Winter, 1262

Near Dunstaffnage

If Dirk had to stare across a field of battle and see his cousin’s face again, he was going to make certain the man finally made it to his grave. As it was, he was currently hacking through a force of Morten Olafsson’s men and couldn’t rightly shout that to the blasted man. No matter that the blood of their ancestors ran through both their veins: Olafsson was his to vanquish. The sooner, the better, for Dirk was growing mighty tired of having his cousin marching on his moor and demanding surrender.

Sometime past dawn, a scout had slammed his fists on the great doors of Dunstaffnage Castle, warning Dirk of the impending attack. Again.

Dirk’s power-hungry, land-stealing, pillaging-and-plundering very distant cousin, Morten Olafsson, just wouldn’t cease.

This was the fifth time in as many months Dirk had to call his men to arms. This time, though, rather than allowing his cousin to come to the castle walls where Dirk soundly beat him, he’d decided it was a good idea to bring the battle to Olafsson. His cousin was under the inferior belief that he was the mightier of the two because he made it to Dirk’s walls the last four times—though he’d yet to breach them. And that was the reason he continued to bring on the fight, though he’d yet to win.

Well, no more.

This came to an end now. Today.

Dirk slayed yet another of Olafsson’s men, working his way through the melee.

Born of the same bloodline, their feud was ancient, and, at this point, no one was truly certain what had begun the feuds between the two factions to begin with. Only one thing stood out: land, which equaled power.

Dirk was descended of King Somerled, and as Lord of the Isles, he was allied to King Alexander III of Scotland. Morten Olafsson, was descended from the rival Crovan dynasty, styling himself King of Mann and the Isles, and loyal to King Haakon of Norway. Needless to say, it made family gatherings non-existent. In fact, they were more prone to fighting for lands and power. Which Olafsson had taken to the extreme since the spring harvest.

Each of Dirk’s twenty-nine years so far had been one battle after another. His father, Torquil and his grandfather, Beiste, had done all they could to try and unite the clans and remain loyal to their king. Moreover, they’d both died in great battles doing just that, and now it was up to Dirk to see their legacies continued.

Olafsson wanted what Dirk had. He sought to expand his empire, and in so doing, gain more power. But the only way to do it was to kill Dirk first, because Dirk wasn’t going to bloody well hand it over. Not to that cruel whoreson. And killing Dirk? ’Twas a feat, his blackguard cousin had been attempting, and miserably failing at, for the past year. Olafsson was lucky that Dirk did not seek to return the favor. For he could. Tenfold. Despite being King of Mann and the Isles, Morten Olafsson had not developed near the amount of allies among the Scots. Many who felt threatened, simply paid their loyalty to Dirk, a blow that stung worse than any other, Dirk was certain. Now was a time for change. Starting with his blasted cousin’s retreat.

Dirk simply wanted peace within his clan, for his people, and he didn’t need his relation’s lands to do it. Perhaps there was a way. If he could only strike some sort of treaty with the man that would put a satisfactory end to it all for both factions—one that didn’t include either of them crossing over to the other side. Dirk would be eternally grateful if there was.

A man shoved him from behind, the jab of hardened steel scraping Dirk’s spine. Thankfully, not the steel-tipped point, but rather the hilt of a sword. Dirk whirled around, kicking out and landing a blow on the other man’s knee, the crunch of bone and cartilage lost in the melee. The Olafsson warrior cried out in pain, cursing as he stumbled backward. In his pain, he became wilder with his sword, waving it around seeking to hit anything he could with it—and achieving just that, all except for his mark, Dirk.

Dirk kicked again, saving his arm strength when his feet would do, and caught the man in his opposite knee. With both kneecaps crushed, the warrior collapsed, his sword slamming into the bloodied ground beside Dirk’s feet. Dirk leapt back out of the way, then kicked once more, against the man’s temple sending him down for good. He blocked a blow to his right, ducking another on his left and let his sword swing wide and hard to take one man and then another in a single swipe.

Known for his swordsmanship, not many wished to fight Dirk in a tourney, let alone a battle. Within seconds, he was once more cleaving a path toward his cousin, intent on ending this here, today. He marched forward with purpose, baring his teeth as blood ran in rivulets over his face and arms. The blood of his enemies.

Closer and closer he came to Morten, not so sure he wanted the man to retreat, but instead blood lust taking over. Perhaps it was time to once and for all show who was the more powerful of the two.

A dozen paces away now.

A young warrior, of perhaps twenty summers, leapt protectively in front of Olafsson, his face young and familiar.

Olafsson’s son.

Dirk grimaced. One look at the lad and he knew he could easily take him down, like a spider pouncing on an insect stuck in his web. He’d cleave him in two. Take his head and declare it a victory, for killing the young warrior, his cousin’s heir and pride, would put Olafsson in an early grave.

Why the hell had Olafsson brought the whelp?

As if seeing the thoughts ramble through Dirk’s mind, Olafsson let out a mighty roar, loud enough that it echoed from the sword blades of every warrior.

Dirk raised his hand and issued his own answering cry, demanding the men put down their weapons, and within a heartbeat, all the fighting ceased. Men heaved labored breaths, blood covered them as though they’d all bathed in it, and swords momentarily fell to their sides.

Never in the history of battles had two enemies ceased fighting like this. Almost as if the warriors themselves were also tired of the constant battling for a prize that could not be won. The tension in the air was palpable.

The two cousins stared at each other. Hard, assessing glowers.

“I will kill him,” Dirk said, his blade still at the lad’s neck. “Else ye leave my land and take him with ye.”

Olafsson’s face remained placid, and the long pause was a disappointment to his son who must know his father was weighing the pros and cons of keeping him alive. “I will come back.”

“Nay, ye willna.” Dirk kept his voice calm and even. He had the upper hand, and he wasn’t going to let it go. “Else, I hunt down your heir and kill him.”

Olafsson flicked his gaze to his son and for a moment, Dirk thought he might make a sacrifice of his own child. Dirk had no children of his own, and for good reason, but if he did, he could never imagine that he’d even consider losing that child to gain power, for the child was the legacy. And Olafsson did not have any other sons to step into this one’s place.

“Take your men and go,” Dirk shouted, letting the tip of his sword prick the lad’s neck. “Swear to never come back to Dunstaffnage again. I will never let ye have my lands. I will die protecting them from your greedy paws. And no MacDougall to follow me will surrender.”

Olafsson spit on the ground, his hands on his hips as he weighed his options but kept silent. The longer he remained uncommunicative, the more antsy the lad grew, in fact, he shifted his neck, causing Dirk’s blade to pierce a little deeper. Blood trickled, bright red against the lad’s pale white skin, and the glinting metal of Dirk’s sword.

“Ye are killing your only heir,” Dirk urged, his hand tightening on the hilt. “I’ll not ask ye again.”

Finally, Olafsson spit again and let out a nasty expletive. “I want something in return for surrendering.”

Dirk hiked a brow and shook his head. “That is not how it works.”

“A peace treaty.” The man’s gaze flicked to Dirk’s blade at his son’s neck. “Let him go. I’ll negotiate.”

“We talk in private,” Dirk said.

The two leaders backed away from the warriors who in turn retreated to opposite ends of the battlefield, taking advantage of the reprieve to rest and clean their weapons.

“What do ye want?” Dirk pierced his sword in the dirt and crossed his arms over his chest. He might appear more relaxed, but in reality, he was poised to fight, and didn’t trust his cousin at all.

“I want…” Olafsson stared at the bodies littering the moors. “I want a woman.”

Dirk snorted. “Be serious.”

Olafsson met his eyes. Damn, the man was serious. A glint of malice filled the dark depths. “I want your betrothed.”

Dirk gritted his teeth, feeling insulted on behalf of a woman who didn’t exist. “I have no betrothed, and if I did, I’d be offended that ye’d even ask to have her.”

The man grunted, his lip curling into a cruel semblance of a smile. “But for the price of peace?”

“I told ye I wasna going to give ye what is mine. What else?”

“I want what I came for,” Olafsson growled.

Dirk cracked his neck and practiced an immeasurable amount of patience not to ram his head into his cousin’s. “And I’m not going to give ye a damn thing. Leave us in peace and I willna harm your son.”

“Not until I have something of yours.”

The stubborn whoreson wouldn’t leave it alone! “Why?” The question was simple, but Dirk didn’t expect as simple an answer as he received.

“Should have been mine. My grandfather was the older son. All of this”—he swept his hands out—“should have been mind.”

Dirk wanted to punch his distant, very distant, extremely removed, cousin in the face. The pure greed and bitterness came off him in nauseating waves. He fisted his hands beneath his arms, and ground his teeth so hard he was certain one would chip.

“I am not betrothed,” Dirk said evenly, impressed it didn’t come out a snarl. “I will not give ye my lands. If ’tis a woman ye want, I can give ye a MacDougall woman to wed.” Even as he said it, he hated it. But one woman, a woman he didn’t’ know, could bring about the peace of all his people. Sacrifices had to be made. And he’d forever beg forgiveness of the lass’ family “But if I hear one word of ye mistreating her, I will come for her, and I will bring pain and destruction to your lands.”

Olafsson’s lips pealed back from his teeth in a pathetic semblance of a smile. “Ye’ll not get far, but ye’ll not need to. I’m in need of a wife, and more heirs, seeing as how I almost lost my only living son today. I will not harm the woman who is to bear my children.”

Dirk nodded and reached forward to grip Olafsson’s arm. “We will draw up the papers now and sign them before ye leave.”

The man didn’t return Dirk’s extended reach. “She must be the most beautiful of your people. And intelligent.”

“Aye,” Dirk growled. “I’ll make certain ye will be pleased.”

At last, Olafsson reached for his arm, the blood of each other’s men still slick on their skin as they grasped each other in a mutual show of agreement.

Within a few hours, the papers were signed, Olafsson’s men were retreating and Dirk was burying his dead.

Despite having waged a treaty this day, guilt ate at him, souring his gut. He slugged back a dram of whisky, feeling it burn his insides. Today, he’d sold a woman. A woman he didn’t even know, to a man he despised. He’d condemned some poor lass to a lifetime of misery.

All he could do to console himself was rationalize that her life would save hundreds and bring about years of peace. His people would understand. They would back him. And the lass would be grateful for being chosen as the only one who could save her people.

Sometimes sacrifices had to be made for peace.