Prologue
The soft murmur of voices and the rustling of fabric filled the chamber as morning light streamed through the narrow windows. Marie sat still, though a laugh bubbled on her lips, as her handmaids and closest companions, tugged and pinned her golden hair into place.
"Ye should have seen his face, Marie!" Fiona giggled, twisting a midnight blue ribbon between her fingers. "The poor lad turned red as a ripe berry when Lady Kenna caught him sneaking oot of the kitchens!"
"And what was he sneaking off with?" Marie asked, amusement glittering in her piercing blue gray eyes.
"A whole tray of tarts!" Isla chimed in, tightening the laces of Marie’s bodice. "I swear, he nearly dropped them all when she scolded him."
Marie let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "Och, I cannae blame him. Cook’s tarts are worth the risk."
The three of them dissolved into laughter, their mirth echoing against the stone walls.
"Did ye hear aboot Carl and Moira?" Fiona asked, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "I swear, I saw them slipping away together after the feast last night."
Marie’s eyes widened. "Moira? The weaver’s daughter?"
Isla nodded, her hands deftly weaving a braid into Marie’s chestnut locks. "Aye, the very same. And Carl was looking smug as a cat in the sun this morning."
Marie gasped, grinning. "He wouldnae!"
"Oh, he would," Fiona said, laughter dancing in her tone. "And he did. I’d wager we’ll be hearing wedding bells before long."
Marie shook her head, still smiling. "Love is in the air, it seems."
"Or mischief," Isla teased. "They are not the only ones sneaking aboot. I saw Evan and Sasha walking by the river when they thought no one was looking…"
But the laughter shattered like fragile glass when the heavy oak door creaked open.
All three women turned sharply as Lady Elspeth Drummond stepped inside, her dark green eyes cool. The smile died on Marie’s lips, and she instinctively straightened, smoothing her skirts.
Lady Elspeth’s gaze swept over the trio before settling on her daughter. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Marie, how many times must I remind ye?" Her voice was quiet but firm, as she tucked a stray strand of her golden hair behind her ear. "It is unseemly for a lady of yer station to carry yerself like a common serving girl."
Marie’s stomach twisted, but she kept her chin high. "They are my friends, Mother."
"They are yer maids," Lady Elspeth corrected sharply. "And ye will do well to remember it. Familiarity breeds disrespect. Dinnae let me hear of ye gossiping and giggling like some milkmaid again. Regardless, yer father wants to see ye."
Marie’s cheeks burned, but she held her tongue. Fiona and Isla had lowered their gazes, their previous joy replaced with unease and shame. Fiona and Isla exchanged wary glances and
Marie’s stomach tightened, an unspoken tension creeping into her limbs. Her father did not summon her often. And when he did, it was never for idle conversation.
She rose, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her gown, forcing a steady breath. "Aye, Mother. I’ll go at once."
Lady Elspeth gave a single nod before sweeping from the chamber, her presence leaving behind a heavy silence.
Marie cast one last glance at her friends, their eyes filled with quiet concern.
Then, with her chin lifted and her heart hammering against her ribs, she followed her mother’s path out the door.
The stone halls of Drummond Keep stretched long and imposing before Marie, the torches lining the walls flickering against the damp chill of the morning.
Her slippers barely made a sound on the worn flagstones, but the silence that had settled over her since her mother’s summons weighed heavier than the stone walls around her.
Tapestries of her ancestors hung in solemn vigil, their embroidered figures watching as she passed them by.
Stags and swords, symbols of her lineage, loomed large in the dim light, a reminder of the history she carried on her shoulders.
The scent of burning peat lingered in the air, mingling with the faint traces of aged parchment and wax from the study she was approaching.
She stopped before the heavy oak door, her pulse quickening. Her father’s study was a place of command, where decisions that shaped the fate of their clan were made. With a steadying breath, she lifted the iron ring and knocked.
"Enter." The voice was firm, unquestionable.
Marie pushed the door open, stepping inside.
The room was lined with bookshelves crammed with ledgers and maps, the great desk at the center piled with parchment.
Behind it sat her father, Laird Kenneth Drummond.
His dark auburn hair, streaked with the first hints of silver, was pulled back at the nape of his neck, and his green eyes—once warm in her childhood—were now sharp and unreadable.
A thin scar ran just above his brow, a souvenir from a skirmish long past, a reminder of the life he had spent defending their clan.
A single sheet of parchment lay before him, the wax seal already broken. She barely had time to curtsy before he spoke.
"A letter arrived this morning." He tapped the paper. "From Laird MacCraith."
The name alone sent a chill down her spine. Marie’s hands curled into fists at her sides. "And why should that concern me?"
Her father exhaled sharply, as if bracing himself. "Because ye are tae marry him."
The words landed like a blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. "What?"
"The marriage has been agreed upon," he pressed on, his voice level. "It is done, Marie. Ye will wed Marcus MacCraith."
Marie took a step back, shaking her head. "No. I will not be used as a bargaining tool!"
Her father’s jaw tightened. "Ye think this is merely a bargain?
This is survival. The MacCraiths have never forgiven us for what happened.
For years, we have tried to reconcile, and now we have a chance.
Ye should be honored to be the one to mend this rift.
To atone fer what was done when I left the MacCraith warriors tae fight alone, and their former Laird was killed. "
Marie’s throat burned, but she refused to back down.
"Honored? Ye wish to hand me over to the very people who curse our name?
What do ye think they will do, welcome me with open arms?
They will hate me! Just as they hate ye.
And ye would send me to them? To Marcus MacCraith, whose own grandfather died because of ye? "
Her father slammed a hand on the desk, making the ink pot tremble.
"This is bigger than ye, Marie. Bigger than yer stubborn pride.
If we do not make peace now, the bloodshed will never end.
Do ye want war? Do ye want more graves dug?
This is the cost of being a Drummond. The cost of righting the wrongs done before ye were even born. "
Marie’s hands trembled, but she clenched them into fists. "And what of my life, father? My future? Do I matter at all in this decision? Or am I just another piece on yer battlefield?"
Her father’s expression hardened. "Ye matter enough that I trust ye tae do what must be done."
Marie swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. This was more than a duty. More than a mere arrangement. It was the future of the Drummonds.
And it was now her burden to bear.
The clang of steel rang through the crisp morning air, echoing off the stone walls of the MacCraith stronghold.
Marcus tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his muscles coiled with tension as he circled Malcolm, his Captain of the Guard.
The dirt beneath their boots had been kicked up into a fine dust, swirling in the pale sunlight filtering through the high towers.
Malcolm grinned, shaking his dark hair out of his eyes, his blade held steady in front of him.
"Is that all ye have, m’Laird? I thought ye were looking tae blow off some steam, not dance around me like a lass at a feast."
Marcus scowled and lunged, steel clashing as Malcolm parried his strike with great precision. The meeting with the elders still weighed heavy on his mind… endless talk of duty, alliances, and the ghosts of the past.
He had clenched his jaw through it all, biting back the urge to tell them exactly what he thought of their plans.
Now, with a sword in his hands, he finally had an outlet for the frustration tightening his chest.
"Careful, Malcolm," Marcus growled, shoving forward with renewed force. "Ye might lose that tongue of yers."
Malcolm laughed, sidestepping his strike. "Och, but what would ye do without me whispering in yer ear, reminding ye how not tae get yerself killed?"
With a sharp twist, Malcolm brought his blade up in a feint before sweeping low. Marcus barely managed to block in time, the impact reverberating up his arm.
"Damn it," Marcus gritted out, adjusting his stance. "Ye fight dirty."
Malcolm smirked. "I fight tae win. And right now, ye’re distracted." He darted forward, locking their swords together, his voice lowering as he met Marcus's gaze. "Ye're still thinking about what the elders said."
Marcus’s jaw tensed. Of course he was. Their words rattled in his skull like stones in a cup.
Duty. Legacy. A marriage he had no say in.
With a growl, he shoved Malcolm back and swung hard. The swords met in a brutal clash, both men straining against each other before breaking apart.
Malcolm tilted his head, still grinning. "Come now, lad. If ye keep fightin’ with yer head full of rage, I just might take it clean off."
Marcus exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. "Try it, Malcolm. Just try."
The teasing glint in Malcolm’s eyes didn’t fade, but he nodded. "Aye, that’s more like it. Fight with yer mind, not just yer temper."
Marcus forced a breath through his nose, steadying himself. He could not afford to lose control.
And especially not now, when his life was no longer his own.
The thought burned through him like fire licking at dry wood.