As the carriage passed the massive stone gates, Alaric McLeod leaned out the window, trying to get a glimpse of his new home. It was a rare show of excitement for him. At nine, he’d already learned the value of self-discipline, of guarding his responses to the world around him. ’Twas a simple fact: what people couldn’t see, they couldn’t hurt.

Yesterday, he hadn’t flinched when his da tossed the single, ratty travelling case—the only one the McLeods owned—onto the carriage and said tonelessly, “That’s that, then. Be a good lad and no trouble to my cousin.”

He didn’t move a muscle when his stepmother bid him a cool farewell.

Yet when his younger half-brother Will cried, “Why is Alaric leaving? I want to go with him!” something hot and unexpected pushed behind his eyes.

He pushed back, forcing the heat to retreat.

“Good bye, William.” He was proud of how grown-up he sounded. “I’m the ward of a duke now, so I shan’t be returning here.” He glanced at the tidy cottage with its blooming hedgerows and vegetable garden—and the old, stupid yearning pierced him. Though his confidence wavered, he lifted his chin. “My new guardian lives in a castle. I’ll have my own bedchamber. And servants to fetch me anything I want.”

“I want to go with you,” Will insisted.

Will’s mother intervened, her arms folding protectively around her little son. She’d never once held Alaric that way. The knots in Alaric’s chest tightened—and he ignored that too. He told himself he didn’t care if his father’s new wife was young and beautiful with her shining chestnut hair and dark brown eyes—Alaric’s own mama had been more beautiful. And his stepmother was a mere milliner’s girl whereas his mother had been a true lady, the youngest daughter of an earl.

Though his mama had died when he was three, she still visited him in fragments. The fading scent of gardenias. The whisper of silk behind a closed door. Dampness upon a cheek as cool and smooth as alabaster. We don’t belong here, Alaric. We deserve better ...

“You’ll stay here, Will,” the new Mrs. McLeod said firmly, “where you belong.”

Alaric understood his stepmother’s message. Truth didn’t need to be spoken aloud: he knew who belonged and who didn’t. As if to prove the point, his da came to stand behind his stepmother and half-brother. His chest chafed at the picture the three made. Brown-haired and robust, a proud, loving Scots family. He bore no resemblance to them with his black hair and awkward, gangling build, the pale skin and eyes he’d inherited from his English mama.

You’ve eyes like the blessed cat, his stepmother had once said.

Aye, he had more in common with that mangy stray than the portrait-perfect McLeods. Resentment swelled. They didn’t want him? Fine. He didn’t want to be here anyway. He hated them all—and this backward village, too. The bullies and lack-wits, offspring of farmers who would sooner start a brawl than attempt a math problem. Who’d bloody a lad’s nose just because he had a head for numbers and sums.

Da cleared his throat. “It’s time you’re off. Mustn’t keep your guardian waiting.”

Can’t wait to be rid of me, can you? The dark, swirling thoughts burst through the barriers of his control. Confusion and anger swept through him. Even as his fists balled, ice came to his rescue, flowing through his veins, numbing everything else.

Don’t let them see. They can’t hurt you.

“Yes.” His voice frosted over. “I don’t want to keep His Grace waiting.”

“I’ll miss you, Alaric.” Eyes glimmering, Will tugged on his sleeve. “You’ll come and visit soon, won’t you?”

What for? They have you. Their son ... the one that matters.

“Goodbye, William,” he said flatly.

He’d boarded the carriage without looking back. What was the point? He already knew what was behind him—what mattered was looking ahead. His hands cold and clammy now, he gripped the window frame of the carriage. If his eyes stung, he told himself it was because of the dust clouds stirred up by the clattering wheels.

Put the past behind you. There’s no looking back—the future is what matters.

The dust settled and then, like magic, a vision appeared. His jaw slackened. Surrounded by lush green hills and cloudless skies, Strathmore Castle sprawled with the grace of an ancient behemoth that had fed off time itself. Sunshine gilded the stone walls, glinted off stained glass and mullioned windows. Power infused the building’s every line from the rugged towers to the sweeping wings. ’Twas a place that could ward off any attack—and provide refuge to a chosen few.

As the carriage rolled onto the circular front drive, two figures emerged from the arched entryway. The tall, black-haired man with hawkish features was Henry McLeod, the Duke of Strathaven, Alaric’s first cousin once removed and now his guardian. He’d met the duke only once before, when the latter had come to offer guardianship to one of the sons of his poor relation. Amidst the clutter of the McLeods’ cottage, the duke had seemed like a king with his fine clothes and pristine elegance. Surrounded by the wealth and power of his ancestral estate, His Grace dazzled like a god.

Beside Strathaven was the duchess, thin and slight as a sparrow, lace quivering at her breast. Alaric had never met her. He knew only that her own son had died of a fever, and she could not bear another.

When she waved her handkerchief in welcome, the ice in Alaric’s gut began to thaw. Relief trickled through him.

They want me here. I’ll belong. I’ve come… home.

His lips found the tentative shape of a smile, and he waved back with a boy’s eagerness.