Cotharach Castle, Clan Ruthven

January 26, 1367

Ambrose Ruthven knelt by the bed, holding his wife’s hand. Moibeal had drawn her last breath earlier that morning, but he hadn’t been able to leave her. Somehow, to release her hand would be to let her go, and he wasn’t ready for that—he’d never be ready for that. They hadn’t had enough time. Seven years was not nearly enough time. He relived memory after memory, unwilling to accept that they were all he had left.

He remembered when he’d first met Moibeal.

He’d gone to court, representing Clan Ruthven for his brother, Ainsley, Laird Ruthven.

“While you’re there, find yourself a bride, brother,” Ainsley told him.

Twenty-eight at the time, Ambrose hoped to do just that, to find a suitable wife among the courtiers. Ainsley had given Ambrose a list of clans with which he would like to forge a closer bond.

But Ainsley, having lost his own wife three years earlier, had become sentimental. “Life is short, brother, too short. An alliance with one of these families would be ideal, but if you meet a lass who pleases you, I’ll see what I can do.”

At the time, Ambrose thought his brother was a fool. Ambrose would certainly look for a wife, but as a second son, he wanted a wealthy wife or one that would bring him a title. That was until he’d met Moibeal Dundas. Clan Dundas was not on Ainsley’s list. Neither were they exceedingly wealthy and, as the daughter of the laird’s youngest brother, Moibeal didn’t hold a title.

But she instantly held Ambrose’s heart. She took his breath away. She had a soft curvaceous figure, thick chestnut-colored hair, and green eyes that always seemed to be filled with laughter. At eighteen, she was ten years his junior. Still, as noble marriages went, that was no real difference at all. He had been completely smitten with her and to his delight, she seemed fond of him too.

So, true to his word, Ainsley contacted Laird Dundas requesting a meeting to discuss a betrothal. Laird Dundas travelled to Cotharach with Moibeal and her parents. When they arrived, they’d seemed happy and open to the prospect of a marriage. Ainsley had greeted them with a grand feast and at the end of the evening, everyone was in high spirits. Ambrose believed that by the next day, he would be betrothed to the woman he adored.

But that didn’t happen. Laird Dundas had misunderstood Ainsley’s request. He thought Ainsley himself was seeking her hand, which would have made Moibeal Lady Ruthven. Ainsley had explained that he still mourned his late wife. He was not ready to marry now, and perhaps never would be.

However, absolutely certain he would never marry again, Ainsley made Laird Dundas an offer so generous, it had utterly astounded Ambrose at the time. “Laird Dundas, I only have a daughter and as I don’t intend to marry again, it is unlikely I’ll ever have a son. I will stipulate that if Ambrose and Moibeal do have a son, my title will pass to Ambrose, and then his son. Even without a title, though, as you are well aware, my brother is a wealthy man in his own right. He has built an extremely successful shipping business and would be an excellent husband for Moibeal.”

Laird Dundas wanted none of it. He believed that in a few years, Ainsley’s grief would ease, he would take a wife, and could possibly have a son of his own then. He didn’t care that Ambrose was wealthy. The only betrothal the laird would consider was one with Ainsley.

And that was that. They left, taking with them Ambrose’s hopes of happiness.

Moibeal was married to Raghnall Napier, Laird Napier’s heir, just after Epiphany. And as if fate were laughing at Ambrose, Ainsley died less than a month later, making Katherine, Ainsley’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Lady Ruthven. Ambrose would only act as Laird on her behalf, the title of Laird Ruthven ultimately going to whomever she married. Ambrose inherited all of the headaches with none of the benefits.

After that, whenever he saw Moibeal, his heart ached and jealousy for Raghnall Napier burned in his gut. Worse, the laughter in her eyes had been replaced by same wistful longing he suspected was in his own gaze. Seeing her miserable tore at his heart.

Ambrose became angry and bitter. Eventually, he realized the only way he would ever benefit from the mess destiny had dealt him was if his niece never married. At least then he would become Laird Ruthven. So, ensuring that eventuality became his goal.

Finally, a few years later, fate took a turn in his favor. Moibeal became a widow. Raghnall and, tragically, their young son, both succumbed to illness. Ambrose had another chance at happiness, but only if he could wrest full leadership of the clan from Katherine’s hands. He redoubled his efforts, even seeking the aid of King David II. By some miracle, the king found a husband for Katherine, Niall MacIan, who would renounce her titles and lands. MacIan was the laird of an impoverished Highland clan, with a title and lands of his own, but desperately in need of funds.

Ambrose had finally been able to marry the heart of his heart mere months after his niece had been packed off to the Highlands. So grateful was he to his king, Ambrose had vowed to name their first child David.

He smiled at the memory as he gripped her cold hand tighter. “Do you remember that, my love? I was certain you were carrying a lad. You actually laughed the first time I held the wee sprite. I had to settle for naming her Davida.”

He could almost hear the laughter that had delighted him so. “It wasn’t enough time, my love. We were supposed to grow old together. How can I let you go?” His voice broke on a sob and he finally gave into the tears he’d been fighting for hours. How could he possibly continue on without her?

The door to the chamber opened and Ambrose whirled around to roar at whomever dared disturb him, but the chastisement died on his lips. It was his lovely six-year-old daughter, Davida.

“Papa? Are you still saying goodbye to mama?”

“Aye, Vida.”

“Can I come in?”

“Aye, my wee darling.”

She slipped quietly into the room and crossed to his side. He put one arm around her and kissed the top of her head. She wrapped both her small arms around him, rested her cheek on his chest, and looked at her mother. “Mama was very pretty, wasn’t she?”

“Aye,” he choked on a sob. “Aye, she was.”

“I loved mama and mama loved us. She said she did.”

Ambrose trembled, unable to do anything but nod.

“But you know what else she said, Papa?”

“What else did she say, precious?”

“She said she didn’t want to go, but she had to leave us and not to worry about her because she would be with the angels. I asked her if I could go with her and she said no. She said you needed me to stay here and be your angel.”

Of course, she would have said that. He could almost hear her now, telling him, “You must go on, my love. You must go on for Vida. It’s time to let me go now.”

He sighed heavily and, letting go of Moibeal’s hand, wrapped both arms around his daughter, the living, breathing angel his wife had given him. “That’s right, Vida. Mama is with the angels, but we have each other.”

He stood, lifting Vida as he did. He walked with her to the door, turning to look back one last time. “Goodbye, my love. I will miss you.”