Bonus Prologue #2
She did not know how long she stood there, listening to the waves and the gulls, letting the wind tangle loose strands of her hair. At last, the chill seeped through her cloak, and she turned back toward the tavern, the weight of the coming journey settling more firmly upon her shoulders.
Inside, the inn was warmer than she’d expected. A fire crackled at one end of the common room, sending sparks up the chimney and filling the air with the scent of peat smoke. The familiar murmur of voices wrapped her senses.
Selene ate quietly, grateful for the simple meal set before her – a fish stew, as she had hoped, fresh and plainly cooked. When she had finished, Captain Jake made sure she was shown safely upstairs, her trunk carried behind her.
Her chamber was modest but clean. A narrow bed stood against the wall, its woolen blankets neatly folded. Selene dismissed the maid and sat for a long moment without moving, hands folded in her lap.
Only then did the quiet descend.
Her thoughts turned to Hertfordshire. To her father’s study, lined with books and warmed by the afternoon sun.
Of the sound of his voice, steady and measured, calling her in to discuss some small matter of estate business as though her opinion truly mattered, and that Selene’s place in the world was secure.
That certainty had vanished when he had died. And then Elsie had gone.
Her sister’s letters had arrived at just the right moment. Warm, affectionate, full of the wild beauty of the islands and her home on the Isle of Raasay, and the strength of the man she had married. Come to us, her sister had written. You will always have a place here.
Selene rose and crossed to the window, peering out into the dark. Somewhere beyond the village, beyond the water, lay the promise of a new life.
That night, sleep came unevenly.
She dreamed of water – not the gentle, rhythmic sea she had watched from the shore, but something darker and unsettled. She stood upon a narrow strip of land, the ground beneath her feet slick and shifting, as though it might give way at any moment. Mist curled around her, obscuring the horizon.
Something moved beyond it.
A man’s shape rose from the water, tall and indistinct, his outline blurred by distance and rain. She could not see his face, only the suggestion of a commanding presence. The wind pulled at her skirts, urging her closer to the edge.
She woke with a start and sat up at once, her heart racing, the echo of the sea still roaring in her ears.
She drew in a steady breath. “Foolishness,” she murmured into the quiet.
She pressed a hand to her brow and allowed herself a wry smile.
A product of overheard gossip and too much travel, nothing more.
Dreams were easily led astray – especially after weeks of rough roads, unfamiliar landscapes, and endless talk of wild Highland ways.
The Highlands, she suspected, had a way of unsettling the imagination.
She lay back and closed her eyes, determined not to indulge it.
Morning arrived, iron-grey and cold.
Selene dressed briskly, refusing to give the night’s nonsense another thought.
She was not a child to be frightened by shadows and stories.
Monsters belonged in nursery tales, not in a civilized age governed by law and reason.
Whatever people said, no man could be half so dreadful as rumor painted him.
When she descended to the common room, the inn was already stirring. The air smelled of bread and strong tea, the fire newly stoked. Outside, the wind had strengthened, tugging at cloaks and snapping at loose fabric.
After she’d fortified herself with two cups of tea, a slice of oatbread and jam, Captain Jake met her at the door. “We’ll sail as soon as the tide allows,” he said. “The wind’s shifted.”
Selene nodded, following him, keeping her stride firm.
The sea was darker now, its surface rolling and restless, but she lifted her chin and regarded it calmly. Men moved along the shore with quiet efficiency, preparing the birlinns. Ropes creaked. Sails stirred.
She walked closer to the water’s edge, the pebbles crunching beneath her boots.
Across the Sound of Sleat, the island rose beneath the heavy sky – stark and beautiful. Somewhere beyond those hills lay her sister and the life she was to begin anew. The rest, she told herself, was nonsense.
She kept thinking about the English couple and her dream.
So Laird Kenneth MacDonald, to whom he brother-in-law had asked to bring a missive, was known as The Brute of Sleat.
A ridiculous epithet, surely. The kind of thing that was born of isolation and long winters, passed from mouth to mouth until it took on a life of its own. Selene had been raised on reason, on measured judgment. She would not allow herself to be bewitched by Scottish superstition.
A fisherman nearby, busy with a net, paused when he saw her. “Ye’re bound fer Skye?” he asked bluntly.
“Yes.”
He hesitated. “Mind the Sound. Those waters have a memory fer blood.”
She shuddered at his words, but before she could ask what he meant, he had moved on.
Jake was frowning slightly but made no remark.
She drew a breath. This was merely a crossing. Nothing more.
And yet, as the wind swept in from the sound and the birlinn strained against its tether, the sea seemed to wait – patient and watchful.
She removed her boots and woolen stockings, hoisted up her skirt, and stepped into the icy water to wade the few steps to the waiting dinghy.
As Jake pushed the tiny craft into deeper waters, and the man at the oars began to ply the waves, Selene was aware she was poised at the edge of a life she did not yet understand.
She did not look back.