Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Glenelg, Scotland
Maureen MacDonald sat very still on the hard wooden bench, gazing forlornly at the dark shape of Skye visible from the inn’s narrow window
Beyond the wavering glass lay the dark, restless Sound of Sleat, separating her from her beloved island. The Cuillins, jagged and black against a low, bruised sky were so blessedly familiar, yet impossibly far away.
Her head swam. The world tilted in slow, treacherous circles. The crossing had been hellish––the wind shrieking like an Irish banshee, waves slamming the hull of her brother’s brave little birlinn, and torrents of rain from which there had been no escape.
She had grown up on boats, had laughed at storms and salt spray as a child, but today… was different. Instead of blessing her journey, the sea rose up in tortuous waves, leaving her bent over the gunwale, violently sick, her body betraying her for the first ever time in memory.
But then, ever since her brother Kenneth had delivered the news that she was to be sent away to wed her clan’s enemy, her stomach had been roiling with nausea.
Even there, on land at last, her limbs felt hollow and weak, her head dizzy.
Lifting her chin, she fought to keep her shoulders straight.
Her brother’s men, commanded by his trusted captain, burly red-bearded Alasdair MacDonald, hovered nearby, watching her with barely concealed concern.
She forced herself to offer a faint smile whenever he glanced in her direction.
“I’m quite well, Captain,” she murmured for the third time, though the words tasted false. “Truly.”
Alasdair did not look convinced, but he was kind enough not to argue.
She could scarcely believe she had endured that crossing to get there, to the mainland, to marry a MacLeay.
Her mouth tightened. Clan MacLeay. The enemies her brother had cursed for years, speaking the name in low, bitter voices by hearth, fire, and lamplight.
And yet there she was, bound by duty and the orders of a king, a mere pawn in a royal chess game, wrapped in silk and furs and charged with obedience to King George’s will.
She understood the reason for the King’s command. But her sacrifice to save her clan’s lands did not make the thought of her impending nuptials to a man she’d never seen sit any easier in her chest.
She sighed. Perhaps the following day the clouds would settle and her little party would set out again. However, she was in no haste to meet the man she was forced to wed. A ripple of unease coursed through her at the thought of the unknown man.
Her night at the inn was a reprieve of sorts. One last night of freedom, although the low, sturdy building crouched at the edge of the shore, was a far cry from the comforts she was used to.
She shifted her gaze from the distant reminders of home and looked around. The common room was crowded with local folk and travelers alike, all seeking warmth and ale and shelter from the storm.
A maid had placed food before her on the table––a small platter of bannocks and butter, a bowl of broth steaming faintly––but Maureen could not bring herself to eat.
She lifted a cup of ale instead, her fingers trembling despite her effort to still them, and sipped slowly, willing her stomach to settle.
From beneath her lashes, she studied the room.
Firelight played across the walls, illuminating fresh faced youngsters along with grey-hairs, lads and lasses, bonnets, cloaks and flushed cheeks. There was an enticing air of merriment in the room. Laughter rose and fell, along with the rumble of conversation.
And then her gaze lit upon one figure that stood out from all the others, courting her eyes.
A man.
He stood near the hearth, tall and broad-shouldered, his posture loose and supremely confident, as though he belonged wherever he chose to stand.
She glanced at his kilt, but did not recognize his plaid.
Dark hair brushed the collar of his black woolen jacket, his face was open, his features elegant and striking, his smile easy and unguarded.
He laughed, head tipped back slightly, and the sound of his mirth shifted something inside her.
He sounded carefree, as if nothing could concern him, while she was weighted with woes.
Some women clustered about him. To Maureen’s unforgiving eye, they appeared to be naught but doxies.
Beautiful, indeed, but bold and indiscreet.
One of them, fair-haired, without a cap but with curls piled high on her dainty head, her ribboned gown lacking a fichu to conceal her bosom, was leaning forward, gazing up at him in a manner modesty should forbid.
Another, similarly clad, rested her hand boldly on his arm.
Maureen looked on with disgust. The man did not discourage them. In fact, he returned the touches easily enough – his fingers brushing a cheek here, a knuckle tracing along a hand there.
Maureen’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, not entirely due to the lingering seasickness.
She felt a flicker of disbelief – and then, unbidden, a hot wash of embarrassment. Was this how mainland folk behaved? So openly? So shamelessly? She looked away, heat creeping up her neck, her gaze dropping to the scarred surface of the table.
And then, she felt an unmistakable prickle between her shoulder blades.
She glanced up, despite herself.
The man was looking directly at her.
His lips were curled in a half-smile as if, despite thoroughly enjoying the women’s interest, it was her attention he sought as he seemed to dare her to return his gaze.
The way he looked her up and down was not quite a leer, but held appreciation and interest with a companionable intent, as if he was sharing a private joke with her.
Maureen’s breath caught, and she turned her head away, fixing her attention on a crack in the table, as if it were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.
She felt her cheeks flush with heat.
Footsteps approached. They paused beside her.
“Well,” a deep voice said lightly, from somewhere close beside her, “I cannae help but notice ye look as though ye might topple over if the bench moves even a wee bit.”
She stiffened.
Before he could say anything further, she lifted her head and met his gaze with forced composure, ignoring the sudden stammering of her heart.
“I’ve nay interest in conversation…” She kept her voice pleasantly polite, though there was a sharp edge hiding beneath her tone, “…with a man who appears tae belong tae half the lasses in this room.”
For a heartbeat she expected him to glare at her, offended. Even make her a muttered apology.
Instead, his grin widened.
“Is that so?” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “And here I was hoping ye might be grateful fer a distraction from yer woes.”
Without waiting for her invitation or permission, he pulled out the bench beside her and sat.
Maureen stared at him, startled by his unexpected move. From the corner of her eye, she saw Alasdair at the nearby table get to his feet, frowning.
She shook her head and he returned to his seat, his gaze fixed on her with concern. There was no need for her guards, she was quite capable of managing the engaging stranger by herself.
“Ye are exceedingly bold,” she remarked to the man. She had no intention of succumbing to his charm.
“Aye,” he agreed cheerfully, raising a hand and pushing his hair from his collar.
Oh my. He is far too handsome.
“So I’ve been told.”
She huffed a breath, torn between irritation and reluctant amusement. “And ye’ve nay care tae intrude on a lady enjoying solitude?”
He looked a tiny bit chastened. “Ye’ve only tae tell me I am unwelcome and I shall leave ye tae yer perfect solitude.” He grinned again, tilting his head. He was daring her to tell him to begone.
“I am still somewhat unwell after the voyage,” she added, gesturing faintly to herself. “If ye’re intent on flirting, I suggest ye find a lass this evening who is far sturdier than meself.” She offered a wry grin.
He studied her, his expression shifting, sharpening with interest. “That pallor,” he nodded as if assessing her, “and the way ye’re gripping the bench as if it might attempt tae flee. Seasickness ye say?”
She pressed her lips together. “The crossing from Skye was… unpleasant.”
Chuckling softly, he shook his head. “Saints preserve us. A lass raised on Skye, undone by a wee touch of bad weather.”
She shot him a look. “It was nae a wee bit of weather.”
“Nay,” he conceded, signaling a serving wench with a flick of his fingers. “It was foul. A dreadful storm, indeed.”
“Aye sir,” the maid bobbed a curtsy.
“Bring something––a tisane tae settle the stomach, perhaps ginger, or mint. The lady is in need of it.”
Maureen huffed. “I need nae—”
“Humor this effort of mine tae tend tae a bonnie lass.”
The maid hurried off, and he leaned back, his eyes sparkling. “I would like tae ken yer name.” He lifted his cup of ale in a half salute. “I reckon ye have a pretty name. Like a flower. Let me guess it.”
Maureen couldn’t help but grin as he studied her with his clear blue eyes.
“With that chestnut hair and the sparkle of emeralds in yer eyes, perhaps ‘tis nae a flower ye are named for, but a precious gem.”
“Pshaw.” Maureen laughed at his flirting. “Ye’re one fer foolish words, lad. I’ll nae tell ye me name. It is fer ye tae guess.”
Her stomach was busy tying itself in knots, but there was no hint of the lingering nausea. It was something else altogether.
“Hm. As ye’ve nae told me, I’ll name ye fer yer home, the bonnie island of mist – Eilean a’ Cheò. The Isle of Skye. I shall call ye Eilean.” He studied her again.
Before she could respond, before she could decide whether to stay to hear more of his nonsense or flee someplace where her heartbeat could return tae normal, he leaned closer.
“Are ye certain, Eilean…” His tone was playful and he kept his voice low so that she had little choice but to lean slightly toward him to catch his words.
“…that there is naught else I might dae tae bring a smile tae those bonnie lips and return some color tae those pale cheeks. Mayhap I could please ye in some way…?
His words hung in the air between them.
Maureen’s breath hitched in her throat. Her face burned hot. Although she laughed and shook her head, his teasing words had touched something inside she’d been unaware of until that moment. Something that coiled beneath her heart, drawing her unwittingly to him.
“I cannae listen tae another word of such foolishness.” She gulped in a breath and thrust her hands into her muff. He was altogether, much too forward.
“I must seek the innkeeper,” she announced abruptly, mustering what little dignity she could fathom.
She should not be listening to that man and admiring his wickedly handsome ways. She rose hastily but had barely taken three steps when the convivial mood of the tavern was suddenly shattered, freezing her where she stood.
The main door was kicked open with a thunderous crash. Cold air and driving rain tore into the room, snuffing candles and scattering sparks from the hearth. Several masked men stormed in, swords drawn, their rough voices raised in harsh shouts.
Benches violently scraped the stone floor as patrons scrambled tae flee from the intruders. The laughter which had filled the air only moments before was replaced by terrified screams.
A huge brute of a man slammed his blade into a table, splintering the timber and commanding silence.
Maureen stood motionless, heart hammering against her ribs, scarcely able to believe the scene unfolding before her. The tang of fear was unmistakable on her tongue as chaos erupted around her. The change came so swiftly it was as if the air itself had shattered.
The raiders moved with brutal coordination.
This was not the drunken chaos of common thieves but men accustomed to using intimidation and fear to do their worst. Two of them slammed the door shut and planted themselves there, blades bared, preventing any escape, while the others fanned out across the common room.
Tables were overturned with rude kicks, tankards sent skidding across the rush-strewn floor.
Ale and carafes of red wine splattered against the walls.
Within the space of mere seconds, the cowering crowd was silent, save for muffled curses and sobs.
The same giant who had slammed his blade into the table stood, legs akimbo at the center of the floor. “Coin! Weapons! Throw them on the table. Now.”
His shout cracked like a whip.
The innkeeper was hauled forward by the collar, his face as grey as ash.
“The key tae yer strong box. Now.”
One of the ruffians pressed a sharp blade beneath the terrified man’s chin, whose hands were shaking badly as he struggled to locate a key among those dangling from his belt.
A well-dressed man with the appearance of a wealthy merchant protested loudly. He raised his voice once only before the flat of a blade struck his cheek with a sound that turned Maureen’s blood to ice where she stood.
The raiders, swords drawn, prowled among the tavern’s guests. Here and there a woman sobbed or squealed softly. Purses thudded to the floor. Bags were kicked aside. People crouched, hands over their heads, their mouths moving in what Maureen took to be silent prayer.
Her guards reacted immediately, their warrior’s instinct plunging them into motion, but she had moved away from their reach when she had gotten up.
One of them tried for her arm, fingers brushing her sleeve, and the world tilted violently.
The lingering sickness from the crossing surged, her vision blurring as the room spun, causing her tae stagger.
That was all it took.