Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
The smell of peat smoke clung to the morning air as Kenina Buchanan stepped through the oak gate of the tower house and onto the frost-hardened path leading to the village green.
Behind her, the courtyard was only beginning to stir with the stable boy sweeping straw, milk pails clattering and the muted voices of her mother and the stewards from the upper windows already counting grain stores for winter.
Frost crackled under her boots. Her braid slipped again and she shoved it back, smearing flour across her temple.
Not exactly the picture of a laird’s daughter.
Yet the moment she stepped beyond the tower’s shadow, Kenina breathed in the morning air. The village felt more like home than the stone walls behind her.
The green spread before her, and with it, the real bustle began. Women arranged food stores, children chased one another with shrieks of victory, and two shepherds were attempting to untangle their sheep, which had inexplicably tied themselves together.
Today was the Gathering of Stores — a yearly preparation where the clan took stock of winter provisions, repaired what needed mending, and ensured no family lacked warmth or food before the cold months arrived.
It was her mother’s tradition, but Kenina had taken the work into her own hands years ago.
Martha, the tower’s housekeeper for longer than Kenina could remember, stood beneath the bare rowan tree watching the chaos with a knife in one hand, the other braced on her hip.
When she spotted Kenina crossing the green, she let out a breath she’d clearly been holding.
“Thank God,” she said, not loudly, but with feeling. “I was just thinkin’ if ye didnae show when ye did, I’d have tae choose between feedin’ folk and stranglin’ them.”
Kenina smiled, taking a look at the pile of sacks next to the long table a few steps away from where they stood. “Who’s earned it?”
“Everyone,” Martha replied flatly. “The sheep are tangled, the grain scales are off, and someone’s left the salt uncovered like we’ve an excess of it.”
Kenina glanced around, taking it in. “I’ll deal with the scales first.”
Martha nodded, satisfaction flickering across her face. “Aye. I thought ye would. Barley wants weighing before the sun softens the frost.”
“And the venison?”
“Already hung,” Martha said. “Yer braither saw tae it before first light.”
That earned a brief nod. “He always liked to have things settled before the noise started.”
“Aye,” Martha replied. “He’s careful that way. Knows folk work better when they’re nae guessin’.”
She handed Kenina a filled sack then. “Take that tae the scales. If the weight’s off again, I want it caught before anyone starts arguing about it.”
Kenina took the load, adjusting her grip as the familiar ache settled into her arms. “I’ll see to it.”
“Good,” Martha said, already turning back to the green. “And if those shepherds start in again, tell them the sheep aren’t the problem.”
As Kenina began working, the green filled more fully. Folk drifted closer in ones and twos, drawn by the open sacks and the quiet order taking shape beneath the rowan tree. Barley was weighed. Oats counted. Names marked in chalk beside tallies scratched into a slate board.
This was the part she liked, when chaos thinned into recognizable pattern.
“Lady Kenina,” Deirdre the baker’s wife said, approaching with her youngest perched on her hip. The boy’s nose ran freely, red with cold. “Daes he feel warm tae ye?”
Kenina wiped her hands on her apron and pressed her fingers briefly to the child’s brow. Cool. A little clammy, but no heat beneath it. “Nay fever. He’s been standing by the ovens again, hasn’t he?”
The boy sniffed guiltily.
Kenina continued, “Keep him away from the smoke for a day or two. Let him play outside — wrapped well. If he starts coughing at night, bring him back.”
Deirdre sighed in relief. “Bless ye. The laird should’ve made ye a healer instead of an heiress.”
“She can be both,” Martha muttered, scooping barley into empty sacks with crisp efficiency.
That earned her a faint smile. Deirdre shifted her grip and moved on, the boy already squirming to be let down.
Kenina returned to the grain. The rhythm soothed her. Scoop. Weigh. Tie. Pass it on.
She knew who needed extra. The MacRaes, whose eldest limped too badly now to hunt. Old Morag, whose stores were always thinner than she admitted. She made small adjustments where she could — nothing obvious, nothing that would shame — just enough to keep winter from biting too hard.
A woman caught her wrist briefly as Kenina handed over a sack.
“Bless ye, lass. We are grateful fer yer help.”
The words struck a soft place in her chest. Kenina smiled.
“I just want everyone prepared before the worst of the cold.”
“And they will be. Because of ye.”
She returned to the tally board, chalk dust smearing her fingers as she marked another name. The work demanded attention. That was the point of days like this — not ceremony, not speeches, but presence. Her mother had taught her that early.
If the people see one counting alongside them, they trust the count.
The Buchanans had ruled this way for generations. Quiet authority. Visible hands.
Her father believed a laird who stayed behind stone walls forgot the sound of his people’s needs. Her mother believed that a household — even a clan — ran on preparation more than strength. Kenina had grown up between those truths, carrying both.
She shifted a sack closer to the older men waiting near the fence, watching as they tested the weight with practiced hands. One nodded approval. Another gave a grunt that passed for gratitude. It was enough.
Kenina reached for another sack.
And stopped. She thought she felt the ground tremble.
Her fingers curled once against the coarse cloth of the sack instinctively. But after listening an hearing nothing, she went back to filling the sack up,
The sound of horses suddenly filled the air and Kenina froze mid-motion. “Did ye feel—?”
A scream cut her off.
It didn't sound like a child’s squeal of play, but the kind that scraped bone.
Kenina’s heart lurched. She spun toward the sound.
A horn blast shattered the morning. Kenina’s heart punched against her ribs. “That’s not ours.”
Chaos hit like a wave.
Mothers grabbed children. Men dashed for tools that could pass as weapons. Dogs barked madly, sensing the fear before the humans did.
“The Grahams!” someone shouted from the wall. “The Grahams are here! It’s another raid.”
Kenina dropped her basket so hard its contents scattered across the dirt. “We need tae move, help me get the children inside the storehouse!” she screamed to a villager, Fergus, who stood nearby.
A group of little ones stood frozen near the well, eyes huge, unsure where to run. Another horn wailed, closer this time.
“Fergus!” she barked. “Take the children—go!”
To his credit, he didn’t argue. He scooped up a crying toddler and herded three others with frantic gestures.
At the far end of the green, a woman stumbled from between the cottages, blood streaking her sleeve, eyes wide with terror.
“Raiders!” she shrieked. “From the east road! Raiders!”
Martha stormed over to their side, swearing under her breath. “Where’s the laird? Where’s yer faither? They were out huntin’ —”
“Aye,” Kenina breathed, throat tight. “And Lachlan with them. He was leadin’ the younger men.”
Martha swore — an old Hebridean curse sharp enough to cut the air. “Saints preserve us. That means half the trained fighters are gone.”
In an instant she understood. The raiders had chosen their moment well. Too well.
Before Kenina could answer, another scream split the morning. This one was closer.
Followed by a crack—wood hitting wood. Or skull.
Kenina caught Martha by the wrist before she could step forward. The woman had gone still, eyes fixed beyond the green, mouth parted as if she’d forgotten how to close it.
“Martha,” Kenina said low. “Look at me.”
Martha blinked once, then dragged in a breath through her nose. Her grip tightened in return.
“Listen,” Kenina said, voice dropping. “If they were after cattle, they’d have turned toward the lower fields by now.”
Martha turned to look beyond the green. Kenina followed her gaze. The riders were angling straight through the narrow road between the cottages.
“Too tight a line,” Martha trembled. “No scatter.
Kenina’s jaw set. “They’re comin’ straight fer the green.”
Martha drew in a breath. “Aye.”
Kenina’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a chance raid. Someone knew the laird was gone.”
She turned, skirts already gathered in one hand as she moved. “Martha — get the elderly inside the chapel and the granary. Bar the doors. Anyone who can’t move fast goes with ye.”
Martha hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded once and moved, voice rising sharp and commanding.
Another crash shook the ground beneath their feet
Kenina didn’t think. She lunged toward the group of children nearest her.
“Breanna!” she shouted. “Gather the wee ones—now!”
Breanna froze in fright.
Kenina grabbed her shoulders. “Look at me.”
The girl’s eyes locked on hers.
“We go tae the barley store. It’s thick-walled and it stays cool, they won’t think to look there. Ye run first. Run!”
Breanna nodded once, then bolted, calling the younger children with frantic whispers.
Kenina pivoted, scanning the green. She spotted two boys near the well clutching each other, rooted in terror. She swore softly as she ran over to them, dropping to one knee so she was eye level, voice sharp but steady despite having run a little distance.
“Listen tae me. Ye’re goin’ tae run straight tae the storehouse. Dae ye see it? Good. Dinnae stop. Dinnae look back.”
One of them shook so badly she thought he might cry.
She pressed her palm flat between his shoulder blades. “Ye’re brave enough,” she said quietly. “Now go.”
They nodded, trembling. She pushed them forward, urging them into motion.