Chapter One

“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.

In her hand, she held her freedom.

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

Chapter One

“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.

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

Chapter One

His name was Wal, and he was a stranger. Wal had always known that this was what his name meant, always known that there was something different about him. He knew that it was unusual to grow up with two parents in their forties and no siblings. He knew that neither his Da nor his Ma had his long ginger hair or blue eyes or height.

It shouldnae have surprised me when they told me everything, but it sent me reeling nonetheless.

He’d only turned four-and-twenty three days ago, and it had changed everything. His Da had married his Ma at that age, it transpired, and Wal asked them why they’d never had any other children. He’d never seen such tiredness on their elderly faces as he did at that moment.

“Och, me son,” his Ma, Sadie, had sighed. She only reached midway up his chest, her steel-grey hair and wrinkled face emphasized by her stoop, but she still patted his cheek like he was a boy. “Och, me lad. How have ye so grown already? Have we really gotten so old as all of this?”

Wal’s Da, Joe, had let out a loud sigh of his own. “Sadie, we should have told him long before now, and ye ken it. We’ve been putting it off, son. The truth is, yer Mither’s barren, or maybe I am, we dinnae ken. Bairn after bairn we made, year after year, and each one withered in the womb before it had a chance to breathe yon Highland air.”

“I dinnae understand,” Wal had told them. Though he was a man grown, he still sat on the threadbare rug that decorated the floor while his parents took the two stools before the fireplace. Outside, the weather was gathering. He remembered very clearly thinking that there would be a storm later, not realizing how soon a personal storm would change his life.

Sadie had burst into tears at that. “I was already one-and-forty when ye were born, me love. Yer faither – nae yer da, yer real faither – he brought ye here to me. He begged me to raise ye, said he didnae have a clue what to do with ye otherwise. I told him I was too old and too inexperienced, but he insisted, and I couldnae help but feel bad for him. Plus, I’d always wanted a bairn, and ye were so wee. His wife wouldnae have ye, yer mither was deid…”

Wal had not been so surprised to find out he and his parents did not share blood, but the revelation about his birth parents sent a shiver through him. “His wife wasnae me birth mither?”

“Och, nae,” Joe had said, laying a comforting hand on Sadie’s shoulder. “Nae, yer poor deid mither was a young lass, a maid or something of the sort. Lady MacEwen is as barren as yer Ma.”

“Lady MacEwen?” Wal had repeated. His brain was racing at a thousand miles per hour, and he was suddenly beside himself. “What in the blazes do ye mean, Lady MacEwen? Are ye trying to tell me that me birth faither is—”

“The Laird of MacEwen, aye,” Joe agreed, not sounding entirely thrilled about the fact. He got up and went over to the small cupboard at the side of the room, taking out a little box that had been locked for as long as Wal could remember.

Sadie had rubbed at her eyes, then reached around her neck, opening the necklace she always wore – her only piece of jewelry – to withdraw a tiny key. She handed it to her husband, and he unlocked the box.

“He left three things for ye before he rode off into the night,” Sadie explained. “He insisted on yer name, and he gave us these.”

Joe withdrew a shining golden brooch from the box, untouched by the four-and-twenty years since Wal’s own birth. On it was etched a crest – the crest of the neighboring Clan MacEwen.

It’s true then. I am who they say I am.

He reached out with trembling fingers, accepting it as his Da handed it over. He turned it over in his hands, blown away by the weight of it. If they’d wanted, his parents could have sold this brooch and been rich. Instead, they had kept it for him all of these years!

Then Joe had drawn out a bolt of cloth from the box as well, deep green patched with gold. “Ye were wrapped in this when he brought ye,” he said. “It was the third and last thing the Laird left for ye.”

Wal had pinned the brooch to his shirt and accepted the blanket, and spent a long time just staring at it.

His parents had not been surprised when, a few hours after, he declared he would set off as soon as possible for Clan McEwen. Back in the present, he was already halfway there, miles from home. He felt an ache in his heart where they should be.

“Och, are ye gonnae spend the whole journey with yer face like a skelped backside?” a voice teased from beside him, shaking him from his maudlin thoughts.

Wal turned his head to see his best friend, Scott, watching him from his own horse, his green eyes sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. “I dinnae ken why I brought ye along,” Wal responded with a laugh. “Ye’re a nuisance.”

“Aye, well, someone as maudlin as ye needs a nuisance now and again,” Scott told him easily. “And when ye told me where ye were going, I could hardly let ye ride off alone, now could I? Who’d comfort yer poor ma if ye got yerself killed?”

They continued to playfully bicker as they rode, and Wal was thankful for it. In truth, he could not have asked for a better travel companion – or a better friend – than Scott. They’d known each other since boyhood, and they balanced each other in a way that Wal had needed his whole life.

People find me height and manner intimidating, but Scott’s always been unafraid to jokingly mock me. It keeps me grounded.

Of course, they were men, and as men, Wal could hardly express such feelings of love and gratitude to his friend. So instead, he said, “Ye ken, many lesser men would have pushed ye off yer horse by now, aye?”

Scott just laughed, clearly at ease, “Well, aye, but many lesser men have nae just discovered that they’re the secret son of a Laird. Are ye gonnae make me bow and scrape now that ye’re nobility?”

Wal hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been carrying in his body until he felt his shoulders relax now. He didn’t know how he felt about this revelation, even now, hours later. “Nobility, is it?” he said, the word tasting strange on his tongue. “Yesterday, I was just a simple farmer’s lad.”

Scott chuckled a little ruefully this time as they guided the horse down one of the rolling hills toward the forest that separated the two clans. “Nay, Wal. Ye’re many things, but ye’ve never been a simple farmer’s lad, nae since we met twenty years ago. I’ve always kent that ye were bound for something bigger. Maybe that’s why I was so eager to befriend ye, eh?” Then his seriousness faded, and he was japing once again. “After all, it couldnae have been yer personality!”

Wal rolled his eyes at his friend’s antics, but Scott’s words stuck somewhere deep inside him.

Bound for something bigger? That’s an awful polite way to say ‘the odd man out.’

Because that’s what he’d been, even then when he’d been four playing a chasing game with three-year-old Scott. That’s what he’d been with all the other lads when he’d gotten older and wanted to play fight with the rest of them.

He’d never fit, not at all, and now he finally knew why. But as he rode toward the next step of his destiny, he could not help but wonder: would he fit there, either?

Probably not.

He was no farmer’s son, but he didn’t feel like a Laird’s son either. When he tried to think about who he was, he only knew two things for sure.

His name was Wal, and he was a stranger.

***

They were deep in the forest when Wal heard the tell-tale whinny that indicated an angry horse. A desperate cry followed immediately after it: “Woah! Stop! Stop!”

That’s a woman’s voice.

“We’ve got to help,” he told Scott, who nodded, and the two of them turned their mounts in the direction of the noise.

They rode quickly until they reached a clearing, and in the center was a large stallion, neighing and bucking wildly, a young woman clinging to its mane for dear life. “What’s wrong with ye?!” she screamed. “Stop!”

Wal didn’t stop to think. He jumped off of his horse before they’d even stopped moving and ran across the clearing toward the helpless maiden. He got in front of the angry horse, narrowly avoiding its dangerous hooves as they swung near his body.

One kick could mean the end of it for me, but I cannae just leave her to fall.

“Ho there!” he called firmly, grabbing the horse by the tight reins at its nose. It wasn’t a yell – he didn’t want to scare the creature any more – but rather the deep, commanding voice he used with the dogs and horses back home. “Enough of this, you hear? Enough.”

The horse brayed angrily, trying to thrash his head, but Wal held him tightly in place. He saw Scott approaching and nodded, indicating that his friend should help the woman down from the back while he tried to calm the creature.

The stallion was wild-eyed, trying to bite and kick, its anger now focused entirely on Wal, but he continued to speak in that same calm tone. “Woah there, lad,” he said, firm but soothing. “What’s got ye all frightened, eh?”

The woman was still clinging to the horse, but Wal was glad to see that she had a brain enough in her head to let go and slide down when Scott arrived to help her. He wanted to ask if she was all right, but he had to keep his attention on the stallion.

“Hush, now,” he said, a little more soothingly. Wal was thankful that he had grown so tall and strong – the horse could have hurt him severely in his blind panic otherwise by now. “Hush. It isnae as bad as ye think,” he assured the creature. “Och, ye’re a bonny thing, are ye nae? Did ye catch a scent of something ye didnae like, is that it? Dinnae worry, lad, nothing’s coming for ye.”

Wal continued this stream of words, the content not really mattering, soothing, and comforting. Eventually, he let go of the reins with one hand, hesitantly reaching out to pet the stallion’s nose.

There was a frozen moment, then the horse neighed and bucked against his hand, and Wal let out a sigh of relief.

“There’s a good lad,” he said, petting him affectionately. “I kent ye were, really. All calm now, aye?”

Only when he was absolutely certain that the stallion had calmed entirely did he turn away, one hand loosely on his guiding rein, and turn to where Scott stood a little further back with the woman they’d saved.

When he got his first proper look at her, the world changed entirely.

She was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen, even in his own imagination, and he could not believe that she stood right there before him now. She was well-built, with good shoulders and hips under her fine dress, gentle curves that drew the eye modestly covered by her clothing. Any man of Wal’s age would have taken notice, but that wasn’t what so distracted him now.

Her skin was fair and soft, with light freckling on her nose, and her hair, though tied back, looked like tresses of brown silk curled near her head. But the thing that drew Wal in most were her eyes. They were the strangest color he had ever seen, and he could not stop staring.

It’s like those eyes have trapped me soul, and I’m nae even sure I want it back.

Wal’s own eyes were blue, and people often commented on the dark depths of the color they held, but they were nothing to this maiden’s eyes as they focused on him now. They were bright, but not quite blue – they were the color of the wood violets that grew wild in the spring, a mix of blue and purple that shone in the daylight.

She opened her mouth – and she had good lips, curved just right, perfect for kissing. Wal hadn’t kissed all that many maidens, but he knew that those he had would all fall away from his mind if he was to taste those lips. He waited for her words, sure she would whisper gentle thanks in a bell-like voice to go with her beauty.

“That,” she said softly, “Was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.” Then her tone changed, and suddenly her lovely face turned to exasperation. “And the most foolish! Are ye quite daft, man? The horse could have killed ye where ye stood!”

Beside her, Scott glanced at her in surprise. “Me friend just saved yer life, Miss.”

“Aye, he did at that and nearly lost his own in the process,” the woman replied, shaking her head. “Honestly, ye men and yer braveries! Well, thank ye, but dinnae go risking yer life like that for every damsel ye happen to come across, ye hear me?”

Wal knew he should be shocked, but all he felt was a mixture of surprise and amusement, if he was honest. That a woman should speak in such a way to him! He couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s quite a mouth ye’ve got on ye, lass,” he told her. “Do ye speak to everyone who rescues ye like this?”

She folded her arms, one delicate chestnut eyebrow raised in an arch. “Aye, is that what ye think? And tell me, do ye think I look like a maid in need of saving by a man every five minutes?”

Wal snorted, and Scott said, “Well, ye ken, we did just have to rescue ye from a rogue horse.”

The woman shook her head, tutting. “Rionnag wouldnae have hurt me,” she said. “He just got a bit frightened, is all. Now ye, Sir Redhead, he would have knocked yer heid clean off yer shoulders if ye’d given him half a chance.”

“He had more than half a chance,” Wal told her. “And me name is Wal. That’s Scott. And Rionnag may be a fair steed, but if ye’d have fallen, ye’d be just as deid as anyone else, whether he wanted it or not.”

Something flashed in her eyes, but it wasn’t anger. She gave a very small smile, and Wal’s heart leaped in joy that he’d pleased her. “Well,” she allowed, “Ye may have a point there. Thank ye, sir. Can I give ye a favor in return?”

“I’ll have yer name,” Wal replied instantly. Scott looked at him in clear exasperation, but Wal ignored him, his mind focused entirely on this beautiful woman. “I dinnae need anything else.”

“Ye’re a strange one, Wal,” she said after a moment. “Aye, all right, then. Me name is Yvaine. A pleasure to meet ye and all that.”

“And ye,” Wal told her.

“Clearly,” Scott replied, looking between the pair of them with a long-suffering expression on his face. “Come, Wal. Ye’ve got yer noble faither to meet, ye cannae be dallying with every pretty lassie we come across.”

Wal nodded, the spell broken by the reminder. “Aye,” he said apologetically. “Aye. Well, Miss Yvaine…”

“Dinnae worry. Me traveling party will be here soon. Off ye go,” she said, still looking amused.

And so Wal and Scott said their goodbyes and rode off to change Wal’s life. Though, as he thought of those violet eyes, he could not help but think it had unwittingly been changed already.

Chapter Two

“He told me his name was Wal, and his friend was Scott,” Yvaine told her father as she finished explaining exactly what had happened when Rionnag had gotten frightened and ran ahead of the party.

She hadn’t been able to admit it in front of her rescuers, of course. Still, it had been a rather terrifying experience. One minute, she’d been riding quite happily alongside her father and her attendant. Then there was a loud banging noise from somewhere in the forest, and suddenly Rionnag was bolting ahead, barely aware of his mistress on his back.

I fair thought I’d met me death until those two farm lads came from the trees to save me.

“The way he handled Rionnag, Faither!” she said, still scarcely able to believe it. “It was like he was dealing with a newborn foal rather than a grown stallion!”

Though Yvaine had teased him, watching Wal tame the horse after Scott helped her slip off Rionnag’s back had been a sight to behold. Scott was pleasant enough to look at, a little taller than Yvaine with bright green eyes and shining blond hair, but if she was honest, she’d hardly looked at him at all.

When I saw them emerge from the forest, I thought one of the Sith had come to save me life or spirit me away to Faerie.

Wal looked like no man she had ever seen. He was taller than anyone she knew, except maybe the Laird. His hair was long and red like fire, his eyes the bright blue of the sky. His clothes strained at his well-toned chest and arms, and she felt herself blushing slightly at the memory. She’d never noticed someone so physically before, and she wasn’t sure what it meant.

“It sounds like ye had quite the adventure, daughter,” said her father, shaking his head. He was a stocky man, with ink-black hair that looked almost blue and her own strange purplish-blue eyes. He was a handsome man, yet he’d never taken another woman after Yvaine’s mother Maggie’s death some years before.

Even after all of these years, though, Yvaine could still remember her mother’s last conversation about her father. “Torquil works too hard,” Maggie had said. “And if I’m to go and leave the two of ye alone, I need ye to help him as much as ye can.”

Her father did work hard, Yvaine knew, but there was no wonder about why. He was the right-hand man to the Laird of their clan and the presumed heir since Laird McEwen lacked children. Yvaine was aware she’d grown up in a world of advantage, and she was grateful for it. It had given her freedom that many other women lacked.

“I did at that,” she admitted. “But I could have handled Rionnag even without a man and his fine muscles.”

Torquil chuckled.  “Ye’re as wild as yer mither was. Caught yer eye, this savior lad, did he?”

Yvaine snorted in response. “Hardly. He thought himself quite clever, I think. He kept trying to spar with me in our words – as if any lad could pull off such a thing when Mither trained me so well!”

“Ye should have kept him back so I could thank him,” Torquil told her. “For me stubborn daughter’s life, I mean. Both him and his friend.”

“Nay, they were in quite a hurry,” Yvaine told him, petting Rionnag’s neck now that he was calm. “Scott said something about them being due to meet Wal’s noble faither, whatever that meant.”

A strange look shot across Torquil’s face, filled with a whole host of emotions, but it vanished before Yvaine had time to understand any of them. Torquil had never been an expressive man, even less so since Maggie had tied, and Yvaine often found herself wishing that she could understand her father just a little more.

“Is everything all right, Faither?” she pressed. “Ye look concerned.”

“Just grand, lass,” he replied. “Come, mount that beast. It’s time we got back to McEwen Castle. Put this lad out of your mind.”

But though had she teased and criticized him, as Yvaine did as she was bid, she wasn’t sure that forgetting Wal was going to be possible at all.

***

“Laird McEwen will see ye now,” said the castle guard who had kept them waiting in the front hall for over an hour. He was a thin, short man with a look of snobby pride about him that Wal disliked instantly.

Scott grinned. “Told ye so,” he said, supremely pleased with himself. The guard had rudely informed them several times that the Laird had no time for them and even gone so far as to accuse Wal of carrying a false crest.

Wal had been ready to fight his way in, even reaching for the old sword his Da had gifted him the day he turned one-and-twenty, but Scott had intervened first. Scott had waved a bag of coin in front of the guard’s face – Lord knew where he’d discovered it – and said, “Well? Ye think ye can at least go and check?”

And now they were to see the Laird.

Me Faither.

Wal took a breath. He wasn’t nervous, not exactly, but he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to expect. How did a man of four-and-twenty greet his true father for the first time in his life?

There was something else, too. Wal knew his whole mind should be focused on the meeting to come, but instead, he found it traveling back to the clearing in the forest and those strange eyes.

Scott pushed lightly at his elbow as they followed the stuck-up guard along the corridor. “What’s that face?” he whispered. “Are ye thinking of that lassie again? Get yer priorities in order, man.”

Wal scowled but conceded the point as they reached a large set of wooden double doors. The scowling guard pushed them open and gestured that he should go inside.

“Nae point in waiting,” Scott whispered encouragingly. Wal nodded, took a breath, and walked through the door to his new life with his faithful friend behind him.

The man waiting inside was the only person that Wal had ever seen who, even sitting, was obviously as tall as Wal himself. He had cold grey eyes but his hair, cut short to his ears, was as red as Wal’s own where it wasn’t salted with white. Those stony eyes focused on him now as he entered.

A woman sat next to him, and Wal could not tell if she was ugly or beautiful due to her face’s pinched expression. She had blonde-brown hair, much darker than Scott’s, though Wal could not see her eyes since they were roving everywhere except in his direction.

That must be Lady McEwen. Nae exactly welcoming.

Scott coughed awkwardly and stepped back, standing by the door beside the Laird’s men there and allowing Wal to walk forward to meet his father alone.

Wal paused halfway between the door and the table where the Laird and Lady sat, feeling half a boy again. “Er. Thank ye for seeing me, Me Laird,” he said, though he had no idea how to address nobility beyond this. He hoped he hadn’t insulted him inadvertently.

“You are Wal?” the Laird asked him, sounding almost bored. “Me guard brought me the items I left with the bairn all those years ago, it’s true, but how am I to ken that ye’re nae just some opportunist who robbed them from the poor old family I left the lad with?”

Wal blinked. He had not been expecting instant affection like he felt with his own parents, but this was harsh. “Erm…I dinnae ken how to prove to ye otherwise, Me Laird. I just ken what me Ma and Da – er, me foster parents – told me just this morning.”

The Lady shifted uncomfortably, saying nothing. Beside her, the Laird just looked at Wal like he would look at a cow in a field – a temporary distraction from the scenery, nothing more.

“Hmph,” Laird McEwen said, obviously unimpressed. “That doesnae prove much. I have nae—”

“Och, he’s yer son, Craig,” the Lady snapped. Her voice was high and strained like she was struggling to hold herself together. “Can ye nae see it’s like a looking-glass for ye? His height, face, his hair…the only difference is those accursed eyes he’s looking at ye with. Those are her eyes.”

Wal blinked rapidly, his stomach rapidly dropping at the coldness of his greeting both from the woman and the man who was supposed to be his father. The bile in her voice when she spoke of her – Wal could only imagine that she meant his late birth mother – made it clear that, at least in her eyes, he was not welcome here.

Laird McEwen huffed. “Aye. Aye, all right. There’s nae need to be so fussy. Lad, what were ye expecting in coming here?” His eyes traveled to Scott in the background with marked distaste, then back to Wal. “Ye and yer…servant.”

“Scott is me friend,” Wal corrected, mildly but firmly. “And I came here because I’m a man grown, and I wanted to meet me Faither. I thought he might want to meet me as well.”

The Laird didn’t even react to that, just tilted his head and continued to observe him. “Very well. Then stay if ye must, but it will nae be in me castle. I dinnae have time to be looking after a bairn, especially nae an overgrown one like ye seem to be. Find yerself and yer friend a house and stay in the clan if ye must, but dinnae be putting on airs. Ye’re nae heir to anything yet. Ye’re nae special just because ye carry me blood.”

I didnae claim to be special or ask to be an heir! I just wanted to meet me Faither!

But, out loud, all he said was, “Aye, of course, Me Laird.” He bowed his head again and said, “Thank ye for being kind enough to let me stay. If there’s any way I can prove meself to you and how much I’d like to get to ken ye—”

“Ye will prove yerself,” the Laird told him. “Or ye’ll leave. This isnae some country retreat. Now go. Yer presence is distressing me wife.”

Wal wanted to argue, but he wasn’t even sure where to start. He was hurt, angry, and confused all at once, and he really couldn’t tell which of the emotions clamoring for attention in his head was strongest. Instead, closing his mouth tight, he nodded silently and turned to leave.

Scott moved to be beside him without a word, and together they walked out of the Laird’s room.

When the heavy wooden doors swung closed, Scott said, “So…do ye want to talk about what just happened there?”

“Nay,” Wal said shortly. “I dinnae. Come, we must find somewhere to lay our heads for the night, at least.”

“Will we stay, then?” Scott asked. His eyebrows raised so high in his forehead that Wal was sure they’d disappear into his hairline. “Even when he behaved so awfully to you?”

Wal looked at him, every muscle in his body tightening. “He will acknowledge me, Scott,” he told his friend as they passed the smug, smirking guard once more. “I dinnae care what I have to do. I will get recognition from me own Faither.”

“Good luck,” the guard sneered. Wal considered punching him but figured that would hardly go over well with his father, and so said nothing as the guard pushed the front door open.

Scott and Wal left the Castle behind, walking down the steps to head into the Castle town, but as they turned a corner, he stopped short.

He’d almost walked straight into someone, and suddenly it was very hard not to believe in destiny.

***

“Wal,” Yvaine exclaimed in surprise after she’d steadied herself from the near-collision. She’d only been walking into the Castle to attend her aunt, the Lady of the Castle – this was the last thing she’d expected. “What—why—”

“You!” Scott cried, obviously as surprised as Yvaine felt. “What are ye doing here?”

Wal blinked at her with those deep blue eyes. “Yvaine,” he said slowly. “Well, I’ll be. Ye didnae tell me that ye were from Clan McEwen.”

Yvaine frowned thoughtfully. “Well, ye didnae tell me either,” she said, a little shaken at his sudden appearance. “And what are ye doing in the Castle of all places? The town—”

She stopped, catching the smirk on Scott’s face. She glanced between the pair of them, then gasped. “That’s what ye meant by his noble faither?” she demanded of Scott. “The Laird?”

“Aye,” Scott said, grinning. “We only found out this morning, but apparently Laird McEwen is Wal’s very own faither. And who, exactly, are ye to be swanning into the Castle so?”

Yvaine didn’t answer his question, staring at Wal in disbelief. “So the rumors of a hidden bastard are true. Have ye come to claim yer heirship then?” she asked.

Me Faither will be furious, everything he’s worked for overturned by some stranger!

And yet, neither could Yvaine deny the resemblance now that she thought of it. She hadn’t realized in the forest, but Wal looked incredibly like Laird McEwen.

“I’m nae claiming any heirship,” Wal said, a little darkly. “Me faither apparently wasnae thrilled by what he saw. He says I’m to prove meself before he’s willing to even acknowledge me. Scott and I are looking for somewhere to stay.”

He spoke airily, but there was a sadness hidden in his voice that pulled at Yvaine’s heart. That simply wouldn’t do. This man had saved her life not a few hours before, and she simply couldn’t let him wallow here in misery.

Besides, it wouldnae be so bad to have him around a wee bit longer.

“Well, ye’ll obviously have to work a lot to prove yerself,” she teased. “I mean, just look at ye.”

“Sassy lass, are ye nae?” Scott asked, looking and sounding annoyed, but Yvaine was pleased to see amusement in Wal’s expression.

Yvaine smiled at Scott a little too angelically. “That’s a problem for ye, is it?”

“Nae for me,” Wal replied with a chuckle, the darkness in his eyes clearing a little. “I can handle a wee bit of fire, lass, though I dinnae ken what I did to deserve such teasing except saving you from a raging horse.”

“Ah, I can tell by the flames on yer head that ye can handle fire,” she replied, very pleased she’d teased a smile from him. “All right. If ye wish to banter more, then ye simply must stay. Go and ask Farmer Joseph in the south of the village if he’s still loaning out his old cottages. If ye need some coin…”

What am I saying! How inappropriate am I gonnae be?

Scott raised an eyebrow. “Does yer Faither ken ye’re offering to lend strange men money, Miss Yvaine?”

“Hush,” Wal told him, putting a warning hand on Scott’s shoulder. Yvaine was surprised and impressed by how quickly Scott obeyed, as though Wal’s very word was his bond. “She’s only trying to help. Thank ye kindly, Yvaine. If ye must tell us the way, I’m sure we’ll manage from there.”

Yvaine coughed and nodded, then took out some of the scrap paper she always carried around with her. She paused, her pen above it. “Can ye read?” she asked uncertainly.

Scott huffed, but Wal smiled at her. “Aye, both of us can. We were lucky enough that our parents, poor as they were, made sure we got an education. I’m fair certain me Faither left some money for the purpose, too.”

There was something very fanciful about that image in Yvaine’s mind – two young farmer’s sons learning their letters and rising above everything the world could ever have expected from them.

This Wal, especially, he’s got a story that’s yet to be told.

She scribbled down the address and handed it to him, and then both gentlemen bid their farewells. When they were gone, Yvaine stared after them for a moment, a little disconcerted about what had just happened. She was used to having the upper hand in conversations – man or woman.

But when Wal speaks, I lose my tongue’s edge.

What did it mean? Had she finally found an opponent worthy of her banter? Or, given the revelation of his identity, was it something much more worrying than that?

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

Chapter One

Phoebe awoke to a gentle tapping at the door. She sat up, forgetting for a moment where she was before the awful truth returned to her. The sun was streaming through the window, for she had fallen asleep without pulling across the curtains, the light falling upon the bed. She sat up, just as the tapping came again.

“I am locked in,” she called back, and she heard tutting from the other side, the jangling of keys and the turning of the lock.

A moment later, her mother entered the room, an angry expression upon her face, followed by the servant who had tried to help Phoebe escape who bore a tray with a bowl of porridge and jug of milk.

“Your father told me what happened,” her mother said, sitting down upon the bed and shaking her head.

“I will not marry this man, whoever he is,” Phoebe said, folding her arms as the servant placed the tray on a table next to the bed.

“You do not have a choice, Phoebe. I did not have a choice in whom I married; neither did your grandmother. We are noblewomen, Phoebe, and that comes at a cost,” her mother said.

Phoebe scowled at her, angry that her mother would take her father’s side against her. Usually, her mother could be counted upon to defend her against her father’s unpredictable moods, but now it seemed they were of one mind.

“Did you not love another? Have you ever truly loved?” Phoebe asked, and her mother sighed.

“What a terribly unfair thing to say, Phoebe. I love your father; it may have taken some years, but I do love him, and you will come to love the man you marry too, I assure you,” her mother said.

Phoebe looked at her, wondering if she were really telling the truth. She had always thought her mother the most beautiful woman in all the world, her long blonde hair falling lightly over her shoulders, her deep blue eyes and soft skin as radiant today as they had surely been upon the day of her wedding. Surely any man would wish to possess her, and there were many who said that Phoebe herself was just such a beauty. Why then should such beauty be forced to marry if not for true love?

“I doubt that very much. Who is he?” Phoebe asked, imagining some terrible English aristocrat, twice her age and whose only intention in marrying her would be to sire his descendancy, her usefulness outlived once a male heir had been produced.

“Your father will explain. But I simply wished to come and see that you were all right after your ordeal in the apple cart,” her mother said.

“I would be far better if I were on the way to Gretna Green with Renoir,” Phoebe replied.

“But I would be deeply upset, Phoebe. You did not think about my feelings in all this. I do not wish to lose my daughter in such a way. You did not even say goodbye,” her mother said, and Phoebe felt a pang of guilt pass through her.

“You would never have permitted me to leave,” she said, and her mother smiled.

“I may not have stopped you either, but at least we could have said goodbye. Never mind, your father will have his way, I assure you of that,” her mother said, and nodding to the servant, they left Phoebe to her breakfast.

She had taken only a spoonful of porridge when the sound of the key turning in the lock came again. Looking up, Phoebe found her father standing in the doorway, an angry expression upon his face.

“So, have you had time to think about what you have done?” he said, and Phoebe scowled at him.

“I have done nothing; that is the point, is it not? Had I done something, then I would have been in Gretna Green by now, married to the man I love,” she said, pushing the tray and sitting back upon the bed.

“And you would have caused more trouble than you could know,” her father replied, closing the door behind him. “Your marriage is arranged, Phoebe, and the man you are marrying would not take kindly to discovering that his bride had run away with a Frenchman.”

“He may take kindly to what he wishes, father, for I am adamant that I will not marry him, whoever he may be,” she replied, folding her arms defiantly.

“Insolent, girl. You will marry him and be happy. It is no choice of yours,” her father said.

“And who is this man? Or am I not to know his name until I stand at the altar with him?” she asked.

“His name is Diarmad, Laird of the Monecreiffes, a noble clan of the Scottish borders. He is a fine warrior, of a noble and honorable disposition. To marry him will bring along our border and strengthen the position of the crown. I have had word from his majesty that the marriage is a favorable one and thus, it shall proceed by his orders. Are you to defy the King?” her father asked, and Phoebe fell silent.

***

The road south across the border was a dangerous one, and Diarmad Moncreiffe rode cautiously, keeping a wary eye out for bandits or robbers. But he met no one on the road that day, he and his men enjoying a peaceful ride which took them into England, some thirty miles from their own lands in the lowlands of Scotland.

He was making for the manor house at Oxley, a two-day journey south and where he would, for the first time, meet the woman to whom he had been betrothed. The arrangements had been made some weeks ago when the Earl of Oxley had visited him to parle for his daughter’s hand at the request of the King. It was said that the crown believed a marriage across the border to be favorable to peace, and with so much danger surrounding them, Diarmad had readily agreed.

Now, he rode at the head of his men, eager to meet the girl to whom he was promised and whose father had assured him was a beauty of high regard. There had been no portrait of her, though. From the description, Diarmad had conjured up a picture of her in his mind, her flowing blonde hair and deep blue eyes an attractive proposition, one he looked forward to encountering the next day.

“I couldnae marry a woman I had never seen before,” his friend and cousin Stewart Monecreiffe said, as the two of them rode together up in front.

“And why is that?” Diarmad asked.

“What if ye daenae like her? What if her father has exaggerated her beauty, as surely a father is inclined to dae? She may be ugly as a pig,” he said, laughing and imitating the animal, much to Diarmad’s amusement.

“And she may be the most beautiful lass in all of England. Besides, I have nay choice,” Diarmad said.

“Because the crown demands it? Since when have we Scots been subject to the King’s rule from London?” Stewart asked, and Diarmad laughed.

“Since our own King James became King of England. Daenae forget that ‘tis a Scot who sits upon the English throne. He serves our interests well enough,” Diarmad said.

“And he would tell ye whom to marry and ye would jump to it,” Stewart replied, laughing and shaking his head.

“I am still convinced that she is a rare beauty and that very soon, Stewart, ye shall wish it were ye marryin’ her and nae me,” Diarmad replied.

They rode on for some hours more, until the last of the evening light faded, then made camp in a copse of trees some distance from the path. For much of the night, Diarmad lay awake, not through fear of attack, but for the curiosity of what was to come. He had never sought marriage, though he knew it was his duty to find a wife and produce an heir. What would this girl be like? Would Stewart be proven right? Only time would tell.

Chapter Two

“I have not been out of this room for a week,” Phoebe cried as her father unlocked the door and stood before her.

“For fear of apple carts, Phoebe. You cannot be trusted, and so here you have remained. But that will all change today, for Diarmad is due to arrive this afternoon, and you shall be ready to meet him,” he said.

“I shall stay in here,” she declared, and her father shook his head.

“Do not play games with me, Phoebe. You will greet him and be courteous to him. Remember, it is the King himself who bids this union, not only I. Though as your father, I command it. Now, I shall have clean clothes sent to you, and the women will come to bathe you. You shall be ready by noon to greet our guests when they arrive,” he said.

“He is bringing an entourage then?” Phoebe asked.

“As befits a Laird, besides, the road north is dangerous, and it would not do for the two of you to travel unaccompanied,” he said.

“Then, I am to return north with him?” Phoebe asked for she had not entirely grasped the magnanimity of what was about to transpire.

“You are to be his wife, Phoebe. Did you think you would remain here with a ring upon your finger and nothing else?” her father asked, shaking his head, before closing the door and locking it behind him.

Phoebe hurled an insult at the door, brushing tears from her eyes and throwing herself angrily back upon the bed. It was not fair. She hated her father, and she was desperate for news of Renoir, of whom she had heard nothing since the failed night of their planned elopement.

The women soon came to bathe and dress her, much to Phoebe’s annoyance, and she made the job as difficult as possible for them, splashing the water and refusing to have her hair washed so that much frustration was caused. But by noon she was ready, and her mother arrived just as she was dousing herself in lavender oil, the sweet fragrance filling the air.

“Are you ready, Phoebe?” her mother asked, and Phoebe nodded.

“But you must know I take no pleasure in this. I do not wish to marry this man, nor even to meet him,” she said, and her mother sighed.

“You will not even give him a chance to present himself? What harm can it do to meet him?” she said, and Phoebe scowled.

“The decision has been made. There is no choice; I may as well cover my face with a veil and go at once to the church so that the minister may read the service,” Phoebe said.

“I wish you were not so stubborn, Phoebe. Come now, I think I hear horses below,” her mother said, reaching out and taking Phoebe by the hand.

For the first time since her enforced captivity, Phoebe was led downstairs and out into the yard at the front of the house. The gates were open, and several men on horseback had just ridden through, dismounting and greeting her father, who stood with several of his men, in the regalia of his rank.

Phoebe watched the men with curiosity, wondering which one was Diarmad. There were ten of them in total, all handsomely built and attractive to the eye. But it was the one now speaking to her father who seemed the most likely to be the Laird himself, a tall man with black hair and beard, a thin scar running down his left cheek. She had to admit that he was not what she had expected, though that made her no less adamant against marrying him.

“What am I to do?” Phoebe whispered, turning to her mother.

“Your father will make the introductions. Go to him,” she said, and reluctantly, Phoebe stepped forward.

“Laird, I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Phoebe. She has been greatly looking forward to your arrival and eager to meet you,” Phoebe’s father said, eyeing her with a warning look, as Diarmad bowed.

“‘Tis a pleasure to meet ye, at last, I have heard much about ye, and now I know that it was nay exaggeration to say that ye are a fine lass to behold,” he said, as Phoebe blushed.

“I am … pleased to meet you,” she replied, holding out her hand to him and blushing, for she could not deny that he was an attractive man, a feeling she tried her best to dismiss immediately.

He brought it to his lips, looking up at her as he did so, a smile playing across his face.

“May I introduce my men? This is my cousin, Stewart, and these are the clansmen who will see us safely back to Scotland,” he said, extending his arm, as the other men bowed.

“Some refreshment, Laird? You have had a long and arduous journey. Your men can rest in the stables here, and there are quarters prepared for you in the house. We shall dine tonight at the King’s own expense, for he has sent a side of venison with his compliments, and already it is roasting for our enjoyment,” Phoebe’s father said, ushering the Laird inside.

Phoebe followed her mother, who glanced at her and smiled.

“Well, he is quite handsome, is he not?” her mother said.

“I will admit he is not a toothless, grey, old aristocrat as I had imagined him to be, but he is no Renoir,” Phoebe replied, and her mother sighed.

“You will grow to see him for the handsome man he is,” she said, and Phoebe made no reply.

***

Later that evening, a great fire was kindled in the dining hall, and candles were lit around the wall as the family prepared to make merry and welcome their Scottish guests. The Earl had invited many local noblemen not only to celebrate the marriage of his daughter but to toast a new era of peace and the King’s good health. Phoebe was seated next to Diarmad. Her father and mother hoping that the free-flowing wine and rich victuals might lead the two of them to shared conversation.

“The venison is excellent, is it nae, lass?” Diarmad said, slicing vigorously into the meat.

“It is, though I have tasted better,” Phoebe said, thinking back to the meals she had shared in secret with Renoir and of the food he had cooked for her in the days of their courtship.

“‘Tis rare that I taste venison. I hope ye daenae expect such luxury when ye travel north,” he said, laughing, and taking a drink from his wine goblet.

“Travel north? I have no intention of travelling north,” she said, and he looked at her in confusion.

“But we are to be married, lass and ‘tis as the Bible says, a man shall leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, but the same is said of the lass for her husband. When we are married, we shall return to Scotland,” he said.

“And it does not concern you that you and I have never met until this day? What know you of my character? Of my mood and temper? What measure do you have of my humor, for good or ill?” she asked, and Diarmad laughed.

“Am I to take it that ye daenae wish to marry me and that ye consider it a punishment to dae so?” he asked, and Phoebe nodded.

“I have no wish to marry you. I will never love you, and I will be a bad wife to you. Of that, you can be certain,” she said, haughtily folding her arms and turning away from him, but Diarmad only waved his hand dismissively and returned to his venison.

“’Tis the King’s will that we marry, lass. There is nay choice in the matter. We are both young, of sound mind and body, perhaps in time, we shall become friends if nae lovers. Am I so bad as to be rejected with only the passing of an eye?” he said, turning to her.

Phoebe sighed. He appeared to be neither a bad man nor a cruel one, but she could simply not bring herself to accept that her love for Renoir was forbidden and that her chances of marrying him were gone. Here, next to her, was the man she was destined to marry, and with no choice in the matter, it was up to her to decide how best to respond. Should she hate him or embrace him? Either way seemed fraught with difficulty.

“The King has given us a heavy burden to bear,” she replied.

“The King wishes to see peace upon the borders of his kingdom. Our union is a fragile one, united only by crowns, rather than true patriotism. Our people are still very different, even if ‘tis the same King who is crowned at Scone and in the Palace of Westminster. Our marriage is to be a sign of that union, a symbol of peace. Dae ye nae think that to be a good thing?” he asked.

Phoebe had lived her life close to the Scottish border, and she knew the many dangers which surrounded her father’s manor. It was fortified for a reason, and there had been many times when she and her family had taken refuge behind its thick walls and sturdy gate. The reivers along the borders often mounted raids on lonely farms and outlying crofts, and reports of robbers and bandits were frequent. This was lawless country, kept in check only by men such as her father and the Laird, who sat at her right. To marry him would help bring peace, but it would not do so to her heart, which ached at the very thought.

“Peace at the expense of happiness? Am I to be a martyr to that cause?” she said, rising from the table.

She had no desire to remain a moment longer at the table, though she knew how rude she would appear by leaving. He was a pleasant enough man. She knew that he was only doing his duty, one that perhaps he regretted as much as she, but he was no Renoir. Phoebe had no further desire to remain in his presence, one she had never sought or courted.

“Phoebe, where do you think you are going?” her father said, calling out from the end of the table.

“I have a headache, father, may I be excused?” she said, and her father shook his head.

“No, you may not be excused, sit down and …” he began, but Diarmad raised his hand.

“She must nae stay on my account, sir. Please, allow her to take to her bed if that is what she wishes,” he said, and Phoebe’s father sighed.

“Very well, but you shall rise early tomorrow. We ride out to survey the land. I am sure you will wish to accompany the Laird,” he said, and knowing she had no choice, Phoebe nodded.

“I look forward to it,” Diarmad said as Phoebe left the dining hall.

Upstairs, having now been allowed to return to her own chambers, Phoebe sat upon her bed and wept. She could never love Diarmad, not while her mind was filled with thoughts of Renoir. He was pleasant, even charming, friendly, and courteous, but he was not her Frenchman, and she sank down upon the bed, her head in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

***

When morning came, Phoebe’s mind was still resolved against Diarmad. She was angry at her father for bringing him to Oxley Manor and for his arrogant assumption that she would wish to marry a man whom she had never met and had nothing in common with. Slowly, she dressed herself, glancing down into the yard, where already the horses were saddled for the ride out, the gates open, and several of the clansmen mounted and prepared.  Purposefully, Phoebe took her time in getting ready so that eventually there came an exasperated knocking at the door and the sound of her father’s voice calling her impatiently.

“Phoebe, you will have to miss your breakfast; the Laird is ready to ride out now. We are all waiting for you in the yard. Hurry now, else you make a spectacle of us all,” he called out.

Phoebe opened the door, scowling at her father and pushing past him, determined to show her displeasure in every aspect of his plans. She followed him downstairs, pausing at the entrance to the dining hall, from which wafted the pleasant smell of breakfast, her mother sitting at one end, a smile playing across her face.

“Enjoy your ride out, Phoebe,” she called, and Phoebe scowled.

Outside, Diarmad and several of his men awaited them. He bowed to her, a smile upon his face, and he held out his hand to help her onto her horse.

“I can manage well enough, thank you,” she replied, for Phoebe was an accomplished horsewoman, and she needed no help in mounting her stead.

“Phoebe,” her father said, glancing warningly at her, but Diarmad only laughed.

“I like a lass with spirit; we shall see if she rides as well as she mounts,” he said, leaping onto his own horse, which reared up on its hind legs and let out a loud whinny.

Phoebe scowled. This was the first time she had been permitted to leave the manor house since her failed attempt to escape, and her spirits were little cheered by the company of such men. She had rarely encountered Scots before, and she found them coarse and unappealing, Diarmad’s men shouting and laughing with one another, as they rode out through the gates. But Diarmad did not join them in their carousing, choosing instead to ride at Phoebe’s side as they followed her father out into the forest.

“Yer father’s estates are impressive,” he said, as the first sight of a deer was had, and Phoebe’s father charged off in pursuit of the hunt.

“Your own are no doubt equally so,” she replied, watching as the rest of the men followed on the chase.

“Glen Taetnire is a wild place. Its mountains high, its loch deep and the castle of my clan a lonely place, though nae without its charms,” he replied.

“And I am supposed to think of that as an attractive proposition,” she replied, thinking that Glen Taetnire sounded like the last place in the world she wished to be.

“Aye, but when the fires are lit, and songs are sung in the depths of winter ‘tis a homely place, or when the sun shines long into the summer nights, and there is dancin’ and music on the loch shore and swimmin’ out to the islands across the water then ‘tis nae so bad,” he replied.

“I have such comforts here,” she replied, not turning to him, the cries of the hunt now echoing from the forest before them.

“And ye will be mistress of that place, with all the privileges that the title entails. Ye will have yer freedoms well enough, lass,” he said.

Phoebe sighed and made no reply. She had no desire for such a life; she had lost the true freedom she desired, the freedom to marry Renoir, and live a life unhindered by the will and whim of her father, with his talk of duty and destiny. In Glen Taetnire, she would be as much a prisoner as she felt at Oxley, and no amount of talk to the contrary could convince her otherwise.

“A fine chase,” her father called out, as the men emerged from the trees a short while later.

“Was it?” Phoebe replied, feeling just like the hunted deer, who was now carried in triumph before her.

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