Scottish Starter Box Set E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 1608

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

USA Today Bestselling author May McGoldrick introduces three trilogies of Scottish and Highland romance with this series-starting box set... Opening the door to danger and desire... ANGEL OF SKYE (Macpherson Brothers Trilogy) THE DREAMER (Highland Treasure Trilogy) BORROWED DREAMS (Scottish Dream Trilogy) ANGEL OF SKYE (Macpherson Brothers Trilogy) Winner of the Holt Medallion for Best Historical Romance Fiona does not remember the years before she came to the priory on the Isle of Skye. Only the gentle Prioress knows the truth about the spirited, red-haired lass's true birth. So it is in a simple cowl and peasant's dress that she emerges from the island's mists and faces the famed warrior chief of the Highlands. Alec Macpherson has served King James with his sword. Now he would give his very soul to protect this beautiful girl from the intrigue that swirls around her. But Fiona wants his heart as well, and willingly he gives it...even as the king's opponents are pushing her toward a deadly trap. For hidden in Fiona's memory is the face of her mother's killer and a secret that could topple the throne. And it will take Alec's Highland strengths pitted against a foe's cruel ambitions to prove, through blood and battle, which will reign—an army's might or the powerful passions of two lovers... THE DREAMER (Highland Treasure Trilogy) National Readers' Choice Award Finalist for Best Historical Winner of the Laurel Wreath Award for Best Historical When her late father was branded a traitor to the king, Catherine Percy found sanctuary in Scotland. But a case of mistaken identity put her in a compromising position with the Highland earl sworn to protect her. Marriage to him saved her reputation, but nothing could save her from the stormy passion that bent her innocent body to his will…and shattered his last defense. BORROWED DREAMS (Scottish Dream Trilogy) Winner of Romantic Times Award for Best British-Set Historical Romance Winner of Holt Medallion for Best Historical Romance Driven to undo the evil wrought by her dead husband, Millicent Wentworth must find a way to save her estate and free the innocent people he enslaves. Her only hope is a marriage—in name only—to a notorious Scottish Borderlord, the widowed Earl of Aytoun. Devastated by the tragic accident that killed his wife and left him gravely wounded, Lyon Pennington, fourth Earl of Aytoun, is tormented by the accusations that blame him for the catastrophe. Filled with despair, he lets his mother lure him into a marriage of convenience—for the sake of a good-hearted woman on the verge of financial ruin. Under Millicent's gentle gaze, Lyon begins to regain his strength and his wounded heart begins to heal. And soon Millicent discovers that beneath his unruly beard and grim demeanor, Lyon just may be the most handsome—and caring—man she's ever encountered. For the first time in her life, she realizes that she is alive—alive with a smoldering desire for the one man she'll love forever…

Leseprobe

SCOTTISH STARTER BOX SET

ANGEL OF SKYE, THE DREAMER, AND BORROWED DREAMS

MAY MCGOLDRICK

withJAN COFFEY

Book Duo Creative

* * *

SCOTTISH STARTER BOX SET

Three Complete Novels

* * *

Angel of Skye

Macpherson Brothers Trilogy Book 1

The Dreamer

Highland Treasure Trilogy Book 1

Borrowed Dreams

Scottish Dream Trilogy Book 1

CONTENTS

Volume One

ANGEL OF SKYE

Volume Two

THE DREAMER

Volume 3

BORROWED DREAMS

Preview of Captured Dreams

About the Author

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

VOLUME ONE

ANGEL OF SKYE

Macpherson Brothers Trilogy

Book 1

Thank you for reading Angel of Skye. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Copyright © 2017 by Nikoo K. and James A. McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

First Published by Topaz, an imprint of NAL, a division of Penguin Books, USA, Inc.

For Cyrus and Samuel, our own Highland Rogues

PROLOGUE

Drummond Castle, October 1502

His ice-blue eyes locked on the castle looming in the gathering dusk.

Silent as death, he and his company of killers climbed the ridge toward the open drawbridge. Andrew would get back what was his. He would have his revenge…

* * *

Fiona bounced across the wood floor at the sound of horses thundering across the drawbridge. Standing on her tiptoes, she stretched her five-year-old body, inching her dimpled chin up onto the stone ledge surrounding the small window in her effort to peer out into the dusky light at the approaching riders. From the unglazed slit in the castle wall, the misty autumn wind swept damply through her fire-red hair. She could not see the riders, but she could hear their steel armor clanging as they rode into the castle’s inner yard.

Her Father was coming for her.

“May I please go down, Nanna?” she asked for the umpteenth time. “Please, Nanna?”

“You know what your mama said, child,” the old woman responded, smiling at the irrepressible excitement of the little girl. This was a big day for her. This was a big day for them all.

Fiona skipped from the window and picked up her little stool from beside the fireplace, carrying it quickly to the high window and scampering onto it. As she pressed her face into the opening, a gust of Scottish night air filled her with a thrill of anticipation.

But her mother had given strict orders that she was to remain in her room until she was called for.

He must be very important, the little girl thought excitedly, trying to pick him out from among the horsemen in the courtyard. In the flaring torchlight, she could see the varied array of tartans on the company of men dismounting below.

Though Fiona could not even recall when exactly she had last seen her father, she tried hard to remember, as her eyes scanned the sea of men below, what he looked like. She had been very little the last time. But there were things about him that she could still recollect, vaguely. His deep and easy laugh. His soft red beard. The strange, belt-like chain that she could feel under his shirt. Her mother had told Fiona that her father always wore that, but she had never said why.

“Your papa is a busy man, Fiona,” her mother had said the times she’d asked for him. All her life Fiona had been hearing talk of fights with the filthy English who were trying to take Scottish lands. And all her life she’d been hearing her mother tell her how Papa had to help. How it was his job to help keep their homes and their country safe.

But now he was coming to them–making a special visit–to take her and her mother and Nanna back to his own castle. To be with him.

For the past week, Fiona had been shadowing Nanna as she went about her chores. The little girl had tried extra hard to be more of a help than a hindrance. After all, she had so many questions about the upcoming visit, and Nanna was the only one who would even talk to her about it.

Fiona wished she could remember more.

For as long as the little girl could recall, no one would ever talk to her about her father. There were moments when her mother would allow Fiona a glimpse of those times when he had been near. And it was during those talks that Fiona would hear about his humor, his courage, about the kind of man he was. But then her mother would never answer her other questions about him, so he remained an enigma.

Sometimes Fiona wondered if her father still loved her. She wondered if he missed her as much as she missed him. Sometimes she even dreamed of him. When she did, he was like an angel, floating far above—away from her—but watching over her. She could see him, his red hair and beard streaming around him as if blown by a gentle breeze.

And now everyone kept telling Fiona not to disturb her mother.

The little girl knew that her mother was not her usual self. She had been very quiet for the past few days and spent many hours alone in her room. Fiona heard her crying. Nanna said that her mother was just having a hard time believing that what she had wished for, for so long, was finally coming true. But Fiona knew it had to be something else.

During their time together Nanna had told her that, for reasons beyond their control, Fiona’s parents could not be married up until now, but that their love had finally triumphed.

At last, her father had told his people that Fiona was his daughter and that he and her mother were going to be married. Fiona was not really sure what being married meant, but she knew it had to be something very special. After all, she was going to have a permanent father now. But even more importantly, she knew that it meant her mother would never have to be sad again. Nanna had told her that.

Fiona began to count the torches that were being lit in the courtyard. She knew her father would have warriors with him. Nanna had said Fiona’s father had many who attended him.

“Fiona, come here so I can braid that wild hair of yours,” Nanna scolded gently, smiling patiently at the excited child. The room was warm and comfortable, and the old woman felt at peace with the world.

The little girl reluctantly turned from her place at the window. Hopping off the stool, she ran across the room, flinging herself affectionately onto the woman’s lap. Nanna put her arm around the child, returning her warm embrace.

Nanna had raised the girl’s mother, just as she was now helping to raise Fiona. They were so different, mother and daughter, and yet so much the same. Margaret had always been the proper child, always reserved, always private. But Fiona was different. Nothing was held in. Nothing was hidden. One thing Nanna knew they had in common, though: they both had such incredible depths to their love.

Fiona squirmed in her lap, breaking into the woman’s reverie. Nanna picked up the brush and began to run it through the silky softness of the little girl’s hair.

“Nanna, is my hair really the same color as Papa’s?” she asked, turning her bright eyes on the woman.

“Aye, child. That it is.”

“And my eyes, Nanna?”

“Nay, child. You have your mama’s hazel eyes. Your papa’s eyes are the color of a March morning. Yours change with your mood and with the color of the sky.”

“But I do look like him, don’t I, Nanna?” she asked hopefully. Her mother had always said that Fiona resembled her father.

“Aye, lass. You look like him. And you have his wit. And his restlessness, and his high spirits, as well. You are his very own child, Fiona.”

There had never been any question whose child Margaret had borne. He had been here at Drummond Castle beside her when Fiona had taken her first breaths in this world. Nanna had seen the tears of joy washing his handsome face. And then, later on, Nanna had seen the tears of sorrow on that face when he had to go.

As the woman braided the little girl’s locks, she thought of how often she had done this same simple task for her mother as well. Margaret Drummond, eldest of three daughters of John, Lord Drummond, had grown up to be one of the most beautiful and sought-after maidens in all the realm. As a young lady of the court, Margaret had been pursued by princes and earls and lairds as well as by knights of every caliber. But she had turned her face from matches that had promised security and respectability. Instead, Margaret had accepted an impossible love. She had been swept away by a man beyond her reach. A man whose life and destiny were not his own to control. Nanna had watched her grow from childhood, and had always known her charge would never accept anything less than the union of two souls. For Margaret, impossible as it was, this love was forever.

Margaret had known the consequences of the relationship and had left the society at court when she had found herself with child. She had withdrawn to Drummond Castle, away from the prying eyes of the court gossips. She had secluded herself, even from much of her own family, content to raise her child alone, hoping all the while for his return.

And then he had followed her, to be with her during the pain of her labor, to share with her the tears and later the joy, to bask in a brief glow of happiness before the world had pulled him away—as it would again and again—but always with the departing promise that he’d come back as soon as he could.

But then one summer day he’d left, and he hadn’t returned. This time had been different. His world had kept him away. Two long years had come and gone before the news of this impending visit had reached Drummond Castle. The skirmishes, the politics...all had conspired to keep them apart until now.

Nanna knew that through these past two years, Margaret had clung to the certain knowledge that she was loved by the man who had fathered her child. Time had passed, though, and Nanna often wondered if he had changed.

But now...now he was about to make Margaret’s dreams come true. Their dreams, Nanna thought. All of their dreams.

The sound of the door’s latch startled the old woman from her thoughts, and she sat bolt upright. The door opened, and Margaret rushed into the room, pushing the heavy oak door closed behind her. Her eyes flickered across the room in search of her child. Finding her on Nanna’s lap, Margaret’s face visibly registered her relief. Fiona leaped up and ran into her mother’s arms.

“Mama, is it time?” the little girl asked hesitantly, sensing something was wrong.

“Oh, my poor baby,” her mother responded in anguish, hugging the child tightly to her. In an instant, she turned her troubled eyes toward the older woman. “Nanna, we have no time. Take the back stairs down to the Great Hall. Find Sir Allan and have him come up here immediately. Then go out to the stables and have them ready three horses.”

“What’s wrong, m’lady?” the older woman asked, rushing to her mistress’s side. Margaret’s bright eyes flashed toward her daughter; loose tendrils of blonde hair fell around her perfect face, now filled with obvious distress. “What I’ve feared for the past few weeks has finally happened,” she answered quickly, struggling to fight back tears. Her face was flushed with her effort to restrain a thousand emotions. “You must take Fiona away from here. But first, go and do as I have said. I’ll send her down with Allan. And please hurry.”

The older woman was torn between the desire to know more of her lady’s distress and the need to comply with the urgency of her command. But one look at the fear in Margaret’s eyes catapulted her into action, and she bustled quickly out the small door at the rear of the chamber.

As the door closed behind the retreating woman, Margaret’s hand went to the leather purse in the pocket of her dress. Wrapping her fingers around it, she could feel the dead coldness of Andrew’s brooch, and, beside it, the ring, its heat burning her fingers through the leather. She had to hide them, and she had to hide them now. Her eyes swept around the room.

Oh, God, she thought. Oh, God! But where?

And then she remembered. With a sharp cry, she ran across the room to the fireplace. Counting several stones over from the opening, Margaret pulled one from the wall. Fiona just stood there in the middle of the room, confused, but knowing deep within her heart that something was wrong, terribly wrong. She could see the small dark space behind the wall and watched her mother yank a small leather purse from the pocket of her dress, jamming it into the hiding place. Quickly, Margaret shoved the stone back where it had been and whirled on her daughter.

“Fiona, my love,” she said, crossing the floor quickly. “Run and get your heavy cloak and the leather purse I gave you.”

“But Mama,” the girl protested. “What is wrong?”

“Go, child. Hurry,” the mother said quietly, trying to control the panic in her voice. “I’ll explain in a moment.”

Fiona ran to the pegs by the door and pulled down her winter cloak. As she turned back, she could see her mother writing furiously at the small study table. Tripping to the chest by her bed, Fiona took out the purse. By the time the little girl reached her side, she had folded her letter and tipped candle wax onto the paper, which she then sealed, using her ring.

“Give me the purse, Fiona,” Margaret said, reaching for the bag. She stuffed the letter in the purse and removed the ruby and emerald-encrusted cross that was hanging from the gold chain around her neck. Drawing Fiona to her, Margaret placed the chain around her neck and discreetly tucked it inside her dress.

“Mama!” Fiona looked wildly at her mother. For as long as she could remember, her mother had worn the cross close to her heart. “You said Papa gave you this.”

“Aye, my love,” Margaret answered, tears now coursing freely down her cheeks. “But I’ll not be needing it, and you will.”

“But Mama, I don’t understand. Papa is coming!”

Margaret looked at the bewildered daughter. She was hardly more than a bairn. How would she survive this?

“Listen to me, child. We have only a moment.” Margaret looked around furtively. Time was running out, but where were Nanna and Allan? She continued. “An evil man has come into our home. Not your papa. Do you understand me? Your papa does not even know of the evils that surround him. He is innocent of this.”

Fiona tried to understand her mother’s words. What did she mean? The words swirled through her head. Papa was not coming. Innocent. Of what? Why did her mother no longer need her cross? Who was this evil man?

Fiona began to cry, hiccupping and sobbing as her mother tucked the leather purse inside her clothes. Margaret then wrapped the heavy cloak over Fiona’s shoulders and tied the leather thongs at her neck.

“Listen to me carefully, Fiona,” Margaret continued. They were both weeping now, and she wiped her daughter’s tears from her flushed face. She cupped the innocent young child’s face with her shaking hands and looked intensely into the worried eyes. “I need you to be very brave. You have to go away...to a place where you’ll be safe. And you have to stay away until your papa comes to get you.”

“But why isn’t he here?” Fiona cried. “Where is Papa now?”

“I wish I knew, Fiona. But the evil men are already here. These men will hurt us, my love. It is too late. You must go. They...But, listen to me, this is most important.” Margaret knelt beside her child and held her tightly with one arm as she pointed to the wall where she had hidden the packet. “When your papa brings you back here, show him what is behind that stone. He will punish the evil ones who have come here tonight. I promise you, he will.”

Margaret hugged Fiona fiercely, and the little girl clung to her mother.

They both jumped at the sound of the gentle knock at the small rear door.

Holding her sobbing child against her, Margaret called for her knight to enter.

Sir Allan entered the room, his face dark with concern.

“M’lady...should you not...should I not be down with Lord Andrew...” he began courteously.

“No!” Margaret interrupted. “You must take Fiona far away from him...away from here. He...”

With a resounding bang, the heavy oak door of the room burst open, and a half-dozen soldiers rushed in, drawn swords in their hands. Instinctively, Allan pulled his sword from its scabbard, stepping in front of his mistress.

Margaret gripped Fiona’s hand and started backing toward the rear chamber door. As her heart slammed in her chest, she knew that it was not her own life that she feared for, but the life of her own precious child.

Holy Mother, Fiona is an innocent, she found herself praying. Please help her. Please save her.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” the knight bellowed.

Instead of answering, four soldiers charged at him.

Gallantly, Allan parried the first blows of the onslaught, managing to shove one of the assailants clear across the room. Slashing at the soldiers, Allan managed to plunge his brand into one of the men where the shoulder meets the neck, but before he could pull his sword out of the dying man, two of the other soldiers found their chance; their swords pierced his chest and his back, the blades crossing somewhere between his ribs.

The valiant knight was dead before he hit the floor.

The assailants then turned on Fiona and Margaret, who watched in horror as the killers approached them.

Quickly recovering, Margaret drew Fiona behind her as she pulled a small dagger from her belt. Slowly, they continued backing toward the door.

“Stay behind me,” Margaret commanded in a voice that shook with emotion. “These animals will not dare to harm⁠—”

Suddenly, Fiona felt herself being lifted high into the air. Twisting her body, she tried desperately to dive toward her mother. But a huge man, bigger than Sir Allan, held her with a viselike grip that sent shockwaves of pain shooting down her arms. Turning her head, she glimpsed the ugly, scarred face and the wild, unkempt beard of the grinning madman who held her.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that another man had taken hold of her mother’s arms and wrenched the knife from her hand.

Reacting to her mother’s cries, Fiona felt her body stiffen with anger. Suddenly something snapped within her, and all her fear vanished. She was a whirlwind of motion, arms and legs flying in all directions at once. Wildly, Fiona kicked hard at the man’s stomach, sinking her teeth into his massive paw at the same time. Her attacker snapped his hand away, and Fiona swung loose for a moment. Twisting her arm, she kicked again hard at his midsection, this time causing the man to throw her away from him.

“The devil…”

Fiona landed on her hands and knees, but quickly scampered to her feet, eyeing the ugly man defiantly.

“Are you going to let this wee thing best you, m’lord?” one of the soldiers sneered.

“She’s a demon,” the Goliath roared, taking a step toward the girl.

Fiona looked around her wildly. She could see that both doors were blocked. There was no way out. Running to the window, she picked up the stool and rushed toward the men who were holding her struggling mother. Throwing the stool at one, she bit down on the hand of the other before being grabbed by the hair from behind.

The man yanked her head back roughly and jerked her around to face him. His fist hung in the air, his eyes clouded with fury.

“I’m going to teach you how we deal with demon bairns where I come from.”

Fiona’s eyes shot darts of defiance into the Highlander’s face.

“If you hurt me,” she hissed. “My papa will kill you.”

A look of shock flickered into the man’s face as his fist opened. Then his black eyes narrowed into a hardness that froze Fiona’s blood.

“Where you are going, your almighty papa will never find you,” he growled menacingly.

Dragging her toward the rear door, past Margaret, who had been gagged, the leader flung the little girl at one of his men.

“Take her down,” he spat. “Now!”

“Should we wait for you in the courtyard, Torquil?” the man clutching Fiona asked. Fiona tried to jerk her hand free, but her captor twisted her arm behind her back, taking hold of her hair with vicious force.

“No, I’ll catch up,” the man responded gruffly. He turned with a sneer toward Margaret. “We have a very sad occurrence that needs to take place here.”

A look of horror came into Margaret’s eyes, and she cast a final look at her daughter as they dragged the screaming child from the room.

* * *

Lord Gray, Margaret Drummond’s uncle, was the first to discover his niece’s body. The shocking news traveled like a thunderbolt through the countryside; strangers had kidnapped Margaret’s daughter, Fiona. On the eve of such momentous expectations, after waiting two long years for the return of the child’s father, this loss had proved too much for Margaret—she had lost all sense. In despair, she had taken her own life, poisoning herself in her daughter’s room. They had found the note she left, professing that life was not worth living without her child.

People searched high and low throughout the Scottish countryside. But the fruitless effort was curtailed a fortnight later when the worst gale in fifty years tore across Scotland, spreading havoc and destruction from the Outer Hebrides and the Isle of Skye to the Firth of Forth and Edinburgh itself.

Neither the child nor her kidnappers were ever found, and those who loved her wept, thinking her dead.

1

The nut’s shell, though it be hard and tough,

Holds the kernel, sweet and delectable.

—Robert Henryson, “The Fables”

Dunvegan Castle, the Isle of Skye, June 1516

He could hardly breathe.

The bodies of those around him were pressing so close that he felt he could not even lift his arms. And there were faces—faces that looked so familiar but that he could not put names to. Then, just beyond them, he could see King James looking at him with pleading eyes.

“What is it, m’lord?” he heard himself ask. His voice came from far away, as if from somewhere inside his head. He wondered if the words had even been uttered.

He tried to move toward the king, but the bodies were now pressing against him even more tightly than before. Then, like the surge of an ocean current, they pushed and carried him with excruciating slowness away from his king.

Alec continued to look at the king, following his gaze when James turned his face toward the murky shadows beyond.

Looking past him, Alec could see a door opening. A cloud of mist streamed through the opening, swirling as it poured through the door. Suddenly he was blinded by the shimmering light of a thousand suns. Then that brilliance was eclipsed by another sight—the vision of an angel stepping through the door. Her red hair flowed about her in endless waves and framed a face of pure perfection. From where he stood, Alec could see her eyes, crystalline, radiating a spectrum of colors. Those eyes found his and drew him toward her with an unspoken promise of fulfillment. Light and warmth swept over him; his eyes were riveted on the dazzling creation.

Alec saw the king move toward the angel, beckoning to him with one hand and, with the other, reaching for the light.

But he couldn’t move. Alec tried desperately to fight the current carrying him away, but to no avail. He was carried farther and farther away from the light and the vision. More and more he felt his breath being crushed from his body. Struggling for air, Alec could see the light receding. He could see his angel disappearing.

He was suffocating. He had to somehow get back to his king—to the light.

He could hardly breathe…

Gasping for air, Alec Macpherson sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat running down his chest and back.

It was the same recurring dream.

Throwing the covers aside, Alec vaulted from the bed. He looked around at the still-darkened room. So cold. So large and cold and empty, he thought. The cool summer breeze flowed over his naked skin from the open slit of the window. The silence around him seemed a tangible thing, pressing on him like a millstone, crushing him.

Trying hard to rid himself of the dream, Alec walked to the window, stretching and breathing in deeply the misty salt air. Ever so slowly the sense of oppression that had gripped him began to ease. His eyes were drawn to the twin peaks of Healaval across the fog-shrouded waters of Loch Dunvegan. It didn’t seem to matter how long he remained here at Dunvegan; it simply was not home. He missed the noise, the life that existed at Benmore Castle. But then again, he thought, even being home had not been enough...had not helped.

Looking out into the morning fog, he saw in his mind’s eye the lingering images of the dream. This was the first time that he’d seen the face of the angel. Always before, she’d been nothing more than a light. But this time Alec had seen her. She was flesh and blood. But who was she?

King James IV had been dead for three years now, and Alec had fought beside him on that bloody day at Flodden Field, the day when the king had ignored all warnings and had challenged the English. The king had been cut down by an English arrow and a swarm of blood-crazed foot soldiers, because Torquil MacLeod and others had held back their troops when they were most needed to save their country. That had been a bitter day for Scotland and for Alec.

How strange, Alec thought, that after so long his dreams would now be invaded by his king’s ghost and by the strange vision of the angel. Four months ago, Alec Macpherson had arrived at Dunvegan Castle. And that was when the dreams started. He had come here, certain that doing the Crown’s work in this faraway corner of Scotland was what he needed. His life and his mind were all cluttered with events and people he just could not shake off. A false promise, a broken engagement, a faithless woman. Alec rubbed his face hard with his hands as if that act could somehow wipe away all thoughts, all traces of Kathryn.

Forcing his thoughts back to his dream, he wondered what the king could be trying to tell him. Why did he wait three years? Why did he come to him here?

As the new laird of Skye and the islands of the Outer Hebrides, Alec had hardly rested in his efforts to bring order to this wild and mysterious land that Torquil MacLeod had so barbarously ruled.

Justice had finally caught up with the murderous MacLeod, but his execution for treason had left a great void in the power structure of the northwestern Highlands. Alec Macpherson, future chief of his own Highland clan as well as a fearless warrior and well-known leader, had been given the task of correcting the ills of thirty years of brutal repression and securing the region for the new Stuart king.

As he dressed for his morning ride, Alec thought over all that he had set out to do four months ago. It seemed to him he had been working night and day, and it was still a bit daunting to consider all that remained to be accomplished. He had arrived here with his own men, expecting resistance, even bloodshed. After all, he had not been chosen by these people to be their leader. He’d been made laird by the nobles of the Regency Council and had been given the Isle of Skye to rule as his own.

So Alec had been surprised by the reception of the men who had greeted him. The handful of soldiers remaining at Dunvegan Castle were under the command of Neil MacLeod, a warrior crippled at Flodden, one of the few of this clan who it seemed had fought loyally for his king. He and his men had peacefully submitted to Alec’s will and had sworn to aid him in his royal commission. And indeed, Neil and his men had been true to their word.

It was not long before Alec discovered that the people of Skye—the clans MacDonald and MacLeod—deserved better than they had been getting for so many years under Torquil.

They were quite different from what he had expected. Yes, there were still small roving bands of rebel outlaws left in the outlying areas of the island. But aside from them, the crofters and the fishermen of Skye were, for the most part, good people. They were solid, common folk with strong beliefs in the old ways—people who, despite their treacherous leader, had somehow maintained a heritage of hospitality and decency and, most importantly, dignity.

And Alec could see that these people were beginning to trust him, to accept his commands in the spirit that they were given—to better the lot of all who depended on him.

Alec strapped his sword to his side and pulled open the thick oak door leading from his tower room. The musty smell of the interior stairway assaulted his nostrils. This old tower was said to be nearly three hundred years old. Dimly lit by a few narrow slits in the thick stone walls, it evoked the memory of childhood stories of fairies and sprites, kelpies and sorcerers. It was no surprise to Alec that the history of Skye was a brightly woven tapestry of fact and fantasy.

But the castle had a proud and well-known history within its walls. It had withstood the assaults of Vikings and Celtic kings from the water and from the land. It had been an outpost of civilization when the Christian faith had first taken hold in this wild land of fairies and those who believed in them. And it had been a center of rebellion against each of the four Stuart kings that had occupied the Scottish throne.

But that final part of Dunvegan’s history was over, Alec thought.

Descending the two flights of stone stairway, Alec consciously attempted to shake off the remnants of his troubling dream. This morning hunt was becoming a habit, but at least he knew it was one way to clear his head. Entering the dark Great Hall, he peered at the men who were sleeping on benches around the last glowing embers of the fire in the center of the room. It was all quiet, and the hounds hardly stirred as he strode across the floor.

“Going hunting, m’lord?”

“Robert!” Alec started. “How many times have I told you not to sneak up on me?”

“Just practicing the ways of the warrior, m’lord,” the squire responded in hushed tones. “Someday, m’lord, maybe someday when you find me ready to train with the warriors, I could prove to you that I’ve learned well all you’ve taught me. Remember? You told me that a warrior must be prepared at all times. You told me that stealth...”

“And I have also told you not to practice on me the things that I teach you.”

Alec had taken Robert to be his squire a year ago. The boy had proved himself eager and hardworking, and in the past year he had shot up like a beanstalk. Seeing how he had grown, Alec smiled to think how often he had been drawn back from the hard-edged world of Scottish politics by the confused and sometimes comical perceptions of the adolescent boy. Though he was often a thorn in Alec’s side, Robert was devoted to the warlord—and not in the least frightened by his moods.

“Aye, m’lord.” The young man nodded. “But you have also told me to use my judgment and to make decisions. Especially when it comes to the welfare of people that I care about.”

“That is true, Robert.”

“And so, m’lord, some of what you have told me I have to practice on you, because if I do not...then you might not be around to tell me more. And if you are not around⁠—”

“Enough, Robert,” Alec growled, leading the young man through the Great Hall toward a small door on the far side. “It is too early for me to keep up with you. Go back to sleep.”

“But m’lord. I have your breakfast ready,” Robert responded with concern. “You have to eat something before you go. You don’t eat enough. Even Cook says so. And all this early morning hunting. Your brother Sir Ambrose says you are just looking...”

“I’m fine, Robert,” Alec said, stopping on the iron mesh that covered the open well that provided air to the castle’s subterranean vault. “There is no need for any of you to worry about me.”

Alec glanced into the darkness of the well, thinking of the horrors that had occurred in that dungeon not so long ago. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. As he peered down into the darkness, he thought he saw a shadow move in the depths. A rat, he thought with disgust.

“But m’lord,” the lad continued. “Sir Ambrose thinks that with no ladies of quality to take your mind off your work here, you just⁠—”

“Robert!” Alec turned his glare on the lanky youth standing beside him. Ambrose clearly needed something else to occupy his mind. But how could Alec even begin to explain what a refreshing change it was to be without those grasping women of the court? To be without Kathryn, his treacherous onetime fiancée. Alec was willing to admit to himself, anyway, that something was missing in his life, but it was not the companionship of those he had deliberately turned his back on.

No, he could not explain it to Robert, but Alec would need to make that very clear to his brother before Ambrose arranged for any surprise arrivals at Dunvegan’s doorstep.

“But all I was saying, m’lord⁠—”

“Will you shut up?” Alec growled menacingly.

“I shall, m’lord.” The young man flushed, suddenly remembering the reason for his master’s sensitivity on this topic. “By the way, m’lord, I told Sir Ambrose that I would wake him up so that he could ride with you this morning. He’s really quite worried about you. We are all worried about you. Why, I was just talking with Cook last night, and he says that...”

“Robert,” Alec rumbled menacingly. “I’m warning you. Ambrose is going home soon. If you say even one more word, I’ll send you...and Cook...away with him.”

“Not another word, m’lord. I’ll not say another word. I promise. And I’ll stop Cook from talking, too. You will not hear anything. And if you do not want breakfast, it is up to you m’lord.” Robert stopped short, knowing from the laird’s threatening glare that he was doing it again. The last thing he wanted was to be sent back to Benmore Castle. The squire squirmed uncomfortably, thinking of Lord Alexander and how, in the past, he had so very often tried the patience of the old laird. And Robert liked Lady Elizabeth, his master’s mother, but he wanted to be a warrior someday, not a lady’s maid. He stood silently, his eyes riveted to the floor.

Alec shook his head and turned toward the door. This boy could certainly talk. In fact, his chatter had awakened everyone in the hall. Oh, the lad would pay for that, Alec thought with a smile.

“I’ll not starve, Robert. You don’t need to worry,” Alec called back over his shoulder. “I’ll eat something when I get back.”

The squire legged it quickly to the door and opened it for Alec as he reached it. Before going through, the warlord paused.

“Oh, one more thing, Robert,” the laird said, scowling fiercely. “Neil tells me you’ve been shirking your household duties and skulking around the training fields.”

Robert paled under his master’s withering glare. “Nay, m’lord. I’ve kept up with my duties...I...it isn’t true. I mean, I have been going to the fields, but I’m...I’m⁠—”

“Listen, Robert,” Alec said, taking the lanky lad roughly by the arm. “Starting today...I want you to train full-time with the warriors. Tell Cook to pass on the household duties to one of the younger lads.”

Robert stood, speechless, trying to fathom what he’d just heard and gawking through the open door after his departing master.

Alec smiled to himself as he strode out into the murky predawn light. He’d been looking for the right moment to reward Robert for his diligence and effort. Despite his adolescent ways and his gregarious nature, he was maturing into a fine young man. This change in his status would only reinforce his development in the ways of the warrior. Resourceful. Cool. Reserved. Quiet.

As Robert began to yelp in delight, Alec laughed openly at the gathering sound of curses the awakening warriors in the hall were uttering at the lad capering happily in the doorway.

A few moments later, the laird nodded to the gatekeeper and ducked his head as he steered his black charger through the ten-foot-thick curtain wall of Dunvegan Castle. Emerging from the gloom of the passage into the only slightly brighter predawn light, the warrior wheeled his horse to the right and galloped along the saltwater inlet dominated by the fortress walls.

On his left wrist, Alec held his prize falcon, the snow-white peregrine, Swift. Hunting with the rare Welsh albino bird had become more than the warlord’s chief exercise and escape. It had become a morning ritual.

Pounding over the rolling moorland, Alec headed toward a thickly forested valley a mile inland. Surrounded by wild hills and jagged rock ridges, the land was rich with red deer and with the fat pheasant that Swift was so good at plucking from the air.

Descending into a small dip in the terrain, Alec found himself enshrouded in a pocket of morning mist. His vision was cut to a very short distance, but he knew that the path would rise in just a few short yards.

This was one of the things he liked best about Skye. Here he had the freedom to ride hard on his own land amid the unearthly rock formations and the heather-covered hills. Here he was free to enjoy the solitude of the morning air, free from the stifling closeness of the court, from its parasites, and from its women.

Alec entered the wood as the land began to rise, and with it, the thick vaporous cloud gave way to patches of mist. He looked around him in awe. Still, after so many days of riding the same path, he was amazed at how the beauty and mystery of these woods touched him. The oak trees, hundreds of years old, entwined their branches into a canopy above him. He looked up as the first rays of the sun strained to gain access.

Suddenly Alec saw a dark shape form on the path before him. Jerking the steed’s head to the right, Alec saw a white arm flash up from the fold of a cloak. Swift shrieked, his fluttering wings obstructing Alec’s vision momentarily. Then, as they flew past the diving shape, Alec yanked the horse’s reins tight, struggling to hold the plunging, rearing beast in check. He turned his head to the figure lying beside the path.

“You madman!” came the enraged voice of a woman.

The shock of hearing a woman’s voice stunned the warrior. The epithet she hurled at him was lost to the realization that he had nearly ridden down a defenseless peasant woman.

“It is one thing to break your own neck. But mine is another matter,” the voice scolded, the pitch rising with her anger. “You nearly trampled me!”

“Hold, there! I’ll help you,” Alec responded. “Whoa, Ebon.”

The steed continued to strain against Alec’s efforts to calm him, and Alec could not see the woman clearly, but he glimpsed brilliant red hair spilling out of the dark hood as she scrambled to gather up the contents strewn around a large brown satchel on the ground.

“Are you hurt, woman?” Alec tried to shout above the din of the shrieking bird. But the charger wheeled again, and when the warrior looked back down the path, the cloaked figure had disappeared. There was no movement of branches nearby. No shadows. No trace. One moment she had stood there—the next she was gone.

Fiona stood a few paces off the path, peering through the mist at the power struggle going on between horse, rider, and the strange white hawk. Three beasts, she thought, angrily rubbing a bruised shoulder. Three wild beasts.

She quickly straightened the cloak around her, shoving her hair back under the veil she was wearing beneath the hood of the cloak. Her heart was slamming against her rib cage. She tried to take deep breaths to slow her pulse and cool her anger.

Finally, the giant warrior subdued the snorting black stallion, and the hawk’s cries ended. She watched as the rider looked questioningly about him. Fiona knew that she could not be seen and that she could escape easily through the thickly wooded grove behind her. She knew this area like the back of her hand.

The huge, golden-haired warrior trotted his horse down the path to where he had passed her. Looking around him in every direction, he stopped the horse and cocked an ear, listening for a sound. Rising from the saddle, he stood in his stirrups for a long moment without any movement. It seemed that horse and hawk were taking their signals from their master as they waited patiently, motionless.

Finally, pulling out his sword, he speared the string of wooden prayer beads that lay on the turf. Sheathing his sword, the rider looked at them curiously and then clenched them in his fist.

From where she stood, Fiona could not quite make out the expression on his face. The giant wheeled his horse in her direction. Now horse and rider faced her. She slid as quietly as she could behind the wide trunk of a gnarled oak.

Oh, my Lord, did he see me? Her mind began to run wild. Can he hear me? She held her breath, wishing she could stop the pounding of her heart. Then she nearly laughed aloud at the silliness of the thought, considering the distance between them.

“Are you hurt?” the rider called out, his voice echoing in the wood. “You do not need to fear me.”

He paused, listening for a response, but getting none.

“If you are hurt but can get to Dunvegan Castle, go there. They will care for you.”

He paused again, listening. Fiona could hear the hooves of the impatient horse stamping at the edge of the path. There was annoyance in the warrior’s tone when he called again. “Answer me. These woods are dangerous if you are hurt. There are all kinds of wild beasts out here.”

There certainly are, Fiona thought, chuckling softly to herself. My thoughts exactly.

“Now, listen,” he shouted, anger now apparent in his voice. “I’m trying to help you. I don’t know why a woman would be out here roaming the woods alone at this hour, but speak, for God’s sake.”

Once again, Fiona peered cautiously from behind the tree and watched him as he waited for a response. She smiled at his evident anger and frustration. Good, she thought. He had some nerve, riding like a madman on trails honest peasants use to earn a livelihood.

The man remained where he was for a long moment, clearly trying to make up his mind.

“If you will not answer, then...to hell with you!” he roared, and wheeling the horse nimbly, he thundered off down the path.

Fiona let out her breath as he disappeared into the mist. Then she stamped her foot hard in anger. “Well, Lord Macpherson, you certainly learned nothing from that.”

Fiona moved from her hiding place in the trees and onto the deer trail she had used each morning for the past few years. Since the new laird had arrived, Fiona had spent many days watching him gallop through the countryside, the white bird or some other falcon on his arm. Always riding like a madman, always pounding his horse full speed, as if running away from, or perhaps chasing after someone. Whatever it was, though, today he was early and had caught her off guard.

But he wasn’t entirely to blame, Fiona conceded. She was late returning from the cluster of huts deep in the forest where, four years ago, her old friend Walter and his company had taken refuge from the cruelties of Torquil MacLeod. And Father Jack, the old hermit, had been there today as well, and time always passed quickly when he began telling his tall tales.

The Priory on the secluded Isle of Skye had been a refuge for lepers for as long as anyone remembered. The church lands used to feed them and provide them with shelter. That had all changed four years ago, when Torquil had decided that Skye would no longer be populated by disease. So for four years, Fiona had been traveling this route between the Priory and the people who hid like hunted animals, trapped on the island they now called home. Trapped by the unreasoning hate of a nobleman who thrived on the misfortunes of others. Trapped by a powerful leader whose very word had unleashed a torrent of violence on a sickly people who could neither escape nor defend themselves.

At the thought of the injustice, Fiona’s hand went instinctively to the wooden clapper at her belt. It was useful having the clapper now. Most folk gave wide berth when they heard the lepers’ wooden warning signal. But wearing it even four months ago would have made her trips far riskier. That is, wearing it before Lord Macpherson came.

So, whenever she could get away unnoticed, she continued to go down this path, carrying food, medicines, and whatever else Walter and his people needed. Father Jack had taken the lepers into his own flock when they had moved into the forest near his stone hut. But Father Jack was getting old, and Fiona wanted to help him. She needed to help him.

For, despite the dangers, Fiona was not going to abandon Walter, the man who found her so many years ago...washed ashore, nearly dead. The one who took her to the Priory, to the place that had been her home ever since.

Suddenly Fiona’s foot caught on a raised root branch, and she nearly tumbled headlong to the ground. Though she caught herself at the last moment, a shock coursed through Fiona when, to her right, a rustle in the undergrowth exploded as a fat pheasant took flight. The noise and surprise of the bird’s emergence rattled her.

Fiona froze in her tracks as a shiver radiated through her body. She looked about her nervously, and for a moment the very shadows of the dawn woods took on a threatening look. Straightening the hood that had fallen from her head, Fiona pulled the cloak tightly about her, as if the thick cloth could control the chill that was coursing through her.

“These are your woods, Fiona,” she said aloud, breaking into the silence that had fallen around her. “You have traveled this path more times than you can count. Get a hold of yourself. Get a hold of yourself.”

As if her words were not enough, she found herself reaching down to pick up a stout branch lying beside the path. As she did, she felt the rattle of crockery in the satchel she carried. Crouching in the path, she opened the bag and looked sadly at what had been three empty jugs. Only one jug still intact lay amid the wreckage of two broken ones.

“Thank you, Lord Macpherson,” she said, fingering the jagged pieces. “Now you have seen to it that I have some explaining to do.”

Slinging the satchel back onto her shoulder, Fiona grasped the sturdy piece of wood in her other hand and continued on her way, her momentary lapse of confidence forgotten.

She began to rehearse what she would say to her mistress. “Aye, m’lady prioress,” she said, smiling at the thought of such an unlikely confession. “Two more broken jugs. But it was not my doing this time. It was a chance meeting with that ill-tempered Lord Macpherson. Oh, no, m’lady, you know I would not dream of disobeying you and going to the lepers’ camp alone...again.”

Fiona came to a stop at a fork in the path. “Let me see,” she whispered to herself. “Safe way home or short way home?”

“Definitely the safe way home. Enough excitement for one day.” She turned onto the more traveled path and felt her spirits rising as she continued the imaginary discussion she had just begun.

“Let me see. Where were we? Aye, m’lady. Lord Macpherson...Lord Macpherson? Why, he galloped right through the priory laundry while I was hanging the wash. What, m’lady? It is true that I have not done the wash for some years now. I know, m’lady. I have other responsibilities. But you see, it was such a beautiful day. And I was trying to help the other sisters. Especially Sister Beatrice. She has a summer cold she cannot be rid of.

“Aye, you should have seen him. The laird is quite an imposing figure riding his horse the way he does. But that innocent bird tied to his wrist. The poor creature. The jugs, m’lady? Oh, no, they could not have been filled with herbal teas for the leper folk. They were filled with...water...aye, jasmine water. What, m’lady? We do not use jasmine water to scent the laundry?”

“Hmmm.” Fiona slowed her pace, now thinking about that one. “No jasmine.” But then her eyes sparkled, and she picked up her pace again.

“I’m sure you are correct, m’lady. Clearly, I must have been so enraptured with the spiritual aspect of my task—you are forever telling me that God resides in the most mundane of our labors—that, well, the scent of nature’s glories must have been upon those linens. Aye, m’lady, I could have sworn I smelled jasmine. What, m’lady prioress, Lord Macpherson in the laundry? Aye, m’lady, I was the only one to see him, but I assure you his horse did not soil so much as a single handkerchief. Just the jugs, m’lady. Aye, smashed, m’lady.”

Fiona chuckled at the thought of such a conversation...on such an improbable topic. Lord Macpherson barreling through the laundry while she was hanging the wash. But then Fiona’s expression clouded for a moment. She had to talk seriously to the prioress about assigning Sister Beatrice’s tasks to others for the time being, until she got better. The older nun would never utter even a word of complaint, and would certainly never shirk her responsibilities. Fiona knew that the prioress would have to intervene and order her to rest.

The prioress had always pushed Fiona to take on more responsibilities in the administration of the Priory. And she had always supported the young woman in the decisions she made. Always, Fiona thought. It was not that the tasks that some of the other nuns performed were beneath her. No, it was just that the prioress felt it more appropriate to give her jobs that, as the older woman put it, better suited Fiona’s talents. But Fiona had a lingering suspicion that the prioress saw her as good with numbers and terrible with everything else. Hmmph, she thought.

Special gift from God. That is what the prioress had often said of her, a smile on her wrinkled face. And it was true: sometimes Fiona had taken to her tasks like a fish to water. What had taken the prioress hours to do, particularly with numbers and the books, Fiona could accomplish in a fraction of the time. More recently, though, Fiona’s restlessness and mildly insubordinate acts had caused the prioress to take to calling Fiona “an endurance test from God.” Oh, well, the young woman sighed.

Entering a clearing, Fiona blinked at the brilliant morning sunlight that had quickly burned through the predawn mists. The sun was dazzling as it reflected off the small pond in the center of the small meadow. She was still a half hour’s walk away from Priory lands. As Fiona picked up her pace, she wondered what her old friend David would say about her adventure this morning. Naturally, she would tell him the truth. All of it. He was the only one she would dare speak the truth to. He was the only one who never panicked and scolded her for the smallest of risks.

Certainly, there were times when they had their disagreements, but they inevitably worked them through. This was the way it had always been between them. David never tried to rule her or intimidate her. He told her about the real world, about places outside of Skye. About the beauty of the Scottish mainland. He’d been there. He taught her the survival tricks, as he called them. And he taught her how to apply what she knew to the needs of real people. These lessons were such a refreshing change from all the French and English and Latin lessons the prioress had her sit through.

And the lesson he had stressed most—from the time she first arrived—had been to stay far away from Torquil MacLeod.

David, the Priory’s jack-of-all-trades, was also the prioress’ half-brother. He was a younger son, illegitimate, but nonetheless an uncle to Torquil. So he knew him well. His stories of the laird’s brutality rang true to the imagination of a little girl whose mind had securely locked away all memory of what rough men could do. But from the time Fiona had been a young child, David had taken her under his wing, and his gentleness had won her trust. He’d made her feel safe while always pushing her to test herself. He had always encouraged her independence. He’d once considered himself to be like a father to the orphan lass, but he’d ended up being her friend. A dear friend.

“It is fine to make mistakes, so long as you learn from them.” That was what her friend had instilled in her. Fiona was not sure life in the Priory would have been quite so interesting without him.

And then a little more than a year ago Malcolm had been returned to them. At the thought of the young boy, Fiona picked up her pace. He would be waiting for her.

Passing a jagged outcropping of rock that stood beside the pond, Fiona shifted the satchel to her other shoulder and dropped the stick to the ground.

Looking past the rolling hills toward the wild peaks of the Cuillins far to the south, Fiona was suddenly aware of a figure standing in the shadow of a great oak tree only a stone’s throw ahead. Stopping dead in her tracks, the young woman pulled her hood farther forward to hide her face and reached inside her cloak for her wooden clapper.

The figure stepped out of the shadows, and Fiona shuddered involuntarily.

The man’s filthy face was crisscrossed with scars, and the young woman could see the bright red cross that had been branded on his right cheek. From the mark, she knew instantly that he had been found guilty of stealing from a church. That brand was enough to make him unwelcome in every village and town in Christendom. But it was the look in his black eyes that frightened her the most. It was the look of a hungry animal.

Fiona swung her clapper, and the noise made the man stop momentarily on the path. Then she heard what must have been a laugh, but it was a sound so resonant with evil that it was hard to identify as such. Fiona felt a clammy chill spread upward from the small of her back.

“That don’t matter none to us,” he said, spitting out his words with a bitterness that Fiona had never experienced before.

He took a step toward her, and she swung the clapper more desperately, hoping that the sound would ward him off.

“We’ve watched you before,” he continued, taking another step toward her. Fiona could smell his foul odor, and she turned her head in revulsion. “You ain’t no leper. You’re that pretty face in that churchyard full of old women. We’ve been watching you.”

Fiona felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck. Taking a step back, she turned to run for the woods, but as she did, two others stepped from either side of the rock outcropping she had just passed. Their arms were spread wide, and Fiona knew what it felt like to be a hunted animal at bay. She turned her eyes from one predator to the next. Their eyes glistened in the morning sun. They all looked...hungry. But she sensed it was not food they were after.

“Where are you going, angel? Ain’t that what they call you…angel?” The heavier of the other two brutes spat the words out, and Fiona could see the fleck of drool at the corner of the man’s mouth. She felt her stomach tighten. “We just want to see what kind of an angel you are.”

Fiona again glanced around her. She was trapped on all sides by these outlaws. They were circling her, and she could tell that their evil excitement was building. Fiona saw Crossbrand, obviously the leader, wave to the others to close in.

“You are brave men, coming this close,” she wheezed with a mocking tone. Fiona gave her clapper one last shake, and then let it fall to her side. She tried desperately to keep any sign of fear from creeping into her voice. “But you ain’t going to be happy with what you get.”

The three men slowed, exchanging glances, but when she began to cough, they all came up to a full stop.

Fiona’s whole body heaved with the racking coughing fit that shuddered through her. As if her insides would turn out in a moment, the young woman convulsed with the effects of the fit.

“I ain’t who you think me to be,” she said in a sickly voice, gasping for air. “I have the disease bad. I’m telling you, the other lepers have even kicked me out of the village, ‘cause they say I got something different. They know I’m dying. They’re afraid it’s catching.”

As Fiona doubled over in another coughing fit, she saw the two who had emerged from behind the rock back up a step. The leader straightened up, peering at her suspiciously.

“You won’t be fooling us that way,” Crossbrand finally said with a sneer, though his tone was less certain than before.