Prologue

The year of our Lord —1497

“She is still the verra image of her mother."

With red-rimmed eyes, Arthur MacGowan, stared at Flanna and she stared back, amazed at the changes four years had wrought in this man she had once thought invincible. His face was ghostly white. His breath rattled harsh and loud in the darkened room.

"Ye had hoped she would sprout a red beard like yers?" asked Troy Hamilton.

"Dunna mock me! I am still laird here!" shouted the old man. But his words were reedy, and the fist he raised as a symbol of power shook with weakness. "Aye." He nodded once, letting his arm fall to his velvet coverlet. "I am still laird here, and I am dying."

For the first time in a long while, Flanna felt her hands tremble. She clasped them more tightly as memories rushed in on her. Memories of a small girl holding a shattered mirror and crying. But she would not cry now. Not this time.

"Whether she is the image of her mother or nay, she is yers," Troy said. "Like the acorn is the oak's, she is yers. And yer heart knows it."

"My heart!" The old man laughed, but the sound gasped into a cough. By the light of the single tallow candle, Flanna could see that the spittle at the corner of his mouth was flecked with blood. "My heart, like all those I trusted, has betrayed me."

" 'Tis ye who has betrayed, MacGowan. First the mother and then—''

"Dare ye criticize—" shouted the old laird, but a spasm stopped his tirade. He squeezed his eyes shut and grappled at his chest for a moment before lying still. "Aye, ye would," he whispered finally. "Few others have dared find fault with me. And though we are but distant cousins, we were like brother, ye and me. But all is behind me now, Troy. All past." His head moved weakly from side to side on the pillow, and when he opened his eyes they were bright with unshed tears. “ 'Would that I could call back the days and start anew. Mayhap I could right the wrongs. Mayhap I could gain my lady's love."

"Ye had her love," Troy murmured. "But it couldna survive yer jealousy."

The bloodshot eyes closed. "What of her bairn?"

Troy was silent a moment, then in a voice as dark as the room he said, "He, too, died, as ye well ken. Buried in Bastia beside his mother."

"Scotland's lad buried in foreign ground," murmured Arthur. "How old would he be now?"

"It has been twelve years since her death and his."

The old man opened his eyes. Even now, Flanna could see a hint of the old rage in them. Even now, she could remember her sobs as she beat on the lid of the trunk that imprisoned her while she was being sent to France. She had begged to be let out, begged to know what she had done wrong. She had vowed to be good, to be the perfect daughter if only he would not send her away, if only he would cherish her again.

"Ye have counted the years?" the MacGowan asked, his tone suspicious.

"Ye still wrong her," Troy rasped. "Soon ye shall have ta face her again, and ye still slander her name."

"Dear God!" The old man turned his face into the pillow. "I could think of na other woman even when I was in another's arms. Why did she na age? What pact did she make with the devil to draw men's eyes ta her, ta make them want her? Even ye, me faithful friend..." He stopped again, gripping the coverlet in gnarled hands and fighting for breath.

"Have I brought the lass from France after all this time only ta hear yer accusations again, old man?" Troy asked.

"I am dying," the MacGowan croaked. "My people need a leader. Ye ken well why I called ye here."

"I will not marry," Flanna said. Her tone was tight and abrupt in the still air of the room. She hadn't thought she would have the power to force the words past her fear. But suddenly it seemed as if she were not herself. Instead, she stood apart from the scene, watching the straight, tall figure beside the bed, hearing the iron-cool steadiness in her voice, and marveling at this woman who was nothing like the terrified girl she knew herself to be. "Whoever he is, I will not marry the man you've chosen. Not even to give the clan MacGowan a leader."

The room was silent for a moment as the old man turned his gaze to her. "So Troy, ye have na told her why I called her here."

"There are things she must hear from her sire and none other," Troy said.

The old man nodded and motioned her closer. Strangely, foolishly, Flanna thought, she obeyed.

"Ye think ta defy me wishes again?" he asked.

Flanna didn't answer. Indeed, she feared she could not, for terror gripped her in a clammy hand. But she fought it down and managed to raise her chin.

"So ye hate me, lass." The words were not a question. "I offered ye a chance for happiness. Yer mother said ye were na meant for the life of a convent. She begged on her knees," he murmured as though even now he could see her, "and so I negotiated a marriage for ye. 'Twould have been a good match, but ye refused. Why?"

Flanna didn't answer. Long ago, shame had tortured her, causing her to refuse to give him her reasons. Perhaps pride kept her quiet now. Or perhaps it was merely that she knew her answer would matter little.

"Why?" Arthur demanded again, but in a moment he gritted his yellowed teeth and swore. "Ye need na say, for I ken the truth. Ye shunned the match I found for ye because ye had already taken a lover. Ye were determined ta disgrace me just as yer mother had. But this ye willna refuse!" Suddenly, he grasped her wrist. Flanna winced but her body moved forward of its own volition and her gaze remained hard and cold on her father.

"So!" said the MacGowan. "There is na longer a woman's softness in ye. Na longer tears. They have been replaced by fire in yer eyes, lass. Fire!" the old man croaked, then suddenly released his hold. "And it is good, for ye will na longer be a woman. Nay, ye will rule my people in my stead. Ye will be the Flame of the MacGowans."