September 1313, Castle Stornoway, Isle of Lewis and Harris, the Scottish Highlands

Laird Darragh MacLeod and his trusted right hand, his brother Laurence, were seated by the blazing hearth in Darragh’s study, leaning forward in their seats, both nursing drams of whisky, talking in low voices.

The two brothers were very alike in looks, both tall, broad shouldered, with long dark hair, and the well-honed physiques of hardened warriors. Both had the same dark gray eyes the color of winter seas and storm clouds. But Darragh was the more dangerous-looking and imposing of the two, due to his being slightly taller that Laurence, broader in the chest, and generally larger in his well-muscled bulk. Besides his size and fearsome appearance, he exuded a natural authority without visible effort, having been raised to rule. And to fight.

“This is bloody serious, Laurence,” he was saying, his startlingly handsome features, carved into harsh planes by years of battle and responsibility, taking on a grim cast in the flickering glow of candlelight. The reflected flames of the fire danced in his dark eyes, adding a devilish cast to his already frightening appearance.

“That bastard Munro’s as crafty as a den of foxes,” he growled. “I had a suspicion this was on the cards sooner or later. I mean, he wants those overland trade routes across MacKenzie’s lands as much as I dae, fer all the gold and influence they can bring him, and because he’ll dae anythin’ tae ruin me.”

“Aye, he’s crafty enough tae have gotten in first and offered fer the MacKenzie’s lassie’s hand. If he daes wed her, he’ll have those trade routes all sewn up,” Laurence pointed out mercilessly.

Darragh scowled at his brother but knew he was right, though it was painful to admit. “Tell me somethin’ I dinnae ken.”

He took a swig of whisky and let the burn go down. “He’s been a thorn in me side fer years, sowin’ unrest in our territory and underminin’ our alliances, tryin’ tae blacken me reputation every chance he gets, tellin’ all sorts of filthy lies about me.

“He’s slowly chippin’ away at me power, and ’tis slowly poisonin’ our influence as well as seriously affectin’ our income.” As he spoke, his hatred for the man burned hot within his belly.

“Aye, he’s a devil all right,” Laurence agreed, knowing it all too well. “But he’s nay fool either. He’s never openly moved against us because he kens that a direct attack would earn ye the Crown’s protection.”

“And he kens I cannae retaliate openly without handin’ him the king’s favor. But if I dinnae stop this marriage, he’ll poison the well fer me with Ewan MacKenzie as well and make sure Ewan never grants us an alliance. We’ll never be able tae trade across his lands, and I cannae afford tae lose that chance. The future cost fer the clan will be too great.”

Laurence sipped his whisky thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, “Are ye sure the betrothal is official? I mean, has it been announced publicly yet?”

Darragh shook his head. “From what I’ve heard ’tis official, but I cannae be sure. It’ll be a stroke of luck if it has nae gone that far yet. But one thing’s certain, if we’re ever tae get access tae MacKenzie’s trade routes, then the promise or the betrothal or whatever it is must be undone fer the sake of the clan.”

“Have ye any ideas about how tae go about that? I mean, we cannae very well march up tae Ewan MacKenzie’s keep at Kintail and ask him about it,” Laurence said.

“Aye, as it happens, I have. Me source said that Laird Rory MacCallum is throwin’ a ball in a few days’ time at Dunollie keep, and guess who’s invited.”

“Let me guess. Elliot Munro and Ewan MacKenzie’s sister. Nay doubt accompanied by at least one if her braithers.”

“Spot on, man.” Darragh took long sip of whisky and savored it, letting it calm his whirring mind. “And I’m guessin’ that if the betrothal isnae official yet, the ball is where Munro intends tae make it publicly known that the lass is tae be his wife.”

“That makes sense,” his brother said with a nod.

“That’s why ye and me are gonna attend said ball.”

Laurence’s dark brows rose. “Are we now? And what d’ye intend tae dae at this ball? Throw the lass over yer shoulder and make off with her under Munro’s nose? Now, that would start a war, and we’d be on the loosin’ side with both Munro’s and MacKenzies against us.”

“Thank ye again, Braither, fer statin’ the bloody obvious. Nay. I dinnae ken what I’m gonnae dae yet. I’ll have tae play it by ear. I need tae find out the truth of the match. Is the betrothal official or nae. If it is, then is the lass marryin’ him out of duty tae her clan… or love?”

Laurence almost spat out his mouthful of whisky. “Love? What sort of a woman could love that slimy bastard? It hastae be duty. And anyway, what the hell difference daes that make in the grand scheme of things?”

Darragh lifted his gaze from his glass. “Because if ’tis a love match, then I’m nae sure I wantae ruin the lassie’s life in order tae get what I want.”

“And if she’s marryin’ him fer duty?”

“In that case, in me book, she’s still free and up fer grabs. And I reckon, with the right persuasion, Ewan would give her tae me rather than Munro.”

Laurence sat back and stared at his brother in frank amazement. “What? D’ye mean tae marry the lassie yersel’? After ye’ve spent years avoidin’ gettin’ shackled? I mean, if ye’d changed yer mind about takin’ a wife, then why did ye nae offer fer the MacKenzie lass yersel’?”

Darragh shrugged irritably. “I dinnae want tae marry, I never want tae get tied down by a wife, ye ken that well. But the time has come when, much as I hate tae say it, I have tae accept that too much is at stake fer the clan if I dinnae dae me duty and give up me freedom.”

“Christ, I never thought I’d hear ye say that, Braither. Ye’ve floored me. I think I need another dram.” Laurence leaned forward and refilled his glass from the flask on the table between them.

He offered the flask to Darragh. “Aye, me too,” he said, promptly swallowing the remaining whisky in his glass, then holding it out to be replenished.

The thought of giving up his bachelor freedoms and the casual female company he preferred to warm his bed bit deep. He despised the matrimonial state and the dangerous emotions involved in any close relationship with a woman, which he avoided like the plague. He had so far skillfully dodged the continual pressure from his advisors to wed and produce heirs.

But that was before hearing of the betrothal his mortal enemy to Ewan MacKenzie’s sister, a woman he had never met and knew nothing about. He needed those trade routes.

“So, the plan is fer us tae attend the ball at Dunollie and find out if the betrothal is official. If nae, then she’s fair game. I can match any offer Munro’s made tae MacKenzie and more tae gain her hand. I have a navy, he daesnae fer one.”

Laurence nodded. “And if the lassie loves the schemin’ jackass?”

“Let’s wait until we get there, eh? The important thing tae remember is we’re nae goin’ tae provoke a confrontation, just tae observe and find out the facts of the matter. Once I ken those, then I’ll decide me next move.”

“Just out of interest, what’s the lassie’s name?” Laurence asked.

Darragh shrugged. “Nay idea. ’Tis of nay importance. I’ll find out when I get there.”

“Cold, Braither, even fer ye, seein’ as ye’re set on marryin’ her yersel’. So, I suppose ye’ve never seen her and dinnae ken what she looks like. I mean if ye intend tae wed the lass…”

“I presume she has a head and two arms and legs or she would nae be in the market fer a husband, would she?”

Laurence smiled and shook his head. “Well, this promises tae be a match made in heaven, eh?”

“I dinnae care if she’s sky-blue-pink with spots all over her, man, as long as she’s got a tongue in her head and can say her vows, that’ll dae me fine. I dinnae intend tae spend a lot of time with her after we’re wed.” He looked into the flames. “’Tis those trade routes that I fancy. If I have tae make the sacrifice and take a wife, then those will make it worth me while.”

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