Prologue

The Scottish Highlands, summer, 1705

Marcus and Erin MacLean's wedding

Weddings were supposed to be a time of joy, but looking around the Great Hall of MacLean Castle gave Daemon MacMillan no sense of delight at all. He would happily have been somewhere else, if he had a choice. But the bride was kin-by-marriage, and he would not forsake his responsibilities to stand with his wife's clan, even if it made his heart ache for her.

Erin wasn't much like his Rowan. That was a small mercy, at least. His Rowan had been gentle and lady-like, not like her warrior-maid sister.

Rowan. Everything made him think of her, despite the fact that a year had passed since her death of a lingering winter fever. Rowan would have been delighted to see her warrior-woman sister wed, and to Marcus MacLean on top of it. She'd often told him she hoped that one of her younger siblings would choose one of the MacLean siblings as a husband, creating a formal tie where one of friendship had existed for years.

Rowan would have been in the thick of the celebrations, laughing with the bride and dancing with her sisters. It was all Daemon could do to remain and be polite to his hosts, instead of fleeing as soon as the ceremony was over. Ironic as well.

His relationship to Rowan had never been one like those of bard's tales. No wild, passionate romance, love at first sight, or once-in-a-lifetime connection between them. He'd simply married her, as the eldest of the MacDougall clan, and over time a quiet, slow-growing bond had formed between them, rooting like a flowering shrub between his down-to-earth nature and her gentle light.

How ironic, that it was only when the light was gone and the bush had been uprooted that he noted their absence. For all that it had been no great, romantic love between them, he still felt her absence and the loss of her keenly. And it was worse here, surrounded by her kin, watching as her sister married a man she clearly loved.

He wouldn't have stayed at all, save that he was an invited guest, and he needed to discuss potential alliance plans with Laird Darren MacLean. He was determined to honor his bond to Clan MacDougall, and now it appeared that Marcus MacLean would be Laird MacDougall's heir, and the laird when Kaelin MacDougall passed away. That made an amiable relationship with the future laird's elder brother important.

"Me Laird MacMillan." A familiar voice made him turn.

Lyla. Twenty-three years old and very similar in looks to her sisters. All three of the MacDougall daughters had inherited the same raven-black hair, fair porcelain skin and sky-blue eyes. The sight of her made his heart ache.

Still, he forced himself to be courteous. "Lady Lyla." The youngest daughter of Laird MacDougall had been recently kidnapped.

She made a face at him, even as her cheeks colored with a blush. "Och, ye dinnae need tae be so formal. Ye always called me just Lyla afore."

"When I was wed tae yer sister, aye." He was still allied to her father by that marriage, and by bonds of friendship and respect, but the easy relationship was gone, and he had no desire to pretend it wasn't. The wounds to his heart were too deep, and being around any of the MacDougalls was like adding salt to the wound.

"Ye're still part o' the family, are ye nae?"

"I'm nae a MacDougall, nor wed tae one. I'm yer father's ally and friend, but nae more than that." Exasperation and heartache made his voice sharper than he might have wanted it to be. He paid it no mind.

"Even so, there's nae reason fer ye tae be so distant." Her voice was steady, even lightly chiding, but there was an undercurrent to it he wasn't sure he liked. Was she afraid of him?

There was a part of Daemon that felt distressed at the idea of making one of the MacDougall sisters uncomfortable. But there was another part of him that was glad of anything that might put distance between them.

He didn't understand why Lyla would choose to speak to him, when he had to remind her of her sister. They'd never been all that close. He was over a decade her senior, and had very little in common with her.

He hoped that silence would convince her to leave him alone. Rowan would have understood that he had no desire to speak any further, and quietly excused herself. But Lyla wasn't Rowan, despite the similarity in looks. She'd always been more outspoken, more hot-tempered and forward. She wasn't as stubborn as her sister Erin, but neither did she possess Rowan's quiet serenity and gentle good humor.

Now she addressed him again. "Surely ye dinnae need tae be cold and pull away from us. Ye're kin-by-marriage, and there's nae reason fer ye tae isolate yerself from the rest o' us. We all mourn fer Rowan…"

Words snarled out of him before he could stop them, startling her into silence and stillness, like a frightened deer in front of a predator. "Dinnae speak tae me o' mourning, as if yer love fer her as a sister and mine as her husband were the same! Dinnae speak tae me o' yer grieving, when yer sister stands laughing in the arms o' her love, and I ken full well mine will never stand with me again."

She paled, and for a moment he thought she would leave. Then she rallied. "I only meant that ye need nae be alone in yer grief, fer we all loved me sister. She wouldnae want ye tae be so alone."

For a moment, he wondered if she knew of the letter – Rowan's last letter to him. But no. There was no reason she would know of that letter. "What would ye ken of what Rowan wished fer me?"

"I kent me sister. And she was too kind and too generous tae want ye tae waste yer life in solitude. She would want yer happiness, and fer ye tae be surrounded by kinfolk – yers and ours."

Anger sparked in him. "Would she indeed? Or is it that ye're wanting a protector, and ye think tae ask me tae serve since ye have nae husband?"

She stepped back at that, or perhaps it was the ice in his voice. "Tis nae what I'm saying…"

"Or were ye offering yerself as me new wife? A second MacDougall tae replace the one I lost?" He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them, knowing they were cruel.

Her expression twisted in a combination of hurt and well-deserved rage. "How dare ye suggest such a thing? I was trying tae be kind…"

"And the greatest kindness ye can dae is leave me be." He huffed out a breath, then spotted Erin approaching, with her husband in tow. No doubt Lyla's older sister had seen her sister's distress. He made an effort to gentle his tone. "I didnae mean tae slight ye, or suggest anything untoward. I misspoke in me pain."

She sighed. "I can understand it. But Daemon…"

"Laird MacMillan, if ye will. Nae matter that I didnae mean tae be discourteous, my point still stands. ‘Tis solitude I want, from Clan MacDougall as much as any other. Mayhap ‘tis nae what ye want and what me clan needs, but I'm resolved tae never marry again. I'll nae choose a hollow sham o' a marriage, nor will I risk losing another as I lost Rowan." Grief sharpened his tongue. "Understand me feelings in that, at least."

She winced backward from the harshness of his words, but before she could reply Erin was there, stepping between them with the excuse of asking both of them to join them on the dance floor. He watched Lyla be led away, to eventually be partnered with Laird MacLean, and slid back further into the shadows.

The joy was gone from his life, but there was no reason for him to intrude upon the joy of others. He would do his best to honor his alliances and care for his clan, but he'd no interest in any more interactions with the happy couple. Or with Lyla MacDougall.