Chapter 1

“Get yer dirty hands off of me!”

The red-haired girl snarled fearsomely, holding the sword up high in the direction of the brigands.

She hadn’t heard them coming, their footsteps silent as mice, or maybe the slithers of snakes, as they advanced through the bare winter landscape.

Probably it was the hounding wind, pursuing her since leaving the keep, which had blanched out all warning of their approach.

She should have expected it, she thought. This was bandit country, after all. The girl hitched up her skirts and trudged through the little pocket of trees, but there was no way out. She was trapped.

“Ah, she’s a wee spark this one. I like a lassie wi’ spirit!” said the brigand.

The man’s lean, weather-beaten face contorted in something that looked like pain, but from his bovine grunts, was evidently amusement. In an instant, he wrestled the dagger from the girl’s small hands. It wasn’t hard.

“Aye,” agreed a second man, coming forwards to leer closer at the girl. This one had greasy dirty blond hair that hung around his face. She could not help but flinch as he pressed his unattractive features towards her young face.

He smelled, and badly. The young girl was not used to such rough ways. Despite her bravado, she knew she was out of her depth. They could do anything to her now.

The young girl prayed silently up to the heavens for something, anything, to allow her to get away. Oh, where on earth were Robbie and Brodie—the bodyguards her father had assigned her? How she wished she hadn’t given them the slip.

Her clothes didn’t help either. She stared down at the heavy linen shift and fine tartan plaid—which looked impressive, but was almost impossible to walk in, even without the shoes. But her father had insisted.

“Yer a lady now, so start looking like one!” he said as his daughter pouted angrily. “Ye cannae go about like some serving wench!”

It wasn’t intentional, but his poor turn of phrase had pierced her heart. “Some serving wench”—the words rang through her ears, tauntingly. Without meaning to, her father had immediately invoked the circumstances of her birth.

Her parents had always been straight with her; she was adopted as a baby, —the child of a serving girl who died upon childbirth.

She remembered her mother telling her about her birth, and if she was vague about the details, she was clear about one thing.

“We chose ye, remember, which is more important than anything,” her mother Sine had explained. And she believed them. The girl knew that her parents loved her, but some days, it was too much.

“An’ if we’re strict, it’s for yer own good,” her father Finlay had shouted. “The clanless lands are just tae dangerous for a wee lassie!”

These were the last words her father had yelled at her as she slipped away. She hadn’t really put much thought into where she was going. She just needed to get away from them, from him. Sometimes he smothered her with his love.

And so, she had found herself running in impractical silk boots, out of the keep and across the moors to that forbidden place: the clanless.

Despite its risky status, the small plot of trees in the desolate glen was the best place for miles around to hunt deer, which she could do as skillfully as any man.

Almost as though it was chiding her, a whistle of wind blew across the woodland and straight into her face. It was so hard that it rippled her porcelain skin and sent her long, wavy red hair flying into the air.

An errant cloud scuttled across the noonday sky, bringing with it a sudden shaft of light that fastened upon the young lassie’s face. Even in the grips of panic, she was strikingly pretty, her jade green eyes gleaming out from her white-as-clay complexion. It outlined perfectly her snub nose and rosebud lips, drawing a line under her determined chin.

She didn’t want to hear it, but her father’s voice wafted into her head once more. “Whatever ye do, keep away from the clanless. Anything could happen to ye…ask yer mammie!”

Back in the reign of James VII, her father had rescued her mother, Sine, from vagabonds in almost identical circumstances—in this very spot.

But the girl hadn’t listened. Of course she hadn’t. Headstrong, she had simply tossed back her wavy red hair and bounded away from the claustrophobic keep, into the uncertain sunshine of a wild February day. Now his words replayed in her head, full of reproach.

But she wasn’t done yet! This trio of scoundrels might have the upper hand for now, but she was not going to give up without a fight! The girl was her mother’s daughter in every way, except blood. And if her mother had come out fighting, then so would she!

“I said let me pass,” she commanded imperiously. “I’m the Maid of Craig…once my father hears about this, ye’ll be sorry!”

If she’d hoped this would impress them, then she was to be disappointed.

“A dainty maid, ye say?” sneered the first one. He poked his crooked nose into her face.

She shrank back from his foul breath. He was thin and weathered, and his toothless jaw rendered him slightly pathetic, but his rangy arms were stronger than they looked. As he dug his dirt-stained fingers into her flesh, he leered.

“Aye, yer sweet as summer fruit…” he cackled lasciviously.

“Tak’ yer dirty paws off me! I’m not of age, nor am I chattel for sale!”

“Yer auld enough for what I have in mind,” he chuckled.

She felt herself go hot and cold simultaneously. The dagger that had been in her hands was now pressed deeply into his. Taking it, he ran the smooth contours of its silver handle down his callused digits.

The jewel-encrusted dagger was the only thing she had left of her grandfather, the former Laird of Craig. Her father would be heartbroken if she lost it. She wanted to weep, but it wouldn’t do to show weakness to these cowards.

“Give me that back!” screeched the girl. “I’ll kill ye with my bare hands if I have tae!”

“Easy, lassie!” laughed the dirty man, as his disheveled companions leered yet closer. “Ye dinnae want tae be saying things like that now!”

“She’s a real wildcat, this un’!” sneered the mousy blond one, as he drew nearer, too near. She spat venomously onto his greasy mane.

“You shouldnae ha’ done tha’!” the first one said. He turned his surly face round to hers, giving her a rough shake of the head as he did so.

“You don’t scare me!” she said, but it was a lie. Beneath the bravado, the young girl was trembling. Desperately, she tried to conceal her shaking hands. She hated to admit it, but her father had been right. This place was dangerous. Now she was trapped with no escape from these vagabonds.

Then, something startled them all—“Now scuttle off and find yer spine!” a voice commanded.

Stunned, she looked round to see a wild-looking boy of roughly her age—no more than fifteen—wielding a wide dagger straight at the throat of the main blackguard.

The frightened wretch was almost panting in terror. The lad had him in a headlock, neck taut against the blade. For a moment, the lank-haired bandit looked as if he might fight back. But the boy was too swift. Without seeming to move, he launched a knife into the bandit’s side, and he went down with a terrifying wail. This was more than enough for the third man. He ran off, leaving his friend at the young lad’s mercy.

The girl opened her eyes in amazement at the lad, juggling swords and fighting three men singlehanded. He wasn’t tall, but he was well-built, with ginger hair that tumbled crazily around his shoulders.

She could not help noticing that, although it was cold, he was only wearing a simple léine, overlaid with a raggedy scarf—which on closer inspection, may have been the remnants of a plaid cloak.

And his eyes…. she wasn’t a girl who was easily impressed, but the fire that crackled in his treacle brown eyes instantly ignited her. Whoever this lad was, he had come at just the right time!

“Come on, lassie, let’s gang awa’!” he hissed, suddenly turning to face her and marveling at what he saw.

The girl did not need a second invitation, she lifted up her skirts—which, the boy saw were of the finest quality—and placed a dainty foot forward.

“That’s if ye can run in all that finery!” he mocked. “What on earth made ye come out here on yer own?” he demanded, wrapping his strong, toned hand around hers as they ran. “Did ye lose yer mammie?”

This was more than the young girl could take. She stopped and bristled visibly. “Watch yer mouth, laddie. I’m fourteen tomorra’!”

“They’re getting away!” yelled one of the men. The lad didn’t waste any time looking back, but pulled on her arm to lead her away. She was rooted to the spot.

“Faster, come on!” pleaded the boy. The hot breath of the men was hard on their heels and almost touching the back of their necks.

“I’m trying!” squealed the girl frantically. But she was irredeemably mired in a ditch.

“If ye weren’t done up like the Queen o’ France, then we might not be in this shambles!” he said.

“Shut yer trap!” she hurled back, stubbornly refusing his gestures of help. “I was daein’ just fine without yer help!”

He laughed. “What? Aye, it really looks like it!”

Then he paused for a short while, looking her in the eye—although when she turned to look, he quickly glanced away.

“So, who are ye?” he asked, intrigued.

“I’m Freya, Maid of Craig! And ye’ll be sorry for mocking me!” she said in her stiffest voice. “So, what about ye?” she asked.

The lad was about to open his mouth when the words were taken from him.

“Get her, lads!” the greasy brigand’s voice burst suddenly into their midst. Without hesitation, the boy hoisted the stuck girl out of the muddy ditch, barely looking back. Then he ran as fast as he could with Freya draped over him.

“Put me down! Put me down!” she squealed, but he did not listen. Not until they were both over the ravine and past the little river which ran to the side of the wooded glen and back up the hillside to safety.

“You left my shoe!” Freya screeched. “Put me down…where are ye taking me!”

“I’m not taking ye anywhere!” the lad said, beginning to tire of her noise. “Just away from here…”

“Well, they’ve gone now, so stop!” she commanded.

He looked about him for a minute. The howling wind that had been circling the glen had finally dropped to a whisper, and the robbers had all disappeared. They were there alone; boy and girl, head-to-toe in mud, cast against the squally winter skies.

There was nothing for miles around, just small bramble bushes poking out from the barren lands. But none of it detracted from her beauty. She was such a picture, her bright ginger hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders. Her white petticoats completely submerged in thick layers of mud. The lad couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

“What are ye laughing at?” she flashed angrily.

“You! The state you’re in! Seems to me from the waist up, yer a noble maid, and from below, yer naught but a waif!”

Freya looked down. It was true. Her beautiful gown, the one that Sine had spent such a long time sewing, was completely ruined. She was going to go mad when she saw it. Worse still, she only wore one shoe now, and her feet were almost numb from the cold.

“What madness took hold of ye to come out like that, wee lassie?” he asked mockingly.

It was a good question, and she was asking herself the very same. “It was my father’s idea!” she found herself explaining to the boy.

He cast his mocking brown eyes over her disparagingly. They were large, honey-colored pools framed with dusky lashes that were overlain by a determined set of eyebrows.

And his hair—in the fleeting glints of sunlight that the cloud would permit—would turn from rusty amber to tawny red.

Suddenly, Freya felt a creeping irritation with the way this older boy was laughing at her. Impetuously she leaned down, scooped up a clod of wet earth, and aimed it squarely at the lad’s lugholes.

“There!” she steamed, triumphant, as he looked up in disbelief. “See how ye like being pelted with muck, if ye think it’s so funny!”

“Hey!” complained the lad, brushing the wet dirt from his shabby plaid. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t already wet and dirty enough.

“There’s more where that came from!” promised the fiery maid, reaching to pick up another handful. A sudden voice intercepted their play.

“Freya! What on earth are ye playin’ at—look at the state of ye!”

Both the girl and boy were rooted to the spot in surprise as the slender, but muscular, frame of Finlay came into view.

Only in his forties, Finlay cut a noble figure against the dark gray skies.
Not tall, but commanding somehow. He was known to be gentle and fair with his servants. However, Freya brought out his fiery streak.

“That is enough tomfoolery. Gather yer shawls and come with me. Robbie is bringing a cart…” her father said, displeased.

“That turncoat!” spat Freya, disgusted. She knew it was unfair. It was Robbie and Brodie’s job to follow her everywhere, but they could have come for her themselves. They didn’t have to summon her father. “Wait till I see that tattle-tale!” she blazed.

Maybe it was the spark in the girl’s nature, but as Finlay delivered his rebuke to Freya where they stood on the edge of the clanless territory, his eyes clouded momentarily with regret.

“I only wish ye could be trusted not tae scarper; then ye wouldn’t need guarding!” He paused, looking irritated. “What happened tae Robbie and Brodie? I might ay’ kenned ye’d get the better of them!”

It was true—Freya was too quick for the two hulks her father had appointed to guard her. Sometimes Freya wondered why on earth Finlay had chosen them to guard her. They were kind enough, but not exactly over-blessed in the brains department. And right now, judging by the look in his eyes, her father was wondering this too.

Freya screwed her eyes up and tried not to laugh at the memory of her father asking Sine one day if Freya had a crush on Robbie. Hiding behind the door, she had to contain her mirth.

Her mother cried out in amusement; “Dear Finlay, ye dinnae ken our lassie very well!” she had said, wiping away tears of laughter. “Robbie’s a nice lad, but he’s far too dimwitted for a bright spark like our Freya!”

And now, true to form, the spark inside Freya blazed with rage as she confronted her father defiantly. She was like the greatest flame in a fire, always burning—so like her mother in every way except for blood.

Finlay was about to take his daughter and get away from there, when for the first time, he noticed the boy.

To begin with, he hadn’t even seen him; he had been so still, almost camouflaged against the muddy landscape. Startled, Finlay reached into his leather pouch for his dagger.

“An’ who are ye, lad, an’ what are ye doin’ with my daughter…?” Finlay demanded of the strange boy. There was a tense moment as the boy came eye-to-eye with Finlay, silent in the muddied glen.

The poor lad was taken completely by surprise and said nothing—possibly terrified, maybe still working out a reply.

“Come on—tell me, who are ye!”

“That’s my son…” rang out a woman’s voice, making everyone look. “The rightful Laird of Craig!”

Chapter 2

The woman’s eyes flashed angrily against the stormy skies. She had appeared from out of the mountainous crags and now stood there, her dark hair billowing everywhere.

Both Freya and her father shared a look of confusion. In his differently-colored eyes, the telltale signs of annoyance were starting.

The only person who seemed to recognize the woman was the lad. He dropped his eyes to the ground in what looked like embarrassment.

“What did ye say?” shouted Finlay across the windswept vista. All around them were the bare shoulders of the wintery mountainside, still months away from the gentle greening of spring. As if to affirm the seasonal froideur, a sudden arctic blast launched an arsenal of hailstones. All four ducked for cover. The weather might have been doing its best to send them away, but it did not weaken Finlay’s resolve.

“Freya, are ye alright? If he’s done anything tae ye…?” started Finlay with suspicion.

“I’m fine, Father. Better still if ye’d have just let me on my own!” flashed Freya. She too was getting a good lashing of the snow and ice raging through the glen. Her answer did not satisfy Finlay one single bit.

“An’ ye, lad. Who are ye? Come on!” he snarled at the lad, who had still not spoken.

“He’s the rightful Laird of Craig,” spat the woman venomously. “Are ye deaf, as well as a murderer?”

Freya could see her father’s confusion was gradually giving way to anger. He was not the only one; the boy, too, looked perturbed.

“Mother,” he mumbled with displeasure.

The woman stayed in front of them, radiating anger. She was about the right age to be his mother, Freya supposed. But unlike her son, she was dark in complexion, with thick black hair raging around her ears.

She guessed she was about the same age as her mother, but she hadn’t aged as well. Her skin was as craggy as the landscape surrounding them, almost every inch of it furrowed and lined. Despite this, her stark and piercing blue eyes were still every bit as clear and cool as ever they had been.

Freya watched her father closely. His expression changed rapidly; “Nora…!” he said, giving a gasp that might have been recognition, but betokened rapid onset of apoplexy.

“Finlay,” said the woman, her pale eyes appraising him coolly. “I kent ye straight away…”

Finlay trained his eyes on Nora’s face. It didn’t seem as if he had recognized her straight away, but as he stared at the woman’s eyes, a look of realization passed through him. Nora’s eyes were just as blue as all those years ago, even if the flesh around them had withered.

“An’ the lad…?” asked Finlay, turning to the boy. He had been standing alone, by the prickly gorse bush that defined the mud lands.

“Wallace? He’s Seoras’s son. You know, yer uncle. The one ye killed…” she flashed him a look of utter hate. The wind took her words and thrust them into the air.

Freya and Wallace shared a glance. This was the first time she had heard his name.

Freya looked confused. Finlay had told her the history of Seoras and the clan well enough, but until that point, no-one knew of the existence of a son.

Following his daughter’s lead, Finlay stared in astonishment.

“I didnae think ye were married?” he questioned, curiously.

“I wasnae,” replied Nora through thin lips. There was a brief, embarrassed silence as the wind raced around the four of them again.

Finlay coughed. “But…ah… I don’t remember ye being with child…,” he said, screwing up his face in recollection. He looked as if he was casting his mind back to the night of their final battle, over fifteen years earlier.

“Aye, I hid it well,” replied Nora, glaring at him with her intense blue eyes. Freya watched as her father disengaged from her gaze and tried another tack.

“And this is where ye live?” asked Finlay, as if he could not believe it. He cast his eye about the barren lands dubiously.

Nora simply nodded and pointed to a line of crude-looking blackhouses, which Freya had not noticed, set into a dip of the horizon. If she strained her eyes hard enough, she could just make out a tiny crack of smoke arising from one of them.

Freya did not know much about construction, but even from here they looked rough and unkempt. And as Freya looked more closely at the woman, she saw her simple white plaid was muddied and torn. It was fastened about her shoulders in a rough knot, devoid of any pin. Her petticoats were in such a state that Freya had to avert her eyes. Nora watched the girl’s reaction to her with open hostility, envy burning in her eyes.

“We live in muck and shame,” she practically spat. “Down to ye. When ye exiled us, where did ye expect us tae go—a palace?”

Finlay raised his eyes and looked around at the blackhouses that lined the horizon. “Yer on clan lands. Ye are trespassing, madam!”

Nora cursed, sending a ball of spit racing in their direction. The dislike on her face was palpable. Instinctively, Freya moved closer to her father. Finlay placed a protective arm on her shoulder as the two of them closed ranks.

“Just who are ye, turning up like Lord and Lady Muck? If ye dinnae like it, boil yer head!”

An uneasy silence descended upon the party, in which not even the wind dared to breathe. Freya eyed her father watchfully. Normally, she wouldn’t think twice of jumping in and putting the woman in her place—but there was something stopping her. She looked deeply into Finlay’s face, but it was hard to read him or to know how he might react.

Freya stared at the boy, the outline of her father’s features echoing in Wallace’s own. It was so obvious; how could she not have seen it before?

Nora walked over to her son. From the expression on her face, it looked as though she had a few choice words for him, but for now, she simply stood there in defiance.

Finlay had had enough. On the horizon, a rickety cart wound unsteadily through the mud. Robbie and Brodie were coming, and they had back up. At this sight, Nora’s expression changed perceptibly.

“Now see that and hear good,” Finlay said, leaning towards Nora and her son. He dropped his voice and narrowed his eyes against the wind.

“Tak’ this bairn, yer bastard, and get right awa’ from our lands. Or ye’ll be the worse for it…” And with that, he ushered Freya away into the waiting cart.

It was a miserable, sodden journey through the wetlands. An entire hour passed without word between Finlay and his daughter. Every time he tried to look at her to start a conversation, she turned her perfectly proportioned face away from him, pouting. They drove on in total silence until reaching lands that surrounded the keep.

As soon as the cart came to a halt, Freya leaped up and away. Before anyone could so much as blink, she scaddled down across the rough pathway leading up to the keep and inside.

Finlay chased her into the house. “Freya!” Finlay called desperately after his daughter.

“Give her time,” said Sine softly.

Their daughter stomped up the draughty hallway and upstairs to her room, bringing with her an arctic blast that swept across the entire hall. “Aye, but…Freya!” he yelled. The door slammed dramatically.

His wife’s eyebrows arched in well-practiced acceptance. “Finlay, she’ll come down when she’s ready. Remember what I was like at that age!”

“Aye, yer right, of course,” said Finlay, going to embrace his wife.

The passing years had done nothing to diminish the strength of their feelings for each other. Sine was still every bit the girl that he had married—even now, more than twenty years on. Finlay pulled her willowy waist towards him, and for a moment, lost himself in caressing her long, jet-black hair.

“Nae one gray!” he murmured in admiration as the pair locked into an embrace. For once, the servants were doing something else, and they had the place to themselves. “Come here, ye wee strumpet!”

Finlay pulled his wife over to the chair by the fire, kissing her furiously. So consumed with passion were they that they didn’t hear the door opening, or the faint footsteps coming towards them.

“Well, you had me thinking I’d be given an upbraiding, but I reckon now the shoe is on the other foot!”

Finlay turned around quickly to see his daughter standing there, her previously petulant mood washed away. Instead, she was wearing a wicked grin that illuminated her features from ear to ear.

There was a pause while Sine grabbed frantically for her plaid, pulling it on speedily. Finlay’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

“The look on yer face, Father!” cackled Freya. Sine tidied her hair and tried to sit up.

It seemed as if Freya’s spirits were once more restored. Since there was no telling when her mercurial temper would strike again, Finlay nodded to his wife to leave father and daughter alone whilst all was well. Checking herself, Sine left the room, touching Freya’s shoulders as she went.

Recovering his composure and checking that his plaid and sporran were correctly in place, Finlay decided that there was no time like the present, and dived in headfirst.

“Freya—listen, lass,” he began. “Ye cannae just run off into the clanless lands like that. It’s nae safe for a wee lass on her own…”

“But I wasnae on my own, Father. There was Wallace…,” replied Freya, not missing a beat. Ever since meeting the lad, she had found herself thinking about him in a way she wasn’t used to. He was only a year or two older than her, but somehow, seemed so grown up.

“Aye, the wee laddie. Yer tae keep away from him—and his ma. Dae ye hear?”

“But Father,” protested Freya. “What for? He helped me out!”

Freya would never have admitted it, but she had actually been rather impressed by the way Wallace had singlehandedly seen off a trio of bandits. But to her frustration, her father would not hear a word of it.

“Hush,” he said, placing a finger to his daughter’s lips. “Listen well, Freya. There’s a good reason why ye need to take heed and avoid the clanless. They’re our sworn foe! Ye dinnae ken the half of it. Just believe me when I tell ye to stay away. For all of oor sakes!”

“But…” began Freya, but she could see her father was not to be moved. Sullenly, she dropped her eyes. “Alright,” she said softly.

“Good lass,” said Finlay. He could tell she was disappointed, but he could only hope that his daughter would trust him enough to do as he asked.

There was a pause. The fire snapped, momentarily pulling their eyes to it. As she brought her clear jade eyes over to see, Finlay caught the sheen of tears in them.

“What is it, Freya?” he asked softly.

Freya just shook her head but looked forward. “You called him a bastard…” she said. Instead of sounding accusing, her voice was simply troubled.

“Aye,” said Finlay, not quite understanding where this was leading.

“Is that what I am, too?” Freya said in a barely perceptible voice. She cast her worried eyes towards her father. “A bastard? Because I’m nae yer rightful daughter?”

It took a moment or two for the shock to register on Finlay’s face. He was simply stunned. When he did manage to recover himself, he spoke quietly.

“My God, Freya, I dinnae ever want tae hear ye say those words ever again!” said Finlay, aghast. “Whatever could have made ye think that!”

Freya did not have to say anything; the unspoken facts of her birth hovered in the air between them.

“Come here, hen,” said Finlay, opening his arms to his daughter. “Yer mine and yer mammie’s, and let that be an end to it. One day ye will find a man worthy of ye. But until that day, ye’ll just have to trust yer auld da!”

As the flames leaped and jumped in the homely hearth place, Freya allowed herself to be comforted by her father.

“I do, Father, an’ I’ll mak’ ye both proud!” she announced, her eyes shining.

“You already do!” said Finlay, taking her in his arms.

Meanwhile, a few short miles away across the land, another pair of young eyes were staring into the fire, where it smoked in the center of the barren room.

Wallace and his mother were seated together in front of a meager fire. But this room was not welcoming and warm like the laird’s keep. Here, the cold wind danced around. Its icy tentacles clinging to each miserable corner.

“Dinnae ever forget what he has taken from us—from ye!” his mother hissed. Ostensibly, she was mending stays by the light of the fire. In reality, there wasn’t enough light to see by, and she had run out of twine. Worse still, there was nothing to eat in the house tonight. Neither situation had improved her mood much.

Wallace shivered as he rearranged his position on the floor beneath the makeshift fire. There wasn’t enough firewood to keep it going, and even the peat they usually shoveled in was drying up. The best that could be hoped for was to poke the feeble pyre and cajole it back into some sort of life.

It was cold; freezing, in fact. Wallace rubbed his limbs and pulled the grubby blanket over his aching extremities. But it wasn’t the cold that bothered him.

“All this is down to that bawbag, Finlay!” seethed Nora. Her anger could have warmed half the village.

Everything about the small dwelling was squalid and makeshift. There was no chair, just a bed—of sorts—at the far corner. There was only one room, also home to various livestock depending on the season, and it smelled like it, too. Nora cast an eye despairingly around the ramshackle room and cursed aloud.

But her son was not moved by her words. Instead, he lifted his head contemplatively. “He didnae look like a monster…,” said Wallace thoughtfully, tending to the fire. It was in its death throes, kicking out more smoke than heat, making him cough drily.

“What? Well, he is. He killed his own uncle; never forget it. He slayed yer father and took it all away. And now that lassie—who’s nae even his—will tak’ yer place! Well, I’m nae gonnae let him!” ranted Nora.

Wallace rolled his eyes. He had heard it all before. For years, his mother had regaled him with tales of the laird’s wickedness. He had been raised on her bile, and like her, had grown to detest both Finlay and his daughter.

Meeting them for the first time had been something of a shock. Neither of them were what he had expected, but the lassie especially had captured his imagination. Despite all his mother’s efforts, he could not bring himself to hate this wee girl.

“What if I see her again?” asked Wallace softly. He was less given to the extremes of mood that his mother suffered from. He had been surprised to feel an affinity with this young girl—so clearly in possession of her own mind, even at such a tender age. “Would it really be so awful?” he asked innocently.

Nora’s eyes sparked, with irritation. For a moment, she scowled at her son. Then a slow smile spread across her twisted face.

“Awful?” she asked thoughtfully, looking into Wallace’s youthful eyes.

As she looked at him, Nora’s mind went whirring into action. So, her son had struck up an unlikely friendship with the girl? Maybe this was something worthy of consideration after all.

“Nae, it wouldnae be awful at all…” began Nora tentatively. She knew him too well to push the subject further. Instead, she simply sowed the seeds and then sat back to wait for them to take hold.

It wouldn’t be long, she knew, before the girl came back. When she did, she could be very useful indeed. But it wouldn’t do to tell Wallace all this, not yet. The less he knew, the more easily he could be used.

“So, ye dinnae mind then?” asked Wallace, puppy-like with excitement.

Nora smoothed down her instinctive desire to respond with a jibe and instead said, “Nae, son, I dinnae mind at all!”

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