Chapter One

May 1813

Northern Spain

H idden deep in the shadows within the copse of trees, Malcolm Kennedy leaned against a sturdy pine, his eyes focused on the dark figure sneaking through the wet grass, dangerously close to crossing over enemy lines.

Wellington, the general leading their troops, had tasked him with uncovering the traitor—a mission he’d happily accepted. In the days since, Malcolm had been waiting patiently for the man to make his move.

He much preferred his work away from the front lines. Not that he wouldn’t fight if needed, he most certainly would. But discovering enemy secrets and rooting out traitors was something he excelled at.

Observation was his strongest skill, and he’d made quite the name for himself because of it. So much so, that Wellington had personally sought him out and confided in him that there was a mole amongst their ranks.

Someone was leaking their plans to the French, and they needed to be stopped.

Now.

As he continued to study the mysterious figure, he narrowed his eyes.

The suspect’s shoulders were hunched, his gait lacked confidence and finesse, leading Malcolm to believe the person he trailed was of lower ranking. A foot soldier mayhap.

The sound of the leaves crunching beneath the figure’s footsteps halted. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, the inky darkness made it impossible for Malcolm to discern any distinguishing features, leaving him unable to identify the suspect.

Malcolm moved forward, his breathing low, boots silent on the soft ground. Stealth was another skill he possessed.

His pulse quickened as he drew closer, the rush of the chase breathing new life into his war-weary bones.

Almost daily, he missed Scotland, his home country, and Culzean Castle, his familial estate. He would be happy to be back on familiar land. After being away for far too long he had begun to worry if he would ever return to his beloved home.

The interloper tripped over a rock and crashed to the ground on to his hands and knees.

“Oof.” He scrambled back to his feet and brushed his hands off on his thighs.

Malcolm stepped from behind the tree, approached the figure, and stopped a short distance from his back. He clamped a heavy hand down on top of the man’s shoulder and spun him around.

A most unmanly squeal escaped the man’s, nay, the lad’s lips. After a moment of shock, he twisted and jerked, breaking free, then took off running toward the enemy and their makeshift barracks just over the knoll.

“Shite,” Malcolm cursed and sprinted after the boy. He abhorred running, but there was no other option but to give chase.

It was critical he captured him before he crested the hill.

The culprit held his cap to his head as he dashed through the brush.

He was fast, but Malcolm was faster. Once he was within a few feet of his target, he put his head down and lunged, tackling the boy to the ground.

The boy’s cap flew off and his mouth gaped open and closed as he struggled to take in a breath. Like a fish after being pulled from a river. He threw his arms up to his head in an effort to defend himself from possible blows.

“Let…me…go.” He sucked in air between each word, desperately trying to catch his stolen breath.

“Be still.” Malcolm held him face down on the ground with one knee pressed to the center of his back. He patted him down, dug through the boy’s pockets, pulled off his boots, searching for evidence he was their traitor.

His fingers closed around a roll of papers secured to the boy’s back by a leather strap around his waist.

A slow smile crept across Malcolm’s face.

“Well, well,” he whispered, as he yanked it free. “What have we here?”

“Give those back…” The lad struggled against Malcolm’s hold in a feeble attempt to snatch the papers away.

“Now, now.” Malcolm pressed his knee harder into the lad’s back. “We shall have none of that.”

He unrolled the documents, and a brief glance confirme d they were the ones he sought.

Confident he had captured their traitor, he rolled up the papers and tucked them away in his own inner coat pocket. He flipped the lad to his back, grabbed a handful of the front of his shirt, and lifted him until he balanced on the tips of his toes. Malcolm shifted until the moonlight shined on the turncoat’s face, and he got his first look at their traitor.

“Angus?” Betrayal tingled across Malcolm’s skin like the sting of embers from a fire. Angus worked for him.

The lad hung his head briefly, then lifted it to look toward the top of the knoll separating him from his supposed salvation.

“Ye will find no help there.” He gave him a quick shake to regain his attention. “What the hell were ye thinking, lad?”

“I was thinking that this war needs to come to an end.” His tone was defiant as he spat out the words.

“By giving our information to the enemy?” Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head in disbelief. “But, why? Why would ye do such a thing?”

“Too many have died.”

“Your treachery has contributed to that.

Angus threw his shoulders back in a sudden burst of confidence.

“Ye havena any idea of what ’tis like to no’ have e’erything ye need,” he sneered. “To want naught but to see your family thrive.”

“Ye traded our secrets for coin?” Malcolm could not keep the disgust and disappointment from his voice.

The lad refused to look him in the eye.

Angus had always seemed eager to help. Eager to please, and to get them whatever they needed. Now Malcolm understood why. Because the more he could put himself into the areas of conversation, the more information he could garner to sell out his country.

Of all the people they had working with them, Angus was the very last person he would have thought would betray their country. Malcolm had taken the lad under his wing and had vowed to himself to ensure Angus returned to his family, alive and well, after the war.

“Did ye really think this would end the war?” He patted the chest of his coat, above where the documents were concealed. “And if so, what of your family that ye are doing this for? If we dinna win the war, what do ye think will come of your family then?” He sighed and shook his head. “Give me your wrists, Angus.”

After securing him with the leather strap he’d used for the documents, Malcolm wrapped his long fingers around the boy’s upper arm. As he led them back to their encampment, he was filled with dread at the fate awaiting young Angus.

His actions were indefensible. And even if Malcolm did speak up on his behalf—which he would not—naught would change. The treachery was too deep and too much information had been sold, putting them at a dangerous disadvantage against Napoleon’s forces and costing lives. Lives of people Malcolm had considered friends.

Two days later, he watched as Angus was hanged from a noose for his crimes.

Malcolm’s job was done. He had accomplished the task he’d been given. But his heart was heavy with regret for the life Angus would never have, and his soul was blackened by a betrayal he would not soon forget.