Chapter 2

Summer, one year later

"Are you certain you wish to leave tomorrow, Lady Fiona? I've heard rumors that the king's army will soon be marching north again. 'Tis hardly the safest time to venture across the border into Scotland."

Fiona wiped her damp palms against her skirt and forced herself to stay calm as she gazed into the weathered face of the knight standing before her. It had taken her months to formulate this plan and even longer to put the pieces into place. Now that the moment was at hand, she must not allow anything to sway her commitment.

"I believe that King Edward is determined to lead a victorious campaign against the Scots, Sir George. Yet I fear if we wait for a safe time to make this journey, we shall never leave." She tried smiling, but her lips refused to cooperate, doubt and fear keeping them frozen.

Sir George's dark eyes softened. Though only of average height, he appeared larger, due to his thick, muscular build. The scars on his face and arms were a testament to his years on the battlefield, and Fiona knew she was lucky to have a loyal, honorable knight with his skills on her side. It brought a small measure of comfort to her heavily burdened heart, though in truth there was little that could be done to appease the bitterness she felt.

That some called the death of her husband and the loss of their lands a cruelty of fate was viewed by Fiona as an insult. How could an event of such anguishing loss be given such a trite explanation? No, it was not fate that brought such devastation into their lives—it was betrayal.

Fiona was convinced that somehow the alliance Henry had forged with the Scottish Earl of Kirkland had reached the ears of King Edward. Lacking any substantial proof, the king had decided not to outright accuse Henry of any wrongdoing. Instead, he had allowed Sir Roland DuPree, one of his brutish minions, to petition a blatantly false claim to their lands. And when Henry refused to yield the property, Sir Roland and his army, with the king's silent sanction, had stormed the castle and taken it by force.

It had hardly been a fair fight. Fiona closed her eyes and once again relived the nightmare of the fateful event that had destroyed the only happiness she had ever known, forever changing her life.

It had been quiet that night—too quiet. The soldiers who stood guard in the watchtowers had died swiftly, their throats slashed to prevent a warning of the impending invasion, to delay a call to arms. Roused from their beds, Henry and his knights had fought bravely to defend the keep and protect the inhabitants, but they were no match for the men who had devised the ruthless attack.

Outnumbered and unprepared, Henry and his soldiers fell one by one. With the tide turned against them, many of the surviving guardsmen laid down their arms and pledged their allegiance to the conquering Sir Roland.

But not Sir George. He had been the first to pledge his sword to Henry's son and heir, ten-year-old Spencer. And it was Sir George who had managed to safely spirit her and Spencer away after Henry had been fatally struck.

Sobbing and in shock, Fiona, her maid, and Father Niall had followed Sir George through the dank, musty, secret escape tunnels that ended outside the bailey walls. Together, Fiona and Father Niall carried a badly injured Spencer on a makeshift stretcher, each moan uttered from the child's pale lips a fresh pain in Fiona's bruised heart.

The fear had been almost paralyzing. Even now Fiona could still smell the dampness, hear the skittering sounds of the rats in the tunnel and the clash of swords from above as a few brave men fought on.

The tunnel ended in a cave, and they hid there for what felt like hours, while Sir George scouted ahead. Finally, he returned, stolen horses in hand. Just as dawn was starting to break, the weary group rode away, ears attuned to the sounds of pursuit.

Thankfully, no one followed. In her greatest time of need, Fiona had no choice but to turn to her eldest brother, Harold. They arrived at his keep six days later, exhausted and in shock. He had hardly been gracious in receiving them, but at least he had not denied them sanctuary.

"Sir George! You're here!"

The boyish voice rang out with pure delight. Fiona turned and watched Spencer make his way across the crowded bailey. Her heart jumped with worry as it became necessary for the boy to move with speed and agility to avoid the carts, animals, and people hustling through the courtyard.

Even from this distance she could see how badly Spencer limped. The broken bones of his right leg, an injury suffered during the attack, had fused together at an odd angle, leaving it shorter than the left leg. It was a constant reminder of what they had endured, of what had been broken that could never be fully restored.

As Spencer drew closer, one of the castle hounds suddenly darted in front of him. His balance compromised, the boy's face contorted into a grimace as he stumbled and fell. Fiona gasped, biting her lip until she tasted blood. No, she refused to cry out, to show any outward sign of distress. The last thing Spencer wanted or needed was her pity—he got that in buckets from others.

More than anything else, her child needed her to believe in him, needed to know that she had faith he would overcome this physical infirmary, that he would one day be whole again. And by God, no matter how difficult it was for her, she would give that to him.

Arms flailing, Spencer shoved the hound, who was now trying to lick his face, pushing the animal away. Though it was only a few seconds, to Fiona it felt like hours, as she watched the boy lie flat on his back, panting with the effort it took to right himself. Finally, with slow deliberate movements, Spencer rose to his feet. His misshapen grin of triumph when he regained his balance wrenched at Fiona's heart. Swiftly, she brushed away her tears, replacing them with a confident, supportive nod.

A nod her son answered with one of his own.

"After these many months, I had hoped the boy would be stronger," Sir George mused, his eyes narrowing with worry.

"He improves each week," Fiona replied sharply.

"Can he wield a sword?"

"Yes."

"With authority?"

Fiona skewered the knight with a piercing look. "He's barely eleven years old."

"He began learning how to fight at his father's knee when he was but a lad of five," Sir George responded. "I supervised the making of his first wooden sword myself."

"My brother has refused to allow Spencer any time on the practice field," Fiona replied, embarrassed to admit her own flesh and blood had so little confidence in Spencer's abilities. "Father Niall works with him, but the priest's skill is limited. With the proper training, I know Spencer will be able to compensate for the weakness in his leg. All he needs is the opportunity."

Sir George took a breath. "If the lad cannot be trained here, then perhaps he can be fostered at another castle?"

"Believe me, Sir George, as much as it would pain me to be separated from him, I have tried to find him a place. Father Niall helped me compose the letters I sent to all the holdings in the area, both large and small." Fiona felt her face flush with heat. "No one will take him."

Sir George's eyebrows rose. "No one?"

Fiona frowned. She had begged her brother to intervene and when he refused, she had taken matters into her own hands. Though possessing only a rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing, Fiona had put all her efforts into the task of securing a future for Spencer. Yet even with Father Niall's aid, it had taken her hours to write those letters.

Waiting had been the hardest part. For as each reply—and rejection—was received, hope for Spencer's future had slipped further and further away. Now all that was left was the reality of her situation. No one was going to come to their rescue and willingly take up Spencer's cause.

They would languish in her brother's castle for the rest of their lives—an unwanted burden with no true place or purpose. For Fiona, the idea was equally repellant and terrifying and completely unacceptable.

What had started as a mother's duty to protect her child was now a compulsion for Fiona, burning like a fire within her chest. She would give her own life if it prevented any further harm from coming to the boy. But she was greedy in her wishes and dreams, wanting more than mere survival for Spencer. She wanted him to thrive, to flourish, and when the time was right, to regain his birthright.

"Henry was never openly accused of treason, but 'tis common knowledge that the king did nothing to prevent the attack on our lands," Fiona said. "That, coupled with Spencer's injury, has made it impossible to find a nobleman willing to foster him, to give him the proper training needed to attain knighthood."

Sir George stared at her somberly. "Have you considered the boy's future might lie with the church?"

"Oh, Sir George, not you, too," Fiona said, bristling at the remark. "'Tis bad enough that I must listen to my brother harp upon how Spencer's infirmary makes him fit only for a priestly life. I expected more from you."

Sir George bowed his head. "I only want what is best for the boy."

"As do I," Fiona huffed, though there were moments she had questioned her own motivation. Was her need for revenge putting Spencer in a dangerous position? Should she listen to men like Sir George and her brother, who were so certain the only course for Spencer was a life of spiritual devotion?

Feeling a twinge of uncertainty, Fiona watched Spencer finally make his way to their side. His smile was wide and genuine as he embraced Sir George. It renewed her spirits to see the boy so happy. And renewed her determination. She refused to languish here at her brother's keep, wasting precious time. She would not quietly accept the future that others wanted to foist upon her son. She would fight for the future he deserved.

Had not Father Niall himself reluctantly agreed the boy had no true calling to be God's servant? And when further pressed, the priest had added that he highly doubted Spencer would be happy living a quiet life of faithful devotion.

Seeing the hunger and longing in Spencer's eyes when the men were training was proof enough of the boy's true desires. He deserved to inherit his father's lands, to lead and protect their people. Somehow, someway, Fiona was going to make certain he had the chance.

"Will we be ready to leave soon, Sir George?" Fiona asked.

The answering silence from the knight was disturbing. Fiona suppressed a shiver of alarm. If Sir George abandoned them now, they would be stuck here for months. Maybe even years. So great was her distress, Fiona failed to notice her brother, Harold, sauntering smoothly across the bailey toward them.

"Ah, I see your chivalrous knight has finally arrived." Harold halted beside her, his arms crossed, booted foot restlessly tapping. His narrowed gaze slowly swept from her to Spencer, and then rested speculatively on Sir George. "Good day to you."

"My lord." Sir George favored Harold with a curt nod before turning toward Fiona. "The preparations for our journey are nearly complete. If it pleases you, Lady Fiona, we will depart tomorrow at first light."

Spencer tilted his head in interest. "Am I going, too?"

"Yes, of course." Fiona smiled. He looked so young, so eager. With great effort she resisted the urge to run her hands affectionately over the lad's dark curls, knowing the gesture would embarrass him in front of the other men. "Sir George and his men will escort us north, to the Abbey of St. Gifford, so we may visit the holy shrine."

Harold scoffed. "I don't know why you insist on traveling such a great distance to pray. The brothers are not known to perform miracles or cure the infirmed."

"Harold!" Fiona felt her ire ignite, not only at her brother's words, but at the smirking expression on his face. "We have no need of cures or miracles."

Her brother's perceptive eyes narrowed further. "Then why go at all? Why travel these dangerous roads?"

Fiona swallowed. Lying had never come easily, and with so much depending upon keeping her true plans secret, it was hard to find a response. But find one she must. "I need to show proper respect for the anniversary of Henry's death. A retreat of prayer and reflection seems fitting."

"My chapel is at your disposal, as is my priest. Hell, your priest still resides within my keep. Are these two holy men not enough?"

"I need to show proper respect," Fiona repeated, forcing humility into her tone. Why was her brother taking such an interest in her now? He had hardly been welcoming when she arrived a year ago, dazed and shocked and desperate. His lack of attention and concern had been hurtful, and even more upsetting was the eventual realization that her brother's feelings would not change.

'Twas obvious he had little use for Spencer, with his infirmary, and even less for her, a widow with no dowry. Harold's neglect and disinterest was one of the reasons she was making this journey. No longer could she tolerate the bleak, barren future her brother saw for her son.

"A holy pilgrimage is a fitting tribute for the baron," Sir George interjected. "I am proud and honored to be of service to Lady Fiona."

Harold sniffed and Fiona could see the resistance in his eyes. And while she certainly appreciated Sir George's support, she feared the knight's agreement with her had further angered her brother.

"Sir George informed me earlier this year he intended to make this pilgrimage when the weather turned warmer. It made sense that Spencer and I join his party," Fiona said, trying to shift the focus of the conversation. "You and your knights have far more important matters to occupy your time, or else I would have asked for your assistance."

Harold's mouth twitched at the blatant, and clearly false, flattery. They both knew her brother would never have granted her request nor spared any of his men to protect her on the journey.

"Since you have found the means, 'tis clear you will do as you wish, no matter what I say." Harold's words were tight and controlled, but his disapproval was obvious. "I find such independence a very unattractive quality in a female."

Fiona closed her eyes, feeling her stomach churn. As bad as things were, she knew they could get much worse. If she were wrong, if her plan failed, she would be forced to grovel, to beg for her brother's forgiveness, leaving herself, and Spencer, totally at his mercy. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, brother. But I must follow my conscience, and my faith."

"So be it." Harold relented, his manner deliberately ungracious. "Let it not be said that I didn't warn you of the folly of your actions."

Fiona refused to reply, instead lowering her eyes and bending her knee in a graceful curtsy. Clearly unimpressed, her brother snorted and turned away.

Fiona sighed, feeling the tension ease out of her shoulders with each step Harold took. Her brother believed she was going to the Abbey of St. Gifford, but that was a ruse. Oh, they would indeed stop at that holy place. Very briefly.

After respects had been paid to the brothers and prayers offered for Henry's soul, Fiona was going to continue moving north, to their true destination. Once there, she would appeal to the one man she believed could grant her the justice she so desperately sought, could help her secure the future that Spencer deserved.

She was going to cross the border into Scotland and plead her case to the enemy—Henry's secret ally, the Earl of Kirkland.

"I want him found and brought to me." Gavin McLendon, Earl of Kirkland, declared. "Alive."

A hush fell over the hall at the pronouncement, the silence most eerie. The soldiers gambling in the corner held their dice, the servants cleaning the remains of the noonday meal stood still, the castle women seated in the bright sunlight at the far end of the vast chamber halted their sewing. Even the castle hounds ceased foraging for food scraps among the rush-strewn floor, heads raised, ears pointed.

Alone on the dais, Gavin leaned back in his seat, his sharp gaze pinned to the three men standing before him. Yet their expressions, each more stoic than the next, never changed.

Gavin fingered the ornately carved armrest of his chair and waited. There would be no excuses—his men knew him well enough to avoid that mistake. But there might be some sort of protest, since what he was asking them to do was akin to impossible.

And they all knew that, including Gavin.

"We've tracked the bastard fer over a week, but the trail has gone cold," Duncan admitted, his stare unapologetic.

Connor, standing beside his older brother, crossed his arms over his chest. "Gilroy has fled to the hills. He willnae be back fer a while, especially since he knew we were chasing him."

There was a ripple of agreement from the two other men. Looking past them, Gavin noticed several of the soldiers nodding their heads, while the women clucked a few loud sounds of disagreement.

Frustrated, Gavin cast a hard look at his three best trackers, letting out a soft curse beneath his breath. "Why would Gilroy need to hide from ye in the hills? 'Tis clear from his bold actions he believes he has nothing to fear from me or my men. Two years. Fer two full years that bastard has walked freely among us, doing whatever he pleases, taking whatever he fancies. Why? Because he believes my men lack the wits to stop him. And dammit, he's right!"

Duncan stiffened, his expression tightening. "'Tis not our lack of brains or skills, as ye well know. Gilroy's a wily one. And he's got plenty of help from our own."

"Aye," Connor added. "Half the lasses in our clan fancy themselves in love with him. They offer him shelter, then when we follow his trail to their village, they claim not to have seen him."

Gavin slapped the chair arm beneath his hand, putting every ounce of frustration he was feeling into the blow. His bastard half brother was running amok, stealing cattle and grain and making a general nuisance of himself. Such behavior threatened Gavin's authority, calling into question his ability to lead and rule his clan.

Something he could ill afford at any time, but never more so now, when Scotland was still a divided land. Even members of his own clan had questioned the wisdom of Gavin's decision to support King Robert, for the would-be king was little more than a fugitive in his own kingdom. Yet Gavin had no intention of forsaking his pledge, nor did he intend to suffer the same gruesome death as others who had defiantly sided with Robert against England's King Edward.

Not content with the mere execution of his enemies, King Edward had captured and then brought to London good men like William Wallace and Simon Fraser. Once there, he had ordered them hung, drawn and quartered and, as a final humiliation, had their heads impaled on spikes on London Bridge.

These barbaric acts had scared some sympathetic to King Robert's cause, but not Gavin. Instead, it had strengthened his resolve to do all that was necessary to help King Robert break from England's rule and achieve independence.

Yet how could he expect his people to trust his judgment and follow his lead when he couldn't control the raids of his bastard half brother? If word of this weakness spread, Lord only knew what other dangers they would be inviting. For in Scotland, if you didn't hold fast to what was yours, another clan was more than happy to claim it for themselves.

Allowing the determination that burned in his chest to be freely reflected in his face, Gavin stared down at his men.

Duncan, Connor, and Aidan were his cousins, sons of his father's brother and three of his most experienced, skilled fighters. He was confident of their loyalty, their devotion to him personally, and their regard for the welfare of the clan. A part of him regretted having to speak so harshly, but results were imperative.

Gilroy must be captured. Soon.

"Intruders have been seen in the south woods, milord!"

Gavin bit back his additional words of reprimand as the young soldier bringing the news hurried into the great hall. Was the opportunity he had been waiting for finally here? Gavin felt his pulse race at the thought of ending this irritating problem once and for all.

"Is it Gilroy?" Gavin asked, his expression eager.

"I dinnae think so." The young man hung his head, his disappointment obvious. "James saw them and sent me here with the message. There are two women in the party, a lad, a man wearing a priest's tunic, and six mounted knights. James dinnae get too close, but he said I must tell ye he believes they are English."

English? On my land? Gavin could feel the muscles in his body tighten, but outwardly he remained calm. Not his half brother, but who could be certain? This could easily be another trick, a diversion created in one place while mischief was accomplished on another front.

"Take some men and ride out to meet these intruders," Gavin commanded. "That is, if ye think ye are capable of bringing them to me without any difficulties."

Duncan flushed, Connor fumed, and Aidan grimaced.

"We willnae have any trouble," Connor shot back.

With a stoic grimace, Gavin lifted a hand and waved off the comment. Clearly annoyed, the three men stomped away. Good. Perhaps the possibility of further humiliation would ensure their success. Reaching for his half-empty tankard of ale, Gavin took a long swallow, then leaned back in his chair.

He eyed a few of the soldiers gambling in the corner, but none would meet his gaze. Not surprising given his current mood. Unperturbed, he lifted his goblet, took another deep swallow, then leaned back in his chair and waited.

Concealed behind the large trunk of a fallen tree, Ewan Gilroy watched through the dense foliage as the McLendon men approached the encampment. When they crested the hill a cry arose from the camp sentry. One of the women moved forward as if to greet the McLendons, a short, broad-shouldered knight at her side. The rest of the men circled the edge of the camp, yet their weapons remained sheathed and they made no outward moves to defend themselves. Ewan wiggled forward on his belly to get a better look, but this closer view confirmed what he had seen.

Curious.

Though in truth, Ewan knew he shouldn't be surprised. He had been tracking this odd group for four days and nothing they had done made much sense. In the beginning, they had traveled on the public highway, but once they gained a foothold on McLendon land, they had taken to the forest, blatantly trespassing. 'Twas almost as if they were challenging the earl's authority, as if they wanted to be discovered.

"If we're fixing to raid the traveler's camp and take their bounty fer ourselves, we best make a move now or else the McLendons will reach them first."

Ewan froze, recognizing the voice of Magnus Fraser. Magnus was not part of his regular band of men and more often than not, Ewan had regretted his decision to bring him on these last few raids. Aye, he fought well and hard, but there was an arrogance to the man that was distasteful, an attitude bordering on threatening. With other skilled fighting men available to ride with him, Ewan had come to the conclusion that Magnus was far more trouble than he was worth.

"There's no need to bother with this lot," Ewan responded. "The McLendons believe us to be far away. 'Tis foolish to show ourselves fer whatever meager trinkets those travelers carry."

"I like trinkets." Magnus cleared his throat and spat on the ground. "We should have gone in at first light, like I said. When there were no McLendons around to see us."

Ewan avoided Magnus's stare, knowing he was right. They should have attacked sooner, but something had made him hesitate, hold back. Something he didn't want to acknowledge nor admit.

He was weary. Of the constant raids, the running and hiding, of not having a true home to call his own.

Lately, they had been even more successful in disrupting the business of the clan, an occurrence that should have given Ewan a sense of triumph. Instead, it left a hollow, almost empty feeling way down in the pit of his gut.

Given a choice, this was not the life he would have chosen for himself. Fugitive, outlaw, thief. It had been hard growing up as Moira Gilroy's bastard son, especially since his noble father had not laid claim to him until he was on his deathbed, mere minutes before meeting his maker.

By then, it was too late. Though born a daughter of a laird, Moira Gilroy had been cast out by her family when she shamefully revealed her pregnant state. Her lover, the grand and mighty Earl of Kirkland, also turned his back to her plight, refusing to acknowledge the child as his own.

Terrified and alone, Moira had repeatedly pressed for aid and finally the earl relented. His concession provided his former mistress with a crude hut on the outskirts of one of the villages, along with a meager stipend that shrank each year. If not for Ewan's quickly learned hunting skills as a lad, the two would have perished from starvation years ago.

Weaned on his mother's hatred for the earl, her constant wailing over the injustices done to her, and her almost daily recounts of her pain and suffering, Ewan grew to manhood with a bitterness eating at his heart. Two years ago, at the age of twenty, he had started the raids on the clan as a means to exact revenge, and in a short time they had increased in frequency, size, and intensity.

But so, too, had McLendon's pursuit. Though Ewan swaggered with rash boldness in front of his men, the truth was they had nearly been caught on this last raid. The incident had given Ewan pause and for the first time he began to think about how—and when—it would all end. The earl was long dead and in his place Ewan's half brother ruled. 'Twas said that Gavin McLendon was a fair and honorable man, yet he treated Ewan with the same contempt as their father.

"If we cannae pluck any treasure from these travelers, then I say we go to Kilmore," Magnus grunted. "Their grain house is near to bursting. What we cannae use fer ourselves, we can sell."

"Kilmore village is one of the earl's strongholds," Ewan said. "We have few allies within it."

"They'll not be so loyal with an empty belly and their bairns crying out from hunger when they try to go to sleep," Magnus snarled.

Ewan closed his eyes and felt a ripple of emotion flood his heart. "I willnae starve innocent folk to make a point."

Magnus's eyes gleamed. "'Tis the smart move."

There was a low grumble of agreement among several of the men who had drawn near when the discussion began. Ewan cocked an eyebrow. "And when exactly did ye get a brain in yer thick skull? Tell us true, Magnus, was it left to ye by the wee fairies while ye were sleeping?"

The men laughed and Ewan could feel the building tension leach away. Well, most of it.

Magnus was smiling as broadly as the rest of them, but his knuckles were white where his fingers wrapped around a tree branch. Ewan noted the telltale evidence of anger and defiance and casually reached for the dagger hidden in his boot. 'Twould be a pity to kill such a skilled fighter, but if challenged, he would not hesitate. Ewan had no illusions about the character of many of the men who followed him.

Heartless bastards, the lot of them. And Ewan knew he was the worst of the bunch.

The color in Magnus's cheeks heightened and a tiny muscle beneath his left eye twitched. Ever on the alert, Ewan waited, but the attack never came. Magnus glanced at a few of the men, then looked away uneasily.

Ewan slowly lifted his hand, keeping his dagger hidden. There would be no fight—this time. Yet Ewan was wise enough to realize that one day soon the time would come when Magnus would challenge him.

By all that was holy, he'd best be ready for it.