Prologue

Prologue

Blood pounded in Deirdre's ears as she struggled to control her breathing. It was coming in short, sharp gasps, and she knew if she didn't take control, she'd devolve into pure panic—and then what use could she be? Not that she felt particularly useful here at the moment, frozen with terror, half-hidden behind a tree as men lined up with gleaming swords thirsty to shed gore and claim victory.

The men on her side might be fighting for justice, but that would not make them any less dead when the fighting began. Many lives would soon be lost, blood shed, women widowed, children left to grow without a father. The ground would be stained, haunted, and the chances that even victory would change things enough to make it worth it were bleak. James's clan, Blair's clan—and, for the last four years, Deirdre and Aoife's clan too—was going to lose many of its finest men today, and the idea that could be for naught…

Deirdre bit her lip so hard that she tasted copper, the sharp pain grounding her a little. Her shaking hand rose to her neck, clasping at the cold metal that hung around it. Blair had pressed the locket upon her before all of this, telling her to keep their parents close in her mind and heart. Deirdre's fingers traced the engraved rose on the front of the necklace, her thoughts all jumbled. That's what her father had called them, she'd heard; his little roses—but she had never known the man, not really, nor her mother. How could either of her parents protect her now, when she'd lived eighteen years and had no memory of their faces?

But though she was a woman grown, she longed for a mother to hold her now, a father to protect her. She'd seen how her niece and nephews had thrived under the loving care of their mothers—her older sisters, Blair and Jocelyn—and the nurturing guidance of their fathers, Laird James McFerguson and his right-hand man, Lachlan McAndrew. She could not help but wonder how different things would have been for her, for all of them, had her parents been able to stay by their sides. Would it have ever come to this? Would so much blood have been spilled, and be about to be spilled again?

On the battlefield, many of the men were attentively watching two figures. She could not hear the speech that James was giving over the din of battle preparation, but she had no doubt it was rousing, powerful. Beside him, Lachlan stood steadfast and ready, his sword in hand. Not the gentle fathers and husbands Deirdre had gotten to know, not her beloved brothers-in-law, not now. Instead, they were the powerful Laird and the deadly Wraith, ready to fight and, if necessary, die, for their home, their families, and their clan.

Deirdre wondered how Blair must be feeling now, standing a little further back as she watched her beloved husband and brother-in-law step forward to begin the fighting that might wipe them all out. She couldn't make out her sister's face, but despite what a strong leader Blair was, she knew there'd be fear there.

Deirdre's mind then went to the little ones. Blair's eldest, Callum, had been named after a brave guard, a hero who had died protecting her family to his last breath. The child had inherited that fighting spirit, and at almost seven years old, he'd picked up his toy sword and had to be restrained from chasing the men into battle. His younger brother, Stuart, along with Jocelyn's two children, Jack and Faith, were less aware of what was going on, but even they'd been upset in their own safe little world.

And oh, Jocelyn. Jocelyn, her usually reserved sister, had gone through hell and back, even using weapons of her own, four years ago. She and Lachlan had saved Deirdre and Aoife's life, helping them escape the clutches of their vicious cousin, Bram—the same Bram whose men now lined up, ready to kill them all without a second thought. How was Jocelyn faring now, her heart no doubt torn asunder with a mix of pride and fear for those she loved as her husband stepped forward?

Love…

Deirdre dropped her hand from the locket and stepped out a little more from behind the tree, getting a better view of the men who were poised to fight. Poised to die.

What was Aoife doing now? Deirdre missed her closest-in-age sister now more than ever, her sister who had once been her best friend. Could it really be that they'd never see each other again? It was possible, more than possible, and the thought made queasiness surge through her. There were so many things she could have said, should have done, and now it might be too late.

The sickness in Deirdre's stomach transformed into anger so quickly she could barely understand that it had happened. Fury shot through her as she considered her situation, their situation; the lives that were about to be lost on the battlefield. Maybe Lachlan would die. Maybe James. And if not them, then countless other clansmen, countless loyal soldiers, would fall. And it could have all been stopped. He could have stopped it. He had been their chance to end all of this once and for all, to finally bring this bloody war to an end and prevent any more losses in this endless, pointless, torment.

He could have saved every single person here. And yet, he'd betrayed them. He'd betrayed her.

Little roses, her father had called them, oh so long ago. Well, roses had thorns, too.

Out on the battlefield, someone let out a huge war cry. Steel clashed, and the battle began.