Prologue

Inverlochy, Scotland, 1757

“Where are ye?” Michael whispered into the air. The cold breeze pulled at his dark hair, as if the wind itself was made of strong fingers trying to pull him back. However, nothing would stop him from marching on to reach the very spot where he met Elisa every Sunday, without fail.

Between the two great hills that dominated the landscape like sleeping giants, he jumped onto a vast boulder, looking down at the valley and toward the nearest village. From this high up, he could see the blackened heather competing with the rough grass of the Highland hills. Everything shivered in the breeze.

It was an ominous sign.

Michael had heard such things from his eldest brother for years now. Laird Braydon, as most addressed him, was superstitious when away from the prying eyes of his clan’s men.

‘Aye, a strong wind bodes ill, Michael. Ye be warned of it. It means there’s something stirring in the air. Somethin’ coming for us all.’

Michael was not superstitious though. He shrugged the thought off, his tall figure dropping down from the vast grey stone as he hurried toward the village to meet his love, Elisa.

Nae long now and we will be wed.

He could practically hear the music that would play at their wedding.

A boot scuffed a stone.

Michael whipped his head around, coming to a sudden halt in the heather. Someone was there. No wind could brush a stone like leather. No, there had to be someone there, someone who was now doing their best to hide and avoid discovery. All Michael could see were the Douglas firs, the crests of the great hills and the still-quivering heather.

I willnae doubt me senses. Someone is there.

Michael’s brothers, Braydon and Tynan, had taught him well. Not only how to hunt a stag in the woods, but also how to turn a man following you from predator into prey. How to behave to raise the least suspicion.

Brushing his dark hair away from his forehead, he wrapped the black and navy tartan strip he wore tighter around his shoulders and walked on, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Under the cover of the tartan, his hand reached for the dirk in his belt, clutching it firmly between his fingers. He trained his ears to listen beyond the whistling of wind.

There came a scuff again, but there were two sets of footsteps now.

Michael whipped around, pulling the dirk clear of his belt and brandishing it in the air, but before Michael could do anything with the dirk, he found his wrist clamped in a thick fist, and a sharp knee was driven into his gut.

“Oof!” He crumpled forward in pain, listening as the dirk he’d been clutching fell to the ground with a dull thud. He was pushed back, his vision a blur of darkened shadows, hair tangled in the wind, masked faces, then all fell still as he was thrown against the nearest tree trunk . The fir only shook a little when Michael’s weight was thrown against it. The branches quivered, as if the attack disturbed it no more than the wind.

“What the – in the name of the wee man!” Michael roared, thrusting back at his attacker, hands scrambling as he reached for another weapon. “Are ye trying tae kill me ye great –”

He could not say anymore as an arm was thrust across his neck. Pressed against that tree, it was as if his neck was nothing more than a twig to his attacker, something that could be snapped at any moment.

“Nae a word, Michael Gregor,” a familiar voice rasped out.

Michael looked at the two men before him. The one pinning him to the tree had only his eyes on show, the rest of his face hidden behind dark red and green tartan. Yet the grey eyes were as familiar as the voice.

“Dinnae bother hiding yer face from me, Shay.” Michael managed the words despite the pressure on his throat.

Shay tore the tartan from his face, as did his accomplice, who stood a short distance behind him.

Shay Lamont, son of a neighboring laird, was almost as pale as the snow on the tops of the hills. His blond hair was more white than yellow too. It was almost like looking into a man made of ice, his gaze and touch as cold as Michael feared it would be.

Behind him stood Shay’s dearest friend. Larry, a short but burly fellow, stocky in build with a shock of dark red hair, was now nursing a blackened eye and a bruised jaw that he rubbed feebly as he took off his tartan strip.

“How’s the eye?” Michael asked Larry, goading what he already knew to be a dangerous situation.

“Enough!” Shay spat, adjusting his grasp and flattening Michael to the tree even more, risking to break Michael’s neck. He raised a dirk at the same time, pressing the tip of the ornate blade to Michael’s chin. “Another move, and ye die, Gregor. Ye understand? Ye die!” he hissed angrily.

This time, Michael chose not to goad him. He refused to flinch though and didn’t so much as blink. He merely stared back at Shay, waiting for what would happen next.

“Ye and yer brothers may have got the jump on us once, but it willnae happen again,” Shay muttered darkly.

Michael couldn’t resist. The voice in his head was determined to say his piece.

“Is one attack nae enough fer ye? Ye already threatened me once about going tae meet Elisa. How did that work out fer ye, eh?” Michael’s eyes darted between the two men. Shay’s bruises were not so easy to spot, but they were there. One milky green one on his neck was showing against the pallor of his skin.

“She willnae marry the youngest brother of a laird,” Shay spat once again. “She needs an heir. Ye hear me, Michael? Ye arenae good enough tae lick her boots.”

“She seems tae think differently.”

“Ye are just a boy, and she is just a girl. In time, she will see things differently. She’ll want the heir tae a lairdship. She will want… a man.”

Michael said nothing. He glowered back at Shay, trying to think of a way out of this situation. Even if he fought Shay off, Larry had to be dealt with too. He was not fooled by the miserable way in which Larry kept touching the bruises on his face. His stocky build counted for a lot in a fight and the long thin scar running from his chin to his collarbone showed he was not afraid to risk injury in order to win.

“This is yer final warning, Gregor,” Shay muttered again. “Ye willnae be seeing Elisa anymore.”

“We are tae be married,” Michael reminded him. “Ye tried this before yet ye dinnae remember the punishment me brothers and I dealt out tae ye, dae ye? Dinnae get involved in our business, Shay. Go back tae yer own clan.”

The dirk was raised. Pressed deep into Michael’s cheek, he felt the prick on his skin and imagined the bead of blood pooling at the blade. Michael’s stomach clenched tightly. At that moment, Shay could quite easily murder him. It would be all too easy.

“I’ll only return when I take Elisa with me,” Shay said warningly.

Michael blinked for the first time, an image of Elisa appearing in his mind. Mild in manner, delicate, fair golden hair and bright green eyes, Elisa could ensnare nearly any man she met, but she had chosen Michael. She wished to marry him as he did her. They didn’t care if they were still young, that Michael hadn’t yet seen his twenty-first summer, and she hadn’t seen her eighteenth. They were determined to wed regardless, and the betrothal had been blessed both by Laird Braydon and Elisa’s father.

“She isnae yers tae take,” Michael took on a darker tone. “Go home, Shay. Like the white lamb ye are, go home with yer tail between yer legs.”

Rage enveloped Shay’s face. The lines around his eyes and neck became taut, his grey eyes now nearly red.

“Ye think a betrothal is enough tae stop me? Or a few bruises dealt by yer weakling brothers?” He spat on Michael, but still Michael refused to flinch. “A pathetic excuse fer a laird yer brother, barely more than a child himself.”

Michael’s body tightened now. His hand down at his side balled into a fist.

“Or Tynan, eh? What a man is he? What a pathetic creature, responsible for his own father’s death. It’s a wonder he didnae kill himself years ago with the guilt.”

“Ye bast –” Michael tried to rage against him. His brothers, two of the best men born on this planet, did not deserve such insults. He attempted to push Shay off him, but he pressed that dirk harder into his face now. Larry also stepped closer beside him, revealing a long thin rapier he had kept hidden behind his back up until now.

“Dinnae move,” Shay warned once more. “There’s something ye’ll want tae ken, Michael Gregor. Something ye’ll wish tae hear from me.” He jerked his head in silent instruction at Larry who stepped forward once more, reaching into the pocket of his tunic before producing something.

Michael strained to see what it was but was dealt with another blow to his stomach by Shay.

Winded, he buckled forward onto his knees, landing on a great stone which bruised his leg so badly, he had no chance of standing. Gasping for breath, he looked up, peering through his strands of dark hair to see Shay standing over him. Shay still grasped the dirk threateningly, but in his other palm, he now held something. He raised it high then let it drop to the ground in front of Michael. It drifted like a feather, strands falling apart in the wind. The golden wisps shimmered in what little light bled through the clouds at all.

“Her hair,” Shay said, though Michael hardly needed to hear the words, for he’d guessed as much. “Elisa’s hair. She’s so small, is she nae? So delicate. She could be snapped like a baby bird.”

“Ye demon –”

“Nay more words.” Shay moved the dirk toward Michael once again. “Heed me warning this time. Ye willnae pay attention tae a threat against yer own life, I ken that much, so I must make another threat altogether. Ye will leave.”

Michael raised his eyebrows.

“Leave.” Shay spoke in emphasis. “Ye will leave this clan and never return. If ye so much take a step back into these borders, Elisa will die, and she willnae be the only one. Yer beloved brothers will meet their ends too.”

“Ye would never get near them. They are too well trained.”

“Ye want tae find out?” Shay asked, a malicious smirk spreading across his lips. “Elisa will be the easiest tae hurt. She will die first, but it will be easy enough tae get tae yer brothers. Tynan enjoys a drink at the tavern, fer instance. And Laird Braydon Gregor has many weaknesses of his own. I ken them all.” He stepped forward, threateningly. “One way or another, I will kill them, unless I have yer agreement.”

Nay, I cannae dae it.

Every fiber of his being screamed against the idea. This clan was Michael’s home. He loved his brothers, and it was the only life he had ever known. But looking up into Shay’s eyes, he saw the danger. Was it not rumored that Shay had already killed a man? And people claimed Shay’s own father was questioning him about a woman’s death.

“Dinnae doubt me,” Shay said, his tone now so dark it made Michael’s heartbeat thunder in his chest. “Ye will live tae regret it. All around ye will die, Michael Gregor, but ye will live. Aye, I’ll make sure of that, so ye can grieve them and mourn them, and let the guilt drive ye mad until ye throw yerself in River Lochy tae meet yer own death. It would be so easy. I could orchestrate it tae blame the McDowells, so they would face the responsibility fer yer brothers’ deaths, nae I.”

Images flashed in Michael’s mind. He saw Elisa’s smile, her bright green eyes, then he saw his brothers together, their matching dark hair and pleasant smiles. How could Michael let himself be the cause of all their deaths? He could not let it happen.

“Dae I have yer agreement?” Shay pushed the dagger toward him.

Wild ideas circled in his mind. Michael could kill Shay now just for making the threat, but what then? He would be hanged for murder, and that would destroy Braydon’s and Tynan’s lives regardless.

I have nay choice.

Reluctantly and very slowly, he offered a single nod.

“Good.” Shay backed up, grasping Larry’s arm and urging him to run away first before he followed. “Be gone by the end of the day, or Elisa willnae see the sun rise tomorrow.”

Michael still could not stand. He shifted to his haunches and stared at the retreating figures of Shay and Larry, deep in thought.

Braydon and Tynan wouldn’t let him go. If he went to them now and told them the truth, they’d insist a man like Shay could not hurt them. Yet Michael couldn’t take that chance. If he was really going to protect them, keep them and Elisa safe, then he’d have to think of another way to leave, a way that would ensure that neither Braydon nor Tynan would come looking for him again.

A plan of where to go and hide was forming fast in his mind. Shay was not the only enemy of his brother’s, for so were the McDowells. Where better to hide than in the enemy clan? Somewhere where he could shed his name and become someone new. He would no longer be Michael, but a new man, with a new Christian name. “Pray, forgive me for what I am about tae do.”

Chapter One

McDowell Castle, Scotland, 1765

Kyven stuck her head through the doorway, peering at someone she knew she should not be watching.

Captain Gilchrist was sitting in his usual chair in the library of McDowell Castle. It was surprising to find a soldier, a military leader at that, so often in this room, reading alone or in her company. It was their tradition for him to read aloud as she sat nearby, painting and drawing, but not today. On this day, she’d had much to do, and now that she was free, as the sun set, she had come to find him.

Seemingly unaware of her presence, she watched him sitting in the vast Flemish baroque chair that he always occupied, his uniform pulled tightly across his tall and broadly muscled frame. His legs were a little apart, the book resting on just one large palm.

Kyven’s mouth turned a little dry. His black hair was cropped short these days, though he had once worn it longer, and she could remember the way the ends used to tease his forehead. The stubble across his chin was growing longer too, and she wondered if that dark hair on his angular jaw was soft or sharp to the touch. The blue eyes, dark like a stormy ocean, were trained on the book, calmly moving from one word to the next.

A candle beside him kept him company and the fire that burned in the hearth gave out a soft glimmer, the only sources of orange light in the room to compete with the black sky. At this time of year, it grew dark so early, most of the day seemed black. So often had Kyven thought of Captain Gilchrist as a source of light in that darkness, despite his quiet, nearly always silent manner.

“Since when did the lady of the clan become a spy?” Captain Gilchrist asked without looking up from his book, his deep voice making something in her stomach quake.

His voice always had this effect on her. It was as if he could reach into her very soul just with his words.

“How did ye ken I was here?” she asked, stepping into the room and moving her hands to her hips.

At last, Captain Gilchrist looked up from what he was doing. He raised one dark eyebrow in her direction, not quite smiling, as he rarely smiled, though there was a lightness in his gaze.

Sometimes I feel it is only I who kens him well enough tae understand what that look means.

“It’s unusual fer ye nae tae be here,” he said quietly, returning his blue eyes to the book. “Though many wonder why we enjoy spending time here reading together.”

“It is me library,” she reminded him teasingly, moving to kneel on the hearth rug and turn her body to the fire. She extended her hands toward the flames, trying to warm her body. “Maybe people should question why ye are in me library so much.”

“Fer the books,” he said simply, turning the page.

“Sometimes people wonder if ye come fer another reason,” she continued to tease him. He raised an eyebrow again, showing what he thought of those words, though he didn’t look away from the book.

She laughed softly, trying her best to release the sudden tension in the air. She often teased him in that way, for it was what everyone said of the two of them.

Even her maid had wondered if the two of them were secret lovers as they spent so much time with one another. Kyven’s particular reply to that question had been sharp, tart, and an attempt to cover a secret hurt.

“Captain Gilchrist would nay more look at me fer a wife than he would his dog. I am simply someone tae keep him company in that library.”

Though, of course, she wished he would look at her in that way. There had been a time when she had thought he was fond of her, but that was a long time ago now. After the first couple of years of dancing around one another, Gilchrist had never made a move or even truly flirted with her. It had only ever been a jest.

“What is it, Kyven?” he whispered.

She startled, wondering if he had noticed just how much she was staring at him. It was a habit of hers, one she indulged in far too much.

He doesnae think of me in that way.

She turned her focus on the fire, watching as the yellow flames licked the wood.

“It’s just today,” she murmured with a sigh. “It’s been a busy day, going tae the mausoleum.”

“Ah.” He closed the book sharply and rubbed the brow of his forehead. “I’m sorry, Kyven. I didnae even think about what today is fer ye.”

“It doesnae matter.”

“Of course it matters.” He sighed and placed the book on the table beside him.

Turning in the chair to face her, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He came so close, her breath hitched in her throat. She wet her lips, trying her best not to think about his proximity, or how she felt a heat not just from the fire, but from him.

“How was it?” he asked, his voice soft.

“As it usually is,” she murmured. “Me father’s death… I feel the usual ache, the grief, the anger at the Gregors fer what they did tae him, although it was a long time ago now. But at least the sharpness of the pain isnae as bad as it once was.”

Gilchrist shifted in his seat. For a moment, she thought he was uneasy, but then she presumed it was just because the subject they were discussing was death.

Who could ever be easy when speaking of it?

“Hmm.” He nodded slowly. For a moment, she thought he might say more, perhaps speak of his own father. In all the time she had known him, he had never mentioned his own family. He must have had a father, but was he dead? Or was he still alive? And if so, why did Gilchrist never speak of him? “I am sorry,” he whispered to her. “I ken it is of little comfort, but it will get even easier in time. Trust me.”

Maybe his father is dead.

She was about to ask him. Was it so wrong to want to know something about Captain Gilchrist’s life after knowing him for eight years? She had first met him when she was scarcely more than a child, and he had appeared, acclaimed by the captain of their army at the time. Just a stranger, Gilchrist had come across some of his scouts on the road as they were being attacked by bandits. Stepping in and saving their lives had earned him such praise that he had been quickly enlisted in their own army and had advanced fast through the ranks to become their new captain.

That scrap of his life was all she knew of him, though she longed to know more. Yet she feared he would shut down and refuse to answer her if she asked more, as he had done in the past.

“It’s nae just that,” she said instead. “After what me family did recently, can ye blame me fer feeling a little… lost on a day like today?”

“Nae at all.” He slowly shook his head, turning his face to the fire and also staring at the flames. “Yer sister is gone though. She cannae hurt ye or anyone in this life again.”

“Aye. I ken.” Yet it was sometimes hard for Kyven to accept.

After her father had died, her uncle had come to take care of the clan. After his passing, the lairdship had been given to Kyven’s older sister, Imogen. A less loving sisterly relationship would be hard to find. Imogen had always blamed her for killing their mother in childbirth and so the women never got along.

When Imogen had become lady of the clan, she had lied about taking a husband, Elliot Sutherland. She blackmailed and manipulated him into doing her bidding by imprisoning his father, while keeping a lover by the name of Ossian Macauley. He was a foul man whose greed had been fanatical. In the end, both Ossian’s and Imogen’s greed and manipulative actions had seen them falling to the bottom of a cliff together.

A year had passed since then, but Kyven was still haunted by her elder sister dying in such a way. She was never sure whether to grieve her or not.

“Kyven?” Gilchrist’s deep voice called her back to the present, and she looked at him, turning her head his way. The heat he emanated made her warm again, and it somehow made it easier to forget the darkness of the past. “All will be well. I promise ye that.”

“How can ye ken that?” she asked, her voice shaking a little. “The council insist I marry, so a new laird can be found fer the clan.”

“There are some good things tae marriage,” he said, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips.

“Ye mean like the happiness we have found in this room?” she asked, feeling brave but regretting the words a second later.

“Aye, maybe yer husband will read tae ye, as I dae.”

A sudden coldness washed over her body, and she looked away from him, into the flames.

He will never look at me as a possible wife.

She had to push away all the pictures she’d ever had of her and Captain Gilchrist together. She had often dreamt of the two of them, sitting in this room, reading and drawing into the late hours. What would it be like if a small child ran between them, with her green eyes and Gilchrist’s black hair? She always pretended in front of other people that she couldn’t care less for Gilchrist but deep inside, her truth was different.

“Knock, knock,” a familiar voice called from the doorway.

Kyven looked around, surprised to be disturbed in this room. She considered the library her haven, her place to be alone with Gilchrist.

In the doorway stood Aaden. He had been Elliot’s man-at-arms when he had stood in place of the laird of the clan, and still occupied the position, though he was not their war leader. These days, that role resided with Captain Gilchrist.

Aaden’s dark blond hair was ruffled, as if a lover had just trailed a hand through it. His rather full beard these days was neat in comparison and as he leaned on the doorframe, she noticed one of the laces of his doublet was tied at an odd angle, as if he had just thrown it on. She sighed loudly, realizing he must have seduced one of her maids again.

“Nae disturbing, am I?” he said with a mischievous smile, leaning on the frame. “Only, ye’d think the two of ye might be locked in an embrace, based on the amount of time ye spend alone in this room together.”

“Aaden!” she snapped at him, her face blushing as purple as a beetroot. She refused to turn around and meet Gilchrist’s eye. “Just because ye jump into bed with every woman in me clan, doesnae mean every man is like ye.”

“Nae every woman.” Aaden winked at her. “I havenae found a bed with ye in it yet, have I?”

“Aaden.” Gilchrist’s warning tone only made Aaden laugh all the more, tipping his head back and guffawing.

“Ye ken I would never dae that tae me lady.” He bowed ostentatiously. “Now, before I can tease ye and make poor Lady Kyven’s face even redder, ye are needed Gilchrist. The scouts have returned and seen movements of the other clans’ soldiers. They wish tae talk tae ye.”

“I’m coming.” Gilchrist stood. Kyven looked up at him, wondering if the fear showed on her face.

It was something the council had talked to her about an awful lot, how without a laird in place, someone could seek to take advantage of their weakness as a clan and attack to take the land for themselves.

“It will be nothing tae worry about,” Gilchrist said, pausing beside her, his voice deepening. “Trust me,” he added. “Any soldier would have tae fight me tae get here, and I’ll be as ruthless as the devil in his fiery hell tae stop them.” With these impassioned words, spoken so calmly he might as well have been talking about the weather, Kyven shuddered in a kind of delight.

She waited, watching as Gilchrist left. Aaden didn’t follow him thought, just standing in the doorway, staring at her.

“Ye dinnae need tae blush so much now. He’s gone.”

“Then dinnae make such comments like that in future. Ye are simply poking at something that isnae there.”

“Ah, Kyven.” He sighed loudly and stepped into the room. “I could jest about ye and Captain Gilchrist all day, but unfortunately, business calls and the council want ye.”

“What fer?” she asked, noting that all traces of humor had left Aaden completely.

“They have found a husband fer ye.”

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