Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The Backwoods of Virginia Colony, 1748

R ory Macleod, by all accounts, feared little. When he was a child, he could be caught jumping from the Laird’s barn roof on a dare, or stealing Mrs. MacCorkill’s mince pies from the kitchens, which every bairn on the Isle of Raasay knew was the most reckless stunt one could pull. As he got older, that daring spirit never left him. He’d fought in clan skirmishes, and then against the crown in the rebellion.

But Rory had finally been brought low. Humbled like he had never been before and in dire need of something to lift his spirits, the sound of water tumbling over rocks had him thanking a God he no longer believed in. He’d promised himself he would keep his brothers alive. It was a simple promise, but to his never-ending irritation, it had become increasingly more complicated by the day. Fresh water would improve things immensely.

Cailean, his youngest brother, staggered forward at the blistering pace Rory had set, shivering and bouncing off the tree trunks of the dense forest like a drunkard in the midst of a fling. Their middle brother, Rabbie, had stopped up ahead to rest between thick, gnarled trunks and towering pines. They’d remained hidden amongst the red and green and orange leafed trees, away from marauding British Regulars and curious colonists, for much of their weeks-long journey. Their steps should have been measured and delicate, as there were crisp brown leaves underfoot, but bone-weary men trudged, they did not sneak.

Rory gritted his teeth and bade his brothers to press on, farther into the mountains of Virginia Colony. They needed to be as far from the coast as possible, and they had to be over these mountains and in New France when winter fully took the land in its icy grip.

Twilight chased them over the mountaintop, and there’d been no water since earlier that morning. Rory, listening hard, thought he must have imagined the creek, for he could hear only the unfamiliar songs of unfamiliar birds and Cailean’s ragged breathing. For the tenth time that day, a blood-red bird, sparrow-sized or a little larger, swooped through the trees and nearly stopped his heart. Anything crimson was bound to do so. Cursed redcoats.

When the two brothers caught up to the third, Rory grabbed Cailean by his white cotton shirtfront, stained brown now with sweat and grime, and pushed Rabbie from behind with his other hand. He was starting to fear that the two of them had the audacity to die before he’d given them permission.

“No’ much farther, lads,” he told them gruffly. He didn’t want to worry them with a weak voice, but hell, the knot in his gut that he’d thought was hunger was swiftly revealing itself to be fear. They’d been walking for days—miles and miles—through thick woods, rolling hills, and now steep, sloping mountains made from easily dislodged rocks. Twice already, quiet, careful Rabbie had nearly fallen off into a steep ravine.

Two weeks ago, they’d been able to follow a wide river inland, so wide you could barely see a man on the other side. They’d followed it west, away from the coast, away from their captor. They’d feasted on fish Rabbie had been able to spear with a whittled stick, caught rabbits in rudimentary traps, eaten bitter apples that Cailean had stolen from cidery orchards under the cover of night. Soon, however, Rory had realized that the river was too populated for them to continue unseen. It seemed that every few hours, they’d come across another ferryman, paddling passengers across the river, so they’d stayed to the woods.

In the last week, after abandoning the river, they’d had considerable trouble rustling up something to eat. The day before, they’d found no more than four curiously blue eggs in a bird’s unguarded nest, which they’d eaten raw, silently, shells and all. What was worse, it was getting noticeably colder. Cailean and Rabbie both had only long wool socks with breeches and thin cotton shirts open at their throats, but no waistcoats. Had they been seen by anyone, they would have been considered completely undressed.

Rory had no socks, but trews that reached his boots, as was the fashion for farmers in these parts, and had also managed to steal an ill-fitting, sleeveless waistcoat and white handkerchief, which he knotted around his throat in case they happened upon anyone in the woods. He’d also stolen a small knife, hidden now in his waistband. None of them had a cloak or a hat, and for the past few nights they’d had to practically sleep on top of one another for warmth.

What Rory wouldn’t do for a thick woolen tam to pull about his ears. The frown lines between his black eyebrows were becoming permanent. They’ll live, he promised himself again.

He’d never feared death—not really. The first time he’d thrown his fist into someone’s jaw, he’d been all of eight years old, and the jaw had belonged to a boy four years older. As Big Thomas beat him back and onto the ground, Rory had smiled, blood spilling from split lips. His father had been the one to break up the fight, and split his hide worse than Big Thomas would have done anyway.

He’d fought years later in clan warfare. The last time he’d raised a sword he’d been unwillingly ensnared in a rebellion against the crown. But each and every time he’d stared death down and laughed. It felt wholly different, now, with his brothers by his side. For them, he would not cross over.

“Can we no’ stop a while, Rory?” Cailean asked, his voice raspy and weak. Rory gazed at his youngest brother and tried not to think too much about the pain in Cailean’s brown eyes, nor the caked dirt in his black curls.

Cailean had always viewed cleanliness more important than Godliness, and perhaps also essential to his devilishness. He’d been a handsome, self-indulgent boy, often sought after by women twice his age. Now Cailean was reduced to someone Rory barely recognized. Hell, he looked closer to death than to the lively dandy he’d once been. His once slender but well-muscled frame had deteriorated in the last months, and in its place, thin skin draped over bones that jutted out in hideous looking angles, and every time Rory looked at him too closely, he found himself trembling with both rage and fear.

“No’ yet, Cailean,” Rory said as he attempted a smile, though his lips cracked painfully with the effort. Rory then looked back at Rabbie, who remained characteristically silent as he lagged behind them. Stumbling forward with his eyes closed, his freckled face was pale, his breathing uneven. Rabbie was thick and tall, similar in size to Rory, but beyond that he shared few traits with Rory and none with Cailean. Auburn locks fell over Rabbie’s brow, which he swept away to reveal piercing green eyes, the color of newly sprouted leaves. His face was more diamond than square, his coloring more golden than black, as Rory’s and Cailean’s were.

Rory could tell that Rabbie still had some of his strength, but not much. “Soon, Cailean,” he said, turning back to the youngest. “We’ll find a drink first, aye?”

“Aye,” Cailean agreed weakly. He had a charming soul, like their mother, yet had her same terrible moods and affinity for finer things. Rabbie was like their father: quiet, quick-witted. Callous when the situation demanded it. Rory seemed to have gotten each of his parent’s worst qualities, and none of their best ones.

Thinking of his parents, both long dead, didn’t usually bring about any emotion in Rory, but today, lost in the wilderness of a strange land with depleted hopes for survival, the memory of his mother’s face tugged at his heart. Rory cursed himself again for leading his brothers into this uncertain future. This was all his fault.

“Water,” Rabbie rasped suddenly through badly chapped lips. Rory caught up to him and saw the stream over his brother’s shoulder, the last bits of sunlight dancing golden over the moving water. The three of them stumbled forward with renewed energy and found themselves on the bank of a wide, shallow creek, well-hidden on either side by trees as wide as two men and twisting brambles whose thorns tugged at their threadbare clothing as they wove through them.

Rabbie dropped to his knees in the water-lathed stones and Rory watched with interest, as he always did, when Rabbie crossed himself and bent down to cup handfuls of water to his hungering mouth.

“Come,” Rory coaxed the youngest forward, but when he turned to face Cailean, his eyes widened in alarm.

Cailean was swaying weakly, his brown eyes staring but unfocused. His mouth was hanging open, and his hands were suspended in front of him.

“Good Lord, Rory,” Cailean murmured, his eyes glassy. “We’ve died and gone to Heaven. We’re there now, are we no’?” Fuck. Cailean was delirious. Rory met him in two strides and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck as the maniac tried to walk out into the rocky creek with his tattered boots still on.

“What are you doing, Cailean?” Rory growled, but Cailean leapt forward again like a dog on a tether.

“An angel,” he sputtered. Rory pulled him back violently against his chest. His little brother fought against him with what little strength he had. “An angel,” he repeated. “Do you no’ see her?”

Rory was stricken with panic. He knew men hallucinated before death—he’d seen it many times before. He pulled Cailean’s face roughly towards his own with both hands, cupping his jaw and searching his eyes, half-lidded with dehydration and fatigue.

“Come now, lad,” he said, refusing to let his voice break. “Look at me.” Cailean wouldn’t take his eyes from the trees across the creek. “Look at me,” he pleaded roughly, shaking him. It was in Rory’s very bones to react to fear with anger, and the way his brother was carrying on terrified him.

“Look, Rory,” Cailean said dreamily. “Can ye no’ see her?” Rory clutched at the rags his youngest brother was wearing, trying to force his face straight to look at his own.

“Rory,” Rabbie yelled from the creek bed. Rory instinctively clutched at the stolen blade in his waistband before hurtling up and leaving Cailean behind him, running into the creek to put Rabbie behind him, prepared as always to protect them at any cost. Rory narrowed his eyes and searched both the creek and the trees on the far bank for an enemy to kill.

Instead, Rory spotted two large, gray eyes, eyes that belonged to a mythological creature of great power and wrath. A selkie, he thought, or perhaps a mermaid. He would have done well to hope that she was the former, as mermaids almost always foretold disaster, but as it was, Rory’s mind went completely blank. When he was able to drag his eyes from hers, they moved down past the nose and became fixated on her lips, open in a frozen gasp. That mouth was attached to a sun-darkened face, long, tangled brown locks that fell loose over her shoulders, and a small, bony body, all wrapped in dull green skirts.

Rory straightened from his crouch slowly, transfixed by the creature, and for one solid moment was not wholly focused on his brothers’ wellbeing. His brothers, too, were completely silent. The only sound in the world came from the water, falling over smooth rocks on her way to the valley far below from whence they’d escaped.

The girl across the creek suddenly cried out. She dropped a fishing net and lifted her skirts, sprinting towards them, soaking herself as she rushed forward through black, knee-deep water that sloshed wildly as it hit her legs. Rory felt frozen in time, confounded by her face, her form, her frantic running, until he turned to see what she was running towards: Cailean.

The bottom half of his brother’s body was lying on the creek bed, but the other half, and arguably the more important half, was in the creek, his head against a large rock with water sluicing over it. For a long moment, and perhaps too long, Rory stood there in horror, but when he saw the dark red blood being carried downstream, he jumped and splashed violently towards his brother, though the girl had gotten there first.

She had dragged his brother’s head from the gentle rapids and was cradling it in her lap before Rory could utter a word to stop her, whispering something into Cailean’s ear as she pushed the dark, wet curls off his brow with delicate fingers. She was not a girl—he could tell from the faint lines around her eyes, the rough knuckles of her slender fingers, the voice she was using to soothe his brother. She was a woman, perhaps a little younger than he was. Rory shook his head and forced his attention to Cailean, whose eyes lolled as his head fell against the tiny woman’s stomach. She was holding his brother like a baby. He’d never thought of Cailean as big—he was the smallest of the three of them—but he looked like the giant Jock O’Noth in comparison to the woman caressing his face.

Rory pressed his lips together before taking three large steps forward, stopping with difficulty above the two of them. The woman didn’t look up, even as the shadow of his body fell across hers. Instead, she set about tearing her badly stained skirt. What the devil? She held up the cloth to her mouth and bit down with straight, white teeth, tearing a strip from her green dress. As her hem rose, Rory saw then that the woman was wearing tattered men’s boots.

“My angel,” Cailean repeated, opening his eyes in wonder as she wrapped the torn cotton about his head. Her slender arms looked almost breakable, yet they worked swiftly and with surprising strength.

“Rory?” Rabbie asked gruffly but quietly from behind him.

“Stay back,” Rory commanded Rabbie, his voice booming, then passed his knife from his right hand to his left. “Are there more of ye in the trees?” he demanded of the woman, but she ignored him. She continued to bandage a swooning Cailean. “I said, are there more of ye,” Rory roared, and he saw with gut-twisting regret that the woman’s hands trembled ever so slightly. Well, I’d meant to scare her. Hadn’t I?

“There’s no need for all that shouting,” she said plainly after taking a deep breath. “You’re Scots, aren’t you?” she asked in a husky voice, as gravelly as the river rocks under his boots. When she looked up at him for the first time, he felt the breath leave his lungs. Her eyes weren’t gray—they were bluer than those curious eggshells from yesterday.

“Aye, from bonnie Scotland,” Cailean moaned below her, and she turned her head to smile down at him.

“Ye’ll shut yer mouth, Cailean,” Rory warned.

“Eyes,” Cailean breathed into her face, “just like bluebells.” She shushed him gently as she rocked him, and Rory felt his hands clench slowly into white-knuckled fists.

“His wound needs to be sewn, and he looks as though he needs to eat and rest,” she said, turning back to Rory, straining her neck to meet his gaze, as he was practically on top of her. “Are you being sought by someone?”

Rory didn’t know how to answer that question. He honestly didn’t know if he could lie to this woman, which troubled him greatly. Rory had never in his life had trouble lying to anyone, especially a woman.

“Nae,” he managed to mutter, and truth be told his stomach lurched. Her gentle hands alone, her soft, quick fingers caressing his baby brother, drew his eye. He didn’t want to see those bony wrists in shackles. Obviously, the exhaustion had made him go slightly mad.

“Then I won’t be at any risk in assisting you?” she asked as she lifted Cailean’s head from her skirts and placed him gently on dry ground. She stood and squinted at Rory’s face, the top of her head barely meeting his broad chest.

Rory didn’t answer right away. His brothers needed food, needed shelter, but for some odd reason, he didn’t want to risk the woman’s safety. Aye, if Crawley caught up to them, she could be in real danger. He glowered down at her and was surprised she stood her ground. Rory was used to a certain trepidation that hid just beneath the surface when people looked upon his scowl.

“Rory,” Rabbie said quietly from behind him. His middle brother’s lips pressed into a tight frown as he nodded over at Cailean’s prone form, crumpled there onto the bank. Rory understood his meaning at once. Rory raked his fingers through his black hair and nearly growled with frustration.

“You can’t go on,” the woman said bluntly, putting her hands on her bony hips. It seemed that she’d understood Rabbie’s pointed look as well. “It’s just a little farther to my home, where you’ll rest for the night. Lord knows you need a good night’s sleep.” Rory raised his eyebrows in surprise at the command in her voice, then glanced at Cailean, who did look quite pitiful. His eyes fluttered open and closed just as quickly. “Help me to stand him up,” she said, pointing.

Rory kneeled down obediently, so quickly he barely had time to realize he’d been given orders, and lifted Cailean from the ground.

“And help him cross the water,” she instructed, pointing at Rabbie. Rabbie, for all his stoicism, had begun to sway.

Though Rory was provoked by her high-handedness, he was just too tired to argue. He let Cailean, whose forehead was still bleeding, lean against the tiny woman, then wrapped Rabbie’s thick arm around his own shoulder. The four of them waded across the stream at its most shallow point in pairs towards the other side of the bank, and on, he assumed, towards her homestead.