Chapter 1 Promise Me
Near Lochbuie village
The Isle of Mull
One year later …
SHE DIDN’T WANT to go back inside. But she had to. Her mother needed her.
The grassy scent of chamomile clung to Hazel’s fingers as she pushed open the cottage door.
Inside, the air was thick with the cloying smell of sickness.
Her throat tightened. She’d been gathering herbs since dawn, hoping to find something, anything, that might ease her mother’s suffering.
But deep down, in that quiet place where truth lived, Hazel knew it was too late for remedies.
“Hazel?” The voice was barely a whisper.
“I’m here, Ma,” Hazel crossed the dim interior of their cottage, setting her basket of herbs on the table. Sunlight filtered through the shutters, casting thin golden bars across the earthen floor. Dust motes floated below the beams where bunches of dried herbs hung.
She knelt beside the pallet where her mother lay, taking the woman’s hand in her own.
Her fingers were cold despite the summer warmth, and so thin now.
When had she become this frail? Siùsan Maclean had once been strong and vibrant.
It seemed only weeks ago they’d been working side by side, grinding dried nettle root and sorting through bundles of goatweed.
But it had been months. Months of watching her beloved mother slowly wither.
“Is Duncan behaving himself?” Siùsan rasped.
Despite everything, Hazel felt her lips curve. “He tried to eat my basket of chamomile. I caught him just in time.”
“Naughty donkey.” Her mother’s chest rattled with what might have been laughter, but the sound dissolved into a cough that left her gasping.
Hazel reached for the cup of water mixed with willow bark that sat beside the pallet, helping her mother take a few sips. When the coughing subsided, Siùsan sank back against the thin pillow, exhausted.
They sat in silence for a time, the only sounds the whisper of wind through the press of twisted oak trees that surrounded their cottage and the distant call of a curlew.
It was peaceful here, away from the bustle of Lochbuie village and Moy Castle.
Hazel had always loved their solitude, even when the other bairns had heckled her for being an ‘outsider’.
No one bothered to tease her these days.
At one and thirty winters, never wedded, her reputation as the local herb-wife entrenched, she was used to being different from others.
“Hazel.” Her mother’s voice cut through the stillness—sudden, sharp. Her gaze fixed on where Hazel’s long fingers held her own.
Hazel’s breath caught. Something in that tone made her skin prickle.
“Ye must …” A wet, rattling cough seized her mother’s chest. Her whole body convulsed with it. When it finally subsided, blood flecked her cracked lips. “Ye must leave Mull.”
The words didn’t land at first. For a few moments, Hazel merely stared at her, brow furrowed. And then, she stiffened. “What?”
Her mother’s grip tightened with surprising strength, her skeletal fingers digging into Hazel’s hand. “As soon as I am gone …” Another cough, shorter this time, but vicious. She gasped for breath. “Pack only yer essentials. Take Duncan. Head straight for Craignure.”
“Ma—”
“I have a cousin in Oban.” The words tumbled out now, desperate. “She wed a wainwright years ago … kindly soul … she’ll give ye shelter.” Her chest heaved. “Take the first ferry to the mainland. Don’t—” She broke off, wheezing. “Don’t look back.”
Queasiness rolled over Hazel in a cold wave. Her mother’s eyes were too bright, too fevered. The illness was making her rave. “Why would I do such a thing?” She tried to keep her voice gentle, soothing. “Mull is my home. My herbs, the people who come for healing—”
“There will be other homes.” Her mother’s voice cracked—not from weakness now, but from emotion. “Other herbs.” Her fingers trembled against Hazel’s. “It’s not safe for ye here. Not any longer.”
Hazel’s heart began to pound. She leaned closer, searching her mother’s drawn face for signs of delirium. “Why? Ma, why would ye say—”
“There are things ye must know.” Siùsan’s breathing came in short, labored gasps between each word. “Things I should have told ye … years ago.”
A chill crept down Hazel’s spine despite the warmth of the day. Her mouth went dry. “What things?”
Her mother’s blue eyes filled with tears—fat, glistening drops that spilled over and tracked down her hollowed cheeks.
“I thought no one would bother us.” Her throat worked, convulsing.
“Not after so long.” The words died. She swallowed hard, wincing with pain.
“But a few months ago.” She gave another wet, choking cough.
“There were men. In Lochbuie. Asking questions.”
Confusion churned through Hazel, thick and suffocating. Her pulse thudded in her ears. “Ma,” she said hoarsely. “Ye aren’t making any sense.”
“I still have my wits.” Her mother cut her off, fire igniting in those fading eyes. Her grip on Hazel’s hand turned crushing. “Promise me, Hazel.” Her voice broke. “Promise me ye’ll go.”
Hazel’s breathing came faster now, shallow. Her chest felt too tight. “But why?”
For a long moment, Siùsan simply stared at her. And then something crumbled in that beloved face, some last wall of strength giving way. Her lips trembled. “I’m not yer mother,” she whispered.
Hazel stared back, struck mute. Surely, she’d misheard?
Silence yawned between them before Siùsan continued, “I’m yer aunt.
” She choked the words out. More tears spilled, unchecked.
“Yer mother—my sister—died birthing ye.” Her breath hitched, ragged.
“I raised ye as my own. Loved ye as my own.” A sob caught in her throat. “But ye aren’t mine. And yer father—”
She broke off, her chest spasming with violent coughs.
Hazel drew back. The room tilted. Her vision blurred at the edges.
The woman she’d called ‘Ma’ for over three decades wasn’t her mother at all?
She’d told Hazel that her father was a sailor, a good man who’d died at sea.
Her mind scrambled, desperate for something solid to hold onto, but everything was sliding away.
“Why?” The word was barely above a whisper. “Why would ye lie about such a thing?”
“To save ye from hurt … from shame.” Siùsan’s eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell jerkily. “I didn’t want the folk of Lochbuie to whisper about ye. All I’ve ever wanted was to protect ye.”
The words echoed hollowly in Hazel’s skull.
“I’ve been so happy in this life … with ye, my darling lass …
but part of me always feared” —her aunt’s voice was fading now, growing weaker— “that the past would show its face one day. That’s why we have lived out here …
away from others.” Another pause, another tortured breath.
“I wished to spare ye the truth. I didn’t want ye to learn about him. ”
Hazel’s hands had gone numb. An odd feeling of detachment settled over her then, as if this were happening to someone else. “Whom are ye protecting me from?”
Her aunt’s eyes opened again—slowly, as if the lids weighed too much—and in them, she saw a warning that made her heart kick against her ribs. “From the man who raped yer mother … and who, hopefully, now thinks ye died with her.”
That evening …
Moy Castle
The Isle of Mull
Torchlight gilded the interior of Moy Castle’s hall.
Craeg’s chest tightened as he knelt before the dais, his gaze fixed on Loch Maclean.
The clan-chief’s expression was solemn as he lifted his claidheamh-mòr—ancient steel that had seen generations of Moy chieftains sworn in.
Warm light danced across the blade, and the assembled warriors fell silent.
Even from where he stood, Craeg could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down upon him.
This was it. The moment that would change everything.
He’d led men into battle. Ridden through the night with the fate of a king in his hands. But this? This made his gut clench with nerves he hadn’t felt since he was a green lad of fifteen, yet to draw blood for the first time.
“Craeg Leod Maclean of Moy,” Loch’s deep voice rang out across the hall. “Ye stand before this clan to accept the mantle of chieftain. Do ye swear, upon yer honor and the memory of yer forebears, to lead the folk of Moy with wisdom and courage?”
“I do.” Craeg’s voice was steady, though his pulse quickened.
He couldn’t let his family or his clansmen down.
“Do ye swear to defend these lands and all who dwell upon them, even unto death?”
“I do.”
“Do ye swear to serve Clan Maclean as Chieftain of Moy, to heed yer clan-chief, and to honor the bonds of kinship that bind us?”
“Upon my honor, I do.”
“Ye have proved yer honor. Yer valor. To our king … and our clan.” Loch brought the sword down, touching first Craeg’s right shoulder, then his left.
“By the authority granted to me as clan-chief of the Macleans, I name ye Chieftain of Moy. May ye lead with strength, and may the spirits of yer ancestors guide yer hand.”
A roar went up from the assembled warriors—a thunder of approval that shook the rafters.
The sound crashed over Craeg, and his chest tightened.
Pride warred with something darker. Heavier.
At one and twenty, this mantle felt less like an honor and more like chains being forged around him, link by link.
He turned to face the hall, forcing his expression into something that might pass for pleasure.
They were all there. The Macleans of Duart, Dounarwyse, and Croggan, and their kin. Rae Maclean and Logan Black, the two other chieftains—both considerably older than him—were smiling. They looked content. Settled. As if ruling their lands was all they’d ever wanted.