Chapter One

Near Auldearn, Scotland

Early Summer 1307

AN EARLY MORNING MIST clung to the hills in front of them, blurring the boundary between earth and sky. The first light of dawn revealed a procession of men and horses, the constant drum of hoofbeats rumbling through the stillness. The air was damp and cloying and carried with it the scents of pine and damp earth, blending on this morn with a tang of salt as they neared the sea.

Austin Merrick, son of the mormaer of Dalcross, Dougal Merrick, rode at the helm of his army. Though his father was keen of mind, his body was not so agreeably robust, failing him more every day so that he could not, now and for the last year, even sit a horse. Austin served in his stead, leading the Merrick army into battle on countless occasions, continually amazed that he lived yet, having survived as he had when his brothers, better prepared and trained for just this role, had not.

The Merricks of Balenmore Keep in Dalcross traced their lineage back to Norman conquerors who had eventually settled primarily in Wales two centuries ago before a few of those Merrick ancestors, fierce and ambitious, had come not by land but by sea to carve out a new life in the rugged Scottish terrain.

Before the Merrick army had begun their march three days ago from Perth, he'd made the mission clear to his army.

"We ride for Auldearn," he'd called out to a force greater than one hundred in number that had stood at the ready before him. "There, we meet with Sir John Urry and his militia. Our task is clear and comes directly from Robert Bruce: seize Castle Wick and secure the River Nairn for transport. We will oust Sir Gervaise de Rathe from the castle and thereby extinguish English power in the north!"

More than one hundred warriors, their spirits as rugged as the land, answered with hearty shouts and a clanging of weapons, knowing well the stakes. Castle Wick was a strategic cornerstone, a stronghold that would allow them to control the vital supply routes along the Moray Firth and the River Nairn. It was a bold move, but necessary, at a time when too many Scottish nobles kept faith with the English, refusing to support Robert Bruce as their true monarch.

On this, day three of their march, his army followed in disciplined silence, their faces set with grim determination.

At length, the sun rose higher, burning away a great majority of the fog, save for that which swayed in a wispy fashion over the tallest mountains, revealing a landscape that was as harsh as it was breathtaking.

The path to Auldearn stretched before them and Austin Merrick tightened his hold upon the reins. As sometimes happened, he was filled with a wee bit of pretender's burden, having never expected to lead much more than his mates into rabblerousing trouble, or his shuffling feet into his sire's domineering presence, awaiting punishment for what his father deemed his derelict behavior.

Such was the plight of the third son, having few to no expectations, only to be thrust into a role for which he felt distinctly unqualified. His brothers, Andrew and Alexander, had been educated and trained in excess, the heir to the thanedom and his replacement should he fall. Clearly, his father had never imagined losing two sons before his own interment in the crypts, and thus had not subjected Austin, several years younger than his stalwart brothers, to the same stringent standards. He'd had to learn fast the ways of leadership and effective warfare, thrust into the crucible of responsibility as he'd been in the last few years. Each action, decision, and idea weighed heavily on his shoulders, the expectations of his sire and the memory of his fallen brothers a constant presence.

When they were still a good dozen miles south of Auldearn and marching through what was known as safe territory, the land unclaimed by any clan because of its inhospitality, the barren hills and rocky soil unsuitable for farming or even sheep raising, a marching song was begun by Ioan. Others promptly joined in, and the rousing melody carried across hill and glen.

Austin did not sing along but did grin with some amusement, likening the bawdy lyrics and jaunty tune to one better suited to a taproom after several rounds of ale had been consumed.

Shortly after noon, they crept stealthily into Auldearn, quiet now in the hopes that their arrival went unnoticed, being fairly close to Castle Wick and the enemy. Scouts sent ahead to survey the area returned to Austin, reporting the precise location of John Urry and his militia, and the Merrick army approached cautiously until their banner was recognized.

Austin rode through the Urry camp, which was situated near a fresh water stream, ensuring a reliable supply for the men and horses. Dense clusters of pine trees provided cover for the large presence and a ready source of firewood. He noted the orderly arrangement of tents and the well-trodden paths between them, suggesting Urry and his army had been here for some time. Urry's private bell tent, easily identified by its central supporting pole and the banner flying above it, stood at the heart of the camp, surrounded by a cluster of smaller tents belonging to his officers and guards. Though of considerable size, Urry's tent was pitched low to the ground with sturdy stakes and ropes in an effort to withstand strong Highland winds.

John Urry stood directly in front of his tent, a figure of nobility whose presence seemed more suited to a banquet hall than a battlefield. His sharp brown eyes scanned the arriving troops with an air of detached curiosity rather than command. Paunchy and unfit, his posture lacked the rigidity expected of a military leader. He wore a thick, luxurious woolen cloak draped over his shoulders, fastened with an ornate silver brooch that glinted in the sunlight, more a symbol of his wealth than his competence.

His hair, a tousle of dark waves with early streaks of gray, framed a face that bore the soft lines of indulgence rather than the hard edges of battle. Years of enjoying the finer things in life had left their mark, and the fierce Highland winds seemed to have weathered him less than the comforts of nobility had. He exuded an air of authority, but it was the kind born of status rather than seasoned experience.

Austin dismounted and approached, extending his hand to Urry, his grip firm and steady.

"Merrick," the man greeted, his voice high and light, "ye made good time, lad. Welcome to Auldearn."

"How do we stand?" Austin inquired, getting right to the matter at hand.

He would have much preferred to be at the king's side rather than under Urry's command. Urry's authority and fighting acumen were largely unknown to Austin, and the decorative sword on the man's hip did little to inspire confidence. It was clear that the weapon was more for show than for use, a questionable indication of his competence.

"Better now," Urry answered. "It will nae come easy, the taking of the castle."

"Who do we have?"

John glanced around the expansive camp, the immediate area thinly veiled by the pine trees but appearing to stretch quite a distance in every direction.

"Me and mine, the MacLarens, and ye and yours," he said. He pointed vaguely toward the northeast. "And the Roses have come," he informed Austin, "or what remains of them."

"Christ," Austin seethed, his teeth grinding at the very mention of the name Rose.

The Merricks had long shared an animosity with the Roses, the origins of which were still talked about.

Many decades ago, his great grandfather had courted a Rose daughter. A betrothal was contracted, and the wedding and feast planned but only days before they would have wed, the Rose daughter eloped with a suitor from her own clan—a tanner no less. Austin's jilted ancestor, humiliated and heartbroken—?twas rumored he adored the Rose lass—vowed vengeance, thus igniting a generational feud. Not unexpected, the betrayal sparked the flames of discord between the two families, and a constant fanning of those flames over many years ensured the fire never died. Each generation found new reasons to keep the feud alive: suspiciously lost sheep, an evidently poisoned well, a brawl at a market, slights that were magnified by the long memory of collective animosity, each side convinced of their righteous indignation. Hatred became a legacy, passed down like an heirloom, with each new generation taught to stoke the embers of spite, ever awaiting any opportunity to know even the tiniest bit of retribution.

Urry stiffened and frowned. "I dinna care about yer feud, lad, of which everyone is familiar," he said, using the term lad incorrectly since he wasn't but a handful of years older than Austin. "The king has set us a task and to that we will keep. And ye, my friend," Urry said pointedly, "will refrain from introducing your personal quarrels into my campaign."

"Aye," Austin agreed, though it sat unwell with him.

He was to some extent mollified by the fact that the auld laird, Callum Rose, lived no more—self-righteous bastard he was, Austin's father had always indicated. Last he'd heard, to his delight and for which he felt no shame, the Roses had lost everything—father, a few sons, and their fortress Dunraig Castle, the keep overtaken by clan Mackintosh within the last year. He wasn't sure what the Roses could possibly bring to this combined army, as it was rumored their own had been reduced so greatly that they could offer hardly more than a few score of men to any fight.

"Nae worries, Sir John," Austin assured him. "The Roses have gotten their comeuppance, well-earned ye ken. On my honor, my focus will be on the mission at hand."

With that, Urry gestured towards a gathering area behind him, where upon a roughly fashioned table there lay a crudely imagined map of Castle Wick and the immediate surrounding area, atop which sat small clusters of inch-long twigs representing where units would approach during the siege.

Austin grinned a bit at this, knowing one stiff breeze could easily send scattering all of Urry's strategy.

An hour later, when he and Urry had concluded their conversation and after most of the Merrick camp had been erected, Austin took himself off to the nearby loch, wanting to wash off the stench of three days in the saddle. At Urry's direction, he made his way through the dense thicket of pine and birch. The ground beneath him was soft with moss and fallen needles, muffling his steps, while the air was fresh and crisp.

He descended a gentle slope, becoming aware of a haze of blue beyond the spotty curtain of trees. Beyond the final screen of leaves the surface of the water shimmered in the early afternoon sun, a tranquil mirror reflecting the sky and surrounding trees.

Already anticipating the brisk refreshment of what was certainly cold water, he moved forward to where a large rock jutted into the loch, providing a perfect place to sit and shed his clothes.

Before he would have sat, he froze, his breath catching in his throat. There, in the shallow waters, stood a woman, her back to him. The water lapped gently around her hips as she rinsed her hair, the sun highlighting the wet strands in red and gold. She moved with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, utterly unaware of his presence.

As no more than a dozen yards separated them, Austin was afforded a perfectly clear and unrestricted view of the water nymph. Too clear, mayhap, and too unrestricted.

Aye, but she was fine, whoever she was.

Wisely, she was not completely naked but garbed in her shift, the linen hugging her lean but tantalizing curves to the point of dangerous distraction. His breath caught and his heart raced, torn between the impulse to retreat and the sudden, undeniable pull of curiosity. The latter won out, though there really had never been a question as to the winner.

A chivalrous man would have made a hasty retreat, never allowing the lass to know she'd been viewed.

Truth was, Austin Merrick was not so much chivalrous as he was a scoundrel.

As he took a step closer, a twig snapped beneath his boot.

The sound, sharp and unexpected, cut through the stillness. The woman turned, startled, her eyes wide with surprise as she spotted him.

Austin did not politely avert his gaze. "Forgive me, lass," he said, his tone lacking any shred of contrition. "I dinna mean to intrude."

He didn't look at her face but at her lush figure. Her sodden shift clung to her body, embracing her breasts in a most tempting fashion. The soaked fabric was all but transparent, revealing breasts that were full and round, their peaks stiffened into tight buds, attesting to the iciness of the water.

Blood rushed through his veins. Never one to question either kind or mean whims of God or Fate, Austin thanked his maker for sending him to the loch at this moment.

He lifted his gaze to her face, meeting a pair of shocked eyes, the green of which he immediately likened to that of rich emerald velvet. The shock evolved, darkening the green and narrowing the mesmerizing gaze with a riot of anger.

"But ye do intrude," she replied. "Take yerself off, sir! This instant."

Though he knew her not at all, Austin suspected she had hoped to impart a more forceful tone and less the strident one employed.

With a large army so close but no formal burgh or village nearby, Austin presumed that she was one of the camp-followers. He didn't generally pay much attention to the small folk, as they were called, save that in one instance of battle it had been recorded that their large numbers appearing in the rear guard of the main Scottish force had led the English to believe that reinforcements had arrived, convincing them to flee. He'd not ever taken advantage of the services offered by a select portion of the women of the small folk but knew without a doubt that would no longer be true after today or tonight.

This one was exquisite, and he could imagine no price that he would be unwilling to pay for one night in her company. Seemingly without purpose, he strode casually to where a stack of fresh clothing awaited her on the shore.

"Have ye wool in yer ears?" She asked, her tone higher and more urgent. "Go on with ye! Have ye nae decency?"

Facing her straight on, he watched as she—wisely but sadly—crossed her arms over her provocative chest.

He was struck by the fierce beauty that radiated from her features. Her eyes, that piercing green, held an intensity that spoke of both strength and fury, a stormy sea reflecting a turbulent sky. Strands of her sleek wet hair, tousled by the wind and striped with hints of red and gold, framed a visage marked by determination, one at which he would be happy to marvel for quite some time.

Her skin, scrubbed clean, had a natural fairness that glowed in the sunlight. A delicate scar, relatively new, traced a line across her cheek toward her ear, enhancing rather than diminishing her allure, begging questions and conjecture. Her nose, slightly reddened from the cold, added a touch of vulnerability to her otherwise breathtaking and clearly irritated fa?ade.

Austin was captivated by the contrast between her full, soft lips and the steely resolve in her gaze. Her expression was a blend of defiance and, as he imagined, an unspoken weariness, as if she had seen more of the world's hardships than one should bear. And yet she was unbroken, said her formidable scowl. This contradiction of fragility and fortitude made her all the more mesmerizing, leaving him unable to tear his eyes away, entranced by the striking beauty before him.

Blindly fetching coins from the purse tucked into his tunic, he removed his gaze from her only to drop several pieces, a generous amount, onto the pile of her clothing before he eagerly returned his gaze to her.

"I dinna care that ye might be committed to another tonight," he said. "That should be enough to...reschedule him."

Briefly, all the glaring threat of her expression evaporated, softening her as she stared gape-jawed, first at the coins he'd deposited and then at him.

Assuming that might be more coin than she'd seen in a long, long time, Austin grinned, and cajoled, "I'm nae one of the foot soldiers with a tent nae large enough to sit up straight."

Her gorgeous mouth gaped further before she caught herself and pressed her lips into a thin, tight line. A cold fire blazed in her green eyes even as she arched a brow in what appeared to be disbelief. With an inelegant snort, she shook her head and dropped her arms and began to exit the loch. When the water reached only to her thighs, she fisted her hands in her skirt, lifting her shift above the waterline and walked boldly forward, either uncaring that he was able to look his fill or mayhap with some attempt to squeeze even more coin from him, tempting him with her full tantalizing shape.

She was taller than most women, her shape long and lithe. Her steps were confident and unhurried. The linen shift teased with alluring clarity more than it concealed, exposing the shape and a shadow of that fascinating patch of hair at the juncture of her slender and supple thighs. Droplets of water traced paths down her smooth, bare arms, catching the light like tiny jewels.

Austin's breath hitched at the sight, his sizzling gaze fastened upon her.

She appeared completely unfazed by his presence then, her boldness evident in the way she carried herself, meeting his gaze directly when he was able to wrench his eyes from her figure, as if daring him to look away.

He couldn't, of course, was powerless to tear his gaze from the mesmerizing vision before him.

Graceful had been her stride inside the water, but once her feet touched dry ground, she rather stomped toward him, or more realistically, her clothes.

"Och, a tent large enough to stand in. Ye must be very important," she guessed sardonically, and just as he shrugged his shoulders, still grinning and not bothering to refute the conclusion she'd made—that he'd meant for her to draw—she added, "in yer own mind."

And then she smiled blithely, and he had to imagine the effect of that smile had gotten her whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and he found that he was not perturbed by her insolence but rather more intrigued.

He said nothing, a wee bit distracted by awe as she stood not three feet away from him. This close, he could see that her cheeks and her bare shoulders were very lightly dusted with freckles, and he was teased by the notion, based on his fervent observation, that her areolas were a very charming dark pink. Additionally, he discovered that several more curious scars crisscrossed her bare arms.

The lass bent and collected a garment that was low in the pile, showing no care for the coins he'd so generously and effectively laid at her feet so that they were spilled off the top garment, pinging against the gravel of the shore.

Austin frowned at what was discerned about her garments, as he noticed that rather than a léine and kirtle, she tucked under her wet arm what appeared to be a pair of breeches and possibly a tunic. A thin strip of linen dangled there as well, a length of several feet falling down past her hips.

She shoved her feet into a pair of worn but serviceable boots, twisting one foot and then the other to don them properly. As she did this, she lifted those fabulous green eyes to him.

"Keep yer coin, sir," she said, "and yer distance."

This raised Austin's brow. He was aware that he was considered handsome, and history told that he rarely had to extend great effort to entice females to his bed. Jesu, but she would be worth any effort, whatever it took, he decided. He could, when it suited him, be charming.

He lifted his hand and meant to stroke down her bare arm, the glistening ivory flesh inviting his touch.

Before he could have, the lass jerked her forearm upward, her hand fisted, blocking his intent.

Surprised by the swiftness of her action but not yet daunted, he smiled daringly at her and captured her wrist and drew her up against him. Scarcely had he time to register the feel of her wet body pressed against his length than she dropped the garments from under her arm and lifted her hand under his chin.

More surprised was he at that moment, feeling the unmistakable indent of a blade against his neck.

Why, the little spitfire!

Though he didn't make any sudden movement, he did smirk to show that he knew no fear. In truth, he believed that even in this position, he could disarm her quite easily. But he did not.

"Ye'll be wanting to let go," she suggested through gritted teeth, all evidence of seductive—albeit now understood to have been unintentional—water siren gone.

"Aye," he agreed, unclenching his fingers from around her wrist. "A wench who kens how to protect herself," he remarked, gazing down at her. Despite her above average height, she still had to tip her face up to him.

"Defend myself," she distinguished tersely, "against ye and all yer ilk, yer head turned by the barest hint of flesh." She smirked wickedly and added spitefully, "So different from what ye might be keeping company with: nae fleece, nae cloven-hoofs, nae bleating."

His brows furrowed at her impious insinuation and a hint of anger darkened his eyes. "Aye, but her tongue is forked, I see."

The lass pushed herself away from him, the blade the last thing of hers to touch him. She backed up several paces and collected her dropped belongings.

And from under a veil of furious eyes, she warned him as she continued to back away from him, "Aye, and now ye ken to keep yer distance, knight. Touch me again and I'll nae hesitate to sink my blade into yer flesh."

Befuddled by a wee bit of wonder at her ease with violence, Austin lifted his arms and hands, meaning to project no further threat. He watched as she backed up, blade thrust forward yet, to the trees. There she turned and walked away. She didn't run or cry or scream. She simply walked away without once, for as long as he could see her, glancing over her shoulder.

Simply irresistible, he concluded of her and their unexpected but wholly delightful encounter. His grin returned.

Aye, he looked forward to getting to know that lass with the fiery manner and sizzling green eyes.