Chapter One

Mull of Kilchurn, Spring, 1715

Peace so often follows a storm. The crashing waves, the devastating winds, the driving rain, and then… all was calm. Such was the scene that morning on the Mull of Kilchurn, where the seabirds arced above the cliffs, and on the wide, sandy shore, the remnants of a ship lay wrecked, smashed into a hundred pieces by the force of the sea, which had churned it up and dashed it on the rocks. It was a scene of devastation, but among it, one survivor remained.

He was lying on his back, barely conscious, the sea washing over him, the foam of the gentle waves dyed red by his blood, seeping from a wound at his side. Suddenly, he gave a start and sat up, dazed and confused. He let out a cry, which echoed across the deserted beach, and rolled onto his side, vomiting up seawater and coughing violently. He clutched at his side, staggering to his feet, before collapsing again onto the sand.

“Help me! Someone, please, help me,” he cried, but no answer came –he was all alone, and the cliffs merely echoed back his desperate cries, the birds arcing overhead, and the waves washing gently on the shore.

He looked around him in dazed confusion, unable to remember what had happened or where he was. The sun was shining, a blue sky above promising a peaceful day, the storm giving way to calm, as though nature had not made known her full and destructive force but a few hours before. The crew was gone, swept overboard by the force of the waves, and pulled down into the depths. The ship’s cargo–brandy and tea–was scattered across the sands, ruined, save for a few chests which had somehow survived the storm and now lay washed up on the beach.

“What is this place?” he gasped, his head throbbing with pain, the wound at his side smarting.

He looked desperately around him for some sign of familiarity, for something to cling to in the wake of the nightmare into which he had emerged. All was calm, placed, and peaceful, but in his mind, the storm still raged, a storm which prevented him from knowing even who he was or why he should find himself in such a strange and remarkable situation…

***

Murdina MacFadden knew every detail of the ceiling in her chambers above the great hall at Kilchurn Castle. She had spent hours staring up at it, lying on her bed, her eyes wide, gazing up to the ceiling, where a crack ran across the plaster from right to left. There was a cobweb in one corner and the remains of what had once been an ornate fleur-de-lis painted at the center. Murdina had gotten to know every detail of that ceiling in the past few months–when her own company had been preferable to that of anyone else’s. She would shut herself away in her chambers and stare up at the ceiling for hours on end, longing for the past to change, and for peace in her suffering.

Now, she sighed and rolled onto her side, a tear running down her cheek at the thought of her dear sister. It was always the same. She would shut herself away and think of Aoife, lamenting the loss of her dearest friend, a loss which could so easily have been prevented if it were not for the wiles of that wicked man. Her sister had taken her own life, heartbroken at the discovery of her betrothed’s affair with another woman–a woman to whom he was now married. Murdina would not mention his name, but the loss of her sister had left her in the depths of despair, despair from which she believed she would never recover.

A knock now came at the door, and Murdina brushed the tears from her eyes and sat up. She did not like to be disturbed, but she knew she would be missed having skipped the midday meal. Her younger sister, Ella, now called out to her, knocking again, so that Murdina had no choice but to get up and answer the door. She would have preferred to be alone with her thoughts, her grief for Aoife still as raw as it had been on the day when they had discovered her lifeless in her chambers, a moment which Murdina would never forget.

“Sister, why dae ye torture yerself, so?” Ella asked as Murdina opened the door to her.

“I just want to be alone, Ella,” Murdina replied, and Ella stepped forward and put her arms around her.

“Tis’ better if we are all of us together. Dae ye nae think? We are grievin’ too, we all are,” she said, but Murdina shook her head.

The pain of Aoife’s loss seemed unbearable to her, while her other two sisters seemed almost able to accept it. Her father, Andrew Macfadden, the laird, had emerged from mourning and was even now riding out on the hunt with the rest of the clan. Murdina felt she was the only one who still honored Aoife’s legacy, and she was determined not to let go of her sister’s memory.

“Ye and Freya were nae as close to her as I was. Ye daenae understand,” Murdina replied, shaking her head sadly.

Aoife had been her closest friend, the bond of sisterhood and friendship as one. She loved her more than anyone else in all the world, and in losing her, it had felt as though a part of her was lost, too.

“Dae ye think we daenae mourn her, too?” Ella asked, sounding hurt at the suggestion.

Murdina made no reply–she had not asked for Ella’s sympathy, content, as she was, to be alone with her thoughts.

“I was nae hungry,” she said, by way of a response to Ella’s visit, and her sister sighed and shook her head.

“We are worried about ye, Murdina–all of us. Father will come and see ye later. He told us so before he rode out this mornin’ on the hunt. Ye cannae hide yerself away like this forever. Life must go on,” she said, but Murdina looked at her angrily.

“For us, it can, aye, but nae for poor Aoife. What wickedness brought about her death–that man, he should pay for his crimes,” she exclaimed, turning back into the room as tears welled up again in her eyes.

“But ye cannae live yer life like this, Murdina. Tis’ nae what Aoife would have wanted,” Ella said.

“Leave me alone, Ella–ye daenae understand,” Murdina shouted back at her, and she slammed the door to her chambers in her sister’s face, throwing herself on the bed and weeping.

It was as though everyone had forgotten her sister–the period of mourning at an end and her memory confined to the occasional thought. But Murdina could not forget–she refused to forget–and in her anguish, her anger only increased against the man whom she blamed for taking her sister away from her, the man who had betrayed her beautiful soul, and in her eyes, was no better than a murderer.

***

It was clear to him that no help would come. His head was throbbing with pain, and he could remember nothing–not even his own name. It was as though everything was a blur–the world around him made sense as far as he could see, but he could find no reference to make sense of what was there–or of himself. He struggled to his feet, still clutching at his side, and staggered up the beach away from the shipwreck.

“I must have been on board,” he said to himself, though he could recall nothing of being so.

There were no bodies washed up on the shore, no sign of anyone among the wreckage. He was entirely alone, and the surrounding landscape appeared strange and unfamiliar. He was on a beach, with cliffs stretching up on either side to moorlands, where the purple heathers were dotted with straggly trees. He could remember nothing of where he had come from or where he was going, and he sat down on a rock and sighed, his whole body aching and the wound at his side smarting.

As he sat down, he felt something in his pocket, and reaching into his breeches, he pulled out a key on a chain. It was not like a normal key to a simple lock, but ornately made, gilded in silver, and with a chain–he looked at it curiously. There was a coin in his pocket, too. But again, this was no ordinary coin bearing the head of a Hanoverian king, but embossed with a phoenix, large and weighty–it seemed somehow familiar, but he could not remember why he had it and what it could mean.

He held the key, and the coin, in his open hands, looking down at them in confusion. It frustrated him to not remember, and he cursed himself for his stupidity. He felt a fool sitting there on the beach with no idea of who he was or where he came from. He tried desperately to remember, furrowing his brow in a vain attempt at recollection. But it was to no avail. He was sitting on a beach in a foreign land, soaked to the skin, wounded, and without a single memory, which would prove useful–the situation seemed hopeless.

Now, he searched his pockets more thoroughly and drew out a parchment, which had somehow survived the worst of the water. It was sealed with wax and had been hidden between the hem of his breeches–concealed, though, from what, he could not remember. There seemed little point in respecting the wax seal in such circumstances, and he unrolled the parchment and began to read. The crest at the top bore the arms of a noble family–a lion and an eagle guarding a shield, embossed in red and gold, below which was a Latin inscription–the words too water damaged to decipher.

Much of the letter, too, was unreadable, the ink having run with the damp seeping through his clothes. It provided no clue about his identity, only adding to the mystery of who he was and why he should be carrying such a strange assortment of items about his person. He began to shiver, and his stomach was rumbling so that he knew he had to do something to help himself since no one else was to come to his aid. For all he knew, he was alone on an island, and any hope of rescue was in vain.

He got up and went back down the beach to the shipwreck. Several chests were lying about among the wreckage, and he prized one of them open, revealing dry clothes and blankets to his great relief. Another chest held ship’s biscuits–crude oatcakes made for the longevity of a voyage–and a side of cheese so that he was soon dressed in fresh clothes and his hunger satisfied. He tore strips from a shirt and made a simple bandage with which he dressed his wound, and though he could still remember nothing about himself, he did, at least, feel a sense of relief at having raised himself from the worst of his situation.

Having eaten and drunk from a spring that flowed onto the beach at the far side, he now made a survey of his surroundings. A path led up to the top of the cliffs, and the sight of it cheered him enormously–a path meant people, or at the very least some kind of animal, and taking with him as much of the food as he could carry, he made his way up the path and onto the moorland above. From there, he gained a far better perspective over his situation and could see, in the far distance, mountains rising majestically into the clouds. He was certain this was no island, and there seemed to be signs of habitation–a path leading across the moorlands and the remnants of a fire by a small copse of trees.

The wound to his side was painful, and he knew he could not remain out of doors for the night. The day was bright and breezy, and from the sun’s position, he reasoned it was still the morning. His best hope would be to follow the path and see where it led to, and he set off across the moorlands, still trying desperately to remember even the smallest detail about himself and who he was. All he knew was that a shipwreck had brought him to this strange and unfamiliar land and that his best hope for survival would be to find its inhabitants–whoever they may be…

 

Chapter Two

 

“Why did ye let yer guard down, Cillian?” Murdina demanded as her opponent fell to the ground, and she pointed the tip of her sword to his neck.

“I… I am sorry, lass, ye are… ye are a match for any of yer clansmen,” the man replied.

Murdina had been sparring that morning with Cillian out in the castle courtyard. He was an excellent swordsman, and few could best him–but Murdina was one. Her father had despaired at having four daughters and no son to inherit his title. Even from an early age, Murdina had been treated not as a delicate woman but as a clansman and a warrior. She had learned to fight, ride, shoot, and do so better than any man.

“But ye were nae even tryin’ to beat me,” she replied, cursing under her breath and sheathing her sword.

“A few moments then, and we shall fight again,” Cillian replied, catching his breath, but Murdina only dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

In her skill with the sword, Murdina found a way to forget her sorrows for a while. She took out her anger and frustration on her opponents, and there was not a man in the castle whom she had not challenged to fight. There had been only one man who could ever stand a chance against her, and that was Arran Athol, the sword master who had taught her everything she had ever needed to know. In his hands, a sword was as much a work of art as a tool, and he had fought many a campaign against the English during the long, troubled period of the years gone by.

“Forget it, I shall find another opponent,” she said, shaking her head as Cillian bowed.

A small crowd of her father’s men had gathered to watch, and Murdina looked around at them now, challenging each of them to fight. But all of them shook their heads, turning away, as Murdina scowled. They were cowards, she told herself, and it was no wonder that the Jacobite cause was all but lost with such men as this to represent it. Murdina had grown up with the stories of English oppression. She hated the house of Hanover and its claims to the throne of Scotland. But the Stuart cause seemed all but gone, the few pockets of resistance against English rule gradually weakening in the face of overwhelming odds. Her father still clung to the hope of restoration, but with the protestant strangulation on their beloved land, such hopes seemed ever further from being realized.

“Murdina, I want to speak to ye,” her father’s voice came from across the courtyard, and Murdina looked up to see the laird beckoning to her from the top of the castle steps.

Despite his advancing years, Andrew was still a formidable figure, his long white beard flowing down his front and his height and build raising him above other men by some considerable amount. He commanded respect, and those around her now dispersed, leaving Murdina and her father alone.

“What is it ye wish to speak to speak to me about, Father?” she asked, coming to join him on the steps which led into the castle keep.

“Have ye thought more about what I said to ye the other day?” he replied, and Murdina shook her head.

“I told ye then, I daenae wish to marry anyone, Father,” she said, and Andrew looked at her angrily.

He had come to her in a fit of some agitation a week or so previously, demanding that she consider marriage for the sake of the clan and its future.

“If we are to advance the Jacobite cause, then ye must marry and bear children,” he had told her.

They were words he had repeated to both her sisters, too, and while Murdina remained angry with Ella and Freya for their apparent lack of feeling in the face of Aoife’s death, they could at least find common ground in objecting to their father’s demands. Since losing her sister, Murdina had found herself more and more distrustful of men. She blamed the man whom Aoife had loved for her death, and the thought of allowing her own heart to be broken in such a way was too awful to comprehend.

Murdina had no qualms in standing up to her father, whether or not he was her laird, too, nor of disobeying him–it would certainly not be the first time. He had suggested several possible matches to her, all of which had made Murdina’s blood run cold–she would not marry merely to satisfy her father’s ill-thought-out plans for a future glorious revolution. The Jacobite cause was dying, and her marrying a man she did not love would not save it.

“And I told ye that there is little choice in the matter, Murdina. Had yer mother given us an heir, then there would be nay need, though surely tis’ any woman’s wish to marry well,” he said, but Murdina only laughed.

“Tis’ a fond thing, vainly conceived, Father. I shall nae marry just because ye tell me to,” she said, and her father caught her by the arm and brought his face in close to hers, an angry look coming over his countenance.

“Ye shall dae what is necessary to ensure this clan has a future, Murdina,” he said, but she snatched her arm away and turned from him, the anger rising inside her.

“And perhaps if ye had shown more concern for the daughter ye once had, then ye would have that future,” she cried.

Had Aoife not been promised to a man of such dubious reputation, then perhaps her life might have been saved. Andrew had grieved for his daughter, but it seemed he had now forgotten just what an arranged marriage had done to the one  he had always described as his “bright, shining star.”

“And what dae ye mean by that?” her father demanded, as Murdina turned to him angrily, fixing him with a scowl.

“That it was an arranged marriage that caused her such misery, Father. She would still be with us now if it were nae for that man,” Murdina exclaimed as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Enough–ye shall be married, ye and yer sisters, too. I want nay more of this talk, ye hear me? Aoife is gone, and we have mourned her. Nay amount of weepin’ will bring her back. Dae ye nae think I miss her every day? She haunts my dreams. I am her father, and I could dae nothin’ to prevent this tragedy. Nothin’ at all. But ye will marry, Murdina, even if I have to force it,” he said, and turning on his heels, he marched off back into the castle, barking out orders for the patrols to ride out along the mull.

Murdina watched him go, and she brushed the tears from her eyes just as her two sisters emerged from the gate leading into the castle gardens. Freya–her youngest sister–looked at her with concern.

“Are ye all right, Murdina?” she asked, and Murdina shook her head.

“Dae I look it, Freya? We are none of us, all right. Father wishes to marry us off. We are bargain’ tools, we three,” she replied, and her two sisters looked at one another fearfully.

“I am too young to marry,” Freya replied obstinately.

She had only just reached her eighteenth birthday, and Ella was but only a year older than she. Murdina was the eldest at twenty-one, and Aoife had been twenty when she was so cruelly taken from them. They were all of them in their prime, and now it seemed their father was determined to see them reduced to nothing but the wives of Jacobite supporters, destined to miserable lives at the hands of men who did not love them.

“But ye will nae be soon–mark my words, Freya, ye shall suffer the same fate as I. The both of ye shall,” Murdina replied and shaking her head, she marched off across the courtyard, eager to take her frustrations out with the sword and seeking a worthy opponent with which to do so.

***

He must have walked five miles–or so he reasoned. But in that time, there had been no recollection of serving as a reference point. For all he knew, the countryside surrounding him could be entirely familiar, his home even, but given he could not remember even his name, the hope of recalling further details was unlikely. He had met no one on the way, but he continued to see signs of life–the marks of horse’s hooves in the mud, the remnants of a fire, an abandoned croft, still with the marks of cultivation in the land roundabout. It was a wild and lonely country, or so it seemed, and he began to long for the sight of something–anything–which would offer hope.

The path wound up to the top of a hill, a steep climb, and one during which he paused several times to catch his breath. From the summit, he commanded a view back towards the coast, where the clouds gathering on the horizon brought with them the promise of further wind and rain to come. He had with him only the small amount of food he could carry and a blanket for warmth, along with the mysterious key and phoenix embossed coin. He took them both out now and examined them again, willing himself to remember–but to no avail.

But as he surveyed the land ahead, a sight brought cheer to his heart. Perhaps two miles further in land, a castle surrounded by a forest built on a promontory of jutting rock. It was no ruin, and from his vantage point, he could make out a banner fluttering on the battlements. With a sigh of relief, he strode forward, caring not if the inhabitants of the castle were friend or foe. The sight gave him hope, and he wondered if there he might even discover the truth as to who he was.

“I could be a noble laird or a knight of the realm,” he said to himself, the hint of a smile coming over his face as he strode forward with renewed vigor.

The path now wound across the heathers and emerged onto a well-used track, paved in parts and cobbled in others. It led all the way to the castle, and though there were no other dwellings visible for miles around, he reasoned that the castle inhabitants were master of all he could see. The land was wild, though fertile, and from his vantage point, it seemed he was walking along the spine of a mull, one of the great lengths of land which stretched down from the mainland, surrounded by the sea on both sides.

As he came in sight of the castle, he thought he recognized the banner fluttering from the battlements, but he could not remember its precise origins. There was something familiar about it, the stirring of a distant memory, but try as he might, he could not remember. The castle itself was formidable, a great stone edifice rising above the trees. A keep lay at its center, surrounded by a curtain wall with towers at equal intervals and a gatehouse from which stretched a bridge over a deep chasm that surrounded the castle on three sides, its back built into the rocks of the cliff towered above.

“A fine place, and make nay mistake,” he said, shaking his head.

By the clothes he had been wearing on the beach, he had reasoned to himself that he was of some good and noble birth. Had he been dressed in the clothes of a peasant, he would have wondered how such a man as he had come to possess those strange objects–the key and the coin–and be furnished with a letter, indecipherable as it was, bearing a noble crest. As it was, he could only assume himself to be a man of some standing, if not of the aristocracy, then perhaps of a family of merchants or well-to-do traders. His accent, too, betrayed him–he was Scottish, but that meant either he was for or against the crown, his memory offering nothing to confirm so either way.

He made his way along the track, which wound its way across an open plain and into the woods below the castle. He was surprised to find himself unchallenged as he walked, though he was certain his presence would have been noted by any watcher from the castle battlements. A stream flowed beneath a wooden bridge–the first sign of present habitation he had passed since his walk began, and he paused to look over into the waters below, where fish leaped in a clear, deep pool. The sight of them brought fresh hunger to his stomach, and he fumbled in his pocket for one of the oatcakes he had stowed there, when all of a sudden, there came a shout from the far side of the bridge, and he looked up to find a band of clansmen–soldiers–charging towards him.

“Ye there, who are ye?” one of them demanded, drawing his sword.

The sight of the men awoke in him an instinct of danger–he did not know if they were friend or foe–and he turned to run, just as another half dozen appeared at the opposite end of the bridge, blocking his retreat. They must have lain in wait for him, guarding the bridge lest any strangers pass that way. He cursed himself for falling into their trap, and as both sides advanced, he stole himself for the attack.

“I mean nay harm,” he said, glancing from one side of the bridge to the other.

“And what are ye doin’ on the laird’s lands? A spy, are ye?” another of them said.

With no weapon and outnumbered, there was little chance of escape. But he stood his ground, unafraid to fight. He was a strong man, powerfully built, and though his memory was gone, his reflexes remained–he knew what to do, and ducking forward, he lunged at the nearest clansman, knocking him to the ground. The others now charged forward, but despite being outnumbered, he put up a valiant fight, knocking several of them to the ground, and wrestling the sword from one man’s hands, so that he delivered several blows before he was subdued.

“Enough,” he cried, struggling in their grip.

“Eager for a fight, are ye?. What is yer name?” the lead man demanded, but he could only shake his head and shrug.

“I… I was washed up on the beach some miles yonder. I cannae remember anythin’–nae who I am or where I came from. Go to the beach if ye daenae believe me–ye will see the wreck,” he said, as the clansmen looked at him suspiciously.

The one who had spoken had fiery red hair, his beard neatly trimmed, and his eyes flashed angrily, a look of disbelief and contempt on his face. He shook his head and spat to the ground.

“Ye expect us to believe that?” he said, and the man shook his head.

It was an incredible story–the loss of memory, the speculation in his own mind, the strange circumstances in which he now found himself.

“Give me something to eat and a warm hearth–perhaps I shall remember something more then,” he said, but the clansmen only laughed.

“Did ye hear that, men?” the ginger-haired man exclaimed, “he seeks to deceive us and thinks we will offer him hospitality.. Aye, well, we shall see what the laird has to say about it, what dae ye say?” he said, and now they dragged him across the bridge and towards the castle, even as he continued to fight with them.

“Let me go,” he exclaimed, but it was to no avail, the clansmen jeering him and dragging him through the castle gates to whatever fate now lay before him…

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Chapter 1: When Death Came to Kindrochit Castle

The silence inside Kindrochit castle was deafening.

It was as if all the souls within were waiting with bated breath. Outside, the night air was cold and still in the autumn moonlight. Though it was well into the small hours of the morning, many a window of the castle blazed with light, from the Laird’s quarters to the servants’ chambers. As a shrill scream of raw agony rent the stillness of the night, more candles ignited until the whole castle seemed ablaze.

In the highest part of the Laird’s tower, Kadrick Macinroy paced back and forth outside the chamber he shared with his beloved wife, Annot. Sweet Annot, with her gold-spun curls and her sweet, trusting smile. The young Laird was in quite a state, crossing in front of the heavy wooden door repeatedly, his hands balled into fists, his stomach churning with hope and dread.

At twenty-two, Kadrick had only been a husband for two years but considered it the greatest achievement of his life. Though he was a warrior who had bathed himself in glory on the battlefield many a time since his youth, it was winning Annot’s heart that made him a man, that made him worthy. Not once had Kadrick faced such fear and worry so deep down in his soul, not even before a battle. His mother told him once as a boy, just before his younger sister Lorna was born, that childbirth was to a woman what war was to men, the ultimate battle they had to face.

Annot was strong in her own way. She was tender like a spring blossom, but she was sturdy and could weather any storm. The Laird watched in disbelief throughout her pregnancy as his wife began to grow in beauty and grace. She was already the most beautiful woman in Scotland, yet she was more lovely to him day by day.

Kadrick had lain beside her many a night, tracing his fingers over her bulging belly and feeling the stirrings of the children within. Annot was sure that she was carrying twins early on, as there were many twins in her own Clan. Soon enough, Kadrick’s physician admitted that she might be correct in her guess. Annot’s stomach was twice the size of any woman the doctor had examined, and there was plenty of movement within her womb from what seemed to be two infants. Though Annot was joyous when she heard the news, it had worried Kadrick though he’d hidden it. His mother’s words to him as a small boy always stuck with him, and as a man, he could not help but fear what the birth of two children might be like for his petite wife.

He froze suddenly as the creak of the door indicated someone was coming out. It was a chambermaid; her face was pale and sweaty, and her eyes were round as saucers. She hurried out and shut the door quickly so that Kadrick couldn’t see inside. The room was hot and smoky from the blazing hearth, and the vast supply of candles lit within. Just as the door closed, another scream of horrendous pain rang through the castle, penetrating the thick stone walls so even the stableboys could hear. The maid jumped at the sound and squeezed her eyes shut tight. She seemed ready to bolt. Kadrick turned to her, frantic, hands extended as if to shake her, though he did not touch her.

“Eubha! Tell me what news o’ my Lady! Dae ye ken how she fares?”

“Laird Macinroy! I-I”

She stammered and looked up at him like a doe in the sight of an archer. Kadrick stifled the urge to curse or frighten her more. She seemed plenty frightened enough that made a terror creep up his spine. A fear he’d never experienced even when he’d nearly been decapitated by a Sassenach Knight. Unlike his late father, Kadrick did not scream at serving girls and pummel his young grooms. Though it was Annot they loved best, he tried to do right by them as their Laird and Chief. Clan Macinroy had prospered under Kadrick’s father, even if they’d suffered under his thumb. Kadrick hoped to repay them all for the years they’d had to live in fear of their former master, and so he was careful never to be cruel or unkind. Even at this moment, when he wanted to bash his fists into the stone walls out of sheer frustration, Kadrick remained calm. Only a slight unsteadiness in his hands gave away the storm raging within.

“Never mind it now, lass. Can ye go within an’ fetch me out Lorna? Tell her that I must-”

“No, my Laird, I cannae!” Eubha gulped and shook her head. “Milady told me that I was tae tell ye she will not tarry a moment away from Lady Annot’s side.”

That sounded like his sister. He turned back towards the door. Without asking the serving girl where she was headed, Kadrick put a hand to the handle and turned it, stepping into the chamber. According to tradition, no man was to enter until the birthing room, and the woman giving birth was cleansed and blessed by a priest. Normally after the business was concluded, the father was allowed in as a lone exception. Though his wife’s battle was not finished, Kadrick could no longer leave her to do it without him, not after he’d seen the look of fright on Eubha’s young face. The girl was nineteen, and this was her first birth, but her eyes told a tale more complicated than the simple fear of a novice. They held a look he’d seen in battle many a time, the look of a soul that has just witnessed hell on earth.

“Shhh, shhh, now my bonnie one. Take a breath, aye, now there ye have it. An’ another. An’ another. Deep breaths Annot. Come nae, don’t be frightened.”

Lorna was nineteen, but their mother had often brought her into the birthing rooms of her fellow clanswoman since she was a child. Like their mother before her, Lorna was fascinated by the craft and practice of midwives and wise women, the old healing arts of the stillroom, and the women’s quarters. Their father had often mocked her as a fool and sometimes called her a witch in his foul tempers, but their late mother would have made a fine barber-surgeon if she’d been born a man. Lorna was no different, and she’d been beside Annot since her first suspicions that she might be with child. Kadrick watched in stupefied silence as his sister squatted between his wife’s legs, her forearms covered in blood and her furrowed brow slick with sweat. She looked up at him once and then twice, all the while cooing to Annot and calling out orders to the serving women attending her. The Midwife was crushing something in her mortar and pestle. Some of the maids were looking at him agog as if they were shocked, he would deign to enter this sacred, feminine world. Father Kerr’s eyes were squeezed shut as he fiddled with his rosary and mumbled what Kadrick believed to be the lord’s prayer. Kerr was an old man who had seen his fair share of death and sorrow, but it was well known that he was like a father to Annot, who was a devout and pious woman and a goodly Lady to all. Kadrick watched a tear fall down Father Kerr’s cheek, and it spurred him to action. He quickly made his way to Annot’s bedside, where she writhed in pain, her own eyes shut tight against the bright lights that blazed all around her.

Kadrick reached for her hand, and when he touched her, those eyes flew open, dark blue like the depths of a calm sea. For a brief instant, the pain and terror fled, and she smiled up at him, her hair damp and limp, clinging to her face. Though he was happy to see her smile, Kadrick could not help but look back at Lorna and the bright red blood that seemed to cover most of the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Kadrick-”

Her voice was weak, and before she could continue, her whole body contorted with pain, and her face screwed up again. She tried to stop it but couldn’t and let out a wail of utter misery and pain.

“Hush nae ma love.” He stroked his wife’s face, resting his palm against her left cheek. Annot instinctively nuzzled into the caress, as she’d done a thousand times before. “I’m here. And I’m so very proud of ye. Rest now, just rest. Breathe deep like Lorna told ye. Aye, aye, here’s a good lass.”

Just then, the midwife returned to Annot’s bedside. She was slathering some grey concoction on her fingertips.

“Shepheard’s purse.” Lorna stood and let the woman take her place. She motioned for Kadrick to join her at a washbasin near the hearth. “Twill help to stem tha bleedin’.”

Kadrick hurried over to her side, where she was washing blood from her hands and forearms before patting them dry with clean linen. She wiped her brow and dried it, closing her eyes and taking a few deep breaths.

“One o’ the twins is trying tae come feet first.” Lorna met his eyes after a moment of silence, and he could see she was afraid as well. “Breach births are dangerous enough with only one bairn, but two….”

Kadrick felt his heart drop. What was she telling him?

“Wha can ye do then?” He asked frantically. “How can ye help her?”

Lorna covered her face with the linen, and Kadrick was horrified to find that she was crying into it. He shook his head, taking a step back. Lorna didn’t stop him, didn’t speak, simply kept crying into the linen. Her body was wracked with sobs after a moment, and Kadrick had to leave her side. He couldn’t stand to see her crying as if Annot had no hope.

When Kadrick turned back to his wife, he saw the midwife, with her hand inside Annot’s womb to twist the babe around. Annot began to scream so loudly that her voice began to break as if flaying the muscles within her throat. She cried out to God, to her mother, and to Kadrick. He rushed to her side, taking both her hands in his as unwanted tears slid down his cheeks and fell to the soaked neckline of her night shift.   The midwife finished her grim business, and Annot went limp for a moment. Kadrick wanted to pick her up off the bed and hold her close, but he dared not. She was so pale, looked so fragile.

“My love,” she looked so sad now, the sorrow in her eyes touching the core of his being. He would give anything to take this from her, to free her from this pain and sadness. “Come close tae me. Let me kiss yer lips once more.”

He was frightened when their lips met, for her kiss was cold as the grave. Kadrick’s hands began to tremble. He felt the strength nearly give way in his legs, but he held firm.

“Mine own Laird.” She was looking up at his face, smiling again, the sadness all but banished from her eyes. “Oh, how I loved thee for an endless age and shall a thousand more when mine hath passed.”

Kadrick couldn’t help but sputter now, tears flowing freely. Those words were from their wedding vows, the ones he’d spoken to her in the chapel of castle Kindrochit only two years ago. He held her face in his for a moment, shaking his head but unable to reply. When she screamed in pain again, he jumped back, his eyes searching frantically for Lorna.

His sister had returned, no longer sobbing into the linen but at the midwife’s side. Her eyes were wide, and she looked reinvigorated.

“Aye, Annot! One of the babes is coming! Push Annot! Push!”

Kadrick took her hands in his again, finally able to speak as hope came back to him. She opened her eyes and met his. He nodded at her, two sharp nods, eyes homing in on her frightened stare.

“Annot Macinroy, yer the Lady of Kindrochit, the wife of the Chief. Yer my heart and my soul woman, and I will not accept yer surrender! Now push!”

She did. God bless her heart. Kadrick watched as she recouped her strength, and with a gallant effort, Annot bore down, squeezing his hands with an explosive power that didn’t seem possible in her condition. Pride filled his spirit and more hope. Kadrick spotted Lorna and was glad to see that his sister no longer looked despondent but jubilant. Mayhap the worst was past, and soon Annot would be free of her travail, holding two bundles in her arms, all three of them healthy and hale.

“Aye me bonnie bride, our age won’t pass yet! Not until yer an old, gray crone prayin’ tae see yer man dead an’ in tha ground.”

The sound of her laughter made him want to kiss her, so he did, and her lips weren’t as cold as before, or so Kadrick wanted so badly to believe. He smoothed her hair back and felt her bear down again, so he found her hand and urged her on. In the distance, he heard Lorna proclaim both babes were born, but his attention was trained on Annot. Now that the ordeal was done, she fell back against the mattress, breathing a long sigh of relief. Her eyes met his, and all the hope he felt began to fade. She looked so tired as if all her strength had been expended in those last heroic moments. Her grip began to slip from his as if she could not go on. Kadrick was vaguely aware of the cries from behind him, cries of grief and horror. Suddenly he knew. He could not look, could not stand to watch his wife’s blood drain from her as he stood by helplessly. So, his eyes stayed on her beautiful face.

“Kadrick.” Her voice was nothing more than a whisper now. He leaned down to listen, so her words were audible over the growing din in the room. “Promise me you’ll take care of our bairns. Tha’ you’ll tell them stories of their mama, who loved them ever so. Ye must Kadrick, my poor, sweet man. I have loved thee for an endless age…”

Kadrick had seen a man’s eyes as the life fled his body but never imagined he would stare into Annot’s eyes as her soul departed from this life to the next. The Priest was beside him now, trying to administer the last rights of the dying, though it seemed to him that the time was now past. Annot was dead.

Though it felt as if someone had run him through with a dull blade, Kadrick knew he had to be strong now. Though it pained him greatly, the Laird of Kindrochit took a step back and let Father Kerr perform the rites. He murmured a prayer to the Virgin and wiped the tears from his eyes, though his whole body was shaking, and his legs felt weak. He turned to Lorna, trying to be brave like Annot, determined to begin right then to honor her last wishes. He would love his children, their children, with all the love he could no longer give to his wife, his dearest heart. His sister’s face was enough to turn his blood cold as he realized the chambers were not filled with squalls of tiny babes. Kadrick suddenly understood that even in the tumult, he’d heard no bairns crying out for succor. The notion was too terrible to fathom after losing Annot, too terrible to consider. Lorna stepped closer to him.

“Come Kadrick we-”

He snatched his hand away, looking around the room at the gathered women as they cried and covered their faces. The midwife wrapped up two bundles and placed them into the wooden cradles Kadrick had helped to craft.

“Where are the children!” he bellowed out, his deep, booming voice filled with pain and woe. “I want to see our children! I am yer Laird, and I will see my Annot’s bairns!”

Lorna’s eyes were filled with tears as she approached her brother again. This time Father Kerr was with her, whispering soothing words of God into his ear. Suddenly his vision began to darken, and he felt a tumult of rage and sorrow begin to churn within him. It felt like bloodlust, only there was no enemy to fight, no foe to vanquish, only his wife’s dead body and those of his two children lost to him forever. The mighty Laird fell to his knees. His tortured voice cut through the silent night until he collapsed upon the floor, spinning into a fitful sleep, full of nightmares and demons that grasped at the edges of his mortal soul.

Chapter 2: A Brother’s Betrayal

Davinia Macduthy had no time for her brother’s summons today.

Her morning had begun horribly, having to deal with the aftermath of an explosive row in the kitchens. Apparently, Cairnwell’s cook and washerwoman almost came to blows over some scullery maid and nearly killed each other. After that, Davinia found herself in the stables, where part of the structure had collapsed around dawn, injuring one of their best mules and a stableboy. When Thorkel sent word for her to come and sup with him around five, she was thoroughly exhausted and still had much yet to do before she could rest. That didn’t matter though, even the Laird of Cairnwell’s twin sister could not ignore a summons. No one in their clan would care to insult the Chief in such a manner. Though it was an annoyance, Davinia was hungry, and her brother having roast quail in a sweet herb sauce, which sounded divine.

They liked to indulge where they could, especially when it came to food. Davinia and Thorkel could remember sitting at their father’s feet, watching him gorge on all the best foods while he ordered them and the rest of the household to eat gruel and crusty bread. Though they were not in the best financial straits, Thorkel and Davinia tried to ensure plenty of tasty food for every soul within the castle, no matter who they were. As she made her way towards Thorkel’s study, she couldn’t help but smile as she heard him singing. Davinia opened the door and found him looking pleased as a lad on Christmas day, staring down at the little platter for two. There was a jug beside it, which she guessed was full of wine.

“Good day brother, I’m pleased to see yer enjoying yerself when I’ve been tending to this barbarian household and stitching up stableboys.”

Thorkel looked up from the roasted quails and gave her a serious glance.

“I heard about what happened in the stables. I’m to visit Colin this evening, but from what I’ve heard, the lad’s on tha mend?”

Davinia nodded and shrugged as she settled down into a chair across from him. She picked at one of the birds and popped a little of the meat into her mouth. She closed her eyes in pleasure at the tart, sweet sauce. The meat was gamey and rich, and the sauce was a perfect compliment. The cook had outdone himself.

“I’m surprised tha’ damn man was able tae get yer food cooked, given how he almost took a woman’s life today. The two of them hate each other Thorkel, by God’s eyes they-”

Thorkel shot her a look of disdain, and she had to fight not to roll her eyes. He was always going on about how she needed to mind her tongue and speak more like a lady. Lately, it was more, and more often, Thorkel fixed her with a troubled gaze. A look that belied his worry about how long she might be a spinster in his home. Long ago, he’d made a pledge to her that he would let her choose her own husband, as long as he was a suitable match. Still, given that Davinia had no intention of picking any man, she guessed that he was starting to regret their bargain. Luckily for her, Thorkel was a man of his word, and better than that as twins, they had a sacred code, one neither of them had ever broken in their lives. He would never marry her off without her consent, and Davinia planned to never marry, though she’d never told anyone that. No matter how kind, or rich, or handsome, Davinia could open herself to no man. Other than her twin brother Thorkel, but he was the only man in the world she knew would never betray her trust.

“Must ye always have such a rough tongue, sister?” He shook his head and passed her a sharp knife. “Can ye not tell me of their squabble without cursing and taking tha’ Laird’s name in vain?”

“Aye, I could, but yer study is boring enough a place to eat my supper in, so I thought I might bring a little cheer.”

She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back. In days past, when they were young, it was Davinia who’d stood up to their father on Thorkel’s behalf, mocking the violent and cruel man so that he wouldn’t hurt her brother. The Old Laird of Cairnwell Castle often tried to stamp his daughter’s wild tongue out of her head. Davinia believed that in Thorkel’s eyes, that sharp tongue was just a reminder of how much she loved him and wanted to protect him, even against insurmountable odds.

For Thorkel, insurmountable odds were old companions. Surely it must have been beneficial to have a shrewish sister standing loyally beside him. In this way, though she knew it troubled him, Davinia believed she was doing him a goodly service. In time he would come to appreciate her decision. She was convinced of it. She was Thorkel’s right hand, assisting him in everything he needed and keeping her freedom and safety intact. Long ago, they’d promised this world to each other, their own Kingdom of happiness and fulfillment. Where their lives were free and without the stain of fear.

His smile faded after a moment as he chewed his food in silence. Davinia watched him, wondering what he was preparing to say. She knew Thorkel better than anyone. Sometimes she was convinced she could feel the same emotions he did. Whatever stirred within him did so within her, and vice versa. Davinia felt now that he was anxious, concerned, but also determined. What could he be so worried to speak to her about? They could talk about anything. Her eyebrows knitted together, and Davinia leaned forward, setting down her fork before wiping her mouth with a bit of square of white linen.

“Wha ails ye brother?” She tilted her head slightly to the side. Thorkel looked up at her and pursed his lips.

“Nothing, save tha’ yer tae hate me once I’ve told me sorry tale.” Davinia froze, unsure of what he could possibly mean. “But I hope ye ken remember how I love ye more than anythin’ or anyone and not turn yer heart from me.”

Her stomach sank. There was only one thing in the world he could do which might make her turn her heart from him. Betrayal of his promise. A betrayal of the word he’d given to her when they were but children. He’d promised her freedom, and the only thing he could do to make Davinia hate him was to break that promise and put her fate into the hands of another, the hands of a man she did not know. Her heart began to hammer in her chest, but before she could protest, Thorkel held up a hand to stop her.

“Yer tae be wed.”

Davinia shot upright as soon as the words left his mouth. Her whole body felt as if struck by a bolt of lightning from above.

“Yer a liar! Ye would betray me like this, brother? Ye would go back on yer word?”

He could not burst up from his seat as she did, but much of the fire of anger died within her as Thorkel struggled to push himself up, grabbing his cane with one hand and the heavy desk with another. Shakily the Chief of Clan Macduthy, made it to a standing position and looked her in the eye. He was not angry but looked sad and older than his years. Shots of silver were starting to show in his raven black hair, the same shade as hers.

“Everythin’ changed after Berwick Davinia.” His words were thick with sorrow. “Ye ken the debts father left us, ye ken them, well as I. Angus Macinroy, uncle to Laird Macinroy, he wrote to me. He says it’s well past time the Laird remarries. He offered to let me keep half yer dowry if ye’d agree to marry Kadrick. It’s an offer I cannae refuse, sister.”

Davinia’s face grew red as she realized what he was saying. He would make her marry Kadrick Macinroy of Kindrochit, Laird, and Chief, and one of the most infamous brutes in western Scotland.

“Sister, please. Ye ken that I’m nae a whole man.” He gestured at his leg, and the pained look on his face toughed her angry heart. “The cares of a Lairdship are heavy enough. I cannae hope to shoulder them on me own. No matter how sharp or strong ye are, it changes nothing. I am a cripple, but I am still a Laird. I must do what is best for our people, Davinia, an’ ye must join me in this duty.”

She had to stop herself from screaming at him. Only moments before, she’d been naively dreaming of a life unfettered by hateful, evil, grasping men. Yet here she was, the victim of a man’s betrayal, the one man she believed she could trust. She wanted to curse him, but she saw how it taxed him to stand, so she shook her head and bit her sharp tongue.

“Sit. Ye need not keep this show going. There’s nothing to be done for it besides. I cannae refuse. If yer hell-bent on throwing me to the wolves, I must accept it in the eyes of God and the eyes of the law.”

Thorkel sighed and sat down again. Davinia remained standing. She wanted to run away, to never return to this place. She wanted to accuse him of being just like their father. She wanted to strangle him. She wanted to cry. Instead, she stood stock still, cold as ice, her eyes turned towards the window where she could see the sun shining on the snowy ground. Davinia couldn’t bring herself to look upon his face. The face of a traitor.

“Davinia, please, I would never wed ye to a-”

She held up a hand.

“No more promises Thorkel. It’s clear to me now that ye cannae keep them.”

Not only had he gone back on his promise, but his proposed bridegroom was the worst possible choice a loving brother could have made. The Macinroy’s were as wealthy as the Macduthy’s were poor, but their fathers had been every ounce as cruel and twisted. Laird Macinroy’s son and heir had proven to be just as terrible as his father. After losing his wife and children five years prior, the rumor was that Kadrick Macinroy had become a loathsome, violent, twisted man full of terrible whims and bloodred rage. He was terrible to his servants and spent most of his time cooped up in his tower, unshaven and manic, attacking people in the throes of his madness. Thorkel would make her leave home and live as that monster’s property, a man who had killed countless souls in battle. It was said that after his wife’s death, the only time Kadrick Macinroy smiled was when killing men on the battlefield, thirsty for violence, gore, and death. The thought of a man like that being her Laird and lawfully wedded husband filled Davinia with ice-cold fear. It was as if their father was even now standing in the room with them, ready to strike her down.

“Kadrick’s uncle assures me those rumors ye’ve heard are untrue. He says tha’ poor man is merely troubled. Heartbreak changed him, but he’s far from a monster, Davinia. I hear tell he was once considered the most handsome man for miles around, and he treated the late Lady Annot like a Queen. Ye’d be mistress of Kindrochit Castle Davinia. Tis more than I could ever hope to do for ye.”

She felt guilt stir within her again, and the sad look of loss in Thorkel’s eyes made her keep her acerbic responses to herself. Of course, the Laird’s uncle would say that, but the very fact that her twin was willing to risk it, to gamble her life and safety, it hurt her and mingled with the new fear of what truths she had to face. It seemed Thorkel would not be swayed. It seemed that she would be married. He was going to make her; she had no choice.

“As ye wish Laird Macduthy,” she said softly, eyes averted. She bobbed a quick curtsey and began to back her way out of the room.

“Davinia, stop. Don’t be like this, I beg ye.”

“I cannae be excused Laird?” she kept her eyes down, spoke timidly, as she used to do with their father. “I hope I have not displeased my good Laird.”

She heard his voice quiver.

“Davinia, this is cruel.”

She had to stifle a cold laugh. What room did he have to speak of cruelty? He was a heartless ghoul, like every other man born before or after him.

“I wish to go to my chambers, my Laird, to prepare for my wifely duties.”

He didn’t speak, she thought he might have been crying, but Davinia didn’t look up. He should cry. He should feel ashamed. Without leave, she backed out of the room and into the hall. Davinia made her way down a shadowy corridor towards her own chambers. Once within, she barred the door and sank to the floor. By herself, she began to sob. Her fate was sealed, and there was no escape. She was to wed Kadrick Macinroy.

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Chapter 1 

“Och, watch where yer going, Arianna,” Fergus laughed, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “Ye nearly knocked me flat off o’ my feet, ye ken.”

Arianna had not been paying attention to where she was going as she walked down the corridor to her father’s rooms. She had simply been following the path by rote as she smiled to herself.

Her thoughts were anywhere but on the present; instead, she imagined what life would be like one day when she was finally given away as a bride by her father.

Arianna had one dream – one hope – when it came to who she hoped her father would choose to be her husband.
Scott, her distant cousin.

That was the future that Arianna could not stop dreaming about, the hope that she could not let go of.

Scott’s eyes, the color of a thunderstorm about to break, had been the focus of Arianna’s attention before she walked into Fergus, almost knocking herself over in the process as well. There was something undeniably powerful about his eyes; the way they shifted from the lightest gray to the color of slate fascinated Arianna endlessly. Her musings had just turned to the smile he seemed to reserve only for her – the devilish quirk to his lips always had her knees weak and set her heart aflutter when her thoughts were so rudely interrupted.

“I am so sorry, Fergus,” Arianna apologized, her eyes widening as her hand flew to her mouth in consternation. “I didnae mean tae –”
Fergus smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Ye looked like ye were somewhere else entirely. Daydreaming again?” he said, his tone light and friendly, making it clear to Arianna that he was merely joking with her.

She felt the blush creeping up her neck, tinging her cheeks a rosy pink. Arianna had a bad habit of letting her thoughts drift off, losing her concentration while she drifted off into imaginary futures filled with Scott’s strong arms and rakish smile, his kisses peppered on her neck and face. Arianna blushed even more deeply, realizing she was doing it again while standing right in front of Fergus. She dropped her eyes to the ground, holding her breath while she fervently hoped that Fergus was not able to read her mind and see straight through her inappropriate thoughts.

“Aye,” she nodded, lifting her head again, tilting her chin up slightly. She was the daughter of Laird Ranulf MacAllistair; this was their castle, and she had every right to daydream as much as she wanted. Nothing Fergus could say or do could change that, she thought, enjoying her moment of feeling rebellious.

She shrugged slightly; her chin still lifted as though she could look down on him. At her slight stature, he towered above her. He was known to be one of the strongest warriors in the Scottish Highlands. His broad shoulders and chest were testament to that fact; his muscular arms had trained for years upon years to carry the heavy sword Arianna’s father had bestowed upon him as a gift for completing his swordsman training.

There was no one that Laird Ranulf trusted more implicitly than Fergus; Arianna knew that well enough. He was a dedicated warrior and friend who had been hand-picked by Arianna’s father to be trained to become one of the best swordsmen in the country.

“Ye ken me, Fergus,” Arianna laughed, knowing that he s meant her no harm with his comment. She placed her hand to her breast as she smiled at him.

“Aye, that I dae.” The smile on his face was gentle enough, but it did not reach his dark blue eyes as he stared intently at her.

“I cannae go a day without losing mysel’ in a fantasy. Oh, what a life o’ despair I lead; the damsel in distress.” Arianna feigned a swoon, dramatically placing her other hand to her brow as she threw her head back slightly.

Fergus laughed, a deep, honest laugh that caused a grin to spread across Arianna’s face. She had always found it easy to be in Fergus’s company; he was easy to talk to and fun to banter with. He always seemed to find a way to make her laugh, even if it was at his own expense.

“Ye ken what they say, Arianna,” Fergus shook his head as he jokingly pursed his lips in disapproval, “Every lady in distress needs a knight in shining armor tae rescue her from the clutches o’ evil. The problem is…” He trailed off, tapping his index finger against his pursed lips.

Arianna raised her eyebrow, still smiling up at Fergus as he seemed to contemplate her.

“Dinnae keep me in suspense; that’s cruel, Fergus. Ye cannae say such a thing an’ leave me waiting. What is the problem then?” Arianna heard the whine in her own voice, doing her best not to flinch at the childish sound of it.

“Well, the problem is, there are not always enough knights tae go around, are there?”

Arianna gasped, aiming to punch Fergus lightly on the shoulder with her clenched fist. He chuckled as he dodged easily out of Arianna’s reach, his eyes sparkling with laughter and mirth.

“Are ye saying I am not deserving o’ a knight tae rescue me, an’ treat me like a queen?” Arianna huffed, crossing her arms across her chest as she tapped her foot on the slate floor. Fergus tilted his head to the side, his mouth twitching as he fought off a smile.

Fergus seemed to lose the war with himself as the smile finally broke through and spread across his face.

“Nae, yer most definitely deserving, my Lady,” Fergus bowed slightly, waving his hand in front of himself in a flourish as though he were a gentleman asking for Arianna’s hand to dance with him. “There is nae one in the Highlands more deserving than ye.”

“Och, ye will mak’ me blush, Fergus. I can only hope yer right,” she sighed, losing her focus again as she drifted off to Scott’s smile and strong arms. He was not as strong as Fergus, Arianna could see that clearly, but nevertheless, Scott was no weakling either.

Fergus cleared his throat, bringing her back to the present.

“Yer a dreamer, my Lady. Sometimes dreams come true.” The seriousness with which Fergus said it, coupled with the frown on his forehead, had Arianna on her back heels instantly. Instead of the friendly, light-hearted joke it could have been, Fergus’s dark tone indicated something much different to humor.

His eyes seemed to darken with displeasure, causing Arianna’s heart to pick up its pace, hammering in her ears as she clenched her fists at her side.

She breathed in deeply, trying to steady herself, as she wondered what right he had to judge her wish for a happy future with a man she wanted to be with. Her dream of becoming Scott’s wife was hers to keep close to her heart. Arianna had never told anyone of her secret crush on Scott – there was no reason for Fergus to judge her so harshly when he knew nothing about her daydreams.

“Aye, an’ I am sure that my dreams will come true. I will mak’ sure they dae,” Arianna all but stamped her foot on the ground, her temper getting the better of her.

“Will ye?” Fergus asked, eyebrows raised. “How can ye, if ye continue tae act like a wee lass, with naething but fantasies an’ dreams in yer head? Ye cannae see the reality o’ the world with yer head in the clouds,” he shook his head, all humor gone from his face.

“I am not a child, Fergus,” she hissed. “At least I have dreams, an’ hopes for my future, that may well come true. But ye, yer nothing more than a brute with naething tae look forward tae, it seems.”

“I ken I am nae perfect knight like Scott is, all tae well. That has been made perfectly clear,” Fergus replied as he stalked off down the corridor without looking back at Arianna. His shoulders were set, his back straight as he marched away from her.

His comment left Arianna flustered; there was no way that Fergus could know how she felt about Scott. No one did, but somehow, he had hit the nerve that was already raw. Arianna knew she was fascinated by Scott, but to say it so overtly left her chewing her lip as she contemplated why Fergus would say such a thing to her. It was unprovoked, she thought, as she shook her head to try to dislodge the unease Fergus had instilled in her.

Arianna and Scott had grown up together; he was a distant cousin who joined her father’s household when he was ten after his parents died. Laird Ranulf had done nothing but treat him like a son, and Scott, in turn, had stolen Arianna’s breath away as they grew older.

He was nothing short of a gentleman to her – she could not help but develop a crush on the young boy with floppy blonde hair, who had lost everything, but yet, who still managed to find a way to smile through his tears.

Arianna tossed her long scarlet hair over her shoulder as she straightened her spine, refusing to bow under the weight of what Fergus had said to her. Deciding to ignore it, for now, she continued on her way down the corridor to her father’s chambers.

***

Arianna knocked on the heavy wooden door and waited for her father’s call to enter.

Laird Ranulf was seated at his large desk, papers scattered before him, a frown furrowing his brow. His face lit up the moment he saw Arianna, as it always did when she was in his presence.

“My one an’ only daughter,” he said as he stood up and embraced her.

“Father,” Arianna smiled up at him.

“I am so glad ye came tae see me. It is just the perfect timing,” he beamed down at her.

Arianna’s curiosity was immediately peaked as she waited for her father to explain what he meant.

Ranulf walked over to the large window overlooking the castle battlements, his hands clasped behind his back, seemingly deep in thought.

“The night ye were born was both the worst an’ best day o’ my life, Arianna,” he said softly, his eyes unfocused as he delved into the memory.
“I ken, Papa,” Arianna suppressed her tears. It was never easy to hear Ranulf speak of that night. It begged the question of why her father was bringing up the worst night of his life. She knew the story well enough to know just how much losing her mother had devastated him; she could only wonder where the sudden urge to bring it up again was stemming from.

“Aye. Losing yer mother nearly killed me, my child. Ye remind me so much o’ her; ye have the same good heart an’ kindness she did. She would dae anything she could tae help someone, even if it cost her dearly tae dae so.”

Arianna nodded, even though her father was not looking at her. If there was one thing Arianna wished she could change about her life, it was the loss of her mother. She had grown up wishing that she had grown up with her. Arianna did not know what it felt like to have a mother, someone to protect her from everything, to kiss her goodnight and tend to her scrapes and bruises like a child.

Laird Ranulf had never remarried after Arianna’s mother had passed in childbirth. He had been a broken man, saved only by the birth of his daughter, like the stories she had heard all said.

Ranulf had never given her any cause to believe otherwise.

Arianna knew that she was blessed to have a father like Ranulf, but she wished things had been different for his sake and her own.

“Yer the spitting image o’ her,” Ranulf shook his head sadly. “Those eyes, those big green eyes – ye look just like her. She would be so proud o’ ye. She wanted ye more than anything in the world, ye ken. She loved ye before ye kicked for the first time. She insisted ye would be a girl, an’ that we would name ye Arianna. She just knew who ye were before ye were even born. I will never understand how she did that.”

“Papa,” Arianna said gently, placing her hand on his arm, forcing Ranulf to look at her. “Ye dinnae need tae keep haunting yersel’ with this.”

“Ye were a gift from God, sent to me and our clan that night. The battle we were fighting that very night, while yer Mama was giving birth tae ye, was one o’ the bloodiest battles I have ever seen, an’ I have seen more than enough tae keep me going for a lifetime,” Ranulf continued as though he had not heard her.

“Ye have said so ‘afore, though I dinnae see how I could be a blessing if Mama died, an’ I was born tae mark a battle,” Arianna shook her head slightly; it was something she had never understood, in all her years. She had been called a miracle and a sign from God her entire life through, but no one had ever explained why.

“The warriors who fought in that battle shed so much blood that night, my child. Those who survived were so traumatized by all that they had witnessed that many o’ them believed the dead were better off than they were,” Ranulf sighed, beckoning for Arianna to come closer.

He wrapped his arms around her before continuing, “But when they saw ye – with yer scarlet hair and yer Mama’s eyes – they knew ye were a sign o’ a blessing from God. All that bloodshed was not for naught; yer hair, so very like the color o’ blood, proved tae them that the war we had fought, the lives we had lost an’ taken, the blood we had shed, had all been in the name o’ God, an’ that he was pleased with our work.”

“How could they think that, Papa? I was only a bairn; I dinnae see how I can hold such a weight on my shoulders?” Arianna questioned her father, looking up at him with a frown.

“It isnae a weight, my daughter. It is an honor – it is something tae be proud o’. Yer incredibly special tae this clan, tae our people.” Ranulf smiled down at her, pride clear in his eyes as he looked down at his only child. “As long as they have ye, they will follow ye wherever ye go. Yer the luck o’ this clan. Dinnae forget that.”

“Papa, is it not time tae put the past tae bed? Tae let yersel’ find peace after losing Mama? She would have wanted ye tae be happy, I am sure o’ that.”
Ranulf smiled, placing his hand over hers where it still rested on his arm. “I am happy, my daughter,” he replied, his small smile reaching his eyes as evidence that he meant it.

“Ye look sad, not happy,” Arianna asked, puzzled.

“It has been an eventful evening,” Ranulf winked at her, causing Arianna to smile in return. “I have big news for ye – I think ye will be very happy tae hear it, too.”

Arianna raised her eyebrows, waiting patiently for her father to continue without her prodding him for more information.

“Oh, all right, I’ll tell ye,” he sighed and rolled his eyes, as though Arianna had been pestering him endlessly about it.

Arianna laughed, saying, “I ken ye would not be able tae keep it tae yersel’ for long, Papa.”

“Yer getting married,” Ranulf said, a broad smile spreading across his face as his eyes focused on Arianna’s face, clearly trying to gauge her reaction.

She gasped, her hands flying to either side of her face as she stared at her father, waiting for him to tell her he was only joking. When he did not, she finally found the words to stammer out, “I am?”

“Aye, ye are. He is the son o’ a noble family, an’ a good man at that. Ye will find great happiness with him, I believe that.”

“I cannae believe it,” she whispered, her mind immediately flashing to Scott.

It was happening, it was finally happening, she thought. Arianna could not contain her joy as she felt giddy with happiness and excitement.

She was finally going to marry Scott.

Chapter 2

Fergus had walked away from Arianna in a daze.

He had not meant to upset Arianna, just as he always seemed to do when it came to her daydreaming. He had also not intended on losing his temper over the festering wound in his heart that was Scott.

Fergus spent that night stuck in fitful nightmares. All he could see was Arianna marrying Scott, living out her life as his wife with Fergus forever on the side-line, his chance to be with her shattered to dust.

As he made his way to the dining room the next morning, Fergus could hear Arianna humming to herself. He loved hearing her sing – she had a hauntingly beautiful voice that drove shivers up and down his spine whenever he heard her sing a traditional Highlander song.

He paused at the threshold, closing his eyes as he listened to her, taking in the sound as though he could store it in his heart to hear it whenever he needed to.

Arianna stopped humming, the sound of clattering dishes echoing into the hallway. Deciding it was safe enough to enter, Fergus walked in and greeted her.

“Good morning, Fergus,” she beamed at him, giving him reason to pause at the change in her attitude.

“Morning, Arianna,” he smiled back at her, deciding to take her joy as a good sign.

Maybe… just maybe, he thought.

“Ye willnae believe it, Papa gave me the best news o’ my life last night,” she enthused, almost skipping to Fergus’s side.

“An’ what is this fantastic news?” his eyes crinkled at the corners as he fervently wished it was what he thought it was.

“I am tae be married,” Arianna was practically glowing with exuberance and happiness.

“Tae who?” Fergus asked, raising his eyebrows, refusing to let his consternation show through. Surely Laird Ranulf had spoken to her about the arrangement he had made for her betrothal?

“Papa didnae say specifically,” she nibbled on her bottom lip as she looked up at him. Her eyes threatened to drown Fergus; they simply took his breath away.

“Oh?”

“Aye, but I am sure it must be Scott.” Arianna twirled where she stood, her skirts flaring out around her as her hair flew around her face, making her look as though she were the sunset on fire.

Fergus’s heart dropped into his stomach as his head began to spin. He could not breathe; he could not think.

This could not be happening.

Ranulf had made a promise – and Laird Ranulf was a man who kept his word.

Fergus had no idea how to react; he was unsure whether or not he should tell her so that she would know with certainty who she would be marrying. If Laird Ranulf had not told Arianna, then neither would he, he decided.

It was not his place; that was reserved for her father.

“Are ye now?” Fergus replied, walking over to the table laden with food. He picked up a plate and filled it, barely noticing what he was dishing up. The world seemed to be spinning around him as he sat down heavily at the table. He rested his head in his hands, trying to breathe past the pain lancing through his chest.

“I am,” Arianna asserted, taking the seat next to him. He had to stop himself from flinching as her elbow grazed his – a reminder of everything he wanted but seemed unlikely to ever have. “Papa kens my feelings.”

“Yer desire tae marry Scott, ye mean?” Fergus could not bring himself to look Arianna in her eyes, instead choosing to stare down at the food in front of him. His appetite had entirely disappeared, he found, as he pushed the plate away from himself.

“Aye, he kens what I want for my future. At least, I think he does,” Arianna paused, a frown furrowing her brow.

“An’ what makes ye think that what ye want is what is best for ye?” Fergus heard the spite in his own voice, unable to help himself.

“Excuse me?” Arianna’s face darkened in a fury instantly.

There was nothing for it, Fergus realized. He had put his foot in it completely – he might as well follow through with this fiasco.

“Yer young, Arianna. Ye dinnae ken what is right for yer future. Ye should leave that decision ta eyer father – tae those who have more wisdom an’ insight than ye dae.” He shook his head, trying his best to meet her gaze as tears gathered in her eyes. Fergus swore to himself. He wished he had just kept his mouth shut, to begin with. Now he was knee-deep in cow patties, and there was nothing he could do to fix it.

“I am not a child, Fergus,” Arianna all but shouted at him as she stood up, pushing her chair back hard against the flagstones, eliciting a high-pitched screech.

“Then stop acting like one,” Fergus replied, jaw clenched.

“I will stop when ye stop acting like an uncouth brute,” she hurled back at him as she marched out of the dining hall, not looking back at him over her shoulder. Fergus shook his head to himself as Arianna walked away from him, his hopes once again dashed like the ocean waves against the rocks on the shore. His plate of food forgotten, he made his way through the castle back to his own rooms.

He would never understand what she saw in Scott.

He could never understand why she could not see himself as anything more than a friend.

Her obsession with Scott never seemed to abate; it was as though Scott eclipsed Fergus in every way in her eyes. She could not see past the façade that Scott put on.

She could not see what was truly in front of her eyes.

Fergus knew Arianna better than she thought; he loved her more than she realized. And all he wanted for her was happiness.

Fergus sighed as he reached his private rooms in the castle. He closed the door behind him, resting his head against the wooden paneling. He sighed deeply as he replayed their conversation in his head.

Fergus could remember every detail of her delicate features as she stood there, belligerent to the end. From the sparkle of Arianna’s emerald eyes when she laughed to her luscious bottom lip that she liked to chew on, to the curve of her neck and the pulse of her heartbeat that always had him mesmerized, every single inch of her was emblazoned in his mind.

There was nothing about Arianna that did not appeal to Fergus.

The length of her straight hair, the color of fire and rubies, only emphasized her big eyes and clear, fair skin. She was radiant, shining as brightly as the sun at noon.

Fergus wondered if Scott ever thought of Arianna that way.

Did Scott even care enough to think of her that way?

Arianna was the first thing Fergus thought of when he woke up in the morning; she was the last thing he saw in his mind when he closed his eyes at night.

She was a determined young woman, a woman he believed would flourish and make an excellent Laird’s wife.

She only needed to marry the right man – the man who would cherish her and protect her until his dying breath.

That man was not Scott, Fergus thought ferociously to himself.

***

The messenger quietly left Fergus’s rooms later that evening; the news that had been delivered had been devastating for him to hear.

Fergus’s legs almost gave way under him as he sat down heavily in the chair by the hearth. His mind was spinning, nausea roiled in his belly as he stared blankly into the flickering flames. He tried to fight the tears off, but it was inevitable that they would begin to course their way down his cheeks as the news began to sink in.

It felt surreal, he thought, as he poured himself a measure of whisky on the table beside him. His hands were shaking, causing Fergus to spill more whisky than he managed to pour into his glass.

He took a long draught of the dram before placing his head in his hands as the tears gave way to sobs.

Time passed both slowly and quickly as Fergus sat there, with no one to hear his cries, with no one to comfort him in his time of need.

It was irrelevant to him whether hours or minutes had passed, as he finally found the strength to stand up again.

Fergus needed to see Laird Ranulf; his life had been changed irrevocably by the news he had just received.

He made his way to Ranulf’s rooms, his legs unsteady beneath him as he tried to breathe deeply.

Laird Ranulf was, as usual, sitting at his large desk, shuffling through the papers that always seemed to cover every inch of its surface.

“My brother is dead, Laird Ranulf,” Fergus’s voice broke as he sat down in the chair opposite the Laird.

Ranulf’s expression immediately changed to one of sympathy as his eyes softened and his face fell.

“I am so sorry, Fergus,” he said softly.

“It was just an ordinary hunting expedition,” Fergus shook his head, holding his tears at bay. “He fell off his horse; the animal trampled him tae death.”

“I wish I had words that would bring ye comfort, but ken that I understand the pain o’ loss, lad. My heart aches for ye. I am here for ye; anything ye need, ye need only ask.”

“I must return tae my clan as soon as I can, Laird. I must see tae the necessary affairs. I cannae believe it,” a tear slid down Fergus’s cheek, completely unnoticed by him. He knew as well as anyone else that Laird Ranulf still grieved the loss of his wife and that he would most likely never stop doing so.

“Aye, ye must go. Ye can leave as soon as yer ready. There isnae a reason tae stay when ye need tae be with yer family,” Ranulf said, understanding and pain echoing through his voice.

“Thank ye, Laird. I will leave the night after tomorrow; it is already far too late tae mak’ the journey tonight an’ I must finalize my responsibilities here ‘afore I leave.”

Ranulf nodded his agreement, stood up and poured them both a dram.

“Sit with me a while; let us grieve together,” he said as he handed Fergus his glass.

***

Fergus had spent the better part of the following day in a daze; he made sure to delegate his responsibilities as quickly as he could. While he was in the barracks, ordering the drills and routine missions of the soldiers that would be necessary during his absence, one of the soldiers who had been on patrol that day approached him with disturbing news.

“Yer sure?” Fergus asked again, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Aye, my Lord. There is something very strange afoot with these soldiers. They dinnae wear their clan colors, so we cannae say where they are from, or why they are on our land,” the soldier paused, shaking his head. “We can only tell that they are heavily armed, an’ doing their best tae approach the castle with caution. It is highly suspicious.”

“That it is. Thank ye, Angus. I will tak’ this news tae the Laird ‘afore I leave,” Fergus dismissed the soldier, mulling over the implications of what this news might mean.

It was the safest option to let Laird Ranulf know – even if it turned out to be nothing at all, it was better to be prepared than caught unawares.

Fergus was making his way through the castle towards the Laird’s chambers when he heard a woman screaming.

The blood in his veins turned to ice as he recognized the voice.

Arianna.

She was screaming incoherently at the top of her lungs, the sound of horror and panic reverberating through her cries and wailing.

Fergus dashed towards the direction of her voice, his heart racing in his chest, the thud-thud-thud of blood in his ears drowning out the clash of his shoes on the slate floors. His palms grew sweaty as moisture beaded on his forehead as he ran full tilt towards her screams of terror.

Fergus nearly collided with two armed soldiers as he rounded the corner of the corridor leading to the Great Hall. His feet skidded across the floor as he tried to stop his momentum, causing him to lose his footing. Fergus landed heavily on his left knee, the shock of the fall sending sharp pangs of pain throughout his leg. He grunted in pain as he tried to regain his footing – only to find the two soldiers drawing their weapons as they advanced on him, smiling grimly.

Arianna’s screams echoed through the corridor, an eerie, haunting sound as the blood rushed from Fergus’s face.

The soldiers were standing between him and the woman he had vowed to protect at all costs.

Still down on his knee, Fergus had no choice but to draw his sword as the soldiers began to sprint towards him, closing the few feet between them quickly.

The first soldier swung his sword in a wide arc, aiming to slice through Fergus’s neck. Fergus managed to raise his sword above his head in time to catch the edge of his foe’s blade against the hilt of his own. he pushed upwards and backward as hard as he could, bracing himself to the best of his ability as he pushed the soldier backward a few paces. It gained Fergus a few moments in which to scramble to his feet before the other soldier sliced through the air, his sword singing as it met with Fergus’s sword, blade catching blade mere inches from his face.

He grunted as he parried his opponent’s next blow; if it had landed, it would have sliced across his stomach, leaving him bleeding out in the corridor, unable to reach Arianna.

The second soldier approached Fergus with more caution while the other continuously tried to land a blow on any part of his body that the man could. Fergus fought off each attack, his heavy sword easily blocking the blows that kept coming.

Fergus noticed the second soldier trying to creep around behind him to catch him with the element of surprise.

He could not allow him to do that.

He swung on his heels, darting towards the man trying to attack him from behind, leaving the other soldier bewildered as he ran the first soldier through with his sword. Fergus yanked his sword out of the man’s belly, kicking him over as the lifeblood seeped from his veins. He turned back around to face his other opponent, sweat beading down the side of his face as he focused on breathing deeply.

Fergus took an offensive stance, balancing his weight on his front foot, his sword gripped in both hands, raised and aimed at the soldier’s chest.

“Why are ye here?” he demanded, cornering the soldier against the wall – noticing that his clan colors were missing.

“Tae help a friend,” the man spat on the ground. His attempt at bravery was sorely lacking as his eyes widened, showing more whites than anything else. His chest was heaving as he held his sword tightly in his hands, his knuckles turning white.

“Tae dae what? An’ who is this ‘friend’?” Fergus said through gritted teeth, advancing further onto the man. With his longer, heavier sword, Fergus had the advantage of being able to cause the man harm from a greater distance – a fact that did not seem to be lost on his foe.

“Why should I tell ye, McGill?” the man’s voice quivered slightly, even as he scowled at Fergus.

“Ah, ye ken who I am. Then ye also ken that I am one o’ the best swordsmen in the Highlands, eh?” Fergus smiled grimly.
The man nodded, swallowing heavily.

“Tell me what I want tae ken, an’ I may just let ye live,” Fergus said, taking another step closer to the soldier, who looked as though he was trying to shrink into the wall.

“We are here tae help Scott. But yer too late, the job is done.”

Fergus raised his eyebrow, waiting for the man to continue. The soldier took a deep, shuddering breath before replying.
“The Laird is dead. Scott killed him.”

If Fergus had not been a hardened, skilled swordsman, he might well have lost his grip on his sword and his hold on rationality.
“Yer lying,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

The soldier shook his head, his sword beginning to wobble in his hand as he watched the rage crossing Fergus’s face.

“Who are ye? Which clan dae ye belong tae?” Fergus all but growled.

“I will nae tell ye.”

“Then ye best say yer final prayers,” Fergus replied, as he swiftly closed the gap between them, ramming his sword into the soldier’s chest, right through his heart.

The soldier dropped to the ground heavily, his eyes wide and staring at nothing, as Arianna’s screaming suddenly stopped.

The silence was deafening.

***

Arianna was still holding her father’s head on her lap when she finally stopped screaming. She could not stop herself from continuing to sob, despite Scott’s threats of killing her where she sat if she did not.

She looked up at him through her tear-filled eyes, barely able to see him as he swam in front of her eyes, the look of a mad man on his face. Scott looked down on her, a haughty expression on his face as he took in the grief on her face and the despair with which she hung her head as their eyes met.

“Why?” Arianna finally managed to whisper, still staring down at her father’s face. If she had not known better, Arianna might have sworn he was only sleeping in her arms, not dead and gone from this world.

Scott began to walk up and down in front of the dais where her father’s chair of state was proudly presented for all to see the moment they entered the great hall. He stayed silent for several minutes, his lips pursed as he tapped his index finger against them, apparently deep in thought. His long blond hair was hanging loose around his shoulders, his gait long and confident as he paced.

Several of Scott’s men sat on the edge of the dais, most of them grinning and making jokes amongst themselves as they waited for Scott to give them instructions.

“Now that is an interesting question,” Scott said, finally stopping his pacing to stand in front of Arianna. She could not bear to bring herself to meet his gaze, choosing instead to stare blankly over his shoulder, tears still rolling down her cheeks.

Arianna’s heart was shattered in more ways than she could count or even comprehend at that moment.

The loss of her father, so brutally, so suddenly, tore at her heart like swords through flesh. She felt the pain lancing through her body with each heartbeat; her breathing was shallow and raspy as she fought the panic and terror clawing its way up her throat.

Her father lay in her arms, and though he looked at peace, Arianna knew that his last moments had been anything but that. She lifted one of her blood-soaked hands, staring at it without seeing it as she shook her head, trying to regain some control of herself.

Arianna closed her eyes briefly, throwing a prayer up to the heavens that she would find the strength to make it through this – that somehow, Scott would let her go and never come back to her clan, her home, again.

A sob escaped her throat again as she realized how deeply his betrayal ran through her soul.

Scott had murdered her father for no reason she could see or understand. He had been raised as though he were Ranulf’s own son. He had been afforded every right and luxury that a Laird’s son would have received. He was Ranulf’s son in all things but name and blood.

Arianna shuddered at the thought that she had been in love with Scott and at the thought that she had never realized who or what he truly was.

A monster.A cold-blooded murderer.

“Please, Scott, how could ye dae this?” she begged.

“Easily, Arianna,” he shrugged, as though it was of no consequence that the man who had raised him lay dead at his feet. “The answer goes something like this…” he trailed off, seemingly lost in thought again.

“Ye cannae imagine the torture yer father put me through,” he began, starting to pace again. “Ye see, I recently found out the truth about what happened tae my parents; o’ how I really came tae be here. O’ why I came tae be here.”

Arianna tried to force herself to meet Scott’s ice-cold stare – those eyes that had once seemed like a pool in which to lose herself now screamed hatred and disdain. She only wished she had known who Scott really was; she wished she could turn back the clock and save her father – she would have given her life for him in a second if only she had been given the chance.

But now, there was the very real possibility that she, too, would end up dead, buried in a shallow grave beside Laird Ranulf.

Scott knelt in front of Arianna, his face so close she could smell the whisky on his breath as it stirred her fiery red hair around her face.

“Ye see, yer father killed mine.”

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Chapter 1 

 Living her days in constant fear for her brother wasn’t how Guinevere had thought her life would be. The two of them had once been inseparable, twins who had never spent a single day apart, and now Tristan was nowhere to be found. Even their sister, Nimue, thought that was because he was dead, but Guinevere refused to believe it. 

“I ken it in me heart,” she told Nimue. The two of them were sitting in the drawing-room of the MacIntosh Castle, Nimue, with her little daughter, Morgana, in her arms. She was watching Guinevere with concern, a look that Guinevere had come to expect from her. “I ken that Tristan is alive. He’s somewhere out there. I’m certain they have him. I canna stop thinkin’ about him, Nimue. He’s on me mind all the time, and all I can think about is how I can help him. I need to find him.” 

They had had that conversation several times before, ever since Guinevere had come to stay at the MacIntosh Castle along with the rest of her family’s clan. The English had decimated the MacLellan lands within days, and they had captured Tristan in the process, too. 

Or killed him, according to what everyone else said. 

“Guinevere, I worry about ye,” Nimue said, balancing Morgana on her knee to place a hand on Guinevere’s shoulder. It was gentle and hesitant, and Guinevere couldn’t help but scoff. She didn’t like being treated like she was about to break under the slightest pressure, and those days, everyone seemed to be cautious around her.  

“Dinna worry about me,” she said. “Worry about our brother. He’s the one who needs our help.” 

“Tristan is dead.” It was the first time that Nimue had spoken those words to her, even though she had implied the very same thing many times before. Her tone was cold and firm, and Guinevere flinched, her breath catching in her throat. “There is nothin’ that we can do about him noo, ye must understand that. Na matter how long ye search for him, ye willna find him. It’s been so long noo, we probably willna even find his body.” 

She knew that Nimue wanted her to move on, but she couldn’t do that, not when she didn’t believe Tristan was gone in the first place. There was no body to bury, no grave to mourn by, and she firmly believed that was only because he was still alive. There was nothing to prove to her that Tristan was dead, and as long as there was no proof, Guinevere held onto hope.  

“Ye’re only doin’ harm to yerself,” Nimue continued, her voice softening once more. “Our clan suffered, Guinevere. So many of our people were lost. Everyone who fought for our land was captured and then killed by the Sassenachs. Ye ken that Tristan was one of them, dinna ye?” 

“I do,” Guinevere said. Tristan had been the one to lead the MacLellan army, after all. But that didn’t mean that the English had captured him. Perhaps he had managed to escape and was now trying to find his way back to the family. “I also ken that Tristan would do anythin’ to come back to us. Anythin’.” 

“I’m na sayin’ that he didna,” Nimue pointed out. “But Guinevere . . . na one has heard anythin’ about him for so long. If he were still alive, dinna ye think that he would have found a way to contact us? And why would the Sassenachs na use him to bargain with our faither if they had him? Why would they na tell us that they have him?” 

It was a good question and one to which Guinevere didn’t have an answer. But she wasn’t basing any of her hopes on logic. If Tristan was dead, she was certain that she would know it in her gut. A part of her would have died with him, and she would instantly know that he was gone, no matter how far apart they were.  

That pain had never come, not even when she had heard the news of the attack. From the very first moment, she believed that Tristan was still alive and that he needed her help.  

“I dinna ken,” Guinevere said with a small shrug. “But if there’s even a small chance that he’s still alive, I want to find him.” 

“Let’s assume that he is alive. How are ye plannin’ on findin’ him?” Nimue asked. “Will ye look all over Scotland for him? If it turns out that the Sassenachs do have him, then they’re keepin’ it a secret for a reason. We wouldna find him even if we tried.” 

“I will go anywhere in the world if I must,” Guinevere said fervently. She would track him down even if it meant going to the other side of the world. It seemed more likely to her, though, that Tristan was somewhere in England on in the Lowlands still. The English had no reason to take him too far. If they had him, then they were bound to be holding him in one of their camps. “But there must be someone who kens somethin’ about him. Is there na one in the Highlands who still has relations with the Sassenachs?” 

Nimue seemed to consider that for a moment, pursing her lips together. “The clans have ceased all relations with them. Although . . . I suppose the MacPhee clan is the only one that hasna. The Sassenachs need them for their wool, and the MacPhee’s . . . weel, they like Sassenach gold.” 

Nimue’s voice was laced with disdain, and Guinevere couldn’t blame her for it. The English had done nothing but harm to their clan, and Guinevere had the same hatred for them as her sister.  

She remembered the MacPhee clan, though, and most of all, she remembered the boy who was supposed to become Laird MacPhee one day. They had only met briefly when Guinevere was a girl, but she still remembered how handsome he was back then.  

She wondered if he was still as handsome as a man.  

“But ye’re na to write to Laird MacPhee,” Nimue said, putting an abrupt end to Guinevere’s fresh plans. “Even if ye did, I doubt that he would help ye.” 

“Why na?” Guinevere asked. Surely, she thought, someone who still traded with the English could also gather some information on Tristan for her.  

“Because he’s a horrible man,” Nimue said. “Ye’re na to contact him, and that is final.” 

Guinevere’s bottom lip quivered in anger, her hands balling up into fists. She couldn’t understand why Nimue thought she could tell her what she could and couldn’t do. Even though she was younger, she was the only one doing anything to find Tristan.  

“Just because the MacPhee clan still trades with the Sassenachs, it doesna mean that Laird MacPhee is a horrible man and—” 

“It’s na that,” Nimue interrupted, shaking her head. “That man killed his wife. Everybody in the Highlands kens it, even though they are afraid to talk about it. Chrisdean doesna have any relations with him since he found out.” 

Chrisdean, Nimue’s husband and Laird of the MacIntosh clan, was not one to act just on rumors. Guinevere had come to know him well in the time she had spent at the castle, and he seemed to her like a rational man, one that didn’t listen to gossip. Perhaps it was true, then, that Laird MacPhee had murdered his wife, but Guinevere didn’t see why that should deter her from trying to contact him. She would only ask about her brother. The worst that could happen was that he would refuse to help.  

“Are ye certain that the man killed his wife?” Guinevere asked, thinking that if Nimue had some doubts over it, perhaps it would be easier to convince her to assist her with her search. The last thing that Guinevere wanted was to go behind her sister’s back, but if it wasn’t possible to change her mind, then she was determined to do anything it took to get information on Tristan. “Surely, he would have been punished for it.” 

“The official story is that it was an accident,” Nimue said. “That’s what the Laird and the nobles always said. But she was found dead in his chambers, and I dinna think that anyone ever believed that it wasna a murder.” 

“Just because she was found in his chambers?” It didn’t sound like a good enough reason for suspecting Laird MacPhee to Guinevere. Who was to say that she hadn’t been murdered by someone else? 

“It’s na only that.” Nimue sighed as though the conversation seemed pointless to her. “He’s na a good man, Guinevere. Everyone kens that he has a string of lovers and that he’s verra unpleasant. There is na point in tryin’ to speak to him, and it may even put ye in danger.” 

“Why? It’s na as if I’m his wife!” 

Nimue pinned her with a strict look, one that Guinevere could only respond to with a sheepish smile. But none of what Nimue told her did anything to dissuade her from putting her plan in motion. She would contact Laird MacPhee, even if she had to go behind Nimue’s and Chrisdean’s backs, and if that didn’t work, then she would keep trying.  

All the effort and all the lies were worth it if it meant that she would get her brother back. Nimue couldn’t understand, she thought. She loved Tristan, of course. She loved him dearly. But Guinevere was his twin, and the two of them had been torn apart. It was something that Guinevere could hardly bear. Every day was a new burden on her shoulders, her desire to find him almost as heavy as her failure to do so.  

She hated to think of him, cold, alone, scared, held captive by the English in some dungeon. It was as though she suffered with him, their bond so strong that his pain was hers, too. 

For a few moments, the two of them sat in silence, little Morgana gurgling playfully in Nimue’s lap. Guinevere reached for her, letting her wrap a tiny hand around her finger and delighting in the way that she smiled. She was already the spitting image of her mother, with her halo of dark, almost jet-black hair, and Guinevere couldn’t wait to see her grow up.  

That hair was the one feature that Guinevere and Nimue didn’t share. Guinevere and Tristan took after their golden-haired Mother, while Nimue had hair black as coal. But the two sisters shared the same eyes, a deep, vibrant green that spoke of their close relation. 

Seeing that insisting would get her nowhere, Guinevere decided to change the subject. After all, there was no point in arguing with Nimue, not when she knew that she didn’t even believe Tristan was alive.  

“Weel . . . I wish to go to the Craig Dunain priory,” she said. “I’d like to spend a few days there, to pray and be away from all this.” 

It was something that had been on her mind for a few days— that need to escape making her skin itch. She needed a change of scenery, and the monastery seemed as good a place as any to get what she needed. It was close to the castle, less than a day’s ride, and so she doubted that Nimue would be too concerned about her.  

Besides, as long as she was away from the castle, she could scheme in peace. She wouldn’t have to worry about coming up with excuses for Nimue and Chrisdean. 

Nimue’s face lit up immediately at that, and she nodded eagerly. “That sounds like a verra good idea,” she said. “It will be good for ye, I think. I would come with ye, but—” 

“Na.” Guinevere was quick to interrupt her. She didn’t want Nimue following her around and interfering with her plans. “Na, Nimue, ye have the wee one, and ye’re the Lady of the clan. I couldna ask ye to come with me. Ye should stay here.” 

“Ye’re na askin’ me. I offered,” Nimue pointed out. “But ye’re right, I canna leave Morgana. Will ye be alright alone? I would hate for ye to have na company.” 

“I willna be alone. I’m sure that the nuns will keep me company. Besides, I wish to go there to have some peace and quiet. After everythin’ that happened . . . our clan bein’ destroyed and the Sassenachs almost capturin’ Faither and me I think that bein’ away from everyone else for a while is a good idea.” 

It wasn’t a lie, not quite, at least. Guinevere did want some peace and quiet. The past months had been hard on her, and being around so many new, unfamiliar people was harder than she had originally thought, even if everyone had been perfectly nice to her. She was still adjusting to a life away from the only home she had ever known, and she could hardly adjust when there were so many people that she was obligated to meet and talk to every day.  

She had gotten into the habit of taking long rides into the woods, all alone, but Nimue and their father always fretted over her, telling her how dangerous it was to be out there all alone. They were right, of course. There could be brigands or even Englishmen anywhere, and Guinevere wouldn’t be able to fight them off on her own, but the walls of the castle stifled her. There was a constant weight on her chest those days, a perpetual knot in her stomach that only eased when she was outside, away from it all.  

“Verra weel,” Nimue said. “I’ll make the arrangements for ye.” 

“There’s na need for that. Thank ye,” Guinevere said. “All I need is a horse. It’s na that far from here. I’ll be fine.” 

Nimue seemed reluctant to agree, and so Guinevere gave her a reassuring smile as she stood, eager to put an end to the conversation while she was ahead. If she gave Nimue any time to disagree, she knew that she would lose.  

“I’ll go make the preparations noo,” Guinevere told her. “I will leave first thing in the morning, but I’ll be sure to find ye before I do to say goodbye.” 

With that, she all but ran out of the drawing-room, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.  

It willna be long noo. Soon, I’ll ken if Tristan is alive for certain.  

Chapter 2 

Beads of sweat and blood dripped down Kaleb’s temples as he stumbled his way through the MacPhee Castle, the servants and the clansmen looking at him in horror. Those who offered to help were quickly turned away, Kaleb shooting them a warning glare as he heaved, trying to catch his breath.  

His limp made it difficult to walk, and his mouth was filled with the taste of iron, blood still dripping from his split lip. But his injuries weren’t that serious, he knew. They would heal in time. What was serious was that he had gone on a hunt and had barely managed to return. 

The few men with him were in a similar condition, all injured after the fight, though thankfully none had died. They had been attacked in the middle of nowhere by a group of men who fought too well to be brigands but who were also certainly not English. Kaleb and his men fought well and eventually defeated the enemies, striking some dead while others escaped. But the attack itself bothered him.  

And he already had a good idea of who was behind it.  

Walking up the stairs was a struggle. His knees almost gave out under his weight, but Kaleb soon made it to his study, where he found the Elders already waiting for him. The sight of him seemed to give them pause, and he couldn’t blame them, covered as he was in filth and blood.  

“What happened to ye?” Andrew, his chief counselor, asked, standing up and rushing to him to check for injuries. “Why did ye na go to the healer, me Laird?” 

“I’m fine,” Kaleb said, quick to dismiss Andrew’s concerns. “We were attacked deep in the woods while we were huntin’. Everyone’s alive, but the men are injured, too. Noo tell me . . . why are ye all gathered here?” 

At his question, all the Elders fell silent, much to Kaleb’s concern. “What?” he asked. “What is it?” 

“Some of the villages have been pillaged,” Andrew said, always the first one to speak. “We received word na too long ago. Three of them, and they all suffered massive losses.” 

The news punched the air out of Kaleb’s lungs, his hands curling into fists. He had fought so hard to make his clan what it was, to make sure that everyone was prospering, and yet someone had managed to destroy three of his villages overnight.  

How many dead could there be? How many injured? How many people that he had failed because he hadn’t prepared for it? 

But it was too late now. Regret washed over him, and the guilt that he always carried inside him only grew, fed by the recent events. It was a hole in his stomach, one that widened with every wrong decision that he made, and he feared that one day, it would be all that would be left of him. 

“How bad is it?” Kaleb asked.  

“Verra bad, me Laird. Crops, wool, all of it stolen or destroyed. They didn’t seem to want to leave anythin’ behind. They even slaughtered some of the animals, took the little gold the villagers had.” 

“I see . . .” 

I was just as Kaleb had expected. The pillaging and the attack on him and his men were not isolated incidents, and they certainly weren’t random. The work was familiar. Kaleb had encountered it before. 

“Were there any dead? Injured?” he asked. While they could make more wool and plant more crops, they couldn’t bring back the dead. His main concern was the people. Everything else he could fix. 

“Many injured, but na dead,” Andrew informed him. “It’s a wonder they all made it out of the entire ordeal alive. The report we received spoke of a brutal attack.” 

“This is the work of me brother,” Kaleb said with no hesitation as he threw himself down on his chair. He let out a long sigh, deflating, though his body never relaxed, not even for a moment. The battle had left him exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to clean up and sleep, but he had work to do first.  

If his brother was back, it meant that they were all in danger, most of all him. Ralph had never been happy about Kaleb being the Laird of the MacPhee clan, and he had done everything in his power to take the position from him for years.  

But the Elders said nothing in response. They only glanced at each other as though they knew something that Kaleb didn’t.  

In the end, it was another man, Cormag, who spoke. “Yer brother is in France, me Laird. Our spies report on him every six months,” he said. “He hasna returned. We have na word of him bein’ in Scotland.” 

“That doesna mean that he’s na here,” Kaleb pointed out. Ralph always had his ways of staying hidden, undetected by all his spies. He knew Kaleb’s defenses better than anyone, and he knew Kaleb himself. “Ralph has his ways. We would only ken that he’s here if he wanted us to.” 

But Kaleb could tell even as he spoke to the men that they didn’t believe him. They all thought that he was obsessed with Ralph, that what had happened between them had broken him too much to allow for any rational thought when it came to him.  

Kaleb knew what he had seen, though. He knew that the men he had fought had trained under Ralph. He recognized how they moved and fought, dirty, like he did, but with discipline.  

“There were Sassenach soldiers at two of the villages, me Laird. Dead,” Cormag continued. “Why would yer brother have Sassenach soldiers killed?” 

“I dinna ken,” Kaleb said. “All I ken is that it was him, or at least his men. I’m askin’ ye to trust me on this. I ken me brother. He’s here, back in Scotland, and it willna be long before he attacks again. Next time, he might even attack the castle.” 

There was another long silence, and Kaleb could tell that it was a losing battle. Even Andrew, who tended to agree with him on most matters, seemed reluctant to believe Ralph was back. None of them knew him like Kaleb did, though, and none of them knew what he had done. Kaleb had never told the truth to anyone. All they knew was that there had been a rift between the two of them, and Ralph had left for France.  

They didn’t know what a vile man he could be.  

“Perhaps we can send some spies, but I think it’s a waste of resources,” another Elder said, bolder than Andrew and Cormag. “They’ll come back empty-handed, I’m sure. And even if he is back . . . weel, why would he attack the castle? What would he gain out of it? Surely, whatever men he would have would be na match for our soldiers. It’s better to focus our efforts and our gold on findin’ the real culprits. It more likely that the attackers were brigands, me Laird, rather than yer brother.” 

There were mumbled agreements from the other Elders, all of them reluctant to waste money and time on someone who was little more than a ghost at that point. Kaleb’s anger simmered inside him, threatening to spill out, but he knew better than to attract the dislike of the Elders. He needed his council to be on his side, especially if Ralph was truly back, planning to take over the clan. 

He needed some time to think and come up with a plan, something that he couldn’t do when he had an entire council of Elders in the room opposing him.  

“Thank ye all,” he said, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “I will consider it.” 

It was their cue to leave, and the Elders stood one by one, flocking to the door. Soon, Kaleb was alone with Andrew, who lingered by his desk, looking at him expectantly. 

“Weel?” Kaleb asked. “What is it?” 

“If Ralph is back,” Andrew said, and Kaleb perked up, glad that someone was willing to listen to him at least, “then ye should find a wife soon. A noble lass from the clan or from a neighboring one. Someone with power. If he is back and he’s after the Lairdship, then ye need to have a strong alliance.” 

Andrew had a point, Kaleb thought. He hadn’t remarried after his wife’s death, the mere thought of it put him on edge, but he would do anything for the good of the clan. He wouldn’t allow Ralph to get his hands on the Lairdship. If he did, he would bring the entire MacPhee clan to ruin. All he had ever cared about was his own personal gain. He had never considered the people. He had never considered the clan and its legacy. All he cared about was eating and drinking, spending each of his days in a hedonistic stupor. The clan would run out of gold before the elder council would have a chance to even put up a protest. 

“Ye think he’ll try to make a formal claim?” Kaleb asked. 

“Aye, he might. If he finds a suitable wife before ye do, there’s little stoppin’ him from doin’ so. But a good alliance will make the people think twice before they support him.” 

As much as Kaleb thought it was a good plan, he didn’t know how he could spend the rest of his life tethered to another wife. His first marriage had brought nothing but pain to him, and he had no hopes that a second one would go any better. Women were nothing but treacherous, he had come to find. Trusting them was an even bigger mistake than trusting Ralph.  

But what other option did he have? If Ralph did find a highborn wife, then he could easily make a claim for the Lairdship. Kaleb would have to find a wife, and soon.  

But that didn’t mean that he would have to keep her.  

“I’ll find a wife,” he said. “But dinna expect me to have a marriage with her. We’ll wed, she’ll sire me an heir, and then I’ll send her to a monastery.” 

Andrew stared at him in silence for a few moments before he parted his lips as though to speak but then seemed to change his mind. He didn’t need to voice his concerns for Kaleb to know, though. Andrew had been the first to tell him that three years without a wife was long enough and that just because something had happened between the two of them, it didn’t mean that every other woman he met would do the same to him.  

Finding a woman to marry just to send her to a monastery did sound cruel, even to him, especially since he would be separating her from her child. But dire situations called for extreme measures, and though Kaleb had no desire to put any effort into keeping his future wife happy, he would at least ensure that she would have every comfort that she would ever need.  

Keeping her in the castle was not an option. Unlike what Andrew liked to say, Kaleb didn’t think that he could trust any woman. All of them were traitorous, eager to stab him in the back at the first opportunity for their own profit, and that was the last thing that he needed.  

“I’ve made me decision, Andrew,” he said. “Dinna give me that look.” 

“I do hope that ye’ll change yer mind about sendin’ whatever poor lass ye find to a monastery,” Andrew said. “Perhaps ye’ll come to like one of them.” 

“I verra much doubt that.” Kaleb had felt nothing but lust for other women since his wife’s death. He had dared to love once, and he had promised himself that he would never do it again.  

“Would ye at least consider allowin’ her to stay at the castle?” Andrew asked. “It’s big enough that ye will rarely have to see her.” 

“What does it matter, Andrew?” Kaleb asked with an exasperated sigh. He didn’t even have a wife yet, and Andrew was already trying to be involved in his decisions. 

Though I suppose that is his job as my advisor.  

“It matters because the people already think ye’re a brute,” Andrew said bluntly, more so than usual. Kaleb wasn’t used to hearing him speak like that, and for a moment, he was taken aback by it. “Ye’ve heard the rumors, me Laird. It would be best if ye didna give them another reason for them to think ill of ye.” 

“They willna think ill of me if they think that it was her decision,” Kaleb pointed out. “Regardless, that is a conversation for a later time. I havena even found a lass to marry yet, Andrew. I’m sure when the time comes, we’ll find a compromise.” 

And as usual, Andrew would be the one who would have to make that compromise.  

“Verra weel, me Laird,” the man said, giving Kaleb a small bow before heading for the door. Once there, he hesitated, turning around to look at Kaleb. “Do ye really think he’s back?” 

“Aye. I’m certain it’s him. Do ye believe me?” 

“I do,” Andrew said and then left the room, closing the door behind him. 

There was no doubt about it in Kaleb’s mind about it all. Even if no one else apart from Andrew believed him, he believed his own eyes. Ralph hadn’t been one of the attackers, but he was lurking somewhere close. Kaleb could almost sense him, the hairs at the back of his neck standing straight every time he thought about his brother.  

The only thing he didn’t know was why he had returned now. What had kept him away for three years? What had brought him back? Had he simply been plotting while he was away, waiting for the perfect moment to strike? Did it just so happen that the perfect moment was right now?  

Kaleb didn’t know, but he intended to find out the truth.

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