Chapter 2
The morning sun dawned bright and clear as if mocking the storm swirling inside Erica. The entire estate was buzzing with anticipation, and the loud voices of the guests drifted up to her windows.
Gazing out blankly at the gathering men below, she sighed deeply.
I wish the sun wouldnae shine so brightly.
Their excitement was palpable as they hefted large wooden beams and hammered stakes into the ground.
In a world that made sense to her, she’d be allowed to stay by her father’s side, nursing him through his sickness.
Instead, here she was, about to be a prize in an embarrassing and barbaric competition.
“Lady Erica! Ye must hasten yerself. Yer faither and maither are about to step out. Ye cannae delay any longer,” came Kara’s voice from behind her.
Erica turned to find her maid scanning the untouched breakfast tray on the small table.
“Ye should eat this biscuit before ye go,” Kara said, pushing the treat toward her.
“I’ll eat later,” Erica muttered and turned back to face the window. Her stomach twisted with so much anxiety that she was unable to take a bite.
Today, her fate would be sealed by the hands of strangers and the whim of tradition, something that had never felt more real than it did now.
She ran a hand through her unruly brown curls and squared her shoulders. If she were to have any chance of stopping this madness, she’d have to confront her parents before the games started.
Why is this happenin’ to me? Why could I nae also participate in the games, and if I win, I’d win me freedom?
“One day closer, Me Lady,” Kara said almost dreamily.
“I willnae be marryin’ this week, Kara.”
Before her maid could respond, Erica bolted out of her chambers, leaving her behind. She took the steps two at a time in a haphazardly laced-up gown before she burst into the Great Hall.
It was quickly emptying, save for a few lingering servants. She figured that most of the participants and spectators were gathering outside, eager to witness the feats of strength and skill.
Using a wall sconce to stand on her tiptoes, she spotted her red-headed mother near the hearth. Lady McFair was deep in conversation with her Laird McFair and Thomas. Laird McFair looked paler than ever.
Rolling her shoulders back tightly and taking a deep, steadying breath, Erica started toward them. The words that had gotten her through her father’s illness these past few months echoed in her head with each step.
He is a great man. He is a powerful man. He is loved. He is happy.
His illness had taken its toll, quickly, but the stubbornness that defined him still lingered in his gaze. Her mother was adjusting the shawl over her shoulders, her face strained with worry. The sight tugged at Erica’s heart—another reminder of why she couldn’t leave her father.
She made quick eye contact with Thomas as she approached, and the glare she shot him was enough warning for him to excuse himself, so she could speak to their parents alone.
“Faither,” Erica greeted cheerfully, moving closer to Laird McFair, her skirts swishing about her feet. “How are ye?” she asked as she knelt beside him lovingly.
He looked tired, and she thought for a moment that he might not be getting enough sleep.
“Ah, lass. I’m fine… just fine.” His face softened when he spoke to her, but his eyes sharpened with an understanding of her true purpose. He knew why she was there. “I thought ye would be down to watch the games.”
“I’m nae interested in watchin’ brutes fight over me like I’m a prize mare,” Erica replied, her voice tight with frustration. “This isnae fair, Faither. I have nay desire to marry a man just because he can throw a log farther than the rest.”
Her mother rose and smoothed down her gown, also giving them space. Alba never had much to say when Tavish made up his mind, and it was clear from her quiet retreat that this time would not be any different.
“Daughter,” Tavish began, his voice soft but unyielding, “I ken this seems harsh to ye, but ye must understand that I’m doin’ what I believe is best for ye.”
“Best?” Erica snorted.
A flash of movement outside caught her eye. It was the murderer, Laird MacKinnon, and while she felt an entirely new sense of urgency to plead her case, her argument came out clumsily.
“How can forcin’ me into a marriage with a stranger be best for me? I dinnae even ken these men! And… and Laird MacKinnon—he’s dangerous, Faither! There’s something unsettling about him. How could ye even let him compete?”
Does he nae remember that he killed his entire family?
Tavish’s lips thinned as he leaned forward slightly, his legs threatening to give way beneath him at any moment. Erica almost stood up, her arms open wide to offer assistance, but he recovered quickly and said firmly, “MacKinnon is a good man.”
The conviction in his words halted her argument.
He never defends anyone so vehemently… I thought he barely kenned him? Who is this strange man?
Her confusion threatened to bubble over, and she quickly masked it with her anger. “How can ye even say that? Ye’ve barely spoken of him,” she pointed out in a hushed whisper. “I just met him last night, and yet ye are ready to give me away to him? And Thomas said that—”
“I have spoken with yer braither,” her father said with stark disinterest. “He doesnae ken what he speaks of. Ye will say nay more about it if ye ken what’s good for ye.”
Erica blushed with immediate shame and confusion, and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands to rid herself of the lump in her throat.
“Aye, Faither,” she relented, her mind reeling.
Did Laird MacKinnon kill his family? Surely nae, or else Faither wouldnae have invited him… would he?
“I kenned his faither well enough,” Laird McFair continued, “and though Hunter Buchanan has suffered, he has proven himself a capable laird. He is strong, reliable, and the Laird of Clan MacKinnon—they’re a strong clan. Ye deserve someone like him. Someone who can protect ye.”
His breath hitched, betraying the toll his illness had taken on him, but his emphasis on the man’s name and title was strong enough that Erica slightly winced at the mention of them.
Her heart clenched. She hated everything about this conversation. She wanted to argue with her father fiercely but not when his skin was so ashen and his breathing was so shallow.
He’s so fragile… I cannae leave him!
“Faither, I dinnae need protection,” she said softly, inching closer to him. “I need to stay here with ye. I want to help ye, nae be sent off to a man I barely ken.”
Tavish reached out and patted her hand with his ice-cold fingers.
“I ken it’s hard, lass, but I’ve thought long and hard about this.
If I leave this world soon, I want ye to be safe.
And these men competin’ for yer hand are all capable of protectin’ ye.
Should Laird MacKinnon win, he will make sure that ye are safe. ”
The lump in her throat thickened. She couldn’t bring herself to argue anymore. The weight of her father’s words, his unshakable belief that he was doing the right thing, settled heavily on her shoulders.
She rose to her feet slowly, her voice quiet but laced with desperation. “Please… just think about it, Faither. There must be another way.”
But as she left the Great Hall and stepped out the front door with her heart in her throat, she already knew that her father wouldn’t change his mind.
Outside, the first contest had just begun, and the crowd’s cheers filled the air. Erica forced herself to join the spectators.
“Come to victory, Me Laird!” she overheard the Cameron clansmen shouting as their laird balanced a caber precariously.
The shouting assaulted her senses, her focus shifting back and forth as she let her feet guide her toward the platform.
She weaved through the throngs of strangers, hopeful to find her red-headed brother. Thomas was usually the one who found her in the crowds, knowing that she got overwhelmed quickly.
“Push, Me Laird! Push!” a large, blonde MacDonald clansman yelled from just behind her.
Erica let out a sharp yelp and even flinched.
“Ye well, lass?” the man asked with laughter in his voice.
When Erica cracked open her eyes, hopeful to see Thomas—or any of her siblings, for that matter—she saw him. Laird MacKinnon. He wasn’t hard to spot, even from an angle. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach madly.
“Aye,” she said numbly as she walked around the perimeter, her gaze fixed on Laird MacKinnon.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he dominated the space around him. His brown hair, which had hung just past his ears the night before, was tied back loosely, accentuating his stern features. His muscles flexed beneath his shirt as he hefted a caber, the large wooden pole towering over him.
Even from a distance, Erica could feel the intensity of his distracted stare.
The caber toss was a show of strength, and it was clear that he excelled at it better than the other suitors. With barely an exhale, he lifted the massive log, balanced it, and then sent it flying forward. The crowd erupted in cheers, impressed by his power, but Erica’s frustration simmered.
Nay, he cannae win…
Her eyes scanned the crowd for James Morris, but Laird MacKinnon’s towering figure distracted her once more.
There was something about the way he moved—his control, his quiet determination—that made her pulse quicken. Her gaze lingered longer than she wanted it to, and she clenched her hands into fists, angry at herself for even noticing.
Stop it! He’s just like the others, fightin’ over ye like ye are nothin’ more than a trophy. Disgustin’.
But as the day went on, her frustration only grew. Laird MacKinnon won event after event—caber toss, hammer throw, archery, and stone put—with an ease that left the other men struggling to catch up. Even James looked sour as he came in second in almost every game he signed up for.