Chapter One

1477

Broadford, Isle of Skye, Scotland

There was little peace to be found as laird of a clan in desperate times, but in the predawn hours, when the only clan members awake were the guards appointed to rampart duty, Laird Alasdair MacLachlan could order his thoughts in a way that escaped him during the day when he was always needed. His favorite place to do this was standing on the rampart looking out over his stronghold. There, he could assess all the ways his home and clan were in need. It wasn't a pleasant exercise, as the need was great and the coin little, but he did it. If he saw things had disintegrated to a dangerous level, he would finally make himself accept the widowed heiress Lady Elspeth's offer of marriage.

He surveyed the rampart first. It was crumbling in spots since the last storm, so he had to be very careful when walking along it so as not to misstep and fall into a hole. Plus, there were only five guards stationed upon the rampart when there used to be twenty. And down along the shore, where the torchers used to be stationed, there were none. Not a one .

Alasdair swiped a hand across his stubble with a sigh. Last year there had been five torch lighters remaining. Then it had dwindled to three, and now there were none. If enemies approached to attack from the sea, there would be no burning torches to warn them or to alert their allies, the Clan MacLeod, that they needed their aid. He didn't blame the men in his clan who had departed. There wasn't enough food in storage to feed them all through the winter, and so far, there was no solution except Lady Elspeth.

He couldn't fathom why the lady wanted to wed a cursed laird, but she did, and she'd been rather persistent about it. Her coin would solve his financial problems caused when his livestock had been all but destroyed by disease, but it would not thaw his heart. He didn't feel anything for her, nor had he felt anything for any woman since Mariot's death, and he didn't care to. It wouldn't be fair to the Lady Elspeth, even if she claimed she didn't mind. He did. He'd known the joy of love, the sorrow of loss, and the guilt of his failure to Mariot, and the torment of the last two were his constant companions.

A creak of a door sounded from behind him, then heavy thudding footsteps and a murmur of greeting as Calan, no doubt, passed the guard. Alasdair didn't turn from the barren picture before him to see if it was indeed Calan. He knew it was. Those thumping footsteps could only belong to his right hand and best friend. The man was not a quiet walker, but Alasdair supposed it was unavoidable given Calan's enormous size. Alasdair stood a half head taller than all men he knew except Calan, who towered over everyone. He was like a wide, very tall tree.

"The horses are ready," Calan said, leaning his elbows on the rampart rail, mirroring Alasdair.

Alasdair turned to glance at his closest friend. "Excellent. Then we'll depart." He started to push off the rampart but saw Calan's familiar scowl so he settled back down. "State what's on yer mind."

Calan gave him a dubious look. "Ye're certain?"

"Aye."

"Even if ye win the purse from the bow-and-arrow competition, it will nae be enough coin to solve the clan's needs."

"I ken," Alasdair replied, rubbing at the knots that had just formed in his neck. "But the MacCleod Clan tourney is coming up and—"

"And that win would nae solve our problems, either. But yer wedding Lady Elspeth would."

"How many times do I need to tell ye that I dunnae wish to wed again?" he demanded, irritation stirring.

Calan opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, grunted, and opened it again. "I ken how ye felt about Mariot. Ye ken I do. But if ye're waiting to meet a lass that ye feel that way for again—"

Alasdair laughed at that and straightened himself up. "Even if I thought I could feel that way again, I dunnae wish to."

Calan gaped at him, but then he straightened and faced Alasdair with narrowed eyes. "I kinnae believe I've spent all my life looking up to ye."

"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"

"I thought ye selfless. I thought ye would give yer life for yer clan. I thought ye would put the clan's welfare above yer own always."

The last statement made Alasdair's blood sear his veins. "I have always put the clan's welfare, the clan's needs, above my own," he bit out. "That," he said, poking his oldest friend in the shoulder, "is how Mariot ended up dead. I put the clan's needs ahead of hers, ahead of her desires, and ahead of my own."

Calan's expression softened, and he clasped Alasdair on the shoulder, which immediately cooled his temper. "I'm sorry, Alasdair. I ken that. I'm just fearful for the clan, and I thought ye were nae taking the Lady Elspeth up on her wish to wed ye because ye dunnae feel for her how ye felt for Mariot."

"Well, I dunnae," Alasdair confirmed, kneading the knots that had gone from his neck to his shoulder. "I feel nothing for her. Nae even desire."

"Nae even desire?" Calan repeated, shocked.

Alasdair shook his head. "Nae even the hint of it."

"Well, ye could take a mistress. Many men do."

The idea of dishonoring a wife went against everything that made Alasdair who he was. "Nay. I could nae do that, and I'd nae wish to, but even if I could, my lack of desire extends beyond Lady Elspeth."

"Beyond her, ye say?"

"Aye. I've nae felt any wish to be with a lass since Mariot's death."

"Why did ye nae say so before?"

"'Tis nae the sort of thing ye go around saying."

"Aye, I suppose there is that."

"I tell ye now because I dunnae want ye to think I'm simply wishing to meet a lass that will take Mariot's place." There was nae such a lass anyway. He had grown up with Mariot. They'd been the best of friends when they were still in nappies, and their attraction and love had grown year by year until they'd wed. They'd never fought, and she had been the perfect companion, sharing his every like and dislike. "I have nae accepted Lady Elspeth's offer because it would be condemning her to a life of indifference, and I dunnae think it fair to do that to her." And to be truthful, he did not ever want feelings for another woman to grow. This coldness within him seemed a fitting punishment for the crime of ignoring Mariot when she had begged him to stay. He had agreed to aid the Dark Riders who dwelled in the Ghost Woods to the north of their stronghold. One of their mythical riders had come to him, asking for help tracking the woman of one of the riders, who had been snatched. In exchange for his aid, they promised safe passage for his clan through their woods always, and that he could not pass up. Many warriors had been lost to the Ghost Woods in the past, when they'd ventured in to try to take a shortcut returning home from trade or battle, and this would guarantee their safety in the future. So he'd gone on the mission, putting the clan's needs first.

"Have ye told the lady and given her the choice?"

"Nay. I had hoped to find another solution, but if it comes to it, I will."

"Did ye have a plan beyond winning all the bow-and-arrow tournaments to fill our coffers?"

"Mayhap. I thought to visit my cousin whilst we are in Broadford. He has asked me many times in the past to join him on mercenary missions."

"Aye, I'm certain he has. 'Nae anyone can track like he, and ye kens that as does everyone."

"Well," Alasdiar said, "Mayhap I can earn enough coin that way."

Calan snorted at that. "Ollie will do unscrupulous missions. Ye'll nae. 'Tis why he can earn his keep that way."

"Asking him does nae mean I have to join the mission if I dunnae care for it."

"And who will rule in yer stead if ye take a mission that carries ye away for a long spell?"

"Ye will," Alasdair answered without hesitation.

"And what of the lass and laddie? Who will watch over them whilst ye're gone?"

"Esmerelda, same as always, Calan."

"'Tis what I fear," Calan growled. "Mariot's mama acts as if the children are hers. She has more of a hand in raising them than ye do."

"That's likely true, but she's doing a fine job." Much better than he'd do, and he wouldn't say it aloud—he'd had a hard time facing it himself—but being around Beatie and Hew too much was painful. Beatie looked like Mariot, and Hew had her personality. When he spent time with them and they tried to sit in his lap or take his hand, the ache for Mariot was so deep and the fear that he'd lose them, too, was so great that it was easier to keep a distance most the time. It wasn't because he didn't love them; it was because he loved them so much. He would die for them. He'd leave them to go on missions, and, if necessary, he would wed to keep them fed, but that was only if all else failed. And beyond that, sometimes Beatie and Hew seemed afraid of him, and he didn't want to cause them a moment's pain or fear.

He looked out at the land, surprised to see the sun nearly breaking the horizon. They should have already started out for Broadford. He wanted to leave before his children woke so he would not have to bid them goodbye. "Enough talk. I want to reach Broadford, seek out my cousin, and get a good night's rest before the competition."

"I've a lot more to say on the subject of Esmerelda," Calan said.

"I'm certain ye do," Alasdair replied, turning on his heel and heading toward the rampart door. His friend was never at a loss for words, especially when it came to Esmerelda. Calan had never liked Mariot's mother, but his dislike for her had grown immensely since Mariot's death.

"Alasdair," Calan grumbled from behind his back.

"Ye'll have me to yerself on the trip from here to Broadford. Ye can state all yer opinions then, if ye can keep up with me." Calan couldn't, and he knew it, which was why a disgusted noise came from him.

"Ye only ride faster because I'm so much bigger," Calan said as Alasdair took the winding, narrow stairs from the rampart to the courtyard.

"Ye ken that's a lie. I ride faster because I'm a better horseman," he teased, entering the courtyard and stopping short at the sight of his children standing by his horse in their nightclothes with their grandmama.

"I'm surprised to see the three of ye out of bed so early," he said, sweeping his gaze over his son, daughter, and mother-in-law.

"We're sorry, Papa," said Beatie in her sweet young voice.

He kneeled in front of the daughter who had her mother's big green eyes and her flaming red hair, and his chest twisted in on itself. "Sorry?" he asked, the word gruff because the grief was pressing in on him from all sides. When Beatie backed up a step and pressed herself to the side of Esmerelda's leg, he instantly wished he'd done a better job controlling his tone. He swallowed the knot in his throat. "There's nae a need to be sorry, lass."

"Grandmama says that 'tis our duty to give ye parting good luck charms, so she roused us out of bed, though the hour is sore early," Hew said in a blunt manner that made Alasdair blink in surprise. He'd thought his son rather meek natured as his mother had been, but here he was, speaking his mind as Alasdair was inclined to do.

"Hew!" Esmerelda scolded. "I've told ye before, yer father does nae like sass talk."

Alasdair frowned at that. He'd never said that, and moreover, Hew's bluntness wasn't back talk, but he'd not correct Esmerelda in front of the children. He'd speak to her when he returned.

Hew's lip trembled, and it felt like a crushing weight on Alasdair's chest. The piercing ache only his children could cause was one of the reasons it seemed easier to keep them at a distance. Still, he could not leave Hew like this.

"I verra much appreciate yer coming to see me off," he said, which caused Hew to smile and alleviated some of the weight on Alasdair's chest, making him scowl. It would not do to have his happiness so tied to that of Hew and Beatie, but it seemed the tether was there despite efforts to weaken it as much as possible.

"Come here, Son," Alasdair said, holding out his arms and motioning to Hew, even though there was a part of him that wanted to keep the shield between them in place. "Give me what ye brought me."

Hew came forward with tentative steps as he peeked out from under a lock of black hair that had fallen over his right eye. He held out his hand with a cautious look in his gray eyes. Alasdair clasped the smooth, white bezoar stone in the center of his son's small palm, and as he took it, he traced a finger over a welt in the center of Hew's palm.

Alasdair frowned. "What happened here?"

"I was bad," Hew said, with a quick glance toward Esmerelda, who gave him an approving nod that sent a bolt of unease through Alasdair.

"How were ye bad, Hew?"

"I sassed Grandmama, so I got slashes with the rushes for forgetting my tongue."

Alasdair felt his frown deepen. The crime did not seem to fit the punishment. It was yet another thing to take up with Esmerelda, but this particular thing would not wait. He locked his gaze on her. "I hardly think a little back talk deserves slashes on the open palm."

"Hew said he wished ye were dead instead of Mariot," Esmerelda said, her tone blunt and her look embarrassed. "I'm sorry ye dunnae care for what I did, but I told him 'twas nae for him to judge who was taken from this world. 'Twas for the gods to decide."

Hew made a sour face. "I did nae mean—"

"Ye've done enough, Hew," Esmerelda chided.

A familiar wave of guilt and shame washed over Alasdair. He drew Hew into his embrace, feeling overwhelmed with a desire to give back that which could never be returned to his children—their mother. Her smile. Her tender touch. The love she would have showered upon them. It was so unfamiliar to hold his son thusly that he felt awkward and clumsy, like he was trying to handle something fragile he had no business handling with his big, meaty fingers. But he pressed on, going against his need to keep them at a distance, gave Hew a squeeze, and whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry, Hew, that ye were left with me." He rose swiftly because, to his shock and horror, his throat was tightening. He'd cried once when his wife had died, on the day of her death. He remembered well the way his throat had tightened, heat had overwhelmed him, and he'd gotten sweaty, all of which was happening again. God's blood!

He turned for his destrier and snapped at the stable boy, "Bring me Gideon!" He already had the reins in his hand when he felt a tug at his tunic. He looked down to see Beatie looking up at him. She smiled, displaying two dimples that made his heart squeeze. Mariot had possessed dimples just exactly like Beatie's. "Papa, ye did nae take my good luck charm."

He kneeled in front of her and held out his hand. She was not as hesitant as Hew had been. She reached out and dropped a white bezoar in his hand, and then she grinned. "That's from Penelope."

"Is it now?" he asked and brought the stone close to his eye to examine it, as he shoved back the tide of unwanted feelings, knowing that his daughter had collected his good luck charm from his dead wife's goat.

Beatie nodded her head so vigorously that her red curls bounced on her shoulders. Before he realized what he was doing, he hooked one of her curls around his finger. "Have I ever told ye that ye look just like yer mama?"

"Nay," Beatie whispered, and it nearly killed him to see the yearning on her face for more words about her mother. He wanted to summon a story. There were a thousand of them, but the pain of remembering was too great.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat because of the catch in it, "ye do. Ye've her hair, eyes, and dimples," he finished.

As he rose to stand, Beatie caught his hand.

"Da, can I have a hug? Ye gave Hew one, so I thought, well..." She shifted from foot to foot nervously, which was a terrible thing to see.

"Leave yer da be," Esmerelda said, giving him the same reassuring look she'd been giving him since the day Mariot had died, the one that indicated his reactions were fine. That look had always been comforting, but today, it unsettled him, and he made a promise to himself to figure out why when he returned.

"Of course ye can have a hug, Beatie," he said, drawing her to him as he'd done Hew. He circled his arms around his tiny daughter and clasped her against his chest. Warmth—and fear—rushed over him, but he stayed there until visions of burying Beatie, as he'd had to bury Mariot, flashed before his eyes. He set her aside ever so gently and mounted his horse.

"Da!"

He pulled the reins up on his horse and glanced over his shoulder. "Da, will ye bring us back a mama?" Hew asked.

"Dunnae be ridiculous," Esmerelda answered as he stared at his son dumbfounded. "I'm yer mama now."