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Prologue

Eighteen months earlier

Tate’s boots sank into the mud as he walked over to the man he was supposed to meet. It had been raining all morning, but now the clouds had parted, letting the sun shine down on the Hay Castle. The village streets, deserted only a few hours prior, were now filled with people, and Tate didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, the more people milled about, the more cover Tate would have for what he was supposed to do. On the other hand, it was easier for someone to spot him with so many people around.

Still, the plan had to be carried out.

Walking up to the man with the cart standing by the village tavern, Tate pulled a small bag full of coins out of his pocket and handed it to him.

“Half an hour,” he reminded him. “The lass will meet ye over there by the apothecary.”

“Aye, as discussed,” the man said. He was an older man, a farmer, with hair as grey as his beard, and he was willing to do a lot for some coins. “I’ll be waitin’.”

Tate nodded and left quickly, not wanting to be seen lingering around him. He made his way to the tavern instead and sat at one of the tables outside the establishment, despite the benches and the tables still being damp from the rain. It was the only place he could sit and watch both the castle and the apothecary without drawing any suspicion, and get a cup of ale, too, while he was at it.

He needed it, after all the hard work of the past few days.

Before he could even order the ale he so desperately wanted, a figure sat down at the table next to his. Tate kept his gaze in front of him, and he knew the other man was doing the same without needing to look at him.

He never needed to look to know what Kian was doing. After all the time they had spent together, Tate knew him like he knew himself. Every mannerism, every quirk of Kian’s was engraved forever in Tate’s mind, and he would recognize him anywhere.

Not that it was a difficult thing to do when Kian wore that mask. Tate had never even seen him without the blasted thing, the sterling silver mask that covered the entirety of the left side of his face, as well as the lower part of the right side. All he had ever seen were his long, blond hair and his dark blue eyes, one of them always obscured by the shadow of the mask. Same as his. If someone didn’t know them, they’d say they were twins.

“All done?” Kian asked. His voice was low, barely audible over the bustle of the village.

“All done,” Tate confirmed. “We only have tae wait fer the lassie tae come out o’ the castle now.”

It wasn’t much of a plan that he and Kian had come up with to get Lana Hay out of her father’s castle. They hadn’t had the time to think of something more elaborate, something safer that would guarantee a smooth escape. Ever since Tate had visited the castle the other day as her father’s guest and seen the cruelty the young woman had to suffer at his hands, he had known that they had to do something to help her leave the clan.

“Good,” Kian said. “The last thing we need is Eógan Hay gettin’ the alliance he wants with the Cummings clan. If we manage tae ruin this marriage, we ruin the alliance.”

“An’ we save Lana Hay,” Tate reminded him. Though putting a stop to the wedding between Lana and Balfour Cummings was important for the safety and prosperity of Kian’s clan—the Drummond Clan—Tate couldn’t help but feel that rescuing Lana from both her father and an unwanted marriage was a more pressing matter. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone having to live their lives in such sorrow, and though he couldn’t help everyone, he could try to help Lana, at least.

“Aye, I suppose that’s an added attraction,” Kian said. “I cannae imagine the kind o’ life the lassie would have if she ended up married tae Balfour Cummings. He’s worse than her faither. It’s a good thing ye could help her.”

“It’s a good thing we could help her,” Tate said. “I couldnae have done it without ye. If anythin’, yer the one who always helps people.”

“Ach, who else have I helped?” Kian asked, waving a hand dismissively as he tended to do whenever he was too embarrassed to accept any praise.

“Me,” Tate reminded him. “Ye saved me from certain death.”

“Aye, but that was a long time ago.”

Tate shook his head in disbelief with a small laugh. Kian made it impossible to say a good word about him or to thank him for everything all he had done for him, but that didn’t mean Tate would stop trying.

He was about to respond when he spotted Lana rushing around the village, her eyes wide as she looked left and right either for the man with the wagon or for a potential threat. She seemed frightened, her hand clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders, but Tate could hardly blame her. If her father or her betrothed found out she was trying to flee, there was no telling what they would do to her.

They’d probably keep her locked in the castle.

“There she is,” Tate told Kian. “Right on time.”

“Let’s go,” Kian said as he stood and made his way towards the man with the cart. Tate followed close behind; he never did get to drink that ale, he thought with a wistful sigh.

However, they had only taken a few steps when a drunk man fell right onto Kian, the two of them stumbling as Kian tried to hold both their weights. Tate came to a stop next to them, his hand shooting out to steady Kian.

“Watch where ye’re goin’!” the man shouted, much to Tate’s chagrin. He looked around them, knowing that the man was drawing too much attention to them, but not knowing what to do about it. Now that everyone in the street was looking at them, it would be difficult to slip away undetected as per their plan. Everyone had seen them, and they were bound to remember the scuffle.

“Ye’re the one who fell on me!” Kian said, rather unhelpfully. Tate wished he would just apologize and put an end to the fight before it even started, as the drunkard’s intentions were crystal clear. His gaze held a malice that was enough of a warning for Tate, but Kian didn’t seem to care.

The drunkard said nothing more before he grabbed Kian by his shirt and tried to throw him to the ground. He was a smaller man, though, while Kian shared Tate’s tall and muscular frame, towering over everyone he met. All the drunk man managed to do was pull Kian even closer to him, which instantly put him at a disadvantage.

Kian swung his fist. His knuckles connected with the drunkard’s cheek, but Tate could tell his friend was holding back, unwilling to hurt the man too much. The drunk fell to the ground, dazed and unable to stand on his own two feet, and Tate thought that would be the end of it. Swift and clean. He gave Kian one last look before he turned to join Lana by the cart, but before he could take even a single step, he saw something glinting in the drunkard’s hand.

He has a knife.

Kian hadn’t noticed. He had his back turned to the man and was walking away, oblivious to the threat right behind him. The man recovered quickly, too quickly, standing up and rushing towards Kian, and all Tate could do to stop him was throw himself at him.

Once more, the man fell to the ground with a pained moan, and Tate tumbled on top of him. His hand was wrapped tightly around the man’s forearm, pinning it down to the ground so that he couldn’t use the knife, and though the other struggled, kicking out his legs to shove Tate off him, he could hardly move.

Kian turned around and, once he noticed what was happening, he rushed to Tate’s aid. The problem was that several other men did as well, while others came to the drunk man’s rescue. Before Tate knew it, he and the man were separated, but the fight only grew. Some were looking for an excuse to exchange blows while others, offended by the punches they had already received, sought revenge.

A fist collided with Tate’s jaw, though in the chaos, he couldn’t tell who had attacked him. And to be honest, he didn’t even care. Now that everyone had stopped to stare at the fight, he and Kian had no chance of getting out of there unnoticed unless they managed to slip through the crowd. So, instead of engaging in the fight, he decided to look for Kian and get out of there.

He found him with his arms around another man, trying to restrain him, unsurprisingly. If anything, Tate was expecting him to do something even worse in the heat of the moment. Once he reached him, Tate placed a hand on Kian’s shoulder, which resulted in him almost getting a blow to the face, before Kian realized who he was.

“What are ye doin’?” Kian asked. “I could have hurt ye!”

“Leave him, let’s go,” Tate said, doing his best to disentangle Kian from the other man, but both Kian and the stranger were eager to continue with their confrontation. It took him a few moments, but in the end, he and Kian were weaving through the crowd, quickly making their way towards a small alley where they could both hide.

The fight continued without them, the men too impassioned to stop. Tate pressed himself against the wall of a house, keeping himself as invisible as he could, and placed a hand on Kian’s chest to force him to do the same.

“What were ye thinkin’, gettin’ intae that fight?” Tate hissed, as he tried to spot Lana. He hoped she hadn’t been spooked by the crowds and fled. He couldn’t see her in the village.

“Well, I clearly wasnae thinkin’, was I?” Kian said.

Despite himself, Tate laughed. “Of course, ye werenae. We have tae find the lass now.”

Pushing himself off the wall, Kian walked to the end of the alley, shoving Tate’s hand away when he tried to pull him back. Tate cursed under his breath, but at least no one seemed to notice them.

“There she is,” Kian said, pointing at the cart that was already rolling down the path away from the village and the Hay clan. “At least it worked out in the end.”

Tate let out a sigh of relief and let his head fall back against the wall. He hadn’t managed to speak to Lana, but he hoped everything would work out for her now that she had managed to escape, even without him giving her instructions on what to do next.

“I never asked ye… how did ye even manage tae tell her about the plan?” Kian said, as he hid himself in the shadows once more.

“It wasnae too difficult,” Tate said with a small shrug. “When her faither had that ball a few days ago, I snuck inside the castle as a guest.”

“An’ ye managed tae speak with her? I thought he’d be more careful than tae let a strange man talk tae his daughter.”

“Nay,” Tate said. “I barely saw her at the ball. I had tae flirt with a maid an’ she told me where tae find her.”

“I’m sure ye didnae enjoy that at all,” Kian said, his tone dripping with mockery.

“What would ye have me dae?” Tate said. “I had tae speak with her somehow.”

The fact that the maid was a pretty girl and more than receptive to his advances was merely a bonus. It had been the only thing Tate could think of at the time, and he was lucky it had worked. Had it been anyone else, he probably wouldn’t have managed to get the information he needed out of them.

“What is she like, then?” Kian asked. “Lana Hay?”

“I dinnae ken,” Tate said. “I didnae speak with her at all, actually.”

Kian looked at him in confusion and disbelief, and Tate chuckled before he added, “I only passed her a note. I wanted tae speak with her, but I didnae have time. She didnae even see me. I walked up behind her, passed her the note, an’ left.”

He hadn’t wanted to risk being found out by her father or her betrothed, so had had to be quick in his movements, leaving before too many people could see him. He had gotten good at it ever since Kian had first asked him to pose as him while he was away. Impersonating Kian meant that he had to be careful of who saw him as himself and when, in order for his cover not to be blown.

“At least we managed tae help her flee without any problems,” Kian said, and as though his words had summoned trouble, the men who were still fighting seemed to realize that the two of them were gone. It took them only seconds to band together and start looking for them, and then only a few more seconds to find them in the alley.

“They’re here!” one of the men shouted, attracting everyone else’s attention. Tate and Kian had no choice but to run, heading out of the village towards the woods in the hopes that they could be lost among the trees.

The crowd followed them, some of the men keeping them in their sights while others seemed to be confused as to where to go. Tate glanced at them over his shoulder every few seconds and steered Kian towards where they would have better chances at losing their pursuers.

“Well, I’m glad we didnae have tae opt fer the other plan,” Kian said, shouting as they ran. He was out of breath, the mask surely not helping, but he didn’t seem too bothered by the fact that an angry mob was chasing them.

“What other plan?” Tate asked.

“If this didnae work, I’d have had tae marry the lass meself,” Kian said. “How else would I stop Balfour Cummings from marryin’ her?”

Knowing Kian, Tate had to agree that not having to marry Lana was probably for the best.  

Chapter One

Present day, Murray Castle

Lana sat in the portrait gallery of Murray Castle with little Robert in her arms. He loved it there, always fascinated by the paintings that depicted the Murray family, and Lana often brought him there when Evelyn, the boy’s mother, was busy and couldn’t look after him.

“When ye grow up, ye’ll have yer own portrait here,” she told him, though the boy couldn’t yet understand her. He, too, would be a laird one day, the title passed on to him from his father, Laird Scott Murray.

In response, Robert giggled and made a few sounds that weren’t quite yet words. It made Lana giggle as well, delighted by the child in her arms.

The gallery was often quiet, as not many people visited it. She knew Magnus, Scott’s younger brother, came there at night sometimes, but rarely in the mornings, so she and Robert had the entire place to themselves. Lana liked to sit on the plush couch by the window and read to him, passing the hours until she was needed.

It was a nice routine she had set up for herself in the Murray Castle. She found life there much easier, much calmer than her life back home. Her father had often made her miserable, as though his sole purpose in life was to make her as unhappy as he was, and she knew that things would have only gotten worse if she had married Laird Cummings, as per her father’s plan.

But all that was in her past now. The Murrays had been kind to her. She had a good life, even if it wasn’t the life of a laird’s daughter. Besides, now that she was helping the clan’s healer instead of working as a maid, as she had been upon her arrival after Scott had saved her, she had found a passion, something that she actually enjoyed doing.

“I thought I’d find ye here,” a voice called from the door, and Lana turned to see Alba, Magnus’ wife and Evelyn’s older sister.

Originally, she had been promised to Scott, but after a series of situations he and Evelyn had fallen in love. This happened much to Alba’s delight, as she had never had any intention of ever marrying. However, to avoid another unwanted marriage, she had asked Magnus to pretend to be her husband, to everyone’s surprise as they did not get along. Needless to say, they had ended up falling head over heels for each other as well.

Lana smiled at her and gestured at her to join them on the couch, an invitation that Alba eagerly accepted.

“Robert likes this place,” Lana said, grinning at the boy. He reached up with his small hands and grabbed a fistful of her hair, tugging a few fiery red strands out of her updo before she could stop him. “Ach… ye’re a wee menace.”

“Just like his maither,” Alba said. Lana wouldn’t have guessed it when she had first met Evelyn, but she knew Alba was right. Though Alba and Evelyn were sisters, Alba shared none of Evelyn’s unruliness or her desire for adventure.

They certainly share their stubbornness, though.

“Where’s me sister?” Alba asked. “I’ve searched the entire castle an’ I cannae find her.”

“She’s with Scott,” Lana said. “They’re havin’ a meetin’ about the army again.”

“Again?” Alba asked. “That lass… she couldnae keep herself busy with somethin’ other than armies an’ fightin’?”

“I dinnae think she’s particularly fond o’ looms,” Lana pointed out. It was another thing that had surprised Lana when she had first come to the Murray clan. Scott not only didn’t mind it when Evelyn assisted him with clan matters and strategy, but he even encouraged it, asking for her opinion. Though she didn’t join him for the council meetings, as they were both certain the council would frown upon such a thing, Scott made sure to tell her everything that had been discussed.

“I ken that,” Alba said with a long-suffering sigh. As the oldest, Lana knew she felt responsible for her sister’s wellbeing and reputation, and though she wasn’t fighting any wars anymore, there was no telling what she would do if another war broke out.

“Dae ye need tae speak with her?” Lana asked.

“She told me tae remind her tae feed Robert, because she would be too busy tae keep track o’ the time,” Alba said. “I thought I’d find ye here with him, but I didnae ken it would be this difficult tae find her!”

“I can take him tae her,” Lana said, already standing with Robert in her arms. “It’s nae a problem.”

She had taken only a few steps before Alba called to her again.

“Ach, I almost forgot again!” Alba said, joining her by the door. “I keep meanin’ tae tell ye somethin’ an’ I keep forgettin’ tae.”

“What is it?” Lana asked.

“Ever since ye told me that story o’ how that man saved ye from yer faither, I’ve been lookin’ fer that mark that ye described tae me,” Alba said. “Ye said he had a mark on his hand, did ye nae?”

“Aye, he did,” Lana confirmed, her heart filling with hope. Could it be that Alba had found the man she had been looking for? It had been over a year since then, and no matter how much Lana tried, she could never figure out who her savior was. She had only gotten a glimpse of his hand as he passed her the note that night, and even though she had tried to run after him once she had read his words, she hadn’t managed to catch up with him.

“Ye’ve heard o’ Tate,” Alba said. It wasn’t a question. Though Lana had never seen Tate, she had heard of him, as his family talked so much about him. He was the baby out of the three brothers, and though he was often away travelling, they always spoke fondly of him. “I realized the other day that he has a mark on his hand. Look.”

As she spoke, Alba pointed at Tate’s portrait on the wall. His hand was visible, and the painter had definitely painted something on his skin that could have been a birthmark, although Lana couldn’t tell if it was the same one she had seen or not. She would have to see it in real life to know for certain.

“I dinnae ken if that’s it,” Lana said. “I… I’m nae certain.”

“Well, ye’ll see it when he returns from his travels,” Alba pointed out. “Wouldnae it be strange if all this time, yer savior was Tate?”

It would be a strange coincidence, indeed, Lana thought. She wanted nothing more than to find the man and thank him for saving her from a miserable fate, so if it was Tate, then all the better. She didn’t know how she could return such kindness, but she would at least try.

“Thank ye fer showin’ me, Alba,” Lana said. “I hope ye’re right.”

“I hope so too,” Alba said. She, like everyone else in the castle, knew how much this meant to her.

With that, Lana was off, taking Robert to Scott’s study. She knocked on the door and entered, finding him and Evelyn hunched over the table as they discussed their plans. Evelyn stepped back as Lana entered, shoulders going stiff. She only relaxed when she realized who it was, and her face split into a grin when she saw Robert.

“Is it time already tae feed him?” she asked, as she reached for her son. Lana handed him to her, nodding.

“Aye, Alba came tae find me,” she said. “He’s been a wee angel all day.”

“Has he?” Evelyn asked. “Well, that’s new.”

Lana and Scott laughed, both knowing how much of a handful Robert could be sometimes, especially now that he was growing and getting curious about the world around him. He wasn’t a fussy child, though, and Lana rarely heard him cry.

“Thank ye fer bringin’ him, Lana,” Evelyn said. “Will ye stay fer supper?”

“Nay, nay… I must go back tae the cottage,” Lana said. “I need tae gather some supplies fer the healer.”

“As ye wish,” Evelyn said. “But ye’re always welcome.”

“Thank ye,” Lana said, giving them both a small bow before she left the study. She often spent her afternoons and evenings at the healer’s cottage, a little further down the path from the castle, and she preferred it there. It was much quieter, nothing like the castle she had called home fer so many years.

She didn’t want to be reminded of her past. It was all too painful, too much to bear. All she wanted to do was spend her days immersed in her new job, learning everything there was to know about healing people and saving lives. There was no point in revisiting the past and dwelling on every cruel thing her father had done to her.

Lana greeted all the guards and the clansmen and women as she walked through the castle and then the courtyard, before exiting the castle walls. She had taken that same path countless times, but it never failed to amaze her how beautiful the place was, each side of the dirt road stretching out into the forest. Flowers and herbs bloomed by the path, and Lana stopped for a moment to gather some hedge nettles for the healer to use. She pulled her small knife out and started cutting a few stalks, making sure to get the freshest ones.

Thankfully, it was a nice day and the sun was shining through a smattering of clouds. Every time she had to take the path when it was raining, she delayed it for as long as possible, loathing the mud that caked her shoes when even just a little rain had fallen.

With an armful of hedge nettles, Lana continued down the path, but something made her pause. She felt as though there were eyes on her, much like she did back home, every time her father had one of his guards—sometimes even multiple of them—following her every move. She was accustomed to the feeling, that tell-tale shiver down her spine notifying her that there was something wrong.

Nonetheless, when she looked around, she couldn’t spot anyone. There was nothing but trees, bushes, and a few birds flying from branch to branch.

Could it all be in me head?

Lana doubted it. She was far from paranoid. Even when she had been living in her father’s castle, she never worried without reason.

Her instinct told her that there was someone there, hiding among the trees.

But what other choice did she have than to keep going? She was too far from the castle to ask for help. The cottage was closer, and maybe if she made a run for it, she could get there before whoever was watching her could catch up with her.

Taking a few steadying breaths, Lana reached for her knife once more. She held it tightly in her hand, though she didn’t know how effective it would be during an attack. It was barely sharp enough to cut through stalks, let alone human flesh. Also, she had never even been in a fight before. How could she defend herself if there was a brigand after her?

Why me? I’m nae one important, nae anymore.

It didn’t matter. She could figure that out later. All that mattered was getting to the cottage on time, where she would be safe.

In an instant, she dropped the hedge nettles and broke into a sprint. Her feet thudded against the ground, clouds of dust rising behind her with every step she took. It didn’t take her long to hear another set of footsteps behind her, louder and heavier than her own, but she didn’t dare look back at the person who was chasing her.

Although she was running as fast as she could, the footsteps sounded closer and closer with every passing second. Her pursuer was catching up to her. Lana tried to run even faster, to push herself even more, but she had no more strength left. All she could do was hope she wouldn’t trip and fall, and that she would be fast enough to escape.

That hope faded when a hand grabbed her and brought her to a halt. Lana screamed and tried to tug her arm away from the man’s grip, but he was too strong. He only held her even more tightly, one arm wrapping around her waist as the other wrapped around her throat, choking her.

In her panic, Lana’s breath rushed out of her. She couldn’t draw any air into her lungs. She couldn’t fight the man. Her legs kicked out, and her hand swung the knife wildly in the air, trying to hurt him even a little, just enough so that she could escape, but he was too strong. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it, making her drop the knife with a pained wail, before he continued to choke her.

He’ll kill me.

She didn’t understand why. She didn’t know why he had chosen her or why he had decided to kill her, but she knew that was his intention. His arms were too tight, pressing against her stomach and her throat. His chest was a solid wall against her back, and she had no chance of making him move.

Tears began to stream down her cheeks, carving hot paths in their wake. The world tilted and started to go dark and fuzzy at the edges as she lost consciousness, though she didn’t know if it was because of the lack of air or the panic that was bubbling up inside her. Either way, she knew she wouldn’t be awake for long.

She had to find out who the man was. She had to sneak a look at him, just in case she managed to survive this, so she craned her neck trying to get a glimpse but no matter how much she tried, she couldn’t.

What she did see was the ring he was wearing. It was a ring that many of her father’s men wore, gifted to them when they rose up the ranks of his army. Lana would recognize it anywhere.

Me faither sent him… he’s here tae take me back.

She didn’t know how anyone had found out where she was. Lana thought she was safe there and that her father would never find her, but she had clearly been wrong. She had been wrong about the man, too. He wasn’t trying to kill her; he was only trying to incapacitate her.

Still, that didn’t comfort her in the least. She would rather die than go back to her father, to that daily abuse and misery. She would rather the man end her life right then and there, because she would never agree to stay with her father.

However, she couldn’t speak. No words would come out of her mouth, just like she could not get any air into her lungs.

Her limbs were soon too heavy for her too struggle. Her head was filled with cotton, making it impossible to think. And then, everything went black. 

 

Prologue

Isle of Iona, Scotland
Autumn 1304

Arya waited until full moon before she made her move to escape. She knew the moonlight would guide her steps from the convent all the way to the sea front. It was long after the ringing of the curfew bell and silence had fallen throughout the nunnery, before she was certain the nuns would be sleeping and she could leave without anyone noticing her slip away.

After tucking a folded note under her pillow explaining where she was going and begging the sisters not to worry about her wellbeing, she flung on her cloak and ventured from the small cell she’d been occupying during her exile here. Closing the door silently behind her she tiptoed down the corridor, her boots clutched in her hand.

Passing on soft feet along the passageways she drew open the creaky old door of the nunnery and found herself in the walled garden. This was where she’d spent many hours learning about healing and herbs from Sister Dominique. Arya was convinced the old nun, with her amazing depth of knowledge and understanding, must have been a witch before she left the confines of the world and took her vows of contemplation and chastity among the sisters of Iona.

Arya looked around with something approaching regret. Her time on the island had not been without its consolations, and she wished she’d been able to thank Sister Dominique for her teaching, and bid farewell to Maggie Drummond, her loyal maidservant. But her enforced seclusion had now come to an end, and, if her plans were known, there were those who would do their best to forestall her departure.

It wasn’t that she was a prisoner. She was a guest of the sisters, not their captive. She was here at the insistence of her older brothers. Payton, her eldest brother, the Laird of the Macdonells, and Taveon, two years younger, were convinced she should remain here, safe from the wicked Sir William de Coughran, who had threatened to kill her in his battle against the Macdonell clan.

More than anything, she wished to aid her brothers. Locked away in this peaceful community, she was no use to them at all. Although she was well aware that leaving the confines of the nunnery would incur their wrath, once they saw how much they needed her with them, she was confident they would see things her way.

Her most fervent wish was that she could earn their respect. Of course, as her older brothers, they loved their little sister. But she was no longer a child but a grown woman of nineteen years. Old enough for marriage and to have a household of her own.

Knowing her own mother had lost her life giving birth to her had always felt like a cruel curse hanging around her neck, weighing her down. The gift of life her mother had bestowed on her newborn daughter had meant depriving her older brothers of their dear mother’s love. She’d never known it herself – although she’d felt its absence sorely – but nothing could ever compensate her brothers for the precious mother they had worshipped and loved with all their hearts. No matter how hard Arya had tried throughout all her days to redeem herself she could never rid herself of the guilt.

She sighed. This was her opportunity to prove to them she was worthy. Despite her one brief moment of doubt, she was resolutely determined to make her way home to Macdonell Castle. She fastened her blue woolen cloak tight around her, pulling the hood with its lining of white fur over her red curls, hauled open the door in the garden wall, and set off, the moonlight guiding her steps.

The first part of her mission gave her a tiny niggle of concern. She must take all her courage in her hands and knock on cottage doors seeking the services of a fisherman who would take her across to the nearby Isle of Mull. On her occasional brief breaks from the routine of the convent she’d been permitted to stroll along Iona’s rocky foreshore from where Mull was clearly visible. She’d seen the fishing boats pulled up on the shore not far from the village and it was there she was heading.

Her faith in herself grew bolder. She could do this.

Squaring her shoulders, she pulled her confidence around her like a cloak. Once across to the other island, she would make her way to Ardtun, a few short miles away, where she knew she would find sanctuary with the MacKinnon clan. From Mull she would take the rest of her voyage home.

But there was something else about tonight’s adventure that set her pulse thrumming. The tiny village of Baile Mòr lay less than a mile away and, until tonight, her itch of curiosity about the place had never been scratched.

The sisters were strictly forbidden to ever set foot there and the convent rules were strict, never to be broken. Even though she’d asked around, no one had ever dared pay a clandestine visit there. Mother Superior was unmoved by Arya’s numerous pleas to be permitted, just once, to visit the village.

As far as the Mother Superior was concerned, Baile Mòr was only second to Hell when it came to wickedness. And, it was certain, the devil himself resided in the village tavern.

Of course, this made Arya even more curious.

Her heart was hammering as she made her way along the woodland path that would soon bring her to the rocky shoreline and, a little further along, to the village.

It was then she heard a strange growling sound. At first, she thought it was an animal, and she quickened her steps. Then the deep growl was followed by a high-pitched whimper and she registered that the noises she was hearing were all too human. These were the sounds of a man and woman locked in a fierce conflict.

She paused, peering through the trees into the nearby clearing. The moonlight shone brightly and she could clearly make out the two figures. Hearing voices raised in anger she crouched low, suddenly afraid of being discovered.

Although she couldn’t make out the words they were speaking, it was clear they were arguing. The woman’s voice rose higher, until she was almost shrieking, the man’s voice was deep and unrelenting with rage.

The woman screamed out “Nay. Nay.” and, heart in mouth, Arya craned forward, fearful, but struggling to make out more clearly what was going on.

Creeping toward the couple she saw the man had hold of the woman’s arm in a tight grip. She struggled, her nails raking his cheeks. Breaking free of him, she went to run, but fell, tangled in the skirt of her long kirtle. Growling and cursing he was on her in an instant, hauling her to her feet.

To Arya’s horror she saw the man draw back his arm and bring his fist up. The woman screamed as he landed a heavy blow to her jaw. Her head jolted back and he raised his fist and delivered a second blow.

From her hiding place, Arya could clearly see the blood streaming from the woman’s nose and mouth.

The woman raised a hand to her broken face, making a gurgling sound in her throat. A fierce protective instinct galvanized Arya. There must be some way she could try and save the woman from this brute.

The woman’s legs seemed to give way and she sank to her knees. At once the man seized her long hair and forced her head back, dragging her to her feet.

“Ye cursed whore,” he said in a low harsh voice. “I should slit yer throat.”

Horrified, Arya listened as the woman pleaded for her life.

“Please, nay, dinnae kill me. I swear I…”

The man was fumbling for the knife in his belt, the woman fighting fiercely.

Looking around feverishly for some kind of a weapon, Arya’s hand encountered a sharp, heavy stone which she clutched in desperation.

The man pulled up his hand, holding his dirk aloft preparing to slash the woman’s throat as he’d threatened, and Arya’s fingers closed tightly around the rock.

Just as the man was bringing down his weapon, Arya dashed forward. Coming up behind him she smashed the stone as hard as she could against his head. Letting out a roar he released the woman and staggered to his knees, his attention now on his attacker. Arya.

“Curse ye, devil’s wench,” he bellowed at her, scrabbling to haul himself upright, raising his dirk again, this time aiming straight for Arya’s heart.

In a wild panic she struck a second blow as he tried to rise, the heavy rock smashing into his temple. With a loud grunt, he dropped the dirk, fell back, rolled to his side, and lay at her feet, motionless. Blood gushed from the wounds on his head where the sharp end of the stone had found its mark.

Arya knelt quickly, forcing herself, without success, to feel a heartbeat under the heavy leather jacket he wore.

Finally, rising to her feet, she gazed with revulsion and trepidation into the man’s unseeing, lifeless eyes, her hands dripping with his blood. Frantically she grabbed his tartan cloak and wiped her stained hands clean.

Rolling her gaze to the stars, she breathed a prayer.

Oh, dear God in heaven what have I done? I’ve killed a man.

She turned to the trembling lass, her own body shaking uncontrollably.

“Ye saved me life,” she heard the woman say. “I thank ye.”

“Aye, that I did,” Arya mumbled, scarcely able to believe the scene that confronted her. “I saved yer life by making this man pay with his.”

In an instant the two girls were in each other’s arms, each attempting to reassure the other.

“Ye’ve done aught tae be ashamed of lass, he was a wicked, wicked man and the world’s a better place without the likes of him in it. I’m grateful tae ye from the bottom of me heart,” the trembling woman said quietly. Her words going some way to soothing Arya’s shattered nerves.

Arya looked up into the lass’ tear-filled eyes, surprised she was only about the same age as herself. She’d imagined her to be much older when she’d first come upon on the couple.

“There is nae need tae thank me fer…” Arya, said staring in true horror at the body crumpled at their feet where he’d fallen. He had menaced both of them with his dirk and she had no doubt he’d intended to end the lives of both her and the lass. “…and ye’ve aught tae be fearful of, now he is… nay more,” she said, releasing the young woman from her tight, panicked grip.

Taking a seat on a fallen log nearby, the woman reached for Arya’s hand and pulled her down to sit beside her.

“I am named Eleonor,” she whispered. “Ye?”

“I’m Arya…” She hesitated, suddenly afraid of revealing the name “Macdonell” to this unknown girl. After all, she, Arya had just killed a man. Her head buzzed with a thousand bees. Perhaps she’d already said too much. She sucked in a breath, her eyes widening as the recognition of her own dangerous situation dawned. Once the dead man was found, there would be others seeking to find the culprit who had murdered him.

Shaking her hand free, she pushed herself to her feet. She had to get clear of this place. Now. Before someone discovered the man’s body and came searching for his killer.

The sound of distant men’s voices made them both freeze.

“They’re coming this way,” Arya whispered as the voices grew louder.

Eleonor groaned. “That will be his men seeking him out now that he hasnae returned tae them. We must flee,” she took a step toward the path.

Arya went to follow but her skirt was caught, snagged on the fastening on the man’s plaid cloak. She tugged at her skirt but it was securely trapped.

“Here.” Eleonor swiftly snatched up the dead man’s dirk and slashed at the offending cloak. Her speedy action released Arya, but left the brooch and a fragment of the man’s cloak still clinging to her skirt.

Arya went to undo the fastening, but Eleonor placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Come now. We must be quick. There’s nae time tae fash about that now. We must run before they catch us here.”

Turning back toward the abbey, Arya reached for Eleonor’s hand. “I will find sanctuary with the sisters in the convent. I can hide there. Come with me. We’ll be safe from pursuit.”

Eleonor turned away, shaking her head. “Nae, Arya. I cannae go with ye. I have other things I must attend tae. I’ll find me way back tae the village and I’ll be safe there. There’s none who kens I was tae meet with this man, nae even his own soldiers, so they’ll nae look fer me.” She turned to go. “Ye bide well.”

Desperate as she was to regain the safety of the nunnery, Arya held grave concerns for Eleonor’s safety. “Ye must make haste tae hide, lass. But if ye ever need me help ye can find me at the abbey. If I’m nae there, leave a message for Arya with the sisters. They’ll ken where I stay and get your word tae me. I’ll help if I can.”

They gave each other a quick hug and sped on their way, their footsteps racing along the path in opposite directions.

Stumbling along the path to the abbey, Arya’s head was spinning. She was hardly aware of where she was until she found herself in the convent garden. The darkness of night was slowly being overtaken by the gray light of early morning and several nuns were pacing slowly toward the chapel for morning prayers. Passing the sisters, she entered the main hall, where preparations were underway for the breaking fast meal that would await the nuns on their return from Matins.

Head down, her hood almost covering her face, she crept along the passageway leading to the cell she’d only vacated a few short hours before.

In that time her life had changed forever. She had left here, her heart full, wishing only to be useful to her beloved brothers. She was returning with the blackest of marks marring her future. Her actions had made her a sinner. She had no right to be here, among the spotless purity of the contemplative women whose refuge she craved.

If she could only make it to her cell and take off the bloodstained kirtle and blouse and join the others in the chapel to pray for forgiveness.

Turning the corner and heading along the corridor that led to her cell, she was pulled up short by a voice crashing into her morbid and hopeless thoughts.

“Goodness child, where have you been so early in the day?”

Arya’s heart sank. It was the Mother Superior. The tall, angular nun studied Arya with an all-knowing expression in her gray eyes.

“Well, lass. I hope ye’ve nae been meeting with a lad outside these walls. Yer brother, the laird, willnae be happy if he discovers ye’ve found a sweetheart while ye’ve been with us.”

Arya shook her head. A lover would be the least of it. If the saintly Mother only knew the truth of the sin she’d committed.

Forcing a shy smile, she shook her head. Mother Agnes returned her smile, making no comment. Her gaze roamed across Arya as if search for an answer to her question, coming to rest on Arya’s skirt where the brooch with its remnant of bloodstained plaid was still attached.

Arya held her breath, fearful of the questions she expected.

Agnes reached down, undid the fastening and rose, clutching the brooch and the fabric in her hand. She looked sternly at Arya.

“This is the MacQuarrie tartan, and the brooch ye have here is chased gold, bearing the Clan crest.” She tilted her head to one side questioningly. “Only the Laird and his family are able tae wear such treasures. How did ye come by this?”

Arya gasped. “I dinnae ken, I was in the woods, Mother. It must have caught in me kirtle.”

Mother Agnes took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I pray ye speak truth Arya. The MacQuarries are a vile lot. If they believe this precious item has been stolen, they will nae spare the life of the thief. I must arrange fer this brooch tae be returned. It would nae dae fer any of the clan to ken it is in the hands of a MacDonell.”

“Oh, thank ye, Mother,” Arya muttered. “I’m of nae mind tae keep it.”

Mother Agnes tucked the brooch into the pocket of her surplice and gave Arya’s arm a squeeze. “Dinnae fash, lass. I’ll arrange fer one of our messengers tae take it across tae Mull, with the word that it was found in the woods by one of the sisters on her daily walk to the farms.” She made the sign of the cross. “I believe the Good Lord will forgive me the lie. Now, dae hurry and tidy yerself fer morning prayers. Yer brothers have sent news and it is now safe fer ye tae return home. After the prayers you can prepare tae leave.”

Arya could scarcely believe Mother Agnes had chosen discretion, and could only nod as the older woman swiveled and continued her way along the passage. The news of being called home would have overjoyed her just a few hours ago, but now, it was secondary. Her heart was beating fast and the blood was pounding in her veins as the nun’s dire words took hold. Feeling her knees buckling under her, she put a hand on the wall to support herself while her stomach roiled and a wave of terror swept over her.

Not only was the man she’d killed a member of a bloodthirsty, vengeful clan, it seemed he was an important member of the clan laird’s family.

Chapter One

Early Spring 1305
Isle of Iona

Grimacing, Gillebride slammed the heavy pewter tankard on the sturdy oak table. Ugh! This seedy tavern in the godforsaken village of Baile Mòr served what must surely be the worst ale in all of Christendom.

Looking around, he swiped his sleeve across his beard. He despised this place, and was only here on the Isle of Iona at the behest of the Laird, Blaine MacKinnon, who was keen to obtain the latest battle plans from their neighbouring clan, the MacQuarries.

Grumbling under his breath he scanned the motley throng of cutthroats, whores and poorly disguised clansmen seated around him in the fetid, smoky parlour. There was no sign of the man he’d been sent to meet, Beolin, a henchman of Anrias, Laird of the MacQuarrie Clan.

Although the MacQuarries and the MacKinnons were now allies, fighting side-by-side for their King Robert the Bruce, theirs was a long, uneasy history. MacKinnon land bordered that of the Macquarries on the Isle of Mull and, for as long as Gilly could remember, there’d been ongoing skirmishes along the border and attempted incursions by the MacQuarries. Cattle had been stolen, crops destroyed, fishermen’s catch taken. Not only that. They were a bloodthirsty, merciless clan with a reputation for engendering fear of their ruthlessness into all those unfortunate enough to encounter them.

Still, if nothing else, meeting on Iona they were in a neutral place, a short distance from either clan’s territory. Despite that, it was a damned nuisance to make the short sea crossing even though, when the tide was out it took a strong oarsman only minutes to cross from one island to the other.

Apart from a few straggling, thatch-roofed cottages, this was the only meeting place on the island and it bedeviled Gillebride’s thoughts that a place harboring so much evil was situated so close to the abbey and the nunnery.

Glancing around, his eye was captured by a parchment tacked up on the wall near the doorway. From where he sat, he could just make out a roughly drawn and painted woman’s face. The features were indeterminate but what stood out was the mane of red hair cascading over the face, visible even at a distance. He squinted in the dim light, but was unable to read the rough script on the bottom of the parchment. Apart from the grim words “Wanted Dead or Living”.

He had more than a little sympathy for the woman, whoever she was and whatever crime she’d committed. If she attracted the attention of the ruffians frequenting this disreputable hideout then pity help her.

A big-breasted woman whose blouse and kirtle were alarmingly low, exposing an expanse of her flesh, sidled up to his table.

“Only a penny fer such a handsome bear of a man as ye, tae take me tae bed,” she said, giving him a lascivious grin, her gaze roaming over his broad shoulders and huge size.

Gilly shook his head. “Nay lass, I’ve nae taste fer what ye’re selling.”

She huffed, shrugged her shoulders, and moved off to another table where one of the men seized her around the waist and pulled her onto his knee. The sound of her false laughter rang in Gilly’s ears as a shadow materialized beside him. He looked up to see Beolin pulling out another stool from under the table and lowering himself into the seat.

He grunted a greeting and Gilly dipped his head. He had no time for Beolin. He’d never trusted the man, despite their frequent meetings to discuss the plans being laid down by the clans in the war against the English. Beolin was a tall, gaunt, grey-bearded man who, to Gilly, always had the hungry look of a half-starved fox about him.

Beolin called the serving-wench over and requested an ale. Gilly shook his head. He’d had enough of the bad brew. Once the woman had placed the tankard on the table the two men bent their heads in conversation, apprising each other of the most recent strategies for the upcoming battles against the English.

Gillebride watched Beolin in disgust as the man licked his lips, his gaze fixed on the young whores shamelessly parading their wares, half-naked before the men. No doubt after his conversation with Gilly was done, he’d take one of the lasses upstairs and have his way with her, offering nothing more than a small coin for her services.

“Have ye nae shame, man?” Gilly said when the man’s obvious lust became too much for him to observe without commenting. “These lassies are young enough tae be yer own daughter.”

Beolin’s only comment was a short sniggering laugh and an uneasy shifting in his seat, his hand on his braes.

Gilly shook his head, looking away in disgust. His gaze came to rest again on the rough painting tacked on the wall. “What’s the story with the lass?”

Beolin swivelled to stare at the poster and turned back to Gilly, a frown on his gaunt face.

“There’s a price on her head. If ye’ve a mind tae search fer her ye could earn yerself some coin.”

“I’m nae looking fer coin, lad.” Gilly offered a sharp laugh. “What’s the lass done tae make her an animal tae be hunted?”

“An animal is too good a name fer her. The whole of Clan Macquarrie is after her fer killing young Alasdair, the favourite son of Anrias MacQuarrie.”

Gilly raised an eyebrow. “The Laird’s son? Murdered by a wee lass?”

“She’s nae a wee lass, Gillebride, but the spawn of the devil and his bride. She’s a witch who killed the lad by smashing his head with a rock. When Anrias catches up with her he’ll most likely have her walled up fer eternity, to die a slow and hungry death. A quick death is too good fer the likes of her.” Beolin hoicked a blob of phlegm onto the scuffed dirt floor and ran his fingers across his belly and shoulders in the sign of the cross.

Gilly had seen and heard enough. It was time to take his leave and turn his back on this man Beolin and the ugly village of Baile Mòr. He placed a coin on the table as payment for the ale and rose to his feet.

“Bide well,” he said to the other man. As he turned to go a sudden commotion broke out.

***

The boatman lifted Arya out of his small boat and slung her over his shoulder as if she was a sack of barley. He waded the few yards to the sandy, rocky beach and lowered her, none too gently.

She handed him a coin for his trouble. “Wait here fer me, I’ll nae be long. I have business with a lass I’m tae meet in the tavern. Ye’ll get the rest when ye return me tae Mull.”

The man grumbled under his breath. “A decent lass would nae be here at all.”

Arya shivered and pulled her cloak tight around her against the wind, lowering the hood with its white fur trim. She was back in the place she’d vowed never to visit again and the cold breeze whipping off the sea and the drizzling rain simply added to her disquiet.

All these months she’d almost begun to put the memory behind her, almost begun to feel safe. Although, she knew in her heart, she would never be able to forget the awful secret of the man she’d killed.

“Dinnae fash,” she told the boatman, “I’ll be back in minutes.”

As she trudged up the hill toward the tavern her heart was pounding. A pall of wickedness fell over this place. It was clearly no place for a lass on her own. She’d learned it was a stronghold for the feared MacQuarries, even though their territory was on Mull. Despite telling herself she was be safe enough to be here, unrecognized, her feelings of unease grew stronger with every step.

Why on earth has Eleonor sent me a message? It can only mean she is in trouble. And why of all places, has she asked me tae meet her at the most dangerous place of all, the tavern in Baile Mòr?

Following Eleonor’s instructions, she’d told no one of her destination. But now, as she approached the dimly lit tavern, hearing the raucous, raised men’s voices coming from inside, she questioned the wisdom of her decision. If anything happened to her here, her brothers and her friends would have no idea where to find her.

Outside the tavern, she hesitated. Of course, she wished to aid Eleonor if she needed help, but coming here meant she was risking discovery by members of the MacQuarrie clan.

But, save fer Eleonor, nae-one kens me part in the death of that man. Surely, I’ll be safe.

Taking a deep breath to settle her nerves, she tightened her cloak and, head well-covered by her hood, she pushed open the door and stepped into the noisy, fetid interior of the tavern.

The instant she was through the door she knew she’d made a horrible mistake in coming here.

All conversation ceased as she stepped into the tavern and every eye turned in her direction. Her eyes searched for Eleonor, but wherever she looked there were men accosting women, some of whom had their breasts bare, being fondled by rough-looking characters. Many of the men seemed drunk and staggering. One man was lying on the floor looking up the skirt of a woman who was bare to the waist and giggling as if she was tipsy.

Arya groaned audibly. There was no sign of Eleonor, even though the message she’d received was clear. They were to meet in the Baile Mòr tavern, shortly after sundown.

She waited, unsure of her next move and, after moments, the rough laughter and talk resumed. All the same, she was uncomfortably aware she was being closely scrutinized by several men at a nearby table. Two of them laughed and nodded to each other as if in agreement with something. She shuddered as they gazed intently at her, their lustful intentions all too obvious

Stomach lurching, she looked away. It was then her eyes were drawn to the roughly-painted poster just inside the door. Her heart, which was already beating much too fast, suddenly felt as if it would jump right out of her chest.

The painting was childish, roughly drawn and colored, but the tilt of her head, the straight nose, the big blue eyes and, most of all, the cascade of red hair were sufficient for her to realize this was someone’s attempt at creating a portrait of her – Arya Macdonell.

The words, Wanted Dead or Living, underscoring the likeness, sent a stab of ice straight to her heart.

I must get out of here. I cannae wait any longer fer Eleonor.

On the spur of the moment she pivoted, determined to flee from this horrid place as swiftly as her shaky legs could carry her. But her hopes of beating a hasty retreat without drawing any further attention were dashed. Her cloak flying out behind her as she turned brought glasses and tankards from a table beside the door clattering and smashing to the floor.

Once again, all eyes were upon her.

Ignoring the commotion she reached a hand to the door, determined to be gone before there was time for anyone to take another breath. But the men who’d been watching her were already on their feet and in an instant two of them had seized her. One had her around the waist and the other pinioned her arms behind her back in an iron grip.

She screamed, struggling vainly against their tight hold on her.

“We’ll have some sport with ye tonight lass. Ye’ll nae be disappointed I guarantee ye.” one of the men said. “Mayhap we should take ye upstairs with us fer our fun.”

A bawdy laugh went up from the assembled throng. One man waving a tankard in encouragement.

“Let me go,” she shrieked. “Please,” she begged, attempting to kick out at the man behind her.

Her desperation only seemed to encourage them.

“Ah. I like a feisty one,” the man behind her said, leaning down to plant a wet kiss on her cheek. “Ye’ll keep us busy tonight, lass.”

She screamed again, bucking wildly as they hauled her toward the stairs at the side of the parlour.

Looking around beseechingly she implored someone – anyone – to please come to her aid and rescue her from this nightmare.

But the other denizens of the tavern were far too interested in their own debauchery to pay any further attention to her plight.

Except for one man.

 

Prologue

Richmond, England, 1650
Seton House, winter

Lady Cecily Ridley had never been renowned for her rebellious nature. That distinction belonged to her dear sister, Helen, especially within the more refined circles of England. However, in that particular moment, as Cecily stealthily navigated the corridors of Seton House under the cloak of night, her heart pulsed with a newfound sense of rebellion. An exhilarating sensation coursed through her, infusing her with vibrant, tingling energy, though it was not without its dangers—evident in the rapid rhythm of her heartbeat as she approached the door nestled within the stone passage, where her brother’s study was settled.

The candle she carried was dwindling, its flickering light casting wavering shadows as a droplet of wax seared her hand, sending a swift pang of pain through her. Suppressing the urge to curse, she bit her lip, resolved not to reveal her whereabouts or her purpose. This constant need for concealment within her own home had become a prolonged ordeal. As the pain subsided, she reached into the pocket of her robe to retrieve her half-brother Anthony’s key. Casting furtive glances in both directions along the dim corridor, she slipped the key into the lock, turning it with a delicate touch. She entered the room beyond in silence, gently closing the door behind her. She felt like a criminal lurking around the house in the middle of the night and going through Anthony’s things without his knowledge.

I’ve done it.

Releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, she advanced into the room and placed her dwindling candle upon her brother’s imposing wooden desk. The same desk that had once belonged to her father, a poignant reminder of his warmth and affection, now served as a stark emblem of her brother’s severity. Anthony lacked any hint of kindness or affection. Though he treated her better than he did Helen, their relationship was far from the camaraderie of true siblings.

“I must find something,” she whispered to herself, furrowing her brow as she embarked on her quest amidst the scattered documents strewn across the desk’s surface.

At that moment, nothing revealed itself to her eager eyes. Frustration began to chip away at her determination as she rifled through drawers, extracting assorted documents.

Cecily’s desperation to aid her sister, Helen, was profound. A few months earlier, fueled by animosity toward Helen’s audacity and her resemblance to their Scottish mother, Anthony had dispatched her on a treacherous mission: to spy in Scotland and gather intelligence regarding the Scottish movement during the Anglo-Scottish War. Helen’s reluctant compliance had hinged upon Anthony’s menacing threat—to force Cecily into an unwanted marriage.

Helen’s departure had occurred without resistance, despite Cecily’s impassioned pleas. The burden of guilt gnawed at her ceaselessly. Not a moment passed without Helen occupying her thoughts—her worries unending. While Helen possessed adept skills in gathering information and defending herself, the inherent danger of her undertaking was undeniable. Cecily’s uncertainty lingered; she questioned whether Anthony would honor his promise and spare her from an undesirable marriage even if Helen’s mission succeeded. Thus, she undertook her late-night journey to his study while he caroused elsewhere, presumably drowning himself in drink. Her goal was clear: to unearth any leverage she could use against him, compelling him to bring Helen back to England.

Each successive letter from Helen had carried escalating tension. Her perilous and exhausting work ignited Cecily’s fear for her sister’s safety, especially when Helen recounted her exploits of extracting information from inebriated men at taverns. While Cecily sorted through a stack of letters, the sound of footsteps resonated in the corridor. She froze, her heart pounding, waiting for confirmation if it was merely a maid concluding her nightly duties. The hushed tones that followed shattered her hopes, filling her heart with trepidation.

Cursing under her breath, she swiftly returned the letters to their drawer, tightly clutching her candle. Her only option was to conceal herself behind a long tapestry adorning the wall. Extinguishing the flame, she positioned herself, her heart pounding audibly in the silence. The tapestry cascaded to the floor, veiling her in obscurity. Though she believed herself inconspicuous, her heartbeat felt deafening in her ears.

No, this wouldn’t do. She retreated from that position, choosing instead a tall cabinet adjacent to the tapestry. She squeezed inside, grateful for the superior cover it provided. Her hope was that the tapestry would cease its swaying before her brother entered. Her heart raced as she braced herself for the impending seconds.

Since her father’s passing, fear had been her constant companion—a dread of others’ perceptions and actions. Now, at last, it seemed to have reached its zenith. Why had she embraced this rebellious course? If she were discovered, the retaliation Anthony might exact was something she deeply dreaded.

Her choice of the cabinet now appeared ill-advised, despite its practicality. It struck her that this must have been Anthony’s hunting repository, holding garments splattered with hunting blood and an assortment of weaponry. Gripped by dread, she dared not make a move, anxious about unintentionally dislodging an object or inadvertently revealing her hiding place. Yet, amid her fear, an unsettling note intruded—the distinct scent of blood permeated the cabinet’s air. The odor was potent, as though the blood was fresh. However, she was unaware of Anthony having hunted recently.

“Why the concern for those documents? They’re not your concern, but mine. I am the Earl of Seton, cousin, not you,” Anthony’s voice asserted, carrying an undercurrent of tension.

Cecily remained motionless, her heart racing, as she strained to identify the person arguing with her brother. She leaned slightly forward, peering through the door’s gap. It was their cousin, William Cavendish—or rather, her father’s distant cousin. His typically cold demeanor appeared inflamed by anger, a sight she’d seldom witnessed. He was typically passive, but now his visage was flushed with rage.

“It’s prudent for someone else to be privy to such matters, cousin, to know their whereabouts,” William retorted, his hands resting on his hips. “You can’t safeguard such secrets, or the title will falter. Surely, that isn’t what you desire.”

Cecily observed that the man wore a peculiar yellow ensemble—an odd choice of clothing, comprising a yellow jacket, a shirt and cravat of faded yellow, and yellowish breeches. This incongruity momentarily diverted her attention from the intensity of the exchange. She questioned why Anthony wasn’t mocking the man’s attire instead of arguing with him. Moreover, she pondered the purpose of William’s presence; to her knowledge, he and Anthony were not on friendly terms. Deeper into the cabinet she withdrew, her fear intensifying.

They’ll leave soon. They’ll inspect the documents and then depart.

She tried to steady her breathing, but a shift in her position revealed dampness. One of the coats hanging within the cabinet bore fresh bloodstains. A wave of revulsion surged through her as she confronted the sight and scent of it, so close. The familiarity of the scent shocked her—how had she become acquainted with the odor of blood? Her spine tingled with a fresh wave of anxiety, and she tightly closed her eyes, attempting to suppress the urge to retch. Despite her efforts, a sneeze escaped her, and she clenched her hand over her mouth. Fortunately, her brother’s sudden hand slam onto the desk coincided, muffling the sound—she hoped.

“I’ve no inkling as to why you’re even here, cousin!” her brother’s voice rang out, revealing his inebriation.

She kept her hand over her mouth to stifle her breathing, hoping the cabinet’s confined space would mask the unintended noise. For a time, silence descended, only to be broken by William’s inquiry. Anthony’s gaze flickered momentarily toward the cabinet, then returned to fixate on William. The exchange provided her a momentary reprieve from her precarious concealment.

“No, I heard nothing,” Anthony replied with a hint of irritation. “Now, cease avoiding my question.” His finger jabbed at William’s chest.

“I’m here to ensure you haven’t misplaced that wretched document, Anthony,” William retorted, his tone tinged with a snarl.

Cecily frowned, her father’s cousin had never spoken to her for this long or engaged in a dispute. What document could be of such consequence? Observing her brother’s stance stiffen, she sensed he was summoning his most authoritative tone. However, his response surprised her.

“I’ll show you, and then you can leave me be!” Anthony declared, his words slightly slurred.
She watched as he scanned the papers on his desk, mirroring her earlier search. She was profoundly relieved that he failed to notice any evidence of prior exploration in his documents and correspondence. William leaned over him, scrutinizing his actions. When Anthony’s initial search yielded nothing, he impatiently pulled out a drawer.

As she observed him hunched over the desk drawer, Cecily’s gaze remained fixed on William, noting his subtle shift. He tracked his cousin’s movements in their search, but her curiosity piqued as she watched him reach into his pocket, extracting a slim blade. Her mouth fell open, a gasp teetering on her lips, a desperate attempt to intervene rising within her. Swiftly and with astonishing dexterity, William thrust the blade into Anthony’s neck.

Her hand flew to her mouth once more to suppress the scream that threatened to escape. Blinking in shock, she bore witness to the horrifying sound of flesh being rent and the subsequent groan of agony as Anthony crumpled from the drawer to the floor. Just as adeptly as he had executed the act, William withdrew the knife and concealed it within his pocket.

For a few suspended moments, he surveyed the prone figure, the fury that had possessed his visage now supplanted by his customary frigid facade. Retrieving a handkerchief, he cleansed his hands of the bloodstains before departing the room.

When the sound of the door closing echoed in her ears, Cecily hastened to emerge from the confines of the cabinet, her steps directed towards her fallen brother. Lingering hope had whispered of a chance to rescue him, but his lifeless form extinguished that glimmer. The vitality in his eyes had dimmed, and Cecily sank to her knees, a hand muffling the sound of her sob.

Grief for him mingled with the dread of what his demise might signify for the title, yet not enough to elicit tears. Anthony’s cruelty had spanned her memory, a ceaseless torment. Gradually, she rose to her feet. The household needed to be informed of Anthony’s death, but they mustn’t learn of her presence in the room, so she was left with no choice.

Quietly, she left, softly closing the door behind her.

***

A week later

Sleep had evaded Cecily in the tumultuous week following her half-brother’s passing. A whirlwind of confusion and sorrow had swept over her as his body was prepared for burial and the somber funeral unfolded. Yet, the prevailing question in everyone’s thoughts pertained to the heir of the earldom. With no apparent successors, uncertainty gnawed at Cecily. Neither she nor Helen could inherit, leaving the identity of the next earl a source of unease. The family attorney had been summoned, but his arrival was delayed due to business in London, and he could not arrive until that very day.

Tea sat untouched upon a tray by the hearth, but Cecily couldn’t bring herself to sit down and partake. Who would be the new earl? And where had William gone after committing the unthinkable act? The secret of her presence as a witness burdened her; she dreaded the possibility that William might turn his malevolent intentions toward her if he discovered her vantage point in the closet. As she paced, the anticipation of Helen’s company tugged at her, even as her sister’s letters from the past week had taken a swift turn and now celebrated her newfound love and commitment to remain in Scotland as a clan’s lady. Cecily shared in her joy, yet that meant Helen’s return was postponed.

Once the new earl takes on his responsibilities, I’ll journey to see Helen. Staying here, among those who aren’t my close kin, serves no purpose. The notion provided solace—a promise of an impending departure as soon as the new earl assumed his role. However, Cecily wondered why the attorney hadn’t sent a message to inform her of the successor’s identity.

At that very moment, the door swung open, and Cecily let out a soft gasp at the sight of William’s approach. He wore a deep crimson suit this time, from coat to waistcoat to cravat.

“William,” she greeted, her posture stiffening as she clasped her hands together. “What brings you here?”

She had to maintain the pretense of encountering him for the first time in a while. He offered a smile and a slight bow, his demeanor as malicious as ever. She’d never quite understood why she’d felt an aversion to him all these years. However, now, having witnessed him extinguish another’s life, the same malevolence seemed to emanate from his features. Not unattractive, his green eyes gleamed with suspicion and malice. Tall and slender, he had slicked-back white-blond hair.

“Is this how one greets a cousin, Cecily?” he asked, his smile widening—a sight that heightened her unease. “I am here to offer comfort during your time of need. With your guardian gone and your sister absent, you stand alone. I thought you might appreciate companionship.”

“Why arrive only now? It’s been a week since Anthony’s passing.” She swallowed, trying to maintain her composure as William approached, his hands concealing their sinister intent.

“I was visiting a friend in Scotland; it took a while for me to return. The attorney needed time to locate me.”

She recognized his lie, suspecting that he’d been lurking somewhere nearby. Fury surged within her; her life had long been controlled by ruthless men, and she’d grown weary of it. She wished he would leave, for she was well aware of her own strength. Cecily couldn’t hold back, allowing the one thing she shouldn’t say to slip from her lips.

“Well, cousin, I must admit, the color yellow suits you far better.” Her teeth clenched as she exhaled, instant regret washing over her.

Comprehension dawned in William’s eyes, her heart skipping a beat as the door opened. An older man with spectacles stood behind the housekeeper.

“Mr. Wallen, Lady Cecily. Your father’s attorney,” the housekeeper introduced.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fields,” Cecily replied, fighting to steady herself as the old man entered the room with a bow.

“Lady Ridley, I am Mr. Wallen, and I have come to convey your father’s will and announce the next heir,” he said, turning to William. Cecily introduced them.

“Ah, splendid timing, Mr. Cavendish. It’s fortunate you’re already here.” He extended his hand to shake William’s.

“What do you mean?” Cecily inquired, the dreadful truth slowly dawning.

“This gentleman, your father’s cousin, shall assume the title of Earl of Seton.”

A chill raced through Cecily as her face drpaled; her grip on the back of a chair was her only anchor against fainting. Meanwhile, William smiled at her.

“I trust you don’t mind, Cecily. It will be wonderful to reconnect as family. There’s much to discuss. Mr. Wallen, please, have a seat. I’ll call for refreshments, and we can delve into the details.”

He led the attorney toward a table, but Cecily was paralyzed. As William neared the door, he paused beside her, gripping her arm.

“Join us, cousin,” he suggested, and as they moved toward the table, he leaned in and whispered, “Stay with me Cecily. I know you want to be with your sister. But if you do, you’ll lose the only family you have left. Because I will find her and repeat my actions.”

Cecily straightened, allowing William to guide her to the table alongside Mr. Wallen.

Chapter One

One year later

Cecily gazed down at the sparse words she’d managed to write for her sister.

Dear sister,

I know that I have still not come to see you in some time, but I am doing well here at Seton House.

She let out a sigh, hovering the quill above the paper as she pondered her next words. The transformation of her life since William took over as the new earl had upended everything she once knew. With his daughter Adelaide now part of their household, Cecily had forged a genuine friendship, a solace amidst the changes. But the absence of her sister lingered, a constant ache in her heart.

Cecily had discovered William’s habit of reading her letters not long after his arrival. From then on, her words had been constrained, veiled in a facade she knew he expected. The thought of escaping had crossed her mind, but the fear of William’s wrath, whether directed at her or Helen, had rooted her in place. With a heavy sigh, Cecily continued to pen the version of reality that William dictated.

It has been such a pleasure in the past year to help William and Adelaide set up the house. He has done well as the new earl, and he has made quite an impression in the society. Adelaide and I are like sisters, and I feel like father’s cousin is the father I have been missing for years. Anthony was no good at it; you know this, and now I feel safe under his guardianship. We are happy here all together, as if we are a new family. I am sorry that you have not yet had a chance to see them and meet Adelaide.

But how is Cory? I know you were eager for me to come and visit you, as I was, but there is so much to be done here, and William needs me. I cannot abandon them. Once they are more settled in, I might perhaps be able to come and visit you both at long last. Tell me all about your home and the clan. How has it been to be a Scottish lady? Mother would have been so proud of you.

Cecily quickly brushed away a tear that had trickled down her cheek. She couldn’t risk smudging the ink with her tears. If William didn’t notice the tear, Helen surely would, and her perceptive sister would demand answers. Cecily felt trapped, more so than ever. Since the day she had hidden in the closet in her brother’s study, she had felt like a ghost haunting her own life. Even when Anthony was alive, despite his flaws, he hadn’t made her feel so utterly powerless. Most of the staff who were present during Anthony’s time had been replaced by William’s own people. Their polite demeanor concealed their watchful eyes, reporting her every move to William. If only she could find a way to communicate with Helen without alerting William. Suppressing her fleeting hope, she dipped her quill into the inkwell and continued to write.

My living situation has improved; I’ve been moved to a new room that offers a breathtaking view of the sunset. It’s a small comfort to watch the sun dip below the horizon, knowing you might be doing the same. William has allowed me to personalize it to my liking, and I’ve taken full advantage by selecting the most exquisite curtains.

Your tapestries have found their place here, adding a touch of home to my surroundings. And that dress you gifted me for my birthday fits me like a glove; I’m wearing it as I write this letter. It’s as though I’ve found a way to bridge the distance between us through these simple things. Know that I hold you dear in my heart, Helen.

I miss you terribly and eagerly anticipate the day we can reunite.

Until then, remember me and think of our moments together.

With love, Cecily.

She signed her name with a flourish, stifling the tears that threatened to overwhelm her. As she blew on the ink and folded the letter, Cecily knew that Helen would read her words and believe the facade she had crafted. Her sister would remain blissfully unaware of the truth that lay beneath the carefully constructed sentences. Cecily’s gaze wandered around the cramped room she was confined to—a stark contrast to the luxurious life she had once known. The windows were bare, devoid of curtains or tapestries. Any that she had received had been swiftly claimed by William and offered to Adelaide instead.

The gown gifted by Helen was the sole remnant of her sister’s affection, yet even that now hung loose on her diminished frame. Over the past year, Cecily had been treated more like a servant than a family member, and the once plentiful meals had become scarce. She caught her reflection in a dusty mirror, her appearance now a far cry from the vibrant young woman she used to be. Her radiant cheer had faded, replaced by weariness and neglect. Dark circles clung beneath her eyes, constant reminders of the sleepless nights that had plagued her since the traumatic events in her brother’s study. The sound of footsteps echoed from above, causing dust to rain down from the ceiling. This cramped space beneath the stairs, her new abode, was a cruel reminder of her fall from grace.

She had been forcibly relocated from her spacious bedroom on the hillside to this desolate corner. She couldn’t help but wonder if William had orchestrated this confinement deliberately, imprisoning her not only physically but also emotionally. The mere mention of his yellow suit still tormented her thoughts, the weight of her mistake haunting her daily. If only she could erase those fateful words and find sanctuary within the walls of Helen’s castle, free from William’s grasp.

At least Adelaide remained a source of solace; that was the only truth in the letter. A gentle knock at her chamber door pulled her from her thoughts, and she rose with a yearning for a reprieve from the mundane tasks that dominated her existence. As she opened the door, a surge of hope coursed through her—it wasn’t another servant bearing instructions. Instead, Adelaide stood there, a welcoming smile lighting up her features.

“There you are,” Adelaide chimed, stepping into the room and casting a curious gaze around. Despite their strained situation, the family resemblance between them was striking. Both had cascading blonde hair, fair complexions, and vivid green eyes. The topic of their likeness had faded with time, yet their shared features still drew attention.

“Cecily, I wish you’d allow me to speak with Father. This situation is preposterous. You’re family, yet he’s assigned you to these quarters. The room he had refurbished for you has been ready for weeks now. There’s no excuse for this any longer.”

Cecily hesitated, her own predicament tightly bound by her knowledge of William’s watchful eye.

“No, please, Adelaide, I beg you not to intervene,” Cecily implored.

She feared that if Adelaide intervened, it might worsen their situation. William might even take measures to keep them apart, and Adelaide was the one bright spot in Cecily’s life.

I couldn’t bear that.

Adelaide put her hands on her hips. “Very well, but don’t think I’ll let this go. Anyway, I came to tell you that Father has suggested you go with us on a trip to McLaren’s land in Scotland.”

“Scotland?” Cecily asked, her mouth going dry. “I did not know that he was seeking a husband for you outside of England.”

Adelaide grimaced, and she picked up a book idly and flipped through it. “Nor I, but apparently, he wants the strength of a Scottish clan behind him. I had hoped that after his own disastrous marriage, he would allow me to choose, but he will not. So, will you come with us? We travel soon.”

“Yes! I will get ready as soon as possible!” she hurried to gather her things, and Adelaide laughed.

“Tomorrow we leave, Cecily, you do not have to prepare now.”

“Oh.” She stopped and smiled, trying not to give away the plan that was now forming her mind. “Very well. Thank you for including me.”

“Of course. You are family, and we are friends.” Adelaide squeezed her hands with affection.

Yet all Cecily could focus on in that moment was the hope that this trip to Scotland might provide her with the opportunity she needed—to slip away to Helen’s castle and find the freedom she so desperately craved.

***

Kai McLaren’s ears reverberated with the rhythmic pounding of his own heart. Amidst the chaos of the battlefield, the cacophony of agonizing screams and the clamor of clashing swords melded into an otherworldly din. Every sound seemed to drift to him as though he were submerged beneath the depths of a loch, far removed from reality. Time itself had slowed, and his own movements followed suit. Blood-stained the earth, transforming the grass into a morbid tapestry of crimson.

His gaze fell upon the figure of his brother, Torion, and a shout tore from his throat. Torion pivoted, a momentary smile illuminating his face at the sight of Kai still alive amidst the ferocious skirmish. Yet, a lurking shadow emerged, an enemy soldier stealthily advancing upon Torion. Before Kai could muster a cry of warning, the soldier’s blade descended, striking Torion down to his knees. A scream tore from Kai’s chest, an agonizing heartache that reverberated through his entire being. But his own fate soon caught up with him—a searing white pain engulfed him as his vision blurred.

Glancing downward, he found a blade buried between his ribs, agony radiating through every nerve. A panoramic scan revealed neither Torion nor his other brother, Rae, among the chaos. Collapsing to his knees, sweat drenched his body. The fight was over for him, and hands promptly seized him, hauling him toward a waiting cart. Bound and weakened, he was unceremoniously thrown inside. His screams blended with the anguished cries of others, fading as the distance grew. Darkness claimed him.

The piercing ordeal subsided as his eyes snapped open, and Kai lay there, grappling for breath. The bed was drenched with sweat, a cruel testament to the relentless grip of his recurring nightmare. Reality flooded back; he was ensconced within his bedroom, miles away from the battlefield’s horror. He touched the area on his side, once occupied by a blade, only to find the pain absent, replaced by healed flesh. Wearily, he pushed himself up, propped on his elbows, and covered his eyes.

The relentless intrusion of these dreams gnawed at him, leaving him feeling powerless and vulnerable. Each time he awoke, bathed in perspiration, he struggled to remember the true extent of his safety, untethered from the shackles of captivity. Freedom was his now, unburdened by the chains that had bound him. If only his mind could be convinced of this truth during the torment of sleep.

The recurring weakness of these nightmares left him feeling as though he was still shackled to the past, captive in ways beyond the physical. Even now, with his enemy defeated and his role as laird solidified, his psyche remained ensnared. Yet, he was free, and his younger brothers, Rae and Torion, were secure.

With a groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose, his feet making contact with the icy stone floor. Progressing to the tall mirror in his room, he cast a scrutinizing gaze upon himself. Sleep had been undertaken in the nude, and despite his formidable build, the scars that adorned him revealed a narrative of past suffering. His shoulders and ribs were etched with these markers of his history. Fingers traced their path, an act of commitment, a means to acknowledge and assimilate the unchangeable past.

He had attempted to conceal these scars beneath an array of tattoos, yet he knew their location intimately, a map of his torment. His hands brushed the one his dream had centered on—the one he had cloaked with a hawk tattoo, a futile attempt to quell the nightmares. Yet, the phantom pain of the blade’s intrusion remained as tangible as ever, the dream’s vividness akin to the torment of reality. Kai’s fist clenched, despair creeping into his resolve. The nightmares were a relentless reminder, striking terror into his core, yet he could not fathom sharing his vulnerability with another soul. The deep-rooted fear of his past still clung, refusing to release its grip.

A knock echoed at his door, rousing Kai from his introspection. He responded, swiftly dressing in a kilt and shirt, before opening the door.

“My Laird, I wished to inquire about your well-being this morn. The meeting room holds much to discuss,” the voice of his father’s old advisor greeted.

Kai’s gaze bore into the man, irritation simmering beneath the surface. His father’s recent passing had thrust him into the role of laird—a title he felt ill-prepared to carry. His advisor, despite his incessant queries and demands, had offered solace during the turbulent period following his father’s death. Yet, the constant demands, the relentless pace, irked him, preventing even the opportunity to mourn his father’s loss.

“Mr. Murray, I thought that we’ve already mulled over enough for a lifetime?” Kai’s hand raked through his unruly brown hair, his piercing green eyes reflecting his frustration.

“I am afraid nae, my Laird. There is news. Ye should come tae the council room.”

“Very well.” He shut the door and grumbled as he made himself presentable.

Kai McLaren cursed under his breath as his hands plunged into the frigid water at his table. Another inward curse followed as he washed his face and neck, the cloth tracing trails that sent icy droplets trickling through the scruff of his beard. Winter’s sting was ever a surprise, a biting cold that could infiltrate skin and bone if one wasn’t vigilant.

Having grown up amidst the harsh Highland environment, he should have been accustomed to it, yet each year it managed to pierce him anew. It was the sort of cold that, left unchecked, could creep into one’s very veins, turning the body into a vessel of ice. He’d learned to anticipate the biting winds, the frost, and the relentless snow, ready to face the challenges of the season. Awakening before the fires were rekindled was an exercise in enduring the freezing embrace of the morning.

As he tied back his unruly hair and donned his boots, Kai’s coat followed, and he bundled his white shirt into his kilt. His broadsword hung by his side, a steadfast companion, and a hidden dagger resided within his boot. The battlefield that had nearly claimed his life, along with those of his brothers, had left an indelible mark. His weapons were no longer ornamental—they were a lifeline, a constant reminder of his vulnerability, and a lesson he’d been taught by his father. War’s harsh education had shown him the necessity of being ever vigilant, ready to safeguard his loved ones at a moment’s notice.

But the guilt of his father’s passing was an insidious weight that hung heavily upon him. Despite the attempts of his brothers to console him, the truth lingered: he couldn’t protect his father. The pain of that failure would remain with him indefinitely.

Now, the council’s audacity had reached a new height. Mere months since his father’s death, their eyes were already fixed upon the issue of succession. Pressuring him for a wife while he still wrestled with grief and a newfound responsibility was an affront. A growl of outrage had erupted from him upon learning of their intentions. The mantle of a lairdship may have demanded it, but Kai was far from prepared to be a husband or entertain the notion of a wedding.

When he approached the council room, its door stood closed. However, the low hum of discussion within reached his ears. He pressed a hand against it, taking a moment to summon the memory of his father’s wisdom and strength. His father had been a paragon of patience and tact—a stark contrast to Kai’s own bristling demeanor. Clinging to his father’s legacy, he gathered strength before pushing open the door.

Mr. Murray stood, while the other council members held their positions. Every gaze fixed upon him, Kai could sense the weight of their expectations. It was Mr. Murray who broke the silence.

“It is better ye know now than when yer bride arrives,” the advisor began, his tone brimming with an odd mix of formality and sympathy. “The council has made a selection for ye.”

“What?” The word erupted from him, carrying the full force of his disbelief and frustration. This time, he allowed his anger to surface without restraint. Whatever patience he’d invoked just moments earlier had vanished like a wisp of smoke. “Aye, and the lady in question shall arrive today.”

 

Prologue

Edinburgh, Scotland
May 1304

Shivering slightly, Taveon Macdonell wrapped his heavy woolen cloak tighter across his shoulders as he entered the tavern. The oak door slammed shut behind him and he looked around. He blinked, half-blinded by the sudden near blackness. He could scarcely make out more than dull shapes in the smoky, noise-filled interior.

He cursed inwardly as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He was bone-weary, fatigued by his life as a hunted man, sick and tired of the distance he’d been forced to keep from his home in the Highlands. And oh-so-fed-up with seeing a stranger reflected back at him whenever he glanced in a looking-glass. He scarcely recognized himself – his hair darkened, his jaw shaved, his clothes shabby and nondescript. All he wanted was to cast aside this damned disguise and get his life back.

His heart cried out to be able to return to Macdonell Castle, to his brother Payton and his precious little sister Arya.

His gaze fell upon the two men who awaited him, seated at the rear of the room. On heavy, aching limbs he slowly made his way to their corner table. As he approached, one of the men rose menacingly, a dirk grasped in his hand.

The man, grey-haired and grey-bearded and burly, snarled. “Who the devil are ye? Ye’re nae Taveon Macdonell.”

Taveon scowled for he knew this man. His name was Tal Macintyre and if Tal didn’t know him, at least he could be assured his disguise was doing its job.

“Ye stupid arse, Macintyre,” Taveon countered. “Of course I’m Taveon Macdonell. Have ye nae eyes tae see?”

The man grunted. He was half a head taller, looming over Taveon. “I remember ye as fair-haired and bearded.”

“I once was. But blessed be walnut juice for dyeing my hair and this sharp knife for keeping my beard trimmed.” He placed his hand on the hilt of the sharp dagger sheathed at his waist, making no bones about his own ability to fight, if this meeting turned out badly.

“The password.” The seated man spoke abruptly. He was the younger of the two, his light-brown, greasy hair, tied at his nape, his shirt and britches of fine cloth.

Taveon spat the word. “Gaisgeach.”

The man laughed. “Ah yes, the Scot’s word for warrior.” He spoke with an English accent. “Name’s John Sykes, at your service.” He indicated a space at the table. “Join us Taveon Macdonell.”

As Taveon pulled up a chair, Sykes signaled to the tavern keeper, who hurried over at once.

“Three tankards of yer best ale,” Sykes said smiling affably. Once the man had departed, he turned his attention back to Taveon, his smile fading. “Are ye ready and willing to do our bidding Macdonell?”

Taveon leaned back in his chair folding his arms across his chest, biting his tongue on an angry retort. He spoke his answer in measured tones. “I’ve done all that was asked of me. Made meself a traitor tae Scotland tae suit William de Coughran’s blasted cause. And all tae keep me wee sister safe. I’ve nothing more tae give of meself.” He shook his head, a determined glint in his green eyes.

“There’s yet a month before I’m due in Carlisle tae deliver the details of the Scots’ battle plans tae yer English masters and I’ve sworn tae complete me mission. Ye cannae command more from me.”

The man gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll do as you’re told Macdonell. That is, if you wish to see your family again.”

Shaking his head, Taveon went to rise, but Macintyre’s hand shot out, grabbing his arm in an iron grip, forcing him to stay in his seat. Gone was any pretense at civility.

“Ye’ll sit and listen tae what we have tae say, Macdonell, and ye’ll keep yer blasted mouth shut.”

Taveon drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smoky air, steadying himself, holding back the torrent of rage building inside him.

So, this is what it has come tae.

He was nothing more than a pawn in the traitors’ games, helping the English against his own countrymen.

But he reminded himself that, after his mother’s death giving birth to his baby sister Arya and his father’s decline into drink and gambling ending in his murder by the hand of William de Coughran’s men, he and his brother had made a sacred pact, one they had kept without faltering. The older brother, Payton, would fulfill his duties to the clan, while Taveon would be responsible for his family. It was Taveon’s sworn duty to keep his sister and brother safe from De Coughran, who was his father’s creditor and had vowed to make them pay for their father’s sins. If his actions were to save his kin from harm, he had no choice but to abide by whatever was asked of him now by his enemies.

“Go on, then,” he said, gritting his teeth as Macintyre twisted his wrist and pressed his hand to the table. Before Taveon had a chance to pull free, the man brought down the sharp point of his dirk, piercing the flesh between Taveon’s first and middle fingers, pinning him to the table, trapping him.

He watched, stunned, as a bubble of blood welled and trickled onto the worn oak table-top.

Sucking in a breath, ignoring the pain in his hand, he met John Sykes’s gaze front on. The man’s gray eyes flicked over him, lingering on Taveon’s bleeding hand for a moment, his lips spreading into an ugly grin.

“You may recall Castle Ardtun,” he said, clearly amused at Taveon’s plight. When he received no response other than a thunderous scowl, he continued.

“The MacKinnon Clan’s seat, the home of Laird Blaine MacKinnon? Surely, you recall the family.” Sykes gave a sharp laugh. “I am sure you have not forgotten your long months of incarceration there, waiting for the hangman to put a noose around your neck.”

Taveon’s mind shot back to the time he’d spent imprisoned on the Isle of Mull after he’d been captured on his way to the English. He’d been treated well, better than he had deserved, eventually making his escape with the assistance of a sweet young woman. He’d heard, later, that she’d wed the laird’s younger brother. He had forgotten her name, but he recalled her gentle, anguished words before she’d freed him from the dungeon. Her quest to free him resembled his own, a vow to protect her siblings. He wondered if she hated herself as much as he loathed himself while doing so.

“I remember it very well, Sykes. Although I cannae see it’s any of yer treacherous business whether my memory serves me well or nae.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong.” Sykes swilled another mouthful of ale. “Your memory of the MacKinnons is exactly what my business is with you today. We have in mind a fitting punishment to be dealt to the MacKinnons. They must be taught a lesson and made to understand we will not be interfered with. We need reprisal for your imprisonment, something that will cut deep, cause pain. Something that will bring down a hail of nightmares, prevent them from sleeping.”

“I dinna follow yer train of thought, Sykes. Castle Ardtun is well guarded. Sir Michael Wemyss attacked and tried tae take the castle, but his men were nae match for the MacKinnons and their clansmen. Ye’ll find great resistance if ye attempt another raid.”

Sykes pshawed loudly. “No, Macdonell, we’ve nothing so clumsy in mind. We’re counting on your knowledge of the
castle and the country surrounding it. We’ve an altogether different and far more painful retribution in mind.”

He leaned forward, a sneer on his bloated features, his beery, rancid breath assailing Taveon’s nostrils. “You are to return to Ardtun and there you will whisk the laird’s younger sister out from under his nose. Once you’ve captured her, you’re to take her to Sir William at Castle Lochnell. If MacKinnon wants his sister safe back home with him in Castle Ardtun, he’ll have to pay a bounty to the English, in exchange.”

“Ye can count me out, ye lying bunch of bastards.” Taveon’s voice rose. “I’ve done what I was asked and that’s it. Nae more. I was told that once I’d delivered the Scots’ plans tae the English ye would leave me family alone. Me father’s debts would be overlooked and we could live our lives in peace.”

“You forget yourself, boy. You’re impertinent. Let me remind you that you’ve still to fulfill your side of our bargain. The plans have not yet reached the English commanders.”

Taveon slumped in his seat. His hand was throbbing steadily now, and a pulse beat in his forehead ached like the devil. Would he never be free?

“Ye ask too much of me. I was promised my actions would nae bring harm to any soul directly. My task was tae steal the plans and take them tae the English side. Nae more than that.”

Sykes cackled gleefully. “And were you such a prize fool Macdonell, that ye believed you’d be harming no one by giving the plans to the Scots’ enemies? The Scots will be slaughtered once the plans reach the army. And that will be on your head.”

Taveon shuddered. Of course, the man spoke the truth.

“So, if you want to keep your family safe, you know what is required of you.”

Taveon gave a weary nod. He could see no way out for himself but to accept this cursed new mission.

“I’ll do what ye want,” he said, his green eyes fixed on Sykes. “But I want your sworn word on one thing. Nay harm will come to Hannah MacKinnon while she’s held captive. She’ll be returned to her brother as soon as he pays the ransom.”

Sykes flicked his forefinger finger at Macintyre who ripped away his dirk, freeing Taveon.

“Of course,” Sykes said smoothly, as Taveon rose to his feet, blood still welling from his injured hand. “You have my sacred word on it. No harm will come to the girl and she’ll be returned, unscathed, to the heart of her family in due course.”

Chapter One

Castle Ardtun, Mull
May, 1304

Peeping through the leaves in the hedge, Hannah could just make out little Mirin half-hidden behind one of the shrubs in the garden. Mirin’s twin sister, Alba, stood in the middle of the lawn, eyes closed, counting to ten.

It was a golden day of sunshine. Apart from a few puffy white clouds, the sky was blue, perfect for a fun game of hide ’n seek with her nieces. Spring was all around, daffodils were blooming and Hannah’s favourite tree, the crabapple, was covered in buds, soon to be bursting into a mass of fragrant pink flowers.

Pulling up her kirtle, she hugged her knees. The girls would never find her in this spot. It was a hollowed-out space between the hedges, perhaps made by an animal sheltering over the winter, but it made for a perfect place to stay hidden, even though the girls were hardly more than an arm’s length away.

Squeals and giggles indicated that Alba had discovered Mirin’s hiding place. Now both twins were searching for her.

“Hannah, Hannah. Come out.” Alba called.

“She’s nae here,” Mirin whispered.

“Perhaps the little people have taken her,” Alba said, her voice suddenly fearful.

“Hannah, please come out,” pleaded Mirin.

Hannah could stand it no longer. The game was only fun if no one was scared by it. She leaped to her feet. It was at the moment that she heard the sound of men’s voices entering the garden. The girls swirled around and took off.

“Athair,” they cried in unison.

Hannah’s heart did a flip. It was their father, Blaine. Her brother. Straightening her kirtle and brushing leaves out of her hair she ventured out of her hiding place. It was unusual for Blaine to be in the garden. This was the place where the women came to chat, to embroider, or attend to their mending. It was her favourite place within the castle walls. She often came here with the twins and her sister-in-law Edina’s sisters Margaret and Skye, who were around her age.

Here in the garden, they could chat and make as much noise as they liked without an angry face appearing at their door telling them that girls should be seen and not heard. She also frequently came alone, just to sit and enjoy the birds and butterflies and the flowers coming into bloom. It was a peaceful place, a respite from the duties and busyness of the castle.

Now, disturbing the gentle harmony of the place, was her brother.

Whatever does Blaine want?

She stepped hurriedly out of the hedge, feeling foolish and off-kilter under the watchful presence of her brother. Her foot caught on a protruding tree root as she hastened forward, sending her head over heels. She squealed, putting out her hands to break her fall. But despite her best efforts, she landed face down on the grass.

Mirin and Alba raced over, giggling as Hannah struggled to s sitting position, her hands muddied and her kirtle covered in grass.

Alba tugged at her aunt’s braids. “Oh wait, Auntie Hannah, ye’ve a ladybird in yer hair,” she shrieked, gently removing the little insect.

Blaine stood watching them, his mouth screwed in lines of disapproval, his eyes narrowed.

It was not until Hannah had finally risen to her feet, and was brushing her tangled skirts and neatening her hair, that he spoke.

“I regret intruding intae yer area, sister, but it seems ye pay nae heed tae my requests for yer presence. Thus, ye give me nae other option but tae come here in search of ye.”

His displeasure was rolling off him in waves, and Hannah noted with dismay that the vein in the middle of his forehead was prominent. Always a sign he was in a rage, but containing it.

Her stomach lurched. She had received his summons but the time seemed to have flown and she’d lost track of when she was to have the meeting with him.

“I’m so sorry brother. Please forgive me. I was nae heedless of yer message, but simply unaware of the time passing.” She looked around. Gillebride had taken the twins by the hand and was leading them out of the garden.

It was only then that Hannah saw Errol, her other brother, standing quietly at the entrance to the garden, another man at his side. Her heart sank as she became conscious of her dishevelled state, her muddy hands, grubby kirtle and messy braids. Her forehead was stinging and she was afraid she may have scratched it when she fell, bringing further disharmony to her appearance.

She gripped Blaine’s sleeve. “What is it? Please tell me what’s going on. Who is that man and why is he looking at me like that? Are we in danger?”

The man had stepped forward, taking his place beside Errol and was now standing in the sunlight where she could observe him fully. He was tall, possibly around Blaine’s age, with well-coiffed dark hair and blue eyes.

Blaine made the introduction. “May I present my sister Hannah?” The man nodded in Hannah’s direction, favouring her with a haughty smile, his eyes mocking her.

“This is a dear friend of mine, Duncan Buchanan.”

Taking an instant dislike to him, despite his handsome profile and fine clothes, Hannah bobbed a curtsy and offered the man her most dazzling smile.

“I am so very pleased tae make yer acquaintance, my laird,” she responded as graciously as possible.

Inwardly she was heaping a mountain of curses on Blaine for putting her in such an unenviable position with a stranger. And why had her brother, the Laird, seen fit to bring this strange man to invade this private space?

“Would ye excuse me, sir, tae have a few words with me brother?”

The man nodded politely, turned on his heel and walked off with Errol.

Hannah turned to Blaine, her brows drawn in a frown.

“I dinna like yer Duncan Buchanan,” she hissed once the two men were out of earshot.

Blaine sighed. “Ye dinna understand, Hannah.”

Glaring, she placed her hands on her hips defiantly. “Well, then, brother, please do go ahead and explain what all this is about.”

“Ye’ve told us often enough of yer longing tae find a husband and be wed,” he began.

She huffed impatiently. “Yes. I’ve envied my brothers their happiness. Ye know I wish for nothing more than tae find a man tae love and tae have me own family. Like ye with Ivy, and Errol with Edina.” Her eyes misted as memories came flooding in. “After our parents died, ye two were everything to me, ye were me entire family.” She gazed up at him, trying to gauge his reaction to her words. Would he understand how much this meant? “But now ye have families of yer own, and I’m a little lost. It’s as if I dinna belong anywhere, nowadays.”

Blaine nodded, reaching a hand to squeeze her arm gently. “Well, yer brother and I have talked with the Council of Chiefs. Ye’re nineteen, old enough tae wed. It’s been decided we dae our best tae grant yer wish.”

Hannah’s blue eyes lit up. “Blaine, ye mean… ye’ve agreed tae allow me tae wed?”

He laughed softly. “Aye lass. It’s what ye want.” His eyes grew serious. “I want tae know ye’ve a man tae protect ye when the battles come again, and I cannae keep ye close forever, nae matter how much I’d love tae have ye in me sight.”

She frowned up at him. “Do ye think the English will attack?”

He shook his head. “I dinna ken, luv. All I ken is that a war is raging, that the traitor Taveon is still abroad with our battle plans, and sooner or later it will come tae our doorstep. And when it does, I want ye safe and – Heaven forbid, should something happen tae me and Errol – under the protection of a powerful family.”

She clutched his sleeve again. “If battle’s where yer thoughts take ye, I must tell ye this my dear brother. The man I’ll wed must be a true Scot. One who’s nay traitor tae the rightful king. Never a man the likes of that traitor Macdonell Edina helped escape from yer dungeon.”

“Aye. we have all forgiven Edina for the heartache she caused. I ken why she took such a great risk and almost broke Errol’s heart. Tae keep her sisters safe. I’d have done the same if I had been her.” Her eyes flashed. “But I’ll nae forgive Macdonell for his wicked treachery.”

Blaine smiled fondly at her determination and loyalty. “Never fear, sweet lass, the man ye wed will be one who takes an oath of allegiance to our Liege Lord, King Robert.” He gave her a wry smile. “Someone like Duncan Buchanan, the next Laird of the Buchanans.”

Hannah gasped, raising a hand to her mouth. “Och, my dear Lord. Are ye telling me that man is me suitor?”

Again, Blaine chuckled. “Dinna worry, lass, he’s nae the only one. Ye’ll be kept busy all through the summer. There are lads lining up tae ask for yer hand. Buchanan is only the first.”

Beaming, she glanced up at him.

“Methinks he’s the first, but by nay means will he be the last.”

“The first of many,” Blaine said, pulling her into his arms for a great bear-hug. “Ye’ll be wed before winter is upon us, wee sister.”

Chapter One

Ardtun, Isle of Mull
Midsummer, 1304

The heavily-laden woodsman’s cart rattled its way up to the castle gate.
“Whoah,” said the cloaked figure, pulling on the reins. The strong cart-horse came to a standstill as the two guards nodded toward the woodsman.

“It’s Euan, bringing another load for the castle fires,” the guard called. Moments later the gate into the keep was slowly raised, allowing the cart’s entry. The man on the cart gave a brief salute as the cart rumbled through the gate and across the cobblestones.

He circled around the back of the castle and pulled up beside the servants’ quarters near the kitchen, where he tethered the horse and set about unloading the timber logs and kindling.

Some of the heaviest wood he carried on his shoulders, muscles straining, to stack on the covered wood-pile beyond the kitchen while several servants filled baskets from his smaller choppings to be used in the great kitchen fires.

He filled a basket and carried it through to the great hall where he was relieved of the weight by the serving-man, whose sole job it was to ensure there was sufficient fuel for the roaring fires that warmed the castle.

The man they called Euan had been carrying out these tasks for the past weeks, coming and going through the castle’s iron gates with nary a glance from the guards, all the while taking care to keep his cloak wrapped securely and his hood shadowing his face.

Taveon hated his disguise almost as much as he hated being here. His memories of the dungeon were still fresh enough in his mind to make him shudder, even though it had been months since he’d found his freedom. Yet, it had been simple enough to find a way to enter the castle. He’d paid a handsome bounty to borrow Euan’s cart with its load of wood and take his place three times a week when he took the timber load to Castle Ardtun.

In his woodsman’s guise, Taveon had been able to make his way through the castle unhampered. On the rare occasions he’d been questioned, he’d simply shown his basket of trimmed logs and been waved on.

Now that his plan was coming to fruition, he had high hopes he’d be able to overwhelm the laird’s sister unnoticed. He’d capture her swiftly, putting miles between the two of them and the MacKinnons, before her disappearance was discovered and the alarm was raised. If his luck held, her absence would not be noticed until morning.

In the weeks he’d been surveilling the castle, he’d become aware of the small garden frequented by the women. The first time he’d been there he’d been casting his eyes around, taking in his surroundings, when a young woman and two little girls burst through the entry way. Before they could catch sight of him, he’d quickly crouched in the hedge, finding a space there where he could observe them.

The wee girls’ innocent play put him in mind of his sister Arya when she was a bairn. That memory was like a knife between his ribs.

He heard them call “Hannah,” and his heart jumped.

She was beautiful. Tall, slender, her golden hair falling in waves to her slim waistline. He hadn’t counted on her loveliness, or on the feelings that stirred inside him as he observed her – hair flying, skirts tucked up, long legs on display. He watched, enthralled, as she laughed with the wee girls, playing catch-me-if-you can and skipping a rope. The ache in his groin and the urge to seize her and bury his face in that glorious mane of hair, to hold her soft curves against him, to crush her lips to his was, suddenly, almost unbearable.

It had been many years since a lass had made his heart beat faster. He’d been leading a monk’s life for too long.

He was suddenly assailed with doubt. This lovely creature did not deserve the fate that lay in store for her. The MacKinnons had treated him well while he was their captive. They’d given him good food and ale and despite knowing him as a traitor who threatened the lives of their clansmen, he’d not known cruelty at their hands.

To inflict the pain he knew was in store for them went against everything he believed was right in the world.

Conscious that such feelings were dangerous, threatening the cold-heart required for his mission, he steeled himself with the knowledge of the fate awaiting his own kin should he not succeed.

On several further occasions, when the weather was good, he’d snuck into the garden, observing the women chatting and laughing at their needlework or frolicking with the bairns.

Hannah spent more time there than the others. More often than not she was alone, sitting quietly, sometimes with her eyes closed, peacefully breathing in the perfumed air. He knew it was only a matter of time before he came upon her when there was no one around to come to her aid.

Tonight, after carrying out his usual duties with the firewood, Taveon slipped away from watchful eyes, making his way, unseen, to the little garden. The cart was empty, save for a sack containing his tools, and he’d drawn it as close as he could to the doorway near the kitchen. At this time of the evening, he could count on the servants being too busy serving the laird and his family to be coming and going through the door.

The evening was still warm in the long twilight, and Taveon had high hopes Hannah would come here, as she did so frequently, to take in the air before retiring to her bedchamber.

Once he reached the empty garden, he found his way to the space in the hedge where he could observe whatever was taking place there. His heart was pounding and the blood thundering in his veins. If he was caught now there’d be no mercy, hanging or beheading would be his certain fate.

As minutes turned into hours of waiting, his legs stiffened and he rubbed his calves, keeping them pliant, aware that any stumbling misstep could be his last.

His mind meandered idly over thoughts of Hannah, imagining her looking at him with glowing eyes, her lips opening tenderly…

He froze, straining his ears at the sudden intrusion of voices, groaning inwardly. One of the voices was Hannah’s, but the other voice belonged to a man.

God’s teeth!

***

Hannah flew out of the great hall, aware that Hendrie was following on her heels.

“Hannah, wait,” he said plaintively. “I have something I want tae say tae ye.” He was like a young puppy; all sad eyes, floppy hair and gangly legs. She didn’t lessen her stride, heading straight for the Ladies’ Garden. Surely the boy wouldn’t be so foolish as to follow her to that private spot.

No. He had no time for such niceties. Entering the garden, he scooted alongside her and clutched her hand. Ugh. His hand was limp and sweaty.

Oh dear! What was Blaine thinking?

All smiles this afternoon, he’d presented her with young Hendrie Davidson, the son of one of his oldest friends. In the space of two months, Hendrie was the eleventh offering her brother had trotted out for her approval as a prospective suitor. Eleventh.

But, by all the saints in Christendom, this lad was scarcely out of the nursery. Still wet behind the ears. He was sweet enough, eager to please, but not yet bearded, with aught but peach-fuzz on his chin. She’d wager he was not a day over seventeen. Why, she stood at least a head taller than him, for goodness’ sake!

Was this Blaine’s plot to force her to agree to marry the next man that actually looked like a full-grown man? At least one with a beard.

Hendrie was clinging to her hand like a limpet. She plonked her bottom on the bench at the far end of the garden, spreading her skirts in the faint hope he’d realize there was no space for him to sit beside her.

Not in the least deterred, he flung himself on one knee on the grass in front of her.

“Fair lady, please let me recite the poem I’ve written for ye,” he begged.

She huffed indignantly.

Blaine must secretly hate me. Otherwise, he’d never keep beleaguering me with unsuitable, unappealing, impossible lads.

“All right. I’ll listen tae yer poem. But, afterwards, ye must promise tae take yer leave. I wish tae enjoy the evening air by meself,” she said sternly.

Hendrie took a deep breath, issuing a sigh. “I shall, melady. I shall leave ye once ye’ve heard me out.” He took a parchment from the pocket in his britches and unfolded it.

After clearing his throat, he began. “Fairest Jennifer,” he read.

“My name’s Hannah” she said, her lips quirking in a smile. Why, this buffoon had not written the poem for her at all.

“Oh…” he gasped.

“Methinks ye should stand, Hendrie. I’ve changed me mind. I nay longer wish tae hear yer verses.” She reached a hand to help him up.

Suddenly, he switched his eyes from her face, to the small creature that was climbing on the bench beside her. A spotted, brown, scaly creature.

“Ye gods. A monster,” he shrieked, losing his balance and, hands flailing, landing bottom-first on the grass.

In fright, Hannah heaped to her feet, her skirt tangling her feet, bringing her down to land beside him.

Pointing with a shaking finger, his ashen face washed of all color, he squeaked, “There. It’s a deadly, poisonous, serpent”

Scrambling to her feet, Hannah looked around.

“Hendrie. Get up.” She snapped. “While there are some shy snakes here on Mull that are poisonous, that’s nae snake. It’s a wee lizard. They are common here and that one visits me often in the garden.”

She savagely brushed at her skirt with one hand, fluffing grass and leaves out of her hair with the other.

“Now,” Her voice was unusually sharp. “I believe it’s time ye left me.” She lifted her chin in haughty dismissal. The boy stumbled to his feet, swiveled without a word, and hastily made his departure, leaving Hannah alone in the gathering twilight.

“At last,” she breathed aloud.

Leaning over the lizard, she whispered her thanks.

“Mr. Lizard.” She said, breathlessly. “I do so appreciate yer help in chasing that boy away. I was beginning tae fear he’d never go.” She laughed.

Then came a whispered voice in response, “Happy to be of service melady. I could see he was nae the man for ye. Ye deserve a strong, handsome fellow tae set ye tae rights.”

For one fleeting second it seemed as if the lizard was speaking to her, and she giggled. But then it dawned.

Someone was there, unseen, beside her in the garden.

She drew in a breath, filling her lungs, ready to scream bloody murder.

But, before she had a chance to let out an awe-inspiring shriek, a tall figure leaped from the shadow of the hedges and clamped a ruthless hand over her mouth.

Struggling furiously, she raked the hand with her nails, kicking out as best she could, although hampered by her long skirts. She heard a rough swear word as she tore at the man’s hand, but his other hand clamped her waist and she was hauled unceremoniously into the hedge, landing a hundred tiny scratches on her face and bare arms.

Before any further ado, a heavy cloth was wrapped around her mouth and fastened, her hands were seized in a strong grip and tied tightly behind her back with string. Throwing her head back she tried to butt against the man’s chin, but he was too quick for her. He dodged sideways, grabbing her hair, twisting it painfully around his hand.

“Dinna try anything, lass. It’ll go badly for ye if ye dae,” he breathed into her ear. “Stop struggling and ye’ll nae be hurt.”

Then the world went dark as a sack was thrown over her head and pulled down over her body to her feet. She felt the man fastening a binding like a belt at her waist, securing the rough hessian sack, and another binding her ankles.

Bound hand and foot, her mouth gagged so that her screams were stifled, she felt herself being hoisted over the man’s shoulder as if she was nothing more than a sack of chaff.

“If ye make a sound, if ye try and wriggle, I’ll run ye through with my dirk,” he said in a low, gravelly voice that shot terror straight to her heart.

 

Prologue

Steward Castle, 1290
One year ago

Steward Castle was quiet these days, the once lively rooms filled with hushed whispers. Even the weather seemed to mourn, the sky a dull, cold gray outside Laird Steward’s study.

Fletcher Steward already thought of the room as his own, though his father had not yet taken his last breath. It was Fletcher’s, as he was now the Laird of the Steward Clan in everything but name. He took care of clan matters, he made all the decisions, and he would soon have the title as Laird Steward’s rightful heir as well.

He had no animosity towards his father, nor did he want him to die, but he understood the natural progression of things. No man had ever escaped death and his father would be no different. Fletcher tried to focus on the positive, such as his upcoming rise to power. He had already had a taste of it, acting in his father’s stead.

People answered to him, they followed his orders. Other lairds sought his friendship and support. It was the sort of position Fletcher had craved for a long time. He wanted to be looked up to. He wanted people to respect him and, if necessary, also fear him. Fear could be a powerful tool for those who wielded it. It would keep his enemies at bay, and though it wouldn’t make him many friends, it would make him the right ones.

A knock on the door drew Fletcher’s gaze away from the morning clouds that had gathered over the glen stretching below the castle as far as the eye could see. It was all for this land, he had told himself. All his efforts were for the sake of this land and the people. If he got something out of it—power, riches, beautiful women—well, that was only a fitting reward for his efforts.

“Come in,” he called, leaning against the heavy wooden chair his father loved so much. Fletcher remembered sitting there with him when he was younger, his father showing him everything he needed to know about running a clan.

He had never been a particularly good student.

The maid who walked into the study was a pretty thing, young and lithe, with an open face. A new one, Fletcher noted, eager to make a good impression. She had certainly made some sort of impression on him, and he would seek her out late at night.

“Forgive me fer interruptin’,” the girl said. “A guest has come tae see ye.”

It wasn’t unusual for people to come to Steward Castle to visit his father and, lately, Fletcher himself. He gestured at the maid to let his guest in, eyes narrowing just slightly when he saw who it was.

The man, a laird himself, leading a powerful clan, had been a thorn in Fletcher’s side for months. He didn’t quite know how their tentative friendship, if he could even call it such a thing, had begun. He only knew that the laird had power and land, and he was willing to share it all with him for what he called a “small price.”

Fletcher showed the laird the chair across from him, and the man sat down in silence. He poured them both some wine, toasting the laird before draining his cup. He would need all the alcohol he could get if he were to mask his nervousness, though it was far from a good idea to drink too much when dealing with men like him.

Though Fletcher hated to admit it, the laird had cornered him. He knew about Fletcher’s desire to gain more than his father had ever managed, and he had the right leverage over him. There was little Fletcher despised more than being in a weaker position, but what could he do? His father was a good man, and good men were rarely ever powerful. He had neglected expanding the Steward Clan in favor of maintaining friendly ties with all his neighbors. No one feared the Stewards. No one would hesitate to take over once his father was gone.

The two men sat in silence for a while. The laird was seemingly comfortable where Fletcher was squirming in his seat, trying to figure out what the man’s next move would be. Why had he come to the castle? Did he want something more from Fletcher, or was he there to tell him he would withdraw the proposed deal, which Fletcher had still not decided?

What the laird was asking of him was not difficult to procure. It was a small price to pay for the lands and riches promised to him. Still, there was something holding him back from committing. And Fletcher thought it had less to do with the condition itself as much as with the fact that he was dealing with a man like him.

“Did ye consider me proposal?” the laird asked after a long stretch of silence. Fletcher was glad he had finally spoken, but he frowned a little at the question. If that was all he wanted, he could have sent him a letter.

“Aye, I did,” Fletcher said. He didn’t give any other information, and that seemed to frustrate his guest, who gave him his most unimpressed gaze.

“And?” the laird asked. “Did ye decide?”

Fletcher had not, and it must have shown on his expression as the laird gave an impatient sigh.

“This isnae the kind o’ plan that ye can consider forever,” the laird said. “And it isnae the kind o’ plan that ye can decide ye dinnae like once it has started. I need tae ken ye willnae change yer mind.”

Fletcher was not the kind of man who enjoyed being constrained by such promises. He never knew when he might change his mind or find a better solution to get what he needed. But in all this time that his father had been sick, no one else had offered him the kind of power the laird had. How was he supposed to refuse? How was he supposed to end the deal before it had even properly started, especially when he knew what he knew about it? If he said no, there was no telling what the laird would do to keep his plan a secret. Fletcher could end up just as dead as his father by the end of it all.

“Are ye certain that the plan will work?” Fletcher asked. “I cannae agree to it only tae have her clan fight back.”

The laird waved a hand dismissively, as though the mere thought that the clan they wanted to destroy could fight back was ridiculous. It made Fletcher bristle like a cat, knowing how much the laird thought him an inferior, his concerns nothing more than a nuisance.

“There is naething for ye to fear. All ye have to dae is marry the lass,” the Laird said. “Or is that too hard for ye?”

It was Fletcher’s turn to glare at the man. He couldn’t stand being mocked, especially so openly. He didn’t care that the man was a laird and Fletcher was not yet one, nor that his clan was more powerful than the Steward Clan. Many had disrespected him throughout his life, and Fletcher had promised himself long ago that he would never allow another person to do so again.

“Yer in me castle now, dinnae forget that,” Fletcher said.

“I’m in yer father’s castle,” the laird corrected him. “Yer nae the laird yet, lad, and even if ye were, what is there fer ye to dae about it? If ye dinnae like how I speak to ye, I will take my leave and find someone more grateful.”

Fletcher’s first instinct was to stop the laird, but when the man didn’t move, he realized something that had, until then, escaped him. The laird needed Fletcher just as much Fletcher needed him. The more he thought about it, he realized it wasn’t surprising. How many heirs to a lairdship were there, ready to take over from their fathers, the right age for the woman he was to marry, and willing to go along with the laird’s plan? Surely if the laird had found someone more willing than Fletcher, he would have already gone to him instead.

“What will happen once I marry the lass?” Fletcher asked to break the silence and this stalemate they had found themselves in. “How dae ye plan on destroying her entire family?”

“Once yer clans are united, we will kill them all one by one, as long as ye can play yer role well,” the laird said.

It wasn’t a plan that Fletcher liked, not because it involved killing, but because it involved him. Marrying the woman, deceiving her into thinking he was a good, honest man, was work enough already, and now the laird wanted him to kill her family, too.

“What if someone finds out?” he asked.

“Ye must make sure that nay one finds out,” the laird said. “If they dae, they’ll come for yer head, nae mine.”

Fletcher would be damned if he didn’t betray the laird if he was caught. The man would go down with him, that much was certain, but Fletcher wasn’t foolish enough to say so.

Fletcher fell silent, refilling his cup with wine and nursing his drink. He stared out the window once more, the soft, gray light a more pleasant sight than the man in front of him. Though there was nothing particularly off-putting about the laird, that piercing stare of his blue eyes unnerved Fletcher. He couldn’t bear to look at him for too long.

“Perhaps this will help ye make up yer mind,” the laird said, drawing Fletcher’s attention back to him. “If ye dinnae agree to my terms, I will make sure that the Steward Clan is destroyed For the first time since Fletcher had first met the laird, he realized he was in deep, in a much more dangerous position than he had once thought. Before this direct threat, there was the possibility of a negative outcome if he displeased the laird. Now, the laird had laid all his cards on the table, making it very clear that his clan would be the one to suffer if he didn’t agree to the plan.

What other choice did Fletcher have? He couldn’t be the man who destroyed the Stewards before the clan had even been passed on to him. He would not only be killed for it, but he would go down in history as a hated, weak man instead of the great leader he craved to be.

Fletcher had no choice. He had to marry the woman the laird was offering him, and he had to pretend to be a good husband to her. He had to lure her in and be on his best behavior so that no one would suspect him, difficult as that would be, as he often enjoyed the company of several women at once. It wouldn’t last long, his marriage to this the woman. Eventually, the laird would kill her family off one by one, and she, too, would be a victim of his plans. Maybe if Fletcher was lucky, she would give him an heir before she died, and then he could live his life as he pleased.

“Very well,” Fletcher said, standing to walk around the desk and offer his hand to the laird. The man stood, taking the hand offered to him and shaking it. “Dinnae fash, Laird MacNab. I promise ye. Give me this year, and by the end of it, Alba Menzies will be me wife.”

Laird MacNab gave Fletcher a satisfied grin, one that did nothing to soften his stern gaze. It was more of a reflex, Fletcher thought, than a genuine smile; or a practiced gesture to put others at ease.

“Good,” said Laird MacNab. “Good. Until then, ken that I will be watchin’ ye. It’s yer job to ensure that this part o’ the plan goes smoothly, and then ye can leave the rest up to me.”

“Aye. As I said, I can manage. How difficult can it be to marry a lass like the Menzies lass?”

Her father held some power but was certainly not the most powerful man in their lands. Alba had already been betrothed once, but the man she was supposed to marry fell in love with her sister. Fletcher didn’t think she would be a difficult target. Some sweet words and a few promises of a glorious life would be all he would need to convince her to marry him.

“Ye better hope yer right,” Laird MacNab said. “I shall see ye at the wedding.”

The laird took his leave, letting the door swing shut behind him. Fletcher found his cup of untouched wine and drained it, before slamming it against on the tray, everything on the desk rattling with the force of it.

He placed both hands on the edge of the desk, fingers brushing over the intricate carvings on the wood. That desk and room had seen so many of the Steward Clan Lairds pass through it, conduct business and plan their wars there. Each one had left his mark, and now it was Fletcher’s turn to do the same. His own sons would one day be where he was now, reminiscing about their father, and they would have better things to say about him than he had to say about his own. He would take this clan and make it the most powerful one in the area. He just needed a little help at first, a little push from Laird MacNab, who had the resources. Once he didn’t need him anymore, he would dispose of him as well.

In the meantime, he had to get to work. Fletcher had to convince his father that Alba Menzies was a good choice for him, and then he had to convince Alba’s father he was a good match for her. He had to work on that alliance, ensuring that by the end of the year, the two of them would be married and their actual plan could begin. He had plenty of time. He had so much time, in fact, that he decided to do something for himself first; to help him release some of this nervous energy that had been building while he was talking to Laird MacNab.

Fletcher left the room, heading toward the servants’ quarters. He hadn’t asked that beauty’s name, but with some searching, he was bound to find her.

Chapter One

Murray Castle, 1290

The day was still young, but the clouds had already gathered over Murray Castle. The courtyard was filled with movement, the servants going about their morning routines and duties, bringing color to the castle, which was washed in browns and grays this time of the year. Soon, everything would bloom, Magnus knew, and the courtyard would burst with life and flowers.

Next to him, Tate was taking some food off the table, and he asked a servant to prepare it for his trip. Magnus didn’t know why he was wasting his time trying to convince him to stay. His brother had never been one to stay in one place for too long, always restless and in search of adventure, but Magnus had hoped he’d get to see him for a while longer. It was always hard to watch him leave, not knowing when he would return.

“Are ye certain ye dinnae wish tae stay?” Magnus asked for what seemed like the hundredth time. Perhaps it was tiring for Tate, but Magnus would be damned if he didn’t at least try to keep him there a while longer.

“Aye,” Tate said, his icy blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. He looked even younger than his twenty-six years with that smile. And though Magnus was only two years older than him, he couldn’t help but see him like the little boy he once was. “I told ye I have some unfinished business. Maybe once I’m done, I’ll come back home.”

“Maybe?” Magnus asked. “Ye and I both ken this means nay.”

Tate sighed as though the conversation was already taking a toll on him, but his smile never wavered. Magnus knew he wasn’t the only one to have this conversation with him. Their older brother, Scott, the laird of the Murray Clan, had already tried to convince him to spend some more time at home, and so had Scott’s wife, Evelyn. The two of them together were difficult to say no to, presenting a united and formidable front to anyone who disagreed with them. If they hadn’t swayed Tate, then Magnus doubted he could.

“It means maybe,” Tate insisted and grabbed Magnus’ shoulder to pull him into an embrace. “And even if I dinnae come home after I finish me business, I’ll still come sometime later. It’s nae as though ye’ll never see me again.”

That was precisely what Magnus feared. He trusted his brother with his life, but when it came to Tate’s own life, all trust disappeared. He was the youngest brother, and someone had to take care of him.

Magnus didn’t voice any of his fears, though. He never did. No matter how much he wanted to monitor Tate, he didn’t want to imbue him with the same fear he had. Tate loved to travel, loved to see new places, and meet new people. Magnus didn’t want to take any of that away from him.

“Fine, fine,” Magnus said, holding Tate just a little tighter for a moment before letting go. “Go and enjoy yerself.”

“Thank ye. Och, let me say goodbye to Evelyn and Alba.”

As Tate spoke, Magnus followed his gaze to the two women who were talking with Scott a little farther from them. The moment Magnus’ eyes met Alba’s, his expression soured, and he averted his gaze, though not before Tate could catch him in the act.

For a few moments, Tate said nothing and only rolled his eyes at Magnus, but then he couldn’t help himself.

“What now?” he asked.

Magnus didn’t know how to respond to that. He had known Alba for a short while, but in that time, she had made a poor impression on him, one that he couldn’t shake, no matter what anyone else told him about her.

“Ye ken I dinnae like her,” he said. “She’s so… perfect.”

“It sounds tae me like ye think she’s bonnie,” Tate said and Magnus’ fist flew without him even thinking, connecting with Tate’s ribs just hard enough to jostle him. Tate still clutched his side and moaned in mock pain, though Magnus knew it would take much more than that to hurt him and felt no sympathy.

“Aye, she is bonnie.” Alba was beautiful, with long brown hair and piercing green eyes. Her skin was like porcelain, her limbs long and delicate, the very picture of elegance. She really was perfect. Too perfect, in Magnus’ opinion. “She has everyone thinkin’ she’s perfect with her bonnie face and her gentleness, but mind my words, Tate… she is hidin’ somethin’.”

Tate didn’t seem as convinced as Magnus, looking at him with doubt. “What could she possibly be hidin’?”

“I dinnae ken,” Magnus said. “But I’ll find out eventually. Every time I am near her, she makes me look like a savage in comparison. Always so frigid and composed and doin’ what is expected of her, but I promise ye, under that mask, she’s hidin’ a beast.”

“A beast?” Tate asked in disbelief, laughing. Of course, he was laughing at Magnus. No one believed him, but they would once he uncovered her secret. “Surely, ye must jest. Alba is nay beast. Ye only say that because ye like her, and ye dinnae ken how tae accept it because ye’ve been alone for so long.”

“That has naething to dae with it,” Magnus insisted. Sure, he had been alone all his life, never allowing anyone but the people closest to him to get to know him. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t recognize when he had feelings for a woman. He simply never did. “I can see what she is, and ye’ll see it soon, too.”

“I’m sure she’s a perfectly sweet girl, Magnus,” Tate said, now suddenly serious. “She’s Evelyn’s sister, and ye like Evelyn just fine. Why would ye hate Alba?”

Magnus had no other answer for him. If Tate didn’t want to believe Magnus was right, then there was nothing he could do to convince him.

“She’s nae hidin’ anythin’,” Tate insisted. “There’s nae beast, just a nice, bonnie lass.”

“Is that so?” Magnus asked, once again letting his gaze stray to Alba. This time, she didn’t look at him but she always had an uncanny way of knowing when Magnus’ eyes were on her. He was certain she knew now, too. “Well, how about we make a bet, then? If yer so certain?”

“A bet? What kind of bet?”

“If I can anger her and prove tae ye that she’s a fiery beast, then ye’ll stay a while longer,” Magnus said.

“If ye anger her, it’s only natural that she’ll react,” Tate reasoned.

“Aye, but how she reacts is the accurate indicator of who she is,” Magnus replied. “If she’s as kind and gentle as ye think she is, then she willnae take it too far. But if I’m right about her, who kens what she may dae?”

Tate hummed thoughtfully, clearly considering Magnus’ proposal. “Fine,” he said after a few moments. “But dinnae push her too far; then ye’ll be the beast.”

“Dinnae fash,” Magnus said. “I’ll only go as far as I must.”

It wouldn’t take much to anger her, Magnus knew. And then everyone would know that he was right not to trust her.

***

After saying goodbye to Tate outside in the gardens, Alba decided it would be best to let him and Scott say their goodbyes in private. Her sister Evelyn returned inside the castle, but Alba didn’t want to stay inside, even if it wasn’t the brightest day of the month. Perhaps it would rain soon, but until then, she wanted to enjoy the fresh air, so she walked around the castle grounds. She knew her way around the castle by then, and she enjoyed the servants and the people of the clan who took care of the daily proceedings. She even tried to see if anyone needed any help. As she was so used to being the one everyone depended on, this sudden change had left her feeling restless. Back home, in her father’s keep, work never ended. Now that she was in Murray Castle, she had nothing to do.

Luckily, she found a young man carrying a stack of plates almost as tall as she was, and she immediately swooped in to help. It wasn’t much, but it was something to do other than embroidering or sipping tea or, even worse, having to be around Magnus Murray who seemed to have gathered every negative trait, allowing his brothers to be the lovely men they were.

Alba had noticed how he had looked at her when he said goodbye to Tate. She had seen his venom and hatred, and she couldn’t understand what she had done to make him dislike her so much. They were very different people; that much was obvious. Alba thought of him as a savage, a brute, very unlike his brothers and her, but she kept her dislike of him to herself, while Magnus had made it his mission to make his hatred known.

“Let me help ye with these,” she told the servant, taking some plates off his hands. Instantly, the man stood a little straighter, the load in his arms now easier to carry.

“Och, I dinnae want tae bother ye, me lady,” the man said. “It’s nae proper for ye to be doin’ such tasks.”

“I dae this all the time when I am back home,” Alba assured him. “It’s nae problem for me. If anythin’, it will keep me from havin’ tae walk around this courtyard all day.”

The man was hesitant at first, looking around as though he expected someone to catch him and scold him for it, but Alba’s smile was convincing enough. In the end, he nodded eagerly and led her to the kitchen, where he placed everything near the fire.

It was a big one, even if it was contained. It was just a normal fire, Alba told herself, used to heating water and cooking. It was nothing to be afraid of.

And yet she couldn’t bring herself to get too close. Instead, she left everything on the other side of the room, eager to be as far away from the flames as possible.

“Thank ye for yer—”

Alba didn’t hear the end of that sentence. Instead, she heard a soft curse and the clatter of a poker against the floor. When she turned to look, eyes wide, she didn’t see the maid whose hand had been licked by the flames, making her drop the poker as she stoked it. What she saw instead was herself, only fourteen years old, holding her little sister tightly and screaming for her mother.

Alba felt as though the fire that had taken her mother was around her now, even ten years later. She felt as though those flames surrounded her, hot and asphyxiating, the smoke acrid in her lungs, Evelyn shaking as she hid her face against her shoulder. Alba could hear nothing but the roaring blaze of fire as it destroyed everything; pieces of burned and burning wood collapsing to the ground, trapping their mother inside. She could smell nothing but that distinct, warm scent of flames. She could feel nothing but the tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

“Are ye all right?”

Those words, coupled with the hands that shook her just a little, brought Alba back to the present. She looked around, remembering where she was. Remembering she was safe. Still, it did little to calm her racing heart.

“I’m fine,” she said, her words forced and stilted.

“Maybe we should call the healer,” she heard a woman say. “She looks very pale, like she’ll fall any moment.”

“Nay, nay… I’m fine,” Alba insisted. “Thank ye. I only need some fresh air.”

Before anyone could protest and insisted she had to see the healer, Alba fled from the kitchen and made her way back outside. She had been right. The fresh air helped her to breathe and calmed her mind, the breeze taking those awful memories with it.

It was just her luck. Right as she calmed down, a looming figure approached her. Alba didn’t need to look to know it was Magnus, but she looked at him anyway. It would be impolite to ignore him.

“Well, dinnae ye look bonnie today?” Magnus said. It was something Alba never expected to hear from him. It stunned her into silence for a few seconds. Magnus was a known flirt, infamous around the castle for his conquests and the girls he bedded. But he had never directed such a compliment toward Alba.

“Thank ye,” she said, phrasing it more like a hesitant question.

“Aye, ye have a bonnie glow today. Yer cheeks are all flushed.”

That didn’t surprise her. She was still feeling hot, anxiety coursing through her body as though it were the flames she so feared.

“Perhaps it’s because ye were talkin’ to that laddie,” Magnus added, and Alba’s anger at such an insinuation overshadowed her panic.

“Of course, ye’d think that,” she bit back. “That is all ye think about.”

“Is that what ye think?” Magnus asked, grinning as he leaned closer to Alba, almost caging her against the wall. He really was a mountain of a man, towering over her. But Alba had never feared anyone. She wasn’t about to start now. “Is that so bad, after all? If ye’ve heard the rumors, then ye must have thought about me that way once or twice.”

Alba was speechless. She didn’t know what had gotten into Magnus to make him focus his romantic efforts on her, but she didn’t like it. She tried side-stepping him, not caring anymore if she was being rude, but he blocked her way with his body.

“There are plenty of rooms in this castle,” he said. “I’m sure I can find an empty one if ye wish to see what the rumors are all about.”

Alba had had enough. She didn’t know exactly what happened between a man and a woman in those moments. Alba was always changing the subject in embarrassment when Evelyn brought it up to prepare her for her wedding night, as she claimed. She knew enough, though, to understand what Magnus was implying, and it made her sick to her stomach to even hear such a thing from his lips.

“Ye really are a savage!” she said and slapped him hard across the face. Magnus looked stunned for a moment, surely not expecting such strength from her. All the work Alba did back home made her much stronger than she looked. It served him right. Magnus was nothing but a philanderer, and Alba had been foolish to think that their dislike for each other would keep him away. “If ye ever come near me again, I will dae much worse than slap ye.”

With that, she ducked under his arm and walked away, Magnus letting her go this time. Now he would think twice before ever speaking to her in such a way, but that didn’t erase the anger that had bloomed inside her. It would take her hours, if not days, to calm down again.

That good for naething barbarian! How does nae one else see how lecherous he is?

Alba tried her best to show nothing but kindness to those around her. It was what her dear mother had taught her, and she always tried to be the type of woman she would be proud of. But Magnus Murray inspired nothing but disgust and hatred in her.

She had thought the only man she would ever want to kill would be Laird MacNab, but now Magnus was firmly in second place.