Chapter I

If someone asked Nimue, she would tell them that there were many things wrong with her father, Laird Robert MacLellan, just like every other man. He drank too much; he ate too much, and he listened too little. He liked to fight and shout. He knew nothing about looking presentable; and he didn’t know how to be a host.

But his worst characteristic—and the only one that Nimue couldn’t forgive—was his loyalty to the British and to a Crown that didn’t care for him or their clan. Whispers of war were spreading fast around Scotland, and if there was one thing that Nimue knew for certain, it was that the other clans would need their help.

And yet, her father seemed to have other ideas.

“I dinna wish to hear another word about it!” the Laird said, slapping his hand down onto his desk. His cup, full to the brim with wine, rattled and shook, little drops of alcohol flying over the papers that were scattered around him.

Nimue paced back and forth in the room. She had never liked being in her father’s study, with its dark, heavy furniture and dark red walls, the very color of the wine that he was drinking. She had never been allowed in there as a child unless it was to be reprimanded, and now, at twenty-four years old, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow done something wrong.

If supportin’ me people is wrong, then so be it.

“If ye side with King Charles, our people will suffer!” Nimue said, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. She had been trying to make her father understand the consequences of his actions, but she was not surprised to see that he refused to listen. “Na one else is on their side, Faither. Na one. Are we to be the only clan to support the English over the people of Scotland?”

“Dinna forget that we have ties to England, just as much as we have ties to Scotland,” the Laird said.

Nimue sighed, a heavy, displeased sound. She had heard that very same phrase before, many times. It was no coincidence that she had such an unusual name, nor that her sister was called Guinevere and her brother, Tristan. Though very much a Scot, as he had been born and raised there, their father had always been fascinated by England and its myths and tended to cling to his English roots. It was something that Nimue had never understood. In her eyes, they were nothing but Scottish, and it was Scotland that they needed to help and protect.

“Ach, Daidie, I ken all about our roots, but ye seem to forget that more than anythin’ else, we are Scots,” Nimue reminded him. “We dinna owe England anythin’. We owe it to our people to protect them.”

“To protect them from what?” the Laird asked. “The English willna do us na harm. Why they? They dinna have an issue with us. They only have an issue with those who oppose them, especially those up in the Highlands.”

“Scots, ye mean,” Nimue pointed out. “They are Scots. Why ye would support a Catholic king is beyond me, Faither.”

“I dinna expect ye to understand. It was yer maither who made ye so fond of yer Scotland.”

Nimue knew that her father missed her mother more than anything. She knew that he was still hurting from her death, just like the rest of their family. But the way that he spoke, in such an accusing manner, talking as though her mother’s pride in Scotland was nothing but foolishness, made Nimue’s blood boil in her veins. Her lips twisted into an ugly grimace, just as sharp as her father’s words, and she walked up to his desk, hands on her hips as she glared at him.

“Ye speak of Maither as though she didna ken what she was sayin’,” Nimue spat out through gritted teeth. “As though she didna ken perfectly weel where her loyalties lay. She kent; and I ken. I will never support the king; I will never support the war he is bringin’ upon us. I will never follow a king who wants to disregard our people, our traditions, the Kirk!”

“Enough!” the Laird said, standing up and staring Nimue down before she could utter another word. “I told ye that I willna hear any more of this. Yer me daughter, and ye’ll do as I say.”

“Oh?” Nimue asked. She wasn’t afraid of her father. She knew that deep down, under all the shouting matches and the stubbornness, he loved her dearly, and she doubted that he would do anything to hurt her. Growing up without her mother had been hard on them both. Ever since her death, her father had become overprotective, not only of Nimue but of all three children. “And what, precisely, is that?”

“Ye’re to marry the Earl of Stanford.”

It was not what Nimue had been expecting. She had thought that perhaps her father would simply insist on her supporting the English and their king. Or that he would forbid her from saying another word on the matter. Forcing her to marry a man she didn’t even know, an Englishman at that, went too far.

“I will do na such thing!” she said. “Ye canna force me to marry him!”

“Aye, I can,” her father said. “It’s already been arranged. Ye’ve been promised to him.”

Nimue scoffed, shaking her head. It was all too much for her, knowing that her father was so willing to give her away to a stranger. As far as she was concerned, she had no ties to England, and she wanted nothing to do with the place. How could she be expected to marry an Englishman when she was certain that they didn’t have a single thing in common?

“I dinna care what ye promised him,” Nimue said. “Ye didna even ask me first. Ye didna consult me at all. It’s me own life, Faither, that ye’re tryin’ to throw away.”

“Throw away?” her father said, and Nimue could see that he was getting angrier by the second. Perhaps he was used to being challenged when it came to political and religious matters, Nimue thought. Still, he wasn’t used to being challenged when it came to giving orders to those around him. He was the Laird, after all. “Is that what ye think I’m doin’, lass? I arranged a marriage with a man like the Earl, and ye think that I’m throwin’ yer life away? Listen to yerself . . . so ungrateful. The time has come for ye to marry, Nimue, and the Earl of Stanford is better than any man ye could find in our neighboring clans.”

“I verra much doubt that,” Nimue said. “Do ye even ken anythin’ about him? We ken our fellow clansmen. We ken the clansmen of the neighboring clans. I grew up with them. If ye wish for me to marry, then I shall marry one of them, but na an Englishman.”

“Ye will marry the Earl, and that’s the end of it,” her father said. “And ye’ll keep yer mouth shut around him about this war that ye always talk about. I willna have ye embarrass me with yer ideas and yer fancies in front of the Earl.”

Nimue looked at her father, eyes wide in disbelief. She never thought he would treat her in such a way. That he would care so little about her and her wellbeing that he was prepared to sell her off to the English for an alliance was nothing but traitorous. Her father was betraying not only her, his own daughter, but also Scotland. It pained her to see it–to know he had no regard for the clans with which their own clan had been allied for as long as anyone could remember. He was prepared to betray them and their trust, all because of the English.

Nimue was certain that the English would let them all perish if it came down to it. Clan MacLellan was an influential one in those parts. Still, she doubted any other clans would support them if they sided with the Catholic king. Were the other clans to band together to fight the MacLellans, their clan would be doomed, and the English would be of no help.

“Ye’re makin’ a big mistake, Faither,” Nimue told the Laird. “Ye may na want to listen to me, or to anyone else for that matter, but ye’re takin’ us down the wrong path. Na only me, with this foolish marriage, but our entire clan. Our people. I dinna ken what else to tell ye to convince ye. Perhaps there is na a thing I can say to convince ye but trust me when I tell ye that I willna be dragged to the altar without a fight.”

“Then so be it,” the Laird said as he sat back in his chair, the fight seemingly draining out of him. “So be it, Nimue. I’ll drag ye to the altar meself if that’s what it’ll take for ye to marry the Earl. Consider yerself warned. Noo get out of me sight. I dinna wish to fight with ye any longer, but if ye stay, ye’ll give me na choice.”

“Just like ye’re givin’ me na choice,” Nimue said and then turned around, leaving the room and slamming the door behind her. She didn’t want to stay and listen to anything else that her father could possibly have to say to her. She had heard it all, and she couldn’t bear to be near him.

What am I to do noo? What is there for me to do?

Nimue had always thought that she would marry for love. She had always thought that she would have the chance to choose her husband, and that she wouldn’t have to be married off to some Lord that she had never met before, as though she were an English girl. She had underestimated her father’s love for English traditions, though, or perhaps she had underestimated his greed. What other reason could he have to force her to marry the Earl of Stanford? Surely, Nimue thought, he believed that England would triumph in the war that was to come, and he would end up with more power than he could ever have as a Scottish Laird.

But to use her in such a way was unacceptable in her eyes. She could only imagine what the Earl of Stanford would be like, cruel and ruthless and dismissive of her. She knew he wouldn’t love her. He wouldn’t love her in the way that a man who had known her his whole life could love her.

It isna as though me faither doesna have any other options for me! I’m the Laird’s daughter! Many lads would want to marry me!

Who would turn down such an opportunity? Her looks—which she, herself, had never truly noticed or examined—were irrelevant, she thought. However, there had been plenty of men who had fallen for her unintentional charms. Everyone wanted to marry into the MacLellan clan.

Up until noo, at least. When everyone finds out that me faither is supportin’ the king, na one will want to be a part of this clan anymore.

Nimue herself wasn’t certain that she wanted to be part of her own clan anymore, after what her father had told her. As much as she loved him and everyone else in it, she simply couldn’t bear to watch her father bring her clan to ruin.

But what choice do I have? I canna abandon them when they need me the most.

If marrying the Earl of Stanford was her only option, then Nimue would simply have to accept it. She would have to marry the man and then find a way to convince him to allow her to stay in Scotland with her people.

She didn’t even want to entertain the idea of going to England and spending the rest of her life there, surrounded by strangers, having to share her bed with a man that she didn’t know. Even if the Earl turned out to be a good man, which Nimue doubted, he would still be nothing more than a stranger to her, and that is what he would always be, even after years of marriage.

Rage bubbled over inside her as she made her way down the stairs, putting as much distance between herself and her father as she could. She feared that if she didn’t, she would simply march right back up to his study to continue their fight, even though it was hopeless. Her father wouldn’t change his mind, and neither would she. In the end, she would end up doing his bidding simply because she was a woman and had no other choice.

She hated that there was nothing she could do, that her life and her future were not her own, that someone else was making every decision for her. Why were men given the option to do as they wished, but she had to constantly follow orders, whether dictated by society or by her father?

She wished that she could be insignificant, a farmer girl, perhaps, or a cook. She had never experienced hard work, but she thought it must be better than her current situation.

With an exasperated sigh, she burst through the front doors of the castle, making her way to the gardens, and from there, past the castle walls, through a small opening that only she seemed to know existed. It was the only way she could avoid the guards, who would certainly question her regarding where she was going at that time of the night.

She couldn’t blame them for being careful with the Laird’s daughter, but it wasn’t the first time that Nimue had snuck out of the castle and made her way to the It had always been her favorite place, even as a child, ever since her mother had first brought her there to teach her how to swim. Nimue had returned to that lake over and over throughout the years, even when it was cold, even when her mother wasn’t around to take her there anymore.

It was their spot. Her spot. At night, no one went there but her and her siblings, and they had stopped going there a long time ago.

The night was still young, and Nimue had plenty of time ahead of her until she would have to return to the castle. She looked up at the sky and saw all the stars glittering there, trying to remember their names, just like her father had taught her, but soon, the water became too inviting for her to resist. She began to undo her clothes, letting them pool around her feet until she was in nothing but her underdress, and then stepped into the lake, relishing the way the water slid against her skin.

I may never see this place again. I may never swim in these waters again. I’d do anything to stop this marriage.

Chapter II

Chrisdean and his men had come a long way to find the daughter of Laird MacLellan. Rumors of the man’s alliance with the English had reached the Highlands, and Chrisdean had taken it upon himself to put a stop to it. He knew that the girl was supposed to play an important part in Laird MacLellan’s entire plan, as he was certain to marry her off to a noble Englishman. The only way that Chrisdean could think of to stop it was to marry her himself.

Besides, an alliance between his clan and the MacLellan clan would only benefit him and his clansmen. Everyone in Scotland knew just how much power and influence the MacLellan clan had, and Chrisdean, as a new Laird, wanted nothing more than to share that power.

And as far as he had heard, the girl was a beauty.

He and his men were camped by the lake near the castle grounds, waiting for the two scouts he had sent to find a way into the castle when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. At first, he thought that it was just the scouts returning from their mission—hopefully with good news and a way to slip into the castle undetected—but he soon realized that the footsteps were too soft to belong to either man.

Chrisdean gestured at his men to be quiet, though they had already halted all their conversations, having heard the sound, too. Holding his breath, he began to walk slowly towards the source of the sound, making sure to stay in the shadows behind the trees and bushes, remaining unseen; and then his gaze fell on her.

Even in the half-light of the moon and the stars, Chrisdean could see that she was gorgeous, her chestnut brown hair brushing against the small of her back and her lips glistening, making her irresistible. The mere sight of her stopped his breath and quickened his heartbeat. Desire pooled low in his stomach, along with a scorching heat that begged to be satisfied.

For a moment, Chrisdean considered calling his men, who hadn’t seen a woman ever since they had left the Highlands, but then he recognized the woman in front of him. She was none other than the daughter of the Laird.

A few of his men rushed to him before he could go to them, mesmerized as he was by the girl, unable to do much other than stand there and watch her. At first, he didn’t even notice that they had approached him, as they had done so quietly, and he wasn’t paying attention to anything but his future bride.

“Ach, noo I see why ye stopped,” Conall said, Chrisdean’s General and right-hand man. He was standing right behind him, whispering in his ear, but Chrisdean could tell that there was a teasing smile on his face. “She’s a bonnie one, isna she? Do ye think I should go up to her and ask her if she wants company?”

Chrisdean couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the crassness of his friend, shaking his head as he turned to look at him. “That’s her,” he told him. “That’s the lass.”

“The daughter of the Laird?”

“Aye.”

For a few moments, Chrisdean and his men remained quiet, simply watching the woman. Their original plan had been to infiltrate the castle, but now that seemed to be unnecessary since she was right there, making their job even easier. All he had to do was approach her carefully, make sure she didn’t have a chance to run, and capture her.

And yet, he didn’t move, even as she began to undress, or perhaps precisely because she began to undress. His gaze lingered on her body as she removed the seemingly endless layers of garments, slowly revealing the curves of her hips and chest, more and more of her skin on display with every movement she made.

Then, he heard one of his men draw in a sharp breath, and he remembered that he wasn’t the only one watching.

“What are ye all doin’?” he asked, his expression pinched, laced with annoyance. “Stop lookin’ at her, ye bastards! Go, go hide behind those bushes!”

“Aye, me Laird,” came a chorus of hushed whispers as his men began to retreat—all of them but Conall, who seemed content to simply stand there and watch, despite Chrisdean’s order.

“That goes for ye, too, Conall,” Chrisdean pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest as he put himself between him and the girl, blocking the man’s view.

“What if somethin’ happens to ye, me Laird?” Conall asked him. “I should be here to protect ye.”

“What’s goin’ to happen to me, do ye think?” Chrisdean asked.

Conall shrugged. “I dinna ken. Maybe she has a blade hidden.”

“She’s na wearin’ any clothes, Conall.” Chrisdean pointed out. “Where would she hide the blade, lad?”

Chrisdean watched as Conall looked past him, at the girl, his gaze going straight to her thighs and buttocks, and he had to resist the urge to slap some sense into him.

“Bushes. Noo,” Chrisdean hissed, pointing at the rest of his men who had already retreated back into the shadows.

Conall joined the rest of the men with a dejected look, leaving Chrisdean alone—and most importantly in Chrisdean’s mind, having no direct view of the girl. Chrisdean pulled his focus back on her, seeing that by the time he had managed to get rid of all of his men, she had already gone into the lake.

He decided to wait. Chasing her in the lake would make no sense, he decided, especially with all his clothes which were bound to weigh him down. He simply kept his eyes on her as she swam, fearing that if he lost sight of her, then he would lose his chance to capture her.

She was a good swimmer, he noticed, but he also saw that she seemed to be in no hurry. He wondered how long he would have to stand there, waiting in the shadows for her to come out of the lake, since he was eager to get out of there as soon as he could.

If someone comes to look for her, they might find us, too.

Chrisdean didn’t know how long he stayed there, perfectly still, holding his breath until the girl finally came out of the water. Once she did, his gaze lingered on her body once more, looking at the way her underdress clung to her figure, hugging the curves of her hips and breasts, and at the way her hair, dripping wet, fell over her shoulders in gentle waves.

He could see the entire outline of her body, but he knew that it would be nothing compared to what he would see on their wedding night. He could already tell that she had a body that looked like it was sculpted out of marble, but he could only imagine what she would look like naked in front of him, her full breasts and buttocks more inviting than anything he had ever seen before.

She looked unlike any other woman Chrisdean had ever seen, and to say he was relieved would be an understatement. He had been prepared to marry any woman for the future of his clan, but the fact that she was beautiful meant, in his mind, that their marriage would bring him personal joy, too.

I can only hope that she willna be too stubborn and make me marry her by force.

Chrisdean gave the girl a few moments to put on some garments, though he did not allow her to get fully dressed before jumping out of his hiding spot, running up to her, and grabbing her. The girl was startled, and for a split second, she froze, giving Chrisdean the impression that it would be an easy fight if a fight at all. But before his men could even approach, the girl began to scream and kick at him, her heels connecting with his shins again and again.

Chrisdean groaned in pain, even as he clasped a hand over the girl’s mouth to silence her. The last thing he wanted was to alert guards of his presence and end up dead, so far from home. Then, he tightened his grip on the girl, but that didn’t seem to deter her. If anything, she began to fight him even harder, thrashing in his arms as she tried to get away, her breath coming out in short, labored puffs.

“Stop it, lass,” Chrisdean told her, biting back another pained groan when she stepped on his foot with what seemed to be her entire weight. “I said stop. I dinna wish to hurt ye.”

The girl mumbled something unintelligible under his hand, but Chrisdean didn’t dare pull it away to let her speak. It was too dangerous, and he didn’t want to hear what she had to say, not while she was still trying to fight him. Instead, he held even more tightly onto her, squeezing her with his arms and trying to get her under control.

“I said stop!” he hissed in her ear. “I willna hurt ye or anyone else, I promise.”

Just as he was talking, his men finally approached them, but they didn’t know what to do. They couldn’t simply attack her, of course, as the last thing that any of them wanted was to hurt her, but they also couldn’t approach her, not when she was thrashing around like a wild animal. For what seemed like hours to Chrisdean, she kept fighting, and he thought that it would never stop, but soon enough, the fight was drained out of her as she became tired, eventually slumping in his arms.

Chrisdean slowly, hesitantly removed his hand from her mouth. She didn’t scream, and for that, he was grateful.

“Who are ye?” she asked. “What do ye want with me?”

“I am Chrisdean, Laird of the MacIntosh clan,” he told her. It seemed to him as though she had already understood that there was no escape, not when she was surrounded by so many men, and so he let her go, though once again, he did so hesitantly. “I mean ye na harm, lass. Ye are the daughter of the Laird, arena ye?”

“What is it to ye?” the girl asked, placing her hands on her hips as she stared him down.

“Weel, I’m lookin’ for the daughter of the Laird.”

“Weel, then I’m na the daughter of the Laird.”

Chrisdean looked at her for a few moments, his brow furrowed, and then he glanced at his men. Conall shrugged at him, and Chrisdean wondered if he had the wrong woman.

But no, it couldn’t be. Not only did Nimue look precisely like her description, but Chrisdean was also good at detecting lies. If there was one thing he knew, it was that the girl was lying to him.

“Na . . . ye’re lyin’, lass,” he said, and the huff that the girl gave him confirmed his suspicions. “What’s yer name, then?”

“Och, ye dinna ken?” the girl asked. “Ye ken who I am but ye dinna ken me name?”

“I didna have the chance to learn it, na,” Chrisdean admitted. “But I gave ye me name. Ye owe me yers.”

“I owe ye na a thing,” the girl said, her hands moving from her hips so that she could cross her arms over her chest defensively. “And ye didna answer me other question. What do ye want with me? Why are ye all here?”

Chrisdean smiled, a smile that was meant to distract the girl from a question that he didn’t want to answer, not quite yet, at least. “How about ye tell me yer name first?” he asked.

The girl looked at him, defiance in her gaze, but then she seemed to weigh her options, which were few. “Nimue,” she said. “There, I answered yer question; noo answer me mine.”

“Nimue,” Chrisdean repeated, trying the sound of her name on his tongue. “That’s a verra strange name ye have, lass.”

“I dinna care what ye think about me name or about me or about anythin’ else!” the girl said with a huff. “If ye’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go back to the castle noo.”

“Ach, I dinna think so,” Chrisdean said, and before Nimue could run, trying to escape, he grabbed her once more. Just like before, she struggled, but this time she quickly realized that there was no escape, or so it seemed to him, and she slumped against him, giving in. “Ye’re comin’ with me.”

“Why?” Nimue asked. “I dinna think ye’re a verra smart man if ye take me with ye. When me faither finds out about this, he’ll have yer head.”

“We’ll see about that when the time comes,” Chrisdean said. As long as he had her, then her father was certain to do as he was told. Besides, there was little that Laird MacLellan could do after they were married. The deal would be sealed, and the other man would have no choice but to accept it.

Chrisdean carried his future bride to the horses, which he and his men had left a little further away; all of them marching to the little clearing. His men seemed to be just as eager to leave that place as he was, and he could hardly blame them. They were too close to the castle for comfort.

When they got to the horses, Nimue seemed to hesitate, which Chrisdean took as yet another attempt to escape or at least delay the inevitable.

“Get on the horse, lass,” he said, and when Nimue didn’t move, he jumped on the horse first and then, with the help of Conall, pulled Nimue up behind him. Her grip was like a vice around him when they began to move, but he didn’t give it any thought. He had experienced worse pain in his life.

“Alright, lads, time to go home,” Conall called out to everyone before turning to look at Chrisdean. “Doesna this place make ye miss the Highlands?”

“Och aye,” Chrisdean said. He knew that his men missed their families and their homes; and he had, as well. There was nothing that he missed more than his bed, though, after all those days of sleeping on the ground. He missed how soft and warm it was, how comfortable, how well he could sleep every night, but he knew that soon, he would be back in his chambers.

And he would have a brand-new wife, reluctant as she seemed to be around him. He knew that, in time, she would grow to like him, perhaps even love him. Out of all her choices—though he didn’t know what those choices could be—he was certain that he was the best one. Perhaps their marriage wouldn’t have a good start, but he would make sure that Nimue was content at least.

And why wouldna she be content? There isna anythin’ bonnier than the Highlands and na clan better than the MacIntosh. She’ll never lack anythin’ in life.

Feisty as Nimue seemed to be, Chrisdean was certain that he would tame her soon enough. All he needed, he told himself, was patience–patience and his charming demeanor. Then, she would be his.

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Chapter I

Scottish Highlands

July 10, 1662

Malcom sat near the window, gazing out into the fields while watching the low hanging clouds and the sheepdogs running through the greenery in the distance. Once again, he wasn’t able to sleep. Another night of rest wasted on old memories now long passed. It had been too long since he last slept through the night, often haunted by ghosts. His nights were filled with tossing and turning as he tried to fight memories insisting on tormenting him. On nights when he couldn’t close his eyes, he would stare at the ceiling wondering what he did wrong to deserve this unending pain.

When was I last in those fields? Malcom wondered. His body ached from lack of sleep and his mind was sluggish. He couldn’t keep track of the duties a laird was supposed to complete and spent most of his time locked inside this room, gazing at the fields he once used to run in. Surely, he had gone some time this year to meet with the village leaders, but he couldn’t remember the discussions. He couldn’t remember how much crop the lands yielded the previous years. His thoughts were distracted, lingering on screams he couldn’t shake; on the blood staining the sheets and Aileen’s lifeless eyes gazing up at him while their newborn son screamed for his dead mother. They had pledged their lives to each other. They were to grow old together and tease each other on how many grey hairs they found, or who had the most wrinkles. But now five years later, Malcom found himself alone with the past and what could have been haunting him every night and day.

Malcom shuddered and ground his teeth against those memories, focusing his attentions on the dogs herding sheep while a young boy watched on. Aileen had loved watching the dogs. She thought they were graceful and believed they were dancing with the sheep. Malcom had, of course, laughed at her. Dogs dancing with sheep? Who would have ever thought?

But that was Aileen.

She had seen the beauty in everything. If it rained, and it so often did, he would find her dancing, laughing while twirling her arms around and saying it was the essence of life. On a sunny day, she would insist they eat their meals out in the fields. He remembered how she would angle her head towards the light, enjoying its warmth, not at all concerned about the freckles littering the bridge of her nose. Many thought her strange, but Malcom believed she was the light in his life. His gaze turned to the stones surrounding the window, remembering how Aileen would sit next to it, gazing out into the same fields while stroking her swollen belly.

And now she was gone.

She had left him alone in this world to fend for their son. And her screams still haunted him. They still echoed through the halls; the halls he waited in while she was birthing their son, Finnegan. Malcom closed his eyes against the memories, pushing those thoughts away.

There was a knock at the door and he stood, angling his chair back to the table and moving to open the door. In the hall stood Dalilah, her blue eyes glistening with worry while she ran her hand through her dark strands.

“Brother, Finnegan has worsened,” she said, her voice trembling. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I thought it was just a little chill, but now he has a fever. I don’t know what to do.”

Malcom leaned against the door. His brows furrowed in worry while he raked a hand through his dark hair. Dalilah had been taken with Finnegan the moment he was born and she had seen to his health, becoming a mother-figure to him after Aileen had passed. Malcom had hated himself for it, knowing he should be there more, but he found it difficult looking at his son, who reminded him of Aileen. He couldn’t help but worry Finnegan would leave just like his mother.

Now, being faced with that possibility, he felt even worse.

“Have ye called for Gavin?”

Dalilah shook her head. “He’s away,” she sniffed. “He was called to a neighboring village to help with bone setting.”

Malcom frowned. “Bone setting?” he asked, his hands fisting at his sides. “Why is our healer being called away for bone setting.”

Dalilah nibbled her bottom lip, her gaze sliding to the floor. “I do not know,” she whispered. “That is all Luther told me.”

Malcom nodded, yet he still wasn’t pleased by the answer. He slammed his chamber’s door closed and followed Dalilah through the halls. Several servants carrying baskets of fabrics to be washed paused at his sight, their gazes widening before sweeping into a low bow. Malcom sighed. He knew it wasn’t often he left his rooms, but he didn’t think it warranted a stare from those who served him.

They turned the corner, finding Luther, standing outside Finnegan’s quarters as if he were guarding the crown jewels. Luther swept into a deep bow when his gaze met Malcom’s before standing.

“I’m so sorry, my laird,” said Luther, looking worried. His gaze flickered to the closed door Finnegan was residing behind before he sighed, shaking his head. “It makes no sense. The boy was fine last night.”

Dalilah nodded. “It was just a chill,” she said, her voice trying to remain calm, yet Malcom noted the slight shrill to it.

“I really should return to my duties,” said Luther, which made Malcom grimace inwardly as he knew his second in command had too much on his plate. Luther was managing the castle, the lands, the villagers, everything that should’ve been Malcom’s duties. “But I wanted to be here, just to make sure Finnegan would be well.”

“How is he?” asked Malcom, glancing at the door and not knowing if he should enter. He wasn’t worried about disease. So many times he wished he had caught something in order to join his wife. There were times he contemplated taking his own life, yet he knew he couldn’t leave Finnegan alone.

No, he was worried he would break down again and he couldn’t do that in front of Luther.

He couldn’t stand knowing another man thought him completely broken. Malcom knew what the servants whispered when they thought he wasn’t listening. He knew they thought he was possessed by demons or haunted by the ghost of his deceased wife. He didn’t want to add to the gossip.

“Ye should see for yerself,” said Dalilah, throwing open the door and grabbing his wrist, nearly dragging him inside. “See yer son, Brother. Please,” she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It might be yer last time.”

Malcom closed his eyes, tempted to turn around, but he allowed Dalilah to pull him inside. Inhaling deeply, he blinked his eyes open, looking around at the dimly lit room. The drapes were drawn and the young boy lying in the vast bed was shrouded in darkness. Malcom could hear his rasping breath and he was reminded of another time he was pulled into a room.

Malcom straightened his shoulders. He wouldn’t turn back now. He wouldn’t be a coward. He strode towards his son, sitting on the edge of his bed, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

“Finnegan,” he whispered into the darkness, but his call went unnoticed.

Malcom reached a hand towards the small boy’s head, stroking back the dark locks he found there. In the shadows he could just make out the boy’s sleeping face. Even in the lack of light, Malcom could see how pale the child was. He could see how the boy shivered. Malcom pulled the blankets around Finnegan’s shoulders, biting back tears threatening to fall as he realized this was

the last remains of Aileen.

And he could lose her all over again.

“How far away is the village?” Malcom whispered.

He glanced over his shoulder, finding Dalilah shaking her head while she lifted the candle, bringing it close to Finnegan’s head so she could get a better view. She pressed her palm against the boy’s cheek and sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her hand against her mouth to stop another cry. “I should have taken better care of him. I’m so sorry, Brother.”

Malcom closed his eyes. “None of this is yer fault, Dalilah.” He sighed, his hands fisting at his side as he whispered the words he hated most, “It’s my fault.” Malcom closed his eyes, fighting back the tears threatening to come. “I should have been the one watching out for him, Dalilah. I’m his father.”

“Gavin is in the village in the west. It’s too far. Finnegan could…could…”

“Do we know of any other healers?”

Malcom didn’t hear a response and when he opened his eyes, he found his sister with a hand over her face, her shoulders shaking as she cried silently.

“Papa,” a raspy voice whispered.

Malcom turned, finding blue eyes watching him. As much as Finnegan reminded Malcom of Aileen, he was his father’s spitting image with dark hair and matching blue eyes. It was alarming for Malcom to see how the boy took after him.

Malcom smiled at Finnegan while wrapping his arms around the small boy and cradling him in his arms. The boy nuzzled his shoulders. “Everything will be fine, my son,” he whispered before kissing the child’s head and pulling away.

Dalilah set the candle next to the boy’s head and repositioned the blankets around him. “Get some rest,” she whispered while stroking his cheek. “Ye will feel better after some rest.”

Finnegan nodded and closed his eyes, his breath evening once more as sleep claimed him.

Malcom stood and grabbed his sister’s elbow, tugging her through the door and closing it softly with a click. Luther straightened from the stone wall he had been leaning against.

“Would ye like for me to send for Gavin?” asked Luther.

Malcom shook his head. “Nae,” he said, earning a sob from Dalilah. He clamped his hands behind his back and began pacing. “That would take too long.”

“We must do something,” Dalilah cried, flinging herself at her brother and clinging to his front. “He’s too young, Malcom.”

Malcom nodded while gathering her hands together, holding them gently. “Have we tried blood letting?”

Dalilah shook her head. “He’s too young. Too little. He’ll…”

Malcom nodded once more and dropped her hands, continuing his pacing back and forth. “There must be another healer,” he said. “Surely there is.”

“I would not trust the village healers, my laird,” said Luther. “They would be useless compared to Gavin.”

Malcom paused in his pacing as his eyes met those of a young servant girl. Her brown hair was braided and bound to one side and she quickly dropped her brown gaze as soon as she met Malcom’s. She stepped forth, balancing a tray carrying a bowl and a pitcher in her hands while she grimaced at the stone floor.

“Forgive me, my laird, I did not mean to pry,” she said while lowering her head. “I heard the wee child was ill and wanted to offer him some stew and water.”

Dalilah stepped quickly, taking the tray from the servant’s arms. “That is very kind of ye,” she said. “Thank ye.”

The servant girl shuffled from foot to foot, her fingers picking at each other while she stood before Malcom.

“Is that all?” asked Malcom, wondering what more the servant girl could possibly want and if she would be spreading more gossip around the castle.

“Nae, my laird,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice. “I mean…well…” she grimaced and Malcom had to keep himself from demanding she speak.

“Well, what is it, lass?” asked Luther, crossing his arms and staring at the girl as if she were a bug he would like to crunch under his boot.

“Well, I may know of a healer,” she said, glancing up shyly. “She has healed many before. She’s even helped my grandmother when she caught a cold. She hails from the village in the East.”

“Why, that isnae more than a couple hours ride,” said Dalilah, her lips twitching upwards into a wide smile. “A rider could be there and back by nightfall.”

Luther stepped towards the servant, his gaze darkening. The girl hunched her shoulders, stepping away from him and nearly hitting the wall. “What is this healer’s name, lass?” he asked, his voice low and menacing.

“Her name is Fiona Duncan,” the servant said quickly, her shoulders trembling as Luther towered over her.

“Fiona Duncan?” Luther repeated while turning on his heel, setting wide horrified eyes on Malcom. “My laird, I have heard that name before. She is naething more than a witch.”

“A witch?” Dalilah breathed.

“I know she’s killed before,” said Luther. “I heard it mysel from the village leader, Tavish. I beg ye, my laird, don’t call for her. She will surely do more harm than good.”

Malcom pushed Luther aside and approached the servant girl, who still quivered, her gaze lingering on Luther as if he would pounce.

“It’s alright,” he said, offering a hand to the girl. “Don’t be frightened, lass.”

The girl’s gaze turned to Malcom’s and her shoulders stilled as she gazed into his kind blue eyes. “What he says is true, my laird,” she said. “She is a witch, but she may be able to help the lad. She did not kill my grandmother.”

Malcom nodded and the girl released his hand, quickly turning around and walking briskly down the hall and towards the staircase.

“Ye’re not actually considering this?” Luther asked while following Malcom as he paced. “She will kill us all if ye invite her here.”

Malcom stroked his chin. “It’s the only way,” he said. “Gavin is too far away. He won’t be back in several days. Finnegan could be dead by then.”

Luther scoffed. “It’s just a chill.”

“Nae,” said Dalilah, “it’s more than that. Please, Brother. Send for her and I will keep my eyes fixed to her.” Malcom leveled his gaze to his sister, watching her straighten her spine and jut out her chin, reminding him of what their mother did to their father when she insisted on having her way. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

“And what do ye plan to do when she starts whispering her incantations?” asked Luther, throwing his hands into the air. “Grab her? Throw her out the window?”

“I will tell my brother,” she said. “I will tell ye.” Her hands slid against Luther’s and she pulled him to her, gazing up at him with sweet adoration. “Please, if ye care for me at all, ye will let my brother send for her.”

Luther sighed before offering a small smile. He stroked a lock of hair away from her face before turning towards Malcom. “Shall I send a rider for the witch?” he asked while cocking his head to the side.

Malcom stroked his chin. Luther was right in that he could be bringing misfortune to his family, inviting a witch to save his son, but he knew he couldn’t let his son just lie there and die. He would not be able to cope with the loss of his son. Aileen had suffered and fought to bring him into this world. Malcom needed to suffer and fight to ensure he remained in it.

He lifted his head and met Luther’s gaze before giving him a curt nod. “Yes. Send for the witch.”

Chapter II

“What happened?” Fiona asked numbly while looking through her jars filled with herbs.

Just moments ago, Ewan and Caelan had thrown open her door with Graeme in their arms, who was bleeding from his stomach. The boy wasn’t more than sixteen summers and his tortured moans stifled the room as Fiona searched for the mushroom she had recently turned into a powder.

“I-I don’t know,” said Ewan while wiping the grime from his face with his cap. “All I heard was his yelling and Caelan and I came running.”

Fiona stepped onto her tiptoes, finding the powdered mushroom behind the root jar. She frowned at the dwindling amount before returning to Graeme, making a note in the back of her head that she would need to go gathering herbs later on in the day. She leaned over Graeme, pushing away the bloodied tunic to have a closer look at his wound before dipping the cloth in whiskey, and dabbing the puckered skin.

“Get her away from me,” Graeme cried out, jerking away from Fiona as his fingers gripped the mattress.

Fiona shook her head, glancing over her shoulder at Ewan and Caelan towering over her. “Can ye please hold him down for me? I cannot clean the wound if he continues bucking like a bull.”

Ewan immediately stepped forward but was stopped by Caelan’s hand on his shoulder. “Are ye sure about this, Ewan?” he whispered, glancing back and forth between Fiona and Caelan. “Ye have heard the stories. And the boy doesn’t want her touching him. She could be sucking the life from him as we speak.”

Ewan rolled his eyes, jerking his shoulder away from Caelan before stalking forward and pushing Graeme’s shoulders down to the mattress. He nodded at Fiona as he put his weight against his body. “Ye save him, ye hear me?”

Fiona nodded and returned to cleaning the wound. She wiped the blood, trying to be as gentle as possible as she cleaned the grime from Graeme’s skin. Caelan sighed, coming forth to hold down Graeme’s boots, which kicked out at every swipe of cloth against his skin. Tears dripped down Graeme’s face as he gazed up at the ceiling, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

“There, there,” Ewan whispered against Graeme’s hair. “Ye will be alright. Soon we’ll be drinking ales and ye will be talking to that lassie ye like.”

Graeme’s cries lessened as she continued to clean and Ewan carefully moved his hands from him, stalking towards the table and dumping his body into the chair behind her. Caelan removed his hands from the boy’s boots, yet she felt him still at her side, watching her, waiting for her to sing her enchantments to seduce the boy, or poison him with her herbs.

Fiona ignored him. She focused on her work, reminding herself she was not a witch, she was a good person. But it was common these days, that villagers would come seeking help, and then question her actions, worry if she would slip them something and they would become the next offering to the Devil.

Like Isabel.

Fiona blinked back unshed tears as the little girl’s name came to mind. She rested the cloth against the bucket and turned around searching for her jar of mushroom powder.

“I’ll need to stitch him,” she said while dabbing the powder onto Graeme’s skin.

Ewan shifted in his chair. “Will he live?” he asked while stroking his ginger beard, eyeing both Fiona and Graeme, now lying very still in the cot.

Fiona smiled, giving him a soft nod. Ewan sighed in relief, his head lolling back as he praised the Lord above. “But he will need to keep the wound clean,” she added while grabbing a needle near the cot and dipping it in whiskey. “Nae work for at least five days. And there could be fever.”

“Fever?” she heard Caelan’s appalled voice over the top of her head as she felt him slowly rise at her side. She could feel his scowl digging a hole in the back of her head.

Graeme flinched as she poked the needle and thread through his skin, working deftly and as gently as possible. “I will give ye a tea for the fever,” she said. “It shouldn’t last more than a few days.”

“Thank ye,” said Ewan.

Graeme whimpered, now watching Fiona’s needlework with a pinched expression.

“And if it lasts longer?” asked Caelan.

Fiona turned to him, seeing the hate in his eyes as he watched her. “If he worsens, please come to me,” she said, turning back to Ewan. “But I assure ye, rest and the herbs will help with his recovery.”

Caelan scoffed.

Ewan scowled at his friend yet said nothing more as he helped Graeme stand. The boy whimpered, his legs wobbling as Caelan threw his other arm over his shoulder.

A knock thudded at the door as Fiona reached for the herbs in her jar. “Come in,” she called while smashing the leaves into a fine powder before setting them into a small pouch.

When she lifted her gaze, her heart plummeted, finding Tavish standing in the doorway with a tall lean man, cloaked in a blue and green plaid pinned to his shoulder. She did not recognize the man, however, she knew Tavish wouldn’t bring just anyone to her door. She handed the pouch to Ewan as she eyed the stranger up and down, taking note of the urgency in his gaze. Fiona barely took notice of the three men stumbling out her door as Tavish approached, taking a seat at her table and leaning back in the chair, watching her with shrewd eyes.

“This is Fiona Duncan,” said Tavish as he gestured towards her. “Our village’s… healer,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

Fiona dipped into a polite curtsy, yet Tavish’s choice in words was not lost on her. She knew what he truly thought of her, how he watched her shrewdly when she would leave the village to gather herbs. She knew he had spies watching her, for the safety of the people he once told her when she questioned him about it.

She knew he didn’t think of her as a healer. She knew he believed she offered Isabel to the Devil.

Fiona kept her gaze on the dirty floor as she curtsied, wishing she was a witch and could shrink herself into a small field mouse so she could run away. Or a witch so she could cast a spell to tidy her small home, feeling meek and small in front of this man who bore the laird’s pin in his plaid. As she slowly stood, placing her hands neatly in front of her, she glanced at the jars decorating her table, wishing she had at least tidied them this morning, however the influx of patients had kept her too busy.

“Fiona, the laird has summoned ye to Castle Lennoch,” said Tavish.

Fiona’s brows pinched together in confusion as she lifted her gaze, meeting Tavish’s amused grin. Why would the laird call on her? She wondered as she resumed her scrutiny of the messenger before her. Looking between Tavish and the man, she feared her worries were finally coming true. She was going to be hanged or burned. The people finally had enough of her, no matter how helpful she had tried to be; no matter how much she worked to keep her neighbors healthy and her head down.

They were coming to take her away.

“The laird’s son is ill,” said the messenger, stepping forward before kneeling in front of her.

“Ill?” Fiona breathed, unable to keep the shock from her tone. She looked up at Tavish, yet his expression was unreadable. “Surely, it’s not so bad. Why would the laird call upon me?”

“The laird’s healer is in the western villages,” said the messenger, shaking his head. “The boy will surely die before he returns.”

“But, haven’t ye tried…”

“The laird and his sister have tried everything,” the messenger said, staring up at her as if he were a beggar prostrating himself for food. “Please, ye must come with me. Ye are his only hope.”

“Me?” Fiona nearly shouted, pointing to herself as if she didn’t understand the word.

The messenger nodded, his eyes prickling with worry and hope. Fiona shook her head, turning around and grabbing a cloth, trying to busy herself with something.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot,” she said quickly while wringing the rag in her hands.

Help the laird’s son? How could she? Especially after the last time she helped a child. Nae. She could not fathom it. If the boy were to die, not only would the laird have her head but all of the village. She would never be able to return to this home again. Even if she were to escape, the people would surely burn her cottage down and all her mother and father’s handiwork in building this beautiful place would become nothing more than ash. All the memories she had of them would go up into flames.

“Please,” the messenger begged. “The boy is but five summers.”

Fiona closed her eyes as she took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. Five summers, she thought. Nearly the same age as Isabel when she died. Fiona sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with the cloth as she remembered the small girl lying limply in Iain’s arms. She remembered the snow dotting the sky, trickling down to rest on the dead child’s face.

The screams and cries demanding they burn her.

Fiona bit back a sob as she imagined the laird’s son, lying still in bed. A son so young, suffering and yet not receiving any aid. She imagined his small pale face, sweat dripping down from his head, his gasps as he fought and struggled to breathe.

And he would die due to her selfishness; due to her need for self-preservation.

Fiona ground her teeth, knowing what she wanted to do, but she needed to stand her ground. She needed to say no. One more youth lost in her hands and she would be burned.

“Tavish, please,” she whispered, keeping her back to both men. Her shoulders slumped forward, trembling as she tried to keep herself contained, knowing she would shatter if they continued to press her. “Ye know why I cannot answer this summons.”

“Will ye give us a moment,” she heard Tavish say from behind, heard the footsteps and the door creaking closed and clicking shut.

Fiona shivered as the chair scuffed against the floor behind her followed by Tavish’s steps towards her. She bit back a sob as he grabbed her shoulder, jerking her around to face him. Her eyes prickled with unshed tears as she gazed into his dark eyes framed with greying brown hair.

“The laird has summoned ye,” Tavish said. “Do ye understand me lassie?”

Fiona sniffed and nodded.

“And when the laird summons ye, it isnae yer choice. Ye go.”

Fiona shoved her shoulder from his grip. She scowled up at him, jutting out her chin as she held his gaze. “Healer today. Witch tomorrow. Which is it Tavish?” She smiled bitterly. “Or does it depend on how ye feel when ye rise in the morning?”

Tavish shook his head, chuckling as he stepped away from her. “If ye don’t go girl, what do ye think the villagers will think?”

Fiona scoffed. “If I go and the child dies, what will they think then?”

Tavish slid his hands into his jacket pockets, eyeing her up and down before turning to the door. “It is yer choice whether or not ye choose to go.” He stopped, his hand on the door handle, glancing over his shoulder he smirked and said, “But are ye a healer lassie, or are ye not? Surely, a healer would feel some sort of pain knowing the boy should die if ye choose not to go.”

Fiona inhaled deeply as she watched Tavish leave, closing the door swiftly behind him. She felt numb, as if a strong wind had blown straight through her and rattled her bones. Her hands shook as she stared at the door, at the place the messenger and Tavish stood not long ago. It wasn’t that long ago Mrs. Baran was watching her with narrowed eyes while taking a pouch with trembling hands.  It wasn’t that long ago when Caelan was scowling at her, questioning Ewan’s choice to bring Graeme to her.

Fiona recalled Ewan’s wife going into labor weeks prior and how she demanded for a midwife the next village over. She remembered the woman’s screams and shrieks of terror and pain as they waited for the midwife to arrive. She remembered going to their home in the rain, asking if they needed any aid; the fear in Ewan’s eyes and the answer on the tip of his tongue. She knew he would have permitted her entrance if not for her past; if not for his wife pleading to keep the witch from devouring the babe in her womb.

“Not from ye,” she remembered Ewan saying before he slammed the door in her face.

In the villagers’ eyes she was nothing more than a witch, the Devil’s loyal servant.

But in Fiona’s she was a healer.

A healer didn’t turn away when they were summoned. They helped; they went where they were called. Fiona’s feet moved of their own will, gathering a large brown satchel and gathering her jars of herbs, her needles and clothes, her mother’s book. She didn’t know why she was doing this when she knew it would change nothing.

Even if she did save the laird’s son, it would not change the way the villagers looked at her nor their opinion of her.

She would always be a witch in their eyes.

But would she allow them the satisfaction, knowing they had finally broken her. Would she allow this child to die, simply because the people gossiped and whispered? Would she not at least try to save the child?

Fiona knew her answer, she knew what it should’ve been right from the beginning.

Pushing her fear to the side, Fiona turned around, grabbing her cloak and satchel and striding towards the door. She threw it open, finding the messenger on his horse in the middle of the square. Tavish stood below him, talking to the man as if he were saying farewell.

Fiona ignored the villagers as she strode towards the messenger with her head held high and her shoulders back. She met Tavish’s shrewd gaze and smirk in the distance and refused to turn around. Women held back their children as they ran around one another. Young mothers held their babes to their breast, turning away and offering a prayer to the Lord above.

Fiona stopped below the messenger, meeting his wide gaze. “Alright,” she said, handing him her bag. “I’m ready.”

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