Pain. So much pain. His head felt as if it were clamped in the devil’s own vise, and his temples throbbed with fiendish intensity, as steady and relentless as his own heartbeat. His limbs were stiff and cramped. His mouth was dry and his closed eyelids were but a feeble shield against the stabbing brightness assaulting them.

Alasdair Penhallow groaned softly.

Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

Various items of note swam sluggishly up to the surface of his dazed consciousness.

He was sitting (more or less) in the laird’s throne-like chair of beautifully carved wood, in his own Great Hall. Squeezed next to him was a voluptuous black-haired lass, dressed only in her chemise, deeply and peacefully asleep, with her head lolled back and a gentle snore issuing from between cherry-red lips. Late-morning sun illuminated the Hall with a cheery intensity that seemed, in his current pained state, to be more than a little incongruous, and possibly even slightly jeering.

All around the Hall—on the floor, in chairs, even atop the long tables—were men and women, sleeping, stretched out, curled up, flat on their backs, sometimes intertwined. Bottles, dishes and goblets, clothing and hats, candles burned down to their wicks, lutes and pipes and drums, all lay scattered without rhyme or reason. Someone—dear God, hopefully not himself—had knocked over one of the massive suits of armor which now lay sprawled by the fireplace in a very undignified way, with a spangled slipper sticking out of the visor.

Alasdair frowned and with an effort turned his aching eyes to the woman with whom he was sharing the laird’s seat. Who in the hell was she? He had no idea. Uncle Duff had invited a lot of people to the celebration he’d organized in honor of his nephew’s thirty-fifth birthday, and they’d brought a lot of people, and by midnight the Great Hall had been literally packed with guests.

Alasdair smiled faintly as the memories came flooding back. A good time had been had by all. The feasting, the singing, the dancing, and more . . .

So now he was thirty-five. He wondered if he should feel a little different. But why would he? A birthday merely represented, in an arbitrary way, the passage of time. Here he was, in the vigorous prime of his life, healthy as a horse, strong as an ox, rich as a king—enjoying an uninterrupted spate of years in which he did exactly as he pleased, whenever and wherever he liked.

Yes, life was good.

Just then, something cold and wet nudged his bare ankle.

Wondering where his shoes had gone, Alasdair looked down to see his wolfhound Cuilean at his feet. Intelligent dark eyes were looking up at him inquiringly, shaggy ears were pricked: a hint, Alasdair knew, that breakfast was long overdue. He reached down a hand to caress that rough head, and as he did so Cuilean sharply turned it, toward an archway leading off toward the kitchens.

Fervently did Alasdair hope it was a servant, bearing a refreshing tankard of ale (or even a silver pot filled to the brim with blisteringly hot coffee), but no, it was Dame Margery, quite possibly the oldest member of the clan, hunched over her gnarled stick and stumping into the Hall. Trailing behind was her little granddaughter Sheila, who viewed the dissolute scene before her with blasé indifference, her expression, distinguished by eyes which seemed to gaze in two different directions at once, seeming more focused on something immaterial and inward—and for that Alasdair could only be thankful, as uneasily he wondered if a seven-year-old really ought to be in the Great Hall at this particular moment.

As Dame Margery drew near, she noisily banged her stick on the marble floor, causing people nearby to stir, moan, rouse. She passed by Uncle Duff, insensate, draped sideways on a chair and his long beard dangling perpendicularly, and muttered audibly, “Ach, the old wastrel!” before turning her piercing and unblinking stare to Alasdair. Finally she stopped before the dais on which the two great chairs—one for the laird, one (long unoccupied) for his lady—stood. Her silence, Alasdair noticed, had a heavy, expectant, rather ominous sort of quality, and he groaned under his breath. He wasn’t in the mood for drama. Still, he was the laird, and one must be polite, so he cleared his throat and said:

“Good day to you, madam.”

“And to you, laird,” she answered with an awful, punctilious politeness. “May I tender my congratulations to you on your birthday.”

“I thank you.”

“I believe I am correct, laird, that as of yesterday you turned thirty-five?”

“Aye, madam.”

“Not thirty-four, laird?”

“Nay, thirty-five, madam.”

“Not married, are you, laird?”

Alasdair looked narrowly at Dame Margery. Had she gone soft in her aged head? Everyone knew he was unmarried and, in fact, happily so. But courteously he replied: “Nay, madam, I’m not.”

“Well then, laird, perhaps you are not aware of the ancient clan decree which dictates that any chieftain of Castle Tadgh who remains unmarried by his thirty-fifth birthday must immediately invite the eligible highborn maidens of the Eight Clans of Killaly to stay within the castle, and within thirty-five days choose one to be his bride?”

Dame Margery issued this disconcerting pronouncement in stentorian tones and with a single breath, leaving her gasping a little by the end. She breathed in deeply, then added sternly:

“The wedding to follow within thirty-five days.”

A sufficient number of people had woken up by now to create a stunned, openmouthed audience for Dame Margery, who seemed well satisfied by the effect of her words. Alasdair sat upright, jostling the black-haired lass who let out a choked snore but remained blissfully asleep. He stared balefully at her and then at Dame Margery as the unpleasant import of her proclamation sank in.

“And if I don’t obey?” he said, losing a little of his earlier politeness.

“Death to you, I fear,” the old crone replied with annoying promptitude. “Hanged and quartered, laird, and your head displayed in the courtyard as a warning to all who leave off their sacred duty to the clan.”

“To be picked clean by crows?” he said sarcastically.

“Nay, laird, according to clan law it’s to remain on a pike for thirty-five days before being buried along with the rest of you. Depending on the weather, the crows might not have time to pick your head clean.”

Thirty-five, thirty-five. It was, evidently, a theme, and Dame Margery seemed to be enjoying her role in this farce a little too much. Alasdair scowled fiercely. To do her justice, however, the old lady had been renowned for decades for her comprehensive knowledge of clan affairs.

If you wanted to secretly find out a person’s birthday, you went to Dame Margery.

If you were grappling with some particularly tangled lines of relationship extending back a decade, a generation, or a century, Dame Margery could likely help you sort it out.

If you were curious about an event in clan history your great-uncle had once described to you but you’d since gotten fuzzy about—like that time a boulder had rolled down Ben Macdui and crushed three cottages, or was it a spring flood that had carried them away?—well, there was a good chance that Dame Margery would recall it.

Still, Alasdair wasn’t about to go under without a fight.

“Bring out the Tome!” he roared, which only made his throbbing headache worse.

Someone scuttled to obey, and in the meantime Alasdair noticed that little Sheila was studying him with that odd wall-eyed way she had. “What?” he snapped.

“A room with a door, a door with a lock,” she said, dreamily. “An egg that won’t hatch, a bird that can’t fly . . .”

“Hush, sweeting, hush,” Dame Margery interrupted. “The laird has a great deal on his mind just now.”

“Oh, but Granny, the laird’s path will be hard for him.”

“Hush now. We each have our own path to follow. You do, I do, the laird does. You’re not to presume about the path of others.”

Sheila nodded, vaguely, and then, seeming to dismiss the subject entirely, began poking about a nearby table for interesting leftovers.

While Alasdair waited, he sent for some ale, dislodged the lass from his chair, found his shoes, and watched with profound irritation as Uncle Duff finally woke up, yawned, stretched his arms, scratched at his beard, and finally, serenely, brought himself to an upright position and glanced around the Hall with the complacent expression of one who has engineered a highly successful party.

When Alasdair enlightened him as to the developments of the last fifteen minutes, Uncle Duff was suitably outraged.

“What, being forced to marry because old Margery says so?” he said scornfully. “Ridiculous, lad! Ah, ale!” he added happily, and snatched the mug from a tray a servant had been carrying toward Alasdair.

“To your health, Uncle,” said Alasdair grimly.

“Thankee, lad!” cheerfully replied Duff, oblivious, his mustache already doused with foam.

By the time a servant returned lugging the enormous old Tome, and blown off most of the dust and cobwebs in which it was encased, Alasdair had managed to safely receive (and down in one long gulp) his own mug of ale, and set in motion general cleanup of the Hall and breakfast to be served. The Tome—the hoary and irrefutable compendium of clan law—was set at the head of the high table and he began leafing through it, with Duff hanging over his shoulder and his beard continually getting in the way, forcing Alasdair to testily bat it aside several times.

After some twenty minutes of fruitless searching, Dame Margery, who had remained standing there, leaning on her stick, issued a noise suspiciously close to a cackle and said, “Page three hundred and twenty-eight, laird.”

Alasdair favored her with a hard glance, then turned to page 328. There it was, in plain black and white.

He was indeed thirty-five and unmarried.

But, apparently, not unmarried for long.

Unless he wanted to die, and that he most certainly did not. He was having far too good a time for that.

Besides, if he died without a son, everything that he owned and cherished—his title, his authority, his vast holdings— would be inherited by (according to the delightful vagaries of clan law) his distant English cousin Gabriel Penhallow, rumored to be an obnoxious, unintelligent, generally unappealing fellow. Second in line was his cousin, a man named Hugo Penhallow, of whom Alasdair knew nothing save for the fact that he was English.

Alasdair felt his lip curling. He would die before he left everything to a bloody Sassenach, left his clan in such repulsive hands. He couldn’t do that to them.

His fate, therefore, was sealed.

Alasdair looked again at Dame Margery. “I suppose, madam,” he said coolly, “you already know which eligible maidens I am to invite.”

“Aye, laird.” She pulled from her skirt pocket a crisp piece of paper. “I’ve the list right here. Miss Mairi MacIntyre, from the Western Isles. Miss Janet Reid, from the Lowlands. Miss Fiona Douglass, from the Northern Highlands. And Miss Wynda Ramsay, from the Uplands. All the other highborn damsels being already married, widowed, too old, or too young.”

“You are a marvel of efficiency, madam.”

“Thank you, laird.” She smiled—was it ironically?—and held out the paper to him. “For future reference.”

Alasdair eyed it as he might view (or smell) a rotting carcass. “Take it, Uncle. You’re to write to the lasses, and right away, for the sword of Damocles hangs above my head.”

Uncle Duff laughed. “Ha, you’re a funny one, lad,” he said, and took the paper from Dame Margery. “I’ll have Lister do it. What’s a steward for, after all? And here comes breakfast, not a moment too soon, for I’m about to perish from hunger!” With maddening casualness he stuffed the list that spelled Alasdair’s doom into his own pocket, and plumped himself into his seat at the high table, just at Alasdair’s left. Gloomily Alasdair shoved aside the Tome and sat down, to be promptly served a plate heaped high with fried eggs, bacon, sausage, and hot fragrant tattie scones. At this he only gazed morosely, but he did accept a cup of coffee.

As slowly he drank it he observed Uncle Duff consuming with relish—bordering on outright avarice—his own delicious breakfast. When finally Duff paused to reach for a fresh mug of ale, he glanced over at Alasdair’s plate.

“Not hungry, lad? I’ll take that bacon if you don’t want it.”

“Why? So you can have more bits of bacon decorating your beard?”

Duff looked down, plucked a few little shards free and unrepentantly popped them into his mouth. In other circumstances Alasdair might have been amused by his insouciance, but today was a—well, today was a special day.

“You’re a pig, Uncle,” he said sourly.

“Eh, you are what you eat, lad,” replied Duff, and reached for Alasdair’s bacon, neatly scooping the strips onto his plate.

Alasdair nodded his thanks to the servant who had just refilled his cup, and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. His headache was finally receding, and for that he was grateful, but what was that small benefit compared to everything else that was happening?

With a frown he pushed his plate away.

“What in the name of heaven ails you, nephew? You look as if your best horse just died. I’ll just take those scones, shall I, since you’re not wanting them.”

“What ails me?” Alasdair repeated irritably. “What ails me, Uncle, is that I’m soon to be wed against my will.”

“So?”

“So? Are you daft, man? The life we’ve led is about to come to a crashing halt.”

“Why?” thickly said Duff through a mouthful of heavily buttered scone.

Alasdair stared at him, and put down his cup with a thump that sent coffee splashing over the rim. It was after the simultaneous deaths, on that memorable day fifteen years ago, of his parents, his older brother, and the others (he would not think of the others) in that ill-fated sailing party, that Uncle Duff, his mother’s younger brother, had become his boon companion. It was Duff—irrepressibly lively and larky and carefree—who had come to Castle Tadgh for the funerals and simply stayed on. He had rescued Alasdair from bone-crushing grief and gradually, patiently, lured him back into life. Or at least his own version of a merry nonstop hurly-burly involving wine, women, and song. And food. And dancing. And gaming. And whatever other pleasurable pursuit occurred to him.

Duff had never married, oft declaring bachelorhood to be the most desirable state known to man, and somehow, gradually, without really thinking about it, Alasdair adopted this same attitude. Not for a moment had he neglected his obligations as laird, but still there had been plenty of time for—why, for fun.

Just the way he liked it.

“You’ll excuse me for not exactly loving the idea of giving up my freedom,” he now said to his uncle.

“You’re the one who’s daft, lad. What is a wife but a brood mare? You’ll pick one of the lasses, get her with child as many times as it takes to produce a son or two, and that’s the sum of it. Nothing else will change.” Duff very generously put Alasdair’s bacon (all but one strip) back on his plate and slid it toward him. “And we’ll have a grand time once the lasses arrive! Feasts, dances, picnics, riding expeditions, tours of the castle, excursions to the Keep o’ the Mòr, boating on the loch—” He stopped himself, then hastily added, “No, no sailing! But we’ll be as gladsome as the day is long, you can be sure of that. It’s the Penhallow way!”

Thoughtfully Alasdair picked up a strip of bacon and bit into it.

It was true, after all, that as laird he did owe it to the clan to produce an heir.

But Duff had a point.

There was no need to get all worked up about the whole thing. Nowhere was it written that he had to permit a wife to cling to him, bother him, get in his way, make demands on him.

Nobody was talking about a love-match.

And love—as a word, as a concept—wasn’t something which he spent much time dwelling upon. Was his life diminished because of it? Not a bit of it; he’d gone on very happily, thank you very much, these past years.

All at once, like the dark clouds of night giving way to a clear new day, everything seemed wonderfully simple again, wonderfully safe, and Alasdair felt his mood lifting.

He took another bite of bacon.

It was fragrant and crunchy, with a delicious little ribbon of fat on one side.

He chewed, enjoyed, swallowed, reached for another piece, and as he did so he realized that Duff was leaning back in his chair, watching him, his hands folded across his ample middle and his eyes twinkling.

“That’s more like it, lad! We’ll seize the day as we always do! Once I’ve given the list to Lister with his instructions— ha! The list to Lister!—shall we head down to the river for some fishing?”

Alasdair smiled, really smiled, for the first time that day. Normalcy, like a fine, familiar mantle, seemed to wrap itself all about him, warm and comforting. It was all going to be just fine.

“Aye,” he said cheerfully, and found himself thinking about that delectable black-haired lass again, she of the voluptuous figure and the cherry-red lips. Perhaps later on today or tonight, if she was still around, he could get to know her just a little bit better.

When Miss Mairi MacIntyre, of the Western Isles, received and read the letter summoning her forthwith to Castle Tadgh, she gave a soft gasp, felt a trifle lightheaded, and promptly sat down on the nearest sofa, grateful that her maid was quick to bring her vinaigrette and wave it gently underneath her nose, and that dear little Pug kept trying to lick her chin, as if he wanted to help, too.

This was just like the Cendrillon story, which she had read countless times as a little girl. The prince—in this case, Laird Alasdair Penhallow, who really was a kind of prince among the Eight Clans of Killaly—had invited the young ladies of the land to his beautiful castle, in order to select one to be his bride! Only there would be just four candidates, which did improve the odds tremendously. And, of course, she herself wasn’t a servant girl forced to do a horrid amount of housework, dress in nasty tatters, and sleep among the cinders to keep warm.

Instead she lived a very nice life in a luxurious mansion, with fond parents who doted upon her and kept her under anxious watch as her constitution was, unfortunately, rather delicate.

On the other hand, there were so many similarities that it nearly took one’s breath away. For example, how often did Mama and Papa call her their little princess? Every day! Too, she had a wonderful godmother, a dear friend of Mama’s, who was so very kind and was always sending the most delightful gifts. And, like Cendrillon, Mairi loved to dance. At all the local assemblies she was quite sought-after. Everyone said that she had the tiniest waist, the prettiest little feet, and a laugh like the tinkling of fairy bells. People were so nice, weren’t they?

Mairi picked up Pug and cradled him in her arms. “Oh, I do hope there will be a ball, Puggie! If I’m well enough, and Mama and Papa let me, I’ll stay up long after midnight!”

Pug gave a short, sharp bark.

“You want to know if you can go too, Puggie? Of course you can! I’ll dress you up in your very best collar, too! We’ll make absolutely sure it matches my gown.” Mairi smiled and held him close.

When Miss Janet Reid, of the Lowlands, got her letter, she had only an hour before returned from a stroll in the manicured gardens to the back of her house, and in the company of a young man who had for the past months been courting her most ardently. (Her governess, Miss Sad Shovel as she liked to call her, had been discreetly trailing behind, her face just as dreary and spade-like as ever.) Janet had been inclined to encourage this young man over her other suitors, for he was terribly good-looking, came from a fine family, and stood to inherit a handsome fortune from his father. Oh, and she liked him well enough.

But having read the letter, she changed her mind. And she laughed, and clapped her hands with joy.

A marriage to the laird of Castle Tadgh would be a far better arrangement—quite a coup, in fact. Besides, she’d heard a few things about Alasdair Penhallow, and he did sound like fun. And she was quite partial to fun herself. Not for her the staid life of your average miss, always sitting around sewing samplers, or plucking dolefully at harps, or poring over dull books. No, she was cut from a very different sort of cloth. Which reminded her. She went with her light tread to the drawing-room, and announced:

“I’m going to Castle Tadgh. We need Miss Cowden to come in right away, and bring all her assistants, and plan to stay as long as necessary. I need a new wardrobe, and we haven’t much time.”

Her mother—seated across from Parson Tidwell, who had no doubt come on behalf of his tedious orphanage or his seemingly endless supply of poor people—at once lost her look of thinly disguised boredom and turned to Janet in astonishment. “You’re going to Castle Tadgh? Why?”

“So I can marry Alasdair Penhallow, of course.”

“The Penhallow? He’s offered for you?”

Janet Reid smiled. “No. But he will.”

Instantly her mother grasped the salient facts. “I’ll send a note to Miss Cowden right away,” she said, and with a nod to Parson Tidwell she rose, indicating that his presence was now, well, more than a little onerous.

Miss Wynda Ramsay’s home was in the Uplands, but she was not there to personally receive the letter. She was in Glasgow, where she was in her final weeks at Miss Eglinstone’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, at which esteemed establishment she had over the years received a superior education in all the necessary subjects including dancing, French, needlework, watercolors, music, penmanship, and use of the globes.

However, an express had swiftly been sent from home, and Wynda was to wait at Miss Eglinstone’s until her parents could arrive and sweep her directly off to Castle Tadgh. Wynda used the time very productively to graciously share the good news with her schoolfellows (was it her imagination, or did they seem to turn an unattractive shade of green?), as well as to consult her guidebook which described all the best estates, castles, and monuments in Great Britain.

Castle Tadgh, it turned out, figured importantly as one of the most magnificent dwellings in Scotland. It had been completely modernized by the present owner’s father, while still preserving the essential and historical qualities of its centuries-long existence. The grounds, said the guidebook, were extensive, with a breathtaking view of Ben Macdui, the towering mountain considered by many to be the area’s distinguishing geological feature.

Wynda pondered this, then tossed the guidebook aside and turned to her tall stack of London newspapers, magazines, and Court announcements. Alasdair Penhallow was related to the English Penhallows, which was far more interesting. And Mrs. Henrietta Penhallow, the celebrated matriarch of the family, had recently been occupying their palatial townhouse in Berkeley Square during the Season, where she had been seen at receptions at St. James’s Palace (hobnobbing with Royalty!), at Almack’s, balls, routs, assemblies, Venetian breakfasts, concerts, fashionable galleries, and everywhere else the haut ton went.

Who cared about fusty old castles when Society beckoned?

Surely, thought Wynda, the Scottish Penhallows would be invited to join their English relations on a long, long visit, and who would provide the requisite entrée into the most exclusive circles.

And surely she—with her beauty, her charm, her many accomplishments, her deep knowledge of both the Peerage and social etiquette —would shine as one of the most dazzling ornaments among the beau monde.

Her parents had stupidly believed she would be content to return home to Dumfries. That provincial backwater! Filled with nobodies!

But now, Wynda’s ambitions suddenly seemed within her grasp.

Marry Alasdair Penhallow, and then . . . London. Glittering, sophisticated London. It was waiting for her.

Sitting in the solarium with Mother and, unfortunately, Cousin Isobel, Fiona had just finished sewing a handsome little baby smock and was deciding whether to start on a new one, or to pick up her book, or to (reluctantly) help Cousin Isobel with a ludicrously tangled mass of yarn with which she was ineffectually wrestling, when Father came striding in, his muddy boots leaving a damp, malodorous trail behind him. In one hand he held an opened letter which he tossed at Fiona.

“You’re off to Castle Tadgh, girl,” he said.

“What? Why?” she demanded.

“Clan decree.”

Frowning, Fiona picked up the paper from the floor at her feet and scanned both sides. “This is addressed to me.”

Father shrugged, and Mother said in a high, excited voice, “What on earth is going on?”

“Alasdair Penhallow’s to choose a bride from among the eligible lasses of the Eight Clans, that’s what’s going on. I suppose I’ll have to reinstate her dowry. Although those drains in the turnip fields are clogging in a bad way.”

Penhallow, thought Fiona, her brain spinning frantically. Penhallow again! Then she seized upon one pertinent element. “I’m sure I’m too old for this, Father!”

He only gave her a wolfish smile. “Read the letter.”

She did. And glared at Father. “It says here that if I were twenty-eight, I’d be past the age of eligibility. This is ridiculous! Demeaning! I’d rather die than traipse off to Castle Tadgh to be displayed like a sheep before some reprobate!”

“Keep reading.”

In a disbelieving voice Fiona read out loud: “‘The consequence for failing to abide by sacred clan law is death. Said female to be weighted with stones and flung into the nearest loch known to have a depth greater than twenty feet. Bagpipe accompaniment optional.’”

“How romantic!” put in Cousin Isobel, wreathed in smiles. “Fiona, dear, what a wonderful opportunity for you!”

Fiona glared at her, too, wishing she could hang a millstone around that dame’s plump neck and shove her into the closest body of water.

“You’re to leave tomorrow,” said Father.

“Tomorrow?” Mother exclaimed. “But I couldn’t possibly be ready to leave by then!”

“Oh, you’re not going,” Father told her, then looked over at Fiona, his eyes twinkling maliciously. “I’m sending Isobel as her chaperone.”

There was a stunned silence.

“No!” said Fiona with revulsion, even as Cousin Isobel gave a little shriek of delight and said:

“My dear Bruce! What an honor! You can be sure I’ll take very, very good care of dear Fiona!”

Fiona shot her a malevolent glance. Yes, just as you did in Edinburgh nine years ago, you old bat, when I came for a nice long visit. Encouraging Logan Munro’s advances to me. Leaving us alone together, when you knew it was wrong. And look what happened. I fell head over heels in love with him, and expected to marry him. Only it didn’t quite turn out that way, did it?

Mother faltered, “But surely I ought to go . . . I simply assumed—”

“My mind’s made up, madam. We’ll have no further discussion on the topic. Besides, they won’t be gone long. Penhallow will take one look at her and I reckon that’ll be that.”

A soft, incomprehensible murmur of distress came from Mother but she didn’t dare to actually say anything, and Fiona responded, with a politeness that imperfectly concealed deep irony, “Why, thank you, Father. Everyone says I take after you, after all.”

He scowled. “Will you never curb that sharp tongue of yours, girl? It’s lucky for you that you’re the spitting image of myself, else I’d have sworn your mother played me false.”

“And you’d have left me as a babe on the shores of the bay to die?”

Another murmur from Mother; a growl from Father who curtly said to Isobel, “Make ready, for you both leave at dawn,” and stalked out of the solarium. Gone but not forgotten, thought Fiona, as he’d left the foul stink of his boots behind him. Furiously she jumped to her feet and thrust the letter into the fire, and with a satisfaction she knew was foolish, she watched it burn to cinders.

She did not turn around when she heard Cousin Isobel exclaim happily, “Well! This is going to be so much fun!” Because otherwise she might have been tempted to say—or do—something which later, it was just possible she might regret.