Chapter 1

1

T he door was half open, and Braden could hear voices, low voices, whispering to one another.

"Nay, ye cannae… please," his mother was saying.

Braden stepped forward, knowing what was about to happen. It was always the same. His heart was beating fast, his brow clammy. He had heard his sister crying in her crib, and was awoken by the cry in the night, the sound of a struggle…

"I can do what I want, lass. Wouldnae he have done the same? But hold yer tongue, or it'll be worse for ye – and yer bairns," another voice said.

This, too, was always the same. The unidentified voice, the stranger beyond the door – a man, his face covered by a hood, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

"Nae the bairns, please – leave them be. What threat are they to ye?" his mother said, and the stranger raised his hand.

Braden had reached the door now, and through the narrow opening he could see his mother kneeling on the floor of her bedchamber. The stranger had his back to the door, leaning over a body. His father's body. Braden staggered back, stifling a cry, as his mother noticed him standing by the half-open door.

"Please, he's only a bairn. Ye daenae need to do this. I'll send him away. He will nae trouble ye," Braden's mother said.

She caught Braden's eye for just a moment, and the look she gave him urged him to flee, flee before the hooded figure turned.

He opened his eyes, his heart beating loudly in his chest, even though the dream was familiar. He sat up, catching his breath.

Tis' only a dream, he thought, even though the dream was one of startling regularity.

It was always the same – the defining moment of his childhood played out, and the identity of his father's killer remaining a mystery.

Braden had witnessed that dreadful scene just as his dream had repeated it. The sight of his father's body lying in a pool of blood had never left him.

Water, I need some water, Braden thought, climbing out of the unfamiliar bed and feeling in the darkness for the jug of water on the bedstand.

At least the inn on the border with England offered that. He had considered not making the journey south, but he couldn't deny his sister anything. He was to meet her former tutor, Roselyn, the daughter of some English Duke, and bring her back to Scotland.

He poured a cup of water from the jug and drank a deep draught before rising from the bed and crossing to the window. The room was small and poky, with low beams, and uneven floorboards.

Dawn was breaking, and Braden pulled back the drapes, revealing the rolling countryside of the lowlands. It was a contrast to the soaring peaks, and deep lochs of his highland home, and the journey south had taken several days on horseback.

I should be on my way. For the first time since he left Scotland, he welcomed the distraction of having to meet with the Duke and his daughter. He should arrive at their estate by noon, he hoped.

He pulled on his Zeusches and fastened his belt. The landlord had appeared suspicious of him the night before, passing a comment about "northern visitors," and giving Braden only a meagre supper of bread and cheese. Now, with his few belongings packed, Braden made his way down the rickety staircase to the taproom, where the landlord had just rolled up several barrels from the cellar.

"Leaving so soon, are you? Don't you want some breakfast? I can have the cook prepare some porridge. We're close enough to the Scottish border for that," he said, but Braden shook his head.

He waved his hand dismissively, taking a purse of coins from his pocket and tossing them onto the counter. The landlord nodded.

"Very well, I wish you a safe journey." he said, but Braden merely waved his hand dismissively again.

Yer inn was filthy, yer supper pitiful, and I doubt yer cook knows one end of a spurtle from another. Porridge? The English cannae make porridge .

He offered the landlord what he considered to be a polite half-smile as he made his way out of the taproom and into the stable yard.

His horse, Zeus, was munching from a pail of oats, and Braden nodded to the stable hand, who patted the horse's rump.

"A fine beast, all ready and saddled for you, sir. I've brushed him down, and he's been well fed," the boy said, and Braden nodded.

At least someone knows what to do around here.

Giving the boy a gold coin, Braden mounted Zeus and charged out of the stable yard.

It felt good to have the fresh morning breeze in his face, and the sun was now rising on the horizon, casting its rays across the wide-open moorland beyond.

Braden had never been to England before, and he was not eager to remain there for long. He did his sister a favor. Though, deep down, he was a little curious as to what an English lady would think of someone who…well, someone like him.

"They willnae let you be the Laird for long if something doesnae change. I cannae speak for you all the time," Kenna had told him on numerous occasions.

"Let me try, at least. Let Roselyn be yer tutor, Braden. She was a dear friend to me, and I know she can help ye," Kenna had said.

The invitation had thus been issued, and to Braden's surprise, the Duke's daughter had written back to say she would be delighted to help Braden in any way she could. Braden had hoped the tutor would refuse – she would be uprooted from everything she knew, and brought far into the north, where life was very different after all. But she had accepted.

Braden looked out across the rolling English countryside, the moorland now giving way to farms dotted amongst pleasant woods and rolling dales.

She'll nae last a week. She'll say tis' too cold, too wet, too lonely.

He came to a crossroads and took the road south, following the instructions his sister had given him.

She had been sent to England by their uncle, who had wanted an education for her. Kenna had returned full of knowledge, and ideas far different to those of her contemporaries.

"I was well taught," Kenna always said.

Now, where am I going? Abbey Estate.

Braden wondered what kind of welcome he would receive from the Duke and Duchess, whose loyalty to the English crown was well known. But Kenna had found a warm welcome at Abbey Estate, and she had spoken fondly of the Duke and Duchess, as well as of Roselyn, whom she had often described as the sister she had never had.

"I think back to my time in England with such fondness," she had said, as she had seen Braden off from the castle the previous week.

But as he rode along the valley towards the manor, Braden could not help but feel a sense of foreboding, and he was only too glad to arrive at the gates, dismounting and tethering Zeus to a hitching post.

Tis' a fine house, he thought, as he gazed up at the timber fa?ade, the red brick, and neat windows, a far cry from the rambling turrets and battlements of his own highland fortress.

The manor was surrounded by gardens, and a pleasant perfume hung in the air, the fragrance of late spring blossom. A gardener was tending to a rose bush, and as Braden approached, he looked up suspiciously. The journey had been long and hard, and Braden assumed he was not looking his best.

"What do you want?" he demanded, and Braden nodded towards the manor as he kept walking.

"Won't you speak?" the other man asked following him, but Braden ignored him.

The gardener rolled his eyes, but he kept up with him. He led him up a flight of steps to the main door and knocked loudly. It was opened by a manservant, who looked Braden up and down curiously.

"Yes?" he said.

"Good luck with getting a reply from him, he didn't answer my question either – he looks like a northerner to me," the gardener said, and the manservant's expression now relaxed.

"Ah, yes – you must be the guard that will accompany Lady Roselyn to Scotland. You'd better come this way. You should have something to eat before you start your journey," the manservant said, and he beckoned Braden to follow.

Braden nodded, following him as the other man led him into the manor. It was a fine dwelling, comfortably furnished, and very different from his castle in Scotland. No draughts blew through the rooms, and there was a light, airy feel to the house.

The pleasant smell of baking hung in the air. Braden was instructed to wait in the hallway, and a moment later, a man, whom Braden could only assume to be the Duke, appeared from a door.

"You've come from Scotland – to escort my daughter? Here, come this way," he said, and Braden nodded.

Braden followed the duke into a large room, where a fire burned in the hearth, already tired of meeting people. Back in Scotland, he didn't need to talk to anyone. Not that he would…

"Here. Please take a seat and wait, my daughter will be with us in a minute, and a maid should be here to take care of you soon. I must say, it's all rather strange, this business of teaching the laird to be a laird. I can't quite understand it. But as long as I know she'll be safe," the Duke said, and again, Braden nodded.

"Well, at least the guard Kenna sent does look very fearsome. I shall trust you with my daughter's life, young man, you know what that means, right?"

Braden nodded again. He hadn't thought he'd ever liked a duke, but at least he could respect this one.

The Duke looked at him curiously, narrowing his eyes with a searching look.

"Well, what's wrong? Why won't you speak?" he asked, and Braden resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course Kenna wouldn't have mentioned anything about…his condition.