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None of her features were clear. But her unbound hair was a riveting flaming red. She could be across the moors in the furthest field and he’d see her.

He felt...he felt as if he knew her.

Disconcerted, Rory dismounted and took in the courtyard. As expected, the ramparts were full of men, arrows locked though the bows were not taut. Around the wall he saw more men standing. No swords drawn, but their stances were wide—they were ready to charge—and the man who had descended the stairs now stood in front of him.

‘You are not Lochmore’s Chief.’

‘You are not the McCrieffs’,’ Rory guessed.

The man gave a regal nod, but didn’t divulge any further information. So be it. Rory purposefully looked around them. ‘Is that why we face each other freely in this courtyard?’

‘You stand freely because I will it.’

‘You could not will it, if I did not freely stand here.’

The old warrior tilted his head, assessing Rory as a man, as a soldier, as an opponent. He’d been given the same look all his life from his own father. This time, however, there was humour in eyes framed by wrinkles and the slight curve lifted the harsh corners of his lips.

This McCrieff, warrior or not, wanted to smile at Rory’s words. Was the man humoured by his own words or was the joke finally on him?

‘I’ve come to address the King’s decree.’ Rory got to the point.

‘You intend to claim part of the McCrieff lands.’

Rory pulled out the royal scroll, certain the McCrieffs had received a copy as well. ‘They were no longer yours the moment Edward signed this parchment.’

The warrior didn’t glance at the seal. ‘Don’t want yours. Got one of our own.’

‘Then—’

‘I’ll ignore both.’

‘Where is your Chief?’

The man remained quiet, but he turned his gaze to men along the sides. Men who kept their weapons lowered, but who walked slowly towards them.

‘Are you or the Chief ignoring our missives as well?’ Months of preparation. Hours of manoeuvring and counselling for every circumstance. But there wasn’t a circumstance here. The sun was well risen, the day was warm, the armour was heavy and getting hot, and nothing...nothing was occurring. He wanted this done with and to return home. ‘Are you conceding the lands are ours without a fight?’

‘I’ll concede those lands will remain as they are, Rory, son of Finley and only heir.’

Rory didn’t let his gaze stray from the man in front of him, but he was acutely aware of the bowmen at the top of the gates and the men on the ground. Aware of the woman trying to hide in the door’s shadows and failing. She wore white, her hair like a bright flame, her hand now rested on her stomach as if she was holding herself in.

He knew how she felt. A trap he had stepped in and one that was unavoidable. He could take on one, maybe two of the men before him, but not all. ‘You know who I am and yet...’ Rory let the sentence drop, hoping the man in front of him would complete it.

The warrior shrugged. ‘Time would be better spent eating and drinking, no?’

‘You prepared a feast for our arrival?’

‘We knew you were coming. You wrote us a missive to that effect.’ The man turned slightly and indicated for Rory to follow him to the keep. ‘You haven’t broken your fast yet?’

Rory ate nothing other than was necessary for strength this morning. Any more and he couldn’t fight well. ‘Lochmores have never eaten at a McCrieff table.’

‘That is because you’ve never been invited before.’

This conversation was more along Paiden’s gift for circuitous conversation. What he wouldn’t give for his friend beside him to interpret. All Rory knew in this moment was if they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. Sparring with words wasn’t his way, being direct was. ‘Tell me what game this is and get on with it.’

‘Do you like games?’

‘I never played a game in my life.’ He’d been honed to be a weapon by his father and, when he could think or act for himself, he’d kept to the regime. Once the arrow was shot, it had no choice but to continue where it was aimed.

‘But this one you’ve entered into already. I know you see her.’

Anything of frustration in him left immediately and his focus remained locked on to the warrior before him. Older, but no less deadly. A worthy opponent by the way he held himself. Fearless since he had no weapon out in preparation to an attack.

His father was like this as well. But the man did keep his eyes on Rory their entire exchange. The woman, for she was the only woman visible in this courtyard, was still half-hidden. Yet this man knew she was there watching them.

‘She’s hiding from you.’

‘Little escapes my observations.’

‘Who are you?’ Rory said.

‘I’ll introduce myself and my daughter when you’ve entered the McCrieffs’ Hall, son of Lochmore.’

So be it. Rory turned to signal his men. A fatal mistake. A bite of steel against his side, a harsh grasp of one arm, then the other.

There was time to free himself, to fight, but Rory knew it would be brief. He could negotiate for his men better alive than dead. With a shove at the men holding him, he allowed the wrenching of his arms behind his back as he faced the McCrieff.

The warrior gave a knowing smile. ‘I said you’re invited, I didn’t say as a guest.’

Chapter Three

Hurry, hurry, hurry. The mantra hurtled itself through Ailsa’s thoughts faster than her feet carried her to the safety of her rooms.

Lochmores on McCrieff land. Arrows and swords drawn, shields low, but ready, and one armour-clad man riding freely into their courtyard.

Shocked, she had stood on the steps and gawked. He was...huge. Broad of shoulder, his arms twice as thick as any man’s she’d ever seen. His horse was the largest, because he was the largest. All her life she’d been surrounded by warriors, fierce, protective. But there was no one like him...this stranger who rode through their gates as if he owned McCrieff Castle.

He’d worn no helmet, but the distance between them was not far and she had seen the glint of determination as he surveyed his surroundings. Everything about him screamed of dominance, of power, of ownership. He was a ruler and, like all rulers, he held himself as if he owned it all.

She had watched as he minutely adjusted the reins of the great beast he rode, as he dismounted and strode towards her father. The sound of the chainmail slapping against leather, the crunch of pebbles under his feet, the way his brown hair brushed against his forehead when the wind picked up.

She had felt the way her fingers tingled as he swiped away the errant curl. And in that, she knew she hadn’t only gawked because he was a Lochmore who held some power. She’d gawked because he was a man. And the shiver through her body had nothing to do with the slight wind at the time and all to do with the man whose searching eyes found her.

She reached the top of the stairs only to find the winding hallway to her chambers empty as well. Everyone was down below or in hiding. This part of the keep was her refuge and domain. But she didn’t feel safe.

She hadn’t felt safe downstairs hiding partially surrounded by thick walls and a great door. She had thought herself well hid and certainly well beyond the man’s acknowledgement.

Yet, his eyes hadn’t remained on her father, they had scanned his surroundings, finding the men with arrows and swords, finding...her. Her heart had skipped before it thudded strong in her chest as their gazes met. He’d been too far for her to discern his features with clarity, too far for her to hear the conversation they’d held properly.

It hadn’t mattered. The distance hadn’t taken away the impact of his gaze on her and it hadn’t masked some of the words exchanged with her father.

Words, a name she never thought to hear. His name was Rory. Rory. A name that shouldn’t hold significance to her except that the old healer had told her a fable. A mere story, but it was lodged as a fact firmly inside her thoughts and memories. She’d curse the healer for telling that story if it didn’t risk her very soul blaspheming the dead.

Could he be the same Rory? Ailsa scoffed at herself for thinking that thought, rushed into her room and slammed the door. No one here. Good, for her knees trembled so badly she leaned against the door and forced them to lock before she slid to the floor in a useless puddle.

He couldn’t be the same Rory, even if Rhona’s story was true. Rory was a common enough name. And even if he was that baby, should it make a difference? No. Her friend Magnus was dead for ever. Just last winter two McCrieffs guarding the border had died when several Lochmores rushed across the border and engaged in a fight.

No a name shouldn’t make a difference. The only difference between how McCrieffs treated Lochmores was when a Lochmore strode through the courtyard, her father had invited him in, and then...and then confiscated his weaponry.

As he should. Her father should have also marched him to the dungeon or beheaded him right then and there. Instead, there had been an invite for breaking fast and more words exchanged that she couldn’t fully understand since most were lost with the distance between them.

Pushing herself away from the door, Ailsa hastily grabbed her shears she kept in her room and strategically folded them into the pleats of her belt and gown. Her father might have confiscated Lochmore’s weapons, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have hers. If Lochmores were invited to dine at McCrieffs’ table, she would be ready.

* * *

‘Your Chief is bedridden and you are Tanist,’ Rory said, repeating her father’s words slowly.

He sounded stunned. Ailsa was stunned as well, but at least this fact she knew. Everything else was as much a surprise to her as it was to the man who sat on her father’s left side while she sat at his right.

Her shears tucked into her belt, she had descended the stairs, a roaring in her ears as introductions were made. As the proximity to this Lochmore filled in the details the distance of the courtyard had not revealed.

His eyes were not the dark brown of earth, but held the light of a gem lit behind it. His size was formidable as she’d thought. Yet it wasn’t that which made her eyes unerringly fall to him again and again. There was something about him that compelled her. It felt like a tincture of awe and wariness.

She shouldn’t have felt either. Lochmores didn’t deserve admiration, and as for wariness...her father had unarmed them all. They weren’t out on the battlefield, but in the comfort of McCrieff Hall, eating and drinking food. Decent food, too. Not the usual fare. Her father had ordered a true feast for this occasion. Ailsa had never seen the Hall so full. There were three tables in the hall. Theirs, the smallest that sat no more than ten on one side, was perpendicular to the two larger tables. Lochmores kept to one side, their backs to the wall and they faced the inside, faced the McCrieffs.

She focused her thoughts on that. There might be no battlefield, but the men had sat as if there was. That was the cause of her wariness. Not this man who bore the name of Rory.

‘The Chief is bedridden and has been for months,’ Frederick replied.

‘And you didn’t think to notify us, though we sent letters regarding the King’s demand?’ Rory said.

‘His illness has nothing to do with our lack of reply, Lochmore.’

‘Then you are the one who ignored them so we could dine here. A letter to that effect would have been more agreeable. Or at least more comfortable for me, since I would have worn different clothing.’

‘Your being comfortable doesn’t concern me.’

‘Nor my safety.’

‘You’re alive.’

‘Without a weapon, so I wonder for how long.’

‘Isn’t it enough that you eat at our table?’ Ailsa knew it was rude to talk around her father, but would not hold her tongue when it seemed the King made demands she knew nothing of. A serving tray laid out with vegetables and covered in a rosemary sauce was presented, giving her an opportunity to break the argument between the two men. ‘Are these leeks not fine enough for you?’

Rory’s gaze fell to her and she refused to look away. A full dining hall and her father between them and yet no one else existed. The tray lowered and broke their line of sight, but only for a moment. A moment more while his eyes remained on the tray and the leeks were laid upon his trencher.

Those few brief breaths allowed her to reflect on the curl of his brown hair, the squareness of his jaw, the strong brow with eyebrows that slashed as if they had a purpose. He looked as if he had a purpose.

Then his gaze was on her again. ‘The leeks look delicious,’ he said, stabbing one with his knife, ‘but are insufficient if I wanted to defend myself.’

What was happening here? ‘Why do you need to defend yourself?’

His mouth quirked as if she told something amusing. ‘We are enemies, are we not?’

Frustrated at her useless question and his fruitless answer, Ailsa searched the Hall for the truth.

She sat where she always sat with her father since Hamish no longer could sit at the same table, yet she didn’t feel as if she was in the same chair, the same Hall or in the same place she’d always been.

This wasn’t a battle and yet it felt as though it was. Deadly silence and watchful stares. Food was served, but no trenchers were shared. Every man had his own goblet. Where the extra spoons, food or goblets came from she didn’t know. She also didn’t know how her father arranged such elaborate plans without her knowing.

On a typical day, by now there would be banter, and arrangements made for tomorrow. Instead, a few of the McCrieffs farthest away from the Lochmores murmured heatedly, and one Lochmore closest to their table kept up a conversation no one engaged in.

This wasn’t a typical meal and, no matter how much she observed everyone here, she knew there was more division in the room than that between Lochmore and McCrieff. Only she couldn’t identify the ‘others’ her father had spoken of.

Only Rory and her father exchanged words and she’d never heard her father be so diplomatic or evasive before. They were enemies, but something else was amiss. She needed him to convey to her why.

‘Is Hamish here?’ Rory addressed her father.

‘Upstairs,’ Frederick said. ‘It will be necessary for you to see him after we break the fast.’

‘Necessary for what?’ Ailsa demanded.

Frederick was turned away from her and Ailsa couldn’t see her father’s face, but she saw Rory’s. Keen intelligence burned in his eyes and he must have seen her father’s hesitation. She saw it in the slight tenseness of Frederick’s shoulders before Rory answered.

‘Necessary to discuss the King’s granting McCrieff land to Lochmores.’

‘Land!’ Ailsa cried.

Rory glanced to Frederick before he pinned her with a dark gaze. ‘Why else did you think I was invited to eat leeks with you?’

Ailsa pushed away from the table. The sharp scrape echoed in the Hall and earned her glances.

‘Ailsa, please.’ Her father turned to her, his eyes darting to others in case their conversation was overheard.

This. This was what had been plaguing the clan. Not her father’s position or Hamish’s illness. An English King decreed McCrieff land to Lochmores and they were here to collect.

Aware of Rory’s eyes on her, she laid her hand on her father’s arm. ‘All of it?’

‘Some,’ her father whispered low. ‘Along the water.’

Reeling, Ailsa gripped her father’s arm. Her father had been acting strange for weeks. Nothing untoward for everything was kept to a routine that was sustained by the Chief before him. Hamish was still too cognisant to do otherwise. Months of her father attending council meetings, inspecting land, conversing with tenants. So much to do and more so since John Balliol was crowned King of Scots last November.

Many Highlanders believed he was nothing more than a vassal of the English King Edward. But some supported him more openly than others. The Lochmore clan was one of those...

It became clear to her. The Lochmore clan supported the English King and in doing so had been granted part of their lands.

Land that McCrieffs firmly maintained was theirs and which had been fought over time and time again. It was politically crucial land since it contained water and naturally separated the clans. For her, it was important because it fed McCrieffs and provided foliage she needed for remedies. She wanted to stand and wave her arms. To shout for them all to leave the land alone. To lose such an advantage was detrimental to her and the clan. Hamish, in his day, would never have agreed to such a granting.

Hamish would have called men to arms, he would have called for battle. He would never have let Lochmores on his land, let alone in the courtyard. But her father, whose loyalty she had never questioned before, practically invited them here and prepared a feast for them.

She couldn’t cause a scene, but she would say what she needed to. ‘You can’t.’

‘Ailsa,’ Frederick said.

‘Why can’t he?’ Rory said. ‘If he is Tanist, with the agreement he has authority to do so. Even if he didn’t, it is already done by King’s decree and by mine.’

‘That land is not yours,’ Ailsa said.

Rory’s eyes went to Fredericks. ‘She didn’t know. What is happening here, Tanist?’

She’d like to know as well. Since Balliol’s claim, many secrets were being kept. Her father held private meetings, but so did Hamish. Her father acted as though he didn’t notice these meetings and, though she asked, she wasn’t privy to her father’s secrets. But everything about their behaviours filled her with unease. She couldn’t be the only one who observed their leaders’ movements. The ‘others’ would have seen as well.

‘You have to have some ideas,’ Frederick said. At Rory’s shrug, he added, ‘You can’t be a Lochmore and not want more,’ Frederick continued, his voice low so that if people tried to listen, they would not hear. ‘Especially, since it’s about to be handed to you.’

The King hadn’t decreed that all McCrieff land should be handed to the Lochmores, just the land against the border, so that couldn’t be what his father was hinting at. Even confused, Ailsa felt relief. Until...

Until Rory’s eyes locked with hers and she knew he understood a fraction of a moment before she did how Lochmores could gain more without a fight.

‘All you need to do is marry my daughter.’

Chapter Four

‘No!’ Ailsa cried.

Lochmore made some sound she couldn’t determine. Her father wasn’t looking at her even though she had never raised her voice in her life. That didn’t bode well especially when he stood to address the hall. His words were formal as he declared there were important matters to be discussed. No one stood to question or protest. It appeared that everyone had assumed as much. Fuming, wondering how she couldn’t have known, Ailsa followed her father when he retired to the room in the back. She felt rather than saw Rory follow behind her.

It was a small room with several doors and she saw with some consternation there were also provisions on a table and several chairs. It was all previously laid out for comfort and for private discussions. Her father expected and planned well.

For her to marry a Lochmore.

She wanted to do more than raise her voice, she wanted to brandish her shears. Secrets. Her father had been acting odd for months. Why had she not suspected this? Or at least demanded answers to his behaviour. But how could she have guessed what questions to ask him?

She’d been telling herself he’d been worried about Hamish, about the clan’s discontent. She never could have guessed this. But she should have suspected something because her father was never worried or alarmed.

She was the one who worried. Especially when her father ordered her to hide when the enemy clan arrived instead of providing her an escort as she tended her clan. She was the one who grew alarmed the moment her father brought her and Rory into this tiny room and gave her that wistful paternal look. The one that asked for forgiveness even before she knew there was something to forgive about.

This wasn’t forgivable and she’d have words with her father. For now, she needed to make clear to the Lochmore her position in this matter. Yet when she met Rory’s gaze, the emotions roiling in the depth shocked her anew. Surprise definitely, but something else she refused to believe. His consideration.

‘Never!’ The word felt inadequate to express her rejection, so she said the simple word with as much vehemence as she felt.

She knew she shocked her father. She had always been the sensible one. After all, her mother had died when her sisters were born. By then she’d already started helping the clan healer. Everything she’d done up to this point was for others. Now, it appeared her father thought she’d automatically sacrifice herself. Not this time.

‘Ailsa, think about this.’ Her father sat in one of the chairs and used the voice she’d heard thousands of times before. That of a father to his daughter. But if he was acting like a father, he wouldn’t ask this.

‘I am thinking about this. How could I not know that our land was given away? And it appears as if I’m the only McCrieff who doesn’t know! Me, the healer, your daughter, who needs the marsh and soil. You know how important that land is!’

She planted there. Rhona, the old healer and the healer before that, planted there. There was need and tradition rooted in that dirt. It was dangerous, yes, since it was on the border, but it was the best place for certain necessary herbs.

‘He can’t have the land. They can’t have the land!’

‘A king decreed it.’ Rory crossed his arms and leaned against a wall. Her father said nothing.

She tightened her lips before she could commit treason. Pointing at Rory, but addressing her father, she said, ‘I want him gone.’

The Lochmore in question only said, ‘No.’

She waited for an explanation—none came. All the while she felt everything, betrayal being foremost. She had been kept in the dark about the King’s decree and McCrieffs’ obligations to Lochmores. She certainly hadn’t been told she had to marry.

‘No?’ Brandishing her shears, she strode over and pointed them at him. ‘Did you know of this?’

‘Ailsa! Put them away!’ Frederick called out. She ignored him.

‘What...this?’ the Lochmore replied with barely a glance at the shears.

The marriage, the welcoming feast, the King’s decree!

‘Any part of it,’ she bit out.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. ‘Yes.’

So only the female was kept in the dark even though it was her life in play. ‘Father, I ask for privacy.’

‘This matter must stay secret, so here we remain until it’s resolved,’ Frederick said, leaning further in his chair.

Ordered about like property. Her father had never treated her as such. Shame washed hotly with the betrayal. Her father deigned to bargain her off to a Lochmore. A clan that was, even now, their enemy. All her life, she’d been told to run or hide from Lochmores should she should spy them. Now she was told to marry and bear his children.

There wasn’t a redeeming factor to him. Lochmores knew nothing of McCrieff land, the way their hills sloped or how the sun hit the trees. He wasn’t amused by the erratic guttering of the worn paths that wound around the back of the castle or dismayed by the leaking corner in the chapel’s roof.

Even if he wasn’t a Lochmore, he was a man she had never met. His age could have been anything. His countenance, his strength and personality could have been the vilest of all. But her father, who never gambled, never guessed on the weather, risked her happiness and that of their clan that Rory Lochmore would be suitable for her.

‘Is this what you will decide with my sisters as well? Just sell them off to the best alliance?’

‘Sisters?’ Rory interjected.

Ailsa huffed. ‘Two of them and too young for your plotting, Lochmore.’

‘Ailsa!’ her father reprimanded. ‘Think it through.’

‘I have and I want no part of this!’

Ailsa strode to the door where the noises flooded in. It appeared by their absence that conversation began. She could storm from here. Nothing would resolve and everyone would know. Let them. Her friend had been murdered by Lochmores. How could her father ask this of her?

Her hand was almost on the latch, when her father banged his hand against the table. It made her jump. It made her turn.

The pounding of a fist was a demanding sound and one she would have ignored, but she couldn’t ignore the look in his eyes. Her father’s eyes pleaded with her. Her father never pleaded.

Did he plead with his daughter who had lost her precious friend? If so, her answer would remain no. A political alliance? Countries were built and torn down. She was a healer, what did she care for alliances except that they often stopped—

Ah. A quick twist in her heart and her mind listened. Political alliance stopped war...stopped deaths from occurring.

What care did she have for Lochmores? None, even though Rhona tried to soften her with a story about a babe named Rory, who was born and lost. No! She wouldn’t think of that tale now. And she wouldn’t forgive Lochmores for Magnus’s death.

As a healer she had an obligation to stop further deaths. Now wasn’t the time to not care for others. Now wasn’t the time to be selfish even if it was justified and in self-preservation. Though their numbers were great compared to the few Lochmores who travelled here today, if McCrieffs waged a battle only more Lochmores would arrive and these wouldn’t allow their swords to be taken.

Allow. That moment when her father captured Lochmore, their men had been quick, but something about this warrior’s manner... He’d allowed his capture...maybe even expected it the moment he stepped through the gates.

What did she know of this man, the only heir to the Lochmore’s Chief? Formidable even now though he stood silently and watched the exchange between a daughter and her father.

This man; her husband? Never, but what wouldn’t she do for her clan as daughter to the Tanist, as their healer? She would do anything. With utmost resolve she turned away from the door.

* * *

Rory regretted the small shocked sound he released when Frederick had made his declaration. Through all the challenges in his life, he thought himself better equipped to mask his emotions.

But this challenge, a Lochmore marrying a McCrieff, wasn’t one he could ever have prepared for. It seemed Frederick’s daughter felt the same.

She was one flick of the lock away from leaving the room before her father brought her back. From where he leaned against the wall, he couldn’t see the looks exchanged. He couldn’t determine why in the silence that followed she did listen to him and sat in a chair though the shears stayed available on her lap.

Anticipating that finally she would behave as other women, to bow to the orders of her father, to present mild and pleasing manners, he kept his gaze to her. Yet though she sat, her chin was raised, her fingers clasping the shears. No meekness at all and far too much defiance. He couldn’t predict this woman’s behaviour and thoughts.

But though she was tense and her brow was creased, she continued to sit. She was reasonably contemplating her father’s words.

It was time to do so himself. If it was even true. ‘You want me to marry your daughter?’ Each word felt unreal.

Frederick exhaled. Part relief that his words were listened to, part something else...like grief or loss.

‘Yes. Marry her. As she is my daughter, you would have influence on this clan.’

Influence, but not power. ‘You would remain Tanist and inherit the rule of McCrieffs.’

‘Of course,’ Frederick replied. ‘Further, there would be no guarantee that you would gain any more than that.’

A swift glance to the woman at his left revealed she was listening, but the tight grasp on the shears told him the cost of her remaining silent.

This was a woman who thought with her mind. She was beautiful and intelligent. Such a daughter would be prized and even an old swordsman would have hopes that his issue would do better than merely marrying a man from an enemy clan, even if that man was the Chief’s son.

‘You are saying, that even upon your death, I, as a Lochmore, may not be accepted by McCrieffs.’

‘In truth,’ Frederick said, ‘it would be...beneficial for me to remain ruler of McCrieffs.’

‘A bright future for me. Marrying a woman, who doesn’t want to be married. To marry into a clan, who may never accept me. And all of this to inherit nothing more than what a king already granted me.’ Rory crossed his arms, watched the play of emotions in Frederick’s eyes until he saw what he needed to see. ‘But that is not all you want.’

A fierce gleam in the warrior’s eyes, before he hid it with a shrug. ‘What I expect and what is possible, what could be, are two different matters.’

Could be. Rory was right. The generations of animosity were too long furrowed into the families of McCrieffs and Lochmores. Even if they married and had issue, the divide could be permanent.

Or it could be more. But if he didn’t marry Ailsa, there would never be the chance of something more. A chance to combine the clans. He choked down that bit of hope which had no place in these negotiations.

‘Not a generous offer. What makes you think I’ll accept?’ Rory said as evenly as possible. No tone of flippancy, no curiosity. Nothing to reveal his roiling emotions at the McCrieffs’ leader suggesting a hope for his future or his descendants. ‘I am a Lochmore, son of a chief, and will be Chief one day. I am a not a pawn to be moved at the whimsy of anyone.’