Chapter I

Lyttletyne, Northern England, April 1551

“Miss, you have been gone again for quite a long while. You worry Mrs. Drummond, now that you’re here on your own.”

Rose Sayer’s young maid, Mary, stood on the doorstep of the manor, clutching her hands tightly with concern. Rose laughed as the groom helped her down from her horse. Brushing a lock of her dark hair away, she smiled and patted the brown mare’s soft velvet coat before the groom took her away.

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry for that.” Rose looked up at the bright sunny day and shielded her green eyes. “She has been good to me since Father and Henry left.” Mrs. Drummond was the housekeeper and had looked after Rose like a mother, ever since her own mother had died a few years before.

Mary smiled as Rose turned back to the house. Rose had never thought she’d have to care for the household on her own for so many months, but it came to her easily, she found. Even if her riding about the estate worried the housekeeper. Her father had never been away for so long in the last nine years of the war, but the last time he’d left, he’d been gone almost six months.

“I shall do my best to make up for it. She knows that I do what is right for the estate.”

“Yes, Miss, but I think she wishes you would take a groom with you. For safety’s sake.”

“And propriety’s sake.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Mary took Rose’s cloak as she entered the house. “Mary, will you send tea to the study?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you. Tell Mrs. Drummond she may come and see me as well.”

Mary curtsied and left to follow her orders, and Rose sighed, happy to have dispatched at least one duty. She would apologize to Mrs. Drummond, and then all would be well again. She brushed her hands together as she walked down the corridor to her father’s study, which had become hers since the care of the estate had been left entirely to her.

Her father had left strict instructions, and she wanted to show him that all was well and cared for while he was away. It had been a monumental task when he’d first explained things to her, and she remembered taking furious notes as he spoke. Her hand had cramped for days afterward. But with each passing day, she had grown more and more accustomed to it. Even though she told no one about it, she rather enjoyed the freedom and independence when there were no men around.

“There is no one to say nay to anything,” she said cheerily to herself as she sat down, her gown billowing behind her father’s large wooden desk.

The freedom and independence were almost intoxicating, like having had too many cups of wine at dinner. In the deepest part of her heart, she wished for this time to last a little longer, not wishing for her brother or father to come to any harm, of course.

She began to hurriedly scrawl in a small notebook about matters of the estate. War was upon them and had been for many years. However, due to her father’s high status as a landed knight and his age, he had not been called until recently to fight. So, the estate was covered in women, and Rose had wanted to do her best by them, making sure they were safe enough and protected and fed while their men were off doing their duty. To her surprise, and she was convinced that her father would also be surprised, the women had done well on their own, working just as effectively if not more so.

“It is because they do not have a man to hound them day and night.” She kept scrawling until there was a scratch at the door, and Mary entered with a tray of tea.

“Here you are, Miss. And Mrs. Drumm—” The older woman appeared suddenly in the doorway, looking, as usual, slightly frayed and frazzled. Mary curtsied and left the room without another word. Mrs. Drummond closed the door behind her to stand in front of Rose with her hands together.

Rose noticed how white her knuckles were turning. “Mrs. Drummond, I do apologize for having upset you, but this is usual behavior from me. You know this.”

“Yes, Miss Rose. But…” She bit her lip, and Rose frowned, never having seen her so agitated before. She laid down her quill and folded her hands over the desk.

“What is it?”

“It is just that I have heard the men will soon be returning. There have been rumblings, and I should hate to have you out and about, wandering the countryside on your own, if your father and brother were to return. After I promised your father that I would look after you. He would not be pleased.”

Rose lifted a brow. “You promised my father?”

“He asked me to, Miss Rose, and I happily accepted. You know how much I care for you.”

Rose smiled and dipped her head. “Yes, I do. It does not go unnoticed. I heard tell that the men would be back soon, but we have had such false news in these uncertain times that I was loath to believe it.” She looked down, suddenly fascinated by the vine design of her green gown. Even though the independence of running the estate had made her feel freer than she ever had, she still worried each day what news might come of death and loss. Of someone telling her that she was now alone in the world, for her mother had died many years before.

“I do not like to hope, you know,” she said softly, hating the choking feeling of tears in her throat.

“Yes, I know.” Mrs. Drummond came to her side and put an arm about her shoulders. “But I think we can hold a little bit of hope. Just a little. To sustain us. And I hate to think about you, about something happening to you out there.”

“I have to keep up the spirits of the women on the estate, Mrs. Drummond. You know that. They’ve been alone for so long, and I have only been alone for just a few months.”

“Not alone, dear. Never alone.” Mrs. Drummond winked at her, and Rose felt something unfurl in her chest.

“Thank you, Mrs. Drummond. I promise next time I go riding, I’ll take a groom with me.”

“Good.”

After she made a promise, she wasn’t sure she wanted to keep, the house erupted into sudden chaos. Footsteps pounded in the hall, and a man’s voice rang across the stone walls.

“Henry,” Rose breathed, and she squeezed Mrs. Drummond’s hand before gathering her skirts and rushing out to the hallway to meet him. Her pace was so quick that her coif nearly fell from its pins, and she grasped it, hurrying to find the voice.

“Rose!” Henry called, and she finally saw him at the end of the entryway, looking breathless and dirty. She had never seen him thus, even after years of playing in the woods and in the river. He had never looked so tarnished and weary, broken almost by the new weight of the world.

“Henry,” she said again and rushed into the warm comfort of his arms. She closed her eyes at the feel of him again. He smelled of horses and sweat and earth. He was her near-twin, even though he was her older brother. He, too, had the Sayer black hair and bright green eyes. When he pulled away, she noticed that his dark beard had grown, and there were new dark circles under his eyes. He was only 24, but the war had aged him.

“My dear Rose. You are well and fresh.” He lifted his hands to her cheeks, and she felt the fresh roughness of them, broken by wielding a sword.

“You, Henry, you survived. Brought back to me.” She smiled, and tears were in her eyes. Independence was very well and good, but nothing could replace the warm feeling of a loving family. He stroked a thumb across her cheek and nodded, but as she stared into his eyes, she knew the truth. There was some secret, something he held back.

Her stomach clenched as she bent her head to look around him down the hallway. “Where is Father? Has he not come with you?”

She could hear the rush of servants moving to their duties now that the son of the manor had returned. When she moved her eyes back to her brother, she saw a new sadness in them and the grim line of his mouth.

“Father, Rose, he….” He trailed off, and Rose stood tall and bit back her tears. After all, her time in charge of the manor meant she could now be taken seriously. She was not simply the daughter of a knight, living only in luxury and left to frivolous activities. She could be trusted with more complicated things.

“You can tell me, Henry,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster, patting his strong shoulders.

“He lives. Do not worry on that score. But he was taken.”

“Taken.” Rose moved a hand to her stomach, feeling suddenly ill like the floor had been taken out from under her. But she set her jaw. She would remain strong. No matter what happened. “Taken by whom?”

“By a Scottish laird at the northern border. He is a brute.” Henry spat as he spoke, and Rose chided him for it.

He looked shamefaced. “Forgive me, Rose. I have broken myself on the front, forgetting the manors of polite society.” There was a strange attempt at a grin, and Rose shook her head.

“Tell me more.”

“May we sit?” He asked, looking suddenly years older and just as weary.

“Oh, of course. Forgive me, Henry. Come,” she waved to Mrs. Drummond, who was never very far away. “We will sit in the drawing-room, here, Mrs. Drummond. The fire is high enough. Please have the maids prepare a bath in my brother’s chamber, as hot as it can be, and bring food and drink, both tea and wine.”

“Yes, Miss Rose. It is being done as we speak.”

Rose nodded, knowing that Mrs. Drummond would take care of everything, but wanted to make sure. Henry was watching her with a sort of confusion, surprise, and she hoped respect.

She led him to a seat by the fire, and she moved to poke at the wood, hoping it would increase in heat and flame and keep her brother from looking like death’s door. Henry was still watching her. “You have grown, Rose.”

Rose turned around and instantly blushed. Henry was never one for compliments, but she could hear from his tone that he meant it nicely. “Grown?” she said with a smile. “Aged, you mean?”

She sat down in the other chair and leaned back against the wood, feeling comfort in its strength. The news of her father could be even direr than what her heart felt, and she needed the physical feel of support in her hands.

“Not at all. Although there is something new in you. A calmness of sorts. Or a strength.” He breathed out slowly and tiredly. “I shall tell you all.”

She nodded and leaned forward to listen to him. His eyes were nearly fluttering closed. She knew that he had ridden far to return to her, to return home and to share his news. “France, as we feared, came to Scotland’s aid, and England has now had to remove her troops from Scotland’s land. We have ceded the capture of Scotland’s territories, and it is like blood draining from a wound, soldiers, and men returning to our homeland, weak and broken. Those who survived that is.”

Rose nodded, even though she felt it was a good thing for war to be over and that the women on her land would be reunited with their husbands once more. Some would enjoy it, but she knew of some whose bruises had faded at their husbands’ departures, that they might not be as happy to see them darken their doorways again.

Henry continued, folding his hands across his stomach. “Father and I fought side by side. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it was a dream of mine for so long.” She could hear the sound of pain in his voice, and tears sprung to her eyes at the thought of her father in battle. She knew he would look glorious, fighting and commanding his men. The memory of a time long ago when he’d showed her how to hold a sword flickered in her mind.

“Hold it like this, Rose,” he’d said, grinning down at her. Rose was eight, and she felt like the luckiest girl in the world to have such a father who would teach her things and bring her into his life. “Hold it out, towards your enemy.” He leaned down and pushed her tiny feet into the right place and then crouched beside her, his strong arm touching her young one. “This is to threaten them. Then, you pull back, ready to fight off their first blow. It is good to allow them the first blow, and then you are ready to fight back once you deflect it.”

He stood up with another sword and slowly showed her what he meant. But they were interrupted by two things. The first was the sound of her mother’s voice calling from the doorway to the house. “Rose! You have forgotten your lessons!”

The second was Henry appearing from the other side of the barn, looking pale and angry. “Father, why should you teach Rose when you should be teaching me? I am the boy.”

Her father, never upset by anything, had merely chuckled. “I shall teach both my children,” he replied, pulling Henry close to him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Women too should know how to defend themselves, right?”

Henry crossed his arms, and her mother called again. Reluctantly, Rose had left, hurrying back to her mother’s safe embrace, a heavy disappointment weighing on her. After her mother died a few years later, her father had given up his lessons, broken by the weight of his own grief. He had wanted to keep Rose safe and locked away ever since, afraid that he too should lose her.

“Rose?” Henry’s voice prodded into her subconscious, and she looked up at him, the wetness of tears still on her cheeks. Her father was so kind and gentle. The thought of being taken by a brute and subjected to God knows what made her feel cold and clammy.

“Sorry, Henry. I know that it was a dream of yours. A cherished dream. Please continue.”

“Well,” he said more slowly and leaned forward, grasping at her hand. “I fear that it is just you and I, dear sister.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, although she knew what his words meant. What those horrible words foretold.

“This Scottish laird has a very great reputation for being brutish and desiring to kill as many English as possible.” Henry swallowed, and Rose wished for a second that some way, somehow, she could halt the words in her brother’s throat, and it would make their truth not real. She could reverse time. “I fear that it is very likely that Father is dead, and now it will be just you and me.”

Rose faintly heard the clatter of tea things as someone entered the room before a loud sob escaped her throat.

Chapter II

Caerlaverock Castle, Seat of Clan Rede

Euan Rede was still fuming. His anger, the anger he’d been carrying around with him for years now, was bristling and tumbling off him like it was its own being. It had become fused to him, and now he regarded it as just part of who he was. Laird Rede, the man with a furious temper of a brute, with a reputation of being bloodthirsty. Reputations had a way of only showing half the truth, but he didn’t care to ruin it, for it had only made him a better and more fearsome warrior.

He leaned over the battlements of Caerlaverock Castle, staring off into the sea as if it could give him answers. Sometimes, he stood up there with the wind in his blond hair, hoping that his parents would return from Heaven for a moment and speak to him, to tell him his next moves. It had been eight years since his last parent died. He’d been 18 when his father had been killed by the English, but the pain was still underneath his skin, still feeling raw. He was alone in the world now, even though his men and his clan surrounded him. He had to make his own way, and now he did, with the capture of the English knight George Sayer.

“Laird,” a voice called from the doorway. “Ye wished tae ken when the prisoner was awake. He is now.”

“Good. I will go tae him in a moment. Donnae tell him anything,” he bit out.

The man bowed his head and left, and Euan turned back to the sea. It was gray from this distance, the last vestiges of winter still hanging in the air. It mirrored the way he felt most times. Gray and wild, without a clear direction or a way to go. He’d been muddling around in the dark, and if he was honest, the last years of war had helped to motivate him, to get him to focus on something else besides his own pain. He had been sent to fight after his father had been killed, and in some ways, had been the making of him.

He turned away from the sea and left the battlement, clenching his fist with a resolve to remove the dangers that the English still posed, even though they were leaving the territories of Scotland taken over the last years. His mind had one goal as he walked down the cold, stone steps to his castle’s dungeon, where his latest prisoner resided.

George Sayer, landed knight, living on the northern border of England on a large estate. He had chosen well in his captive, and he would force his way into matrimony with the man’s daughter if it killed him. Even though England had a treaty with Scotland, he would not let his family’s legacy crumble because of a future invasion. England was known for its treachery.

“Laird,” one of his guards said as they swung open the thick wooden door of the dungeon. “He is ready.”

Euan said nothing as he made his way to the large cell where the prisoner was chained to the wall. To his surprise, the man stood up and looked Euan straight in the eye. In his clipped English accent, he said, “It is not every day that a Scottish laird known for his brutality lets a man sleep before he questions him.”

Euan grinned and crossed his arms over his large chest, his cold blue eyes staring at the man completely under his control. “It is nae out of compassion for yer health, Lord Sayer if that is what ye are thinking. I merely wish tae speak on equal terms with a man when I give him a choice.”

“A choice?” Sayer’s tone was almost bored, as if he’d seen and done these sorts of things many times. He was in his fifties or sixties, but the strength was still in his body, and intelligence gleamed from his green eyes.

“Aye, a choice.” Euan stepped closer, that anger trembling anew through him, making his hands shake. He squeezed his arms tighter across his chest.

Take yer time, lad. Donnae let yer temper get hold of ye and ruin what power ye have.

“What is it you want with me? You are very young for a laird.”

Euan’s admonition to himself was lost in another wave of fury. His one hand moved to the short blade at his side. “I am young, for my father died years ago in the war. The English took him prisoner, as I have taken ye, and they cut his throat.” In a flash, he slid the dirk out and came close, leaning against the older man, pressing the cold steel blade against the man’s throat.

There was a flash of surprise in Sayer’s eyes, which gratified Euan, but he held tight to him, pressing the blade a little closer. “I would be delighted tae return the favor, ye ken.” His breath was right next to the man’s ears, and his voice spoke in a ragged, harsh tone. It would be sweet revenge to take this man’s life in the same way his father’s life had been taken, but he knew deep down that another death would not make any difference.

Another stroke of pain, another flash of anger. None of it ever made any difference to the cold hard truth. His father was dead and would not be returning. The English would be forever at fault and forever hated by him. After a few more seconds, Euan retracted his dirk and pushed against the man’s hard chest so that his chains jangled.

As he slid the dirk back into the sheath at his side, he said, “However, one more death willnae make a difference tae keep the lasting peace. I plan tae protect my land and my clan for the future when England decides tae turn treacherous once more.”

“What is that?” Sayer’s voice was rough. Euan knew he had bruised the man’s throat.

“A marriage alliance. It is only the way tae secure peace. Our borders are too close for my clan tae nae be in any danger. I will give ye yer freedom if ye give me yer daughter in marriage.”

Sayer’s face turned rigid. After a pause, he said, “How do you even know that I have a daughter ready for marriage?”

Euan grinned. “Ye have already told me by yer expression. But before yer capture, I spoke tae another one of yer men, who needed a bit of prodding tae tell me who had daughters ready tae marry.”

Sayer’s dirtied fists clenched just above where the chains wrapped tightly around his wrists. “I will not do such a thing. Kill me if you like for your revenge, but you shall not have my daughter.”

Euan smirked and turned away. He was not concerned. He would have his way. Sayer’s manor was the closest landed estate, and it was the best choice. “Have it yer way, Sayer, but I shall first send a message tae yer family tae let them ken how ye fare. See if they might be interested in making a deal for ye.”

Without letting George Sayer respond, he slammed shut the cell door and left in a huff. George may be an honorable man, giving his life for his daughter. Still, it wouldnae prevent Euan from going tae the English estate tae take the lass for himself tae force her intae marriage. He paused on the steps up to the main hall and put his hand on the stone. No, he could not do that. Not only did his conscience not allow him such a thing, but he knew that if his parents were alive, they would have shamed him for such a plan.

The lass would have to be willing to marry him to save her father’s life. He wouldn’t take someone who didn’t agree. It was not that he had plans to bed her anyway. It was a marriage in name only, just for the sake of protecting his clan for as long as he was alive. Besides, how could he produce progeny that was half-English? Well, an heir might cement the alliance, but he would have to think of that later. Now, he had to send the message to the Sayer family and hear what they had to say.

***

Henry had slept for nearly two days since his return, and it seemed, really, that nothing had changed since Rose was still in charge of all that ran on the estate. However, she knew that once her brother had recovered his health and strength, he would take over all the duties. She would return to being the sister, with nothing but embroidery and Bible reading to entertain herself. She was sitting in her father’s study when Mrs. Drummond entered the room.

“My dear Miss Rose. A message has come for you. Well, for all of you, and it’s arrived from Scotland.” The older woman swallowed, and Rose felt a hollowing in her chest. She stood and took the letter in hand.

“From Scotland,” she said slowly, trying to think of the countless reasons why she would receive a letter from there. It had to do with her father but how. She prayed for his safety as she tore open the letter. “Mrs. Drummond, please do summon my brother,” she said softly as her eyes scanned the rough words, written in seeming haste and fury.

Tae the Sayer Family,

Yer father is alive and well. Although, he is the key tae forming an alliance between us. I will let yer father live, but ye must give yer eldest daughter in matrimony tae me. That way, Scotland is aligned with England, and if war breaks out again, our clans and families will be kept safe from it. If yer answer is yes, then ye must come and meet yer father here at Caerlaverock Castle, tae the west of Gretna Green. It will nae take long, so ye have three days tae arrive here. If yer answer is no, ye may write tae me, and then yer father will lose his life. There is nae telling what may happen after.

Laird Euan Rede, Caerlaverock Castle

Her brother pushed open the door, looking more rested but slightly perturbed at having been woken. “What is it, Rose? Can you not handle small duties while I am recovering from war?” She ignored his irritated tone and handed him the letter, her face pale. She slowly sat down as she saw realization come over his face.

“A marriage alliance,” he said softly.

“Yes. Or father will die if we disagree.”

Rose sighed. She looked away, feeling numb at the thought of what a turn her life had taken, from one sort of prison to another. She turned back to Henry, who growled and then threw the letter into the fire. The both watched it for a time while it sparked into flame.

“That does not take away the decision we will have to make. Or the one I shall have to make?”

“You?” he asked, turning back to her, her eyes cold. “The brute would make a wife out of you, and you believe you are alone in making this decision. In father’s absence, I am the head of the family. I will make the choice.”

He began to pace, crossing and uncrossing his arms. His energy had doubled since his return, with good sleep and good food at his disposal. Yet Rose did not like to see her brother this way. He was often quite sour, and she had hoped to make a new start of things.

She stood up, trying to keep her voice as calm as possible. She knew what she had to do. “We will not leave father to die, Henry. Not when we had the choice to save him. I shall agree to marry this laird.”

“Said very much like a woman. Without thought or reason. Rose, you don’t even know this man.” Henry’s arms were open as if pleading with her to see sense. She didn’t mention that if Henry had chosen the man for Rose to marry, she was sure that he would not care if Rose knew him or not. “He has the worst reputation across Scotland and England. And for all that, he could be an old man as well.”

“Well, let us hope he is so that he will die soon, and I will be the head of his estate, and the alliance will remain true.”

Henry snorted. “Do not joke at a time like this.”

Rose sighed. Joking was the only way she could keep the tendrils of fear from wrapping around her heart and stopping her from doing what she must. “Henry, an alliance is a good thing. Like this man, we have no desire to return to years of war, not if we can find a way to keep our families and lands safe from another outbreak of it. I would say that Laird Rede has more intelligence than brutishness.”

Henry’s mouth dropped open. “You are being nonsensical. Will you not be unhappy being married to the enemy? A person from the land we fought so tirelessly against? Who killed our people?”

Rose shuddered at the thought of that. She didn’t want to be married to an evil man and be unprotected, but this was now something she could do. A way she could fight. “Henry, listen to me. I know it sounds like madness, but what options do we have? If we say no, he may kill father anyway and then find another way to get me to marry him. We are the closest estate to the Scottish border. It is not as if there is someone else, he could find that is at a location as close as ours.” She gripped her hands together, feeling them lose blood as she tried to keep her courage. “I will do this. I shall do this. Not just for father but for our family. For our land. For our legacy.”

Henry watched her with surprise for a few moments, and it almost looked like there were tears in his eyes as he moved closer and gripped her hand in his. “What if I challenged him to a sort of duel? We could battle it out?”

“You saw the letter, Henry. He should see your army coming from miles away and could pick you off as you arrived. No,” she shook her head, trying to strengthen her own resolve. “No, no, this is the best way.”

Henry pushed away and began to pace. “After such humiliating defeat on the battlefield, our own family is forced to endure another loss against the Scots! The savages! How could I possibly take such a blow?”

Rose could feel the tears coming. This was a very dear sacrifice, indeed, and after she agreed, she might very well regret it the rest of her life. But the thought of her father being trapped and threatened was enough to give back her initial resolve. “Henry, what about this? Once I am married to Laird Rede, he ceases to be an enemy. He is no longer simply a brutish Scot, but now he is an ally and a powerful one at that! And I can do something for you while I am stationed there.”

“What is that?” Henry was now staring at her full in the face, a furrow in his brow.

“I could act as a sort of spy for you. If there are rumblings of battles against England or any of that, you would be the first to know. You!” She was growing strength in this idea, for it helped distract her from her growing fear of becoming wife to a man she had never seen but heard of only of through his reputation.

Henry nodded slowly, and it seemed an age before he spoke again, but he stepped forward and took both of her hands in his. “If you’re sure about this, dear sister. If you are certain, then I don’t really see any other way.”

It was done. Her sacrifice in the battle had now been decided.

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Chapter I

Scottish Highlands

June 7, 1650

The first early morning rays of light cascaded into the room, lighting the stone floors while a gentle breeze billowed the maroon curtains inside. Aindreas groaned as the light struck him, and he rolled over before grabbing his pillow and covering his face with it. There was a light knock at his door, and he sighed while burying his face into the cushions, hoping whoever was standing outside his bedchamber door would leave at once and come back at a later hour.

“Master Aindreas,” Marcus’s deep voice called from beyond the door.

Aindreas shot up from the bed, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes while trying to urge the pounding in his head away. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had that last pint before turning in the night before, but the music had played and the bonnie lasses danced. He couldn’t have left even if he tried.

He stumbled towards the door, leaning against the wall to steady himself for a moment while reaching for his crimson tartan. The cloth was striped in the MacBean clan’s green, blue, black, and white and had been left crumpled on the stone floor next to his bed. He sighed while wrapping it tightly around himself, not caring if he was naked from the waist up. Assuredly, if the maids wanted to have a look, they could.

It wasn’t like him to keep them from being entertained.

Throwing open the door, he winced when the torch flashed in front of him and frowned at the freckled and dirt-stained face of Marcus, who seemed unusually uneasy. The soldier reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a wrinkled envelope with the Cambel’s horned boar insignia. “This came in just now,” Marcus whispered while looking around the halls.

“Well, give it here,” said Aindreas while seizing the envelope.

He turned on his heel, not caring if Marcus joined him or not. He wrote the Cambels several weeks prior. He was beginning to give up hope they would ever answer his invitation. The door creaked closed while he ripped open the envelope, quickly unfolding the letter and inhaling its words.

To the only son of Laird Duncan MacBean, the letter began,

I find it interesting that it is you writing me and not your father, laird of Castle Lachlan, about the circumstances regarding my only daughter, Sorcha. If we were living in different times, I would have burned your letter. However, I cannot deny that your men’s fighting power would aid us in the fight against the MacAlisters, and therefore, I am interested in what an arranged marriage would do for the likes of our clans. My daughter and I will come in a fortnight to meet with your father as tradition will have it. Hopefully, we will be able to come to an agreement, but bear in mind, boy, the Cambel’s do not like to be trifled with. I would hate to travel all the way there only to have my hopes deflated.

Until we meet,

Laird of the Cambel Clan, Paul Cambel.

Aindreas’s hands shook as he reread the letter while his lips lifted into a joyful smile.

“Well?” asked Marcus. “What did he say?”

Aindreas glanced over his shoulder, a broad smile on his face while he met the anxious gaze of his soldier. “He’ll be here in a fortnight.”

Marcus’s eyes widened. “He agreed to it, then?” He frowned and stepped from side to side before grabbing his hat and twisting it with a white-knuckled grip. “I don’t know, Aindreas. Yer father-“

Aindreas scoffed. “My father can’t tell the difference between his right and his left foot at this point.”

Marcus made a face. “Aye, but he is still the laird. He will be angry when he finds out that ye went around him like this.”

Aindreas rolled his eyes and padded towards the trunk at the foot of his bed. He lifted the lid and grabbed the cleanest white shirt he could find, quickly throwing it over his shoulders and tucking the ends into his tartan. “He didn’t believe I could do it, is all,” said Aindreas while searching for his thick wool socks and shoes. “Once he finds out I was successful, he will agree to it.”

Aindreas stepped towards the vanity near the window, taking a moment to splash water onto his pallid face. He gazed back at himself, frowning at the dark circles under his cerulean eyes and the way his golden-brown hairstuck to his face. He still smelled like a pub from the night before. The pipe smoke and the ale lingered on his hair and flesh, but he didn’t have time to call for a bath.

If he played his cards right, he might catch his father before he was dragged from meeting to meeting. The village speakers kept the Laird MacBean busy from dawn to dusk, and although Aindreas was not looking forward to another fight, he knew he needed his father’s aid in at least this. If the MacBeans aligned themselves with the Cambels, then not only would the clan be safe, but Aindreas’s future would be secured.

He could become laird. He would have the power to fight against the MacAlisters. Aindreas straightened himself and pressed his hands against the wrinkles in his shirt, trying to smooth them out.

“I don’t know about this, Master Aindreas.”

Aindreas smirked at his reflection before turning his attentions back to Marcus. “That’s what ye always say, Marcus. Ever since we were young boys, sword fighting in the fields.”

Marcus winced but didn’t say anything.

Aindreas stepped towards him, stopping mere inches away. He raised one finger while smiling brightly at his soldier, his friend. “And haven’t I always been right?”

Marcus scowled. “Hardly.”

Aindreas grabbed Marcus by his shoulders, spinning him around before throwing open the door. “Haven’t I always gotten us out of trouble?”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Only because ye got us into it in the first place.”

Aindreas ignored Marcus while they strolled down the dimly lit halls of Castle Lachlan and stepped down the winding staircases. “Ye will see my friend,” said Aindreas cheerfully. “Father will eventually see it my way.” He smiled his best at a passing maid, carrying a platter of fruit from the kitchen towards the grand hall.

“Good morn, Master Aindreas,” said the maid while dipping into a short curtsy. She smiled shyly up at him, her doe brown eyes gleaming with sheer joy.

Aindreas winked at her while reaching for two apples and juggling them effortlessly in the air. “Good morn, Miss. Don’t ye look bonnie today?”

The maid giggled, her gaze fluttering up to him before dipping back to the floor. “Why, thank ye, Master Aindreas.”

Aindreas heard Marcus’s irritated sigh and glanced over his shoulder, finding his friend crossing his arms while shaking his head.

“What?” Aindreas asked with a shrug.

“What in heaven’s name are ye doing still standing out here?” he heard Cook shouting from the Grand Hall. He chuckled while watching the poor maid rush towards the entrance.

“Apologies,” the maid murmured, her head bowed low.

“Apologies will do ye no good here, lassie,” said Cook while swatting the girl’s bottom with a dirty rag. She turned her shrewd grey eyes onto Aindreas, who held a hand to his mouth in an attempt to keep himself from laughing too loud. He didn’t need Cook on his back, although the hand over his mouth did nothing to divert Cook’s attention. Her brows tented into a deep scowl as she waddled her portly body towards him.

“Master Aindreas,” she said without a bow. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and looked him over. “Good of ye to finally join us. I thought ye were going to sleep the morn away.”

Aindreas blinked innocently while pressing a hand against his chest. “Me?” he asked while glancing over his shoulder at Marcus, who was still shaking his head. “Why, I would never!”

Cook pursed her lips while peeking over his shoulder at Marcus. “And what trouble is he getting up to now, young Marcus?”

“Ye don’t want to know,” came Marcus’s reply, which sounded more like a groan to Aindreas’s ears.

“Now, isn’t that a new ring?” Aindreas grabbed Cook’s hand and brought the ring to his gaze. He squeezed Cook’s hand lightly while offering her his best charming smile. Cook’s scowl darkened, yet there was nothing she could do to hide the soft blush staining her cheeks. The gold band glimmered on her finger. “A present from yer husband, I suppose?”

“Oh, enough with ye,” said Cook while lurching her hand from his grasp. “Off with ye, now. Before I whip ye like the good old days.”

Aindreas chuckled while quickly stepping inside, barely missing the swat of Cook’s towel against his rump. He looked around the large hall, draped in the MacBean banner streaming down from the walls with the grey wildcat sewn into the cloth. The men and women of the clan gathered around the long tables, breaking their fast with a variety of pastries and dried cheeses. He searched the tables for his father, knowing he wouldn’t find him at the head, but amongst his men, probably already discussing the taxes for the next season and the harvest.

“Good morn, Master Aindreas,” came a sultry voice and a soft caress on his arm.

He turned, smiling down at a maid he knew well, yet her name escaped his mind. Her sultry red lips and big blue eyes could halt any man’s heart. Aindreas glanced over his shoulder while he shifted anxiously from foot to foot. He didn’t have time to speak with her, although their regular meetings hardly ever involved speaking, only the gentle press of lips upon lips. He barely had time for that as well.

“I missed ye the other night,” he heard her say, drawing him away from the crowd of gathering men.

He forced a smile and stroked a curl away from her cheek, hoping he seemed genuine, when deep down, all he wanted to do was find his father. “And I ye,” he said softly, so no one but she could hear. “But now is not the right time.”

He turned to leave, but her hand tightened on his arm. “Will I see ye tonight?”

Aindreas’s smile thinned, and he tilted his head in a curt nod. “Of course.” He watched the worry leave her eyes and a joyful smile grace her lips before he quickly turned and stalked towards the group of men standing in the corner.

“Father?” Aindreas called while stepping through the crowd. He frowned when the village speakers glanced his way, offering a brief greeting, yet he could not find his father amongst them. They nodded and bowed towards him, making him feel young and inferior. He turned around, wondering if his father was indeed dining with his aunt and cousin. His father’s chair was empty, and his aunt, Alisa, was watching him with sharp brown eyes.

He held his head high while he strode through the hall towards his aunt, who straightened in her long-backed chair. She was a reed-like woman, tall and lithe with pale skin that seemed never to see the daylight. If it wasn’t for her dour demeanor, Aindreas supposed she looked a bit like his mother. A fact he often tried to ignore. Her son, Daniel, was similar to his aunt and Aindreas’s mother, with brown eyes and a frail body. However, rather than having Alisa’s thick brown hair, which seemed to grow grayer by the day, his cousin had bouncing dark curls, like his father before him.

Aindreas was different. A fact that never ceased to haunt him.

He didn’t look like anyone in his family, not with his fair looks and stocky build. Nothing about him was reed or waif-like with his muscled arms and broad shoulders. It was something most men would yearn for. It was something Aindreas often gloated about unless he was thinking about his mother’s last words before her passing.

Aindreas smiled bitterly at his aunt. “Where’s Father?”

Her eyes widened, looking shocked, but Aindreas saw through her. She was mocking him. She was always mocking him. “Ye mean, he didn’t tell ye?”

“Tell me what?” Aindreas looked between Daniel and Alisa, waiting for someone to tell him what was going on.

“Uncle Duncan left last night,” said Daniel, a hint of surprise coating his tone. “He said it would be just a short trip. We expect him back later tonight or tomorrow. Did he really not say a word to ye?”

Aindreas’s mouth hung open, and he offered a short shake of his head in answer. “How can that be?” he breathed, feeling both shocked and hurt. He tried to replay the night before in his head. They had fought and exchanged words no normal father and son would say, yet Aindreas couldn’t fathom that would be the reason as to why his father wouldn’t inform him of his trip.

“I thought he told ye,” said Alisa sweetly while clasping her hands elegantly in her lap. She looked up at him as if she were queen of all, and he was nothing more than a pauper. Aindreas’s jaw clenched while he attempted to restrain himself. For all he knew, his aunt was correct in the way she treated him.

For he was nothing.

Alisa dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her handkerchief. “Whatever ye may need him for, I’m sure it can wait.”

Aindreas’s hands fisted at his sides. “No, it cannot,” he said between his clenched teeth.

His aunt looked amused. A wicked gleam glinted in her eyes while she tilted her head to the side as if she was soon to give him a lecture on proper etiquette like she once did when he was a young boy. “Well, why don’t ye speak with me? I’ll be sure to give yer father the missive.”

Aindreas smirked. “I didn’t know ye liked to play messenger, Aunt Alisa.”

Alisa’s smile dropped, and her eyes narrowed. “I am no one’s messenger, boy, but I cannot have ye yelling at yer father once more. He’s getting too old to put up with yer immaturity and selfishness.”
“I am only looking out for the clan’s best interests,” Aindreas whispered harshly while pressing his hands against the table, towering over his aunt while scowling down at her.

Alisa scoffed. “The clan’s best interests, Aindreas? Don’t ye mean yer own?”

Aindreas opened his mouth, but Daniel quickly rose from his seat before he could say a word. “Enough,” he said, his voice nearly a shout as the boy looked between Aindreas and Alisa. “Not another word from ye both. I will not have another family squabble ruining my day.” Daniel leveled his glare on Aindreas. “Uncle will be back soon. I’m sure he didn’t mean not to tell ye.”

Aindreas sighed and turned on his heel. “I’m sure he did mean to,” he murmured while striding out of the hall, trying to ignore the stares of the elders and servants while he stalked out of the room.

He didn’t stop until he was in the courtyard, watching the soldiers train and fight while grabbing a practice sword. Without saying a word, he attacked, striking his sword against a soldier’s shield before twirling around and blocking a strike from behind. If all else failed, he could fight. Fighting was the only thing that calmed him, assuaged his fears. It was the only thing that helped after his mother’s death. The only thing that allowed him to ignore his mother’s words, whispering darkly at the back of his head. The only thing that could help him get through the fact that his father had caused his mother’s death.

Chapter II

Blair lugged three large logs in her arms while moving quickly through the field. Her gaze kept returning to the dark clouds hanging low in the sky while the winds whipped through her dark hair, making the strands scratch against her flesh. The sky rumbled in warning, and she cursed herself for not working quickly. She still had much to finish before the rains began: tending to the mare, starting the fire, tidying the garden supplies, moving the wagon back into the barn. Lightning flashed above her, signaling she had run out of time.

She urged herself forward, grunting while shoving open the cottage door. The wood tumbled from her arms onto the floorboards while the door slammed back and forth against the entrance. The winds whistled while another flash cracked in the air. A horse cried out in the distance, and Blair turned on her heel, running outside towards the struggling mare running back and forth in the gated field.

Blair grabbed a rope lying on the fence and tied it around the mare’s neck before opening the gate. “Don’t worry,” she murmured to the mare, who neighed and swayed from side to side as thunder rumbled above them. “It will be alright. Ye will be fine in just a few minutes. I promise ye.”

She led the mare towards the barn. Rain dropped from the heavens one droplet at a time before picking up in speed and depth. Blair paused several feet from the barn door, finding a horse standing outside it.

“Who are ye?” she whispered to the stallion while stroking its dark hair, cascading down its dark flanks. “Where is yer master?” Blair looked around for a moment until her eyes narrowed on the ajar barn door.

Blair’s heart hammered in her chest. She knew being a woman living on her own could be difficult, yet she had hoped a day like today would never come. The mare behind her cried as lightning flashed again, followed by a sharp crash of sound. The rope pulled through her palm, ripping against flesh and making Blair hiss. She released the tether and whirled around, fumbling to grab it once more before the mare could run away.

“Easy!” Blair cried out, holding up her other hand while trying to calm the horse crying in front of her. “Everything is fine.” Blair’s voice quivered with her words, finding it difficult to find truth in them. She didn’t have a weapon. She didn’t know how to defend herself against any man wanting to take advantage of her. Her eyes scanned the area, landing on a hoe that still needed to be tidied. She seized it with her free hand and crept towards the door, opening it further and peering inside its shadowy depths.

“Hello?” she called out while looking around.

Silence greeted her.

She edged deeper inside, holding out the gardening tool while pulling the mare behind her. “Is anyone there?”

Something clanged. She jumped, letting go of the rope and holding the hoe with both hands in front of her. “I have a weapon, and I’m not afraid to use it,” she said while whipping it around herself. Rain poured down, clattering against the roof and dripping into the barn. “Show yerself right now!”

She heard a groan from behind and whirled around, finding an elderly-looking man stumbling towards her. His greying brown hair stuck to his face while droplets of sweat glistened his pale skin.

“Blair,” he murmured while swaying on his legs. His glazed green eyes tried to focus on her before fluttering closed. He leaned against a beam, propping his body up while wiping the sweat from his brow. “I need Blair.”

Blair slowly lowered her weapon but did not drop it. “I’m Blair,” she said while cautiously stepping towards him. “Do I know ye, sir?”

The man groaned and slipped to the ground. He reached into his pockets, pulling out a handkerchief and pressing it to his mouth as he coughed violently. Blair dropped her weapon as memories of Mamó’s death came rushing back to her. She kneeled in front of the man, watching him rasp into his handkerchief.

“Let me help ye,” she whispered while crawling towards him. She wrapped his arm around her shoulders and rose, struggling with his dead weight holding her down.

“Yer Mamó,” he murmured while she stumbled out of the barn. “Where is yer Mamó?”

“Dead,” Blair said through clenched teeth, trying to ignoring the tears welling in her eyes and the pain seizing her heart. She frowned at his horse, pausing for a moment while the rain poured down, soaking her hair and her clothes. Glancing between the horse and the man, she knew she would need to return for his horse and ensure the stallion was fed and tended to, but first, she needed to help the man inside.

The man’s head lulled towards her, and she watched his green eyes widen in horror upon her. Blair ignored his stare while urging them forward and kicking open the door to the cottage. Her arms trembled, and she clenched her teeth, biting through the burn while fighting to keep him steady. She was going to drop him soon. She just needed to get to the bed first. With one final step, she lowered him onto the cot and heaved a sigh in relief before running outside and grabbing his stallion by the reins.

“Let’s get ye inside before ye catch a chill,” she said to the horse before pulling him inside the barn and locking the doors.

She ran through the rain back to the cottage, finding the man burying himself underneath the blankets. Blair set herself to starting the fire, piling the logs underneath the pot and clicking the stones against each other with shivering fingers.

“How could yer Mamó be dead?” she heard the man whisper from her side.

Blair inhaled deeply to calm herself, knowing she would burst into tears if they continued discussing the matter. “Been dead two years now, sir. I apologize if ye had business with her.” She glanced at the man out of the corner of her eye, taking in his crimson tartan with the MacBean colors and his wildcat emblem hooked at his shoulder. His clothes were soaked through by fever and rain.

“Let me help ye out of yer clothes,” she said while moving towards him and taking his emblem, noticing it was made out of genuine silver.

“I needed her help.” Blair cringed at the desperate tone in the man’s voice. “She was the only one who could help me.”

Blair didn’t know what to say. She knew very little about her Mamó’s past. The elderly woman had kept too much from Blair, protecting her from the world and preventing her from taking part in it. She pulled the man’s shirt over his head and placed it near the fire in the hopes it would dry. She returned to help with his tartan, but before she could remove it, the man snatched her hand and wrenched her forward.

Blair bit back a scream as the man’s green eyes focused on her. Her eyes widened in horror, wondering if he was faking ill all along. She waited for him to say anything while his feverish skin warmed her fingers. His eyes, filled with a wild fear, slowly softened as he stared upon her.

“Ye look so much like her,” he breathed while releasing her.

“Like who?” Blair whispered, but the man didn’t say anything as his body sluggishly laid back on the bed. His shoulders heaved while another bout of coughing took over.

“Let me get ye some tea.” Blair turned on her heel and went for the cabinets. “I’m sure something in here can help ye.” She grabbed a jar filled with herbs, not knowing exactly what lay inside, but knowing it was the jar Mamó had often chosen when Blair was sick as a little girl. She ladled out hot water into a mug and mixed the herbs with a spoon, hoping, at the very least, it would calm his nerves.

Blair handed him the tea, watching him guzzle it down quickly before setting it on the nightstand near him. She waited for him to say something or at least explain who she reminded him of, yet all he did was close his eyes. Within mere moments, his breathing became steady.

She watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest while he slept, unable to rest herself due to the storm raging outside and this strange old man in her bed. Wiping the sweat from his brow, she wondered how he knew her Mamó and why he would come after all these years.

***

Blair groaned, her hands clinging to the armrest. She had tried to remain awake the whole night, wanting to look after the elderly man residing under her roof to ensure his survival, yet sleep had claimed her. She blinked her eyes open, rubbing them while she looked around the room. The sun had already risen, and light peeked into the room through the small window near the bed.

Her gaze lowered, settling on the elderly man, who watched her with weary eyes from where he lay on the mattress. Concern was etched in his eyes and a sense of familiarity she couldn’t quite place. She recognized his gaze from somewhere, but she couldn’t recall where from. She shifted away from him in her seat, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. How long had he been watching her? she wondered uneasily. She wasn’t used to having guests under her roof, nor was she used to people watching her while she slept.

She slid out of her chair and pushed her tangled hair away from her eyes before grabbing her shawl resting on the table behind her. Swinging it over her shoulders, she asked softly, “How do ye feel, sir?” She did not know what to do with such a man or what she should say. It had been so long since she had the company of others; too long, in fact. Her fingers fidgeted with the fraying ends of the red fabric while she kept her head bowed and her back turned.

“Fine, thanks to ye,” came the elderly man’s rasp.

Blair nodded while edging towards the door. “I’m glad.” She slowly turned around, wondering what more she could do for the man now that he was better. She needed to get the horses out of the barn and into the pasture. She needed to look for any damage the storm may have caused to the cottage or the fields. There was too much to do in such little time, and there was a high likelihood she wouldn’t finish all her duties. This was always the case, making each day drag on and on.

At least she always had something to do, something to keep her from thinking of her pitiful life. It was when she stopped to think of her loneliness when the pain and despair took hold of her, making her crack and break into sobs no one would ever hear.

The man groaned, pushing his body up into a sitting position, and Blair found herself stepping towards him, grabbing his hands and helping him get comfortable. “Ye should take it easy,” she said while positioning the pillows behind his back. “Ye may be better, but I don’t think yer fully fit yet.”

The man chuckled, yet his laughter was short-lived as the coughing took over. Once again, Blair was reminded of her Mamó as she watched him press a hand against his mouth and wipe the spittle from his lips. She grabbed the cleanest towel near the pot at the fireplace, cringing at the dirt she found on the cloth, but it was the only thing she could offer him.

“Thank ye,” said the man while taking it and pressing it against his mouth. “Sadly, I don’t believe I will ever be fit again.”

Thinking of her Mamó reminded her of what the man said before, and she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “How did ye know my Mamó?”

The man sighed. “I didn’t quite know her. Only of her.” He lowered the towel into his lap and stared up at her, his mouth hanging open slightly as he searched for his next words. “It was yer mama I knew. Ye look,” the man paused, and Blair noticed his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Ye look so much like her.” He shook his head, running a trembling hand through his hair. “She used to be a maid at Castle Lachlan.”

“Is that where yer from?”

The man chuckled. “That’s where I live. I am the Laird Duncan MacBean.”

Blair’s eyes widened, and she quickly dropped into a low curtsy. “Laird MacBean,” she whispered harshly while bowing her head, feeling mortified that the laird was in her dismal cottage, and she had hardly provided him more than a simple cup of tea for his troubles. “My apologies, my laird. I did not know ye. I should have-“ She felt a hand on her head, halting her words as he patted her gently like he would a young lad.

“‘Tis fine, Child.”

Blair lifted her gaze, finding Laird MacBean smiling at her kindly. She slowly rose from her curtsy and straightened herself, suddenly feeling even more self-conscious of her person. Her hands smoothed her wrinkled skirts before running through her tangled hair. She inwardly cringed, knowing she probably looked more like a Bean-nighe than the ladies he was accustomed to meeting.

“Let me offer my genuine condolences for the loss of yer Mamó.” Laird MacBean sighed and wiped a hand over his face. “I did not know she had passed. If I had, I would have come sooner.”

Blair edged closer to his side. So many questions pestered her, taunting her. Why did he have need to come? She and her family were nothing more than peasant folk. Why did he have need to check up on her Mamó? How did he even know her name?

It was the one question she was desperate to ask.

Blair parted her lips, the words on the tip of her tongue, yet she couldn’t speak them no matter how much she tried. She hardly knew this man. He was several stations above her. How could she question him?

“It doesn’t matter now,” Laird MacBean said while reaching for his tartan on the floor. “I am here now, and that is what matters.” He forced a smile, tilting his head to the side. “Would ye like to come with me and live a better life in my castle?”

Blair’s mouth hung open. Startled, she stumbled backward into her chair, nearly toppling it over. She grabbed the back of it, partly to keep it stable and partly to stop the trembling in her hands. “Join ye?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “How could ye ask such a thing? I am nothing more than a commoner. Ye hardly know me at all.”

Laird MacBean nodded his head. “Aye, yer right. ‘‘Tis a crazy thing to ask, and yet I ask it. Wouldn’t ye rather have a better life? Around others, learning to become a proper lady. Perhaps find someone to marry.” Laird MacBean looked around the room, his nose scrunching upwards as he took in the dusty beams and the cluttered pots. “I shan’t imagine ye would prefer to stay here of all places, but ‘‘tis yer choice to make.”

Blair’s brow furrowed as she watched the old laird tie his tartan awkwardly around his waist before removing the blanket from his body. He slowly rose, reaching for his shirt and pulling it over his freckled shoulders. “I still don’t know why ye would want me?” Blair found herself asking, her voice hardly above a whisper.

“Yer a good caretaker. It would be a waste to have yer skills go unused. I could use someone like ye to help me.” His gaze met hers, rooting her to the floorboards, and she found herself unable to look away from those familiar eyes. “I’ve been unwell for the past year. I only ask ye keep my ailment a secret. I don’t need any more prying eyes. I already have that enough as it is.” He grimaced. “The vultures keep swarming around me, wondering when I’ll die, so they can fight over the lairdship. My son, bless his soul, being one of them.”

Her hands grasped her skirts as she watched him reach for his boots, taking out his sgian-dubh for a moment. He looked over the knife before placing it back into his boot and stuffing his foot inside. Blair clenched her jaw as he stood, not knowing what to do. This was her Mamó’s home. It was once her mother’s home. How could she leave the only place that held such memories of joy and wisdom? She had chopped the vegetables with her Mamó at the table. She had stirred the pot. She had learned her letters, learned how to ride a horse in the pastures just outside her home.

And her Mamó had passed away on that very bed.

Truly, there was nothing for her here: nothing but pain and loneliness. If she were to stay, she would continue living out her days, wondering what could have come to pass. She straightened her back, jutting out her chin and hoping she appeared more refined in the laird’s eye.

“I will go with ye.”

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Chapter I

Etna sat by the window of her father’s study, the hefty book in her lap long forgotten. She was staring at her father, who was looking at her with such a pleased smile that it only served to infuriate her even more.

“What makes ye think that I wish to tutor Laird MacAlistair’s daughter?” she asked him as she stood and crossed her arms over her chest defensively. Her father hadn’t even asked her. He had simply announced that he had accepted the offer on her behalf.

“All yer life ye wished to be a tutor,” her father, Dougal, reminded her. “Ye were but ten years of age, and ye always said ‘Dadaidh, I wish to be a tutor like ye when I grow up.’ Weel, ye’re all grown up noo, and Laird MacAlistair asked specifically for ye.”

That was another thing that Etna didn’t understand. “Why would the Laird ask for me?”

“Because he kens ye’re me daughter,” her father said. “And he kens that ye’ll teach his daughter weel, like I taught him weel when he was but a bairn. He wants someone he can trust, and he trusts us. Ye should be honored that he asked for ye.”

Honored. What is honor compared to fear?

Etna had heard everything there was to hear about Laird MacAlistair. It was hard to live under his rule and not know that he was an unpleasant man at best, a cruel man at worst. There were rumors about him that Etna couldn’t simply ignore, tales of his brutality that made her skin crawl. Everyone called him Beast because of his viciousness and his allegedly disfigured face that made mirrors break and children run to their mothers.

That’s what happens to evil men, Etna had heard one of the old women in the village say. Their evil shows on their face.

Of course, Etna didn’t believe in that. She knew enough about the world, had read enough books, and studied enough subjects to know that it was nothing but old wives’ tales. That was one of the reasons why she hated being in that village so much. Everyone was close-minded and wouldn’t even consider the possibility that the Laird had simply had an accident or had been wounded in some other way. They had a superstition for everything, and when Etna tried to tell them that they were wrong, she feared that they would hang her as a witch.

“Ye’ve wanted to leave this village ever since we came here,” her father reminded her. “Noo is yer chance.”

“Faither, I wished to go back to Edinburgh,” Etna reminded him. “Na the Laird’s castle. I want to go back home. I want to go back to the city.”

“Ye ken that we canna do that.”

Etna fell back down onto the chair with a sigh. Every time the two of them had that conversation, her father always told her the same thing: they couldn’t return to Edinburgh. Etna had tried to reason with him, telling him that she could work now, too, and that they would have two incomes to support themselves, but Dougal wouldn’t hear any of it. She was certain that it was more than their lack of money. She was certain that he had grown to like the quiet life of the village, but she couldn’t enjoy a single minute of it. Ever since they had left Edinburgh after her mother’s death, looking for a cheaper place to live, Etna had been dreaming about the moment that she would go back.

“Ye ken that bein’ a tutor for the Laird’s bairn is the best option ye have,” her father said as he walked up to her from behind his desk, perching himself on the windowsill next to her. “Ye always wanted to do this, Etna. Dinna let some rumors stop ye.”

“But everyone always says that the Laird is a terrible man,” Etna pointed out, looking at her father with wide, pleading eyes. “How can ye send me there when ye ken that?”

“Dinna listen to what everyone says,” Dougal told her, shaking his head. “I didna expect ye to believe what ye hear about the Laird. Ye ken how the people in these parts can be. Weel, I was his tutor when he was younger, and I ken that he’s a good man. I wouldna send ye to that castle if I thought that ye’d be in any sort of danger, Etna. I am askin’ ye to forget everythin’ that ye’ve heard about him until ye meet him yerself. Ye can make yer own judgment.”

“And ff me own judgment is the same as everyone else’s?” Etna asked.

With a sigh, Dougal patted her shoulder with a gentle hand. “Then ye’ll leave the castle and return here. I willna force ye to do anythin’ that ye dinna wish to do. I’m only askin’ ye to give the Laird a chance.”

The assurance that she could always return to her father put Etna at ease. It was good to know that if the Laird turned out to be a horrible man, she could always leave the castle, that she would always have a place with Dougal.

I should be grateful, really. I should be thankin’ him.

Her father had always been the most important person in her life, and he had always been so understanding, so accepting of everything that she wanted to do. He had taught her everything that she knew, and not once had he pressured her to marry. Some of her friends—bright, promising young women—had been lost to marriage, and she had no intention of heading down the same path.

And now, all that he was asking of her was to follow her dream to become a tutor, to guide a young life and teach it everything that she knew. She had the chance to do what she had always wanted to do, and she had almost turned it down because of some rumors.

“Alright,” she said, a small smile spreading over her lips. “I suppose that I can go to the castle and see how it is to live there. But I’m warnin’ ye, Faither . . . if I dinna like bein’ there, I will leave.”

“I have no doubts about that,” her father said, giving her a smile of his own as he stood, heading back to his chair.

Etna watched him for a few moments. Though his brown hair had started to grey at the temples, his eyes were as bright as ever, the same green as her own. At fifty-five, he was still young and sprightly—though a little pudgy from avoiding manual work—but he had never been alone before in his life. Etna had always been there for him, and he had always been there for her. The two of them had been taking care of each other ever since her mother had passed, leaving them all alone.

Will he be alright on his own here? What if he needs me help? Me company? How am I to leave him all alone?

It was an excuse, Etna knew, but she didn’t want to admit it. Unlike her, her father was quick to make a friend out of everyone he met, and he was anything but alone in the village. It was rare that it was just the two of them in the house, as people were coming in and out throughout the day, her father’s guests, all of them seeking his company.

The truth was that she was lonelier than he was. She wasn’t particularly shy, and she had had plenty of friends in Edinburgh, but the feelings of hopelessness had isolated her from those around her when she had moved to Beninroch, a remote little village three days’ ride from Inverness. Now, she thought it was too late to make a good impression on her neighbors.

Perhaps a fresh start is precisely what I need. Goin’ to the castle where no one kens who I am, where I may make some friends.

And after all, she could always visit her father. The castle wasn’t that far from the village, and she would make it clear that as long as she tutored the Laird’s daughter as agreed, she would be allowed to do as she wished.

“When am I required to be there?” Etna asked her father. Now that the decision had been made, she would have to get everything in order before she could leave. Although what exactly there was for her to do in that house, in that village, she didn’t know. She simply didn’t want to leave before ensuring that her father would be fine.

“As soon as possible,” Dougal told her. “Ye can leave the morrow if ye so wish.”

“The morrow?” Etna exclaimed. “It’s much too soon, Faither. What about ye?”

“What about me?”

“Weel . . . we dinna have much wood left in the house, and what about meat and—”

Dougal stopped her by raising a finger, shushing her. “Etna, I am perfectly capable of getting me own wood and meat, lass. Ye dinna have to worry about me. Ye’ve worried about me for too long. It’s time that ye leave this place.”

Etna didn’t bother telling her father that as much as she wanted to leave the village, she didn’t particularly want to go to the MacAlistair clan castle. There was only one place where she wanted to go, and that was Edinburgh, as she knew that no matter where she went, as long as she was in the countryside, the people surrounding her would be close-minded. She had had enough of people who thought that she couldn’t teach because she was a woman and that the only thing she was good for was marriage. But the two of them had had many arguments about it, and she never did manage to reason with him. She was wasting her breath, repeating it to him, and so she remained silent.

But perhaps if I do weel with the Laird’s daughter, he will give me the means to go to Edinburgh. Perhaps, I could negotiate with him.

That thought grew in Etna’s mind within moments, and suddenly, she had a plan. She would go to the castle, would do her best to teach the Laird’s daughter, and, once she saved up enough money, she would finally go back home, to her real home, to Edinburgh. And by then, she thought, she would surely have the credentials to teach many other children, and she could bring her father with her. He wouldn’t have to worry about his finances anymore.

“What are ye smilin’ about?” her father asked her, pulling her out of her thoughts. When Etna looked at him, she noticed that he was smiling, too, as though her own smile was contagious.

“Nothin’,” she lied. She decided that her father didn’t need to know about her plans, in case he loved the village as much as she suspected, and tried to put an end to them. “I’m only thinkin’ about the travel to the castle.”

From the look that Dougal gave her, Etna thought that he didn’t believe her, but thankfully he didn’t push her for a more truthful answer. Instead, he went back to his papers, and Etna went back to her book, feeling happier than she remembered being in a while.

It wasn’t only happiness, though, she noticed. It was hope too.

That night, she could hardly sleep, spending the hours staring at the ceiling and waiting for daylight to come. The prospect of returning to her beloved home had left her too excited to sleep, and all she could do was count the minutes until she could grab her horse and head to the castle.

***

At the first light of the morning, Etna stood from her bed, throwing the belongings that she needed in two bags. Before doing anything else, she headed to the study, knowing that her father would already be there.

She found him behind his desk, hunched over it. In front of him, he had her favorite book, the one that he read to her every night when she was young, and he didn’t seem to notice her as she entered. Etna watched him in silence, a flood of emotions overtaking her.

She would miss her father terribly, and she knew that the same would be true for him. If he asked her to stay, Etna would, but she knew that he would never do that. He wanted her to find her own place in the world, he had told her once. He wanted her to live her own life, and that meant that she would eventually have to leave him behind, at least for a while.

When Dougal noticed her, it startled both of them. Etna didn’t know how long she had been standing there, by the door, watching him, but she had forgotten that she was there.

“What are ye doin’, lass?” her father asked, his hand clutching his chest in his fright. “Ye almost scared me to death.”

“I didna want to bother ye,” she told him with a small shrug.

“Ye’re never a bother, Etna,” he said, and his voice was quiet, as though even the smallest sound could shatter the moment between them. “Are ye ready, then?”

Etna nodded, the words sticking to her throat, refusing to come out. Dougal approached her with a small smile, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Ye ken that na matter where ye are, ye’ll always have me,” he said. “And it willna be long until I see ye again. Once ye’re settled, I’ll come to visit ye.”

“Promise?” It was all Etna could say, and even that one simple word sounded broken.

“I promise. Dinna fash yerself. The castle isna that far! I can visit ye, and ye can visit me.”

That promise lifted Etna’s spirits enough to bring a smile to her lips. As painful as it was to leave, she held onto that hope that she would see him again soon.

With that, her father let his hand fall off her shoulder, his gaze coming to rest on the two bags in her hands. He took both from her and began to walk to the door, nodding his head as an invitation for Etna to follow.

She could hardly believe that the time had come for her to leave. She let her father strap the saddle onto her horse and then the bags onto the saddle, the entire time searching for the right words to say, only to find that there were none. She didn’t know how to say goodbye. They had never been apart, and the time had come too soon.

I wish he could come with me. I’ll need him more than ever when I am in that castle.

Etna averted her gaze when her father approached her, wrapping his arms around her. She clung to him, but she didn’t dare look at him, knowing that the moment their eyes would meet, she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears.

“I’ll miss ye, Faither,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, even as her hands shook. “I’ll write to ye often, I promise.”

“I’ll miss ye, too,” her father said, and he sounded more emotional than Etna had ever heard him before. Once he let her go, she noticed that he, too, averted his gaze, and she wondered if it was something that she had inherited from him, that refusal to cry in front of others. “Weel . . . it’s time to go noo. Ye dinna want to be out all alone when it’s dark.”

Etna nodded in agreement, but her legs were lead and wouldn’t move. Her father must have noticed as he gave her a small, sad smile and made his way out of the stables. Etna saw him head back to the house, and only then could she bring herself to mount her horse.

As she rode toward the edge of their property, she turned her head and looked back at the house. Her father stood in front of the door, waving at her.

She whispered a promise in the wind to see him again soon.

Chapter II

“I just dinna understand how this always happens if there is na a traitor among us,” Finley said, slamming his fist onto his desk. “Every time we go after the brigands, they manage to escape. Every single time, Lochlan. We’ve never caught even one of them.”

Lochlan, his brother, stood with his back to Finley, staring out of the study window. Finley was the Laird of the MacAlistair clan, but he didn’t feel safe even in his own castle. His study was the only place left where the two could talk without Finley worrying that they would be heard by a traitor.

“I dinna ken what to tell ye,” Lochlan said with a heavy sigh. “I agree with ye, I do, but what are we to do? We’ve tried everythin’. I canna go to the men and accuse them of bein’ traitors!”

Lochlan was right, of course. Finley had refrained from making any accusations. Even though he wasn’t as close to the men as he used to be some years prior, he couldn’t imagine that any of them would betray him. He knew all those men ever since they were all children. It made no sense to him that one of them was a traitor, but it was the only logical conclusion he could reach.

“The clan is fallin’ apart in front of me own two eyes, and there isna a thing that I can do to stop it,” Finley said, his hand coming up to curl around a cup of wine that he had finished too soon. He tipped the carafe over it and found that empty, too, which only served to infuriate him even further. “I am their Laird, and I can do nothin’ but sit back and watch as those brigands destroy our lands.”

The look that Lochlan gave him was not one of pity, as Finley had been expecting, but rather one that spoke of how unimpressed he was. Despite his anger, Finley didn’t say anything. Even without speaking, he knew what Lochlan was thinking, and he knew that he had a point.

Ever since Anna, his dear wife, had passed, he had withdrawn from everything and everyone. The clansmen had no trust in him anymore. The village people in his land had no trust in him either, and he had heard of their unsavory nickname for him: Beast.

That was how they thought of him, and, perhaps, that was precisely what he was. The burden of the past he was carrying made him less and less human every day, chipping away at his soul.

“What do ye want me to do?” Lochlan asked. “Anythin’ ye want, I’ll do it. But we must come up with a plan before we accuse any of the men of bein’ a traitor to the clan.”

“Aye, I ken,” Finley assured him. “And I dinna have a good guess as to whom it could be. Yer guess is as good as mine. I can hardly believe that any of our men would do such a thing.”

Lochlan gave him a slow, understanding nod as he walked back to his chair, falling onto it with a sigh. “The most important thing right noo is to protect the villages. The brigands have been stealin’ from our people and killin’ our men for too long. They’ve tried to defend themselves, but there’s na much they can do. They’re na trained. They have na weapons. They are na match for the brigands.”

“We canna send men to every village,” Finley pointed out. “Perhaps we can spare a few and send them to the biggest ones, but there is na a thing we can do for the smaller ones unless we can finally fight them. But how will we fight them if they always run to the mountains?”

“We’ll find a way,” Lochlan assured him, but Finley could tell that he wasn’t as certain as he wanted to sound. “But Finley . . . ye must speak to the people. Ye’ve spent too long away from them. I’m surprised they even remember that ye’re their Laird.”

Finley shook his head. Lochlan already knew that he couldn’t do such a thing, and he also knew why. He couldn’t bear to be out there. He couldn’t bear to speak to anyone. Even though it had been five years since his wife’s death, it still haunted him, and he had not felt joy since. The mere thought of talking to his people, of touring the land and trying to get everyone to like him again, was exhausting. He would much rather stay in the castle and leave everything that had to do with people on Lochlan. After all, his brother had always been the social one, the one that constantly attracted people.

“Ye willna do it.” It wasn’t a question as much as a statement, and Finley looked up to see Lochlan shaking his head at him in disappointment.

“I canna.”

“Ye willna,” Lochlan insisted. “Weel . . . at least come with us on the hunt.”

Finley frowned at that. “The hunt?” he asked. It was the first time that he was hearing of it. “What hunt, Lochlan?”

“Weel, me and a few of the lads are goin’ huntin’,” Lochlan said with a small shrug.

“Noo?” Finley asked. “Do ye really think it’s a good time to be huntin’? I’d rather hunt the brigands than boars.”

“Weel, ye canna hunt the brigands until they show their faces again,” Lochlan pointed out. “And it’s good for the men. It keeps them in shape. It’ll do ye plenty of good, too, ye’ll see. Ye’ll get some fresh air.”

“I can walk around the castle grounds to get fresh air, thank ye,” Finley said, but the mischievous smile on Lochlan’s lips told him that he wouldn’t simply let it go. Finley knew his brother well; when he got an idea in his head, it was impossible to get it out. “Must I?”

“Na, but I think that ye should,” Lochlan said. “Ye’re the Laird . . . I canna force ye to do anythin’ ye dinna want.”

“But?”

“But ye’re also me brother, and I can annoy ye into comin’ with us.”

Finley knew that to be true. Reluctantly, he nodded his head, thinking that it would be easier to simply do as Lochlan wanted instead of fighting him over something so silly. Besides, perhaps it would be good for him in the end, he thought. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had left the castle, and he certainly couldn’t remember the last time that he had spoken to any of his men about anything other than clan business. Ye have to bond with them, Lochlan always said. Ye have to show them that ye care.

The truth was that Finley did care. He cared about his clan, about his people, and there had been a time when everyone had known that. There had been a time when no one called him Beast, when his people loved him, and the brigands feared him. There had been a time when he could look his clansmen in the eye. But that time was long gone, and now all was left was that guilt that was eating him up alive.

“Excellent,” Lochlan said as he stood once more, this time heading for the door. “We’ll be leavin’ the morrow at first light, so make sure that ye get some rest tonight.”

With that, Lochlan was gone, shutting the door behind him, and leaving Finley alone with his thoughts once more.

As much as he couldn’t stand being around people, he also hated being alone. It meant that he had too much time to think, too much time to consider what could have been different if his wife was still alive, what he had lost. In all those five years, he had barely even managed to talk to his daughter, and it was only getting worse. He couldn’t remember when he had last spoken to her. He had just left her in his grandmother’s hands, letting her raise her as she saw fit.

I’m a failure. I canna even do that right.

At least his grandmother would raise Malina well, that much he knew for certain. She was the closest thing that the girl could have to a mother figure, after all, and Finley knew that she was better off with her than with him. He was in no condition to care for a child.

Finley drained the rest of the wine that Lochlan had left behind before retiring to his chambers. The room always seemed so big to him without Anna in it, and it was no different now. He was used to being all alone, though, and he preferred it that way. Most of his nights were sleepless, and the moment that his head hit the pillow, he knew that he wouldn’t be resting much.

***

The morning came later than he would have liked, and by the time the first light broke in the horizon, Finley had slept very little after tossing and turning all night, like most nights. Still, he stood and dressed before heading outside to find Lochlan and the rest of the men who would join them on their hunt.

He wasn’t surprised to find that none of them was there yet. Perhaps they were having breakfast, he thought, or perhaps they were still getting ready, but Finley didn’t want to go back inside. At that time of the morning, the courtyard was still mostly empty, save for the few servants who were going about their day, having woken up before dawn. They didn’t dare look at Finley, anyway, let alone talk to him. They all knew to not disturb him and always kept a good distance from him.

No one wanted to face his wrath.

Finley had to admit that he was short-tempered, but not as much as those around him wanted to think. How could they have forgotten what he was like before Anna’s death, he wondered? How could they all think that he was a monster now? He was not the same man, but he wasn’t cruel.

“He came!” Lochlan exclaimed, his voice carrying across the courtyard. Finley turned his head to look at him and saw that there were six of their men with him, all of them ready for the day’s adventure.

“I did,” Finley said, as the men bowed in a chorus of “Me Laird’s”, rushing to greet him. They respected him, but it was a respect that stemmed from fear and knowing that left a bitter taste in Finley’s mouth. “Ye did threaten to annoy me, and I ken that ye can, so I decided that this would be less painful.”

“Only if ye dinna get run down by a boar, brother!”

Lochlan began to run to the stables, cheerful as always. Though he had the same blonde hair as Finley, he was shorter, and he had inherited their mother’s honey-brown eyes. He had also inherited her charm and her joyful disposition, it seemed.

Finley envied him for that. No matter what, Lochlan always managed to see the bright side, not letting every bad thing that had happened to him weigh him down. Then again, his woes were nothing compared to Finley’s own. He had never lost a wife. He had never had to carry a past that dragged him down daily. He didn’t have a daughter that he couldn’t face or people who hated him. He was loved by everyone, and though Finley sometimes envied him, he couldn’t help but adore him, too.

Finley listened to his men as they chatted while they walked to the horses. Once they were on their way, he fell in step next to Lochlan, who was already loud and lively, shouting with a cheer that seemed inexhaustible.

It had been a long time since Finley had banned his clansmen and women singing and laughing in the hopes that he wouldn’t have to be constantly reminded about everyone else’s happiness when he was so unhappy. And yet, Lochlan always found a way to let everyone know just how jolly he was, much to Finley’s chagrin.

“Me Laird!” Lochlan yelled, startling Finley. “Would ye care for the finest wine that our clan has to offer?”

Finley rolled his eyes at his brother, but he took the flask that he had offered to him. It never did any good to refuse a good wine, or bad wine, for that matter. Taking a swig, Finley passed the flask back to him, wincing at the burn in his throat.

“That’s na wine,” he told Lochlan.

With a frown, Lochlan looked at the flask. “Na?” he asked. “Ach, it might be whiskey. Weel, it’s better than water, that’s for certain!”

Finley gave his brother an unimpressed look. Lochlan was one of the two people—the other being their grandmother—who wasn’t afraid of him, and so his look didn’t have much of an effect on him, but it was enough to stop the conversations among the other men. They all fell silent, and Finley soon found that he preferred it that way.

His men knew better than to look at him, but in the sudden silence, Finley felt exposed. There was nothing to distract them anymore, and so he pulled his hood over his head, eager to hide. The scar that he had gotten on his face the day that Anna died wasn’t something that he wanted people to see, not even the people closest to him.

He didn’t even want to look at himself in the mirror anymore. The scar was a constant reminder of what Anna had done.

“This is a good spot,” Finley heard Lochlan say, and they all stopped, dismounting their horses, and tying the reins around the nearby trees. It wasn’t much later when they spotted a boar in the distance, and Finley immediately rushed toward it, disregarding the warnings that everyone yelled after him. He knew that hunting boars was a dangerous sport, but he had done it many times before.

And a part of him simply didn’t care.

Running after the animal gave him a rush that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He felt alive again, his mind ridding itself of every other thought. All that mattered at that moment was that boar and his own survival. His baser instincts took over, providing momentary relief from the endless noise that were his thoughts and worries.

He couldn’t hear any of his men behind him. He didn’t know if they were there, if they had followed him or if they had lost him in the woods as they ran. All he knew was that nothing would stand between him and that boar.

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Chapter I

“Cursed,” he whispered.

“Aye. Bedeviled for sure,” the other man whispered in reply.

Stifling her emotions, Olivia walked along the corridor with the hood of her cloak pulled low around her, trying to hide in the darkness. She felt the eyes of the guardsmen on her as she walked by them. They didn’t even bother trying to hide their contempt. Some seemed to have become emboldened, more willing to speak out, and openly sneered at her after the death of her parents.

She turned a corner and felt her heart lurch as she pulled up short. Three of the household’s chambermaids stood clustered together—two of them she didn’t know. But they stood, heads bowed together, whispering to one another. They stopped and turned when they saw Olivia. She swallowed hard, knowing the only way to the gardens was to walk past them. As Olivia passed by, they bowed their heads and fell silent, allowing their gazes to fall to the ground, as was proper.

She said not a word as she passed, but when she turned the corner, she stopped and pressed her back against the wall, taking a deep breath as she tried to calm her racing heart. Then, just before she was about to continue on her way, she heard their whispered voices.

“See? Didn’t I tell you? Did you see the mark?” said the one chambermaid she knew—Catherine. “She’s a monster, just like I said.”

“It is certainly unsightly, to be sure,” replied one of the others. “But I don’t think that makes her a monster.”

“Of course it does,” Catherine pressed. “No man is ever goin’ to want to be with her. Not with that kind of a mark on her.”

“You never know. There could be a man out there who can see past that,” replied the other girl. “She could find a man who loves her for who she is.”

Catherine and the girl with the Irish brogue laughed together like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. It made Olivia’s heart feel tight and difficult to breathe. The pain that shot through her was so deep, it made her knees feel weak. It was an effort for Olivia to remain standing.

“No man is going to want her,” Catherine said. “Not only is that mark unsightly, but it’s proof that she’s cursed.”

Tears welled in Olivia’s eyes. She knew she should walk away and stop listening to the three women gossiping, but she couldn’t make herself move. She’d heard their cruel words many times before. She’d hoped that in time, she’d develop a thicker skin, and she wouldn’t let them cut her so deeply.

But no matter how much time passed and how many times she heard those words, they never failed to hit her hard – every single time. The pain they caused her had never diminished in all the years she’d heard them.

“Aye. ‘tis true. She’s goin’ tae live a life filled with thae worst luck imaginable,” agreed the Irishwoman. “Look at what happened tae her parents. ‘tis because of her. She’s cursed.”

“It’s true,” Catherine said. “And do you believe any noble lord is going to want to take that sort of cursed, unsightly woman into his household?”

The pressure building inside of Olivia finally boiled over, and her body reacted without meaning to. With tears streaming down her face, hot with shame and humiliation, Olivia stepped back out into the corridor and glared at the three women malevolently.

“Unless you three wish for something terrible to befall you, I’d suggest you stop with your gossipmongering, keep a civil tongue and go about your work,” Olivia said, surprised by how cold her voice was. “Now. Go. Before I lose my temper and something unfortunate happens to all three of you.”

The three women looked at her with the same stricken expression, their faces blanching. Olivia knew she should not be berating them in that way. She was no longer the Duke’s daughter, and this was no longer her household. But the hurt and anger inside of her were so great, she could not contain herself. Giving them a final withering glare that sent them scampering, Olivia was left alone in the corridor. And as the tears continued to flow, she turned and fled, running for the secret passage that would take her out to the gardens.

The garden was the only place in the world where she felt comfortable. Where she could simply be herself. Now that her Uncle had moved into the family castle, it no longer felt like home. Yet, the garden was the only place that remained untouched and where she could still feel her parents. Sitting in the garden her father had created for her mother made her feel close to them. It was the only place in the world where she felt happy.

It allowed her to forget the morbidly curious looks and whispered insults that were a staple of her life. It allowed her to shut out conversations like the one she’d just overheard. She could never escape them. Wherever she went, people would stare at her. Or rather, stare at her disfigurement. It was why people whispered behind their hands about her being cursed and bedeviled. That was why they blamed her for the death of her parents.

And it was why, having seen twenty-four summers already, that she had no suitors – and likely would never have. No man in his right mind would ask for her hand. Not even with her handsome dowry. As a little girl, Olivia had been too naïve to realize how terribly her mark would handicap her life. She believed she would marry a handsome prince and live a life filled with love and joy. But, time had taught her that was not her lot in life. Now she knew that love and happiness were not in the cards.

A lone tear spilled from the corner of her eye, and Olivia wiped it away angrily. She crawled to the edge of the small pond on her hands and knees. Pulling back her hood, she leaned over the edge, peering at her reflection on the surface of the water. Her hair, black as a raven’s wing, framed a pale face, and her hazel-colored eyes glimmered like gold in the sunlight. She raised her hand and touched her left cheek. It was smooth and unblemished.

But then she turned her head to gaze at her right cheek, at her disfigurement. Olivia trailed the tips of her fingers across the wine-colored mark that marred her right cheek. The blemish ran from the corner of her mouth to her eye and from nose to ear. It took up most of the right side of her face and was why she kept her face hidden beneath a hood and stayed away from people. She hated that the mark was the only thing people stared at. As a consequence, when she looked at herself, it was the only thing she could see.

* * * * *

They sat in the smaller, more intimate dining room known as the Primrose Room, eating supper. It was the dining room she and her parents had dined in while they were alive – when they weren’t hosting formal dinners in the great hall. Olivia had many fond memories of having supper with them. Memories of times filled with love and laughter.

But now, the Primrose, like everything else, belonged to her uncle. Thomas sat at the head of the polished oak table with his wife, Matilda, on his left. Olivia sat on his right, quietly sipping her soup. The only sounds in the room were the gentle clink of their spoons and the loud ticking of the clock. The mood was somewhat dour, as it usually was with her uncle. He was a grave man who was not prone to laughter, as her own parents had been. Particularly her mother. Olivia’s mother had loved to laugh.

Thomas set his spoon down gently, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, and then looked at Olivia. She had to suppress the shudder that swept through her when his gaze fell on her. Thomas had always been kind to her. He seemed to go out of his way to be good to her. He was a tall, lean, and severe-looking man with dark hair and dark, intense eyes. He was a general of some renown in the Crown’s army and could be very cold and aloof.  She figured it was his military nature that made him so. Olivia didn’t think he intended to be, but his very presence was sometimes intimidating.

“Olivia,” he said, his tone serious. “I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

Olivia set her spoon down and wiped her mouth. “Yes, Uncle?”

“I know things for you here have been… difficult,” he started. “And not just with the passing of your parents. I hear things. I see how people here treat you because of your… mark.”

Olivia looked down, feeling the familiar wave of shame her mark always inspired. Her cheeks flushed, and she knew her face was turning red. Her uncle didn’t say it to be mean, and he certainly wasn’t mocking her. It was just a statement of fact. And to be fair, he never treated her badly about her disfigurement. If she had to choose a word to describe him, it would probably be sympathetic. She knew her uncle cared for her, and he treated her as well as he knew how. And she appreciated him for that.

“I hope you know that I don’t care about your mark, Olivia. To me, you’re my beautiful and ferociously intelligent niece. And you always will be,” he said. “But with your parents gone, things have changed.”

“Thank you, Uncle. And I am grateful that you have been so kind to me,” she replied. “And I understand that things have changed.”

“I do not like seeing you upset. I do not like seeing you wasting away,” he added, his tone dripping with compassion. “I hate seeing you unhappy, Olivia. I remember when you used to smile, and believe me, it was a thing of beauty. Your smile could light up any room.”

A small smile touched her lips at his words.

“I haven’t seen that smile in a very long time, and I miss it,” he added.

“To be true, I miss being happy, Uncle.”

His eyes lingered on her for another moment before his gaze shifted down to the table. The faint smile that had been on his face a moment before faltered and then faded away altogether. But he cleared his throat and looked up at her, his expression firm.

“It pains me to say that I do not think you’ll find your happiness here in England,” he said softly. “I have tried to find you a suitable match but have not had good fortune in that regard. I’m sorry that I’ve failed you.”

It was Olivia’s turn to give him a sympathetic smile. “You did not fail me, Uncle. It is not your fault that nobody wants to marry a monster.”

“You are hardly a monster, Olivia. Please get that thought out of your head this instant,’ he said. “It is not your fault that some men are such shallow, vain creatures.”

His words lightened her heart a little, but it didn’t change the fact that men tended to view her as an unsightly beast. It did little to help her confidence or sense of self-worth. It was a constant poison that was eating away at her soul, and Olivia knew that one day there would be little left.

“In light of that, I’ve made arrangements for you to live with your mother’s best friend and her husband—the Lady and Laird Drummond,” he said. “I’m sending you to live in Scotland, where we will hopefully be able to secure you a match befitting a woman of your station.”

Olivia’s heart dropped to her stomach, and she clapped her hands over her mouth. She looked at her uncle, waiting for him to laugh or say something to break the tension of the moment. But he remained silent.

“Sc—Scotland?” she gasped. “You’re sending me away, Uncle?”

“Only because I want you to be happy, Olivia. I think perhaps a fresh start somewhere new will be good for you,” he said. “I also think you will benefit greatly from being away from the whisperers and the gossipmongers here. A new environment will allow you to grow and flourish. I believe you can become the woman you were meant to be if you are away from the things here that keep you… trapped.”

Olivia cocked her head. “Trapped, Uncle?”

“Yes,” he said with a touch of sadness in his voice. “Trapped in your past. And also trapped inside yourself.”

Confusion swept through her. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “There are people here who are cruel. They make you withdraw and hide within yourself. It breaks my heart to see it, Niece. But I don’t know how to help,” he said. “My hope is that by sending you to Scotland, by giving you a fresh start, you’ll learn how to come out of that shell.”

She sat back in her seat and pondered his words. She knew there was wisdom in them but could not see how to apply it to herself. People were going to be the same whether they were in England or Scotland. And nobody was going to ever see past her mark. Olivia didn’t know how living in the north would change anything. It seemed as though her uncle was shipping her away so that she wasn’t his problem. It was a cynical point of view, but her life didn’t exactly equip her to see the world any other way.

She gave her uncle a weak smile. “If that’s what you think is best, Uncle.”

He reached over and took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. She looked up at him and found a soft smile upon his lips.

“I want you to have the life you deserve, Olivia. I want you to be happy,” he said. “And I want you to stop letting your mark define you. You are far more than your mark. I hope that given a fresh start in a new place, you will understand that. I also hope you can find yourself in Scotland.”

Happy. Olivia frowned. Happiness was something she would never attain.  Not in this lifetime.

Chapter II

Blaine slid out of his saddle and hit the ground, nearly toppling over. His legs wavered and felt like they were going to give way. But he managed to keep on his feet, if only just. The young stableboy approached, giving him an awkward bow. Blaine gave him a crooked smile and threw the reins to him.

“See to me horse, boy,” Blaine said. “We’ve had a long ride back from Edinburgh, and he needs food and water. And a good brushing.”

“Yes, me Laird.”

“I’m nae thae Laird, ye bleedin’ fool. That’d be me faither,” Blaine snapped. “I’m just a pawn in his grand game. No more important than ye, actually.”

Blaine drained the last of the bottle of spirits in his hand and threw it at the stable wall. It shattered with a loud crash, spraying tiny shards of glass everywhere. The stableboy looked at him with wide eyes, and Blaine snarled at him.

“Go see tae me horse, boy,” he roared. “Are ye bleedin’ simple?”

“Nay, me—sir,” he stammered.

The boy sketched an awkward bow, then turned and scurried off, leading Blaine’s horse into the stable. Blaine giggled to himself, still feeling a little lightheaded from the bottle of spirits. Trying to sober up, he turned and breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar odors that filled the castle bailey. He looked over to the stables that ran along the eastern wall. A smithy’s forge was also on that side of the bailey. Along the western wall was a row of stalls, mostly selling roasted meats and other assorted vendors. On the southern wall behind the castle were barracks for his father’s soldiers. The main gates were set into the northern wall.

Blaine walked around the bailey, looking at the changes his time away at university in Edinburgh had wrought. He had been gone but a few years, but the time had brought many changes to the family castle. Somewhat depressingly, though, he noticed many things had remained exactly the same.

“So, thae rumors are true. Ye’re back.”

Blaine turned around to find Agan, one of his father’s men-at-arms, leaning against his pike. Agan was a tall man, broad through the shoulders and chest. He had light brown hair and dark brown eyes. He bore a jagged scar that ran along the left side of his jaw, curling upward in a fishhook that ended just below his eye. The beard on his face was thick—save for that line of pale, puckered flesh.

Agan had been Blaine’s friend since they were boys, and there was nobody in the world he trusted more. Blaine had always believed they were closer than brothers—a sentiment Blaine was certain Agan shared.

“Aye. They’ve called me back early,” Blaine said. “They told me there was a severe lack of good looks around here, and they wanted me to come home to fix it.”

Agan laughed heartily and stepped forward, pulling Blaine into a tight embrace. They thumped each other on the back then took a step back. The two men took a moment to look each other over and smiled.

“Ye smell like ye just crawled out of a bottle,” Agan told him with a chuckle.

“’twas a long road to get here. Nae much tae dae but have a drink.”

“A drink? Smells like ye had all thae drinks.”

They shared a laugh together. Seeing his old friend was doing Blaine’s heart a world of good. It dulled some of his resentment at being called home from his studies before he’d completed them. He wanted to finish his education at one of the most renowned universities in the world. More than that, he wanted to enjoy the life of a student. To enjoy life in general. Edinburgh was famous for the intellectual ability it harnessed, but to Blaine, it was just as renowned for its drink and its women. And there had been many women.

Just thinking about it aroused him and made him long to be in the arms of the women he’d routinely bedded. He doubted he’d find as many beautiful lasses in Glaslaw Castle willing to give him their intimate embrace. And that thought made him resentful as well. Agan clapped him on the shoulder, drawing him back to the present.

“’tis good to see ye again, lad,” Agan said.

“Aye. ‘tis good to see yer ugly mug as well.”

“I dinnae expect to see ye back for a while yet,” Agan said. “Arenae ye supposed tae be studyin’ in Edinburgh?”

“’twas supposed tae be,” he grumbled. “Me faither sent for me and bid me tae return. He said there was an urgent matter he needed tae discuss with me.”

“Aye? What’s so urgent?”

Blaine shook his head. “I’ve nay idea. Knowin’ me faither thae way I dae, it’ll probably be somethin’ bleedin’ stupid, like which color feather he should wear in his helm.”

Agan chuckled, his voice a deep rumble. “Aye. It would nae surprise me tae find ye’re right about that.”

Blaine reached out and touched the insignia on the tunic sleeve that poked out from beneath Agan’s boiled leather cuirass and smiled.

“Ye seem tae be doin’ well for yerself,” Blaine said. “A sergeant now, eh?”

Agan nodded. “Aye. When he promoted me, yer faither told me he could never have too many smart, intelligent, and devastatingly handsome men in command.”

Blaine laughed and shook his head. “Daenae let that go ta eyer head,” he stated. “He needs tae say somethin’ tae make ye feel good about yerself.”

“Well, I suppose it worked because I feel very good about meself.”

Blaine laughed. “Ye always have, lad.”

“Aye. Mebbe so.”

Blaine was grateful to have run into Agan. Their conversation sobered him and made him more focused than when he’d first slipped off his horse. That could only be a good thing—especially in light of his next destination.

“Well, I suppose I cannae put it off much longer,” he said. “I suppose I need tae get in tae see what me faither wants.”

“Probably goin’ tae ask for yer help polishin’ his sword.”

Blaine laughed long and loud. “Aye,” he said through his laughter. “Ye’re probably right about that.”

“Aye. I should get tae thae gatehouse anyway,” he added. “How about we share a bottle of spirits tonight. Catch up on our lives.”

“I’d like that,” Blaine replied. “But we better make it two bottles. I think I’m goin’ tae need one of me own after dealin’ with me parents.”

“Aye. Two bottles it is then,” Agan replied. “It really is good tae see ya again.”

“Aye. Ye tae.”

Blaine watched as his friend walked across the bailey, heading for the guardhouse on the main gate. That was one thing he liked and admired about Agan—his willingness to roll up his sleeves and do the work he’d have others do. Blaine had seen plenty of men in elevated positions who refused to do the job they’d ordered their men to do.

To Blaine, it showed that Agan didn’t think he was above anyone. It showed his integrity. That he was humble enough to still hold a post, and even though he was of a higher rank, he didn’t think himself better than anybody. Blaine knew that one day, Agan would make a grand commander of his father’s forces.

Finally, turning around, Blaine walked across the bailey and walked into the keep. The servants all bowed and gave a respectful nod as he passed by. There were few faces he recognized, but the fact that they all knew him was somewhat unsettling. His boots thudded heavily on the stone floor of the corridor, and turning a corner, Blaine nearly ran straight into Carson, the household chamberlain.

Carson was a tall, thin man with green eyes, pale skin, and thinning hair that was once dark but was gradually turning silver. Though Carson was most definitely his father’s man, he’d always been fair to Blaine. Even indulgent once in a while.  He looked at Blaine with an expression of annoyance; no doubt upset that he’d almost been knocked over. But when Carson recognized Blaine, his eyes grew wide, and a smile crossed his lips.

“Master Blaine,” he gasped. “I dinnae expect ye here.”

Blaine smiled. “I dinnae expect tae be here either,” he replied with a note of bitterness in his voice. “And yet, here I am all thae same.”

“Aye. Well. ‘tis good tae see ye, Master Blaine,” he said. “Yer faither is in thae grand hall hearin’ petitioners.”

“Right. Thank ye, Carson.”

“Of course,” he replied. “I’ll have thae chambermaids freshen up yer room.”

“Me thanks,” Blaine said.

Blaine turned again and strode through the corridors—taking the long route through the keep, trying to put off seeing his parents for as long as humanely possible.

But after five minutes or so, Blaine knew he couldn’t postpone it anymore. So, he walked the long corridor that led to the pair of heavy oak and steel banded doors of the great hall. A couple of men-at-arms flanked the doors, swords on their hips, pikes in their hands.

“Master Blaine,” said the guard on the left. “Good tae see ye.”

“Aye. Good tae see ye tae, lad.”

The man reached out and opened the door, holding it open for him. Blaine nodded his thanks and walked into the great hall. The heavy door closed behind him with a loud, hollow noise. The great hall was circular and made of thick stone. A beautiful stained-glass window was set into the wall behind the dais holding the Laird and Lady’s chairs. Both seats were occupied.

Sconces held torches that flickered and guttered, spaced at regular intervals along the walls around the chamber. Ornately woven tapestries hung between the torches and a large rug sat at the foot of the dais where his mother and father were seated. It was for the petitioners’ comfort when they knelt before the Laird.

At present, two men were kneeling on the carpet, both of them pleading their cases passionately. His father sat back in the massive and ornately tooled chair, his legs crossed and not even attempting to hide his expression of boredom. Yet, on the other hand, his mother seemed to be paying close attention to every word the two men said.

When the door banged closed, she looked up, and her expression changed. Unlike the mask of cool indifference she wore as she listened to the petitioners – when her eyes fell on Blaine, they widened, with a look of pure joy. But she quickly controlled herself and looked down at the two men.

“We have heard everything you have said and will take it into consideration,” she said, trying to rush them along. “And we will have a decision for you in a couple of days. Now, if you will excuse us….”

The men rose, gave a bow, and walked toward the doors, glowering at each other every step of the way. Blaine stepped closer to the dais as his mother bounded down the stairs and threw herself into his arms, squeezing him tightly. Finally, she stepped back and looked at him, taking his hands in hers.

“Oh, my baby boy. ‘tis so wonderful tae see ye,” she said, beaming.

“Aye. ‘tis good tae see ye tae mother.”

She smiled, but her lips wavered as a strange look crossed her face, and a slight frown curled the corners of her mouth downward.

“Have ye been drinkin’?” she asked.

Blaine gave her a crooked grin. “Mebbe a wee bit.”

“A wee bit?” How much is a wee bit?”

Blaine shrugged. “Let’s nae talk about that right now.”

“Is it a wee bit more than ye had in Edinburgh then?”

Doing his best not to roll his eyes, Blaine looked up at the dais. His father was still reclined and hadn’t made a move to come to greet him. He hadn’t even offered a word of greeting. Not that Blaine was surprised. His relationship with his father was—complicated.

“So why did ye send for me then, eh?” Blaine asked.

“It was time. Ye’ve things tae attend tae here at home,” his father said.

“What kind of things?”

“For starters, ‘tis time for me tae find ye a proper match. Ye need a wife,” his father said. “And I’m goin’ tae find ye one.”

“And if I daenae want tae marry, Faither?” Blaine added, a dark tone to his words

“Don’t be ridiculous. “’tis our way. And ‘tis yer duty tae thae family.”

Blaine sighed but held his tongue. What he couldn’t stop was the frustration building up within him. His father finally leaned forward in his seat, laying his forearms down along his thighs. He looked at Blaine, who felt uncomfortable as his father’s eyes bore into him. It was as if his father could see inside him. See all his secrets. See his soul. His father frowned.

“And now that ye’re home, ye’re goin’ tae be a better man than ye were down in Edinburgh,” he said, then held up his hand to forestall the argument Blaine already had queued up in his mind. “There will be nae drinkin’, and there will be nae whorin’. Thae life ye lived and thae man ye were in Edinburgh will stay in Edinburgh. Am I clear?”

“Faither—”

“I said, am I clear?”

Blaine glanced at his mother, who was frowning as she looked down at the ground. He wondered what was going through her mind. Was she trying to hide the disappointment she felt in learning that he’d behaved less than ideal at university? But the anger was simmering inside of him, and when he turned back to his father, his fury was rising dangerously high.

“Are you following me, Faither? Did you have somebody watching me?”

His father nodded. “Of course I did. I had a vested interest in keeping you safe, so aye. And I’ll nae be apologizin’ for it either.”

“Does me privacy mean nothin’ tae ye?”

His father scoffed. “When ye’re the son of thae Laird, ye daenae have thae luxury of privacy,” he said. “And what I’m askin’ ye is nae too much tae ask. Ye’ve had yer fun. Ye’ve sowed yer oats. Now ‘tis time for ye tae settle down and do yer duty for thae good of thae clan.”

“Ye mean, to dae what’s good for ye, since ye’ll reap the benefits of marryin’ me off tae somebody wealthy, eh?”

His father’s expression darkened. “It’s time for ye tae stand up and be a man. Tis time for ye tae put thae clan first.”

Blaine was angry. He couldn’t believe his father was lecturing him about his duty but that he’d had him watched—it was all infuriating. He glanced at his mother, who quickly took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Ye look tired, dear. I’m sure after such a long ride from Edinburgh, ye want tae clean up and get some rest, eh?”

His mother was giving him an out. The tension was certainly rising in the room, and it appeared that a fight was inevitable. It always upset her when Blaine argued with his father, and she would always do whatever she could to diffuse the tension and protect him.

“Aye. I’m beat,” he said. “I’ll go and clean up and get some rest.”

She nodded, a small smile on her lips. “I’ll have supper sent to your chamber tonight.”

“Thank ye, Maither.”

“Of course, Blaine,” she said. “I’m just happy to have you home.”

Blaine gave her a small smile and a curt nod. He leaned forward, planted a gentle kiss on her cheek, and then walked out of the great hall without acknowledging his father. He wasn’t happy to be home, and he certainly didn’t want to marry whoever his father picked out for him. And as he made his way to his chambers, he silently vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to prevent it from happening.

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