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Chapter One

November 1297. At sea near the shore of the Isle of Skye…

Any other bride would not plan her husband’s funeral before she’d even married the man.

And yet, as Lady Katherine de Beaumont stood at the bow of the birlinn, anchoring herself with a firm grip on the rope beside her as the boat rose and fell with the swell of the sea, that’s exactly what was going through her mind.

She sighed heavily, the exhaustion of the last week of travelling washing over her. On the freezing cold November day, there had already been snowfall, and pulling the heavy cloak tighter around her, she acknowledged that the bitter winter of Scotland was a far cry from the weather back home in England.

The rough seas were hardly helping, and though she tried to fight it, as the wind pulled at the tendrils of her chestnut hair, the dizziness and seasickness threatened to overcome her.

To distract herself, Katherine dug her hand into her cloak pocket and took out the little black book she always carried with her. Among many other things, it contained a list of daring sins, all the things she had sworn she would do before she was wed. There were still quite a few remaining.

Kiss a stranger. Spy on a gentleman bathing. Ride astride a horse. Get her skin marked with a tattoo. Swim without clothes and, finally, read a banned book.

As she gazed down at the page flapping madly in the wind, she shook her head.

And yet, I will never get to complete my list now, for in two weeks, I will be forced to marry the devil himself.

As someone approached her, she cursed under her breath, fearing they would see her list, and hurriedly, she stuffed the book back into her pocket and pulled out a small knife to make space.

“I have told you before,” Reginald growled, coming to stand close by her side. “Carrying a knife is anything but ladylike.”

Katherine’s brother, Lord Reginald De Beaumont, was a tall and imposing figure with a commanding presence. At thirty-four, he was eleven years Katherine’s senior, and unlike his sister’s soft refined features, with her high cheek bones and defined jawline, his face was thin and angular.

Nor did they share the same eye color, for while his were a pale blue, a color that she had always felt perfectly conveyed his cold, calculated and a ruthless nature, her eyes were a piercing green.

Katherine flashed him a scowling glance, noting the streaks of gray in his almost black hair. His perfectly manicured beard added to his stern appearance and authoritative figure.

“We are venturing into Scotland, dear brother,” she hissed. “Ladylike or not, I will keep it on my person for protection.”

Reginald jerked his head toward the stern of the boat. “You will need no protection with all the men I have ordered to come with you.”

Katherine glanced at the group of soldiers. They were loyal men, but she had no doubt they did as her brother’s bidding out of fear.

“Always remember who you are,” he growled. “You may well have been forced to marry one of these Scottish savages. It doesn’t mean you have to become one of them.”

“I wish I were back in England,” she sighed.

“As do I, sister. But your marriage has been decreed by King Edward the first himself. You do not have a choice.”

“Yes,” Katherine hissed. “I am aware of that. Perhaps, if our family were not of such high noble standing, the situation would be different.”

Reginald glared down at her. “Do not berate the de Beaumont name, Katherine. Father did not work so hard and gain such influence with the crown for you to denounce it with such dismissiveness.”

Katherine huffed in frustration. That was all well and good, but it was not her brother being forced to marry.

“You ought to be proud of your heritage. Our family is renowned for its military prowess and loyalty to the crown. No matter what you feel, we have a duty towards the king. This union will strengthen his grip on Scotland and create a loyalist faction within the Scottish clans.”

“You mean control the Scots,” Katherine replied knowingly. “The king talks of fostering peace, but everyone knows his real agenda. He looks to secure influence and control Scottish resistance to English rule.”

Again, Reginald glared down at her. “It is well that no other can hear your treasonous tongue,” he spat.

“It is not treasonous if it is true,” she argued.

Reginald’s condescendence angered Katherine, but then, so did most men. They were all so very proud of their accomplishments, each one thinking themselves smarter than their counterpart. Of course, in their mind, women knew little, and were stupid beings who were only good for light conversation and continuing the family line.

Not Katherine. Astute and intelligent, she heard and understood things men thought were above her comprehension. While the opposite sex foolishly believed that they were smarter, Katherine quietly garnered information, snippets of conversations heard from one place or another.

She knew the king’s game, and now, she had become a pawn. A piece he could use for his own ends, not caring a wit for her thoughts and feelings on the matter. She was, after all, just a woman to him. A noble woman, but just a woman all the same. It was not just the fact that she was being forced to marry that angered her, it was who he had decreed she ought to wed.

“There is land ahead,” Reginald announced. “The Isle of Skye. It will be your home, at least for a little while, Katherine, so you better tame your tongue and get used to it.”

“It isn’t like I have any other choice, is it?” she bit back.

“You know I will do my best to ruin the MacLeod family and free you from your marriage, but I can only do so if you give me the information I need.”

On their journey, Reginald had told her that she must view this circumstance as though it were a military mission. Indeed, she would be forced to marry her enemy, but while there, she had another assignment. She had to find the weaknesses and strengths of the clan before her wedding.

Katherine had argued that two weeks was not a lot of time for what her brother was asking, but he had been determined.

“It is the only way you can be free,” he had countered.

She would arrive as a bride-to-be while at the same time acting as a spy for her brother. She despised the idea. And yet, what she despised even more was being married to this man.

As the birlinn approached the shore, the sailors hollered to one another, each with a specific task to bring the boat to its mooring point safely. They ran from one end of the ship to the other, pulling at sails and gathering rope. It was clear, by their appearance, that they had been manning ships for many years, for all of them were weathered, with lined, craggy faces.

Eventually, the boat came up against the harbor wall, and with the vessel finally secured, a gang plank was hooked onto the side. Reginald took Katherine by the hand, and, walking in front of her, he carefully guided her onto the cobblestone.

Even now she was on dry land, she still felt the swaying of the sea. Clearly, her body had become accustomed to it, and she wondered how long the sensation would last.

Reginald turned toward the men that accompanied them and ordered them to hurry off and secure horses, telling them to return to a tavern located nearby.

When he turned back to Katherine, he said, “We’ll stay in this tavern tonight. You have another long journey tomorrow. Besides, we have arrived two days ahead of time, so there is hardly any rush.”

With rooms booked for themselves, while the soldiers had set up camp nearby, Katherine and Reginald settled at a table and ordered food. Katherine was surprised to realize that she was famished, but then remembered she hadn’t eaten since early that morning.

Still, she struggled not to screw up her nose at her surroundings. The place was grubby, cold, and full of local peasants. In England, she wouldn’t be seen dead in such a place.

When their meal arrived, Katherine could only glare down at it.

“What on earth is this?” she grimaced, staring at the bowl in front of her.

Reginald gave her a cold stare. “It is stew and fresh bread. You will have to get used to it. This is what they eat in Scotland.” He paused while giving her a long look. “You’re not in England now, sister. As awful as it might be, there are a few things you are going to have to get accustomed to, the food being one of them.”

Katherine sighed heavily, and picking up her spoon, she tentatively delved into the brown mess in front of her. Surprisingly, she found it to be rather tasty, and dismissing her initial judgement, she ate heartily while Reginald laid out his plan.

“Do not be fooled, sister. As barbaric as these people are, they are still clever, and their intelligence may surprise you. You will need to be cunning and vigilant in your efforts. What you are about to do is important, and we cannot afford any mistakes.”

Once again, Katherine had to bite down her frustration, for as usual, her brother spoke to her as though she were an imbecile.

“I’m not a fool, Reginald. I am well aware of the capabilities of the Scots. Clearly, this union would not be necessary if they were the cavemen our king tells us they are.”

“Katherine,” Reginald hissed.

She rolled her eyes, which angered him even more, but she hardly cared. It was not he who was being offered on a platter, was it? Besides, she had long stopped caring about her brother’s approval. What she was about to endure was bad enough. Nothing he could threaten her with could be any worse.

“I will not be accompanying you to the castle. If I am there, I cannot enact an attack against the MacLeod Clan. But fear not. I will not be far away.”

Katherine nodded. “How will I contact you to tell you what I have discovered?”

“Do not worry about that. I will send a messenger.”

“Perhaps, if I get the opportunity, I could do something there myself.”

“No!” Reginald barked.

He then looked about him as his outburst had caught the attention of a few punters sitting a few tables over.

Lowering his voice, he continued. “Stick to the plan. Find out what you can discover, and then report back to me. I hate the man as much as you do, but his death will not be helpful. Not yet, at any rate.”

After the meal, Katherine retired to her room. Not only was she exhausted from all the travelling they had already done, but she would have to rise before the sun tomorrow to continue her journey. There was still quite a way to go before she reached Dunvegan Castle. The place she would, in two weeks, be forced to call her home.

And yet, as tired as she was, sleep did not come easily. Her mind punished her with thoughts of what her future held. There were, of course, arranged marriages in England too, but it was usual, in those cases that the betrothed were introduced at some point before the ceremony.

Katherine, on the other hand, had no idea about the man she was about to marry. Well, she knew something about him. She knew he was a vicious Viking laird who took great pleasure in slaughtering Englishmen. His hatred of her kinsmen hardly filled her with confidence. What if he took a notion to rid himself of her at some point?

You must keep your knife on your person at all times. Even when you sleep.

Knowing how precarious and delicate the situation was between the warring countries, she had every intention of doing so. Once inside those castle walls, she would be on her own. There would be no army nearby to save her. Yes, she would have guards with her, but ten soldiers were hardly a match for an entire clan. Especially one as powerful as the MacLeods.

The following morning, at first light, Katherine readied herself for her journey and made her way downstairs. The men had secured horses, as Reginald had directed the day before, and she found her brother standing beside the only horse that didn’t have a rider, clearly waiting for her.

After helping her onto the beast, Reginald looked up at her. “Remember what I told you. Find out all that you can. We will get our revenge, sister.”

Katherine nodded, and after a brief and cold farewell, she and the group of soldiers that would accompany her, began their journey.

While she and Reginald were not in any way close, there was one thing uniting them. Probably the only thing, for they could both agree that they hated the man she was to marry. The king, in his wisdom, had decreed that she not just wed any Scottish nobleman, but Laird Domhnall MacLeod.

The same man who had slaughtered her father in battle.

 

Chapter Two

Somewhere in the MacLeod lands…

Pressing against the rough bark of the tree, most of his huge muscular frame hidden behind it, Domhnall MacLeod pulled the string of his bow up to the corner of his mouth. He took a long breath in and aimed. With his eye on the prize, he released his breath at the same time he released his arrow, but in that very second, the hairy boar jolted and ran.

“Damn it.”

“Och, that’s the third time ye’ve missed it,” Kai crowed with laughter. “I think ye’re losing yer touch, brother.”

“Aye,” Magnus agreed. “Or maybe the beast can smell ye a mile away. When’s the last time ye had a bath?”

With his long dark brown wavy hair now matted to his head after hunting all day, Domhnall wondered if Magnus might have a point, but he snarled at his brothers, and with lightning speed, he was suddenly at their sides.

“Hey, dinnae be using yer gift on me, or I’ll force ye tae cry,” Kai said, readying to defend himself.

He was far slenderer than his brothers, and stood no chance against Domhnall, but he was a fine fighter all the same.

“He will too,” Magnus nodded.

“Get out of me head, Magnus,” Kai snarled playfully.

They rarely used the gifts they had been endowed with at birth on each other, but the threat to do so was always fun. While Domhnall, the oldest of the brothers, had lightning speed and the strength of ten men, Kai, the youngest, could coerce emotions, and Magnus had always been able to hear people’s thoughts, which had completely freaked him out as a child.

Domhnall smirked at the two of them. “Both o’ ye need tae grow up.”

“Hey, we’re nae the ones who cannae kill the boar,” Kai quipped back.

“Maybe I’ll bring ye home for the roast instead,” Domhnall shot back.

“Aye, I’d like to see ye try.”

The three brothers had been out hunting all morning, but to no avail. Each time Domhnall had managed to get anywhere close to a prey, the damned beasts had escaped him. Maybe Kai, the youngest of the three, was right. Maybe he was losing his touch.

Or maybe, ye’re distracted and have other things on yer mind.

There was that, too.

Tomorrow, the woman he had been ordered to marry would arrive. A Sassenach, of all people. He abhorred the idea, of course, but King Edward I had persuaded him with arguments of peace and the fact that marrying an English woman would be the beginnings of them bridging the gap between the borders.

Domhnall had seen enough death, not least of which, his own parents’. An occurrence that taunted him even now. He was tired of war and bloodshed, for the lands of Scotland were soaked in it. If there was a chance for peace, ought he not to grab hold of it with both hands?

That being said, neither was he a fool. He was laird over the clan lands, and thus, extremely protective of his people. He had considered the king’s other motivations, for he was certain he had them. There had been too many losses on either side for him to give up so easily. Domhnall was thus determined to make certain this marriage did not open the door to even more troubles, like the English pushing into Scottish territory.

“Ye’re troubled,” Magnus said.

He always was the more astute of them all, even with his mind-reading abilities. His hair was a shade darker and shorter than his brother’s, falling in loose waves around his face, and as he looked intently at him with his deep blue eyes, something they all had in common, he waited for Domhnall’s reply.

“Aye. I am. Me mind is on other things.”

“The English woman,” Kai said, all mockery now gone from his tone.

“Aye.” Domhnall nodded. “The English woman.”

Kai frowned. “Are ye sure ye’re doing the right thing marrying her?”

“We’ve talked about this ‘afore, Kai. I’m nae going through it all again.”

“All right.” Kai raised his hands in surrender. “I just worry about ye, is all.”

Domhnall smirked. “I think ye have enough on yer plate with all the lasses ye have after ye.”

But Kai didn’t bite. “Stop changing the subject. And ye may be laird, but there’s only a year between each o’ us. I might be the youngest, but I’m nae a fool.”

Domhnall gave him a somber look. “I ken that, braither. And I thank ye fer yer concern. But like I say, we’ve gone over this many times. There’s really naething more tae say.”

“I think we should head back tae the castle,” Magnus suggested. “I dinnae ken about ye two, but I cannae feel me feet any longer, and I’m certain a whisky will warm us all up.”

Nodding, Domhnall said, “That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard all morning.”

The snow fall beneath their feet was beginning to melt, leaving the ground wet, cold and muddy. No doubt there would be more in the coming months, for the winters on the Isle of Skye were always harsh. The bitter wind carrying the icy winds from the sea from the west didn’t help, and even with all the fires lit, there were parts of the castle that were desperately cold.

As they trudged through the forest and headed toward the main path, Kai said, “And we could all do with a bath. Look at the state o’ us.”

Magnus looked down at himself and chuckled. “Well, at least we didnae wear our best clothes.”

Once on the main track, they found their horses still tied to the trees, where they had left them. The dense forest they had just left ran parallel to the track, almost all the way to the castle.

“What dae ye think she’ll be like, this new wife o’ yers?” Kai said, tying his bag to the saddle.

“Och, nay doubt some quiet meek thing,” Domhnall replied. “Ye ken the Sassenachs. They’re all propriety and manners.”

“She’ll fit right in then,” Magnus quipped.

The three brothers burst into laughter and were about to mount their beasts, when the sound of horses approaching had the three of them spinning around to look behind them.

“Get back intae the trees,” Domhnall demanded.

They ran back the way they had come, and with their swords pulled from their waists, and crouching low, they waited for the horses to arrive.

“Ye think it’s another attack?” Kai hissed.

Domhnall shook his head. “I dinnae ken, but I’m nae taking any chances.”

They didn’t have to wait long, for over the brow of the hill, a group of soldiers emerged.

“It’s the English,” Magnus spat.

“Aye, but it’s hardly an army,” Domhnall noted. “And besides, they’re out here in full view. It doesnae mak’ any sense.”

“What are we going tae dae?” Kai asked.

“We’re going tae ask them what the devil they’re doing here,” Domhnall said, standing fully erect and running out into the soldier’s path with his sword held high.

“Halt,” the lead soldier shouted, shocked at the sight of Domhnall and his brothers.

“Who are ye? What are ye doing here?” Domhnall demanded.

“We are here…”

But as the soldier continued, Domhnall could hear a woman’s voice behind him.

“…just get to this castle and be done with this travel. How much farther can we possibly be?”

While Kai and Magnus continued to question the soldiers, Domhnall stepped past the first few horses, searching for where the voice was coming from. He came to a sudden halt when he saw a woman sitting side saddle, and a few things flew through his mind in that moment.

This has tae be the English woman. Our lasses dinnae ride side-saddle.

My god, she’s stunning.

This is me future bride?

Glaring down at him, she said, “Have you never seen a woman on a horse before?”

“Nae quite the meek, mild-mannered lass ye were expecting, is she?” Kai whispered into his ear with a huge smirk.

“Ye have travelled far, me lady,” Domhnall began. “Welcome tae the Isle o’ Skye. I am—”

“I am here to see the laird. Now, I beg ye, let us by.”

Clearly, given his present appearance, she didn’t realize who he was, and in truth, he couldn’t blame her. He was in a bit of a state.

“I am—”

“Do you not understand English?” she asked. “I am—”

But suddenly, her horse, trying to pull its hooves out of the deep mud, jerked forward, throwing the woman off its back. She landed in a muddy puddle, yelping in distress.

“Oh. Oh, my lord! Help me,” she cried, looking up at the soldiers who accompanied her.

But as each soldier clambered down from their horse, they too, got stuck and struggled to pull their feet from the thick muck to reach her.

“Perhaps the English need tae learn how tae navigate real terrain,” Domhnall said dryly.

This remark sent Magnus and Kai into peals of laughter, and the three stood chuckling for a minute. Lady de Beaumont, as he now knew she was, did not find his wit amusing in the slightest, and glaring up at him, she spat. “And perhaps the Scottish should learn some manners.”

Domhnall’s eyes flew wide at her fiery response. She certainly wasn’t what he had been expecting, and found himself both amused and intrigued by her behavior and boldness.

“Please, let me help ye.”

“I don’t need your help,” she hissed, pressing a gloved hand into the ground beside her to get her balance. Like the rest of her, her hand sunk deep into the soggy ground, eliciting a rather comical look of disgust.

“Please yersel’,” Domhnall chuckled.

Clearly, she was as stubborn as she was bold, and perhaps, given the circumstances, she felt she needed to assert her independence, what with being surrounded by so many men. Whatever her reasons, she was certainly not the woman he expected. Besides, what was she doing here? She hadn’t been due to arrive until the following day.

He sighed inwardly then, thinking about all the time and effort he had put into the arrangements he had made for her arrival. He had planned music, and entertainers, and the maids and servants were going to be lined up to welcome her. The preparations for the feast were all underway, and, he supposed, that could still happen. But he and his brothers would also have been dressed in attire fit to welcome a lady.

Och, well. That was a waste o’ me time.

After watching her struggle for several more minutes, Domhnall was growing impatient, and noting where the ground looked more solid, he placed a foot there and leaned forward. Slipping his arms under her knees and behind her back, he lifted her with no effort at all.

His action obviously surprised her, for she gasped, automatically wrapping her hands around his neck. He watched her cheeks bloom red with anger, and yet, she did not complain, nor did she fight him off.

Once back on firm ground, Lady de Beaumont brushed herself down, but in doing so, only spread the mud that was already on her hands all over her clothes. Without looking at him, she hissed, “Thank you.”

“Aye, well. Someone had tae dae it or ye’d still be there by night fall. Now, as I was—”

“Just because you laid your hands on me, without my permission, I might add, does not give you the right to speak to me,” she spat. “We will be on our way to the castle now. I’m sure you…” she struggled to find a word as her eyes roved his person in disgust, “…men, have other things to do…”

Behind Domhnall, Kai was tittering, clearly finding this entire situation hilarious. Domhnall supposed he couldn’t blame him. It was funny in its ridiculousness. If the woman would just let him speak.

“I’ve finished me ditch-digging today,” he countered sarcastically, “but I’d be happy tae throw ye back intae that puddle if ye carry on being so rude.”

“You are impertinent, aren’t you? I wonder what your laird would think if he knew you were speaking to me in such a manner.”

Domhnall was getting a little frustrated by her arrogance, and spinning to look at her, he said, “If ye dinnae watch yer tongue, I’ll lock ye in the laird’s dungeons.”

“I hardly think so,” she laughed mirthlessly. “My betrothed,” she spat the word with obvious venom, “would never let a barbarian like you put a hand on me.”

“Is that right?” Domhnall said, taking a long step towards her. With no hesitation, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Argh,” she shrieked. “Put me down. Put me down this minute.”

The soldiers went to move, but Kai and Magnus jerked their swords towards them threateningly.

Domhnall then turned to speak to the Englishmen.

“Yer charge needs tae think before she opens that pretty little mouth o’ hers. Ye see, this rude barbarian, is nay other than her future husband.”

The soldier’s faces dropped, and behind him, he could hear Lady de Beaumont gasp again.

“And believe me when I say, I have nay problem at all locking her in me dungeons. Perhaps while she’s in there, she can learn some manners. The cold, dark cells might even teach her, her place.”

Best selling books of Kenna

Spring 1305, Mhairi’s House of Pleasure

Isle of Harris, Scottish Western Isles

“Dinnae look now, Emily, but I reckon that’s the brawest feller I’ve ever laid eyes on in me life just come in!” whispered Raven MacDonald, neé MacNeil, to her fellow maid, nudging her in the ribs. Emily looked up at once and took in the tall, broad figure with short, pale-gold hair standing in the doorway.

“Och, aye, he’s dreamy,” she breathed, her mouth falling open as she stared at the newcomer.

“I told ye nae tae look! And stop starin’ at him like that,” Raven hissed, stifling a giggle with one hand while absently wiping at the table top with a damp cloth with the other.

“Why should I? Ye’re starin’,” Emily pointed out, not taking her eyes off the blond-haired man as he strode in on long, muscular, leather-clad legs and shut the door behind him.

Raven could not deny it. Since the man had come in, she had been transfixed by his powerful physique and rough, masculine beauty. “Look at his hair. ’Tis so lovely and thick and fair, like spun gold. And look at his muscles and his scars,” she whispered admiringly as strange chills such as she had never felt before ran up and down her spine. “He’s gorgeous. He looks like a fearsome warrior.”

“Aye, he is.”

Raven gasped and tore her eyes from the blond godlike man long enough to glance at her friend. “Ye ken who he is?”

“Aye, of course I dae! Ye must be the only person on Harris who daesnae recognize him,” Emily replied.

Raven frowned a little at that. She had very good reasons for never straying too far from the house, and she seldom ventured into the nearby village. It was safer that way. But she said nothing.

Emily continued. “But this is the first time I’ve seen him come in here.”

“Who is he then?” Raven asked, unable to stop looking at the man as she pretended to mop the table. He had light-colored eyes, which flickered about the room, taking in the bevy of painted courtesans and their male clientele already occupying the luxuriously furnished salon.

“Why, ’tis Arne MacLeod, Laird Haldor’s younger braither,” Emily told her, getting on with her job of loading used crockery onto a tray.

The laird’s braither? Raven, feeling unaccountably excited by his presence, watched covertly while Madam Morag glided over to greet MacLeod, an ingratiating smile plastered on her painted old face. Morag was tall for a woman, but the blond warrior dwarfed her. He was huge!

The two chatted in low voices for a few minutes, clearly discussing business. Straining her ears, Raven could hear the low, deep rumble of his voice. The sound made goosebumps rise all over her skin.

“Wait until ye get close enough tae see his eyes. All the girls would give their right arms tae get him intae bed. Wish ye were one of them, d’ye?” Emily smiled teasingly at Raven as she hurried off back to the kitchen with her tray.

Raven moved on to the next table, but her attention was on MacLeod and the courtesans who were eyeing him up with frank appreciation, giggling, thrusting out their breasts, practically licking their lips. Raven was well aware that in comparison to their usual clientele he was a choice morsel. She suspected that if not for Morag’s stern presence, the girls would have fought each other to be the one to take him to bed, without charging a penny. And the way Raven felt, for the first time in her life, just looking at him, strange tingles racing all over her body, she thought she understood why.

Before she had come to work at Mhairi’s, she had never really understood how a woman could want a man so much. She was not a virgin, but she had lain with only one man in her life, a cold, soulless man who repulsed her in every way.

So, to catch herself imagining what this MacLeod would look like without his clothes on shocked her to her core. And now, seeing the way each of the girls was trying to tempt him into choosing to lay with them, she felt a flash of jealousy. Why, that’s absurd! I’ve only just laid eyes on him. How can I be jealous?

“Maeve,” came a familiar voice, jolting her from her reverie.

“Aye,” Raven replied, responding to the false name she had adopted to shield her from her past. She smiled up at Morag, while noticing from the corner of her eye that MacLeod was now seated at a cozy corner table near the roaring hearth, his long legs stretched out, his boots resting on the fender.

Morag’s pinched, painted lips smiled back at her with a genuine warmth that was rare for her. “I see ye lookin’ at that feller that’s just come in. That’s new,” she said slyly. “And I dinnae blame ye. He’s a fine specimen, eh? Why, if I was thirty years younger…” Her husky voice trailed off, and her faded eyes took on a faraway look for a moment. Then she snapped back into her professional self.

“He’s the laird’s braither, Arne MacLeod is his name.”

“Aye, Emily said,” Raven put in, trying not to keep looking at him.

“He’s lookin’ fer a lass tae spend the night with him, but he wants tae take his time choosin’ which one. I’m tae tell the girls tae let him be fer a while, so he can have a look at what’s on offer at his leisure. But he has plenty of money tae spend, so we must keep him sweet. I want ye tae serve him, and make sure he gets everything he wants,” the madam ordered under her breath.

A fresh wave of excitement washed over Raven. “Aye, I will,” she found herself saying with an unfamiliar eagerness.

“Good lass.” Morag patted her shoulder and went off to speak to her girls. Raven heard soft expressions of disappointment from several of them as, with trembling fingers, she tucked her cleaning cloth in her apron pocket. She brushed down her skirts and straightened her cap, wondering why on earth she was bothering. I’m a maid, fer goodness sake, nae a courtesan out tae flirt with a man.

But for some odd reason, it suddenly felt important to do what little she could to present herself well. She straightened up, took a deep breath, summoned all her composure, and approached MacLeod’s table.

He cooly watched her coming, and by the time she reached the table, Raven felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Close up, he was even more dazzling to look at. He had the fine, chiseled features of a classical statue from ancient times, with brown stubble that glinted with gold covering his squarish chin and thick golden-brown slashes for brows. But the most startling thing about him were his eyes.

Emily had been right about them, for Raven had never seen such beautiful eyes on a man, and she found herself staring helplessly into them, transfixed. They were a light, silvery-blue, like a blue wintry sky shining on crystals of ice. Their unwavering gaze seemed to pierce her to her soul.

When he smiled at her, revealing even, white teeth, her mouth went dry, and her heart began to pound, thump, thump, thump, beneath her bodice.

“Hello, lassie,” he said, his lovely deep voice pouring over her like warm honey.

Pull yersel’ together, ye silly goose, she silently chided herself, and get on with yer job. Somehow, she got control of herself enough to drop a small curtsey. “Good evenin’ tae ye, Sir. May I bring ye somethin’ tae drink, or perhaps ye’re hungry?” she asked, returning his smile.

He leaned back in his chair, not taking his eyes from her face, and folded his arms. “I’m nae sure. What d’ye recommend?”

“Well, if ye’re nae decided yet, then ye could start off with a tankard of ale or some wine or whisky if ye prefer, while ye make up yer mind.”

“Good idea. What’s the ale like here? If ’tis like gnats’ piss, I’ll give it a miss and have some wine instead.”

Raven could not stop the laugh that slipped form her lips. She glanced around to check if Morag was listening before telling him in a low voice, “Well, I shouldnae say this, but ye’re probably best off skippin’ the ale and havin’ the wine.”

“And what’s the wine like? Horse piss?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

This time, Raven snorted and chuckled. “’Tis nae too bad. I’ve tasted worse. And the whisky is quite good.”

“I’ll go fer the wine then and maybe move on tae the whisky later.”

“Very well, Sir. I’ll just go and fetch that fer ye.” She went to the sideboard on the other side of the room. It was loaded with glasses, goblets, jugs, and drink and food of all kinds. She selected a flask of the finest wine they had and decanted it into a pewter jug.

This she carried back to him, along with a large goblet, and placed them on the table. “Would ye like me tae pour that fer ye, Sir?” she asked.

“Aye, if ye dinnae mind,” he told her with a nod, his icy eyes dancing with something she could not name but which made her feel hot all over.

“Say when,” she told him, lifting the jug and starting to pour the wine for him. She began to feel a little worried when it almost reached the brim before he said, “When.”

Then he lifted the goblet to his firm, sculpted lips and, his eyes locked with hers, took a long sip of the ruby liquid. As he did so, Raven noticed his hands, large, tan, capable-looking, covered with fine golden hairs, and a network of scars. A warrior’s hands. Yet he held the goblet delicately, with refinement.

The sight of his thick fingers delicately clamped around the stem of the goblet was oddly exciting, and she could not stop herself from wondering what it would be like to feel them upon her skin. She suspected they would feel far different from the cold ones she had known before.

He nodded his blond head and smiled approvingly. “Aye, that’s nae bad at all. Thank ye fer yer recommendation,” he said, placing the goblet back down. “Will ye come and join me fer a drink?”

Raven was startled by the unexpected invitation. “Och, nay,” she said, hiding how flustered she was behind a small laugh. “Ye need tae speak tae Morag. She’ll get one of the other lassies tae come and have a drink with ye if ye want some company.”

“But I’m happy with the present company,” he said, his strange eyes gleaming in the amber lamplight. She stared at him, at a loss as to what to say for a few moments, her whole body tingling. “What’s yer name?” he asked suddenly.

“Maeve. Maeve Carter.”

“Maeve. That’s an awful pretty name.”

Raven’s cheeks flamed. “Thank ye, Sir.”

“Me name’s Arne, Arne MacLeod. How d’ye dae, Maeve?” He held out his enormous hand to her. She looked at it in disbelief for a moment, but then she reached out and took it.

“Very well. And yersel’?” she asked as his large, warm palm enclosed her hand. A shock like lightening rushed up Raven’s arm at his touch. He shook her hand briefly and let it go, a trace of surprise on his face. She wondered if he had felt the strange sensation as well.

“Right as rain, lass, right as rain,” he replied, giving her an indecipherable look. Raven suddenly became acutely aware of a peculiar tension hanging in the air between them. She had never experienced anything like it until then.

“Tell me, Maeve, what can a hungry man get tae eat around here?”

She struggled to compose herself. “That depends on what ye fancy,” she heard herself say, only realizing after she had said it how coquettish it must have sounded. She blushed again. “I mean, how hungry ye are. We have bread and cheese and cured meats, or ye can have somethin’ hot.”

His golden-brown eyebrows shot up, and he grinned. “Somethin’ hot, eh? And what might that be?”

Ye’ve done it again! Keep a check on yer tongue with this one. “Braised beef with carrots, tatties and neeps, or there’s some roasted lamb, I believe,” she explained, wondering how one man could have such an effect on her.

“Have ye had yer supper?” he asked.

“Erm, nae. I’ll eat when me shift’s over in an hour,” she replied. Why is he even askin’?

“If I wait an hour, will ye come and join me fer dinner then?”

The request filled her with fresh consternation. Daes he nae understand the way things are done around here?

Remembering Morag’s orders to give him whatever he wanted, she glanced around for the madam’s help. Did “whatever he wants” include wining and dining the help? But Morag was otherwise engaged. So Raven looked back at him, smiled, and shook her head. “’Tis kind of ye tae ask, but ye must speak tae Morag about it,” she told him again.

“Ach, all right. Let’s nae beat about the bush. How much tae buy yer company fer the whole night?”

Raven was so shocked, before she knew what she was doing, she had raised her hand and given him a hard slap around the face. The sound echoed about the room. She regretted it the instant it happened, and she felt eyes in the room upon her. Ach, Morag will give me the boot after this!

“Ow! What was that fer?” Arne asked, rubbing the red hand mark she had left behind on his cheek.

“I’m nae fer sale. I’m nae a courtesan. I keep tellin’ ye, if ye wat a lass fer the night ye must speak tae Morag,” she told him in no uncertain terms. Though her heart was sinking, she felt she had nothing to lose now, since Morag would be furious with her for hitting a customer, and the laird’s brother of all people.

“Is everythin’ all right, Sir?” Of course, it was Morag. Raven steeled herself for the inevitable dismissal, afraid of what she would do if she had to leave the protection working at Mhairi’s offered her. Ye should learn tae keep yer temper!

“Aye, fine. I insulted the lady without meanin’ tae, and she put me right. It was a misunderstandin’, that’s all,” Arne told the madam straight out. Raven stared at him in surprise, grateful for his admission.

“Well, if ye’re happy about it, then I suppose that’s all right,” Morag replied. She glanced at Raven. “’Tis best tae refrain from slappin’ the customers in future, Maeve. ’Tis nae good fer business.”

“Sorry, Morag. I’ll nae dae it again,” she promised, hopeful of keeping her job.

“Apologize tae the customer, nae tae me,” the madam said.

“Sorry, Sir,” Raven muttered, afraid to meet Arne’s eyes.

“Can I have a word with ye in private, Morag?” he asked.

Morag nodded. “Raven, go and get some more wine fer Lucy and her customer, will ye?” Raven did as she as told, and while she was at the sideboard, she saw the pair deep in conversation, each glancing her way now and then. She delivered the wine to Lucy and her man and was about to start clearing another table when Morag beckoned her back to Arne’s.

“Ye can take the rest of the evenin’ off. Arne here seems tae like yer company, so I want ye tae keep him entertained,” the madam said quietly in her ear.

“What? What d’ye mean keep him entertained? I’m nae sleepin’ with him,” Raven whispered back urgently.

“He understands ye’re nae fer sale. He’s kens ye’re but a maid. He says he’s happy tae just talk and have dinner.”

Raven looked at her questioningly. Morag just shrugged. “He’s the customer, and the customer is always right, especially when he’s paid fer the whole of the night,” she said, giving Raven a wink as she moved off.

All this time, she was aware of Arne watching them. She wondered what his game was. But then he smiled that dazzling smile of his, and his silver-blue eyes danced with good humor as he got up and pulled out a chair for her.

“Will ye take a seat, Maeve?”

Unable to resist, after a brief moment of hesitation, she sat down. “Thank ye,” she said as he pushed in her chair and resumed his seat. He leaned on his elbows and smiled across at her.

“What’s goin’ on?” she asked.

“What d’ye mean?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

“Ye ken what I mean. Customers in whorehouses dinnae usually pay fer the night just tae talk tae the maid. It seems very odd.”

“Is that right? Well, ye clearly have more experience of these things that I dae. The last time I went tae a house of pleasure was on me fifteenth birthday when me big braither dragged me there as a present.”

“So why are ye here now then?” she asked, puzzled and intrigued.

He shrugged. “I suppose I got a wee bit lonely. I felt like some company,” he explained.

“I cannae imagine a man like ye has tae buy a woman fer the night.”

His eyes widened, full of mirth. “A man like me? Now, what d’ye mean by that?”

Raven’s cheeks flared hotly. She wished she had not said it, so she decided to change the subject. “Since I’m here fer the evenin’, ye’d better tell me what ye’d like tae talk about?”

“How about Maeve Carter?”

Raven could not help but warm to him. He was not only beautiful to look at but seemingly charming and good-natured as well. She decided she might as well enjoy the evening. It was unlikely that it would be repeated. She gave herself up to the pleasure of his company. “That’s a very boring subject, and it’ll nae take up more than a minute or two.”

“We’ll see about that. How old are ye, Maeve?” he asked her as he poured her some wine.

“Twenty-one.”

“D’ye come from around here?”

“Nay, from down south, near Tarbert. Me faither has a farm there,” she lied with practiced ease.

“A farm lass, eh? How did ye come tae be here on Harris, workin’ at house of pleasure as a maid?”

“I like tae travel, and I like workin’ here. The pay’s good, I get meals and board, and the people are a sort of family.”

“And now, the most important question of all. D’ye ye ken how tae play chess?”

The question was so unexpected, Raven burst out laughing. She relaxed, suddenly feeling completely at ease in his company. He looked fearsome and intimidating, but she could tell his nature was warm and funny.

“Aye, I play. Why d’ye want tae ken?”

“Because I want tae play, of course. Why else?”

“Ye want tae play chess, with me?”

“Somethin’ wrong with that?” he asked, his eyes dancing.

“I suppose nae. But I hope ye’re nae a sore loser. I’m very good. Me braithers taught me.”

“Well, well, ye sound very confident. Let’s have a game or two then and see how good ye are.”

She began laughing. “All right. I’ll go and fetch the board.” She got up and went over to one of the cupboards below the sideboard. There were several chess sets, packs of cards, and other gaming boards stowed there. She took a chess set and snatched up an extra goblet while she was there. Then she returned to the table and sat down. He began setting out the board.

“How about we make a small wager on the outcome,” he suggested.

“All right,” Raven agreed, seeing no harm in it. “I dinnae have much money though.”

“I wasnae thinkin’ of money,” he replied, lining up the pawns.

“Oh? What then?” she asked curiously.

He finished placing the pieces on the board and looked her square in the eyes and said boldly. “How about if I win, we share a kiss?”

Raven’s whole body tingled. “All right,” she replied, unable to help returning his smile. “One kiss.”

They began to play, and she played as badly as she could without being too obvious about it, for she had decided that this was one game she would be very happy to lose.

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Me darling Arne,I once dared tae dream that ye could be me forever, that our love might defy even fate. But I must face the truth I have tried so hard tae deny: our paths were never meant tae stay intertwined.

This is Thorsten, our son. He was born two months ago, on the 20th of March, while ye were away fighting fer us. I named him after yer braither. He has yer strength, yer eyes. Every time I look at him, I see ye, and me heart breaks anew because of what I must dae.

More than anything, I wanted ye tae come home safely tae meet him, tae hold him, and tae feel the joy of being his faither. I dreamed of us raising him together. Being the family I never had. But dreams are fragile things, easily shattered by the cruel hand of reality. Me past has finally caught up with me, and I have nay choice but to leave.

There are truths about me ye dae nae ken, secrets I’ve kept buried deep. I am nae the woman ye believe me tae be, and fer that, I am deeply sorry. I never meant tae deceive ye, but the person ye love is a lie. And now, the danger that follows me threatens ye and our son. If I stay, I put both of ye at risk, and I cannot bear the thought of any harm coming tae ye or Thorsten.

I ken ye will hate me fer leaving, fer abandoning ye and our child. Ye have every right tae be angry, tae curse me name, and tae never forgive me. But ken that I am doing this because I love ye both more than me own life. I am leaving tae protect ye, tae keep ye safe from the shadows that chase me. I have nay other choice, Arne. If there were another way, I would take it, but there is none.

Please, take care of Thorsten. Love him with all the strength I ken ye have. Raise him with the kindness in yer heart.

And please, dinnae search fer me. It is too dangerous, and ye will never be able tae find me.

Kiss Thorsten fer me, and try tae remember that I love ye both, always.

Forever in me heart,

Maeve

Chapter One

May 1307, Mhairi’s House o’ Pleasure

The village of Muircross, near Castle MacLeod, the Western Scottish Highlands

 

The golden spring evening cast a deceptively warm glow over the grey granite walls of the substantial house which stood on the outskirts of the village. It nestled alone on an incline above a lane lined with towering pines and bushes of thorny, bright yellow gorse.

From the outside it seemed perfectly respectable, with lace curtains at the windows, but looks could be deceptive, and people from miles around knew very well that it was a house of ill repute.

Each night, as the sun went down, men would start arriving, tapping at the door to be let in. They came alone or in groups, drunk or sober, on foot, on horseback, or in carriages that marked the occupants’ wealth and status. All paying customers were welcomed by the painted courtesans who dwelt within Mhairi’s House o’ Pleasure.

At first, there had been nothing remarkable about the group of riders, five men, dusty from the road, who had come earlier that evening, and were currently being entertained in the downstairs rooms. There, the customers and the courtesans consorted, flirted, made free with whisky and wine, gorged themselves on fine foods, danced, and laughed, all under the watchful eye of the madam. Later, they would couple up, to disappear to one of the upstairs rooms.

Raven had thought little of it when the riders entered. She had been working at Mhairi’s for just over a year as a maid, having adopted the name of Maeve, and she was used to the comings and goings of the clientele. She split her duties between cleaning and, at busy times, helping in the kitchen out the back.

She was rushing to and fro between the main room and the kitchen with the orders when the men entered. They were greeted by Morag, the madam, who showed them to a table. Almost immediately Raven heard their leader asking if anyone knew of the whereabouts of a woman they were searching for.

“Her name is Raven MacNeil, but she might be goin’ by another name,” he said gruffly.

The bottom suddenly fell out of Raven’s world. Her mind went blank, and her breath caught in her throat.

The man went on, “She’s in her early twenties, slender, with long black hair, a pale complexion, and light brown eyes.”

Starting to shake, Raven accidentally spilled some of the ale she was carrying on the floor, attracting the attention of those nearby, including Morag and the leader of the riders.

Morag turned away from the man and directed a warning look at Raven. “Ye’d best go and clean that up quickly, Maeve, afore somebody slips up,” she said calmly. The man glanced dismissively at the clumsy maid, who kept her head down as she scurried back to the kitchen. Raven just had time to hear the conversation continue when Morag turned back to the man and said thoughtfully, “Black hair and brown eyes, did ye say?”

“Aye.”

Morag shook her stiff curls. “Nay, we’ve nae girls like that workin’ here, Sir. Shame though, for they’d be worth their weight in gold,” she said with an air of regret. “Nae many girls with black hair up here, so I am sure she would make me a good penny”. Then, with total aplomb, she swept her professional smile over his colleagues and asked in a honeyed voice, “Now, what would ye gentlemen like tae drink?”

By that time, Raven was in the kitchen, her heart pounding, limbs trembling, struggling to draw air into her lungs. Morag appeared a few moments later. She spoke quietly to one of the kitchen maids, who immediately went to clean up the spilled beer in the main room. When she has gone, the madam pushed the kitchen door closed, pulled Raven aside, and whispered urgently, “Ye heard them, lass, they’re lookin’ fer ye.”

“I-k-ken,” Raven whispered back, her voice shaking. “I h-have to leave right away, Morag. ’Tis too dangerous fer us tae stay here now.” Her heart continued thudding loudly in her chest as she stared at the door, painfully aware of the peril that lurked only feet away on the other side.

Morag nodded. “Go fetch the bairn and go up tae yer room. I’ll meet ye there shortly.” With that, she returned to her duties in the main room. Without saying anything to anyone else, Raven slipped out to the hallway and ran quietly up the staircase to her room.

Minutes later, in the small chamber which had been her refuge for the last year and a few months, Raven clutched her sleeping son protectively to her breast with one arm. Her voice thick with tears, she kept up a constant stream of quiet reassurance as she hurried back and forth between the small wardrobe and the large bag which lay open on the bed, hastily placing her few, necessary possessions inside with one hand.

“It’s all going tae be fine, wee Thorsten, me darlin’, just ye wait and see,” she told him through her stifled sobs, pressing kisses to his shock of pitch-black hair that was so like her own. “Ye’ll be better off without me. Ye have a good faither from a good family. He’ll look after ye. I cannae protect ye any longer, but ye’ll be safe with him.”

The hopeful words belied the terrible feeling that her whole world had suddenly been ripped apart. A mixture of fear and trepidation coursed through her as she began stuffing Thorsten’s tiny clothes into another small bag.

“I dinnae want tae leave ye, bonny lad, but ’tis fer the best, ye’ll see. And one day, we’ll be together again. I’ll find a way.”

Through her tears, she silently prayed that would be the case. But deep down, she knew that the vengeful man who had sent the riders to find her would not give up until they did. And if he found out about Thorsten’s existence, he would not allow him to live. The fearful knowledge sat in her belly like a cold, dead weight. It was that, the fear for Thorsten’s life, that was keeping her from completely falling to pieces.

As she finished putting Thorsten’s things into the bag, she glanced over at the chess board on the table in the corner of the room. Just seeing it there and the memories it stirred increased the almost crushing pain in her chest. Outwardly, it was a simple chess board, yet for Raven, it was a symbol of all her hopes and dreams for a happy future, hopes and dreams which were now crumbling around her.

Now, it stood for everything and everyone she was about to lose, and never have again. She felt as though her heart was being torn into pieces.

The noises from the neighboring room grew in volume and intensity, shrieks and groans of two people rutting like beasts. Raven tried to shut it out and held her palms over Thorsten’s tiny shell-like ears, lest the noise wake him from his peaceful slumber. The shrieks increased until the woman screamed as she reached her climax, or pretended to, shortly followed by an exhausted groan from the man.

“Ye’ll nae be sorry tae leave that behind, I’ll wager, lassie,” said Morag, coming quietly into the room and jerking her thumb at the wall. The old madam was wearing a gaudy gown and had a hard, painted face to suit her hard life. But when she smiled at Raven, the kindness of her true nature shone out from beneath the thick layer of powder and rouge.

“I nae sure I willnae miss it, Morag,” Raven replied with shaking voice, ineffectually sniffing back her tears. “At least while I could hear it, I kent we were safe.” She summoned a weak smile despite the terror gripping her, urging her to be gone. “I’m packed and ready tae leave now,” she added, nodding at the bags on the bed.

“Ach, ye dinnae have tae hurry so much, lassie. The girls have promised tae keep the men that are askin’ questions about ye busy fer hours, so ye have plenty of time. Besides, I’ve already told them ye’re nae here, and I’ve given them some information that’ll lead them astray.”

While she spoke, she came over and stroked Raven’s hair then gently kissed Thorsten’s head, looking at him with the doting eyes of a grandmother. “Are ye certain ye need tae dae this? Ye ken we can hide ye both fer as long as ye need, and nay man will ever find ye. Ye’ll be safe,” Morag said coaxingly, clearly hoping Raven would agree to stay.

Raven sobbed as she said thickly, “I want tae stay, Morag, but ’tis too dangerous. I fear fer me son’s life if those men find me, and they’ll never give up. If Thorsten and I stay here, he would never be safe.” She looked at Morag, her eyes blurred by tears, adding, “Besides, ye’ve already done so much fer us, and I dinnae want tae put ye or the girls in danger. Even lyin’ tae those men fer me just this once is puttin’ ye all at terrible risk.”

“Well, ’tis an awful shame,” Morag said, her lined forehead creasing further with obvious disappointment and worry. “We’ll miss ye, lass, and the wee man.”

Raven almost gave way under the weight of emotions coursing through her then. She hugged Thorsten’s small warm body close for comfort as she choked out,

“Ach, Morag, I’m gonnae miss ye, and the lasses as well. Ye’ve looked after us both so well, and I’ll never be able tae repay ye fer yer kindness. But if they’ve tracked me this far, I fear it’ll nae be long before they catch up with me. I have nae choice but tae run if I want tae save me son.”

“Ach, there’s naethin’ fer ye tae repay, hinny. We all wish we could dae more tae help ye.” Morag came closer and circled them with her arms, hugging them both tenderly.

“Ye’ve been a Godsend, Morag. I dinnae ken what I would have done without ye, givin’ me a job here and protectin’ me fer so long.” Raven’s stifled sobs of sorrow and gratitude wet the front of the older woman’s gown as they embraced, probably for the last time. For more than a year, the hard-faced, otherwise ruthless madam had been the closest thing to a mother she’d had, and Raven was loathe to leave her and her safe berth at the house.

When they finally drew apart, Morag held out her arms and said, “Here, let me hold him. This may be the last time I get the chance.”

I hope it isnae the last chance I have tae hold him too.

“I pray it willnae be, Morag, but I fear ye may be right. Ye’ve been as good as a grandmaither tae him while we’ve been here,” Raven said, carefully handing Thorsten over. She struggled to hold back her sorrow and panic as she hurriedly stuffed an extra shawl into the bag, a gift from Morag and the girls. Before she closed the bag, she went to the nightstand and took a letter from the drawer and put it inside.

Morag watched in grim silence as she cradled the sleeping baby. Then she asked, “Are ye sure there’s nay another way, lass? Is wee Thorsten’s faither nae back from the fightin’ yet?”

The question unleashed a fresh bout of sobbing from Raven, who felt her heart was being torn in two. Her voice shook as she answered, “Nay, but I think ’tis fer the best that he’s still away.” She had been working hard to convince herself of it. “If he were home, I dinnae think I could dae what I must. It would just make it more difficult tae leave, and that would put him and the bairn in danger.”

“That’s cruel indeed, lass. Me old heart goes out tae ye,” the madam murmured sadly, gazing down at the baby and stroking his mop of hair. “There’s nay mistakin’ the lad’s maither with that hair. ’Tis truly as black as a raven’s wing. But those bright blue eyes of his are his faither’s. He’s the perfect mixture of ye both.”

The words were like daggers stabbing at Raven’s already aching heart. A vision of Arne arose in her mind. The picture was as vivid as though he were standing next to her, as if she could reach out and touch him. She could see every detail of his powerful warrior’s body, the rough, masculine beauty of his features, his short, almost white-blond hair that she loved to run her fingers through, and his piercing blue gaze that glittered like sapphires in the sunlight whenever he looked at her.

The vision tore at her tortured soul. How can I leave him when I love him so much?

Suddenly, she clutched at her chest, finding it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

“Are ye alright, lassie?” Morag asked anxiously, coming closer and putting a hand on Raven’s shoulder. Raven laid her own over the top of it, taking comfort in the old woman’s reassuring touch. Slowly, she caught her breath.

“Aye, as alright as I can be,” she replied, unable to stop the trembling of her limbs but mentally steeling herself. “I have tae be strong, tae be able tae dae what I have tae dae.” She kissed Thorsten’s cheek as he lay sleeping in Morag’s arms, leaving the traces of her tears behind.

Finally, she managed to say, “Aye, he has his faither’s eyes. Arne will be proud of him.” Will he be reminded of me every time he looks at Thorsten’s hair?

“There’s nay time fer mourning,” she added, pulling herself up to her full height. “I must go. Help me with the bags, will ye, Morag, please?”

Morag nodded and handed Thorsten back to his mother. “I’ve had them prepare a horse fer ye, with enough provisions tae last ye a few days. There’s a bedroll and some blankets too, tae keep ye warm at night.” Morag easily hoisted the bags onto her shoulder.

“Thank ye,” Raven replied, cuddling Thorsten close as they finally left the room.

On quiet feet, they sped along the dimly-lit hallways and corridors of the sprawling house. Raven silently bid a last goodbye to the strange mixture of luxury and shabbiness she had become used to. The cries and grunts of business being transacted echoed from several of the rooms as they passed. While they walked, they continued their conversation in a whisper.

“Why d’ye nae just tell Arne about the men chasin’ ye? He could protect ye, could he nae? His braither is the laird hereabouts, the fabled Viking Lord,” Morag said as they hurried down the staircase to the lower levels.

“Aye, he would, but that’s exactly why I dinnae want tae tell him,” Raven explained, her fear and sorrow once more threatening to overwhelm her as she considered it for the hundredth time. “If I told Arne about all this, I ken he’d dae his best tae protect me me and Thorsten. But the man from me past who seeks me is very powerful and brutal. Tae cross him could cost Arne his life, and Thorsten’s as well. ’Tis safer fer them both if Arne daesnae ken the truth.”

“Aye, I suppose, if ye think ‘tis fer the best, lass,” Morag reluctantly agreed.

Eventually, they emerged from a rear door into a scrubby courtyard. There, with a feeling of tense relief, Raven saw a horse, already saddled, waiting for them. The actual physical evidence of their enforced flight brought more tears, but she would not let herself falter in her resolve and dashed them aside with the back of her hand.

“Ach, why is this so hard tae dae when I ken this is the best thing fer the baby and fer Arne?” she murmured as she handed the baby to Morag to hold while she mounted the horse. “I just have tae keep tellin’ mesel’ that they’ll both be so much better off without me in their lives.”

Morag handed the baby up to her, and Raven secured him to her chest with her shawl. Then she looked down at Morag and held out her hand. Morag took it, her hard brown eyes softening with tears as they squeezed each other’s fingers and shared a final affectionate look.

“Thank ye fer everythin’, Morag, and thank the girls fer me and say goodbye fer the both of us. Ye’ve given me a safe haven when I needed it most, and I’ll always be grateful tae ye.” She withdrew her hand from the madam’s and pulled some money from her pocket and held it out. “Here, take this, please. ’Tis little fer all ye’ve done fer me.”

Morag looked aghast for a moment and then shook her head vigorously and pushed Raven’s hand away. “Nay, lass, nay, I dinnae want it, and ye’ll need every penny of that fer yerselves. Put it back in yer pocket and keep it, hinny.”

Raven obeyed reluctantly, feeling she had taken so much more than she had given.

“Where are ye headin’?” the old woman asked.

“Well, first I must make sure that Thorsten is safe. After that, I have nay clue,” Raven replied. She gathered the reins, and the horse moved restlessly beneath her, as if eager to go.

“Goodbye, Morag. Take care of yersel’,” she said as she guided the horse from the courtyard, in the direction of the castle.

“Goodbye, and ye take care of yersel’, Maeve,” Morag called softly after her, waving her hand in farewell as tears began to fall from her eyes.

Raven turned slightly in the saddle and smiled warmly at the old madam through her tears. “Ye might as well use me real name now, Morag,” she said.

Morag gave a little hiccough of emotion, smiled back, and said, “Goodbye, Raven.”

The ride to Castle MacLeod through the darkness was under two miles from the village, and Raven knew the way by heart. The gathering of huge buildings that made up the castle loomed out of the dark against the sky like a colossus. The sight of it was both heartbreaking and comforting. She would be leaving little Thorsten there with his father, which was the heartbreaking part. The fact he would grow up safe and protected, part of the MacLeod clan, gave her a small modicum of cold comfort which enabled her to do what she knew she must.

All was quiet when she halted the horse a few hundred yards from the castle gates and carefully dismounted, trying not to wake Thorsten as she slid from the saddle. If he began crying, she might be discovered, and that was the last thing she wanted. Holding the baby to her chest, she untied the bag of his clothes from the saddle bag and took it with her as she crept silently to the gates themselves.

Forcing herself to go through the necessary motions, she propped the bag against the bottom of one of the mighty stone towers, then she reached inside her shawl and drew out a sealed letter. This she kissed and wedged atop of the clothes in the bag, making sure it would not blow away. She wondered how Arne would react when he saw his name inscribed on the front in her looping handwriting. He would know at once that it was from her.

“Oh, Lord help me tae dae this,” she murmured, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her resolve as she cuddled little Thorsten, peppering his head with gentle kisses, breathing in the lovely smell of him one last time. “Ye’ll be safe here, me darlin’. I dinnae want tae leave ye, but I have nae choice. Yer maither loves ye with all her heart, sweet lad, just ye remember that. Ye’re better off without me.”

With her vison blurred by fresh tears, she tidied the baby’s wrappings so he would not get cold and carefully laid him next to the bag with the letter. People would soon be about, and she was certain he would be found quickly. Not that she would leave without making sure he was safe first. “Goodbye, me wee angel. Forgive me fer leavin’ ye.”

With huge effort, she turned and made her way back to the horse hidden behind the trees, stifling her sobs lest she be heard. She waited there until a farmer arrived at the gates with a wagonload of vegetables. He could not help but notice the little bundle and the bag she had left there. She watched with bated breath and tears dimming her vision as the man climbed down from his seat and went to see what it was. He visibly started when he realized it was a baby and cast about him hurriedly, clearly looking for whoever had left a baby there. But of course, he could not see her hiding in the trees.

He bent over and tenderly picked the little bundle up, cradling it in his arms as an experienced father would do. A sob tore from Raven’s throat as the man held the baby beneath one arm with practiced ease and hammered on the gate with his other fist. A guard popped his head out from above and, seeing the wagon below, gave the signal to open the gates.

With a loud shrieking and clanking of chains, the mechanism concealed inside the twin towers ground into action. The enormous oaken gates slowly creaked open, and two guards came out. Raven sobbed harder, her hand over her mouth to stifle the giveaway sound of her distress as she observed the farmer showing the guards the bundle in his arms.

One of the guards stepped out and performed a cursory search of the area near the gates, clearly looking for whoever had left the child there, but in vain. The other engaged in a brief conversation with the farmer. During it, the guard picked up the bag she had left containing Thorsten’s clothes—and the letter addressed to his father.

A decision was made, and the farmer handed the baby over to the guard, who carried Thorsten and the bag with the letter inside the gates. The farmer got back up on his wagon and drove it through the gates into the castle courtyard. The second guard followed, casting another look about the area before he went in. Then, the grinding, metallic din of the chains began again.

As the gates closed, and her little son disappeared from her life for good, the storm of emotions Raven had held back for so long broke free. She doubled up with pain and guilt, holding her belly as great sobs wracked her slight body and hot tears ran down her cheeks, blinding her.

Arne will never forgive me fer this. And probably Thorsten willnae either. But ’tis better that they should hate me, fer it means they’ll be alive.

Chapter Two

1310, the Isle of Harris, the Western Scottish Highlands
Arne MacLeod stood next to his older brother Haldor on the headland above the village, pulling his coat around him against the freezing rain and the biting wind that tugged at their clothing like a fierce terrier.

Ignoring the rising storm that was heading in from the sea, and the rain coursing from his short blond hair and down his face and neck, he continued to stare out from their vantage point at the southernmost tip of Harris, out across the darkened, turbulent waters, towards the northern shore of the tiny island of North Uist. He knew it was there, but even with his sharp eyes, in such harsh conditions, it was impossible to make out the rocky coastline.

“There’s nae a single boat out there tonight,” Haldor observed just as it began to rain harder, as if a sluice gate in heaven had been opened.

“Anyone sailin’ out there in this must have a death wish,” Arne said with a sigh, his heart feeling as cold as the rain soaking him and trickling down inside his collar.

“Jaysus, ’tis gonnae be a bad one, I reckon,” Haldor said, the wind plastering his long fair hair to his face.

“Well, there’s nay point standin’ out here in this. We’re likely tae freeze our bollocks off,” Arne replied.

“Aye, but there’s still work needs doin’ in the mornin’. We havenae finished speakin’ tae everyone we need tae.”

“Dinnae fash yersel’, Braither. I have a room at the inn already. I’ll stay there tonight and speak with the villagers we couldnae see today on the morrow. I’ve naethin’ better tae dae,” Arne told Haldor grimly. “Ye can get on home if ye like, before the storm really takes hold.”

“Are ye sure about that?” Haldor asked, sounding doubtful and glancing at Arne sideways. “D’ye nae want tae get back tae the castle? Thorsten will be waitin’ fer ye.”

“Ach, he’ll be all right. He’s a strong wee laddie. He can dae without me fer the night, I reckon.”

“Aye, maybe he can, but he’s still young and misses his faither when he’s away,” Haldor said.

“Look, he’s managed tae grow intae the best wee son a man could wish fer—and all without a maither.” Arne frowned, wondering what had made him say it. He hardly ever alluded to Maeve at all, let alone mentioned her by name. It hurt too much. So, why now?

And he could tell by the way Haldor turned to look at him that his brother was surprised too. Haldor had no idea that every time Arne found himself near the sea, and the boats that plied their trade there, he could not help but wonder if it had been one of those boats which had taken Maeve from the island three years prior. He was sure she was definitely not on the island because during that time, he had searched for her everywhere.

But she had told him in the letter she left for him when she abandoned Thorsten not to search for her, that she was going far away where no one would ever find her. She had been as good as her word, for all Arne’s efforts had proved pointless. She did not want to be found. Nae by me, at any rate.

But Haldor did not pursue the subject, likely because he had had his head bitten off too many times in the past when trying to broach the thorny subject. Perhaps because he wanted to get home before the storm hit.

Instead, he said, “Well, if ye’re sure, I’ll leave ye then and get back tae the castle,” and clapped Arne on the back before going to mount his horse, which was tethered to a wind-bent tree with Arne’s nearby.

“Aye, I’ll be as quick as I can and report back tae ye,” Arne said, following him and taking the reins of his own horse, intending to ride the mile or so back to the inn.

“All right. I’ll see ye back at home when ye’re done,” Haldor said over his shoulder as he turned his beast north and rode away, giving a last salute.

“Aye, safe journey, Braither,” Arne called after him, watching him disappear into the rain-filled darkness.

Once he was alone, Arne turned his back on the wild, wind-whipped sea and walked the horse slowly away from the sound of crashing waves, towards the lights of the tavern that were just visible through the driving rain in the distance.

He was halfway there, intent on a pint or three of strong ale to take the chill from his bones and help him sleep, when a terrible grinding sound fit to wake the dead rent the air. It stopped him in his tracks, for it sounded as though the heavens above were being torn asunder. The horse whinnied and snorted, pulling against the reins, spooked. Arne began stroking its nose and spoke comfortingly to it to quiet it.

He squinted through the rain at the sky, searching for a celestial source of the din. But there was nothing above he could make out. Then, suddenly, out of the murk came the distant shrieking and groaning sound of timber being violently pulled apart, followed by shrill screams of terror that ripped through the night.

A shipwreck! But who would be mad enough tae sail on a night like this?

The horse whinnied, bucking in panic. Arne gripped the reins to bring the frightened beast under control and swung himself into the rain-soaked saddle. He kicked the horse’s flanks and sped towards the village and the nearby shoreline, where the dreadful sounds of a boat being shattered to pieces on the rocks grew louder, filling the darkness.

Soon he met others who were running down to the beach, and he hailed a passing youth. “Hey, lad, will ye take me horse back tae the stables at the inn?” he shouted to him, slipping from the saddle.

“Aye, Sir,” the drenched youth replied, taking the reins Arne handed to him along with a few coins.

“Thanks, that’s somethin’ fer yer trouble,” Arne said above the racket of the storm and the bone-chilling sounds coming from the shore. The lad hurried away with the frighted horse, while Arne ran the short distance down to the gravelly beach with the other villagers and stood panting, casting about in the turbulent semi-darkness to see what was happening and who needed help.

A few yards distant, he vaguely made out two older men helping another from the water, dragging him between them away from the lashing waves. The man appeared to be unconscious. He could be dead for all Arne knew, but he ran towards them, nevertheless.

“D’ye need help?” he shouted above the terrible crashing of the waves and the groans of the disintegrating vessel, which he could vaguely make out being tossed like a broken toy on the raging tide.

The rescuers laid the unconscious man on the sand and peered at Arne through the gloom while dashing water from their eyes. “He’s all right, but there are more still in the water,” one of them shouted, gesturing with his arm at the waterlogged man at his feet. “This one’s the captain of the birlinn that’s breakin’ up. He sails these waters all the time.”

“But why is he sailin’ at night in a storm like this? That’s pure madness!” Arne exclaimed, going closer to help them drag the captain farther away from the rushing waters.

“Aye, but his business is better carried out under cover of darkness, if ye get me meanin’. He deals in black market goods, givin’ fugitives and the like passage tae the mainland,” one of the rescuers explained as they laid the captain on safer ground. “He needs the darkness tae play his trade.”

“Well, it’s nae done him nor them any good this foul night,” Arne responded, brushing sand from his hands and noticing that more people were arriving. Some carried lighted torches, casting a hellish light on the proceedings. Others were racing down the beach and splashing into the water, seeking other survivors. “I cannae see many of the passengers makin’ it through this,” he shouted to the two men, following behind as they raced back down the beach into the foaming sea.

Anxious to save as many of the poor souls as possible, he too waded out into the waves fully clothed, still in his boots, looking to aid more of the unfortunate ship-wrecked passengers being tossed up on the shore. Suddenly, he spotted something floating nearby, something white. A woman! He threw himself into the sea and swam as fast as he could towards her, against the frenzied, dragging tide, swallowing mouthfuls of the salt water as the tossing waves broke over him.

He finally reached her and took her limp body in his arms, brushing the lengths of her floating dark hair from his mouth as he turned on his back and towed her in until he could feel the bottom beneath his feet once more.

Then, he carried through the surging waves up onto the sand and gently laid her down near the growing line of bodies. The sopping mass of her hair was plastered her face, hiding her features, but he cared naught for that, wanting only to know if she was still alive.

He felt a spark of hope to see her chest moving. She was breathing shallowly, but he knew he had to act fast, for that could change at any moment. Some of the villagers came to aid him, holding their lighted torches high, others helping as he turned her on her side and thumped her back, to get rid of the water in her lungs.

For some reason he could not fathom, he felt very protective of her, whoever she was, and he was terrified she would die in his arms. When she finally started coughing violently, water running from her mouth, her entire body shaking, Arne slid an arm under her back to hold her up as she coughed and heaved.

To help her get some air, he pushed back the veil of dark hair obscuring her face, and his hand froze in midair as he stared down at the pale, almost blueish features revealed to him. As he took them in, the breath left his body in a rush, and his head went dizzy.

The face was as familiar to him as his own, as Thorsten’s, for it belonged to the woman who had walked out on him and their son three years before. It was none other than the boy’s mother. The only woman he had ever loved. The one who had ruined him forever.

Maeve!

1307, Scotland, Isle of Skye

Castle MacLeod

Dahlia MacLeod galloped her mare up the winding road, reveling in the feel of the sun on her face and her white-blonde hair, caught by the wind, streaming behind her as she rode. Glorying in the spring morning, as she neared the castle, she waved to the guard on duty and brought her little mare to a standstill, waiting while the portcullis was raised.

She walked her horse through the gate, crossing the cobbled courtyard to the drinking trough. There, after giving her horse a pat on her neck, she slid out of the saddle and handed her reins to the waiting groom.

Startled by the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice issuing from the nearby stables she swiveled, craning her neck to catch sight of whoever was speaking.

Then she realized the man was talking to his horse.

“Good lad.” She heard him say. “I thank ye fer the safe journey.”

She was staring, mouth slightly ajar, as the owner of the deep, whisky-voice strode out of the stables. He was tall and broad with a mane of fair hair that fell almost to his shoulders. As he passed, nodding to her as he went, she glimpsed hazel eyes, a straight nose, cheeks like blades and full, wide lips.

Watching him stride up the steps of the keep she was strangely flustered. Her heart was suddenly beating faster, and she couldn’t help wishing she’d tidied her hair and had worn anything but her old, faded, blue-linen kirtle.

There was something familiar about the man. She could almost swear she’d met him somewhere. Yet she knew that was impossible, she’d never seen him before. His was not a face she’d readily forget.

Determined to put the man out of her mind, she was halfway up the stairs to her bedchamber when she was intercepted by one of the chambermaids.

Puffing slightly, the lass handed her a folded parchment. “Forgive me, melady. I’ve brought ye a message from yer brother, Laird Haldor.”

“Thank ye.” The maid hurried off and Dahlia shoved the note into her pocked to read in the privacy of her room.

It was not until she’d bathed and a donned a freshly laundered blouse and kirtle, brushed her hair and braided it, that she remembered her brother’s message.

Unfolding the crumpled parchment, she read his brief note. He was entertaining his Clan Council members and a special guest for a dinner to which no ladies were invited. He asked her to do him the honor of entertaining them with music, playing her clàrsach for their pleasure.

She smiled to herself. On rare occasions, when there was important business at hand, Haldor requested she play her Scottish harp for his guests.

Was the stranger she’d glimpsed outside the stables the ‘special guest’ her brother was dining with tonight? If so, he was someone to be wooed with music and fine food. Mayhap she would find out who he was, after all.

Damn. There was that annoying little jolt to her heartbeat again.

By the evening she was in a lather of curiosity. She’d taken special care with her appearance, donning a favorite red silk kirtle tied with a gold cord, and brushed her hair so that it tumbled in silvery waves, almost to her waist. After adding a pair of hooped gold earbobs, she put on her red silk slippers and made her way to the great hall.

The place was bustling with kitchen-maids setting up for the meal, but her brother and his guests had not yet arrived. With the help of the manservant who’d carried her clarsach from the solar, she set it up on its little wooden stand.

She was playing a dreamy, soft tune, lost in its gentle, sliding rhythms, when the men finally appeared and took their seats.

Her stomach lurched. There he was, the man from the stables, as handsome as she recalled, seated at her brother’s right hand next to her other brothers, Ivar and Arne. Whoever he might be, this meant he was important.

And there again was that strange frisson of heat rippling through her at the sight of him.

And it kept happening, every time she looked up and caught his gaze resting on her she could scarcely breath.

As the evening wore on, she picked up fragments of the men’s conversation.

From what she could gather there was a great deal of talk about peace. Compensation. For what? Stolen cattle? King Robert’s name was mentioned several times.

A young maid brought her a platter containing cheese, buttered bannocks and a rosewater soda. Realizing she was both hungry and thirsty she was grateful for the brief break.

“Who is the man seated beside me braither Haldor?” she asked quietly. “I cannae make out his tartan from here”

The maid glanced over to the high table. “’Tis the Mackinnon. I’ve heard he’s the new laird.”

Dahlia froze. A Mackinnon! The Mackinnons were their sworn enemies. The long-standing feud between the two clans could never be settled and it had only been a matter of months since their last terrible confrontation. Haldor had slaughtered Laird James Mackinnon, the man who had kidnapped to force her into marriage and who was the murderer of her beloved brother, Thor.

The one man who escaped her brother’s sword was Bairre Mackinnon. After the skirmish, he had disappeared and it was rumored he’d taken refuge in France. With the death of his brother James, it was this hateful man, Bairre, who was the rightful laird.

So, who was the man seated beside Haldor?

She glanced over at him again, and he caught her eye, his mouth widening in a smile. Her heart skipped a beat. It was as if something sparkled in the air between them, capturing her attention, drawing her gaze irresistibly to him.

***

Arran Mackinnon was finding it difficult to keep track of the conversation. His attention was constantly diverted to the graceful lass strumming her clàrsach on the other side of the hall. The music of the harp drifted in the air, punctuating what was being said with a gentle harmony that eased the gruff words being uttered by the MacLeods.

Not threats exactly, but dire warnings of what might befall any of the Mackinnon clansmen who continued the raiding that had been going on since James was laird. This was exactly what Arran was attempting to convince Haldor, his brothers, and the Mackinnon Clan Council, he would put an end to.

He was sincere in his wish for the clans to live peaceably in their adjoining lands. And it was the devil’s own job trying to convince the MacLeods that he was nothing like James and Bairre, with whom they’d been feuding for as long as he could remember.

Despite the overriding importance of this meeting, he found himself distracted. Whenever he looked up at Dahlia and their eyes met it was as if he was struck by a lightning bolt. She was a true beauty with her Viking-white hair, her bonny face, and the long graceful fingers strumming her harp.

He cast his mind back to their first meeting. Of course, she wouldn’t recognize him. He’d been masked and hidden from her gaze back then. Yet… there was something in the way she looked at him that made him think she was trying to bring their previous contact to mind.

The meal came to an end, with nothing decided, no promises made, but some of the ice broken between them. Haldor and the others were friendly enough, but he was no fool. Clan hospitality meant they would show him nothing but a warm welcome, no matter how much they might distrust him.

But it was a start. As he’d taken on the lairdship unofficially, even though it was only until Bairre Mackinnon either reappeared or was declared dead, and he was making every effort to settle the disputes that were keeping his clan from leading peaceful, prosperous lives. The foremost of those disputes was the feud with the MacLeods. After years of raiding across clan territories it was time to put a stop to the enmity and bring peace to both clans.

He looked up again, his gaze drawn irresistibly to the bonny lass strumming her clàrsach. He took in the delicate arch of her neck, the tendrils of shining hair on her cheeks, the rise of her creamy breasts at her neckline He met her glorious blue eyes, feeling the heat in his belly and a twitch in his groin as his wayward cock registered his enchantment.

She rose from her chair, smoothing out the rose-colored folds of her skirt, pushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. He caught his breath as she turned toward him and walked across the room to the table where he sat, the silken skirt swaying enticingly with her every step.

As she approached, Laird Haldor got to his feet. She curtseyed low before him and he clasped her hand in his.

“I am here tae bid ye good night, braither.”

The sound of her soft voice with its hint of huskiness almost brought Arran undone. At that moment he’d have given anything to take her hand and press it to his lips.

Haldor turned to him. “May I introduce me sister, the Lady Dahlia.” He proffered her hand to Arran. “This is Laird Arran MacKinnon, a distant cousin of James and Bairre. He’s taken the lairdship in Bairre’s absence.”

Standing, Arran bowed from the waist, never taking his gaze from Dahlia’s.

Grasping her hand, he gently pressed it to his lips. At once his senses were assailed by her delicate rose fragrance and the softness and warmth of her skin. Even though the breath caught in his throat, he managed a few halting words of greeting.

“I am pleased tae meet ye, Lady Dahlia.”

She smiled up at him.

“Have we nae met before this night, me laird?” She half-raised a delicate eyebrow in puzzlement.

Without hesitating, he rolled the lie off his tongue.

“I dinnae believe we have met, melady. Ye’re surely mistaken.”

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Chapter One

Isle of Skye, Scotland, October 1308
A Highland inn in No-man’s Land between MacLeod and Mackinnon territory

Dammit. T’would be simpler by far tae slice the throat of the beast I’m betrothed tae and end his life, rather than donning this foolish disguise tae escape the hateful man’s clutches.

Chewing on her lower lip, Dahlia MacLeod twisted her sweet features into a grimace. Flattening her bountiful breasts with the cloth drawn tight across her chest took more effort and caused more pain than she’d been anticipating.

She sucked in a shallow breath, wincing at the pressure of the tightly bound fabric, and donned the patched wool jacket she’d purchased from the village lad. She pulled on the baggy, faded-grey trews the lad had provided, tied on his soft leather boots and, finally, drew up her mass of near-white blonde hair and tucked it severely beneath the cloth cap.

Surveying her flattened outline, she was satisfied that her profile as a young lad would suffice. To complete the disguise, she wound a rough plaid woolen scarf around her neck so that the lower half of her face was concealed. If she could only get out of this confounded tavern unnoticed and make her way to the horse she’d arranged with the stable boy to saddle and make ready, she could be half-way back to Castle MacLeod and the warmth of her family before her absence was even discovered.

And the mercenary she’d hired with the last of her coin would be on his way to deal death to her fiancé Bairre Mackinnon.

Once she was safely ensconced at Castle MacLeod, she had no doubt she could deal with King Robert’s command that she should wed the brute, Laird Bairre Mackinnon. The one partly responsible for the murder of her brother.

Does the king nae understand I hate the man?

A shiver of revulsion ran through her at the very thought of herself wed to such a man.

Yet, knowing all this, her brother, the Laird Haldor, had no choice but to acquiesce to the king’s wishes.

With the cap lowered over her brow, she tiptoed from the small room and crept down the stairs, hoping to leave the tavern without being seen by her so-called guards.

Guard’s me lady’s arse. They’re naught but kidnappers, taking me against me will tae marry a man whose death I wish fer most fervently.

She hovered by the staircase, inhaling the warmth of the peat fire and the smells of stew, ale and hot bodies. To her relief, the tavern was crowded to overflowing with patrons, rowdy with laughter and the raised voices of men from the nearby farms enjoying their tankards at day’s end before returning home.

With luck she could make it through the smoky tavern without drawing any attention to herself.

She scanned the crowd, her gaze coming to rest on the stalwart figure and long, fair lion’s mane belonging to her chief escort Arran Mackinnon. At the sight of him, a cold stone dropped into her belly. She’d been certain he would have been in his bed by now and that the coast would be clear for her to make her escape.

Yet there he was, seated at a table that was much too close to the doorway for her liking. Mackinnon was his with his friend Craig Donald and two companions she didn’t recognize. She agonised. Should she make a dash for it, hoping that the men were too deep in conversation to notice her? Or, should she retrace her steps back to her room and wait for a better opportunity?

She’d paid the lad, the horse would be waiting. It was now or never. If she didn’t make her break for freedom before they travelled deeper into Mackinnon country, she might not get another chance. And once they arrived at their destination, Mackinnon Castle, it would be impossible to escape.

That was something she knew with certainty. This was not the first time she was being forced into marriage with one of her clan’s enemies. Her soul was still burdened with the memory of her abduction four years ago by James Mackinnon, Bairre’s older brother.

James had not succeeded in his plot to force their marriage, but her escape from his clutches had resulted in the death of her beloved brother, Thor. Now James was dead at Haldor’s hand and the king, foolishly determined to bring peace between the warring clans, had commanded that this marriage between herself and Bairre Mackinnon should take place in one month’s time.

Thinking on this, she shook her head. Nay. Nothing would force her tae marry one of the hated Mackinnons. Not even the king’s orders. Haldor had promised he’d petition the king on her behalf but, as yet, there’d been no relief. Tonight, she was taking matters into her own hands, and if she were killed in her bid for freedom, it was better to die than to share a bed with the Mackinnon.

As she watched from the shadows, she saw Aaron Mackinnon’s three companions rise and bid him goodnight before they slipped through a side doorway and disappeared, leaving Arran at the table, alone with his tankard.

She watched him coolly. It was not only his wild hair that gave him the look of a carved lion, but his size. He was broad across the shoulders, perhaps even a match for her own brothers, his arms were strong and cross-hatched with battle scars. But despite his look of a fierce warrior, he was not coarse like the others, there was something kind in his face. He lacked the grim-set mouth and the harsh brows of the other Mackinnons. There was even a hint of gentleness about him at times as he tended to his horse or looked into the sky contemplating.

But no matter. Standing there, contemplating Arran Mackinnon would not help her to escape. If she made haste and kept her head down, she could make it out without him noticing her.

Taking a deep breath, she tugged the cap lower and took her first steps away from the cover provided by the staircase, heading for the tavern door. She was too busy navigating her way between tables to see the serving girl emerge from the kitchen with a tray loaded with pewter tankards filled with ale.

She collided head-first with the lass, who let out a loud, head-turning shriek. The tankards went flying and the girl descended backwards, her skirt and pinafore in disarray, and Dahlia quite soaked with the spilt drinks, on top of the squirming, squealing servant.

“Get off me,” the girl yelled, pushing with both hands at Dahlia’s chest, loosening the fabric she had taken such pains to wrap around her breasts.

Dahlia scrabbled frantically to gain the traction she needed to rise to her feet while the serving-girl lashed out with both fists, keeping her off balance.

The hubbub of voices had ceased, all eyes turned to the girl’s plight, a sudden hush fell over the tavern, and all that could be heard were her screeches.

“Oooh. Someone help me! I’m being crushed. Get him off. Take him away.”

Before Dahlia could scramble upright her arm was rudely wrenched behind her back, she was dragged to her feet and, despite her efforts to break free, she found herself being roughly propelled toward the tavern door.

To her horror she saw that the serving-wench’s rescuer and the man holding her captive in a fierce, unbreakable grip, was none other than the very man she was hell-bent on escaping. Arran Mackinnon.

Giving her no chance to protest, he bundled her across the room and flung open the heavy oak door. She struggled mightily but she was no match for his strength. He kept hold of her arm in an iron grip half-dragging her outside to the cobbled tavern yard.

Wrenching herself free, her hair tumbling over her eyes she uttered a fierce oath. “God’s blood, keep yer filthy hands tae yersel.”

Then, before he could seize her again quick as a bolt of lightning she turned and ran across the courtyard toward the stables with Arran hot on her heels.

“I command ye tae stop right there,” he bellowed as she disappeared inside, heading fast toward the stall where the saddled horse was waiting with the stable hand.

She had a foot in the stirrup and was doing her best to leap up onto the horse’s back when Arran seized her from behind and dragged her down. As she fell, he grabbed her around the waist, his hand brushing her breasts, which had now come loose from the fabric tie.

He held her tight against his heaving chest and she could feel his pounding heartbeat, his breath coming fast against her cheek. He smelled of leather and ale and peat smoke. A not altogether unpleasant man-scent that filled her nostrils and reminded her in a reassuring way of her brothers. They were all skilled fighters, but there’d been times when she’d bested them in mock fights in training. What she didn’t have in brawn she made up for in wiles and there’d been many a time she’d been able to outwit them, when they were younger, and bring them to their knees.

“Let me go,” she twisted suddenly, trying to loosen his grip, struggling to catch her breath, her fair hair flying wildly about her.

“Ye take me fer a fool,” he growled holding her fast, his arm around her as solid as a tree branch and every bit as immovable. With his free hand he ripped aside the scarf she’d wound around her face revealing her features. He nodded with recognition.

In the lamp-light his eyes glittered green-gold as he met her gaze. “Nay lad is soft in the chest like ye, me Lady Dahlia MacLeod.” He gave a sharp laugh. “And nay lad has hair that streams like a silver waterfall down his back.”

Shaking her head, she cursed herself for not taking the scissors and snipping off every skerrick of her fair hair before she’d attempted her escape.

There was a sudden flash as the stable-boy who’d been observing their tussle from the shadows raced past them. No doubt afraid of being implicated in whatever mischief Dahlia might still be planning.

Watching her one avenue of escape disappearing out the stable door, she groaned loudly. Arran, disregarding her pounding fists against his chest tightened his hold on her. In a burst of sudden fury, she twisted to face him, letting fly a solid kick, her boot connecting with Arran’s shin with a satisfying thump. He grunted, but his grip on her didn’t waver.

“Hold still, ye wee vixen. There’s nae one tae come tae yer aid and yer horse is back in his stable now. Ye’ll nae be riding this night.”

There was a terrible truth to his words that hit Dahlia a despairing blow, almost robbing the breath from her lungs. But perhaps there was still hope. If only she could somehow release herself from his clutches, she could still take the horse from his stable and ride fast out of here. She was near enough to MacLeod territory to find a friendly crofter or someone loyal to her brother who could offer shelter where she could safely hide from Arran and the Mackinnon men.

Next morning all her hopes would be dashed once they entered Mackinnon lands. There’d be no help for her there. All the farmers and villagers would be too afeared of Bairre Mackinnon’s wrath to provide her with even so much as a sip of water to quench her thirst. Let alone risk their necks by offering her a place to hide. The man was known far and wide as a merciless brute, dealing out summary justice at his whim to any one of his folks who dared to disagree with him or cross him in some way.

Unlike her brother Haldor, who commanded loyalty because of his fairness and kindness as well as his skill as a great warrior, Laird Bairre ruled through fear and the terror he instilled at the prospect of a terrible fate in his dungeon or on the gallows awaiting those who earned his ill will. Whether they deserved it or nae.

She shuddered at the horrifying prospect of becoming Bairre Mackinnon’s bride. Now, with the failure of her first escape plan, the time had come for her to put her feminine wiles to the test.

Allowing her shoulders to slump she willed the remainder of her body to grow limp, hoping Arran would loosen his grip if he felt her resistance weaken.

“Please.” She gentled her voice, injecting it with a slight quiver as if she was on the brink of tears. “I’m yer helpless captive now. A maid is nay match fer a warrior’s strength. Can ye nae allow me to stand free? ‘Tis unseemly fer ye to be clinging tae me the way ye are.” She spoke the words so softly he was forced to lower his head to hear what she was saying. “Would yer laird approve of ye handling his bride in such a manner?”

She held her breath. Every nerve ending tensing for the moment when she was certain he would loosen his hold and she could muster all her power to burst free of him and make a dash for safety.

Chapter Two

Arran smiled to himself. If the lass believed this swift transformation from raging vixen to submissive maiden would fool him into believing she’d given up her battle to escape and was now resigned to her fate, she was sadly mistaken. It was an old trick and one he’d become familiar with as a wee lad learning his warrior skills. An enemy could feign weakness and at the very instant you lowered your guard, he’d have his sword at your throat.

Still, it would be interesting to see what this feisty lass intended.

Moments ticked by and he deliberately slackened his hold on her waist, immediately feeling the tension ripple through her body as she prepared to make her move. He further released his grip. Then, exactly at the moment he’d anticipated, she flew from his arms like a ball from a cannon and raced toward the stable where her horse waited.

He hesitated, observing her fleeing figure, half amused and half admiring. She was determined, he’d give her that.

He reached her as she fumbled with the latch on the stable gate. Seizing her around the waist from behind, he snatched her up again. She kicked out wildly, scratching with her fingernails at his arms where he held her fast. All the while she was shrieking and screeching loud enough to challenge the banshees across the sea in Erin’s Isle, using language that no lady should ever allow to issue from her mouth.

“Put me down, ye God-fersaken bastard. Ye poxy villain. Ye low-life, worthless scum.”

“Hush, melady. If ye bring some poor lad running tae help ye, using language like that, he’s bound to believe me when I tell him ye’re a whore luring unsuspecting customers tae bed her in the stable hay.”

She opened her mouth as if to utter a further shriek, but only a loud and indignant squeak emerged before he hoisted her over his shoulder with one easy movement, as if she was nothing more than a sack of barley. Her fists drummed his back but he paid no more heed to her frantic blows than he would to the bite of a bed bug.

“I caution ye, lass. Keep yer voice down afore ye lose the respect of every farmer and decent man in the tavern.”

She growled a moan but, to his relief, she ceased her shrieks and her pummelling as he carried her across the courtyard and pushed the tavern door open.

“Good, wee lassie. Ye’re showing some common sense at last.”

There was that growl again. “Och ye test me sorely, Arran Mackinnon,” she muttered, a sound that seemed to issue through gritted her teeth.

Arran wasted no time weaving his way through the tables and heading up the stairs. The denizens of the tavern hardly bothered to throw a glance his way. Obviously, they were used to the sight of a wench slung over a man’s shoulder being lugged upstairs to bed. He chuckled to himself. His threat had worked and there wasn’t so much as a peep out of Dahlia until they entered the room.

He lowered her onto the bed in the corner of the tiny room, where she lay, arms akimbo, glaring up at him. Her dress and lady’s riding outfit lay across the chair in the corner where she’d discarded them earlier, along with the leather satchel containing more of her clothing. In the corner was a large copper tub filled with hot water, cooling now. He’d ordered it earlier so she could bathe after their two-day ride and prepare for the journey tomorrow, when she would be presented to Laird Mackinnon.

He could restrain his ire no longer. “Ye’re a foolish, spoilt lass,” he bawled at her, “who cares naught fer the ones who’ve been tasked tae guard ye, whose lives depend on bringing ye safely tae Castle Mackinnon.” He was intent on impressing on her the futility and selfishness of any escape plan she might yet contemplate. He would have gone on, but he was held back by the sense that she could not be trusted to know the inner workings of his heart and the knowledge of the hold Bairre Mackinnon had over him and his overriding fear for the wellbeing of his precious mother, Emilia.

Dahlia huffed, levering herself into a sitting position. “Ye may shout at me all ye wish, Arran Mackinnon. I dinnae care a fig fer ye and yer kind, who’ll dae the bidding of a monster like yer laird.” She scowled at him and he felt his heart miss a beat. “And, nay matter what ye say, I’ll scream me heart out if I so wish.”

Masking his concern for her, he glowered, shaking his head. “Stop yer caterwauling. There is nay one here tae come tae yer yells. Ye’re nae in yer brother’s castle now with all the servants at yer beck and call.”

Instead of having the desired effect of silencing Dahlia’s tirade, his words seemed to spur her on to greater heights of rage.

“Ye’re a pestilent, vindictive knave,” she jeered loudly, tossing her head back, fixing him with an unwavering glare. “Ye’re unscrupulous, dishonorable, false, worthless…” Looking around the room as if searching for something bad enough to name him, she turned her pretty lips into a sneer, spitting out her next words with a vehemence that set him reeling. “Ye’re nothing better than a… a… jack-in-the box, doing the bidding of an evil, contemptible, loathsome…” She gasped in a breath, “…fiend.”

Although her words stung, his annoyance dissolved as he took in the sight of her, chest heaving, her glorious breasts half exposed over the fabric she’d used to disguise them, her hair dishevelled as if she’d only just risen from his bed after a bout of lovemaking. And the boy’s britches she had on only accentuated her womanly waist and hips rather than disguising them.

He bit down the urge to laugh. She really was a most delightful creature. Her cheeks were flushed a deep pink, her hair falling in ringlets over her shoulders most fetchingly, and her eyes, of the deepest periwinkle-blue, were alight with a wildfire that set his pulse racing and ignited his desire. If only they could shine for him, not with fury as they were now, but with passionate desire.

But she was never meant to be his. Her fate was to be taken by the Laird to be his plaything, to do with her as he wished.

The darkness in his soul grew even blacker at the thought of the Mackinnon laying his hands on that pearly white skin, crushing her delicate lips under his cruel mouth and ravishing her soft body.

This is madness. I cannae allow mesel’ the indulgence of such thoughts. Me task is clear. I must deliver the lass tae Castle Mackinnon. Nay matter how much it pains me to dae sae.

“Enough,” he muttered in a voice that made it clear he’d brook no further complaints or resistance. “Ye’ve said yer piece and I’ll listen tae nay further griping, nor will I tolerate any further attempts on yer part tae leave me care.”

She pshawed loudly, frowning up at him from the edge of the bed where she perched cross-legged. “Yer care? At least ye could be honest and admit ye’ve nae care fer me. If ye cared even a jot ye’d nae be taking me tae a wedding that is a match with the devil himself.”

“So, ye’ve nay wish tae marry me… master?” His heart lifted a little. Mayhap she hated the man as much as he did.

She shrugged. “Ye’d be a fool tae think aught else when I’ve been at such pains these past hours tae leave ye and return tae me family. I’ll dae all in me power tae avoid marriage with Bairre Mackinnon.” She turned her gaze to a blank space on the wall somewhere beyond his shoulder. “Even if it should lead me tae a deathly fate.”

“Nay lass.” He reached over to envelop her small, elegant hand in his. “Ye mustnae think such thoughts. The king has commanded that ye should wed and bring peace tae the war between our clans. Can ye nae consider it yer duty?”

Gazing up through her long dark lashes she seemed to be assessing him. A ripple of something unsettling rattled through his veins. It was as if she could see into his soul and understand the darkness haunting him. He wanted nothing more than to trust this woman and to earn her trust in return. Yet to trust her could lead to his own deathly fate.

Tonight was not the time for such dangerous thoughts. Insofar as they were both concerned, he was to take her to Mackinnon Castle, where she would take part in the preparations for her wedding to the laird. There was no space for any other thinking. He must subdue his desire and treat her coolly, hide his empathy for her plight, focus only on what he’d been tasked to do to ensure she arrived at the castle.

Above all, he had to carry out his duty to ensure the safety of his captive mother, whose very life hung in the balance. She was ironically at the mercy of a man without mercy, Bairre Mackinnon.

“The king doesnae ken what he’s asking of me family. I am the third he has commanded tae wed. Me braithers are happy with their wee wifeys but I will find nothing but heart-sorrow and sadness in the castle of the Mackinnon.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Whatever yer fate melady, I think ye’d be better tae face it sweet- smelling instead of with the rank stench of ale that’s soaking ye now. Why, me nose is fair twitching at the scent of ye.”

Her lips gave a tiny quirk that could have been the beginning of a smile.

“Och. Ye’re right, I reek like the ripe inside of an unwashed tankard.” She glanced up, arching a dark brow. “Mayhap if I greet yer laird as I am he’ll nae be sae eager tae wed me.”

“On the contrary, lass. The Laird Mackinnon is bound tae fancy ye even more if ye carry the scent of a brewery. He fair minds his ale, does Bairre.”

He watched her face fall and her shoulders slump and his heart ached for her. He was under no illusion that Bairre would treat her well. He was a violent brute who thought nothing of delivering a cruel beating to anyone who displeased him, whether they be a lad or a lass.

“I’ll pay a visit tae the kitchen and find us something fer our supper. I’ve had naught tae line me belly since midday and I daresay ye’re hungry too.” Looking Dahlia up and down he ignored the forlorn shake of her head. “There’s still warmth in the water in that tub. When I leave the room, strip off those stinking, wet clothes, untie that pointless strip of cloth from around yer… er… chest, dip yer body in the water and cleanse yerself.”

With that, he swivelled toward the door. “I’ll expect ye tae be sweet-smelling and sweet-tempered when I return.”

He stepped through the door, pulling it closed on the sound of her loud “harrumph,” turned the key in the lock, pocketed it, and headed down the stairs without waiting to hear what curses she might be laying at his head.

After ordering leek soup and a venison pie from the kitchen he made his way back to the table he’d previously been seated at. Most of the tavern’s customers had departed, leaving few to occupy the now quiet place. He sat with a tankard before the fire, reviewing the events of the day, praying quietly to himself that by the time he returned to Dahlia’s room she would have seen reason. He was confident she could not escape from the securely locked room. Its small, high window was far too tight a squeeze for even the slenderest lad to fit through.

It was not difficult to understand her resolve and her loathing for Bairre. The man he called ‘cousin’ was loved by very few. He smiled grimly to himself. Mayhap the man’s mother had been the only one to bestow any affection on her son. And, as she’d passed away when Bairre and his late brother James were little more than babes, perhaps not even she had been able to offer him a mother’s love.

He finished the ale and trod wearily up the stairs. Unlocking the door of Dahlia’s room with a sense of foreboding that she might make another attempt to evade him as he entered the room.

She was standing by the fire, her cheeks glowing pink, her still-damp, long, silvery hair tumbling down her back. His fingers itched to reach out and smooth a wayward lock from her forehead and tuck it behind her ear. She was clad in a cream silk night gown and a dark-blue fur-lined velvet robe which she tightened around herself as he stepped further into the room. The air was filled with the fragrance of roses and cinnamon.

He gasped, his senses reeling as he struggled to hide the powerful effect her beauty was having on him. He steeled himself against the twitch and ache in his groin as he gazed at her.

“I am pleased ye’re seeing sense, melady.”

She snorted, her eyes flashing. “I’m seeing sense enough tae ken ye’ve foiled me attempt tae get away this night. But dinnae think I’ll nae try again as soon as there’s a chance.”

He chuckled softly. “Why, lass, I’d never be so foolish as tae believe ye’ve been tamed by one foiled attempt.”

“That is wise of ye.” She held her head proudly, and even though he sensed he was in for more trouble before he’d delivered her safely to Castle Mackinnon, he could only admire her feistiness and determination.

He allowed his gaze to wander over her, observing the details of her delicate form, feeling like some besotted troubadour composing verses to honour his lady’s beauty.

Those thoughts put him in imminent danger of wandering into forbidden territory, so it came as a relief when a sharp rap on the door drew his attention and he hastened over to open it. A small kitchen maid entered the room bearing a tray with the meal he’d ordered, alongside two tankards of ale, and placed it on a small table beside the fire.

Drawing up a chair for Dahlia, he waited while she arranged herself before taking the seat opposite.

They ate in silence, the only sound in the room the crackling of the fire. Once the meal was finished, he feigned a yawn, placing a hand at his mouth, and got to his feet.

“’Tis time ye took tae yer bed, Lady Dahlia. Ye’ll be needing yer rest as we’ve a long day’s ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

She didn’t reply and he could almost see the wheels of thought turning in that charming head of hers.

“Are ye thinking there’ll be a moment fer ye tae gallop off and leave me, Craig Donald and our two guards behind?” He grinned as her cheeks blushed pink, not meeting his gaze. Of course, he’d been reading her thoughts correctly. Tomorrow he’d make sure he never allowed her out of his sight. There’d be no opportunities for her to slip away.

“And ye’ll be making fer yer room tae sleep now?”

He shook his head. “I’ll nae be leaving ye alone this night, I’ll be keeping a close watch over ye while ye’re sleeping.”

At that she squared her shoulders and fixed him with a blue-eyed gaze that came close to robbing his breath. “I think it isnae so, Arran Mackinnon. Ye ken Bairre Mackinnon would never tolerate ye sleeping in the same room as mesel’.” She gave a sharp laugh. “If I told him ye’d slept beside me, he’d make short work of ye with his long sword.”

“And d’ye wish me tae sleep beside ye, Lady Dahlia?”

He enjoyed watching the bright colour flush her face. It was clear the thought had crossed her mind.

With a sigh, he shook his head. “Mayhap that’s a dream we both might share.” He noted that, as their eyes met, she schooled her features to give no hint of what thoughts might be passing through her head.

“But, never fear. I’ll nae remain in this room but spend the night outside, lying across yer doorway. If ye think tae somehow unlock the door and sneak away, I’ll be awake in an instant and ye’ll nae get past me.”

***Outside the bedroom door he pulled his cloak around him and hunkered down on the hard oak floor, using his bunnet to rest his head. Thoughts of Dahlia whirled through his mind keeping him from sleep. She was more beautiful now than he remembered when he’d first set eyes on her four long years ago when she was held captive by Bairre’s older brother, James Mackinnon. The man who had murdered Dahlia’s brother, Thor, and himself been slain by her brother the Laird Haldor.

He could only dream on what she would say if she realized he was the young man who had made an ill-fated attempt at rescuing her from James Mackinnon’s clutches all those years ago.