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One month prior…

Castle MacGregor was still quiet so early in the morning, even if Evan’s study was anything but. He didn’t even know how Padraig had managed to corner him, along with every other member of his council, the moment he had sat down behind his desk, eager to spend a couple of hours of his morning in peace after waking up early that day.

It was all Padraig’s fault. Evan had the paranoid thought that he had somehow managed to get him to wake up so early, just so he could torture him first thing in the morning.

“Can we discuss this later?” Evan asked, slumping in his seat. The maids hadn’t even brought him breakfast yet and there he was, discussing his future.

“Nay,” said Padraig in his usual firm tone that left little room for discussion. “This is important, me laird. We thought we would have more time tae find a suitable bride, but with yer faither gone… well, a laird cannae remain unwedded fer too long. We must find ye a suitable match.”

The mention of his father forced Evan to grind his teeth, molars protesting as he clenched his jaw to keep himself from flying into a blind rage. It wasn’t Padraig’s fault, he knew. He didn’t deserve his misplaced anger.

This was not the first time his council had brought up the matter of his marriage, nor was it the first time Evan had tried to avoid it. There were far more important things to be done before he could even begin to think about marrying someone, even if it was for a strong alliance. Clan MacGregor was strong, even after the sudden death of his father. An alliance was not his main concern.

No, his main concern was revenge. His main concern was making sure the English were kept away from his people’s lands.

“I dinnae have time fer this now, Padraig,” he said, leaning back on his seat with a weary sigh, arms crossing almost petulantly in front of his chest. “Ye ken this. I must find out more about Graeme Ruthven.”

The look Padraig gave him was one of utter exasperation. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the man said, “Even if ye are correct about Laird Ruthven—”

“I am.”

“Even if ye are, it doesnae change the fact that ye must find a wife,” Padraig said, ignoring Evan’s interruption. “If anythin’, if ye’re correct, it is even more important that we prepare fer the possibility of war. What dae ye think will happen if ye go after him an’ reveal he is workin’ with Balliol an’ the Sassenachs? We will need all the allies we can get.”

“We have enough allies.” Clan MacGregor had many friends. For generations, his clan had maintained good relationships with the rest of the Highlands, and though perhaps not everyone would rush to his rescue, everyone would surely support him if he stood up to Balliol and the King. Everyone had something to lose if the English maintained control of the Highlands through Balliol—everyone but Ruthven, who would only have something to gain as Balliol’s ally.

Padraig turned to the rest of the council, looking at them with a pleading gaze, as if to silently ask them for help. Clearing his throat, one of the older members of the council, Neacal, stepped forward and addressed Evan with a patient smile.

“Me laird, I implore ye tae consider Padraig’s suggestion,” he said. “We have already found several young women who would be excellent choices fer ye. Ye can pick whoever pleases ye most.”

“But ye should carefully consider the Lady Buchanan,” Padraig said. Next to him, Neacal sighed, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and looking as though he wanted to rip it all out. “The Buchanan Clan is strong an’ wealthy, and the Lady Buchanan is rumored tae be a bonnie lass. They would make excellent allies.”

“The Lady Buchanan is also rumored tae be less than virtuous,” said Neacal. “Many things are said about her.”

“Och?” asked Evan. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage, he thought. If Padraig wanted him to wed the Lady Buchanan but Neacal disagreed with his choice, then it would surely make the process of choosing a wife for him even lengthier. “What, precisely, is said about the Lady?”

“Only rumors, me laird,” said Padraig.

“Rumors must start from somewhere,” said Neacal. “It is said her involvement has been instrumental in some conflicts. She remains in the shadows, but she can manipulate even from there.”

“Is this how she has gathered all this power an’ wealth, then?” Evan asked, now curious to see why Padraig would even consider her. He was not a man who acted without planning first, nor was he a man to tolerate such people around him, which meant that he either didn’t believe the rumors or he was so desperate that he would accept that woman just for the power it would bring their clan.

But we’re nae in a dire position. We dinnae need them, as much as Padraig seems tae think we dae.

“Nay,” said Padraig sharply, taking another step forward. “The Buchanan Clan has always been a powerful one. An’ I have met the lady meself. She seemed perfectly pleasant, me laird. There was naething tae suggest that she is as bad as Neacal claims.”

Evan glanced between the two advisors, weighing his options. “I think the truth perhaps lies somewhere in-between. That said, I still think the matter o’ Ruthven an’ the King is more important than anything else at this moment. I willnae waste any time courtin’ a lass when I have more important things tae dae. Ruthven will be at Laird Hamilton’s weddin’, correct? Alaric an’ I shall meet him there an’ try tae find out as much as we can about him.”

“That is a dangerous plan,” said Padraig.

“It isnae more dangerous than allowin’ him tae dae as he wishes,” Evan pointed out. “It is imperative that we find out the truth about him. We’ve had several reports that he is a spy fer Balliol an’ the King. What other proof dae we need?”

With a sigh, Padraig turned to the rest of the council, dismissing them. Evan watched them go and only after they were all out of the room did Padraig come closer to him, bracing himself against the desk and speaking quietly, as though he feared someone else would hear him.

“It is a dangerous thing, Evan,” he said, and it was the first time since his father’s death that Evan had heard Padraig use his given name. “Ye are the laird now. This clan needs ye an’ I must admit I feel… uneasy when ye an’ Alaric are away. I always worried about the two o’ ye but now it seems tae me that ye willnae rest until ye’ve had yer revenge.”

All the fight drained out of Evan then. He knew, of course, that everything Padraig did was because he was concerned—concerned about the clan, concerned about Evan and Alaric, concerned about the future and their people. But he couldn’t help but think that he worried too much, to the point where it hindered their progress.

“An’ ye’re right,” he said. “We willnae rest until we have avenged our faither. Is that so bad, Padraig? Is it so bad that we wish tae avenge him?”

“What if ye end up like him, Evan?” The mere thought seemed to shake Padraig to his core. “I have already buried a good friend. I dinnae wish tae bury the two lads I love like me own bairns.”

“Padraig, Alaric an’ I will be fine,” Evan assured him as he stood from his chair and rounded his desk to pat the other man’s shoulder. “We are nae bairns anymore. We havenae been fer a long time.”

“I ken that,” Padraig said. “But it doesnae change the fact that ye still seem like bairns tae me. Let an old man have his concerns, Evan. This is what we dae best.”

Evan could hardly argue with Padraig when he got like this, and so he didn’t try. Instead, he said, “I’ll consider it, alright? I will consider the Lady Buchanan an’ every other lass ye have found fer me. But I will dae so after the Hamilton weddin’.”

“An’ until then?”

“Until then, Alaric an’ I have serious work tae dae an’ we need yer assistance,” said Evan. “We need all the resources we can get.”

Padraig nodded, his own hand coming to rest on Evan’s shoulder. It was the most fatherly gesture he had received since his father’s death, and he had to swallow around the knot in his throat, willing himself to stay grounded instead of losing himself in his grief. There was no time for this. He would only grieve his parents once he had obtained his revenge.

“Ye shall have them,” Padraig promised. “I only ask that ye remain safe. That ye dinnae take risks.”

“I willnae,” said Evan, even if he knew his promise to be false.

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Chapter One

Marrying a complete stranger for a strategic alliance was the fate of many noble girls. However, Bonnie MacLaren never imagined she would be one of them. Marrying for political gain was one thing, but marrying a man she only knew by name was another.

Then again, she would be meeting him soon. Laird Graeme Ruthven was waiting for her on the Isle of Arran, where they would both be attending the wedding of Tavish Hamilton and his bride, Amelia. The council of the MacLaren Clan had made it clear that Bonnie – as the heir if something happened to her brother-in-law and laird of the clan, Macauley Sinclair – was to wed as soon as possible to a man of their choosing, in an attempt to prevent another effort for a hostile takeover.

Bonnie could hardly blame them. After her cousin, Faolan, had attempted to hold onto his role as the laird of the clan by threatening to marry Bonnie against her will, the council was more eager than ever to marry her off to someone so they wouldn’t have to deal with the headache of another suitor with ulterior motives.

The sky was dark, clouds gathering above Bonnie’s head as she and her two trusted guards travelled from Castle MacLaren to the shore, where they would take a birlinn to the Isle of Arran. So far, the winter had been mostly dry, bringing them less rain than usual, but the cold bit into her skin and seeped into her bones—a chill that turned all the more humid as they approached the coastline. It was still early in the day, and yet the grey clouds blocked the sun, forcing Bonnie to hold tight onto her cape as the wind whipped her face and hair.

“We’re almost there,” one of the guards, Finlay, called over the whistling of the wind. “Ye willnae have tae endure this much longer.”

“I’ve endured worse,” Bonnie said and then added with a teasing smirk, “like yer company.”

Finlay turned to look at her in mock offence. “If me lady protests me presence, I am more than happy tae return tae the castle an’ relieve ye o’ the burden. Now, whether ye make it tae Arran without me is a different matter.”

“What dae ye think will happen tae me on the way?”

“I can only guess Lachlan will inadvertently kill ye afore ye’re even on the birlinn,” said Finlay, prompting an unimpressed sigh from the other guard.

Bonnie laughed. In all the years she had known Finlay, the man could never help himself when it came to Lachlan—or anyone else, really. He always had a joke to offer and loved to tease those around him. Being a few years older than her, Bonnie had always thought of him as the big brother she had never had. They even resembled each other in their colors if not their features, their eyes and hair a similar shade of deep brown. Where Bonnie was small and slender, though, with a delicate nose and mouth, and a rounded, doll-like face, Finlay was a wall of a man, well-suited to his profession.

Lachlan, on the other hand, could only be described as willowy, Bonnie thought; boyish, even, with his unruly mop of blond hair and his bright blue eyes. He worked well with Finlay, though, making up for the speed the other lacked when it came to battle.

“Maybe that would be fer the best,” Bonnie said with a sigh, remembering the reason for her visit to Arran. Part of it was the wedding, of course, but part of it was so she could be paraded in front of Laird Ruthven so that he could decide if she was good enough for him; like a prized mare whose only value came from her appearance and how many children she could bear.

It was never meant tae be like this.

Bonnie had entertained the idea that she would one day marry for love and it sounded idyllic—the kind of thing that had few chances of ever occurring as she was the eldest daughter. But then Cathleen had married Macauley, and he had taken on the mantle of the laird of the clan. Bonnie had held onto the hope that perhaps with a man like him in charge, a man trusted and respected by everyone around him, she would have the chance to find love after all, and if not love, then at least a husband who would be a good match for her—someone she and her family could get to know slowly, someone they could be certain wouldn’t hurt her or the clan.

And yet all those hopes had now been ruined.

“Dinnae speak like that,” Finlay said, though his gaze was understanding as he looked at her. “Yer only obligation is tae meet him.”

“Fer now,” Bonnie said. “But if he an’ the council agree, then we all ken me opinion on the matter will be irrelevant.”

There was nothing Finlay could say to that, Bonnie knew, and so he didn’t respond much to her relief. She didn’t want to hear any comforting words, because in the end, they wouldn’t matter. Words couldn’t change what awaited her at the other side of the sea, nor could they bring her any comfort.

It was better to say nothing at all.

“Well, let us make it tae the weddin’ first,” said Lachlan in the best approximation of a cheerful tone that he could muster.

“Aye, the laddie doesnae like the sea,” said Finlay.

“I have a name,” said Lachlan. “An’ I am only two years younger than ye.”

“Ye dinnae look like it.”

Bonnie chuckled as she listened to them bicker, their teasing helping to take her mind off Laird Ruthven, at least for a while. Soon, she would have to face the reality of her situation, but as long as she was with Finlay and Lachlan, the three of them leisurely riding down the wide path, then she could still pretend that they were only visiting to attend the wedding.

After a few more hours, the harbor appeared before them and Bonnie gazed at the horizon, where the sea met the sky. It was clearer there, the clouds thinning and allowing some of the sunlight to creep in. She hoped the weather would remain clear and that their trip to Arran would be tolerable, if not entirely pleasant, but there was no telling what the sea would bring. She had travelled a few short distances before and most of the time, the waves had left her nauseous and eager to step once again on solid land.

“Alright, me an’ Lachlan will leave the horses here,” said Finlay as they dismounted, pointing to the left of the harbor. “Ye can go ahead tae the birlinn an’ we’ll find ye shortly.”

Bonnie nodded as she handed Finlay the reins to her horse. She adjusted the quiver which held her arrows along with the bow that was strapped to her back, as she had refused to take such a long trip without any weapons, and then headed to where Finlay had gestured. Here, the wind was stronger, mercilessly whipping her skin and pulling strands of her hair out of its updo, but there was nothing she could do other than hurry against it, keeping her eyes half-closed as they watered.

When she reached the edge of the land, she looked up to see that there were two boats there instead of the one she had expected.

Which one are we meant tae take?

Bonnie looked over her shoulder to where she had last seen Lachlan and Finlay but they weren’t there. With a heavy sigh, she took a few steps back, looking for them, only to find out that they were nowhere to be seen.

She looked back at the boats. One of them was smaller, bearing nothing but the essentials. The other had a small room built on the deck and was a little larger, but otherwise the same.

Well, I can ask the men.

First, she walked to the larger boat, climbing up the plank. From the moment she stepped foot on the deck, she could tell that it was going to be a long, unpleasant trip.

How I hate the waves!

Looking around, it didn’t take Bonnie long to notice that there were few men on the boat and no other passengers, which seemed rather strange. She had assumed there would be more people who would be going with them to Arran, but perhaps the council had arranged for the boat to take just her and her two guards.

“Excuse me,” Bonnie called to one of the men who was winding a piece of rope. “Are ye headin’ tae Arran?”

“Och aye,” said the man. “Who are ye, lass?”

“Me name is—”

Before Bonnie could finish her sentence, she began to feel a strange movement—one that the waves didn’t explain. Wide-eyed, she looked at the shore, which was getting smaller and smaller by the second, while neither Lachlan nor Finlay was there with her.

“Where are ye goin’?” Bonnie asked, panic tinting her tone. Her heart leapt to her throat and her hand shot out to hold onto the nearest thing she could find: the hoop of a barrel that stood near the mast. “We… me guards! Ye left me guards behind! We must turn around at once!”

“What guards?” the man asked. “We are nae meant tae bring anyone else. Nae one told me we’re bringin’ a lassie, either.”

Bonnie glanced at the other boat, which was still at the harbor and cursed under her breath. “I’m afraid I am on the wrong boat!”

The man’s gaze followed hers to look at the other boat still at the harbor, before dragging his gaze back to Bonnie. “Well, this is certainly a problem.”

“Turn around!” Bonnie begged the man. She was close to falling to her knees, close to tears, close to jumping into the sea and trying her luck as she swam all the way back. “Please!”

“We cannae turn around now,” the man said. “We have our orders from the captain. We maintain course.”

Bonnie looked helplessly at the man, then at the other boat, then back at the man, but he was already moving on to his next task, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Bonnie was on the boat all alone, while her guards had no idea what happened to her.

Finlay an’ Lachlan will be so worried. What will they dae? Will they ken I got on the wrong birlinn?

As she looked around for anyone who could help her—or at least listen to her—her gaze fell on the small room she had spotted before. It must have been the captain’s quarters, she thought as she approached it, determined to make the man listen to her.

It wouldn’t take them that long to turn around and bring her back to the harbor. They were still close and Bonnie could spare the extra gold if needed. She just had to reason with the captain, she told herself, and then everything would be fine.

She didn’t have the presence of mind to knock. In her panic, she threw the door to the small room open, the words already tumbling past her lips before she even took a good look inside.

“Sir, please, tell yer men that we must turn back,” she said, voice thin and reedy and on the verge of hysteria. The longer it took her to explain, the longer it took the man to listen, the more difficult it would be for her to make it back. “I am nae meant tae be here, it was me mistake, but in me defense, I didnae ken that ye would leave right that moment! Me guards, they are back at the harbor an’ we were meant tae take the other birlinn but I didnae ken that an’—”

Once again, Bonnie fell silent before she could finish her sentence, upon taking a better look at the dark room. There were no windows there. The only light came from the open door and from a torch that hung from the far wall, which shed a warm orange light on the scene before her eyes.

There was a man tied to a chair, beaten bloody and bruised. His face was smeared in crimson, drops of it dripping from his mouth on the floor below him, and his left eye was swollen shut, the skin colored a deep purple. It seemed that he couldn’t even raise his head to look at her, abused as he was.

Next to him stood another man, one who made Bonnie instinctively take a few steps back the moment she laid eyes on him. He was tall and broad, perhaps even more so than Finlay, with a mane of hair as dark as spilled ink. His eyes were just as dark, betraying nothing in the half-light of the room, and the beard that covered the lower half of his face gave him an even more menacing appearance.

What has he done? He is goin’ tae kill him if he continues!

Could this be the captain? But why was he torturing that poor man on the chair?

Bonnie didn’t ask. What if she provoked him and he unleashed his fury upon her?

Slowly, she began to backtrack, almost tripping on the hem of her dress as she tried to leave while keeping her eye on the man and reaching behind her for her bow and arrows. She hadn’t gotten far, though, before he began to approach her, that predatory gaze now fixed on her.

“Where dae ye think ye’re going, lass?”

Chapter Two

Half an hour earlier…

Evan shook his hand and flexed his fingers after a particularly vicious punch to the man in front of him. He didn’t know how long he had spent cooped up in that small room with him, trying to beat the truth out of the man to no avail, but he was getting tired.

“He’s nae speakin’.” Evan looked at his brother, Alaric, who stood across from him, leaning against the wall in that awfully casual way of his, while still somehow looking murderous. He had that effect, Evan knew. Though they resembled each other very much in build and features, Alaric sported battle scars and had marked himself with tattoos that gave him the aura of a much more dangerous man.

“I can see that,” Alaric said, rather unhelpfully, in his smooth baritone. “If he spoke, he could tell us everythin’ and we could get this over with.”

“But he willnae speak,” Evan pointed out. “How long have we been doin’ this? He’s half-dead. He willnae speak afore we kill him.”

“Dae ye want me tae try?”

Evan gestured widely with his hand as if to say his brother was welcome to try, though he doubted he would bring about any better results. It wasn’t as though he could hit him any harder or threaten him in any way Evan hadn’t already tried.

Alaric didn’t move from where he stood, but instead simply watched the man as he drooled saliva and blood on the floor. “Are ye certain he kens about Ruthven’s plans?”

“O’ course he kens,” said Evan with a scoff. “He’s supposed tae be an informant.”

“Supposed tae be,” Alaric repeated. “But what if our information is inaccurate?”

Evan took a moment to consider that possibility, but then shook his head, discarding it. “Nay… nay, we ken who he is. Our information is correct. We simply have tae break him. He kens about Ruthven an’ Balliol, I ken he does.”

Ever since John Balliol’s accession as King of Scots, Evan and Alaric had both been hard at work, trying to bring a quick end to his reign. Evan would rather die than serve a king who was nothing but a pawn to the English. After what they had done to his family, he wanted nothing more than to ruin them—and it all began with Laird Ruthven.

“Ruthven is a fool,” Alaric said, as if that changed anything for Evan. “He is a greedy man. How long dae ye think he has afore Balliol brings him tae ruin, too?”

“I dinnae ken an’ I dinnae care,” Evan said through gritted teeth. Perhaps Alaric was right. Perhaps in the end, the situation would take care of itself. After all, many were already displeased by Balliol’s rule and wanted him gone. Ruthven would get caught up in the conflict, eager as he was to please Balliol just so he could gain more land, more influence, more wealth. But Evan would be a fool, too, if he didn’t do his part to get Balliol off the throne and maybe, if he worked hard enough and was lucky enough, even get to the Hammer of the Scots—Edward I.

“Perhaps it would be wiser tae try an’ use the bride,” Alaric said. “If this lad willnae speak, she might be able tae help us.”

Evan had heard of the so-called bride of Laird Ruthven, a woman who was supposed to meet him in Arran, at the same wedding Evan and Alaric were going to be attending. He couldn’t fathom a way that he could use her, though, not when he didn’t even know who the woman was and not without putting her in danger.

As far as he knew, she was innocent in all this. It would be cruel of him to drag an innocent woman into a perilous plan when there were other avenues he could take.

“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “We shall continue with our plan. We will go tae the weddin’ an’ we will try tae find proof of a connection between Ruthven an’ Balliol. An’ then, we’ll see.”

With a chuckle, Alaric pushed himself off the wall and approached Evan, giving him the kind of scrutinizing look that Evan had never liked to have directed at him. For all his rough and rugged appearance, Alaric was surprisingly insightful and capable of seeing right through him if he wanted.

“An’ this has naething tae dae with the fact that ye are avoidin’ yer own betrothal,” he said. “I’m sure ye’re nae tryin’ tae stall, are ye?”

Evan couldn’t help but roll his eyes, though his brother was not far off the mark. The truth was that ever since the council of Clan MacGregor had decided that he, as the laird, needed to have a wife, he had been doing anything in his power to delay that day for as long as he could.

He could only avoid his council that long, of course. The day would come when he would have to pick a woman to wed, but that day wouldn’t come so soon if he had anything to say about it.

“That isnae why I’m doin’ this,” Evan insisted, but then he gave a small shrug, fighting back a chuckle. “But it certainly helps.”

Alaric gave him a knowing look and a pat on the shoulder before he headed towards the door. “Well, I’ll see if we’re ready tae depart. Ye stay here an’ see if ye can get him tae talk.”

Evan nodded, watching his brother leave before he turned to the other man. For a moment, he thought he was unconscious, the pain and the abuse proving too much for his body to handle, but when he stepped closer, the man flinched in fear.

“Pretendin’ willnae help ye,” Evan told him with a weary sigh. “What will help ye is if ye tell me the truth.”

He had tried this before and the man had said nothing. This time, he said nothing as well, keeping all his secrets to himself. At first, he had insisted he knew nothing, but neither Evan nor Alaric had believed him. They had good informants and they had assured Evan that this was the man they were looking for—a man working for both Ruthven and Balliol, helping them exchange messages in secret. Evan was more inclined to believe his people than this man when he said he didn’t know anything.

“Alright, I suppose ye leave me nae choice but tae continue this,” Evan said as he approached the man once more and raised his fist, ready to strike.

And then the door opened, and Evan turned around to see not his brother there, but a woman he had never seen before.

He didn’t manage to say a single thing before the woman began to speak, a torrent of words tumbling past her lips. Evan frowned, trying his best to follow the path of her reasoning but quickly failing. She was saying something about turning back, something about guards.

Who is she? How did she get here?

And most importantly, what was he supposed to do now that she had seen him torture a man?

When she finally noticed what was going on, Evan saw the spark of fear in her eyes. Instantly, she began to backtrack, her hands reaching for her bow and an arrow, and Evan couldn’t help but wonder what kind of woman travelled with such a weapon.

It wouldn’t help her much against him. Arrows were good in long ranges, but he could get to her before she fired it.

“Where dae ye think ye’re going, lass?” he began but she interrupted him.

“Dinnae even think about layin’ a hand on me,” she said through gritted teeth. “I will kill ye.”

In two large strides, Evan reached her and grabbed her bow, yanking it right out of her hand and tossing it aside. That didn’t seem to faze her much, though, as she gripped the arrow in a tight fist and raised her hand, ready to strike. Evan managed to block the blow at the last moment, his hand grabbing her arm to still it as the other wrestled the arrow out of her palm.

The moment she was left without a weapon, the woman blanched, all the color draining from her face—and what a face it was. Despite her fierce character, she seemed like a delicate thing, bird-boned and soft-featured; a beautiful young woman who, under other circumstances, would have certainly caught his attention.

As it were, Evan had more pressing matters to consider than his sexual desires.

“What will I dae with ye?” he asked her as he kicked the door shut behind him. Though the crew had seen the man he and Alaric had brought on board, though they had heard his screams, Evan still thought it was better to keep him out of sight.

“Ye’ll let me go,” the woman said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Nay,” said Evan. “I dinnae think I will.”

As he spoke, he pulled the woman towards the stern, away from prying eyes and ears. The woman struggled against him, desperately trying to dislodge her arm from his grip, but Evan refused to let her go, even though there wasn’t much she could do. They were in the middle of the sea, after all. There was nowhere for her to go, nowhere for her to hide.

“Ye’re a brute!” the woman said, kicking him hard in the shin. Evan did almost lose his grip on her then, but he only grunted in pain and pushed her hard against the rail, crowding her against it. Like that, it was impossible for her to weasel her way out. He stood in front of her like a wall, refusing to budge.

“Who are ye?” he asked. “An’ what are ye doin’ on me birlinn?”

The woman blinked in surprise a few times, straightening up as she looked at him. “This is yer birlinn? Ye’re the captain?”

“I’m nae the captain but I have paid fer a private journey,” Evan said. “An’ I dinnae take kindly tae stowaways.”

“I’m nae a stowaway,” the woman said, trying to pull her arm from his grip once more. This time, Evan allowed it, only because she had no chance of escape. “I am Bonnie MacLaren o’ the MacLaren Clan. Me sister is the Lady Cathleen MacLaren. So, I willnae have ye treat me like this.”

Evan took a better look at the woman, noting the hands that seemed unused to manual labor, the tunic she wore, which was woven from a fine fabric, and the signs of a soft life. She certainly looked and spoke like a noble girl, and had Evan been in a better state of mind, he was certain he would have noticed sooner.

“I see,” he said. “An’ what, precisely, are ye doin’ here, Miss MacLaren?”

“I told ye,” said Bonnie, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. “I got on the wrong birlinn. I am travellin’ tae attend Laird Hamilton’s weddin’ an’ me guards told me tae board, but our birlinn was presumably next tae yers an’ I must have gotten confused.”

She didn’t seem to be lying, Evan thought. He couldn’t think of a reason why she would, but one could never be too careful. Bonnie had already seen too much; Evan had to keep a close eye on her.

“Well, ye ken who I am now,” Bonnie added, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Who are ye?”

“Laird Evan MacGregor,” Evan said, biting back a smirk when he saw the shocked expression on Bonnie’s face. No one expected a laird to do the dirty work, Evan knew, but he didn’t mind getting his hands bloody. Some things had to be done and he could trust no one but himself and his brother to do them. “I am also headin’ tae Arran fer the weddin’. We shall go together.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, but Bonnie seemed to understand it as one and she immediately scoffed, shaking her head. “What makes ye think I will go anywhere with ye?”

“What other choice dae ye think ye have?” Evan asked. “Look where ye are… in the middle o’ the sea. An’ after what ye’ve seen, well., I cannae simply let ye go.”

He watched as Bonnie looked around her, realizing perhaps for the first time the severity of the situation and the fact that she truly had no option but to be on that boat with him. Then, her gaze met his again and her bottom lip shook as she spoke.

“What will ye dae tae me?”

“Naething,” Evan said. “As long as ye behave an’ dae as ye are told. Ye’re me property now, Miss MacLaren. Ye’ll dae as I tell ye.”

Bonnie rolled her eyes at him, much to Evan’s irritation. She tried to sidestep him by ducking under his arm, but Evan was quick to push her back against the rail, tutting softly at her.

“Where dae ye think ye’re goin’?”

“Anywhere but here,” Bonnie said. “Why? Are ye plannin’ tae tie me down like that poor man ye have in that room?”

“That man is more dangerous than ye ken,” Evan said, pinning Bonnie with a strict gaze. “An’ ye are nae tae approach him. Dae ye understand?”

Bonnie didn’t respond; not until Evan grabbed her arm, giving her a rough shake.

“I said, dae ye understand?”

“Let go o’ me!” Bonnie demanded, trying to once again push Evan away from her. “What is the matter with ye? Is this how ye treat all ladies?”

“It depends on how foolish they are,” said Evan. Though he didn’t let go of her quite yet, he slackened his grip, giving her some leeway. “Are ye foolish, Miss MacLaren? Are ye goin’ tae be trouble?”

Bonnie didn’t need to answer his question for Evan to know that she would very likely be more trouble than she was worth. What could he do, though, now that she had seen everything? He could hardly kill her, she was innocent. Her only mistake had been to get on the wrong boat and then open that door. And besides, she was not some faceless, nameless woman no one would miss. She was the daughter of a great laird, who even in death inspired other leaders. She was the sister-in-law of her clan’s laird. If Evan’s education on the other clans still served him well, she was also the eldest, though the mantle of the laird had not been passed on to her husband.

Unwedded, then? Was the youngest sister married first?

Perhaps he was confusing the sisters. It had been a long time, after all, since he had last concerned himself with the clans’ genealogies.

“If ye value yer life, ye will dae what I tell ye,” Evan said, the threat thinly veiled in his words. Even if he wasn’t actually going to kill her, Bonnie didn’t need to know that. The more afraid she was of him, the better. “Ye will accompany me tae the Hamilton keep. Until then, ye will sit quietly here on the deck an’ ye willnae speak tae anyone.”

Bonnie glared up at Evan, her eyes narrowing dangerously, but the effect was lost due to him towering over her. Even with her bow, there was little she could do to maim him in such close range, and she seemed to finally accept that as her shoulders fell and she leaned away from him as if disgusted by his mere presence.

“Good,” said Evan, finally pulling back. “Ye’re nae so foolish after all.”

As he turned around to head back to the small room and try to extract at least a morsel of information out of his other prisoner, he could feel her gaze boring into the back of his skull. The feeling followed him all the way there, and then even once he was inside, behind the confines of the door.

The entire time, a shiver ran down his spine.

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Two Years Earlier, Inverness, 1651

“Kaden, Kaden!” the shouts roared up from the castle.

Chuckling under his breath, Kaden leaned over the head of his steed, his dark hair half falling across his eyes, raising his body in the stirrups and urging the horse to gallop hard. It had been months since he had seen Castle Stuart. His travels to Edinburgh and Glasgow, even as far as the English border, had kept him away too long.

Nae fer much longer. I’m home now.

The horse beneath him snorted, as if in agreement with his own thoughts.

Behind him, the guards who always traveled at his side bellowed for him to stay closer, but Kaden ignored them. He didn’t need a guard on a path he knew so well. He’d ridden these lanes when he was a boy, snaking out of Inverness town and out to his father’s castle on the hills that overlooked the ocean.

“Kaden!” the roar came again from the castle walls.

Aye, that’s me sister’s voice.

His sisters, Líadan and Étaín, were clearly thrilled to see him home again. Kaden laughed once more and raced toward the tall, towering red-brick castle. Today, in the gleaming sunlight, it shone blood red. As if the stones had survived some bloodied battle from years gone by. When he came upon the open gravel drive, he shot past the gates.

Somehow, he was distantly aware that someone was gaining on him, racing to keep up.

“Líadan?” Kaden called back as he pulled the horse to a stop on the driveway. The steed whinnied happily as Kaden jumped down, his clan tartan flung over his shoulder, pinned in place by his clan badge, that he wore every day of his life, vowing never to take it off. He looked at the castle, just as the person chasing behind him also came to a halt.

It was Marcus. The strong and overbearing figure was somewhat curious as he came to a stop and turned his head up toward the towering structure, topped with grey turrets. The red hair and cropped beard bristled in the wind as Marcus said nothing.

“It’s quite something, isnae it?” Kaden asked his friend. “Have yer thoughts left this place again?”

He had met Marcus on his travels in Edinburgh, and the two had taken to one another at once. It probably helped that the two had ended up in a pub brawl, not of either of their making, but they had saved each other from what could have been nasty wounds in the process. Marcus was a warrior, through and through, and despite the fact Kaden was confident that Marcus had worked as a mercenary for some time, he was inclined to forgive him for whatever crimes might lay in the past. What mattered now was the future, and Marcus had pledged his life to Kaden’s side.

“What?” Marcus said distractedly, turning the horse around so he could face Kaden.

“Ye dae this often,” Kaden chuckled. “It’s as if yer mind is far away from here.”

“I was just thinking, this place… never mind.” He stilled as two women appeared at the door.

“Líadan, Étaín,” Kaden whispered with joy as his sisters appeared in the doorway of the keep. His two sisters, one with rich dark hair, the other with silverish hair which shone in the light of the day, usually so reserved and formal cracked when they saw him. Étaín was the first to run forward, flinging her arms around him a warm embrace. Líadan quickly followed.

“Ye have been gone much too long,” Líadan said in a rush.

“Ye have. Faither has been asking fer ye every day since ye left,” Étaín agreed, blinking her dark eyes rather rapidly, clearly trying to halt her happy tears.

“Ah, but ye havenae been asking fer me?” Kaden teased his sister. “Have ye been happy tae see me gone fer so long?”

“Tush.” She tapped him around the arm in reprimand, prompting him to laugh.

“How have ye been?” Líadan asked excitedly.

“Have I got some stories fer ye, sisters.” He kissed them both on the foreheads. “Where are me faither and stepmaither?” Kaden asked, rounding the horse as he reached for the pack he had tied to the back of the saddle. “Such gifts dae I have for them,” he chuckled. “Perfumes fer me stepmaither. Aye, she always liked what scents could be found in Edinburgh, didnae she?”

He pulled out a heavy bottle of perfume and tossed it into the air. Líadan caught it in a kerfuffle, half falling over as she did so.

“Though dinnae uncork it out here,” Kaden said, reaching back into the pack with a wink. “If the trader in Edinburgh market is right, a man is said to swoon at the scent.” He laughed heartily, barely registering the fact that Marcus, who had now climbed down from his horse, didn’t laugh. “Maybe me friend Marcus and I will keel over at the scent.” Líadan and Étaín laughed. “I brought gifts fer Faither too.”

Kaden drew out a long sword. The rapier, rather than being built heavy and broad for battle, was thin and elegant, carved with the most beautiful emblems. Old runes were fashioned down the side of the blade, complimented with images of the moon and sun, morphing into one orb on the gilt handle.

“It is beautiful,” Líadan said, tracing the carvings with her long fingers. “Faither will be thrilled with this when he returns.”

“Returns?” Kaden repeated, surprised.

“Aye, he and Lilly have gone traveling. They were asked tae attend a wedding. They will return in a few days.”

Kaden nodded, a little disappointed to have missed them. As much as he had loved his travels, he had been looking forward to being surrounded by his family again, to feel completely at home with the ones he loved.

“And these are the presents ye bring?” Étaín declared in sudden challenge. “Gifts fer our faither and maither, and nae us?” She pretended to pout, though there was a twinkle in her eye.

“As if I could forget ye two,” he said, turning back to the horse with a wink. “Last time I came home, ye two drank so much at Yuletide that yer laughter shook the turret roofs. That memory has kept me company these last few months.”

“Ye make us sound like cackling witches.” Líadan folded her arms, clearly put out by the comparison, though that expression soon softened when Kaden produced his gifts for them.

He passed Étaín her gift first. The beautiful pack of cards had been painted by the finest artists in Venice, that pack then traveled all the way to Edinburgh where it found its way into Kaden’s hands on a stall in market square. He passed her the gift, watching as her eyes widened. Next, he passed Líadan a book. As beautiful as the cards, with heavy embossed lettering, her eyes twinkled as she took it.

“Ye are always so kind tae us,” she whispered.

“Well, I have missed ye both, and yer cackling laughter when ye have shared too much tae drink – ow!” He pretended to be hurt as they both tapped him around the arm in reprimand this time. “Now, I shall tell ye all about me travels later, and I wish tae hear all yer news too, but first, I must feel fresh.”

“Then go, go,” Étaín waved him away. “Ye dae smell like ye have been riding fer days.”

“Oi.” He was now the one who pretended to be offended.

As he turned to enter the castle, he found Marcus still standing a little distance away. Clearly, he was happy not to be introduced and preferred to keep his distance. He was lost in his own world once again, staring up at the castle. Kaden clapped him on the back and steered him into the castle.

“What is it?” Kaden asked, losing all notes of jest from his tone.

“What?”

“Ye have barely said a word.”

“Ye said yerself, that is hardly unusual fer me,” Marcus muttered, his eyes drinking in the sights around him.

“Maybe sometimes I am curious about yer thoughts. Ye never give too much away.” Kaden smiled at him, and Marcus smiled back.

In truth, Kaden wasn’t concerned with pressing Marcus too far for his secrets. He knew Marcus had many, but the effort Marcus had gone to this last year in protecting him, time and time again, told him everything he needed to know about who Marcus was at heart. He had the best of hearts.

“A castle like this… let’s just say it isnae something I am used tae,” Marcus murmured as Kaden steered him down corridors, past standing armor, put together like statues, and under great displays of swords nailed into the red-stone walls.

“Ye will get used tae it, in time.” Kaden clapped him on the back once again.

Before heading to his chamber, Kaden went to his father’s study, with Marcus still behind him. Rather than finding the room empty as he expected it to be, he found his father’s advisor instead.

Liam, an elderly and withered man, with skin crinkling around his face in multiple great gaping folds, brushed his grey beard absentmindedly until he saw Kaden enter.

“Ah, sir.” He struggled to stand, pressing his weight down into a cane at his side.

“Liam. How are ye?” Kaden moved to his side and clasped his hand in greeting, then used it to gently return Liam to his seat.

“These bones grow older and wearier by the day. Look at ye.” Liam beamed at him. “Ye have grown stronger in yer time away, and I see ye return with friends as well.”

“Aye, let me introduce ye.” He steered Marcus forward. “This is Marcus. A finer warrior ye would struggle tae find, much less one with a truer heart.”

“Ah, a finer warrior than ye?” Liam said, mischief in those old eyes.

“On his good days,” Kaden teased him, prompting even Marcus to laugh. “I hear me faither and stepmaither arenae here?”

“Nay. They have gone to Laird MacNaughton’s wedding. They should be back in a couple of days. Ye were specially invited too.”

Kaden paused from circling his father’s study, turning to face the advisor in curiosity.

“Aye, aye, I ken that look.” Liam nodded. “Yer father didnae wish tae bring ye back from yer travels any sooner. He kenned ye were enjoying yerself very much. ‘A young man must have his adventure before he is called tae the responsibilities of being a laird.’ Ha, ye dinnae ken how much he has said those words these last couple of weeks.”

Kaden shifted uneasily, though he forced himself to smile. The matter of being laird someday was still something that sat uneasily on Kaden’s shoulders. He preferred not to think about it, hoping that being a laird would be some distant thing that he wouldn’t have to worry about for some time.

“Hey, hey!” a sudden bellow went up from outside. “I need water.”

“Get him some water.”

“Look at the man. Cannae ye see he’s burning up? Someone get him some water?”

“What’s going on?” Liam asked, once more struggling to get to his feet with his cane.

Before he could move far though, Kaden and Marcus shot to the window, peering out through the lead-lined glass to the gravel drive far below.

There was a young soldier on a horse. His hair looked singed, his face bright red. Completely exhausted, he could do nothing but fall off the horse when it came to a stop and was barely caught in time by one of Kaden’s guards.

“That’s Alaisdair,” Kaden muttered to Marcus. “He is one of me faither’s guards.”

They exchanged an uneasy look. As fast as Kaden darted from the room, Marcus was on his tail. Without a word said between them, they sprinted down the corridors of Castle Stuart and out onto the open driveway, just as a bucket of water was thrown over Alaisdair’s head. He still reached out another hand toward a man beside him, who promptly pressed a flagon of water into his grasp. Alaisdair must have drained the whole flagon before he dared speak.

“Alaisdair?” Kaden asked, dropping to his knees in front of the soldier. He didn’t look around. For a minute, he didn’t even think to check if his sisters were nearby, to see if they were witnessing this or if they had gone into the castle. All he was aware of were the soldiers gathering around the guard, trying to cool him down from the clear intense heat he was suffering. “What is it? What has happened?”

“A terrible thing,” the soldier murmured weakly, his voice croaking like that of a man three times his age. “I couldnae stop it. I tried. Oh, I tried, Kaden.” He reached out a hand toward Kaden, grabbing his arm. Kaden laid his hand upon it, suddenly noticing the blistered skin across his knuckles.

“Ye have been in a fire.”

“Aye. Aye, I have.” Alaisdair dropped his hand, slumping back into the grasp of the guard behind him who was barely keeping his head off the ground from where he had fallen. “The tavern.”

“Tavern? What tavern?” Marcus asked, appearing on the guard’s other side, his face serious.

“Laird and Lady Stuart. They were resting fer the night. The tavern at the edge of the clan…” He broke off, wheezing then coughing. When he coughed up into his other hand, something black came out in his palm.

Kaden looked at Marcus, seeing the same concern mirrored in his friend’s face.

“I couldnae get them out. I couldnae save them.”

Something tightened in Kaden’s chest. He felt as if a hand made of steel was gripping his heart.

“Them?” he whispered. “Alaisdair, ye speak of myeparents, aye? Tell me… tell me they arenae dead.”

“I wish I could.” A great gasping breath escaped Alaisdair, his blue eyes filled with unshed tears. “I tried tae save them, we all did, but we couldnae. They burned tae death, along with everyone else in that tavern. Some dreadful accident, some awful thing, maybe a candle was knocked over and it got out of control, I dinnae ken, but I dae ken this.” His blackened hand gripped Kaden again. “They are gone, Kaden, I mean… me laird.”

Kaden stumbled back onto his haunches.

He couldn’t look at anyone, though he felt every pair of eyes turn toward him.

He wasn’t sure what haunted him more as the sensation of that steel hand closing over his heart grew worse. Was it the thought that he was now laird, the thought that he’d never see two people he loved so much again, or the fact that if he had returned earlier, and had gone with his parents to the wedding, he would be dead too?

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Matheson Castle, The Scottish Highlands, Summer 1308

Catalina Matheson, her skirts held high, was running through the hallways of her father’s castle. She was on an urgent mission, having just been tasked by her father’s manservant to find her elder sister Anastasia and bring her, along with herself, to his study as soon as possible. Laird Matheson had important news to impart to his two daughters, it seemed.

Eager to obey their father’s summons and unable to help speculating about what his news could be, Catalina paused sporadically to open various doors and peek inside all the rooms where she thought she might find Anastasia at that time of the day. She tried her sister’s chamber first. It was empty. She went to the library, the chapel, the dining hall, then the vestibule, to ask the guards stationed there if her sister had gone outside—she had not—but all to no avail.

Then, she had an idea. Picking up her skirts once more, she raced in a very unladylike manner back up the stairs, to the castle’s third floor. She ran down the hall and threw open the door to the solar. Framed in the sunlight that was pouring through the enormous windows were three familiar figures.

One was Nancy, the girls’ lady’s maid, who was seated in a far corner of the room, her needle poised above the pile of darning on her lap. She looked at Catalina with a startled expression, her mouth hanging open.

Nancy was clearly on chaperone duty, for the other two figures, sitting on opposite sides of a small table in the window bay, with playing cards clutched in their hands, were her sister and their faithful friend and protector Dunstan Armstrong.

As Catalina stood on the threshold, panting, they both turned their heads towards her, surprise etched on their faces.

“Cat? Yer face is all red. Have ye been runnin’? What is it? Are ye all right?” Anastasia asked, her beautiful features creasing with concern as she scrutinized her younger sister.

“’Tis Faither, Ana,” Catalina puffed, holding her side. “He wants tae see us both in his study, now. He has some news tae impart.”

Anastasia exchanged a wondering look with her card partner. Dunstan, his eyes almost black beneath a mop of dark-brown curls, shrugged his powerful shoulders in response, expressing his ignorance of the matter.

“Oh?” Anastasia replied, turning back to Catalina. “D’ye ken what he wants tae see us about?”

“Nay, only that ’tis important and that we’re tae hurry, so ye’d better come quick.”

“Very well.” Anastasia placed her cards neatly down on the table and rose from her seat. Smoothing down her skirts, she smiled at Dunstan, “This probably willnae take long. Will ye wait fer me? I still have tae beat ye, so dinnae try tae cheat while I’m gone.”

“I wasnae thinkin’ of it, but now ye mention it , I think I might,” he replied, returning her smile while throwing down his cards and leaning back in his chair.

“Keep an eye on him while I’m gone, Nancy,” Anastasia told the maid with a chuckle as she crossed to the doorway. She put an arm about her sister’s shoulders and turned her about. “Come then, Cat, I suppose we’d better hurry.”

A few minutes later, both girls were in their father’s study, sitting in chairs before his enormous desk. They looked at him expectantly. Laird Matheson leaned his elbows on the desk, steepled his fingers, and looked at his daughters over the top.

Catalina thought her father was terribly handsome despite his nearly fifty years, and all the many responsibilities he carried on his shoulders. He was tall and powerfully built, with a stern, cleanshaven face, eyes the color of moss, and steely gray hair. However, it hurt her heart to see the obvious marks of weariness in the many lines on his face and the hollows beneath his eyes, for she loved him dearly.

“Thank ye fer comin’ so quickly, me girls,” he told them, his deep voice grave. “I have some important news tae give ye.”

“What is it, Faither? Why d’ye look so worried? Is it Chisholm again?” Anastasia asked, her voice laced with anxiety. Catalina tensed to hear the dreaded name. Their clan had been at war with their neighbor, the brutal Sir Henry Chisholm for the last four years, and the feud dominated their lives.

Their father sighed. Wearily, he moved to pick up a parchment from the desk and held it before him. “Unfortunately, ’tis always Chisholm.”

Catalina was staring curiously at the parchment in their father’s hands. It was unusually large and had bright red wax seals attached to ribbons dangling from it. It was unlike any missive she had ever seen. “What is that, Faither? A letter? It looks very grand,” she could not help remarking.

Her father looked at her keenly. “Aye, ’tis a letter from the king.”

Catalina and Anastasia gasped in unison. “The Bruce, ye mean?” Anastasia said, her voice full of wonder.

“Aye, The Bruce,” The laird confirmed it with a nod.

“But why is the king writin’ tae ye, Faither?” Catalina wanted to know, now burning with curiosity.

“Because I wrote tae him. This is his reply,” he said, indicating the parchment.

“What fer?” Anastasia asked.

“I asked him tae send me soldiers. I need men tae help me fight Chisholm. As ye both ken, this war he started between us has been goin’ on fer more than a year now. I’ve lost too many good men. I’m runnin’ out of resources, and I need help from the king tae keep fightin’ and tae try tae defeat Chisholm once and fer all.”

Fear struck at Catalina, and she and Anastasia exchanged worried glances as they reached for each other’s hands, seeking comfort.

“He’s never going tae give up, is he, Faither,” Anastasia said, her voice shaking slightly, an edge of fear to it. “Nae until ye agree tae let him wed me.”

The laird’s face twisted into an expression of furious disgust. “I made a serious misjudgment about Chisholm when I agreed tae let him marry Brenna. I thought he was a good man, that he truly cared about her, that he was the right man tae lead the clan after I’m gone.” He got up and began pacing about agitatedly, his hands curling into fists. Catalina and Anastasia looked at each other fearfully.

“But the way he acted when Brenna died, so cold, demandin’ tae have ye fer his wife in yer sister’s place, Ana, as if ye girls were naethin’ more than chattel.” He shook his head, his face dark. “Well, then I realized what sort of a man he really was. He’s proved it a hundred times over, with this insane war on us, claimin’ the marriage promisin’ him Brenna’s hand still stands and that I owe him a wife. He’s a bloody madman, and he’ll get his hands on ye over me dead body!”

The words struck terror onto Catalina’s heart, and she could feel from the way Anastasia was gripping her hand tightly that she felt the same.

Chisholm had been a dark and threatening presence in their lives ever since Brenna, their elder sister, had suddenly been carried off by a bout of fever a year before. She had been a mother to her two younger sisters, and her loss had been devastating. Not a day went by when they did not miss her terribly.

Yet Chisholm, careless of their grief, had maintained his crazy insistence on having Anastasia’s hand instead and had made their grief all the harder to bear through his continual attacks upon their clan.

“What daes the king say in his letter, Faither?” Catalina asked, filled with anxiety at the thought her remaining precious sister falling into Chisholm’s evil grasp and being forced tae wed him. “He’s going tae give ye the men ye need, is he nae?”

Her father resumed his seat with a heavy sigh and rubbed his hand distractedly over his short grey locks. “Nae exactly,” he replied grimly.

Catalina felt her sister tense up. “What? But Faither! What are we tae dae without men tae keep fightin’? What if Chisholm…” Her voice trailed off, the specter of a future as Chisholm’s wife, which would allow him to take control of their clan after their father’s death, looming large over them all. Catalina’s stomach began churning in fear.

“I havenae told ye all yet, lassie. The king writes tae say he cannae spare his own troops. He needs them fer his own battles if he’s tae hold his crown against the English. But he’s suggestin’ an alternative that will supply me with the men I need and protect ye from Chisholm ever getting’ his hands on ye at the same time. But there’s a certain price tae be paid if I’m tae secure this help,” he explained.

Catalina watched as her sister’s eyes widened. “And what is that?” she asked.

The laird hesitated for a moment before answering. Then, he said, “He’s suggestin’ an alliance with another clan, a powerful clan, with a powerful army.”

“But that’s good news, is it nae?” Catalina asked, somewhat relieved at the news help might be forthcoming. “So, why d’ye look so sad about it?”

“As I say, there’s a certain price tae be paid.”

“Please, Faither, dinnae keep us in suspense. Tell us, what is this price ye speak of?” Anastasia asked.

“’Very well. He’s offerin’ an alliance with the clan tae be secured… through a marriage.”

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Chapter One

Castle MacLeod, Isle of Skye

The Western Scottish Highlands, 1308

The tranquility of the summer eve was torn apart by the ringing clash of metal against metal, the dull, woody thud of shield ramming shield, and the grunting and panting of men fighting.

“Come on, Braither, dinnae be a killjoy and come tae the tavern fer a pint or two of ale, eh?” Arne MacLeod said, his tone persuasive through heavy, panting breaths. He sheathed his sword and pushed up his vizor to wipe a powerful forearm across his sweating brow. “I’ll tell ye what, we’ll go and get Haldor and bring him along too. We’ll make a night of it, three braithers together. What d’ye say?”

Despite his own ragged breathing, Arne’s elder brother Ivar MacLeod laughed from beneath his helmet, a strangely mirthless sound. “I wish ye good luck with that,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll have a wee wager with ye that Haldor will turn ye down, for he’ll nae leave Sofia, and Dahlia willnae let them go without her.”

“Then let her come, let them all come. We can have a family party. It’ll be grand. How long has it been since we’ve done something like that together?”

Ivar took off his helmet and shook his head, sending his long fair locks flying. His expression had turned grim at his brother’s words. “Nay. They’ll nae come, and I’ll nae come either,” he replied dully.

Arne took off his helmet and threw it on the ground along with his targe, the small round shield the Highland warriors used in battle and in training.

“Ach, come on, Ivar,” he cried, his exasperation evident. “Ye cannae keep on like this. We’re all grievin’ Thor’s loss, but d’ye think he’d be happy if he was here now and could see the way ye’re actin’?”

Ivar shot him a warning look, but in his frustration, Arne ignored it.

“Ye cannae spend yer whole life mournin’ fer him. Thor wouldnae want that at all.”

“Shut yer hole, Arne,” Ivar retorted angrily. “Ye dinnae ken how it feels tae lose yer twin. When Thor died…” Ivar wondered for a second how to expresses the torturous feeling. “It was like some sorcery was done and part of me went along with him.”

“He was me braither too, Ivar, and—” Arne tried to protest, but he was cut off by his brother.

“Ach, can ye nae see what a hypocrite ye are? Ye dare tae speak tae me like this when ’tis obvious tae everyone how ye’ve been affected by Thor dyin’. Bloody hell, man, ye’ve just named yer bairn after him! I still catch Dahlia cryin’ over him at times. Haldor’s just as bad. Ye see how he loses it when someone mentions Thor’s name. All of us have our own ways of dealin’ with it, and ye’re try tae tell me I cannae mourn him in me own way?”

“I’m nae sayin’ that and ye ken it,” Arne argued, picking up his helmet and targe. “But ye dinnae seem tae ken how ye’ve changed. ’Tis nae just me that’s noticed. Ye used tae like a joke and a laugh, but these days, I hardly recognize ye. Ye’re right when ye say a part of ye died with Thor, and what’s left is dark and cold. Ye’re rude and harsh when folk try tae talk tae ye. People are afraid of ye now, did ye ken that? By the Wee Man, ye’ve even shut out yer own family!”

“All this because I dinnae want tae go drinkin’ at the tavern,” Ivar growled, starting off across the training yard towards the castle. Arne followed him, keeping pace.

“All ye dae is train, train, train. Every day. That’s yer whole life now. I bet ye wish we could have a war so ye could get out on the battlefield and hammer some poor bastard intae the ground.”

“I dinnae want tae speak about this anymore,” Ivar said, letting out a string of colorful words as he strode along. But however hard he tried, he could not shake his brother off.

“Jaysus, Ivar! Ye cannae go on like this, livin’ only fer battle. The day is gonnae come when ye have tae marry, have a family, even if ’tis only fer the sake of the clan.”

They had reached the armory, and Ivar scoffed loudly as he violently shouldered his way through the door, making it bang against the wall. “Dinnae hold yer breath on that score, Arne, because I’m nae plannin’ on it anytime soon.”

Other soldiers inside the armory looked over and stared as the brothers barged in and practically threw their targes and helmets to the young lad responsible for their storage. Clutching the equipment, he backed away like a startled foal.

To Ivar’s annoyance, Arne did not seem about to give up, staying hot on his heels, following him out into the courtyard and all the way to the entrance of the keep. All he wanted to do was get to the privacy of his chambers, where he planned to spend the evening until dinner honing his blades and, yes, brooding the loss of his twin.

But they had not gotten within twenty feet of the keep when their sister came hurrying out, her head turning left and right, clearly searching for someone. When she spotted them, she came rushing to meet them. As she drew near, Ivar noticed the anxious expression on her angelic face.

“What is it, Dahlia,” he asked, instantly concerned. He hated to see his soft-hearted sister upset. She began to walk back with them toward the keep doors.

“’Tis Haldor. He wants tae speak with ye both in his study,” she said, an edge of worry in in her voice.

“I’ll be there as soon as I’ve cleaned up,” Ivar told her, but she shook her head. “He says he wants ye there now.”

“Ach, Jaysus,” Ivar muttered irritably. He was hot and sweaty and angry. He needed peace and quiet to calm down!

“What’s it about?” Arne asked as they passed through the pair of guards at the doors and went into the castle’s impressive vestibule.

“I dinnae ken, but he says ’tis urgent,” Dahlia told them.

They turned left and took the long, tapestry-lined hallway heading towards their brother’s study.

They reached the door to Haldor’s study and halted outside. Ivar rapped on the door, but it was not latched and it swung open. They entered together, and when Ivar saw his elder brother standing by the hearth with a parchment in his hand, a prickling sensation ran up his spine.

Haldor looked at them, and the expression on the laird’s face gave Ivar the feeling it was not going to be good news. Dread knotted in his gut when they joined Haldor, and Ivar spotted the King’s seal attached to the parchment. He had a sense of having lived that moment before, when a letter had arrived that had changed the course of all their lives. The last time it had happened, the letter had also been from The Bruce, commanding Haldor’s arranged marriage.

The atmosphere in the room pressed down upon him, and Ivar felt as though the three of them were collectively holding their breaths. Dahlia was standing as if frozen, clutching her hands in front of her chest. Ivar realized Arne must have felt the same as him because he swallowed loudly and asked with a tinge of resignation, “Who is it this time?”

Haldor gave a bitter little smile and laid the parchment down on a nearby table before regarding Ivar with his shrewd blue eyes. “The eldest,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice.

The world seemed to fall away from beneath Ivar’s feet. He did not know how he kept upright, for the room began spinning, and he thought he might retch.

Arne turned to him and he vaguely heard his brother say, “I told ye yer time would come, did I nae?”

Ivar ignored him and tried to pull himself together. “Who’s me bride?” he managed to get out, finally meeting Haldor’s eyes.

“The daughter of Laird Matheson.”

Chapter Two

One month later, The MacLeod Arms Inn, the Isle of Skye

“I am never goin’ on a ship again as long as I live,” Catalina Matheson declared with feeling, turning up her neat nose at the full plates of her fellow diners as they sat around the table in the inn’s rough and ready dining room and bar. “Ever since I got off that damned thing, I’ve felt sick. I dinnae ken how ye can eat a thing!”

“We can eat because we’re hungry,” her sister Anastasia replied in her usual calm, sensible tone. Stately in her elegant beauty, she appeared unaffected by the sea sickness that had assailed her younger sister so violently. She was delicately yet determinedly picking her way through the large serving of venison steak, mashed turnips, and greens in front of her. How she could do so considering the circumstances was beyond Catalina. But then, they were two very different people despite being sisters.

“Ugh!” Catalina said, her irritability heightened by the lingering nausea she could not seem to shake off. It was annoying to see everyone else tucking in with relish when all she could do without throwing up was to sip at a half pint of small beer.

“Ye could ask tae have some toasted bread maybe. That might settle yer stomach,” Anastasia suggested.

“Aye, ye should try tae eat somethin’ fer yer sake. And fer ours.” That was their guard, Dunstan, who was overseeing the sisters’ journey to the island for Anastasia to meet her betrothed, Ivar McLeod of Harris, the next in line to his brother, Laird Haldor MacLeod of Harris, at their castle.

“Dunstan, dinnae provoke her. She’s feelin’ poorly, and ye ken what she’s like.” Anastasia told the guard, yet the mild rebuke was accompanied by a sad smile for the handsome, dark-haired soldier. He looked back at her soulfully with his dark brown eyes.

Catalina could not help but notice the subtle exchange between the pair Anastasia and Dunstan had grown up together and were close friends—it was natural they would be sad about having to part when Anastasia left home to live with her husband.

But her bad mood had no mercy, and she snapped back at Dunstan without thinking. “And ye are lookin’ more miserable than me, Dunstan.”

“That’s enough, sister. Curb yer tongue,” Anastasia gently scolded her. “The folks hereabouts will be watchin’ us. I’m supposed tae be the happy bride-tae-be, on me way tae marry their laird’s braither. Ye goin’ around with a face like a funeral doesnae exactly make a good impression.”

Catalina was about to bark back that Dunstan’s face was as long as a horse’s too, but then she was suddenly gripped by guilt. She realized that in her distress, she was not being the supportive sister she should be at a time when Anastasia needed her most.

“I’m sorry, Ana, Dunstan, I forgot mesel’ fer a minute,” she apologized, hiding her blushes behind her mug of ale and sipping at the contents. Back at home, the sisters had already had words about Anastasia’s politically motivated marriage.

“How can ye marry him? Ye’ve never even met the man! He’s a stranger tae ye. Why, ye dinnae even ken what he looks like!” Catalina had said accusingly to her elder sister in the privacy of Anastasia’s chambers, shortly after the news of the betrothal had come through.

“How can I nae?” Anastasia had replied sadly, brushing out her long, dark tresses before the looking glass. “As ye well ken, the marriage has been arranged by King Robert the Bruce himself.”

“But ye dinnae love him. Ye’re seriously tellin’ me ye’re happy about spendin’ the rest of yer life with a husband ye ken naethin’ about?”

Anastasia gave a low groan of frustration. “Ach, Cat, ye dinnae ken the first thing about anythin’. Whatever I might feel about it, ’tis nae me place tae question the king’s word but tae obey, fer all our sakes. Besides, ’tis what Faither wants, fer the good of the clan.” She turned from the mirror, hairbrush in hand, to give her sister a warning look. “And it’ll dae you well tae keep yer mouth shut on the matter and keep yer opinions tae yersel’ afore ye go about spreadin’ rumors and ruinin’ people’s reputations with yer flights of fancy.”

“I’d never marry a man I didnae love,” Catalina said defiantly from where she was lounging on Anastasia’s bed. In her naivety, she was careless of her sister’s feelings. It did not make sense to her that Anastasia should be taken away from her and forced to marry this Ivar MacLeod, nor that she should accept it so calmly. “Ye should just go ahead and run away somewhere,” she suggested, finding the idea intriguing. “They couldnae do anythin’ about it then.”

“And where would I run tae? Ye’re spoutin’ nonsense again. And anyway, if I did run away, it would put ye in line tae take me place as Ivar’s bride,” her sister pointed out. She turned back to the mirror and began brushing her hair again, her beautiful face a tragic mask.

“Oh.” Catalina had not thought of that. She considered it for a moment or two, and then her natural bravado made her say, “Nay matter, fer I definitely would run away, somewhere where they’d never find me.”

Anastasia let out a small laugh, which belied her grave expression. “’Tis touching how ye still seem tae believe we women have any say in such matters. Daughters of laird’s are pieces in a board game, tae be moved about by men fer political advantage. If it makes ye happy, just keep on thinkin’ ye have some freedom tae choose. But I warn ye, yer turn tae be wed will come soon enough, ye’ll see, and if ye love yer husband, then ye’ll be damned lucky.”

It was now a month since their father, Laird Matheson, had received the letter from Robert the Bruce, King of the Scots, commanding the union. Catalina had been shocked at how calmly Anastasia had taken it. But that was Ana, gentle and dutiful, so unlike herself.

So, here they were, in Skye, the epicenter of MacLeod land, dining at the inn a few miles from castle MacLeod. Poor Anastasia was preparing to set eyes on her prospective husband for the first time on the morrow. Catalina could not even imagine how she must be feeling. She simply felt enraged on her sister’s behalf, because the compliant Ana seemed unable to be angry herself.

Catalina and Anastasia’s father, Bertram, Laird of Clan Matheson, had set out the plan for Anastasia’s marriage to Ivar MacLeod at a family meeting in his study a mere four weeks ago.

“I’ve arranged with Laird Macleod for Anastasia to meet her betrothed at his family’s castle on Skye a month before the wedding. Ye’ll be accompanyin’ her, Catalina.”

“Aye, Faither.” She had supposed it was not surprising that she should go to support her sister, and she was not unwilling to have a little adventure away from home. It was quite an exciting prospect. However, secretly, she intended to make this Ivar and his family understand how much she disapproved of the forced match.

“The ceremony will take place here, so, Anastasia, ye and Ivar will have a month tae get tae ken each other before he and his closest family accompany ye home for the celebrations.”

“Aye, Faither,” Anastasia had replied meekly, head bowed.

“But why, Faither? Why does she have tae go through with it? She’s never even met this Ivar. He could be a monster,” Catalina protested on her sister’s behalf.

“Hush, Catalina,” her father had said with annoyance. “Ye ken the situation very well.”

She had had no choice but to cease her questions, but that did not mean that they stopped gnawing at her.

Back at The MacLeod lands, chastened somewhat by her sister’s uncharacteristic rebuke, Catalina remained silent while Anastasia and Dunstan finished their meals, giving off an air of somber stoicism.

“’Tis getting’ late,” Anastasia said solemnly at last, finishing her small beer and moving to rise. Dunstan was on his feet at once, pulling out her chair. “Thank ye, Dunstan. I’m goin’ tae retire tae our chamber.”

“Aye, I think I’ll go and check on the horses and then turn in as well,” the guard said dully in his deep voice.

“Are ye comin’ up, Cat?” Anastasia asked, looking over at her. The sisters had taken a double room and would be sharing the bed.

Catalina, temperamentally incapable of pretending she was happy, even for Anastasia’s sake, turned up her nose again. They had inspected the room earlier, and she had not been impressed with the standard of cleanliness or comfort. She was not looking forward to having to sleep in the bed provided, for she suspected it might have bugs living in it.

“I still dinnae understand why we have tae stay here tonight when we’re only a few miles away from Castle Macleod,” she burst out irritably, her queasiness still plaguing her. “If we hadnae stopped here then we could have been there in a couple of hours and slept in comfort.”

“Again, we decided it would be best tae spend the night in the village out of consideration fer yer hosts,” Dunstan told her, his harsh tone finally betraying how frayed his nerves really were. “Ye ken we had a rough voyage and arrived later than expected. It would hardly be good manners tae go bowlin’ up tae the castle in the middle of the bloody night, disturbin’ the family and likely pullin’ them from their beds, now would it?”

Catalina opened her mouth to answer back, but her sister quickly intervened.

“Ach, all right, all right ye two. Stop yer snipin’, will ye?” she said with uncharacteristic impatience, her finely arched brows meeting in a frown. “Well, I’m tired. Are ye comin’ up or nae, Cat?” she asked again. She looked wan and miserable, and it made Catalina angry just looking at her.

“Nay, I think I’ll stay down here a little longer, at least ‘til me stomach settles a bit. Ye go on up tae bed, and I’ll come up a wee bit later,” she replied, thinking it was better not to inflict her sour mood on Anastasia any further for the time being. Besides, she relished the idea of being alone with her thoughts for a while. Tomorrow was going to be a difficult day, and she was dreading it.

“Very well. I’ll see ye later. But dinnae stay up too late. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow,” Anastasia reminded her in a weary tone before she and Dunstan left together.

Catalina remained at the table, watching their retreating backs. Once they had vanished from sight, she glanced covertly around the room. There was no clock, so she had no idea what the hour was. But she knew it was late because it was summer, and darkness lurked beyond the murky windows of the inn.

Most of the clientele had gone. Save for the potboy going from table to table, collecting up mugs and tankards, and the innkeeper wiping a dirty cloth over the counter, there were only a handful of patrons lingering, most of them snoring in their cups.

With nothing to do and still feeling slightly sick from the voyage, she thought she would go outside for some fresh air and try to walk it off before retiring. She took her shawl from the back of her chair and looped it around her shoulders as she rose. Heading for the door, she opened it and went outside, standing on the threshold of the inn for a few moments to get her bearings.

A half-moon and the stars illuminated the unfamiliar landscape with silvery light, lending it an almost magical air. Skye was famously beautiful, and she looked forward to exploring the island in daylight. She only wished they were there in happier circumstances.

At that moment, neither the darkness nor what might lie concealed within it troubled her. As she stepped out onto the packed dirt forecourt of the inn and began walking towards some nearby woods, it did not occur to her that she could be in any danger. He father had made sure that both she and Anastasia could defend themselves well with a knife, and Catalina took pride in being able to take care of herself. She always carried the dirk he had given her on her fifteenth birthday. At that very moment, it was tucked beneath her skirts in her garter just in case. Woe betide any man who tried to attack her.

She followed a little path that led into the wood, taking some simple pleasure in the soughing of the trees, the nearby hooting of an owl, and the small rustlings of the nocturnal creatures going about their business. The moon sent shards of clear, bright light down through the canopy of leaves as she entered below. It dappled the undergrowth surrounding the narrow path, so she could see her way quite clearly as she wandered between the trunks.

Her thoughts drifted back to the upcoming wedding. Of course, she understood how important it was to the future of her clan, but that did not make it any easier to swallow the fact that she would soon lose her sister and dearest confidante to marriage. She was going to be awfully lonely and would miss Anastasia terribly.

They had never really been apart for any length of time. Her sister had already told her she could come and stay at Castle MacLeod as often as she liked. But that would leave their parents alone, and as their last surviving daughter, she did not want that either.

It was at that moment that she thought she heard a high-pitched whimper somewhere off in the near distance. Her hackles rose at the eerie sound, and she stopped in her tracks to listen. There it was again… and again. It sent shivers up her spine, and she recognized it at once as the sound of an animal in distress, the sound of fear.

Catalina could never stand the thought of an animal suffering, so with her ears cocked, she stealthily moved closer to the source of the pitiful sounds. But a few moments later, she froze again. Loud rustling could be heard nearby, and a heavy tread that cracked the twigs and leaves underfoot. There was something else moving about amid the trees, something big.

Warily, she slipped her hand beneath her skirts and pulled out her dirk. Creeping forward as quietly as she could, she came to a place where the trunks thinned out slightly where they bordered a small, grassy clearing just a few yards wide. She remained in hiding while she scanned the area, which was brightly illuminated by the moonlight.

What she spied a few yards away from her made her put her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp of shock.

There was a man, a giant of a man, she estimated he must be over six feet tall, clad in leather trews, a padded, buff-skin coat, high-top boots, and he was armed with a sword. Long, fair hair hung down past his shoulders, concealing his face.

At first, she had trouble seeing what he was doing because he was turned slightly away from her. He was crouching, his arms outstretched either side of him. She could hear him talking in a low, deep whisper, but she could not make out any words.

There came another shrill bleat of fear, and a small movement at the base of the tree showed her that the heart wrenching sound was coming from a fawn. She had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle the gasp that threatened to burst out as her heart flooded with pity for the helpless little thing.

It was lying on the ground backed up against the tree, its liquid eyes wide with fright as it struggled to get up. But its front leg appeared to be hurt, and it could not stand. Its cries of pain and fear tore at Catalina’s heart. How could anyone wish to harm such a beautiful creature?!

The monstrous man was clearly responsible for its injury. Most likely he had shot at it with an arrow and injured it, and it had tried to escape a horrible fate. Now, he was trying to corner the poor little creature, intending to kill it. Cold fury flooded her limbs at his brutality. She clenched her teeth and gripped the dirk tightly in her fist, determined to stop him.

She stepped out from her hiding place into the clearing, brandishing her dirk. “Leave it alone, ye bastard!” she growled angrily in a low tone, not wishing to scare the injured fawn further. “Back off right now, or ye’ll be sorry!”

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