Chapter 1
“Ye are not even a true Buchanan!” thundered Hamish Buchanan, known to all and sundry as Auld Hamish, pointing an accusing, gnarled finger at Malcolm Cameron, the only resident of the Keep who was actually older than Auld Hamish.
Malcolm was unimpressed. He crossed his arms. “Me mam was a Buchanan through and through, and ye know, Wee Hamish,” Hamish sucked in an offended breath. “I’ve lived at this Keep longer than ye’ve been alive. Dinnae tell me what makes a true Buchanan!”
“Nae true Buchanan would e’er suggest changin’ the whisky receipt!” Hamish shot back.
Ewan Buchanan exchanged a speaking glance with his father, Laird Phileas Buchanan, then quickly looked away before either of them could crack a smile.
Gathering the clan elders was tradition, one that could not be sullied with mockery.
Not even when said elders were not precisely sharing their wisdom.
“I’m nae saying we change all the whisky, ye dullard!” Malcolm returned. “I’m sayin’ we try sommat new. How do ye think we got the old receipts, eh?”
Sometimes it was better to let the elders just vent their frustrations. Or, as was the case of Craig Cameron, Malcolm’s younger—but still ancient—brother, to let them nap with their heads lolling on their chest.
But Ewan could think of a few better uses of his time.
Not that he was likely to get to do any of those things. Auld Hamish and Malcolm had the look they got when they were planning on digging in their heels. The last time they’d gotten like this—a debate over which decades’ dead cook at the Keep had made the best bannocks—it had taken hours.
It was a good exercise in diplomacy and patience, Phileas had reminded his son afterward, and those were two key skills in any laird’s arsenal.
“Besides,” Phileas had argued, “they do talk sense every now and again. Listenin’ to the nonsense is jus’ the price we pay to hear those wee bits o’ sense.”
If Ewan wanted anything in this life, it was to serve his people well.
So he listened. Even when the elders were debating what amounted to adding one cupful of honey to a whisky recipe—something that, ultimately, neither of them controlled.
Phileas was the Laird; he managed the business dealings. Ewan was his second in command.
The elders were… noise. Occasionally charming noise of whom, truth be told, Ewan was fond.
But noise, nonetheless.
“We got the old receipts from our ancestors, ye barmy fool!”
“Oh, aye?” Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “And where did they get them, eh?”
Ewan settled more comfortably in his chair and turned his thoughts to wondering about supper.
Just as he was starting to enjoy a proper fantasy about the roast he’d seen the cooks preparing when he’d nipped down to the kitchens earlier, a messenger burst into the room.
“I beg your pardon, my laird,” he said, dropping a hasty bow. “I dinnae mean to interrupt.” Everyone in the Keep knew that interrupting the elders’ session meant being followed around by ancient clansmen whining at you for days. “But there are riders approachin’ fast. Strangers.”
Ewan was on his feet in a flash, his father only seconds behind him. As they hurried from the room without even a word of farewell to the elders, Ewan caught a glimpse of his father’s furrowed brow.
“We’re nae expectin’ anyone, then?” he confirmed, though he already knew the answer.
Phileas shook his head sharply, just the once, but it was enough. Ewan quickened his pace.
Phileas might have been several decades older than Ewan, but he kept up with his son ably as they hurried toward the stables.
Indeed, despite the years between them, their similarities were still greater than their differences.
Both had the same tall, muscular build—though Ewan might flatter himself to say he was slightly more hale than the father he had grown up trying so hard to emulate, now that he was in his prime and Phileas was gently sloping toward his later years.
Their sharp blue eyes were a matching set, as well, though Phileas’ dark hair was increasingly streaked with silver, while Ewan’s remained dark as night.
Still, there was a comfort in looking at his father and seeing his own future. If Ewan aged with half as much strength and wisdom as his father had done, he knew he would be able to look back on his life with pride.
Grooms had already saddled their mounts, and a group of guards was waiting. They rode as a unit out the gates of the Keep.
As the afternoon had worn on, a haze had moved in from the water, as it so often did. Ewan squinted into the failing light, searching for the approaching strangers.
And then, riding out of the mist, there they were.
Four of them, riding as though their lives depended on it.
As they got a bit closer, he realized they were women, hair streaming behind them, skirts flapping in the wind.
And they were indeed riding for their lives, for mere moments after the women became visible, more riders appeared behind them. Men, all.
Dressed for battle.
“I know those horses,” Phileas murmured to himself, low enough that only Ewan could hear. Then, he raised his voice to address his men. “Protect the lasses! Stop the riders behind them!”
The soldiers, trained Buchanan warriors all, fanned out, stringing their bows even as they guided their horses with their knees. Ewan kept his eyes fixed ahead, trusting his men to act as they ought, though his hand did drift to the short sword he wore at his waist.
He doubted he’d need to use it, not with his men at his back, but he did know how.
James McGregor, the Captain of the Guard and Ewan’s closest friend, rode up beside him. Now, Ewan knew he wouldn’t need his own sword.
Not just because James was good at his job—though he certainly was—but because he was an almighty pain in the arse who loved to heckle Ewan about being the soft laird’s heir who needed to be protected. He wouldn’t pass up a chance to defend Ewan, if only to give him shite about it.
For once, though, Ewan wasn’t focused on James.
He watched the lasses’ horses as they loomed closer, trying to figure out what had triggered his father’s memory.
The rider in the lead was lithe and, even from this distance, looked strong.
She was bent low over her horse’s neck, every inch of her posture that of an accomplished horsewoman.
Dark hair had pulled free from her braid, its color not far off from the dark hue of the horse beneath her, its coat dappled with small patches of tan and white.
The next rider had a wearier aspect, though she was holding her own atop her golden mount with its white streaks.
The woman herself was petite, smaller than the woman at the fore, hair a bright auburn against the misty afternoon.
At her side was a third girl—this one clearly young enough to still be considered a girl—fair haired on a richly colored brown horse.
The youngest girl was struggling, that much was clear.
She was seated properly, though her seat wavered periodically before she caught herself again.
Who were these women? Where in Christ’s name had they come from?
And then the fourth, the one guarding the rear, turned her head away from the pursuing riders, and Ewan had his answer.
He’d recognize Ailsa Donaghey anywhere, from any distance.
She was, after all, supposed to be his wife.
As soon as he recognized her, he grabbed his sword from his belt and surged forward, the protection of his men be damned.
And yet, he was still too far away to do anything, as one of the pursuers raised a bow and loosened an arrow.
Ewan’s heart leapt to his throat. He could practically hear it whistle through the air as he raced toward the assailants.
The arrow missed the riders—they had to be Ailsa’s sisters, if they were with her like this, they had to be—and he watched, impressed, as the sister in the lead, the dark-haired one, turned and threw a dagger, which landed in the chest of one of her pursuers, knocking him from his mount.
She did all this without losing stride on her horse, without even once losing her perfect posture as she rode. Ewan would have been impressed if not for his fear.
“Protect them!” he roared to his men, who had begun galloping at his side the moment that he had spurred his horse into motion. He caught a flash of James’ grim expression, saw the soldiers reaching for their weapons.
The pursuers drew up behind the women, halted by their leader’s raised fist. Their calculation was brief; they fled, leaving their fallen companion on the ground behind them.
Ewan locked his eyes on Ailsa. She whipped her head around one more time, her braid nothing more than a suggestion, her dark strands whipping with the movement.
He saw the flash of relief in her expression when she realized they were no longer being chased, could practically hear the weariness in her voice as she called the news up to her sisters.
It was astonishing, he thought as the Buchanans and Donagheys rode toward one another, that he could still read her expressions after all this time—and yet, it felt right. He would have to be dead in the ground before he failed to recognize her.
Their eyes locked, just for an instant, before she looked away, her attention fixed firmly on his father.
The knife-throwing sister arrived first, though she made no move to speak. Instead, she guided her mount to turn until it was clear that she was awaiting Ailsa’s arrival to manage things.
Despite himself, he felt a surge of pride on her behalf. Ailsa was a leader.
The remaining three sisters arrived together, Ailsa between the younger two.
The knife-throwing sister dismounted nimbly and caught the red-haired sister as she slipped unsteadily from her mount, stumbling when she hit the ground.
The fair sister, the young one, looked as though she lost the final slip of her energy as she reached safety.
One of the Buchanan soldiers helped her to the ground, then held her when her feet did not hold her properly.
Only Ailsa stayed atop her horse, her back straight, her posture proud.
“Laird Buchanan,” she said, her voice raspy but sure.
“I come to you seeking sanctuary for myself and my sisters. My parents have been killed.” A whimper came from the fair-haired sister.
“And my father bade me, in the case of peril, to come to you and request aid, in recognition of the longstanding alliance between our families. Will you offer us safety?”
Maybe Ewan had signaled to his mount, or maybe the horse had just been with him so long that it could practically sense his thoughts. The horse moved forward before he pulled on the reins to stop it.
Ailsa’s eyes flicked to his at the motion, then away. He thought about the last time he’d seen her, the way she’d looked through him more than at him.
“Of course,” Laird Buchanan said, nodding regally.
“Of course, we will honor our agreement. And may I say, Miss Donaghey, that I am sorry about your parents. They—theirs is a serious loss.” He paused briefly, the most serious emotion he was likely to show, at least in front of their men.
But Laird Donaghey had been friends with Ewan’s father, not just his ally.
They’d known each other since boyhood. It was hard to imagine the Laird dead.
“We will welcome you to Buchanan Keep. We will honor the old deal against us.”
This hit Ewan like a blow, but Ailsa didn’t so much as flinch. She must have been expecting this, must have known what she would be asked to do if she came here.
“Thank you, My Laird,” she said somberly. “We shall, of course, do as you request.”
They were dispassionate words, unaffected and calm. Ewan hoped that his own expression looked as untroubled.
Inside, though, he was all turmoil. Ailsa was his past, and now she was here.
Time would only tell if she was his future, too.