Honor & Obsession (Sons of Mull #1)

PROLOGUE INTO EXILE

Berwick Upon Tweed

The English/Scottish Border

FLAMES LICKED HIGH into the night sky.

Craeg’s chest burned as he stared at the walls of Berwick Castle, rising to the south, half a mile away.

Fire consumed the fortress that crowned the rocky headland above the River Tweed.

Even from this distance, he could hear its hungry roar, the crack and groan of collapsing timbers.

Smoke billowed into the summer darkness, blotting out the stars.

The summer night air was warm, but the wind off the Tweed carried the acrid stench of smoke and something far worse—the bitter reek of defeat.

Berwick Upon Tweed had shifted between Scottish and English hands a few times over the years.

The Scots had clung onto it for over a decade. But tonight, everything changed.

Tonight, they’d failed. Andrew Murray was captured, and the Scottish resistance scattered. And now, David—the rightful King of Scots, though he was barely nine years old—was fleeing for his life with his child bride.

Craeg’s jaw clenched. This was no way for a king to leave his kingdom. But he’d given Murray his word. If Berwick Castle falls, get the king to safety.

“Move!” Ailean’s shout cut through his thoughts. His friend wheeled his horse about, his long auburn hair flying around him. “They’ll be after us.”

On Craeg’s other side, Greig was already spurring his mount forward.

They’d halted briefly, on their flight north—but his companions were right. They couldn’t linger here.

Craeg dug his heels into his own horse’s flanks, glancing over at their charges as he did so.

They traveled alongside him, both seated astride fast coursers.

The young king—if he could even be called that yet—clung to his horse’s mane, his face pale in the firelight.

Beside him, Joanna rode with her head held high.

A brave lass, although she couldn’t be more than twelve years old. A child queen fleeing into exile.

Craeg’s gut hardened.

Get them to Dumbarton. Get them to France. Let them live to reclaim Scotland another day.

He urged his courser into a canter, and the small party thundered north along the coast road. Behind them, Berwick lit up the southern sky like a beacon.

Craeg kept his eyes forward, searching the road ahead for any sign of English soldiers. His hand never strayed far from his sword hilt.

“Did ye see Murray go down?” Ailean panted, his horse surging alongside Craeg’s. His face was streaked with blood—not his own, Craeg hoped. Ailean fought as he lived: with reckless abandon.

“I saw,” Craeg shouted back, his lungs burning. His chest clenched at the memory. “Three men dragged him from his horse.”

“We should have—”

“We had our orders,” Craeg cut him off harshly, even as the wind tore the words from his mouth. “Protect the king.”

Ailean’s jaw worked, but he didn’t argue. They both knew Andrew Murray would have wanted it this way. The Guardian of Scotland had bought them time with his capture, perhaps with his life. That sacrifice couldn’t be wasted on foolish heroics.

Behind them, hoofbeats thundered. The English? Craeg twisted in his saddle but couldn’t see anything in the darkness.

“How far to Dumbarton?” Young David’s voice cracked—thin and raw over the drum of hooves.

“At least six days’ hard riding, Yer Grace,” Craeg shouted to ensure the lad heard him. “Maybe more if we must take to the hills.”

“It won’t come to that!” Greig’s mount was foaming at the mouth as he drew up alongside Craeg. “The Macleans have friends between here and Glasgow! Safe passage!”

Craeg bit back a retort. Now wasn’t the time to remind Greig that ‘safe passage’ meant little when half the Scottish nobility had bent the knee to Balliol and his English puppeteers. They might soon discover that they had fewer ‘friends’ than they believed in the Lowlands.

They rode through the night, pushing the horses as hard as they dared.

The coast road took them past sleeping villages and dark fields where summer crops grew tall.

In daylight, there would be life and industry here—farmers tending their barley and oats, fishermen hauling nets from the sea, children playing in the long twilight of a Scottish summer.

But at this hour, the world slumbered.

As dawn broke, pink and gold over the eastern horizon, Craeg finally allowed them to slow. The horses were lathered and blowing hard.

They stopped beside a burn that tumbled down from the hills and dismounted, letting the coursers drink. Joanna slid from her saddle with a barely suppressed whimper. David stood on shaking legs, trying to look brave and failing.

For a long moment, nobody spoke. They just stood there, listening.

No shouts, no signs of pursuit. Nothing but the rush of water over stone and the ragged breathing of exhausted horses.

Craeg’s shoulders dropped. They’d put enough distance between themselves and Berwick. For now.

“We’ll give the horses a short breather,” he said roughly.

Greig snorted, already loosening his saddle girth. “Our mounts need proper rest. We all do.”

“No,” Craeg replied. “We can’t rest yet … not this close to the border.”

Their gazes met and held, and for a moment, Craeg thought Greig might challenge him.

They were the same age. Good friends who’d grown up together on the Isle of Mull.

Greig was the Maclean clan-chief’s firstborn son, while Craeg was about to step into the role of Chieftain of Moy.

One day, when Greig became clan-chief, Craeg would bend the knee to him.

But not today. Murray had handed this responsibility to Craeg, and that meant that Greig and Ailean had to heed him.

Greig’s lips pursed, and he favored his friend with a curt nod before turning away to tend to the horses.

The tension bled from the air. They were safe. At least for the moment.

Ailean appeared at Craeg’s elbow, wiping sweat from his brow. “Christ, I’m parched.” He crouched by the burn, cupping water to his mouth. “When we finally get back to Mull, I’m crawling into my bed and sleeping for a week.”

“A week?” Greig looked up from checking his mount’s legs. “After this ride, I’m claiming a month. Two, maybe.”

“Ye’ll be lucky to get two days,” Ailean shot back with a grin. “Yer Da will have ye overseeing the harvest before yer arse hits the mattress.”

Greig groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

Despite everything, Craeg felt his mouth twitch. Ailean and Greig’s banter was something he could rely on. The familiarity steadied him.

“Wishing ye were back on Mull?” Ailean asked then, glancing at Craeg.

Craeg harrumphed. In truth, he wasn’t. Mull was the last thing on his mind tonight.

It wasn’t just because of their mission either.

Recently, he’d done his best not to think about the future.

Things would be different when he returned home.

His mother had made it clear that she wished to step down as ‘lady laird’, to hand the rule of Moy Castle and its lands over to her son.

It was an honor, but also a responsibility.

Heaviness dragged at him then, and his breathing quickened.

Sometimes, it felt as if a gilded cage awaited him.

“Ye’ll have to take a wife, ye know?” Greig quipped then. “A chieftain will be expected to start siring sons.”

Ailean pulled a face. “Just as well our fathers are still hale and hearty, eh?” Stepping back, he slapped Greig on the shoulder. “We’ll be free as young bucks for a while yet.”

Greig’s smirk faltered, while heat ignited in Craeg’s gut. He didn’t appreciate the reminder.

“Our old men will be proud when they hear we saved the king,” Ailean added, ignoring his companions’ reactions. “We’ll be heroes.”

“Don’t get ahead of yerself,” Greig muttered. “Rae Maclean won’t be impressed if he hears his son is mouldering in an English prison.”

Ailean snorted, yet took his point.

Craeg didn’t venture a comment. Instead, something cold and sharp dug under his ribs.

Both Ailean and Greig clashed with their strong-willed fathers at times, and yet they worshipped them too.

They wanted to make them proud. But Craeg’s father had died years ago, and his memories of him were far from rosy.

Even if Leod Maclean were still alive, he wouldn’t be proud of his son.

All Craeg remembered of him was bitterness and scorn.

He hoped the devil was roasting the bastard in the fiery depths of hell.

Oblivious to the dark turn of Craeg’s thoughts, Ailean turned away then and walked over to their charges.

Hunkering down, he spoke to David and Joanna in a surprisingly gentle voice.

Soothing their fears. His friend could be brash, yet he had a tender side too, one he usually reserved for dogs and horses.

Craeg turned his face northwest. Dumbarton lay in that direction. The brief respite was over. Yanking himself back to the task at hand—now wasn’t the time to let himself get distracted—he huffed out a sharp breath. “Time to leave the coast.”

“Aye.” Greig shifted alongside him, his profile hawkish in the glow of the rising sun. He looked so much like his father these days. Tall, brawny, with long dark hair he tied back at his nape. “The road forks just a few furlongs north of here.”

Craeg nodded. The morning sun warmed his shoulders, and somewhere overhead, a lark sang its summer song, oblivious to the wars of men. Uneasiness shifted deep in his gut. “We've got a long road ahead.”

“Aye … but we'll see it through,” Greig replied. His tone was confident. Unshakable, as always.

Craeg flashed his friend a fierce smile. “We will.”