One

 

Scotland 1437, McLeren land

Fire could be a welcome sight to a man when he’d been riding a long time and the sun had set, leaving him surrounded by darkness. But the sight of flames on the horizon could also be the most horrifying thing any laird ever set his eyes on.

Torin McLeren wanted to close his eyes in the hopes that the orange flames illuminating the night might not be there when he opened them again. He could smell the smoke on the night air now but didn’t have the luxury of allowing the horror to turn his stomach. He was laird, and protecting his holdings was his duty.

Digging his spurs into his horse, he headed toward the inferno. Wails began to drown out the hissing flames. Laments carried on the night wind as wives and mothers mourned bitterly. The scent of blood rose above the smoke, the flickering orange light illuminating the fallen bodies of his clansmen. He stared at the carnage, stunned by the number of dead and wounded. He might be a Highlander and no stranger to battle, but this was a village, not a piece of land disputed and fought over by nobles. This was McLeren land and had been for more than a century.

A horror straight out of hell surrounded him. Mercy hadn’t been present here—he’d seen less carnage after fighting the English. The slaughter was almost too much to believe or accept. His horse balked at his command to ride forward, the stallion rearing up as the heat from the blaze became hot against its hide. Torin cursed and slid from the saddle. Every muscle in his body tightened, rage slowly coming to a boil inside him. Hands reached out to him, grasping fingers seeking him as the only hope of righting the wrong that had been inflicted on them.

His temper burned hotter than the fire consuming the keep in front of him. They suffered raids from time to time, but this was something else entirely. It was war. The number of bodies lying where they had fallen was a wrong that could not be ignored. Nor should it be. These were his people, McLerens who trusted in his leadership and his sword arm for protection.

“Justice…”

One single word but it echoed across the fallen bodies of men wearing the same plaid he did. Every retainer left to keep the peace was lying dead, but they had died as Highlanders. The ground was littered with the unmoving forms of their attackers. His gaze settled on one body, the still form leaking dark blood onto his land, the kilt drawing his interest. Lowering his frame onto one knee, Torin fingered the colors of his enemy. The fire lit the scarlet and blue colors of the McBoyd clan. His neighbor and apparently now his enemy.

McBoyds? It didn’t make sense. These were common people. Good folk who labored hard to feed their families. Every McLeren retainer stationed there knew and accepted that they might have to fight for their clan, but that did not explain the number of slain villagers. There was no reason for such a slaughter. No excuse he would ever swallow or accept. McLerens did not fear the night, be they common born or not. While he was laird, they would not live in fear.

“There will be justice. I swear it.” His voice carried authority, but to those weeping over their lost family, it also gave comfort. Torin stood still only for a moment, his retainers backing him up before he turned and remounted his horse. He felt more at home in the saddle, more confident. His father had raised him to lead the McLerens in good times and bad. He would not disappoint him or a single McLeren watching him now.

“Well now, let us see what the McBoyds have to say for themselves, lads.”

Torin turned his stallion into the night without a care for the clouds that kept the moonlight from illuminating the rocky terrain. He was a Highlander, after all. Let the other things in the dark fear him.

***

“Shannon! Wake up, girl, and quickly.”

Shannon McBoyd opened her eyes to nothing but a single candle flame offering light against the dead of night. Outside the glow of that single flickering flame there was nothing but blackness. The yellow glow cast the features of her clanswoman in enough light to make out the pinched look on her face. Tension prickled along Shannon’s neck and down her back.

“Here now, Gerty. What’s the fuss about at this time of night?”

Shannon rubbed her eyes and shivered. The night was frigid, almost unnaturally so, and the small window across her chamber had its wooden shutters closed tight, but wind still blew through the center of it where the shutters met. The candle flame danced as Gerty moved in front of the window, and she gasped, turning her back to shield their only source of light.

“Come now, out of bed.”

Shannon pushed her bedding back. Her shift was thin and worn, providing her little protection against the darkest hours unless she remained in her bed. Old Gerty didn’t seem to notice the chill—that, or she was ignoring it. The old servant pushed the bed curtain aside, barely keeping the flame of the candle she held away from it.

“Yer father is calling for ye. Hurry up, girl. He’s got the whisky out.”

Shannon felt her stomach clench because it was not a natural time for her sire to be demanding her presence. The last remains of slumber evaporated as she tried to think of what her father wanted from her at this time of night. She crawled out of the bedding quickly because her father was never kind when kept waiting. Randal McBoyd expected obedience and promptness. Never mind that it was the dead of night, best left to ghosts and other unholy things.

“Hurry, lass.”

Gerty didn’t wait for Shannon to comply. The old servant was moving faster than Shannon could recall. Gerty dropped a loose gown over her head before Shannon had fully raised her arms. At least the dress was bulky enough for her to wiggle her arms into the sleeves. The fabric held the chill of the night, making her shiver again. Gerty handed a girdle belt to her and reached for the hairbrush. The servant pulled the bristles through her hair only a few times before dropping the brush back on the table. She grabbed the strands and forced them into a braid, making Shannon wince as the woman pulled too hard, but she could not appear below with her hair loose. That would start rumors that she didn’t need attached to her name. She reached for her linen cap, which was sitting beside her bed, and tied it beneath her chin, grateful for the warmth it would help keep inside her. When it was blistering hot in the heart of summer, she detested the cap demanded by her father to preserve her modesty.

“Good enough. Get on with ye.”

Shannon struggled to push her foot into a shoe while Gerty opened the chamber door and gestured to her frantically. There was a haunted look on Gerty’s face that sent another ripple of apprehension across her skin. At least she did not sleep very far from the hall where her father would be waiting on her. Laird McBoyd always received those he wanted to see while sitting on the raised dais at the end of the great hall. A single chair with ornately carved armrests in the shape of a raptor’s talon sat there on top of a costly Persian carpet.

Shannon smelled the candles burning before she saw the glow at the bottom of the stairs. Voices drifted up the stone stairs that led to her meager chamber. Many voices, and there was laughter as well. A sense of foreboding flooded her. It was an eerie mixture, the good cheer and the darkness. It felt as if she were still dreaming, because the abundance of activity did not fit with the time of day.

Something else touched her senses. She drew in a deep breath to identify the scent filling the stairway. Metallic and thick, it turned her stomach. A chill crept across her skin that left gooseflesh along her arms.

“Get on with ye.”

Gerty pushed her the last few paces into the hall. As the laird’s only daughter, a lowly female, she was given a loft storeroom, set off to one side of the hall, as a bedchamber. Only her brothers resided on the second floor of McBoyd Castle. She was less than her brothers in her father’s eyes, a woman who should know her place and be reminded of it. The church told her that too, that she was less than a man, but her heart did not believe it. Gerty called her stubborn, often warning her that she would come to no good end if she did not learn to be content with a woman’s lot.

In some ways she was content. Her chamber stairway allowed her to view the hall before those celebrating in it noticed her. She might peek in without being sighted at the large double doors at the end of the great hall. Her ears hadn’t deceived her; there was much merriment indeed. But her eyes rounded with horror when she looked more closely at the men making so much noise in the middle of the night. She fought back a gasp, swallowing it before she was noticed. The scent of spilled blood was strong here. It mixed with the aroma of food, nauseating her completely. If Gerty hadn’t been behind her, she would have run to the garderobe to retch.

Her clansmen were celebrating in bloodstained kilts. They laughed and jested while raising tankards of ale to one another. Shannon found her gaze glued to the dark stains marring their fingers. It was gruesome and too horrible to accept from her own kin. But a closer look showed her far more of her father’s retainers sat still around the hall, in the quiet, than those celebrating. Those men sat sipping from their cups, many merely holding them with looks on their faces that said they’d had no appetite for what had happened this night.

“There ye be. What madness is this, making me wait so long for ye, Daughter?” His eyes narrowed. “Ye seem to learn nothing in church about respecting yer father.”

Shannon lowered her head to give her sire the deference he always demanded from her. At least the action served to hide her frown from Randal McBoyd’s direct stare. He was an arrogant laird, and the last bruise he’d left with his fist was just now fading. She was in no hurry to receive a fresh one. Such would be hers soon enough. Her sire was quick to reprimand her anytime he felt the urge. Her father was diligent when it came to reminding her she was less than a man and a disappointment to him for being born a daughter, but he could read in her eyes that she did not agree with his views completely. So it was better to just keep her gaze lowered; that preserved peace in the house at least for part of the time.

“I brought her straightaway, Laird.” Gerty aimed another jab at the center of her back, but Shannon didn’t need it. While she was in no hurry to get within striking range of her sire, she was not a coward either. She could suffer his strength and would not simper in the doorway like her stepmother so often did. The sight of the woman’s downcast face and quivering hands always made her cringe. If that was accepting her place as a woman, she never would.

“Father.”

Laird McBoyd snorted. His left hand curled around the arm of his chair while he peered at her over the rim of his tankard. He drew a deep mouthful before grunting and handing his cup off to a servant. The boy assigned the duty of holding his laird’s cup was quick to take it before it fell.

“Aye, I am yer father. A fact I’ve detested many a time, but tonight it seems there might yet be some good out of yer mother’s weakness in breeding me a daughter.” He slapped the chair arm beneath his hand. “The king is dead. Scotland will be having a new family on the throne, and one that will no’ be dogs begging for scraps from England’s hand!”

A cheer rose from behind her, but Shannon noticed the men who watched in silence. In their eyes she could see a reflection of her own dread. It was the look of decent men who did not find war so grand a thing. But they remained silent because the laird would be followed. That was Scottish tradition, and honor was more important than misgivings.

“Ye’ll be wedding the Earl of Atholl’s nephew. Atholl will be wearing the crown afore the month is finished, as he should have done instead of bring James back from England. Atholl is the true and rightful heir; any clan who opposes the new order will fall under the sword like the McLeren did tonight.”

“You raided the McLeren? They are at least triple our number and Highlanders—”

Her sire roared with rage. He gained his feet in a flash, and his fist connected with her cheek in the next. Shannon’s head whipped about with the blow, but she never faltered from her stance. Instead she turned her face back to her father without a single whimper. She even bit her lip to ensure that it did not tremble.

“Ye’ll mind that sharp tongue, girl! Mind it well, I tell ye! No woman will be speaking her mind to me. Not beneath me own roof, I tell ye.”

Shannon stared straight at her sire, pain spreading across her face, but she refused to show him any sign of her discomfort. Blood trickled from her lip, but she did not raise her hand to wipe it aside. Her father snickered.

“Well, ye’re a strong one, anyway. Atholl will nae be finding fault with yer spine. Ye’ll give him sons worthy of being called Scottish.”

He grunted before dropping back into his chair. “Aye, and wedding that boy will make sure Atholl holds true to his word to help us wipe the McLerens clean off the face of Scotland. It will be the McBoyds that become the strength here, Daughter. Atholl has promised me his retainers to see the task finished. We began tonight. As soon as Atholl’s retainers arrive, we’ll be finishing.”

Her father reached down and pulled a dagger from the top of his boot. Its blade was still stained dark, and her father looked at the dried blood with a grin that sickened her. “I put this through the heart of McLeren’s captain.”

***

“How can I be kin to such a monster?” Shannon shook her head, trying to dislodge the memory of her father’s glee over murder. She refused to believe that killing their neighbors for nothing more than power was something that brought honor to the name McBoyd. If that was because she was a woman, she was grateful to be one.

“Hush, isn’t that black eye enough suffering for ye? The laird is to be obeyed, not questioned.”

Shannon refused to temper her expression, not here in her chamber. Gerty clucked her tongue at her in reprimand.

“Things will nae go well for you, miss. No’ with all that stubbornness inside ye. Best ye think on that while on the road to Edinburgh. Think long and hard. ’Tis for sure that yer husband will no’ have any more tolerance for it than yer father does.”

Think? There would be nothing else for her mind to do but consider the facts again and again. It was not too far into spring for travel. Yet her father was sending her onto the half-frozen road. Well, perhaps that was indeed a kindness. She had no desire to share a roof with such a monster. What manner of laird sought war when peace had been enjoyed for so long?

A greedy man, that was who.

A man who didn’t know when life was good. She was not so foolhardy. Even suffering her father’s dislike of her gender failed to blind her to the goodness surrounding her. There was food aplenty on the tables at all times of the year. Warm clothing for the winter and men of good conscience wearing her family colors. She had always worn her arisaid with pride and a level chin, but looking down to where the length of McBoyd tartan hung down her gown, Shannon felt shame rise up inside her. The blue and scarlet seemed tarnished now, stained just like her father’s dirk. Her father had always envied his neighbor, the McLeren, even raiding them from time to time. But there was no bloodletting done. A few head of sheep or sacks of grain were the normal prize. It was more of a jest between men to see who could best the other.

Shock still held her in its grip while a trunk was packed for her journey. Her own kin had looked like savages wearing the blood of their fellow Scotsmen. That was not the McBoyd honor she had always respected. It was something borne out of greed and evil that made her cringe. As sad as it might be, she would be happy to depart. Even onto a half-frozen road.

“Here now. Let’s see what can be done with yer face.”

Gerty lifted her chin and studied the swelling. Her lips settled into a frown.

“Ye be a right pretty enough lass. When yer nae wearing a mark from yer father’s hand, that is.” She clucked her tongue once again. “With a little prayer, it might be healed by the time ye meet yer groom. Best to hope for that. No man wants a wife who needles her sire.”

“I spoke a truth. The McLerens do outnumber us, and Highlanders are nae to be trifled with. There will be retribution for this night’s work, make no mistake about it.”

“Hush now.” Gerty made the sign of the cross over herself. “Do ye want to bring a curse upon us all? Yer father burned White Hill to the ground. Every McBoyd life hangs on the alliance being made between Atholl and yer father.”

Gerty snapped her fingers at the two girls packing behind them. Both had frozen in their tracks, their eyes rounding with distress as they listened in on the conversation. Somehow, Shannon didn’t think that Gerty’s prayer or snapping fingers would make any difference when it came to the retaliation the McLerens would be raining down on them. The maids were right to worry. She couldn’t shake the tension off her back either. It sat there between her shoulder blades, twisting tighter and tighter until she ached.

“Get back to work. The sooner a McBoyd is wed into the Atholl family, the better for all of us. The alliance will be much stronger after ye’ve been bedded and things cannae be undone. If fate is kind, ye will ripen with a babe quickly, making the alliance even stronger for the McBoyd.”

Gerty picked up an overgown of sturdy wool. “This should keep ye warm on the road.”

It would be better than nothing. She had little in the way of possessions or traveling clothes. Her single trunk was only half-full when the two maids finished their duty. Shannon made most of her own clothing during the winter, but there were not enough daylight hours during the shorter days to do more than keep up with what was wearing thin. Gerty carefully rolled up the new spring dress that was sitting on the table and placed it in the trunk along with her sewing tools.

The maids curtsied and left with only a quick glance at her. Pity lurked in their eyes, but it was much overshadowed by their desire to see the alliance sealed. That was the only thing that would see them sleeping peacefully and not watching the ridge for McLeren riders bent on vengeance.

Not that she had ever expected to wed for any other reason than her father’s will. That was a daughter’s duty, to wed at her father’s command. Since she was old enough to recall, she had been taught such. Her mother had done the same, and the two stepmothers she had known since were no different. They arrived after negotiations and took their place in her father’s bed without any manner of courtship.

Yet she had begun to hope that she would never wed. At twenty-two, she was getting rather past the age for a first wedding. Shannon didn’t lament her years. In truth, she enjoyed being past the age of uncertainty. After her last birthday had passed and no groom sought her hand, a peace had settled over her. A sense of freedom that seemed to fill her with poise and confidence. She liked who she was and did not need a husband to feel complete.

Of course children of her own would be nice, but there were many motherless babes needing care for her to fill that need. Being the laird’s daughter placed her in a unique position. Taking a lover was not something she might do, because of her station. Though late at night, when the curtain that shielded her bed was drawn to keep the warmth in, she wondered what a man’s hands would feel like. Was a kiss as hot as she’d heard it described? And what was passion? Her body had burned with need, making her restless, and there was no solace in prayer, no matter what she heard in church. Her dreams filled with heated visions of a lover she only knew about from gossip and books.

Maybe she would know the answer to that question on her wedding night. Or perhaps she’d find her thighs spread without a single stroke across her breasts to allow her to feel the pleasure of passion. Negotiated marriages were so often cold ones. Her newest young stepmother had wept through her first morning as a wife, while Shannon’s father smirked and rubbed her bottom when she passed him. But the maids in the kitchens enjoyed their liaisons. She’d heard them whispering about how good one lad was over others. Passion seemed to be an elusive thing, only found with a few partners for women. Men seemed blessed with the ability to be satisfied with any woman they took, which seemed rather unfair, and that fact didn’t leave much hope for her in a negotiated marriage.

Still, she would hope. Pitying herself had never been something she favored.

Gerty began to braid her hair. The strands were long and the color of honey. Not a true blonde but lacking the deep, dark color of brunette. Some said she was fair of face, but most ignored her because she was the laird’s daughter. No springtime tumbles in the new hay for her. Each May Day she had washed her face in the morning dew alone, while the other McBoyd girls giggled and ran off into the distance for springtime fun.

Well, liaisons, really.

It wasn’t making love. How could it be such when most of the couples only tasted one another before the day was over and the church’s power resumed? May Day never fell to the clergy and their preaching of damnation for the lustful. All frolicked in observance of the fertility custom before kneeling in repentance the following day.

“There.” Gerty finished and tied the end of her braid with a green ribbon. “Yer sweet as a spring plum. The way a bride should be. A McBoyd bride, that is.”

***

“Runner!”

Torin raised his attention from the blade of his sword. Without even looking, he drew a sharpening stone along its length in a practiced motion. The blade was already sharp, but he didn’t put the stone down. Instead he watched the young boy running down the ridge toward him.

“There’s a group leaving the castle, Laird.” The boy drew in a few deep breaths to still his rapid heartbeat. He grinned with triumph for having something to report. “Looks like McBoyd is sending his daughter off someplace to the south.”

“Dinna know the man had a daughter.” Malcolm McLeren fingered the edge of his own claymore, one corner of his mouth twitching up with satisfaction. “Now that’s something I like learning about that bastard. A nice, soft place to strike back at him.”

“There’ll be no raping.”

Torin’s words weren’t popular with the men waiting near him, but he held his chin firm in the face of the scowls being aimed at him. “We’ll no’ be mimicking the bastards, and that’s my word on the matter. We’re McLerens, nae savages. We’re here to punish their bloody ways. Any McLeren who wants a tumble is going to have to charm it out of the lass he’s chasing.”

Malcolm shrugged. “When ye put it that way, I suppose I see the direction of yer thinking.”

Malcolm’s words earned more than just a few nods of agreement from the men surrounding them. The McLeren retainer had earned the respect of his fellow clansmen, and his agreement was something no laird might buy. That agreement was an honor, and one Torin appreciated. Being called “Laird” didn’t mean a thing to him if it was nothing more than an empty title. Scotland had enough of those sorts of lairds. His father had been more to the McLerens, and he felt the need to follow in those footsteps.

Torin considered the runner. “Ye said she set out on the road?”

“Aye. With a trunk, no less. The men riding with her were no’ carrying any banners, but it was her. Shannon McBoyd. I saw her plainly.”

“And ye know her for McBoyd’s child?”

Young Gilian grinned. “Aye. I saw her at festival last spring. Got warned off her quick as could be too, on account she was the laird’s daughter. Legitimate, they said. Her clanswomen claimed her father was dangling her chastity in front of a couple of lords and she was to stay virgin or there would be hell to pay.”

Now that was interesting. Torin felt his rage subside and his brain began filtering the facts. He looked out over the men awaiting his command. Hundreds of them and more were making their way through the rocky hills above them, the McLeren colors proudly worn by all. Even in the early dawn light he could see the heather and green of those kilts. They outnumbered the McBoyd already, and these were only the fastest of the men. News was spreading faster than the fire at White Hill was cooling. The McBoyds might never have been friends, but they had never been stupid before. Firing one of his holdings had been foolish. Running his men through was pure insanity. There would be retaliation, no mistake about it. To ignore such an attack would be inviting a second one.

“This attack does nae make sense.”

“Aye, lad.” Malcolm tilted his head to the side and peered at him intently. “What are ye thinking, Laird?”

Torin considered the facts. Being laird was more than a title. It was a duty. His people looked to him to make good decisions. Even in the mist of anger.

“I suspect there is something brewing in Edinburgh. Something that has the McBoyd thinking he can destroy the McLerens. Something like that would take a wedding to seal.”

Hands froze in midstroke across claymores. Torin felt the weight of his clan’s eyes on him while his words settled. Malcolm whistled.

“Well now. I did nae think o’ that. But I do believe ye have a point. The McBoyd have nae been so bold before.”

“But it’s well-known that Laird McBoyd is a greedy swine.” Torin looked down the ridge. “And he’s being mighty smug too. No’ a single man set to watch his border. He’s counting on someone’s men to protect him or someone else to be attacking us and keeping us busy.”

Curses surrounded him, but Torin acted swiftly.

“Braden. You’ll take half these men and set to making sure there are no more raids. Send a couple of runners to Connor Lindsey and let him know what goes on here.”

Braden reached up and tugged on the corner of his knit cap. Torin swallowed his need to take blood for blood. Swarming over the McBoyd stronghold might quell the anger eating at him, but it wouldn’t necessarily end the threat to his clan. If there was another name involved, he needed to discover who was in allegiance with the McBoyd. James I had worn the crown of Scotland precariously. His queen had delivered twin boys, but one had already died. The lords of the isles, such as Lindy and Atholl, were powerful men who were not content giving deference to a higher-ranking man. But they could not take Scotland without several of its lairds clustering behind their banners. A man like McBoyd would lend his name to a cause only if he felt there was no way for him to be cheated.

And a wedding to his daughter would buy the man, all right. It was something worth investigating. Civil war would see more blood spilled and pit clan against clan. It was something he’d prefer to avoid. Too much of Scottish history was written in that same blood.

“I’m going to take a few men and follow the daughter. I’ve a mind to discover just what plot is brewing, lads. We cannae protect our families if our own countrymen are fighting each other,” Torin decided.

And he could not rest if McBoyd had reinforcements riding toward his land. Standing up, Torin slid his claymore into the scabbard strapped to his back. He’d follow the daughter and keep her from sealing her father’s dealings. No matter what it took to see that done.

He was laird, and his clan would have his strength above all other things.

Even above chivalry. If McBoyd was going to use his daughter in such a foul plot, then Torin would have to take her before she married the lord her father intended to bribe.

***

The journey was completely miserable. Unless she counted the fact that she was free of her father’s house. Shannon chose to dwell on that fact. Each mile took great effort for the horses. The winter snow was beginning to thaw, turning everything into mud. She walked most of the way to save the horses from having to struggle with her weight in the wagon. It still took three days to cover a distance that would take only one during the spring. The men riding with her turned surly with their frustration.

A handful of tents were already raised when they topped the ridge looking down on the Lowlands. Gair, her father’s man, cursed when he looked down at the small number of men awaiting them. He stomped down the last of the distance and entered one of the tents without waiting to be announced. The rest of her father’s men swept her along in his wake. She might have been a trunk for all the courtesy they allowed her.

“Where are the retainers promised my laird?” Gair didn’t temper his voice either. A man sitting at a small table paused with his quill in midstroke. Whoever he was, the items around him spoke of money. A great deal of it. The quill had a silver tip, and sitting on a polished writing desk was a glass jar holding ink. On his hand was a signet ring, telling her he was someone others obeyed.

“Yer laird is a bloody fool.” He stood, showing off the kilt of the Earl of Atholl. “I am Fergus, third secretary to my lord Atholl, the true king.”

Shannon watched her father’s captain bristle under the comment. Gair McBoyd turned red before spitting at the feet of the man who had insulted his laird.

“McBoyds are nae dogs to be kept on a leash.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “The Earl of Atholl will be the master of your laird, make no mistake about that, or every McBoyd will end up like the McLeren.”

Gair raised a fist. “We’ve struck a bargain with the man. We were promised retainers in exchange for his daughter.”

“Aye, and you were warned to keep quiet until the king was dead and his son along with him, so that there would be no question as to where the crown went next.”

A heavy silence filled the tent. Gair looked uncertain for the first time. Fergus turned his attention to her. He lifted one hand and gestured her forward. Shannon wasn’t really given the opportunity to comply. The two men guarding the entrance of the tent appeared beside her and took her forward almost in the same moment as their master ordered her to move.

“Remove the arisaid from your head so I may see you. The cap as well.”

One of the guards reached for her. Shannon slapped his fingers aside.

“I heard him well enough. Keep yer hands away from me.”

A soft chuckle filled the tent. Fergus smiled at her while she drew her arisaid off her head, where she’d wrapped it to keep warm. His eyes were oddly intense. He studied her for a long moment, watching her untie her cap and pull it off. It was a strange feeling to have her hair completely on display after keeping it covered since she was ten years old. But she refused to quiver, it was only hair, and men had theirs on display quite regularly.

“The girl appears acceptable.”

Gair snorted. “When will the retainers be here, man? That’s what I want to be knowing.”

Fergus frowned. He moved closer to Gair, his face darkening. “You Highlanders never understand the value of patience. The king is dead, but the queen escaped with her whelp. There are those who give her shelter and want to crown her son.”

Shannon gasped. She couldn’t contain the sound. There was a chill in Fergus’s voice that sent a shiver down her spine. He turned to look at her once more, but his attention did not linger. He faced Gair again, and his expression was as hard and cold as ice.

“Attacking a neighbor who outnumbers you was ill-advised when the wedding had not yet taken place. There will be no retainers until the bedding.”

“Ye sound like a bloody Englishman.”

Fergus responded with a small curving of his lips. The secretary turned and returned to his chair. He didn’t appear to mind that everyone waited while he settled himself in comfort.

“I was in the company of the king while he was being held in England. How else do you suppose I earned his trust?”

“A trust you betrayed, now didna ye, laddie?” Gair snickered in spite of Fergus’s narrowing eyes.

“I make the best alliances for the times. If a man wants to succeed, he must be willing to see where the future is and not cling to the past. James the First was the past. My lord will be a bright future for Scotland.”

“He’ll nae be wearing any crown without the McBoyds following his banner.”

Fergus remained silent, but Shannon could see in his eyes that his mind was anything but idle. There was a calculating look to the man, one that sent horror through her. He spoke so calmly of murder, the man’s soul must be rotten.

“Still, the agreement was a wedding before any action was to be taken against your neighboring clan. You shall have the agreed-upon retainers only when the first condition has been met.”

“But we fired one of their keeps and killed the retainers. We need the men now.” A hint of desperation entered Gair’s voice. “I want them now, man.”

Fergus remained unconcerned. “As I stated. Yer laird is a fool. There is more than one clan attached to this. The queen has supporters who want her son crowned king. My lord Atholl needs all of his retainers. The fight your laird picked with your neighbor is your own affair.”

“They’ll wipe us out, down to the last man.”

Fergus lifted one eyebrow again. “Then I suppose you had best make haste for Edinburgh so that the wedding may take place. My lord will not move against your enemy until he has a solid pledge of loyalty from your laird. Something that cannot be undone if your laird panics when the time for action arrives.”

Gair sputtered, his lip curling with a snarl. Rage shook his body, but Fergus remained unmoved. The secretary raised his hand.

“That will be all.”

***

“You there. How long does it take to rub a horse down? And why are the pair of ye working on the same animal, for Christ’s sake?”

“Just doing me duty.”

Torin kept his face down. He felt naked without his claymore, but it was worth it. His hands moved in practiced circles over the horse. Secretary Fergus O’Bien liked his things along with him when he traveled. His horse was housed directly behind his tent, making it an easy task to listen in on his conversations. Malcolm looked at Torin over the back of the horse, a gleam in his eyes.

Bending down, Torin picked up the handle of a wheelbarrow that was piled up with the animal’s leavings. Malcolm shouldered a yoke with buckets on either side and fell into step behind him. It was an effort to keep his pace slow, but he needed to play the part of a servant doing only what he had to. He itched to rip the House of Atholl plaid off his back too.

It was the colors of traitors, men who conspired against a unified Scotland. They were worse than the English. James I had been a Scot, and there was no king Torin would rather swear his loyalty to. Anyone who had helped murder him deserved to die.

“Damn nasty bit o’ business we’ve discovered here.” Malcolm dropped the yoke the moment they were out of sight. The sun was gone, making it easier to escape into the night. For a Highlander, the night was nothing to fear. Let Fergus and his men huddle by their fires and think they provided protection. Nothing would shield them from the wrath of a McLeren laird.

Torin’s men waited for him, still as stones and hidden among the rocks that dotted the landscape. He sensed them before he ever saw them.

“Well then, what’s yer thinking, Laird?”

Torin cast a look down at the flickering fires. When Scotland’s isle lords bickered over the crown, Scotland became too weak to keep England on her side of the border. His father had sworn on bent knee to James I, and Torin had done the same. Now he would raise his claymore in defense of James II, rightful heir to the Scottish throne.

“I want the daughter and the secretary. The rest die like the traitors they are. We need the secretary to expose this plot and the daughter to prove McBoyd’s guilt.”

There was a ripple of agreement from his men. They stood up, shadows among shadows, and he listened to their swords being pulled free. Blood for blood. But it would be the right blood spilled. That of their true enemy. McBoyd was a puppet who was too stupid to know he was being controlled. He would die another day.

But first he’d be exposed for the traitor lover he was and he’d see his daughter on her way to McLeren land.