Having seen their ship approach, the MacArthur guards lined the ramparts of Dunstaffnage Castle. They stood tall, impossible sentries, blocking Tierney from what was rightfully his. What should have been his a decade before.

A shadow passed behind the wall of guards. Tierney squinted his eyes, seeing the ethereal figure of a woman, dressed in green, float behind the ranks of the men. He smiled.

The glaistig. His great-great-grandmother, Lady Elle, or better known now as the Elle-Maid. She’d come to greet them. Or rather, her ghost had. She’d been an important figure in the castle when he’d been a lad and it was good to see she still awaited him and his family. When she appeared, it often meant good tidings for them. Is that what was happening now? Was this a sign he would be welcomed home with open arms? Or was it a warning?

They walked up the beach, Samuel on his right and Rosamond—his wife, he never thought he’d be saying that—on the left.

The crew of MacDougalls and Buchanans stood at their back, a show of support for Tierney.

As they approached the castle, the portcullis rose and a sturdy man with silver-streaked brown hair, and a long beard to match, stepped through, two guards at his back. He wore MacArthur colors, and didn’t appear at all menacing, or disturbed, to see them.

“Ye’ve come back.” It was a statement rather than a question, and the one man looked to have known already.

“Ye were expecting me,” Tierney answered.

The captain reached out one burly arm and Tierney followed, gripping his in a show of mutual respect.

“I’m Mitchum MacArthur, Captain of Dunstaffnage.” Hard brown eyes assessed him.

The man could take his measure all day if he wanted, Tierney wasn’t going to back down, or be intimidated. He would gain Mitchum MacArthur’s respect, and with it Dunstaffnage Castle. “Tierney MacDougall, Chief of Clan MacDougall, though I suspect ye know that.”

“Aye. Ye’ve been gone a long time.”

Another man shuffled forward, and with one glance, Tierney broke out in a wide grin, recognizing his cousin instantly. “Gunnar!”

“Aye, my laird.” Gunnar nodded, pride in his eyes. There had been generation after generation of Gunnars in the clan who’d served as Master of the Gate, and before Tierney had left, Gunnar was in line for that position. “Captain MacArthur was kind enough to allow a few of us to remain at the castle.”

Emotion welled in Tierney’s chest. The man had risked his life and a lower position to remain behind at the castle and fulfill the duty he’d sworn to.

Tierney nodded to his friend. “This is Samuel de Mowbray, Captain of the Buchanans, and this,” he put his arm around Rosamond’s shoulders, feeling the comfort in having her small body beside his, “is my wife, Lady Rosamond.”

Rosamond looked the man in the eye with a steadiness Tierney had not expected. She’d been nervous about coming to Scotland, about being accepted, and yet she showed no fear. Every day, she surprised him. And every day, he fell deeper and deeper… in love.

“My lady,” MacArthur reached for her hand, startling Tierney from his thoughts.

“She’s half English,” Tierney said, not wanting the men to discover it when they were through the doors and to think he’d been trying to hide it. “Daughter of the man who arrested me after Dalrigh. My warden.”

MacArthur’s eyes hardened. “I was there on the field at Dalrigh when ye went against your father.” He slid his gaze to Rosamond, assessing. “When ye saved the Bruce.”

“I remember.”

MacArthur’s narrowed gaze returned to Tierney. “Where do your allegiances lie now?”

Tierney stiffened, sliding his arm from Rosamond’s shoulder to press his hand to the hilt of his sword, prepared to protect his wife and his good name, then quickly crossing his arms over his chest so as not to give MacArthur a reason to gut him so quickly. “With Scotland. With the Bruce.”

MacArthur nodded at Rosamond, asking her the same question, but before Tierney could answer for her, his sweet wife did so all on her own.

“My loyalties lie with my husband, now and always.” Her voice was strong, her shoulders squared. Every inch a lady.

Without having to say what had happened to her, how she’d been left to die, abandoned by all she knew, she seemed to impress upon MacArthur the truth of her statement. She would not betray the Scots.

They stood silent for several moments, the men behind Tierney growing anxious the longer they were made to wait. He held his ground, silent, and his arms crossed.

At long last, MacArthur grunted and nodded. “Ye’ve the look of a MacArthur, my lady.”

Tierney studied his wife, taking in the noble slope of her nose, the high cheekbones, and lush lips. To him, she was a vision.

“’Haps that is because my mother was a MacArthur.”

MacArthur raised a brow. “Is that so?”

“Aye. Lady Catherine McArthur. She was married to my father, John de Warenne, in an alliance the year before my birth.”

Captain MacArthur blanched, eyes widening as he took her in. “Ye’re the spitting image of her.”

“You knew her?” Rosamond leaned closer to Tierney, and he slipped his hand into hers for support. She glanced up at him, a sad smile curling one side of her mouth.

“Aye, my lady. She was my mother’s cousin.”

Rosamond looked MacArthur in the eye, her shoulders straightening a little. “That makes us kin then, aye?”

“Aye, my lady.”

“I am glad to meet you, Captain MacArthur, and pleased to see that my kin has taken such good care of my husband’s holdings and people.”

“An honor, my lady.”

Tierney could have let out of whoop of pride, but he kept himself restrained, save for the way his chest puffed. Rosamond was going to be just fine here in Scotland. They’d not been at the castle for a few minutes before she’d figured out how to take MacArthur in hand and claim ownership to the castle. If she could do that with a mighty warrior, the clansmen and women should be no problem.

MacArthur nodded, bemused, and then seemed to shake himself loose of it. He glanced at Tierney. “The Bruce has sent a message for ye.” MacArthur retreated through the gate and indicated they should follow. He escorted them through the bailey, up a flight of stairs and through a thick wooden door that led into a great hall. Two massive wolfhounds were lying before the empty hearth. They sat up on their haunches, eyeing the newcomers. “Wait here. I’ll get it.”

A servant approached with ale, and Tierney, thirsty from having held his patience took a long gulp, while Rosamond was daintier about it. The hounds approached, sniffing them cautiously, and then leaned into their hands to have their heads stroked. A few moments later, MacArthur returned with the missive.

Tierney broke the wax seal, then paused, eyeing the man. “Ye didna read it?”

MacArthur smirked. “Else I resealed it.”

Tierney grinned. “Understood.” He unrolled the parchment.

Tierney groaned. MacDonald must have leapt with glee and feasted for thirty days and nights at a minimum when he’d been given the MacDougalls’ lands. They’d long feuded, despite having both been descended from King Somerled himself. But the men imprisoned must have been more important than the feud itself.

With a nod, Tierney rolled the parchment. “Where are my men?”

MacArthur grinned. “Welcome back, my laird. They are armed and ready to leave at your command.”

Tierney grinned. “Then we shall leave at first light.”

While Tierney met with the men to discuss their strategy about how to take Stirling back, Rosamond walked through the drafty halls of Dunstaffnage, at last finding herself in the kitchen. The room was all a bustle when she entered, but the servants abruptly stopped upon seeing her. Scullions, mid-chop or mid-pour. Spit-boys mid-spin, and the cook in mid-sentence. Some in MacArthur colors, some in MacDougall, working side by side.

“My lady.” The cook, a plump, middle-aged fellow, bowed, though she didn’t miss the irritated look in his eyes. “How can we help ye?”

“I am Lady Rosamond,” she said. “Wife of Chief MacDougall.”

“Chief MacDougall.” The man paled, something that everyone seemed to be doing these days.

Keeping her shoulders straight, she said, “Aye, he has returned.”

“From the dead?” asked a young lad, crossing himself.

Rosamond chuckled. “I assure you, he is not dead.”

The little boy scrunched up his face as though he couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Never died?” he questioned.

“Nay, lad,” she said. “I speak not of the old chief but of his son, Tierney MacDougall.”

“He is here?” someone asked, their voice breathless with shock.

“Aye.”

“How?” Cook asked.

“He was imprisoned,” she explained, “in London. But he was released, and brought back to the castle.”

“Ye’re a Sassenach.” Cook pointed accusingly, a knife in his hand, which Rosamond might have took as a threat, save for the way his hand shook with nerves.

“Aye, that is true. I am half English, but I am also half Scots, and fully Scots married.” She smiled softly, not moving an inch. To react would only be to bring their ire on her, and right now she sought to diffuse them, gain their respect. “I did not mean to disturb you at your work. I merely wanted to introduce myself.”

“Is he here to stay?”

She wanted to give a resounding aye in response, but the truth was, though she had confidence in Tierney, she had no idea if he’d be able to complete a mission that a trained warrior who’d not been imprisoned had been unsuccessful at achieving. “We do hope so. This is his home. His clan. His legacy.”

“’Tis our home, too,” Cook said, an almost imperceptible sneer on his face.

She took note that he was wearing MacArthur colors. “I’m certain the laird will not force you all from your homes. And did I not mention that my mother was a MacArthur? As long as I am mistress, Dunstaffnage is home to us all.”

Her words were met with silence, and she realized right then just how much work Tierney had cut out for him. They didn’t know him, and what little they did know had been of a young warrior who’d gone against his father. They knew him as a prisoner and likely pictured a man in such a state. They didn’t know her either, other than she was half English and half MacArthur, and they were more inclined to dislike the English half.

“Tierney MacDougall is a man of honor,” she said evenly, catching each of their gazes and holding it for a second. “He is a man of duty. After a long and unjust imprisonment, he has come back to honor his people and his king. He deserves your respect. He deserves for you all to give him a chance, and to not judge him before meeting him, as I’m certain he is paying you the same regard.”

The cook looked contrite, as did several others.

Unsure of what else to say, or how else to get her point across, Rosamond nodded and then left the kitchen through the back door and headed toward a garden for some fresh air. The salty breeze from the sea filled her lungs, along with the fragrant scents of the herb and vegetable garden. Rosamond drew in a deep, steadying breath, letting the scents calm her.

This was her new home. These were her new people. And already she felt like she was making a muddle of it. She walked around the garden toward the side of the castle. Guards stood upon the walls, gazing down at her with curiosity.

One by one, they bowed to her, filling her with a sense of pride she’d never known. They were showing her their loyalty. And she’d not even asked for it.

Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be as hard as she thought.