Prologue
Fall 1816, County Caithness, Scotland
Samhain. Declan Sinclair’s favorite time of year. The time when Caithness turned a patchwork of color, the time when the veil between the living and the dead grew thin, and the time when his dreams of the future were most vivid.
Declan wove his way through the forested path, whistling to himself, a brace of red grouse slung over his shoulder, his other hand tucked into the waist of his breeks. Each year, the coming of Samhain marked a magical change in everything—the land, the air, the sea, all that was precious to him. But this year—this Samhain—was different. This Samhain marked a change in Declan’s future, a change in his whole life, a change for the better, to be sure.
He reached his old cottage, the one in which his older sister Margaret and brother-in-law Hamish now lived, and sniffed the air. Good. He hadn’t missed supper. Declan had argued with Margaret last week and she hadn’t spoken two words to him since. At first, he’d welcomed not having to engage with his fractious sibling, but hers was a loud silence filled with groans, and huffs, and sighs. Though he couldn’t remember what the argument had been about, he thought he should apologize and have done with it. After all, he had big news to tell, and he wasn’t certain how she would react. He hoped a gift of the grouse might smooth the way for him.
Declan knocked on the door and called out, “Margaret, it’s me.”
Margaret swept open the door and a rich, oniony aroma hit him squarely. Rabbit stew. His favorite.
“It’s yourself,” she said without enthusiasm. She wiped her hands on her apron before giving him a brisk kiss on the cheek.
Lifting the grouse like a trophy, he announced, “These are for you.”
“Aren’t you the clever one,” she said, taking the birds. “These will do nice for tomorrow’s supper.” Margaret ducked into the pantry to hang the birds.
“I come to say sorry and to tell you something.”
Margaret stepped back out, folded her arms, and stood stone-faced like a sentry awaiting his apology.
“I’m sorry for…arguing.”
Her head quirked as if to say, And?
“For arguing about…” Christ, what had they argued about?
She unfolded her arms and stared at him incredulously. “You dinnae even remember, do you?”
“I do,” he said, not liking to be challenged. Then added, “Sort of.” His mind scrambled for purchase until it caught on something safe. “I was rude and insensitive and I took you for granted.”
Her chin lifted, again indicating that he hadn’t finished to her satisfaction.
“But I want you to know that I appreciate you and everything you do for me, Sister.”
Margaret lowered her head and leaned forward.
Jesus, what else do you want, woman?
“Och, aye!” he remembered, “and I love you dearly.”
At last, Margaret strode across the kitchen floor and embraced him. All was forgiven. Now he could tell her what he truly came to say.
“Where’s Hamish?” he asked.
“He went to Thurso to have the horse shod. He’ll be back in time for supper. Why?”
Declan rubbed his belly and ventured a look into the pot over the fire. “Will it be soon? I’m famished.”
Margaret shooed him away from the hearth. “If you found yourself a wife, you’d be home right now eating her food instead of pestering me.”
“That’s what I come to tell you.” He had planned on a longer preamble, but he couldn’t contain the news for another second. “I’m getting married.”
A look he couldn’t interpret came over her. She staggered sideways with her eyes wide, but she didn’t speak.
“Did you hear what I said, Margaret?” He beamed at her and waited. Still, she made no sound.
“Margaret?”
Why isn’t she saying anything?
At last she shut her eyes and clasped her hands together. “Thank the heavens.” She threw her arms open, and he stepped into her fierce embrace. “Good Lord, I thought the day would never come.”
When he stepped back, she was, as he had expected, weeping a bit.
“I thought you’d never find a wife.” Margaret dabbed away the tears with the hem of her apron and sniffed. “Well then.” She smiled up at him. “Who’s it to be?”
“What?”
She laughed. “Ye loon. Who’s the lucky lassie you’ll be marrying? Is it Tessa Maclaren? She’s a pretty one and clever, forbye.”
He had to think hard. He couldn’t remember who Tessa Maclaren was. “Does Tessa have yellow hair?”
“No.”
“Then, nae. It’s no’ her. Mine’s got yellow hair.”
“Yellow hair, ye say?” Margaret blinked twice. “Declan,” she said as though talking to a horse that might bolt. “What’s the lassie’s name?”
He looked at the table, the hearth, the floor—anywhere but at her. “I dinnae ken.”
Her eyes closed, and she tilted her head back. “Oh Lord give me strength.” She found a kitchen stool and sat down hard, then leveled a look of resignation at him. “You’ve been having those fool dreams again, I suppose.”