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Matheson Castle, The Scottish Highlands, Summer 1308

Catalina Matheson, her skirts held high, was running through the hallways of her father’s castle. She was on an urgent mission, having just been tasked by her father’s manservant to find her elder sister Anastasia and bring her, along with herself, to his study as soon as possible. Laird Matheson had important news to impart to his two daughters, it seemed.

Eager to obey their father’s summons and unable to help speculating about what his news could be, Catalina paused sporadically to open various doors and peek inside all the rooms where she thought she might find Anastasia at that time of the day. She tried her sister’s chamber first. It was empty. She went to the library, the chapel, the dining hall, then the vestibule, to ask the guards stationed there if her sister had gone outside—she had not—but all to no avail.

Then, she had an idea. Picking up her skirts once more, she raced in a very unladylike manner back up the stairs, to the castle’s third floor. She ran down the hall and threw open the door to the solar. Framed in the sunlight that was pouring through the enormous windows were three familiar figures.

One was Nancy, the girls’ lady’s maid, who was seated in a far corner of the room, her needle poised above the pile of darning on her lap. She looked at Catalina with a startled expression, her mouth hanging open.

Nancy was clearly on chaperone duty, for the other two figures, sitting on opposite sides of a small table in the window bay, with playing cards clutched in their hands, were her sister and their faithful friend and protector Dunstan Armstrong.

As Catalina stood on the threshold, panting, they both turned their heads towards her, surprise etched on their faces.

“Cat? Yer face is all red. Have ye been runnin’? What is it? Are ye all right?” Anastasia asked, her beautiful features creasing with concern as she scrutinized her younger sister.

“’Tis Faither, Ana,” Catalina puffed, holding her side. “He wants tae see us both in his study, now. He has some news tae impart.”

Anastasia exchanged a wondering look with her card partner. Dunstan, his eyes almost black beneath a mop of dark-brown curls, shrugged his powerful shoulders in response, expressing his ignorance of the matter.

“Oh?” Anastasia replied, turning back to Catalina. “D’ye ken what he wants tae see us about?”

“Nay, only that ’tis important and that we’re tae hurry, so ye’d better come quick.”

“Very well.” Anastasia placed her cards neatly down on the table and rose from her seat. Smoothing down her skirts, she smiled at Dunstan, “This probably willnae take long. Will ye wait fer me? I still have tae beat ye, so dinnae try tae cheat while I’m gone.”

“I wasnae thinkin’ of it, but now ye mention it , I think I might,” he replied, returning her smile while throwing down his cards and leaning back in his chair.

“Keep an eye on him while I’m gone, Nancy,” Anastasia told the maid with a chuckle as she crossed to the doorway. She put an arm about her sister’s shoulders and turned her about. “Come then, Cat, I suppose we’d better hurry.”

A few minutes later, both girls were in their father’s study, sitting in chairs before his enormous desk. They looked at him expectantly. Laird Matheson leaned his elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers, and looked at his daughters over the top.

Catalina thought her father was terribly handsome despite his nearly fifty years, and all the many responsibilities he carried on his shoulders. He was tall and powerfully built, with a stern, cleanshaven face, eyes the color of moss, and steely gray hair. However, it hurt her heart to see the obvious marks of weariness in the many lines on his face and the hollows beneath his eyes, for she loved him dearly.

“Thank ye fer comin’ so quickly, me girls,” he told them, his deep voice grave. “I have some important news tae give ye.”

“What is it, Faither? Why d’ye look so worried? Is it Chisholm again?” Anastasia asked, her voice laced with anxiety. Catalina tensed to hear the dreaded name. Their clan had been at war with their neighbor, the brutal Sir Henry Chisholm for the last four years, and the feud dominated their lives.

Their father sighed. Wearily, he moved to pick up a parchment from the desk and held it before him. “Unfortunately, ’tis always Chisholm.”

Catalina was staring curiously at the parchment in their father’s hands. It was unusually large and had bright red wax seals attached to ribbons dangling from it. It was unlike any missive she had ever seen. “What is that, Faither? A letter? It looks very grand,” she could not help remarking.

Her father looked at her keenly. “Aye, ’tis a letter from the king.”

Catalina and Anastasia gasped in unison. “The Bruce, ye mean?” Anastasia said, her voice full of wonder.

“Aye, The Bruce,” The laird confirmed it with a nod.

“But why is the king writin’ tae ye, Faither?” Catalina wanted to know, now burning with curiosity.

“Because I wrote tae him. This is his reply,” he said, indicating the parchment.

“What fer?” Anastasia asked.

“I asked him tae send me soldiers. I need men tae help me fight Chisholm. As ye both ken, this war he started between us has been goin’ on fer more than a year now. I’ve lost too many good men. I’m runnin’ out of resources, and I need help from the king tae keep fightin’ and tae try tae defeat Chisholm once and fer all.”

Fear struck at Catalina, and she and Anastasia exchanged worried glances as they reached for each other’s hands, seeking comfort.

“He’s never going tae give up, is he, Faither,” Anastasia said, her voice shaking slightly, an edge of fear to it. “Nae until ye agree tae let him wed me.”

The laird’s face twisted into an expression of furious disgust. “I made a serious misjudgment about Chisholm when I agreed tae let him marry Brenna. I thought he was a good man, that he truly cared about her, that he was the right man tae lead the clan after I’m gone.” He got up and began pacing about agitatedly, his hands curling into fists. Catalina and Anastasia looked at each other fearfully.

“But the way he acted when Brenna died, so cold, demandin’ tae have ye fer his wife in yer sister’s place, Ana, as if ye girls were naethin’ more than chattel.” He shook his head, his face dark. “Well, then I realized what sort of a man he really was. He’s proved it a hundred times over, with this insane war on us, claimin’ the marriage promisin’ him Brenna’s hand still stands and that I owe him a wife. He’s a bloody madman, and he’ll get his hands on ye over me dead body!”

The words struck terror onto Catalina’s heart, and she could feel from the way Anastasia was gripping her hand tightly that she felt the same.

Chisholm had been a dark and threatening presence in their lives ever since Brenna, their elder sister, had suddenly been carried off by a bout of fever a year before. She had been a mother to her two younger sisters, and her loss had been devastating. Not a day went by when they did not miss her terribly.

Yet Chisholm, careless of their grief, had maintained his crazy insistence on having Anastasia’s hand instead and had made their grief all the harder to bear through his continual attacks upon their clan.

“What daes the king say in his letter, Faither?” Catalina asked, filled with anxiety at the thought her remaining precious sister falling into Chisholm’s evil grasp and being forced tae wed him. “He’s going tae give ye the men ye need, is he nae?”

Her father resumed his seat with a heavy sigh and rubbed his hand distractedly over his short grey locks. “Nae exactly,” he replied grimly.

Catalina felt her sister tense up. “What? But Faither! What are we tae dae without men tae keep fightin’? What if Chisholm…” Her voice trailed off, the specter of a future as Chisholm’s wife, which would allow him to take control of their clan after their father’s death, looming large over them all. Catalina’s stomach began churning in fear.

“I havenae told ye all yet, lassie. The king writes tae say he cannae spare his own troops. He needs them fer his own battles if he’s tae hold his crown against the English. But he’s suggestin’ an alternative that will supply me with the men I need and protect ye from Chisholm ever getting’ his hands on ye at the same time. But there’s a certain price tae be paid if I’m tae secure this help,” he explained.

Catalina watched as her sister’s eyes widened. “And what is that?” she asked.

The laird hesitated for a moment before answering. Then, he said, “He’s suggestin’ an alliance with another clan, a powerful clan, with a powerful army.”

“But that’s good news, is it nae?” Catalina asked, somewhat relieved at the news help might be forthcoming. “So, why d’ye look so sad about it?”

“As I say, there’s a certain price tae be paid.”

“Please, Faither, dinnae keep us in suspense. Tell us, what is this price ye speak of?” Anastasia asked.

“’Very well. He’s offerin’ an alliance with the clan tae be secured… through a marriage.”

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Chapter One

Castle MacLeod, Isle of Skye

The Western Scottish Highlands, 1308

The tranquility of the summer eve was torn apart by the ringing clash of metal against metal, the dull, woody thud of shield ramming shield, and the grunting and panting of men fighting.

“Come on, Braither, dinnae be a killjoy and come tae the tavern fer a pint or two of ale, eh?” Arne MacLeod said, his tone persuasive through heavy, panting breaths. He sheathed his sword and pushed up his vizor to wipe a powerful forearm across his sweating brow. “I’ll tell ye what, we’ll go and get Haldor and bring him along too. We’ll make a night of it, three braithers together. What d’ye say?”

Despite his own ragged breathing, Arne’s elder brother Ivar MacLeod laughed from beneath his helmet, a strangely mirthless sound. “I wish ye good luck with that,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll have a wee wager with ye that Haldor will turn ye down, for he’ll nae leave Sofia, and Dahlia willnae let them go without her.”

“Then let her come, let them all come. We can have a family party. It’ll be grand. How long has it been since we’ve done something like that together?”

Ivar took off his helmet and shook his head, sending his long fair locks flying. His expression had turned grim at his brother’s words. “Nay. They’ll nae come, and I’ll nae come either,” he replied dully.

Arne took off his helmet and threw it on the ground along with his targe, the small round shield the Highland warriors used in battle and in training.

“Ach, come on, Ivar,” he cried, his exasperation evident. “Ye cannae keep on like this. We’re all grievin’ Thor’s loss, but d’ye think he’d be happy if he was here now and could see the way ye’re actin’?”

Ivar shot him a warning look, but in his frustration, Arne ignored it.

“Ye cannae spend yer whole life mournin’ fer him. Thor wouldnae want that at all.”

“Shut yer hole, Arne,” Ivar retorted angrily. “Ye dinnae ken how it feels tae lose yer twin. When Thor died…” Ivar wondered for a second how to expresses the torturous feeling. “It was like some sorcery was done and part of me went along with him.”

“He was me braither too, Ivar, and—” Arne tried to protest, but he was cut off by his brother.

“Ach, can ye nae see what a hypocrite ye are? Ye dare tae speak tae me like this when ’tis obvious tae everyone how ye’ve been affected by Thor dyin’. Bloody hell, man, ye’ve just named yer bairn after him! I still catch Dahlia cryin’ over him at times. Haldor’s just as bad. Ye see how he loses it when someone mentions Thor’s name. All of us have our own ways of dealin’ with it, and ye’re try tae tell me I cannae mourn him in me own way?”

“I’m nae sayin’ that and ye ken it,” Arne argued, picking up his helmet and targe. “But ye dinnae seem tae ken how ye’ve changed. ’Tis nae just me that’s noticed. Ye used tae like a joke and a laugh, but these days, I hardly recognize ye. Ye’re right when ye say a part of ye died with Thor, and what’s left is dark and cold. Ye’re rude and harsh when folk try tae talk tae ye. People are afraid of ye now, did ye ken that? By the Wee Man, ye’ve even shut out yer own family!”

“All this because I dinnae want tae go drinkin’ at the tavern,” Ivar growled, starting off across the training yard towards the castle. Arne followed him, keeping pace.

“All ye dae is train, train, train. Every day. That’s yer whole life now. I bet ye wish we could have a war so ye could get out on the battlefield and hammer some poor bastard intae the ground.”

“I dinnae want tae speak about this anymore,” Ivar said, letting out a string of colorful words as he strode along. But however hard he tried, he could not shake his brother off.

“Jaysus, Ivar! Ye cannae go on like this, livin’ only fer battle. The day is gonnae come when ye have tae marry, have a family, even if ’tis only fer the sake of the clan.”

They had reached the armory, and Ivar scoffed loudly as he violently shouldered his way through the door, making it bang against the wall. “Dinnae hold yer breath on that score, Arne, because I’m nae plannin’ on it anytime soon.”

Other soldiers inside the armory looked over and stared as the brothers barged in and practically threw their targes and helmets to the young lad responsible for their storage. Clutching the equipment, he backed away like a startled foal.

To Ivar’s annoyance, Arne did not seem about to give up, staying hot on his heels, following him out into the courtyard and all the way to the entrance of the keep. All he wanted to do was get to the privacy of his chambers, where he planned to spend the evening until dinner honing his blades and, yes, brooding the loss of his twin.

But they had not gotten within twenty feet of the keep when their sister came hurrying out, her head turning left and right, clearly searching for someone. When she spotted them, she came rushing to meet them. As she drew near, Ivar noticed the anxious expression on her angelic face.

“What is it, Dahlia,” he asked, instantly concerned. He hated to see his soft-hearted sister upset. She began to walk back with them toward the keep doors.

“’Tis Haldor. He wants tae speak with ye both in his study,” she said, an edge of worry in in her voice.

“I’ll be there as soon as I’ve cleaned up,” Ivar told her, but she shook her head. “He says he wants ye there now.”

“Ach, Jaysus,” Ivar muttered irritably. He was hot and sweaty and angry. He needed peace and quiet to calm down!

“What’s it about?” Arne asked as they passed through the pair of guards at the doors and went into the castle’s impressive vestibule.

“I dinnae ken, but he says ’tis urgent,” Dahlia told them.

They turned left and took the long, tapestry-lined hallway heading towards their brother’s study.

They reached the door to Haldor’s study and halted outside. Ivar rapped on the door, but it was not latched and it swung open. They entered together, and when Ivar saw his elder brother standing by the hearth with a parchment in his hand, a prickling sensation ran up his spine.

Haldor looked at them, and the expression on the laird’s face gave Ivar the feeling it was not going to be good news. Dread knotted in his gut when they joined Haldor, and Ivar spotted the King’s seal attached to the parchment. He had a sense of having lived that moment before, when a letter had arrived that had changed the course of all their lives. The last time it had happened, the letter had also been from The Bruce, commanding Haldor’s arranged marriage.

The atmosphere in the room pressed down upon him, and Ivar felt as though the three of them were collectively holding their breaths. Dahlia was standing as if frozen, clutching her hands in front of her chest. Ivar realized Arne must have felt the same as him because he swallowed loudly and asked with a tinge of resignation, “Who is it this time?”

Haldor gave a bitter little smile and laid the parchment down on a nearby table before regarding Ivar with his shrewd blue eyes. “The eldest,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice.

The world seemed to fall away from beneath Ivar’s feet. He did not know how he kept upright, for the room began spinning, and he thought he might retch.

Arne turned to him and he vaguely heard his brother say, “I told ye yer time would come, did I nae?”

Ivar ignored him and tried to pull himself together. “Who’s me bride?” he managed to get out, finally meeting Haldor’s eyes.

“The daughter of Laird Matheson.”

Chapter Two

One month later, The MacLeod Arms Inn, the Isle of Skye

“I am never goin’ on a ship again as long as I live,” Catalina Matheson declared with feeling, turning up her neat nose at the full plates of her fellow diners as they sat around the table in the inn’s rough and ready dining room and bar. “Ever since I got off that damned thing, I’ve felt sick. I dinnae ken how ye can eat a thing!”

“We can eat because we’re hungry,” her sister Anastasia replied in her usual calm, sensible tone. Stately in her elegant beauty, she appeared unaffected by the sea sickness that had assailed her younger sister so violently. She was delicately yet determinedly picking her way through the large serving of venison steak, mashed turnips, and greens in front of her. How she could do so considering the circumstances was beyond Catalina. But then, they were two very different people despite being sisters.

“Ugh!” Catalina said, her irritability heightened by the lingering nausea she could not seem to shake off. It was annoying to see everyone else tucking in with relish when all she could do without throwing up was to sip at a half pint of small beer.

“Ye could ask tae have some toasted bread maybe. That might settle yer stomach,” Anastasia suggested.

“Aye, ye should try tae eat somethin’ fer yer sake. And fer ours.” That was their guard, Dunstan, who was overseeing the sisters’ journey to the island for Anastasia to meet her betrothed, Ivar McLeod of Harris, the next in line to his brother, Laird Haldor MacLeod of Harris, at their castle.

“Dunstan, dinnae provoke her. She’s feelin’ poorly, and ye ken what she’s like.” Anastasia told the guard, yet the mild rebuke was accompanied by a sad smile for the handsome, dark-haired soldier. He looked back at her soulfully with his dark brown eyes.

Catalina could not help but notice the subtle exchange between the pair Anastasia and Dunstan had grown up together and were close friends—it was natural they would be sad about having to part when Anastasia left home to live with her husband.

But her bad mood had no mercy, and she snapped back at Dunstan without thinking. “And ye are lookin’ more miserable than me, Dunstan.”

“That’s enough, sister. Curb yer tongue,” Anastasia gently scolded her. “The folks hereabouts will be watchin’ us. I’m supposed tae be the happy bride-tae-be, on me way tae marry their laird’s braither. Ye goin’ around with a face like a funeral doesnae exactly make a good impression.”

Catalina was about to bark back that Dunstan’s face was as long as a horse’s too, but then she was suddenly gripped by guilt. She realized that in her distress, she was not being the supportive sister she should be at a time when Anastasia needed her most.

“I’m sorry, Ana, Dunstan, I forgot mesel’ fer a minute,” she apologized, hiding her blushes behind her mug of ale and sipping at the contents. Back at home, the sisters had already had words about Anastasia’s politically motivated marriage.

“How can ye marry him? Ye’ve never even met the man! He’s a stranger tae ye. Why, ye dinnae even ken what he looks like!” Catalina had said accusingly to her elder sister in the privacy of Anastasia’s chambers, shortly after the news of the betrothal had come through.

“How can I nae?” Anastasia had replied sadly, brushing out her long, dark tresses before the looking glass. “As ye well ken, the marriage has been arranged by King Robert the Bruce himself.”

“But ye dinnae love him. Ye’re seriously tellin’ me ye’re happy about spendin’ the rest of yer life with a husband ye ken naethin’ about?”

Anastasia gave a low groan of frustration. “Ach, Cat, ye dinnae ken the first thing about anythin’. Whatever I might feel about it, ’tis nae me place tae question the king’s word but tae obey, fer all our sakes. Besides, ’tis what Faither wants, fer the good of the clan.” She turned from the mirror, hairbrush in hand, to give her sister a warning look. “And it’ll dae you well tae keep yer mouth shut on the matter and keep yer opinions tae yersel’ afore ye go about spreadin’ rumors and ruinin’ people’s reputations with yer flights of fancy.”

“I’d never marry a man I didnae love,” Catalina said defiantly from where she was lounging on Anastasia’s bed. In her naivety, she was careless of her sister’s feelings. It did not make sense to her that Anastasia should be taken away from her and forced to marry this Ivar MacLeod, nor that she should accept it so calmly. “Ye should just go ahead and run away somewhere,” she suggested, finding the idea intriguing. “They couldnae do anythin’ about it then.”

“And where would I run tae? Ye’re spoutin’ nonsense again. And anyway, if I did run away, it would put ye in line tae take me place as Ivar’s bride,” her sister pointed out. She turned back to the mirror and began brushing her hair again, her beautiful face a tragic mask.

“Oh.” Catalina had not thought of that. She considered it for a moment or two, and then her natural bravado made her say, “Nay matter, fer I definitely would run away, somewhere where they’d never find me.”

Anastasia let out a small laugh, which belied her grave expression. “’Tis touching how ye still seem tae believe we women have any say in such matters. Daughters of laird’s are pieces in a board game, tae be moved about by men fer political advantage. If it makes ye happy, just keep on thinkin’ ye have some freedom tae choose. But I warn ye, yer turn tae be wed will come soon enough, ye’ll see, and if ye love yer husband, then ye’ll be damned lucky.”

It was now a month since their father, Laird Matheson, had received the letter from Robert the Bruce, King of the Scots, commanding the union. Catalina had been shocked at how calmly Anastasia had taken it. But that was Ana, gentle and dutiful, so unlike herself.

So, here they were, in Skye, the epicenter of MacLeod land, dining at the inn a few miles from castle MacLeod. Poor Anastasia was preparing to set eyes on her prospective husband for the first time on the morrow. Catalina could not even imagine how she must be feeling. She simply felt enraged on her sister’s behalf, because the compliant Ana seemed unable to be angry herself.

Catalina and Anastasia’s father, Bertram, Laird of Clan Matheson, had set out the plan for Anastasia’s marriage to Ivar MacLeod at a family meeting in his study a mere four weeks ago.

“I’ve arranged with Laird Macleod for Anastasia to meet her betrothed at his family’s castle on Skye a month before the wedding. Ye’ll be accompanyin’ her, Catalina.”

“Aye, Faither.” She had supposed it was not surprising that she should go to support her sister, and she was not unwilling to have a little adventure away from home. It was quite an exciting prospect. However, secretly, she intended to make this Ivar and his family understand how much she disapproved of the forced match.

“The ceremony will take place here, so, Anastasia, ye and Ivar will have a month tae get tae ken each other before he and his closest family accompany ye home for the celebrations.”

“Aye, Faither,” Anastasia had replied meekly, head bowed.

“But why, Faither? Why does she have tae go through with it? She’s never even met this Ivar. He could be a monster,” Catalina protested on her sister’s behalf.

“Hush, Catalina,” her father had said with annoyance. “Ye ken the situation very well.”

She had had no choice but to cease her questions, but that did not mean that they stopped gnawing at her.

Back at The MacLeod lands, chastened somewhat by her sister’s uncharacteristic rebuke, Catalina remained silent while Anastasia and Dunstan finished their meals, giving off an air of somber stoicism.

“’Tis getting’ late,” Anastasia said solemnly at last, finishing her small beer and moving to rise. Dunstan was on his feet at once, pulling out her chair. “Thank ye, Dunstan. I’m goin’ tae retire tae our chamber.”

“Aye, I think I’ll go and check on the horses and then turn in as well,” the guard said dully in his deep voice.

“Are ye comin’ up, Cat?” Anastasia asked, looking over at her. The sisters had taken a double room and would be sharing the bed.

Catalina, temperamentally incapable of pretending she was happy, even for Anastasia’s sake, turned up her nose again. They had inspected the room earlier, and she had not been impressed with the standard of cleanliness or comfort. She was not looking forward to having to sleep in the bed provided, for she suspected it might have bugs living in it.

“I still dinnae understand why we have tae stay here tonight when we’re only a few miles away from Castle Macleod,” she burst out irritably, her queasiness still plaguing her. “If we hadnae stopped here then we could have been there in a couple of hours and slept in comfort.”

“Again, we decided it would be best tae spend the night in the village out of consideration fer yer hosts,” Dunstan told her, his harsh tone finally betraying how frayed his nerves really were. “Ye ken we had a rough voyage and arrived later than expected. It would hardly be good manners tae go bowlin’ up tae the castle in the middle of the bloody night, disturbin’ the family and likely pullin’ them from their beds, now would it?”

Catalina opened her mouth to answer back, but her sister quickly intervened.

“Ach, all right, all right ye two. Stop yer snipin’, will ye?” she said with uncharacteristic impatience, her finely arched brows meeting in a frown. “Well, I’m tired. Are ye comin’ up or nae, Cat?” she asked again. She looked wan and miserable, and it made Catalina angry just looking at her.

“Nay, I think I’ll stay down here a little longer, at least ‘til me stomach settles a bit. Ye go on up tae bed, and I’ll come up a wee bit later,” she replied, thinking it was better not to inflict her sour mood on Anastasia any further for the time being. Besides, she relished the idea of being alone with her thoughts for a while. Tomorrow was going to be a difficult day, and she was dreading it.

“Very well. I’ll see ye later. But dinnae stay up too late. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow,” Anastasia reminded her in a weary tone before she and Dunstan left together.

Catalina remained at the table, watching their retreating backs. Once they had vanished from sight, she glanced covertly around the room. There was no clock, so she had no idea what the hour was. But she knew it was late because it was summer, and darkness lurked beyond the murky windows of the inn.

Most of the clientele had gone. Save for the potboy going from table to table, collecting up mugs and tankards, and the innkeeper wiping a dirty cloth over the counter, there were only a handful of patrons lingering, most of them snoring in their cups.

With nothing to do and still feeling slightly sick from the voyage, she thought she would go outside for some fresh air and try to walk it off before retiring. She took her shawl from the back of her chair and looped it around her shoulders as she rose. Heading for the door, she opened it and went outside, standing on the threshold of the inn for a few moments to get her bearings.

A half-moon and the stars illuminated the unfamiliar landscape with silvery light, lending it an almost magical air. Skye was famously beautiful, and she looked forward to exploring the island in daylight. She only wished they were there in happier circumstances.

At that moment, neither the darkness nor what might lie concealed within it troubled her. As she stepped out onto the packed dirt forecourt of the inn and began walking towards some nearby woods, it did not occur to her that she could be in any danger. He father had made sure that both she and Anastasia could defend themselves well with a knife, and Catalina took pride in being able to take care of herself. She always carried the dirk he had given her on her fifteenth birthday. At that very moment, it was tucked beneath her skirts in her garter just in case. Woe betide any man who tried to attack her.

She followed a little path that led into the wood, taking some simple pleasure in the soughing of the trees, the nearby hooting of an owl, and the small rustlings of the nocturnal creatures going about their business. The moon sent shards of clear, bright light down through the canopy of leaves as she entered below. It dappled the undergrowth surrounding the narrow path, so she could see her way quite clearly as she wandered between the trunks.

Her thoughts drifted back to the upcoming wedding. Of course, she understood how important it was to the future of her clan, but that did not make it any easier to swallow the fact that she would soon lose her sister and dearest confidante to marriage. She was going to be awfully lonely and would miss Anastasia terribly.

They had never really been apart for any length of time. Her sister had already told her she could come and stay at Castle MacLeod as often as she liked. But that would leave their parents alone, and as their last surviving daughter, she did not want that either.

It was at that moment that she thought she heard a high-pitched whimper somewhere off in the near distance. Her hackles rose at the eerie sound, and she stopped in her tracks to listen. There it was again… and again. It sent shivers up her spine, and she recognized it at once as the sound of an animal in distress, the sound of fear.

Catalina could never stand the thought of an animal suffering, so with her ears cocked, she stealthily moved closer to the source of the pitiful sounds. But a few moments later, she froze again. Loud rustling could be heard nearby, and a heavy tread that cracked the twigs and leaves underfoot. There was something else moving about amid the trees, something big.

Warily, she slipped her hand beneath her skirts and pulled out her dirk. Creeping forward as quietly as she could, she came to a place where the trunks thinned out slightly where they bordered a small, grassy clearing just a few yards wide. She remained in hiding while she scanned the area, which was brightly illuminated by the moonlight.

What she spied a few yards away from her made her put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp of shock.

There was a man, a giant of a man, she estimated he must be over six feet tall, clad in leather trews, a padded, buff-skin coat, high-top boots, and he was armed with a sword. Long, fair hair hung down past his shoulders, concealing his face.

At first, she had trouble seeing what he was doing because he was turned slightly away from her. He was crouching, his arms outstretched either side of him. She could hear him talking in a low, deep whisper, but she could not make out any words.

There came another shrill bleat of fear, and a small movement at the base of the tree showed her that the heart wrenching sound was coming from a fawn. She had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to burst out as her heart flooded with pity for the helpless little thing.

It was lying on the ground backed up against the tree, its liquid eyes wide with fright as it struggled to get up. But its front leg appeared to be hurt, and it could not stand. Its cries of pain and fear tore at Catalina’s heart. How could anyone wish to harm such a beautiful creature?!

The monstrous man was clearly responsible for its injury. Most likely he had shot at it with an arrow and injured it, and it had tried to escape a horrible fate. Now, he was trying to corner the poor little creature, intending to kill it. Cold fury flooded her limbs at his brutality. She clenched her teeth and gripped the dirk tightly in her fist, determined to stop him.

She stepped out from her hiding place into the clearing, brandishing her dirk. “Leave it alone, ye bastard!” she growled angrily in a low tone, not wishing to scare the injured fawn further. “Back off right now, or ye’ll be sorry!”

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Prologue

MacLaren Castle, two weeks earlier

Dust rose in the air as Cathleen’s feet stomped. She had left the healer’s quarters in a rush, neglecting her work after she heard two servants talk about the troops training for war and making her way to the training grounds to demand explanations instead.

There couldn’t be a war. Such a decision would be madness.

When she made it there, heart lurching in her chest at the sight of the army training, she spotted her sister waving her arms wildly as she spoke to Fergus, the clan’s Captain. The closer she got to them, the clearer Bonnie’s voice became as she shouted at Fergus, her brown eyes wild with rage, strands of chestnut hair falling off the careful updo she was sporting and floating around her head like a mane.

“If ye ken what is best fer ye, ye will explain this right the now, Fergus,” Bonnie said, jabbing a finger in his wide chest. The man looked down at her, unimpressed by her efforts, though Cathleen never once saw him try to argue. When her sister was like this, no one could oppose her. “What is the meanin’ o’ this? Why are they trainin’?”

Fergus let out a weary sigh, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Ye should speak with the laird,” he said. “I’m sure he will explain everythin’. The orders came from him.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes at the mention of the laird, as she always did. Both she and Cathleen were opposed to Laird MacLaren, who had taken the lairdship only a year prior, after the death of their parents. Faolan was far from the laird their clan deserved, the sisters knew. But what could they do? Their parents hadn’t produced an heir and neither of them was married yet, so their cousin had taken over. They had no choice but to put up with Faolan until one of them wedded as according to their father’s will.

“So ye’ve said.” Bonnie took another step forward, closing the distance between her and Fergus, though he was quick to take a step back. For such a large man, he certainly seemed disturbed by Bonnie’s sudden proximity. “But Laird MacLaren,” she said, all but spitting out the name in contempt, “doesnae wish tae talk tae me or me sister. He doesnae talk tae us about such things.”

“Perhaps because it isnae yer place,” said Fergus.

It was immediately apparent to everyone around him that it was the wrong thing to say. Everyone came to a halt, save for Bonnie, who seemed prepared to throw herself into a fight against him simply to get rid of her rage.

Hurriedly, Cathleen stepped between them. This, too, was madness. Nothing good could come out of this argument, and no one else was going to put a stop to it.

“Bonnie, let us speak with the laird,” she said calmly, trying to block her view of Fergus. It did little to help, not only because Cathleen’s body was hardly enough to cover half of him, but also because Bonnie was like a dog with a bone, refusing to let go of this. “Surely, if we ask him, he will tell us.”

For a few moments, it seemed as though Bonnie would demand to have Fergus’ head, but in the end she relented. With one last disgusted look at the man, she turned around and stalked away. Cathleen following close behind.

“If I hear one more person callin’ that man the laird…” said Bonnie, her voice trailing off with a furious growl. “I’ve had enough. He doesnae deserve the title. He has done naething but bring misfortune tae this clan.”

Cathleen could hardly disagree. Ever since Faolan had taken on the role of laird, he had been cruel and thirsty for power, doing anything he could to gain the council’s approval in the hopes that he would remain the laird of the clan even if one of the sisters married. It wouldn’t be easy to get him to give up the position, Cathleen knew, even if his role as laird was supposed to be only temporary.

As Cathleen followed Bonnie, she soon realized they were walking to the laird’s study. Bonnie didn’t even bother knocking on the door before she shoved it open, nostrils flaring at the sight of Faolan sitting at their father’s desk.

Cathleen and Bonnie had spent countless hours in that study, surrounded by their father’s books, the old furniture passed down from one generation to the next, the heavy tapestries that hung from the walls. As children, they would sit by the fire as their father worked, content to spend the time by his side. Sometimes he would read to them, when he had the time. Other times, their mother would join them and the four of them would play games for hours.

It was odd, seeing Faolan where their father should be sitting. Even a year after his death, he was a palpable presence in the room, living on through their memories and all the items that had once belonged to him.

“Have ye forgotten how tae knock?” Faolan asked, raising an eyebrow at the two of them as they entered the room. Unlike their father, who had been a lithe, regal man, Faolan seemed to take up a big part of the desk, towering over everything around him. He looked like a man bred for war. “Or have ye forgotten this is me study?”

Next to Faolan stood Ronald, his most trusted advisor, and it was clear to Cathleen that they had interrupted a very serious conversation between them. On the desk laid several papers scattered about, and though Cathleen couldn’t read them from such a distance, she didn’t even need to look at them to know they were battle plans.

“What is the meanin’ o’ this?” Bonnie demanded. “Fergus willnae tell me why the army is trainin’ like they’re about tae go tae war. Is this what ye’re plannin’?”

Faolan only stared at the two of them in silence for several moments. Cathleen glanced between him and her sister, trying to gauge who would give in first. Knowing her sister, she wasn’t going to back down until she had the explanations she wanted.

“Bonnie, if ye would be so kind as tae leave us fer now,” said Faolan with the kind of politeness that everyone around him knew was nothing but a facade. “I would like tae speak tae Cathleen alone.”

“That doesnae answer me questions,” said Bonnie. “An’ anythin’ ye have tae say tae me sister, ye can say tae me, as well. I’m nae leavin’.”

“I will explain everythin’ tae ye in due time,” Faolan insisted. “Leave us now.”

Bonnie’s anger flared at the dismissive tone of Faolan’s words. She took a step forward, but Cathleen placed a gentle hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“It’s alright, Bonnie,” she assured her. “I will find ye soon.”

This was a way for Cathleen to try and figure out what was going on. Perhaps without Bonnie there, Faolan would be lulled into a false sense of security and he would reveal his plan to her. It was Bonnie that everyone feared in that castle, Bonnie who could make men crumble with nothing but her words and a scathing look. Cathleen wasn’t as feared—or as spirited as her older sister.

Perhaps it had something to do with her being the younger one. Bonnie seemed to have a fire burning inside her that Cathleen hadn’t yet managed to ignite, but her docile character also had its perks.

Hesitantly, Bonnie dragged her gaze away from Faolan, but she still didn’t move. “Are ye certain?” she asked Cathleen.

Nodding, Cathleen, steered her to the door. “I’ll be fine. An’ I will speak with ye later,” she said quietly. They exchanged one final look of solidarity before Bonnie left and Cathleen closed the door, turning to look at her cousin.

Every time their gazes met, she couldn’t help the revulsion that welled up inside her. She knew for certain that if he ever had the chance, he would do anything in his power to get rid of her, Bonnie, and anyone else who stood in his way.

“Sit,” Faolan said, gesturing at the empty chair across from him. Cathleen perched herself on the edge of the chair, her gaze falling on Ronald.

“I thought ye wished tae speak tae me alone,” Cathleen reminded him. “Shouldnae Ronald also leave?”

“He can stay,” said Faolan. “He already kens what I wish tae tell ye.”

“But me sister cannae ken?”

“She will,” said Faolan. “Like I said, in due time.”

Cathleen wasn’t going to get a better answer than that, she knew. With a sigh, she opened her arms wide as if to ask Faolan to continue. The sooner he had told her everything he had to say, the sooner she could go to Bonnie and report everything to her.

“We have a plan tae attack Clan Drummond,” said Faolan. The attack itself wasn’t a surprise to Cathleen, but the target was. Why would Faolan want to attack a clan as powerful as the Drummonds?

“The Drummond Clan?” she asked, eyes widening. “But they have men. They have support.”

“Aye, that is true,” said Faolan. “They have the support o’ the Murrays an’ the Hays. An’ that is precisely why they will make a good target.”

It didn’t take long for Cathleen to connect things in her head. Faolan wanted to get as many lands and as much power as he could, as quickly as he could. He would need it to sway the council, to show them he would be the best choice for the position of the laird even if Cathleen and Bonnie married.

It would be a very big reward for him if he managed to achieve his goal, but the plan was too risky. Cathleen didn’t think it was wise, waging wars against not one, but three powerful clans, all of them connected by the unbreakable bonds of marriage. They were not simply allies; they were a family. If Faolan attacked one of them, the other two would surely come to the rescue.

“This is madness,” Cathleen said, alarmed by the sudden reveal of his plans. “Why would ye risk so many o’ our men? Why would ye risk our clan? If ye fail, there will nae longer be a MacLaren Clan, dae ye nae see that? They will kill us all. An’ it’s more likely ye will lose than win.”

“If we attack,” Ronald said. “But if the plan we have succeeds, then there is a good chance we will win.”

“The plan?” asked Cathleen. She already didn’t like the way that sounded, even if neither Faolan nor Ronald had said anything about it yet. “What is this great plan, then?”

“Well… I will need yer help fer it,” said Faolan, leaning closer over his desk. “I need ye tae find a way tae enter Castle Drummond. Perhaps ye could tell them ye are a healer. Once ye’re there, ye will gather all the information ye can an’ then ye will help me capture Laird Drummond’s wife. Once we have her, we will have leverage. They will have nae choice but tae engage.”

Cathleen stared at Faolan, her mouth hanging open in shock. She couldn’t believe her own ears. Had her cousin truly suggested that she should help him hurt an innocent woman? How could she do that and maintain a clear conscience?

How could she do that at all? She wasn’t trained for any of this. She could hardly lie.

“Ye must be mad if ye think I will dae somethin’ like that fer ye,” she spat, gaze hardening as she looked at him. “I willnae be part o’ yer plans, nor will I support them. In fact, I will tell the council precisely what I think about yer plans.”

Surely, the council would understand just how dangerous and senseless it was to lead such an attack on three powerful clans. They weren’t blinded by Faolan. In the time he had been the laird of the clan, he had achieved nothing of note, nothing that set him apart from his predecessors. The only thing that made him different was the cruelty that accompanied his ambition, and no one in the clan save for his closest people valued that.

“Very well,” said Faolan. “I cannae force ye tae dae this if ye dinnae wish tae.”

Cathleen frowned. It couldn’t be so easy to convince him, she thought—it never was. She had expected him to insist, to try to sway her, but he did none of those things. He must have been hiding something from her. It couldn’t be explained in a different way.

“O’ course,” he continued, leaning back in his seat with a sickening smile, “if ye dinnae agree, I will have nae choice but tae wed Bonnie. I, personally, am in nay rush to marry but if it must be, then I shall. An’ then the clan will be mine regardless.”

A chill ran down Cathleen’s spine, as though she had been doused with a bucket of cold water. She should have expected something like this from Faolan. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, even if it meant condemning Bonnie to a life by his side as his wife.

Cathleen couldn’t allow that. She had to do anything she could to save her sister from such a fate, even if it meant putting her life in danger by going to Castle Drummond.

Even if it meant putting another woman’s life in danger.

I have nae choice. Perhaps I can find a way out o’ this but I must agree tae his plans at least for now.

Cathleen’s lips curled into a snarl, fingers digging into the armrests of the chair where she sat. Rage coursed like venom through her veins, and she didn’t yet trust herself to speak without her voice wavering.

“So?” asked Faolan. “What will ye choose? Yer sister or a lassie ye have never even met?”

“I’ll dae it,” said Cathleen, her voice barely a whisper.

“I thought ye might choose that,” said Faolan with a pleased smile. He had Cathleen right where he wanted her. She was unable to say no. She was unable to do anything but what he asked of her as long as he threatened to force her sister into an unwanted marriage.

Bonnie would suffer by his side, that much was certain. She would wither and slowly disappear, leaving nothing but a shell of her former self behind.

Cathleen couldn’t allow that.

“But I will take Bonnie with me,” she said, glaring at Faolan and Ronald. “I dinnae trust ye tae be here alone with her. She will come with me.”

Faolan only gave a small, uninterested shrug. “I dinnae care what ye dae, as long as ye bring me the results I want. If ye wish tae take her with ye, then so be it. If anythin’, it will finally be quiet here. But dinnae do anythin’ stupid just because I’m nae there tae watch. I will find out.”

Cathleen had nothing to say to Faolan. He had finally revealed everything about himself. He had shown Cathleen just how vile a man he was, and she didn’t want to spend another moment near him.

Silently, she stood and left the room, banging the door shut behind her. Her stomach turned itself into knots at the thought of what she would have to do, but she swallowed down the bile that rose up her throat. She had to be strong now.

If not for herself, then for Bonnie.

Chapter One

Present Day, near Drummond Castle

The town was busy, as usual, the market filled with people who perused the stalls. Cathleen and Bonnie had been there for a few days already, formulating their plan and waiting for the right moment to attack, and the day had finally come.

Cathleen both dreaded it and wanted to finish her task as soon as possible. The sooner she was done with all this, the sooner she could stop worrying about the consequences—not only the ones she would have to face, but also the ones others would face. Guilt flooded her every waking moment at the thought that she would do something so cruel to an innocent person. It didn’t help that in the days they had spent in the town, everyone around them had raved about Laird Drummond, praising him not only as a good laird, but also as a man.

Everyone loved their leader, it seemed. They had nothing bad to say about him and that only served to worsen Cathleen’s guilt. Had he been as cruel as Faolan, then perhaps it would have been easier to convince herself that what she was doing was for the best. As it was, the thought of hurting those people she didn’t even know was enough to make her crumble every night in secret, when Bonnie was asleep.

She had no choice but to go through with the plan. She knew that, and yet every day she was closer to telling Bonnie the whole truth and simply taking her out of that town, somewhere where the two of them could be together, away from Faolan and his threats.

But how could she leave her people behind? How could she leave the clan in Faolan’s hands when she knew what he planned to do?

Such a war as Faolan wanted to wage would spell the end of her people.

Bonnie’s hands trembled where they were wrapped around the bow tightly, as though loosening her grip for even a moment would mean that she would lose her courage to do this. Cathleen wrapped her own hands over them, giving her a reassuring squeeze and a weak smile, though she was certain they did little to calm her sister. Behind the cover of the tall bushes near the market, they were hidden from any prying eyes, but Cathleen kept her voice in a low whisper to be safe.

“Ye can dae this,” Cathleen said. “Everythin’ will be fine.”

“What if I injure him too much?” Bonnie asked, horrified at the mere prospect of causing too much damage. “What if… what if I kill him? What if my aim is bad?”

“Yer aim has never been bad,” Cathleen reminded her. Bonnie was the best archer in their clan. She had always been talented with a bow and arrow, her aim landing true ever since she was a child. There was no way she would miss now.

Unless her hands keep tremblin’ like this.

Cathleen had to keep her sister calm. Anything else could turn into a disaster for them and for Laird Drummond.

“Ye have practiced fer this,” she said. “Ye only have tae graze his arm or his leg. Trust yerself, Bonnie. If there is anyone who can dae this, it’s ye.”

Bonnie nodded, though her thoughts seemed to be far away, her gaze distant. Cathleen’s grip on her hands tightened, bringing her to the present, and when Bonnie’s eyes met hers once more, they were finally clear.

“Ye can dae this,” she insisted, as she pressed a kiss to her cheek and let go. “Focus on the man with the silver mask.”

Giving another nod, Bonnie assumed her position, preparing to string an arrow. If the information they had received was correct, then Laird Drummond would soon come to the town. He visited once every month, they had found out, to ensure the townspeople were content and had everything they needed, which only strengthened his popularity amongst his clan.

It had been easy to learn things about the man. The townsfolk was eager to talk about him, singing his praises, and no one had suspected two young women like Cathleen and Bonnie. Cathleen had to admit that Faolan’s plan to send her had been clever—had he sent a scout, perhaps it would have been far more difficult to get what he wanted.

Glancing over her shoulder at her sister one last time, Cathleen snuck out of the bushes and mingled with the crowd that milled about the market. She hadn’t dared to tell Bonnie the whole truth. She knew from the moment Faolan gave her the two options that if Bonnie found out, she would choose to marry him simply so that she could put an end to the war before it could even begin, but Cathleen couldn’t allow that. She couldn’t let her sister sacrifice herself like that.

Instead, Cathleen had said that Faolan had threatened to force a wedding upon her. Naturally, the moment Bonnie had heard that, she had sworn to keep Cathleen from such a terrible fate, no matter what it would take.

And all of that had brought them here now, to this town, the two of them waiting for Laird Drummond to show up so they could injure him, in the hopes that after Cathleen used her skills as a healer to help him, she could convince him to allow her to work at the castle as a healer. It was not only risky, but there was also no guarantee that it would work. Cathleen had heard the locals talk about the healer of Drummond Castle and how she was currently too far with child to work, but that didn’t mean the laird would give the position to her so easily.

It didn’t take long for a man to capture Cathleen’s attention. She had no doubts he was Laird Drummond, as he was sporting his usual silver mask, which hid half of his face. Some said he was terribly disfigured while others spun tall tales about him, claiming that he didn’t want anyone to know what he truly looked like or that he had other men who looked like him doing his bidding. Cathleen paid little attention to those stories, though. Whatever it was, it didn’t change her objective.

As soon as the laird showed up, people flocked to him like moths to a flame, attracted by his warm and kind nature. Not for the first time ever since they had put this plan in motion, a wave of nausea washed over Cathleen at the thought that she was going to put such kind people in danger. It was true that the bulk of the blame lay with Faolan, but that didn’t absolve her or Bonnie of responsibility.

Casually, Cathleen inched closer, pretending to browse the goods the sellers had on display. She had to be near when Bonnie’s arrow hit the man, so she could be the first to offer her assistance, in case there was someone else there who was knowledgeable on the craft of healing.

She was gazing absently at a piece of lace when screams erupted around her. When she looked over her shoulder and saw the panicked eyes of the crowd, she knew Bonnie had finished her task. Quickly, she banished the smile that threatened to spread over her lips and rushed to the laird’s aid, pushing through the crowd.

Chapter Two

It was an unusually warm day in the town even for summer, the sun shining brightly over the town. Macauley cursed under his breath with every drop of sweat that coated his brow as he and Kian navigated the streets, their horses left at the local inn at Kian’s insistence.

He liked to walk, he said.

Well, he can walk. I like tae ride.

He could hardly bring his horse in the middle of the market on such a busy day, of course, since the stalls and the crowds took up so much space. Though Macauley usually enjoyed visiting the town with Kian and talking to the locals, this day seemed to have started on a very wrong note for him.

“After this, I’m goin’ tae the inn an’ I’m drinkin’ a nice cup o’ ale,” he told Kian as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Next to him, his friend was perfectly put-together, not a strand of hair out of place.

Perhaps it comes with bein’ the laird. He always magically looks perfect.

Macauley couldn’t help but resent him for it, just a little.

“An’ I will join ye,” said Kian, giving him a pat on the back. As they walked, he stopped a few times to talk to the locals, exchanging pleasantries and listening to their concerns while Macauley stood by his side, mentally noting any issues they would have to resolve at a later time.

It was his favorite part of the job. Being Laird Drummond’s advisor came with many perks, but what he loved most was that he could help people. He could listen to them, he could solve their problems, he could take care of his clan.

He could do what he did best.

“Macauley,” Kian said suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. He tilted his head to the side with an odd rise of his eyebrows, and Macauley followed the direction he was pointing at to see a young woman smiling at him.

Quickly, he averted his gaze.

“Is she nae tae yer tastes?” Kian asked, laughing at his reaction.

“She’s bonnie,” said Macauley with a small shrug.

“But nae bonnie enough?”

“She’s very bonnie, Kian.”

“I dinnae understand,” Kian said as the two of them resumed their walk through the market. “There are so many lasses who adore ye. They would dae anythin’ fer ye an’ ye dinnae desire any o’ them. How can that be?”

“They are all too proper,” Macauley said simply. It was the truth. It wouldn’t feel right to deceive them, to make them think that he was interested in something more than a night with them. He didn’t have it in him to lie to a woman like that just so that he could bed her. “Ye ken I have nae desire tae wed. I have nae need fer heirs, so I’m nae obligated tae find a wife. An’ all these lasses want marriage.”

“Ye’ll find the right one, eventually,” Kian insisted, like he had many times, the last time no more than a couple of weeks before. However, Macauley very much doubted that. He had never had any interest in marriage and he didn’t think that was ever going to change.

“If ye say so, me laird,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm at the title. “Well, I will go tae the healer’s cottage an’ speak with her if ye wish tae speak tae the townsfolk. I will see if she kens anyone else who can take her place while she recovers.”

“Very well,” said Kian. “Shall we meet at the inn once we are finished here?”

Macauley didn’t have the chance to respond before he heard the tell-tale swish of a flying arrow. Before he could think better about what he was doing, he jumped in front of Kian, shielding him from it, his instincts taking over.

Pain blossomed over his arm where the arrow hit. He didn’t need to look down to know it had lodged itself in his arm. Only a few inches to the side and he would have been a dead man.

“Macauley!” Kian’s voice rang through the market as he grabbed him, while in turn, Macauley grabbed his arm. Blood soaked his tunic, dripping unbridled down his arm, and soon the earth seemed to move under his feet.

It was the shock and the pain, he told himself. It was only because it had been so sudden. He couldn’t have possibly lost so much blood already that he was feeling the effects of it.

The crowd gathered closer as more and more people realized what had happened, closing in on him and Kian. But that was the opposite of what Macauley needed in that moment. That arrow had come from somewhere and he needed to figure out who had shot it.

“Stay back!” he called, though the townsfolk hardly heard him over the turmoil. Their voices and their rushing footsteps drowned out his command—one they wouldn’t follow, since they weren’t his men. They were only people, confused and worried and scared there was an enemy among them. “Kian, ye must hide. This wasnae meant fer me. It was meant fer ye.”

“There is nae one there,” Kian said, though he couldn’t possibly know that. There were many places one could use to hide in the town, and for all either of them knew, their attacker could still be there, lurking, waiting for the right moment to strike once more.

Perhaps the next time, they wouldn’t miss.

“Kian, listen tae me,” Macauley said urgently. Even as the pain worsened now that the initial shock had subsided, his mind was getting clearer, as well. He could think logically once more. He could do his job. “It’s dangerous here. We must leave.”

“We cannae leave if we dinnae find who did this,” Kian insisted.

“That is a task fer another day.”

Macauley’s main objective now was to get Kian somewhere safe, somewhere away from arrows and swords and people who wished to hurt him. Everything else could wait. Surely, whoever had shot the arrow had been aiming for Kian only. They had no reason to kill any of the townspeople.

As he regained his strength, Macauley began to tug Kian away, but Kian was too stubborn to move. Then, before he could take a single step, the crowd parted as a young woman pushed her way through, shouting.

“I am a healer!” she said. “Let me through!”

“Well… isnae that lucky?” Kian asked, gripping Macauley’s shoulders tightly as though he still feared he would collapse from the injury. It was silly, Macauley thought. Kian had seen him in battle and he hadn’t been as concerned, but perhaps the abruptness of it all had gotten to him, too.

Macauley gazed at the woman, at her long, brown hair, the blue eyes that shone under the sunlight. Perhaps it was the blood loss, but in that moment, he couldn’t help but think that she looked like an angel.

“Aye,” he said. “Very lucky.”

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A month earlier, The Rowan Tree Inn, Gartness

The day had been a long one and Macauley was chilled to the bone from spending it on his horse and then in the small village of Gartness, attending to clan matters along with Kian and Deirdre. Sitting now next to the fire with a whisky in his hand, he could finally stretch his limbs and let out a deep sigh, deflating as all the air left his lungs.

“Tired?” Deirdre teased. Unlike Macauley, she seemed in perfectly good spirits, entirely unaffected by the cold or the long day.

The perks o’ youth.

He had only reached his twenty-eighth year, so he couldn’t claim to be an old man, but sometimes he felt like one, especially when Deirdre was around to play the role of the annoying little sister. But he could be annoying, too, so he straightened up, his exhaustion forgotten in favor of teasing back.

“Why dinnae ye ask yer husband if he’s tired?” he said, looking pointedly at Kian, who had all but collapsed in his chair and was halfway to asleep already, an acorn he had picked up somewhere outside being rolled lazily around his fingers. If anything, Kian was more of an old man than he was, despite the two of them being the same age. “Look at him… he can barely keep his eyes open.”

“He’s been workin’ all day,” Deirdre said, reaching over to pat Kian’s arm. He smiled at her, that small quirk of lips barely visible under the silver mask he always wore. Macauley couldn’t help but make fun of him. It was too tempting to resist.

“He’s truly at yer mercy now, isnae he?” Macauley asked. “Look at ye, Kian… ye were once a formidable man an’ now ye’re like a wee pup. Did yer mistress train ye intae submission?”

Kian rolled his eyes at Macauley, the gesture barely visible through the mask in the half-light of the room, its walls bathed in a soft orange light from the candles and the fire. Around them, villagers and other travelers alike enjoyed a dram of their own, filling the room with quiet, idle conversation. It was comfortable in there, the low buzz of their chats making for a pleasant background noise that filled the silence whenever there was a pause in their conversation.

The acorn landed on Macauley’s face, hitting him square on the forehead. Kian always had great aim. “Ye wouldnae understand. Ye have never treated a lass well in yer life.”

“That is entirely false,” Macauley said, tossing the acorn back only for Kian to grab it in the air before it could even hit his shoulder. Macauley’s aim, unfortunately, was not nearly as good. “I treat all lasses very well. I give them a good time an’ they always ken they cannae have anythin’ else. They dinnae expect me tae love them.”

“But dinnae ye wish ye had someone?” Deirdre asked, always the romantic. She had been hounding him to find a good woman and settle down, though Macauley hoped he could soon wear her down enough for her to understand that he never would.

He was perfectly happy remaining a bachelor for the rest of his life. He had no need for a wife. He had no title, nothing to pass on to an heir. When he wanted the company of a woman, it was easy for him to find it. Many maids working in Castle Drummond liked him and even if they found a husband or decided they didn’t want him anymore, he could go to any village and find another girl. What was the point of marrying someone when all she would do was chain him?

He looked at Kian and Deirdre, noting how they always seemed to touch and hover around each other. He looked at the genuine joy in their eyes at being near each other, as though simply sharing the same space was enough for them.

For all he teased them, Deirdre hadn’t chained Kian. If there was any chaining happening, then he could only say that they had chained each other, but they seemed too happy for him to think of them as prisoners in their own marriage. They were the exception, perhaps.

“I have plenty o’ someones,” Macauley said with a smirk, just to avoid the question. “I have nae desire tae wed.”

“None at all?” Kian asked.

“I wouldnae even think o’ it,” Macauley said.

It was as though his words had given Kian a new sense of vigor. He sat up straight and leaned closer over the table, eyes narrowing and lips pulling up in mirth.

“A bet, then,” he proposed. “If ye ever wed a lass, ye will have tae allow me tae chain ye on yer weddin’ day.”

Macauley couldn’t help but laugh, but Deirdre looked at them in alarm, she too leaning forward and slamming her hands on the table.

“This is madness,” she said. “Ye cannae go tae yer weddin’ in chains!”

“It’s alright, Deirdre,” Macauley assured her. “There will be nae weddin’.”

“Well, I willnae allow it,” Deirdre insisted. “Ye never ken what happens in the future an’ I willnae force the poor lass who may wed ye one day tae witness such a thing. Or the priest, fer that matter. It would be a disgrace.”

“The feast, then,” Kian said, never one to displease his wife, but also never one to back down. “If ye wed, ye’ll have tae spend the entire feast in chains.”

“Deal,” said Macauley before Deirdre could react, giving Kian his hand to shake.

“It is agreed, then,” Kian said. “An’ I will enjoy yer weddin’ day very much.”

“It will never come,” Macauley insisted, as he stood, shaking his cup at Kian and Deirdre to indicate he was getting another refill.

When he reached the counter, where a serving wench was pouring drinks, he put on his most charming grin for the young woman. She was pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes that crinkled in amusement when she saw him, heat bubbling up just beneath the surface of her gaze. Macauley could always tell when a woman wanted him—more often than not, women wanted him.

“Good evenin’, lass,” he said as he passed her the cup. “Will ye pour me another?”

The girl took the cup and poured him another drink, handing it back with a smile.

“Has anyone ever told ye how bonnie ye are?” he asked, only to have the girl laugh at him. It was all part of his plan, though. It was better to make a woman laugh, after all, even if it was with a silly line like this.

“Och aye,” she said. “Many times.”

“Well… has anyone ever told ye that ye should be worshipped?”

It was that which had the woman’s attention in an instant, her gaze darkening as she leaned closer to him. Macauley couldn’t even tell if she knew she was doing it or if she was pulled to him by instinct alone.

“Ye should be,” he continued, voice dropping low. “I can show ye, after ye’re done here.”

There was no hesitation before the woman spoke. “In two hours. Meet me at the back.”

With a grin, Macauley took his cup and raised in a toast, before he turned around. Just behind him, an old woman was drinking alone, finishing the last drops of her cup, and on a whim, Macauley ordered another for her.

“Here,” he told her, placing the cup in front of her on the table.

The woman looked up at him. She had long, grey hair that flowed down her waist, and though her face was creased with wrinkles, her eyes were bright, full of life. Macauley couldn’t help but wonder what this woman was doing all alone there in the middle of the night, but he didn’t think it proper to ask.

“Ach, laddie… I cannae accept a drink like this,” she said in a thin, croaky voice. “I have naething tae give ye in return.”

“I ask fer naething,” said Macauley with a small shrug. “Only fer ye tae enjoy yer night.”

The woman stared at him for a moment longer before she pushed the chair across from her back from the table with her foot.

“Sit,” she said. “I shall tell ye yer fortune.”

“Me fortune?” Macauley asked, amused. He didn’t think the woman could perform any real divination, but he also didn’t want to offend her. For a moment, he glanced back to his table, but Kian and Deirdre were lost in their own little word, talking to each other quietly, and he figured he could give them some time alone after spending the entire day with them.

With a sigh, he sat across from the woman, taking a sip from his drink. The moments stretched between them, and the woman did nothing but stare at him, though her gaze was piercing as though she could see right through him.

Eventually, she spoke.

“There is somethin’ big in the horizon fer ye, laddie,” she said. “Somethin’ that will change yer life. But it will nae be as it seems. Love hides in the oddest o’ places an’ nae everythin’ ye consider bad is a sin, as nae everythin’ ye consider good is a virtue.”

Macauley couldn’t recall a time in his life when he had been more confused. He blinked at the woman once, then twice, and she laughed at him, a high, reedy sound.

“It is an art, ye see,” she said. “I can see intae yer future, but nae everythin’ is clear.”

“I dinnae think any of it is clear,” Macauley said, though not unkindly. The woman only smiled at him, shrugging a little.

“It will be, with time.”

“Well… thank ye fer yer advice,” he said as he stood, and the woman tilted her head in one last greeting before he left and went back to the table. By then, he had gotten Kian’s and Deirdre’s attention and the two of them frowned at him in confusion as he joined them once more.

“Who is that woman?” Kian asked.

“I dinnae ken,” said Macauley. “I saw her sittin’ alone an’ so I bought her a drink, an’ she told me me fortune in return.”

“Was it a good fortune?” asked Deirdre.

“I’m nae certain,” said Macauley. “But how bad could it be? She didnae mention me dyin’.”

“Did she mention ye wearin’ any shackles with a bride next tae ye?” Kian asked, evidently finding himself very amusing. Macauley wasn’t as convinced and only kicked his chair under the table, jostling him.

“She didnae,” he said. “So dinnae expect any weddings in me future.”

“Nae even with that lassie over there?” Macauley asked, tilting his head to where the serving wench was still pouring drinks.

Macauley laughed. Of course, Kian had noticed, he thought.

“Nae a weddin’, but perhaps a weddin’ night,” he joked only for Deirdre to snatch the acorn out of Kian’s hand and throw it at him again. She, too, hit him square on the forehead.

Next to her, Kian laughed. It was a full sound, one that echoed around the room, and one that Macauley heard often those days. It had started ever since he had found Deirdre. It seemed that, along with her, he had also found himself.

Begrudgingly, Macauley had to admit that marriage agreed with Kian. He was happier now, not the shadow of himself he had once been. He and Deirdre brought the best out in each other and Macauley couldn’t imagine them ever being apart again.

But if seeing this love between them couldn’t convince him to find a wife of his own, then nothing could. Kian would lose his bet and Macauley would forever have the satisfaction of proving him wrong.

Dear, Beloved Evander,

All me love tae ye,
May