Author: Kenna Kendrick

Chapter I

Scottish Border 1545

Isla Armstrong was looking across the borders from her chambers at the top of the castle at Kirklinton, where she had lived since that fateful day all those years ago when her parents had been so cruelly cut down. It was a wild day; the rain having battered the borderlands these past three days, storm clouds sitting thick and foreboding above.

Across the valley, the trees were swaying in the wind, and she could see the waterfall of the Beck, which cascaded into Lochrutton some miles across the marshes. It was a wild and lonely scene, and she shivered a little, turning back into the room and warming herself by the fire, which burned merrily in the grate — a contrast to the blackening skies outside.

She had been looking for her father, who had ridden to one of the outlying crofts, where trouble had recently been reported. Isla was used to that word; it was one she often heard, the trouble with the English, the trouble with other clans. Trouble meant danger, and her life had been fraught with danger since its beginning.

There was no sign of her father for the rest of the day, but he returned after nightfall, demanding food and a place by the fire. Isla sat in the hall of the castle, a large room with a heavy door and wide hearth, where many a tale had been told, victories celebrated, and defeats commiserated. It was there that she was often told to stay, while trouble brewed outside, or her father rode off to deal with yet another incursion or threat. Such was their way of life, and, as Alistair Elliott entered the room, he had a grave expression on his face.

“Were ye successful, father?” Isla asked, as Alistair slumped before the fire, fondling the heads of the two dogs, who had run to him as he entered the room.

“Successful?” he replied, shaking his head, “too late more like. Those English fiends did what they always dae: cross the border like cowards and set fire to the croft. Before we can retaliate, they are gone, ‘tis the same every time.”

“Was anyone harmed? Did they make off with anythin’?” Isla replied, shaking her head at the sad tale her father was recounting.

“Aye, they took cattle, but none of the folks were harmed, just left scared and confused. Too long has it been like this, there are times I think we have the upper hand, and others when I fear we shall nae even hold this place, let alone protect our folks,” he said, spitting into the fire.

Isla was silent for a moment; she had grown up listening to tales of English brutality, and she had seen enough violence in her short life to last a lifetime. Her father had done his best to shield her from the worst, determined to see no harm come to her, the memory of her family’s demise all too fresh. But Isla Armstrong was the daughter of lairds, brave and determined, and she had a desire to fight for her clan, and to see her parents avenged. She had often asked to accompany her father on his rides out, but the answer had always been no. She must remain at the castle, safe from the wicked English, who would show no mercy to a Scottish lass on the battlefield.

They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling in the hearth, the dogs lying sleepily before it. Outside, the storm was now blowing up again, raging across the borderlands and causing the wind to whistle around the castle.

“Dae ye think another attack will come soon, father?” Isla eventually asked. Alistair Elliott raised his sad face to her and shook his head.

“Sooner rather than later, lass. The English are regrouping, and that Percy Musgrave will stop at nothin’ until every Scot along the border is cut down, ye mark my words. Especially now that his son is of age,” he replied.

It was with a heavy heart that Isla ate her supper that night, knowing that all around them, danger lurked, waiting to pounce. How she longed to join her father on the battlefield and face the enemy in war. She had heard many tales of bravery and valor and watched from afar as her fellow clansmen sacrificed themselves for her safety. She was determined to have revenge, whether her father allowed her to fight or not, and she knew that soon the time would come when a lass would prove herself just as much a warrior as any lad of the clan.

Chapter II

The blacksmith’s workshop at Lochrutton was home to two brothers, Fraser and Duncan MacGinn. Their parents had died suddenly in the winter of the previous year, succumbing to a fever that had swept the village. Fraser was twenty years old and now found himself an orphan, though as the inheritor of the blacksmith’s workshop, he at least had the means to support himself and his younger brother. Duncan was a bright lad, though he possessed none of the skill with a forge that their father had imparted to his elder son. He spent much of his time with the local priest, harboring dreams of entering the priory at Lanercost and following the religious life

It was a bleak morning, the mist hanging low in the valley and across the loch. Fraser was at his work, hammering tools into shape and making horseshoes for one of the local crofters. He was a simple lad, handsome and straight-talking, though shy, and more at home in the workshop than the company of others. His life thus far had been predictable and uneventful. At times, they would hear tales of far off battles or victories won over the English, but such things were of little concern when there was bread to put on the table.

3

“Ye cannae dae it like that, Duncan,” Fraser said, as he watched his brother trying to hammer out a horseshoe on the anvil.

“What dae ye mean? I am doin’ it just like ye showed me,” his younger brother replied.

“Nae, ye are nae. If ye were doin’ it as I showed ye, then ye wouldnae have got it crooked like that. Come here, let me show ye. Honestly, Duncan, ‘tis quicker if I see to this work myself than have ye helpin’ me,” Fraser said, wiping his hands on his tunic and going over to the anvil, as Duncan stood back.

He hammered the shoe back into shape expertly and placed it, hissing and steaming, into a pail of water at the side. Fraser worked hard, shodding horses and mending broken tools. He sold his wares to local crofters and forged swords and other weapons for the clansmen of the local lairds. The two brothers lived in their parents’ home, a simple cottage attached to the workshop. It was a simple life, and Fraser liked that, despite the hardships he and his brother faced. The two had forged what any outsider might call a happy life.

“Ye see, now ‘tis properly done. Now, make yerself useful and go to Cora Macleod’s for a loaf of bread. She bakes today, and we shall need some supper if we are nae to starve,” Fraser said, handing his brother a few silver pennies.

Duncan nodded, but as he turned to leave, he let out a cry and pointed towards the ridge above the village. There, outlined along its top, was a line of clansmen on horseback. It appeared they were riding out to fight, and Fraser came to join his brother as they watched the soldiers above. The village lay in a dip between two ridges, surrounded by thick woodland, which led down to the shores of the loch. Nestled there, they rarely saw travelers passing by, and the sight of the soldiers was unusual.

“Where dae ye think they go, brother?” Duncan said, peering curiously up at the ridge as the soldiers disappeared.

“I dinnae know, and I dinnae care, so long as they dinnae bother us. Except perhaps with the shoes they will nae doubt kick from the poor animals’ feet as they ride out. Then they may come to be shod,” Fraser replied, returning to his work.

But Duncan remained watching, and as he did so, he once again let out an exclamation, calling Fraser over to his side.

“What now, Duncan, can ye nae see we have work to dae,” Fraser said, laying aside his hammer again, and coming irritably to the door of the workshop.

“Is that a lass up there?” Duncan said, pointing up to the ridge.

Fraser put his hand to his eyes and squinted towards the solitary figure who had now appeared riding slowly along the ridge. Whoever it was had a far shorter stature than those that had just passed by and was riding upon a white horse, but without banner at their side. Fraser shook his head.

“I cannae see, but nae lass would be riding out to raid, or wherever it is those men were going to. It looks almost like a child, very odd indeed,” he said, a puzzled look upon his face.

“It is a lass; I can see her long hair,” Duncan said, turning to his brother.

“Enough now, Duncan, away to Cora Macleod’s, and be sure to get a decent-sized loaf. Otherwise, it shall be baking ye must learn, as well as the work of a blacksmith. Does Father Dunbar teach ye nothin’ but yer prayers?” Fraser replied, watching and smiling as his brother ran off into the village.

Once again, he looked to the ridge; he could just see the solitary figure about to ride into the forests above. Duncan was right; it was a lass, and now, Fraser could make out her long red hair flowing down her back. How strange to see a lass riding out in such a way on the trail of soldiers. Fraser shook his head and returned to his work. These were strange times and make no mistake.

Chapter III

 Isla had grown used to her father’s ways over the years, and it was something of a running joke between them. He would go on a raid or skirmish across the border, and she would ask if she could accompany him. The answer was always the same: no.

The reasons he would give were always the same: it was too dangerous, or the threat was too great. What if something happened to him? Who would look after the good folks of the clan? No, Isla must remain at home, safe and secure in the castle. Though the castle was far from safe, it was a refuge, at least, and a place that Isla had grown weary of over the years.

Three times during her short life, they had come under attack in what was meant to be their home. And not only from Sir Percy Musgrave and his English allies, but also from other clans, hungry for conquest and wealth. On these occasions, she had taken refuge in the hall of the castle, barricaded behind the doors as her father had ridden out to fight. She had watched helplessly as he had charged down the enemy, knowing that at any moment, he could be killed.

How she had longed to follow him into battle and win victory for her clan and for her father. She knew that today would be no different. Her father planned to march out and confront the Musgraves. He and his fellow clansmen had planned a daring raid on their southern neighbors. It was all just tit for tat; neither side ever gained the upper hand, but each enjoyed the chance for the boast and bravado any minor victory might bring.

The Musgraves burned a farm on which Elliott men and women tilled the land, and in revenge, the Elliotts would cross the border and wreak havoc with the Musgrave cattle or lay waste an English farm. That was the order of things, and that was how it always had been, with neither side ever gaining the advantage.

Alistair Elliott was sharpening his sword, the sound of the metal against stone echoing around the hall. Isla was watching her father from beside the fire, and knowing his response, she cleared her throat, causing him to look up, pausing from his work.

“Aye, lass, ye have somethin’ ye wish to say?” he said, running his finger gingerly along the sword’s edge.

“Ye are riding out today, father? Where is it ye are going?” she asked.

“South, past the village of Lochrutton and on toward the Musgrave lands. We shall cross the border and burn the farm belongin’ to the Howard family, allies of Sir Percy and folks who would happily see us all burn in our beds,” her father replied.

“And ye wouldnae allow me to accompany ye, I suppose? If only to watch from a distance?” she said, not meeting her father’s eye as he let out a laugh and shook his head.

“Nae lass, I wouldnae. Ye know the reason why. I have often repeated it to ye: ‘tis too dangerous for ye, and if anythin’ happened to ye, I would never forgive myself. Nae, ye are to stay here, ye understand,” Alistair said, raising up his sword, the edge of which had been sharpened to a fine point.

Isla made no reply, disappointed by her father’s words, though they were precisely the ones she expected. It was always the same, but despite her disappointment in the predictable response, she had determined that today would be different. She had been mulling over it for some time and had determined that the time was right. Today, she would follow her father out to ride, watching from afar.

Isla was tired of being left at home, and despite her father’s warning of danger, she knew she was ready. As the daughter of a laird, a border laird at that, Isla knew well how to handle a sword. She had done so ever since she was a child and knew just how to comport herself in battle. Even though she had never experienced such things firsthand, she could ride, shoot an arrow straight, and defeat even her father’s best men at arms in a sword fight.

Her plan was simple. She would wait until her father and his men had ridden out for the raid and follow on horseback. No one would stop her; she would simply tell anyone who asked that she was riding out for an afternoon on the moorland. No one would question her. After all, she was the Laird’s daughter.

“Ye will be careful, won’t ye, Father?” she said, as Alistair sheathed his sword and made ready to depart.

“Aye, lass, dinnae fash yerself, ‘tis a simple enough task. We shall be home before nightfall, I promise ye,” Alistair said, and nodding to her, he left the hall behind.

Isla waited a moment before crossing to the window and watching as her father made ready to depart below. His faithful dogs were whining for their master, and they came and placed their paws on the sill, barking at the sight of Alistair with the clansmen below.

Ten men were accompanying the Laird that day, and they had all mounted their horses, Alistair, on a black steed named Storm. Isla watched him rally the men, and she could hear their cries echoing from below as they rode away from the castle. Now, she wasted no time. Telling the dogs to sit, she clattered down the stairs from the hall toward the stables.

“If it be a horse ye are wantin’, lass, then the best of them have already gone,” the stable hand said.

“Who has taken Bolt?” she said, annoyed that her father had allowed another to ride the horse that had been hers since it had been a foal.

“One of the clansmen, lass. Yer father told me to saddle the best horses, and that is what I did. If it be a ride ye are seekin’, then ye best take this young un’ here,” the stable hand said, pointing to one of the younger horses, an excitable creature named Thunder.

“Aye, he will dae,” Isla said, patting the horse’s mane and shushing him as he whinnied with excitement.

“And where is it ye be wantin’ to ride to?” the stable hand said, eyeing Isla with suspicion, for he knew of her excitable temperament and disregard for the rules.

“Oh, just over the moor. I hear there are mushrooms growin’ in the woods at Dunbier, and I want to pick some,” she replied, the lie flowing smoothly off her tongue.

The stable hand shook his head and led the horse into the stable yard, Isla following behind. She had collected armor and a helmet before leaving the keep, and these were stowed in a bag by the door to the castle. There was a strong breeze, and the horse neighed once more, as though eager to get going in pursuit of its fellows. Isla picked up the sack of armor and slung herself on the horse. Isla turned the horse towards the track south, and not heeding the stable hand’s gentle reminder that Dunbier was to the north, she set off in pursuit of her father.

Chapter IV

 Isla knew where her father was going. She had walked that track many a time, even though she was forbidden to go further than the village at Lochrutton. Some days she would go as far as the border, being careful not to show herself, watching the English from afar.

They terrified yet fascinated her in equal measures, and she found herself often daring herself to go closer. Once, she had hidden in a thicket, close to where an English archer was conversing with a foot soldier. She was so close that she could hear their conversation as they breathed murderous threats against their northern neighbors

It had terrified her, and as soon as they had gone on their way, she had hurried home. But today was different. Today, Isla had resolved to follow her father to battle and prove to the clan that she was ready to be a leader of men and not just the daughter of the Laird.

She paused some way down the track, clambering down from the horse’s back and taking out the armor and helmet from her bag. The armor was heavy and ill-fitting, but somehow, she managed to get it on, placing the helmet squarely upon her head and climbing back on the horse, which stamped its hoof as if eager to follow its friends.

“Aye, lad, I hear ye,” Isla said, urging the horse on down the track, her armor clinking as she rode.

The track soon rose up from the moorland, passing through scrubby trees and the remnants of what had once been a much larger forest. Isla knew her father had gone that way; the path was freshly churned up with mud, and horses’ hoof prints could clearly be seen, heading onto the ridge above.

Now, she proceeded with more caution, not wishing to be seen by her father and the other clansmen if they had paused to rest above. The path was overhung by trees, the perfect place for an ambush, and despite her bravado, Isla looked around nervously for enemies. She had no desire to fight that day, only to prove to her father that she was more than capable of riding alongside him.

The tree line soon gave way to the ridge above, and Isla was glad that the trees no longer hemmed her in on either side. She looked on the village below, nestled in the glen and surrounded by the forest. It was a strange little community, one she had few dealings with, despite the proximity of Lochrutton to the castle.

The people there kept to themselves, and they had little contact with outsiders. She glanced down and could see little figures below, going this way and that about their business. She wondered if they knew or cared that her father was risking his life at this moment for their protection. It did not matter though; all that mattered was avenging her birth father and seeing Sir Percy Musgrave pay for the crimes he had committed in the past.

On she rode, across the ridge, looking ahead to where she fancied she would see her father and the clansmen paused at the border. Isla reined in the horse, dismounting and stepping behind a rocky outcrop on the ridge to hide herself. It was her father that she could see, flanked by several of his clansmen. They were also hiding next to some trees that Isla knew marked the border between England and Scotland, though one was never sure precisely where that border lay.

It was a wild country, and Isla knew she must keep her wits about her if this first foray after her father was not to end in disaster. She glanced along the track toward the village, but there was no sign of pursuit. Just the whistling of the wind and the ever-darkening skies above. Rain was imminent, and even as she pulled her cloak over the ill-fitting armor, the first drops began to fall.

Her father and his men were making ready to march onward now. Isla steadied her nerves and reminded herself that she was the daughter of a laird, a brave lass who could fight as well as any man. But despite having often walked this path in secret, today felt different. Today, she knew that she would be facing those loyal to Sir Percy Musgrave, Englishmen who had been responsible for her father’s death and for the numerous deaths of those she held dear.

“For them,” she whispered, and as her father and the clansmen disappeared over the hill down toward the English border, she rode after them in trepidation.

***

There was little to distinguish the frontier of England and Scotland from any of the surrounding countryside. Only a thin line of trees, which stretched down from the hill toward an isolated farm below. It was the last friendly house in England or the first hostile house across the border, depending upon your perspective.

The farm was well-fortified, built of stone, with a watchtower jutting above it. It was built in much the same way as the castle at Kirklinton, though to Isla, it was a foreboding place, and she shuddered as she looked down from the hill.

Her father and the other clansmen were nowhere to be seen. Presumably, they had ensured their approach was well-hidden so that they could take the enemy by surprise. The raid was not designed for conquest, only to cause havoc to the English, and Isla knew that her father would strike quickly, causing as much damage as possible before retreating across the border.

She watched from the same vantage point that her father and the clansmen had done just a while ago. The English flag was flying above the farmhouse, and she could see several peasants milling about. She steadied the horse, which had begun to stamp its hoof, stroking its mane and watching for any sign of movement.

Isla was not sure why she had followed her father in this way; perhaps it was a foolish thing to do. Her whole body felt tense, and her mind was racing through everything her father had said. Within her, there was a grim determination to seek out vengeance for the Armstrongs, but today would not be such a day. Sir Percy Musgrave would be safely behind his castle walls and would only discover the raid had taken place later on. She was hardly going to save her father from his sword or perform some great deed of valor as she had always dreamed of.

Instead, she watched for any signs of her father’s charge toward the enemy, waiting for her chance to join them. She would ride over the border as fearlessly as her present disposition allowed. It would be enough for her father to see her, to see that she was brave enough even to defy his strict orders, brave enough to follow him into the heart of enemy territory and, if necessary, defend herself.

Her mind was racing with such thoughts when suddenly there sprung forth a charge of her father’s men from either side of the trees on the hillside below. They had taken shelter just above the farm and now took the peasants by surprise, charging toward the farmhouse, their swords drawn. Isla knew that her time had come, and mounting her horse, she galloped after them across the border.

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!

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

Chapter 1

Hoy Sound,

Off the south coast of Orkney

February 1773

Sunlight skipped across the white-tipped waves. Gulls wheeled, and a bracing wind whipped the salt spray up from where the narrow prow of the Caithness Seal cut through the water like a well-honed blade. Anne Gow leaned out across the churning water, the wind mussing her short black hair the way an affectionate father might do. Not that she had a father, of course. Nor even much affection to speak of. She pushed that thought aside and scanned the view.

Orkney. It was a sweeping, rocky, green prospect; black rocks stretching up from the deep grey water then giving way abruptly to a rolling green land under a vast, ever-changing sky. On a dry day like this, it was beautiful, and the sound of Hoy was good for sailing. On a stormy day, it would have been deadly.

“Sail!” came the shout from high above in the rigging. Anne glanced up at the boy who hung there above the billowing sail. She looked where he was pointing. Sure enough, at the entrance to the bay in which they were approaching, a little single-sailed fishing vessel was turning away from the open water and making its way back into the bay. As she looked over the deck of the ship, she saw that all the crew had seen it too. The village would be warned.

Feelings warred within her; while one part of her seethed with irritation that their planning had come to nought, another part of her felt relief that the little village would not be entirely unprepared for her uncle’s wrath. Then, with a roar, he came, storming through the centre of the crowd of his men. Her paternal uncle, her father’s brother, Neil Gow-Sinclair, with his bristly, patchy black beard sticking out in his fury and his face – horribly twisted by the thick mass of scarring down one side – red with his anger. The stump of his wooden leg thumped on the deck as he moved among his men, yelling orders which his first mate leapt to confirm. Sails up, put on speed, damn the landsmen, they would pay. The usual song.

Then his single, blood-shot eye found Anne.

“You,” he hollered, and there was no question about who he meant, “get back up tae the stern and watch out behind for pursuit. And ready yerself tae fight unless ye desire a whipping! I’ll have no idle hands upon my deck!”

Anne bobbed her head and hurried to obey. There was nothing, she knew, to be gained from disobeying her uncle, and she also knew that even in her case, his threats of physical violence were not idle ones.

The quarter-deck comprised a raised platform at the back of the ship, broad and well-appointed with gun loops, water casks, and a bolted-down table and chairs for the captain and the first mate to sit at in fine weather. There she found a seaman at the wheel of the ship. He gave her a curt nod of acknowledgment but kept his eyes on his task, holding the great wheel steady as the wind billowed into the sails, driving them forward. Anne clambered, monkey-like, up the thin ladder and onto the stern-deck, the highest point on the ship save the rigging. It was a narrow platform with two small quarter-pounder cannons facing back and was heavily reinforced to handle the recoil of the guns. It was also a prime spot to look out over the water behind them and scan for any pursuit. Anne followed her uncle’s orders, gazing out over the water as she took the sword-belt from her small sea-chest and strapped it on.

She was wearing clothes of heavy, dark leather, tight britches, jerkin, and high boots. Standing, she took gloves of leather from her gear chest and pulled them on, and then slipped her leather helmet down over her wild short hair, fixing the strap under her small, strong chin. There was a hide-bound wooden shield leaning against the side of the chest, and she hefted this onto her back then drew her long, light blade, making sure that none of her gear hindered the draw.

Anne Gow hated this, but at the same time, she was fiercely proud of her ability to do it and do it well. She was a fighter, and a damned good one at that, her prowess tempered in the fire of the crowd of hard fighting men who had been her family growing up. Having never known her mother, and with little memory of her father who had disappeared, her uncle was all that was left. What possessed Neil Gow-Sinclair to take her in and care for her she could not guess; it was not the impulse of a tender heart, of that she was sure. A less tender-hearted man would be hard to imagine, but for all that, there was sometimes a look of hard pride in the old sinner’s eyes when he saw her fight. And, of course, he had not always been as cruel and as heartless as today.

There was still no sign of pursuit, but she stuck to her post. Adrenaline thrummed through her, making her heart race, and behind her on the deck of the Caithness Seal men darted back and forth, making preparations for the fight to come, setting the deck in readiness. The rigging was crawling with figures, and as she watched, the three high masts bloomed into sail, strange flowers all opening at once. The captain, her uncle Neil, roared forth an order, and the sails billowed and caught the wind, driving the great ship forward with more speed than anybody would have thought possible.

And then, sudden as a diving gull, they rounded the headland and saw it snuggled small and homely-looking in the green, protecting arms of the small anchorage. A little village. Their prey. Her uncle roared out an animal cry of wicked satisfaction. Anne gritted her teeth and tried to prepare her mind for what must come.

***

“It’s a ship, Katheryn,” cried Thorvald to his sister. Katheryn pushed her long dark hair back from her face and shielded her eyes against the glare as she peered out over the bay. The day was clear, and warm for February, but a haze lay across the sea which made the boats on the water dance and vanish and return like mirages in a desert. Below them, the little village they called home snuggled between the twin arms of the bay. Peat smoke hazed the air above it and drifted back to their noses, a homely scent.

They had hurried back over from the clam beds where they had been that morning to harvest. Their father – they both called him ‘father’, though Thorvald was an orphan – had come around the bay to the clam beds in his little fishing boat and shouted to them to hurry home straight away. Now they stood, rough home-spun clothing flapping in the endless sea-breeze, barefoot, their youthful faces weathered by their long days living on the land by the water. For all that, they were a handsome pair, she, at twenty-one, a little older, and he, approaching the end of his twentieth year, a little taller. Both of them were too old to be running barefoot like children in the Orkney clam beds.

Katheryn nodded slowly and looked down into the village.

“Aye, it’s a ship, but she’s a big one, and I can’t make out the flag. Whatever can such a vessel want at Skylness? They’re coming in hard.”

“There, look there,” she grabbed his arm, and he looked where she pointed.

The woman they called ‘Mother’ stood up a little way behind the village. She had been scanning the land, looking for them. There was something of fear in her stance, leaning forward, peering through the haze up toward them. Now she began to wave, gesturing them to come down. Glancing back over her shoulder chilled Thorvald to the bone. On the water beyond, the big ship was lowering two smaller boats from the side. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked as if the boats were packed with men.

They ran the rest of the way to their mother.

“Oh, God,” she called as they ran towards her, “we do not know who it is, but ye must come down to yer father and the village folk. Yer father is sure that they have come tae plunder, as that has not happened for many a long year.”

Her pale face was streaked where tears ran tracks through the dust of her simple morning’s work. Thorvald tried to hug her, but she shook him off.

“Go, go, and find yer father and tell him ye have not forgotten how to fight! Katheryn, come with me, we will gather with the other women at the house o’ Francis Harcus, as it’s the biggest and the strongest in the village. Come on now.”

Katheryn met her foster brother’s eyes. The child who had picked the clams from their beds to eat was gone, and she saw instead in his dark eyes, the man he would become. She nodded once to him.

“Go, brother,” and without another word, he turned and jogged down through the village.

“Ah,” his father called, “praise God ye have come. Here, ye have a little time. They are still pulling in their boats tae the shore. The tide hinders them. Come!”

Thorvald took in the scene. Fishermen and craftsmen, peat-cutters, mackerel-smokers, the village blacksmith and the village bard. Even his father was a simple fisherman, with the nimble fingers which came from mending nets by the light of a peat fire in the evening, and the strong shoulders and powerful back of a man who rowed and hauled nets for his living. A healthy man, even a strong man, but without the build of a swordsman. And yet, for all that the men of his village seemed to Thorvald to be the least warlike imaginable, here they were, armed and armoured, grim faces turned toward the sea, their fists clenched around the shafts of long axes and the hilts of swords.

“Come on, lad,” said his father, “get ready. Ye remember what ye were taught, now?”

“Aye, father,” Thorvald added, a little shakily.

“Good lad.” His father gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder, then helped him into chainmail, which sat heavy across the young man’s shoulders, and a helmet of the old Norse style pointed at the crown with a figured nose-guard. Greaves for his shins, gauntlets for his wrists and forearms. He was also given an axe, a big two-hander, the curved blade glinting wickedly in the morning sun.

“No guns?” asked Thorvald. His father turned from where he had been tightening a strap on his own gear.

“No guns,” he confirmed wryly. “No powder, ye see. And few enough men who could shoot them straight even if we had them. No, lad, we will have tae rely on the old way today.”

All around them, the men of the village were forming up. There could not have been more than thirty-five all told, Thorvald thought as he fell into line beside his father. He stared past the nose guard toward the small boats, which were hauling toward the shore, the men they carried shouting with every pull of the oars. He made them fifty, at least, maybe more. And almost certainly more back on the ship. Why? The thought flickered through his mind as his little party took up their positions at the front of their village. Why? There was nothing here worth a raider’s time. Oh, there was dry peat, and smoked fish aplenty, and perhaps some odd valuables gathered out of sentiment by the local inhabitants, but none of that was worth the time of a heavily-armed raiding party, which this seemed to be. Another thought crossed his mind, and he nudged his father.

“Has a messenger ridden to Kirkwall?”

His father did not look at him but spoke low in reply. “Damned bad luck. The only horse in the village took lame the day before yesterday. Francis Harcus could not send anyone to ride the beast on three legs. He has sent his son Harold off in his wee boat toward Stromness, and he will get a horse there. He has sent the blacksmith’s son, young John, overland. On foot.”

There seemed nothing to say to this. Neither Harold Harcus in his boat nor young John on foot would be getting help for the village soon. The men of the village were on their own.

“Seems like they would have been of more use here,” someone commented. “Young John is handy with that hammer o’ his, and Harold Harcus is no fool either.” Despite the tension, there was a general laugh.

As the men of the village prepared for battle, Thorvald thought back, remembering the training which the simple village folk had undergone. Battle-hardened warriors had been sent from Kirkwall, the biggest settlement in Orkney, to train the men of the village in the art of sword, shield, axe and bow. They had drilled the men in simple melee formation and tactics, and put Francis Harcus, the leading man in the village, in charge of the little squad they had created. The women had been trained how to shoot bolts with an arsenal of old Venetian crossbows that had been brought from God-knows-where. Francis Harcus made sure everyone practised at least once a week, and every six weeks or so, the whole community was rousted out, fully equipped, and induced to fight mock battles on the seafront. Perhaps twice a year, men would come again from Kirkwall to inspect the supplies of weaponry, to talk at length with Francis, and sometimes to watch a demonstration of the village’s basic fighting skills.

At the time, none of this had seemed unusual to Thorvald. He had accepted it with equanimity, just as he had always accepted that fact that he was an orphan, Tom and Freida Fisher were the people he knew as parents. Now, as he faced for the first time the prospect of actually using his fighting skills in earnest, a fleeting thought passed through his mind: it was good they had been trained for this, but it was also just a little odd…

On the beach below them, the first of the Caithness Seal’s transport boats reached the sandbar. Men leapt into the churning surf to drag the boats up above the waterline. Sun glittered on the cold metal of their drawn swords as they turned their faces toward the village.

Chapter 2

“Form up!” came the order. Anne was among the raiders, no different from anybody else, her womanhood unidentifiable beneath her leather armour. Slightly smaller than the rest, perhaps somewhat less stocky, but these Caithness pirates and gutter swine from the Americas were not large men. The captain had stayed on board, leaving the command of the raiding party to his first mate, Juarez, a dark-eyed, curly-haired Spaniard who had been sailing with Neil Gow-Sinclair for as long as he could remember. His accent belied his looks, harsh northern Scots through and through, retaining no trace of the warmer climates where his ancestors had grown up.

“Remember,” called the mate, “we are here for the boy. He will be fighting as one of the men, but he will be younger and taller than most. His gear may be finer than the rest of them. They will protect him; watch for the man who they cleave tae. We will take multiple prisoners if we have tae, but let’s just try tae get the boy and get out. I don’t want any mistakes and no burning of homes except what’s necessary for the distraction. March!”

Anne’s heart pounded, and sweat dampened her brow under her leather helm as she moved forward with the others. They were a big group, outnumbering the men who stood awaiting them at the edge of the village by nearly two to one. All around her, the raiders took up their battle cries, but she kept quiet, knowing that her higher-pitched voice would stick out from the rest and draw attention. Instead, she focussed on scanning the defenders, looking for likely candidates for the boy who they had come to capture. There, she thought, in the middle of the group and slightly to the left, there was a figure who stood taller than most, and his gear looked, even at this distance, to be somewhat finer than the rest of the men around him. Juarez let out a shout, and the raiders broke into a run, clanking and rattling in their mismatched armour, ungainly as they closed the distance.

Then they got a shock. From the houses behind the line of defending men, there came a whistling rain of projectiles; around her, men cried out in pain and alarm as the short, stubby crossbow bolts found their marks. Juarez was quick to respond.

“Shields up!” he shouted, and the raiders formed a ragged protective formation while trying to keep up their pace. Anne peered up beneath her shield and saw what she had missed a moment ago – a group of people among the shadows of the low houses. They were unarmoured – the women of the village, she realised – and even as she watched, they raised up crossbows again and loosed a second volley. This time two raiders fell and did not get back up again. Anne felt heavy thuds as two bolts struck her shield and lodged there.

“On, on!” cried Juarez, and the men obeyed. Anne could see the tall youth better now – the sun shone on his high helm, and the figuring on his nose-guard seemed more elaborate than the others. Foolish, that. If you want to hide someone, you should not pick them out by giving them better gear than everyone else. Foolish. He was younger than the rest of them too, for sure. A handsome face, she thought; strong jaw, a long, straight nose, high cheekbones. She hoped they could take him quickly. For a moment, something strange happened. She could have sworn that he met her eyes. It was the most fleeting impression, but there it was. He saw her. Their eyes met. Then the defenders roared and charged down the slope toward the raiders, and the glimpse was gone.

They met with a mighty clash and roar, and almost immediately, Anne was aware of the shock within her party at the sheer ferocity of the defence. Nobody had expected this. The village of Skylness should have been populated with fearful fishermen who would run or drop to their knees begging for mercy at the sight of Neil Gow-Sinclair’s ferocious raiding party. Instead, they met steel with steel, and with volley after volley of crossbow fire. Men tumbled and crumpled in the sand, and the raiders fell back, their first charge repulsed. The defenders roared in fierce victory, and sure enough, Anne saw them gather around the handsome youth with the figured armour. Their leader was a big, brawny man armed with a huge, old-fashioned axe which he wielded single-handed, his round shield in the other. He raised both axe and shield up and roared out an order which she didn’t hear.

Juarez shouted “hold, hold! Remember the target!” and then another volley of crossbow bolts hit them, dropping more men. The raiders reformed around their leader, but the defenders did the same, and they had the advantage of high ground. Anne pushed forward with the rest of her group, flinging her small weight against the back of the man in front as their line braced to bear the brunt of the defenders’ counter-attack. Then, as they met and clashed once again, she squeezed backwards, away from the shoving, shouting press that was the front of the battle. The women with the crossbows were holding their fire, afraid to shoot into the melee. Anne moved to the edge of the group, glanced around, and found her target.

He looked like he was itching to get into the fray but could not. As she had done, he was pushing toward the edge of his group, trying to get to a place where he would have room to swing his axe. One of the men seemed to be shouting to him, trying to get his attention, but he was paying no heed. His eyes were fixed on Juarez, who was trying to keep order. The push of the last charge had run them back down the beach toward the boats – it was not far. As she watched, the handsome youth broke free of his group and ran toward the side of the raiding party. His axe was raised, and the raider he met fell with surprise in his eyes, his sword useless at his side.

The handsome youth roared out his victory and raised his axe to strike again, but Anne hit him a ringing blow on his helmet with the flat of her sword. His axe faltered, as he swayed, trying to turn, but she leapt full upon his back, dropping her shield, her fingers seeking the front of the fancy helmet that had given him away. She found the edge and hauled upward, wrenching it loose as he ineffectually batted her with his fists. Twisting around, he grabbed at her helmet, pulling it free and giving her a solid punch to her jaw. Dropping her sword, she hit him in on the side of the head with his own helmet, using every ounce of adrenaline-fuelled strength she could muster. He went down like a felled tree.

“Prisoner!” she yelled, “Prisoner!” Around her, her compatriots realised that their goal had been achieved. Three men leapt to her aid, and together they dragged the unconscious young man down the beach, his heels leaving a long trail in the wet sand.

“Fall back!” Juarez roared, as the defenders looked on in amazement. “They got him! They got Thorvald!” came the shout. Now was the critical moment. They would try to regain the prisoner. With the others, Anne put her strength into dragging the mail-clad youth over the lip of the boat. Retreating raiders piled in around them, the last few pushing the boat out, and then they were off, the sudden surf catching the fat-bottomed boat and hefting it upward as men fell to at their oars.

On the beach, she saw the last of the raiders fleeing full-tilt toward the other boat. The defenders were giving chase, but the invaders had what they wanted, and they were not going to hang about to argue. As the other boat beat off from the shore and got underway, Anne looked down at the unconscious young man who lay pinned in the bottom of the boat. She was still holding his fancy helmet, but she had lost her own, her shield and sword, too. The left-hand side of his head where she had hit him was swelling, and his left eye was puffy and swollen shut, but his right eye opened. It roved for a moment, then found her and held her in its gaze.

Anne realised that she was smiling.

***

“Grapples!” shouted the crew in warning from the deck of the Caithness Seal.

Ropes with grappling hooks fell splashing into the choppy water, eager hands reaching out from the small transport boats to grab them and hook them into the anchor points at either end.

“Grapples on!” went up the shout and “Haul up!” came the reply. Strong, practised shoulders were set to the winch wheels high above, the ropes snapped tautly, and the little boats began to rise, seawater sluicing from their shallow hulls as the sea gave them up. Thorvald lay on his belly in the bottom of the boat, glowering, as two men pinned his arms and another sat on his legs. The sides of the raiding vessel soared up like the sides of a cliff, dwarfing the smaller boat. The sailors cried aloud a rhythmic sea-song as they hauled the winch wheels in unison.

Thorvald struggled into a sitting position. His guards, two ugly men on each side, helped by hauling him painfully upward with their hands on his wrists and shoulders. Unwilling to show them his fear, he tried a smile through his swollen face.

“Well, lads,” he mumbled, “looks like ye’ve got me fair and square. I just wish I knew what this is all about, and why ye have taken me so!”

“Hah, he’s got pluck, this one!” guffawed one of his guards, a big, red-haired Scot with a face disfigured by old pox-scars.

“Kind of ye tae say so!”  Thorvald replied gallantly, “though it would have been even kinder tae leave me at home. If ye’ve kidnapped me for ransom, I’m sorry tae disappoint ye; I’m just the poor son of a fisherman, and in the whole village there’s barely enough coin tae pay a ransom.”

The transport boat bumped against the side of the Caithness Seal as it creaked up toward the deck, and without really intending to, Thorvald had caught the interest of the rough men with his banter.

“What does the Captain want with him, then?” called one sitting at the end of the boat. “Anne, he’ll whip the hide off ye if it turns out ye’ve taken the wrong man!”

Anne. Thorvald had a strange feeling when he heard the name. Anne? He glanced about and saw her. She was sitting in the boat a little way away, looking at him levelly. She hauled the leather helmet from her head, and the sweat and heat made her short hair stick up crazily around her pale face. She had dark eyes, a small, delicate nose, and red lips cracked with the sea salt in the air and long exposure to the sun. She was breathing deeply and looking straight at him.

What did he see in that gaze? Interest. Excitement. Perhaps a little weariness, sitting in the boat with her back bent and her elbows on her knees, her leather helmet dangling from her long fingers. What on earth, he wondered, was she – a woman clearly a few years younger than him – fighting with this gang of thieves and cutthroats. The surprise and shock must have shown on his face because one of his handlers leaned down and spoke near to his ear.

“Aye, that’s right,” he said. “Ye were captured by a girl!” The men all around him roared with laughter, and a smile flickered around the corners of Anne’s mouth.

Before he could reply, the boat bumped hard against the side as it reached the gunwale, then rocked as the men began leaping in twos and threes onto the deck of the Caithness Seal.  Thorvald watched Anne as she clambered competently from the transport to the deck. She was strong, he saw, lean and well-trained, economical in her movements, but still feminine despite her evident toughness. Strong, he thought again, wincing at the memory of the stinging blow she had dealt him with his own helmet. Where was the helmet now? Did she still have it?

She preoccupied his thoughts as his guards manhandled him onto the ship.

“Easy, lads,” he cried jovially, though his tone belied the tension he felt. He caught a flash of pale sunlight on metal. She did still have his helmet. He saw her slip it into a hessian sack as she disappeared toward the back of the ship. Anne, he thought. Her name is Anne. My captor.

“There’s the scum!” came a loud voice, harsh as a crow. Thorvald had to work hard not to recoil as he saw the sneering anticipation on the disfigured face of the man who clumped across the deck toward him. The man was ugly beyond the scarring on his face. He was ugly in a more profound way than just the physical. An ugly soul thought Thorvald.

“That him, Captain?” said one of the men holding Thorvald.

“Aye, that’s him alright,” sneered the captain. “Just as described. He give ye any trouble?”

“No, sir.”

“Ahh, I thought not. Just as well for him. Looks like a weak, whimpering boy to me.”

Thorvald drew himself up to his full height, and Neil’s face darkened, realising he would have to look up into his prisoner’s face. He drew back his knotty fist as if to hit Thorvald in his midsection, then registered the chainmail and changed his mind. Taking a step back, he surveyed the young man. All around them, men were moving about, sailors hauling the transport boats back over the side, and soldiers clapping each other on the back, pulling off gear and moving aft toward their quarters, where they could be out of the way of the crew on duty.

Neil spat on the deck at Thorvald’s feet, then gave one of the men holding him the smallest nod. The man kicked Thorvald’s legs out from under him, driving him to his knees, and Neil looked down on him with cold satisfaction.

“Strip the mail from him but leave him his clothes and boots for now. Lash him tae the mainmast. I want him where we can see him. Juarez, set sail for home and then come with me tae the quarter-deck tae report.”

He turned on his heel and stalked away, muttering.

Neil’s orders were ruthlessly carried out; his chainmail and an undercoat of good leather were removed, and he was lashed to the main mast with a great coil of rope, his hands bound separately at his sides, and even his ankles immobilised. As Neil had ordered, Thorvald’s elegant boots were left upon his feet – for now. Not knowing what else to do, the lad tried to keep up a merry stream of banter with his captors, but the sight of Anne watching quietly from the bow of the ship unsettled him. He could not read her eyes.

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!

Chapter 1

Early August 1751, London

Marianne Browne clapped excitedly. An opened letter lay before her on her oak writing desk, and her friend Amelia’s familiar scrawl was facing upwards. Marianne sat back, sighing, a grin on her face. “The baby will be here soon!” Marianne moved a few auburn curls from her face that had fallen loose. She looked out of the window of the drawing-room, spying the busy streets of London full with workers going about their daily activities: vendors displaying their wares and maids scurrying by with baskets as they weaved between oncoming carriages.

She sat thoughtfully for a moment, her elbow on the desk and her chin in her hand, daydreaming. Her friend Amelia lived in a beautiful, entrancing Scottish castle in the Highlands of Scotland, far away from…here. Marianne frowned and was annoyingly wrested from her beautiful daydream. “Oh, why did I come back?” she grumbled into the air of the empty drawing-room as she slumped back in her desk chair. A gray and white cat meowed at her side, begging to sit on her lap. It placed its white paws on her chair, and Marianne looked down and smiled. The cat jumped into her lap, and Marianne wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, D’Artagnan. That’s right. I came back because of father, and…that kiss.”

D’Artagnan turned around once and then snuggled into her lap, blissfully unaware of his owner’s distress. Marianne’s face turned serious as she began to remember what had happened back in the cottage in Scotland, far away from her father’s watchful eye, and far away from any sense. She didn’t think she could ever forgive herself for her one moment of weakness. It would rage against her mind for eternity, she thought. She sighed again, this time in frustration, and D’Artagnan jumped off her lap and onto the floor when Marianne’s sister, Ruth, entered the room.

Ruth was the near copy of her older sister, with the same long auburn curls twirled up into a bun, but Marianne’s green eyes had come from her mother, Katherine, while Ruth had received her father’s brown ones. But, while Ruth’s skin was flawless, Marianne had a spattering of freckles across her nose.

Ruth was the wild one, while Marianne had been blessed with a rigid sense of morality and decorum, except for that one wild moment in the Scottish Highlands. Ruth had entered with loose curls falling from her coiffure and a slight tear in her riding dress. “Marianne!” Ruth yelled as she entered the room and flopped onto a couch. “The weather is absolutely blissful this morning. You should have come to ride with me!”

Marianne made her expression serious, but her eyes laughed. “’Tis indelicate, dear sister, for a woman to ride, and for her to ride in such a state. Look at your torn dress.” She motioned to the small tear at her sister’s neckline.

Ruth rolled her eyes, “Oh, sister, do you never tire of such rigid ideas? Where is this William Fraser I’ve heard you grumble about for too long? He seemed to ruffle your feathers sure enough. I could use his help to convince you to relax.”

Marianne winced slightly at the mention of William’s name. She had told her sister about her time in Scotland, even about her time with William, a young and handsome Scotsman, a friend of Amelia’s husband, Jamie Kinnaird, Laird of the Kinnaird clan. But she hadn’t told her everything and knew Ruth would love the detail and would hold it over her head forever.

Ruth placed her hand across her forehead and leaned back on the couch with a flourish of drama. “Oh, William Fraser! Please do come and rescue me from my rigid and unrelenting sister. I shall die from an overindulgence of Bible verses and prayers!” Marianne couldn’t help but chuckle and knew William would have loved to guffaw at such a theatrical display.

Marianne stood and walked over to her reclining sister and helped her sister stand. Ruth laughing as Marianne wrapped her arms around her sister. “My dear, where would we be without the Bible? Why Father would have nothing to say to us if not for that.”

Both girls burst into laughter, letting go of their embrace. After a few moments, Marianne’s smile faltered slightly. “Ruth,” she began, turning her green eyes on her sister, “I have just received another letter from Amelia. She is now seven months pregnant.”

Ruth’s smile widened. “Why, that’s wonderful news! The Scottish princess must be blissfully happy!”

Marianne smiled at the nickname her sister had given Amelia. “Yes, she is very excited, and everyone is happy to help prepare for the baby. But…but she has requested that I return to her if I have time. She has been feeling too fatigued lately and would love a little company.”

She watched as her younger sister’s fierce and wild countenance crumbled slightly at the statement. Ruth sat down on the couch, and Marianne sat down next to her.

Ruth’s voice was quieter now. “How long would you be gone?”

The girl’s last sojourn to Scotland had wounded her sister, not for any jealousy, but because Ruth did not want to be left alone as the sole target of their father’s fury and biblical principles. It had not been easy since their mother had died four years prior.

Marianne placed a hand upon her sister’s. She worried that her desire to see Amelia was for purely selfish reasons. “It will only be until the baby is born.”

“But that is two months away. Two long months alone…with him. You know he won’t let me see anyone unless it is at a sanctioned gathering.” Ruth’s eyes welled up. Her beautiful and powerful sister could still be broken by her father.

Marianne had an idea. “Why don’t I ask if you can come with me? Now that Amelia has returned to favor as a “Scottish Princess”, father has no objections to our seeing her.”

Ruth’s brows furrowed, “But you know he’ll never let us both go. He can’t bear the thought of having no one to scold.”

Setting her mouth in a firm line, Marianne was resolved. “Well, there is no harm in trying. I know Amelia wouldn’t mind. Let me ask him and see what he says. Perhaps he is feeling generous this morning.”

Ruth seemed comforted by the prospect and wiped a tear from her cheek. Marianne smiled and stood once again, smoothing her green gown in preparation for the conversation with her father. He was diligent about reminding them that one of their duties as women was to always be dressed impeccably. “A disorganized image speaks of a disorganized and muddled heart.” His words rang in her ears…always.

***

It had taken Marianne a few hours to formulate the words to ask her father if she and her sister could visit Amelia and her family in Scotland. They had spent the afternoon meal in silence. Ruth had looked to Marianne with wide eyes, prodding her sister to ask him as he bent over his plate, not once looking upon his two beautiful daughters at the end of the long table.

It had not been the time to ask him. He would have grumbled that his mealtime was being taken up with such nonsense and frivolous chatter. He would much prefer to be approached later, on a full stomach with a cup of tea in hand. That would make him docile enough. So, here she was, pacing outside his study, nearly wearing a hole in the carpet beneath her slippers as her gown rustled back and forth as she walked. She was thinking, worrying, hoping all at once. Clasping and unclasping her hands, she twirled a curl absentmindedly, gripping her bottom lip in her teeth.

He would see sense, surely! He would not want to prevent me from going to my friend. And why should he stop Ruth from accompanying me? There was nothing happening in London of interest, no balls, no suitors, no lessons to miss in the two months.

The young girl was brought back from her thoughts by the sound of a desk chair moving from inside her father’s study. She took a few deep breaths, moved her lips over the lines she had prepared, and then knocked softly on the door. A grumbling voice called harshly from within. “Come in.”

Marianne swung the door open to find her father standing at one of his many heavy-laden shelves, his back to her. His stark white hair was made even whiter next to his black coat, which he wore every day. His pants were also black and led down to a pair of black boots. He turned slightly, and his white and gray beard matched the gray bushy eyebrows that hovered over his brown eyes as he squinted through grey eyelashes. He had not turned to acknowledge his daughter’s arrival.

Walking forward with trepidation, Marianne folded her hands in front of her. Her father loved a subservient woman. She had played this role on many occasions.

“Father…” she began slowly.

A “Hmph” was given in reply, and still, without looking at her, Lord Browne brought the volume to his desk and sat down. Marianne paused and looked around at the study. It had been a forbidden place for her and her sister growing up. It always loomed in her mind as a dark and scary place, but now, as an older woman, she found it quite cozy, with its dark wooden shelves, tables of open books, a dark wood desk, a comfy armchair, and a fireplace, which was not lit. It would have been a dream escape for readers like Marianne and Amelia, except for the grumpy old man who sat at its center and swamped the room with his ill-temper.

“Father,” Marianne repeated. This time Lord Browne looked up. “What is it, Marianne? I am busy at the moment. A man should never be disturbed in his study, the sacred heart of his home. Men have important work to complete.” Marianne glanced at the book he had been reading. It was a book about famous painters. She almost wanted to smirk. So, her father was not completing an “important” task for the House of Lords. He was simply reading. He had never said as much, but she knew her father enjoyed studying and looking at paintings, and she wondered idly if he had ever attempted to paint himself. It would have most likely been too sinful an indulgence in his mind, for many painters were heathens and reprobates.

“Well, Father, I would like to inform you that Amelia is now 7 months pregnant, so her baby will be coming soon.” Marianne paused, taking her time.

Lord Browne nodded. “Ah, yes, well she was is a lucky woman, your friend. She was saved by a man’s money, though why he wanted to pick up the scraps is beyond me.” Marianne could feel herself beginning to get angry, but tried to stamp down the fire that was growing within her. Getting mad at her father never worked. He treated a woman’s anger like the tantrums of a young child and would pay no heed. He would simply push her out of his study and be done with it. She wished she could scream into his face that Amelia had actually been able to pay Jamie’s contribution back with the money she earned from her writing, but her father would either feign disinterest or disbelief.

“Yes, well,” Marianne’s voice was surprisingly calm, masking the rage that filled her. “Father, Amelia has requested that I join her to assist with preparations for the new baby if at all possible. She is not feeling well of late and would like the company. Since I have made the journey before, and you know the family are well-connected, the mother of the laird is the daughter of an English viscount, I thought you might be inclined to allow me to visit again.”

Lord Browne hmphed again. She waited impatiently for his reply, hoping it wouldn’t be one that would make her want to kick and scream.

“You are an old maid, my daughter, at the ripe old age of 27. You might want to turn your mind to marriage prospects and babies of your own, rather than frittering your good years away in the god-forsaken land of the Scots, depraved, beastly men that they are.” He set his chin in defiance, and Marianne knew what was about to come.

“From the book of Proverbs, Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.” Lord Browne shook a finger at his daughter, whose face had turned pink, hinting at the anger that was inside of her. “You should be wise, my dear and do what a woman is meant to do.”

Marianne balled her hands into fists until her knuckles turned white, but she was well practiced at hiding her feelings from her father. “It will only be two months, Father. I can resume my search for a husband when I return.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the sarcasm that was dripping from her words, or else he definitely would not let her go.

He leaned back in his chair, savoring any moment to flex his power over his daughters. He folded his hands across his ample belly and scrutinized his daughter. The pause seemed interminable.

“If you will promise to return as soon as the baby is born, then I will agree to let you go.”

Marianne’s heart soared, but then it sank once again. As soon as the baby is born? That’s too soon! She knew she mustn’t argue, or else she would lose even this. Now was the time to mention Ruth.

“Oh, thank you, Father! Yes, yes, of course I shall return promptly. I will keep you informed as to the baby’s arrival.” Lord Browne nodded wordlessly and started to return to his book, as she cleared her throat, knowing this was her only chance.

“Oh, Father?” He paused and looked up once again. “May Ruth accompany me? She has naught to do here at home and will miss me greatly when I leave. Would it be too much trouble to ask if she may come along?”

As soon as the question exited her mouth, she knew she had pushed too far.

His response came as a low grumble of a storm far in the distance. It threatened to come closer. Her father’s mouth was set into a firm line, and his cheeks flushed pink slightly. She knew he was displeased.

He burst forth, “Two women out alone, away from their family to do Lord knows what? Two women? Are you not satisfied with permission to go yourself, Marianne, that you must push me to the edge of reason and request the company of your sister as well?”

He stayed seated, but his voice had risen to fill the small room. The image of a laughing William came to her mind, and she thought how nice it must be to be in a man’s presence who was constantly merry. Too bad she detested his impertinence, cocky demeanor, and lack of religion and gentlemanly manners. And yet, his ability to laugh was something she found endearing, albeit sometimes annoying when it was at her expense.

Marianne held her breath until her father’s tirade was over, hoping that he would still let her go to Amelia. “ ‘Tis bad enough you are asking to go, shunning your duties as a future wife and mother; but to drag along your sister, who is too young and impressionable to be away from her father, is outrageous! Your sister is far too wild in her manners to know the difference between good behavior and bad. She must stay close to me, or she will bring this family into scandal! You, at least, can be expected to act with decorum and morality.”

He waved his hand towards her as if he was begrudgingly sending a half compliment. Once he had finished his bitter rebuke and was leaning again into his seat, Marianne paused, picking over her words carefully to smooth over the delicate situation.

She nodded in faux agreement. “I understand, Father. You are correct. Perhaps it was too much of me to ask for both of us to go when you have been so generous as to allow me to go. I will take my lady’s maid to give you some comfort while I am gone.”

Lord Browne sighed, adding gruffly, “Yes, yes. All in order. You may take the other carriage as well, but the Kinnairds will have to house the coachman and horses themselves, you know. There will no extra expense made on my part for this inconvenience.”

Marianne smiled. “Thank you, Father. I shall write to Amelia directly, and I will leave within the next few days.”

Lord Browne waved her off and returned to his book, as Marianne walked out of the study and shut the door behind her. The silence surrounded her in the hallway, and she took a few deep breaths, calming herself after such an ordeal. In her mind she kept repeating, He said yes. He said yes. Hurry to leave before he changes his mind! But, her heart fell at the prospect of having to tell Ruth her father’s decision. How could she make it up to her sister? She needed to go to Amelia; she must go! For this could be her last chance for a small taste of freedom before her father forced her into marriage. But she was still sorry for her younger sister who would have to endure their father’s rages and reprimands all on her own.

Brushing her hair out of her face, she walked determinedly to Ruth’s room, rehearsing the words she would say to her sister.

Chapter 2

William Fraser sat in front of the fireplace at his homestead, only a few miles south of Kinnaird Castle, his tall, strong frame too large for the armchair. It had been a cold day out at work with Laird Jamie, helping to secure new sheep for the flock, as well as assisting with the care and maintenance of the current flock. The Kinnaird clan, despite England’s takeover of Scotland and the destruction of Scottish life, was still going strong, financially powerful and successful. They needed to give a portion of their wealth to the crown, but a few months ago, Jamie had helped create a system that allowed all of the remaining clan members to stay on their land as farmers, instead of taking up all the free land for sheep farming to serve his own and the crown’s needs.

While other clansmen and workers had been forced to flee Scotland or flee to the coastal areas to work in industry, William was proud of his friend’s efforts to try and retain their old way of life and protect those on his land, despite the Highland Clearances.

William was grateful to Jamie for his kindness and welcome. Since the Battle of Culloden 5 years ago, William was left alone in the world. His mother had died long ago, but both his brother and father had died in battle, and his former fiancé had perished in an illness. Jamie had taken William in as friend and brother, and William could very well call the Laird’s mother, Fiona, his own. He sat, entranced by the fire, drinking a glass of whiskey after the long, cold day, feeling the emptiness of his home.

William spent most of his time at Kinnaird Castle. He preferred it so, for here, ghosts lingered, and the pain of the past did not dissipate. He felt guilty, betrayed, angry and sad. It was an annoying mix of emotions which he would prefer to laugh away. He was 27 when the Battle of Culloden raged, and had been lying unconscious, injured from a previous battle, and was unable to partake in the battle that had taken his brother’s and father’s lives. Perhaps, if he had been there, his father and brother would still be alive? He would have gladly traded his life for theirs because this fate of dark loneliness was far worse.

The firelight shone against William’s curly hair and rough beard, making it seem redder by its glow. His light green eyes stared into the flames, and his mind wandered from the battle to Jamie, to Amelia’s impending labor, and then to…Lady Browne, or Marianne. He found his mind often turning to her when he felt as though the ghosts would take him in, their icy tendrils wrapping around his thoughts, threatening to block out all rays of hope and happiness.

In his mind, he saw Marianne’s curly auburn hair and green eyes, the freckles across her pale nose, and her expression screwed up in frustration at him. The image always made him smile. He had loved to fluster her, for it brought an attractive color to her cheeks, and her tongue, customarily reserved for kind words to Amelia and the rest of the family, was filled with witty, yet vitriolic phrases just for him. But, she’d gone months ago, and while he was sure she had long forgotten him, he was still flicking through moments with her when he was alone. He wondered if she ever thought of that time in the cottage. It had been puzzling to him, and his inner voice wondered if Marianne would like his home and if her presence would send away the ghosts that haunted its halls. But, he chided himself for such a romantic notion. It bothered him that she continued to plague his mind so many months since last seeing her. No, he must remain alone. Women were not to be trusted.

Rubbing his face he tried to banish the picture from his mind. “Och, lass, ye fill me mind constantly. Perhaps it’s time I take a trip tae Brechin’s brothel,” he whispered to the empty room. Drinking the last of his whiskey, he stood, seeming even taller in the small, desolate space, the room that had been left unused for so long. He had employed a housekeeper and groundskeeper to keep an eye on the place, but he was never really there, so he had no need for the usual comforts of home and had gotten rid of many things that had once filled it.

There was though, one thing that he hadn’t been able to get rid of it, and with it, the whispers of the past were forever locked. On a side table lay a silhouette encased in a brass frame. His eyes wandered over the familiar outline. “Mairi,” he whispered, his mouth remembering the feel of her name, for he had said it many times, both when she was alive, and in tears after she had passed.

Perhaps he should have destroyed the image of his former love before she died, and before she made him hate her, but in truth, her death had subdued his anger at her, and he was only left with fear, emptiness, and regret.

***

Marianne finally found Ruth in her bedroom, sitting at a small desk by the window, poring over a map of England and Scotland in a book. Ruth was always in search of adventure, and exploring maps had been one of her favorite youthful pastimes, and one she hadn’t lost. She watched quietly as her sister’s finger followed a trail along the path from London to the coast of Scotland, to Brechin.

Marianne knew that the response from their father would hurt Ruth deeply, even more now that she was planning the trip in her mind, dreaming about Scottish castles and misty moors. Marianne cleared her throat to announce her presence.

Ruth turned abruptly, her eyes wide with fright until she saw it was her sister, and let out a sigh of relief. “My goodness, you’re one for sneaking around. Come, look at the journey! I know you’ve done it before, but just look at how long it is. It’s amazing how much ground we will cover in just a carriage and horses!”

Marianne moved closer and sat near the desk. She laid her hand on her sister’s arm, and Ruth’s smile faded, seeing her older sister’s sad expression. “Ruth, Father has allowed me to go. I have asked him for permission for you to go as well, but there was no convincing him. He does not want you out of his sight. He still believes you to be too young to do so.” Marianne bowed her head in apology and a plea for forgiveness.

Ruth was silent for a moment, and then she stood, pulling her arm away from Marianne’s grasp. “I told you, Marianne, did I not? It was cruel of you to have given me so much hope that he would acquiesce. He is still our father, our king, our prison warden, forever and ever it would seem! Me, too young? I am 21 years old, and I’ve barely seen the world! Is there not a crime in that? We women must be banished to the drawing rooms and bedrooms of our homes with the strappings of corsets and gowns upon us!” Ruth’s face was pink with anger, and her arms flailed as she yelled the words.

Marianne was quiet. “I know…I…I am sorry. I desperately wanted you to go. Amelia would have loved to see you.”

“But, now you must go alone and revel in your good fortune. You are old enough to take care of yourself, I suppose.” She folded her arms, but then unfolded them, and sat down harshly on her bed, a hopeless expression on her face. Her voice faltered, and then it quieted, “Am I never to be free?”

Marianne rushed to her sister, kneeling before the girl and taking her hands. She thought for the first time that maybe it would have been better if they both had been born men, to fully taste the sweet flavor of freedom. “You will, my dear. We will both be free one day. This tyranny cannot last forever. I promise you that. One day, we will be free. But, now I must go to my friend who needs my help. Father has made me promise to return as soon as the baby is born, and I will do that. In only two months, I will be back at your side. Does that not bring you some comfort?”

The heat of anger had slightly left Ruth’s eyes, and she gripped Marianne tightly. “For once, I agree with Father and am glad he has made you promise to return. There is no running away. At least not without me.” She smiled, and they both giggled. Running away had always been a joke between them. It seemed like an idea from a book that was unreal; it could never really be accomplished.

“I will return, Ruth. I will give your love to Amelia and the new baby.”

Marianne went directly to her writing desk and wrote back to Amelia, excitedly about her arrival. The next few days were spent packing and purchasing a few small gifts for everyone since she wanted to make sure her letter arrived before her. On the morning of her departure, Marianne stood in the hallway, gripping her small purse in her hand, her trunks waiting to be loaded into the carriage. Margrete, her lady’s maid, had left to inform the coachman that she was ready to depart.

Her teeth gripped her lip as her excitement mounted, but she also felt a deep concern for her sister. Ruth entered the room to say goodbye, and looked cheerful enough, and Marianne was comforted. “Goodbye, Marianne. Have a safe journey, and do not forget any details! You will tell me everything that has happened and provide any details on the infamous Mr. Fraser.” She whispered his name in Marianne’s ear so that she wouldn’t invite her father’s rage on hearing a man’s name mentioned by his daughters in his home.

Marianne tsked at her sister’s impertinence and smiled, “I shall, Ruth. I shall write to you as often as I can! Do not worry; all details will be given.” Except for the details of that one event that has already happened, and definitely would not happen again.

Ruth gave her a quick hug. “Now, I must leave you before the coach takes your trunks. It will be hard enough to hear the movement of wheels taking you away from me, but I don’t want to see it as well!”

Marianne clasped her sister’s hand. “I understand, Ruth. Goodbye! Best of luck with Father. I will see you soon!”

The coachman entered the house and began moving the trunks to the carriage with the help of a footman and the instruction of Margrete. Marianne watched them and felt her excitement build. Behind her, Lord Browne entered the room, a document in his hands. He grumbled behind her, and she turned towards him.

“Marianne, daughter, here is a letter of instruction for you that I do not want you to open until you are safely in the carriage. I wish you good travels to your destination. Be virtuous and upright, and do not disgrace me.”

Marianne nodded wordlessly and reached out her hand to take the letter. “Thank you, Father. I shall write to you with updates about Amelia’s condition.”

“Good. Now take your leave. Do not cry, for tears are a woman’s weakness.”

“Yes, Father.” She turned to go and walked out the door, feeling the clutches of restriction slowly loosen with each step, and as soon as she entered the carriage with Margrete, they would tear away completely, and she could breathe again. Marianne hadn’t realized the beauty of this feeling until she was allowed to go to Kinnaird Castle alone without her father the first time. It had been a dream.

Margrete waited for her to enter the carriage, as the footman held the door open, and followed soon after. Once the wheels began moving from her London home, Marianne breathed a sigh of relief, like she had been holding her breath for too long. Her maid smiled, noting her mistress’ enjoyment as Marianne clutched the ring that hung from her necklace, her mother’s old wedding ring. It had been a sort of talisman to help keep her mother’s memory alive, as well as fill her with strength and joy when needed.

Marianne smiled back briefly, but there were more pressing matters. Quickly she tore open the letter from her father, assuming it would be a lesson on morality and biblical principles, for which she understood and therefore were unnecessary for her to hear once again. However, as her eyes glided across the page, the words she read were much, much worse.

If you want to stay updated on my next book, and want to know about secret deals, please click the button below!