The MacLeods of Skye Trilogy

Prologue

The ground shook with the heavy pounding of hooves as the score of warriors approached Dunscaith Castle. Their leader, Roderick MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, urged his mount ahead, surging across the rocky crags at breakneck speed. He had to reach her before …

Just then a great roar rose above the thunder of the horses, and with it hope shattered. Rory cursed, knowing that the jubilant cries of the crowd could mean only one thing: The warning had come too late.

Refusing to accept what he already knew, Rory pushed the mighty destrier harder, climbing faster up the steep pathway. Finally, horse and rider crested the hill, at last giving vision to the cruel spectacle orchestrated by Rory’s most despised enemy.

Not a furlong below them, Rory’s sister sat atop a horse, slowly winding her way through a crowd of jeering villagers.

She looked so tiny, so painfully alone among the madding crowd.

Her hair, a thick, glorious halo of riotous curls, shone like white gold in the mid summer sun.

But neither the magnificence of her hair nor the remnants of her once fey beauty could distract the villagers from the conspicuous black patch that covered one eye.

Even from afar, Rory could see Margaret’s pain. The rigid line of her spine, the nearly imperceptible shaking of her hands as she clenched the reins of her maimed horse, the slight flinch as the taunts pelted her pride like stones.

He could make out only snippets of their hateful words. “Face … hideous … one-eyed … mark of the devil …”

Rory pressed on, though the damage had already been done.

None but the MacDonald of Sleat could be capable of sending her away with such a monstrous procession.

Sleat had gone to great lengths to shame his sister, mocking her misfortune with outrageous cruelty.

For Margaret, who’d badly injured an eye in a horrible riding accident only a few months after arriving at Dunscaith, sat atop a one-eyed horse.

A horse that was led by a one-eyed man and followed by a one-eyed dog.

It wasn’t enough that Sleat had decided to repudiate the handfast and send Margaret back to her kinsmen. He did so in a manner designed for one purpose only—to strike right at the heart of the MacLeod pride in a way that could only demand retribution.

Damn Sleat, the devil’s spawn, for dragging an innocent woman into a feud among men.

Rory’s heart wrenched as a small tear slid down Margaret’s pale cheek from behind the black patch. She wobbled, as if searching for strength. When she found none, her chin slumped forward to her chest.

Blood pounded in Rory’s ears, rage finally quieting the cruel voices of the MacDonald clansmen. A piercing battle cry tore from his lungs as he raised his claymore to rally his clansmen. “Hold fast!” he roared the clan’s motto. “To a MacLeod!”

Sleat would regret what he’d done. The MacLeods would be avenged.