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Chapter I

If someone asked Nimue, she would tell them that there were many things wrong with her father, Laird Robert MacLellan, just like every other man. He drank too much; he ate too much, and he listened too little. He liked to fight and shout. He knew nothing about looking presentable; and he didn’t know how to be a host.

But his worst characteristic—and the only one that Nimue couldn’t forgive—was his loyalty to the British and to a Crown that didn’t care for him or their clan. Whispers of war were spreading fast around Scotland, and if there was one thing that Nimue knew for certain, it was that the other clans would need their help.

And yet, her father seemed to have other ideas.

“I dinna wish to hear another word about it!” the Laird said, slapping his hand down onto his desk. His cup, full to the brim with wine, rattled and shook, little drops of alcohol flying over the papers that were scattered around him.

Nimue paced back and forth in the room. She had never liked being in her father’s study, with its dark, heavy furniture and dark red walls, the very color of the wine that he was drinking. She had never been allowed in there as a child unless it was to be reprimanded, and now, at twenty-four years old, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow done something wrong.

If supportin’ me people is wrong, then so be it.

“If ye side with King Charles, our people will suffer!” Nimue said, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. She had been trying to make her father understand the consequences of his actions, but she was not surprised to see that he refused to listen. “Na one else is on their side, Faither. Na one. Are we to be the only clan to support the English over the people of Scotland?”

“Dinna forget that we have ties to England, just as much as we have ties to Scotland,” the Laird said.

Nimue sighed, a heavy, displeased sound. She had heard that very same phrase before, many times. It was no coincidence that she had such an unusual name, nor that her sister was called Guinevere and her brother, Tristan. Though very much a Scot, as he had been born and raised there, their father had always been fascinated by England and its myths and tended to cling to his English roots. It was something that Nimue had never understood. In her eyes, they were nothing but Scottish, and it was Scotland that they needed to help and protect.

“Ach, Daidie, I ken all about our roots, but ye seem to forget that more than anythin’ else, we are Scots,” Nimue reminded him. “We dinna owe England anythin’. We owe it to our people to protect them.”

“To protect them from what?” the Laird asked. “The English willna do us na harm. Why they? They dinna have an issue with us. They only have an issue with those who oppose them, especially those up in the Highlands.”

“Scots, ye mean,” Nimue pointed out. “They are Scots. Why ye would support a Catholic king is beyond me, Faither.”

“I dinna expect ye to understand. It was yer maither who made ye so fond of yer Scotland.”

Nimue knew that her father missed her mother more than anything. She knew that he was still hurting from her death, just like the rest of their family. But the way that he spoke, in such an accusing manner, talking as though her mother’s pride in Scotland was nothing but foolishness, made Nimue’s blood boil in her veins. Her lips twisted into an ugly grimace, just as sharp as her father’s words, and she walked up to his desk, hands on her hips as she glared at him.

“Ye speak of Maither as though she didna ken what she was sayin’,” Nimue spat out through gritted teeth. “As though she didna ken perfectly weel where her loyalties lay. She kent; and I ken. I will never support the king; I will never support the war he is bringin’ upon us. I will never follow a king who wants to disregard our people, our traditions, the Kirk!”

“Enough!” the Laird said, standing up and staring Nimue down before she could utter another word. “I told ye that I willna hear any more of this. Yer me daughter, and ye’ll do as I say.”

“Oh?” Nimue asked. She wasn’t afraid of her father. She knew that deep down, under all the shouting matches and the stubbornness, he loved her dearly, and she doubted that he would do anything to hurt her. Growing up without her mother had been hard on them both. Ever since her death, her father had become overprotective, not only of Nimue but of all three children. “And what, precisely, is that?”

“Ye’re to marry the Earl of Stanford.”

It was not what Nimue had been expecting. She had thought that perhaps her father would simply insist on her supporting the English and their king. Or that he would forbid her from saying another word on the matter. Forcing her to marry a man she didn’t even know, an Englishman at that, went too far.

“I will do na such thing!” she said. “Ye canna force me to marry him!”

“Aye, I can,” her father said. “It’s already been arranged. Ye’ve been promised to him.”

Nimue scoffed, shaking her head. It was all too much for her, knowing that her father was so willing to give her away to a stranger. As far as she was concerned, she had no ties to England, and she wanted nothing to do with the place. How could she be expected to marry an Englishman when she was certain that they didn’t have a single thing in common?

“I dinna care what ye promised him,” Nimue said. “Ye didna even ask me first. Ye didna consult me at all. It’s me own life, Faither, that ye’re tryin’ to throw away.”

“Throw away?” her father said, and Nimue could see that he was getting angrier by the second. Perhaps he was used to being challenged when it came to political and religious matters, Nimue thought. Still, he wasn’t used to being challenged when it came to giving orders to those around him. He was the Laird, after all. “Is that what ye think I’m doin’, lass? I arranged a marriage with a man like the Earl, and ye think that I’m throwin’ yer life away? Listen to yerself . . . so ungrateful. The time has come for ye to marry, Nimue, and the Earl of Stanford is better than any man ye could find in our neighboring clans.”

“I verra much doubt that,” Nimue said. “Do ye even ken anythin’ about him? We ken our fellow clansmen. We ken the clansmen of the neighboring clans. I grew up with them. If ye wish for me to marry, then I shall marry one of them, but na an Englishman.”

“Ye will marry the Earl, and that’s the end of it,” her father said. “And ye’ll keep yer mouth shut around him about this war that ye always talk about. I willna have ye embarrass me with yer ideas and yer fancies in front of the Earl.”

Nimue looked at her father, eyes wide in disbelief. She never thought he would treat her in such a way. That he would care so little about her and her wellbeing that he was prepared to sell her off to the English for an alliance was nothing but traitorous. Her father was betraying not only her, his own daughter, but also Scotland. It pained her to see it–to know he had no regard for the clans with which their own clan had been allied for as long as anyone could remember. He was prepared to betray them and their trust, all because of the English.

Nimue was certain that the English would let them all perish if it came down to it. Clan MacLellan was an influential one in those parts. Still, she doubted any other clans would support them if they sided with the Catholic king. Were the other clans to band together to fight the MacLellans, their clan would be doomed, and the English would be of no help.

“Ye’re makin’ a big mistake, Faither,” Nimue told the Laird. “Ye may na want to listen to me, or to anyone else for that matter, but ye’re takin’ us down the wrong path. Na only me, with this foolish marriage, but our entire clan. Our people. I dinna ken what else to tell ye to convince ye. Perhaps there is na a thing I can say to convince ye but trust me when I tell ye that I willna be dragged to the altar without a fight.”

“Then so be it,” the Laird said as he sat back in his chair, the fight seemingly draining out of him. “So be it, Nimue. I’ll drag ye to the altar meself if that’s what it’ll take for ye to marry the Earl. Consider yerself warned. Noo get out of me sight. I dinna wish to fight with ye any longer, but if ye stay, ye’ll give me na choice.”

“Just like ye’re givin’ me na choice,” Nimue said and then turned around, leaving the room and slamming the door behind her. She didn’t want to stay and listen to anything else that her father could possibly have to say to her. She had heard it all, and she couldn’t bear to be near him.

What am I to do noo? What is there for me to do?

Nimue had always thought that she would marry for love. She had always thought that she would have the chance to choose her husband, and that she wouldn’t have to be married off to some Lord that she had never met before, as though she were an English girl. She had underestimated her father’s love for English traditions, though, or perhaps she had underestimated his greed. What other reason could he have to force her to marry the Earl of Stanford? Surely, Nimue thought, he believed that England would triumph in the war that was to come, and he would end up with more power than he could ever have as a Scottish Laird.

But to use her in such a way was unacceptable in her eyes. She could only imagine what the Earl of Stanford would be like, cruel and ruthless and dismissive of her. She knew he wouldn’t love her. He wouldn’t love her in the way that a man who had known her his whole life could love her.

It isna as though me faither doesna have any other options for me! I’m the Laird’s daughter! Many lads would want to marry me!

Who would turn down such an opportunity? Her looks—which she, herself, had never truly noticed or examined—were irrelevant, she thought. However, there had been plenty of men who had fallen for her unintentional charms. Everyone wanted to marry into the MacLellan clan.

Up until noo, at least. When everyone finds out that me faither is supportin’ the king, na one will want to be a part of this clan anymore.

Nimue herself wasn’t certain that she wanted to be part of her own clan anymore, after what her father had told her. As much as she loved him and everyone else in it, she simply couldn’t bear to watch her father bring her clan to ruin.

But what choice do I have? I canna abandon them when they need me the most.

If marrying the Earl of Stanford was her only option, then Nimue would simply have to accept it. She would have to marry the man and then find a way to convince him to allow her to stay in Scotland with her people.

She didn’t even want to entertain the idea of going to England and spending the rest of her life there, surrounded by strangers, having to share her bed with a man that she didn’t know. Even if the Earl turned out to be a good man, which Nimue doubted, he would still be nothing more than a stranger to her, and that is what he would always be, even after years of marriage.

Rage bubbled over inside her as she made her way down the stairs, putting as much distance between herself and her father as she could. She feared that if she didn’t, she would simply march right back up to his study to continue their fight, even though it was hopeless. Her father wouldn’t change his mind, and neither would she. In the end, she would end up doing his bidding simply because she was a woman and had no other choice.

She hated that there was nothing she could do, that her life and her future were not her own, that someone else was making every decision for her. Why were men given the option to do as they wished, but she had to constantly follow orders, whether dictated by society or by her father?

She wished that she could be insignificant, a farmer girl, perhaps, or a cook. She had never experienced hard work, but she thought it must be better than her current situation.

With an exasperated sigh, she burst through the front doors of the castle, making her way to the gardens, and from there, past the castle walls, through a small opening that only she seemed to know existed. It was the only way she could avoid the guards, who would certainly question her regarding where she was going at that time of the night.

She couldn’t blame them for being careful with the Laird’s daughter, but it wasn’t the first time that Nimue had snuck out of the castle and made her way to the It had always been her favorite place, even as a child, ever since her mother had first brought her there to teach her how to swim. Nimue had returned to that lake over and over throughout the years, even when it was cold, even when her mother wasn’t around to take her there anymore.

It was their spot. Her spot. At night, no one went there but her and her siblings, and they had stopped going there a long time ago.

The night was still young, and Nimue had plenty of time ahead of her until she would have to return to the castle. She looked up at the sky and saw all the stars glittering there, trying to remember their names, just like her father had taught her, but soon, the water became too inviting for her to resist. She began to undo her clothes, letting them pool around her feet until she was in nothing but her underdress, and then stepped into the lake, relishing the way the water slid against her skin.

I may never see this place again. I may never swim in these waters again. I’d do anything to stop this marriage.

Chapter II

Chrisdean and his men had come a long way to find the daughter of Laird MacLellan. Rumors of the man’s alliance with the English had reached the Highlands, and Chrisdean had taken it upon himself to put a stop to it. He knew that the girl was supposed to play an important part in Laird MacLellan’s entire plan, as he was certain to marry her off to a noble Englishman. The only way that Chrisdean could think of to stop it was to marry her himself.

Besides, an alliance between his clan and the MacLellan clan would only benefit him and his clansmen. Everyone in Scotland knew just how much power and influence the MacLellan clan had, and Chrisdean, as a new Laird, wanted nothing more than to share that power.

And as far as he had heard, the girl was a beauty.

He and his men were camped by the lake near the castle grounds, waiting for the two scouts he had sent to find a way into the castle when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. At first, he thought that it was just the scouts returning from their mission—hopefully with good news and a way to slip into the castle undetected—but he soon realized that the footsteps were too soft to belong to either man.

Chrisdean gestured at his men to be quiet, though they had already halted all their conversations, having heard the sound, too. Holding his breath, he began to walk slowly towards the source of the sound, making sure to stay in the shadows behind the trees and bushes, remaining unseen; and then his gaze fell on her.

Even in the half-light of the moon and the stars, Chrisdean could see that she was gorgeous, her chestnut brown hair brushing against the small of her back and her lips glistening, making her irresistible. The mere sight of her stopped his breath and quickened his heartbeat. Desire pooled low in his stomach, along with a scorching heat that begged to be satisfied.

For a moment, Chrisdean considered calling his men, who hadn’t seen a woman ever since they had left the Highlands, but then he recognized the woman in front of him. She was none other than the daughter of the Laird.

A few of his men rushed to him before he could go to them, mesmerized as he was by the girl, unable to do much other than stand there and watch her. At first, he didn’t even notice that they had approached him, as they had done so quietly, and he wasn’t paying attention to anything but his future bride.

“Ach, noo I see why ye stopped,” Conall said, Chrisdean’s General and right-hand man. He was standing right behind him, whispering in his ear, but Chrisdean could tell that there was a teasing smile on his face. “She’s a bonnie one, isna she? Do ye think I should go up to her and ask her if she wants company?”

Chrisdean couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the crassness of his friend, shaking his head as he turned to look at him. “That’s her,” he told him. “That’s the lass.”

“The daughter of the Laird?”

“Aye.”

For a few moments, Chrisdean and his men remained quiet, simply watching the woman. Their original plan had been to infiltrate the castle, but now that seemed to be unnecessary since she was right there, making their job even easier. All he had to do was approach her carefully, make sure she didn’t have a chance to run, and capture her.

And yet, he didn’t move, even as she began to undress, or perhaps precisely because she began to undress. His gaze lingered on her body as she removed the seemingly endless layers of garments, slowly revealing the curves of her hips and chest, more and more of her skin on display with every movement she made.

Then, he heard one of his men draw in a sharp breath, and he remembered that he wasn’t the only one watching.

“What are ye all doin’?” he asked, his expression pinched, laced with annoyance. “Stop lookin’ at her, ye bastards! Go, go hide behind those bushes!”

“Aye, me Laird,” came a chorus of hushed whispers as his men began to retreat—all of them but Conall, who seemed content to simply stand there and watch, despite Chrisdean’s order.

“That goes for ye, too, Conall,” Chrisdean pointed out, crossing his arms over his chest as he put himself between him and the girl, blocking the man’s view.

“What if somethin’ happens to ye, me Laird?” Conall asked him. “I should be here to protect ye.”

“What’s goin’ to happen to me, do ye think?” Chrisdean asked.

Conall shrugged. “I dinna ken. Maybe she has a blade hidden.”

“She’s na wearin’ any clothes, Conall.” Chrisdean pointed out. “Where would she hide the blade, lad?”

Chrisdean watched as Conall looked past him, at the girl, his gaze going straight to her thighs and buttocks, and he had to resist the urge to slap some sense into him.

“Bushes. Noo,” Chrisdean hissed, pointing at the rest of his men who had already retreated back into the shadows.

Conall joined the rest of the men with a dejected look, leaving Chrisdean alone—and most importantly in Chrisdean’s mind, having no direct view of the girl. Chrisdean pulled his focus back on her, seeing that by the time he had managed to get rid of all of his men, she had already gone into the lake.

He decided to wait. Chasing her in the lake would make no sense, he decided, especially with all his clothes which were bound to weigh him down. He simply kept his eyes on her as she swam, fearing that if he lost sight of her, then he would lose his chance to capture her.

She was a good swimmer, he noticed, but he also saw that she seemed to be in no hurry. He wondered how long he would have to stand there, waiting in the shadows for her to come out of the lake, since he was eager to get out of there as soon as he could.

If someone comes to look for her, they might find us, too.

Chrisdean didn’t know how long he stayed there, perfectly still, holding his breath until the girl finally came out of the water. Once she did, his gaze lingered on her body once more, looking at the way her underdress clung to her figure, hugging the curves of her hips and breasts, and at the way her hair, dripping wet, fell over her shoulders in gentle waves.

He could see the entire outline of her body, but he knew that it would be nothing compared to what he would see on their wedding night. He could already tell that she had a body that looked like it was sculpted out of marble, but he could only imagine what she would look like naked in front of him, her full breasts and buttocks more inviting than anything he had ever seen before.

She looked unlike any other woman Chrisdean had ever seen, and to say he was relieved would be an understatement. He had been prepared to marry any woman for the future of his clan, but the fact that she was beautiful meant, in his mind, that their marriage would bring him personal joy, too.

I can only hope that she willna be too stubborn and make me marry her by force.

Chrisdean gave the girl a few moments to put on some garments, though he did not allow her to get fully dressed before jumping out of his hiding spot, running up to her, and grabbing her. The girl was startled, and for a split second, she froze, giving Chrisdean the impression that it would be an easy fight if a fight at all. But before his men could even approach, the girl began to scream and kick at him, her heels connecting with his shins again and again.

Chrisdean groaned in pain, even as he clasped a hand over the girl’s mouth to silence her. The last thing he wanted was to alert guards of his presence and end up dead, so far from home. Then, he tightened his grip on the girl, but that didn’t seem to deter her. If anything, she began to fight him even harder, thrashing in his arms as she tried to get away, her breath coming out in short, labored puffs.

“Stop it, lass,” Chrisdean told her, biting back another pained groan when she stepped on his foot with what seemed to be her entire weight. “I said stop. I dinna wish to hurt ye.”

The girl mumbled something unintelligible under his hand, but Chrisdean didn’t dare pull it away to let her speak. It was too dangerous, and he didn’t want to hear what she had to say, not while she was still trying to fight him. Instead, he held even more tightly onto her, squeezing her with his arms and trying to get her under control.

“I said stop!” he hissed in her ear. “I willna hurt ye or anyone else, I promise.”

Just as he was talking, his men finally approached them, but they didn’t know what to do. They couldn’t simply attack her, of course, as the last thing that any of them wanted was to hurt her, but they also couldn’t approach her, not when she was thrashing around like a wild animal. For what seemed like hours to Chrisdean, she kept fighting, and he thought that it would never stop, but soon enough, the fight was drained out of her as she became tired, eventually slumping in his arms.

Chrisdean slowly, hesitantly removed his hand from her mouth. She didn’t scream, and for that, he was grateful.

“Who are ye?” she asked. “What do ye want with me?”

“I am Chrisdean, Laird of the MacIntosh clan,” he told her. It seemed to him as though she had already understood that there was no escape, not when she was surrounded by so many men, and so he let her go, though once again, he did so hesitantly. “I mean ye na harm, lass. Ye are the daughter of the Laird, arena ye?”

“What is it to ye?” the girl asked, placing her hands on her hips as she stared him down.

“Weel, I’m lookin’ for the daughter of the Laird.”

“Weel, then I’m na the daughter of the Laird.”

Chrisdean looked at her for a few moments, his brow furrowed, and then he glanced at his men. Conall shrugged at him, and Chrisdean wondered if he had the wrong woman.

But no, it couldn’t be. Not only did Nimue look precisely like her description, but Chrisdean was also good at detecting lies. If there was one thing he knew, it was that the girl was lying to him.

“Na . . . ye’re lyin’, lass,” he said, and the huff that the girl gave him confirmed his suspicions. “What’s yer name, then?”

“Och, ye dinna ken?” the girl asked. “Ye ken who I am but ye dinna ken me name?”

“I didna have the chance to learn it, na,” Chrisdean admitted. “But I gave ye me name. Ye owe me yers.”

“I owe ye na a thing,” the girl said, her hands moving from her hips so that she could cross her arms over her chest defensively. “And ye didna answer me other question. What do ye want with me? Why are ye all here?”

Chrisdean smiled, a smile that was meant to distract the girl from a question that he didn’t want to answer, not quite yet, at least. “How about ye tell me yer name first?” he asked.

The girl looked at him, defiance in her gaze, but then she seemed to weigh her options, which were few. “Nimue,” she said. “There, I answered yer question; noo answer me mine.”

“Nimue,” Chrisdean repeated, trying the sound of her name on his tongue. “That’s a verra strange name ye have, lass.”

“I dinna care what ye think about me name or about me or about anythin’ else!” the girl said with a huff. “If ye’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go back to the castle noo.”

“Ach, I dinna think so,” Chrisdean said, and before Nimue could run, trying to escape, he grabbed her once more. Just like before, she struggled, but this time she quickly realized that there was no escape, or so it seemed to him, and she slumped against him, giving in. “Ye’re comin’ with me.”

“Why?” Nimue asked. “I dinna think ye’re a verra smart man if ye take me with ye. When me faither finds out about this, he’ll have yer head.”

“We’ll see about that when the time comes,” Chrisdean said. As long as he had her, then her father was certain to do as he was told. Besides, there was little that Laird MacLellan could do after they were married. The deal would be sealed, and the other man would have no choice but to accept it.

Chrisdean carried his future bride to the horses, which he and his men had left a little further away; all of them marching to the little clearing. His men seemed to be just as eager to leave that place as he was, and he could hardly blame them. They were too close to the castle for comfort.

When they got to the horses, Nimue seemed to hesitate, which Chrisdean took as yet another attempt to escape or at least delay the inevitable.

“Get on the horse, lass,” he said, and when Nimue didn’t move, he jumped on the horse first and then, with the help of Conall, pulled Nimue up behind him. Her grip was like a vice around him when they began to move, but he didn’t give it any thought. He had experienced worse pain in his life.

“Alright, lads, time to go home,” Conall called out to everyone before turning to look at Chrisdean. “Doesna this place make ye miss the Highlands?”

“Och aye,” Chrisdean said. He knew that his men missed their families and their homes; and he had, as well. There was nothing that he missed more than his bed, though, after all those days of sleeping on the ground. He missed how soft and warm it was, how comfortable, how well he could sleep every night, but he knew that soon, he would be back in his chambers.

And he would have a brand-new wife, reluctant as she seemed to be around him. He knew that, in time, she would grow to like him, perhaps even love him. Out of all her choices—though he didn’t know what those choices could be—he was certain that he was the best one. Perhaps their marriage wouldn’t have a good start, but he would make sure that Nimue was content at least.

And why wouldna she be content? There isna anythin’ bonnier than the Highlands and na clan better than the MacIntosh. She’ll never lack anythin’ in life.

Feisty as Nimue seemed to be, Chrisdean was certain that he would tame her soon enough. All he needed, he told himself, was patience–patience and his charming demeanor. Then, she would be his.

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Chapter I

Scottish Highlands

July 10, 1662

Malcom sat near the window, gazing out into the fields while watching the low hanging clouds and the sheepdogs running through the greenery in the distance. Once again, he wasn’t able to sleep. Another night of rest wasted on old memories now long passed. It had been too long since he last slept through the night, often haunted by ghosts. His nights were filled with tossing and turning as he tried to fight memories insisting on tormenting him. On nights when he couldn’t close his eyes, he would stare at the ceiling wondering what he did wrong to deserve this unending pain.

When was I last in those fields? Malcom wondered. His body ached from lack of sleep and his mind was sluggish. He couldn’t keep track of the duties a laird was supposed to complete and spent most of his time locked inside this room, gazing at the fields he once used to run in. Surely, he had gone some time this year to meet with the village leaders, but he couldn’t remember the discussions. He couldn’t remember how much crop the lands yielded the previous years. His thoughts were distracted, lingering on screams he couldn’t shake; on the blood staining the sheets and Aileen’s lifeless eyes gazing up at him while their newborn son screamed for his dead mother. They had pledged their lives to each other. They were to grow old together and tease each other on how many grey hairs they found, or who had the most wrinkles. But now five years later, Malcom found himself alone with the past and what could have been haunting him every night and day.

Malcom shuddered and ground his teeth against those memories, focusing his attentions on the dogs herding sheep while a young boy watched on. Aileen had loved watching the dogs. She thought they were graceful and believed they were dancing with the sheep. Malcom had, of course, laughed at her. Dogs dancing with sheep? Who would have ever thought?

But that was Aileen.

She had seen the beauty in everything. If it rained, and it so often did, he would find her dancing, laughing while twirling her arms around and saying it was the essence of life. On a sunny day, she would insist they eat their meals out in the fields. He remembered how she would angle her head towards the light, enjoying its warmth, not at all concerned about the freckles littering the bridge of her nose. Many thought her strange, but Malcom believed she was the light in his life. His gaze turned to the stones surrounding the window, remembering how Aileen would sit next to it, gazing out into the same fields while stroking her swollen belly.

And now she was gone.

She had left him alone in this world to fend for their son. And her screams still haunted him. They still echoed through the halls; the halls he waited in while she was birthing their son, Finnegan. Malcom closed his eyes against the memories, pushing those thoughts away.

There was a knock at the door and he stood, angling his chair back to the table and moving to open the door. In the hall stood Dalilah, her blue eyes glistening with worry while she ran her hand through her dark strands.

“Brother, Finnegan has worsened,” she said, her voice trembling. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I thought it was just a little chill, but now he has a fever. I don’t know what to do.”

Malcom leaned against the door. His brows furrowed in worry while he raked a hand through his dark hair. Dalilah had been taken with Finnegan the moment he was born and she had seen to his health, becoming a mother-figure to him after Aileen had passed. Malcom had hated himself for it, knowing he should be there more, but he found it difficult looking at his son, who reminded him of Aileen. He couldn’t help but worry Finnegan would leave just like his mother.

Now, being faced with that possibility, he felt even worse.

“Have ye called for Gavin?”

Dalilah shook her head. “He’s away,” she sniffed. “He was called to a neighboring village to help with bone setting.”

Malcom frowned. “Bone setting?” he asked, his hands fisting at his sides. “Why is our healer being called away for bone setting.”

Dalilah nibbled her bottom lip, her gaze sliding to the floor. “I do not know,” she whispered. “That is all Luther told me.”

Malcom nodded, yet he still wasn’t pleased by the answer. He slammed his chamber’s door closed and followed Dalilah through the halls. Several servants carrying baskets of fabrics to be washed paused at his sight, their gazes widening before sweeping into a low bow. Malcom sighed. He knew it wasn’t often he left his rooms, but he didn’t think it warranted a stare from those who served him.

They turned the corner, finding Luther, standing outside Finnegan’s quarters as if he were guarding the crown jewels. Luther swept into a deep bow when his gaze met Malcom’s before standing.

“I’m so sorry, my laird,” said Luther, looking worried. His gaze flickered to the closed door Finnegan was residing behind before he sighed, shaking his head. “It makes no sense. The boy was fine last night.”

Dalilah nodded. “It was just a chill,” she said, her voice trying to remain calm, yet Malcom noted the slight shrill to it.

“I really should return to my duties,” said Luther, which made Malcom grimace inwardly as he knew his second in command had too much on his plate. Luther was managing the castle, the lands, the villagers, everything that should’ve been Malcom’s duties. “But I wanted to be here, just to make sure Finnegan would be well.”

“How is he?” asked Malcom, glancing at the door and not knowing if he should enter. He wasn’t worried about disease. So many times he wished he had caught something in order to join his wife. There were times he contemplated taking his own life, yet he knew he couldn’t leave Finnegan alone.

No, he was worried he would break down again and he couldn’t do that in front of Luther.

He couldn’t stand knowing another man thought him completely broken. Malcom knew what the servants whispered when they thought he wasn’t listening. He knew they thought he was possessed by demons or haunted by the ghost of his deceased wife. He didn’t want to add to the gossip.

“Ye should see for yerself,” said Dalilah, throwing open the door and grabbing his wrist, nearly dragging him inside. “See yer son, Brother. Please,” she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks. “It might be yer last time.”

Malcom closed his eyes, tempted to turn around, but he allowed Dalilah to pull him inside. Inhaling deeply, he blinked his eyes open, looking around at the dimly lit room. The drapes were drawn and the young boy lying in the vast bed was shrouded in darkness. Malcom could hear his rasping breath and he was reminded of another time he was pulled into a room.

Malcom straightened his shoulders. He wouldn’t turn back now. He wouldn’t be a coward. He strode towards his son, sitting on the edge of his bed, watching the subtle rise and fall of his chest.

“Finnegan,” he whispered into the darkness, but his call went unnoticed.

Malcom reached a hand towards the small boy’s head, stroking back the dark locks he found there. In the shadows he could just make out the boy’s sleeping face. Even in the lack of light, Malcom could see how pale the child was. He could see how the boy shivered. Malcom pulled the blankets around Finnegan’s shoulders, biting back tears threatening to fall as he realized this was

the last remains of Aileen.

And he could lose her all over again.

“How far away is the village?” Malcom whispered.

He glanced over his shoulder, finding Dalilah shaking her head while she lifted the candle, bringing it close to Finnegan’s head so she could get a better view. She pressed her palm against the boy’s cheek and sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her hand against her mouth to stop another cry. “I should have taken better care of him. I’m so sorry, Brother.”

Malcom closed his eyes. “None of this is yer fault, Dalilah.” He sighed, his hands fisting at his side as he whispered the words he hated most, “It’s my fault.” Malcom closed his eyes, fighting back the tears threatening to come. “I should have been the one watching out for him, Dalilah. I’m his father.”

“Gavin is in the village in the west. It’s too far. Finnegan could…could…”

“Do we know of any other healers?”

Malcom didn’t hear a response and when he opened his eyes, he found his sister with a hand over her face, her shoulders shaking as she cried silently.

“Papa,” a raspy voice whispered.

Malcom turned, finding blue eyes watching him. As much as Finnegan reminded Malcom of Aileen, he was his father’s spitting image with dark hair and matching blue eyes. It was alarming for Malcom to see how the boy took after him.

Malcom smiled at Finnegan while wrapping his arms around the small boy and cradling him in his arms. The boy nuzzled his shoulders. “Everything will be fine, my son,” he whispered before kissing the child’s head and pulling away.

Dalilah set the candle next to the boy’s head and repositioned the blankets around him. “Get some rest,” she whispered while stroking his cheek. “Ye will feel better after some rest.”

Finnegan nodded and closed his eyes, his breath evening once more as sleep claimed him.

Malcom stood and grabbed his sister’s elbow, tugging her through the door and closing it softly with a click. Luther straightened from the stone wall he had been leaning against.

“Would ye like for me to send for Gavin?” asked Luther.

Malcom shook his head. “Nae,” he said, earning a sob from Dalilah. He clamped his hands behind his back and began pacing. “That would take too long.”

“We must do something,” Dalilah cried, flinging herself at her brother and clinging to his front. “He’s too young, Malcom.”

Malcom nodded while gathering her hands together, holding them gently. “Have we tried blood letting?”

Dalilah shook her head. “He’s too young. Too little. He’ll…”

Malcom nodded once more and dropped her hands, continuing his pacing back and forth. “There must be another healer,” he said. “Surely there is.”

“I would not trust the village healers, my laird,” said Luther. “They would be useless compared to Gavin.”

Malcom paused in his pacing as his eyes met those of a young servant girl. Her brown hair was braided and bound to one side and she quickly dropped her brown gaze as soon as she met Malcom’s. She stepped forth, balancing a tray carrying a bowl and a pitcher in her hands while she grimaced at the stone floor.

“Forgive me, my laird, I did not mean to pry,” she said while lowering her head. “I heard the wee child was ill and wanted to offer him some stew and water.”

Dalilah stepped quickly, taking the tray from the servant’s arms. “That is very kind of ye,” she said. “Thank ye.”

The servant girl shuffled from foot to foot, her fingers picking at each other while she stood before Malcom.

“Is that all?” asked Malcom, wondering what more the servant girl could possibly want and if she would be spreading more gossip around the castle.

“Nae, my laird,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice. “I mean…well…” she grimaced and Malcom had to keep himself from demanding she speak.

“Well, what is it, lass?” asked Luther, crossing his arms and staring at the girl as if she were a bug he would like to crunch under his boot.

“Well, I may know of a healer,” she said, glancing up shyly. “She has healed many before. She’s even helped my grandmother when she caught a cold. She hails from the village in the East.”

“Why, that isnae more than a couple hours ride,” said Dalilah, her lips twitching upwards into a wide smile. “A rider could be there and back by nightfall.”

Luther stepped towards the servant, his gaze darkening. The girl hunched her shoulders, stepping away from him and nearly hitting the wall. “What is this healer’s name, lass?” he asked, his voice low and menacing.

“Her name is Fiona Duncan,” the servant said quickly, her shoulders trembling as Luther towered over her.

“Fiona Duncan?” Luther repeated while turning on his heel, setting wide horrified eyes on Malcom. “My laird, I have heard that name before. She is naething more than a witch.”

“A witch?” Dalilah breathed.

“I know she’s killed before,” said Luther. “I heard it mysel from the village leader, Tavish. I beg ye, my laird, don’t call for her. She will surely do more harm than good.”

Malcom pushed Luther aside and approached the servant girl, who still quivered, her gaze lingering on Luther as if he would pounce.

“It’s alright,” he said, offering a hand to the girl. “Don’t be frightened, lass.”

The girl’s gaze turned to Malcom’s and her shoulders stilled as she gazed into his kind blue eyes. “What he says is true, my laird,” she said. “She is a witch, but she may be able to help the lad. She did not kill my grandmother.”

Malcom nodded and the girl released his hand, quickly turning around and walking briskly down the hall and towards the staircase.

“Ye’re not actually considering this?” Luther asked while following Malcom as he paced. “She will kill us all if ye invite her here.”

Malcom stroked his chin. “It’s the only way,” he said. “Gavin is too far away. He won’t be back in several days. Finnegan could be dead by then.”

Luther scoffed. “It’s just a chill.”

“Nae,” said Dalilah, “it’s more than that. Please, Brother. Send for her and I will keep my eyes fixed to her.” Malcom leveled his gaze to his sister, watching her straighten her spine and jut out her chin, reminding him of what their mother did to their father when she insisted on having her way. “I won’t let her out of my sight.”

“And what do ye plan to do when she starts whispering her incantations?” asked Luther, throwing his hands into the air. “Grab her? Throw her out the window?”

“I will tell my brother,” she said. “I will tell ye.” Her hands slid against Luther’s and she pulled him to her, gazing up at him with sweet adoration. “Please, if ye care for me at all, ye will let my brother send for her.”

Luther sighed before offering a small smile. He stroked a lock of hair away from her face before turning towards Malcom. “Shall I send a rider for the witch?” he asked while cocking his head to the side.

Malcom stroked his chin. Luther was right in that he could be bringing misfortune to his family, inviting a witch to save his son, but he knew he couldn’t let his son just lie there and die. He would not be able to cope with the loss of his son. Aileen had suffered and fought to bring him into this world. Malcom needed to suffer and fight to ensure he remained in it.

He lifted his head and met Luther’s gaze before giving him a curt nod. “Yes. Send for the witch.”

Chapter II

“What happened?” Fiona asked numbly while looking through her jars filled with herbs.

Just moments ago, Ewan and Caelan had thrown open her door with Graeme in their arms, who was bleeding from his stomach. The boy wasn’t more than sixteen summers and his tortured moans stifled the room as Fiona searched for the mushroom she had recently turned into a powder.

“I-I don’t know,” said Ewan while wiping the grime from his face with his cap. “All I heard was his yelling and Caelan and I came running.”

Fiona stepped onto her tiptoes, finding the powdered mushroom behind the root jar. She frowned at the dwindling amount before returning to Graeme, making a note in the back of her head that she would need to go gathering herbs later on in the day. She leaned over Graeme, pushing away the bloodied tunic to have a closer look at his wound before dipping the cloth in whiskey, and dabbing the puckered skin.

“Get her away from me,” Graeme cried out, jerking away from Fiona as his fingers gripped the mattress.

Fiona shook her head, glancing over her shoulder at Ewan and Caelan towering over her. “Can ye please hold him down for me? I cannot clean the wound if he continues bucking like a bull.”

Ewan immediately stepped forward but was stopped by Caelan’s hand on his shoulder. “Are ye sure about this, Ewan?” he whispered, glancing back and forth between Fiona and Caelan. “Ye have heard the stories. And the boy doesn’t want her touching him. She could be sucking the life from him as we speak.”

Ewan rolled his eyes, jerking his shoulder away from Caelan before stalking forward and pushing Graeme’s shoulders down to the mattress. He nodded at Fiona as he put his weight against his body. “Ye save him, ye hear me?”

Fiona nodded and returned to cleaning the wound. She wiped the blood, trying to be as gentle as possible as she cleaned the grime from Graeme’s skin. Caelan sighed, coming forth to hold down Graeme’s boots, which kicked out at every swipe of cloth against his skin. Tears dripped down Graeme’s face as he gazed up at the ceiling, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

“There, there,” Ewan whispered against Graeme’s hair. “Ye will be alright. Soon we’ll be drinking ales and ye will be talking to that lassie ye like.”

Graeme’s cries lessened as she continued to clean and Ewan carefully moved his hands from him, stalking towards the table and dumping his body into the chair behind her. Caelan removed his hands from the boy’s boots, yet she felt him still at her side, watching her, waiting for her to sing her enchantments to seduce the boy, or poison him with her herbs.

Fiona ignored him. She focused on her work, reminding herself she was not a witch, she was a good person. But it was common these days, that villagers would come seeking help, and then question her actions, worry if she would slip them something and they would become the next offering to the Devil.

Like Isabel.

Fiona blinked back unshed tears as the little girl’s name came to mind. She rested the cloth against the bucket and turned around searching for her jar of mushroom powder.

“I’ll need to stitch him,” she said while dabbing the powder onto Graeme’s skin.

Ewan shifted in his chair. “Will he live?” he asked while stroking his ginger beard, eyeing both Fiona and Graeme, now lying very still in the cot.

Fiona smiled, giving him a soft nod. Ewan sighed in relief, his head lolling back as he praised the Lord above. “But he will need to keep the wound clean,” she added while grabbing a needle near the cot and dipping it in whiskey. “Nae work for at least five days. And there could be fever.”

“Fever?” she heard Caelan’s appalled voice over the top of her head as she felt him slowly rise at her side. She could feel his scowl digging a hole in the back of her head.

Graeme flinched as she poked the needle and thread through his skin, working deftly and as gently as possible. “I will give ye a tea for the fever,” she said. “It shouldn’t last more than a few days.”

“Thank ye,” said Ewan.

Graeme whimpered, now watching Fiona’s needlework with a pinched expression.

“And if it lasts longer?” asked Caelan.

Fiona turned to him, seeing the hate in his eyes as he watched her. “If he worsens, please come to me,” she said, turning back to Ewan. “But I assure ye, rest and the herbs will help with his recovery.”

Caelan scoffed.

Ewan scowled at his friend yet said nothing more as he helped Graeme stand. The boy whimpered, his legs wobbling as Caelan threw his other arm over his shoulder.

A knock thudded at the door as Fiona reached for the herbs in her jar. “Come in,” she called while smashing the leaves into a fine powder before setting them into a small pouch.

When she lifted her gaze, her heart plummeted, finding Tavish standing in the doorway with a tall lean man, cloaked in a blue and green plaid pinned to his shoulder. She did not recognize the man, however, she knew Tavish wouldn’t bring just anyone to her door. She handed the pouch to Ewan as she eyed the stranger up and down, taking note of the urgency in his gaze. Fiona barely took notice of the three men stumbling out her door as Tavish approached, taking a seat at her table and leaning back in the chair, watching her with shrewd eyes.

“This is Fiona Duncan,” said Tavish as he gestured towards her. “Our village’s… healer,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

Fiona dipped into a polite curtsy, yet Tavish’s choice in words was not lost on her. She knew what he truly thought of her, how he watched her shrewdly when she would leave the village to gather herbs. She knew he had spies watching her, for the safety of the people he once told her when she questioned him about it.

She knew he didn’t think of her as a healer. She knew he believed she offered Isabel to the Devil.

Fiona kept her gaze on the dirty floor as she curtsied, wishing she was a witch and could shrink herself into a small field mouse so she could run away. Or a witch so she could cast a spell to tidy her small home, feeling meek and small in front of this man who bore the laird’s pin in his plaid. As she slowly stood, placing her hands neatly in front of her, she glanced at the jars decorating her table, wishing she had at least tidied them this morning, however the influx of patients had kept her too busy.

“Fiona, the laird has summoned ye to Castle Lennoch,” said Tavish.

Fiona’s brows pinched together in confusion as she lifted her gaze, meeting Tavish’s amused grin. Why would the laird call on her? She wondered as she resumed her scrutiny of the messenger before her. Looking between Tavish and the man, she feared her worries were finally coming true. She was going to be hanged or burned. The people finally had enough of her, no matter how helpful she had tried to be; no matter how much she worked to keep her neighbors healthy and her head down.

They were coming to take her away.

“The laird’s son is ill,” said the messenger, stepping forward before kneeling in front of her.

“Ill?” Fiona breathed, unable to keep the shock from her tone. She looked up at Tavish, yet his expression was unreadable. “Surely, it’s not so bad. Why would the laird call upon me?”

“The laird’s healer is in the western villages,” said the messenger, shaking his head. “The boy will surely die before he returns.”

“But, haven’t ye tried…”

“The laird and his sister have tried everything,” the messenger said, staring up at her as if he were a beggar prostrating himself for food. “Please, ye must come with me. Ye are his only hope.”

“Me?” Fiona nearly shouted, pointing to herself as if she didn’t understand the word.

The messenger nodded, his eyes prickling with worry and hope. Fiona shook her head, turning around and grabbing a cloth, trying to busy herself with something.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot,” she said quickly while wringing the rag in her hands.

Help the laird’s son? How could she? Especially after the last time she helped a child. Nae. She could not fathom it. If the boy were to die, not only would the laird have her head but all of the village. She would never be able to return to this home again. Even if she were to escape, the people would surely burn her cottage down and all her mother and father’s handiwork in building this beautiful place would become nothing more than ash. All the memories she had of them would go up into flames.

“Please,” the messenger begged. “The boy is but five summers.”

Fiona closed her eyes as she took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. Five summers, she thought. Nearly the same age as Isabel when she died. Fiona sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with the cloth as she remembered the small girl lying limply in Iain’s arms. She remembered the snow dotting the sky, trickling down to rest on the dead child’s face.

The screams and cries demanding they burn her.

Fiona bit back a sob as she imagined the laird’s son, lying still in bed. A son so young, suffering and yet not receiving any aid. She imagined his small pale face, sweat dripping down from his head, his gasps as he fought and struggled to breathe.

And he would die due to her selfishness; due to her need for self-preservation.

Fiona ground her teeth, knowing what she wanted to do, but she needed to stand her ground. She needed to say no. One more youth lost in her hands and she would be burned.

“Tavish, please,” she whispered, keeping her back to both men. Her shoulders slumped forward, trembling as she tried to keep herself contained, knowing she would shatter if they continued to press her. “Ye know why I cannot answer this summons.”

“Will ye give us a moment,” she heard Tavish say from behind, heard the footsteps and the door creaking closed and clicking shut.

Fiona shivered as the chair scuffed against the floor behind her followed by Tavish’s steps towards her. She bit back a sob as he grabbed her shoulder, jerking her around to face him. Her eyes prickled with unshed tears as she gazed into his dark eyes framed with greying brown hair.

“The laird has summoned ye,” Tavish said. “Do ye understand me lassie?”

Fiona sniffed and nodded.

“And when the laird summons ye, it isnae yer choice. Ye go.”

Fiona shoved her shoulder from his grip. She scowled up at him, jutting out her chin as she held his gaze. “Healer today. Witch tomorrow. Which is it Tavish?” She smiled bitterly. “Or does it depend on how ye feel when ye rise in the morning?”

Tavish shook his head, chuckling as he stepped away from her. “If ye don’t go girl, what do ye think the villagers will think?”

Fiona scoffed. “If I go and the child dies, what will they think then?”

Tavish slid his hands into his jacket pockets, eyeing her up and down before turning to the door. “It is yer choice whether or not ye choose to go.” He stopped, his hand on the door handle, glancing over his shoulder he smirked and said, “But are ye a healer lassie, or are ye not? Surely, a healer would feel some sort of pain knowing the boy should die if ye choose not to go.”

Fiona inhaled deeply as she watched Tavish leave, closing the door swiftly behind him. She felt numb, as if a strong wind had blown straight through her and rattled her bones. Her hands shook as she stared at the door, at the place the messenger and Tavish stood not long ago. It wasn’t that long ago Mrs. Baran was watching her with narrowed eyes while taking a pouch with trembling hands.  It wasn’t that long ago when Caelan was scowling at her, questioning Ewan’s choice to bring Graeme to her.

Fiona recalled Ewan’s wife going into labor weeks prior and how she demanded for a midwife the next village over. She remembered the woman’s screams and shrieks of terror and pain as they waited for the midwife to arrive. She remembered going to their home in the rain, asking if they needed any aid; the fear in Ewan’s eyes and the answer on the tip of his tongue. She knew he would have permitted her entrance if not for her past; if not for his wife pleading to keep the witch from devouring the babe in her womb.

“Not from ye,” she remembered Ewan saying before he slammed the door in her face.

In the villagers’ eyes she was nothing more than a witch, the Devil’s loyal servant.

But in Fiona’s she was a healer.

A healer didn’t turn away when they were summoned. They helped; they went where they were called. Fiona’s feet moved of their own will, gathering a large brown satchel and gathering her jars of herbs, her needles and clothes, her mother’s book. She didn’t know why she was doing this when she knew it would change nothing.

Even if she did save the laird’s son, it would not change the way the villagers looked at her nor their opinion of her.

She would always be a witch in their eyes.

But would she allow them the satisfaction, knowing they had finally broken her. Would she allow this child to die, simply because the people gossiped and whispered? Would she not at least try to save the child?

Fiona knew her answer, she knew what it should’ve been right from the beginning.

Pushing her fear to the side, Fiona turned around, grabbing her cloak and satchel and striding towards the door. She threw it open, finding the messenger on his horse in the middle of the square. Tavish stood below him, talking to the man as if he were saying farewell.

Fiona ignored the villagers as she strode towards the messenger with her head held high and her shoulders back. She met Tavish’s shrewd gaze and smirk in the distance and refused to turn around. Women held back their children as they ran around one another. Young mothers held their babes to their breast, turning away and offering a prayer to the Lord above.

Fiona stopped below the messenger, meeting his wide gaze. “Alright,” she said, handing him her bag. “I’m ready.”

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Chapter I

The bells tolled, ending evening prayers and calling the Brothers to supper. It was a low, resonant sound that reverberated through Ronan’s bones and down into his soul as he watched the rest of the monks file out of the chapel. Father Ninian, the head of their order, was Ronan’s mentor and closest friend at the monastery. He paused before him, laying his hand gently on his shoulder.

Ninian was an older man with a ring of iron-gray hair and a grizzled beard of the same color. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was pudgy, affable, and one of the smartest men Ronan had ever met. He enjoyed their long intellectual and philosophical conversations, never failing to learn something, or gain some new perspective every time they talked.

“I’ll make sure yer food is kept warm,” Ninian said.

“Thank ye, Faither.”

“Are ye doing all right, Ronan?”

He nodded. “Aye. I’m doin’ just fine. Why dae ye ask?”

Ninian shrugged. “Ye’ve been quieter than usual lately.”

A wry smile curled his lips upward. “Ye’ve just given me a lot tae think about.”

The older man looked at Ronan closely for a moment but then nodded and gave him a smile. Ronan could tell that Ninian didn’t quite believe him but had the good sense not to push him. Though Father Ninian encouraged him to talk – to unburden himself, he never forced Ronan to reveal anything. He gave him the time and space he needed, and the best thing from Ronan’s perspective was that Ninian didn’t push religion on him.

He knew it was an odd thing to say, given that he was living at Airnred Monastery, an initiate of a religious order. But he hadn’t come to the monastery following the call of God. Not directly. He came to Airnred because he needed to change his life, and it seemed as if the monastery offered him the best chance of doing that. He was still trying to come around to living a life based on a faith he’d been ambivalent to his whole life.

“Whatever it is that’s botherin’ ye, if ye cannae tell me, tell God, lad,” Father Ninian added gently, “Even if ye think he’s nae listenin’, take me word for it… he is. He always listens.”

“I will, Faither. Thank ye,” Ronan said.

Ninian remained for a moment, then nodded as if to himself before turning to join the Brothers at their meal.

“Be sure tae eat somethin’ tonight, lad. We’re nae takin’ vows of starvation here,” Ninian called over his shoulder as he walked out of the chapel.

Ronan smirked as the older man walked out. As an initiate, he didn’t take his meals with the others and was left alone to clean things up. He would get to eat later － alone in the kitchens. Ronan knew his situation was different. He was not like the other initiates who had followed the call of God to Airnred. Sensitive to that, Ninian did what he could to protect Ronan as he took his journey, uncertain where it would lead him. Even after all this time.

Ninian felt that limiting his exposure to the other initiates was the best way to protect him － and them, of course. Ronan knew Father Ninian couldn’t have him blending with the regular initiates. Not until he’d decided on his true path. Ronan understood that, of course. He didn’t want his lack of belief to rub off on the other initiates, making them question themselves as he did. But he also thought it sometimes made for a very lonely existence. There were times he felt more like a wraith moving about the halls of Airnred than an actual person.

He wanted to give himself over to this life. To be a man of service and devotion. Ronan wanted to belong. He wanted to believe as they did. But in the couple of years with the Brothers, he’d yet been able to give himself over to the faith completely. He was holding himself back and didn’t know why. Faith and his reluctance to fully embrace it had been the subject of many long conversations with Father Ninian over his time here.

Stepping through the door, he stood on the porch, looking across fields of green and to the loch beyond. The sun was slipping toward the horizon, casting the sky in fiery shades of orange and red that reflected vibrantly off the glassy surface of the water.

He breathed in deeply, savoring the fresh, clean air around him. Airnred nestled in the foothills of the Highlands, surrounded by forests as far as the eye could see. It always smelled of wildflowers and the thick earthy musk and pine of the woods. The world around him was quiet. Peaceful. And it was in moments like that when he felt in harmony with the world, felt the closest to God. Certainly far more than in the chapel with the other Brothers of the order.

Suddenly, the front door of the chapel crashed open and gave Ronan a start. He turned and dashed inside, just in time to see a figure staggering through the doorway. The stranger, a man, knocked the benches askew as he crumpled to the floor with a loud grunt. Ronan ran to the man and rolled the stranger onto his back. Even through the mud and blood that covered the man’s face, Ronan recognized him instantly, a gasp passing his lips.

“Conall, what’s happened tae ye?” Ronan asked, “Cousin, what’s happened?”

Conall groaned incoherently, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Looking around the chapel, Ronan saw he was still alone. With the other Brothers at their meal, nobody had seen Conall enter. Knowing he had to help his kin, Ronan lifted the man in his arms and hurried him to the dormitory.

Ronan’s cell was in a little-used wing of the dormitory, well away from the other initiates. He laid Conall down on the straw-covered pallet in the cell next to his, then quickly started a fire in the small pit in the center of the room. The shadows and flames flickered and writhed upon the walls, locked in their eternal war, but the warmth from the fire quickly chased off the encroaching chill.

That done, he quickly ran down to the infirmary, fetching a basin and jug of water, a few clean bandages, towels, and jars of medicinal herbs, and returned back to the cell. Stripping Conall of his clothing, he washed away the grime and blood, searching for wounds.

Most were superficial, merely cuts and bruises, though he thought the slice along the ribs was worrisome. To Ronan, it looked like Conall had been knocked around pretty well, and he quietly hoped his cousin had given as good as he’d gotten. He knew it wasn’t a very Godly thought to have, but Ronan couldn’t help it; he could run from his roots, but he couldn’t run from his nature.

“Ronan, what is this? Who is this man?”

Father Ninian’s voice startled him, and Ronan jumped to his feet, quickly turning around. The older man’s brow was furrowed, an expression of concern etched into his features. Ronan swallowed hard.

“This is me cousin, Conall,” he said softly.

“What happened tae him?”

Ronan shook his head. “I daenae ken, Faither. He just showed up like this. Collapsed in the chapel. I couldnae turn him away.”

“Nae. Of course nae. We cannae turn away a man in need. But what does this mean? Why is he here?”

“I daenae ken what it means, but I reckon ‘tis nae good.”

On the pallet, Conall stirred restlessly, murmuring unintelligibly. Ronan knelt beside the pallet and took his cousin’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. Conall’s eyes fluttered and then opened, and for a brief moment, he looked fully in control of himself again.

“Conall. Cousin. What’s happened. Why are ye here?”

Conall’s eyes locked onto Ronan’s, his gaze burning with intensity.

“Tis yer faither, Ronan,” he said, his voice raspy and weak, “He’s killed me faither. Tried tae kill me. He’s taken control of the clan.”

As if the act of speaking took a physical toll, Conall slumped back against the pillows, his breathing labored, his face pale and drawn. As his eyes closed, Ronan was left with a growing sense of dread. If what Conall was saying was true, the worst had come to pass.

But he couldn’t worry about anything other than trying to help his cousin recover. If Conall had to flee Belwich, the seat of their clan’s power, Ronan knew that things were bad for his cousin. Especially in light of his injuries. Though none seemed overly serious, the three-day ride to Airnred wouldn’t have helped things.

“His wounds are nae mortal. But if he takes an infection, he could die. I’ve done all I can for him,” Ronan said, feeling woefully inadequate.

“Then he is in the hands of God now,” Father Ninian added softly.

“Aye. That he is.”

The older man laid a gentle hand on Ronan’s shoulder, full of sympathy and concern.

Chapter II

Father Ninian gave him leave from his normal duties, and for the next four days and nights, Ronan cared for his cousin, rarely leaving his side. Conall did not wake but flitted between bouts of fitful sleep and incoherent consciousness.

Ronan continued to care for Conall, cleaning his wounds, changing his bandages and poultices regularly, and prayed. He wasn’t sure that anybody was listening or that his words would be heeded, but he prayed nonetheless. Ronan figured that it couldn’t hurt, and at that moment, he needed all the help he could get. More than that, Conall needed it.

He and Conall were more than cousins. They’d grown up together and were more like brothers. Conall was heir to the clan’s Lairdship, and they’d grown up thinking Ronan would be his First Sword, the Laird’s personal protector. They believed they would usher in a golden age for the clan. Their plans had been bold and brash. They had been so young… so foolish.

“How is he doin’?”

Father Ninian stepped into the cell and set a tray of food on the table. Ronan had been so busy caring for Conall that he hadn’t been taking his meals, so Father Ninian brought them to him.

“His fever seems tae have broken,” Ronan replied, “I’m optimistic that he’ll recover. Cautiously optimistic.”

The older man looked over Conall for a moment, then took a seat across the table, and they sat in silence for a while. Ninian looked pointedly at the tray, then up at Ronan.

“Ye need tae eat, lad,” he said, “Ye won’t dae yer cousin a lot of good if ye pass out from hunger, eh?”

Ronan chuckled softly but conceded the point and tucked into his food, tearing off chunks of crusty bread and dipping it into the stew. Father Ninian let him eat in silence for a few moments; the only sound the crackle and pop of the fire in the pit.

“Why have ye let me stay here all this time, Faither? At the monastery? I’ve never taken me vows in all this time, and yet, ye’ve never forced me tae take them or move on. Why?”

A wry smile touched the older man’s lips. “Ye dae good work around here, lad. Ye work twice as hard as many of the other initiates. Tis hard tae find good help.”

“There’s got tae be more tae it than that, eh?”

Ninian looked at him for a long moment, and judging by the expression on the older man’s face, Ronan could see there was indeed more. So he settled back in his seat, took a sip of the watered wine, and waited. Ninian finally heaved a sigh and leaned forward on the table.

“Ye were a lad in trouble when ye arrived. Ye were runnin’ from somethin’, that was easy tae see. In most ways, ye still are runnin’ from somethin’. Yer past, I’d have tae guess,” Ninian said, “But I could see that ye were a man searchin’ for somethin’ too. Searchin’ for somethin’ bigger than ye. Ye seemed tae be searchin’ for meanin’ and purpose. I’ve hoped all along that ye’d find it here. In fact, I still believe that ye can. But only if ye actually cut ties with what ye’re runnin’ from.”

“Cut ties, Faither?”

“Aye. Ye’re a man straddlin’ two worlds right now. The world here at Airnred, and the world ye left behind when ye came here. There’s goin’ tae come a time when ye’ll need tae choose one or the other. Otherwise, ye’re goin’ tae be stuck in this in-between world ye’re existin’ in, never movin’ forward in yer life.”

Ronan fell silent as he absorbed Ninian’s words. He couldn’t help but hear the ring of truth in them. He had felt trapped in a world between worlds and could never find a way out of it. Now, as he listened to Ninian, he knew why – knew the past would catch up with him here at some point. Knew there would be a day Conall would come for him. A day that his own father would go too far. And that day had come.

“How did he ken ye were here, Ronan?”

Ronan sat back in his chair, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic, a frown pulling at his mouth. He thought back to the day he’d left Belwich behind and had to bite back the anger that was a staple of his life as all of the unpleasant memories filled his mind. Ronan tried to beat them back and push away the anger, forcing himself to be calm.

“When I left me home and clan behind, I told Conall where I was goin’. He’s the only one who kent. And I told him if there was trouble, or if he needed me help, he could come tae me,” Ronan said.

“So he’s in trouble then?”

Ronan shrugged. “Aye. I think so. But I ken what ye’re worried about, and nay, that trouble willnae be followin’ him here. Like I said, nobody else kens he’d come here. Nobody else kens where I am. And he would’ve died before he told anybody. If trouble were comin’, it would already be here.”

Ninian nodded but still looked concerned. Monasteries being raided and pillaged were not unheard of, so Ronan understood his worry. But Airnred was off the beaten path and far away from Belwich, which was why Ronan chose the monastery in the first place. He could live anonymously here – hoped he could escape his past and learn to be a better man.

“He said yer faither had slain his brother. Tried tae slay him,” Ninian said, sending a dagger of pain through Ronan’s heart.

“Aye. He did.”

He fell silent for a long moment, trying to stuff his anger down deep inside. Ronan knew his father rising up against his uncle and Conall and usurping the Lairdship had always been a possibility. His father, Kenneth, had always lusted for power. For control. His father had served as the First Sword to Bram, his own brother, but Ronan knew Kenneth coveted the Lairdship for his own.

His father had been making moves behind the scenes to seize power, but Ronan had hoped that his small rebellion had destroyed those plans. It was why he’d sacrificed everything and fled his ancestral home. Why he’d turned his back on the clan and the life he’d been building there. He’d hoped his actions would have spurred Bram to take matters seriously and cast his father out.

It angered and saddened Ronan to know that his actions had been in vain. It enraged him that his father had murdered his uncle, nearly murdered his cousin, and had seized control of the clan despite everything. But Ronan stifled his emotions, not wanting to jump to conclusions. Conall had been in bad shape when he arrived, and before Ronan gave himself over to his rage, he wanted to hear the full story when Conall was coherent and clearheaded. Perhaps he was wrong?

“I’d caution ye tae take a breath, lad. I can see the anger in yer eyes. Ye need tae clear yer mind because the sort of anger I see in yer eyes right now never leads tae anythin’ good.”

“Aye. I will, Faither.”

In the bed, Conall stirred, a low groan passing his lips. But then his eyes opened, and his gaze fell upon Ronan and Ninian.

“How long have I been out?” he asked, his voice dry and raspy.

“Four days,” Ronan answered.

His cousin muttered to himself as Ronan poured a cup of watered wine and handed it to his cousin. Conall took it gratefully and swallowed down half the cup. He wiped his mouth and looked at them both uncertainly as Ninian got to his feet and laid a hand on Ronan’s shoulder.

“Remember what I said, lad.”

“I will, Faither.”

“Then I’ll leave ye lads tae it,” Ninian said, and walked out of the cell.

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Chapter I

Shana stepped back into the forest, her leather bag full of food and her hands braced to raise her bow and arrow again at the sight of anything suspicious. Or anything else suspicious. As if the sight of a handsome young man with a mysterious past appearing suddenly in the woods had not been suspicious enough. No one had noticed her at the village, grabbing as much food as she could find to bring to him, yet she could feel her heart beating in her throat as her boots crunched over the grass.

It was a strange thing to be bringing food to an unfamiliar young man who was not of her clan or her people. And yet, it had thrilled her with adventure. She would be the one to rescue this man from harm. Shana could hear doubts fluttering through her mind, pushing her to question her choices. She set her chin in defiance and narrowed her eyes as if planning to shoot the doubts down with her arrows.

Helping him had nothing to do with the fact that he was incredibly handsome, but more to do with the fact that he could be the way out of the forest, out of this life, and the way to help her find a new path in the world. She heard a stick crack, and she spun around, her arrow at the ready.

“Lass,” Logan whispered, moving out from behind the trees, and she lowered her weapon as she crept toward him, placing the bag in his hand. He took it with a smile and sat down as he burrowed into it. “Ye are an angel. A rescuer.”

Shana smirked. That was her title now; rescuer. She let the pride of it wash over her. In her time at the village, she had done nothing much except learn to farm, fight, and shoot her bow and arrow. But never had she ever been allowed to use any of her skills, except for the farming, of course. She frowned. How dull had her life really become?

“Sit, will ye nae?” Logan looked up at her, and for the first time, she could see that his eyes were green, the deep healthy green of a field of ready crops.

She suddenly felt a loss for words she had never felt before in her life. Boys had never done anything of that sort to her, but now with Logan’s green eyes on her, she suddenly felt her mind go blank. Instead of saying anything, she sat next to him, and her dark skirts flooded around her.

He grinned at her as he bit into his food, first choosing some dried meat and then bread and then fruit. She watched him eat with satisfaction, unable to take her eyes away from the sight. Now that she was closer to him, he really was quite beautiful, and she had gathered from books that handsome men were often dangerous to women. Even her mother and aunt would say that but would only laugh and never explain.

She wondered now if they hadn’t been right as she watched the smooth, tanned skin of his muscled throat as he swallowed and the way his arms bulged under his shirt where the sleeves had been rolled up.

For a second, she was curious if beautiful men were the cause of some sort of illness, for, with each passing moment, she was growing warmer and warmer. “Are ye dangerous, Logan?” she asked quickly and then immediately regretted her question.

Dangerous men would never admit they were dangerous. Just as murderers would never admit they were murderers. He still could be one.

Logan paused in his eating and swallowed. “I dinnae ken what ye mean, lass, but if ye mean to ye, then aye. If ye mean did I commit the crime I am runnin’ away from, then also aye. I am just a man who was wrongly accused.”

Shana pursed her lips in thought and narrowed her eyes at him. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, hoping the strange dizzy feeling would go away. “Tell me then. Tell me what has happened to ye.”

Logan put down his food and glanced at her. He was quiet for a moment as if he was deciding whether or not she could handle the news. Shana kept his gaze. It was time for people to start taking her seriously. She was twenty years old, after all. Her father wished her to stay a little girl, but it was time he knew that she no longer wanted to.

She breathed out with relief that he thought her worthy as he began. “The laird of me clan had a second-in-command named Allan. He died at a feast we were havin’ at the McIntosh castle. It was a good celebration, and everyone went tae bed quite merry, but I decided tae stay awake longer. I had things tae think over.”

Shana could see the sudden change in his expression. He looked suddenly tired and weighed down, and guessing that he was still quite young in years, the expression seemed oddly placed.

He took a breath and stared off further into the woods. “I left tae get to the highest part of the castle for a wee moment, just to get some air. Ye see, me wife died a week afore we were tae get married. Smallpox. It was over a year ago now, but it still feels raw tae me.” He looked at Shana, who felt her heart patter with sympathy at the sight of his earnest eyes.

Poor man.

He looked away again. “On me way back tae me own room, I heard somethin’ strange. Like fallin’. So I went tae see what it was, and I found Allan in one of the hallways, bleedin’ on the ground, attemptin’ tae make sounds.”

Shana exhaled with a rush. “What did ye do?”

“I had tae help him. Allan was a good man.” Logan’s face tightened, and his muscular jaw clenched. “He had always been kind to me family. I didnae want tae lose him. But there was nothin’ I could do. I tried. I really did. But…”

His voice trailed off, and Shana had the urge to reach out and touch his shoulder, to run her fingers along his sleeve to comfort him. She had never seen a man so weighed down by life and the world. He took another breath and started again. “So, I spoke tae him for a wee while, about home. About the way the hills would look in the evenin’ sun and about his family. I had pulled him into me arms, and so the blood was everywhere. Seein’ the way he suffered, I couldnae take it anymore. I took out me dirk, and I…I finished what someone else had started. It was the best I could do to save him.”

Shana was silent. So he had killed the man, but he claims it as a mercy killing? Can this be true?

She watched him closely. He was certainly honest-looking – how he spoke and how his face revealed all of his emotions. But her mother had always taught her never to be beholden to a man. Never let them trick her into doing something or believing something until the facts and the evidence are there.

Shana remembered asking her mother, Rose, about her father, Sean, and how she would deal with him. Still, her mother had merely laughed and smiled and got that dreamy look in her eye she always had when her mother talked about her rather infamous father. Her aunt, Isabelle, was no help either, still entirely besotted with Uncle Eamon, even though she could hear each couple arguing loudly every so often. She and her cousin, Orla, would merely roll their eyes and think that it was just their parents who acted this way.

“I see,” she said, still trying to summon suspicion. “What happened after that?”

Logan was looking at her again. She wished he would stop that for his eyes were disconcerting. They made her feel strange in her head and in her stomach, and she felt like she needed a clear, strong mind to ferret out the truth. She did want to explore the world on her own soon, and she could not fall prey to the wiles of one handsome man just at the start of her journey. Then she knew what her parents said about her not being ready for the world would be true.

“Well, a servant came and saw us together. Once he saw me covered in blood, he didnae wait for an explanation, and he ran around the castle yellin’ that Allan was dead and blamin’ me as he did so. People came tae look upon the scene, but nae one would believe me. Nae even me own men would come tae me aid. I had tae escape. I escaped out the window afore me men captured me and surely tae take me tae trial.”

Shana nodded along. She waited until he breathed out, finishing his speech. “So what is yer plan, lad? Where will ye go? And, why are English soldiers after ye if it is a Scottish man ye are presumed tae have killed?”

Logan pushed aside a blade of grass, turning and twisting it with his fingertips. “Ye ken that after Culloden, the English are continually involved in Highland matters. Me Laird has ties tae the Crown as well as his second-in-command. The English general that controls the nearest fort often uses the second-in-command for messages and the like. He kens much information, and from what I can gather. I believe they think he may have been tortured by me tae get that information, and then I will run away with it. Perhaps even sell it tae the highest bidder? And so ye find me here. I am off tae meet with me cousin, Caitria MacNair, at MacNair Keep. I think she will have some solutions for me and she can give me shelter for as long as I need.”

Shana started to feel her heart beating again with excitement. “Where is MacNair Keep?” she asked, and he frowned in her direction.

“Why?”

“I wondered how long yer journey was. Ye will most likely need provisions?” In her heart, she was thinking more of how jealous she was that he would get to leave and go off on a wild adventure while she was stuck with the Scots in their hideaway village, seeing the same people and doing the same things every day. Would it never end?

Logan smiled, and Shana felt that annoying tingle again. His sadness had left him, and his smile was bright. “I willnae tell ye where the keep is, for I dinnae wish anyone tae follow me trail here and find someone who could give away any information. ‘Tis safer that ye dinnae ken. But ye are right. I will need provisions. If ye can provide me them.”

Shana nodded, and his smile widened even further. “Thank ye, lass. As I said, ye are an angel.” He leaned forward, and Shana thought for a moment that he was attempting to stand up. She tried to do the same but was blocked by his body, and instead, she fell backward, grasping at him for balance. He fell on top of her, and she found herself lying flat on her back on the soft forest floor. Both her hands grasped the back of his arms as she stared into his stark, green eyes.

“Och,” she said softly. There was that feeling again. That loss for words. That swirling, fuzzy brain sort of feeling that was so strange to her. Perhaps he really was evil. Logan just watched her for a moment and didn’t move. Shana’s mind was filled with too many sensations at once; it was sending her into a flurry of feeling. Her lips opened slightly to catch more breath, for him looking at her like that made her breath come fast and quick.

Under her fingertips, she could feel the long lines of muscle on his arms, and between her legs, could feel his heat pressed against her. Logan smiled. “Sorry, lass,” he said, pulling away. Shana blinked at him as she sat up with her elbows in the grass.

She felt a new loss that she couldn’t quite describe. Perhaps she could explain it to Orla later. “Och, ‘tis nae trouble.” She brushed off her skirts and avoided eye contact with him, fearful he might trap her with his eyes again, and she could feel the heat on her cheeks.

Bloody Hell. She was meant to be a warrior, not like Orla, who giggled and batted her eyelids at any handsome young man that came her way. That was not her at all.

“I had meant tae do this.” He reached forward and grabbed her hand lightly in his strong, rough one. He brought it to his lips, and Shana nearly let a gasp free as he placed a kiss upon it, keeping his eyes on her. “Thank ye for yer help.”

Shana could feel herself brushing a bright red, and she was willing him to let go of her hand as soon as possible. She didn’t feel strong enough to pull away.

When he did, he leaned back as if nothing strange had happened and asked, “So, tell me of ye, lass. Why are ye so good with a bow and arrow?”

He was grinning again. She could feel it in the air, even if she wasn’t looking up at him. She suddenly snapped, hopeful that she could remove his grin and thus regain some sort of equilibrium. “Is it so surprisin’, lad? That I should be quick with a weapon?”

She raised one eyebrow and looked in his direction. She suddenly felt guilty at the return of his earnest look again. Clearing her throat to avoid thinking about the guilt, she said, “Me Ma is a warrior, and so is me Da. We have all been taught tae fight. As I said, this is a sort of secret village. Everyone must prepare for any situation.”

He nodded. “I ken. ‘Tis a good idea.”

A silence fell between them. Even though Shana wanted to ask more about his future adventures and what he might do, she stood up, continuing to busy herself with brushing off her skirts. “I will go and prepare the provisions.”

Logan nodded and then stood up himself, handing her back her leather pouch. “I thank ye for the food. And the conversation. It does get a wee bit lonely out here, ye ken.”

“Aye, I ken it very well.” She smiled back at him and began to walk away. He called out after her.

“Lass, ye didnae tell me yer name. Am I nae tae ken the name of me angel? Me rescuer?”

Shana closed her eyes, hating how good it felt to be called thus and for a second time. To finally be of some use. And it didn’t hurt that it was a beautiful young man who had been close enough to kiss her who had called her that. She turned back. “ ‘Tis Shana.”

“Shana,” he said with a smile. The way he said it made tingles travel all over her skin. “Lovely.”

She nodded and then said, “I will be back tomorrow mornin’.”

“Until then.” After his last words, Shana left the woods, and she did not look back, fearful of what she might say or do if she did so.

Back in the village, as she strode through the main lane to her and Orla’s houses, she bumped into Orla carrying a bucket of water. Shana grinned. “Och, I see it has taken ye long enough at the well, Orla. Has Robert been there again, attemptin’ tae woo ye with his poor attempts at poetry?

Orla blushed and put the bucket down, using her apron to wipe her hair from her face. Her very dark hair was damp from sweat. “Nae at all, cousin. I would never do somethin’ like that. He may have been present, but I was only listenin’ with half an ear.”

Shana laughed. Orla was always trying to pretend that she did not love the attention and that she had a sort of affection for Robert herself. “Ye dinnae fool me, cousin.” She walked forward and grabbed the other end of the bucket. “Even though ye attempt tae lie tae me, I shall still help ye carry the water.”

“How kind of ye, Shana.” Orla rolled her eyes, and it made Shana giggle. They waddled together, holding the heavy bucket between them until they reached the outside of Orla’s hut. Her Aunt Isabelle was there, tall and beautiful, her long dark hair in a braid that fell down her shoulder.

“Shana,” she said with a smile, wiping her hands on her apron. “Where were you this morning? Off working on your archery, I hope?”

Shana nodded. “Aye. Ye ken that is what takes up most of me time.”

“That or the library.”

Smiling, Shana helped Orla pour the water into a clay jug on a low stone wall. “When will I get tae use me skills, Aunt? I think I have struck about every tree trunk, small animal, and apple in the whole of Scots’ Village. When will me Da think that I am old enough tae leave this place and find me own life?”

Her voice sounded a little whinier than she’d wanted it to. She also did not want to turn around and look at Orla, her cousin, and best friend. More like a sister. Shana didn’t want to leave Orla, but if she was to make her own way in the world, and Orla did not wish to go, then that would have to be the way of it.

Isabelle sighed and shielded her eyes from the bright sun as she looked into Shana’s face. “I think the time will be soon, my dear. Do not rush him, but it will be soon. You are a woman now, after all.” She grinned back at Orla.

Orla whined, “Then why do our da’s never think that we are? They still treat us like children.”

Isabelle laughed, loud and clear. “It is the way of fathers and daughters. Just the same with mothers and sons, I can assure you.” She squeezed Shana’s arm. “Now, your ma is looking for you. Go home and think about what I said.”

Shana nodded but felt morose. Waving to her aunt and cousin, she left for her own hut, a decision building in her mind.

Chapter II

Logan moved his knife over the stick in his hand, shucking off the bark with each quick movement and watching it fall in a curled shape into the grass. His back was positioned against a tree trunk, and he felt like he had never been more bored in his life.

While at the clan with his men and his family, he had been a warrior. He had been able to fight for his people, provide safety, complete missions and duties for his laird, and now he was here. Waiting for a young lass to bring him food so that he could continue on his journey while going nearly mad with boredom in the middle of a strange forest.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the bark. He tried to put aside the rush of feelings that had come over him when he first spotted Shana. Her bow lifted up in the air, her eyes narrowed with focus, and her thumb touching her mouth.

That mouth. It was practically hypnotizing with its full, pink lips.  He predicted that she wasn’t much older than him, he being only twenty-three years of age. When she’d faced him, bow in hand and threatening his life, he’d almost laughed despite his desperate situation. Fiery was the way to describe her. Strong. Independent. But also innocent. It was a strange combination. He could see her youth and innocence in her eyes when he spoke of his past, and the way she had so heartily agreed to help him.

Strangely, she reminded him of Darla, who he had loved and lost before they’d had a chance to begin their lives together. She’d had dark hair, but her eyes had been light while Shana’s were impossibly dark. The pain of Darla’s loss was still real, but it was healing. That afternoon in the woods when Shana stepped into his view was the first time he’d looked at a woman with any other feeling besides friendship or indifference.

He wasn’t sure if he liked it and frowned as he continued to scrape and carve the wood, his little pile of curled wood shavings growing with each motion. He stopped for a moment and thought about his next moves. Would Caitria be able to help him as much as he hoped? Well, there was no one else.

She is me only family left.

Everyone had been taken from him over the years, and now the future looked bleak and lonely. It hadn’t looked so bad until he was found next to Allan, his very own dirk in Allan’s chest. Now, he had absolutely no one. Well, not no one. He had a fiery, brown-eyed lass who would surely shoot him as soon as look at him.

Did that count as someone?

***

The moon was bright that night, and Shana watched it through her window. She couldn’t sleep. The excitement of the day had been too much, and she couldn’t relax her mind enough to let it rest. She was thinking of Logan and what she wanted to ask him tomorrow once she brought him his supplies.

Taking a breath, she breathed out the words, “I want tae go with him.” There. She’d said it finally. The resolution had been knocking in her heart all day, and now it was out there, it felt good. It felt like she was finally free. She knew that her aunt and uncle nor her parents would ever agree to it, and so she had to take matters into her own hands.

Shana turned to the sound of footsteps, and she looked up to see Orla in her nightgown creeping towards her. Orla slid next to her on the bed and laid back with a smile. Since the houses were so close, the two girls often spent the night in each other’s homes, for they were continually surrounded by men, it seemed. The conversation about their hearts was their one solace.

“So, will ye tell me where ye were today?” Orla asked, putting her arms behind her head, bathed in moonlight.

Shana did the same, pulling away from the window. Orla always knew everything. “What makes ye think that I was somewhere? I told Aunt Isabelle that I was practicin’ me archery.”

Orla sighed. “I ken that ye were doin’ that. That is nae the part that I didnae believe. But I do think ye were leavin’ somethin’ out. When I saw ye earlier, ye were flushed, and yer eyes were bright as if ye’d just come back from somethin’ excitin’. Now, I say ye tell me what it is, or I shall have to tell yer ma and da that ye have a secret. Ye ken that yer da will nae let it rest.”

Shana groaned, and Orla giggled, shushing her. “Do ye want yer parents tae wake and hear yer secret? Tell me now!”

Shana sighed. “I met someone. In the woods.”

“Someone? Who?”

“I cannae say. I dinnae quite ken,” she lied. “But ‘tis a man.”

“A man?” Orla gasped and clutched onto Shana’s hand. “By God, if ye dinnae tell me everythin’ right now, then ye shall have Hell tae pay!”

Shana replied, “I was walkin’ on our path, and I found him there. He is hidin’. From somethin’. Ye must promise nae tae tell anyone about it!”

Orla tapped her heart. “I promise.”

“He needed food. I helped him. He will leave tomorrow once I bring him a bit more.”

“He is a man. A young man?”

Shana squirmed uncomfortably, not wanting to think about that pair of bright green eyes and long, reddish-brown hair. “Aye.”

“Just how young?” Orla’s voice held a joking tone, and Shana wanted to roll her eyes and be done with it.

“He is a little older than us, I would say. But nae by much.”

Orla grinned. Shana could sense it. “So, is he handsome?”

As quietly as she could, Shana groaned again. “Orla, ye ken that I dinnae like tae talk about idiot lads as much as ye do! They dinnae fill me mind so.”

“Och, but this one does. I can tell.” Orla poked Shana in the cheeks. “Even under the moonlight, ye are blushin’.”

Shana clutched Orla’s hand painfully until her cousin squealed and pulled away, scowling. “Fine,” Shana said. “He is handsome. Very handsome. But there is somethin’ else. Somethin’ I have decided.” Even though she was lying down, she still drew herself up a bit, hoping for some confidence. She wasn’t sure how Orla would react, knowing that her dear cousin and almost sister would be leaving her for who knew how long.

“What is it?” Orla turned to face her.

Shana took a long breath. “Orla. I have been wantin’ tae leave here for as long as I can remember. I cannae bear it anymore. The solitude. The nothin’ness. I want more.”

Orla nodded. “I ken it well. Ye were talkin’ tae me ma today about it. That also told me that somethin’ was wrong. Ye have nae talked about leavin’ for a little while. I thought that somethin’ else happened. I ken the feelin’, Shana. ‘Tis too isolated here.”

Shana nodded, and she was glad that Orla understood her feelings, but tears were still in her eyes. “Orla. I have tae go. And I have decided. When I bring the man his provisions tomorrow, I will ask him tae allow me tae go with him.”

“What? Are ye mad, Shana?” Orla’s eyes were wide, and the whites sparkled in the moonlight. “Ye dinnae even ken this man well at all. What if he is dangerous?”

He is dangerous. But in an entirely different way. I think.

“Orla, I ken. I have thought all about this since I spoke tae him earlier. This could be me only chance tae leave. Ye ken that me da will nae let me go until I am accompanied, most likely by a husband. I dinnae want that. I want tae go and see the world on me own.”

“Does the man even ken yet that ye want tae go with him? What if he doesnae let ye?”

Shana shook her head. “I will tell him tomorrow. And ye ken how persuasive I can be.” Shana tried to smile and push her cousin lovingly on the shoulder.

Orla frowned. “What about me? Ye will leave me here? What if I dinnae want this life?”

Orla’s voice was tremulous, and Shana’s heart nearly broke at the way she was hurting her cousin. “Ye could come too if ye like. We could explore the world taegether.”

Orla hesitated for a moment but then shook her head. “Nae, ye are stronger than me. Ye would do better than me out there in the world.”

Shana tried to smile again but found it even harder. “I will be back, ye ken. I would never choose tae leave ye forever. Ye must ken that.”

Orla nodded but looked unconvinced. “I think ye are right. Ye should go. Ye will never have peace or happiness until ye go. I will wait for ye here. Send word if ye can.”

Shana hugged Orla tightly. “Thank ye. In the mornin’, I will write a note, and I want ye tae wait tae give it tae the family until ye are certain that I have left and that there would be nae time enough for them tae come after me.”

Orla nodded again. “Ye promise, right? That ye will be back?

“I promise.” Sighing, Shana felt better and more at ease. She and Orla fell asleep, and Shana had a wonderful feeling that her life was just beginning.

***

The next morning, Logan woke up and rubbed the back of his neck. He was ready to sleep in a bed again. Normally when he traveled, he had all his provisions with him. But this time, he had nothing. And he wondered what Shana would bring him. His mood instantly lightened at the thought of seeing her once again.

It was a pity that they had to say goodbye, but that was life, was it not? A never-ending string of goodbyes? Groaning, he stood up and stretched, realizing that he needed a bath and a fresh set of clothes, but that would have to wait. His next stop would have to be at a secluded river where he could dunk himself into its cold depths and try to forget everything except getting to the keep.

He turned at the sound of crunching leaves and saw a smiling Shana walking towards him, her bow with her but this time not drawn. He smiled back at her like an idiot, but it had only been a natural reaction to seeing how bright and cheery she looked. As she stepped closer, he noticed a dimple in her right cheek. He shook his head.

Why am I noticin’ that?

“A good mornin’ tae ye, Logan.” She seemed a lot cheerier than the day before, and he found he was unable to react as quickly as he wanted. He was so surprised.

“And a good one tae ye, lass. Ye are lookin’ well.” He coughed and then said, “I mean well and happy.”

“So I am,” she said as she handed him the bag again as well as kept another bag for herself.

Shana’s eyes sparkle when she smiles. Damn. Why am I noticin’ things again? I am on the run! I have other things tae occupy me mind!

He took the bag from her and looked inside. “Lass,” he said as he looked up. “Ye have brought so much. How could ye afford tae do this? What generosity!” He grinned, and she looked almost a little bit proud as she stood in front of him her hands on her thin hips.

“Ye dinnae care to ask me why I am so happy?” Logan could feel his heart flutter at the freshness of the young beauty. Now that he was close and her face lifted in the sun, he could see freckles sprinkled lightly on the top of her cheeks.

Why had he not noticed it before when he had fallen over her, and her hands were touching his arms, their faces inches apart?

Och, that is right. Ye were more focused on her mouth and her eyes.

Logan groaned, and Shana jumped. “What is it?” she asked, her former bright expression switched to concern.

By God, I did that out loud.

Logan put out a hand. “Och, forgive me, lass. I was merely thinkin’ of somethin’. Go on then, tell me why ye are so happy.”

Shana’s eyes brightened, and despite their seemingly endless darkness, they sparkled. “I am happy because I had the most excellent idea.”

“And what is that?” He set the bag down and stood up again, crossing his arms.

“I had hoped that ye would let me go with ye.” She stood before him, grinning hopefully, and Logan frowned. There was no way he could risk his life, and the life of someone else’s by including Shana in his escape.

“Och, nae, I dinnae think that is a good idea, lass.”

Shana’s eyebrows knit together, and there was a slight crinkle in her forehead. “What do ye mean? Why nae?”

“Because I have tae run. I have dangerous people after me, ready tae take me tae the hangman’s noose. Why on earth should ye wish tae go with me?”

Shana stepped forward and gripped his arm. “Because I am stuck in this place, and I have nae other way of gettin’ out. I need tae leave. I have had me share of hidin’.”

Logan scoffed. “And ye think that comin’ with me will be the answer tae all yer problems? But where will ye go? What will ye do?”

Shana chewed on her lip, and he could see indecision mixed with desperation on her face. “I dinnae ken. But ye will give me a start. Once I see the outside world, I can choose next what is best for me. And I can fight. I have told ye already of me quickness with a bow. I will show ye if ye like.”

Before he could protest, Shana had her bow out and at the ready. She turned to the left and aimed at a hanging apple on a tree. The bow twanged, and the arrow shot straight through the apple, sending bits raining down onto the forest floor. It all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye.

Logan lifted an eyebrow and turned back to her. “That is impressive, lass, but ye dinnae seem tae understand the kind of danger that I am in. We are bein’ pursued by Her Majesty’s army. They will stop at nothin’ tae find me. What if ye become mixed up in their danger?”

Shana shook her head. “I will leave then. I just need ye tae help me a little. Teach me a few things about the world.”

Logan looked confused.

“I ken that it sounds strange, but I tell ye that I have never left this village in me twenty years.”

Twenty. So only a couple years younger than I.

His mind was wandering again, and he should focus. He could not possibly risk-taking Shana with him, but in some ways, he could feel something niggling in the back of his mind. Shana might be a very nice addition. He felt a kinship with her he hadn’t felt in a long time. And she was right. She could fight if necessary.

Logan watched her for a moment. Her eyes were wide, and she was waiting, hopeful. She was the most beautiful thing he’d seen in a very long while. “Fine. I am in agreement.” Even though he could see Shana’s worried face break out into a becoming smile, he wasn’t sure if he had just sealed his fate. And in more ways than one.

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Chapter I

“Please… please don’t kill me,” the Frenchman said.

She rolled her eyes, a leonine grin touching her lips. She took off her red and black tricorn cap and mopped her brow with her sleeve. The man was on his knees, his wrists and ankles shackled. He looked terrified as she stood over him.

“Why do you think I’d kill you?” she purred in his native tongue.

“Y – you are La Renarde de la Mer,” he stammered. “You do not take prisoners. This is known.”

She laughed as she shook her head and put her tricorn back on. The stories that went around about her and her crew were amusing. Her legend grew despite the fact that they had not actually done most of what they were known for. Oh, they’d had to commit many acts of violence before – that was part of the life. But they’d not done most of what they were accused of. It worked in her favor, so she was willing to let the stories spread and take on lives of their own. Ships she took were less likely to fight back when they believed they were facing a crew of bloodthirsty monsters wanting to do murder.

“If this is known, then why would you ask me not to kill you?” she asked.

Her crew laughed, one of them cuffing the French captain on the back of his head. A flash of anger touched his features but was quickly washed away by the tide of fear that gripped him. She held her sword up, the sun glinting off the thin, curved blade. The Frenchman’s eyes were wide, glued to the steel in her hand. With a small laugh, she slipped her blade back into its sheath on her hip.

Aileas, also known as the notorious Sea Fox – or La Renarde de la Mer, in French – turned her head and looked at the burning hulk of the French ship floating on the starboard side of her own ship, a fifty-foot tri-masted carrack called The Red Selkie. A thick column of black smoke rose to the heavens, and on the horizon, three small dots suddenly appeared. Ships. French navy. No doubt coming to aid the ship that floated along, engulfed in flames.

She turned to the captain and flashed him a vicious smile. “Just because I do not take prisoners does not mean I kill them either,” she said. “I’m a pirate. A businesswoman. Not a monster.”

The man’s eyes widened, blossoming with hope as her crew chuckled. She gave a nod to Dougal, her first mate, and a man from her native Scotland. He grinned wide.

“Over the side with this one, lads,” he bellowed.

As they unbounded the man, Aileas stepped to the rail of her ship and watched the sails on the horizon. They were definitely coming this way. She heard the Frenchman screaming behind her, followed by the splash of his body hitting the water. Her crew howled with laughter, hurling insults and pieces of garbage at the man. A small smile touched Aileas’s lips.

She turned around and walked to the steps that led her up to the rear deck and the ship’s wheel. Conscious of the three other ships on their way, she stood at the railing and started barking orders to her crew. They had pillaged the Frenchman’s ship, taking everything of value – and as a merchant, he’d had much of value – before putting it to the torch.

They usually didn’t destroy the ships they took. After all, having merchants sailing the seas was good for her. But the Frenchman’s crew had stupidly fought back and had bloodied one of her men. The ensuing fight had been fast and furiously messy. Most of the merchant’s crew had been killed, and those wise enough to surrender were now floating in the water with their captain.

The wind filled the red and black sails with a loud snap, and Aileas tilted her head back, savoring the feel of the wind in her hair and the sun on her skin. She loved being on the water. She loved the life she had built for herself out here, as far as she knew, the only female pirate captain on any sea, anywhere.

After she had fled from her home, Logan had taught her the ways of the sea. Though Logan was a legitimate merchant, he’d been a pirate when he was younger. One of the most notorious to ever sail the ocean blue to hear some tell it. When he started to get older and found a woman he wanted to settle with, he went straight. He even had a family.

He had been true to his word. He treated her like one of his own and raised her up. He taught her how to fight. He taught her how to run a ship, and more importantly, how to run a crew. He set her up so she could be a legitimate merchant – or a pirate. Aileas found the pirate life vastly more fun. So when Logan decided to hang it up and spend his remaining years with his family, he handed control of his ship – formerly the Iron Dragon – to her. Some of his crew, also getting on in years, had decided to leave the ship, opting to spend their lives – and the gold they’d taken over the years – on land.

The first thing Aileas had done was rename the ship, then had new sails made more befitting her style. After that, she’d found a crew. Some of the men aboard the Selkie were men she’d grown up with who opted to stay after Logan’s retirement. They knew and respected her already. But the newer crew members she took aboard, she’d had to break in since a female captain wasn’t something they were accustomed to. Some of them had to be taught a little respect.

But for the last few years, things had been smooth. Her crew had become her family. Her ship. Her hope. They were prosperous and feared. Aileas liked that. Although her life wasn’t what she had expected, her birthright stolen from her in a hail of blood and flame, she found that she couldn’t complain. She had a good life.

As the Selkie glided forward, Aileas stepped to the side railing and doffed her tricorn cap, and gave a bow to the men floating in the water.

“When those ships arrive to haul your miserable carcasses out of the water,” she called to them in French. “Please tell them La Renarde de la Mer sends her regards!”

* * *

They made berth in the harbor of Dernier Espoir – Last Hope – the city on the French shoreline they had called home since the days when Logan first took the pirate’s colors. It was a rough and tumble town filled with thieves and murderers, but it was also a place where the French authorities dare not step, which made it ideal for people like Aileas and her crew.

It had been home to Aileas since she was a girl, and so she was afforded a level of respect born of familiarity and the fact that Logan was essentially her da around there. Not many men challenged her, and when they did, she had always been more than happy to put them down. Her skill with a blade, though – and her willingness to use it – had earned her even more respect, acclaim… and fear.

The crew pulled their oars in and let the longboat glide to the dock that jutted out from the shore. The men jumped up and tied it off and helped her up the ladder. Once they were all standing on the dock, she gave them all a smile.

“Ye’ve done good work, lads,” she said. “Go and enjoy some of thae spoils, eh?”

The men cheered and clapped her on the shoulder as they headed for the taverns and brothels in town – of which, there were plenty of both. Aileas made her way to the inn where she laid her head down when they were ashore, the King’s Bollocks. Though the name was crude, the Bollocks had the softest beds in town, not to mention the best wine and food.

She stepped through the door and took a seat in the corner of the common room near the hearth. There was a chill in the air outside, and Aileas just wanted to relax by a fire and have a mug of wine. Aileas unbuckled her belt, took her sword off her hip, set it down on the table, and then settled into her seat. She caught the eyes of a few of the men seated in the common room. Strangers. No doubt wondering what a little slip of a girl like her was doing carrying a blade.

“Is there a problem here, eh?” she called.

The men quickly turned back to their drinks, and a stony silence descended over the common room. Slowly, the muted buzz of conversation picked up, but it was subdued, and everybody seemed to be making a pointed effort to avoid her gaze – and thus, avoid her wrath.

“Well, you’re in a foul mood tonight, aren’t you?”

Aileas smiled at the sound of her voice and turned her head to find Giselle gliding over to her table. She set the mug of warm, mulled wine down in front of her, and a pitcher of it down in the center of the table, and took a seat across from her. Aileas took hold of the mug, cupping it in both hands to leach the warmth from it, letting out a sigh of relief.

“I am glad to see you home safely,” Giselle said.

“I’m glad to be home safely,” Aileas replied.

“Was it dangerous?”

Aileas shrugged. “It had its moments.”

Even though she’d been speaking French for most of her life now, it still felt wrong in Aileas’ mouth. It was uncomfortable. Like a cloak that didn’t quite fit properly. It was true that she had spent most of her years in France, but she knew she would never be considered French herself. Still, there were a lot of worse places to be while away the time.

Giselle smiled at her, clearly wanting Aileas to regale her with tales of her adventures on the sea. She was the inn owner’s daughter, and they had become fast friends shortly after Aileas had taken up residence in the Bollocks. She knew Giselle harbored fantasies of becoming a pirate and sailing the open ocean, and she looked at Aileas as something of a hero and a role model, something Aileas had no desire to be.

Still, the two of them were thick as thieves. They had become great friends over the years, and in a world where Aileas trusted few people, the short, slim, curvy brunette was one of the very few. So she obliged the girl and told her of their voyage… the fights, and the dangers they had faced. She ended it with the story of her leaving the French captain in the water.

When she was done speaking, she took a long swallow of the mulled wine, which had cooled considerably as she’d been telling her tale. It was still good, though. Giselle’s face was bright, her smile wide, and she was quietly clapping her hands, thrilled with Aileas’ tale.

They talked a while longer before exhaustion finally started catching up to Aileas. As she got to her feet, Giselle’s eyes widened.

“Oh no, I almost forgot,” the girl said.

“Forgot what?”

Giselle held up a finger, then dashed behind the counter. She came back a few moments later, holding a sealed piece of parchment. Aileas took it and looked at the seal for a moment, not recognizing the sigil embedded in the red wax.

“Who left this?” Aileas asked.

Giselle shrugged. “I do not know. It was left here for you a couple of days ago,” she said. “The man who left it said to make sure it got into your hands the moment you returned. Said it was important.”

“But you did not recognize him?”

She shook her head. “His French was terrible. I had to get Alexandre to translate for me,” she said. “And he had a funny accent. It sounds like yours when you are not speaking French.”

That piece of information sent a bolt of lightning straight through Aileas’ body. A Scotsman here in France, leaving messages for her. She knew it could only be one person, since aside from Logan – whom Giselle would have known – there was only one person who knew where to find her.

“Dand,” she whispered.

Giselle looked at her curiously as she broke the seal on the letter. The missive was six words. Just six words. But those six words turned her entire world upside down.

It is time. Come home. ~ Dand

“Home,” she whispered to herself. “I’m goin’ home.”

Chapter II

Sowkirk, Scotland

The sky was overcast, and there was a chill as thick and heavy as the salt in the air. Luke stood on the far end of the dock, looking out to the sea. He loved the ocean. It held such beauty and mystery for him.

Luke knew he got his love of the sea from his father, who’d been a fisherman. Luke had only seen twelve summers, though when a storm blew through while his father was at sea, and the mighty ocean had claimed him. Still, despite the tragedy that had marked his life, he held a strong love for the water.

He looked around the harbor, silently naming the different vessels berthed there to himself. Luke thought that he’d like to board one of those ships and head out one day, riding the ocean, bound for distant lands. Most of them were familiar to him, merchants who regularly made berth in the harbor of Sowkirk.

One ship he had not seen before, though, caught his eye. It was a large, tri-masted carrack that was moored on the outside ring, standing alone. He could see the silhouettes of a few of the ship’s crewmen bustling about on the deck from where he was standing. What caught his eye were the sails. Though furled, he could see they were red and black. It was distinctive.

He stood at the end of the dock for a little while longer, just breathing the salty scent of the ocean and watching the unfamiliar carrack. Then with a smile, he turned and made his way to the harbor master’s office and leaned against the doorway, folding his arms over his chest, and looked in at the man.

Clovis Brun was perhaps the angriest man Luke had ever known. He was older, with a head full of stark white hair, a dark, craggy face, stooped shoulders, an ample belly, and a sharper tongue than any blade Luke currently had on his body. Clovis’s green eyes sparkled with intelligence and keen wit. He was never opposed to making somebody look plum foolish when the mood struck him.

“Aye? What dae ye want then, boy?” the old man snapped. “And wipe that bleedin’ smile off yer face. Tis nothin’ tae be smilin’ about ‘round here.”

Luke smiled wider. Despite his surliness, he liked old Clovis.

“I came tae ask about thae carrack with the red and black sails,” he said. “I’ve never seen it here before.”

“What business is it of yers then, eh?”

“Must we have this conversation every time I stop in, Clovis?” Luke replied. “Ye ken tis thae task me lord Fin has set to me. He wants me to keep abreast of thae ships and the crew who come intae Sowkirk.”

Clovis scoffed. “Yer lord wants ye out of his hair,” he cackled. “Tis why he sends ye down here. Ye dae ken that, eh?”

It was a thought Luke had more than a few times. He desperately wanted to be part of Fin’s personal guard – the Black Wolves, as they were called. He wanted to be a warrior. He wanted the respect and esteem that came with being one of a noble’s personal guard. Perhaps more than a life on the sea, he wanted to be known as a great warrior and friend to his lord.

But he had not yet been given a chance. Although he spent his mornings training in the warrior’s field, the rest of his days were spent at the harbor in Sowkirk, watching the ships sail in and out, ostensibly keeping an eye out for enemies. But it had not taken him long to figure out that it was a way for Baron Bagbie to get Luke out of his hair.

“Mebbe if ye dinnae pester him so much, he might nae send ye away,” Clovis continued, cackling the whole time.

“I daenae pester him,” Luke snapped.

“Lad, I been here longer than ye been alive,” he stated. “Believe me when I say that only lads who get tasked with dock duty are thae ones who pester thae baron.”

Luke frowned, feeling his mood darken. Deep down, he knew Clovis spoke the truth. And that didn’t improve his current disposition any. But Luke had always believed in putting himself out there. Believed that to achieve his goals, he had to make others remember his name. But listening to Clovis confirm the thoughts that floated through the back of his own mind made him see that perhaps, he should have found another way to make Baron Bagbie recall his name.

The good thing was, he still had time to correct his course. He was young, and he was hungry. He would do what was necessary to stand out from the other young men who vied for spots within the baron’s elite guard. That meant he needed to redouble his training. He would need to make a name for himself on the training court, not by constantly peppering the baron with questions.

The decision made, and his course set, Luke nodded to himself. He would make the baron stand up and take notice of him. He was already skilled with a blade in his hand, and he made a silent vow that before long, he would be the best in all of Cherrythorn Manor. There would be no way the baron could deny him for long.

“Are ye goin’ tae tell me about the carrack or not?” Luke pressed.

“Tis called thae Red Selkie; what else dae ye want to ken?”

“Where’s it from? Where is thae crew?”

“I daenae ken where thae crew is. A tavern or a brothel, I’d suspect. Seems tae be thae first thing sailors dae,” he grumped. “Nor can I say I ken where they’re from. I did hear ‘em speakin’ in French, though. Oh, and they’re led by a lass.”

Luke pondered it a moment, the name seeming to be strangely out of place. A French vessel named after a Scottish legend? He thought it over for a moment and wondered if he was making more of things than they actually warranted. Still, it struck him as odd and out of place. But perhaps, not as odd and out of place as a female captain. That was an oddity worth exploring.

“A female captain? Yer sure?”

“Aye,’ he said. “That sorta thing tends tae stand out.”

“And they spoke French?”

“Did I stutter, lad? Bleedin’ hell, I can see why thae baron sends ye away from him,” Clovis spat. “Now, unless ye got any more stupid questions, I got work I need tae be doin’, so run along now.”

Luke lingered in the doorway for a moment, glaring at the man. The one thing he disliked more than anything was being condescended to the way Clovis had just done. He did not like being spoken to as if he was a child. Technically, he was a soldier. He was one of the baron’s fighting men who would be called upon in a time of war. His aim was higher, and just because he had not attained his goal just yet, did not mean others had the right to sneer at him.

“Ye may not think much of me now, old man,” Luke growled. “But I look forward tae thae day I make ye eat yer bleedin’ words.”

Clovis looked at him for a long moment, and rather than a scowl, or a sharp word, Luke saw something different in his face. It was almost something akin to respect, though not quite there.

“I look forward tae thae day tae, lad,” he said, sincerity in his voice. But then a wicked grin curled the corners of his lips upward. “Until then, get yer bleedin’ arse outta me office.”

A smile crossed Luke’s face, and he laughed as he left the harbor master’s office. As he walked along the docks, though, his thoughts continued to return to the carrack. Clovis had heard them speaking French, which was interesting. It piqued his curiosity more than a little. He did not see many French merchants harboring at Sowkirk.

The town only had half a dozen taverns or so. If they had indeed gone to a tavern as Clovis had suggested, they should not be hard to find. He wanted to learn what they were up to and whether they posed any threat to his baron. He thought if they did, Baron Bagbie would be well pleased to be forewarned.

Luke set off into the town, looking for this mysterious crew who was led by a woman.

* * * * *

It took him three taverns before he found who he was looking for. The red and black tricorn hat that matched the carrack’s sails sitting on the table gave her away. As unobtrusively as he could, Luke walked in and took a seat near the table where she sat and cast a furtive glance at her. One of the tavern girls brought him over a clay mug filled with mead, and he took a deep drink of it, trying to look natural.

With hair the color of deep rust that was pulled back into a braid that hung over her shoulder, soft hazel eyes, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and skin darkened by the sun, Luke thought the captain was striking. She was small and petite, though she had curves that he enjoyed looking at. In black woolen breeches, black boots that went up to the knee, a red tunic, and a black leather jerkin over that, she was a sight. She looked delicate, almost like a little girl dressed up in a fighting man’s gear. And yet, despite that appearance, Luke could see the hardness in her. The toughness she carried herself with.

Beneath her tunic, he could see the sway and ripple of corded muscles. There was a scar, just a thin white line, that ran from her chin and along her jawline. As he looked closer, he could see her knuckles and hands also bore a thin white web of scars he’d commonly seen on the hands of warriors. She had obviously seen her share of fighting and action.

The woman was young but had a practiced, casual air about her. And yet, at the same time, there was a tension in her frame as well. Her body seemed to crackle with the promise of violence. The woman had a whispered threat of it in her easy but deft movements. It was the same way he’d seen hardened warriors move. The way the baron’s Black Wolves moved.

Luke had no trouble believing the woman’s small, almost delicate frame, and that soft, comely face had led many a man to underestimate her. He also had no trouble believing those who did, were no longer of this world. It was in her eyes. Even from where he sat, he could see the hardness in them. They were eyes that had obviously seen much in what Luke guessed was not a very long life thus far.

“Is there somethin’ I can help ye with?”

It took a moment for Luke to realize the woman was looking at him square in the eyes and speaking to him. He gave himself a small shake and cleared his throat.

“Sorry?” he asked.

“I ask if there was somethin’ I can help ye with,” she snapped. “Ye’ve been eyeballin’ me since ye sat down.”

“I have not.”

She rolled her eyes, a small grin flickering across her full, red lips. “Aye. Ye have.”

“Me apologies then. I dinnae mean tae stare. I was just thinkin’ to meself.”

“Thinkin’ about me then?” she purred.

“No, of course nae.”

“Why not? Daenae ye find me attractive?”

“Well… no,” he stammered. She stared at him, one eyebrow raising as her lips curled upward in a smile. “I mean… yes. Of course. But that’s not what…”

She’s got me stammerin’ like a bleedin’ idiot. Get ahold of yerself already.

“I was nae lookin’ at ye, all right?” he finally managed. “I was just thinkin’. And nae about ye.”

“Ye’ve quite thae effect on thae lads,” a deep, rumbling voice sounded.

“Ye’ve no idea,” she replied, her voice low and smoky.

For the first time, Luke noticed the large, burly man sitting at the table with her. He was older than her, but not old enough to be her father. And yet, there were some resemblances between them, so Luke thought they could be kin.

As for the man, he was built like a tree – tall, wide, and stout. He wore doeskin breeches, boots, and a dark tunic belted at the waist. The man’s hair was dark, his eyes even darker, and his skin was tawny. A large, bushy beard covered most of his face, and he seemed to radiate menace from every pore. Luke was good in a fight and skilled with a blade, but he knew even he’d think twice about tangling with the man before him.

The walking tree turned his head to Luke. “Now why daenae ye be a good lad and mind yer own bleedin’ business?”

Luke frowned and felt the blood in his veins begin to boil, feeling like he was being called out. He cut a glance around the common room of the tavern and saw people turning their way, interest upon their faces. He felt his back stiffen, and as more eyes fell upon him, he felt the pressure to answer the large man’s challenge growing. Getting heavier and pressing down on him.

Of course, people want tae see some bloodshed—bleedin’ vultures.

Luke looked him in the eye, held his gaze firmly. “I was mindin’ me own bleedin’ business ‘til she said somethin’ tae me, friend.”

“I’m nae yer friend, lad,” he growled, his voice low and menacing.

“Fine. I daenae care,” Luck snapped. “I’m just tryin’ tae enjoy a drink and this fine hearth.”

“What’s your name?” the woman asked.

“Luke Addair,” he replied. “And yers?”

“Alice,” she said. “Alice Garnier.”

The burly man with her shot her a look but turned his gaze back to Luke again.

“Me name’s none of yer bleedin’ business,” he grumbled.

Luke shrugged. Frankly, he didn’t care what the man’s name was. He wasn’t what had captured Luke’s attention. That was Alice Garnier. He found that he was growing more curious about her.

“Tis unusual for a woman tae captain a ship,” Luke said.

She gave him a smile, which left him feeling somewhat unsettled. For some reason, this woman had a visceral impact on him. She put a flutter through his heart and stomach he couldn’t understand.

“Mebbe it shouldnae be,” she replied.

Luke shrugged and gave her a small smile. “Mebbe not.”

“I’d heard ye’ve got a French crew,” he said. “Seems unusual.”

“Lots of things seem tae be unusual tae ye,” she replied. “But tae answer yer question, good men tae crew a ship can be found anywhere… even in France. And tae enlighten ye further, I’ve got Scots and even an Irishman among me crew.”

Luke nodded, feeling the weight of her companion’s eyes on her. He didn’t think the big man was part of her crew, though. He couldn’t put his finger on why exactly, but Luke didn’t think he had the look of a sailor about him. Unlike her. She seemed made of ocean water and sea salt. She had the look of a woman who could be as soft and gentle as the sea on a calm, clear day, and at the time, as violent and brutal as an ocean storm. Luke found her more than a little intriguing.

“So what brings ye tae Sowkirk then?”

She shrugged languidly. “Just doin’ some business.”

“We daenae get many merchants from France ‘round here.”

“Then thae market should be fresh and unspoiled for me goods, eh?”

He grinned at that. “Aye. I suppose so,” he said. “And what kind of goods are ye bringin’ tae market then?”

“Ye sure dae got a lot of questions, daenae ye?” the man grumbled.

“Me ma always said havin’ a curious mind was a good thing,” Luke shot back.

“Tis a good way tae get yer gut opened up, and yer innards spilled out on thae floor here.”

The big man had his hand on the hilt of a dagger on his belt, his eyes narrowed, and jaw set. He looked at Luke with pure malice in his eyes. Luke was getting tired of the man and his not-so-veiled threats. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze fixed firmly to the big man’s. The air in the tavern suddenly crackled with tension, and all eyes turned to them, a breathless anticipation building.

The big man got to his feet, staring at Luke with baleful eyes. Alice sat back in her seat, an expression of amusement upon her face, a grin flickering across her lips. Luke could tell she was weighing him. Taking his measure. In that hazel-eyed gaze, he saw that she was trying to see what sort of a man he was.

And at that moment, Luke knew what sort of man he wanted to be. He wanted to be a man who did not back down from a challenge. A man who was not afraid to fight – and die – for what he believed was right. And he wanted those things mostly for himself, but partly because he knew, deep down in his bones, that was the sort of man Alice wanted.

“Mebbe we need tae step outside, so I daenae sully thae tavern floor with her blood,” the man growled.

Luke got to his feet and swept the cloak back from his shoulders, laying his hand casually on the pommel of his sword. It had been his father’s blade, the last piece of his da he had. It was a long, curved blade with a crossguard fashioned to resemble the tentacles of a sea beast, the pommel its head; two chips of ruby had been embedded to resemble the eyes.

The sword was light and graceful. Elegant. And Luke drew power and strength from it. His father had been a master swordsman. He could have been one of the old lord’s elite personal guards. But he had chosen a life upon the sea instead. While Luke wouldn’t follow his father in that regard, he trained relentlessly to be his equal with a blade in his hand.

“Aye. Mebbe we should,” Luke said, his voice cold.

The man’s lips curled upward in a grin. He turned to Alice and tipped her a wink, then erupted into laughter.

“I like this lad,” he said. “He’s got stones, he does. Stones thae size of boulders, I’d say.”

Alice smiled, and all around him, the common room burst into laughter, all of the tension that had saturated the air before, vanishing like a puff of smoke on a breeze. Luke stood there, blinking, swept away by waves of confusion. The big man walked over, and Luke tensed, but with a smile on his face, he clapped him on the shoulder, a wide smile on his face. It helped ease some of his tension, but he still watched the man warily.

“Ye’ve got stones, lad. I respect that,” the big man said. “I was just jestin’ with ye, lad. Ye can take yer hand off yer blade now.”

Luke slowly lowered his hand, still trying to figure out what was happening. He looked over to Alice, whose smile was enigmatic and captivating, and she beckoned to him. Clearing his throat and trying to wipe the dumbstruck look from his face, he picked up his mug of ale and walked over to her table, pulling a chair over, and sat down. The big man stood next to him, and Alice looked up at him.

“I’ll come see ye later, Dand,” she said. “We can finish our discussion then.”

The man raised an eyebrow at her, and Luke saw a sly grin on his face. He chuckled, his deep voice rumbling like thunder rolling in off the ocean.

“Aye. We’ll dae that,” he said and set one of his large, meaty hands on Luke’s shoulder. “Watch over this one. She’s me cousin, so daenae let anythin’ happen to her, eh?”

Inwardly, Luke felt a rush of relief upon hearing that Alice was his cousin, rather than his woman. It meant he had a chance after all. But he also felt like Alice was not simple prey to catch. In just the short time he’d known her, he knew she was different than any other woman Luke had ever known, and he found her intriguing and compelling in a hundred different ways.

“Aye,” Luke replied. “On me honor.”

“I think it more likely I’ll be thae one watchin’ over him,” Alice said.

The large man – Dand, he’d heard Alice call him – nodded. “Aye. Probably so,” he said. “I just dinnae want tae hurt his feelin’s.”

Alice laughed out loud, and not even Luke could keep the smile from curling his lips upward. Luke thought Dand seemed to be a man capable of great violence, and one who was good in a fight – depending on which side of the blade you were on. But he also thought he seemed like a man quick to laugh and jest. A man who seemed to enjoy himself and life. Luke liked that. It was confusing, but he liked it.

“I’ll see ye after,” Dand said.

“Aye. After.”

Luke watched the man walk away, still not entirely certain what was happening. When he turned to Alice, he found her watching him over the rim of her cup as she took a deep quaff of her ale.

“So,” she said as she set the cup back down. “Tell me yer story, Luke Addair.”

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