“Och, ye wee devil!” The lass with the blue ribbon in her hair—or the one who’d only just been wearing a blue ribbon before it was so mercilessly snatched from her auburn locks—roared out her displeasure as she chased the boy about the yard which stretched before the house they shared.

“Ha! Ha! I told ye, I’m better at such things than ye are!” Liam ducked and dodged her every attempt at closing her hands or arms about him, all the while waving the ribbon over his head as a symbol of his skillful thievery.

“Ye aren’t, Liam MacDonnell! Ye took advantage of me!”

“That would be the notion!” he shouted, laughing gaily as he ran with the speed of a hare. While her legs were longer, she couldn’t seem to match his speed. Try as she might.

It was shameful, truly, running about in her shift and wrapper, barefoot, first thing in the morning in the middle of the yard where anyone riding or walking past the road running the length of Malcolm Stuart’s land might see. She was far too old for such nonsense. In fact, the lasses who she’d considered companions were all wed and raising bairns of their own.

Yet here she was. Screeching like a cat set afire because her younger brother had stolen her hair ribbon.

The ribbon itself mattered little. Granted, she had very few treats and trinkets in her sparse life and had considered herself rather fetching with a ribbon which matched the blue of her eyes tying back her unruly locks.

At least, the peddler who’d sold the ribbon had assured her it was the very color of her eyes. He’d been quite certain of it and had all but insisted she purchase the length of silk.

Anne MacDonnell was hardly a fool. The weathered old man whose feet were bound in strips of rags had a sale to make and had done his best to make it. She had been utterly aware of his tactics, yet she’d pitied his impoverished state and had wished to bring some brightness to his day.

In her heart of hearts, she could further admit how she’d wished to have something pretty for herself. For once.

Damn her for a fool, then, preening before the clouded looking glass when she’d believed herself to be alone. How many times had her uncle instructed the family—herself included—on the importance of taking advantage when a targeted man or woman was not paying attention?

Her brother was small for his age, likely the result of never having quite enough to eat. This made him valuable, however. He was small and quick and managed to blend in well with a crowd.

Not that Uncle Malcolm had used him in public before. He made certain to train him, however, and he’d use Liam when the time was right. When he believed he was prepared and would make the family proud.

Quick, though he might be, Anne’s longer legs and arms finally made it possible to catch him. She looped her arms about his waist and held him close, kicking and squirming though he was.

“Not fair!” he cried out, though he was laughing all the while.

“Och, when I flay the skin from your flesh, ye shall see what is fair and what isn’t,” she grumbled, pinning him to the ground and taking the ribbon from his clutched fist.

He scrambled to his feet, his flushed skin still not enough to conceal the freckles across his cheeks. “But I did it, did I not? It was in yer hair, and I took it out and got away!”

She could never remain angry with him for long, especially not when he so clearly felt pride in himself. It was not often that he did, for there was little reason to. Especially when Malcolm made it his life’s ambition to harden him. To make him tough that he might one day prove his worth and bring in the sort of gold, silver, goods, and cattle the rest of the men in the family did.

The sort Anne herself brought in whenever he happened to send her out.

“The lad’ll have a hard time of it, to be sure,” Malcolm would growl and grunt whenever Anne objected to the manner in which he treated her brother. He would roll his dark eyes until they all but disappeared under dark, bushy brows. “Better to learn now, here, in his home. With his family. He’s small and weak. ‘Tis my duty to strengthen him any way I can.”

If only she did not have the strange notion that he enjoyed strengthening the poor lad. That he took pleasure in striking him, taunting him. Reminding him whenever possible how weak he was. How the world hated small, weak things.

Yet this was all they had. This pitiful excuse for a family was all they had. Their only home. It was this, or starve.

Or freeze in the coming winter.

“Have ye eaten yet?” she asked as she prodded him into the house.

“Aye,” he grumbled, waving her off. The men were all either asleep after the revelry of the previous evening, or had yet to come home from whichever public house they’d spent their night and ill-gotten gains.

Money seemed to burn holes in their sporrans, the fools. No sooner did they steal than they spent it. She often asked herself, after watching them stumble home or listening to their pained groans upon waking, why they did not spare themselves the agony by simply tossing their coins into Beauly Firth.

The result would be the same, though they would feel much better in the morning.

“What did ye eat, then?” She looked about, wondering where to begin with the awful mess that had been left for her after she’d closed herself off in her room in hopes of avoiding the worst of what went on elsewhere the night before.

While Malcolm Stuart had always forbidden the men from trying anything untoward with her, there was no telling what a man in his cups was capable of. And thus, she stowed herself away on evenings like last night.

“There was roast boar in the larder,” Liam answered as he stacked dirty mugs, frowning at a puddle of what had once been the contents of someone’s stomach.

Anne darted across the room when it was clear what he intended to do. “Ye know this isn’t your work to be done,” she hissed, yanking the mugs from him. “Ye know what Malcolm will do if he sees ye helping me. Are ye daft, lad?”

The way he flinched when she said it. How she hated seeing the light leave his eyes. He’d only wished to be helpful, good lad that he was. Always striving to prove himself, always trying so hard to be of use. She knew, too, that in this instance he wanted to be of help to her in particular. This was a woeful sight which she had no great desire to dirty her hands with.

Yet Malcolm would roar down the very walls of the house in which they stood should he see Liam turning his hand to work which ought to be done by a woman. Och, how he would strike the lad down with sharp words and sharper blows.

How she would hate him for it with every ounce of her strength.

That was nothing new. She’d hated Malcolm Stuart for as long as she could recall. While she had little understanding of decent men—almost none, her father being the only one she’d ever known—she knew her mother’s brother could never be called one.

None of the members of their so-called family could. Nothing but thieves, all of them, with her uncle at the head. How he liked to sit in his chair by the fire while they returned at the end of a day’s pinching, one by one, bragging over how they’d fooled the men or women whose goods they’d stolen.

There were times when they would even laugh over the misery they’d caused. Those were always the worst times, when a great pantomime of weeping or fumbling about would take place. Only the lowest thief lingered that they might watch their victims at the moment they realized they were victims.

She would never do that. She did not wish to see or even consider that what she stole came from a person. That the person in question would at some point take note of what went missing.

Which was why she preferred to go out at night and do a little reiving. Taking a head of cattle was not the same as stealing a sporran or slicing open the bottom of the pocket beneath a lady’s apron, so the contents spilled out. She need not look at her victim or, even worse, touch them.

She need not think of them finding they’d been robbed, or ask herself what the silver she’d stolen had been meant for. She need not imagine them going hungry that night for lack of the pence needed to purchase bread.

The only reason Malcolm allowed her to remain in his household, other than the fact that she cleaned up after the human swine who lived there, was her skill at reiving. Not only was she fleet of foot and small enough to disappear into the shadows, she possessed a deft touch and knew how to calm the animals.

A frightened beast would plant its feet and refuse to budge, if it did not decide to buck and fight and cause enough of a commotion to wake those in the house.

Understanding the poor, terrified creatures came naturally to her, as did understanding her small, good-hearted brother. Malcolm would dismiss this as womanly softness. He liked to do that, to wave his hand and make light of her skill.

If it weren’t for the fact that she’d have no way to make a life for them on their own, she would remove her brother from their uncle’s care and protect him. She would see to it that he grew up to be good and fine and honest. Respected, even.

If only she knew how.

“Och, must ye make such an unholy noise out here?” Malcolm’s surly growl made her cringe, as it normally did.

She turned from the wash bucket to find the great redheaded bear of a man stumbling into the main room which served as kitchen, dining hall, even bedchambers when they had guests. He rubbed sleep from his bloodshot eyes before running both hands through overlong hair. It stuck up in all directions by the time he’d finished. A loud belch burst from his lips, and he groaned before falling into his customary, high-backed chair before the fire.

If she had not hated the man for all she was worth, Anne might have felt sorry for him.

“Is it noise I’m making, then?” she asked, drawing her wrapper more tightly closed. “Perhaps ‘tis because of the unholy mess ye made last night. Or would ye prefer it if I left puddles of sick about the place for ye to step in?”

The man all but turned green at the suggestion. “Enough.”

“Perhaps ye ought to be the one cleaning up after yourself.”

“I said, enough!” He could still sound menacing even when in terrible shape, perhaps for the same reason why a kicked and starving dog sounded most vicious.

She turned to Liam, who had taken his customary place in the corner furthest from his uncle. Not his uncle, truly—Malcolm was the brother of Anne’s mam, but she’d died soon after giving birth. Liam was the son of Kendrick MacDonnell’s second wife, who’d done her best to be a loving stepmother to Anne. The only mother Anne had ever known.

Now, they were both long gone, and look what life had given Anne and Liam instead.

Malcolm belched again, a miserable sound that made her clench her teeth.

“Fetch me a mug, lad,” he muttered, waving a vague hand in Liam’s direction.

“Ye haven’t had enough?” she asked under her breath.

Trust him to hear just as well as ever, even when in the depths of misery as he was. “Aye, lass, and I’ll thank ye to keep yer wicked mouth shut. Every man knows the best way to cure himself of this wretchedness is to drink first thing. Not to intoxication, mind ye.”

“Aye, Liam. Ye would do well to remember this,” she smirked.

“He would, if he intends to be a real man,” Malcolm retorted.

How she loathed him for saying it. As if being a real man meant thieving and drinking and causing mischief. As if there was no hope for him otherwise.

Malcolm took the mug and drank deeply, some of the wine escaping and running down his chin, into the flame-red beard of which he was so vain. She turned away, sickened at the sight of him. Even scrubbing vomit from the floor was better than watching him make a sight of himself.

“Liam, fetch the bread and roast from the larder and eat,” she instructed, shooting him a look which meant she was in no mood for his arguments. “Ye must fortify yourself, for the snow will be falling soon, and ye shall need to stay warm.”

Malcolm snorted when the lad was out of the room. The poor thing had taken off like a shot the moment she’d given him reason to do so. Whether he would eat was anyone’s guess, as he’d already had his morning meal—or so he said, likely in hope of silencing her questions.

“As if a few extra meals will be enough to fatten him up,” Malcolm muttered, tilting his head to rest against the chair’s high back, then wincing when it made contact.

“Perhaps if he’d been taken better care of as a wee one, it would be easier for him to put on weight,” she replied with an arched brow. “Perhaps if he’d been given proper food, he would not be so small now.”

Malcolm waved a dismissive hand. How she wished she could chop it off. “Och, when your da was a runt? The lad was meant to be slight. He could eat an entire full-grown sow from head to tail and not put on weight. Dinna blame me for what he lacks, lass. I did the best I could for ye. Landing upon my threshold with nearly no explanation. And me, takin’ ye both in, even when I have no blood ties to the lad. All because he was your brother and my sister would have wished it so.”

She sighed to herself. When he put it that way, she found it difficult to hate him quite as much.

Though it was still no excuse to mistreat her brother.

“You’ll be goin’ out tonight.”

The abrupt change in subject drew her attention. “Will I, then?”

“Aye, and I dinna wish to hear your complaints.” Malcolm rubbed his temples, wincing. She supposed his method of curing his illness had not taken hold. “You’ll return to the MacIntosh farm. ‘Tis been a fortnight at least, has it not?”

“Near that.”

“Then they shall be less inclined to keep watch,” he decided. “I know I can count on ye. Best reiver I ever knew.”

She bit her tongue before a sour remark could cross her lips. A man such as himself considered being the best cattle thief high praise, she knew.

There was no argument to be made, for she knew well the conditions of their life in Malcolm Stuart’s household. He provided food and shelter—though the shelter was hardly ever warm or dry enough and the food always seemed scarce—so long as Anne did his bidding.

And she was skilled at reiving, of that there could be no doubt. So long as she kept Malcolm happy and brought in cattle for him to sell, he allowed them to live under his roof.

It mattered not that she hated it, that she felt soiled and wicked afterward. The sort of filth that she could never scrub away clung to her skin, her hair. Her very soul.

Yet it meant a home for Liam, and that was more important than her soul.

“So be it,” she said with a sigh, as she always did.