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Prologue

1350, Second War of Scottish Independence
Marsh Residence, England

Jane Marsh liked to believe that she was a good person. She tried, as much as she could, to steer clear of any situation that might test this goodness, but so far she had not had great luck doing so.

Jane seemed to attract problems. So, over the years, she’d perfected the art of inventing stories just to escape whatever situation she found herself trapped in.

Today was no different. Her sister’s engagement dinner was the perfect excuse. If she got caught eavesdropping at her father’s study, she would simply say that she had come to inform him that the table had been set. Its plausibility would depend on her ability to keep a straight face while she was saying it. And to maintain it while her father threw verbal daggers, which had grown ineffectual from overuse, afterwards. Still, she’d best not get caught.

From inside, she could hear Commander Edward Pierce, one of the guests of the celebration, regale her father with tales of his valor. His voice was loud, almost theatrical. He had a way of saying things like he was the main actor in a play riddled with soliloquys, always emphasizing his own qualities. Now, however, he was speaking to her father about the war with Clan Fletcher.

That caught her attention.

Just two weeks ago, her uncle Howard had been slaughtered in a battle with the clan and Jane had been disconsolate, for he had been more of a father to her than her real one had ever been. He’d listened to her and brought her gifts. He’d praised her beauty and given her a sense of belonging. When, as a child, she’d told him that she hated her eyes because green eyes were only for cats, he’d carried her on his lap and said, “Then I am the biggest of cats, Jane. I am a lion!” He’d made a marvelous imitation of a roar and encouraged her to do the same.

“What does that make you?” he’d asked afterwards.

“A lion, too!” she’d giggled. And then she roared again.

“Smart girl. Just like your mother was.”

And now he was gone.

Jane had mourned for a week. She had barely eaten, and she had not stepped out of her room. It was Eleonor who had broken her out of her despondent spell by informing her that she was engaged to be married.

Her father’s voice, in contrast to the commander’s, was steely and firm. It carried authority. She knew it well: it was the voice that played in her subconscious when she did things badly.

Oh, look at what you have done now.

You cannot get anything done right.

Stupid, just stupid.

“I suppose congratulations are in order, Commander Pierce,” her father said. “A win against those savages is a win for all of England.”

“True, true,” Commander Pierce said. “I am starving. I declare, I am parched. Could I ask you to ring for a servant, Marsh? A few sips of wine before the festivities will do us good. Better yet, I shall go and find a servant myself.”

“Yes, of course,” her father said, and she heard the shuffling of feet. She swiftly gathered her skirts, moved away from the door and fled down the hall to her sister’s room. Her abode was an austere affair, with lifeless walls and cold halls. She’d lived all her years in it and it still did not feel like home. The wood, though fastidiously polished by the maids, was rotten in places. The stone, though scrubbed, needed replacing. She’d once suggested that the curtains be changed, and the windows be left open in summertime and her father had looked at her as though she had an unnamable, untamable disease and walked away.

Oh, to leave here and go someplace else where she could have a say, where she could choose her own room and decorate it any way she wanted! In this sense, Eleonor was lucky. Soon, she would be the mistress of her home, a hallowed duchess, with the ability to dictate the house’s curtains and linens and rugs. Jane was truly happy for her, but she would miss her sorely. She loved her most in the whole world, and with her uncle Howard gone, living here would become doubly hard. She swallowed that despondent thought, pasted a smile on her face, and entered her sister’s room.

“I do believe that at least the bride should be present at the engagement dinner,” she said, closing the door behind her. Eleonor was standing by the window, her back to Jane. At twenty, Eleonor was almost a head shorter than her younger sister. She had the straightest black hair and the darkest black eyes that Jane had ever seen, in contrast to Jane’s green ones, so similar to her uncle’s eyes. Often, when they were children, Jane would look in the mirror and imagine that it was Eleonor’s black eyes that stared back at her.

“Oh, you chose the oxblood dress,” Jane said, as she walked to Eleonor’s bed. It was a beautiful, blooming affair of cotton with tiny lace trimmings on the bodice and the miniature cape. Unlike Jane, Eleanor had a lean figure. The kind that was favored in paintings and sculptures. Jane, on the other hand, was fuller in front and behind. Her proportions made her self-conscious, as her father had always insinuated that it was an indication of indiscretion. It was one of the many reasons for which Eleonor was their father’s favorite. Not that it bothered Jane: she was glad that their father treated at least one of them well.

“It is the prettier of the two, like I said before,” Jane said. “It fits you well. I cannot believe that you considered the black one in the first place. Black is such an inauspicious color for an engagement dinner.”

“You sound like a superstitious Scot,” Eleonor replied without turning. Jane smiled. “Sir Edward Pierce is in Father’s office, as usual. You would think the man did not have a home of his own. He is regaling Father with the details of his recent victory over Clan Fletcher.”

She sat on the bed, careful to spread her skirts out first. This habit, as well as other habits surrounding grace and poise, were not borne of the need to be ladylike but the fear of not being so. When she was twelve, her father had called her a harridan that belonged in the wild with fellow creatures simply because she had come down for supper with her hair improperly combed. There were at least seven men, her father’s friends, around. They had laughed boisterously as she ran up the stairs, tears streaming down her face.

“I suppose I should feel happy, somewhat. It is justice, in a way, even though it was at the hand of the commander and not Father,” she continued now. “But it does not change the fact that Uncle Howard is gone, Eleonor.” A wave of sadness washed over her again.

Commander Edward’s victory against clan Fletcher, in the grand scheme of things, meant nothing. It could not bring her uncle back. More so, she knew that the commander would present it as some sort of gift, something she must be thankful for. He was a slippery man in his late forties that put one in mind of a fox. He always smelled of smoke and something else, something slightly malevolent. And then there was that theatre-talk. That infernal theatre-talk. His presence was disconcerting, and several times, Jane had had to evade him, for his attentions were… peculiar. He seemed determined to share the same space as she. Over the years, he had taken an uncommon interest in her. He paid her compliments that always managed to seem a little insulting. He would be at the engagement dinner, an event best suited, in Jane’s opinion, to only close family.

“The Commander does nothing for free. He is never driven by a sense of duty or responsibility or loyalty. I am sure that this victory of his is just a way to get close to the duke, so that he can inundate him with requests for favors. Defeating clan Fletcher cannot bring our uncle back.” Jane said. “If he were here, he would corner me and ask if I was interested in getting married, as well. He would promise to facilitate any match of my choosing. He always wanted to make me happy.”

Eleonor’s response was a sigh.

“Eleonor?” Jane said, frowning. “Are you alright?”

Eleonor shook her head. Jane’s eyebrow went up. She gathered her skirts and walked to her sister. She took her hand and looked into her eyes. Her face was drawn and sad. “What is the problem, Eleonor dear? What ails you? Your engagement, is it? The duke?”

Eleonor’s face grew even darker. “Oh, Eleonor!” Jane exclaimed. “I know he is much older, and that every girl would prefer someone well… more… animated. But he is a duke. We must look at the bright side. What he lacks in youth, he will make up for in wealth. You’ll be mistress of all his houses. You’ll have servants to mind you and you’ll be among top society! You will attend occasions that the king himself will be present at. You’ll live away from the strife of this infernal war. Really, Eleonor, it won’t be that bad, you’ll see.”

Eleonor said nothing. “And… and if you’re worried about the duke himself,” Jane continued, “I know he is not handsome. But he has an eleven-year-old daughter who adores him. That is a good sign. If he is a good father, he will be a good husband, no?

She shook her head, and then her face crumpled, and she began to weep. The tears took Jane by surprise. Eleonor reached for her, and Jane held her and rubbed her back, while she whispered sounds of encouragement. When Eleonor pulled away, her eyes were watery, and her hair was mussed. “Jane…”

“Yes, Eleonor?”

“I… need you.”

“I am here, darling. Please talk to me, Eleonor.”

“I… I… I am in love.”

This came as a shock to Jane, but she smiled and said, “To feel love is a wonderful thing, Eleonor! Remember, when we were girls, we would talk about falling hopelessly in love and having our lovers love us back and…” She trailed off, realizing the import of her sister’s declaration. She knew it was almost impossible for the answer to her next question to be in the affirmative, but still, she could hope. “Is it… is it the duke, Eleonor? Please, tell me you meant the duke.”

The look of despondence morphed into one of irritation. It was gone in a second, however. “Of course it is not the duke,” Eleonor said.

“Right,” Jane said, and tucked a tendril of hair behind Eleonor’s ear. “With whom, then?”

“I cannot tell you, I am sorry,” Eleonor said.

“But you tell me everything!” Jane exclaimed. “Will you then hide something as important as this from me?”

“It is not that I do not want to tell you,” Eleonor said, “But I cannot, Jane. I really cannot. You must believe me.”

Jane sighed. “Why is that, Eleonor?”

“Because,” Eleonor sniffled, “because he has abandoned me.”

Jane’s eyes grew wide. “What? He is a rake, I am sure. A blind one, no less. What man could abandon you? You are kind and beautiful and brilliant. He does not deserve you. Not at all. Oh, come, Eleonor, it is alright, it is alright.” She made to take Eleonor in her arms, but her sister shook her head and burst into tears.

Jane tried to hug her again, but Eleonor refused. She folded her arms around her middle and rocked herself. When she looked at Jane again, her eyes were red. “I have made a mistake. A huge mistake.”

“No.” Jane said. “You have done nothing wrong. It is he who-”

“I am with child.”

A weight dropped in Jane’s stomach. Her mouth turned bitter. Her eyes widened. “What?”

Eleonor nodded, her face crumpling again.

It took quite a few moments for Jane to process this. She knew nothing of pregnancy, save what she had read about in books. Her mother had died at Jane’s birth, and so she had no one to ask about ‘womanly’ things. A tragedy indeed because she was supremely curious about everything. The books she had read on the human anatomy had been a little vague, but not vague enough that she did not know what it took to be pregnant. She was a little shocked, truth be told, that her sister, the saintly Eleonor, had done it. She looked at her sister’s belly and then her gaze moved to her face. “Oh, Eleonor,” she said simply. Eleonor jumped into her arms and sobbed, her tears flowing into Jane’s hair. “What will I do, Jane? I am ruined!”

“Don’t say that,” Jane cautioned, squeezing her sister’s hands lightly. “There is a way to remedy this. We only need to figure out how.” She paused, deep in thought. And then she said, “Whatever the solution is, we must hide the pregnancy, Eleonor. Father must never know.”

“But how will he not know? You cannot hide a lot from Father, Jane; you know this.”

“I mean this only as a temporary measure, Eleonor. You do not wish to go through with the marriage, I suppose?”

“No,” Eleonor said. “I have thought about it a lot. Getting married seems the easiest choice to make, I know. Just like Maribeth. And yet I cannot bring myself to do it.”

“That is if she truly did it,” Jane added. Maribeth was a childhood friend of Eleonor’s whose baby was born seven months after her wedding. Eleonor knew that Maribeth was in fact intimate with her childhood sweetheart, Benjamin, a weak, flighty sort, but she did not insinuate anything at the child’s birth one year ago. Maribeth responded to the gossip with disgust and told everyone who cared to know that some babies did in fact show up earlier than they were meant to, complete with hair and fingernails. Her husband was a simple man who was besotted with her, and the baby was male, and so there were no consequences as such. Eleonor knew, however, that it wouldn’t be the same for her.

“Alright,” Jane said. added. “How far gone are you?”

Eleonor did the math in her head. “About two months.”

Jane felt the air leave her lungs in a whoosh. But she plastered a smile on her face and said, “Well, we just need to delay the wedding until we figure out what to do. We must come up with a plan. A very good one.”

Eleonor nodded.

“Oh, but will you not tell me who the father is? Where is he? Perhaps we can send him a message. He could be instrumental in our-”

Eleonor said, looking at her hands. “He is gone, Jane. Gone. We were planning to run away together-” Jane’s eyes widened at this. Eleonor sighed and continued, but after I told him about the pregnancy, he just… disappeared. I went, several times to our usual meeting spot. Nothing. He left me. Oh, Jane, I am so- “

Jane held a finger over her sister’s lips. With her other hand, she pointed to her ear. Both girls listened… and then heard retreating footsteps. Jane shot off the bed and opened the door. The steps were fast, and Jane followed them swiftly down the hall. She knew who it was, and the thought left a knot in her stomach. For only one person that she knew smelt so strongly of smoke. She searched all the rooms on this floor, opening them, sticking her neck in, only to close them and bolt to the next. At last, she was at the end of the hall, where only one room remained.

Her father’s office.

She entered it without thinking.

Two pairs of eyes turned to look at her. There was no element of warmth in either of them. “Don’t hang at the door, Jane,” her father said, “Enter.”

She swallowed and urged her feet to move. She stood before them. Her eyes went from the commander to her father. There was a look of pure maliciousness in Commander Pierce’s eyes. It was as though she had done him some great wrong, and, mentally, she went over the conversation that he had eavesdropped on. It did not concern him. It was nothing against him. He had no interest whatsoever. She’d run after him solely because she knew that he could not be trusted to keep his mouth shut. He took every opportunity that appeared to offer future leverage. He would scheme, plot, and grovel if need be. This played out even in the course of his dealings with… the Duke of Lancaster.

Jane’s eyes widened. Commander Pierce, in the anticipation of a favor, could tell the duke that the woman he wished to marry was not just merely bereft of virginity, but pregnant by another man. It would mean nothing to Commander Pierce that he was friends with their father or an admirer -the term used loosely- of Jane.

Jane could not let that happen to sweet Eleonor!

Her gaze moved to her father. He was looking at her, his gaze steady. He wasn’t angry.

He was furious.

“Father, I-”

“You what, Jane?”

Jane’s heart began to beat fast. There was a thundering in her ears. She tried to calm herself, tried to make her words even when she said, “I do not know what the commander has told you-”

“That I am harboring whoredom,” her father replied with vitriol. “The commander has told me that here, in my house, I have been living with girls that are intent on bringing shame to me, despite my feeding them, clothing them, catering to their every whim and fancy. Despite my toil, I have bred committers and coverers of fornication.”

Later on, she would mull over how flawed his speech was, for he had never catered to their whims and fancies. Even Eleonor, whom he clearly loved more, could not make requests of him without first weighing the consequences.

Now, she rushed to Eleonor’s defense: “Father, it was a mistake. Truly. She did not know!”

“Silence!” her father thundered. “You wish to make me the laughingstock of every English troop that hears it. My name, dragged through slime. All because of you. Everywhere that evil is mentioned, you are bound to be tied to it.”

“Father!”

“It was you who encouraged her to sin. You are a sinner, and that is not enough. You want to drag everyone that you can into the mire with you. You introduced your sister to sin, and now that it has sprouted into a bastard you seek to hide it.”

“Father-”

“Silence!”

Every word he said compressed her until she was deflated. But then, if one thought about it critically, Jane had nothing to feel guilty about. She was a virgin, so how could her father accuse her of sin?

“Why did you not bring it to my attention as soon as you knew of it? Why did you choose to hide it instead?”

Jane was silent.

“You fancy yourself a loyal sister, do you not? That is very well. A loyal sister is to be desired, after all. Loyalty goes with sacrifice, does it not?” He looked Jane in the eye, and she shuddered. “So my dear girl, you will sacrifice yourself for the sake of this family.”

Chapter One

A week later

Jane stared at all her belongings in the entire world. They fit into two cases. That was all she had come to possess in her eighteen years on earth. She looked out of the window, at the daises and bluebonnets that bloomed in the square garden downstairs. They were the only beautiful thing about the castle. They had been her mother’s, she’d been told. Her father had kept them for sentimental reasons. Beyond the garden was a field that stretched on as far as the eye could see. She and Eleonor were seldom allowed to go into town, and so almost all their memories were of this castle. She had always wanted to be free of it, and now she would be.

Only, she was stepping into a brand of captivity perhaps even worse than this one. Ever since that day in her father’s office, Commander Pierce had looked at her as though she were property, as though she were conquered land. He’d had the effrontery to put a hand on her waist as he led her out of her father’s office after the deal had been struck. If her father had seen it, he had made no indication of it.

Jane had always thought that she would marry for love, that she would meet a man who understood her and cherished her more than anything in the world. They would have a little house on the countryside. She would fill it with color: saffron walls and curtains the color of the sky and freshly picked flowers for every table.

Instead, her hand was given in exchange for the commander’s silence. She was nothing more than the girls she’d heard about, whose fathers gave them out for drink or cows. Inside, she was quaking. She would do this all over again if it meant that her sister’s secret was safe. Still, Jane was filled with despair.

Ever since she’d told Eleonor what the price for the Commander’s silence was, her sister had withdrawn in what Jane knew was shame and regret. Jane had tried to reach out to her, to reassure her and ease some of her guilt. But she had stayed away, locked in her room, as the life within her grew and grew. Till now, Jane had no idea how the dilemma would be resolved, but she was sure that their father was hatching a plan that would make himself come out on top.

One of the maids entered the room, her steps slow and sorrowful. Her hands were clutched together in front of her. “’Tis time, my lady,” she said. Jane nodded and stepped away from the window. The maid took one case, and another came and took the other. Jane looked around the room and sighed. As she went through the door, her hand lingered on a cold wall. She went to Eleonor’s room and knocked at the door. “Eleonor? Darling? It is time for me to join the commander in Scotland. My cases are packed. They have been taken downstairs. I cannot leave without a goodbye from you. Please.”

She heard nothing, at first, and then she heard the sound of sobbing. “Oh, Eleonor, you cannot do this to me and yourself. Please unlock the door. If we part like this, I shan’t be able to bear it. Eleonor.”

“She simply does not want to see you,” her father said, materializing from around the corner. “She has realized the harm that loving you does to people. And now she must preserve herself from further harm. You must leave immediately.”

Shortly after the commander had found out about Eleonor’s pregnancy, he’d had to return to Scotland to join his countrymen in solidifying the English position on Scottish land. His regiment was camped in an abandoned castle at Loch Lomond. Jane had never heard a good tale about Scotland. To hear everyone tell it, it was a land of illiterate savages who worshipped wood and stone and vehemently refused the efforts of the English to bring them civilization. To crown it all, there was a war going on. Commander Pierce had promised to send two soldiers of his to guide her safely through, but that did not inspire a lot of confidence in Jane. She had met their commander. And weren’t men reflections of their leaders?

“Yes, Father, I will leave,” Jane said. “I just need to say goodbye.” Her throat caught. She turned to Eleanor’s door and banged on it. “I just want to say goodbye, Eleonor.”

Nothing, except the sobs.

“Come on now,” her father said. “You must leave at once.” He took her arm and steered her in the direction of the stairs. They both descended them, and when they got outside, there were tears in Jane’s eyes. Her cases were in the carriage, and a small group of her father’s serfs had gathered around to bid her goodbye. The gardener who tended her mother’s flowers made a way for himself and presented her with a beautiful bunch of white daises. His hair was grey and wild. His shirt had patches in it. His breeches were caked with mud. And yet the open-toothed smile that he gave her as he pressed the flowers into her hands almost broke her.

Your mother would have wanted you to have them,” he said. “She would be so proud of how beautiful and… and brave you have become.”

“Oh,” Jane said, her voice shaking. A fat tear rolled down her right cheek and she quickly wiped it away with her free hand and smiled. “Thank… thank you.”

“Back to work!” her father thundered. Throughout their interaction, he’d hovered by the door, but now it appeared he could not take more of this. They dispersed speedily, and Jane felt as though a part of herself had left her.

“What are you waiting for, then? Get in!” he bellowed at her. She got in the carriage. She had seen that Commander Pierce had assigned two guards to her carriage. They sat up front with the rider, with unsmiling faces and menacing muskets.

“All set, Mr. Marsh?” the rider enquired.

“Yes,” her father replied. “Carry on.”

Jane stared up at the castle with longing. If only Eleonor would just come down and-

“Wait!” she suddenly heard. She whipped her head around. Eleonor was running down the steps. Jane threw open the carriage door and stepped out. Her sister enveloped her in a powerful embrace. When they pulled away, there were tears in their eyes. Eleonor looked like a shadow of herself. Her eyes were sunken. Her hair, which she took great pride in, was tangled. Her skin was sallow. “Oh, Eleonor!” Jane exclaimed. “You mustn’t carry on so. You must be strong. For yourself. For us. For the baby.”

Eleonor nodded and smiled through her tears. “Sometimes I think you were actually meant to be the older sister, but you just dragged your feet, as always, and let me come first.”

Jane laughed.

“You are so wise,” Eleonor said, tucking a tendril of hair behind Jane’s ear. “And brave. And kind. And selfless. I do not deserve you.”

“Eleonor-”

“I owe you everything, Jane. Everything. I will never be able to thank you enough. I am sorry for hiding away like a coward. All the hours we could have spent together… Oh, I have been such a fool.”

“No,” Jane said. “Do not be hard on yourself. Please.”

“I shall visit you as soon as I can. Whether it’s in Scotland or on the surface of the sun. I will find you, Jane. I love you.”

“I love you, Eleonor.” They embraced again.

The coachman snorted. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but time is against us. We must be on our way.”

“Let her go, Eleonor,” their father said. Eleonor obliged, but not before pressing a piece of parchment into Jane’s hands. She gave her a look which made Jane quickly slip it down the sleeve of her gown.

“Read it on your journey,” she whispered. “May Mother’s spirit guide you.”

Jane nodded and got back on the carriage. She shifted the bunch of flowers, so she had more room and turned to her family. “Goodbye, Eleonor.”

Eleonor smiled sadly and waved. “Goodbye, Jane.”

“Goodbye, Father.”

Jane’s father did not even bother to say it back. He turned away and began to walk up the stairs. The carriage began to move. Her last memory of the castle was of her sister waving, her tangled hair billowing in the breeze.

***

Jane felt a lump form in her throat. She looked outside the carriage, at the green vegetation that they drove past. She could count the number of times she had left the Marsh residence. They were almost always at her Uncle Howard’s prompting. Uncle Howard was not here to hold her hand as he did when she was a child. She was headed for enemy territory, where her only relative would be a man she did not care for.

That was an understatement. She loathed the Commander.

She tried to tame the emotions that were welling up inside her. Her thoughts went far and wide until she developed a headache, and then she fell asleep. When she woke up, she stared out to see that the sun was beginning to set. She dried her tears quickly and unfolded the paper that Eleonor had pressed into her hand. It was Eleonor’s curved handwriting, the rounded R’s, the I’s with what looked like tear drops on top, the G’s and Y’s that invaded the line of words beneath them. And before even reading the letter, Jane knew that she would cherish it forever. Keeping it was, in a way, keeping a part of Eleonor.

She began to read:

My dearest Jane,

I am very sorry, Jane. I do hope that one day, you shall find it in your heart to forgive me.

“There is nothing to forgive you for,” Jane whispered to herself, and she continued to read.

I know you are disappointed in me already, and so what harm could a little more disappointment do? I am sorry. I am a wretch, trying to make jokes in this situation. But Jane, I must tell you: The father of my child is Scottish. I know your eyes will grow wide when you read this.

Eleonor was right: Jane’s eyes did go wide.

His name is Ramsay. He has blond hair and blue eyes. He is from a Scottish clan around the border. That is all I know about him.

Love, Eleonor.

Jane folded the paper carefully and put it beside her on a chair. She removed the neckpiece that her uncle Howard had bought her on her sixteenth birthday. With it, she anchored the paper to the chair.

She then sighed.

It was a huge task that her sister had entrusted her with. She would be new in Scotland. She had no one to help her carry out this assignment. If the attitude he had portrayed before them all these years was anything to go by, she knew that Commander Pierce would not let her simply walk the length and breadth of the country. He seemed the type that did not allow things that he thought he owned out of his sight.

The thought filled her with fear. Her fear transformed into pure terror when she remembered that she would have to perform wifely duties. She had avoided thinking about it this past week in the oblivion that time and space afforded her, but she did not have that luxury anymore.

She had to face her reality.

And it was a grim one indeed.

She looked outside the window and was struck by the freedom of the trees that the carriage whizzed past. They grew as much as soil and sunlight and rain allowed them. No one laide claim to them. She would never have that kind of freedom. Something suddenly caught her eye and her head whipped to the left. There, on the low vegetation, was what appeared to be a boy on a horse. She blinked.

And he was gone.

She could not have imagined it. She inched closer to the window and looked outside it. There was nothing but grass in every direction as far as her eyes could see. She took her eyes away from the window and stared instead at her hands.

Her fate was worse than prison itself.

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He heard her stand and circle around the fire on nearly silent feet and forced himself to lay still. He wanted her to come to him, ached for her to be beside him as she had been hours before, but he wasn’t going to press the issue.

Then she leaned close, and he reached out and pulled her down, pleased when she curled against his chest instead of pulling away or trying to hit him again.

He was tempted to pretend he was still asleep, but she’d know it for a falsehood. And even if his move to bring her down to lie beside him hadn’t told her that, his rapidly swelling manhood surely would. With only the thin, makeshift kilt between them, it was impossible to hide his interest. Not that he cared to. Instead, he opened his eyes and met her earnest gaze, waiting for her to make the next move.

Her voice was whisper soft as she spoke. “Did ye truly feed and care fer me braither while he was captive?”

“Aye.” He saw no reason to try and deny it.

She bit her lip. “Why? He was an enemy o’ the laird ye’d sworn tae serve. In other circumstances, he might have hurt or even killed ye.”

“Anyone might, on the field o’ battle, and I’ve the scars o’ plenty o’ bands o’ mercenaries and bandits tae prove it. As tae why I cared fer Finlay, I couldnae free him, but I had tae give him what help I could. He’s yer braither.”

He saw tears in her eyes at the honesty of his answer and had to restrain the urge to lean forward and kiss them away. “But why would ye care?”

“Because I always cared fer ye, even when I was fool enough tae be the cause o’ yer pain. And I couldnae help but dae anything possible tae help ease any hurt ye might suffer. Me heart wouldnae allow otherwise, even if ye hated me fer it.” That too was truth, and as close to an apology as he would give her for how he’d reacted during their flight from Luke and his men.

Reyna reached up and laid one hand across his face. “I understand, and I forgive ye.”

Before he could answer her, she stretched up and pressed the full length of her body against his, then molded her lips to his and kissed him as passionately as she’d raged at him earlier. Blake grunted against her, his body stiffening as he fought to control his responses. He wanted her, oh how he wanted her, but he’d not go any faster or further than she would accept. Not even if controlling himself meant he’d need another dip in the loch.

Her hand trailed sensuously down his chest until it touched the tartan, then drifted lower, until she could cup the growing bulge underneath it. Blake bit his lip, helpless to stop the sound he made and the reaction of his body as she artlessly drove him mad with her hands alone.

She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “I forgive ye, and gods help me, but I never stopped loving ye, Blake Sinclair. And now…”

She shifted to whisper directly into his ear, her warm, sweet breath a temptation all its own, “I want tae have all o’ ye, and all the pleasure yer touch promised me last night.”

Blake groaned, his honor warring with his desire to give her exactly what she asked him for. “Reyna, lass… if we start this… I willnae be able tae stop.”

“I dinnae want ye tae.”

It was difficult to control his breathing or keep himself from crushing her to him and taking her like a barbarian right then and there. “Ye have tae be sure. It cannae be taken back, if I claim ye. Ye cannae decide ye’re too angered tae remain with me later. If ye come tae me taenight and welcome me, then ye’re mine forever.”

“That’s what I want.”

She kissed him again, then slid her hand between their two bodies once again and pressed her against his hardening manhood. She rubbed gently, and Blake felt his control evaporate like rain on a burning hearth.

With one smooth motion, he rolled them both over so that he was crouched over her, his thighs on either side of her hips and his hands to either side of her head. Even with desire singing like flames in his blood and his manhood painfully hard and begging for release and the pleasure of her body, he was careful to be gentle as he laid her back against his blankets and looked down into her glittering eyes.

Her face was open, welcoming, and her hands reached for him without hesitation. A part of him screamed to ask her again, that she couldn’t want this, couldn’t want to taint herself with the touch of a man accused of murder and betrayal, scarred inside and out. But it was a distant feeling, and Reyna in his arms was too real to ignore or deny.

He leaned down to kiss her again, hungry for the taste of her. He used one hand to support him, while his other tangled in the laces of her bodice and undid them, then dropped to the fastening of her skirt. He dragged the belt free, feeling clumsy as a boy with his first woman, then sat up.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Sit up, Reyna, and let me see ye.”

She did, and he drew the shirt slowly and sensually over her head. Her eyes were wide as he bared her body, and she looked suddenly shy as he took his time admiring the soft, creamy skin on display, and the way the wind teased her nipples into hardened peaks, begging for his touch and his mouth to engulf them.

“Beautiful.” Blake guided her to lie back, her shirt now serving as a makeshift pillow as he caressed her sides. She shivered as his warm hands smoothed over her belly and dropped to her hips. He wondered if it was nervousness or desire, or merely cold that made her tremble. He longed to chase fear and cold away, and lift her to the heights of desire, and forced himself to go slowly. His Reyna was a maiden, and he’d make it as pleasant as possible for her, even if the effort made him want to collapse under the strain.

Slowly he drew the skirt down, the cloth sliding over her sex and her hips, before gliding down her legs. The dim firelight glimmered on the curls that adorned her sex, and he was pleased to see they were already damp. Even uncertain and inexperienced, she was already damp and waiting for him. He wanted to lean down and taste her, as he had the night before. He wanted to lick her clean, then give her more pleasure until she was wet and gasping for him all over again.

Gods above, but she was beautiful. The most glorious thing he’d ever seen in his life. If ever a goddess came down to earth, she would look, and smell, and taste like his Reyna. The scent of her was all around him, and his lips tingled with the memory of her sweetness.

Now she was completely exposed to his gaze, and he let his eyes feast, drinking in every inch of her creamy looking skin, accented by the rose color of her lips and her breasts, and the soft, darker patch of short hair that adorned the junction of her thighs and her soft, feminine sex.

Blake set her skirt aside and stared at her, hardly daring to do more than stare, lest he frighten her or embarrass himself. She blushed, then abruptly reached out and grabbed at the length of tartan around his hips and tugged. A moment of effort and the knots came free. The cloth fell away to reveal his member, already hard and thick in the firelight. Blake nearly sighed in relief, even as the cold air on his shaft made him ache all the more.

Reyna gasped at the sight of him. Blake chuckled again as he leaned down to cover her. “Dinnae fret lass. Just trust me.”

I’ll have tae be careful with her. Ferr all her bold words and actions, she’s nae ever done this afore. I’m her first lover, and if I have aught tae say about it, her last. ‘Tis important tae let her enjoy the experience.

Her thigh was soft against his member, driving him nearly to distraction, as he lowered himself and began to kiss a slow, lazy trail from her earlobe, down the line of her neck to the hollow of her throat, before he bent lower and took one breast into his mouth, suckling and nipping until she was writhing beneath him. She tasted honey-sweet with hints of flowers and sunshine and something that was just Reyna, and he took his time in savoring each taste, and each noise she made as he teased her.

He wanted to know every sound she made when she was in the throws of pleasure. He wanted to hear every gasp, every sigh, and every cry. He wanted to feel her quiver as she screamed his name, and the sound she made when she was beyond even that, so lost in pleasure that even she couldn’t manage any words at all.

Reyna gasped when he switched his attention to her other breast, allowing the night wind to provide a chilling contrast to the heat of his mouth and the stimulation offered by his teeth and tongue scraping and licking gently over her.

His chest was pressed to her belly, the firm muscles gently pinning her in place. He felt her move against him, and it was all he could do not to raise himself up to bury the length of his member in her soft, welcoming heat.

Even so, he refused to move too quickly, no matter how his own desire and her voice begged him to.

He slid one of his hands lower, until his palm was caressing her sex, before he shifted his weight and lowered his knee gently to part her thighs. “Open yerself tae me, Reyna.”

His voice was a low, rough growl of desire and command, and he smiled as she opened her legs obediently to his touch and his gaze.

Och, Reyna, me little love. So sweet and open tae me. Gods, I dinnae deserve ye… but I’ll be sure ye have all the joy ye deserve at me hands.

He moved to balance himself between her legs, his erection pressing against the junction of her thigh, tantalizingly close to where he wanted it, and yet achingly far as well.

She shifted, trying to encourage him to enter her, clearly as desperate as he was, but he laughed and shifted low to whisper in her ear. “Nae yet, lass. I’ve waited a long time tae be with ye, and I’ll nae be rushing it fer either o’ us.”

“But… I want… Blake, I need…” her voice was a whimper of need, and he drank it in.

“I ken. Just relax.”

He kissed her again and slid one hand down slowly, tracing the shivering muscles, mapping her body with his touch and making note of every reaction, every twitch and all the little cries and gasps he didn’t think she even knew she was making.

When he reached her navel, he let his fingers scratch lightly around the indentation in her belly, teasing the soft, sensitive flesh. He wanted to dip his head and lick her there, to taste her belly, but she was already on the brink of release, and he wanted the moment to last. There would be other times for that.

His fingers carded gently through the soft, fine hairs of her sex, the short nails scratching lightly to add another level of sensation. It made her squirm and try to arch against his hand, and he bit his lip as the sight of her, writhing under his touch, made his body harden even further. She was so responsive, so open to everything he did… it made him long to feel her around him.

She’s so glorious, so generous in this… how can I fail tae offer her generosity in return? That thought was all that kept him from yielding to the fire that coursed through his veins and cried out for release.

His fingers slipped lower to stroke over the outer lips of her sex, sliding through the dampness of her arousal with a slowness that teased them both, before he gently eased one finger into her.

Reyna gasped, whimpering, as his finger slowly pressed deeper into her, and his thumb caressed the pleasure center he’d used to send her over the edge the night before. Blake held back a groan of his own with effort as he stroked his fingers inside of her, pressing deep inside her inner walls, so that his finger was sheathed in her feminine core. The walls of her channel were wet with desire, hot and tight like a tunnel of arousal-soaked velvet that he longed to explore and bury himself in.

He drew his hand out of her, and slowly licked his finger clean of her fluids, grinning at the pleading expression and the way she arched up, begging without words for his touch. “Ye taste good tae me, did ye ken that?” His hand slid back to her secret places to continue stimulating her as he bent to whisper in her ear. “Like the finest draft straight from Cerridwen’s cauldron… or the sweetest wine from Underhill…”

His hand slid deeper, stroking deep as his hand would allow, deep into her core. When she was stretched enough to be comfortable with that, he gently included a second finger to carefully ease her core open wider. Reyna cried out, pressing into his hand, her momentary discomfort at the unfamiliar sensation lost in the pleasure he was giving her.

Blake slowly but steadily stroked her open, watching her face as he changed the position of his hand slightly with every stroke, he noted what made her whimper, what made her gasp, and what made her cry out and press against him for more. Before long, she was writhing against his hand, whimpering, her back arching as she sought more pleasure and release from him.

He drew his hand back, and she actually cried out as he left her wanting, her expression open and pleading as she squirmed, looking for the stimulation that would grant her release. “Blake…”

“I ken lass.” His voice was a low, rough sound, hoarse with his own desire as he lowered himself over her and aligned his aching shaft with the lips of her sex and pressed gently against her.

Reyna gasped as she felt the pressure of his shaft against her entrance, and he hesitated a moment before he pressed inside her, not wanting to hurt her. She quivered around him, but there was no pain in her face, and when he paused, she whimpered and arched and twisted, trying to take him deeper.

His hands held her in place, keeping her from going too fast, for both their sake. For all his control, the sensation of her hot, soft walls swallowing his manhood was nearly unbearable, and it took all his control to keep from burying himself fully in her heat. The velvety sheath around him offered pleasure beyond anything he had ever experienced or imagined, and every inch was like sliding deeper into paradise.

They both felt it when the tip of his length reached the barrier of her maidenhead within her. Blake froze, shuddering as he did so. His breath was ragged, his sweat falling to sizzle against her heated skin as he bent close once more. “Last chance tae stop me, Reyna love. Once the barrier is breached, there’s nay going back.”

He half expected her to come to her senses and pull away or beg him to stop. He wasn’t sure he could. Instead, she arched into him, trying to get closer. Blake made a low sound in the back of his throat, like a groan and a growl intermingled, then bent to seal his mouth over hers as his member pressed forward and breached the thin barrier of her innocence.

His kiss swallowed her cry of pain and filled his mouth with the taste of salt and her sweetness, both shuddering. He fought to remain still, to give her time to recover.

Then Reyna whimpered against his mouth and arched up against him, pressing closer to bring him deeper within her.

Blake growled again and pressed forward, forcing himself to maintain his slow, smooth glide as he entered her fully. The pain of her maidenhead being taken couldn’t be avoided, but he was determined that she would feel only pleasure from him beyond that.

Finally, he was sheathed fully to the hilt, his groin flush against hers and his bollocks brushing her buttocks as they both breathed in time with one another.

Reyna squirmed against Blake, begging him to move. With a ragged breath, he began to do so, setting up a steady rhythm as he slid out of her and back into her, thrusting steadily and deeply.

Every thrust felt like falling into heaven as her heat and softness engulfed him to the hilt, pulling him so deep that his bollocks caressed her soft, rounded buttocks when he paused. Every withdrawal felt like a loss, begging him to plunge inside her once again.

Blake lost all track of time, of everything save her pleasure and his, the sounds of their mingled breathing and the way they rocked together in harmony, every movement perfect and wonderous beyond anything he could even dream of.

Pleasure and pressure intertwined and spiraled higher, burned hotter, to levels he’d never imagined possible. Reyna writhed around him, pressed against him, gasping with him as they both rose higher on a wave of pleasure.

He was so close. Blake could feel his release coming, the tightness in his loins that heralded his coming. Reyna was quivering, close to her own release as well.

Blake bent his head without warning and took one of her breasts in his mouth, his tongue laving the sensitive flesh before his teeth nipped her gently. As he’d intended, the unexpected sensation flung her over the edge. Reyna stiffened, inner walls clenching down around his manhood as she came undone around him.

The pressure of her velvet heat and the walls of her inner core clamping around him was enough to carry him over as well. Blake stiffened, white heat and stars filling his vision as he climaxed and his rhythm stumbled to a halt and his seed pumped deep into her body,

Her inner walls clenched around him again, and drew a harsh, guttural sound out of him. His fluids mingled with hers, and the tide of their enjoyment swept over them both and wiped away everything in a haze of pleasure.

The aftershocks and heat and light went on forever, leaving him limp and boneless in the aftermath. When he finally regained his senses, their release was cooling between them, and Reyna was cuddled against him, almost fully asleep.

The length of Murray tartan took care of the first problem. Grabbing a blanket ensured that they would be somewhat warm when they woke in the morning. Immediate needs taken care of, he laid down and wrapped his arms around her, then followed her into a sleep full of joyful dreams.

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Prologue

Springtime 1440

“Och, ye didnae see him. He was red-faced with temper one minute, shaking, and the next he went pale as fresh milk. Then he orders me off, and taeday he didnae come down fer breakfast.” Blake Sinclair lifted his head from the makeshift grassy pillow he’d been reclining against, and scowled at the stem of heather he was toying with. He tugged at it in a distracted manner while he tried to ignore his companion’s muffled giggles.

At fourteen summers, nearly fifteen, he’d grown several inches over the past year. He’d enjoyed the extra height, right until his voice had cracked for the first time, sending muffled laughter through everyone listening. And now Reyna Gregor – his childhood friend and the girl he’d slowly fallen in love with over the past few seasons – was laughing at him too, despite the seriousness of the situation he was trying to relate.

Finally, Reyna managed to stifle her laughter, and toppled over lazily to rest her head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry… I dinnae mean tae laugh at ye. But ye cannae think ye’re the cause fer yer faither feeling poorly. Surely ye’ve fought afore.”

“O’ course we have. But never about something like this. About foolish things, like the time I tried tae sneak intae the training yard, five summers ago.” The heather came free of the dirt, and Blake scowled at it, before reaching for another piece.

“Ye mean like the argument ye had with him about riding, after we first met? After ye lost control o’ one o’ his best horses?”

“‘Twas me first-time riding someat other than a half-grown yearling or an elderly training gelding. And I was only eight summers at the time. I did the best I could.”

“Ye let the horse out o’ the main courtyard though, and dinnae pretend it was any sort o’ accident.”

That was true. Blake grimaced. That event wasn’t one he was proud of. He’d wound up holding on for dear life as his horse raced over the moors and fields in an uncontrolled gallop. On the other hand, that wild ride had dropped him at Reyna’s feet, in every sense of the phrase. He’d fallen off right in front of where she’d been picking herbs, and the friendship that had grown from that first meeting gave his next words the ring of sincerity.

“That might be the truth, but I cannae regret it, nae matter how much o’ a scolding me faither gave me when I finally got home.” He sighed and sat up, leaving the heather stems for a handful of flowers that he had made a halfhearted effort at weaving into a flower crown before he resumed absentmindedly shredding them. “Ye’re right that we’ve had our share o’ quarrels, and mayhap I’m tae hot-headed and reckless, as he says, but this wasnae the same. He was angrier, and nae just because o’ some daft thing I did. He was saying me actions were jeopardizing the whole o’ the Sinclair clan, and nae just meself. Tae say naething o’ setting a bad example by me actions. Among other things.”

“And how was this different? What was he referring tae if he wasnae simply angered over something foolhardy ye did?”

“We were arguing about ye.” Blake felt his ears heat and avoided looking at her. “He found out I’d been sneaking out tae meet with ye, and ye ken how he feels about any sort o’ speech between our clans.”

Reyna scowled. “Aye. I ken he and me faither are nae on speaking terms since me grandfaither passed away. Though me faither willnae say what it is that caused the rift between them. All he’ll say is that Leith Sinclair insulted him and refused tae take it back.”

Blake grimaced. He’d heard something similar when he was younger, but after last night’s argument, he suspected he knew the real reason the clans were at an armed truce with each other. “Aye. He didnae ken I was meeting ye, but somehow he found out, and he was right furious. Confronted me at supper, in front o’ the entire clan, including the Elders. Said I was defying a direct order, and if I didnae stop seeing ye, there’d be consequences.”

Reyna gave him a sideways look. “And still, here ye are.”

“O’ course I am.” Blake returned her stare with an indignant one of his own, barely even noticing how his voice cracked again. “I’ll nae let any man tell me what friends tae have.” He flushed again.

“And that’s all I am tae ye?” She gave him a look that made him wince. “Just yer friend?”

“Ye ken it’s more than that. Otherwise, I wouldnae be set on defying him when he tries tae convince me tae speak tae lasses from other clans. He’s been wanting me tae secure the clan a strong alliance and has been talking marriage proposals. I said he could try tae plan a marriage and pick a lass fer me if he liked, but he might as well ken now that I’ll choose who I want tae wed, whether he agrees or nae. I’ll nae spend me life with someone I cannae care fer, especially when me heart’s given tae ye already.”

Reyna’s eyes were wide, slightly pleading as they met his. “Ye want me? Truly? Ye really care fer me enough tae defy yer faither, and mayhap mine?”

“O’ course I dae. Ye should ken that, since it’s ye I’m sitting with, and nae one else.” His father, Leith, had been adamant that Reyna Gregor’s clan was neither wealthy enough or powerful enough to be an appropriate match for the heir to the Sinclair clan, but he wasn’t going to tell Reyna that. It would be far too insulting. “I told him tae dip his head in a loch if he thought he was going tae stop me from seeing ye as I liked.” He flushed a deeper red. “I mean…”

“I kent what ye meant, ye daft idiot.” Reyna retorted. “And at least ye have a choice about it. Ye’re nae a girl.”

Her sharp tone dragged his eyes from the heather to her. “Is there something wrong, Reyna? Has someone said someat tae ye?” He’d always thought she’d be safe, given that she had a brother who was heir to the clan.

“Me faither’s talking about marrying me off tae some laird or laird’s son, as soon as he finds one he approves o’, claiming as kinfolk. I’ve seen messages with the Murray Clan seal on them, and I dinnae trust what he’s thinking in regard tae them.” She shivered. “I’ve heard word he’s looking fer a wife, but nae a woman will have him because he has a beastly temper. The fact that he’s sending letters tae me faither, despite the ill-will between them…”

“Doesnae mean a thing, save that he might be as mad as he is bad-tempered.” Blake scowled, even as he wrapped his arm around her to comfort her. “The Murray-Gregor feud’s been going on fer centuries, and it’s a blood feud tae. Yer faither would never consider giving ye away tae him, nae matter how Laird Murray tried tae convince him it was a way tae end the enmity between yer clans. He kens as well as I dae, better mayhap, that old Laird Oran’s as like tae murder ye as marry ye. And ye and I both ken he loves ye tae much tae risk it, even if Laird Murray offered him a thousand years o’ peace, most o’ their lands, and all the gold in the Murray clan coffers.” He kissed her forehead. “Besides, Clan Gregor may nae be the biggest, but yer strong enough tae stand yer ground, and yer braither’s nae a weakling. Clan Gregor will be standing strong long after Oran Murray and his temper are dust on the Highlands.”

Reyna laughed a little at his vehement declaration. “I ken that. And I’ve said as much tae me faither whenever he brings up marrying me tae another clan tae strengthen our borders, but he likes tae hear arguments from me as much as yer faither likes tae hear them from ye. I’ve told him I’m tae young as well, that if me braither isnae old enough tae be a warrior, then I’m tae young tae be a wife. He didnae like that either.” Reyna looked as if she’d swallowed a thistle.

The sight of her indignation filled Blake with mixed feelings of protectiveness, anger on her behalf, and a sense of affection. He grinned and reached out to wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Och, well, even if ye happen tae get sent off tae Clan Murray, I’ll be more than happy tae come get ye.” He smirked at the flowers and heather that Reyna had slowly been accumulating in a basket at her side. “After all what would I dae without me little witch tae offer me tinctures and tisanes and teas fer everything that might be ailing me?”

“I’m nae a witch.” Reyna huffed the words in exasperation, but she was smiling. “’Tis only medicine and herbs, like the wise women and the healers gather.”

Blake chuckled, his own mood easing. “I ken, I ken. But it willnae change the way I think o’ ye.” He dug into a pouch on his belt. “But never mind that. Ye’ve given me so many flowers and herbs, I thought it might be proper tae give ye one in return.”

“Nae that heather ye’ve been mangling, I hope?” Reyna eyed him.

Blake shook his head, and took one of her hands, pressing the object he’d fished out of his belt into her hand. “It’s nae. It’s nae a flower ye can put in a medicine, but it willnae wilt or go bad, either.”

Reyna studied the thin metal flower, suspended from a thin leather cord. “’Tis pretty. Where did ye find it?”

Blake flushed again and looked away from her bright expression. “Och, well, I had some time tae meself, and I started watching the village blacksmith. When he caught me watching, he offered tae teach me someat o’ the basics – said it was a good skill tae have, fer an emergency shoeing on the road, if naught else.”

“A horseshoe nail isnae a flower.” Her voice sounded amused.

“One thing led tae another… I have a bit o’ skill, and the blacksmith had some spare bits o’ metal lying about… and I wanted tae make ye something”

“It’s beautiful.” She lifted it and slipped the leather cord over her neck with a brilliant smile. “And I like it all the better now that I ken ye made it fer me.”

“It’s a promise, as well as a gift. I’ll dae me best tae change me faither’s mind and get his blessing. Tae court ye if I cannae convince him o’ more. I promise, I’ll make sure we’re both safe, and free tae marry as we like.”

Reyna’s eyes shone like stars as she leaned against his shoulder. “Ye give me yer word?”

“Me word as a Sinclair.”

Anything else he might have said, or any reply she might have made, was interrupted by the sound of hooves approaching rapidly. They were coming from the direction of Sinclair lands, following the same path Blake had ridden hours before.

Blake rolled to his feet, one hand on is dagger as the rider came into sight and splashed across the rill that divided their meadow from the main Sinclair lands. Reyna came to her feet beside him.

The rider came closer, and Blake relaxed a little as he recognized his cousin Hutch. “Och. Nae need tae fret. ‘Tis only me cousin.”

Hutch rode up, and Blake felt a slow, churning feeling of unease begin to creep through him. Hutch’s face was grim and pale, and his horse showed signs of hard riding. He was also carrying saddle bags, more than he could possibly have needed. “Blake. I’ve been looking everywhere fer ye. If I didnae ken ye liked tae meet yer lass here, I’d never have thought tae come this way, or this far.”

“Aye. But if ye kent that, ye might ken I wouldnae want tae be found.”

Hutch shook his head. “And I’d nae come looking, but ye’re needed back at Sinclair Castle. Yer faither collapsed.”

The temperature of the meadow seemed to fall, as if he’d been doused in icy water. “What are ye…?”

Hutch frowned. “I cannae say more than that. I only ken ye need tae come with me.”

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. It didn’t make sense. He’d known his father was unwell, but collapsing? Their argument couldn’t have upset him that much.

Suddenly, small hands slammed into his shoulders and shoved him toward his horse, which was grazing nearby. “Get back tae yer family, ye great lout. Ye’re needed.” Reyna stared at him with sharp eyes. She turned and darted away, toward her own horse, before he could say anything.

At least she’d managed to shock him out of his frozen state. Blake sprang after her and caught her arm. “Reyna, wait!” She swung around. “I dinnae ken what’s wrong, but…”

He took a deep breath, then bent to kiss her lightly. “Come back tae this spot, this same time taemorrow..” With another quick, chaste kiss, Blake darted away, to where Hutch was waiting impatiently.

Blake swung into the saddle of his own horse. He waited just long enough to see Reyna’s bay mare disappear on the far side of the meadow before he turned away and nudged it into a trot beside his cousin. “Does the healer have any idea what happened? Is Faither ill? Will he be getting better? When?”

“He willnae be getting better.” Hutch waited until they’d entered a stand of trees by the road, then abruptly nudged his horse forward, and swung it around to block Blake’s.

Blake pulled his horse to a stop in surprise. “What are ye saying?”

Hutch shook his head. “I didnae want tae say anything in front o’ the lass, but yer faither didnae just collapse. He’s dead. By the time the maid found him, it was tae late. He’d passed on.”

Blake reeled in the saddle. “Me faither’s dead…”

“Aye, and I wish that were all o’ it. Or even the first o’ it.” Hutch reached out to grab his arm. “I’m sorry, Blake, but the healer said he’d been poisoned. And mayhap the last dose wasnae the first.”

The cold feeling came back, fierce and sharp like ice in his gut and his bowels. “Poisoned? With what?”

“I didnae stay around long enough tae hear. Blake… I… I wish I didnae have tae be the one tae tell ye this, but…” Hutch’s face twisted. “Och, cousin, I’m truly sorry, but the truth o’ the matter is, they’re after thinking ye were the one that poisoned him.”

The ice turned into a sword, lancing through his heart, and for a moment he could hear nothing save a roaring storm in his ears. He forced it back and held onto the saddle and reins with hands that were white-knuckled from the strain. “What? Ye cannae be serious.”

“I wish I werenae. But there’s the truth o’ it. After yer fight last night, there’s folk saying ye were angered with his refusal tae let ye see yer lass, and tired o’ being the heir instead o’ the laird. They’re saying ye were hoping nae one would realize. I’ve even heard folk saying they’re surprised it didnae happen sooner, the way ye’ve always seemed tae be close one moment and fighting the next. And since ye’ve nae been seen since this morn, there’s folk saying ye always planned on being away and pretending tae ken naething o’ the matter, or worse, that ye’re a coward who decided tae flee afore ye had tae face justice.”

Breakfast and lunch both threatened to reappear. Blake swallowed hard. “I have tae go back, tae explain tae the Elders, tae yer faither… I have tae tell them the truth.”

Hutch shook him once, then twice. “Think, Blake. What proof have ye o’ yer claims? Ye’re kent tae spend time with a girl who’s always after mixing teas and the like. Ye were fighting with the laird last night, and ye nearly came tae blows with the man. And ye’re the heir. With yer faither passed away, ‘tis down tae ye and me faither tae tae’ the mantle o’ the laird. And ye can guess what me faither thinks about the whole matter. His temper’s up, and he’s fair out fer blood. Ye really think it willnae be yers, with the way things look right now?”

His own uncle thought he’d killed his father. He swallowed hard. “What o’ me maither?”

Hutch shook his head. “Dinnae ken. So far as I heard, she’s tae far in shock and mourning tae speak one way or the other.”

He didn’t want to believe anyone could think such things of him. And yet, he had argued with his father in full view of the clan the night before. And anyone who knew Reyna would know she had an interest in herbs of all kinds. It was also no secret that her father and his had argued and had a hostile truce that was just short of feuding. Or that his father disapproved of his relationship with Reyna.

With a sick, sinking feeling, Blake realized what Hutch had truly come out to tell him. The clan believed he’d murdered his own father. Not only that, they thought he’d killed his own laird. If he went home, he’d face the Clan Elders, and his uncle, with little or no way to convince them of his innocence. After all, they could say he’d left the castle that morning to try and avoid suspicion by being elsewhere.

Kin-killing was a crime that carried a sentence of banishment, at best, unless the person who died was known to be a danger to the clan or close family. Killing a laird though, was something that could see you put to the sword unless the laird was a proven problem for the clan, or he was killed in a feud or an honor duel. Poisoning though, would be considered dishonorable and cowardly, even in the best of circumstances.

Putting all those together… Blake felt his stomach lurch and he came perilously close to throwing up again. “If I go back, they’ll put me tae death. With nay proof I didnae dae it, they’ll find me guilty likely as nae, and nae even the Fair Folk could keep me head attached tae me neck. I’m nae even sure an act o’ God could dae it.”

“I ken. And I’m sorry fer ye. I believe ye’re innocent, Blake, but one lad’s word willnae count fer much. Especially since I came tae find ye and warn ye, instead o’ telling the clan guards where I thought ye were.” Hutch dismounted and went to rummage behind a tree. He emerged with extra packs that bulged with clothing, a heavy-looking purse, and Blake’s weapons.

Blake shuddered, and tried to think as he took the things Hutch handed to him and set them in their proper places with practiced precision. “What dae I dae?” He suddenly felt much younger than his fourteen years. “What can I dae?”

Hutch reached up and tugged free two of the saddle packs slung across his horse’s hindquarters. He passed them over, and Blake took them with shaking hands. He tried to stop the tremors passing through him, but he could barely breathe, let alone exert any sort of control over his limbs.

Hutch’s next words fell like blows from a warrior in the training yard. “Ye need tae leave. Go somewhere, anywhere but back tae Sinclair Castle. Write me when ye find a place, and I’ll stay in touch with ye. I’ll look fer proof that ye didnae dae this, and once I’ve found it, ye can come home again.”

His choices were to be executed or banished, and that was no choice at all. Dead, he’d never get a chance to prove his innocence, or regain his honor.

If proof were easy tae find, they’d nae think I was the killer in the first place. And Hutch isnae much older than me. He won’t be able tae dae much or stand up against the elders. It might be years afore I can come home. And even then, it willnae be the same. Me faither is dead.

He wanted to curl up and cry until he had no more tears left. He wanted to throw up more than he had when he’d snuck a bottle of his father’s mead during the Harvest fest the year before.

Neither of those were options. Hutch was right. He needed to get far away from the Sinclair clan, before someone else came after him. The next member of the clan who found him might not be as sympathetic as Hutch.

He swallowed hard and forced his emotions down. “Ye’re right. I need tae be gone. And the sooner I take tae the road, the farther gone I’ll be when the rest o’ the clan comes looking fer me.” He hesitated. “Will ye tell me maither, please, that it’s nae true? Tell her… convince her if ye can, that I didnae kill me faither? And tell her I’ll come back as soon as I can prove the truth o’ it.”

“Ye ken I will.” Hutch nodded. “And I’ll look after her like me own.”

He gave Hutch a quick, hard clasp of the arm, which his cousin returned. “Thank ye fer that, and fer coming tae find me, fer believing in me, and fer helping me get tae safety.”

“Ye’re welcome. Be safe, cousin.” After a last, lingering look, Hutch released him and turned his horse back toward Sinclair Castle.

Blake watched until his cousin was out of sight, then resolutely turned his own horse in the opposite direction. As much as it broke his heart, he couldn’t afford to linger.

And he couldn’t take the chance of going to see Reyna, not even to tell her what had happened. Not even to keep his word. Someone would surely look for him there, and it would be worse for the both of them if he was anywhere within the Gregor lands when they came looking.

Blake gave a soft, bitter laugh. How ironic that he’d given his word as a Sinclair to come back for her. He was no longer a Sinclair and did not even have the meager satisfaction of being able to keep the last promise he had made as a member of his birth clan.

He was on his own, with nothing save his grief and his regrets to follow him into exile.

Chapter One

Springtime, 1450

Ten years later

Reyna Gregor stared at the meadow, one hand tangled in the worn leather cord about her neck as she watched the heather sway in the light spring breeze that danced through the moorland grasses. For years, this place had been her refuge, and a place where she’d made some of her happiest memories. After today, she might never see it again.

When Blake had disappeared, and they’d received word that he’d been exiled, she’d come to the meadow every day for a year, until she could no longer ignore the bitter truth. Blake Sinclair was gone, in every sense of the word, and he would never come back.

Her hand tensed around the flower. The cord dug into her neck as she tugged. She imagined the cord breaking, imagined the frayed strands and the weathered metal flower flying through the air to disappear forever among the heather.

“Reyna. There ye are.”

Reyna stuffed the necklace under top of her dress, dropped her hand, and turned to see her sister-by-marriage, Tessa, wading through the long, thick grass. Tessa’s movement was somewhat hampered by the soft rounding of her belly, evidence of the child she carried within. For a moment, she was tempted to reach out and help Tessa to her side, but she knew from experience that her brother’s wife was an independent woman. Instead, she settled for a worried look. “Should ye be riding in yer condition?”

Tessa made her way to Reyna’s side with a heavy grace that Reyna envied. “I’m well enough. ‘Tis early days yet, and the healer says the babe and I are fair healthy enough.”

Tessa’s gaze drifted over the meadow. “I was wondering where ye might have gone. I should have kent ye’d be here, though I dinnae ken why, as ye left yer herb-gathering basket at home. I thought ye’d stopped coming here years ago.”

“I ken. But I only wanted tae come tae enjoy the peace, afore I have tae leave fer Murray Keep.”

Tessa nodded. “I understand. Though I dae wish ye’d choose a meadow closer tae the castle tae find yer peace.”

Reyna offered her sister-by-marriage an apologetic smile. “Aye. I ken full well ye’re nae the only one who’s exasperated by me habit o’ coming out here. But…” She trailed off.

“But it’s where yer memories o’ Blake Sinclair are, and ye have the same questions I dae about what happened tae the lad.”

Reyna nodded, glad Tessa understood. She’d tried to explain her feelings more than once to her brother and her father. Neither of them had ever listened. Not since the message from Clan Sinclair saying that the former laird was dead, his son had abandoned the clan and been declared an exile for his shameful behavior. That was all she’d been told, and all she’d ever been able to learn. Even after ten years, she still had no idea why Blake had been exiled, or how his father had died.

She had no idea where Blake had gone. And even less idea why he had never come to see her, never even sent word about what had happened. She’d sent a request for more information to the cousin who’d come to the meadow the last day she’d seen him, but she’d never received a response.

And now, it no longer mattered. In a few short hours, she’d be on her way to her new betrothed. She’d never have another chance to find out what had happened to the boy she’d once admired. The boy she loved.

“Reyna?” Tessa’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Sorry. I’m coming.” Reyna turned away from the meadow. “I was just saying farewell tae some old memories. The last o’ me childhood, I suppose.”

Tessa’s expression turned regretful, and her arm curled around to cradle the swell of her belly. “I’m fair sorry, Reyna… I ken ye never wanted tae marry someone like Laird Oran Murray.”

“I didnae. And I dinnae even still. But it doesnae matter, does it? I’ve kent since I was a child that he was after marriage tae get himself an heir, since he has nay sons. I just didnae think he’d ever be daft enough tae try and claim me hand, with the feud between our clans, or that he’d stoop tae such cowardly measures tae get what he wants.”

To her surprise and regret, she saw tears beginning to slide down Tessa’s face. She hurried to wrap an arm around her sister-by-marriage to offer her comfort. “Dinnae fret. I’ll be well enough, and I’ve had plenty o’ time tae come tae terms with it. Besides, I’d dae fair worse than get married tae a man I dinnae love tae see Finlay back at me faither’s side, and yers.”

She reached out and laid a gentle hand above Tessa’s. The child was too small yet to move much, but Reyna imagined she could sense the life growing inside her brother’s wife anyway. “Yer bairn needs a faither, ye need yer husband, and me faither needs his heir. ‘Tis well worth a wedding, even tae Laird Oran Murray, tae get him back.”

Nearly a season ago, Oran Murray’s men had ambushed and kidnapped her brother and taken him hostage. With her father’s only heir in his dungeon, Laird Murray had informed her father that he’d only trade Finlay for the chance of an heir of his own, and a marriage alliance to bring an end to the feud between the clans.

Tessa’s brow furrowed, then she spat out a curse that would have made some of the soldiers Reyna knew flush to hear. “Laird Oran Murray’s a craven, cowardly, dishonorable wretch o’ a man, too foul and twisted tae even be called a bastard. And I hate that he managed tae take Finlay prisoner tae force yer faither tae agree tae this.”

Reyna laughed, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Tessa’s anger was coming from more than missing her husband and worrying over her bairn. She took a deep breath. “Laird Oran’s man has arrived?”

Tessa nodded, her expression going soft with regret. “Aye. Arrived just afore I came tae get ye.”

“Then ‘tis best tae nae keep the man waiting.” Reyna helped Tessa into the saddle of her horse, then swung up into the seat of her own. Her bags were already packed and waiting back at Gregor Keep. No doubt her father would have them in the front hall and prepared for loading onto the horses.

She could only hope that whoever Laird Murray had sent to collect her wasn’t too much of a brute.

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Duncan deepened the kiss, hoping that with her hands on his chest, she could feel the hammering of his heart. His sincerity.

“Please dinnae leave,” he muttered.

Her face relaxed, a wispy smile curling that beautiful mouth. But a moment later, her expression turned sad . “How can ye ask that of me?” she muttered on his lips. “Ye are engaged tae someone else.”

Duncan shook his head, words crashing from his lips like an unrelenting wave. He had to make her understand. She was vital to him.

“Me faither is ill. ‘Tis why this is delicate, and why I need yer time. This engagement came as a surprise an’ I couldnae immediately refuse, because our faither’s are close friends and they are our allies. We are in the middle of a war and I have a responsibility toward the clan, not just me family. Once I have found a way that will suit both clans, I will make it right by ye. Please tell me ye understand. Ye’re nae taken fer granted an’ this isnae an afterthought.”

Duncan watched a myriad of emotions flit past her face. That alone, gave him some hope. If she did not want him entirely, she would not need time to consider it. Still, his nerves were in painful knots, as he waited for her response. He could not push her. He-

She reached up and kissed him. Duncan was stunned. The flavors from her mouth, imploded inside him, igniting a heat he’d kept restrained for so long. He groaned deep in his throat, then slipped his arms around her waist. Duncan explored every inch of her mouth, trailing his tongue along a pointy little tooth she had.

Her body juddered against his, soft where he was hard. He drowned in the feel of her breasts rising and falling on his chest as she panted her need. He wanted to hear how she sounded. He had to know if she missed this contact the way he did.

“Tell me ye missed as much as I did.”

She gave a tiny laugh, “I didnae.”

Duncan chuckled. He sucked the corner of her lips, sinking in his teeth into the plushness. She gasped and he thrust his tongue inside again. “Sure,” Duncan said.

She made this small sound in her throat, a cry for his touch. “I dinnae think about ye,” she rasped.

“Aye,” Duncan concurred with a groan. He was fired up by her slightly husky voice. He lifted her off the ground, and she wrapped her legs around him, bringing the heat of her center to his abdomen. She touched his neck and his face, her fingers fluttering down, like she couldn’t get enough. Duncan jolted, and she kissed him with a frenzied desperation that fueled him.

Gently, he placed her on the bed and braced his hands on either sides of her, between her legs. He looked down at her. His throat tightened from the vision before him. Her deep brown eyes encased by lustrous lashes gazed back at him. Rosy lips softened by his kisses, beckoned to him.

“So beautiful,” he muttered.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to her jaw, her neck, the swell of her cleavage. Duncan looked at the woman, wondering how he could ever let her go. He could never let her go.

He took her lips gently, pouring the love suffusing his heart into it. She moaned his name softly, her fingers digging into his hair. Duncan wanted to see her shatter before him, just as she had in the camp. He would have never guessed that the lass possessed such passionate fire.

He kissed down her chest, breezed past that full cleavage. She’d been with no one else, he had to respect that. He would satisfy her and stop. He lifted her skirts, running his lips down her thighs. He stopped at her knees, and kissed the soft underside.

Her legs trembled and he smiled, “I see ye remember.”

Their night in the camp.

His mouth dried as he thought of it. Back then, he’d not seen her fully without clothes. His erection jerked at the image.

She moved her legs and Duncan threw caution to the winds. He massaged downwards, past her calves then under her feet. She uttered a long, sweet moan of relief. He repeated the move, knowing that it relieved her tension and watched her.

She hid her face behind her arm.

“I want tae see yer eyes darken from me touch. I want tae see ye, all of ye.”

“I thought ye’d ne’er ask,” she replied in a sultry tone.

Duncan had to control his hands, as he drew on the rope around her blouse. He really enjoyed hearing her speak in that manner.

Her breasts were well-rounded, full and bounced softly when he touched them. He took one hardened nipple in his mouth and swirled his tongue around it. She tugged on his shirt with shaking hands. Duncan wanted to stop her. If she touched him, he wasn’t sure he could continue to restrain himself.

Her fingers flicked along his hot skin and he quickly reconsidered. He could do it, he could feel her skin on his and he would not seek anything further.

He undressed her completely, and watched her eyes go round with appreciation as they took in his appearance.
Her waist was small, yet opened wider to deliciously curved hips. Leaning down, he grabbed those hips but she sat up and took his nipple in her mouth. Decadent pleasure raged in him as her soft mouth worked, her other finger, kneading his second nipple.

Grunting, Duncan took a fistful of her hair, jerking her head up. He devoured her lips, possessing her in the one way he could. That kiss embodied the fact that he could not thrust the raging manhood into her to ease his fire.

It was far from enough. Nearly out of his mind, Duncan brought Jo to her knees on the bed. Swiftly, he inserted his member between her legs, right on the moist part of her.

He thrust back and forth, aching to be inside her. Her cries, her hands on his body worsened his need. Duncan had often prided himself on his control. Tonight, it seemed to have fled. He grasped her breast, flicking his thumbs over the nubs.

Jo moved her hips on him, sliding in and out. He was a finished man. Teeth on edge, Duncan allowed her to ride it out. When he was about to release, he lowered her to the bed, afraid that he would scare her.

“Ye want this,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Aye, I dae.”

She brought him closer by nudging her legs on his back. Duncan’s member shuddered from the contact with her soft skin. He had to shift back a little, gather himself. She wanted him, but he did not want to hurt her.

His erection faced the bed now, as he kissed her softly. He trailed his fingers down her body, finding heat below. His entire body jerked as she cried out. She slid around his fingers, so seductive and sweet.

“Nice and wet,” Duncan grunted. He thrust that finger into her and she bucked.

So goddamn wet he could only imagine what she’d feel like inside. How she’d fit snugly around him. He pleasured her center, stroking in and out, his thumb working on that pleasure nerve. He reveled in the sounds she made, how she wriggled on the bed.

She gripped the sheets, yanking them up as she thrashed harder. Duncan applied pressure on that singular point, letting her control the waves as they hit her. Her mouth opened, letting out his name in a moaning tone. Her breathing was choppy and heavy, her face rosy with the color of her climax.

“Ye’re magnificent when ye come,” he rasped.

He smiled and withdrew his fingers. He shared her juices between their lips and asked, “want tae see how good ye taste?”

His words shocked her eyes open. “Duncan!” She sucked on his fingers. then pushed him aside. Jo straddled him, opening her wet center on him. Duncan groaned, simply unable push her off though he knew he should. It was too dangerous like this. She reached downwards and stroked herself and Duncan’s eyes blurred. He covered her breasts with his palms, praying for all the restraint he needed.

She shocked him.

Grace knelt between his legs and held his manhood in her slim, soft hands. In them, it felt as though he was extremely massive. He found the sight titillating as his hips bucked off the bed.

“Ye dinnae have tae…” he muttered halfheartedly, attempting to drag her up.

She dodged his touch and swooped down on his manhood, taking as much of his length as she could.

“Gods! That feels good!” he groaned.

She flicked her tongue around the head, caressing with his balls with her other hand. She lowered her head until her eyes started to water and emitted a soft cough. Alarmed, Duncan fought out of his immense sensual haze, “stop, stop…” he said in a voice unrecognizable to him.

She would not listen. Having learned her limit, Jo proceeded to go up and down on him, stopping just short of where her hand grasped him. Sparks shot off in his body.

“Damn… Jo, that…” he mumbled, gathering the sheets in his hands. Her mouth was wet on him, making sloshing sounds as she moved. He was about to lose control.

“I have tae be inside ye. Now.”

He flipped her back on the bed, and readied to thrust his aching member in her. He met that resistance again. It was the perfect reminder. His head blared with the alarm of what he was about to do. “Damn it,” he cussed. “I cannae.”

“Try again,” she said in a strong voice, widening her legs.

He wanted to take some of the pain or at least distract her. He wanted to kneel and thank her. He kissed her gently, muttering, “Dinnae be scared, I willnae hurt ye.”

Muscles on his body grew tight from holding back as he pushed in just the tip. He had barely settled when Jo grabbed his shoulders and bucked her hips.

“Aaah!” she cried.

Duncan froze inside her. Veins throbbed out of control in him. He wanted so much to be gentle. But all his senses were directed at the area of their joining. She was so hot, and fit him to intense perfection.

But she was gritting her teeth. He hurried to slide out but Jo held him in with her legs. “So good…” He thrust in again, embedding himself fully. He could feel every throb inside and outside of her body.

She was his, in every sense that mattered. Gently, his strokes went in and almost out of her. He was afraid of aggravating her pain. He looked down at her face, cradling her cheek with one hand and supporting his weight with another.

Their eyes locked and she leaned into his touch. His heart bloomed with waves of love as he stared down at her. “Are ye hurtin’?”

“Actually, ye’re too slow.”

Duncan chuckled. His fiery princess would say that. He did not want to part with her, so he turned her around carefully, placed a pillow under her waist. He pounded her from the back. Each time, she nudged back her hips, meeting his crazed thrusts with hers.

He sought downwards and stroked her with his fingers, while his member rushed in and out. Soon, Duncan could not control the pace. It was as though a demon had overtaken his hips. His groin slapped against her round buttocks, the sounds of their joining rising higher and higher.

In that second, Jo’s climax rocked her. She arched her back into him, fueling his rampant lust. She twisted around with glazed eyes and puckered her lips. Duncan kissed her and started to move again.

“I dinnae want this tae end,” he rasped.

“Then we’ll dae it again,” she muttered hoarsely.

The words unlocked a beastly part of Duncan. He stopped kissing her, placed his palms on her hips and rotated his member in her. Her warmth, cries and wetness finally drove him off the cliff. He jerked himself out of her and came all over her thighs and the bed.

When he married her, he would pour all of his seed in her. Their children would be conceived under their wedded bliss. His breathing was erratic as he waited for stars to stop glinting across his vision.

He dragged her to him and said, “Ye were talkin’ about doin’ this again.”

Her smaller frame hugged him, laughing, “I doubt if ye can.”

“I’ve created a monster,” Duncan grumbled.

“Havin’ regrets already?” she asked in a soft, fearful voice.

“Never,” Duncan was quick to promise. “Ye are the best thing that has ever happened tae me.”

He felt her smile against his chest. He held her in that position, reveling in her scents. About twenty minutes later, Jo nudged his member with her knee. Duncan became alert again. She rubbed against him like a hungry cat. It was a good that thing that he had an inexhaustible appetite.

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Prologue

Jacobite Rising, 1715

“Caelan!” Duncan roared at the sight of his friend’s body hitting the ground. Storming forward, his broadsword carved a path through the English soldiers bearing down on him. He itched, more than anything, to reach the gloating commander. He stood over the body of Caelan, not only his ally but one of Clan Campbell’s greatest warriors. Now his blood tainted the earth.

Around them, several bodies gave up the fight and hugged the ground, bearing different fatal wounds. Screams of varying degrees pierced the air. Caelan’s chest trembled to produce his last breath.

“Move!” Duncan bellowed at a fellow warrior who lurched to block his path in order to protect his friend. Seeing the blistering fury in Duncan’s charcoal eyes, he fled.

As all wars, this war filled Duncan with anger. Ironically, it started in a pursuit of peace and the restoration of King James. His sword had become an extension of his hands since the start of the Jacobite Rebellion. Blaedy greedy English. If only they would stick to their lands. But no, they had to invade Clan Campbell’s lands. They were Clan Hay’s biggest allies and there was no way Duncan, the heir of Laird Hay himself, would stand by and watch their massacre. He would rather die than let the English scum encroach on what was rightfully theirs. Today, it was Clan Campbell, tomorrow it might be his own.

He arrived at the clearing, where only two soldiers stood, with Caelan’s twitching body at their feet. With the English commander in his sight, Duncan slashed his sword e, eliminating the man’s last protection. Just as he prepared to cover the space between them, another Englishman, pierced a sword into the commander’s back.

Absolute shock washed over the man’s paling face as blood spurted from his mouth. Duncan glanced left and right, but there was no one else to witness the atrocity. Frozen in disbelief, he watched the commander fall to one knee. With effort, the wounded man turned to see the grinning face of his attacker, who laughed in his face. Duncan blinked to be certain that the other attacker was indeed part of the English troops. His gaze fell on what was sticking out of the commander’s back. It was a sgian dubh, and its handle bore a distinct lion’s head crest.

Distaste, bitter as bile, rose within Duncan’s mouth. If there was one thing he despised more than the English, it was disloyalty. Briefly, he contemplated running after the worm who’d just murdered his commander. It would be a way to avenge Caelan’s death too. But as he took the first step, a hand gripped the tail of his kilt. Duncan peered down at the man he’d planned to kill just a few minutes prior. The one who’d murdered his comrade. Unreasonable pity suffused his heart. They had collided in a few battles and, despite being English, Dankworth was a man who fought with honor. Duncan had seen the travesty brought to some clans by the English, women and children left destitute. When this commander was involved, there was nothing of the sort. If his men acted beyond his wishes, they were considered war criminals and executed for harming civilians. The man did not deserve such a pitiful end.

As though he’d applied the last of his strength in drawing Duncan’s attention, his grip loosened, and he started to fall back. Duncan rushed to catch him before he hit the ground. Commander’s bloodshot eyes roved wildly, his mouth opening and closing. The words he was attempting to form got lost in the blood rushing down his jaw.

“’Tis all over now,” Duncan said in gruff tones. He swept his helmet off his head, shaking loose his ginger curls. It was his last respect to the honorable soldier. “Rest.” Duncan’s chest twisted with hate and pity.

The man shook his head and for just a second, something blazed in his eyes. Duncan decided to quit being the fool. He was the enemy. His betrayal by his fellow soldier was a problem in their ranks, not Duncan’s. Still, he couldn’t get his hands to release their hold on his shoulders. Nor could he tear his gaze away from the agony reflected in his suffering face.

Commander John’s lips moved faster, so that Duncan had to abandon his prickling conscience and lean closer.

“G…G…” he sputtered.

“Aye, good night,” Duncan completed though it was high noon.

“Gr…Grace…” the man spat, determination warring with his fading expression.

I dinnae think ye deserve grace, Duncan bit his inner lip from saying the words out loud. Instead, he nodded, bring his ear even closer to the weak lips. “Aye, grace.”

“Danger… help. Please.”

A whoosh of air blasted Duncan’s cheek and he knew, the commander had just exhaled for the last time. A cry rose from his left. He looked to see a hurdle of English soldiers, rushing to his side. In a last gesture of kindness and respect to another fighter, Duncan pressed his hands across the man’s open eyes, wishing him peace. He grabbed the hilt of his broadsword.

However, the commander’s weak grasp tugged at Duncan’s leg once more. But there was no time. Although the soldiers were upon him, his wound was severe. He would not survive it.

“Commander!” One of the men screamed, brandishing his weapon at Duncan. His cry was echoed by the others. “You killed him! You fucking brute!” Looking left and right, Duncan realized that he was indeed alone at this clearing. His comrades were in the thick of the battle. He took several steps back, held up his sword and widened his stance.

Aye, tis a war, Duncan thought, flashing an arrogant, come-hither grin at him. Still, it was dishonorable at best to claim a victory he didn’t earn.

He struck down the closest soldier, and two others in quick succession. “Him? nae!” None of them listened, as he’d expected. “However, I willnae hesitate to end ye all!” The old man’s dying words fled Duncan’s mind as he braved each attack with the anger exploding at his core.

Duncan fought his way out of their midst and rejoined with his warriors much later, but his mind stayed with the commander and his dying words. From a soldier, it could not be mere blathering. Grace… Duncan muttered a while after, as he rounded the number of survivals. Who is Grace?

Chapter One

Dankworth Residence

Two weeks after

“You’re my Grace. Granted by God, to be cherished and loved forever.”

Grace crushed her face into her pillow, drowning it in tears. Her body quivered as those words resounded in her head. Her father’s face, his wide beloved smile, his ever-welcoming arms, his kind voice, his everything.

Scarlett fever was not enough to tear her family apart. It grabbed her mother’s life when she was a mere five years old. A babe left in the care of her father. She could still recall her father’s grief for months. And as Grace grew, she knew why. It had not been easy for her parents to conceive her. When she finally came, everyone thought, surely, the mother could not carry her to term.

Her health had been frail but somehow, Grace was brought into the world. The whispers urging her father to take an illegitimate mistress died. The ones laughing at her mother, quenched. For five years, their little family blossomed. After that, her father stood tall beside her, like an infallible tree guiding her through life.

Only now, he was gone.

Her heart craved his presence, just once more. That one time, she would… what? What could she have possibly done? She had no premonition, other than the persistent dread pounding in her heart. When she saw him off, it was like always, with tears blurring her vision and a prayer on her lips.

“Did you hear me?!” Grace screamed at her ceiling. “Didn’t you hear? Didn’t you hear God? I wanted him back safe!” She shouted, her voice hoarse.

Her maid knocked, but Grace refused to pay mind to her concerned enquiries. She would stay ensconced in her bedchambers, until another messenger arrived. Until the news changed. Until her father’s benevolent voice and warm heart suffused the house with happiness once more.

The maid knocked again. Grace swiped a hand over her face and drew a deep breath. It did nothing to calm her nerves but at least, her heart had stopped thundering. She swallowed a lump gathered in her throat and called, “Come in, Mary.”

She was seated when Mary poked her head in. Trepidation clouded her expression. Everyone treated her like glass ready to break and she couldn’t blame them. She struggled to rein in the storm.

“It is fine,” she said softly.

“I… I could tell the gentlemen that you’re resting. They would not object.”

“No, I have put this off for as long as I can. It is time to face my responsibilities.”

Mary’s eyes clouded and Grace couldn’t bear to look at her. Otherwise, her own tears would come as an unceasing torrential downfall. Mary had come to live with them when she was five, around the same time Grace’s mother had passed. She knew the woman understood her loss more than anyone else. Grace inhaled and placed her palms on the flat surface of the dresser. “I would like a single braid please.”

“Certainly. May I wash your face first?”

Grace gazed at her pale face. Her lips were without color, dark circles surrounded her eyes, her nose was tinged red. The only light in her dark brown eyes came from the lamp, otherwise, they were dull, bloodshot, and lifeless. She was in no mood to face Owen or Ethan. But her father would have wanted her to be strong.

About twenty minutes later, Grace met the men in the main hall. She was draped in a simple black dress, black gloves and a dark veil shielding half her face. Her thick dark hair had been tugged into a single braid down her back.

They rose as she entered. Mr. Williams, her Gaelic teacher, was also present and her eyes warmed as they flickered toward him. Pain reflected in his drooping eyes. Having lost a best friend, the oldest friend he had, made him just as hollow as Grace. He tilted his head, opening his arms to her. Stifling a sob, Grace went to him and hugged him for a shorter time than she liked. Cut short by Owen’s loud cough.

“How are you, my dear?” Mr. Williams asked in a hushed voice.

Grace couldn’t force her lips to rise in a smile. She nodded then looked toward Owen just as a serving girl entered. Owen had one of those faces one forgot very quickly, if not for his nasty attitude, which made him memorable in the longer run. Nasty toward those he considered below his station. Grace supposed it was down to his own lack of confidence.

To the serving girl, he barked, “leave the room. We will call when you are needed.”

She looked to Grace and she gave a slight nod. With a small smile, the girl walked back to the kitchen. Ethan cleared his throat as Grace took the single chair opposite them, which faced the window. It was her father’s favorite. Several nights had been spent within the confines of these cushions, his voice right next to her eyes as he read adventurous stories to her.

Now, she basked in his scent, using that to calm her as Ethan opened his mouth to speak. He was not a bad fellow. Those transparent blue eyes, coal-dark hair and wide shoulders distinguished him among other gentlemen, especially in contrast to Owen’s big nose and black eyes. The women swooned in the presence of the tiny mole above Ethan’s upper lips, composing little poems about kissing it away. In addition, he was her father’s most trusted confidant and second-in-command. A position he had risen to in less than three years.

“Have you been well?” Ethan asked.

“I-”

“Of course not, Mr. Smith,” Williams said lightly. He’d always liked Ethan, for reasons best known to him. “I think you should proceed to the agenda of the evening.”

“And I think you should know your place,” Owen pranced to Ethan’s needless defense. It was his primary job, other than being a social nuisance, which included bedding as many women as he could.

“Gentlemen, please.” Grace said, curiosity prickling her ears. “I will call for tea…”

“I would prefer something stronger,” Owen interrupted. Grace rang the little bell by her side and the same serving girl reappeared. She repeated the order and when she left, she asked about this agenda.

“No, I just want to know how you are carrying on, dear,” Ethan said softly. Grace’s eyebrows rose. Never had he spoken to her with such an informal affection. Could it be that with the loss of her father, came the disrespect of his subordinates?

“I am well,” she lied.

Ethan took something wrapped in black cloth by his side. Grace frowned at it, then at him. He cleared his voice and rubbed his palms down his legs. “There is no good way to say this.” He slid out the long object and placed it on the table. Slower than a snail, he unwrapped it. Grace stifled her shock as she gazed upon a sharp blade.

Its blade bore caked, brownish blood. The hilt had the face of a lion carved into it. Her breathing became fast as her lungs sought for fast-diminishing air. She blinked rapidly, fighting with everything in her, to hold back tears. That was her father’s blood. On the weapon that’d taken his life.

Ethan cleared his voice once more, waving a hand at the sword while Williams rose to stand by her side. She had requested to see it, yet she could not force herself from the chair to touch it.

“This is a sgian dubh, a Scottish adaga. We found it next to him. I saw your dad at the clearing with another Scottish warrior and I called for reinforcements, but it was too late.”

Grace feels like her breathing stopped for a second. Ethan spoke again.

“However, we recognize the man that was closest to him at the time. He dressed in the colors of clan Hay and the weapon has a lion symbol. During battle, he was the one commanding the Scots and, since we heard that the Laird of the clan himself has been sick for a while now, the man is probably his son.”

Grace clenched her fists in her lap, thinking of that man. The vile person who’d deprived her of her father.

“You should remember that it is war,” Williams said, noticing her clenched fists. Grace disagreed. It was her father, and the person who murdered him did not deserve to share the air with her.

“I found him… we found him… just before…” Ethan paused, closed his eyes and inhaled, in a show to gather his feelings. “Anyway, even in his last moment, he was thinking about you.”

Grace allowed a trembling smile as a single tear slid past her defenses. “Thank you.”

Ethan smiled at her, and Grace could sense that his mood was improving.

“I have another thing to tell you Grace. Good news that will hopefully make you feel better. Of course, I was preparing something more romantic but, due to the circumstances, I believe it is best to let you know. Last time I came to visit your father here before the battle, I asked for your hand and… and he said yes.” her eyes flew to his face.

“What?!” Grace blurted, foregoing all of her training. “That is impossible.” Ethan shrank back as though he’d been slapped. He never thought he would receive such a fervent rejection. She glanced at Williams, wanting to hear that it was a lie. Williams placed a hand on her shoulder for a moment.

“He speaks the truth,” he said quietly.

Grace gripped the arms of the chair, waves of shock rippling through her. “No. My father would never make such arrangements without telling me. He…” She knew he must have had a will, every soldier did. But she knew nothing of its content.

“He would have told you, eventually. While he had his will prepared, Commander was an incredible soldier, so his death was a shock to us.” Owen spoke quickly, his words falling over each other.

“I’ve had enough of this, gentlemen.” Grace said, attempting to get out of her seat.

“Ethan please,” Owen said. “Caution your fiancée before she does something regrettable. You know how women are”

Fiancée? Was it already decided?

Grace had the mind to damn them all to eternity. Only the face of her father helped curb her annoyance. She should have known one of these men would swoop in to take her inheritance. The fact that it was Ethan, however, was beyond disappointing. She had expected more from the man who fought by her father’s side.

She leveled Owen with an icy gaze. “Mr. Owen. I am not a horse to be cautioned by a man. You will speak to me with the decorum I deserve.”

He turned red. In the midst of his tantrum, the serving girl arrived with the drinks. Her eyes flared on seeing the sword. Wordlessly, she placed the tray beside it and walked out. At her departure, Ethan unfolded a piece of paper from his coat pocket.

“This is a document signed by your father, the day I asked for your hand. In it, he declares that it would be a perfect arrangement to have you as my wife. But I want you to know, Miss Dankworth, even without these stipulations, I will make it my priority to see that you are happy and without a single worry.”

Grace made a sudden grab for the paper, “Let me see that.”

Owen slapped down Ethan’s hand, narrowly missing hers, before she could collect it. “Ethan would not lie to you. Have you not known him long enough?”

Grace opened her mouth to rebuke strongly, etiquette be damned. This was her future in discourse. However, it seemed Ethan noted her escalating temper and signaled his lackey to wait outside. Grumbling, Owen grabbed a glass of whisky and did as he was asked. Calmer now, Ethan walked to her and passed the paper.

There it was. Her father’s sloped handwriting and his crescent moon seal. This was not a horrible nightmare she dreamed up in her despair. She looked from one man to the other, her chest rising and falling fast. Whenever she had thought about marriage, she had imagined it to be with a man who made her heart race. Someone whose presence alone wrought a smile from her lips. Someone who she would care deeply for, and who would feel the same. She wanted love, in its purest form and this arrangement robbed her of that privilege.

Ethan, who was almost twice her age, was not in that category. Although he had always had great conduct, both with her father and with her. She had no doubt that he would make some woman happy. But not her.

“It has just been a few days since my father’s burial. I cannot marry you nor do I have the strength to discuss the implications.”

“I understand, Grace, if I may use your name. However, you are aware of the perilous times. I am only allowed a handful of days to mourn the Commander before I am called back to the station. I am afraid we have to proceed quickly. As you know, soldiers cannot predict the length of their lives.”

Grace’s vision swam. “How many days?” her voice came out quieter than the storm clashing in her head.

“Two days.”

Grace made an involuntary sound that was a cross between a squeak and a laugh. She lurched from the chair. “Please, help yourselves. My head… is aching.”

She fled the room. Halfway to her own chamber, she veered towards her father’s study. It would be hard for her to confront the place where he had spent much time, but the situation was dire. Grace locked the door behind her, afraid that she might be seen by Mr. Williams or Ethan. She had to confirm the facts on her own.

Grace knew that her father’s testament was hidden in a locked drawer, since he had told her about it in case she ever needed it. At the time, Grace had not liked the way her father talked about his death, but she could see now that he had just been looking out for her. The key was hidden inside her father’s favorite book, the one he read to her before bed.

Grace’s heart sank as she read the will. In it, her father made it clear that his fortune and properties would be passed on to Grace’s husband after his death, emphasizing the need for her to marry soon so she would be taken care of. In case he died before the marriage, her inheritance would be administered by a man of his utmost trust, Mr. Williams. Grace knew about the will, but she never would have thought he had harbored such plans. She felt trapped by the situation and even worse knowing she would never be able to discuss it with her father. Grace forced herself not to cry again because she had to think clearly. She had to come up with a plan of her own.

In her room, Grace made a beeline to the chest of clothing in the corner, then the wardrobe. Her mind refused to fully understand what had just transpired among her and Ethan. Her father had loved her more than anyone else in the world, of that, she was beyond certain. So she could not understand why he would agree to give her hand in marriage without telling her.

With everything happening, a wedding was the least of her concerns. The killer pervaded her mind, leaving room for little else. Her father should have trusted her capabilities instead of giving her away in such a manner.

Weren’t her knees scraped and her hands calloused from all the training she had received from him? He taught her to be independent, to fight with a sword, ride hard and fast, and more than anything to have her own damned mind. He cherished every single breath she took. Her father’s doting was the very reason why she had to avenge his death. Grace was determined. She would devise a plan that would help her escape the wedding to find the killer.

The sky outside her window had gone dark by the time her attire was complete. She wore a white blouse with puffed sleeves and a wide neckline, a plaid corset, flaring out to a full blue skirt. Her hair was brushed out and cascaded down her back, in luxurious waves.

At a glance, she resembled a highlander lass. From all the books she’d read, blending into their culture would be… well it would have to be like a second skin, which was rather impossible. But she would do her best to fit in, until she found that bastard. Under the dark sky, Grace picked her way through the familiar grounds. As her feet led her toward the stables, Grace’s heart bled. Despite her conviction regarding this forlorn mission, she wept in silence for the home she was deserting.

She hoped her father would understand and forgive if he could see her. At the stables, she reached into her pocket, finding the carrot she’d hidden there. She fed her horse Minnie while keeping a look out for the stablemaster. At this time, he was usually passed out drunk, but one of the hands could come. After Minnie had chewed the last piece, Grace hurried to saddle her. She also hid the money she’d managed to pilfer.

She led her from the stall. Once the fresh air hit her face, a voice floated in with it. “Where are you going?”

Grace jumped, her spirit nearly fleeing from her body in fright. Ensuring that her bag was hidden atop Minnie, she turned to Harris. In the reflection of a full moon, his usual warm smile was missing. She’d grown up without biological siblings, but thanks to Harris she had never felt the absence.

How many times had she and Harris, Mr. William’s son, snuck around enjoying a fun childhood, playing outside with the horses? They had grown up like siblings and yet, she could not count on his help this time.

“Oh bollocks! Harris, you gave me a good fright. Out for a ride, what else? Why are you skulking about? B-back from the station already?”

“My father was worried you’d do something rash.” He looked at her horse, then her odd dress. “Appears he was right.”

“Well, he’s wrong. Did he tell you about the will? I’m to be married to Mr. Smith,” she rushed on without waiting for his reply. “I just need some air. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Concern flickered in his gaze, “I could come with you.”

“Please,” Grace scoffed, waving her arm. “I have a steadier hand than you. I’m fine. Be back before you know it.” She stepped on the saddle and heaved herself up to the seat.

“I just let you think that you have a steadier hand than mine.” He cocked his head to the side, scanning her appearance closely. “Grace, what are you wearing then?” Exasperation filling his voice.

Grace reddened. He might really follow and in turn foil her plans. “My father just died. I don’t want pitying glances and attention. This perfectly conceals who I am.” She forced a jolly tone. “Don’t you think?” She jiggled her shoulders. A hesitant smile lifted Harris’s thin lips. He took a step back.

He nodded once, “In that case, I will wait here until your return. Please don’t be late or I would be forced to follow you.”

Relief flooded Grace as she took a last glance at her dearest friend. She flashed a smile then gave Minnie a light kick. She rode hard into the field separating her home from the road. In a few minutes, it was swallowed by the woods surrounding it. She had one goal. To avenge her father’s death.

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Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye will have to marry eventually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lorraine knew in an instant what it would be about.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

Drumnadrochit, 1594

“Hurry up, lass!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing here!” she heard someone shout.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This way,” Graham called to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I ken,” Creighton told him.

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

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

“I ken,” Brodric smiled.

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

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

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

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

Prologue

Scottish Highlands, June 1431

Joan of Arc was dead. The English had burned her thrice over and raked the ash with spears to make a bold showing that she had not survived, and so that nobody could claim she had escaped by the grace of God, and thus preserve her mythos. After it was done, they dumped her ashes in the Seine, so that her bones could not be made into relics. Millions mourned her. Thousands took up arms in her name, and hundreds died for it, again, and again, and again.

And so, the wars of the continent raged on. England and France, Burgundy and Castille, the Emirates of Iberia, and the patchwork of German duchies that some called the Holy Roman Empire tore themselves and each other into pieces, put themselves back together, and then went at it again.

A constantly shifting patchwork of alliances kept the losers propped up, and held the winners back, and so what history would come to define as the Hundred Years’ War continued to grind down the populations of these nations, consuming their resources and their patriotism, disrupting their economies, devastating their farmlands, and violently paving the historical path toward the Age of Enlightenment.

Scotland had never been a world leader, never a top contender or a main combatant, but she was fierce, proud, and not a hundred years before, she had won her independence through brute force, strong leadership, and the sheer willpower of her people. Now, she endured a new era, one of finding her place in the scheme of global politics, governing her people without incurring the title of tyranny, and defending her hard-won borders.

At the center of the continental wars were the battles betwixt England and France, or more appropriately, the battles between the House of Lancaster, and the House of Valois, respectfully. Everyone around them was swept up in the colossal conflict, and Scotland was no different, and it was no surprise that she sided with the House of Valois, eager to keep England in a diminished state.

Scottish mercenaries sailed to France and found among that war-torn world steady work and a mutual hatred for the English. They swung their swords and thrust their pikes among the backdrop of burning churches, ruined villages, and boggy battlefields; and many fell.

It was that support for the French that saw a rise of English raids across the border into the Lowlands, and then in turn, Scottish raids into Northumbria. And so, while the nation of Scotland was not at war, the people of Scotland were. Mercenaries returned home with wounds inside and out, and young men rode the border with spears and swords in hand, dealing out death and meeting it with regularity.

It was a dark time, and a sad world, full of strife and suffering, violence and cruelty, but amidst all the doom and gloom brought on by royal ambition, there were still sparks of happiness. They were hidden away in the vast Highlands, untouched by the conflicts of the continent, spared from the roaming bands of soldiers and their veracious appetite for villagers’ cattle and grain.

One of these places was a particularly bright spark of late, for they were preparing festivities, and all the residents were elated. It had been some time since they last gathered in good cheer, and the premise of a party was exhilarating, especially with news from France drifting in piecemeal, darkening moods and dampening spirits, and so to bustle about, moving hogs and working looms with the thought of celebration driving them, the spark burned even brighter.

It was that bustle and hum of happy energy that the warrior looked down upon as he crested the last rise, his ragged highland hair whipping around in the rough wind, his brow furrowed as he squinted through the wind and the bouncing pale light. There were a few scattered scars across his cheeks, caused by the shattering of arrows on plate armor and the shrapnel of the shafts flying up in the fray of battle. His eyes were resting hawks, ready to fly from their perches at the drop of a pin.

He wore a fine tunic embroidered with a fleur-de-lis, which would have marked him out as a Frenchman were it not for his brooding Scottish smile, his flowing red hair, and his broad, solid build that was synonymous with Highlanders. His horse held a great sword on one side of the saddle, and a shield on the other side, battered and brutalized from combat, but he had no baggage train.

There was no wagon to carry crates of armor, or spoils of war. There was no escort, no entourage of compatriots that had stood beside him in the battle lines, and absolutely no grandeur to his return, but that was the way he had intended it. There was no need to make a splash. All he wanted to do was to return home and see his brother married.

He spurred his horse down the dirt track toward the village, and the keep standing above it, a fine, six-story tower with a small wall encompassing the base. He had seen many castles throughout Europe, and even England, that would put the small keep to shame, turn it into a symbol of backwater towns, an irrelevant place for an irrelevant Laird. But to the warrior, it brought only a bright smile, for he was almost home, and home was all he had wanted for a long time.

As he approached the village, he began to draw a few eyes, and then a few more, and soon enough there was a small throng of people in the main thoroughfare, bringing down their hoods and hats as they murmured to each other about his identity. Some recognized him immediately, others doubted it, his appearance undeniably changed by his violent travels, and so they bickered in hushed tones as his horse strolled into the center of them.

The warrior took note of an older woman, who had a black armband fastened upon her clothes, and a smaller child clutching close to one of her legs. The Scottish wind picked up once more as he drew to a halt, whipping the woman’s hood back up against her hair, and the crowd fell silent as he looked to her from horseback.

“For whom d’ye mourn?” the warrior asked, his eyes dark and piercing above his scarred cheeks.

“For me son,” she replied, and then lifting her chin with a bit of pride, she added, “and the lady Joan,” making a cross as she spoke. “God rest her soul.”

“God save ye,” the warrior replied, his voice solemn and his eyes suddenly sad. He reached into his coin purse, fastened close beneath his riding cloak, and fished forth a roughhewn coin of the French crown. He leaned down and handed her the coin, a hefty piece of metal that was worth more than what she could earn in a week at the looms.

“Bless ye, Laird,” the woman said, bowing her head low.

“It is him,” a villager muttered loud enough for the warrior to hear. “He’s back!”

“Bless ye for yer suffering,” he said beneath his breath as he sat upright once more in the saddle.

“The Laird’s brother has returned!” went up the cry, and many of the village folk began rejoicing, hugging one another, and waving their hands in the air in cheer.

“Welcome home,” the woman said, and he saw her son’s reflection in her eyes, another Scotsman who would take the low road back home, who fell in a foreign land for a fight not his own.

The warrior lifted his chin, looking ahead to the keep as the crowd cheered alongside him. There were banners waving in the strong breeze, but not from the wall. The stables were crowded. Guests had come for the wedding. No doubt there would be plenty of neighboring Lairds, little in their power but great in their expectation for hospitality. The keep would be packed, and the hall would be bustling.

“What did ye expect?” the warrior asked his horse, aptly named Gaisgeachd, for the bravery he’d showed in battle. “We knew it was a wedding.”

Man and horse advanced through the town, slowly leaving the host of happy villagers in their wake. The road to the keep was low and winding, sloping up from the market and the huts below to the small hill it sat atop. It would never stand up to any kind of siege weapon, that was not what it was truly for. It was more a symbol of stature, a sign for all the village folk to look up and say, “Och, that is the man that leads us.”

It had seen better days, the warrior noticed upon the approach. There were a few birds’ nests tucked about the stonework, and the remnants of last night’s rain clung in clumsy puddles all around the low wall. There were a few guards at the gate, leaning up against the support beams of the gatehouse, and they shuffled to attention as he approached, straightening themselves as much as possible and trying to quickly appear formidable.

“Halt there!” one of them barked, stepping forward, holding up his spear.

“I am here for the wedding,” the warrior said, pulling his horse to a halt at the gate.

“Well, sure ye are,” the guard snarled. “And who might ye be then?”

The second guard realized the answer to the question before the warrior answered, and his face went pale, instantly regretting his leader’s gruffness. He shuffled up behind the lead guard and whispered something into his ear, who also paled.

“M’Laird,” he said, lowering his weapon. “Forgive me, I dinnae recognize ye.”

“Ye are forgiven,” the warrior said with a smile. It had been a long time, after all.

“Open the gate!” they hollered up, and shortly the steel bars rose with a great groan, and the wooden doors behind it were unbarred and let open.

The warrior rode into the yard and drank deep the smell of the hilltop breeze that ran around the length of the outer wall, watching the bustle of the keep unfolding around him. There were plenty of villagers running about, rolling barrels, and hauling tarps, hitching ropes, and tamping dirt.

It wasn’t hard to spot the Laird himself, standing up on a small crate, directing the movement of a large wooden table and the erecting of the pavilion. He was a large man, no longer as tough in the middle as he used to be but he wasn’t fat by any sense of the word.

His hair was tied back neatly and fell in two long sections over each of his shoulders, complementing his freshly groomed beard and his fine clothes. His tunic was accentuated by the way he puffed out his chest and held up his hands, waving the villagers about as they strained beneath the great wooden table, trying to set it just right beneath the pavilion.

“Just there!” he bellowed. “No, come on, a little tae the left! Come on now!”

“Och, leave it, Watt!” the warrior bellowed, dismounting near the gate, and advancing on foot toward the Laird. “It looks just fine!”

The Laird stopped, frozen by the warrior’s voice. He turned slowly, his hands still raised up, and a look of giddy excitement quickly taking over his face. He stopped when he locked eyes with the advancing warrior, his eagerness quickly breaking out into a wild smile.

“I dinnae believe it,” the Laird said, his smile now as big as it could be. “Me brother Bryce! Back from France! Come here, ye blaigeard!”

Watt jumped down from the crate and bounded the rest of the distance to Bryce, taking fast hold of his shoulders, and staring deeply into his eyes as he held him there in the yard.

“I am glad tae see ye, Bryce,” Watt said softly, his grip relaxing a little bit.

“Did ye think I would miss yer wedding?” Bryce asked in a teasing tone, his own smile beginning to take hold. There was a small cluster of peasants gathering around the reunion, looking upon the Laird’s long-lost brother, smiling and patting one another on the back at the warm moment.

“I dinnae ken if I would ever see ye again,” Watt said, squeezing Bryce’s shoulders once more before finally letting go. “When I heard of the Lady Joan, I feared the worse.”

“Well, here I am,” Bryce said. “Ye’ve certainly got this place in a tizzy, have ye nae?”

“Och well,” Watt said with a casual shrug. “A spectacle is good for morale.”

“Aye,” Bryce chuckled. “In that, ye may be right.”

“Come! Come inside!” Watt said, throwing his arm around Bryce’s shoulder. “D’ye have nae trunks? Let’s get ye sorted.”

“It is just me and meself,” Bryce answered, pacing alongside his brother toward the keep. He looked back to see that Gaisgeachd was taken care of.

“What o’ yer armor?” Watt asked, raising an eyebrow. “Yer clothes?”

“I sold everything,” Bryce replied. “Save me sword.”

“Always the odd one, were ye nae?” Watt asked. “How was the voyage?”

“Rough seas up the coast,” Bryce replied, now walking in stride with his brother. “But a fine ride from there.”

“The rain never did bother ye,” Watt said as they approached the keep’s door.

“It’s just rain, is it nae?” Bryce shot back, and they crossed the threshold into the keep.

“Ye will be a light at the feast,” Watt went on, leading his brother up the stairs. “Everyone will want tae hear of France.”

“Then everyone will be disappointed,” Bryce said. “I have nae wish tae speak on it.”

“Bah, ye’ll come around,” Watt said with a laugh. Bryce frowned as he took another step. He did not think he would come around. There were things he had seen, things he had done, and other things he had endured, that never needed to come into conversation again. At least, that was the way he felt about it. France had been a nightmare from which he had only just clawed his way out, and he hastened to leave it behind. There had been more than one reason for his return. “Everyone loves a war hero.”

“I’m nae a hero,” Bryce mumbled, coming to a halt behind his brother on the second landing. His mind flashed briefly back to the fields of France, and he could almost smell the thatch rooftops catching fire, almost hear the wailing of the horses and the clambering of men. He did not feel like a hero. Instead, he felt as if he needed to wash. But he had tried that. Many times.

“Ye remember the McAdams lass?” Watt asked, turning to face him on the landing.

“Little Lorna?” Bryce replied, smirking as a few scattered memories floated through his mind. “What about her?”

“Nae so little anymore,” Watt said, rolling his eyes. “She’s here, along with all the other local notables.”

“D’ye have enough ale?” Bryce asked.

“Time will tell,” Watt replied and then paused. Wincing, he said, “She still loves me, I think.”

“Poor ye,” Bryce laughed, clapping his brother on the back. It was good to speak of light things. Happy things.

“Will ye do something for me?” Watt asked, his face growing serious for just a moment in his whirlwind of festivity.

“What?”

“Keep her company tonight,” Watt said. “If me bride sees her fawning, it may get me in trouble, and I dinnae need that on me wedding night.”

“Yer serious?” Bryce asked, surprised. He had never known his brother to take such things into consideration.

“Aye, I’m serious,” Watt said with a nod. “Will ye do that fer me?”

“Of course,” Bryce said with a foolish grin. It was touching to see his brother so concerned with his bride to be, and to be so aware of the small social scene. Time had indeed changed.

“Good man,” Watt said, clapping his hands. Then he began leading Bryce down the corridor off the second landing. “Yer chambers are untouched, I hope ye can make yerself right at home again.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard,” Bryce replied.

“Right then,” Watt said, and they drew to a halt in front of Bryce’s door. “I shall see ye tonight.”

“And I ye,” Bryce said. They shared a quiet moment in front of the door, and Watt clapped Bryce once more on the shoulder.

“It is good tae have ye home,” he said at last, and then went off into the keep.

Bryce stood alone in the corridor for a moment, looking at the door to his chambers. It looked the same as it ever had. He pushed it open tentatively, looking into the small room. There was a bed, a table, a water basin, and a hanging dish of coals for light and warmth. The hearth was wide, and a fire was already crackling inside. It was exactly as he had left it. It stood like a time capsule, a memory of a long-lost time, a time before all the chaos of the continent.

It was a comfort, and it was haunting. Even riding through the village, he had seen that nothing had changed, and now standing in his chambers, the feeling was driven home with a heavy thump. It was still and quiet, like a tomb of his old life.

Bryce walked slowly to the window and opened the shutters. He looked down upon the yard, and slowly lifted his eyes up to the wall, and then out to the villages, and ultimately the Highlands beyond. For better or for worse, he was home.

Chapter 1

Lorna McAdams paced fervently in the guest chamber that she and her friend occupied, wringing her hands, and picking at the ends of her flowing blonde hair. She was of medium height, with a short button nose that complemented her brown eyes and elegant frame. But she could not sit still for even a moment. There was too much at stake.

“Will ye stop toying with yer hair?” her friend and lady’s maid, Kyla, asked, sitting up a bit in her chair. “I’ve only just got it sorted!”

“Och how can I, Kyla?” Lorna fussed, walking over to the water basin and splashing a little bit of the cool liquid on her face. “It’s all just happening so fast! I donnae ken what tae make of it!”

“Donnae make anything of it,” Kyla scoffed. Kyla was smaller than Lorna, with red hair and freckles, and an adoring, sly smile. “Why do ye always have tae fuss?”

“Fuss?” Lorna scoffed. “How can I nae? He’s getting married in a matter of hours! Just look at him down there!” Lorna returned to the window, glancing down, watching Watt pointing around, guiding the peasants carrying a large wooden table.

“He certainly looks the part,” Kyla remarked, walking up beside Lorna at the window. “What a fine tunic,” she teased.

“Yer nae helping anything,” Lorna said bitterly, her hands coming back together in frustration.

“And neither are ye!” Kyla shot back. “We’re going tae the wedding, and ye’re going tae enjoy yerself!”

“Och come off it,” Lorna said, her eyes lingering on Watt down in the yard. She had loved him for years, wrapped up in his charisma and kind eyes, and now she had to watch him be married. She had confessed her love to him once, but he had rebuffed her, and she had carried that around for several years.

“I am going down tae talk with him,” Lorna said, biting her lower lip.

“Ye are nae,” Kyla replied, casting a tough look her way. “Ye need tae be realistic.”

“Realistic?” Lorna laughed. “What is realistic, is that after he is married, he will never speak tae me again!”

“Ye are being childish,” Kyla said in a higher, taunting tone. “This love ye hold for him is nae real love.”

Lorna ignored that. Kyla didn’t understand anything about how she felt about Watt. She never had. “I have tae talk with him. One last time,” Lorna insisted. “It is the only way!”

“Way for what?” Kyla asked. “Ye will never be married tae him, ye need tae let it go! Turn yer eyes tae someone else, someone who cares for ye. Yer parents would want that!”

“Cares for me?” Lorna laughed. “And who in the next hundred miles does that? Besides him there.” They both turned back to the window and watched Watt for a moment more as he stood up on a crate to better direct the wedding preparations.

“He is handsome, though, is he nae?” Kyla murmured, and they both watched for a while longer, Lorna still wringing her hands together. Then their eyes were caught by a lone rider entering the yard, strong and stoic. He dismounted and approached Watt, and the two embraced, the rider’s hood falling down to his back, and both of the women took a breath.

“My God,” Kyla whispered. “He’s back.”

They both watched silently as Bryce and Watt conversed briefly and then began to walk towards the keep.

“Little Bryce MacDowell,” Kyla said as they passed out of view and entered the keep. “He certainly has grown.”

“He has been gone for years,” Lorna said.

“I heard he fought with Joan of Arc at Orleans,” Kyla went on.

“One hears all kinds of things,” Lorna said bitterly, her cheeks turning a bit red.

“What’s the matter?” Kyla asked. “Ye’re not happy he’s back?”

“He was never kind tae me,” Lorna said, trying to stop blushing.

Why did he have tae come, today of all days?

“Times change,” Kyla mused, looking Lorna up and down. “Perhaps his time abroad has made him something new.” Kyla had no clue how correct she was, and no framework to conceptualize the depths of his transformation. They lingered on the thought of Bryce for a time, until Lorna’s mind quickly turned back to Watt, and she felt the urgency of his wedding once more.

“I have tae speak with him,” she said again, trying to refocus her efforts. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it, or else the moment would pass forever, and he would forever be out of reach.

“Lorna!” Kyla said, reaching out to grab her arm. “Ye will nae!”

“I will!” Lorna said, pulling away. If Lorna was one thing, it was determined. When she decided to do something, she did it, no matter what was in her way.

“Lorna!” Kyla tried again to call out, but Lorna was through the door, hustling toward the stairs with her skirts held up to avoid tripping.

She went down the corridor, passing the fading tapestries that hung over the tight brickwork, and reached the third landing. Then she stopped. She didn’t know if Watt’s room was up or down, but him being the Laird, she decided it was unlikely he would have to walk up so many stairs every day, so she went down to the second landing, where more chambers could be found. But she wasn’t even sure he would be there yet. Surely, he would be speaking with his long-lost brother after such a time. She turned back and ran down the lower corridor. One of the doors opened to her right, and she collided unceremoniously with the person exiting.

“Oh!” Lorna exclaimed, stumbling backward, and catching herself against the corridor wall, feeling a strong hand on her waist keeping her from falling. “Pardon me, I-,” and as she looked up at the individual, she froze.

Bryce stood there in the doorway, looking solemn but a little surprised, and as they locked eyes, his face curled into a gentle smile. She could feel his hand still holding her side, and she gripped his thick wrist and swiftly pushed it away. He seemed to find it amusing, to judge by the smirk on his face.

“Lorna McAdam,” he said smoothly, looking her up and down, and Lorna found herself blushing once more, caught off guard by both the collision, and the appearance of her childhood acquaintance.

“I saw ye ride in,” she said, straightening up and brushing her gown straight with a quick movement of her hand. “Welcome home.”

“Thank ye,” he said, stepping into the hallway and slowly shutting the chamber door behind him. He seemed taller and bigger than when she’d seen him last. Hardened in muscle and in other ways by the glint in his eye. They stood silently for a pause, trying to sort out what to say each other. Bryce cleared his throat and shuffled his feet a little as he squared himself in the hallway.

“Ye’re all grown up,” he said awkwardly. Clearly his time away had not made him more socially adept.

“As are ye,” Lorna said, and still the awkwardness dragged on. “It’s been a long time.”

“Six years,” Bryce said, loosening his posture just a little.

“I heard ye fought with Joan of Arc,” Lorna said, remembering that Kyla had mentioned it earlier, and at a total loss for what else to say; but as she said it, she saw his face darken, and he seemed to withdraw into his own mind.

“Well then,” he said, shaking his head a bit. “Where were ye off tae in such a hurry?”

Lorna hesitated. He was not the boy that had left, now he was a tall, strong, mysterious, and the encounter had completely thrown her from her mission of intercepting Watt before the wedding. She felt a bit foolish and found she could not tell Bryce the truth. What ever would he think of her?

Then she thought of all the horrible pranks he had played on her when they were children being raised together and questioned why she even cared about what he thought.

He is the last person whose opinion I should care about!

“Nowhere in particular,” she said, deciding on a change of course, lifting her chin just a little bit higher, but it did nothing to compete with his brawny height and wide shoulders.

“Just hurrying along, eh?” he asked, slowly letting his smile creep back onto his face which made him look a little devilish.

“I suppose,” she answered, looking for a reason to leave, feeling the awkward moment compounding into an uncomfortable situation.

“Ye ken,” Bryce said, leaning up against the wall while he shifted his feet a bit. He crossed his arms, and Lorna’s eyes flicked over the width of his chest before returning to his face. “Me brother asked me tae keep ye company tonight.”

“He did what?” Lorna asked, suddenly intrigued once more and slightly embarrassed to be the center of Bryce’s attention, or Watt’s, for that matter.

“He said ye were still in love with him,” Bryce went on, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, as if he found all of this slightly funny. “Is that true?”

“What?” she asked, blinking in surprise. She felt herself blushing again, and she squirmed against the wall, trying to edge back toward the stairwell. “No, that is nae true. How could that be true?”

“Well, I donnae ken,” Bryce said. “How could it be?”

“This has all been very nice,” Lorna said, planning her escape. Her voice was higher now, and she could feel it trembling. She now felt duped, like a character with one line in a play, only put there to make the lead actors shine, and she was blushing uncontrollably as her hands came back together in a nervous expression.

“I shall see ye tonight,” Bryce said a little louder as she turned and bid a hasty retreat toward the stairs.

“And I ye,” Lorna replied, throwing a quick look over her shoulder as she went.

“Wait!” Bryce called, and she paused on the landing while he held her glance a moment longer. “Were ye nae going the other way?”

“Nae,” Lorna said in a hurry, looking away before the embarrassment became any more overwhelming. She hurried back up the stairs, leaving Bryce standing awkwardly in the hallway with a stupid smirk on his face. She went back up to the guest chambers and shut the door behind her, leaning against the door as it closed.

“Well, that was fast,” Kyla said, looking up from the water basin. “And so, what did he say?”

“He didnae say anything,” Lorna said shaking her head and trying to put some of her hair back into place. Why was her heart fluttering like mad?

“Is that so?” Kyla asked coyly, crossing to Lorna at the door. “What did ye say?”

“I didnae speak with him!” Lorna snapped, feeling hot and uncomfortable.

“Well now!” Kyla said with a smirk. “That’s good news.”

“I donnae want tae talk about it!” Lorna snapped, breaking away from Kyla and going to the window, looking down at the big tent that had just been raised.

“Fine then,” Kyla scoffed. “Have it yer way. Ye will drive me mad with this nonsense, ye ken.”

Lorna said no more, she just stared down at the pavilion, feeling lost and defeated. It was humiliating. Bryce had always been dogging her ever since they were children. Here they were again, on the eve of Watt’s wedding. Watt was still ignoring her, and Bryce was still following her around, looking at her as if she was a complete and utter fool. Had nothing changed?

She had hoped to come to this celebration, and through her fiery spirit and determined attitude, dance away with the man of her dreams, who would cast off his betrothed, and realize his love for her. Then they would live happily together as Laird and Lady MacDowell. She let out a breath, and she closed her eyes when it sounded more like a quiet whimper. How could she have been so foolish?

She thought of Bryce and his transformation in the years he had been gone. She had hated him as a child; well, hate was a strong word, but she had never necessarily enjoyed him being around. There was something different about him now. He had grown up, but there was more, something behind his eyes, something in his soul that had been changed irreparably. Though it was intriguing, she found him dark and brooding from their brief encounter. She dreaded spending an evening with him dogging her once more, while she looked on at Watt and his underserving lass with her bland personality. She put her hands together once more as she looked down, cracking her knuckles in one of her nervous tics.

“Are ye all right, love, truly?” Kyla asked, coming up behind her, and gently laying a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Lorna answered, watching another barrel of ale being rolled into the pavilion over the moist earth. “Tonight is going tae be just fine,” she said without really believing it, and frustrated that there was a little skip in her heart at the thought of spending the whole evening in the company of Bryce MacDowell.

Chapter 2

French wine was something all Scotsmen enjoyed. That was the one thing Bryce had chosen to put in his bags when he left France. He wanted to give a bottle to his brother as a wedding gift, and so he’d instructed a servant to leave it in the Laird’s chambers. Judging by his older brother’s current waistline, Watt was no stranger to imbibing. There was the church wedding and then the feast when the barrels of wine and ale had been officially tapped, and they were set to flowing.

Bryce was enjoying one such cup of wine on the edge of the festivities. He kept his eyes on the people that filled the space under the canvas pavilion. Night had fallen, but the heat from the day still lingered in the air. The alcohol and dancing were keeping people warm as well. His eyes moved from one happy figure to the next, judging, assessing. He couldn’t help it. After so many years in battle, one had to learn to size up one’s enemies. It was all part of the terrible “game” that he’d had to learn.

At least he didn’t get any bad feelings watching the dancers and musicians. The whole scene was filled with happiness and celebration. His brother was sitting at the head table, his arm around his young pretty wife, Lilias, daughter of a neighboring Laird. They were looking into each other’s eyes and smiling. Bryce watched as Watt leaned close to Lilias and whispered something in her ear.

Bryce tore his eyes away, an old feeling of desire for companionship running through him. He hadn’t thought of it in a long while, but now watching his brother as happy as he was, the traitorous feeling had returned. Just as quickly, Bryce squelched it down. His eyes landed on Lorna, and the heavy dark brooding feeling lifted with surprising ease.

Lorna was watching Watt and Lilias too, and suddenly, Bryce remembered his duty. He left the side of the festivities and walked up to Lorna. When he arrived at her side, she turned to him and shrank back, as if he was a dangerous animal ready to bite her.

“Och, here ye are then,” she said with a tiny blush in her cheeks.

Bryce chuckled, despite his earlier low mood. “Aye, as I said I would be. I couldnae find ye in the church, so I waited until the feasting time. Will ye nae eat?” He asked, looking around at the tables piled high with food.

Lorna shook her head with a frown, and Bryce was given a view of the shimmer of her blonde hair in the torchlight. It was golden of varying hues, and he was amazed at how much more grown up she’d become in the last six years. When she looked at him again, he could see the same gold flecks in her eyes, and he could feel himself sucking in a breath. The lass was beautiful, a fine lady, and she had filled out in all the womanly areas, making a man’s desire easily grow.

What is bloody wrong with ye? Ye have a job tae do, tae keep her away from Watt, nae lust after her.

“Have a drink then,” he said, and he led her to a table and bid her to sit, pouring her a cup of wine and putting it before her.

She snickered, “Are the servants nae supposed tae do those types of things? A Laird’s brother and famed warrior reduced tae pouring wine for the wedding guests.”

He grinned. Lorna had grown an even sharper tongue in the past years as well. He sat down across from her. The space was loud, full of laughter, footsteps, clinking of cups, and music, but sitting down, they seemed to have the room to themselves. He let his eyes drag to Watt and Lilias at the far end of the pavilion, and his brother was giving him a grateful nod.

“Pouring wine is hardly an effort. I will gladly do it anytime. For meself or a bonny lass.” He smiled again, catching Lorna’s eye, and she blushed, her lips parting. His eyes moved there.

Bonny mouth too.

He shook his head, trying to get himself under control. He hadn’t drunk this much in a long time. Perhaps it was the drink which was making him think things and notice things he hadn’t noticed earlier when bumping into her in the keep’s corridors.

She took a sip of the wine, looking at Watt and Lilias with a sigh. “I suppose it really was a fool’s errand after all. Kyla was right.” Bryce winced when he thought he could see Lorna’s eyes fill with tears.

“Kyla?” he asked softly, and she didn’t look at him.

“My companion. She told me it was foolish tae try my last chance tae convince Watt of me love.” She blushed deeply, looking up at Bryce. “I donnae ken why I am telling his brother, though.”

He shrugged, happy for the confidence. “Might as well. Ye return tae yer family tonight, aye?”

“Aye,” she said with a nod.

“Then all will be forgotten, and ye can move on with yer life. Watt and his bride will be here, and ye will be there. All will be finished. Ye donnae even have tae see him again if ye donnae wish.”

Lorna nodded sadly, and Bryce wondered if he’d said the right thing. She took a long draught of her wine, nearly finishing the cup, and Bryce felt a little guilty, belittling her affection for his brother. He’d known that she’d always looked at Watt with a sort of affection when they were younger, but he hadn’t thought it would ever grow to this sort of pining. The way she looked at Watt made Bryce’s chest tighten.

No woman had ever looked at him like that. Watt was a lucky man to have two beautiful women watching him as if he was Jesus incarnate. Bryce decided that a change of subject would do them both well. His head was swimming with all the wine he’d drunk, and he’d rather get away from all the noise and commotion. It brought up too many memories of warfare, and he’d rather forget all of them. Leave them like the ashes of Joan of Arc in the flowing, gray waters of the Seine. He was attempting to break from the past by returning to Scotland, but images still flitted through his brain.

He cleared his throat. “Do ye have a carriage tae take ye tae the McAdam keep, lass?” he asked, brushing a hand on the back of his neck. Being around Lorna again was making his neck itch. Especially since he didn’t know exactly how to speak to her now that she was a full-grown woman. And one full of sorrow.

“Aye.” She finished the rest of the wine and began to watch the dancers. Their boots and slippers were scudding across the pounded earth at the center of the pavilion. The rain from the night before had finally dried up, but it was still moist enough to keep the dust from rising at the fury of the dancer’s feet.

“Well, the night is upon us now,” he said stupidly, his eyes looking out at the darkness beyond the keep’s torchlights. “It isnae safe for a lass tae travel on her own.”

Lorna shrugged. “I will travel with my companion. The carriage will be ready for us.”

He swallowed and tried again. Something inside him was bidding him to do this. He wanted to help her, of course, but he also had no interest in staying in the castle with his brother the few days after his wedding, if Watt and Lilias were going to look at each other as they were. Besides, Watt would want him to do this. It would be distracting Lorna, would it not?

“Let me take ye, lass. Let me accompany ye. For safety.” He knew that it wasn’t exactly a profound explanation, but it would have to do. He had no intention of telling her how likely it was that Watt would appreciate his assistance.

She turned to him finally, and he could see the acceptance in her lovely, gold-flecked brown eyes. “Fine, then. Ye will accompany us. I would be happy for the added safety.”

Bryce grinned, and he finished the rest of his wine in one swig.

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

Prologue

Scottish Highlands

July 15, 1298

Elsy stared up at Connell, her green eyes welling with tears. She gripped his hands in hers, refusing to give in to sorrow no matter how much it threatened to swallow her whole. She could feel Laird MacArthur staring a hole in her back from behind. Nevertheless, she ignored him as she stood in the courtyard, where men were readying their horses, saying goodbye to their loves and their children, wishing them well.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father leaning against the stable’s door, his body thinner than before and his eyes sunken in. Rain drizzled from the heavens, soaking her garments. She knew she should return to the cottage, where it was cold and dry, but she couldn’t leave Connell, not when these were their last moments together. Something sparked in the dark, low hanging clouds in the distance, followed by low rumbling. The darkness hid any light the sun offered, which only made her worry all the more. The slight breeze chilled her skin and whipped her red hair lightly.

Connell stroked the hair away from her face. He gazed back at her with glimmering blue eyes, on the verge of tears, yet filled with adoration and love. His long dark hair was tied low at his nape and his leine and hose were covered in proper battle attire. Elsy thought it strange seeing him this way, given his gentle nature. She worried what battle would make of her love. Her gaze drifted to the sword resting at his hip and Elsy swallowed a sob as a dark thought incepted her mind, whispering to her what fate may bring them.

“Must ye go?” she asked, her voice no more than a whisper in the wind and her words trembling with the weight. What if he never returned? she wondered. It was a thought she kept pushing away, yet it returned no matter how much she tried not to think of it.

“Aye, my love,” said Connell, his gaze filling with sorrow as he continued stroking the side of her cheek. “Ye know I must.”

Elsy shook her head. “Don’t go.” She turned her gaze away from him, yet her hand remained fastened to his, knowing she would never be the first to leave him, not with death lingering on his shoulders.

“It’s for the best that I do,” said Connell, taking her chin and gently turning her face toward him. “Ye know we must break from England. Ye know I can’t leave my men to suffer on their own.”

“Aye, I know.” Elsy nodded vigorously. “But I still don’t want ye to go. What if ye never return? What if-”

“Do not fret about those things, my love.” Connell took both her hands, pulling her close to him and staring deep into her eyes. “If I am glorified in battle, Father will deny me naething. And then,” Connell smiled and pulled her closer.

Elsy closed her eyes as his lips pressed against her brow. All the tension in her shoulders loosened with that sweet, gentle touch and she released the breath she had been holding with a shudder.

“And then, we can finally be together, Elsy.”

His words made her heart flutter and her insides grow warm despite the cold. It was the only thing she prayed for—to be Connell’s wife. And it was the one thing they could never have. Elsy bit her bottom lip. A lone tear streamed down her cheek as she opened her eyes, her heart twinging as she met Connell’s beautiful gaze.

Elsy tried to memorize his eyes, his touch, the way his lips moved and how his voice felt against her ears. She wanted to remember everything about him, just in case he never returned. A sob threatened to overtake her, and her breath hitched as she tried to swallow it, finding it difficult.

“But we are together now,” she said, her voice quivering. “Can’t ye speak with yer father one last time? Maybe he will under-”

Connell’s slight shake of his head gave her words pause. She knew it didn’t matter, for she was nothing in the eyes of the great Laird MacArthur—Connell’s father. She was no lady. She had no dowry, no men, nothing. All she had was her love and her skill of healing, far too little in the eyes of a laird arranging his son’s future.

Her thoughts dissipated as Connell brought out a flimsy white handkerchief, given to him several summers before, soon after they met. That first moment their gazes fell upon each other, she knew they were destined to be and had spent her nights secretly embroidering the handkerchief. Her eyes caught on the red lettering: E.T. for Elsy Tandie.

“I will keep it with me, always,” said Connell while holding up the handkerchief between them.

Elsy forced a smile, yet she could not stop the worry and sorrow from filling her gaze. “May it bring ye luck,” she said while wiping the tears from her eyes. “May ye keep it close to yer heart always and know I will be praying for ye-” Elsy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to prevent another sob from taking over, “for yer safe return home.”

“Connell!” a soldier in the distance shouted, sitting on his massive steed and dressed in battle wear.

Several men clad in similar attire strode past, carrying swords and spears, their faces grim. A woman wailed from the corner of the courtyard, making the hair rise on the back of Elsy’s neck. She ground her teeth, fighting the need to break down. She needed to be strong for Connell, to have faith he would return to her.

She bristled at the feeling of someone standing near her and turned, finding Laird MacArthur. He smiled grimly at his son, placing a hand on his shoulder before saying softly, “It is time, lad.”

Connell sighed, his gaze drifting to the mud at their feet before giving a slight nod. “Aye, it is,” he said softly. Quickly, before his father could say anything more, he pressed a chaste kiss to Elsy’s palm before releasing her. “Farewell, Elsy.”

Elsy’s throat seized as Connell slowly turned away from her, stepping toward his black steed. “Wait!” Elsy rushed out, grabbing his hand and making him pause mid-step. She didn’t care who was watching, only that she may never see her love again. Without thinking twice about her actions, or how they would be perceived by the laird and his men, she wrenched Connell toward her and captured his lips. Her eyes pressed closed as she savored the taste of him. It was short, yet it was exactly what she needed. What they needed. When she opened her eyes, she nearly laughed at the wide-eyed look Connell was giving her and the flush in his cheeks.

“Please, Connell,” she said shakily while stroking a stray strand away from his face. “Please, come back to me. I don’t know how I will be able to get on, if ye don’t.”

Connell grabbed her hand, a smile tugging at his lips as he stared down at her, his gaze filled with determination. “I will always come back to ye, Elsy. I swear it on my father’s life, I will.”

Chapter One

Scottish Highlands

August 3, 1302

Connell leaned against the stone wall. The coolness seeped through his leine, prickling his skin and brittling his bones. The wind swept through the holes in the rooftops while rain drops dripped within the dilapidated great hall of the stone fortress. He shifted against the wall, his right eye adjusting to the shadows. His left eye, stabbed through with a knife four years before in the Battle of Falkirk, was covered with a black eyepatch. The loathsome thing shamed Connell. He was damaged, vile, something no father would wish to pass on his lineage to. Thankfully, he’d found others like himself—just as damaged and worn, just as cruel and misshapen—to aid in his need for revenge.

The men, six in total, gathered at a large wooden table. It stood at a tilt, one leg cracked. Connell wondered when it would finally succumb and fall to the dirtied floor that was stained with old blood and smelling of mold. His men listened intently as Glenton prattled on about the details of their next duty. A letter had arrived from a scout no more than an hour before, with wonderful news. Connell would be able to exact his revenge. They were to leave before the sun rose and travel south.

His one good eye narrowed on Glenton, pacing back and forth, his stick clacking against the floor as he moved. Connell couldn’t fathom why Glenton didn’t remain still given the injury to his side, but he supposed his right-hand man thought and spoke better when he was moving. The dim glow from the candelabras made Glenton’s dour looks even more haunting. Connell tilted his head, his ears twitching with delight at the next words leaving Glenton’s lips.

“We have received word Lady Elisabeth McCormick is on her very way to the McKade clan,” said Glenton while holding up a crumpled letter within his white knuckled grasp. “We’ll ambush them at the crossroads.”

“Let us hope she’s bonnie,” called Logan, standing at the front with rotting teeth and matted hair. He sneered at his comrades, who broke into a fit of dark laughter.

Connell fought the need to shout and admonish Logan as he kicked away from the wall, standing to his full height. Silence fell in the shadowed room as he stalked forward, glowering at the men. He planted his hands on the table. The force made a loud resounding thump echo in the silence.

Connell scowled as he met each and every one of their frightened gazes. Despite his disfigurement, the men knew he could gut them before they even had a chance to reach for their swords. Losing his eye had marred his vision, yet it had also hardened him, making him spend hours upon hours, day after day, training in order to prove himself capable to those who deemed him weak. In the end, losing his eye had made him a warrior to be wary of, turning him into a swift and cunning killer. They swallowed their jeers, their mouths clamping closed and their eyes drifting to the floor as Connell looked around the room.

“This is nae laughing matter,” Connell said bitterly. “Lady McCormick is the only one who can provide proof of her husband’s treachery. She knows all of his misdeeds. This is an important duty. We will have vengeance for Scotland if we are successful in our endeavors.”

“Aye,” said Glenton while hobbling forward, leaning on his stick and clutching at his side. “And Connell will be leading the charge. Follow his lead, and everything should go right.”

“We will be attacking the soldiers first,” said Connell, straightening and positioning his hands behind his back. “Donald and Grant, I want ye both hiding in the trees. When the carriage arrives, ye will be attacking the guards in the back.”

Donald and Grant looked at each other for a moment, their ruddy faces and scraggly hair mirroring each other. They were scrawny and short, but known for their skills in blending into the shadows and killing their opponents swiftly. They gave Connell a curt nod in unison.

“Logan and Ian, I want ye scouting in the woods for any others who might come our way. Brann, ye will be with me.”

“But what does the lass look like?” asked Ian, his voice high-pitched and grating to Connell’s ears. He scratched the back of his head while looking around at the others. “What if she has an entourage of maids? Who should we grab then?”

Glenton chuckled and turned to the letter, straightening it and inspecting the words written. “She’s a young lass, bonnie, with eyes like the fields after a long rain,” Glenton said, his tone mocking and his smile bitter, “and hair like fire on a warm night.”

Connell frowned, his gaze going to the letter. From his distance he could not read the words written. Once, he had known a lass as pretty as the one Glenton spoke of. He could still recall the feeling of her hair, soft like a flower’s petals caressing his skin, and her eyes, green as the forests bordering the ancestral lands of his clan. Once, those eyes had gazed upon him, filled with such love and adoration. Thinking of those eyes now made his heart twinge and his body ache for what could have been. Her name had also been Elisabeth.

“Elsy,” he breathed, the name making him grimace as if a knife sliced through his heart.

Glenton turned toward him, his brows tenting as he stared up at Connell. “What did ye say, Connell?” He pursed his lips. “Something to add, per chance?”

Connell shook his head, cursing himself for being so foolish. “Naething. Continue.”

But Connell didn’t listen. He couldn’t. All he could think about was Elsy and where she could be. There had been a time he thought they would never be parted and yet here he was, without her in this shabby fortress, surrounded by brigands with their sneering looks and their bitter grins. It was his own fault for not returning, for allowing everyone to believe he had died in the Battle of Falkirk. Connell grimaced at the guilt stabbing through him as he thought of his father, of the MacArthur clan. He couldn’t return, he told himself, yet the guilt didn’t ebb. How could he go back with his eye gone and his honor lost? His father wouldn’t have accepted it.

But Elsy? His grimace darkened as he thought of her tears sliding down her cheeks, her grasp on his hand. Elsy would have loved him until the day she died, and that was just another reason he couldn’t return. She deserved better than him. She deserved a whole man, one who could provide for her, offer her all the love in the world. The battle had taken everything from Connell and left him with only his bitterness.

He was no longer the Connell from four years ago and, most probably, Elsy was no longer the woman he had fallen in love with. She was no longer his Elsy. He stroked his chin, wondering if she was still living with her father, or if she had married well. A genuine smile came to his lips regardless of the pain in his heart as he imagined her humming a soft tune with a babe in her arms. He hoped she had been able to find love again, despite how much it pained him now to think of it.

“Are ye prepared, Connell?” Glenton asked, calling him back from his thoughts.

The men were already filing out of the room, going to their chambers to get a good night’s rest. They would need it. Everything needed to go to plan. There could be no mistakes. However, something twisted within Connell, something he couldn’t put his finger on.

Connell bristled when he realized Glenton was still staring at him, his eyebrow rising in intrigue. “Aye, of course,” Connell rushed out, his face heating and his expression tightening into a deep scowl. “Why wouldn’t I be? I have been waiting for this day longer than ye.”

Glenton chuckled and hobbled toward the door, moving slowly due to his injured side. “Aye, ye have. I’m just sorry I cannot join.” Glenton’s smile left his lips and he frowned. “If it wasn’t for that blasted arrow.”

“Ye were fortunate.”

“Ha!” Glenton shouted while smacking his leg. “That arrow was meant for ye. If anyone had fortune on their side, it was ye, not I.”

Connell chuckled. “Aye, then ye were a fool. Wasn’t it yer idea to get in the way?”

“Aye, it was.” Glenton rolled his eyes. “Terrible idea that was. Perhaps, next time ye take an arrow for me, hmm?”

Connell shook his head. “Doubtful that will happen anytime soon, Glenton.”

“Where is the loyalty?” Glenton demanded, mock offended.

Connell chuckled while shaking his head. “Fled long ago, I fear.”

Glenton’s smile fell and his expression became serious as he nodded at the door. “Brann should be of some use. That lad, young as he may be, is mighty strong in battle.”

Connell caught Brann holding the door open for the other men, his gaze dipping to the stone floor while he shyly wished the others good eve. Glenton had a point. Though Brann was young, he was taller and broader than men well his senior. The sleeves of his leine, too tight for his arms, were stretched and fraying at the ends. Connell was surprised the fabric didn’t burst, but it wasn’t like they had larger garments at their disposal to give the boy. The only garments they had were the ones they stole and very few could fit Connell, let alone Brann.

As if the boy could feel Connell and Glenton’s eyes, he turned to them, nodding in farewell, his freckled face disappearing behind the door.

“Tis too bad that cursed Laird McCormick isn’t alive for ye to sink yer claws into, eh, Connell?” said Glenton as soon as the door closed.

Connell nodded, his thoughts once more going to McCormick’s widow. “I can settle for his wife.”

“Do ye think she’ll talk?”

Connell glanced at Glenton, a cruel smile coming to his lips. “Oh, she will tell all.”

Glenton chuckled. “I don’t think ye can use yer rugged good looks any longer, my lad.” He patted Connell’s back, making him grimace. “Given most ladies would shudder at yer loss of an eye.”

Connell sneered. “I don’t need her to like me, Glenton. I only need her to speak the words.”

“Do ye really think she’ll tell ye the truth?” Glenton asked. He crossed his arms, his head tilting.

Connell slowly closed the distance between them. Glenton was bent by the wound in his side, and Connell towered over him by a head. Glenton’s gaze narrowed as he jutted out his chin, refusing to be intimidated by Connell’s brute size.

“I will do everything within my power to see that she does,” Connell said darkly. “Even if that includes inciting a little pain.”

Glenton raised an eyebrow. “Pain, ye say?” He scoffed and turned his gaze heavenward. “Doubtful. I know ye, Connell. Ye won’t lay a finger on her.”

Connell opened his mouth to disagree, but Glenton’s next words stopped him.

“Enough talk on the matter. Let us pray all goes well tomorrow and ye are able to capture the lass.”

Connell’s mouth closed and he nodded. “Aye. Tis a hard task ahead of us. We may be outnumbered.”

“Or there will be more than Lady McCormick’s escort at the crossroads.” Sighing, Glenton leaned against his stick and continued on his path toward the door. Pushing it open, he paused for a moment, forcing a smile at Connell as he said, “I wish ye well tomorrow. Let us hope this will be the end of all our troubles.”

Connell turned away as Glenton left, not bothering to watch the door click closed. He stalked toward the large round table. The chair skidded across the floor as he grabbed it and sank his weary body onto the wood. The screeching of the chair’s legs echoed in the vast hall, his only company in the dark and dilapidated room. Old banners from long ago hung in rags off the walls. A hearth sat across from him, streaked with ash from years before when the English had slaughtered the fortress’s masters. Connell wondered bitterly if their remnants still littered the hearth’s floor or if the wind had swept them all away. He pushed those dark thoughts away, knowing they would do him no good.

He leaned back in his chair, frowning as he found his hand reaching into the pocket of his long, worn cloak. His heart fluttered as his fingers skimmed the familiar fabric, now frayed from years of abuse. He did not know why he kept the thing. It did little for him other than bring back memories he should forget. Yet, despite that, he found himself bringing the yellowed and torn cloth to his vision, staring at the faded thread reading: E. T.

Elisabeth Tandie, he thought. His heart twinged and he felt an unbearable ache take hold of him as he recalled their last moments together, when he was Connell MacArthur, future laird of the MacArthur clan and not the brigand he had become. Her voice echoed within his mind as he recalled her tears, the way she touched him, the way she stared at him as if he was the only man for her.

He should have stayed that day. He should have listened to her. Yet, it wouldn’t have mattered, he thought solemnly while shoving the handkerchief back into his pocket. It did no good to think of the past. All he had was the future.

Chapter Two

Elsy leaned back in her seat as the carriage continued on the path. Light streamed in through the cracks in the drapes. Her eyes lulled closed before snapping open. They had been on this path for more than a day and her bottom stung from sitting in the same place for so long. She wiggled and sat up straighter, grimacing at the numbness in her legs. It would be another four days of this until they reached the McKade’s clan and then she would be able to see Ava.

Elsy sighed. Thinking of her friend brought tears to her eyes. It had been too long since she last saw her, too long since she left the McCormick clan’s holdings. The last time Elsy had seen Ava was when she had left the MacArthurs. Elsy remembered hugging her friend tight, inhaling the sweet scent of honey clinging to Ava’s hair from her work in the kitchens. They had grown up together, often playing tricks on others, yet adulthood had taken them from each other. After leaving the MacArthurs, Elsy had spent her days safe within the McCormick walls, rarely leaving unless her husband permitted it. Thankfully, Ava had written, but never could Elsy go to her. She missed Ava’s birthdays, her wedding, even the birth of her first child.

Elsy remembered grimly the excuse her husband, the great Laird Alan McCormick, had given her. “There are dangers outside these walls. Many wish to see ye harmed and it is my responsibility to ensure yer safety, my lady.” Elsy’s frown deepened. Aye, the walls certainly kept me safe over the years, she thought dismally. However, it was difficult to feel the same since her husband’s death.

Her gaze drifted to the ring on her finger. The garnet, sitting in the middle, stared back at her. She remembered the day Alan gave it to her, yet those memories did not return to her as she gazed at the ring now. All she could see was his body from days before. The soldiers had brought him into the healer’s chambers, but nothing could be done. He had been dead for many hours if not the entire day. The flies had already begun picking at his body when they laid him out on the table.

Elsy gagged, remembering the smell of rot permeating that small room. Her hand flew to her mouth while she clamped her eyes closed. A shudder ran down her spine as images of blood and shredded skin assaulted her mind. No matter how much she desperately tried to push the memories away, they remained.

After seeing Alan’s body, a misshapen mess lying on the table, she’d known she must leave at once. She groaned as she opened her eyes and pressed her fingers against her temples, hoping it would help ease her mind and her aching body. Yet, despite her wishes, the memories continued haunting her.

A shiver ran down her spine as she recalled the way Alan’s mouth had hung open, his face mangled as if the horse had dragged him through the wood. Honestly, she hadn’t recognized the man the soldiers had brought to her, only knew he had been carrying his father’s sword, as he always did. It had been the only way she could identify the horror they had brought into the castle.

Better times were ahead, she told herself, straightening her shoulders and clearing her throat. She only needed to get to the McKade clan. The sooner, the better, she thought while turning away from the drapes and pressing her head against the cushioned seat. And then she would be with Ava and her family. The thought brought a smile to Elsy’s lips.

Her eyes slowly drooped closed, the rhythmic movements of the carriage lulling her to sleep. She was just about to drift away when the bumping and swaying came to an abrupt halt. Frowning, Elsy opened her eyes, straightening while her hands gripped each other in her lap. She listened for the coach driver or the guard to come to the small window. It’s probably nothing, she told herself, trying to push away the twisting in her insides. Perhaps there was a tree in the road, or someone had sighted a stag they could have for their evening meal. She waited patiently, her fingers picking at each other. Her eyes widened at the sudden ring of metal on metal. The stench of blood nauseated her senses.

“We’re under attack!” shouted a man, one she did not recall the name of. “We’re under a-“ Something hard thumped against the carriage, the man’s shouts lost to the chaos surrounding her. A sword plunged inside, tearing the wood, blood staining its tip.

Elsy held back her gasp as she lurched away from the door. Her hands searched the pockets of her cloak and dress, yet she found no weapon to arm herself with. The sword withdrew from her carriage as quickly as it had come. Her entire body shook with fear. She was weak as a foal learning how to walk. She knew she could do nothing to protect herself if the brigands searched her carriage, but she needed to do something. Her hands fisted at her sides, the way Connell had taught her once when they were young and in love.

Not now, she thought. She wouldn’t think of him now when death was knocking at her door. The carriage wobbled and she braced herself, waiting for the door to be thrown open. She stared at it as if it was calling her name, whispering to her what terrible futures were to come. A whimper crawled its way up her throat, but she swallowed it. She was no longer a little damsel in distress and she would fight these men to the death if needed. Better that than whatever vile things they had planned.

Silence deafened the air, making her hands shake. She listened, trying to hear breathing or whispers, yet there was nothing. It was like wraiths had seized her carriage, possibly stolen her things, and left her to live. At least she prayed for that to be the case. It didn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t they search the carriage? Her fingers inched toward the handle. Sweat dripped from her brow. She had to look, had to know if they were truly gone.

The door flung open, banging against the side of the carriage with a resounding thump. Elsy gasped, jumping backwards, a scream stuck in her throat while her hand flew to her chest. She wanted to move, wanted to fight, but she was frozen solid as the lochs in the winter.

A large, hooded man stood before her carriage door, taking up all space she could possibly use for escape. A cloth covered his mouth and nose; a patch hid one eye. The other: blue, filled with shock and alarm, stared back at her. The man did not move. His shoulders slumped in defeat. Any alarm once glimmering in his gaze was replaced by sorrow she did not comprehend. Why would a brigand ever feel remorse for his victims? she wondered as she stared back at the man. Perhaps he will leave me be, she thought hopefully.

Elsy’s hand slowly lowered. She inhaled deeply, trying to regain her sense of calm. “Ye-ye-” she stuttered weakly. She closed her eyes and fisted her hands, breathing in deeply in order to gather the strength she needed to speak to this man and send him off along his way. “Ye may take whatever ye want,” she said sternly while opening her eyes and flashing a determined look. “Although, I fear I do not have much.”

“Aye.” The man tilted his head, his fingers digging into the wood of the door. “Ye have exactly what I need,” he said gruffly, seizing her wrist and dragging her out of the carriage.

Elsy gasped. She was being taken away, she realized, fear making her body stiffen. She was being pulled from the carriage as if she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. The sunlight blinded her, making spots blur her vision. She heard laughter all around her. Her heart thudded in her throat, and she felt bile rise. She didn’t know what to do, only that she couldn’t let these men take her.

Something animalistic and vile took over. She shrieked like a banshee in the night. She kicked and scratched, not knowing nor caring where her blows landed. Her elbow hit something hard, and she heard a grunt, her body falling as he tumbled backwards. As soon as her feet touched the ground, she ran, not knowing where, only knowing she needed to get as far away as possible.

She made it two steps before she was dragged back into another man’s arms, this one bigger and brawnier. His face was also covered with a dark cloth. Several men chuckled around her as she was forcefully turned around. The one-eyed brigand slowly approached her, a rope in his hands. Elsy screamed again, but the sounds were silenced by a hand over her mouth. She struggled, wiggling in his grasp while the other approached one step at a time.

“Are ye just going to stand there and watch?” asked the man behind Elsy, struggling to hold her still.

One brigand, standing further back and making himself cozy by leaning against a tree, chuckled while crossing his arms. “Aye, ye laddies seem to be handling yerselves well.”

Elsy bit the man’s palm, eliciting a groan. The hand on her mouth slid away, yet his arm around her waist tightened. “Let me go!” she shouted, looking around aimlessly for anyone passing through the crossroads, but there was no-one. There were only the horses, snorting and stamping in agitation, and the brigands cackling cruelly. The men who had been meant to guard her lay dead in the dirt.

“Please!” Elsy begged as the one-eyed man slowly approached her, rope still in hand. He was nearly upon her. She kicked her feet out, aiming for his belly, his chest, anywhere that would cause harm, yet he dodged easily.

“Now, now,” he said tauntingly.

“Please, I’ll give ye anything!” Elsy didn’t know what she had. She hadn’t taken much, only a few garments for the trip and a small bag of coin. She felt something dig into her finger as she wriggled in his grasp, and her eyes widened. “My ring!” she shouted. “Take my ring. It is yers if ye release me.”

With one slight nod from the one-eyed brigand, she was tossed forward. She barely had time to run before she was grabbed once again, her hands seized and quickly bound with rope. “Stop-” she could hardly finish her cry as a cloth was stuffed deep into her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she wiggled in her confines.

That lone blue eye held her gaze. There was something familiar in his stare, something she couldn’t quite place. She flinched as his hand reached round, pulling her closer. Her face flushed, as she felt his palm touch her waist, slowly going toward her bound wrists. She scowled up at him, fighting the heat his touch incited in her. Amusement and anger glimmered back at her as he stroked her fingers, searching for the small piece of jewelry she could offer him. He stilled and she knew he’d found what he desired as he pulled the ring from her finger and held it up between them.

The scowl left her gaze as she stared at the garnet glimmering in the light, the gold shining brightly. Yet, that was not what she saw as she stared at the trinket. Her husband’s mangled body filled her vision: his torn face, his bloodied fingers. A shudder took hold over her and a whimper escaped her lips. Pray this be enough for them, she thought while slowly closing her eyes, begging God to take pity on her.

Her eyes snapped open at the dark chuckle stinging her ears and she watched as the one-eyed brigand stuffed the ring into the pocket of his cloak. He leaned in close, his proximity heating her skin and making her insides twist. Her eyes widened as he whispered gravely, “Ye think we came all this way for a measly trinket?”

Elsy stepped back. There was something foreboding in his voice, something haunting, as if teasing what awaited her. This man hated her. He wanted to see her fear, her pain. But why? And who was he? She knew her husband had his enemies, which was why she’d left the castle as quickly as she did, knowing the McKades would be safer. How would anyone know of her leaving so soon? She hardly had time to write, hardly had time to pack. Her shoulders slumped and she sobbed into the rag. Unless there had been a traitor in her midst, she realized, the harshness of the thought making her head dizzy and her belly twist with nausea.

“We have come for ye, Lady McCormick,” the one-eyed man said harshly, spitting her clan’s name as if it tasted of rot on his tongue.

Elsy tried to scream, but the cloth swallowed her cries as he seized her arm and dragged her toward his large black steed. She shook her head, crying louder against the rag, yet there was hardly a whimper emitted. He grabbed her waist, his hands touching her gently despite the force of their encounter. She looked around, wondering if anyone would help her, but all the men were ignoring her as they strode toward their horses. Her body wobbled as the one-eyed man swiftly mounted his steed, his hand going to the small of her back to steady her. She screamed once more into the rag, her hands wiggling in their confines, her shoulder knocking into his chest as his arms came around her to grab the reins.

Where were they taking her? she wondered in fear. Looking over her shoulder, she watched the carriage growing farther and farther away. What would they do to her? She couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t stop her mind from going to terrible places as a black and heavy cloth fell over her head, shrouding her vision in darkness.

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

Chapter 1

The tip of the sword lightly poked Gawain’s throat, his head held high as his father, the wielder, forced him against the wall. His bright eyes darted upward in the darkness, but his breath was carefully measured despite his fuming. A distasteful look hardened the old laird’s face, harsh expression shooting at his kneeling, battered son. Gawain could taste the blood in his mouth and sweat on his lips. He wanted to move, but he was hooked in place by an insurmountable strength.

“What possessed ye, Gawain? Ye force me hand with yer treachery. How could ye’ve brought such shame to our family?”

“I’ve done nothing to cause harm to the clan, father. I only did what I needed to do to gain yer favor once more. I devoted everything to the clan, and I deserve what ye’ve given to him! I’ve worked fer it, dedicated me life fer it and it should be mine. Why have ye decided to brand me a traitor when it is ye who has betrayed me, fa…?” The sword pressed under his chin, a warning from his father. He clenched his teeth as his heart beat harder than ever.

“Watch yer tongue. It was never yer place to rule this clan, Gawain. ‘Tis yer brother’s birthright and nae trickery from ye will change that. Ye are not fit to live among us if ye will not respect our laws. Your soul is vile and I cannae trust you around your brother, so begone. Be gone far away,” the old man threw him to the floor as he retreated, “If ye ever set foot on these lands during my lifetime, I’ll surely have ye punished.”

Gawain’s face plunged into the hard floor. One more wound meant nothing at this point. “Trickery ye say? How have I tricked ye? I had me life planned in front of me. I never wanted to be involved in this but ye told me, ye asked me to fill in fer me brother and I did just that. I pleased ye, did as ye wanted and ye now cast me aside all because he returned? Ye send me to exile because I tried to win yer favor and ye call yerself me father?” Gawain rose to his feet, towering over the aged laird, his rage burned in his sapphire eyes as his lips curled into a snarl. “Farewell father.”

At those words, he felt himself transported through his journey. The rhythmic sound of his heartbeat quickly became chaotic as he relived his journey around high and lows of Europe. He wallowed in his own regrets and misery as he grew, understanding his misdoings by the day. The thoughts of being deserted and hated by the same clan he devoted his heart and soul to plagued him. Like a neglected flower, he was shunned by his own family and friends, who he would have given his life for.

Doubt was deeply rooted in his heart. Why was he raised to take a birthright that was not his? Why was the birthright promised to him snatched away? Why was he tossed aside when the prodigal son came back? His own dreams of a simple life had been sacrificed, his time, his energy, his mind and his soul devoted to one task. The task he was denied from completing.

He found himself drifting in an endless, green field, once again looking up even as bright rays pierced his eyes. The questions in his heart resounded with no answers. He felt he had been uprooted and left to wither in the harshness of the sun. It didn’t matter now, he would do anything for forgiveness. All he wanted was to be back in the familiar soil of his brethren.

He suddenly became aware of something, something important. The sun above set in a breath and a new breeze swept over his face.

He staggered awake.

Blue eyes shot open as their owner took a sharp inhale. Balancing himself in the hammock, Gawain took a steady deep breath to calm himself from his nightmare. He was still in his cabin; the slapping of the waves came from outside his open window accompanied by the call of seagulls.

They were close to shore.

This was his second chance. The shores of the place he once called home pulled closer to him. He swallowed hard as doubt and insecurity once again overshadowed his thoughts. His father may be dead, but everyone remembers.

His hands trembled as he had read through the letter his brother had sent, inviting him to celebrate the news of yet another child. It made no sense. The Laird already had children and he had not bothered to invite his brother then. Why now? Gawain was skeptical, but he yearned to see them again.

He tucked away the letter. Even if his brother did want him there, what would the rest of the clan say? What would the elders say? No one would fully accept him, but Gawain held no grudges against the clan that banished him. His intentions for the clan were the same as all those years ago, prosperity.

He wondered how things must have changed, improved even. He wondered if his clan was still allies with the Sutherland clan as Gawain was to marry the daughter of the Laird, Flora. He had loved Flora as much as he could. She was chosen for him by his father when Gawain was sure he would be the next laird. He wondered if she would have married someone else.

Of course, she would have. She was beautiful and young, the perfect age to be wed. Would he run into her? He hoped not. Would Caillen invite her too? If they were allies, he might. Would Caillen be interested in how Gawain had spent his years in exile?

For Gawain, they weren’t the best years of his life. He had close to nothing when he left the clan and he roamed Scotland before he boarded a ship on its way to England. Strange people they were, always at war with each other and everyone else.

He stayed in a small village where he did any work, he could get his hands on. Times were hard as the English did not like outsiders. Then he fled to Ireland for a few months. He particularly amused himself with the fights at the tavern every night. He soon left for Scotland, having to almost take over the ship alongside the innocent passengers when the captain and his crew turned on them. The scuffle earned him a nasty looking scar that ran over his lips.

He arrived in Scotland which was where the letter found him. He had no idea how his brother knew where he was, he had a mind to ask but felt Caillen would brush him off.

On getting his brother’s letter, he boarded yet another ship, not wanting to travel by road. It would have been faster but Gawain was trying to drag out the time he had to get there, he dreaded what reactions he would get from the clan.

Memories of life before his brother packed up and left flooded in. Things were simple, things were normal, and he had no worries. He had wanted to live a simple life. He would build a house away from the clan and settle there. He’d marry himself a pretty wife and have his own children. There had been a girl he had his eyes on before his Flora. He remembered her fondly.

Davinia had come to the castle to work as a servant but it did not take long for her to become a valuable asset. They had grown on each other quickly as she was the only maid who he could trust with anything.

Davinia had always shown him her affection. She made his meat as tender as he liked it, she always got him the best spiced wine, the freshest bread. She lent an ear or a shoulder every time he needed it. She had been perfect until he got exiled and even though they kept in touch with letters.

He recalled her last letter. She hardly talked about herself. It contained the usual greetings, asking about his whereabouts and his wellbeing. Telling him to stay safe or she wouldn’t forgive him for it. He never asked about how things were going in the castle and thankfully she never told him. The most she could go on about in the castle was about her sister, Emer who had given birth to a proper set of children. She had talked about how his brother took care of her sister, giving her precious gifts from jewelry to silk ribbons. She had taken a few of her sisters as hers had gotten very old.

For this reason, Gawain had gone out of his way, almost earning another scar as he tried to procure Davinia a silk ribbon. He wondered how he always got into a fight everywhere he went.

As he swung his feet off the hammock, the door of his cabin opened for one of the crew members, a short grumpy man who had a mouth filthier than a drunk Irishman. His bloodshot grime filled eyes twitched. “Ship will be docking soon. Pack yer bags.”

“Aye. My thanks fer letting me accompany ye on this journey.” Gawain gave the man a small smile but was met with a glare before the man left, muttering what Gawain knew were insults. Gawain hopped off the hammock properly, grabbing the bag he had come with off the floor. In the cabin sat a small table where a jar of water sat, he washed his face with the majority and downed the rest before he made his way up toward the deck. The first person he ran into was the captain.

“Was sure I’d have to come wake you myself.” The captain was an English guard who had fled after an attempt to assassinate the duke he worked for had failed. A dirty man, almost as crooked as his yellowed, incomplete teeth, Gawain deduced from their late-night talks while they enjoyed the calming waves, a jar of rum or ale each in their hands. The night before was one of those nights as Gawain had turned to ale instead to distract him of what laid ahead.

“Aye captain, I did nae drink that much.” Gawain was polite at all times. Men who sailed were never to be trusted. “I’ve been told we’ll dock soon. Thank ye fer yer kind hospitality.”

“And thank you for your kind donation, Sir MacLachlan, wasn’t it?”

“Aye.” Gawain toyed with a gold coin in his breeches before he handed it to the captain, not missing the wide eyes. No more words were said between them and frankly, Gawain hoped he never encountered the captain again.

The ship docked a few hours at sunrise and he hurried off along with the other passengers. It was times like this he was grateful that he did not own much. Slinging his bag over his shoulders, he was met by the familiar port. The ships for journey docked on one side, while ships for goods, sat on the other. The hustle and bustle of the docks was just as he remembered, nothing changed from when he left. Mindless chatter and shouts filled the air, there was the occasional fight breaking out between people or merchants. Gawain braced himself as he started his last journey to the clan’s castle.

He stuck to walking rather than paying for a cart or horse ride. He sighted guards wearing the clan’s tunic, each one with their head held high on their stress. They paraded the docks, market and even the forests. The village’s population increased, the different and new sights at the market intrigued him, often pausing to see what a few merchants sold.

As he crouched down in front of a young girl who manned a space which sold beaded jewelry, a commotion broke out behind him. Hurrying to his feet to see what was the problem, he was surprised and angry to see a guard was the problem.

The guard had a young man by the front of his shirt. Gawain tapped on a woman’s shoulder, asking about the problem and his anger flared at her words. “Nae, do nae worry. They do this all the time. The guard’s horse was startled and it kicked away the boy’s stall. They will leave him alone soon. It happened to me granddaughter a few days ago too.”

“But this should nae be happening.” Gawain was about to take a step forward but was held back by the woman who shook her head at him.

“It should nae but it’ll end fast if ye do nae interfere.” The old woman warned as she let go of his arm.

“I was nae—”

“I can see it in yer eyes. Ye are angry. If you fight fer him now, they’ll leave but they’ll come back fer him. Ye might be long gone by then. Believe me, there is nothing ye can do to help but watch.”

Gawain saw no reason to, other than the guards having a chance to abuse their power over the people but the woman was right. It wasn’t his concern anymore. It was his brother’s concern. It never was as his father had said. It took him years to realize it was the truth.

It wasn’t his birthright, it wasn’t his place, it wasn’t his responsibility. He tried to make it his and he suffered for it. He had to be careful, trying too hard didn’t work for him the first time around. In the meantime, he’ll try to enjoy doing nothing.

Chapter 2

Davinia froze, forest green eyes widening at the loud crash that came from behind her. “Oh dear.” She turned, slowly assessing the damage. It was a new servant so occurrences like that often came by. The servant girl had already begun to wail as she tried to salvage what was left of the spilt broth, but the liquid slipped from her fingers. Hurrying over to the girl, Davinia tucked her hands under the girl’s and pulled her to her feet.

“Miss, I split it. I split the broth, miss. I did nae mean fer it to happen.” The girl years running down the sides of her face, a slight vein popping out by her left temple. This earned a few snickers from the other servants as Davinia wiped off her tears with the back of her hand.

“Stop crying, child. It’s only broth. Ye’re too young to carry something this big, didn’t the cook tell ye? But it is fine, do nae fret.” Davinia held the girl’s hands to inspect them, frowning slightly at the redness of her palm. “Oh, ye burnt yerself. That’s enough, go back to yer quarters, wrap a wet cloth around it. I’ll see to ye once I tell the cook about the broth.”

“But she will be angry with me, miss.” The servant protested but Davinia turned the girl around and gave her a tap on the back to get going. She couldn’t have anyone getting injured or upset over broth. She looked down at the broth and shook her head. She would have to hurry to the kitchen and have the cook make another one.

“Gwen, please clean this up fer me.” Davinia hurried off to the kitchen after the order, meeting the head cook fretting over her stove. “Is there a problem?”

“Nothing I can’t fix, miss.” The woman replied, still not looking at Davinia. “Everything is going smoothly here. There’s no need to hound us.” Davinia plastered a toothy smile on her face as the woman turned to face her. “What?”

“Can ye make another broth?” She folded her hands behind her back as Gelda raised a greying eyebrow at her.

“What happened to the last one?”

“I split it. On accident.”

“Or a servant split it and ye do nae want me to give them a scolding.” Gelda scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, head raised high.

“Yer scolding is rather harsh, Gelda. The girls are terrified.”

“As they should be. Not every crying face is innocent, miss.”

“Thank ye fer the advice, Gelda. And the broth.”

“I never said I would make another broth!”

“But I ken ye will because ye would want yer dishes perfect and complete.” Davinia teased lightly before the older woman cracked a smile.

“Alright then. If me broth is split again, I’ll have yer pretty head, Davinia.” Davinia opened her mouth to talk when she was interrupted.

“Miss, we have a problem with the drinks.” A voice called out to her, and she gave the cook one last smile before she made her way toward her next challenge.

This was her life, it was a life she was satisfied with. She had never been one to be pampered as her upbringing showed. She had her principles in life, not relying on a hand to feed her.

Born into a poor family, their main occupation was farming. At a young age she had been faced with the hardship of life until she met with the kitchen matron, Maria by chance. Impressed with Davinia, she took in the girl as a servant. It was a better way to make a larger earning for her family.

It was difficult at first as she had missed her family dearly, it dampened her spirit anytime she thought of them. She missed her sister the most of all but the determination to change something, no matter how little in their lives, always kept her going. She worked for the MacLachlan clan for years, getting to know the Laird’s family better. Of the two sons, she was particularly attracted to the second son, Gawain. They stayed as friends as she thought but she did show her affection in her little ways never seeking praise.

She thought Gawain to be selfless, taking up his brother’s position after Caillen abandoned it to travel. She did feel his banishment was unneeded as he had only done what should have been done as a true son of the clan. She had watched him fit himself into the role of Laird, even going as far as engaging to a woman from another clan. A woman Davinia could not compete with. Lady Flora was a perfect match for him, and Gawain simply adored her. Davinia could only watch from a distance. It was not her place but that did not mean she could not desire it. In her eyes, Gawain was perfect, being what many men could not.

She could delude herself, pretend to make herself feel better and say Gawain could have loved her as much as she did him but she knew it wasn’t going to happen. She knew her place.

She continued to guide the servants on setting up the grand hall for the event. How overjoyed had she been when she learnt her sister, Emer was with child once more. The Laird had insisted on yet another feast to celebrate it. Emer would rather not but was soon persuaded by her husband. Important people had been invited and it was up to Davinia to make yet another impression.

“Miss, miss.” A girl was coming toward her, a tray filled with pitchers of wine balanced in her hands. Had she been trying to show Davinia something, it did not matter anymore as the girl stumbled just a little over her own feet, collapsing into Davinia’s arm, forcing her to take the tray before the servant met with the ground.

Unfortunately for Davinia, she didn’t quite catch the tray just right and ended up falling backward but just before she met with the ground, strong arms caught her, steadying her and the wine tray, a few drops spilling from the pitchers.

Everything was still for a moment, servants pausing their tasks to make sure she was alright, the one on the floor scrambling to her feet to take back the tray and awaiting a scolding. Davinia felt the heat of the body behind her, the person coming close enough that she could hear their breathing before they chuckled. The vibrations from the person, she could feel them on her back. “I love what ye’ve done with the place. It’s perfect, as always.”

Davinia prided herself on being able to control her emotions. It was how she got into working for the clan properly, it was how she could push Gawain and Flora to the back of her mind but unfortunately, there was a first time for everything.

She slowly turned, a part of her knowing who the deep voice belonged to, another part of her, convinced she had finally lost it. Faced with a man who towered a good head above her, brown hair fell in loose ringlets over his shoulder with sharp facial features, a scar over the corner of his lips. He was big, perhaps bigger than the Laird himself. She almost couldn’t recognize the man until he smiled. A soft, small smile that made his blue eyes light up in a manner.

It was him. It really was him.

“Gawain…”

His eyes lit up brighter at the mention of his name, his smile, wider. She stood frozen almost unable to believe it was truly him. Why had he come? How had he been let in? Had something changed and she wasn’t aware of it? Had he been pardoned? Would he stay? She had no idea but she surely couldn’t be the only one who believed his presence was going to cause an uproar and she was not talking about the clan.

Her heart ached as she reached up to touch him. Her hands landed on his shoulders, she felt him. He was real, she was not dreaming. She cupped his face, running her finger across his scar, his hair tickling her.

“Gawain, it really is ye.” Her lips split into a smile that almost mirrored his as an elated giggle left her lips. “Tis ye. Tis really ye!” She laughed as she let go of his face.

“Ye are excited to see me again, Davinia. I was certain I would have to endure a scolding.” She laughed, placing her hands on his biceps.

“I forgive ye so I’ll nae scold ye.”

“Davinia, I—”

“Gawain!” The voice of the Laird, Caillen cut out through the hall, breaking Davinia away from his embrace. Servants scurried to complete their tasks, pretending not to notice the Laird and his pregnant wife trailing behind him.

“Brother.” Gawain’s smile was tight, spreading across his face. He was satisfied, seeing his brother happy with his life but couldn’t bring himself to actually smile back. Caillen pulled his brother into a tight embrace, laughing when he pulled away to look at his younger brother.

“Look how rugged ye look now, Gawain. It has been so many years, I’m so glad I finally found ye. And brought ye back to the clan.”

“Aye, ‘tis good to be back.”

“I’m so happy to see ye, Gawain. We must talk about everything that has happened. This is me wife, ye ken her.”

Emer stepped forward, a smile on her lips.” Gawain, it is wonderful to see ye again. I’m glad that ye came.”

“Excuse me, milord. I must be on my way to the kitchen.” Davinia said as she started to leave. Gawain noticed and tried to go after her, but Caillen stopped him.

“Ye just join us fer the early festivities tonight. Davinia has decorated the hall just for that. We can talk better then and I do want to hear everything, Gawain.”

“Aye, I’ll be there but I need to talk to Davinia urgently in private. I’ve brought her a gift.” He said and Caillen’s eyebrows went high and his wife cast Gawain a look, both surprised at the statement.

“Oh…of course.” Caillen nodded, stepping back for his brother. “Do nae be late fer later.”

“Aye.” Gawain bowed his head respectfully at his brother before taking Davinia’s hand “Come along.”

He led her toward the guest chambers where his bag had been put. They walked through the halls in silence, Gawain slowing his steps when he noticed how far behind she was.

“Aye, Davinia. Perhaps we’ll get to me chambers after Emer gives birth. Hurry up will ye?”

“Aye, yer legs are longer than mine.” She joked as she caught up to him, holding on to the arm he offered. Gawain felt his chest swell with her action.

“Ye told me the old matron had retired.”

“Aye. I’ve only just taken over. She lives in the village with her grandchildren. I visit her every once in a while.”

“I see. I suppose ye’re fit fer the job. Ye’re ever so diligent, Davinia.”

“Please, do nae flatter me.” Davinia suppressed a laugh.

“When I came, I only dropped me bag and came to find ye. I thought I would find ye alone.” Gawain inched toward her as he spoke.

“To be honest, ye did nae have to bring me anything.” Davinia replied with a shy smile.

“I wanted to. Ye deserve it, Davinia. Yer letters brought me immense joy. It made me feel as if I was nae alone.” He opened the door, stepping in not noticing her still by the door. “Thank ye.”

“Nae, Gawain. I only wanted to be sure of yer wellbeing. I tell ye, ye were never alone.”

“Come in, Davinia. I’m nae a highborn anymore.”

“I’m still a maid and ye’re the laird’s brother and guest. I’m only being respectful.”

Gawain stretched out his hand for her, she hesitated but took it, allowing him to pull her into the room. “There is nae need fer that, Davinia.”

She watched as he dug through the bag on the bed, nearly emptying its contents until he found a small pouch and he handed it to her. “What is it?”

“Open it.” He said, a grin creeping onto his face. She nodded, dipping her fingers in it to take out a single silk ribbon. Do ye like it? I ken how much ye love blue.” He pointed at her blue dress and she laughed, admiring the ribbon.

“I love it, Gawain.” Her voice was soft as her green eyes peered up at him under her lashes. “Thank ye.” Gawain found himself at a loss for words as he watched her take off her old ribbon, pocketing it before tying her hair back with her new one. Why had he never properly realized her beauty until it was too late.

He brushed the stray strands of hair out of her face when she looked back up at him. Her green eyes just as bright as he remembered, he stepped closer to her, cupping her face. “Ye’re beautiful, Davinia.” A deep blush spread out on her cheeks when he lifted her face upwards. He could lean in, brushing his lips over here before she took a step out of his hold. She swallowed as she pressed her back to the door, “Davinia?”

“Me apologies, Gawain.” Her voice shook, her eyes refusing to meet his. “I must be on my way back to the kitchen.”

“Why?” She perked up at the question but still kept her eyes trained on his chest. “Why won’t ye meet me eyes all of a sudden? Have I made ye uncomfortable? I apologize.”

“Nae, please! Nae.” She rubbed her arms not knowing what to say. “It is nae what ye think.”

“Are ye married then? Do ye’ve someone that ye…nae, I apologize. I shouldn’t have tried that.” Gawain looked down at his feet. “I was too forward but do ye like the ribbon?”

Davinia let her hand touch her old one in the pocket of her apron. “Aye. It is beautiful, thank ye. I’ll treasure it. I’m glad ye remembered something as little as me favorite color.”

“Do nae thank me. After all ye’ve done fer me over the years, taking care of me and noticing little things about me, it would be terrible of me if I did nae remember little things that you like.”

“Oh.” She sounded a little disappointed and Gawain looked up at her.

“What is the matter, have I said something wrong?”

“Nae, Gawain. I must be on me way. The festivities will begin soon.” She had gathered her dress and was already making her way out of his chambers. He called out to her but she had already shut the door in her wake leaving him to deal with his rejection alone.

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