Chapter 1
Nine Years Later
Clan McKoy
Young Olivia Webster read the missive from the king three times and while she understood them, she did not want to believe it. Seated in her father’s meeting room, she gripped the paper bearing the king’s seal so hard that the paper was in danger of ripping in two.
“Nay,” she muttered, her green eyes darting to her father. Her sire, Niel Webster, the Laird of Clan McKoy did not look any happier than she did. “Faither nay. This—this cannae be true!”
He bowed his head, and his jaw worked in frustration, “I am sorry, Olivia, but tis true.”
“Nay, nay…” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. Once again, she looked to her elderly father. “I cannae marry him.”
“Daughter, Laird ó Riagáin is not a bad man,” her father said. “What happened nearly ten years ago changed him, that is for sure, but he is not evil.”
The sealed missive slipped from her fingers and fell to her feet before she began to pace. “How can ye tell me that? I may be young, but I remember a good deal of fighting between us. Ye even swore one day that it was yer God-given right on this land to remove scourges like ó Riagáin from it.”
“That was before we made peace,” her father said. “I ken he is very wary of us, because after that day when his maither and sister were taken, he doesnae trust anyone. I ken that he believed I or someone connected to me had a part in their abduction.”
“It’s known that he is cruel,” Olivia worried. “Possibly even worse than the northern invaders would get from time to time.”
“Those Norse barbarians are filth,” Niel said while sitting back, his eyes steady and still as he looked at Olivia. “But ó Riagáin is nay an animal. And I doubt he is happy about the crown’s order too. It is out of me hands, Olivia, yer trunks are already packed.”
“But we already made peace,” Olivia despaired. “Why do we need to marry?”
“I cannae tell ye, lass,” her father said tiredly. “I suppose a marriage would make our agreement that more firm.”
“But why is this coming from the king?” Olivia spun. “What does this matter have to do with him?”
“There is trouble in the capital, lass,” he said. “Five years ago, there was a plot by the Jacobite leaders to murder the king.”
“But what does that have to do with us?” she pressed. “We’re nay on the mainland.”
“Matters nae,” Niel shook his gray head. “We’re still his servants and must do as he says.”
Olivia was searching, desperately searching for any reason to show her father that this whole situation was madness. “I—”
A knock on her father’s door had them turning to see her father main man, Hector McMillian, come into the room, his lined face set and grave. “Pardon me interruption, me laird, but Laird ó Riagáin and his men are here to see ye.”
Upon hearing those words and knowing that her fate was almost sealed, Olivia weakly slumped into the nearest chair, every drop of blood nearly absent from her body.
She wanted to run, but her body was fixed to where she sat.
She wanted to scream but not a word would leave her lips.
All she could do was sit and watch as Hector let the men in.
Five men, clad in rich, dark leather and gray shirts came into the room, but her eye landed on the laird. He wore a crisp, saffron léine denoting his position as laird. His maroon and gray breacan feile was bright across his chest and his laird’s brooch glinted brightly.
Laird ó Riagáin was a tall man, with a head of thick blond hair that shone like wheat under the light. With broad shoulders, and a more imposing height than any other man in the room, he easily commanded attention. ó Riagáin’s square, hard-set jaw was clean-shaven, unlike most Scotsmen.
His head turned, and her breath hitched at her first full glimpse of his face. The clean structure of his broad cheekbones and square jaw was offset by the scar slanting through his left eyebrow.
She slowly lifted her head, ignoring her warm cheeks, and clenched her fingers to steady her hands on her lap.
Clean golden eyes, the color of a hawk—and all the intensity of it too— locked with her own, boldly and without reserve.
As ó Riagáin continued to stare, her chest tightened in an unusual way.
He was immobile, his face a mask of indifference, his mouth set in a hard, straight line.
“ó Riagáin,” her father greeted him. “Welcome.”
“McKoy,” ó Riagáin said, his voice was low, stern, and had a rumbling burr that resonated right through her. His gaze then flickered to her then back to her father, “I suppose ye have gotten the king’s missive as well?”
“We have,” her father nodded. “If ye would like to speak on the contract—”
“I have nay wish to do so,” ó Riagáin said abruptly. “And I dinnae come to spend time. I’ve come to take the lass to me home where the ceremony will take place in three days.”
“Why so… cut and dry, ó Riagáin?” Her father asked, his eyes narrowing. “This is me sole daughter we’re talking about. She is nay like a prized horse to haggle over.”
Silently, ó Riagáin reached into the folds of his kilt and pulled out a scroll which he handed over to her father. “The contract.”
Grimly, her father took and opened it, then read it through. The silence was deafening to her ears and her skin prickled sharply every time ó Riagáin looked at her, but Olivia kept quiet. Niel let out a long, slow breath. “It’s all here.”
“Aye,” ó Riagáin replied. “If ye would like to contest any part, ye can come to me home and we’ll discuss, but if ye daenae mind, I would rather be leaving soon.”
It seems he still thinks me faither had something to do with his maither and sister’s abduction.
“The wedding—”
“Shall take place at me home where we can house hundreds of guests,” ó Riagáin cut in again, “Please, let the lass come with us. I daenae have time to linger.”
Reluctantly, her father waved to a few of his men who bowed and hurried out the room, presumably to get her belongings. Unable to keep quiet anymore, Olivia stood to meet him herself just as her father called for her.
She came to ó Riagáin, head held high and met his eyes for longer than it was decent. Even in her terror, Olivia would not show him any weakness.
When his eyes flickered with—amusement?— only then did she curtsy. Letting out her breath, Olivia trusted her voice, which thankfully sounded strong. “Laird ó Riagáin. Pleased to meet ye.”
Her unspoken words were clear, I never thought I’d ever have to.
He took her hand and brought his lips to it, but the feeling was so fleeting she wondered if she had imagined it.
“Me pleasure, Lady Olivia,” he murmured, clearly saying, this is not what I had planned either.
His eyes had gone back to flinty, his jaw hard, and Olivia wondered if he ever stopped looking so grave. Maybe this was why she had heard that he was heartless and cruel—if one looked so stony all the time, why would anyone believe differently?
ó Riagáin turned to her father, “I think it time for us to leave. Are her trunks ready?”
“Aye,” Niel said while standing to rest his hands on Olivia’s shoulder. “Go get yer coat, dear.”
With a nod, she turned and headed out the door, down the halls and up a level to her room, where her things were gone but she took the lone coat resting on her bed.
Then, she shot a look over her shoulder, lifted a section of the bedding and pulled out her favorite pair of daggers before slipping them into her boots.
Her father had not objected to her learning how to throw them, but he had stopped her from learning sword-fighting. She had done it in secret anyhow when he was not looking, at night, with her father’s best swordsmen sworn to secrecy.
Sliding a long pin into her hair, she left the room, determined to find a way out of this thrice-forsaken marriage.
Leaving to the outer court, she found her father there, standing ramrod straight and looking anything but happy.
An English-styled carriage was waiting for her and ó Riagáin was standing at the doorway.
Instead of going to him, she turned to her father and said, “Come as soon as ye can.”
He nodded and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Ye’ll be fine, Olivia.”
I hope so.
Looping her arms around her father’s shoulders, she embraced him tightly then pulled away to approach ó Riagáin, who silently helped her into the vehicle. When the door closed, she saw him effortlessly spring into the saddle of a behemoth warhorse.
“Move out,” he ordered.
The lass sat as stiffly as a plank of wood, with her eyes staring directly ahead, unaware of the secret looks Conner stole from time to time.
She had high cheekbones and green eyes the color of a rich forest just before the rain.
Her mouth was full and soft, although the firmness of her jaw and chin hinted at a strong character.
When she had first held his gaze, she had lifted her head slightly in wordless challenge—and oddly, Conner appreciated that.
He did not want a shrinking flower around him.
It was not fair that the lass’s life would be irrevocably changed because of this meddling king’s edict but at least she was strong enough to make peace with it… eventually.
For once, Conner allowed his attention to drift, and he steered his horse with the barest movements.
Goliath was attentive to the smallest tap of his heel or tug on his reins, so Conner did not have to worry.
What did trouble him, though, was what he would do with this lass.
He had no room in his life for a wife—though he knew he needed an heir, he had expected more time.
Yer nine-and-twenty, and a laird. Yer life is in constant peril, how long did ye think ye had?
Gritting his teeth at the traitorous thoughts, Connor guided his steed up a path that ran up the hillside behind the carriage, curling over rough, pebbly terrain, past the various pools up where a line of waterfalls edged the border of his territory.
Though it was heading to winter, the waterfalls still flowed heavy and it was a very hazardous part of his land that he always took caution with when crossing, as there were times the land slipped and mountains of mud would roll down the slope.
As they came around a corner—a whistle was in the air and then…the carriage driver lurched off the seat, a bright red arrow protruding from both ends of his neck. Instantly, Conner leaped down from his stallion, sword drawn.
Then—war cries. Men called out with threats of death and charged forward on their horses. Even with the wind whipping his hair into his eyes, Conner counted five descending on him. “God’s teeth! Protect the carriage! Me wife is in there!”
The men called out and charged forward on their horses. The wind whipping his hair into his eyes, Conner glanced back and counted five in pursuit. “God!”
His attacker drew almost even with him on the left and Conner parried the blow, thrusting his sword at the man’s belly in a quick, precise stab and yanking away while blood spurted out in an arc.
Another raider growled an oath and lashed out with his sword.
Conner dodged away, ramming the hilt of his sword into the man’s back, causing him to spin around—where Conner’s blade then made a quick swipe across the reiver’s neck.
He spun to the carriage, as he had to make sure the lass was secured, only to see Olivia flying out of the carriage, her hand shooting up—and air whistled inches by his face. A thud behind him had him spinning and a man dropped dead, a dagger embedded right between his eyes.
She can throw daggers?
He spun just as another man slashed and thrust, throwing Conner off his balance and stabbing a knife in his hips. The pain blinded him and he scrambled out of the path of another attacker only to see Olivia’s knife slammed up under the attacker’s ribcage, sending him reeling backward.
Her right fist struck out and slammed into a third’s jaw, the force of it sending the man spinning. Conner’s fingers fastened around the bone handle of the knife embedded in his hip and he yanked it free. With frightening speed, he twisted, rolling to his feet and grabbing for his sword.
Olivia moved faster. She dove for it, her fingers grabbing it firmly around its worn leather hilt.
She lunged at the last man and thrust the blade into the base of his neck.
Conner could not believe what he was seeing—his left knee gave out from under him while she stood there, the wisps of her braid flitting in the wind and her face streaked with blood, the sword right through the man.
The attacker gave a choking, gurgling noise and fell to his knees. He stared at her, his pale blue eyes widening in shock, but Olivia stepped closer still and drove the blade deeper, killing him in an instant.
“Ye scourge,” she whispered hoarsely.
She yanked his blade out, the wicked steel dripping red while she stood like an avenging angel in a mound of dead bodies. One of his men rushed to his side while Olivia turned, and he saw her generous bosom heaving.
“Get him into the carriage,” she ordered, tugging the dagger out from the middle of the dead man’s head. “Take him home. That wound needs a healing paste or it needs to be burned shut.”
Utterly astonished at her, Conner took the blade from her, “Cathaí…” Warrior.
She tipped her head up as his men helped him into the carriage, “I’m hardly one, but thank ye for the compliment.”
When he was inside, she joined him and he sat, surprised, as she tugged another dagger from her boot to rip a part of her cloak into strips and began to bind his wounds. “It might nay be much, but it will hold the blood flow until ye can get to yer healers.”
Conner’s eyes roamed over her face, to the splash of blood down one cheek that she, oddly, did not seem to realize was there and he lifted his hand to swipe the splatter off. “…How often do people underestimate ye?”
Her lips ticked, “Far too often.”
Tugging his hand away, he dropped his hand to his lap and clenched his teeth against the stinging pain in his hip. It was not the first time he had been stabbed and it would not be the last, but this attack was not one he had expected—not on this day.
It was an ambush—a plan. But who is behind it?
The moment he found who was behind it—they would soon be begging for death.