Chapter One

Isle of Skye, December 1297

Enya MacLeod would have never thought that a wedding could be more miserable than a funeral. Had someone asked her a mere few weeks prior, she would have said that she would look forward to a wedding in the family—she or one of her siblings falling in love and marrying the person of their dreams, giving the entire MacLeod Clan a reason to celebrate and rejoice. Now, though, she knew differently, that not all weddings were such pleasant events.

Her sister’s wedding with Laird Cillian MacDonald certainly wouldn’t be.

Thora’s deep blue eyes scanned the horizon as they walked to the shore, searching for the vessel that would take them to Jura. The boat rocked violently on the waves, the wind around them disturbing the surface of the water and whipping their cheeks. It was, predictably, a cold day, the sky as grey as steel stretching above them, and dark, heavy clouds hanging like a threat as they made their way through a slurry of ice and mud. Enya privately cursed the king for forcing them to travel in such weather. At any moment, a snowstorm could begin to rage and their journey would become not only unpleasant, but also possibly dangerous.

For if there was one certain thing, it was that the journey was definitely going to be unpleasant, even without what awaited them in Jura.

“I still dinnae understand why we must travel there in such circumstances!” Enya complained, not for the first time that day. Her voice, though loud to the point of strain on her vocal cords, barely carried over the whistling wind. None of the guards who followed her and Thora could hear them, but even if they could, Enya refused to keep her comments to herself. She wanted everyone to know just how displeased she was with this arrangement, just how much she disagreed with what the king had ordered.

They could have at least waited until the Yule celebrations were over, just like their older brother, Domhnall, had requested. The king had been firm in his decision, though; Thora was to travel to Jura right away to meet her betrothed, despite if the weather was terrible and even if the only one who could accompany her was Enya, as their other siblings were required to stay in Castle MacLeod for the celebrations.

“Perhaps it is better this way,” said Thora with a small shrug. Her dark, almost raven-black hair was plaited neatly over her shoulder, sitting against the decorated silk of her blue dress. It hadn’t been her choice, that dress, but rather the choice of their maids, who had been instructed by Domhnall to ensure Thora looked nothing short of the perfect for Laird MacDonald.

Thora was being paraded like a prized horse. Though Enya was slow to anger and always had been the calmest and gentlest of her four siblings, to the point that everyone commented on her disposition, this particular matter enraged her unlike anything else. Ever since that fateful day, when Domhnall had announced to them all that one of the twins would have to wed Laird MacDonald at the king’s request, Enya’s rage threatened to bubble over and spill out of her in a torrent of cursing that would put to shame even the foulest of her brother’s men. From the beginning, the choice had been obvious and non-negotiable. Thora was the older of the two, even if only by a few minutes, and so she would have to be the one to suffer this union, while Enya would be left to wonder if she, too, would soon be sold off to a man for another alliance.

It was the way it had always been done. Most noble girls married for convenience, not for love. It would be no different for Thora and Enya, but that didn’t mean it was an easy truth to accept.

“How could it be better?” Enya asked. “All o’ this is madness! He should be the one visitin’ ye, at least.”

That had been another point of contention for Enya. She didn’t understand why Thora had to be the one to make this journey when she was the one who was supposed to be courted. Laird MacDonald had been adamant, though, that he couldn’t leave his home right before the Yule celebrations, just like Domhnall, and so now Thora was the one who had to endure the long journey in choppy seas.

“Aye, but at least this way, it will all be over soon,” said Thora, though she didn’t quite believe it herself, Enya knew. It was simply a way of comforting her, a way to fool her into thinking everything would be fine, when they both knew this was only the beginning. Once she was wedded to Laird MacDonald, she would have her entire life ahead of her—a life she would inevitably have to spend by his side. “I will go there an’ once I meet him—”

Suddenly, Thora came to a halt, her boots crunching against the frozen soil. Her eyes took on that familiar, glazed look, as though a veil had been pulled over them, and her body went stiff, like she was herself carved out of ice.

Around them, the air stilled. The tell-tale scent of an oncoming storm permeated the air, thick and heavy in her throat as Enya took a deep breath. Where there had been the cawing of birds and the whistling of the wind around them only moments prior, now everything had fallen silent. Even the waves couldn’t be heard, though Enya could see them clearly in the short distance, savagely beating the boat.

Enya glanced at the group of guards who were following them—no more than half a dozen and all of them trusted men, but none of them knew the truth of what was happening to Thora and Enya wanted to keep it that way. Then, she glanced back to her sister, whose eyes were moving rapidly in small increments, almost as though they were vibrating.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended, and Thora blinked, the focus returning to her gaze. Her eyes were wide, though, concern clearly etched into her features, and Enya knew that whatever it was she had seen, it was far from good.

Like all MacLeod siblings, Thora had a gift, and hers was peering through the curtain of time to see into the future. No matter how much time passed, no matter how used she was to her powers, some visions left her disoriented and shaking, fear gripping her at the prospect of the future she had seen coming true.

This was one of those instances, Enya knew. Thora’s pale skin now looked waxen, drained of all color. Her hands trembled and so did her breath as she exhaled, the air in front of her lips fogging up with the warmth of her body.

Before Enya even had the chance to say anything, Thora turned to the guards and said, “One moment, please! I must relieve meself!”

The guards, stunned by the bold declaration, said nothing as Thora grabbed Enya’s hand and dragged her away, past the first line of trees that lined the path to the shore and into the thicker part of the forest—as far as they would go while still being near enough to the guards so that none of the men would worry or come looking for them. Enya followed blindly, feet tripping over a few roots that poked through the soil, curling like serpents around her shoes.

Once Thora determined they were far enough from the guards, hidden from their curious gazes and their eavesdropping ears, she came to a halt and turned to face Enya, white as the foam that tipped the waves.

“I saw Ava,” Thora said, and her voice trembled with fear.

“Ava?”

Enya felt the cold hand of terror curl its fingers around her heart, too. What could have Thora seen that made her so afraid? Could it be that something was about to happen to Ava?

The girl was like another sister to them, a friend so dear that Enya would never be able to bear it if something happened to her. The mere thought filled her with a roiling panic and she gripped Thora’s hands, both of them turning to each other for comfort.

“Somethin’ is wrong,” Thora said. “Nae with Ava, but with the MacKinnon Clan. Her father doesnae ken, but somethin’ terrible is about tae happen.”

Ava’s father, Laird Finley MacKinnon, was not the kind of man who was easily fooled by foes, and so whatever it was Thora was sensing had to be serious, Enya thought. It had to be more than a minor threat, and judging by Thora’s reaction, it was going to happen soon.

“I must warn her,” Thora said.

“Aye,” said Enya, nodding. “We shall send her a letter from Jura.”

“Nay. I have tae go tae her.”

Frowning, Enya asked, “But how will ye dae that? We are supposed tae be on the boat, headin’ tae MacDonald Castle. We’ll send her a letter an’ explain—”

“Ye ken I cannae dae that.”

Thora’s words silenced Enya and she swallowed nervously in a dry throat. She supposed her sister was right. They had long decided they would never do anything that would risk revealing their gifts to anyone they didn’t implicitly trust, and so even a letter would be too much of a risk. If Thora wanted to warn Ava of the upcoming catastrophe, she had to visit her herself and tell her face to face.

But how could she, when she was supposed to be meeting Laird MacDonald?

“I’ll go,” said Enya. “Tell me what ye saw an’ I’ll go tae her an’ warn her.”

“I dinnae ken precisely what I saw,” said Thora, despair tinting her words. Her gift wasn’t always precise, as the nature of the future was fluid. Even the smallest decision could change what she saw, and though many of her visions were accurate, some of them were more obscure, their real meaning hiding in the shadows of time. “An’ I dinnae ken what else I may see. I must be the one tae go tae her, in case somethin’ else is revealed tae me.”

The two sisters stared at each other at a loss for what to do. Thora had to warn Ava and she also had to be on that boat, and nothing Enya could do would help her.

“Ye’ll go in me stead,” said Thora then and as Enya watched her, uncomprehending, she began to undo the plait in her hair.

“What dae ye mean?”

“Ye’ll pretend tae be me,” said Thora, as though it was a plan that had any merit at all. “We’ll simply tell the guards that… that ye’re nae feelin’ well because ye are sufferin’ yer monthly courses an’ ye will come tae Jura in a few days. But it will be me who goes back with them.”

“Thora… this will never work,” said Enya. “An’ besides, I dinnae think they will let ye head back tae the castle because o’ this.”

“They will be too embarrassed to argue,” Thora pointed out. By then, her dark hair was flowing freely down her shoulders, just like Enya’s, and she began undressing, pulling her tunic off. “An’ nae one can tell us apart, so nae one will ken anythin’ is different.”

“Our siblings can tell us apart!” Enya said. Being twins meant that most people confused them all the time, unable to tell who was who, but their family had known them all their lives. No one would mistake the one for the other, especially if they spoke to them.

“I will leave afore anyone sees me,” said Thora with such confidence that it was easy to believe her. It was a hasty plan—a mad plan, one that Enya never thought would work, but Enya was already being swayed, pulled along by Thora’s enthusiasm. “This is the only way, Enya. Come, give me yer clothes.”

Enya hesitated for a moment, but then she removed her tunic and the two of them swapped their clothes, dressing again quickly. Enya hastily plaited her hair for good measure, making sure it looked similar to the style Thora had been wearing, and by the time the two of them headed back to the path to meet with their guards again, Enya was confident none of those men would be able to tell the difference.

Still, the plan was terrible. Enya was plagued by the irrational fear that the moment Laird MacDonald would lay eyes on her, he would know she was a fraud, even though he had never met her or Thora.

What happens if we’re found out? Domhnall will be so angry with us!

“Are ye alright?” the leader of their small group, an older guard named Bram, asked Thora. So far, it seemed that no one had suspected a thing. None of the men questioned them; none of the men even gave them any strange looks.

“Nay,” said Thora, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I am in terrible pain.”

As she spoke, Thora curled in on herself, clutching at her stomach, and Bram rushed to her, holding her upright with a hand on her arm. “What is wrong, me lady? Are ye hurt?”

“Nay, nay,” said Thora. “Me monthly courses… I didnae exp—”

“Alright!” said Bram, quickly putting an end to the conversation. Enya would have laughed had she not been paranoid their plan would be uncovered. “Is there anythin’ we can dae about it?”

“I must return tae the castle,” Thora said and her performance of a weak, sickly girl was so convincing that even Enya began to feel for her. “I will join me sister in Jura in a few days. I dinnae think I will be able tae go on the boat.”

“I understand me lady, there is nay need tae say more…”

Bram glanced back and forth between the two of them, clearly not knowing what to do. Jumping in before he could to and argue, Enya said, “That is alright, Bram. I will be fine on me own. An’ I’ll have ye an’ the men tae look after me. Th—” she took a deep breath, correcting herself, “Enya should return tae the castle.”

There was only a moment of hesitation before Bram nodded and gave his men orders to split into two groups—one of them would go to Jura and the other would return to the castle. Once everything had been arranged, Enya said goodbye to her sister and watched as the party left, heading back to the castle, before she was taken to the boat.

“Ye will be alright, me lady, dinnae fash,” Bram said as they finally reached the boat. The wind had picked up again and here, in the port, brine whipped Enya’s cheeks. She could taste salt on her tongue, the sea a stormy grey. “We are here with thee.”

“I ken, Bram,” Enya said with a soft smile, even as her chest tightened at the thought that she was deceiving them all. Those were good men, loyal men who would do anything for her and her family. Enya couldn’t think of anything worse than blatantly lying to them like this, even though it was necessary. “Thank ye. I’ll be fine, I promise ye.”

Satisfied with Enya’s promise, Bram bowed and turned around to bark orders at his men, leaving Enya alone to lean over the side rail, looking out towards the Isle of Jura. Laird MacDonald awaited her there and everything she would do in his presence would have an impact on Thora’s relationship with him.

Could they switch without him noticing, she wondered, or would he know right away?

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe if she played her cards right, Thora would never have to come to Jura and she would never have to marry a man she didn’t love. Enya was known for her quiet, mild manners but she also knew a thing or two about causing trouble. And if she caused enough trouble for Laird MacDonald, then perhaps the man would decide he didn’t want to marry Thora at all.

Och aye… that is what I’ll dae! I will make sure he despises me with all his heart.

Chapter Two

The wind howled through the castle, the hallways seemingly amplifying the wailing sound. Rain battered onto the walls, falling in thick, relentless drops that drummed against the roofs as thunder broke in the distance. Every now and then, the dark sky was sharply illuminated by lightning, the flash of white throwing the horizon into sharp relief.

Cillian paced back and forth near the castle doors. This was the day he would meet his future wife, and it was only fitting that the weather be as miserable as he was.

While the guards by the door did their best to pretend they weren’t staring at him as he wore a path on the stone floor, Archibald, his war chief and best friend, made no attempts to hide the fact that he was staring. He was worried, Cillian knew, though he had no reason to be. Cillian would grit his teeth and bear this, like he did with everything else he didn’t want to do.

The king’s order to marry a stranger, a woman he had never even met—it was a disgrace. Cillian tried to convince himself the king didn’t mean for it to be like that at all and if he were honest, that was most likely the case, even though it felt like a personal attack. The union of the MacDonald and MacLeod Clans was a logical step, a good plan, a political move that would strengthen not only the two families, but the king’s rein as well. Cillian could recognize a good – and even necessary in this case – strategy, though that didn’t mean he had to appreciate being a pawn in someone else’s plan.

He had always known his hand would go to the woman who would offer his clan the most benefits. There was no room for love in his life, not as the laird of his clan, and so the fact that he was marrying Thora MacLeod should not have rattled him this much. And yet, at the mere thought of meeting that woman, bile rose to the back of his throat. He had been denied a choice. Ultimately, it was that which bothered him the most.

That, and the fact that this Thora MacLeod was nowhere to be found. She was supposed to have arrived that morning, and yet it was already afternoon and there was no sight of her. There was a storm outside, that much was true, and it was a vicious one, but her boat should have docked long before. The fact that she hadn’t yet arrived could mean she had done something to cause this delay.

Cillian cursed under his breath, but he didn’t stop his incessant pacing. Across from Archibald, Duncan, another of Cillian’s close friends, leaned against the wall with that easy confidence he always seemed to exude. His fingers toyed with the handle of his blade absent-mindedly and the smirk he gave Cillian when their gazes met was almost enough to infuriate him to the point of spontaneous combustion.

“What?” Cillian growled, the two guards by the door flinching at the sudden sound of his voice.

Duncan shrugged a shoulder, seemingly indifferent to Cillian’s suffering. His green eyes tracked every movement he made, but offered no sign of compassion like Archibald’s did.

“I wonder how long we’ll have tae stand here like this,” Duncan said. “Why must we wait fer her here? Let us move tae the drawin’ room an’ have some wine.”

“She may be tardy, but we must still welcome her properly,” said Archibald, always the voice of reason. “It is only good manners. Dinnae forget she is the sister o’ Laird MacLeod.”

“So?” asked Duncan. “She could be the king himself. I’d still want that wine.”

“We’re stayin’,” Cillian said with a finality to his tone. Archibald was right, though Cillian could definitely use a drink, and so Duncan’s suggestion was more than appealing. He wouldn’t risk appearing rude to Thora MacLeod, though, not so much because he cared what she would think, but simply to show her that even though she was late, Cillian was above such things and would still give her the welcome befitting a woman of her position.

He would show her he was better than her.

Duncan raised his hands in mock surrender and Archibald leaned against the opposite wall, facing him, but both men fell silent, going back to simply watching Cillian as he paced. With nothing else to keep Cillian occupied, he could hear every drop that fell against the walls, every sound the wind made, all of it cresting into a terrible cacophony that would drive him mad if he did nothing about it.

Just as he was about to relent, though, and tell Duncan that perhaps his idea wasn’t so bad after all, the doors opened with a sudden bang, the wood crashing against the stone wall as the wind ripped it out of the hands of the guards posted outside. There, in the middle of the threshold, stood a small figure dressed in a thick, wool cloak, drenched from head to toe. With heavy, weary footsteps, the figure approached Cillian and threw the hood back to reveal a pair of eyes like the deepest sea and a mop of dark hair that dripped water on his floors.

In fact, the entire woman was dripping water on his floors, her clothes soaked so thoroughly that he would be surprised if they were not twice their usual weight.

Who is this? Surely, it’s nae Thora MacLeod.

Though Cillian had never seen Thora, he had heard descriptions of her, and though the woman standing in front of him had blue eyes, like he had been told, she looked nothing like a noble girl. A small thing, short and waifish, she seemed more suited to the kitchens or to serving wine to men like him. All the noble girls he had met in his life were robust, well-fed and leading easy lives. This girl was likely a servant or a traveler. Either way, she was none of Cillian’s business.

Where is Thora MacLeod? What could be takin’ her so long?

Irritation spread through his veins like fire. He only wished something had truly happened to the woman, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around the delay.

He looked at the woman briefly, wondering what she wanted and why she remained there, as though she was waiting for something. Whether a traveler or a servant, Cillian didn’t appreciate the unwavering stare the woman gave him. She had the audacity to stare at Cillian with what seemed like a mixture of curiosity and dislike, sentiments that didn’t become a servant.

There was an air of superiority about her, something in the way she held her back straight and her eyes raised that spoke of a challenge, and Cillian belatedly realized everyone in the room had gone silent, waiting to see what would happen.

“If ye need assistance, miss, I’m sure someone in the kitchens can help ye,” he told her in an impatient tone. “If ye’re lookin’ fer employment or board, however, then we can offer neither.”

“Employment?” the woman asked with a frown. “I willnae be dismissed like this!” the woman said, bringing Cillian to a sudden halt again. “Laird MacDonald, this is far from the welcome I expected tae receive. Are ye an’ yer men always so terribly hospitable tae all yer guests?”

It occurred to Cillian, then, that the girl was, in fact, Thora MacLeod and he had been wrong to assume otherwise. Not only that, but she seemed to have plenty to say to him and plenty for which to complain.

“I make this journey tae visit ye in yer home,” she continued. “I brave the seas in this storm an’ then I come tae yer door, drenched an’ weary an’ in need of shelter and warmth, an’ this is how ye receive me? Such arrogance! Never have I met a man like ye in me life an’ fer that, I am glad.”

There was another spike of irritation within Cillian at her accusations, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny he was intrigued by this girl with the fiery character hidden behind deep blue eyes and a face like a doll’s.

“Fergive me, I wasnae aware o’ yer identity, Miss MacLeod,” Cillian said coldly. He was exhausted and if he were honest, he wanted nothing to do with this marriage at all. “Had I kent, I can assure ye I would have arranged a better welcome. But ye were also terribly late.”

“In case ye havenae noticed, there is a storm outside!” Thora said, pointing a furious finger at the castle doors. “O’ course we were delayed!”

Cillian stared at her, unimpressed by her tantrum and the fact that she wasn’t apologetic at all either. “Surely, yer trip could have been planned better.”

Thora seemed to have no response for this. She only stared at him in disbelief, her mouth hanging open as though she could hardly believe her own ears. Perhaps no one had told her of Cillian’s temperament, but he thought that was her family’s mistake. He had a reputation. They should have told her he wasn’t one of those charming princes who only existed in fairytales.

“I suppose ye have arranged fer accommodation,” Thora said as she stomped towards him, trailing water and mud everywhere. “Or have ye forgotten, like ye forgot about yer manners?”

As she approached Cillian, Thora slipped on the stone floor and desperately tried to reach for something, only for her hands to grasp nothing but air. Cillian was right there, though, and grabbed her just in time, holding her upright against him.

For a moment, their gazes met and from up close, Cillian could see the flecks of gold in Thora’s eyes, along with the fury that burned behind them. He could only smirk, though, his amusement with her antics to distract him from everything else.

Behind him, a snort of laughter echoed in the room. Cillian recognized the sound as one belonging to Duncan, and he watched in fascination as Thora’s cheeks turned a bright pink, blood flooding to her face. Before Cillian could say anything, Thora slapped his hands away from her and straightened, smoothing her cloak over her torso in an attempt to calm herself.

“Ye will regret this,” she warned as she made to walk past Cillian once more, this time with slower, more careful steps. “Ye will wish ye had never met me.”

Cillian couldn’t help but watch Thora as she walked out of sight, disappearing behind the nearest corner. He didn’t know where she was going. As far as he knew, she had no idea where she was going either, since the stairs to the upper floor, where her chambers were meant to be, were to the other side.

Ach, well… a servant will help her.

“Seriously,” Archibald mumbled under his breath and Cillian turned to see him as he glared at Duncan. “Was any o’ this truly necessary?”

“It is what it is,” said Duncan. “The lass seems more trouble than she’s worth. Conceited wee thing… she should have shown Cillian more respect.”

Archibald remained silent, but Cillian could see the way his jaw clenched, teeth grinding together as he forced himself to swallow his words. Cillian was glad for it; the last thing he needed was for Archibald and Duncan to get in an argument over this, when he had so much else to worry about.

Now that he had met Thora, his anger had been replaced by curiosity. He couldn’t say he was happy about the arrangement; quite the opposite, in fact, as he still had no desire to marry her and he still knew next to nothing about her. The little he did know, though, told him this was going to be far from a simple betrothal.

It would be war.

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