Extended Epilogues

TEN YEARS LATER

“Och, mamma, can I have it, please, say I can!”

The excited high voice of Isabella cried as she clutched the long, taffeta frock. Edme smiled at her daughter, as she played in the McKinley keep bedroom. It was the end of a cold, dark day in late December. A chilly wind raced around the keep. Even after all this time, it was impossible to keep the draughts out.

“Well, wait an’ see what yer father thinks, but…,” started Edme, the beginnings of a smile playing on her lips. Her daughter loved nothing better than to dress up and while playing in the bedroom, had unearthed a dress that used to be hers.

Edme picked up the flame tinted gown, complete with a little sash of McKinley tartan, and held it close. She wondered if there was any way she could still get it on. Then she put it down, embarrassed at the thought.

“Was this yers, mamma?” asked Isabella, her voice high and enquiring. Edme sighed. She was such a bright child, but sometimes her questions seemed never-ending. She looked down at the pretty ten-year-old, her green eyes sparkling intently. “Aye,” she said. “I wore it, just a wee bit older than ye when I was a lassie,” she paused for a moment. “I wore it when I first kissed yer father, but I dinnae suppose he remembers that!”

Then she smiled, folding it away. “It’s probably a wee bit large for ye,” she said dubiously. Then she thought back to how small she was as a teen – she still was – and how much her daughter had grown over the last few months and wondered. “It might fit, but,” her voice trailed off, but the words had barely left her mouth before Isabella snatched the dress, eagerly.

“I’ll look after it an’ be really careful, I swear! I want to look my best for the festivities!” Isabella said, joyfully.

“Aye, an’ try an’ get the attention of that wee Jock McTavish, I shouldnae wonder!” said another voice.

Isabella turned around; “Grandma Freya!” she bounded towards the door of the bedroom. “When did ye get here?” she asked her.

“Just now. We’ve been knocking and knocking!” said Wallace, his eyes twinkling on the threshold.

Edme jumped up, shooing away her daughter, who scampered off with the dress.  “Wallace! Please come inside. Come, we’ll go into the main hall!”

“I’m sorry we’re late,” apologized Wallace, his ginger hair was gray these days, but otherwise, he looked the same as Edme remembered. “It took us so long to travel through the Highlands in the snow. But then, it’s always like this at Hogmanay!” he smiled merrily, proffering forth a bottle of whiskey. “A drop of the good stuff for the celebrations tonight!”

Edme took the bottle from him, pretending not to notice that half of it was already drunk, and from the broad grin on her father in law’s face, and the deep red in his cheeks, it was clear to see where it had gone!

“Where’s Beathan? He’s nae left ye alone, has he?” asked Freya, as a silent servant took her cloak. Walking about the room, she took a look around.

“Well, it’s different here since last time!” she said. Edme nodded.

“We thought we’d do Hogmanay here, this time,” she said. Looking about her old family home was still full of memories, some good, many bad, but all burned deeply within her heart, especially at this time of year.

“Since joining the clans together, we have been thinking of spending more time here, an’ really getting to ken the people again…,” Edme said. “We used to have a feast here every year when my father was..,”

Edme’s eyes misted with sadness. She had loved the parties at the McKinley keep, and this was the first year that they had decided to come back to host another one. Edme chewed her lip, suddenly unsure.

“I do hope this isn’t going to be a mistake,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

Then she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Nae, it isnae, lass! It’s about time we laid the ghosts to rest,” Edme looked around, and there was Beathan, his green eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

He embraced his parents quickly before going back and giving her arm a little squeeze. Then he looked around the room.

“It’s looking good in here, Edme,” he said. The room was festooned with greens, holly, and mistletoe brought in from the woods. In the center, a huge fire burned, and a splendid table set for a banquet.

Later, they would go back out, but first, they would give thanks for what they had.

And what they had was plenty, Edme had never been happier.  And today, she was just as in love with Beathan as she ever had been.

Beathan went over to her, giving her a little kiss, before filling a glass for them all to share.

“There’s so much to remember, at this time of year,” said Freya suddenly. Her eyes drifted, heavy with tears.

Isabella, who had been hovering in the doorway, stopped a moment, watching as her grandmother grew wistful. Wallace placed his arm around Freya. “Aye, I ken, the first Yule without yer mammy!” he said.

Beathan also grew quiet, as Edme rubbed his arm supportively. “Aye, she passed almost about this time last year, I dinnae think she ever got over my father’s death…”

Finlay’s death had left a big absence in the lives of all of them, especially Freya. Beathan had also mourned his loss.

The three of them had spent the day tending to the graves, before riding over to the McKinley castle for the family feast.

“Tell me about great-grandpa,” said Isabella, enthusiastically, her eyes flashing. She was always so interested in history, especially family stories.

Edme watched her as she moved across the room, touching Grandma Freya lightly as she went, and smiling. The flame tinted taffeta suited her, offsetting her jet-black hair to perfection.

“Och, Isabella, yer the picture of yer great grandmamma!” murmured Beathan, as if he had just noticed the uncanny similarity between Sine and his daughter, even though they were not blood.

Beathan stroked his daughter’s black hair gently. But Isabella pouted at him.

“Ye were going to tell me about Grandpa Finlay,” she demanded. “An’ his two different colored eyes!”

All four grown-ups laughed at her fierceness.

“She’s her mother’s daughter, for sure,” chuckled Wallace, approvingly, “An’ her grandmamma’s too!”

“Och, aye, Grandpa Finlay,” began Beathan. “Well, ye ken, he had quite a tale of his own, being a foundling, of sorts,” said Beathan, as Edme took his hand. “An’ he hid who he was for a long time!”

But Edme was not listening. She was staring at the dress Isabella was wearing. It all came flooding back. That first Yule at McKinley, and the kissing game she had played with Beathan. But he had always said that he didn’t remember. She didn’t know why, but this made her sad.

“What’s a foundling?” said Isabella, as sharp as ever, as she sat down next to her father.

“Och, he wasnae exactly a foundling! He was about ten when they found him wandering,” cut in Wallace. And then, of course, this started a good-natured argument about what a foundling was and the exact nature of Finlay’s birth.

As the family argued, Edme refilled the glasses silently; she was secretly pleased with everything. The table looked splendid, and the smells coming from the kitchen promised the best hog roast in all of Scotland! Later, they would eat like kings, before toasting Finlay and Sine.

Edme listened, as the four of them shouted and argued. It was times like this that sometimes she felt sad that her side of the family was so empty.

Seeing her thoughtful face, Beathan came over to her, giving her a little squeeze.

“Hoo, what is it now?” he asked softly, nuzzling her cheek tenderly.

Edme looked into his eyes. “Nae, nothing, I am just happy, that’s all…” she smiled.

Beathan led her over to the mistletoe hanging over the doorway to the main hall.

“Och, Edme, this takes me back, to the feast all those years ago,” he said, bringing Edme close. Edme could feel her cheeks tingling and beginning to heat up.

Even after all this time, Beathan still had the power to make her feel like an excited teenager. She looked over at Isabella, in the flowing gown. She was listening intently, as Wallace recounted the story of Finlay and his rise from outsider to the laird of the clan.

Beathan paused and then whispered in her ear. “Isn’t that the frock ye had on when ye first kissed me, all those years back, Edme?” he grinned at her.

“What?” she almost shouted. Raw emotion ripped through Edme, instantly. “Ye remember it; ye remember us kissing at Yule?”

She couldn’t believe it. For years, Beathan had claimed he could not remember. She looked at him in surprise.

“Is it the whiskey? Are ye drunk?” she asked him, but Beathan smiled.

Behind them, Wallace continued his tale to a captivated Isabella. “An’ he returned to his family home, to be laird, knowing it was his rightful place!”

At those words, Beathan stroked Edme’s hair tenderly. “Just like ye!” he said. “Some things are meant to be…”

She looked at him closely, reaching for the dint in his chin, which was still there after all these years. Suddenly, it felt like everything in her life had fallen into place.

Then Beathan pulled her closer and laughing, said. “Aye, of course, I remember ye kissing me! How could I ever forget?”

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This book

Many things had happened since Donal had returned to Achadh na Cairidh, bringing with him Vanora as his new bride; things that Angus had found out through a copious number of letters that he, Donal, and Vanora exchanged.

After the passing of his father, Donal was now Laird Cameron. Donal had buried him next to Ronald, and he knew that eventually, he would join them, and he would see them once more, though he did worry about his mother, despite her insistence that she was doing quite well.

The first grandchild kept her quite busy, after all. Vanora had given birth to a baby boy a year after they got married, whom they called Ewen after Donal’s father, and Donal could have sworn that he had never seen his mother so happy before.

The boy was now soon approaching his first birthday, and Donal’s mother fawned and fussed over him every single day. Donal could only hope that his son would not end up getting spoiled, but he could already tell his hopes would eventually be crushed.

The only thing that gave him some peace of mind was that the three of them, he, Vanora, and their son, were just about to leave for Knapdale. It was time that Ewen met his other grandparents from his mother’s side, though there was a different reason why they were visiting.

Angus had told them, in his last letter that his father, the laird of the MacMillan clan, was dying. It was no surprise to anyone; the laird was in his later years, and he had lived a full life, but Donal and Vanora wanted to be there regardless, both for the laird and for Angus.

Donal had been apprehensive at first. He and Vanora had not told anyone yet, not even his mother and their closest family, but she was pregnant once again, though no one could tell over her petticoats and her skirts. Donal could only see a hint of a swell in her belly when she lay naked next to him, and that was more than enough to drive him to immediate panic every time that she had to travel for longer than the time it took for her to get to the kitchens.

Still, Vanora had gotten fed up with him, and so she had insisted that they traveled to Knapdale and, well…Donal could never tell her no.

That was how he found himself traveling with Vanora, little Ewen, and some of his clansmen, making the long trip to Knapdale, the entire time fussing over Vanora much more than she would like him to.

“Do ye think that Angus will find himself a nice lass?”

Vanora looked up from where she was watching Ewen nurse on her breast, frowning at Donal as though he had said something ridiculous, shaking her head at him.

“Weel…he will be the laird soon!” she said. “He must find a wife, dis he not? How else will he get an heir?”

“Ach, I dinnae ken,” Donal said. It was a thought that had been in his mind for a while, even though it probably was something that didn’t bother Angus himself at all. “What if he doesnae find anyone?”

Vanora shrugged, just a little so that she wouldn’t disturb Ewen. “What if he doesnae?” she said. “It isnae the end of the world, noo, is it?”

Before Donal could say anything else, Ewen decided that he had nursed enough, and so they continued with their journey.

Soon, they arrived in Knapdale, and once again, it looked just like Donal remembered it, though he supposed there couldn’t have been many changes in Castle Sween ever since he had last been there. The loch was beautiful as always—its calm, dark waters reflecting the equally calm sky, where the clouds passed like grazing sheep.

It was peaceful, Donal thought.

It remained so for about five seconds, before Mrs. Gallach ran towards them at full speed, only stopping when she saw Ewen in Vanora’s arms.

“Mo leanbh, what a handsome wee bairn ye are!” Mrs. Gallach said, getting a delighted giggle out of Ewen as a reply. “Ye look just like yer maw, dinnae ye?”

“I think he looks verra much like me, Mrs. Gallach,” Donal said, even though everyone said the same thing about Ewen. Donal was convinced they said he looked like Vanora only because of his dark locks, while they ignored the rest of his features—which, in Donal’s mind at least, were the same as his.

“I think ye canna see weel,” Mrs. Gallach said, but she did so with a grin on her face. “Come, ye twa…ye must be tired after all this traveling.”

“Aye,” Donal said, urging Vanora to follow the head housekeeper. “I’ll stay and help the men with the horses. Go and find Angus, and I’ll meet ye two inside.”

Vanora did as she was told, and Donal took a moment to look around the grounds of Castle Sween, breathing in deeply. The air there was the same as the air in Achadh na Cairidh, of course, but Donal, sentimental as he was, wanted to think that Castle Sween didn’t stink so much of manure.

As he helped his clansmen with the horses, settling everything and making sure their things went to the right places, a large mass tackled him, throwing him onto the ground and pinning him there. His face was suddenly caked with mud and other substances that Donal didn’t even want to think about, and he spat out a mouthful of hay that had found its way into his mouth.

Donal didn’t have to look over his shoulder to know who it was that had attacked him so suddenly.

“Is that what ye call a warm welcome?” he asked, as he struggled against Angus’ hold. The man had become stronger since the last time he had fought him, and it only fuelled Donal’s desire to beat him. “Ye havnae seen me in twa years!”

Angus laughed from where he sat on the small of Donal’s back, holding him down with his entire weight.

“Ye would do the same to me if I came tae Achadh na Cairidh,” he pointed out. “How have ye been, Donal? How’s yer lass?”

Donal hated how casual Angus sounded, as though he wasn’t thrashing beneath him. The man had made one big mistake, though; he had already fooled himself into thinking that he had won.

Donal bucked against him, hard enough to throw Angus off him, and he was back on his feet before the other man could stand. The two of them stared at each other, bending at the hips as they prepared to strike, both men huffing like a pair of bulls.

Donal pulled Angus into a hug, and Angus hugged him back tightly, patting his back. When they separated, they had matching grins on their faces.

“I’m verra weel now that yer off me, and Vanora is weel, too,” Donal said, before leaning in closer, whispering conspiratorially. “She’s with another bairn. No one kens yet, no one but us, but I wanted ye tae find out before anyone else.”

Angus gasped before his lips split into a grin so colossal that Donal feared his face would stretch out and remain like that forever.

“I always kent that ye’d have more bairns than ye can handle,” Angus said, giving Donal the kind of wink that made him blush furiously.

Donal dusted himself off, trying to look as presentable as possible after a scuffle in the mud, and the two of them made their way inside the castle, where Donal could only hope to have time to clean up before dinner.

“What about ye?” Donal asked him. “When will ye have bairns of yer own?”

Angus seemed to hesitate at that. He sucked his bottom lip under his teeth, biting down on it as he looked at Donal, and then shook his head softly.

“I willnae have any bairns, Donal,” he said. “After…weel, after everything, after Vika, I vowed tae never take a woman.”

Donal opened his mouth to speak, to try and talk some sense into Angus, but the other man held up a hand to stop him before continuing.

“Aye, I ken what ye’ll say,” he said. “I’ve heard it all…I’ll be a laird soon, and so I must take a wife, I must have an heir, I must, I must, I must—these people, the people of my clan, and ye and Vanora, yer all the family I need, Donal. I decided a long time ago that I willnae take a wife, and nothing ye can say will change my mind. It’s alright, it truly is. I dinnae wish to take a wife, and I am happy the way things are. There isnae any sense in fixing something that isnae broken.”

Donal couldn’t argue with that. Besides, Angus did seem perfectly happy with his life. Donal had no reason to think that he needed anything or anyone else to make him happy.

The two men parted ways when they got inside the castle, Angus going to tend to his father, and Donal going to clean himself up and change clothes before he would have to meet anyone else.

The following days reminded Donal of the time he had spent in Knapdale as a young lad, and even though they were all well into adulthood, he, Angus, and Vanora often acted like wee bairns, much to Mrs. Gallach’s disappointment and disapproval.

Donal didn’t care a bit.

Their antics only stopped a few days after their arrival, when the laird of the MacMillan clan was laid to rest, after a night of agitation and pain. Donal and Vanora stayed by Angus’ side the entire time, tending to his needs, though the man was not as shaken as Donal had once feared.

He had had time to digest the situation, after all, ever since his father had first fallen ill a few months prior.

Donal was glad that he could at least be there for Angus when his father passed. He was even more glad that he could be there when he was crowned the laird of the clan, Donal standing aside and watching proudly as the clansmen pledged their allegiance to him.

The feast in Angus’ honor was a thing of wonder, just like every feast that was organized by the capable hands of Mrs. Gallach. The tables overflowed with food and drink, towering plates of pork and beef, potatoes, and greens covering every inch available in the great hall.

Donal was sitting next to Angus and was already on his third cup of wine when he caught a glimpse of Vanora at the other end of the room. She had been late to the feast, tending to Ewen first, nursing him and putting him to sleep, but now she was there, and the sight of her gave Donal pause.

She was wearing the same dress as she did when she attended the feast that was thrown for Donal two years prior, the one that had made every man in the room beg her for a dance and a moment of her time. It was no different now, and Donal could see the way that the clansmen were staring at her, practically salivating as she walked across the room and took her seat next to Donal.

The only difference was that Donal would now kill them all if they so much as dared to ask Vanora to dance. He probably didn’t look very intimidating, though, when he stared at her too, mouth agape and eyes wide like saucers.

He couldn’t believe that the woman was his wife. Even now, after two years of being married to her, he couldn’t help but marvel at her beauty, at the contrast between her unmarred, pale skin and her dark, luscious locks, the pinch of her waist, the swell of her breasts at the neckline that scooped across her chest.

Donal recalled the comment that Angus had made a few days prior, and he couldn’t help but agree; they would end up having many more children than they would know what to do with.

“Ye might wish tae close yer mouth afore a fly gets in there,” Vanora said, and there it was, the difference between the woman he had seen two years ago and the woman that was married to him. Still, Donal couldn’t help but acknowledge the fact that his heart melted when she smirked at him.

“I dinnae think I can,” he said, teasing her right back. “Ye kept the dress.”

“Aye,” Vanora said with a small frown. “Of course, I did. Tis an expensive dress. Did ye think I’d throw it away?”

Donal didn’t know what it was, exactly, that he had thought since most thoughts had simply left his mind to leave space for the one that dominated everything else; that his wife was the most beautiful woman in the world.

“I dinnae think ye’d wear it again,” he managed to say, shrugging a little. “But I am glad that ye did.”

Donal spent the rest of the night dancing with Vanora and talking to Angus, celebrating his braw new title and promising him that he would be there, right by his side, no matter what. Anything that Angus could possibly need as a laird, Donal was prepared to help him with it.

The three of them celebrated until late at night, and Donal and Vanora only retired to their chambers when most of the clansmen were already asleep, passed out at their respective tables. Once in their rooms, Donal couldn’t help but tear that dress off her, lavishing her with all the attention in the world as she rocked over him, taking him inside her with a shuddering gasp.

Vanora fell asleep in his arms afterward, but Donal could not sleep. He spent endless time simply looking at her, at the bump in her belly that seemed to grow every single day, at the stretch of her gorgeous limbs. He caressed her gently, careful not to wake her.

When he heard Ewen cry from the adjacent room and felt Vanora stir against him, he pushed her back down on the bed and pressed a kiss on her forehead before heading to his son’s crib.

Donal took Ewen in his arms, laying the boy against his chest as he sat down next to the window. The first light of dawn was already visible in the horizon, bathing the room in a pale blue light, and Donal began to rock back and forth, hushing his boy until a few moments later, his cries ceased.

Donal returned to his chambers with Ewen still in his arms. He lay down next to his sleeping wife, placing his son on top of his chest, and he finally fell into a peaceful sleep.

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TWENTY YEARS LATER…

Freya looked up from the seam she was working on as Wallace came in, kissing her on the chin.

“Och, who else does that, Wallace? Yer a laird! Wallace, give me a proper kiss!” she pouted. When it was only the two of them about, she often pulled him about playfully—just as long as none of the servants were about.

Just about the only downside of ruling over a clan which had grown so wealthy was the large household staff they employed—sometimes it was impossible to be alone.

Wallace leaned in to kiss his wife a second time, this time lingeringly. She responded tenderly, but he registered a curiosity in her face. The intervening years had been gentle, sharpening her beauty in a delicately defined mold.

“What is it?” said Wallace, following her thoughtful pose and looking with concern.

“Beathan? When is he getting here?” Freya asked, snapping the end of the thread with her teeth and looking pointedly at Wallace. His red hair had not faded a drop with time. His bold nose jutted out a little more these days, and his amber eyes had taken on a confidence that was alluring and commanding at the same time.

“He rides. He’ll be here soon; dinnae fash,” Wallace grinned.

“Och, I ken he will. I just worry about him, that’s all…” she trailed off.

Soothing her, Wallace placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Come now. Beathan is a man. He can look after himself.” Wallace said with a look of pride. He came over to kiss his wife once more.

“Och, I ken he will!” Freya agreed, enthusiastically. “He’s strong and serious, just like his da! He’ll make a canny laird one of these days! I just want him to hurry home afore sunset—ye ken it’s nae safe out there after dark.”

###

“Move an’ I’ll slit yer throat from ear to ear!”

It was the snarl of the voice that shocked Beathan Craig more than the ice-cold blade pressing against his neck. Looking up, he tried to stare into the face of the man wielding the blade, but it was covered completely. It didn’t stop him speaking, although the voice was muffled and strange.

“Yer money! An’ the jewels! I ken who ye are—laird heir! So dinnae try an’ cheat me!” the voice came high and vague, but the menace behind it was clear enough.

His breath coming in waves, Beathan tried desperately not to move in any way, lest the brigand make good their threat.

Glancing through the gaps in the trees, Beathan Craig tried to catch a glimpse of the man who had assaulted him. It was hard.

The winter sun shining crisply through the clouds was so bright, it almost blinded him. All he could make out was a shape dressed in black. In the terror of the moment, it seemed to Beathan that it was an Ankou, helper of Death, come to take him.

The lad’s mind was working overtime, trying to see if he could fasten his hands upon the dagger in his sheath, which was strapped to his waist. Tentatively, he reached down, sending numbed fingers to explore his belt whilst maintaining a rigid demeanor. But there was nothing.

Then, with sinking heart, Beathan recalled that he had thrown it a short while back in an attempt to spear a white hart—but that it had missed and slid into the mud. He was without a weapon in the heart of the clanless lands!

“Come on! Hand it over, if ye want to live!” hissed the voice. It had a strange edge to it, making Beathan wonder about its owner. “An’ dinnae dawdle about it!” the brigand barked.

By now, shock was beginning to be replaced with anger. Beathan found his temper rising, causing the hairs on the back of his neck and arms to lift up. A determined glint came into the young man’s green eyes, resonating dangerously in the pit of his stomach.

“Yer addressing a noble! I’ll have yer head on a platter for this!” he threatened.

But the assailant just laughed; a curious, high-pitched, mocking laugh.

“Dinnae mak’ me laugh, laddie. There’s nothing ye can do to stop me! Now hand it over, all of it, the jewels an’ everything!”

The voice was positively malevolent, but this was not the reason that Beathan turned to look at its source. The ginger-haired lad felt sure that he had heard it before somewhere, but he just didn’t know from whence it had come.

One thing was for certain—whoever it was seemed to know a good deal about him, including the fact that he had been carrying his mother’s jewels with him.

In his knapsack, the lad had a tiny treasure trove, all laced securely up. Inside was the plaid brooch with the Cairngorm stone in it so highly prized by Freya, his mother. It had belonged to her father, Finlay, the previous laird of Craig, and rested between a small shoal of other trinkets, sparkling stones, and bronze brooches. There was no way that Beathan was about to give it up without a fight.

But to fight without a weapon was going to be tricky, especially with a blade up against his throat. What would make it easier would be getting the measure of the man in front of him. However, it was still hard for him to make out the details against the hazy winter sunlight.

Even when the sun went in, disappearing behind the leaden skies which had threatened his hunt all morning, it was difficult to see. For a start, the figure wore a mask, which was pulled up tightly from the base of his neck to the tip of his eyes.

The shape of their outline revealed nothing much, except that the robber was small and slight in stature. The only giveaway was the color of the eyes, glinting out at him, from just above the black muffler—they were dark and strange.

From somewhere, something resonated inside him, prickling at his memory—but just who could it be? He knew those eyes with their almond shape and blue-gray centers, but for the life of him, he could not work out who they belonged to.

For now though, he just wanted to get away. Lacking a knife to fight with, Beathan thought fast. He could hear the breath of the brigand coming hard and fast onto his neck. They were so close he could feel their body heat.

The young heir searched about frantically with his eyes for anything that might be at hand to help. He had to be careful. Just a simple twitch of a muscle could be enough to end his life. He had no doubt that the robber was desperate enough to make good his threat and slit his throat at the merest provocation.

Inside, Beathan berated himself for losing his blade. It was the middle of the clanless country, where attacks were frequent and rising all the time. Only yesterday, the lady of Ross from a neighboring clan had been attacked and violated at knifepoint by an armed gang.

But Beathan hadn’t been thinking of this when he had set off for the morning’s hunt. All that had been preoccupying him had been whether he would get in a morning’s hunt before the heavens opened up. He should have been focusing on the task at hand—which was safeguarding the valuables his parents had entrusted to him.

If things weren’t bad enough, he had also left his horse a couple of miles back as he slipped off on foot to hunt.

Then the chance he needed presented itself. Behind him, a twig snapped, causing the would-be thief to spin about to look. This was all Beathan needed, taking full advantage of the confusion to grasp at the man’s arm and shove him down.

The robber wasn’t going down without a fight, though, pushing and cajoling, trying to get back up. Even while collapsed on the ground he struggled, lunging up at Beathan from every angle, a contorted cry sounding from inside his throat.

As the pair tussled, Beathan was aware of the noises coming through the undergrowth of the wood. All around them was dense forest, trees packed so thickly it was hard to see through them. Beathan strained his eyes once more to try and secure a peek through the boughs of the Scots pine trees which surrounded them, but it was impossible.

Flushed and red in the face, the young heir battled against the slight but determined brigand.

“Yer gonna regret this!” the robber gasped.

“Nae, ye are!” Beathan hissed, bringing his leg up to secure the man’s neck in place, pinned to the ground, whilst he stood up to catch his breath.

Feverishly, Beathan checked the contents of his sack. He didn’t trust the brigand not to have them by stealth somehow, but taking the tartan knapsack from his belt, an instant surge of relief washed over him.

In the middle of the checkered plaid was the solid gold brooch sparkling in the pale sunlight. Nestling in its center was the smoky topaz stone so highly prized by the clan. As the heir, Beathan was charged with its safekeeping, and had just been on his way to deliver it to another place when he had been jumped. His mother Freya would be heartbroken if anything happened to it!

This thought made a firm resolution stir in his heart. No matter what, the cur on the ground should not get it—and more than that, he should be brought to book for his crimes.

Beathan hunted for his sword belt, wrapped around his waist. Taking it off, he prepared to tie the brigand up, pushing him slightly into the dense, wet grass beneath to do so.

Then, calamity! A high-pitched whinnying sound made both of them turn right around. A battery of hooves approached with a loud, shrill cry.

“Prince!” gasped Beathan, as the sight of his black stallion pounded into view.

The weighty horse snarled and leaped, nostrils flaring at the brigand on the floor. It was all the chance that Beathan needed. With a broad smile, he leaped up onto the stallion, planning on returning for the robber in due course.

But just as he mounted the beast, a slingshot took him, sending him faltering from Prince’s back. He landed hard on top of the robber.

On the ground, the pair of them tussled vehemently, Beathan fighting and kicking for all he was worth. In the heat of the fight, Beathan finally managed to get a hold of the black muffler covering the rogue’s face and hair. He rammed it down sharply and got a shock.

Golden-blonde locks cascaded down from the well-wrapped muffler that had been bound tightly around the robber’s face.

Beathan gasped; it was a woman!

“Gadzooks!” gasped Beathan, amazed.

The woman’s bluish eyes glinted against the turbulent skies. It seemed for a moment that she was amused.

“Well, hello!” she murmured, still catching at her breath.

The lad stared uncomprehendingly into her face. It was soft and smooth, with the sheen of nobility. Her delicate features weaved into an attractive shape, and were strangely familiar.

“Long time, no see!” she said.

Beathan stared into the woman’s eyes, wondering what she meant. They were pits of slate, with a profound mirth dancing in their blue cores.

But by now, the woman was getting free and preparing to run fast. To try and make good her escape, she picked a stone from the ground and flung it at him, hitting him squarely in the jaw.

“Aargh!” cried Beathan, rolling around in agony. But it was too late—she was gone, mounting his horse and laughing.

Staring down at him from the stallion, the woman scoffed once more before turning to leave.

“Ye should ken better than to try and stop me, Beathan!”

Beathan watched as she cantered off on top of his precious horse. His heart beat fast and his stomach clenched tightly. From deep down, something nagged him painfully. He knew this girl; her name hovered on the tip of his tongue.

Then he remembered.

Edme.

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Five years after Finlay became the laird of the Craig clan, the past seemed like a distant dream, not just to him, but also to his people. He and Sine had managed to undo the damage that Seoras had caused to the clan, bringing peace and prosperity to the people and lifting them out of poverty.

Sine had helped him more than anyone, as she reached out to the people and showed him what they truly needed.

The two of them were enjoying breakfast, which included Mrs. Baran’s famous bannocks, along with Finlay’s mother, when their little girl Freya ran to the room, chased by a maid, as she usually was.

“Forgive me, my lady. I tried to stop her,” the maid said, but Sine simply waved her hand dismissively.

“It’s quite alright,” she assured her. “Freya, come here.”

Once Freya was within reach, Sine pulled her up to her lap, tapping the tip of her nose with her finger. She smiled as Freya laughed, her tiny hands reaching for Sine neck and her arms wrapping around her.

Finlay watched them with a smile on his face. They didn’t look alike, not even close; where Sine had dark hair, Freya had fiery red, and where Sine had pale, porcelain skin, Freya was dotted with constellations of freckles. Still, he could think of them as nothing else but mother and daughter.

Freya had come into their life when her mother—one of their servants—died at birth. Neither Finlay nor Sine could bear leaving the child alone, so after two years of being unable to conceive their own child, they adopted her and decided to raise her as their own,.

Now Freya was of three years of age, and Mrs Baran liked to point out that she was just as feisty as her father, keeping everyone on their toes at all times.

“Shall we go and play?” Sine asked Freya, once they had all finished their breakfast. Freya nodded, and the two of them rushed outside, Sine chasing her little girl around.

She had so much to show her and teach her, and she tried to spend as much time as she could with her every day, either just the two of them together or with Finlay, who would often sneak out of Padraig’s watchful gaze to neglect his duties and play with his daughter instead.

That wasn’t one of those days, though, so Sine and Freya ran around the Craig land alone: just the two of them, as mother and daughter.

Neither of them noticed the woman that was watching them from afar, nor her own child.

Nora put a hand on her son’s shoulder, urging him to follow her back home. They had been around the Craig land for too long already, and she didn’t want to spend a single moment longer there.

Her stomach churned every time she laid eyes upon Lady Craig and her daughter, but even more so when she saw the laird. The entire Craig family was her enemy, as long as she was concerned, and one that she would make sure to annihilate before it was too late.

She was running out of years, after all. Soon, she would be getting too old for revenge.

“Did ye see them?” she asked her son. “They are the most vile, terrible creatures in this world. I think they are not even human…no, they are demons, sent here by Satan himself to torture us. One day…one day, ye’ll have yer chance to defeat them.”

The boy said nothing, but he glanced at the woman and her daughter over his shoulder, a sliver of hatred boiling up in his gut.

One day, he would have his chance.

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