Chapter One

Borderland, 1554

Prudence and her family were in hiding.

Wales might officially be within the borders of England, but it was a wild land, one that had never really been bent to obedience by those sitting on the throne in London.

Seven long years of war had left its mark on the land, and its inhabitants did not trust one another. They kept to their farms, filling their days with labor, and savoring the peace. Even if they all knew that the land they worked on was disputed. The only certainty in their lives was the fact that at some point, war would return.

It all seemed so very far away, but Prudence knew she'd be wise to remember the threat was very, very real.

Trust no one. Don't draw attention to yourself. Live quietly…silently really. Those were the words she lived by now. Well, she and her entire family.

The wind blew hard and cold, cutting right through the layers of her clothing. Winter was approaching, and soon, whatever food that remained unharvested would be lost—something they could ill afford if they wanted to survive through the long winter months.

Prudence rolled her shoulders to ease the ache between her shoulder blades and reached for another bundle of stocks. The barley had been beaten from them and stored and now, she was set the task of removing the chaff to make the fibers ready to be wound into rope.

It was hard work—toil that made her ache from head to toe.

Because she and her family had recently arrived from outside of London, she'd never done work like this before, but it was hardly difficult to understand. She grabbed the stalks and slapped them into a troth that was standing up as high as her head. There was a center beam which was attached to the troth with a rod so it might open and close. She slammed it down on the reeds, pulling and pushing the bundle about until all of the outer husk was broken away from the inner fibers. The first few were always fun, a bit like she was freeing the fibers from captivity.

But only the first few.

By the time she reached for the last bundle, the soft spots on her hands had become blisters. Hopefully, next season, they might turn to calluses. It would be less painful at least.

Each day was the same. Not a bit of sunlight might be wasted for rope could be sold.

Her younger brothers would arrive from time to time, to collect all of her bundles, and take them down to where her other sisters were combing the fibers straight. Then the bundles would be spun into thin rope, which would be combined into thicker rope.

It was the last of the harvest work.

Back in London, harvest used to be a fun time. All of nature's bounty made for full supper tables and homes filled with rich aromas. The harbor would be full of ships arriving from their voyages, filled with spices, sugar, citrus fruit, and too many delicacies to name!

Aye, back before your name was Prudence…

Though she didn't care for her Puritan name, she was happy that her father seemed to believe following the staunch Puritan religion ensured their household heavenly grace. Or perhaps it was more direct to just say that her father believed that he now had sons, because he'd pleased God with his new choice of worship.

That does not make up for being called Prudence…or the fact that your father wanted a son more than you.

No, it did not. She'd much preferred Braylin. And what was so wrong with having daughters over sons? So long as the child was healthy and the mother strong? Life was such a beautiful thing. It seemed to her that getting caught up in the details of gender was such a waste.

She knew her father would not agree with her.

Still, her family had more important things to dwell upon now—such as avoiding being arrested. Back in London, the new queen was set upon bringing back the Catholic faith. In fact, Mary Tudor considered it her duty to enforce compliance to the church. Hence, Prudence and her family had fled to Wales, and prayed daily for obscurity.

The wind blew again, almost as though it was telling Prudence that she was indeed seen. A little tingle went down her spine, leaving behind a sense of foreboding. There was naught but trees and harvested fields in sight, yet Prudence didn't feel forgotten or hidden.

Oh, there was also a well.

The well was still in good repair. It was constructed of stone, which was covered over by green moss, and stood near a patch of huge, ancient oak trees. Whoever had built it was long gone. It was strange that there was no dwelling near it at all.

It stood silently alone, like something from a minstrel's song.

"Come back at moonrise if you want to know the real worth of that well."

Prudence jumped. Norla, the older woman who kept the house they now lived in, was standing near her.

Norla winked and smiled broadly. Her face was wrinkled by time, but her eyes sparkled with the memory of youth. She pointed at the well.

"That is the midnight well—it is enchanted. If ye eat a piece of forest fruit and look into a bucket of water with the full moon overhead, ye shall see the face of yer true love."

Prudence looked back at the well. She really should not have, and yet, somehow, the possibilities it held were irresistible.

Was that the source of her feelings of being watched? Prudence took a step toward it without realizing that she'd moved.

Norla laughed. "Not tonight girl. The moon won't be full for another two days. Do not ever drink from that well unless it's beneath a full moon, for just as it bestows gifts of sight, the rest of the time, the water from its depths will chill yer bones, and freeze yer heart, allowing no room for love."

Norla left a small pottery jug near Prudence's feet.

"Mind my words…" Norla's tone changed to one of warning. "Ye are new to this land, which has never been fully tamed. English, Welsh, Norseman, Saxon, and Scot mingle here. We do as we want, since the royals are too far away to control us."

Norla held up two of her fingers. "I'll leave the fruit on the well for ye. Don't stop once ye start, but eat it all, and then close yer eyes, and look into the water in the bucket. Mind me girl… Empty yer mind. Do not try to guide the well, lest you be drawn onto the path to bitterness."

*

Prudence did her best not to think about Norla's words. And she certainly wouldn't go up to the well seeking guidance.

It was folly to believe in enchantments.

Still, it had been so long since she'd been afforded any merriment, and the thought that the well might bring happiness to her was hard to put aside. It had been ten years since her father had despaired of having any sons and taken to finding a means of pleasing the Lord. The transformation of their way of life hadn't been instantaneous. It had happened over several years.

And now that her three brothers were here, the somber demeanor of the family was complete, for her parents believed the Lord had made good on his end of the bargain. So, the family would keep the staunch rules of the Puritan faith, as promised.

You love your brothers…

She did.

But she was getting close to the age for marriage, and she had a growing fear that her father would wed her to one of his Puritan friends.

Of course, he's going to keep you in the faith…

Her inner voice was likely correct…which left Prudence looking at a bleak future. She'd be forever more known as Prudence and expected to be meek and obedient. It wasn't that she was wild, but a bit of fun now and again was definitely something she longed for.

You could go to the well…

To see what? The face of a somber Puritan groom?

Or perhaps the fairies who enchant the well will work their magic on you….

Her mother and father would be horrified by the notion. They'd think she was going mad to even consider trying such a thing.

The full moon only comes up at night…

True. Her parents had taken to locking the shutters and doors against the evil spirits that came with the darkness. There was no reason, short of a fire, to ever open a door after the sun set. And that rule was even stricter now that they were on the borderlands, where it was rumored witchery was still practiced. And even more feared than sorcery were the Scots who roamed the land.

Well, Norla did tell you she'd leave some fruit for you…

Prudence thought about Norla. She knew the older woman wouldn't suggest she go to the Midnight Well if there as any chance of danger. Did she dare? Inside her chest, Prudence felt her heart beating harder, faster than it had in months. Her blood was speeding through her veins, making her giddy. It had been years since she'd felt so alive.

So…you are going?

"What are you thinking about Prudence?"

Prudence jumped. Her older sister Modesty was looking at her from her own bed. She had the covers pulled up to her chin but was staring directly at Prudence instead of sleeping.

"I can see you debating some matter, Prudence. I will tell you firmly that you are not to have any fun without me," Modesty declared in a whisper.

The room they shared was on the back of the house. It had likely been added on as a larder for winter storage, but Prudence and her sisters shared the space now. The wall between the main house and where they were was thick stone.

"Don't think I didn't notice you kept your stockings on tonight," Modesty continued.

Prudence looked over to where their youngest sister was still sleeping, and considered her options. After all, she did have her stockings on.

Her guilt must have shown on her face, because Modesty smiled with victory, and sat up, a look of anticipation on her face that matched the excitement brewing inside of Prudence. So she told her sister all about the well, Norla's words to her…and what she was so very tempted to do.

Modesty grinned. "We won't have another chance like this. We'll be stuck inside all winter, because the snow will show every footstep. Can we go?" Modesty asked, jerking her head toward the doorway.

Prudence didn't need any further urging. She was out of bed and getting dressed, as Modesty did the same beside her. Her heart was beating fast in anticipation of something. But what?

She was about to find out.

*

Dugan felt ill at ease wandering around in the dark.

The Eight Years war might be over because some treaty had been signed, but that didn't change the fact that the lowlands of Scotland were still a place riddled with men looking for trouble.

Many of them were now desperate, because they'd been "Assured Men"—those who had been aligned with the Scottish nobles who supported the English union of Mary Stuart and Edward VI of England. Aye, a treaty had been signed, but in the lowlands of Scotland, allegiance was a tricky thing.

These days, Dugan didn't sleep soundly at night. Nothing would get in the way of his duty to ensure his clan was protected.

And that was what he was doing tonight, wandering off his own land in hopes of waylaying any raiding parties thinking about venturing into his father's territory. It was a necessary task. Otherwise, the farmers who lived close to the border might be long dead by the time anyone in the Hay stronghold heard about it.

Harvest time was the most dangerous season for farmers—and the most active one, for raiders—because winter supplies often meant the difference between life and a slow death due to starvation.

But no croft in his father's territory would burn—not while he carried a sword.

He and his men had slept in a thicket, waking when darkness fell. Dugan headed toward the Midnight Well. It had been dug a generation before for the Scots who needed to water their horses when so far from their homes.

Dugan grinned. The men who had dug the Midnight Well hadn't limited themselves to the construction of just the well. They'd created a tale to protect the water source. Now the story of the enchantment had been repeated so many times, no one dared to build a house near the landmark. And that left it for men like Dugan.

He paused, his presence concealed in the forest. There was a piece of fruit on the edge of the well, as well as a bucket—both waiting for some lass to come up and test the well's power.

"What are ye waiting on?" Brody, his captain asked.

Dugan pointed at the fruit. A break in the clouds allowed a shimmer of moonlight to illuminate it. "We've arrived on a full moon. It seems there is a lass on her way, intent on testing the enchantment."

Brody grunted. "Matches should be made with an eye on what both bride and groom bring to the union. Any lass who ventures out at night to look into a pail of water is foolish."

Dugan heard a soft crunch, though he didn't see the girl at first. But the clouds seemed to approve of her nighttime venture, clearing away quickly.

The moonlight bathed her, and when she paused to look upward, something stirred inside of him. Dugan didn't really have a grasp of what it was. He'd never felt this way before.

But it was powerful.

And consuming.

It was almost as though there was some unseen rope connecting him to her. He couldn't have taken his eyes off of her if his life depended upon it.

"Why are ye staring at her as though ye've never seen a woman before?" Brody demanded.

"She is different."

"Different?" Brody's voice was edged with exasperation. "What do ye mean by that?"

Dugan merely shrugged. He didn't want to talk. Well, not to Brody. What he wanted to do—what he felt compelled to do—was follow the strange draw he felt tugging him toward the lass.

She walked slowly up to the edge of the well, then reached for the piece of fruit, sparking a new sensation inside of Dugan. This time, he felt the unmistakable flare of raw need.

If she was going to look into the water in search of her soul mate, he wanted to make sure it was his face she saw.

Brody cupped Dugan's shoulder. "Let's go. We do nae need to be found here on the English side of the border. There will be hell to pay."

"I am not planning on being caught," Dugan muttered with a grin. "I am just going to give that little lass a wee bit of excitement."

It seemed only fair, since she'd captivated him. Dugan started to step forward, but Brody's grip tightened on his shoulder.

"She'll scream," Brody predicted. "And then we'll be running through the forest like a pair of foxes."

"Maybe…"

That was all Dugan said before he eased forward, as if drawn by fate. If only he believed in such things.

There had been a time…

Many years ago, when he'd been very young, he'd been captivated by the hearthside tales of fairies and moonlight magic.

But he was grown now, and such folly had been banished to his memories by the need to be responsible. But this lass stirred something inside him. A thrill of anticipation that he hadn't felt in a long, long time. The feeling was intoxicating. And he suddenly realized how somber and dull his life had become.

All he needed was just a wee taste…

*

An apple was there waiting for her.

Prudence felt breathless when she spied it sitting on the stone edge of the well beside the bucket.

The night air was moving in lazy gusts, which made the dry leaves rustle like running water. When the tree limbs moved, the moonlight filtered through them to illuminate the well.

"It's like a fairy glen," Modesty declared in a hushed tone.

Prudence was struck dumb by its allure.

"Go on," Modesty encouraged her. "Norla left the apple for you. You may place a wager on the fact that I'm going to make sure she leaves something for me next month."

"It's Samhain next month," Prudence reminded her sister.

Modesty's eyes widened with excitement. "Perhaps Norla knows where the bonfires will be. We could go and dance."

Dance? It had been a decade since her father had permitted such merriment. To even think about it was considered a sin by the Puritans. Righteousness must begin inside of her to be sincere, he'd insisted. If they were caught dancing around a bonfire, they might well be tossed into the street for fear their example would corrupt the rest of the family.

"That's too daring," Prudence remarked.

"We could wear masks," Modesty suggested. "As we are so newly arrived, no one will know who we are."

Temptation nibbled on her resolve. The wind blew again, this time carrying a hint of winter that further undermined Prudence's ability to resist the idea of taking the risk, before winter arrived to imprison her.

"Alright," Prudence agreed. "It will be hard to find materials for our masks. You know how mother forbids even a tiny bit of waste."

Yet Prudence was already anticipating the challenge. It was certainly more enticing than breaking chaff from barley stalks.

Modesty nodded with a happy smile on her lips. "Go… See what the moonlight reveals to you tonight."

Silly or not, Prudence walked the last few steps and reached out for the apple. It was smooth and hard, just big enough to fill her hand. She lifted it to her lips and took a bite.

The sweet and tart taste burst through her mouth. She crunched the flesh of the fruit between her teeth and swallowed, before taking another bite, and then a few more, until only the core remained. As she swallowed the last bite, she leaned over the bucket with her eyes closed and her mind empty.

The wind roared behind her. It chilled her lips where they were wet from the juice. She concentrated on keeping her mind blank, trying to feel as though she was encased inside a dark cloud. When she opened her eyes again, she'd emerge from that darkness, and look at what had been hidden from her. Prudence smiled and took a deep breath because her heart was thumping hard, then she opened her eyes.

And looked into the eyes of a man reflected in the water.

Prudence blinked, completely astonished. Yet the image was still there when she opened her eyes again.

How could such a thing be?

She didn't bother to cover her gaping mouth with her hand. Her attention was riveted on the face, her mind trying to absorb every detail.

Who was he?

While she stared at the reflection, the wind blew, and it carried the soft sound of a man's chuckle to her ears. Prudence recoiled, straightening up. She hopped back a pace and bumped into someone behind her.

"God's wounds!" The less than polite words simply flew out of her mouth. Prudence whirled around and felt her eyes go wide, because he was in fact standing behind her.

"I hope ye are not too disappointed to discover I am not an incarnation of the night fairy, lass." He reached up to tug on the corner of her knitted bonnet.

She had to lift her chin in order to meet his gaze, for he was so much taller than she was. The moonlight was filtering through the leaves that weren't ready to fall just yet.

All she saw were shadows.

But he was there, as large and as real as she herself was.

Unless she was dreaming…

No, the sweet taste of the apple still filled her mouth. Her lips were cold from the wind, and whoever he was, his kilt fluttered with the breeze.

She had no idea how long they stood there, for it felt like she'd stepped inside a single moment of time, and once there, she'd become frozen inside the enchantment.

Then he moved, bursting the bubble around them. He held his hand up in front of her, his palm facing upward in a silent invitation.

Did she dare to place her hand into his?

Her breath froze in her lungs as Prudence lifted her hand. She couldn't resist. Their gazes locked. His flesh was warm when she placed her hand in his.

He was no enchantment…

She gasped and Modesty gasped louder.

"Prudence…." her sister called out to her.

He released her hand almost in the same moment that her sister spoke. The man flashed her a wide smile, then, a single breath later, he turned, and melted into the darkness, as though he'd never been there at all.

Yet he had.

Prudence blinked.

He had been there!

That single touch had her skin tingling. Never before had she ever imagined that her skin might be so sensitive.

And somehow, she knew that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

*

Hay Land

"Dugan? Can I ride with ye tonight?" Rohan asked earnestly from where he was standing near the stable door.

Dugan gave his younger half-brother his full attention. At twelve winters, Rohan was lanky, but tall. He watched the men making ready to ride, excitement shining in his young eyes. Dugan recalled being just as eager in his youth. Now though, Dugan would have to be the one to deny the lad for his own good.

"Ye know I cannae take ye out without permission," Dugan said.

Rohan jutted out his chin. "I am a Hay! The next laird. Why should I need a woman's permission to ride out and defend me own land?"

"Because she is yer lady mother," Dugan stated firmly. "And mistress of this stronghold."

"All she does is keep me with my tutors." Rohan kicked a cloud of dirt. "The retainers will never respect me if I don't ride with them like you do."

"Ye'll be grown soon enough Rohan." Dugan tried to sound encouraging. "Off with ye now. Back to the hall. The cook will be laying down the supper."

Rohan wasn't interested in being obedient, but Dugan looked past him, locking gazes with the stable master. The man dusted off his hands and came toward Rohan.

"Ye see?" Rohan whined. "The men respect you."

"Come along, young master," the stable master said softly.

Rohan went along reluctantly. Brody let out a grunt. "That scamp doesn't realize what trouble would rain down upon us if we gave in and took him out."

There were answering chuckles from the other Hay retainers.

"Lady Hay would have me balls for sure," Dugan agreed.

"She'd have yer balls all right, but only because she does nae want ye to have any descendants to compete with her son," Brody grumbled.

The good-natured mood vanished instantly. Dugan watched the faces around him tighten.

"I am content with me place," Dugan stated quietly. "And pleased to know the next laird will be very well educated."

The men around him nodded with approval. Dugan returned to checking the saddle on his horse. There was a tiny bit of moisture on his forehead, and he mopped it away quickly.

Diplomacy always tested him. Truthfully, he much preferred being direct, but when it came to the matter of just who would be the next laird of the Hay, he needed to make sure he didn't say anything that might make the men around him consider anyone other than Rohan.

Such a topic could rip the clan apart.

Dugan had no stomach for a legacy begun in the spilt blood of his kin. His horse shook its head, eager to leave the stable. Aye, he agreed with his mount. Better to be in the saddle and away from the topic of power. Lady Hay was welcome to it.

"We've duty to see to," Dugan said, happy to change the subject. "The harvest is in. There will no doubt be villains intent on pilfering."

Dugan led his horse out of the stable, with his men following behind him. The week before the full moon was a time of dark nights—the perfect time for raids.

*

Laird Hay watched from a tower as Dugan and his men rode out of the stronghold. His lips curved into a satisfied smile.

"Father?" Rohan appeared in the doorway of Cormac's study.

Cormac turned toward his youngest son. Rohan's expression was tight with determination.

"Will you allow me to go riding with Dugan?" Rohan asked, launching straight into what he wanted.

"Yer brother is off to safeguard our land," Cormac answered. "It is not a place for a half-grown youth. Mind yer lady mother, Rohan."

Rohan's forehead furrowed with frustration.

"My lady mother forbids me to call Dugan brother because he is a bastard."

"Dugan is a man who just rode out of this stronghold into the uncertain night to protect our land with his blood if necessary," Cormac growled.

"Yet mother says I must make sure everyone remembers that Dugan is a bastard," Rohan argued.

Cormac drew in a deep breath. "Does she now?"

Rohan nodded firmly.

Cormac felt his temper flaring, but he calmed it. When it came to his lady wife, he needed to be clear-headed. His wife was a very cunning adversary, one who was using all of her wits to maneuver her son into position. But when it came to the clan, Cormac was practical enough to know that men only followed men.

Respect had to be earned through deeds, not words.

*

Dugan saw her face in his dreams every night.

By the time that the moon was full later that week, he should have been too tired to think of anything but returning to the Hay stronghold—and his bed—after several nights of sleeping on the ground.

Yet her face refused to be banished from his thoughts. He'd never been so tempted by something before. He found himself looking south, toward the borderlands.

"It's Samhain, lads," Dugan said, giving in to his need to see the lass once more. "I've a mind to find a bonfire tonight."

Just one last time…

"Ye're mad, to think of going to see that lass again," Brody said, obviously knowing what was on Dugan's mind.

Dugan smiled at his friend, before slapping him on the shoulder. "Just a wee bit of harvest time fun. Fairly earned, I'd say."

Dugan watched as his friend, and captain, mulled over the facts. Brody was weakening.

"Come now Brody," Dugan teased his friend. "It's Samhain."

"I know it. But I am telling ye…ye are playing with fire when it comes to this lass," Brody said, pressing his opinion. "Ye want to see her, and once ye do, ye'll want to do it again."

Dugan locked gazes with his man. "Do nae begrudge me a bit of harvest celebration. Winter will be here shortly enough, keeping me far away from the lass."

Finally, Brody cracked. "She is a pretty thing," he admitted. "I suppose if a man is going to get his fingers singed…she would be a fine enough flame to reach for." Then Brody pointed at him. "But ye are toying with fire lad." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"I seek merriment and misrule on the hillsides. Stay here and sleep with the old men if ye like," Dugan taunted.

His decision made, Dugan felt freer, as if he'd cast off a chain that had kept him bound. There were only a few precious hours between him and the dawn, which would see the little lass hurrying back to her home.

He intended to make the most of them.

"Hold up," Brody called out. "I'm coming along with ye."

Dugan grinned. Brody, the man his laird father had assigned to him as companion and captain, was as close to a brother as he had. Like Dugan, Brody had been born on the wrong side of the bedding, and together, the two of them made a fine pair of black sheep in the Hay clan.

And a black sheep couldn't be made white. So there was no point in him tempering his impulses.

None at all.