Chapter 1
The guard found Erica in the passage outside the solar. He stood with his helm in his hands, sweat at his hairline, though the air was cool.
“Me Lady,” he said. “Laird MacGee is riding in.”
A cold shiver ran down her spine. She turned to the open door, where her mother stood by the window with a needle between her fingers and despair in her eyes. No time to argue. No time to hide the worry that had lived within these walls for three months.
“See him to the hall,” Erica instructed. “Open the gate proper, and keep the yard clear.”
“Aye, me Lady.”
Word ran faster than feet, and by the time Erica and her mother reached the Great Hall, the room had gone too quiet. Servants stood straighter than the hour demanded, and a pair of kitchen boys froze at the threshold with a trencher and did not dare move.
Laird MacGee entered with six men and the smile of a man who had practiced it in front of a mirror.
“Lady Dunn,” he greeted, bowing over her mother’s hand. “Such a lovely morning, would ye nae say?”
“Laird MacGee,” her mother returned. “Ye have brought a full company for a friendly call.”
“It is a long journey,” he said. “Friends travel safer in numbers.”
He took the chair offered and did not ask whose he displaced.
Erica stood behind her mother’s right shoulder and kept her hands still.
“Ye will forgive me if I ask at once,” MacGee continued. “Word is thin, and rumor is cruel. Yer faither, and yer braither. There has been nay sign of them still?”
“Nay,” her mother said. “Three months this week.”
MacGee’s face arranged itself into grief. “Three months,” he repeated, as if he, too, felt the weight. “I hoped for better news as I rode. I didnae hear it.”
His tone said he had heard everything he wished to use.
Erica watched the rim of his cup rather than his mouth and caught the way two servants tried to look nowhere at all. The hall seemed to breathe shallow.
“Ye ken Bryden men,” her mother said with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “They have a hard habit of finding their way back.”
“Aye,” MacGee said softly. “And a harder habit of finding trouble first.”
Silence tightened, and Erica felt her teeth touch.
MacGee set his cup down.
“Forgive a blunt friend,” he said. “Alliances are made of more than hope. Yer Laird has dealt quick and sharp in the past season. I warned him that such bargains grow teeth. There are names that daenae forget insult, and there are men who daenae forgive lost coin.”
Her mother’s hand shook once over the table linen. Erica pressed two fingers against her wrist and felt her pulse jump.
“We are Bryden,” her mother said. “Our word stands.”
“Aye,” he said. “And yet there is a word that hangs in the air like smoke.”
Erica knew the word he was referring to.
He didn’t even have to say it, yet she heard it.
Traitor.
The servants heard it as well and failed to hide that they had. The boys at the door looked at their shoes as if the stones might swallow them.
“It is nay surprise that people are turning against him. Traitors are often the worst form of cowards.”
“And what about ye, Laird MacGee?” Erica asked, meeting his gaze. “Will ye turn against us?”
The room stilled to the scrape of a log settling in the fire. MacGee took his time, then smiled as if they shared a private joke.
“Nay,” he replied. “Nae yet.”
The words sat between them like a blade laid on the table, not drawn but not sheathed either.
He rose with his cup and came closer under the shape of courtesy. His men watched without watching. He reached and hooked a finger under her chin, lifting her face by a fraction.
“Keep yer eyes high, lass,” he said, soft as a prayer. “The hall needs to see ye steady.”
Erica swallowed, feeling her skin burn from inside at his touch. She knew better than to think the old man was flirting with her.
No, this was not flirtation. It was possession dressed as care. The heat ran even harder through her, sharp and clean. She stepped back before she broke something.
“I will see to the kitchens,” she said. “We have a meal to serve.”
“Of course,” he said, all ease again. “I wouldnae keep ye from yer duties.”
He watched her go with the patience of a man who expected her return.
The passageway gave her the chance to properly exhale. The kitchen was a different world, with its steam and clatter, and the smell of onions and barley.
Erica’s maid, Hilda, knelt at the big pot, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair in a cloth. She looked up once and stopped scrubbing.
“Me Lady, I heard Laird McGee is here.”
Erica nodded, swallowing as hard as she could.
“What did he say?” Hilda asked, voice low.
“Nothing we didnae fear,” Erica said. “Only he enjoys it more than he cares to admit.”
Hilda wiped her hands and poured tea from a dented tin pot into a wooden cup. “Drink,” she urged. “Ye’re shaking.”
Erica drank and felt the heat steady her hands. “I kent this would happen,” she said. “I didnae expect word today.”
“Then keep the shutters closed,” Hilda said. “And yer face smooth. He is only hunting panic.”
“I can manage smooth,” Erica said, and almost smiled. “I daenae have the luxury of panic.”
“Just listen to him calmly and let him speak. Ye cannae react to men like that.”
Erica nodded, drank the rest of her tea, and made to return to the Great Hall. “That is what I intend to do: nae react.”
“Good,” Hilda said. “And daenae try to bite his hand off or something.”
Erica let out a breath that surprised her as a laugh. “Now, why would I ever do that, Hilda?”
“I ken ye very well, me Lady. Do ye remember when ye tried to bite yer aunt Morag and uncle Duncan when ye were a bairn?”
Erica shrugged. “They were pulling me cheeks. What else was I supposed to do?” A low laugh escaped her lips.
The hall had already shifted toward the meal by the time Erica returned. Trenchers lined the long tables as the steward snapped at a boy to mind the salt.
Laird MacGee took the high chair as if he had been born to the wood. He rose when she approached, and for a moment, the hall pretended nothing was wrong in the slightest.
Nothing except the fact that her father’s old friend was sitting at the head table, waiting to claim this castle as his own.
“Lady Bryden,” he said to her mother. “And Lady Erica. I am grateful for yer table.”
“We feed those who ride under our gate,” her mother said and sat.
The first bowls went out, and MacGee ate like a man who wished to be seen enjoying what was offered. He spoke to the men on his left, then to the women across, then back to Erica’s mother in low, smooth lines. Each time Erica swallowed a remark, he grew a shade bolder.
“So,” he said, turning to Erica, “ye keep the accounts yerself.”
“Aye.”
“A heavy task for such a small hand.”
“It holds a quill fine.”
He smiled. “And other tasks. Ye will forgive me, I speak as a practical man. A house like this needs heirs and peace both.”
“Our house needs our Laird to return home,” she said.
“Of course,” he said.
His gaze slid away, assessing, then returned to her with a false warmth.
“Ye are well made for making heirs too,” he went on. “Twice the hips of a regular woman. Childbearing would be easy.”
The words landed like oil on fire as the servants nearby held their breath. Erica felt her restraint falter at the root.
MacGee reached for her face again with the same finger.
She did not think. One minute, she was holding tight to her fork; the next, her mouth had launched itself right onto Laird MacGee’s hand. She clamped her teeth together, biting into skin as hard as she could.
MacGee swore, a bark ripped clean of charm, and the room burst into sound, chairs scraping, spoons skittering. Erica stood and stepped into him with a sharp kick to his shin that sent him back against his chair.
She did not raise her voice.
She did not need to.
“Out,” she said. “Leave me maither’s table and leave our hall.”
His men lurched to their feet and then froze at the sight of every Bryden face turned hard. A pot lad held a ladle like a weapon and blinked, unsure if he dared to breathe. Two maids stared at the rushes, and they widened their stance, like they were ready to fight for Erica. To die for her.
MacGee cradled his hand and smiled again, but it showed teeth now.
“As ye wish,” he said. “We will speak again, Erica.”
“Nay,” she said. “We willnae.”
He bowed to her mother with a grace that had gone thin, and to the hall as if it belonged to him. Then he turned and walked out with his men at his heels.
The hall held its breath until the last heel left the stone. Only then did sound return, too quick, too bright, like a laugh after a funeral.
Servants looked at one another and then away, already deciding what they had seen and what to say of it. Erica could see the looks on their faces and was grateful for them.
By evening, the hall was quiet. Erica led her mother to the solar, set a candle on the table, and shut the door.
Her mother stood in the center of the room, and the words came fast. “What will happen now? What will he tell the others? What story will his men carry to the alehouses? How long before another rides in with fewer smiles? How are we meant to live after ye drove out the one laird who still spoke fair?”
“Maither, let me—”
“He will come back with more men. Did ye see his face when ye bit him? He will say ye are wild. He will say I am weak. They will say yer faither brought this on us. They will say yer braither was a fool. They will look at our fields and count what they can take.”
“Maither—”
“I should have stopped ye. I should have held yer sleeve. I should have begged ye to wait. Why did ye nae wait? Why did ye nae think? What will we do when the gate opens again? Who will stand for us when they call him a traitor?”
Erica moved closer. “Maither, look at me.”
Her mother kept talking. “What will happen to the servants if they refuse to serve a new laird? What will they do to the men on the wall? Will they strip the stores? Will they burn the grain? Will they take ye to force a pledge? Tell me we are safe. Tell me ye ken how to make this right.”
“Maither,” Erica said steadily. “Look at me.”
Her mother blinked and met her eyes.
“Sit,” Erica ordered.
Her mother hesitated, then sat. She drew breath to speak again.
“Breathe first,” Erica said. “In. Hold. Out.”
“I cannae.”
“Try,” Erica insisted. “In. Hold. Out.”
Her mother tried. The breath caught, then went through. She tried again. The tremors in her hands eased a little.
“All the lairds are against yer faither,” her mother said. “They will call it justice. They will make it law. We are alone, Erica.”
“Aye,” Erica said. “We are.”
“I cannae bear it,” her mother said. “I cannae bear to watch ye carry it.”
Erica set a stool in front of the chair and knelt. She took her mother’s hands. The skin felt cool.
“Listen to me,” she urged. “Nae to the hall or to what ye think he will say on the road. To me.”
Her mother nodded once.
“Daenae worry, Maither,” Erica said. “I’ll protect us.”
“How?” her mother whispered. “How can ye promise that?”
Erica held her gaze. “Because I ken exactly what I have to do to get us out of this situation.”
Her mother frowned. “And what is that?”