The Defiance of a Scottish Heart (Clans of Mull #5)

Chapter One

Taskill

The younger guard’s form was all wrong—shoulders too high, weight on his heels instead of the balls of his feet. Taskill circled him slowly, watching for the moment the lad would inevitably overcommit.

“Keep your guard up, Boswell. A Norseman won’t wait for you to—”

The boy lunged. Taskill sidestepped easily and tapped the flat of his blade against Boswell’s exposed ribs. “Dead. Again.”

“How do you move so fast?” Boswell panted, resetting his stance.

“Practice. And I don’t think about it anymore. My body knows what to do.” Taskill raised his sword. “Again.”

The clash of steel on steel filled the practice yard, the familiar rhythm settling something restless in his chest. This, at least, made sense. Attack, parry, reset. Clear rules. Honorable combat. No lies, no betrayals, no—

“Rider approaching!” The shout from the gates cut through his thoughts. “Chief Rankin!”

Taskill’s sword arm faltered. The name hit him like a fist to the gut.

Rankin.

Which meant Dermot, most likely—the old chieftain who’d been growing stranger since his wife’s death. Or possibly Sloan, Dermot’s son and the current chief, a man Taskill actually respected.

But Dermot had only one unmarried daughter.

Only one daughter Taskill had spent five years trying not to think about.

“Go on, then.” Boswell bent over, hands on his knees. “I need the rest anyway. You fight like you’re trying to kill something today.”

Every day, Taskill thought but didn’t say. Fighting kept his mind occupied. Kept the memories at bay. Kept him from thinking about copper hair and green eyes and a laugh he hadn’t heard directed at him since—

He sheathed his sword and strode toward the gates, nodding to the guards as he passed. Cold autumn wind cut through his tunic, but he welcomed the bite of it. Pain was honest, at least. Pain didn’t smile and lie and pretend vows meant something when they didn’t.

“You’ll marry her now, Taskill.”

The words stopped him dead three paces from the gate. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he felt it in his throat.

Marry.

He must have misheard. Had to have misheard.

Taskill forced his feet forward, forced his expression blank—a skill he’d perfected over the years, hiding what roiled beneath the surface.

Dermot Rankin sat atop his mount just outside the gates, still every bit the warrior despite his sixty-odd years.

Broad shoulders squared, sharp eyes missing nothing.

“Excuse me, Chief?” Taskill’s voice came out steady. Good. “You called for me?”

“I did. Get on your horse now.” Dermot’s gaze locked onto him with unsettling intensity. “I’ve waited long enough. She’s nine and ten now, and it’s time.”

The ground tilted beneath Taskill’s feet. She. There was only one “she” Dermot could mean.

Sheona.

Heat flooded through him, followed immediately by ice-cold dread. “Chief Rankin, I think there’s been some misunderstanding—”

“No misunderstanding. Your father and I agreed years ago. You’ll agree to marry my daughter, then we’ll find the priest.”

The world narrowed to a pinpoint. His father. A promise. Marriage.

All the things Taskill had sworn to avoid, crashing down on him at once.

“My father’s been dead two years.” The words came out harsher than intended. “And he made no such promise to my knowledge.”

Liar, a voice whispered in his head. You’re lying just like he did. Saying whatever serves you, truth be damned.

Taskill’s hands clenched into fists. No. He wasn’t lying—his sire hadn’t told him about any betrothal. But the ease with which the denial came, the practiced smoothness of it...

God help him, he was his father’s son.

“Taskill?” Lennox’s voice cut through the roaring in his ears. His brother strode toward the gates, assessing the situation with the swift calculation that made him a good chieftain. “What’s happening here?” Lennox had been chieftain of Clan MacVey since their sire’s death two years ago.

Thank Christ. If anyone could handle Dermot’s madness, it was Lennox.

Taskill stepped back, letting his brother take the lead. He needed space. Air. Distance from the words still echoing in his skull.

You’ll marry her now.

Movement at the corner of his vision made him turn. Sheona stood near the practice field with Eva, her face pale as moonlight. Their eyes met across the courtyard—green eyes wide with shock—and Taskill’s chest constricted so sharply he nearly gasped.

Five years. Five years since he’d let himself really look at her. Five years of training himself to turn away, to ignore the pull that had nearly destroyed his carefully constructed walls.

She was more beautiful than his memories allowed. The girlish softness had given way to elegant cheekbones, a determined jaw, copper hair that caught the autumn sun. She wore men’s trews and a practice tunic, an axe in her hand.

Still fierce. Still herself.

Still everything he couldn’t let himself want.

Her expression shifted from shock to something that looked like pain, and she turned away sharply.

That old, familiar ache twisted in his chest. The same ache that had lived there since the day he’d walked away from her at the water’s edge. The day he’d chosen to break her heart once rather than break her soul slowly over a lifetime.

“Dermot Rankin, stop acting like a fool and close your mouth!”

His mother’s voice rang across the courtyard like a battle cry. Rut MacVey stood on the keep steps, her posture rigid with fury. Even at her age, she carried herself like a queen—tall, willowy, beautiful, and utterly unwilling to tolerate any man’s nonsense.

She’d tolerated his father’s for years, though.

The thought came unbidden and bitter. Had she known? Had she looked the other way, pretended everything was fine while Douglas MacVey smiled and lied whenever it suited him?

Taskill forced the darkness down. His mother deserved better than his poisonous thoughts.

“Mother, I will handle Chief Rankin.” Lennox’s voice carried an edge of exasperation.

But Rut was already moving toward them like a ship in full sail. “Dermot, did you hear me? You wish to talk about my dear Douglas and what he agreed to? Then you better plan on talking with me, because I’m the only one who is aware of his dealings.

“Are you listening?” She came to a stop directly in front of Dermot’s horse, finger pointed like a blade. “Stop yelling at my sons and stop blaming them for all your problems. It’s not their fault that Sheona can’t find a husband. If she’d start acting like a woman, mayhap she’d find one.”

Anger spiked through Taskill’s veins, hot and immediate. Don’t. Don’t insult her. Don’t suggest she needs to change, to be less than she is, to diminish herself to fit some man’s narrow idea of what a woman should be.

But he bit his tongue. He had no right to defend Sheona. No right to speak for her, not when he’d spent five years avoiding her.

“What the hell does that mean, Rut?” Dermot’s face flushed red. “How dare you insult my sweet lass.”

“She may be sweet, and she is beautiful, but she dresses like a man. And I heard what you said. Douglas did not agree to have Taskill marry Sheona.”

Relief flooded through him so powerfully his knees nearly buckled. His mother would end this. She’d send Dermot home, and Taskill could go back to his careful distance, his managed pain, his solitary life.

The life where Sheona was safe from him.

“He promised,” Dermot insisted.

“And how many casks of the sweet amber brew had the two of you imbibed when he made said promise?” Rut shivered in the cool air, arms crossed over her chest.

Dermot grinned. “Mayhap a few.”

“Doesn’t hold when you have enough in you to keep you from mounting a horse. You were making plans you shouldn’t have been making.” Rut’s voice softened slightly. “And Taskill is not marrying Sheona. Lennox, take him back home.”

“I don’t think Sheona would agree to the match, Chief Rankin.” Taskill kept his voice level, respectful. Anything to end this nightmare. “With all due respect.”

She’d be horrified, he thought. She’d remember the boy who was her friend and wonder what happened to him. She doesn’t know I’m protecting her. She thinks I just ... stopped caring.

Better that than the truth.

“She doesn’t need to agree,” Dermot snapped. “I’ll choose her husband, and I choose you. Now get on your mount and follow me back to Rankin land. Stop arguing with me, lad.”

“Nay, Dermot.” Rut’s voice rose. “And he’s not a lad anymore! He’s five and twenty.”

“Stop giving orders on my land, Dermot.” Lennox’s tone carried the weight of authority now. “Your behavior is more than insulting.”

The argument escalated around him—his mother’s fury, Lennox’s cold authority, Dermot’s stubborn insistence. But Taskill barely heard it. His gaze kept drifting back to where Sheona had been standing.

She was gone now. Vanished.

Running, probably. From the humiliation of being bartered like livestock. From the rejection of hearing that he wasn’t interested.

I’m so sorry, Sheona. You deserve so much better than this. Better than him. Better than me.

The old man finally grumbled something about contacting King Robert and turned his horse to leave—the wrong direction, naturally. After the arguing ended, and Lennox mounting up to escort him home, the courtyard finally began to clear.

Taskill stood rooted to the spot, his mind a storm of memories he couldn’t suppress.

Sheona at ten, beating him at archery and crowing with delight.

Sheona at twelve, swimming in the loch, daring him to dive from the highest rock.

Sheona at fourteen, laughing at one of his terrible jokes until tears streamed down her face.

Sheona at fourteen, standing on the bank in her wet chemise, the afternoon sun turning her into something ethereal and dangerous and utterly forbidden.

And him, walking away. Choosing to walk away rather than risk becoming what his father was.

“Task.” Lennox’s hand landed on his shoulder, making him flinch. When had his brother returned? “You all right? Jasper is with Dermot. I’ll catch up in a bit.”

“Fine.”

“That’s shite and we both know it.” Lennox moved to stand in front of him, forcing eye contact. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. Dermot’s mad. You sent him home. Its’ done.”

“Is it?” Lennox’s eyes narrowed. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you just watched the one woman you’ve ever cared about get humiliated in front of the whole clan, and you’re about to snap.”

Taskill’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Brother.” Lennox’s voice gentled. “I’ve known you your whole life.

You haven’t looked at another woman with real interest since you were twenty years old.

You train like a demon, your smiles aren’t genuine, and you’ve built walls so high even Mother can’t scale them.

And it all started the summer you stopped swimming with Sheona Rankin. ”

The observation landed like a blow. Taskill forced himself to breathe. “Your point?”

“My point is that Dermot might be mad, but he’s not entirely wrong. You and Sheona—”

“There is no me and Sheona.” The words came out too sharp, too fast. “There never was. There never will be.”

“Why not?”

Because I’m my father’s son. Because I saw what he was, what men really are beneath the vows and smiles. Because I have his blood, his weakness, and I’ll be damned before I inflict that on her.

But he couldn’t say any of that. Couldn’t explain without revealing the truth he’d buried two years ago, along with his father’s body and his lies.

“I have my reasons.”

“Reasons you won’t share?”

“Reasons that are mine alone.” Taskill stepped back, breaking his brother’s hold. “Dermot won’t push this again. He’s not that far gone. It’s over.”

He walked away before Lennox could argue, heading for the stables. He needed to ride. To think. To breathe without the weight of everyone’s expectations crushing his chest.

His brother mounted up and waved at him. “This isn’t over!”

The stableboy had his horse ready by the time he arrived—a gray stallion with a steady temperament and enough speed to outrun his thoughts. Or at least tire them out.

Taskill mounted and rode hard toward the coast, the wind stinging his eyes as the castle disappeared behind him. He didn’t slow until he reached the cliffs overlooking the sea, where gray water churned beneath a grayer sky.

This was where he came when the memories got too loud. When the fear that he was becoming his father overwhelmed the walls he’d built to contain it.

He dismounted and stood at the cliff’s edge, letting the salt spray wash over him.

You’ll marry her now, Taskill.

What would happen if he did? If he ignored every instinct screaming at him to stay away? If he let himself have what he’d wanted since he was old enough to understand wanting?

He’d already seen that story. Knew exactly how it ended.

“This changes nothing, boy. You’ll tell no one.”

His father’s voice, cold and commanding, in that moment when Taskill’s world had shattered. When he’d understood that the man he’d admired was a lie.

Taskill had been twenty. The same age he’d started noticing Sheona differently. The same summer he’d walked away from her rather than risk becoming what his father was.

Five years of distance. Five years of careful control. Five years of fighting the pull toward her like a drowning man fighting the tide.

And now Dermot wanted to force them together.

Nay.

He wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. Even if some traitorous part of him whispered that maybe, possibly, he could be different.

But what if he couldn’t? What if the weakness was in his blood, waiting?

Better to be alone than to become the man who destroyed Sheona Rankin’s spirit.

Better to break her heart once than to watch it wither slowly over years of marriage to a man who couldn’t keep his promises.

Movement in the distance caught his eye. A rider, heading along the coastal path. Even from here, he recognized the copper braid, the straight-backed posture, the way she sat her horse like she was born to it.

Sheona.

His heart contracted painfully.

She was riding alone, one guard as her protector. He should have been her protector.

Still fierce, he thought. Still refusing to be caged.

He should look away. Should mount his horse and ride inland, put distance between them like he’d done for five years.

But his feet stayed planted on the cliff’s edge, and his eyes stayed locked on her retreating figure until she disappeared around the bend.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the wind. “I’m so damned sorry, Sheona.”

For the distance. For the hurt. For being too much of a coward to tell her the truth—that staying away from her was the hardest thing he’d ever done, and the most necessary.

For being his father’s son, and hating himself for it.

The wind carried his words away, and Taskill stood alone on the cliff, watching the empty path where Sheona had been, and wondering how long a man could keep running from the one thing he wanted most in the world.