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

Chapter One

Northumbria, 1320

Laila was in the stables. She had seen the rain clouds gathering and hurried to ensure her horse was prepared for the turn in the weather. The horse was fine, of course, safely stabled and enclosed from the elements, but Laila knew that he hated the rain, and so she always paid him a visit before it fell.

Her chestnut hair fell loosely around her shoulders and across her brow, stopping just short of her dark, intense eyes. Freckles adorned her nose and upper cheeks, and her dimples appeared at the mere thought of a smile.

“Come now, it’s all fine, my friend,” she said to the horse, running her hands over his snout. “It’s just a bit of rain.” And on cue, the drops began to patter against the roof. Unlike the castle’s meeting hall, the stable did leak, and a few buckets had been appropriately positioned to catch the stray drops. The horse looked back at her without amusement.

“Well, I can’t make it stop,” she said, staring right back into his eyes. “So, you will just have to endure.” The horse replied with a disapproving snort. “I’ll be back for you later,” she said. “Stay safe then, don’t get spooked.”

Laila knew she was late. The dinner bell had rung some time ago, but she didn’t have much of a mind for being timely. Who was there other than her grumbling father? She hated to listen to his whining, especially as he continued to drink, but still, she knew that he was terribly lonely, and so she put up with it.

Of course, she loved him as her father, but of late, he had become so dreadfully sullen that she found him often difficult to bear. It wasn’t her fault that he had no money and lived out in the middle of nowhere; he had accomplished that all on his own. Still, the longer she delayed dinner, the sullener he would be.

Laila threw her woolen hood up over her head and peered out of the stables but took a sudden pause. Her eyes followed the stretching beams that held up the thatch roof, past the rows of wooden stalls, to the far end of the stable building. There, past the piles of leather straps and riding equipment, her brothers’ horses were standing, looking quite bedraggled, and she felt her heart give a jump of excitement. They were back! Suddenly, she cursed herself for being late, and she hustled out into the castle yard.

She glanced hurriedly up at the walls as she dashed through the yard, frowning a bit as the rain splashed down. The castle was in horrible shape, anyone could see it, and Laila hated to see the slow degradation of her home. The banners lapped lazily in the northern breeze, wet from the sporadic rains, and slapped against the worn stone that had stood for near on a century. The woodwork along the walls was sagging from the weather, and clumps of moss clung to various crenelations in the roofing.

It had never been the grandest of castles, and Laila knew it. It was just another round stone tower with a circular wall put up by the conquerors two hundred years before and then improved upon in the century following as the region became increasingly dangerous. The outer wall had gotten larger, and more buildings had cropped up within, but still, the original stone tower stood at the center, never overshadowed.

Yet still, the castle stood against the winds and rains of England’s far North, looking out tentatively from the hilltop at the small surrounding valley. As the rain pattered down in its unending torrent, Laila knew her father would be pacing the hall, glancing up at the ceiling to ensure it wasn’t leaking and waiting for her arrival with a grumble.

The rain was dismal, and it had already turned much of the yard to muck. The castle residents had already taken shelter, save a few of the ill-equipped guardsmen lingering beneath the gate, and so she strode hurriedly through the empty space, kicking up mud behind her as she tried to hold her garments above the sludge, largely to no avail, until she burst into the hall.

“There she is!” Matthew exclaimed, leaping up from the bench on the far side of the table.

“I did not know you were back!” Laila exclaimed, taking Jacob into an embrace. “Forgive me; I would have come sooner.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Jacob replied, stepping back so that Matthew could have his hug. Then he added with a grin, “Though you do smell something of the stables.”

“How have you faired, little sister?” Matthew asked after embracing her briefly. “Still playing stablemaster, is it?”

Her two brothers were fine lads, with full heads of hair, though the younger had always struggled to put up a proper beard. They were fit, having been trained with sword and lance since they were young, and they did not yet have lands of their own where they could sit and grow fat like their father. Jacob, the younger, had a splash of freckles that matched her own, with murky green eyes, while Matthew had the brown eyes and square jaw of a picture-perfect man-at-arms.

The light in the hall was dim as the hearth choked on dwindling firewood, and the candles did their utmost to illuminate the small stretches of the wall they were mounted upon. Laila finished welcoming her brothers and turned her attention to the head of the table. Their father sat there, slouched in his wooden seat, one hand on his cup and the other resting lazily on his armrest. He was older now, the wrinkles reaching up to wrap around his cheeks beneath his deep hazel eyes, his graying hair tied back but still, a loose strand or two hung carefree down and about his temples.

“What crime is there in caring for one’s horse?” Laila replied, taking down her hood. The rain had still found her face on her dash through the yard, and her hair clung to her forehead.

“A lady should not be late,” her father grumbled from the head of the table, “nor should she play with horses.”

“So, I have heard,” Laila said back.

“Come and sit, children; there are things we must discuss,” her father said with a frown, waving his hand to the servants, signaling to bring up the food.

“I worried for you every day, as always,” Laila said to her brothers, sliding onto the bench beside Jacob. “One hears such dreadful reports of the border.”

“It will take more than a few ragged Scotsmen to scare us,” Matthew said with a laugh. “The danger, I’m sure, is exaggerated.”

“There are bandits to be sure, raiders and the like,” Jacob added, “but they are oft to go running when they see English horse appear on a hill.”

“In any event, I am glad to see you both home safely,” Laila said.

The servants came in with a large dish of roasted fowl, accompanied by a basket of bread and a bowl of vegetables. Ceramic plates were set out with cutlery, and everyone began helping themselves to portions of the food while more wine was poured. When they were all seated with food and drink before them, their father raised his cup and announced a toast.

“My sons,” Edward said. “Welcome back from the frontier.”

“And it is good to be back, Father,” Matthew said, “I am glad we outran this dreaded rain.”

“What is it with you and a bit of rain?” Jacob scoffed, taking up his own cup. “Matthew is afraid of the weather. How can you expect him to lead your men when he fears getting his prized hair all wet, Father?”

“You are strong and bold against the elements now that you are indoors, Jacob. Do I have that right?” Matthew laughed back. “And were you not the one who nearly fell from his horse when we crossed that creek?”

“It was not my fault, but the mare’s,” Jacob replied, rolling his eyes. “As I have already said, time and time again.”

“But you will have to remind me many more times over,” Matthew said back. “For the memory is too fond for me to ever relinquish.”

“It was a sight, wasn’t it,” Jacob said with a smirk, and the two brothers broke out into a low chuckle.

“Tell me of the border,” their father went on. “Was there any action?” Laila frowned as yet another conversation between the men unfolded, leaving her sitting in silence. Why would they wait for her to arrive if she was not to be a part of anything? It was so typical of her father, she thought, and so she sipped her wine discreetly while the men of her family kept rambling on.

“Nothing to speak of,” Matthew said, turning on the bench as if he were still atop his horse. “We saw no Scotsmen.”

“Scotsmen with swords, rather,” Jacob corrected. “The shepherds still take liberties with their grazing.”

“We ran them off, of course,” Matthew interjected. “But no raiders still, not since the spring.”

“I should think you taught them to steer clear,” Edward said with a grin. “If only you had been old enough to fight the Scots in wartime. We may have prevailed!”

“There will always be another war,” Jacob said, gazing down into his cup. “Fear not on that account.”

“I count on it,” Matthew said, taking a drink, then he turned his attention to the food before him.

Matthew began spooning large quantities of vegetables onto his pieces of bread, topping them off with a piece of fowl, and rapidly feasting, while Jacob did much of the same. However, Edward’s father was more conservative and made small piles of everything on his plate before assembling it by hand and taking small bites.

Laila was disappointed that there was no cheese, and since she was not very hungry, she contented herself to a few small bites of fowl here and there accompanied by a bit of bread. She was more interested in the wine, which she had filled whenever her father’s head was turned down into his plate. They ate mostly in silence for a time, as was common, until her brothers had mangled most of the fowl and the bread, and her father sat back, contented.

“Now, you must listen,” Edward said, adjusting himself to be more comfortable. He sat back, his belly bulging a bit, but kept one hand on his cup of wine. “For serious matters are before us.”

“Well, do go on, Father,” Matthew said, shifting to look at him. “You have kept us in suspense.”

“It is no secret that our family is deeply indebted,” Edward began, his frown deepening. “The wars still leave us humbled, financially. I spent a great deal of money fighting the Scots, to it seems no avail. Now, I cannot keep men at arms nor care for the castle’s upkeep. This is not a secret.”

“We have all been well aware, Father, of the sacrifices you made to fight the Scots,” Matthew said tentatively. Laila felt the discomfort in the air. It was not like her father to openly discuss his failings as a lord, and she could not help but feel a shred of dread creeping up through her gut.

“The loans, as you may know, are owed to Lord Hamilton, who seems to be only lord in all the Kingdom who profited off of our King’s failed invasion.”

“Moneylenders,” Jacob sneered. “What have they ever done save cause suffering.”

“And he did not even fight,” Matthew added. “A true coward.”

“Coward or not,” Edward said, clearing his throat, “he has become one of the richest men in the Kingdom. Richer than the King, some say, and these years later, that debt is coming due. You know that the rents we collect from this poor valley are nowhere near enough to cover the sum.”

“Father, did you not already sell our southern estates to repay most of the loans?” Laila said. “Is that not why we now live here?”

“The sale of those lands covered only half of the sum,” Edward said begrudgingly. “And as such, I now feel a fool for selling them. But all is as God wills it, so in that, I must find comfort.”

“Funny how God wills a coward to be so rich,” Jacob sneered.

“And lewd,” Matthew added. “I remember meeting him as a boy at York.”

“I too, remember,” Laila said, shuddering at the memory. She was just a girl at the time, but she had never seen a more grotesque man, and his swollen face still left quite the impression. “He is most foul.”

“I am truly sorry, my dear, that you should think so,” Edward said, letting out a long sigh.

“How do you mean?” Laila asked, her eyes sharp and her nerves spiking. She was no stranger to the world she lived in.

“Lord Hamilton and I have come to an agreement,” Edward said, his fingers dancing nervously along the rim of his cup. The fire popped in the ensuing silence before he began again.

“And what is the nature of this agreement?” Laila asked, staring at him pointedly. She felt she already knew the answer, but still, she demanded it be drug forth from his unwilling lips.

“Our debts will be absolved upon his and your union in matrimony,” Edward finally spat out. “It is high time you were married in any right, and this match will bring us both honor and prestige, as well as solvency.”

“As well as rid you of your debts!” Laila spat back.

“Our debts!” Edward insisted, his grasp tightening around the wine cup.

The hall settled into a silent state of shock for a time. Laila stared incredulously at her father, feeling the fumes of hatred and rebellion steeping from the forge in her belly. Her brothers exchanged baffled looks. Then it all broke at once.

“Father, you can’t!” Jacob protested.

“This is extortion!” Matthew cried.

“I will not!” Laila challenged, standing abruptly at the table.

“This is not a discussion!” her father bellowed.

“It very well is!” Laila parried. “I am not a thing to be sold! Least of all to that villain of a man!”

“That is precisely what you are!” Edward shouted back. “I have given you more liberty than perhaps any other lady in this Kingdom, and this is how you repay me? Obstinance? Refusal? You should be proud to do this duty for your family!”

“Father, truly he is wretched,” Jacob added. “I can think of ten better matches, both in age and temperance.”

“What of the Earl of Devon?” Matthew pleaded. “Long has he had an eye for Laila.”

“It has already been agreed to!” Edward shouted again, thumping his cup against the table. “I will not renege on a bargain, leastwise one so advantageous!”

“It is not for me!” Laila said. She felt her face growing hot with rage. If only her mother was still alive to speak sense into the old, bitter man.

“Why must you think only of yourself?” Edward said his face twisting. “Have you no care for your family and our house? You disgrace yourself!”

“Father, it is you who disgrace yourself,” Jacob said, standing beside Laila. “To bow to this twisted moneylender of a lord. How can you give our sister to such a creature?”

“This is the way of things, damnit!” Edward bellowed once again. “I will not be challenged! My word is law in these lands, and the law will be followed!”

“I—” Laila wanted to scream further, to let loose her rage and fire upon the whole of the hall, but she could not find the words. She was lost, baffled, and angry, and so without another word, she turned and fled from the hall into the pouring rain, the doors flapping open behind her.

“Laila, wait!” Jacob called out and followed her into the rain after casting a sideways glare toward their father.

“As the oldest, you must see the reason in this,” Edward growled at Matthew as the rain washed into the hall with the wind. “We all knew she would marry eventually.”

“Not to a monster,” Matthew said back, rising solemnly from the table.

“Go then on and see to them,” Edward replied. “She will come around.”

“See to yourself,” Matthew said back and marched out into the yard to find his siblings.

“Is that how you would talk to your father?” Edward called after him, but soon the sound of the wind and the rain drowned out everything else.

Chapter Two

Scotland, 1320

The dull sparring swords clanged together with grinding rings as the Scotsmen traded blows. They were quite the pair to behold, both tall and strapping in every sense of the word, and clearly brothers, but the taller of the two had piercing green eyes and wore his red mane down in the wind, letting it blow all about his sculpted shoulders as he hefted the blunted blade.

“Ye’re gettin’ slow there, brither,” the taller one called, leaning back into a defensive stance.

“Nay,” the other huffed, adjusting his grip. “Me thinks ye’re just faster. I hinna lost me edge.”

“Again!” the shorter brother, and older it might be added, attacked with speed, driving at his massive brother with furious jabs, but they were knocked away with ease.

“Come on, Gavin!” the taller brother bellowed. “Ye taught me how tae swing a sword, and now ye cannae stand against me!”

“Ye got taller, Kyle,” Gavin laughed back, catching a bit of his breath.

“Aye, and ye got married.”

“There’s nay shame in putting me prowess intae the bedchamber,” Gavin said, grinning.

“Is that where it went?” Kyle joked, and again they went to blows, the swords striking in the cool morning mists that roved through the castle yard. “I’m in a bedchamber more than ye, and I can still fight!”

“Ah, but wae different women!” Gavin cried back. “Ye dinnae have tae try so hard!”

“Is that so?” Kyle asked, smirking. They both shed sweat that caught in the light as the morning sun began to cut through the mists.

“Is that why yer maid left?” Gavin prodded, circling up for another attack. “Nay enough prowess?”

“Ye ken there was nay’thing between us,” Kyle retorted. “Her husband’s only just came back frae France.”

“Tell that tae him, then!” Gavin laughed out, attacking again, but was once again easily beaten back. The pair withdrew a few paces to the edge of the practice square and broke for a rest.

“Ah, ye’ll see one day,” Gavin said, resting his hands atop the hilt of the practice sword. “One day, a lass will steal yer heart away.”

“Ha!” Kyle laughed, pulling his wild hair back behind his ears and resting the practice sword atop his shoulder. “If ye say so. Dinnae mistake me, brither, yer wife and son are beautiful, but ye ken I like tae feel the eyes o’ a woman, tea be free in me pursuits.”

“Ye’re a dog, brither,” Gavin said, walking slowly to stand beside him. “We’ll see how lang that lasts, eh?” They stood in a moment of silence, catching their breath on the edge of the training square, letting the morning mists burn off all around them as the sun became increasingly bright. “I’m gannae clean up,” Gavin said at last. “Good match.”

“Good fer me, nay fer ye,” Kyle said back. The brothers shared a smile, then Gavin went off toward the tower.

Kyle stowed the practice swords on the rack beside the square and wiped his forehead free of sweat. It was a fine enough morning in McGowan castle, and Kyle made a quick hustle up the walls to take in the view. The castle stood out on a hilltop, with her central tower standing proudly inside the curtain walls. The lowlands stretched out around them, with mountains in the distance sloping gracefully upwards into the highlands.

The McGowan banner flew proudly in the strong breeze, and Kyle’s hair was immediately caught again in the wind. Never had the castle stood so strong and proud, refitted and repaired with the spoils of war. People had begun their daily bustle in the yard, tending to livestock and orchards, moving between the kitchens and their hovels. The men at arms were at practice and patrolling the parapets, and Kyle nodded to one as he passed him on the battlements.

He drank in the smell of the new day, feeling the sun beat down on his face as the last of the morning mists were banished. The sound of masons and smiths floated up from below, and Kyle grinned to think of the steel taking shape into swords. He loved to fight, and he damned good at it, but he had never had the chance to test his mettle in a real fight. He had been too young when the King of England had invaded, and the Bruce had thrown them back at Bannockburn. Bloody Bannockburn. Now he was ready for a fight, but there were none to be had.

Kyle loved his brother, who was the Laird after the death of their father. He loved his nephew and his sister-in-law, and he loved his home, but still, he was restless. He often stood upon the wall and dreamt of riding off into the fields, perhaps sailing to France or Lothringia, Sweden or Leon, Italy or Sicily. There was always someone who would hire a fearsome Scotsmen as a mercenary. He wasn’t sure what it was he craved but sitting stagnant certainly wasn’t it. There was such an allure of adventure out there in the word, and yet he had never seen any of it.

Kyle watched the road that led to the castle from the South. There were a handful of peasants steering their carts toward the market, and Kyle wondered if they carried anything exciting. It was unlikely. The carts held produce from the local farms nine times out of ten, but it was always fun to dream.

Kyle decided to take a leisurely stroll. There was not much else he could do, even if he wanted to. It was one of the hidden curses of his pleasant, peaceful home. Now that the war was done, there was no danger, but there was also nothing to do, save swing a practice sword for hours at a time. That, and hunt, of course.

Kyle walked down from the walls and nodded to the various guardsmen he passed as he went toward the gate. He often found himself in better discourse with the common soldiers of the castle than with even his own brother.

“G’day, me Laird,” a particularly gruff-looking soldier said, bobbing his head as Kyle moved past him. But the man’s voice gave Kyle pause, and he drew up alongside the guard near some of the hog pens, where a few of the common folk worked to wrangle the squealing animals.

“Te yerself as well,” Kyle said, grinning. “Did ye wake fine enough today? Last night wa a bit o’ a romper.”

“Aye,” the guard said, returning the smile. “We had a fair bit.”

“There are some would say we had a dram tae many,” Kyle replied, scraping the bottom of his boot against one of the fence posts on the hog pen.

“Well, they wouldn’t be true Scotsmen,” the guard said back, then he paused to scrounge up a wad of spit from the back of his throat and hack it down into the muck.

“I’m off tae the loch,” Kyle said. “Tae freshen. Will ye join me?”

“I cannae, Laird,” the guard said. “Me wife’ll be expectin’ me shortly enough. But I will gladly join ye on the morrow’s hunt.”

“Well, that is Good enough fer me,” Kyle said, standing straight. “Then I shall see ye on the morrow, Domnal,” and he clapped the old acquaintance on the shoulder.

“‘Til the morrow, Laird,” Domnal replied, nodding gruffly. Kyle turned to resume his stroll, but first, he glanced back.

“Ye ken me brither is the Laird,” Kyle added as he turned. “There is nay need tae call me such.”

“Old habits die hard,” Domnal said back.

“But I’ve never been the laird,” Kyle said, raising his eyebrow.

“Bugger off then,” Domnal said in response, and the two shared a breakout smile. They had known each other for some time. When Domnal had come back from the war, Kyle, just a young boy then, drank up his stories with fascination. As he had grown, Domnal had shown him how to swing a sword, at least at first, and they often hunted together.

“On the morrow then,” Kyle said, then he clicked his tongue and turned back toward the gate. He was excited about the hunt the next day. About once a month, or as often as he could muster, he would ride out with a few guardsmen and spend most of the day tracking game through the slopping hills and forests that lay about McGowan castle.

It was his preferred way to spend time in that peacetime lull. He had been raised in a time of war, but now that he was old enough to fight, and fight he could, there was no war to be found. Only the rare band of outlaws in the countryside, though they had learned several years ago that the pastures about McGowan castle were well guarded, and they had all drifted South and Eastward. In short, Kyle was terribly bored.

He walked through the gate, dodging one of the merchant carts rumbling into market, and hooked right along the outside of the wall. His strong legs carried him up and down along the bottom of the wall’s skirt until he came to a familiar rocky path that led him down toward the loch.

Kyle bounded over the loose rocks and followed the winding footpath as it curved steeply downwards into the valley, quickly leaving the sight of the castle behind as the jagged walls of stone obscured it from vision. He could smell the water wafting up through the cut, and he eagerly climbed the rest of the way down.

The loch was calm that morning, and Kyle smiled to himself as he stopped on the rocky shore, watching the ripples wash gently up against the large chunks of stone that had fallen from the valley walls over the years. It was a narrow body of water, stretching out before him and then curving out of view as it reached its long finger toward the distant sea.

Kyle quickly disrobed, tossing his garments into a loose pile out of reach from the tide, and stepped cautiously toward the water’s edge. He had known a stray stone with an edge beneath the water to cut a man’s foot, his own foot, and though he was a headstrong bull of a Scotsman, he still remembered that moment as a boy and as such always trod carefully when bathing.

He kept moving into the loch, letting the chilly northern water rise up to his chest, feeling all his muscles drawing tight and taking in a sharp breath while his nipples stiffened in the light breeze. He drew a long breath in through his nose, held it, and plunged his head beneath the surface, rearing up a second later and bellowing out,

“Haaa! Ha! Bloody freezing!” he heard his cry echo off the valley walls, and the cold water from his lion’s mane ran down the crease between his muscular shoulder blades. He stood for a moment longer, letting his echo dissipate, and suddenly felt a familiar pang of loneliness as he looked around and saw not a soul.

Something was missing, and Kyle was never more acutely aware of that fact than when he stood alone in the frigid water, shouting out to just himself. He lingered on the feeling for just a moment, but never one to be introspective, he quickly shoved the feeling away as he always did, trying his utmost to banish it entirely from his mind. The only thing he wanted to think about was the hunt in the morning, but that was a whole day away.

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Chapter 1

The wind howled through the dense forest like an animal hunting its prey. Thomas MacKay bit his lip and braced himself as he hunkered down further into the cover that the bush provided him. The movements felt like a routine that he knew well, for he had been hunting for the majority of his life. He didn’t dare to move as the animal finally came into his sight and exposed itself to the end of Thomas’s bow. He was to bring home a large amount of game that would be the centerpiece of the feast that was currently being prepared for his brother.

Mist that had risen up earlier in the morning from one of the nearby rivers was starting to clear on the forest floor. The hills were sloping up around the trees, raising up the landscape and isolating the forest away from the other lands around them.

His fingers were hesitant, but he waited patiently for the right moment to release the bow from his grasp. The forest sounded as though it was alive with a myriad of sounds as Thomas tried to block it all out and focus on the deer in front of him.

He was one of the best hunters, if not the best, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t have to focus on what he was doing. His breathing was steady and his eyes were narrowed as he tried to concentrate despite the sounds of the forest around him. The birds were squawking and matching the same tempo as that of the wind that rustled the thick branches of trees. The forest floor was alive with creatures that Thomas didn’t even want to think about, and he kept his gaze on the large animal in front of him and nothing else.

He was the eldest of his brothers, but he was also his father’s favorite. As much as he would never admit that to his other siblings, Thomas glowed with both pride and ease at being the favorite.

Thomas felt his heart flutter at even the thought of seeing his brother after so long. Philip MacKay had been in France for the last five years, and his return was highly anticipated by everyone in the clan.

Thomas wanted to get the best deer for the feast, but he knew that he was going to have to steady his hand to do so.

“There ye are,” he whispered, as his bow hovered in the air. He closed one eye and moved his face even closer to the bow in order to get a better look at the animal in front of him. Silence was key, and the deer, still unaware of his presence, moved even closer to him.

Finally, Thomas felt that he was ready to release the string of his bow. His fingers were growing sore from holding the tension of the string, and the muscles in his arms were starting to ache from being in the same position for so long. Thomas was thankful for the weather remaining clear, despite the slight whisper of the wind that brushed through his hair every now and again.

The hunting party would be waiting for him on the outskirts of the forest, near to the castle. But Thomas was fine to let them wait; he wanted the shot to be clean and perfect. If his arrow didn’t hit the animal somewhere near its head, then it wouldn’t do as a hunt to boast about back in the castle.

A stick snapped somewhere behind him. It caused the deer’s head to jerk up and look around. The majestic animal was on high alert, with wide eyes and twitching ears. Thomas held his breath and wished that he had taken the shot only moments before the sound had cut through the silence. If it were one of the men from the hunting party, he could already feel his anger building up at that thought. He had given the group specific instructions to not disturb him, but it was clear that someone had chosen not to listen to him.

The deer was completely still, and Thomas didn’t dare to move a single muscle. His chest was getting tight from his lack of breathing, and when he did breathe, each breath was incredibly shallow and unhelpful.

Thomas bit his lip as he could see the deer readying itself to bolt back into the thick forest around it. He waited a moment more, but another snap of a twig caused the deer to jerk into action.

“No, no, no!” Thomas groaned, as he released his arrow in vain. The deer was already darting between the small gaps in the trees and moved out of sight within a matter of moments.

Thomas cursed and hit his hand into the ground as he put down his bow and turned to see who it was from the hunting party that had ruined his kill.

However, as soon as Thomas turned around, he was met by the blunt butt of a piece of wood. The solid weapon collided with his head and sent him sprawling to the floor with a sickening thud. Thomas grunted and blinked through the sharp and splintering pain that was erupting through his temple. He was in shock at the sudden action that he hadn’t been expecting, as well as in a lot of pain.

“What’s going on?” he groaned, as he managed to peer up at three figures standing above him. His eyes would only open a little as he looked around and tried to comprehend the kind of danger that he was in.

The men weren’t from the hunting party; that much was clear to him through his haze. His head was throbbing, and his confusion was only continuing to persist.

“Who are ye?” Thomas was aware of how groggy he sounded all of a sudden. The forest was getting darker as his eyes were getting heavier; it became so difficult to keep his eyes open that Thomas was almost succumbing to the darkness.

The three men worked together to carry Thomas. He wanted to struggle, but his body was far too heavy and tired to manage to take on three men. Where the wood had hit him, the skin felt hot, and there was something dribbling down his face.
The men weren’t looking at him, but Thomas knew that they didn’t mean anything good. He was scared, but he was also angry that the men were thinking they would get away with this. If it weren’t for the injury to his head, Thomas liked to think that he would have been able to defeat the three men with ease.

“Who are ye? What do ye want with me?” Thomas could barely get his words out. He gritted his teeth through the pain and continued trying to move, but it was no use.

“Hush now,” one of the men spoke with a gruff voice as he chuckled and shook his head. Thomas glanced around to see that the reason he’d not been able to see who they were was that their faces were covered with pieces of cloth that concealed their identity. Up ahead were some horses that were attached to a large carriage. Thomas frowned as they drew closer, and he realized that he wasn’t going to be home any time soon.

“Where are ye taking me?” Thomas tried one last time, but it was clear that his efforts at understanding were futile.

One of the men opened the door to the carriage while the other two held onto him so that he couldn’t move.

“My father will nae stand for this, he is the laird of our clan, he–”

Before Thomas could finish his threat, one of the men had hit him over the head again. The blow was harsh and made an awful sound against Thomas’s skull, rendering him unconscious.

Chapter 2

Myra paced around her chambers in a frantic panic. She felt both shocked and angry with herself at losing her mother’s necklace. It was the same one that she had worn for years, and upon staring at herself in the mirror, she realized just how bare her neck looked without it. She wanted to cry and shout in frustration because she had never lost it before, and it was the last piece of her mother that she had.

When Myra was younger, her mother had become incredibly ill and had died shortly afterward. It was unlike any other wound that she had ever sustained; there was no scar, for the wound would never properly heal over enough for her to feel complete again. Myra, her brother, and her father had been devastated by the loss, but it had also been felt by a lot of the clan too.

Unlike her father, Myra had wanted to hold onto her mother’s memory and never forget her. But her father’s approach had been to forget about her completely and to get rid of any belongings that reminded him of her.

Myra touched the space on her neck that was normally occupied by the dainty silver chain. It was one of the most precious jewels in the country, and Myra wouldn’t let anyone tell her to take it off. Over time, it had simply become accepted that she wore the necklace, and her stubbornness surrounding this decision meant that nobody could tell her any differently.

“Good afternoon, my lady, how are ye?” Iona asked from the doorway, as she slowly approached and entered the room.

Myra was slightly startled by the sudden appearance of her maid, although she was relieved that she now had somebody to share her panic with.

“Nae good,” Myra sighed and ran a hand through her curly hair. “It’s bad, Iona, really bad!” Myra felt her voice shake as fresh tears blurred her vision.

“Why’s that?” the maid’s voice softened almost instantly as she walked over to her and started to fuss about fixing her hair.

Myra pushed her hand away a little rougher than she had been expecting to and instantly regretted it.

“I’m sorry,” she looked at the maid in the mirror. “It’s just…it’s just that I’ve lost my necklace.”

Myra finally felt the shock wearing off of her as she turned towards Iona with teary eyes. The room was moving, swimming in the view of her tears, and Myra let a sob escape from her lips.

“It will do ye nay good to get so upset, my lady,” Iona spoke to her softly.

Her maid had always been like a mother figure to her. Iona was older than her by a lot, and she was certainly a lot wiser too. Myra wrapped her arms around the woman and cried on her shoulder as she thought about where she could have left it.

“Perhaps it came off when ye were riding?”

Myra had already considered this, although even her maid didn’t know the full extent of what she had been through during her ride through the forest. There were brigands in the forests that they were always warned about, but Myra knew how to protect herself.

Much to many of her family members and close advisors’ dismay, Myra had trained to defend herself from a young age. She could handle herself, which many brigands never expected when they crossed her path in the woods.

It was very possible that one of those filthy men had taken the necklace from her when she had been forced to fight off many of the men at once the day earlier. Myra shuddered to think that her most prized possession was being sold by men who did not care for it at all.

“I dinnae think it came off when I was just riding,” Myra sighed heavily as she started to wipe her eyes.

“I’m sure that it will turn up, my lady,” Iona tried to comfort her.

“But where? It’s lost, Iona, and if I dinnae have it, then there is nothing left of my mother in this castle.” Myra felt fresh tears brimming in her eyes.

“Hush now, child, yer mother will always be with ye in yer heart. Ye dinnae need a piece of jewelry to ken that.”
Myra understood where her maid was coming from, but she still felt a little more empty without the one physical memory that she could hold when she needed to.

“That necklace means more to me than anything else, Iona; I need it back,” Myra admitted.

She stepped away from the mirror and walked over to the window by her bed. The rain was pattering gently against it, distorting the view of the town below and the hills that bordered them. The woods that covered the hill looked so beautiful, even when overshadowed by the dark clouds above, yet they held so much danger within them.

Myra thought about her last ride back to the castle and how she had thought that she would get back without having any trouble on the way. However, a couple of brigands had jumped out at the last minute and startled her horse. Myra had been thrown to the ground, but she had taken enough tumbles off of her horse in her life to know how to roll and land without hurting herself.
She had been up on her feet once more in an instant, with her sword drawn and ready to fight. The men had laughed at first, Myra remembered bitterly as she looked out of the window. They had been making comments about how a vulnerable woman like herself wouldn’t stand a chance against them, but she had quickly shown them that she was no such thing as a vulnerable woman.

The shock on their faces was something that Myra had enjoyed seeing, but as they fled the scene, she was now trying to test her memory as to whether any of them had been holding her necklace.

It was hopeless. She couldn’t remember, and she didn’t want to assume that she had been robbed of it if there was still a chance that it could be in the castle.

“When was the last time ye were out on a ride, my lady?” Iona asked, as she started to look for herself around the room. Myra knew that her search would be in vain; she had already looked everywhere in her chambers before she had properly started to panic.
“I went riding yesterday afternoon,” Myra sighed and shook her head. “It’s hopeless, Iona, it’s not in here. I’ve already had a look around.”

However, Iona continued to search as Myra turned her attention back to the window.

“My mother wore this necklace all the time, didnae she?” Myra asked in a small voice.

“Aye,” Iona said after a slight hesitation.

“I really miss her,” Myra admitted. “I just wish that she could have survived, that I could ask for her help right now.”

Myra noticed the way that Iona seemed rather reluctant to engage in a conversation about that. Her lips were pursed, and her eyes darted around as though her response was waiting for her on the floor in front of her.

“She’s at peace,” Iona managed to say. “That’s all that matters.”

“She would be disappointed to know that I’ve let her down by losing the necklace,” Myra muttered as she tried to think about where she could have left the jewel.

“I’m sure that she would still be proud of who ye have become,” Iona said while flashing her a small smile.

“Thank ye, Iona,” Myra nodded to her.

“I came here to tell ye something else, my lady, but if ye would like me to come back later, I’m sure it will be fine.”

Myra was in half a mind to ask her maid to leave her, but her curiosity got the best of her.

“Nay, tell me what it is.”

“A prisoner has been brought to the castle,” Iona’s words instantly caught her attention.
“Who is he?”

“Thomas MacKay,” Iona recalled. “Do ye ken the name?”

“I…I dinnae ken,” Myra admitted. She was too frustrated about losing her necklace to properly care about the news of a prisoner. There were always prisoners, and she wasn’t sure why this news was so special. “I’m sorry, Iona; I’m going to go and find my brother.”

“Of course, my lady.” Her maid bowed her head before leaving her alone in her chambers.

Myra glanced at herself in the mirror once more. The woman staring back at her had incredibly pale skin and sunken eyes; it was obvious by looking at her eyes that she had been crying. The blank space on her neck where the necklace had been was the only thing that she could focus on, though, and Myra ignored all else of her appearance that would be perhaps slightly concerning to others.

She breathed deeply as she tried not to think about it. Myra knew that she was going to have to be stronger about the situation when in the presence of others. With Iona, she could express herself, but when around other servants or even family members, she knew that people in the castle liked to talk. Myra didn’t want people to know just how upset she was at losing the necklace.

After waiting a short time, she exhaled deeply before leaving her chambers and heading deeper into the castle in search of her brother. Myra was hoping that he would at least know what to do about the situation.

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