Graeme MacAulay could remember with vivid clarity the first time he met his betrothed. Of course, she wasn’t his betrothed back then. Nay, she was just a little girl of eight, no bigger than a whisper. ’Twas more than ten summers ago when Graeme, two of his five brothers, and his father had gone to Inverness and stopped at the MacAdams’ on their way back to Lewis.

He’d been waiting out of doors whilst his father and brothers discussed the matter of cattle with Delmer MacAdams. The MacAdams raised some of the best cattle in all of Scotia. Being a boy of fourteen and more interested in bookish pursuits than bartering, haggling, or business, Graeme had stepped outside.

He had just rounded the corner of the MacAdams keep when he saw a rustling in the tree ahead of him. ’Twas a massive old oak that he reckoned to be at least one hundred years old, judging by the size of it. As he walked toward it, he caught a glimpse of burgundy rising up the trunk and into the branches.

While his mother had taught him to keep his nose out of other peoples business and not to go snooping hither and yon, his father was quite the opposite. Marcum MacAulay strongly encouraged such behavior, at least the snooping hither and yon. That’s not to say he taught his six sons how to be spies or sneaks. On the contrary. Marcum encouraged his sons to question everything, for he believed that was one of the best ways to learn.

From inside the keep, he’d heard someone yelling — someone around his own age, mayhap. But he could not make out the words. As he drew nearer to the tree, the burgundy continued its upward ascent. Graeme’s curiosity was piqued.

He stood under the tree and casually looked up. There, hiding amongst the thick branches and leaves, was a dark-headed little girl in a burgundy dress. He couldn’t see her face, just a thick brown braid, a burgundy dress, and little boots. From his vantage point, he estimated her to be no more than six years old. He was about to inquire as to what she was doing up there, when a very angry looking lad rounded the same corner Graeme had just taken. The lad had light brown hair, a skinny face and a body to match. He very much resembled a stick wearing a fancy tunic and trews.

“Have ye seen her?” the lad called out angrily as he stomped toward Graeme.

“Seen who?” Graeme asked.

“An ugly little girl with dark hair and the eyes of the devil!” the lad spat.

“Nay,” Graeme said. “I’ve nae seen anyone who looks like that.” As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t. He had yet to see the little girl’s face or eyes. Therefore, he couldn’t say if she was ugly or possessed the eyes of the devil. Never assume anythin’, his father had taught him.

“Bloody hell,” the lad said gruffly as he stomped away. “Josephine! When I catch ye, I’m goin’ to peel yer skin off yer hide!”

Though he’d been taught never to assume anything, he felt confident in his assessment that the angry lad and the girl in the tree were brother and sister. Only a sibling could induce the level of anger the lad had just displayed. Having five brothers, Graeme was quite familiar with the threats siblings often made to one another, especially in the heat of battle. He and his brothers had often fought over one thing or another over the years, sometimes to the point of drawing blood. Mayhap ’twas no different between a brother and sister.

He waited until the angry brother had rounded the corner and was out of earshot before he said anything to the sprite in the tree. “I take it ye’re Josephine?” he asked as he leaned against the massive trunk.

The sprite was silent for a long time, no doubt trying to assess the situation and Graeme’s role in it.

“You won’t tell him, will you?”

Graeme noted a distinct accent, a combination of French and Scots. “Nay, I’ll nae tell him.”

More silence from the tree sprite.

“Pray tell, why be yer brother so upset with ye?”

“You promise you will not tell?” Josephine asked.

Graeme nodded as he kept a close eye out for the tree sprite’s brother.

“I hid his pup.”

“Ye hid his pup? But why?” he asked, resisting the urge to chuckle.

“Well, actually, I gave his pup to a good family. Helmert was too mean to him. He kicked Jasper when he piddled on his bedchamber floor,” she explained. “I tried to explain that Jasper is just a pup and does not know better. If Helmert would just let him out more often and encourage him not to pee on the floor, then he would not pee on the floor. But Helmert will not listen to me. So I gave Jasper to the tinker.”

’Twas getting more difficult not to chuckle. The tree sprite sounded so sincere in her conviction that she had done the right thing. “How auld are ye, lass?” Graeme asked, nearly certain he knew the answer.

“Eight,” she told him.

He was very surprised by that. From where he stood, she looked very tiny, like a wood elf. “And how auld be yer brother?”

“He just turned two and ten,” she told him.

Graeme believed this was nothing more than a normal spat between brother and sister. How many times had he tormented his older brothers and they him? “How about I take ye to yer mum? I be certain she’ll protect ye from yer ferocious older brother.”

“She is the only one who does,” she told him.

At the time, he hadn’t thought her statement peculiar.

Three years later he had another opportunity to see the little girl.

Helmert had been tearing through the keep, bellowing like a mad bull as he searched for his sister. “Josephine, I swear I’ll rip yer head off when I find ye!” ’Twas eerily similar to Graeme’s first visit.

Remembering his first encounter with the tree sprite, Graeme went in search of Josephine. The first place he looked was the auld oak tree, but she was not there. After a careful search out of doors, he went inside. She was not in the larder or the kitchen. It took more than half an hour before he finally located her in her father’s study, hiding under the large desk.

Graeme crouched low so he could see her better. It didn’t appear she had grown much in three years, though she had lost the cherubic face. This time she wore a dark green dress and matching slippers. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been quite terrified of her brother. Now, she looked quite angry.

“I’ll nae tell, Josephine,” he whispered, offering her a kind smile.

A scrunched brow said she didn’t believe him.

“Pray tell, what did ye hide this time?” he asked, hoping his amused tone would help lighten the mood.

Reluctantly, she finally confessed. “His strop.”

Graeme raised a confused brow. “Why would ye hide his strop?”

The little girl looked at him as though he were quite daft. “So he will not beat me with it.”

He supposed that was as good a reason as any, but he was still quite confused. While the fisticuffs between him and his brothers had decreased in frequency these past few years, he could still remember well the times they had fought with one another over the oddest of things. But never in all his years could he remember any of them using a weapon or a strop. Mayhap ’twas simply different between a brother and sister. Since he hadn’t been blessed with one, he couldn’t rightly say. Mayhap this was an argument best settled with the aid of her mother.

“Mayhap we should go to yer mum again,” he said as he offered her his hand.

Her fierce scowl was immediately replaced with a look of sadness. “My mum passed away more than two years ago,” she told him. The angry edge in her voice was gone.

Graeme was about to suggest she seek out her father’s assistance when he heard his auldest brother Traigh calling for him in the hallway. “Graeme! We be leavin’ now, with or without ye!”

Unfortunately, he knew his brother bespoke the truth. Graeme smiled down at the little girl. “Do nae worry, lass. I’ll nae tell anyone where ye be.” He didn’t bother waiting for a response. Instead, he stood to his full height, slid the chair back into place and quickly left the room.

Graeme hadn’t given the child another thought. He had left for France not long afterward, to study with his uncle, Samuel MacAulay, a most learned man, and one Graeme held in high esteem. He and his uncle had stayed in France for nearly four years.

Upon their return to Scotland, Graeme’s father and two of his brothers met them in Edinburgh. ’Twas a happy reunion, though Graeme had thoroughly enjoyed his time in France, he had also missed his family.

On their way back to Lewis, they had stopped again at the MacAdams keep. He couldn’t help but wonder where he’d find the girl this time, or what trouble she might have gotten herself into. Would she be hiding in the chicken coop? The stables? Or mayhap, the auld oak tree again? Who knew, but he found he was looking forward to learning.

His wait had been short. They hadn’t been at the MacAdams keep long when Helmert came storming through the keep in search of his ugly sister. Graeme could not resist the urge to seek out Josephine and learn what she had hidden from her brother this time.

It had taken even longer to find her on this occasion, but she hadn’t disappointed him. After more than an hour of searching, he finally found her hiding in a garderobe.

When Graeme pulled open the door, there she was on the bench, crouched in the corner, like a cat waiting to pounce. She looked embarrassed as well as surprised and even a bit angry. Graeme smiled down at her. “Good day to ye, Josephine.”

“Go away,” she whispered harshly.

Graeme quickly scanned both ends of the dark hallway. He could hear Helmert shouting one floor below them. “I’ll nae give ye away, lass,” he whispered.

He could tell by the scowl on her face that she did not believe him. He gave another quick glance left and right before stepping into the garderobe, sitting down and closing the door. It was dark, save for a small beam of light that shone through the tiny window in the door. The space was small, barely enough room for one, let alone two. His arm pressed against Josephine’s leg.

“What are you doing?” Josephine asked, her voice low and panic-stricken.

Graeme ignored her question by asking one of his own. “What did ye hide this time?”

He was met with silence.

“Lass, we first met when ye were but eight years of age. Ye were hidin’ in the oak tree. The next time we met, ye were hidin’ under yer da’s desk. I ne’er gave ye away then, and I’ll nae give ye away now.”

The silence stretched on before she finally answered. “I hid his horse.”

Hiding a strop or a pup was one thing, but hiding a man’s horse? That was taking things a bit far. “Did ye hide it or give it away, like the pup?” Graeme asked.

She was silent for a moment before letting out a sigh of frustration. “I gave it to a crofter.”

Graeme wondered if that couldn’t be considered horse thievery? “Why?”

“I had my reasons,” she told him firmly.

“Lass, where I come from, they hang horse reivers,” he said. Though he seriously doubted she would be hung for her actions, he was compelled to find out why she had done it.

“He beats his horse mercilessly,” she told him. ’Twas reminiscent of the first conversation they had shared. Josephine sounded just as forlorn now as she had back then, when she had hidden the pup. He was left to believe that she was simply a tenderhearted young lass with a soft spot for animals. Still, he wondered if, by chance, she was not exaggerating, either to gain his sympathy or to lessen any punishment her father might mete out.

“He beats everything weaker than him. Not just horses and dogs, but people too,” she explained.

Graeme found this difficult to believe. Though he did know the world was filled with men like she was describing, he thought she might be exaggerating, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because he did not want to believe it. Still, he had lingering doubts. “Does yer da nae stop him?”

She swallowed hard before answering. “Nay,” she said. “Will you keep my secret?”

Mayhap there was a grain of truth in what she said. He now wished he had been blessed with sisters in order that he might have some experience to draw upon. He thought of his friend, Remi, who had two of them. Remi oft spoke of his younger sisters and how they sometimes behaved in a manner he didn’t quite understand — prone to romanticizing everything, crying over things that neither he nor Remi believed required tears.

Something tugged at his heart. Compassion, he supposed, for a wee lass with a tender heart and no mother to help her or guide her through life. “I’ll ne’er tell a soul,” Graeme said. “I’ll take yer secret to me grave.”

Leaning forward, he opened the door a crack and stuck his head through. The hallway appeared empty, so he stood to leave.

Josephine reached out and touched his arm. “What is your name?” she asked.

“Graeme MacAulay,” he answered, giving her a brief glimpse of a smile. He raised an index finger to his lips, winked, and slipped out of the garderobe.

A year later, when he was in Italy studying with a group of monks, he received a surprising letter from his father. Though he had memorized nearly every word of that fateful letter, he still kept it tucked amongst his most prized belongings. Not because it was filled with any great sentimental meaning. Nay, ’twas a letter that would affect not only his future, but also his attitude toward it.

To say the least, Graeme had been caught unaware. He had no recollection of his father ever mentioning or even hinting at a betrothal between any of his sons and the MacAdams lass. The letter infuriated him. So much so that he had been fully prepared to leave Italy to return home and argue against the betrothal. Brother Antonio had talked him out of such a hasty return. Your father seems a reasonable man, Graeme. If you go home angry, you’ll not be able to have a thoughtful conversation with him and you will certainly lose. It would be best to wait.

Out of all of Marcum MacAulay’s sons, Graeme considered himself to be the most level-headed. But he was still Marcum MacAulay’s son. It took a full year before his anger subsided enough to respond to his father’s letter. Finally, after more than three years of holding on to his rage and bitterness, he began slowly to let those feelings go, albeit less than enthusiastically. He still had no desire to marry the MacAdams girl, but at least now he could think on the matter with less resentment and more logic. Or at least that was what he tried telling himself.

He had not been home in nearly five years, but on his way home he now was, and he was bringing his good friend, Remi LeFavre with him. He and Remi had met years ago, when Graeme was in France with his uncle. While both Graeme and Remi had a strong desire for learning all they could about this world, Remi was more interested in investigating the opposite sex. Graeme, being more interested in philosophy and science, lived somewhat vicariously through Remi LeFavre. Graeme taught Remi all he could about science, art, and philosophy. Remi taught Graeme all he was learning about young ladies and how much physical enjoyment could be found in their company.

Six weeks ago, Graeme had received letters from his mother and father. Both had stressed the importance of returning to Scotland before the sixth of June, else the betrothal contract would be void and worthless. Whilst his father had been blunt and to the point, his mother had tried to appeal to the tender heart, which, according to her letter, she was beginning to fear he no longer possessed.

Uncertain who he was angriest with — his father for meddling and petitioning the king for his swift and immediate return to Scotland, or the king for listening to that petition — he reluctantly left Venice and was now just days from being back on the Isle of Lewis.

Quite frankly, he didn’t care if the betrothal was set aside. In fact, he’d prefer it. But the MacAulay pride and honor that had been instilled in him from the day he was born simply wouldn’t allow for it. If he did not return as his father ordered, he would cast a shadow of shame upon his family name. A shadow that would likely never be forgiven.

With Remi along to help stave off boredom as well as to keep him out of trouble, they were making good time. They’d reach Graeme’s family home within a week’s time, well before the June sixth deadline. They would go to Lewis first, where Graeme hoped to have a long-overdue man-to-man discussion with his father. He could only hope that he would be able to make his father see that the betrothal was not the best path for Graeme to take.

As they rode through a small valley, Graeme thought long and hard about his past as well as his future. Everything had been going along splendidly until he received that bloody letter.

Had his father at least asked him all those years ago what he thought of the betrothal, mayhap he would have hurried home earlier. He knew full well it was an immature thing to do, to stay away a year longer than was needed or fair. His mother had often warned him that his pride would someday be the death of him, but Graeme didn’t see it that way.

And it wasn’t as if he had no desire to marry. In truth, he did look forward to someday marrying and having children of his own. But blast it all, he wanted that day to be on his own terms, not anyone else’s. He wanted to marry a woman of his own choosing, not his father’s. If he’d been given the opportunity, he would have chosen a worldly woman of keen intellect, someone who shared the same interests and passion for learning as himself. He would never have given the gangly, brown-haired, country lass with a penchant for hiding her brother’s belongings a second glance.

There was no doubt in his mind that the lass was uneducated, uninformed, and probably quite dimwitted. The last time he’d seen her, she was hiding in the garderobe, muttering and stuttering, and once again, hiding from her daft brother.

Of all the simpletons in Scotland, his father had to choose Josephine MacAdams.

The only thing he could hope for was that she had grown quite tired of waiting for him, and was, at that very moment, breaking the troth. That thought offered him some comfort. If there were a God, then Josephine MacAdams had grown weary and sent word that she’d found another husband. Graeme imagined she had picked a simple-minded farmer or a blacksmith or some other man of equally mundane existence.

Though he’d been taught never to assume anything, he was doing just that. The MacAdams people were not known for much, other than breeding good cattle and scrawny daughters with overbites. The more he thought about it all, the worse he felt. Undoubtedly the girl had never traveled, or at least not as extensively as he had. She was most likely one of those insipid women whose only pleasure was derived from sewing or creating boring tapestries and pillows. There was also a strong possibility that she could neither read nor write. The poor thing probably couldn’t even write her own name.

And that was the true crux of the matter. He was going to be saddled with an uneducated, dimwitted, simple-minded woman for the rest of his days. There would be no long discussions over politics or philosophy or art or science. He imagined the most difficult decision the girl probably ever had to make was what color thread to use on one pillow or another.

All his learning and education would be stifled. ’Twould all be for naught.

The only thing he could do at this point was hope that she had in fact broken the betrothal and was now married and sewing ridiculous pillows for a dimwitted, simple-minded husband.

Nay, he thought to himself. I am no’ that lucky.