Prologue
Dunrangour Tower, Scottish Highlands
6 September, 1701
“Logan, my boy, ye sign here.” Artair Rutherford pointed to an empty space below his and laird Roderick Findlay’s bold, slanted signature.
Ach, cow turds.
Despite his frustration, Logan obediently propped his battered toy sword against the table’s leg, and after carefully dipping the quill into the inkwell, lifted his uncertain gaze to his father.
“Me full name, Da?”
“Aye, son.”
“And when I do, it means I must wed her? When I’m a mon?” He pointed the quill at a wee lassie gnawing on her wet fist in an elaborate wooden cradle.
“Aye, lad.” Inclining his head, Da patted Logan’s shoulder, the gesture more prodding than reassuring. “She’ll be yer wife.”
Logan sucked in his cheeks and crimped his mouth. “I dinna want to get married.”
What need have I for a wife? Da doesn’t have one.
Bending over a little, Da peered intently into his eyes. “It’s a good match. A brilliant one, truth to tell. But more importantly, son, the union benefits Scotland.”
“So say some.” Findlay, Dunrangour’s giant of a laird, snorted loud as a draft horse and shook his shaggy blond mane.
Logan gulped and took a reflexive step backward.
“Ever heard such a colossal jobby before, Fergus and Hamish?” Findlay bit out, his jaw muscles jumping.
Such a pile of shite?
Which part?
The stupid match or the benefiting Scotland part?
A pair of Dunrangour clansmen acting as witnesses, their flinty gazes unyielding and faces granite hard, grunted and smirked in agreement.
“And o’ course, Mayra’s dowry—particularly the land portion—be of nae interest to ye, be it, Rutherford? But, ye cannae touch either yet, can ye? Nae until our children actually wed. And then it’ll be the lad’s to do with as he pleases, not yers. How that must set yer teeth on edge and stick in yer greedy craw.”
Findlay’s low chuckle, more sinister than humorous, filled the tense silence. Satisfaction, or mayhap, even gloating tinged his words and ignited his vivid blue eyes.
Viking eyes.
Da said Dunrangour’s laird was descended from the barbaric Norsemen, and Logan could well believe it.
“Asinine requiring me to provide half her marriage settlement now. Reeks of extortion.” Findlay’s hefty glower encompassed Da and Mr. Hyde, the king’s agent.
Logan scrunched his forehead and mouth, gazing between the angry laird and his gentle lady.
Didna they want this troth thing either?
As a lad, he couldn’t disobey Da’s order, but they were grown-ups. And adults could do what they wanted.
Why didna they just say nae then?
Reddish brows drawn into such a severe vee they almost touched, Da glared hard at Findlay until Logan’s tugging on his coat finally drew his father’s attention.
“What’s a cowry, Da?”
“Dowry.” His father’s stern features softened a wee bit. “It’s a token promising ye and the lass will wed.”
A sneer curled Findlay’s mouth as he crossed his thick arms and planted a bulging shoulder against the fireplace. “I’d call it extortion and a forced match between a wee six-year-old lad and an infant lass.”
“Give careful thought to yer words, Findlay. Some might consider them and yer attitude treasonous. Ye wouldn’t want a hint of anything untoward to reach His Majesty’s ears.” Mr. Hyde, tsked disapprovingly, his eyes gone squinty and suspicious. His pointy nostrils even twitched in reproach.
Like a giant wharf rat.
Logan pinched his nose and pointed his face away. Reeking of dirty feet, stale sweat, and rotting teeth, the agent stank worse than Leith’s docks.
“Go ahead, sign,” Da urged Logan. “We needs be on our way.”
Mutiny surged in Logan’s chest, and he thrust out his lower lip.
Something about this didna feel right—made him slightly afraid and his tummy waffy.
Like when he awoke during the middle of the night and the castle was too quiet. Too ghostly and strange. And he lay alone in his chamber with only his sword and a carved dog for protection. Too scared to move or get up, but just as terrified to stay buried beneath the weighty bedcoverings.
“Why do I have to marry her? Why cannae someone else?” Logan veered the fretting bairn a troubled glance and, leaning toward Da, whispered, “She’s nae verra bonnie.”
“Yer king asks it of ye, lad. As do I.” Da indicated where Logan should sign again.
So he must marry a strawberry-faced, slobbering baby for a prissy king he’d never met?
Unfair!
Logan wasn’t supposed to swear, but he could think oaths with nae one the wiser. And right now, he wanted to think whole bunches of them.
Bloody hell. Blister and damn. God’s toenails.
Bampot. Diddy. Scunner.
Shite. Shite. Shite!
What would Da do if Logan stomped his feet and hollered nae at the top of his voice or threw the quill on the floor, mashing it beneath his foot, cursing all the while?
If he was required to wed that red-faced bairn, shouldn’t he have something in return?
Hmm…
Maybe…
“Can I have a puppy then?” Logan skewed a hopeful brow and chewed the side of his lower lip.
He really, really wanted a puppy, but Da always stalled, saying mayhap when he was older. And older never, ever … ever came.
Logan squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin. “If’n I’m old enough to become—What was the word?—be…trussed, then I’m old enough to have me own dog.”
“Be-trothed,” Mr. Hyde muttered beneath his breath, stressing each syllable. “The word is Be. Trothed. And the nerve of the lad. Asking for mongrel when he should be thanking His Majesty for the honor he’s bestowed upon the boy.”
Mr. Hyde shook his head and tsked reproachfully again.
Showed what the cranky auld tosspot kent, comparing honor to a puppy. Lads didna play with honor. Or have it curl up in their beds and keep them warm. Or lick their giggling faces until they gasped for air.
Logan held his breath, afraid Da would say nae. Again.
But this time Da laughed, his eyes folding his face clear to the corners in amusement, and even Findlay’s lips twitched a mite.
“Aye, ye can have yer puppy. Now sign the document. We need to depart soon if we’re to make the first lodging house before nightfall.” Dad closed the dowry chest’s lid, and after securing the lock, tucked the key into his sporran.
Logan murmured each of his five names, Logan Greer Wallace Robert Rutherford, as he laboriously wrote them, remembering to carefully shape the letters as his tutor demanded. Only the nib scritching against the crisp parchment and the bairn’s coos interrupted the eerie calm entombing the great hall.
Once he’d finished, Mr. Hyde all but snatched the quill from Logan’s hand and proceeded to scribble his name, sprinkle sand atop the ink, and lastly, affix a fancy seal to the scarlet wax at the bottom.
“Can I play with Coburn now, Da?”
Beaming in a verra pleased way Logan had never seen before, his father dipped his square chin.
“As soon as ye say yer farewells and give the lass the gift ye brought, ye can play with yer cousin.”
Logan opened his pouch, and sticking his tongue between his lips, fished around in his sporran for the pin. He’d assumed it was a present for Lady Findlay when Da asked him to carry the heart-shaped, crown topped token. Once he’d pulled the piece free, he turned it over and picked a bit of fuzz—probably from his plaid—from the bright blue stone in the center.
“It matches her eyes.” He extended the Luckenbooth brooch.
The bairn snatched it from his hand and promptly stuffed the scrolled end into her mouth, but Lady Findlay gently took the clasp from her daughter.
“Nae, sweeting. Ye’ll hurt yerself.”
Her voice sounded funny and choked, as if she tried not to cry.
Grabbing his wooden sword, Logan made to join Coburn. Barely one year older and often mistaken for his twin, his cousin was also his best friend.
“Logan?” Lady Findlay’s lyrical voice stopped him.
Holy rotten haddock.
What now?
Eager to find Coburn, and slay all manner of mythical beasts from dragons to trows, Logan fingered the sword’s smooth hilt and slowly faced her.
“M’lady?”
Her ladyship offered him a brave, if somewhat wobbly smile.
“I ken ye be young, and ye dinna fully understand what has transpired here today. But I ask ye to be kind to Mayra, to nae hurt her—to keep her from harm. And someday, perhaps, ye can come to love her. Can ye promise me that?”
After coming to stand before Lady Findlay, he cocked his head.
“Aye, m’lady. I can.”
Bracing his hands on his upright sword, Logan peered into the cradle.
Covered in lacy stuff, the infant gurgled, waved her chubby fists, and blinked her big blue eyes. Whitish bumps covered her face, and drool ran from one corner of her wet mouth.
Och.
He pinched his features tighter.
“Why’s her face all puckered? Riddy and blotchy?” He touched his own smooth cheeks while eyeing her doubtfully. “Are ye sure the bairn is a lassie? She has nae hair.”
Just like Mr. Hyde—bald as a stone or a goose egg.
“Yes, Mayra is a girl.” Lady Findlay lifted the wee one from the cradle, and after arranging the bairn on her lap, brushed her fingers across the lass’s head. “She’s fair, like her father. It may take a while, but she’ll have hair. Would ye like to hold her?”
Nae!
Logan shook his head and backed way. Horror of horrors. He’d rather cuddle a selkie or a kelpie. He never wanted to hold or touch the wriggling bairn.
Ever.
“I would have an oath from ye too, lad.” Findlay went to one muscled knee before him, and still Logan had to crane his neck to meet the laird’s eyes.
By jiminy, he’s huge. Way bigger than Da.
“Court my wee lass beforehand, and wait until she’s passed her twentieth birthday to wed.”
“Now see here,” Mr. Hyde spluttered, his eye brows writhing like great giant, fuzzy gray worms. “That’s not part of the settlement.”
“Nae age nor courtship restrictions were specified, Hyde. Sloppy on yer part.” Findlay’s frigid smile nailed the nasty wee man to the hall’s paneled wall.
Dunrangour’s laird leaned in and whispered in Logan’s ear. “And when ye are an adult, and if’n ye dinna want to marry Mayra, petition the monarchy to grant ye a reprieve. I shall ask too, if that’s what ye want. But ye needs return her dowry else she cannae marry another.”
Not have to marry that blotchy-faced lass? Aye, that Logan could promise.
“Sir, it shall be as ye request.”