PROLOGUE
Darkness. The wan, inky dark of night, shot through with flame-light. Broderick MacConnaway opened sleep-heavy eyes and tried to remember where he was. The light of the dying fire rippled the muscles of his chest as he ran a weary hand down his face. What had woken him?
Then he heard the shouts.
“Lord! The great hall is on fire!”
A guard burst into his bedchamber, eyes wild. Broderick stared at him an instant, uncomprehending, then leaped out of bed.
“What?”
Aisling, Broderick's wife, sat up, clutching the coverlets to her. Broderick stroked her hand. He looked into her beautiful, terrified green eyes. He tried to reassure her, even while his own heart pounded.
“Hush yersel', dear. I'll go and see.”
She smiled wanly.
“Thank you, dear. Go safely.”
“I shall.”
Broderick kissed his lady wife on her soft, red lips, stumbled out of the castle door and into the courtyard, called on by the shouts of his men. He walked into a nightmare scene of smoke, blood and burning.
“My lord?” A man-at-arms ran to him through the fog. When he noticed he was not Adair, the MacConnaway, Thane of Dunkeld, but his eldest son, he paused. “Broderick?”
“Aye.”
“Help us, my lord! We need to save the people.”
“Cannae we save the fortress?”
“It's too late. The enemy are everywhere.”
Broderick did not want to believe that. He scanned the courtyard but he could not see through the pouring ink-black smoke.
The smoke was everywhere. It stung the eyes, just as the sound of flames eating through the thatch stung the ears. How the fires had been lit so quickly and with no warning, he had no idea. The noise was loud enough now to overwhelm the rest of the sounds. The place was a sea of swords on shields, shouts and battle cries.
The battle cries. The worst noise. Not because of the sound—Broderick was a seasoned warrior, past thirty, who understood and ignored their intimidation and threats. It was the volume, as if they had no end.
So many warriors.
They filled the courtyard, swarming into the colonnade and the town beyond. Men in mail and kilts, broad of shoulder and bearing death. Swinging swords, hefting axes, setting fire to the buildings. As he watched, he saw a man in a tartan kilt beat down the door of one of the rooms. He knew the weave of that kilt. Bradley tartan.
The man had found the servants’ rooms. Broderick heard cackles, whoops... and then the screams began.
A second later, even as he ran toward the castle to prevent it, Broderick saw his worst nightmare realized. Aisling, his wife, had arrived.
Her hair, bright in flame-light, streamed back from her brow as she ran. Her back was straight, skin gold in the light of torch and fire. He shouted then. Shouted for her to stop. To go back. To run.
She had heard the cries, too, and come to save the maids. The whole world was in slow motion. Broderick saw her run at the men who had opened the door. He heard her cry of horror and then her battle cry. She swung a staff at the nearest attacker as she screamed it.
Then he saw the man with the ax. She had not seen him. Standing in the shadows behind her, he raised his ax.
“Aisling!” he screamed.
She fell.
The bright hair tumbled into blackness, covered with soot. Broderick was immobile with horror. He could not scream. Could not move.
The man with the ax wiped the blade free of blood and then ran back to the shattered door. The door Aisling died to protect. The axe man walked inside, intent on plunder, and the screams continued. Screams, and blood and fire and death – more death.
Each night in Broderick's dreams, the same scene played out. Again and again. And each time, she fell. In falling, she had killed Broderick’s heart. Each night, he remembered. He also remembered who was responsible. Bradley tartan.
Broderick's family had rebuilt almost everything they had lost, except their men-at-arms. They simply did not have the force to take on their enemies. Not when they were backed by powerful allies, the Macadams. To avenge himself, Broderick would have find an army.
And the easiest way to do that is to wed. Marriages meant alliances, and alliances brought strength.
Sitting in his bedchamber, firelight illuminating the furs on the bed in soft orange, Broderick knew he would never love again. His heart had died with Aisling. He could not love his new bride, whoever she would be. Tomorrow, he might find out who that was.
He had scheduled a meeting with the Earl of Cawley, the most powerful man in the region, who had three marriageable kinswomen – Amabel, Alina and Chrissie. If the earl agreed to accept his offer, he would have access to the entire force of men of Lochlann Castle.
He would travel there tomorrow.