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Prologue

Edinburgh, Scotland
May 1304

Shivering slightly, Taveon Macdonell wrapped his heavy woolen cloak tighter across his shoulders as he entered the tavern. The oak door slammed shut behind him and he looked around. He blinked, half-blinded by the sudden near blackness. He could scarcely make out more than dull shapes in the smoky, noise-filled interior.

He cursed inwardly as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He was bone-weary, fatigued by his life as a hunted man, sick and tired of the distance he’d been forced to keep from his home in the Highlands. And oh-so-fed-up with seeing a stranger reflected back at him whenever he glanced in a looking-glass. He scarcely recognized himself – his hair darkened, his jaw shaved, his clothes shabby and nondescript. All he wanted was to cast aside this damned disguise and get his life back.

His heart cried out to be able to return to Macdonell Castle, to his brother Payton and his precious little sister Arya.

His gaze fell upon the two men who awaited him, seated at the rear of the room. On heavy, aching limbs he slowly made his way to their corner table. As he approached, one of the men rose menacingly, a dirk grasped in his hand.

The man, grey-haired and grey-bearded and burly, snarled. “Who the devil are ye? Ye’re nae Taveon Macdonell.”

Taveon scowled for he knew this man. His name was Tal Macintyre and if Tal didn’t know him, at least he could be assured his disguise was doing its job.

“Ye stupid arse, Macintyre,” Taveon countered. “Of course I’m Taveon Macdonell. Have ye nae eyes tae see?”

The man grunted. He was half a head taller, looming over Taveon. “I remember ye as fair-haired and bearded.”

“I once was. But blessed be walnut juice for dyeing my hair and this sharp knife for keeping my beard trimmed.” He placed his hand on the hilt of the sharp dagger sheathed at his waist, making no bones about his own ability to fight, if this meeting turned out badly.

“The password.” The seated man spoke abruptly. He was the younger of the two, his light-brown, greasy hair, tied at his nape, his shirt and britches of fine cloth.

Taveon spat the word. “Gaisgeach.”

The man laughed. “Ah yes, the Scot’s word for warrior.” He spoke with an English accent. “Name’s John Sykes, at your service.” He indicated a space at the table. “Join us Taveon Macdonell.”

As Taveon pulled up a chair, Sykes signaled to the tavern keeper, who hurried over at once.

“Three tankards of yer best ale,” Sykes said smiling affably. Once the man had departed, he turned his attention back to Taveon, his smile fading. “Are ye ready and willing to do our bidding Macdonell?”

Taveon leaned back in his chair folding his arms across his chest, biting his tongue on an angry retort. He spoke his answer in measured tones. “I’ve done all that was asked of me. Made meself a traitor tae Scotland tae suit William de Coughran’s blasted cause. And all tae keep me wee sister safe. I’ve nothing more tae give of meself.” He shook his head, a determined glint in his green eyes.

“There’s yet a month before I’m due in Carlisle tae deliver the details of the Scots’ battle plans tae yer English masters and I’ve sworn tae complete me mission. Ye cannae command more from me.”

The man gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll do as you’re told Macdonell. That is, if you wish to see your family again.”

Shaking his head, Taveon went to rise, but Macintyre’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm in an iron grip, forcing him to stay in his seat. Gone was any pretense at civility.

“Ye’ll sit and listen tae what we have tae say, Macdonell, and ye’ll keep yer blasted mouth shut.”

Taveon drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smoky air, steadying himself, holding back the torrent of rage building inside him.

So, this is what it has come tae.

He was nothing more than a pawn in the traitors’ games, helping the English against his own countrymen.

But he reminded himself that, after his mother’s death giving birth to his baby sister Arya and his father’s decline into drink and gambling ending in his murder by the hand of William de Coughran’s men, he and his brother had made a sacred pact, one they had kept without faltering. The older brother, Payton, would fulfill his duties to the clan, while Taveon would be responsible for his family. It was Taveon’s sworn duty to keep his sister and brother safe from De Coughran, who was his father’s creditor and had vowed to make them pay for their father’s sins. If his actions were to save his kin from harm, he had no choice but to abide by whatever was asked of him now by his enemies.

“Go on, then,” he said, gritting his teeth as Macintyre twisted his wrist and pressed his hand to the table. Before Taveon had a chance to pull free, the man brought down the sharp point of his dirk, piercing the flesh between Taveon’s first and middle fingers, pinning him to the table, trapping him.

He watched, stunned, as a bubble of blood welled and trickled onto the worn oak table-top.

Sucking in a breath, ignoring the pain in his hand, he met John Sykes’s gaze front on. The man’s gray eyes flicked over him, lingering on Taveon’s bleeding hand for a moment, his lips spreading into an ugly grin.

“You may recall Castle Ardtun,” he said, clearly amused at Taveon’s plight. When he received no response other than a thunderous scowl, he continued.

“The MacKinnon Clan’s seat, the home of Laird Blaine MacKinnon? Surely, you recall the family.” Sykes gave a sharp laugh. “I am sure you have not forgotten your long months of incarceration there, waiting for the hangman to put a noose around your neck.”

Taveon’s mind shot back to the time he’d spent imprisoned on the Isle of Mull after he’d been captured on his way to the English. He’d been treated well, better than he had deserved, eventually making his escape with the assistance of a sweet young woman. He’d heard, later, that she’d wed the laird’s younger brother. He had forgotten her name, but he recalled her gentle, anguished words before she’d freed him from the dungeon. Her quest to free him resembled his own, a vow to protect her siblings. He wondered if she hated herself as much as he loathed himself while doing so.

“I remember it very well, Sykes. Although I cannae see it’s any of yer treacherous business whether my memory serves me well or nae.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong.” Sykes swilled another mouthful of ale. “Your memory of the MacKinnons is exactly what my business is with you today. We have in mind a fitting punishment to be dealt to the MacKinnons. They must be taught a lesson and made to understand we will not be interfered with. We need reprisal for your imprisonment, something that will cut deep, cause pain. Something that will bring down a hail of nightmares, prevent them from sleeping.”

“I dinna follow yer train of thought, Sykes. Castle Ardtun is well guarded. Sir Michael Wemyss attacked and tried tae take the castle, but his men were nae match for the MacKinnons and their clansmen. Ye’ll find great resistance if ye attempt another raid.”

Sykes pshawed loudly. “No, Macdonell, we’ve nothing so clumsy in mind. We’re counting on your knowledge of the
castle and the country surrounding it. We’ve an altogether different and far more painful retribution in mind.”

He leaned forward, a sneer on his bloated features, his beery, rancid breath assailing Taveon’s nostrils. “You are to return to Ardtun and there you will whisk the laird’s younger sister out from under his nose. Once you’ve captured her, you’re to take her to Sir William at Castle Lochnell. If MacKinnon wants his sister safe back home with him in Castle Ardtun, he’ll have to pay a bounty to the English, in exchange.”

“Ye can count me out, ye lying bunch of bastards.” Taveon’s voice rose. “I’ve done what I was asked and that’s it. Nae more. I was told that once I’d delivered the Scots’ plans tae the English ye would leave me family alone. Me father’s debts would be overlooked and we could live our lives in peace.”

“You forget yourself, boy. You’re impertinent. Let me remind you that you’ve still to fulfill your side of our bargain. The plans have not yet reached the English commanders.”

Taveon slumped in his seat. His hand was throbbing steadily now, and a pulse beat in his forehead ached like the devil. Would he never be free?

“Ye ask too much of me. I was promised my actions would nae bring harm to any soul directly. My task was tae steal the plans and take them tae the English side. Nae more than that.”

Sykes cackled gleefully. “And were you such a prize fool Macdonell, that ye believed you’d be harming no one by giving the plans to the Scots’ enemies? The Scots will be slaughtered once the plans reach the army. And that will be on your head.”

Taveon shuddered. Of course, the man spoke the truth.

“So, if you want to keep your family safe, you know what is required of you.”

Taveon gave a weary nod. He could see no way out for himself but to accept this cursed new mission.

“I’ll do what ye want,” he said, his green eyes fixed on Sykes. “But I want your sworn word on one thing. Nay harm will come to Hannah MacKinnon while she’s held captive. She’ll be returned to her brother as soon as he pays the ransom.”

Sykes flicked his forefinger finger at Macintyre who ripped away his dirk, freeing Taveon.

“Of course,” Sykes said smoothly, as Taveon rose to his feet, blood still welling from his injured hand. “You have my sacred word on it. No harm will come to the girl and she’ll be returned, unscathed, to the heart of her family in due course.”

Chapter One

Castle Ardtun, Mull
May, 1304

Peeping through the leaves in the hedge, Hannah could just make out little Mirin half-hidden behind one of the shrubs in the garden. Mirin’s twin sister, Alba, stood in the middle of the lawn, eyes closed, counting to ten.

It was a golden day of sunshine. Apart from a few puffy white clouds, the sky was blue, perfect for a fun game of hide ’n seek with her nieces. Spring was all around, daffodils were blooming and Hannah’s favourite tree, the crabapple, was covered in buds, soon to be bursting into a mass of fragrant pink flowers.

Pulling up her kirtle, she hugged her knees. The girls would never find her in this spot. It was a hollowed-out space between the hedges, perhaps made by an animal sheltering over the winter, but it made for a perfect place to stay hidden, even though the girls were hardly more than an arm’s length away.

Squeals and giggles indicated that Alba had discovered Mirin’s hiding place. Now both twins were searching for her.

“Hannah, Hannah. Come out.” Alba called.

“She’s nae here,” Mirin whispered.

“Perhaps the little people have taken her,” Alba said, her voice suddenly fearful.

“Hannah, please come out,” pleaded Mirin.

Hannah could stand it no longer. The game was only fun if no one was scared by it. She leaped to her feet. It was at the moment that she heard the sound of men’s voices entering the garden. The girls swirled around and took off.

“Athair,” they cried in unison.

Hannah’s heart did a flip. It was their father, Blaine. Her brother. Straightening her kirtle and brushing leaves out of her hair she ventured out of her hiding place. It was unusual for Blaine to be in the garden. This was the place where the women came to chat, to embroider, or attend to their mending. It was her favourite place within the castle walls. She often came here with the twins and her sister-in-law Edina’s sisters Margaret and Skye, who were around her age.

Here in the garden, they could chat and make as much noise as they liked without an angry face appearing at their door telling them that girls should be seen and not heard. She also frequently came alone, just to sit and enjoy the birds and butterflies and the flowers coming into bloom. It was a peaceful place, a respite from the duties and busyness of the castle.

Now, disturbing the gentle harmony of the place, was her brother.

Whatever does Blaine want?

She stepped hurriedly out of the hedge, feeling foolish and off-kilter under the watchful presence of her brother. Her foot caught on a protruding tree root as she hastened forward, sending her head over heels. She squealed, putting out her hands to break her fall. But despite her best efforts, she landed face down on the grass.

Mirin and Alba raced over, giggling as Hannah struggled to s sitting position, her hands muddied and her kirtle covered in grass.

Alba tugged at her aunt’s braids. “Oh wait, Auntie Hannah, ye’ve a ladybird in yer hair,” she shrieked, gently removing the little insect.

Blaine stood watching them, his mouth screwed in lines of disapproval, his eyes narrowed.

It was not until Hannah had finally risen to her feet, and was brushing her tangled skirts and neatening her hair, that he spoke.

“I regret intruding intae yer area, sister, but it seems ye pay nae heed tae my requests for yer presence. Thus, ye give me nae other option but tae come here in search of ye.”

His displeasure was rolling off him in waves, and Hannah noted with dismay that the vein in the middle of his forehead was prominent. Always a sign he was in a rage, but containing it.

Her stomach lurched. She had received his summons but the time seemed to have flown and she’d lost track of when she was to have the meeting with him.

“I’m so sorry brother. Please forgive me. I was nae heedless of yer message, but simply unaware of the time passing.” She looked around. Gillebride had taken the twins by the hand and was leading them out of the garden.

It was only then that Hannah saw Errol, her other brother, standing quietly at the entrance to the garden, another man at his side. Her heart sank as she became conscious of her dishevelled state, her muddy hands, grubby kirtle and messy braids. Her forehead was stinging and she was afraid she may have scratched it when she fell, bringing further disharmony to her appearance.

She gripped Blaine’s sleeve. “What is it? Please tell me what’s going on. Who is that man and why is he looking at me like that? Are we in danger?”

The man had stepped forward, taking his place beside Errol and was now standing in the sunlight where she could observe him fully. He was tall, possibly around Blaine’s age, with well-coiffed dark hair and blue eyes.

Blaine made the introduction. “May I present my sister Hannah?” The man nodded in Hannah’s direction, favouring her with a haughty smile, his eyes mocking her.

“This is a dear friend of mine, Duncan Buchanan.”

Taking an instant dislike to him, despite his handsome profile and fine clothes, Hannah bobbed a curtsy and offered the man her most dazzling smile.

“I am so very pleased tae make yer acquaintance, my laird,” she responded as graciously as possible.

Inwardly she was heaping a mountain of curses on Blaine for putting her in such an unenviable position with a stranger. And why had her brother, the Laird, seen fit to bring this strange man to invade this private space?

“Would ye excuse me, sir, tae have a few words with me brother?”

The man nodded politely, turned on his heel and walked off with Errol.

Hannah turned to Blaine, her brows drawn in a frown.

“I dinna like yer Duncan Buchanan,” she hissed once the two men were out of earshot.

Blaine sighed. “Ye dinna understand, Hannah.”

Glaring, she placed her hands on her hips defiantly. “Well, then, brother, please do go ahead and explain what all this is about.”

“Ye’ve told us often enough of yer longing tae find a husband and be wed,” he began.

She huffed impatiently. “Yes. I’ve envied my brothers their happiness. Ye know I wish for nothing more than tae find a man tae love and tae have me own family. Like ye with Ivy, and Errol with Edina.” Her eyes misted as memories came flooding in. “After our parents died, ye two were everything to me, ye were me entire family.” She gazed up at him, trying to gauge his reaction to her words. Would he understand how much this meant? “But now ye have families of yer own, and I’m a little lost. It’s as if I dinna belong anywhere, nowadays.”

Blaine nodded, reaching a hand to squeeze her arm gently. “Well, yer brother and I have talked with the Council of Chiefs. Ye’re nineteen, old enough tae wed. It’s been decided we dae our best tae grant yer wish.”

Hannah’s blue eyes lit up. “Blaine, ye mean… ye’ve agreed tae allow me tae wed?”

He laughed softly. “Aye lass. It’s what ye want.” His eyes grew serious. “I want tae know ye’ve a man tae protect ye when the battles come again, and I cannae keep ye close forever, nae matter how much I’d love tae have ye in me sight.”

She frowned up at him. “Do ye think the English will attack?”

He shook his head. “I dinna ken, luv. All I ken is that a war is raging, that the traitor Taveon is still abroad with our battle plans, and sooner or later it will come tae our doorstep. And when it does, I want ye safe and – Heaven forbid, should something happen tae me and Errol – under the protection of a powerful family.”

She clutched his sleeve again. “If battle’s where yer thoughts take ye, I must tell ye this my dear brother. The man I’ll wed must be a true Scot. One who’s nay traitor tae the rightful king. Never a man the likes of that traitor Macdonell Edina helped escape from yer dungeon.”

“Aye. we have all forgiven Edina for the heartache she caused. I ken why she took such a great risk and almost broke Errol’s heart. Tae keep her sisters safe. I’d have done the same if I had been her.” Her eyes flashed. “But I’ll nae forgive Macdonell for his wicked treachery.”

Blaine smiled fondly at her determination and loyalty. “Never fear, sweet lass, the man ye wed will be one who takes an oath of allegiance to our Liege Lord, King Robert.” He gave her a wry smile. “Someone like Duncan Buchanan, the next Laird of the Buchanans.”

Hannah gasped, raising a hand to her mouth. “Och, my dear Lord. Are ye telling me that man is me suitor?”

Again, Blaine chuckled. “Dinna worry, lass, he’s nae the only one. Ye’ll be kept busy all through the summer. There are lads lining up tae ask for yer hand. Buchanan is only the first.”

Beaming, she glanced up at him.

“Methinks he’s the first, but by nay means will he be the last.”

“The first of many,” Blaine said, pulling her into his arms for a great bear-hug. “Ye’ll be wed before winter is upon us, wee sister.”

Chapter One

Ardtun, Isle of Mull
Midsummer, 1304

The heavily-laden woodsman’s cart rattled its way up to the castle gate.
“Whoah,” said the cloaked figure, pulling on the reins. The strong cart-horse came to a standstill as the two guards nodded toward the woodsman.

“It’s Euan, bringing another load for the castle fires,” the guard called. Moments later the gate into the keep was slowly raised, allowing the cart’s entry. The man on the cart gave a brief salute as the cart rumbled through the gate and across the cobblestones.

He circled around the back of the castle and pulled up beside the servants’ quarters near the kitchen, where he tethered the horse and set about unloading the timber logs and kindling.

Some of the heaviest wood he carried on his shoulders, muscles straining, to stack on the covered wood-pile beyond the kitchen while several servants filled baskets from his smaller choppings to be used in the great kitchen fires.

He filled a basket and carried it through to the great hall where he was relieved of the weight by the serving-man, whose sole job it was to ensure there was sufficient fuel for the roaring fires that warmed the castle.

The man they called Euan had been carrying out these tasks for the past weeks, coming and going through the castle’s iron gates with nary a glance from the guards, all the while taking care to keep his cloak wrapped securely and his hood shadowing his face.

Taveon hated his disguise almost as much as he hated being here. His memories of the dungeon were still fresh enough in his mind to make him shudder, even though it had been months since he’d found his freedom. Yet, it had been simple enough to find a way to enter the castle. He’d paid a handsome bounty to borrow Euan’s cart with its load of wood and take his place three times a week when he took the timber load to Castle Ardtun.

In his woodsman’s guise, Taveon had been able to make his way through the castle unhampered. On the rare occasions he’d been questioned, he’d simply shown his basket of trimmed logs and been waved on.

Now that his plan was coming to fruition, he had high hopes he’d be able to overwhelm the laird’s sister unnoticed. He’d capture her swiftly, putting miles between the two of them and the MacKinnons, before her disappearance was discovered and the alarm was raised. If his luck held, her absence would not be noticed until morning.

In the weeks he’d been surveilling the castle, he’d become aware of the small garden frequented by the women. The first time he’d been there he’d been casting his eyes around, taking in his surroundings, when a young woman and two little girls burst through the entry way. Before they could catch sight of him, he’d quickly crouched in the hedge, finding a space there where he could observe them.

The wee girls’ innocent play put him in mind of his sister Arya when she was a bairn. That memory was like a knife between his ribs.

He heard them call “Hannah,” and his heart jumped.

She was beautiful. Tall, slender, her golden hair falling in waves to her slim waistline. He hadn’t counted on her loveliness, or on the feelings that stirred inside him as he observed her – hair flying, skirts tucked up, long legs on display. He watched, enthralled, as she laughed with the wee girls, playing catch-me-if-you can and skipping a rope. The ache in his groin and the urge to seize her and bury his face in that glorious mane of hair, to hold her soft curves against him, to crush her lips to his was, suddenly, almost unbearable.

It had been many years since a lass had made his heart beat faster. He’d been leading a monk’s life for too long.

He was suddenly assailed with doubt. This lovely creature did not deserve the fate that lay in store for her. The MacKinnons had treated him well while he was their captive. They’d given him good food and ale and despite knowing him as a traitor who threatened the lives of their clansmen, he’d not known cruelty at their hands.

To inflict the pain he knew was in store for them went against everything he believed was right in the world.

Conscious that such feelings were dangerous, threatening the cold-heart required for his mission, he steeled himself with the knowledge of the fate awaiting his own kin should he not succeed.

On several further occasions, when the weather was good, he’d snuck into the garden, observing the women chatting and laughing at their needlework or frolicking with the bairns.

Hannah spent more time there than the others. More often than not she was alone, sitting quietly, sometimes with her eyes closed, peacefully breathing in the perfumed air. He knew it was only a matter of time before he came upon her when there was no one around to come to her aid.

Tonight, after carrying out his usual duties with the firewood, Taveon slipped away from watchful eyes, making his way, unseen, to the little garden. The cart was empty, save for a sack containing his tools, and he’d drawn it as close as he could to the doorway near the kitchen. At this time of the evening, he could count on the servants being too busy serving the laird and his family to be coming and going through the door.

The evening was still warm in the long twilight, and Taveon had high hopes Hannah would come here, as she did so frequently, to take in the air before retiring to her bedchamber.

Once he reached the empty garden, he found his way to the space in the hedge where he could observe whatever was taking place there. His heart was pounding and the blood thundering in his veins. If he was caught now there’d be no mercy, hanging or beheading would be his certain fate.

As minutes turned into hours of waiting, his legs stiffened and he rubbed his calves, keeping them pliant, aware that any stumbling misstep could be his last.

His mind meandered idly over thoughts of Hannah, imagining her looking at him with glowing eyes, her lips opening tenderly…

He froze, straining his ears at the sudden intrusion of voices, groaning inwardly. One of the voices was Hannah’s, but the other voice belonged to a man.

God’s teeth!

Hannah flew out of the great hall, aware that Hendrie was following on her heels.

“Hannah, wait,” he said plaintively. “I have something I want tae say tae ye.” He was like a young puppy; all sad eyes, floppy hair and gangly legs. She didn’t lessen her stride, heading straight for the Ladies’ Garden. Surely the boy wouldn’t be so foolish as to follow her to that private spot.

No. He had no time for such niceties. Entering the garden, he scooted alongside her and clutched her hand. Ugh. His hand was limp and sweaty.

Oh dear! What was Blaine thinking?

All smiles this afternoon, he’d presented her with young Hendrie Davidson, the son of one of his oldest friends. In the space of two months, Hendrie was the eleventh offering her brother had trotted out for her approval as a prospective suitor. Eleventh.

But, by all the saints in Christendom, this lad was scarcely out of the nursery. Still wet behind the ears. He was sweet enough, eager to please, but not yet bearded, with aught but peach-fuzz on his chin. She’d wager he was not a day over seventeen. Why, she stood at least a head taller than him, for goodness’ sake!

Was this Blaine’s plot to force her to agree to marry the next man that actually looked like a full-grown man? At least one with a beard.

Hendrie was clinging to her hand like a limpet. She plonked her bottom on the bench at the far end of the garden, spreading her skirts in the faint hope he’d realize there was no space for him to sit beside her.

Not in the least deterred, he flung himself on one knee on the grass in front of her.

“Fair lady, please let me recite the poem I’ve written for ye,” he begged.

She huffed indignantly.

Blaine must secretly hate me. Otherwise, he’d never keep beleaguering me with unsuitable, unappealing, impossible lads.

“All right. I’ll listen tae yer poem. But, afterwards, ye must promise tae take yer leave. I wish tae enjoy the evening air by meself,” she said sternly.

Hendrie took a deep breath, issuing a sigh. “I shall, melady. I shall leave ye once ye’ve heard me out.” He took a parchment from the pocket in his britches and unfolded it.

After clearing his throat, he began. “Fairest Jennifer,” he read.

“My name’s Hannah” she said, her lips quirking in a smile. Why, this buffoon had not written the poem for her at all.

“Oh…” he gasped.

“Methinks ye should stand, Hendrie. I’ve changed me mind. I nay longer wish tae hear yer verses.” She reached a hand to help him up.

Suddenly, he switched his eyes from her face, to the small creature that was climbing on the bench beside her. A spotted, brown, scaly creature.

“Ye gods. A monster,” he shrieked, losing his balance and, hands flailing, landing bottom-first on the grass.

In fright, Hannah heaped to her feet, her skirt tangling her feet, bringing her down to land beside him.

Pointing with a shaking finger, his ashen face washed of all color, he squeaked, “There. It’s a deadly, poisonous, serpent”

Scrambling to her feet, Hannah looked around.

“Hendrie. Get up.” She snapped. “While there are some shy snakes here on Mull that are poisonous, that’s nae snake. It’s a wee lizard. They are common here and that one visits me often in the garden.”

She savagely brushed at her skirt with one hand, fluffing grass and leaves out of her hair with the other.

“Now,” Her voice was unusually sharp. “I believe it’s time ye left me.” She lifted her chin in haughty dismissal. The boy stumbled to his feet, swiveled without a word, and hastily made his departure, leaving Hannah alone in the gathering twilight.

“At last,” she breathed aloud.

Leaning over the lizard, she whispered her thanks.

“Mr. Lizard.” She said, breathlessly. “I do so appreciate yer help in chasing that boy away. I was beginning tae fear he’d never go.” She laughed.

Then came a whispered voice in response, “Happy to be of service melady. I could see he was nae the man for ye. Ye deserve a strong, handsome fellow tae set ye tae rights.”

For one fleeting second it seemed as if the lizard was speaking to her, and she giggled. But then it dawned.

Someone was there, unseen, beside her in the garden.

She drew in a breath, filling her lungs, ready to scream bloody murder.

But, before she had a chance to let out an awe-inspiring shriek, a tall figure leaped from the shadow of the hedges and clamped a ruthless hand over her mouth.

Struggling furiously, she raked the hand with her nails, kicking out as best she could, although hampered by her long skirts. She heard a rough swear word as she tore at the man’s hand, but his other hand clamped her waist and she was hauled unceremoniously into the hedge, landing a hundred tiny scratches on her face and bare arms.

Before any further ado, a heavy cloth was wrapped around her mouth and fastened, her hands were seized in a strong grip and tied tightly behind her back with string. Throwing her head back she tried to butt against the man’s chin, but he was too quick for her. He dodged sideways, grabbing her hair, twisting it painfully around his hand.

“Dinna try anything, lass. It’ll go badly for ye if ye dae,” he breathed into her ear. “Stop struggling and ye’ll nae be hurt.”

Then the world went dark as a sack was thrown over her head and pulled down over her body to her feet. She felt the man fastening a binding like a belt at her waist, securing the rough hessian sack, and another binding her ankles.

Bound hand and foot, her mouth gagged so that her screams were stifled, she felt herself being hoisted over the man’s shoulder as if she was nothing more than a sack of chaff.

“If ye make a sound, if ye try and wriggle, I’ll run ye through with my dirk,” he said in a low, gravelly voice that shot terror straight to her heart.

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Prologue

Steward Castle, 1290
One year ago

Steward Castle was quiet these days, the once lively rooms filled with hushed whispers. Even the weather seemed to mourn, the sky a dull, cold gray outside Laird Steward’s study.

Fletcher Steward already thought of the room as his own, though his father had not yet taken his last breath. It was Fletcher’s, as he was now the Laird of the Steward Clan in everything but name. He took care of clan matters, he made all the decisions, and he would soon have the title as Laird Steward’s rightful heir as well.

He had no animosity towards his father, nor did he want him to die, but he understood the natural progression of things. No man had ever escaped death and his father would be no different. Fletcher tried to focus on the positive, such as his upcoming rise to power. He had already had a taste of it, acting in his father’s stead.

People answered to him, they followed his orders. Other lairds sought his friendship and support. It was the sort of position Fletcher had craved for a long time. He wanted to be looked up to. He wanted people to respect him and, if necessary, also fear him. Fear could be a powerful tool for those who wielded it. It would keep his enemies at bay, and though it wouldn’t make him many friends, it would make him the right ones.

A knock on the door drew Fletcher’s gaze away from the morning clouds that had gathered over the glen stretching below the castle as far as the eye could see. It was all for this land, he had told himself. All his efforts were for the sake of this land and the people. If he got something out of it—power, riches, beautiful women—well, that was only a fitting reward for his efforts.

“Come in,” he called, leaning against the heavy wooden chair his father loved so much. Fletcher remembered sitting there with him when he was younger, his father showing him everything he needed to know about running a clan.

He had never been a particularly good student.

The maid who walked into the study was a pretty thing, young and lithe, with an open face. A new one, Fletcher noted, eager to make a good impression. She had certainly made some sort of impression on him, and he would seek her out late at night.

“Forgive me fer interruptin’,” the girl said. “A guest has come tae see ye.”

It wasn’t unusual for people to come to Steward Castle to visit his father and, lately, Fletcher himself. He gestured at the maid to let his guest in, eyes narrowing just slightly when he saw who it was.

The man, a laird himself, leading a powerful clan, had been a thorn in Fletcher’s side for months. He didn’t quite know how their tentative friendship, if he could even call it such a thing, had begun. He only knew that the laird had power and land, and he was willing to share it all with him for what he called a “small price.”

Fletcher showed the laird the chair across from him, and the man sat down in silence. He poured them both some wine, toasting the laird before draining his cup. He would need all the alcohol he could get if he were to mask his nervousness, though it was far from a good idea to drink too much when dealing with men like him.

Though Fletcher hated to admit it, the laird had cornered him. He knew about Fletcher’s desire to gain more than his father had ever managed, and he had the right leverage over him. There was little Fletcher despised more than being in a weaker position, but what could he do? His father was a good man, and good men were rarely ever powerful. He had neglected expanding the Steward Clan in favor of maintaining friendly ties with all his neighbors. No one feared the Stewards. No one would hesitate to take over once his father was gone.

The two men sat in silence for a while. The laird was seemingly comfortable where Fletcher was squirming in his seat, trying to figure out what the man’s next move would be. Why had he come to the castle? Did he want something more from Fletcher, or was he there to tell him he would withdraw the proposed deal, which Fletcher had still not decided?

What the laird was asking of him was not difficult to procure. It was a small price to pay for the lands and riches promised to him. Still, there was something holding him back from committing. And Fletcher thought it had less to do with the condition itself as much as with the fact that he was dealing with a man like him.

“Did ye consider me proposal?” the laird asked after a long stretch of silence. Fletcher was glad he had finally spoken, but he frowned a little at the question. If that was all he wanted, he could have sent him a letter.

“Aye, I did,” Fletcher said. He didn’t give any other information, and that seemed to frustrate his guest, who gave him his most unimpressed gaze.

“And?” the laird asked. “Did ye decide?”

Fletcher had not, and it must have shown on his expression as the laird gave an impatient sigh.

“This isnae the kind o’ plan that ye can consider forever,” the laird said. “And it isnae the kind o’ plan that ye can decide ye dinnae like once it has started. I need tae ken ye willnae change yer mind.”

Fletcher was not the kind of man who enjoyed being constrained by such promises. He never knew when he might change his mind or find a better solution to get what he needed. But in all this time that his father had been sick, no one else had offered him the kind of power the laird had. How was he supposed to refuse? How was he supposed to end the deal before it had even properly started, especially when he knew what he knew about it? If he said no, there was no telling what the laird would do to keep his plan a secret. Fletcher could end up just as dead as his father by the end of it all.

“Are ye certain that the plan will work?” Fletcher asked. “I cannae agree to it only tae have her clan fight back.”

The laird waved a hand dismissively, as though the mere thought that the clan they wanted to destroy could fight back was ridiculous. It made Fletcher bristle like a cat, knowing how much the laird thought him an inferior, his concerns nothing more than a nuisance.

“There is naething for ye to fear. All ye have to dae is marry the lass,” the Laird said. “Or is that too hard for ye?”

It was Fletcher’s turn to glare at the man. He couldn’t stand being mocked, especially so openly. He didn’t care that the man was a laird and Fletcher was not yet one, nor that his clan was more powerful than the Steward Clan. Many had disrespected him throughout his life, and Fletcher had promised himself long ago that he would never allow another person to do so again.

“Yer in me castle now, dinnae forget that,” Fletcher said.

“I’m in yer father’s castle,” the laird corrected him. “Yer nae the laird yet, lad, and even if ye were, what is there fer ye to dae about it? If ye dinnae like how I speak to ye, I will take my leave and find someone more grateful.”

Fletcher’s first instinct was to stop the laird, but when the man didn’t move, he realized something that had, until then, escaped him. The laird needed Fletcher just as much Fletcher needed him. The more he thought about it, he realized it wasn’t surprising. How many heirs to a lairdship were there, ready to take over from their fathers, the right age for the woman he was to marry, and willing to go along with the laird’s plan? Surely if the laird had found someone more willing than Fletcher, he would have already gone to him instead.

“What will happen once I marry the lass?” Fletcher asked to break the silence and this stalemate they had found themselves in. “How dae ye plan on destroying her entire family?”

“Once yer clans are united, we will kill them all one by one, as long as ye can play yer role well,” the laird said.

It wasn’t a plan that Fletcher liked, not because it involved killing, but because it involved him. Marrying the woman, deceiving her into thinking he was a good, honest man, was work enough already, and now the laird wanted him to kill her family, too.

“What if someone finds out?” he asked.

“Ye must make sure that nay one finds out,” the laird said. “If they dae, they’ll come for yer head, nae mine.”

Fletcher would be damned if he didn’t betray the laird if he was caught. The man would go down with him, that much was certain, but Fletcher wasn’t foolish enough to say so.

Fletcher fell silent, refilling his cup with wine and nursing his drink. He stared out the window once more, the soft, gray light a more pleasant sight than the man in front of him. Though there was nothing particularly off-putting about the laird, that piercing stare of his blue eyes unnerved Fletcher. He couldn’t bear to look at him for too long.

“Perhaps this will help ye make up yer mind,” the laird said, drawing Fletcher’s attention back to him. “If ye dinnae agree to my terms, I will make sure that the Steward Clan is destroyed For the first time since Fletcher had first met the laird, he realized he was in deep, in a much more dangerous position than he had once thought. Before this direct threat, there was the possibility of a negative outcome if he displeased the laird. Now, the laird had laid all his cards on the table, making it very clear that his clan would be the one to suffer if he didn’t agree to the plan.

What other choice did Fletcher have? He couldn’t be the man who destroyed the Stewards before the clan had even been passed on to him. He would not only be killed for it, but he would go down in history as a hated, weak man instead of the great leader he craved to be.

Fletcher had no choice. He had to marry the woman the laird was offering him, and he had to pretend to be a good husband to her. He had to lure her in and be on his best behavior so that no one would suspect him, difficult as that would be, as he often enjoyed the company of several women at once. It wouldn’t last long, his marriage to this the woman. Eventually, the laird would kill her family off one by one, and she, too, would be a victim of his plans. Maybe if Fletcher was lucky, she would give him an heir before she died, and then he could live his life as he pleased.

“Very well,” Fletcher said, standing to walk around the desk and offer his hand to the laird. The man stood, taking the hand offered to him and shaking it. “Dinnae fash, Laird MacNab. I promise ye. Give me this year, and by the end of it, Alba Menzies will be me wife.”

Laird MacNab gave Fletcher a satisfied grin, one that did nothing to soften his stern gaze. It was more of a reflex, Fletcher thought, than a genuine smile; or a practiced gesture to put others at ease.

“Good,” said Laird MacNab. “Good. Until then, ken that I will be watchin’ ye. It’s yer job to ensure that this part o’ the plan goes smoothly, and then ye can leave the rest up to me.”

“Aye. As I said, I can manage. How difficult can it be to marry a lass like the Menzies lass?”

Her father held some power but was certainly not the most powerful man in their lands. Alba had already been betrothed once, but the man she was supposed to marry fell in love with her sister. Fletcher didn’t think she would be a difficult target. Some sweet words and a few promises of a glorious life would be all he would need to convince her to marry him.

“Ye better hope yer right,” Laird MacNab said. “I shall see ye at the wedding.”

The laird took his leave, letting the door swing shut behind him. Fletcher found his cup of untouched wine and drained it, before slamming it against on the tray, everything on the desk rattling with the force of it.

He placed both hands on the edge of the desk, fingers brushing over the intricate carvings on the wood. That desk and room had seen so many of the Steward Clan Lairds pass through it, conduct business and plan their wars there. Each one had left his mark, and now it was Fletcher’s turn to do the same. His own sons would one day be where he was now, reminiscing about their father, and they would have better things to say about him than he had to say about his own. He would take this clan and make it the most powerful one in the area. He just needed a little help at first, a little push from Laird MacNab, who had the resources. Once he didn’t need him anymore, he would dispose of him as well.

In the meantime, he had to get to work. Fletcher had to convince his father that Alba Menzies was a good choice for him, and then he had to convince Alba’s father he was a good match for her. He had to work on that alliance, ensuring that by the end of the year, the two of them would be married and their actual plan could begin. He had plenty of time. He had so much time, in fact, that he decided to do something for himself first; to help him release some of this nervous energy that had been building while he was talking to Laird MacNab.

Fletcher left the room, heading toward the servants’ quarters. He hadn’t asked that beauty’s name, but with some searching, he was bound to find her.

Chapter One

Murray Castle, 1290

The day was still young, but the clouds had already gathered over Murray Castle. The courtyard was filled with movement, the servants going about their morning routines and duties, bringing color to the castle, which was washed in browns and grays this time of the year. Soon, everything would bloom, Magnus knew, and the courtyard would burst with life and flowers.

Next to him, Tate was taking some food off the table, and he asked a servant to prepare it for his trip. Magnus didn’t know why he was wasting his time trying to convince him to stay. His brother had never been one to stay in one place for too long, always restless and in search of adventure, but Magnus had hoped he’d get to see him for a while longer. It was always hard to watch him leave, not knowing when he would return.

“Are ye certain ye dinnae wish tae stay?” Magnus asked for what seemed like the hundredth time. Perhaps it was tiring for Tate, but Magnus would be damned if he didn’t at least try to keep him there a while longer.

“Aye,” Tate said, his icy blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. He looked even younger than his twenty-six years with that smile. And though Magnus was only two years older than him, he couldn’t help but see him like the little boy he once was. “I told ye I have some unfinished business. Maybe once I’m done, I’ll come back home.”

“Maybe?” Magnus asked. “Ye and I both ken this means nay.”

Tate sighed as though the conversation was already taking a toll on him, but his smile never wavered. Magnus knew he wasn’t the only one to have this conversation with him. Their older brother, Scott, the laird of the Murray Clan, had already tried to convince him to spend some more time at home, and so had Scott’s wife, Evelyn. The two of them together were difficult to say no to, presenting a united and formidable front to anyone who disagreed with them. If they hadn’t swayed Tate, then Magnus doubted he could.

“It means maybe,” Tate insisted and grabbed Magnus’ shoulder to pull him into an embrace. “And even if I dinnae come home after I finish me business, I’ll still come sometime later. It’s nae as though ye’ll never see me again.”

That was precisely what Magnus feared. He trusted his brother with his life, but when it came to Tate’s own life, all trust disappeared. He was the youngest brother, and someone had to take care of him.

Magnus didn’t voice any of his fears, though. He never did. No matter how much he wanted to monitor Tate, he didn’t want to imbue him with the same fear he had. Tate loved to travel, loved to see new places, and meet new people. Magnus didn’t want to take any of that away from him.

“Fine, fine,” Magnus said, holding Tate just a little tighter for a moment before letting go. “Go and enjoy yerself.”

“Thank ye. Och, let me say goodbye to Evelyn and Alba.”

As Tate spoke, Magnus followed his gaze to the two women who were talking with Scott a little farther from them. The moment Magnus’ eyes met Alba’s, his expression soured, and he averted his gaze, though not before Tate could catch him in the act.

For a few moments, Tate said nothing and only rolled his eyes at Magnus, but then he couldn’t help himself.

“What now?” he asked.

Magnus didn’t know how to respond to that. He had known Alba for a short while, but in that time, she had made a poor impression on him, one that he couldn’t shake, no matter what anyone else told him about her.

“Ye ken I dinnae like her,” he said. “She’s so… perfect.”

“It sounds tae me like ye think she’s bonnie,” Tate said and Magnus’ fist flew without him even thinking, connecting with Tate’s ribs just hard enough to jostle him. Tate still clutched his side and moaned in mock pain, though Magnus knew it would take much more than that to hurt him and felt no sympathy.

“Aye, she is bonnie.” Alba was beautiful, with long brown hair and piercing green eyes. Her skin was like porcelain, her limbs long and delicate, the very picture of elegance. She really was perfect. Too perfect, in Magnus’ opinion. “She has everyone thinkin’ she’s perfect with her bonnie face and her gentleness, but mind my words, Tate… she is hidin’ somethin’.”

Tate didn’t seem as convinced as Magnus, looking at him with doubt. “What could she possibly be hidin’?”

“I dinnae ken,” Magnus said. “But I’ll find out eventually. Every time I am near her, she makes me look like a savage in comparison. Always so frigid and composed and doin’ what is expected of her, but I promise ye, under that mask, she’s hidin’ a beast.”

“A beast?” Tate asked in disbelief, laughing. Of course, he was laughing at Magnus. No one believed him, but they would once he uncovered her secret. “Surely, ye must jest. Alba is nay beast. Ye only say that because ye like her, and ye dinnae ken how tae accept it because ye’ve been alone for so long.”

“That has naething to dae with it,” Magnus insisted. Sure, he had been alone all his life, never allowing anyone but the people closest to him to get to know him. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t recognize when he had feelings for a woman. He simply never did. “I can see what she is, and ye’ll see it soon, too.”

“I’m sure she’s a perfectly sweet girl, Magnus,” Tate said, now suddenly serious. “She’s Evelyn’s sister, and ye like Evelyn just fine. Why would ye hate Alba?”

Magnus had no other answer for him. If Tate didn’t want to believe Magnus was right, then there was nothing he could do to convince him.

“She’s nae hidin’ anythin’,” Tate insisted. “There’s nae beast, just a nice, bonnie lass.”

“Is that so?” Magnus asked, once again letting his gaze stray to Alba. This time, she didn’t look at him but she always had an uncanny way of knowing when Magnus’ eyes were on her. He was certain she knew now, too. “Well, how about we make a bet, then? If yer so certain?”

“A bet? What kind of bet?”

“If I can anger her and prove tae ye that she’s a fiery beast, then ye’ll stay a while longer,” Magnus said.

“If ye anger her, it’s only natural that she’ll react,” Tate reasoned.

“Aye, but how she reacts is the accurate indicator of who she is,” Magnus replied. “If she’s as kind and gentle as ye think she is, then she willnae take it too far. But if I’m right about her, who kens what she may dae?”

Tate hummed thoughtfully, clearly considering Magnus’ proposal. “Fine,” he said after a few moments. “But dinnae push her too far; then ye’ll be the beast.”

“Dinnae fash,” Magnus said. “I’ll only go as far as I must.”

It wouldn’t take much to anger her, Magnus knew. And then everyone would know that he was right not to trust her.

After saying goodbye to Tate outside in the gardens, Alba decided it would be best to let him and Scott say their goodbyes in private. Her sister Evelyn returned inside the castle, but Alba didn’t want to stay inside, even if it wasn’t the brightest day of the month. Perhaps it would rain soon, but until then, she wanted to enjoy the fresh air, so she walked around the castle grounds. She knew her way around the castle by then, and she enjoyed the servants and the people of the clan who took care of the daily proceedings. She even tried to see if anyone needed any help. As she was so used to being the one everyone depended on, this sudden change had left her feeling restless. Back home, in her father’s keep, work never ended. Now that she was in Murray Castle, she had nothing to do.

Luckily, she found a young man carrying a stack of plates almost as tall as she was, and she immediately swooped in to help. It wasn’t much, but it was something to do other than embroidering or sipping tea or, even worse, having to be around Magnus Murray who seemed to have gathered every negative trait, allowing his brothers to be the lovely men they were.

Alba had noticed how he had looked at her when he said goodbye to Tate. She had seen his venom and hatred, and she couldn’t understand what she had done to make him dislike her so much. They were very different people; that much was obvious. Alba thought of him as a savage, a brute, very unlike his brothers and her, but she kept her dislike of him to herself, while Magnus had made it his mission to make his hatred known.

“Let me help ye with these,” she told the servant, taking some plates off his hands. Instantly, the man stood a little straighter, the load in his arms now easier to carry.

“Och, I dinnae want tae bother ye, me lady,” the man said. “It’s nae proper for ye to be doin’ such tasks.”

“I dae this all the time when I am back home,” Alba assured him. “It’s nae problem for me. If anythin’, it will keep me from havin’ tae walk around this courtyard all day.”

The man was hesitant at first, looking around as though he expected someone to catch him and scold him for it, but Alba’s smile was convincing enough. In the end, he nodded eagerly and led her to the kitchen, where he placed everything near the fire.

It was a big one, even if it was contained. It was just a normal fire, Alba told herself, used to heating water and cooking. It was nothing to be afraid of.

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to get too close. Instead, she left everything on the other side of the room, eager to be as far away from the flames as possible.

“Thank ye for yer—”

Alba didn’t hear the end of that sentence. Instead, she heard a soft curse and the clatter of a poker against the floor. When she turned to look, eyes wide, she didn’t see the maid whose hand had been licked by the flames, making her drop the poker as she stoked it. What she saw instead was herself, only fourteen years old, holding her little sister tightly and screaming for her mother.

Alba felt as though the fire that had taken her mother was around her now, even ten years later. She felt as though those flames surrounded her, hot and asphyxiating, the smoke acrid in her lungs, Evelyn shaking as she hid her face against her shoulder. Alba could hear nothing but the roaring blaze of fire as it destroyed everything; pieces of burned and burning wood collapsing to the ground, trapping their mother inside. She could smell nothing but that distinct, warm scent of flames. She could feel nothing but the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

“Are ye all right?”

Those words, coupled with the hands that shook her just a little, brought Alba back to the present. She looked around, remembering where she was. Remembering she was safe. Still, it did little to calm her racing heart.

“I’m fine,” she said, her words forced and stilted.

“Maybe we should call the healer,” she heard a woman say. “She looks very pale, like she’ll fall any moment.”

“Nay, nay… I’m fine,” Alba insisted. “Thank ye. I only need some fresh air.”

Before anyone could protest and insisted she had to see the healer, Alba fled from the kitchen and made her way back outside. She had been right. The fresh air helped her to breathe and calmed her mind, the breeze taking those awful memories with it.

It was just her luck. Right as she calmed down, a looming figure approached her. Alba didn’t need to look to know it was Magnus, but she looked at him anyway. It would be impolite to ignore him.

“Well, dinnae ye look bonnie today?” Magnus said. It was something Alba never expected to hear from him. It stunned her into silence for a few seconds. Magnus was a known flirt, infamous around the castle for his conquests and the girls he bedded. But he had never directed such a compliment toward Alba.

“Thank ye,” she said, phrasing it more like a hesitant question.

“Aye, ye have a bonnie glow today. Yer cheeks are all flushed.”

That didn’t surprise her. She was still feeling hot, anxiety coursing through her body as though it were the flames she so feared.

“Perhaps it’s because ye were talkin’ to that laddie,” Magnus added, and Alba’s anger at such an insinuation overshadowed her panic.

“Of course, ye’d think that,” she bit back. “That is all ye think about.”

“Is that what ye think?” Magnus asked, grinning as he leaned closer to Alba, almost caging her against the wall. He really was a mountain of a man, towering over her. But Alba had never feared anyone. She wasn’t about to start now. “Is that so bad, after all? If ye’ve heard the rumors, then ye must have thought about me that way once or twice.”

Alba was speechless. She didn’t know what had gotten into Magnus to make him focus his romantic efforts on her, but she didn’t like it. She tried side-stepping him, not caring anymore if she was being rude, but he blocked her way with his body.

“There are plenty of rooms in this castle,” he said. “I’m sure I can find an empty one if ye wish to see what the rumors are all about.”

Alba had had enough. She didn’t know exactly what happened between a man and a woman in those moments. Alba was always changing the subject in embarrassment when Evelyn brought it up to prepare her for her wedding night, as she claimed. She knew enough, though, to understand what Magnus was implying, and it made her sick to her stomach to even hear such a thing from his lips.

“Ye really are a savage!” she said and slapped him hard across the face. Magnus looked stunned for a moment, surely not expecting such strength from her. All the work Alba did back home made her much stronger than she looked. It served him right. Magnus was nothing but a philanderer, and Alba had been foolish to think that their dislike for each other would keep him away. “If ye ever come near me again, I will dae much worse than slap ye.”

With that, she ducked under his arm and walked away, Magnus letting her go this time. Now he would think twice before ever speaking to her in such a way, but that didn’t erase the anger that had bloomed inside her. It would take her hours, if not days, to calm down again.

That good for naething barbarian! How does nae one else see how lecherous he is?

Alba tried her best to show nothing but kindness to those around her. It was what her dear mother had taught her, and she always tried to be the type of woman she would be proud of. But Magnus Murray inspired nothing but disgust and hatred in her.

She had thought the only man she would ever want to kill would be Laird MacNab, but now Magnus was firmly in second place.

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Prologue

Foyers, Scotland, near Loch Ness, 1644
Chattan Castle

“Shite,” Cory Chattan muttered under his breath as he ran down the long passageway to the Council Room.

He was perpetually late, but it surprised him to be late that morning. That was the morning they were to read his father, Laird Gregor Chattan’s, will, and he was going to have an enormous responsibility on his shoulders soon enough.

Ye can dae this. Ye can be Laird of yer clan.

It was something he’d told himself as soon as his father had been found dead suddenly in his study just a few days ago. It had been odd to see him so cold and… gone, yet his eyes were open, and he’d worn a look of surprise that death had come for him so soon. Cory had been surprised as well. His father had always been hale and hearty, a loud, aggressive presence in Cory’s life ever since he could remember. As he rushed, he tried to tell himself again that he could do this, even though his father had hardly taught him anything about it and neglected him in the past few years. It had been Ruairidh, his cousin, who had been his father Gregor’s favorite, but now they could at least be united in their grief.

He slipped inside the sizeable oaken door of the Council Room, his boots making loud sounds on the stone floor, which might have been hidden if the room was not so silent.

“Forgive me, Council members,” Cory announced, nodding his head at the line of old men at the table in the front of the room, all looking solemn and fatigued.

When he sat down next to his beady-eyed cousin, he let out his breath and faced the council. When he was a child, his father had brought him to a few meetings, and he’d thought then that the men were older than life itself, but even now, years later, they seemed positively ancient. At twenty-two, however, perhaps all men with white hair and beards seemed older to him. He wondered if they had ever cracked a smile in the whole of their lives.

The man in the center, the most frightening and oldest of all, narrowed his steely-eyed gaze at Cory. “Now that we are all together, we might begin the reading of the will. Let it be noted that it is nae like a future laird tae be late when there is so much at stake.” If it was possible, the old man’s gaze narrowed even more.

“Forgive me, Elder McCreary.” Cory nodded and gave the man a brief smile, which was not returned.

He sat up in his chair and looked around the room. The other servants and soldiers of his father’s castle were there, and they all stared stonily ahead. Only a few glanced his way, and it was with pity, he realized. Everyone undoubtedly believed that his heart was sunken in grief, when it was much more with surprise and fear. When he turned back, Ruairidh nudged him.

“Listen, ye dobber. Ye are about tae hear of the fate of yer clan,” his cousin whispered in his ear. “Nae a surprise that ye would show up late.”

Me clan.

His whole life, Cory had thought of it as his father’s clan, feeling like an outsider even though he was a laird’s son. And now, it would all be turned over to him. People would look his way, expecting him to know what to do in times of battle. He folded his hands together on his lap and leaned forward, eager to hear what the old men had to say. The oldest man cleared his throat, unrolled a scroll, and read.

It began with minor details, discussing his father’s plans of what to do for the servants and soldiers of the clan. Cory felt his mind wandering to what he’d been doing that morning as Elder McCreary drifted on and on, his voice not changing as he divided Laird Chattan’s wealth.

Only half an hour before, Cory had been stood out by his father’s grave, a thing he thought he’d not be doing for years and years. He’d watched it with a sort of distance. He and his father had not been close for many years, and he knew his father disapproved of him in many ways.

After leaving the grave, he had to see Millie again before the will was read. Her green eyes, red hair, plump lips, and her way of looking at things made life so much easier to bear. He knew she would know what to say, and so he’d hurried off to her home in the village, but Millie had been waiting for him on the edge of the graveyard.

“All will be well,” she had said, allowing him to kiss her lips and pull her close, breathing in her familiar scent.

They were to be married soon, and he couldn’t wait. He’d been in love with her ever since the day he’d laid eyes on her. But then, his father died, and now there was this burden of the future upon him. Could he possibly take over a clan and be a new husband?

When the old man cleared his throat again, Cory’s mind jumped back to the matter at hand. “And now we will read who is tae take ownership of Clan Chattan and become the laird. Because Cory and his cousin, Ruairidh, were raised by the laird, and they are the same age, it was up tae Laird Chattan who would take over the clan once he passed.”

Cory nodded, but he could feel an icy chill over his skin. His father would never have believed he could take the clan, but who else could have? He was the man’s blood heir, his rightful son, and he even looked just like him with dark red curls, a light reddish-brown beard, and blue eyes. Even though Ruairidh had come to live with them long ago and had been considered family, Cory was certain that his blood would win out in the end. As the old man took a breath to read his next lines, Cory reached up to touch the golden chain around his neck, which held a pendant from his father. It was the shape of a C, with a pointed V at the bottom edge. He’d been given it years ago in a rare show of affection from his father.

“Never take this off, no matter what. One day it may give ye all the answers ye need ,” his father had told him, his blue eyes bright with urgency.

The Elder continued. “And Laird Chattan had specific and perhaps unique wishes for the transfer of ownership of Clan Chattan.” Cory glanced at his cousin, who was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

“The lairdship of Clan Chattan will go to Ruairidh Chattan, son of Arya Chattan, sister to Laird Gregor, raised by Laird Gregor Chattan and now Laird of Clan Chattan.”

For a moment, everything was still. No one spoke after the elder councilman spoke the last words, and Cory felt like he’d been submerged in an icy loch. No, it couldn’t possibly be true. How could his father have chosen his cousin to be the laird? Cory was his own rightful heir. He tried to breathe, but the air would not enter his lungs. He felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. At the same time, his veins filled with ice.

Ruairidh slowly rose, and Cory realized this was all a reality. He had been pushed aside for his cousin. His rude, angry, and cruel cousin who had not shown Cory one moment of kindness in all their years together.

“Yer father had always approved more of me, ye ken.” Ruairidh gave Cory a thin smile. “It is only natural that I should be chosen. I thank ye, council members,” he said louder. “I will lead this clan with honor as me uncle did.”

Cory sat there, amazed, a silent room behind him until they all rose to give their allegiance. While he felt himself dragged to his feet, his mind raced. If he was not the laird, then what in God’s name was he supposed to do?

Chapter One

1650, six years later

Helen Ridley pulled at the bodice of her work-worn woolen gown, adjusting it so that her cleavage was just a little more pronounced than usual. Once it was settled, she stared at the tavern in front of her and grimaced a little. One of the best places in the country to get information about each side during a war was the tavern, but after so many taverns, Helen was never eager to set foot inside one. Men’s eyes felt like they were undressing her with each moment, and more than once, she’d felt a rough hand on her backside as she walked around to seek just the right man.

I suppose I cannot complain too much. I am attempting to play a lady of the night, after all.

With another deep breath, she stepped forward, ensuring her cloak was open enough to reveal her bosoms on display. She hesitated only once outside in the breeze of a March night, pushing aside a dark blond curl that had sprung free. Biting her lip a few times to give them more color, she pulled open the door, and the loud sounds of merry men, drinking songs, and perhaps a little arguing filled her ears. So did the smells. The wheat of the ale, the savory warmth of the food, and the scent of about fifty male bodies all cramped into a small space after a long day of work.

She walked in; head held high. One must always portray confidence in every situation. Helen had learned that over the past year. People responded to confidence and courage. It was why so many foolish men were in power when they should not be, including her brother, Anthony. He never faltered, and he never backed down, even when he was making terrible and sometimes cruel decisions.

Noticing a few eyes watching her, she made her way to the center of the activity, a long wooden counter stretching nearly the entire room. Chairs were lined up against it, and she sat on one, pulling a letter out of her pocket and placing it on the wood surface in front of her.

“Whisky, please,” she said to the oily barkeeper, who only grunted at her before pouring her a glass.

“Here,” he grunted, and he pushed it towards her.

She looked up at him with her bright green eyes and flashed him a smile, tilting her head slightly. In a moment, as she expected, the man colored, and his stern expression melted.

“Thank ye,” she said, and he nodded, looking a little more flustered but less grumpy than before.

It always helped to make alliances when one could, especially in a place like this. That was why she was always polite, if possible, and why she would use her Scottish accent that she’d learned from her mother rather than her true English one. No better way to remain hidden in Scotland as an English lass than to speak the brogue as much as possible. As she spun the whisky glass in her hand, her eyes glancing down at the letter, she watched things out of the corner of her eye. Men were looking her way, and that was a good thing. It meant she would find some secrets out that night. It would also mean she would have to listen to the terrible flirtations of old, drunken highlanders who thought little of the care of their own bodies but wished their women to be pristine.

But none yet approached her, so she had time to reread the letter in front of her for the hundredth time.

Helen,

Anthony

Helen folded the letter quickly and took a breath before gulping down a large swallow of whisky.

One of these days, Anthony will receive his due. And I sure as hell hope it’s me who gets to give it to him.

She took another sip and let out a breath. She had never thought to find herself in this position, but it had been the only way in her mind to save Cecily from having to be married to a complete stranger by their half-brother, Anthony, now Lord Seton, an earl. Cecily was the one person who did not despise her for their shared the hot, Scottish blood of their mother, even though Cecily had favored their father, and she was far warmer and more tractable than Helen had ever learned to be. But at the same time, home had become insufferable since her father died. Her family hated her for what loyalty she held to her mother, especially now that the Scottish and the English were now at war.

War was a way of life between the two nations, and they’d been battling for years. But now, the Anglo-Scottish War was underway, and when Anthony suggested to help him get information about the English, she’d taken it. Just a little excitement about the dangers of it had made her heart beat faster. That she was constantly on the road and focused also helped to lessen the pain that she felt she had no real true home any longer.

Trying her best to calm her thoughts to focus on the matter at hand, she finished the whisky and put out her glass for another. A few drunken mumblings about war and position and the English caught her attention. She turned slightly to see a rough and tumble group of men bending over their cups, leaning close to each other, whispering.

One man, a round-headed balding man, looked up and saw her watching; he shooshed the others and then smoothed a hand over his shining head. Swallowing back her bile, Helen rose from her seat.

You know what to do. Think of it as finding another secret.

Swaying her hips just so, she took her newly filled glass of whisky and walked towards the table. It was four men, all soldiers in dirty uniforms, and they all gazed up at her with bleary-eyed drunken looks of lust.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said. “One of ye might be interested in an evening of company.” She gave them her charming smile as well, and all men’s eyes darkened with lust, and she sat down next to the balding one.

He slid a hand around her waist and pulled her close, smiling into her face. Helen tried to smile back, but she could feel the bile rising in her throat at the scent of the man. Sweat and ale and stale breath. His teeth were also filled with bits of food, and his clothes looked as though they had not been washed in an age.

“Just give me a minute or two, lass, and then ye and I can go.”

“Och, I am nae rush, lads. Why dae I nae join ye for a wee whisky first?” Helen lifted her glass and tried to slide away from the man, but he held tight.

“Very well. Now, Angus, get back tae what ye were talking about,” the balding man said. “About Clan Chattan.”

Helen smiled and looked down at her glass. It was the reason she played this role. No one believed that women of the night cared about anything and that they didn’t matter. They were consistently underestimated, as were women. But Helen could feel that she was right on the brink of finding out something good.

Cory Chattan stood on the battlements with Laird Grant, also known as Cam, and they stared out over the lands below. Cory had been Cam’s advisor for a year, but they had become more like friends and confidants. The man next to him was a good one, strong and true, with long blonde hair that often reminded people of a lion. And he loved his wife Ella dearly and their twins. There was so much to like and envy about the man, but Cory couldn’t help but feel only good things about him. It was evening and both cold and dark, but the moon was full, and Cory took a deep breath of icy air. His auburn hair was tied back, but he could still feel the tickle of a loose hair on the back of his neck.

“It will snow taenight,” he said. “I can feel it in the air. It hangs heavy.”

“Aye,” Cam said. “The village will need some help. The last time, too many rooves caved in. We tried tae rebuild, but we will see if these new rooves can handle the weight of this snow. Och, there it is, the first flake.”

Cam reached out a finger to catch a snowflake as it fell, and Cory smiled. “Aye, it seems we are tae be plagued with snow, even in the spring. Let us hope April brings us less trouble.”

“I hope so. Plus, it is too bloody cold of late. I cannae drink enough whisky or sit in front of enough fires tae warm me bones.”

“Och, but what of Ella?” Cory teased. “Surely that is a wife’s duty, is it nae? As it is a husband’s. Tae keep one another warm at night.”

“Aye, true enough.” A look of pleasure passed over Cam’s eyes, but then he coughed, and his face turned a bit more serious. “Sorry tae ye for yer disappointment with Ada. I ken that ye were interested in her.”

Ada was Cam’s sister-in-law, who had just been visiting last year at the end of the year. She was bright, beautiful, and intelligent. She was feisty, and she fought, taking nothing she didn’t want to. For a brief time, Cory had flirted with the idea that perhaps she could be the woman for him. That he could finally forget about the past, his failures, and the way he’d lost his clan and family and move on. But it was not to be. Ada had been in love with her guard, Blair, right from the beginning,

“Och, it is nothing. It is nae as if I really expected anything tae happen.” Cory shrugged and shivered a bit when an icy breeze blew past him. “I suppose we ought tae go inside again. Maybe drink a dram or two ‘afore I set off again.”

Cam put his hand on Cory’s shoulder and faced him. “I can send the men, Cory. Ye are always doing too much, and ye donnae have tae. There are plenty a thing ye can dae here in the warmth, as me advisor.”

Cory smiled and laughed, but he knew he would not listen. He had to make himself feel useful.

He patted his stomach. “I could dae that, but then I fear I will get a bit longer around the waist.” He winked at Cam. “I have tae keep up me physique if I am going tae find another lady, one who is nae already in love with another.”

“Aye then.” Cam patted his shoulder, and the two of them headed down from the battlements to a door in the wall.

Once inside, the air was instantly warmer, and Cory could hear the whipping of the wind.

“The storm is comin’ fast,” he warned.

He always helped during storms and any other times the clan needed him, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t sometimes afraid of how a storm could turn into something ugly in moments. And just like Cam had said, it would take many whiskeys and many hours in front of the fire to warm his bones again once he returned.

“They always dae. I daenae have much use for God, but in storms, I find meself praying like a zealot.”

They went to Cam’s study and found that Lady Ella was already there, bringing in a pot of tea.

“Och, the two of ye,” she said, smiling up at them from a chair by the fire. “Come and sit. I heard ye were up on the battlements, and so I brought ye both some tea.” She stood and pointed to the pot, but Cam took her in his arms and kissed her.

Cory looked down and folded his hands in front of him. He had never seen a husband and wife so taken with one another, and even though it was unusual, he found he rather wanted that for himself. It made him think of Millie and what could have been.

Och, traitorous, heart-breaking Millie.

Once the announcement of Ruairidh’s ascension as Laird of the clan had been made, Millie pretended as if whatever she and Cory had had not existed. She’d claimed passionate love for Ruairidh instead, and they’d been married, making her Lady Chattan with all that went with it.

“Are ye cold, Cory?” Ella asked, and he looked up again to see her smiling at him.

“Nae. Thank ye. I am well. I will leave the two of ye.”

“Nonsense!” she cried, pulling herself out of her husband’s embrace, but he still held one hand on her waist. “Ye two have much tae discuss, I’m sure, with the storm coming. I was only passing by. A good evening tae ye.”

“Until later, love,” Cam said, kissing her again before she giggled and pushed his arms away, nodding at Cory before she went.

With a sigh, Cam sat down and poured each of them hot tea flavored with rich spices to warm the heart. He handed Cory one, and he lifted a brow.

“Ye look as though ye have something on yer mind. Besides the storm, of course.”

“Just thinking about ‘afore, I suppose.”

“Yer family?” Cam took a sip of tea and leaned back, his keen eyes watching him. Nothing seemed to get past the man, even though Cory had done his best not to share everything about his life. At least not the painful parts.

“Aye, something like that. Dae ye ken how me cousin fares as laird?”

Cam nodded, staring into the flames as he thought. “Aye, just a bit. We daenae have much dealings with one another as ye ken. But I hear he has strength in numbers, and he is a rather strong leader, nae always so focused on kindness and compassion.”

“That sounds just about right.” Cory drank a sip so fast that it burned his tongue, and he winced. The tea did, however, warm him a bit. When he finished, he put it down and stood. “I suppose I ought tae go.”

“Ye should get some food in ye ‘afore ye leave. Keep watch when yer out there,” Cam frowned. “There are always English soldiers about these days. Sometimes, they like tae use the storms tae take advantage of weak moments.”

“Aye, ye can be sure I will be on the watch. Thanks for the tea.”

“Cheers. Good luck tae ye.”

Cory left the room and shut the door, focusing on the night ahead. Hopefully, no one would be in need of too much help so that he could soon return home and sit in the warmth of his fire.

Chapter Two

1650, six years later

Helen tried her best to sip her whisky slowly as she leaned in to hear the mumbled and slurring words of the old soldiers.

“Aye, that new laird is a right blaigeard,” the one called Angus said. “Only put in place six years ago, and he is nae even the son! He has taken the clan and made it strong, but I heard tell. Of his evil around. That he is so cruel, even the devil himself would nae wish tae face him.”

“Och, but what of their loyalties? Ye think they want Scottish independence?” Helen’s bald man asked.

Angus shook his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he put two fists on the table. “Nay. All he cares about is money, so he does.” He leaned in, as did the others, and Helen did so as well, as slowly and softly as possible. The stench of the group was a little unbearable, but she breathed into her mouth as she listened in. “I heard that he is selling weapons tae the English, and giving them space on their lands tae camp, prepare, and even give them some insight intae what other clans are doing. I ken those English blaigeards are planning the attack soon enough. They daenae like the king we’ve chosen.”

“Nay, they daenae,” a ruddy-faced man at the far end of the table said. “I ken ye had always better keep a close eye on an English lad or lass. Cunning is in their blood.” All eyes turned to Helen, and she pulled back quickly, showing the men her bright smile again.

“’Tis a good thing we have a proper Scottish lass here among us.” The bald man put his arm around her again and kissed her cheek. “Come then, lass, shall we go have us a good time.”

He let go of her long enough for her to slide away, and he rummaged in his pocket for a few coins to put on the table. The other men did the same, standing up and not looking at her any longer. Helen’s breath came quickly. She could deal with one man, but more than one would be more difficult to handle, even if they were drunk off their feet. With them being soldiers, even if they were older, she knew they would still be strong.

“Come along then, lass.”

“Aye,” she said, again trying to muster a bright smile.

Stop being afraid. You have done this many times, and you can do it again.

Now that she had some interesting information, she wanted to start making her plans immediately, but she had to deal with this man first.

“What is yer name, then?” she asked, sliding a hand through his arm to act as if she was eager to go. “I think ye should be the man tae pay me bill at the bar.”

“Och, is that so?” He winked at her before producing another coin and slapping it onto the counter, making the barkeeper jump slightly.

He pulled on Helen’s arm, and she followed confidently, swaying her hips once more, catching the eyes of a few men on her way out.

Just play the part.

“Come with me,” she said to the man once they left the tavern.

Thankfully, the other men had not followed them, so she’d only have this man to deal with. Pulling him towards the alley, he chuckled and stumbled along drunkenly after her. This would be easy enough.

“Eager are ye then, lass? Havenae had a real lad in some time, is that it?”

“Of course. Surely ye can rectify that, sir.”

“I certainly can.” His eyes darkened, and once they were in the alley’s shadow, he drew closer, his breath hot on her cheek.

“Just a moment,” she said, giving her best feminine giggle as she pushed against him. “Turn around for a moment. I want tae undress a bit for ye.”

“Och, ye dae ken how tae entice a man.” Slowly, the man turned around, and her girlish smile fell instantly as she raised her hand and made it fall hard against his neck, hitting the vein in just the right spot.

As she hoped, he crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes, and she breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Thanks be to God.”

Hurrying away, she took one more look behind her in the alley, where she saw the shadow of the slumped man. She put up the hood of her cloak, buttoned up the front over her bodice and continued on.

An evening’s work done. Now to find the Chattan Castle and get there before they give too much information to the English. Can’t have Scotland getting too much of the short end of things.

She smiled at herself as she hurried off into the night. She noticed the snowflakes falling around her and cursed aloud, searching one way and then the other. It wasn’t safe to stay in an inn, not when she’d just made an impression like that. Her eyes moved to the far woods.

Perhaps the snow will not be so bad. I could wait it out until the worst is over. Then no one would be out and about as I return to my room to gather my belongings.

Convincing herself of her choice, she trotted toward the woods as the wind blew harder, and the snow came faster. Once inside the woods, the wind abated somewhat, and she wrapped her cloak a little tighter about herself. She wished she’d eaten a morsel or two at the tavern instead of only drinking two drams of whisky. But that would keep her bones warm, at least.

She had to hide after what she’d just done. They would not notice for a while, but the men inside, drunk as they were, were sure to come after their friend soon enough, and then they might think something of her. Helen could not afford to arouse suspicion. When she’d walked far enough into the woods, she came across a large boulder facing away from the wind, and gleefully, she sat down against it, protected from the wind much more now. Slowly, she watched as the snow fell softly around her. No one would find her there, and she could rest peacefully for a few hours. But her eyes fell. The whisky and the rush of what she’d just done hit her now. Protected from the wind, she felt a little warm and cozy, and she fell right asleep.

“God in Heaven.” Cory’s teeth chattered as he rode back to the castle on a lone, wintry road.

The storm had taken a turn, and quickly, snow was piling up on the edges of the road, and the villages were getting covered. He was just on his way home from securing one of the newly built rooves in the closest village, and everything in his body was cold. It felt as if his very veins were made of ice, but he tried to stay focused as he rode home in the dark, clucking and saying soothing words to his horse, Maitheanas.

“Come now, lad. We can dae this.” Cory clucked and nudged against the poor steed’s icy sides, hoping to encourage the horse to continue.

“Jesus, it’s feckin’ cold,” his friend and soldier, Tobias, said at his elbow. “I cannae believe anythin’ could survive this.”

In the silence of the night, it felt as if they were the only three beings in the world. When he and Tobias blew out their breath, it swirled around them like twin clouds, making Cory dream of whisky and fireplaces.

And perhaps a warm body tae come home tae.

Where in God’s name had that thought come from? He blinked in surprise at the train of his thoughts and encouraged Maitheanas to ride faster to get home all the quicker. He had not thought of being with anyone in such a long time. Not in that way, the way that meant he would return home to them night after night. For so long, it had only been Millie in his mind: her lovely mouth, warm, smooth body, and the way she’d always screamed her pleasure for him as if he was the only one who could give it to her.

All a lie. She had cared nae a whit for me.

But after that evening’s conversation with Cam, Cory had thought of it again. The thought that perhaps one day, there could be someone he could return home to. Who would smile at him, embrace him, and lead him to bed?

“Cory? Ye all right?” Tobias asked, his teeth chattering loudly.

“Aye, just thinkin.’ I hope that roof holds, but we may have tae think of somethin’ else once the snow melts if it doesnae.”

“Aye. We will. The family was thrilled tae have us come. I am sure of it. I hope the other soldiers sent out were all right on their way back. The snow has calmed a bit, but it came in a big rush there for a while.” A twig cracked in the woods on one side of the road, and both their heads jerked in that direction. “What is that? Dear God, if it is wolves, then I will warm up soon enough, rushin’ back tae the castle.”

Cory chuckled, glad for the distraction from his earlier uncomfortable thoughts, full of longing and desire. “Nay, I doubt it. But the fight would certainly warm our bodies up a bit.” He narrowed his eyes at the woods, where he saw a boulder and some figure slumped underneath it. “Better go and take a look, though. Go on ahead. I can dae this on me own.”

“Thanks be tae God,” Tobias said, riding off, and Cory turned his curious gaze back to the trees.

He turned Maitheanas towards the woods, and the horse diligently obeyed. He stopped at the edge and jumped down, patting the stallion’s flank for comfort.

“Just a wee while more, lad. Just tae check on this.”

He trudged forward, his hand hovering above his dirk in case it was something dangerous. The moon was high and full enough to give a haunting light to the dark trees, bouncing off the snow, painting everything around it the same color: black. When he got close enough, he saw that the slumped figure was not an animal but a person, and he hurried forward to reach them when the figure suddenly gasped, stood up, and Cory, bewildered, found himself on his back in the snow.

“What?” he cried in shock. No one had ever moved that quickly before or had bested him with hardly an effort.

But when he looked up, a young woman stared down at him, her hair falling about her, and her cloak hood fell back. Her hands were on his shoulders, and she was straddling him. He was so surprised by what had just happened that it took him a few seconds to realize that an icy blade was at his throat.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she breathed, her white teeth bared in a sort of grimace.

Her thighs gripped his sides tightly, and he knew that if she had slung them around his neck instead, he would have choked in a matter of seconds. It was such a stark difference from the usual young ladies he met in his life among the clan villages, who batted their eyelashes at him and pretended to faint or feel ill so that he or another young man would have to catch them.

Cory held out his hands to the side. The lass was strong, but now that he had his wits about him, he hoped he could overpower her with a few quick moves, but he waited. The sight above him was mesmerizing, and he had no words for the moment. He wondered if he’d collapsed off his horse and knocked his head on the icy road, for it appeared a goddess straddled him with her strong thighs. Her every breath and slight movement radiated fire, strength, and courage. It was enviable, for he wasn’t sure he had ever looked as powerful as she did right then. Even in the darkness, he could tell that her eyes were fiery, and her voice was strong and confident. For a moment, he did not know what to say, and then he realized that if he didn’t speak soon, his back would become fused with the frozen ground beneath him, and then the both of them would be caught in the woods, freezing to death.

“Listen, lass,” he said, and he felt the blade press even closer, the chill of it making him gasp, only reminding him just how close the point was to his throat.

“I am no mere lass,” she growled at him.

If it was possible, her fiery eyes showed even more sparks.

Ye certainly are nae.

“I—” he started yet again, but then out of nowhere, she sneezed.

The movement was such a stark difference from the one she had started with, her gloved finger moving up to brush against her nose as she turned away daintily to sneeze. The blade loosened on his throat as the sneezes wracked her body. Two more came soon after, and as her body vibrated with the motion, Cory laughed. His goddess was entirely real, it seemed. And much more of a proper lady than she’d wished him to notice, making sure that she did not sneeze all over her prey.

“How dare you laugh?” she cried, looking as if she was about to sneeze again, when Cory reached up, grasped her wrist, and he spun them around until she was now pressed underneath him. Her hand, still holding the knife, was now held above her head, and she was looking up at him wide-eyed in surprise, her red nose pointed in his direction.

For a moment, Cory paused. In those fateful few seconds, the cold was no longer seeping into his bones. The breeze above had blown aside a few of the bare branches of the trees, and the moonlight could now cast light more fully onto her face. He sucked in a breath, wondering if he had ever seen a bonnier lass than the one he was looking at right then. Her lips were parted, and her eyes met his with a confidence he had never seen before in a young woman, except perhaps both Lady Ada and Lady Ella. And with her pressed beneath him, his hips between her legs, his mind had no trouble in immediately thinking of another situation in which he might find himself like this.

But he was a gentleman. He was not his cousin, who had no care for the permission of young ladies and took pleasure where he found it. Clearing his throat, he furrowed his brow and tried to focus. She was no goddess but a woman, and he had to figure out a way to get out of there so that they both did not end up dead.

“By God, woman, we are goin’ tae both freeze tae death if ye daenae come with me. All I wanted tae do was help ye, so daenae fash but move quicker tae my horse and let’s get going.” He squeezed the wrist that held the knife, and she let it go, muttering something under her breath that he thought sounded like “bloody scoundrel.”

He stood, pulling her up with him, and she ripped out of his grasp as quickly as she could, but not before he could reach down and pick up her dirk, pushing it into his boot. He gave her a quick smile.

“In case ye are thinkin’ about stabbin’ yer rescuer again.”

The way her eyes widened and her mouth gaped open made Cory want to laugh again. “That is the last thing I would ever think to call you, you…brute!” she cried indignantly even though she stomped after him out of the woods towards his waiting horse. “More like someone who is keen to interrupt one’s peaceful slumber!”

He grinned, spinning around to face her once he reached the tree around which the reins had been hastily tied. “Och, the peaceful slumber of a lass who is slowly freezin’ tae death. Ye’re right. How dare I dae such a thing?”

She had no response to that except for an angry huff, and Cory tried to stifle another chuckle. He was surprised. He was freezing his arse off, and yet the young woman had made him laugh three times in the span of their brief yet very interesting encounter. And forget the fact that it was bloody cold.

He patted Maitheanas’ gray sides, noting just how cold the horse was. “Listen lass, come with me for the night, and I will give shelter, and ye can go yer way tomorrow. I cannae just leave ye here, but I daenae want tae stay in the cold tae protect ye from the wolves.”

He stared at her for a few seconds while she thought about it, looking him up and down. “I do not care for your smugness. It’s a very unattractive quality.” She tapped angrily with her foot. “You know that I could just put you down on the ground again. You caught me in a moment of weakness with that sneeze.”

“Of course, I ken that. But I think there are other more important matters at hand, such as getting warm and finding food. So? What dae ye say? Will ye come with me?”

She took a breath, and then taking a step forward, she did the last thing he thought she would do. She crumpled into his arms.

Prologue

Stirling Castle, Scotland, Autumn 1304

Errol MacKinnon took a deep breath, grateful for the brief respite from the fighting. He was exhausted, his arms aching from wielding his heavy broad sword since their first attack on the English at dawn. But the Scots were winning; the English were no match for them, and the battle was finally coming to its bloody end. He pictured those filthy English pigs fleeing with their tails between their legs.

The day was warm, and sweat ran down his furrowed brow. Errol pushed his fair hair back, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, straightened his war tunic, and refastened the tartan at his waist. His clothes were soiled and stained, but staying clean was inconsequential. He preferred to stay alive.

Beside him, Gillebride, his brother’s advisor, had lowered his sword, granting him a sideways grin. The two had been fighting back-to-back since the fighting began at first light.

“Aye, lad,” Gilly glanced at the symbols tattooed on Errol’s sword arm, each representing an enemy he’d killed in battle. “I reckon ye’ll need a few more of those before the day’s done.”

Errol laughed. “A hundred or more.”

“Ye wish,” Gilly said, chuckling. “But, maybe, six today.”

Errol nodded. “It’s been three long years of fighting; I’ve lost count of all those who’ve fallen.” He gestured to the marks on his arm, growing wistful. “But what I wouldnae give to see Mull again.”

“Aye. She’s a bonny island….” Gilly’s words caught in his throat as the enemy’s shouts interrupted their brief reprieve. Six or seven English soldiers appeared on the crest before them, swords raised, faces distorted with blood lust.

“Jesus!” Errol exclaimed, hauling up his sword to ward off the blow from the first. It was a swift, uneven struggle, but within minutes, Errol’s sword had claimed yet another tattoo for his arm. Moments later, he caught a savage blow as the second man advanced too quickly behind the first. He went down on one knee, his tunic ripped by a wild slash to his chest.

Gillebride was beside him, wielding his blade ferociously, trying to ward off the subsequent rain of blows that followed the first. Errol could feel the strength draining from his body as blood poured from the wound over his heart.

One man raised his bow, aiming directly at Gilly. “Down!” Errol yelled while the man was drawing his bowstring.

He flung himself across his friend to protect him from the arrow without thinking and with his last strength. He felt a searing pain in his right shoulder when he heard the ‘ping’ as the soldier released the arrow. He’d taken the hit for Gilly.

He stumbled to his knees, making one last attempt to regain his feet. Wrenching the arrow free, he felt the blood gush from the deep wound. His sword arm hung lifelessly by his side.

He fell back, exhausted and weak from the blood loss. The last thing he heard before all the world went black was Gilly calling his name, cut short by his old friend’s heart-rending screams.

Errol couldn’t gauge how long he’d been unconscious. The jolting of the cart and the pain in his shoulder and chest brought him around. His mouth felt cracked and parched, and he gave his one good arm for a draft of water. But there was faint hope of that.

He was bound tight, crammed in with another group of imprisoned Scots, some with wounds that looked far worse than his.

“What in hell is this?” he mumbled to the man beside him whose head was bleeding slightly from a wound above his forehead.

“It’s the bloody English. They’ve captured all of us, and we’re on the way to Perth. There’s naught but a cold, dark dungeon in store for the likes of us.” The man looked him over, his eyes lingering on Errol’s shoulder wound and the gaping wound on his chest. “Yer fighting days are done with, lad. Ye’d better pray to the Lord to take ye quick before the rats get to ye.”

His tone as he spoke was almost gleeful, but Errol listened in horror, scanning the bloodied, wearied faces among the men, praying for a glimpse of Gilly. But he was not among them.

“Ye are searching for someone?” the man asked.

“Aye, my companion-in-arms. We’ve been together since the first day of the fighting three years ago. He’s been with me since we left our home on the Isle of Mull.”

The man nodded. “Aye. That’s a sad loss for ye, lad. But perhaps they left yer friend there, mistaking him for the dead. Mayhap ye’ll find him again one day.”

Errol nodded gloomily. With Gilly beside him, he’d always felt safe, watched over. He groaned. He’d known Gillebride MacThomas, that big, warm-hearted bearded bear of a man, all his life. Relied on him, listened to his wisdom, trusted him. When Errol had joined the fight against the English to return the crown of Scotland to its rightful King, The Bruce, Gilly had insisted on coming with him, even though he was nigh on thirty-five years old. Now Errol was alone, and he didn’t like the feeling at all. Now he had only his wits to bide him. His family would think him dead, and there’d be no one to come looking for him.

Would his eyes ever see the shores of his beloved Mull again?

“Goodbye, old friend,” he muttered, fingering the silver cross on the chain at his neck. “If I dinnae see ye again in this mortal realm, may we meet in heaven or hell.”

Half a year later. MacDuff Castle, Fife.

Edina Wemyss hated having to go to the dungeon. She hated the cold, dank walls and the water seeping down the stones. She hated the smell of piss and filthy unwashed bodies. She hated the rats who terrified her with their endless squeaking and scurrying and the way they soiled the place, making things even worse.

But above all, she hated seeing the imprisoned men. It seemed so wrong for her father, Michael, to have imprisoned these brave Scottish warriors for no other reason than they were defending their beloved Scotland as they should be, just as her English-loving father should have been doing himself.

But today, she was fulfilling her duty as the serving girl her father insisted she pretends to be, taking these poor men some stale bread and cheese on a trencher board. In her heart, she mocked her father for his distrust of the serving girls, imagining them all spies, but she was glad of the disguise. She couldn’t help fearing what these proud Highlanders would think of her—or what they might do to her—if they realized she was the daughter of the man responsible for their cruel, unjust punishment.

“Got something nice for me under those skirts of yers?” Jeered one guard as she passed. They thought it a fine sport to mock her and make lewd remarks whenever she came by.

Another of the guards muttered under his breath, and the three of them gave a raucous, bawdy laugh.

Edina’s cheeks burned. She straightened her shoulders, hiding her fear.

“I’ve naught fer ye, even if ye were the last three men on God’s green earth,” she snapped, marching past them, nose in the air.

Their laughter faded.

After distributing the last supper, she came to the cell she was always drawn to.

She held up her lantern, lighting the tall figure leaning casually against the wall. “Good day to ye, Errol MacKinnon,” she said, licking her suddenly dry lips.

She was relieved that there was a secure barrier between them. Errol was a big, broad-shouldered fellow with many tattoos up and down his arms, each representing a killing. Despite this, he had always spoken gently to her, and something about his size and good looks made her teeth clench. She had no idea why, but whenever she was near him, a kind of thrumming began in her heart, and her pulse quickened. It was similar to fear, but not quite.

And today, at the sound of his deep, gravelly voice, that mysterious pulse beat started up again. She felt his eyes on her, and just like that, it was hard to breathe.

He gave a soft laugh. “Och, lass,” he said. “This is the part of the day I look forward to.”

“Aye,” she said, lifting the lantern higher, glancing at his cellmate, Lyall, who was lying in the corner, saying nothing. “I’m thinking all of ye men look forward to yer supper.”

He shook his head. “That’s nae my meaning, lass.”

“Och?” She looked puzzled. “What dae ye mean, then, Mr. MacKinnon?”

“It’s yer pretty face I’m looking to see that makes me forget the long months I’ve been here since they brought me from Perth.”

She knew he was referring to his relocation from the prison at Perth once his wounds were half-healed, along with a few other men. Someone had called them “special prisoners,” but that was a laugh. If this was special treatment, heaven help the poor men still languishing in that hellhole in Perth.

His teasing words roused that strange feeling in her belly again and caused the heat to rise in her cheeks.

After she left the trencher, Edina turned to go. Lyall’s dispirited, sunken expression moved her heart. And Errol, despite his well-made features, had dark circles beneath his blue eyes, and, for all his cheeky teasing, he had the air of an exhausted man who had almost given up on hope.

It was so wrong to keep them imprisoned here.

She swept past the guards who, for once, kept their lustful thoughts to themselves and ascended the stairs leading her back to the Great Hall.

As she emerged from the stairwell and closed the heavy timber door behind her, she was surprised to see her sister, Margaret, walking across the slate floor toward her.

She smiled, pleased to see her younger sister’s sweet face, but there was no answering smile. She couldn’t help but note the girl’s red-rimmed eyes and the teardrops clinging to her long lashes. Margaret was frowning, clutching her sleeves around her wrists as if she must hold them there at all costs.

Edina reached a hand to brush a lock of wispy, fair hair behind her sister’s ear. “What is wrong, Little Bird?” she said, keeping her voice low.

Biting her lip, Margaret shook her head, her hands crossed before her, clutching her sleeves to her wrists. “Nothing,” she whispered. “Father wished me to pass on his message. Ye are to go to his study without delay.”

It was clear as daylight that there was something very wrong. Had her father broken his word and was mistreating her sisters?

“Please,” she gently took hold of Margaret’s arm, “show me what it is ye’re hiding.”

The younger girl reluctantly released her grip on the sleeves, turning them back to reveal a pattern of dark, purplish marks on her wrists and arms, wincing when Edina touched her skin lightly.

Edina’s blood flashed to a boiling point. Her father had not kept the bargain he’d made with her. He had agreed to restrain his violence toward her sisters if she cooperated and did his bidding. These brutish marks, like the painful bruises he’d left many times on her own body, were all the proof she needed of his betrayal.

She sighed, long and hard. “Ah, Little Bird. I’ll make an arnica poultice for ye after I’ve spoken with Father. Ye’ll find the yellow flowers growing in the garden beside the wall. Bring them to me; it will help ye heal,” Edina leaned over, dropped a kiss on her sister’s head, and reluctantly trudged to meet with her father.

Her father’s room was large, with one window high on the outside wall where a little light entered, an array of candles providing most of the light. The stone walls were hung with colorful tapestries from Germany, depicting hunting scenes, dogs, men on horses, stags at bay, and courtly scenes of princes and ladies with long flowing tresses and troubadours with their lutes.

A fire flamed in the grate, filling the air with the rich, earthy smell of peat, making this room the only warm place in the castle.

Edina’s father, Michael Wemyss, was seated by the fire and rose to face her as she walked in. Beside him was his advisor Colban, a big-bellied man Edina despised for his fawning ways, hanging on her father’s every word.

She slammed the heavy door behind her, earning a hate-filled glance from her father.

“Why are there bruises on Margaret’s arms?” she demanded loudly, her chest heaving with repressed fury. “Ye said ye’d leave her and Skylar be if I did yer bidding. I’ve done what ye told me to Father, but ye’ve nae stayed true to yer vow.”

Ignoring her question, Michael bade her stand before him. “Och, Edina. Ye’ve been a thorn in my side all these years. Ye’re a wee cow, just like yer mother,” he laughed. “But, at long last, ye do something worthy.” He pushed his face close to hers, twisting his mouth in a sneer.

Edina took a pace back. She’d heard his lament more times than she cared to count, how being a father to three worthless daughters was the heaviest burden he’d been forced to bear in his entire life. As far as he was concerned, his daughters were a curse laid upon him by a cruel god. Good for nothing except a possible advantageous marriage.

She tilted her head, waiting to hear how she would finally be useful to him, wanting to tell him that he was unworthy. Instead, she held her tongue, knowing that if she uttered a word now, it would only enrage him.

“You’ll be my instrument to bring ruin to the entire MacKinnon Clan. We need them out of the picture,” he said, smiling. Colban dipped his head in agreement.

Edina sucked in a breath. What her father was asking was impossible. It was one thing to run his errands and another going against the Scottish Clans, fighting for the cause. It was madness! She shook her head.

“Never, Father. Ye’re asking too much of me. I willnae agree to such a thing.”

He looked at her and laughed softly. “’Tis funny ye think ye have any choice in the matter.”

She straightened, meeting his gaze, her head high. “I’ll nae do your bidding on this errand, Father.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “And if ye want a guarantee yer sisters willnae be bearing any more marks, ye’ll do as ye’re told.” Edina felt her belly twisting. This was as bold a threat as he’d ever made. Do his bidding, betray the men she’d been caring for, or her sisters would suffer at his hands.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her weep, and she blinked them away.

“I cannae deny ye if my refusal puts my sisters at risk.” Defeated, she lowered her gaze to the floor, waiting with a heavy shadow on her heart to hear exactly how she would destroy Clan MacKinnon.

Chapter One

“Ye’re to free the MacKinnon lad. Let him think ye’re for him, and ye’ve the means to help him escape. Once ye’re clear of the dungeon and he’s setting out for the Isle of Mull, ye’ll go with him. Make him believe ye must flee from here. I leave this to ye. When ye’re safely at Castle Ardtun, Mackinnon’s home, there’s a man held captive there who must be set free. That’s also up to ye.”

Edina gritted her teeth. She was reeling, struggling to take in what her father was demanding.

“And this man, this captive of the MacKinnon Clan? Who is he?”

“Name of Taveon MacDonnell, a scout for the English. They’ll pay me handsomely for his return.”

“And how are ye connected to this traitorous scout? Are ye working for the English? Are ye a traitor to Scotland?”

Michael snorted, his eyes flashing fire. “Dinnae ask questions, Missy. Ye’ve nae right.”

Edina tried not to wince as he hauled his hand back and laid a fierce slap across her cheek.

“Mayhap that’ll teach ye to keep yer mouth shut.”

He turned to Colban beside him, who was nodding approvingly. “Those damn MacKinnons caught up with MacDonnell when he was going to the Lowlands. They’ve been holding him prisoner ever since. He possesses information that will turn the tide for the English. He kens just what the Highland Clans were planning.”

Edina groaned.” What ye’re asking, Father, is more than I can stand. Ye’re telling me to betray my country, as ye’ve already done.”

“Then our wee deal is out, Edina, and yer sisters will meet yer fate sooner than ye wanted.”

She managed to keep her head high, but it was no use. He’d won. She knew all too well that his leverage over her would force her to do as he commanded. If she protested or dared to defy him, her two younger sisters would be the ones to suffer in her stead.

And she could never knowingly allow that.

Eleven years ago, when their mother, Elspaith, fled from their father’s brutal ways, Edina was only ten, Margaret was eight, and Skye was only five. Edina had been to them what her mother had never managed to be; their protector. She’d struggled to keep them safe from their father, taking blows that left her body and soul scarred. All to protect the two wee girls.

She made one last appeal to Michael.

“Ye’ve already taken almost all I must give, and now ye’re demanding the only things I am left with. My honor and my integrity.” She spat the words at him, not afraid of the blows she knew would be coming. “But mind this. If ye lay a finger on those girls, I’ll reveal yer treachery. This Taveon MacDonnell will be telling all he kens to the wrong ears, and it will be on yer head.”

He raised his hand again, laying a hard slap against her face, rocking her back on her heels. She cried out and raised her hand to her stinging cheek.

“Go,” he commanded. “Get out of my sight. Ye’ll be told when ye’re to escape. Ready yourself. Prepare a bundle of clothing; make it look like ye’ve hastily put it together. Ye’ll be leaving in nae over two days’ time.”

Edina nodded wearily.

“Ye’ll need to keep your wits about ye lass,” her father added. “I’ll nae be giving away the secret to the soldiers so, if they come in pursuit, ye and the Mackinnon will be on yer own.”

Edina turned slowly and walked through the door without saying anything. Once in her bedchamber, she let the tears she’d been holding in flow in a seemingly never-ending torrent. Drying her eyes, she was now confronted with the reality of her situation. She’d be leaving everything she’d ever known in two days. She was abandoning her sisters, whose safety depended on her now more than ever.

Staring out of the tiny slit in the thick stone walls that doubled as a window, Edina glimpsed the outside world. All she could make out through her weary, tear-filled eyes was a landscape blanketed with snow, dotted here and there, with leafless trees standing like gaunt skeletons pointing at the never-ending gray sky.

Stretched on his hard pallet, staring into the blackness, Errol MacKinnon was almost ready to succumb to despair. Lyall McPherson, the friend he’d met when the cart first transported them from Stirling, was snoring fast asleep. As the months rolled on, Errol had become certain that, by now, his older brother Blaine and the rest of his family would have given him up for dead. He knew that, by now, his two nieces, Blain’s daughters, would have forgotten what he looked like, but his longing to see them all again kept hope alive.

Nights were the worst when his thoughts looped back over his life, and he questioned every decision and choice he’d ever made. His heart ached at the thought that, by being captured, he’d let his brother down. Yet again.

Plagued by too many “what ifs,” he rolled on his side, closing his eyes, trying to transport himself in his dreams to a kinder place.

He was dozing, halfway to sleep, when he was jolted awake by the sound of light footsteps coming his way.

“Lyall,” he whispered into the darkness. But his cellmate’s snoring continued unabated. He’d fallen asleep almost instantly after eagerly consuming the unaccustomed pot of ale they’d been granted with their supper tonight, too much on his practically empty stomach.

Errol sat up. Those scurrying footsteps were hauntingly familiar. Did he imagine it, or was it the serving girl who came each night with their food? Was his longing playing tricks on him, making him believe the only source of lightness and beauty in this godforsaken place was with him again? Had he finally taken leave of his senses?

He froze, ears straining. No. He wasn’t dreaming. Someone was here. But why? If it was the girl, what in hell was she doing here at night?

After rising quietly, he stumbled to the front of his cell. Hearing a rustling close by, he peered into the blackness, able to make out the indeterminate shape of a figure standing close by and a hand squeezed between the bars holding something. Almost sightless, he groped along the bars until his hands finally contacted the bunched-up fabric. All at once he understood. Someone was attempting to push a bundle of clothing into his cell.

He grabbed the fabric and pulled the clothes through into the cell. “What in hell…?”

A soft voice beside him whispered, “Hush, Errol. It’s Edina.”

It is her. So, I finally learned her name is Edina—a pretty name for a pretty lass.

“Edina, lass. What are ye doing here? And what are these clothes ye’ve given me? Do ye wish me to undress for ye?”

He heard her gasp and pictured those soft cheeks of hers turning pink.

“Errol, this isnae the time for yer wicked jokes.”

“Och, and why would that be so?” he teased. “Ye come to my cell in the dead of night with a fresh change of clothes. What am I to think?”

“Shush yer thoughts. Ye must put on the clothes I’ve brought. I’ve come to release ye from yer cell. But we must hurry. Make haste. It won’t do for ye to be abroad in yer prisoner’s clothes. Besides, ye’d soon freeze. It’s a braw night, and ye’ll need to keep yersel’ warm.”

He registered the tension building in her voice and guessed she was frightened half to death.

“But why…? he began, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

Escape.

Since he awoke in the jolting cart as they made their way north from Stirling to Perth all those months ago, he had dreamed of such a moment.

“Nae now,” she muttered, “I’ll tell ye all once we’re away from this place.”

“I’ll nae leave my friend, Lyall,” he said. “Although he’s sleeping mighty sound at the moment.”

“We must leave him. I darenae take more than one of ye along with me.”

“But he is my friend. We’ve shared hardships. I cannae leave him.”

“Dinnae utter another word. I hear someone coming.” She pressed a soft finger against his lips, and his senses responded instantly, his pulse thrumming. This was the first gentle touch he’d felt since he farewelled his family back on Mull, going on for four years ago.

The outer door creaked loudly open, followed by the ominous sounds of men clattering down the stairs.

“It’s the guards,” Edina whispered, quietly inserting the key to unlock his cell. She opened it and slipped inside, melting into the darkness beside him.

They stood together in silence, hardly daring to breathe, while the two guards paced along the row between the cells holding their lanterns high. Edina shuffled closer behind Errol, clinging to his waist, keeping well out of sight. He smiled to himself at the feel of her soft body pressed so tight against him.

All was quiet, and the two guards retraced their steps, satisfied that nothing in the dungeons was out of place. They continued up the stairs and out the door. The sound of the key turning in the lock came loud and clear, and darkness once again cloaked the cells.

“For God’s sake. They’ve locked it,” Errol said. “We’re trapped.”

“Nae, dinnae fash,” Edina replied. “I have another set of keys that will let us go on our way. The guards must have seen the door open at the top of the stairs and come to check. We’ll not see them again. They’ll be gone for the night.” She thrust the bundle of clothes into his hand. “Ye must hurry.”

He went to take the clothing but was startled by a terrified squeak from Edina.

“Lassie,” he said, fearful she’d been hurt. “What ails ye?”

She danced from foot to foot, groaning, “My God, do something, Errol. Please.”

“What the…?”

“Something crawled on my foot. It’s a rat. I’m sure of it.”

Errol couldn’t contain a chuckle. “We share our cell with legions of rats,” he said, making her squeak again, more loudly this time. “I cannae believe ye’re more scared of a wee mouse than ye were of the guards. After all, no rat has ever threatened me with a sword.”
She flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Errol, I cannae bide rats. They make me sick to my stomach.”

He grabbed her, lifting her off the floor in his powerful embrace, laughing softly. “I’ll keep ye safe from those monster rats, lassie, but ye must hush or ye’ll wake the others.”

She moaned, clinging to him even more tightly. “Is it still there?”

He made a show of peering through the darkness. The sound of the rat’s scrabbling had stopped, and all seemed clean.

“Aye, lass. He’s returned to his wee family through the hole in the wall.” He lowered her to the floor, still trembling. “Now, if we’re to leave this place, ye’d best let me change my clothes.”

Even though it was pitch black in the cell, he sensed her modestly turning her back as he yanked the soiled prison shirt over his head. His clothes stank, and he wished he’d been able to splash some water on himself to clean up a little before changing into the freshly laundered clothes.

He put on the breeches she’d given him. They were a little baggy around the waist, and he realized he was much thinner than he had been when they first brought him there. But what else could he expect after months of eating nothing but gruel, stale bread, and the occasional lump of cheese?

He reached for the next garment, a shirt, noting with surprise the feel of fine linen against his skin. Next, he donned the woolen tunic and fastened the belt around his waist, hoping it would keep those loose trews from falling off. He knotted a scarf at his neck. “I’m done, ye can open yer eyes now and, ye’ll nae be offended by my nakedness.”

He heard a tiny hitch of breath in Edina’s throat at his words. He pictured that pretty flush of pink in her cheeks blooming because of his teasing. She reached up and fastened a voluminous woolen cloak around him. “Ye’ll need this to keep the cold away.”

He bent, putting his feet into his boots.

“And what of Lyall? Have ye a bundle for him too?”

“We must leave him, Errol,” she said firmly.

“I cannae do that, Miss. He is my friend. I’ll nae abandon my friend.”

“Nae. It’s dangerous enough for one prisoner to make their way out of the cells at MacDuff castle. But two attempting to escape would be sure to bring the guards. One man can slip quietly into the shadows, making nae more sound than that wee mouse, but two men are twice as loud.”

“Nae. Lyall’s a soldier. He kens how to make himself invisible and move with stealth.”

“Oh, Errol,” she wailed quietly. “I ken ye want him to come with us, but truthfully, he willnae wake till morning.”

“What are ye saying?”

“Do ye recall the pot of ale I brought ye this evening?”

He huffed, his heart sinking. “Of course, I recall. It was the first ale to pass our lips since Stirling. I’ll nae forget that. Lyall was asleep only minutes after he’d downed it.”

“That was because I placed a sleeping draft in Lyall’s pot. I wanted to ensure he’d stay asleep when I came to free ye.”

Errol exhaled a long breath, waiting to let this discovery sink in. “Och. I understand. Ye decided Lyall must be the one to stay, and I must be the one to go.” He seized her arm, “But lassie, ye must tell me why ye chose me to be the one to set free.”

She paused and pried his fingers from her arm. “Nae. This is nae time for questions, Errol. We must be on our way. We’ve a long way to travel before daybreak when they discover ye’ve gone and send the soldiers after ye.”

His shoulders slumped. For whatever reason she may have had, the serving girl had released him. One thing was certain; if he dallied any longer, he was jeopardizing his escape. His heart ached at the thought of leaving his friend, but he vowed that once he’d found his way back to Mull and safety, he’d return to this place and grant Lyall McPherson his freedom.”

Without speaking another word, Edina turned the key in the cell door, and swung it open. The two of them crept into the darkness and felt their way to the stairs.

Once they’d fumbled their way to the top of the stairs, she unlocked the door, and they found themselves in the deserted Great Hall. With a finger to her lips, she signaled to Errol to follow as she made her way across the hall and along a passage. Eventually, the long corridor took them to a small door at the rear of the castle.

“This is the door the servants use. The guards rarely patrol it.”

They stepped through the doorway, finally taking their first steps to freedom. Errol rejoiced inwardly at the sharp sting of the icy air and the feel of a fresh breeze on his face. He scarcely had time to fill his lungs with the blessed, sweet, clear air before he heard running footsteps behind them.

He swiveled. Two guards rapidly closed in on them, drawing their swords as they ran.

Before they dashed to safety, the first man let loose with a hoarse cry.

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Prologue

The mask on his face was itchy and uncomfortable, so he shifted it to the side. Owen Elliott passed through the window overlooking the hot and loud ball, watching the guests. He knew he shouldn’t have come, but his curiosity had gotten the best of him. Far too many people at the ball could have recognized him with his distinct Elliott features. But because the night was long and most people were drunk, he had the advantage of disguise.

He crouched down as he peered through a window facing the great hall. The guests were laughing and having the time of their lives. Ducking quickly, Owen hid behind a shrub when one man glanced in his direction. His heart pounded in his chest from the fear of being caught.

Why in the blazes did I come here? He scolded himself for the hundredth time that night. He could have been in the village pub with one of the ladies warming his bed in the room he kept upstairs. But, instead, he was hiding in the shadows, hiding from people who wanted him dead. People that wanted his whole family buried.

When Owen came to glimpse the Musgraves, the rival family that almost murdered both his parents, he didn’t expect to stumble upon a gathering, let alone the engagement between Isabella Musgrave and Hamish MacBryde, whose kin betrayed all highland clans when they allied with the English.

Owen stepped into the air of the empty yard, the cool night breeze delicately caressing his hot skin. He pulled his mask just an inch. The garden was deserted and dark, with just a few torches lighting the way.

Perhaps coming here was a mistake. He thought to himself after such a close call. Nae, it was a mistake. The clans would surely be at war again if anyone recognized who he was. Shaking his head, he reached for the mask to cool himself down. His hand froze on the strap as a nearby scream pierced the air, drawing his attention to the left.

“No, don’t touch me!” the feminine voice was filled with panic and fear. “My father will hear about this.”

Fixing his mask, Owen quickly walked in the scream’s direction, hunkering beside a cart of hay just as he caught sight of the group. Four large men had cornered a girl at the back of the yard, so closely surrounding her that Owen almost couldn’t see her. She was petite, with long blonde hair that hung down her back. The men’s intentions were obvious to anyone who watched, and Owen felt his blood boil.

That’s nae right.

“You won’t dare tell your father, little mouse,” the tallest of the men laughed as he reached for the hem of her dress. His voice was deep, vicious and thick, making Owen’s stomach churn with disgust.

“Stop it!” the girl cried again. She tried her best to make herself as small as she could against the side of a tree while pushing them back, clutching at her dress. Fear painted her face as she sought an escape.

Looking around, Owen swore under his breath. The castle guests, along with the guards, were all too drunk to notice their surroundings. So, he weighed his options. I have tae dae something now, but what? He clenched his jaw. The English bastards outnumbered him four to one. He’d have to be cunning and think of a plan that wouldn’t end in a fight he had no chance of winning.

“It’s just a little fun; nobody will ever have to know, darling,” one of the other men laughed as he quickly grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head with a single hand.

She began to cry and then he used his other hand to stifle her screams. Her struggle was no match for the older men. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

Quickly spotting a nearby torch, Owen crept over to the wall and lifted the wood from the sconce before creeping back to the edge of the cart. Just a minor diversion for the girl tae getaway, Owen thought as he used the torch to ignite a small piece of hay.

The corner of the stack smoked as red embers appeared. Growing impatient, Owen blew on the section to help the fire along. He took a step back and watched as flames jumped forth and crackled. Yet still, the men did not turn. They will hurt her. Swearing under his breath, he tossed the torch into the hay.

“Please! Don’t!” the girl sobbed even louder, fear and panic creeping into her voice. One man tore her dress down the side, and the sound of ripped silk made Owen’s skin prickle.

Sick bastards! I’ll kill them with me bare hands!

Flames shot up as the entire stack of hay caught fire, sending a cloud of billowing smoke into the air.

“Fire!” The tallest of the men, who watched from the side how the other three touched the lass’ milky skin, screamed. Two of them ran for the castle before Owen, while the other two stayed behind to see if they could find the cause of the fire.

Cowardice bastards. Ducking back as quickly as he could, Owen hid from the two men as they made their way past him. The flames scorched his sleeve as he hid, causing him to wince. He needed to get away as quickly as he could, but not until he made sure that the girl had escaped.

Everyone was moving in a hurry, giving him a chance to look at the other two were frantically searching for a way to put out the fire when his blood grew cold. Straightening his legs, he realized the extent of the mistake he’d just made.

The fire could not be tamed.

And now the girl was caught in the middle of a towering blaze—the wagon he’d set fire to had only been one of ten, all of them parked in a semi-circle around the yard, and igniting at an unstoppable pace.

He was about to charge into the flames when a voice halted his steps.

“Charlotte!” an older man screamed.

But it was too late. Owen’s eyes locked with the girl’s as she sought the voice.

Damn it, she saw me. Owen cursed under his breath. He needed to leave now because the risk of an even greater ordeal was too real. There is someone to save her now. Turning to run, his legs wouldn’t move. Not until she was safe from scorching chaos.

“Charlotte! Charlotte!” The man’s voice called again, more anxious this time. He was about to turn back when a sudden force stopped him in his tracks.

And then all was hazy.

His vision blurred as an imposing wall of flames met his body and a scuffle ensued as flesh collided with flesh. Everything around him was so foggy, like hot breath blowing on a window. Looking down, he saw blood on his hands and then he dropped to his knees on the ground. He could hear the monstrous roar of the flames resounding in his ears and all around him, when the world grew more still, all in a moment. Coughing, he squinted his eyes through the smoke and struggled to escape, stumbling to a nearby trough. Taking a deep breath, he splashed his face with the bloodied water, desperate to soothe the searing pain.

Then, he heard it. Amidst the violent waves of the frenzied fire, suddenly, all he could hear was the sobbing of the girl. Charlotte. The scent of ash and flesh aflame washed over him, plunging him into an even deeper daze, intoxicating him with the suffocating fumes and the adrenalin coursing through his body.

Fire.

Blood.

Pain.

Fists flying through the air.

A heavy thud of a body collapsing on the crimson ground.

A torturing nightmare with no end.

There was no turning back now. The deed was done. After what seemed like an eternity, Owen Elliot finally found his way out of the castle grounds, his mask torn and his once white shirt, now scarlet from the blood.

With one last look behind, he ran home toward the border with Scotland, sure of one thing.

He would never be the same ever again.

Chapter One

Present Day, Spring 1601
Routledge Castle…

Charlotte Routledge sighed as she eased her fingers over the scar that ran the length of her thigh. There was no excruciating pain anymore, at least not physically. But her heart still ached at the sight of it.

Holding the hem of her dress, she examined herself in front of the floor-length mirror, recalling the day she’d gotten the mark. The wound was an ugly reminder of a time she’d rather forget. The night when she lost everything that mattered to her. She had lost her father. The life that she had always known had perished in that blaze.

The wind blew her long blonde hair about her face as her light green eyes filled with tears. Charlotte looked so much like her mother, with her delicate features and pale white skin. They had spent hours together taking care of her hair. My child, hair is a woman’s crowning glory; you should always look after it.

Looking to the side, she glanced at the open window where her mother used to sit. Her uncle had given her the room where her mother had died, forcing Charlotte to coexist with the heartbreaking memories. Catherine had fallen to her death, but nobody knew exactly what had happened. Fifteen years had passed since the day. But still, the pain remained. Nothing and no one could bring back her parents.

Charlotte sighed heavily as she walked to the window and leaned out, staring at the patch of grass where her mother’s body had been found. What happened, mama? Her heart whispered as a single tear fell on the top of her hand. Secretly, Charlotte had always wondered whether her death had been an act of foul play or if she wanted to die. Her mother’s past was covered in a veil, her own daughter filled with questions about it.

Taking a deep breath and exhaling the scent of the rain that lingered on the horizon, she pushed herself back up and walked to the mirror glass, where she examined the length of her scar again. I wish there were a way I could make you disappear…

Dropping her hem and taking a step back, Charlotte hurriedly fixed her dress as the door swung wide. “Don’t you know it’s rude to enter a Lady’s room without knocking, Uncle?” she quickly remarked as he stepped into the room.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he sneered, slapping her to the floor with the back of his hand. “You nasty little witch.”

Charlotte hit the wood with a sickening thud, feeling her lip splitting in two, and the iron taste of blood filling her mouth.

Alexander Routledge sniffed in disgust as he fixed his hair, slicking the dark tendrils back over his head with the bony hand he hit her with, the edge of the ring that collided with her flesh glinting. “If you’d finished your sewing and instead of feeding your vanity before that mirror, I wouldn’t have to discipline you like that,” he snickered. “After all these years… you still haven’t learned respect.”

Using her arms to push herself from the floor, Charlotte stood and glared at him, her fists balled at her sides. He treated her like a prisoner but she’d be damned if she would let him see her pain. Her pride was more potent than her will to survive. “I don’t see why I have to do the sewing,” Charlotte fired back. “You have plenty of maids in the castle to do your bidding.”

Alexander’s laugh was cruel and cold as he stared at her. “Because I own you, little niece. You are nothing without me,” he patted his pocket that held the key to her room. “You are to do what I say, whenever I say it.”

Her uncle had kept her under lock and key at the castle ever since her father had perished. Charlotte was a precious pawn to him, nothing more than a bargaining piece for his financial gain. She despised him with every ounce of loathe her soul could muster. Not once in her life had she hated someone until him. “Until you are married and I have my price, you will do as I say,” he repeated his words to get his point across.

Charlotte knew well that he was right. She would bolt if she ever got the chance. “The sewing will be done before the end of the day,” she gritted her teeth and bent to his will, knowing there was no other way out.

“It had better be,” Alexander smirked as she passed him on the way to the desk atop which the mountains of clothes sat waiting for her. Her room was set up with a simple bed and a single table and chair for all the sewing and mending needed. The curtains were removed from the room, saying she didn’t deserve the luxury of a good night’s sleep. But she knew this was not the reason: her mother had jumped off that window and he wanted to torture her by ensuring she would never forget it.

She made the mistake of rolling her eyes at his threat. Damn it, Charlotte!

As quick as a flash, Alexander slapped her again, sending her reeling back onto her bed, narrowly missing the mirror.

This time, she cried out in pain as her side connected with the wooden frame of the bed, digging into her ribs with a red-hot shock.

He was on her before she could move, with his one hand clutching her hair, taking the stands between his fingers. “You still haven’t learned your lesson, little pup,” his sour breath growled in her ear as he grossly caressed her cheek.

“I’ll show you exactly what will happen when you talk to me like that.”

Charlotte opened her eyes to see the flash of a blade as her uncle held a sharp dirk to her face. He’d always prized the Scottish blade, bragging of the men who’d met their ends at its tip. It gleamed in the light. “Please,” she whispered, nudging away as he grasped her hair.

“Oh?” he said with a menacing laugh. “We have changed our tune, have we?” “You deserve this, you little wench,” he hissed in her ear as the blade drew near, his nasty breath making her sick to her stomach.

Charlotte took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut as her skin began to perspire.

In one swift move, Alexander lifted the blade and sliced her hair, releasing her from his grip as she crumpled onto the bed.

Panicking, Charlotte gripped the back of her head, crying out as she felt for her hair. There was nothing left but uneven tufts that hung down her neck. “What did you do that for?” she sobbed. “That was the last piece of my mother I had left.”

Pulling his face in disgust, he flung the hair beside her on the bed. “Don’t talk to me about your mother,” he spat in anger. “She was just as useless a wretch as you are today. Good for nothing and no one. Why that simple brother of mine ever chose to make her his wife, I’ll never know.”

Tears stained the mattress as Charlotte tried to clutch her hair, the golden strands slipping through her fingers like sand. She pulled herself up and crouched on the bed with her legs folded beneath her lap. Mama… she sobbed uncontrollably, gripping her hair in her fists and trying her best to hang onto the last remnants that she had.

“Besides,” Alexander mused after watching her for a while. “I had to do it; your future husband prefers girls with shorter hair.”

Her head shot up in shock as she stared at him. Did I hear him right? She knew her uncle wanted to marry her off, but she always hoped the day would not come.

“This way, you don’t want to look like that insipid woman my brother had the nerve to marry.”

“You sold me?” Charlotte hissed, feeling her blood boil.

“It was time, dear niece. I cannot take care of you forever.”

“Who is the man?” she tried her best to remain calm as her hands began to tremble.

Alexander smiled at her with one corner of his mouth raised. “I have it on good authority that you know the man.”

Charlotte frowned as her mind searched for a clue. There weren’t any potential suitors that she could think of. It wasn’t like her uncle ever let her leave the castle to meet anyone new.

“He made your acquaintance six years ago in the Musgrave Castle,” Alexander watched Charlotte’s face carefully as he spoke, wanting to inflict as much pain as he could with his words. “On that joyous night of the fire when my brother died.”

Her body ran cold as all the blood drained from her face. There were only a few men she had met that night. And three of them had died. It can’t possibly be…

“Yes. He said you would be shocked to learn that it was him. Apparently, you gave him the slip at the feast. He’d asked for a dance, but you refused like the little chit that you are. It’s only fitting that you should marry him now. You’ve always been a rude little wench.”

“What is his name?”

“William Dodd.”

The name echoed in her mind like an avalanche of dread. She knew the name all too well. He hadn’t asked her for a dance. In fact, he’d used an entirely different approach to try to have his way with her. She could still feel the fabric of her dress ripping under his fingers. Her insides trembled at the memory of what he’d tried to do to her, along with the other men.

“Prepare yourself, little wench. For, in a few days, your new husband will be here to collect you.” He turned to leave before pausing at the door. “Make sure you clean up this mess,” he nodded to the hair on the bed and left, shutting the door behind him with a final click of the key.

Charlotte stared at the strands as unbelief and fear took hold of her soul.

William Dodd had been the only one who had survived the fire. She wished he had perished on many a day, but none more than now that he was close to getting what he wanted. He nearly had his way with her that night when he and his friends had cornered her at the feast. And now? Will he finally have me, even after six years?

She turned her head and looked out the window, away from the pain that mingled with her hair on the bed. How was her life once again falling to pieces? Have I not already lost all that I had?

There was only one other man she had ever wished dead, as much as William Dodd. The man who had set the fire at the feast. She hadn’t any evidence of what he had done or why. She could only recall the torch at his feet as the flames licked at her dress. He’s stood there with his mask, staring at her. Why hadn’t he done anything to help either of us? Her father had died, saving her life. But that man had stood there watching before she’d blacked out.

Shaking her head, Charlotte shook off the thoughts and turned her focus to the problem at hand. She needed to escape.

Marrying William Dodd would be a fate worse than death. Looking back at the window, she made up her mind. She needed to run, soon. Come hell or high water, William Dodd would never have his way with her.

Pushing herself up from the bed, Charlotte walked over to the desk and retrieved the bin she used for the snippets of cotton, recalling a happier time when her parents were alive. They’d loved her with every fiber of their beings. No girl alive could ever have been loved more than she had been. And now?

Now she was left alone to pick up the shattered pieces of her life. The last strands of hope she’d held onto were now being thrown into a bin. Discarded and forgotten, like all her dreams.

Sinking to her knees beside the bed, Charlotte sobbed hopelessly into the mattress. What am I going to do now? I’m alone in the world. She sniffed a few times, drying her eyes and recalling the words her father had said to her as a little girl.

There may come a day when you have no one else to rely on but yourself. Your mother and I will always do our best to be there, but you need to make sure that you look out for yourself.

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte hugged her knees to her chest. That’s exactly what she would do now. She would find a way out of this mess. She turned her head to look out the window. I’ll find a way out of this mess if it’s the last thing I do.

Chapter Two

Splashing the cool water over his face, Owen pulled the robes over his chest and straightened the sash. He hated the dark brown clothes that they’d given him to wear. But wear them, he did. His face was rugged and tired as he caught a glimpse of himself in the simple mirror adorning his dresser. Nightmares of flames and screams had kept him up all night. They seemed to worsen the more he tried to outrun his past. It was the nightmares that prompted him to act and seek resolution.

Placing the pouch of coins in his pocket, Owen patted them down and headed for the door. He only had a little time until his uncle returned to the monastery grounds, so he rushed to the door of the small chamber where he slept.
His scout was more than likely still waiting for him in the woods, hopefully, this time bearing answers. Being a monk was proving to be far more challenging than Owen had anticipated. He was hardly ever alone and always needed to work.

The monks at Lanercost Monastery worked harder than any laborers he knew. Even the workers at the castle back home didn’t have to contend with as many chores as he did. He grumbled under his breath and ensured everything was in order before leaving. The bed was tidy, and all his things had been packed into the single cupboard.

Hurrying, Owen quickly slipped into the corridor and made his way down the hall. Time was of the essence as he pressed on, his sandals slapping against the cold stone floor. He glimpsed at the dark sky, the sun lost between the stars.

Perfect, they all went tae bed, and there is nae on—

“Brother Owen,” an elderly monk called to his back. Damn it! “Where are you headed in such a rush?”

Thinking as fast as he could, Owen used his chance to slip behind a statue in the wall, pulling his hood over his head. His heart beat in his throat as he pressed himself against the stones. Maybe he will think it was another man.

“Brother Owen,” the monk repeated as he drew nearer at a steady and even pace. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of his robe, and a wooden cross hung from his neck.

“Please, nae now, please, nae now,” he whispered to himself and shut his eyes.

“Brother Owen,” the monk said in a firmer tone, stopping in front of the statue with one eyebrow raised.

Seeing that his fate had been sealed, he lowered his hood and slunk back into the light. “Apologies, brother Thomas. I didnae see ye there.”

“Is that so?” the man said with a knowing glance. “Because it looked to me as though you were very aware of my presence,” he gestured to the corridor with its paintings and statues of saints and monks. “One would even say you were trying to hide from me.”

“I would never hide from ye, brother Thomas,” Owen grinned sheepishly, feeling like a fool at his failed attempts to hide. Brother Thomas had the habit of sneaking up on a person at the best of times, even more so when you were trying to hide. It’s like the man kens whenever I’m out.

“Then why hiding behind the statue of Saint Francis of Assisi with your hood over your face? Looking for peace, perhaps? He was one of the world’s greatest peacemakers.” The older man dipped his hands back into the sleeves of his robe, waiting for an answer.

“Um… nae,” Owen searched his mind for a suitable response. “I-I was just chasing a spider. I ken how much ye hate the little beasts. And brother Angus, too. The creature was larger than me hand.” He held up his hand with his fingers stretched wide to illustrate his point. “The hood was because…”

“Yes?”

“I had tae sneeze an’ I didnae want the spider tae flee,” he thought through his lie with regret. “On account of the noise, ye see. I was hoping the fabric of the hood would divert some of the noise.”

“Very thoughtful of you. Though, I was under the impression that spiders werenae particularly sensitive to sound,” Brother Thomas asked with a heavy note of sarcasm in his voice. Owen had become known around the monastery for his strange behavior. This fact made the older monk keep an even closer eye on him.

“Och, aye,” Owen rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of his foolish lies. “Now, if ye would excuse me, brother Thomas. I-I need to take care of me needs, I drunk too much ale as of this morn,” he bowed and turned to leave as quickly as he could.

“Just a moment…” Brother Thomas’ voice called to him again, making him stop in his tracks.

So close. He inwardly cringed. He just knew that he would be paying for his antics later. Whether through penance or prayer, the older monk would surely have something to say.

“We havenae been seeing you at evening prayers of late. Is everything well with your soul? Is there something we should be concerned about? Ye ken, this is a communal monastery; we are here to offer support to one another.”

“Nae, I have just been busy. I am on garden duty, so this takes a lot of me time,” he told the same lie he’d been telling since he’d come to Lanercost as a monk.

“You seem to always have far too many chores whenever there are prayers,” Thomas said in the way of an accusation rather than a question. “We can always relieve your of your duties should you wish to pray.”

“I like tae dae me praying alone in me chambers, gives me time tae focus me mind on what matters.”

“Very well then,” Brother Thomas nodded. “Be on your way, then. But we’d love to see you there soon. Solace can often be found in prayer with a friend and nae just on yer own.”

“I’ll keep that in mind but, right now, I have all the solace that I need,” Owen turned to leave with a burst of speed, almost running away from the man.

“Ye will be in my prayers, young man,” the monk called to him as he left.

Owen waved over his shoulder as he left. “Thank ye, Brother Thomas!”

Brother Thomas had an uncanny habit of prying into people’s affairs if given the opportunity to speak. When the opportunity arose, it was best to keep him at bay.

Owen hadn’t spoken to any of the monks since he arrived for a very good reason. He wasn’t a monk. And lying to them hurt his heart. How could he pray when his heart was filled with devilish sins? That would be wrong and disrespectful to all those pure-hearted men. His uncle had taken pity on him and given him a second chance, bringing him into the monastery as a traveling monk. Duncan McGinn had once suggested that Owen make a change for good, but he could never truly be a monk.

They’d send him packing for the hills if anyone else found out what he’d done. Owen felt he was far too bad of a man to live a holy life; the sins of the past would never let him be.

He looked down at his hands, his mind instantly filling with screams and towering flames. His blood spilling into the trough from his hands. The focus abruptly shifting to an image of a man punching and punching until tiny hands tried to pull him away, screaming for help. As he recalled the event, his vision swam in and out of focus.

There is nae point in any of that now, Owen reminded himself as he picked up the pace, the coins jingling in his pocket and spurring him on. There was nothing he could do about anything that was done in the past. The fact that his father had drawn his last breath before finding out what he had done was his only relief. Fraser Elliott would have been crushed if he had known what Owen had done. Not only had he ended the lives of prominent lords, but… No, he couldn’t think about it.

His only hope of staying here was to track down the wretched man, the sole survivor of the fire. He’d later learned that his name was William Dodd—a fearless bastard of a man that wreaked havoc wherever he went. Many a Lady had been left in ruins once they’d seen his face.

Owen’s blood boiled in his veins as he thought of the night he’d happened upon the group at the castle. They were trying to have their way with the lass and probably would have succeeded if he hadn’t come along.

He spent all the money he had left and later earned as a monk on hiring a scout to keep tabs on the man. He’d have his revenge one day. The only other soul that had seen him that night was the beautiful girl with long golden blonde hair, but she was a matter all on her own. She knew too much. Her light green eyes still haunted his dreams.

Reaching for the gates, he checked to see if the coast was clear before leaving the grounds. Hopefully, his scout would have good news for him. He needed a plan now to stave off the sleepless nights.

“I’ll see ye get the end ye deserve,” he cursed under his breath as he set off at a run. “Mark me words, ‘afore I draw me final breath, ye will be dead, William Dodd.”

He jogged the rest of the way to the edge of the forest before looking back at the monastery gates. The high peak of the tall steeple loomed on in the distance as though the building itself were keeping an eye on him. No matter how far or fast he ran, Owen couldn’t escape the past.

The blood-curdling screams from that fateful night chased him down like a hunter following a deer. His only hope of absolution would come when he laid William Dodd to rest. He’d outrun the girl to the ends of the earth if he had to.

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