Prologue

Carrick, Highlands, 1741

The wind blew tirelessly along Loch Goil, causing the water to roil. The man beside him shivered as well and wrapped his cloak tightly around himself, pressing against the wool to keep warm.

Tonight was strange, not only because of the task he’d been assigned, but there was something in the air too. Many of the superstitions his mother had told him about were at work tonight, he knew. There was a new moon in the sky, indicating impending doom. The persistent cold in the summer was also dangerous. His mother once said that such weather predicted a harsh winter and dark times.

“Aye, something is ill at work tonight,” he muttered, looking from the water to the surrounding woods. The forest was black, the trees sucking out whatever light there was. If the person he was to meet didn’t come soon, he would abandon the task.

“Little good will come from tonight. I am sure of it,” he muttered again, hoping danger didn’t lurk nearby.

A twig snapped under footfall, and he turned, peering into the darkness. But nothing moved which reminded him of another tale.

When sounds occur without movement, a ghost or a witch is at work.

He brought his cloak tighter once more and paced, breaking twigs under his own heavy boots. Soon, someone else’s footsteps neared, and he stopped, squinting to see through the thick shadows.

At last, a hooded figure appeared, their features masked entirely, holding something tightly.

“Who goes there?” he called, praying no ghost walked toward him.

“The person ye have come tae meet,” she answered, her voice soft and lyrical in the night. It was such a contrast to what he expected that he angled his head to gain a better glimpse.

She walked through the trees before stopping at the loch, mere inches from the water’s edge, when she turned to face him, lifting her head. She didn’t drop the hood, but she was close enough him to see something of her.

Two large blue eyes stared at him, unblinking. Her features were bold and distinctive. Her lips were pressed together, and her cheeks were flushed, suggesting she had hurried to meet him.

“Ye ken what I have come tae ask of ye?” she asked, stepping forward once more.

“The message I was given, it was…” he trailed off, his eyes darting down to what she carried. When he first heard about a woman who wanted to give her child to another, he couldn’t believe it. He now realized she was carrying two babies in her arms. They were just bairns, only a few days old at most, possibly less. “Ye wish tae be free of one of yer children, ma’am?”

“Tae hear the words spoken in such a way,” she paused and closed her eyes. Only when she opened them again did he see traces of tears. “’Tisnae what my heart wishes tae do, but my head kens ’tis the wisest thing. Aye, ‘tis what must be done, even though I daenae wish it.”

“Ye speak in riddles, ma’am.” The man shifted his weight nervously. This was his task in life, doing odd jobs that were asked of him and finding solutions for the awful predicaments of others. But this particular job pulled at his heart, flooding him with guilt. He couldn’t understand why a mother sought to be free of her child.

“Here, ye must take her.” The woman stepped forward, turning to reveal the faces of her babies. She passed one into his arms.

The bairn shifted and opened her eyes, revealing the same blue eyes as her mother. She was a sweet baby, a lovely one; certainly not one to be passed to a stranger in the night in the middle of Carrick Forest.

Hesitating, the man looked at the woman before him. “I hope ye ken what yer doing, ma’am.”

“As do I.” When the second baby stirred in her arms, she shifted her hold on the bairn and bent down, kissing its forehead. As moonlight fell on the wee bairn, the man froze, his eyes darting between the two babes.

“Nay, ‘tisnae possible,” he muttered, astonished. He grew numb with fear, so strong that he nearly passed the baby immediately back to the woman. They were identical, possessing the same exact eyes, the same noses, even the same shocks of auburn hair on their heads. In every way they were mirror images of one another.

“What is wrong?” the woman asked, noting that he proffered the child forward.

“If ye think I will have anything to do with a witch’s child, yer wrong,” he chided. “Take yer child back.”

“Nay! Do ye nae see? This is why ye must help me.” She stepped back, showing no intention of returning the child. “The world thinks as ye do, dinnae they? They will see two identical bairns and condemn both mysel and the child, even though we are innocent.”

His grasp on the child went limp. It was common knowledge that only a witch could produce identical children. The last woman to do such a thing in his village had been thrown in a dungeon. He couldn’t remember what became of her children, but he was sure it was nothing good.

“Please,” the woman whispered desperately. “I am nae witch, yet they will brand me as such; they could kill my daughters.” The look of abject fear on her face made him tighten his arms around the bairn again. When she wriggled in his grasp, he looked down as she smiled in her sleep, a healthy pink blush on her cheeks. The bairn hardly seemed like the spawn of the devil. She was a sweet thing, born innocently into a sordid world.

“If yer conscience fears taking her, then perhaps this will help ye.” The woman reached into her cloak and pulled out a leather purse that jingled audibly, leaving no doubt as to its contents.

“How much?” he asked. She passed him the leather purse to see for himself. So many silver and gold coins glimmered in the bag that he stilled. Those coins could solve many of his problems. All he had to do was take the wee lassie. “What do ye wish for me tae do with her?”

“Find her a home,” the woman said, sighing with relief at his acquiescence. “Give her tae someone with compassion, love. Maybe the village healer or a family that cannae have a child of their own. I cannae live happily to ken she might go somewhere without love.”

The man pocketed the money. He had to know one more thing first, for his own peace of mind. The two bairns were so alike in every way, he had to know why this particular one was being surrendered.

“Why this one?” he asked, listening closely.

“Because it must be one of them,” the woman said. A silent tear slid down her cheek; she made no effort to wipe it away. “She was the second born. Please, tell me ye will help her. Please?”

The man paused only to shift his weight between his feet. When he heard the bag of coins move in his pocket, he knew he couldn’t refuse, no matter how mad the situation seemed.

“Ye have my word,” he promised. The woman smiled as another tear fell, bending down to look at her second daughter one last time.

“Goodbye, my love. I hope ye will learn one day how much yer mother loved ye.” She pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead and stepped back, her feelings giving way to sobs at last. “Farewell,” she bid the man. “Thank ye.” The latter was barely heard, so lost was she in tears. She turned and fled through the trees.

When the sound of her footsteps disappeared, the man turned to the bairn sleeping blissfully, her eyes half-lidded. As he adjusted her wrappings, a glint of gold flashed at her neck. He shifted the blanket just enough to see a finely made necklace. Wherever the woman had come from, it was a position of some wealth. The necklace was a gold chain with a thick locket at the center, too big for a newborn. In the center of the locket a name was engraved: Scarlett.

“Well, Scarlett,” the man whispered. “‘Tis good tae meet ye. Let us find ye somewhere tae live, eh? A home tae call yer own.” He glanced at the shadows where the mysterious woman had disappeared. “And let us hope that if yer a witch’s daughter, the curse will follow ye nae more.” Turning his eyes to the new moon, he shuddered, wondering if all his mother’s warnings and superstitions were coming true. He fled, holding the babe tightly, making his way through the night. Despite his haste and the cold, Scarlett didn’t cry once and continued to sleep soundly in his arms.

Chapter One

Lochgoilhead, Highlands, 1760

“In the name of the wee man, Scarlett, would ye hurry! My old bones are weary; they’re calling for me bed.”

Scarlett turned away from the deep voice, raising a hand to play absentmindedly with the necklace around her neck. Every night, it was the same. Athol was as irritable as ever, insisting on her working while he sat back and did little to maintain his tavern. Scarlett looked over her shoulder to see age finally taking its toll on him. His long dark hair was greying and he wore it loose around his shoulders. Scarlett assumed he was attractive when he was younger. These days, he appeared haggard, his face sagging with time past.

“Scarlett!” he snapped.

“Keep yer hair on,” she muttered, her tone as sharp as his. “Shouting at me willnae make me move quicker, though ye like tae think it does,” she spoke bitterly, hearing him grunt once as always.

Long ago, she had learned that keeping quiet was not an option as no good came from silence when there was much to be said. Athol once told her that her spirit was as fiery as the color of her hair.

Aye, maybe it is.

She turned away and cleared the last few tables in the tavern. The tallow candles burned down to the last wax stumps beaded as hot wax dripped on the tables. Scarlett blew out each one in turn, gradually darkening the space. Soon, the only part of the room illuminated by candlelight was the corner where Athol sat.

On one side of him was a drunken friend, Patrick, a regular at the tavern and a gambler. On Athol’s other side was one of the many ladies of the night that frequented the place. She peddled her trade well, for Scarlett had observed over the years how she was never short of customers despite her age and the pox scars on her skin. Athol was undoubtedly one of her best.

“Ye nearly done, Scarlett?” Athol called, his head inclined to the woman as she kissed his neck. She touched Athol’s shirt and reached beneath the ties, reaching for his skin.

Scarlett looked away, her cheeks burning at the mere thought of what the courtesan dared to do in a public place. Such heated touches weren’t things she knew of, though plenty of men had tried their luck over the years. One or two had mistaken her for a courtesan and tried to persuade her to join them in their beds. When they became too forceful, she’d pull a knife to make her refusal plain. She touched the knife resting in the belt that hung securely around her waist.

If I don’t protect myself in this world, nae one else will do it for me.

She’d mastered the knife long ago. It was necessary when working in such an environment. She’d once seen a soldier turn the knife in his hand several times before throwing it across the tavern and landing perfectly in the center of a timber beam. After that, she’d practiced with her own knife, throwing it across the courtyard behind the tavern. Days became months, then years, and she could now throw a knife perfectly at any target.

She stepped behind the bar and dipped the empty tankards into a bowl of soapy water to clean them of any leftover ale or spittle. She’d done it every night for years.

One of her earliest memories was standing at this bar, peering over the edge with her nose just above the wooden counter, watching the courtesans and drunkards pass by. At first, she mistook Athol for a fatherly figure who watched over her, but it quickly became clear that this was not the case.

He was her guardian, yes, but not a father. Not at all. Three years ago, when she turned sixteen, one of the regulars tried to buy her for the night. Athol had gladly taken the money, ready to sell her. It was only Scarlett’s wit and her quick use of the knife that saved her. That night she’d thrown so many curses at Athol that whatever tenderness or kindness might have existed between them vanished completely.

“Ah, tae be far away from this place,” Scarlett whispered as she turned her attention to the tankards and washed them clean. Most evenings, she dreamed of faraway places. Somewhere far from the stench of the regulars who never bathed enough and far from the overly-perfumed women stinking of bergamot and pungent fruit. If only she possessed the freedom to go wherever she liked. She longed to know what the borders of Scotland looked like, maybe the ocean too.

“How much longer, eh?” The sudden voice so close to her made Scarlett jump. Not wanting Athol to know how much he startled her, she barely avoided dropping a tankard in the water.

“I will finish shortly,” she said tightly, glancing at him over her shoulder. It was plain obvious that he wished to see her gone so as to bed the courtesan as soon as he could. “Ye can retire if ye choose. I will see tae the last,” She nodded at the last few tables.

Athol needed no further encouragement. He smiled a wicked grimace that revealed his toothless gums, then he took the lady’s hand and disappeared. Scarlett practically gagged as she imagined what they would soon be doing. She thrust the picture from her mind and went over to Patrick, still sitting drunkenly in the corner.

“Out with ye. ‘Tis time ye went home tae that wife of yers,” she said firmly. The man downed the remains of his tankard, showing no sign of leaving. His eyes flitted over the front of her dress.

Feeling the intent of his gaze, Scarlett tugged at her dress, a poorly made arisaid of cheap material that Athol purchased from a courtesan. Yet, even in that poor dress, she felt disgusting. Patrick’s lingering eyes had that effect.

“Be gone, now,” she ordered, waving a hand at the door.

“I could keep ye company for the night, Mistress Scarlett,” he offered, smiling luridly in a way that made her shudder.

“I’d sooner have a spider as bedfellow rather than ye,” she said coldly, smiling at his look of outrage. “Be gone, or I’ll tell yer wife what sort of comments ye make here.”

Patrick needed no further encouragement to hasten to the door, but not before giving her another unwelcome look. Scarlett kicked the door shut behind him, glad to release her anger on something, even if just wood. She even turned and slammed it once with the flat of her hand, enraged at being trapped in such a godawful place.

“Good riddance,” she muttered as she thrust the key into the lock and turned it heavily. “If only it were possible tae be rid of ye all for good.”

Resuming her work, guilt began to grow in her gut. She used to dream as a child that this wasn’t her life to live, that one day a parent would walk through the door and claim her as their own—that she’d know love. There would be no lurid looks, groping hands, or harsh words, just tenderness and kindness. But she had long since given up such hopes.

I suppose I should be thankful Athol gave me a home. Aye, it is more than me own parents did for me.

That was the only thing she had to thank Athol for: providing her with a roof over her head. Many would have been happily rid of her, but Athol never abandoned her. Any gratitude she felt for him was drowned by his inattention and the vile way he lived his life. She always and steadfastly refused to live the way he did. He still expected her to be a courtesan someday, she knew that, but she never intended to give in to such a request just so he could make money off her.

Men looked at her, but she never knew if it was because they found her attractive, or if they were simply tempted by the hope of a night’s romp with someone young like her, since most women of the night hereabouts were old and carried unfortunate diseases.

Turning from the bar, Scarlett reached to put the tankards away when the long sleeve of her arisaid caught on a shelf of glasses, dragging one of the expensive goblets to the floor.

“Nae!” she murmured as the goblet shattered into pieces on the floor. Sighing, she paused and looked to the ceiling, fearing the sound might bring Athol running. Fortunately, he was too distracted to take action. Once, years ago, when she broke a glass, he struck her across the cheek in anger. She’d warned him never to hit her again, or there would be consequences. So far, he hadn’t tested her threat.

Dropping to her knees, Scarlett hurried to pick up the pieces. With a bit of luck, Athol might never notice the goblet was missing. But her task was disturbed when a quiet knock came at the door.

“Nae tonight,” she whispered. “Go home, Patrick.” She feared he’d come back to try his luck again. It wouldn’t be the first time a man had attempted such a thing. The last time a man had crept into the tavern to persuade her to share favors, her knife found a spot in his hand, making plain the fact that he wasn’t welcome. He hadn’t taken no for an answer, and she’d had no choice in the end but to defend herself.

When a second knock was heard, she hesitated, leaving the glass shards behind her. Men like Patrick never knock softly.

Out of curiosity, she went to the door and turned the key in the lock. She was too slow for whoever came calling, for they knocked again. Scarlett pulled the door open, growing irked by the caller’s impatience.

“For the wee man’s sake, ye daenae have tae knock so many times, I…” she trailed off, for the sight that greeted her was not what she had expected. On the other side of the door, she saw her own self looking back at her.

The lass had the same bright blue eyes, arched brows, auburn curls framing her face, and full lips pressed together uncertainly.

This isnae possible.

Chapter Two

Nae more of this. I cannae stand tae listen tae any more of this!

Noah’s temper flared. He imagined it as a pane of glass shattering into dust.

The council, who had all turned to stare at him, were silenced when he slammed his fist on the table. They exhibited the same fear that they frequently did these days. Even the older councilmen who had known him as a boy were terrified of him.

“I cannae listen tae this,” he said aloud, looking at each councilman. They sat silently around the circular table. The only man on the council to return Noah’s look was his brother, Ian. With a lazy smile, Ian offered a wave of his hand, urging him to be calm.

“Ye expect me tae sit here while ye bind my life tae another? Nae, I willnae do it.”

“It is imperative, my laird,” the boldest councilor leaned forward.

“Go on, Trevelyan,” Noah urged. “Speak yer mind.” He was the eldest member of the council, with the courage of twelve strong men. Secretly, he respected him for speaking repeatedly when others on the council would not, but that didn’t mean he agreed with everything the man said.

“Ye must marry, my laird,” the man urged, his hands on the table in front of him. “Ye need an heir, and this clan needs the coin marriage will bring.”

“So ye say,” Noah sighed. “Yet, ye surely understand this isnae just a matter for the clan?” he said, eyeing Trevelyan alone. “Ye are asking me to wed a woman I have never met, and what for? Tae give ye peace of mind only.”

“There is naething tae object tae in the woman, my laird,” Trevelyan noted eagerly. “She is obedient, aye, many have said so. She is meek and quiet. Ye’d have a good and dutiful wife. She comes with a wealthy dowry, and that is what yer clan needs more than anything else. I ken ye tae be a wise laird. Ye ken we need the money.”

Noah pinched the bridge of his nose, appreciating Trevelyan outwitting him; they did need the money. The clan faced ruin if the coffers were not replenished with more money. War and poor harvests had rendered them nearly destitute. They needed a way to recover, and money was a crucial means to that end.

“We can find money other ways,” Noah insisted.

“Yet this would be the fastest way. Yer brother has met her, have ye nae, sir?” Trevelyan appealed to Ian sitting at Noah’s side. “He can surely offer an opinion on the lass.”

Noah was not the only one to pay close heed to Ian’s opinion. The other councilors sat forward too, all waiting for Ian to speak. He swallowed uncertainly, his eyes meeting Noah’s.

Ach, he hates being put on the spot.

Ian preferred lightheartedness, jesting and lightening the mood. He rarely offered serious advice, so naturally, he was uncomfortable now.

“She is a beautiful woman,” Ian began, “and aye, as Trevelyan said, she is quiet and obedient. I dinnae think she would cause ye any trouble.”

Yet there was something else in Ian’s look. A muscle in his jaw twitched, revealing he could add more, though he wouldn’t speak of it now.

“If the council would abide by my wishes, I would ask them to leave. I wish tae discuss matters in private with my brother,” Noah said, waving a hand dismissively. Trevelyan bristled to be ousted like a lapdog, as did many of the other councilors, though Noah didn’t care much at the moment.

The councilors stood and shuffled out, whispering and muttering as they left, casting begrudging glances over their shoulders.

“Ye should be kinder tae them, Noah,” Ian noted. “They only wish the best for ye.”

“They wish tae control me, that is a different thing. Now, let us talk openly, brother, without their eyes watching us.”

“Drink this, brother, it will warm yer bones. Ye look cold.” Noah placed a goblet in front of Ian, filling it with mead. His brother reached for it quickly, gulping it down before leaning back and sighing contentedly.

They frequently rode across the estate together in the mornings, and that day was no exception. The cold had taken its toll on Ian, who shivered in the council chamber, trying to warm up. Noah supported him by clapping him on the shoulder.

Aye, I will always protect him. Even when he isnae aware that I do it.

“We should be talking about yer bride,” Ian said, placing a hand over his glass before Noah could top it off. He got to his feet and collected a goblet for himself, pouring some of the golden liquid before he began.

“Tell me of her,” Noah said, tired of the subject. “Ye will tell the truth better than any of the others would.”

“They arenae as bad as ye treat them,” Ian noted.

“Ye’d think as I do if ye were in my shoes. Besides, I ken how tae keep them guessing,” he winked.

Only to his brother could Noah reveal his true heart. He was pleased the council believed him to be foul-tempered, even bullish. It kept them in line, and council meetings were easier to control.

“Tell me of this lass ye went tae meet,” Noah waved, steering the conversation back to the problem at hand.

“Well, where tae begin?” Ian made his way to the castle window. Noah followed him and they stood by the stone ledge beneath leaded glass panels. “For starters, she is a beauty. In fact, I’d say she has a beauty about her that even yer mistresses couldnae match.”

“Ha! Now that is a challenge.” Noah tipped his head back, swallowing the liquid in his glass. He had his mistresses to satisfy his lusts. It was hard to imagine any woman being as beautiful as some of them. “Yet, the summary of a woman isnae in her beauty.”

“Nay, I accept that.” Ian nodded. “The lass I met for ye was kind, demure, well-spoken, too. She has the temperament ye would want in a wife, and she would be obedient tae ye, I am sure of it.”

“Obedient…” Noah toyed with the word, finding it not as much to his liking as Ian supposed it was. “Ye wish me tae marry a meek woman?”

“I didnae say she was meek!”

“Aye, but that is what she will be. I cannae imagine a duller lass than one who does everything I ask of her.” He shook his head and reached for the mead bottle, topping his glass.

“Would ye want a different woman for marriage?”

“I dinnae wish tae marry at all. I ken it is what the council wants of me, but after what we saw of our parents’ marriage…” He paused, a lump catching in his throat. “Can ye blame me for nae wanting to marry?”

“Nae.” Ian sighed and tipped his head against the window beside them. “Yet, nae every marriage ends as horribly as theirs did.”

“Aye, ‘twas cataclysmic.” Noah looked out the window. Their parents’ marriage wasn’t one they discussed very often, for the turn it took was unbearable to speak of, even haunting.

Nae woman should conspire tae kill her husband.

But that was exactly what had happened. Noah and Ian’s mother had been unfaithful, and her jealous lover had murdered their father, the last laird. That day, Noah became laird and discovered the truth. The lover was sentenced to death but escaped the day before the execution, and his mother committed suicide, unable to bear the heartbreak. Noah couldn’t decide which hurt more: his father’s death at the hands of another or his mother’s death at her own.

“Ye think I wish tae put myself in the same position?” Noah asked as he gazed out at the estate. From there, he noticed snowflakes falling, becoming deeper by the minute. Soldiers conducting drills on the lawn struggled to stay upright as the snow continued to fall.

“Ye wouldnae be marrying a woman like our mother,” Ian assured him. “This lass, she would be obedient tae ye, I am certain of it.”

Noah fell quiet and looked into his glass. He wasn’t sure what he disliked about having an obedient wife. Perhaps it was that she sounded lifeless. It should have been something he desired, given what the last lady of the clan had done.

“I have seen many marriages where the couples are happy. It is possible for love tae exist, and respect, too,” Ian pointed out.

“Love?” Noah scoffed at the idea, shaking his head.

“I would have thought ye kent something of it, brother, after all the women that traipse into yer chamber,” Ian smiled.

“Ye grow cheeky in yer old age,” Noah teased as Ian laughed.

“Aye, all grown now.” Ian sat up tall.

Noah was glad to laugh, for he didn’t want to rebuff his brother. The truth was that all the women who came to his chamber came for one reason only—to satisfy his physical needs. He never wanted to know anything about them.

I willnae suffer the same fate as my father.

“This conversation is academic, unfortunately.” Noah stood, looking at the council table covered with paperwork, most of it showing the clan’s less-than-satisfactory financial state. “I need money, and the bride comes with a dowry, aye?”

“Aye, she does, and a good one,” Ian called from his position at the window.

“Then, despite what I wish for, and despite the fact I’d rather jump out of this window than wed, I have nae choice.” He set the cup on the table and perched on the edge of his seat. He imagined the council members at the table talking of the people’s troubles and how to help them, if only they had the money.

What I want is second tae what the people need.

“We need the money,” he said, talking more to himself than his brother. “Aye, I will have tae marry, and I will have tae find a way tae make it work.” He thrummed with frustration just from the thought of it.

“She is a good choice,” Ian said thoughtfully. “She will make ye a better bride than ye think, I have nae doubt.”

“I am glad at least ye are confident.” Noah shook his head, unconvinced. “What is her name?”

“Lady Eloise MacLaren.”

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