“Safe travels, my dearest.”

Anna and her father crossed under the open portcullis and came to a halt just outside the Ross clan castle’s stone curtain wall.

Anna blinked back the tears that were making her father wobble before her eyes, but she could not seem to dislodge the lump filling her throat.

Laird William Ross’s gray brows drew together and his lips compressed behind his beard. She must be failing utterly at putting on a brave face, for her father’s concern was clearly written across his features.

“It…it will be fine, I’m sure, Father,” she managed at last.

Aye, the journey was unlikely to be eventful—not with the dozen guards, a mixture of Ross men and Munros, who’d be escorting her to the Lowlands. Still, Anna could not seem to find her faith in the words she’d just used to reassure her father. Even if she arrived in Lochmaben to wed Laird Munro without incident, she would not be fine. Not at all.

A knot of tangled emotion once again tightened her throat. How could she ever be fine again when she knew that Graeme MacKay wished to marry her, yet she was marrying another?

Anna’s features had always been easy to read, and despite her efforts to rein in her emotions, now was apparently no exception. Her father took her hands in his much larger, grizzled ones and squeezed hard, his eyes sad as he held her tear-filled gaze.

“Ye ken I dinnae want to see ye hurt, dearest,” he murmured. “Yer tears are daggers to my heart. But I must do what is right for the future—for the clan.”

They’d been through this before. Countless times. Anna knew her father loved her and valued her happiness, but he simply could not set aside the clan’s welfare when it came to making the decision of whom she would wed.

As the only daughter of a Highland Laird, Anna had been raised to accept the fact that her husband would be chosen for her, and that strategic alliances, not love, would dictate that decision.

She had never planned, therefore, to fall in love with Graeme, a warrior rather than a Laird, and a MacKay rather than a Munro or a Mackenzie or someone from one of the other more powerful neighboring clans.

Yet fallen in love she had. She’d lived the last two years as if she were caught in a perpetual spring. The sun seemed brighter and warmer when Graeme was near. The flowers smelled sweeter. The grasses felt softer underfoot.

But as always in the Highlands, even the most promising, glorious spring could be ruined by the swift, brutal strike of a late-breaking storm.

That storm had broken two months past. On the same day she’d received the missive in which Graeme had spread his heart at her feet and asked her to marry him, her father had knocked softly on her chamber door and informed her that he would begin seeking an engagement between her and Laird Donald Munro.

Munro was a kind enough man from what she remembered of his visit to Ross lands several years past. Yet he was twice Anna’s age, and he bore a serious, formal air that had made her feel ill at ease around him.

Anna had wept herself to sleep that night. Her father had wrung his hands and paced with worry, for he’d been taken aback by how strongly Anna reacted. He’d tried to reassure her that everything would be fine, but with each of his attempts, she only wept harder—for herself, but also for Graeme.

His letter had broken her heart with his words about how greatly he’d struggled and how close he’d come to death. But then it had mended it back together again when he’d written that he loved her more than ever before and wished to join their lives forever.

When her tears had dried enough that they no longer made the ink run, she wrote him a reply. But her father had gently told her that he would not allow the missive to be sent. It was best to let a broken heart heal swiftly, he’d told her. Once he could make the arrangements, she would marry Laird Munro. There was no good to be had from drawing out her pain, or the MacKay lad’s, he’d insisted.

In the long, monotonous days and lonely, tear-filled nights since then, however, the wound in her heart hadn’t healed. If anything, it gaped larger and rawer.

She knew standing before her father now that he saw it too. His kind, worried blue eyes betrayed the knowledge that Anna might not ever heal properly from this pain.

But that didn’t change her duty—to her father, to her clan, and to Laird Munro.

Anna dragged in a ragged breath and pulled her spine up. If she left like this, a mess of tears and quivering lips, her father would never forgive himself for doing only what was required of him as Laird.

Their people needed this union. The Rosses and Munros had always been on good terms, but the Highlands remained a volatile and unstable region politically. Shoring up alliances to protect against future uncertainties was always wise.

“I ken ye are doing yer duty to the clan,” she said, willing her voice to be steady and strong. “And now I must do my duty as well.”

“I only wish that I could see ye smile on yer wedding day,” her father said, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

Before she completely lost her composure, Anna threw her arms around her father and hugged him fiercely.

“I promise to smile,” she murmured against his shoulder. “A real smile.”

When Anna stepped back, her father cleared his throat of its thickness and blinked back the tears from his eyes.

“Ye will have the finest escort. I saw to that,” he said, motioning her toward the large group of men clustered a stone’s throw beyond the castle wall.

Most of the men sat on horseback, waiting for her to finish her goodbyes. All of them wore variations of red plaid around their hips and across their shoulders. The Munros’ burgundy wool with thin yellow and green stripes was interspersed with the familiar green-checked crimson plaids of the Rosses.

It was reassuring to be among so many braw warriors, yet her mind leapt to an image of the MacKay colors Graeme wore when he was in the Highlands. The dark blues and greens of his clan colors would stand out in this sea of red. Mayhap that was fate telling her it was never meant to be, that they didn’t belong together, but some small, defiant part of her rejected such a thought.

“Jerome Munro here will make sure yer journey goes smoothly.” Her father motioned one of the men forward. A tall, dark-haired man dismounted and approached.

“Jerome is Laird Munro’s most trusted warrior,” her father said. “The Laird assures me that ye’ll be in good hands with him looking after ye.”

“My lady,” Jerome said tersely, giving her a curt bow.

Anna couldn’t help shrinking back slightly under the hard warrior’s brusque manner.

“We’d best be going,” Jerome said, glancing at Anna’s father. “We are losing daylight, and Laird Munro expects his bride to be delivered in a sennight. Traveling with that will slow us down.”

Jerome stepped aside and jutted his thumb toward a mule-drawn carriage that Anna hadn’t noticed behind the horses and men.

She inhaled. “Father, did ye do this?” She whipped around to find her father smiling down at her.

“Aye. Consider it a wedding present. I hoped to make ye as comfortable as possible for the journey.”

Despite her best efforts to control herself, tears once more flooded her eyes and she hugged her father tight again.

Ever since she’d lost control of a horse as a ten-year-old lass, she’d been uncomfortable around horses—in truth, she was plain afraid of them. She’d been dreading having to ride for seven long days on the journey from the Ross keep to the Lowlands where Laird Munro would be waiting. Now at least one small part of her fears for this trip had been allayed.

With one final hug for her father, she forced herself to let him go. She followed Jerome toward the carriage. It was more of a wagon, really, with a man sitting on a bench at the front to guide the harnessed mules. The bottom portion of the wagon was wood, with stretched canvas covering the top. Canvas flaps on the sides meant she could look outside on the journey or keep them closed against inclement weather. It was the finest way she could ever imagine traveling.

She watched as her one small trunk of clothes was loaded into the wagon. Then once Jerome helped her up and into the back, she crawled across the padded bottom to one of the canvas flaps. She pulled it back and waved to her father as Jerome whistled and the men got underway.

“All will be well, dearest,” her father called as the wagon creaked and rocked into motion, then began bumping down the path away from the castle.

When at last her father had drawn out of sight, she let the flap fall and brought trembling fingers to her heart. Through the dark blue wool of her simple traveling dress, she felt the crinkle of parchment. Feeling her heart beat against the two missives tucked into her dress, she prayed that her father was right.