Chapter One

Troy staggered across the thick, overgrown floor of the forest with one sole focus: staying alive. As the son of a Laird, he had grown up with the hefty weight of many responsibilities thrust onto his shoulders. It was a role that he had been born into, a role that had underlined everything he did. One day he was to lead the Macleod clan, and he wanted to do his father proud. But at that moment, staggering blindly through the undergrowth, there were no castle walls to protect him, and none of his father’s men had been able to get to him in time to help him. All he could do was flee and pray that his father and brother were right behind him as he did so.

Troy grunted, trying his best to remember the many years of training that should have equipped him for such an attack. But he felt like a stag caught out on the glen after dawn, left exposed for the hunters to find.

The trees around him swayed, appearing to bend and meander like water, lurching as though gripped by an invisible wind. He pushed through the densely packed columns of bark, the harsh surface callous against his hands, but also occasionally sticky from leaking sap.

Troy groaned. He stared at his hand which rested on the nearest tree, but the more he focused on it, the more he saw multiple hands. He shook his head, knowing that if he didn’t get help soon, he was going to lose consciousness.

Instead of letting himself panic, he tried to focus on keeping one hand pressed to the wound at his side. It wasn’t as sticky as the trees, but the consistency of blood was unmistakable. His white cotton shirt was saturated down his side. It gaped in the wake of being slashed by a blade, exposing his bare skin to the cool air of the forest. Troy continued pressing his hand to the cut skin, wincing at the contact on the sensitive area. He knew it was for the best to maintain pressure on the wound, though. The scarlet pouring out of him was thick and warm, Troy’s head spun as he staggered to the side. In his disorientated state, he wasn’t sure if it was his body turning, or the world around him.

“Troy! Run!” It was his father’s voice he heard, shouting from behind him. Troy turned to see that both his father, Andrew, and his brother were struggling after him, clutching their own wounds. Sweat was falling into his eyes as he stared at the scene before him. His father and brother were slowly catching up to him, but then Troy saw the two men behind them.

“Run!” He managed to force the word out. His voice was hoarse, like fingernails being scratched on stone.

His brother Douglas was slightly ahead of his father. Propelled forward with the aid of his youthful years still on his side, the strength and stamina in his body prevailed over that of his father’s. Douglas’ cheeks were pinched pink from the cold as well as the strain of running for so long. Troy could hear both of them gasping for air as they ran. Their eyes were wide, their movements desperate. His father was close to giving up. His eyes were closed for longer periods of time as he ran and the gap between him and Douglas was opening up with each step they took.

“Come on!” Troy was calling to them both desperately. He was urging them with his own body to run faster. “Please, they’re nearly upon ye!”

“Ye cannae stand and fight, Troy!” Douglas grunted after him. “Ye have to run too!”

“Aye, but I will nae leave ye!” Troy could hear the panic in his weak voice as his body struggled.

Standing still certainly felt better than running, but the pain in his side was still throbbing.

The men were still in pursuit. Determination filled their bright eyes and their bodies were neither fatigued nor injured. They were catching up.

“Run!” Douglas was pleading with him as they neared where Troy stood.

But it was too late. He heard the sound before they both went down. Troy watched helplessly with wide eyes as his father and brother fell slowly into the overgrowth, shining blades sticking out of both their backs.

“Nay!” It took Troy a moment to realize that he was the one shouting out for them. The cries which rang out around the forest were coming from him. But all he felt was blinding pain. He was sinking to his knees, his legs unable to hold him up as the men continued to advance.

Their sights were now fixed on Troy, the only one still alive. He no longer cared for his own life. Grief was sinking into his heart like a heavy stone falling to the bed of a river. Somehow, he could barely even feel the wound in his side now.

His entire life was beginning to fall away from him. Breathing was becoming difficult, and his face was covered with both tears and sweat. His heart, although broken, was still thumping mercilessly, but it felt as though it could give out at any moment. Troy groaned, his body becoming heavy. Each moment that passed was another moment where it felt even harder to get up. He was shaking, but he couldn’t control it.

His mind flew to the people of his father’s clan. What would become of them if any of the townspeople survived this attack? Would anyone be left to tell the truth of what had happened to them? History was always twisted by those who survived. Perhaps someone would let the truth be known to his people after he was gone.

The men were right in front of him, snarling and smirking at him as he pushed himself up to his knees. He was swaying as the trees had done in his vision, his eyes almost unseeing as two shadows stood over him.

“Please,” he found himself whispering, even though he knew that begging would do him no good. The wound at his side throbbed and dark curls of hair were clinging to the sweat on his brow, but Troy didn’t have the energy to push them away.

“Be prepared to join yer family,” one of the men said, chuckling mirthlessly. They were both unarmed, their blades still sticking out of the Laird and Troy’s brother. Troy felt sick at the thought of his family lying face down dead in the mud.

The men were coming at him with their fists. Knuckles found flesh, pounding against his head and body. Pain erupted within Troy. His entire body was on fire and he was slowly losing consciousness. The eternal darkness felt like a balm compared to what he had been through, and he looked forward to submerging himself in nothingness.

But he had always been taught to go down fighting, and even with no witness, he wanted a noble death. He lifted his arm, uncaring for the muscles that screamed in protest, and threw a weak punch at the nearest man. It connected with his side and caused the man to howl in pain, but it wasn’t enough.

In an instant, both men were back on him and using even more force. Troy knew at that moment that they were much stronger than he, that they would beat him regardless of him putting up a small fight.

His face was pushed to each side, his eyes closing up from the impact of severe punches. A knee found his chin, knocking his head back and causing Troy to see stars. The forest around him grew darker and he knew that it wasn’t because of the light. The two men continued until Troy put his hands out and fell fully to the dirty ground. The smell of earth was a blessing to him, a smell that he loved, but now that scent was marred by blood and dirt. Troy grunted as the blows kept coming. He knew that the only way it would end was if they believed him dead. He closed his eyes and let his body still, holding his already weak breath. It was terrifying to feign death when he was almost standing on its doorstep, but Troy had no other plan. No other option that could save him.

The pain cracked through his ribs, but Troy remained still. Another kick to his head sent his body sprawling, but still he made no movement of his own. Playing dead was cowardly, but at that moment, cowardice might be only thing that would keep his heart beating.

“He’s nae moving anymore,” one of the men remarked. “We’re just beating a lump.”

Another of them came over to him, leaning close to see if he was breathing. Troy held his breath and put every effort into staying still and silent.

“Aye, he’s gone,” the man said grimly.

“Come on then, let’s go,” the other said. Troy listened to two pairs of footsteps walking away. Everything hurt; it hurt to breathe, it hurt to simply exist, even just closing his eyes for one final time.

The men had left a dead man alive unknowingly, and Troy vowed that if the harsh conditions of the forest didn’t finish him off, he would get his revenge.

Chapter 2

Lorraine watched intently as the old lady stirred a large pot. Her green eyes were fixed on the movement of the wooden spoon. The concoction inside the pot was spreading the blissful scent of lavender around the healer’s house.

It was dark inside the house, but Lorraine always enjoyed the shadows that danced on the wall, avoiding the licking flames of the fire. She let her eyes fall onto the various books that littered the table in front of Skylar. She knew that the old healer could easily spend hours poring over the words and recipes.

Lorraine let her hands scan over the spines of three different books, her eyes flitting over the letters printed onto them. She was deciding which book to next devour, but the sound of Skylar tutting her stopped her in her tracks.

“Ye ken that yer father will nae approve,” Skylar said, shaking her head.

“Well, he is nae here,” Lorraine said. “And I can do what I want.” For Lorraine, the healer’s house was a daily escape. When her father wasn’t paying too much attention to her whereabouts, she would discretely leave the castle to get a few hours out in the fresh air of their clan lands. Lorraine would visit the healer and feel as though she had traveled to another world entirely. A world filled with wisdom, healing, and knowledge, where she could revel in her passions without her feeling ashamed of them. Her father would often make comments and berate her for reading books. But Skylar welcomed such activities, and so Lorraine felt drawn to the peculiar house near the border.

“Ye are certainly a force tae be reckoned with!” The older woman’s wrinkled skin was pinched as she smiled at Lorraine’s response.

“My mother did nae teach me before her death for it to go to waste,” Lorraine said with narrowed eyes. Her heart had never quite been as full since her mother passed, and reading was just one of the ways that she could honor her memory.

“Raine, she didnae die for ye to run around with yer skirts creased and yer shoes off,” Skylar pointed out.

Lorraine shrugged off the comment, not caring about the healer’s remarks about her appearance. It wasn’t something that was ever high up on her priorities, and Lorraine heard enough complaints from her father about how she looked and conducted herself.

“Aye, I ken,” Lorraine said with a huff of frustration. “But she never asked me to be someone I was nae. I could run about like this all day and as long as I was clean for dinner, she had no complaints.”

“And that is why yer father would argue with her so much,” Skylar reminded her with a slight chuckle.

“He just has different ideas on how I should behave,” Lorraine grumbled.

“He wants ye to behave like the daughter of a Laird.”

“And I dinnae want to, I want to be myself,” Lorraine said firmly. “If ye could hear how loud my father gets when he yells at me for conducting myself like this, I think ye would save yer breath on trying to tell me such things.”

She laughed to herself, wondering when people would finally realize that she wasn’t like other noble girls. She didn’t care about her appearance; she wanted to be outside, running around, not worrying about the state of her skirts. She habitually walked around the castle with creased skirts that were always littered with tears at the bottom, the material snagging on twigs and catching around corners. Her red hair flowed like a wild river, strewn with tangles and knots that would force her maids to strain themselves when attempting to brush through it. “Is he still trying to find ye a husband?” Skylar asked without looking up from what she was doing.

“Aye, but he is nae going to get anywhere so long as I am around.” Lorraine couldn’t keep the pride out of her voice. The suitors that came to her clan were invited by her father, and they weren’t men that Lorraine would ever choose for herself. They could be too young or too old, too rude or too quiet, and she was still never given a choice as to whether she even wanted to be introduced to them.

“Ye cause him such trouble,” the old healer chuckled.

“Aye, but it’s only because he tries to get me to do so many things that I dinnae want to do.”

“Ye will have to marry eventually.”

“And I will, but I will follow my mother’s wish too. She wanted me to marry a man I love.”
Skylar glanced up at her while cocking an eyebrow in amusement. “And who will love a noblewoman who runs around barefoot?”

Lorraine had left her boots by the front door, enjoying the feeling of the cool stones beneath her bare feet. It caused a shiver to pass through her, and she moved closer to the small fire that the healer was working from.

“None of the men that my father invites to the castle, that’s what I’m counting on,” Lorraine explained with a rather determined look on her face. “He kens that I can read, but it displeases him,” Lorraine continued, her eyes flicking over the words on the page before her. “He kens that I leave the castle most days and roam about outdoors, but that displeases him too.”

Skylar continued her stirring, focusing heavily on the consistency of the mixture. Lorraine knew that she was probably boring Skylar half to death with her endless complaints about her father.

The old woman had heard it all before. But Lorraine could watch the healer work for hours without boring herself. The various herbs and flowers freshly picked from the forest nearby could create tinctures and mixtures that possessed the power of healing. Lorraine found it incredible that the leaves and flowers she passed most days could do such things. You just had to have the knowledge to know how to unlock their powers.

“Ye should still be getting back soon. Ye ken that yer father will be even angrier if ye arrive back after dark,” Skylar said eventually.

The healer was staring at her with eyes that had long since been glazed over by time, their pigment faded to a dull grey. Lorraine had been told that the old woman’s eyes were once the kind of deep green that could be found in the depths of the forest. She wondered if there was anyone still alive who had ever seen them or if the healer had outlived all those who knew her when she was young. Lorraine knew that it was a part of life, but she wished that she could have seen the healer in her prime; a young and radiant woman with the power to heal those around her sounded rather magical.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” Lorraine said, closing the book in front of her. She had carefully folded the corner of the page she’d been on with two pale fingers so that she could pick up where she had left off from the next day.

“Would ye be able to get some flowers for me in the morning?” Skylar asked, her gaze focused on counting the number of droplets she was letting fall into the mixture. Lorraine had realized long ago that making a potion was a form of juggling – though much more advanced than the kind of juggling the court fool could manage. The potion-maker had to be accurate with measurements as well as skilled at crushing up the herbs and flowers properly and knowing the right order to put the ingredients into the pot. Lorraine greatly admired the healer; she had always been focused on her own passions and destiny, never worrying about pleasing other people.

“Aye, which flowers?” Lorraine asked, before opening the old wooden door to leave the house.

“Foxglove and Bog Myrtle,” Skylar said. “But if you see any Gorse too, that could be helpful, I ken it’s nae in season so dinnae worry if nae.”

Lorraine nodded. “Aye, I will do my best.”

“Thank ye, child. Now run along and leave my name out of yer mouth if ye encounter yer father!” Skylar called after her as she closed the door behind her.

The healer’s house was a short ride from the castle, but because it was close to the clan’s border, her father didn’t like her to venture there too often. Yet, Lorraine liked the adventure and the risk of being out in the wild; trees and overgrowth surrounded her as she mounted her horse and headed back toward the main road back to the castle of Clan Mackenzie.

The afternoon was drawing to a close, grey clouds merging into darker grey clouds in
the west, and as she rode faster, Lorraine sensed that a strong wind was picking up. The morning dew was still settled on the grass like an enemy besieging their land; it hadn’t managed to thaw since the bank of clouds across the sky had failed to offer up any sun throughout the day.

Lorraine suppressed a shudder as she pulled her dirty cloak closer around her neck, the ends of it spattered by mud from her many riding trips.

By the time she reached the castle, Lorraine was tired from the day spent outdoors. Her cheeks were cold and the idea of sitting by the fire in her chambers was incredibly enticing. She felt fulfilled from her day of reading in Skylar’s house and gathering flowers for her. Lorraine was accustomed to roaming through the forest on her own. She wasn’t scared, as her father’s clan lands were much safer than those lands further afield. She never encountered any strangers, and she never expected to either.

She was sure, though, that if her father knew the extent of where she roamed alone, he would lock her in her chambers like a lonely princess in a far-off land until she had learned her lesson.

She rode through the main gates of the castle. The courtyard was busy enough that her entrance wasn’t noticed by too many people. Lorraine quickly spotted the begrudging stable hand who would help her daily by readying her horse for her. He was a rather skinny and small boy who wore a frown more often than not, but she tipped him well to be discreet in his work. Lorraine smiled as she handed him the reins of her horse, a noble beast who had never done her wrong.

“Thank ye,” she said, then turned to glance around in search of the one man she hoped she wouldn’t see. Her eyes moved up the dark stone walls of the castle, which loomed over the hill like the leader of a stone army, the towns around it all loyal to its call. Her father was standing on one of the lookout posts, but he wasn’t alone.

Lorraine froze as she stared up at the Laird. Her father’s hair was greying and the skin around his eyes and lips had cracked many years ago, the darkness of the hour pronouncing such wrinkles. But her father wasn’t the one she was concerned about; it was the man at his side who worried her.

She stepped to the side slightly so that she was out of their view, but her eyes remained trained on the two men above her. The man by her father’s side was certainly older than her, his own greys beginning to dapple in his dark hair.

Lorraine knew in an instant what it would be about.

Her father was determined to marry her off, and he had become obsessed with finding her a husband as soon as possible. He claimed that it would be the best thing for the clan if she were to create a union with another nearby clan.

Lorraine was no stranger to duty; it was something that had been taught to her since she could talk. But the thought of marrying a man she didn’t love was not appealing to her. Before her mother had died, she had urged Lorraine to marry a man who caused her heart to flutter. But with each day that passed, Lorraine grew less and less sure that she would find such a man.

She had been thwarting his plans each time a new suitor came to the clan, and this man would be no exception. Lorraine quickly started into the castle, heading straight up the winding stone staircase to where her father was located with the latest suitor. Her lungs burned as she took the stairs two at a time, her cheeks turning pink and long, red hair falling in her face.

Lorraine stood in the doorway, while the two men surveyed the bustling courtyard below with their backs to her. She inched closer, turning back to make sure that no servants would catch her eavesdropping, then strained her ears to listen to their conversation.

“I do believe that the bond this marriage would form between Clan Mackenzie and Clan Sinclair would be very advantageous,” her father was saying.

“Aye, I do believe that it would be,” the man agreed with him, turning his head slightly to smile in the Laird’s direction. “Our clan has many different trade routes, some of which I do believe ye aren’t able to access from up here.”
Trade routes.

Lorraine knew that it was her duty. Her father had told her many times before, but that still didn’t make it any easier for her. She was to be married to a man because of the advantages it would bring in trade for the clan. Lorraine had no problem admitting that she was stubborn, but she just couldn’t see herself ever growing to love the man in front of her. She couldn’t stop the way that her face scrunched up. Her green eyes narrowed and Lorraine could no longer hold herself back.

“Father,” Lorraine said, stepping out from the doorway and onto the small lookout area of the castle. Both men jumped slightly at the sound of her voice as they turned around to see her.

Lorraine smiled, knowing from the two expressions that met her that her appearance alone would work. But she decided to fully commit to the role that she was trying to enact for them

“Ah, Alan, please allow me to introduce ye to my daughter,” her father was forced to say rather reluctantly.

She smiled widely – almost unpleasantly – exposing her teeth to him while bowing slightly, letting loose strands of her hair fall in front of her face.

Lorraine straightened up to see the disgust that the man, Alan, could no longer hide in his expression.

“Lorraine, this is Alan. his father is Laird Sinclair, and he is next in line for the lairdship,” her father said while shooting her a look of warning.

“It’s nice to meet ye,” Lorraine said, thickening her accent ever so slightly. She could see the disapproval in her father’s face, but that was only a sign that spurred her on.

“Ye are…the Laird’s daughter?” Alan asked while narrowing his eyes at her in confusion.

Lorraine had to stifle a laugh, knowing that her plan was working. “Aye, of course!” she said while raising her voice suddenly to catch him by surprise.

As she spoke, Lorraine saw his eye twitch and his head shake slightly. Alan was poised as though ready to run in an instant. She scratched the side of her scalp just for emphasis, trying to seem as wild as she thought she could get away with.

“I…” Alan swallowed thickly as he glanced between Lorraine and her father.
She caught the Laird giving her another look of disapproval as she simply smiled in response.

“I will have to speak with my father,” Alan said hesitantly. “I feel that there have been some…miscommunications.”

“What?” the Laird asked, as his dark eyes widened.

Lorraine pushed her hair out of her eyes, tugging at her dress to show some of the more prominent rips in the material.

“If ye would both excuse me, I must retire to my chambers now,” Lorraine said while continuing to smile. But before she could leave, Alan pushed past her and started for the stairs.

“Come back!!” her father called after him as he headed for the stairs too, but not before Lorraine caught the flash of anger in his eyes.

She stepped back out into the fresh air, watching as the two men emerged into the courtyard below. Her father was calling after Alan, a man who Lorraine knew would no longer consider her as a potential wife. She couldn’t help but chuckle as the man stumbled while grabbing for the reins of his horse. His manservant was clearly confused by Alan’s sudden need to leave but said nothing as he too started to mount his own horse. Her father stopped calling to him, and Lorraine knew that he wouldn’t want to cause too much of a scene in front of his people.

Her laughter continued until the dark eyes of her father, bursting at the seams with anger, found hers once more. She stopped quickly when she saw the fury in them, knowing that he would shout like thunder if he reached her.

“Don’t go anywhere!” he shouted up to her. But Lorraine was already turning and dashing back into the castle. She had to get to her chambers before he could catch her. She could laugh all she liked, but she knew that, in the end, her father had the power to ruin her life if he wanted to, taking away every ounce of freedom and happiness she had ever known.

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

Chapter One

Drumnadrochit, 1594

“Hurry up, lass!”

“I am moving as fast as I can, Ma,” Maisie said breathlessly as she followed her mother out of the small cottage.

It had rained earlier, and the mud made squelching sounds with every step they took. The night was dark, and every sound echoed like they were walking through an empty tunnel. The wet and cold clung to them like webbed fingers reaching out into the night to swallow them.

The wooden gate banged shut behind them, and Maisie jumped in fright and clamped her hand over her chest. “Thing scared the life out o’ me.”
Her mother grabbed her hand and pulled her deeper into the pitch darkness. They were barely breathing when she stuck her head out, searching the narrow path for signs of life.

“‘Tis nae a braw night for healing,” she hissed. “It’s all wet and muddy, I can barely move properly.”

“Ye ken we had tae come see him,” Maisie replied to her as she inched forward, her heart in her chest. “He did nae look so well the last time, an’ his poor mother did nae ken what else tae do.”

“I ken that, child,” her mother snapped, and pulled the blanket scarf over her head.

“I hope he is well enough now,” Maisie said with concern.

“‘Tis nae the lad we best worry about now,” her mother said as they started off hastily down the path. “We need to get back home quickly.”

Panic gripped them as they moved faster, looking behind them for any signs of trouble. It was dangerous to be out at all, and the sounds of hounds barking in the distance did not help their worry. That was sure to be the King’s men on their nightly quest to find the healers they called witches to add to the mountain of scorched bodies they had already burned.

“They are coming!” her mother cried as she started running. She was a plump woman, and with the mud pulling at her soaked tartan, it was getting harder for her to move quickly.

“Maybe we should hide,” Maisie suggested as the barking cut through the night.

They both froze. The sound was much too close for comfort, and with great reluctance, they turned onto a narrow lane, right into the path of a bearded man wearing a scowl and carrying a torch. Their eyes connected, and Maisie was instantly rooted to the spot.

“Over here!” the man bellowed into the night, signaling his company.

“Quickly now, child,” Maisie’s mother said as her voice trembled, and she grabbed her daughter with shaky hands. They pushed through the wooden fence to their right, which led to a yard in the clustered village. As soon as they had squeezed through the narrow opening, bearing the brunt of the rotting wood scratching against the sleeves of their tartans, they spotted the others. The once dark night was littered with torchlight as the angry mob spotted them and started running.

“There they are!” someone yelled. “Burn the witches!”

“Ma!” Maisie cried as she clung to her mother who pulled her along. “We have tae run faster, or they will catch us!”

Maisie’s breath came out in ragged gasps, and her mouth was parched dry despite the damp air. Her chest burned as she ran, her wicker basket tucked under one arm, and her mother’s hand in the other. She knew the village well, but she was not sure if they would get away that time.

Their pursuers probably knew where they lived. They’d seen their faces, which meant home was no longer their safe place. The angry mob had only one thing on their mind – burning them at the stake.

The panic swelled in Maisie’s chest as they turned a bend that led to a neighbor’s yard she knew well. They were very familiar with the layout of the village, perhaps even better than the people chasing them, which gave them their only advantage. They had to pass through a grove of trees, and the low-lying branches clawed at their faces and slapped against their arms like they too were inanimate accomplices of the evil that chased them.

“Och!” her mother exclaimed as she stopped suddenly.

Maisie, caught off guard by her mother’s abrupt stop, felt her body snap back like new stockings. “Ma, what is it?”

“Caught me foot on a wee branch,” her mother said and pulled herself upright again. “I lost some of me herbs.”

“We can nae think about that now. We must go before they catch us. Ye ken well what they will do,” Maisie reminded her.

The woman nodded sadly, tucked her basket under her arm, and scurried after Maisie who plunged into the thick darkness like she was a part of it. The barking and shouting were close, and fear gripped her with every step. The wet, night air seemed to be pulling her back. She was running breathless, but she did not feel like she was moving.

Once they hit the clearing, she stopped and surveyed the village. There were no signs of their pursuers. “Okay, quick, Ma,” she said as they stole from the woods and ducked between the alleys. “We need tae get home right away.”

Maisie had heard about the other people that had been caught and the horrible things they had done. As she clung to her mother, her chest burning and her eyes peeled, she was afraid to even blink. Her entire body was in survival mode, and she could barely think above the pounding of her head and heart.

“We should nae be running like this,” her mother said breathlessly as they climbed the small incline just below their cottage. “All we did was help out a wee lad in pain.”
“It is nae time tae be thinking about that now, Ma,” Maisie told her as she glanced behind her. The barking was in the distance, but she knew the hounds would find their scent soon enough. It was not the time to be thinking of anything but running and hiding.

“I am an old woman, me child. I can nae run like ye,” she complained as she hobbled as fast as she could. “Even now, me poor back hurts so much, I can hardly keep up anymore.”

Maisie wanted to comfort her mother, but she did not have the luxury of that. Their pursuers were already close to finding them both, achy back or not. They could not stop. She was not even sure she could make it to their cottage without being discovered, which meant she had to enter from the back – the long way round.

They dashed through the alleyways like thieves in the night, stealing away to their own home. She was far too young for all that running, and even younger to be burned alive.

Her red hair escaped her shawl as her feet moved like those of an antelope in flight. She was about to make her way across the glen that would bring her up the hill yonder, leading to the narrow path behind their land, when she spotted the torches again.
“Hold on, Ma,” Maisie said and grabbed her mother’s hand.

She leaned against the broken stone column that used to be the old church, holding her breath, and praying they had not been spotted. At least that party did not have the hounds.

“Nothing here!” she heard someone shout.

“Ye ken how these witches are,” a gruff voice responded. “Maybe disappeared or turned into a toadstool. Keep looking.”

“They will nae get far tonight,” his comrade answered. “They are close.”

Maisie watched as the men walked away, but she did not dare move. Their cottage was a little distance across the glen, and she was afraid of being dragged back by angry hounds and rabid humans hungry for the smell of burning flesh.

She would not give them the satisfaction, but her feet would not budge. Fear had paralyzed her, and she leaned against the stone structure, clutching her bodice as her legs grew weak.

“Ye can nae faint now, lass,” her mother said. “The cottage is just yonder. We can nae stay here, or they will find us fer sure.”

“I ken,” Maisie said as she struggled to breathe. Her head felt like it had swollen to twice its size, but she could not remain rooted to the spot. Her pursuers were relentless. They would not stop. “Come on.”

She did not dare look to the right or the left as she scurried across the glen, her head low and the shawl covering her, allowing her to blend into the night.

The door banged against the stone wall as Maisie pushed it with all the strength she had left, and Graham ran to the door when he heard the crash. “Uncle!”

“What is the matter with ye, lass?” he asked, his eyes wide with fright.

“The King’s men,” Maisie replied breathlessly, clutching her throat for much-needed air. “They are after us. We can nae stay here.”

“The King’s men? After ye? Why?” Graham asked, his dark eyes piercing hers as he clutched her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Ye ken well,” Maisie’s mother scolded as she peered out the window. “We are healers, and they dae nae ken how we do what we do, so they believe we are something else.”

“Och!” Graham cried and hurried to the window. He peered outside for any sign of the enraged mob. “I told ye not to go.”

“Ye ken well I can nae see the poor lad in pain and do nothin’,” her mother replied. “We had tae go.”

“And look at what it cost ye,” Graham snarled, his long beard swishing across his chest. His bald head glowed from the torch perched on the stone wall and magnified his shadow behind him, so he seemed to fill the room. “Quick, get some things together. Ye have tae leave now!”

“I ken,” Maisie replied and busied herself with wrapping up some loaves of bread with cheese, a bottle of milk, some jam, and some herbs she kept in a small sack. “Ma, get some clothes.”

“That’s what I am doing, lass,” her mother said and waved her off. “And ye, Graham. Ye have tae come with us. They will hang ye if they ken ye live with us.”

Graham sighed as signs of worry creased his brows. “Och!” he exclaimed and slammed his fist onto the wooden table in anger. “Fine.”

Maisie was still wrapping the parcel together when they heard a loud commotion outside. “In there!” someone cried.

And Maisie’s heart almost caved. A frantic shriek escaped her, and all three of them charged toward the back door just in time to hear the front crash to the ground.
“Seize them!” a voice boomed in the night, already pronouncing Maisie guilty of having compassion.

She did not look back as she scrambled through the slippery backyard and dashed toward the thick grove in front of them. Torches blazed in the night as the cries rang out behind them.

“Oh!” Maisie’s mother cried as she slipped and fell.

“Ma!” Maisie cried and tried to run back to her.

Graham grabbed Maisie around the middle, her arms and legs flailing as he pulled her back like a hapless puppet. “No!” he cried and tried to run with her under his arm.

“If ye go back, they will get both of ye.”

“I can nae leave her,” Maisie screamed. Tears rolled down her face as she watched the angry mob descend upon her mother.

They grabbed her and bound her as Graham ran away into the forest with Maisie tucked away under his arm like a sack of potatoes.

“No! No!” Maisie cried. “Let me go. We have to go back!” she wailed as she squirmed and tried to get away from him.

But Graham continued running as fast as he could. Maisie could not understand why he would just leave her mother to the King’s men. He knew what they would do to her. She craned her neck to see, but the only visible thing in the dark were the specks of light as her uncle whisked her away.

When Graham finally set her down, she crumpled into a heap against a large, oak tree. “They took her,” she sniffled and rubbed her burning eyes. “They will kill her. Why did you nae go back for her?”

Graham sighed and knelt in front of her. “I ken, lass,” he said. “But I could nae go back for her. It would have been too dangerous for ye, and me,” he said and stood again. He placed his hands on his hips and stared into the darkness like he could see something she could not.

“I ken,” Maisie sniffled and wiped under her nose with the hem of her scarf. “What am I going tae dae without her?”

He sighed again and slipped his arm around her shoulder. “Ye will nae be alone, lass,” he told her. “Ye still have me.”

She stood and fell into his embrace, her tears drenching his overcoat. She felt all her tiredness seeping into him as he held her. She needed rest, but she was not allowed to have it. Not if she kept practicing healing. The country did not take too well to things it did not understand. Maisie did not understand it either, but she had inherited it from her mother – they simply knew which herbs were better for different sicknesses.

Even though they had helped a lot of people, the rumors still flew around the country, and they were constantly hunted. It was exhausting.

“Come,” Graham told her and helped her to her feet.

“I have tae go back,” Maisie cried and pulled on his arm.

“Maisie, are ye mad? They will kill ye along with yer mother if they find ye,” he warned. “We have tae leave here.”

“I need to ken what happened to her,” she sobbed. “Please, Uncle. I must ken. I can nae keep running not kennin’ if she is well or…”

Graham sighed and looked around him, the darkness swelling around them. “Follow me.”
He led her through a thicket of trees to one of the places known for the burnings. Maisie wanted to throw up. She did not know what she would do without her mother around, and to know that it was all because of the special gifts they had that people just did not understand. They were not hurting anybody or turning anyone into toads. She wished they could have left them alone.

“Wait here,” Graham said and disappeared over a mound.

Maisie stood alone, hugging herself, the loaves and cheese she had left home with forgotten. She could not eat even if she wanted to. The lump in her throat would prevent her from swallowing. She looked around wildly at every cracking twig or rustling leaf, anticipating her uncle’s return, but all that greeted her was the blanket of darkness that seemed all too eager to embrace her. Her body quaked, and she barely felt herself breathing. Her mind started to race that she would get caught if she stuck around any longer when she heard movement to her right. She jumped up, her eyes peeled and her breath still, when she saw that it was her uncle.

“This way,” Graham called to her.

She breathed a momentary sigh of relief as she joined him, pulling the thick cloak over her head. They could not go closer to the site, but Graham managed to find a place where they could see what was happening.

Maisie’s heart sank when she saw her mother bound to a pile of wood.
“Please!” her mother shrieked, piercing the night with her cries. “Have mercy!”

“Shut up, witch!” someone spat. “Begone with ye!”

Maisie’s heart ached to watch as her mother’s wails traveled to her ears and cut at her heartstrings. She wished at that moment she was a witch, and that she could free her mother. But all she could do was watch as tears cascaded down her cheeks.

“I curse all of ye!” she heard her mother yell after a couple of minutes of endless torment. “Ye will all burn in hell for this! I curse all of ye!”

Maisie watched as one of the men approached with a torch and touched the base of the pyre. The flames leaped forward, lapping at the wood, and climbed the stacks to her mother. They must have doused her with something, as she was instantaneously engulfed in flames, and her shrieks were deafening.

Maisie collapsed to the ground, her hands over her eyes. She could not watch, and she wished she could not hear.

“I am sorry,” Graham said as he fell beside her. “I wish things were nae this way.” Maisie had never seen her giant of an uncle weak before, and when he crumpled to the ground next to her, his broad shoulders rocking as he sobbed, she melted into his arms.

“I can nae believe she is gone,” Maisie cried as her body rocked violently with grief. “What am I going tae do?”

“Curse them all,” Graham growled and released her. He stood and faced the mob. The only sounds they could hear were the crackling of the fire as it devoured her mother, and Graham balled his fists and slammed it into the earth. “Barbarians!” he cried.

“They will nae get away with this, I swear it on my life.”

His words scratched at her already raw emotions, evoking more tears. Maisie could barely find the strength to stand. The smell of burning flesh drifted to them on the mound and years of her mother’s kind face flitted before her mind’s eye.

“Come on, lass.” Graham sighed and reached down to pick her up. She was only a small thing, and her flaming-red hair that matched her spirit was consumed by the night as he lifted her, and she hung against him, almost lifeless.

Maisie could barely manage a coherent thought as her head rolled back and forth against her uncle’s chest as he walked. But the one thing she knew was that her life would never be the same again.

Chapter Two

“Laird, they are waiting for you in the main hall!” a frantic Fiona cried as she pushed the wooden door in and entered her master’s bedchamber.

“Let them wait,” Creighton said as he stood by the window, his back turned to her and his eyes scouring the land that was now his to rule.

Laird of Castle Urquhart. It did not even sound right. He knew the title would pass to him one day, but now that it had, it did not seem to fit him as snugly as it had his father.

He stared out at the vast expanse of pale green on the moors as the heavy morning mist shrouded the thatched roofs of the cottages below. It gave off a dark and ominous feeling, and he clenched his jaws before he turned.

“It is nae a braw time to be back home,” he said and walked over to his bed.

“It does nae matter, Creighton,” Fiona said as she hurried to get him undressed. “Ye are back now, and things will have tae change.”

“I wish I was still back in France,” he sighed. “Things were uncomplicated then.”

She stopped moving and stood in front of him, her brown eyes burning into his. “Stop that nonsense!” she spat as her nostrils flared. “Ye are the only one who can govern this clan, and ye ken it well,” she said, her arms gesticulating for emphasis.

Creighton turned and smiled at her. Fiona had been his maid since he was a child, but she had grown to be so much more than that. He considered her one of his best friends. She was always the one behind him pushing him when he doubted himself, and he would always cherish her.

“I have heard how they talk about me,” Creighton sighed. “No one thinks I have what it takes tae take over the clan after my father.”

“And since when did ye give a rat’s arse about what anyone thinks, huh?” Fiona asked and placed her hands on her hips. She was a foot shorter than him, which meant she had to crane her neck to get a good look at his six-foot-two frame.

Creighton smiled and placed his hand on her shoulder. She had pale skin that was practically flawless, and eyes so bright it caught the attention of many a man wherever she went. The bonnet she wore hid the soft, golden hair underneath, something perhaps only a few people like himself had seen when she removed it in moments of safety. She was a beautiful woman, and he wondered at her never choosing a husband.

“What would I do without ye?” he asked.

She slapped his hand away. “Ye would likely wither away in a dram cellar somewhere.”

She smiled. “Now, how about ye get dressed, and get this over with?”

He chuckled. “Bossy are ye nae?” he teased.

“I will leave the bossing to ye, Laird,” she said and did a low courtesy before she started giggling.

“Ye fancy yerself to be funny?” He laughed louder, his deep baritone bouncing off the stone walls.

She grinned and handed him the green and black kilt. “Put this on. An’ do not forget the brooch. They will kill ye for leaving it out.”

Creighton grunted as he walked over to his bath. The water was already warm, and he stripped down and stepped into it.

“I am getting tired o’ seeing that arse.” Fiona giggled.

“Stop looking.” Creighton chuckled and slipped into the water.

She walked over to him and knelt next to the bath, her chin resting on her hands against the edge of the tub. “I missed ye when ye went to France.”

“Missed ye, too.” He sighed. “But ye had Jamie. I am sure he made up for all o’ the trouble I’d have given ye.”

“Och!” she said and waved him off. “Jamie was much too busy for the likes of me.”

Creighton laughed, but there was no happiness in him. He’d only returned to Scotland a year ago to take care of his father when he’d gotten ill. As the months rolled on, he knew his father was not going to get better, and his time abroad had come to an end. He had to remain at Castle Urquhart as its Laird.

His father had been a hard man – not the kindest, and certainly not the most loving. But he was his father, and he’d spent the last couple of weeks mourning his death. The time for mourning had come to an end, and some things needed to get done, and he had to be the one to do it.

He sighed and stepped out of the bath. Fiona helped him get dressed, smoothing his long black hair back and tying it with a ribbon. He stood like a giant next to her as he pulled her in and kissed the top of her head.

She disappeared toward her quarters as soon as he stood in the long stone passage. He held onto the small sword dangling on his hip and could easily trace the markings of the Lennox emblem on the hilt.

Creighton sucked in a deep breath and walked off. His footsteps echoed in the hollow tunnel as he made his way to the main hall where the elders had gathered. They’d come to ratify his ascension to Laird, but even from afar, he could hear the grumblings of disapproval.

When he entered the archway and stood above the two stone steps that descended into the room, a hush came over it as all eyes turned to him. He was happy to see at least two friendly faces. Brodric, his ever-faithful sword-master, and Jamie, his right-hand man, and friend for life. He was sure to have at least two votes – if voting even mattered.

He was the rightful heir to the clan, and unless he surrendered that, then they had to accept him. Their acceptance, however, would make it easier for him.

“I did nae think he could find his way to us,” a sour-faced man spat when he saw Creighton, but he spoke louder than he realized. Creighton heard him and flashed him a disapproving look. He recognized the man as Laird Mackenzie, head of one of the largest clans on that side of the coast. Their opinion of him, however, did not matter. Whether they liked him or not, he was their Laird.

Creighton clenched his jaws and stepped down, making his way to the head of the gathering. “Now that I am here,” he said, spreading his arms before he sat, “shall we?”

He knew he was in for a great many protests, but he could handle it. Brodric raised his brows at him and then nodded his approval.

Jamie was the first to stand from his seat next to Creighton. “As ye all ken, Creighton is the rightful heir to the Lennox clan. That’s indisputable. Frankly, I am not sure why we are gathered here. There is nay a thing tae talk about.”

Creighton smiled to himself. He was not surprised by Jamie’s words – he was always quick to defend him and was always generous with the truth.

“There is plenty tae talk about,” Baron Weiss ranted. “What does the lad ken about being a laird? Why he was almost still a bairn when he left.”

Several nods were circulating the room and hushed whispers. Creighton pinched his chin and surveyed his subjects. “And ye think ye could do a better job?”

“Of course!” the baron cried and toyed with his silk neck scarf. “What do ye ken?” he asked and glared at Creighton.

“Does it matter?” Brodric chimed in from his relaxed posture on the wooden chair. “He is the heir.”

“It does!” someone else piped in, a long, thin man who was a wealthy farmer. “In case ye haven’t noticed, the lands are constantly ravaged by other clans seeking power. The clan Lennox needs a strong leader so they will nae prey on us. We dae nae need a boy who barely remembers the Highlands.”

“He grew up here, on these very lands,” Jamie jumped in. “He kens it well.”

“No one kens who he is!” the baron persisted. “He has been living in France for years! He will fail as a laird!”

Creighton’s chest tightened as he listened to the men talking about him like he was not there.

“Our enemies ken nothing o’ him,” Alderman MacIntosh, a thin and lanky man, commented.

“They will laugh at us. We need someone who is feared, like his father before him. Look at him!” he declared as he stood and pointed to Creighton.

Creighton slammed his fist onto the table and rose. “What about me?” he asked and glowered at the man. “Ye think me a boy because I lived somewhere else fer a few years? Is it fear ye want?” he asked and walked over to the man.

“All am saying is, ye can nae rule the people if they think ye weak,” the Alderman said as his lips trembled. Creighton towered over him, inciting the very fear they claimed he lacked as a leader.

“I am not weak!” he snarled. “This is my home, and I will nae let it be overrun by other clans.”

“But who’s tae believe ye?” Baron Weiss asked. “Ye do not have a reputation. It’d be better if ye marry into one of those wealthy and powerful clans and bind our kin together.”

“Yes,” some others mumbled as Creighton’s eyes widened. “Marry?”

“Yes,” Baron Weiss continued. “If ye marry into a well-known clan, and get a bairn, ah, then ye’ll be known fer sure.”

“We’d be stronger,” some others agreed.

“I will marry soon enough!” Creighton declared and walked back to his seat. “I will nae marry because ye think that’s the only way fer me tae look strong.”

“That alone tells us yer not fit to be Laird of this castle,” Baron Weiss snarled and shifted on his chair, his curly brown hair swishing against his shoulders. “A good laird does what is necessary fer his clan.”

Creighton paused and looked at the rest of the men gathered in front of him. They had already made up their minds, and to go against them would prove exactly what they were saying about him – that he was weak and incapable. They had skillfully played him, and his back was up against the wall. He had no problems with marrying. He knew he would have to marry, and likely to a lass from one of the other powerful clans. What he disliked was the way they made him look weak, like he needed a wife to appear capable. He could tell it would be the question he’d have to answer every day until he found a wife. And he had not even started looking yet.

“If it is a wife ye think I need, fine!” Creighton growled. “But dae nae ye dare think me weak! I may not be me father, but I will make me reputation in these parts. I will find a lass. Until then, there’s another business we need tae tend tae.”

He’d grown up with his mother and father treating each other like strangers. There had been no love between them. They’d married to unite two clans, and there he was, on the verge of doing the very thing he’d hoped he would not have to do. He was still a romantic at heart and had hoped his wife would have been a woman he could love. He was quickly thrust into a life he was not fully prepared for, but there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing that would not mean abandoning his clan. His hopes at love quickly fled his life, and in its place, only business. If his father were still alive, he’d have encouraged the same thing, and quickly. He’d have been front and center in pointing him out as a failure too.

Creighton sighed and wiped his hand down his face. He needed a whole bottle of dram. Or something else to clear his head.

Pegasus was the first thing that came to mind – his trusted horse.

“I am glad to see ye are disposed tae taking counsel, milord,” the Baron replied glumly, a smug smile spreading across his face. “‘Tis nothing new ye will be inventing. Why half o’ us in this here room got married for the same reason.”

Creighton’s greatest concern at that moment was where he could find a bride, but he was also sure there would be many suggestions from the council members. With any luck, some Lairds would come around with their daughters and one bonny lass would catch his eye.

When Creighton left the main hall, his was the only pensive face remaining. Brodric followed him.

“What are ye going tae do?” he asked. “I can visit some of the other lairds, see if I can find ye a lass worth looking at.”

Creighton chuckled. “That’s the best I can hope fer right now.”

“Ye ken this might happen when ye came back,” Brodric replied sympathetically. “That’s why I was with ye all those years in France. Make sure ye never lost yer way. And ye did nae do that,” he said and peered into Creighton’s eyes. “Now, ye just have tae do what is necessary.”

“I ken,” Creighton told him.

“It is nae the worst thing in the world, lad,” Brodric said as they stepped back to allow some council members to pass them by. “Have ye seen Baron Weiss’ wife?” he whispered and the two erupted into laughter.

“I see yer point,” Creighton replied, and they continued walking for a second in silence. After a while, they stopped, and Creighton pressed his hand down hard on Brodric’s shoulder. “Yer a good lad, ye ken?” he asked.

“I ken,” Brodric smiled.

“I am going tae go for a ride tae clear my head,” Creighton told him. “I will nae think about it fer now. There’s always tomorrow.”

“Dae nae fash, Creighton!” he shouted after him. “I will look out for ye.”

And Creighton did not doubt he would. When he’d decided to go to France, Brodric had not hesitated to go with him. And he’d stuck with him throughout all his brawls and awkward phases. He’d taught him the art of swordsmanship and had kept talk of the Highlands alive. Always. And it had come down to one thing nonetheless – the age-old, fool-proof way for their clan to move forward, simply by taking one step back.

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

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.

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