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Prologue

Highlands, Scotland, 1306

“Och, Kayla, please stop fidgeting with that thing.”

Kayla didn’t answer her father as she adjusted the bracelet on her wrist. With her eyes dancing across the beads engraved with letters, she felt that all-too-familiar emotion well up inside her. It was the grief that made her eyes tingle, and her heart ache.

Whoever kenned anyone had so many tears in their body tae shed.

There were always more tears. Even when she thought she had cried her last tear for her husband-to-be who had been murdered the year before, she found more tears. Maybe she hadn’t loved him, but he was the dearest friend she’d ever had, the companion she’d always longed for. She had always hoped, if they had married, that she would have loved him eventually.

“Pa,” Kayla’s sister, Sofia, murmured. “Ye ken it isnae easy fer her.”

“I ken.” Their father, Laird Ian Mackenzie, sighed heavily. “Yet it is me task as yer father tae make ye smile again. Come, Kayla.” He leaned toward her and tapped her chin, the touch soft.

Kayla moved her attention away from the bracelet, though her fingers still toyed with the beads connected by a silver chain. She would never stop wearing it. It was a gift from her betrothed, and she always wore it to remember him. He had worn the same bracelet, the two a mirror image of each other, to show their union.

“Is it nae a beautiful day?” Ian gestured to the blue sky they sat beneath on their picnic blanket. “The sun is shining; the trees and grass are lush this time of year.” His wrinkled hand moved across the garden they sat in, gesturing from the yew trees to the deciduous sycamores and plane trees, then to the thick grasses and heathers. “Listen tae the birds.” He paused, his hand cupped to his ear.

Kayla listened, feeling the wind dance across her face and lift her dark hair from her shoulders.

“Blackbirds,” she mused, recognizing the sound at once.

“Aye, just so.” Her father turned and smiled at her, bearing the same blue eyes that were in her own face, a shockingly bright blue, as if they had been freshly painted with pigment. “There are still pleasures and happiness tae be found in the world even when a loved one is lost. Believe me, I ken.”

She smiled sadly, knowing it was the truth. Her mother had died many years ago and though her father had grieved her, he had also found reasons to be happy.

“Aye, ‘tis easy tae be happy when she has suitors coming tae the door every five minutes.” Sofia’s wit made Kayla smile. Her sister bit into a pork pie and offered up the other to Kayla, dressed in thick onion chutney.

“Thank ye,” Kayla whispered.

Sofia, a quiet soul, hardly spoke out of turn at all, especially around men who she seemed to fear, their father being the exception. In his and Kayla’s company, Sofia was more herself, the real person showing through.

“Sofia is right, Faither,” Kayla said simply, taking the smallest bite of pork pie and gazing across their picnic. “How can I get over me grief when ye push men in front of me nose every five minutes?”

“I dinnae push them there. They come.” He pinched the brow of his nose, then thrust a hand into his silverish hair that reached down past his shoulders. “I fear what ye will make of yer next caller then.”

“What?” Kayla looked around, well aware that her father was now staring at a spot across the garden. From their high vantage point between the trees, they could see down onto the road to the castle where an entourage had just arrived. At their head was a young man astride a horse with thick auburn hair plaited at the back. His wide and rather square jaw was turned up toward the picnic, as if he had been looking out for them for some time. He came to a halt with his men and stepped down from his saddle, talking quietly to his men, before he made his way through the garden, quite alone.

“Who is that, Faither?”

Kayla whipped her head around, the sharpness of her movement making her father jump so much that he dropped his own pork pie in his lap, his face bushing red in embarrassment.

“His name is Jonathan. Laird Jonathan Graham. Good man, wealthy, supports Robert the Bruce as we. He has asked fer a meeting with ye.”

Ian calmly turned his eyes up to Kayla, though the blush was turning his cheeks crimson, revealing just how guilty he felt about this meeting.

“He would make ye a good match, Kayla. All I ask is that ye hear him out. That is all.”

Ian stood, brushing the crumbs of flaky pastry from his tunic, before striding away across the grass, his boots brushing the long green blades aside.

“Laird Jonathan! So good tae see ye again.” His arms he held out wide, he took the man’s hand in greeting.

Kayla couldn’t find words as she turned to face her sister.

“Unlike ye tae find yer tongue-tied,” Sofia said, though her lips were pressed together in a firm line, showing she was equally unhappy about the situation. As was usual when a man approached them, she grew nervous. She pulled at her dark brown hair and let the tendrils fall across her face, trying to hide in plain view. “Ye ken what our faither is thinking, dae ye nae?”

“Aye, aye. I think he has lost the ability tae think at all,” Kayla muttered angrily. “He would have me marry a man I dinnae ken, when the last… the last…” She broke off, a sudden lump in her throat.

She looked down at the bracelet around her wrist again. Loyd Macpherson was a good man and she had truly believed she was on the path to love. She cared for him deeply, and being denied the chance to know him completely seemed the greatest blow she had ever been delivered in her life. Murdered on the road, whilst travelling from his clan to hers, his death was a dark day indeed.

“Use yer mind, Kayla. Ye ken as well as I what he is thinking.”

“He’s thinking this man is a laird, he’s powerful, a hard man tae refuse, and if he is an ally with Robert the Bruce, then we are strengthened by the possibility of a union too.”

“Aye, precisely.” Sofia leaned toward her and took her hand, entwining their fingers together. “Ken his mind and ken yer own. Ye dinnae have tae say aye, all ye have tae dae is meet him.”

“Hmm.” Kayla was not so convinced. She knew her father wouldn’t make her do something she did not want to, but she equally knew that him inviting this man to their house to speak to her was not a good sign. He clearly had more time for this suitor than any of the others.

Across the garden, she saw her father approaching with Laird Jonathan. On closer view, he did not have such a harsh face as she first thought, but kinder and softer eyes, like a large pup’s, big brown eyes. They glistened in the day’s light as he looked at her, his lips turning up in the sort of smile which spelled his excitement to meet her.

Oh, in the name of the Wee Man. I cannae dae this!

Kayla looked around. The rebel in her made her want to run at once, sprint from the garden and jump into the loch beyond to escape him. She was a strong swimmer, but she didn’t imagine her rebellion would please her father.

“Come, come, meet me daughters.” Ian returned to them, pulling Laird Jonathan with him. There was a boyish spring in Jonathan’s step as he approached. She didn’t like it.

Kayla and Sofia exchanged a look, then stood together, knowing they couldn’t continue to sit with their picnic.

“Me youngest, Sofia,” Ian introduced Sofia first, “and of course, me eldest ye wished so much tae meet, Kayla.” He motioned to Kayla. Laird Jonathan smiled wider.

Kayla was quite baffled as she stared at him. The childlike excitement on his face professed some sort of attachment already, which she knew was impossible. They hadn’t met before, so he simply had to have liked the idea of meeting her very much indeed.

“Lady Kayla.” He bowed deeply to her, and to Sofia too. “It is a great pleasure tae meet ye both indeed. I am honored to visit your land, melord. And what a beautiful garden this is,” he added, turning to the girls’ father.

“Perhaps Kayla could show you around. The shore of the loch is wonderful this time of year. And there is birdsong aplenty. We were just noting the blackbirds afore yer arrival,” Laird Mackenzie answered with a smile.

“If ye can spare a minute, would ye walk with me, Lady Kayla?” he asked her kindly, gesturing to the garden.

Nay!

Kayla wished to shout the word, but one look at her father told her she could not. Ian’s eyes widened. He would certainly be furious if she refused. Sofia squeezed her hand in comfort one last time, then they released one another, and Kayla nodded, moving forward to walk by Laird Jonathan’s side.

They fell into step beside one another, walking down the path.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, “fer coming so unannounced. I ken from what ye have been through that any suitor at yer door right now must seem unkind… even inconsiderate.” He shook his head, as if he was baffled by his own actions.

Kayla looked up at him, noting the empathy in his words. As they walked between the trees, the wind picked up so he turned them towards a more sheltered path.

“Thank ye,” Kayla murmured softly. “Nae many understand me grief.”

“Believe me, I dae.” His eyes met hers. “I must apologize fer coming tae call on ye now that with one look at ye, I can see ye are still grieving. Yet it must be done. I ken ye by reputation tae be an intelligent woman, Lady Kayla. Both ye and I ken that sometimes, marriages happen fer alliance as well as fer love.”

“Aye, that they dae.” She looked away into the distance. No matter how kind and attentive this man was, she would not marry him. Her heart was still elsewhere and to marry now would be a betrayal to Loyd’s memory. She could not do it.

“I choose tae marry fer alliance, and fer affection.” He halted suddenly, looking at her. Kayla stopped a few paces in front of him, looking back at his soft eyes with an amused smile.

“Ye and I dinnae ken each other,” she reminded him. “I hope these words arenae going tae lead tae a declaration of affection, me Laird.”

He smiled softly.

“Can one nae develop an affection and a respect from everything they hear of another?”

Nay. It is nae enough.

Kayla was ready to argue with him, to point out that this was a mad conversation, when abruptly, wind whistle by them as something whipped through the air.

“Get down!” he called and jumped toward her. The fear that ripped through her chest was abated when he pushed her toward the nearest tree trunk and dived in front of her, shielding her.

“What…” She trailed off.

A bolt from a crossbow had fired past them, landing on the ground, where Kayla had been standing a few seconds before, but it was not the only one.

“Yer family is under attack,” Laird Jonathan hissed.

Across the garden, more bolts were being aimed from the trees toward Ian and Sofia. It was impossible to see who was firing the arrows, but the attack was relentless.

“Stay down,” Laird Jonathan pleaded with her and ran toward her father and sister.

“Nay! Faither! Sofia!” Kayla called to them. She couldn’t stay. She ran behind Laird Jonathan back toward them. She raised her arms, aware how close some of the arrows came to piercing her skin, but she managed to dodge them.

When she reached her sister, Sofia was cowering behind a yew bush and Kayla went to her. They clutched one another’s arms, recoiling together. An almighty yell ripped through the air and the sounds of the arrows ended.

Kayla peered out from behind the yew bush, looking toward her father and Laird Jonathan. Standing in front of her father, shielding him, was Laird Jonathan. The arrow that was meant for her father had cut through Laird Jonathan’s arm, grazing him, and causing a thin stream of blood to pour down his arm. He gave no sign of being affected by it. He didn’t clutch the wound, grimace, or curse. He let it bleed with his sword slung at his side, the tip glistening in blood.

The attacker that stood before them, having appeared from the trees, was now bleeding across his arm. He staggered back, his hooded figure jerking his head back and forth in fear, then he was gone, sprinting back into the trees.

“Nae possible,” Kayla murmured, struggling to use her voice after the fear had made her palms clammy and her heart thump against her ribcage.

“He saved him!” Sofia exclaimed to Kayla as they stepped out from the yew bush together, still clinging to one another. “Kayla, he saved our father’s life!”

As they reached the two men again, Ian was helped to his feet by Jonathan.

“I am greatly indebted tae ye, Laird Jonathan.” Ian shook his head, his eyes wide as he marveled at him. “What quick responses ye have, tae nae only push me daughter tae safety, but then risk yer life fer my own. Ye need tae see our healer at once.”

“It is nothing.” Laird Jonathan’s voice was deep. He tied up the wound himself with a strip of cloth. “I am simply relieved none of ye is hurt. I shall send me men tae search fer the assailant at once.” He hurried back toward the road, down the bank of the garden. “I shall return soon!”

As he left, Kayla felt both Ian’s and Sofia’s eyes turn toward her.

“We are indebted tae him now, Kayla,” Ian whispered softly.

“I think that is our father’s way of saying that debt must be paid with yer hand. Why are debts always paid with women’s lives, I wonder?” Sofia whispered.

Kayla gripped her sister’s hand hard as she moved to her father.

“Now is nae the time tae discuss debts. Are ye injured, Father?”

“I am perfectly well.” Ian assured her and sat down on the edge of the blanket once more, not to return to the picnic, but to catch his breath as he leaned forward. Kayla and Sofia dropped down by his shoulders.

“I fear fer this, though. Someone broke through our guard. We’ll need men like Laird Jonathan around if dissidents continue tae attack me lairdship.” He shook his head, mumbling something to himself, then lifted his chin once more so his gaze met Kayla’s.

“Kayla, ye dae realize I cannae refuse that man anything he asks of me now. If he asks fer yer hand… I…”

She gripped his shoulder, not wanting to hear the words.

I ken. Ye will have tae give yer blessing tae the man that saved yer life.
 

Chapter One

One Month Later

“Payton? Are ye sure this is such a good idea?”

Payton gave no sign of having heard his man at arms, Dugald. He looked around Laird Jonathan Graham’s great hall, taking in the busyness of the room. Beneath the stained-glass windows that dazzled golden and red light across the room, many people had gathered to toast the betrothal of Laird Jonathan Graham and his bride-to-be, Lady Kayla Mackenzie.

Many had gathered to celebrate, knights, gentlemen, fellow lairds and ladies. They talked amongst themselves and to Laird Graham, who sat in a large chair at the head of the room. His large brown eyes surveyed the room around him, taking it all in. There was a softness to them that Payton wasn’t quite convinced by.

Who are ye really, Laird Jonathan?

“Payton?” Dugald murmured again, trying to get his attention. “Melaird?”

Payton looked darkly at his man at arms as Dugald chuckled.

“I ken ye hate me calling ye that, but sometimes, it is the only way tae get yer attention.”

Payton grunted, holding himself back from laughter. Dugald was one of the few people who had ever broken through Payton’s reserve and knew who he truly was. He could jest and make Payton laugh when no other could. Payton usually preferred his own company to others, but Dugald had never been frightened off by his iciness.

“Distracted?” Dugald asked. “Because I fear something more is about tae distract ye.”

Before anymore could be said between them, a young woman appeared beside Payton. She carried a tray with goblets of mead and smiled sweetly up at him. The long dark hair was plaited at the back of her head, quite wild thanks to his morning’s activities with her in his bedchamber.

She had been a welcome distraction and she strangely seemed to like his silent manner rather than be put off by it, as most women were.

“Will I see ye later, melaird?” she asked Payton as Dugald busied himself by taking one of the goblets and pretending utter fascination with the mead inside, ignoring their conversation.

“I will find ye,” Payton promised. In the hectic room, he felt comfortable enough to rub a hand teasingly down her back. He watched with a thrill as she shivered at his touch, excited, then smiled and walked away.

“Only ye would be bold enough tae take a lover in another laird’s clan,” Dugald hissed as the lady walked away. “What if ye are caught?”

“Nay one will catch me,” Payton assured his friend. Besides, he had no intention of not acting on his instincts.

Payton was used to silence. For all of Dugald’s friendship, his own castle had become isolated, and dare he think it… even lonely these last few months. With his brother and sister married, both enjoying their lives far from the castle, what was once a busy place had become quiet indeed. With most women frightened off by his sharp features and the number of scars on his body that marked him from the battles he’d faced, he had little in the way of female companion.

I intend tae make the most of a lover whilst I am here.

“Well, if we can leave the matter of yer hungry loins fer a minute, melaird–”

“Dugald,” Payton hissed in anger, though Dugald didn’t take offence and simply smiled some more.

“Ye like me really.”

“I’m struggling tae remember why at this moment.”

“Because I put up with ye?”

“Hmm.” Payton said nothing as Dugald laughed once more.

“Shall we discuss the matter at hand?” Dugald gestured across the room with the goblet. “The reason ye agreed tae come in the first place. Laird Jonathan Graham.”

“Aye.” Payton sighed as he looked at the man who was now laughing with two tacksmen, raising their glasses in a toast. On Laird Jonathan’s arm was a bandage. “How was he wounded?”

“From what I hear, he shielded Laird Mackenzie from an arrow,” Dugald whispered at his side. “Why else dae ye think Laird Mackenzie gave his daughter tae him?”

“What dae ye mean?” Payton frowned, not following his train of thought.

“It’s a wonder ye can avoid the gossip. I cannae seem tae avoid it since we have arrived.” Dugald sighed, exasperatedly. “They whisper that Lady Kayla had nay wish tae accept Laird Jonathan’s proposal, but as he saved her father’s life…” Dugald trailed off and shrugged.

Payton thought that was a ridiculous reason to marry. As far as he as concerned, such debts could be paid in other ways, especially through loyalty, but Lady Kayla was not why he was here. He hardly cared about the position of a woman he had never met.

“I need tae find out more about Laird Jonathan,” Payton said coolly.

“If looks could murder as well as a sword, eh?” Dugald laughed at his side. “Laird Jonathan would drop down dead now at yer glare.”

“I dinnae like a disloyal man. If the whispers me spies heard are true, if Laird Jonathan is in fact working with the English and that bastard, King Edward, then he is a betrayer,” Payton said with such passion that this time, even Dugald couldn’t make a joke to lighten the air. “He deserves tae pay fer what he has done, and tae be stopped, before any more battles can lead tae more innocent Scottish blood being spilled.”

“I agree with ye. The English must be stopped in their advance, but as ye said the other night, we need proof if we are tae discover just who Laird Jonathan is truly loyal tae. How dae ye intend tae dae that?”

“I’ll find it,” Payton said with a sudden firm tone. At his side, Dugald shifted. “Ye once said I didnae frighten ye, Dugald.”

“Well, put it this way, melaird.” Dugald smiled at him. “I would never want tae be yer enemy in a fight. Ye cut ‘em all down.” He affected a shudder of fear.

“I only cut down those who deserve it.” Payton stared forward once more at Laird Jonathan, watching as the man laughed. That sound was just audible through the cacophony of the room.

If he is the blood betrayer, he will pay.

Payton had heard a whisper some months ago of a Scottish laird informing on his other clans, in order to help the English advance, but could it be Laird Jonathan?

I will find out.

“The tacksmen are parting. Now is yer chance,” Dugald whispered.

“Aye, so it is.” Payton nodded at Dugald. “He loves a hunt, aye?”

“Aye, that’s what everyone I have spoken tae has said. Nothing he loves more. This very hall is decked with the kills he has made.”

Payton looked around the room. Over the low-lying felt bonnets the gentlemen wore and the excessively elaborate updos most women bore, there were distinct plaques bearing animal’s heads around the room. There were two wolves, three stags, and a doe. Payton jerked his head toward the doe, suddenly sickened by the sight.

Payton was a good hunter, and he had made many kills himself, but he never in his life had shot a doe. The idea of hurting a female animal cut deeply. It was not battle, not war, and if it came to killing in order to eat, he would always hunt a stag and leave the female alone.

There’s another reason tae be suspicious of this man.

“Then I will offer him the thing he desires most,” Payton said to Dugald and strode forward.

“Wait, what? What are ye doing?” Dugald hastened to follow him, scarcely keeping up with his fast pace.

With ease, Payton cut through the people in the great hall. Many ladies and men stepped back when they saw him, their eyes darting over the scars on his body with something akin to fear in their eyes. Payton didn’t cower but raised his head higher. He was not ashamed of his scars. They were the souvenirs of battles hard won, the mark of triumph and victory. Anyone who thought them fearful didn’t understand what life was like as a laird.

It is hard work. Aye, ye put yer people and the safety of others over yerself at every step of the way.

It was why he had never pursued a lover who was frightened of those scars. He waited, until a woman was fascinated by those marks.

“Laird Jonathan Graham.” Payton bowed his head as he approached the vast chair.

Laird Jonathan sat forward, an easy smile on his lips.

“Laird Payton MacDonell. What a surprise this is.” Laird Jonathan stepped out of his chair and down off the platform, to go see him. They clasped hands for a second and Payton gripped hard. Laird Jonathan winced only a small amount, proving himself stronger than most men here. “I heard ye barely leave yer castle these days, so I was nae expecting ye. I’m thrilled tae see the information was wrong. I am so pleased ye could join us.”

“I have come tae congratulate ye and offer an invitation. I am putting together a hunting party at me castle in a few days’ time. Many lairds will be invited.” At his words, he felt Dugald look sharply at him, but he was grateful his man-at-arms said nothing. Payton had no intention of inviting other lairds to his castle at all, rather hoping to get Laird Jonathan completely on his own, so he could interrogate him properly.

“Hunting party, ye say?” Laird Jonathan’s eyes lit up and his broad cheeks lifted into a smile. “Now, how could I refuse? Could me betrothed and her sister accompany us?” He gestured around as he spoke, pointing to a pretty young woman who stood behind him on the platform. She approached at his gesture, with her head bent down. Her dark brown hair scarcely moved from where it covered her face, as if she didn’t want to be seen at all. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, and Payton’s perceptiveness recognized at once there was fear in her.

What is this woman so afraid of?

“Of course.” Payton smiled. “I am delighted tae meet yer betrothed at last.”

“Betrothed? Oh, nay, nay. This is me future sister-in-law, Lady Sofia Mackenzie.” Laird Jonathan gestured to her.

Lady Sofia’s eyes flicked up to meet Payton’s, then she looked away again. Any irritation Payton might have felt at her fear passed quickly, for he was not the only one she looked at with fear. If Payton wasn’t mistaken, she glanced at everyone in the room with that same expression, the fidgeting of her hands never stopping.

“Well, ye are very welcome tae come with yer sister and Laird Jonathan here on our hunting party.” Payton bowed her head to him.

“Thank ye,” Lady Sofia said, still struggling to meet his eyes.

Payton glanced at Dugald, seeing his man at arms offer the smallest of shrugs. He had no better idea as to what she was so afraid of.

“As they can come too, I’ll happily attend. Leave the details with me advisor, Lachlan.” Laird Jonathan gestured to a man standing quite alone at the end of the platform. “I shall be there.”

“Thank ye.” Payton nodded and moved on with Dugald, allowing others to present their congratulations.

“I’ll give him the details,” Dugald assured Payton. “Ye go find that young woman of yers. We’ll have tae head back later.”

“Thanks,” Payton said with a smile.

“Nae because ye are impatient or anything, is it?” Dugald laughed. The causal thump Payton gave his arm simply made his laughter louder.

Payton stepped away. At least now, he had a plan. He would do his part for Robert the Bruce. He would get Laird Jonathan on his own to discover the truth. In the meantime, what was the harm in enjoying himself?

He looked around the room, searching for the maid who had kept him company that morning. Between the swathes of golden cloth and dark tunics, it was difficult to focus on anyone. As evening drew in, the light in the room was fading, and maids had started to light tall beeswax candles in the corners of the room.

There ye are.

At the side of the room, he saw the familiar wild dark hair, plaited behind her head. The lady reached for a door, rather hurriedly, and stepped out, her pace so fast it was as if she was running from something.

Payton hastened to follow her. When he reached the door he glanced back, ensuring no one was watching what he was doing, then he slipped out of the door and into the corridor.

He trailed behind her as she walked through the corridor, heading to a much smaller and narrower corridor on the south side of the building. Here, there were no candles, and with the fading light streaming through the windows, it was increasingly difficult to see anything about her beyond her silhouette.

Wary of someone overhearing, he didn’t call out to her, but he hurried to catch up. As she entered a corridor flooded with the evening’s apricot light, he at last reached her. He threaded a hand across her waist and bent down, pressing his lips near her ear.

“Dinnae run now,” he whispered. “Give me one last kiss afore I have tae leave this place.”

She halted, her body stiffening so much that something felt wrong. He was certain she would have turned to him by now, molding her lips to his. She had been a good kisser that morning.

The lady turned her head. In the last golden light that streamed through the window to his left, he at last saw her face.

God’s wounds. It isnae the maid.

The face staring up at him was someone different entirely. Bold, bright blue eyes, stared at him without blinking. The prominent cheekbones structured a very elegant face, and the plump lips were pink. There was a flicker of something silver on her arm. Something stirred in Payton’s gut. He was attracted to that beautiful face at once. With lips like those, she certainly had to be a good kisser.

Her lips parted a little in shock, and he feared she’d start yelling, alerting someone to what he had done.

“I am so sorry,” the whisper escaped his mouth as he released her. “I thought ye were someone else.”

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Prologue

September, 1651
Richmond, England

Lady Adelaide Cavendish struggled to keep the chill out of her skin as she walked down the passageway of her father’s prison. Granted he was an earl, so he had been given more palatable lodgings in comparison to street thieves and cutthroats, but still she shivered as she followed a greasy-lipped warden with a toothpick in his mouth to his rusted door. The doors were made of iron and locked tight with heavy keys.

This was not the way she had imagined her life being. Adelaide jumped when a prisoner called out to her, stretching his arms out between the spaces of his gridiron door, widening his eye in a grotesque manner. She gasped, staring at him for only an instant before she hurried on, pulling her shawl around herself more tightly.

Adelaide had always considered her father to be the best of men. Growing up, and even more so since her mother passed, he had been so loving and kind to her, giving her everything she could have desired. He had wanted a good life for her, and he’d done his best to strive for it. They’d been doing well enough, but when he received the title of earl… well, everything seemed to change.

She couldn’t exactly describe what had come over him, but it was something akin to bloodthirstiness. He had been hungry for the title, status, and wealth, but as soon as he had achieved it, he’d turned into a different person. She had no longer recognized him and she she’d tried her best to pull him back. But then she’d seen how he’d treated his cousin Cecily, and things slowly became clear. He was not her father anymore, not the person he had used to be. He was someone else entirely, solely focused on getting more.

And while it had stunned her to find out that he had killed his own cousin, Cecily’s brother Anthony to get the title, Adelaide had not been entirely surprised. But when she’d seen him nearly kill Cecily as well as her now-husband Kai by locking them inside of a room and setting it alight, all the love and hope she’d still had for her father had died instantly. This was not her father, she had to keep repeating to herself. The man she had so loved longer existed. And so, as she tugged her shawl out of the grasp of yet another prisoner who had reached out to her with a few lascivious words on his tongue, she resolved that this would be the first and the last time that she would visit him in prison.

I have a life of my own, I shall not hang on to the past. Father has created scandal enough.

She was an earl’s daughter and yet the whole of London knew what her father had done, staining her reputation as well. She lived in shame.

“Here we are, My Lady,” the warden said, jangling his keys in the air and giving her a toothy grin. “Ye will find him calm and content. He’s been a good prisoner these past months.” The man whistled low and shook his head. “A murderer, what a thing to have amongst us. The rest of this lot are petty thieves, but at least they get a bit of sunlight during the day.”

She nodded, not wishing to spend a moment longer in that hellhole than she had to. With another grin, he unlocked the door, and opened it with a clang. He dragged it back, scratching along the stones of the floor. Adelaide put a handkerchief to her nose when a strange smell hit her. As they were paying for better lodgings, Adelaide could not imagine what the poor were subjected to. She stepped inside as the guard moved out of the way and stuffed the handkerchief into her sleeve, in an attempt not to embarrass her father in these conditions.

Foolish girl. I am much better off without him.

“Father,” she said, surprised to see him rising with difficulty from the chair in front of his ramshackle desk. He still wore one of his ridiculously colored suits, this one a deep blue, but it was dirty and stained. His hair was greasy, his beard getting long.

The door shut and locked behind her, the warden telling her to knock for her to be released. A grin from her father at her arrival showed her yellowed, dirty looking teeth. She had been sure to provide him with all the necessary items to tend to his appearance and cleanliness, but they must have been pilfered instead.

Care not. He has done a grievous wrong left only scandal in your wake. There is not one person in London who does not know you are the daughter of a murderer. There is no hope for you now.

“I am glad to see you, Adelaide. I have sent you many letters, why have you taken so long to come? It has been more than three months, my dear.”

Adelaide shifted on her feet, pulling at her shawl as if it could protect her from the slight twinge of guilt. Of all the letters he had sent her, none of them, except for the most recent one, had moved her in the slightest. She just wanted to be done with the visit, but she did not say that.

“I needed to make sure that all was set right, Father. You left a mess in your wake. Not forgetting that I now must reconcile with the fact that my father is a murderer. There is no one on the streets of London who will look upon me as they once did. Your deeds, they have stained me as well.” Adelaide was annoyed that a tear had slipped down her cheek as she had talked, and she furiously wiped it away.

Her father took a step closer, and she took a slight step back. She had no wish to be close to him, to remember the father of yore that she’d loved. He held out his arms as if to embrace her.

“Please Adelaide, you must know that it was all for you. All that I did and planned; it was for your future.”

Adelaide shook her head and took another step back. He was using the voice he used to use when she’d believed him to be the best father that ever lived. She would not fall for it again, not when she now had evidence of the blood on his hands. The callous way he’d killed a member of his family and then treated cousin Cecily thereafter.

She spoke firmly. “Do not say it was for me. It was for your own selfish gain. You only wanted to that title.”

It surprised her to say it as strongly as she did, and he reacted to it as well, lifting both brows, his lips parting.

“Now,” she said, looking away from him and reaching into her reticule to pull out his stained and folded letter. She dragged it out and shook it in the air. “I am here because you begged me to come.” She would never admit to him her desire to see him one last time before she put all that behind her. “So, what is it that is so urgent, Father? Why did you need to see me?”

He recovered quickly enough, even brandishing a smile as he put his hands behind his back. He stepped closer, looking to the left and the right before he did, as if he expected someone else to be in the cell besides the two of them.

“I brought you here,” he whispered, “because I am in danger.”

She snorted but then put a gloved hand to her lips. Of course, he was in danger. If he was not an earl, then he would have been hanging from a noose by now. If things changed, then he certainly would be, and Adelaide knew that he deserved little better than that.

“Danger? Of what, from whom?”

He cleared his throat and leaned close to her. She could smell the stench of him, but she concentrated hard to focus on his whispered words. “They might come to kill me, you know. For my sentence is uncertain at this time, and the earldom is unprotected. Anyone would be interested in taking advantage of such a situation. Anyone who would stand to gain by my death.”

Adelaide let out a breath, and she folded the letter again and shoved it back into her reticule. “Is this what was so urgent, Father? If it is going to happen anyway, then why would someone wish to kill you to make the process happen faster? And as you cannot act on your duties as an earl from prison, it is just a matter of time before the earldom is given to the next in line.”

Her father leaned back, stiffening. “That I know, and I will regret it forever. But there is something I simply must tell you, Adelaide, something no one else knows.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to remind herself to be patient. Soon, she would be back out of the prison and free again. This was her last act of duty towards him. Then her father would be out of her life forever.

It is for the best.

“What?”

“I will be giving over my title, as you know, to my distant cousin Thomas Frenzby.”

“Yes, I know.” Adelaide clenched her gloved fists, trying yet again to keep her patience intact. This was not news to her. “What of it?”

“I was able to win the title after Anthony’s death, but it was by a very small margin, in terms of our blood ties to the Ridley family. But now that I am going to give it up, Thomas is the last man I wish to have the title. It must be kept from him.”

“Why?” she asked tiredly.

“Because my son is the real heir.”

Adelaide nearly dropped the reticule that was in her hands, and she pressed her hand onto the side of the stone wall to keep her balance. “A son? I have a brother?”

He nodded and turned away from her, going to sit on the edge of the desk, looking slightly nervous. “Yes. I never told you, for he is an illegitimate child, and I never wanted his existence to tarnish your reputation in any way.” He then folded his arms across his chest, looking more serious than before. “However, he is the legal heir to the earldom, and I fear that if Thomas finds out about his whereabouts, then he will kill us both so that he can take the title for himself… Just as I did.”

Adelaide was so angry that she could feel the tears pressing at the backs of her eyes. Yet again, more lies, more danger lingering in the background. What was the problem with the men, or at least those in her family? All bloodthirsty, eager for power and status over goodness and morality.

“I do not know what you expect me to do about it, Father. It seems I am at the whim of three men, even though I have done nothing wrong to deserve such a thing.”

To his credit, he looked slightly ashamed as he replied. “I had been searching for him for a long time. His mother was a Scottish woman. I left her, like the cad I am. However, the thought haunted me from the moment I left, and so I began to search for him. I only learned of his whereabouts after she wrote to me on her deathbed. My son has lived and in Scotland his whole life and has been imprisoned for being a part of a group of men that tortured Scottish soldiers. Now that my name is so public, I fear that all these secrets will come to light, and I cannot afford that. I beg you, my sweet Adelaide, to find Cillian and to help him get out of prison so that he can take over the earldom.”

“Cillian,” she repeated, the fact of having a brother strange to her mind.

“Of course.” Her father approached her, and this time she allowed him to take her hand. “Please say you will find him. Be careful, though, for Thomas is unscrupulous. Saving Cillian will help you to stay alive as well.”

A shock of fear ran through her. Why should she be a target? She was merely a victim of all that had occurred, and she had no real home any longer. She no longer had any real place to go to, unless if she accepted Cecily’s invitation to join her in Scotland and live with her and her husband. And indeed, that was what Adelaide planned on doing.

“I’m not sure I want to get entangled in this, Father…”

“It’s the last thing I’ll ever beg of you. It’s too late for me, Adelaide.”

Adelaide hesitated. She no longer wanted to do anything connected to London, her father, or the damned earldom.

But still, he is my father… I can give him this much and then put everything behind me by starting anew in Scotland.

“I shall help you one last time, Father. I will go to Scotland.”

“Thank you, my daughter, thank you for granting me one last wish.” He dug out a piece of paper from his waistcoat pocket, excitement all over his face. “Here. Cillian is held prisoner at this castle in Scotland, or so he was when I last heard of him a few months ago. You must go to my study at the house as soon as you leave me. In the second drawer, there is a false bottom. Underneath there is the proof and all the information you will need to show that he is my own blood, and that he is deserving of the title of earl when the time comes. You must show it to the proper authorities.”

He shoved the piece of paper into her hand and closed her fingers over it. He looked fearful; his eyes wide as she backed away from him.

“You will do this?”

“Yes,” she said, not sure why she was agreeing, but she was glad she could finally take her life in her hands instead of just sitting and watching as people stared at her in horror. “I will do it, and I will go to see Cecily in Scotland as well.” And probably stay there for good.

“Good. Thank you, Adelaide. I knew that I could trust you to handle such an important task.”

She nodded and turned towards the door, knocking hard on it. When she heard the screech of the lock in the door, she looked back at her father.

“I wish you well, Father,” she said, meaning it but knowing that she would not see him again. A lonely tear ran down her pale cheek.

“And you, my dear. What a beautiful life you will lead. I just know it.”

She hurried out the door as it opened, and she was glad when she heard it clang shut. Looking down at the small paper in her hand, she felt slightly excited that she finally had somewhere to go and something to do, yet she also feared what danger she might get herself into.
 

Chapter One

One month later

Adelaide couldn’t cry when she had heard of father’s death almost a month before, and she still hadn’t. Instead, she felt numb. A few days after her father had warned her of what was to come, she’d been sent a message from the prison authorities. Her father had been found dead in his cell, hanging from a rope.

Naturally, everyone thought it had been his doing, once again dragging the family name through the mud. ‘Good riddance’ and similar phrases had been uttered when she had passed acquaintances in the street, and they hurt like daggers.

Shortly thereafter, Thomas Frenzby had been declared the new Earl of Seton, and Adelaide had not been able to go to Scotland to begin the search for her half-brother. It had been the same for her father’s cousin Cecily when her brother had been killed by Adelaide’s father. She’d had to stay on until everything was set right. Adelaide remembered how Cecily had planned to go visit her sister Helen in Scotland but had been prevented from doing it, only to practically be imprisoned by her father.

Adelaide had planned her father’s funeral and met with the solicitors. She had met Thomas and had played the role of hostess to him for a couple of weeks, and she had even helped to plan the feast to celebrate the new Earl of Seton, getting Thomas to agree that Cecily and Kai should be invited. Cecily was family after all. Cecily’s sister Helen and her Scottish husband Cory would not able to join them, for they had a young one to care for. But last week, Cecily had written to confirm their arrival with her brothers-in-law Rae and Torion as well. Afterwards, they would all return to Scotland together for Adelaide to remain as long as she wished.

Adelaide was very grateful that Thomas had agreed for her to leave for Scotland. The feast would be taking place that very night, and Cecily was expected to arrive within a few hours. They would be leaving in a few days and Adelaide couldn’t have been more eager to leave. She felt rather uneasy around Thomas, but finally having Cecily there would make everything a little bit easier.

It was not just the fact that her father had warned her about his distant cousin being an unscrupulous man. There was something strange about his air whenever she was around him, and he seemed to always be looking at her in a rather inquisitive way.

Sitting in her father’s study, she thought about the documents that lay hidden away. They were proof enough that her brother Cillian was the blood heir. She took them from their hiding place and folded them away before tucking them into her bodice. Thomas could not find them, and she needed to take them on her journey to Scotland with Cecily to begin her search for her brother.

Now is the best time to take them, afore the castle becomes busy with guests and eyes everywhere.

Suddenly, the door to the study opened, and in walked Thomas. She bit back a gasp, but he just smiled at her, lines forming at the corners of his eyes. He was fifteen years older than her twenty years, and rather handsome, as many of the young society ladies whispered behind their fans at balls. With black hair and cold, blue eyes, he stood tall, over six feet, and he had an athletic build. He seemed to be greatly enjoying his newfound wealth and status.

Thankfully, he did not look suspicious about finding her in the study. She brushed her hand across the desk and then stood.

“It normal that you should mourn your father. No wonder you wish to come into his old space and touch his things. You are feeling sad that you are leaving soon? Leaving your house for a time?”

She nodded but smiled. “You are kind to allow me such liberties, and you are right. It feels good to remember him just a bit more before I leave and you make this place as much your own as possible. I shall leave you to it and make sure that all is prepared for the feast.”

She passed by him, so close that the skirt of her dress brushed against his leg, and he turned towards her. “Wait for a moment, if you will, Adelaide.”

She paused and faced him, her heart fluttering a little with fear. Did he mean to question her about other reasons why she might be inside her father’s study? Did he mean to ask her about the bulge of documents hidden inside her bodice?

She held her breath as he gestured to a chair by the fire. “Would you sit? I shall pour us a drink.”

Uneasy about the request but preferring that to him questioning her about why she was in the study, she nodded and went to sit down.

“Good.” Grasping the bottle of wine from a table in the corner, he poured them each a glass and handed one to her before sitting down across from her. Raising it in the air, he said, “To your good health.”

“And to yours.” She smiled before she took a sip. “So, what is it you would like to discuss with me?”

He grinned at her, and Adelaide could understand why the ladies were flocking to him, eager to become a countess, but as for herself, his smile only reminded her of her father’s words. She knew that Thomas had something to do with her father’s odd death, but she had no proof, and she would never confront him about it until she was in a position of safety.

He got comfortable in the chair, leaning back so that his legs stretched out before him, clad in tight, fine breeches. “I thought perhaps you might enjoy remaining here at the house once the feast is over.”

She clutched her glass tightly, eager to finish it one gulp, but she did not want to appear suspicious in any way. “Stay at the house?”

He nodded. “I know you are to go to your cousin’s home in a few days, but I thought you might like to remain here as hostess instead. You have already done your duties so admirably, I should hate to lose you. The house could be entirely under your control. You could take care of the household, and you would have a respectable place to say.”

Even though Thomas had said a lot of words, Adelaide was only focused on one of them. “Respectable?”

He paused in the middle of his speech and nodded. “Yes.” Then he frowned when she did not reply. “Surely you know your reputation because of your father, the murders he committed, and the odd circumstances of his death. It is rather shameful.”

Adelaide winced, amazed that the man could say things so starkly when they had only occurred a month before. She had not wished to see her father anymore, but that didn’t mean she was not mourning his death.

“Yes, I know of it,” she replied through gritted teeth.

I do not need your help to remind me of what sort of reputation I have, sir.

“Well then, you understand how good an idea it is that you should find a way to make yourself respectable. You can go to your cousin’s, of course, but that is only a balm and not a solution for your future. For eventually you will return, and you will still need to find a solution. So, I have a proposition for you.”

Adelaide swallowed, and she felt cold all over. She was glad to be sitting down because she could feel the room begin to spin. A dark ball of dread knotted in her belly, and she tried her best not to reveal her inner feelings on her face.

“Oh?” she asked, taking a sip of wine.

“Yes. I thought perhaps you might like to stay in the house not just as a housekeeper but as something far more dear and far more distinguished. You could stay in the house as my wife.”
 

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Prologue

Eighteen months earlier

Tate’s boots sank into the mud as he walked over to the man he was supposed to meet. It had been raining all morning, but now the clouds had parted, letting the sun shine down on the Hay Castle. The village streets, deserted only a few hours prior, were now filled with people, and Tate didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, the more people milled about, the more cover Tate would have for what he was supposed to do. On the other hand, it was easier for someone to spot him with so many people around.

Still, the plan had to be carried out.

Walking up to the man with the cart standing by the village tavern, Tate pulled a small bag full of coins out of his pocket and handed it to him.

“Half an hour,” he reminded him. “The lass will meet ye over there by the apothecary.”

“Aye, as discussed,” the man said. He was an older man, a farmer, with hair as grey as his beard, and he was willing to do a lot for some coins. “I’ll be waitin’.”

Tate nodded and left quickly, not wanting to be seen lingering around him. He made his way to the tavern instead and sat at one of the tables outside the establishment, despite the benches and the tables still being damp from the rain. It was the only place he could sit and watch both the castle and the apothecary without drawing any suspicion, and get a cup of ale, too, while he was at it.

He needed it, after all the hard work of the past few days.

Before he could even order the ale he so desperately wanted, a figure sat down at the table next to his. Tate kept his gaze in front of him, and he knew the other man was doing the same without needing to look at him.

He never needed to look to know what Kian was doing. After all the time they had spent together, Tate knew him like he knew himself. Every mannerism, every quirk of Kian’s was engraved forever in Tate’s mind, and he would recognize him anywhere.

Not that it was a difficult thing to do when Kian wore that mask. Tate had never even seen him without the blasted thing, the sterling silver mask that covered the entirety of the left side of his face, as well as the lower part of the right side. All he had ever seen were his long, blond hair and his dark blue eyes, one of them always obscured by the shadow of the mask. Same as his. If someone didn’t know them, they’d say they were twins.

“All done?” Kian asked. His voice was low, barely audible over the bustle of the village.

“All done,” Tate confirmed. “We only have tae wait fer the lassie tae come out o’ the castle now.”

It wasn’t much of a plan that he and Kian had come up with to get Lana Hay out of her father’s castle. They hadn’t had the time to think of something more elaborate, something safer that would guarantee a smooth escape. Ever since Tate had visited the castle the other day as her father’s guest and seen the cruelty the young woman had to suffer at his hands, he had known that they had to do something to help her leave the clan.

“Good,” Kian said. “The last thing we need is Eógan Hay gettin’ the alliance he wants with the Cummings clan. If we manage tae ruin this marriage, we ruin the alliance.”

“An’ we save Lana Hay,” Tate reminded him. Though putting a stop to the wedding between Lana and Balfour Cummings was important for the safety and prosperity of Kian’s clan—the Drummond Clan—Tate couldn’t help but feel that rescuing Lana from both her father and an unwanted marriage was a more pressing matter. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone having to live their lives in such sorrow, and though he couldn’t help everyone, he could try to help Lana, at least.

“Aye, I suppose that’s an added attraction,” Kian said. “I cannae imagine the kind o’ life the lassie would have if she ended up married tae Balfour Cummings. He’s worse than her faither. It’s a good thing ye could help her.”

“It’s a good thing we could help her,” Tate said. “I couldnae have done it without ye. If anythin’, yer the one who always helps people.”

“Ach, who else have I helped?” Kian asked, waving a hand dismissively as he tended to do whenever he was too embarrassed to accept any praise.

“Me,” Tate reminded him. “Ye saved me from certain death.”

“Aye, but that was a long time ago.”

Tate shook his head in disbelief with a small laugh. Kian made it impossible to say a good word about him or to thank him for everything all he had done for him, but that didn’t mean Tate would stop trying.

He was about to respond when he spotted Lana rushing around the village, her eyes wide as she looked left and right either for the man with the wagon or for a potential threat. She seemed frightened, her hand clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders, but Tate could hardly blame her. If her father or her betrothed found out she was trying to flee, there was no telling what they would do to her.

They’d probably keep her locked in the castle.

“There she is,” Tate told Kian. “Right on time.”

“Let’s go,” Kian said as he stood and made his way towards the man with the cart. Tate followed close behind; he never did get to drink that ale, he thought with a wistful sigh.

However, they had only taken a few steps when a drunk man fell right onto Kian, the two of them stumbling as Kian tried to hold both their weights. Tate came to a stop next to them, his hand shooting out to steady Kian.

“Watch where ye’re goin’!” the man shouted, much to Tate’s chagrin. He looked around them, knowing that the man was drawing too much attention to them, but not knowing what to do about it. Now that everyone in the street was looking at them, it would be difficult to slip away undetected as per their plan. Everyone had seen them, and they were bound to remember the scuffle.

“Ye’re the one who fell on me!” Kian said, rather unhelpfully. Tate wished he would just apologize and put an end to the fight before it even started, as the drunkard’s intentions were crystal clear. His gaze held a malice that was enough of a warning for Tate, but Kian didn’t seem to care.

The drunkard said nothing more before he grabbed Kian by his shirt and tried to throw him to the ground. He was a smaller man, though, while Kian shared Tate’s tall and muscular frame, towering over everyone he met. All the drunk man managed to do was pull Kian even closer to him, which instantly put him at a disadvantage.

Kian swung his fist. His knuckles connected with the drunkard’s cheek, but Tate could tell his friend was holding back, unwilling to hurt the man too much. The drunk fell to the ground, dazed and unable to stand on his own two feet, and Tate thought that would be the end of it. Swift and clean. He gave Kian one last look before he turned to join Lana by the cart, but before he could take even a single step, he saw something glinting in the drunkard’s hand.

He has a knife.

Kian hadn’t noticed. He had his back turned to the man and was walking away, oblivious to the threat right behind him. The man recovered quickly, too quickly, standing up and rushing towards Kian, and all Tate could do to stop him was throw himself at him.

Once more, the man fell to the ground with a pained moan, and Tate tumbled on top of him. His hand was wrapped tightly around the man’s forearm, pinning it down to the ground so that he couldn’t use the knife, and though the other struggled, kicking out his legs to shove Tate off him, he could hardly move.

Kian turned around and, once he noticed what was happening, he rushed to Tate’s aid. The problem was that several other men did as well, while others came to the drunk man’s rescue. Before Tate knew it, he and the man were separated, but the fight only grew. Some were looking for an excuse to exchange blows while others, offended by the punches they had already received, sought revenge.

A fist collided with Tate’s jaw, though in the chaos, he couldn’t tell who had attacked him. And to be honest, he didn’t even care. Now that everyone had stopped to stare at the fight, he and Kian had no chance of getting out of there unnoticed unless they managed to slip through the crowd. So, instead of engaging in the fight, he decided to look for Kian and get out of there.

He found him with his arms around another man, trying to restrain him, unsurprisingly. If anything, Tate was expecting him to do something even worse in the heat of the moment. Once he reached him, Tate placed a hand on Kian’s shoulder, which resulted in him almost getting a blow to the face, before Kian realized who he was.

“What are ye doin’?” Kian asked. “I could have hurt ye!”

“Leave him, let’s go,” Tate said, doing his best to disentangle Kian from the other man, but both Kian and the stranger were eager to continue with their confrontation. It took him a few moments, but in the end, he and Kian were weaving through the crowd, quickly making their way towards a small alley where they could both hide.

The fight continued without them, the men too impassioned to stop. Tate pressed himself against the wall of a house, keeping himself as invisible as he could, and placed a hand on Kian’s chest to force him to do the same.

“What were ye thinkin’, gettin’ intae that fight?” Tate hissed, as he tried to spot Lana. He hoped she hadn’t been spooked by the crowds and fled. He couldn’t see her in the village.

“Well, I clearly wasnae thinkin’, was I?” Kian said.

Despite himself, Tate laughed. “Of course, ye werenae. We have tae find the lass now.”

Pushing himself off the wall, Kian walked to the end of the alley, shoving Tate’s hand away when he tried to pull him back. Tate cursed under his breath, but at least no one seemed to notice them.

“There she is,” Kian said, pointing at the cart that was already rolling down the path away from the village and the Hay clan. “At least it worked out in the end.”

Tate let out a sigh of relief and let his head fall back against the wall. He hadn’t managed to speak to Lana, but he hoped everything would work out for her now that she had managed to escape, even without him giving her instructions on what to do next.

“I never asked ye… how did ye even manage tae tell her about the plan?” Kian said, as he hid himself in the shadows once more.

“It wasnae too difficult,” Tate said with a small shrug. “When her faither had that ball a few days ago, I snuck inside the castle as a guest.”

“An’ ye managed tae speak with her? I thought he’d be more careful than tae let a strange man talk tae his daughter.”

“Nay,” Tate said. “I barely saw her at the ball. I had tae flirt with a maid an’ she told me where tae find her.”

“I’m sure ye didnae enjoy that at all,” Kian said, his tone dripping with mockery.

“What would ye have me dae?” Tate said. “I had tae speak with her somehow.”

The fact that the maid was a pretty girl and more than receptive to his advances was merely a bonus. It had been the only thing Tate could think of at the time, and he was lucky it had worked. Had it been anyone else, he probably wouldn’t have managed to get the information he needed out of them.

“What is she like, then?” Kian asked. “Lana Hay?”

“I dinnae ken,” Tate said. “I didnae speak with her at all, actually.”

Kian looked at him in confusion and disbelief, and Tate chuckled before he added, “I only passed her a note. I wanted tae speak with her, but I didnae have time. She didnae even see me. I walked up behind her, passed her the note, an’ left.”

He hadn’t wanted to risk being found out by her father or her betrothed, so had had to be quick in his movements, leaving before too many people could see him. He had gotten good at it ever since Kian had first asked him to pose as him while he was away. Impersonating Kian meant that he had to be careful of who saw him as himself and when, in order for his cover not to be blown.

“At least we managed tae help her flee without any problems,” Kian said, and as though his words had summoned trouble, the men who were still fighting seemed to realize that the two of them were gone. It took them only seconds to band together and start looking for them, and then only a few more seconds to find them in the alley.

“They’re here!” one of the men shouted, attracting everyone else’s attention. Tate and Kian had no choice but to run, heading out of the village towards the woods in the hopes that they could be lost among the trees.

The crowd followed them, some of the men keeping them in their sights while others seemed to be confused as to where to go. Tate glanced at them over his shoulder every few seconds and steered Kian towards where they would have better chances at losing their pursuers.

“Well, I’m glad we didnae have tae opt fer the other plan,” Kian said, shouting as they ran. He was out of breath, the mask surely not helping, but he didn’t seem too bothered by the fact that an angry mob was chasing them.

“What other plan?” Tate asked.

“If this didnae work, I’d have had tae marry the lass meself,” Kian said. “How else would I stop Balfour Cummings from marryin’ her?”

Knowing Kian, Tate had to agree that not having to marry Lana was probably for the best.  

Chapter One

Present day, Murray Castle

Lana sat in the portrait gallery of Murray Castle with little Robert in her arms. He loved it there, always fascinated by the paintings that depicted the Murray family, and Lana often brought him there when Evelyn, the boy’s mother, was busy and couldn’t look after him.

“When ye grow up, ye’ll have yer own portrait here,” she told him, though the boy couldn’t yet understand her. He, too, would be a laird one day, the title passed on to him from his father, Laird Scott Murray.

In response, Robert giggled and made a few sounds that weren’t quite yet words. It made Lana giggle as well, delighted by the child in her arms.

The gallery was often quiet, as not many people visited it. She knew Magnus, Scott’s younger brother, came there at night sometimes, but rarely in the mornings, so she and Robert had the entire place to themselves. Lana liked to sit on the plush couch by the window and read to him, passing the hours until she was needed.

It was a nice routine she had set up for herself in the Murray Castle. She found life there much easier, much calmer than her life back home. Her father had often made her miserable, as though his sole purpose in life was to make her as unhappy as he was, and she knew that things would have only gotten worse if she had married Laird Cummings, as per her father’s plan.

But all that was in her past now. The Murrays had been kind to her. She had a good life, even if it wasn’t the life of a laird’s daughter. Besides, now that she was helping the clan’s healer instead of working as a maid, as she had been upon her arrival after Scott had saved her, she had found a passion, something that she actually enjoyed doing.

“I thought I’d find ye here,” a voice called from the door, and Lana turned to see Alba, Magnus’ wife and Evelyn’s older sister.

Originally, she had been promised to Scott, but after a series of situations he and Evelyn had fallen in love. This happened much to Alba’s delight, as she had never had any intention of ever marrying. However, to avoid another unwanted marriage, she had asked Magnus to pretend to be her husband, to everyone’s surprise as they did not get along. Needless to say, they had ended up falling head over heels for each other as well.

Lana smiled at her and gestured at her to join them on the couch, an invitation that Alba eagerly accepted.

“Robert likes this place,” Lana said, grinning at the boy. He reached up with his small hands and grabbed a fistful of her hair, tugging a few fiery red strands out of her updo before she could stop him. “Ach… ye’re a wee menace.”

“Just like his maither,” Alba said. Lana wouldn’t have guessed it when she had first met Evelyn, but she knew Alba was right. Though Alba and Evelyn were sisters, Alba shared none of Evelyn’s unruliness or her desire for adventure.

They certainly share their stubbornness, though.

“Where’s me sister?” Alba asked. “I’ve searched the entire castle an’ I cannae find her.”

“She’s with Scott,” Lana said. “They’re havin’ a meetin’ about the army again.”

“Again?” Alba asked. “That lass… she couldnae keep herself busy with somethin’ other than armies an’ fightin’?”

“I dinnae think she’s particularly fond o’ looms,” Lana pointed out. It was another thing that had surprised Lana when she had first come to the Murray clan. Scott not only didn’t mind it when Evelyn assisted him with clan matters and strategy, but he even encouraged it, asking for her opinion. Though she didn’t join him for the council meetings, as they were both certain the council would frown upon such a thing, Scott made sure to tell her everything that had been discussed.

“I ken that,” Alba said with a long-suffering sigh. As the oldest, Lana knew she felt responsible for her sister’s wellbeing and reputation, and though she wasn’t fighting any wars anymore, there was no telling what she would do if another war broke out.

“Dae ye need tae speak with her?” Lana asked.

“She told me tae remind her tae feed Robert, because she would be too busy tae keep track o’ the time,” Alba said. “I thought I’d find ye here with him, but I didnae ken it would be this difficult tae find her!”

“I can take him tae her,” Lana said, already standing with Robert in her arms. “It’s nae a problem.”

She had taken only a few steps before Alba called to her again.

“Ach, I almost forgot again!” Alba said, joining her by the door. “I keep meanin’ tae tell ye somethin’ an’ I keep forgettin’ tae.”

“What is it?” Lana asked.

“Ever since ye told me that story o’ how that man saved ye from yer faither, I’ve been lookin’ fer that mark that ye described tae me,” Alba said. “Ye said he had a mark on his hand, did ye nae?”

“Aye, he did,” Lana confirmed, her heart filling with hope. Could it be that Alba had found the man she had been looking for? It had been over a year since then, and no matter how much Lana tried, she could never figure out who her savior was. She had only gotten a glimpse of his hand as he passed her the note that night, and even though she had tried to run after him once she had read his words, she hadn’t managed to catch up with him.

“Ye’ve heard o’ Tate,” Alba said. It wasn’t a question. Though Lana had never seen Tate, she had heard of him, as his family talked so much about him. He was the baby out of the three brothers, and though he was often away travelling, they always spoke fondly of him. “I realized the other day that he has a mark on his hand. Look.”

As she spoke, Alba pointed at Tate’s portrait on the wall. His hand was visible, and the painter had definitely painted something on his skin that could have been a birthmark, although Lana couldn’t tell if it was the same one she had seen or not. She would have to see it in real life to know for certain.

“I dinnae ken if that’s it,” Lana said. “I… I’m nae certain.”

“Well, ye’ll see it when he returns from his travels,” Alba pointed out. “Wouldnae it be strange if all this time, yer savior was Tate?”

It would be a strange coincidence, indeed, Lana thought. She wanted nothing more than to find the man and thank him for saving her from a miserable fate, so if it was Tate, then all the better. She didn’t know how she could return such kindness, but she would at least try.

“Thank ye fer showin’ me, Alba,” Lana said. “I hope ye’re right.”

“I hope so too,” Alba said. She, like everyone else in the castle, knew how much this meant to her.

With that, Lana was off, taking Robert to Scott’s study. She knocked on the door and entered, finding him and Evelyn hunched over the table as they discussed their plans. Evelyn stepped back as Lana entered, shoulders going stiff. She only relaxed when she realized who it was, and her face split into a grin when she saw Robert.

“Is it time already tae feed him?” she asked, as she reached for her son. Lana handed him to her, nodding.

“Aye, Alba came tae find me,” she said. “He’s been a wee angel all day.”

“Has he?” Evelyn asked. “Well, that’s new.”

Lana and Scott laughed, both knowing how much of a handful Robert could be sometimes, especially now that he was growing and getting curious about the world around him. He wasn’t a fussy child, though, and Lana rarely heard him cry.

“Thank ye fer bringin’ him, Lana,” Evelyn said. “Will ye stay fer supper?”

“Nay, nay… I must go back tae the cottage,” Lana said. “I need tae gather some supplies fer the healer.”

“As ye wish,” Evelyn said. “But ye’re always welcome.”

“Thank ye,” Lana said, giving them both a small bow before she left the study. She often spent her afternoons and evenings at the healer’s cottage, a little further down the path from the castle, and she preferred it there. It was much quieter, nothing like the castle she had called home fer so many years.

She didn’t want to be reminded of her past. It was all too painful, too much to bear. All she wanted to do was spend her days immersed in her new job, learning everything there was to know about healing people and saving lives. There was no point in revisiting the past and dwelling on every cruel thing her father had done to her.

Lana greeted all the guards and the clansmen and women as she walked through the castle and then the courtyard, before exiting the castle walls. She had taken that same path countless times, but it never failed to amaze her how beautiful the place was, each side of the dirt road stretching out into the forest. Flowers and herbs bloomed by the path, and Lana stopped for a moment to gather some hedge nettles for the healer to use. She pulled her small knife out and started cutting a few stalks, making sure to get the freshest ones.

Thankfully, it was a nice day and the sun was shining through a smattering of clouds. Every time she had to take the path when it was raining, she delayed it for as long as possible, loathing the mud that caked her shoes when even just a little rain had fallen.

With an armful of hedge nettles, Lana continued down the path, but something made her pause. She felt as though there were eyes on her, much like she did back home, every time her father had one of his guards—sometimes even multiple of them—following her every move. She was accustomed to the feeling, that tell-tale shiver down her spine notifying her that there was something wrong.

Nonetheless, when she looked around, she couldn’t spot anyone. There was nothing but trees, bushes, and a few birds flying from branch to branch.

Could it all be in me head?

Lana doubted it. She was far from paranoid. Even when she had been living in her father’s castle, she never worried without reason.

Her instinct told her that there was someone there, hiding among the trees.

But what other choice did she have than to keep going? She was too far from the castle to ask for help. The cottage was closer, and maybe if she made a run for it, she could get there before whoever was watching her could catch up with her.

Taking a few steadying breaths, Lana reached for her knife once more. She held it tightly in her hand, though she didn’t know how effective it would be during an attack. It was barely sharp enough to cut through stalks, let alone human flesh. Also, she had never even been in a fight before. How could she defend herself if there was a brigand after her?

Why me? I’m nae one important, nae anymore.

It didn’t matter. She could figure that out later. All that mattered was getting to the cottage on time, where she would be safe.

In an instant, she dropped the hedge nettles and broke into a sprint. Her feet thudded against the ground, clouds of dust rising behind her with every step she took. It didn’t take her long to hear another set of footsteps behind her, louder and heavier than her own, but she didn’t dare look back at the person who was chasing her.

Although she was running as fast as she could, the footsteps sounded closer and closer with every passing second. Her pursuer was catching up to her. Lana tried to run even faster, to push herself even more, but she had no more strength left. All she could do was hope she wouldn’t trip and fall, and that she would be fast enough to escape.

That hope faded when a hand grabbed her and brought her to a halt. Lana screamed and tried to tug her arm away from the man’s grip, but he was too strong. He only held her even more tightly, one arm wrapping around her waist as the other wrapped around her throat, choking her.

In her panic, Lana’s breath rushed out of her. She couldn’t draw any air into her lungs. She couldn’t fight the man. Her legs kicked out, and her hand swung the knife wildly in the air, trying to hurt him even a little, just enough so that she could escape, but he was too strong. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, making her drop the knife with a pained wail, before he continued to choke her.

He’ll kill me.

She didn’t understand why. She didn’t know why he had chosen her or why he had decided to kill her, but she knew that was his intention. His arms were too tight, pressing against her stomach and her throat. His chest was a solid wall against her back, and she had no chance of making him move.

Tears began to stream down her cheeks, carving hot paths in their wake. The world tilted and started to go dark and fuzzy at the edges as she lost consciousness, though she didn’t know if it was because of the lack of air or the panic that was bubbling up inside her. Either way, she knew she wouldn’t be awake for long.

She had to find out who the man was. She had to sneak a look at him, just in case she managed to survive this, so she craned her neck trying to get a glimpse but no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t.

What she did see was the ring he was wearing. It was a ring that many of her father’s men wore, gifted to them when they rose up the ranks of his army. Lana would recognize it anywhere.

Me faither sent him… he’s here tae take me back.

She didn’t know how anyone had found out where she was. Lana thought she was safe there and that her father would never find her, but she had clearly been wrong. She had been wrong about the man, too. He wasn’t trying to kill her; he was only trying to incapacitate her.

Still, that didn’t comfort her in the least. She would rather die than go back to her father, to that daily abuse and misery. She would rather the man end her life right then and there, because she would never agree to stay with her father.

However, she couldn’t speak. No words would come out of her mouth, just like she could not get any air into her lungs.

Her limbs were soon too heavy for her too struggle. Her head was filled with cotton, making it impossible to think. And then, everything went black. 

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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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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.

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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