“My lady Francesca, your father has asked for you. He is in his salon.”

Francesca sighed and slumped back in her chair, dropping her book in her lap. Maria, her handmaiden, offered her a sympathetic smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“Did he say what he wanted?” Francesca asked.

“I’m afraid he did not, my lady,” Maria answered. “He does seem rather excited and upbeat about something though.”

She frowned. Excited and upbeat were two things she would never associate with her father. His usual disposition was dour and angry, and he was often the most unpleasant man in the world to be around. The upsetting thing though, was he had not always been that way. When her mother had still been alive, she remembered that her father had been happy. He’d had a pleasant disposition, and she had enjoyed being in his company.

That had all changed when her mother had been killed. Scottish Highlanders had come down from the hills and raided the town she and her mother had been visiting the market in, and the only reason they were there that day was because Francesca had insisted they go. If not for her insistence, her mother would still be alive. It was not enough that she bore the guilt of that on her shoulders, but her father made sure she was reminded of it every single day, adding to the burden she carried.

She and her father had grown apart since the death of her mother. They were, in all truth, strangers living beneath the same roof. Most days, he could not bear to look at her or speak with her and when he did, it was to deliver cutting insults or barbs. His disdain for her couldn’t be clearer. And over time, she had developed a healthy contempt for him in return. Francesca did her level best to avoid her father, which was easy, for he did the same.

“Perhaps he has good news he would like to share?” Maria asked hopefully.

“Maybe. But somehow, I doubt it,” Francesca said.

What she didn’t let herself say though, was that good news for her father likely meant bad news for her. She couldn’t imagine, given how they had existed beneath the same roof for years now, that he would be doing something nice for her. Her mind spun with the myriad of possibilities and the dark tidings his summons meant for her.

“Let me help you dress, my lady.”

Francesca sighed as she got to her feet. Her father had summoned her, so there was no way out of it. The punishment for ignoring his call would undoubtedly be ten times worse than whatever it was he had to say to her. So, she allowed Maria to get her dressed and presentable for an audience with her father. He would expect her to be properly dressed in his presence, after all.

Maria finished tying her long, chestnut-colored hair into a tight braid that fell to the middle of her back, affixing it with a bow, then stepped back to scrutinize her work. Francesca smoothed out her skirts and straightened the laces of her bodice, then frowned at herself in the looking glass.

“You look lovely, as always,” Maria said.

“I do not feel that way.”

“Trust me, my lady, you are,” she said. “Go now. Do not keep your Lord Father waiting.”

Rather than incur his wrath for being slow to respond to his summons, Francesca thanked Maria for her assistance, then headed out of her chamber. She trudged through the halls, heading for her father’s salon. Though the journey was not a long one, Francesca felt as if she was slogging through miles of boggy land, every step heavy and forced. She finally rounded the corner and plodded down the hallway to the heavy wooden door that stood at the end.

“My lady,” said the guard beside it with a polite nod of his head.

“Thank you, Edward.”

He opened the door for her, then closed it behind her as she stepped inside. Francesca clasped her hands at her waist like a proper lady and stepped to the center of the room. Her father sat in a chair before the fire, a cup of wine in his hand as he read through the parchment he held in the other. A small smile curled the corners of her mouth, and he did indeed have a pleased expression on his face. It only deepened the sense of dread that gripped her.

“Good of you to join me, daughter,” he said. “I trust the journey to my salon was not too taxing?”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from launching the verbal fusillade that bubbled up in her throat. If there was one thing Francesca had learned, it was to pick her battles and this was one that need not be fought.

“I was told you would like to see me,” she said.

His cold blue eyes flicked to her, sending a river of ice flowing through Francesca’s veins. Though he might seem in good cheer, the way he looked at her reminded Francesca of just how volatile and just how cold he was behind it. He drained his cup and set it on the table beside him, then got to his feet, never taking his gaze off her.

Francesca’s father, Lord Ambrose Ainsworth, was a tall and imposing man. His golden hair bore silver threads, lending him a distinguished appearance. With sharp features, deep set eyes, and a prominent chin, he had the look of a scholar, but his broad shoulders and chest, and his thick arms spoke of his days as a warrior. He had been quite the accomplished swordsman, to hear him tell it.

Now though, his dress was as impeccable as his manners. He was polished and savvy, educated and intelligent. And though he could charm just about anybody if he had a mind to, Francesca’s father was cunning and cagey, with plans on top of plans. He was a political animal, always looking to better his station, increase his wealth, and accrue as much power as he could. He was shrewd, cold, and would stab anybody in the back if it benefited him.

Her father was so a cold a man, callous to the suffering of those around him, that Francesca often wondered if her memories of him as a kind, smiling man were false. Memories planted in her mind by a desire to think better of her father than he actually was. She liked to think he had been a good man who had changed and grown colder after the death of her mother, but she wondered if he had always been this way and she merely invented the man she’d thought he once was.

He brandished the parchment in his hand. “Do you know what this is, Daughter?”

“I do not, Father,” she replied.

His eyes narrowed and a feral grin curled his lips. “This is an official proposal of marriage.”

“I did not know you were courting anybody, Father.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could bite them back and her father’s icy blue eyes narrowed and grew colder. He had never slapped her before but the dark, tight anger on his face sent a ripple of fear through her heart that he might. As if forcing himself to stay his hand, her father turned and snatched up his cup before walking to the table on the far side of the room and refilling his wine.

“You test me, Daughter, but not even your wicked, impertinent little tongue will dull my mood today,” he said.

She cleared her throat and stiffened her spine. “May I ask who I am being forced to marry?”

“Laird Halvard MacLeod.”

“Laird?” she asked, gaping at him. “You’re marrying me to a Scot?”

“I am. The terms we agreed upon for your hand were too good to pass up.”

“Is this a jest, Father?”

“It is not,” he said. “My men will escort you to the town of Raasay, where you will board a ferry and make the crossing to Brochel Castle—your new home.”

“Father—”

“I will not hear what you have to say. This decision is not yours to make,” he snapped. “As your father, the decision is mine. And I have made it. You will leave a fortnight from now.”

Her father hated the Scots. He had hated them his entire life, and the death of her mother had only deepened and hardened that hatred. It was a bigotry he had passed on to her. She viewed the Scottish as unwashed, unclean, uncouth heathens. They were barbarians and she could not believe he had entered into negotiations with one for her hand. As cruel as he was, she could not believe it would run so deep that he would marry her to one. They had murdered her mother.

She tried to tame the wild churning in her heart and tamp down the waves of emotions that battered her. She knew her father’s tone of voice and knew arguing with him would not sway him. It would only anger him. He had resolved to marry her to this Scotsman and there was naught she could do to stop it.

“I trust you received a fair price for my hand,” she said, her tone bitter and acidic.

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “I did, Daughter. I did.”

Without another word and without his leave, Francesca turned and stormed out of his salon. She was halfway back to her chamber before she allowed herself the luxury of her tears. She choked back her sobs, trying to control herself. It was hard to do though, knowing her life was over, that she was being auctioned off to a savage. She slammed her chamber door behind her with all the strength she could muster. Francesca was certain her father had heard the thunderous boom of it slamming shut all the way in his study. She did not care.

Francesca sat on the edge of her bed, drawing deep breaths as she calmed herself and thought about what he’d said. He had told her he would be sending his men to escort her to Scotland, which meant he would not be accompanying her on the trip. And that realization sparked a flicker of hope in her breast as an idea began to form, an idea she had a fortnight to plan. As pieces started coming together, a small, tight smile curled the corners of her mouth.

She could not be forced to marry this Scotsman if she never arrived in Raasay.

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