Chapter 1

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The light across the moors fell unnaturally; Iain MacThomas could see the sun, but the sky still seemed strangely dark.

The sunbeams that did make it through the thick, blue-gray clouds did nothing to warm or brighten the rolling hills. He perceived everything around him through a haze that sucked the light out of everything he viewed. Even the heather blossoms that should at this time of year be the vibrant purple hue he’d known all of his life was nearly colorless.

He turned to look behind him; a little village with stonework walls and thatched reed roofs was nestled within the slope of the moors. He felt for all the world as though he had seen the crumbling clay wall surrounding the village somewhere before. Behind it, a forest loomed, green and dark as an emerald in the night. He had never seen this place before, and yet it seemed familiar.

The shadows were much too dark, and the light was scant. There was no scent of rain, no chilling wind through his chestnut brown hair, though he knew that there should be. The tall grass of the moors were swaying, as though there should be a breeze. Yet, he felt nothing on his skin.

Confused, he looked across the moors. He had come out here alone to hunt, or had it been to seek some quiet time, away from the noise of the castle?

He couldn’t remember, now that he thought about it.

He turned and faced the west, squaring his broad shoulders. Iain peered through the thin mist that whirled around him, eyes settling on a thin figure. He squinted and put a hand to his brow, thinking that perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. When his sight adjusted, he was sure that he’d seen right. There, just beyond the tall, craggy rocks was a young woman.

Strange, for a young woman to be out on the moors alone with no horse in sight. He blinked hard to make sure once more that he was seeing correctly, but yes, there she was.

She was staring at him, her eyes shining with emotion.. One anxious hand clutched her cloak at the base of her neck, near her collarbones. She held it in a white-knuckle grip as the wind blew her jet black hair wildly. Her eyes were wide, desperate, and sky-blue. They were the only true color that Iain could make out in the vast expanse of the hauntingly gray moors.

Iain took a step forward . For some reason, he had the urge to reach out and touch her. Something called him to her, like a siren on the water.

“Help me, Iain,” the woman called to him. Her voice carried eerily across the moors to him.

His brow wrinkled in confusion; how could she know his name?

He could not understand what she wanted from him, but she knew him somehow. It was clear from the expression on her face; she regarded him with such a familiarity that it seemed nearly intimate. He was certain that he’d never seen her before; he would certainly remember a pair of eyes as alluring as that.

Her pale, desperate face held a delicate, but fierce beauty that he had only seen one other woman possess in this life. He gestured with one hand savagely, trying his best to push away the image that came to his mind. It would not do for him to begin remembering, not now.

“Iain,” called the woman again. “I need ye’re help. Please, please…”

Inexplicably, a surge of emotion flooded him at the pleading tone of her voice. It filled his stomach and his lungs; he knew that the only way to crush the feeling that was welling up was to get closer to her. He wanted so much to help her, but what did she need from him?

The urge to reach out to her was strong, beating inside of him with the rhythm of his heartbeat. It was impossible to ignore, so insistent was the desire to protect her, but neither did he want to wave it away.

The young woman held a pale white hand out to him, her fingers trembling as if she were afraid. He could not stand to see her frightened; for a reason unknown to him, he wanted to wash away her fear, erase it from existence. She called out to him again and again, and yet he still had no idea who she was or what she needed.

What could she want from him? And why wouldn’t she answer?

Iain could only guess.

It was not only her vulnerability that drew him to her, but her striking beauty as well. He desired more than anything to see if her skin felt as smooth as it looked, to enfold her into a protective embrace, but against what he could not tell. There was nothing around on the moors that could hurt her; so why did she call for his help so fervently?

Iain wanted to run his rough fingers over her milk white skin, to feel her downy soft hair against his cheeks. Something about her was as addicting as a cool mouthful of whisky or a chilling dip in the lochs in early autumn.

The woman stood far from him, but he could see her nearly perfectly. Her voice carried, though he should not be able to hear her so clearly at that distance. This could only be the work of magic; she was hauntingly beautiful, almost as though she was not of this realm.

“Who are ye, lass?”he asked.  “Can ye at least tell me yer name? How do ye know who I am?”

“Iain, I cannae do it alone,” she said. Her voice was melodic, like the song of a babbling brook with eyes just as clear and blue. “I cannae do it without ye, Iain, please.”

Iain felt something loose inside of him when her voice broke ever so slightly.

She blinked hard at him in silence, and Iain felt his confusion mounting, along with it a well of frustration at her inability to answer him.  She seemed to see him, but she did not ever answer a single question. Instead, she continued on her narrative, seeming to listen for his reply but never truly hearing it.

It was absolutely maddening and heartbreaking all at once.

He took a step forward, anxious but desperate to be close to her. He couldn’t fathom where this rush of emotion came from, but he did not push it away. She seemed to need him gravely, and there was something that lived inside of him that had to protect her at any cost.

Onward he walked, until he was only an arm’s length away from her. Seeing her up close made it even harder not to rush forward and embrace her. He studied her expression, her face. No, he was certain they’d never met before… but why couldn’t she hear him?

“Who are ye?” he asked, his voice nearly pleading. “Please, lass, just tell me somethin’, anythin’ that will help me tae learn who ye are!”

She said nothing; she simply looked up at him with that fragile expression on her beautiful face. It seemed that at any moment she would fall away into tears. If she did, Iain knew he would not be able to resist scooping her up into his arms. Even if he had never seen her before, she certainly knew him and seemed to need him so much.

Iain called to her again, but knew that the effort was futile.

He was about to give up, letting his arms drop in defeat when her expression suddenly changed. He watched her every move like a hawk, his brown eyes locked to her form.

She lifted her head, running her eyes over him. Her expression changed to a smile, soft and grateful, and she opened her mouth to laugh breathlessly. She looked relieved to see him, as though they were familiar with each other. Her eyes roamed over him as she looked him up and down; it seemed as though at any moment, she would throw herself into his arms.

A warmth filled him where before there was longing. Her eyes met his, and Iain felt like the sun was shining on him after a hard, relentless winter. He didn’t want to tear himself from her gaze, wanting only to take another step forward and pull her towards him and never let go.

“Iain,” she said, her blue eyes bright. “Ye’re here, ye’re safe! Oh, thank th’ stars.”

At the sound of his name through her voice, a smile on her lips, he felt his heart soar and dip in joy like an osprey in the sky.

She lifted her hand and for a moment, her fingertips were close enough that they could push his dark brown hair from his eyes. Iain didn’t dare to move; for a brief moment, he wondered if he would feel her touch or if she would pass right through him like a phantom. The woman hesitated for a moment though, and then looked beyond him.

Her sky-blue eyes widened, fearful, and she opened her mouth to scream.

                                                ***

Iain sat up straight in his bed, the quilts tangled around him. His shoulders heaved for breath as though he had been sprinting through the moors. He looked around his bedchamber, confused and frustrated and with a longing that he could physically feel. He could not quell it, no matter how he tried.

That damned dream again.

The woman had come to him yet again and he had fallen into her captivating spell. Each time the dream took hold of him, she would be the only thing his thoughts would settle on, the only image he could visualize. Only when he finally awoke would he realize that he had been pulled once again into the same dream, tricked by his own mind.

Those feelings that she sparked in him even lingered upon awakening, however. Even now, when he pulled up her face in his mind, he could feel the desperate need to protect her lighting up in his heart. It was almost as if he could feel her beside him, as though he could reach out and touch her even at this moment. In truth, no woman of the waking world had even held his interest since the death of his wife. The fact that the only one who would interest him came from his own imagination embarrassed him to admit.

He sighed and shook his head, his thumbs circling at his temples as he attempted to shake the afterthoughts of the dream away. Mooning after some dream woman… He really needed a drink. Somehow though he couldn’t shake the desire to fall back into sleep and see her again.

He rubbed his face, cold sweat clinging to his hands. His breath came heavy and his shoulders sagged with the mental exertion the dream always put him through. Iain rubbed his eyes, seeing colors for a moment and then stood uneasily. He had to get out of this room; it seemed all of a sudden too confining. He felt as though he could burst out of it.

Seeing the raven-haired woman again had taken a toll on him. He felt so tired, so restless. He’d experienced this same dream for two long years now, over and over, and still had no answer for who she could be or why she needed his help. Her voice was so full of desperation and pain that he couldn’t help but want to ease it.

It was eerie, but he had no fear of her, only that strange compassion that glowed in his heart when he thought of her. It felt like something blooming in his chest, something sunny, warm and pure. He thought of how her familiar smile towards the end of the dream and let out a breath.

But what had she seen that had caused her face to fold in so much fear?

Iain could make no sense of it. He strode towards his chamber door, feeling how the handle cooled his sweating palms. He could be sure that this was real, at least. He longed for a dram to cool his parched throat and to soothe the thoughts that were churning around in his head. He made his way towards the larder, his steps slow and thoughtful. Every time he blinked, he saw the woman’s face over and over again.

If she would have touched him, would he have felt it?

She was so enthralling and otherworldly. Was she some sort of spirit of the moors? But she had known his name, and had spoken it aloud nearly every night for two years.

Iain shook his head, wondering, as he made his way down the stone steps.

“Ye’re out wanderin’ round late,” an amused voice said. Iain nearly jumped but got a handle on himself before he turned around.

“Mother,” he said, a wry smile playing at his lips. “Ye’re no’ exactly slumberin’ sweetly in ye’re own bed.”

“Ye’re well aware tha’ I enjoy my nightly garden walks,” she laughed. Her voice was like motherly sound of a hen clucking over her chicks; he had always loved that about her. Her face turned serious as the smile faded away, though, and he knew what she was going to say. “An’ what are you doin’ up so late, my lad? Is it the dream come again?”

Though she wanted to seem easy and relaxed, Iain could see the pull of concern on his mother’s face. She knew the toll the dream took on him.

“Aye,” he said, after a moment passed between them. “Tha’ it ’twas. The lass with the raven black hair, callin’ out t’me again. I cannae make heads nor tails of it, Mother. What could she be tryin’ tae tell me?”

His mother simply shook her head, her honey-brown eyes that so mirrored his own blinking back at him sadly. She patted him reassuringly on his shoulder, sighing.

“I want tae be a good, wise mother t’ye, lad,” she said. “But, truly, there’s naught that I’ve ever heard of that’s similar to your situation. But, Iain… has the dream nae started since the tragedy? Do ye no’ think it could be somethin’ to do with—?”

“Mother, please,” he said, harsher than he’d meant to.

But the damage had already been done. He already saw Seona’s face in his mind, already felt the way her skin had grown cold beneath his touch. He saw the tiny, lifeless face of their newborn daughter in her arms, Seona’s fingers still curling up against the back of the child’s head. He blinked, willing the image away, but when he opened his eyes, it was still there.

It never truly went away, no matter what he did or how much he tried to drink it away.

His face had gone stark white, he knew; his suspicions were only confirmed when he saw the concerned look his mother wore.

“I’m sorry, my son,” she said. “Perhaps ‘twould be best for ye to head out hunting tomorrow, get some fresh air on the moors. Maybe some time out in the wilds will help ye to feel yerself again.”

He knew that his mother was only trying to help, but he pulled away from her all the same. The wounding memories were too much to bear now, had been too much since that terrible night. He had been unable to digest the trauma at all and had barely even bothered to try. Losing his wife and child both on what should have been one of the happiest days of his life had rendered him half the man he had once considered himself.

The baby, his first precious child, had died in the womb at some point. Seona had lost too much blood, the birth gone horribly wrong, and she had faded away in his arms. The image had followed him during his waking hours and had tormented him every day. He had tried everything to rid himself of the terrible memory, from drinking to solitude, but nothing had given him any respite. After a while, he had decided that they were his burden to carry and remembering Seona and his daughter’s deaths could only honor the two of them.

I cannae move on; not now, nor ever, Mother. I’m sorry, but these thoughts, these memories… They need tae stay with me.

          If not for Iain, who would carry on Seona’s memory?

Iain felt his eyes become wet and he blinked away the emotion, shoving it away. It still twisted inside of him, still hurt in places he had barely begun to touch. He put away the thoughts that stung his heart in favor of unraveling the mystery of the dream woman. It was slow-going at first, but the more he distracted himself from the pain, the better he felt.

He searched his memory again, thinking that perhaps he had seen the woman somewhere before, but no… She had such striking features. He would have certainly logged that beauty away in his mind. She would be easy to find in the crevices of his thoughts.

He stole a glance at his mother; her eyes were sad and her breathing was soft. He knew that she was thinking of Seona and of him.

It bewildered and frustrated him, but he didn’t think that it had anything to do with his late wife, as his mother did. No, she and their daughter were sleeping peacefully in the earth. There had to be another reason, a deeper meaning to the dream that haunted him so often and so fervently.

“I just want tae see that bright smile back on your face, my son,” his mother said, her voice soft. “I dinnae think I’ve seen a happy look upon your face in many months. Years, now. You used to be so full o’ cheer.”

Iain sighed, brushing his hair back. There was no use in smiling any longer, yet no one seemed to understand. While they could move on and forget the sightless eyes of his wife and child, he could not. His mother, though she had loved Seona greatly, urged him to put her memory away and stop cutting himself open with thoughts of her. Iain desperately wanted that peace, but it felt like a betrayal to do so; he didn’t think he ever could.

He could not fault his mother. She only wanted what was best for her son; he knew what that felt like well enough. His mind re-visited him holding his daughter for the first and only time.

“Goodnigh’, Mother,” he said, his voice sullen, though he did not wish it to be. “I’m goin’ tae head back up tae bed; see if I can get some sleep before the sun peeks its head o’er the hills. As it is, I cannae stay awake any longer.”

He tried to smile at her, but he knew that it could not have been convincing. His mother looked at him with his expression mirrored on her face; a small smile that could have been happy if her eyes had not been so sad.

Iain turned then, not bothering for the whisky. The thought turned his stomach sour with bitter thoughts. Perhaps if he went to sleep, he would see that woman again. Perhaps she would tell him what she wanted with him, what she needed from him. In his heart of hearts, he craved her presence, was desperate to hear her voice saying his name again. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but she had a calming effect on him that was intoxicating. It was as though he was under a spell that he never wanted to be released from.

If he truly tried, perhaps he could attempt to move past this and pretend that the feelings that bloomed in his heart for her were but nothing but smoke and mist. Even as that thought occurred to him, he wondered if he would be able to forget her; a sizable portion of him doubted it highly.

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to. She had been something of a comfort. When he was engulfed in the dream, she was the only thing that mattered to him. Hearing her voice was a balm compared to the dull gray monotony that had become his life. He craved to see her again, to sleep and fall into his illusion. It was the only thing that soothed the pain of living lately, though he hated to admit it to himself.

Defeated and with his head and heart aching terribly, he crawled back into his bed, pulling the quilts up and around him. Iain tried with every bit of will in his body to relax his muscles and let sleep claim him, but it did not come so easily this time.

He tossed in his bed, trying to shut his mind against the onslaught of thoughts that plagued him. The only thing that calmed him was the image of her face; he let himself think about the blue of her eyes, the clear melody that was her voice. They felt like cooling waters over an aching wound.

Iain lay back, wondering if he would ever meet her in person and then felt his chest rumble in a laugh. He should not get his hopes up, he knew; men do not meet women out of their dreams. His mind was birthing fantasies; the dream woman could of course not be a real person who he could see and touch. A wry half-smile touched his lips at his foolish desire to pull a woman from his own mind.

He shut his eyes tight, but could not help but hope that he was wrong. Perhaps she really was out there somewhere, waiting for him to find her. Maybe she was closer than he knew.

Chapter 2

When Isla Robertson raised her head from her pillow, the warm sun dancing through the glass pane, she felt a tiny smile grace her lips. She let herself actually sleep in today, as opposed to rousing herself early for a morning ride upon her mare, Brigida. It was a perfect day to spend outside and gratitude rose up in her heart; today of all days she had hoped to walk in the gardens and swim in her favorite loch.

She stretched, relishing the warmth on her skin. Today, she would find some joy and merry-making, even if she had to do it herself; perhaps she would even go on an adventure.

After all, a lass c’n only be twenty-one once in her life!

Isla smiled in spite of herself, feeling for all the world as though she was still a child. The thought of womanhood was daunting, though she’d already surpassed that milestone. She knew that she should be thinking of marriage, but whenever she tried, her mind always took her to the moors, the forests, the lochs of the land.

She sat up straight, pushing her long black hair out of her face. Her legs ached from her long swim and ride through the meadows she’d undertaken yesterday, but she loved the feeling of her body enjoying nature. She pulled one her favorite bright red gowns over her petticoat and pulled her tartan shawl about her, fastening it with her favorite silver brooch.

Isla ran her fingers through her hair excitedly, eager to join her two sisters. She wondered vaguely if her father had anything planned for her today, but did not get her hopes up. It would not be the first time that he had disappointed her, nor did she doubt it would be the last. She told herself that it did not matter if her father treated her birthday like it was every other day.

She would enjoy it nonetheless.

Isla was about to push her bed chamber door open completely and wander the castle to find her sisters, when she thought she heard someone speaking in hushed tones. It wasn’t uncommon to hear people outside of her door, but it was the way the two were speaking that gave her pause. One voice was gruff, angry, and she recognized it immediately.

It was her father. What was he so angry about?

Her father had a temper that could not be matched, but this time there was an edge to his voice that made the nervousness in his voice apparent as well. Isla had heard her father angry many times, but never had she sensed fear in his voice. It was strangely out of character for him and so it tugged on her curiosity, even making her feel a little of his anxiety.

She held her breath, not daring to move the creaky door another inch, and waited to hear more.

The voices came again, quiet, but harsh and urgent. Isla felt her trembling fingers, doing their best to keep steady. The person who her father was speaking to answered him in a meek tone; it was one of the castle’s old maids. She could tell by the unmistakable quavering of her voice.

It sounded as though they were just around the other corner of the stone hall.  If the sound did not carry so well around corners, she doubted that she would have been able to hear them. Isla held her breath, watching their shadows play on the wall from around the corner. Her father’s shadow was looming and furious, while the old maid cowered, hunched at his side.

But what was he talking about?

“I cannae afford her kenning the truth!” her father’s voice whispered gruffly in the hall. “Already there is talk aroun’ the castle, and it cannae be spread any further than ’tis now.”

Truth? What truth? And what talk was there aroun’ the castle?

Isla felt her breath get caught somewhere in her chest.

“Aye, Laird Duncan,” warbled the old maid. “I agree, m’Laird. I meself ‘ave heard numerous maids gossipin’ like geese aroun’ about your daughter. Somethin’ needs to be done, action taken, an’ soon before the lass finds out.”

About ‘his daughter’? Which one?

Isla dared not open the door any wider, though she desperately wanted to.The doors incessant creaking would give her away immediately and then she would never know what they were discussing.

Not only that, but if her father caught her eavesdropping…

She did not like to think about how his temper would flare. Instead, she pushed the door until it was nearly open only a sliver and peered through the crack.

She heard the tell-tale sound of boots stomping across the stone; they were long steps full of frustration and anger followed by quicker, anxious ones.

They were approaching her door; her father likely assumed that she was already out in the meadows, as she was every day. Isla thanked the heavens that she had chosen this morning to indulge herself in a lie-in.

“We’ll have to arrange a betrothal as soon as possible then,” her father huffed. “Prefer’bly to a Laird across the highlands, perhaps Laird Thompson’s son will do. We’ll send word soon; I want this done without another word said about Isla.”

Her stomach dropped to her bare feet and she felt her blood run as cold as an icy loch on a winter’s morning. She could barely breathe and her thoughts were pulled in directions that she could not even fathom.

Me? What does Father mean? And why does he want to send me so far from my home?

Her older sister, Elayne, hadn’t even been arranged a marriage yet. It puzzled Isla as to why she should be married off first; and why so quickly? Their father had always spoken about Elayne and Isla’s twin sister, Annabella, being sent to castles nearby, so that he could keep an eye on them. Never once had he mentioned Isla’s name during those conversations.

So why now?

It did not make any sense at all. And yet…

Isla thought back to her long, black hair and her bright blue eyes, running a finger through the locks. She sighed, melancholy in the fact that she would never compare to Annabella’s and Elayne’s beauty.

Even their father had noticed it; he was ashamed of her features. That had to be it. He could not stand that Isla did not have the familiar features of a Robinson; she shamed him by looking so terribly different. Isla wanted to cover her face, suddenly ashamed of herself. She had never thought that she was unattractive.

Annabella looked more like a twin to Elayne than to Isla. They both shared the same healthy head of bright red hair and their eyes were similar shades of green; Elayne’s more emerald where Annabella’s were hazel. She had always envied them those lovely traits; it had nearly made her two sisters look like fae out of the fable’s they’d loved as children.

And so she would be sent off far away, likely to never hear from her father again. If he wanted her gone that quickly and that badly, surely he cared nothing for her. She had always known her father to be distant towards her, but never did she think that his heart could be filled with hate and disdain for her.

It did not help her cause that she’d always been so fiercely stubborn and bull-headed. She knew that she caused her father grief in her desire to be of her own mind and follow her heart, but did he really hate her with such fervor?

Could he really not even stand to look at her that much?

Her shoulders drooped as she lowered her head, ashamed. Isla now wished that she hadn’t been quite so willful as a girl and now as a young woman. Elayne and Annabella had always been obedient and quiet, never arguing with their father nor anyone else, not even between themselves. Never once had they shirked their duties in favor of an autumn ride on Brigida. She had rarely if at all saw them doing anything that would turn any heads.

If only I could have been tha’ way… Perhaps Father would not be throwin’ me away quite so fast.

The footsteps were right next to her door now, but they rounded the corner and kept going. They were headed downstairs somewhere, presumably to carry on this conversation about her.

“Och! If only there was a way to get word to Laird Thompson faster,” her father complained, bitterness in his voice. “The lass has caused me far too much trouble these last few years. And now…”

Her father’s voice faded out of earshot and Isla let her eyes fill with tears. Her vision blurred as her heart ripped at the seams, little by little. Not only would she suffer through another affection-less birthday from her father, she would have to carry the knowledge that he held no love in his heart for at all.

She did not know if she could face her sisters with these thoughts burning in the back of her mind, but either way, they would seek her out soon if she did not find them first. It would not do to be surprised, not while she knew what they did not.

She scrubbed at her eyes hard with the back of her hand and pulled the door open. Isla took one solid breath and stood up tall; no one would be suspicious of her if she acted as she normally did. She would smile, keep that glint in her eye and be as stubborn as she always had. If he was going to send her away regardless, then it did not matter if she changed her ways from wildcat to sheep-like anyway.

Isla made her way down the stone steps in the opposite direction that her father had taken along with the maid; it was the long way to the gardens but she did not care. She did not know if she could hold herself together enough to look her father in the eye. Besides, her sisters were probably already down in the grass with handfuls of herbs, braiding each other’s red hair.

She hurried her step, feeling the coolness of the air around her grow colder as she descended to the first floor of the Robertson Castle. As she had suspected, Elayne and Annabella were already giggling about something under one of the apple trees. They were making flower crowns of heather and knotgrass and looked as though they were having a fine time without her. Though she loved the both of them much, her twin had always seemed closer to their older sister than to Isla.

“Isla!” Annabella cried when she spied her. “Oh, sister, ye’re finally up! Sleepy head, we thought ye would slumber your entire birthday away!”

Elayne looked up, her green eyes brightening. “We did,” she said. “Neither of us wanted to wake ye, though. Thought ye might attack us like some sort of wild beast if we dared to!”

The two of them fell about laughing and Isla felt her heart soften; at least the two of them still loved her and had always.

“Here, love,” Elayne said, holding something out to her. “We made this one as a birthday gift; Annabella thought tha’ it would make your dark hair stand out in such a lovely way.”

It was a flower crown but it was crafted from a different set of flowers. Interwoven together was the bright, cerulean blue of heath milkwort and yellow marsh marigolds. Annabella hopped up, her tartan cloak catching the wind and placed it upon her head.

“There!” she crowed. “Ye look like a sprite about to drink the dew from the waterlilies, sister. Lovely as ever!”

Isla felt her eyes grow teary at the words, feeling her doubts about her appearance slip away. It was only the most terrible shame that she would be sent away from her sisters soon enough, though they did not have to know that. She smiled as they chattered to her idly, secretly committing this moment to memory.

She wanted to bring this thought up in her mind when she was carted away, far across the highlands. This one, and many others. Just because her father wanted to erase his existence from his memory did not mean that she wanted to forget her sisters.

Isla knew that she could not take her time with them for granted. Once she was married off to some far off clan, it would be quite difficult to ever see them again. Any day now might be the last time she ever sees them. She did not know when that time would come, but it was sure to be soon.

They spent most of the afternoon together, picking the buds from the wild clover flowers and wandering around the orchard. The late summer had the scent of fresh water and rosemary, carried on the breeze. Isla told herself she would remember this forever.

When Isla left her sisters, she felt a little better, though not much. The beginnings of homesickness had already begun to sprout in her heart; she could either pull it out by the roots or foster it and accept its existence. She chose the latter. Isla miserably trudged up the stone stairs towards her bedchamber and down the hall, unable to mask her sadness any longer.

She pushed the door open and hung her tartan up on the back of the carved wooden chair in her room, sighing. She collapsed into her bed, defeated and upset, and contemplated sleeping the rest of her birthday away when there came a sound like parchment sliding against wood.

Isla sat up, frowning. When she glanced down at her door, there was something there that had certainly not been before. She stood warily, her eyes locked on the sheet of parchment, folded into a little rectangle. Confused, she quickly stepped over to it, staring at the paper for only a moment long before she bent low to pick it up.

With the parchment in her hands, she wrenched open the wooden door and quickly stepped outside. To her surprise, there was no one outside of her door. Her breath hitched, and she swiveled her head to see if she could spy anyone, but there was no one at all.

She was completely alone.

All that was left of whoever had just visited her was the quickly fleeing footsteps that disappeared down the stairs and out of sight, into the shadows of the floor below.

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

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Chapter 1

The world had ended only a few weeks ago, and Heloise MacAskill was expected to live on as though nothing had happened. She was expected to forgive.

The rain poured down, turning her chestnut locks black with moisture. The sky was dark, and she knew the rain would soon turn into a full-blown storm, yet she didn’t want to go back inside. Her eyes were wet, filled with tears masked by the downpour. She stood there, allowing the water to cover her like an icy cold blanket, hoping that perhaps the creatures of the faerie myths she loved as a child would take pity on her and come to take her away.

“Ellie?”

Nay. Dinnae interrupt me, nae now, nae yet. She ignored her brother calling for her by her childhood nickname. Let me be here a moment longer, where none of this is real.

“Ellie!? Can ye hear me? Can ye please look at me? Yer giving me a right fright standing there like ye are.”

“I’m fine, Van,” she said, the lie sounding hollow even as she spoke the words. How could she be fine? How could anything ever be fine again?

She sighed deeply, turning away from the enveloping rain to face her brother. At only ten and four, Evander was a tall, gangly boy, already much taller than Ellie. They looked alike—dark hair and sharp features they’d taken from their mother. Evander, though, had large grey eyes, where Heloise’s were green.

I see Father’s eyes every time I look at Van. Does he ken that?

It was a knife through the heart when she looked into the poor boy’s eyes, but she forced herself to smile at him anyway. None of this was his fault. No, the blame was squarely on the shoulders of their mother.

“I mean it, Van. I’m fine,” she repeated as Van continued to look at her as if she had grown an extra head. “Grand, even.”

He didn’t look remotely convinced. He folded his arms and said, “Then ye’ll come inside and away from this awful place? We hae guests ye ken.”

Ellie nodded, she knew there were visitors at the keep, but she barely cared. Besides, the kirkyard wasn’t awful. Since the funeral, since her father was taken from her and left her alone in a cold, empty world, the kirkyard was the only place that gave her any warmth. Evander didn’t seem able to feel it as she did, and for that, she pitied him.

Because it was expected of her, and she did not want to cause Van any more distress. She followed her brother back along the winding path that led to a castle that had once been her home. Of course, she still lived there, but it no longer felt like the warm home she longed for with her father gone. She glanced at her brother. The boy was expected to be a Laird now.

He isnae ready. Mother needs to get over her own pain and see that. He needs her to help him.

Ellie loved Evander. She wanted to see him succeed as laird, yet despite how much she adored him, she couldn’t stay in the empty, broken shell of her family home. She had to come up with a plan. She could travel to Edinburgh, perhaps change her name and accent and find work as a governess or in a seamstress shop. She was half bad with a needle. She could change her appearance and blend in with the common folk. She could be far away from the pain of home. She was not needed. She smiled at her own ingenuity. Yes, she would do quite well on her own. Perhaps if she was able to squirrel away some provisions, she could be ready to leave in less than a fortnight. She had some coin stashed away in her trunks. She allowed a small smile through her pain; perhaps all was not lost. A future was revealing itself in her imaginings. Though she followed Evander, it was only a matter of time until Ellie escaped for good.

***

“And where have ye been that ye come storming in here like a drowned rat?” shouted Lady Sara MacAskill. Ellie fought the urge to cover her ears as she and Van entered the room. Mother’s voice had lost all of its calm and sweetness since Father’s death. Her grief had overwhelmed her entirely. Or her guilt, Ellie thought. “It’s a good thing ye were wearing black. God only kens what ye’d be showing to the public if ye’d not been in yer mourning dress.”

It’s a good thing I’m wearing black, is it? A good thing that I’m in mourning?

That hadn’t been what her mother meant, of course. Ellie knew she was being unfair. Ellie had promised Evander that she’d be gentler with their mother, even if it meant accepting unjust shouting and compliments given with the back of her hand. After all, the two women had been close once. Before her father had fallen upon his own sword, Ellie had loved her mother above all other women.

Oh, the official story had been illness, but the family knew the truth. The man had been tired of life, too much to even care about what it would do to his children if he escaped it.

“Mother, she was visiting Father,” Evander said quietly. He was a sweet boy, too gentle for the world into which he’d been born. He was trying to make peace, to make his mother give his sister a moment to breathe. Ellie loved him for trying.

Oh, it was the wrong thing to say, but he tried.

“Visiting your father?” Lady MacAskill shrieked. Her green eyes– Heloise’s green eyes—stared directly at her daughter, and Ellie could see pure fury. “Ye went to the kirkyard? Again? I thought I forbid it!”

“I’m a woman grown, Mother,” Ellie explained, trying to keep calm for the sake of Evander. Ellie was trying, but her mother was stoking her anger. “Ye cannae keep me from me Father.”

“Ye spend all yer time at that grave,” Lady MacAskill accused. “In th’ rain no less. Look at ye, ye look like a sopped moppet.”

Before Ellie could think not to take her mother’s bait, she snapped back. “Well, I wouldnae have to visit his grave if it wasnae—”

Ellie opened her mouth to try to apologize, but she found she couldn’t, not now that she was inside. The reason she spent so much time in the rain, though nobody else seemed to understand it, was simple. The ice-cold torrent was the only thing strong enough to temper the raging fire inside her.

“If it wasnae what, Heloise?” her mother demanded. “Say it.”

“Perhaps if me father had a wife who respected or cared about him at all, he wouldnae have done what he did,” Ellie said in a whispered snarl. “Perhaps I’d still have a living father if ye—” She stopped herself, but it was too late. Her mother blanched, and Evander looked terribly upset.

“Ellie, please,” Evander begged. “Please stop. Ye ken that this never ends well, nae for any of us. Please dinnae—”

“Nay, go on!” Lady MacAskill insisted. Her hands on her hips and her eyes too narrow for Ellie to think Van was wrong. “Tell me exactly what ye think of me, daughter. Tell me how terrible ye think I am.”

“Me father is dead because ye couldnae stop yerself from doing what ye did,” Ellie hissed. “I heard ye. I heard ye telling him the truth. Two days later, he was gone. How can ye even try to claim it was nae yer fault?”

Tears welled in Evander’s eyes, but Lady MacAskill’s gaze grew cold.

“Ye never loved him,” Ellie continued, unable to stop now that her rant had begun. She did not yell, but her tone was biting, and her anger intense. A flame had been burning in the locked chest of her soul, waiting to be unleashed, and now that she opened the latch, there was no holding it back. “Ye never cared about him at all. He tried so hard, and—”

She reeled back as her mother slapped her hard across the cheek, the shock of the violence ringing throughout the stone hallway. Ellie fell to her knees as Evander cried out.

Ellie looked up at her mother, brushing aside her brother’s attempt to help her stand. The older woman’s green eyes were wide with surprise and dare she hope, regret, then as quick as it appeared, the look vanished, and Lady MacAskill hardened. “Dae nae speak to yer mother in such a way,” she chastised. “Dae nae act like ye ken anything of love.”

“I ken what it is, unlike you,” Ellie said, glaring at her mother. “Never strike me again,” she warned. Even as she said the words, she was unsure how she would follow through on any threat against the woman who gave her life.

Evander stepped forward. “She’s upset, Ellie. She didnae mean to…”

Ellie held up a hand to stop her brother from lending their mother an excuse for her behavior. She regretted nothing she said, and she suspected the same was true of her mother. There were some actions one could not simply apologize away. All Ellie wanted was to leave the corridor. She could not stay, especially not when treacherous, angry tears were prickling at the corners of her eyes. She could not allow her mother to see her cry. And so, she turned on her heel and marched out of the hall, breaking into a run as she approached the large doors that separated the main living space from the Great Hall. Evander called out, but nobody actively tried to stop her.

Good. I dinnae ken what I would have done if they did.

***

The hidden stone alcove where Ellie hid now had always brought her peace. She’d discovered it in one of the little-used hallways in the keep when she was but a child. It was carved out behind a tapestry and had become her salvation. She had spent hours over the years hiding away from everyone there, bringing soft pillows, books, and even sometimes snacks. It was the perfect quiet place—her own private salvation. No one else knew of it as far as she could tell except for her and Evander. They used it to communicate with each other, leaving notes and spending time in the small space playing games and reading. Her heart could be content in the alcove. Even now, as she tried to calm her anger, she was able to lose track of time. It was the only place that she could go to escape.

It’s a wonder the fire in me blood doesnae ignite the tapestry.

The alcove had served her well over the years. She’d never even told her father, Laird Irving MacAskill, about her secret place. She’d told him everything else, more than most daughters would tell their fathers. Now at two and twenty, she missed him more than ever, knowing she had lost the opportunity to share her secret place with him.

She sat behind the tapestry, curled into her pillows, trying very hard to calm herself. Her mother was so infuriating! How could the woman act as though none of this was her fault? Ellie had been so close to her father, and the fact that Lady MacAskill was the reason he was gone, she could never forgive.

Ellie had hidden to calm down, yet she found her temper raging even further every time she circled back to her mother. She touched her cheek. The slap hadn’t hurt, not really. If Ellie hadn’t been so blinded by hurt and anger, she might have considered that she’d deserved it.

Ellie let out a long, low sigh. At least their guests hadn’t witnessed the fight with her mother. Laird Lachlan Sinclair had been one of the few from the nearby clans who had bothered to travel out all this way to give the grieving family some comfort. Ellie was grateful to him for that, though she wished he had come alone. Not that she would expect a laird to travel without his men and a small entourage. It was their custom, after all. Still, he brought that infuriating nephew of his. That, Ellie thought, was a bit too much.

She huffed. Thinking of Aidam Sinclair always put her in a bad mood. Sure enough, he had a strong jaw dusted with a neat beard that showed off his brilliant smile. He was a handsome lad with long hair touched enough by the sun to shine like spun gold and blue eyes that reminded anyone who looked into them of sea spray on a clear Spring morning. He could steal the heart of anyone at a glance—and he knew it. Ellie had barely been able to get a maid to help her dress since Laird Sinclair and his nephew had arrived, each of them too busy paying company to that silly boy! She would always think of him as such.

And yet he’s at least four years me senior. Would that he behaved that way.

Ellie shook her head again, telling herself that it wasn’t Aidam’s fault. His uncle had raised him, she knew, and never really learned how to behave like a man. He was selfish, spoiled, and traipsed through existence as if the pain and grief of the real world mattered naught to him at all. Everything to Aidam held humor. Even Ellie knew that kind of caprice was irresponsible and dangerous. They had practically grown up together. It seemed Sinclair, and Aidam along with him, were always at the MacAskill keep. When she was younger, Aidam’s behavior hadn’t bothered her so much. She actually found his japery amusing under normal circumstances, and his silly flirting could have even been considered somewhat appealing. But now…

Well, it was easier to be angry than sad. Her irritation with Aidam served as a distraction from the vortex of feelings surrounding her mother and the agony of losing her father. Perhaps he even knew that, and that was why—

The tapestry rustled and pulled aside. She jumped as a handsome face appeared before her.

“Ellie?” Aidam asked, sounding amused. “Whatever are ye doing back here?”

“Talk of the Devil, and he’s presently at yer elbow,” she muttered to herself before addressing her interloper. “Ye should not address me so familiar,” She chastised. Not sure if she liked the sound of her nickname coming from him. “How did ye even find me? Go away, Aidam.”

He raised one thick blond eyebrow. “Now, Lady Heloise.” He emphasized her Christian name with a smirk worthy of naught else than a smack of her hand. “That isnae verra fair. Am I being ordered tae leave or answer yer question? God kens, I’m nae quite able to do both.”

She growled. This was not a distraction she needed. Allowing deep distaste to color her voice, she answered, “Tell me how ye found me and then leave.”

Aidam folded his arms. “Yer dreekit,” he said, referring to how she’d been soaked by the rain. “Ye’ve been dripping water since ye came inside. I went to check on yer mother, and she told me ye’d fled in anger. I simply followed yer trail to make sure ye were all right.”

Ellie cursed under her breath. “All right, ye’ve found me, and clearly I’m fine. Now go away,” she insisted. “And forget ye ever saw this place.”

Aidam grinned. Damnation, but he was as smug as he was handsome. Although not ladylike at all, Ellie idly wondered what it would be like to punch him.

Or kiss him.

She started. Where had that thought come from? It was a purely physical thought, of course. Kissing should be the last thing on her mind. It unsettled her to know her mind was capable of such a thought. She really was a grieving mess. Were she to return to herself at all, she knew she must leave this place as soon as possible. Yes, that was what her mind was telling her with such errant thoughts. She needed to put distance between herself at the Highland keep; escaping her emotions would be the best and fastest way to put herself to rights.

“Ye ken,” he said. “There’s room in there for two.”Aidam was still watching her, and his expression made clear he somehow knew exactly where her thoughts were traveling.

She scowled, looking away. “I dinnae want yer company,” she said shortly. “I barely tolerate ye as it is. Yer uncle is the only reason I bother.”

Lachlan Sinclair was a kindly man, fatherly, honest, and comfort in these days when her own father was so cruelly taken from her. Would that Lachlan had passed any of that onto his nephew, and they’d all be better for it.

Aidam tutted, not easily deterred. “Come now,” he teased. “Ye call that being a good hostess? Move yerself over and let me in.”

He always talked to her in the same teasing tone since they were both wee bairns. In another world, one where she was less broken and angry, it would have made her smile. She might even have been able to return his trite banter.

But I lost me smile. Only the fire still lives.

“Take it, then,” she said, pushing past him as she climbed out of the alcove. “I’ll go elsewhere.”

He blinked at her in surprise. “Ellie, wait,” he said. “I’m only trying to be friendly. I’m sorry if I genuinely upset ye. I just thought—”

“I dinnae need yer help, Aidam Sinclair. Yer’s or anyone else’s!” She half-shouted, instantly embarrassed by her own misplaced rage. Ignoring the tender look in Aidam’s eye, she stormed along the corridor away from him, toward one of the side doors. She did not need or want his pity. He could save the looks for the maids who clamored for his attention and leave her to herself.

Ellie would rather go back out into the rain than show Aidam her grief and weakness. She’d go back to her father and enjoy the silence, away from traitorous mothers, concerned little brothers, and confusing handsome lads and their teasing.

Let the rain pour atop her head and quench her fire, if only for a moment. Until she was able to escape, what else could she do?

Chapter Two

Aidam had never been one for dealing well with the tempestuous emotions of women. Oh, he loved them, of course—they were beautiful creatures, unknowable and incomparable in their wonder. He could spend hours upon days looking upon their bonny faces and running his hands through their soft locks. Indeed, most women thought him handsome, but they never seemed to know that they blessed him with their presence rather than the other way around. Yet, he still felt adrift at sea with no anchor or mooring when it came to the way women showed their emotions.

That wasn’t to say all women were the same, far from it. Some were kindly. Some were cruel. Some were loving, some bitter, some funny, some boring, and others were something other entirely. He’d met and briefly courted many women in his six and twenty years. People called Aidam fickle, but that wasn’t true at all—he was far from that. In his own way, he cared for each and every woman who granted him her time. It was never love—but he never led them to expect love. Each woman who stepped out with him was fully aware that his intentions were not marriage or children. Love was for men ready to settle, and Aidam was not that. How could he, when there were so many women out there so interesting?

There always seemed to be a woman or two on his arm, but none of them, not one, was anything like Lady Heloise. More like a boat at sea bein’ attacked by stormy waves, he thought as he watched Ellie tear off in the direction of the kitchens.

Lady Heloise MacAskill—always Ellie to him—was becoming a problem. He’d known her for many years, and their relationship had always involved teasing and patter. He’d never tried to court her, knowing the lashing he’d receive from her tongue if he attempted any of the sweet talk and light flirting that worked so well for him with the ladies. It was hard for him to remember a time when Ellie wasn’t in his shadow, but when he was first starting to look at girls as more than girls but women, she was young, too young to consider in such a light, a friend was all—one whom his uncle seemed to encourage visits with as often as possible.

That had changed since she turned ten and eight. He’d barely seen her in the four years since. When he’d heard the news about poor Laird MacAskill, though, he’d instantly demanded he be allowed to accompany his uncle to pay respects to the widow and children left behind.

Evander is half a man, where he was nay but a child the last time I saw him, and Ellie…well, I barely recognize her at all.

Aidam watched where she’d fled down the hallway. He wasn’t offended by her dismissal. She’d always been blunt and a wee bit capricious. It was reassuring; at least, some things about her hadn’t changed.

“Stubborn chit, I seen th’ way ye looked to me the day I arrived!” he exclaimed to the hallway, knowing he wouldn’t say it to her face. “She kens she needs me help!”

She’d always been pretty enough, he supposed, but when he saw her as a fully grown woman, things shifted. Her long hair, sharp green eyes, and body that curved gently under her simple black mourning dresses— Aidam longed to touch her in a way, less than friendly immediately, yet he also saw his youthful friend in need and wanted to be the one she chose to lean on.  The desire to hold and comfort her became overwhelming. He’d quashed it, of course. Even he was not so crass as to flirt with a woman in mourning. So, he’d treated her like he used to—the friend he thought she needed most at the moment. She was hurt, angry, and confused, but sometimes when he made just the right stupid joke, the hopeful glimmer of a smile shone in her eyes. A small return to the girl he knew. That made him proud. He wanted to break through her walls, chip away at her anger until he found more of that girl she had been.

Aidam leaned against the cool stone wall and expelled an exasperated breath. He had tried, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind. It wasn’t love, of course, but how long had it been since he wanted any woman as much as Ellie? There was a fire right below the surface, ready to harm or to help as it needed—a burning passion that he’d never seen so present in another person, let alone a woman. The week so far had not been without incident between them. Had he not known better, he would guess she sought him out more than once, then thinking better of the impulse, pretended that she hadn’t done any such thing. Then there were the rare times he caught her as she smiled, remembering her father or talking with her Evander.

Aye. She’s trouble.

Aidam sighed and turned to walk away. She obviously wanted to be alone. He’d go and find Evander instead. Better to spend the time with a member of the MacAskill family that wanted his company. It was easy to be around Evander. He adored Aidam. While Aidam wasn’t particularly fond of being looked to as a hero, at least Evander was someone he knew he could help without the nagging need and desire eating away at his mind.

***

Ellie again found herself standing out in the rain before her father’s headstone, feeling a little daft. The rain had calmed her, yes—but it had also washed away any façade of anger protecting her from her own embarrassment. Her mother deserved all the censure she doled out, to be sure, but Ellie was too old to be running outside in the rain.

“Och, Father,” she sighed, running her hand along his name emblazoned on the rock. No moss grew yet, of course, but she imagined that in a few years, the cracked and weathering in the stone would be filled with a lovely, friendly green. “What am I to do without ye? Van isnae ready to be a Laird, and Mother…”

Mother. I miss when I could love her. I miss when I thought she was a better person.

“Lady Heloise?”

For a moment, muffled in the fuzzing of the rain, she mistook the deep voice for that of her father. She looked up half in fear and half in hope. It couldn’t be. She held a tight breath before relaxing into an exhale. It was not her father returned from the grave, but rather Laird Lachlan Sinclair, come to find her.

“Did Aidam tell ye where I was?” she asked, forcing a faint smile.

The Laird nodded. The rain had started to lessen a bit, but Ellie found she didn’t mind. In truth, there was something about Lachlan that reminded her of her father and given everything that occurred already this day. It was a comforting feeling. “I understand how hard it is to lose one who ye love,” he said. “I once loved a lass with all me heart, only to have her cruelly torn away.”

“Jemina’s mother?” Ellie asked, referring to Sinclair’s seventeen-year-old daughter. The young woman had not accompanied her father and cousin, presumably because someone needed to stay behind in the castle while the Laird was gone. Ellie did not remember much about the girl, even though Aidam had been around often when they were young. Jemina and Evander were both younger and not often permitted to travel between the clans for their own safety. Even in peacetime, there were dangers about in travel. As far as Ellie knew, Sinclair’s marriage had been arranged—but then, so had the marriage of her own parents, and they loved each other.

Or I thought they did.

She dipped her head into her hands. How had the world gone so wrong in such a short amount of time? The Laird didn’t answer her question. Instead, he smiled wistfully and said, “Ye ken, Heloise, it’s been ten years since me wife left this world. That’s a long time for a man to be alone.”

Ellie nodded absently, still staring at her father’s grave. “I’ve never been in love,” she told him. “If I’m honest, I dinnae think I ever will be. Love, in my experience, tends to be more damaging than rewarding.”

Just ask my accursed mother.

Lachlan nodded thoughtfully, and Ellie took the opportunity to look at him. He was an old friend of her parents, she knew. She imagined he’d been just as handsome as his nephew when he was young, if not more so. His hair had been brown once, but now it was a sharp, steely grey. His eyes were dark, and his beard thick, still showing strands of that long ago brown. He still had the look of a braw, strong man, only a hair out of his prime. There was no reason he could not marry again, she thought. There must be a plethora of ladies in their own prime that would love to give the old Laird companionship in his later years. Some men, she knew, even married younger maids to secure their heirs. Not that she wished for anything to be taken from Aidam, but the Laird may wish for a son of his own still. He really did remind Ellie of her father. In some ways, it was comforting to be around him. Since her father’s death, she had longed for a strong presence to guide her.

“Heloise, may I ask ye a question?” Lachlan asked after they’d both stood at the grave for a few minutes longer. The rain was disappearing quickly as the clouds cleared from the sky.

“Of course, my laird,” she said.

“Lachlan,” he corrected. He smiled and said, “Am I right in assuming that ye no longer wish to live here in Castle MacAskill?”

Ellie swallowed. Had she been that obvious about it? She felt herself blush slightly but then steeled herself and nodded. If she were going to follow through with her plan, she might need help. Having the kind old Laird in her corner may prove helpful. She could trust him, right? “I…aye,” she admitted. “Aye, I want to be gone. Every day here now is…more and more difficult.”

Lachlan nodded thoughtfully. “I think I may have a solution.”

Ellie looked at him curiously. Could he possibly have a better idea than her own? “I’m listening, my lai—” He stopped her with a look, and she quickly corrected. “…er, Lachlan.”

“I propose,” Lachlan said, scratching just under his beard in thought. “That ye and I are wed.”

Ellie stood in complete silence for some moments. Had she heard correctly? She was young enough to be his daughter. There is no way he could be serious in his proposal, could he? “Pardon me, my laird, but did I hear ye rightly? Ye wish to be wed? To me?”

“Me daughter, Jemina; she’s practically a woman now. She needs a stepmother to help her become a Lady,” Sinclair mused. “And I ken that, outside of yer grief, ye’re an expert in the field of nobility. And, well…beyond that, Heloise, ye’re a true beauty. Ye ken that, aye?”

Ellie raised an eyebrow, taken aback. Beauty? What in the world was this? Instead, she focused on the other part of what he’d said. “A…stepmother? Laird Sinclair, I’m only five years her senior,” Ellie protested.

Sinclair waved a dismissive hand. “Ahh, I told ye tae call me Lachlan. It doesnae matter,” he said. “She’ll take to ye better because ye’re young. And there are selfish reasons, as well. I’m an old man. I need some company in me twilight years.”

“Ye arenae even fifty yet,” Ellie protested, mostly because she felt like she should. “That’s hardly old, nae compared to some. Me own mother’s mother has already entered her eighth decade, and she’s doing grand.”

Lachlan smiled, but Ellie thought she saw an unfamiliar edge in his jaw at the gesture. Surely, he could not be angry at her refusal. It was a preposterous idea.

“Then I suppose me age willnae be a deterrent,” he said. “Heloise, I ken what it’s like to be mournful. Let me help ye out of it.”

Ellie paused.

“Ye and I will be joined, and I’ll take care of ye,” Sinclair continued, “Ye’ll nae longer need to worry about…family discord.”

Ellie nodded slowly, processing the Laird’s proposal. It came from nowhere. She searched her mind for any indication that she may have encouraged the Laird in any way or given any indication that a proposal was something she was agreeable to. “I…wasnae expecting this,” she confessed. Marriage? To Laird Sinclair? She had already committed to not marrying for love. Yet, it felt wrong. She could not name precisely why, but she knew marrying Laird Sinclair was not the answer she was looking for. She would do better on her own. Nay, she could not accept. “It’s a very kind offer. And I’m very flattered. I could certainly do worse by a husband than yerself. But…”

“Ahh lass, mayhap I wasnae clear. The matter has already been decided. Yer mother and I have made an arrangement. This discussion was only a courtesy to ye lass. Ye will be me bride. I was only asking tae be kind. I’ll be the luckiest man alive to have a beautiful young wife like ye,” Sinclair replied, taking her hand in his. It felt strange there.

“We leave on in three days’ time.”

Ellie’s head spun. Whatever was happening was happening too fast for her to process or understand. This had to be a nightmare.

***

Aidam heard shouting coming from the keep’s morning rooms and rushed in to investigate. Sure enough, he caught the tail end of the argument. Leaning against the door to the room, he could not help but hear the discussion between Ellie and her mother.

“Ye will marry Lachlan Sinclair, ye foolish girl. Ye dinnae have the choices for yer life that ye think,” shrieked Lady MacAskill, her rage acting to smother something else—was it pain? Ellie marry his uncle? What of this? Aidam had heard nothing of the kind. As far as he knew, his uncle was sworn never to marry again. Certainly not to Ellie; she was more than half his age. He…he was old enough to be her father. Surely, Aidam misunderstood.

“I ken ye hated me, Mother, but I didnae think ye’d force me in tae a marriage I didnae want,” Ellie said in a voice of deadly quiet. “It’s cruel. Father would—” Suddenly, there was a crash against the doors loud enough for Aidam to jump back and brace himself. As the door flew open, shards of glass clattered to the floor. He didn’t know who threw the vase, but it didn’t matter as Aidam watched Ellie storm out of her mother’s rooms, expression darker than he had ever seen.

He knew that she was going to turn her sharp temper on him for approaching, but he wanted to make sure that she was all right. He felt it his duty, even if she insisted that they had not been friends.

“Heloise!” he called, running after her. “Ellie, wait!”

She turned, frowning, then outwardly sighed as she saw him—her only response to seeing him these days—Aidam did not let it bother him.

He took a moment to gauge her appearance. She was visibly upset. Black circles of exhaustion ringed her eyes, drawing notice to their swollen appearance. Her hair was still a little damp, tied in a tight bun on top of her head, but she’d changed into another black dress and even adorned the required mourning cap. Aidam had always thought black a dour color, but especially so on Ellie. It drew away from the sparkle of her fair skin, washing her out, aging her beyond her two and twenty years.

“What do ye want?” she asked. “I’m nae in the mood for yer incompetent flirtations, lad.”

Lad? I’m four years older than ye are. And there’s naught incompetent about—

He was getting distracted—as no doubt, she’d intended. “I overheard yer conversation.”

“Ah, so ye’re an eavesdropper as well,” she said, folding her arms, terribly unimpressed. “The list of yer flaws only seems to grow longer an’ longer.”

Aidam ignored her comments. He would give her leave of her senses based on what he just heard. “What’s this I hear about ye bein’ set tae marry my uncle?” he asked. “Surely, I misheard.”

Her cheeks reddened a little, but she drew herself up to her full height and looked him proudly in the eye. “Ye didnae,” she said, no emotion betrayed in her voice. “Laird Sinclair proposed to me, and I accepted his proposal. We’ll be wed by the year’s end.”

Aidam stared at her. She cocked an eyebrow, challenging him to say something. He knew she was lying. She did not smile. She did not flinch. He heard her fight back against her mother. He had to agree. His uncle was too old. She had expressed no interest in being wed, especially not to his uncle. There was no way this was Ellie’s choice. Something else was brewing, Aidam felt it in his gut, and his gut was rarely wrong. After a moment, Aidam burst into raucous laughter.

It started small, but it grew in his stomach, threatening to overwhelm him.

She put her hands on her hips. “I’m serious, Aidam,” she said, sounding a little offended by his amusement. “We’re gonnae be married.”

“Och, ye must ken how silly that sounds,” Aidam replied, shaking his head. “Ye cannae want to marry a man as old as yer own father. That’s nonsense.”

Ellie raised one eyebrow. “Nonsense, is it? To find a man who’ll look after me and take me away from this place? Nay, I think not. I’m gonnae marry yer uncle, and there’s naught that anyone can say or do about it.” Tears threatened behind her gaze, but she did not waiver. Och, she was stubborn. Why wouldn’t she tell him the truth? Did she not trust him? Had they not known each other long enough for her to seek him out if she needed help. Her mother was clearly arranging this farce for some reason. He heard as much. Was his uncle doing the same? It was unlike the man to force a woman. Aidam would not allow any lass, especially Heloise, to be taken advantage of in such a way.

Aidam shook his head and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her to follow him. She came without argument, allowing him to pull her into a side room. They needed privacy. Once the door was closed behind him, she looked at him straight on.

“I’ll protest it,” he said, folding his arms. His laughter was gone now, replaced by a boiling irritation. “I’ll stop this farce before it can start.”

“Why do ye care so much anyway?” she demanded.

Why do I care so much? He should tell her the truth. Everything he knew to be wrong about the idea of it. There was something else as well. Something that stirred inside him at the thought of her marrying his uncle. It did not sit well. Yet, he could not put a name on it. He shook his head again, hand still tight on her arm. If she would not tell him the truth, perhaps he could get it out of her another way. Ellie was prideful, if nothing else. Perhaps he could challenge her sense of self. That would turn that fire against him, he knew. But it would also force some honesty out of her.

“Clan Sinclair is my family. Jemina is more than my cousin. She is practically my sister, and Sinclair raised me. He’s a second father. I willnae sit back and allow some immature wee lassie who cannae handle her emotions to join my family on a whim—and in a position of power, as well, Och nay!” Aidam exclaimed. His words may have been said to draw the truth out, but his annoyance was real, which surprised him.

Ellie’s scowl deepened. “Immature wee lassie, is it? Is that how ye see me?”

Nay, of course, it isnae. Ye’re more woman than any I’ve ever met.

“Well, how else am I tae see ye?” he replied, letting the irritation leak into his voice. “With yer ridiculous ideas of marriage. Ha! Yer father must be rolling in his grave.”

His head reared back as her hand came into contact with his cheek. “Dinnae even act like ye ken what me father would want,” she said dangerously. He rubbed his face, perhaps he went a bit too far, but he saw the fire dance in her eyes, the defiance against his words. Her face flush awash with a torrent of emotion.

Aidam had her, and he would not give up. Come on, lass. Tell me th’ truth. He couldn’t see this marriage happen. He simply couldn’t.“And ye? Ye’re telling me a lass like ye wants me uncle?” he pressed on. “Ye’re saying—”

“A lass like me? What does that mean? Dinnae presume to tell me what I want, either, Aidam Sinclair!” she snapped. “I dinnae ken who ye think ye are, but I—”

Aidam stared at her in exasperation. No longer hearing the protests, she continued to lob at him. He would not allow this marriage to happen. It was madness. She was driving him mad. With a sigh, he reached out and closed the distance between them. She stopped yelling just long enough for him to take her face between his hands, then dipping his head, he let his lips do what his words could not and shut her up.

He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t dreamt of the moment he would finally kiss Ellie, though, in his fantasies, it had gone rather differently. He could taste her outrage on her lips. Her hands went to his chest. Aidam prepared himself to be pushed away. He had no excuse for kissing her, but instead, he found himself delighted as her hands curled in his shirt as she pulled him closer.

Aidam tangled a hand in her hair, responding to her enthusiasm with a deep surge of victory, and below it, an even deeper burst of passion. She pulled him closer, her mouth soft, yielding, parting for him to probe her with his tongue, as he willingly deepened the kiss. She was not as skilled as some of the women he had kissed, but her passion was unlike anything he had been prepared for. He could not get enough of her. She tasted sweet and clean. He thought, familiar like vanilla and fresh rain. Her body pressed against his, fitting tightly against him in agonizing perfection. The curve of her soft, supple breasts pressed against the hard heat of his chest. He moaned as he delved deeper still, trying to enjoy her, but losing himself to the need to devour her.

She wants me. His mind sang with the realization. She wants me like I want her!

His body grew impatient. His own passionate urges were taking control of any rational thought. She was soft. Too soft. She was yielding, too yielding. Gad above, it was only a kiss, yet it felt to Aidam as if they were melting into each other. The desire to tear off her dress and have her bare skin pressed against his own was overwhelming. He needed to feel more of her. She gave a slight mew, and he pressed his hard body into hers. She arched her back ever so slightly, bringing herself even closer to him, and Aidam knew that, despite his reluctance, that meant it was time to stop. He softened their kiss and pulled back.

She stared at him, mouth swollen, green eyes clear, and shocked. She must have felt the electricity between them as he did. God above, she was beautiful. More than beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, sending a rosy pink glow through her perfect skin, and her chest heaved, her breasts rising and falling with every breath, noticeable even tucked away under that horrid mourning dress. He wanted to cup her face and bring her lips to his own again, but he resisted.

“Ye kissed me,” she said after a moment. “Ye…Aidam…”

“Ye kissed me back,” he said. His voice was hoarser than he would have liked, and so he tried again. “Ye kissed me back,” he said, managing something closer to smugness. “I kent it.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked at him with confusion. “What…?”

“I kent that ye wanted me,” he said, then forced himself to shrug and sound aloof. “Or, nae even me. Ye want young men, excitement, daring meetings in secret rooms. Ye’re not ready to be a bride.”

Ellie’s pretty blush turned into something a deeper red, her soft expression hardening as she realized what he was saying. “That’s what this was about?” she asked in a near-whisper.

Aidam suddenly felt an absurd rush of guilt. He shook it off. Why should he feel anything other than ebbing passion for a bonny lass? He had nothing to feel guilty about. “Aye. For yer own good. Ye’re nae—”

“Ye’re a villain,” she spat. She didn’t shout or cry. Instead, something close to hurt flashed behind her eyes, and her voice was soft—deadly soft. Aidam tried to push down the need to explain further. She turned and walked toward the door.

“Ellie,” he said.

She ignored him, opening the door and leaving.

Aidam watched her go, then sighed. He had proven his point. He had been right. He had, in his own way, managed to help a friend.

So why, then, did he feel so guilty?

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

Chapter 1

Kieran’s heart pounded in his chest; one wrong move, and it would all be for nothing. He held his finger to his lips, ensuring that the men with him knew not to make a sound.

Bailey, Kieran’s closest friend, was crouched beside him in the underbrush while his sister Tilly sat low on his other side. While Bailey was no fighter, Tilly most certainly was. She could hold her own against most of Kieran’s men. She wasn’t the biggest woman he’d ever known, but she somehow had a strength in her that frightened a lot of his men. She was known for rushing headlong into any battle without a care for her own life. She was greatly admired by both the men and women of the clan for her fearlessness and fighting skills. Kieran chalked it up to the MacBride blood that flowed through their veins, the blood of the fiercest warriors known to Scotland.

The forest was magnificent this time of year. The sun sparkled through the tiny gaps in the leaves of the trees, so high above them it made Kieran dizzy just looking up at them. Every shade of green surrounded them – from the emerald of newly grown moss to the citrine of new leaves on the trees to the deepest forest green that was almost gray throughout the forest. Spring was most certainly a beautiful time of the year in Kyle of Lochlass, and with all the rainfall, it promised to be especially magnificent this year.

Kieran readied himself, notching his arrow to his bow, lining his sight up with his target. He exhaled slowly, quietly, and let the arrow fly.

The boar squealed in pain as his men let their own arrows find their mark in the creature’s back and belly. The boar went down with a heavy thud as his men cheered for their victory over defeating the boar.

“Well done, Laird,” Bailey laughed, clapping him on the shoulder, “We’ll be feastin’ tonight.”

“Aye, we will,” Kieran said, his red hair glinting in the sun.

Tilly laughed, “Like ye even got a shot in there, Bailey.” Kieran sighed internally at the crestfallen look on Bailey’s face. He knew that Tilly had only said it in jest, but Bailey was a sensitive soul. Tilly seemed to forget that far too often, even if she cared deeply about him. She had a way of sounding much brusquer than she meant to; she rubbed Bailey’s arm in silent apology. Kieran couldn’t ignore how the man’s face lit up instantly at the contact. He could do nothing but shake his head. This was not a situation he wanted to get involved in.

“Quiet,” Kieran called out, just loudly enough for his men to hear him, as his attention was drawn away from the conversation by a rustling in the underbrush that had nothing to do with his men or the boar.

“Get yersels back here,” he called out to his men, as a group of foreign men became visible, walking through the forest, making no effort to conceal themselves. Kieran’s men regrouped closer to him, laying their hands on their weapons while trying to look as nonchalant as possible. It wasn’t often that they ran across strangers out in these woods – everyone knew they belonged to the Laird Kieran and his clan.

The men came into sight, standing opposite Kieran and his men in a loosely ranked formation. They far outnumbered his group; they had only gone out for a small hunting excursion and hadn’t expected any trouble.

Kieran chewed the inside of his lip. Not all strangers were enemies, but not all of them were friendly either. If it came down to it, his men were outnumbered and would struggle to hold their line. He knew he had to avoid any potential altercation as much as he possibly could.

“I see yer unmarked, but ye look like soldiers. Where are ye from?” Kieran called out to them.

The strangers shuffled around a bit before one stepped forward, seeming to be the captain of the group. He shrugged as he moved closer, a sneer on his face as he answered Kieran.

“Like we’d tell the likes of you. You’re nothing more than a bunch of uncouth heathens, running around like ladies in your skirts and long hair. Your women are more manly than you are,” the captain said, looking Tilly up and down, not disguising the brazen lust in his eyes.

They were Englishmen. Kieran tensed up immediately; Englishmen only seemed to bring trouble with them. Their comments were unappreciated, and the man knew it…  He could feel Tilly bristling at the captain’s stare, drawing her sword out of its sheath slightly. The man raised his eyebrow, chuckling at his sister’s subtle threat. Kieran held out his hand slightly, stilling hers on her sword.

“Oh, no need to be like that, miss. It’s really a compliment. I’m sure I could show you a better time than any of your fellows here ever could.”

“You’ll mind yer manners, or I’ll cut yer tongue out for ye.” Tilly crossed her arms over her chest. She tossed her long, copper hair over her shoulder, shrugging in indifference at his last comment.

Kieran swore under his breath. Tilly had a bad habit of being unable to keep her thoughts to herself; she said what she thought. Even as a child, she had been that way, and no matter how many problems it caused, Kieran sometimes felt she purposely refused to change her attitude. Here he was, hoping to avoid issues, but she wasn’t helping. And while Kieran couldn’t blame her, considering he wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug look off the man’s face, this was not the occasion to provoke these men.

The English had been causing havoc in Scotland for decades upon decades. They were constantly infringing on lands that didn’t belong to them, acting like they had every right to be there. Kieran felt the anger rising in his chest. His heartbeat roared in his ears, his pulse quickening with each and every beat. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his side; this was his land, his clan’s land. It had been passed down through generations of MacBrides; they had been the Lairds in this region for time immemorial. This land belonged to the Scottish; Kieran would be damned if he allowed the English to take it from his clan.

Kieran had fought in many a war, many a battle. At the age of twenty-eight, he feared no warrior; he feared no war; he was a warrior through and through. He was a burly, strong man, a strong leader. His men followed him into battle without question. But he knew that here, today, he could well lose his men to these Englishmen. It was not a battle he wanted to go into.

Kieran forced himself to breathe deeply in an attempt to calm his rage down enough to deal with the situation as calmly as possible. Replying in the haze of his rising temper would only worsen the situation.

“Yer trespassin’ on my land an’ I dinnae tak’ kindly tae those who dae this without my consent,” Kieran replied when he felt sufficiently calmer, crossing his arms across his broad chest, puffing it out to make himself look bigger, more imposing.

“Ah, well, in that case, I guess we’d better be moving along, Laird,” the man said, the group of men with him chuckling behind him as he too crossed his arms across his chest.

“Yer sarcasm is no’ appreciated, sir,” Kieran stood his ground, feet planted firmly.

“My apologies indeed. I mean no disrespect, Laird Hoity-Toity,” the man raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Ye best leave my land if ye wish tae keep yer life an’ those o’ yer men,” Kieran’s grip on his anger was slipping with every second that passed.

“What happened to that great Scottish hospitality I’ve heard so much about? Aren’t you supposed to invite any visitors to your lands for a meal, ale, and a resting place before they go on their way?”

A couple of Kieran’s men growled low in their throats behind him; they, too, were losing their patience. Kieran held up his hand, silencing his men, not bothering to turn around. They knew full well what he was implying.

“Aye, we dae have such a rule. For our fella brothers an’ sisters; no’ for the likes o’ ye,” Kieran watched the Englishmen beginning to move slowly for their weapons, hands inching towards their scabbards.

“What a shame. I really expected a better welcome from the Laird who will soon be bending his knee to an English Lord.”

“Over my dead body,” Kieran snarled, his anger no longer in check, “Ye best start movin’, afore I mak’ ye. There isnae a reason to shed blood here for no good reason, eh?”

The man smiled, nodded, and without preamble, drew his sword. His fellow soldiers did the same thing, rushing forward across the clearing, ignoring the dead boar in their way, bloodlust raging in their eyes.

Kieran shook his head; these Englishmen had come here looking for a fight. Between Tilly’s reaction and his own, they had led themselves straight to the slaughter. He found himself regretting every word he’d said. He would lose good men – good soldiers – because of his own arrogance and refusal to even attempt being diplomatic.

His men shouted their war cry as they rushed forward, weapons in their hands, the spirit and fight of the Scottish Highlands in their hearts. They may not have been afraid of this battle, but Kieran knew it would be a waste of lives that he would have to bear the responsibility of.

With a heavy heart, Kieran swung his sword through the air, singing its sweet notes as it met the English leader’s sword in the air. All around him, his men were engaged in combat with the English; they were sorely outnumbered as more soldiers entered the clearing from within the woods where they had been hiding.

Kieran swore out loud, cursing their deception, as he parried his opponent’s next blow to his left arm. He met the blade with his, pushing the man’s sword away with brute force, before moving his feet backward, balancing on the back leg as he cut down with his sword. The blade hit home in the man’s throat, between his shoulder and neck. He fell to his knees instantly, blood gushing out of the wound. His eyes closed as his body collapsed to the ground, his face ashen gray from the loss of blood.

One down, Kieran thought to himself.

The sound of battle echoed around him – swords clashing against swords, the howls of the injured and dying, the battle cries his men continued to shout, the sound of bones crunching beneath blades. All of it reminded Kieran of every battle he had ever fought in, every nauseating thing he had ever seen and endured. He had survived them all.

The copper tang on the air was overpowering. If Kieran had been focusing on anything other than his next opponent, he might well have gagged at the smell. For now, he couldn’t risk even looking around him. He wouldn’t. He refused to see how many of his men had already been felled by the English dogs around them.

He rushed the two men who had decided to become his next targets. He swung his sword from above his head, bringing the cutting edge down across the first man’s throat, severing his artery. The man went down like their leader had, gone in seconds.

The second ran at Kieran, sword blazing through the air, as Kieran met the edge of the sword with the hand guard of his own. He pushed the sword away from him, but the Englishman was too quick. He swung his sword back around, causing Kieran to jump out of the way, spinning around as he did.

It wasn’t fast enough; he felt the sharp sting of his opponent’s blade as it dug into his left shoulder. Pain lanced through his arm as he completed his turn, sword point low. He knew it was only a superficial cut, but the pain was undeniable. There was no time to cradle the arm or press something to the wound to staunch the blood flow. He had no choice but to carry on. Kieran ran at the Englishman, his reaction too slow, his blade too high in the air to block Kieran’s blow to his gut.

The Englishman bent over double, his sword dropping from his hand as blood spurted from his mouth.

Kieran barely stopped to make sure the man was dead before turning to find another to face. He could only be grateful that the English bore no shields. He and his men hadn’t been prepared for a fight; most of them had come with only their long swords and dirks. They wore no armor, no helmets, no shields. Only their pride of steel carried them through this.

He turned, only to see Bailey, who was cornered by two brutes double his size, trying to fight his way out. Bailey wasn’t a warrior by any stretch of the imagination; he was a slight man, taken more to the scholarly side of life than fighting with weapons. He wouldn’t survive their attack for much longer; they were pushing him further and further towards the tree line behind him.

“Bailey, move,” Kieran shouted as he ran towards his friend, dodging others engaged in their own fights for their lives.

The ground was littered with bodies, the stench of blood and gore overwhelming. Too many of the bodies had braided hair, thick beards, his clan’s tartan colors clipped to their clothing.

The smell of smoke reached Kieran, who disregarded it as nothing of importance.

He watched as one of the brutes rammed his sword through Bailey’s abdomen, a grin of pleasure and hatred splitting his face. Kieran swung his blade from behind the two men – they had been too focused on Bailey to notice Kieran running towards them. His sword made the most beautiful song as it sliced through the air, splitting the man’s skull. Before the second man could turn around, Kieran’s sword was singing again as he swung it around, aimed at the man’s gut. The blow was deadly; without armor to protect his stomach, he stood no chance of surviving. He stared at Kieran, eyes wide, as he fell to his knees.

“Tha’s what ye get for attacking my men,” Kieran grated out through clenched teeth to no one in particular.

He turned to Bailey, whose face was devoid of color, his hands clutching at the wound in his side.

A new sound resonated through the clearing. It was no longer the screams of the injured and dying but screams of terror instead. Smoke billowed across the clearing, and the sound of crackling and snapping wood became prominent. Kieran looked around him where he knelt at Bailey’s side.

The forest was on fire.

The Englishmen had retreated, a few stragglers disengaging from their individual battles, taking off in a westerly direction, away from the Scotsmen – and the fire.

“Tilly?” Kieran cried out, trying to find his sister in all the commotion.

“I’m here,” she coughed, staggering towards him, her eyes wide, darting all around her. She was covered in blood, but thankfully most of it seemed to be someone else’s.

“Oh, thank the Gods,” Kieran sighed, “We need tae get out o’ here, now, Tilly.”

“I cannae believe this – I’m so sorry, Kieran,” she whispered, her hands trembling at her sides. She seemed to have dropped her sword somewhere along the way, her entire body beginning to shake like a leaf in the winds on the plains of their homeland.

“It isnae your fault, Tilly,” Kieran said, moving to lift Bailey off the ground where he was slumped over, groaning in pain.

“I didnae mean tae cause all o’ this,” she sobbed slightly, eyes brimming with tears.

“There’s no time for tha’ now, lass. Help me get Bailey up.”

Tilly seemed to snap out of her shock for a moment as she grabbed Bailey’s legs to help Kieran hoist him over his shoulder.

Kieran carried Bailey with ease, shouting for his men to escape, and began to run back towards the castle, Tilly and his men in tow, the fire hot on their heels.

***

Lady Vivien Stone sat at her window seat, gazing out at the Highlands surrounding her new home. She breathed in deeply; there was a freshness to this air that London most certainly lacked. There was a wild beauty to this place, another bonus above London. Vivien had never left England before; this was all so new to her. The vivid greens of the rolling hills, the stark contrast of a gray sky against it, all of it painted the most breath-taking image she had ever seen.

The hills and valleys rolled off into the distant horizon, patches of trees dotted here and there, while a large forest rested just outside the manor’s walls.

Vivien couldn’t deny that this new opportunity both terrified and excited her. The Highlands were known to be a dangerous place – the Scots were not known for being peaceful creatures. Vivien wondered if she’d ever get used to so much empty, beautiful space around her. She was used to the constant noise, hustle and bustle of the city life she had grown up in back in London. A part of her thought she’d never get used to such silence and peace.

A knock at the door startled Vivien. Her husband of less than a year, Lord Reginald Stone, entered the room. He greeted her gruffly, his expression one of a sour distaste as he looked her up and down.

Vivien’s heart dropped to the bottom of her stomach like an anchor, weighing her down and breaking her spirit further.

“Vivien,” he said, by way of a greeting.

“M’lord,” she replied, bowing her head slightly. She took him in – Reginald was a tall, slender man. He kept his black hair slicked back, the oiliness as off-putting to Vivien as his cruelty with words. He kept his mustache trimmed and oiled, perfectly highlighting his thin, vicious lips. He was more than twenty years her senior, and he made sure she never forgot that.

Reginald frequently reminded her that though she had been called a beauty more than once in her lifetime, that she was, in fact, quite plain, and those men had called her that simply to gain favor with her very wealthy family. Vivien had never been a vain woman, but she had come to believe him since her marriage to Reginald.

She stood in front of him, her hands clasped in front of her, waiting patiently for him to tell her why he was there or what he wanted from her.

“I came to see you, though I really don’t know why,” he hiccuped, “I must have gotten lost in this godforsaken maze of a castle. Heaven only knows how I ended up here. This is the last place I want to be.”

“I am sorry to hear that, husband,” Vivien murmured, unsure of what she should say; the stench of wine on his breath reached her even as she stood a few feet away from him. Vivien had found that she always said the wrong thing, no matter what she did. Reginald always seemed to find fault with her.

“I hate this place; it’s dismal and dreary,” he said, as he began to walk towards the very window she had been looking out of.

“I like it here, my Lord,” she said, turning to follow him with her eyes, as he stared out of the window at the mist that was spreading outside, covering the hills and valleys in an ethereal cloud of glittering diamonds. It began to drizzle as he stared out at the scene before him, a look of distaste evident in the set of his mouth. He rolled his eyes as he turned back to face her.

“Well, isn’t that a good thing,” he sneered, shaking his head in disgust, “There’s nothing to do here, no one to converse with. Other than you, but heaven knows that’s torture all of its own. I should have left you back in London and spared myself the pain of seeing your long face daily. I would probably enjoy myself much more on my own.” He sighed dramatically.

Vivien’s hands fisted at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She knew that this was the way Reginald was, she supposed all marriages were like this, but she could barely keep her back straight after more than a year of this abuse.

“What a ghastly place this is. This godforsaken place should be razed to the ground, along with every single heathen Scotsman to be born in this hell hole. Look out that window. It’s dreary, miserable. They have the worst weather I’ve ever seen, the worst wine I’ve ever tasted. And dear God, if they don’t have the worst manners I’ve ever come across, then only a pig could do worse.”

Vivien lowered her head. Once again, she had said the wrong thing, as she always seemed to.

“I do hope this place grows on you, husband. I think you could be happy here,” she said it so tentatively it sounded more like a question than a statement. It seemed to infuriate Reginald even further.

“Oh, happy, you say? What womanly ponderings you have.” He threw his hands in the air, hiccuping again. “Happiness is for peasants and royalty. Not for nobility, Vivien. The sooner you make peace with that, the better.”

Vivien flinched visibly, tears welling in her eyes, “Yes, Lord. Of course, a foolish thing for me to say.”

Reginald harrumphed before turning his back on her again.

“Bring me wine,” he demanded, his tone cold and cruel.

Vivien rushed to her sideboard to pour him a measure of the best wine she had in her rooms, handing it over to him. He didn’t bother to look at her, let alone thank her, as he continued to stare out of the window.

“What a travesty this is. I really thought I’d get that posting in London. But no, Lord Hastings paid off every council member he possibly could; now I’m stuck here with these uneducated heathens and their horrifyingly bad weather. What a tragedy. No matter, I will get us out of here eventually. Hastings has made a lifelong enemy of me. He will pay for it.”

“Yes, my husband,” Vivien said, for lack of anything else to say. She knew little of the politics of London – Reginald wasn’t one to explain a “man’s business” to her, and she wasn’t going to push to find out what was happening either.

All Vivien knew was that Reginald and Hastings had been on opposing sides of some new law the council had been debating. As the loser, Reginald had been assigned to the Highlands – to hold the Scots at bay while the English made plans to invade and take the Highlands for themselves.

“I’m going to bed,” Reginald hiccuped, as he walked out of the door. Vivien sighed her relief the moment the latch clicked back into place behind him. One more night of no torture, she thanked God as she walked to her own bed, blissfully free of her husband’s presence.

Chapter Two

Kieran ran as fast as he could, Bailey wrapped in his arms as tightly as he could manage. Bailey’s face was gray, but he was conscious and pressing against the wound in his side. He cried out in pain every now and then, but for the most part, he kept his teeth gritted against it.

Kieran and his men finally made it back to the castle; he dropped Bailey off at the clan’s healer’s cabin, letting him know he’d be back shortly to check on him.

He found his sister pacing in her rooms, wringing her hands as tears streaked silently down her face.

“Och, Tilly, I’m so sorry ye had tae see tha’,” Kieran gathered her in his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder; his tunic was soon damp with her tears. He held her until she stopped shaking, then held her out at arm’s length to give her a once-over.

“Are ye hurt?”

“Nae,” she replied, “I’m perfectly safe, bu’ they stole my necklace, Kieran. The one Mam gave me ‘afore she passed on. I dinnae ken wha’ they want with it. It’s o’ no value tae them. It’s only made o’ silver. It’s all I had left o’ her.” Tilly sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Never ye mind, Tilly. I’m going tae ge’ to the bottom o’ this. I’m going tae find out who is responsible for attackin’ our people. An’ I will mak’ them pay, I promise ye tha.’”

“I ken ye will, Kieran, bu’ what good will it dae? The damage is done; so many o’ the men are dead.”

“How many?” Kieran asked, realizing he hadn’t even taken stock of how many of his men had made it out of the forest alive. There just hadn’t been time. All he knew was that fewer had left than those who had gone in with him in the first place.

Tilly shook her head, her grief muting her for a moment.

“At least seven,” she sighed heavily.

Kieran swore long and loudly, causing his sister to pale at his choice of words. Realizing he was still in her company, he cut his ranting short and turned to her.

“Ay, I’m sorry for tha’ Tilly. I went with a dozen men. I cannae believe we lost so many. I cannae believe it. An’ with Bailey hurt… Lord kens, I wish I could change things.’

“Have ye been tae see Bailey yet?” Tilly asked.

“Nae, no’ yet.”

“Was he badly injured?” Tilly sniffed.

“Aye, he took a blow to the left side o’ his belly. I’m going tae check on him now; I left him with the healer.”

“I cannae bear the thought o’ losing him, Kieran. He’s a good person, a good friend. He has tae mak’ it. We lost too much today.”

“We did, but I will ge’ tae the bottom of this, that I promise ye.” Kieran fisted his hands at his side. “The healer will dae everythin’ in his power tae keep Bailey alive. I’ll need tae see all the families o’ the dead. But I just cannae face it.”

“Ye can do it. Ye shouldn’t have tae, but I know ye will, regardless. I need tae see Bailey too. I’ll go later after he’s rested.” Tilly sighed and walked over to the door that led to her private bedchambers.

“I hope ye dinnae mind, brother, but I’m far too tired an’ defeated tae stay awake. I don’ think I’ll get that screamin’ out o’ my head, never mind the smell out o’ me nose.” Tilly stood with her hand on the door handle, waiting for Kieran’s dismissal.

“Indeed, aye, sleep lass. I’ll go check on Bailey an’ the families.” Kieran nodded, wishing he could swap places with his own sister for a moment.

***

Vivien woke with a start in the middle of the night to find Reginald standing over her where she lay in her own bed. The stench of wine permeated through his pores, assaulting her senses. Vivien wished she could close her eyes and open them again to find it was just a figment of her imagination.

“Vivien,” he warbled her name.

She scrunched her nose; the odor of sour wine on his breath was too much for her to handle. This was no bad dream; he really was standing in her room in nothing but his nightgown. She sighed inwardly, afraid of what he may well want from her now.

“Husband, are you ill?” she asked softly.

“No, no, I’m perfectly well, perfectly well,” he slurred his way through his words.

Vivien waited with bated breath; Reginald hadn’t come to visit her because he missed her embrace, that much she knew.

“Do you know,” he began, hiccuping slightly, “That I was once the most desired bachelor of them all?”

“Yes, Lord,” Vivien nodded.

“And do you know I was a prolific lover? Everyone knew. I had every widow from London to Leeds knocking on my door, all begging to be held in my embrace, even if it was just for one night.”He glared at Vivien. It would have been slightly more intimidating if he hadn’t been slurring and hiccuping his way through it, Vivien thought.

“Of course, my Lord, you were much sought after,” she agreed.

“But then you came along –” he hiccuped again, “and now look. Married a year, and we haven’t even consummated our union.”

Vivien hung her head in shame; this was a topic she had been broken over from the day they had gotten married. She was an utter failure, and she had no idea what to do about it.

Reginald reached out, running her hair through his fingers, marveling at it as if it was the first time he had seen her hair loose. Vivien had always thought that if she had one redeeming feature, it was her hair – long, thick, and wavy, it was as dark as the raven’s wing and settled across her shoulders, reaching her mid-back.

But if there was one thing her husband had made clear to her, it was that he found her unattractive in every way imaginable. She was too short for him, far from curvy enough, and her company was sorely lacking. He always told her to stop being such a fool when she tried to engage in conversation with him. No matter what the topic was, it wasn’t good enough – she was nothing more than a total bore with no knowledge of any worth. He blamed her entirely for the lack of consummation of their marriage, always reminding her that she was less than average-looking; he hated everything about her except for her very large dowry and estate.

She was a mistake to him from start to finish, she thought to herself.

Vivien nodded mutely, preferring not to say anything.

“Broken,” Reginald muttered under his breath. He looked back at her, scrunching his eyes up as he tried to focus on her face. “You’re broken,” he sneered.

“I’m sorry, Lord,” she murmured.

“Sorry helps nothing when a wife can’t please her husband,” he ranted. Vivien flinched; she had been called broken more times than she could count in the last year. She was starting to believe he was right.

“I can’t believe I got saddled with a pathetic pony. If it weren’t for the wealth you bring me, I swear I’d kick you to the curb given half a second,” Reginald continued, hiccuping his way through his outburst, eyes struggling to focus on anything for longer than a few seconds at a time.

Vivien closed her eyes for a brief second; she’d heard it all before. All the different ways Reginald could call her broken had been used already; all the ways he could make her feel small had been abused frequently; all the ways he could strip her down to nothing had shredded her spirit a long time ago.

She feared she’d never be with child – never bring an heir to her husband, her family, her name. Reginald had control over her wealth, but it would never be his if he didn’t father a son on her; instead, it would pass to her closest male relative upon her death. Being unable to consummate their marriage was weighing heavily on him; that much Vivien knew. It was wrong of her, Vivien thought, but she truly hoped they never did consummate their marriage. The thought of raising a child with Reginald made her sick to her stomach.

“Maybe covering your head with a sack would help? Then I wouldn’t have to look at your face, and we could get this thing done,” he sighed, wobbling slightly where he stood. He placed his hand out against the bedpost, keeping himself as upright as he possibly could in the state he was in. Vivien couldn’t tell if he was joking or being serious; regardless, he would do what he wanted to, he always did.

Vivien kept her eyes on him, refusing to feel fear or dread. He was her husband; she was supposed to love him and welcome his touch. The very thought had goosebumps flashing across her skin, but she knew it was inevitable as a married couple.

“Right, well, move, damn you. Make room. Let’s try this thing again, though I swear it’s a waste of time and effort. Looking at you makes me sick. But maybe you’ll get it right this time. Hah!” Reginald’s laughter was as sarcastic as Vivien had ever heard it.

Vivien felt her heart drop to her stomach; the only thing she despised more than Reginald was a drunk Reginald groping at her in the middle of the night. She moved over and held her breath as Reginald took his position above her. The stench of alcohol was so overpowering she had to keep herself from gagging. She barely managed it, trying her best to breathe through her mouth.

This became a problem when Reginald attempted to kiss her – leaving wet, sloppy attempts in his wake. He gave up on that idea quickly; Vivien didn’t even try to respond in kind. She was merely thankful he wasn’t pushing the matter of kissing her; she really would be sick if he had.

There was some fumbling around as Reginald fiddled with his nightgown, breathing heavily in Vivien’s ear. She tried again to breathe through her mouth, closing her eyes tightly as if that alone could turn this nightmare into nothing more than that.

She wished, not for the first time in her life, that she had an older brother, a younger brother, any form of brother. As an only child, with a vast estate left to her, she had had no choice in who she married.

When she had come of age, she had avoided entering society for as long as she could. But with her father’s ailing health, she was forced to endure the torture of London society by the time she turned twenty. Reginald’s third wife had recently passed away, leaving him heirless yet again. Vivien had prayed, night after night, that she would not have to marry the bachelor nearly twice her age.

Her prayers and hopes had been in vain.

Instead of being allowed to marry a decent lord closer to her own age, who might possibly have loved her, been good to her, or even just tolerated her, she was foisted off on the antique that was Reginald Stone.

Her father felt she was safest in the hands of a well-to-do Lord who had been around long enough to know better than the young wolves, whose arrogance often led them astray. Vivien surmised that some sort of deal had been struck between the old men – something that had forced her into this loveless, pitiful excuse for a marriage.

Just more than a year and a half later, she and Reginald had concluded their nuptials, just in time for her father to see her wedded – and in his mind – bedded, before he left this mortal realm and his daughter behind, unprotected.

Reginald began to curse above her, his face now inches from hers as he held himself up on his forearms. His legs straight out between hers, nightgown still firmly in place.

“My Lord?” she whispered, fear coiling around her stomach like a snake around its prey.

“You’re useless, damned-well useless, woman,” he spat, his face right up against hers, “You can’t even do the most basic of a woman’s duties correctly. What a waste of space you are.”

He rolled off her, wheezing at the effort as he tried to stand up. He leaned against the bedpost, eyes focusing on hers, holding her gaze, refusing to let up.

“What a damned disappointment you are. I will never gain an heir off a useless broodmare such as you. You took a virile stud of a man –” Reginald poked himself in the chest, “and turned him into a gelding!”

“I’m so sorry, Husband. I wish I knew what I was doing wrong. I would fix it instantly if I could,” Vivien repeated the words by rote.

“You are cold and ugly. It’s no surprise you can’t stir desire in my loins. Wish that I could change the past and be rid of the curse you’ve brought to me,” Reginald continued, ignoring Vivien.

She was tired of being useless. But there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn’t very well ask the kitchen maids what she was doing wrong; the Lady of the house surely had to know everything about everything. She felt like a failure – she knew next to nothing about the marital act. She only knew that she was the reason they had failed to consummate their marriage, no matter how many times they tried.

Vivien hung her head in shame. Once again, she had failed in her wifely duties.

She could only breathe again when Reginald had left her rooms, slamming the door shut behind him.

***

The sun was rising by the time Kieran was finished visiting the families of the men they’d lost that afternoon. Tendrils of pink and orange stretched across the sky, breaking through the gray cloud cover. It was the type of sunrise poets sang about, Kieran thought sourly to himself. He was in no mood for beauty or happiness, not when seven of his closest companions were dead, and he was the one looked to for blame and answers.

The Laird had one last stop to make before he could even think of laying his body on his bed in an attempt to rest.

Kieran stopped outside the healer’s cabin, breathing deeply, his hands trembling.

He could only hope for good news. He – his clan – had lost enough this last day.

He opened the door slowly, hoping not to disturb any sleeping patients. It was dim inside the cabin; the fire had been banked for the night. Only three bodies were lying on pallets on the ground. The one nearest him was the clan’s healer; the other two could only be Bailey and one of the other men who had been wounded during the attack.

Kieran’s face burned red hot in shame at the sight of his friend lying dead still on a pallet, his skin pale and clammy. The guilt gnawed at his bones like acid. But Bailey was breathing. His chest rose and fell, and though he murmured sounds of pain, he seemed peaceful enough.

The healer woke up while Kieran was standing over Bailey, thanking his lucky stars that his friend had survived.

The old maid made her way to him, each bone in her body creaking as she moved after lying still for so long. She came to stand beside him, staring down at Bailey herself.

“How is he?” Kieran asked quietly.

“He’ll pull through, Laird,” she replied, “He’s been hurt badly, an’ it’ll tak’ a while tae recover, but so long as tha’ wound doesn’t tak’ an infection, he’ll be jus’ fine.’

“Yer sure?”

The healer raised her eyebrows at Kieran, pursing her lips.

“I was there the day ye were born – an’ I’ll probably be there the day ye die, Laird. I’ve seen more wounds than ye can imagine, watched more men die than ye should ever hope tae see.” She fixed Kieran with a stern stare. “An’ I’m tellin’ ye, he’ll pull through. Ye jus’ leave it tae me an’ him. He’ll never be the same, mind ye. He’ll never breathe the way he did ‘afore, but he’ll be breathin’. That’s all that matters, ey?”

“Aye, that’s all that matters. Thank you for lookin’ after him. And yer other patient? The young lad they pulled out o’ the fire today?” Kieran peered at the young boy; he too was breathing deeply but much more heavily labored than Bailey. He had been stuck in the woods and sustained some burns to his extremities. Kieran could only imagine the pain the poor child had endured. But to see him sleeping peacefully, he knew the healer must have dosed him with something stronger than just a bit of ale.

“Ah, him,” she clucked,  “He may or may no’ be strong enough tae get through this. It’s a difficult thing; it is a burn. It can go wrong in seconds, or it can be fine the next day. Only time will tell with this one, I’m afraid.”

“Tha’s some hope at least, then,” Kieran sighed, “Keep me up to date, will ye? I’ll come see Bailey again when he’s awake. I jus’ needed to set me mind at ease ‘afore I go find mysel some rest.”

The healer nodded, turning to her ministrations to her two patients while Kieran left the cabin as quietly as he could.

Kieran was no scholar, but the warrior in him knew something was off about that fire. Someone had started it intentionally; someone had sent those men out to attack his men. He would get to the bottom of it, one way or the other.