A Night with a Highlander – Get Extended Epilogue
A Night with a Highlander (Preview)
Prologue
Isle of Iona, Scotland
Autumn 1304
Arya waited until full moon before she made her move to escape. She knew the moonlight would guide her steps from the convent all the way to the sea front. It was long after the ringing of the curfew bell and silence had fallen throughout the nunnery, before she was certain the nuns would be sleeping and she could leave without anyone noticing her slip away.
After tucking a folded note under her pillow explaining where she was going and begging the sisters not to worry about her wellbeing, she flung on her cloak and ventured from the small cell she’d been occupying during her exile here. Closing the door silently behind her she tiptoed down the corridor, her boots clutched in her hand.
Passing on soft feet along the passageways she drew open the creaky old door of the nunnery and found herself in the walled garden. This was where she’d spent many hours learning about healing and herbs from Sister Dominique. Arya was convinced the old nun, with her amazing depth of knowledge and understanding, must have been a witch before she left the confines of the world and took her vows of contemplation and chastity among the sisters of Iona.
Arya looked around with something approaching regret. Her time on the island had not been without its consolations, and she wished she’d been able to thank Sister Dominique for her teaching, and bid farewell to Maggie Drummond, her loyal maidservant. But her enforced seclusion had now come to an end, and, if her plans were known, there were those who would do their best to forestall her departure.
It wasn’t that she was a prisoner. She was a guest of the sisters, not their captive. She was here at the insistence of her older brothers. Payton, her eldest brother, the Laird of the Macdonells, and Taveon, two years younger, were convinced she should remain here, safe from the wicked Sir William de Coughran, who had threatened to kill her in his battle against the Macdonell clan.
More than anything, she wished to aid her brothers. Locked away in this peaceful community, she was no use to them at all. Although she was well aware that leaving the confines of the nunnery would incur their wrath, once they saw how much they needed her with them, she was confident they would see things her way.
Her most fervent wish was that she could earn their respect. Of course, as her older brothers, they loved their little sister. But she was no longer a child but a grown woman of nineteen years. Old enough for marriage and to have a household of her own.
Knowing her own mother had lost her life giving birth to her had always felt like a cruel curse hanging around her neck, weighing her down. The gift of life her mother had bestowed on her newborn daughter had meant depriving her older brothers of their dear mother’s love. She’d never known it herself – although she’d felt its absence sorely – but nothing could ever compensate her brothers for the precious mother they had worshipped and loved with all their hearts. No matter how hard Arya had tried throughout all her days to redeem herself she could never rid herself of the guilt.
She sighed. This was her opportunity to prove to them she was worthy. Despite her one brief moment of doubt, she was resolutely determined to make her way home to Macdonell Castle. She fastened her blue woolen cloak tight around her, pulling the hood with its lining of white fur over her red curls, hauled open the door in the garden wall, and set off, the moonlight guiding her steps.
The first part of her mission gave her a tiny niggle of concern. She must take all her courage in her hands and knock on cottage doors seeking the services of a fisherman who would take her across to the nearby Isle of Mull. On her occasional brief breaks from the routine of the convent she’d been permitted to stroll along Iona’s rocky foreshore from where Mull was clearly visible. She’d seen the fishing boats pulled up on the shore not far from the village and it was there she was heading.
Her faith in herself grew bolder. She could do this.
Squaring her shoulders, she pulled her confidence around her like a cloak. Once across to the other island, she would make her way to Ardtun, a few short miles away, where she knew she would find sanctuary with the MacKinnon clan. From Mull she would take the rest of her voyage home.
But there was something else about tonight’s adventure that set her pulse thrumming. The tiny village of Baile Mòr lay less than a mile away and, until tonight, her itch of curiosity about the place had never been scratched.
The sisters were strictly forbidden to ever set foot there and the convent rules were strict, never to be broken. Even though she’d asked around, no one had ever dared pay a clandestine visit there. Mother Superior was unmoved by Arya’s numerous pleas to be permitted, just once, to visit the village.
As far as the Mother Superior was concerned, Baile Mòr was only second to Hell when it came to wickedness. And, it was certain, the devil himself resided in the village tavern.
Of course, this made Arya even more curious.
Her heart was hammering as she made her way along the woodland path that would soon bring her to the rocky shoreline and, a little further along, to the village.
It was then she heard a strange growling sound. At first, she thought it was an animal, and she quickened her steps. Then the deep growl was followed by a high-pitched whimper and she registered that the noises she was hearing were all too human. These were the sounds of a man and woman locked in a fierce conflict.
She paused, peering through the trees into the nearby clearing. The moonlight shone brightly and she could clearly make out the two figures. Hearing voices raised in anger she crouched low, suddenly afraid of being discovered.
Although she couldn’t make out the words they were speaking, it was clear they were arguing. The woman’s voice rose higher, until she was almost shrieking, the man’s voice was deep and unrelenting with rage.
The woman screamed out “Nay. Nay.” and, heart in mouth, Arya craned forward, fearful, but struggling to make out more clearly what was going on.
Creeping toward the couple she saw the man had hold of the woman’s arm in a tight grip. She struggled, her nails raking his cheeks. Breaking free of him, she went to run, but fell, tangled in the skirt of her long kirtle. Growling and cursing he was on her in an instant, hauling her to her feet.
To Arya’s horror she saw the man draw back his arm and bring his fist up. The woman screamed as he landed a heavy blow to her jaw. Her head jolted back and he raised his fist and delivered a second blow.
From her hiding place, Arya could clearly see the blood streaming from the woman’s nose and mouth.
The woman raised a hand to her broken face, making a gurgling sound in her throat. A fierce protective instinct galvanized Arya. There must be some way she could try and save the woman from this brute.
The woman’s legs seemed to give way and she sank to her knees. At once the man seized her long hair and forced her head back, dragging her to her feet.
“Ye cursed whore,” he said in a low harsh voice. “I should slit yer throat.”
Horrified, Arya listened as the woman pleaded for her life.
“Please, nay, dinnae kill me. I swear I…”
The man was fumbling for the knife in his belt, the woman fighting fiercely.
Looking around feverishly for some kind of a weapon, Arya’s hand encountered a sharp, heavy stone which she clutched in desperation.
The man pulled up his hand, holding his dirk aloft preparing to slash the woman’s throat as he’d threatened, and Arya’s fingers closed tightly around the rock.
Just as the man was bringing down his weapon, Arya dashed forward. Coming up behind him she smashed the stone as hard as she could against his head. Letting out a roar he released the woman and staggered to his knees, his attention now on his attacker. Arya.
“Curse ye, devil’s wench,” he bellowed at her, scrabbling to haul himself upright, raising his dirk again, this time aiming straight for Arya’s heart.
In a wild panic she struck a second blow as he tried to rise, the heavy rock smashing into his temple. With a loud grunt, he dropped the dirk, fell back, rolled to his side, and lay at her feet, motionless. Blood gushed from the wounds on his head where the sharp end of the stone had found its mark.
Arya knelt quickly, forcing herself, without success, to feel a heartbeat under the heavy leather jacket he wore.
Finally, rising to her feet, she gazed with revulsion and trepidation into the man’s unseeing, lifeless eyes, her hands dripping with his blood. Frantically she grabbed his tartan cloak and wiped her stained hands clean.
Rolling her gaze to the stars, she breathed a prayer.
Oh, dear God in heaven what have I done? I’ve killed a man.
She turned to the trembling lass, her own body shaking uncontrollably.
“Ye saved me life,” she heard the woman say. “I thank ye.”
“Aye, that I did,” Arya mumbled, scarcely able to believe the scene that confronted her. “I saved yer life by making this man pay with his.”
In an instant the two girls were in each other’s arms, each attempting to reassure the other.
“Ye’ve done aught tae be ashamed of lass, he was a wicked, wicked man and the world’s a better place without the likes of him in it. I’m grateful tae ye from the bottom of me heart,” the trembling woman said quietly. Her words going some way to soothing Arya’s shattered nerves.
Arya looked up into the lass’ tear-filled eyes, surprised she was only about the same age as herself. She’d imagined her to be much older when she’d first come upon on the couple.
“There is nae need tae thank me fer…” Arya, said staring in true horror at the body crumpled at their feet where he’d fallen. He had menaced both of them with his dirk and she had no doubt he’d intended to end the lives of both her and the lass. “…and ye’ve aught tae be fearful of, now he is… nay more,” she said, releasing the young woman from her tight, panicked grip.
Taking a seat on a fallen log nearby, the woman reached for Arya’s hand and pulled her down to sit beside her.
“I am named Eleonor,” she whispered. “Ye?”
“I’m Arya…” She hesitated, suddenly afraid of revealing the name “Macdonell” to this unknown girl. After all, she, Arya had just killed a man. Her head buzzed with a thousand bees. Perhaps she’d already said too much. She sucked in a breath, her eyes widening as the recognition of her own dangerous situation dawned. Once the dead man was found, there would be others seeking to find the culprit who had murdered him.
Shaking her hand free, she pushed herself to her feet. She had to get clear of this place. Now. Before someone discovered the man’s body and came searching for his killer.
The sound of distant men’s voices made them both freeze.
“They’re coming this way,” Arya whispered as the voices grew louder.
Eleonor groaned. “That will be his men seeking him out now that he hasnae returned tae them. We must flee,” she took a step toward the path.
Arya went to follow but her skirt was caught, snagged on the fastening on the man’s plaid cloak. She tugged at her skirt but it was securely trapped.
“Here.” Eleonor swiftly snatched up the dead man’s dirk and slashed at the offending cloak. Her speedy action released Arya, but left the brooch and a fragment of the man’s cloak still clinging to her skirt.
Arya went to undo the fastening, but Eleonor placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Come now. We must be quick. There’s nae time tae fash about that now. We must run before they catch us here.”
Turning back toward the abbey, Arya reached for Eleonor’s hand. “I will find sanctuary with the sisters in the convent. I can hide there. Come with me. We’ll be safe from pursuit.”
Eleonor turned away, shaking her head. “Nae, Arya. I cannae go with ye. I have other things I must attend tae. I’ll find me way back tae the village and I’ll be safe there. There’s none who kens I was tae meet with this man, nae even his own soldiers, so they’ll nae look fer me.” She turned to go. “Ye bide well.”
Desperate as she was to regain the safety of the nunnery, Arya held grave concerns for Eleonor’s safety. “Ye must make haste tae hide, lass. But if ye ever need me help ye can find me at the abbey. If I’m nae there, leave a message for Arya with the sisters. They’ll ken where I stay and get your word tae me. I’ll help if I can.”
They gave each other a quick hug and sped on their way, their footsteps racing along the path in opposite directions.
Stumbling along the path to the abbey, Arya’s head was spinning. She was hardly aware of where she was until she found herself in the convent garden. The darkness of night was slowly being overtaken by the gray light of early morning and several nuns were pacing slowly toward the chapel for morning prayers. Passing the sisters, she entered the main hall, where preparations were underway for the breaking fast meal that would await the nuns on their return from Matins.
Head down, her hood almost covering her face, she crept along the passageway leading to the cell she’d only vacated a few short hours before.
In that time her life had changed forever. She had left here, her heart full, wishing only to be useful to her beloved brothers. She was returning with the blackest of marks marring her future. Her actions had made her a sinner. She had no right to be here, among the spotless purity of the contemplative women whose refuge she craved.
If she could only make it to her cell and take off the bloodstained kirtle and blouse and join the others in the chapel to pray for forgiveness.
Turning the corner and heading along the corridor that led to her cell, she was pulled up short by a voice crashing into her morbid and hopeless thoughts.
“Goodness child, where have you been so early in the day?”
Arya’s heart sank. It was the Mother Superior. The tall, angular nun studied Arya with an all-knowing expression in her gray eyes.
“Well, lass. I hope ye’ve nae been meeting with a lad outside these walls. Yer brother, the laird, willnae be happy if he discovers ye’ve found a sweetheart while ye’ve been with us.”
Arya shook her head. A lover would be the least of it. If the saintly Mother only knew the truth of the sin she’d committed.
Forcing a shy smile, she shook her head. Mother Agnes returned her smile, making no comment. Her gaze roamed across Arya as if search for an answer to her question, coming to rest on Arya’s skirt where the brooch with its remnant of bloodstained plaid was still attached.
Arya held her breath, fearful of the questions she expected.
Agnes reached down, undid the fastening and rose, clutching the brooch and the fabric in her hand. She looked sternly at Arya.
“This is the MacQuarrie tartan, and the brooch ye have here is chased gold, bearing the Clan crest.” She tilted her head to one side questioningly. “Only the Laird and his family are able tae wear such treasures. How did ye come by this?”
Arya gasped. “I dinnae ken, I was in the woods, Mother. It must have caught in me kirtle.”
Mother Agnes took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I pray ye speak truth Arya. The MacQuarries are a vile lot. If they believe this precious item has been stolen, they will nae spare the life of the thief. I must arrange fer this brooch tae be returned. It would nae dae fer any of the clan to ken it is in the hands of a MacDonell.”
“Oh, thank ye, Mother,” Arya muttered. “I’m of nae mind tae keep it.”
Mother Agnes tucked the brooch into the pocket of her surplice and gave Arya’s arm a squeeze. “Dinnae fash, lass. I’ll arrange fer one of our messengers tae take it across tae Mull, with the word that it was found in the woods by one of the sisters on her daily walk to the farms.” She made the sign of the cross. “I believe the Good Lord will forgive me the lie. Now, dae hurry and tidy yerself fer morning prayers. Yer brothers have sent news and it is now safe fer ye tae return home. After the prayers you can prepare tae leave.”
Arya could scarcely believe Mother Agnes had chosen discretion, and could only nod as the older woman swiveled and continued her way along the passage. The news of being called home would have overjoyed her just a few hours ago, but now, it was secondary. Her heart was beating fast and the blood was pounding in her veins as the nun’s dire words took hold. Feeling her knees buckling under her, she put a hand on the wall to support herself while her stomach roiled and a wave of terror swept over her.
Not only was the man she’d killed a member of a bloodthirsty, vengeful clan, it seemed he was an important member of the clan laird’s family.
Chapter One
Early Spring 1305
Isle of Iona
Grimacing, Gillebride slammed the heavy pewter tankard on the sturdy oak table. Ugh! This seedy tavern in the godforsaken village of Baile Mòr served what must surely be the worst ale in all of Christendom.
Looking around, he swiped his sleeve across his beard. He despised this place, and was only here on the Isle of Iona at the behest of the Laird, Blaine MacKinnon, who was keen to obtain the latest battle plans from their neighbouring clan, the MacQuarries.
Grumbling under his breath he scanned the motley throng of cutthroats, whores and poorly disguised clansmen seated around him in the fetid, smoky parlour. There was no sign of the man he’d been sent to meet, Beolin, a henchman of Anrias, Laird of the MacQuarrie Clan.
Although the MacQuarries and the MacKinnons were now allies, fighting side-by-side for their King Robert the Bruce, theirs was a long, uneasy history. MacKinnon land bordered that of the Macquarries on the Isle of Mull and, for as long as Gilly could remember, there’d been ongoing skirmishes along the border and attempted incursions by the MacQuarries. Cattle had been stolen, crops destroyed, fishermen’s catch taken. Not only that. They were a bloodthirsty, merciless clan with a reputation for engendering fear of their ruthlessness into all those unfortunate enough to encounter them.
Still, if nothing else, meeting on Iona they were in a neutral place, a short distance from either clan’s territory. Despite that, it was a damned nuisance to make the short sea crossing even though, when the tide was out it took a strong oarsman only minutes to cross from one island to the other.
Apart from a few straggling, thatch-roofed cottages, this was the only meeting place on the island and it bedeviled Gillebride’s thoughts that a place harboring so much evil was situated so close to the abbey and the nunnery.
Glancing around, his eye was captured by a parchment tacked up on the wall near the doorway. From where he sat, he could just make out a roughly drawn and painted woman’s face. The features were indeterminate but what stood out was the mane of red hair cascading over the face, visible even at a distance. He squinted in the dim light, but was unable to read the rough script on the bottom of the parchment. Apart from the grim words “Wanted Dead or Living”.
He had more than a little sympathy for the woman, whoever she was and whatever crime she’d committed. If she attracted the attention of the ruffians frequenting this disreputable hideout then pity help her.
A big-breasted woman whose blouse and kirtle were alarmingly low, exposing an expanse of her flesh, sidled up to his table.
“Only a penny fer such a handsome bear of a man as ye, tae take me tae bed,” she said, giving him a lascivious grin, her gaze roaming over his broad shoulders and huge size.
Gilly shook his head. “Nay lass, I’ve nae taste fer what ye’re selling.”
She huffed, shrugged her shoulders, and moved off to another table where one of the men seized her around the waist and pulled her onto his knee. The sound of her false laughter rang in Gilly’s ears as a shadow materialized beside him. He looked up to see Beolin pulling out another stool from under the table and lowering himself into the seat.
He grunted a greeting and Gilly dipped his head. He had no time for Beolin. He’d never trusted the man, despite their frequent meetings to discuss the plans being laid down by the clans in the war against the English. Beolin was a tall, gaunt, grey-bearded man who, to Gilly, always had the hungry look of a half-starved fox about him.
Beolin called the serving-wench over and requested an ale. Gilly shook his head. He’d had enough of the bad brew. Once the woman had placed the tankard on the table the two men bent their heads in conversation, apprising each other of the most recent strategies for the upcoming battles against the English.
Gillebride watched Beolin in disgust as the man licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the young whores shamelessly parading their wares, half-naked before the men. No doubt after his conversation with Gilly was done, he’d take one of the lasses upstairs and have his way with her, offering nothing more than a small coin for her services.
“Have ye nae shame, man?” Gilly said when the man’s obvious lust became too much for him to observe without commenting. “These lassies are young enough tae be yer own daughter.”
Beolin’s only comment was a short sniggering laugh and an uneasy shifting in his seat, his hand on his braes.
Gilly shook his head, looking away in disgust. His gaze came to rest again on the rough painting tacked on the wall. “What’s the story with the lass?”
Beolin swivelled to stare at the poster and turned back to Gilly, a frown on his gaunt face.
“There’s a price on her head. If ye’ve a mind tae search fer her ye could earn yerself some coin.”
“I’m nae looking fer coin, lad.” Gilly offered a sharp laugh. “What’s the lass done tae make her an animal tae be hunted?”
“An animal is too good a name fer her. The whole of Clan Macquarrie is after her fer killing young Alasdair, the favourite son of Anrias MacQuarrie.”
Gilly raised an eyebrow. “The Laird’s son? Murdered by a wee lass?”
“She’s nae a wee lass, Gillebride, but the spawn of the devil and his bride. She’s a witch who killed the lad by smashing his head with a rock. When Anrias catches up with her he’ll most likely have her walled up fer eternity, to die a slow and hungry death. A quick death is too good fer the likes of her.” Beolin hoicked a blob of phlegm onto the scuffed dirt floor and ran his fingers across his belly and shoulders in the sign of the cross.
Gilly had seen and heard enough. It was time to take his leave and turn his back on this man Beolin and the ugly village of Baile Mòr. He placed a coin on the table as payment for the ale and rose to his feet.
“Bide well,” he said to the other man. As he turned to go a sudden commotion broke out.
The boatman lifted Arya out of his small boat and slung her over his shoulder as if she was a sack of barley. He waded the few yards to the sandy, rocky beach and lowered her, none too gently.
She handed him a coin for his trouble. “Wait here fer me, I’ll nae be long. I have business with a lass I’m tae meet in the tavern. Ye’ll get the rest when ye return me tae Mull.”
The man grumbled under his breath. “A decent lass would nae be here at all.”
Arya shivered and pulled her cloak tight around her against the wind, lowering the hood with its white fur trim. She was back in the place she’d vowed never to visit again and the cold breeze whipping off the sea and the drizzling rain simply added to her disquiet.
All these months she’d almost begun to put the memory behind her, almost begun to feel safe. Although, she knew in her heart, she would never be able to forget the awful secret of the man she’d killed.
“Dinnae fash,” she told the boatman, “I’ll be back in minutes.”
As she trudged up the hill toward the tavern her heart was pounding. A pall of wickedness fell over this place. It was clearly no place for a lass on her own. She’d learned it was a stronghold for the feared MacQuarries, even though their territory was on Mull. Despite telling herself she was be safe enough to be here, unrecognized, her feelings of unease grew stronger with every step.
Why on earth has Eleonor sent me a message? It can only mean she is in trouble. And why of all places, has she asked me tae meet her at the most dangerous place of all, the tavern in Baile Mòr?
Following Eleonor’s instructions, she’d told no one of her destination. But now, as she approached the dimly lit tavern, hearing the raucous, raised men’s voices coming from inside, she questioned the wisdom of her decision. If anything happened to her here, her brothers and her friends would have no idea where to find her.
Outside the tavern, she hesitated. Of course, she wished to aid Eleonor if she needed help, but coming here meant she was risking discovery by members of the MacQuarrie clan.
But, save fer Eleonor, nae-one kens me part in the death of that man. Surely, I’ll be safe.
Taking a deep breath to settle her nerves, she tightened her cloak and, head well-covered by her hood, she pushed open the door and stepped into the noisy, fetid interior of the tavern.
The instant she was through the door she knew she’d made a horrible mistake in coming here.
All conversation ceased as she stepped into the tavern and every eye turned in her direction. Her eyes searched for Eleonor, but wherever she looked there were men accosting women, some of whom had their breasts bare, being fondled by rough-looking characters. Many of the men seemed drunk and staggering. One man was lying on the floor looking up the skirt of a woman who was bare to the waist and giggling as if she was tipsy.
Arya groaned audibly. There was no sign of Eleonor, even though the message she’d received was clear. They were to meet in the Baile Mòr tavern, shortly after sundown.
She waited, unsure of her next move and, after moments, the rough laughter and talk resumed. All the same, she was uncomfortably aware she was being closely scrutinized by several men at a nearby table. Two of them laughed and nodded to each other as if in agreement with something. She shuddered as they gazed intently at her, their lustful intentions all too obvious
Stomach lurching, she looked away. It was then her eyes were drawn to the roughly-painted poster just inside the door. Her heart, which was already beating much too fast, suddenly felt as if it would jump right out of her chest.
The painting was childish, roughly drawn and colored, but the tilt of her head, the straight nose, the big blue eyes and, most of all, the cascade of red hair were sufficient for her to realize this was someone’s attempt at creating a portrait of her – Arya Macdonell.
The words, Wanted Dead or Living, underscoring the likeness, sent a stab of ice straight to her heart.
I must get out of here. I cannae wait any longer fer Eleonor.
On the spur of the moment she pivoted, determined to flee from this horrid place as swiftly as her shaky legs could carry her. But her hopes of beating a hasty retreat without drawing any further attention were dashed. Her cloak flying out behind her as she turned brought glasses and tankards from a table beside the door clattering and smashing to the floor.
Once again, all eyes were upon her.
Ignoring the commotion she reached a hand to the door, determined to be gone before there was time for anyone to take another breath. But the men who’d been watching her were already on their feet and in an instant two of them had seized her. One had her around the waist and the other pinioned her arms behind her back in an iron grip.
She screamed, struggling vainly against their tight hold on her.
“We’ll have some sport with ye tonight lass. Ye’ll nae be disappointed I guarantee ye.” one of the men said. “Mayhap we should take ye upstairs with us fer our fun.”
A bawdy laugh went up from the assembled throng. One man waving a tankard in encouragement.
“Let me go,” she shrieked. “Please,” she begged, attempting to kick out at the man behind her.
Her desperation only seemed to encourage them.
“Ah. I like a feisty one,” the man behind her said, leaning down to plant a wet kiss on her cheek. “Ye’ll keep us busy tonight, lass.”
She screamed again, bucking wildly as they hauled her toward the stairs at the side of the parlour.
Looking around beseechingly she implored someone – anyone – to please come to her aid and rescue her from this nightmare.
But the other denizens of the tavern were far too interested in their own debauchery to pay any further attention to her plight.
Except for one man.
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Seduced by Highland Lies – Extended Epilogue
Four months later
“Damn it!” Kai yelled as Cory and his horse slipped just a little past him on the road, winning the brief race they’d just decided to engage in, after a quick patrol around the forests.
Cory laughed, his eyes bright, and his face happy. He’d just become a father, and he and Helen, unable to contain their joy had come to stay at McLaren Castle for a time.
“Ye let me win, right?” Cory asked, patting his chest as he breathed hard.
“I would love tae say that was true,” Kai replied, “but I’m afraid nae. Bloody Hell, I have nae raced anyone in a long time. It feels good, even though I lost.” He grinned at his happy friend, and they slowed to a trot.
“So, it seems that there are nay traces of Clan MacFarlane fer now.”
“Nay, but I will nae hold me breath. There is somethin’ strange about that. Just like Cecily had a dark feelin’ that somethin’ was nae yet finished, so dae I. They wouldnae have attacked fer nae reason. There must be some reason. And I’ve sent messages but heard nae reply. I daenae want tae send men without meself, and I daenae want tae leave the castle. Nae so early on, with Cecily with me.”
“Aye, I understand ye completely, lad. And so ye should stay with yer woman.” The castle loomed in the distance, and Kai realized that he was even happier now, eight months after meeting Cecily.
Each passing day was better with her next to him, and he and his brothers were repairing the darkness that had been sewn into them. It was no longer a castle of grief but of laughter and happiness and hope.
“We are brothers now, in a way, ye ken.” Cory grinned, “marryin’ sisters as we did.”
“So we are. I like that. And does Helen share Cecily’s temper?” Kai whistled low. “I have never seen the like, especially now that she feels comfortable and strong. The woman is fire in the body of an angel.”
Cory laughed loudly, and he nodded. “Aye, I couldnae have said it better meself. Helen is just the same, and at the same time, she kens how tae hoodwink me. Sometimes, I find meself in the middle of an agreement, and I daenae bloody ken how I got there.”
Grinning, Kai agreed. Cecily had come into her own in their time together. She was now shrinking violet or wilting lily as William used to call her. She was powerful, independent, fierce, and unafraid to speak her mind. She was everything she thought she never could have been: the perfect Highland lady to a Highland laird.
They left their horses at the stables and walked up to the castle. “I can tell ye that Helen will thank ye for forcin’ me tae ride with ye. Now that the bairn is here, I can hardly stay away from them, worryin’ about everythin’ and makin’ sure that all is well. She’s had tae ask me tae leave a number of times when I get too protective.”
“Aye, but that is the way of it, I’m sure,” Kai said, patting his hand on Cory’s shoulder.
He could see the warmth of fatherly love in his friend’s eyes, and he wondered if he and Cecily would ever have the experience. There had been more lovemaking in the whole of his life in the past seven months, but no bairn yet, at least not to his knowledge. He did like their time alone together, however, for there would be plenty of time for bairns.
In the hall, they found the women, and the young Hamish in Helen’s arms. Cory hurried up to his wife and son, kissing each of them, while Cecily came to hug Kai.
“Anything?” she asked, and he knew what she meant.
“Nay. But we will keep the patrols. They may be waitin’ fer us tae get tired of daein’ it or perhaps feelin’ secure. Then they may attack again.”
She frowned. “Could it be possible that William had paid them to attack?”
“Could an earl have that much money at his disposal tae attack a clan just tae get at ye?”
She shook her head. “He may, but I doubt he would have used it for that, you are right.” She took his hand and led him to sit with the others. “I just hope that we can figure out what they wanted or want now.”
She leaned against him as they watched Cory take the babe in arms, and Helen sighed. “You are so kind to let us stay with you again. I know it feels as though we were just here.”
“Please! You are welcome at any time, and I hope you will come whenever you like!”
“Well, the same goes to the both of you,” Helen said, gazing at her son and husband together with a bright look in her eye. “Not that a castle with a squawking babe is something people want to come and visit.”
Cory chuckled, and Kai smiled. “Of course, we will.”
However, they all knew that they couldn’t leave until the matter was resolved with Clan MacFarlane. It was enough to drive any man mad, and Kai was glad that Cecily was not yet with child, for he wanted nothing to get in the way of their happiness or her safety. And even though months had passed, the both of them still feared this uncertain joy they were finding together. As if it might pop like a bubble at any time.
Sensing his thoughts, he felt Cecily squeeze and then kiss his hand, and he turned his mind to happier things.
“So, should I tell ye that Kai lost tae me race today?” Cory said, and the women gasped.
“It can’t be true!” Cecily laughed, and Kai rolled his eyes. “I thought he was the better horseman.”
“It seems fatherhood has given me extra strength.” Cory waggled his brows and leaned over to kiss Helen.
“Just ye wait, lad. I will wallop ye again soon.”
“Perhaps when ye have become a father, when yer strength doubles.” Cory winked, and Kai smiled at Cecily.
“Perhaps then.”
Cecily had not spent too much time thinking about children with Kai. She was happy enough with her new life, filled with joy and peace and love. She had found a partner she adored with all her heart, and who loved her back, and her home was a beautiful one. She was safe from her wicked relative, and her sister lived in the same country. This was everything she could have wished for. But seeing the love that Cory and Helen shared, even stronger after the birth of their son, Cecily wondered if she might like that as well.
In all fairness, she was a bit surprised that she had not fallen with child yet. For she and Kai had been making love more than she thought a married couple ever would. Eventually they bid goodnight to Helen and Cory, and she took Kai’s hand as he led her to the new chamber they now shared together. It was now upstairs, far away from the study, for Kai said he did not wish to make his life about the clan but rather about her first. It had made her feel special and loved, but she did wonder, did he wish for more? Was he now desperate for that heir that the clan had been so concerned about?
As soon as they entered the chamber, Kai pulled her close and kissed her. “Ye were thoughtful at dinner, lass.”
“I suppose I was.” She smiled up at her bear-like husband, her arms looped about his neck.
“I ken that look,” he said with a wicked tilt of his lips, and his hands reached around her to push her closer before they spread down to her buttocks and squeezed.
She let out a little gasp, breathless every time when Kai touched her, and he chuckled.
“So simple, lass, tae melt ye like butter in me arms.”
She blushed brightly. “Well then I will try my best not to react so strongly,” she said, pulling out of his arms, but he held her elbows.
“Dinnae dare, love.” He pulled her close, as she furrowed her brow at him with indignance, and he kissed her.
Yet again, his kiss had power, and she was sinking into him once more, loving the feel of his fingers as he splayed them over her back, her buttocks, her breasts.
“Me angel,” he said, kissing down her neck as he pushed her towards the bed. “I think ye the best of women.”
Cecily smiled as he nipped and licked her and then he spun her around to help her out of her gown. It seconds, it seemed, she was naked and gasping, as Kai kissed down her leg, spreading her wide for his enjoyment. His thumb brushed against her center before his mouth took its place. He licked and suckled, watching her every movement. She could not look away either, loving him and that very moment, craving him and his touch. It did not take her long to come, her pleasure peaking in his mouth.
Breathless, she watched with a flutter in her belly as her husband rose over her, his gaze both hungry and affection. “The most beautiful thing in the world is when ye come, lass. I can never get enough of it.”
She let out a shaky smile, and then she pulled him close for a kiss, wanting to feel him all over her skin, longing to remember and to savor the beautiful life they had together. Their kiss was both tender and heated, and his large hand spread her thighs as he settled between them. Lifting her thighs up and around his waist, Kai groaned as he inserted his shaft into her, thrusting until he was fully in.
“I love ye, Cecily. Even more than the first time I realized.”
She nodded, looking at where their bodies were joined, and pleasure swam through her, making her dizzy. “Yes,” she let out on a sigh as the rhythm became faster.
He lifted her even higher, and she whispered his name as he slid even deeper, stroking inside her again and again, making her muscles weak.
He then leaned over her, his face against hers, whispering things in Gaelic as his pace quickened. Her fingers pressed and scratched along his back, and then she broke apart again, his name on her lips.
He groaned and shook, after a few more thrusts, and then he lay atop her for a few moments while she clung to him.
Their skin was slick with sweat, and she kissed his neck, letting out a whisper, “I love you too.”
When he pulled off her, he took her waist and drew her close. “I have been wantin’ tae ask ye somethin’, lass,” he said in a soft voice.
“Oh?” The flutter of nerves returned. “What is it?”
“I ken we have nay discussed it much or rushed it, and we have certainly been makin’ an effort tae dae so, but I wanted tae ask ye. We can see the happiness Helen and Cory have with their new son. Would ye like tae have one someday?”
Cecily turned in his arms, surprise rushing through her, as if he had read her thoughts earlier. “You are right that I have seen their happiness. And I know that the council is worried about you having an heir.”
He held up a hand. “Dinnae worry about that,” he said with a furrowed brow. “I only wanted tae ask what ye wanted.”
His fingertips stroked her cheek, and in that moment, Cecily felt more loved than she ever had been. “Yes, I would like one or more, if it works out that way. But I thank you, Kai, for not rushing me. I am so used to worrying about being a disappointment that I cannot simply relax and enjoy life.”
He kissed her palm that she’d reached up to touch his cheek with. “Never. Ye must enjoy what we have while we have it. And the heir is only something that will come if it happens. I want ye, me greatest love, tae be happy first. And of course, I will happily thrust meself intae the task of helpin’ tae make one.”
He moved a little against her, and she giggled, feeling him already hardening again. “It seems you are ready already.”
“For ye, me angel, always.”
The End.
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When Torion McLaren finds himself falsely engaged to Lady Adelaide Cavendish, he thinks things cannot get any worse. Until she vows to find her long-lost brother and he’s compelled to help her, despite his reluctance. But when love enters the picture, Torion and Adelaide confront a heartbreaking truth that will never allow them to be together. And in the tumultuous clash between love and family, there is no way to escape without a broken heart…
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Prologue
Richmond, England, 1650
Seton House, winter
Lady Cecily Ridley had never been renowned for her rebellious nature. That distinction belonged to her dear sister, Helen, especially within the more refined circles of England. However, in that particular moment, as Cecily stealthily navigated the corridors of Seton House under the cloak of night, her heart pulsed with a newfound sense of rebellion. An exhilarating sensation coursed through her, infusing her with vibrant, tingling energy, though it was not without its dangers—evident in the rapid rhythm of her heartbeat as she approached the door nestled within the stone passage, where her brother’s study was settled.
The candle she carried was dwindling, its flickering light casting wavering shadows as a droplet of wax seared her hand, sending a swift pang of pain through her. Suppressing the urge to curse, she bit her lip, resolved not to reveal her whereabouts or her purpose. This constant need for concealment within her own home had become a prolonged ordeal. As the pain subsided, she reached into the pocket of her robe to retrieve her half-brother Anthony’s key. Casting furtive glances in both directions along the dim corridor, she slipped the key into the lock, turning it with a delicate touch. She entered the room beyond in silence, gently closing the door behind her. She felt like a criminal lurking around the house in the middle of the night and going through Anthony’s things without his knowledge.
I’ve done it.
Releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, she advanced into the room and placed her dwindling candle upon her brother’s imposing wooden desk. The same desk that had once belonged to her father, a poignant reminder of his warmth and affection, now served as a stark emblem of her brother’s severity. Anthony lacked any hint of kindness or affection. Though he treated her better than he did Helen, their relationship was far from the camaraderie of true siblings.
“I must find something,” she whispered to herself, furrowing her brow as she embarked on her quest amidst the scattered documents strewn across the desk’s surface.
At that moment, nothing revealed itself to her eager eyes. Frustration began to chip away at her determination as she rifled through drawers, extracting assorted documents.
Cecily’s desperation to aid her sister, Helen, was profound. A few months earlier, fueled by animosity toward Helen’s audacity and her resemblance to their Scottish mother, Anthony had dispatched her on a treacherous mission: to spy in Scotland and gather intelligence regarding the Scottish movement during the Anglo-Scottish War. Helen’s reluctant compliance had hinged upon Anthony’s menacing threat—to force Cecily into an unwanted marriage.
Helen’s departure had occurred without resistance, despite Cecily’s impassioned pleas. The burden of guilt gnawed at her ceaselessly. Not a moment passed without Helen occupying her thoughts—her worries unending. While Helen possessed adept skills in gathering information and defending herself, the inherent danger of her undertaking was undeniable. Cecily’s uncertainty lingered; she questioned whether Anthony would honor his promise and spare her from an undesirable marriage even if Helen’s mission succeeded. Thus, she undertook her late-night journey to his study while he caroused elsewhere, presumably drowning himself in drink. Her goal was clear: to unearth any leverage she could use against him, compelling him to bring Helen back to England.
Each successive letter from Helen had carried escalating tension. Her perilous and exhausting work ignited Cecily’s fear for her sister’s safety, especially when Helen recounted her exploits of extracting information from inebriated men at taverns. While Cecily sorted through a stack of letters, the sound of footsteps resonated in the corridor. She froze, her heart pounding, waiting for confirmation if it was merely a maid concluding her nightly duties. The hushed tones that followed shattered her hopes, filling her heart with trepidation.
Cursing under her breath, she swiftly returned the letters to their drawer, tightly clutching her candle. Her only option was to conceal herself behind a long tapestry adorning the wall. Extinguishing the flame, she positioned herself, her heart pounding audibly in the silence. The tapestry cascaded to the floor, veiling her in obscurity. Though she believed herself inconspicuous, her heartbeat felt deafening in her ears.
No, this wouldn’t do. She retreated from that position, choosing instead a tall cabinet adjacent to the tapestry. She squeezed inside, grateful for the superior cover it provided. Her hope was that the tapestry would cease its swaying before her brother entered. Her heart raced as she braced herself for the impending seconds.
Since her father’s passing, fear had been her constant companion—a dread of others’ perceptions and actions. Now, at last, it seemed to have reached its zenith. Why had she embraced this rebellious course? If she were discovered, the retaliation Anthony might exact was something she deeply dreaded.
Her choice of the cabinet now appeared ill-advised, despite its practicality. It struck her that this must have been Anthony’s hunting repository, holding garments splattered with hunting blood and an assortment of weaponry. Gripped by dread, she dared not make a move, anxious about unintentionally dislodging an object or inadvertently revealing her hiding place. Yet, amid her fear, an unsettling note intruded—the distinct scent of blood permeated the cabinet’s air. The odor was potent, as though the blood was fresh. However, she was unaware of Anthony having hunted recently.
“Why the concern for those documents? They’re not your concern, but mine. I am the Earl of Seton, cousin, not you,” Anthony’s voice asserted, carrying an undercurrent of tension.
Cecily remained motionless, her heart racing, as she strained to identify the person arguing with her brother. She leaned slightly forward, peering through the door’s gap. It was their cousin, William Cavendish—or rather, her father’s distant cousin. His typically cold demeanor appeared inflamed by anger, a sight she’d seldom witnessed. He was typically passive, but now his visage was flushed with rage.
“It’s prudent for someone else to be privy to such matters, cousin, to know their whereabouts,” William retorted, his hands resting on his hips. “You can’t safeguard such secrets, or the title will falter. Surely, that isn’t what you desire.”
Cecily observed that the man wore a peculiar yellow ensemble—an odd choice of clothing, comprising a yellow jacket, a shirt and cravat of faded yellow, and yellowish breeches. This incongruity momentarily diverted her attention from the intensity of the exchange. She questioned why Anthony wasn’t mocking the man’s attire instead of arguing with him. Moreover, she pondered the purpose of William’s presence; to her knowledge, he and Anthony were not on friendly terms. Deeper into the cabinet she withdrew, her fear intensifying.
They’ll leave soon. They’ll inspect the documents and then depart.
She tried to steady her breathing, but a shift in her position revealed dampness. One of the coats hanging within the cabinet bore fresh bloodstains. A wave of revulsion surged through her as she confronted the sight and scent of it, so close. The familiarity of the scent shocked her—how had she become acquainted with the odor of blood? Her spine tingled with a fresh wave of anxiety, and she tightly closed her eyes, attempting to suppress the urge to retch. Despite her efforts, a sneeze escaped her, and she clenched her hand over her mouth. Fortunately, her brother’s sudden hand slam onto the desk coincided, muffling the sound—she hoped.
“I’ve no inkling as to why you’re even here, cousin!” her brother’s voice rang out, revealing his inebriation.
She kept her hand over her mouth to stifle her breathing, hoping the cabinet’s confined space would mask the unintended noise. For a time, silence descended, only to be broken by William’s inquiry. Anthony’s gaze flickered momentarily toward the cabinet, then returned to fixate on William. The exchange provided her a momentary reprieve from her precarious concealment.
“No, I heard nothing,” Anthony replied with a hint of irritation. “Now, cease avoiding my question.” His finger jabbed at William’s chest.
“I’m here to ensure you haven’t misplaced that wretched document, Anthony,” William retorted, his tone tinged with a snarl.
Cecily frowned, her father’s cousin had never spoken to her for this long or engaged in a dispute. What document could be of such consequence? Observing her brother’s stance stiffen, she sensed he was summoning his most authoritative tone. However, his response surprised her.
“I’ll show you, and then you can leave me be!” Anthony declared, his words slightly slurred.
She watched as he scanned the papers on his desk, mirroring her earlier search. She was profoundly relieved that he failed to notice any evidence of prior exploration in his documents and correspondence. William leaned over him, scrutinizing his actions. When Anthony’s initial search yielded nothing, he impatiently pulled out a drawer.
As she observed him hunched over the desk drawer, Cecily’s gaze remained fixed on William, noting his subtle shift. He tracked his cousin’s movements in their search, but her curiosity piqued as she watched him reach into his pocket, extracting a slim blade. Her mouth fell open, a gasp teetering on her lips, a desperate attempt to intervene rising within her. Swiftly and with astonishing dexterity, William thrust the blade into Anthony’s neck.
Her hand flew to her mouth once more to suppress the scream that threatened to escape. Blinking in shock, she bore witness to the horrifying sound of flesh being rent and the subsequent groan of agony as Anthony crumpled from the drawer to the floor. Just as adeptly as he had executed the act, William withdrew the knife and concealed it within his pocket.
For a few suspended moments, he surveyed the prone figure, the fury that had possessed his visage now supplanted by his customary frigid facade. Retrieving a handkerchief, he cleansed his hands of the bloodstains before departing the room.
When the sound of the door closing echoed in her ears, Cecily hastened to emerge from the confines of the cabinet, her steps directed towards her fallen brother. Lingering hope had whispered of a chance to rescue him, but his lifeless form extinguished that glimmer. The vitality in his eyes had dimmed, and Cecily sank to her knees, a hand muffling the sound of her sob.
Grief for him mingled with the dread of what his demise might signify for the title, yet not enough to elicit tears. Anthony’s cruelty had spanned her memory, a ceaseless torment. Gradually, she rose to her feet. The household needed to be informed of Anthony’s death, but they mustn’t learn of her presence in the room, so she was left with no choice.
Quietly, she left, softly closing the door behind her.
A week later
Sleep had evaded Cecily in the tumultuous week following her half-brother’s passing. A whirlwind of confusion and sorrow had swept over her as his body was prepared for burial and the somber funeral unfolded. Yet, the prevailing question in everyone’s thoughts pertained to the heir of the earldom. With no apparent successors, uncertainty gnawed at Cecily. Neither she nor Helen could inherit, leaving the identity of the next earl a source of unease. The family attorney had been summoned, but his arrival was delayed due to business in London, and he could not arrive until that very day.
Tea sat untouched upon a tray by the hearth, but Cecily couldn’t bring herself to sit down and partake. Who would be the new earl? And where had William gone after committing the unthinkable act? The secret of her presence as a witness burdened her; she dreaded the possibility that William might turn his malevolent intentions toward her if he discovered her vantage point in the closet. As she paced, the anticipation of Helen’s company tugged at her, even as her sister’s letters from the past week had taken a swift turn and now celebrated her newfound love and commitment to remain in Scotland as a clan’s lady. Cecily shared in her joy, yet that meant Helen’s return was postponed.
Once the new earl takes on his responsibilities, I’ll journey to see Helen. Staying here, among those who aren’t my close kin, serves no purpose. The notion provided solace—a promise of an impending departure as soon as the new earl assumed his role. However, Cecily wondered why the attorney hadn’t sent a message to inform her of the successor’s identity.
At that very moment, the door swung open, and Cecily let out a soft gasp at the sight of William’s approach. He wore a deep crimson suit this time, from coat to waistcoat to cravat.
“William,” she greeted, her posture stiffening as she clasped her hands together. “What brings you here?”
She had to maintain the pretense of encountering him for the first time in a while. He offered a smile and a slight bow, his demeanor as malicious as ever. She’d never quite understood why she’d felt an aversion to him all these years. However, now, having witnessed him extinguish another’s life, the same malevolence seemed to emanate from his features. Not unattractive, his green eyes gleamed with suspicion and malice. Tall and slender, he had slicked-back white-blond hair.
“Is this how one greets a cousin, Cecily?” he asked, his smile widening—a sight that heightened her unease. “I am here to offer comfort during your time of need. With your guardian gone and your sister absent, you stand alone. I thought you might appreciate companionship.”
“Why arrive only now? It’s been a week since Anthony’s passing.” She swallowed, trying to maintain her composure as William approached, his hands concealing their sinister intent.
“I was visiting a friend in Scotland; it took a while for me to return. The attorney needed time to locate me.”
She recognized his lie, suspecting that he’d been lurking somewhere nearby. Fury surged within her; her life had long been controlled by ruthless men, and she’d grown weary of it. She wished he would leave, for she was well aware of her own strength. Cecily couldn’t hold back, allowing the one thing she shouldn’t say to slip from her lips.
“Well, cousin, I must admit, the color yellow suits you far better.” Her teeth clenched as she exhaled, instant regret washing over her.
Comprehension dawned in William’s eyes, her heart skipping a beat as the door opened. An older man with spectacles stood behind the housekeeper.
“Mr. Wallen, Lady Cecily. Your father’s attorney,” the housekeeper introduced.
“Thank you, Mrs. Fields,” Cecily replied, fighting to steady herself as the old man entered the room with a bow.
“Lady Ridley, I am Mr. Wallen, and I have come to convey your father’s will and announce the next heir,” he said, turning to William. Cecily introduced them.
“Ah, splendid timing, Mr. Cavendish. It’s fortunate you’re already here.” He extended his hand to shake William’s.
“What do you mean?” Cecily inquired, the dreadful truth slowly dawning.
“This gentleman, your father’s cousin, shall assume the title of Earl of Seton.”
A chill raced through Cecily as her face drpaled; her grip on the back of a chair was her only anchor against fainting. Meanwhile, William smiled at her.
“I trust you don’t mind, Cecily. It will be wonderful to reconnect as family. There’s much to discuss. Mr. Wallen, please, have a seat. I’ll call for refreshments, and we can delve into the details.”
He led the attorney toward a table, but Cecily was paralyzed. As William neared the door, he paused beside her, gripping her arm.
“Join us, cousin,” he suggested, and as they moved toward the table, he leaned in and whispered, “Stay with me Cecily. I know you want to be with your sister. But if you do, you’ll lose the only family you have left. Because I will find her and repeat my actions.”
Cecily straightened, allowing William to guide her to the table alongside Mr. Wallen.
Chapter One
One year later
Cecily gazed down at the sparse words she’d managed to write for her sister.
Dear sister,
I know that I have still not come to see you in some time, but I am doing well here at Seton House.
She let out a sigh, hovering the quill above the paper as she pondered her next words. The transformation of her life since William took over as the new earl had upended everything she once knew. With his daughter Adelaide now part of their household, Cecily had forged a genuine friendship, a solace amidst the changes. But the absence of her sister lingered, a constant ache in her heart.
Cecily had discovered William’s habit of reading her letters not long after his arrival. From then on, her words had been constrained, veiled in a facade she knew he expected. The thought of escaping had crossed her mind, but the fear of William’s wrath, whether directed at her or Helen, had rooted her in place. With a heavy sigh, Cecily continued to pen the version of reality that William dictated.
It has been such a pleasure in the past year to help William and Adelaide set up the house. He has done well as the new earl, and he has made quite an impression in the society. Adelaide and I are like sisters, and I feel like father’s cousin is the father I have been missing for years. Anthony was no good at it; you know this, and now I feel safe under his guardianship. We are happy here all together, as if we are a new family. I am sorry that you have not yet had a chance to see them and meet Adelaide.
But how is Cory? I know you were eager for me to come and visit you, as I was, but there is so much to be done here, and William needs me. I cannot abandon them. Once they are more settled in, I might perhaps be able to come and visit you both at long last. Tell me all about your home and the clan. How has it been to be a Scottish lady? Mother would have been so proud of you.
Cecily quickly brushed away a tear that had trickled down her cheek. She couldn’t risk smudging the ink with her tears. If William didn’t notice the tear, Helen surely would, and her perceptive sister would demand answers. Cecily felt trapped, more so than ever. Since the day she had hidden in the closet in her brother’s study, she had felt like a ghost haunting her own life. Even when Anthony was alive, despite his flaws, he hadn’t made her feel so utterly powerless. Most of the staff who were present during Anthony’s time had been replaced by William’s own people. Their polite demeanor concealed their watchful eyes, reporting her every move to William. If only she could find a way to communicate with Helen without alerting William. Suppressing her fleeting hope, she dipped her quill into the inkwell and continued to write.
My living situation has improved; I’ve been moved to a new room that offers a breathtaking view of the sunset. It’s a small comfort to watch the sun dip below the horizon, knowing you might be doing the same. William has allowed me to personalize it to my liking, and I’ve taken full advantage by selecting the most exquisite curtains.
Your tapestries have found their place here, adding a touch of home to my surroundings. And that dress you gifted me for my birthday fits me like a glove; I’m wearing it as I write this letter. It’s as though I’ve found a way to bridge the distance between us through these simple things. Know that I hold you dear in my heart, Helen.
I miss you terribly and eagerly anticipate the day we can reunite.
Until then, remember me and think of our moments together.
With love, Cecily.
She signed her name with a flourish, stifling the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. As she blew on the ink and folded the letter, Cecily knew that Helen would read her words and believe the facade she had crafted. Her sister would remain blissfully unaware of the truth that lay beneath the carefully constructed sentences. Cecily’s gaze wandered around the cramped room she was confined to—a stark contrast to the luxurious life she had once known. The windows were bare, devoid of curtains or tapestries. Any that she had received had been swiftly claimed by William and offered to Adelaide instead.
The gown gifted by Helen was the sole remnant of her sister’s affection, yet even that now hung loose on her diminished frame. Over the past year, Cecily had been treated more like a servant than a family member, and the once plentiful meals had become scarce. She caught her reflection in a dusty mirror, her appearance now a far cry from the vibrant young woman she used to be. Her radiant cheer had faded, replaced by weariness and neglect. Dark circles clung beneath her eyes, constant reminders of the sleepless nights that had plagued her since the traumatic events in her brother’s study. The sound of footsteps echoed from above, causing dust to rain down from the ceiling. This cramped space beneath the stairs, her new abode, was a cruel reminder of her fall from grace.
She had been forcibly relocated from her spacious bedroom on the hillside to this desolate corner. She couldn’t help but wonder if William had orchestrated this confinement deliberately, imprisoning her not only physically but also emotionally. The mere mention of his yellow suit still tormented her thoughts, the weight of her mistake haunting her daily. If only she could erase those fateful words and find sanctuary within the walls of Helen’s castle, free from William’s grasp.
At least Adelaide remained a source of solace; that was the only truth in the letter. A gentle knock at her chamber door pulled her from her thoughts, and she rose with a yearning for a reprieve from the mundane tasks that dominated her existence. As she opened the door, a surge of hope coursed through her—it wasn’t another servant bearing instructions. Instead, Adelaide stood there, a welcoming smile lighting up her features.
“There you are,” Adelaide chimed, stepping into the room and casting a curious gaze around. Despite their strained situation, the family resemblance between them was striking. Both had cascading blonde hair, fair complexions, and vivid green eyes. The topic of their likeness had faded with time, yet their shared features still drew attention.
“Cecily, I wish you’d allow me to speak with Father. This situation is preposterous. You’re family, yet he’s assigned you to these quarters. The room he had refurbished for you has been ready for weeks now. There’s no excuse for this any longer.”
Cecily hesitated, her own predicament tightly bound by her knowledge of William’s watchful eye.
“No, please, Adelaide, I beg you not to intervene,” Cecily implored.
She feared that if Adelaide intervened, it might worsen their situation. William might even take measures to keep them apart, and Adelaide was the one bright spot in Cecily’s life.
I couldn’t bear that.
Adelaide put her hands on her hips. “Very well, but don’t think I’ll let this go. Anyway, I came to tell you that Father has suggested you go with us on a trip to McLaren’s land in Scotland.”
“Scotland?” Cecily asked, her mouth going dry. “I did not know that he was seeking a husband for you outside of England.”
Adelaide grimaced, and she picked up a book idly and flipped through it. “Nor I, but apparently, he wants the strength of a Scottish clan behind him. I had hoped that after his own disastrous marriage, he would allow me to choose, but he will not. So, will you come with us? We travel soon.”
“Yes! I will get ready as soon as possible!” she hurried to gather her things, and Adelaide laughed.
“Tomorrow we leave, Cecily, you do not have to prepare now.”
“Oh.” She stopped and smiled, trying not to give away the plan that was now forming her mind. “Very well. Thank you for including me.”
“Of course. You are family, and we are friends.” Adelaide squeezed her hands with affection.
Yet all Cecily could focus on in that moment was the hope that this trip to Scotland might provide her with the opportunity she needed—to slip away to Helen’s castle and find the freedom she so desperately craved.
Kai McLaren’s ears reverberated with the rhythmic pounding of his own heart. Amidst the chaos of the battlefield, the cacophony of agonizing screams and the clamor of clashing swords melded into an otherworldly din. Every sound seemed to drift to him as though he were submerged beneath the depths of a loch, far removed from reality. Time itself had slowed, and his own movements followed suit. Blood-stained the earth, transforming the grass into a morbid tapestry of crimson.
His gaze fell upon the figure of his brother, Torion, and a shout tore from his throat. Torion pivoted, a momentary smile illuminating his face at the sight of Kai still alive amidst the ferocious skirmish. Yet, a lurking shadow emerged, an enemy soldier stealthily advancing upon Torion. Before Kai could muster a cry of warning, the soldier’s blade descended, striking Torion down to his knees. A scream tore from Kai’s chest, an agonizing heartache that reverberated through his entire being. But his own fate soon caught up with him—a searing white pain engulfed him as his vision blurred.
Glancing downward, he found a blade buried between his ribs, agony radiating through every nerve. A panoramic scan revealed neither Torion nor his other brother, Rae, among the chaos. Collapsing to his knees, sweat drenched his body. The fight was over for him, and hands promptly seized him, hauling him toward a waiting cart. Bound and weakened, he was unceremoniously thrown inside. His screams blended with the anguished cries of others, fading as the distance grew. Darkness claimed him.
The piercing ordeal subsided as his eyes snapped open, and Kai lay there, grappling for breath. The bed was drenched with sweat, a cruel testament to the relentless grip of his recurring nightmare. Reality flooded back; he was ensconced within his bedroom, miles away from the battlefield’s horror. He touched the area on his side, once occupied by a blade, only to find the pain absent, replaced by healed flesh. Wearily, he pushed himself up, propped on his elbows, and covered his eyes.
The relentless intrusion of these dreams gnawed at him, leaving him feeling powerless and vulnerable. Each time he awoke, bathed in perspiration, he struggled to remember the true extent of his safety, untethered from the shackles of captivity. Freedom was his now, unburdened by the chains that had bound him. If only his mind could be convinced of this truth during the torment of sleep.
The recurring weakness of these nightmares left him feeling as though he was still shackled to the past, captive in ways beyond the physical. Even now, with his enemy defeated and his role as laird solidified, his psyche remained ensnared. Yet, he was free, and his younger brothers, Rae and Torion, were secure.
With a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose, his feet making contact with the icy stone floor. Progressing to the tall mirror in his room, he cast a scrutinizing gaze upon himself. Sleep had been undertaken in the nude, and despite his formidable build, the scars that adorned him revealed a narrative of past suffering. His shoulders and ribs were etched with these markers of his history. Fingers traced their path, an act of commitment, a means to acknowledge and assimilate the unchangeable past.
He had attempted to conceal these scars beneath an array of tattoos, yet he knew their location intimately, a map of his torment. His hands brushed the one his dream had centered on—the one he had cloaked with a hawk tattoo, a futile attempt to quell the nightmares. Yet, the phantom pain of the blade’s intrusion remained as tangible as ever, the dream’s vividness akin to the torment of reality. Kai’s fist clenched, despair creeping into his resolve. The nightmares were a relentless reminder, striking terror into his core, yet he could not fathom sharing his vulnerability with another soul. The deep-rooted fear of his past still clung, refusing to release its grip.
A knock echoed at his door, rousing Kai from his introspection. He responded, swiftly dressing in a kilt and shirt, before opening the door.
“My Laird, I wished to inquire about your well-being this morn. The meeting room holds much to discuss,” the voice of his father’s old advisor greeted.
Kai’s gaze bore into the man, irritation simmering beneath the surface. His father’s recent passing had thrust him into the role of laird—a title he felt ill-prepared to carry. His advisor, despite his incessant queries and demands, had offered solace during the turbulent period following his father’s death. Yet, the constant demands, the relentless pace, irked him, preventing even the opportunity to mourn his father’s loss.
“Mr. Murray, I thought that we’ve already mulled over enough for a lifetime?” Kai’s hand raked through his unruly brown hair, his piercing green eyes reflecting his frustration.
“I am afraid nae, my Laird. There is news. Ye should come tae the council room.”
“Very well.” He shut the door and grumbled as he made himself presentable.
Kai McLaren cursed under his breath as his hands plunged into the frigid water at his table. Another inward curse followed as he washed his face and neck, the cloth tracing trails that sent icy droplets trickling through the scruff of his beard. Winter’s sting was ever a surprise, a biting cold that could infiltrate skin and bone if one wasn’t vigilant.
Having grown up amidst the harsh Highland environment, he should have been accustomed to it, yet each year it managed to pierce him anew. It was the sort of cold that, left unchecked, could creep into one’s very veins, turning the body into a vessel of ice. He’d learned to anticipate the biting winds, the frost, and the relentless snow, ready to face the challenges of the season. Awakening before the fires were rekindled was an exercise in enduring the freezing embrace of the morning.
As he tied back his unruly hair and donned his boots, Kai’s coat followed, and he bundled his white shirt into his kilt. His broadsword hung by his side, a steadfast companion, and a hidden dagger resided within his boot. The battlefield that had nearly claimed his life, along with those of his brothers, had left an indelible mark. His weapons were no longer ornamental—they were a lifeline, a constant reminder of his vulnerability, and a lesson he’d been taught by his father. War’s harsh education had shown him the necessity of being ever vigilant, ready to safeguard his loved ones at a moment’s notice.
But the guilt of his father’s passing was an insidious weight that hung heavily upon him. Despite the attempts of his brothers to console him, the truth lingered: he couldn’t protect his father. The pain of that failure would remain with him indefinitely.
Now, the council’s audacity had reached a new height. Mere months since his father’s death, their eyes were already fixed upon the issue of succession. Pressuring him for a wife while he still wrestled with grief and a newfound responsibility was an affront. A growl of outrage had erupted from him upon learning of their intentions. The mantle of a lairdship may have demanded it, but Kai was far from prepared to be a husband or entertain the notion of a wedding.
When he approached the council room, its door stood closed. However, the low hum of discussion within reached his ears. He pressed a hand against it, taking a moment to summon the memory of his father’s wisdom and strength. His father had been a paragon of patience and tact—a stark contrast to Kai’s own bristling demeanor. Clinging to his father’s legacy, he gathered strength before pushing open the door.
Mr. Murray stood, while the other council members held their positions. Every gaze fixed upon him, Kai could sense the weight of their expectations. It was Mr. Murray who broke the silence.
“It is better ye know now than when yer bride arrives,” the advisor began, his tone brimming with an odd mix of formality and sympathy. “The council has made a selection for ye.”
“What?” The word erupted from him, carrying the full force of his disbelief and frustration. This time, he allowed his anger to surface without restraint. Whatever patience he’d invoked just moments earlier had vanished like a wisp of smoke. “Aye, and the lady in question shall arrive today.”
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