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.

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

Chapter 1

1530

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iain could only guess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was absolutely maddening and heartbreaking all at once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                ***

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

That damned dream again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

She would enjoy it nonetheless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what was he talking about?

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

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

Isla felt her breath get caught somewhere in her chest.

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

About ‘his daughter’? Which one?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So why now?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was completely alone.

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

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

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Chapter 1

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

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

“Ellie?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or kiss him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aye. She’s trouble.

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

***

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

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

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

“Lady Heloise?”

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

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

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

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

Or I thought they did.

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

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

Just ask my accursed mother.

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

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

“Of course, my laird,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ellie paused.

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

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

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

“We leave on in three days’ time.”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ellie,” he said.

She ignored him, opening the door and leaving.

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

So why, then, did he feel so guilty?

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

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One down, Kieran thought to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The forest was on fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reginald harrumphed before turning his back on her again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

“Are ye hurt?”

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

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

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

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

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

“At least seven,” she sighed heavily.

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

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

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

“Nae, no’ yet.”

“Was he badly injured?” Tilly sniffed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

“Vivien,” he warbled her name.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Lord,” Vivien nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vivien nodded mutely, preferring not to say anything.

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

“I’m sorry, Lord,” she murmured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her prayers and hopes had been in vain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is he?” Kieran asked quietly.

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

“Yer sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 1

Ewan Castle 1296

Kyla McCormack stood in her chamber, wringing her hands as her bright green eyes stared out of the window. It opened out onto the vast plains and the river beyond, and in the bright sunshine, it seemed like she could see for miles. “Och, Mary, it has been so long since they left for battle and nae word. My whole body is tremblin’. It has been weeks now!”

Mary, her young, red-cheeked chambermaid, came up beside her and touched her lightly on the arm. Mary had brown hair pulled tightly back and had kind grey eyes. “Mistress, all will be well. Ye ken already that battles take a long time. There are preparations tae be made, the men tae heal and bury, and the return journey. It may be even more time.” Kyla nodded but didn’t reply and kept chewing on the side of her lip.

Mary smiled. “I ken why ye are so worried, lass. But ye must nae be afeared, for Bram is young and strong. Ye will yet see yer weddin’ day come tae pass.”

Kyla turned to her young friend, the only person she knew in this large, dark castle, and smiled. “Thank ye, Mary. Ye are so right. He is strong, the strongest fighter in the clan. Yer encouragement does me well.”

“Good.” Mary moved to a small wooden table to the side and poured her mistress red wine. “Here. Drink this. It will ease the nerves.”

Kyla nodded and took a large sip from the pewter cup, her eyes still fixed on the wilds beyond. It had been over a month now since she’d been housed in Ewan Castle, away from her family far to the south. Soon after, before they could complete the uniting of the McCormack and Ewan clans through marriage, news of the battle had come to them, and then men had left for the coastline, righteous anger in their eyes.

Kyla licked her lips, savoring the sweet and comforting taste of the wine, her hand tightly clutching the cup. She put it down, twisting her red hair in her fingertips, wrapping an elegantly sleeved arm around her waist. Despite Kyla’s knowledge of his strength, her mind began to wander, going down dangerous paths. When would he come back? What if handsome, wonderful Bram was lost to her? What was she to do then far away in a new and strange part of the world forever? Her father had desired this union for years now, but it was only recently that she had come of age, ready to be wed. Although many other women had been forced into marriage, Kyla was happy to do so after she had met Bram a few times.

He was tall and strong, with long, light brown hair, and his eyes were the color of honey mead. The taste of his kiss was enough to send a trembling weakness to her knees, although they had only indulged twice, in hidden regions of the castle, when Mary was not around, and when her father was busy with Bram’s. He was kind tae her, and he looked at her with affection and spoke to her lovingly, not like her harsh father who always expected so much of her. She was ready for marriage to Bram, and she loved him dearly. She just wished he would come back and come back soon, for she missed him and hated the idea of him in battle.

Squinting to help her vision just a bit, Kyla was about to turn away from the window when she spotted riders coming from the east, racing towards the castle. At first, her heart fluttered with fear, afraid that it could be a group of rogue Englishmen who had traveled inward, hoping to pillage and plunder those in the countryside. But soon, she smiled when she saw the Ewan colors and the gleam of swords against the horses’ sides. “Mary!” she said excitedly, grabbing the arms of her chambermaid tightly as she spun around and moved to the door. “The men are back! Bram is home!”

Mary turned and looked out of the window. “So few have returned,” she said in a solemn voice, but Kyla barely heard her as she unlatched the wooden door and hurried out into the stone corridor, rushing along its length, grasping her skirts as she hurried herself along.

Bram is back, and now we can marry and live forever in happiness, as we were goin’ tae.

 A smile touched her lips, and her heart flipped with excitement as she finally rushed into the bottom great hall of the castle, watching as the servants, murmuring with interest, hurried to the door. The smell of hay and smoke was in the air, and it would soon also be filled with the scent of horses and sweat. The servants pulled open the large wooden door, wanting to be ready for their master’s return. Standing a little farther back, Kyla smoothed her dark skirt and felt Mary’s touch at her side as her chambermaid arrived breathless beside her. Kyla waited patiently, and she pulled at the ends of her red hair, hoping to smooth them down just a bit, even though her curls were often wild. She wanted to look her best for her betrothed. She ached suddenly for the feel of his strong arms around her again. Her Bram, home and safe.

She took a deep breath as she heard hooves clatter over the stone bridge, and a horse appeared in the yawning open door to the hall, black-haired Clyde atop it. Kyle smiled widely, happy to greet her future brither-in-law, but as she stepped forward, she paused as she saw the tired and hardened look on Clyde’s face. The other horses entered in, and not one of them held Bram. Worry began to thread through her mind, but she could not even bear to think of his loss until she spoke to Clyde.

Mary slid her arm into her mistress’, and Kyla was grateful for the gesture. Clyde jumped down from his horse, and a servant rushed to take the bridle from his master. Clyde’s steely green eyes looked around the room, and they stopped when they alighted on Kyla and Mary. He walked towards them, tall and erect, with his hands in fists at his side. His clothing was torn and bloody, and he winced ever so slightly as he made his way towards them.

Kyla’s throat tightened with each step he took. She moved forward as well, wanting desperately to hear his news. Perhaps Bram was simply injured and would be home soon once he was well enough. That thought gave her a flutter of hope until she saw Clyde’s eyes as she met him face-to-face. They were stark and red-rimmed. “Clyde,” she said slowly. “Where is Bram? What news of the battle?”

Clyde cleared his throat. His mouth twisted in a slight grimace, giving him an even more stern appearance. His long, hooked nose didn’t make the expression any more favorable. When he spoke, his voice sounded thick, as if it was painful for him to speak. “The English took the castle, but only because the Lord of Douglas surrendered, and his men were spared. But we lost many.” He motioned to the bedraggled men behind him, servants bringing them water and wine, removing the horses to the stable. He looked down and took a trembling breath. Softly, he said, “Bram fell, M’lady. He was taken at the end of the battle. I am sorry.” He didn’t look up again, and he lifted a hand to his face.

Kyla blinked and clutched Mary tightly as the words repeated in her mind. Bram is gone. She opened her mouth, trying to utter something, anything to take away the sting of this horrible news. Her handsome, powerful Bram was gone. The man she had given her heart to, to whom she wanted to give her heart for the rest of her days! Dead. It didn’t seem real. How could he be dead, when in her mind’s eye, he was so alive, pulsing with strength and liveliness? What was she to do now that he was gone—taken from her? The world shook before her eyes, and she felt the strong arms of Clyde and Mary try to grab her as she fell to the ground.

***

A time later, he knew not when, the crackling of a fire and the hum of a light voice lifted Bram from his sleep. He awoke, suddenly gasping for breath, feeling sweat on his face. His heart raced at his rude awakening, and he turned, his eyes desperate to comprehend what surrounded him. He was on his side, and he faced brick walls, poorly built, and he could sense a slight breeze blowing through the cracks, even though straw had been stuffed hastily between the open spots. Slowly, his eyes moved across the low cottage. He could see a thatched roof, and then he saw a large open fireplace, with a fire burning strong inside of it. Next to it was a long wooden table, and hovering over a bowl was the shape of an old woman, the rounded hump of her back more visible as she bent over in her dark cloak.

“Ye,” he said in a dry voice. He licked his lips to moisten his mouth a bit, trying to lift himself up, but he winced in pain. “Who are ye? What do I do here?” he asked.

The old woman’s dark eyes snapped up to meet his, and she dropped the implements she was using and pointed to him, a shadow of a smile on her face. “Ye have been wounded, warrior, and so I heal ye.” She watched him a moment and then returned to her work as if her minor explanation was enough to placate him. Her voice did not sound the way he’d expected. Despite her wizened appearance, her voice was soft and kind, that of a much younger woman.

“Am I nae dead? Who are ye? How have ye found me?” After trying a few times in vain to sit up, he laid back down again on his side, feeling the sharp pain in his back begin to throb.

The old woman chuckled. “My name is of nae consequence, lad, but I found ye layin’ on a battlefield.” She sucked in her breath and shook her head. Her eyes were sorrowful. “The death. The destruction these English have wrought. There were so many bodies. I came, and I saw that ye breathed yet.”

“But how could ye have possibly moved me?” he asked, intrigued by her tale. A white, veined hand lifted out of her cloak and waved in the air as if dismissing his question.

She took up a brown clay bowl and walked to his side. Without warning, she lifted it to his lips. “Drink this. It will help ye feel even better, now that the fever is passed. Ye can rest again. Rest is what ye need, lad.”

He drank, even though he didn’t know if he could trust the woman, for it felt good to have liquid pass down his throat and ease the pain of dryness. It was not a bad taste, and it was warm, although he couldn’t identify the flavor. Once the bowl was finished, the old woman sighed with satisfaction. “There, lad, now ye can rest again.”

His eyes were closed, and he could feel weariness stealing over him, but he still tried to speak. “Old woman, I am a laird. Laird Ewan. My men…my brither, I must get back t’my castle at Foulden. They will wonder where I am. She will wonder tae. Kyla,” he said, his voice drifting off as he spoke, the feeling of whatever she had given him spreading through him warmly like wine.

“Kyla,” the old woman replied in her soft voice as he felt the darkness spreading in his mind. “What a bonny name, that.”

Chapter Two

Kyla felt a rough hand touch her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, she was looking into Clyde’s concerned face. “Kyla, lass,” he said softly and lifted her to stand. “Forgive me for sharing such news so bluntly.” He sniffed a little. The grogginess slowly left her mind, and she frowned at the sight of Clyde paling as she stood waveringly on her feet, Mary on her other side.

“News,” she said quietly, and then the shock of what Clyde had shared with her came back to her. “Och, Bram,” she answered, feeling tears fill her eyes. The thought of him lying bloody in the long fields of battle made her chest tighten with agony. He was so loving, so bonny, and now he is gone.

She looked down at her hand as Clyde’s large one slid into it. Clyde was so different from Bram. While Bram reminded her of green fields and bright sunshine, Clyde made her think of deep lochs and incoming storms. He moved closer, and suddenly, his strong scent of sweat filled her senses. It made her ache inside for the old smell of Bram when he returned from the fields or a long ride. She would never have the chance to smell that scent again, and that knowledge made her feel hollow. She squeezed Clyde’s hand in comfort and glanced at his pale face. “Yer brither, lad. I am sorry for ye. How did he die?” she asked.

“I thank ye, Kyla. I didnae imagine that my elder brither could now be gone. So strong and the most skilled fighter in the clan.” A dark look came over Clyde’s face, and he punched a fist into his hand. “Those damned English! Takin’ my only family from me!”

Kyla saw the fury and grief in his eyes, and her heart went out to him. It matched the pain in her own. Clyde continued, looking off into the distance. “There was a rush by the castle. Soldiers came out, even though we thought that most of them had retreated. We fought bravely, but at the end of it, when we had lost many and killed what soldiers we could, I found him on the ground, his back covered in blood.”

Kyla closed her eyes, not wanting that image in her mind, and a tear squeezed out, slowly tracing its way down her cheek. “I see.” She let go of Clyde’s hand and turned away. “Forgive me, Clyde. I must go t’my room. I must…”

“Of course, Milady. Ye are nae well. We can speak later. I will send the priest tae ye?” Kyla nodded, hardly hearing him. Her whole future was now nothing. The path of her life that she had seen in her mind for so long was now gone. Her dearest love had left her alone in the world. Mary held her elbow as they moved up the stairs.

“I will send for the healer, mistress,” Mary said.

Nae, please,” Kyla protested once they were up the stairs. “I just need t’ lay doon, I think. It is quite a shock. I cannae imagine him gone. He was so strong, Mary. As ye said.”

“Aye, mistress. He was strong, tae be certain. I am very sorry for the loss of him. For ye.” They were silent for a time as Mary helped her to her room, and feeling strong fatigue come over her, Kyla slid into bed, her emotions raw.

“Is this what love feels like, Mary? When ye lose someone ye love, do ye feel as though a part of ye has been taken? Leavin’ ye empty?”

“Aye,” Mary said solemnly, lifting the woolen blanket over Kyla, and she sat down next to her. Mary had lost her husband a year before to an illness. “It feels just like that. Ye didnae ken each other for very long, but I ken that ye cared much for Bram. He was goin’ tae be a good husband. A good laird.”

Kyla nodded and reached out for Mary’s hand. “He would have been. I know it.” Kyla smiled weakly at the thought of what could have been. “Och, what will Father say now? I dinnae relish the thought of writin’ t’ him. He will be at a loss now that his son-in-law is gone.”

“Aye, Bram was a good man. Yer father will see it as a great loss indeed. As will yer mother. They were lookin’ forward tae havin’ him in the family.”

Kyla wrapped her arms about herself, dreaming that it was Bram who could hold her instead, and she could breathe in his strong, male scent. The scent that made her feel at home and like all was well with the world. “Father has prepared for this moment for so many years. This is m’ clan now. Those were his words to me as we parted. Dinnae ye remember?”

“Aye,” Mary said in a quiet voice. “I remember it. He wanted ye tae think of Ewan Castle as yer new home and nae look back tae the past.

Kyla agreed, but she also knew her father was happy to have her gone so that the alliance could bring him benefits as soon as possible. She took a breath, and when she released it, she felt a hollow ache in her chest. Bram was really gone. Taken. Dead. She would have to live the rest of her life without him, and she had no idea how she would do it. How could she possibly survive without him?

“Och Mary, what am I t’do? How will I ever live without him? I feel untethered, set loose in a strange sea. And now I feel as though we are imposin’ on the Ewan hospitality.” Her tears started afresh. “I cannae go home. M’ Father wanted the powerful link of the Ewan and McCormick lairds, but I wanted the man. I only wanted the man.”

Mary shushed and soothed her. “All will be well, Mistress. Dinnae fash yerself just yet. Rest now.” Kyla closed her eyes, but she could hear Mary moving about and the sound of her wine cup being placed on the table next to the bed. “Rest,” Mary whispered again, and Kyla took a breath as Mary closed the door behind her.

She felt like a little girl, her fate now tied to the world of men, and she had no way out. Would Clyde allow her and Mary to stay here in the castle until they knew what to do next? Perhaps she should find a distant relative to go and see instead of staying here and instead of returning home to shame. Kyla hated this powerlessness. Even though she had been sad to leave her home, she was glad to finally be away from the stifling atmosphere of her father’s constant instruction and her mother’s daily reminder of her duty as a woman. And as the oldest, with a younger sister below her, she knew her actions had to be without reproach.

Finally, she had come to Ewan Castle knowing that kind and loving Bram was to be her husband. He never scolded nor instructed. He enjoyed her whims and fancies, and she felt freer than she ever had. But now, she was a grieving woman, alone in the world. She wanted to shake her head and slide under the blanket, refusing to accept the truth that he was gone. Kyla drifted off to sleep, the vision of Bram’s honey-colored eyes in her dreams.

***

Two months later

Bram slid the last bit of bread he had been given into his mouth. It was now cold, for he’d been sleeping when she’d left it by his bed. He was sitting up in his bed, but his limbs were desperate for activity. The nameless old woman sat nearby, stirring something in a bowl on the table. The room was slightly chilly, for no fire burned in the hearth. Bram had left the small cottage a few times in the past two months to walk around the tiny glen where her cottage was housed. However, he always returned, his face pale, the pain in his back beginning to throb.

“When can I leave, woman? What wound is this that keeps a man so tied tae his bed?” He was growing surlier with each day that passed, knowing that his men and Kyla would take him for dead. They must not have been able to remain behind to bury the bodies and so had not seen that he still lived. He wasn’t sure if he was angry or hurt.

The old woman clucked with her tongue and shook her head. She didn’t look his way and just kept stirring methodically, over and over. “Ye are an impatient one. It takes time tae heal all wounds, ye ken. This one was deep, and it nearly killed ye. How close it came to severin’ yer back in half. The blade was still inside of ye when I found ye.”

He was amazed he had not thought to ask before then. His memory of the event was still foggy, and so he was surprised to hear the woman’s account.

“By God.” He shook his head and continued to eat, amazed that he had survived such an ordeal. He wondered if it was not by the grace of God that he had been spared. His fear of not being able to return to his clan was lessened by that small comfort. He could still be Laird and follow his father’s proud legacy. He would not have to descend into dishonor for not fulfilling his destiny. However, I need t’get back there in order tae fulfill that destiny.

“I fear that I will go mad here unless I can finally be free! How much longer?”

She chuckled. “I think it will be another moon more, and then ye will be well enough tae return t’ yer stronghold in Foulden. I will give ye a horse when the time is right.”

Bram frowned. He had not seen any stable on his walks around, nor seen a horse at all, but he shrugged it off. Another moon and he could be gone and finally see Kyla again if she had not gone back to her family to the south once she figured he was dead.

He stood. “I will try tae walk again, then. I have eaten and so feel a little stronger. My mind grows foggy with lack of activity.”

“I will come as well,” the old woman said, lifting her dark hood over her head. “A storm will come soon.” She sniffed the air a little. “And I will hold ye up when ye tire. It is time we can push just a little bit t’ test the extent of yer strength, lad. Come.”

Bram was disappointed that she would accompany him, but he said nothing, fearful that he would cause offense. The woman had saved his life after all, and he owed her kindness if nothing else. Besides, she was the only one to speak to in this empty place, and so that would have to entertain him.

Outside in the cooling air, Bram could spy dark clouds slowly making their way across the sky. He could smell the scent of incoming rain as well. He felt the old woman’s thin arm slide into his, and he held on, amazed at how sturdy a crutch she was as they moved out of the glen and through the trees. “Ye wish tae go far?” he asked.

She smiled. “I think a sight of the blue loch will do ye good, lad. Although, we dinnae wish t’ be tae conspicuous. And we must nae tarry tae long, in order t’ nae get caught in the rain.”

Bram nodded. “Tell me of this Kyla ye mentioned,” the old crone said as their feet crunched over the sticks and pine needles of the forest. Bram could spy the winking of something shiny in the distance. The loch was not far.

“Kyla,” he said, annoyed at the clench of pain in his chest at the memory of her. So bonny, so cheery and hopeful. “She is m’ betrothed. We were tae be married, but then news of the battle came, and there was nae time tae make all the proper preparations.”

“I see. She is from another clan? From far away?”

“Aye, how did ye ken?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting.

The old woman chuckled. “It is m’ way, lad.”

“Well, I do fear now that she has taken me for dead, she may have returned tae her family. Or worse. Married someone else.” The thought of that hurt more than his wound. He had not known her for very long, but as soon as he’d laid eyes on her, even before his father had made the agreement with hers, he’d wanted her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, so graceful and elegant with her long neck and long red hair.

When she’d first turned her green eyes on him, she looked even more beautiful as her cheeks colored with embarrassment. Then, when his father had told them both that they were to be married, their clans uniting, his heart had tripped with excitement. He had tried his best to get her alone after that, to speak to her, to learn all about her. They had even kissed a few times, and he knew deep in his heart that this was the woman he wanted.

Bram roused from his reverie by the feel of the old woman patting his hand comfortingly. “I dinnae think that will be yer fate, lad.” Bram wondered why this woman was being so kind to him and allowing him to stay for so long and without payment. It didn’t make any sense. “Ye are far tae handsome for any woman tae remove ye so quickly from their thoughts.” At that, she burst into laughter, and Bram found himself smiling at her compliment. They stumbled down to the edge of the loch, and he breathed in the fresh air, enjoying the cool breeze that was sweeping over the dark blue waters.

“I ken this place,” he said at long last, although I have only seen it from the other shore.

“Aye, I am certain. We are nae far from the battlefield from whence I took ye.”

“Och, the forest. Ettrick Forest?” Bram asked, and she smiled.

“Aye. Deep in the woods we are if ye are concerned about bein’ found.”

“Nae.” He shook his head. “I think the English are far tae satisfied with how much destruction they wrought tae go on the hunt for one Scotsman who yet breathes.” He grumbled, not wanting to remember the sight of so much blood and carnage, and yet the image was still fresh in his mind as if it was yesterday. “Do ye ken what happened? Where the English went next?”

“Nae. Nae me. Ye can see that I keep away from people for the most part. I have nae interest in the world of kings and countries.”

“But lairds ye seem to take a keen interest in, old woman.”

She laughed again, such a sweet, tinkling sound; it still surprised him every time she did so. “Aye. That is true. Well, I take nae interest in politics, only tae help m’fellow man when the opportunity arises.” Thunder rolled in the distance, and she tightened her hold on him. “Come, lad. We shall return tae the cottage and the fire.”

He looked up at the sky, feeling better than he had in the past two months. Feeling refreshed. “Aye.”

They walked back in companionable silence, and Bram could feel the heaviness in the air as the rain approached. When they entered the cottage, Bram was surprised to see a fire lit and blazing in the hearth. He frowned and looked at the old woman. “How have ye done that, then? Is there a servant come tae light the fire while we were away?”

She chuckled. “Nae at’all. It was lit afore we left, lad, but now it has grown larger and thus drawn yer attention. Go and sit. I will bring ye somethin’ warm t’ drink.”

Bram said nothing more, and his head had begun to feel a little bit foggy after the long walk. He wandered to his bed and watched the old woman suspiciously as she worked at the table in front of the flames. He knew he was right. There had been no fire there when they’d left. And now, one was burning wildly as if it had been roaring for hours. How could it be?

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Prologue

Scotland, The Isle of the Shadows, 1411

 “Guard yer right flank, Christina, tis’ always the same,” her mother called out, as Christina fell back onto the muddy ground, cursing herself, whilst Ross looked down at her and smiled.

He reached out his hand, but she pushed it away, scrabbling to her feet and holding out her sword, ready for a counterattack.

“But ye are already dead, Christina. Nay enemy is goin’ to help ye to yer feet and ask ye to try again,” Ross said, shaking his head and laughing.

He was only twenty years old, merely a boy and Christina was angry that he had beaten her, though she was hardly much older at twenty-one and with such an easily countered attack, too. Now, she raised her sword, challenging him to attack her, her mother raising her eyebrows and sighing.

“Enough for today, Ross has beaten ye. Accept it and come inside. Tis’ about to rain, look at the clouds gatherin’ along the loch,” her mother said, pointing out across the water to where an inky sky was gathering upon the horizon.

“Does the weather stop an enemy, too?” she asked, and her mother, named Finola, laughed.

“It does when yer home is an island, and the waters all around are whipped up by the winds. Nay enemy will land here on such a day,” she said, and Christina nodded.

The Isle of the Shadows had been her home since she was very young, her mother, the Lairdess, ruling over the people ever since the death of Christina’s grandfather some ten years before. It was a lonely place, the island lying far out from the shores of Loch Morar, its castle perched precariously upon a rocky outcrop, surrounded by deep forests. The only link to the mainland were several small boats moored at a jetty that lay in a natural harbor below the castle.

“But that does nae mean we shouldnae be prepared,” Christina replied, sheathing her sword in its hilt and eyeing Ross with a smile.

“Then I shall beat ye again tomorrow, lass, and the next day,” he said, winking at her.

“Then she shall need to train harder until she can beat ye, Ross Ruaidhrí,” a voice from behind them came.

Christina looked up to see the familiar figure of Isla Ruaidhrí coming toward them. She had her two swords slung at her belt, a great animal skin wrapped around her shoulders, and her long, red hair was flowing down her back so that she looked every bit the warrior she was, a hardened woman who had fought many a battle alongside Christina’s mother. Now, she drew one of her swords, challenging Ross to fight, as Christina looked on in awe.

She had always respected Isla, the woman whom her mother had charged with training her to fight, one who had taught Christina everything she knew. Now, she circled Ross, the two of them sparring, before Christina lunged forward and disarmed him effortlessly, his sword falling to the ground with a clunk, as Isla now pointed her own blade to Ross’s chest. He raised his hands, laughing in the knowledge of his defeat.

“There ye go, Christina, we are both dead,” Ross replied, as Isla picked up his sword and handed it back by the hilt.

“And two dead clansmen are nay good to us,” Isla said, shaking her head, “ye must train harder, the both of ye. There are dangers lurkin’ all around us, waitin’ to strike at the first opportunity.”

“Come along inside. The rain is beginnin’ to fall,” Christina’s mother said, rising to her feet, just as the first drops of rain pattered upon the surrounding rocks.

A storm was about to break, the wind picking up along the loch and the mountains above obscured by mist and cloud. It was not unusual for such storms to blow up, and with summer ending, cooler weather was now sweeping from the north. Christina was glad of her shawl, and she pulled out tightly around herself, the four of them making their way toward the castle.

It was an ancient place, the battlements more like an extension of the rocks than a structure built upon them, green ad mossy, a great ditch running on three sides, a precarious wooden bridge crossing over the gates, which now stood open, the banner of the Ruaidhrí clan flapping above in the wind. At its center was a keep, built into the rock, the large windows of the great hall now ablaze with candlelight and the promise of a warming fire within.

As they came to the gates, Christina cast a glance back out across the loch, the rain now heavily falling all around them. She could barely make out the far shore, nor the archipelago of islands which ran along the center of the loch, uninhabited, save for a hermit who lived in a cave on the furthest land from the Isle of the Shadows, and whom no one had seen for many years.

As she looked, a sight caused her to pause, straining her eyes to peer through the gathering gloom, as the storm picked up its ferocity, the wind blowing harshly all around. There was something out on the loch, faint at first but gradually coming closer and closer. The rain was stinging her eyes, a crash of thunder echoing across the mountains above, but unmistakably there was something there, and she tugged at her mother’s shawl, causing her to turn.

“What is that?” she said, pointing out across the waters.

“What is what?” her mother asked, looking out to where Christina pointed.

“That, out on the waters?” Christina said, pointing again to where an object rose and fell in the churned-up loch, waves now crashing to the shore below, as another peel of thunder echoed around them.

“I cannae see anythin’ out there,” her mother said, shaking her head and turning back toward the castle gates.

“Nay, mistress, Christina is right; there is somethin’ out there,” Isla said, and now Christina’s mother took her seriously, the four of them squinting through the darkness.

“Are ye sure?” Christina’s mother asked, and Isla nodded.

“Aye, tis” a boat, mistress, but is it friend or foe?” she asked, as the four of them looked at one another with worried expressions upon their faces.

Chapter One

The four of them watched the stricken boat, battered by the waves now sweeping up the loch. It would soon be driven onto land, dashed to pieces upon the rocks which lay all around the island. There was only one place safe enough to land on the Isle of  Shadows, and that was the jetty where the clan’s own boats were moored. But this boat, a small craft without a sail, was being pushed by the wind to the shoreline below the castle where the worst of the rocks lay just beneath the waters.

“There cannae be more than two on board. We must help them,” Ross said, and the four of them hurried back toward the water’s edge.

Christina could see more clearly now, for the boat was about to be driven onto shore, bearing just one person, a man, who was now waving frantically from the stern.

“Help me, the sail is gone,” he cried out as another wave swept over the boat, and it crashed upon the rocks with a sickening crack, the entire vessel breaking in two.

“He has gone under, quickly,” Isla cried, wading into the water, followed by Christina and Ross.

“Be careful, watch out for the waves,” Christina’s mother called out, and Christina almost lost her balance as another great wave crashed over them.

By now, Isla had waded out to the boat and searched in the waters for the man, who seemed to have disappeared.

“Take my hand, Christina,” Ross said, but she gave him a withering look and laughed, despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Why nae ye take my hand, Ross, and I will hold on to ye,” she said, and Ross turned away, a sheepish expression upon his face.

“Help me,” Isla called out, “he is under the bough, quickly.”

Christina waded deeper into the water, she and Isla taking hold of the rear part of the boat and heaving it up. With a great gasp, the man appeared from beneath the water, and Ross took hold of his hand, pulling him into the shallows, as Christina and Isla let go of the bough which crashed back into the water, only to be swept back out into the loch by the drag of the wind.

“Help me,” he gasped as they pulled him back toward the shore, where Christina’s mother was waiting.

“Ye are safe now, but who are ye, and what were ye doin’ comin’ here to the Isle of Shadows?” Isla asked as the man stood catching his breath on the loch side, all of them soaked to the skin, as the rain now fell even heavier around them.

Christina could not help but notice his handsome looks and frame. He had the build of a warrior, his chestnut hair bedraggled, and the growth of his beard suggesting he had traveled for several days. He smiled at her, evidently grateful for his rescue, though he looked around in some puzzlement, as though he had not been expecting to arrive in such a place, the object of his journey a mystery.

“The Isle of Shadows? Tis’ a place I have heard of, but I had nay intention of comin’ here. My boat was blown off course; I had meant to sail along the loch as far as Cartool, but… the storm blew up, and I lost the sail,” he said, “but ye are…?”

“I am the Lairdess of this place, Finola Ruaidhrí, and this is my daughter Christina. Ye have Isla and Ross to thank too,” Christina’s mother said, and the man nodded.

“My name is Lyall, Lyall Donald, and I thank ye for rescuin’ me,” he said before promptly sneezing.

“Whoever ye are, we should get ye inside and in front of a warm fire. There will be time for stories later. Come now, bringing him inside,” Christina’s mother said, and the five of them now hurried toward the castle gates as the storm raged out in the loch beyond.

“I fear my boat is beyond repair,” Lyall said, and Christina nodded.

“Dashed to pieces, but where have ye come from? Where ye goin’? Tis’ strange for a man to be out on the loch alone, especially one so finely dressed as ye,” she said, and Lyall blushed.

“I assure ye, I mean nay harm,” he said as they made their way through the gates.

“Christina, let us offer our guest some hospitality first, then we shall hear his story,” her mother said as they hurried up the steps to the keep.

Christina was relieved to make her way inside, out of the wind and the rain. Her mother’s dogs ran to meet them, sniffing around and barking, as they led Lyall through the corridors and passageways and into the great hall. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and the tables were set for dinner, the smell of roasting meat wafting up from the kitchens below.

“Bring some clothes for this man,” Isla instructed one of the servants, and they seated Lyall in front of the fire, where he reached out his hands gratefully to warm them.

Once again, Christina could not help but notice his handsome face, the noble clothes he wore, and now, in the firelight, a scar which ran along the edge of his cheek, as though the tip of a blade had once caught him.

“Ye dae me much kindness by yer hospitality, mistress,” he said, bowing his head to Christina’s mother.

“Tis’ nae often that we have guests here on the Isle of Shadows,” she replied, glancing at Christina and the others as she spoke.

“And tis’ nae often that one finds such as ye in Lairdship over such a place,” Lyall said, blushing a little as he spoke.

“Ye mean a lass? Aye, tis’ strange to those unaccustomed to such things. This clan is ancient, descended from Robert the Bruce himself,” she said, and now Lyall looked at them with wide eyes.

“Bruce? I see… but then ye are nay friends of the King?” he said, and Christina’s mother shook her head.

“James I is a usurper and nay friend of ours, but neither are our family either. Our claim to Robert’s blood comes through my great grandmother, Christina of the Isles, after whom my daughter is named,” Christina’s mother said, and Lyall nodded. However, he hesitated before asking further questions.

“Then ye are…” he began.

“We are our own people, and this land is ours. We live here undisturbed. But yes, my great grandmother was never recognized as anything but the mistress of a King. Her children had nay claim to the inheritance, and our clan has faded into nothin’ but what ye see before ye,” Christina’s mother said, as the servants returned bearing clothes and food for their guest.

“But yer hospitality remains gracious,” Lyall said as Isla stepped forward, still eyeing him with suspicion.

“And ye? Are ye friend or foe?” she asked, and Lyall laughed.

“Ye have two swords slung at yer belt, and I have nay doubt ye know how to use them well. Dae I present a threat to ye, unarmed and shiverin’ here in yer mistresses’ hall?” he asked, and Isla nodded.

“Aye, but what trouble dae ye bring here? Are ye bein’ pursued? What is yer relation to the King? Ye are well dressed, with a boat and purpose about ye. Tis’ nae a simple peasant who behaves like that,” she said, and Lyall bowed his head.

“May I be permitted to change my clothes and spend awhile before yer hearth? Then I shall tell ye everythin’ I can,” he said, and Christina’s mother nodded.

“We shall give ye a little privacy. Ross, stay with our guest whilst he changes, see to it he does nae cause any mischief,” she said, she, Isla, and Christina now stepping out into the corridor.

“A man does nae just wash up upon the shore,” Isla said when the door was closed behind them.

“Ye heard what he said. His boat was blown off course in the storm. Tis’ an easy occurrence and nae the first time it has happened,” Christina’s mother said.

“He seems sincere,” Christina said.

“And ye are naïve to think so, Christina,” Isla said, for the years had hardened her heart, and she had seen too many conflicts to trust as readily as Christina, something she often chastised her for.

“It can dae nay harm to allow him to stay the night and then see him upon his way, he can be given a boat of ours to use, for I know ye wouldnae wish for a stranger to remain in our midst for long,” Christina replied, for she was not afraid to speak her mind, knowing that one day it would be her destiny to lead the clan in her mother’s place.

“We must know more about him, what if he brings others, what if…” Isla began, but just then, a call came from the passageway, and several of Christina’s mother’s soldiers appeared, with anxious looks upon their faces.

“Mistress, boats, sighted along the loch, a dozen of them coming this way,” one of them called out.

“What did I tell ye? Tis’ surely nay coincidence that a stranger arrives in our midst and suddenly a force is sent against us,” Isla said, as Christina’s mother looked anxiously at them both.

“Sound the bell, bring the crofters into the castle, arm every able-bodied man, we shall go out to meet them,” Christina’s mother said, and Isla hurried off to muster the defense.

“And what of the stranger?” Christina asked.

“He can prove which side he is on. Come, we have nae a moment to lose,” her mother replied, flinging open the doors of the great hall and calling out for Lyall to make haste.

***

Lyall had been grateful to these mysterious women for rescuing him. His boat had been caught up in the storm, and he was far from an able oarsman. With the sail gone, the wind had dragged him across the loch, and it had only been through good fortune that he had washed up upon the shores of the Isle of Shadows, a strange and mysterious place which he had heard tell of in legend, but had never sought to see.

The stories told of an island primarily inhabited by women, remnants of an ancient and noble clan, now reduced to a few crofters, eking out a living on the harsh shores of a forested island known to none but themselves. To discover that it was true had been a shock and to find such women as these an even greater shock, for there could be no doubting that Finola and her daughter were impressive, an impression strengthened by the presence of the formidable Isla. He was grateful to them for the clothes and the warmth of the fire, eyeing Ross as he stripped off his tunic, careful to keep the precious secret he carried hidden from sight.

“Does it nae trouble ye bein’ under the rule of such as these?” Lyall asked, pointing toward the door which had just been closed behind the departing women.

“Nay,” the boy replied, “ye wouldnae say that if ye had seen the mistress in battle.”

“She is formidable?” Lyall asked as he hung his wet clothes up in front of the fire.

“I have nae seen a man who could defeat Isla in a sword fight, and the Lairdess is as skilled with the bow as she is with the blade,” he replied.

“And the daughter? Is she as feisty as her elders?” he asked, and Ross blushed.

“She is,” he replied, sighing, as though he wished he might tame her for himself.

There was no doubting that Christina was beautiful. Lyall had noticed that even as she helped pull him free from the wreckage of his boat. With her dark brown hair and deep-set brown eyes, she had the beauty of one who could surely possess any man she chose, a woman who could break hearts as easily as win them.

“Have ye possessed her?” Lyall asked, grinning at Ross, who blushed, his features betraying him.

“Nay and ye should keep a civil tongue,” Ross replied, scowling at Lyall, who laughed.

“She is a fine lass, I wouldnae have thought less of ye if ye had said, yes, more in fact,” he replied.

“She does nae look at me like that. I am… we are friends, that is all,” he said.

“And a lass needs friends as much as lovers, especially in such a place as this. Why, tis’ a lonely isle, this… what is it ye call it?” he asked.

“The Isle of Shadows,” Ross replied.

“A strange name for a place, what shadows does it speak of?” Lyall asked for he had always been curious about the stories he had heard surrounding the mysterious island in the loch.

“When the sun shines, it rarely does so here, only in the height of summer, when the days are long, and the sun climbs high into the sky. At all other times, the mountains above cast their shadows down, and nay sunlight falls upon us. Tis’ a fact which has given rise to many stories and…” he said, but at that moment, the doors to the great hall burst open, and the Lairdess and her daughter rushed in, the two women calling out urgently for Lyall to hurry.

“I am nae dressed yet,” he said, pulling the clean tunic shirt over his head.

But he could not help but smile to himself at the sight of Christina’s embarrassment at the sight of his half-naked body. Her mother had appeared not to notice, but Christina had blushed, turning her face away, as he had taken up his breeches, the water still dripping from his body.

“There is nay time, come now, it seems yer arrival has attracted unwanted attention,” the Lairdess said. Lyall felt his bravado slip away as he looked at her in surprise, astonished by her words, his amusement at Christina’s embarrassment now gone.

“What? What dae ye mean?” he said, an unpleasant feeling gathering in his stomach, which felt as though it had suddenly knotted.

“Boats are approaching along the loch, filled with men at arms. It seems a coincidence that ye should come amongst us. Then we should so suddenly receive unexpected company,” the Lairdess said, looking hard at Lyall, who swallowed nervously, looking from Ross to Christina and back toward the Lairdess.

“I did nae mean for this to happen, my boat was swept off course and…” he began, but the Lairdess raised her hand, as Christina gave him a searching gaze.

“There will be time for explanations later. Now, are ye with us or will ye cower here and prove yerself of nay use? Are ye worth our while defendin’ and will doin’ so prove of worth to us? Or should we simply hand ye over to them?” she asked.

“Ye have shown me great kindness, mistress, and if ye will permit me a sword, then I shall prove my worth,” he replied, wishing only to prove his thanks to them and show his courage in battle, for Lyall was a warrior, well used to the heat of battle and not afraid to fight.

“Is it ye that they seek?” the Lairdess asked, fixing him with a hard gaze.

“They seek me, aye, but surely there is nay time to lose. I assure ye that these men are more of an enemy to ye than I ever could be. I will explain everythin’ to ye, I promise,” he said, as the sound of battle now echoed from the walls of the castle.

The Lairdess looked up, then nodded, pointing to Ross and indicating that he should offer Lyall a sword, the four of them now hurrying out from the great hall and into the castle courtyard. The gates had been closed, and Isla was standing upon the battlements, urging the Ruaidhrí to fight, the cries of the enemy echoing across the island.

“We must ride out to meet them. I will nae have the island over run,” the Lairdess cried out, summoning Isla down from the battlements above.

“There were six men in each boat, a dozen boats,” Isla said as she hurried down a flight of steps into the courtyard, arrows whistling over the surrounding walls.

“But we know the island and they daenae, we can take them by surprise, keep them cornered in the bay and drive them back into the water. Gather then men together, the swiftest and best. I shall lead the charge,” the Lairdess said, and Lyall could not help but be impressed by her bravery and stature.

“Yer mother is a fine warrior,” he whispered to Christina, who turned to him and smiled.

“And ye will find her daughter just as fine,” she said, “come now, or are ye to hold back and nay prove yer worth, stranger?”

Lyall smiled, a sword now in his hand, as the Ruaidhrí men now gathered in the courtyard, awaiting the Lairdess’ orders. She was saddled upon a white steed, which reared and snorted in the driving rain now falling in sheets around them, its breath rising in plumes, as though it to bore the fury of its rider, who now called out in defiance to her men.

“This island is our home, and nay usurper will dare land upon its shores without bloody vengeance. Come, my friends, for the honor of our clan, we fight, and we shall be victorious,” she called out, a cheer going up all around, as the great gates swung open.

Lyall found himself caught up in the charge, a mass of men and swords, but at their front rode a woman, flanked by two others, as Isla and Christina drew their swords and joined the Lairdess in her fight. He had never seen such women, for those of his own clan were timid and without such courage or resolve. These women were different, and it seemed they inspired confidence in every man who now followed them in the charge, Lyall included.

How easily they could have handed him over to his enemies and abandoned him in his hour of need. That knowledge spurned him on, and he raised his sword above his head, joining the fray in their war cries, as together they charged through the gates.

They took the enemy by surprise, for the attackers were still assaulting the walls with little chance of breaching them. The castle had withstood many an assault, and many an army had broken itself upon it. Now, Lyall’s enemies turned to fight, the clash of blade upon blade filling the air as arrows whistled around them.

“Let them have it, send them back where they came from,” Isla called out, as the Lairdess’ horse rose upon its hind legs and three of the enemy were cut down by her sword.

Lyall was in the thick of the battle now, fighting bravely, for he had seen many a campaign. His body was covered in scars from the battles he had fought, his sword like an extension of his body, swiping and cutting, felling, and raising. Together, they were pushing the enemy back toward the rocky beach by the jetty. Their boats pulled up, though the storm had plucked one back into the waters, and it was drifting out into the loch beyond.

“We have them,” the Lairdess called out, force them into the water, show nay mercy.

Lyall was next to Christina now, and he could not believe how well she fought, ducking and diving, her sword clashing with men almost twice her size, cutting them down as though they were nettles or wheat in the field.

“Ye fight well,” he called out, and Christina laughed as her sword clashed with that of an enemy, and she cut him down as though he were a mere sapling in the forest.

“I fight very well, though I see that ye dae too,” she replied, just as a cry came from behind.

Lyall turned to see Ross struggling with one of the enemy soldiers, who had knocked him to the ground and was now raising his sword over him. Christina had seen it too, and she charged forward, knocking the man sideways, as Ross struggled to his feet, clutching his side, which was bleeding, before falling back to the ground.

“Nae!” Christina cried out as she swung her sword, knocking the enemy to his knees.

He raised his sword, but Christina was too quick for him, bringing hers down upon him with a sickening crunch. He let out a cry of agony, falling backward onto the ground, and Christina turned, rushing to Ross’ side, where he lay screaming in pain upon the earth.

“We must get him back to the castle, we must…” Christina began, her voice anxious and filled with fear, not for herself but for Ross, but just then, an arrow whistled through the air, catching her leg and causing her to fall, letting out a cry of pain as she did so.

In an instant, Isla was at her side, pulling her to her feet, as Lyall fended off several of the enemy who now charged toward them.

“Take her, run now,” Isla cried out, as Lyall put his arm around Christina and helping Ross to his feet too.

He had just turned to run with her when a pack of enemy soldiers appeared, as if from nowhere, surrounding them, as Isla drew her second sword.

“Nay, stop, help Isla, we cannae leave her,” Christina called out, but there was no time to stop, and Lyall dragged her forward as the soldiers charged upon Isla, surrounding her in a melee of swords and spears.

Lyall clung to Christina, pulling her from the battlefield and back toward the castle. The shouts and cries of the fight echoed across the island, the storm clouds still rolling above, as darkness fell, and the rain-soaked him through.

“Take the lass inside. She is injured,” Lyall said as he came to the gates, where a dozen of the Ruaidhrí clansmen stood guard.

“I must go back. I must help Isla,” Christina gasped, but Lyall shook his head.

“Ye are injured, dae ye want to die on a foolish quest? Ye said yerself she is a great warrior, then let her fight,” he said, as they escorted Christina inside, and Lyall hurried back toward the fight, his sword drawn and ready to enter the fray once again.

Lyall sought Ross, his injuries now being tended by one of the clansmen, and who struggled to his feet, asking for Christina, as Lyall approached. The Ruaidhrí had almost vanquished their opponents, who were now retreating in their boats from the jetty, several of them drifting upon the waters, one burned and sinking into the depths of the loch. The Lairdess sat proudly upon her stead, her sword raised and a look of defiance upon her face, as her clansmen saw off the last of their opponents, a cheer rising across the shoreline.

“She is safe, tis” only the lightest of injuries, a graze from an arrow, but safer that she was taken back to the castle, and…” Lyall began, but just then, Ross pointed behind him, his face turning white, as he fell back to the ground.

“Isla,” he said, and Lyall turned.

There, lying upon the ground, bloodied and beaten, was the body of Isla. Her two swords lay at her side, a dozen arrows protruding from her body, but her face still set in a look of defiance, as the Lairdess hurried to her side, kneeling in the dirt and letting out a piercing scream of sorrow.

“Vengeance will be ours, oh, vengeance will be ours,” she cried, tears running down her cheeks, as she turned her face toward Lyall, who looked down in sorrow at the loss suffered for him, “and what have ye got to say now, stranger? Ye see what happens when our peace is disturbed?” And Lyall could only hang his head in shame.

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

Chapter One

“Do nae look back,” Alina said, “but Torcall has been looking at ye. He’s behind ye.”

Ceana’s eyes widened, and a blush appeared on her otherwise pale cheeks. “He’s here?” she asked. Ceana hadn’t expected Torcall to be at the feast. Sure, she had prayed to the gods and put on her prettiest yellow dress, which Alina assured her didn’t clash with her vibrant red hair and deep brown eyes. Still, she hadn’t actually expected him to come. The feast wasn’t a large one, and Torcall was not known for frequenting parties or celebrations.

Ceana had a crush on Torcall. It was one that everyone except Torcall seemed to notice. She had met Torcall years ago at a feast for all the lassies who were finally of age to court, and he had stolen her heart. However, the issue was that Torcall had caused this without knowing. Ceana had long since given up on him liking her, but it didn’t hurt to dream.

“Would ye stop smiling like a canary?” Alina admonished her younger sister.

“Do canaries smile?” Ceana asked with a rather canary-like smile on her full pink lips.

Alina shook her head and put her hand in her sister’s. “Come with me. Left t’ye, we will spend the whole feast sneakin’ glances at Torcall, and I have had enough of that.”

She dragged a reluctant Ceana away to one of the many tables at the feast. “Have ye seen ma?” Ceana asked her sister.

“Nay, last I saw of her, she was speaking with some of da’s friend’s wives,” Alina replied, and Ceana nodded. One of the downsides to being married to a guard was that her mother could not enjoy them at feasts like other couples. Most of the time, her father was on guard duty at the palace keep, which made him a very busy man.

The few times he was free, her mother opted to spend quiet moments with him in their home rather than at feasts. Perhaps, being raised in a home with parents that adored each other had made her long for such a love. Since Ceana could remember, she had dreamt of a man to love her just as her father loved her mother. However, it didn’t seem to have the same effect on her sister. Despite being two years her senior, Alina seemed largely uninterested in men. Ceana could not recall her sister saying a word about any man that wasn’t plainly platonic.

Alina definitely didn’t like anyone the way Ceana liked Torcall. Who wouldn’t like Torcall, Ceana thought to herself with a small sigh? The man was heavenly. He was tall, handsome, and well-built. He had the kindest blue eyes that Ceana had ever seen, and even better, there was the hint of adventure that Ceana craved in them. He was a kind man, too—even Alina agreed about this. She had seen him several times stop to assist both men and women who needed his help.

One day, after Torcall had helped Alina fix the wheel of her carriage for hours without accepting anything, she had come home with a newfound respect for him. “It seems to me,” she had said, “that Torcall is the type of man that would treat his wife with respect whether he loved her or not.”

That had been enough for her to subtly endorse her sister’s crush. Although she had never said it out loud, Ceana imagined that her sister didn’t believe in love.

“Ceana?” Alina called for the third time.

“Huh?” she replied, snapping back into reality.

Alina shook her head and thrust a cup into her hands. “Ye have gone off into another daydream again, haven’t ye?”

It was no use lying, so Ceana sighed instead. “Do ye think he will talk to me today?”

“I think ye worry yer pretty head too much,” Alina replied with a shake of her head. “Go on, drink,” she urged.

Ceana closed her eyes, tipped the cup back and swallowed down her mead.

“Ceana,” Alina scolded, “not so fast.”

She shook her head and poured her sister another cup. “Don’t drink this so fast. Let’s go socialize.”

The pair had barely gotten to the door before they were stopped. “Ceana, Alina!”

Ceana sighed as soon as she heard the voice. “Hello, Tam,” she said with poorly faked enthusiasm.

“I didnae ken ye will be here,” he said with a grin on his face.

“Well, we are,” Alina replied.

Ceana didn’t know what she hated most about Tam. Was it his arrogance? His pride? His scheming attitude? Or was it the dangerous look in his eyes that only she seemed to see.

Tam’s Faither was the general of the clan. He had led their clan to many great wars and had conquered the enemy many more times than he had been defeated. Consequently, he was revered and respected. He had two sons, Rannoch and Tam. Rannoch was a cool-headed man who excelled more at creating swords than wielding them, much to his chagrin. His second son, however, had decided that he deserved the same amount of respect.

“Do ye want to dance?” he asked both girls.

“No!” they both replied, not caring who was spoken to.

Tam laughed in a deprecating way. “Come on, do nae be so tight.” He winked.

“We are nae tight. We just do nae want to dance,” Alina replied with pursed lips.

Tam placed his hands on Alina and Ceana’s wrists and locked his grip. “Ye are no fun,” he said with a wink.

Ceana was sure that Alina would deck him, but there came a voice she recognized instantly.

“What seems to be the problem, Tam?”

The group of three turned to Torcall, who seemed to tower above them.

“Nothin’ to bother yerself about, Torcall!” Tam spat out, still holding on to Ceana’s hands, effectively putting them in a terrible situation. If a tussle occurred, it would catch attention, new elements would be added, and then spread into a brawl.

Tam’s grip on her hand grew tighter, and Ceana felt her skin crawl.

With a look of indifference on his face, Torcall bent down and whispered to Tam so she could hear.

“Ye must ken that I do nae shy away from scandals. Not especially when I have the chance to beat ye and have the maids of the clan giggle as ye pass. Now, if ye do nae let her go now, the next place ye’ll be sitting is the ground.” The smile on his face never wavered as he spoke.

From a distance, they would have looked like a small group simply talking.

Tam stared at Torcall for only a moment before dropping her hand and furiously marching away.

Awestruck, Ceana turned to Torcall. The violent look in his eyes was gone, and instead, there was the carefree and happy look she was used to seeing.

“He didnae hurt ye, I hope?” His long lashes fluttered slightly.

Ceana rubbed her wrists and blushed slightly. ‘Nay, ye were here in time.”

Beside them, Alina rolled her eyes and went unnoticed by the pair.

“I’m glad. Have ye….”

“Torcall!” the call came from the other side of the room.

Torcall looked at the caller, and a guilty look appeared on his face. “I’m sorry. My cousin calls. We will see you some other time. Do tell me if Tam bothers ye again,” he said to her.

“Thank ye,” she said breathlessly.

“Even ye,” he said, turning to Alina.

“I will. Although I do nae think we will have more trouble with him. Thank ye,” she said with a polite smile.

He smiled at both ladies and jogged to the other side of the room to his cousin.

Ceana was only to hold her squeal long enough for him to get out of earshot.

“Oh, do be quiet,” Alina said, but she was smiling. “He makes it hard to dislike him.”

“Ye see it too, do ye nae?” She put her hands to her chest and sighed deeply.

“If ye gush over him once more this night, we are going home,” Alina put her hand in her sister’s and dragged her to the other ladies of their own age.

The feast was a great one for its small size. The mead was abundant, and Ceana was on her fourth cup before she knew it.

“Ye should nae drink so much,” Alina said.

“Ye are worse than mother,” Ceana said good-naturedly. “Ye should have some fun.”

“Ceana!”

Both sisters turned to an acquaintance, Bridget.

“Yer dress is amazing,” she said to Ceana.

“Thank ye,” Ceana said with a smile. “Yer hair looks amazing. Did yer sister do it again?”

“Aye, she made me do her chores, but it was worth it. I think Doug took notice today.”

Doug was the son of the head of the guard. He worked directly under Tam’s and Rannoch’s Faither, Dirk, and was one of the most respected men in the clan. Doug and his older brother, Dan, were a close pair and were hardly without each other. The men were eligible bachelors and had their fair share of admirers in the clan.

However, it was for Doug that Bridget’s torch burned. Sadly, she was not getting much attention from him.

“It seems he did,” Alina muttered. “He is coming up behind ye.”

Bridget’s cheek burned slightly, but she got it slightly under control before they arrived.

The men exchanged pleasantries, and then Doug turned to Ceana.

“I looked for ye. How are ye enjoying the feast?”

Ceana paled. What did he mean? Beside her, Bridget’s pride deflated.

“Oh?” Ceana replied.

“Aye,” he nodded with a smile on his face.

Ceana would have rather been anywhere else on the planet. It wasn’t that Doug was an unattractive man, but she was not attracted to him, and Bridget was right beside her.

“Would ye like to dance?” he asked her with a bashful smile.

“Nay,” she said, quick as a bullet. “Sorry, I was supposed to meet with a friend right about now,” she lied.

“Oh,” he said. “Maybe another time,” he smiled.

“How about ye?” Dan asked Alina with a shy smile.

“Nay,” she smiled. “Thank ye.”

The brothers left, and the girls turned to Bridget, whose eyes were tinged red.

“I am sorry, Bridget,” Ceana said, embarrassed.

“It matters nae,” she replied, although it was obvious that it did, in fact, matter. “Why did ye nae dance with Dan?” she asked Alina. “Nae on me account, I hope?”

“Nae,” Alina assured. “I do nae fancy him.”

“Ye do nae?” Bridget asked. “He is an eligible bachelor, ye ken?”

“Aye,” Alina smiled. “And ye do nae fancy him?”

“Nae. I wouldnae fancy him because of who his Faither is. Do ye fancy Tam?” Alina asked with an arched eyebrow. “Tam is the most eligible bachelor after the Laird’s heir—that is if ye do nae consider Rannoch.”

Bridget laughed. “It does nae really count, ye ken. Tam knows just as much about fightin’ as I do. His da is training Torcall, and e’ryone believes that Torcall, and not Tam, will succeed him, so he is nae so eligible, is he?”

“Good point,” Alina said.

“And neither Torcall nor Rannoch catches me fancy. I could have them if I wanted,” she shrugged dismissively.

Ceana said nothing, but her lips thinned.

“I must leave,” Bridget said and bid the sisters goodbye, leaving them to themselves. Alina took Ceana with her as they socialized with people they knew.

As the feast drew to an end, Alina realized that Ceana had consumed more mead than she should have.

“Ye should stick with me, ye silly girl.”

Ceana giggled. “’ Tis nae so much I drank. I can stand perfectly fine,” she said in a giggly voice, causing Alina to sigh.

“Do nae giggle so much.”

“Oh, look, here comes Torcall,” Ceana whispered louder than she should have.

“I’m sorry I didnae find ye earlier,” he said to the pair.

“There is nae need to apologize,” she said flirtatiously,

“But I must nae forget my manners,” he said.

Alina, growing tired of their flirting, decided to say hello to a friend at the other side of the room, living with her sister with Torcall.

“Did I,” Ceana put her hand on his strong arms, “say thank ye to ye for helpin’ us out with Tam?” With confidence she hadn’t known existed, she stroked his arm very subtly.

Torcall looked down on her arm and then back at her with a bashful look.

“Ye did, but I do nae mind hearin’ it again,” he said.

“Good because I want ye to ken that I am grateful.”

His arms felt amazing. Days ago, she had only been able to imagine him and feeling the strength of his muscles beneath her fingertips, but now, here she was—touching him. She looked up at him, and when he smiled back, she realized she wanted more.

She opened her mouth to speak then stopped. What exactly was she doing, clarity forced her to ask? But Ceana refused to pause. For some reason, she thought to herself, she had more courage than ever before. This was a moment she had, one that might never arise again. She would be damned if she let it pass.

“Torcall?”

“Yea?”

“I crave some fresh air, and Alina is nae here to go with me. Would ye?”

“Of course,” he nodded and offered her his arm, which she took gladly.

As they walked to the balcony, Ceana’s heart beat loudly. She could not believe that she would finally be alone with Torcall. Her steps were slightly uneven, but she knew that it was her nerves and nothing more. She hoped steadfastly that Alina would not choose that moment to return.

Finally, they stepped into the privacy of the balcony, and she gave a sigh of relief and turned to Torcall with a massive smile on her face.

“I have ne’er seen anyone so pleased about taking in some breeze,” he said teasingly, and Ceana giggled.

“’ Tis nae the thing itself, ‘tis the who,” she said and looked up into the skies. “‘Tis so beautiful tonight,” she sighed. “Me ma used to tell me that fae princesses lived in the skies and that the stars were the precious stones on their crowns. I wanted to be a beautiful fae so desperately,” she laughed.

“Well, ye are nae fae—or I hope nae, but ye are as beautiful.”

Ceana turned to him with a blush on her face and looked away.

“Thank ye,” she smiled.

“I speak only the truth.”

Ceana blushed and looked into his eyes once more, struck by the blueness of them. His skin looked so smooth that she had no choice but to lift her hands to his face and stroke it gently.

“Ceana?” he said gently but did not take her hands away. Instead, he stepped closer to her. “Did I tell ye how beautiful ye are?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Maybe.” She said shyly.

“Ye are a beautiful woman, Ceana,” he repeated with a smile. His head lowered, and he smiled. Their lips drew closer, and Torcall…

“Ceana?” Alina’s voice came, giving them just enough time to draw apart before she stepped in.

“Ceana?” she said tentatively, stepping in between them. It was then that Ceana noticed Bridget behind at the entrance.

“She needed some air,” Torcall said.

“I see,” Alina muttered. She grabbed Ceana’s hands and marched her out of the room.

Bridget eyed Torcall and shook her head.

“I would think ye ken better than this. Bringin’ a young woman here alone!”

“She asked me to follow her,” Torcall replied. “She asked me.”

“Of course, that is what ye would say,” Bridget said, shaking her head.

“I–” Torcall began to say, but he was distracted by a rustle in the bushes behind him. He turned back but saw nothing.

“At least have the decency to face me and answer me,” Bridget said.

Torcall shook his head and walked away from the balcony.

Chapter Two

The courtyard was quiet, attesting to the earliness of the hour. The only people moving about were the maids in charge of cleaning the keep grounds.

It was not unusual for Torcall to be on the training grounds early. When working directly under the general, tardiness was not tolerated. His first son was a contemptible fellow who preferred to spend his time with unseemly things. In contrast, his second son was a master at creating swords, if not so much in wielding them.

However, while Tam was best described as a despicable wart, Rannoch was cool-headed and silent. It was with Rannoch that Torcall got along best; they had been friends ever since Dirk had brought him into their home upon the death of his Faither.

Torcall went round the back and stepped onto the training grounds. He knew that his uncle would be waiting.

“I ken ye wouldnae fail me and come here late,” his uncle said with pride evident in his voice.

“‘Tis nae a barrel of wine that would keep me from arriving here early as I have always done. “

“I wish I could say the same of Rannoch and Tam.”

“Rannoch will be here soon,” Torcall said, quick to defend his friend, and Dirk sighed.

“Tam is a disgrace to me,” Dirk said, never one to mince words. “Rannoch has a talent that pleases me. ‘Tis nae to say that I wouldnae rather he had yer quick wits in battle, but he makes swords fit for a king. Yet he does nae put enough time to the art of the battle.”

“Ye worry needlessly for Rannoch. ‘Tis nay crime if the man tries to spend time to master the sword he makes. “

“A man must ken how to defend himself,” Dirk agreed and tossed a sword to Torcall. Torcall caught it and took an expert stance that pleased his uncle as he drew his sword. “But a man must also ken where he excels. He does nae forget swords and more.”

Quick as a whip, Dirk aimed the sword for Torcall’s chest.

Torcall blocked the blow with his sword and stepped aside.

“Perhaps he does nae feel the burn to return to the forge as one would expect.” Torcall ducked and drove his sword at his Uncle’s flank.

Dirk blocked the blow with the blunt edge of his sword. “A man’s cause must give him the burn,” he replied.

Torcall brought his sword down on Dirk, who blocked it. The two men pushed against each other. “Perhaps he does nae feel it then?” he grunted.

“A man will die without a consistent drive,” Dirk grunted and pushed him back.

Torcall fell back but stood up in time to block a blow. The men sparred with swords as the minutes passed.

Just when Torcall felt an opening for a blow had opened, Dirk drove a false blow and caused him to stagger back and fall on his back. His sword was at Torcall’s throat before he could react.

Both men stared at each other, breathing heavily. Dirk offered Torcall his hand brought him up.

“Ye do nae fight as ye can, boy,” Dirk shook his head. “Do nae hold back. Never hold back. Fear is yer enemy. Do away with it.”

Dirk nodded satisfactorily.

“Ye undermine yer strength. That is yer weakness.”

Torcall wanted to speak, but the soldiers had begun to troop in, so he said nothing. He waited patiently for Rannoch and waved at him when he did show.

“Do ye nae sleep?” Rannoch asked.

“I do, but yer Faither’s image haunts my dreams.”

“I thought that was me,” Rannoch grinned.

“Nay, I do nae fear ye,” Torcall replied and shoved his cousin.

Rannoch shoved him back, but it was as far as they could get before they were summoned by Dirk.

“Ye will nae attend training today. I have a message I need delivered, and I will send ye both and nae a runner.”

***

The chirping of the birds woke Ceana up, which was most unusual. Usually, she was woken up by the crowing of the cocks, which allowed her to wake up and have her chores done in good time and before the birds came out to sing. Groggily, she sat up in bed and was hit by the worst headache she had ever experienced. Her head pounded so terribly that she wondered if she was being hit.

“Dear God!” she croaked and fell back in bed.

The door opened soon after, revealing a dressed Alina. “Good,” she muttered, “I knew I heard ye.”

Much to Ceana’s pleasure, she disappeared. However, she appeared moments later and moved to part the blinds to let the sun in.

The rays pierced through Ceana’s eyelids, intensifying her headache and making her shriek. “Why does my head ache so?” she groaned. “Close the blinds!”

“That’s what ye get for drinking too much mead. Come on,” Alina said, “sit up.”

When Ceana managed to sit up, she noticed the steaming cup in Alina’s hand. Alina offered the cup to her. “Here,” she said. “It will soothe the headache.”

At that point, Ceana decided that she would have taken anything to stop the ache. She took the cup from her sister and sipped some of the tea down.

“More,” Alina urged.

When she was satisfied, she took the cup from Ceana. “How do ye feel?”

“I have felt a lot worse. ‘Tis reducing.”

“It does work fast.”

“How would ye ken? Ye have probably never drunk more than one cup of mead in a day.”

“Aye, but I am yer wiser older sister,” she said with a tease in her voice.

Alina was a year over twenty and two years Alina’s senior. It wasn’t much, but she had decided that it was her sworn duty to care for her sister.

“Is ma home?”

“Aye, but she is downstairs with the help. Ye ken that da returns tonight.”

The guards had shifts that they worked for efficiency. Alina and Ceana’s Faither worked as the head guard of the keep. He wouldn’t have been considered for the position had he not saved the heir during an attack eight years ago. He had done so at the risk of his own life. Luckily, he had not died, and the attack had failed. The Laird had rewarded him by appointing him as the head guard of the keep.

The guards had different work periods, and although her father was not required to be present as often, he still was. Like the other men, he worked full shifts as he was required. Due to the generosity of the Laird, the keep employed enough guards so that none was overworked. Each man worked his shift and came home when he was not needed. Her father would be free to return that night, and whenever he was due home, it was a small celebration as her mum did all she could to make it special.

“Did I really drink so much?”

“Aye, ye did.”

“Now, can ye tell me what happened yesterday?”

“What?” she feigned ignorance but was betrayed by the building grin on her face.

“Ceana,” Alina dragged out. “Ye cannae allow him to take ye to hidden places.”

Ceana narrowed her eyes. “And do ye think that I am a silly little girl that does nae ken what she wants? I asked him to go with me, and I would have kissed him if nae for ye two.”

Alina sighed. “Why would ye want to kiss someone who ye do nae even ken whether he likes ye? Has he shown that he likes ye? Has he said it?”

Ceana opened her mouth to speak, but Alina beat her to it.

“And do nae tell me he flirts with ye. Torcall has a lot of women at his pick. Flirting is nae a sign.”

Ceana looked away, feeling deflated and guilt-filled Alina. She took Ceana in her arms and hugged her. “I do nae mean to sound harsh, but I care more about ye than him. Surely, ye understand this. I do nae want gossip with yer name in it. And Torcall may like ye, but he may nae too. Do nae live in keeps and grasp anythin’ except his words. For all my anger, I ken that he is a good man. He will nae say what he does nae mean.”

“He is rather blunt, too,” Ceana added.

“Aye, and ye say he would have kissed ye. That may be something but ye must be sure.”

Ceana understood what her sister meant. She had never shared a kiss with a man and had an ideal picture of how her first kiss would be.

“Ye will need to get up soon,” Alina urged her. “Mother has been generous. She’s given me money for new dresses for us.” Alina said, knowing it would cheer her up.

“Oh yes!” Ceana grinned. “I ken what I want–” There was a loud knock on the door interrupting their discussion. It came again, more frantic this time, and Alina threw it open.

It was the cook, and there was a tear streak on her face. Ceana shot out of her bed, and despite her headache, ran up behind her sister, who was questioning the cook.

“Marge? What is it?” Alina asked, her hand resting on the door frame. She looked at the cook with worry in her brown eyes. “What is it, Marge?”

Ceana ducked under her sister’s arm to stand directly in front of the cook. “Is aught amiss with me ma? Where is she? What is wrong?”

But the cook would not say. “Come quick. Yer ma calls for ye,” she said and hurried downstairs. Still in her nightdress, Ceana ran after Alina and the cook. When they arrived downstairs, they met their mother at the entrance to their home.

Her eyes were red, and she had been crying. It occurred to Ceana. Her father. It was her father. Something was wrong with her father.

She ran into her mother’s arms and held her tight. “What is amiss?” she dared to ask.

“‘Tis Bridget,” their mother, Regina, sobbed. “She was found dead this morn!”

***

“‘Tis silly to be sent all the way here for a box,” Rannoch shook his head. The pair were riding back after making their delivery.

“Do nae think of it that way,” Torcall said to his cousin. “I believe that me uncle sent us because he trusts none other. It makes the task easier to do.”

Rannoch looked to his cousin and shook his head. “Me, perhaps. But I would think ye are better left training with the men. Ye are the brilliant fighter.”

“And who is a fighter without the expert swordsman?”

Rannoch laughed. “I trust ye to belittle yer talent.”

“Nay, ‘tis nae so. I wouldnae win a battle if my swords were weak. I have ye to thank for that. Even though ye have gone back on yer promise to make a special sword for me.”

“‘Tis been a while since I have forged. Ye can buy another. If ye do nae have money, da would be pleased to buy one for ye. He offered me money to upgrade me forge.”

“And did ye take it?”

“Nay.”

“Ye ass. Why? Ye could have had a great forge! The biggest there is. Men would fight for yer swords. Ye made the sword that deals death in a single blow, and ye do nae want to make more?”

“I do nae ken if I am ready to return to the forge.”

“There is nae pressure on ye. We will wait till ye are ready. There is nae better sword maker in the whole of Scotland, and I will use me old sword that ye made for me when I was still dear to yer heart, and if it falls apart, I will ne’er wield a sword again.”

Rannoch laughed. “We cannae let that happen.”

A scream from the right caused both men to stop. They paused again and listened. The scream had sounded like that of a woman.

When the scream came again, they turned their horses to the source of the noise. It was a woman’s scream, and her distress was clear.

When they arrived at the spot, what he saw made his head boil. There were six men—nasty-looking ruffians, four of which had pinned a helpless woman to the ground. She was crying and pleading, but the men would not even listen.

“Shut up, ye whore!” the man closest to her face said and then struck her.

Torcall flew off his horse, followed closely by Rannoch. He pulled the first man off her and drove his fist into the man’s face. The force of his fist broke his nose, and blood spilled from it. The man fell back, screaming and holding his nose.

The second man put his hand on Torcall’s shoulder to pull him to himself, but it was a wrong move. Torcall met his stomach with his elbow. Repeatedly, he drove his elbow into the man’s gut and jumped in the air, turning with a spin, landing a kick on the third man’s jaw, knocking him out. He went back from the second man and pulled him to his fist, punching his stomach until blood spilled from his mouth. When the man fell dead, he turned to his cousin and found him on the ground between two men.

His blue eyes took the shade of the sea, and he cracked his knuckles. They had chosen death.

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

Chapter One

“Mammy, Mammy, hold on,” Eithne muttered over again, trying frantically not to let her desperation show. All around her, the sounds of conquest raged, the smells of blood and fire and death filling the air. “Yer gonnae be just fine.”

Her mother, bleeding much like a butchered animal, coughed as she laughed. There was blood there, too, turning her lips a frightening ruby red. “Ye should take Neal and run lass,” muttered Lady Kinnear, wincing at the effort the words took. “Ye wouldnae be calling me ‘mammy’ if ye really thought I was gonnae make it. Go find yer sister.”

“right, Eithne. We need to go,” Neal urged. “Hurry.”

Eithne did not move, clutching her mother’s hand tighter. “Ye should go,” she told Neal. Her best friend was wounded, too, his arm hanging at an odd angle, but she was sure he could survive long enough to get out of here. “But I cannae. I’ll nae leave me mam to bleed out like a pig in the dirt.”

If she was honest, Eithne knew that the specter of the otherworld had already covered her mother. The once-lovely black hair that she’d shared with her son and oldest daughter was tangled and matted with dirt and blood, and who knew what else. It tangled behind Lady Kinnear’s head; its soft waves were gone. Her tawny eyes, very different from the blue that Eithne and Myrna had inherited from their father, were clouding over.

“Eithne,” Neal urged. “Please.”

Eithne looked up at him, her handsome best friend who had fought by her side. He’d been upset at her and at her mother for refusing to leave and flee to safety when the attack began. Her younger sister Myrna had escaped before Laird Kinnear had fallen, but Eithne and the Laird’s widow would not leave. They aided the men, even fought alongside them when their numbers dwindled, but it was all for naught.

They had lost. Kinnear was lost. And now Neal, with his soft brown hair and brown eyes and kind smile, was right. She needed to get out of here, and quickly, before the circle of enemy soldiers closed in on them. Neal, who’d been her constant companion since her birth one and twenty years ago. Neal, who had confessed his love for her just before this battle started.

I never even had time to respond. Perhaps if we escape now, I’ll be able to make up me mind.

But Eithne’s father was dead, and now her mother lay dying, and Eithne knew she couldn’t leave. She tried to make her legs move, but they felt like they were filled with lead. Her hand, the one soaked in her mother’s blood, refused to release Lady Kinnear and leave her to die alone and afraid.

“I’m going to yer daddy, pet,” Lady Kinnear whispered. “But ye dinnae have to come with me.”

“Hush now, Mammy,” Eithne said. She was not ashamed to have tears in her eyes. “I’ll stay until ye sleep.”

Neal moved closer, putting a hand on her shoulder, and Eithne was glad that he was no longer trying to convince her. Instead, he stood there, guarding her as best he could while she hummed the lullaby her mother had given her as a child. It sounded sharp and discordant against the cries and screams of defeat, but Lady Kinnear closed her eyes and leaned into Eithne’s caressing hand as she sang.

“An’ when ye sail away, nae matter how far, remember I’ll be here, I’ll be yer guidin’ star,” Eithne sang. Neal’s hand tightened around her shoulder, his fingers digging in almost painfully. “And dinnae let the fear, send yer heart astray, as long as we ken love, I will light yer way.”

Eithne felt it when her mother took that last, shuddering breath, and the tears poured as she leaned down to kiss her mother’s forehead for the last time.

“Sleep tight, Mammy,” she whispered. “I’ll see ye again. I promise.”

She heard Neal withdraw his sword next to her. They were closing in, then. This was it. This was how Eithne died. She looked up, her tears dry now as she stared at the circle of soldiers who were here to bring her death.

“There’s still time to run, Neal. Go,” she urged.

In response, Neal just stood in front of her with his sword, ready to protect her until her dying breath.

Like that, kneeling by her mother’s body behind her friend, Eithne watched as the circle broke. Through it walked a man she recognized. With his dark blond hair and freckled face, the young Laird of the MacDuff clan might have been handsome if it wasn’t for the cruel look in his eyes and the twist to his smile. At six and twenty, only five years older than Eithne herself, he had brought more death than he’d lived life.

“Greetings, Eithne,” he said casually, walking closer casually as if they’d met on the road instead of on the battlefield.

She hated how he said her name, leaning hard on the last sound like the Sassenachs did, En-YAH rather than EH-nyah like it was supposed to be. She’d told him that once when they were younger. Now he was taunting her.

She said nothing, and Rory smirked. His men closed in behind him, flanking him.

“Nae another step,” Neal warned, brandishing his sword.

Eithne gently laid her mother down and got to her feet. She put a gentle hand on Neal’s shoulder and walked past him, facing Laird MacDuff – no, Rory. She would not give him the honor of a title. “What do ye want?” she asked, though she knew.

Rory snorted. “Och, ye’re still being brave, are ye lass? Tell me, what’s the point?” He raised a hand, twirling a strand of her dark hair around his finger. Eithne heard Neal take an angry breath, but she tried not to flinch. “Ye’ve lost.”

“I’ll never lose to ye,” she told him.

This just made Rory laugh, long and loud. “Such a feisty wee thing ye are. And yet look around ye. Yer village is in tatters. Yer clan’s been overcome.” He leaned closer, his hot breath tickling her ear as she tried not to shudder. “I dealt with yer dear Faither meself, ye ken. I thrust me sword into his stomach over and over while he begged for his life like a coward.”

“He didnae!” Eithne snarled. “He would never beg to the likes of ye.”

“He did,” Rory told her. “But nae until after one of me men slit yer pathetic brother’s throat in front of him.”

Me brother. Killian. Him too. I cannae bear this.

“Ye’re lying,” she cried, though she knew he spoke only the cold, horrible truth.

“Believe what ye like,” Rory said, moving back from her a little. He glanced at the ground where Eithne’s mother lay and sighed. “What a waste. She neednae have died. Why did the two of ye nae run off like yer sister did? Was it because of ye, Eithne? Are ye the reason that yer mammy lies dead?”

“Dinnae ye ever mention her again,” Eithne snarled, her voice higher in pitch as the anger pulsed through her veins. “I dinnae care who ye think ye are. I—”

“Ye’re nothing, nae anymore,” Rory told her softly, his grin terrifyingly white against his dirt-streaked face. “Yer daddy’s dead. Yer mammy’s dead. Yer clan’s gone. Revenge is mine, and ye’ve got nae choice. Ye’ll be me bride.”

Eithne shuddered as his hands snaked around her waist, pulling her close to him. His lips hovered just above her own. “I will nae,” she said.

“Ye will,” he said, touching her cheek again. “Ye’ll bed me and wed me, and our bairns will rule together.”

“I’d rather have me womb ripped from me chest and me legs tied shut forever than allow ye to touch me,” she spat.

A flash of anger crossed Rory’s face, and she was rewarded for her words by the back of his hand across her face. She went sprawling, her cheek burning as she landed in the dirt next to the cooling body of her mother.

“Dinnae touch her!” Neal yelled and ran forward. Eithne wanted to yell for him to stop, but she was too dazed, too dizzy, and the events unfolded in slow motion.

Rory looked at Neal incredulously, almost with amusement, then sidestepped. Neal stumbled past him in the dodge, and suddenly two of Rory’s men were there, holding him in place.

“Nay,” Eithne gasped. “Nay, dinnae, please.”

The men brought Neal forward, standing him in front of Rory.

“Brave, are ye nae?” the Laird said. Around him, his circle of men laughed.

“Braver than ye,” Neal retorted, then reeled back in pain as Rory punched him hard in the stomach. He doubled over, only still on his feet because the men were holding him up.

“Rory, leave him be. Leave him,” Eithne pleaded. She scrambled to her feet again.

“Stay back,” Neal commanded of her.

Rory glanced at her, then back to Neal, a slow smile unfolding on his face. “Ah, I see, I see. Ye love her, I think? Aye, that’s it. Ye want to be her husband. And she’s nae sure, but ye live in her heart as well. Aye, aye, I see it now.”

Eithne ran over to Rory, grabbing at his clothes. “Please. I’ll do anything ye want. I’ll wed ye; I’ll bed ye. I’ll have yer bairns. I’ll tell the other clans that ye’re our rightful ruler, just please, please dinnae hurt him.”

Rory put his fingers under her chin, forcing him to look up at her. “Ah, love,” he crooned. “It’s nice to see ye so passionate. Ye ken that I’ll do anything to make ye happy. All it’ll cost ye now is a kiss.”

“Eithne, dinnae—” Neal started but lost his breath as one of his captors punched him again.

“A thousand kisses if ye let him live,” Eithne said. She fought her instinct to recoil as Rory’s arm wrapped around her waist and drew her closer, and she wrapped her own arms around his neck. She didn’t want this, but if it were the only way Neal would live, she would do it.

Their lips met. It was her first kiss, and it was…wrong, all wrong. The way his mouth moved against hers made her want to scream, his demanding tongue like an infection her body wanted to drive out. But she held him, and she bore it because her only other choice was—

The sound that followed would haunt her dreams forever – the sound of steel tearing through flesh, the soft scream of a murdered man. Neal’s knees hitting the ground as he collapsed.

Eithne pulled back in horror to see Rory’s other hand extended, his sword through Neal’s sternum. Neal’s eyes were glassy as he looked up at her, tears and blood and agony drowning his face.

“Eithne,” he whispered, and then his eyes went blank. Rory withdrew his sword, and Neal’s body fell to the ground in its final farewell.

“Nay!” she screamed, half a word and half a wild wail that she could not control. She pounced at Rory, ready to kill him with her bare hands. But his strong grip restrained her, and then the men who had been holding Neal had her, and she was lost.

They pinned her to the ground as she sobbed and screamed and spat. Her face pressed into the cold dirt, and she turned to breathe and found herself staring directly into Neal’s dead eyes. Not far from him lay her mother, pale and cold.

Eithne’s energy went out of her, and her body went limp. She had lost. It was over.

“There. That wasnae so hard, was it? Take her to the keep, lads,” Rory said.

Dimly, Eithne was aware of being half-dragged, half-carried back to the castle that had once been her home. The men laughed and joked as they pulled her through the half-ruined building to the bedroom nearby where her older brother slept.

Where he used to sleep. He’s dead. He’s gone.

They tossed her inside, and she fell to the cold stone floor. She didn’t know how long she lay there, but eventually, she realized that she might get ill if she didn’t move. Life didn’t feel worth living, not anymore, but she would not give up and die for Rory MacDuff.

She crawled along the floor to the bed. It was still unmade and messy since they’d sent the servants away when the attack started. The sheets smelled like Killian. She laid her head on the pillow and pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

Killian. Faither. Mither. Neal. Oh, Neal…

Their names looping in her head, she eventually fell into a dreamless sleep, unsure if she would ever be able – or willing – to wake again.

Chapter Two

“Did ye hear about the terrible happenings at Clan Kinnear?” asked the young man half in his cups to anyone who would listen. He’d been chattering all night about this and that, and Ivor, who had little time for idle gossip, had paid him little attention. At the mention of Kinnear, however, he looked up. He couldn’t help it.

Killian Kinnear had been Ivor’s friend since childhood, unlikely though their bond might have been. Ivor, the half-Norse Highlander with no clan, who had made his living with his bow and his sword since he was a boy, would never have expected to befriend the son and heir of a Laird. And yet, when he’d met Killian, they’d bonded instantly.

Ivor had been stealing some fruit from the Laird’s gardens, aged just eleven, and Killian caught him. Rather than turning him in, the young heir disappeared into the keep and returned with a whole basket of food. Since then, whenever Ivor was nearby, the two of them were inseparable. Ivor had even loaned his mercenary services to the Laird during some battles as a favor to his friend.

It’s been some moons since I heard from Killian, though.

“What happened?” he asked abruptly.

It was the first time he’d spoken all night, and it sent a visible jolt of surprise through the other patrons of the tavern. Ivor snorted into his mead. This was one reason he spent so little of his time talking to other people – he forgot how intimidating they found him.

Realistically, Ivor couldn’t blame them. He was tall and bulky, his muscles straining at his shirt no matter what he tried to wear because they simply weren’t tailored in his size. His long, rough brown hair with its blond traces in the sun stood out here, as did his eyes.

His eyes were maybe his most distinguishing feature. Previous lovers had called them honey in color, no doubt as a compliment. Previous enemies had, as well, but they meant it like a trap – a sweetness that hid deadliness just beneath.

Ivor tried to relax his stance a little for their sake, but his every nerve was on edge. There was silence after he spoke for a long moment, and he could taste the fear in the room.

Eventually, the drunken young man hesitantly said, “They’re all dead, sir.”

“What?” Ivor demanded, slamming his tankard down on the table. “What are ye saying?”

“The Kinnear’s,” the lad explained. “The MacDuff’s attacked. I heard the younger lass got out, but the Laird and Lady are dead and the heir and the older sister and half the castle village. Rory MacDuff is claiming all the land for himself.”

That cannae be right—it cannae.

He thought of Killian – his dark hair, his tawny eyes, his easy smile – and found the idea of his death simply inconceivable. Killian was one of the most alive people that Ivor knew. The Laird and Lady were strong, and the people…well, when Ivor had fought alongside them, he’d felt in good hands.

So then, what had happened? He pushed the young man for more details, but he didn’t seem to have any.

Ivor considered. He had been on his way to meet a contact nearby to sell his skills, but he was less than a day out now from the castle town of Clan Kinnear. Surely the lad was talking nonsense, but if he wasn’t…well, this was something that he had to see for himself.

***

As he rode, Ivor’s doubt faded, and his heart began to ache. Every person he passed seemed to be discussing the Kinnear massacre. The Laird, Lady, and heir were all dead – that much was certain. Half the country knew this already, despite the deed only occurring a day before. All of the women and the children of the clan lay dead in the streets…and Killian was gone.

I never even got to say farewell. The last thing I said to him was some silly jape.

Many wild rumors were flying around the country about the events, and often they contradicted each other. The youngest daughter was dead, or maybe the younger daughter had escaped. The older daughter was bedding Rory MacDuff. The older daughter had turned on her family. The older daughter was alive and still in the castle.

Through all of these contradictory stories, Ivor drew two solid conclusions. The first was that both of Killian’s sisters still lived. Killian had spoken of them often; his friend and confidante Eithne, the older who looked exactly like him and his mother except for her ice-blue eyes, and the younger girl Myrna, who had been just a wee bairn when Ivor and Killian first met.

He’d never met the girls, but the stories that Killian had told him flooded his mind. The gentle smiles that the mercenary’s friend had worn when he talked about his sisters were tattooed onto Ivor’s heart. From the stories, it seemed like young Myrna had fled with some of the servants to her mother’s people, but not Eithne.

There was no basis for the rumors of Eithne’s betrayal. He’d never met her, but Ivor knew that much. Killian had trusted his sister with his life – and that meant Ivor did, too.

This led Ivor to the second conclusion and what was quickly becoming the only mission that held any interest for him.

Eithne is somewhere in Kinnear Castle, held captive. And I’m gonnae get her out and make her safe.

***

Eithne pulled her brother’s cloak tighter around her shoulders. She’d cried so much that her heart felt dry in her chest. The unsent letters in her hand were all written in Killian’s neat script and now stained with the saltwater from her eyes.

One was addressed to Eithne herself, teasing her over some bet the two of them had had. It was part of a long series of notes they’d passed back and forth across the castle over the years.

And the last letter he’ll ever write to me.

The pain threatened to cripple her as she folded the letter and tucked it in her shirt near her heart. She knew some of the people to whom the others were addressed, while there were others she had never heard about at all. One for Neal, one for Myrna; there were letters to the sons of other clans and girls he may have courted.

One name, Ivor, repeated over and over, but Eithne could not place it. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she had been locked in this room a day and a night without food or water, her wounds untreated, the agony of her family and friends’ deaths beating her every time she tried to rest.

Me mither’s blood on me hands. Neal’s eyes going blank…

She doubled over, trying to push the agony out of her stomach, pulling the cloak tighter around her. What had happened to Killian? Had Rory told the truth about how he’d died? Had they really made her poor father watch the death of his only son?

It was too much. Too much for anyone.

The door suddenly creaked open, and she looked up, bleary-eyed through her exhaustion and sorrow, to see the face she could happily have never seen again. “Rory,” she said quietly. “What do ye want?”

“Ye, me bonny. I’ve only ever wanted ye. Maybe if ye’d have said aye in the first place, we could have avoided all of this mess,” he told her. He leaned against the doorframe, smiling at her so pleasantly that she wanted to scream. “I’ve come to give ye yer new choices.”

I cannae listen. He wanted power. He would have attacked whether I’d agreed to wed him or not.

But despite knowing that, the guilt chewed at Eithne. What if he hadn’t? What if Neal, her parents, Killian, all of her people had died because of her choice?

He waited for his words to settle. “As ye can see, if ye try and get out of that window there, ye’ll break every bone in yer body or worse,” he told her cheerfully, pointing behind her. “Ye’re welcome to try. That’s option one.”

Eithne swallowed. She’d stared out of the window for hours, trying to work out a way to make it out without killing herself, but Rory was right. It was impossible. “And me other choices?”

Rory’s grin widened. “Me preferred choice, and yer second option is that ye wed me. I swear I willnae touch ye until our wedding night, even, for I ken the importance of a woman’s maidenhood.”

“I’d rather die,” Eithne snarled. She tried to picture herself in his nude embrace and shuddered, bile burning her throat.

“Well, that’s yer third option,” Rory said, shrugging as though he didn’t really care. “I’ll make an example of ye and parade yer body in the streets if I have to.”

She knew it wasn’t a bluff. He would kill her if she refused to marry him, and he would smile while he did it. He desired her, maybe even loved her in his own twisted way, but not as much as he loved his own ego.

The worst part was that death didn’t sound like a terrible option. It would be an escape from this endless pain, from the sorrow and the physical agony. And in the afterlife, her mother and father were waiting. Neal and Killian and all of her friends were waiting. There was nobody, nothing to keep her here, except—

“Promise me ye’ll come out of this alive, Ennie,” Myrna begged as Eithne helped her onto her horse. “Promise, or I willnae leave.”

“I promise,” Eithne replied, kissing her cheek swiftly. “I’ll get out. I’ll survive and come back to ye.”

She’d sworn to her younger sister that she’d return. No matter how vile the prospect of living felt right now, she couldn’t leave Myrna alone. She needed to somehow get to her mother’s people and find the girl and remind them both that some of their family still lived.

“Well?” Rory said, folding his arms. “What option do ye pick? I hope it’s two meself.” As she watched, he fingered the sheath at his side – not the one that held his sword, but the smaller belt where he kept his dagger. She knew it was clean, and yet it shone red with jewels that looked like they were already covered in Eithne’s blood.

My blood. The blood of me family.

Eyes filled with hate, Eithne looked up and met his gaze. She nodded just once.

He laughed triumphantly. “We wed on the morrow,” he told her, then walked out, slamming the door shut behind him.

Part of Eithne wanted to sink down into nothing again, but she couldn’t, not now. There was another way out if she could just find the key; the trapdoor that led to the passages through the walls. Each of the Kinnear children had one in their room, and they’d used them to sneak around after dark and play well into the night many times. Since they’d grown, Eithne and Killian had both kept theirs locked.

But the key must be somewhere. It has to be.

Her search lasted hours, and she must have torn apart every drawer, ripped every sheet, searched every nook and cranny, but the slim iron key was nowhere to be found. She uncovered the trapdoor, but it was locked tight. She tried to pick the lock with everything she could reach, but it was no use.

Eventually, exhausted, she collapsed on the floor. The cold stone froze her cheek, and she thought it might be nice just to give up, to let the coldness in. She glanced at the bed one more time, knowing she wouldn’t even have the energy to climb into it now.

That’s when she saw it – the little notch in the foot of the bed frame. She crawled over, pulling at the wood with her fingernails until she found her prize. It was dusty, bloody from her fingers, and ice cold to the touch – but she held the key in her hand and enjoyed the feeling more than the gentlest bath.

In her hand, she held her freedom.

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