Ceana paced the floor, waiting eagerly. He wasn’t supposed to be so late, was he? She knew that he had been summoned by the clan chief, but she knew nothing more, and it was awfully hard to wait. She had put two-year-old baby Torcall to sleep hours ago but could find no sleep herself. Since she and Torcall had married, she hadn’t had cause to sleep alone. Torcall remained a soldier for the Chief but would return home each night to her and their baby. He had kept his promises to her, and she had never once regretted risking her life for him.
The years had been peaceful, and Ceana knew that they were blessed. Sometimes, it seemed too good to be real, but it was. However, she could never hide the clawing doubts that were at the back of her mind. Torcall had been gracious about her worries too. Each night before they slept, he held her tight and whispered that he loved her. It was more than a declaration of love; it was also an assurance of safety. For months, she had had nightmares about Rannoch, but he never lost his patience with her. He had soothed her until they stopped happening to her anymore. She loved him more than life itself.
When Ceana was sure that it was past midnight, her patience ended, and she made her way to the bedroom to carry Torcall in her arms. She slipped a dagger into the sheath that Torcall had given her and tied it around her waist. She would take her baby to her parent’s house before making her way to the keep in search of her husband.
Just as she opened the front door, she came face to face with Torcall and relief washed over her.
“Where have ye been?” she asked him, worry evident in her voice.
“The meeting was a long one. I apologize, me love. Where are ye going?”
“To find ye!” she yelled and walked inside, slightly upset.
But Torcall stepped in after her and pulled her to him. He took their babe out of her hands and kissed his head. “I wasnae here, so ye decided to come in search of me at this time of the night,” he said, shaking his head almost fondly.
“Aye. Do nae give me that look–ye would have come looking for me, too!”
“Nay. I wouldnae have let ye go anywhere without me even,” he smirked.
They walked into the chamber and placed the baby down.
“I am upset,” she said.
“I ken,” he pulled her to him and held her tight. Then he kissed her. “I should have sent someone, me love. I am sorry. When Tam left, he said he would drop by here. I thought that would calm ye.”
“Tam is nae me husband,” she sulked.
“I ken,” he grinned, “and I am grateful for that.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “I was worried.”
“I realize that now but ye need nae fear for me. There is nae a man that can best me,” he boasted, “except he has ye. Ye are me weakness and strength. All in one.”
Ceana melted into his embrace, her previous anger forgotten. “I love ye.”
“I love ye more.”
“What was the meeting about?”
“The Clan Chief has asked me to be the Chief’s warrior.”
“Did ye accept it?”
“Nae at first! They mandated that I move into the castle, and I refused that. We like our house here, do we nae?”
“Aye,” Ceana smiled, happy that she and her husband agreed.
“Besides, I ken that ye love living so close to Alina. I want ye happy. Naught else matters.”
Ceana’s heart swelled, full of joy. “What will ye nae do for yer family,” she smiled, pulling him to herself.
“Nae a thin’,” he replied as he claimed her lips. “For ye and me son, I would walk to the ends of the earth with nae a complaint.”
Ceana beamed. “Yer duties are about to increase, me love,” she muttered to him.
“How so?”
“I am with child,” she whispered in excitement.
Torcall considered telling her that he had suspected, expected even, but he didn’t. Instead, he swept her into his arms and kissed her.
“Let us go to bed, me love,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Ye do nae have to ask twice,” she laughed and kissed him again.
“Do nae look back,” Alina said, “but Torcall has been looking at ye. He’s behind ye.”
Ceana’s eyes widened, and a blush appeared on her otherwise pale cheeks. “He’s here?” she asked. Ceana hadn’t expected Torcall to be at the feast. Sure, she had prayed to the gods and put on her prettiest yellow dress, which Alina assured her didn’t clash with her vibrant red hair and deep brown eyes. Still, she hadn’t actually expected him to come. The feast wasn’t a large one, and Torcall was not known for frequenting parties or celebrations.
Ceana had a crush on Torcall. It was one that everyone except Torcall seemed to notice. She had met Torcall years ago at a feast for all the lassies who were finally of age to court, and he had stolen her heart. However, the issue was that Torcall had caused this without knowing. Ceana had long since given up on him liking her, but it didn’t hurt to dream.
“Would ye stop smiling like a canary?” Alina admonished her younger sister.
“Do canaries smile?” Ceana asked with a rather canary-like smile on her full pink lips.
Alina shook her head and put her hand in her sister’s. “Come with me. Left t’ye, we will spend the whole feast sneakin’ glances at Torcall, and I have had enough of that.”
She dragged a reluctant Ceana away to one of the many tables at the feast. “Have ye seen ma?” Ceana asked her sister.
“Nay, last I saw of her, she was speaking with some of da’s friend’s wives,” Alina replied, and Ceana nodded. One of the downsides to being married to a guard was that her mother could not enjoy them at feasts like other couples. Most of the time, her father was on guard duty at the palace keep, which made him a very busy man.
The few times he was free, her mother opted to spend quiet moments with him in their home rather than at feasts. Perhaps, being raised in a home with parents that adored each other had made her long for such a love. Since Ceana could remember, she had dreamt of a man to love her just as her father loved her mother. However, it didn’t seem to have the same effect on her sister. Despite being two years her senior, Alina seemed largely uninterested in men. Ceana could not recall her sister saying a word about any man that wasn’t plainly platonic.
Alina definitely didn’t like anyone the way Ceana liked Torcall. Who wouldn’t like Torcall, Ceana thought to herself with a small sigh? The man was heavenly. He was tall, handsome, and well-built. He had the kindest blue eyes that Ceana had ever seen, and even better, there was the hint of adventure that Ceana craved in them. He was a kind man, too—even Alina agreed about this. She had seen him several times stop to assist both men and women who needed his help.
One day, after Torcall had helped Alina fix the wheel of her carriage for hours without accepting anything, she had come home with a newfound respect for him. “It seems to me,” she had said, “that Torcall is the type of man that would treat his wife with respect whether he loved her or not.”
That had been enough for her to subtly endorse her sister’s crush. Although she had never said it out loud, Ceana imagined that her sister didn’t believe in love.
“Ceana?” Alina called for the third time.
“Huh?” she replied, snapping back into reality.
Alina shook her head and thrust a cup into her hands. “Ye have gone off into another daydream again, haven’t ye?”
It was no use lying, so Ceana sighed instead. “Do ye think he will talk to me today?”
“I think ye worry yer pretty head too much,” Alina replied with a shake of her head. “Go on, drink,” she urged.
Ceana closed her eyes, tipped the cup back and swallowed down her mead.
“Ceana,” Alina scolded, “not so fast.”
She shook her head and poured her sister another cup. “Don’t drink this so fast. Let’s go socialize.”
The pair had barely gotten to the door before they were stopped. “Ceana, Alina!”
Ceana sighed as soon as she heard the voice. “Hello, Tam,” she said with poorly faked enthusiasm.
“I didnae ken ye will be here,” he said with a grin on his face.
“Well, we are,” Alina replied.
Ceana didn’t know what she hated most about Tam. Was it his arrogance? His pride? His scheming attitude? Or was it the dangerous look in his eyes that only she seemed to see.
Tam’s Faither was the general of the clan. He had led their clan to many great wars and had conquered the enemy many more times than he had been defeated. Consequently, he was revered and respected. He had two sons, Rannoch and Tam. Rannoch was a cool-headed man who excelled more at creating swords than wielding them, much to his chagrin. His second son, however, had decided that he deserved the same amount of respect.
“Do ye want to dance?” he asked both girls.
“No!” they both replied, not caring who was spoken to.
Tam laughed in a deprecating way. “Come on, do nae be so tight.” He winked.
“We are nae tight. We just do nae want to dance,” Alina replied with pursed lips.
Tam placed his hands on Alina and Ceana’s wrists and locked his grip. “Ye are no fun,” he said with a wink.
Ceana was sure that Alina would deck him, but there came a voice she recognized instantly.
“What seems to be the problem, Tam?”
The group of three turned to Torcall, who seemed to tower above them.
“Nothin’ to bother yerself about, Torcall!” Tam spat out, still holding on to Ceana’s hands, effectively putting them in a terrible situation. If a tussle occurred, it would catch attention, new elements would be added, and then spread into a brawl.
Tam’s grip on her hand grew tighter, and Ceana felt her skin crawl.
With a look of indifference on his face, Torcall bent down and whispered to Tam so she could hear.
“Ye must ken that I do nae shy away from scandals. Not especially when I have the chance to beat ye and have the maids of the clan giggle as ye pass. Now, if ye do nae let her go now, the next place ye’ll be sitting is the ground.” The smile on his face never wavered as he spoke.
From a distance, they would have looked like a small group simply talking.
Tam stared at Torcall for only a moment before dropping her hand and furiously marching away.
Awestruck, Ceana turned to Torcall. The violent look in his eyes was gone, and instead, there was the carefree and happy look she was used to seeing.
“He didnae hurt ye, I hope?” His long lashes fluttered slightly.
Ceana rubbed her wrists and blushed slightly. ‘Nay, ye were here in time.”
Beside them, Alina rolled her eyes and went unnoticed by the pair.
“I’m glad. Have ye….”
“Torcall!” the call came from the other side of the room.
Torcall looked at the caller, and a guilty look appeared on his face. “I’m sorry. My cousin calls. We will see you some other time. Do tell me if Tam bothers ye again,” he said to her.
“Thank ye,” she said breathlessly.
“Even ye,” he said, turning to Alina.
“I will. Although I do nae think we will have more trouble with him. Thank ye,” she said with a polite smile.
He smiled at both ladies and jogged to the other side of the room to his cousin.
Ceana was only to hold her squeal long enough for him to get out of earshot.
“Oh, do be quiet,” Alina said, but she was smiling. “He makes it hard to dislike him.”
“Ye see it too, do ye nae?” She put her hands to her chest and sighed deeply.
“If ye gush over him once more this night, we are going home,” Alina put her hand in her sister’s and dragged her to the other ladies of their own age.
The feast was a great one for its small size. The mead was abundant, and Ceana was on her fourth cup before she knew it.
“Ye should nae drink so much,” Alina said.
“Ye are worse than mother,” Ceana said good-naturedly. “Ye should have some fun.”
“Ceana!”
Both sisters turned to an acquaintance, Bridget.
“Yer dress is amazing,” she said to Ceana.
“Thank ye,” Ceana said with a smile. “Yer hair looks amazing. Did yer sister do it again?”
“Aye, she made me do her chores, but it was worth it. I think Doug took notice today.”
Doug was the son of the head of the guard. He worked directly under Tam’s and Rannoch’s Faither, Dirk, and was one of the most respected men in the clan. Doug and his older brother, Dan, were a close pair and were hardly without each other. The men were eligible bachelors and had their fair share of admirers in the clan.
However, it was for Doug that Bridget’s torch burned. Sadly, she was not getting much attention from him.
“It seems he did,” Alina muttered. “He is coming up behind ye.”
Bridget’s cheek burned slightly, but she got it slightly under control before they arrived.
The men exchanged pleasantries, and then Doug turned to Ceana.
“I looked for ye. How are ye enjoying the feast?”
Ceana paled. What did he mean? Beside her, Bridget’s pride deflated.
“Oh?” Ceana replied.
“Aye,” he nodded with a smile on his face.
Ceana would have rather been anywhere else on the planet. It wasn’t that Doug was an unattractive man, but she was not attracted to him, and Bridget was right beside her.
“Would ye like to dance?” he asked her with a bashful smile.
“Nay,” she said, quick as a bullet. “Sorry, I was supposed to meet with a friend right about now,” she lied.
“Oh,” he said. “Maybe another time,” he smiled.
“How about ye?” Dan asked Alina with a shy smile.
“Nay,” she smiled. “Thank ye.”
The brothers left, and the girls turned to Bridget, whose eyes were tinged red.
“I am sorry, Bridget,” Ceana said, embarrassed.
“It matters nae,” she replied, although it was obvious that it did, in fact, matter. “Why did ye nae dance with Dan?” she asked Alina. “Nae on me account, I hope?”
“Nae,” Alina assured. “I do nae fancy him.”
“Ye do nae?” Bridget asked. “He is an eligible bachelor, ye ken?”
“Aye,” Alina smiled. “And ye do nae fancy him?”
“Nae. I wouldnae fancy him because of who his Faither is. Do ye fancy Tam?” Alina asked with an arched eyebrow. “Tam is the most eligible bachelor after the Laird’s heir—that is if ye do nae consider Rannoch.”
Bridget laughed. “It does nae really count, ye ken. Tam knows just as much about fightin’ as I do. His da is training Torcall, and e’ryone believes that Torcall, and not Tam, will succeed him, so he is nae so eligible, is he?”
“Good point,” Alina said.
“And neither Torcall nor Rannoch catches me fancy. I could have them if I wanted,” she shrugged dismissively.
Ceana said nothing, but her lips thinned.
“I must leave,” Bridget said and bid the sisters goodbye, leaving them to themselves. Alina took Ceana with her as they socialized with people they knew.
As the feast drew to an end, Alina realized that Ceana had consumed more mead than she should have.
“Ye should stick with me, ye silly girl.”
Ceana giggled. “’ Tis nae so much I drank. I can stand perfectly fine,” she said in a giggly voice, causing Alina to sigh.
“Do nae giggle so much.”
“Oh, look, here comes Torcall,” Ceana whispered louder than she should have.
“I’m sorry I didnae find ye earlier,” he said to the pair.
“There is nae need to apologize,” she said flirtatiously,
“But I must nae forget my manners,” he said.
Alina, growing tired of their flirting, decided to say hello to a friend at the other side of the room, living with her sister with Torcall.
“Did I,” Ceana put her hand on his strong arms, “say thank ye to ye for helpin’ us out with Tam?” With confidence she hadn’t known existed, she stroked his arm very subtly.
Torcall looked down on her arm and then back at her with a bashful look.
“Ye did, but I do nae mind hearin’ it again,” he said.
“Good because I want ye to ken that I am grateful.”
His arms felt amazing. Days ago, she had only been able to imagine him and feeling the strength of his muscles beneath her fingertips, but now, here she was—touching him. She looked up at him, and when he smiled back, she realized she wanted more.
She opened her mouth to speak then stopped. What exactly was she doing, clarity forced her to ask? But Ceana refused to pause. For some reason, she thought to herself, she had more courage than ever before. This was a moment she had, one that might never arise again. She would be damned if she let it pass.
“Torcall?”
“Yea?”
“I crave some fresh air, and Alina is nae here to go with me. Would ye?”
“Of course,” he nodded and offered her his arm, which she took gladly.
As they walked to the balcony, Ceana’s heart beat loudly. She could not believe that she would finally be alone with Torcall. Her steps were slightly uneven, but she knew that it was her nerves and nothing more. She hoped steadfastly that Alina would not choose that moment to return.
Finally, they stepped into the privacy of the balcony, and she gave a sigh of relief and turned to Torcall with a massive smile on her face.
“I have ne’er seen anyone so pleased about taking in some breeze,” he said teasingly, and Ceana giggled.
“’ Tis nae the thing itself, ‘tis the who,” she said and looked up into the skies. “‘Tis so beautiful tonight,” she sighed. “Me ma used to tell me that fae princesses lived in the skies and that the stars were the precious stones on their crowns. I wanted to be a beautiful fae so desperately,” she laughed.
“Well, ye are nae fae—or I hope nae, but ye are as beautiful.”
Ceana turned to him with a blush on her face and looked away.
“Thank ye,” she smiled.
“I speak only the truth.”
Ceana blushed and looked into his eyes once more, struck by the blueness of them. His skin looked so smooth that she had no choice but to lift her hands to his face and stroke it gently.
“Ceana?” he said gently but did not take her hands away. Instead, he stepped closer to her. “Did I tell ye how beautiful ye are?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
“Maybe.” She said shyly.
“Ye are a beautiful woman, Ceana,” he repeated with a smile. His head lowered, and he smiled. Their lips drew closer, and Torcall…
“Ceana?” Alina’s voice came, giving them just enough time to draw apart before she stepped in.
“Ceana?” she said tentatively, stepping in between them. It was then that Ceana noticed Bridget behind at the entrance.
“She needed some air,” Torcall said.
“I see,” Alina muttered. She grabbed Ceana’s hands and marched her out of the room.
Bridget eyed Torcall and shook her head.
“I would think ye ken better than this. Bringin’ a young woman here alone!”
“She asked me to follow her,” Torcall replied. “She asked me.”
“Of course, that is what ye would say,” Bridget said, shaking her head.
“I–” Torcall began to say, but he was distracted by a rustle in the bushes behind him. He turned back but saw nothing.
“At least have the decency to face me and answer me,” Bridget said.
Torcall shook his head and walked away from the balcony.
Chapter Two
The courtyard was quiet, attesting to the earliness of the hour. The only people moving about were the maids in charge of cleaning the keep grounds.
It was not unusual for Torcall to be on the training grounds early. When working directly under the general, tardiness was not tolerated. His first son was a contemptible fellow who preferred to spend his time with unseemly things. In contrast, his second son was a master at creating swords, if not so much in wielding them.
However, while Tam was best described as a despicable wart, Rannoch was cool-headed and silent. It was with Rannoch that Torcall got along best; they had been friends ever since Dirk had brought him into their home upon the death of his Faither.
Torcall went round the back and stepped onto the training grounds. He knew that his uncle would be waiting.
“I ken ye wouldnae fail me and come here late,” his uncle said with pride evident in his voice.
“‘Tis nae a barrel of wine that would keep me from arriving here early as I have always done. “
“I wish I could say the same of Rannoch and Tam.”
“Rannoch will be here soon,” Torcall said, quick to defend his friend, and Dirk sighed.
“Tam is a disgrace to me,” Dirk said, never one to mince words. “Rannoch has a talent that pleases me. ‘Tis nae to say that I wouldnae rather he had yer quick wits in battle, but he makes swords fit for a king. Yet he does nae put enough time to the art of the battle.”
“Ye worry needlessly for Rannoch. ‘Tis nay crime if the man tries to spend time to master the sword he makes. “
“A man must ken how to defend himself,” Dirk agreed and tossed a sword to Torcall. Torcall caught it and took an expert stance that pleased his uncle as he drew his sword. “But a man must also ken where he excels. He does nae forget swords and more.”
Quick as a whip, Dirk aimed the sword for Torcall’s chest.
Torcall blocked the blow with his sword and stepped aside.
“Perhaps he does nae feel the burn to return to the forge as one would expect.” Torcall ducked and drove his sword at his Uncle’s flank.
Dirk blocked the blow with the blunt edge of his sword. “A man’s cause must give him the burn,” he replied.
Torcall brought his sword down on Dirk, who blocked it. The two men pushed against each other. “Perhaps he does nae feel it then?” he grunted.
“A man will die without a consistent drive,” Dirk grunted and pushed him back.
Torcall fell back but stood up in time to block a blow. The men sparred with swords as the minutes passed.
Just when Torcall felt an opening for a blow had opened, Dirk drove a false blow and caused him to stagger back and fall on his back. His sword was at Torcall’s throat before he could react.
Both men stared at each other, breathing heavily. Dirk offered Torcall his hand brought him up.
“Ye do nae fight as ye can, boy,” Dirk shook his head. “Do nae hold back. Never hold back. Fear is yer enemy. Do away with it.”
Dirk nodded satisfactorily.
“Ye undermine yer strength. That is yer weakness.”
Torcall wanted to speak, but the soldiers had begun to troop in, so he said nothing. He waited patiently for Rannoch and waved at him when he did show.
“Do ye nae sleep?” Rannoch asked.
“I do, but yer Faither’s image haunts my dreams.”
“I thought that was me,” Rannoch grinned.
“Nay, I do nae fear ye,” Torcall replied and shoved his cousin.
Rannoch shoved him back, but it was as far as they could get before they were summoned by Dirk.
“Ye will nae attend training today. I have a message I need delivered, and I will send ye both and nae a runner.”
***
The chirping of the birds woke Ceana up, which was most unusual. Usually, she was woken up by the crowing of the cocks, which allowed her to wake up and have her chores done in good time and before the birds came out to sing. Groggily, she sat up in bed and was hit by the worst headache she had ever experienced. Her head pounded so terribly that she wondered if she was being hit.
“Dear God!” she croaked and fell back in bed.
The door opened soon after, revealing a dressed Alina. “Good,” she muttered, “I knew I heard ye.”
Much to Ceana’s pleasure, she disappeared. However, she appeared moments later and moved to part the blinds to let the sun in.
The rays pierced through Ceana’s eyelids, intensifying her headache and making her shriek. “Why does my head ache so?” she groaned. “Close the blinds!”
“That’s what ye get for drinking too much mead. Come on,” Alina said, “sit up.”
When Ceana managed to sit up, she noticed the steaming cup in Alina’s hand. Alina offered the cup to her. “Here,” she said. “It will soothe the headache.”
At that point, Ceana decided that she would have taken anything to stop the ache. She took the cup from her sister and sipped some of the tea down.
“More,” Alina urged.
When she was satisfied, she took the cup from Ceana. “How do ye feel?”
“I have felt a lot worse. ‘Tis reducing.”
“It does work fast.”
“How would ye ken? Ye have probably never drunk more than one cup of mead in a day.”
“Aye, but I am yer wiser older sister,” she said with a tease in her voice.
Alina was a year over twenty and two years Alina’s senior. It wasn’t much, but she had decided that it was her sworn duty to care for her sister.
“Is ma home?”
“Aye, but she is downstairs with the help. Ye ken that da returns tonight.”
The guards had shifts that they worked for efficiency. Alina and Ceana’s Faither worked as the head guard of the keep. He wouldn’t have been considered for the position had he not saved the heir during an attack eight years ago. He had done so at the risk of his own life. Luckily, he had not died, and the attack had failed. The Laird had rewarded him by appointing him as the head guard of the keep.
The guards had different work periods, and although her father was not required to be present as often, he still was. Like the other men, he worked full shifts as he was required. Due to the generosity of the Laird, the keep employed enough guards so that none was overworked. Each man worked his shift and came home when he was not needed. Her father would be free to return that night, and whenever he was due home, it was a small celebration as her mum did all she could to make it special.
“Did I really drink so much?”
“Aye, ye did.”
“Now, can ye tell me what happened yesterday?”
“What?” she feigned ignorance but was betrayed by the building grin on her face.
“Ceana,” Alina dragged out. “Ye cannae allow him to take ye to hidden places.”
Ceana narrowed her eyes. “And do ye think that I am a silly little girl that does nae ken what she wants? I asked him to go with me, and I would have kissed him if nae for ye two.”
Alina sighed. “Why would ye want to kiss someone who ye do nae even ken whether he likes ye? Has he shown that he likes ye? Has he said it?”
Ceana opened her mouth to speak, but Alina beat her to it.
“And do nae tell me he flirts with ye. Torcall has a lot of women at his pick. Flirting is nae a sign.”
Ceana looked away, feeling deflated and guilt-filled Alina. She took Ceana in her arms and hugged her. “I do nae mean to sound harsh, but I care more about ye than him. Surely, ye understand this. I do nae want gossip with yer name in it. And Torcall may like ye, but he may nae too. Do nae live in keeps and grasp anythin’ except his words. For all my anger, I ken that he is a good man. He will nae say what he does nae mean.”
“He is rather blunt, too,” Ceana added.
“Aye, and ye say he would have kissed ye. That may be something but ye must be sure.”
Ceana understood what her sister meant. She had never shared a kiss with a man and had an ideal picture of how her first kiss would be.
“Ye will need to get up soon,” Alina urged her. “Mother has been generous. She’s given me money for new dresses for us.” Alina said, knowing it would cheer her up.
“Oh yes!” Ceana grinned. “I ken what I want–” There was a loud knock on the door interrupting their discussion. It came again, more frantic this time, and Alina threw it open.
It was the cook, and there was a tear streak on her face. Ceana shot out of her bed, and despite her headache, ran up behind her sister, who was questioning the cook.
“Marge? What is it?” Alina asked, her hand resting on the door frame. She looked at the cook with worry in her brown eyes. “What is it, Marge?”
Ceana ducked under her sister’s arm to stand directly in front of the cook. “Is aught amiss with me ma? Where is she? What is wrong?”
But the cook would not say. “Come quick. Yer ma calls for ye,” she said and hurried downstairs. Still in her nightdress, Ceana ran after Alina and the cook. When they arrived downstairs, they met their mother at the entrance to their home.
Her eyes were red, and she had been crying. It occurred to Ceana. Her father. It was her father. Something was wrong with her father.
She ran into her mother’s arms and held her tight. “What is amiss?” she dared to ask.
“‘Tis Bridget,” their mother, Regina, sobbed. “She was found dead this morn!”
***
“‘Tis silly to be sent all the way here for a box,” Rannoch shook his head. The pair were riding back after making their delivery.
“Do nae think of it that way,” Torcall said to his cousin. “I believe that me uncle sent us because he trusts none other. It makes the task easier to do.”
Rannoch looked to his cousin and shook his head. “Me, perhaps. But I would think ye are better left training with the men. Ye are the brilliant fighter.”
“And who is a fighter without the expert swordsman?”
Rannoch laughed. “I trust ye to belittle yer talent.”
“Nay, ‘tis nae so. I wouldnae win a battle if my swords were weak. I have ye to thank for that. Even though ye have gone back on yer promise to make a special sword for me.”
“‘Tis been a while since I have forged. Ye can buy another. If ye do nae have money, da would be pleased to buy one for ye. He offered me money to upgrade me forge.”
“And did ye take it?”
“Nay.”
“Ye ass. Why? Ye could have had a great forge! The biggest there is. Men would fight for yer swords. Ye made the sword that deals death in a single blow, and ye do nae want to make more?”
“I do nae ken if I am ready to return to the forge.”
“There is nae pressure on ye. We will wait till ye are ready. There is nae better sword maker in the whole of Scotland, and I will use me old sword that ye made for me when I was still dear to yer heart, and if it falls apart, I will ne’er wield a sword again.”
Rannoch laughed. “We cannae let that happen.”
A scream from the right caused both men to stop. They paused again and listened. The scream had sounded like that of a woman.
When the scream came again, they turned their horses to the source of the noise. It was a woman’s scream, and her distress was clear.
When they arrived at the spot, what he saw made his head boil. There were six men—nasty-looking ruffians, four of which had pinned a helpless woman to the ground. She was crying and pleading, but the men would not even listen.
“Shut up, ye whore!” the man closest to her face said and then struck her.
Torcall flew off his horse, followed closely by Rannoch. He pulled the first man off her and drove his fist into the man’s face. The force of his fist broke his nose, and blood spilled from it. The man fell back, screaming and holding his nose.
The second man put his hand on Torcall’s shoulder to pull him to himself, but it was a wrong move. Torcall met his stomach with his elbow. Repeatedly, he drove his elbow into the man’s gut and jumped in the air, turning with a spin, landing a kick on the third man’s jaw, knocking him out. He went back from the second man and pulled him to his fist, punching his stomach until blood spilled from his mouth. When the man fell dead, he turned to his cousin and found him on the ground between two men.
His blue eyes took the shade of the sea, and he cracked his knuckles. They had chosen death.
Twenty-one years had passed since Eithne and Ivor were married, and now they were happier than ever. As well as Callum and their birth son, Killian – always known as Kil – who was born just after their wedding, they had three beautiful daughters of their own. Iona was eight-and-ten, Finola four-and-ten, and little Siobhan only ten.
Now Eithne was in her forties and her childbearing days were over, but such things hardly bothered her. She was a successful lady, raising her children to believe in their own power. She knew that her parents would be proud of the life she lived now.
“And who kens?” she mused out loud as she and Ivor sat together in the Laird’s study that afternoon. “Perhaps Callum will have some bairns of his own soon enough. Then we’ll be grandparents.”
“Grandparents!” Ivor chuckled. “Lord above, Eithne, give a man a break. I hardly feel old enough to be a faither and now yer already having poor Callum making bairns! He only just married last year. And even if he does, ye’ll never see his bairns.”
It was true. Callum and his new wife lived in the Lowlands now, down in Glasgow City, where Callum ran a successful business. Eithne missed him terribly, and she knew that Ivor did too. Perhaps that was why she was hoping so much for grandchildren. As Eithne’s children aged, she felt them all slowly slipping away.
“Maybe Kil, then,” Eithne said with a shrug. “He’ll inherit the Lairdship, after all. It’s about time he started working on an heir of his own.”
Ivor laughed. “Let the poor lad find a wife first.”
As if Ivor’s words had been a summoning, the door opened, and Eithne’s young lady-in-waiting entered. Eithne smiled. Caiomhe was around the same age as Kil, with long brown curls and lovely wide brown eyes. She was relatively short but busty and well-curved at the hips. She’d been Eithne’s companion for eight years, ever since she’d been taken in at twelve years old.
Eithne gave Ivor a look, and he responded by chuckling and shaking his head – not in disagreement, but in amusement. He knew her thoughts and arguments about how Caoimhe would be the perfect bride for Kil now that they were both old enough to marry; Eithne had undoubtedly spoken about it with him enough times.
Ivor has always made it very clear, though, that if that is to be the case, then Kil will have to make that discovery for himself.
Eithne agreed with him, of course. After all, she had ended up married to a simple mercenary because she’d been allowed to fall in love wherever her heart lay. She would grant her son the same courtesy.
“Caoimhe, dear, that is a lovely dress ye’re wearing,” she said pleasantly. “Are ye going somewhere nice today?”
“Nay, Me Lady,” Caoimhe said with a pretty blush. “It’s one of the old ones that yer lassies were finished with. They passed it onto me in their kindness, and I had it altered to more me size.”
“Well, it’s very fetching,” Eithne told her with a smile. “Would ye nae agree, Laird Husband?”
Ivor chuckled. “Aye, of course, though naebody is as radiant as ye, Wife,” he replied with a smile. “What are yer plans for the day?”
Eithne took a breath. She’d been preparing for this moment since Ivor had mentioned three days ago that he would meet with the Laird of Dunne. Dunne was contested land, and she knew that Ivor was going to do everything he could to prevent a war.
I also ken, however, that me beloved laird is still a warrior at heart. These delicate matters need a woman’s touch.
“I was hoping,” she said, “to accompany ye to the meeting with Laird Dunn. I ken ye’re running in with nae plans again.”
“I have plans,” Ivor said defensively. “If Dunne has a brain in his head, he’ll listen to what I have to say, fancy words or nae. Neither one of our clans can afford this to come to war.”
Eithne shook her head. “Dunne is young. Brash. He doesnae like being told what to do, and he wants to seem powerful compared to Ivor Sinclair, the Laird of MacDonnell, who rose to his seat from naught. He wants to prove that he’s better than ye are. Have ye prepared to work with that?”
Ivor frowned. “Usually, when I have such a problem, I just threaten it with me sword,” he admitted. “But it doesnae sound like ye think that the threat of a good stabbing will do much good this time.”
Behind them, Caoimhe covered her mouth as she stifled a surprised giggle.
Eithne glanced at her with a reassuring smile before looking back at Ivor. “Ye’re right. Ye ken that I’m nae opposed to that when needed, but we need to be more delicate here. Let me come and talk to Dunne. I grew up around people like this. I ken what they want and how they want to do things.”
Ivor nodded thoughtfully, rubbing under his beard. “Aye, Eithne, if ye think that’s for the best, then that’s what we shall do. Ye ken I value yer input more than most of me own men.”
It was true. Ivor didn’t have the pride that many Lairds did not allow their women to get involved. In fact, Ivor had always respected her opinion just as much, if not more than, his own. In the last twenty years, they had ruled Clan MacDonnell together, his strength and her wisdom coming together to grant them real power.
Between that and their allyship with Clan Kinnear and the lands that had once belonged to MacDuff, their family had accumulated a lot of influence. While that was good in that it let them help wherever they were needed, it had a bit of a downside in that other clans frequently saw them as threats. Both skill and wit were absolutely necessary to keep the peace – and so far, they had.
“It’s agreed then,” Eithne said, kissing his cheek. “Caoimhe, I ken we were supposed to be doing me rounds in the village today, but this is more important.”
The lady-in-waiting frowned but nodded. “I understand,” she said. “We need to prevent war. But, Me Lady, what of the people? They’re expecting ye. Shall I send out word that the castle’s visit is to be postponed this month?”
Eithne shook her head, drawing her face into a close of an approximation of innocence as she could muster. “Nay, nay, they’ll riot,” she chuckled. “Ye should take one of the lassies with ye.”
“She cannae,” Ivor said. He caught her eye, and Eithne saw the amusement there. He already saw what she was planning. “Siobhan is only ten, Finola’s off gallivanting God only kens where, and Iona’s got her archery lesson.”
“Och, aye,” Eithne said regretfully as if she’d forgotten. “Well, whatever will we do, then? Caoimhe is the only one with all of me information on the village folk. She was supposed to be helping me, bless her.”
Ivor stared at her, and Eithne smiled back. The look he gave her clearly asked if she was serious, so she nodded. Yes, she would make him be the one to suggest it. Ivor shook his head and grinned at her, then said, “Well, Miss Caoimhe, why dinnae ye ask young Kil to escort ye? He kens the way about the place, and I ken ye can keep him in line.”
To Eithne’s delight, the girl blushed again. “Oh…aye, aye, I suppose I could do that,” she said. “Are ye sure he willnae mind?”
“Very sure,” Eithne told her. “Off ye go.”
The lady-in-waiting curtseyed at both of them and hurried off. When she was gone, Ivor chuckled and gave Eithne a look. “Ye’re terrible.”
“I ken,” she replied, getting up and moving closer to him. She sat on his lap, her arms around his neck, and he ran his hands up her back. “But I also ken that’s how ye like it.”
His hand found her hair and tilted her head downward, pulling her into a deep kiss. Twenty years had passed, and every one of Ivor’s kisses still sent desire and need through every one of Eithne’s senses.
“I love ye, madwoman,” he breathed against her.
“And I ye, me mercenary Laird. And I ye.”
***
Caoimhe knew that Lady MacDonnell hoped that she would soon be engaged to Killian Sinclair. In fact, Caoimhe delighted in it – it made her own plans so much easier.
Since her mother had died eight years ago, Caoimhe had no place to go but here. She had nothing but the knowledge of her noble father and how he had been unjustly slain the same year that Caoimhe was born – just a few nights after her conception, in fact.
He loved me mither even though she was just a commoner. He came across as harsh, but he didnae mean a word of it. And when he died, he left her with her greatest reward – me.
That’s what Caoimhe’s mother had always said anyway. She’d raised Caoimhe alone until the sickness hit her, teaching her skills and tricks with hidden knives that most women could never dream of.
That was why she had come to MacDonnell. That was why she had fought and worked until she was the lady-in-waiting of Lady Eithne herself. Because she was here for her revenge. She’d honor her mother’s memory and avenge her father’s death.
Caoimhe knocked on the door to the laird’s son’s room. When he walked out and gave her his smile, she had to take a moment to reorient herself. He was a perfect blend of his parents – his father’s long red hair and muscular body, his mother’s strange crystal blue eyes. Sometimes, Caoimhe wondered what it could have been if she was a normal woman, able to love without deception. To be the wife of Kil Sinclair would undoubtedly be something.
But nay. Nay, I cannae do that. I cannae afford to think of such things. All he can ever be to me is a tool.
She explained to Kil why she was there. He nodded and said they could leave straight away.
Kil’s easygoing manner and jokes made it hard for Caoimhe to focus. When they were together like this, laughing and teasing, she almost felt like they were just an ordinary young couple, strolling into the village together.
“Are ye all right?” Kil asked her, breaking her out of her reverie as they strolled down the road toward the village. “Ye seem a wee bit lost.”
She blinked. “Just tired,” she assured Kil, slipping her hand into his. He didn’t pull away, and he smiled at her, both gestures making her heart beat faster. She truly longed to kiss him, just once, just to see what it felt like. She’d dreamed of it since they were both children.
Nay. Stop it, Caoimhe.
“Ye look fair bonny today,” Kil told her.
She thanked him, though a shiver of guilt ran through her. He was smitten with her; that much was clear. Perhaps he’d even propose to her soon. Caoimhe hoped so. She would wait until they were alone on their wedding night – or, failing that, she would seduce him.
Once he was naked before her, she’d take her knife and run it through his chest, watching his blood run down his chest and the light fade out of his crystal blue eyes.
It hurt her to think about it. She didn’t really want to hurt Kil, who she had come to care about. But what else was there for her to do at this point? In her twenty years of life, this had always been her only goal.
There was no choice. Caoimhe’s father had been cruelly slain by a mercenary and a woman who had pretended to love him, two who now pretended to be a proper Laird and Lady. Eithne had brutalized Caoimhe’s father, stabbing him until he was an unrecognizable mess. Eithne and Ivor seemed kind, but Caoimhe’s mother had told her the truth.
And that was why no matter how much she liked him, the day would come that Rory MacDuff’s unknown bastard daughter would be the one to end the life of Eithne and Ivor’s own son. Then, and only then, would her revenge be complete.
“Mammy, Mammy, hold on,” Eithne muttered over again, trying frantically not to let her desperation show. All around her, the sounds of conquest raged, the smells of blood and fire and death filling the air. “Yer gonnae be just fine.”
Her mother, bleeding much like a butchered animal, coughed as she laughed. There was blood there, too, turning her lips a frightening ruby red. “Ye should take Neal and run lass,” muttered Lady Kinnear, wincing at the effort the words took. “Ye wouldnae be calling me ‘mammy’ if ye really thought I was gonnae make it. Go find yer sister.”
“right, Eithne. We need to go,” Neal urged. “Hurry.”
Eithne did not move, clutching her mother’s hand tighter. “Ye should go,” she told Neal. Her best friend was wounded, too, his arm hanging at an odd angle, but she was sure he could survive long enough to get out of here. “But I cannae. I’ll nae leave me mam to bleed out like a pig in the dirt.”
If she was honest, Eithne knew that the specter of the otherworld had already covered her mother. The once-lovely black hair that she’d shared with her son and oldest daughter was tangled and matted with dirt and blood, and who knew what else. It tangled behind Lady Kinnear’s head; its soft waves were gone. Her tawny eyes, very different from the blue that Eithne and Myrna had inherited from their father, were clouding over.
“Eithne,” Neal urged. “Please.”
Eithne looked up at him, her handsome best friend who had fought by her side. He’d been upset at her and at her mother for refusing to leave and flee to safety when the attack began. Her younger sister Myrna had escaped before Laird Kinnear had fallen, but Eithne and the Laird’s widow would not leave. They aided the men, even fought alongside them when their numbers dwindled, but it was all for naught.
They had lost. Kinnear was lost. And now Neal, with his soft brown hair and brown eyes and kind smile, was right. She needed to get out of here, and quickly, before the circle of enemy soldiers closed in on them. Neal, who’d been her constant companion since her birth one and twenty years ago. Neal, who had confessed his love for her just before this battle started.
I never even had time to respond. Perhaps if we escape now, I’ll be able to make up me mind.
But Eithne’s father was dead, and now her mother lay dying, and Eithne knew she couldn’t leave. She tried to make her legs move, but they felt like they were filled with lead. Her hand, the one soaked in her mother’s blood, refused to release Lady Kinnear and leave her to die alone and afraid.
“I’m going to yer daddy, pet,” Lady Kinnear whispered. “But ye dinnae have to come with me.”
“Hush now, Mammy,” Eithne said. She was not ashamed to have tears in her eyes. “I’ll stay until ye sleep.”
Neal moved closer, putting a hand on her shoulder, and Eithne was glad that he was no longer trying to convince her. Instead, he stood there, guarding her as best he could while she hummed the lullaby her mother had given her as a child. It sounded sharp and discordant against the cries and screams of defeat, but Lady Kinnear closed her eyes and leaned into Eithne’s caressing hand as she sang.
“An’ when ye sail away, nae matter how far, remember I’ll be here, I’ll be yer guidin’ star,” Eithne sang. Neal’s hand tightened around her shoulder, his fingers digging in almost painfully. “And dinnae let the fear, send yer heart astray, as long as we ken love, I will light yer way.”
Eithne felt it when her mother took that last, shuddering breath, and the tears poured as she leaned down to kiss her mother’s forehead for the last time.
“Sleep tight, Mammy,” she whispered. “I’ll see ye again. I promise.”
She heard Neal withdraw his sword next to her. They were closing in, then. This was it. This was how Eithne died. She looked up, her tears dry now as she stared at the circle of soldiers who were here to bring her death.
“There’s still time to run, Neal. Go,” she urged.
In response, Neal just stood in front of her with his sword, ready to protect her until her dying breath.
Like that, kneeling by her mother’s body behind her friend, Eithne watched as the circle broke. Through it walked a man she recognized. With his dark blond hair and freckled face, the young Laird of the MacDuff clan might have been handsome if it wasn’t for the cruel look in his eyes and the twist to his smile. At six and twenty, only five years older than Eithne herself, he had brought more death than he’d lived life.
“Greetings, Eithne,” he said casually, walking closer casually as if they’d met on the road instead of on the battlefield.
She hated how he said her name, leaning hard on the last sound like the Sassenachs did, En-YAH rather than EH-nyah like it was supposed to be. She’d told him that once when they were younger. Now he was taunting her.
She said nothing, and Rory smirked. His men closed in behind him, flanking him.
“Nae another step,” Neal warned, brandishing his sword.
Eithne gently laid her mother down and got to her feet. She put a gentle hand on Neal’s shoulder and walked past him, facing Laird MacDuff – no, Rory. She would not give him the honor of a title. “What do ye want?” she asked, though she knew.
Rory snorted. “Och, ye’re still being brave, are ye lass? Tell me, what’s the point?” He raised a hand, twirling a strand of her dark hair around his finger. Eithne heard Neal take an angry breath, but she tried not to flinch. “Ye’ve lost.”
“I’ll never lose to ye,” she told him.
This just made Rory laugh, long and loud. “Such a feisty wee thing ye are. And yet look around ye. Yer village is in tatters. Yer clan’s been overcome.” He leaned closer, his hot breath tickling her ear as she tried not to shudder. “I dealt with yer dear Faither meself, ye ken. I thrust me sword into his stomach over and over while he begged for his life like a coward.”
“He didnae!” Eithne snarled. “He would never beg to the likes of ye.”
“He did,” Rory told her. “But nae until after one of me men slit yer pathetic brother’s throat in front of him.”
Me brother. Killian. Him too. I cannae bear this.
“Ye’re lying,” she cried, though she knew he spoke only the cold, horrible truth.
“Believe what ye like,” Rory said, moving back from her a little. He glanced at the ground where Eithne’s mother lay and sighed. “What a waste. She neednae have died. Why did the two of ye nae run off like yer sister did? Was it because of ye, Eithne? Are ye the reason that yer mammy lies dead?”
“Dinnae ye ever mention her again,” Eithne snarled, her voice higher in pitch as the anger pulsed through her veins. “I dinnae care who ye think ye are. I—”
“Ye’re nothing, nae anymore,” Rory told her softly, his grin terrifyingly white against his dirt-streaked face. “Yer daddy’s dead. Yer mammy’s dead. Yer clan’s gone. Revenge is mine, and ye’ve got nae choice. Ye’ll be me bride.”
Eithne shuddered as his hands snaked around her waist, pulling her close to him. His lips hovered just above her own. “I will nae,” she said.
“Ye will,” he said, touching her cheek again. “Ye’ll bed me and wed me, and our bairns will rule together.”
“I’d rather have me womb ripped from me chest and me legs tied shut forever than allow ye to touch me,” she spat.
A flash of anger crossed Rory’s face, and she was rewarded for her words by the back of his hand across her face. She went sprawling, her cheek burning as she landed in the dirt next to the cooling body of her mother.
“Dinnae touch her!” Neal yelled and ran forward. Eithne wanted to yell for him to stop, but she was too dazed, too dizzy, and the events unfolded in slow motion.
Rory looked at Neal incredulously, almost with amusement, then sidestepped. Neal stumbled past him in the dodge, and suddenly two of Rory’s men were there, holding him in place.
“Nay,” Eithne gasped. “Nay, dinnae, please.”
The men brought Neal forward, standing him in front of Rory.
“Brave, are ye nae?” the Laird said. Around him, his circle of men laughed.
“Braver than ye,” Neal retorted, then reeled back in pain as Rory punched him hard in the stomach. He doubled over, only still on his feet because the men were holding him up.
“Rory, leave him be. Leave him,” Eithne pleaded. She scrambled to her feet again.
“Stay back,” Neal commanded of her.
Rory glanced at her, then back to Neal, a slow smile unfolding on his face. “Ah, I see, I see. Ye love her, I think? Aye, that’s it. Ye want to be her husband. And she’s nae sure, but ye live in her heart as well. Aye, aye, I see it now.”
Eithne ran over to Rory, grabbing at his clothes. “Please. I’ll do anything ye want. I’ll wed ye; I’ll bed ye. I’ll have yer bairns. I’ll tell the other clans that ye’re our rightful ruler, just please, please dinnae hurt him.”
Rory put his fingers under her chin, forcing him to look up at her. “Ah, love,” he crooned. “It’s nice to see ye so passionate. Ye ken that I’ll do anything to make ye happy. All it’ll cost ye now is a kiss.”
“Eithne, dinnae—” Neal started but lost his breath as one of his captors punched him again.
“A thousand kisses if ye let him live,” Eithne said. She fought her instinct to recoil as Rory’s arm wrapped around her waist and drew her closer, and she wrapped her own arms around his neck. She didn’t want this, but if it were the only way Neal would live, she would do it.
Their lips met. It was her first kiss, and it was…wrong, all wrong. The way his mouth moved against hers made her want to scream, his demanding tongue like an infection her body wanted to drive out. But she held him, and she bore it because her only other choice was—
The sound that followed would haunt her dreams forever – the sound of steel tearing through flesh, the soft scream of a murdered man. Neal’s knees hitting the ground as he collapsed.
Eithne pulled back in horror to see Rory’s other hand extended, his sword through Neal’s sternum. Neal’s eyes were glassy as he looked up at her, tears and blood and agony drowning his face.
“Eithne,” he whispered, and then his eyes went blank. Rory withdrew his sword, and Neal’s body fell to the ground in its final farewell.
“Nay!” she screamed, half a word and half a wild wail that she could not control. She pounced at Rory, ready to kill him with her bare hands. But his strong grip restrained her, and then the men who had been holding Neal had her, and she was lost.
They pinned her to the ground as she sobbed and screamed and spat. Her face pressed into the cold dirt, and she turned to breathe and found herself staring directly into Neal’s dead eyes. Not far from him lay her mother, pale and cold.
Eithne’s energy went out of her, and her body went limp. She had lost. It was over.
“There. That wasnae so hard, was it? Take her to the keep, lads,” Rory said.
Dimly, Eithne was aware of being half-dragged, half-carried back to the castle that had once been her home. The men laughed and joked as they pulled her through the half-ruined building to the bedroom nearby where her older brother slept.
Where he used to sleep. He’s dead. He’s gone.
They tossed her inside, and she fell to the cold stone floor. She didn’t know how long she lay there, but eventually, she realized that she might get ill if she didn’t move. Life didn’t feel worth living, not anymore, but she would not give up and die for Rory MacDuff.
She crawled along the floor to the bed. It was still unmade and messy since they’d sent the servants away when the attack started. The sheets smelled like Killian. She laid her head on the pillow and pulled the blanket over her shoulders.
Killian. Faither. Mither. Neal. Oh, Neal…
Their names looping in her head, she eventually fell into a dreamless sleep, unsure if she would ever be able – or willing – to wake again.
Chapter Two
“Did ye hear about the terrible happenings at Clan Kinnear?” asked the young man half in his cups to anyone who would listen. He’d been chattering all night about this and that, and Ivor, who had little time for idle gossip, had paid him little attention. At the mention of Kinnear, however, he looked up. He couldn’t help it.
Killian Kinnear had been Ivor’s friend since childhood, unlikely though their bond might have been. Ivor, the half-Norse Highlander with no clan, who had made his living with his bow and his sword since he was a boy, would never have expected to befriend the son and heir of a Laird. And yet, when he’d met Killian, they’d bonded instantly.
Ivor had been stealing some fruit from the Laird’s gardens, aged just eleven, and Killian caught him. Rather than turning him in, the young heir disappeared into the keep and returned with a whole basket of food. Since then, whenever Ivor was nearby, the two of them were inseparable. Ivor had even loaned his mercenary services to the Laird during some battles as a favor to his friend.
It’s been some moons since I heard from Killian, though.
“What happened?” he asked abruptly.
It was the first time he’d spoken all night, and it sent a visible jolt of surprise through the other patrons of the tavern. Ivor snorted into his mead. This was one reason he spent so little of his time talking to other people – he forgot how intimidating they found him.
Realistically, Ivor couldn’t blame them. He was tall and bulky, his muscles straining at his shirt no matter what he tried to wear because they simply weren’t tailored in his size. His long, rough brown hair with its blond traces in the sun stood out here, as did his eyes.
His eyes were maybe his most distinguishing feature. Previous lovers had called them honey in color, no doubt as a compliment. Previous enemies had, as well, but they meant it like a trap – a sweetness that hid deadliness just beneath.
Ivor tried to relax his stance a little for their sake, but his every nerve was on edge. There was silence after he spoke for a long moment, and he could taste the fear in the room.
Eventually, the drunken young man hesitantly said, “They’re all dead, sir.”
“What?” Ivor demanded, slamming his tankard down on the table. “What are ye saying?”
“The Kinnear’s,” the lad explained. “The MacDuff’s attacked. I heard the younger lass got out, but the Laird and Lady are dead and the heir and the older sister and half the castle village. Rory MacDuff is claiming all the land for himself.”
That cannae be right—it cannae.
He thought of Killian – his dark hair, his tawny eyes, his easy smile – and found the idea of his death simply inconceivable. Killian was one of the most alive people that Ivor knew. The Laird and Lady were strong, and the people…well, when Ivor had fought alongside them, he’d felt in good hands.
So then, what had happened? He pushed the young man for more details, but he didn’t seem to have any.
Ivor considered. He had been on his way to meet a contact nearby to sell his skills, but he was less than a day out now from the castle town of Clan Kinnear. Surely the lad was talking nonsense, but if he wasn’t…well, this was something that he had to see for himself.
***
As he rode, Ivor’s doubt faded, and his heart began to ache. Every person he passed seemed to be discussing the Kinnear massacre. The Laird, Lady, and heir were all dead – that much was certain. Half the country knew this already, despite the deed only occurring a day before. All of the women and the children of the clan lay dead in the streets…and Killian was gone.
I never even got to say farewell. The last thing I said to him was some silly jape.
Many wild rumors were flying around the country about the events, and often they contradicted each other. The youngest daughter was dead, or maybe the younger daughter had escaped. The older daughter was bedding Rory MacDuff. The older daughter had turned on her family. The older daughter was alive and still in the castle.
Through all of these contradictory stories, Ivor drew two solid conclusions. The first was that both of Killian’s sisters still lived. Killian had spoken of them often; his friend and confidante Eithne, the older who looked exactly like him and his mother except for her ice-blue eyes, and the younger girl Myrna, who had been just a wee bairn when Ivor and Killian first met.
He’d never met the girls, but the stories that Killian had told him flooded his mind. The gentle smiles that the mercenary’s friend had worn when he talked about his sisters were tattooed onto Ivor’s heart. From the stories, it seemed like young Myrna had fled with some of the servants to her mother’s people, but not Eithne.
There was no basis for the rumors of Eithne’s betrayal. He’d never met her, but Ivor knew that much. Killian had trusted his sister with his life – and that meant Ivor did, too.
This led Ivor to the second conclusion and what was quickly becoming the only mission that held any interest for him.
Eithne is somewhere in Kinnear Castle, held captive. And I’m gonnae get her out and make her safe.
***
Eithne pulled her brother’s cloak tighter around her shoulders. She’d cried so much that her heart felt dry in her chest. The unsent letters in her hand were all written in Killian’s neat script and now stained with the saltwater from her eyes.
One was addressed to Eithne herself, teasing her over some bet the two of them had had. It was part of a long series of notes they’d passed back and forth across the castle over the years.
And the last letter he’ll ever write to me.
The pain threatened to cripple her as she folded the letter and tucked it in her shirt near her heart. She knew some of the people to whom the others were addressed, while there were others she had never heard about at all. One for Neal, one for Myrna; there were letters to the sons of other clans and girls he may have courted.
One name, Ivor, repeated over and over, but Eithne could not place it. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she had been locked in this room a day and a night without food or water, her wounds untreated, the agony of her family and friends’ deaths beating her every time she tried to rest.
Me mither’s blood on me hands. Neal’s eyes going blank…
She doubled over, trying to push the agony out of her stomach, pulling the cloak tighter around her. What had happened to Killian? Had Rory told the truth about how he’d died? Had they really made her poor father watch the death of his only son?
It was too much. Too much for anyone.
The door suddenly creaked open, and she looked up, bleary-eyed through her exhaustion and sorrow, to see the face she could happily have never seen again. “Rory,” she said quietly. “What do ye want?”
“Ye, me bonny. I’ve only ever wanted ye. Maybe if ye’d have said aye in the first place, we could have avoided all of this mess,” he told her. He leaned against the doorframe, smiling at her so pleasantly that she wanted to scream. “I’ve come to give ye yer new choices.”
I cannae listen. He wanted power. He would have attacked whether I’d agreed to wed him or not.
But despite knowing that, the guilt chewed at Eithne. What if he hadn’t? What if Neal, her parents, Killian, all of her people had died because of her choice?
He waited for his words to settle. “As ye can see, if ye try and get out of that window there, ye’ll break every bone in yer body or worse,” he told her cheerfully, pointing behind her. “Ye’re welcome to try. That’s option one.”
Eithne swallowed. She’d stared out of the window for hours, trying to work out a way to make it out without killing herself, but Rory was right. It was impossible. “And me other choices?”
Rory’s grin widened. “Me preferred choice, and yer second option is that ye wed me. I swear I willnae touch ye until our wedding night, even, for I ken the importance of a woman’s maidenhood.”
“I’d rather die,” Eithne snarled. She tried to picture herself in his nude embrace and shuddered, bile burning her throat.
“Well, that’s yer third option,” Rory said, shrugging as though he didn’t really care. “I’ll make an example of ye and parade yer body in the streets if I have to.”
She knew it wasn’t a bluff. He would kill her if she refused to marry him, and he would smile while he did it. He desired her, maybe even loved her in his own twisted way, but not as much as he loved his own ego.
The worst part was that death didn’t sound like a terrible option. It would be an escape from this endless pain, from the sorrow and the physical agony. And in the afterlife, her mother and father were waiting. Neal and Killian and all of her friends were waiting. There was nobody, nothing to keep her here, except—
“Promise me ye’ll come out of this alive, Ennie,” Myrna begged as Eithne helped her onto her horse. “Promise, or I willnae leave.”
“I promise,” Eithne replied, kissing her cheek swiftly. “I’ll get out. I’ll survive and come back to ye.”
She’d sworn to her younger sister that she’d return. No matter how vile the prospect of living felt right now, she couldn’t leave Myrna alone. She needed to somehow get to her mother’s people and find the girl and remind them both that some of their family still lived.
“Well?” Rory said, folding his arms. “What option do ye pick? I hope it’s two meself.” As she watched, he fingered the sheath at his side – not the one that held his sword, but the smaller belt where he kept his dagger. She knew it was clean, and yet it shone red with jewels that looked like they were already covered in Eithne’s blood.
My blood. The blood of me family.
Eyes filled with hate, Eithne looked up and met his gaze. She nodded just once.
He laughed triumphantly. “We wed on the morrow,” he told her, then walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.
Part of Eithne wanted to sink down into nothing again, but she couldn’t, not now. There was another way out if she could just find the key; the trapdoor that led to the passages through the walls. Each of the Kinnear children had one in their room, and they’d used them to sneak around after dark and play well into the night many times. Since they’d grown, Eithne and Killian had both kept theirs locked.
But the key must be somewhere. It has to be.
Her search lasted hours, and she must have torn apart every drawer, ripped every sheet, searched every nook and cranny, but the slim iron key was nowhere to be found. She uncovered the trapdoor, but it was locked tight. She tried to pick the lock with everything she could reach, but it was no use.
Eventually, exhausted, she collapsed on the floor. The cold stone froze her cheek, and she thought it might be nice just to give up, to let the coldness in. She glanced at the bed one more time, knowing she wouldn’t even have the energy to climb into it now.
That’s when she saw it – the little notch in the foot of the bed frame. She crawled over, pulling at the wood with her fingernails until she found her prize. It was dusty, bloody from her fingers, and ice cold to the touch – but she held the key in her hand and enjoyed the feeling more than the gentlest bath.
“She’s asked permission to take a leave of absence again, in case ye want to say something to her this time.”
Caillen had come into Emer’s dressing room. His wife was seated in front of the dresser; Lady Maclachlan’s maid was pinning her mistress’s hair into ringlets on top of her head. It was an intricate task: Emer’s hair reached past her hips and could nearly touch the back of her knees. She grew it long because her husband asked her to do so. Even after two years of marriage and two bonnie children, Laird Maclachlan could still be made to tremble with desire when his wife came into their bedchamber with her hair falling down around her shoulders, her perfume scenting the air.
Emer did not turn to look at her husband when he came in and spoke to her. She looked at his reflection in the mirror, saying, “So, it must be a regular place they meet because this is definitely the same time of year. When do ye think they first set up the rendezvous?”
Caillen moved around the room, opening her trinket boxes and pomanders, sniffing them, and then placing them back on the table.
“I have nae idea,” he replied, “She receives regular correspondence, so I think that’s how most of the meeting places are set up.”
Emer sighed, and after waiting patiently for the maid to finish, thanked the girl and then turned around on her satin-lined stool, “This is the third time. What happens if she falls with child?”
Caillen shrugged his shoulders, “What can I do, Em? Davina is nae me chattel whom I can order around. She’s the sister of the Lady Maclachlan! If she chose to become our housekeeper after Mistress Burroughs passed away instead of taking her rightful place beside ye, it was her decision to make.”
Emer thought back to how Davina had become wretchedly dejected after Gawain’s departure and banishment. Her sister had lost the bloom in her cheeks and seemed to fade before her eyes. After the wedding, if Emer looked for her sister around the castle, she would always know to find her in the kitchen, helping Cook to make pies and pasties. It was as if she somehow needed to punish herself for telling Gawain her sister had left the castle to visit Nethy.
But when Emer had asked her, Davinia had opened her eyes wide with surprise.
“What? That old memory. Whatever made ye think I care about what I did when I was so young and silly.”
And there, the conversation had ended.
Davinia was a doting aunt. She had endless time to play with the two youngest Maclachlan’s. Both had been born in time for their grandfather to hold them in his arms.
“There I am with me own sweet wife – that is to say, yer mither,” the old Laird had nodded toward Caillen, “and we struggle to have two boys in all the years we were together. And ye go havin’ two strapping bairns in as many years!”
The old Laird had passed away a few months later. His body twisted with the disease that had slowly taken his life, but his mind and heart were still straight standing. Over two thousand clan and Highlanders had attended the wake. Stories were still told about how their torches lit up the night sky so far, ships sailing into port were able to see it.
Pastor Dougal had come to the wake.
He made a low bow to Laird and Lady Maclachlan. If there was one thing Dougal Sutherland had learned from his brother’s mistakes, it was to never hold pride and hate above love and forgiveness.
“Pastor,” Emer had greeted him with much affection, “How goes it back up in Nethy? How is Ernest and the rest o’ me neighbors?”
Pastor Dougal stood back so he could appreciate Emer more.
“Losh, child, ye look radiant, albeit I am sad for yer loss – he was a great Laird and will find his place in heaven. Nethy is grand, I’m tellin’ ye, and so is Ernest – bless him. We hope to have a good harvest this year, so ye’ll be pleased ye kept those fields!”
“It’s lovely to hear Nethy is prospering – and nae small thanks to yer kind efforts, and I thank ye for yer condolences. Me husband will be greatly comforted by yer words, Pastor,” Emer said graciously, “we hear ye also suffered a loss,” she was unsure whether Dougal Sutherland would be willing to share details of how his brother died with him. A drayman had taken pity on the old man as he lay crawling on the road and had given him a lift to the manse.
“Och, lass, I mean, yer Ladyship, Donal Sutherland was unrepentant to the end. But ‘twas nae to be wondered at; his mind – and probably his soul too – was eaten away by the disease his wife passed onto him.”
Emer felt no remorse, but she was glad Pastor Dougal had taken in his brother after the Sutherland clan had kicked him out of the lodge.
“That brings me neatly around to another question,” Pastor Dougal said, “How does me niece? Is she still as prideful and loathsome as before?”
Caillen had joined his wife and heard the pastor’s enquiry, “She’s nae in the dungeons anymore, if that’s what’s on yer mind, Pastor. We’ve promoted her to one of the turrets – an’ I wish I could say it was for good behavior, but I’d be lyin’. She’s still under lock and key – a serpent being a serpent when all’s said an’ done.”
Pastor Dougal had promised them he would keep praying for his niece to see the light, but Emer and Caillen thought privately even if Flora showed herself remorseful, they would not believe her.
Now, in her dressing room, and with her husband’s keen eyes watching her closely, Emer knew she must find out where it was Davinia went once a year and who she was meeting. Davinia could be placing herself in danger if she was seen liaising with a known vagabond. Who knew what noisome tavern Gawain and Campbell might be living in?
She gave Caillen a soft smile and moved closer to him.
“If she is yearning for yer brither, can ye blame her? Ye Maclachlan men are entirely irresistible.”
Whenever they kissed, it was as if they were back in the bedchamber with the bronze door handle. The same heat and passion would always be lurking inside them, and all they had to do was kiss for it to flame into a fire of craving. Today, Caillen had his long hair loose and not tied back in its usual neat knot at the back of his head. She ran her fingers through it and then gave his hair a roguish tug.
“Could it be that ye are hoping to take me right here in me dressing room, me Laird?” she teased. He caught his breath; when Emer played with his urges and flirted with him, he was driven to the edge of distraction. It was as if this beautiful dark-haired woman was able to change from being a docile, polite wife into an exotic, enticing creature whenever she felt like it. No woman could compare to her in his eyes. When it came to bedchamber May games, Emer had been able to keep him guessing since their marriage. He never knew if he was going to bed with a demure lassie, shy and retiring, but then willing to open herself to his more experienced hand, or a wild, uninhibited woman who would ride him with her eyes closed in exhilaration.
Caillen could swear it had something to do with how Emer’s hair changed color. Russet and chestnut in the sunlight and he would know she would behave as sweetly as a maiden at her beddan; if her hair was raven dark in the shadows, he knew she would dominate the bedchamber and not rest until they were lying sweating and exhausted on the bedsheets. Truly, she was the woman of his dreams.
Emer placed a light kiss on his beard. She left her lips there for a long minute, allowing the sensation of how the hair pricked her mouth; the touch seemed to penetrate the hidden recesses between her thighs and make her breasts tighten. The gorgeous feeling of roughness always had the most interesting effect on her. Emer pressed herself closer, took a small section of his beard between her teeth, nibbling and tugging at the hair.
“Mmm, I want ye, husband, and cannae wait for tonight to come,” she whispered, all the time brushing her mouth softly across his ear and cheek. She loved inhaling Caillen’s musky scent. He always smelt so delightfully of leather and fresh linen. If she could capture his perfume in a bottle, Emer knew she would carry it everywhere with her.
She broke away from him, but not quickly enough. Caillen grabbed Emer and held her so close to him, she could feel the way she had excited him, throbbing under his kilt.
“Dinnae leave me so unfulfilled, love,” he groaned.
She gave him an enigmatic smile and left. Emer enjoyed controlling him in this way. When it came to the bedchamber, she was the master, and he was her slave. It had all worked out very conveniently for her in that regard! But now it was time to find out what was going on with Davinia.
Was she having an affair with Gawain, or not?
Emer found Davinia sitting with the two boisterous Maclachlan boys in the nursery.
“Are ye having a good day, Davi?” Emer asked with a smile, “I always ken ye’re having one when ye volunteer to take care of the wee bairns.”
Her sister turned around, “Aye, me new recipe came out brilliant. I were that pleased that I came here to give the boys a small sample.”
“Never mind the bairns,” Emer said, “Let me try!”
Emer took a bite of one of the small cakes her sister had baked. Davinia had worked out how to use the closed stove very quickly, and the results were always delicious.
“We’ll have to travel to Edinburgh to print ye a cookbook, Davi,” Emer said, “because these are divine.”
Davinia gave a small smile and then continued to feed small pieces of the cake to the youngest boy. His small teeth gnawed at the crumbs happily.
Emer thought this was as good a time as any.
“Davi,” she began, “I have to ken – do ye go to meet up with Gawain every year? Because if ye do, Caillen said to me in bed last night that Gawain can come back home, now that they auld Laird has passed away and his decree no longer stands inviolate.”
Davinia grew still for a long while, a gentle expression on her face. Could it be that she remembered the passionate girl who had been so in love, enough to drive her to do mad things and all for a man who had never returned her adoration?
Emer stayed silent, imagining how she, herself, would have behaved under the same circumstances if it had been Caillen luring her into a web of deception.
Davinia sighed, “I dinnae meet with Gawain, Em, if that’s what ye and Cai have been thinking. However, I do take great comfort in me yearly trips and would be heartsore if ye said I should nae go.”
Emer could not let things rest at that. She had to know more.
“But Davi, where do ye go? Who is writing ye the letters?”
Her sister gave a small laugh, “Aye, the letters are from Gawain. He wants to keep up with all the Highland news.”
“What?” Emer was interested and did not bother hiding it anymore, “is he nae able to follow the Highland news himself?”
Another soft chuckle came from Davinia, “Nay, sister, he is nae able to do that.”
“But why, where is he? Who do ye meet?”
Davina knew her sister, and she knew the questions would not stop until she had the truth.
“Gawain has gone to sea, of course, I’m surprised ye didnae guess that. He sends a messenger to meet me at the port every year. It’s nae much, but it’s better than nothing.”
Emer’s mouth dropped open, then she managed to say, “Gawain… at sea?”
“And from what I can gauge,” Davinia said, “he’s been fabulously successful.”
“Allow me to help ye stand up, faither,” Gawain Maclachlan said, offering his arm to his father. Laird Maclachlan had been head of the clan keep for dozens of years, and the harsh Highland winters had finally caught up with him. He seemed old beyond his years, and rheumatism knotted his bones.
Sighing in frustration, he waved his younger son’s assistance away and stood up from the desk where he had been writing scrolls and signing parchments all day. He had to use the edge of the great wooden table to haul himself up, but the look on his face after he accomplished it held a certain sense of triumph.
He felt for his walking cane perched at one side of a richly carved mahogany bureau and grasped its knob firmly.
At the other end of the extensive library where Laird Maclachlan conducted all his business, and clan affairs sat his eldest son, Caillen–a gentle smile on his face as he watched his father fight to stand up and walk across the room with his staunch determination.
The auld man hasnae forgotten his proud bearing and fighting disposition in all the long years I’ve been away. But time has not been kind to poor Faither. Perhaps that’s why I found that messenger waiting at me last port of call.
Caillen said nothing out loud, however. After years of dealing with perilous interactions and crooked seafarers, he had learned to observe first and only speak and act later.
“Ye should change that cumbersome and stiff wooden chair on which ye sit all day, Faither, for a more comfortable one,” Gawain insisted, “I can organize a nice velvet cushioned invalid chair for ye. I’ve heard they can be propelled forward on small wooden wheels. Then ye wouldnae have to walk at all!”
Poor Gawain. Always somehow managing to put his foot in it. He does nae have the wisdom to see Faither would rather fall down than accept help–at least when it comes to his physical abilities. If I’m correct, he wants to talk to us about running the keep. Faither was always as shrewd as he could hold, and if he’s too sick to oversee the castle, that means me adventuring days will have to be put on hold for now.
“Leave yer wittering for the womenfolk, Gawain!” Laird Maclachlan shouted, “I’ll nae have an invalid chair as if I were some self-indulgent Sassenach weakling!”
Caillen gave another small smile as his father hobbled to a library chaise and threw himself down on it.
Laird Maclachlan was in one of his more irascible moods. Caillen admired his younger brother’s ability to take the verbal abuse their father dealt out with such a sanguine attitude. When their father lashed out at him with a particularly bad-tempered command, the only thing that betrayed Gawain’s hidden anger or embarrassment–Caillen was not sure which–– was a slight flushing of his cheeks.
Me brither should play cards. He has such good control over his feelings it would take a masterful reader of reactions to see if Gawain was bluffing or secretly holding a winning hand.
The two young men waited for their father to vent his spleen as he settled himself into the comfortable chaise and then gave him their attention.
“The reason I have called ye both here to attend the banquet feast is because I’m nae longer fit to oversee the management of the castle keep or press our advantage further afield,” Laird Maclachlan paused and waited to see if his sons would react to what he had just said. They said nothing, and the old man did not expect there to be any comment. He had reared his sons to be silent observers and only act once they had all the facts.
Satisfied, he continued, “To this end, I have decided to appoint a proxy to rule the clan in me stead ‘til such a time as I feel better or….”
Laird Maclachlan left his final words unsaid. Some days he felt healthier, especially when the local healer whipped him up a concoction with poppy seeds as one of the ingredients, but on others, the pain in his bones made him yearn for the grave.
He looked at the two men opposite him and felt a surge of pride and affection. True to the unforgiving nature of the misty Highland mountains where he had lived all his life, Laird Maclachlan had striven to stay calm as all but two of his late wife’s bairns survived into adulthood. But these two surviving offspring were everything a father could wish for.
Caillen, now with eight-and-twenty years under his belt, was tall and strong, looking more like a battle-hardened Highlander than the free-spirited adventurer he really was. He was handsome enough to have made a maiden sigh from the time he was old enough to shave, but he had settled for having a long-term courtship with a gentlewoman from a nearby lodge. They had been fast friends growing up together, attending the same dances, hunting and hawking amidst the hills, drinking tea in a merry group when the lass visited the keep with her mother. It seemed only natural they would fall into an easy-going relationship over the years, with the tacit understanding marriage was waiting for them somewhere in the future.
It had been hard getting the message to Caillen he was needed back home. The only way of contacting him was to deliver a note to a certain wine merchant in the port of Marseilles, the bustling coastal town from where Caillen launched most of his expeditions. That had been over eight full moons before, and his errant eldest son had only returned three days ago.
He had sauntered into the great hall and casually looked around him, as though inspecting some seedy Atlantic crossing inn where he was forced to spend the night. One of the footmen had instinctively reached for a pole axe mounted on the wall before recognizing the Laird’s heir.
Caillen had a foreign air about him, one that promised danger, adventure, and escape. He had thrown his saddlebags onto the stone floor and turned to greet the footman with the same irrepressible grin he’d had as a naughty boy.
“Greetings and well met, McKinney! Where’s me auld faither? Or is he still to be found forever holed up in the library with his papers?”
When the startled man had returned his greeting and made so bold as to welcome the young master back to the keep, he was heartily slapped on the back and passed a gold sovereign.
“Here’s a small memento of me time in the West Indies. Dinnae gamble it all away at once!”
And on those words, Caillen had picked up his saddlebags and made his way to the library.
When the door banged open after a brief knock, Laird Maclachlan’s eyes had nearly started from his head in shock. His heir’s tumbling brown locks were held back from his face in a knot, and his skin was as burnished as a heathen’s!
“Losh! Me son! Why dinnae ye send a messenger ahead to warn us? And why have ye tied yer hair back in a knot? Ye…ye look like a washerwoman!”
Caillen gave a loud shout of laughter as he went to kneel before his father and then stand up to hug him where he sat behind his writing desk, “Faither, scissors are scarce on board a ship. ‘Tis far easier to grow the hair and then knot it up behind the head, tying it back with a leather thong. All the pirates and brigands do it, and I’m sure it saves them much time in the mornings, as does nae shaving.”
Saying these words, Caillen rubbed his neat beard with one hand, a rueful grin making up for any cockiness his father might construe from his reply.
Laird Maclachlan was too happy to take umbrage at Caillen’s appearance or what he said. He rang the bell-rope that hung down next to his chair and ordered the footman to make up his son’s bedchamber.
Now, with both his sons sitting across from him, he was able to compare their characters and appearances in more detail. It was not so much they had no family resemblance whatsoever, in fact, far from it. It was just that they had chosen such different pathways in life; it had left an indelible mark on each of them.
Since the time he left his wet nurse and joined his older brother in the nursery, Gawain had been studious. Fond of reading a book quietly indoors while his elder brother rode around the countryside. He had always been better at learning what the tutor taught them and remembering important details. Caillen had taken every chance he could to leave his books behind and rush off to sail or fish on the loch. Gawain had tried to cover for his brother’s truancy at first, but as the years passed, he gave up and simply told the truth when an irate teacher or parent asked him. His excuse to Caillen, who would enter their bedchamber later on with a smarting backside and angry frown, was that his elder brother should buckle down and learn his lessons before getting into more trouble.
But it was something Caillen had found impossible to do. In his fifteenth year, Caillen had run away, joined a ship’s crew, and sailed across the Atlantic. His parents, recognizing his wild, indomitable, Highland spirit, had accepted his predilection for adventure and allowed him free reign to roam.
Gawain had stayed at the castle keep during his brother’s long absences, happy to draw up night watch schedules and work as his father’s steward. It was a role Laird Maclachlan hoped he would maintain in the years to come. When Caillen was Laird, he could use his young brother’s skills as estate manager and castle warden.
Gawain’s path in life had shaped his appearance and attitude fully as much as it had changed Caillen’s. Gawain was slim and lithe, a body made for rushing from one side of the castle to the other. Today, in the library, he wore a full-skirted brocade coat, stylishly embroidered, and breeches with silk hose. His chestnut brown hair was unpowdered, and he tied it back with a single black riband. Gawain’s skin was pale, throwing his riveting blue eyes into stark contrast with the rest of him. Ladies would write Gawain off as a mere younger son of no importance until he fixed that startling ice-blue stare in their direction. Then young women would flap their fans and giggle coquettishly as he walked past.
“So, faither,” Caillen said, shifting his muscular body around on the stiff chaise, trying to get comfortable, “why the urgency if only to appoint a proxy? If I’m gone, Gawain can oversee the running of the castle, and when I’m here, I can do it. I have a fair idea about how things should go on. Nae much has changed,” after saying these words, Caillen saw the expression on his father’s face shift, and he continued, “or have things changed?”
Laird Maclachlan searched for the right words, “I dinnae want to sound like a hysterical auld woman, lads, but I have absolute proof there’s a spy in the castle. They must have access to me papers, messengers, and sometimes I even think they must have access to me thoughts!”
Both young men pricked up their ears when their father said this. Indeed, the Laird was a shrewd and calculating man; if he had reason to believe there was a spy operating in the castle, it was more than a suspicion,–it was a fact.
Caillen leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees to prop up his chin. Gawain stared keenly at his father, his senses finely tuned to filter and process the information the Laird was about to share.
“For some time now, Clan Maclachlan has been the only bastion against the insidious southward spread of Clan Sutherland. As ye ken, their southern lands abut our northern boundary. Ye might nae ken this; however, there used to be two small clans,-the MacLeods and the Lewises-settled in between. Throughout the years, the Sutherlands have gobbled up both smaller clans, either through marriage, raiding, or plain auld bullying tactics, and now they encroach on our land.”
Caillen was interested in strategic land-grabs, having observed it first-hand in the New World, “The solution is simple, faither, and staring ye in the face as I say these words: settle yer differences with a betrothal. Gawain here would make the ideal husband.”
His younger brother reddened at these words, saying, “I’ll thank ye to nae use me as a bargaining chip in yer negotiations!”
Caillen shrugged, “ ‘Twas said as a compliment, brither, nae in jest. Has nae Laird Sutherland got a daughter of marriageable age?”
Laird Maclachlan nodded, “Aye, but those knaves will have nae one inch of me lands, whether stolen or through betrothal, while they play such dirty tricks. And besides, nae one has been able to get near Donal Sutherland for years to make a proposal for his daughter’s hand. He never leaves his chambers.”
The old Laird sighed and regained his composure, “Someone is feeding me enemies information about clan business and telling them all me negotiations with me allies, and I need ye here, Caillen, to ferret out who it is. Gawain will fill ye in on all the details–now get yerselves upstairs and prepare for the banquet feast.”
Gawain rose up and bowed before his father, “Ye didnae say who would be acting as Laird in yer place, Faither?”
Laird Maclachlan smacked his forehead with his hand, “Of course! Caillen, ye are now Laird of Maclachlan Castle an’ Keep. Look after it well.”
Chapter Two
The two brothers walked out of the library after bowing themselves from their father’s presence. Now they were free to express their feelings without experiencing the old Laird’s wrath, they began to talk at the same time.
“I dinnae think I can stand being stuck here for months on end, even if it gives faither the chance to regain his health in peace!” thus said Caillen.
“Ye think he would ken I run the castle better than someone who’s never been here for more than one month straight in the last thirteen years!” Gawain announced simultaneously.
As they made their way to the west wing tower where Caillen had set up his chambers, it was Gawain who found it hardest to suppress his outrage at the sudden change in his fortune. He grumbled about how he should be the one to bring the Sutherlands to heel, and if he were appointed head of the clan, he could guarantee the spy would be found or stopped immediately.
Caillen heard out his brother’s complaints in silence. As reluctant as he was to take up the reins of Lairdship, there was a small part of him that relished the challenge leadership of the clan would bring him. It could be an adventure all of its own. Add a nefarious infiltrator to the equation, and he was sure things could even get a little interesting around the castle.
Gawain, noticing his brother’s careful observation of what he was saying, stopped talking mid-sentence, and turned to his brother with a rueful grin on his face, “Thank ye for hearing me out in patience, Caillen. I only protest because I have a good system going here, and dinnae wish to waste me days explaining it all to ye.”
Caillen nodded, “Have nae fear, Gawain, I’m a quick study. It comes from all those years of cheating off yer notes in the schoolroom! I am happy ye’re here to guide me through it. Do ye think the auld man has become obsessed an’ distrustful, or do ye think there’s something to this spying nonsense?”
Gawain thought hard before replying, “Nay, he’s right. There’s probably someone out to harm the clan. I think the problem is faither commits all his transactions to paper, and while ‘tis good for record-keeping, it plays right into a spy’s hands.”
“Well, that’s the first thing I’m going to change then,” Caillen replied with a smile.
“The clan fields and grazing hills are emptied of cattle overnight, and our allies prefer sending their soldiers to train with the Sutherlands.”
Caillen frowned when he heard this; allies and cattle were the lifeblood of any clan.
“Let us vow to find this person who is damaging our clan and causing faither such distress,” he said with a grimace, “but even when we do find the spy, I think me traveling days should be put on hold for a while. This lairdship game looks set on being very time-consuming!”
And on these words, Caillen gave his younger brother a friendly pat on the back and entered his chambers to ready himself for the feast.
His personal attendant was waiting for him inside. An old woolen plaid was laid out on the bed, and next to it, a clean white cambric shirt. Caillen eyed the old plaid askance,
“Losh, Gilby, why didnae ye remind me in Edinburgh to purchase a new plaid? I cannae make a good impression at the feast wearing that rag. Where did ye dig it up from?”
Gilbert Gilby had traveled with Caillen on all of his voyages and knew him to be more comfortable in leather trews and a sleeveless jerkin, especially when they were sailing in the tropics. Now, he knew his master would have to change the way he dressed drastically-unless he planned on being mistaken for a pirate by the local folk.
He chuckled, “I found this Maclachlan plaid in that auld trunk in the corner, master. It was bundled up under some dried lavender to keep the moths at bay. I held it over some steamin’ hot water, and most of the creases have fallen out, and I can pin it nicely, so the pleats look as precise as a yardstick. No one will suspect a thing. Besides, we wouldnae have been able to have a new plaid made for ye in Edinburgh–the Laird’s tartan must be handmade in the land of his forebears.”
Even after all these reassurances, Caillen could not but help look at the bedraggled length of plaid askance. He was tempted to go and borrow one from his brother but then realized their different heights would make the kilt sit too high on his knees, and the one thing worse than an old plaid in Caillen’s opinion was one that was too short.
Sighing in resignation, he went to the washstand and used the water and soap. After splashing his body and wiping himself down with a rough towel, he flung his wet hair back over his shoulders and casually checked his face in the looking glass on the wall. Gilby was standing by with a tortoiseshell comb and handed it to Caillen when he held out his hand. A few comb strokes through his wet wavy brown hair, and he was able to tie it back tightly with a leather thong. He looped the leather cord around his tied hair until it came together into a tight bundle at the back of his head. As a courtesy to the occasion, Caillen drew the comb through his short beard a few times before handing it back to Gilby.
Next, Caillen pulled the cambric shirt over his head and then said through gritted teeth, “Do yer best with the plaid, Gilby,” raising his arms out to the side, which enabled the man to attach the kilt in place.
Gilby had been busy, pleating and pinning the plaid where it lay on the bed. There were many yards of fabric, but it had been reduced to a manageable length by the time Caillen’s helper began to attach it around his slim waist with a leather belt. Even Caillen had to admit when Gilby had finished, the kilt was the perfect length and passably presentable-except for one thing.
“Gilby, can ye detect the smell of lavender on me, by any chance?” Caillen was tempted to lift the edge of the plaid up to his nose to inhale the material but trusted his assistant to tell him the truth instead.
Gilby, aware of the incongruity of bending down to sniff the kilt, decided to reassure his master from where he was standing, “Ye’re imagining it, sir. The smell must be coming from the trunk. I will close the lid, and ye will see the fragrance will disappear of its own accord.” He pinned the Maclachlan great kilt over Caillen’s shoulders and stuck a gold pin with the family crest on its head through both fabrics, which attached the plaid to the shirt.
“Come now, sir,” Gilby said encouragingly, hoping to get Caillen out of the door before the aroma of lavender became too obvious, “they must all be waiting for ye downstairs.”
Caillen, after giving one more suspicious sniff at the great kilt, realized the truth in what Gilby was saying and left. He did not want to keep his father waiting if the old man was standing up to greet the guests. He ran down the ancient stone stairs that wound around the west wing tower and entered the great hall. It was thronging with guests; some were being housed at the castle itself, having traveled many miles to attend the banquet, other guests were important burghers and tradesmen from the nearby towns and villages.
It was more than a banquet to greet the newly appointed acting Laird and welcome him home. The feast had been held to show everyone the Maclachlan clan was bigger and more influential than ever before. Caillen eyes swept over the brightly dressed crowd of merrymakers, noticing every face and making a mental note of every absentee. Whoever missed the feast would have their loyalties checked.
Gawain came to stand by him.
“Who’s the auld gent standing next to faither with his back to us?” Caillen asked.
“I was with him when the guests first started arriving because ye were so late. Take a guess who’s standing next to him now?” Gawain said with a grin.
Caillen stared across the hall with narrowed eyes, trying hard to get a better view of the bluff faced man standing next to his father. When the gentleman turned, presenting his profile, he was immediately recognizable as Chieftain MacIntosh, Mairi MacIntosh’s father. The two old men had their heads close together, and Caillen had a hunch they were discussing the Sutherlands. MacIntosh land was also dangerously close to the encroaching Sutherland clan.
It has been over two years since Caillen had visited the MacIntosh lodge, and he knew he must stop by and greet Mairi within the next few days. They no longer sent one another letters, and Caillen had long since given up looking for Mairi’s missives at every one of his ports of call, but he remembered his old childhood friend fondly and felt a looming a sense of obligation to finalize some sort of betrothal with her.
Why! – Mairi must be every day five and twenty years old now! I suppose I should set a date for our wedding. Yet one more boring duty I must attend to while I’m on land and bound to look after the castle.
Gawain was watching his brother closely from out of the corner of his eye, “Aye, brither, I see where yer gaze has settled, and wonder if auld Chieftain MacIntosh is still keen for ye and Mairi to make a match of it? The maiden is getting on in years and still has to find a husband.”
Determined not to be drawn into a speculative conversation with his brother about marriage, Caillen shrugged, saying,
“Mairi was always a bright and comely girl, and that would not change over the course of years. Any man who chose her as his wife would be content.”
Gawain stepped back, a little confused by his brother’s lukewarm praise,
“Never tell me ye’re nae longer interested in yer auld flame, Caillen? Has some dark-eyed heathen lady from across the seas caught yer fancy instead?”
Caillen held up one hand in a noncommittal gesture,
“In truth, brither, the dark beauty of women from foreign lands is, indeed, more to me taste. But here am I back in the Highlands, and perfectly content to settle for a Highland lassie. Sultry brown eyes and raven black hair will have to exist in me dreams from henceforth.”
“Och,” Gawain scoffed at his brother’s reluctance, “one kiss will bring all yer auld feelings for Mairi flooding back and make those exotic beauties in foreign lands fade from yer memory. Mairi’s bedchamber is over in the east wing turret – ye ken the one with the twisted bronze ring handle? Go and wait in the chamber, and I will tell Mairi to meet ye there anon. I’ll tell her ye brought her a length of brocade back from yer last trip and wish to make her a present of it. Then ye get to kiss a girl who’s grateful and desperate for a kiss after so long waiting for yer return. What say ye?”
Caillen liked the sound of his brother’s plan very much. He smiled, gave Gawain a conspiratorial look, and made his way to the east wing. His imagination ran wild as he climbed the stairs up to the bedchamber. He envisioned the door opening, Mairi stepping inside, and then sweeping the unsuspecting maiden into his arms. In his mind, Mairi would be pantingly eager for his touch and give no resistance to him pushing her onto the bed where they would spend many enjoyable hours exploring one another’s bodies and proving their attraction for each other again and again. By the time Caillen entered the bedchamber, he was eager for Mairi to come inside and melt into his embrace. He went to sit on a trunk pushed against the wall of the darkened room and passed the time thinking about how wonderful it would feel to hold a soft, scented maiden close to him after many months of traveling.
Hearing the heavy bronze door ring turn and the latch lift, Caillen stood to one side of the room, waiting to pounce on Mairi as she came in. The chamber was dark, the only light provided by moon rays pouring in through the narrow turret window slits. Caillen realized he would have struggled to find a more romantic setting for his first kiss with Mairi as the new Laird of Maclachlan Castle.
