Gellis sat in silence as Timothy rowed her toward the village, but when she stepped onto the dock, she headed not toward the little kirk at the heart of the town, but straight for the stables.

“Lady Corinne has given me permission to visit my sister,” she said to one of the stable lads, who nodded and began saddling a horse for her.

With the Englishwoman’s missive securely tucked into the bodice of her gown, she urged the horse northward, toward MacDonnell lands. Yet once she’d reached the fork in the River Elchaig, instead of bearing north toward the MacDonnell clan keep, she guided the horse east. She could cut across the corner of the MacDonnell lands and reach the MacVale keep far faster that way, though if she was recognized, she would be questioned for heading away from her sister’s croft.

This was largely empty terrain, however. She likely wouldn’t lay eyes on another soul until the MacDonnell-MacVale border. And by then, she would be under Laird Serlon MacVale’s protection. None would be able to stop her then—not even that bitch English mistress of hers.

 

*   *   *   *

 

A day and a half of hard riding had left Gellis achy, wet, and chilled to the bone. Heavy rain had chased her all the way to the border, and even now she shivered beneath her woolen cloak. She slipped one hand between the folds and patted her bodice, checking that Corinne’s missive was still in place.

Reassured, she blew on her red, wind- and cold-chapped hand, but when she heard a whistle in the dripping trees ahead, she froze. Hastily bringing her chilled fingers to her mouth, she returned the whistle, urging her horse onward.

Mungo, one of the MacVale warriors, emerged from the copse. Despite the fact that she’d seen him several times before, Gellis’s heart still leapt. The man was a giant, his massive frame seeming to dwarf the large stallion he rode. His brown head was uncovered, his hair dripping and his deep-set eyes hard as he approached.

“The Laird will be pleased his whore has returned so quickly,” Mungo muttered, looking her up and down.

Gellis bit back a retort. Serlon loved her. He could warm his bed with any MacVale wench he chose whenever he wanted—and he did—but they shared something far more than that.

Still, Mungo wasn’t afraid to smack her face when he thought she was being too mouthy, so she held her tongue.

“Let us make haste,” she replied instead. “The Laird will want what I have.”

Mungo grunted, squeezing his beefy knees, which poked out from his green and brown plaid, into his horse’s flanks.

By the time they reached the MacVale keep, nervousness coiled in the pit of Gellis’s stomach. Serlon might be pleased with her for selling his ruse to the English bitch. Or he could be angry that Corinne hadn’t taken the bait. He might praise Gellis for making her way so swiftly back to him with news, or he might go into a rage over the news itself. She could never be sure what mood she would find him in.

Mungo nodded to the guards stationed along the wet, dark battlements topping the small keep. With a groan, the portcullis lifted slowly and the wooden gates behind them creaked open.

Gellis kept her chin level as they rode through the gates, deigning not to look down at the warriors milling aimlessly in the courtyard or the servants scurrying away from them. She was practically mistress of this keep, after all. Serlon had promised to marry her many years ago, and someday this would all be hers. She would send the lazy riff-raff away and sweep out the rubbish collecting in the corners. But until that day, she would serve Serlon loyally.

Mungo dismounted and began striding toward the doors to the great hall without waiting for her. She scrambled from her horse, hurrying after him.

“Gellis MacDonnell has returned, Laird,” Mungo said even as Gellis stepped into the great hall, her eyes adapting to the dimness.

A fire burned in the hearth, but the neglected chimney forced some of the smoke back into the hall. The tables and benches had been cleared away, yet Serlon sat at his table atop the dais, eating a roasted pheasant leg by himself.

When his dark eyes fell on Gellis, her heart leapt into her throat, her stomach turning over. She dipped into a curtsy, her skin growing warm despite the chill in the hall.

“Laird,” she purred, lifting her gaze beneath her lashes to stare at him.

What a magnificent man he was. Though age had diminished his strength slightly over the years, he was still a powerful man. His black hair was streaked with gray at the temples, his broad shoulders and thick torso visible above the table.

He eyed her with those sharp, dark eyes for a long moment, and all thoughts of running the MacVale keep fled from Gellis’s head. He was completely in control—of the clan, of the keep, and of her. It terrified and excited her, knowing he could do anything he wanted with her.

“Did ye deliver the missive?” he demanded, dropping the pheasant leg and slowly licking each finger as he stared her down from the dais.

“Aye, of course, Laird,” she replied quickly. “The Englishwoman believed it was from the monk ye invented.”

“And?”

Gellis faltered. “She wrote a reply.” She dug out the folded piece of parchment from her bodice and stepped onto the dais, extending it toward Serlon.

He snatched it from her fingers, then waved her away. She stepped back, standing before him in silence while her cloak dripped onto the gray-brown rushes.

“Fillan!” Serlon bellowed, eyeing the parchment suspiciously.

From the shadowy stairs in the corner, the Laird’s son hobbled forth. His dark head was bowed, his slim shoulders hunched as he awkwardly shuffled toward the dais, using a cane to compensate for his club-foot.

When he’d managed to hoist himself onto the dais, Serlon shoved the missive toward him without looking at him. “Read it,” Serlon demanded.

Fillan murmured each word of the missive, his head lowered. When he came to the end, he lifted his gaze at last, his dark eyes, so like his fathers, sharp.

“What is the meaning of this, Father?” he said softly, holding up the piece of parchment. “First ye have me write some nonsensical message from a monk, and now—”

“Silence,” Serlon cut in, his gaze forward. “I’ll call ye if I have need of yer writing or reading skills again.”

Though he was slight due to the deformity to his left leg, Fillan was a man grown at twenty. He stared hard at his father, his eyes flashing with something like hatred. “Ye cannae order me like a dog and use me to—”

Like lightning, Mungo darted forward and snatched Fillan’s cane. With sickening strength, he struck Fillan across his crippled leg.

Fillan cried out in pain and collapsed on the dais.

“I said silence,” Serlon said, his voice dangerously low now. Gellis knew what that meant, and so did Fillan. Serlon was close to snapping, and if he did, Fillan would get a great deal more than a single strike with a cane.

Keeping his head lowered, Fillan slowly dragged himself up to standing. In a mock show of consideration, Mungo extended Fillan’s cane with a little bow. Taking the cane, Fillan hobbled down from the dais and toward the stairs once more, his shoulders hunched in either pain or impotent fury, Gellis couldn’t say.

For her part, she remained silent, her chin tucked and her hands clasped before her in a sign of submission. Serlon liked her that way—at his mercy.

Though she knew he couldn’t read, Serlon picked up the missive and eyed it once more, his features hardening with rage.

“The stupid whore,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Now that she’s spread her legs for Mackenzie, she’ll no’ leave him.”

His gaze landed on Gellis, and she froze. “Ye said my first missive would be enough to tempt her away from the keep. Ye said she wanted to escape and become a scribe so badly that it would lure her into my trap.”

“I-I have done just as ye asked, my love,” Gellis replied. “I delivered the missive, I told her it had come by way of Father Ewan, I—”

Serlon slammed his palm against the table, making Gellis jump. “Come here.” His voice was hard but so precariously soft.

On trembling legs, Gellis mounted the dais. Serlon pointed to the ground next to his chair, and she hurried to his side, kneeling beside him.

He captured her chin and she was forced to gaze up at him from her knees.

“Tell me again exactly what happened when the MacDonnell Laird arrived at Eilean Donan.”

Gellis hastily repeated what she’d already reported to Mungo nearly a sennight past. She hadn’t been able to slip away for the three days it took to get to the MacVale keep and back, so she’d given Mungo the information along the Mackenzie-MacDonnell border.

When she concluded, Serlon released her face and rubbed a hand along his black and silver bristled cheek.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Arthur MacDonnell shouldnae have forgiven the Mackenzie for marrying that English bitch so quickly. That should have been enough to end their alliance and start a bloody war.”

“Their blood is thick,” Mungo said, his coarse features contorting with a frown. “Mackenzie is half-MacDonnell, after all.”

Serlon’s lips twitched into a private smile for a moment before his mouth hardened once more. “The Englishwoman’s arrival was supposed to fix that.”

“But instead of putting them on the war path,” Mungo said, “Mackenzie is giving MacDonnell even more men for his borders.”

Gellis kept her mouth shut and remained motionless lest she draw attention to herself. Serlon allowed Mungo far more leeway than was afforded to her. The warrior was practically speaking to the Laird as if he was a counselor or advisor instead of a thick-skulled brute.

“What the bloody hell am I supposed to do with the English chit?” Serlon muttered.

“Ye could wait,” Mungo offered. “See if Mackenzie grows tired of her, or if she changes her mind and wants to flee to the abb—”

Serlon once again slammed his hand against the table, cutting Mungo off. Relief flooded Gellis, for while she’d held her tongue, Mungo would now be the recipient of Serlon’s anger rather than her.

“Ye fool,” Serlon hissed at Mungo. “I cannae wait. I’ve been waiting for thirty-five years! Ever since Brinda MacDonnell was sent to be Murdoch Mackenzie’s bride, the MacDonnell-Mackenzie alliance has plagued me. The closer they are allied, the less there is for MacVales to take. Do ye think reiving along the MacDonnell border is going to get easier if we simply wait? Do ye think Mackenzie and his clan will grow weaker if we wait?”

Serlon smoothed a hand over his hair, visibly trying to regain control over his temper.

“If I am ever to consider replacing my son as my heir and naming ye instead, Mungo, ye must learn to think like a Laird instead of merely a warrior.”

Gellis remained crouched and still at Serlon’s side, but inside a spike of surprise hit her. It was well-known that Serlon detested the fact that Fillan, his only heir, was a weakling and a cripple. Despite Fillan’s sharp mind, Serlon valued strength above all else. Fillan was worthless in his eyes. But could the Laird possibly consider installing Mungo as his successor? Or, a voice whispered in the back of her mind, was the promise Serlon dangled in front of Mungo—that of becoming Laird—no different than the promise of marriage he’d held over Gellis to encourage her obedience?

“Think, man,” Serlon continued, fixing Mungo with a hard stare. “The more chaos we create, the less anyone can control what we do—and the more we can take whatever we want. If the MacDonnells and Mackenzies were at war, there wouldnae be any more guards along the border. They wouldnae be able to stop us from reiving—or more. That is why we dinnae need to scrape and beg for alliances—all we have to do to get what we want is ruin others’ alliances.”

Gellis had heard Serlon say as much before—that the MacVales were in the business of destroying alliances, not making them, for chaos and war bred opportunity. The MacVales could take what they wanted as long as their neighbors were at each other’s throats.

She didn’t pay any mind to such scheming and strategizing. She would serve Serlon’s wishes not because she believed in his mission, but because she believed in him—his strength, his power, his terrifying might.

“What will ye do, then, Laird?” Mungo asked cautiously.

Serlon exhaled a frustrated breath. “Brinda’s bastard child should have been enough to destroy the union between the MacDonnells and Mackenzies,” he muttered. “Euna’s death should have been enough. That missive to the English bitch should have been enough.”

He drummed his fingers on the table for a long moment. “The Englishwoman hasnae made it easy to get rid of her, but there may yet be a way,” he said at last.

He suddenly turned to Gellis, seizing a fistful of her hair. She gasped, rising an inch off her knees to ease his brutal grasp.

“Ye, my dear, are finally going to earn yer keep.”

Gellis resisted the urge to remind him of all she’d done for him—becoming Euna’s lady’s maid, alerting Serlon to the impending pregnancy, slipping the poison into the wine that killed both Euna and the would-be heir that would forever seal the MacDonnells and Mackenzies together.

“It will prove worthwhile that ye stayed on in the Mackenzie clan,” he continued, speaking more to himself than to Gellis. “Fillan will write another missive, which ye’ll deliver to the English whore. And I’ll need ye to secure a bit of MacDonnell plaid.”

“Aye,” she breathed, staring up at him. “Whatever ye say, my love. But why do ye need a plaid?”

Serlon tsked softly, twisting her hair in his fist until she cried out. “If I am to be the beneficiary of a war between the MacDonnells and the Mackenzies, I must get every detail right.”

He eased his grip ever so slightly, allowing Gellis to sink back down onto her knees.

“And that means making the Englishwoman’s death look like it came at the hands of a MacDonnell.”