Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

T he high pitch screamof deathechoed through the corridor, rousing him from his slumber. He rubbed his eyes half awake, his ears ready to confirm the source of the sound. His mother's voice. Then came a second, louder and longer wail, followed by an unsettling silence.

He sprang from his bed and descended the stairs as fast as his six-year-old legs could carry him. The outline of a man seeped like a shadow from his father's study and out the door that led to the open fields of the keep. Curious, he edged towards the door.

As he pushed the handle, the sickening smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils. His eyes were drawn downward to the twisted figure of a woman lying still on the cold floor, her shift stained with the same blood that pooled around her, a luckenbooth brooch lying next to her.

His heart beat rapidly, and his muscles tensed as he moved closer to the body. "It is my da's treasure," he muttered near- voicelessly as he picked up the blood-stained brooch. "Where is…"

His eyes widened as he jerked away, quick as he could. The body of the dead woman shot up through the air, colliding with the ceiling. Blood dripped down her twisted neck, and she stared back at him with eyes that were just like his mother's. Then, before he could run, she flew towards him.

Kendrick jolted up from his bed. His body was dappled with sweat as though he had been hunting a boar. But the pounding in his chest subsided as he realized it was merely a nightmare. He looked beside his bed to find the luckenbooth brooch.

Fourteen years had passed, yet the recollections of his mother's twisted neck and her frozen, dead brown eyes remained vivid. The memories of his father's sin had since been a bedside companion. Every night had been merciless.

He picked up the brooch—the one that had once belonged to his father, the one that had fallen next to his mother's body the night he found her. He didn't know why he kept it close. Perhaps he needed something to remind himself of his bitterness for his father, of his vow to not walk the same beastly path himself.

"Watch me, Father," he mumbled. "I shall never become a wife slaughterer like ye. I shall live and die without a family."

"Are ye all right, milaird?"

Kendrick gasped. It was only Catherine. She rubbed his shoulder in the early morning light, pressing her bare body against his.Shaken by the damned nightmare, he had all but forgotten she had spent the night in his chamber.

"I'd like to be left on my own, Catherine," he rasped. "Ye may leave now."

"But milaird—" the maid started, her voice filled with tears. Her outburst unsettled him,as Catherine knew well. He didn't allow any of his lovers to sleep in his bed, and she pushed her luck every time.

"Now, lass," he growled, trying to keep his anger at bay.

With a sad little grimace, she rapidly dressed and turned to leave his chamber. "Ye may not care for me, milaird, but I care for ye. Whenever ye need me, ye ken where ye may find me."

He watched as she opened the door to leave. To his dismay, Logan, his uncle and advisor, was waiting on the other side. He entered and looked at the girl with a smirk. Blushing from head to toe, Catherine gave Kendrick one last glance before leaving the men alone. For some reason, he felt guilty.

Laird! As if it were my fault she always pretends to be asleep!

"Why, what a little bairn ye are, still sleeping next to a maid!" Logan teased through bouts of laughter.

Kendrick pretended to not hear him. "Is there a problem?"

"The farmers seek yer attendance," Logan explained, wiping his eyes. "They are concerned by the season's harvest—aye, it does not look promising."

"I will join ye shortly. I plea ye, keep the peace till I return," said Kendrick.

"Alright, lad. Go wash and straighten yerself up. Ye look awful," Logan added before walking out of the chamber.

Kendrick walked into a room filled with farmers almost twice his age. He was a young laird of twenty-two, leading a clan of hundreds. The laborers' faces held not a whisper of happiness. Kendrick could only mirror their despair as he made his way to his chair, ready to listen to their grievances.

"Milaird," said one of the farmers. "The fields refuse to bear fruit and our families rest on empty stomachs."

"Pardon me, milaird, even our sheep and goats starve, and we cannot milk them," another complained.

"The soils do not yield any safe grain, milaird! We shall die of starvation if a solution is not provided," cried another voice from the crowd.

The shouts of about a hundred frustrated farmers begging for the Laird's assistance soon filled the hall. Hard though he may have pondered, Kendrick could not fathom what to say that might aid them. He frowned as he massaged his chin. When he tried to speak, all that came out was silence.

He finally forced the words from his mouth. "Quiet," he intonated, shifting the focus of the disgruntled men back to himself. "Nae one shall die of starvation. I shall find a way. I ken how ye must feel, and I will make sure naeone will go to bed hungry anymore."

"I do nae wish to question yer word, milaird, but how shall ye cater our demands?" one of the men inquired.

"He is right, milaird," another chimed up. "Ye dinnae have neither wife nor children. Ye dinnae ken what it is to provide for a bairn! How can ye ken what it is we feel?"

"Ye cannae put in order yer responsibilities, and make a family of yer own, milaird. How ken ye attend tae our needs?"

Kendrick was at a loss for words. There was no doubt: many were the men who looked up to him as a strong, safeguarding laird. The others, the outliers, made their disdain for his freedom clear, saying he lacked bravery… but they did not know his truth.

Logan cleared his throat and turned to his nephew. "If ye permit me, milaird, I must address them."

Kendrick nodded.

"I am aware of yer needs and concerns, but ye all need not worry," Logan assured them. "The Laird shall meet a maiden of decent ancestry. Aye, of that I have no doubt—and when he does, they will marry, and ye shall all reap the fruits of their union."

The farmers grew silent for a moment, as did Kendrick, who gaped as he struggled to accept his uncle's statement. He had hardly expected to hear such nonsense from Logan's mouth, and now he felt even more helpless at finding the right words.

"In order for the young Laird to select his wife," Logan went on, "We shall host a feast with all ye brave clan members, with all landholders having daughters, while we gather and search for a solution of yer worries."

Everyone exhaled in relief, and hopeful chatter filled the air. Everyone, except for Kendrick. He refused to become his own father, to take a wife—to destroy her. Even so, he knew his fate could not be avoided. He would need to sire an heir, and he would need a wife to do so.

"Why did ye say that, Uncle?" Kendrick questioned in a low voice while the villagers were leaving the hall. "We have never discussed finding a maiden for me to marry, and a promise like that has to be of my own making."

"Well, I do ken it is long overdue, son. Ye have witnessed the farmers' doubt in yer duty as laird, and I could nae stand hearing it anymore," Logan replied. "If ye don't want to lose their faith, ye need to find a wife sooner than ye think, and I ken that even if we had discussed it earlier, the ending would nae change for it. Ye have to marry, Kendrick. And ye have to marry fast."

Although he would have preferred to take a different stand, he had to concede that his uncle was right. He took a long breath before speaking, "Where do ye recommend I start?"

"Only two landholders have daughters of marriageable age, that I ken," he paused to face Kendrick. "I suppose one of Angus Gibson's daughters will be a wonderful choice for ye. He has considerable authority and influence over the other landholders of the clan to boot."

Kendrick grimaced. Angus Gibson had been an ally of his late father. His eldest daughter, Sophia, had been a dear friend of his when they were children… until talk had started of their marrying when they were older; until he had started caring for her, too. Kendrick knew that caring only led to slaughter. It had to.

"He has three daughters, the youngest of whom is just fifteen. The eldest, Sophia, is nineteen, I suppose ye ken her well as ye both formerly ran round the castle together as bairns. The second, Lorena, is a lass of eighteen," Logan explained.

"I shall nae marry any of Angus Gibson's daughters." Kendrick scowled.

"But ye must, milaird. If not them, then others! It shall bring great benefit—to ye, to yer clan. Now, ye think of this and more, while I call for the elder council to convene as planned," Logan concluded before abandoning him to his solitude.

It was true. Kendrick had been quite fond of Sophia. He grinned as he remembered the sound of her soothing voice. She would relentlessly tease him about even her smallest accomplishments when they were children. He recalled how she was the first between them to ride a horse, how she hadn't given up despite failing numerous times.

The first time his heart misbehaved, she had just returned from horse riding. Her raven hair was flowing in the breeze, her riding gown hugging her delicate figure. That day, after she smiled at him, his heart had skipped a beat... and Kendrick knew he was lost.

"Milaird," Reed called as he sat next to him. "Yer uncle tells me we are to plan a wedding. To Sophia, of all lasses!"

Kendrick swallowed a sigh. Despite being his senior by two years, Reed had been Kendrick's closest friend his entire life. "I will nae have any teasing from ye, Reed."

"Is that right?" He grinned in challenge. "Surely, ye should now inform Sophia of yer affections for her? Unless ye are not so smitten with the lass as ye were."

"Nae, she will nae ken of my feelings for her."

Reed looked at Kendrick sceptically. "Would ye then keep ignoring her, like ye have been since ye learned of yer feelings for her?"

Kendrick disregarded Reed's question, and the two simply stood in wait without uttering any other word; they both knew the answer.

Sophia had always loved the view from her hiding place beneath the trees. It was her sacred spot—where the willows protected her from the sun's blinding rays; where its leaves laced together and danced in the breeze. She would settle beneath the great willow after she was done watering the plants, especially in dry periods like this, and picking strange herbs to study.

Her father, Angus, had agreed to let her go on expeditions as long as she never ventured far into the woods… but she was now standing in the middle of them, her hands gripping the weaved handle of her basket of lavender and chamomile.

Sophia was different from other maidens, and she knew it well. Instead of gossiping and knitting, she enjoyed reading and writing. She liked learning about the medicinal properties of various plants and riding horses. Since she was a little girl, she had always been told it was not something a lady should do, yet it never stopped her.

The loud cries of her sisters looking for her broke her attention from the view. Suddenly, they were upon her. "There ye are, sister," Lorena whispered with her hands gripping her skirt.

"Sister, ye are hidden between the trees," Emilea gasped as if Sophia didn't know already.

"Wait till Father finds out," Lorena threatened. "He may imprison ye in a tower for the remainder of the year. Ye ken ye shouldn't go this far. We were all so worried!"

Sophia hushed them. "I was simply collecting these herbs—ye shall nae mention anything to father."

Lorena caught sight of the basket her sister was holding. "Perhaps ye want to give make those little sachets for yer clothes like Ma showed us?"

"Or perhaps ye wish to gift them to a lad ye fancy, sister?" Emilea suggested, earning her a scoff from Sophia. Her little sister reached out to push back the strands of ginger hair that blew into her blue eyes.

Sophia had always envied her mother and sisters' long, red hair. They had clear blue eyes that could be compared to the purest seas, and thin, lithe figures that only made them more beautiful.

Nature had only seen fit to bless Sophia with long hair, but hers was raven black. And her eyes were almost as dark. She was short too, a little frumpy.

It wasn't that she hated the way she looked, for she had great confidence in her other qualities. " But a lass, they say, cannae have it all ," she would often mumble when she caught sight of herself in the river or in a looking glass.

Some days, she had great difficulty blending in with her family and would only spend such days alone, buried in her books or searching through the fields to discover new herbs. Neither of her sisters shared such interests.

"These beautiful cuttings I hold are healing herbs," she said. "They ease many types of illnesses and inflammation when taken as tea."

Her sisters looked at her hands in bewilderment.

"Ye can sniff them, if ye like." She shoved the basket toward them.

Lorena scooped at the air. "Aye, they have a nice smell, sister, but ye will not stall us for all time. Lest I forget, Father seeks yer presence."

"Whatever for?" Sophia asked.

"I dinnae ken, to be honest. He is just returned from Laird MacNeil's keep, and he asked that everyone be gathered," Lorena answered. "We came to find ye before Father came himself, because then ye'll be in trouble."

Sophia motioned for her sisters to take the lead. "Let's go home, then. He must be expecting our arrival already."

Her sisters gathered beside her, placing her in the middle and linking arms. They beamed as the chilly air rushed over them, their petticoats dragging along the tall grass.

"Good morn, I heard ye requested my presence, Father," Sophia greeted as she walked towards him.

"Aye, my sweet bairn. Gather everyone in the hall for there is news I must share," Angus ordered.

"I shall get to it." Sophia nodded and left, wondering about the nature of said news.

The family gathered in the hall before long, little whispers filled the air as they all made predictions about what their father had to announce.

"It pleases me to tell ye that we will be attending a feast at Laird MacNeil's keep in a few days," Angus said, turning to them excitedly. "The Laird has graciously extended his invitation to us as he held council today on the matter of the harvest."

"And why, dear, are we required to be present?" One needed not be told that the tall, ginger-haired woman was Sophia's mother. Her two red-headed daughters were the picture of her.

"The young Laird seeks a lass to wed," their father said.

"So not a feast, but a market. And all the lasses of the clan are to attend, are they?" the lady asked further. "Which of our daughters will be best suited for the Laird?"

"I have two daughters who are of age to find suitors, and mayhap the Laird shall choose one of them, my love. It shall gladden my heart to give one of them as wife to the Laird."

The sisters turned to face each other, and the dining room swelled with chatter as Angus finished his announcement. Emilea smiled mischievously as she prodded Sophia in the ribs. "I'm sure the Laird will pick ye, sister."

"Stop it, Emilea. Ye cannae be sure." Sophia turned away to hide her flushed cheeks.

"Have ye forgotten, my dove?" Her mother stood in front of them, beaming "Ye two were closest friends since ye were young, and he wouldn't want another lass over ye—I ken it. There is a great chance our eldest will finally be wed!"

"Do ye nae ken, Mother?" Lorena broke her silence. "He has been chilly with the clan members for years. It's better to pick naeone!"

"Not another word from ye, Lorena," their mother instructed.

"But Mother—" Lorena tried to argue back.

"No buts ," their mother rebuked. "Ye shall nae speak poorly of the Laird. Now," she continued, "Ye must prepare for the feast, and God willing, our Sophia will find favor in his eyes."

Sophia's eyes sparkled, and her cheeks burned red. The very idea of seeing the Laird after such a long time made her excited and scared in equal parts, for she would more likely than not become his wife…

And the butterflies in her stomach told her just how thrilled she was with the idea.