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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