Two
Callum stepped into the inner courtyard of Urquhart Castle, the Clan Grant stronghold and his home. He swept his gaze around the courtyard, noting the Grant flags flapping in the wind. They were tattered from three long years of sieges by the MacDonald clan, as well as the Gordon clan. The flags were not the only battered parts of his home, though. The land to the west that had once been rich and green for sheep to feed was now bare from the constant galloping of war horses. The stone walls of the towers had chinks in them from the catapults used to try to breach the castle, and the defensive walls were peppered with large dents from the battering rams. In some places, the light of day even shone through. The walls needed to be repaired, but that required coin, and he had precious little of it.
Callum rolled his shoulders in an attempt to alleviate the knots that seemed to be a permanent part of his body. The roaring din of his clansman chattering as they proceeded from the castle, woods, and courtyard to the shore of Loch Ness below was a swift reminder that these people relied upon him for protection. The task was a great one, especially given the number of good warriors they had lost in battle over the past three years. He scanned the water of the loch, which shimmered almost silver in the bright sun, and his chest tightened as his gaze settled on the incoming birlinn carrying the Earl of Ainsworth to Urquhart.
“Callum, I hope ye remember well what has happened to us because ye broke yer vow to wed Edina Gordon,” his mother said, coming up beside him with his younger brother, Brice. Callum stilled. He’d long ago accepted it as his due penance to be reminded daily that his actions had plunged his clan into war, a war that had gotten his father killed.
Beside his mother, Brice scowled and opened his mouth as if to protest. Callum discreetly shook his head, relieved when Brice clamped his jaw shut. Callum had long ago given up trying to make his younger brother understand the guilt he felt for their father’s death. That was why he endured his mother’s constant reminders, but he would not endure Brice and Mother fighting.
As if she recognized she’d won a moment to continue to speak as she desired, she waved to her companions, hovering respectfully a few feet away, indicating they should continue onward toward the steep path that led down the jagged cliff to the water. “Lady Coira will be expecting to see ye at the shore for her arrival at the tournament.”
“I ken well Lady Coira and the earl will take offense if I’m nae waiting to greet them like an obedient hound,” he replied, casting his eyes up to the blue sky in a bid for peace and patience.
His mother clucked her tongue. “Ye’d nae be in this position if ye had swallowed yer pride and wed Edina as yer father and I had agreed.”
“Again, Mother?” Brice burst out, despite Callum narrowing his eyes at his brother. Brice shrugged, as if to say he was sorry for not listening. “I kinnae imagine that Callum could ever forget why ye believe we are in this position.”
“Why I believe he is in this position?” Their mother’s face purpled with anger. “Why I believe?” she repeated, her voice pitching high.
“Aye, why ye believe,” Brice snapped. “Ye conveniently forget that ye and Father wanted Callum to wed Edina to simply gain allies. And neither of ye seemed to have a care that the lass was nae true to the upcoming union, nor was she pure.”
“Sacrifices had to be made,” their mother barked. “Callum could have taken Edina in hand and controlled her once they were married.”
Their mother was right on that point. Callum also knew his love for Marsaili Campbell had kept him from agreeing to renew his broken vow to marry Edina. Then his grief over losing Marsaili before they’d ever had the chance to start a life together had held him firm in his refusal.
His gut clenched, as it always did, when he thought of Marsaili, of sitting in the great hall of his home arguing with his parents, telling them he would not wed Edina despite their insistence. He recalled acutely the moment one of their servants had handed his mother a sealed letter. Callum could still see her opening it, her gaze flying to him before revealing the contents of the letter: a proclamation that the Campbell’s beloved daughter Marsaili had drowned. Drowned. She had drowned the day after he had left her with the promise that he would return to wed her.
The message had been short and impersonal, but of course, it would have been, as the Campbell had been unaware of Callum’s love for Marsaili. He had been home for a month before the letter arrived, and he had been delayed in returning to Marsaili because of the Gordon’s immediate sieges after Callum had refused to honor the promise to wed Edina. His mother and father had held firm that he must relinquish his foolish infatuation and mend things with Edina, which the Gordon had said would restore peace between the clans, especially since Edina had lied to her father and told him Callum had gotten her with child.
Callum had refuted the claim, but the Gordon refused to believe it. His own parents had claimed to believe him, but they also believed the Campbell would not agree to a marriage alliance with them when he could have one with the powerful Earl of Ulster. And they certainly had not wanted to draw the Campbell’s ire by telling him that Callum had taken his daughter’s innocence. They had robbed Callum of ever knowing if the Campbell would or would not have agreed. But later, when Callum had sent a call out for aid to fight the Gordons and the MacDonalds, the Campbell had shown he was not a friend.
“Look what yer pestering has done, Mother,” Brice growled, bringing Callum back to the present. “Callum looks dazed.”
“I did nae do it! Ye did!” his mother screeched.
“Enough.” Callum looked from his mother to his brother and back again, his patience wearing thin.
His mother sniffed as if he’d injured her feelings. He didn’t know whether he truly had or if she was acting. She was a strong, ambitious woman, yet she had loved his father, and Callum could vividly recall her grief when Father had died. He’d been stabbed through the heart by the Gordon laird during a siege on Urquhart Castle two fortnights after Callum had returned from the Gathering.
The memory of his mother’s wails upon learning of his father’s death made him hold in much of what he wanted to say to her. It was a fact that his refusal to marry Edina had ultimately plunged his clan into war with the Gordons. “Rest assured, Mother. My guilt about Father’s death and at how our clan has been ravaged is nae ever eased.” His mother nodded as if pleased by the confirmation. He took a long breath, searching for the calm that had eluded him all morning. “I ken well we need the Earl of Ainsworth, as he needs us. I will marry the cold Lady Coira—”
“Ye will thaw her once ye’re married,” his mother said in her practical tone.
He held his mother’s stare. Her refusal to believe that he did not care to have Coira’s affection always amazed him. He suspected it was how she avoided feeling any guilt for her own mistakes in life. “I dunnae care to thaw her,” he said, biting out each word. In two months, he would take to wife a woman as cold as the northerly winter winds; yet, that was why he had finally decided he could marry her to save his clan. Her ambivalence toward him actually allowed him to accept the inevitable. He did not have to feel guilty that she would want his heart, when he knew well that Marsaili had taken it with her to her grave. God’s blood, he had not wanted to think of her today, on the day that he would greet his soon-to-be wife. It seemed an utter betrayal to Marsaili’s memory and the love he had held—still held—for her.
“This union benefits both clans, Son,” his mother said, her voice more of a coo now that she was about to get what she wanted.
He nodded, for she spoke the truth. The Earl of Ainsworth had approached Callum a year ago about marrying his daughter. At first Callum had thought to decline, but a ride around his clan’s ravaged castle and a particularly vicious siege by the Gordons, during which Callum had lost twenty good warriors, made him think again. His coffers were so low that he could ill afford to repair Urquhart, and he still needed to gain more warriors. He could no longer delay a marriage union to get an alliance.
He was lucky to have received an offer of an alliance at all. After his father died, he’d sent out a request for an alliance to those his father had considered friends, and not one of them, including the Campbell laird, had answered the call. Callum had then turned to King David, ready to pledge the loyalty his father had taken away and given to the Steward, but it was not that simple. The king did not trust Callum because he was his father’s son, and King David had refused even to hear Callum’s pledge, let alone offer him aid. Only recently had the king agreed to allow Callum to come to Edinburgh to speak with him. It had taken two and a half years of paying a penance fee to the king to achieve. Callum could not be certain what would happen when he saw the king. He may well leave Edinburgh still in disfavor. His clan had no one to turn to—except Ainsworth.
The earl wanted an alliance with Callum, as well, because Urquhart blocked the path that the MacDonalds needed to take to get to Ainsworth’s home, which the laird desired to claim. MacDonald wanted to gain power closer to England. Ainsworth needed someone loyal to help fight off the MacDonald, and someone with a personal stake in keeping MacDonald away, like Callum, would fight the most fiercely against their common enemy.
“I love ye, Son,” his mother said, squeezing his shoulder.
“Aye,” he acknowledged immediately, knowing she did but also realizing her affection had many strings attached to it. And one of them was Callum agreeing to the union with Coira. His mother’s motivation was not only to strengthen the clan but to receive the chest of gold that the earl had promised the Grants upon the marriage, which would bring great wealth to the clan—and to her.
“Ye will nae even think of Marsaili Campbell ever again once ye and Lady Coira have met in the marriage bed.”
He didn’t respond. There was no way he could without starting a quarrel. His mother was wrong; yet, in her heart, she believed she was right. He had no notion why she had mentioned Marsaili, unless she sensed him brooding the past couple of days—or more likely if Brice had said something to her about it. Brice had a problem holding his tongue. For Callum’s part, he rarely talked of Marsaili, and when he did, it was never to his mother. He had loved the woman. In truth, Marsaili was the only woman he had ever loved—would ever love—but she had left this world and was never returning. And as laird, he had an obligation to marry Coira for the well-being of his clan. Besides, he had to atone for choosing his heart’s desire over the good of his people the last time around.
“Callum, we should make our way down,” his mother said.
He wasn’t ready. He wanted another moment, just one, before he walked to the shore and put his past behind him for good.
Brice’s shrewd blue gaze seemed to register Callum’s unspoken thoughts. “We’ll join ye shortly, Mother. Callum wanted to instruct me on which men to have guard his future wife while she is here for the tourney.”
“I hope that is all,” his mother said, giving Callum a pleading look.
“Dunnae fash yerself. I will marry the lass when the time comes.”
She nodded, causing once-shiny black strands of hair, now dulled by age, to slip from behind her ear. She twisted the locks around her finger. “I’m nae fashed,” she replied, her lips puckering for a moment. “I ken ye realize that if ye had nae broken yer first vow to Edina, yer father would still be alive and we would nae be in such dire need.”
“It amazes me how ye always manage to fit that reminder into conversation several times a day,” Brice quipped.
Callum held up a silencing hand to his brother and looked to their mother. “All will be fine,” he said, willing it to be so.
“Ye will follow?” she persisted.
He nodded. “I’ll be at the shore before their birlinn reaches it.”
She offered a triumphant smile before walking away and disappearing down the slope.
“Ye ken,” Brice said, “she has convinced herself ye will fall under Coira’s spell.”
“Does Coira have a spell for me to fall under?” Callum asked, eyeing his brother.
Brice scowled. “How should I ken? She is yer future wife.”
“Aye, but ye just said—”
“I simply referred to her beauty,” Brice interrupted, red-faced.
“Ye always have had an eye for the lovely lasses, but a pretty face will nae make me forget my past.”
“Ye talk as if ye dunnae like Coira. Do ye believe her a bad person? She is simply tart-tongued.”
Callum chuckled, recalling Coira once flaying Brice for flirting openly with her maid when they had visited her home. Tart-tongued was putting Coira Ainsworth’s disposition in a kind light. Still, he understood why she likely behaved as she did. “I dunnae believe she is a bad person, Brother. She is but a game piece moved on a board by her father, and she dunnae care for it. I can hardly berate her for feeling what I myself felt about wedding Edina.”
“Och,” Brice growled. “It infuriates me how ye are accepting this fate.”
Callum smiled at his brother. Being younger had offered Brice a certain freedom that Callum had never had, though he briefly had tried to take it and failed. He was not fated to choose his wife; he had to marry for duty. It was not how he had wanted it—truly, he’d done his best to avoid it—but it was the way of it. Coira had told him she did not wish to wed him, either, because in him, she saw a man who would never love her. And she had been right. He had been unable to deny it, so he could not begrudge the cold way she treated him.
“Ye dunnae have to marry her, Callum,” Brice said.
“Ye ken I do,” Callum replied. A bird soaring through the air caught his attention, and he was struck with a very clear memory of something Marsaili had said not long after he had met her. She had been sitting by the water’s edge, staring up at a bird in the sky with a wistful expression on her face, and said, I wish I could fly away as birds do.
That was how he felt in this moment.
“A pretty face may nae make ye forget the Campbell lass,” Brice said, shifting beside Callum, “but it can make the joining more pleasant.”
“We will join only once, to seal the marriage.”
Brice gaped at Callum. “Ye kinnae mean that. Ye’re nae a monk, Brother. And ye need an heir. What if ye dunnae get her with child during that one joining?”
“She kinnae have bairns,” Callum said, revealing to his brother something he had not told anyone else, including their mother.
Brice’s eyes widened. “How can she ken this?”
“She was married before, and they had nae conceived. After her husband died, she wanted to discover if she was the reason she had nae had children, so the medicine woman who examined her told her that her womb would remain forever empty, and a seer confirmed it.”
“God’s blood,” Brice muttered. “Ye must have bairns. Ye’re laird. Ye need offspring that will one day take yer place.”
“Ye will have bairns, and yer son will be laird.”
“Ye speak nonsense. Surely ye want yer own bairns.”
“I dunnae, Brother. Now leave the subject be.” The softness that had once dwelled in him, the part of him capable of tender emotions for a woman, the part of him that had imagined having bairns with Marsaili—children who would look like her—had died when he’d learned she had. He wanted none of it now.
“Ye’re nae dead, Callum,” Brice said low. “Ye live, like it or nae.”
He glanced sideways and met his brother’s worried gaze. He wanted to snap a command at him to stop speaking. He could—it was his right—but he simply nodded when confronted with the evidence of Brice’s concern. “Aye, I’m well aware that I’m nae dead.”
“It just occurred to me what ye’re doing,” Brice said, making Callum groan.
“Do ye ken,” Callum grumbled, “that ever since the day ye were born, ye have been noisy? Ye came out wailing, and once that stopped, ye started jabbering, and ye have nae ceased.”
Brice grinned. “Dunnae try to sway me from my thoughts with affronts. I’ve seen ye use that deceit enough times to ken what ye are doing. Now, I thought ye were marrying Coira only because of the blame ye place on yerself for Da’s death, and certainly because we need the ally, but I see now ’tis nae so simple.”
“I dunnae care to hear yer views on why I’m doing what I am doing,” Callum growled.
“And I dunnae care that ye dunnae wish to hear it,” Brice shot back. “Ye are marrying Coira because ye ken that with her, ye will nae ever have to risk feeling for a woman again.”
“I dunnae ken any such thing, because I dunnae waste my time thinking upon trivial matters such as my feelings. I plunged our clan into war and cost Da his life when I broke my vow to wed Edina. I have a duty,” he thundered, “and I’ll see it through.”
Brice opened his mouth, but Callum shook his head. “I’d nae if I were ye,” he said, his anger now barely controlled. “Ye have said yer piece, and I let ye, but if ye say one more word, I will hit ye square on that mouth ye kinnae seem to keep shut.”
“Ye ken yer temper has bested ye because I’m right.”
Callum clenched his jaw on retorting. He rarely lost control, but Brice’s words, the day, and the impending arrival of a woman he did not wish to wed had him on edge. His brother was correct that he never again wanted to feel the pain of loss. His grief had nearly drowned him when Marsaili had died. But he didn’t fear that he would feel such pain again, because he would never feel for anyone as he had for her. Loving Marsaili, plunging his clan into strife for her only to lose her before ever truly having her, had left him keenly aware that his choices carried long-lasting, sometimes irrevocable consequences. He felt a thousand summers older than the twenty-seven he was, and he prayed he was wise enough now to never forget that.
Brice clamped a hand on Callum’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Brother. I see I pushed ye too hard. We can talk more of this when ye are ready to really listen.”
Callum grunted and responded by starting toward the path to the loch. Brice fell into step beside him as he made his way down the jagged embankment. He could have taken the stairs, not far to the west, but he welcomed the burn in his legs from his muscles working to keep him from sliding and the tightness in his lungs from the clipped pace. It took his concentration, which was a welcome reprieve from the thoughts in his head.
“I ken ye heard me,” Brice said, terseness underlying his tone.
“I heard ye,” Callum snapped. “Now ye hear me. I’ll nae talk more of this. Ye raise the topic again at yer own peril. Do ye ken me?” He stopped and turned to Brice. He could not afford—God’s bones, the clan could not afford—for his brother to ruin the arrangement with Ainsworth. When Brice gave him a stubborn look, Callum’s temper spiked. He knew his brother meant well, but when he looked at his brother, Callum saw the same naive fool he had once been, believing the good of one outweighed the good of many. “If ye push me, Brice, as laird, I will have to punish ye for failing to obey.”
Brice’s lips pressed into a thin line, but after a minute, he smiled. “Ye ken ye sounded just like Da when ye said that.”
“Good,” Callum said, meaning it, as he reached the shore. “Da was a strong laird.”
“Da was ruthless and scheming,” Brice replied. “As is Mother.”
“Be that as it may, if I had relented to their demands to wed Edina, he would be alive and the clan would be much stronger.”
“Ye have shoved how ye felt for the Campbell lass so deep within ye that it seems all ye can recall is yer guilt. Ye have forgotten the feelings that led to yer choices.”
“I do nae forget,” Callum growled. “I only wish I could.” With that, he turned from his brother and made his way down the seagate stairs.
Bright light cracked the darkness of the dungeon. Marsaili scampered up from the cold, slick floor, squeezing her eyes shut against the light. From her stiff limbs and the way she could hardly tolerate the light, she figured she’d been down here at least two days—no more than three. Her stomach growled with gnawing hunger, and she rubbed at it while slowly cracking her eyes open. Oh, how she detested the penance cell.
She could just make out the shadowy figure of a hooded woman. Marsaili’s eyes watered as she willed them to adjust. It wasn’t Jean—of that much she was sure. If Jean were this near Marsaili, the evil woman would have taunted her. She would have been crowing at how Marsaili had been caught by Torquol and dragged to the dungeon. Marsaili swallowed, her throat so dry it felt as if she’d just tried to get down a mouthful of dirt. When had she last had something to drink? Day one or two down here? Two, she thought, but who knew if that was truly correct. Her thoughts were swimming in her head like slippery fish that didn’t want to be caught.
“Is my father here?” she croaked. The question elicited fear and anger inside her. She wanted to see him only to spit in his face, but if she was close enough to see him, any hope of escape was lost. Though, it seemed rather lost already.
“Nay,” a woman answered in a tart, amused voice. “Lucky for ye, I’d say. Would ye nae?”
Marsaili sucked in a shocked breath. “Maria?”
“Aye,” the Campbell medicine woman, who once had been her friend, answered in a hushed tone as she moved toward the cell, unlocked it, and stepped in to take hold of Marsaili’s elbow. “Can ye walk?”
“Depends on where ye’re leading me,” she said, guarded. As the room started to sway around her, she reached back, glad her hand met with the wall. It was slimy and she wanted to draw away, but she refused to fall on her face and she could not be certain her legs were going to hold her upright on their own.
The woman sniggered. “I see yer time away has nae made ye any friendlier.”
“I’m friendly when I ken I’m amongst friends,” Marsaili replied, catching a faint trace of something that smelled suspiciously and enticingly like bread. Her mouth instantly began to water. “Do ye have bread?”
“Aye,” Maria said, pitching her voice lower. “For my friends.” Sarcasm dripped from her tone.
“I’m sorry,” Marsaili said, lowering her voice as Maria had done. “It’s just the betrayals are stacking up faster than I can count them. I dunnae ken who to trust.”
Maria squeezed Marsaili’s shoulder. “I was sent down here by Jean to tend yer wounds,” she whispered. “She wants ye up above in the great hall shortly. Yer father’s men, the ones who were supposed to be accompanying ye here, have arrived, as well as the Earl of Ulster’s men.” She motioned toward the door. “I overheard Jean say the earl is demanding ye be delivered to him at once.”
Marsaili’s skin crawled at the thought. “So are ye simply here to tend me?” It seemed she could trust Maria as she once had, but she needed to be certain.
“Nay, though yer head surely needs my care. Ye must have hit it quite hard whilst ye were away because I clearly recall helping ye escape once before. I also clearly recall ye saying ye would nae step foot in this castle ever again.”
Marsaili snatched the bread that Maria was now dangling in front of her face and shoved it in her mouth. In between chewing, she said, “I was compelled to come back.”
“Nothing on Earth will compel me to ever come back here again when I leave,” Maria announced in a quiet tone.
Marsaili swallowed the bread and swiped a hand across her mouth to rid it of crumbs. “Are ye finally leaving?” She had begged Maria to come last time, but the woman had stayed because of her sister.
“Aye,” Maria replied, linking arms with Marsaili. “With ye.”
Marsaili was glad to hear it, yet she had to know what had changed. “What of yer sister? I thought ye could nae leave because of her.”
“I could nae, but she married a Grant”—Marsaili flinched at the mention of Callum’s clan—“nae long ago,” Maria continued, oblivious to the havoc she had just wreaked inside Marsaili. She had never confided to Maria what had occurred between her and Callum. She wanted to, but she had been waiting to share her secret when he returned for her, but soon after he left, Helena had told her that Callum was promised to wed another and had been for years. Helena had been thrilled, sure that was why Callum had not succumbed to her charms, and Marsaili had been devastated and confused. Both emotions had given way to anger and betrayal when she hadn’t heard from Callum again. Her father had immediately discovered that she was with child, and from then until the birth, her mind had been consumed with fear. After the birth, grief had consumed her.
“Anyway,” Maria said, “my sister departed. I was hoping to be allowed to join the Grant clan, but I wanted to give her time to settle into her new married life before she asked her husband to go to the laird and make a request on my behalf.” Maria shrugged. “I’ve nae heard from her yet, but I’m departing with ye anyway.”
“What if the Grant laird denies yer sister’s request?” Marsaili asked, thinking of how Callum had deceived her so long ago. Perhaps his father was as terrible a laird as his son was a person.
“I dunnae think he would. I’ve heard naught but good things about Callum Grant.”
“Callum G-Grant?” Marsaili sputtered.
“Aye, ye recall him, I suppose, from the time he was here for the Gathering.”
“Aye.” Her face heated with shame of the truth she needed to admit. It was rather daunting having to tell someone she had given her virtue and her heart so foolishly, but she needed help. She had no notion how to find the Summer Walkers and her son, or even how she would know her son if she did find them. Not only was Maria a healer but she’d always seemed wise to Marsaili and she had always been kind. Her husband, who had been a warrior, had been killed by Marsaili’s father for refusing to obey orders to turn women and children from her father’s land after their husbands, fathers, and sons had died in battle for the Campbell. “He’s laird now?”
“Aye. Has been for near three years.”
Marsaili frowned. “Near three years, ye say?”
“Aye,” Maria added, her words suddenly sounding rushed. “We’ll talk more later, aye? When we are free from here? There is a guard outside. I’ll tell him I need to tend ye in the healing room, and then we can take ye to Jean. He’s been ordered nae to let ye out of his sight. But once we’re in the healing room, I’ll offer him a drink, which will be laced with a sleeping draft.”
“What if he will nae drink it?”
Maria shrugged. “Then I’ll hit him over the head with my candelabra. It’s good and heavy, and should put him straight to sleep.”
Marsaili shelved that bit of information for the future. “Then what?”
“Well, then we slip out of the castle, through the woods, and to the trails that lead us away from here. But as ye were compelled to come back here, I suppose ye seek something, and I would like to ken what.”
Maria started to walk toward the cracked door, but Marsaili pulled her back. “I came here to find my bairn,” she blurted.
Maria turned toward her, mouth agape. “Did ye just say ye have a bairn?”
“Well, he’ll be closer to a wee lad now.”
“I dunnae ken what ye’re saying…”
“Nay, ye would nae,” Marsaili mumbled. She quickly and quietly told Maria everything—of falling in love with Callum, of his promise to marry her, and of his lies. Marsaili’s ears burned as she spoke of him not returning, of her sister Helena discovering that he was promised to wed Edina Gordon, of her father learning she was with child and making her hide the truth from everyone, and of his plot to wed her to the Earl of Ulster.
“I had the bairn, and I thought he had died at birth. My father and Jean,” she said, nearly choking on her rage, “they told me he had died. I did nae ever consider that they would lie to me. I should have… I should have kenned my father would still be plotting to marry me to the Earl of Ulster.”
“Oh God, Marsaili,” Maria whispered.
Marsaili nodded. “He had so much thick brown hair when he was born,” she said, tears stinging her eyes as the memory came to her. “And blue eyes. I wonder if his eyes are still blue. I have to find him, Maria. Jean says he’s with the Summer Walkers, but I dunnae ken where they are, nor if I’ll even ken my own child if, or when, I see him.”
Maria clutched Marsaili by the arms and hugged her fiercely. “I’ve some notion of the path the Summer Walkers take, and I can tell ye exactly how to ken yer son.”
“What?” Marsaili gasped, biting her lip when Maria motioned for her to lower her voice.
Maria cast her gaze to the door, where Marsaili could now clearly see the silhouette of a man standing guard. “I know the leader of the Summer Walkers. They travel almost the same route every summer, and as for yer bairn, I…I branded his foot. I’m certain now that the bairn was yers, and had ye told me of him, I would have helped ye.” She gave Marsaili a stern look, but then she squeezed her hand. “Though I do ken why ye might have felt ye could nae.”
Marsaili nodded but then frowned. “How can ye be certain that ye branded my son’s foot?”
“Jean brought a bairn to me one night, freshly birthed and swathed in peasant rags. She told me he belonged to yer chambermaid, and that the woman had begged Jean to get rid of it because of the shame she’d bring her family since she was nae married. Ye ken as well as I do, Jean would nae ever do anyone a favor unless it somehow benefited her.”
“Aye, I ken it,” Marsaili said, bitterness curling within her at Jean’s lies.
“I’m sorry to say I did nae question that yer chambermaid would have gotten herself with bairn. The woman had joined with near half yer father’s guard.”
“I did nae have any notion,” Marsaili replied, thinking of Brianna who’d always seemed so sweet to Marsaili but then had betrayed her confidence.
“Jean had seen the Summer Walkers camping near the castle,” Maria continued, “and she told me to take the bairn to them. I branded the bairn on his right foot with an X in case Brianna changed her mind and decided she wanted her bairn, er—” Maria gave Marsaili an apologetic look “—yer bairn back. I’m sorry, Marsaili. I’d nae ever have done Jean’s bidding had I kenned the bairn was yers. Ye hid the fact that ye were with child verra well.”
“Aye,” Marsaili replied, thinking back to how scared and lonely she had been.
“The next morning Brianna was dead, and Jean told me the silly woman had drowned herself. Jean said to nae ever speak of the child, as it would just bring more shame to Brianna’s family.” Maria shrugged. “I had liked Brianna, so I kept my silence until now. That bairn was the only one born that month. The boy I branded must be yers.”
“I have a way to ken my son,” Marsaili whispered, her heart racing.
“Aye,” Maria said. “If we can find him. Come, we must leave. Remember the plan?”
“Aye,” Marsaili replied, following Maria to the slightly ajar dungeon door. “Godfrey of Antwerp,” Maria called in a sweet voice as she strolled into the dark hall, gripping Marsaili by the arm. “Marsaili dunnae have the strength she needs for the journey to the earl’s home.”
“What can be done?” the man asked, looking to Marsaili. “Ulster will be furious if I delay bringing her to him.”
“I thought as much. I have done all I can in the dungeon, but if ye aid me in taking her to my healing room, I have some restorative medicine that should see her through the journey and have her well by the end of it, so she may ease the earl’s grieving pains.”
When the guard, Godfrey, looked as if he was going to protest, Maria tugged the bodice of her gown low while murmuring, “The dungeon is so hot, is it nae?”
Godfrey’s gaze fastened to Maria’s bosom. “Aye. Ye will be quick about it in the healing room, will ye nae?” he asked, unable to pull his gaze away from Maria’s chest. Marsaili rolled her eyes at Maria, whose lips trembled with mirth.
“Oh, aye. I’ll be so quick, ye’ll nae even ken anything is occurring,” she promised, quirking her mouth at Marsaili. “If ye’ll just take hold of Marsaili’s right arm?”
Godfrey did as she had asked.
The journey from the dungeon to the healing room was a short one, as it was situated just to the right of the top of the dungeon stairs. No other chambers were nearby, so it was unlikely that anyone would hear Godfrey if he made noise when falling, nor was Marsaili worried that they would fail to overcome the man. Between her and Maria, they certainly could accomplish the task. Her greatest concern was getting out of the castle unseen and then putting enough ground between them and her father’s men to escape capture.
As they entered the healing room, Maria paused right inside the threshold at a table that had a candelabra on it. She waved Godfrey in while she released her hold on Marsaili, catching Marsaili’s eye for the briefest of moments. Marsaili gave a slight nod to let Maria know she was prepared.
“If ye’ll just help her sit on the chair,” Maria instructed, “I’ll get ye some mead.”
“I dunnae want anything to drink,” Godfrey answered, voice unbending.
“As ye wish,” Maria murmured.
Marsaili’s heart raced as Godfrey led her to the chair. When they were almost there, she said, “Ye may release me now. I’m feeling much better.”
Godfrey gave a clipped nod and relinquished his hold on her. The moment he did, she cried out, “Oh my,” swayed on her feet, and crumpled forward to her knees. Immediately Godfrey’s hand came to her shoulder.
“My lady, are ye—”
The loud crack of the iron knocking against the man’s skull resounded in the room.
“Watch out!” Maria called. As Marsaili scrambled to lunge out of the way, Godfrey’s falling body brushed past her, and he fell forward and hit the floor with a hard thud.
She sucked in a jagged breath as she scampered back and then upright. Maria was standing beside her, heaving breaths, her hand still clutching the candelabra, before Marsaili had even fully regained her balance. They stared at the fallen man in silence. His face was turned to them, eyes closed and mouth parted with a line of drool already starting to run from his lips. A bright trail of blood from the cut on his head trickled across his cheekbone and dripped off his chin.
“Do ye think he’s dead?” Marsaili asked. She’d never killed anyone, and she prayed Godfrey was not the first. Though the man had intended to take her to the earl, he was only doing his lord’s bidding.
Maria’s answer was to nudge the man in the shoulder with the tip of her shoe. When he did not move or make any sound, she bent over him and pressed her fingers to his neck.
“What are ye doing?” Marsaili asked.
“Seeing if his heart still beats.”
“Does it?” Marsaili tried to catch her breath while waiting for the answer.
“Aye,” Maria said with a satisfied nod. She stood, brushed her hands down her skirt, and then dashed across the room to a table littered with herbs. “Help me,” the woman said, gathering the herbs into her hands and putting them in a leather satchel. “We may need these.”
Marsaili hurried to Maria and shoved several handfuls of the herbs into Maria’s bag. “We have to flee,” Marsaili rushed out, her gut knotted with tension.
“Aye.” Maria glanced around the room. “I wish we could take bundles, but we kinnae chance being seen with them. It would cause suspicion.”
Marsaili nodded. “At least the cold nights of winter are behind us. Do ye have any weapons in here?”
Maria offered a sly smile before drawing up her skirts. She took a dagger from a holder strapped to her right leg. “Ye can have this one. There’s also one on my left leg.”
Marsaili took the dagger with a smile, lifted her own skirts, and put the weapon in the empty holder tied around her calf with a bit of rope.
“Are ye always prepared to carry a weapon?” Maria asked with a snigger.
“Aye. If only I always had a weapon to carry. I’m certain a lot of what has befallen me could have been avoided that way. Come. We’ll take the woods to the west of here so that we dunnae have to enter the castle again.”
“Agreed,” Maria said, and without any more talk, the women departed the healing room and headed for the dark tunnels instead of the stairs. Marsaili had always avoided the tunnels when she lived at the castle because they were filled with mice, spiderwebs, and snakes, and today was no exception. Mice scampered across the ground as they ran, and she broke through more than one spiderweb. By the time they exited the tunnel, webbing clung to her face, her hair, and her arms. She shuddered, pausing to pull it off her when Maria suddenly clutched her.
“Down!” Maria hissed. Marsaili started to ask why, but then she heard men’s voices.
They both dropped to their hands and knees, and crawled quickly toward a tree. Just as they hid behind it, two of her father’s guards rounded the corner from the direction of the stables. Once they passed and were out of sight, Marsaili and Maria ran for the woods, and just as they reached the thick brush, one of her father’s men stepped out of the copse of trees, tugging up his pants.
She didn’t recognize him, and by the grin he gave her, he didn’t know her, either. “Maria,” he slurred, obviously having imbibed in too much drink, “who is the fetching lass ye have here, and where are the two of ye off to?”
Maria smiled, tugging her bodice low as she had before, which drew the man’s gaze and offered Marsaili the opportunity to discreetly lift her skirt and retrieve her dagger as Maria spoke to the guard.
“So,” Maria finished, drawing out the word, “we are heading to pick those rare flowers.”
The guard’s brows drew together. “I kinnae let ye enter the woods alone. I’ll attend ye.”
“That will nae be necessary,” Marsaili said, which got the guard to turn toward her. At the exact moment he did, she knocked him above the eye with the hilt of her dagger, but the man did not crumple as she had hoped he would. For one breath, he appeared shocked and then anger swept his face. He reached for his sword, and as he did, Maria, who had moved behind him, hit him over the head with her own dagger. He fell to one knee, sword in hand, and though it turned Marsaili’s stomach to hurt him, she knew he would foil their plan of escape if she did nothing. She knocked him over the head once more, and he fell forward into the dirt.
She and Maria exchanged a long look as he lay there motionless, and with a thumping heart, Marsaili dropped to the ground and started trying to roll him toward the thick brush to hide him from the other guards.
“We must make haste,” Maria said, joining Marsaili in her efforts.
“Aye,” Marsaili answered with a grunt, and together, they moved the guard into the brush and covered him with leaves.
Once they were finished, they made their way over the jagged rocks and weaved through the twining branches at a clipped pace. They didn’t talk, the only sound between them the unison of their breathing until a wolf’s howl filled the night, setting both women into an all-out run. By the time they reached the edge of the loch that surrounded the land her father’s castle was built on, her side pinched fiercely. Behind them, the howling had increased to a cacophony of lethal noise.
Marsaili motioned toward the dinghy. “Get in!”
Maria glanced from the secured dinghy to the woods. “The wolves are coming!” she cried. “We have to swim for it.”
Marsaili’s heartbeat exploded as she lunged for the rope tied to a tree stump at the water’s edge and began to sever the bind. “I kinnae swim,” she said. “Leave me if ye must.”
Within a breath, Maria was beside her sawing at the same spot. Just as the rope broke, the first wolf burst through the woods onto the crest of the hill, and then another, and another. The women pushed the dinghy, heaving, until it slid into the water. They scrambled in, took up the oars, and swiped them through the water furiously.
“Wolves can swim!” Maria cried.
“Aye,” Marsaili said grimly, putting all her strength and her will to live into rowing. Halfway across the water, the wolves howling grew louder, causing her pulse to increase to a dizzying speed. The women worked to put distance between themselves and the wolves, but Marsaili feared that even if they reached land first, the wolves would simply trail and overcome them. She glanced behind her to see where the wolves were, and as she did, an arrow flew across her vision and lodged into one of the beasts. Another arrow followed, and another.
Marsaili feared taking her attention off the wolves, but she had to know who had shot the arrow. She had no friends in these parts, save Maria. She faced forward, as Maria gasped, to find five men standing on the bank at the other side of the loch. She couldn’t see their faces, but one man gripped a wooden pole that had a piece of material flapping from it. It fluttered several times in the wind before she got a good look at the emblem. She sucked in a sharp breath. “God’s bones. It’s the Black Mercenaries…”
Maria paled, as tension pulled her mouth into a stern expression. As she continued to row, she spoke softly. “We go from an enemy baring their teeth and who would eat us alive, to an enemy with no morals and who will nae even blink at using us.”
Marsaili nodded. She knew about the Black Mercenaries. They lived in the woods, or so it was said. No one knew for certain, as the men seemed to appear like mist from the sky and disappear much the same way. One minute they were there, and the next they simply were gone. They had fought for King David in his quest to take control of Scotland ever since he had been released several years prior from being held prisoner in England, but some of the Mercenaries had also fought for the king’s enemies—the Steward and the King of England. They had no loyalty to a king. Their only loyalty was to coin. She had no notion why they might be near her father’s home, nor did she want to know, but she feared she and Maria were about to discover why, whether they wanted to or not.
In taut silence, Marsaili and Maria paddled the brief distance remaining to the shore. There was nowhere to run. They could not return to the woods, so they had to go forward toward the five men awaiting them on the shore. Before the dinghy even banked, a tall man, built like a solid tree with hair cropped so short that Marsaili could only see it because the blackness of it seemed to shimmer beneath the skin of his scalp, leaned over, gripped the front edge of the dinghy, and brought it to a shuddering stop. Gray eyes pierced her before shifting to do the same to Maria, and then the man seemed to hold the two of them in his gaze at once.
“Ye have just made my task much easier and my pockets much fuller.” He grinned, but it was mirthless and twisted with a downturn of contempt. Then his gaze, probing and cold, settled on Marsaili. “Ye have an enemy, Marsaili Campbell, and I’ve been paid generously to see ye punished for yer folly.”
Marsaili’s heart thumped viciously against her ribs. “I’ve many enemies,” she said, pleased her voice sounded so calm when a storm of fear raged inside her. “Ye’re going to have to be specific, Lord…?”
“Ye can call me Lucan,” he said, yanking the boat forward so hard that she fell backward into Maria. Before they could untangle themselves, Lucan snatched her dagger out of her hand and had Marsaili firm in his grip. A shorter man with limp red hair and a long hawkish nose did the same to Maria. Lucan lifted Marsaili off her feet, plopped her on the ground, and before she knew what was occurring, he was winding binds around her wrists. She looked over to see Maria receiving the same treatment. The other three men had already turned away and were walking through the woods toward horses that Marsaili could see tethered some distance away.
Marsaili yanked back on her wrists to no avail as the man had bound them so tightly the rope cut into her skin. Immediately, the blood seemed to gather at the site and pulse. If she was kept like this long, she feared she would lose the use of her hands. “Who—”
“Euphemia Stewart,” he answered before Marsaili even completed her question. “Seems ye and yer sister, Lena MacLean, made quite the enemy.”
Marsaili frowned, casting her thoughts back to when she had gone with Lena and her husband, Alex, to the Steward’s home. Marsaili had been desperate to find out where her son was, but the only way her father would tell her was if she discovered what castles the king had planned to raid and when. She’d barely spoken to Euphemia while she had been at the Steward’s home, though Marsaili had not been overly friendly when they had spoken. The only thing Marsaili could even think of that might have prompted Euphemia to desire revenge was Lena doing something to the woman and Euphemia striking out at Marsaili simply because she and Lena were sisters. It must have been a well-placed blow by Lena for Euphemia to send this Mercenary after her.
“I did nae do anything to that woman!” she shouted.
He snorted. “I dunnae care if ye did or nae. My concern is for the coin I’ll receive once I’ve done as she’s bid.”
“Ye’re despicable!” Marsaili snapped.
“Aye,” he said with a wink. “And if ye dunnae forget that, we will rub along just fine until I give ye away.”
Marsaili gasped, jerking back reflexively. “Give me away?”
“Aye. That’s the thing about crossing someone twisted like Euphemia. She will nae be satisfied just to have me kill ye. She wants ye to suffer for a long time.” He laughed, as if he had relayed something humorous. “Come,” he said, yanking her farther forward. “We have a tourney to attend, where I’ll be finding the perfect man to lose ye to.”
“Ye mean to wager me and purposely lose?”
“Aye, ye’re rather quick. And I’ll choose the most despicable man I can find, too.”
Marsaili shuddered. She glanced at Maria and back to Lucan. “Release Maria. Ye came for me, nae her.”
Lucan’s answer was to grab Marsaili by the waist and hoist her onto his horse. He then motioned for the warrior who was holding Maria to do the same thing. “I consider yer friend a gift, lovely lady, and I’m nae a man to reject such a thing.” With that, he tapped his horse’s flanks and set them on the way to trouble.