he never received the letter, like he never read the words that Jacob had written to him. After all, Jacob was like a brother to him, and so he couldn’t help but feel as though he had a responsibility towards his sister and the rest of his family.

He would take care of them, Magnus decided. He would take care of them in Jacob’s memory, even though he hadn’t asked him to do anything more than pay Adelleine a visit.

Magnus remembered Adelleine, or at least the stories that he had heard about her from Jacob, who loved nothing and no one more than his own family. He remembered spending night after night with him on the ship’s deck, a smuggled bottle of whiskey shared between the two of them as they exchanged stories about their hometowns until the crack of dawn.

It had been a long time since then, but the memories hadn’t faded from Magnus’ mind. A part of him still longed for that kind of life, the sea calling out to him whenever he saw the shore, but of course, it wasn’t a life that he could lead anymore.

He had responsibilities. He had his clan and his son, and he had to be there for them.

He could spare a few weeks away, though, he thought. He could travel to Jacob’s hometown, since he knew that it wasn’t too far from the castle, and he would be back within in a few weeks. Surely, the castle and the clan would manage just fine without him for a few weeks, and Fergus . . . well, Fergus didn’t seem to need him at all, regardless of whether he was there or not. His governess would take good care of him, Magnus knew, and the boy wouldn’t have to listen to his own father shouting at him for refusing to eat.

It seemed to Magnus that taking a break would be good for everyone.

Magnus spent the night preparing for the trip, and got little sleep. He was excited to leave the castle for a while, along with all of his worries and responsibilities, and the part of him that longed for adventure had awoken once more inside him, eager to explore.

At first, he didn’t want to take anyone with him. He didn’t need guards, he didn’t need company, and he certainly didn’t need anyone to save him from brigands or fight his battles for him. Even though he was the Laird of his clan, he hadn’t allowed himself to get soft at the edges; he could still fight, and he could fight well.

Then, just when he awoke the following morning, ready to begin his travels, his right-hand man burst into his room without even knocking, a disapproving frown on his face.

“What do ye think yer doin’, m’lord?” Hendry asked him, and the tone in his voice did nothing to make the use of the honorific sound genuine. “Are ye leavin’? All on yer own? Where are ye even goin’? Dinnae ye think that it would be better if ye had told me about this?”

“I didnae tell ye because I kent what ye’d say,” Magnus said, a hand coming up to rub the sleep off his eyes. It didn’t become a Laird, he thought, to be seen in such a state of disarray, with his hair sticking up from his head and his body covered only by his night garments, but Hendry had never cared about such things, often barging into rooms without announcing his presence first.

“Weel . . . if ye kent what I’d say, then ye must have kenned that I’d stop ye, too,” Hendry said, “I willnae allow ye to leave this castle unaccompanied.”

Magnus couldn’t help but scoff at that, shaking his head at the other man. “I am the Laird! I can do anythin’ that I want!”

“Hmm . . . let me think about it, m’lord,” Hendry said. His hand came up to scratch at his chin, the man mockingly deep in thought before he turned to look at Magnus once again. “I dinnae think so.”  Hendry said, and in that moment, Magnus couldn’t help but think just how much Hendry looked and sounded like his mother, who would scold him in a similar way when he was a child. The thought brought a small smile to his face as he looked at the other man, which seemed to infuriate him even more.

“What will it take for ye to stop yer whinin’?”

Hendry seemed to consider that for a moment, and Magnus could only hope for a compromise. “Yer takin’ six guards with ye, or yer nae goin’ anywhere,” Hendry said.

“Six?” Magnus asked, incredulous, “Why do I need six guards with me? I’ll take one.”

“Four.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Deal.”

Magnus didn’t want to push his luck, not with someone like Hendry. It wouldn’t surprise Magnus in the slightest if he looked behind his shoulder while traveling, only to see Hendry following him.

He hoped that taking three guards with him would stop him from worrying so much, at least. It was a compromise that he was willing to make if it meant that it would give Hendry some peace of mind.

It startled him when his door was flung open once more all of a sudden, and he looked up to see none other but his younger sister, Isla, her hands on her waist as she glared at him.

“Where do ye think yer goin’?” she asked.

“Does nay one ken how to knock in this castle?” Magnus asked, instead of answering his sister’s question, “I’m nae wearin’ any clothes!”

“Och, dinnae try to avoid me question!” she scolded him, “Where are ye goin’?”

Magnus explained the same thing that he had already explained to Hendry, weary and impatient. Just like Hendry, Isla didn’t seem to like the plan at all. Her brows furrowed in that way that reminded Magnus not only of their father, but also of himself, and that seemed to run in the family, disapproving and stern.

“What about Fergus?” Isla asked.

“Isla, get out of me chambers!” Magnus told her, sounding just like he used to when they were both children, bickering about everything and anything, “I’ll tell ye everythin’ when I’m dressed!”

With a scoff, Isla left the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Magnus didn’t have time to even sigh—in relief that Isla had left or in annoyance, he didn’t know—before Hendry brought up the very same subject that she had, much to Magnus’ chagrin.

“What about Fergus?” Hendry asked, “Will ye take him with ye?”

“Nay . . . nay, the road isnae a place for a wee bairn,” Magnus said. The truth was that he simply wanted to get away from that issue, too, but he was too embarrassed to admit something like that, even to Hendry, who knew all of his secrets. “He’ll be better off stayin’ here, in the castle.”

Hendry gave Magnus the kind of look that he couldn’t quite decipher, the kind of look that the man gave him every time Fergus was mentioned. Magnus supposed that Hendry blamed him for Fergus’ behaviour, just like everyone else in the castle. Then again, they were all right; he was the one who should be blamed, Magnus thought.

“Verra weel,” Hendry said, never one to argue with his Laird for such matters, “When will ye be leavin’?”

“Right the noo,” Magnus said, as he finally stood from his bed, before he began to rummage through the room, looking for the clothes that he had discarded the previous night, “The sooner I leave, the better.”

“Did I really have to find out about this from the housekeeper? Did Isla have to find out through her?” Hendry asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Magnus, “Ye couldnae have told us both that yer leavin’?”

“Och, Hendry . . . it’s only for a few weeks,” Magnus said, “I’ll be back before ye ken I was gone. I am only doin’ a favour for a friend.”

“Do ye mind sharin’?”

Magnus paused then, even as his trews were pulled only halfway up his legs, and he looked at Hendry. “Remember Jacob?” he asked, “He came to visit the castle several years ago.”

“Aye, I remember him,” Hendry said.

“Weel . . . he’s either dead or dyin’,” Magnus explained, “And he asked me to visit his sister.”

Hendry simply nodded at that, a slow, understanding nod that told Magnus he knew just how serious the situation was, and for that, Magnus was grateful. He didn’t know what he would have said to Hendry if the man had tried to stop him from doing one last act of kindness for his friend.

“Of course,” Hendry said, “I’ll go get the men, m’lord.”

Chapter 2

The words kept floating in Adelleine’s mind, repeating themselves over and over. There was nothing that she could do to stop it, and there was nothing that she could do to avoid the one simple truth.

Jacob was dead. He was dead, gone forever, and Adelleine would never see him again, she would never talk to him again, she would never laugh with him again.

She couldn’t wrap her mind around the news. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that her beloved brother was gone from her life, because she knew that the moment she came to terms with it, she would also break into a hundred pieces.

She missed her brother terribly, and she wished that they would have had more time to spend together. She wished that things were different, she wished that he would have never left their home, but wishing did nothing but make her grief seem insurmountable.

There was no point in wishing. There was nothing that she could do to bring Jacob back.

“Adelleine . . .are you alright, girl ?”

Her Aunt Victoria was sitting next to her in their sparsely decorated kitchen, her hands on top of Adelleine’s own where she had laid them on the wooden table. Adelleine could barely hear her aunt’s words, the buzzing in her ears obscuring everything else, but when she gripped her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake, she finally looked at the other woman.

There were no tears in her aunt’s eyes, but then again, Adelleine couldn’t even remember if she had ever seen her cry. Victoria was a strong woman, and ever since her husband had died, she had been ruling over her family with an iron fist, even though it was her son, Fin, who had become the man of the house.

“I’m alright, Aunt Victoria,” Adelleine lied, and even to her own ears, it didn’t sound like a good lie. She could do nothing to conceal her grief and her pain, and the pity in her aunt’s face told her that she didn’t believe her either.

“It’s really a shame what happened to Jacob,” her aunt said, “Such a shame . . . he was a good man.”

“Yes.”

It was all Adelleine could say before the words died in her throat. How could she talk about him? How could she say anything about him when the wound was still so raw?

There was a stretch of silence between the two women, but it was one that didn’t last long. Soon, her aunt cleared her throat with a quiet cough, just enough to get her attention.

“We must find you a man to marry soon,” she said.

Adelleine could only frown at that, her mouth hanging open as she looked at her aunt. She stared at her in silence, blinking a few times as she wondered whether or not she had heard her right.

“Aunt Victoria, what . . . what does it matter?” she asked, “What does it matter whom I marry and if I marry at all right now? It doesn’t matter to me at all.”

“Well, it should,” her aunt said, her voice stern and cold, “You have no dowry, nothing to your name. I was hoping that your brother would be able to send you some money to marry, but now that he is dead, there is no money. There is nothing . . . nothing but yourself.”

That didn’t surprise Adelleine in the slightest. With the six daughters and the son that she had to raise, along with her and her brother—at least until Jacob had left for a life in the sea—her aunt had gone through the money that Adelleine’s parents had left her and Jacob in a short time. It was all she had had after their deaths, and it was money meant to secure her future, but she couldn’t blame her aunt.

She was a widow, after all, and she had to raise nine children on her own.

Of course, she would have liked to have kept some of the money, but as things were, she could only do as her aunt said. She had to find a man to marry, and she had to do so quickly, because she knew that her aunt wouldn’t be able to afford having her in the house for much longer.

“Who . . . who will I even marry?” Adelleine asked, “I can’t think of anyone with whom I’d like to share the rest of my life.”

“You don’t need to like the man you marry,” her aunt said with a small shrug, as though love didn’t matter to her at all. As far as Adelleine knew, Aunt Victoria had loved her husband dearly, and so she couldn’t understand how she could be so dismissive of feelings. “You only need to secure your future. Even if you never love him, you’ll have your children to love and care for. When it comes to your husband, you’ll only need to perform your duty.”

Adelleine wasn’t naïve; she knew precisely what kind of duty that was, and she couldn’t even imagine giving herself to a man that she didn’t love. How could her own aunt expect her to do so?

Aunt Victoria laughed, then, as though she could read her mind. She tutted at Adelleine, and then stood, walking around the table until she could put her hands on Adelleine’s shoulders.

“Don’t look so shocked, Adelleine,” she told her, “Sometimes we must do things that we don’t wish to do. It’s no different for you.”

Adelleine wondered what it was that her aunt had been forced to do, if anything at all. Aunt Victoria was hardly the kind of woman to do something that she didn’t wish to do, and Adelleine couldn’t help but think that her words didn’t apply to herself.

Of course, she didn’t dare say that to her.

Adelleine then began to think about her life. She began to think about what would happen to her, about the man that she would end up marrying only for stability and money, and the future that she saw ahead of her was a grim one. She sat on her chair, shoulders slumped under the weight of her aunt’s hands, and she stared at her own hands as she fidgeted with the end of her sleeve, her fingers bunching up the fabric until it was wrinkled.

What other option did she have? If she didn’t do as she was told, her aunt would one day throw her out of the house; and that day would come soon.

“I see . . .” Adelleine said softly, her hand coming up to wipe the tears off her face. She hadn’t even realised that she was crying, and she didn’t know what it was that she was crying about.

There were too many things that saddened her, too many to count and too many to handle.

“I have a few men in mind for you,” her aunt informed her cheerfully, as though it was good news, “All of them wealthy men, who would kill to have a girl as pretty as yourself.”

“Are they kind?”

That was all that mattered to Adelleine. She didn’t mind hard work, and so if she needed to work, she would. What she was worried about was marrying a cruel man, someone who would make her despise her life.

“I’m sure they are perfectly kind,” her aunt assured her, though Adelleine could hear the hesitation in her voice, “And what kind of man would hurt the mother of his children? Don’t worry. . . you’ll be just fine. No man will hurt you.”

It wasn’t much of a reassurance, but Adelleine decided to take it anyway. It was better than thinking that her life would soon be over, and that the only thing she would have to look forward to would be the births of her children.

She wanted more. Just like Jacob, she had always wanted to leave her hometown and see other places, to meet other people and create a life for herself, without having someone like her aunt to dictate what she should and shouldn’t do.

Jacob was born a man, though, and she wasn’t. She was a woman, and so she had a duty.

“Who do ye have in mind?” Adelleine asked, taking a deep breath to steady herself, “Who are the men?”

“Well . . . I’ve been thinking that your best choice is the baron,” her aunt said.

Adelleine froze, her eyes going wide. “Baron Caton?” she asked, “Aunt Victoria . . . he is twice my age! How can you say that? How can you think that he is a good match for me?”

“He’s a baron!” her aunt said, as though that made any difference to Adelleine.

She knew the man; everyone did. She had met him several times, especially since he seemed to have taken a liking to her family, and he often helped them financially, becoming a sort of benefactor for them. The baron was always polite, always with a smile and a kind word in his mouth, but there was something about him that Adelleine couldn’t quite pinpoint, something that made a shiver run down her spine every time she met his gaze.

And he was twice her age. He wasn’t an old man, but he wasn’t the kind of man that Adelleine would want for herself, either, regardless of the wealth that he had.

“Aunt Victoria, I beg you . . . don’t make me marry that man!” Adelleine cried, suddenly realising the gravity of the situation. When her aunt had her mind made up about something, there was no stopping her, and so Adelleine was certain that she would end up married to the Baron in no time at all. “I don’t wish to marry him! Please! Anyone but him!”

“Hush now!” her aunt hissed at her, leaning over so that she could look at Adelleine in the eyes, “Don’t say things like that, and don’t let anyone else hear you say that. The baron is your best option, don’t you see that? He can take care of you. He can give you anything that you ever wanted!”

“Tell me one thing, Aunt Victoria,” Adelleine said then, “Is he helping us because he wants me for his wife? Is he trying . . . is he trying to buy my affections and force me into this marriage?”

Her aunt stayed silent for several moments, her hands eventually sliding off Adelleine’s shoulders. She sat back on her chair, facing her, and worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

“All I know is that he has an infatuation with you,” her aunt admitted, “You’re a beautiful girl! Of course he wants you as his wife!”

“But is he trying to buy me?”

Adelleine couldn’t bear that thought. She didn’t want to be yet another pretty thing that the baron would put in his house, a pretty thing that he would play with until he would lose interest and move on. She didn’t want to be an object, and she certainly didn’t want the man to think that money was all that mattered to her.

“Oh,  don’t be foolish,” her aunt said, waving a hand dismissively, “He is only trying to be kind to us. No one is trying to buy your affections. That man could have any woman that he wanted, but he wants you. You’re a lucky girl, Adelleine. I don’t know how else to explain this to you so you can get it through your thick skull.”

Adelleine didn’t feel very lucky. She became more and more desperate at the thought that she would have to marry the baron, and it brought fresh tears to her eyes to think that she would be his. Her breath began to come out in shallow puffs, and she couldn’t stop her sobbing no matter how much she tried to bite those wails back.

There was a hint of pity in her aunt’s gaze, but not as much as the situation warranted in Adelleine’s eyes. She knew that Aunt Victoria didn’t feel sorry for her, at least not enough to put an end to her marriage to the baron before it had even started.

In that moment, she felt alone. She felt as though she had no one in the world anymore, and her entire world was crumbling down faster than she could rebuild it.

Jacob was gone. Her parents were long gone. Fin, her cousin, the only other person that she could trust and rely on, was far away, and her own aunt was willing to sell her to the highest bidder.

Adelleine didn’t care whether her intentions were pure or not. Perhaps her aunt was simply trying to ensure that she would have a good future in the only way that she knew, or perhaps she was trying to get that future for herself and her daughters. It didn’t matter either way; the result was the same for Adelleine.

Before Adelleine could protest any further, there was a knock on the door, and both she and her aunt looked at it with a frown. They weren’t expecting any guests, after all, and it was an odd thing for them to have guests in the first place.

Adelleine wiped the tears off her cheeks once more, taking a few deep breaths so that she would look presentable, and then she followed her aunt as she opened the door, standing a little further inside the house.

Behind the door, there was a man, tall and graceful, with black hair and a pair of brown eyes that reminded Adelleine of pools of honey. Behind him, there were three other men, who looked like guards, and Adelleine couldn’t help but wonder who the stranger was.

He was certainly very different than anyone else she had ever seen in her hometown. She had never seen clothes as fine as his, and she had certainly never seen a man being followed by guards.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, “I am lookin’ for Adelleine.”

Adelleine froze, her eyes narrowing as her brow furrowed.

Who could the man be? And what could he want from her?

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

Chapter 1

Mid-June, 1623

At least the dungeons were peaceful. Cold, and a bit damp, to be sure, but quiet. Here, Arguen had endless time to think, with no one to interrupt her. Down in this dark, deep cell, no one glanced at her and shuddered, hurrying along the corridor to get away from her. Even the dungeon rats were kinder than the humans.

Arguen turned her head to let whatever little sliver of sunlight there was shine on her face through the aperture in the stone. From what she could tell, it was a lovely day out, with no sign of rain–quite the change for a Scottish midsummer. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would be like to be out, to feel the wind on her face, rippling her petticoat as she looked out across the sea. If Arguen was anything, she was patient, and she would bide her time. Douglas had promised to free her, after all. And then she could stand at the edge of the sea for as long as she wanted.

***

Late May, 1623

Arguen hurried along the dimly lit corridor to Lady Marianne’s chambers. The poor woman had been complaining of pains for some time, but as she had just begun increasing, it could not possibly be time for her to give birth. Arguen had assisted with enough births to know when the time was right. The basket of herbs and vials bumped against her hip as she walked briskly, weaving through the stone corridors until she reached her destination. The walk had been strangely quiet–it seemed most people were still downstairs enjoying the festivities. For that, she was thankful. These Highland men could get crude and handsy with enough drink, and a young, unmarried woman such as herself could be a prime target.

Lady Marianne bade her to enter as soon as she knocked, and Arguen was surprised to see her in such a state of undress and disarray. Marianne’s golden hair was loose with no cap to cover it, and sweat plastered small strands to her forehead. She had evidently attempted to remove her own bodice and overskirt, as both hung unlaced on her small frame. Her green eyes were wild with fright, glistening with unshed tears, and her delicate hands clasped and unclasped her shift.

“I thought perhaps it was time. I felt such a pain, and I was told the midwife is assisting someone else.” Her usually even, authoritative English voice was fragile, reminding Arguen of a piece of fabric fraying at the edges. For a moment, Arguen felt sympathy for Marianne. The lady of the castle was clearly upset and frightened, desperate enough to call upon the healer she so despised.

“Nae, lady. Ye said it yersel–too early for the bairn to arrive. ‘Tis likely the quickening. Rest and a good hot tea should do it,” Arguen answered as evenly as she could. Though Lady Marianne had made known her dislike for Arguen, the healer knew it was best to work hard with her head down. That was the best way to honor her mother–work hard and share her gifts with those who needed help.

“How can I rest? The babe is coming; I know it!”

“M’lady, ‘tis impossible. Let me help ye undress and lay down.”

Marianne said nothing, but nodded, allowing Arguen to help her unlace the rest of her bodice and overskirt. The lady of the house laid down on the imposing four poster bed, propped up against the pillows, and rubbed her growing belly. Arguen busied herself with her ingredients. Soon the pot hanging above the fire in the hearth would be boiling, and the remedy to soothe the lady’s discomfort would be ready. Arguen was silent as she worked, adding the herbs–mainly peppermint to ease the pain and chamomile to aid sleep–as Marianne occasionally groaned from her place on the bed.

“Arguen, I’m deeply sorry,” the lady said after a few moments.

The healer halfway turned from her place at the hearth to address the lady. “I beg your pardon, mistress?”

Marianne heaved a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “I know that I have treated you abysmally. I could have been kinder to you, and now that you offer me help, I…” her voice faltered as she winced, “I see I was wrong. You are very gracious to assist me now.”

Arguen stirred the boiling water and herbs thoughtfully. “Nae, lady. Yer the new mistress of the castle. Cannae be easy tae travel from yer home and marry someone ye barely ken. Besides, ‘tis a healer’s duty. We help all, no matter who they be.”

“A noble calling indeed,” whispered Marianne.

A few more relatively silent minutes passed, the only sound being the crackling of the fire and the muffled voices from deep down in the great hall. After a great whine from Marianne, Arguen strained the water and herbs and poured it into a tankard.

“Here, drink this. It should help ease the pain so ye can sleep. Both ye an’ the bairn will be grateful,” Arguen said, gently holding Marianne up off the pillows so she could drink properly.

After a few timid sips, Marianne groaned. “I want this babe out.”

“Careful what ye wish for,” Arguen advised. “Fate has a funny way o’ twistin’ things.”

“Is that a threat, Arguen?” There was a playful lilt to her tone, but as Arguen looked up, she saw that the usual cold edge in Marianne’s eyes had returned.

Arguen gave a half-feigned soft laugh. “Nay. Willnae do good. ‘Tis a mere observation.”

“A wise one.”

“Well, when ye’re born wi’ silver hair, ye’re just that much wiser.”

Marianne snickered at that, but pain flashed across her face, quickly chasing away any amusement. Arguen bade her drink the rest of the tea, and cleaned up around the chamber while she did so.

“Oh, dear, you musn’t trouble yourself,” Marianne urged between sips, “Do we not have chamber maids for that purpose?”

Arguen gave a wry smile as she folded Marianne’s overskirt and placed it in the trunk at the foot of the bed. “Aye, we do, but ‘tis a night of merriment. I think all maids will be movin’ slowly come morning.”

Marianne smiled and looked into her cup. Was that amusement Arguen saw? Arguen had managed to melt the lady’s heart enough to crack a smile?

“You must be pleased to have your brother back home.”

“Aye, I am. Douglas is all the family I have since the incident.”

“I am so very sorry for your loss. Please accept my condolences,” Marianne said. It sounded almost sincere, and Arguen was genuinely surprised, though she tried not to show it.

“I thank ye, mistress. I do miss them terribly.”

“Can you not count Malcolm and I as family now?”

Hearing his name from her mouth like that–simpering, dripping with poison–made Arguen’s blood boil, but she had to stay her temper. Where else would she go if she could not stay here at Bruckstone Castle?

“Aye, mistress. I can do that.”

Marianne nodded and set the mug on the table beside the bed. “Thank you for your assistance tonight. May I call on your services again, should I need them?”

Arguen nodded as she gathered up her herbs and vials by the hearth. “Of course. As I told ye earlier, healers help all. No matter who they be.”

Lady Marianne gave one last thank you before dismissing Arguen, who was grateful to be gone. When Malcolm had married her, everything at Bruckstone Castle had changed. It was as if a draft of cold air had crept into the castle and never left. All the laird’s guards seemed to be walking on eggshells, not to mention the various servants, even the tenants on nearby land. Lady Marianne had made it known that she was the new authority and would not be questioned. A fine thing, to be sure, since Malcolm’s father was still technically the laird of Bruckstone, but even he would not dare defy Marianne.

English bastards, Arguen thought to herself. As long as she never said it aloud, she could think whatever she pleased, could she not? She was so busy in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice Malcolm until she nearly ran into him head-on.

“Ye best watch yer step, Miss. If ye keep yer head in the clouds, ye’ll float away,” he offered. Even he had changed. Once merry and witty, he now seemed a shell of his former self. The wit in his words was hollow.

“Och, no chance. I prefer the view from above.”

“Careful. Ye sound a heretic.”

“Malcolm, no one’s a Catholic anymore,” she jested, though rather unsure whether he was teasing or not..

“I ken, I try to poke fun. My wife, is she…” his voice trailed off, his hazel eyes wide and full of hope. Hope for her life or her death? Arguen secretly wondered.

“Too early for the babe. ‘Tis likely she felt the quickening. Both she and midwife Joan say ‘tis too early.”

Malcolm nodded, his face unreadable. Arguen supposed the son of a laird needed to be that way–stoic and unbothered. Neither quickness to anger nor slowness to action were desirable traits for a future laird. He seemed to know the responsibility he carried.

“Braw, that’s very fine. The Lord did say be fruitful and multiply.”

At the mention of such intimacy, Arguen blushed and tried to change the conversation. “I think these next months will be quick, and ye’ll have a bonnie little bairn soon enough.”

“Aye, thanks tae ye and midwife Joan. I dinnae ken what we’d do without ye.”

“Och, ye’d get on. There’ll always be healers.”

“But none such as ye,” Malcolm added, looking sincerely at her, holding her gaze for longer than was comfortable.

Arguen cleared her throat and took a half step back. “I oughtta be goin. And yer wife’ll want tae see ye.”

“Aye. I bid ye good night then.”

Arguen nodded and curtsied before scurrying away to the chamber that she shared with one of the maids. That had been another provision when Marianne took control. One look at Arguen’s silver hair and curious blue eyes made the new mistress decide the healer could not be trusted, and she made up some story about how Arguen’s chamber needed to be converted to a proper withdrawing room.

But she couldn’t complain. If she was to properly honor her mother’s memory, she could not soil it by slandering the future mistress of the castle.

The other maids were not yet back from the party, from the looks of it. Arguen sighed and put her basket with herbs and vials in the trunk at the foot of the bed before undressing herself and taking down her hair. Long ago, she’d learned to twist it up into a bun to avoid the suspicious looks she received from other people. But she couldn’t blame them. A child with silvery hair was a rarity indeed, and many wondered if perhaps she was not of this world. Stories of the fair folk, curious sightings at the abandoned kirk, and heavy fog rolling in from the sea made for fantastical stories around the fire at night. Arguen was no fae or witch. Her blue eyes came from her mother, and although she didn’t know where the silver hair came from, she knew it had to be ancestral. Within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, she was asleep, too tired even for dreams.

***

It wasn’t the thunderclap or the bolt of lightning right outside Arguen’s window that woke her, although it certainly helped. No–the entirety of Bruckstone Castle awoke to blood-curdling shrieks coming from one of the towers. The chambermaid with whom she shared the room, Fiona, looked at Arguen with sheer panic.

“What d’ye think that is?” she asked, her voice small.

Every nerve in Arguen’s body was alert, and a sinister chill crept up her spine. “Lady Marianne,” she answered automatically.

Just then, a heavy knock sounded at the door, but the person on the other side didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, Douglas burst in, his face drawn and paler than normal.

Fiona yelped at the sudden entrance and covered herself with her quilt, but Douglas and Arguen paid her no mind.

“Douglas, what be the meanin’ o’ this?” Arguen asked.

Douglas swallowed nervously. “‘Tis Lady Marianne. She’s in a bad way and the midwife is still gone.”

Arguen felt her heart race. She hadn’t given anything bad to Marianne–peppermint and chamomile were completely harmless. Had she mixed up the herbs by accident? She shuddered. That wasn’t like her. She’d always been able to keep a cool head and treat her patients accordingly.

“She needs yer help,” Douglas continued.

Arguen shook her head. “I’m no midwife, Douglas.”

“Och, it doesnae matter. She thinks it’s time, and she needs help.”

Arguen took a deep breath and threw on her robe and slippers before hastily packing her basket with the supplies. Douglas led her through the winding corridors of the castle with his lantern. Castle residents opened their chamber doors and looked out, confused, whispering to one another at the strange shrieking noises. Arguen was mostly able to ignore them. She needed to focus on the task at hand, and figure out how to help the mistress.

When they arrived at Lady Marianne’s chamber, Malcolm was outside, his chestnut hair strewn about wildly as he paced, wringing his hands. “Thank heavens ye’re here. Marianne thinks ‘tis time.”

Arguen opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by another shriek beyond the door.

“Malcolm, we both ken ‘tis impossible,” she said as gently as she could.

Malcolm ran a hand through his hair and huffed. “Och, I ken. But she’s convinced.”

“Can ye do naething ta help?” Douglas asked.

Arguen’s jaw tightened involuntarily. “I’ll do me best. I promise naething.”

That was confirmation enough for Malcolm, who opened the door to the horrific sight that was Lady Marianne and her bewildered lady’s maid.

“I tried to help her, miss! She complains of pains in the belly and says she thinks the babe is coming. I was not entirely sure what to do!” Marianne’s English lady’s maid said. The poor girl’s eyes were wide like a wild animal’s. Her ladyship writhed on the bed, holding both hands on her stomach, gritting her teeth as if to keep the pain at bay.

Arguen was rather afraid herself. She’d seen this sort of ailment before, and she knew what came next…it was a stillbirth, only so much earlier than most, and the babe would be much smaller. Sometimes, it would not even resemble a babe. Marianne had just started showing, so Arguen wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. But she couldn’t let that be known. There is naething more alarming than an unkempt healer, her mother would have said. And that was true. Even if she had no control over a situation, she had to feign it, for the sake of her patients.

Arguen took a deep breath, mustering as much confidence as she could. If there was one thing she was good at, it was feigning coolness under pressure with no real basis. “Boil some water on the hearth. Fetch me fresh linens, quick as ye can. An’ remain calm. We dinnae ken what’s amiss, but we cannae lose our heads,” Arguen said to the English maid, who nodded and skittered away. Douglas and Malcolm left as well, perhaps thinking it was best to leave the healer to her work. Arguen approached Marianne’s bed, steeling herself for whatever it was she was about to see.

Instead, Marianne snarled and grasped Arguen by the front of her shift. Her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman in distress, and it threw the healer off balance. “What did you give me?” the lady hissed.

“Peppermint to soothe an’ chamomile to help ye sleep,” Arguen answered as calmly as she could manage, holding up her hands in surrender.

“Do I look to be asleep?” Marianne snarled again, letting go and falling back against the pillows when a particularly terrible cramp hit her.

“Nae, mistress. But I think what is happenin’ to ye is beyond the power of a healer,” she offered.

Marianne glared daggers at Arguen. Usually those emerald green eyes were stony and rather cold, but tonight they simmered with molten anger. The lady gritted her teeth to deal with her pain, but all Arguen could picture was a wild animal caught in a snare, gnashing its teeth.

“So you knew this would happen?” Marianne asked, though it sounded more rhetorical.

Arguen shook her head vigorously. “Nae. I thought it might be the quickening. Many women feel such pains at this time, but yers are too severe for something as simple as that.”

Marianne groaned again and threw off the quilt covering her body. Arguen tried not to audibly gasp when she saw the linens and Marianne’s mess of a shift. Blood stained the white linens like a cardinal in the snow. The red was so stark against the white that Arguen had trouble focusing on anything else for a few seconds. What was more; the blood seemed to have come from Marianne’s most intimate parts.

“Move. I have to piss,” Marianne snarled. Arguen snapped into action at that moment, and took the chamber pot out from under the bed so the lady could easily access it.

“I’ll…I’ll fetch ye some fresh linens. But Lady Marianne, listen tae me–”

Marianne squatted to relieve herself and let out a pained gasp. “Why should I listen to you? Your potions caused this.”

Oh no, thought Arguen. When people spat out that word, and blamed the healer for medicinal abnormalities beyond their control, good never followed. “Nae, I simply tried to comfort ye. Listen to me–when ye…” Arguen hesitated to find the right words for a moment, “when ye try to–” she motioned down at her own intimate parts, “ye may see some blood. Clusters of it. And it’s likely that…” she took a deep breath.

Marianne was still squatting over the chamber pot. “Likely that what?” she hissed, that icy English accent enunciating every syllable.

Arguen swallowed again. “That…ye may not…have a bairn this autumn after all.”

Marianne’s lower lip trembled, and her green eyes became glossy with unshed tears. “I’ll not…have a child?”

The healer inhaled a deep breath through her nose to calm herself. “If this is what I think, then nae.”

It didn’t seem to register in Marianne’s mind. For a few moments following Arguen’s assessment, nothing happened. The air was terribly still, and the tension between the two women was so thick, a knife would have trouble cutting through it.

Then, everything happened at once. Marianne let loose a gut-wrenching sob, accompanied by the blood that the healer had warned her about. Arguen rushed to her side and cast one of Marianne’s arms about her shoulder, and held her by the waist with the other arm so that Marianne was supported. Arguen began to pray to whoever in the heavens was listening as Marianne sobbed and gasped.

Almost as quickly as it started, it stopped. Arguen could feel the relief in the room, but she knew it wouldn’t last for long.

“Mistress?” she asked, as Marianne’s chest heaved with the effort. “Mistress, I need to heal ye.”

The lady of the house nodded absentmindedly as Arguen helped her into bed, the side without bloody linens. The healer began to clean up the area, but stopped dead in her tracks when she caught a glimpse of what was in the chamber pot. A small red blob, almost humanoid looking, lay at the bottom among the other fluids. Arguen’s stomach turned, and she held a hand over her mouth to keep from retching.

“I want to see it,” Marianne said, her voice hollow as she looked over at Arguen.

Arguen felt her heart drop to her stomach. “Nae, mistress. ‘Twill only hurt ye tae see.”

“Bring it to me,” Marianne commanded, uncaring.

“Mistress, I beg ye tae–”

“I am not asking again.”

Arguen heaved a deep sigh and brought the pot over to her. Marianne struggled to turn, but peered in. One, two seconds was all she needed. Afterward, her already rather pale complexion blanched, and she promptly turned to the side and retched over the bed. The healer waited for Marianne to say something–anything–to scream at her or cry over her loss–but all she did was lay there and fix her gaze on the ceiling.

At that moment, a knock sounded at the door, and Arguen rushed over to let the person in. It was Marianne’s English lady’s maid with the fresh linen scraps. “I have what you need–took me some time to find them,” she said weakly.

“Thank ye. D’ye have a strong stomach?” Arguen asked, fixing the girl with her most authoritative look.

The maid nodded.

“Braw. Mistress is very unwell. Her bed linens an’ her shift need changing, an’ I need tae clean up the mess. Can ye handle that?”

Marianne’s maid nodded and went about her duties quietly and quickly. When Arguen took the pot for disposal, Marianne stopped her.

“I want to keep it.”

Arguen looked on the lady with pity. “Lady Marianne, ‘tis best tae let yersel heal. Keepin’ it helps naething.”

“Did you not hear what I said? I want to keep it,” she ordered, each word staccato.

Arguen and the maid stole a skeptic, furtive glance at one another.

“As ye wish, mistress,” Arguen conceded, and left the pot on the windowsill. The water on the hearth was boiling well now, and she knelt down to make her tea and poultice. Yarrow root tea to ease the inflammation; and a witch hazel poultice to apply to Marianne’s sensitive areas to stop any more bleeding that may occur. To heal her heart, however, would be another matter entirely, something mere herbs could not accomplish. Arguen smashed the witch hazel in her mortar and pestle, almost mesmerized by the stringy yellow buds. With a little water, it would make a poultice to help with any bleeding. Arguen worked silently as she wrapped the mixture in the linen scraps that the maid had brought. The yarrow root steeped in the hot water as she worked on the poultice. Soon enough, Marianne would be able to feel some relief. Arguen had made damn sure that she used the right herbs. Not that she hadn’t earlier this evening–but Marianne’s words about her “potions” earlier had her questioning even her own work ethic.

She pushed those thoughts to the back of her mind as she approached Marianne’s bedside with strips of linen, the poultice, and a steaming cup of yarrow tea.

“Mistress, if possible, I need ye to spread yer legs. This poultice will help ye wi’ the bleeding.”

Marianne simply laid there, looking at the ceiling. Arguen looked over at the maid, whose bewildered expression matched her own.

“Yer ladyship? I need tae heal ye,” Arguen coaxed.

Marianne let out a low chuckle, one that sent unpleasant shivers up Arguen’s spine. “Careful what you wish for,” she said icily. “You said that to me earlier this evening. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say it was a curse.”

Arguen gritted her teeth. She was treading dangerous waters here. She suspected this might happen, but she couldn’t let Marianne see her trepidation or annoyance. “Sweet one, I told ye. Some things are beyond the power of a healer. I am deeply sorry for yer loss, but right now, I need tae make sure yer body is taken care of.”

“I never wish for you to touch me again,” Marianne snarled.

Arguen froze on the spot, unsure of what to do. Marianne was her patient, but also acting mistress of the house and Lady of Bruckstone Castle, if proper titles were in order.

“Mistress…” Arguen began again, desperate to make Marianne see reason, but the lady wouldn’t have it.

“My maid will tend to me,” she said in that hollow voice, and turned her head so she was staring at the ceiling again.

Arguen looked over at the maid, who looked frightened as ever, but nodded silently and gestured to the table by the bed. The healer left the tea and poultice there, then gathered up her items strewn about the hearth. When that was clean, she left without a word.

Malcolm and Douglas were waiting in the corridor beyond the chamber. Both looked at her with pleading eyes.

“My wife?” Malcolm asked, looking more like a frightened little boy than the battle-hardened son of a powerful laird.

Arguen heaved a deep sigh, trying hard as she could to hold back tears of her own. “Yer wife is alive. Her maid is tendin’ tae her now. But…” her voice trailed off, unsure of how to break the news to him.

Malcolm’s hazel eyes searched her face. “But…” he prompted.

Douglas seemed to understand, and put a friendly, comforting arm around Malcolm’s shoulders.

“Ye’ll no have a bairn this autumn.”

Malcolm clenched his jaw and nodded. “Can I see her?” he asked, his voice even.

Arguen shrugged. “I’m sure ye can, but whether or not she wants tae see anyone is up tae her.”

Malcolm’s tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip in nervous anticipation. Douglas clapped him on the back, and Malcolm gave them both a doleful look as he walked away.

Arguen and Douglas walked back to the maids’ chambers together. “What happened?” her brother asked.

Arguen shook her head. “Marianne lost the babe. I dinnae ken how. I did all I could.” She related the story to her brother, wiping away stray tears as they walked quickly through the winding corridors of Bruckstone Castle.

“Wasnae yer fault,” Douglas assured her.

“I doubt she’ll see it that way,” Arguen said glumly.

“Ye dinnae ken that. Get some sleep. We’ll reckon wi’ it in the morn.” Douglas tried to hug his sister, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“Nae, Douglas. I’ll just cry more.”

Her brother nodded, gave her a pitiful look, and bade her goodnight once more.

When Arguen was back in her shared chamber, Fiona was fast asleep. As far as Arguen could tell, dawn would be breaking in an hour or so. She set her basket on the windowsill, threw her robe to the floor, and drifted off to sleep without so much as a second thought.

Chapter 2

Dawn’s rosy fingers crept across the sky not long after Arguen had fallen asleep. But no one came to wake her, not even Fiona. It wasn’t until well into the morning that Arguen finally awoke on her own. Birds were chirping outside of her window, and she could smell bread baking from the kitchens nearby. One would hardly know something terrible had transpired in the castle the night before. She rose, stiffly, and began to dress herself. She’d learned to tie her own stays long ago and could make quick work of it now. Her under-petticoat followed with her pocket, then her dark green overskirt and blue jacket. She braided her long, silvery hair on the side and twisted it into a bun, pinning it in place before placing her cap over it, for modesty, and so no one could see her hair and judge her for it.

She was ready to start her day of gathering various plants and herbs in the meadow and forest when a knock sounded at her door. When she opened it, she was surprised to see Douglas standing there, haggard, a forlorn look on his face.

“Douglas, what be the matter?” she asked, genuinely concerned for his health. “D’ye need a poultice? Ye look pale.”

Douglas swallowed. “I…” he stuttered.

Arguen regarded him with pity, then suspicion, then horror. Her heart beat faster, and her stomach lurched. “Douglas, what’s happening?”

Douglas clenched his jaw and closed his eyes before speaking. He didn’t even look at her; his gaze fixed firmly to the stone floor. “Ye…ye are under arrest,” he said feebly.

“Arrest?” Arguen repeated in disbelief. Suddenly she felt rather dizzy, and had to sit on the edge of her bed for fear of fainting.

Her brother swallowed, attempting to hold back his own tears. “Aye. Lady Marianne…accuses ye of witchcraft.”

“Witchcraft?” Arguen repeated, dumbfounded.

“Aye. She thinks…ye purposely gave her a potion to kill the bairn.”

“Douglas, ‘tis impossible. I tried tae help her, tae heal her. Ye ken this tae be true,” she said, although it was more of a plea for her brother to recognize her innocence.

“Och, I ken, sister. But I…I have tae arrest ye. Take ye tae the dungeons. Lady Marianne willnae rest until ye’re in a cell.”

“Nae, Douglas. Ye dinnae have to do this,” Arguen pleaded, growing desperate.

“I do, Arguen. I’m sorry. I am Chief of the laird’s guard, I cannae disobey him.”

At that moment, another guard appeared at the doorway with Douglas, holding the irons.

“Arguen, I’m sorry. I have tae.”

She considered her options. She could not outrun them, nor could she physically overpower them, no matter what. Douglas had trained her, for goodness’s sakes. He’d be able to predict her every move.

“‘Tis only ‘til the trial.”

Arguen’s stomach lurched again. “Trial?”

“Aye. The laird sent fer a magistrate this mornin’. Could take some time, but he insisted on a trial. He had tae convince Marianne ‘twas the right thing tae do.”

Arguen’s head was swimming. Trial? For witchcraft?

“I dinnae want this,” Arguen said weakly, more to herself than anything.

“Arguen, please. Marianne already wants yer head on a spike. ‘Tis the best we can do now,” Douglas pleaded with her.

Death, or rot in a cold cell? Supposing life was better than an unfair death, she rose. The other guard held out the irons, but she waved them away. “I willnae try tae escape,” she promised. The other guard seemed to understand, and Arguen could swear she saw sympathy in his eyes as well.

The walk to the dungeons was humiliating. Like the night before, servants, highlanders, and castle residents watched as the two guards escorted the odd woman to her cell. Arguen could hear the hushed tones and harsh whispers. High time, always knew she was a witch, would never trust someone like her, she heard some of them say. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she was determined not to let them fall. It would only add to their satisfaction, and she would cling to any dignity she had left.

Arguen entered the cell willingly, and the other guard locked it behind her, leaving her and Douglas alone for a few moments.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, when he was satisfied that the other guard was out of earshot. He began to cry himself, and Arguen held his hand through the bars.

“Nae, Douglas. Ye’re doin’ yer duty. ‘Tis not for me to stop ye.” Now she was crying too, even though she’d fought so hard to keep her composure.

“I’ll get ye out of here, I promise. I’ve a friend who owes me a favor. If I can get word tae him, he’ll keep watch over ye.”

“Douglas, nae. I can bide my time here ‘til the trial.”

“Nae, Arguen. When mama passed, I promised her I’d look out for ye. Ye’re in a cell. I’m doin’ a right muck-up job,” he tried to laugh, but it came out as a sob. “I promise, I’ll get ye out, and ye can escape. I’ll be as quick as I can about it.”

Arguen wanted to believe him, but she also knew the power Marianne held. As the daughter of an English baron, married to a Scottish laird’s son, the alliance was tenuous at best. Neither side could afford to make grievous mistakes. Her own belief in her brother to get her out was almost non-existent, knowing the delicate balance of her position, but she said nothing. She didn’t want to dampen his spirit, already so downtrodden.

“Go,” she whispered. “They’ll think we conspire.”

Douglas nodded. “I promise. Ye’ll be out of here soon.” With one last squeeze of her hand, he left. Arguen took a deep breath and slumped to the floor, finally able to cry freely. No one else was around, as far as she could tell, and no one would hear her. She cried until she fell asleep, but no dreams came. Her mind was black, cold, hopeless. Not even dreams could help her now .

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

Chapter 1

The perpetual sound of rain pattering out on the road bled through the thin glass windows of the old inn and mingled with the muted sounds of the drunkards below. Allie sniffed and wiped her brow as she continued to flatten down the freshly dried sheets on the bed.

The day was already darkening, despite the early hour of the afternoon, but Allie was used to it. The dark clouds were customary as they hung low, even in the highlands. Yet down in the Lowlands, where they shared weather with the English, it was just as common.

Allie slowly stood and wiped her hands on her dress as she breathed out heavily. It had been a long day, but it wasn’t over yet since they were expecting rather opulent guests. She was pleased to have at least another hour to prepare herself before they would be receiving the Lady in question.

Allie surveyed the room, but something was missing… the light. She let her eyes close for a moment as her tired limbs almost groaned at the thought of working anymore. All she wanted was a good night of rest with a hearty meal beforehand.

The candles needed to be lit, the floor swept by the door, and Allie wanted to make sure that Duncan was in the front of the house to receive their guests. The thought of the new girl who worked in the kitchens being out at the front to welcome the Lady was worrying.

She could hear the wind picking up outside, and the old structure creaked and groaned. Allie shuddered and knew that the fire would need to be built up too, so that their guests would not experience any kind of discomfort during their stay.

“Ach, Duncan? Is that ye?” Allie called down the hallway as she heard the floorboards creak. She knew the place as though it was her own home; the way that certain pieces of wood make sounds when a person is walking the halls was something that she was all too familiar with. Allie narrowed her eyes when she received no response.

She did not have time for games. There was too much to be done and too short an amount of time to do it. The inn was very busy because of the incoming storm, although the locals were used to it, the weary travelers weren’t. Many were English and returning south of the border. Staying at The Blinde Man’s House was the last touch of Scottish hospitality before they would set off on their journey home.

“Duncan?” Allie called again, but still, there was no response.

She was in two minds about going and investigating; she wasn’t the innkeeper or his wife, but she still could assert some authority over a drunkard who may have wandered too far from the tavern downstairs. On the other hand, the room wasn’t going to clean itself, and she thought about how angry William, the innkeeper, would be if he saw that she was neglecting her duties.

Her distress was answered by another howl of the wind through the thin walls. The rain seemed only to intensify as it hit the pane of glass more frequently. Allie hugged her arms tightly to her chest – the thin and washed out cotton of her dress doing nothing to protect her body from the cold. Allie got down onto her knees and moved over to the fireplace where she could tend to it with the poker. She relaxed slightly as the amber hue of heat warmed her skin and made the job slightly more bearable. After placing another couple of logs onto the fire in the way that William had once shown her, Allie got to her feet and brushed the soot from her already ruined dress. Although Allie did not mind, she thought that it would at least show her employer just how hard she worked for her money.

Her mind was already jumping ahead of her, like a galloping horse runnin’ out of control, and she started to think about the next job that needed doing.

“Candles, the wee candles,” Allie muttered to herself as she spotted the burnt down wax by the bed. They were going to need replacing for the Lady coming to stay. Allie was certain that she would not appreciate candles that had been half-used already. She could tell that this Lady, wherever she was from, was going to cause a lot more trouble for them than the average guest. Many travelers were simply grateful for what they got, but Allie already knew that this woman was of the kind that would not settle for anything less than her impossible expectations.

“Ach, this must be me room down here.” A voice spoke out of nowhere and caused Allie’s heart to leap in her chest from the fright of it.

Allie gasped as she knew no female voice like that belonged to anyone from those parts. She started to panic as she realized that it must be the Lady whose arrival they had been anticipating.

Without turning around to see who had arrived, Allie quickly grabbed the unused spill from the table in the corner and let it hover over the fire to light it. She then had no choice but to light the candles that had already been used; the footsteps grew louder and would be upon her at any moment. Allie shuddered once more as the cold seemed to cling to the room with an iron vice, unrelenting and seemingly unphased by the growing fire.

Her hand was shaking, and she could feel the dread rising up inside of her at the thought of being scolded by William for not being ready in time.

“This room here? I suppose it is the biggest we’ve…who are you?”

“I-I’m sorry, My Lady. Yer room is almost ready, ye have me word.” Allie stammered her way through her words as though she was trying to walk with ease through a thick bog. She tried to calm herself and focus on lighting the small candles around the room, but her hand simply would not stop shaking.

“And this is supposed to be the best room at the inn?” The woman sniffed from behind her. Allie closed her eyes and felt as though the distaste in the Lady’s tone was directed straight at her.

“W-well, it’s the best that we could dae at such short notice. I’m s-sorry if it’s not up to yer usual standard…”

Allie did not dare to turn around after speaking, she closed her eyes and braced herself as her body tensed. She knew that she had been far too brave in her words while defending the inn. She had forgotten about the decorum that she had been taught from a young age.

“Please, let me apologize for talking to ye in such a way, My Lady. I should have made sure that the room was ready for yer arrival.”

Allie then busied herself by grabbing the broom that she had brought up with her after catching sight of the soot near the fireplace.

“Ye sound like a yappy dog. This will have to dae for now. Leave me.” The woman snapped as she said this, her voice curt and as cold as the wind outside.

“Aye, My Lady. S-sorry again, My Lady.”

Allie continued to nod and look around as she kept her gaze to the floor. She did not want to look up at the woman, afraid that she would turn her to stone with her gaze, or even worse, chop her down with her cutting words. She swallowed and set the broom down as she finally had no choice but to turn and walk in the direction of the Lady who stood in the doorway like a blockade.

“I hope yer journey wasnae too tirin,’ My Lady?” Allie muttered as she walked forward.

When no reply came from the woman, Allie groaned internally as she had no choice but to look up at the Lady who blocked her path of escape. Slowly, she tore her gaze from the old, wooden floor and up to meet the inquisitive blue eyes of the woman before her.

Allie opened her mouth to say something, but all words evaded her. The beauty of the woman shone through her pale skin as though she was radiating a light aura about her. Her dress, so finely articulated by many hands, was one that Allie had only ever witnessed once – it had been in the form of a painting. Jewels were encrusted onto the vibrant colored fabrics, but her eyes were the purest blue jewels that Allie had ever seen. Her attention shifted back to the dress and the way that it expanded out in many layers of opulence. Allie was suddenly very aware of how her beige dress must have been considered, to this Lady, a mere undergarment. The bodice of her dress was embroidered in the most beautiful, yet delicate patterns, and they continued all the way down her skirts.

However, what stood out the most, despite the beauty and expense in front of her, was the woman’s face. Underneath the scornful, yet shocked, expression, were features not too dissimilar to her own. Allie felt like she was looking into an enchanted mirror, a crude image of what her life could have been if she had been born into some form of nobility instead. Even her hair was the same color, length, and volume; and framed the lady’s face in the same way that Allie’s framed her face. The woman in front of her had her dark, brown hair styled so that half of it was pinned up in a well-crafted style. It appeared far too much work for the kind of activities that Allie carried out each day, but she admired the effort that had been put into it. The similarities were too obvious; even the woman in front of her had noticed.

“Who…who are ye?” The woman’s voice shook slightly as she put a jeweled hand to her chest. The rings on her fingers looked like they could buy the entire inn and still have money left over.

“Answer me, lass. What sorcery is this?”

Allie blinked and realized that she was still yet to answer the question that the woman had asked her. She was sure that the woman was much less pleased about this revelation since she was looking at what she would consider as a lesser version of herself.

“Me name is Allie.” She hesitated for a moment before attempting a small curtsey. Allie winced as she knew that the gesture must have come across as more comical than formal. “Allie Denniston.”

“And ye ken me name?” The woman’s voice boomed around the old room.

“Nay, My Lady.” Allie kept her gaze fixed back on the floor.

“Me name is Adamina, and I am the Lady of Clan Buchan. Have ye really nae heard of me or me clan?”

The Lady Adamina sounded amused as she spoke, as though she found this situation just as comical as Allie’s attempt at a curtsey.

“There are many clans in this land, My Lady. I cannae say that I ken them all…”

“Dinnae tell me what I already ken,” Adamina snapped. “Tell me what I dinnae ken.”

“My Lady?” Allie frowned as she looked up to see that Adamina was smirking.

“Tell me more about ye. Since ye now ken that ye’re talking to the Lady of a large clan, I wish to ken more about ye.”

Allie stood up straighter and bit her lip for a moment as she thought about Adamina’s question. Her heart deflated slightly when she realized that there really wasn’t that much to tell her.

“W-well, I live in a wee cottage just along the road from ‘ere.” Allie swallowed thickly and dared to look back up into the intimidating gaze of Lady Adamina. The well-dressed woman was almost hunched over her as Allie felt the urge to cower away. “I dinnae really have any family. Me parents died a very long time ago…”

Allie let her head fall again slightly, although she did not see the amused look on Adamina’s face drop. The woman appeared to be enjoying this, merely a story for her to tell at a grand dinner in the months to come.

Adamina coughed, but Allie wasn’t sure if she was just clearing her throat, or simply waiting for Allie to continue with her story.

“I dinnae ken what else to say, My Lady. I’ve worked at this inn all me life. The innkeeper has always been good to me.”

Allie winced at how dull her life sounded in comparison to the great Lady in front of her. She was from another world, a class that was leagues above her own, and Allie was only reminded of that further as Adamina started to laugh.

“Me apologies for laughing, lass.” Adamina shook her head. “I take pity on ye; really, I dae.”

Allie did not know how to respond to this, so she pursed her lips and nodded her head rather simply. She still did not understand why Lady Adamina looked so much like her. No explanation came to mind.

“Is that all, My Lady?” Allie dared to ask as she stole another glance at the familiar features of the foreign Lady.

“Aye, for now.” Adamina nodded curtly. “But I want to speak with ye more later on.”

“Aye, My Lady.”

Allie turned to quickly snatch up the various tools that she had brought up with her only hours before. She jumped slightly at the sound of the wind battering against the outside walls and did not breathe properly until she was out of the room and in the safety of the hallway. Her chest rose and fell under her bodice, and she tried to control her breathing. She turned to walk back the way she had come but bumped into the rock hard chest of a man who one might mistake for a mountain upon impact.

“Oh!” she exclaimed and jumped back slightly.

“Is that Lady Adamina’s room?” The man spoke in a deep and gruff voice. Allie found it difficult to pick out his features in the dark. Fear had frozen her to the spot and closed up her throat so that no sound could escape. Instead, she nodded profusely and pointed a shaking hand out to the room.

“Thank ye.”

The man, clad in armor, stepped around her and walked over to the room. Before Allie could protest that he should not enter the Lady’s room without permission, he stepped inside and closed the door.

She waited a few moments for any sound or signal that Lady Adamina might be in distress, but none came. Allie felt rather faint as she staggered down the stairs and away from the intimidating Lady that looked so much like her.

Chapter 2

“Ah, Stuart, I’m glad ye’re here.” Adamina smiled as she reclined in the chair by the fire. Her body was tired from riding, and the cold chill had brought on a cough that refused to leave.

“How are ye feeling, My Lady?” Stuart asked after bowing to her.

“I feel weak and sick. I hate feeling this way. This is how commoners feel, not Ladies.” Adamina spoke with venom in her tone.

“It will pass, as will the storm.” Stuart walked with his hands clasped behind his back over to the window and peered out into the darkness.

“I hope ye’re right about that.” Adamina nodded and let out a labored sigh. “Did ye get a glimpse at that lass?”

“The servant girl who prepared yer room?” Stuart glanced over at his Lady with a frown already etched into his face. His tiredness made the wrinkles around his eyes more pronounced, and the dark shadows under his eyes were emphasized by the dim light of the room. His hair was speckled with grey flecks.

“Did ye see her?” Lady Adamina emphasized.

“I…saw her briefly in the hall, why My Lady?”

“If ye have to ask, then ye clearly didnae see her properly,” Adamina huffed in annoyance. She turned back to the fire and let it warm up her cold body. She sputtered slightly as the cough relented in her chest, although she could feel it causing her insides to rattle, and an ache had begun in her head.

“How much farther is it to the castle?”

“I would say that we have another day of ridin’ ahead of us, My Lady.”

Adamina groaned at the thought and shook her head.

“Nae, I will have to stay here for at least another day. I cannae ride to see the Colquhoun clan if I am sick. It wouldnae be received well.”

“As ye wish, My Lady,” Stuart spoke despite his clenched jaw.

He did not agree with the slow pace that Adamina had shown throughout the entire journey. Had it not been for her stubborn attitude about going so slow, Stuart was confident that they would have made it to her father’s castle at least two days ago. They had left Lady Adamina’s husband’s castle almost five days ago, and they were still on the road, much to Stuart’s vexation.

Nevertheless, he had always followed her word, wherever it happened to take them, or however long it took them. He was sworn to guard and protect her, even if she insisted on stopping in every small village along the way. Stuart knew of guards who had traveled down into England in quicker time than they were making. But he kept silent on the issue and simply nodded.

Lady Adamina trusted Stuart with her life. She allowed herself to let her guard down when he was present. He had protected her since she was merely a child. He had been much younger then, and Adamina felt privileged in getting to see how he had aged. Much the same, Stuart had been pleased to see the way that Adamina had grown into the woman she was, although her strong will was as unrelenting as it had always been.

“I need ye to dae somethin’ for me,” Adamina said but trailed off into another fit of coughing.

“Aye, My Lady?” Stuart stood up slightly straighter and prepared for her request.

“Will ye get the lass? Now that I am settled, I wish to talk to her.”

“The lass, My Lady?” Stuart blinked in confusion.

“Aye, the one that prepared this room.”

“Which lass would that be, My Lady?”

“She is called Allie, I cannae say that I remember what her last name is, nor dae I care. But bring her ‘ere.”

“Aye, My Lady. I will be right back.”

Stuart hesitated slightly at the thought of leaving Adamina without any kind of protection. But he swiftly shut the door behind him and willed the door not to open should any intruders come roaming through the narrow hallway.

*

“Duncan! Where are ye? I need to speak with ye!” Allie called as she walked into the back of the inn on the ground floor and over to where the staff that weren’t needed were waiting. “Ye, new lass, there are tables out there that will nae wipe themselves down.”

Allie watched as the younger girl quickly nodded and scurried off to get to work.

The sound of the muted chatter and drunken laughing still managed to pierce into the backroom, although it was much quieter. And the smell of spilled ale that had long since soaked into the wooden flooring had become a smell that the workers were used to. Allie remembered the first time that she had the strong alcohol spilled on her. It took her a week of washing to no longer feel sticky and get rid of the smell.

“Duncan! There ye are!” Allie groaned as she walked over to where he sat smoking a pipe.

“What’s up lass? Keep the heild, ye look terrible!”

Allie swatted off the older man’s attempts to tell her to calm down. How could she, with the strange encounter that she had just experienced?

“Who let the Lady Adamina up to her room before it was ready?” Allie snapped, trying out what her voice would sound like if she had the authority of the Lady upstairs.

“I dinnae ken.” Duncan shrugged nonchalantly.

Despite the fact that the man was only about ten years older than Allie, the wrinkles that spattered his face and hands spoke of relentless days working hard with little time to spare for himself. Duncan had worked at the inn before Allie joined. He was as customary to see in the building as smelling the ale in the air.

He wasn’t being very helpful, however, and only stirred up Allie’s frustration more.

“What? I dinnae ken! I can’t help ye! I was back ‘ere!”

“So, you didnae get a look at her?” Allie’s eyes narrowed.

“Nae! How could I if I’m telling you I was back ‘ere?”

“Ach, all right.” Allie groaned. “She is not happy with the quality of the place.”

She decided not to mention the likeness in their appearances. Duncan was already vexed, and he would only think that Allie was trying to trick him in some way.

“Ach, that’s not my concern, is it?” Duncan leaned back in his chair and jumped slightly at the sound of a clap of thunder. “This damned weather.”

“It’s always like this.” Allie chuckled as she made herself busy by tidying up some of the stock that had come in early because of the storm.

Admittedly, she enjoyed the fact that the Lord was clearly angry about something; it was a wild break from the perpetual dreary rain that fell and soaked you through. This was the kind of rain that landed with an energy in it that one might only consider as anger.

She thought of the Lady Adamina upstairs and winced at the thought of her having even more to complain about because of the storm.

The sudden sound of the door opening caused the two of them to startle once more. Allie held a hand up to her pounding chest, attempting to ease the rapid beating of her heart; however, it proved futile as her eyes locked with the dark figure in the doorway.

The open door allowed broken parts of conversations to waft into the room, followed by the heady smell of alcohol. Allie frowned as the man in front of them began to walk in.

“I’m sorry, kind sir, this is an area for the workers only.”

“Are ye Allie?”

She could feel her heart beating much faster.

“Aye, she is. Who are ye?” Duncan snapped from behind her as he craned his neck to see who had burst in. His stubbornness showed as he refused to rise from his seat, even with an armored intruder standing before them.

“I have come with orders of the Lady Adamina to take ye to her chamber.”

“‘Tisnae much of a chamber, only a wee room.” Duncan cackled as he rocked back on his chair. Allie winced at the way he spoke to a man who was clearly the protector of the lady in question, and no stranger to the decorum of the nobility, something that could not be found in a single bone of Duncan’s body.

Allie ignored the older man behind her and urged her feet to start moving so that she would not appear as weak as she felt on the inside.

She followed the tall and muscular looking man up the stairs and down the dark corridor to where the rooms were situated in the building.

The man knocked on the door and waited for the faint call of his Lady to respond.

“Enter!”

Allie held her breath as her body seemed to prepare on its own for being under the cold scrutiny of the lady once more.

“Ach, there ye are.”

Allie tried not to stare at Lady Adamina but busied herself with glancing around the room to look for anything that could possibly be wrong. The candles, she thought to herself. Dread rose up in her like dark shadows, Allie prepared herself to take the brunt of Adamina’s criticism, just as the exterior walls of the inn were taking the full force of the raging storm.

She took comfort that the room felt much warmer now that the fire had been going for a while. The fire, she suddenly thought to herself as she noticed how hungry it looked for another dry log.

“Ye wanted to see me?” Allie asked with a frown.

“Aye, come closer, I want to get a better look at ye.”

Allie stood still for a moment, but she felt the guard’s hand hovering behind her back, ready to urge her forward if she did not comply.

“Stuart, come ‘ere and look at her properly.”

Allie was closer to the fire now, but she knew it was the feeling of being picked apart by the gazes of two people that sent her cheeks alight in the color of a rose.

“Good God,” the man called Stuart muttered under his breath.

Adamina’s eyes lit up once more as she took in the sight in front of her. Allie herself was still shocked by her likeness to the noble Lady. She could not understand why they looked so similar.

Adamina maintained the stern expression that pulled down her almost identical features, the beginnings of a scowl hiding at the corners of her lips – ready to pounce should Allie say something that she did not agree with.

“Ye wanted to see me, My Lady?” Allie frowned as she locked eyes with Adamina. She could not understand what the Lady could want other than to be entertained by the likeness in their appearances.

“Aye, Allie. I have a… proposition for ye if ye’re interested in gettin’ out of this life.”

Allie blinked in confusion; she could feel it clouding her own features, but she had no idea what the Lady was talking about.

“My Lady?”

“Ye heard me. Would ye be interested in doing somethin’ else with yer life?”

Allie thought about this for a moment; she had never imagined that the opportunity would arise, and so her dreams had been stunted from a very early age. Presented with the possibility of not working at the inn anymore felt as though she were one of the King’s horses suddenly allowed to roam free up to the peaks of Glenn Coe.

“Aye, My Lady.”

“Good, then I propose to ye that since we happen to look so similar, how would ye feel about becoming Lady Adamina?”

Allie did not know what she had been expecting, but it was not the offer that had been laid in front of her. Even Adamina’s guard, Stuart, snapped his head in his Lady’s direction as though the wind had shaken her logic.

“My Lady? I’m afraid that I dinnae understand what ye mean. Ye are Adamina, the Lady of Clan Buchan. That cannae be my title as well?”

“Aye, I see yer point.” Adamina held her head up so high that she could only look down her nose at Allie in front of her. “That is why I’m proposing that when I am due to return to me husband’s castle, it will be ye that takes me place.”

“But, My Lady, what are-”

Adamina held a hand up to silence her guard. Her gaze never left Allie’s. She watched as the young girl toyed with the strange idea that had been thrown at her.

“Ye will have a good life. There will be nae trouble for ye at the castle. Think about it; ye will never have to work another day in yer life. Ye will have people that will take care of ye, like Stuart here.”

Allie listened to the Lady for as long as she could bear before shaking her head. She was breathing heavily once more, and the room suddenly felt a lot smaller and more constricting than she remembered.

“My Lady, I ken ‘tisnae my place to speak, but please, think about what ye’re saying.” Stuart tried again, causing Adamina to turn to him. Her eyes were blazing with anger, a look that was enough to cause the strong man to recoil and remember his place as someone that simply served her.

“I ken what I’m saying, and I understand the consequences, but it is the way out that I’ve been lookin’ for.” Adamina continued as she sat up straighter until her posture resembled that of a wooden board.

“I-I’m sorry, My Lady, but that is yer place, that is yer life. I ken that we look like each other for whatever reason, but my answer is nay. I cannae pretend to be someone that I am nae.”

Allie turned with her body back toward the door that she had entered through. Never in her life had she been so terrified of what the consequences to her actions held. Her cheeks were still stained with a pink hue, and Allie could feel two pairs of gazes on her as she almost reached the doorway.

“Come back here, Allie! I was trying to be nice by asking ye, but mark me words; I always get what I want.”

Adamina’s words boomed around the room, bouncing off the wooden beams as they pushed Allie out of the door much faster than she had been walking beforehand. She could hear the Lady coughing through the open door, but still, she carried on. Allie shuddered and crossed her arms over her chest as she made her way down the hall.

Adamina’s words played over in her mind as she made it back down to the main area of the inn. It was warmer due to the high volume of intoxicated bodies that filled the space, yet Allie had never wanted to be alone with just her thoughts so much in all of her life.

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

Chapter 1

If he lived to be a hundred years old, Ualan McCallum would always remember that night. But right then, in the fug of the tavern, with the Highland rain pelting down, he had no idea.

Beside him, his cousin looked into his lovelorn face and laughed.

“Och! An’ this is what happens when ye trust a woman, did I nae say!”

Ualan leaned his head against the window of the Sheep’s Heid Tavern and looked out to the windswept glen.

Above his head, a portrait of Queen Mary stared down, disapproving of the revelers on that rain-sodden Sunday night. It was supposed to be springtime, but from up here on the moor, it didn’t look – or feel like it.

Slowly, Ualan took a sip from his drink and sighed. Try as he might, the ­­deep gnawing in his heart and the grumble from his belly would not be silenced. The latter might have owed to the whisky Keith kept pouring for him. But no matter how much he drank, it couldn’t erase his heart.

Although Ualan didn’t look lovelorn, in his fine linen clothes, he was every inch the laird’s heir; a flowing léine of saffron offset his long rusty red hair to good effect. But deep inside, there was something missing.

At twenty-six, he was well built and handsome; his boyish youth still visible in his freckles and twinkling brown eyes. Tonight, they were misty and sad. Ualan’s wide eyes panned the room as if looking for someone there. But it was no use. She was not there. She had never been, not really.

Ualan’s hands went down to his pouch, fastened securely into his belt, and felt the large, heavy shape of the McLaughlin brooch. At least it was still there. Without looking, Ualan’s fingers felt for the four large rubies and six sapphires lining the edges of the trinket.

It was the most precious jewel in the whole of the clan, the highest prize anyone could wear—and yet, both it and he had been roundly rejected.

Ualan fastened the gleaming jewel back down into his pouch, vowing never again to offer either it, or his heart, to a woman as long as he lived.

“Och, laddie, it could have been worse!” opined Keith, seeing him open his pouch and study the brooch. “She could have kept the jewel an’ left ye!”

Ualan just shrugged. Right then, he wouldn’t have cared much if she did. But Keith just laughed, pouring them another dram, and continued chattering.

“It just goes to prove, as I said, that ye cannae trust a woman, lad,” said Keith. “An’ ye should ken!”

“Hum,” said Ualan, unable to argue with that. “But all the same, let us speak no more of it now, Keith,” he added, watching as the rain pounded harder past the window. “It’s nae for the whole world to hear!”

“Well, right ye are, an on that note, there’ll be no mair talk of women,” Keith McCallum said, seeing the discomfort in his cousin’s eyes and quickly changing tack. “So come, let’s toast to the fine laird that ye’ll surely be!”

“Och…one day…a long time off!” Ualan reminded him. “But aye, I do happen to have, as ye ken, some ambitious plans for the clan McCallum!”

“Go on, then, let’s hear them. Let the clan in on what ye have planned for them!” grinned Keith. His flushed cheeks betrayed the number of drams he had already enjoyed that evening.

But in the haze of drink, Ualan had quite forgotten what he was about to say.

“What happened to Ian again?” he asked in confusion. Ian was Ualan’s best friend. “Ye did ask him, didn’t ye…?”

“Aye,” said Keith. “Something came up at the last minute, I think. Anyhow, I’m more interested in yer plans for the keep… so put us poor wretches out of oor misery. Sae, laddie…what are yer plans?” Keith said jovially, downing another quaich. Ualan watched as his cousin’s pale eyes scanned the barroom quickly before turning back to him. “So, what’s it to be, cousin?” Keith said, his eyes eventually connecting with a young woman at the back of the room.

“Eh?” said Ualan. Following his cousin’s gaze, he also turned to look at her. Her platinum blonde mane was vaguely familiar from somewhere, but at the mere sight of Keith, she blushed and stuck her head down.

Next, Keith turned to the elderly landlord, his sharp blue eyes reaching into Ualan’s face.

“So, ye going to let them ken what dastardly plans ye have afoot for yer poor people?” Keith asked again.

Now the pair of them were staring at him, as well as most of the tavern regulars from across the room. Even the eyes of the wueen seemed to bore into him, as if anxious to hear what he had to say.

“Och, it’ll nae be anythin’ like that!” Ualan said, his memory returning as a flush of whisky came upon his cheeks. “But there’s so much opportunity out there, ye ken, to really connect wi’ folk an’ make this clan great!”

“Ye sayin’ it’s nae so great now, cousin?” asked Ualan slyly, with a wink to the landlord.

“Nae, nae, nae!” Ualan said, perhaps a little too loudly—without warning, there was now a drum banging inside his head. For a moment, Ualan paused, frowning. That was strange—it seemed he had only taken a few sips, and yet he was already dizzy.

Ualan quickly cast off the thick mantle fastened loosely around his waist as his face burned, and his core temperature rose abruptly.

Although cold when he had first come in, the single malt had quickly woven its magic, starting at his lips and reaching into the pit of his belly at speed. Right then, Ualan wanted nothing more than to stay there, lost in a haze of whisky, but he knew it wouldn’t help for long.

There was one place the firewater would never reach, and that was the cavern of his heart, still aching with the hurt that had been done.

“The clan’s braw, but I dinnae, it could be made bigger,” he asserted, his thick fingers fastening tightly around the wooden quaich. Ualan frowned; he didn’t remember it being refilled. Then he looked around to see literally everyone in the room watching him.

Never mind; he took a deep sip of the single malt. The fug in his head spread down into his lower limbs, rendering them comfortably numb.

“Like what?” Keith asked him.

“Och, I dinnae, just a wee idea,” started Ualan, noticing the watchful faces. But then, another glug of whisky hit him, and he threw caution to the wind. “Like, ye ken, that instead of fighting each other, we could try an’ unite the distant clans together, under one, an’ really be able to reach out an’ do something great!” he continued, warming to his theme.

“What, ye mean like conquer the neighbors an’ rule over them?” Keith said, his serious face pressed close against his hand and staring.

From behind him, Ualan was still vaguely aware of the others, listening in, but at that moment, he was too tired to care.

It had been a long day, with a hard ride and a heavy list of filial duties to attend to. Add that to the turmoil of everything that had happened at the McIver keep, and Ualan’s heart beat extra hard.

“Nae, nae, nae, I dinnae mean like that!” he said. “Yer nae listening. I mean we should unite, not fight!” he asserted. “Like Mairi’s clan…tried to…!”

Keith chuckled, casting his dark blond hair over his shoulders and laughing with the men behind.

“Och, an’ there, ladies an’ gentlemen, we have it. Mairi! I might have kent there would be a woman behind it somewhere!”

He slapped Ualan good-naturedly around the shoulders, continuing to smile. “I can tell ye right now, ye never listen to anything a woman ever tells ye, did I nae say that from the start?” Keith said. He was still smiling, but his eyes connected more seriously with Ualan’s. “An’ wasnae I right?” he added softly.

Ualan rubbed the side of his head as he felt his cheeks flush even more with the heat of the whisky.

“Aye,” said Ualan dejectedly. “But the plan’s still a good one! I’ll extend the lands beyond the glen side, an’ we can have access to the forests to the west. I’ll build new homes for all of the clan, an’ then…”

Just in speaking about it, Ualan’s spirits had picked up. Then again, that might have had something to do with the generous splash of whisky Keith was pouring for him again.

But almost in the same instance, Ualan felt himself crash back down again. “An’ by then I’ll be the most powerful laird in the land, an’ Mairi will be sorry she went an’ married an Englishman!” he said, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice.

“Och, hush, we’ll find a wee strumpet for ye to warm yer bed afore the night’s oot!” replied Keith. He looked over to the slight blonde woman in the crowd, who ducked her head. “Ye just need one or two more wee drams inside ye, an’…steady, laddie!”

Then, wham! Without warning, Ualan’s legs gave way, and in an instant, he was down on the muddied floor, languishing in dirt.

“Och, dinnae fash,” muttered Ualan, pulling himself up clumsily. But he only succeeded in knocking his head on the table leg.

For a few minutes, the whole world swam around him. Although it wasn’t exactly crowded on that damp Sunday evening, there were more than enough people watching the McCallum clan heir to very quickly make him want to sober up.

“Here,” said Keith, smiling. He offered his cousin a hand up. But in his inebriated state, Ualan was having none of it.

“Och, it’s nothing!” announced Ualan, finally pulling himself up from the floor and dusting himself down. With effort, he climbed back on top of the tall barstool – quite an accomplishment at the best of times – but the room still rotated with his every move.

Through his haze, he wondered how he had he even got into such a state after only a few wee drams.

But his thoughts were rudely interrupted by Keith slapping him heartily about the shoulder. “What say we have a couple more here an’ then head up to the King’s Arms in town? There’s going to be a cracking ceilidh there later!”

Ualan noticed Keith’s eyes going across the dull room, to the slight blonde woman at the back. But every time he looked, she dropped her head back down. Yet when Keith wasn’t looking, she glanced up at Ualan coyly.

Even from the distance, Ualan could sense something in her, as if she was trying to connect with him. For a minute, Ualan paused, wondering where he knew her from, but the whisky fog in his brain blanked out her name. Eventually, though he did remember her as a maid at the keep. When Keith noticed, he laughed out loud.

“So, ye’ve got yer eye on another lassie! Well, that’s the way to mend a broken heart!” he guffawed, thumping Ualan on the back with a heavy slap. “I cannae say I blame ye, I would have that one myself, but since it’s ye, I’ll let ye have her!”

“Och, nae!” protested Ualan, taken aback. “An’ I’m nae broken-hearted,” he lied.

This just made Keith laugh all the more. He motioned to the landlord to refill their quaich cups even faster.

As the old grey man poured their drinks, Ualan could sense an urgency in the maid’s face. Oblivious, Keith carried on.

“Och, ye are; Mairi this, Mairi that. Well, laddie, Mairi is gone now, but that lassie yonder is very much there, an’ hoo! Lassie!” Keith stood up, suddenly, shaking the unstable barstool and sending it flying across the floor.

The ancient landlord refilling their drinks had to duck fast as it almost hit him in the shin. Quickly, Ualan apologized and glared at his cousin, who was now beckoning to the maid to come forwards.

“Nae, dinnae,” muttered Ualan, embarrassed. He might have been slightly drunk, but he could see well enough the fear palpable on the maid’s face. “Maybe she just wants to be left alone,” he reasoned, taking Keith by the elbow and motioning him to sit down.

But Keith seemed very keen. “Och, Ualan, if that’s so, then why does she keep looking at ye? She seems awfu’ keen. Come on, what harm can a few drinks do?”

Ualan groaned; he knew all too well what Keith’s “few drinks” meant.

Usually lots of fighting and inappropriate women; not to mention a banging headache and quite often not waking up in the right bed – if any bed – the next morning. Briefly, he wondered again where his friend Ian had got to tonight. Either way, he didn’t feel up for an unmitigated night on the town.

“Nae, really, Keith, I think I’ll just go home,” Ualan began, but Keith shook his head hard.

“Nae, nae on my watch, cousin; ye’ve got a broken heart an’ it’s my job to do something about it. Starting with this quaich! McTavish!” he yelled, calling to the landlord to come back again with the whisky.

Ualan found himself relax back into his seat. He knew better than to challenge Keith when he got an idea in his head. And if there was one thing, he was serious about, it was merrymaking.

“Ye only live once, Ualan, so better make it a good one!” Keith said, with a smile to the blonde wench who was starting to come through the crowd. “I’ll make ye enjoy yersel’ whether ye like it or nae!” he joked.

Ualan was fond of his cousin, and grudgingly had to admit he knew how to rouse his spirits when he was down. So, despite everything, he found himself nodding along as he settled back into his stool.

“Och, well, maybe just a wee dram or two,” agreed Ualan as the drinks were poured. “An’ I’ll tell ye all about the grand farmhouse I’m going to build out there by the moors…”

“Och, the farm; aye, that’d be braw. In fact, why doesnae Uncle Roderick do something like that noo?” enquired Keith, with a quick look to Ualan.

“Och, I dinnae, something about it not being beneficial. But I am sure it could be made to work,” said Ualan, warming to his theme.

“Tis a pity ye cannae persuade him that it’d be grand for the clan,” agreed Keith. “It sure is a shame….” His voice trailed off as the young blonde woman who had been watching them from the back of the bar came nervously forward.

“Aye, t’is a pity Father willnae listen, but ye ken what he’s like when his mind is made up about something,” said Ualan sadly, but his voice was without rancor. “Like for ages now, I’ve been trying to persuade him to build a new keep, but he willnae have it!”

One or two eyes around the bar cast curiously over to them as he said that. Realizing the attention, he was causing, Ualan quickly dropped his voice. It wouldn’t do for a laird’s son to be heard publicly criticizing the laird, and anyway, they were only pipe dreams.

Then, from behind him, a voice interrupted their conversation.

“Sorry to bother ye, sir, but there is message from yer father, the laird—yer to come at once!”

Chapter 2

“The laird has sent a messenger, sir!”

The silver-haired man stood hesitantly before them. Both Ualan and his cousin turned their heads around to see the previously silent landlord, McTavish, his lined face etched with uncertainty.

“Och, what is it?” asked Ualan, trying to keep the anxiety out of his voice. “Is everything alright?”

“Well, I dinnae have the full message; he sent the lass. She’s been trying to work up some way of coming to tell ye, but she didnae want to disturb ye,” McTavish said.

Now, almost the entire tavern turned around to stare at the small blonde lass standing uncertainly before them.

“Aye, lassie,” said Ualan kindly to the girl. “Go on.”

By the look on Keith’s face, he was going to say something, but Ualan elbowed him to keep quiet. Quickly, the maid unfastened something from about her person and handed it to him.

Ualan took the parchment from her and unfurled it. It was in his father’s handwriting. Ualan briefly scanned it, giving a sigh, then swiftly folded it away.

“Drink up, we have to go,” said Ualan to Keith, tucking the letter under his trews.

“Why?” said Keith, looking mildly annoyed. His eyes had reconnected with the girl in front of him. “The night is just getting started!” he said, grinning at her. The young woman dropped her eyes to the floor.

Ualan looked keenly at her. “I ken ye from the keep, dinnae I?” Ualan said as the maid nodded. “But I’ve nae seen ye in here afore,” he added. “An’, um, I’m afraid I dinnae ken yer name,” Ualan admitted, slightly embarrassed.

“It’s Teasag,” said the maid in a soft voice.

“Teasag, aye,” said Ualan, making a mental note not to forget it again. “An’ are ye the one the laird sent?” he asked incredulously.

The girl nodded again. Ualan looked concerned.

“Well dinnae tell me ye were the only person who could deliver this, ye didnae come alone did ye?” Ualan said, anxiously. “Is the laird alright?” he added.

Teasag nodded. “Aye, he didnae want to send me, but I volunteered as I was going to visit my sister nearby…ye ken we are shorthanded today,” she said reluctantly, “….an’ all the guards are out looking for ye, too, while doing their patrols…but I thought ye might be here…” her voice trailed off.

Now Keith eyed her curiously. “What is it that’s so urgent?” he demanded, then looked at Ualan.

“Ye have to come now, sir. The laird has sent out a search party across the clan, to find ye…” she blurted out.

A murmur went around the bar.

Ualan frowned. His father’s instructions had been precise, but not explicit. He was to go at once, but it didn’t say why. However, Ualan thought he had a pretty good idea why, and if so, he was in no huge rush to leave. The last thing he felt like right then was a fight with his father.

Setting his drink down on the table in front of him, Ualan muttered loudly, “Och, I have told him often enough that the answer’s is no!”

Looking uncertain, Teasag continued, but in a low voice that only Ualan could hear. “I dinnae ken what this is about, sir, but the laird has been awfu’ peaky, so whatever it is, it must be important…please, I implore ye to come soon.”

Now Ualan was concerned. His annoyance with the laird was laid to one side for the time being, and he moved to get his mantle. It was true his father had been rather off-color for a week or two.

“But he’s alright?” he quickly said to her.

“Aye, I… suppose,” she said, in a tone which did not fill Ualan with hope.

He wanted to ask more, but the prying eyes watching them stopped him. And by the look of things, Keith had his own plans for the night.

Completely oblivious, he eyed Teasag impetuously. “Well, whatever it is, surely it can wait a while for us to have a couple of wee drams. What do ye say, lass?” Keith said, his hand extending busily to the serving wench’s behind.

“Keith!” snapped Ualan defensively. But although Keith moved his hand, nothing seemed to dampen his appetite for merriment that evening.

“Och, come on, one wee dram, one wee dance!” he said, lifting the lass’s hands in the air as if to dance a reel.

Despite his foggy brain, sense pushed its way into Ualan’s head: all was not well. He frowned, wondering exactly what it was she meant about his father being ill.

“Nae, Keith, leave it. An’ we better do as my father says,” he said, setting the drink down and gently standing in front of the anxious-faced girl.

Keith didn’t mean harm, but he could get a little foolish after a couple of drinks. As the maid edged away, Keith reluctantly stepped backward.

“Och, alright,” he said with bad grace.

“Let’s get back this wee lassie back to the keep then, an’…” But by then, Teasag had already turned on her heel, ran the length of the bar to the door, and disappeared completely.

“Teasag?” enquired Ualan, looking around for the girl. “Och, I hope the lassie isnae upset,” he said as he refastened the mantle around his square shoulders. But she had gone.

“Doesnae matter, does it? If ye like I can sweeten her up for ye later on. After all, I ken whereabouts her room is, if ye ken what I mean!” slurred Keith.

“Tisnae that,” said Ualan, suddenly wondering how he was going to get Keith home in such a state. He looked toward the open tavern door, as wind blew a sharp blast of sobriety into his face. “I just dinnae think she should be alone out there…”

“Och, she’ll be alright. As tough as anything, that one,” asserted Keith—and then stopped abruptly as a long scream filled the night.

Immediately, Ualan was at the door.

“Teasag?” he cried.

###

The maid’s scream rang out, piercing the ears of the revelers in the Sheep’s Heid and reaching out into the glen side around it.

On that wild and rainy night, the taverners were not the only ones to hear the serving maid’s cries. Astride her horse, the woman on the hill could hear it all. And more than that – from her vantage point, she could see as well.

At that moment, a cloud scurried past the moon casting a shaft of silver upon the valley. From there, at the top of the billowing storm, the woman saw him – a lone rider, speeding into the tight country lanes which were cut into the glen side.

Although she couldn’t yet see his face, it was clear that this was no social call. And when she heard the maid’s terrified scream, it confirmed it.

She leaned back against the hills, pressed in against the wind, her dark hair billowing out as the high-pitched note rang around the mountainside.

It was a long way from the town, but instinctively, she knew to keep a good way back. The rider’s sudden appearance had shaken her to the core, and now her heart was beating intensely.

The woman checked herself, tightening the hood around her face and trying to get a grip of her fear.

Was he still after her? Were there more of them behind him?

Her heart exploded like a cannon as she watched him ride in, cross the river briskly, and follow her up the hill.

The woman on the horse froze, unsure of what to do next. She had ridden too long and too far to simply quit now. Perhaps if it had been daylight she could have ridden on into the neighboring village, but at this hour it was impossible.

Her horse was tired, and frankly, so was she. She had hoped to find lodgings in the village below, but now that plan was blown.

The sight of the rider hit her hard. There was no way she was going to go down there until he had gone. For all she knew he had brought others to hunt her down, it just wasn’t safe until daylight.

Pulling the cloak tighter as the rain lashed hard, the young woman decided to head for the hills. She would ride on through the storm and find an abandoned croft to bed down in. That would have to do for now.

The dark woman rode and rode, as fast and as hard as she could do, away from the valley, and away from the town.

Och! Wasn’t this just the perfect ending to a perfect day, she thought angrily. All day, she had ridden, alone across the glen, in search of someplace – any place – to go next. And now this!

One thing was certain. She couldn’t go back to where she came from.

Once a mission was complete, she couldn’t exactly hang about, and the last job had gotten particularly messy. And now the people she had exposed were at her heels.

Such was the life she had carved out for herself. She had money and independence, but nowhere to go and no place to be, with no one to miss her if she was not there. And most of the time, that suited her just fine. The woman had learned a long time ago that the only person she could really count on was herself.

Was it definitely the same man who had been chasing her? Or just another brigand?

As the cold rain tumbled down, the woman hesitated. For the first time in years, she felt completely alone. Reluctantly, she tugged the reins of her tired horse to direct her further along the hillside. She could tell the pretty dappled mare had about the same appetite for more travel as she did, but she had no choice.

She trotted up the rain-soaked hillside until she was nearly at the top. As she rode, the tiny town became less and less visible, until it shrank to a dot.

Now nearing the top, she gave a sigh, which turned into a sob. She tried to get a grip of herself, but it was impossible.

Finally away from the world’s gaze, she could free her wild head. After all, there was no one here to see her tears, as they fell into the cold night rain. And even if there was, who would care?

###

“Teasag!” Ualan yelled loudly as he shot out into the cold May night. “Where are ye?”

He looked desperately about for the young lass, but couldn’t find her. Tensely, he cast his head around to see where she had gone. But he couldn’t see past the broad oak growing in front of the tavern. Anxiously, he turned to his cousin, who had just about managed to stagger out of the tavern. “Where is she?”

“She could be anywhere by now!” Keith said in a drunken panic.

“I ken that!” hissed Ualan, annoyed. Then, without warning, he tripped over something on the ground. Teasag.

“Och, are ye alright, lassie?” he asked, helping her up and brushing the mud off her.

“Aye, I, I, ken,” said the scared woman. “But they took yer horses!” she said, her eyes darting about nervously.

Ualan, just getting to his feet looked at the serving lass unsurely. “They?” he asked, uncomprehending.

“Aye,” said the little maid, who was shaking, and on the edge of tears. “The men who were here afore. They bade me to be silent or else!”

“Men?” asked Keith limply, looking even more confused than Ualan.

But Ualan was sobering up fast. In panic, he darted around to the back of the tavern, where their horses had been tethered. Sure enough, they were gone.

“Kelpie!” cried Ualan in distress. He turned to Keith, his eyes opened wide. “My horse!” he sighed.

Ualan felt his heart plummet in his chest. Yes, it was only a horse, but he had been attached to Kelpie ever since he was a foal. The sudden loss of such a close friend affected him more than it should have.

From out of the tavern, McTavish the landlord came running. “Sir, we hear tell of some strange men in the area. We think they have got your horses,” he said, his blue eyes glittering in the moonlight.

“Och,” said Ualan, mildly, trying to keep his dismay concealed. “This sort of thing is getting worse around here. I really need to speak to my father about security,” he added. “That’s if I can ever get back to see what it was he needed me about so badly!”

He shared a look with Keith. “Ye dinnae think he’s in some kind of trouble at the keep?” he said, voicing his concerns out loud.

Keith looked at him unsurely. “I dinnae ken, Ualan, but perhaps yer right, an’ it wouldnae be a bad idea for us to get back up there an’ see!” he said.

Ualan looked around them carefully and sighed. The four of them were still on the doorstep to the tavern, facing out into the wild night.

“Aye,” Ualan said. “But I cannae get up there any time soon without a horse!” Then, from behind them, McTavish spoke.

“Ye can borrow a horse of mine, sir,” said the elderly landlord standing at the entrance to the tavern behind them.

Ualan jumped. “Och, that’d be braw,” said Ualan, patting the old man on the back.

“I’ll go an’ bring him to the front, but I’m afraid it’s only big enough for one of ye,” said McTavish apologetically.

“That’s alright, McTavish,” said Ualan, genuinely. But then he looked serious. “But do try an’ find another horse for Keith, an’…” He hesitated. “Perhaps a few of the men should go an’ check the town is safe of these brigands…”

“Aye sir,” said McTavish, leaving to prepare the horse for Ualan.

As he trotted the stumpy Highland pony over to the front of the tavern, Ualan faced Keith thoughtfully.

“Keith, I…,” Ualan began. And then he paused. He didn’t really like to leave Keith, but then again, the townsfolk might need some extra protection if these men were still on the prowl.

“Alright,” said Ualan reluctantly. “But here, take my bow. I ken ye probably dinnae need it an’ it’s just a false alarm but, ye ken, just in case!”

Ualan handed Keith his prized bow and quiver, one of his most treasured possessions. “It was Duncan’s, but ye need it more now, an’,” here he paused again. “Yer more of a brother than a cousin to me now!”

Keith hesitated a while before taking the large wooden bow from his cousin. “Thank ye cousin. All will be well. Now ye ride on noo, an’ check that uncle is alright!”

And with that, Ualan turned to face the wind and rode on into the night.

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

Chapter 1

The constant, almost maddening pitter-patter of rain was nothing unusual for Knapdale, which saw more rainy days than sunny ones. So, when Angus woke up in his chambers that morning, dreading the day that followed and the responsibilities that came with it, the rain didn’t stop him from deciding that perhaps it would be better to spend the better part of his day away from the castle.

He had to sneak out, ensure that none of his guards would see him, as he had no desire to be questioned by them or to have them insist on escorting him. For a Laird, Angus sure had to answer to many other people when it came to his whereabouts and his plans, something that he had never grown to tolerate.

Sneaking out of the castle was easy enough, as he had been doing that exact same thing ever since he was a little boy. He knew the ins and outs of the building, the paths that he could take to avoid being seen, and the not-so-secret door that led to the back of the castle.

From there, all Angus had to do was go to the stables and grab his horse, and he could do so without worrying about being found out; the stable boy was used to seeing him there in the past few years, and often, he even knew when to have his horse ready.

Angus didn’t know what it was that gave away the fact that he would be looking for a temporary escape; perhaps there was a pattern there that he couldn’t see, but the stable boy could, and Angus didn’t want to think about what that would say about him as a man.

“M’lord.”

The voice came from behind him just as Angus entered the stables, and he froze, worried that he had been caught. The childlike terror that he felt at being found out prevented him from recognizing the voice that he knew so well until the stable boy walked around and faced him, and only then could Angus take a deep breath and relax.

“Ach, Roddy . . . ye almost scared me to death, lad,” Angus said, a hand coming up to lie over his chest.

“Forgive me, m’lord,” Roddy said sincerely, bowing his head a little. “Are ye on yer way out? I have the mare ready for ye.”

There it was again, Angus thought. Once more, Roddy had been anticipating him, and he had the horse ready. Angus couldn’t help but ask, needing to know.

“Roddy . . . how do ye ken that I’ll be coming here?” Angus asked. “How is the mare always prepared?”

Roddy looked at Angus with a frown, blinking a few times in surprise. “I see ye leave the castle, and I prepare the mare . . . by the time ye come here, I have her ready.”

Angus hummed, sounding almost disappointed. He had been expecting some sort of different explanation, perhaps something more exciting. He would have much rather have been told that Roddy was psychic, or that he was at least very good at anticipating Angus’ needs, but the answer, as usual, was much simpler than that.

“Here, m’lord,” Roddy said, as he handed Angus the reins to the horse. “Will ye be away for long?”

“Not too long,” Angus said as he mounted the horse. “Dinnae tell anyone about this.”

“Of course not, m’lord.”

With that promise, Angus began to ride towards the edge of the castle’s land, and then kept riding, further and further. The rain had turned into a drizzle, and though it wasn’t enough to soak his clothes, thankfully, it was more than enough to turn his brown mop of hair into a flat, tangled mess, something that he would have to deal with later. Besides, the more unlike a Laird he looked, the better it would be for him.

Every time he decided to leave the castle for the day, Angus would head to one of the villages at the edge of the MacMillan lands. Many of the people had seen their Laird, but not many cared in those villages, and Angus had soon realized that the locals there forgot about his face easily. They lived too far away from the castle to be concerned with him or anything that had to do with their rulers, and he was virtually a stranger, blending in easily with the crowd.

It helped that he kept his dirtiest, most unkempt clothes just for those trips to the villages, putting them on every time that he visited for anything other than official business.

The village that Angus decided to visit that day was at the very edge of his lands, one that he had never visited before, as it was so far away from the castle. The sky was clearer there, and the rain stopped a little ways away from it. The grey clouds persisted, falling like a blanket over the village, but some sunrays managed to push their way through, illuminating the few buildings that were there with their golden light.

The market was buzzing with people, merchants, and locals alike. Angus left his horse aside and then began to walk, roaming around the stalls and looking at all the different things that the merchants were selling.

Most of it was food, naturally. There wasn’t much that those villagers needed other than food and necessities, and so there was no profit in selling much else.

Angus didn’t visit the market for the goods, though. No, he visited because he enjoyed watching the people walk around him, talking to each other. He enjoyed overhearing their conversations, and he enjoyed seeing how they acted around him when they weren’t aware of his true identity.

People were utterly fascinating to him, and they were the sole reason why he visited those villages.

As he was watching the locals around him, Angus’ gaze fell on two children, a boy, and a girl, who were apparently not a part of the little group of boys and girls who were running around, playing, and laughing. The two of them were quieter, talking only to each other, and Angus could see the smudges of dirt on their faces and the holes in the fabric of their clothes.

He looked around the market, at least as far as his eyes could see, and he couldn’t spot anyone who looked as though they were the children’s parents, though the two of them looked alike, and so Angus concluded that they were siblings. No one seemed to be looking for them or even paying them any mind, and Angus felt his stomach drop as he watched them approach a stall and try to steal some bread.

The moment that the boy’s hand reached for the bread, the merchant behind the stall roared furiously at him and grabbed the child by the arm roughly, shaking him as he shouted obscenities at the two of them. Angus’ blood boiled in his veins as he listened to the words that came out of the man’s mouth, but before he could intervene, another person beat him to it.

There was a flash of rosy lips pursed together in displeasure, a small, slightly upturned nose, and a familiar jawline, and Angus froze on the spot, unable to do anything but stare at her. He could feel his stomach revolt at the sight of her, and he instantly began to break into a cold sweat, beads of it running down his temple and making him shiver.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be her.

Angus kept repeating that to himself, reassuring himself that there was nothing to fear, but his mind was filled with images of Vika smiling at him, laughing with him, and in the end, betraying him. He could almost see her in front of him just as she was when he had last seen her, her mocking expression and the cruel twist of her lips.

But it couldn’t be her.

The young woman in front of him had auburn hair and brown eyes, unlike Vika’s lighter colors, and besides, Vika was still in the monastery, where Angus had left her after she had ruined his life.

The resemblance, though striking, was nothing more than that. Still, Angus had to admit that seeing the young woman left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Just as Angus came back to reality, his thoughts and worry about Vika dissipating slowly, he heard the merchant shout at the young woman.

“I dinnae care who did what. I want my money.”

“I told you, I was the one who asked them to steal the bread,” the young woman said, and Angus immediately knew that it was a lie. The woman was dressed in nice, clean clothes, and she even wore a necklace around her neck. She wasn’t poor; if anything, she was one of the richest people in the village. “I . . . I don’t have money on me, but you must let them go, please.”

“How do ye not have money, lass?” the merchant asked. “I’ve seen you here . . . I ken weel who ye are, I ken who yer uncle is.”

“I have it at home,” the woman said, clasping her hands together as she pleaded with the other man. “If you only let me go and—”

“The necklace, then,” the merchant interrupted, putting his hand out as a request.

The woman clutched onto the chain around her neck protectively, shaking her head, and Angus couldn’t blame her. A necklace for a loaf of bread hardly seemed like a fair trade.

“Do ye ken what we do with thieves where I come from?” the merchant said, finally letting go of the boy’s hand, but walking towards the woman instead. “We cut their hands off. Do ye want that, little lass?”

Angus had had enough. He pushed himself off the wall where he had been leaning against, and he walked up to the merchant, pulling some coins out of his pocket and throwing them to his face.

“Here,” Angus said. “This is more than enough for the bread, so I think that the bairns can choose anything they want from yer cart, aye?”

Angus watched as the man scrambled to grab all the coins, his greedy fingers wrapping tightly around them. For a moment, when the merchant looked at him, he seemed as though he was going to refuse, but when he saw the sword that was strapped onto Angus’ belt, as well as the look on his face, he simply nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “But do it quick.”

The children glanced at Angus, as though they were waiting for his permission, and he gave it to them with a sweeping gesture. It was all that they needed before they squealed in delight and began to stuff their pockets and fill their hands with food.

Then, Angus turned to look at the young woman who had so selflessly put herself in danger for the sake of those two children. As the Laird of the clan MacMillan, Angus had met many people before. He had met people who were rich and could afford to help the poor but didn’t, he had met people who were poor and shared their food with others, and he had met people who were good and kind, but he didn’t think he had ever met a person who would have ever taken the blame for a crime so that they could save someone else.

He couldn’t help but wonder about the woman, who she was and what had prompted her to intervene when she did and the way that she did; he couldn’t help but wonder why she looked so much like Vika.

Perhaps it was his brain playing tricks on him, Angus thought. Vika had never left his thoughts, after all, not even after he married his now-deceased wife, not even after he planned a future with her, one that was never meant to be.

“Thank you,” the woman said before Angus could say anything to her. “You’re very kind, I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t paid him. I’m so foolish . . . I forgot my coins at home, and I didn’t have time to get them. I thought that that man would hurt those children.”

Instead of speaking, Angus simply stared at the woman, tilting his head to the side a little as he did. She certainly didn’t sound like she was from Knapdale or the Highlands at all. In fact, she hardly sounded like anything, a medley of different accents, and the more Angus tried to figure out where she came from, the more he made his head hurt.

The woman must have been used to such a reaction, though, Angus thought, because she simply smiled at him, instead of demanding to know why he was staring at her like that.

“Thank you, again,” the woman said, as she turned her gaze to the two children, who had filled up their pockets with as much food as they could carry. She smiled at them, but it was a sad smile, and Angus couldn’t help but share her pain. “It’s no wonder that they are starving . . . when the Laird doesn’t care for his people, this is what happens. The people starve, and they fall ill, and they die.”

“The Laird?” Angus asked, rather dumbly. “Ye think that the Laird doesnae care about his people?”

“You think that he does?” the woman asked, instead of answering his question, but it was all the answer that Angus needed. “Look around . . . look at all the people who can’t afford to eat or have a roof over their heads, and then you’ll see that the Laird is no good. The people are suffering, and where is he? Does he care? It’s no wonder that everyone thinks he’s gone mad.”

Angus opened his mouth slightly, as though he was about to speak, but no words came out. What was he supposed to say to her, after all? Was he supposed to defend himself? Was he supposed to agree with her? Angus had never thought that there were people in his lands who couldn’t afford to eat or to have a proper house where they could live, and hearing that that was the case shook him to his core. If he had known earlier, he would have done his best to keep all his people safe and fed, he would have done anything to ensure that they wouldn’t fall ill or go hungry at nights. It gave him no pleasure, knowing that the very people that he had sworn to protect suffered under his rule.

Then there was the added insult to the wound. He had heard the rumors that everyone whispered about his back, claiming that he was a madman. He had even heard people whom he considered to be close to him, people that he thought he could trust, wonder if Angus harbored such hatred for his wife and their child that he was the cause of their death, rather than the childbirth. He had heard some of his own men swear that they had seen him kill his own new-born child, just because she was a girl.

Angus had tried to pay no attention to all the rumors, but they seemed to have reached the edges of his land, and the last thing he needed was for his subjects to think he was a deranged murderer.

Still, he could hardly defend himself without the woman and everyone around them, realizing who he was.

“What else do they say about the Laird?” Angus asked, unable to stop himself. He needed to know what people were saying about him, even if knowing would sting.

“Are you not from these lands?” the woman asked him, and Angus hesitated, but she didn’t seem to be waiting for an answer, thinking that her assumption was correct before she continued. “Well, some, like my uncle, insist that he’s a good man, but others . . . others say that he will ruin the clan. They don’t trust him.”

Angus hummed to himself, trying to show indifference, though judging by the fists that were clenched by his sides, he doubted he had any success.

“I canna say I ken the man, but a Laird is a Laird for a reason,” Angus said. “If people didnae trust him, then he wouldnae be their Laird.”

“Tayvallich is too far away from the castle,” the woman pointed out. “The people here are helpless. They can’t rise up against the Laird. Just his guards are enough to destroy this entire village.”

“And ye?” Angus asked. “What do ye think?”

The woman hesitated for a moment. She opened her mouth, but then closed it again, as though she changed her mind before she spoke.

“I trust my uncle,” she said. “He is a clever man, a wise man. If he believes in the Laird, then I’d like to believe in him, too.”

Angus’ chest felt tight, then, for a reason he couldn’t explain. Simply hearing the woman, a stranger, put her faith in him made the air leave his lungs, and it felt as though something invisible inside him was expanding, filling up his chest with pressure.

“Sometimes, it’s hard, though,” the woman added then, making Angus deflate once more. “When I see the people in this village go hungry and fall ill, knowing that the Laird does nothing for them, it’s hard to believe in him.”

Angus bit down hard on his bottom lip, and he clasped his hands behind his back to try and hide the fact that they were shaking ever so slightly. He had to do something. He had to save his people and ensure that they would never go hungry again, that they would not suffer under his rule.

“Weel . . . I ken one thing,” he told the woman. “Everything will be better soon.”

The woman looked at him then, a small, curious yet fond smile on her lips.

“I hope it will.”, the woman said, and then, she leaned closer and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, leaving him flustered and blushing, the blood rushing immediately to his head.

With that, she was gone, and Angus was left alone, watching her as she walked away. Then, he decided to leave, too, and head back to the castle. He didn’t want to avoid his responsibilities anymore, and he didn’t wish to waste more time, whether that meant roaming around the market in Tayvallich or doing anything else that took time away from helping his people.

If he was going to save the people who called his land their home, he needed to get to work.

Chapter 2

Ishbel kept thinking about the stranger at the market on the way to the cottage, where she lived with her uncle. He was not from the village, that much she knew, and she couldn’t help but wonder what had brought him there and whether she would see him again.

She had to admit that his kind gestured had warmed up her heart. Ishbel relied heavily on first impressions, and the man had made a very strong one on her, one that made her want to see him again, and perhaps talk to him a little more.

She had had to leave, though, a little sooner than she would have liked. She had to return and grab some money if she were to purchase food for the week.

When she got to the cottage, she was greeted by her uncle, who was carrying firewood inside the house.

“Yer back already, lass?” Cormag asked as he kicked the front door of the house open so that they could both go inside. “I didnae expect ye so soon. Where is the food?”

Ishbel closed the door behind them and followed Cormag to the fireplace, where she helped him with the wooden logs. “I forgot the money, uncle,” she said. “I’ll hurry back, and I’ll bring everything that we need.”

“Ach, ye’d lose yer head if it weren’t on yer shoulders,” Cormag said, though he sounded fond rather than upset. He smiled at Ishbel, reaching over to ruffle her hair, much to her dismay. Her frustrated grunts of disapproval always made him laugh. “So . . . did ye find yer way around the market?”

“It’s not that hard, uncle,” Ishbel pointed out. “Clermont is much bigger than Tayvallich.”

Ishbel spoke the name of her hometown with a soft sigh, one that Cormag didn’t seem to miss. He dusted off the dirt from the logs off his hands, and then placed one on Ishbel’s shoulder, making her look at him.

“You miss it,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. Still, Ishbel nodded, confirming Cormag’s suspicions. “Lass . . . if ye dinnae like living in Tayvallich—”

“Don’t say any more,” Ishbel interrupted him, shaking her head. “Tayvallich is my favorite place in the world, and do you know why? Because you’re here, uncle. Yes, I love France, and sometimes I miss home more than I think I can handle, but I would never dream of leaving you here alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Cormag said.

Ishbel didn’t need to inquire to know what Cormag meant. Sure, Vika was staying at a monastery close to Tayvallich, but Cormag hadn’t seen her ever since Laird MacMillan had placed her there after she had broken his heart and conspired against his childhood friends. As her father, it was no wonder that Cormag wanted to stay near her, even though Ishbel knew that he felt guilty on her behalf.

Besides, he still had another daughter; he still had Vanora, and he could have gone to live with her when she married Laird Cameron, but he was too stubborn to admit that he needed the company.

Cormag had refused to follow Vanora to the Cameron clan, simply because he wanted to be close to Vika, as well as to Laird MacMillan, even though he was not the clan’s General anymore.

It was the guilt that didn’t allow him to move on, Ishbel thought, but if it was enough to keep Cormag there, then he was enough for Ishbel to stay there, too.

“Uncle . . . after mama died, all I wanted was for someone to be with me,” Ishbel said. “I had no one but you. I may have only arrived in Tayvallich, but you’ve already done more than enough for me. Now let me help you, without telling me that I should go back to France, non? I like it here, I promise. Perhaps I’ll even grow to love it.”

Ishbel knew her uncle well enough to know that he was still worried about her, but he didn’t try to push her any further, and for that, Ishbel was grateful. She hated talking about Clermont, because it brought her to tears more often than not, and the last thing she wanted was for Cormag to see her cry.

“Alright, alright . . . as long as yer happy,” Cormag said. “But ye’ll let me ken if yer ever unhappy here, aye?”

“Aye,” Ishbel said, trying to imitate Cormag’s accent and earning a smile from him for her efforts. The two of them stayed quiet for a few moments before Cormag went back to fussing over the logs and the fire that he had lit in the fireplace. Ishbel watched him, and she had the unstoppable urge to ask a question that she knew she shouldn’t be asking.

“Do you miss her?”

Cormag froze, then, and Ishbel could see every muscle in his body tensing, as though he was prey that had just been spotted by a wild animal. It was a sensitive question, Ishbel knew, but she also knew that the less Cormag talked about it, the worse it would be for him in the long term.

There was no point in avoiding sorrow; it always caught up in the end.

“Which one?” Cormag asked, instead of answering the question. “Vanora? Vika? Their mother?”

“Any,” Ishbel said. “All.”

“All,” Cormag said with a heavy sigh, as though all the air left his body at once. “I miss them all verra much, but it is what it is, Ishbel. Vanora is happy, and that is all that matters to me. Their mother . . . weel, I’m an old man, it willnae be long until I meet her again, ye ken that.”

“And Vika?” Ishbel asked, unable to restrain herself.

Cormag stopped poking the fire and instead walked to the table, taking a seat. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, before his hand came to settle over his face, the pads of his fingers rubbing his eyes hard.

Cormag was rarely anything other than cheery, with an attitude to life that could make even the worst cynic smile, and yet there he was, looking like a broken man right in front of Ishbel’s eyes.

She wished she could take his pain away. She wished that she could carry the burden for him, that she could help him even a little, but she didn’t fool herself; there was nothing that she could do. She could only hope that her presence made Cormag’s days a little brighter, she could only hope that she could bring some cheer back to his life.

“Ye look verra much like her, ye ken,” Cormag said eventually. “Ye have yer father’s hair and his eyes, but ye got everything else from this side of the family. Sometimes I look at ye, and I think . . .”

Cormag’s voice trailed off, and he began to stare out of the window, at the horizon. It wasn’t the first time that Ishbel had been told about her resemblance to her cousin, as everyone used to tell her so when she was a child. It was the first time that she had heard about it ever since she had found out about Vika’s despicable actions, though, and so it was the first time that it bothered her that she resembled her.

She didn’t want anyone to think that she was like her cousin in any way. Just the thought of Vika and everything that she had done to Laird MacMillan and the people around him made her stomach churn, even though she wasn’t particularly fond of the man, much to her uncle’s displeasure.

Despite having given up his position as the General in his old age, Cormag would always stand by his Laird.

“Weel . . . it doesnae matter,” Cormag said, suddenly once again bright as a sunny day. It was a façade, but it was a good one, one that no one would see unless they knew Cormag as well as Ishbel did. “Didnae ye say that ye’ll go back to the market, lass? Off with ye, go and get what ye need for the week.”

Ishbel’s hand found its way on Cormag’s shoulder as she walked by him, and she gave him a quick pat before she made her way to the door. Before she could leave, though, she stopped and turned around to look at him once more.

“Uncle . . . do many strangers come here, to Tayvallich?” she asked. “It doesn’t seem like the kind of place that invites visitors.”

Cormag frowned, a hand coming up to scratch as his beard. “Visitors? No . . . no, we dinnae get visitors here. Sometimes, there’s a traveler that stops to rest, and sometimes there’s men that come here from the castle, but I havenae seen visitors in Tayvallich ever since I came here. Why?”

“I’m only curious.” Ishbel shrugged, her curiosity about the strange man piqued once more. “There was this man at the market . . . I know that he is not from here. I’ve already met everyone in Tayvallich, and he wasn’t one of them.”

“What man?” Cormag, protective as always of his niece, almost growled the question, as though he was preparing to fight the man before he even knew what he had done to capture Ishbel’s attention.

“Simply some man, uncle,” Ishbel said, giving the man a fond smile. “Don’t worry so much, or you’ll turn old before your time.”

“I’m already old, lass,” Cormag pointed out. “I was born with more hair than I have on my head the noo. Whoever the man was, he must have been a traveler. Perhaps he was going up to the castle, I dinnae ken. Why are ye asking?”

“He did a good deed,” Ishbel said, unwilling to give Cormag any more information. If he found out about how she had put herself at risk, he was certain to be furious at her, and Ishbel didn’t want to upset him. “I was simply wondering if I would see him again to thank him properly.”

Ishbel had already thanked the man, of course, but she couldn’t tell Cormag the real reason why she wanted to see him again. Tayvallich had several men, but none of them were as noble or as well-spoken as him. No one else had stood up for her, after all, when she had tried to help the children. All the other men in the market had simply watched, leaving Ishbel to her fate.

The man had been the only one who had managed to stir something deep inside her just with his looks and that simple act of kindness ever since Ishbel had gotten to the village, with his blue eyes and the day-old scruff on his face, the broad shoulders that he carried and that gentle heart of his.

Perhaps Ishbel should have talked to him a little more, in hindsight. Then again, if he truly was a traveler, then she could hardly allow herself to be with him, not when she had promised herself to be there for her uncle. The only way that she would leave Tayvallich was if Cormag left first.

Just as she was about to leave once more and head back to the market, Cormag stopped her.

“Dinnae forget the coins this time, lass,” he reminded her, and Ishbel cursed quietly under her breath –never loudly enough for Cormag to hear her –before she grabbed her little pouch full of coins and headed out.

The day seemed to be getting worse as the time passed, Ishbel noticed, looking up at the sky and seeing the storm that was over Knapdale rapidly approaching Tayvallich. It would be a cold night, but then again, ever since she had gotten to the village, she had never experienced any warmth other than the warmth of a fire.

It was what she missed the most about Clermont. She missed the sun on her skin, warm and comforting, she missed the bright days and the night sky that was unmarred by clouds, revealing all its stars and constellations to her. She missed walking without mud caking her shoes and soiling the hem of her dress, and she missed the buzzing of the bees around the flowers that lined the streets.

It was a train of thought that would get her nowhere, Ishbel thought. It was better to not think about such things, and instead focus on what was ahead of her. After her mother’s death, there was no debate in her mind about whether she should move to Tayvallich, as Cormag was the only family that she had left, save for her two cousins. A life in Clermont would be more exciting, perhaps, but what good was excitement if she had no one to care for and who would care for her?

As Ishbel walked through the village, heading to the market, she looked around and noticed things that she had missed before. Flowers were growing there, too; they were weeds, it seemed, but that didn’t make them any less beautiful. The people around her may have been simple peasants, but they were kind people, their eyes wrinkled by a lifetime of laughter. There was barely any sun, but the silvery grey above her was the same sky that was over Clermont. That night, she would see the same stars and the same moon, and perhaps it would feel a little more like home.

Ishbel grinned to herself as she walked by the merchant who had threatened her and the two children earlier, but she had no desire to taunt him. She simply bought all the goods that she needed, and then made her way back home, her arms full of flour and salt.

Once she was back home, she made supper for her and Cormag, just like she did every night, as even though Cormag was a more decent cook than she was, he insisted that she needed the practice. Then, the two of them played chess until Cormag simply could not keep his eyes open any longer. Ishbel retired to her own chambers, and then she looked up at the sky through her window.

It seemed to have cleared up during the night, and now she could see the moon shining brightly over the village. Ishbel pulled a chair by the window and sat there, letting the gentle breeze in as she gazed at the stars.

It was, indeed, the same sky.

Ishbel gazed at it, her thoughts wandering to the man that she had met earlier that day. There was something about him, something that drew her to him.

Something that made her decide to search for him.

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

Chapter 1

Jane Baxendale relaxed into the comfort of her carriage seat, choosing to disregard the glares of her governess. Mary Barton scoffed her displeasure, hands folded in her lap and back perfectly straight, as she shook her blonde head.

“You are off to be married, and yet you still disregard the simplest of my teachings. A lady never slouches!” Mary said, the displeasure evident in her voice.

Jane had seen the scolding coming but deserved to relax as her mind was swimming with questions and doubt.

“It is but the two of us in this carriage, Mary; besides, I fear I might be sick if I do not find myself some form of respite,” she responded, causing Mary to press her lips together but say nothing in retort.

As Mary had mentioned, she was off to be married, being sent by her father to her betrothed in the Highlands: Laird William of Clan Mackenzie. She was nervous and worried, despite her innate curiosity. She wanted to see the Highlands. She wasn’t going to see the sights, however, but marry a man she had never met.

She knew that he was not old, her father had been considerate enough about that, but she knew nothing of his character and wondered if he would be of calm countenance or if he would turn his face in anger to her. She worried her lip as she thought. Would she find him attractive? It was essential if there was to be an atom of romance between them. She couldn’t face a life devoid of romance.

Her father, Captain John Baxendale, had left his station in Inveraray to meet at their manor, giving the news of her impending marriage. Her first emotion had been surprise. Her father was a very ambitious man, and she had known that the chances of a political marriage were rather high, but had not expected to be sent to the Highlands.

Scotland! – a foreign place, with different customs and people leading a different way of life. She felt as if she had been thrown into the deep sea, given that she knew nothing of what to expect. Slouching further in her seat, she glanced at Mary by force of habit but looked away when the woman stayed quiet. Mary seemed to understand her fears and was allowing her the slight indulgence to do as she pleased before being thrust unprepared into her duties.

Marriage to the Laird of the Mackenzie clan would help her father strengthen his position with the crown. Or at least, that was what he hoped to achieve with the union. She wanted to help her father, of course, and she had known for a long time that it would happen by marriage. It was not that she was attracted to any of the noblemen in England anyway, so perhaps a Highlander was best.

She had just finished reassuring herself when the carriage lurched to a stop, and in the absence of the noise from her party’s movement, she could hear the sound of steel clanging against steel. She sat up immediately, even as Mary’s face registered concern, and she met her gaze.

People are fighting outside, is it my men?

Her question was answered when Adam, the leader of her entourage, rode back to her carriage window. She moved the curtains aside so that she could see him properly.

“I am sorry for the disturbance, Miss, but there is a skirmish ahead with what appears to be bandits attacking three Scotsmen,” he explained, swaying slightly as his horse marched on the spot as though excited by the conflict.

Jane’s eyes widened at the news, even as the concern drained from Mary’s expression, and she went back to sitting stoically. She worried her lip, wondering if they should get involved. Bandits were a menace everywhere, and if it were her party in trouble, she would wish for help. However, it was unwise to get involved without thought.

Although I want to help, it could also be a ruse, and all the parties involved might be bandits waiting to attack a good Samaritan.

“The Scots are outnumbered, and I believe they bear the colors of the Mackenzie clan,” Adam added, causing her to raise her head to look at him again.

‘Mackenzie’ was the clan she was to be married into! Although she might have chosen to help out of the goodness of her heart, Adam’s words decided it.

“Do we try to go around them, or should we step in, Miss?” Adam asked, although her face probably gave her answer.

“Help them, Adam,” she ordered.

Immediately he gave a small bow and turning to the guards behind, gave a signal. Four guards rode past from behind them, but she knew that two would remain behind to protect the carriage. Adam gave another bow before leaving to join in the fray of the battle.

Her guards were some of the best, having been trained by her father for their purpose. They were loyal and treated well in her father’s household. She knew they would protect her and ably perform the task. Mary said nothing, and Jane wondered if the governess approved of her orders or not. It did not matter, as Mary held no sway in that respect, but she was sure that helping those with the colors of her soon-to-be husband’s clan was the right choice.

As she expected, it was not long before the sounds of battle died down, and Jane smiled to herself. Her party had subdued the enemy, and as the future Lady of the Mackenzie clan, she was already helping her people. The carriage moved forward a little before stopping again, and she was just in time to hear Adam yelling at the Scots.

“You ungrateful bastards! Is this how you speak to people who help you?!” she heard Adam’s angry voice. Her smile fell and contorted into a frown of confusion. Adam was a calm person, so he would not be incensed without good reason. What could have gone wrong?

“I dinnae remember askin’ fer help from ye English shites! What should I be grateful fer when ye stepped into our fight uninvited? Now ye want to make me lick yer feet in thanks? We would have been fine on our own if ye had gone on yer way.” An unfamiliar voice responded in the harsh accent of the Highlanders. Her expression frosted over as rage sparked in her chest from the stranger’s rudeness.

“We should have just left you to face your lot on your own! I only acted on the magnanimous order I was given, but if I knew what a waste it would be, we would have saved our energy.” Adam spat, causing the rude Scot to laugh derisively.

“Magnanimous, ye say? Och, ye English love to make yerselves feel righteous! As though yer Lord or whoever’s in that carriage cared about me truly. Let him come out here and tell me that he didnae simply dae it out o’ self-righteousness with the expectancy of some thankful bootlickin’,” the Scot retorted.

Furious, Jane stepped down from the carriage, surprising Adam, who had been standing beside his horse right in front of the carriage doors.

“Miss!” Adam exclaimed in surprise as she stepped around him, turning her furious gaze to the antagonists. The first man her eyes met did not seem to be the speaker as he looked sheepish and avoided her gaze. Out of the three men, it was the one in the middle who was the culprit. Despite her rage, her heart staggered at the sight of him. Being so used to the clean-cut handsomeness of English noblemen, she was unprepared for the wild ruggedness of the man that stood before her.

He was handsome enough to steal the breath from her lungs, standing a few inches taller than Adam, his frame large and full of brute strength. His long brown hair was flying untamed around his chiseled face, and his dark eyes were so deep that she would gladly lose herself in them, if not for the disdain in his gaze. She glared at him as her rage returned.

Who is this rude character?!

“It is not a Lord, but a Miss who now regrets extending such a generous hand of aid to a group of unscrupulous Scots. That you would be so boorish as to be rude to those who assist you is bad enough, but to think you would leave such a distasteful impression on foreigners is disgraceful. You are lower in moral standards than the bandits we just fended off,” she said haughtily, causing the Scot to look taken aback and gape like a fish at her onslaught. Satisfied, she turned to Adam, who gave her a bow.

“I apologize for making you and the men waste your efforts on such a miscreant,” she added, heading back into the carriage, leaving Adam wide-eyed and the annoying Scot standing aghast with his jaw open.

“Please, allow our party to continue the journey and forget this unfortunate incident,” she ordered. Adam gave another quick bow, rushing to carry out her orders as she settled back into her seat. Her heart was pounding with excitement, despite her anger. Perhaps it was that she was pleased to have wiped the disdain from his face and replaced it with shock.

Such a sour and unpleasant man.

She heard the sound of horses and peeked out through the carriage window to see the Scots riding off. She sneered at their retreating forms, wondering who they were. She had seen their colors, and they were undoubtedly men from the Mackenzie clan. She hoped that they were not all like that, although she wasted no time in putting that man in his place.

His face flashed in her mind again, and she leaned back in her seat as her heart pounded. Despite his horrible demeanor, he was quite handsome. She wondered if the Laird would be as attractive. The carriage began to move again, and she finally noticed the small smile on Mary’s face.

“What is it?” she asked, eyeing her governess out of the corner of her eye. Mary smiled wider.

“That was very eloquent. You put that man in his place quite well and also dismissed him. That was truly ladylike,” she praised, causing Jane’s brow to rise.

“Well, thank you, Mary, it is a product of your tutelage,” Jane said, praising Mary in turn and allowing them to fall into a comfortable silence for the rest of the ride.

Mary was to educate the children that Jane would eventually bear as well as keep her company. She had known Mary her whole life and felt the woman was something of a mother to her. Jane did not even remember her own mother, who had died when she was young, so all she knew was the governess. Although Mary could be strict and taciturn, she still gave Jane a feeling of warmth with her presence.

They arrived at the castle in the late afternoon, and Jane took a few deep breaths to calm herself while the footman opened the carriage doors for her. She glanced at Mary, finding strength in the gray eyes of her governess and lifted herself out of the carriage with all the grace she could muster.

She came face to face with her betrothed for the first time. He gave her a smile that seemed bittersweet and a bowed, taking her fingers and kissing them.

“Welcome to the Mackenzie clan castle, Miss Baxendale. I am William Abernethy, the Laird, and I am pleased to meet me betrothed.”

He was a very handsome man, Jane noted. His hair was blonde and looked softer than silk, the way it was tied loosely from his face, and his eyes were hazel with golden specs when the light hit them at a certain angle. He looked like an angel but did not make her breath stop as it had with the rude Scot. She bit back a confused frown and, instead, gave him a deep curtsy and smiled.

“It is an even greater pleasure to meet you, my Laird,” she answered as she straightened back up. For a few seconds, they exchanged pleasant smiles and looked each other over, before the maids appeared to retrieve her things.

“Ye will be taken to yer chambers, and the maids will help ye settle in. I ken I should take ye around meself, but please, bear with me. Today is the day of the feast fer the Clan Mackenzie’s one-hundredth anniversary to power,” he explained.

Jane nodded in understanding even before he finished. “Oh,” she said.

“Aye, ’tis a busy day fer the clan and me. I’m sorry to make this meetin’ after yer arrival so rushed. I will dae me best to make it up to ye another time,” William added. Jane was already nodding in agreement.

“Certainly, certainly, I understand, of course, please do not worry about me. Thank you for your hospitality. I will see you at the feast.”
He gave her another polite smile, and she returned it before following the maids with Mary. He meant no harm and seemed to be a genuinely pleasant and gentle person, but she could not help feeling uncomfortable and unwelcome as she was ushered into a lavish chamber as the maids fussed and arranged her things.

It seemed he did not take to her, just as she did not take to him. If he had found her exciting, he certainly would have wanted to spend more time with her, regardless of what he had to do. More importantly, she would have wanted to spend more time with him if attracted to him, but she was not. If their first meeting was anything to go by, their marriage would be one of mutual respect and perhaps even friendship.

Mary was expertly directing the maids while Jane lost herself in thoughts. All she wanted was to take a long and relaxing bath to prepare herself mentally for the feast ahead. If she could, she would try to figure out why she felt no attraction for her betrothed. He certainly looked like an angel, but instead, she had been attracted to the rude devil she had met on the way.

Chapter 2

Alastair Bain adjusted the sash over his coat more violently than was necessary, his fingers moving according to the level of his irritation, taking it out on his clothing.

“This bloody thing willnae stay put!” he muttered darkly, all but ready to rip the cloth in half.

His fingers began digging into the cloth to tear it when Lain Darrow stepped in. Lain pried his fingers from the sash and helped him arrange it.
Lain was heir to the recently deceased Head Advisor of the clan and a close friend of Alistair.

“There, there, calm yerself now. Ye dinnae have to take out yer frustrations on yer poor garments,” Lain said, his voice teasing as always.

Alastair rolled his eyes at his ever playful friend in mild annoyance. Lain was right; he was taking out his frustrations on his clothing, but he did not care. Of course, he was upset. It was supposed to be a merry day for the clan Mackenzie, but it had started horribly.
He had been returning that morning from the outskirt villages of the clan where two attacks from unknown raiders had taken place, killing young men and attacking the farms. Word had been sent to the castle, and he had gone to investigate with two of his men. It had been slightly worrisome, but he had already decided to solve it by requesting that William send a few extra soldiers to defend the border villages.

The first tragedy had struck on the way when he and his men suddenly found themselves surrounded by an ambush of twenty bandits. He would have won, he knew, although he would not leave the skirmish unscathed. He had already been cursing in his head because, not only would he arrive late to the castle due to riding with injury, he would also be unable to attend the feast, even if he made it on time since William would force him to stay with the healer.

He had already been resigned to his fate, but then things had become more annoying. An English party appeared out of nowhere and began to help him. He would have been glad if it had been anyone else but the English. Looking at the prideful face of the head guard after he disarmed the last bandit, Alastair had lost control and snapped when the English guard had the guts to refer to him as a ‘comrade.’

He glowered at the memory. As though he could ever be comrades with the English. Their cruelty knew no bounds. The main carriage in the party had drawn close, and the last thing Alastair had expected was for its owner to be a lady, and a stunning one at that. Perhaps the fact that he had been expecting a fat old Lord made it all the more shocking; her beauty had hit him like lightning.

Her auburn hair caught his attention, blazing with red highlights when the sun was upon it. She had exited the carriage with so much grace, and he felt as though he stood before a queen. Her lips were full, and her neck was slender beneath her diamond-shaped face with cheekbones like cut-glass. Her green eyes were as beautiful as emeralds, and as she met his gaze, they were aflame with rage.

He had caught himself then, realizing that he was admiring an English woman. His anger at that moment had mostly been against himself, but he glared at her instead. What was wrong with him, thinking such things of the English? He was thrown off guard and incensed by his weakness. He was even more shocked when she did not cower but instead dealt him a harsh verbal blow.

It was even worse when she dismissed him as though he were but a child with no manners. His pride was smarting from the road to the castle. It continued to sting as he made his way to his chambers to wash, and it still had not stopped smarting now as he stood with Lain, getting dressed for the feast.

Lain smoothed out his outfit once more before stepping back before the mirror.

“See? Ye look almost as good as me now,” Lain preened.

Rolling his eyes, Alastair gave his friend an unamused look to which Lain only laughed. He glanced at their reflections in the huge mirror. He had allowed Lain to brush his hair after he bathed. That was as far as he would go to tame his locks, feast or not. With his hair back, his features stood out, and he frowned slightly. He looked almost like Lain, who the women flocked around; the only difference was his permanent scowl.

Lain was playful and possibly the biggest flirt in all of Scotland. His jet black hair was slick to his head, making his stark blue eyes catch attention from a mile away. By some sorcery, he managed to look both boyishly handsome and manly at the same time. William always joked that out of the three of them, Lain would attract women even in his old age.

“Ah, Alastair, me friend, being dressed by me hands today, ye just might get a woman in yer bed tonight,” Lain said.

Alastair gave him a sigh. “Ye should be aware that I am now considerin’ bundlin’ ye out of me window,” he threatened.

Lain guffawed, running out of the room hastily and allowing him to follow at his own pace as they headed for the feast. Just might get a woman in his bed? For some reason, Alastair could only picture the beautiful English woman telling him off for his rudeness. He shook his head.

It seems I’m goin’ mad. Perhaps I need some rest.

He came into the hall and found it already full of people. As expected, Lain was already surrounded by a flock of women. He rolled his eyes and searched for William’s blonde head amid the darker colors. It was always easy to spot William in a crowd as blondes were rare in the Highlands. It also helped that he was quite tall.

Finding him standing with two other Lairds in alliance with the clan, he made his way through the crowd to his best friend. He put his hand on William’s shoulder and made his presence known. William’s naturally soft gaze visibly lighted up with recognition as he looked to his friend.

“Ah, Alastair, ye have returned! I worried that ye wouldnae make it in time. When did ye leave the border villages?” William asked, lowering his voice at the last sentence.

“I only returned in the late afternoon; I left them this mornin’. Ye were nae in yer office, so I left me report and went to begin preparations fer the feast,” he responded.

Ending their exchange, he turned to include the other two in their conversation: the Laird of Lenord and the Laird of Ephimer. Alastair extended his hand for the allies to shake.

“It is good to see ye Laird Balfour, Laird Cargill. Always a pleasure to have ye on our lands,” he said.

The two Lairds smiled broadly, shaking his hand enthusiastically as they returned his greeting.

“It is always a pleasure to be on yer lands, Mr. Bain. We had been wonderin’ when ye would join the feast. It seems ye were on some special errands for yer Laird William here, eh?” Balfour said with a friendly laugh. Alastair smiled politely, neither confirming nor denying Balfour’s words.

“We always say how lucky William is to have such a trusted man on his side, ye ken. Ye are a Laird’s true right hand, and if I had one like ye, I would have nay troubles handlin’ Ephimer,” Cargill joined the praise.

Alastair gave a nervous laugh. At this point, he was feeling uncomfortable as he did not enjoy the conversation being centered around him, preferring to be in the background. William, knowing this, made efforts to leave the conversation.

“It’s so nice seein’ ye gentlemen, please get drunk tonight, the wine is abundant,” William said, smiling pleasantly. The other Lairds laughed rather boisterously, obviously satisfied with their plans for the evening ahead.

“Aye, aye! We shall drink ye dry today, Abernethy!” Cargill said, already headed for the wine.

“Remember that ye asked us to drink and dinnae complain if ye run out of wine early!” Balfour joked, joining his friend in search of wine.

William looked slightly amused as he watched them go before turning to Alastair.

“Tis a good thing they’re so easy to appease, aye?” he chuckled before moving on to more pressing matters. “How bad was the situation at the border villages? As bad as it said in the distress letter?”

Alastair felt his expression turn serious as he remembered the grass covered in blood and the bodies he’d helped to bury in the border villages. It felt strange how he’d been part of the grief and loss a mere day ago, and now he was back at the castle where everything seemed alright.

“Aye, me friend, it was indeed bad. Many young men were slaughtered in those villages. It seemed they just wanted the young men. Or perhaps those lads were the ones who resisted and paid for it with their lives. I took more time helping than I expected, which was why I only headed home this morning.”

His friend looked deeply disturbed as he considered this. William was a good Laird and cared deeply for his people. He hoped that he would be able to shrug off his sadness at the news of the attacks and not go about the rest of the feast gloomily. While they had run into some ill-timed trouble, the feast of celebration was necessary. The clan had been in power for a hundred years, and five of those had been under William’s prosperous rule.

“Dinnae despair me friend. The people have suffered a loss, but their spirit is nae broken. They were preparing to celebrate as well just this mornin’ before I left. Despite the losses, they are still strong, as they ken their Laird will protect them,” he assured his friend. William gave him a weak smile and tapped his shoulder.

Alastair worried, for William always looked like a tired lamb when he looked into his eyes. He was as calm and pleasant as ever, but there was a sadness that he had not seen for a long time, and he did not like it. He pointed it out to Lain, and even Lain had seen it, although he had immediately joked about how he should spend less time looking into William’s eyes, he knew that Lain worried too.

“Ye saw the situation with yer own eyes. What dae ye suggest I dae to help?” William asked him.

“Send a few more of our soldiers down to the border villages. There is only one outpost there since these villagers only produce enough to care for themselves, and nayone attacked them before.” Alastair added.

William nodded his agreement as Alastair considered how unsafe it was in the border villages. They were small and peaceful, and no one thought to attack them, so they were not rigorously guarded by the clan. They were barely taxed since they could only sustain themselves and nothing more. It was not expected that raiders would suddenly take an interest in slaughtering these people.

“The security in those parts is really lackin’, me friend. On the way back, me and me men were ambushed by a band of twenty bandits just as we left the border villages to take the road into the clan.”.

William’s eyes widened, and his grip tightened as he searched his friend for signs of injury.

“What?! Ye are nae injured are ye? By the gods, why are ye just tellin’ me this now? Dae ye need to see a healer?”

Alastair sighed, knowing that his friend would react that way and tried to calm him before he was carted out of the feast to a healer.

“Relax, William, I am alright. I hate to say it, but we were saved by an English party that was passin’ by. The English helped us take them down without issue,” he added darkly.
“Oh, nay…” William said, holding his hand to his head, “ye were awful to them, were ye nae?”

Alastair frowned defensively.

“Me? Awful? I will tell ye there was this horrible English witch…” he began, only for his words to dry on his tongue as he caught sight of the very woman.

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

Chapter 1

Peigi cursed under her breath as the needle pricked her finger. It was not ladylike by any means, but she thought that she would be forgiven since she had spent her entire life among a group of men whose kindest words were a good morning. Surely, one expletive every now and then would not condemn her to an afterlife in hell.

One stitch to go and the bust of her dress would be ready to accommodate everything that she would need to take with her once she would leave, the pockets that she had just finish sewing there being big enough to carry several bags of coins.

There were goosebumps on her skin. The cold draft came through the cracks in the walls, washing over her bare skin, and Peigi could not wait to put her dress back on, desperate for some warmth. Once she was dressed, she stood up and made her way out of her chambers.

Her father would be furious with her if the supper for him and his men would not be ready soon, and Peigi didn’t want to have to face his wrath once again. She had had enough of it in her one-and-twenty years in the world, and she had recently decided that she would not tolerate any of it anymore.

That was why she was leaving, after all. A life among violent criminals was no life at all, especially when everyone treated her like their personal servant.

As Peigi walked to the kitchen, she saw one of her father’s men, Asgall, his clothes askew and dripping wet, leaving puddles behind him as he walked down the hallway. It could only mean one thing, Peigi thought; he had just returned from the cave where her father kept all the stolen gold and goods that he acquired from his incessant pillaging, which also meant that the waters had subsided enough for her to be able to reach it that night.

It was time for her to leave, but first, she had to make supper.

Peigi busied herself with the food, chopping vegetables in silence, when her father barged into the room, accompanied by a small group of his men. They were looking for alcohol, Peigi knew, but she let them search for it instead of bringing it to them; one last act of defiance while she still called the keep her home.

“Where’s the wine, lass?”

Her father’s thunderous voice echoed in the room, but Peigi paid him no mind. She simply kept chopping the vegetables with the intensity of someone trying to pull a thread through a needle.

Then, she heard her father’s steps behind her, heavy and loud enough to make her feel trapped, even though he was nowhere near her yet.

“I said, where is the wine?” her father repeated. “Black Stags are celebrating tonight! We’ll have all the wine in the keep, and then we’ll go out, and we’ll steal some more!”

Peigi knew all about her father’s celebrations, which came after every particularly successful fight or pillage. It was more reason to drink than anything else, but that day her father and his brigands had returned in such high spirits that it could only mean one thing; they had gotten more gold and goods that they knew what to do with, and they had raped every woman who had had the misfortune to be near them.

The thought made Peigi sick to her stomach, and her hand began to tremble where it was holding the knife. For a moment, she had half a mind to kill her father right then and there, to stab the blade through his heart and leave his men without their ‘Sire.’

Peigi had always hated that honorific. She never understood why he wouldn’t allow them to simply call him Murdo.

Killing her father would only end up getting her killed, too, though, and Peigi had no intention to die at the hands of such vile men. So, instead of jamming her knife through her father’s chest, she pointed at the corner of the room, where they kept the wine.

“Get it, then.”

It wasn’t her father who had spoken, but rather one of his men, a short, scrawny boy by the name of Tomag. Peigi always remembered him being nice to her when they were younger when they spent plenty of time together as he was only a few years younger than her, but ever since the brigands had welcomed him in their ranks, he had become one of them. Now, Tomag was nothing more than another cruel, hateful little man, whose only share of glory came from stealing and killing innocents.

“Why don’t ye get it yerself?” Peigi asked, looking over her shoulder at Tomag. “Ye still have yer hands, dinnae ye?”

It was the wrong thing to say, but Peigi was used to saying the wrong thing. Suddenly, there was a hand tangled in her hair, and her father was shoving her aside. Much to the amusement of his men, who laughed at her, Peigi wailed in pain when her father all but ripped her hair off its roots, and so she bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, just so that she could bite back her scream. She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of hearing it.

For a few seconds, Peigi did nothing but stand there, her gaze pinned on her father as the air came out in puffs through her nose. She clutched the knife tightly in her hand, fingers itching to trace her own father’s blood, before she eventually dropped it on the floor and did as she was told, bringing the men the alcohol and even pouring it into cups for them.

It was not time for being brave, not yet.

By the time that Peigi had finished cooking the food for the men, they were all drunker than they could handle. Peigi watched them as they feasted on roasted meat and even more wine, greedily eating and gulping down the alcohol that seemed to flow endlessly out of the pitchers. The sight brought a small smile to her face, not because she was enjoying the show, but because she knew that soon, her father and his men would be fast asleep, unaware of everything that was happening around them.

Peigi’s predictions had been correct. It took a little over an hour for the first men to begin collapsing over the tables and chairs, all of them too drunk to stay awake even a moment longer, and by the time that the plates were empty of any food, all men were snoring in their deep sleep, her father included.

If she had put a little something in their wine to help them sleep, well . . . then that was just a part of her plan.

Peigi quickly fled the room, tiptoeing around the brigands, just in case one of them was a lighter sleeper than the rest. Her heart thumped in her chest so loudly that it was a miracle none of the men heard it, and Peigi had to fight back nausea that came with trying to flee and with the thought that, were she to be caught, she would be severely punished. She was certain that a lashing would be the lightest punishment she could possibly get if her father found out that she was leaving.

Her father didn’t find out, though; no one did. Peigi was soon out of the keep, and though she had no idea where she would go, she had never felt so free, so happy before. The moment she stepped out of the building, it was as though a weight lifted off her shoulders, and she had never felt the same lightness in her feet as she did then.

Peigi all but skipped her way to the shore. It was dark that night, the clouds obscuring the moon and the stars, leaving the sky looking like nothing more than a black void. She only had a lamp to light her way, but she didn’t need much more. She knew Barns Ness like the back of her hand, after spending her entire life there, and especially after exploring the land as a child.

The sea was calm, calmer than it had been for days, and the tide had receded enough for her to be able to reach the cave where her father kept his treasure without a problem. The little boat that his men used was there, sitting by the shore, and Peigi pushed it into the sea, before jumping onto it and rowing her way to the secret cave.

She would be lying if she didn’t admit to herself that she was scared. The waters were just as dark as the sky, uninviting and treacherous, and Peigi kept her eyes peeled for any rocks that could crush her boat to pieces.

Her arms began to tire soon, but she kept rowing regardless. While she was used to lifting heavy weights, what with her father forcing her to help him and his men and making her clean the entire keep for him, Peigi had not rowed in a long time. The last time her father had asked her to help transport goods to the cave, the strain on her arms was almost unbearable. She pushed through the shaking, though, forcing herself to row even harder, and soon, she was at the mouth of the cave.

The rocks there were sharp, and as Peigi pulled the boat onto solid land, the stones scraped her legs and made her wince in pain. She paid her injuries no mind because right in front of her was a pile of treasure, all ready to be taken.

It seemed to her like her father had stolen from the entire area of East Lothian, and he had taken anything from gold to barley and horse saddles. There were even a few clothes there, as well as jewelry that would never see the light of day again unless his father’s men suddenly grew a liking for necklaces.

There was one that caught her eye, a gold necklace with a large pink pearl at its center. Her father often praised it as his finest possession. It would certainly be a shame for it to stay there, hidden for years, Peigi thought, and so she grabbed it along with three bags of coins, stuffing them all in the pockets she had sewn that afternoon in the bust of her dress.

The strange weight on her chest made her look down at herself, and she soon noticed that she seemed rather indecent, her breasts bulging over her dress, and she cursed under her breath once more.

It would be rather unfortunate if she would have to fight off a man who would take her appearance as an invitation, but after living with a group of brigands her entire life, she knew how to fight, and she knew how to win.

Peigi looked around the cave some more, scouring her father’s treasure for anything else that could be useful, and she found an old, dusty jacket that was too big for her but was thick enough to keep her warm, and it could cover up her unforeseen bust problem.

Once she had the jacket on, she realized that she would have to put up with the smell of mildew and old saltwater until she could find something else to wear, and the stench forced her to scrunch up her nose in disgust. Still, it was better than nothing, and Peigi wrapped the jacket tighter around herself before she hopped right back on the boat and made her way across the narrow sea.

It was time to go. She looked at the keep, though it could hardly be called that, with its dilapidated walls and broken glass on the top windows, the ones that always let in the cold breeze and left Peigi freezing in the middle of the night.

She was not going to miss her home. She was not going to miss her father or his men, and she certainly was not going to miss the way that they treated her, as though she was nothing more than a maid to them.

Peigi thought back to when she was a little girl. She wondered if things would have been different if her mother hadn’t passed shortly after her birth, if she would perhaps be happier, or if even her father would be a different man, but thinking about such things did her no good.

There had been a time when she adored her father, like all children do, a time when she didn’t know, or rather didn’t understand, what kind of man he was. There had been a time when she had thought he would raise her to be his heir, train her like he had trained Tomag when he was a child, but her father had never shown that much interest in her.

To him, she was only a girl.

Peigi kicked the boat a few times for good measure until her foot went through the rotten wood, leaving a large hole on the side, one last act of defiance. Then, she turned around and began to walk away from the keep, towards the first direction her feet would take her.

It didn’t matter where she was going, as long as it was far away from Barns Ness. It didn’t matter that she had no horse, or even any food, save for some cheese and bannocks that would last her for a day or two.

All that mattered was that she was finally on her way to a new life. She had no delusions; perhaps it would not be an easier life since up until then, she had never had to worry about food or board, her father providing both for her despite his other shortcomings. Now, she had no idea if she would even have a roof over her head soon, and she was certain that there would be hardships along the way, but no matter what she would go through, at least she wouldn’t be around those vile, cruel criminals that her father called his brothers.

Soon, the lamp that Peigi was carrying died out, and she was left plunged in darkness. She had already managed to put a good distance between her and the keep, though, so she didn’t worry too much when she found a small opening in the earth, where some roots were growing in thin soil, and decided to rest.

The next morning would surely bring travelers with it, people who could give her a ride to the nearest town or village, she thought, and she had the money to reach Dunbar in the following few days; Dunbar, which was her final destination, where she could find some work and be safe from her father.

Peigi closed her eyes with that thought in mind, praying to the Lord that she would be safe that night in the wilderness. She clutched the sghian dubh, the small blade that she had been given as a young girl by one of her father’s kinder men –Conall, rest his soul –tightly in her hand, just in case her prayers wouldn’t work.

Chapter 2

Peigi always detested life on the road.  It was better than staying home, though, where the fire she would light in her chambers every night did nothing to keep her warm, and the brigands’ insults and rage were lurking behind every corner.

Now, she was in the back of a wagon, where some merchants had found some space for her. She had been traveling for days, and her fatigue, paired with paranoia eating her from the inside every time she thought about her father, made her look like a ghost, pale and frail, with large, dark circles under her eyes.

She hadn’t even managed to sleep after that first night, and she must have been on the road for about a week, if she had kept track of time correctly. The merchants had taken pity on her, and since they, too, were going to Dunbar Castle, they were more than happy to accept a few coins in exchange for a spot in their wagon.

When they reached the castle, Peigi was surprised to see that it looked nothing like what she had imagined. She knew that the Dunbar clan was the one who fell victim to her father’s ransacking the most, but precisely because of that, she thought that they would be swimming in riches and treasures. When she saw the place, though, she realized that her father had driven the Dunbar clan to ruin.

What must have once been a magnificent castle was now in disarray. There were parts of its walls where the stones had fallen, leaving a gap where they used to be, and weeds were taking over the ground, as though no one was bothering to clean them up.

The people, too, looked as though it had been a while since they had last seen a good day. They all seemed healthy enough, with the plump, rosy cheeks and the bright eyes that came with having enough food to eat, but their clothes were patched up in several places, while others wore torn garments.

Perhaps they preferred to feed themselves, Peigi thought. Maybe they didn’t have enough money and goods to feed and dress themselves, all because of her father’s greed and his desire to take what was not his.

That was one of the reasons why Peigi had wanted to go to Dunbar in the first place. She knew that it was the only place around there with enough guards to make her feel safe, but she also wanted to give back a part of what rightfully belonged to them. She wanted to help them, to repay them in some small way for what her father had done.

Peigi thanked the merchants, leaving them to their business before hopping off their wagon and making her way to the two guards that stood by the entrance to the castle.

The moment she walked up to them, Peigi knew that she was not welcome.

One of the guards, the shorter one with a gap-toothed grin and a pair of meaty, hairy hands gripping his weapon hard enough to make the wood creak, appraised her from head to toe. Immediately, he decided she was not going anywhere near that castle if the look of disgust on his face was anything to go by. Still, Peigi had to at least try and get inside the walls.

“Good day—”

“Ye cannae go in,” the other guard said, a towering man with thin, blonde hair and a patchy beard, without even hearing what she had to say first. “We dinnae allow beggars in.”

Peigi would have taken offense at that, had the days she had spent on the road not left her covered in filth and reeking worse than a barn. She didn’t think she looked like a beggar, not even at her worst.

“I’m no beggar,” she said. “I’m looking for work, I have traveled for days to get here. Please, I beg of ye . . . there must be some work that needs to be done in the castle.”

The two guards glanced at each other, and then back at Peigi. Their matching smiles filled her with hope for a moment, until the shorter one spoke.

“Aye . . . I’ll hire ye to clean my chamber pot.”

“With those things, she’ll topple right over!” the other man said, as he pointed at her.

Peigi followed the man’s eye line and looked down to where he was pointing; her breasts. Red with embarrassment and fury, Peigi grabbed her jacket and wrapped it tightly around herself, covering her bosom.

The two men laughed, much to Peigi’s annoyance. Her mouth twisted in a frown, ugly and scornful, but she was not about to give up so easily.

“Any work in the castle, I’ll do it,” she said. “If ye need a cook, I can cook . . . I can cook and clean, I can sew, I can even work with the horses. I’ve tamed all of my father’s horses, I can do it, and I can do it weel. Please . . . please, at least ask if the Laird needs one more pair of hands.”

“We willnae bother the Laird for a beggar,” the taller of the two guards spat, before taking a step towards Peigi and slamming his boot down on the ground, startling her. “Away wi’ ye! We dinnae need another mouth to feed! Leave!”

Peigi considered offering to pay them for a moment. No man in the world would refuse some coins, but she couldn’t know for certain that the two guards wouldn’t become greedy after knowing that she had gold on her. Perhaps they would try and take it all from her, and there would be no one to stop them from doing so. Peigi had to put her safety first, so she retreated, shuffling her feet on the ground as she walked away.

One defeat didn’t mean that she was going to give up, though. Just because those guards wouldn’t let her in, it didn’t mean that she couldn’t sneak into the castle. The same merchants who had brought her there were still by the entrance, chatting away to another clansman, and when everyone was distracted, Peigi finally had her chance.

There were empty barrels in one of the carts that the merchants had brought with them. Peigi knew, as she had seen them carry three of the barrels with ease when they rolled off the wagon after hitting a bump on the road.

She quickly opened the lid on the one closest to her and snuck inside as gingerly as she could. Though she made plenty of noise, no one heard her over the buzz of the locals and the merchants talking and laughing with each other, and Peigi smiled to herself, satisfied, once she settled inside the barrel.

The barrel was just the right size for her to fit inside, though it was terribly cramped, and she knew that she couldn’t stay there for long. She just hoped that the merchants wouldn’t stay and chat for much longer, as her legs had already begun to cramp up.

Peigi didn’t have to wait long. Soon, she felt the cart move, and though she didn’t risk cracking the lid open and glancing outside, she knew that they were going inside the castle grounds. Now, all she had to do was sneak back out once the clansmen put the barrels away, and then pretend that she already had permission to be there.

Deception seemed to come awfully easy to her, Peigi thought. It seemed to be something that she had inherited from her father, but unlike her father, Peigi only used it when she had no other choice. She didn’t like deceiving people or lying to them; she, too, had been fooled several times by her father and his men, and she knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of such cruelty. When it came down to choosing between saving her life or telling the truth, though, then Peigi would choose the former every time.

Inside the castle grounds, there was more noise than she could have imagined. She could hear the voices of tens of different men, some laughing and talking with each other, others yelling commands to those who worked for them. There were women’s voices too, Peigi realized, and suddenly, she was filled with excitement.

She had never had a chance to have a friend, another woman in whom she could confide. The brigands in her father’s service had all been men, naturally. The only women with whom Peigi had had any contact were the women that the brigands brought for a night of fun, gone by the morning light, while the servants who took care of the keep were either older or refused to talk to her, just because she was her father’s daughter.

If she were lucky, she would not only be safe, with a job and a roof over her head, but she would finally make some friends, she would finally get to know some women who were just like her.

She didn’t want to think about what would happen if she were not lucky.

The cart soon stopped, and Peigi had to brace herself as the barrel threatened to topple over. Thankfully, she remained upright, and then she settled back into her previous position, trying to get as comfortable as she could.

It would be a long while until she would be able to get out of the barrel. Surely, the courtyard would not be empty until late at night, and even then, she would have to be careful. She didn’t want any guards to see her coming out of the barrel, especially not the same guards who had refused to allow her to enter the grounds. She was certain that if anyone found out that she had snuck into the castle, she would be executed, and all her troubles would be in vain.

Soon, she heard voices once again, this time louder, as though the men were standing around the cart. Peigi tried to be quiet and even forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, with as little noise as possible, even though she doubted that anyone could hear her breathe, not when they were conversing so loudly among themselves.

Peigi could catch phrases here and there, and she listened to the men intently. They were talking about their trade, it seemed, about how much they would be charging for their goods. She heard two of them discuss the Dunbar clan’s finances, and how much they each thought they could get away with overcharging when the financial state of the clan was so dire.

The conversation made her frown, and she had half a mind to jump out of the barrel to reprimand the merchants, consequences be damned. Perhaps if she would expose them to the Laird, then he would be kind enough to let her live.

She couldn’t bring herself to do it, though; she couldn’t bring herself to risk her life or, even worse, her freedom, now that she had had a taste of what it meant to be truly free.

Just as she was trying to convince herself that the best plan of action was taking no action at all, Peigi heard a sudden interruption in the conversations of the merchants and the clansmen, which was then followed by half a dozen ‘m’lord’s. Her breath caught as Laird Dunbar approached the cart. What was he even doing there, among the merchants, hay, and dung? Surely he had better things to do?

It didn’t matter what he was doing there though. Peigi was more concerned about the fact that he had come there in the first place. Surely, a Laird would not be there unless there was something wrong.

Could he possibly have found out that she was hiding in the barrel? It could not be. If anyone had seen her, it would be a clansman, not the Laird himself, she thought.

“Did ye come for the inspection, m’lord?” Peigi heard one of the merchants ask, and his words made her heart sink to her stomach. She didn’t know that inspections were a common occurrence in castles, and suddenly, she felt incredibly stupid, cursing herself under her breath.

She should have been more careful; she should have found a less risky way to sneak inside the grounds, one that would not bring her face to face with the Laird of the clan himself.

“Aye,” Laird Dunbar said. Peigi could hear his footsteps, loud and heavy, as he circled the cart, sometimes coming closer and sometimes walking away from her. She could only hope that he would skip the cart that she was in since there were a lot of other carts to inspect.

“What have ye brought with ye?” the Laird continued. “Did ye bring everything that we asked for?”

“Aye, m’lord,” a merchant assured him. “We brought ye grains and wine, and we brought some thread for cloth too, as ye asked.”

“Did ye find any trouble on the way here?” the Laird asked. “Those darned Black Stags, did they get to ye? Did they steal from ye?”

Peigi had known that the Dunbar clan was her father’s biggest target, but the ferocity in the Laird’s voice told her that it was worse than she thought. He sounded like a man who had gone mad with hatred, as though he could hardly contain his rage against the thieves, and Peigi couldn’t blame him. She could only feel sorry for him, for everything that her father had done to him and his people.

“No, no, m’lord. There was no trouble at all this time,” another merchant said. “We thought it was odd, at first, but we have been fighting back more . . . the weapons ye gave us have saved our lives and our goods many times. Perhaps the Black Stags have seen that we are stronger now. They ken that we can defeat them.”

Peigi knew for certain that that was not the case. Her father and his men were not afraid of anyone, especially not some merchants, and she also knew that the merchants, no matter how well-armed they were, were no match for the brigands. Once they were sober once more and they had spent and eaten everything they had pillaged, then they would return, and they would do so with a vengeance.

“We cannae defeat them,” the Laird said, as though he could read Peigi’s mind. He was a smart man, she thought, if he knew that there was no beating her father. “Not yet, not like this; but one day we will . . . I will make sure of that.”

There was a short silence among the men, none of them willing to point out that Black Stags had beaten them every single time they had tried to fight them, but it was quickly over after the Laird spoke again.

“Show me what ye brought. Make sure to open everything, I dinnae want any Black Stags making their way inside castle grounds, ye hear?”

There was a chorus of agreement from the other men, but Peigi could hardly hear it over the sound of her thundering heartbeat. She thought her heart would jump out of her chest; if she didn’t faint first, that is. Her ears buzzed loud enough to cover any other sound, and she could feel her fingertips go numb as she waited for the inevitable.

The lid of her barrel opened with a whoosh, but Peigi didn’t see the sudden flood of light before her eyes fell closed, plunging her in darkness.

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

Chapter 1

“Think hard, lad. Ye only get one chance: yer gold an’ yer horse, or yer miserable throat!” the girl hissed, pulling the muffler tight against her face, and pressing the blade against the man’s cheek.

Everything in the woodland turned to silence; the birds overhead stopped singing, and she could hear the man’s heart beating hard against his chest.

“So, what’s it to be, eh?” she asked, pressing the dagger into his flesh. She had attacked him from behind, and in the black trews and léine, was indistinguishable as a woman. Only the delicately framed eyes rounded with long lashes gave her away.

She peered into the man’s face and was unprepared for what she saw. He was so young, the bewilderment palpable in his green eyes. The lad was so wildly handsome that she almost relented.

“Well?” she demanded menacingly. “Dinnae make me cut off yer bonny nose, laddie!” she said, watching his eyes widen in terror.

But it didn’t last for long. He began to punch and kick, fighting back against her slender grip. Although she had the knife, he was stronger, and it was impossible to hold him. Before long, he pushed her aside.

“Ye’ll nae get awa’ wi’ this! Ye’ll be caught and hung, ye scoundrel!” he shouted, getting to his feet.

“Nae ye dinnae!” she cried, forgetting to lower her voice. “The Spaniard at Glen Shiel thought he’d get away from my daddy’s blade too. His blood didnae wash off for weeks!”

The man’s green eyes flashed vehemently, and the woman’s heart gave a painful thump; did he recognize her?

Without waiting to find out, she pushed him back. In the distance, she heard hooves, and turning was nearly knocked sideways by a huge black stallion.

“Prince!” the man called as the girl dived for cover, away from the hooves of the charging horse.

“Gadzooks, it’s nae a horse, but one o’ Satan’s imps!” she yelled. The lad laughed before bringing the horse to a standstill.

He walked over to her, with a length of rope, which was surely for her hands. She was down on the ground, tangled and scratched in the undergrowth. The lad sneered, his green eyes glinting in the chilly winter morn.

“Dinnae think ye’ll get away wi’ this!” he scoffed. “I’ll come back for ye – if the devil hasnae taken ye first!”

Soon he was binding her tight against the sharp branches of the pine tree. She struggled, but it was to no avail. As he tied her, the girl watched him. He was strangely familiar. From somewhere, she could picture his face in her head.

Despite herself, she could not resist taking a closer look at the man she had been attempting to rob. He was about twenty years of age, tall and good looking, with a noble chin and a determined nose.

His complexion was smooth, and the skin looked so soft, the girl found herself wishing she could run her fingers over it.

It would have been easy to give in to her softer feelings. What fight she had left was being overwhelmed by the crushing tiredness that she felt. Her stomach ached for food.  It had been two days since she had eaten properly, foraging from croft to croft in the clanless zone. She was too weary and hungry to fight more.

But then she pulled herself up sharp. She was so close now – she could not afford to fail. She had to get his knapsack. Undoubtedly it contained jewelry, her only chance to get out of bandit country safely.

The young man was mounting his horse and about to ride off. Knowing she had to act fast, the girl struggled against her bonds. With a little effort, she had them loose.

Stealthily, she slipped her narrow wrists free and found her slingshot. She had one chance to get this right.

The stone catapulted through the air, across the clearing and straight into his face.

“Aargh!” he screamed and instantly fell from his horse. Unfortunately, his fall was broken by something soft and supple: her!

Without warning, she found herself buried under his weight. She fought hard to get free, pushing against him wildly, trying to move his muscular form off her body. They were close enough to kiss, and she could hear his breathing coming in waves.

For the briefest of seconds, the lad’s eyes were face to face with hers. He stared so hard that she blushed, heat racing through her body. The boy’s lips were pink and inviting.  For half a moment, she imagined kissing them.

Her reverie cost her the advantage. Within seconds, the man caught both her wrists in one strong hand, while the other hand gripped her face. Too late to scream, the girl’s eyes bulged, and her heart pounded. But he didn’t use his strong, pale hand to throttle her. Instead, he yanked down her scarf, exposing her face to the cold, March air.

There was a sharp intake of breath, as the lad stared at her, open-eyed. Despite her unmasking, the woman could not help but take amusement at his reaction.

“Gadzooks!” he exclaimed, looking visibly shocked. The girl smirked. Clearly, her disguise worked well; the lad had no idea that she was a female.

A thin veil of recognition passed over his face. She watched as it traveled down through his features. Instantly, he let her go.

Knowing that he no longer posed a threat, she got to her feet, straightening out her long, honey blonde hair, which had been set free from its cover.

Unmasked, the girl positively glowed in the dim morning light, amused at the lad’s entranced gaze.

“Well, hello!” she murmured, still catching her breath.

The lad stared uncomprehendingly into her face as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. His stare was so brazen that she felt like she had to deflect his gaze.

“Ye nae seen a woman afore, lad?” she mocked. “Put yer tongue back into yer heid!”

Then, getting up from her position on the ground, she walked tentatively around him. Now that she had made her connection, it seemed unlikely that he would continue with his attack.

“So then, ye’ve changed a wee bit since our last meet,” she said pertinently, raising a light brown eyebrow pointedly. “Long time, no see, laddie!”

The lad just stared into her eyes, as if he could not comprehend the words she was saying.

She could see by the way he was looking at her that he was trying to figure her out as if she were a puzzle.

He stood, running his bright jade eyes up and down, along and across her form. She had seen that look before on men’s faces and had reason to fear it. However, with this lad, she instinctively knew that she was safe.

It wasn’t even because she recognized him. The girl had learned, through bitter experience, that simply knowing a man did not preclude him from taking advantage of a girl if he thought that he could get away with it.

God knew, over the last few weeks and months, as she had picked her way through the Highlands from hunting lodge to hunting lodge, she had met more than her fair share of chancers.

So, she knew a good man when she saw one. From the honest glint in this lad’s eyes, there was no way he would take advantage. If anything, she was going to be the one to do that!

The girl did not wait around to find out if she was wrong. Without giving the lad a chance to get one over on her, she reached around for something, anything, to avoid him leaving her with nothing.

He had not only managed to get to his feet but had now summoned his enormous black stallion to his side, which was harrumphing and whinnying impressively in her direction. If she were not quick, he would jump on the horse and be gone forever!

Panicking, the woman looked about for some way to stop him. She desperately needed what he had, and there was no way that she could allow sentiment to get in the way.

However, she was disarmed, and her slingshot lay several feet away, near the wretched horse’s powerful hooves. Given the menace in its eyes right then, she felt little desire to try and acquire it.

She was defenseless!

He was about to leap up when she spied a very large stone, nestling at her feet. Without waiting to think it through, she hurled it straight at him.

The lad was in the middle of mounting the ferocious beast, when the stone hit him, squarely on the jaw, visibly injuring him.

Thump! The girl’s heart gave a jump as the lad tumbled unceremoniously towards her for a second time. But this time, the girl knew better than to get trapped beneath him and sidestepped to avoid his fall.

Wham! He landed in a sorry pile, not far from where she had been, but the girl wasted no time in getting free and preparing to run fast. To try and make good her escape, she picked a second stone from the ground and flung it at him, this time hitting him in the face.

“Aargh!” groaned the lad, clutching his face and rolling around in agony.

The girl tried to ignore his pitiful cries because she knew if she paid them heed, she might end up taking pity on him, which would never do!

Trying her hardest to push away the errant thought, the lass twirled around, just for a second, catching the red-haired lad straight in the eye.

He wasn’t hurt badly but was beginning to smart. She could not help herself from saying to him:

“Ye should ken better than to try and stop me, Beathan!”

She might as well have slapped him across the face; such was his surprise. It was hard for her not to laugh at his dismay.

“Aye, I ken ye, an’ yet ye dinnae ken me!” she quipped, smiling at his amazed face. “A lass could feel hurt!”

It was a jest, but something deep inside the girl’s heart stirred. She had been prepared for his recognition from the moment the mask had been pulled from her face. When it hadn’t happened, she had been stung slightly.

But there was no time for such thoughts now. Events were moving at such a speed that they were outpacing even the girl’s racing thoughts.

Without a second’s further consideration, she leaped towards the loosed horse. The animal was snarling and snorting like one of Satan’s beasts, but she paid it no heed. She had a way with horses and could tame it, the same trick she had with men.

The girl steadied the black horse and mounting the beast, was off, galloping across the soggy landscape, her hands tight against the horse’s back.

From down on the ground, in the ditch, the lad was stirring, but she was so far away that she could barely see him.

Raising his voice against the wind she heard the pierce of his cry, “Halt there! Stop, thief!”

But it was to no avail. As if he knew this, the lad yelled again, this time with something that stopped her heart in its tracks… her name.

“Ye’ll nae get away wi’ this…. Aye, lassie, I ken ye… Edme!”

Chapter 2

“Edme!” his voice rang through the trees in the small copse multiple times. “Edme! Edme! Edme!” the lad screamed his lungs right out of his chest, circling her heart with his cries.

For just one moment, Edme hovered astride the braying horse. Then, the lad issued a direct command to the animal.

“Prince!” he called plaintively. At the sound of its master’s voice, the horse immediately stalled, refusing to go further and threatening to throw the girl from its back.

“Stop it!” Edme screamed. The animal, which had behaved itself up until now, was rearing up into the air. At any turn, she could be cast asunder. “Help!”

She soon found herself flying through the air, like a stone from her slingshot. As she fell, time seemed to slow down, filling her with a strange calm. In the skies above, the birds beat their wings in flight, and a deadening quiet fell over the copse.

Even the stallion was temporarily silenced, mesmerized by the sheer grace of her fall. It was as if she was flying on gossamer wings; the only sound was the echo of her scream ringing out over the treetops and across the trees.

Internally, she raged. He had done this to her! If he had never removed her scarf, she would have been well on her way by now!

“Beathan!” she cursed, falling out of the sky and landing almost directly on top of him with a hearty smack.

But unlike his crash landing, it seemed that he was waiting for her, ready to break her fall with outstretched arms.

Thump!

With a crash, she landed straight into his waiting arms. It took Edme all her strength not to scream, but she just managed it.

All the same, she could not stop herself from shutting her eyes and scrunching herself into a ball to shield herself from pain.

But to her surprise, she did not feel any. As she checked herself carefully, there was barely a jolt to her frame.

“Aye, yer alright, I reckon!” she could hear his voice say. “An’ I doubt there’s anythin’ wrong wi’ yer eyes!”

Self-consciously, Edme opened her eyes. The sharp winter daylight pierced them painfully, as the world jarred into focus. Looking upwards, she had expected to see gray acres of sky. But instead, she found herself glaring straight into Beathan’s emerald eyes.

Beathan blinked. He was so close that she could feel his breath. He pored over her, checking for injuries, tending to her like a nurse.

Edme’s body tensed, and she removed herself from his grasp and stood beside him, albeit taking a few well-chosen paces back.

“Well, if it’s not the Maid of McKinley! So, is this what yer doin’ noo? Robbing folks?”

Edme could feel the lad’s cool gaze washing over her like winter rain. Instantly, she felt small and cheap.

“Well, come on noo! Ye were after my mother’s jewels weren’t ye! So come on an’ tell me just what it was that ye wanted them for!” he asked, not unreasonably.

Although a foot away, Edme could feel him bearing down on her, staring at her intently. But instead of returning his gaze, she turned away, clamming up.

“Tell me then, Maid McKinley, what is it that yer clan wants wi’ our clan’s precious stones?”

The question hung in the air, hauntingly, needling the girl visibly as she pretended to look away. Inside, her heart beat fast. She did not know what to say. She did not have an answer to give him for the question he asked. She pouted and turned away, much to the scorn of the lad watching her.

Beathan folded his arms and waited, with a smug expression on his face.

“Well, if ye will nae tell me, maybe the Laird can drag it out of ye,” he announced, a determination coming into his bright green eyes. “Or maybe even one of the guards! I daresay the Sheriff will take an interest too!”

At the mention of this, the girl’s eyes widened. Watching her reaction carefully, the lad continued.

“An’ wi’ all the robberies around here, I wouldnae be surprised if he hangs ye, just to mak’ an example!” he added, glancing slyly at her.

The girl visibly whitened, her already pale skin taking on an almost translucent quality.

In the lull that opened up between them, a flock of starlings flew overhead, their noisy intervention momentarily distracting them both.

Edme watched the lad as he raised his eyes up high, noting his firm physique and rugged shoulders. Then she smiled, a little coyly.

“Ye wouldnae dae that,” she declared softly, her eyes scanning his for a reaction.

He bristled slightly, but without taking his eyes off the noisy birds, he continued, “Och aye, wouldnae I? Is that a chance ye wannae take, lass?”

Edme could not see his face, but she fully imagined him to be laughing at her, despite his stern words.

“The laird takes the theft of his jewelry very seriously! An’ that’s nothing on what the lady might do. An’ I can tell ye, ye dinnae want tae get on the wrong side of her!” he added.

This time he did look at her, bringing his almost luminous bright green eyes down to bear on her. At that moment, Edme thought she detected just a shade of warmth. In his face, a glazed amusement passed over, as if he was having some sort of jest with her. Then, in an instant, it had vanished, and his face returned to its ice-cold bed of steel.

“So then, what’s it gonnae be, lassie?” Beathan inquired, almost snarling the words; his previous demeanor put on hold.

All the same, Edme held her nerve. One thing the last few months had taught her was to spot a performance when she saw one. The lad was bluffing; she felt sure.

“Ye either answer my questions, or ye come wi’ me to someone who will make ye!” he promised, stiffening in his pose and patting down his clothes.

His hands fumbled about for something that seemed to be missing. In the blink of an eye, the girl noted his empty dagger pouch.

Then, her deft eyes spied something, glinting in the March sun – his black sgian dubh. It was there, just nestling by a tree, maybe about half a foot away from where she was standing. Unable to believe her luck, Edme lunged to grab it.

“I think yer lookin’ for this!” she announced, flashing the ornate looking dagger towards him, just close enough to his person for him to try to snatch it.

Like a cat, teasing its prey, she held it close enough to elicit a response, but in the split second that he took to swipe at it, she retreated, laughing.

Frustrated, Beathan lurched forward again, still unable to catch the dagger.

“Here! Give it back!” he demanded as she laughed.

“Nae,” she replied, taunting him with the jewel-encrusted sword, jabbing it this way and that, with dramatic gestures, swiping through the air. “I will nae!”

“It’s hopeless, yer nae match for me, lassie!” Beathan reasoned, but under his pale soft skin she could see that beads of sweat were forming,

“Och, I ken yer strong, laddie,” praised the girl, pretending to be impressed. She glanced over at the boy’s taut muscles. It was hard not to be somewhat affected by the lad’s solid set of muscles. Although covered by a brightly checkered plaid, Edme could see the outline of his frame, from his well-defined shoulders to his muscular forearms sticking out of his sleeves.

She gave an involuntary shiver as she contemplated the look of his firm stomach and tried not to think of anything that lay beneath his sporran.

“So, yer strong,” she repeated. “But are ye quick?”

Before the meaning could be clear to him, Edme was off, running as fast as she could, her slender frame disappearing over the top of the hillside.

********************************************************************

Edme!

The name burned in Beathan’s heart like fire. As he watched the McKinley filly speeding away again, Beathan could barely believe his eyes.

In despair, he shouted after her, hoping it would shame her into stopping. It did not.

“Edme! Edme McKinley! Come back here now, or ye’ll be the worst for it!” he called hopelessly after her.

God knows, Beathan had been having a bad enough day already. His mission had been simple: transport the Cairngorm brooch belonging to his mother from the Craig keep to the Duncan castle, which had been his grandmother’s home before marriage. This was mainly for safekeeping since, in recent times, attacks and skirmishes with the English and other bandits had seen a sharp increase.

So far, he had had to contend with a freak hail storm, an inexplicably spooked horse, and a loosed bull. His intended leisurely morning’s hunting had ended when he lost his father’s jeweled dagger and now this!

For a moment or two, Beathan watched in dismay as both sword and girl bobbed out of view, then he steeled himself. He wasn’t about to let them go without a fight!

“Edme! Stop!” he called, tearing after her.

Despite his intense fury – which was mainly at himself for allowing this to happen – Beathan could not help but feel slightly impressed at this slip of a lass who had somehow managed to get the better of him.

This chimed with Beathan’s vague memories of the slight, lively maid with honey streaked hair he recalled from Hogmanay gatherings at the McKinley castle. These were held annually and always well attended by the local clan Lairds.

If it was one thing that the Laird of McKinley knew, it was how to put on a good feast. Fondly, Beathan recollected childhood scenes in the vast McKinley castle with venison, haggis, pheasant, and other hearty dishes. This was washed down with wine and a local, single malt, which, even as children, they managed a wee dram.

But he couldn’t remember much of Edme, just a hazy recollection of a rather bossy wench with blonde tresses. Back then, she had been very much in her older brother’s shadow, and he could not remember having a lot to do with her, as girls barely entered his head back then, and when they did, they were more annoyances than acquaintances.

Well, that was one thing that had not changed! As Beathan watched the laughing girl run faster, he resolved that he would get the last laugh somehow. And it was not long before he got his chance!

Whump! A sharp cry sounded across the horizon, and Beathan watched the girl fall over and lay very still.

Unable to see if the girl was safe or harmed, Beathan sped along, over the craggy hillside and up to the spot where the fallen girl lay. It looked as though she had tripped over a branch and hit her head against a rock.

As he approached, Beathan took a sharp breath. The sight of her laying there so still, her shining honey-colored hair strewn recklessly about her whitened face, brought him up hard.

Everything about her seemed lifeless, her lithe limbs stretched out in various directions, and her eyes shut.

Beathan’s heart thumped painfully in his ribcage. With a sour twist, he saw his jeweled dagger lying on the wet grass before him as if it had been offered up by the Gods.

But he was so overwhelmed that he forgot to take it. Instead, he hovered over the girl’s unmoving form. Barely daring to breathe, he looked on.

Everything around him seemed to have stilled, slowed to a crawl almost, as if time itself had been halted.

Thump! Thump! Thump! His heart clamored loudly in his chest. She couldn’t be dead, could she?

His eyes widened in fear as he approached her cautiously, gently prodding her shoulder. There was no response.

“Edme?” he asked softly.

Heaven knows, Beathan had been trying his darndest to keep the trepidation out of his voice and act as if he was not affected. After all, she was a thief who had taken his dagger. There was not one person in the clan who would condemn him in any way for the course of events that had unfurled.

In reality, he would be wholly justified in walking away from the woman who had tried so hard to rob him. Perhaps he would even be doing the clan a favor, ridding them of such a troublesome wench.

It wouldn’t be the first time he had to injure someone in combat. Skirmishes with the English and their traitorous lackeys were becoming ever more frequent, and Beathan had had to assist his father, the Laird of Craig, many times in seeing them off. Just last year, he had been present at the battle at Glen Shiel, which had seen many of their best men slaughtered.

But that had been different, they had been under attack and fighting for the survival of the clan. Also, none of them had been women.

Beathan stared down at the pallid girl, lying rigid in the muddied bog, and gave an involuntary shiver. He tried to remind himself how this woman had just attempted to rob his clan of their jewels and their heritage.

However, just as he was about to pull away from the maid, he lingered. He could not do it. Despite his bravery in battle, Beathan still retained a softness inside. She was injured, and she needed help.

Pressing down closer against her, Beathan looked carefully for signs of life. It didn’t feel quite right, slipping his fingers in beneath her stays and checking for a pulse, but he did it anyway, knowing that every second she was unconscious put her further into danger.

“Edme, Edme,” he said softly, calling her name, trying to wake her.

Nothing. She did not so much as flinch when he brought his head close to hers. Panicking, Beathan went to check her airways. By placing an ear to her mouth, his face close to her bosom, he could tell she was not breathing.

Urgently, he pressed his mouth against her lips. They were so tender and a delicate shade of rosebud pink, their sweetness at odds with the girl’s usual brash manner.

She lay there, as pale as a corpse, her chest not responding to his compressions. Forcefully he breathed in through her airways, her honeyed perfume swirling in the air like a song.

After a few sharp breaths, he gave a slight pause, giving a chance for the girl to breathe alone. But there was nothing. Now panicking, Beathan worked harder, breathing in deep and rhythmically to her flattened lungs.

It seemed to take forever, and a deep silence fell over the glen as if everything was still and waiting for her to take a breath.

Beathan did not know how long he waited, it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, but it felt like days. After several rounds, he was forced to stop to catch his breath. He was just about to continue when the girl took in a large breath.

She slowly came around, opening her eyes with a small groan. Sitting up, the girl tried to get to her feet.

“Nae ye dinnae!” said Beathan gently, pressing her back down. “There be plenty of time for that when we get back to the keep!”

Edme looked up. “The keep? How ye gonna get me there Master Craig?” she asked pointedly.

From behind him, Prince snarled impressively. Beathan glanced at the horse and laughed. The girl groaned, rolling her eyes.

Reading her mind, Beathan continued. “Dinnae ye fash, this time, I’m going to make sure ye cannae fall!” he grinned, fastening the wench’s hands securely behind her slender back.

As he tied her up, Beathan felt a sudden jolt of what could only be described as lust, racing its way up through him.

Beathan scowled. This was the last thing he needed now, to let unnecessary passions get in the way of a cool-headed decision. He had made that mistake once before. This time he resolved to make sure she did not escape.

“Come on, lass, be still. Ye need to keep yer strength up for meeting the Sheriff!”

The girl groaned as Beathan smiled. Helping her up gently, he fastened the tired girl onto his horse, ensuring she was firmly set. Then he leaped on in front and cracking the whip set the stallion off on a gentle trot back towards Craig keep.

“Well, the second attempt was better than yer first time!” drawled the girl, enigmatically as they went. Her voice was dreamy, but when he turned to look, Beathan saw a serious look shoot through her eyes. Then they turned mischievous.

“First time?” he asked, confused. “I barely ken ye, lassie. The first time for what?”

Beathan momentarily took his eyes off the path to look at her, uncertain.

“Och, Beathan!” she whispered coyly. “The first time ye kissed me, of course!”

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

Chapter 1

Ronald was dead.

There was nothing that Donal could do but watch as they buried his little brother—and even watching was proving difficult. Inside himself, he could only feel a vast void. It was the nothingness that only came when emotions were too much to bear; when a human mind reached its limits, and could only shut down to protect itself.

Donal didn’t cry. He didn’t shed a single tear. He did vomit, though, running as far away from the funeral as he could before his stomach began to revolt against him. The sight of his dead brother was unbearable.

After the funeral, all he could do was drink, coming close to joining his brother in the afterlife. It took him six months to stop drinking, and once he did, he knew he couldn’t stay in those parts for even one minute longer.

He also knew where he had to go: Castle Sween, the place where it had all begun.

In Donal’s memory, Castle Sween was a thing of wonder. He remembered the stone walls of the castle, towering over the surrounding land of Knapdale, the grand windows in the towers with a view of Loch Sween, and the seemingly endless green grass that covered the ground every summer.

Donal had been of only twenty years of age when he had last been there—six years prior, training under the General of the MacMillan clan. His father had insisted that he and his younger brother, Ronald, spend months in Castle Sween as a preparation for their future duties: Donal’s responsibilities as a laird and Ronald’s duties as his right-hand man.

For Donal, training under such a skilled man with a vast experience in battle was a gift for which he would forever be grateful. He had learned everything he knew from that man, and all that knowledge that he had gathered was what would one day make him the kind of laird that his clan, Clan Cameron, deserved.

Donal wished he could say that it had been the same for his brother, that he had become a man under the General’s supervision and guidance, but the truth was that Ronald had never made it past the age of four-and-twenty. He’d never had the chance to blossom into the man that he was supposed to become, never had the opportunity to grow up and take his place in the clan next to Donal.

Death had taken him young, creeping up on him earlier than anyone could have expected. His heart gave out, his family had told everyone. The Cameron clan was in mourning for weeks over the loss of the laird’s beloved son, the waste of his young life hanging heavy over them.

Donal had proof of the real cause of his brother’s death, though, and it wasn’t his heart; or perhaps it was, in a way. Ronald’s heart had given out because of a cruel, treacherous woman, and the sadness that engulfed him drove him to take his own life.

Donal had been the one who found Ronald, laying on the floor of his bedroom with a handkerchief clutched tightly in one hand and a small blade in the other. There had been so much blood; it had pooled around his body, spreading across the floor. The memory turned his stomach.

It was a sight that no older brother should ever have to face.

The rest was a blur in Donal’s mind from that day. He remembered picking up the handkerchief from Ronald’s hand, stained in his own blood, and reading the initials that were embroidered on the soft linen. V.M, the same initials that were signed at the bottom of a letter he found on Ronald’s desk, crumpled as though his brother had read it a million times.

Donal himself knew that letter by heart, reading it over and over, trying to make sense of what had happened to his brother, what was so dire as to drive him to take his own life.

               Ronald,

I do not wish to see you again. You are a fool for thinking I could ever love a man like yourself—a foppish, weak-souled idiot. I despise you utterly and completely.

Every time you left my sight, I began to laugh, thinking about all the promises you made to me for the future.

There will be no future between us. I only pretended to love you so that you would do as I said, which only served to make me laugh more.

No woman could ever love you, Ronald. You are, and always have been, the laughingstock of the MacMillan clan. There is no future in your horizons, and no promise of anything except humiliation for both yourself and a future wife. You will never amount to anything, and thus, I could never be with you.

As it happens, I have secured another’s affections, and he has all of the traits you lack—ambition, skill, intelligence. I shall not regret affiancing myself to him and fixing myself to his star. There is no hope of regaining my affections, Ronald; kindly move on, and have it as though we never crossed paths.

               Don’t write back to me. I don’t want to hear from you.

                                                                                                                           V.M.

That wretched woman was the reason for his brother’s death, and she was also almost the reason he would never finding eternal peace. His mother couldn’t bear to think that Ronald would not receive a proper burial, though, so his father had decided to keep his suicide a secret, instead telling the entire clan that he had died from a weak heart, a defect that they never knew he had.

No one had questioned it, but the image of Ronald’s wrists, slit open with that blade, had burned into Donal’s mind.

Ever since that day, Donal had committed his life to finding the woman responsible and bringing her to justice. He had all he needed; after all, he had the letter mentioning the MacMillan clan, and he had the woman’s initials.

Donal and Ronald had only ever met two women with those initials, and they were sisters. Vanora and Vika MacMillan were the daughters of the very man who had taken the two brothers under his wing, teaching them everything they needed to know; they were the daughters of the general.

There was only one thing Donal could do then, and that was to head to Castle Sween. It was up to him to discover which one of the two sisters was responsible for his brother’s heartbreak and his death, and he would make his brother proud; he would avenge him.

Had it not been for the reason behind his travel, Donal would have enjoyed it thoroughly. It was the end of August, the perfect time to travel, as the sun shone bright most days, bathing the Highlands in its warmth and light. Even the rainy days were comfortable, with gentle breezes instead of strong winds. If it were winter, Donal didn’t know if he would have had the courage to brave the journey.

As he approached Castle Sween, he felt as though he was a young lad again, back when he had first seen the place. Donal ran a hand through his hair, pushing his ginger mop back to take a better look at all the stones that lined its walls.

He remembered carving his name on one of them, next to Ronald’s own, the two of them leaving their marks there forever.

Donal patted his pocket as he rode through the castle gates, a habit that he had developed ever since beginning to carry that handkerchief and the letter with him at all times. He liked to remind himself every now and then that they were still there, safe in his pocket.

Naturally, Donal attracted the gazes of the clansmen the moment he rode into the castle grounds. He wondered how many of them remembered him, but if he were to judge by the strange mixture of joy and sympathy on their faces, he would say that he was still in everyone’s recollections.

He had no desire to listen to people’s condolences. He had already heard his fair share of them, and it did nothing to console him or bring his brother back. He had begun to avoid people’s pity whenever he could. Instead of lingering in the courtyard, he left his horse with the stable boy and headed inside the castle to find the man who had shaped him into the man that he was then.

He had barely taken a few steps, his shoes making that familiar click-clack on the stones, when he collided with another body, his bigger frame sending the other person tumbling onto the floor.

“Lord!” Donal exclaimed, rushing to help the girl that he had pushed down. “Are ye alright, lass?”

“Donal?”

The girl looked up at him, and at that moment, Donal realized who she was, just as she took his hand and used it to stand up.

“Vika?”

It couldn’t have been anyone else. Vika had hair like the sunshine and eyes like the deepest loch. Though she had changed a lot since the last time Donal had seen her, having been only a bairn back then, he immediately recognized her because of those very features.

Vika had grown into a fine young woman, though the flush on her cheeks and the childish grin on her face made her look like that child Donal had met six years ago.

Wherever Vanora went, Vika was always close behind, so Donal was not surprised when Vanora appeared from around the corner, alarmed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.

The two sisters couldn’t be less alike. Vanora took after their father, with her dark hair and brown eyes like two pools of amber, and Vika took after their mother. Had Donal not known that they shared the same parents, he would have never guessed that the two women were sisters.

“Donal!” Vanora said, rushing to him once she recognized him. “What are ye doing here? When did ye arrive?”

She was truly a sight, a few strands of her hair falling on her pale neck, her dress showing off her best assets.

So much unlike her sister, who preferred layers and drawing as little attention to her own fine figure as possible.

“We didnae ken that ye’d come!” Vika said. “Have ye told Father? He never told us!”

“I didnae tell him. And I only just arrived.” Donal smiled at the enthusiasm that the sisters were showing before he could stop himself. It was easy to fall back into old habits, being friendly with them and allowing himself to be charmed by them, but he had to remember that one of them was the reason his brother was dead.

He didn’t blame both sisters, of course. Until he knew which one had killed him, though, he would have to be careful with both of them.

They were women now. They were not the little children he’d once known, and it wasn’t only their looks that had changed. Vanora carried herself differently, confidence exuding from her, while Vika had opened up, so unlike the shy girl she once was.

“I barely recognized the twa of ye,” Donal continued. “Ye have changed so much.”

“Aye, so have ye,” Vika pointed out. “Ye didnae have that scar when ye were here.”

Vika reached over and poked Donal on the cheek, where he had a small scar from the time he’d gotten in a brawl. It was such a small detail that he was surprised Vika had noticed.

Vanora was frowning, though, head tilted to the side as she looked at Donal.

“And why did ye not tell Father?” Vanora asked. “He’d want tae ken that yer here.”

“Aye,” Donal said. “I wanted it tae be a surprise. I thought I’d go tae his study and see if he’ll remember his old student.”

“He will!” Vika assured him. “Father still talks about ye often, ye ken. I think he misses ye…he misses having a son.”

Donal had never considered that Cormag MacMillan could think of him as a son, and he felt a strange warmth radiate inside him when he heard Vika refer to him as such. It was unfair to the two sisters—that much Donal knew—but it also felt good to be appreciated and loved.

Besides, one of them was a murderer. He had no reason to feel bad for them.

The question was, which one was the one responsible? It was difficult to tell. After all, he had spent a lot of time with the two sisters in the past, and when he had first figured out that one of them had broken his brother’s heart with that cruel letter, he could hardly believe it.

Vika was the younger of the two, and she had always been a sweet, shy girl. Donal had a hard time suspecting her. Vanora had been a sweet girl, too, but now…now she was so different from her former self that Donal didn’t know what to believe. She was a beautiful woman, after all, and she seemed to know it. She must have broken the hearts of many men.

“Father is in his study the noo; ye can go and see him,” Vanora said. “Do ye want me tae take ye there?”

“No, no need,” Donal assured her with a wave of his hand. “I still ken where his study is, unless the old man decided he needed a change. I’ll find my own way; dinnae fash yerself.”

“We’ll see ye at supper, then?” Vika asked. “Mrs. Gallach will want tae prepare a whole feast for yer arrival.”

“Ach, no need for that, either, Vika,” Donal assured her. Mrs. Gallach, the head housekeeper of Castle Sween, had always been a sweet woman who worked too much. Donal didn’t want to put her into the trouble of preparing a feast last minute. “Please tell Mrs. Gallach that I dinnae need a feast. Whatever she had planned for supper is more than fine.”

“Aye, I’ll tell her,” Vika said. “It’s good tae see ye, Donal.”

With that, Vika rushed off to the kitchen to find Mrs. Gallach, but Vanora stayed behind. She leaned against the wall, a hand on her hip as she regarded Donal.

“Ye have grown since the last time I saw ye,” she said.

“So have ye.”

Donal remembered the last time he had spoken to Vanora as though it were yesterday. She had been of five-and-ten years then, while he had already turned twenty, a wee lass against a man. The last thing Vanora had told him was that she loved him, and the last thing Donal had told her was that he was too old to be with a child. Then he had laughed.

He regretted that now. Vanora had done nothing back then to deserve his mockery, and yet he had been so cruel to her. He didn’t know what to say. The woman standing before him was very much grown now, the child she used to be left in the past.

“Aye…I suppose people tend to do that,” Vanora teased, a hint of a smile crossing her lips.

She didn’t seem to be angry with him, Donal thought. He wondered for a moment if she still felt something for him, or if she had moved on to bigger and better things. Surely, a woman who looked like her—pale skin on display on her décolletage and a neckline specifically designed to show off the swell of her breasts—would have many admirers.

Could Ronald have been one of those admirers? That could very well be the case, and Donal wouldn’t be surprised if Vanora was the woman with whom his brother had been infatuated.

Before Donal could say anything, Vanora spoke again.

“I will make sure that Mrs. Gallach kens ye came. I dinnae trust Vika tae carry a glass of water, let alone relay information.”

“Thank ye.” Donal thought that simply saying that would be easier than asking Vanora why she didn’t trust her sister over something so simple. The two of them had always had a strange dynamic, and Donal had seen Vanora eclipse Vika many times, her natural charm and ability to make people instantly love her putting Vanora at the forefront.

Vanora turned around to walk away, but she stopped after taking only a few steps. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, her back turned to Donal before she finally turned around to meet his gaze.

“And Donal…it is verra nice tae see ye again. Truly.”

With that, Vanora made her way to the kitchen, leaving Donal standing there, stunned. She had sounded sincere, Donal thought, as though she had forgotten everything that had happened between them. How could that be, though? Allegedly, Donal had broken her heart, and even though it had been six years since that day, he would have thought that she would still hold a grudge against him.

It was yet another mystery that would have to wait. There was no way for Donal to find out if she had forgiven him; not quite yet, at least. He would ask her eventually, after he’d spent a few days at the castle. It was too early in his stay for him to stir the waters like that.

With a last glance at the place where Vanora had stood only moments earlier, Donal turned around and headed for Cormag’s study, eager to see his old teacher again. He only wished that Ronald could be there with him, that his travels were for recreation instead of sleuthing. As it were, Donal could hardly enjoy any of it.

There was no use to have such wishful thoughts, though. What was done was done, and Donal would never get his brother back.

All he could do was spend his time at Castle Sween figuring out which of the two women had taken his brother’s life—and avenge his premature death.

Chapter 2

Despite Donal’s insistence that there shouldn’t be a feast in his honor, Mrs. Gallach decided to throw one anyway, eager to give their guest a proper welcome.

It didn’t hurt that Vanora practically begged her for a feast.

Vanora hadn’t forgotten the last time that she had spoken to Donal. She didn’t think she could ever forget it—the way that he spoke to her as though he thought that she was nothing but a foolish child, breaking her heart for the first time in her life.

Part of her was still angry. Not because Donal had rejected her, but the way that he had done so. At ten-and-five years, she was indeed a child, and now that she was older, she understood why Donal didn’t see her the same way that she saw him. She only wished that he had been gentler about his rejection, instead of making her feel like a fool for telling him how she felt about him.

It was something that had shaped her as a woman. As she grew, the men around her began to pay attention, and while Vanora reveled in it, she never once allowed them to get too close, in case they ridiculed her the same way that Donal had.

Now, every time a man tried to approach her, she graced him with her attention, but never with her love.

She had thought about the day she would see Donal again many times in the past, wondering what she would do once she saw him. Would she hate him? Would she be flooded by the same feelings that she possessed for him six years prior?

It turned out that neither of those things was the reality. It was nice to see him, and Vanora couldn’t deny that it warmed her heart and quickened her pulse to have him right there in front of her. The words that he had told her before leaving all those years ago were still carved deep in her heart, of course—a wound that she doubted would ever heal. Yet she found herself getting flustered whenever she thought about him, just like when she was a girl.

Vanora also felt like she had something to prove to Donal. When she had confessed her love to him, he had thought of her as nothing more than a foolish child, but now she was a woman, one that many men desired. She wanted to show Donal that she was nothing like the innocent, naïve girl he’d once known. No matter how much she would deny it if anyone asked, the reason why she had talked Mrs. Gallach into throwing a feast was just so that she would have an excuse to doll herself up and impress Donal.

Now there she was, holed up in her chambers as she prepared for the feast. She donned her finest dress, one that she had reserved for a special occasion, as it was a gift from some English earl or duke whose name Vanora could not even remember, a sign of his affections towards her.

The satin fabric of her bodice and skirt was a soft blush, and adorned with ribbon bows and a looped trim. The low, rounded neckline only helped to accentuate her figure, as the corset that she was wearing underneath pinched her waist in. Breathing improperly was a small price to pay to look as she did, Vanora thought as she looked at herself in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the soft satin.

There was a knock on the door, and before Vanora could reply, Vika barged in and perched herself on the edge of her bed.

Vanora looked at her sister’s reflection in the mirror, taking in the heavy, forest green dress that she was wearing, the plain linen doing nothing for her shapely form or her pale skin.

It wasn’t as though Vika didn’t have her fair share of intricate, expensive dresses; she simply chose to not wear them unless she was forced to do so. Vanora kept her mouth shut instead of berating her, knowing that her sister would feel more comfortable in what she was wearing rather than donning something that would bring too much attention to her.

“You look verra nice,” Vika said, leaning back on the bed and propping herself up on her elbows in that way that Mrs. Gallach often called ‘unladylike.’ “Why dae ye look so nice?”

Vanora knew immediately what it was that Vika was asking, without her even having to elaborate. Is all this for Donal Cameron?

Her sister didn’t have to know everything. Vanora was even happy to lie to her own self and tell herself that she simply wanted to look nice for the feast, especially since the entire clan would be there.

“What? Can I nae look nice now?” Vanora asked, though the fact that she was defensive probably didn’t help her case. “I’ve never worn this dress…I thought it was time that I did.”

“Aye,” Vika said, sounding entirely unconvinced by her sister’s excuses. “Weel, if ye want to have some of the food, I suggest ye go down tae the hall now. Or will ye spend all night here?”

Vanora shot Vika a dirty look through the mirror before turning around and smoothing down her skirt with her hands. “How do I look?”

“I told ye, ye look verra nice,” Vika repeated once more. “Donal’s jaw will hit the floor when he sees ye…and so will everyone else’s.”

“I dinnae ken what ye mean,” Vanora insisted. “I dinnae care what Donal thinks, and I certainly dinnae care about what anyone else thinks. Their jaws can stay where they are for all I care.”

Vanora didn’t miss the amused look that Vika gave her, the one that made her look like she was much older than her ten-and-nine years; the one that made her look as though she knew things that Vanora never would.

“Shall we go, then?” Vanora asked, uncomfortable with having her little sister look at her as though she was older and vastly wiser.

“Aye,” Vika said. She stood up and followed Vanora. She took a pause, though, stopping in the middle of the room. “Before we go, can I have yer handkerchief?”

Vanora stopped walking too, and turned around to look at her sister. “My handkerchief? Why?”

“Mine was torn earlier today,” Vika said with a small shrug. “I forgot tae fix it, and I thought…weel, ye look so nice that no one will notice ye willnae have it. Everyone will be tae busy admiring yer dress, so I thought that perhaps ye’d give yours tae me for the night.”

Vanora softened at that, her eyes finding Vika’s own as she approached her and cupped her cheek with her hand. “Aye,” she said, “ye can have it. It disnae match the trimmings of the dress anyway.”

Vanora pulled out her handkerchief and handed it to Vika, who took it gratefully before following her sister out of the room. The two of them walked down the stairs and through the corridors of the castle, immediately attracting everyone’s gaze as they walked by them—or at least, Vanora did.

The hall was packed with tables and people, the clansmen of the MacMillan clan eager to see Donal once again. Vanora had always known that she wasn’t the only one who had immediately become fond of the man when she had first met him; everyone else had instantly adored him, too.

Vanora couldn’t blame them, especially since she, too, could see why people loved Donal so much. She thought back on all the times that Donal had done something kind, such as when he used to help the clan healer because he couldn’t bear to see people suffer from their illnesses, or when he had thrown himself into the freezing waters of Loch Sween to save a dog that had fallen in its depths. Whenever Donal wasn’t training with her father, he was bound to be found somewhere helping his fellow men and women.

It didn’t hurt that Donal had the looks to match, too. Vanora knew that girls would fall to his feet, and even married women would be willing to sin and betray their husbands for him. All Donal would have to do was ask.

Vanora herself had first been infatuated with his fiery red hair that always seemed to fall over his face, wild and unruly, and his green eyes, like the bushes and trees that surrounded the castle. Now that he was older, his features a little more mature, Vanora hadn’t failed to notice how the stubble on his face accentuated the strong lines of his jaw, the angles and corners of it.

It was at that moment, after having such thoughts about Donal, that Vanora realized she was in big trouble. Despite the way her heart beat fast in her chest when she thought about the man—so fast that she feared it would jump out of her body—and the way that her skin flushed and burned as though she was standing right next to a fire, she couldn’t allow herself to become attached once again.

Sure, she wanted to prove to Donal that she was not a little girl anymore, but that desire surely didn’t come from her wanting to win him over. Vanora had no interest in making him fall in love with her. She only wanted him to see what he had missed by rejecting her six years ago.

So what if her gaze traveled around the room, jumping from person to person to locate Donal? So what if she took a seat beside her cousin instead of her father, just because her cousin’s table had a better view of the entire room? She simply wanted to reconnect with Donal.

Her scouting for the man didn’t last long. The moment she had poured herself a cup of wine, a clansman approached her and asked her to dance. At first, she tried to resist, giving the man an excuse about being tired, but he insisted. Vanora soon found herself swirling around the room, all the while keeping an eye out for Donal.

Once her companion had taken his dance, other men began to flock to her, requesting a dance for themselves—and naturally, Vanora couldn’t refuse. She had already opened Pandora’s box, and she didn’t want to come off as rude or make the rest of the clan think she was favoring one clansman over the others. It would only serve to add fuel to the rumors that circulated about her throughout the castle.

A part of her liked the attention, but another, greater part of her sometimes wished it would stop. The way that the men, one after the other, demanded dances from her, along with her attention and affection, made her feel like a prized toy, handed from child to child until it broke. She had somehow found herself owing those men something, just because they liked the way she looked and because she was the general’s daughter. Everybody wanted to marry a girl like her, and they were all too busy to realize that the only thing they were doing in the process was erasing every hint of interest she had in them.

For once, Vanora longed to feel like a person rather than a means to an end, or some prized pig.

Still, she danced, and she smiled, and she allowed the men to talk away as they led her around the floor.

She didn’t even stop when she finally spotted Donal. He walked over to the laird’s table and took a seat between her father and Vika. She desperately wanted to join them. Instead, she watched as he and her sister spoke, her gaze glued on them even as the men she danced with twirled her around the room.

Vanora had to admit to a pang of jealousy in her gut, hot and sharp like a fire iron. Her eyes narrowed, and she could feel herself pouting, but she couldn’t force a smile anymore, not when she saw Donal laugh at something that Vika had said.

“Excuse me.”

It was all Vanora could manage to say before she stumbled away from her dancing partner, leaving him alone in the middle of the floor. Oh well, he would soon find someone else to dance with; Vanora was sure of that. She simply had to get out of the room and get some fresh air, the air in the hall suddenly heavy and stifling, thick like honey in her lungs.

Despite those moments when she seemed to have a secret that only someone beyond her years could have, Vika was young and innocent, and Vanora knew that she didn’t quite understand when men made advances towards women like her. Donal sat beside her sister, his hand almost brushing against hers on the table, his gaze locked on hers. Vika didn’t know what Donal was doing, but Vanora had seen many men do the very same thing, and so she knew better.

She had to go back in and separate them.

After taking a few deep, steadying breaths, Vanora made her way back to the hall, the impossibly tight corset that once seemed like a good idea now restricting her lungs to the point where she feared she would faint. She silently cursed whoever had decided to create corsets in the first place. Still, she plastered a smile on her face, ready to politely yet firmly interrupt whatever conversation Donal was having with Vika.

Yet when she got back to the hall, they were not having a conversation anymore. Instead, Donal was talking to her father, while Vika was talking and laughing with another man.

The sight gave Vanora pause, and she frowned a little to herself. Perhaps she had been quick to judge, and much too quick to become enraged with Donal. She didn’t want to think about what that meant. She didn’t want to admit that there was a possibility—no matter how small—that she still had deep, unavoidable feelings for the man.

What good would that do, after all? She would only end up getting her heart broken once again, and she wasn’t sure whether she could handle that one more time.

Just as she was walking to the Laird’s table, Donal’s eyes met hers, and she watched him stand up and approach her while she was glued on the spot, her feet heavy like lead and refusing to move. She swallowed dryly, trying to get rid of the knot in her throat that made breathing—and even looking at Donal—painful. The closer the man came, the harder her heart beat, until she was certain he could see her veins jump with every stroke of her pulse.

In the dim, incandescent light of the hall, Donal looked even more appealing, the deep shadows under his cheeks making him look severe, but also more handsome than ever.

Once he reached her, he offered Vanora his hand.

“A dance?”

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

Chapter 1

“Get yer dirty hands off of me!”

The red-haired girl snarled fearsomely, holding the sword up high in the direction of the brigands.

She hadn’t heard them coming, their footsteps silent as mice, or maybe the slithers of snakes, as they advanced through the bare winter landscape.

Probably it was the hounding wind, pursuing her since leaving the keep, which had blanched out all warning of their approach.

She should have expected it, she thought. This was bandit country, after all. The girl hitched up her skirts and trudged through the little pocket of trees, but there was no way out. She was trapped.

“Ah, she’s a wee spark this one. I like a lassie wi’ spirit!” said the brigand.

The man’s lean, weather-beaten face contorted in something that looked like pain, but from his bovine grunts, was evidently amusement. In an instant, he wrestled the dagger from the girl’s small hands. It wasn’t hard.

“Aye,” agreed a second man, coming forwards to leer closer at the girl. This one had greasy dirty blond hair that hung around his face. She could not help but flinch as he pressed his unattractive features towards her young face.

He smelled, and badly. The young girl was not used to such rough ways. Despite her bravado, she knew she was out of her depth. They could do anything to her now.

The young girl prayed silently up to the heavens for something, anything, to allow her to get away. Oh, where on earth were Robbie and Brodie—the bodyguards her father had assigned her? How she wished she hadn’t given them the slip.

Her clothes didn’t help either. She stared down at the heavy linen shift and fine tartan plaid—which looked impressive, but was almost impossible to walk in, even without the shoes. But her father had insisted.

“Yer a lady now, so start looking like one!” he said as his daughter pouted angrily. “Ye cannae go about like some serving wench!”

It wasn’t intentional, but his poor turn of phrase had pierced her heart. “Some serving wench”—the words rang through her ears, tauntingly. Without meaning to, her father had immediately invoked the circumstances of her birth.

Her parents had always been straight with her; she was adopted as a baby, —the child of a serving girl who died upon childbirth.

She remembered her mother telling her about her birth, and if she was vague about the details, she was clear about one thing.

“We chose ye, remember, which is more important than anything,” her mother Sine had explained. And she believed them. The girl knew that her parents loved her, but some days, it was too much.

“An’ if we’re strict, it’s for yer own good,” her father Finlay had shouted. “The clanless lands are just tae dangerous for a wee lassie!”

These were the last words her father had yelled at her as she slipped away. She hadn’t really put much thought into where she was going. She just needed to get away from them, from him. Sometimes he smothered her with his love.

And so, she had found herself running in impractical silk boots, out of the keep and across the moors to that forbidden place: the clanless.

Despite its risky status, the small plot of trees in the desolate glen was the best place for miles around to hunt deer, which she could do as skillfully as any man.

Almost as though it was chiding her, a whistle of wind blew across the woodland and straight into her face. It was so hard that it rippled her porcelain skin and sent her long, wavy red hair flying into the air.

An errant cloud scuttled across the noonday sky, bringing with it a sudden shaft of light that fastened upon the young lassie’s face. Even in the grips of panic, she was strikingly pretty, her jade green eyes gleaming out from her white-as-clay complexion. It outlined perfectly her snub nose and rosebud lips, drawing a line under her determined chin.

She didn’t want to hear it, but her father’s voice wafted into her head once more. “Whatever ye do, keep away from the clanless. Anything could happen to ye…ask yer mammie!”

Back in the reign of James VII, her father had rescued her mother, Sine, from vagabonds in almost identical circumstances—in this very spot.

But the girl hadn’t listened. Of course she hadn’t. Headstrong, she had simply tossed back her wavy red hair and bounded away from the claustrophobic keep, into the uncertain sunshine of a wild February day. Now his words replayed in her head, full of reproach.

But she wasn’t done yet! This trio of scoundrels might have the upper hand for now, but she was not going to give up without a fight! The girl was her mother’s daughter in every way, except blood. And if her mother had come out fighting, then so would she!

“I said let me pass,” she commanded imperiously. “I’m the Maid of Craig…once my father hears about this, ye’ll be sorry!”

If she’d hoped this would impress them, then she was to be disappointed.

“A dainty maid, ye say?” sneered the first one. He poked his crooked nose into her face.

She shrank back from his foul breath. He was thin and weathered, and his toothless jaw rendered him slightly pathetic, but his rangy arms were stronger than they looked. As he dug his dirt-stained fingers into her flesh, he leered.

“Aye, yer sweet as summer fruit…” he cackled lasciviously.

“Tak’ yer dirty paws off me! I’m not of age, nor am I chattel for sale!”

“Yer auld enough for what I have in mind,” he chuckled.

She felt herself go hot and cold simultaneously. The dagger that had been in her hands was now pressed deeply into his. Taking it, he ran the smooth contours of its silver handle down his callused digits.

The jewel-encrusted dagger was the only thing she had left of her grandfather, the former Laird of Craig. Her father would be heartbroken if she lost it. She wanted to weep, but it wouldn’t do to show weakness to these cowards.

“Give me that back!” screeched the girl. “I’ll kill ye with my bare hands if I have tae!”

“Easy, lassie!” laughed the dirty man, as his disheveled companions leered yet closer. “Ye dinnae want tae be saying things like that now!”

“She’s a real wildcat, this un’!” sneered the mousy blond one, as he drew nearer, too near. She spat venomously onto his greasy mane.

“You shouldnae ha’ done tha’!” the first one said. He turned his surly face round to hers, giving her a rough shake of the head as he did so.

“You don’t scare me!” she said, but it was a lie. Beneath the bravado, the young girl was trembling. Desperately, she tried to conceal her shaking hands. She hated to admit it, but her father had been right. This place was dangerous. Now she was trapped with no escape from these vagabonds.

Then, something startled them all—“Now scuttle off and find yer spine!” a voice commanded.

Stunned, she looked round to see a wild-looking boy of roughly her age—no more than fifteen—wielding a wide dagger straight at the throat of the main blackguard.

The frightened wretch was almost panting in terror. The lad had him in a headlock, neck taut against the blade. For a moment, the lank-haired bandit looked as if he might fight back. But the boy was too swift. Without seeming to move, he launched a knife into the bandit’s side, and he went down with a terrifying wail. This was more than enough for the third man. He ran off, leaving his friend at the young lad’s mercy.

The girl opened her eyes in amazement at the lad, juggling swords and fighting three men singlehanded. He wasn’t tall, but he was well-built, with ginger hair that tumbled crazily around his shoulders.

She could not help noticing that, although it was cold, he was only wearing a simple léine, overlaid with a raggedy scarf—which on closer inspection, may have been the remnants of a plaid cloak.

And his eyes…. she wasn’t a girl who was easily impressed, but the fire that crackled in his treacle brown eyes instantly ignited her. Whoever this lad was, he had come at just the right time!

“Come on, lassie, let’s gang awa’!” he hissed, suddenly turning to face her and marveling at what he saw.

The girl did not need a second invitation, she lifted up her skirts—which, the boy saw were of the finest quality—and placed a dainty foot forward.

“That’s if ye can run in all that finery!” he mocked. “What on earth made ye come out here on yer own?” he demanded, wrapping his strong, toned hand around hers as they ran. “Did ye lose yer mammie?”

This was more than the young girl could take. She stopped and bristled visibly. “Watch yer mouth, laddie. I’m fourteen tomorra’!”

“They’re getting away!” yelled one of the men. The lad didn’t waste any time looking back, but pulled on her arm to lead her away. She was rooted to the spot.

“Faster, come on!” pleaded the boy. The hot breath of the men was hard on their heels and almost touching the back of their necks.

“I’m trying!” squealed the girl frantically. But she was irredeemably mired in a ditch.

“If ye weren’t done up like the Queen o’ France, then we might not be in this shambles!” he said.

“Shut yer trap!” she hurled back, stubbornly refusing his gestures of help. “I was daein’ just fine without yer help!”

He laughed. “What? Aye, it really looks like it!”

Then he paused for a short while, looking her in the eye—although when she turned to look, he quickly glanced away.

“So, who are ye?” he asked, intrigued.

“I’m Freya, Maid of Craig! And ye’ll be sorry for mocking me!” she said in her stiffest voice. “So, what about ye?” she asked.

The lad was about to open his mouth when the words were taken from him.

“Get her, lads!” the greasy brigand’s voice burst suddenly into their midst. Without hesitation, the boy hoisted the stuck girl out of the muddy ditch, barely looking back. Then he ran as fast as he could with Freya draped over him.

“Put me down! Put me down!” she squealed, but he did not listen. Not until they were both over the ravine and past the little river which ran to the side of the wooded glen and back up the hillside to safety.

“You left my shoe!” Freya screeched. “Put me down…where are ye taking me!”

“I’m not taking ye anywhere!” the lad said, beginning to tire of her noise. “Just away from here…”

“Well, they’ve gone now, so stop!” she commanded.

He looked about him for a minute. The howling wind that had been circling the glen had finally dropped to a whisper, and the robbers had all disappeared. They were there alone; boy and girl, head-to-toe in mud, cast against the squally winter skies.

There was nothing for miles around, just small bramble bushes poking out from the barren lands. But none of it detracted from her beauty. She was such a picture, her bright ginger hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders. Her white petticoats completely submerged in thick layers of mud. The lad couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

“What are ye laughing at?” she flashed angrily.

“You! The state you’re in! Seems to me from the waist up, yer a noble maid, and from below, yer naught but a waif!”

Freya looked down. It was true. Her beautiful gown, the one that Sine had spent such a long time sewing, was completely ruined. She was going to go mad when she saw it. Worse still, she only wore one shoe now, and her feet were almost numb from the cold.

“What madness took hold of ye to come out like that, wee lassie?” he asked mockingly.

It was a good question, and she was asking herself the very same. “It was my father’s idea!” she found herself explaining to the boy.

He cast his mocking brown eyes over her disparagingly. They were large, honey-colored pools framed with dusky lashes that were overlain by a determined set of eyebrows.

And his hair—in the fleeting glints of sunlight that the cloud would permit—would turn from rusty amber to tawny red.

Suddenly, Freya felt a creeping irritation with the way this older boy was laughing at her. Impetuously she leaned down, scooped up a clod of wet earth, and aimed it squarely at the lad’s lugholes.

“There!” she steamed, triumphant, as he looked up in disbelief. “See how ye like being pelted with muck, if ye think it’s so funny!”

“Hey!” complained the lad, brushing the wet dirt from his shabby plaid. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t already wet and dirty enough.

“There’s more where that came from!” promised the fiery maid, reaching to pick up another handful. A sudden voice intercepted their play.

“Freya! What on earth are ye playin’ at—look at the state of ye!”

Both the girl and boy were rooted to the spot in surprise as the slender, but muscular, frame of Finlay came into view.

Only in his forties, Finlay cut a noble figure against the dark gray skies.
Not tall, but commanding somehow. He was known to be gentle and fair with his servants. However, Freya brought out his fiery streak.

“That is enough tomfoolery. Gather yer shawls and come with me. Robbie is bringing a cart…” her father said, displeased.

“That turncoat!” spat Freya, disgusted. She knew it was unfair. It was Robbie and Brodie’s job to follow her everywhere, but they could have come for her themselves. They didn’t have to summon her father. “Wait till I see that tattle-tale!” she blazed.

Maybe it was the spark in the girl’s nature, but as Finlay delivered his rebuke to Freya where they stood on the edge of the clanless territory, his eyes clouded momentarily with regret.

“I only wish ye could be trusted not tae scarper; then ye wouldn’t need guarding!” He paused, looking irritated. “What happened tae Robbie and Brodie? I might ay’ kenned ye’d get the better of them!”

It was true—Freya was too quick for the two hulks her father had appointed to guard her. Sometimes Freya wondered why on earth Finlay had chosen them to guard her. They were kind enough, but not exactly over-blessed in the brains department. And right now, judging by the look in his eyes, her father was wondering this too.

Freya screwed her eyes up and tried not to laugh at the memory of her father asking Sine one day if Freya had a crush on Robbie. Hiding behind the door, she had to contain her mirth.

Her mother cried out in amusement; “Dear Finlay, ye dinnae ken our lassie very well!” she had said, wiping away tears of laughter. “Robbie’s a nice lad, but he’s far too dimwitted for a bright spark like our Freya!”

And now, true to form, the spark inside Freya blazed with rage as she confronted her father defiantly. She was like the greatest flame in a fire, always burning—so like her mother in every way except for blood.

Finlay was about to take his daughter and get away from there, when for the first time, he noticed the boy.

To begin with, he hadn’t even seen him; he had been so still, almost camouflaged against the muddy landscape. Startled, Finlay reached into his leather pouch for his dagger.

“An’ who are ye, lad, an’ what are ye doin’ with my daughter…?” Finlay demanded of the strange boy. There was a tense moment as the boy came eye-to-eye with Finlay, silent in the muddied glen.

The poor lad was taken completely by surprise and said nothing—possibly terrified, maybe still working out a reply.

“Come on—tell me, who are ye!”

“That’s my son…” rang out a woman’s voice, making everyone look. “The rightful Laird of Craig!”

Chapter 2

The woman’s eyes flashed angrily against the stormy skies. She had appeared from out of the mountainous crags and now stood there, her dark hair billowing everywhere.

Both Freya and her father shared a look of confusion. In his differently-colored eyes, the telltale signs of annoyance were starting.

The only person who seemed to recognize the woman was the lad. He dropped his eyes to the ground in what looked like embarrassment.

“What did ye say?” shouted Finlay across the windswept vista. All around them were the bare shoulders of the wintery mountainside, still months away from the gentle greening of spring. As if to affirm the seasonal froideur, a sudden arctic blast launched an arsenal of hailstones. All four ducked for cover. The weather might have been doing its best to send them away, but it did not weaken Finlay’s resolve.

“Freya, are ye alright? If he’s done anything tae ye…?” started Finlay with suspicion.

“I’m fine, Father. Better still if ye’d have just let me on my own!” flashed Freya. She too was getting a good lashing of the snow and ice raging through the glen. Her answer did not satisfy Finlay one single bit.

“An’ ye, lad. Who are ye? Come on!” he snarled at the lad, who had still not spoken.

“He’s the rightful Laird of Craig,” spat the woman venomously. “Are ye deaf, as well as a murderer?”

Freya could see her father’s confusion was gradually giving way to anger. He was not the only one; the boy, too, looked perturbed.

“Mother,” he mumbled with displeasure.

The woman stayed in front of them, radiating anger. She was about the right age to be his mother, Freya supposed. But unlike her son, she was dark in complexion, with thick black hair raging around her ears.

She guessed she was about the same age as her mother, but she hadn’t aged as well. Her skin was as craggy as the landscape surrounding them, almost every inch of it furrowed and lined. Despite this, her stark and piercing blue eyes were still every bit as clear and cool as ever they had been.

Freya watched her father closely. His expression changed rapidly; “Nora…!” he said, giving a gasp that might have been recognition, but betokened rapid onset of apoplexy.

“Finlay,” said the woman, her pale eyes appraising him coolly. “I kent ye straight away…”

Finlay trained his eyes on Nora’s face. It didn’t seem as if he had recognized her straight away, but as he stared at the woman’s eyes, a look of realization passed through him. Nora’s eyes were just as blue as all those years ago, even if the flesh around them had withered.

“An’ the lad…?” asked Finlay, turning to the boy. He had been standing alone, by the prickly gorse bush that defined the mud lands.

“Wallace? He’s Seoras’s son. You know, yer uncle. The one ye killed…” she flashed him a look of utter hate. The wind took her words and thrust them into the air.

Freya and Wallace shared a glance. This was the first time she had heard his name.

Freya looked confused. Finlay had told her the history of Seoras and the clan well enough, but until that point, no-one knew of the existence of a son.

Following his daughter’s lead, Finlay stared in astonishment.

“I didnae think ye were married?” he questioned, curiously.

“I wasnae,” replied Nora through thin lips. There was a brief, embarrassed silence as the wind raced around the four of them again.

Finlay coughed. “But…ah… I don’t remember ye being with child…,” he said, screwing up his face in recollection. He looked as if he was casting his mind back to the night of their final battle, over fifteen years earlier.

“Aye, I hid it well,” replied Nora, glaring at him with her intense blue eyes. Freya watched as her father disengaged from her gaze and tried another tack.

“And this is where ye live?” asked Finlay, as if he could not believe it. He cast his eye about the barren lands dubiously.

Nora simply nodded and pointed to a line of crude-looking blackhouses, which Freya had not noticed, set into a dip of the horizon. If she strained her eyes hard enough, she could just make out a tiny crack of smoke arising from one of them.

Freya did not know much about construction, but even from here they looked rough and unkempt. And as Freya looked more closely at the woman, she saw her simple white plaid was muddied and torn. It was fastened about her shoulders in a rough knot, devoid of any pin. Her petticoats were in such a state that Freya had to avert her eyes. Nora watched the girl’s reaction to her with open hostility, envy burning in her eyes.

“We live in muck and shame,” she practically spat. “Down to ye. When ye exiled us, where did ye expect us tae go—a palace?”

Finlay raised his eyes and looked around at the blackhouses that lined the horizon. “Yer on clan lands. Ye are trespassing, madam!”

Nora cursed, sending a ball of spit racing in their direction. The dislike on her face was palpable. Instinctively, Freya moved closer to her father. Finlay placed a protective arm on her shoulder as the two of them closed ranks.

“Just who are ye, turning up like Lord and Lady Muck? If ye dinnae like it, boil yer head!”

An uneasy silence descended upon the party, in which not even the wind dared to breathe. Freya eyed her father watchfully. Normally, she wouldn’t think twice of jumping in and putting the woman in her place—but there was something stopping her. She looked deeply into Finlay’s face, but it was hard to read him or to know how he might react.

Freya stared at the boy, the outline of her father’s features echoing in Wallace’s own. It was so obvious; how could she not have seen it before?

Nora walked over to her son. From the expression on her face, it looked as though she had a few choice words for him, but for now, she simply stood there in defiance.

Finlay had had enough. On the horizon, a rickety cart wound unsteadily through the mud. Robbie and Brodie were coming, and they had back up. At this sight, Nora’s expression changed perceptibly.

“Now see that and hear good,” Finlay said, leaning towards Nora and her son. He dropped his voice and narrowed his eyes against the wind.

“Tak’ this bairn, yer bastard, and get right awa’ from our lands. Or ye’ll be the worse for it…” And with that, he ushered Freya away into the waiting cart.

It was a miserable, sodden journey through the wetlands. An entire hour passed without word between Finlay and his daughter. Every time he tried to look at her to start a conversation, she turned her perfectly proportioned face away from him, pouting. They drove on in total silence until reaching lands that surrounded the keep.

As soon as the cart came to a halt, Freya leaped up and away. Before anyone could so much as blink, she scaddled down across the rough pathway leading up to the keep and inside.

Finlay chased her into the house. “Freya!” Finlay called desperately after his daughter.

“Give her time,” said Sine softly.

Their daughter stomped up the draughty hallway and upstairs to her room, bringing with her an arctic blast that swept across the entire hall. “Aye, but…Freya!” he yelled. The door slammed dramatically.

His wife’s eyebrows arched in well-practiced acceptance. “Finlay, she’ll come down when she’s ready. Remember what I was like at that age!”

“Aye, yer right, of course,” said Finlay, going to embrace his wife.

The passing years had done nothing to diminish the strength of their feelings for each other. Sine was still every bit the girl that he had married—even now, more than twenty years on. Finlay pulled her willowy waist towards him, and for a moment, lost himself in caressing her long, jet-black hair.

“Nae one gray!” he murmured in admiration as the pair locked into an embrace. For once, the servants were doing something else, and they had the place to themselves. “Come here, ye wee strumpet!”

Finlay pulled his wife over to the chair by the fire, kissing her furiously. So consumed with passion were they that they didn’t hear the door opening, or the faint footsteps coming towards them.

“Well, you had me thinking I’d be given an upbraiding, but I reckon now the shoe is on the other foot!”

Finlay turned around quickly to see his daughter standing there, her previously petulant mood washed away. Instead, she was wearing a wicked grin that illuminated her features from ear to ear.

There was a pause while Sine grabbed frantically for her plaid, pulling it on speedily. Finlay’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

“The look on yer face, Father!” cackled Freya. Sine tidied her hair and tried to sit up.

It seemed as if Freya’s spirits were once more restored. Since there was no telling when her mercurial temper would strike again, Finlay nodded to his wife to leave father and daughter alone whilst all was well. Checking herself, Sine left the room, touching Freya’s shoulders as she went.

Recovering his composure and checking that his plaid and sporran were correctly in place, Finlay decided that there was no time like the present, and dived in headfirst.

“Freya—listen, lass,” he began. “Ye cannae just run off into the clanless lands like that. It’s nae safe for a wee lass on her own…”

“But I wasnae on my own, Father. There was Wallace…,” replied Freya, not missing a beat. Ever since meeting the lad, she had found herself thinking about him in a way she wasn’t used to. He was only a year or two older than her, but somehow, seemed so grown up.

“Aye, the wee laddie. Yer tae keep away from him—and his ma. Dae ye hear?”

“But Father,” protested Freya. “What for? He helped me out!”

Freya would never have admitted it, but she had actually been rather impressed by the way Wallace had singlehandedly seen off a trio of bandits. But to her frustration, her father would not hear a word of it.

“Hush,” he said, placing a finger to his daughter’s lips. “Listen well, Freya. There’s a good reason why ye need to take heed and avoid the clanless. They’re our sworn foe! Ye dinnae ken the half of it. Just believe me when I tell ye to stay away. For all of oor sakes!”

“But…” began Freya, but she could see her father was not to be moved. Sullenly, she dropped her eyes. “Alright,” she said softly.

“Good lass,” said Finlay. He could tell she was disappointed, but he could only hope that his daughter would trust him enough to do as he asked.

There was a pause. The fire snapped, momentarily pulling their eyes to it. As she brought her clear jade eyes over to see, Finlay caught the sheen of tears in them.

“What is it, Freya?” he asked softly.

Freya just shook her head but looked forward. “You called him a bastard…” she said. Instead of sounding accusing, her voice was simply troubled.

“Aye,” said Finlay, not quite understanding where this was leading.

“Is that what I am, too?” Freya said in a barely perceptible voice. She cast her worried eyes towards her father. “A bastard? Because I’m nae yer rightful daughter?”

It took a moment or two for the shock to register on Finlay’s face. He was simply stunned. When he did manage to recover himself, he spoke quietly.

“My God, Freya, I dinnae ever want tae hear ye say those words ever again!” said Finlay, aghast. “Whatever could have made ye think that!”

Freya did not have to say anything; the unspoken facts of her birth hovered in the air between them.

“Come here, hen,” said Finlay, opening his arms to his daughter. “Yer mine and yer mammie’s, and let that be an end to it. One day ye will find a man worthy of ye. But until that day, ye’ll just have to trust yer auld da!”

As the flames leaped and jumped in the homely hearth place, Freya allowed herself to be comforted by her father.

“I do, Father, an’ I’ll mak’ ye both proud!” she announced, her eyes shining.

“You already do!” said Finlay, taking her in his arms.

Meanwhile, a few short miles away across the land, another pair of young eyes were staring into the fire, where it smoked in the center of the barren room.

Wallace and his mother were seated together in front of a meager fire. But this room was not welcoming and warm like the laird’s keep. Here, the cold wind danced around. Its icy tentacles clinging to each miserable corner.

“Dinnae ever forget what he has taken from us—from ye!” his mother hissed. Ostensibly, she was mending stays by the light of the fire. In reality, there wasn’t enough light to see by, and she had run out of twine. Worse still, there was nothing to eat in the house tonight. Neither situation had improved her mood much.

Wallace shivered as he rearranged his position on the floor beneath the makeshift fire. There wasn’t enough firewood to keep it going, and even the peat they usually shoveled in was drying up. The best that could be hoped for was to poke the feeble pyre and cajole it back into some sort of life.

It was cold; freezing, in fact. Wallace rubbed his limbs and pulled the grubby blanket over his aching extremities. But it wasn’t the cold that bothered him.

“All this is down to that bawbag, Finlay!” seethed Nora. Her anger could have warmed half the village.

Everything about the small dwelling was squalid and makeshift. There was no chair, just a bed—of sorts—at the far corner. There was only one room, also home to various livestock depending on the season, and it smelled like it, too. Nora cast an eye despairingly around the ramshackle room and cursed aloud.

But her son was not moved by her words. Instead, he lifted his head contemplatively. “He didnae look like a monster…,” said Wallace thoughtfully, tending to the fire. It was in its death throes, kicking out more smoke than heat, making him cough drily.

“What? Well, he is. He killed his own uncle; never forget it. He slayed yer father and took it all away. And now that lassie—who’s nae even his—will tak’ yer place! Well, I’m nae gonnae let him!” ranted Nora.

Wallace rolled his eyes. He had heard it all before. For years, his mother had regaled him with tales of the laird’s wickedness. He had been raised on her bile, and like her, had grown to detest both Finlay and his daughter.

Meeting them for the first time had been something of a shock. Neither of them were what he had expected, but the lassie especially had captured his imagination. Despite all his mother’s efforts, he could not bring himself to hate this wee girl.

“What if I see her again?” asked Wallace softly. He was less given to the extremes of mood that his mother suffered from. He had been surprised to feel an affinity with this young girl—so clearly in possession of her own mind, even at such a tender age. “Would it really be so awful?” he asked innocently.

Nora’s eyes sparked, with irritation. For a moment, she scowled at her son. Then a slow smile spread across her twisted face.

“Awful?” she asked thoughtfully, looking into Wallace’s youthful eyes.

As she looked at him, Nora’s mind went whirring into action. So, her son had struck up an unlikely friendship with the girl? Maybe this was something worthy of consideration after all.

“Nae, it wouldnae be awful at all…” began Nora tentatively. She knew him too well to push the subject further. Instead, she simply sowed the seeds and then sat back to wait for them to take hold.

It wouldn’t be long, she knew, before the girl came back. When she did, she could be very useful indeed. But it wouldn’t do to tell Wallace all this, not yet. The less he knew, the more easily he could be used.

“So, ye dinnae mind then?” asked Wallace, puppy-like with excitement.

Nora smoothed down her instinctive desire to respond with a jibe and instead said, “Nae, son, I dinnae mind at all!”

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