Prologue

Scottish Highlands, June 1431

Joan of Arc was dead. The English had burned her thrice over and raked the ash with spears to make a bold showing that she had not survived, and so that nobody could claim she had escaped by the grace of God, and thus preserve her mythos. After it was done, they dumped her ashes in the Seine, so that her bones could not be made into relics. Millions mourned her. Thousands took up arms in her name, and hundreds died for it, again, and again, and again.

And so, the wars of the continent raged on. England and France, Burgundy and Castille, the Emirates of Iberia, and the patchwork of German duchies that some called the Holy Roman Empire tore themselves and each other into pieces, put themselves back together, and then went at it again.

A constantly shifting patchwork of alliances kept the losers propped up, and held the winners back, and so what history would come to define as the Hundred Years’ War continued to grind down the populations of these nations, consuming their resources and their patriotism, disrupting their economies, devastating their farmlands, and violently paving the historical path toward the Age of Enlightenment.

Scotland had never been a world leader, never a top contender or a main combatant, but she was fierce, proud, and not a hundred years before, she had won her independence through brute force, strong leadership, and the sheer willpower of her people. Now, she endured a new era, one of finding her place in the scheme of global politics, governing her people without incurring the title of tyranny, and defending her hard-won borders.

At the center of the continental wars were the battles betwixt England and France, or more appropriately, the battles between the House of Lancaster, and the House of Valois, respectfully. Everyone around them was swept up in the colossal conflict, and Scotland was no different, and it was no surprise that she sided with the House of Valois, eager to keep England in a diminished state.

Scottish mercenaries sailed to France and found among that war-torn world steady work and a mutual hatred for the English. They swung their swords and thrust their pikes among the backdrop of burning churches, ruined villages, and boggy battlefields; and many fell.

It was that support for the French that saw a rise of English raids across the border into the Lowlands, and then in turn, Scottish raids into Northumbria. And so, while the nation of Scotland was not at war, the people of Scotland were. Mercenaries returned home with wounds inside and out, and young men rode the border with spears and swords in hand, dealing out death and meeting it with regularity.

It was a dark time, and a sad world, full of strife and suffering, violence and cruelty, but amidst all the doom and gloom brought on by royal ambition, there were still sparks of happiness. They were hidden away in the vast Highlands, untouched by the conflicts of the continent, spared from the roaming bands of soldiers and their veracious appetite for villagers’ cattle and grain.

One of these places was a particularly bright spark of late, for they were preparing festivities, and all the residents were elated. It had been some time since they last gathered in good cheer, and the premise of a party was exhilarating, especially with news from France drifting in piecemeal, darkening moods and dampening spirits, and so to bustle about, moving hogs and working looms with the thought of celebration driving them, the spark burned even brighter.

It was that bustle and hum of happy energy that the warrior looked down upon as he crested the last rise, his ragged highland hair whipping around in the rough wind, his brow furrowed as he squinted through the wind and the bouncing pale light. There were a few scattered scars across his cheeks, caused by the shattering of arrows on plate armor and the shrapnel of the shafts flying up in the fray of battle. His eyes were resting hawks, ready to fly from their perches at the drop of a pin.

He wore a fine tunic embroidered with a fleur-de-lis, which would have marked him out as a Frenchman were it not for his brooding Scottish smile, his flowing red hair, and his broad, solid build that was synonymous with Highlanders. His horse held a great sword on one side of the saddle, and a shield on the other side, battered and brutalized from combat, but he had no baggage train.

There was no wagon to carry crates of armor, or spoils of war. There was no escort, no entourage of compatriots that had stood beside him in the battle lines, and absolutely no grandeur to his return, but that was the way he had intended it. There was no need to make a splash. All he wanted to do was to return home and see his brother married.

He spurred his horse down the dirt track toward the village, and the keep standing above it, a fine, six-story tower with a small wall encompassing the base. He had seen many castles throughout Europe, and even England, that would put the small keep to shame, turn it into a symbol of backwater towns, an irrelevant place for an irrelevant Laird. But to the warrior, it brought only a bright smile, for he was almost home, and home was all he had wanted for a long time.

As he approached the village, he began to draw a few eyes, and then a few more, and soon enough there was a small throng of people in the main thoroughfare, bringing down their hoods and hats as they murmured to each other about his identity. Some recognized him immediately, others doubted it, his appearance undeniably changed by his violent travels, and so they bickered in hushed tones as his horse strolled into the center of them.

The warrior took note of an older woman, who had a black armband fastened upon her clothes, and a smaller child clutching close to one of her legs. The Scottish wind picked up once more as he drew to a halt, whipping the woman’s hood back up against her hair, and the crowd fell silent as he looked to her from horseback.

“For whom d’ye mourn?” the warrior asked, his eyes dark and piercing above his scarred cheeks.

“For me son,” she replied, and then lifting her chin with a bit of pride, she added, “and the lady Joan,” making a cross as she spoke. “God rest her soul.”

“God save ye,” the warrior replied, his voice solemn and his eyes suddenly sad. He reached into his coin purse, fastened close beneath his riding cloak, and fished forth a roughhewn coin of the French crown. He leaned down and handed her the coin, a hefty piece of metal that was worth more than what she could earn in a week at the looms.

“Bless ye, Laird,” the woman said, bowing her head low.

“It is him,” a villager muttered loud enough for the warrior to hear. “He’s back!”

“Bless ye for yer suffering,” he said beneath his breath as he sat upright once more in the saddle.

“The Laird’s brother has returned!” went up the cry, and many of the village folk began rejoicing, hugging one another, and waving their hands in the air in cheer.

“Welcome home,” the woman said, and he saw her son’s reflection in her eyes, another Scotsman who would take the low road back home, who fell in a foreign land for a fight not his own.

The warrior lifted his chin, looking ahead to the keep as the crowd cheered alongside him. There were banners waving in the strong breeze, but not from the wall. The stables were crowded. Guests had come for the wedding. No doubt there would be plenty of neighboring Lairds, little in their power but great in their expectation for hospitality. The keep would be packed, and the hall would be bustling.

“What did ye expect?” the warrior asked his horse, aptly named Gaisgeachd, for the bravery he’d showed in battle. “We knew it was a wedding.”

Man and horse advanced through the town, slowly leaving the host of happy villagers in their wake. The road to the keep was low and winding, sloping up from the market and the huts below to the small hill it sat atop. It would never stand up to any kind of siege weapon, that was not what it was truly for. It was more a symbol of stature, a sign for all the village folk to look up and say, “Och, that is the man that leads us.”

It had seen better days, the warrior noticed upon the approach. There were a few birds’ nests tucked about the stonework, and the remnants of last night’s rain clung in clumsy puddles all around the low wall. There were a few guards at the gate, leaning up against the support beams of the gatehouse, and they shuffled to attention as he approached, straightening themselves as much as possible and trying to quickly appear formidable.

“Halt there!” one of them barked, stepping forward, holding up his spear.

“I am here for the wedding,” the warrior said, pulling his horse to a halt at the gate.

“Well, sure ye are,” the guard snarled. “And who might ye be then?”

The second guard realized the answer to the question before the warrior answered, and his face went pale, instantly regretting his leader’s gruffness. He shuffled up behind the lead guard and whispered something into his ear, who also paled.

“M’Laird,” he said, lowering his weapon. “Forgive me, I dinnae recognize ye.”

“Ye are forgiven,” the warrior said with a smile. It had been a long time, after all.

“Open the gate!” they hollered up, and shortly the steel bars rose with a great groan, and the wooden doors behind it were unbarred and let open.

The warrior rode into the yard and drank deep the smell of the hilltop breeze that ran around the length of the outer wall, watching the bustle of the keep unfolding around him. There were plenty of villagers running about, rolling barrels, and hauling tarps, hitching ropes, and tamping dirt.

It wasn’t hard to spot the Laird himself, standing up on a small crate, directing the movement of a large wooden table and the erecting of the pavilion. He was a large man, no longer as tough in the middle as he used to be but he wasn’t fat by any sense of the word.

His hair was tied back neatly and fell in two long sections over each of his shoulders, complementing his freshly groomed beard and his fine clothes. His tunic was accentuated by the way he puffed out his chest and held up his hands, waving the villagers about as they strained beneath the great wooden table, trying to set it just right beneath the pavilion.

“Just there!” he bellowed. “No, come on, a little tae the left! Come on now!”

“Och, leave it, Watt!” the warrior bellowed, dismounting near the gate, and advancing on foot toward the Laird. “It looks just fine!”

The Laird stopped, frozen by the warrior’s voice. He turned slowly, his hands still raised up, and a look of giddy excitement quickly taking over his face. He stopped when he locked eyes with the advancing warrior, his eagerness quickly breaking out into a wild smile.

“I dinnae believe it,” the Laird said, his smile now as big as it could be. “Me brother Bryce! Back from France! Come here, ye blaigeard!”

Watt jumped down from the crate and bounded the rest of the distance to Bryce, taking fast hold of his shoulders, and staring deeply into his eyes as he held him there in the yard.

“I am glad tae see ye, Bryce,” Watt said softly, his grip relaxing a little bit.

“Did ye think I would miss yer wedding?” Bryce asked in a teasing tone, his own smile beginning to take hold. There was a small cluster of peasants gathering around the reunion, looking upon the Laird’s long-lost brother, smiling and patting one another on the back at the warm moment.

“I dinnae ken if I would ever see ye again,” Watt said, squeezing Bryce’s shoulders once more before finally letting go. “When I heard of the Lady Joan, I feared the worse.”

“Well, here I am,” Bryce said. “Ye’ve certainly got this place in a tizzy, have ye nae?”

“Och well,” Watt said with a casual shrug. “A spectacle is good for morale.”

“Aye,” Bryce chuckled. “In that, ye may be right.”

“Come! Come inside!” Watt said, throwing his arm around Bryce’s shoulder. “D’ye have nae trunks? Let’s get ye sorted.”

“It is just me and meself,” Bryce answered, pacing alongside his brother toward the keep. He looked back to see that Gaisgeachd was taken care of.

“What o’ yer armor?” Watt asked, raising an eyebrow. “Yer clothes?”

“I sold everything,” Bryce replied. “Save me sword.”

“Always the odd one, were ye nae?” Watt asked. “How was the voyage?”

“Rough seas up the coast,” Bryce replied, now walking in stride with his brother. “But a fine ride from there.”

“The rain never did bother ye,” Watt said as they approached the keep’s door.

“It’s just rain, is it nae?” Bryce shot back, and they crossed the threshold into the keep.

“Ye will be a light at the feast,” Watt went on, leading his brother up the stairs. “Everyone will want tae hear of France.”

“Then everyone will be disappointed,” Bryce said. “I have nae wish tae speak on it.”

“Bah, ye’ll come around,” Watt said with a laugh. Bryce frowned as he took another step. He did not think he would come around. There were things he had seen, things he had done, and other things he had endured, that never needed to come into conversation again. At least, that was the way he felt about it. France had been a nightmare from which he had only just clawed his way out, and he hastened to leave it behind. There had been more than one reason for his return. “Everyone loves a war hero.”

“I’m nae a hero,” Bryce mumbled, coming to a halt behind his brother on the second landing. His mind flashed briefly back to the fields of France, and he could almost smell the thatch rooftops catching fire, almost hear the wailing of the horses and the clambering of men. He did not feel like a hero. Instead, he felt as if he needed to wash. But he had tried that. Many times.

“Ye remember the McAdams lass?” Watt asked, turning to face him on the landing.

“Little Lorna?” Bryce replied, smirking as a few scattered memories floated through his mind. “What about her?”

“Nae so little anymore,” Watt said, rolling his eyes. “She’s here, along with all the other local notables.”

“D’ye have enough ale?” Bryce asked.

“Time will tell,” Watt replied and then paused. Wincing, he said, “She still loves me, I think.”

“Poor ye,” Bryce laughed, clapping his brother on the back. It was good to speak of light things. Happy things.

“Will ye do something for me?” Watt asked, his face growing serious for just a moment in his whirlwind of festivity.

“What?”

“Keep her company tonight,” Watt said. “If me bride sees her fawning, it may get me in trouble, and I dinnae need that on me wedding night.”

“Yer serious?” Bryce asked, surprised. He had never known his brother to take such things into consideration.

“Aye, I’m serious,” Watt said with a nod. “Will ye do that fer me?”

“Of course,” Bryce said with a foolish grin. It was touching to see his brother so concerned with his bride to be, and to be so aware of the small social scene. Time had indeed changed.

“Good man,” Watt said, clapping his hands. Then he began leading Bryce down the corridor off the second landing. “Yer chambers are untouched, I hope ye can make yerself right at home again.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard,” Bryce replied.

“Right then,” Watt said, and they drew to a halt in front of Bryce’s door. “I shall see ye tonight.”

“And I ye,” Bryce said. They shared a quiet moment in front of the door, and Watt clapped Bryce once more on the shoulder.

“It is good tae have ye home,” he said at last, and then went off into the keep.

Bryce stood alone in the corridor for a moment, looking at the door to his chambers. It looked the same as it ever had. He pushed it open tentatively, looking into the small room. There was a bed, a table, a water basin, and a hanging dish of coals for light and warmth. The hearth was wide, and a fire was already crackling inside. It was exactly as he had left it. It stood like a time capsule, a memory of a long-lost time, a time before all the chaos of the continent.

It was a comfort, and it was haunting. Even riding through the village, he had seen that nothing had changed, and now standing in his chambers, the feeling was driven home with a heavy thump. It was still and quiet, like a tomb of his old life.

Bryce walked slowly to the window and opened the shutters. He looked down upon the yard, and slowly lifted his eyes up to the wall, and then out to the villages, and ultimately the Highlands beyond. For better or for worse, he was home.

Chapter 1

Lorna McAdams paced fervently in the guest chamber that she and her friend occupied, wringing her hands, and picking at the ends of her flowing blonde hair. She was of medium height, with a short button nose that complemented her brown eyes and elegant frame. But she could not sit still for even a moment. There was too much at stake.

“Will ye stop toying with yer hair?” her friend and lady’s maid, Kyla, asked, sitting up a bit in her chair. “I’ve only just got it sorted!”

“Och how can I, Kyla?” Lorna fussed, walking over to the water basin and splashing a little bit of the cool liquid on her face. “It’s all just happening so fast! I donnae ken what tae make of it!”

“Donnae make anything of it,” Kyla scoffed. Kyla was smaller than Lorna, with red hair and freckles, and an adoring, sly smile. “Why do ye always have tae fuss?”

“Fuss?” Lorna scoffed. “How can I nae? He’s getting married in a matter of hours! Just look at him down there!” Lorna returned to the window, glancing down, watching Watt pointing around, guiding the peasants carrying a large wooden table.

“He certainly looks the part,” Kyla remarked, walking up beside Lorna at the window. “What a fine tunic,” she teased.

“Yer nae helping anything,” Lorna said bitterly, her hands coming back together in frustration.

“And neither are ye!” Kyla shot back. “We’re going tae the wedding, and ye’re going tae enjoy yerself!”

“Och come off it,” Lorna said, her eyes lingering on Watt down in the yard. She had loved him for years, wrapped up in his charisma and kind eyes, and now she had to watch him be married. She had confessed her love to him once, but he had rebuffed her, and she had carried that around for several years.

“I am going down tae talk with him,” Lorna said, biting her lower lip.

“Ye are nae,” Kyla replied, casting a tough look her way. “Ye need tae be realistic.”

“Realistic?” Lorna laughed. “What is realistic, is that after he is married, he will never speak tae me again!”

“Ye are being childish,” Kyla said in a higher, taunting tone. “This love ye hold for him is nae real love.”

Lorna ignored that. Kyla didn’t understand anything about how she felt about Watt. She never had. “I have tae talk with him. One last time,” Lorna insisted. “It is the only way!”

“Way for what?” Kyla asked. “Ye will never be married tae him, ye need tae let it go! Turn yer eyes tae someone else, someone who cares for ye. Yer parents would want that!”

“Cares for me?” Lorna laughed. “And who in the next hundred miles does that? Besides him there.” They both turned back to the window and watched Watt for a moment more as he stood up on a crate to better direct the wedding preparations.

“He is handsome, though, is he nae?” Kyla murmured, and they both watched for a while longer, Lorna still wringing her hands together. Then their eyes were caught by a lone rider entering the yard, strong and stoic. He dismounted and approached Watt, and the two embraced, the rider’s hood falling down to his back, and both of the women took a breath.

“My God,” Kyla whispered. “He’s back.”

They both watched silently as Bryce and Watt conversed briefly and then began to walk towards the keep.

“Little Bryce MacDowell,” Kyla said as they passed out of view and entered the keep. “He certainly has grown.”

“He has been gone for years,” Lorna said.

“I heard he fought with Joan of Arc at Orleans,” Kyla went on.

“One hears all kinds of things,” Lorna said bitterly, her cheeks turning a bit red.

“What’s the matter?” Kyla asked. “Ye’re not happy he’s back?”

“He was never kind tae me,” Lorna said, trying to stop blushing.

Why did he have tae come, today of all days?

“Times change,” Kyla mused, looking Lorna up and down. “Perhaps his time abroad has made him something new.” Kyla had no clue how correct she was, and no framework to conceptualize the depths of his transformation. They lingered on the thought of Bryce for a time, until Lorna’s mind quickly turned back to Watt, and she felt the urgency of his wedding once more.

“I have tae speak with him,” she said again, trying to refocus her efforts. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it, or else the moment would pass forever, and he would forever be out of reach.

“Lorna!” Kyla said, reaching out to grab her arm. “Ye will nae!”

“I will!” Lorna said, pulling away. If Lorna was one thing, it was determined. When she decided to do something, she did it, no matter what was in her way.

“Lorna!” Kyla tried again to call out, but Lorna was through the door, hustling toward the stairs with her skirts held up to avoid tripping.

She went down the corridor, passing the fading tapestries that hung over the tight brickwork, and reached the third landing. Then she stopped. She didn’t know if Watt’s room was up or down, but him being the Laird, she decided it was unlikely he would have to walk up so many stairs every day, so she went down to the second landing, where more chambers could be found. But she wasn’t even sure he would be there yet. Surely, he would be speaking with his long-lost brother after such a time. She turned back and ran down the lower corridor. One of the doors opened to her right, and she collided unceremoniously with the person exiting.

“Oh!” Lorna exclaimed, stumbling backward, and catching herself against the corridor wall, feeling a strong hand on her waist keeping her from falling. “Pardon me, I-,” and as she looked up at the individual, she froze.

Bryce stood there in the doorway, looking solemn but a little surprised, and as they locked eyes, his face curled into a gentle smile. She could feel his hand still holding her side, and she gripped his thick wrist and swiftly pushed it away. He seemed to find it amusing, to judge by the smirk on his face.

“Lorna McAdam,” he said smoothly, looking her up and down, and Lorna found herself blushing once more, caught off guard by both the collision, and the appearance of her childhood acquaintance.

“I saw ye ride in,” she said, straightening up and brushing her gown straight with a quick movement of her hand. “Welcome home.”

“Thank ye,” he said, stepping into the hallway and slowly shutting the chamber door behind him. He seemed taller and bigger than when she’d seen him last. Hardened in muscle and in other ways by the glint in his eye. They stood silently for a pause, trying to sort out what to say each other. Bryce cleared his throat and shuffled his feet a little as he squared himself in the hallway.

“Ye’re all grown up,” he said awkwardly. Clearly his time away had not made him more socially adept.

“As are ye,” Lorna said, and still the awkwardness dragged on. “It’s been a long time.”

“Six years,” Bryce said, loosening his posture just a little.

“I heard ye fought with Joan of Arc,” Lorna said, remembering that Kyla had mentioned it earlier, and at a total loss for what else to say; but as she said it, she saw his face darken, and he seemed to withdraw into his own mind.

“Well then,” he said, shaking his head a bit. “Where were ye off tae in such a hurry?”

Lorna hesitated. He was not the boy that had left, now he was a tall, strong, mysterious, and the encounter had completely thrown her from her mission of intercepting Watt before the wedding. She felt a bit foolish and found she could not tell Bryce the truth. What ever would he think of her?

Then she thought of all the horrible pranks he had played on her when they were children being raised together and questioned why she even cared about what he thought.

He is the last person whose opinion I should care about!

“Nowhere in particular,” she said, deciding on a change of course, lifting her chin just a little bit higher, but it did nothing to compete with his brawny height and wide shoulders.

“Just hurrying along, eh?” he asked, slowly letting his smile creep back onto his face which made him look a little devilish.

“I suppose,” she answered, looking for a reason to leave, feeling the awkward moment compounding into an uncomfortable situation.

“Ye ken,” Bryce said, leaning up against the wall while he shifted his feet a bit. He crossed his arms, and Lorna’s eyes flicked over the width of his chest before returning to his face. “Me brother asked me tae keep ye company tonight.”

“He did what?” Lorna asked, suddenly intrigued once more and slightly embarrassed to be the center of Bryce’s attention, or Watt’s, for that matter.

“He said ye were still in love with him,” Bryce went on, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, as if he found all of this slightly funny. “Is that true?”

“What?” she asked, blinking in surprise. She felt herself blushing again, and she squirmed against the wall, trying to edge back toward the stairwell. “No, that is nae true. How could that be true?”

“Well, I donnae ken,” Bryce said. “How could it be?”

“This has all been very nice,” Lorna said, planning her escape. Her voice was higher now, and she could feel it trembling. She now felt duped, like a character with one line in a play, only put there to make the lead actors shine, and she was blushing uncontrollably as her hands came back together in a nervous expression.

“I shall see ye tonight,” Bryce said a little louder as she turned and bid a hasty retreat toward the stairs.

“And I ye,” Lorna replied, throwing a quick look over her shoulder as she went.

“Wait!” Bryce called, and she paused on the landing while he held her glance a moment longer. “Were ye nae going the other way?”

“Nae,” Lorna said in a hurry, looking away before the embarrassment became any more overwhelming. She hurried back up the stairs, leaving Bryce standing awkwardly in the hallway with a stupid smirk on his face. She went back up to the guest chambers and shut the door behind her, leaning against the door as it closed.

“Well, that was fast,” Kyla said, looking up from the water basin. “And so, what did he say?”

“He didnae say anything,” Lorna said shaking her head and trying to put some of her hair back into place. Why was her heart fluttering like mad?

“Is that so?” Kyla asked coyly, crossing to Lorna at the door. “What did ye say?”

“I didnae speak with him!” Lorna snapped, feeling hot and uncomfortable.

“Well now!” Kyla said with a smirk. “That’s good news.”

“I donnae want tae talk about it!” Lorna snapped, breaking away from Kyla and going to the window, looking down at the big tent that had just been raised.

“Fine then,” Kyla scoffed. “Have it yer way. Ye will drive me mad with this nonsense, ye ken.”

Lorna said no more, she just stared down at the pavilion, feeling lost and defeated. It was humiliating. Bryce had always been dogging her ever since they were children. Here they were again, on the eve of Watt’s wedding. Watt was still ignoring her, and Bryce was still following her around, looking at her as if she was a complete and utter fool. Had nothing changed?

She had hoped to come to this celebration, and through her fiery spirit and determined attitude, dance away with the man of her dreams, who would cast off his betrothed, and realize his love for her. Then they would live happily together as Laird and Lady MacDowell. She let out a breath, and she closed her eyes when it sounded more like a quiet whimper. How could she have been so foolish?

She thought of Bryce and his transformation in the years he had been gone. She had hated him as a child; well, hate was a strong word, but she had never necessarily enjoyed him being around. There was something different about him now. He had grown up, but there was more, something behind his eyes, something in his soul that had been changed irreparably. Though it was intriguing, she found him dark and brooding from their brief encounter. She dreaded spending an evening with him dogging her once more, while she looked on at Watt and his underserving lass with her bland personality. She put her hands together once more as she looked down, cracking her knuckles in one of her nervous tics.

“Are ye all right, love, truly?” Kyla asked, coming up behind her, and gently laying a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Lorna answered, watching another barrel of ale being rolled into the pavilion over the moist earth. “Tonight is going tae be just fine,” she said without really believing it, and frustrated that there was a little skip in her heart at the thought of spending the whole evening in the company of Bryce MacDowell.

Chapter 2

French wine was something all Scotsmen enjoyed. That was the one thing Bryce had chosen to put in his bags when he left France. He wanted to give a bottle to his brother as a wedding gift, and so he’d instructed a servant to leave it in the Laird’s chambers. Judging by his older brother’s current waistline, Watt was no stranger to imbibing. There was the church wedding and then the feast when the barrels of wine and ale had been officially tapped, and they were set to flowing.

Bryce was enjoying one such cup of wine on the edge of the festivities. He kept his eyes on the people that filled the space under the canvas pavilion. Night had fallen, but the heat from the day still lingered in the air. The alcohol and dancing were keeping people warm as well. His eyes moved from one happy figure to the next, judging, assessing. He couldn’t help it. After so many years in battle, one had to learn to size up one’s enemies. It was all part of the terrible “game” that he’d had to learn.

At least he didn’t get any bad feelings watching the dancers and musicians. The whole scene was filled with happiness and celebration. His brother was sitting at the head table, his arm around his young pretty wife, Lilias, daughter of a neighboring Laird. They were looking into each other’s eyes and smiling. Bryce watched as Watt leaned close to Lilias and whispered something in her ear.

Bryce tore his eyes away, an old feeling of desire for companionship running through him. He hadn’t thought of it in a long while, but now watching his brother as happy as he was, the traitorous feeling had returned. Just as quickly, Bryce squelched it down. His eyes landed on Lorna, and the heavy dark brooding feeling lifted with surprising ease.

Lorna was watching Watt and Lilias too, and suddenly, Bryce remembered his duty. He left the side of the festivities and walked up to Lorna. When he arrived at her side, she turned to him and shrank back, as if he was a dangerous animal ready to bite her.

“Och, here ye are then,” she said with a tiny blush in her cheeks.

Bryce chuckled, despite his earlier low mood. “Aye, as I said I would be. I couldnae find ye in the church, so I waited until the feasting time. Will ye nae eat?” He asked, looking around at the tables piled high with food.

Lorna shook her head with a frown, and Bryce was given a view of the shimmer of her blonde hair in the torchlight. It was golden of varying hues, and he was amazed at how much more grown up she’d become in the last six years. When she looked at him again, he could see the same gold flecks in her eyes, and he could feel himself sucking in a breath. The lass was beautiful, a fine lady, and she had filled out in all the womanly areas, making a man’s desire easily grow.

What is bloody wrong with ye? Ye have a job tae do, tae keep her away from Watt, nae lust after her.

“Have a drink then,” he said, and he led her to a table and bid her to sit, pouring her a cup of wine and putting it before her.

She snickered, “Are the servants nae supposed tae do those types of things? A Laird’s brother and famed warrior reduced tae pouring wine for the wedding guests.”

He grinned. Lorna had grown an even sharper tongue in the past years as well. He sat down across from her. The space was loud, full of laughter, footsteps, clinking of cups, and music, but sitting down, they seemed to have the room to themselves. He let his eyes drag to Watt and Lilias at the far end of the pavilion, and his brother was giving him a grateful nod.

“Pouring wine is hardly an effort. I will gladly do it anytime. For meself or a bonny lass.” He smiled again, catching Lorna’s eye, and she blushed, her lips parting. His eyes moved there.

Bonny mouth too.

He shook his head, trying to get himself under control. He hadn’t drunk this much in a long time. Perhaps it was the drink which was making him think things and notice things he hadn’t noticed earlier when bumping into her in the keep’s corridors.

She took a sip of the wine, looking at Watt and Lilias with a sigh. “I suppose it really was a fool’s errand after all. Kyla was right.” Bryce winced when he thought he could see Lorna’s eyes fill with tears.

“Kyla?” he asked softly, and she didn’t look at him.

“My companion. She told me it was foolish tae try my last chance tae convince Watt of me love.” She blushed deeply, looking up at Bryce. “I donnae ken why I am telling his brother, though.”

He shrugged, happy for the confidence. “Might as well. Ye return tae yer family tonight, aye?”

“Aye,” she said with a nod.

“Then all will be forgotten, and ye can move on with yer life. Watt and his bride will be here, and ye will be there. All will be finished. Ye donnae even have tae see him again if ye donnae wish.”

Lorna nodded sadly, and Bryce wondered if he’d said the right thing. She took a long draught of her wine, nearly finishing the cup, and Bryce felt a little guilty, belittling her affection for his brother. He’d known that she’d always looked at Watt with a sort of affection when they were younger, but he hadn’t thought it would ever grow to this sort of pining. The way she looked at Watt made Bryce’s chest tighten.

No woman had ever looked at him like that. Watt was a lucky man to have two beautiful women watching him as if he was Jesus incarnate. Bryce decided that a change of subject would do them both well. His head was swimming with all the wine he’d drunk, and he’d rather get away from all the noise and commotion. It brought up too many memories of warfare, and he’d rather forget all of them. Leave them like the ashes of Joan of Arc in the flowing, gray waters of the Seine. He was attempting to break from the past by returning to Scotland, but images still flitted through his brain.

He cleared his throat. “Do ye have a carriage tae take ye tae the McAdam keep, lass?” he asked, brushing a hand on the back of his neck. Being around Lorna again was making his neck itch. Especially since he didn’t know exactly how to speak to her now that she was a full-grown woman. And one full of sorrow.

“Aye.” She finished the rest of the wine and began to watch the dancers. Their boots and slippers were scudding across the pounded earth at the center of the pavilion. The rain from the night before had finally dried up, but it was still moist enough to keep the dust from rising at the fury of the dancer’s feet.

“Well, the night is upon us now,” he said stupidly, his eyes looking out at the darkness beyond the keep’s torchlights. “It isnae safe for a lass tae travel on her own.”

Lorna shrugged. “I will travel with my companion. The carriage will be ready for us.”

He swallowed and tried again. Something inside him was bidding him to do this. He wanted to help her, of course, but he also had no interest in staying in the castle with his brother the few days after his wedding, if Watt and Lilias were going to look at each other as they were. Besides, Watt would want him to do this. It would be distracting Lorna, would it not?

“Let me take ye, lass. Let me accompany ye. For safety.” He knew that it wasn’t exactly a profound explanation, but it would have to do. He had no intention of telling her how likely it was that Watt would appreciate his assistance.

She turned to him finally, and he could see the acceptance in her lovely, gold-flecked brown eyes. “Fine, then. Ye will accompany us. I would be happy for the added safety.”

Bryce grinned, and he finished the rest of his wine in one swig.

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

Prologue

Scottish Highlands

July 15, 1298

Elsy stared up at Connell, her green eyes welling with tears. She gripped his hands in hers, refusing to give in to sorrow no matter how much it threatened to swallow her whole. She could feel Laird MacArthur staring a hole in her back from behind. Nevertheless, she ignored him as she stood in the courtyard, where men were readying their horses, saying goodbye to their loves and their children, wishing them well.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father leaning against the stable’s door, his body thinner than before and his eyes sunken in. Rain drizzled from the heavens, soaking her garments. She knew she should return to the cottage, where it was cold and dry, but she couldn’t leave Connell, not when these were their last moments together. Something sparked in the dark, low hanging clouds in the distance, followed by low rumbling. The darkness hid any light the sun offered, which only made her worry all the more. The slight breeze chilled her skin and whipped her red hair lightly.

Connell stroked the hair away from her face. He gazed back at her with glimmering blue eyes, on the verge of tears, yet filled with adoration and love. His long dark hair was tied low at his nape and his leine and hose were covered in proper battle attire. Elsy thought it strange seeing him this way, given his gentle nature. She worried what battle would make of her love. Her gaze drifted to the sword resting at his hip and Elsy swallowed a sob as a dark thought incepted her mind, whispering to her what fate may bring them.

“Must ye go?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper in the wind and her words trembling with the weight. What if he never returned? she wondered. It was a thought she kept pushing away, yet it returned no matter how much she tried not to think of it.

“Aye, my love,” said Connell, his gaze filling with sorrow as he continued stroking the side of her cheek. “Ye know I must.”

Elsy shook her head. “Don’t go.” She turned her gaze away from him, yet her hand remained fastened to his, knowing she would never be the first to leave him, not with death lingering on his shoulders.

“It’s for the best that I do,” said Connell, taking her chin and gently turning her face toward him. “Ye know we must break from England. Ye know I can’t leave my men to suffer on their own.”

“Aye, I know.” Elsy nodded vigorously. “But I still don’t want ye to go. What if ye never return? What if-”

“Do not fret about those things, my love.” Connell took both her hands, pulling her close to him and staring deep into her eyes. “If I am glorified in battle, Father will deny me naething. And then,” Connell smiled and pulled her closer.

Elsy closed her eyes as his lips pressed against her brow. All the tension in her shoulders loosened with that sweet, gentle touch and she released the breath she had been holding with a shudder.

“And then, we can finally be together, Elsy.”

His words made her heart flutter and her insides grow warm despite the cold. It was the only thing she prayed for—to be Connell’s wife. And it was the one thing they could never have. Elsy bit her bottom lip. A lone tear streamed down her cheek as she opened her eyes, her heart twinging as she met Connell’s beautiful gaze.

Elsy tried to memorize his eyes, his touch, the way his lips moved and how his voice felt against her ears. She wanted to remember everything about him, just in case he never returned. A sob threatened to overtake her, and her breath hitched as she tried to swallow it, finding it difficult.

“But we are together now,” she said, her voice quivering. “Can’t ye speak with yer father one last time? Maybe he will under-”

Connell’s slight shake of his head gave her words pause. She knew it didn’t matter, for she was nothing in the eyes of the great Laird MacArthur—Connell’s father. She was no lady. She had no dowry, no men, nothing. All she had was her love and her skill of healing, far too little in the eyes of a laird arranging his son’s future.

Her thoughts dissipated as Connell brought out a flimsy white handkerchief, given to him several summers before, soon after they met. That first moment their gazes fell upon each other, she knew they were destined to be and had spent her nights secretly embroidering the handkerchief. Her eyes caught on the red lettering: E.T. for Elsy Tandie.

“I will keep it with me, always,” said Connell while holding up the handkerchief between them.

Elsy forced a smile, yet she could not stop the worry and sorrow from filling her gaze. “May it bring ye luck,” she said while wiping the tears from her eyes. “May ye keep it close to yer heart always and know I will be praying for ye-” Elsy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to prevent another sob from taking over, “for yer safe return home.”

“Connell!” a soldier in the distance shouted, sitting on his massive steed and dressed in battle wear.

Several men clad in similar attire strode past, carrying swords and spears, their faces grim. A woman wailed from the corner of the courtyard, making the hair rise on the back of Elsy’s neck. She ground her teeth, fighting the need to break down. She needed to be strong for Connell, to have faith he would return to her.

She bristled at the feeling of someone standing near her and turned, finding Laird MacArthur. He smiled grimly at his son, placing a hand on his shoulder before saying softly, “It is time, lad.”

Connell sighed, his gaze drifting to the mud at their feet before giving a slight nod. “Aye, it is,” he said softly. Quickly, before his father could say anything more, he pressed a chaste kiss to Elsy’s palm before releasing her. “Farewell, Elsy.”

Elsy’s throat seized as Connell slowly turned away from her, stepping toward his black steed. “Wait!” Elsy rushed out, grabbing his hand and making him pause mid-step. She didn’t care who was watching, only that she may never see her love again. Without thinking twice about her actions, or how they would be perceived by the laird and his men, she wrenched Connell toward her and captured his lips. Her eyes pressed closed as she savored the taste of him. It was short, yet it was exactly what she needed. What they needed. When she opened her eyes, she nearly laughed at the wide-eyed look Connell was giving her and the flush in his cheeks.

“Please, Connell,” she said shakily while stroking a stray strand away from his face. “Please, come back to me. I don’t know how I will be able to get on, if ye don’t.”

Connell grabbed her hand, a smile tugging at his lips as he stared down at her, his gaze filled with determination. “I will always come back to ye, Elsy. I swear it on my father’s life, I will.”

Chapter One

Scottish Highlands

August 3, 1302

Connell leaned against the stone wall. The coolness seeped through his leine, prickling his skin and brittling his bones. The wind swept through the holes in the rooftops while rain drops dripped within the dilapidated great hall of the stone fortress. He shifted against the wall, his right eye adjusting to the shadows. His left eye, stabbed through with a knife four years before in the Battle of Falkirk, was covered with a black eyepatch. The loathsome thing shamed Connell. He was damaged, vile, something no father would wish to pass on his lineage to. Thankfully, he’d found others like himself—just as damaged and worn, just as cruel and misshapen—to aid in his need for revenge.

The men, six in total, gathered at a large wooden table. It stood at a tilt, one leg cracked. Connell wondered when it would finally succumb and fall to the dirtied floor that was stained with old blood and smelling of mold. His men listened intently as Glenton prattled on about the details of their next duty. A letter had arrived from a scout no more than an hour before, with wonderful news. Connell would be able to exact his revenge. They were to leave before the sun rose and travel south.

His one good eye narrowed on Glenton, pacing back and forth, his stick clacking against the floor as he moved. Connell couldn’t fathom why Glenton didn’t remain still given the injury to his side, but he supposed his right-hand man thought and spoke better when he was moving. The dim glow from the candelabras made Glenton’s dour looks even more haunting. Connell tilted his head, his ears twitching with delight at the next words leaving Glenton’s lips.

“We have received word Lady Elisabeth McCormick is on her very way to the McKade clan,” said Glenton while holding up a crumpled letter within his white knuckled grasp. “We’ll ambush them at the crossroads.”

“Let us hope she’s bonnie,” called Logan, standing at the front with rotting teeth and matted hair. He sneered at his comrades, who broke into a fit of dark laughter.

Connell fought the need to shout and admonish Logan as he kicked away from the wall, standing to his full height. Silence fell in the shadowed room as he stalked forward, glowering at the men. He planted his hands on the table. The force made a loud resounding thump echo in the silence.

Connell scowled as he met each and every one of their frightened gazes. Despite his disfigurement, the men knew he could gut them before they even had a chance to reach for their swords. Losing his eye had marred his vision, yet it had also hardened him, making him spend hours upon hours, day after day, training in order to prove himself capable to those who deemed him weak. In the end, losing his eye had made him a warrior to be wary of, turning him into a swift and cunning killer. They swallowed their jeers, their mouths clamping closed and their eyes drifting to the floor as Connell looked around the room.

“This is nae laughing matter,” Connell said bitterly. “Lady McCormick is the only one who can provide proof of her husband’s treachery. She knows all of his misdeeds. This is an important duty. We will have vengeance for Scotland if we are successful in our endeavors.”

“Aye,” said Glenton while hobbling forward, leaning on his stick and clutching at his side. “And Connell will be leading the charge. Follow his lead, and everything should go right.”

“We will be attacking the soldiers first,” said Connell, straightening and positioning his hands behind his back. “Donald and Grant, I want ye both hiding in the trees. When the carriage arrives, ye will be attacking the guards in the back.”

Donald and Grant looked at each other for a moment, their ruddy faces and scraggly hair mirroring each other. They were scrawny and short, but known for their skills in blending into the shadows and killing their opponents swiftly. They gave Connell a curt nod in unison.

“Logan and Ian, I want ye scouting in the woods for any others who might come our way. Brann, ye will be with me.”

“But what does the lass look like?” asked Ian, his voice high-pitched and grating to Connell’s ears. He scratched the back of his head while looking around at the others. “What if she has an entourage of maids? Who should we grab then?”

Glenton chuckled and turned to the letter, straightening it and inspecting the words written. “She’s a young lass, bonnie, with eyes like the fields after a long rain,” Glenton said, his tone mocking and his smile bitter, “and hair like fire on a warm night.”

Connell frowned, his gaze going to the letter. From his distance he could not read the words written. Once, he had known a lass as pretty as the one Glenton spoke of. He could still recall the feeling of her hair, soft like a flower’s petals caressing his skin, and her eyes, green as the forests bordering the ancestral lands of his clan. Once, those eyes had gazed upon him, filled with such love and adoration. Thinking of those eyes now made his heart twinge and his body ache for what could have been. Her name had also been Elisabeth.

“Elsy,” he breathed, the name making him grimace as if a knife sliced through his heart.

Glenton turned toward him, his brows tenting as he stared up at Connell. “What did ye say, Connell?” He pursed his lips. “Something to add, per chance?”

Connell shook his head, cursing himself for being so foolish. “Naething. Continue.”

But Connell didn’t listen. He couldn’t. All he could think about was Elsy and where she could be. There had been a time he thought they would never be parted and yet here he was, without her in this shabby fortress, surrounded by brigands with their sneering looks and their bitter grins. It was his own fault for not returning, for allowing everyone to believe he had died in the Battle of Falkirk. Connell grimaced at the guilt stabbing through him as he thought of his father, of the MacArthur clan. He couldn’t return, he told himself, yet the guilt didn’t ebb. How could he go back with his eye gone and his honor lost? His father wouldn’t have accepted it.

But Elsy? His grimace darkened as he thought of her tears sliding down her cheeks, her grasp on his hand. Elsy would have loved him until the day she died, and that was just another reason he couldn’t return. She deserved better than him. She deserved a whole man, one who could provide for her, offer her all the love in the world. The battle had taken everything from Connell and left him with only his bitterness.

He was no longer the Connell from four years ago and, most probably, Elsy was no longer the woman he had fallen in love with. She was no longer his Elsy. He stroked his chin, wondering if she was still living with her father, or if she had married well. A genuine smile came to his lips regardless of the pain in his heart as he imagined her humming a soft tune with a babe in her arms. He hoped she had been able to find love again, despite how much it pained him now to think of it.

“Are ye prepared, Connell?” Glenton asked, calling him back from his thoughts.

The men were already filing out of the room, going to their chambers to get a good night’s rest. They would need it. Everything needed to go to plan. There could be no mistakes. However, something twisted within Connell, something he couldn’t put his finger on.

Connell bristled when he realized Glenton was still staring at him, his eyebrow rising in intrigue. “Aye, of course,” Connell rushed out, his face heating and his expression tightening into a deep scowl. “Why wouldn’t I be? I have been waiting for this day longer than ye.”

Glenton chuckled and hobbled toward the door, moving slowly due to his injured side. “Aye, ye have. I’m just sorry I cannot join.” Glenton’s smile left his lips and he frowned. “If it wasn’t for that blasted arrow.”

“Ye were fortunate.”

“Ha!” Glenton shouted while smacking his leg. “That arrow was meant for ye. If anyone had fortune on their side, it was ye, not I.”

Connell chuckled. “Aye, then ye were a fool. Wasn’t it yer idea to get in the way?”

“Aye, it was.” Glenton rolled his eyes. “Terrible idea that was. Perhaps, next time ye take an arrow for me, hmm?”

Connell shook his head. “Doubtful that will happen anytime soon, Glenton.”

“Where is the loyalty?” Glenton demanded, mock offended.

Connell chuckled while shaking his head. “Fled long ago, I fear.”

Glenton’s smile fell and his expression became serious as he nodded at the door. “Brann should be of some use. That lad, young as he may be, is mighty strong in battle.”

Connell caught Brann holding the door open for the other men, his gaze dipping to the stone floor while he shyly wished the others good eve. Glenton had a point. Though Brann was young, he was taller and broader than men well his senior. The sleeves of his leine, too tight for his arms, were stretched and fraying at the ends. Connell was surprised the fabric didn’t burst, but it wasn’t like they had larger garments at their disposal to give the boy. The only garments they had were the ones they stole and very few could fit Connell, let alone Brann.

As if the boy could feel Connell and Glenton’s eyes, he turned to them, nodding in farewell, his freckled face disappearing behind the door.

“Tis too bad that cursed Laird McCormick isn’t alive for ye to sink yer claws into, eh, Connell?” said Glenton as soon as the door closed.

Connell nodded, his thoughts once more going to McCormick’s widow. “I can settle for his wife.”

“Do ye think she’ll talk?”

Connell glanced at Glenton, a cruel smile coming to his lips. “Oh, she will tell all.”

Glenton chuckled. “I don’t think ye can use yer rugged good looks any longer, my lad.” He patted Connell’s back, making him grimace. “Given most ladies would shudder at yer loss of an eye.”

Connell sneered. “I don’t need her to like me, Glenton. I only need her to speak the words.”

“Do ye really think she’ll tell ye the truth?” Glenton asked. He crossed his arms, his head tilting.

Connell slowly closed the distance between them. Glenton was bent by the wound in his side, and Connell towered over him by a head. Glenton’s gaze narrowed as he jutted out his chin, refusing to be intimidated by Connell’s brute size.

“I will do everything within my power to see that she does,” Connell said darkly. “Even if that includes inciting a little pain.”

Glenton raised an eyebrow. “Pain, ye say?” He scoffed and turned his gaze heavenward. “Doubtful. I know ye, Connell. Ye won’t lay a finger on her.”

Connell opened his mouth to disagree, but Glenton’s next words stopped him.

“Enough talk on the matter. Let us pray all goes well tomorrow and ye are able to capture the lass.”

Connell’s mouth closed and he nodded. “Aye. Tis a hard task ahead of us. We may be outnumbered.”

“Or there will be more than Lady McCormick’s escort at the crossroads.” Sighing, Glenton leaned against his stick and continued on his path toward the door. Pushing it open, he paused for a moment, forcing a smile at Connell as he said, “I wish ye well tomorrow. Let us hope this will be the end of all our troubles.”

Connell turned away as Glenton left, not bothering to watch the door click closed. He stalked toward the large round table. The chair skidded across the floor as he grabbed it and sank his weary body onto the wood. The screeching of the chair’s legs echoed in the vast hall, his only company in the dark and dilapidated room. Old banners from long ago hung in rags off the walls. A hearth sat across from him, streaked with ash from years before when the English had slaughtered the fortress’s masters. Connell wondered bitterly if their remnants still littered the hearth’s floor or if the wind had swept them all away. He pushed those dark thoughts away, knowing they would do him no good.

He leaned back in his chair, frowning as he found his hand reaching into the pocket of his long, worn cloak. His heart fluttered as his fingers skimmed the familiar fabric, now frayed from years of abuse. He did not know why he kept the thing. It did little for him other than bring back memories he should forget. Yet, despite that, he found himself bringing the yellowed and torn cloth to his vision, staring at the faded thread reading: E. T.

Elisabeth Tandie, he thought. His heart twinged and he felt an unbearable ache take hold of him as he recalled their last moments together, when he was Connell MacArthur, future laird of the MacArthur clan and not the brigand he had become. Her voice echoed within his mind as he recalled her tears, the way she touched him, the way she stared at him as if he was the only man for her.

He should have stayed that day. He should have listened to her. Yet, it wouldn’t have mattered, he thought solemnly while shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket. It did no good to think of the past. All he had was the future.

Chapter Two

Elsy leaned back in her seat as the carriage continued on the path. Light streamed in through the cracks in the drapes. Her eyes lulled closed before snapping open. They had been on this path for more than a day and her bottom stung from sitting in the same place for so long. She wiggled and sat up straighter, grimacing at the numbness in her legs. It would be another four days of this until they reached the McKade’s clan and then she would be able to see Ava.

Elsy sighed. Thinking of her friend brought tears to her eyes. It had been too long since she last saw her, too long since she left the McCormick clan’s holdings. The last time Elsy had seen Ava was when she had left the MacArthurs. Elsy remembered hugging her friend tight, inhaling the sweet scent of honey clinging to Ava’s hair from her work in the kitchens. They had grown up together, often playing tricks on others, yet adulthood had taken them from each other. After leaving the MacArthurs, Elsy had spent her days safe within the McCormick walls, rarely leaving unless her husband permitted it. Thankfully, Ava had written, but never could Elsy go to her. She missed Ava’s birthdays, her wedding, even the birth of her first child.

Elsy remembered grimly the excuse her husband, the great Laird Alan McCormick, had given her. “There are dangers outside these walls. Many wish to see ye harmed and it is my responsibility to ensure yer safety, my lady.” Elsy’s frown deepened. Aye, the walls certainly kept me safe over the years, she thought dismally. However, it was difficult to feel the same since her husband’s death.

Her gaze drifted to the ring on her finger. The garnet, sitting in the middle, stared back at her. She remembered the day Alan gave it to her, yet those memories did not return to her as she gazed at the ring now. All she could see was his body from days before. The soldiers had brought him into the healer’s chambers, but nothing could be done. He had been dead for many hours if not the entire day. The flies had already begun picking at his body when they laid him out on the table.

Elsy gagged, remembering the smell of rot permeating that small room. Her hand flew to her mouth while she clamped her eyes closed. A shudder ran down her spine as images of blood and shredded skin assaulted her mind. No matter how much she desperately tried to push the memories away, they remained.

After seeing Alan’s body, a misshapen mess lying on the table, she’d known she must leave at once. She groaned as she opened her eyes and pressed her fingers against her temples, hoping it would help ease her mind and her aching body. Yet, despite her wishes, the memories continued haunting her.

A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the way Alan’s mouth had hung open, his face mangled as if the horse had dragged him through the wood. Honestly, she hadn’t recognized the man the soldiers had brought to her, only knew he had been carrying his father’s sword, as he always did. It had been the only way she could identify the horror they had brought into the castle.

Better times were ahead, she told herself, straightening her shoulders and clearing her throat. She only needed to get to the McKade clan. The sooner, the better, she thought while turning away from the drapes and pressing her head against the cushioned seat. And then she would be with Ava and her family. The thought brought a smile to Elsy’s lips.

Her eyes slowly drooped closed, the rhythmic movements of the carriage lulling her to sleep. She was just about to drift away when the bumping and swaying came to an abrupt halt. Frowning, Elsy opened her eyes, straightening while her hands gripped each other in her lap. She listened for the coach driver or the guard to come to the small window. It’s probably nothing, she told herself, trying to push away the twisting in her insides. Perhaps there was a tree in the road, or someone had sighted a stag they could have for their evening meal. She waited patiently, her fingers picking at each other. Her eyes widened at the sudden ring of metal on metal. The stench of blood nauseated her senses.

“We’re under attack!” shouted a man, one she did not recall the name of. “We’re under a-“ Something hard thumped against the carriage, the man’s shouts lost to the chaos surrounding her. A sword plunged inside, tearing the wood, blood staining its tip.

Elsy held back her gasp as she lurched away from the door. Her hands searched the pockets of her cloak and dress, yet she found no weapon to arm herself with. The sword withdrew from her carriage as quickly as it had come. Her entire body shook with fear. She was weak as a foal learning how to walk. She knew she could do nothing to protect herself if the brigands searched her carriage, but she needed to do something. Her hands fisted at her sides, the way Connell had taught her once when they were young and in love.

Not now, she thought. She wouldn’t think of him now when death was knocking at her door. The carriage wobbled and she braced herself, waiting for the door to be thrown open. She stared at it as if it was calling her name, whispering to her what terrible futures were to come. A whimper crawled its way up her throat, but she swallowed it. She was no longer a little damsel in distress and she would fight these men to the death if needed. Better that than whatever vile things they had planned.

Silence deafened the air, making her hands shake. She listened, trying to hear breathing or whispers, yet there was nothing. It was like wraiths had seized her carriage, possibly stolen her things, and left her to live. At least she prayed for that to be the case. It didn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t they search the carriage? Her fingers inched toward the handle. Sweat dripped from her brow. She had to look, had to know if they were truly gone.

The door flung open, banging against the side of the carriage with a resounding thump. Elsy gasped, jumping backwards, a scream stuck in her throat while her hand flew to her chest. She wanted to move, wanted to fight, but she was frozen solid as the lochs in the winter.

A large, hooded man stood before her carriage door, taking up all space she could possibly use for escape. A cloth covered his mouth and nose; a patch hid one eye. The other: blue, filled with shock and alarm, stared back at her. The man did not move. His shoulders slumped in defeat. Any alarm once glimmering in his gaze was replaced by sorrow she did not comprehend. Why would a brigand ever feel remorse for his victims? she wondered as she stared back at the man. Perhaps he will leave me be, she thought hopefully.

Elsy’s hand slowly lowered. She inhaled deeply, trying to regain her sense of calm. “Ye-ye-” she stuttered weakly. She closed her eyes and fisted her hands, breathing in deeply in order to gather the strength she needed to speak to this man and send him off along his way. “Ye may take whatever ye want,” she said sternly while opening her eyes and flashing a determined look. “Although, I fear I do not have much.”

“Aye.” The man tilted his head, his fingers digging into the wood of the door. “Ye have exactly what I need,” he said gruffly, seizing her wrist and dragging her out of the carriage.

Elsy gasped. She was being taken away, she realized, fear making her body stiffen. She was being pulled from the carriage as if she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. The sunlight blinded her, making spots blur her vision. She heard laughter all around her. Her heart thudded in her throat, and she felt bile rise. She didn’t know what to do, only that she couldn’t let these men take her.

Something animalistic and vile took over. She shrieked like a banshee in the night. She kicked and scratched, not knowing nor caring where her blows landed. Her elbow hit something hard, and she heard a grunt, her body falling as he tumbled backwards. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she ran, not knowing where, only knowing she needed to get as far away as possible.

She made it two steps before she was dragged back into another man’s arms, this one bigger and brawnier. His face was also covered with a dark cloth. Several men chuckled around her as she was forcefully turned around. The one-eyed brigand slowly approached her, a rope in his hands. Elsy screamed again, but the sounds were silenced by a hand over her mouth. She struggled, wiggling in his grasp while the other approached one step at a time.

“Are ye just going to stand there and watch?” asked the man behind Elsy, struggling to hold her still.

One brigand, standing further back and making himself cozy by leaning against a tree, chuckled while crossing his arms. “Aye, ye laddies seem to be handling yerselves well.”

Elsy bit the man’s palm, eliciting a groan. The hand on her mouth slid away, yet his arm around her waist tightened. “Let me go!” she shouted, looking around aimlessly for anyone passing through the crossroads, but there was no-one. There were only the horses, snorting and stamping in agitation, and the brigands cackling cruelly. The men who had been meant to guard her lay dead in the dirt.

“Please!” Elsy begged as the one-eyed man slowly approached her, rope still in hand. He was nearly upon her. She kicked her feet out, aiming for his belly, his chest, anywhere that would cause harm, yet he dodged easily.

“Now, now,” he said tauntingly.

“Please, I’ll give ye anything!” Elsy didn’t know what she had. She hadn’t taken much, only a few garments for the trip and a small bag of coin. She felt something dig into her finger as she wriggled in his grasp, and her eyes widened. “My ring!” she shouted. “Take my ring. It is yers if ye release me.”

With one slight nod from the one-eyed brigand, she was tossed forward. She barely had time to run before she was grabbed once again, her hands seized and quickly bound with rope. “Stop-” she could hardly finish her cry as a cloth was stuffed deep into her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she wiggled in her confines.

That lone blue eye held her gaze. There was something familiar in his stare, something she couldn’t quite place. She flinched as his hand reached round, pulling her closer. Her face flushed, as she felt his palm touch her waist, slowly going toward her bound wrists. She scowled up at him, fighting the heat his touch incited in her. Amusement and anger glimmered back at her as he stroked her fingers, searching for the small piece of jewelry she could offer him. He stilled and she knew he’d found what he desired as he pulled the ring from her finger and held it up between them.

The scowl left her gaze as she stared at the garnet glimmering in the light, the gold shining brightly. Yet, that was not what she saw as she stared at the trinket. Her husband’s mangled body filled her vision: his torn face, his bloodied fingers. A shudder took hold over her and a whimper escaped her lips. Pray this be enough for them, she thought while slowly closing her eyes, begging God to take pity on her.

Her eyes snapped open at the dark chuckle stinging her ears and she watched as the one-eyed brigand stuffed the ring into the pocket of his cloak. He leaned in close, his proximity heating her skin and making her insides twist. Her eyes widened as he whispered gravely, “Ye think we came all this way for a measly trinket?”

Elsy stepped back. There was something foreboding in his voice, something haunting, as if teasing what awaited her. This man hated her. He wanted to see her fear, her pain. But why? And who was he? She knew her husband had his enemies, which was why she’d left the castle as quickly as she did, knowing the McKades would be safer. How would anyone know of her leaving so soon? She hardly had time to write, hardly had time to pack. Her shoulders slumped and she sobbed into the rag. Unless there had been a traitor in her midst, she realized, the harshness of the thought making her head dizzy and her belly twist with nausea.

“We have come for ye, Lady McCormick,” the one-eyed man said harshly, spitting her clan’s name as if it tasted of rot on his tongue.

Elsy tried to scream, but the cloth swallowed her cries as he seized her arm and dragged her toward his large black steed. She shook her head, crying louder against the rag, yet there was hardly a whimper emitted. He grabbed her waist, his hands touching her gently despite the force of their encounter. She looked around, wondering if anyone would help her, but all the men were ignoring her as they strode toward their horses. Her body wobbled as the one-eyed man swiftly mounted his steed, his hand going to the small of her back to steady her. She screamed once more into the rag, her hands wiggling in their confines, her shoulder knocking into his chest as his arms came around her to grab the reins.

Where were they taking her? she wondered in fear. Looking over her shoulder, she watched the carriage growing farther and farther away. What would they do to her? She couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t stop her mind from going to terrible places as a black and heavy cloth fell over her head, shrouding her vision in darkness.

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

Chapter 1

The tip of the sword lightly poked Gawain’s throat, his head held high as his father, the wielder, forced him against the wall. His bright eyes darted upward in the darkness, but his breath was carefully measured despite his fuming. A distasteful look hardened the old laird’s face, harsh expression shooting at his kneeling, battered son. Gawain could taste the blood in his mouth and sweat on his lips. He wanted to move, but he was hooked in place by an insurmountable strength.

“What possessed ye, Gawain? Ye force me hand with yer treachery. How could ye’ve brought such shame to our family?”

“I’ve done nothing to cause harm to the clan, father. I only did what I needed to do to gain yer favor once more. I devoted everything to the clan, and I deserve what ye’ve given to him! I’ve worked fer it, dedicated me life fer it and it should be mine. Why have ye decided to brand me a traitor when it is ye who has betrayed me, fa…?” The sword pressed under his chin, a warning from his father. He clenched his teeth as his heart beat harder than ever.

“Watch yer tongue. It was never yer place to rule this clan, Gawain. ‘Tis yer brother’s birthright and nae trickery from ye will change that. Ye are not fit to live among us if ye will not respect our laws. Your soul is vile and I cannae trust you around your brother, so begone. Be gone far away,” the old man threw him to the floor as he retreated, “If ye ever set foot on these lands during my lifetime, I’ll surely have ye punished.”

Gawain’s face plunged into the hard floor. One more wound meant nothing at this point. “Trickery ye say? How have I tricked ye? I had me life planned in front of me. I never wanted to be involved in this but ye told me, ye asked me to fill in fer me brother and I did just that. I pleased ye, did as ye wanted and ye now cast me aside all because he returned? Ye send me to exile because I tried to win yer favor and ye call yerself me father?” Gawain rose to his feet, towering over the aged laird, his rage burned in his sapphire eyes as his lips curled into a snarl. “Farewell father.”

At those words, he felt himself transported through his journey. The rhythmic sound of his heartbeat quickly became chaotic as he relived his journey around high and lows of Europe. He wallowed in his own regrets and misery as he grew, understanding his misdoings by the day. The thoughts of being deserted and hated by the same clan he devoted his heart and soul to plagued him. Like a neglected flower, he was shunned by his own family and friends, who he would have given his life for.

Doubt was deeply rooted in his heart. Why was he raised to take a birthright that was not his? Why was the birthright promised to him snatched away? Why was he tossed aside when the prodigal son came back? His own dreams of a simple life had been sacrificed, his time, his energy, his mind and his soul devoted to one task. The task he was denied from completing.

He found himself drifting in an endless, green field, once again looking up even as bright rays pierced his eyes. The questions in his heart resounded with no answers. He felt he had been uprooted and left to wither in the harshness of the sun. It didn’t matter now, he would do anything for forgiveness. All he wanted was to be back in the familiar soil of his brethren.

He suddenly became aware of something, something important. The sun above set in a breath and a new breeze swept over his face.

He staggered awake.

Blue eyes shot open as their owner took a sharp inhale. Balancing himself in the hammock, Gawain took a steady deep breath to calm himself from his nightmare. He was still in his cabin; the slapping of the waves came from outside his open window accompanied by the call of seagulls.

They were close to shore.

This was his second chance. The shores of the place he once called home pulled closer to him. He swallowed hard as doubt and insecurity once again overshadowed his thoughts. His father may be dead, but everyone remembers.

His hands trembled as he had read through the letter his brother had sent, inviting him to celebrate the news of yet another child. It made no sense. The Laird already had children and he had not bothered to invite his brother then. Why now? Gawain was skeptical, but he yearned to see them again.

He tucked away the letter. Even if his brother did want him there, what would the rest of the clan say? What would the elders say? No one would fully accept him, but Gawain held no grudges against the clan that banished him. His intentions for the clan were the same as all those years ago, prosperity.

He wondered how things must have changed, improved even. He wondered if his clan was still allies with the Sutherland clan as Gawain was to marry the daughter of the Laird, Flora. He had loved Flora as much as he could. She was chosen for him by his father when Gawain was sure he would be the next laird. He wondered if she would have married someone else.

Of course, she would have. She was beautiful and young, the perfect age to be wed. Would he run into her? He hoped not. Would Caillen invite her too? If they were allies, he might. Would Caillen be interested in how Gawain had spent his years in exile?

For Gawain, they weren’t the best years of his life. He had close to nothing when he left the clan and he roamed Scotland before he boarded a ship on its way to England. Strange people they were, always at war with each other and everyone else.

He stayed in a small village where he did any work, he could get his hands on. Times were hard as the English did not like outsiders. Then he fled to Ireland for a few months. He particularly amused himself with the fights at the tavern every night. He soon left for Scotland, having to almost take over the ship alongside the innocent passengers when the captain and his crew turned on them. The scuffle earned him a nasty looking scar that ran over his lips.

He arrived in Scotland which was where the letter found him. He had no idea how his brother knew where he was, he had a mind to ask but felt Caillen would brush him off.

On getting his brother’s letter, he boarded yet another ship, not wanting to travel by road. It would have been faster but Gawain was trying to drag out the time he had to get there, he dreaded what reactions he would get from the clan.

Memories of life before his brother packed up and left flooded in. Things were simple, things were normal, and he had no worries. He had wanted to live a simple life. He would build a house away from the clan and settle there. He’d marry himself a pretty wife and have his own children. There had been a girl he had his eyes on before his Flora. He remembered her fondly.

Davinia had come to the castle to work as a servant but it did not take long for her to become a valuable asset. They had grown on each other quickly as she was the only maid who he could trust with anything.

Davinia had always shown him her affection. She made his meat as tender as he liked it, she always got him the best spiced wine, the freshest bread. She lent an ear or a shoulder every time he needed it. She had been perfect until he got exiled and even though they kept in touch with letters.

He recalled her last letter. She hardly talked about herself. It contained the usual greetings, asking about his whereabouts and his wellbeing. Telling him to stay safe or she wouldn’t forgive him for it. He never asked about how things were going in the castle and thankfully she never told him. The most she could go on about in the castle was about her sister, Emer who had given birth to a proper set of children. She had talked about how his brother took care of her sister, giving her precious gifts from jewelry to silk ribbons. She had taken a few of her sisters as hers had gotten very old.

For this reason, Gawain had gone out of his way, almost earning another scar as he tried to procure Davinia a silk ribbon. He wondered how he always got into a fight everywhere he went.

As he swung his feet off the hammock, the door of his cabin opened for one of the crew members, a short grumpy man who had a mouth filthier than a drunk Irishman. His bloodshot grime filled eyes twitched. “Ship will be docking soon. Pack yer bags.”

“Aye. My thanks fer letting me accompany ye on this journey.” Gawain gave the man a small smile but was met with a glare before the man left, muttering what Gawain knew were insults. Gawain hopped off the hammock properly, grabbing the bag he had come with off the floor. In the cabin sat a small table where a jar of water sat, he washed his face with the majority and downed the rest before he made his way up toward the deck. The first person he ran into was the captain.

“Was sure I’d have to come wake you myself.” The captain was an English guard who had fled after an attempt to assassinate the duke he worked for had failed. A dirty man, almost as crooked as his yellowed, incomplete teeth, Gawain deduced from their late-night talks while they enjoyed the calming waves, a jar of rum or ale each in their hands. The night before was one of those nights as Gawain had turned to ale instead to distract him of what laid ahead.

“Aye captain, I did nae drink that much.” Gawain was polite at all times. Men who sailed were never to be trusted. “I’ve been told we’ll dock soon. Thank ye fer yer kind hospitality.”

“And thank you for your kind donation, Sir MacLachlan, wasn’t it?”

“Aye.” Gawain toyed with a gold coin in his breeches before he handed it to the captain, not missing the wide eyes. No more words were said between them and frankly, Gawain hoped he never encountered the captain again.

The ship docked a few hours at sunrise and he hurried off along with the other passengers. It was times like this he was grateful that he did not own much. Slinging his bag over his shoulders, he was met by the familiar port. The ships for journey docked on one side, while ships for goods, sat on the other. The hustle and bustle of the docks was just as he remembered, nothing changed from when he left. Mindless chatter and shouts filled the air, there was the occasional fight breaking out between people or merchants. Gawain braced himself as he started his last journey to the clan’s castle.

He stuck to walking rather than paying for a cart or horse ride. He sighted guards wearing the clan’s tunic, each one with their head held high on their stress. They paraded the docks, market and even the forests. The village’s population increased, the different and new sights at the market intrigued him, often pausing to see what a few merchants sold.

As he crouched down in front of a young girl who manned a space which sold beaded jewelry, a commotion broke out behind him. Hurrying to his feet to see what was the problem, he was surprised and angry to see a guard was the problem.

The guard had a young man by the front of his shirt. Gawain tapped on a woman’s shoulder, asking about the problem and his anger flared at her words. “Nae, do nae worry. They do this all the time. The guard’s horse was startled and it kicked away the boy’s stall. They will leave him alone soon. It happened to me granddaughter a few days ago too.”

“But this should nae be happening.” Gawain was about to take a step forward but was held back by the woman who shook her head at him.

“It should nae but it’ll end fast if ye do nae interfere.” The old woman warned as she let go of his arm.

“I was nae—”

“I can see it in yer eyes. Ye are angry. If you fight fer him now, they’ll leave but they’ll come back fer him. Ye might be long gone by then. Believe me, there is nothing ye can do to help but watch.”

Gawain saw no reason to, other than the guards having a chance to abuse their power over the people but the woman was right. It wasn’t his concern anymore. It was his brother’s concern. It never was as his father had said. It took him years to realize it was the truth.

It wasn’t his birthright, it wasn’t his place, it wasn’t his responsibility. He tried to make it his and he suffered for it. He had to be careful, trying too hard didn’t work for him the first time around. In the meantime, he’ll try to enjoy doing nothing.

Chapter 2

Davinia froze, forest green eyes widening at the loud crash that came from behind her. “Oh dear.” She turned, slowly assessing the damage. It was a new servant so occurrences like that often came by. The servant girl had already begun to wail as she tried to salvage what was left of the spilt broth, but the liquid slipped from her fingers. Hurrying over to the girl, Davinia tucked her hands under the girl’s and pulled her to her feet.

“Miss, I split it. I split the broth, miss. I did nae mean fer it to happen.” The girl years running down the sides of her face, a slight vein popping out by her left temple. This earned a few snickers from the other servants as Davinia wiped off her tears with the back of her hand.

“Stop crying, child. It’s only broth. Ye’re too young to carry something this big, didn’t the cook tell ye? But it is fine, do nae fret.” Davinia held the girl’s hands to inspect them, frowning slightly at the redness of her palm. “Oh, ye burnt yerself. That’s enough, go back to yer quarters, wrap a wet cloth around it. I’ll see to ye once I tell the cook about the broth.”

“But she will be angry with me, miss.” The servant protested but Davinia turned the girl around and gave her a tap on the back to get going. She couldn’t have anyone getting injured or upset over broth. She looked down at the broth and shook her head. She would have to hurry to the kitchen and have the cook make another one.

“Gwen, please clean this up fer me.” Davinia hurried off to the kitchen after the order, meeting the head cook fretting over her stove. “Is there a problem?”

“Nothing I can’t fix, miss.” The woman replied, still not looking at Davinia. “Everything is going smoothly here. There’s no need to hound us.” Davinia plastered a toothy smile on her face as the woman turned to face her. “What?”

“Can ye make another broth?” She folded her hands behind her back as Gelda raised a greying eyebrow at her.

“What happened to the last one?”

“I split it. On accident.”

“Or a servant split it and ye do nae want me to give them a scolding.” Gelda scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, head raised high.

“Yer scolding is rather harsh, Gelda. The girls are terrified.”

“As they should be. Not every crying face is innocent, miss.”

“Thank ye fer the advice, Gelda. And the broth.”

“I never said I would make another broth!”

“But I ken ye will because ye would want yer dishes perfect and complete.” Davinia teased lightly before the older woman cracked a smile.

“Alright then. If me broth is split again, I’ll have yer pretty head, Davinia.” Davinia opened her mouth to talk when she was interrupted.

“Miss, we have a problem with the drinks.” A voice called out to her, and she gave the cook one last smile before she made her way toward her next challenge.

This was her life, it was a life she was satisfied with. She had never been one to be pampered as her upbringing showed. She had her principles in life, not relying on a hand to feed her.

Born into a poor family, their main occupation was farming. At a young age she had been faced with the hardship of life until she met with the kitchen matron, Maria by chance. Impressed with Davinia, she took in the girl as a servant. It was a better way to make a larger earning for her family.

It was difficult at first as she had missed her family dearly, it dampened her spirit anytime she thought of them. She missed her sister the most of all but the determination to change something, no matter how little in their lives, always kept her going. She worked for the MacLachlan clan for years, getting to know the Laird’s family better. Of the two sons, she was particularly attracted to the second son, Gawain. They stayed as friends as she thought but she did show her affection in her little ways never seeking praise.

She thought Gawain to be selfless, taking up his brother’s position after Caillen abandoned it to travel. She did feel his banishment was unneeded as he had only done what should have been done as a true son of the clan. She had watched him fit himself into the role of Laird, even going as far as engaging to a woman from another clan. A woman Davinia could not compete with. Lady Flora was a perfect match for him, and Gawain simply adored her. Davinia could only watch from a distance. It was not her place but that did not mean she could not desire it. In her eyes, Gawain was perfect, being what many men could not.

She could delude herself, pretend to make herself feel better and say Gawain could have loved her as much as she did him but she knew it wasn’t going to happen. She knew her place.

She continued to guide the servants on setting up the grand hall for the event. How overjoyed had she been when she learnt her sister, Emer was with child once more. The Laird had insisted on yet another feast to celebrate it. Emer would rather not but was soon persuaded by her husband. Important people had been invited and it was up to Davinia to make yet another impression.

“Miss, miss.” A girl was coming toward her, a tray filled with pitchers of wine balanced in her hands. Had she been trying to show Davinia something, it did not matter anymore as the girl stumbled just a little over her own feet, collapsing into Davinia’s arm, forcing her to take the tray before the servant met with the ground.

Unfortunately for Davinia, she didn’t quite catch the tray just right and ended up falling backward but just before she met with the ground, strong arms caught her, steadying her and the wine tray, a few drops spilling from the pitchers.

Everything was still for a moment, servants pausing their tasks to make sure she was alright, the one on the floor scrambling to her feet to take back the tray and awaiting a scolding. Davinia felt the heat of the body behind her, the person coming close enough that she could hear their breathing before they chuckled. The vibrations from the person, she could feel them on her back. “I love what ye’ve done with the place. It’s perfect, as always.”

Davinia prided herself on being able to control her emotions. It was how she got into working for the clan properly, it was how she could push Gawain and Flora to the back of her mind but unfortunately, there was a first time for everything.

She slowly turned, a part of her knowing who the deep voice belonged to, another part of her, convinced she had finally lost it. Faced with a man who towered a good head above her, brown hair fell in loose ringlets over his shoulder with sharp facial features, a scar over the corner of his lips. He was big, perhaps bigger than the Laird himself. She almost couldn’t recognize the man until he smiled. A soft, small smile that made his blue eyes light up in a manner.

It was him. It really was him.

“Gawain…”

His eyes lit up brighter at the mention of his name, his smile, wider. She stood frozen almost unable to believe it was truly him. Why had he come? How had he been let in? Had something changed and she wasn’t aware of it? Had he been pardoned? Would he stay? She had no idea but she surely couldn’t be the only one who believed his presence was going to cause an uproar and she was not talking about the clan.

Her heart ached as she reached up to touch him. Her hands landed on his shoulders, she felt him. He was real, she was not dreaming. She cupped his face, running her finger across his scar, his hair tickling her.

“Gawain, it really is ye.” Her lips split into a smile that almost mirrored his as an elated giggle left her lips. “Tis ye. Tis really ye!” She laughed as she let go of his face.

“Ye are excited to see me again, Davinia. I was certain I would have to endure a scolding.” She laughed, placing her hands on his biceps.

“I forgive ye so I’ll nae scold ye.”

“Davinia, I—”

“Gawain!” The voice of the Laird, Caillen cut out through the hall, breaking Davinia away from his embrace. Servants scurried to complete their tasks, pretending not to notice the Laird and his pregnant wife trailing behind him.

“Brother.” Gawain’s smile was tight, spreading across his face. He was satisfied, seeing his brother happy with his life but couldn’t bring himself to actually smile back. Caillen pulled his brother into a tight embrace, laughing when he pulled away to look at his younger brother.

“Look how rugged ye look now, Gawain. It has been so many years, I’m so glad I finally found ye. And brought ye back to the clan.”

“Aye, ‘tis good to be back.”

“I’m so happy to see ye, Gawain. We must talk about everything that has happened. This is me wife, ye ken her.”

Emer stepped forward, a smile on her lips.” Gawain, it is wonderful to see ye again. I’m glad that ye came.”

“Excuse me, milord. I must be on my way to the kitchen.” Davinia said as she started to leave. Gawain noticed and tried to go after her, but Caillen stopped him.

“Ye just join us fer the early festivities tonight. Davinia has decorated the hall just for that. We can talk better then and I do want to hear everything, Gawain.”

“Aye, I’ll be there but I need to talk to Davinia urgently in private. I’ve brought her a gift.” He said and Caillen’s eyebrows went high and his wife cast Gawain a look, both surprised at the statement.

“Oh…of course.” Caillen nodded, stepping back for his brother. “Do nae be late fer later.”

“Aye.” Gawain bowed his head respectfully at his brother before taking Davinia’s hand “Come along.”

He led her toward the guest chambers where his bag had been put. They walked through the halls in silence, Gawain slowing his steps when he noticed how far behind she was.

“Aye, Davinia. Perhaps we’ll get to me chambers after Emer gives birth. Hurry up will ye?”

“Aye, yer legs are longer than mine.” She joked as she caught up to him, holding on to the arm he offered. Gawain felt his chest swell with her action.

“Ye told me the old matron had retired.”

“Aye. I’ve only just taken over. She lives in the village with her grandchildren. I visit her every once in a while.”

“I see. I suppose ye’re fit fer the job. Ye’re ever so diligent, Davinia.”

“Please, do nae flatter me.” Davinia suppressed a laugh.

“When I came, I only dropped me bag and came to find ye. I thought I would find ye alone.” Gawain inched toward her as he spoke.

“To be honest, ye did nae have to bring me anything.” Davinia replied with a shy smile.

“I wanted to. Ye deserve it, Davinia. Yer letters brought me immense joy. It made me feel as if I was nae alone.” He opened the door, stepping in not noticing her still by the door. “Thank ye.”

“Nae, Gawain. I only wanted to be sure of yer wellbeing. I tell ye, ye were never alone.”

“Come in, Davinia. I’m nae a highborn anymore.”

“I’m still a maid and ye’re the laird’s brother and guest. I’m only being respectful.”

Gawain stretched out his hand for her, she hesitated but took it, allowing him to pull her into the room. “There is nae need fer that, Davinia.”

She watched as he dug through the bag on the bed, nearly emptying its contents until he found a small pouch and he handed it to her. “What is it?”

“Open it.” He said, a grin creeping onto his face. She nodded, dipping her fingers in it to take out a single silk ribbon. Do ye like it? I ken how much ye love blue.” He pointed at her blue dress and she laughed, admiring the ribbon.

“I love it, Gawain.” Her voice was soft as her green eyes peered up at him under her lashes. “Thank ye.” Gawain found himself at a loss for words as he watched her take off her old ribbon, pocketing it before tying her hair back with her new one. Why had he never properly realized her beauty until it was too late.

He brushed the stray strands of hair out of her face when she looked back up at him. Her green eyes just as bright as he remembered, he stepped closer to her, cupping her face. “Ye’re beautiful, Davinia.” A deep blush spread out on her cheeks when he lifted her face upwards. He could lean in, brushing his lips over here before she took a step out of his hold. She swallowed as she pressed her back to the door, “Davinia?”

“Me apologies, Gawain.” Her voice shook, her eyes refusing to meet his. “I must be on my way back to the kitchen.”

“Why?” She perked up at the question but still kept her eyes trained on his chest. “Why won’t ye meet me eyes all of a sudden? Have I made ye uncomfortable? I apologize.”

“Nae, please! Nae.” She rubbed her arms not knowing what to say. “It is nae what ye think.”

“Are ye married then? Do ye’ve someone that ye…nae, I apologize. I shouldn’t have tried that.” Gawain looked down at his feet. “I was too forward but do ye like the ribbon?”

Davinia let her hand touch her old one in the pocket of her apron. “Aye. It is beautiful, thank ye. I’ll treasure it. I’m glad ye remembered something as little as me favorite color.”

“Do nae thank me. After all ye’ve done fer me over the years, taking care of me and noticing little things about me, it would be terrible of me if I did nae remember little things that you like.”

“Oh.” She sounded a little disappointed and Gawain looked up at her.

“What is the matter, have I said something wrong?”

“Nae, Gawain. I must be on me way. The festivities will begin soon.” She had gathered her dress and was already making her way out of his chambers. He called out to her but she had already shut the door in her wake leaving him to deal with his rejection alone.

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