Threats and Promises (The Bartered Scots Brides #1)

Chapter One

“Daughter, I require ye to do this one thing for me. ’Tis not as if I ask all that much o’ ye.”

Annista MacRowan spun to face her father, a tide of wild protest rising in her heart.

There he stood like some sort of ghastly ogre out of a childhood tale, amid the smoke that filled the gloomy hall.

The big fire in the hearth refused to draw on account of the rain crashing down outside.

It seemed always to rain these days, as if the very world wept for the state of things.

She squinted at him, trying to assess his mood while entirely overwhelmed by her own. A proud man usually, though now a certain look of pleading had entered his eyes. Annista attempted to persuade herself he did not mean to play upon her emotions—possibly with cold deliberation.

“One thing,” she repeated. “One thing?”

Since her sister, Robena, had gone away to marry two years ago, Annista had carried much responsibility for this place.

Father, ceasing to be the man he once was and seemingly weighed down by the way things stood in the country, appeared unable to face a future made dubious for Catholics such as they.

He had kept his head down and stopped participating in the politics of the land.

As for Mother—well, since they’d lost Robena, she had more or less retired from life, spending most her time in her chamber and leaving the running of the house, in truth, to Annista’s hands.

She’d always known Robena had been their favorite—why should she not be? She’d been the cherished light of Annista’s world also. A sweet, gentle girl, as opposed to the harridan Annista had always been—who would not favor Robena? Dead now, was her beautiful sister, gone from the world.

For the last twenty months or more, it had been Annista who saw to the daily running of the keep, made sure there was food for the table, clean clothing for Father to wear, and ale for him to drink at night when he sat up late.

Unwilling to go to bed? Struggling with a guilty conscience? A part of Annista almost hoped so.

She loved her father, to be sure she did. At this moment, this particular moment, she hated him as well. Because he asked the impossible, and because it was his fault Robena was dead.

Annista knew that to her heart, had not a flicker of a doubt about it. Nay, Robena had not died by Father’s hand, but he had sent her to her terrible fate.

Just as he now wanted to send Annista to take her place.

She tipped her head and looked at him. “It seems to me,” she said crisply, “ye never cease wi’ making demands o’ me. See to the dairy, Anni. See to the kitchens. Provide a welcome for a cluster o’ unwelcome earls—”

Robert MacRowan flinched. A man not overly tall, he had been gey good-looking in his youth but had not aged particularly well and now ran to flab, the wattles on his cheeks wobbling when he spoke.

“Ye ken fine I must show willing and hospitable when the lords call. Ye ken how important it is. We maun keep on the right side o’ the men leading this land. D’ye want to see me in chains?”

Aye, sometimes she did. Annista was not proud of that, but by and large she was an honest woman.

Their nation was in a state of upheaval, the Protestant lords at odds with their Catholic queen and deals being made on every hand.

The balance of power swung like the pendulum on the old clock in the hall.

That the intrigue should reach even here to their little enclave in Eastern Sutherland was not so surprising. That it should touch Annista’s life was.

“I thought Queen Mary led the land?” she retorted.

Father scowled deeply. Indignation stiffened his spine and flushed his face. “Aye,” he said waspishly, “ye always did ha’ the ready tongue, did ye not? Throwing words at me when Robena offered naught but obedience.”

Annista fixed her eyes upon him. “Do ye no’ dare say her name to me.”

“The gall o’ ye, Daughter, to speak to me in that manner! Where is your respect?”

“Perhaps it went into Robena’s grave wi’ her. Ha’ ye considered that? Ye knew what Evan MacKallan was when ye sent her off to marry him. Ye knew she would be neither happy nor safe. But ye made your bargain and ye sold her—sold her—for your own benefit. Now that she is dead—”

Dead. Dead! Her beloved sister was gone forever from her.

A hundred images tumbled swiftly through her mind. The two of them born barely a year apart and always, always together. As different as night and day in appearance and in spirit, they had nevertheless harmonized with one another perfectly.

Telling stories and giggling in their bed. Running wild over the hills and coming home with their dresses torn, their hair tangled, and their slippers in ruins. Running to each other with every hurt, or imagined hurt. Confiding their dreams that they would tell to no one else.

Robena’s dreams had always been about finding a love like to those in the old tales, a love for the ages. And what had Father done? Sent her away to a man so cruel it had taken him less than two years to destroy her.

“—and,” she finished bitterly, “ye want to send me now to tak’ her place.”

“’Tis no’ as if I want to, Anni,” he spoke now in a hush, some of his indignation flown. “Keeping Neilan MacKallan’s protection is as good as my life.”

Aye, Catholic landholders such as Father, those remaining loyal to their faith and their queen, were being harassed, arrested, and charged for crimes on the thinnest of pretexts. Father refused to surrender his faith, saying he owed an even higher allegiance than that to his country.

“Neilan MacKallan is a man wi’ powerful connections, Annista. So long as we are linked wi’ him—”

“He will protect ye, aye.”

Annista had heard all this before, back when Robena had been sent away to secure a marriage alliance with the powerful MacKallan family.

Thereby, as it had proved, sacrificing her life.

She looked her father in the eye. “Evan MacKallan is a madman.”

He recoiled a step. “Och, I do no’ think that is true, no’ at all.”

“He is subject to rages and—and dark fits. Ye saw what he did to Robena.”

Robert MacRowan’s features twisted with distress. “’Twas perhaps not the best match for her, nay.”

“Ye knew, when ye sent her, the man had a fearsome reputation.”

“And I thought Earl Neilan would keep her safe. ’Twas he arranged the match, after all. His lands are extensive, and he wanted to keep them fro’ English hands. That meant securing the succession through his son. ’Twas an honor to be connected wi’ so strong a house—”

“An honor!”

“I hoped your sister would do well there, such a biddable, obedient lass, no’ like—”

“No’ like me?” Annista’s eyes glowed with rage.

Her father grimaced. “Now I see, mayhap she never had a chance o’ standing up to a man such as Evan. I will admit, it ended badly.”

“So now ye will sacrifice me also? To that—that monster? To save yoursel’.”

What she should do, Annista thought bitterly, was pack up her things and leave. Do it tonight while the rain might cover her escape, and no one would see her go.

But where to flee? Rowan House was isolated, with miles of open country all around. There were her cousins in Inverness, if she could reach them. The very first place Father would look for her.

She lifted her chin. “Wha’ does Mother say to this?” And why was she not here helping Father apply pressure, if she agreed with him sending her younger daughter into a bartered marriage? She’d done enough speaking into Robena’s ear when that deal was made. And, no doubt, now felt guilt for it.

“Yer mother is unwell, since yer sister’s death.”

Aye, sick with remorse.

“But she fears for my life and her own welfare, if I go to prison for my faith and the estate is seized. D’ye ken what will happen to the rest o’ ye?”

They would be outcasts, paupers. Penniless. Would even her cousins dare take them in?

“So,” Annista said wretchedly, “Mother—just like ye—would sell me, even as ye did Robena.”

“Daughter,” desperation now filled his voice, “ye are strong. No’ like yer sister. I believe if ye go to marry Evan MacKallan, ye will give as good as ye get.”

Aye, she was stronger than Robena. But MacKallan was a demon. Was she strong enough?

“My answer,” she told her father slowly and clearly, “is nay.”

Anger suffused him, flushing his face once again. “Aye, ye always were a disobedient daughter. The troublesome one.” He flared, “The selfish one.”

Ah, for him to call her that!

“Ye should know,” she said, and walked from the room.

She should have expected her mother to come to her soon after. She loved her mother even as she loved her father, a sincere if dutiful sort of love.

Not like what she’d felt for her sister.

Mother arrived at Annista’s chamber door, weeping, not long after the conversation with Father.

A very lovely woman was Kirstin MacRowan. Robena had taken after her, with fair hair and rosy cheeks, her body slim as a willow.

The last time Annista had seen her sister, only three months before she died, her cheeks had not been rosy. They’d been pale as chalk. Her form had wasted to skeletal and her eyes looked haunted.

She had tried to whisper her troubles to Annista as they had done long ago but he—Evan MacKallan—had forbidden it, kept an eagle eye on her, and prevented any confidences.

Mother wept beautifully, as Robena always had. If and when Annista wept, it proved an ugly thing, the tears torn from her, usually in anger.

A two-pronged attack this was. Father had not succeeded in swaying Annista, so he sent Mother in.

Were there no lengths to which the man would not go to save his skin?

“Anni,” Mother said as she stumbled in, a handkerchief clutched to her face. “I need to speak wi’ ye. I—”

“Did Father send ye?”

“Nay. Aye. I come for his sake, aye.” Even before Annista shut the door, a waterfall of tears commenced. Mother perched on the bench that faced the fire and held out a hand.

What could Annista do but clutch it? Mother’s fingers felt icy, and when she lowered the kerchief, real pain filled her pale blue eyes.

“Ye ken full well, Anni, how desperate is your father’s situation. He will never renounce his faith and I—I respect him for that. But if he is arrested—”

“He will no’ be arrested. There is nay cause.”

“The earls who stand against the queen and who want these lands will manufacture a reason. They will install a Protestant earl here. And what will become o’ us?”

“Perhaps I will marry.” She’d always intended to, for she understood the desires of the flesh well enough and had always intended to have a family of her own. “Not,” she added before Mother could speak, “Evan MacKallan.”

A new look invaded her mother’s eyes. “I want to save your father’s life, aye. But, Daughter, that is no’ why I come to ye now.”

“Nay? Why, then?”

“I never should ha’ let your sister go to that man. Och, I did no’ ken what he was then. But we had heard tales enough, and she did no’ want to go. I will ne’er, ne’er forgive mysel’.”

The admission did not provide Annista with the satisfaction she’d expected.

“When I think o’ her there alone, at his mercy—” Kirstin MacRowan narrowed her eyes. No hint of tears lingered there.

“Then why—Ma, why would ye countenance sending me?”

“Because,” Kirstin reached out and seized both Annista’s hands. “Ye are no’ yer sister. Ye are strong and—and fierce. Perhaps stronger than him.”

Stronger than a demon?

“Daughter,” Kirstin looked at her, crazed light filling her eyes. “I want ye to go and wed wi’ that terrible man. And then I want ye to kill him—for me.”