Chapter One
Glen Greenock, Highlands of Scotland
Six days later
The sky was as dark as his mood.
Hamish sat atop his charger at the pinnacle of the rocky outcrop to the south of the castle, screened from view by heavy clouds and the few sparse pine trees strong enough to survive the harsh, highland climate.
His horse, Luar, stayed as still as the ancient stones all around them.
She had been his favorite since youth and was well-tuned to his thoughts and wishes.
Hamish was a proud warrior, not a coward. But just this once, he deliberately blended into the background.
Though not even one of these English usurpers had the good sense to lift their heads and scan the hills for enemy surveillance. They marched into Greenock Castle as if they had every right to be there. As if their ranks were so strong—and so righteous—that they could never be threatened.
Hamish tightened his grip on the reins, making Luar’s black ears flicker backward nervously. He would show these English bastards the true meaning of Scottish vengeance, if it stole the last breath from his body.
“There is no call for such melodrama,” quipped a lilting female voice.
Brianne.
Hamish turned to see her familiar impish smile. Her chestnut curls glistened with the first slow drops of rain. She sat easily astride her dapple-grey destrier; the one he had picked out for her himself.
She was oft-times his only companion.
He spoke softly, his words floating on the heavy mist which curled up from the valley.
“I will reclaim our family home. Greenock is nay an English stronghold. ’Tis ours.” Despite his calm intentions, he could not contain the emotion which reverberated through his final words. Luar shifted beneath him, but Brianne was unperturbed.
“Aye. Ye have done it before, and ye will do it again. I have every faith in ye, Hamish.”
Faith that I do not deserve.
This time, the grief rising inside him was answered by a loud crack of thunder.
Luar whinnied and shied to the side as Hamish forced himself back to the present moment.
He could not afford to be seen. Speaking quiet words of comfort to the horse, he backed into the trees until the beloved ramparts of Greenock Castle were no longer visible.
Heavy rain lashed down through the branches, finding an easy path beneath the neckline of his cloak.
Luar’s ears flattened as rivulets of water coursed over her flanks.
However much Hamish might wish to stay up here and keep watch, it would be madness to stay out in this weather.
He had not caught sight of Alaric, but that did not mean he wasn’t there—marching amongst the English soldiers as if he was one of them. God willing, he would bring long-awaited news back to Hamish before the day was over.
Moving silently, man and horse turned away from the valley and trotted deeper into the hills; the paths they took as familiar as the McIvor standard which was engraved into the stone archway above the castle gates.
For now.
Hamish’s temper worsened still when he imagined the English usurper ordering a stone mason to remove all traces of his family’s history. Replacing them with the standard of a minor English baron of no renown whatsoever.
Lord Gaunt.
The name echoed around his head as Luar picked her way along the river; the shallow waters erasing any trace of their mission.
Hamish had first heard that name a sennight prior; though it seemed to him now that this man had always been his sworn enemy—eclipsing even his father’s brother in the crimes he’d committed against all who lived and loved in Greenock Castle.
At least Uncle Donald had fought for his own victories, swinging his broad sword and roaring battle cries as he stormed the keep some two years prior.
Hamish shut his eyes, only narrowly avoiding a low-hanging branch.
He could not bring himself to revisit that harrowing day, not even for the briefest moment, despite the passage of time.
His mother had always told her three children that time was the greatest healer of all. But Hamish had yet to feel the benefits of it.
Mayhap two years was not long enough, he mused, giving Luar a long rein so she could better balance herself on the steep and stony track.
Or mayhap the fact that history had all but repeated itself—with Hamish and his dwindling followers once again obliged to take shelter in the little-known caves of Greenock Crags—obliterated any healing that had somehow, against the odds, managed to take place.
When will I stop losing the people I love the most?
The anguished question ripped through his mind before he could better direct his thoughts.
Self-pity had no place in a warrior’s arsenal.
Hamish shook his head, dislodging rainwater from his shoulder-length, russet-colored curls and then ducking once again, so that overhanging holly did not prickle him as Luar picked her way through the narrow gap in the thickly-growing bushes which cloaked the entrance to their hiding place.
Two years earlier, he would have had to shout a password to a lookout, else risk an arrow in his chest before coming through the holly.
He would have emerged into a clearing that was busy with families cooking and playing, whilst loyal men sharpened their blades and prepared to follow Hamish and his father in retaliation against Donald.
All of that was gone now. The clearing was large and empty, loud only with the deluge of rain. However, smoke from a cooking fire drifted from the entrance of the caves, together with a faint scent of roasting meat.
The smallest of smiles played across Hamish’s rugged face.
Thank all that was holy for old Siegfried and his unshifting loyalty.
He led Luar to a high overhang of rock and tethered her beneath it, removing her saddle and rubbing her down as best he could with a twist of cloth.
Her breath plumed in front of them, as steam from her flanks rose up to mingle with the mist and woodsmoke.
He found the stubby end of a carrot in a saddlebag and presented it with a mumbled apology.
“Ye deserve better, Luar.”
Luar did not seem to mind. She munched the carrot and nudged at his stomach. Hamish gave her neck a final pat before stepping out into the rain and jogging over to the cave entrance, his leather boots squelching through the mud.
“Yer back safe then,” Siegfried greeted him, his watery blue gaze never lifting from the cooking pot.
“Aye.” Hamish shook out his cloak. “’Tis a pity the weather did not choose to turn before the English ended their journey. We could have taken them out, one by one.” He mimed shooting arrows, but his companion was not amused.
“One of ye, against ten score of them?”
“There are two of us.” Hamish seated himself upon a log which was positioned near the fire, glad of the warmth as he stretched out his long legs. “Three, if you count Alaric.”
Siegfried made a noncommittal noise. He had never hidden his distrust of Alaric, ever since the young laborer had arrived at the cave and pledged allegiance to Hamish’s father, two summers earlier.
Alaric had proven himself to be a strong and valiant warrior, not once giving Hamish good cause to doubt him.
But deep down, Hamish shared Siegfried’s disquiet.
There was something about the expression in Alaric’s sharp brown eyes that made him uneasy.
“This is nay the time to be picky about our comrades,” he reminded the older man.
“Indeed, it is not. Especially since you sent the bulk of them away.” Siegfried stirred his pot, before lifting the ladle to his lips and tasting the stew. His thick grey hair was neatly combed, despite the roughness of their surroundings. Siegfried was a man who believed in upholding standards.
“I had nay choice.” Hamish kept his voice level.
Siegfried may be an old curmudgeon, but he spoke the truth.
“We have not the provisions to see ourselves through the winter. I canna ask men to serve me and then watch them all starve.” He flexed his fingers and held them over the blaze, deliberately looking away from the dank and shadowy cave behind his friend.
It was no place to spend the winter.
They had managed it once, aye. But that was with troops of men, and many months to prepare before the snow set in. Things were very different.
“Ye do ken, Siegfried, that ye are also free to leave whene’er ye wish to.”
This time, the aging warrior met his gaze across the fire. “I’ll serve ye until ma dying day, just as I promised yer father I would.” He nodded sharply, one hand going to the simple cross he wore over his good woolen cloak.
Hamish gulped down a lump of emotion. “I’ll see ye back as the Seneschal of Greenock before then. I swear it, Siegfried.”
“Aye, well.” He smiled, transforming instantly into the good-humored mentor that Hamish had revered as a child. “I’ll not pretend I dinna miss the comfort of my own bed, but we have ter make the best of things.”
Hamish found his hands clenching into fists. “I’ll not rest until Greenock is back under my control.”
“Then ye’ll charge straight onto the sharp end of an English man’s sword.” Siegfried unceremoniously ladled out the stew and handed a roughly hewn bowl to Hamish. “Eat this. ’Tis the last of the meat.”
“I’ll go hunting on the morrow.” Hamish gazed down at the unappetizing stew with little pleasure.
“Only if this weather breaks.” Siegfried settled on the far side of the log and considered his own bowl with comparable disinterest.
Hamish gazed out at the sheets of rain falling beyond the mouth of the cave. His friend was right. Few animals would be about in this.
“I should not ha brought ye back here.” He spooned stew into his mouth and chewed. “’Twas selfish of me.”
“Ye had no choice.”
“And now I have no plan. Save launching an attack at the man who calls himself the Laird of Greenock.” Bile rose in his throat.