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Chapter I

Isle of Mull, Scotland, November 1717, Seat of Clan MacLean

Calum MacLean rode hard and fast, following the coastline of his beloved isle. He saw the beauty of the green hills and the gray of the rocks and the blue of the sea, but he didn’t really see. His teeth were set, and he breathed sharply and quickly as he rode. Riding was the only way he could escape the truth of what kept gnawing at his mind. He was losing his clan.

Everything he had dreamed and learned about since he was young would soon be gone. And it was all his fault. He could barely bring himself to look at the portraits of his ancestors that hung within his castle walls. Soon, if he did nothing to stop it, the Campbells would come for his land and his castle, either merging his clan with their own and making ties with the English, or pushing them off their land entirely, leaving them as homeless orphans, wandering the desert like Moses.

Calum’s horse, Fìor-Ghlainne, named for the supposed purity of his former wife, knew the land well, and she rode steadily, beating her hooves against the ground, hoping to bring her master some solace. Calum thought about his brother and second-in-command, Angus, and the words he’d just said that set Calum to riding.

“We need food, brother. We must hunt! Yer clansmen are starving around ye, and ye have nae eyes tae see it! Ye can only see yer own pain. We need tae work the land. We need tae establish trade. Brother, ye will lose yer people if ye dinnae stop it. The English are here! And they will spot yer weakness and exploit it. Whether ‘tis they’ or the Campbells, Clan MacLean will become nae more upon the Isle of Mull.”

Angus was younger than Calum by 5 years, but in many ways, he was so much wiser. He had been the smarter of the two of them in their studies with the tutors, but Calum had been the jollier one, the more sociable, until the event happened which broke Calum and made him the unpleasant man who was riding along the coastline today.

Once Angus had spoken the words, Calum had left, feeling the fury rise in his throat. How dare his brother, his own subject no less, speak to him in such a way? Surely, he, the laird, would know best what to do with his own clan. His father would never have tolerated such remonstrances from their uncle. Why must he?

But the more he rode, and the more he fell into a sullen reverie with each beat of the horse’s hooves, the more he realized his mistakes. Yes, he had made many and had let the clan, clan lands, and the castle fall into disrepair. As he stared across the isle as he rode, it was as if he was seeing it for the first time in a long time.

The ground was brittle and dry. Fishing boats were in need of new wood. Animals wandered without fences and were sickly. He knew they were often lost in high tide or from simply wandering too close to the Sound. And Duart Castle, which rose before him in the late morning light, still looked formidable, but also looked tired and weak.

He rode towards the old gray stone walls which looked solemnly out to sea as they had for hundreds of years, and he suddenly felt a pang of regret. He would have to do something to make up for his mistakes. And maybe apologize to his brother as well. Maybe.

***

Julia scrawled into an old leather notebook atop her uncle’s desk. “2,000 pounds, Uncle. Why that is double what you earned at the tables last week. You are improving, I see.” Her voice was flat and emotionless.

Julia’s Uncle Andrew grinned at her from the fireplace, sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. He had grown rather fat in the past fourteen years, despite being a decorated General, and Julia did not like to look at him long. His powdered wig sat untidily upon his head, and he spoke with great obsequiousness and condescension, as he always did with her.

“Well done, Julia, my dear, my beauty. You are so talented with numbers; your mind has been blessed by Pythagoras himself.” He winked at her, and Julia looked away quickly, a sharp pang of nausea filling her stomach. He came up behind her at the desk, placing his hands behind on her chair. Julia pretended not to notice, continuing to scrawl away in the notebook, preparing columns for the next round of gaming her uncle was sure to engage in.

“My dear, you are growing prettier every day, you know, and it has not gone…unnoticed.” Julia wished she could disappear, but she continued to appear as calm as she could. It was true. However much she would have wished to stay a child, free from men’s clutches and desires, Julia had grown into a woman. And her uncle was reminding her of it nearly every day. He painted that compliment under a guise of wanting her to get married and find a wealthy husband, but if ever a man showed too much interest at balls and gatherings, her uncle would shoo them away, saying they were unsuitable. No one seemed to be good enough for his niece, who had become like a daughter to him.

And while the thought was so disgusting and so unusual, Julia could not shake the feeling that underneath everything, there lay a desire for her from her very own uncle, and she feared what might happen if she lived alone with him for too much longer under his roof. It seemed impossible, but every time he mentioned what he was about to say, the idea came ever closer to reality.

“Your bright blue eyes, my dear, and your smooth, pale complexion against your dark, ebony hair.” Julia could feel her uncle’s fingertips slowly caressing the top of her head. “They are enough to tempt any man.”

“And yet, no one has proved suitable to you, Uncle.” Julia pushed the chair back into him, and he made an ‘oomph’ sound, bending over slightly with a grimace of pain. But he soon regained his composure. Julia stood by the hearth, farther away from him and crossed her arms. While it was the fashion for young ladies to have low necklines and tightened waists, Julia felt uncomfortable under her uncle’s gaze, and so she would cross her arms in an attempt to cover what she could.

He chuckled. “Your usual stance, I see. And yes, no one has quite come up to scratch, I’m afraid, but it is not true any longer.”

Julia’s heart stopped, but she simply lifted an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes, dear niece. I have found a friend who I believe will be quite suitable for you. He is a military man and one of my contemporaries. We will travel to Scotland tomorrow to meet him.”

Julia’s arms fell to her side, and her eyes opened in surprise and anguish. “What? You have found…” She couldn’t even bring herself to say the words.

Uncle Andrew took her surprise and speech as her enjoyment of the news. “Yes! You will be a wife at long last. Is that not what all women aspire to?”

Julia grimaced. Not quite, she thought. Especially not when marriage was what it was so often evidenced to be: a prison for the woman who must do exactly as her husband says and live a life of lonely desolation. “But, he is your contemporary? He will be too…old.”

Not often was Uncle Andrew angry, but when he was, Julia would recoil in fear at the intensity of it and how quick he could flit from cheeriness to anger. He stepped ever so slightly closer to her, but she stood steady, only moving her face slightly back from his.

“You would do well to remember, Julia, who it is who controls the wealth of this estate, who controls to whom it goes, and who has taken care of you all these years. It is not in your best interest to disrespect me or those whom I call friends. You will marry this man because I wish it. You will live a life of ease in Scotland, and I will reside there as well.”

Julia was confused. “You will be there?”

He returned to his earlier cheery mood, smiling back at her. “Why yes.” He reached his hand out and lightly touched the side of her face. Julia stood still, hardly daring to breathe. “I have been transferred for the time being to work along with General Wade’s plan to improve that brutish, wild land and bring it to English standards. I also thought that you might be lonely without family about, my dear. General Whiteman is a very old friend of mine, and he has welcomed me to stay with you both. I hope you do not mind?”

Julia knew best not to argue at this moment. But she had to think of something. “No, Uncle. ‘Twill be good to have family about me when I embark on this new adventure.” Uncle Andrew did not notice the lightness and artificial cheer that filled her voice.

“Excellent. Send your maid to begin packing. We will leave tomorrow morning.”

Chapter II

Angus MacLean sometimes wished he could punch his brother in the face as hard as he could. Of course, being brothers, such a thing was possible, but he didn’t think it would solve anything. Laird Calum MacLean was about as stubborn as stubborn can get, especially since his loss. He had always been so merry and joking, full of happiness from day to day, the very opposite of the quiet, reserved, stoic Angus; but now, he was a changed man. Now it was Angus who appeared to be the jolly one. Calum had been cold and hard the past four years. Nothing seemed to lure him away from his bitterness and sorrow.

However, Angus was hopeful this morning. So many things had come to a head that it was time he told Calum the truth of what was going on. He hoped it would wake him out of his stupor. He had given his brother enough time to grieve. They needed to start building up the clan again, to bring it back to its former glory. But over the past years, Calum had not moved. He had seen nothing wrong, and so had let the clan fall into weakness and uselessness.

But after Angus had spoken this morning, Calum had hurriedly left in anger to ride away on the coast. Angus waited in the main hall, pacing, hoping with each second that passed that Calum would return, the old vigor in his eyes. Even if he did not, Angus had arranged a group of men to meet with the MacLeans on the coast of the mainland to hunt and trade wares.

Even if Calum did not agree, he would take them across the Sound. The clan would not survive the winter if he did not do something. As he paced, Calum burst into the room and surprised him. It was not unusual for Calum to be bursting, but Angus had been on edge ever since he’d left.

“Brother! Ye have returned from yer ride. I hope it aided ye?” Angus asked hopefully, a little too cheerily for Calum, and so Calum’s eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. He called for wine.

“Aye, I’ve returned, but I cannae say I’m in a better mood than when I left. Brother.”

Angus’s heart fell. He supposed it was too late to ever hope for a change. He would just need to take matters into his own hands, or the Campbells would take over and bring shame to the MacLeans, being traitors and dogs who were in league with the English.

The wine came, and Calum sat gruffly down on one of the chairs against the stone wall. His voice softened. “But, I ken yer right, lad. Go. Send the hunters. The MacLeans on the mainland will help us and let us use their land.”

After saying that, Calum drank his wine in one gulp and then put his face in his hands. It was as if the effort of trying to make changes took everything out of him. An excited Angus moved closer to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. He whispered, “She is not worth this, lad. She is not worth a lifetime of sorrow.”

From beneath his hands, Calum said, “But how could ye know what she is worth? How could ye know what she has cost me?” His voice was raspy with emotion.

“Be the laird our father always knew ye would be. Dinnae let clan MacLean suffer because of what she has done.” With that, Angus left, knowing there was nothing more to say. His heart ached for his brother, it really did, but it was time for action. And Calum was still young, not being yet 30 years of age. He had his whole life ahead of him, and he was wasting it on that bitch. What Calum needed was a swift punch to the face and to find a good woman. Angus yearned for that for himself as well, but he would never have said so, and he had never found any woman to be enough for him. But for Calum, it was time he married again.

But now, to the hunters. They would be assembled quickly and sent across this very afternoon. And perhaps, clan MacLean would have a new chance at survival.

***

Julia’s lady’s maid had packed her case with care, providing everything her young mistress would be in want of. Books and notebooks, of course, filled a great portion of it. She would not need too many ball gowns in Scotland, but they were necessary all the same. Julia sat across from her Uncle Andrew in the carriage as they said goodbye to her family home in the fashionable area of London and headed towards Scotland.

She barely had time to write to her cousin, Charlotte Andrews, about her departure. She and Charlotte had hardly seen each other since her Uncle came into his wealth, yet she was still the closest friend Julia had. There was no one else she really knew, aside from mere acquaintances she met at social gatherings. And so, with tears in her eyes, Julia had written to Charlotte to let her know her fate. It had finally come.

She knew it would, but she had hoped she would be married to someone in her beloved London and not someone who was stationed off in the wilderness. She did not know much about Scotland, other than what she had read. The English seemed to disdain the people there, especially the Highlanders, who were reputed to be fierce, uncivilized, and uneducated.

She was not one to enjoy geography as much as science and mathematics, and so she was terribly unsure as to the exact location of Fort William on a map. And she was, of course, unsure as to whom her bridegroom would be. She’d heard of General Whiteman, for his fierce reputation preceded him, but she’d never seen him or heard him described. But her heart told her that he would look just as Uncle Andrew looked: balding with white wisps of remaining hair, fat, old, and ugly. And he would probably be just as…uncomfortable as Uncle Andrew was.

Ever since her father died, and her uncle began taking over her day to day life, Julia’s experience with men had been mainly limited to him and the servants. She spoke occasionally to men at balls until their liaisons were swiftly interrupted and broken. In her heart, besides her father, she thought all of them vile creatures. Men, especially wealthy, greedy men, were of the worst kind, and she had no false illusions as to the happiness of her future wedded life.

Julia lay back against the carriage seat as it bumped along, allowing her mind to help her accept what was about to happen. Uncle Andrew was asleep, and his mouth opened and gurgled with each breath he took. She made a face of disgust and wished she could tear open the carriage doors and push him out into the road to be feasted upon by the wild animals. Julia looked out at the countryside that surrounded them.

They had long left London behind, and what was around them now was rolling hills, dotted with sheep. The sky was a beautiful bright blue, and Julia thought she was looking upon a storybook page. She had never been outside of the great city, and so this seemed like another world. Her father had always meant to take her on his occasional travels, but after his death, she was stuck endlessly in the same place.

Julia pulled away from the window, feeling the sting of impending tears behind her eyes. Father’s death changed my life for the worse. It’s as if I’ve lived two lives. One of happiness before and one of sorrow and tragedy after. I can honestly say, I have not felt happy for one day in these fourteen years.

Then escape. Julia sat upright in surprise. A voice not her own felt like it had spoken to her mind. She looked around, feeling unnerved by such a phenomenon.

She attempted to speak back. Escape to where? We are nowhere.

The time and opportunity will come. Take it.

Julia gripped the edges of the carriage seat and bit her lip. She felt oddly comforted by the voice. But surely it was just her own voice speaking to her. They must be her own thoughts. The time and opportunity will come, she repeated to herself.

She looked across at Uncle Andrew and felt hatred in her heart grow so strong; she thought she would nearly burst. He had been no father to her, but merely a benefactor who was making her more uneasy with each passing day. How could this man have been her lovely father’s brother? Julia squinted her eyes at him. The area around his eyes reminded her slightly of her father, but that was it. That was where the resemblance ended. What would her father say if he knew what was happening now?

Julia wanted to scream. She repeated in her head, the time and opportunity will come. But would she know when it came? And would she take it?

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Chapter I

“Here they come,” Col muttered to himself.

He scaled down the tree and dropped into the middle of the soft dirt road. His cousin Finlay — Fin to most — stepped out of the thick bushes that lined the road that cut through the dense forest. Fin was armed with his bow, the short sword strapped to his back, and a pair of matching dirks that hung on his belt. Col looked him up and down, a grin quirking one corner of his mouth upward.

“Think ye’re needin’ all them blades then?”

Fin shrugged. “I just like tae ‘ave options.”

Col chuckled. “Daenae be stupit, ya bleedin’ dobber. If this goes off the way I planned, we ain’t gonna be fightin’.”

“Yeah, well, what ye plan ain’t always what actually happens,” he added with a laugh. “I tawt it best to be prepared, eh?”

A wry grin pulled one corner of Col’s mouth upward, and he shook his head. “Git your arse into the bushes already.”

Fin chuckled as he stepped back, getting himself into position. Col picked up his quiver of arrows and slung it over his back as the sound of horses whickering, and the loud creaking of carts filled the forest around him. He stood in the road, waiting for the carts to come around the bend.

The trees pressed close on either side, the sunlight filtering through the thick canopy overhead left much of the forest in gloom and shadow. Col felt his stomach tighten, and the beads of sweat trickle down his chest.

He saw the pair of foreguard riders come around the bend first. They wore the standard of the House of Hamilton — a yellow griffin bracketed by three white stars on a blue field. It was a standard that Col was well acquainted with since he and Fin, a couple of rabble-rousers from the Scottish Highlands had spent the previous year making life miserable for James Hamilton, the Duke of York.

The taller of the two men at the front held his hand up, signaling to the cart drivers behind them to halt. He turned to Col, his expression one of pure irritation.

“You there,” called one of the foreguards in his clipped English accent. “Clear the road. Make way immediately in the name of the Duke.”

“Seems to me ye’re on a good Scottish road, laddie” Col grinned.

“Clear the way, or you’ll be dealt with,” the man replied, sounding bored.

Two more riders came up from the rear, their armor gleaming dully in the murky light. An older man with long graying hair and deep lines etched into his face stared hard at Col, his jaw clenching. He turned to the man who’d spoken to Col.

“What goes on here?” His voice was authoritative; he was obviously in charge. “Why have you stopped the caravan?”

“This — man — refuses to remove himself from the road, sir.”

The older man turned to Col, his eyes filled with disdain. “What is the meaning of this?”

“As I was tellin’ yer friend here, this is a good Scottish road,” Col explained. “And to travel it, ye must pay a toll.”

The older soldier laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. The humor, however, did not reach his eyes as he glared at Col.

“I will give you exactly three seconds to remove yourself from our path –”

“I wull give ye two seconds a’fore me men out there in the woods fill ye full of arrows,” Col interrupted. “How’d that be, eh?”

A moment of tense silence filled the woods as the English soldiers glanced nervously around at the dense, dark forest around them. Col saw the uncertainty in their faces, not sure if he was telling the truth or not.

“Shall we start countin’ then, laddie?” Col asked.

The old soldier stared him down, the younger ones growing even more nervous.

“Tell ye what… I’ll start,” Col pressed, not wanting to give them more time to think. “One –”

“Kill him,” the old soldier yelled.

The words had barely cleared his mouth when an arrow came sailing out of the forest and hit the man square in the neck with a wet, meaty thump. The shaft of the arrow was buried deep in the man’s neck, the sharp head of it protruding from the other side. Blood ran from the man’s mouth, and his eyes stretched wide as a wet gurgling sound bubbled up from his throat.

“Well feck me,” Col muttered to himself. “Wasna s’pose to happen like that.”

All was still and silent around them for a long moment, as if the entire world was holding its breath. Col exchanged wide-eyed stares with the English soldiers, none of them believing what had just happened.

But then the old soldier slumped in his saddle and fell to the side, hitting the ground with a dull thud, breaking the paralysis. The two soldiers who’d been at the head of the line spurred their horses and came charging straight at Col, their swords drawn and raised. Behind them, Col noted four more soldiers coming up the line with their blades bared.

Another arrow streaked out of the bushes, narrowly missing the two soldiers riding toward Col, but it made them slow for a heartbeat. It was just long enough for him to pull an arrow from his quiver, nock, and release it in one fluid motion. Col’s bolt punched through the first soldier’s breastplate, knocking him backward off his horse. He drew another arrow, nocking it as he spun and released. It took the soldier in the arm, and he let out a grunt of pain but wheeled his horse around, another arrow from the forest just missing him.

As the four other soldiers reined to a stop beside their fallen commander, Col aimed with another arrow.

“Stop, stop!” Col called. “Stop ye’re bleedin’ shootin’.”

The soldiers all cut glances at their dead then stared hard at Col. He kept his arrow nocked but lowered the tip and stared back at them.

“We’re gonna give ye this one chance to git the feck outta here,” he told them. “Dae that and ye’ll live. If not, ye’ll die.”

The soldiers exchanged glances, none of them seeming to know what to do without their commander there to give them orders.

“Leave the carts and get the feck outta here. Now.” Col tried to sound as authoritative as he could.

They continued to hesitate, waiting for somebody to step up and assume command. Col grimaced, knowing he needed to squeeze them even tighter to get them moving and put an end to more violence and bloodshed.

“Daenae do this. We daenae want to kill ye,” Col said, and after a moment of silence passed between them, he called out to the forest. “Archers.”

“Okay, okay, bloody well wait,” one of the soldiers nearly screamed. “We’ll go. Just — don’t fire.”

“Hold,” Col called out, locking eyes with the soldier who’d spoken. “Leave the carts, and go now.”

He watched with grim satisfaction as the drivers climbed down off the carts and followed the departing soldiers on foot, running down the road away from them. Col walked along well behind them, making sure they were leaving and didn’t have reinforcements waiting on the road behind them. However, it was clear, and soon the soldiers and drivers disappeared from view.

“Ye can come oot now, Col chuckled.

Fin stepped out of the bushes, a broad smile on his face. He slung his bow over his back and joined Col beside one of the carts.

“Worked agen,” he said.

“The English ain’t none too smart. More’s the pity,” Col replied with a grin. “Takes the bloody sport oot of it. ”

Col turned and eyed the two dead English soldiers on the road behind them then turned back to Fin, giving him a pointed look.

“Mosta the sport at any rate.”

Fin shrugged. “I was aimin’ fer his leg. He musta moved.”

“Aye. Musta.”

Col clapped his cousin on the shoulder and turned to the three carts sitting idle on the road. The horses whickered and stomped their hooves on the soft earth.

“Let’s see what we got,” Col asked.

Fin rubs his hands together, a broad grin on his face. “Aye. Let’s do that.”

As they rifled through the carts, tossing aside the things they had no use for, Col kept an eye on the road behind them. He was still concerned about the English. He knew that eventually, the raids would take a toll. And he knew Duke Hamilton would send more than eight easily intimidated soldiers to protect his caravans. He ultimately knew that the Duke would send his army to deal with them.

Col knew it would happen and worried about what they would do. As much as the clan elders disapproved of what they were doing, even they understood the necessity of it. They would never actively support him and Fin, but they reaped the benefits all the same. Their clan chief lived many miles to the north of their village and proved to be as useless as the elders — though he demanded his share of the spoils. It was a bone of contention that Col held onto, but the good of the clan outweighed everything else for him. Their people needed to eat.

“Lotsa food,” Fin’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Vegetables. Taters. Some salted meats. Should keep the bellies full a couple o’ weeks at least.”

Col nodded. “That’s good… real good.”

He turned to Fin, hopped up on the cart, and hefted a small wooden chest. Fin looked up at him, curious but hopeful. Col opened the small chest with a flourish and grinned. He reached in and pulled out a gold coin, tossing it to his cousin, who grinned with delight.

“Gold,” Fin nodded.

“Couple o’ hundred coins in here if there’s one.”

“That will do some good fer the clan.”

Col nodded. “Aye. But not as good as that food will do for them. For now, daenae tell the elders about the gold. I daenae want it disappearing.”

“Aye. We turn that over to them bleedin’ vipers, we’ll never see it agen. Neither will the clan.”

They continued to dig through the carts, loading what they planned on taking into one of the wagons for easier transport. Col knew they needed to get moving. The soldiers would likely be coming back to claim the bodies of their men and would soon be bringing help. And he did not want to be around when they did.

“God is good,” Fin crowed. “This mebbe worth more than that wee chest of gold ye got over there.”

Col turned to find his cousin holding up a bottle of a brown liquid he took to be whiskey. Fin was grinning as he pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a long swallow. He grimaced as the liquid burned its way down to his belly then nodded.

“That’s good,” he rasped. “I’ll be keepin’ that to meself if ye daenae mind.”

Col laughed. “All yers, Fin. Let’s just finish up and get outta here a’fore the Ainglish come back with friends.”

Fin corked the bottle and looked at it longingly before stowing it in a bag and setting it on the seat of the cart they were loading before hitching the other team of horses… they could always use new mounts.

When they were finished, Fin hopped up onto the seat and got the cart moving. Col mounted one of their newly acquired steeds and followed along behind Fin, keeping an eye on the road behind them. They took a circuitous route back to their village, careful to mask their path to avoid giving the English a map to guide them when they came seeking retribution.

As they entered the village, people flocked to them, a cacophony of cheering and voices calling to them as if they were conquering heroes, returning from battle. Col supposed in their eyes, he and Fin probably were hero-like. Especially when compared to the elders who refused to do anything to improve their situation.

Fin climbed down off the cart and handed the reins to Bernard, a large burly man with no hair and a foul disposition. Bernard was in charge of doling out the things that the villagers needed, such as food and medical supplies — a position he took very seriously. He gave no real sign of it, but Col knew Bernard appreciated what he and his cousin were doing on behalf of their clan.

“Made it back alive, did ye?” Bernard said.

“Daenae we always, old man?” Fin replied.

“Aye. Until you daenae.”

“With all that bleating, ye sound like an old goat, Bernard,” Fin quipped.

Fin and Col both chose horses from those they’d taken from the English as the older man grumbled and climbed aboard the cart and steered it all away to where he stored the goods for the village.

“Col,” a voice sounded behind him. “A word, laddie.”

He let out a soft sigh and turned around to see Hugh, the oldest of the elders and leader of their council, striding toward him. He turned back to Fin and handed him the reins of his horse.

“Will ye take it hame fer me, please? I’ll be along shortly.”

Fin nodded, a sour look on his face. He cared no more for the elders than Col did. Col watched his cousin walk away before he turned back to Hugh. He was a tall man with long gray hair, a close-cropped beard, and a body once broad and strong but now turning to flab. Col had watched him year after year, growing fatter as the people went hungry.

Eventually, Col had enough of it and had started to do something about it. He had acted where Hugh had not. He had provided for his people when the elders sat idly by as crops grew rotten and fields lay fallow, the soil not fit for planting. The elders never skipped a meal though their people had missed many. Col saw to it they never went to bed with an empty belly.

“Whatsit then, Hugh?” Col snapped. “I’m tired and wish to go hame, not stand ‘ere and fight with ye.”

“Always so disrespectful, laddie,” Hugh replied. “If I weren’t so used to it, I’d take bleedin’ offense.”

“Take offense if ye wish. It troubles me not,” Col growled. “All that matters to me is doing what ye and the elders should be doing. And that’s providing fer and protecting our people.”

“Protecting them?” Hugh chuckled ruefully. “You call bringin’ the might of the Ainglish army down on us protectin’ them? And mark my words laddie, that’s exactly what’s gonna happen.”

“Ye assume tae much, old man.”

“And ye don’t think enough, boy,” Hugh yelled.

The older man looked away as he took a long breath, then let it out slowly. Col glanced at the people milling about in the village square, all of them doing their best to appear as if they weren’t listening. Hugh finally raised his gaze, and Col could see the anger burning in the old man’s eyes at his defiance. At his lack of respect.

“Sooner or later, the Duke, with his whole army, will come searching fer whoever’s filchin’ his goods,” Hugh said. “And what’ll ye do then, boy? How’ll ye protect this village against an entire fecking army?”

Col opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, knowing he had no response to the question. The truth was, although he and Fin took precautions against being found and covered their tracks as well as possible, being discovered was always a possibility. And if it came to that, if Duke Hamilton marched his forces on their village, their only recourse would be to run and hide deep into the Highlands. He knew some… maybe most… in the village were willing to assume the risk and the consequences for what he and Fin brought home. Others he knew shared Hugh’s opinion on the matter. Not that it stopped them from partaking of their bounty.

Col stepped closer to Hugh, his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowed. He leaned forward until the tips of their noses were but inches apart.

“Mebbe, if you did something to help provide fer our people, we wouldnae have to do this,” Col growled through gritted teeth. “Mebbe if you didnae sit on your arse, waitin’ fer God Almighty himself to rain food down upon us, we wouldnae have to do this. Our people are hungry, Hugh. Our people need food.”

Hugh stared hard at him for a long moment, the air between them crackling with tension and the whispered promise of violence. Col gritted his teeth and, with his eyes, dared the older man to make a move. He knew Hugh would be no match for him, and unleashing on the man he blamed for their people’s hardships might feel good.

As much as he wanted to take a swing at Hugh, Col held himself back, and the moment passed. He let out a frustrated, angry breath and turned, choosing to walk away from the situation.

“Ye’re gonna be the death of us, boy,” Hugh called after him.

Col thought it was a possibility, but until the English brought the hammer down on them, he would keep doing what he was doing … providing for his people.

Chapter II

“I see your uncle has returned,” Jane said.

“If this is the part where I’m supposed to break into song and dance, I fear that will be a long wait for an unsatisfactory result,” Gillian replied.

Jane laughed and turned away from the window. “Cheeky.”

Gillian shrugged but smiled. Jane had been her handmaiden and best friend since childhood. She probably knew Gillian better than anybody else in the world and was the only person she allowed herself to speak freely around. Jane knew well that Gillian’s relationship with her uncle was often contentious. But Gillian knew the importance of keeping up appearances and never indulged her feelings in public. Her uncle did the same.

“The wagons your uncle was supposed to be escorting did not return with the caravan,” Jane noted.

At this, Gillian put down her book and raised an eyebrow. “Did they not?”

“It did not appear so.”

Gillian got to her feet and smiled. “Shall we go see what my father has to say about that?”

“I thought you would never ask.”

Trying to stifle their giggling, Gillian led Jane by the hand as they rushed down the corridor in a swishing of silk skirts and the scuffle of slippered feet. They dashed down the stairs and followed the corridors usually used by the servants, doing their best to be unobtrusive.

Sidling down a long corridor, they came to the door that led into a small antechamber outside of her father’s office. Her father was the Duke of York and a significant man. Unfortunately, his duties also necessitated his attendance at Court in London quite often. Gillian missed him when he was gone, but he would not let her go to Court with him, saying she was not ready for that viper’s nest.

Her father was a good man who doted on her, and she loved him. He said he wanted to shelter Gillian from it as long as he could. But at the same time, Gillian knew he could not keep her from it forever. Not if he wanted to find Gillian a proper suitor. While she desperately wanted to go to Court, the thought of so many men vying for her attention as if she were a cow at auction tempered her enthusiasm.

Gillian looked at Jane with a broad smile on her face. “Okay, now be quiet.”

Jane stuck her tongue out at Gillian grinned. “As if I didn’t know that already.”

“Don’t be cheeky.”

Stifling their giggles, they quietly slipped into the antechamber and softly closed the door behind them. On the other side of the room, a wooden door was cracked partially open and led into the Duke’s office. Gillian could already hear her father and uncle inside … and her father did not sound well pleased.

“How in the bloody hell did this happen? Again?” Her father roared, punctuating his displeasure by slamming his fist down onto his desk. “You assured me you had this brigand… this Phantom… in hand.”

“Actually, your Grace, I believe I said we will have him in hand. And we will. I assure you,” William replied. “Also, I will not dignify this man by using that name. Nor will I suffer my men to use that stupid name.”

“And yet they are using it anyway, whether you suffer it or not,” the Duke howled. “You have been assuring me that you will have him in hand for months now, brother. When will I see results? When will I see this brigand in shackles in the cells below this keep?”

“Soon, your Grace,” William said. “I assure…”

“Yes, yes. You assure me,” James cut him off. “I am growing tired of your increasingly empty assurances, brother.”

Gillian and Jane huddled near the door, eavesdropping on the conversation. She knew it was childish, petty, and even vindictive, but she could not deny feeling a certain sense of satisfaction at hearing her father tan her uncle’s hide.

But more than that, she wanted to hear more about this brigand who had bedeviled her uncle for months. All she knew was that he was a Scottish Highlander with a knack for outsmarting and outmaneuvering her uncle and his men.

For almost a year now, this brigand had been ambushing the Duke’s supply trains. In one sense, he scared Gillian. Her uncle was many things, but stupid was not one of them. That this brigand had been making him look the fool for a year now was terrifying. What if he suddenly decided to sack York?

On the other hand, Gillian was fascinated by this brigand… for the same reason. His undeniable intelligence was utterly captivating. Gillian knew she was probably romanticizing his exploits, but she could not help it. The whole situation was more than a little amusing to her. Gillian had long enjoyed tales of adventure and action.

“Your Grace, I will take my men north, and we will root out…”

“No, you will not. I will not have you laying waste to Scottish villages because you are angry,” her father interjected, his voice echoing around the anteroom. “How you conduct yourself reflects upon this House and me.”

“With all due respect, your Grace …”

“William, the King has tired of war. He feels it has proven to be costly and fruitless. He now desires to end hostilities and establish commerce with the Scots.”

A door slammed heavily somewhere close by, and Gillian tensed. Hard footsteps approached the door to the anteroom before fading away. Jane looked at her with wide eyes and gripped her hand tighter. Gillian knew if her father caught them eavesdropping, he would stripe her backside.

“We should go,” Jane whispered.

Gillian shook her head. “Not yet. Just a bit longer.”

“Your Grace…”

“I know how you handle situations like this, and I will not have you laying waste to Scottish villages,” her father interjected. “I will not have you tarnish my good name any further than you already have.”

“Your Grace, their nobles are warring with themselves. They have no king. They are weak and vulnerable,” William interjected. “Now is the time to strike.”

“War is proving to be counterproductive. I see it. The King sees it. And we both agree that finding a peaceful resolution is in all of our interests,” her father added.

“And how do you achieve a peaceful resolution with bloody savages?”

“We can have greater influence over the Scots if we help choose their next king. One that will be a friend to the Crown,” her father said evenly. “And if we can hold influence over the Scottish king, then all the better for our king. Understand?”

Gillian’s uncle muttered, but it was too low for her to hear. She frowned as if she was missing out on some vital piece of information, listening to the conversation with rapt attention. As much as she loved tales of action and adventure, she enjoyed politics and intrigue even more. That was one of the reasons Gillian wanted to go to Court so badly… to see it first hand.

“To that end, you will travel to Edinburgh on the morrow. You will assure their nobles that we bear them no ill will for the doings of this brigand, and you will work with them to ascertain this man’s identity,” her father went on. “You will also treaty with the Scots to ensure that when caught, this brigand will be brought here to York to face the King’s justice.”

There was a long, tense silence, and she pictured her uncle turning several shades of purple. The man was boorish and did not enjoy being ordered about by anybody. Surely he must be apoplectic by now?

“Will there be anything else, your Grace?” he finally muttered.

“No, that is all.”

“Then, by your leave, I will take my ease for the day,” he replied, his voice tight. “It would appear I have a journey ahead of me.”

The next thing Gillian heard was the sound of heavy boots stomping on the hard stone floor of the chamber, followed by the door slamming shut. Her father sighed, and Jane took her hand, pulling her toward the door they had entered by.

“Gillian, would you be so good as to come in here, please?”

Her father’s voice froze the blood in her veins. She and Jane shared wide-eyed, fearful expressions. He had known they were there the whole time! Jane silently urged her to withdraw, but Gillian shook her head. She took her hand from Jane and motioned for her to go. She would face whatever punishment awaited her alone. Standing up straight, she smoothed out her skirts and put on an expression of careful neutrality before going through the door and closing it solidly behind her… giving Jane the chance to escape.

She crossed the chamber and stood before her father’s desk with her hands clasped before her. Gillian’s heart fluttered in her chest like the wings of a hummingbird. Her father looked at her as he took a long drink of wine.

James Hamilton, the Duke of York, was an imposing man. Tall and broad through the shoulders and chest, his hair was dark, though beginning to gray at the temples. His hair, like his beard, was trimmed neatly and short. Lines were forming at the corners of eyes that glittered like chips of sapphire and carried within them, a fierce intelligence.

Gillian’s father was not an overly demonstrative man, emotionally speaking. He was usually very even, though he did have a temper and could be provoked to a fit of anger that most feared. Gillian had heard most speak of him as being cold and aloof. Many were intimidated by the Duke… some outright terrified of him.

Yes, he carried himself with that royal bearing… a product of his station. Gillian knew that was how he had to be seen. But she had never known him as anything other than warm and caring. He doted on her and always favored her with the warmest of smiles. He allowed himself to be less guarded and more open around her, and she loved him for that.

“Correct me if I am mistaken, daughter,” her father started, “but have we not discussed your penchant for eavesdropping before?”

He set his goblet of wine down on the desk and looked at her, his eyebrow raised, eyes twinkling. She knew that he should be cross with her, but a mischievous smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“We have father,” she added, trying to sound abashed.

“And I further seem to recall telling you what would happen if I caught you at it again,” he said.

Gillian swallowed hard and nodded. “You did, father, but my curiosity has won out again.”

He chuckled softly. “Curiosity can be a virtue,” he said. “But it can also be a curse… the sort of curse that leaves one with a striped backside.”

“I… have been told,” she lowered her gaze to the floor.

“Master Covey has just carved himself a new paddle, and I believe he is most anxious to break it in.”

Gillian’s stomach lurched, and her heart fluttered anew at the mention of Master Covey… the Sergeant-at-Arms of the household. Or as Gillian liked to call him, the Chief of Cruelty. Covey was the one who doled out punishments for the household staff who broke House rules or worse. Gillian had even heard whispers that he carried out executions for her father. She had seen him whip somebody to within an inch of their life but she had thankfully never seen him lop somebody’s head off.

“Father, I did not mean to eavesdrop…”

She fell silent as he arched his eyebrow again. Gillian looked down at the floor, fearful she had finally crossed the line with her father and had earned a striping for her transgression. Looking up at him, she decided to be honest, hoping to avoid an appointment with Master Covey.

“I only wish to learn, father,” she said. “I am curious about a great many things… how you conduct the affairs of your office among them.”

Her father sat back in his chair, a look of interest on his face. He had not expected that… Gillian admitted that she could be a girl of whimsy and fantasy. But deep down, there was a thirst for knowledge that could never be slaked. Even her tutors had noticed that about her… though most did nothing to encourage it. Most of her tutors believed she should focus on what it took to make a good wife to a royal husband.

They believed her education should consist primarily of affairs of the house, rather than the affairs of state. But her father had insisted that she received a well-rounded education commensurate with that her brother, Henry. Her father believed that a woman of his House should be intelligent, articulate, and knowledgeable about all things. And Gillian loved him for that too.

“It is why I wish to travel to Edinburgh with uncle William on the morrow,” she added.

Her father pursed his lips and looked at her, an inscrutable expression on his face. But he had not immediately dismissed her idea as ridiculous, and to Gillian, meant that he was at least open to the possibility.

“I believe that watching uncle William negotiate on your behalf would be quite instructional,” she pressed. “I believe it would greatly enhance my education.”

“I just do not know if it is safe, my dear child,” he said. “Not with this… brigand… still roaming freely.”

“Father, my understanding is that this brigand attacks supply wagons. From what I have heard, he does not attack people or take hostages. His interest is in the goods those wagons carry. Which means he is a commoner simply trying to provide for his family.”

“Perhaps.”

“For a year now, he has taken only wagons…”

“For the moment. That could change, my dear girl.”

“Father, in all our time here in the north, I have never been,” she pleaded. “I would love to see it. And I would love to see the negotiations with the Scots first-hand.”

“Gillian, …”

“Father, you have always stressed the importance and value of education and experience,” she urged him. “I want to add value to this House and be prepared to help advise my husband when I marry.

Her father took another drink of wine, giving her a long, considering look. Finally, he sat forward and set his goblet down, a small frown pulling the corners of his mouth downward.

“I cannot allow it, Gillian. I am sorry, but it is too dangerous. I cannot have you risking your life. I will not.”

“Father…”

“I have made my decision.”

Gillian stood before her father pouting for another moment before turning and fleeing his office, slamming the door behind her. She dashed through the castle until she reached her chamber, barged through her door and slammed it behind her. Jane looked up from her seat near the window and lowered her book.

“You look vexed,” she said.

“I am vexed!” Gillian almost shouted. “He will not let me go to Edinburgh.”

Gillian dropped heavily into the chair across from Jane, her expression dark. Folding her arms, she frowned deeply, as Jane closed the book and set it on the small table next to her.

“And why won’t he let you go?”

Gillian’s expression soured. “He says it’s too dangerous,” she hissed. “He’s worried about the brigand swooping in and stealing me away.”

Jane rolled her eyes and laughed softly. “That is…”

“Ridiculous,” Gillian cut her off.

“So, what will you do?”

Gillian shrugged, “What can I do?”

A wicked smile touched Jane’s lips. “That depends. How badly do you want to see Edinburgh?”

“Very badly,” Gillian complained. “I have wanted to see Edinburgh for as long as we have lived in the north.”

A mischievous light sparkled in Jane’s eyes that brought a smile to Gillian’s face. She knew that look well… it meant that Jane was about to propose something entirely outlandish and daring. Gillian watched as Jane got to her feet and sauntered over to the window.

“Well, you can sit here moping about it,” Jane said. “Or, you can do something about it.”

Joining Jane at the window, Gillian casually surveyed the bailey below, watching for a few moments as her uncle directed his men to load the wagons and prepare for their ride to Edinburgh. And as she stood there watching, an idea took root in her mind.

Gillian looked over at Jane and smiled. She had been Gillian’s courage and sense of adventure since they were young. Jane often prodded Gillian into taking a chance. Into taking a leap of faith. Jane had always been able to get Gillian to do things she did not usually believe she could do.

In some ways, it was a good thing. It helped bring Gillian out of her shell. In other ways, it had caused her endless trouble throughout her life. Their antics did not always amuse her father. But Gillian sometimes enjoyed the way Jane pushed her to do things that made her uncomfortable. She played things so safe in life, and doing something out of character was fun.

“What’s going through that mind of yours, Gilly?”

A devilish smile touched Gillian’s lips. She looked at the men loading the carts in the bailey one more time then turned back to Jane.

“Fetch me some breeches, a long-sleeved shirt, and a cloak,” Gillian said with a smile. “I am going to stop complaining and do something about it.”

“You are wicked,” she laughed.

“I have learned from the best.”

 

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Chapter I

The covered wagon bumped and sloshed through mud and over rocks. The highlands unrolled around the small traveler caravan making its way towards Loch Awe of Argyll, Scotland. Her feet bouncing as she sat on the back of the wagon, Rosalie watched the passing of the burnt sienna and pale green glens blanketing the slender winding trail on either side. She pulled her travel cloak tighter to shield the child against the light drizzle and gentle breeze. As they approached the settlement banking along the loch, the smell of juniper and myrtle awakened her excitement.

Dogs barked alongside the wagons. The wheels creaked and moaned as they cut through thick mud and rattled over uneven rocks. The clang of pots and falling items from within the caravan made Rosalie bite down on her lip and cringe.

“How much further?”

Magda braved walking through the rocking vehicle to hear the young woman speak. Rosalie looked up tenderly at her adopted mother as the old woman braced herself against the arched frame for support.

“Patience, Rosalie, patience,” Magda’s aged voice cracked. “Aye, not much longer, ma dear. We’ll pro’ably settle o’er there. You know, as much as I do, it’s up to Alexander.”

Rosalie smiled up at Magda, taking a moment to appreciate the wise eyes framed by shocks of gray and white streaking her thick, dark hair. The two women peered over the landscape. They could see the first signs of civilization sprouting over the meadows and pastures. There was always uncertainty about what a new place would bring.

Alexander, the eldest man, had traveled through most of the country at one time or another. Regardless, each place he brought them back to was a gamble. Time changed people and their opinions of their kind. Some welcomed the travelers and the trades they offered, bringing their wares for repair, or enlisting the services of the women to mend and sew new gowns. Other times, they were met with the prejudices and fears of the villagers, driven off like rabid dogs before they could prove their good intentions.

“I have a good feelin’ about this place, Magda.” Rosalie rubbed out the folds of her wool gown, warming the flats of her hands against the rough-spun cloth.

“Aye.”

Magda agreed, but the young redhead could see uncertainty twisting her cracked lips. The ancient eyes remained trained on two men tending a field nearby. They paused their work to watch the caravan roll through. Neither of them waved, just stared, passing unknown words to one another as they watched the procession tumble through.

In the distance, a castle tower arose, twisting five stories high into the air. “There’ll be work ‘ere. They can afford a castle; they can afford labor.” Magda turned to shield her aching bones from the early autumn cold in the shelter of the rounded wagon. “Get that damned dog ‘fore it keels over. An’ mind your gown.” Her voice trailed off, but Rosalie could hear her mutter something about the girls’ carelessness and making a decent impression.

Rosalie offered no response, and Magda waited for none before disappearing inside. Rosalie lifted the hem of her skirt as she jumped down, mud splashing up and sucking around her leather boots. The dog stopped at her feet, panting relentlessly from the hours it had spent alongside the wagon. Rosalie tried her best to mind its paws as she scooped the creature in her arms and ran to catch the back of the wagon once more. She tossed the dog up and took one more glance at the men nearby before clambering in herself.

“Kin’ o’ handsome that one is, ay dog?” She scratched behind the animal’s ears as the two men disappeared behind them. One was tall, about her age, with red hair a shade lighter than her own. The other was an older man, older than even Magda.

Although they habitually kept a low profile, it was impossible to go unnoticed as their caravan passed the humble homes stretching out from the loch and castle. It took them over an hour to reach the tree line cloaking the mouth of the Awe River. Juniper, willow, birch, and the thick underbrush of late summer enveloped them. Rosalie stayed on the back of the wagon, stroking the tired dog, as the caravan stopped and started while the men checked out spots for them to set up camp.

In the heart of the woods, they found a clearing large enough for their vehicles. Through the vegetation, the young girl could still hear the roar of the river nearby, although it was no longer in sight. The wagons moved in a large circle, creating a protective ring around the camp. The rain let up, but despite the bright sun and clear blue skies, moisture still hung in the air, nipping at noses and cheeks.

“Get on it, girl. Go help Anna,” Magda called out.

Rosalie felt flush with excitement. Exhilaration always filled her when they came to a new place. Her heart pounded with hope and excitement as grand fantasies of adventure played out in her mind. She found Anna already picking the site clean of twigs and brush, piling it in the center, where the men would dig out a pit for the fire.

Anna was Rosalie’s childhood friend. Although Rosalie was unsure of her own age, as Magda had adopted her in infancy, she guessed Anna was a year younger than her. She always felt envious of Anna in the most loving way possible, admiring her olive complexion, rounded curves, and the contrast of her dark, thick hair against light amber eyes.

Rosalie dove into her duties, creating a makeshift basket out of her apron. “Did ye see the gentleman we passed?”

“Aye,” Anna grinned. “Ye fancy him?”

Rosalie blushed, wishing Anna hadn’t said anything. There was no point in entertaining such thoughts. To marry an outsider would mean exile from the ones she loved.

“Why? Did you?” Rosalie shot back.

Anna smirked and shrugged. “I calls ‘em as I sees ‘em. Those arms…” she shuddered playfully.

Rosalie giggled and shushed her friend, looking around to make sure no one heard their banter as they worked. The men set to their duties, and Rosalie let out a sigh as she realized no one was close enough to listen to them. Anna was bolder than Rosalie. She admired her for that, but there was less risk for Anna.

Rosalie never quite fit into either world. Her auburn hair, bright green eyes, and fair complexion were a daily reminder she did not belong. Outsider’s blood coursed through her veins. She was destined to a life never entirely fitting in with the travelers, yet always cast out by the rest of the world as well.

“Y’know Enoch is sweet on ye.” Anna saw Rosalie grimace. “Wha’, you don’ like him?”

Rosalie was not sure how to answer. There were few choices for marriage, and her time was approaching—lest she wanted to be a maid for the rest of her life, or say goodbye to those she loved. Enoch was a handsome man, dark and about as tall as Rosalie, but growing up in the small community, she knew things about him.

“You know how he is.” Her face grew dark as she thought of the few times she’d overheard him boasting to his friends about some of the ways he came into revenue for the Roma community. It was men like him that gave travelers a criminal reputation, and whether Magda and Alexander knew of his nighttime occupations, Anna and Rosalie had heard his proud stories of bravado and treachery.

“Aye,” Anna nodded, dipping the second jug, “I do, but he’s strong, Rosie. He’s got good blood in ‘im, an’ ye know he’d keep ye safe and provided fer. Isn’t tha’ what matters?”

As if he could sense them speaking, Rosalie looked up to see Enoch approaching them. She gathered her skirts and rose, not wanting to deal with both of them at the same time.

Anna’s mouth fell open at Rosalie’s sudden change of course. “Where’re you off to?”

“I’m goin’ to help Magda with the wash.”

Anna looked over her shoulder. She saw Enoch closing in on them and stared Rosalie down, pursing her lips. She knew what her friend was thinking. It was foolish for her to throw away such blatant opportunities for marriage. It did not matter what she felt about him. All that mattered is if he could protect her and her future children from the dangers of the world.

“Suit yerself, Rosie,” Irritation underlined every word as Anna stood, “Ye could think aboot others fer once. Maybe spend a li’l less time alone in the woods.”

As Anna turned away from her, Rosalie snatched her wrist with the speed of a viper. “I’ll think on it.” She met her friend’s amber eyes, wishing to qualm her fears. It was enough. She watched Anna’s anxiety lift a bit, and the smile return to her eyes.

“Good; ye’d be a fool not to.”

Rosalie hurried away, stealing a glance over her shoulder at Enoch. Their eyes locked for a moment. He gave her a look like a wild cat crouched and ready to pounce on her. It sent a warning up her spine, telling her not to let him catch her alone or test his temper. Disturbed, she ran to find Magda, still feeling his eyes boring into her back.

Magda was waiting for her. Whatever grief Anna gave her, her mother was worse. She had watched the whole thing from beneath the canopy stretching from the wagon. Rosalie cursed under her breath; the old crone was cross.

“Are ye daft, girl?”

Rosalie knitted her brows. She could feel her patience thinning. There were too many people nagging her—and she was too tired to coddle the lot of them. “No.”

“Yer sure actin’ like it. He was comin’ right to ye. What’re ye thinkin’?”

“I was thinkin’ the life o’ a spinster sounds nice.” She couldn’t help but smile as she heard Magda’s sharp gasp.

“Don’ joke, Rosalie!”

Rosalie started to gather the laundry, Magda, right on her heels. “Aye, it’s no joke. The way I figure it, I can save a whole lotta time if I skip the family bit. Get a nice sheep or two—”

“Bite your tongue.” Magda looked around to see if anyone could hear, and Rosalie let out a peal of laughter. The woman’s hands shook. “You’ll be the death o’ me, child.” She was downright mad, and Rosalie knew better than to push her too far, “Tomorrow, yer goin’ with him into town. No excuses. You hear?”

“Aye, I hear,” she heaved the basket into the crook of her arm and stepped out of striking range, “but today, I’m lookin’ at sheep. Ye think the clan’ll notice if their flock’s down a few?”

“Ohh…” her hand grasped at her chest in a dramatic gesture. “I swear, the devil gave ye that red hair. Get out o’ here. Go on!” Magda picked up a small rock and threw it at Rosalie’s feet. “Get! I cannae look at you right now!”

Rosalie smiled to herself as she watched Magda fret. She paced, cursed, and prayed to God for help with her daughter. It was too easy to give her a hard time.

Yet the joy slipped away as soon as she was alone in the woods. All jokes aside, she knew she would have to marry another traveler if she wished to remain in the Roma’s good graces. The thought of exile was too much for her to bear. The idea of leaving Magda and Anna tightened her chest until she couldn’t breathe.

Her thoughts circled over and over until she pushed them out. With a small prayer, she decided to let fate take care of the situation. The woods calmed her. Being alone out there awakened her sense of adventure, and helped her forget about everything else. Out there, without fear of judgment, she could be herself.

The river was just far enough away from camp to give Rosalie complete privacy. She was grateful for the clear skies and bright sun fingering through the trees. The traveler followed the shoreline until she came to a bend extended by large boulders. Someone had pushed a log across this part of the river to make a footbridge.

It was an ideal location for her to spend the rest of the day. She washed the clothes, beating them against the rocks until her hands were dark red from the cold water and her arms trembled. Before hanging them to dry, she double-checked the sky. Even though it looked promising, she knew the weather could change in an instant.

There was always a large number of clothes to wash following a move. It was Rosalie’s favorite chore because she could be alone for as long as she wanted. For the first hour or so, she rested, twisting daisy chains for crowns and letting her muscles relax in the warming sun. As the moments passed by, she became more and more curious about what lay on the other side of the river.

By noon, she couldn’t help herself. She was careful, hopping between the water-slick boulders to reach where the log bridged over. With a quick shake, she checked its stability. It was only as wide as her shoulders, forcing her to inch across, toe-to-heel. The bark was worn, and slicker than she thought, but the idea of turning around scared her more than continuing forward.

The rapids below roared, capped in angry white swirls. Rosalie’s heart pounded as the sound deafened her. She focused on the opposing bank, her hands outstretched for balance.

A strong wind gusted over the churning rapids. Rosalie teetered. Her feet slipped. Her balance failed, and dark water beckoned. She screamed.

Chapter II

The world spun around her. Her chest slammed against the log, knocking the air from her lungs. In a moment of desperation, she managed to cling to the trunk. The ice-cold water suffocated her. The smooth flats of her boots touched the river’s bottom. Her feet skated over the slick rocks. The current dragged her legs beneath the log, threatening to yank her under it.

There was no one within shouting distance. She tried to think of a way out, but it seemed hopeless. No matter how much she pulled, her arms were too weak to lift herself from the current sucking her down. The tip of one of her fingernails broke as she clawed at the bark. She clung for dear life as the cold froze her to the bones. Her already tired arms wouldn’t hold out long. Tears choked her as her fingers started to slip over the log anchoring her. Just when she thought all hope was lost, a hand gripped her wrist.

Someone yanked her from the rapids, and before she could register who… or what was happening, was dragged to the safety of the boulders. Disoriented, wet and panting, she fell against the strong muscles of a broad chest. Her hands fumbled for stability and sank into a damp linen shirt. When she finally looked up, she blinked in shock at her savior.

“Are ye alright, lass?”

Deep blue eyes, shades darker than the river, stared down at her with concern. It was the man she’d seen in the fields earlier in the day. His strong arms cradled her close. Rosalie became aware of the intimacy of the position, which seemed to scare her more than the rapids. She tried to yank herself away, but her balance was still off, and she almost fell right back into the water.

The man was a foot taller than her, taller than anyone from her community. He made her feel small and fragile, and his hands kept a firm hold on her. A warmth seemed to surge from every place he touched.

Rosalie’s cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment. Her sudden feeling of vulnerability in this stranger’s embrace ignited her temper.

“Let go o’ me,” she snapped.

The man obeyed and sidestepped. His hands remained outstretched to catch her if she fell. She could not look at him as she tried her best to scramble back to solid ground. Her body shook violently beneath her heavy, soaked gown.

“What were ye thinkin’?” His brows furrowed in both concern and slight anger. “Were ye tryin’ to kill yerself? To think if I hadn’t heard ye scream—if I hadn’t been ridin’ by—”

Rosalie felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She could hardly breathe, and looking at him was almost blinding. The fact that he was attractive made it worse.

He must have seen how shaken she was because his features softened. “Sit down.” He took his coat from his back and spread it over the grass.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” The words rushed out. She didn’t want to seem rude, but she was overwhelmed.

“Aye, nice way tae thank me for savin’ yer life. Sit down.” The tone of his voice carried authority she could not protest. It sent shivers through her that weren’t from the cold. She looked at the jacket and decided to sit on the grass beside it instead.

“Yer stubborn, ye ken?” There was nothing cruel in his voice—merely amusement as he pulled his coat back up from beside her. “Mos’ people would say thank ye for comin’ to their rescue.”

Being so shaken in the presence of a stranger made Rosalie madder than ever. She considered storming off and heading back to camp, but the thought of Magda’s response to a drenched Rosalie bereft of laundry, kept her glued in place and shivering to the bone. Her teeth chattered, and she was both relieved and dismayed to see the man walk off into the tree line. Rosalie immediately set to removing the wet clothes from her body before she froze to death.

The fabric stuck to her arms, tangling her. In her frustration and panic, she tried desperately to free herself, fighting against the wet cloth. Her heart froze when she heard something drop behind her.

“Please tell me that’s not you,” she squeaked. She swallowed hard, hoping it was just an animal snapping twigs in a hurry to get away.

“I-I’m sorry, lassie. I didn’t mean tae—I was jus’ gettin’ wood. I didn’t ken, I swear it.”

Rosalie groaned in embarrassment. She peeked over her shoulder, and some of it melted away when she saw the shocked look on his face. Her people didn’t hold the same shame of the human body as outsiders did. Modesty was expressed through intention and action, not from a complete aversion to nudity, even when the situation required it. He was dumbfounded, and the control it gave her mingled with nerves enough to awaken her playful mischief.

“Excuse me.”

The few sticks he still held in his arms tumbled out. “S-sorry, lassie.” Crimson flooded his cheeks. His eyes fell to the ground, shielded by one of his hands. He turned away. “I meant no ‘ffense.”

Rosalie freed herself from her dress, and with brazen confidence, walked across the open expanse to where the clothes dried in the sun. The dress she pulled on was still damp, but not nearly as soaked as the one she’d pulled off. She was surprised to see he wasn’t peeking and took a moment to admire his broad shoulders and strong frame.

“Ye act like you’ve never seen a woman before,” she teased, fishing for more information about him.

“I have, jus’ not one so…” His words dried in his throat.

“Naked?”

“Aye.” He let out a heavy sigh and nodded in a way that made Rosalie giggle.

Her voice came out like the tinkling of glass blown in the wind, light and delicate.

“Ye can turn around now if you like.”

The demure way he peeked over his shoulder, making sure she was decent, made her heart skip a beat. He couldn’t look at her directly and melted any nervousness or anger from moments before. The young man scrambled to collect the wood and set to start a fire, avoiding her blazing emerald eyes. She sat down across from him and openly admired his curly red hair and pronounced jawline, enjoying the way her ogling made him visibly nervous as he attempted to light the fire.

When the spark caught, he cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Ye shouldn’t be dressin’ like that out in the open. What if it wasnae me, lassie?” His words simmered with authentic anger.

“An’ who are you to tell me what I can and cannae do?”

He looked at her, mouth hanging open, aghast. He started to defend himself, rattled by the chain of events, but then he saw the smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. A great, contagious laugh burst out.

“Yer cheeky, lass, ye ken that?” He shook his head. A single dimple revealed itself as he smiled, feeding sticks into the growing flame, “I cannae say I’ve met anyone like you ‘fore.”

“Oh, aye? An’ is that a bad thing?” Rosalie was genuinely curious but tried her best to cloak her insecurities. She pulled at the sleeves of her gown and rubbed the cold from her arms.

The way he looked at her then made her feel more naked than she was before. Those sapphire eyes met hers, and she felt her heart race to twice its usual speed. “No,” was all he said. It made her blush, and heat rose in her cheeks. She tucked a strand of wet hair behind her ear and looked down, trying to hide the flame blossoming in her stomach and warming her heart.

Silence passed between them. It was alive with the sounds of the rushing river, Rosalie’s heartbeat roaring in her ears, and the crackling of the open fire. She tried to think of some way to break the silence, the nervous tension building between them. The chattering of her teeth only seemed to intensify instead of subsiding.

“Yer still cold.”

Although relieved for the break, she didn’t like to see him frown. It was new for her to have a stranger, or any man for that matter, be genuinely concerned with her wellbeing.

Rosalie rubbed her arms and nodded. “I best get o’er it. Magda’s goin’ tae kill me.” The young woman sucked in through her teeth and shook her head, noticing the dusk stealing color from the world around her.

The stranger stood. Rosalie remained glued in place as she watched him walk around the campfire, slipping his jacket off once again. “Please,” he said. She pulled back from him, as much afraid of giving him the wrong idea as afraid of the way her body would react to his touch. Still, with each gust, she felt as if the wind cut her to the bone. She nodded her consent.

She did not look at him as he slipped it over her shoulders. It was heavy leather and instantly shielded her from the cold. His fingers grazed her shoulders, and the touch sent rippling waves down her spine.

“Thank ye,” she whispered, glancing up at him. He paused for a second, as though losing his stream of thought. As though it had crashed somewhere behind them, he snapped back to the present, cleared his throat, and took a seat next to her—so close… it almost felt as if they were touching.

“I don’t even ken yer name.”

“Nor I, yours.”

“Declan,” he said, and tossed a small twig into the shrinking flames. “Declan o’ the Gregor clan.”

Rosalie nodded. She had many names. One only her community knew, ones she used in different towns, and then the common one, which seemed to be the public catch-all. For a moment, something about him made her want to tell him her real name. It was a foolish thought.

“Rosalie. No clan.”

“Yer different than the other gypsies.” He said it with an innocence that kept Rosalie from taking offense.

“Aye,” she nodded. “I was adopted. An no,” she smiled, knowing all the rumors whispered about her kind, “I wasnae kidnapped by ‘gypsies.’”

He looked relieved to see her smiling. “Why were ye adopted? If that’s nae too personal.”

“I think we’re past personal, Declan,” she winked. His name tasted sweet on her tongue. She paused for a moment, the cheer slipping from her as she weighed whether to tell him the truth or not. She looked at his calm, strong features, and felt a pang in her heart as she realized it didn’t matter what he thought of her. This was the closest they would grow. She decided to tell him the truth. “If ye didn’t judge me a‘fore, here’s somethin’ tae scare ye off. I’m a bastard.”

Rosalie thought she saw embarrassment in his features. She stared at him, waiting for a response.

“None o’ that’s yer fault, lassie. An’ I dinnae think it makes ye who ye are.” And then, when he looked at her, she could feel their heartbeats sync. “Do ye ken who yer parents are?”

“No.” Their eyes deadlocked. “I’ve ne’er asked.”

“An’ why is that? I’d be curious, if it were me.”

“It seemed taboo, I guess. Scared Magda might take it the wrong way—think I weren’t grateful.” Maybe it was the knowing that they would never see each other again, but something about Declan opened her up. “I used to dream me mother were a lady, though, when I was a wee bairn. Silly, ain’t it?” She only gave a half-smile before breaking away from his mesmerizing blue eyes.

“No,” Rosalie startled as his fingers touched the side of her face, guiding it toward him. “Ye look like a lady.”

She closed her eyes as his fingers grazed the globe of her cheek. It first soothed her like a balm, but then her heart pattered with nerves. Part of her wanted to push into the palm of his hand, savoring how safe and accepted she felt in that moment, but couldn’t set aside reality. He touched one of the tight-wound curls. Rosalie squeezed her eyes tight and took a deep breath. She could smell sweat and dirt on him, mingling to create a unique, pleasant musk.

The young traveler slid her fingertips over the top of his hand, taking in the marks of hard work carved into his skin. She could hear his heartbeat quicken, and his breath shorten. If she let this go any further, all hope of coming out unscathed would vanish. As she pulled his hand away, a floodgate burst in her mind. A million thoughts drove her back to reality. If she let this go any further, it would only hurt her.

Besides, she didn’t even know this man. Enoch’s retelling of his conquests, how he seduced such maidens as herself, came to the forefront of her mind. When she opened her eyes, she couldn’t imagine he could play such treacherous tricks—yet fear would not let her forget.

“Still, we shouldn’t be doin’ this,” she said. The young woman withdrew, pulling her knees up to her chest and tightening the leather jacket around her shoulders. “I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to ye. If Magda found out—”

“What? If she found out I saved ye…” His brow wrinkled, but his voice remained calm. “She’d be relieved, no?”

Rosalie bit her lip and shook her head. “Please,” she begged with her gaze, “please don’t tell anyone we’ve met. If ye see me ‘gain, ye cannot know me.” She gripped his hand tight.

“I’ll see ye, though?”

“Not like this.” Rosalie shook her head. “Nothin’ good ‘ill come of it.”

“I ken ye feel it too. There’s a connection here. Ye cannot deny it, lassie.”

“Which is why if ye like me at all, you’ll stay away from me. There is no future fer us. Not o’ bein’ friends, or, or…” she did not want to say it out loud. It was presumptuous of her, a fantasy she couldn’t afford to entertain.

“Meetin’s like this don’ jus’ happen ev’ry day, ye ken.” He went to touch her hair again, but she pulled back.

Laughter came up from within her, partially from nervousness and partly from disbelief. “Like you don’ have plenty o’ appropriate women to pursue.”

That did it. It was clear she offended him. Color rose from his neck, reddening his face about as much as his hair. He just looked at her, and his expression said it all—his feelings were sincere.

A stick broke from somewhere within the darkening forest. Both of them tensed and looked back. Panic froze her.

“Rosalie!” It was Enoch.

He was further down the river, looking for where she’d been working. Rosalie looked around at the darkness and was shocked time had slipped by as fast as it did. Her eyes flew open.

“Ye have to go.” She stood and presented his jacket. “Please, if ye like me at all, ye have tae go ‘fore he sees ye.”

The anger subsided into concern. He looked towards the sound of Enoch growing closer, yelling her name, and trudging through the brush. “Tell me I’ll see ye ‘gain.”

Rosalie shook her head. “Please,” fear threatened to make her cry. Enoch was closer. “Please, jus’ take yer horse an’ forget aboot me.”

“I cannot. Promise me I’ll see ye, an’ I’ll go.” He stood, towering above her, making her feel small.

“Rosalie! Answer me!” Enoch screamed. Any second, he would appear and be able to see them together.

“All right, all right, I promise.” She slammed the jacket into his chest and started towards his horse, “Jus’ get outtae here. If they knew—” she held out the reins for him and looked over her shoulder again.

 

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Chapter I

The rain persisted for three whole days. It was as though her grandfather’s death had left a cloud hanging over the borders. A mist hung in the air too, and there was a dank and dreary atmosphere about the place, such that it sent Evie into a deep depression. Her uncle had returned to the monastery at Lanercost, and her brothers returned to their work with her father, leaving Evie and her mother alone during the day.

She had not settled into life at Kirklinton and longed instead for the simpler life she had led at the castle across the heathers. There, she had been free to please herself and to go where she wished, when she wished to do so. Now, it seemed as though her life were regimented and ordered and there had already been any number of visitors to Kirklinton wishing to pay their respects to her father. It seemed she was no longer the free-spirited lass she once had been allowed to be. Now, her mother spoke of responsibility, and she had realized that life would now be very different. Not only for her but for them all.

“I am tired of the rain and bein’ confined to this place,” she said to her mother, as the two sat spinning wool on the third afternoon after her grandfather’s funeral.

“When I was a child, I was often confined here, yer grandfather always worried for my safety. Be grateful that ye had such freedoms as a child,” her mother replied, dexterously rolling the wool into balls, as Evie held it up for her.

“Aye, I know, but livin’ here feels so closed in. ‘Tis like we are always under scrutiny, always bein’ watched,” Evie replied.

“Aye, there is that. Yer father is nae enjoyin’ it either. He has never had any wish to be Laird. I remember him sayin’ as much when first we were married. He had nay desire for such a title, ye have to remember that he was a humble blacksmith until …” her mother said, and her words trailed off.

Evie knew the story well enough, but it still fascinated her. She had loved her grandfather dearly, but she still found it hard to think that he had kept that secret hidden for all those years. Never once revealing to anyone the true identity of his son nor wishing anything to do with him, it seemed so at odds with the man she knew, and in truth, she preferred not to think about it.

“This castle too, ‘tis nothin’ like home,” Evie said, and her mother sighed and nodded.

“Aye, Evie. It will become like home, and we shall still visit the old castle. It holds many memories for me too daenae forget,” her mother replied.

“What dae ye remember of it?” Evie asked, the wool running through her fingers, as her mother smiled.

“From my childhood? Oh, I remember a little. It was a lovely place back then, and I shall always be grateful to yer father for restorin’ it. When I was a child, my father, my blood father, would hold great feasts there, and I remember my mother singin’ to me as she bathed me. But I remember too the night we were forced to flee and lookin’ over my nurse maid’s shoulder at the castle burnin’ behind us. A dark day,” she said, shaking her head.

“And then ye came here?” Evie asked though she knew the answer well enough.

“Aye, that’s right. I came here, and I was happy here, as will ye be, though perhaps nae for long,” her mother replied.

“What dae ye mean? Are ye sendin’ me away?” Evie said, surprised by her mother’s words.

“Nay, of course, nae, Evie. Daenae be silly, but ye are twenty years old, soon ye shall have a husband and who knows where ye shall live then,” her mother replied.

Evie had not thought about it like that. The idea of a marriage or a husband had seemed remote and distant from her. Her two elder brothers were not yet married, though Rory was forever chasing women from the village, and it had not occurred to her that she would marry before them.

Evie was an attractive girl, possessed of long flowing red hair and deep green eyes. Her skin was soft and her complexion pretty, yet unassuming. She knew that men often looked at her with interest. But she had never felt ready to pursue such things, content instead to wait until her father and mother should decide the time was right.

“But I have nay thoughts of a husband yet, mother,” she replied, smiling and shaking her head.

“Aye, but in time ye might dae,” her mother replied, “and when ye dae ye shall live elsewhere, away from this castle, a different life to this.”

Evie had no desire for such a thing, she might not relish life at Kirklinton, but she certainly had no desire to leave her mother, father, and brothers behind. They were all she knew, and there was no desire in her heart for something different. She knew that marriage must one day come, but for now, she was content to help her mother with the spinning and to be a friend to her brothers. She had only one other friend, and that was Caitlin Macready, a girl of her own age who lived a few miles across the heathers with her mother in a croft on the moorlands.

They had been friends since they were children, and Evie had always confided in her and known her to be a loyal and close friend. She had not seen her since the day of her grandfather’s death, and the thought of her now put into Evie’s mind the desire to see her. Outside, the rain had grown lighter, a drizzle upon the moorlands rather than the deluge of the past few days, and far across the borderlands, the merest hint of sunlight was breaking through the clouds. Evie set aside the wool and crossed to the window, looking out across the heathers to where her father and brothers were working down on the track, which led to the village. They were building a dry-stone wall, in which to enclose the sheep which her father intended to keep for their wool and meat.

“I think I shall walk over to Caitlin’s croft and see her,” Evie said, turning to Isla, who smiled and nodded.

“Aye, it would dae ye good to see a friend, be back by nightfall though, Evie,” her mother said, and Evie nodded.

Her mother always said that, as though the arrival of the night brought with it untold danger and threat. In truth, Evie’s life had been peaceful, troubled only occasionally by an English raid or the rumors of robbers on the road east. She had never experienced that which her mother and father had lived through when the threat of an English attack was ever-present.

She took up a shawl and wrapped it around her and bidding her mother farewell, she clattered down the steps of the keep and out into the stable yard. Her horse was tethered up over by the stables, but she wished to walk, enjoying the fresh air and the coolness of the day. The rain had turned to mist by now, and she set off across the moorlands, passing her father and brothers as she went.

“And where are ye off to, Evie?” her father called out, as paused to watch them at work.

“To Caitlin’s, Father,” she replied, as Owen and Rory laid down their tools.

“Well, be back by nightfall, ye hear me,” he said, and she smiled, as both her brothers laughed.

“She is always back by nightfall, father,” Owen said, “if she were nae, then ye would have the whole clan out lookin’ for her.”

“I am only doin’ what any father would dae. When ye are a father, Owen then ye shall be just the same,” their father replied, and he returned to his work.

Rory walked across the heathers towards Evie and smiled.

“Will ye give my love to Caitlin?” he asked, blushing a little as he spoke.

“I always dae, Rory, but I am afraid the answer will always be the same,” she replied.

Her brother had always held a flame for Caitlin, ever since they were children. But she had always resisted, ever making this excuse and that for why she and Rory could not be together. Still, he was persistent, and every time that it was known that Evie was visiting her friend, he would send her with his love and a sprig of heather, which now he plucked from the ground below.

“And give her this if ye will,” he said, and she smiled and nodded.

“She will have a whole moor before long,” she replied, taking the sprig and tucking it into her tunic.

“I can only try,” he replied, for Evie knew that it pained him to suffer such rejection.

He had often confided in her, longing for just one chance to prove himself to Caitlin. But she was a beautiful girl and could have her pick of men on the borderlands. But like Evie, she had no interest in marriage just yet, at least that is how it seemed to Evie, the two girls knowing one another better than anyone else.

“I will tell her,” Evie replied, and with a nod to her brother and a wave to her father and Owen, she set off across the heathers.

It would take around an hour to reach Caitlin’s croft, which lay upon a hill about a mile from the castle in which Evie and her brothers had grown up. She would have to pass it to get there, and, as she came in sight of the familiar towers and the imposing keep, she sighed to herself and paused.

As for her mother, the castle held many happy memories. It was here that she had first come to realize the power of the family into which she had been born and the grave responsibility, which would one day rest upon her father. They had shared happy times and sad in this place, not least the news of her grandfather’s death, which had so altered life for them all. Above her, she could see the old croft where her great grandparents had once lived, up on the moors and where her parents first lived when they were married. The landscape held such memories for them all, and for a moment, she stood taking it all in, lost in thought.

The gates of the castle were open, for her father still kept servants there, and several of the clansmen still resided behind its walls. She could see soldiers on the battlements, and she waved to them, hurrying across the heathers towards the gate.

“Hail there, Evie,” the captain of the guards said, “we have missed yer bonnie face these past weeks.”

“And I have missed this place too,” she called back, standing to look up at the high walls above.

“How is life at Kirklinton? Are ye settlin’ in?” he called back, for all the soldiers had a soft heart for Evie.

“Tolerable,” she called back, “I am on my way to see the Macready’s. I have been confined to the castle these past days, and I couldnae bear it any longer.”

“Be careful on the heathers lass, keep yer wits about ye,” the old soldier called back, and he waved to her as she walked on.

Evie had no fear; she had known this landscape and its paths her whole life. Besides, she was the daughter of a Laird, and, like her mother, she was possessed of boldness and fearlessness such that no man would cross her.

The moorland path rose steeply upwards from the castle, which lay on the low heathers close to a gushing stream. The rains had caused it to swell, and she had to walk some way upstream before she could find a place to cross safely. The trees overhung the water’s edge at that point, and she looked up and down the torrent for bare rocks over which she could make her path.

I shall have to go higher, she thought to herself and continued to climb up through the trees, towards where she thought would be a safe crossing point. The path along the stream had almost disappeared, and she was now high above the castle, with still no place to cross. Growing frustrated, she decided to remove her shoes and hitch up her tunic to wade across. The water was not too deep there, and she would soon be on the other side. Caitlin’s mother always had a fire burning, and she could sit in front of that to dry herself off.

Evie paused, glancing up and down the stream for a final time, but there was no easy place to cross, and instead, she removed her shoes and stepped into the water. It was icy cold, and a shiver went through her body as she waded knee-deep into the gushing torrent. The current was stronger than she had imagined it to be, and she stretched out her hands to steady herself. It was not far to the other side, and she took another step further into the water.

Chapter II

I hope the fire is well stoked up, she thought to herself, wading on through the water. She pictured Caitlin’s snug croft and looked forward to the prospect of griddle scones, cooked in the embers of the fire, and a warm cup of something to raise her spirits.

But just as she was close to the other side, where trees hung down low over the bank, a surge of water caused her to unbalance. With a cry, Evie slipped into the cold water and was caught up in the torrent. It sent her down the stream with such force that she went under several times, flailing in the murky depths, as she gasped and struggled to catch her breath.

She screamed, trying desperately to swim against the current, but to no avail. The water was gushing around her, carrying her downstream, and despite striking out with all her might, she found herself unable to swim or catch her footing. The water was far more treacherous than she had imagined, freezing cold too, and she was helpless against the force pulling her along. With a final effort, she cried out again as a fresh surge of water overwhelmed her, and she went hurtling down the stream. There were falls further down, and if she could not get to the bank, then she would be swept over and dashed upon the rocks. Desperately she tried to swim, but the water was unforgiving, sweeping her along in its torrent. She could hardly breathe, gasping for breath, as the water hurled her up and out of the current, before pulling her back down. The rain lashed at her face, and the water swirled about her as she felt herself drifting out of consciousness.

“Help me,” she cried out as her head went beneath the water again.

It seemed there was no hope, and with a final gasp, she tried to swim again, her hand reaching out when all of sudden another hand took hold of hers. With great strength, she was pulled through the waters, her head emerging from the depths, as she gasped for breath.

‘I have ye, daenae worry,” came a voice, “ye will be all right, here we go,” and with another heave, she was dragged up onto the side of the bank.

Evie was coughing and spluttering, her whole body shaking with the chill of the water, and for a moment, she had no idea what had just occurred. It had all happened so fast, and she was almost delirious as she began to babble senselessly.

“I … oh … please …” she cried, but the stranger pulled her further up the bank until she lay panting and breathless on the heathers above the water.

“All right, ye are safe now. But I daenae advise ye to cross the waters like that again. The stream is treacherous after the rains, and ye clearly have nay skill at swimming,” he said, laughing a little.

Evie coughed and spluttered, her mouth and nose filled with water as she struggled to draw breath.

“I cannae …” she began.

“All right, easy now, ye have had a shock,” the stranger replied, and Evie rubbed her eyes, shivering with cold as she lay bedraggled upon the bank.

As she recovered a little more, she looked her rescuer in the face. He was a man whom she had never seen before, not a member of her father’s clan or an ally, nor a peasant from Lochrutton, the village which lay below her father’s castle. He was tall and well built, dressed in a red tunic, which was itself now soaked through. His face, which was clean-shaven and handsome, bore a smile. But she flinched back in terror as he reached out his hand, for he was a stranger, and she knew not of his intentions.

“I … I …” she gasped, coughing and spluttering with the water that filled her mouth and nose.

“I am nae goin’ to hurt ye. My name is Hamish, Hamish … MacBryde,” he said, a name which caused a wave of horror to run through her.

The name of MacBryde had long been feared by her family. The MacBrydes had long ago sided with the English against their own countrymen across the border. Her father called them traitors and would shake his head in anger at the name. They were allies of the Musgraves, and she knew that it was a Musgrave who had imprisoned her mother and held her grandmother as a slave for years before her father had rescued them both. She had never encountered a MacBryde before, and she was terrified as to what he might do. She had heard so many stories of their atrocities over the years, and she knew that they could not be trusted.

“What … what are ye doin’ here?” she asked, finally recovering enough to speak, her hands now blue with cold and her body beginning to numb.

She felt vulnerable and at his mercies, knowing that the chill running through her would prevent her from running away.

“I often come here, I like to sit up here and look across the borders and the moorlands. Ye are the first person I have ever encountered,” he said, taking off his cloak, “now, ye are shiverin’, place this around ye, it will help to warm ye up. If I had not seen ye thrashing about in the water, then ye would surely have drowned. What is yer name?”

“Ev … Evie, Evie … Elliott,” she mumbled as he placed the cloak around her shoulders, and she wrapped it close to her.

“An Elliott,” he said, as though recalling some past memory, “yer father is …”

“The Laird,” she replied, hoping perhaps that the name might scare him off and watching him cautiously.

She was frightened, for, despite his kindness, she knew not to trust a MacBryde, and she was suspicious as to why a man such as this should be here in the heart of her father’s territory, alone and watching. Was he a spy? What were his intentions? She was beginning to recover herself a little, and she edged away from him, watching him all the time. But he simply smiled and nodded.

“The daughter of the Laird, goodness me. I am honored. And what are ye doin’ crossin’ over the stream here and wanderin’ through the heathers all alone?” he asked, looking her up and down with curiosity.

“My father’s land, and I shall walk where I choose. And … and why are ye here?” she replied, trying to sound braver than she felt.

She wished that one of her brothers was there, or her father or one of the soldiers. They would soon chase this curious MacBryde away and see her safely home. But out here she was alone, and she knew she must make her escape as soon as possible. But the chill was setting in, and Evie continued to sit shivering as Hamish watched her.

“I walk this way at times. ‘Tis an escape from the castle, though I know it to be a dangerous one. If yer father knew …” he began.

“My father will know. Ye are a MacBryde and are nae to be trusted,” she replied, but he simply laughed once more and shook his head.

“A fine way to repay a man who has just saved yer life. I would hate to know how ye treat yer enemies,” he replied, laughing and moving closer towards her.

Evie felt disarmed by his comment. But she looked at him defiantly, trying to stand up and failing, the chill running through her bones.

“I … I will be all right, thank ye,” she replied.

She wanted him to leave her alone, though she knew she owed this man her life. But to trust a MacBryde? Evie knew what her father would say if he knew she was talking to a man of the clan who he and her family had sworn as enemies. No MacBryde was to be trusted, not even one who had rescued her from the torrent of the stream.

“And where is it that ye are goin’ to now, lass?” Hamish asked, “ye cannae walk soaked to the skin in the rain. Let me help ye.”

“Nay, I daenae need yer help. I have friends nearby, ye should go. If my father catches ye here then …” Evie said, but Hamish just smiled.

“Yer father has never caught me before. I have watched him and the other clansmen on the hunt, I fancy I have even seen ye at times, lass. When I pulled ye from the water, I recognized yer face. Ye have brothers too, daenae ye?” he said.

“Aye, and if they knew a MacBryde was here, then they would …” Evie began, struggling to her feet.

She was shaking with cold, and she knew she could not remain outside much longer, lest the chill would go to her bones. Hamish stood up too, looking around him at that lonely spot, as the rain continued to fall.

“Come now, lass. Can we nae be friends ye and I? These old quarrels are between our parents. Why must we be caught up in them?” he asked, holding out his hands.

“My quarrel is with anyone who would betray their fellow countrymen,” Evie said.

The MacBrydes had long had a pact with the English, selling their loyalty across the border. No MacBryde could be trusted. They were friends of the enemy, and it was rumored that an attack by their combined forces was imminent. Evie knew too the stories of the past and of how her poor grandmother was subjected to years of harsh treatment at the hands of the Musgraves. She had no intention of offering the hand of friendship, however kind this man might have been to her, and she watched him warily as he stood between her and the moorland path above.

“I daenae have time for such quarrels, I am nay enemy of yours,” Hamish replied.

“Then ye shall seek peace with my father? Are ye to be Laird upon the death of yer father?” Evie asked, and Hamish nodded.

“I am. And when I am, I shall forget the past and pursue peace,” he replied, an air of confidence about him.

Evie was not convinced. She had heard such tales before when the Elliotts and the MacBrydes had been at peace. It was promises such as this that had led to betrayal, and she could hear her mother’s words ringing in her ears.

“Never a trust a MacBryde, for they shall stab ye in the back,” she used to say.

“Well, Laird to be, I thank ye for helpin’ me, and now I must be on my way,” Evie said, pulling his cloak tightly around her.

“And I presume ye shall take my cloak with ye too?” he asked, smiling at her and laughing.

“I … nay, of course not. Here,” she said, handing him back the cloak, as an icy wind whipped along the course of the stream.

“Ye need it more than I, lass. Go on, be away with ye. It seems I cannae persuade ye to sit awhile with me and talk. Besides, ye are cold and need the warmth of a hearth to warm ye. I should be on my way too, I wouldnae wish to run into yer brothers or yer father as I make my way home,” Hamish replied.

“Ye risk a lot by comin’ here,” Evie said.

“What is life if nae without a little risk?” he replied, and she nodded, stepping past him and glancing back.

“I … thank ye …” she said and hurried off up the path leading to the heathers above.

“Will I see ye again?” he called back, but Evie made no reply.

On the brow above, she turned and saw him still watching her. How lucky it had been to encounter him, but Evie had no desire to forge a friendship with the enemy. Hamish MacBryde had been kind, but she knew not to trust him. She was her father’s daughter, the daughter of Lairds and warriors. This man was the enemy, and even to speak with him felt like a betrayal. But despite that fact, she could not help but feel grateful. After all, he had saved her life, when she too was an enemy to him. Were his words really sincere?

Evie watched him for a moment, before turning back to look across the heathers. The clouds were clearing now, the merest hint of blue sky against the dark clouds. A rainbow hung in the distance, and the sun had caught the purple of the heathers over on the hills beyond. When she glanced back, he was gone, disappearing as readily as he had appeared. A stranger on the heathers, an enemy at large. She pulled his cloak around her more tightly, glancing back again as she hurried over the heathers. It had certainly been an eventful day, and Evie would be glad of a fire and a friendly face.

 

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