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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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Prologue

“Ye will nae win tonight, lad,” James MacDougall said to his son Blair and ruffled his already messy hair.

Every evening, in the dim light of two little candles and burning ashes in the fireplace, they played cards on a weathered wooden table in the center of their modest cabin. At the table, there were just two chairs, and other than a couple of beds in the other corner and a few kitchen utensils close to the hearth, there was not much else. It was all they had in the world.

“Ye dae ken that I am now old enough tae win at cards, Da? I am nae longer a child.” Blair grinned, playing his next move and winning the trick to his father’s surprise.

“Aye, I suppose so, fourteen winters now and all. Ye’ll be a man soon.” James straightened up, looking down at the cards lying in a pile in the center.

He spread a weather-beaten hand next to them on the table, and the motion drew Blair’s eye. His father’s hand had seen much work back in the day, including casting iron, melting metal, and completing a steady stream of orders. But, the small village’s blacksmith shop was now in decline.

“Am I nae a man now?” Blair asked, waiting for his father to play a card.

James looked up at him after he laid down a three of spades and tilted his head to the side. Blair was nearly his father’s exact image, only younger, and many in the village mentioned it whenever they saw them together. He had nothing of his young, beautiful mother in him who’d had red hair and green eyes. He missed her more than anything else in the world.

“Soon, lad. Ye will ken it once ye become a man. A power will come over ye, and ye will dae somethin’ ye never thought possible before then. Ye will ken when it comes.”

Blair frowned. What does he mean by this? What would come over him? How could he possibly do something he never thought possible? Yet, he smiled and played his card pointedly, knowing his victory was just around the corner. However, his father seemed so distracted that evening, as he had many evenings in the past few months, that he didn’t notice his son’s move.

Every so often, he caught his father looking to the doorway, albeit the late hour.

“Are ye waitin’ for someone, Da?” Blair finally asked once they finished the game, and James hardly seemed to notice that he’d lost.

He stood to his feet with a slight groan. “Nay, nay. Just tired, lad.”

His father was not old, yet he’d seemed to age in the past few months. New lines had formed at the corner of his brown eyes, and a little gray had sprouted in his blond hair.

“I am for bed. I should nae have kept ye up so late, son, for ye’ll be helpin’ me in the morn.”

“Right, Da,” Blair put the cards away as James stoked the fire.

Just then, the night’s heavy silence was broken by a loud bang on the door. Blair, his gut twisting with fear, turned to face his father, who had grown pale and stared blankly at the wood.

“Hide, son, go,” he whispered, pointing to the broken wardrobe where they kept their clothing. “In there. I will deal with this. Just dinnae come out, whatever happens!”

Blair was stunned; he’d never seen his father like this, so… afraid. He obeyed without hesitation, but after being locked within the wardrobe, he also became angry. Finley, the Highlands’ most ruthless creditor, the man without a face, had sent his men after his father. He was certain it was them. Blair had sensed his father desperation, but why take money from such a brute?

He trembled as he heard the group burst into the house once his father opened the door, and he leaned forward to look through the small crack in the wardrobe.

“MacDougall,” a man said, smiling at his father with his blackened teeth. “It seems that ye are a man who cannae pay his debts. It’s a pity, aye?”

Blair trembled in terror at the sound of this voice sounding like a snake slithering. The black-toothed man, undoubtedly the leader, stepped forward as his father started to move backward. Four more people crammed into the cabin with them, making it appear even smaller than before. They were all bearded, had chilly eyes, and greasy hair.

“The business is bad of late, lads. Surely yer boss understands such a thing,” Blair’s father said, his voice trembling. “I can give ye almost all, but I need more time for the last few coins.”

“Well, speakin’ of which,” the leader said, pulling out a dirk and running a finger along its edge, “we will double the debt because it is a few days late.”

“Nay! Dinnae dae that!” James cried, only to have all five gazes snap to him, and the black-toothed man reared back and hit his fist into Blair’s father’s jaw, sending him to the ground.
The man spat in his face and said, “We can dae whatever we like. I am nae the one who asked for a loan of money. We are given orders, and we are given the freedom tae handle them as we please. Are we nae, lads?”

“Aye,” they said in unison, chuckling a little as Blair’s father tried to stand up again.

“I just need a little more time if ye want the debt tae be doubled. But I swear tae ye, ye will get all that ye need.”

The man nodded, showing his black teeth once more and still caressing his knife. “I dinnae believe in the promises of men such as yerself, MacDougall. A man who has nae paid his debts in some time is nae a man tae be trusted.”

Blair watched as the man walked around his father, stroking the knife along James’ arm while the others watched, their hands crossed and wicked grins on their faces.

They enjoy this.

Blair could hear himself breathing so loud that he put a hand over his mouth to quiet it, clutching the dirk at his side with his other arm.

“Aye, but it will be different now. There are plans—” his father began, but the men just laughed.

“Is it nae the same with all the men, lads? They are always beggin’ for mercy when it was Finley who gave them mercy in the first place and money when they most needed it.” The man stood behind James, gripping his shoulders as he spoke. “Ye have a son, dae ye nae, MacDougall? Children are useful, especially sons. They could pay off debts, work hard, and be of use while their fathers die as useless pigs.” He kicked the back of his father’s legs until his knees bent, and he knelt on the ground.

Blair sucked in a breath. His heart resounded like titanic footsteps in his ears, but he could not tear his eyes away. Frozen to the spot, he felt as though time slowed, marching on only bit by bit, like the beating of a slow drum towards doom. Doom. The air stunk with it.

“Nay, please. Me son has nothin’ tae dae with me debts. I will handle them meself.”

“I think the time for that has passed,” the black-toothed man said from above him. “What dae ye think, lads?”

“Aye, true enough, Sean. Ye handle him.” Another man nodded, and Sean, the leader, chuckled.

“Ye heard them, MacDougall,” Sean said.

Blair saw the glint of the knife in the candlelight and its slow movement towards his father. He also saw his father turn to the wardrobe. He knew very well that it did not close properly, and the crack was enough to see through. He caught Blair’s eye, and he shook his head. It was then that Sean struck, pulling the knife along his father’s neck, cutting his throat.

A scream built up inside Blair, but it did not come out as he watched his father get thrown to the ground, forever silenced. Blair’s every muscle tensed, his heart ached, and the press of tears pushed behind his eyes. Sean wiped his blade before he sheathed it as if it was the easiest thing he’d just done in the world.

“Search the house then, lads. See if there is anythin’ of value he merely did nae wish tae share with us.” The men began to move, and Blair, unable to think of anything else, burst out of the wardrobe in a flash, thrusting his dagger into the first man he found.

They would pay for this death, for the end of his family. The man screamed, and then collapsed to the ground. Blair’s strength pulsed through his body as he thrashed and struck, stabbed, and cut. The men’s cries filled the cabin, but he didn’t hear them. Only his father’s silence could be heard, and it was louder than anything else.

Finally, he found himself panting, his knife at his side, staring at what he’d done. The men were all bleeding and still on the ground. He blinked once, twice, wondering if it was all a dream. It was not.

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he knew he couldn’t stay for long. He hunched over his father’s body, sobbing uncontrollably until the ringing in his ears subsided. When he stood up again, he knew he had to leave. Blair had only made things worse.

“A power will come over ye, and ye will dae somethin’ ye never thought possible before then. Ye will ken when it comes.”

Blair knew.

Chapter One

Laggan, Scotland, 1649, Fourteen years later
Clan MacPherson Lands

“Ada, ye will drive me tae distraction, lass! Where have ye been? Ye were meant tae eat with me an hour ago,” Graeme MacPherson said from the head of the table from his laird’s position.

Angrily, Ada sat down next to him, and she picked up her glass of wine. It was already filled, and the place had been set, waiting for her. She took a long sip and stared back at her father. At nineteen years old, she was ready to be free of her father’s control. Making him wait for her at dinnertime was the least of what she wanted to do.

“I was readin’ in the library,” she said innocently and began to eat.

“Nay, ye bloody well were nae. The men could nae find ye again. Ye will drive Blair mad, so ye will.” Graeme drank his wine angrily as well, and she let out a breath as she chewed her food.

Making Blair angry was something, at least.

It might ruffle a feather in that perfect composure of his.

Blair MacDougall had been frustrating her ever since he started working as her guard. He was always infuriatingly calm, no matter what she did to try and rile him up.

“Fine then. I was readin’ near the library in one of the secret passages. What does it matter? It is nae as if I went outside of the castle, yer worst fear.” She rolled her eyes. “I was safe, Father, and that is all that matters tae ye. Nae only that, but I thought ye would feel safer now that the old Laird Grant is dead. There is nae one left who wishes tae harm us.”

Laird Grant, whose castle resided a few hours away, was an old rival of her father’s. He had fallen in love with Ada’s aunt many years ago and proposed marriage, but her aunt had refused him. In his anger and jealousy, he took it out on her and killed her. Then, in another act of revenge, he’d attempted to kidnap Ada and Ella, but failed. Since then, her father had kept them hidden and protected them beyond what was necessary, all to avoid that happening again. But only a few months before, her old guard and now brother-in-law, Cameron Hay, had killed Grant in a fight when he’d tried to take Ella away again. Yet her father still did not believe that the danger was gone.

She and her father had had this conversation a thousand times, and each time, Ada seemed to get nowhere. She thought things would be better once her sister Ella had gotten married to Cameron, who turned out to be Laird Grant’s heir. But no. He was still as protective as ever, even if he was a bit gentler and more loving these days.

“There is always one who wishes tae harm a beautiful young lass like yerself, Ada. If only ye would listen tae me, allow me tae teach ye of the ways of the world since ye dinnae ken of them yerself.”

She gripped her fork so tightly her knuckles turned white. “And why dae ye think I dinnae ken of the world, Father? I could learn a few things if ye would allow me the normal freedom that comes with being a laird’s daughter. I ken that Ella and Cameron dinnae plan tae keep their child indoors for the rest of her days, if she turns out tae be a girl.”

“Ha!” her father laughed, tearing into his piece of bread as he spoke. “Cameron will see the light once he becomes a father himself. There is nae greater fear than losin’ yer child.”

“Father, if only ye could see that I am ready for the world. I am ready tae experience things and make friends, to feel as though I have me own life and nae one contained inside of these stone walls.”

She took in the dim gray stone of her family’s castle. A fire was crackling in the hearth, and the food in front of her was plentiful and tasty. Her father did not harm her, and she was free to learn whatever she wanted, reading whatever she could find in the library that piqued her interest. Home was supposed to be a safe haven where one could feel loved, protected, and cared for. And, while all of that was true, her home, her safe haven, felt more like a prison. She desired more than anything to see more of the world beyond those walls.

Now that Ella is married, he will perhaps allow me tae visit her on me own.

“Perhaps it is time that ye too get married,” her father grumbled between bites, and Ada sighed.

He did not listen to her heart, and she wondered why he was hardened against her now after so recently losing Ella to marriage.

Ada said nothing, and they finished their meal in silence until Graeme dismissed her. “Ye will go straight tae yer room, lass,” he said. “That is yer punishment for disappearin’ today. Angus will take ye.”

She nodded in defeat, leaving her father behind without so much as a good night, and she met the older guard outside the main hall door. She reserved a smile for him, however. Ever since she and Ella were little, he had always been kind to her, along with Darren, who often watched them as well. But now that it was just her in the castle, she no longer needed to be two guards.

She was alone.

“Off tae bed now, lass?”

“Aye, Angus,” she said, walking alongside him.

As they went up the steps, Ada was lost in thought. She twisted a finger around her ginger hair, hanging loose as usual. It was one of the small, perhaps ridiculous, ways she tried to experience a little freedom for herself. But she was at a loss.

Outside her door, she bid Angus goodnight and went inside to sit by her crackling fire. Picking up the stolen whiskey she usually absconded with from her father’s study, Ada poured herself a glass. The nights were lonely now without her sister by her side. She was happy for Ella and her newfound happiness with her husband. But still, something was missing in her own life. Without her sister, she had no confidante, no true friend. Her father’s forced isolation meant she was on her own.

I will make me escape one day, just as I told Ella before.

But she’d hesitated after her sister’s marriage, hopeful that her father had changed. However, now she knew that it would still be the same until she began to fight back. Taking a sip, Ada started to make her plans.

***

Why did I agree tae this job?

Blair had asked himself that nearly every day, multiple times a day, since Ella and Cameron had married and he’d been asked to return to MacPherson Castle to serve as Ada’s guard until she married. He had been Cameron’s man-at-arms, but he and Ella thought this would be best. He’d returned a few months before, and it’d been one crazy day after another. Ada MacPherson couldn’t sit still and follow orders. She made his job a hell of an ordeal.

And that particular instance was no exception. He was standing beneath the tree in the castle courtyard, watching Ada strain to reach a kitten. He hadn’t arrived in time before she made the decision to climb the tree and stop her. Whenever the guard changed, the lass always found a way to do something risky. Damn it!

“What in God’s name are ye doin’, Lady Ada?” he called and turned when he saw a group of young children hurry into the courtyard.

“See? I told ye the lady was up there tryin’ tae get our kitten!” one of them cried.
Blair rolled his eyes and rubbed a frustrated hand over his face.

“I am tryin’ tae help a poor creature in need of assistance,” Ada called back, turning to look at him through the branches. Her long ginger hair was hanging over her shoulders, and even though she pinned him with an angry glare, he was struck with just how lovely she was.

Ada is always lovely. There is never a time when she is nae, even when she is acting so foolish.

He sighed, trying to talk some sense into himself. Thinking about Ada as a woman did him little good. She was his duty, and he needed to be able to fulfill said duty without such unsettling thoughts about how bonny she was.

“Ye ken that ye could come and help me with this, Blair,” she accused, “instead of just watchin’ me, since ye think me so frail and unable tae handle me own affairs.”

“Ye are nae able, Lady Ada,” he began, but he paused when he saw the interested looks on the children’s faces. “Ye may fall, and then where will we be?”

“I have climbed trees before!” she yelled as she strained for the kitten, but it meowed and crawled back further onto another branch.

“Ye can dae it, me lady!” one little girl with hair of gold cried, and the rest of them clapped their hands in encouragement. “It is me kitten, sir, and she told me she’d help.” The lass stood beside him, looking up at Ada with awe.

He understood the look entirely, even though Ada’s reckless actions would soon be the death of him. Despite his anger at what she was doing, he couldn’t help but smile, just a little.

She was a conundrum. She liked to act spiky, constantly snapping back or teasing, trying to get away with things. But at the same time, she had a heart of gold. She’d do anything for her sister, and now, she was risking her life to help a silly kitten down from a tree to make one of the little girls happy.

“Almost there!” Ada had moved to another branch, and Blair’s heart flipped as he saw it was too weak to hold her.

He stepped forward as she reached out for the small white cat. “Be careful!” he cried, his sudden outburst surprising her.

Her scream pierced through him as the branch broke, and then so many things happened at once. Blair raced forward, pushing the children out of the way so that they wouldn’t get hit as Ada fell from the tree. He made it just in time, his arms outstretched to catch her before she reached the ground.

“Shite!” he cursed as they both fell to the grass, and the cat hissed, scratching Blair’s face before scampering off.

The children dashed after it, not before thanking her, and then it was just them in the courtyard, breathing heavily. His arms remained tight around her, holding her firmly as his heartbeat slowed. Her hair tickled his face, and he swallowed, trying to ignore the sensation of relishing her proximity.

“Lady Ada, are ye all right?” he asked.

“I am well,” she groaned, trying to wriggle free of his grasp. “I wish ye would call me Ada, though. Lady Ada is far too formal. I call ye Blair, after all.”

He sat up and aided her in standing, brushing dirt from his clothes as he did so. Blair’s eyes moved anxiously over her body, assessing her as she straightened her skirts and removed the leaves from her hair and dress.

“Are ye sure ye’re all right?”

“Aye,” she said, but he could see her hands shaking.

He yearned to reach out for her, to pull her close and comfort her, to smell her scent, which always drove him mad. It reminded me of meadow flowers, something wild, earthy, and pure. It encompassed everything she was. To avoid the temptation, he took a step back and wrapped his hands around his back. It would not end well for either of them.

“Good,” he said, then replacing his calm tone with one of slightly veiled rage, he asked, “Then why in the bloody hell dae ye keep tryin’ tae kill me, woman?”

Chapter Two

It wasn’t just the fall that had Ada’s heart racing a mile a minute and her lungs filling up with hard, fast breaths. It was Blair and how close they’d just been. He hadn’t let go after they’d first fallen, and she’d savored the feel of his hard chest against her for a few seconds. It had been bliss to hear his rapid heartbeat and the sound of his breath. Until he spoke and ruined the moment, that is.

Now, he was looking at her with jaw-clenching fury, and she stood a little taller, annoyed that even when he was frustrating her, he aroused a desire within her that was never quenched.

“Kill ye?” She scoffed and put her hands on her hips. “If I meant tae kill ye, I would have done it a long time ago. Ye can believe that,” she said, stepping a bit closer.

It was the first time in a long time that she saw him show some emotion. He was like a brick wall, in more ways than one. Blair MacDougall was essentially a tall wall of muscle. From his jawline to his calf, he was muscled all over. She did not have to see underneath his clothes to know what she would find there. His uniform stretched tightly over his body, and whenever he’d held her close during one of the many times he’d saved her, she could feel just how hard and unyielding his body was.

With his close-cut blond hair and brown eyes, Blair was handsome too, and even though he was often serious, there was a softness to his gaze at times. He was kind, even though he might not wish anyone to know it.

Blair rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Ada, I ken now why yer father continues tae keep ye locked up inside this bloody place even though Laird Grant is now dead at Cameron’s hand. Ye are irresponsible and reckless and for nae reason.”

Anger flooded her along with the other heat that filled her whenever he was near. “I was helpin’ that little girl and savin’ the poor creature!” She pointed at the door to the courtyard. “Dae ye think that is irresponsible or reckless?”

“When it is goin’ tae endanger yer life, then aye,” he said back to her in a low tone, his eyes sparkling with fire. “Ye dinnae seem tae consider others. There is yer father who worries about ye constantly, and then there is me, set tae watch ye, and ye continue tae dae these dangerous things that could hurt us both. This is now the third time in our acquaintance that I have had tae catch ye, lass. How many more times must there be before ye realize that what ye are doin’ is dangerous?”

They were standing close, and she wanted to be angry, to feel completely enraged. She wanted her fury to take control of everything, but her body still reacted to him. Why couldn’t Blair see she was a prisoner there? She wanted nothing more than to be free, and her reckless actions were her way of gaining some freedom while also trying to avoid the boredom that came with her confinement. There was also the fact that she was a little clumsy, but that was unimportant.

“I dinnae see why I need tae have a guard any longer, now that Laird Grant is dead. There is nae danger now, and yet I am forced tae be constantly watched like a child with a nanny.” Blair bristled at that. “And if ye had nae scared me, I would nae have fallen this time. Ye had tae go and yell at me, and then I fell. I nearly had the kitten in me hands!”

She noticed then a red line across his cheek, and she blushed, realizing that the kitten had done it. But she would never apologize for that. Never in a thousand years would she apologize to this ridiculous man.

The cat appeared in the courtyard again, and pushing away from Blair, Ada went to it, brushing by him as she did. She tingled with the realization that his hand had touched her skirts. As she cooed and knelt to pick up the kitten, she thought about how much she’d wanted Blair to touch her ever since they’d first known each other. She thought she’d encouraged him with her light flirtations, but Blair was having none of it.

Every night the man guards me inside me bedroom, and nothin’! It is as if I repulse him, or he thinks of me only as a child.

“All ye can think about is that kitten at a time like this? Dae ye nae even wish tae apologize?” he asked from behind her.

Angrily, Ada spun around with the kitten in her hands. “What should I apologize for? Ye did nae have tae come and find me. Ye are nae required tae dae anythin’!”

“It is me job, Lady Ada, tae protect ye!”

She noticed how he used her title again, even though he had forgotten it before. The little girl returned to the courtyard, and smiling, Ada dropped the kitten into her arms.

“Keep him safe now, lass,” she chirped while Blair stood angrily at her back.

When the little girl darted off, Ada straightened and turned to give him a piece of her mind but her father’s angry voice boomed outside the courtyard.

“Ada! Come here, now! Me study.”

She could hear his angry footsteps as he walked away, and she followed him without looking at Blair, who was looking smug, no doubt.

What day is complete without another scolding from Father?

Inside the study, her father was pacing, but when she opened the door, he paused and stared at her with his sharp blue eyes.

“Why must I hear about yer reckless acts from the servants? Ye fell again from a tree, and Blair had tae catch ye once more? This is the third time ye’ve fallen, lass, and only because ye refuse tae listen tae reason!”

“I did nae realize that climbin’ things was against the rules in the castle,” she said stiffly, shutting the door behind her.

“Nay, I suppose nae, but clearly, ye are nae skilled at it, and Blair has been there every time tae make sure that ye dinnae hurt yerself.”

She swallowed, clutching her hands behind her back.

Dae nae think kindly of the man. He was only doin’ his job. It is nae as if cares whether or nae I really hurt meself.

A tiny voice inside her told her that wasn’t true, but it was far better to think of Blair in a bad light than to think of him in the way she really wanted to.

“Then, ye have nothin’ tae worry about, Father. Yer praised soldier has done his duty yet again. He has saved me, and now we can move on with our lives.”

“Nay, we cannae, Ada,” her father said, rubbing a hand through his red hair before he sat down and picking up a piece of paper. “Sit here,” he said, pointing to the chair across from the desk.

Ada’s belly filled with nerves as she noted his serious tone. Slowly, she took her seat and wondered why he’d always treated Ella with more kindness. Even when her sister had done something he disliked, he hardly ever screamed at her.

It is because he hates me for what I did tae Mother.

Ada’s thoughts wandered to the past as her father spoke about responsibility and not acting like a child. She remembered overhearing a conversation between him and his sister, Isla. She would never forget it.

“Maura would never have gotten ill if she hadn’t had Ada, Isla. Ye ken that’s true.”

“How can ye say such a thing about yer own child?” Isla had said in return. “Is she nae precious?”

Ada remembered sinking back against the wall when her father stood.

“She is, of course she is, yet Maura was precious tae me—me only wife, the love of me heart. And now she’s gone. The lasses now have nay mother. We should nae have had another child. It was too much for her.”

Ada had put a hand over her mouth to keep her sobs quiet, and then she’d left, unable to listen to any of it anymore. She’d only been eight at the time, and ever since then, she’d noticed her father’s behavior towards her. He was always angry, no matter what she did. She knew that he was punishing her forever, and now that her sister, his favorite, was gone, it would only get worse.

“Are ye even listenin’ tae me, lass?” her father boomed, his forehead crinkled as he paused to stare at her angrily.

“Aye, Father, I am listenin’,” she lied, standing a little taller.

She could never let him see the way the past had hurt her. For she was the one who’d killed her mother, his wife, and nothing could fix that. And in his mind, she would always be the baby who did that.

“I dinnae see how ye can expect tae live on yer own or run a household on yer own when ye act so irresponsibly! Climbin’ a tree when ye could have nearly broken yer neck! And ye hurt Blair besides.”

Och, precious Blair. Me father cares more for him than he does for me. Blair has never disappointed him.

“When are ye goin’ tae grow up, Ada?” he cried, pounding a fist into the desk.

Ada’s eyes fluttered to the papers he’d been holding, where his fist had hit. What were they for?

“I am grown up, Father. This is what grown women wish tae dae: be free. Men dinnae understand because they wish tae trap us forever and keep us compliant for their benefit.” She crossed her arms and turned her face to the side. Shockingly, her father sighed instead of coming back with another angry outburst.

“It is enough now, Ada. I have done me best with ye both. I have tried tae keep ye safe and tae love ye as I could, but it is time now that I let ye go. I can dae this nae longer.”

She turned to face him, her heart in her throat. But she didn’t see what she hoped to see on his face. His expression did not hold favorable promise.

“What dae ye mean?” she asked, a cold prickle of fear tingling on the back of her neck.

“Ye will marry.” He stood, not meeting her eyes. “I made this decision weeks ago. Yer betrothed will be here in a few hours. It was goin’ tae be a surprise, but I think it best that ye ken about it in case ye’re plannin’ tae dae anything stupid.” He shot her with his glare. “Marriage is the best thing for ye, Ada, for I can nae longer look after ye.”

Ada gasped, and as she rose, she felt every muscle in her body tense. She was ready to fight. And yet the shock had robbed her of the vehemence she wanted to instill into her tone.

“It was just the same with Ella,” she said, trying her best to hold the tears back. “Ye could nae let us be as we wished, and so ye forced her tae marry, actin’ as if we are just problems that ye need tae rid yerself of.”
Before she allowed him to respond, she turned to rush out the door, slamming it behind her. Tears were running down her cheeks before she made it back to her room, and she barely heard the usual footsteps racing after her.

I am getting married.

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Prologue

He watched the beautiful woman beside him as she opened her mouth to speak her vows.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

She was perfect to look at, a stunning highland lass with blonde chestnut hair that caught in the low light of the candles all around them. Her skin was silky and flushed from nervousness. Any laird alive would be pleased to stand in his place. He watched her mouth form the words of the holy vow, but the sound of it flowed over him without staying, as smooth as water.

“I give ye my body, that we two may be one…”

He knew he should feel something, that he should be caught in the holy mystery of this moment. Yet… he felt nothing.

“I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done…”

He couldn’t bear the thought of this lovely lady, whose eyes reminded him of summer cornflowers, for whom he couldn’t muster even a smidgeon of desire.

Instead, his gaze drifted over her shoulder, snagging on the face of the bridal maid who stood behind her. For a moment, his breath stuttered in his chest. Her eyes were a striking blue, like the deep waters of a loch on the sunniest of days. He longed to dive into them, to plumb their depths, believing that somehow her eyes would take him away from this moment and release him from the terror he felt climbing inside him.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

Her face was taut with an expression he couldn’t quite read, but then he could never completely read her face. Even now she was still a mystery, she stymied him at every turn. When he looked at her, all he could think of was how beautiful she was. She had the kind of beauty that inspired utter reverence as if she were the holy mother filling him with fear, want, and awe. It was right, he thought dazedly, to look at her in the little Kirk, surrounded by the holy glow of the candles, looking like a fearsome and wonderful angel.

“Laird Murray? Didnae ye hear me?”

A voice drew him back to the present. The priest looked at him significantly, and his future wife, with an expectant expression.

“Yer vow,” his brother reminded him, nudging him on the shoulder. It was a shock to realize he was still standing upon the altar, and not simply someplace else with the beautiful woman he so admired. He remembered that now he must speak. It was his duty to speak; his clan depended upon it, the safety of the blue-eyed maiden depended upon it.

“Forgive me, father,” his voice suddenly hoarse. “Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

His voice trailed away as once again his eyes settled upon the maid’s face. She frowned slightly as if he were a frustrating puzzle or an opponent she could not quite size up. He felt exposed in that annoyed, combative glance, with her strong eyes and powerful will—a will he could not break but wanted to test. Oh, how he wanted to test it for all his days!

“My laird?” the priest prompted him, but he found he could not speak. All he could do was stare into her eyes. Was it his imagination, or did he notice glassiness in those pupils, as if they were filled with tears? The Laird of Clan Murray, albeit the most fearsome warrior of the highlands and Robert de Brus’ most powerful friend, was terrified at that moment. He found himself praying to the heavens, unable to form coherent sentences.

Oh, lady of light and all the saints above, help me. Can I marry her sister and live with myself? What shall I do?

When he looked into her eyes he knew.

Chapter One

Three days earlier.

“He wants me to do what now?” Scott exclaimed, slamming the missive down upon the great oak desk.

“Marry,” Magnus smiled, leaning back in his chair in the study. “Aye, ye cannae be too surprised about it, brother.”

“I cannae?” Scott raised his eyebrows and glared at his younger brother.

“The MacNabs need to be stopped, and the Menzies need the lend of your mighty strength,” Magnus shrugged in that typical way he always had. He smirked and waggled his eyebrows at Scott. “If ye didnae want to be thought of as the mighty right hand of Robert de Brus, then ye shouldnae have spent so much time in battle.”

“Battle is where I am useful,” Scott said staunchly, staring down at the hastily penned missive from his dearest friend in the Great Cause, Robert. When Robert had asked Clan Murray to join his cause, Scott hadn’t a second thought about it. He had gone into battle with his dirk ready and his axe swinging, but he had never imagined that Robert would find more use for him than just the throes of war. Scott wrinkled his nose distastefully. “This is… politics.”

“Aye, that it is,” Magnus nodded sagely. “John Balliol is a lucky man to have the support of the MacNabs. Ye ken how fearsome they can be.”

“Aye, I ken,” Scott muttered, remembering how he had faced Laird MacNab in battle the year before. He was not a warrior to be underestimated.

“And ye will ken how Laird Menzies didnae have sons,” Magnus continued. “Only lasses.”

Scott winced.

“Lasses willnae be enough to deal with MacNab,” he said quietly.

“Aye, which is where ye come in,” Magnus grinned, leaning forward. “Menzies has supported Robert’s claim to the throne since he was a lad. They kent him that long, ye see. For MacNab to start attacking their wee farms is a clearer attack on Robert as I never did see.”

“Ye think it’s Balliol behind it?” Scott asked shrewdly. “That he tries to discredit Robert’s claim by removing his supporters?”

Magnus spread his hands wide. “I cannae think why else Robert would suggest marrying ye to a Menzies lass.”

“Aye,” Scott leaned back in his great chair and sighed heavily. “I suppose ye must be right.”

“Aye, dinnae look so shocked, brother mine!” Magnus laughed. “’Tis kent to happen from time to time.”

Scott smiled knowingly. Of course, Magnus was right—he was the one of the three Murray brothers who had a head for politics. He was the one who advised Robert de Brus on how best to marshal political support, for which Robert was the hammer, fighting the opposition on the battlefield. Between them, they had established Clan Murray as one of the fiercest and most politically powerful in the Highlands. It did not mean they were invincible, though.

“It says here it is to be Alba,” Scott frowned at the paper. “Which one is she?”

“The older, the finer one,” Magnus said. “Delicate wee thing, pretty as if made from bone china.”

Scott remembered her and flinched.

“And he thinks such a lass will be suitable for me?” Scott exclaimed, gesturing at his massive physique. “I’d break the wee thing!”

“Aye, such a lass might be more suited for Tate,” Magnus smirked. Tate was the youngest of the Murray brothers. Taken to travel, they had not seen him at Castle Murray in over a year. “But the poor lad isnae the laird here.”

“I may be now,” Scott warned Magnus. “But we both ken who will be one day.”

Magnus’ face filled with thunder. “Ye cannae say such things,” he said furiously, eyes flashing. “Isnae for mysel, brother! Is for yer bairns, for yer son!”

“I have nae son.” Scott’s voice was harsher than usual. “I willnae ever have a son.”

Magnus looked at him pityingly for a long moment. “He was a bonny lad,” Magnus said softly. “God rest him.”

Scott could not accept his brother’s pity and quickly turned away, staring into the fire as he thought about all he had lost. His beautiful wife, Fenella, so ripe and lovely with child, then their stillborn boy and his wife dead in their marriage bed—his future ripped away in one fell swoop. He had kissed her cold forehead and every one of his dear son’s tiny blue toes before burying them both with his heart and vowing never to take another wife.

“Never again,” Scott said, his voice ragged with emotion. “I cannae do that to another lass, brother.”

“Ye didnae do a thing,” Magnus leaned forward, his eyes earnest. “It was the will of God, brother, nae one else’s.”

Scott wished he could believe him, but the guilt of their deaths weighed heavily upon him. Scott knew it could only be his fault. After all, if he had not been so hungry and greedy for an heir, a son to raise up as a warrior like himself and to take the mantle of Clan Murray when he was gone, then Fenella would have lived.

“’Twas my greed,” Scott said slowly. “’Twas my sin that killed them both.”

Magnus opened his mouth to argue but at that moment a scout appeared, hasting into the study and breathing heavily.

“Laird, there are commotions on the border,” the scout gasped. “Menzies and MacNabs!”

“Shall we send someone?” Magnus asked.

“Dinnae bother, brother,” Scott said, standing up and reaching for his axe. “I am in the mood for battle.”

“Holy mother, save us all,” Magnus muttered, reaching for his own helmet.

“But Da, I dinnae want to marry him!”

Evelyn rummaged through the trunk at the bottom of her and her sister Alba’s bed, looking for her bonnet. She moved with the utmost discretion, afraid of disturbing the fight going on between Alba and her father in the next room, but every move she made seemed amplified against the stone walls of Fort Menzies.

“Alba, my hen, it isnae as if we have a choice!” her father said, his exasperation almost tangible through the closed door. “We cannae protect ourselves alone, ye ken that?”

Evelyn winced. She longed to protect her family, to be the one who could defend them, but she was a woman. No matter how strong her skills with a blade or a bow, or how fast she could ride, no one would ever consider her a worthy protector of her home and her loved ones. Which is why she was forced to do what she intended.

Carefully, she pulled the bonnet cap from the trunk and piled her hair up inside it. With her hair hidden away and a tartan scarf pulled across her face, dressed in the same short trousers with a great cloak of plaid wrapped around her and the belt with her dirk slung about her waist, she could pass well enough for a young warrior of her clan. It was the only thing she could really do to offer protection to her family, even if it meant breaking the rules in ways that were decidedly not allowed.

“But he’s a beast, Da!” Alba exclaimed in the other room. “Laird Scott Murray isnae a man, he’s an animal!”

“On the field that may be true, hen, but he is made of man, I can assure ye, like none else!”

“What of the rumors?” Alba demanded. “They say he killed his own wife!”

“Now hush!” her father commanded loudly. “How can ye repeat such twitterings, lass? That he is strong and fierce is good enough for me! Ye ken we have need of such a lad around here.”

Again, Evelyn flinched and rolled her eyes. If only her father could see all the ways she was trying and succeeding to be just as good as any man would have been.

“I willnae do it,” Alba said staunchly.

“Ye will do what is asked of ye without complaint,” her father snapped in return. “I cannae rely on anyone else, can I? Nae laird in his good sense will marry yer sister!”

“She isnae so bad,” Alba protested, and Evelyn’s heart warmed to her sister’s defence of her.

“Nae so bad?” Her father laughed in frustration. “My hen, yer sister cannae be controlled by any man, and I willnae have the clans of Scotland telling far and wide that Laird Menzies has raised a bairn nae fit for good company! Ye ken the shame that would come!”

Evelyn only scowled at that as she cinched the belt around her waist. She hated how often her father brought up the shame she would bring the family with her wayward ideas, her dislike of tradition, and her desire to fight, lead, and ride. She simply wanted to be loved and appreciated by her family whilst doing her best to keep them safe.

“Evelyn is nae shame to ye, Da,” Alba said quietly. “She loves ye dearly, ye ken?”

Evelyn took a great shuddering breath and felt tears prick behind her eyes. Despite the fact that she and Alba could not be more different, Alba always stood by her side against her father.

“Aye, I do,” Laira Menzies sighed heavily. “I only wish yer mother were alive. She would ken what to do with the lass.”

Evelyn’s heart clenched at the sadness in her father’s tone, and she took a few steadying breaths, feeling her own melancholy threatening to overtake her.

Her dear mother had died in a village skirmish on their border when both girls were still young. She had given her life to protect them, and both Evelyn and Alba had nightmares about it, even to the present day. When Evelyn closed her eyes, she could sometimes see it—the fires in the village, the loud clash of swords, and Alba’s screams. In different ways, they had dealt with the loss of their mother in such a violent manner. Whilst Alba had diverted her fears and worries into caring for Evelyn and raising her, the latter had diverted her own anxiety into learning how to fight. She wanted to ensure that she would never, ever be in such a position again. She would never be defenseless and she would never let anything happen to her family, not ever again.

“I dinnae understand why she cannae be more like ye,” her father continued. Evelyn started at the pain of it. No matter how many times she’d heard this sentiment for most of her life, it never hurt as much as when her father spoke it.

“Evie tries, Da,” Alba said earnestly. “She was always going to be what she is now.”

Alba was everything an eldest daughter should be; she was beautiful, elegant, and mannerly whilst still being homey and kind. She had slipped perfectly into the role of Lady of Fort Menzies in their mother’s absence. She ran her father’s household, and all their tenants and clanspeople loved her dearly. Evelyn could never inspire that kind of devotion. She was far too fond of riding in the woods instead of making soap with the clanswomen. Yet, despite Alba’s daily frustration with Evelyn’s lack of interest in womanly pursuits, she always protected her from their father’s disappointment.

“Aye, I ken,” he sighed heavily. “Which is why, my hen, you cannae say ye shall nae marry Laird Murray. It must be, for the good of the family.”

For the good of the family. That had been her father’s motto her entire life. He always saw Evelyn as the daughter who cared nothing for the good of the family, even though she risked her life regularly for them all—not that he knew of it.

“I must go, hen, look after yer sister,” her father called out. “There’s been an attack on our borders, and I must ride out with the men.”

Quietly, Evelyn picked up her own shield, an old one from a soldier friend of her father’s, wincing as it clanked heavily against the trunk. She heard the conversation stop in the next room.

“Is Evelyn in there?” her father asked, and with silent footsteps, Evelyn flung open the door and raced to the stables. She hid in the back, stowing her shield underneath some hay until her father came down and mounted his stallion.

“The MacNabs have nae place on our land!” he bellowed to the clansmen. “We ride!”

They shouted their assent as they saddled up and Evelyn quickly snuck in at the back, mounting her own horse, her face well-hidden. Evelyn reflected as they set off on how ironic it was that her father had always thought she didn’t care enough about the family, and yet here she was, ready to fight and die alongside him.

As the wind whipped around her, Evelyn thought about the secret she kept buried deep beneath her shield, and her hidden face, that whilst she was a lass made for war there was nothing she hoped for more in life than a family of her own. Yet, it was true; who would want to marry and love a lass who had dreams beyond the confines of a castle?

Evelyn told herself not to think of it and instead turned her mind to battle.

Chapter Two

“Who is that?” Scott shouted to Magnus over the heat of battle. MacNab’s soldiers hadn’t been ready for the arrival of Laird Murray and his men; a few had turned tail and run as soon as they saw the Murray brothers dismounting, their eyes full of fire and rage. Laird Menzies’ men were holding their own fair enough, but there was a small lad on the edge of the field of battle near the wooded croft whose skill with a blade put them all to shame.

“I dinnae ken!” Magnus yelled back, turning his blood-flecked face toward the lad. The young man was wrapped up in a tartan scarf, and Scott wondered if he had some kind of deformity that forced him to cover himself. “He might need some help!”

Scott saw that the lad had taken on a MacNab soldier who was about four times his size and, despite his skill, the lad could never hope to defeat such a giant. Scott ran forward with a battle cry, lunging between the giant and the lad, forcing him back against one of the trees in the small woods, quickly disarming him and slamming his own forehead against the head of the soldier, quickly knocking him out. Scott gritted his teeth against the pain before turning to look for the lad, hoping to ensure the young man was alright, but he was met with a sword swinging at his face.

“Jesu!” Scott exclaimed, quickly raising his axe to push the lad back. “What are ye doing, lad? Are ye nae fighting for the Menzies?”

The lad simply stared at him and began fighting him with such nimble quickness that Scott was almost cut down by his sword. Scott was able to hit the boy around the head with the hilt of his sword with only a quick duck and roll, which the young lad had clearly not expected given Scott’s height and weight, and he crumpled to the ground. Scott stood over him, panting heavily and staring in awe at the unconscious lad. Nobody had fought him so fiercely in a long time, not since his own father had trained him in battle. Who on earth is this lad?

“What happened?” Magnus ran up, out of breath.

“The lad near skewered me!” Scott exclaimed, kicking the boy’s sword away, just in case.

“Is that so?” Magnus looked down at him in astonishment. “One of Menzies’ lads, is he nae?”

“Perhaps he has a grudge,” Scott shrugged, rubbing the blood off his forehead.

“Or perhaps he is nae too fond of yer potential wedding,” Magnus frowned thoughtfully. “Or he could be a wee assassin.”

“Dinnae be fooled by his size, brother,” Scott said sternly. “He’s plenty fast, and skilled.”

“Well then, best we bring the lad back tae camp,” Magnus said. “Question him. Work out if he’s just a wee lad with an affection for the lady Alba, or something worse.”

“Aye,” Scott said, watching as Magnus slung the lad over his shoulders and then looked at Scott in amazement. “He dinnae weigh a thing!”

“Well, all the easier tae ride with,” Scott said practically. “Let us be away.”

As they rode the short way back to camp, Scott wondered about the slight boy who was laid astride Magnus’ horse. Where had he learned his skill? Why would Laird Menzies have kept such a warrior a secret? And if the boy wasn’t one of Laird Menzies’ men, why was he on the field of battle, and why was he so angry with Scott? Could it be as Magnus suspected, that the lad was enamored with the young lass he was expected to wed? Scott could see the boy struggling against Magnus’ hold by the time they arrived at the quick camp their men had set up on the edge of Murray land.

“As wriggly as a sprat in a net!” Magnus called, tossing the lad over his shoulder, and striding toward the old barn where the men had built a fire. “Got something to hide!”

Scott groaned inwardly and followed his brother, turning to glare at his men.

“Dinnae bother us,” he said sternly, stepping inside and closing the rickety door beside him. Shafts of moonlight illuminated the barn floor and Magnus dropped the lad on it. He instantly scuttled back until he hit a beam, his eyes sharp and full of fire. Even now, Scott could see the lad was calculating how to get out. He’s nae ordinary lad, that’s for sure.

“What is yer name?” Magnus asked, folding his arms, but the boy remained silent.

“Are ye deformed?” Scott asked abruptly, gesturing to the scarf wrapped tightly around the young man’s face, only revealing his sharp blue eyes. The lad simply glared back at him. Scott felt his patience snap and he reached to tug the scarf away from the boy’s face. “Well, if ye willnae tell us—”

“Nae!” the lad exclaimed, and those small sharp hands gripped Scott’s wrists, scrabbling at him, but Scott was stronger. In a minute he had stepped back holding not only the lad’s face scarf, but his bonnet too. Scott stared down in amazement.

“Holy lady in heaven,” Magnus whispered. “’Tis a lass.”

Scott stared at her. Her chestnut locks curled around her head, her bare face was sharp and guarded. She was beautiful, too, as she glared up at them, breathing heavily like a fox caught in a trap.

“Ye almost killed me!” Scott exclaimed at the lass. “Yer a lass and ye—who in hell are ye?”

The eyes didn’t change despite the unveiling; her blue eyes were so sharp they reminded him of dark early morning skies, lit with the same fire and repulsion as they had been when she nearly ran him through with her sword.

“A lass,” Magnus repeated, shaking his head. “Well, Menzies would never let a lass fight his cause.”

“A spy then,” Scott said grimly. “Or an assassin.”

“A poor assassin,” Magnus said. “Ye are still alive.”

“Was a close thing,” Scott muttered, kneeling to stare at the lass. “Come lass, ye must ken we cannae harm ye now. Tell us who ye are.”

She said nothing, merely raised her chin, staring contemptuously.

“We could make ye talk,” Magnus said sternly.

“Aye,” Scott said, quickly realising the progress of Magnus’ thoughts. Of course, they would never intend to harm a lass, but she didn’t need to know that. A few threats here and there wouldn’t hurt. “I could give ye to my men. See what they make of ye.”

He expected her eyes to show fear, but they didn’t. Instead, her hand flashed to her belt, and suddenly she was on her feet, a dirk in her hand.

“Let me go,” she said. Scott was astounded to hear her voice. She didn’t sound like the other lasses he’d met, whose voices were soft and tender to match their lovely features. This woman’s voice was sharp and fierce as if she was used to issuing orders.

“Now, now,” Magnus said quickly, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture, deliberately giving Scott time to circle to the right and when her eyes darted to Magnus’ hands, he sprang forward to grasp her wrist, twisting it upward and releasing the dirk. He expected her to cry out and fall back again, but instead, a firm kick met his knee, as if she intended to engage him hand-to-hand.

“Ye wee minx!” Scott growled, steadying himself and quickly kicking her feet out from under her in retaliation, dropping her to the floor and stepping back. “How dare ye!”

“Let me go!” the lass shouted, glaring up at him from the floor. He felt a growing exasperation with her boldness and commanding nature.

“Lasses dinnae scream at me like harpies,” Scott said coldly, towering over her.

“Aye?” the lass returned, raising one amber eyebrow. “Didnae get a good look at ye, did they?”

Magnus snorted with laughter behind him while Scott growled.

“Quiet yer tongue!” he demanded, stepping closer, expecting her to recoil. “Or I shall take it from ye!”

“I’d like to see ye try!” she scowled back. “Ye great brute!”

Scott looked down at her, trying to ignore the feelings that were building up in his chest. Scott stood over six feet tall, was broad and strong, and was well aware of his reputation both on and off the battlefield. He was used to lasses looking at him with fear and intrigue, not glaring up at him with fire in their eyes like her. He could not help it. His lower regions tingled with unsettling, untimely desire.

“Brother,” Magnus pulled him away from her, dropping his voice to a low tone. “Seduce the lass.”

“Ye cannot be in earnest,” Scott hissed at his brother. “She is more monster than lass!”

“Oh, aye, I’m sure,” Magnus rolled his eyes and looked his brother up and down, clearly seeing the way Scott’s body betrayed him against his will.

“’Tis only the heat of battle,” Scott said gruffly.

“Aye, for sure,” Magnus smirked. “But she may still be armed.”

“And ye wish me to unclothe the lass?” Scott exclaimed, mentally denying that the thought of her unrobed in his bed inflamed him entirely.

“I wish ye to do what ye can,” Magnus said, his gaze hardening. “We need tae ken who she is. There has nary been a lass who willnae lie with you, brother. Put it to good use.”

Scott scowled at his brother, clapping him on the shoulder as the latter turned to exit the barn, leaving them alone. Scott rubbed a hand over his face and stared up at the ceiling. He was not the type of man who would take a lass against her will; he had never been that kind of man. Magnus was right; he never struggled to find a bonny lass to warm his bed on a cold night, but this was different. This was a lass who seemed she would sooner die than lie with him.

Scott sighed. He turned back to look at her. She glared at him and yet her eyes were watchful. If she had been a wild dog, her hackles would have been raised. Perhaps that is how to approach her, Scott thought, as if she were a wild horse.

Violence would only get him kicked in the shins and it was clear that was exactly what this soldier lass expected. He would have to try tenderness. Scott slowly unbuckled his belt, his weapons still attached and dropped it outside the door along with her own dirk. He closed the door and showed her his empty hands.

“What are ye doing?” she asked, sounding wary for the first time since she had spoken.

“I am unarmed,” he said simply, walking at a slow pace as he would approach a nervous mare.

“Then ye are a fool,” she scorned, but there was a deep furrow between her brows as if his behavior was entirely beyond her understanding.

“Perhaps,” he said calmly. He stood about a foot away from where she sat on the floor, still wreathed in her cloak. Magnus was right; she may still be armed, and he might still be at great risk from her. He needed to find a way to check, but he knew if he forced her she would fight like a rabid dog. “Will ye nae stand up and face me?”

It was the right decision. The lass scowled but immediately stood to her feet.

“I faced ye on the field of battle, and I’ll face ye here!” she spat, eyeing him. Scott slowly lifted his hand but held it away, determined not to force his touch. The lass is like a wild horse, he told himself firmly. Be gentle, slow, and keep your hands visible, he told himself.

“Will ye dare to let me touch ye?” Scott said quietly.

“Why would I?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

“I have shown ye I am unarmed,” he said quietly. Her eyes widened at his gentle tone. “Will ye not show me the same grace?”

She stared at him for a long moment and then nodded, her chin outthrust stubbornly.

“Alright,” she said. “Ye can touch me, little good may it do ye.”

Scott nodded and slowly extended his hand to the belt at her waist, worn like all soldiers over her cloak and trousers. He slowly unbuckled it and tossed it aside, knowing from its weight that it held no other weapons. It was a strangely alluring act, this gentle undressing of a lass who had been so vicious. He could tell from her incessantly watchful stare that she thought of it as nothing more than a standoff between two soldiers—a way of showing her worth and mettle. Yet, as she sought to prove herself masculine, he could not help but see all that was feminine about her. Slowly, making sure she could see his hands, he raised his fingers to the brooch at her shoulder, unclipping it so the cloak that covered her fell loose to the ground.

There she was, suddenly more beautiful than anything he had ever seen before. Desire thrummed through him. He wondered distantly if he would ever feel this kind of desire again once he was married to the Menzies lass. He wondered what would happen if he moved his fingers to gently cup the odd lass’s cheek and kiss her with all the intensity of his want. Would she kick him as she had done before? Would she melt into his touch, or would she pull his hair, curse him, and scream like a banshee?

“What?” she demanded, her voice wavering slightly. Scott noticed she had not flinched from his touch where his hand rested on her exposed collarbone. Perhaps she was trying to prove herself, or perhaps it was something else.

“Ye are… strange,” he whispered, “in yer man’s shirt and trews.”

“Yer nae the first man tae call me strange,” she struggled to maintain her scornful tone, but never removed herself from his touch. Her blue eyes never left his face. “So, I am unarmed. Are ye satisfied?”

Scott found he could not stop staring at her lips. Her defiance was like wine in his blood, making him dizzy with want, and suddenly he could no longer control himself. Whatever she might do, he was willing to risk. His want had taken over his mind and he could not turn back.

“Nae,” he whispered, leaning forward to capture her lips with his.

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Introduction

The year is 1301. Scotland is embroiled in a war of independence against the English. It’s been five years since the exile of Toom Tabard, the Scottish king; three since the rebels’ defeat in the Battle of Falkirk under Wallace; nearly one since the resignation of Robert the Bruce, heir to the throne, as Guardian of Scotland. His rival, John Comyn, has just followed in his wake.

King Edward I is painting the Lowlands red with blood, and the magnates are scrambling to keep the country undivided under his thumb. The prospect of civil war grows with each day that passes, casting a long shadow over the country and its people.

The dream of an independent united Scotland lives on in Robert the Bruce, but he cannot act alone. Cooperation among the Highlanders is of the essence. First, they need to agree to peace amongst themselves. A summit in Fifeshire has been called in his name, inviting clans from far and wide to put an end to their quarrels and form new productive alliances.

Many lairds are in attendance, along with their numerous beautiful daughters. Their agendas are even more plentiful, for where one man sees a chance for peace, another sees opportunity, gain, wealth, and power at any cost.

Prologue

1301, The Herbride Sea

Sometime before dawn.

By the time Ivy came to consciousness, her wrists were so raw from the ropes that bound her to the mizzenmast she no longer cared about the cold. Her trust in the elements was misplaced and she knew it—the air was biting that night, and people had died of frost for less. Her breath came out in uneven puffs of air, clearer than the smoke rising from the torches dotting the deck of her father’s cog.

At least he had posted a guard to watch over her, as any merchant might do with their chattel. The man with the clinking hauberk had yet to turn around. Ivy watched through wet tendrils of hair as he stalked the stern, stopping only to cast a long look at the horizonless sea between the Isle of Skye and the mainland. Ivy’s gaze drifted to the unreadable stars overhead. There was no telling how long it would be until they reached Glasgow and then Fifeshire where her buyer and new master awaited.

Raucous laughter sounded from the hold, and Ivy flinched, startled. Her head knocked painfully against the mast and she hissed involuntarily, drawing the attention of the guard. The deck creaked beneath him as he turned around, a hand hovering over the hilt of his short sword.

“Has my father forbidden ye from speaking to me?” she rasped, squinting against the darkness. She wriggled forward as far as her bindings would allow, and the exercise roused her fear. “He’ll have words for ye and more if I die afore we reach our journey’s end. I’ll make certain I do die if ye dinnae speak.”

Ivy swore she could hear the guard grind his teeth as he stood frozen. “I have my orders,” he muttered after a while, turning his back to her.

She swallowed hard, and her throat burned. “Orders to kill me or to hold yer tongue? It matters not; ye’ve broken yer vow to him now,” she noted. “I beg of ye, listen to me.”

“What is it ye want?”

“I want—” She cut herself off with an involuntary whimper. She most wanted to go home, but she would settle for being out of the cold and changed into a dry smock and kirtle. “Why cannae I travel below with the rest of ye? I want a meal. I want water. I want to nae be treated like any other prisoner.”

“Ye’ll find freedom aplenty ashore.”

The man took a deep breath and turned to face her. In the torchlight, he revealed himself to be a stranger. Before the fighting, Ivy had known most of her father’s men by name. Now their names were long forgotten, turned into freemen and freemen’s sons who wore the faces of knights. This one was younger than most, no older than four and ten.

“I ken my da’s heart—his good heart—and I ken he didnae ask for me to suffer,” she lied. “Please, untie me and I willnae say a word to any man about it. I only mean to walk a bit, and look, and wait.”

The boy’s face frowned in hesitation, but his eyes were heavy with fright. She knew that expression from the looking glass, and she especially knew what it meant.

Slowly, he shook his head. “I cannae do that, me lady,” he whispered, “but I can ask about a meal for ye,” he added more begrudgingly.

It was something at least. “Do it,” she said softly, trying not to scare him, “and ye will be the kindest man to have ever lived. I kent ye to be of gentle nature.”

Sparing one last look at the sea, the boy turned on his heel and marched toward the bow.

Sagging against the mast, Ivy felt the first tears run down her cheek. Staring straight ahead, she rubbed her wrists together behind the mast, testing the rope’s slack. Whoever had tied the knot did not intend for her to flee for they knew she would try. For what reason she could not fathom; there was little she could do. She had no weapon and could not wield one if she tried. And certainly there was nowhere to run but into the sea.

“Into the sea…” she breathed, and her eyes rounded in dread, but also in sudden realization.

All was quiet on deck; the boatswain likely gone to eat. The guard had dipped into the hold and faded from view. There were no other ships as far as the eye could see, but her hands kept working against the rope anyway. Her knees grazed painfully against the boards beneath her as she struggled, her heart hammering in her chest. If she could only slip through this net, there would be a chance—perhaps not for life, but certainly for freedom.

She forced the base of her palm into the knot and whimpered at the thought of facing the bitter end.

There was a reason she had denied the nunnery despite her mother’s urging. There was a reason she had dreamed of peace in a lifetime of war. Ivy MacLeod believed she was meant for greater things, the greatest things in fact, and it was better her dreams die with her than she without them.

Her hand slipped free of the ropes all of a sudden, ripping the skin from her thumb and forefinger.

She let out a cry of both relief and pain, and promptly bit her lip. God’s teeth, nothing had hurt worse in her life. She dared not look down at her hand. The fire racing up her arm was proof enough of her victory. Her other hand carefully slipped the loop; she was free.

Her knees buckled beneath her as she tried to stand, and she fell forward onto her chest, grazing her chin against the deck, providing one more scar to layer over the others she was accumulating. Darting her gaze upward, she was relieved to see that nothing had moved at the other end of the cog—not the guards, nor God.

The sails whipped menacingly against the wind above her. A squall was brewing, or perhaps something worse. If she didn’t act soon, they would drag her down into the hold to weather the storm and she would come out of it an unwilling married woman.

Wiping the blood from her chin, she pressed herself against the mizzenmast. Her hand curled around it, leaving blood ingrained in the wood. They would find it in the morning, but she would be long gone. She had to be gone.

With uneven steps, she staggered her way to the stern. The waters were dark and inviting below, reflecting the heavy light of the moon. Had the sea always seemed so pleasant a canvas? If so, she could not remember but sent up a prayer of gratitude at its invitation.

Perhaps she could swim to safety. Perhaps she would die. She did not spend time considering her options; she simply sought freedom.
Hoisting a leg over the side of the ship, her heart lurched in her chest. Her long ashen hair blew westward, but she planned to jump to the east toward the sun.

Her desperation and misery had been born in fire. With water, she would smother it for good.

The last thing she saw before she jumped from the ship into the sea were her father’s colors flying above her in the inky sky.

Chapter One

1301, Dunvegan Castle, Isle of Skye
Eight hours earlier.

The fire roared in the fireplace, and Ivy was transfixed by its flames lapping against the stone. She had despised the keep when they first took up residence within it, so different it was from the MacLeod croft of her girlhood. Gone was the burn at the bottom of the farmlands where the children would bathe. Gone were the fields of heather where she watched the knights riding through the glen. Gone were her mother and brother too, who had been born there, and who had died there in the fire set by Comyn’s allies while her father was away.

There was not a moment’s peace to be had in Dunvegan. The gates to the keep were forever open to more cavaliers, more tinkers, more magnates—more bloodshed. She thought how strange it was that she would now trade forever and a day for one more night in this noise-plagued burgh.

Her attendants flitted in and out of the room packing her trunks, and she directed them absently. She had no care for her garments, no care for anything at all but the fire to warm her. So, when they asked where she was going and what she thought best to take with her, she offered them the same answer she had been giving them all afternoon.

“Father has said nae a thing to me about my new home, only that it is far from here on the mainland and safe.” She knew at least one of those things to have been a lie: there was nowhere safe in Scotland anymore.

With a gentle sigh, she rose from the edge of her canopied bed and walked toward the hearth. There, she plucked a small sculpture from the mantle, a wooden carving in the shape of a wolf. Her brother had been no fine craftsman before his death, but Ivy smiled affectionately as she ran her thumb over the uneven notches in the walnut.

“Seems more a cow to my eye,” she remarked upon receiving it some six years ago, “though I suppose I should thank ye for the thought.”

“Braw, Da will be pleased,” her brother had replied, “to ken ye have manners, and because a cow is more fitting for a MacLeod lass—especially ye, sister.”

Ivy hadn’t asked what he had meant, and she suspected it was for the best. The sweetness of her memories was all she had left of Peter.

“Och, and this cow,” she grumbled under her breath.

One of the girls looked up at her with curious, rounded eyes, and Ivy dismissed her with a smile. “I shall take this with me,” she said, handing the girl the sculpted figure. “Wrap it safely in a wimple as I should despise for it to break.” She nodded to the other girls and made her way back to the bed. “Whatever ye cannae pack ye may keep for yersels, but dinnae wear anything of mine before Sir Gavin, or trouble will find ye.”

The girls gleefully returned to their work. By the time they were done and the sun had ticked to the west, someone rapped on the door. Ivy didn’t bother turning around. She knew who it would be, and the fire needed stoking.

One by one the girls shot to their feet and bowed, leaving Ivy’s packed trunks behind them. The room was so still she could hear the song of the blackcap warblers outside. Her father’s call was not nearly as sweet as theirs when he decided to speak.

“Out,” he ordered, and Ivy’s maids were quick to comply.

Her father shut the door behind them, and its whine made Ivy’s skin prickle with gooseflesh. Still, she sat patiently waiting for him on the edge of her bed, having averted her eyes from the flames to the soft linen of her gown. Any sudden movement in his presence could spell her ruin.

Her father prowled toward her slowly, walking the length of her bed and coming to loom over her. Like a veritable animal, his every step was calculated and measured, every intake of breath filled with purpose. She supposed that was how he’d survived as Comyn’s prisoner for all those years at Falkirk and more. It didn’t mean she admired him, and it certainly didn’t mean she liked speaking with him. She stifled a smile at the thought that it was a chore she would not have to suffer for much longer.

He pinched the edge of her veil and slowly ran the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. As he observed her, she only allowed herself to look at his thick hairy fingers. There was muck under his nails, though she knew it was more likely dried blood, and she wondered to whom it belonged. But all questions pertaining to her father were best left unanswered.

“Ye will take this off when we land and plait yer hair like the Highland lasses,” he said coolly.

Ivy clenched her jaw and nodded. There was no point in telling her father that she didn’t know how to plait her hair. His order wasn’t about plaits anyway; it was about making his daughter look desirable. For whom, she did not know.

With a weary grunt, her father kneeled before her. Ivy almost thought she was dreaming. Her father had kneeled for no man but their exiled king and Robert the Bruce; never for a woman.

Looking into his countenance, her eyes welled with tears. Her father looked so much like Peter with his strong nose and brow, only war-hardened and two decades older, poisoned by his own cruelty. His eyes were completely different from Peter’s because they were so much like her own, an amber shade and utterly distrusting even as he looked his own flesh and blood in the face.

“My bairn,” he sighed, cupping her face with his hands like she was not a woman of nine and ten but a girl of seven, “look into yer father’s eyes and see yerself as he sees ye.” For the first time in what felt like years, his lips curled into a smile. “Ye are reborn this day, daughter of mine. As a woman, as a daughter of Scotland and a MacLeod, do ye feel the hands of change as I feel them wrap around us?”

He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she wanted desperately to shrug it off. To her, it was known as a great instrument of pain. Instead, she leveled her gaze at her father and bit her lip.

“I desire to ken where ye are taking me, Father.”

His fingers dug into her skin, but his face showed none of his typical disdain. He had grown too apt at hiding it over the years before he lost his temper, but Ivy knew. She always knew. Rocking back on the heels of his boots, her father stood up straight. His aketon was quilted with scarlet linen, and all she could see was red before her, a bad omen that portended ill.

“Ye ken we are at war, bairn.” He waited for an answer as though he doubted it, and she nodded to appease him. “Robert the Bruce has seen fit to bestow upon us—upon ye—the greatest of honors. An invitation, bairn. There’s to be a clansmeet in Fife, where the greatest warriors over the country will convene to do what is right.”

Ivy’s face dipped into a frown before she could temper it. “And what is right, Father?” she asked only to hear him speak it aloud.

He seized her chin with his thumb and forefinger, angling her head so as to look up at him. “To unite as one, Ivy, and pave the way for freedom as Robert sees it. He wishes the clans to meet and follow him into war. He wishes it, and we will make it so.” He thumbed her bottom lip. “I will play my part on the battlefield, and ye will play yers by selecting a husband worthy of ye.”

It took all of one second for Ivy’s stomach to turn over on itself. She had forever known this day would come. There had been a time she had dreamed of marriage because it meant escaping her father’s clutches for good. But the way he presented this “honor” from Robert the Bruce, it did not sound like a dream, nor like freedom.

She was a pawn in his games, and this was his final move.

She bit back the bile in her throat and closed her eyes. “Ye’re selling me off to the highest bidder,” she whispered, unable to voice the full truth of the matter. There is a price on my maidenhead, and ye wish to see who will vie for it the most. “Is there nae price too high to please yer would-be king?”

The flat of his hand came quick and hard against her cheek. She reeled back, clutching her face with her own hand, but it did nothing to soothe the physical pain or the hurt within her.

Her father tittered and ripped the veil from her head. “I would trade a thousand daughters to please him; never doubt that.” He stalked over to the hearth and cast the cloth in the fire. “Dinnae call me yer enemy, bairn—nae when I toil night and day for yer happiness. In Fife, ye’ll have yer pick of the strongest, richest men in all of Scotland. There are worse fates for a woman yer age to marry into a clan of power, and ye ken ‘tis true.”

“I ken naething at all.” She bit her lip to stop from breaking. “Naw—I spoke a lie. I ken one thing: I willnae be married to a man I dinnae ken! That I dinnae trust!”

Ivy scurried back pre-emptively on the bed, but her father didn’t move. She wished with all her heart that she could understand him, or God willing, anticipate his next blow. It was a mistake to challenge him, but he knew it, too. He had made the mistake of striking her across the face one too many times, and the burgh always fell pregnant with rumors of his tyranny toward her in the aftermath of his lashings. He had learned eventually and spared her the rod, taking his anger out on Ivy’s favored servants instead.

She cast a rueful look toward the door where her attendants were most certainly listening in. If he meant to send her away, there would be no one to save them from her father’s wrath in her stead.

When she looked around, her father had turned his back to her, his fingers curled so strongly around the lip of the mantle they had turned white. “Even on this day of hope, ye speak my world into darkness. I pray for ye. Truly, I do.” He pushed himself away from the fire and stormed to the door muttering, “Be ready by sundown.”

If he had cast her one last look, Ivy might have had the good sense to show up at the front of the keep with her effects later that day and say nothing more.

“And I pray for ye, Father,” she shot back, stopping him in his tracks. As quietly as she could, she slid off the bed. If her father heard her, he did not stir. “With the Lord as my witness, I pray ye dinnae regret playing these games of blood and power when Scotland is won and find yerself in an empty keep, with only yer glory for companionship.”

Before the storm of her father’s anger came always a great stretch of silence. In those moments of quiet, Ivy reached into herself, seeking purchase on any strength she had hidden away for safekeeping. After years of violence, that pool was near empty. There was nothing to hold back her pain as her father covered the distance across the room and propelled her back against her waiting trunks.

Her hip collided with the stone floor, sending a sharp jolt up her side, but the pain was nothing compared to the visceral fear she felt as her father grabbed her by the neckline of her dress and yanked her off the floor.

Sir Gavin may have said something before beating her. Or maybe he didn’t. Ivy’s only memories were of birdsong and her fire.

Chapter Two

1301, just off the coast of the Ilse of Mull
The following day.

By the time Blaine’s men had earned their sea legs, they were halfway through their journey to the mainland. He supposed their ineptitude at sailing was partly his fault. His lairdship was far from landlocked, and there were numerous reasons for the recent sea voyages. However, up until three years ago, Blaine was busy fighting Wallace’s war, and the state of MacKinnon’s men had been his father’s burden to bear. Frankly, he was more comfortable with a pike in his hand than he was anywhere else in the world—especially ruling over the men he had once called friends.

Sweeping a glance over the waters, Blaine sheathed the skene he’d been polishing. The day was bright, the weather was fair, and his siblings were quiet for the most part—something for which he was grateful. His sister had charmed the crew out of their superstitions as they broke fast, and his brother had busied himself by assailing them with questions that were arguably more invasive.

When at last Errol reared his ugly head from below deck, Blaine whistled for him to join him by the stern.

Huffing and puffing, Errol came up beside him. “Ach, there’s no land for miles! Are ye certain ye’re not playing some wee trick on me, brother? Luring me out onto open waters so ye can be rid of me for good? I’ll have ye ken, I cannae swim.”

Blaine wrestled with a smile. He didn’t like indulging his brother’s antics at the best of times, but the deck of a ship was hardly the place for a fight. “’Twould be a mighty poor trick, dinnae ye think?” he said, “Trapping mysel with ye, and nowhere to hide?” He leaned over and clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Och, will ye nae wipe that look off yer face? The journey to Fife willnae pass quicker with a jester aboard, I promise ye that.”

Errol hopped away, laughing. He was outfitted like a true warrior before they had taken to the sea, but he had quickly done away with his armor and now paraded about in his chausses, boots, and tunic. Despite his four-and-twenty years on earth he often had all the manners and wisdom of a rock.

“What? Dinnae ye think mighty Bruce can take a joke? Naw, ye’ll be glad to have me by yer side when we meet him.”

“I have met him. Ye ken this.”

“Aye, but ye weren’t a laird then. Ye were a—”

“Aye, what was I?” Blaine interjected, scowling.

Errol smirked, his green eyes glinting. “Naething, brother. Ye were naething at all.”

Blaine looked over his shoulder to make sure the crew was busy. The last thing he needed was for them to think he was as mad as his brother. When he was certain the coast was clear, he cracked a smile and grabbed Errol by the scruff of his shirt.

“I’ll cast ye overboard, ye slippery sod,” he warned laughingly. “Dinnae ye think I willnae because we’re blood.”

“I’d like to see ye try, ye lump,” Errol shot back, twisting himself out of his brother’s hold. He beamed as he straightened himself. “If ye’ve made up yer mind about putting me out of my misery, will ye nae tell me where it is we’re headed? Dead men are particularly braw at keeping all sorts of secrets.”

Blaine leaned back against the ship, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ye ken we’re sailing to Glasgow and then to Fifeshire.”

“I ken where and I ken to whom, but I dinnae ken why.”

Blaine ran a hand over his face. It had taken no small amount of subterfuge and strife to keep the truth from his meddling siblings. As far as Errol knew, they were meeting Bruce and his allies on the mainland to discuss troops. That was part of it, of course. Blaine had one of the finest armies in all of Scotland under his belt, and Robert the Bruce had made clear his intention about recruiting them to the cause. However, there was more to this clansmeet than anyone dared speak, and it involved all of Blaine’s least favorite things. And chief among them: politicking.

Just as Blaine had resolved himself to speak, his sister climbed up from the hold and caught his eye. Hannah’s blonde hair lifted in the wind, and her milky skin dappled in the sun. She looked so much like their mother, even at six and ten with the bloom of youth upon her. She would meet just as grizzly an end if Blaine was not careful in the coming days. Because while Bruce had said he wanted a united Scotland, what he meant was in part that he was looking for wives for his allies. Blaine would watch the whole country burn before he sold his sister off to a man unworthy of her, and so without her knowledge, he planned to drop her off with the nuns in Glasgow.

Shooting Errol a look telling him to keep quiet, he waved his sister over to them. “Good morn to ye, sister,” he said, cupping the back of her head and pressing a kiss to her forehead. When she pulled back, Blaine worried that his guilt was written all over his face and Hannah would see it and know, but Errol was quick to distract her.

“Ye dinnae ever greet me like that,” he teased, feigning disappointment.

Blaine thought to reply and appease him, but something in the water caught his eye instead. Narrowing his gaze over his sister’s shining head, he tried to discern what it was as it bobbed and weaved between the waves. It seemed too strange a color for driftwood, too limp, too… bodily in nature.

“’Tis because he favors me over ye. And who can blame him?” Hannah heaved a sigh and leaned over the side of the ship. “Ye’re too old, as well. Those years between us make all the difference in how insufferable ye are, ye ken.”

“Aye. I look at ye and I ken.”

“Och, I never could have guessed how boring sailing is. If naething else, I thank ye for this most revealing experience, Blaine. And ye ken what’s more boring than sailing?” she lamented.

“Blaine?” Errol suggested with a twinkle in his eye.

“Sailors,” she bantered.

“Will ye nae both be quiet for a moment?” Blaine ordered, racing up to the stern to get a better view. “I could have sworn…” His fingers curled around the gunwale, seeking purchase against the rocking of the vessel. Suddenly, the sun hit the object of his curiosity at just the right angle, and there was no mistaking what he saw next: a pallid face washed over by water, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. There was nothing he could discern beyond that—nothing he needed to either.

There was a body in the water.

Like two eager pups, his siblings followed after him. Blaine knew only from the pattering of their feet.

“Do ye think he’s seen something?” Errol asked Hannah.

“I think he thinks he has,” Hannah answered. She leaned forward over the side of the boat, and Blaine quickly put an arm out to stop her from falling. “Look!” she cried. “I see it! I do! ‘Tis a woman,” she gasped. “There’s a woman in the water!”

“Ye’re fibbing,” Blaine said, but he had thought much the same himself. He clucked his tongue and turned his sister around by the shoulders, remembering himself. “Ye shouldnae look, Hannah! Get down in the hold with the others—”

“Ach, poor lassie must have drowned.” Errol sighed.

“Errol, dinnae say that!” Hannah snapped back. She whipped back around, slippery as an eel, dirtying her gown against the sea-stained wood of the bulwark. “Och, ye must help her, brother! Willnae ye help her? Please!”

Blaine shook his head, looking out over the waters. “Ye dinnae ken ‘tis a woman. More like ‘tis the body of a fallen fighter, and we cannae say for whom the wretch took up arms.” Blaine steeled himself as the body came back into view, drifting closer to their ship with each ripple of the waves. “I willnae have a man’s blood on my hands—nae corpse will drag us into war.”

“’Tis nae right to leave her at the mercy of the sea—or him. I dinnae care!” Hannah whimpered, turning back to look for the body. “If ye had died in battle and been chucked in the sea,” she added, uncharacteristically forlorn, “God’s teeth, brother! I pray someone would have fished ye out and brought ye home.”

Blaine had spent a lifetime fending off the most ruthless attackers, but he was powerless to resist his sister’s pouty plea. Clenching his jaw, he hissed his defeat, and his siblings cheered in nervous approval.

“Ye shouldnae take the Lord’s name in vain,” he muttered, divesting himself of his belt, boots, and weapons, his skene and broadsword clattering against the deck. “Learn fast ‘afore we reach the nunnery, or they willnae let me take ye home.” He shrugged off his hauberk and his aketon came with it. All at once, the only thing standing between Blaine and the sea was his fear. “God’s blood…” he whispered.

Hannah was good enough not to call him a hypocrite.

“Be kind enough nae to drown, brother,” Errol muttered as Blaine paced the deck, looking for a point of entry. “I love our clan. Really, I do, but nae enough to rule over it.”

The waves lapped against the side of the ship like hounds hungry for their dinner. The clear, gray-blue color of the waters was misleading, and Blaine knew it all too well. The sea would be colder than the air, and if he was not careful he would lose his life to it and more.

Blaine looked out over the sea, then back at his anxious siblings. He could command one of his men to jump in after the body and they would do it willingly, but it would not be right. A few of his guards were beginning to approach, but he held them off with the palm of his hand.

This was something he should do on his own—if not to prove himself a hero and gladden his sister, then to make his father proud. Too long had he ruled over his family’s clan with all the involvement of a stranger. If the castaway revealed herself to be Blaine’s death, at least he would die with a clear conscience.

Sucking in his breath, he climbed over the bulwark and took pause. He waited just long enough for the sea to calm a tick before launching himself off the gunwale and into the waves below.

The first thing he felt—the first thing and the last—was the biting slap of the water against his skin. For a moment, nothing existed in the world but that pain. It wreathed around him, with the water pressing down on him, keeping him trapped beneath the waves like the cruelest siren call.

It was cold but it was blissful. There was nothing to hear, nothing else to feel, no enemies in hiding, only one that he could fight. He needed to fight or he would lose the battle and die, along with the castaway.

He snapped his eyes open beneath the water, and they stung, but a rush of feeling gave him the courage to glance at the filtered sunlight and swim upwards. For the second time, he broke through the water’s iron plate. As he did, relieved roars erupted from the boat, but he could barely hear them over the sharp intake of his breath. He hadn’t the time to look back, not while his body was on fire with cold. It was enough to know they knew he was alive.

The sun was too bright above him, and he could not remember whether it had always been that way. Blaine pushed his arms out before him, and with all his might, he swam toward the crowning head of the fallen soldier—whoever they were. Within moments, he adapted to the dance of the sea, swimming not against the tide but with it. A head of dark hair called to him like a beacon, dipping above and then beneath the waves with every inhale of breath he took.

However, the sea was not a kind mistress that day. When he was close enough to see the body properly, so close he thought to reach out and touch it, it slipped beneath the waves so swiftly it was as though it had never existed.

Throwing his head back in disbelief, Blaine dared to look back at his siblings on the side of the boat. He could not make out their faces—he could see nothing but their twin heads of blond hair, so much like his own—but he knew that if he did not act quickly, one or the other would be foolish enough to jump in after him. Focused to the exclusion of everything else around him, Blaine thrust his body beneath the waves again, adjusting himself to its sweet cold imprisonment.

That was when he saw her.

Hannah had been right. The castaway was a woman, and she was floating beneath the sea like she belonged there and always had. She looked peaceful with her delicate white face, paler still than the white of her smock—her long, ashen hair floated like a halo around her. She might as well have been an angel, he thought, reaching a hand toward her. She appeared to radiate all the divine power of one and may God smite him for thinking it.

In that watery cage alone with her, he felt oddly at peace. Perhaps he could stay with her forever beneath the sea, and that peace would stretch on as long as their bodies remained there.

He let out the last of his breath, as though trying to speak with her to ask her to stay when panic set in. There was nothing more tethering him to life but his terror. From the looks of things, the woman had stopped breathing entirely. Steeling himself, he swam nearer to her and gathered her in his arms. With the last of his strength, he propelled them toward the surface of the water, holding her against his chest like a sleeping babe he dared not wake.

When he reached the surface, the world crashed upon him in a cacophony of sound. The waves were deafening, the sun was blinding, and whatever peace he had found was sundered, split in two. The only thing left to do was survive.

“Survive,” he pled, not knowing to whom he prayed, but knowing it sounded desperately sincere. “Survive this with me.”

The swim back to the boat felt like torture, but he made it. There had never been a sweeter sound than the clatter of the ladder down the side of the boat and into the water. Hoisting the woman over his shoulder, Blaine climbed up the side of the ship, only stopping for breath once he reached the very top, at which point he fell to his knees. The woman tumbled over his shoulder and onto the deck, her clothes pooling around her.

“Brother!” he heard Hannah’s cry of relief. She pushed past his guards with a groan and knelt before him. “I cannae believe ye did that!” she whimpered as she threw her arms out to hold him.

Blaine put a hand up to stop her and looked up at his men. “Prepare a clean pallet for her and tell the captain to make haste for Glasgow,” he ordered. He dipped his head to catch his breath before scuttling over to the woman.

“Ye were right, sister,” he muttered, before dragging the soaked woman up by the arms and pounding her on the back to bring up the water she’d swallowed. He pushed against her back and turned her head, relieved to see her expel seawater. He pumped until no more was seen, and then he collapsed beside her, exhausted but sucking in great gulps of clean salt air.

The only weapon he had in his armory was hope, and it had carried the day.

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