Once Upon A Scot (A Scots Through Time #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Edinburgh

Late Autumn

The cobblestones gleamed like wet river stones in the thin drizzle, reflecting the amber glow of newly lit lanterns. Though he had yet to see her, some said the old witch who haunted Greyfriars watched the crossroads on storm nights, marking the souls whose paths would soon turn.

Brodie MacLeod pulled his cloak tighter against the chill, the hood shadowing his face as he wove through the narrow wynds of Edinburgh.

At seventeen, he moved with the wary grace of someone much older.

The boy who had left Skye almost a year ago—full of pride and reckless conviction—had been burned away like morning mist. What remained was leaner, harder, tempered by longing and regret.

Word had reached him weeks ago: his father was dead, the great hall of Bronmuir draped in mourning.

Cameron, his eldest brother, was captured by the MacDonalds during a skirmish just a bloody fortnight after his da had died, and was now being held for ransom.

Connor now laird in his stead—stern, unyielding, his brother would never forgive him for choosing love over his own clan.

There had been several times that Brodie had thought of returning.

Of falling to his knees at Connor’s feet and begging for mercy, of taking up arms beside his kin.

But Anne would never survive among the MacLeods.

She was Lowland born, soft-spoken, proud.

She’d be shunned before the first snowfall.

So he stayed, bound not by loyalty, but by love—or what he still believed was love.

Sometimes, when the rain fell just right, he remembered another night of secrets—Elspeth’s wild eyes glinting in the candlelight as she’d sworn him to silence.

I can’t stay, Brodie. Not when my heart’s already gone.

He’d given her his spare dirk then, pressing the hilt into her palm.

“Sell it if ye must, or use it if ye have to.”

He had watched her vanish into the dark with a MacKenzie man, and told no one.

That was the night his loyalty first began to splinter, for he wished to see his sister happy, even though he would have wagered that the match would not end well.

She’d been so full of joy, always smiling, and when she fell for Alasdair, she fell hard.

Brodie narrowed his eyes. He’d received word that Alasdair had betrayed her.

The man was already wed, with a wife in Inverness.

To make matters worse, she had given Alasdair information that ended up causing the death of three of Brodie’s kin.

And now … now his sweet sister was with child and had been banished, but did she go to Connor?

Nay, she was as stubborn as them all, and instead planned to live alone with her bastard child.

Brodie sent up a prayer to the old gods to look after her and the babe.

The White Hart Inn loomed ahead, its weathered sign creaking in the wind, pulling his attention back to his surroundings. Brodie’s hand brushed the dirk at his waist before he pushed through the door into a crush of smoke and voices.

The common room reeked of wet wool and spilled ale. In the farthest corner, half-hidden in shadow, sat the love of his life, Anne McKinnon.

His chest tightened at the sight of her—the copper hair tucked beneath a plain cap, the proud tilt of her chin, the way her fingers trembled around her cup. For her, he had defied his brothers, abandoned his clan, and forsaken his name. For her, he would do it all again.

“Ye shouldna be here,” she whispered as he slid onto the bench opposite her. Her Gaelic was soft, meant only for him. “They’re watching the ports now.”

“Let them watch,” Brodie murmured, reaching for her hand. “The ship leaves at dawn. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be bound for the Colonies.”

Anne wouldn’t meet his eyes. Her fingers were cold despite the fire’s heat.

“What troubles ye, lass?” he asked gently. “Is it the journey? I swear to ye, I’ll work my hands to the bone in Virginia. We’ll have land of our own within five years, and I’ll build ye a fine house.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. “Brodie, I—”

The door of the inn crashed open. Five men in the king’s colors poured into the room, rain dripping from their cloaks as the tavern fell silent.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, finally looking up. The anguish in her eyes told him everything.

Cold understanding swept through him. “What have ye done?”

“My laird knows about us,” she said, her voice breaking. “He threatened to banish my family, to whip me. I had no choice.”

Outside, thunder rolled low over the Firth. Elspeth used to say storms were the sound of fate turning its wheel, and Brodie almost laughed—because if that were true, fate had indeed chosen cruelly tonight.

The soldiers advanced. Brodie’s hand flew to his dirk.

“Don’t,” Anne pleaded. “They promised ye wouldn’t be harmed if ye didn’t resist.”

Betrayal tasted like cold iron on his tongue. “And ye believed them? Christ, Anne, do ye ken what they do to Highland rebels?”

The captain halted before their table, water dripping from his brim. “Brodie MacLeod? You’ll come with us.”

Brodie rose, every muscle coiled. Five against one. No hope of victory, but defiance was bred in his blood.

“They said they’d only hold ye until the troubles pass,” Anne whispered. “A few months. Then ye can go home.”

He threw his head back, laughing low and bitter. “Aye, and the English king loves the Scots like brothers.”

His voice dropped to a rasp. “I would have died for ye, Anne McKinnon. Remember this in the cold nights ahead.”

As they bound his wrists, he caught the glint of coin passing from the captain to Anne’s trembling hands.

“Thirty pieces of silver,” he said softly. “At least Judas got a kiss.”

They dragged him out into the rain. None interfered. None would remember the face of another Highland lad taken by English justice.

Three Weeks Later

The North Atlantic Sea

The hold stank of salt and sickness. Brodie lay in the dark, the taste of blood and seawater sharp on his tongue. The chains had rubbed his wrists raw, but the ache in his chest burned deeper.

He had given up clan and country for love, and love had sold him for coin. His father was gone, his eldest brother held for ransom, his name a curse in Bronmuir’s hall. He belonged nowhere now—neither land nor sea, neither Scot nor son nor brother.

A single feather lay caught between the planks above—gray, bedraggled, glimmering faintly in the lantern light. He pried it loose, turned it between his blistered fingers, as something inside him cracked.

“No more,” he whispered. “No more lasses. No more faith. They all lie.”

He threw the feather toward the hatch. For a moment, he thought he saw it rise on a gust of air, vanishing into the dark.

Days blurred into weeks. The air grew hot, thick, foul with rot. Somewhere above, gulls cried—free voices over an endless cage of the sea.

Then came shouting. The crash of cannons. Splintered wood.

The hatch burst open. Rain and lightning poured in, painting the world silver.

“How many down there?” a voice shouted in a thick French accent.

“Twenty, maybe more if they aren’t already dead.”

“Get them up! The Royal Navy won’t be far behind.”

They hauled Brodie into the storm. The wind struck him like a blade, cold and clean. Another ship loomed alongside, foreign flags snapping, grappling hooks binding hulls.

“Pirates?” he asked the man undoing his chains.

The man grinned, showing off one gold tooth. “Privateers, lad. The Captain Renard’s no love for the English or their slavers. Join us, or take your chances in the longboat.”

Brodie looked from the black sea to the man at the helm—tall, fierce, unbowed. Something in his bearing reminded him of Connor.

“What’s your name, boy?” the captain called, striding closer through the chaos.

“Brodie MacLeod of Skye.”

The captain’s weathered face shifted, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “MacLeod of Skye, ye say?” He tilted his head, studying him. “I knew a man by that name once. Cameron MacLeod. Saved my neck in a brawl near Inverness.”

“My brother.” Brodie said, standing with his feet wide upon the deck, pride filling his voice for the first time since he’d been taken by the damned English.

A pause, then a sharp nod from the captain. “Can you fight?”

“Aye. And I learn fast.”

“Then you’ll do. My ship’s no place for vengeance or self-pity—leave those chains behind with your past.”

As dawn broke over the steel-gray horizon, Brodie stood at the rail, watching the English slave ship vanish into the mist. The salt air burned his lungs, but he drew it in deep, tasting fury and freedom both.

His clan was lost, his heart betrayed, but the sea stretched wide and merciless ahead—an open wound he meant to survive.

The wind shifted, filling the sails with a sharp snap. The ship surged forward, cutting through the waves toward whatever fate awaited beyond the horizon.

Behind him, unnoticed in the storm’s wake, the feather he had cast away rose once more on a stray gust, spiraling upward into the lightening sky.