Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Murdoch raced across the land, Beatha's remarkable speed a boon as they outran the sunrise.
The weather took a turn for the worse as the hours passed, wind and rain drumming up an obstacle, howling in Murdoch's ear to urge him to go back.
He clenched his teeth against it and rode on, encouraging Beatha to push through the worst of it, relentlessly pursuing his goal.
For any other rider, the horse would have refused or maybe even given up. But for him, she pushed on, outstripping even her fastest time on record, her gallop so fast she was a shooting star in the night.
The rain turned icy, the rising sun hidden behind thick clouds as a snowstorm rushed toward them.
In his formal wedding attire, Murdoch's teeth chattered in the cold, his fingers and lips numb, his cheeks and nose burning from the ice.
He was afraid to blink in case his eyelashes stuck together with the frozen snow, and at this point he only urged Beatha forward because part of him feared that, if they stopped, they would turn into ice sculptures lost in the landscape forever.
The beauty of the Highlands was invisible through the howling snow, the whole world a frenzy of white and grey. It seemed appropriate to Murdoch; the disastrous confusion of the world around him matched the raging storm within his own soul as he left everything he had ever known far behind him.
He welcomed the cold. He needed the ice to penetrate his soul, freezing Christopher away so that Murdoch could flourish.
It was Murdoch who needed to be here now, and Murdoch who needed to reach the home of Alistair Campbell—the home of his father—as soon as he could.
Every second that passed now was a second wasted.
Every moment he spent not in the Campbell lands was a moment closer to ruining everything.
And so Murdoch let the ice freeze his heart, leaving only enough warmth to encourage Beatha as his faithful mare took him toward what, perhaps, had always been his destiny.
It must have been mid-morning when he stopped, cold and exhausted, Beatha unable to keep up the pace a moment longer.
The storm had settled at last, but the clouds remained so dark and the sun so blocked out that it was impossible to know for sure.
The Murray lands were far behind him, and though he knew that he had ridden in the general right direction, he couldn't be sure he was in the right place.
He couldn't push Beatha any further, though he knew his faithful mount would take him as far as she could go, and so he led her by the reins toward the treeline in the distance, hoping to find some shelter where they could rest and perhaps allow her to drink and eat.
Murdoch found a mossy area of the forest that was mostly protected from the snow by the thick canopy after about an hour of walking.
A river ran through it, and when he led Beatha to the bank, she eagerly dipped her head to drink.
Murdoch sighed and sat down against a tree to wait for her, allowing himself only a moment of rest. He worked hard to keep his mind neutral, avoiding lingering on any thoughts of Elsie or Cassie, determinedly trying to stop himself, considering how Lachlan or Aila would react if they found his brooch, refusing to even consider how Arran would feel when he realized that his brother had disappeared.
Well, Christopher had disappeared. Murdoch forced himself to remember that. He couldn't be Christopher, no matter what. He shivered in the cold, drawing his cloak closer around him, and thought that maybe closing his eyes for just five minutes wouldn't be so bad.
He jolted awake to sunlight filtering through the canopy, the clouds seemingly having dissipated. Beatha lay snoozing at his side, her body pressed against his for warmth. As soon as he stirred, she awoke, nickering softly until he petted her snout.
"How long did I sleep, lass?" he asked her.
Judging by the light he could see, it had been quite a few hours—long enough for the storm to stop and the clouds to clear.
It was probably late afternoon, or, if he'd really let himself down, early the next morning.
He frowned at that thought and got to his feet, and with a small snort, Beatha clambered up onto all fours once more.
"Never mind. Time tae go."
They walked together back out of the forest and onto the snow-covered road, then Murdoch climbed back onto Beatha's back and the two set off.
The landscape was blanketed in pure white, undisturbed by footsteps with no recognizable landmarks as far as the eye could see.
The snowstorm had ended, but its aftermath had completely covered the world, the fresh layers of snow looking like the whole of the Highlands had been erased in the storm's wake.
They traveled along the road as best they could, first slowly and then picking up speed as Beatha grew confident even in the icy surroundings.
And then, from nowhere, the tower appeared.
It was a wooden structure, an outpost manned by at least fifty men who were for now specks in the distance.
A fire burned merrily nearby, rising above a small, grim-looking village where no doubt the men of the outpost lived until their turn on the outskirts of the clan ended and they could return home.
Murdoch's heart stuttered as he saw the flag waving from the top of the tower—twin snakes on a black background, the sinister symbol of Campbell, announcing his land's borders to the world.
"Here we go," he muttered to Beatha. "Be brave, mo chridhe."
Beatha replied to his affectionate nickname with a little snort which he was sure was her wishing him the same. Bolstered and reassured that, if nothing else, he still had his beloved horse by his side, Murdoch leaned forward in the saddle and encouraged her on.
They hadn't gotten far before a group of soldiers on horseback approached, their weapons drawn as they raced toward them.
Murdoch had expected their hostility, and no fear rose within him as he slowed Beatha to a stop and, giving her an encouraging pat, slowly dismounted from her back.
He did not reach for his own weapon, instead raising his hands, palm-up, in front of him, and stepping away from his horse to wait for the riders to reach him.
Two of the Campbell men jumped down from their horses' backs and rushed toward him, their swords pointed toward his throat. The clear leader of the group said, "Kincaid. I ken yer colors, lad. Ye've made a mistake in comin' here."
"Why would they send a lone rider?" the other man asked, narrowing his eyes as the still-mounted soldiers circled them. "What plot have ye brought with ye?"
"Ye're mistaken, gentlemen," Murdoch said calmly. "Aye, I wear the Kincaid colors, but think about it. Look how formally I am dressed. If I was here as a spy or with the intention of harmin' ye, why would I have come like this?"
The two soldiers looked at each other but didn't lower their weapons.
Murdoch stepped closer, internally surprising even himself with how calm he was. It was as though the ice had settled around him like armor, blocking out everything inside and out.
"I'm nae Kincaid," he said, and the twinge in his heart at the words was numbed by the cold.
"Then who are ye?" one of the men snarled.
He smiled. "I'm Murdoch Campbell. And ye need tae take me tae me father. At once."
Campbell Castle sat in the center of the clanlands, resting atop a steep, craggy hill that blended seamlessly with the mossy stone that made up its walls. It was an ancient building, sturdy and full of ghosts, the cold wind whistling through the gaps like an eerie song.
Morag Caindach had been staying here for some time now, and every day that passed seemed to draw her further away from the rest of the world.
The home where she had grown up had been elegant but cold, while Murray Castle had been warm and filled with progress, but Campbell Castle lacked the comforts of both.
The dilapidated building was threadbare, left to ruin in the wake of Malcolm Campbell's defeat all those years ago, and only recently reclaimed by his brother.
Renovations were the last thing on Alistair's mind, it seemed, as he sought only revenge.
"Sit up straight," her father hissed. "Dinnae ye dare embarrass me further."
Morag straightened her back, though she hadn't been slouching at all, and folded her hands on her lap.
The smoky, fire-lit room hidden deep within the old castle was filled with northern lairds and chieftains, each here to beg their piece from Laird Campbell.
Her father was no better than any of them, and though she still played the obedient daughter, she regarded him so differently than she had before.
While once he had been her idol—the only family she had and the heights to which she had aspired—it had all fallen away when she had discovered too late that he was no better than the rest of these vultures.
She'd been horrified, furious, and disgusted when her previous betrothed, Rolland Murray, and his family had accused her and her father of being spies for Campbell.
Morag still could not understand how Rolland had chosen that strange, horse-loving common girl over her, but she would never have been desperate enough to ruin a potential marriage with such betrayal.
But her father had brought her home, then a few days later, had her pack up her things and brought her directly here.
When she had objected, he had delivered a hard blow to her cheek with the back of his hand that had sent her sprawling to the floor.
"Ye've already let me down once, lass," he had seethed. "Never question me. Understand?"
Morag hadn't cried. She'd apologized and promised to obey, tucking the pain and hatred deep within her heart. Her mother had always told her to be proud, and she would never let that go. It was the only power a woman like her had remaining.