Chapter 1
Declan held still at the top of the rise, the wind teasing the edges of his dark plaid and his horse shifting beneath him as if sensing the uncertainty in its rider.
Below, the village of Clan MacCrone stretched out in muted tones of browns and grays, cradled between forest and field, as if trying to tuck itself away from the world.
Smoke curled from a few chimneys, thin and wavering, like the breath of a place just barely hanging on.
Beyond them a stone keep rose like a stubborn fist, gray against the pale sky.
His new home. Or was it a prison?
He exhaled a slow, bitter breath. What a fool he’d been.
Over a year had passed since that cursed night when three weary warriors, half-drunk and full of battle fatigue, had made reckless wishes to the night sky, never suspecting anyone, let alone someone with magical powers, was listening.
He laughed then. Laughed and raised his tankard and wished that he never again had to chase after a bonnie woman, that women would seek him and fall at his feet instead.
And they had and when they got too close to him…
Some fell flat on their faces as if an unseen force had knocked them down.
Others fell with startled cries as their legs gave way.
A few cried out in shock as they toppled over.
Most fell with arms flailing and eyes wide as the ground rushed up to meet them.
He’d watched them fall, maidens, matrons, lasses, and servants alike.
If they so much as came too near, down they went, as if struck by an invisible hand.
The first few times seemed like cruel chance.
But then the pattern emerged. He had been cursed with exactly what he had foolishly wished for… word for word.
His family finally had had enough. His mother wept constantly, not able to step close to him. His two sisters feared to be around him. So, his da had sent him off with a terse farewell, no longer able to tolerate the chaos.
So, here he stood—alone, unwanted, and angry—with naught but a few belongings and a reputation that preceded him. The MacCrone clan needed a chieftain, someone strong enough to keep them from splintering apart. That was the excuse his da used when he sent him here.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of peat and heather.
The air had grown colder, harvest time ending and winter a little over a moon cycle away, though feeling as if it had already arrived.
He already felt the isolation here. No one here knew him.
He had neither friend nor foe here. No one would look at him with pity…
or worse, fear. That should have comforted him, but it didn’t.
It only made him realize the truth of his situation.
His family had banished him.
Could he blame them?
He tightened his grip on the reins. His horse huffed and stomped once, impatient, but Declan didn’t scold him. He understood the unease. For once he passed that line between hill and hearth, there would be no turning back.
Why am I hesitating?
He knew why.
It was the weight of all he’d left behind—the land he’d grown up on, the laughter of his sisters, the rough bark of his father’s commands, even the old hound who followed him about the place. But it was more than that.
It was the shame.
At first, the wish had seemed like nothing more than foolish banter between three bloodied, battle-worn warriors. One tankard too many. One jest too far. He hadn’t truly meant it. Not the way it had come true.
He’d always been cavalier about his fine features and the ease in finding a woman to appease his passion.
But he had grown tired of the chase. He wanted beautiful women to come to him and drop in worthiness at his feet.
His words were meant mostly in jest, though it did occur to him that it would make things much easier if women pursued him rather than he doing the pursuing.
He certainly got what he wished for… women literally fell at his feet.
It was madness. A cruel trick. And when he finally accepted it as real, he tried to control it by warning women away and keeping his distance. It didn’t matter. Besides, what future did he have if women forever fell at his feet?
Word spread. They called him cursed. Dangerous.
Bewitched. His kin, though they loved him, were left with no choice.
So, here he was at Clan MacCrone, with its feuding factions and struggling lands, in need of a strong hand.
And far enough away from his family, so they would no longer have to deal with his situation.
Declan dropped his gaze to the village once more. He saw no welcoming arms. No warmth. Only unknown faces and unfamiliar burdens.
He felt the loneliness settle deeper in his bones. He clenched the reins tighter and stared at the village below. A new start, perhaps. Or simply a new place to live out this humiliating punishment.
He’d once been a man respected by warriors and admired by women. Now he was avoided by both.
A bitter smile touched his lips. “So, this is the price of a foolish wish.”
Slowly, he nudged his horse forward.
Declan entered the village cautiously, the hooves of his mount muffled by the muddied earth and scattered straw. No one came to greet him. No fanfare. No curious children running alongside his horse. Just silence, broken by the occasional bark of a dog or the creak of a sagging door.
The place looked weary.
That was the first word that came to him. Not broken, not hopeless. Just… tired.
Stone cottages hunched low to the ground, roofs patched with moss and thatch that had seen too many storms. A few villagers paused at their work to glance his way, women with baskets, men bent over carts or chopping firewood, but their eyes didn’t linger. They looked, then looked away.
It wasn’t exactly fear, more like… caution. As if they’d seen too many men ride in with promises and leave the clan far worse off.
He passed a smithy with its forge cold, the hammer resting useless on the anvil.
A shutter banged loose on a nearby cottage, and he saw a child peering through the narrow space between wood and stone.
Their eyes met and the child quickly vanished.
A lean dog trotted across the road, ribs showing beneath its mangy coat.
Declan slowed his horse further. This was the place he’d been sent to lead, a clan clinging to its name with nothing else left to them.
Still, there was life here. He could feel it fragile, but unbroken. A woman swept her doorstep, pausing only a breath before continuing. A lad wrestled with a stack of firewood too large for his arms but refused to let any fall. There was stubbornness here. Determination.
He reached the center of the village. It was a patch of churned mud where the stocks stood, now rotted and falling apart. A possibly good sign. Lack of use and rot pointed to a worthy clan.
He dismounted, boots sinking slightly in the damp ground. A few heads turned. One man shifted his stance, hand brushing the hilt of his dirk, more reflex than threat. Declan met his gaze, steady and unreadable. He could see the curiosity on their faces, but no one dared approach him.
Declan took hold of his horse’s reins and began walking toward the keep, its weathered stone walls rising just beyond the village. He’d make himself known. Whether they welcomed him or not, he would not slink in like a shadow. He had a curse to carry. A clan to lead. And no more room left to run.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he whispered to his horse. “We may need to hightail it out of here.”
A few stairs led him up to the door to the keep that groaned open with a forceful pull, the hinges protesting as if reluctant to let him in.
Declan stepped into a small inner chamber and another set of doors.
They opened with ease into the Great Hall.
The wood boards beneath his boots creaking with every step he took.
The air was warmer inside, though it smelled of damp wool and boiled roots, and the good-sized hearth hadn’t seen a strong fire in days.
A young maid paused at the far side of the room, a pitcher in hand. She blinked at him and hurried forward before he could stop her.
When she was an arm’s length in front of him, she went down. The pitcher shattered, clay shards spinning across the floor as she let out a startled squeak.