Highland Heart (Brides of the Highlands #1)
Chapter One
The Highlands, 1555
F iona McAfee nocked another arrow to her bowstring with a practiced ease that one would never expect from the statuesque blue-eyed blonde. The morning air, crisp and cool, was filled with the muted rustling of leaves.
She drew back the string, the familiar pressure comforting against her fingertips. Her world narrowed to the target, a distant point awaiting the destruction of her arrow. Fiona sighed. Between one heartbeat and the next, she loosed the shaft.
It soared and struck true, piercing the center of the target with a satisfying thunk that resonated through the stillness. A small smile twitched at the corners of Fiona’s mouth, but it was a fleeting thing, for there was no time to bask in satisfaction—not when there was yet more to prove, more to perfect.
Fiona set to work, the rhythm of her movements as fluid as the waters of Loch Lomond, each motion a graceful dance honed by years of disciplined practice. Her arrows found their marks unerringly, a cascade of whispers against the targets.
She stood regally as she sighted down the arrow. The archery yard of Clan McAfee had become her court, the thrum of bowstrings her decree.
Yet beneath the serene surface, a storm of considerations and strategies brewed within Fiona’s mind—matters not of the heart but of duty, the weight of responsibility pressing upon her shoulders. Her father had invited men from all over, and unbeknownst to the men, he planned to choose her future husband from among them.
After much arguing, she’d gotten her father to listen to her opinions of the men. Yet deep down, she craved true courtship. She desired a man who would take her for walks and get acquainted with her for more than just a political alliance.
And though none could hear her, Fiona was far more than just a skilled archer. As Laird Duncan McAfee’s eldest daughter, she was a prize to any of the laird’s sons her father was inviting—for he would settle for no less than a laird’s son to become the future laird of Clan McAfee. Her younger half-sisters would hopefully be given more freedom, though the youngest of the trio, Moira, had declared she would never marry. She loved her freedom too much to trade it for a lifetime of duties and childbearing.
Fiona sighed, her breath misting in the crisp Highland air as she lowered her bow. The anticipation for the upcoming games kindled a fire within her breast, the likes of which she had never felt. This would be the first time she was allowed to compete, and she looked forward to besting the men. Oh, she’d competed with her father’s soldiers and her sisters, and she’d beaten them all, but to compete in true Highland Games was something she aspired to. She could almost hear the clamor of the crowd, the clash of steel, and the triumphant cries that awaited at the fields near her home.
She observed the targets, each punctured by her arrows. It was more than mere practice. It was her preparation to be introduced to the world as a warrior of Clan McAfee.
“Let them see what a McAfee lass can do,” she whispered with determination.
*
Meanwhile, within the imposing stone walls of McClain castle a half-day’s ride from Clan McAfee’s own fortress, Alisdair stood among his brothers. “The Highland Games are nigh upon us,” he announced, his voice carrying the gravity of their ancestral halls. “And with them, an opportunity presents itself—a chance to find a wife.”
Alisdair had the muscled strength of a warrior. With his dark hair and blue eyes, he was considered a catch by all the women of the clan, but he couldn’t marry a McClain woman and still rule. No, he must find a clan who needed a strong leader, so he could marry their daughter.
His younger brothers, Lachlan and Brodie, exchanged knowing glances. The task of finding a bride was no trifling matter, especially for a man like Alisdair, for Alisdair, though he was the eldest son of a laird, would not have the opportunity to rule Clan McClain. No, that honor would go to their youngest brother, Boyd.
Each generation of the McClains brought seven sons, with the youngest inheriting. No one knew why it happened that way, but the elders of the family claimed that it started with a family who came from Normandy and fought with William the Conqueror centuries before.
“Ye seek a woman who will give you the best political alliance,” Lachlan remarked, a playful twinkle in his eye. “I ken ye want a lass whose marriage will allow ye to lead a clan—a powerful clan.”
“Aye,” Alisdair affirmed, his gaze piercing as an eagle’s. “She must be strong, wise, and capable of standing beside me through the trials and triumphs that await.” His thoughts turned unbidden to the whispers he’d heard of the McAfee sisters—warrior women of unparalleled mettle. The prospect of meeting them on the field of honor intrigued him. He’d never met a woman who could compete with a man on the field of honor, but he’d been told these women could and at this Highland Games for the first time—they would.
“Strength and grace,” he mused. “I hear whoever marries the oldest shall expect to call himself Laird of Clan McAfee. I canna be laird of Clan McClain, as that honor goes to our youngest brother. But if I can find a lady with qualities befitting a future lady of a clan, I hope I will find them in her.”
*
In the stone-clad hall of Castle Sinclair, Laird Arran Sinclair convened a meeting with his sons. The air was cool and still, save for the crackling hearth that cast a warm glow on their stern faces. Malcolm stood flanked by his younger brothers, Ian and Callum, each embodying the strength and resolve of their lineage.
“Malcolm,” began Arran, his voice deep and steady as the rolling hills that surrounded their land, “our fields thirst for water, and our future requires more fertile ground.” His gaze made it clear that they were not to argue with him. “The lands we seek are under the banner of Clan McAfee—our allies, true, but such bonds must be tightened if we are to endure.”
With the measured cadence of a seasoned leader, he unfolded his plan, speaking of bonds not forged by mere pacts but by the unbreakable ties of matrimony. “You will journey to the Highland Games hosted by the McAfees. There, you must win the hand of Fiona, their eldest. Through this union, our clans shall become one, and none shall dare challenge our might.”
As the gravity of his father’s words sank in, Malcolm straightened himself, his eyes alight with a quiet fire. It was more than an order. It was a gauntlet thrown at his feet—the path to elevate his clan and etch his name into history. An opportunity to emerge from the shadow cast by his father’s formidable reign, to harness his own ambition and cunning for the glory of the Sinclairs.
“I will do as you command, Father,” Malcolm replied, his excitement thinly veiled. “To stand as laird over a domain so vast, to protect and prosper our people twofold—it is an honor I accept with pride.”
Laird Arran nodded, his expression betraying a hint of approval. For Malcolm, this was more than a quest for land or power. It was a chance to prove his worth, to confront the gnawing insecurity that clawed at him in the quiet hours. To be deemed worthy in the eyes of the man who had shaped him with expectations as rugged as the Highlands themselves.
And though the path ahead would be fraught with trials, Malcolm Sinclair embraced the charge with fervor, ready to unite two clans and forge an indomitable legacy.
*
Alisdair McClain strode through the corridor of his ancestral home, his boots echoing off the stone walls. The air held a chill, one not entirely born of the draft that whispered through the arrow slits. It was a tangible reminder of the responsibility he carried upon broad shoulders. His family was unique amongst the ruling clans of the Highlands. The youngest would inherit, and that would leave the eldest to find another clan to rule, or be ruled by the youngest. He loved his brother Boyd, the youngest of the seven brothers, but he was the one who was born to lead, not his brother, who was happier playing with butterflies than he was on the battlefield.
It didn’t matter though. Boyd was destined to rule, and he, Alisdair, was destined to… do something. He would be a great warrior, and he had to find a clan who was searching for a laird. A man with a level head and great strength needed to be a leader, not a follower.
He found his brothers, Lachlan and Brodie, once more. “Brothers,” he began. “The games draw nigh, and with them, the eyes of the clans. We must present ourselves as the formidable force we are.” His two oldest brothers glanced back at him.
Lachlan leaned forward, the firelight casting shadows over his features. “Aye, and beyond displays of strength, ’tis alliances we might forge. Each clan brings not just their brawn to the field, but a chance for kinship.”
“This is true,” Alisdair acknowledged, already contemplating the chessboard of clanship and legacy. “The McAfee lasses, for instance. They are said to possess a skill that rivals even the seasoned warriors of our own kin.” His voice betrayed none of the curiosity that flickered within him, a flame piqued by tales of archery prowess and unyielding spirit. In his mind, the eldest Fiona was already his own.
“Have ye heard much of them?” Brodie inquired. Brodie was the youngest of the three brothers who would attend the Highland Games. He was interested in tales of the warrior women.
“Enough to recognize they are not to be underestimated,” Alisdair replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. He imagined the eldest, Fiona, her name uttered in reverent tones throughout the Highlands. “Their father has raised them more akin to sons than daughters, each skilled in ways that could benefit our clan… or challenge it.”
“Would ye consider an alliance with the McAfees then?” Lachlan asked, tilting his head as though to weigh the prospect himself.
“Perhaps,” Alisdair conceded. “If the fates decree it so. But let us not forget the games are more than mere courtship. They will be watching us all and judging the entire McClain clan on our actions.” He smirked. “There are already enough tales about the crazy McClain family, but all understand we are warriors.”
After his brothers left the room, he thought about what he wanted from the Highland Games. He wanted victory, of course, but he also wanted a wife. For Alisdair, an alliance must come first. He didn’t care about a love match. A woman could be ugly as a troll and he would marry her as long as she came with a clan for him to lead.
“Mayhap,” he mused, “I will find the perfect lass to marry.” His gaze drifted to the window where stars peeked through the twilight, their celestial patterns like the intricate knots of a tapestry yet unseen. “A woman of courage and intellect who can stand shoulder to shoulder with a laird in both heart and mind.”
As if on cue, the constellation of Orion, the great hunter, met his eye, reminding Alisdair of the tales of prowess and partnership that filled the highland lore. The thought of such a companion stirred something within him—a yearning mingled with apprehension, for how often did the desires of a man align with the needs of a clan?
*
Meanwhile, Fiona McAfee stood in the middle of her practice field, her bowstring still quivering from the last arrow loosed. She sighed slowly, her breath visible in the cool air of twilight. The Highland Games beckoned to her like a siren’s call, promising a boare upon which to demonstrate her worth beyond the confines of tradition. Aye, she was a woman like any other, but she didn’t enjoy thinking about hairstyles or making supper plans. She wanted to be able to fight with her father’s men, and he often allowed her to train with them.
She wasn’t certain she could ever marry, though her father had been pressing her to choose a husband. Yet what husband would allow her to train with men?
Her heart thrummed with anticipation, not solely for the contest of arms and agility, but for the myriad possibilities it offered. What alliances might be struck? What challenges would arise? And, hidden in the weave of those questions, was the whisper of a deeper query—one of connection, of kinship, perhaps even of a shared destiny with someone she had yet to meet. These Highland Games would change her life in ways she could only imagine.
Fiona collected her arrows. As she stowed them in her quiver, her mind danced toward the morrow, toward the gathering of clans and the spectacle it promised. Her sisters, Ailis and Moira, would surely be abuzz with their own preparations.
All three sisters would compete in the games. Fiona would compete in archery, Ailis in dagger throwing, and Moira in swordsmanship. Moira was the smallest of the three as well as the youngest. Their father had a sword specially made for her when she’d demonstrated ability with the wooden swords he’d had them all wield as practice swords first.
With each step toward her clan’s keep, her mind whirled with strategies and visions of the games. The Highland Games were not merely a test of strength and skill. They were the way the mettle of whole clans was judged. And she, as the eldest McAfee sister, bore the weight of her clan’s honor upon her shoulders.
Most of the McAfee soldiers would also compete in the games. Fiona looked forward to watching them compete, but she also looked forward to meeting new people. She’d been isolated most of her life from anyone other than kin. After her mother’s death in childbirth, her father had married twice more, hoping to find a mother for her, but all three had died. Each had left him another daughter. After he’d lost his third wife, Laird Duncan wouldn’t try for another son. It was too difficult to keep losing mothers for his daughters. He concluded that he was not meant to have a son, and he then began training his daughters to be sons instead.
Ailis and Moira awaited her arrival, their faces lit with the fervor that the coming event had ignited in all their hearts. Ailis, ever the nurturer, approached with a furrowed brow, undoubtedly concerned for their unity and well-being. Moira, eyes gleaming with untamed spirit, clutched an assortment of weapons she had acquired—each a small rebellion against the world’s expectations.
“Have you honed your aim, Fiona? Will the arrows fly true when the moment of truth arrives?” Moira asked in jest and earnestness. Moira was the true warrior of the family, as she was good in hand-to-hand combat, excellent with a bow, though not as good as Fiona, and she excelled with the sword her father had given her when she was old enough to carry one.
Fiona smiled, her confidence unshaken. “As true as the McAfee name. Our clan shall rise in the esteem of all who gather.”
Ailis hummed a tune of quiet encouragement, her melody weaving through the cool air, wrapping them in a shroud of shared anticipation. Her stories, often told by flickering firelight, had a way of fortifying their spirits, reminding them of the legends they themselves might one day become.
“Let us not forget the duty we owe to our name,” Ailis counseled, the mischievous glint rarely seen by others flashing briefly in her gaze. “We must compete with the men and beat them. Nothing less will be acceptable to Father.”
The three sisters exchanged glances of understanding, each one acknowledging the gravity of the games. It was more than mere competition. It was a display of their clan’s resilience, a chance to forge alliances, and perhaps, for Fiona, an opportunity to encounter a destiny long whispered by the winds that swept across the highlands.
“Tomorrow, we show the strength of the McAfee blood,” Fiona declared. “For our kin, for those without a family to call their own, and for the future we will shape with our own hands.”
*
Fiona plucked the last of her arrows from the target. She faced her sisters, a smile playing upon her lips, the weight of the impending games momentarily lifted by their presence.
“Ye think yer aim will be true when the eyes of the clans are upon ye?” teased Moira.
“True enough to best any man—even a McClain—who dares cross my path,” Fiona declared, arching an eyebrow in feigned defiance. The McClains were the men who were reported to be the strongest among the Highland Clans. All three sisters had watched them for years. Ailis had always dreamed of marrying one, though Fiona and Moira had dreamed of besting one on the battlefield.
Ailis joined in the jest. “And what if the McClain’s gaze lingers less upon your arrows and more upon the archer?”
“Then he shall find himself sorely distracted,” Fiona answered, her heart fluttering at the notion. One of the McClain brothers had caught her eye in the previous game as she’d watched from the window, and she was hoping to see him again. Quietly hoping. She would never admit it to her sisters. “For ’tis not a fair maiden they’ll meet, but a warrior of Clan McAfee.”
*
The warm glow from the torches of McClain castle revealed a gathering in the grand hall. Alisdair McClain stood amidst his kin, his stance commanding, his mind as sharp as the blade at his side.
“We shall present ourselves with honor at the games,” Alisdair decreed, his voice resonating through the stone walls. “Each man must uphold the legacy of our ancestors, for the pride of McClain is not taken lightly.”
His brothers nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity woven into every word. Alisdair surveyed the faces before him, each one a testament to the unwavering spirit of their clan. Together, they would stand, a formidable force upon the fields, their unity unshaken by rivalry or the prospect of alliances hidden within the guise of competition.
“Let us retire to prepare for what lies ahead,” Alisdair announced, dismissing the assembly with a firm nod.
When Alisdair strode up the stairs to the room he’d had since childhood, he was satisfied with the preparations of the soldiers for the games. They must show their strength, or the other clans would assume they had none.
He paced before the hearth, where embers still glowed from the day’s fire. The warmth did little to quell the chill of responsibility that wrapped around him like a cloak. He was expected to find a wife, but the woman he sought had a spirit who could stand beside him, unflinching in the face of adversity.
“Would that fate be so kind?” he wondered. Fiona McAfee, a name that carried the promise of such ideals, was the first woman he would approach. Yet, rumors were akin to the wind—felt but never seen, and often shifting direction. To judge her solely on hearsay was folly. He must observe her and discern her character for himself.
“Let the days to come reveal the truth of it,” he resolved, the weight of expectation settling upon his broad shoulders. Alisdair knew well the game of courtship was as intricate as any battle, requiring not only strategy but intuition. If the lass possessed the essence of both warrior and diplomat, then perhaps she was the rare jewel for which he—and his heart—had been searching.
He must base his opinion of the lass on her strength and her spirit. He couldn’t care if she were hideous.
*
Though the hour was late, Fiona McAfee could not sleep. Instead, she stood before the narrow window, gazing upon the moon’s silvery path that illuminated the rugged highland tapestry below.
“Soon,” she whispered to herself—a habit born from many nights of solace—her breath fogging the cool glass. “All will unfold as destiny decrees.” The games wouldn’t truly start until the following day, but the morrow was when the other clans would come and camp near their keep. They would feast on McAfee food, and they would mingle among one another—their loyalties told apart by the colors and patterns of the tartans they wore.
She traced the lines of her bow, resting against the wall—an extension of her very soul. The bow was a symbol of her strength, her grace, her unwavering determination to stand as an equal among men. The Highland Games were not merely a contest of skill. They were a boare upon which her future would be set into motion.
In the stillness of her chamber, Fiona felt the flutter of anticipation, a quiet thrill. Tomorrow, eyes would follow her every move, including those of Alisdair McClain—warrior and potential suitor. His name had reached her ears, whispers of a man whose prowess in strategy was matched only by his sense of duty.
Would he see beyond the facade of competition? Would he recognize in her a kindred spirit—one who balanced the weight of leadership with the subtleties of compassion? It was a dance she was well-versed in, the delicate interplay between what was expected and what was desired.
As she settled into her bed, wrapping herself in blankets woven with the tartan of her clan, Fiona allowed herself a rare moment of vulnerability. Her mind drifted to Alisdair once more—not as a warrior or a strategist, but as a man. What passions lay concealed behind his stoic face? Did his heart yearn for connection, as hers did, amid the duties and demands of his station?
Her questions lingered, unanswered, as she closed her eyes and surrendered to sleep’s gentle embrace. But even in her dreams, she anticipated what was to come, painting scenes of laughter and competition, of pride and perhaps… of romance.