Prologue

19^th October 1579

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Ralf McAlpine paced outside of his wife’s bedchamber, listening to her screams tear the wooden door and echo down the stone corridor. A deep pain-filled moan followed the scream, accompanied by a whimpering in broken English, “I will surely perish.”

Hearing his wife’s proclamation, Ralf barged through the door and stood glaring at the midwife. “She will nae die, nor the bairn, do ye hear me, witch!” he shouted in the elder woman’s face. “She dies, then so shall ye.”

The midwife’s face blanched white in fear, but she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath to steady herself. “If my lady does survive, she will nae e’er be able tae bear another bairn, or she and the bairn will indeed die.”

Ralf stifled a roar, clenching his teeth. “Then ye had better pray that it is a son.” Turning, he moved to stand beside the fireplace, opting not to leave the room again. Whatever was to happen, he would be there to witness it. The smell of blood and shite filled the air nearly making him lose his wame. He was all too familiar with the smells of battle and slaughter, but this was different. Fear clutched at his heart. He fisted his hands so tightly that his knuckles popped and turned white.

His concern was not born out of love for his wife, as much as it was for what might become of his progeny. As he stood brooding, staring into the flames, he reflected upon how he had come to be in such a miserable state. His father had arranged the marriage, much to Ralf’s objections, to a wealthy young noblewoman from Luxembourg. It was not a usual match for a highland laird, but the clan needed money and the young woman’s family was anxious to have her wed. Anna Maria Weiss was a plain, pious woman who wanted nothing more than to become a nun. She had managed to chase away all other suitors with her proclamations that she was already married to God. Her family, growing desperate, sent her to live with an aunt and uncle in Scotland, in hopes that they might have better fortune in finding a suitable husband. In the end, she had been bartered like cattle in a business arrangement between two greedy men: Ralf’s father, and Anna Maria’s uncle. Ralf, disappointed in being bound to such a pitiful creature, had treated her very poorly as a matter of angry rebellion from day one of their forced marriage. Anna Maria suffered many miscarriages since then, and he knew without a doubt that this bairn was their last hope for a legitimate heir.

He was not certain how much time passed, it felt as if it had taken a great many hours, but after much screaming, a series of prayers to God, and exhaustive pushing, his wife finally collapsed against the pillows, spent. An infant’s wail broke the momentary stillness, and Ralf let out the breath that he had been holding. “Thanks be tae God,” he murmured as he came forward eagerly. “What is it?”

The midwife looked up at Ralf with somber eyes. “’Tis a lass, my laird. Ye have a bonnie wee daughter.”

Ralf’s heart stopped in his chest with a resounding thud of desolation before it began racing once more in fury. “I should have gone tae Edinburgh tae see the king take his rightful place upon the throne,” he announced, hoping to cause his wife as much pain as her failure to produce an heir had caused him, then turned and left the room. Out in the hall, he slammed his fist into the stone wall until a servant came scurrying from one of the nearby rooms to see what was happening.

“My laird,” a quiet feminine voice inquired, concerned, “is all well?”

Ralf, too heartbroken and angry for words, simply grabbed the young woman by the arm and hauled her back into the room that she had been cleaning. Throwing her onto the bed, he proceeded to lose himself inside of her in a blind fury. When he was done, having poured all his anger and grief into the poor lass, he arose, straightened his kilt, and glowered down at her. “Dinnae lay with any other man until ye have had yer courses. If ye come with bairn, ye will tell me immediately. Do ye ken what it is I am commandin’ ye?”

The young woman nodded in teary silence. Ralf glared at her until she found her voice. “Aye, my laird.”

Nodding, Ralf left the room and returned to his wife’s bedchamber. From the look on her face, he knew that she had heard the entire exchange. He stood staring down at her, sighing in resignation. “Ye have what ye have always wanted, wife. I will nae lay with ye e’er again.”

Anna Maria nodded, a look of serenity passing over her features. “Thank you, husband.”

Turning his gaze to the child at her breast, he grunted. “What have ye chosen tae name her?”

“Amelia,” she answered with a gentle smile at the child, “after the saint from my own land.”

Ralf grunted in disapproval but said nothing. He would allow it. Though she had failed to give him a son, she had at long last given him a living child, and for that he supposed he owed her some small courtesy. “Amelia, then.” Nodding, he turned and left the room, not bothering to return.

25^th July, 1603

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Ralf McAlpine sat upon the raised dais within the hall of his highland stronghold, covered in blood and scowled in thought. The hall was festooned in decorations. Laughter accompanied by lively music filled the air, as the people under his care celebrated the ascension of the Scottish King James VI to the English throne as James I. A shouted toast went up from one of the men among the crowd, “The bitch English Queen Elizabeth Tudor is dead! Long live the King!”

A chorus of agreement followed, “Long live the King!” Ale cups were raised and downed in copious amounts by nearly all in attendance, except for the laird’s guards, who had to remain vigilant.

Instead of raising his own cup, Ralf continued to scowl in disapproval at his only child, Amelia. Even the lauded Virgin Queen has a male heir who shares her blood tae take the throne. All I have is a paltry lass who does nae command respect o’ any man. He and the other fighting men of the clan had returned from a skirmish along their borders with a raiding party. With rapidly declining health robbing him of his once commanding vigor, the enemies had already begun closing in.

He knew that any opportunity to create a legitimate male heir to protect the clan had long since passed. If he were being honest with himself, the chance of ever making an heir had met its end long before his wife had gone to be with God. They had not lain together for many years before her passing, while he had attempted to pup half the young lassies in the clan. Sighing, he belatedly lifted his cup and downed the ale within so as to calm the questioning glances he was receiving from his personal guard. Waving his hand, he summoned the clanswoman waiting with the pitcher to refill his cup.

“’Twas a good victory, my laird,” she praised him.

Grunting in disgust, he gulped down another cup of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if to wipe away the memories with it. “More,” he commanded the clanswoman, and she obeyed.

“Is aught amiss, my laird?” his daughter’s guardsman Lucas McAlpine, inquired having seen the daggers of disapproval emanating from Ralf’s eyes toward Amelia.

“I should have had a son,” Ralf grumbled, piercing Lucas with a look that disallowed any form of argument. Lucas wisely chose not to reply. He heard it many times before, especially when Ralf was in his cups.

Ralf sat in stony silence, thinking about what to do. I could wed the lass tae one o’ the clan’s men. He looked at the marriageable men around the room, weighing the abilities of each one as a future leader. In his opinion, any man who was not himself would fall short. Snorting at the thought, he shook his head and attempted to consider each one with as open a mind as he could manage. It was not his strength. He tended to judge a person’s worth rather quickly and, once his mind was set, he seldom changed it. They were fighting men to be sure, skilled with the sword and bow, but not as skilled at diplomacy. He needed someone who could wield his brain as well as he wielded a blade. There was also the problem of an arranged marriage. He and his wife had suffered greatly because of just such an arrangement, and as rough a man as he was, he was not so heartless as to wish such misery on his own daughter. He loved her in his own way, and he did provide for her, but he did not respect her as a woman enough to make her his sole heir. She is a lass, and lassies cannae lead armies in tae battle. She must wed a warrior, and I will make her husband the laird when I am gone, and my grandson will be laird after that. There is nae other way tae secure the clan’s safety and see tae it that my line continues.

He thought over his plan for a time, considering all the possible factors and when he was satisfied that it was the best way, the only way, to move forward, he nodded and relaxed a bit more into his chair. He downed another cup of ale and grunted in satisfaction. Now, all he needed to do was tell Amelia. The slight smile that had begun to form on his face vanished into a frown. The lass will nae take the news well at all, but she will have nae choice in the matter. Not in any hurry to have such a negative discussion and bring about what he considered to be the shrill displeasure of a woman’s angry protests, he determined to put off the discussion until a later time. Perhaps on my death bed, he mused to himself with some small amount of humor at the thought of what his last words might be. Nae, he shook his head. It must be soon, afore ‘tis tae late tae enforce it. I will nae have my will overruled once I am gone. She will need tae wed afore I am tae meet my maker or there will be nae but conflict and chaos within the clan. I will nae have that as my legacy. Amelia will simply be forced tae accept her fate. For if she does nae, the clan will surely meet its end.

Chapter One

19th December 1603

MacAilpein Lands, Argyll, Scotland

Amelia McAlpine stared down at her father’s wizened gray face in disbelief. Surely, he had not said what she thought. “Faither?” she questioned, hoping her ears would hear something different the second time.

“Ye heard me, lass. Ye must wed, and ‘twill be yer husband who is laird, nae ye,” the laird repeated. “There is nae time tae wait any longer. Ye must choose a man tae wed that can lead this clan when I am gone, or I will choose one for ye. Ye must wed with all due haste, Amelia, afore ‘tis tae late and ye lose yer place. I want it tae be my grandson that is laird someday, nae the devil spawn o’ that theivin’ Michael Rossell.”

In battle, Michael Rossell was a neighboring laird whose father had stolen MacAilpein land from Amelia’s grandfather, Charles. The bastard born son of a Russell chieftain, Michael’s father, Hugh, had left the clan lands at Aberdeenshire, taken the old French name of de Rosel for himself and merged it with the more recent Russell spelling, and moved further west to claim territory in Argyll by any means necessary—including deception and bloodshed. Amelia’s grandfather had never gotten over it and instilled a great hatred for the Rossell family into his son, Ralf. Ralf, in turn, became such a fierce warrior and inspired terror into the hearts of all who attempted to cross him. It was this fear that had kept them safe for now, but that time was coming to a close.

“Ye ken that he is just waitin’ for me tae die, so that he can take advantage o’ ye bein’ nae but a weak lass who cannae defend her people. Ye need a warrior tae protect ye and the clan.”

A flash of hurt and anger filled Amelia’s breast, but she tamped it down. Her father had been nothing but terrible to her mother all their married lives. It should come as no surprise to her that he would continue the legacy by underestimating her at every turn. He knew naught of the person she was or the warrior’s heart that lay within. Instead, she asked, “How long have ye been plannin’ this?”

“Since our own King James was made king o’ England.”

Amelia nodded her head. He had taken a decided turn for the worse after that night of celebrations and had never fully recovered. “And ye say ‘tis my choice who tae wed?”

“Aye.” Her father nodded his head, then coughed, the motion sending shudders through his body. It would not be long now. “Ye must choose a man and quickly, lass. I have given ye the gift o’ choice, a gift yer maither and I ne’er had, but it is a brief gift that if not acted upon will result in a similar fate for yerself and some other man o’ my choosing.” He caught her hand in his and held her eyes for a moment. “Ye must choose a fightin’ man, lass, for only a cleverly brutal man will be able tae save ye.”

Amelia, angry and unsettled, pulled her hand free. Turning away from the bed, she left her father’s bedchamber and descended the stairs to the great hall. The castle was abuzz with preparations for the coming Yuletide. The castle servants and clans people worked with anticipation of the festivities preparing all manner of food and cleaning every corner of the castle. It was a time of joy that brought a little warmth to the cold winter months. Entering the kitchen, she was greeted by the castle’s jovial cook, Maggie. Maggie had been a Campbell by birth but had fallen in love with a MacAilpein warrior and as a result, had spent most of her adult life working for Amelia’s father. She had been somewhat of a substitute mother for Amelia since Anna Maria’s passing.

“Och, there ye are, lass. I was beginnin’ tae think that ye had changed yer mind about goin’.” Maggie bustled over to Amelia with a basket filled with food. “I ken yer faither does nae approve o’ ye visitin’ the prison, but he did nae forbid ye, did he?”

“Nae, he did nae forbid me.” Amelia shook her head. Maggie’s husband had been arrested and died in prison for a crime that he had not committed. In his memory, Maggie and Amelia had gone at Yuletide over the years since his death to visit the Edinburgh prison to comfort any Highlanders that might be held there.

“I dinnae care about the English prisoners, ye ken, but I will nae have a good Highland man suffer any longer in this cold weather than is needed,” Maggie declared, straightening her dress. She grabbed her cloak from the wall and wrapped it around her ample girth. Amelia followed suit and donned her own cloak. Baskets in hand, and Amelia’s guardsman Lucas on their heels, the two women made their way to the stables.

The clan’s priest, Father Jacob, greeted them at the stable doors. “’Tis a fine mornin’ for it,” he called out with a smile.

Lucas scowled in disapproval of their errand, but Amelia and Maggie nodded in agreement. “’Tis indeed, Faither,” Maggie replied, allowing the priest to take her basket. “My apologies for keepin’ ye waitin’.”

“Och, think nothing o’ it.” The priest waved her concerns away as he helped her up onto the waiting horse.

“’Twas my fault, Faither,” Amelia admitted, accepting Lucas’ hand up onto her favorite highland pony. “I was visiting with the laird.”

Father Jacob nodded his head gravely. “’Tis sorry I am for the laird’s ill health. He is e’er in my prayers.”

“And mine.” Amelia nodded in acknowledgment, not quite able to bring herself to speak further on the matter. Everything her father said was still playing havoc with her emotions and she was doing her best not to cry or start yelling out her frustrations.

Once they were all mounted and out upon the road, Father Jacob pulled his horse up beside Amelia’s and met her gaze. “Tell me what it is that troubles ye so, lass. I can see it in yer eyes that ye are greatly displeased. Is there something more with yer faither?”

Amelia looked around her at her fellow riding companions and could see in their eyes that they all wished to know the answer to the priest’s question. All except for Lucas who already knew having been present in the room at the time. “Faither has decided that I am tae wed and has chosen tae leave the clan tae my future husband, and nae tae me.”

Maggie frowned but nodded. She was not at all surprised, having known the laird a very long time. “I was afeared he would make such demands o’ ye.”

“Who has he chosen for ye, lass?” Father Jacob asked kindly, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on her arm.

“He is allowing me tae choose, but only if I do so with all haste. If I delay in any way, he will make the choice for me.” Amelia nearly choked on the words. Either way, she was going to be forced into a loveless marriage of convenience just as her mother had been. Her heart ached at the thought.

“That is good.” The priest nodded. “Most generous o’ him, I would say, as many faithers would nae be so thoughtful.”

Amelia sighed knowing that he was right. “I ken that, but it does nae make it any less difficult to bear.”

“Do ye have a lad in mind?” Maggie asked, a glint of the matchmaker coming out in her eyes and tone.

“Nae, I dinnae,” Amelia answered, shaking her head regretfully. She had never felt anything more than a sense of family loyalty to any of the men within the clan. It would have been easier had she at least been attracted to one of them. “Please keep this tae yerselves. I dinnae want every unwed man in the clan attemptin’ tae win my hand by some foolish attempt at bravery or worse.”

“Aye,” they all agreed, nodding. It was not hard for them to imagine just how terribly such a scene could go. It was a thing such as this that could tear the clan apart if not handled properly.

“Perhaps someone from another clan?” Maggie offered helpfully. “I was a Campbell, ye ken, when I wed my dear Fergus.”

Amelia smiled warmly at the older woman but shook her head. “Nae, I have nae attachments tae any lad from any clan.”

Lucas snorted. “And a good thing tae. We cannae have another clan comin’ in and takin’ everythin’ that we have worked for.”

Maggie frowned and swatted Lucas’ arm for the insult. “Haud yer wheesht, man, ye dinnae ken what ye speak.”

“Lucas has a point, Maggie. Nae every highlander would be as loving and loyal tae our clan as ye have been,” Amelia remarked. “The same could be said o’ marryin’ within the clan; however, as there are many who would take advantage o’ the power afforded the laird. We dinnae have time for infighting while we sort ourselves out, men competing for my hand. Any sign o’ weakness and Michael Rossell will be at our gates with an army.”

The group fell silent in thought, each attempting to come up with a solution to the problem that would be best for the clan and for Amelia as well. None of them wanted to see her endure the same sorrow that her mother had endured. “Who could ye wed that would be the least risk tae ye and the clan?” Maggie finally pondered aloud. “Could ye lie and say ye were wed?”

Father Jacob grunted in disapproval. “You would risk her immortal soul?”

“Nae, I would nae.” Maggie shook her head sheepishly. “Forgive me, Faither, for speaking it.”

The priest nodded and made the sign of the cross. “Even if ye did attempt such a lie, I would nae be able tae lie. ’Twould be I who performed the ceremony, ye ken.”

“Aye.” Maggie nodded, her cheeks reddening with embarrassment at the thought of asking a priest to lie.

“It cannae be a lowlander. ‘Twould hardly be better than a sassenach,” he bit out this last with a tone of disgust. While much of lowland Scotland had converted to Protestantism, Catholicism still had a stronghold in the highlands. To have a Protestant laird was unfathomable to the guardsman’s staunchly Catholic heart.

“Aye, agreed.” Father Jacob nodded emphatically.

“I would never wed either a lowlander or a sassenach. I will wed a highlander or nae man at all,” Amelia reassured them.

The group once more nodded in unison, glad to at least have that small assurance. As they rode along, they went through the list of unwed men within the clan. Some were too mean or abusive to even be considered as candidates, but most were simply either too old, too young, or lacked the leadership skills required to be laird. The clan had some very good warriors, but not all warriors were meant to be leaders. Leadership took a special kind of mental strength, a ruthlessness against one’s enemies combined with a compassion for humanity, in general, that was difficult to master, along with a strategic mind and fortitude of spirit that would outlast all of mankind and nature who might try and tear them down. Not all lairds had these qualities, but Amelia knew her father expected her to choose the very best man for the position.

They stopped overnight at a roadside inn where the two women shared a room, with the priest in the room next door. Lucas slept in the hallway outside of Amelia’s room as was his duty. Amelia did not envy him such an uncomfortable position, but should anything happen to her on the journey, her father would have the guardsman killed. “Edinburgh will be somewhat different without the king in residence, I should think,” she mused as the women settled into bed for the night.

“I expect it will be little changed. The king does nae affect the daily life o’ folks much, ye ken,” Maggie replied, her features already relaxing into sleep. Each year the ride was getting harder for the older woman. Soon she would not be able to make the trip at all. The laird was displeased to be without his cook so close to Yuletide, but Fergus had been a good warrior and so he let Maggie go to honor her husband’s memory. It took them about two days of hard riding to get to Edinburgh, they would stay a day to visit the prison, then ride the two days back, arriving back at the castle just in time to put the final arrangements together for the festivities.

“’Tis nae much like havin’ a laird then is it,” Amelia observed.

“In some ways it is, but ye are right. In many ways, a laird does much more for his people than a king, but dinnae let the king’s men hear ye say it. The king needs the lairds, he kens that well enough I would suppose, but the lairds need the king too. ‘Tis he that protects us from the English.”

Amelia understood that, but she could not help wondering about how the king being the ruler of both Scotland and England, would affect his loyalties towards his own people. “Let us pray that he loves his Scottish subjects as much as a laird loves his own clan.”

“Aye,” Maggie murmured, then drifted off to sleep leaving Amelia alone with her thoughts.

She had been giving a great deal of thought to the responsibilities of leaders in all their many forms of late. Since her father’s ailing health had taken a steep turn for the worse, she had been studying and preparing to take her place as lairdess. Her father’s announcement before she departed that morning came as quite a shock in some ways, but not so much in the fact that she knew her father did not respect her abilities. He considered her to be too tenderhearted and compassionate for the role. Her father also did not believe that women should be in positions of power over men. She had sat through more than one tirade of his complaining about the Scottish and English cousin queens. He staunchly believed that all difficulties would have been solved had both parties been men.

Amelia just as staunchly disagreed citing all the many kings who had failed to achieve peace between the two kingdoms; however, her father saw King James as proof of his beliefs coming to fruition. Amelia argued that such a pass was more an issue of blood than sex. Her father had argued that a king would not have remained a virgin and risked the throne as the English queen had, but he conceded that such actions had led to the combining of crowns and kingdoms when James became king. No matter how many times they discussed the subject, Amelia had never been able to change her father’s mind toward women leaders.

Amelia spent a restless night tossing and turning, thinking of what she would do in response to her father’s demands. She knew that the clan needed protection from Michael Rossell and his men, but at what personal cost to her? She feared the worst. Come the dawn, she had very little sleep but arose and prepared herself the best that she could for the day ahead. When they arrived in Edinburgh, they first stopped at the prison so that Father Jacob might arrange their visit on the morrow with the warden, then retired to a nearby inn for the night. Once again Maggie fell asleep quickly leaving Amelia alone with her thoughts. Exhausted beyond measure, Amelia fell into a fitful sleep filled with dreams of abusive husbands and enemies at the gates.

Chapter Two

When morning arrived once more, Amelia arose and put on the nice clothes that she brought to bring some cheer to the prisoners. “Ye look like a right lady, lass.” Maggie beamed with pride. “Those lads will think an angel has come tae visit.”

Amelia smiled and kissed the older woman on the cheek. “Are ye well?” she inquired, worrying about the older woman’s emotions on such a difficult day of remembrance. The prison was the last place she had ever laid eyes upon her husband.

“Aye, lass. Fergus is nae here, ye ken. He is in a far better place now.”

The two women exchanged a warm reassuring smile, then left the room to meet Lucas and Father Jacob in the hallway. They went down to the tavern below, broke the fast, then walked the short distance to the prison. The Old Tolbooth Prison was well known for its mistreatment of prisoners. The men within lived in terrible conditions, many becoming quite ill, if not dead. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, had ordered the old building to be repaired, but that had not alleviated the suffering from within. As they passed St. Giles’ Cathedral, Amelia said a prayer for the poor doomed men.

Passing through the gates, Lucas spat upon the threshold, eyeing the guards with suspicion. The guards did nothing. Amelia was not certain whether it was Father Jacob’s presence that kept them safe, or whether the guards truly cared not what they did. Once they reached the interior, the warden came out to greet them. “Father.” He nodded to the priest. “Lady McAlpine, it is good tae see ye once again. Ye are a bright light tae my year.” He bowed over her hand. The warden was a man that Amelia had never quite been able to figure out. She had heard of the cruel things done within the prison, had seen some of the effects in the prisoners, and yet he had always treated her with the utmost courtesy. She assumed that it was her station as a Scottish lady that earned her such regard compared to the thieves and murderers that he was used to dealing with, but she could not help wondering if his courtesy was genuine or all an act. She could not fathom a man who could do what he did to his fellow men, no matter how low they might be, and still have any kind of a soul remaining to him.

Removing her hand from his grasp, Amelia acknowledged his greeting with as much charm as she could manage given the way he made her skin crawl. “I am pleased tae be o’ service. Might we deliver our gifts o’ food and cheer tae the prisoners now?”

“Aye, o’ course.” The warden nodded and motioned for two of his guards to accompany them. “My men will see that ye are unharmed.”

“Our thanks.” Amelia nodded in gratitude, then turned away from him as quickly as courtesy would allow. She did not like visiting the prison, but she knew how much it meant to Maggie, so she put on her most lady like face and walked into the darkened corridor ahead.

The guard led them down the length of one stone corridor, descended a set of stairs, down to another. When they reached the desired level, the guards unlocked the door and stepped inside, bellowing for the prisoners to get in line and to behave themselves. The corridor filled with the sounds of men groaning and coughing, as well as the occasional clinking of chains. The men gathered at the doors to their cells, too many men to a room for any comfort to be had. The air smelled of fetid flesh and putrid waste. It was enough to make a person gag, but Amelia somehow managed to hold on to the contents of her stomach. Every year the smell was intolerable, no matter how many times she had requested that the warden do something about it. Maggie and Father Jacob entered the first cell, while Amelia and Lucas went on to the next one passing out bannocks and small bags of oats. Most of the prisoners were Lowlanders, some Borderers, with the occasional Englishman.

“Have ye any highlanders here?” Amelia asked, not wanting to neglect one of her own kind.

“Aye, we have one, but he is a murderer and is certain tae be hanged,” the guard assigned to them answered. “A fine lady such as yerself does nae need tae be concerned with the likes o’ him.”

“Nevertheless,” Amelia replied sternly, “I wish tae see him.” She knew that it was important to Maggie to tend to any Highland prisoners, and Amelia preferred that it be she who faced a murderer and not her elder clanswoman.

“I dinnae like this, lass,” Lucas protested at her side.

“All will be well, Lucas. Fear nae. I have ye tae protect me, do I nae?”

“Aye, ye ken that ye do, but I still dinnae like it,” Lucas grumbled. “If he lays a hand on ye, he will nae need a noose.” His hand reached for the blade at his belt to punctuate the threat.

Amelia reached out a hand to steady her clansman. “There will be nae need for violence.” Standing to her full height, Amelia nodded for the guard to open the cell door. What she saw within, she would never forget. The man had been poorly treated, beaten, bruised, bloodied, dirty and stinking, but in spite of all of that, the man stood tall towering over her, a fierce pride emanating from bright blue eyes peering out at her behind filthy blond strands of hair. The man was taller than most, slender of form due to the poor nutrition of his current home but had somehow managed to remain well-muscled. His features were strong, chiseled, firm. Even in the disgusting environs to which he had been condemned, he was stunningly handsome. There was an air of danger to the man to be certain, but that only added to his charisma. Amelia took a step forward and handed the man a bannock.

“They say that ye are a highlander?” she asked.

“Aye.” The man nodded in confirmation.

“What is yer name?” she asked, intrigued by him.

“Who wishes tae ken it?” he inquired, causing the guard to bark at him to answer.

Amelia ignored the guard and answered, “My name is Amelia McAlpine. I am the daughter o’ Laird McAlpine.”

“A lady, is it?” the man noted, eyeing her up and down. “Well, aren’t I the lucky lad?” He chuckled at her mockingly with an edge of salaciousness to his manner. Bowing with the smooth lines and gestures of a practiced gentleman, he introduced himself, “Cameron Kyall, my lady, but you may call me Ron.” The familiar air in which he spoke to her made Amelia feel most uncomfortable, while her pulse quickened in excitement.

Blushing, Amelia attempted to hold herself together. Standing ramrod straight, her brow furrowed in question. “Kyall? That is a lass’ name. I dinnae ken any clan o’ such a surname.”

“’Tis my maither’s name. She belonged tae the Clan Cameron. I have nae clan o’ my own.”

“A bastard,” Lucus grunted under his breath.

“Aye.” Ron nodded. “Do ye have a problem with that, big man? Though I dinnae ken what business it is o’ yers.”

The men stood eyeing each other as if sizing up for a fight. As tall as the Highland prisoner was, Lucas was even taller and more broadly built. His red hair and beard glowing like the very flames of hell in comparison to the younger man’s pitifully unkempt state. Concerned, Amelia stepped between them. The last thing that she needed was for her guardsman, and captain of the clan’s fighters, to be imprisoned for killing an already condemned man.

Turning to the guard, Amelia asked, “Who is this man accused o’ murdering?”

“His own mother,” the guard answered spitting at the prisoner’s feet, “and for the attempted murder o’ a laird.”

“Which laird?”

“That is nae o’ yer affair,” the prisoner ground out. “And I did nae kill my maither!”

Amelia stood staring at him for a moment and found that she believed him. “Which laird?” she asked again.

“Rossell,” the guard answered.

“Michael Rossell?”

“Aye, that would be the one,” the guard nodded.

In that instant, the spark of an idea flared within Amelia’s mind. “He is condemned to hang for his crimes? There is nae chance o’ a reprieve?

“He will hang as surely as I am standin’ here,” the guard assured her.

Turning back toward the prisoner, Amelia took a step forward and met his blue eyes head-on. “Ron,” she began using his chosen moniker, “how would you like to marry me?” A stunned grunt sounded from behind her, and a second later, Lucas had ahold of her arm and was physically hauling her out of the prison cell.

“Have ye lost yer mind, lass?” he practically roared as he hauled her down the corridor. “Offerin’ yer hand tae a murderer? I have ne’er seen the like.”

At hearing Lucas’ protestations, Father Jacob and Maggie came running out of the next cell. “What did ye just bellow?” Maggie asked, out of breath.

“This numpty just offered her hand in marriage to a condemned murderer,” Lucas informed them still yelling in anger and astonishment.

“Ye did nae, lass? Tell me it is nae so,” Maggie exclaimed, taking Amelia’s hand in hers.

“Aye, I did,” Amelia confirmed, but before she could open her mouth to explain further the little group of people had her out of the prison, across the street, and back at the inn pushing food and ale upon her as if she had fallen prey to a bout of lunacy brought on by malnutrition. Finally, Amelia had had enough, and she stood up forcefully from where they had placed her on a bench at a side table. “Enough! I am nae hungry, thirsty, or mad. What we need is a man who will keep Michael Rossell and his warriors at bay. Ron Kyall is the perfect man. The reputation of such a violent man would keep our enemies at bay and he will be executed soon, so there is nae risk o’ him e’er comin’ and leadin’ the clan. In every way that matters, I would be laird, and all would be forced tae accept it.”

Lucas shook his head. “’Twould ne’er work, lass. Yer faither would nae allow ye tae wed a condemned maither murderer, e’en if the lad did try tae kill his mortal enemy.”

“I dinnae believe that he killed his own maither. You can see it in his eyes that he was nae lyin’ about that,” Amelia argued.

“Yer faither would ne’er allow it,” he repeated firmly shaking his head.

“Aye, I ken yer faither well, lass, and Lucas is right. The laird would nae allow it,” Father Jacob confirmed, giving Amelia a pitying look. It was clear that he thought she had succumbed to hysterics.

Amelia growled low in her throat, “Faither need nae ken the truth o’ it. We could say that I married an army captain instead and that he is away tae the Americas for a time. Such a lie would stand until Faither…” She stopped speaking, unable to say the actual words.

“Until His Lairdship dies,” Maggie finished for her shaking her head in sympathy.

“Aye,” Amelia nodded, swallowing the tears that threatened to overtake her. “Then I would be free tae do as I wish concerning the truth o’ the matter. Ron Kyall could be wielded as a weapon against Rossell, his violent reputation against all other enemies, and nae one would e’er need tae ken that he had died until it was tae late tae do anythin’ about it. It would give me a chance tae show that I can lead the clan without question.”

“And if the clan disagrees?” Lucas asked, not yelling this time, but his voice was still quite gruff.

Amelia sighed and sank back down onto the bench. “Then I will marry another man and produce an heir.”

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