Prologue
Ranulf MacKenzie eyed the band of riders he passed on the road to his family’s stronghold. He counted fifteen warriors clad in the colors of the MacDonnell, plus two women, a lady and her maid.
“My lady,” Ranulf said, bowing his head as he passed the beauty. Waves of black hair skimmed her waist. Eyes as blue as the summer’s sky met his. She smiled modestly in greeting and dipped her head, before returning her gaze forward.
Ranulf shifted in his saddle and watched her go, admiring her slender curves from behind. When her entourage of warriors impeded his view of her round derriere gently rocking in the saddle, he shifted his gaze forward. In the distance, he beheld another beauty—the MacKenzie stronghold.
Ten years had passed since he left home, a decade spent amassing a small fortune as a hired sword, not to mention building an army of warriors loyal only to him.
“What is yer business?” the guard said when he approached the gate.
Ranulf straightened in his saddle and narrowed his eyes on the man.
The guard sighed impatiently. “If ye don’t want to state yer business, ye can just turn yer horse around and—” Then he froze. He looked hard at Ranulf. An instant later, his eyes widened. “Sir...Sir…” he stammered before dropping to one knee. “Sir Ranulf, forgive me. Welcome home.”
Ranulf pursed his lips. Then he shifted his gaze forward and held out his hand. “Water.”
The guard rushed into the gate house, returning moments later, placing an opened costrel in Ranulf’s hand. He took a big swig and swooshed the water around his mouth. Then he leaned over and spat it out, hitting his mark—the guard’s boot. The man knew better than to react.
Ranulf let the pouch fall from his fingertips to the ground. “Run along and announce my return to yer laird.”
As if the very devil licked at his heels, the guard sprinted ahead.
Ranulf gave his horse a nudge. Ten warriors followed, their horses’ hooves clomping rhythmically on the soft earth behind him.
When they arrived in the baily, he swung down from his mount and turned to face his men. Each wore a black leather jerkin with Ranulf’s coat of arms on his back. Another fifty men, ruthless swordfighters all, remained hidden in the forest beyond the outskirts of the village.
“Kenric,” Ranulf said, motioning to his second in command.
A man of towering height with cropped blonde hair; narrow, hard eyes; and powerful shoulders swung down from his horse and bowed. “Aye, Sir Ranulf.”
Ranulf withdrew the sword he had strapped to his back and gave it to Kenric for safe keeping. “Stay here with the men. If I were to march through the keep with nigh a dozen of my own warriors, my brother might worry my business here is not friendly.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Kenric said, keeping his head bowed.
“Nay, we wouldn’t.” Ranulf smirked. “Watch the men. I do not want any trouble…yet.”
Kenric glanced up, a knowing smile curving his lips. “Understood.”
Ranulf sought out his son among his mighty warriors. “Fergus, ye come with me, but stay quiet. The rest of ye remain here and keep alert.”
Before he could give his men leave to enter the MacKenzie stronghold, there was the matter of obtaining the laird’s approval. But Ranulf wasn’t worried. He could be very persuasive and knew, in the end, he would have his way.
“Welcome home, Sir Ranulf,” one of the guards said as he opened the door leading to the great hall.
Ranulf scanned the room, expecting to see his brother, but the hall was empty. His expression remained passive, despite the laird’s dismissive treatment of his homecoming. “No matter,” he mumbled to himself before he addressed the guard. “Where is my brother?”
“He is in his study with yer nephew.”
“See that my men are fed and our horses groomed.”
“Aye, Sir Ranulf,” the guard replied.
Ranulf headed toward the wide, stone stairwell. He glanced back to ensure Fergus followed close behind. Shifting his gaze forward, he thundered up the stairs, not taking the time to appreciate the familiar surroundings. Before he enjoyed the pleasure of being home, he had old business to settle.
When he reached the study, he turned to Fergus. “Stay quiet. Keep out of the way.” Then he swung open the door without knocking and locked eyes with his brother, Laird Donald MacKenzie.
Donald paused and looked up from the bread he was buttering. “The prodigal son returns,” he said dryly.
Ranulf ground his teeth as he met his brother’s disapproving gaze. “Ye needn’t look so overjoyed,” he said coolly, although he could feel his blood begin to boil just standing in his smug brother’s presence. Ranulf turned away before his expression betrayed his disdain, looking to where his nephew sat scribbling in a ledger at a small desk on the other side of the room. Ranulf’s lips twitched, wanting to curl in disgust. Instead, he rolled his eyes. The boy was now eight and ten, a man grown. Golden whiskers covered his chin, but he was as soft as a maid and just as slender.
“Welcome home, Uncle,” the lad said, looking up with wide, innocent eyes.
Pasting a smile on his face, Ranulf turned and looked pointedly at his brother. “At least someone appears happy to see me.”
Donald did not look up. “I will not feign affection. Yer return brings me no joy, just as yer choices gave our father nothing but heartache.”
Ranulf fisted his hands, resisting the urge to reach out and slam his brother’s head onto the table. “Our father lacked vision.”
Donald jerked his head up, meeting Ranulf’s gaze. “Our father was a man of compassion and sensibility.”
Ranulf shrugged, his gaze scanning the room for guards. “I live by my own creed now.” He swallowed the laughter that rushed up his throat when he realized they were alone. His brother was still a trusting fool.
“I’ve no doubt,” Donald replied, not bothering to hide his contempt. “One that I’m sure puts yerself first, even before God.”
Ranulf sighed, already bored. His brother hadn’t changed. He sat in the chair across from Donald. Again, he considered the study, but this time he imaged how he would change the room when he was laird. What it needed were some furs by the hearth and a naked wench or two to see to his needs. He closed his eyes as shining black hair and crystal blue eyes came to the fore of his mind. Donald wasn’t good for much, but he could tell him about the beauty who had caught his eye on the way to the castle. “I passed a rather large party from Clan MacDonnell just now when I arrived. What business did they have here?”
His brother shrugged. “Of late, we’ve enjoyed several visits from Clan MacDonnell.”
Ranulf grabbed a piece of bread. “Ye’re still as evasive as ever.”
“And ye’re as self-serving as ever,” Donald replied before setting down the knife and taking a bite of his bread.
Ranulf took up the knife and swept it through the butter.
“Help yerself,” Donald said, his tone revealing his displeasure.
Ranulf smiled at him. “I intend to.”
Donald’s face reddened. He set his bread down and interlaced his fingers, giving Ranulf a hard, assessing look. “Why did ye come back?”
Ranulf leaned forward, gripping the knife in one hand and his bread is the other. “I’ve come to take my land.”
Donald shook his head. “If ye’re talking about the land ye formerly coveted, then let me remind ye those lands are already owned. And I do not think the clans MacDonnell or MacLeod are going to just give it to ye.”
“I didn’t plan on asking them, brother,” Ranulf said, his voice deadly soft. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, they’re so busy fighting each other, they’d never even see us coming.”
Donald sighed, shaking his head. He sat back in his seat. “Ye should know that the MacDonnell and I have made an alliance. His daughter is betrothed to Adam. Isn’t that right, Adam?”
Ranulf’s nephew looked up from the table at which he sat and nodded. Ranulf’s thoughts once more returned to the raven-haired beauty. The idea of his bookish nephew taking Lady MacDonnell into his spindly arms turned his stomach.
“He isn’t fit to marry Lady MacDonnell,” Ranulf hissed, unable to hide his rancor. “Just as he is not fit to be laird. Look at him,” he scoffed, gesturing toward Adam. “A sword should be clutched in his fist, like my own son…not a blasted quill.” Ranulf turned then and motioned to Fergus who obediently remained by the door.
Donald’s eyes showed his surprise. “I did not know ye had a son.”
“Neither did I,” Ranulf answered dryly as he sat back in his chair. “I had a romp or two with a barmaid when I lived in Edinburgh. I didn’t believe her when she sought me out to tell me. But when she brought the lad to me, I could not deny his obvious parentage.” Ranulf glanced at his son who was a year younger than Adam and twice as broad. Fergus had inherited Ranulf’s black waves, dark eyes, and long, thin nose. “He’s a worthless bastard and half peasant stock, but I’d wager he’s more of a man than Adam will ever be.”
Donald scowled at Ranulf. “Yer goading will not unravel my control. Yer measure of a man’s greatness is a pathway to Hell.”
Ranulf glowered back. “Adam is soft, like ye. And that is why ye make alliances rather than taking what should rightfully be yers.”
Donald slammed his fist on the table. “And by what right should another clan’s land belong to me?”
The same old argument met Ranulf’s ear, but Ranulf was not the same man who, in the past, had to swallow his brother’s refusals. Now, he had wealth and power and was more determined than ever. “MacKenzie land surrounds theirs. Ye’ve more men and far greater wealth. Ye’re a fool for not taking what ye could have.” Ranulf stood up, still clutching the knife in one hand and squishing his piece of bread in the other. “Ye were never man enough, but I am. Had ye only given me an army when I asked for it ten years ago, the clans MacDonnell and MacLeod would have surrendered long since.”
Donald stood up, pressed his palms onto the table, and glared at him. “I will never give ye an army. Save yer breath, if that is why ye’ve returned.”
Ranulf’s heart thundered in his ears. “I have news for ye, brother. I don’t need an army.” A snarl fled his lips as he drove the knife into his brother’s heart.
Donald’s eyes bulged. He gripped the bone handle sticking out of his chest with both hands and fell back in his chair.
“Father,” Adam cried, coming to his feet. He raced at Ranulf, but all he had in his hand was his quill. Ranulf drew the dirk from his boot and thrust it into his nephew’s gut. Adam sputtered and gasped. Ranulf shoved him back. Adam fell. Blood puddled on the floor, seeping, spreading. His legs shook. He cried out, then grew still. Ranulf stood over him and watched a crimson streak of blood trickle down his golden beard.
Ranulf whirled around and smiled at Fergus before shoving the dead laird from his chair. Donald’s body thudded onto the floor. Seizing his brother’s buttered bread, Ranulf took a hearty bite. “Yer da is now laird,” he crowed, raising the dead man’s full tankard. “Long live Laird Ranulf.”
He waited for his son to echo his toast, but Fergus stood motionless, his face drawn and ghostly white.
Ranulf scowled. “Don’t just stand there looking daft, ye bastard. Go inform Kenric ‘tis time to secure the keep. If anyone resists, kill them. Then open the gates and let the rest of my men inside.”
Still, Fergus did not speak. His gaze darted between the two bodies.
Ranulf slammed his fist down. “Why are ye still here? Did ye not hear my orders?”
Fergus jerked around and dipped his head respectfully. “Forgive me, Father. I will go now.”
“No, wait!”
His son turned back around. “Aye, Father.”
“Do ye know whose face I cannot rid from my thoughts?”
Fergus shook his head. “I do not ken, father.”
“The lady we passed on the road. I’ve never seen hair so black or lips so in need of my kiss. I wonder what her name is.” He looked to where his brother lay lifeless on the ground. “If Donald were not dead, I would ask him.” He chuckled at his own jest. Then he set his tankard on the table and stood up. “Fergus, I just had a marvelous idea.”
“Aye, Father.”
“When the keep is secured, go to Castle Creagan and keep an eye on yer cousin’s bride.” He gestured to Adam’s lifeless body. “He certainly doesn’t need her now.” Then a smile stretched his face wide. “But I might.”