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.

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Chapter 1

The tip of the sword lightly poked Gawain’s throat, his head held high as his father, the wielder, forced him against the wall. His bright eyes darted upward in the darkness, but his breath was carefully measured despite his fuming. A distasteful look hardened the old laird’s face, harsh expression shooting at his kneeling, battered son. Gawain could taste the blood in his mouth and sweat on his lips. He wanted to move, but he was hooked in place by an insurmountable strength.

“What possessed ye, Gawain? Ye force me hand with yer treachery. How could ye’ve brought such shame to our family?”

“I’ve done nothing to cause harm to the clan, father. I only did what I needed to do to gain yer favor once more. I devoted everything to the clan, and I deserve what ye’ve given to him! I’ve worked fer it, dedicated me life fer it and it should be mine. Why have ye decided to brand me a traitor when it is ye who has betrayed me, fa…?” The sword pressed under his chin, a warning from his father. He clenched his teeth as his heart beat harder than ever.

“Watch yer tongue. It was never yer place to rule this clan, Gawain. ‘Tis yer brother’s birthright and nae trickery from ye will change that. Ye are not fit to live among us if ye will not respect our laws. Your soul is vile and I cannae trust you around your brother, so begone. Be gone far away,” the old man threw him to the floor as he retreated, “If ye ever set foot on these lands during my lifetime, I’ll surely have ye punished.”

Gawain’s face plunged into the hard floor. One more wound meant nothing at this point. “Trickery ye say? How have I tricked ye? I had me life planned in front of me. I never wanted to be involved in this but ye told me, ye asked me to fill in fer me brother and I did just that. I pleased ye, did as ye wanted and ye now cast me aside all because he returned? Ye send me to exile because I tried to win yer favor and ye call yerself me father?” Gawain rose to his feet, towering over the aged laird, his rage burned in his sapphire eyes as his lips curled into a snarl. “Farewell father.”

At those words, he felt himself transported through his journey. The rhythmic sound of his heartbeat quickly became chaotic as he relived his journey around high and lows of Europe. He wallowed in his own regrets and misery as he grew, understanding his misdoings by the day. The thoughts of being deserted and hated by the same clan he devoted his heart and soul to plagued him. Like a neglected flower, he was shunned by his own family and friends, who he would have given his life for.

Doubt was deeply rooted in his heart. Why was he raised to take a birthright that was not his? Why was the birthright promised to him snatched away? Why was he tossed aside when the prodigal son came back? His own dreams of a simple life had been sacrificed, his time, his energy, his mind and his soul devoted to one task. The task he was denied from completing.

He found himself drifting in an endless, green field, once again looking up even as bright rays pierced his eyes. The questions in his heart resounded with no answers. He felt he had been uprooted and left to wither in the harshness of the sun. It didn’t matter now, he would do anything for forgiveness. All he wanted was to be back in the familiar soil of his brethren.

He suddenly became aware of something, something important. The sun above set in a breath and a new breeze swept over his face.

He staggered awake.

Blue eyes shot open as their owner took a sharp inhale. Balancing himself in the hammock, Gawain took a steady deep breath to calm himself from his nightmare. He was still in his cabin; the slapping of the waves came from outside his open window accompanied by the call of seagulls.

They were close to shore.

This was his second chance. The shores of the place he once called home pulled closer to him. He swallowed hard as doubt and insecurity once again overshadowed his thoughts. His father may be dead, but everyone remembers.

His hands trembled as he had read through the letter his brother had sent, inviting him to celebrate the news of yet another child. It made no sense. The Laird already had children and he had not bothered to invite his brother then. Why now? Gawain was skeptical, but he yearned to see them again.

He tucked away the letter. Even if his brother did want him there, what would the rest of the clan say? What would the elders say? No one would fully accept him, but Gawain held no grudges against the clan that banished him. His intentions for the clan were the same as all those years ago, prosperity.

He wondered how things must have changed, improved even. He wondered if his clan was still allies with the Sutherland clan as Gawain was to marry the daughter of the Laird, Flora. He had loved Flora as much as he could. She was chosen for him by his father when Gawain was sure he would be the next laird. He wondered if she would have married someone else.

Of course, she would have. She was beautiful and young, the perfect age to be wed. Would he run into her? He hoped not. Would Caillen invite her too? If they were allies, he might. Would Caillen be interested in how Gawain had spent his years in exile?

For Gawain, they weren’t the best years of his life. He had close to nothing when he left the clan and he roamed Scotland before he boarded a ship on its way to England. Strange people they were, always at war with each other and everyone else.

He stayed in a small village where he did any work, he could get his hands on. Times were hard as the English did not like outsiders. Then he fled to Ireland for a few months. He particularly amused himself with the fights at the tavern every night. He soon left for Scotland, having to almost take over the ship alongside the innocent passengers when the captain and his crew turned on them. The scuffle earned him a nasty looking scar that ran over his lips.

He arrived in Scotland which was where the letter found him. He had no idea how his brother knew where he was, he had a mind to ask but felt Caillen would brush him off.

On getting his brother’s letter, he boarded yet another ship, not wanting to travel by road. It would have been faster but Gawain was trying to drag out the time he had to get there, he dreaded what reactions he would get from the clan.

Memories of life before his brother packed up and left flooded in. Things were simple, things were normal, and he had no worries. He had wanted to live a simple life. He would build a house away from the clan and settle there. He’d marry himself a pretty wife and have his own children. There had been a girl he had his eyes on before his Flora. He remembered her fondly.

Davinia had come to the castle to work as a servant but it did not take long for her to become a valuable asset. They had grown on each other quickly as she was the only maid who he could trust with anything.

Davinia had always shown him her affection. She made his meat as tender as he liked it, she always got him the best spiced wine, the freshest bread. She lent an ear or a shoulder every time he needed it. She had been perfect until he got exiled and even though they kept in touch with letters.

He recalled her last letter. She hardly talked about herself. It contained the usual greetings, asking about his whereabouts and his wellbeing. Telling him to stay safe or she wouldn’t forgive him for it. He never asked about how things were going in the castle and thankfully she never told him. The most she could go on about in the castle was about her sister, Emer who had given birth to a proper set of children. She had talked about how his brother took care of her sister, giving her precious gifts from jewelry to silk ribbons. She had taken a few of her sisters as hers had gotten very old.

For this reason, Gawain had gone out of his way, almost earning another scar as he tried to procure Davinia a silk ribbon. He wondered how he always got into a fight everywhere he went.

As he swung his feet off the hammock, the door of his cabin opened for one of the crew members, a short grumpy man who had a mouth filthier than a drunk Irishman. His bloodshot grime filled eyes twitched. “Ship will be docking soon. Pack yer bags.”

“Aye. My thanks fer letting me accompany ye on this journey.” Gawain gave the man a small smile but was met with a glare before the man left, muttering what Gawain knew were insults. Gawain hopped off the hammock properly, grabbing the bag he had come with off the floor. In the cabin sat a small table where a jar of water sat, he washed his face with the majority and downed the rest before he made his way up toward the deck. The first person he ran into was the captain.

“Was sure I’d have to come wake you myself.” The captain was an English guard who had fled after an attempt to assassinate the duke he worked for had failed. A dirty man, almost as crooked as his yellowed, incomplete teeth, Gawain deduced from their late-night talks while they enjoyed the calming waves, a jar of rum or ale each in their hands. The night before was one of those nights as Gawain had turned to ale instead to distract him of what laid ahead.

“Aye captain, I did nae drink that much.” Gawain was polite at all times. Men who sailed were never to be trusted. “I’ve been told we’ll dock soon. Thank ye fer yer kind hospitality.”

“And thank you for your kind donation, Sir MacLachlan, wasn’t it?”

“Aye.” Gawain toyed with a gold coin in his breeches before he handed it to the captain, not missing the wide eyes. No more words were said between them and frankly, Gawain hoped he never encountered the captain again.

The ship docked a few hours at sunrise and he hurried off along with the other passengers. It was times like this he was grateful that he did not own much. Slinging his bag over his shoulders, he was met by the familiar port. The ships for journey docked on one side, while ships for goods, sat on the other. The hustle and bustle of the docks was just as he remembered, nothing changed from when he left. Mindless chatter and shouts filled the air, there was the occasional fight breaking out between people or merchants. Gawain braced himself as he started his last journey to the clan’s castle.

He stuck to walking rather than paying for a cart or horse ride. He sighted guards wearing the clan’s tunic, each one with their head held high on their stress. They paraded the docks, market and even the forests. The village’s population increased, the different and new sights at the market intrigued him, often pausing to see what a few merchants sold.

As he crouched down in front of a young girl who manned a space which sold beaded jewelry, a commotion broke out behind him. Hurrying to his feet to see what was the problem, he was surprised and angry to see a guard was the problem.

The guard had a young man by the front of his shirt. Gawain tapped on a woman’s shoulder, asking about the problem and his anger flared at her words. “Nae, do nae worry. They do this all the time. The guard’s horse was startled and it kicked away the boy’s stall. They will leave him alone soon. It happened to me granddaughter a few days ago too.”

“But this should nae be happening.” Gawain was about to take a step forward but was held back by the woman who shook her head at him.

“It should nae but it’ll end fast if ye do nae interfere.” The old woman warned as she let go of his arm.

“I was nae—”

“I can see it in yer eyes. Ye are angry. If you fight fer him now, they’ll leave but they’ll come back fer him. Ye might be long gone by then. Believe me, there is nothing ye can do to help but watch.”

Gawain saw no reason to, other than the guards having a chance to abuse their power over the people but the woman was right. It wasn’t his concern anymore. It was his brother’s concern. It never was as his father had said. It took him years to realize it was the truth.

It wasn’t his birthright, it wasn’t his place, it wasn’t his responsibility. He tried to make it his and he suffered for it. He had to be careful, trying too hard didn’t work for him the first time around. In the meantime, he’ll try to enjoy doing nothing.

Chapter 2

Davinia froze, forest green eyes widening at the loud crash that came from behind her. “Oh dear.” She turned, slowly assessing the damage. It was a new servant so occurrences like that often came by. The servant girl had already begun to wail as she tried to salvage what was left of the spilt broth, but the liquid slipped from her fingers. Hurrying over to the girl, Davinia tucked her hands under the girl’s and pulled her to her feet.

“Miss, I split it. I split the broth, miss. I did nae mean fer it to happen.” The girl years running down the sides of her face, a slight vein popping out by her left temple. This earned a few snickers from the other servants as Davinia wiped off her tears with the back of her hand.

“Stop crying, child. It’s only broth. Ye’re too young to carry something this big, didn’t the cook tell ye? But it is fine, do nae fret.” Davinia held the girl’s hands to inspect them, frowning slightly at the redness of her palm. “Oh, ye burnt yerself. That’s enough, go back to yer quarters, wrap a wet cloth around it. I’ll see to ye once I tell the cook about the broth.”

“But she will be angry with me, miss.” The servant protested but Davinia turned the girl around and gave her a tap on the back to get going. She couldn’t have anyone getting injured or upset over broth. She looked down at the broth and shook her head. She would have to hurry to the kitchen and have the cook make another one.

“Gwen, please clean this up fer me.” Davinia hurried off to the kitchen after the order, meeting the head cook fretting over her stove. “Is there a problem?”

“Nothing I can’t fix, miss.” The woman replied, still not looking at Davinia. “Everything is going smoothly here. There’s no need to hound us.” Davinia plastered a toothy smile on her face as the woman turned to face her. “What?”

“Can ye make another broth?” She folded her hands behind her back as Gelda raised a greying eyebrow at her.

“What happened to the last one?”

“I split it. On accident.”

“Or a servant split it and ye do nae want me to give them a scolding.” Gelda scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest, head raised high.

“Yer scolding is rather harsh, Gelda. The girls are terrified.”

“As they should be. Not every crying face is innocent, miss.”

“Thank ye fer the advice, Gelda. And the broth.”

“I never said I would make another broth!”

“But I ken ye will because ye would want yer dishes perfect and complete.” Davinia teased lightly before the older woman cracked a smile.

“Alright then. If me broth is split again, I’ll have yer pretty head, Davinia.” Davinia opened her mouth to talk when she was interrupted.

“Miss, we have a problem with the drinks.” A voice called out to her, and she gave the cook one last smile before she made her way toward her next challenge.

This was her life, it was a life she was satisfied with. She had never been one to be pampered as her upbringing showed. She had her principles in life, not relying on a hand to feed her.

Born into a poor family, their main occupation was farming. At a young age she had been faced with the hardship of life until she met with the kitchen matron, Maria by chance. Impressed with Davinia, she took in the girl as a servant. It was a better way to make a larger earning for her family.

It was difficult at first as she had missed her family dearly, it dampened her spirit anytime she thought of them. She missed her sister the most of all but the determination to change something, no matter how little in their lives, always kept her going. She worked for the MacLachlan clan for years, getting to know the Laird’s family better. Of the two sons, she was particularly attracted to the second son, Gawain. They stayed as friends as she thought but she did show her affection in her little ways never seeking praise.

She thought Gawain to be selfless, taking up his brother’s position after Caillen abandoned it to travel. She did feel his banishment was unneeded as he had only done what should have been done as a true son of the clan. She had watched him fit himself into the role of Laird, even going as far as engaging to a woman from another clan. A woman Davinia could not compete with. Lady Flora was a perfect match for him, and Gawain simply adored her. Davinia could only watch from a distance. It was not her place but that did not mean she could not desire it. In her eyes, Gawain was perfect, being what many men could not.

She could delude herself, pretend to make herself feel better and say Gawain could have loved her as much as she did him but she knew it wasn’t going to happen. She knew her place.

She continued to guide the servants on setting up the grand hall for the event. How overjoyed had she been when she learnt her sister, Emer was with child once more. The Laird had insisted on yet another feast to celebrate it. Emer would rather not but was soon persuaded by her husband. Important people had been invited and it was up to Davinia to make yet another impression.

“Miss, miss.” A girl was coming toward her, a tray filled with pitchers of wine balanced in her hands. Had she been trying to show Davinia something, it did not matter anymore as the girl stumbled just a little over her own feet, collapsing into Davinia’s arm, forcing her to take the tray before the servant met with the ground.

Unfortunately for Davinia, she didn’t quite catch the tray just right and ended up falling backward but just before she met with the ground, strong arms caught her, steadying her and the wine tray, a few drops spilling from the pitchers.

Everything was still for a moment, servants pausing their tasks to make sure she was alright, the one on the floor scrambling to her feet to take back the tray and awaiting a scolding. Davinia felt the heat of the body behind her, the person coming close enough that she could hear their breathing before they chuckled. The vibrations from the person, she could feel them on her back. “I love what ye’ve done with the place. It’s perfect, as always.”

Davinia prided herself on being able to control her emotions. It was how she got into working for the clan properly, it was how she could push Gawain and Flora to the back of her mind but unfortunately, there was a first time for everything.

She slowly turned, a part of her knowing who the deep voice belonged to, another part of her, convinced she had finally lost it. Faced with a man who towered a good head above her, brown hair fell in loose ringlets over his shoulder with sharp facial features, a scar over the corner of his lips. He was big, perhaps bigger than the Laird himself. She almost couldn’t recognize the man until he smiled. A soft, small smile that made his blue eyes light up in a manner.

It was him. It really was him.

“Gawain…”

His eyes lit up brighter at the mention of his name, his smile, wider. She stood frozen almost unable to believe it was truly him. Why had he come? How had he been let in? Had something changed and she wasn’t aware of it? Had he been pardoned? Would he stay? She had no idea but she surely couldn’t be the only one who believed his presence was going to cause an uproar and she was not talking about the clan.

Her heart ached as she reached up to touch him. Her hands landed on his shoulders, she felt him. He was real, she was not dreaming. She cupped his face, running her finger across his scar, his hair tickling her.

“Gawain, it really is ye.” Her lips split into a smile that almost mirrored his as an elated giggle left her lips. “Tis ye. Tis really ye!” She laughed as she let go of his face.

“Ye are excited to see me again, Davinia. I was certain I would have to endure a scolding.” She laughed, placing her hands on his biceps.

“I forgive ye so I’ll nae scold ye.”

“Davinia, I—”

“Gawain!” The voice of the Laird, Caillen cut out through the hall, breaking Davinia away from his embrace. Servants scurried to complete their tasks, pretending not to notice the Laird and his pregnant wife trailing behind him.

“Brother.” Gawain’s smile was tight, spreading across his face. He was satisfied, seeing his brother happy with his life but couldn’t bring himself to actually smile back. Caillen pulled his brother into a tight embrace, laughing when he pulled away to look at his younger brother.

“Look how rugged ye look now, Gawain. It has been so many years, I’m so glad I finally found ye. And brought ye back to the clan.”

“Aye, ‘tis good to be back.”

“I’m so happy to see ye, Gawain. We must talk about everything that has happened. This is me wife, ye ken her.”

Emer stepped forward, a smile on her lips.” Gawain, it is wonderful to see ye again. I’m glad that ye came.”

“Excuse me, milord. I must be on my way to the kitchen.” Davinia said as she started to leave. Gawain noticed and tried to go after her, but Caillen stopped him.

“Ye just join us fer the early festivities tonight. Davinia has decorated the hall just for that. We can talk better then and I do want to hear everything, Gawain.”

“Aye, I’ll be there but I need to talk to Davinia urgently in private. I’ve brought her a gift.” He said and Caillen’s eyebrows went high and his wife cast Gawain a look, both surprised at the statement.

“Oh…of course.” Caillen nodded, stepping back for his brother. “Do nae be late fer later.”

“Aye.” Gawain bowed his head respectfully at his brother before taking Davinia’s hand “Come along.”

He led her toward the guest chambers where his bag had been put. They walked through the halls in silence, Gawain slowing his steps when he noticed how far behind she was.

“Aye, Davinia. Perhaps we’ll get to me chambers after Emer gives birth. Hurry up will ye?”

“Aye, yer legs are longer than mine.” She joked as she caught up to him, holding on to the arm he offered. Gawain felt his chest swell with her action.

“Ye told me the old matron had retired.”

“Aye. I’ve only just taken over. She lives in the village with her grandchildren. I visit her every once in a while.”

“I see. I suppose ye’re fit fer the job. Ye’re ever so diligent, Davinia.”

“Please, do nae flatter me.” Davinia suppressed a laugh.

“When I came, I only dropped me bag and came to find ye. I thought I would find ye alone.” Gawain inched toward her as he spoke.

“To be honest, ye did nae have to bring me anything.” Davinia replied with a shy smile.

“I wanted to. Ye deserve it, Davinia. Yer letters brought me immense joy. It made me feel as if I was nae alone.” He opened the door, stepping in not noticing her still by the door. “Thank ye.”

“Nae, Gawain. I only wanted to be sure of yer wellbeing. I tell ye, ye were never alone.”

“Come in, Davinia. I’m nae a highborn anymore.”

“I’m still a maid and ye’re the laird’s brother and guest. I’m only being respectful.”

Gawain stretched out his hand for her, she hesitated but took it, allowing him to pull her into the room. “There is nae need fer that, Davinia.”

She watched as he dug through the bag on the bed, nearly emptying its contents until he found a small pouch and he handed it to her. “What is it?”

“Open it.” He said, a grin creeping onto his face. She nodded, dipping her fingers in it to take out a single silk ribbon. Do ye like it? I ken how much ye love blue.” He pointed at her blue dress and she laughed, admiring the ribbon.

“I love it, Gawain.” Her voice was soft as her green eyes peered up at him under her lashes. “Thank ye.” Gawain found himself at a loss for words as he watched her take off her old ribbon, pocketing it before tying her hair back with her new one. Why had he never properly realized her beauty until it was too late.

He brushed the stray strands of hair out of her face when she looked back up at him. Her green eyes just as bright as he remembered, he stepped closer to her, cupping her face. “Ye’re beautiful, Davinia.” A deep blush spread out on her cheeks when he lifted her face upwards. He could lean in, brushing his lips over here before she took a step out of his hold. She swallowed as she pressed her back to the door, “Davinia?”

“Me apologies, Gawain.” Her voice shook, her eyes refusing to meet his. “I must be on my way back to the kitchen.”

“Why?” She perked up at the question but still kept her eyes trained on his chest. “Why won’t ye meet me eyes all of a sudden? Have I made ye uncomfortable? I apologize.”

“Nae, please! Nae.” She rubbed her arms not knowing what to say. “It is nae what ye think.”

“Are ye married then? Do ye’ve someone that ye…nae, I apologize. I shouldn’t have tried that.” Gawain looked down at his feet. “I was too forward but do ye like the ribbon?”

Davinia let her hand touch her old one in the pocket of her apron. “Aye. It is beautiful, thank ye. I’ll treasure it. I’m glad ye remembered something as little as me favorite color.”

“Do nae thank me. After all ye’ve done fer me over the years, taking care of me and noticing little things about me, it would be terrible of me if I did nae remember little things that you like.”

“Oh.” She sounded a little disappointed and Gawain looked up at her.

“What is the matter, have I said something wrong?”

“Nae, Gawain. I must be on me way. The festivities will begin soon.” She had gathered her dress and was already making her way out of his chambers. He called out to her but she had already shut the door in her wake leaving him to deal with his rejection alone.

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

Chapter One

Northumbria, 1320

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, I have heard,” Laila said back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Father, you can’t!” Jacob protested.

“This is extortion!” Matthew cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

Scotland, 1320

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, and ye got married.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Old habits die hard,” Domnal said back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps it came off when ye were riding?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye,” Iona said after a slight hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank ye, Iona,” Myra nodded to her.

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

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

“Nay, tell me what it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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