Prologue

Stirling Castle, Scotland, Autumn 1304

Errol MacKinnon took a deep breath, grateful for the brief respite from the fighting. He was exhausted, his arms aching from wielding his heavy broad sword since their first attack on the English at dawn. But the Scots were winning; the English were no match for them, and the battle was finally coming to its bloody end. He pictured those filthy English pigs fleeing with their tails between their legs.

The day was warm, and sweat ran down his furrowed brow. Errol pushed his fair hair back, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, straightened his war tunic, and refastened the tartan at his waist. His clothes were soiled and stained, but staying clean was inconsequential. He preferred to stay alive.

Beside him, Gillebride, his brother’s advisor, had lowered his sword, granting him a sideways grin. The two had been fighting back-to-back since the fighting began at first light.

“Aye, lad,” Gilly glanced at the symbols tattooed on Errol’s sword arm, each representing an enemy he’d killed in battle. “I reckon ye’ll need a few more of those before the day’s done.”

Errol laughed. “A hundred or more.”

“Ye wish,” Gilly said, chuckling. “But, maybe, six today.”

Errol nodded. “It’s been three long years of fighting; I’ve lost count of all those who’ve fallen.” He gestured to the marks on his arm, growing wistful. “But what I wouldnae give to see Mull again.”

“Aye. She’s a bonny island….” Gilly’s words caught in his throat as the enemy’s shouts interrupted their brief reprieve. Six or seven English soldiers appeared on the crest before them, swords raised, faces distorted with blood lust.

“Jesus!” Errol exclaimed, hauling up his sword to ward off the blow from the first. It was a swift, uneven struggle, but within minutes, Errol’s sword had claimed yet another tattoo for his arm. Moments later, he caught a savage blow as the second man advanced too quickly behind the first. He went down on one knee, his tunic ripped by a wild slash to his chest.

Gillebride was beside him, wielding his blade ferociously, trying to ward off the subsequent rain of blows that followed the first. Errol could feel the strength draining from his body as blood poured from the wound over his heart.

One man raised his bow, aiming directly at Gilly. “Down!” Errol yelled while the man was drawing his bowstring.

He flung himself across his friend to protect him from the arrow without thinking and with his last strength. He felt a searing pain in his right shoulder when he heard the ‘ping’ as the soldier released the arrow. He’d taken the hit for Gilly.

He stumbled to his knees, making one last attempt to regain his feet. Wrenching the arrow free, he felt the blood gush from the deep wound. His sword arm hung lifelessly by his side.

He fell back, exhausted and weak from the blood loss. The last thing he heard before all the world went black was Gilly calling his name, cut short by his old friend’s heart-rending screams.

Errol couldn’t gauge how long he’d been unconscious. The jolting of the cart and the pain in his shoulder and chest brought him around. His mouth felt cracked and parched, and he gave his one good arm for a draft of water. But there was faint hope of that.

He was bound tight, crammed in with another group of imprisoned Scots, some with wounds that looked far worse than his.

“What in hell is this?” he mumbled to the man beside him whose head was bleeding slightly from a wound above his forehead.

“It’s the bloody English. They’ve captured all of us, and we’re on the way to Perth. There’s naught but a cold, dark dungeon in store for the likes of us.” The man looked him over, his eyes lingering on Errol’s shoulder wound and the gaping wound on his chest. “Yer fighting days are done with, lad. Ye’d better pray to the Lord to take ye quick before the rats get to ye.”

His tone as he spoke was almost gleeful, but Errol listened in horror, scanning the bloodied, wearied faces among the men, praying for a glimpse of Gilly. But he was not among them.

“Ye are searching for someone?” the man asked.

“Aye, my companion-in-arms. We’ve been together since the first day of the fighting three years ago. He’s been with me since we left our home on the Isle of Mull.”

The man nodded. “Aye. That’s a sad loss for ye, lad. But perhaps they left yer friend there, mistaking him for the dead. Mayhap ye’ll find him again one day.”

Errol nodded gloomily. With Gilly beside him, he’d always felt safe, watched over. He groaned. He’d known Gillebride MacThomas, that big, warm-hearted bearded bear of a man, all his life. Relied on him, listened to his wisdom, trusted him. When Errol had joined the fight against the English to return the crown of Scotland to its rightful King, The Bruce, Gilly had insisted on coming with him, even though he was nigh on thirty-five years old. Now Errol was alone, and he didn’t like the feeling at all. Now he had only his wits to bide him. His family would think him dead, and there’d be no one to come looking for him.

Would his eyes ever see the shores of his beloved Mull again?

“Goodbye, old friend,” he muttered, fingering the silver cross on the chain at his neck. “If I dinnae see ye again in this mortal realm, may we meet in heaven or hell.”

Half a year later. MacDuff Castle, Fife.

Edina Wemyss hated having to go to the dungeon. She hated the cold, dank walls and the water seeping down the stones. She hated the smell of piss and filthy unwashed bodies. She hated the rats who terrified her with their endless squeaking and scurrying and the way they soiled the place, making things even worse.

But above all, she hated seeing the imprisoned men. It seemed so wrong for her father, Michael, to have imprisoned these brave Scottish warriors for no other reason than they were defending their beloved Scotland as they should be, just as her English-loving father should have been doing himself.

But today, she was fulfilling her duty as the serving girl her father insisted she pretends to be, taking these poor men some stale bread and cheese on a trencher board. In her heart, she mocked her father for his distrust of the serving girls, imagining them all spies, but she was glad of the disguise. She couldn’t help fearing what these proud Highlanders would think of her—or what they might do to her—if they realized she was the daughter of the man responsible for their cruel, unjust punishment.

“Got something nice for me under those skirts of yers?” Jeered one guard as she passed. They thought it a fine sport to mock her and make lewd remarks whenever she came by.

Another of the guards muttered under his breath, and the three of them gave a raucous, bawdy laugh.

Edina’s cheeks burned. She straightened her shoulders, hiding her fear.

“I’ve naught fer ye, even if ye were the last three men on God’s green earth,” she snapped, marching past them, nose in the air.

Their laughter faded.

After distributing the last supper, she came to the cell she was always drawn to.

She held up her lantern, lighting the tall figure leaning casually against the wall. “Good day to ye, Errol MacKinnon,” she said, licking her suddenly dry lips.

She was relieved that there was a secure barrier between them. Errol was a big, broad-shouldered fellow with many tattoos up and down his arms, each representing a killing. Despite this, he had always spoken gently to her, and something about his size and good looks made her teeth clench. She had no idea why, but whenever she was near him, a kind of thrumming began in her heart, and her pulse quickened. It was similar to fear, but not quite.

And today, at the sound of his deep, gravelly voice, that mysterious pulse beat started up again. She felt his eyes on her, and just like that, it was hard to breathe.

He gave a soft laugh. “Och, lass,” he said. “This is the part of the day I look forward to.”

“Aye,” she said, lifting the lantern higher, glancing at his cellmate, Lyall, who was lying in the corner, saying nothing. “I’m thinking all of ye men look forward to yer supper.”

He shook his head. “That’s nae my meaning, lass.”

“Och?” She looked puzzled. “What dae ye mean, then, Mr. MacKinnon?”

“It’s yer pretty face I’m looking to see that makes me forget the long months I’ve been here since they brought me from Perth.”

She knew he was referring to his relocation from the prison at Perth once his wounds were half-healed, along with a few other men. Someone had called them “special prisoners,” but that was a laugh. If this was special treatment, heaven help the poor men still languishing in that hellhole in Perth.

His teasing words roused that strange feeling in her belly again and caused the heat to rise in her cheeks.

After she left the trencher, Edina turned to go. Lyall’s dispirited, sunken expression moved her heart. And Errol, despite his well-made features, had dark circles beneath his blue eyes, and, for all his cheeky teasing, he had the air of an exhausted man who had almost given up on hope.

It was so wrong to keep them imprisoned here.

She swept past the guards who, for once, kept their lustful thoughts to themselves and ascended the stairs leading her back to the Great Hall.

As she emerged from the stairwell and closed the heavy timber door behind her, she was surprised to see her sister, Margaret, walking across the slate floor toward her.

She smiled, pleased to see her younger sister’s sweet face, but there was no answering smile. She couldn’t help but note the girl’s red-rimmed eyes and the teardrops clinging to her long lashes. Margaret was frowning, clutching her sleeves around her wrists as if she must hold them there at all costs.

Edina reached a hand to brush a lock of wispy, fair hair behind her sister’s ear. “What is wrong, Little Bird?” she said, keeping her voice low.

Biting her lip, Margaret shook her head, her hands crossed before her, clutching her sleeves to her wrists. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Father wished me to pass on his message. Ye are to go to his study without delay.”

It was clear as daylight that there was something very wrong. Had her father broken his word and was mistreating her sisters?

“Please,” she gently took hold of Margaret’s arm, “show me what it is ye’re hiding.”

The younger girl reluctantly released her grip on the sleeves, turning them back to reveal a pattern of dark, purplish marks on her wrists and arms, wincing when Edina touched her skin lightly.

Edina’s blood flashed to a boiling point. Her father had not kept the bargain he’d made with her. He had agreed to restrain his violence toward her sisters if she cooperated and did his bidding. These brutish marks, like the painful bruises he’d left many times on her own body, were all the proof she needed of his betrayal.

She sighed, long and hard. “Ah, Little Bird. I’ll make an arnica poultice for ye after I’ve spoken with Father. Ye’ll find the yellow flowers growing in the garden beside the wall. Bring them to me; it will help ye heal,” Edina leaned over, dropped a kiss on her sister’s head, and reluctantly trudged to meet with her father.

Her father’s room was large, with one window high on the outside wall where a little light entered, an array of candles providing most of the light. The stone walls were hung with colorful tapestries from Germany, depicting hunting scenes, dogs, men on horses, stags at bay, and courtly scenes of princes and ladies with long flowing tresses and troubadours with their lutes.

A fire flamed in the grate, filling the air with the rich, earthy smell of peat, making this room the only warm place in the castle.

Edina’s father, Michael Wemyss, was seated by the fire and rose to face her as she walked in. Beside him was his advisor Colban, a big-bellied man Edina despised for his fawning ways, hanging on her father’s every word.

She slammed the heavy door behind her, earning a hate-filled glance from her father.

“Why are there bruises on Margaret’s arms?” she demanded loudly, her chest heaving with repressed fury. “Ye said ye’d leave her and Skylar be if I did yer bidding. I’ve done what ye told me to Father, but ye’ve nae stayed true to yer vow.”

Ignoring her question, Michael bade her stand before him. “Och, Edina. Ye’ve been a thorn in my side all these years. Ye’re a wee cow, just like yer mother,” he laughed. “But, at long last, ye do something worthy.” He pushed his face close to hers, twisting his mouth in a sneer.

Edina took a pace back. She’d heard his lament more times than she cared to count, how being a father to three worthless daughters was the heaviest burden he’d been forced to bear in his entire life. As far as he was concerned, his daughters were a curse laid upon him by a cruel god. Good for nothing except a possible advantageous marriage.

She tilted her head, waiting to hear how she would finally be useful to him, wanting to tell him that he was unworthy. Instead, she held her tongue, knowing that if she uttered a word now, it would only enrage him.

“You’ll be my instrument to bring ruin to the entire MacKinnon Clan. We need them out of the picture,” he said, smiling. Colban dipped his head in agreement.

Edina sucked in a breath. What her father was asking was impossible. It was one thing to run his errands and another going against the Scottish Clans, fighting for the cause. It was madness! She shook her head.

“Never, Father. Ye’re asking too much of me. I willnae agree to such a thing.”

He looked at her and laughed softly. “’Tis funny ye think ye have any choice in the matter.”

She straightened, meeting his gaze, her head high. “I’ll nae do your bidding on this errand, Father.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “And if ye want a guarantee yer sisters willnae be bearing any more marks, ye’ll do as ye’re told.” Edina felt her belly twisting. This was as bold a threat as he’d ever made. Do his bidding, betray the men she’d been caring for, or her sisters would suffer at his hands.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her weep, and she blinked them away.

“I cannae deny ye if my refusal puts my sisters at risk.” Defeated, she lowered her gaze to the floor, waiting with a heavy shadow on her heart to hear exactly how she would destroy Clan MacKinnon.

Chapter One

“Ye’re to free the MacKinnon lad. Let him think ye’re for him, and ye’ve the means to help him escape. Once ye’re clear of the dungeon and he’s setting out for the Isle of Mull, ye’ll go with him. Make him believe ye must flee from here. I leave this to ye. When ye’re safely at Castle Ardtun, Mackinnon’s home, there’s a man held captive there who must be set free. That’s also up to ye.”

Edina gritted her teeth. She was reeling, struggling to take in what her father was demanding.

“And this man, this captive of the MacKinnon Clan? Who is he?”

“Name of Taveon MacDonnell, a scout for the English. They’ll pay me handsomely for his return.”

“And how are ye connected to this traitorous scout? Are ye working for the English? Are ye a traitor to Scotland?”

Michael snorted, his eyes flashing fire. “Dinnae ask questions, Missy. Ye’ve nae right.”

Edina tried not to wince as he hauled his hand back and laid a fierce slap across her cheek.

“Mayhap that’ll teach ye to keep yer mouth shut.”

He turned to Colban beside him, who was nodding approvingly. “Those damn MacKinnons caught up with MacDonnell when he was going to the Lowlands. They’ve been holding him prisoner ever since. He possesses information that will turn the tide for the English. He kens just what the Highland Clans were planning.”

Edina groaned.” What ye’re asking, Father, is more than I can stand. Ye’re telling me to betray my country, as ye’ve already done.”

“Then our wee deal is out, Edina, and yer sisters will meet yer fate sooner than ye wanted.”

She managed to keep her head high, but it was no use. He’d won. She knew all too well that his leverage over her would force her to do as he commanded. If she protested or dared to defy him, her two younger sisters would be the ones to suffer in her stead.

And she could never knowingly allow that.

Eleven years ago, when their mother, Elspaith, fled from their father’s brutal ways, Edina was only ten, Margaret was eight, and Skye was only five. Edina had been to them what her mother had never managed to be; their protector. She’d struggled to keep them safe from their father, taking blows that left her body and soul scarred. All to protect the two wee girls.

She made one last appeal to Michael.

“Ye’ve already taken almost all I must give, and now ye’re demanding the only things I am left with. My honor and my integrity.” She spat the words at him, not afraid of the blows she knew would be coming. “But mind this. If ye lay a finger on those girls, I’ll reveal yer treachery. This Taveon MacDonnell will be telling all he kens to the wrong ears, and it will be on yer head.”

He raised his hand again, laying a hard slap against her face, rocking her back on her heels. She cried out and raised her hand to her stinging cheek.

“Go,” he commanded. “Get out of my sight. Ye’ll be told when ye’re to escape. Ready yourself. Prepare a bundle of clothing; make it look like ye’ve hastily put it together. Ye’ll be leaving in nae over two days’ time.”

Edina nodded wearily.

“Ye’ll need to keep your wits about ye lass,” her father added. “I’ll nae be giving away the secret to the soldiers so, if they come in pursuit, ye and the Mackinnon will be on yer own.”

Edina turned slowly and walked through the door without saying anything. Once in her bedchamber, she let the tears she’d been holding in flow in a seemingly never-ending torrent. Drying her eyes, she was now confronted with the reality of her situation. She’d be leaving everything she’d ever known in two days. She was abandoning her sisters, whose safety depended on her now more than ever.

Staring out of the tiny slit in the thick stone walls that doubled as a window, Edina glimpsed the outside world. All she could make out through her weary, tear-filled eyes was a landscape blanketed with snow, dotted here and there, with leafless trees standing like gaunt skeletons pointing at the never-ending gray sky.

Stretched on his hard pallet, staring into the blackness, Errol MacKinnon was almost ready to succumb to despair. Lyall McPherson, the friend he’d met when the cart first transported them from Stirling, was snoring fast asleep. As the months rolled on, Errol had become certain that, by now, his older brother Blaine and the rest of his family would have given him up for dead. He knew that, by now, his two nieces, Blain’s daughters, would have forgotten what he looked like, but his longing to see them all again kept hope alive.

Nights were the worst when his thoughts looped back over his life, and he questioned every decision and choice he’d ever made. His heart ached at the thought that, by being captured, he’d let his brother down. Yet again.

Plagued by too many “what ifs,” he rolled on his side, closing his eyes, trying to transport himself in his dreams to a kinder place.

He was dozing, halfway to sleep, when he was jolted awake by the sound of light footsteps coming his way.

“Lyall,” he whispered into the darkness. But his cellmate’s snoring continued unabated. He’d fallen asleep almost instantly after eagerly consuming the unaccustomed pot of ale they’d been granted with their supper tonight, too much on his practically empty stomach.

Errol sat up. Those scurrying footsteps were hauntingly familiar. Did he imagine it, or was it the serving girl who came each night with their food? Was his longing playing tricks on him, making him believe the only source of lightness and beauty in this godforsaken place was with him again? Had he finally taken leave of his senses?

He froze, ears straining. No. He wasn’t dreaming. Someone was here. But why? If it was the girl, what in hell was she doing here at night?

After rising quietly, he stumbled to the front of his cell. Hearing a rustling close by, he peered into the blackness, able to make out the indeterminate shape of a figure standing close by and a hand squeezed between the bars holding something. Almost sightless, he groped along the bars until his hands finally contacted the bunched-up fabric. All at once he understood. Someone was attempting to push a bundle of clothing into his cell.

He grabbed the fabric and pulled the clothes through into the cell. “What in hell…?”

A soft voice beside him whispered, “Hush, Errol. It’s Edina.”

It is her. So, I finally learned her name is Edina—a pretty name for a pretty lass.

“Edina, lass. What are ye doing here? And what are these clothes ye’ve given me? Do ye wish me to undress for ye?”

He heard her gasp and pictured those soft cheeks of hers turning pink.

“Errol, this isnae the time for yer wicked jokes.”

“Och, and why would that be so?” he teased. “Ye come to my cell in the dead of night with a fresh change of clothes. What am I to think?”

“Shush yer thoughts. Ye must put on the clothes I’ve brought. I’ve come to release ye from yer cell. But we must hurry. Make haste. It won’t do for ye to be abroad in yer prisoner’s clothes. Besides, ye’d soon freeze. It’s a braw night, and ye’ll need to keep yersel’ warm.”

He registered the tension building in her voice and guessed she was frightened half to death.

“But why…? he began, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

Escape.

Since he awoke in the jolting cart as they made their way north from Stirling to Perth all those months ago, he had dreamed of such a moment.

“Nae now,” she muttered, “I’ll tell ye all once we’re away from this place.”

“I’ll nae leave my friend, Lyall,” he said. “Although he’s sleeping mighty sound at the moment.”

“We must leave him. I darenae take more than one of ye along with me.”

“But he is my friend. We’ve shared hardships. I cannae leave him.”

“Dinnae utter another word. I hear someone coming.” She pressed a soft finger against his lips, and his senses responded instantly, his pulse thrumming. This was the first gentle touch he’d felt since he farewelled his family back on Mull, going on for four years ago.

The outer door creaked loudly open, followed by the ominous sounds of men clattering down the stairs.

“It’s the guards,” Edina whispered, quietly inserting the key to unlock his cell. She opened it and slipped inside, melting into the darkness beside him.

They stood together in silence, hardly daring to breathe, while the two guards paced along the row between the cells holding their lanterns high. Edina shuffled closer behind Errol, clinging to his waist, keeping well out of sight. He smiled to himself at the feel of her soft body pressed so tight against him.

All was quiet, and the two guards retraced their steps, satisfied that nothing in the dungeons was out of place. They continued up the stairs and out the door. The sound of the key turning in the lock came loud and clear, and darkness once again cloaked the cells.

“For God’s sake. They’ve locked it,” Errol said. “We’re trapped.”

“Nae, dinnae fash,” Edina replied. “I have another set of keys that will let us go on our way. The guards must have seen the door open at the top of the stairs and come to check. We’ll not see them again. They’ll be gone for the night.” She thrust the bundle of clothes into his hand. “Ye must hurry.”

He went to take the clothing but was startled by a terrified squeak from Edina.

“Lassie,” he said, fearful she’d been hurt. “What ails ye?”

She danced from foot to foot, groaning, “My God, do something, Errol. Please.”

“What the…?”

“Something crawled on my foot. It’s a rat. I’m sure of it.”

Errol couldn’t contain a chuckle. “We share our cell with legions of rats,” he said, making her squeak again, more loudly this time. “I cannae believe ye’re more scared of a wee mouse than ye were of the guards. After all, no rat has ever threatened me with a sword.”
She flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Errol, I cannae bide rats. They make me sick to my stomach.”

He grabbed her, lifting her off the floor in his powerful embrace, laughing softly. “I’ll keep ye safe from those monster rats, lassie, but ye must hush or ye’ll wake the others.”

She moaned, clinging to him even more tightly. “Is it still there?”

He made a show of peering through the darkness. The sound of the rat’s scrabbling had stopped, and all seemed clean.

“Aye, lass. He’s returned to his wee family through the hole in the wall.” He lowered her to the floor, still trembling. “Now, if we’re to leave this place, ye’d best let me change my clothes.”

Even though it was pitch black in the cell, he sensed her modestly turning her back as he yanked the soiled prison shirt over his head. His clothes stank, and he wished he’d been able to splash some water on himself to clean up a little before changing into the freshly laundered clothes.

He put on the breeches she’d given him. They were a little baggy around the waist, and he realized he was much thinner than he had been when they first brought him there. But what else could he expect after months of eating nothing but gruel, stale bread, and the occasional lump of cheese?

He reached for the next garment, a shirt, noting with surprise the feel of fine linen against his skin. Next, he donned the woolen tunic and fastened the belt around his waist, hoping it would keep those loose trews from falling off. He knotted a scarf at his neck. “I’m done, ye can open yer eyes now and, ye’ll nae be offended by my nakedness.”

He heard a tiny hitch of breath in Edina’s throat at his words. He pictured that pretty flush of pink in her cheeks blooming because of his teasing. She reached up and fastened a voluminous woolen cloak around him. “Ye’ll need this to keep the cold away.”

He bent, putting his feet into his boots.

“And what of Lyall? Have ye a bundle for him too?”

“We must leave him, Errol,” she said firmly.

“I cannae do that, Miss. He is my friend. I’ll nae abandon my friend.”

“Nae. It’s dangerous enough for one prisoner to make their way out of the cells at MacDuff castle. But two attempting to escape would be sure to bring the guards. One man can slip quietly into the shadows, making nae more sound than that wee mouse, but two men are twice as loud.”

“Nae. Lyall’s a soldier. He kens how to make himself invisible and move with stealth.”

“Oh, Errol,” she wailed quietly. “I ken ye want him to come with us, but truthfully, he willnae wake till morning.”

“What are ye saying?”

“Do ye recall the pot of ale I brought ye this evening?”

He huffed, his heart sinking. “Of course, I recall. It was the first ale to pass our lips since Stirling. I’ll nae forget that. Lyall was asleep only minutes after he’d downed it.”

“That was because I placed a sleeping draft in Lyall’s pot. I wanted to ensure he’d stay asleep when I came to free ye.”

Errol exhaled a long breath, waiting to let this discovery sink in. “Och. I understand. Ye decided Lyall must be the one to stay, and I must be the one to go.” He seized her arm, “But lassie, ye must tell me why ye chose me to be the one to set free.”

She paused and pried his fingers from her arm. “Nae. This is nae time for questions, Errol. We must be on our way. We’ve a long way to travel before daybreak when they discover ye’ve gone and send the soldiers after ye.”

His shoulders slumped. For whatever reason she may have had, the serving girl had released him. One thing was certain; if he dallied any longer, he was jeopardizing his escape. His heart ached at the thought of leaving his friend, but he vowed that once he’d found his way back to Mull and safety, he’d return to this place and grant Lyall McPherson his freedom.”

Without speaking another word, Edina turned the key in the cell door, and swung it open. The two of them crept into the darkness and felt their way to the stairs.

Once they’d fumbled their way to the top of the stairs, she unlocked the door, and they found themselves in the deserted Great Hall. With a finger to her lips, she signaled to Errol to follow as she made her way across the hall and along a passage. Eventually, the long corridor took them to a small door at the rear of the castle.

“This is the door the servants use. The guards rarely patrol it.”

They stepped through the doorway, finally taking their first steps to freedom. Errol rejoiced inwardly at the sharp sting of the icy air and the feel of a fresh breeze on his face. He scarcely had time to fill his lungs with the blessed, sweet, clear air before he heard running footsteps behind them.

He swiveled. Two guards rapidly closed in on them, drawing their swords as they ran.

Before they dashed to safety, the first man let loose with a hoarse cry.

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Prologue

The mask on his face was itchy and uncomfortable, so he shifted it to the side. Owen Elliott passed through the window overlooking the hot and loud ball, watching the guests. He knew he shouldn’t have come, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him. Far too many people at the ball could have recognized him with his distinct Elliott features. But because the night was long and most people were drunk, he had the advantage of disguise.

He crouched down as he peered through a window facing the great hall. The guests were laughing and having the time of their lives. Ducking quickly, Owen hid behind a shrub when one man glanced in his direction. His heart pounded in his chest from the fear of being caught.

Why in the blazes did I come here? He scolded himself for the hundredth time that night. He could have been in the village pub with one of the ladies warming his bed in the room he kept upstairs. But, instead, he was hiding in the shadows, hiding from people who wanted him dead. People that wanted his whole family buried.

When Owen came to glimpse the Musgraves, the rival family that almost murdered both his parents, he didn’t expect to stumble upon a gathering, let alone the engagement between Isabella Musgrave and Hamish MacBryde, whose kin betrayed all highland clans when they allied with the English.

Owen stepped into the air of the empty yard, the cool night breeze delicately caressing his hot skin. He pulled his mask just an inch. The garden was deserted and dark, with just a few torches lighting the way.

Perhaps coming here was a mistake. He thought to himself after such a close call. Nae, it was a mistake. The clans would surely be at war again if anyone recognized who he was. Shaking his head, he reached for the mask to cool himself down. His hand froze on the strap as a nearby scream pierced the air, drawing his attention to the left.

“No, don’t touch me!” the feminine voice was filled with panic and fear. “My father will hear about this.”

Fixing his mask, Owen quickly walked in the scream’s direction, hunkering beside a cart of hay just as he caught sight of the group. Four large men had cornered a girl at the back of the yard, so closely surrounding her that Owen almost couldn’t see her. She was petite, with long blonde hair that hung down her back. The men’s intentions were obvious to anyone who watched, and Owen felt his blood boil.

That’s nae right.

“You won’t dare tell your father, little mouse,” the tallest of the men laughed as he reached for the hem of her dress. His voice was deep, vicious and thick, making Owen’s stomach churn with disgust.

“Stop it!” the girl cried again. She tried her best to make herself as small as she could against the side of a tree while pushing them back, clutching at her dress. Fear painted her face as she sought an escape.

Looking around, Owen swore under his breath. The castle guests, along with the guards, were all too drunk to notice their surroundings. So, he weighed his options. I have tae dae something now, but what? He clenched his jaw. The English bastards outnumbered him four to one. He’d have to be cunning and think of a plan that wouldn’t end in a fight he had no chance of winning.

“It’s just a little fun; nobody will ever have to know, darling,” one of the other men laughed as he quickly grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head with a single hand.

She began to cry and then he used his other hand to stifle her screams. Her struggle was no match for the older men. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

Quickly spotting a nearby torch, Owen crept over to the wall and lifted the wood from the sconce before creeping back to the edge of the cart. Just a minor diversion for the girl tae getaway, Owen thought as he used the torch to ignite a small piece of hay.

The corner of the stack smoked as red embers appeared. Growing impatient, Owen blew on the section to help the fire along. He took a step back and watched as flames jumped forth and crackled. Yet still, the men did not turn. They will hurt her. Swearing under his breath, he tossed the torch into the hay.

“Please! Don’t!” the girl sobbed even louder, fear and panic creeping into her voice. One man tore her dress down the side, and the sound of ripped silk made Owen’s skin prickle.

Sick bastards! I’ll kill them with me bare hands!

Flames shot up as the entire stack of hay caught fire, sending a cloud of billowing smoke into the air.

“Fire!” The tallest of the men, who watched from the side how the other three touched the lass’ milky skin, screamed. Two of them ran for the castle before Owen, while the other two stayed behind to see if they could find the cause of the fire.

Cowardice bastards. Ducking back as quickly as he could, Owen hid from the two men as they made their way past him. The flames scorched his sleeve as he hid, causing him to wince. He needed to get away as quickly as he could, but not until he made sure that the girl had escaped.

Everyone was moving in a hurry, giving him a chance to look at the other two were frantically searching for a way to put out the fire when his blood grew cold. Straightening his legs, he realized the extent of the mistake he’d just made.

The fire could not be tamed.

And now the girl was caught in the middle of a towering blaze—the wagon he’d set fire to had only been one of ten, all of them parked in a semi-circle around the yard, and igniting at an unstoppable pace.

He was about to charge into the flames when a voice halted his steps.

“Charlotte!” an older man screamed.

But it was too late. Owen’s eyes locked with the girl’s as she sought the voice.

Damn it, she saw me. Owen cursed under his breath. He needed to leave now because the risk of an even greater ordeal was too real. There is someone to save her now. Turning to run, his legs wouldn’t move. Not until she was safe from scorching chaos.

“Charlotte! Charlotte!” The man’s voice called again, more anxious this time. He was about to turn back when a sudden force stopped him in his tracks.

And then all was hazy.

His vision blurred as an imposing wall of flames met his body and a scuffle ensued as flesh collided with flesh. Everything around him was so foggy, like hot breath blowing on a window. Looking down, he saw blood on his hands and then he dropped to his knees on the ground. He could hear the monstrous roar of the flames resounding in his ears and all around him, when the world grew more still, all in a moment. Coughing, he squinted his eyes through the smoke and struggled to escape, stumbling to a nearby trough. Taking a deep breath, he splashed his face with the bloodied water, desperate to soothe the searing pain.

Then, he heard it. Amidst the violent waves of the frenzied fire, suddenly, all he could hear was the sobbing of the girl. Charlotte. The scent of ash and flesh aflame washed over him, plunging him into an even deeper daze, intoxicating him with the suffocating fumes and the adrenalin coursing through his body.

Fire.

Blood.

Pain.

Fists flying through the air.

A heavy thud of a body collapsing on the crimson ground.

A torturing nightmare with no end.

There was no turning back now. The deed was done. After what seemed like an eternity, Owen Elliot finally found his way out of the castle grounds, his mask torn and his once white shirt, now scarlet from the blood.

With one last look behind, he ran home toward the border with Scotland, sure of one thing.

He would never be the same ever again.

Chapter One

Present Day, Spring 1601
Routledge Castle…

Charlotte Routledge sighed as she eased her fingers over the scar that ran the length of her thigh. There was no excruciating pain anymore, at least not physically. But her heart still ached at the sight of it.

Holding the hem of her dress, she examined herself in front of the floor-length mirror, recalling the day she’d gotten the mark. The wound was an ugly reminder of a time she’d rather forget. The night when she lost everything that mattered to her. She had lost her father. The life that she had always known had perished in that blaze.

The wind blew her long blonde hair about her face as her light green eyes filled with tears. Charlotte looked so much like her mother, with her delicate features and pale white skin. They had spent hours together taking care of her hair. My child, hair is a woman’s crowning glory; you should always look after it.

Looking to the side, she glanced at the open window where her mother used to sit. Her uncle had given her the room where her mother had died, forcing Charlotte to coexist with the heartbreaking memories. Catherine had fallen to her death, but nobody knew exactly what had happened. Fifteen years had passed since the day. But still, the pain remained. Nothing and no one could bring back her parents.

Charlotte sighed heavily as she walked to the window and leaned out, staring at the patch of grass where her mother’s body had been found. What happened, mama? Her heart whispered as a single tear fell on the top of her hand. Secretly, Charlotte had always wondered whether her death had been an act of foul play or if she wanted to die. Her mother’s past was covered in a veil, her own daughter filled with questions about it.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling the scent of the rain that lingered on the horizon, she pushed herself back up and walked to the mirror glass, where she examined the length of her scar again. I wish there were a way I could make you disappear…

Dropping her hem and taking a step back, Charlotte hurriedly fixed her dress as the door swung wide. “Don’t you know it’s rude to enter a Lady’s room without knocking, Uncle?” she quickly remarked as he stepped into the room.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he sneered, slapping her to the floor with the back of his hand. “You nasty little witch.”

Charlotte hit the wood with a sickening thud, feeling her lip splitting in two, and the iron taste of blood filling her mouth.

Alexander Routledge sniffed in disgust as he fixed his hair, slicking the dark tendrils back over his head with the bony hand he hit her with, the edge of the ring that collided with her flesh glinting. “If you’d finished your sewing and instead of feeding your vanity before that mirror, I wouldn’t have to discipline you like that,” he snickered. “After all these years… you still haven’t learned respect.”

Using her arms to push herself from the floor, Charlotte stood and glared at him, her fists balled at her sides. He treated her like a prisoner but she’d be damned if she would let him see her pain. Her pride was more potent than her will to survive. “I don’t see why I have to do the sewing,” Charlotte fired back. “You have plenty of maids in the castle to do your bidding.”

Alexander’s laugh was cruel and cold as he stared at her. “Because I own you, little niece. You are nothing without me,” he patted his pocket that held the key to her room. “You are to do what I say, whenever I say it.”

Her uncle had kept her under lock and key at the castle ever since her father had perished. Charlotte was a precious pawn to him, nothing more than a bargaining piece for his financial gain. She despised him with every ounce of loathe her soul could muster. Not once in her life had she hated someone until him. “Until you are married and I have my price, you will do as I say,” he repeated his words to get his point across.

Charlotte knew well that he was right. She would bolt if she ever got the chance. “The sewing will be done before the end of the day,” she gritted her teeth and bent to his will, knowing there was no other way out.

“It had better be,” Alexander smirked as she passed him on the way to the desk atop which the mountains of clothes sat waiting for her. Her room was set up with a simple bed and a single table and chair for all the sewing and mending needed. The curtains were removed from the room, saying she didn’t deserve the luxury of a good night’s sleep. But she knew this was not the reason: her mother had jumped off that window and he wanted to torture her by ensuring she would never forget it.

She made the mistake of rolling her eyes at his threat. Damn it, Charlotte!

As quick as a flash, Alexander slapped her again, sending her reeling back onto her bed, narrowly missing the mirror.

This time, she cried out in pain as her side connected with the wooden frame of the bed, digging into her ribs with a red-hot shock.

He was on her before she could move, with his one hand clutching her hair, taking the stands between his fingers. “You still haven’t learned your lesson, little pup,” his sour breath growled in her ear as he grossly caressed her cheek.

“I’ll show you exactly what will happen when you talk to me like that.”

Charlotte opened her eyes to see the flash of a blade as her uncle held a sharp dirk to her face. He’d always prized the Scottish blade, bragging of the men who’d met their ends at its tip. It gleamed in the light. “Please,” she whispered, nudging away as he grasped her hair.

“Oh?” he said with a menacing laugh. “We have changed our tune, have we?” “You deserve this, you little wench,” he hissed in her ear as the blade drew near, his nasty breath making her sick to her stomach.

Charlotte took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut as her skin began to perspire.

In one swift move, Alexander lifted the blade and sliced her hair, releasing her from his grip as she crumpled onto the bed.

Panicking, Charlotte gripped the back of her head, crying out as she felt for her hair. There was nothing left but uneven tufts that hung down her neck. “What did you do that for?” she sobbed. “That was the last piece of my mother I had left.”

Pulling his face in disgust, he flung the hair beside her on the bed. “Don’t talk to me about your mother,” he spat in anger. “She was just as useless a wretch as you are today. Good for nothing and no one. Why that simple brother of mine ever chose to make her his wife, I’ll never know.”

Tears stained the mattress as Charlotte tried to clutch her hair, the golden strands slipping through her fingers like sand. She pulled herself up and crouched on the bed with her legs folded beneath her lap. Mama… she sobbed uncontrollably, gripping her hair in her fists and trying her best to hang onto the last remnants that she had.

“Besides,” Alexander mused after watching her for a while. “I had to do it; your future husband prefers girls with shorter hair.”

Her head shot up in shock as she stared at him. Did I hear him right? She knew her uncle wanted to marry her off, but she always hoped the day would not come.

“This way, you don’t want to look like that insipid woman my brother had the nerve to marry.”

“You sold me?” Charlotte hissed, feeling her blood boil.

“It was time, dear niece. I cannot take care of you forever.”

“Who is the man?” she tried her best to remain calm as her hands began to tremble.

Alexander smiled at her with one corner of his mouth raised. “I have it on good authority that you know the man.”

Charlotte frowned as her mind searched for a clue. There weren’t any potential suitors that she could think of. It wasn’t like her uncle ever let her leave the castle to meet anyone new.

“He made your acquaintance six years ago in the Musgrave Castle,” Alexander watched Charlotte’s face carefully as he spoke, wanting to inflict as much pain as he could with his words. “On that joyous night of the fire when my brother died.”

Her body ran cold as all the blood drained from her face. There were only a few men she had met that night. And three of them had died. It can’t possibly be…

“Yes. He said you would be shocked to learn that it was him. Apparently, you gave him the slip at the feast. He’d asked for a dance, but you refused like the little chit that you are. It’s only fitting that you should marry him now. You’ve always been a rude little wench.”

“What is his name?”

“William Dodd.”

The name echoed in her mind like an avalanche of dread. She knew the name all too well. He hadn’t asked her for a dance. In fact, he’d used an entirely different approach to try to have his way with her. She could still feel the fabric of her dress ripping under his fingers. Her insides trembled at the memory of what he’d tried to do to her, along with the other men.

“Prepare yourself, little wench. For, in a few days, your new husband will be here to collect you.” He turned to leave before pausing at the door. “Make sure you clean up this mess,” he nodded to the hair on the bed and left, shutting the door behind him with a final click of the key.

Charlotte stared at the strands as unbelief and fear took hold of her soul.

William Dodd had been the only one who had survived the fire. She wished he had perished on many a day, but none more than now that he was close to getting what he wanted. He nearly had his way with her that night when he and his friends had cornered her at the feast. And now? Will he finally have me, even after six years?

She turned her head and looked out the window, away from the pain that mingled with her hair on the bed. How was her life once again falling to pieces? Have I not already lost all that I had?

There was only one other man she had ever wished dead, as much as William Dodd. The man who had set the fire at the feast. She hadn’t any evidence of what he had done or why. She could only recall the torch at his feet as the flames licked at her dress. He’s stood there with his mask, staring at her. Why hadn’t he done anything to help either of us? Her father had died, saving her life. But that man had stood there watching before she’d blacked out.

Shaking her head, Charlotte shook off the thoughts and turned her focus to the problem at hand. She needed to escape.

Marrying William Dodd would be a fate worse than death. Looking back at the window, she made up her mind. She needed to run, soon. Come hell or high water, William Dodd would never have his way with her.

Pushing herself up from the bed, Charlotte walked over to the desk and retrieved the bin she used for the snippets of cotton, recalling a happier time when her parents were alive. They’d loved her with every fiber of their beings. No girl alive could ever have been loved more than she had been. And now?

Now she was left alone to pick up the shattered pieces of her life. The last strands of hope she’d held onto were now being thrown into a bin. Discarded and forgotten, like all her dreams.

Sinking to her knees beside the bed, Charlotte sobbed hopelessly into the mattress. What am I going to do now? I’m alone in the world. She sniffed a few times, drying her eyes and recalling the words her father had said to her as a little girl.

There may come a day when you have no one else to rely on but yourself. Your mother and I will always do our best to be there, but you need to make sure that you look out for yourself.

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte hugged her knees to her chest. That’s exactly what she would do now. She would find a way out of this mess. She turned her head to look out the window. I’ll find a way out of this mess if it’s the last thing I do.

Chapter Two

Splashing the cool water over his face, Owen pulled the robes over his chest and straightened the sash. He hated the dark brown clothes that they’d given him to wear. But wear them, he did. His face was rugged and tired as he caught a glimpse of himself in the simple mirror adorning his dresser. Nightmares of flames and screams had kept him up all night. They seemed to worsen the more he tried to outrun his past. It was the nightmares that prompted him to act and seek resolution.

Placing the pouch of coins in his pocket, Owen patted them down and headed for the door. He only had a little time until his uncle returned to the monastery grounds, so he rushed to the door of the small chamber where he slept.
His scout was more than likely still waiting for him in the woods, hopefully, this time bearing answers. Being a monk was proving to be far more challenging than Owen had anticipated. He was hardly ever alone and always needed to work.

The monks at Lanercost Monastery worked harder than any laborers he knew. Even the workers at the castle back home didn’t have to contend with as many chores as he did. He grumbled under his breath and ensured everything was in order before leaving. The bed was tidy, and all his things had been packed into the single cupboard.

Hurrying, Owen quickly slipped into the corridor and made his way down the hall. Time was of the essence as he pressed on, his sandals slapping against the cold stone floor. He glimpsed at the dark sky, the sun lost between the stars.

Perfect, they all went tae bed, and there is nae on—

“Brother Owen,” an elderly monk called to his back. Damn it! “Where are you headed in such a rush?”

Thinking as fast as he could, Owen used his chance to slip behind a statue in the wall, pulling his hood over his head. His heart beat in his throat as he pressed himself against the stones. Maybe he will think it was another man.

“Brother Owen,” the monk repeated as he drew nearer at a steady and even pace. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of his robe, and a wooden cross hung from his neck.

“Please, nae now, please, nae now,” he whispered to himself and shut his eyes.

“Brother Owen,” the monk said in a firmer tone, stopping in front of the statue with one eyebrow raised.

Seeing that his fate had been sealed, he lowered his hood and slunk back into the light. “Apologies, brother Thomas. I didnae see ye there.”

“Is that so?” the man said with a knowing glance. “Because it looked to me as though you were very aware of my presence,” he gestured to the corridor with its paintings and statues of saints and monks. “One would even say you were trying to hide from me.”

“I would never hide from ye, brother Thomas,” Owen grinned sheepishly, feeling like a fool at his failed attempts to hide. Brother Thomas had the habit of sneaking up on a person at the best of times, even more so when you were trying to hide. It’s like the man kens whenever I’m out.

“Then why hiding behind the statue of Saint Francis of Assisi with your hood over your face? Looking for peace, perhaps? He was one of the world’s greatest peacemakers.” The older man dipped his hands back into the sleeves of his robe, waiting for an answer.

“Um… nae,” Owen searched his mind for a suitable response. “I-I was just chasing a spider. I ken how much ye hate the little beasts. And brother Angus, too. The creature was larger than me hand.” He held up his hand with his fingers stretched wide to illustrate his point. “The hood was because…”

“Yes?”

“I had tae sneeze an’ I didnae want the spider tae flee,” he thought through his lie with regret. “On account of the noise, ye see. I was hoping the fabric of the hood would divert some of the noise.”

“Very thoughtful of you. Though, I was under the impression that spiders werenae particularly sensitive to sound,” Brother Thomas asked with a heavy note of sarcasm in his voice. Owen had become known around the monastery for his strange behavior. This fact made the older monk keep an even closer eye on him.

“Och, aye,” Owen rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of his foolish lies. “Now, if ye would excuse me, brother Thomas. I-I need to take care of me needs, I drunk too much ale as of this morn,” he bowed and turned to leave as quickly as he could.

“Just a moment…” Brother Thomas’ voice called to him again, making him stop in his tracks.

So close. He inwardly cringed. He just knew that he would be paying for his antics later. Whether through penance or prayer, the older monk would surely have something to say.

“We havenae been seeing you at evening prayers of late. Is everything well with your soul? Is there something we should be concerned about? Ye ken, this is a communal monastery; we are here to offer support to one another.”

“Nae, I have just been busy. I am on garden duty, so this takes a lot of me time,” he told the same lie he’d been telling since he’d come to Lanercost as a monk.

“You seem to always have far too many chores whenever there are prayers,” Thomas said in the way of an accusation rather than a question. “We can always relieve your of your duties should you wish to pray.”

“I like tae dae me praying alone in me chambers, gives me time tae focus me mind on what matters.”

“Very well then,” Brother Thomas nodded. “Be on your way, then. But we’d love to see you there soon. Solace can often be found in prayer with a friend and nae just on yer own.”

“I’ll keep that in mind but, right now, I have all the solace that I need,” Owen turned to leave with a burst of speed, almost running away from the man.

“Ye will be in my prayers, young man,” the monk called to him as he left.

Owen waved over his shoulder as he left. “Thank ye, Brother Thomas!”

Brother Thomas had an uncanny habit of prying into people’s affairs if given the opportunity to speak. When the opportunity arose, it was best to keep him at bay.

Owen hadn’t spoken to any of the monks since he arrived for a very good reason. He wasn’t a monk. And lying to them hurt his heart. How could he pray when his heart was filled with devilish sins? That would be wrong and disrespectful to all those pure-hearted men. His uncle had taken pity on him and given him a second chance, bringing him into the monastery as a traveling monk. Duncan McGinn had once suggested that Owen make a change for good, but he could never truly be a monk.

They’d send him packing for the hills if anyone else found out what he’d done. Owen felt he was far too bad of a man to live a holy life; the sins of the past would never let him be.

He looked down at his hands, his mind instantly filling with screams and towering flames. His blood spilling into the trough from his hands. The focus abruptly shifting to an image of a man punching and punching until tiny hands tried to pull him away, screaming for help. As he recalled the event, his vision swam in and out of focus.

There is nae point in any of that now, Owen reminded himself as he picked up the pace, the coins jingling in his pocket and spurring him on. There was nothing he could do about anything that was done in the past. The fact that his father had drawn his last breath before finding out what he had done was his only relief. Fraser Elliott would have been crushed if he had known what Owen had done. Not only had he ended the lives of prominent lords, but… No, he couldn’t think about it.

His only hope of staying here was to track down the wretched man, the sole survivor of the fire. He’d later learned that his name was William Dodd—a fearless bastard of a man that wreaked havoc wherever he went. Many a Lady had been left in ruins once they’d seen his face.

Owen’s blood boiled in his veins as he thought of the night he’d happened upon the group at the castle. They were trying to have their way with the lass and probably would have succeeded if he hadn’t come along.

He spent all the money he had left and later earned as a monk on hiring a scout to keep tabs on the man. He’d have his revenge one day. The only other soul that had seen him that night was the beautiful girl with long golden blonde hair, but she was a matter all on her own. She knew too much. Her light green eyes still haunted his dreams.

Reaching for the gates, he checked to see if the coast was clear before leaving the grounds. Hopefully, his scout would have good news for him. He needed a plan now to stave off the sleepless nights.

“I’ll see ye get the end ye deserve,” he cursed under his breath as he set off at a run. “Mark me words, ‘afore I draw me final breath, ye will be dead, William Dodd.”

He jogged the rest of the way to the edge of the forest before looking back at the monastery gates. The high peak of the tall steeple loomed on in the distance as though the building itself were keeping an eye on him. No matter how far or fast he ran, Owen couldn’t escape the past.

The blood-curdling screams from that fateful night chased him down like a hunter following a deer. His only hope of absolution would come when he laid William Dodd to rest. He’d outrun the girl to the ends of the earth if he had to.

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