Midsummer, 1310

Foulis Castle, Western Scotland

Annora Munro breathed in the glorious, heady scent of the scorched-pink damask roses growing beside the castle wall in her garden.

This was her favorite place of all, and today it was at its glorious best. Overhead, swallows glided and somersaulted, catching insects. Birdsong and the buzzing of bees filled the air and the sun beat down from a cloudless blue sky, covering everything with its bright golden mantle.

This was exactly the kind of day that had always soothed Annora’s spirit and made it sing with joy and delight.

But not today.

Today there was nothing that could shift the dark, cold, stone that had taken up residence in her belly. There was nothing that could lift her spirits or make her heart sing.

Annora’s shaking fingers scrunched her kerchief into a tight, damp ball. She sniffed away the last of her tears and brushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

Today her father, the Laird Graham Munro, had decreed that she was to be betrothed!

As she sat, contemplating her father’s betrayal, a soft voice called to her. She slowly rose to her feet as Bessie came stumbling along the path toward her. She had once been her nursemaid and was now her maid of sorts, although she was old and frail and slow.

“Lass,” she said, somewhat out of breath. “Yer faither awaits ye in the solar wi’ yer betrothed tae complete the reiteach fer yer formal betrothal.”

Annora snorted. “They hardly need me tae be present. Me faither and the Baron Sir Betram Radcliffe…” she all but spat the words, “will make their plans and their pacts well enough without me.”

Bessie looked alarmed. “But me sweet lady, yer husband wishes tae see ye and yer faither commands ye be present when the signing takes place.”

Annora remained in her seat, cold fingers creeping up her spine as she thought of the man she was to wed. He’d arrived with his retinue late the night before and had been welcomed into the great hall by her father and his men. They’d been unaware as they sat carousing, quaffing mead and ale and whisky, that she was peeping from the servants’ staircase, missing none of the proceedings.

The sight of the man her father had selected to be her groom sickened her.

To start with, she was certain he was old enough to be her grandfather. He had not stridden, but rather wobbled with a flimsy gait to his seat in the hall. White hair straggled in lank wisps over his thin, bowed shoulders. His fingers clutching his goblet were more akin to an eagle’s claws than to a man’s hands. His laughter was a mere hoarse cackle, his speech quavering and weak, while his legs in his trews were thin of thigh and scrawny.

The prospect of that man taking her to his bed left her weak with horror, her stomach tightening into a thousand painful knots.

But for all that, a grandfather could be kind. However, the English nobleman had a harsh face. It was creased and lined into a frowning, haughty appearance, his lips thin, downturned, not smiling, seemingly drawn in a perpetual sneer, while his beetling brows loomed over hooded, dark, eyes that were sharp and watchful, seeming to take everything in.

Instantly, she was afraid. Thats was not a man who would be kind. There would be no laughing or merriment in his great house. Cruelty was the word that sprang unbidden into her mind.

Annora shuddered at the recollection.

How could me faither bind me fer eternity tae such a creature? And all fer the sake of favors from the English King.

“Milady Annora,” Bessie urged. “Please come. If ye dinnae come wi’ me yer father will blame me and I’ll be punished fer yer recalcitrance. Ye ken he’s punished ye many times afore fer yer stubbornness. He’ll nae allow ye tae embarrass him before this English man.” She wrang her hands despairingly.

Annora reluctantly rose to her feet. She’d not see Bessie punished for what were her sins.

Heart-heavy, she followed the old maid along the path through the garden and into the keep. Once they were indoors, Bessie pulled her aside.

“Here.” She smoothed a scattering of wayward hair from Annora’s eyes and pushed it under her lace dap. Then she straightened the skirt of Annora’s fine linen kirtle and laced up her untidily undone shirt.

She took Annora’s hands. “Keep them hidden, lass, ye’ve half the garden there and yer nails are filthy.”

Annora shook her head, smiling grimly. “Mayhap he’ll refuse such an unwashed plebian lass and look elsewhere fer his allegiance with a Scots clan tae make his fortune.”

Bessie gave a short laugh. “I dinnae think yer looks are of any concern, lass, I think he’d wed a scarecrow if it meant he’d gain access tae the wealth and power of the Highlands.”

“Ah, Bessie,” Annora sighed. “I fear ‘tis I who is tae wed a scarecrow. A cruel man of straw who has a heart of stone.”

“He has great riches, they say, and a fine manor house by the sea.”

Annora shook her head. “I care naught fer his fine house and his land or his riches. I dinnae wish tae spend me days in England in the company of such a man.”

The old woman shook her head sadly.

“I had always hoped tae see ye wed tae a fine Scottish laird who would love ye wi’ all his heart and cosset ye in a fine castle where yer bairns would grow happy and well, protected by a warrior who cared fer naught but ye and his children.”

Tears sprang readily to Annora’s eyes. “I too, had once hoped fer that. But life has dealt me a different dice tae roll.” She took Bessie’s wrinkled hand with a soft touch. “Yet I’ll dae whatever I can tae escape this fate me faither is determined tae bind me tae.”

“Now, mind yer temper, milady. I wish ye well.”

As Annora neared the solar, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. She’d not let the man see her cowed and afraid, even though her heart was pounding so hard against her ribcage it was almost ready to fly out.

The door to the solar was ajar and when she tapped lightly on the heavy timber door a man she took to be a servant of Sir Bertram opened the door and bade her to enter.

Her father and Radcliffe were seated at the table at the center of the solar, with an assortment of parchments spread before them. Annora guessed these must be the contracts and deeds containing the complex terms of the reiteach that would seal her fate.

The two men rose as she walked across the room.

She noted the table had been dressed with their most detailed embroidered cloth, and two, elaborate, polished silver candelabra had been placed with lit candles at the center, casting a luxurious glow across the proceedings. Clearly, her father was at pains to impress the man he would have her wed.

Her father cast her a smile. “Thank ye, me dear, fer gracing us wi’ yer presence. It is me pleasure tae introduce ye tae the Baron Sir Bertram Radcliffe.”

She curtsied politely, and the Baron took her hand and raised it to his lips. She withheld a shiver at the cold hand and the even colder lips.

“Charmed, milady, of course.” He gestured for her to sit opposite while he took his seat beside her father.

The servant who had opened the door moments before stepped forward to draw her chair from the table and she sat.

On closer inspection the man she was to marry was even less appealing than he had been at a distance. Now she could see the pock-marked skin and the blackened teeth. She made an effort not to screw up her face as his rank odor flowed over her.

Instead, she forced a smile and folded her hands obediently in her lap.

Her father placed a sheaf of papers in front of her. Each page already bore the signature of two men. It seemed all that was required to finalize her purchase with a brief signature from her.

She looked at the pages before her wonderingly. All those words to seal the fate of one small woman.

Her father proffered a quill and a bottle of ink but she shook her head.

“I wish tae read what ye’ve decided fer me before put me name tae it.

Her father gave an impatient huff, but placed the quill on its stand beside the inkwell and folded his arms.

“Very well, but dinnae keep us waiting, Sir Bertram wishes tae rest afore the feast this evening.”

Sir Bertram nodded. “I am pleased to see the lady is able to read and write.” He glanced at her father. “That does, indeed, add greatly to her value.”

Annora gurgled in here throat at that, coughing slightly to cover the disgusted sound she made.

As she went over the contract, she saw that her father was to grant lien to Radcliffe over a great part of the Munro Clan lands, and in exchange Sir Bertram would ensure that Laird Graham Munro would be favored by the English Court.

The marriage of Annora and Sir Bertram would seal the arrangement, ensuring that both sides of the contract would abide by it. Once the deed was signed, she would officially belong to Sir Bertram with only the formality of the marriage ceremony itself to make their arrangement final and legal.

Annora’s stomach roiled. The reality of this was only now coming home to her. She was being traded with less regard than Graham Munro would have exchanged one of his prized cattle.

She took her time reading slowly, noting every passage and item of the contract. Finally, once she could stall no longer and her father was already red-faced and fuming, she took the quill and dipped it into the inkwell.

As her hand passed over the parchment a large drop of ink fell on the page, casing an enormous blot on the page.

The same servant who had been in attendance leaped forward with a linen cloth and absorbed the ink. Even so, it left a large, ill-formed blot that would forever mark the words underneath.

Mayhap in a court of law I could contest this contract on the basis that two words are partly obscured.

With that thought in mind, she signed, adding a great flourish to the letter A at the beginning and end of her name. She hoped to draw attention from the fact that she’d deliberately misspelled her name as ‘Anorra.’ She offered up a silent prayer that the day might come when she could challenge the signature and have the contract declared null and void.

Her misspelling went unnoticed. Sir Bertram’s servant hurriedly gathered the parchments and bundled them into a leather satchel he carried at his side.

Graham Munro subsided into his chair with a smile of genuine relief on his face. Annora watched him keenly. No doubt he’d expected at the very least, some form of protest from her, given how she’d raged at him for weeks at the prospect of this forced marriage.

Sir Bertram rose to his feet and bowed to her father. “Laird Munro, I am most grateful for your generous attention. I look forward to meeting you and your Council at the celebration this evening.”

Annora was left with a face burning red as he turned and made his exit from the solar without so much as another word to her.

Now the contract was secure, her father seemed almost mellow, despite a short while ago imprisoning her for days in the dungeon with only bread and water, until she’d agreed to sign.

But, for all that, she’d won one small concession.

Sir Bertram wished to sail south to return to England without delay, from the terrifying dangers posed by the Scots to an English ship. She’d refused to accompany him or to be rushed into a hasty ceremony without the banns being called. In the eyes of the Church, the marriage would not be lawful, and her pious refusal had been met with no objection.

Accordingly, she’d been granted a reprieve of several months. It was an elaborate plan, but one she had plotted carefully.

Once Radcliffe sailed, she would travel east to stay at Castle Tioram with her aunt and uncle. There, she would await a birlinn sent by Sir Bertram to carry her south. This would give the English priest the necessary time to broadcast the banns and she would be lawfully married as soon as she set foot on English soil.

But Annora would see to it that before she went aboard Sir Bertram’s ship, there would be many an opportunity to evade her captors and avoid the hateful marriage awaiting her.

Once Sir Bertram had left the solar, her father leaned across the table with a triumphant smile.

“I am pleased ye’ve seen reason and been a sensible lass. I am certain ye’ll enjoy yer new life in yer grand English house.”

She managed to paste on the sweet smile of a dutiful daughter. “Indeed, Da, I have come tae see that will be best fer me.”

“Taenight, we’ll enjoy the feasting tae celebrate yer good fortune, and tomorrow ye’ll make ready tae depart fer Castle Tioram tae await the arrival of the birlinn that will carry ye south.”

She smiled to herself as she followed her father out of the solar.

If her plans went awry and all that awaited her was a choice between Sir Bertram and death, then death it would be.

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