Prologue
Aidan Cunningham walked down the hallway, trying to ignore Elder MacDuff’s hushed whispers.
“Ye cannae do this, Aidan. Not now. It’s too soon, too rushed—”
The younger man held up a hand to stop the elder, and MacDuff huffed out a breath through flared nostrils.
Aidan turned toward him, taking in MacDuff’s lined, tired face, his faded brown eyes.
“Everythin’ is going to be a’right, old man,” Aidan assured him, taking one of the elder man’s hand in both of his. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Yer Da would be spinning in his grave.”
MacDuff winced after he said it, knowing that Aidan could very well box his ears for it. He might have twenty-plus years on the boy, but he came from humble stock, whereas Aidan was a laird. Despite being a clan leader and a sort of mentor, MacDuff knew his place.
“My Da taught me well,” Aidan replied calmly, his green eyes kind as he let go of the old man’s hand and went back to his task.
The tapestries on the wall had an overarching flower motif, since Aidan’s late mother had the greenest thumb in the Highlands.
Aidan looked up at them, one of the many she’d woven by hand, and thought of her, her kind blue eyes, her soft hands.
The fever had taken her when Aidan was only sixteen years old, and he missed her mightily.
He missed his Da, too, of course, but Aidan and his mother had a special bond—one he wouldn’t easily find again.
He walked into the throne room, a slight smile pulling at his full mouth as he looked around.
The large room was packed with people, peasants, and lairds alike bringing their sisters and daughters and unmarried cousins, and all for him.
Thunder boomed, nearly shaking the walls.
It seemed that even the Highlands themselves were celebrating this day.
Rain beat down on the roof and lightning flashed through the thick curtains.
He had his pick of the lasses, it seemed, and scanned the crowd, sitting down in his chair, which was located in the middle of the room on a raised platform. Brunettes, redheads, far as the eye could see. There were bonny lasses and not-so-bonny lasses alike.
“Calling all the lairds in this kind of squall, Aidan… It sends a message,” MacDuff mumbled, standing behind him.
“Aye,” Aidan answered simply. “And it’s a message I intend to send.”
“Picking a bride this soon is foolish. There’s so much we could gain, son—”
“I’m not your son.”
Aidan’s voice now had an edge of irritation to it, and MacDuff seemed to realize that he was pushing the laird too far. The old man stood up straight, sighing and looking out at the sea of potential brides.
“Thank you all for coming in the face of this awful weather,” Aidan addressed the crowd. They grew silent as he spoke to them.
It didn’t take him long to make a choice. MacDuff watched as Aidan’s eyes fell on a maiden, as the laird stood up and pointed toward her.
“You, lass,” he said, voice booming over the rain and thunder. “Ye will be my bride.”
The thunder and lightning only mirrored Malina McDavis’ dreary mood, and she stood with her head down and her father’s hands on her shoulders.
She heard the whispers of all those who loved to tease her, all around her.
Of course, they were here, too, just as greedy as her parents.
As the eldest daughter, Malina knew that she was a bargaining tool for her father, but she’d held on to some hope that he wouldn’t auction her off to the highest bidder.
She’d been wrong. As soon as her father had seen the notice tacked onto an oak tree near the village, he’d come home at once, brandishing it as if it were their invitation to elevate their standing.
Though their sprawling estate was far from humble, he spoke of this opportunity with a fervor that suggested it might solidify their place among the highest ranks.
It wasn’t as if Malina’s family was poor.
Far from it. Her mother had come from fine Scottish stock, and her father…
Well, he married into near royalty. They had what they needed, but they could always do better.
Besides, the social standing alone would make her mother so happy, and help the marriage prospects for her younger sister.
Malina wasn’t even opposed to marrying to help her family—but not this way.
It was stupid. It wasn’t like the laird was ever going to pick her, not with most of the lasses in the Highlands here in their finest garb.
She felt out of place wrapped in a finely woven gown of imported velvet, its deep hues and intricate brocade speaking to the wealth her family wielded.
She stood stiffly, the garment restricting her movements and making her wish for the simple woolen plaids she had worn as a girl.
The bodice pinched slightly at the waist and hips, a reminder that it had been fitted when she was a slighter figure of eighteen.
Now, at twenty-one, the lavish garment felt as though it belonged to someone else—a woman she did not want to become.
“Keep yer head up, lass,” her mother whispered, elbowing her in the ribs, and Malina grunted, lifting her gaze only slightly.
Her light-blue eyes fell on Brodie and Archie McGillitcutty, two of the worst boys in her whole village.
Of course, they were here, they both had sisters of marrying age, and of course, they’d come in support of their queen, Catriona Cameron.
The three of them might as well have a club just formed to hate Malina and her family.
She was honestly surprised Aidan didn’t hang around with them, as well, as much as he’d tormented her when they were children.
The laird was no stranger to Malina. She’d never forget those mischievous green eyes; that half-smirk. She’d been the recipient of his jeers often enough when she was a wee one.
Archie gave her a cruel smile before she could look away, whispering as if he were raised in a steel mill, loud enough to be heard over the thunder and chatter amongst the crowd.
“The changeling is here.”
At least a fourth of the people standing around, practically shoulder-to-shoulder, turned at Archie’s words. Malina flushed, not quite able to hear the whispers that swept through the crowd. She knew what they were saying nonetheless.
Changeling. Fair One. Different.
Malina had always been different with her white-blonde hair and light blue eyes, her porcelain pale skin contrasting against the rough, brown skin of the rest of her village, maybe the rest of the Highlands.
She’d met plenty of blue-eyed girls, of course, but not ones that were also pale of skin and hair.
They usually had gorgeous red curls or thick brown locks, not the flat, straight white-blonde hair that swept down her back.
The rest of Malina’s family were similarly colored, but there was just something about the girl that made all eyes drift to her.
Malina was about ready to walk out, but even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. The crowd was too tight, and the weather outside was too strong. The horses were probably restless even in his Lairdship’s fancy stables.
So instead of trying to leave, she lifted her head, looking toward the throne that Laird Cunningham sat upon. It wasn’t like he’d ever pick her. Not only was her family insignificantly wealthy; not only was she different than the other lasses, but Aidan Cunningham had hated her all his life.
Malina remembered well the last time they’d spoken when she was barely eighteen.
Someone like Malina wasn’t usually in the path of someone like the laird, but she’d been sent into town by her mother to oversee the delivery of the estate’s excess produce.
The cart was laden with vegetables from their abundant gardens, intended for bartering more as a formality than necessity.
Her mother had insisted on her presence, claiming it was proper for the lady of the household to manage such affairs, though Malina resented the chore and the attention her fine attire drew in the bustling market square.
Aidan had looked down at her from his horse, smirking that awful smile he always had.
“The changeling,” he’d muttered.
How Malina hated that term. He might have continued to taunt her if she hadn’t sprinted away, hiding in a nearby alley until his horse and carriage rumbled by her.
Aidan stood, his tunic slipping down over one broad shoulder, revealing tanned skin. His reddish hair was swept back in a low ponytail, and Malina supposed he was an objectively handsome man.
She was sure whichever bride he chose would be a lucky one, probably a lass from a powerful family who could help his Lairdship grow.
Malina looked up at him, almost seeing right through him.
His gaze would most likely sweep past her.
But instead, Aidan looked right at her, his green eyes boring into hers. Malina’s breath caught in her throat.
“You, lass. Ye will be my bride.”
Malina turned, looking behind her to see if he was speaking of someone else.
“Malina McDavis.” His voice carried across the crowd easily, and even though she was in the third or fourth row from the platform he was seated, she heard her name clearly.
What on earth was happening? Why would someone who clearly hated her so much want to marry her?