Chapter 1
“I hate this bloody festival,” Hunter muttered, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
Magnus choked on the spiced ale he was gulping down.
“Come on!” he laughed, wiping foam from his lips. “Everybody loves the Leanan Festival. There’s been talk of little else in the keep for weeks now.”
Hunter chuckled. “It didnae say it wasnae a good festival. I said that I hated it.”
“Fair’s fair. If ye smiled a wee more, though, folks might talk to ye more.”
“And why would I want that?”
“Ye might get a chance at a dance.”
“I daenae dance.”
Magnus didn’t bother to argue with that, and they fell silent for a while.
It was raining, a light drizzle that pattered down on the tent Hunter and Magnus sat under. Several of the lairds and important men and women of the Highlands set up little open-fronted coverings like that, although of course they all wore masks and no tartan, so nobody knew who was who.
Still, a person might guess. For example, the hunched-over, grizzled old man with a dragon mask, surrounded by beautiful, much younger women, was almost certainly Leo Hazzard, a Welsh merchant with enough money to buy himself whatever he wanted.
Not youth or health, but most other things. The young women at his elbow, for example.
The rain had put some people off dancing, but not all. Laughing and shrieking in the downpour, couples skipped around and around in the center of the field, their boots slipping on the slick wooden boards. After a few minutes out in the open, even the sturdiest cloak was soaked.
Hunter tightened his jaw, looking from face to face.
One of them has to be her.
It was ridiculous, truly, that he was still looking for her. Five years. Five more Leanan Festivals, and still she wasn’t here.
Enough is enough.
He remembered her name, though. He remembered her face, and he remembered how she’d kissed him back, how she’d tightened her arms around him.
He’d gone back to the willow tree once or twice, but of course she wasn’t there.
Still, he scanned faces, trying to see if any of them were her under their masks.
“Ye should try a wee bit harder, ye ken,” Magnus said. “I daenae mean to lecture ye, but ye are Laird MacCrimmon. Folks expect a wee bit more of ye. And with Skye gone, ye—”
“I scarcely need a wife with the way ye nag me, man.”
Magnus huffed, annoyed. “I am just saying.”
Hunter didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on a woman. She was dancing, weaving in and out of the crowd. The rain didn’t seem to bother her. In fact, she looked as though she was enjoying it, laughing and throwing back her head.
She wore an owl-shaped mask, and long, loose chestnut-brown hair streamed down her back, damp and curling. Most of her face was covered, of course, but that smile… there was something familiar about that smile.
His heart jolted in his chest. Leaning forward, he held his breath, watching.
The woman turned, rising onto her tiptoes, and he saw a flash of green eyes.
It’s her, he thought, thrilled and terrified at the same time.
At once, he strode out from under the tent’s covering and across the wet ground. Magnus shouted something, but Hunter barely heard it.
He barreled through the dancing couples, not caring how many outraged shouts or glares he got. The woman hadn’t noticed and was spinning away, her arms above her head.
“Daphne!” he called.
She stopped dead.
She heard me.
Glancing around, baffled, she made to step off the wooden planks and onto the wet grass. The dancing boards creaked under his weight. Diving forward, Hunter seized her wrist, hauling her back.
“Daphne, I…” he began, then froze. She stared back at him, her eyes a glittering green behind her mask. “Take it off.”
She blinked at him, saying nothing.
“Your mask,” he added. “Take it off.”
Somebody was shouting something. Most of the dancers had stopped and were now watching them, bewildered, as they stared at each other. Somebody was pushing their way through the crowd towards her. A brother, maybe.
Or a husband. I met her on the eve of her wedding.
Slowly, the woman lifted her hand to her mask. One-handed, she undid the leather ties at the back of her head, and the owl mask slipped away.
Hunter blinked.
For an instant, it was Daphne. The eyes, the dark eyebrows, the widow’s peak hairline. Then he looked again, but it wasn’t her. There were similarities, but this woman was not Daphne.
He sucked in a ragged breath and let her arm drop.
“Forgive me,” he managed, a little weakly.
People were staring. He didn’t care if they stared, of course. The disappointed hope was worse than that. Disappointed for the fifth year in a row.
“I thought ye were someone else.” He turned on his heel and began to stride away.
“Aye, ye thought I was me sister.”
He froze. Turning slowly, he met the woman’s eyes. Her gaze was fixed on him, her arms folded tight across her chest.
“Who are ye?” he asked shortly.
“Me name is Ceana, daughter of Laird Morrag. Ye might ken me as Lady McKane.”
He sucked in a breath, his eyes widening. He didn’t recognize her face, but the name was familiar.
“Ye thought I was Daphne. Daphne Tulloch. She surely does look much like me. And now that I’ve told ye who I am”—she took a long, deliberate step toward him—“it’s time for ye to do the same. Who are ye, and how do ye ken me sister?”
“Me name is Hunter,” he answered shortly. “Laird MacCrimmon. Daphne and I are… old friends.”
Her eyes narrowed as if she sensed there was more to it than that.
“And ye are looking for her?”
“Aye.”
“Will she want to see ye?”
“I cannae tell. I just hope to see her.”
Ceana pursed her lips. “Well, I cannae help ye. I’m looking for her meself.”
His shoulders drooped. “Ye daenae ken where she is, either?”
She shook her head. “She’s in England, I ken that much.”
England!
Hunter gave a short, bitter laugh.
No wonder I couldnae find her.
“And ye cannae say where?”
“I couldnae if I wanted to.” Ceana turned away, shaking out her wet hair. “But if ye find her, tell me where she is. I miss her, too.”
The music started up again. When had it stopped?
Gradually, throwing him distrustful glares, the couples resumed dancing, circling around him.
Ignoring them, he stomped off the dance floor, his boots squelching in the grass.
His head spun. So, Daphne was real. There were certainly times that he’d thought she could have been a figment of his imagination.
So beautiful, so fleeting. After all, he’d woken up to find her gone and himself alone under the willow tree.
She’s real. She’s real, and she’s got a sister.
Does she live in England with her husband?
Blinking water out of his eyes, he lifted his head, glanced across at the tent, and paused.
A woman stood there, swathed in a cloak, talking urgently to Magnus. She glanced his way, revealing a pale face in the depths of the hood, silver hair falling over the forehead.
“Mother,” Hunter breathed, and set off at a jog. He reached the tent, ducking under the awning.
“Lady Helena just got here,” Magnus murmured.
“I had to come,” Helena said, leaning heavily on her cane.
“It’s wet and cold. We agreed ye should stay inside to keep yerself healthy,” Hunter growled. “Skye will tear out me innards if ye get sick.”
“I’m nae afraid of either of me children, thank ye very much,” Helena responded snippily.
“I’ve received bad news. Daenae look so pale; it barely affects ye.
When I was a young girl, I went to a fine boarding school—a prestigious one.
I didnae make many friends there, but there was one lass I was close with, an English girl.
We’ve exchanged letters for decades. Well, her latest letter just arrived.
She’s sick, very sick. She believes she’s dying and is asking me to visit her one last time. ”
Hunter let out a ragged sigh. “Ye want me to take ye to visit an old friend?”
“Aye, and there’s no time to lose. I must see her, Hunter, please. Give me a carriage, and I’ll travel alone.”
“Well, that’s out of the question. Where does ye friend live now?”
“England. She lives in England. About three days’ journey from here, if we leave now.”
“Bloody marvelous,” Hunter muttered.
Three Days Later
Pilbury House, England
“How much further to the end, my dear?”
Daphne paused in her reading, flicking forward a few chapters. “About fifty pages or so, Lady Pilbury.”
The old woman pursed her thin, wrinkled mouth.
“Oh, that’s entirely too much. Do you think you could skip a bit?
I’m dying to discover what is behind the Black Veil.
Mrs. Radcliffe is a fine writer, but she does tend to drag a little, don’t you think?
I hope to discover Miss St. Aubert’s fate before I die, not after. ”
A lump lodged in Daphne’s throat, powerful enough to make her eyes sting.
“I wish ye wouldnae talk like that,” she mumbled, leafing through the pages. When she glanced up, Lady Pilbury was looking at her with a soft, sad look.
“I’m sorry, my dear. Here, take my hand.” She stretched out a thin, gnarled hand, all bony knuckles and papery skin.
The illness had aged Lady Pilbury a decade in the space of several years, it seemed.
She hadn’t left her bed since last Christmas.
It was Daphne’s responsibility to change her bed, fluff her pillows, feed her, and keep her company.
There were servants and nurses for the rest, and a rotation of doctors who called more and more frequently.
Daphne had given up assuring the old lady that she was not going to die. That fact had been a certainty for a matter of weeks now, and any day could be her last.
“Could I have a sip of water, my dear?”
Daphne leaped to her feet, pouring a generous cupful. Kneeling on the bed, careful not to disturb the old woman, she helped her drink a mouthful or two. When Lady Pilbury pushed it away, Daphne bit her lower lip and shook her head.
“A wee bit more, please. Ye daenae drink enough.”
“You are very solicitous, Daphne, thank you, but I’ve drunk enough.”
Deflated, Daphne set the cup beside Lady Pilbury’s untouched breakfast tray.