Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re all like that. Barbarians.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

Devlin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who is the message from?”

“Lady… her name is Niamh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You!”

“Ye’re Grace Lancaster?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is she hurt? Ill? Captive?”

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

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

Ewan huffed. “Why would I dae that?”

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

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

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

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

“What message?”

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

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

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

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

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

“’Tis truth, all o’ it.”

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

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

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

“Niamh never knew her mother.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me what happened, please?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then…”

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

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