Chapter 1

Ronald was dead.

There was nothing that Donal could do but watch as they buried his little brother—and even watching was proving difficult. Inside himself, he could only feel a vast void. It was the nothingness that only came when emotions were too much to bear; when a human mind reached its limits, and could only shut down to protect itself.

Donal didn’t cry. He didn’t shed a single tear. He did vomit, though, running as far away from the funeral as he could before his stomach began to revolt against him. The sight of his dead brother was unbearable.

After the funeral, all he could do was drink, coming close to joining his brother in the afterlife. It took him six months to stop drinking, and once he did, he knew he couldn’t stay in those parts for even one minute longer.

He also knew where he had to go: Castle Sween, the place where it had all begun.

In Donal’s memory, Castle Sween was a thing of wonder. He remembered the stone walls of the castle, towering over the surrounding land of Knapdale, the grand windows in the towers with a view of Loch Sween, and the seemingly endless green grass that covered the ground every summer.

Donal had been of only twenty years of age when he had last been there—six years prior, training under the General of the MacMillan clan. His father had insisted that he and his younger brother, Ronald, spend months in Castle Sween as a preparation for their future duties: Donal’s responsibilities as a laird and Ronald’s duties as his right-hand man.

For Donal, training under such a skilled man with a vast experience in battle was a gift for which he would forever be grateful. He had learned everything he knew from that man, and all that knowledge that he had gathered was what would one day make him the kind of laird that his clan, Clan Cameron, deserved.

Donal wished he could say that it had been the same for his brother, that he had become a man under the General’s supervision and guidance, but the truth was that Ronald had never made it past the age of four-and-twenty. He’d never had the chance to blossom into the man that he was supposed to become, never had the opportunity to grow up and take his place in the clan next to Donal.

Death had taken him young, creeping up on him earlier than anyone could have expected. His heart gave out, his family had told everyone. The Cameron clan was in mourning for weeks over the loss of the laird’s beloved son, the waste of his young life hanging heavy over them.

Donal had proof of the real cause of his brother’s death, though, and it wasn’t his heart; or perhaps it was, in a way. Ronald’s heart had given out because of a cruel, treacherous woman, and the sadness that engulfed him drove him to take his own life.

Donal had been the one who found Ronald, laying on the floor of his bedroom with a handkerchief clutched tightly in one hand and a small blade in the other. There had been so much blood; it had pooled around his body, spreading across the floor. The memory turned his stomach.

It was a sight that no older brother should ever have to face.

The rest was a blur in Donal’s mind from that day. He remembered picking up the handkerchief from Ronald’s hand, stained in his own blood, and reading the initials that were embroidered on the soft linen. V.M, the same initials that were signed at the bottom of a letter he found on Ronald’s desk, crumpled as though his brother had read it a million times.

Donal himself knew that letter by heart, reading it over and over, trying to make sense of what had happened to his brother, what was so dire as to drive him to take his own life.

               Ronald,

I do not wish to see you again. You are a fool for thinking I could ever love a man like yourself—a foppish, weak-souled idiot. I despise you utterly and completely.

Every time you left my sight, I began to laugh, thinking about all the promises you made to me for the future.

There will be no future between us. I only pretended to love you so that you would do as I said, which only served to make me laugh more.

No woman could ever love you, Ronald. You are, and always have been, the laughingstock of the MacMillan clan. There is no future in your horizons, and no promise of anything except humiliation for both yourself and a future wife. You will never amount to anything, and thus, I could never be with you.

As it happens, I have secured another’s affections, and he has all of the traits you lack—ambition, skill, intelligence. I shall not regret affiancing myself to him and fixing myself to his star. There is no hope of regaining my affections, Ronald; kindly move on, and have it as though we never crossed paths.

               Don’t write back to me. I don’t want to hear from you.

                                                                                                                           V.M.

That wretched woman was the reason for his brother’s death, and she was also almost the reason he would never finding eternal peace. His mother couldn’t bear to think that Ronald would not receive a proper burial, though, so his father had decided to keep his suicide a secret, instead telling the entire clan that he had died from a weak heart, a defect that they never knew he had.

No one had questioned it, but the image of Ronald’s wrists, slit open with that blade, had burned into Donal’s mind.

Ever since that day, Donal had committed his life to finding the woman responsible and bringing her to justice. He had all he needed; after all, he had the letter mentioning the MacMillan clan, and he had the woman’s initials.

Donal and Ronald had only ever met two women with those initials, and they were sisters. Vanora and Vika MacMillan were the daughters of the very man who had taken the two brothers under his wing, teaching them everything they needed to know; they were the daughters of the general.

There was only one thing Donal could do then, and that was to head to Castle Sween. It was up to him to discover which one of the two sisters was responsible for his brother’s heartbreak and his death, and he would make his brother proud; he would avenge him.

Had it not been for the reason behind his travel, Donal would have enjoyed it thoroughly. It was the end of August, the perfect time to travel, as the sun shone bright most days, bathing the Highlands in its warmth and light. Even the rainy days were comfortable, with gentle breezes instead of strong winds. If it were winter, Donal didn’t know if he would have had the courage to brave the journey.

As he approached Castle Sween, he felt as though he was a young lad again, back when he had first seen the place. Donal ran a hand through his hair, pushing his ginger mop back to take a better look at all the stones that lined its walls.

He remembered carving his name on one of them, next to Ronald’s own, the two of them leaving their marks there forever.

Donal patted his pocket as he rode through the castle gates, a habit that he had developed ever since beginning to carry that handkerchief and the letter with him at all times. He liked to remind himself every now and then that they were still there, safe in his pocket.

Naturally, Donal attracted the gazes of the clansmen the moment he rode into the castle grounds. He wondered how many of them remembered him, but if he were to judge by the strange mixture of joy and sympathy on their faces, he would say that he was still in everyone’s recollections.

He had no desire to listen to people’s condolences. He had already heard his fair share of them, and it did nothing to console him or bring his brother back. He had begun to avoid people’s pity whenever he could. Instead of lingering in the courtyard, he left his horse with the stable boy and headed inside the castle to find the man who had shaped him into the man that he was then.

He had barely taken a few steps, his shoes making that familiar click-clack on the stones, when he collided with another body, his bigger frame sending the other person tumbling onto the floor.

“Lord!” Donal exclaimed, rushing to help the girl that he had pushed down. “Are ye alright, lass?”

“Donal?”

The girl looked up at him, and at that moment, Donal realized who she was, just as she took his hand and used it to stand up.

“Vika?”

It couldn’t have been anyone else. Vika had hair like the sunshine and eyes like the deepest loch. Though she had changed a lot since the last time Donal had seen her, having been only a bairn back then, he immediately recognized her because of those very features.

Vika had grown into a fine young woman, though the flush on her cheeks and the childish grin on her face made her look like that child Donal had met six years ago.

Wherever Vanora went, Vika was always close behind, so Donal was not surprised when Vanora appeared from around the corner, alarmed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.

The two sisters couldn’t be less alike. Vanora took after their father, with her dark hair and brown eyes like two pools of amber, and Vika took after their mother. Had Donal not known that they shared the same parents, he would have never guessed that the two women were sisters.

“Donal!” Vanora said, rushing to him once she recognized him. “What are ye doing here? When did ye arrive?”

She was truly a sight, a few strands of her hair falling on her pale neck, her dress showing off her best assets.

So much unlike her sister, who preferred layers and drawing as little attention to her own fine figure as possible.

“We didnae ken that ye’d come!” Vika said. “Have ye told Father? He never told us!”

“I didnae tell him. And I only just arrived.” Donal smiled at the enthusiasm that the sisters were showing before he could stop himself. It was easy to fall back into old habits, being friendly with them and allowing himself to be charmed by them, but he had to remember that one of them was the reason his brother was dead.

He didn’t blame both sisters, of course. Until he knew which one had killed him, though, he would have to be careful with both of them.

They were women now. They were not the little children he’d once known, and it wasn’t only their looks that had changed. Vanora carried herself differently, confidence exuding from her, while Vika had opened up, so unlike the shy girl she once was.

“I barely recognized the twa of ye,” Donal continued. “Ye have changed so much.”

“Aye, so have ye,” Vika pointed out. “Ye didnae have that scar when ye were here.”

Vika reached over and poked Donal on the cheek, where he had a small scar from the time he’d gotten in a brawl. It was such a small detail that he was surprised Vika had noticed.

Vanora was frowning, though, head tilted to the side as she looked at Donal.

“And why did ye not tell Father?” Vanora asked. “He’d want tae ken that yer here.”

“Aye,” Donal said. “I wanted it tae be a surprise. I thought I’d go tae his study and see if he’ll remember his old student.”

“He will!” Vika assured him. “Father still talks about ye often, ye ken. I think he misses ye…he misses having a son.”

Donal had never considered that Cormag MacMillan could think of him as a son, and he felt a strange warmth radiate inside him when he heard Vika refer to him as such. It was unfair to the two sisters—that much Donal knew—but it also felt good to be appreciated and loved.

Besides, one of them was a murderer. He had no reason to feel bad for them.

The question was, which one was the one responsible? It was difficult to tell. After all, he had spent a lot of time with the two sisters in the past, and when he had first figured out that one of them had broken his brother’s heart with that cruel letter, he could hardly believe it.

Vika was the younger of the two, and she had always been a sweet, shy girl. Donal had a hard time suspecting her. Vanora had been a sweet girl, too, but now…now she was so different from her former self that Donal didn’t know what to believe. She was a beautiful woman, after all, and she seemed to know it. She must have broken the hearts of many men.

“Father is in his study the noo; ye can go and see him,” Vanora said. “Do ye want me tae take ye there?”

“No, no need,” Donal assured her with a wave of his hand. “I still ken where his study is, unless the old man decided he needed a change. I’ll find my own way; dinnae fash yerself.”

“We’ll see ye at supper, then?” Vika asked. “Mrs. Gallach will want tae prepare a whole feast for yer arrival.”

“Ach, no need for that, either, Vika,” Donal assured her. Mrs. Gallach, the head housekeeper of Castle Sween, had always been a sweet woman who worked too much. Donal didn’t want to put her into the trouble of preparing a feast last minute. “Please tell Mrs. Gallach that I dinnae need a feast. Whatever she had planned for supper is more than fine.”

“Aye, I’ll tell her,” Vika said. “It’s good tae see ye, Donal.”

With that, Vika rushed off to the kitchen to find Mrs. Gallach, but Vanora stayed behind. She leaned against the wall, a hand on her hip as she regarded Donal.

“Ye have grown since the last time I saw ye,” she said.

“So have ye.”

Donal remembered the last time he had spoken to Vanora as though it were yesterday. She had been of five-and-ten years then, while he had already turned twenty, a wee lass against a man. The last thing Vanora had told him was that she loved him, and the last thing Donal had told her was that he was too old to be with a child. Then he had laughed.

He regretted that now. Vanora had done nothing back then to deserve his mockery, and yet he had been so cruel to her. He didn’t know what to say. The woman standing before him was very much grown now, the child she used to be left in the past.

“Aye…I suppose people tend to do that,” Vanora teased, a hint of a smile crossing her lips.

She didn’t seem to be angry with him, Donal thought. He wondered for a moment if she still felt something for him, or if she had moved on to bigger and better things. Surely, a woman who looked like her—pale skin on display on her décolletage and a neckline specifically designed to show off the swell of her breasts—would have many admirers.

Could Ronald have been one of those admirers? That could very well be the case, and Donal wouldn’t be surprised if Vanora was the woman with whom his brother had been infatuated.

Before Donal could say anything, Vanora spoke again.

“I will make sure that Mrs. Gallach kens ye came. I dinnae trust Vika tae carry a glass of water, let alone relay information.”

“Thank ye.” Donal thought that simply saying that would be easier than asking Vanora why she didn’t trust her sister over something so simple. The two of them had always had a strange dynamic, and Donal had seen Vanora eclipse Vika many times, her natural charm and ability to make people instantly love her putting Vanora at the forefront.

Vanora turned around to walk away, but she stopped after taking only a few steps. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, her back turned to Donal before she finally turned around to meet his gaze.

“And Donal…it is verra nice tae see ye again. Truly.”

With that, Vanora made her way to the kitchen, leaving Donal standing there, stunned. She had sounded sincere, Donal thought, as though she had forgotten everything that had happened between them. How could that be, though? Allegedly, Donal had broken her heart, and even though it had been six years since that day, he would have thought that she would still hold a grudge against him.

It was yet another mystery that would have to wait. There was no way for Donal to find out if she had forgiven him; not quite yet, at least. He would ask her eventually, after he’d spent a few days at the castle. It was too early in his stay for him to stir the waters like that.

With a last glance at the place where Vanora had stood only moments earlier, Donal turned around and headed for Cormag’s study, eager to see his old teacher again. He only wished that Ronald could be there with him, that his travels were for recreation instead of sleuthing. As it were, Donal could hardly enjoy any of it.

There was no use to have such wishful thoughts, though. What was done was done, and Donal would never get his brother back.

All he could do was spend his time at Castle Sween figuring out which of the two women had taken his brother’s life—and avenge his premature death.

Chapter 2

Despite Donal’s insistence that there shouldn’t be a feast in his honor, Mrs. Gallach decided to throw one anyway, eager to give their guest a proper welcome.

It didn’t hurt that Vanora practically begged her for a feast.

Vanora hadn’t forgotten the last time that she had spoken to Donal. She didn’t think she could ever forget it—the way that he spoke to her as though he thought that she was nothing but a foolish child, breaking her heart for the first time in her life.

Part of her was still angry. Not because Donal had rejected her, but the way that he had done so. At ten-and-five years, she was indeed a child, and now that she was older, she understood why Donal didn’t see her the same way that she saw him. She only wished that he had been gentler about his rejection, instead of making her feel like a fool for telling him how she felt about him.

It was something that had shaped her as a woman. As she grew, the men around her began to pay attention, and while Vanora reveled in it, she never once allowed them to get too close, in case they ridiculed her the same way that Donal had.

Now, every time a man tried to approach her, she graced him with her attention, but never with her love.

She had thought about the day she would see Donal again many times in the past, wondering what she would do once she saw him. Would she hate him? Would she be flooded by the same feelings that she possessed for him six years prior?

It turned out that neither of those things was the reality. It was nice to see him, and Vanora couldn’t deny that it warmed her heart and quickened her pulse to have him right there in front of her. The words that he had told her before leaving all those years ago were still carved deep in her heart, of course—a wound that she doubted would ever heal. Yet she found herself getting flustered whenever she thought about him, just like when she was a girl.

Vanora also felt like she had something to prove to Donal. When she had confessed her love to him, he had thought of her as nothing more than a foolish child, but now she was a woman, one that many men desired. She wanted to show Donal that she was nothing like the innocent, naïve girl he’d once known. No matter how much she would deny it if anyone asked, the reason why she had talked Mrs. Gallach into throwing a feast was just so that she would have an excuse to doll herself up and impress Donal.

Now there she was, holed up in her chambers as she prepared for the feast. She donned her finest dress, one that she had reserved for a special occasion, as it was a gift from some English earl or duke whose name Vanora could not even remember, a sign of his affections towards her.

The satin fabric of her bodice and skirt was a soft blush, and adorned with ribbon bows and a looped trim. The low, rounded neckline only helped to accentuate her figure, as the corset that she was wearing underneath pinched her waist in. Breathing improperly was a small price to pay to look as she did, Vanora thought as she looked at herself in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the soft satin.

There was a knock on the door, and before Vanora could reply, Vika barged in and perched herself on the edge of her bed.

Vanora looked at her sister’s reflection in the mirror, taking in the heavy, forest green dress that she was wearing, the plain linen doing nothing for her shapely form or her pale skin.

It wasn’t as though Vika didn’t have her fair share of intricate, expensive dresses; she simply chose to not wear them unless she was forced to do so. Vanora kept her mouth shut instead of berating her, knowing that her sister would feel more comfortable in what she was wearing rather than donning something that would bring too much attention to her.

“You look verra nice,” Vika said, leaning back on the bed and propping herself up on her elbows in that way that Mrs. Gallach often called ‘unladylike.’ “Why dae ye look so nice?”

Vanora knew immediately what it was that Vika was asking, without her even having to elaborate. Is all this for Donal Cameron?

Her sister didn’t have to know everything. Vanora was even happy to lie to her own self and tell herself that she simply wanted to look nice for the feast, especially since the entire clan would be there.

“What? Can I nae look nice now?” Vanora asked, though the fact that she was defensive probably didn’t help her case. “I’ve never worn this dress…I thought it was time that I did.”

“Aye,” Vika said, sounding entirely unconvinced by her sister’s excuses. “Weel, if ye want to have some of the food, I suggest ye go down tae the hall now. Or will ye spend all night here?”

Vanora shot Vika a dirty look through the mirror before turning around and smoothing down her skirt with her hands. “How do I look?”

“I told ye, ye look verra nice,” Vika repeated once more. “Donal’s jaw will hit the floor when he sees ye…and so will everyone else’s.”

“I dinnae ken what ye mean,” Vanora insisted. “I dinnae care what Donal thinks, and I certainly dinnae care about what anyone else thinks. Their jaws can stay where they are for all I care.”

Vanora didn’t miss the amused look that Vika gave her, the one that made her look like she was much older than her ten-and-nine years; the one that made her look as though she knew things that Vanora never would.

“Shall we go, then?” Vanora asked, uncomfortable with having her little sister look at her as though she was older and vastly wiser.

“Aye,” Vika said. She stood up and followed Vanora. She took a pause, though, stopping in the middle of the room. “Before we go, can I have yer handkerchief?”

Vanora stopped walking too, and turned around to look at her sister. “My handkerchief? Why?”

“Mine was torn earlier today,” Vika said with a small shrug. “I forgot tae fix it, and I thought…weel, ye look so nice that no one will notice ye willnae have it. Everyone will be tae busy admiring yer dress, so I thought that perhaps ye’d give yours tae me for the night.”

Vanora softened at that, her eyes finding Vika’s own as she approached her and cupped her cheek with her hand. “Aye,” she said, “ye can have it. It disnae match the trimmings of the dress anyway.”

Vanora pulled out her handkerchief and handed it to Vika, who took it gratefully before following her sister out of the room. The two of them walked down the stairs and through the corridors of the castle, immediately attracting everyone’s gaze as they walked by them—or at least, Vanora did.

The hall was packed with tables and people, the clansmen of the MacMillan clan eager to see Donal once again. Vanora had always known that she wasn’t the only one who had immediately become fond of the man when she had first met him; everyone else had instantly adored him, too.

Vanora couldn’t blame them, especially since she, too, could see why people loved Donal so much. She thought back on all the times that Donal had done something kind, such as when he used to help the clan healer because he couldn’t bear to see people suffer from their illnesses, or when he had thrown himself into the freezing waters of Loch Sween to save a dog that had fallen in its depths. Whenever Donal wasn’t training with her father, he was bound to be found somewhere helping his fellow men and women.

It didn’t hurt that Donal had the looks to match, too. Vanora knew that girls would fall to his feet, and even married women would be willing to sin and betray their husbands for him. All Donal would have to do was ask.

Vanora herself had first been infatuated with his fiery red hair that always seemed to fall over his face, wild and unruly, and his green eyes, like the bushes and trees that surrounded the castle. Now that he was older, his features a little more mature, Vanora hadn’t failed to notice how the stubble on his face accentuated the strong lines of his jaw, the angles and corners of it.

It was at that moment, after having such thoughts about Donal, that Vanora realized she was in big trouble. Despite the way her heart beat fast in her chest when she thought about the man—so fast that she feared it would jump out of her body—and the way that her skin flushed and burned as though she was standing right next to a fire, she couldn’t allow herself to become attached once again.

Sure, she wanted to prove to Donal that she was not a little girl anymore, but that desire surely didn’t come from her wanting to win him over. Vanora had no interest in making him fall in love with her. She only wanted him to see what he had missed by rejecting her six years ago.

So what if her gaze traveled around the room, jumping from person to person to locate Donal? So what if she took a seat beside her cousin instead of her father, just because her cousin’s table had a better view of the entire room? She simply wanted to reconnect with Donal.

Her scouting for the man didn’t last long. The moment she had poured herself a cup of wine, a clansman approached her and asked her to dance. At first, she tried to resist, giving the man an excuse about being tired, but he insisted. Vanora soon found herself swirling around the room, all the while keeping an eye out for Donal.

Once her companion had taken his dance, other men began to flock to her, requesting a dance for themselves—and naturally, Vanora couldn’t refuse. She had already opened Pandora’s box, and she didn’t want to come off as rude or make the rest of the clan think she was favoring one clansman over the others. It would only serve to add fuel to the rumors that circulated about her throughout the castle.

A part of her liked the attention, but another, greater part of her sometimes wished it would stop. The way that the men, one after the other, demanded dances from her, along with her attention and affection, made her feel like a prized toy, handed from child to child until it broke. She had somehow found herself owing those men something, just because they liked the way she looked and because she was the general’s daughter. Everybody wanted to marry a girl like her, and they were all too busy to realize that the only thing they were doing in the process was erasing every hint of interest she had in them.

For once, Vanora longed to feel like a person rather than a means to an end, or some prized pig.

Still, she danced, and she smiled, and she allowed the men to talk away as they led her around the floor.

She didn’t even stop when she finally spotted Donal. He walked over to the laird’s table and took a seat between her father and Vika. She desperately wanted to join them. Instead, she watched as he and her sister spoke, her gaze glued on them even as the men she danced with twirled her around the room.

Vanora had to admit to a pang of jealousy in her gut, hot and sharp like a fire iron. Her eyes narrowed, and she could feel herself pouting, but she couldn’t force a smile anymore, not when she saw Donal laugh at something that Vika had said.

“Excuse me.”

It was all Vanora could manage to say before she stumbled away from her dancing partner, leaving him alone in the middle of the floor. Oh well, he would soon find someone else to dance with; Vanora was sure of that. She simply had to get out of the room and get some fresh air, the air in the hall suddenly heavy and stifling, thick like honey in her lungs.

Despite those moments when she seemed to have a secret that only someone beyond her years could have, Vika was young and innocent, and Vanora knew that she didn’t quite understand when men made advances towards women like her. Donal sat beside her sister, his hand almost brushing against hers on the table, his gaze locked on hers. Vika didn’t know what Donal was doing, but Vanora had seen many men do the very same thing, and so she knew better.

She had to go back in and separate them.

After taking a few deep, steadying breaths, Vanora made her way back to the hall, the impossibly tight corset that once seemed like a good idea now restricting her lungs to the point where she feared she would faint. She silently cursed whoever had decided to create corsets in the first place. Still, she plastered a smile on her face, ready to politely yet firmly interrupt whatever conversation Donal was having with Vika.

Yet when she got back to the hall, they were not having a conversation anymore. Instead, Donal was talking to her father, while Vika was talking and laughing with another man.

The sight gave Vanora pause, and she frowned a little to herself. Perhaps she had been quick to judge, and much too quick to become enraged with Donal. She didn’t want to think about what that meant. She didn’t want to admit that there was a possibility—no matter how small—that she still had deep, unavoidable feelings for the man.

What good would that do, after all? She would only end up getting her heart broken once again, and she wasn’t sure whether she could handle that one more time.

Just as she was walking to the Laird’s table, Donal’s eyes met hers, and she watched him stand up and approach her while she was glued on the spot, her feet heavy like lead and refusing to move. She swallowed dryly, trying to get rid of the knot in her throat that made breathing—and even looking at Donal—painful. The closer the man came, the harder her heart beat, until she was certain he could see her veins jump with every stroke of her pulse.

In the dim, incandescent light of the hall, Donal looked even more appealing, the deep shadows under his cheeks making him look severe, but also more handsome than ever.

Once he reached her, he offered Vanora his hand.

“A dance?”

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