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Secrets Of A Highland Warrior
Nicole Locke


The key to his past… …lies with the enemy sharing his bed! Part of The Lochmore Legacy: a Scottish castle through the ages! Rory Lochmore had expected to wage battle, to claim land and finally secure his standing within his clan… Instead he won a wife. A McCrieff wife. Their convenient marriage could unite the two long-feuding clans forever. But can a political alliance give way to a passion strong enough to stand the secrets of the past?







The key to his past...

...lies with the enemy sharing his bed!

Part of The Lochmore Legacy: a Scottish castle through the ages! Rory Lochmore had expected to wage battle, to claim land and finally secure his standing within his clan... Instead he won a wife. A McCrieff wife. Their convenient marriage could unite the two long-feuding clans forever. But can a political alliance give way to a passion strong enough to stand the secrets of the past?


NICOLE LOCKE discovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books that were hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them—but now not so secretly!


Also by Nicole Locke (#u491dfb34-4674-5563-b3c4-70d451eecbe2)

Lovers and Legends miniseries

The Knight’s Broken Promise

Her Enemy Highlander

The Highland Laird’s Bride

In Debt to the Enemy Lord

The Knight’s Scarred Maiden

Her Christmas Knight

The Lochmore Legacy collection

His Convenient Highland Wedding by Janice Preston

Unlaced by the Highland Duke by Lara Temple

A Runaway Bride for the Highlander by Elisabeth Hobbes

Secrets of a Highland Warrior by Nicole Locke

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Secrets of a Highland Warrior

Nicole Locke






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-08916-6

SECRETS OF A HIGHLAND WARRIOR

© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Note to Readers (#u491dfb34-4674-5563-b3c4-70d451eecbe2)


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Travelling through romantic dialogue

and dense Scottish mists.

Careening over passionate scenes

and rocky Highland paths.

Forging on ahead in character conflicts

to a Highland castle (or two).

This book is dedicated to Elisabeth Hobbes,

Janice Preston and Lara Temple,

who are brilliant writers and even better friends.

Thank you!


Contents

Cover (#u6e3a6421-697f-5fac-9220-72473c3b8427)

Back Cover Text (#u12d7e69a-39c7-5126-9b89-6ca8693cf51b)

About the Author (#ua96835a7-f8e4-51b4-84e2-3ec62c61bb65)

Booklist (#uc40358ec-c9b4-5040-924c-ae431eb3384c)

Title Page (#ud3ca8d04-902e-503d-a07c-d27f8afdd1c3)

Copyright (#u0b76eb24-8ce6-56f0-a313-c76b099e943a)

Note to Readers

Dedication (#u89025a2c-ec3b-5ffd-81b1-d7ad2d3743ec)

Chapter One (#ue88542b7-a28b-5453-a47e-f27a9bbe2e02)

Chapter Two (#u20521f5b-87de-5d8d-8a23-cadacd6a0a2c)

Chapter Three (#u8556dd68-fa16-5585-8594-2cce80fc7d76)

Chapter Four (#u2c3795d6-3f3f-56d5-b825-8e0bc03377da)

Chapter Five (#u65867c31-2294-5fda-8ecd-721b034f91b4)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue by Janice Preston (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One (#u491dfb34-4674-5563-b3c4-70d451eecbe2)

Spring 1293


‘I don’t like this.’ Rory surveyed the landscape surrounding him and his men. Tall branches bending slightly in the spring breeze, birds calling softly, the stream mere horse-lengths in front of them, rushing past carrying winter’s melting ice.

Around them was nothing else but rolling fields and a wide sparse treeline that had been manned and maintained to remain that way since before he was born. Enough trees for game, but not enough for enemies to hide behind.

Not that there should be enemies while they stood on Lochmore land, but across that stream...

‘Perhaps they are waiting over that ridge.’ Paiden sidled his horse alongside his and whispered low.

Rory didn’t turn his attention to the other men. They had maintained their position and were far enough behind to not hear the words that Paiden inevitably desired to share. Of the same age, if different temperament, Paiden had been at his side for as long as he had memory.

Paiden had been talking for that long as well and Rory was used to his friend’s humour even in the direst circumstances. Now, on this mildest of mornings, the circumstances weren’t dire, but they weren’t safe either. His men, well back from the stream few ventured near, didn’t need to hear words to comprehend their predictament.

‘How likely is it that a garrison of McCrieffs and their horses are crouching behind a hill no taller than a couple of rabbits could breach?’

‘Oh, as likely as toothless Joan is capable of eating overcooked venison.’

Not likely at all. There was no one to greet him and his men this fine spring day. Twenty of them in all here, one hundred more waiting at the castle should he make the agreed signal. Twenty was enough of a force for the expected confrontation, but not enough to provoke a first strike. If the McCrieffs wanted a fight, then there were enough to defend the Lochmore claim. If they wanted to negotiate, the numbers weren’t so intimidating that the possibility was there as well.

Months had gone into the planning of this day. A fortnight spent on discussing the number of men, the weaponry, the day and the hour. Rory was prepared for every likely scenario when it came to this day. The nothingness they faced wasn’t any scenario at all.

Which was why they stayed on the Lochmore side of the stream. Across the water was the beginning of McCrieff land. Or what was McCrieff land. It was now his by royal decree.

After his clan supported the crowning of John Balliol last November, the English King Edward had granted the Lochmores part of the McCrieff lands. The ones that bordered along the stream that for years had separated the two clans. The two enemies.

The stream had been a firm divide between the clans and a well-welcomed one. Owning the land, however, gave the Lochmores even more pleasure. To take by any means something precious from the McCrieffs was worth any price paid.

But months had passed since Edward’s decree. During that time the McCrieffs ignored Edward’s law and the Lochmore Chief’s messages.

So it came down to this day, to this hour to fight, to battle. Except all that was before him was the rising of the morning sun and the blades of plentiful grass the horses fed from.

Certainly, the beauty of the land was enough to please any Highlander, but the landscape wasn’t what he intended or expected to see right now.

The granting of this land wasn’t at the McCrieffs’ consent. In fact, this very land had been bitterly fought over for years. Everything between them had been fought over for years.

Also, being Highlanders, it wasn’t expected that the McCrieffs would agree to an English king’s decree. After all, what right did he have over a Highlander’s lands?

However, since it was convenient at this moment for Lochmore’s Chief, Rory’s father, to accept, he did. But with no word from the McCrieffs, it seemed they didn’t accept the terms.

Now, with no one here, it didn’t seem like anything at all.

‘It’s a trap,’ Paiden said.

‘Truly, that ridge wouldn’t be able to hide one horse and we’d hear them if they laid in wait. Where would they lay a trap?’

Rory looked behind at his men waiting for command. They were as restless as the mounts beneath them. They expected to let out a war cry today. Indeed, they’d feasted and bedded in celebration the night before in case today was their last.

If they returned now, it would be without gaining the honour of such celebration. If he returned to his father emptyhanded with no resolution or information, today might indeed be his last. His father wouldn’t allow such ambiguity. McCrieffs present or not, Rory’s only choice was to confront.

‘I’m crossing,’ Rory said. When Paiden pulled his horse only slightly more ahead, Rory stopped. ‘The others didn’t move.’

‘That’s because you didn’t give the signal to move.’

‘Exactly, so what are you doing?’

‘You can give the men commands all that you want, but I’ll still be by your side.’

‘When I’m Chief—’

‘You can give me orders and I won’t cross you in front of others, but until then... Forget it.’

When he was Chief. Not yet. Not without his father’s death and an elder’s approval. But Rory hadn’t been concerned for approval because of this honour today of leading his men to confront the McCrieffs. To demand why they ignored a king’s decree and a clan’s chief.

For months, the firm conclusion as to why the McCrieffs had ignored the decree and messages was that they contested the claim. So in the last message the Lochmores had arranged this day. To meet and agree or if not, to fight. The McCrieffs made no reply, but that, too, wasn’t a concern. For no Highlander would be so cowardly as to ignore a challenge and the last missive was a challenge.

Thus, because he was the only son, the only child of the Lochmore Chief, he wore the best armour his clan owned and wore a sword he’d sharpened himself. The McCrieffs had all to gain with his death and they would not claim it. This was to be his day to prove himself to his father, to his clan. To himself. It was all to be his. His to battle, wrest and claim.

If no blood was to be found on this side of the water, he’d simply ride forward to find it. The hatred between the Lochmores and McCrieffs was too deep for there not to be some argument this day. Some trophy to be won so when he did face his father again, Finley would give his proud approval. Rory would never give up until he finally obtained it.

‘If I can’t rid myself of you...’ Rory sighed with exaggeration ‘...then the others will want to ride as well.’ With his arm raised, he drew a large circle in the air. Whatever might come, this land was his to ensure this day and ensure it he must. For once, he’d be the Lochmore his father wanted him to be.




Chapter Two (#u491dfb34-4674-5563-b3c4-70d451eecbe2)


Ailsa set the bowl of bone broth and bread on the table and raised the cup of tisane to the thin lips of the Chief of Clan McCrieff. Only a few drops did he take this morning, only a few more throughout last night. The tisane was important for the pain, the beef-broth mixture crucial to retain his strength.

But this last fortnight both had been increasingly difficult for him to swallow. It was that which was telling of the sickness overwhelming him more than the grey pallor of his skin and his laboured breath. His body was slowly wasting away. His ice-blue eyes, however, were sharp as ever and steady on her.

If his eyes could speak, Ailsa knew the barrage of hate would be fierce. Though he was losing his strength day by day, he hadn’t lost his opinions.

The fact he didn’t speak now meant he was saving his strength...for what she didn’t know. She never could understand their Chief who was and had always been filled with rage and suspicion.

Even towards her, their only healer. She glanced up to find his eyes piercing her the entire time he drank the tisane. Mistrust. As if her long sleepless nights and tireless searching for calming herbs weren’t because she was there to help, but to harm him.

She would never, could never, do so. It went against everything she was. It was also a sin. God’s law should have been enough to appease Hamish McCrieff that she would do her duty to him. But she suspected Hamish had committed so many sins he didn’t see the breaking of one as much of a deterrent.

Blasphemous thoughts. This man was Chief of the Clan and deserved respect and loyalty. But everything about him made fear climb like poisonous vines under her skin.

Standing and setting down the cup, Ailsa nodded towards Mary, one of the most faithful of servants, who stood as well, and they adjusted the bedding so Hamish was made more comfortable. She didn’t know what ailed him, but she’d seen it before. The decline was slow, the body consumed on the inside until there was nothing left. All that could be done was to ease the pain and ensure a longer sleep until he died.

A quick death would be more merciful and she had heard of men doing so to their brethren on the battlefields. But for her it was too kind for this man, who wasn’t worth risking her soul for. There was many a day when she wanted to. Something she went to confessional with often. Weeks of confessionals now. The seasons were changing and still McCrieff lingered, leaving the clan in a vulnerable state.

It was no relief when Hamish’s gaze shifted over her shoulder. No relief at all since his accusing stare was aimed entirely at the only other person in the room. Her father, Frederick, who months ago had been elected to be heir apparent to the Chief. To become, in effect, Tanist. Further because Hamish was so ill it was also agreed that her father would be privy to any and all decisions that Hamish would decree. Most significantly, Frederick could suggest and, in certain circumstances, make decisions of his own that would be equally revered by the council. Unusual, but Hamish was dying and her father was a greatly respected warrior, with a bloodline linked to chiefs in the past. The decree was unanimous, including that of Hamish himself. However, Alisa always felt Hamish had given it unwillingly.

Her father must have felt the same way as well. And whether it was because of loyalty to the Chief who he had served under for years or to keep the peace among the Clan, Frederick still consulted with Hamish. In front of the clan, it kept the peace. Only she knew what a toll it took on her father and it was no surprise that, after he gained her attention, he left the room.

As quietly as possible, Alisa stepped away from the bed and let Mary continue with the rest of the routine. Months of working together, they no longer had to discuss the Chief’s care...they only had to endure it.

The room next to the chamber was empty save for her father and Alisa closed the door behind her. He let out a breath.

‘He eats less every day,’ Ailsa said.

‘But drinks your tisane more. Is this because of the pain?’

Hamish hid his pain from her; Ailsa suspected, because he didn’t want her father to know. But at night, when Hannah or Mary took over, when he tried to sleep, he cried out. For a man of Hamish’s stature to do so meant the pain was horrific.

Ailsa nodded. ‘The pain is expected at this stage. For now he seems aware, but it will increase and he will be less... He may not even know who he is.’

Frederick exhaled. ‘The others will not care.’

‘Others?’

Her father raised his finger to his lips and shook his head once.

Ailsa tightened her jaw and kept her words to herself. If Hamish’s health was in further decline, more decisions would be made by her father. The issue, of course, was even at the height of Hamish’s power, her father never saw eye to eye with their Chief. In the past, there were arguments, but to keep the loyalties strong, her father always yielded to the clan Chief...as he should.

Since Hamish didn’t have the strength for all decision making, the clan would lean more on her father, whether Hamish wanted it or not.

There should be no others when it came to the rule of McCrieffs. Everyone should be behind her father, who was a fair man. The Tanist vote and shared ruling was unanimous. It was rare and, to keep McCrieffs strong, to everyone outside the clan it was unknown, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t the right course for her clan. Hamish couldn’t be expected to rule as he once had. However, Hamish had lived long and had spread his venom deep. There were rumours that others were loyal to only him. It incensed her. Her father had every right by blood and sword to rule the McCrieffs and rule them justly. Yet, as long as Hamish lived, Hamish still kept his power and her father was forced to keep the balance.

And she was forced to keep Hamish alive. When Hamish died, her father would face adversity no other McCrieff had ever faced before: To mend a divided Clan. Her father was a warrior, not a negotiator.

However, Hamish’s decreasing strength could change the stalemate—

The outside door burst open and both swung their gaze towards the messenger who bent over his knees to catch his breath. ‘Lochmores are here,’ he panted.

Ailsa’s entire body seized. Their enemy was on their land. How could this have happened without her father being at the forefront of the fight? ‘Father, what is—?’

Frederick kept his gaze on the young man before him. ‘How far?’

‘Just outside the village.’

‘Again!’ Ailsa gasped and Frederick laid a hand on her arm.

The Lochmores were on McCrieff land. It was too soon since the last time. The bodies were still raw in the graves and they were here this soon again? Never!

Lochmores attacking again and this time their clan was divided. They were weak. Is that why they struck? While she’d been tending a dying man, already her clan were dying defending their land.

Ailsa wrenched her arm free of her father’s restraint. ‘They’ve never returned this soon before. Why now?’

‘And the people?’ Frederick asked the messenger.

‘Holding steady.’

For how long? As Tanist and warrior her father would want to be part of that battle. As Clan healer it would be her duty to attend those in need. ‘My pouches are full and ready, I need to only go to my room.’

‘No,’ her father commanded. His expression was not one she’d seen before. The warrior, the father and leader were there, but a flash of something else exposed itself to her. A look she’d never seen before and it took her aback. That vulnerability was of a man facing something far stronger than himself.

‘Whatever happens here today, stay hidden until I say otherwise.’

‘Stay hidden while people die?’ The last time there had been an attack was mere months ago and he’d let her tend the injured. Two McCrieffs had died. The time before that, she’d been a mere child. Too young to comprehend what she saw, but old enough to remember her friend, Magnus, charging towards the oncoming Lochmores. Too small to make a difference and far too inconsequential to be seen. The horse’s hooves cut his life down immediately. ‘You can’t expect me to sit still. I can’t!’

‘There will be no deaths today, not by my hand or decree. If it was my will, all would be spared. Except...’

‘Except?’ She seemed only to think and speak in questions now. Stupid. Ineffectual. Useless. Even her emotions were weak. She knew that all too well. Magnus had been all smiles and then violently nothing but blood and crushed bone. The Lochmores were no longer just some clan hated by the McCrieffs. She hated them, too. But then... Ailsa shook her thoughts away. There should be no but then... ‘There are no exceptions! If the Lochmores are here, then I am needed.’

‘You have twenty years, my Ailsa, my daughter, and I’m a selfish man—if I could keep you for longer I would.’

‘I’ll stay safe. I have and can again.’

‘I’ll keep you safe...until I can’t any more.’

‘Father?’ Did he mean to sacrifice himself? No. To sacrifice himself was one matter, but he was Tanist and he’d be sacrificing his clan, his life, the life of his ancestors.

‘Stay hidden, Ailsa, until I call for you. That is my only wish and desire as a father, but if that won’t do this time, I order you to. Do you understand?’

An order. Aware the messenger was rapt with every gesture and word, Ailsa held still. She would question her father, but never the clan’s leader. When she nodded, her father swept out of the room with the messenger following.

Exhaling the breath she held, Ailsa thought only a moment about what she would do. Quietly, she stepped into Hamish’s room. He was mostly awake, so she waved Mary over to her to whisper what was happening. Told her to stay with Hamish and care for him. Mary glanced at Hamish, but agreed.

With that done, Ailsa left the room. She’d keep her silence in front of others, but to stay hidden wasn’t an order she’d obey from her Tanist or her father. Their enemy was on McCrieff land. Blood had or would be spilled. A true healer was neither daughter nor clan member. She would heal.

* * *

The battle armour Rory wore weighed heavily on him as he travelled further on to McCrieff territory. Paiden rode by his side, watching his back, and the rest of the men stayed evenly spaced behind them.

They were as silent as a troop of Highland warriors could be. Only he, because of his armour, made sounds unlike the others. The sound and the burden chafed the further they travelled on McCrieff land. Rory rolled his shoulders, but it gave no relief in the tightness of his gambeson over his tunic, nor did it ease the weight of the chainmail of his hauberk. None of the others wore armour. Their shields and swords were enough for any true Highland battle.

An hour, maybe two, travelling like this and he felt as tense as a burdened deer being hunted. A weighted deer was a slow one.

What he wouldn’t give for flinging both shield and sword in the air and crying out for war. This hiding game of the McCrieffs wore thin. Mere months ago, when Edward granted McCrieff land to Lochmores there’d been a clash of swords. Small, significant...unsanctioned. The border of their land was always patrolled. Some Lochmores, gloating over what they perceived as a victory, had raced over to McCrieff land. It was a small battle unknown until too late by their Chief and the men had been well punished. More so since blood was shed. Two McCrieffs had died and one Lochmore.

That had been nothing more or less than it’d been for generations until this very moment. His sword arm ached with the need to swing. To feel the rough reverberation of metal against metal. Instead, they rode through empty fields until they saw the village surrounding the motte and bailey with a centre keep.

Even from this distance, Rory could see the weakness of the McCrieffs’ half-stone and half-timber defence. It was encircled by a partial wall at its lowest point, but nothing a bit of fire and a medium-sized battalion could not destroy.

McCrieff’s castle was, mostly, as his father remembered and recalled to him. Had they made no improvements since then? His own land was surrounded by water, but even they fortified their walls. The McCrieffs had not prospered like his own clan.

Riding slowly, they approached the village, which wasn’t empty, but full of wide-eyed silent residents. So much silence, which weighed heavier than his armour. Ominous. Foreboding. Not one resident moved. It was as if they feared one flick of a wrist would erupt in bloodshed. Rory slowed his horse even more and quieted the breaths through his lungs.

There was always a moment of stillness before a battle, but he felt none of the menacing tenuousness now. He craved to fight, but with soldiers who also craved to draw their swords. Not villagers and children. Not with domesticity that chafed more than the unusual circumstance he found himself in. Only the animals didn’t seem to understand that the unnatural stillness wasn’t to be broken.

So they rode through gaggles of squawking hens and through small herds of sheep. Always Rory observed every detail of the residents, buildings and houses. He might not feel the hatred of enemies, but he knew there were those who hated him. Anything he missed could be his death or the demise of his men. He didn’t want either, but he wouldn’t accept the latter at all.

They had prepared for battle. Instead, they walked through the McCrieffs’ village as if this was no more than a neighbourly visit. Except the silence. This was the indication that all was not welcoming. Good, he wanted to fight. Why weren’t they fighting?

Damn the coward, McCrieff. Hamish’s reputation was as a duplicitous ruler, but rumour was he faced you as he lied. This nothingness was something else and unwanted. How could he prove to his clan, to his Chief, his father, that he, too, would be worthy of power if at this moment he was denied proving himself?

On through the silent village until the wide open gates. Here, Rory stopped and Paiden pulled his horse alongside his once again.

‘I don’t like this,’ Paiden said.

‘Now you show caution?’ Rory said.

‘I wanted to turn away at the stream, but you wouldn’t let me,’ Paiden gave a fake wobble to his voice. ‘But I’ll agree if you turn back now.’

Deep on McCrieff land and it wasn’t safe for any of them. The questions kept mounting. ‘Why bother? If it’s a trap, we’re in it and it matters not if I go through that gate or not.’

Paiden gave a grim chuckle. ‘I think it matters very much. About what that is, is up to you.’

It was a trap Rory knew he must purposefully step foot into. He was already a dead man simply riding to this point. If he rode past the gate, he’d be in the Great Courtyard surrounded by McCrieff warriors who could easily strike him with arrows. Armour or not. Enough arrows and any protection would eventually fail.

However, he was also a dead man if he stood outside the gates, so it was possible they intended to take him prisoner, but the McCrieff Chief wasn’t that clever. So what else could it be? Did they intend to lay out a feast for him and his men and tell tales by the fire?

He’d rather kill the entire clan than sit at their table. If his father discovered he’d done so, he’d lose all honour.

‘Stay here,’ Rory said.

Paiden snorted, but he held his mount still as Rory approached the gate and assessed each gatekeeper. They gave no indication of their intentions to his presence. Their bodies tense, but no weapon in either hand. Of course, there was no welcoming greeting on their lips either. Just more of that unnatural stillness like the villagers.

So he passed through the gate on well-worn dirt beneath smaller buildings in different states of disrepair.

Once through to the other side, Rory could see two men above, but from the angle of the gate and the high walls, he knew there were hidden places where numerous men could walk the wall, aim their bow and arrow over the slats and pull the killing shot.

Just past the walls’ shadow and Rory spotted a lone man descending the keep’s steps. There were many steps, tightly terraced, yet he took them one at a time. He spotted no limp or deformity in the Scotsman. No, the McCrieff took the steps slowly and deliberately to waste time.

Another scan of his surroundings and Rory waited while the stranger strode towards them. He appeared the same age as his father, but that was the only certainty he could be Chief of Clan McCrieff.

He was tall, thick, his shoulders wide. Lochmore’s Chief was a scholar—this man led troops, fought in battles and had shed much blood. His father had said Hamish was large, but everything else didn’t fit. This man didn’t look as if he spoke to councils and negotiated.

A flash of movement at the top of the stairs and Rory glanced towards the new threat. It was a woman half in the shadows of the doorway, her white gown giving a shape and size to her. She appeared younger than the man striding towards him now.

None of her features were clear. But her unbound hair was a riveting flaming red. She could be across the moors in the furthest field and he’d see her.

He felt...he felt as if he knew her.

Disconcerted, Rory dismounted and took in the courtyard. As expected, the ramparts were full of men, arrows locked though the bows were not taut. Around the wall he saw more men standing. No swords drawn, but their stances were wide—they were ready to charge—and the man who had descended the stairs now stood in front of him.

‘You are not Lochmore’s Chief.’

‘You are not the McCrieffs’,’ Rory guessed.

The man gave a regal nod, but didn’t divulge any further information. So be it. Rory purposefully looked around them. ‘Is that why we face each other freely in this courtyard?’

‘You stand freely because I will it.’

‘You could not will it, if I did not freely stand here.’

The old warrior tilted his head, assessing Rory as a man, as a soldier, as an opponent. He’d been given the same look all his life from his own father. This time, however, there was humour in eyes framed by wrinkles and the slight curve lifted the harsh corners of his lips.

This McCrieff, warrior or not, wanted to smile at Rory’s words. Was the man humoured by his own words or was the joke finally on him?

‘I’ve come to address the King’s decree.’ Rory got to the point.

‘You intend to claim part of the McCrieff lands.’

Rory pulled out the royal scroll, certain the McCrieffs had received a copy as well. ‘They were no longer yours the moment Edward signed this parchment.’

The warrior didn’t glance at the seal. ‘Don’t want yours. Got one of our own.’

‘Then—’

‘I’ll ignore both.’

‘Where is your Chief?’

The man remained quiet, but he turned his gaze to men along the sides. Men who kept their weapons lowered, but who walked slowly towards them.

‘Are you or the Chief ignoring our missives as well?’ Months of preparation. Hours of manoeuvring and counselling for every circumstance. But there wasn’t a circumstance here. The sun was well risen, the day was warm, the armour was heavy and getting hot, and nothing...nothing was occurring. He wanted this done with and to return home. ‘Are you conceding the lands are ours without a fight?’

‘I’ll concede those lands will remain as they are, Rory, son of Finley and only heir.’

Rory didn’t let his gaze stray from the man in front of him, but he was acutely aware of the bowmen at the top of the gates and the men on the ground. Aware of the woman trying to hide in the door’s shadows and failing. She wore white, her hair like a bright flame, her hand now rested on her stomach as if she was holding herself in.

He knew how she felt. A trap he had stepped in and one that was unavoidable. He could take on one, maybe two of the men before him, but not all. ‘You know who I am and yet...’ Rory let the sentence drop, hoping the man in front of him would complete it.

The warrior shrugged. ‘Time would be better spent eating and drinking, no?’

‘You prepared a feast for our arrival?’

‘We knew you were coming. You wrote us a missive to that effect.’ The man turned slightly and indicated for Rory to follow him to the keep. ‘You haven’t broken your fast yet?’

Rory ate nothing other than was necessary for strength this morning. Any more and he couldn’t fight well. ‘Lochmores have never eaten at a McCrieff table.’

‘That is because you’ve never been invited before.’

This conversation was more along Paiden’s gift for circuitous conversation. What he wouldn’t give for his friend beside him to interpret. All Rory knew in this moment was if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Sparring with words wasn’t his way, being direct was. ‘Tell me what game this is and get on with it.’

‘Do you like games?’

‘I never played a game in my life.’ He’d been honed to be a weapon by his father and, when he could think or act for himself, he’d kept to the regime. Once the arrow was shot, it had no choice but to continue where it was aimed.

‘But this one you’ve entered into already. I know you see her.’

Anything of frustration in him left immediately and his focus remained locked on to the warrior before him. Older, but no less deadly. A worthy opponent by the way he held himself. Fearless since he had no weapon out in preparation to an attack.

His father was like this as well. But the man did keep his eyes on Rory their entire exchange. The woman, for she was the only woman visible in this courtyard, was still half-hidden. Yet this man knew she was there watching them.

‘She’s hiding from you.’

‘Little escapes my observations.’

‘Who are you?’ Rory said.

‘I’ll introduce myself and my daughter when you’ve entered the McCrieffs’ Hall, son of Lochmore.’

So be it. Rory turned to signal his men. A fatal mistake. A bite of steel against his side, a harsh grasp of one arm, then the other.

There was time to free himself, to fight, but Rory knew it would be brief. He could negotiate for his men better alive than dead. With a shove at the men holding him, he allowed the wrenching of his arms behind his back as he faced the McCrieff.

The warrior gave a knowing smile. ‘I said you’re invited, I didn’t say as a guest.’




Chapter Three (#u491dfb34-4674-5563-b3c4-70d451eecbe2)


Hurry, hurry, hurry. The mantra hurtled itself through Ailsa’s thoughts faster than her feet carried her to the safety of her rooms.

Lochmores on McCrieff land. Arrows and swords drawn, shields low, but ready, and one armour-clad man riding freely into their courtyard.

Shocked, she had stood on the steps and gawked. He was...huge. Broad of shoulder, his arms twice as thick as any man’s she’d ever seen. His horse was the largest, because he was the largest. All her life she’d been surrounded by warriors, fierce, protective. But there was no one like him...this stranger who rode through their gates as if he owned McCrieff Castle.

He’d worn no helmet, but the distance between them was not far and she had seen the glint of determination as he surveyed his surroundings. Everything about him screamed of dominance, of power, of ownership. He was a ruler and, like all rulers, he held himself as if he owned it all.

She had watched as he minutely adjusted the reins of the great beast he rode, as he dismounted and strode towards her father. The sound of the chainmail slapping against leather, the crunch of pebbles under his feet, the way his brown hair brushed against his forehead when the wind picked up.

She had felt the way her fingers tingled as he swiped away the errant curl. And in that, she knew she hadn’t only gawked because he was a Lochmore who held some power. She’d gawked because he was a man. And the shiver through her body had nothing to do with the slight wind at the time and all to do with the man whose searching eyes found her.

She reached the top of the stairs only to find the winding hallway to her chambers empty as well. Everyone was down below or in hiding. This part of the keep was her refuge and domain. But she didn’t feel safe.

She hadn’t felt safe downstairs hiding partially surrounded by thick walls and a great door. She had thought herself well hid and certainly well beyond the man’s acknowledgement.

Yet, his eyes hadn’t remained on her father, they had scanned his surroundings, finding the men with arrows and swords, finding...her. Her heart had skipped before it thudded strong in her chest as their gazes met. He’d been too far for her to discern his features with clarity, too far for her to hear the conversation they’d held properly.

It hadn’t mattered. The distance hadn’t taken away the impact of his gaze on her and it hadn’t masked some of the words exchanged with her father.

Words, a name she never thought to hear. His name was Rory. Rory. A name that shouldn’t hold significance to her except that the old healer had told her a fable. A mere story, but it was lodged as a fact firmly inside her thoughts and memories. She’d curse the healer for telling that story if it didn’t risk her very soul blaspheming the dead.

Could he be the same Rory? Ailsa scoffed at herself for thinking that thought, rushed into her room and slammed the door. No one here. Good, for her knees trembled so badly she leaned against the door and forced them to lock before she slid to the floor in a useless puddle.

He couldn’t be the same Rory, even if Rhona’s story was true. Rory was a common enough name. And even if he was that baby, should it make a difference? No. Her friend Magnus was dead for ever. Just last winter two McCrieffs guarding the border had died when several Lochmores rushed across the border and engaged in a fight.

No a name shouldn’t make a difference. The only difference between how McCrieffs treated Lochmores was when a Lochmore strode through the courtyard, her father had invited him in, and then...and then confiscated his weaponry.

As he should. Her father should have also marched him to the dungeon or beheaded him right then and there. Instead, there had been an invite for breaking fast and more words exchanged that she couldn’t fully understand since most were lost with the distance between them.

Pushing herself away from the door, Ailsa hastily grabbed her shears she kept in her room and strategically folded them into the pleats of her belt and gown. Her father might have confiscated Lochmore’s weapons, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have hers. If Lochmores were invited to dine at McCrieffs’ table, she would be ready.

* * *

‘Your Chief is bedridden and you are Tanist,’ Rory said, repeating her father’s words slowly.

He sounded stunned. Ailsa was stunned as well, but at least this fact she knew. Everything else was as much a surprise to her as it was to the man who sat on her father’s left side while she sat at his right.

Her shears tucked into her belt, she had descended the stairs, a roaring in her ears as introductions were made. As the proximity to this Lochmore filled in the details the distance of the courtyard had not revealed.

His eyes were not the dark brown of earth, but held the light of a gem lit behind it. His size was formidable as she’d thought. Yet it wasn’t that which made her eyes unerringly fall to him again and again. There was something about him that compelled her. It felt like a tincture of awe and wariness.

She shouldn’t have felt either. Lochmores didn’t deserve admiration, and as for wariness...her father had unarmed them all. They weren’t out on the battlefield, but in the comfort of McCrieff Hall, eating and drinking food. Decent food, too. Not the usual fare. Her father had ordered a true feast for this occasion. Ailsa had never seen the Hall so full. There were three tables in the hall. Theirs, the smallest that sat no more than ten on one side, was perpendicular to the two larger tables. Lochmores kept to one side, their backs to the wall and they faced the inside, faced the McCrieffs.

She focused her thoughts on that. There might be no battlefield, but the men had sat as if there was. That was the cause of her wariness. Not this man who bore the name of Rory.

‘The Chief is bedridden and has been for months,’ Frederick replied.

‘And you didn’t think to notify us, though we sent letters regarding the King’s demand?’ Rory said.

‘His illness has nothing to do with our lack of reply, Lochmore.’

‘Then you are the one who ignored them so we could dine here. A letter to that effect would have been more agreeable. Or at least more comfortable for me, since I would have worn different clothing.’

‘Your being comfortable doesn’t concern me.’

‘Nor my safety.’

‘You’re alive.’

‘Without a weapon, so I wonder for how long.’

‘Isn’t it enough that you eat at our table?’ Ailsa knew it was rude to talk around her father, but would not hold her tongue when it seemed the King made demands she knew nothing of. A serving tray laid out with vegetables and covered in a rosemary sauce was presented, giving her an opportunity to break the argument between the two men. ‘Are these leeks not fine enough for you?’

Rory’s gaze fell to her and she refused to look away. A full dining hall and her father between them and yet no one else existed. The tray lowered and broke their line of sight, but only for a moment. A moment more while his eyes remained on the tray and the leeks were laid upon his trencher.

Those few brief breaths allowed her to reflect on the curl of his brown hair, the squareness of his jaw, the strong brow with eyebrows that slashed as if they had a purpose. He looked as if he had a purpose.

Then his gaze was on her again. ‘The leeks look delicious,’ he said, stabbing one with his knife, ‘but are insufficient if I wanted to defend myself.’

What was happening here? ‘Why do you need to defend yourself?’

His mouth quirked as if she told something amusing. ‘We are enemies, are we not?’

Frustrated at her useless question and his fruitless answer, Ailsa searched the Hall for the truth.

She sat where she always sat with her father since Hamish no longer could sit at the same table, yet she didn’t feel as if she was in the same chair, the same Hall or in the same place she’d always been.

This wasn’t a battle and yet it felt as though it was. Deadly silence and watchful stares. Food was served, but no trenchers were shared. Every man had his own goblet. Where the extra spoons, food or goblets came from she didn’t know. She also didn’t know how her father arranged such elaborate plans without her knowing.

On a typical day, by now there would be banter, and arrangements made for tomorrow. Instead, a few of the McCrieffs farthest away from the Lochmores murmured heatedly, and one Lochmore closest to their table kept up a conversation no one engaged in.

This wasn’t a typical meal and, no matter how much she observed everyone here, she knew there was more division in the room than that between Lochmore and McCrieff. Only she couldn’t identify the ‘others’ her father had spoken of.

Only Rory and her father exchanged words and she’d never heard her father be so diplomatic or evasive before. They were enemies, but something else was amiss. She needed him to convey to her why.

‘Is Hamish here?’ Rory addressed her father.

‘Upstairs,’ Frederick said. ‘It will be necessary for you to see him after we break the fast.’

‘Necessary for what?’ Ailsa demanded.

Frederick was turned away from her and Ailsa couldn’t see her father’s face, but she saw Rory’s. Keen intelligence burned in his eyes and he must have seen her father’s hesitation. She saw it in the slight tenseness of Frederick’s shoulders before Rory answered.

‘Necessary to discuss the King’s granting McCrieff land to Lochmores.’

‘Land!’ Ailsa cried.

Rory glanced to Frederick before he pinned her with a dark gaze. ‘Why else did you think I was invited to eat leeks with you?’

Ailsa pushed away from the table. The sharp scrape echoed in the Hall and earned her glances.

‘Ailsa, please.’ Her father turned to her, his eyes darting to others in case their conversation was overheard.

This. This was what had been plaguing the clan. Not her father’s position or Hamish’s illness. An English King decreed McCrieff land to Lochmores and they were here to collect.

Aware of Rory’s eyes on her, she laid her hand on her father’s arm. ‘All of it?’

‘Some,’ her father whispered low. ‘Along the water.’

Reeling, Ailsa gripped her father’s arm. Her father had been acting strange for weeks. Nothing untoward for everything was kept to a routine that was sustained by the Chief before him. Hamish was still too cognisant to do otherwise. Months of her father attending council meetings, inspecting land, conversing with tenants. So much to do and more so since John Balliol was crowned King of Scots last November.

Many Highlanders believed he was nothing more than a vassal of the English King Edward. But some supported him more openly than others. The Lochmore clan was one of those...

It became clear to her. The Lochmore clan supported the English King and in doing so had been granted part of their lands.

Land that McCrieffs firmly maintained was theirs and which had been fought over time and time again. It was politically crucial land since it contained water and naturally separated the clans. For her, it was important because it fed McCrieffs and provided foliage she needed for remedies. She wanted to stand and wave her arms. To shout for them all to leave the land alone. To lose such an advantage was detrimental to her and the clan. Hamish, in his day, would never have agreed to such a granting.

Hamish would have called men to arms, he would have called for battle. He would never have let Lochmores on his land, let alone in the courtyard. But her father, whose loyalty she had never questioned before, practically invited them here and prepared a feast for them.

She couldn’t cause a scene, but she would say what she needed to. ‘You can’t.’

‘Ailsa,’ Frederick said.

‘Why can’t he?’ Rory said. ‘If he is Tanist, with the agreement he has authority to do so. Even if he didn’t, it is already done by King’s decree and by mine.’

‘That land is not yours,’ Ailsa said.

Rory’s eyes went to Fredericks. ‘She didn’t know. What is happening here, Tanist?’

She’d like to know as well. Since Balliol’s claim, many secrets were being kept. Her father held private meetings, but so did Hamish. Her father acted as though he didn’t notice these meetings and, though she asked, she wasn’t privy to her father’s secrets. But everything about their behaviours filled her with unease. She couldn’t be the only one who observed their leaders’ movements. The ‘others’ would have seen as well.

‘You have to have some ideas,’ Frederick said. At Rory’s shrug, he added, ‘You can’t be a Lochmore and not want more,’ Frederick continued, his voice low so that if people tried to listen, they would not hear. ‘Especially, since it’s about to be handed to you.’

The King hadn’t decreed that all McCrieff land should be handed to the Lochmores, just the land against the border, so that couldn’t be what his father was hinting at. Even confused, Ailsa felt relief. Until...

Until Rory’s eyes locked with hers and she knew he understood a fraction of a moment before she did how Lochmores could gain more without a fight.

‘All you need to do is marry my daughter.’




Chapter Four (#u491dfb34-4674-5563-b3c4-70d451eecbe2)


‘No!’ Ailsa cried.

Lochmore made some sound she couldn’t determine. Her father wasn’t looking at her even though she had never raised her voice in her life. That didn’t bode well especially when he stood to address the hall. His words were formal as he declared there were important matters to be discussed. No one stood to question or protest. It appeared that everyone had assumed as much. Fuming, wondering how she couldn’t have known, Ailsa followed her father when he retired to the room in the back. She felt rather than saw Rory follow behind her.

It was a small room with several doors and she saw with some consternation there were also provisions on a table and several chairs. It was all previously laid out for comfort and for private discussions. Her father expected and planned well.

For her to marry a Lochmore.

She wanted to do more than raise her voice, she wanted to brandish her shears. Secrets. Her father had been acting odd for months. Why had she not suspected this? Or at least demanded answers to his behaviour. But how could she have guessed what questions to ask him?

She’d been telling herself he’d been worried about Hamish, about the clan’s discontent. She never could have guessed this. But she should have suspected something because her father was never worried or alarmed.

She was the one who worried. Especially when her father ordered her to hide when the enemy clan arrived instead of providing her an escort as she tended her clan. She was the one who grew alarmed the moment her father brought her and Rory into this tiny room and gave her that wistful paternal look. The one that asked for forgiveness even before she knew there was something to forgive about.

This wasn’t forgivable and she’d have words with her father. For now, she needed to make clear to the Lochmore her position in this matter. Yet when she met Rory’s gaze, the emotions roiling in the depth shocked her anew. Surprise definitely, but something else she refused to believe. His consideration.

‘Never!’ The word felt inadequate to express her rejection, so she said the simple word with as much vehemence as she felt.

She knew she shocked her father. She had always been the sensible one. After all, her mother had died when her sisters were born. By then she’d already started helping the clan healer. Everything she’d done up to this point was for others. Now, it appeared her father thought she’d automatically sacrifice herself. Not this time.

‘Ailsa, think about this.’ Her father sat in one of the chairs and used the voice she’d heard thousands of times before. That of a father to his daughter. But if he was acting like a father, he wouldn’t ask this.

‘I am thinking about this. How could I not know that our land was given away? And it appears as if I’m the only McCrieff who doesn’t know! Me, the healer, your daughter, who needs the marsh and soil. You know how important that land is!’

She planted there. Rhona, the old healer and the healer before that, planted there. There was need and tradition rooted in that dirt. It was dangerous, yes, since it was on the border, but it was the best place for certain necessary herbs.

‘He can’t have the land. They can’t have the land!’

‘A king decreed it.’ Rory crossed his arms and leaned against a wall. Her father said nothing.

She tightened her lips before she could commit treason. Pointing at Rory, but addressing her father, she said, ‘I want him gone.’

The Lochmore in question only said, ‘No.’

She waited for an explanation—none came. All the while she felt everything, betrayal being foremost. She had been kept in the dark about the King’s decree and McCrieffs’ obligations to Lochmores. She certainly hadn’t been told she had to marry.

‘No?’ Brandishing her shears, she strode over and pointed them at him. ‘Did you know of this?’

‘Ailsa! Put them away!’ Frederick called out. She ignored him.

‘What...this?’ the Lochmore replied with barely a glance at the shears.

The marriage, the welcoming feast, the King’s decree!

‘Any part of it,’ she bit out.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. ‘Yes.’

So only the female was kept in the dark even though it was her life in play. ‘Father, I ask for privacy.’

‘This matter must stay secret, so here we remain until it’s resolved,’ Frederick said, leaning further in his chair.

Ordered about like property. Her father had never treated her as such. Shame washed hotly with the betrayal. Her father deigned to bargain her off to a Lochmore. A clan that was, even now, their enemy. All her life, she’d been told to run or hide from Lochmores should she should spy them. Now she was told to marry and bear his children.

There wasn’t a redeeming factor to him. Lochmores knew nothing of McCrieff land, the way their hills sloped or how the sun hit the trees. He wasn’t amused by the erratic guttering of the worn paths that wound around the back of the castle or dismayed by the leaking corner in the chapel’s roof.

Even if he wasn’t a Lochmore, he was a man she had never met. His age could have been anything. His countenance, his strength and personality could have been the vilest of all. But her father, who never gambled, never guessed on the weather, risked her happiness and that of their clan that Rory Lochmore would be suitable for her.

‘Is this what you will decide with my sisters as well? Just sell them off to the best alliance?’

‘Sisters?’ Rory interjected.

Ailsa huffed. ‘Two of them and too young for your plotting, Lochmore.’

‘Ailsa!’ her father reprimanded. ‘Think it through.’

‘I have and I want no part of this!’

Ailsa strode to the door where the noises flooded in. It appeared by their absence that conversation began. She could storm from here. Nothing would resolve and everyone would know. Let them. Her friend had been murdered by Lochmores. How could her father ask this of her?

Her hand was almost on the latch, when her father banged his hand against the table. It made her jump. It made her turn.

The pounding of a fist was a demanding sound and one she would have ignored, but she couldn’t ignore the look in his eyes. Her father’s eyes pleaded with her. Her father never pleaded.

Did he plead with his daughter who had lost her precious friend? If so, her answer would remain no. A political alliance? Countries were built and torn down. She was a healer, what did she care for alliances except that they often stopped—

Ah. A quick twist in her heart and her mind listened. Political alliance stopped war...stopped deaths from occurring.

What care did she have for Lochmores? None, even though Rhona tried to soften her with a story about a babe named Rory, who was born and lost. No! She wouldn’t think of that tale now. And she wouldn’t forgive Lochmores for Magnus’s death.

As a healer she had an obligation to stop further deaths. Now wasn’t the time to not care for others. Now wasn’t the time to be selfish even if it was justified and in self-preservation. Though their numbers were great compared to the few Lochmores who travelled here today, if McCrieffs waged a battle only more Lochmores would arrive and these wouldn’t allow their swords to be taken.

Allow. That moment when her father captured Lochmore, their men had been quick, but something about this warrior’s manner... He’d allowed his capture...maybe even expected it the moment he stepped through the gates.

What did she know of this man, the only heir to the Lochmore’s Chief? Formidable even now though he stood silently and watched the exchange between a daughter and her father.

This man; her husband? Never, but what wouldn’t she do for her clan as daughter to the Tanist, as their healer? She would do anything. With utmost resolve she turned away from the door.

* * *

Rory regretted the small shocked sound he released when Frederick had made his declaration. Through all the challenges in his life, he thought himself better equipped to mask his emotions.

But this challenge, a Lochmore marrying a McCrieff, wasn’t one he could ever have prepared for. It seemed Frederick’s daughter felt the same.

She was one flick of the lock away from leaving the room before her father brought her back. From where he leaned against the wall, he couldn’t see the looks exchanged. He couldn’t determine why in the silence that followed she did listen to him and sat in a chair though the shears stayed available on her lap.

Anticipating that finally she would behave as other women, to bow to the orders of her father, to present mild and pleasing manners, he kept his gaze to her. Yet though she sat, her chin was raised, her fingers clasping the shears. No meekness at all and far too much defiance. He couldn’t predict this woman’s behaviour and thoughts.

But though she was tense and her brow was creased, she continued to sit. She was reasonably contemplating her father’s words.

It was time to do so himself. If it was even true. ‘You want me to marry your daughter?’ Each word felt unreal.

Frederick exhaled. Part relief that his words were listened to, part something else...like grief or loss.

‘Yes. Marry her. As she is my daughter, you would have influence on this clan.’

Influence, but not power. ‘You would remain Tanist and inherit the rule of McCrieffs.’

‘Of course,’ Frederick replied. ‘Further, there would be no guarantee that you would gain any more than that.’

A swift glance to the woman at his left revealed she was listening, but the tight grasp on the shears told him the cost of her remaining silent.

This was a woman who thought with her mind. She was beautiful and intelligent. Such a daughter would be prized and even an old swordsman would have hopes that his issue would do better than merely marrying a man from an enemy clan, even if that man was the Chief’s son.

‘You are saying, that even upon your death, I, as a Lochmore, may not be accepted by McCrieffs.’

‘In truth,’ Frederick said, ‘it would be...beneficial for me to remain ruler of McCrieffs.’

‘A bright future for me. Marrying a woman, who doesn’t want to be married. To marry into a clan, who may never accept me. And all of this to inherit nothing more than what a king already granted me.’ Rory crossed his arms, watched the play of emotions in Frederick’s eyes until he saw what he needed to see. ‘But that is not all you want.’

A fierce gleam in the warrior’s eyes, before he hid it with a shrug. ‘What I expect and what is possible, what could be, are two different matters.’

Could be. Rory was right. The generations of animosity were too long furrowed into the families of McCrieffs and Lochmores. Even if they married and had issue, the divide could be permanent.

Or it could be more. But if he didn’t marry Ailsa, there would never be the chance of something more. A chance to combine the clans. He choked down that bit of hope which had no place in these negotiations.

‘Not a generous offer. What makes you think I’ll accept?’ Rory said as evenly as possible. No tone of flippancy, no curiosity. Nothing to reveal his roiling emotions at the McCrieffs’ leader suggesting a hope for his future or his descendants. ‘I am a Lochmore, son of a chief, and will be Chief one day. I am a not a pawn to be moved at the whimsy of anyone.’

He’d underestimated the McCrieffs. Or maybe it was only this man, whom he needed to be more cautious with and whom he needed to warn. Rory had no intention of being underestimated.

Frederick rested his arms on the chair’s rests. ‘I never presumed that you were such a sort. If I did, I would not have made the offer of my precious daughter to you. Know this, Lochmore, she is very dear to me.’

At that the woman in the chair shifted and Rory’s eyes were drawn to her again. No crease between her brows, no tenseness in her shoulders. She had decided. From her silence, and the fact she wasn’t trying to leave, he could only presume she agreed with her father.

Rory allowed himself to look at the man not as an enemy, but as a father. To see the lines of age and care in his face. The strain around his eyes not because he faced a foe before him, but because he made himself truly vulnerable. He meant it. The old warrior meant to give his daughter to him.

‘Dear or not, she is only a gift if I want her and I do not accept.’

Frederick stood then, his expression revealing he’d heard the insult.

Rory raised his hand. ‘Do not tell me to think about it. I am not your son, nor part of this clan. In fact, Lochmores lose power and control by this marriage.’

‘How?’ Ailsa demanded. ‘How do they lose?’

‘The land,’ Rory said. ‘The King decreed the borderland to now be Lochmore land. If we marry, there will be a question whether the land belongs to the Lochmores or the McCrieffs. McCrieffs will no doubt still use it and how could I wage war against my wife’s family?’

‘You throw away much too quickly and without thought,’ Frederick said. ‘Think of the future.’

‘I live in the present. Your daughter is only a prize if I should want her. Did you think her so fair that my head would turn for her? The ale so potent that it would muddle my thoughts? A king decreed the land already to be mine. What you offer gains me nothing. I do not need to bargain with you, I only came to claim what is Lochmores.’

‘Then you are a fool just like the others,’ Ailsa said.

The words were quiet and steady...almost reasonable sounding. However, if she were her father and said such words, he would have drawn his sword. If he had one.

Another almost reaction when he didn’t want to reveal a single one. He consoled himself that the impulse was still there only because he was too close to the edge. A Lochmore marry a McCrieff?

He addressed Frederick. ‘Give me time alone with your daughter.’

‘There’s no need for it. He said his piece,’ Ailsa said.

‘There is a need,’ Rory said. ‘I’m unarmed, unlike your daughter, and she could make a cry that would be heard by every man in the Hall should she need it.’

‘Will this change your mind?’ Frederick adjusted his sword.

Rory doubted it. But he’d been plagued all day with too many questions. And the nature of this woman was one question he would find the answers to. She agreed to it, but why? ‘Perhaps.’

Frederick pointed. ‘I’ll go through that door. Very few people will see me, but I will not escape notice long so you will not have much time.’

Rory watched Ailsa, who played with the shears in her hands, but remained quiet until the door closed.

‘What is it that you want, Lochmore?’

With her red hair and green eyes, she looked very much like something from tales told to him as a child. A harpy, a sprite, a vengeful faery. But the rest of her wasn’t from his childhood. The rest of her reminded him that he was very much a man and she was a full-grown woman. Her twirling the shears in front of her accentuated her breasts, tightened the fabric of her gown, so he could admire the dip of her waist and her generous hips.

She was petite, but then everyone was to him, yet she was generously made. Whereas some women might have a shine to their hair or a sparkle in the eyes, Ailsa’s pale skin, moss-coloured eyes and sunrise hair overflowed with colour. Her body was ample, thick in areas where a man could grab and sink into her lusciousness.

Everything about her called to him. It was the reason he’d seen her across the courtyard. Enemies with weapons in their hands and just the mere glimpse of her arrested him.

Now that he had seen her this close, exchanged a handful of words, he couldn’t shake the feeling of déjà vu. As if...he knew her already.

‘You threatened me with shears,’ he said ignoring her question and adjusting his large body in to one of the chairs. For an instant, he was distracted by the fact the chair was not too small for him. He stretched, liking the fact he could do so. At home, there were no chairs built for him and he didn’t ask for them to be. In truth, he preferred to stand, but knew in this negotiation, his size would be to his detriment. He was here to find answers, not intimidate.

She shrugged. ‘They were handy and you arrived on short notice.’

‘They’re sharp. You could do me harm.’

‘I ensure their usability, that is all.’

‘For gardening,’ he guessed.

‘Of sorts,’ she said, tucking the shears in her belt and laying her hands in her lap. ‘What are you here for?’

‘To claim the land,’ he said. ‘What is it you do here, Ailsa, that you need shears?’

She sighed. ‘I heal. I’m the healer...you seemed surprised.’

Not surprised, but somehow, oddly pleased. She was intelligent in more ways than one. ‘Aren’t healers old and wizened?’

‘They don’t start out that way. Rhona, my mentor, died two winters past. So I’m it now. Though my father...’ She shook her head.

‘Though your father?’ he prompted.

Her eyes narrowed and he saw the spark of fire she held when she’d aimed her shears at his throat. ‘I’m a healer, Lochmore, and that’s all you need to know.’

‘Though we are to marry?’ he mocked.

Her frown increased and he found he didn’t like it. When she talked of Rhona, even that little bit, something of the true Ailsa had emerged. It was that which he wanted to coax from her, even though he had no business here except to secure the McCrieff land. He certainly didn’t need the complication of this woman or the Tanist’s proposal.

‘If we marry,’ she said. ‘Why are you here? The land is already yours since the King decreed it. Despite, if I understand correctly, our not answering your letters. You didn’t have to come here and demand that we agree.’

‘It is uncertain otherwise.’

‘So you recognise the fact we could have fought you for it despite what King Edward granted. That men could die.’ She canted her head, the tension in her body easing a bit more. ‘You care about that?’

There was much and little that he cared about. He tapped the chair’s arm for a beat before he answered. ‘If no blood needs to be shed, it would be foolish to insist on it.’

‘And yet you don’t agree to marry me in order to avoid the shedding of blood. You’re a fool.’

‘A fool?’ he repeated.

‘When there’s so much to gain and you baulk, yes.’

‘Men die every day for bits of land.’

‘So saving your men isn’t enough to marry me?’

‘My men? I know the worth of Lochmore swords and do not expect any of our blood to be spilled.’ Another tap on the chair’s arms as he waited for her to reply. When she didn’t he said, ‘If you remember, you did not immediately agree.’

A moment of hesitation before she arched a brow. ‘We are enemies, are we not?’

Something punched through him fast and hot when she repeated his words from earlier. He thought there wouldn’t be a battle today, but perhaps he’d found a worthy one.

‘Not good enough,’ he said.

She sighed. ‘We didn’t answer your letters so obviously McCrieffs don’t agree with the transfer. Marriage would help because if we marry, the transference of land would be done without bloodshed. I, unlike you, do care if blood is spilled. Whether you believe it or not, I care about any man, whether he be Lochmore or McCrieff. I am a healer.’

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. This brought them closer though she didn’t acknowledge it...or realise it. But he did, he was a large man, and with little effort he could yank her off the chair and on to his lap.

Clenching his hands to prevent himself from doing just that, he shook the idea from his thoughts. His inexplicable desire for this woman, for this McCrieff, had no place here.

And yet...they talked of marriage, so how could he stop his thoughts straying? ‘You would help heal Lochmore men. Are you now saying we are not enemies?’

‘We are.’ Ailsa stood and her gown gracefully fell around her, though her own movements were uneven as she secured her shears. ‘We will always be.’

He agreed, but he was surprised by her answer. ‘And yet—’

‘I agreed to marry you?’ she interrupted. ‘Know this, Lochmore, I was told of the Great Feud as well as you. Our clans have the right to hate each other.’

Maybe here were the answers he sought. ‘Such vehemence for such old history. There’s more you’re not telling me. You revealed your anger when you shouted at your father.’

She skirted around him and he felt the impatient brush of her gown against his legs. ‘This history keeps occurring. Even now, I worry about what is happening in the Hall.’

He did, too, but he was more fascinated with watching her pace the small room.

‘When did the King make the decree of McCrieff lands?’ she asked.

Her father was a fool to have kept her in the dark. Her ire was justified. Maybe was even angry at herself for not realising that something was amiss. ‘Last winter after Balliol was crowned.’

She didn’t hide the flash of incredulous anger that crossed her fine features. ‘That is why your men crossed the border to McCrieff land?’

He nodded.

‘Were they celebrating?’

They had been. He’d never seen his father in a rage before, but he had been that day. The men thought a victory had been made. That the land, just because a king decreed it theirs, was theirs. His father had pointed out when it came to bordering land that had been fought over for centuries, nothing was that clear. ‘They were punished.’

‘Two McCrieffs died that day.’

‘And you are the healer,’ he said. She didn’t act like Lochmore’s healer with her gentle ways. Ailsa was fierce. She’d likely stab Death in the heart before it came to take her clansmen away. Anyone she truly cared for she’d most likely... Then a thought occurred to him. ‘Or were you close to one of the McCrieffs?’

‘I’m close to every McCrieff. I care for them all.’

Not a lover or a husband, then. Still, her pacing seemed to increase as he asked his questions. There was more here. As the son of the Chief, he, too, cared for his clan, but losing a clan member would be different from losing Paiden. If that had occurred, it would be a loss he would roar against until his dying day.

‘Did you lose someone else?’

She suddenly hugged her body, her hands roughly rubbing her arms as if she was chilled. ‘We should be talking about my father’s proposal for us, not my childhood.’

‘Your childhood?’

She made a sound of frustration, of anger. ‘You don’t deserve my secrets, but know that I have just cause for my reservations about this marriage,’ she said. ‘But even then, I ask you, can you not see the benefits?’

His body recognised the benefits. His desire couldn’t avoid them. That red hair and rosy lips. Those blushing cheeks. Her fiery temper.

Even now when he was refusing such connection to her, his body conjured images. How he’d wrap the flames of her hair around his fist as he plundered those lips, as he coaxed her to her knees...

Hands suddenly greedy, he clasped them before she could tell what was truly in his thoughts. Her. She talked of past deaths and he could only think of her. Her father was foolish or maybe wise to leave them in this room together...alone. The small unadorned room only highlighted her worth and he kept noticing it.

‘You don’t want more deaths, Ailsa. I understand. But your father prevented McCrieff deaths when he confiscated our weapons,’ he said. ‘Of course, he could kill us. How would I know, since this is our first meeting?’

‘As if you’d simply let him. You’re wasting time, Lochmore.’

Until her father’s return. Her father had made it all too easy for them to come to McCrieff land. Now he understood why.

Sighing, Ailsa continued, ‘We know nothing of each other, but that matters not when it comes to our clans. If we marry, no one dies.’

‘Perhaps today, or for the next sennight, but distrust and animosity between our clans runs too deep,’ he stated.

‘Marriage is permanent. The change would be permanent,’ she said.

‘One was tried before and failed. And we all know whose fault that was.’ Legend had it that a woman who had promised to marry a McCrieff had married a Lochmore instead. True or not, it was also well known that the McCrieffs retaliated and relations deteriorated from there.

A slight frown. ‘What is known and what is speculated does not matter. The fact is we can start anew.’

If she had experienced the deaths of people she cared for, how could she believe so naively? Frederick, the Tanist, proposed it, but he also said he would remain Tanist and that nothing was a guarantee. ‘Did you not hear your father? This is not about starting anew. This is about preserving McCrieff power.’

‘That’s why you care,’ she said. ‘Not for lives, but for power.’

Power was everything. Lochmores were given McCrieff land because they held more power. For once, he’d like control of his life. With power, he could.

‘Don’t you care about it? You want to marry and, by doing so, you preserve the land you have regardless if the King says it is Lochmores. I could not wage battle against your family. Further, you also probably prevent King Edward from taking any more away.’

She opened her mouth, closed it abruptly.

‘You didn’t think that?’

‘I told you why I want it. For lives, which appears to be nothing you care about.’ She fingered the shears around her belt. ‘It doesn’t matter. In the end, the outcome is the same. Two people who have...position and influence in both clans marry.’

‘You think I gain power by marrying you though your father said otherwise?’

‘You certainly don’t lose it. There would be no fight over the land by the border.’

‘I’m Lochmore’s Chief, I could marry anyone and gain other lands.’

‘But none closer or convenient. And for that matter, none merely handed to you.’

Ailsa’s beauty was one thing, her unexpected intelligence was another. Everything about her was unexpected. She was fair of face and body. Mere hours in her presence and he knew she had a fine mind as well. There would be no burden to marry her.

He wouldn’t voice it, but there was a possibility to gain all the McCrieff lands. An achievement none of his clan would expect. All of this done without bloodshed, but there was a catch. There was always a catch when it came to the McCrieffs and the Tanist confessed it. He didn’t intend to concede power. By doing so, Frederick projected to his clan that McCrieffs remained in power.

Where would that leave him? Waiting for the warrior’s death, counting the years until he could wrest control...even if he could. However, it was inconceivable that Frederick would want that for his daughter’s children. Maybe the old man had hope to combine the clans as well. Frederick, as a McCrieff, would be in a better position to know if that hope was possible.

So he married a McCrieff’s daughter, which solved nothing now and only perhaps gained something in the future. Even with all this disclosure, and the almost certainty that Frederick would want a brighter future for his daughter, Rory still sensed a trap.

It was Frederick’s movements before he left the room, a jitter to his leg, his sword hand opening and closing. The frequent glances to the door as if he expected it to burst open. His readiness to be on the other side of the door. He left giving the pretext of privacy, but was it possible he stood on the other side of the door to guard it?

For now Rory could hear muffled voices and the clinking of goblets. There was much talking and occasional shouts of merriment. Was he being merely suspicious?

The danger surrounding him hadn’t been the travelling on McCrieff land, or the offering of marriage. The danger was something he couldn’t see or understand. And for a moment, Rory wished for his sword so he could lay it firmly against Frederick’s neck and demand the truth.

There were lies everywhere. That same instinct that told him something was wrong with his past told him something was wrong now. There was disclosure in this room, but something still felt amiss. Secrets, he saw them everywhere, he’d been trained at it since he was very young.

He knew, though he had never been told, he was not, and could not be, Chief Lochmore’s son.

Though he emulated his parents, though he behaved and trained as the son of a chief should, something inside him warned that he didn’t belong. And it was that which made him refuse the offer now. Not some trap or unknown future. Not some false sense of pride that he wasn’t a pawn to game. They were all pawns and everything a trap. It was that frisson of something amiss that held him back.

‘As the son of a chief, as an enforcer of King Edward’s decree, I cannot accept this offer.’

‘Why, because of this power?’ she scoffed. ‘Because you will not have any since my father will not concede his?’

Power. It was all about power. She might think he held off because of her father, but in fact, he held back because he had none. ‘Power is everything.’

‘So shortsighted! Today we could have some peace. Blood would not be spilled.’

Rory stood then. He was irritated that he could not tell the full truth because he knew these people weren’t. Since that was the case, he’d continue to argue what was known. ‘Shortsighted? A marriage isn’t only for today, it’s for the future. And your father’s proposal curtails mine.’

Small room and a woman who should have looked insignificant against his size now that he stood, but she raised her chin defiantly and he saw nothing but her own stubborn strength and fire.

He had some of his own and his impatience with these people, with his own circumstances, roiled harder inside him. But when he took the steps necessary to be even closer to her, to now intimidate her, she held her ground. And he knew, absolutely knew, he lost some of his. Despite the facts and the glaring falsehoods, he wanted her.

‘I have shears, Lochmore.’

‘Call me Rory.’

A flicker of something across her stunning green eyes and the elegant lines of her neck moved when she swallowed. When he stood with her at the dining table, she had not shown this wariness. Was it the privacy of the room and the fact they were alone? Or was it because his asking her to call him by his name felt too personal?

‘If we are to marry, you would need to say my name,’ he said.

‘But you said we would not marry?’

‘Perhaps you persuaded me with your shears.’

Her eyes narrowed, and he couldn’t help the curve to his lips. She didn’t believe him. Good, she shouldn’t.

He shouldn’t marry her either and that had nothing to do with what they discussed. There was every chance he could leave today without marrying her and there would still be no bloodshed. Frederick could take him prisoner if he refused the proposal, but that would bring the entire Lochmore clan here, and, if Frederick cared for his daughter, he would not jeopardise her life.

Another scenario could be him leaving here and informing his father that he had ensured the border’s safety. A partial untruth, but he’d bet his life that Frederick, meeting him and his men, wouldn’t now fight over something that was almost...personal.

All the conjecture led to one conclusion: to marry Ailsa was superfluous.

A half-step more and her gown brushed his legs again. This time there was no movement from her to indicate her impatience or frustration. Her gown was still, like she was before him. Confusion, yes, he saw it in her eyes and the barely discernible way her body tensed. But there was something else now...an awareness that perhaps matched his own.

Could it be she felt as he did? After all, she had agreed to marry him. ‘Perhaps you persuaded me, Ailsa, that the marriage is necessary to ensure no more bloodshed.’

‘You don’t believe that.’

He wanted privacy so he could gain some answers to this day. To understand or at least appreciate Frederick’s bargaining his only child. Nothing was clear, except this moment. Right now.

There were falsehoods here, but Ailsa and her need to heal was not one of them. She actually...cared. How that was relevant or whether it should be, he didn’t know. But something eased within him.

‘You know, we could marry and our clans could still war. There’s the probability it could make matters worse. What you want to prevent may come about by our joining.’

She exhaled roughly. ‘I told you that our animosity runs deep. I understand that. I also know the land is already yours by a king’s decree. Marrying me could solve nothing. And yet... I know that the way matters are between our clans is of no benefit either.

‘I lost...’ She canted her head and raised her hand. For one infinitesimal moment, he thought she’d lay it on his chest, right on his heart that suddenly beat uncontrollably.

Then the moment was gone. A stuttering of her fingers as if she realised what she was about to do before she lowered and clasped it before her. ‘All I want is the possibility of something different.’

A possibility. Her words were another punch to his battered body. Everything here was a possibility. For her the lives saved. For him...power. Control. The chance for more for his clan and hers, for a family of his own, children. He’d have a wife who cared for others with a fierceness he didn’t realise he’d wanted until he met her.

Impossible, these possibilities. All the more so for the other pressing reason he shouldn’t marry her. They believed him to be the Chief’s son and if it ever came to light that he wasn’t, what then?

Yet, a possibility for a future he didn’t dare dream of... Any warrior, any man, would lie and steal for that dream. Maybe he didn’t have to go that far. In truth, he was at least named a Lochmore. His mother might have lain with another, but it must have been done in great secret given the truth had never been revealed in all these years. As a result, their marriage would still be a Lochmore marrying a McCrieff and maybe that was enough.

Unless the Tanist discovered the truth one day and took it as an insult. So many possible possibilities. But once something was done, it couldn’t be undone. He was proof of that. Marriage and their children were permanent despite his fears of his past.

Thuds and roars from behind the door. They both froze, until goblets thumped on heavy oak tables and laughter rang out.

An offer of marriage.

Marriage. He returned his gaze to Ailsa, who gazed back unwaveringly at him. He admired her again. More so because he’d refused her and she’d replied with reason and pride.

Such fire within her veins and it called to his own. But it was a reminder as well. No matter his dreams or hopes, there was no talk of a happy marriage or children from her. She talked of preventing bloodshed, not peace. She cared, but she didn’t say she cared for him. This wasn’t personal for her and it shouldn’t be for him.

And yet, if this was a trap, they had made the prize too dear not to reach for it. All he needed to do was agree and the possibility of more would be his. But the possibilities of a better future wasn’t what pummelled through his chest and coursed hotly through his veins because his body didn’t concern itself with property or power. His body believed Ailsa was the prize. Thus, she was his right not as a ruler, but as a man.

He’d take her.

‘Say my name, Ailsa. Say it and that possibility you want will be so.’

She straightened, seemingly to brace herself. ‘Rory.’

Victory and far sweeter than he had envisioned for this day. Two strides to the door, he flung it open to see Frederick on the other side with his sword out. At Rory’s glance, Frederick sheathed it.

A moment of hesitation and a truth rang out. Frederick was guarding the door. But his expression showed something else. Gone was father and warrior, now he carried only the expression of a politician.

A wife who didn’t care for him. A father-in-law that had an agenda he knew nothing about. Still, the possibility of more... ‘I, as representative of Clan Lochmore, as son of Chief Lochmore, agree to this offer.’

Frederick’s eyes switched to his daughter and held. Whatever he saw there, it was enough for him to say, ‘As my daughter is witness, it is made in good faith.’

‘That won’t be good enough,’ Rory said.

‘Ah, yes, this calls for a formal announcement.’




Chapter Five (#u491dfb34-4674-5563-b3c4-70d451eecbe2)


Frederick strode to the door leading to the Hall and opened it. Rory held back and looked at the woman who would soon be his wife. Her face was as implacable as her father’s. She, too, was a warrior in her own right.

He didn’t touch her, nor did he speak, but when she walked quietly up to him he approved. When they left this room, they would be side by side. The image of them both as one entity would be solidified, the words that needed pronouncement almost redundant.

Their entrance quieted the Hall. All his men were hale, hearty, Paiden’s keen alertness showing though he lounged as if he was relaxed in his own home. He was up to something as usual.

Then Frederick was saying the words with the necessary reverence and Rory ensured his own gaze locked on to as many clansmen as possible in the cramped quarters. There was surprise by his own clansmen and by McCrieffs. There was also hostility and defiance, which meant Frederick had kept this secret not only from his daughter, but also from his own clansmen. The underlying sense of wrongness again clamoured inside Rory. It was one matter to surprise the Lochmores with an arranged marriage, but such an alliance would have, under normal circumstances, been discussed from every angle with the elders of a clan. Why would Frederick keep it secret from them?

A trap, but he obtained the prize. He and Ailsa’s marriage had been announced to all and could not be undone. If he had to sleep with one eye open and keep a guard at his door, if he had to threaten every clansman from now until his death, he would ensure the future he wanted. Because now that hope he’d been trying to contain expanded inside him. He’d made this deal on his own, without his family’s approval. Without his father’s approval. He would argue that he did it for the clan, to secure the land. He knew the truth—he did it for himself.

When Frederick shoved his hand into the pouch around his waist and cupped dirt in his palm, Rory, without hesitation, accepted the transfer of it to his hand. The dirt was not mere dirt, but McCrieff soil.

More formalities would have to be done, more announcements and ceremonies. So many more customs to uphold, but this Tanist had the foresight to gather dirt to make the legal gesture of transferring McCrieff land to Lochmore. By accepting the dried clods, the transfer of land was complete and binding.

Wily warrior. Frederick had expected Rory to agree to his offer and had gathered the soil before the meeting. But what man wouldn’t agree to it? He almost hadn’t. He still shouldn’t. Frederick had planned for his daughter to marry the Lochmore Chief’s son, but Rory alone knew that Lochmore’s blood did not flow in his veins and that should have been enough to stop him from marrying now.

Servants were bustling in with freshly filled flagons. Paiden swiped a flagon and a new goblet off the tray to extravagantly pour the contents of a deep rich wine.

His eyes held Rory’s, a mixture of all their years of friendship. There was no confusion or surprise in Paiden’s eyes. There was true admiration because Paiden understood the struggle Rory had to prove his worth to his father and to his clan. He’d been there all the years, had seen his disappointment and regrets.

He’d been by his side today and didn’t flinch when Rory entered the courtyard. Paiden knew why Rory did it. The question would come later if his father and clan would approve the match. And Paiden, with a smirk just under the surface as he gave his congratulations, appeared to already relish the upcoming battles.

The rest of the men he’d brought today were divided in loyalty to him and his father, but Paiden would watch his back in the days and weeks to come.

So when Paiden finished his speech and gulped deep from his goblet, Rory raised his cup as well. But this moment wasn’t only about Paiden or his clan, it was about the two people still standing by his side and Rory turned to his soon-to-be wife and her father. Frederick was still gazing at the crowd. Ailsa’s gaze, however, was on him.

Steady. Sure. There was hesitancy, but no fear there. In private, she’d given an impassioned speech as to why they should marry and now, after the announcement, it seemed she had not changed her mind.

At that moment, he should have turned again to the crowd, to his clansmen, who were watching, but Ailsa’s gaze did not turn away from him and he was loath to look away.

She seemed to be assessing him, watching him as steadily as he wanted to watch her. He could feel the pull of her in that moment, like a man aware that the sun rose and set, but unable to perceive moment by moment how the day changed from day to night.

Her hair might have been what caught his eye, but it was the emotion in her eyes that snared him. His eyes kept to hers and he didn’t know when the assessment of each other turned from political to personal, but his body felt it. His soul felt it and he could do nothing to stop it.

And he felt himself being lost as he lifted his cup to his lips to acknowledge Paiden’s words when her expression changed. Suddenly. Violently.

Still trapped in the flood of heat in his body, and the tenacious fixation of his thoughts, it took him far too long to register the moment a cry rang out in the Hall and there was a heavy thud. When he swung his gaze to the tables, his own goblet was knocked from his hands.

But the lost goblet didn’t matter because the sound and cry wasn’t of an oak bench tumbling over by the weight of people. It was Paiden, whose body was crumpled to the ground, and the wild circle of both his clansmen and McCrieffs already forming.

On instinct, Rory pounded to the nearest McCrieff, stealing his weapon. Then, with sword drawn, he stood at his friend’s side.

* * *

It wasn’t happening. Any of this. All of this. Ailsa couldn’t comprehend what had happened before the Lochmore clansman collapsed to the ground, but the instant his goblet slipped from his grip and his pallor drew white, she did. Utterly and absolutely.

A Lochmore, the one with an easy smile, had swiped a flagon of wine and poured it before the servants finished their service. He’d been first to swallow and first to collapse.

Then chaos. Shouts. Violence erupted in that already strained room. She shoved Rory’s goblet to the ground, her father’s next as she yelled out to the crowd to not drink any. She didn’t know if she was heard, but she’d done all she could for others, it was the man who fell who was her only concern now.

Rory was there standing over him. The sword he’d seized cut a wide vengeful swathe around him. The closest to him were the rest of the Lochmore clan. Her own clansmen were standing back, a few with weapons and more reaching for theirs.

McCrieffs and Lochmores in battle in her very home at her very hearth with children around them. She had to reason with them and quick. The collapsed man was prone, panting, his skin beginning to glisten.

Rotten food did not cause this. Poison did. Whatever was given to him was fast, and dangerous, and the small pouch around her waist held no roots to induce vomiting. There was only one way to help him now, but that meant she needed access to him. That meant she needed to argue with a madman.

Rory wasn’t the reasoning giant she’d verbally sparred with just moments before. He was a man, a beast. Thick of bone and looking not quite human. Not the man who had been watching her while her father proposed marriage. Nor the man who courteously escorted her to stand before their clans.

This man was feral and full of rage. She snapped her eyes away from him and surveyed the room. Her father was already issuing orders, demanding for his men to stand down. Half of the McCrieffs lowered their swords, but there were a few who kept theirs out and pointed. Those men did not follow her father’s orders, something that alarmed her, but she had no time for that now.

The man dying on the ground had no time for swords or politics. She had no more moments to waste, but grabbed a servant and demanded boiling water and salt to be brought immediately. By the time it reached her it would have cooled enough to pour down the man’s throat.

A few Lochmores had swords. She ignored them all and put herself between two Lochmores who stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘Let me through!’

No one was listening to her. She shoved the nearest one, but he stayed firm. That man would die without her. ‘Lochmore!’

Eyes flashed to hers. She’d seen animals caught in faulty traps that didn’t kill. Everything about this man reminded her of a tortured animal.

‘Never,’ he vowed.

‘He’ll die.’

‘You intended that, McCrieff. You invited us here. Lowered our guard with fake promises of peace. Fed us poison to destroy us.’

‘Nothing is false here,’ Frederick said. ‘Our truce is true.’

‘My friend at my feet proves your lies.’

The man groaned, clutching his stomach. She only had moments to spare him. She shoved herself forward and made it through the Lochmores, who were taken by surprise.

Rory lifted his sword and stared her straight in the eyes. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

‘You point a sword at a woman?’ Frederick roared.

‘I point at an enemy.’

Ailsa had enough. ‘While you point that sword, he’s dying. I’m not a woman or an enemy right now, Lochmore.’ She indicated the pouch around her waist and spied the water bearer enter the room. ‘I am a healer and his only chance.’

This was ridiculous. She’d been ordered around enough tonight. Keeping her eyes on him, she moved around the sword, knelt and froze again as she felt the prick of a sword at her neck. She ignored it. She didn’t care, it wasn’t what concerned her. Whether she lived or died was a matter of fear, whether this man lived or died was up to her.

Shoving with all her weight to move his body on to his side, she retorted, ‘You can stab me all you want, but I will save this man.’




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