There was nothing like a highland sunrise, of this Fergus MacDougal was convinced. Nothing like the start of a fresh, new day as the sun rose over the distant Grampians and made the peaks appear to glow.

Even as a boy, he had enjoyed waking with the sun. Brice never had; always groaning when it came time to leave his warm bed and the dreams which it had involved. One area in which his pleasant nature had failed him.

Fergus, meanwhile, always considered the short-tempered brother, sometimes difficult to get along with, had looked forward to performing the morning chores, for it meant breathing in the early morning air, knowing the entire world was waking up at the same time he did.

A foolish conceit, of course, as the entire world did not wake at the same moment. He knew that now, as a man. As a boy, on the other hand, the idea had intrigued him. As had the prospect of a few minutes to himself, away from the house and from his mother’s loving but sharp tongue.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cool morning air while attending nature’s needs, relishing the pace at which he could start his day while traveling alone.

Though he enjoyed traveling with his brother and their friends—there was nothing in life capable of replacing their camaraderie—it was no secret that he better enjoyed his space, his freedom. He need not answer to the opinions of others while alone.

He need not listen to the prattling of his brother and friends as they discussed marriage and domestic life, either. All the better, as the topic very nearly disgusted him.

How had everything changed so quickly?

He did not enjoy thinking about it and often tried to avoid doing so, but that morning—with the air so still and nearly cold enough to show his breath, with light birdsong rising up from the tops of the pine trees surrounding the clearing he’d settled in for the night, with nothing demanding his attention aside from preparing for a new day’s riding—he could not help but reflect on the difference.

It had always been the four of them, a core group which on occasion had included a handful of others who moved in and out as needs changed. His cousins, Donald and Grant, were two who would sometimes join in when Clan Campbell did not require their presence.

In the early days, they’d had their freedom. No ties. No one to tug at their minds, since they were all they had. There’d been no one to long for or fret over.

A man could earn quite a handsome living when there was nothing holding him back.

Now, Fergus was the only free man left of the group.

Rodric and Caitlin had their little girl, living in the home of Caitlin’s Aunt Sorcha while Sorcha tended the Anderson house. Although Rodric was free to come and go as he pleased—Caitlin made it a point to remind him of this—he tended to stay close to home and only accept jobs which did not require him to be away for long.

Quinn and his bride, Ysmaine, lived in the Anderson house. Their group had taken to spending the winters there, so Quinn was no stranger to the place. Fergus suspected more than a few of the lasses who worked in the house had nursed broken hearts when the lad returned with a wife.

Quinn had no desire to make the house his permanent home, or so he made a point of reminding anyone who would listen. A year had passed since their escape from France, after Ysmaine accidentally killed a guard of the French nobleman—more scoundrel than noble, if you asked Fergus—who’d been determined to have her for himself, and it was best for them to stay under the protection of a strong clan until there was certainty of no retribution.

Then there was Brice, who had stayed on in the Anderson household after winter’s end—another one who swore he would not take advantage of Padraig Anderson’s generosity for longer than necessary, but the promise of a wee bairn to be born in the spring had changed his mind.

In his heart of hearts, Fergus was glad for his brother and sister-in-law. They were evidently happy, the sort of happiness that would have made him grit his teeth if it weren’t his brother involved.

The eyes they always insisted upon making at each other when they thought no one was the wiser; it was enough to turn one’s stomach.

He had pledged not to stray too far from Anderson land, then, as Brice would wish to introduce his new son or daughter to their uncle when the time came.

Fergus stroked the mane of his chestnut mount, a faithful creature who’d already seen him through quite a bit of rough going. The rains had been heavy for several straight days, causing no end of hardship as he’d navigated the Cairngorms and their uneven terrain.

He was clear of the worst of it now—so, as tended to be the case, the weather had turned dry and sunny.

The mountains behind him were a sight to behold, still snow-capped this close to the end of winter. They seemed to pierce the blue sky, and he often wondered what the world would look like from the peaks.

Not that he would ever attempt such a dangerous journey, for the mountains seemed to have a climate of their own. He had learned as much from visits to his mother’s family, the Campbell Clan, while he and Brice were boys.

There was a falling-out somewhere along the way, one which he’d been too young to understand at the time. Neither of his cousins had ever seemed to think much of it, and they’d never brought it up when riding with Fergus and Brice once all four were adults.

It was a war waged by the older generation, one which would like as not die off once that generation did.

“Come, now,” he announced to the horse once he’d secured its saddle and bridle. “It’s time to return to the Andersons.”

He could not call it home, for it was nothing of the sort. He had no home.

The thought gave him no comfort, this he could admit in the silent depths of his heart. Whereas home meant responsibility, being tied down, it also meant having somewhere to return to after a long journey. Perhaps a few smiling faces that would express delight at his safe homecoming.

Brice would be happy, as would the others. That would have to be enough.

It was only a few minutes’ walk to the road which ran west to east, following the path of the River Spean for quite a while before turning southwest. That was precisely the route Fergus wished to take, for it would lead him straight to his friends.

Perchance he might stop at the inn before reaching the great house, in the hopes that old Murphy might be there. He was another man without a home, who seemed to float like a feather on the wind.

Rumor had it he’d left a wife and seven children behind one day, simply packing up and leaving on the back of the nearest horse while his family slept in peaceful unawareness. That had been many years earlier, and there was no telling what had become of any of the lot.

Murphy was none the better for the choice he’d made, at least, that was how it appeared to anyone who knew him.

Fergus was certain that while the man had taken the coward’s choice—deserting a large family as Murphy had—he had likely done the lot of them a favor in some ways. For Murphy was a sullen fellow, of poor temperament and rather questionable morals.

Not unlike Fergus in many ways.

This comparison did not grant much comfort.

He chuckled to himself upon turning the horse onto the road. The day he became the sort of man Murphy was—in his crusty tunics, with dirt caking itself into his deep wrinkles—he would gladly throw himself into the nearest body of water and allow it to take him away.

The road was a well-traveled one, the main road connecting the red hills of the Cairngorns to much of the area west thereof, then northeast as far as Aberdeenshire. It did not always widen the way it did as Fergus rode its length that particular spring morning, as the rocky, hilly terrain at times meant it narrowed to a mere footpath for the sake of safety. There was simply not enough room for two men to ride abreast in some areas.

And rain made it even more treacherous, as Fergus had so unhappily discovered.

He nodded in greeting to a pair of passing tradesmen, the wagon their team of horses pulled filled with barrels of what smelled like ale—just enough of it leaked from the barrels to send the scent into the air. His mouth watered. It had been far too long since he’d enjoyed a mug of ale and a hearty meal.

That would change soon, so long as the weather held out. It would not be more than three days to the village, perhaps four. He would wait until then in spite of anything he came across in-between, hoarding his hard-earned shillings like a miser.

“Besides,” he muttered, patting the gelding’s withers as though it were aware of his inner thoughts, “we’ve never been the worse for a few evenings spent under the open sky, have we?”

The beast simply trotted on, unaware of anything beyond obeying its rider’s commands.

Fergus’s thoughts faded to the back of his mind in order that he might enjoy simply being alive and in the middle of a lovely stretch of countryside. Towering pines lined the road on both sides, and the sound of the river greeted him to his left. Men fished along its banks, visible now and again through gaps between the trees.

Yes, a man could truly enjoy living when all was right with the world, as it was at that moment.

Until he heard his name shouted from his right, further into the woods.

He pulled the reins up short, keeping the horse facing the direction in which they were riding, in case of need to make a hasty retreat. He did not recognize the deep, male voice—even though it had not sounded as though the man it belonged to wished Fergus harm, there was no call to behave like a trusting fool.

Only when his cousin Grant emerged from the cover of pine boughs did Fergus release the breath he’d been holding.

“I was only just thinking of ye this morning!” he exclaimed, leaving the road and dismounting that he might clasp his cousin’s arms in greeting. “What the devil are ye doing out here, so far from Ben Macdui?”

Guilt pulled at the back of his mind when he said it, for he had been no more than a half-day’s ride from Ben Macdui when the weather was worse. He might have called upon his mother’s brother to offer him shelter until it was safe to ride, but he had deliberately avoided doing so.

Grant shook his head in wonder. “We’ve been looking for ye, lad.” Just then, Donald emerged, leading a pair of shining black horses so typical of Clan Campbell. Luthais Campbell prided himself on his horses, going so far as to breed them special for the clan. They’d become a symbol over the years.

“Looking for me?” He turned to Donald. “Why ever for? And how did ye know where to find me?”

The Campbell brothers exchanged a look, sharing a silent message with their gray eyes. His mother had eyes of the same color, Fergus remembered.

It was Grant who spoke. “We rode out to Anderson territory, where we’d heard ye spent the winter. Padraig Anderson explained where we might find ye, on the road between there and the Cairngorns.”

“Your brother was away for a day or two,” Donald explained. “Or else we’d have brought him along with us.”

A lump formed in Fergus’s throat. “Why, though?”

Another look between the pair of them. Grant frowned. “We’re sorry to be the ones to tell ye, lad, but your father is in grave health. When we left the manor house, the healer said it was no more than a matter of days.”

Fergus drew a sharp breath, stunned. When the first moment of sickening surprise passed, a dozen questions fought to be voiced.

There would be time for that when they rode.

In an instant, he was in the saddle. “Let us make haste, then.”