Chapter 1

LOCHINDORB CASTLE - DECEMBER 21, 1384

I n only a few short hours he would join Théa in death. Cold shivered through Léo's body as he wedged his knees against the damp, stinking stone, trying to relieve the pressure from his legs as he balanced above the water of the cylindrical pit prison. In only a matter of minutes, his strength would give out and he would fall into the stinging, icy waters of the oubliette? 1 . Yet after almost two years of wishing he could be with his wife, here he was on the brink of extinction finding himself reluctant to die.

A wave of dizziness threatened to suck him into black oblivion, and he rested his trembling head against the freezing rock, fighting to stay awake. " Toujours oublié ."

Forgotten. Always forgotten. Léo's bitter laugh echoed off the water below and the round cylinder of stone above. It was almost funny. A lonely and fitting final end to a half-lived and disappointing life. Forgotten by God since the moment of his birth, forgotten by God in death.

It had been three days since he'd helped Hector infiltrate Lochindorb, the Wolf of Badenoch's deadly fortress. Three days since he'd watched his only sister attempt to kill Cara and plunge instead to her own death. Three days since he'd shoved Hector and Cara's small rowboat away from the water-gate and ran back into the swarming crowd of guards to give them a hope of escape. Three days since he was run through with a sword and lived. Pain sliced through his shoulder and he shifted his back, pressing the wound against the numbing cold of the stone.

Thirteen years ago he'd wished for a noble death as he'd stepped into his first battle after his brothers had abandoned him for being… Léo shoved the memory, his most painful secret, away. The recollection seemed alive and feral, tearing at the tenderest places of his soul. The more he remembered it, the more vicious it became, growing in strength. The savage secret had cost him his father, his brothers, his birthright. It sank claws into his mother and shredded her apart, devouring her with efficient ferocity—the only one who had watched over him, remembered him, and protected him.

Tears burned in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, trying to block the vivid dream that had occurred to him over and over then, and had started to revisit him now. For fourteen years he'd almost managed to become a different man. No one could ever know about the secret. No one could ever know about the dream. No one could know about the fatal final week at Dun Ringill all those years ago. No one could know what his father had done. No one could ever know.

Tortured by the memory, he moved what little he could, trying to forget. Lifting a trembling hand, he touched his swollen eye and jaw, both thick with dried blood. Tongue probing against teeth, he tested each one to see if any were loose or dying. So far, so good. He remembered the freezing water below him and the numbness in his legs. Not that teeth would matter in a few hours.

Haunted by one memory, the twisted and haunted sound of Cara's scream as he'd been run through taunted him next. He buried his face in his hands, trying to remember any thought that was life-giving. At least Cara was safe. At least she and her baby would live. He'd seen the same devotion to God in Cara's pure heart that he saw in his beloved wife, and he'd hoped she would be the one to fill the barren places of his own.

The MacKinnon nature he tried to overcome daily wound bitter vines around his mind, choking out the life Cara's memory brought him. What difference did it make now? The result of their brief courtship fit the pattern of his life so far. Cara was married to Hector and carried his child, and he was stuck in a stinking hole.

As he thought of Hector, a glimmer of warmth and loyalty flooded his heart and he swallowed his resentful thoughts.

When his blood brothers had abandoned him, Hector had saved his life. Léo was seventeen to Hector's twenty-one when they'd met, and for the six years that followed they fought side-by-side and shared the same broken-down tent. Hector taught him how to fight, and he taught Hector how to speak French. They'd grown up together, talked into the long hours of the night, and gotten themselves into their fair share of trouble. Until the seventh year. The year he met Théa.

A shriek penetrated through the darkness as a rat fell through the grate at the top of the oubliette and landed on him. Not flinching as he had the first time, his hand felt for the wormy tail and held on. The rat squirmed and shrieked as he held it aloft. Hunger cramped his stomach. A wise man would smash the rodent upon the rocks and eat it to nourish himself and better his chances of survival. Preferring to starve, he slid his arm between his body and the walls and dropped the poor creature into the water.

Squeals and splashes from the rat echoed up the narrow cylinder of stone and he plugged his ears against the sound of drowning. God help me. Let me die or save me from this hell.

Sanity dangling by a thread, he shuddered against the splashes at his backside. He shut his eyes and called his wife to mind, obsessively remembering each detail of her face. Théa illuminated by moonlight on their wedding night. The reverent sound of her voice as she recited the Lord's Prayer. The soft bluebell color of her eyes as she looked upon their son for the first and last time and spoke his name.

"Gabriel." His voice croaked up the oubliette as the splashes of the dying rat began to subside.

Peace invaded his soul as quiet overcame his mind. The feeling of insanity was replaced by deep love. A smile pulled high on his face and caused his jaw to protest, but pain could not chase it away. Nothing could extinguish the joy in his heart as he remembered his son's belly laughter and imagined tickling him and putting him on his shoulders. He savored the memory of Gabriel's first steps into his arms next. Gabriel had waited for him to return after a month-long stay at le Louvre to decide to walk, toddling right into his arms as soon as he'd seen his papa in the doorway.

Hope sparked in his heart, and in prayer he blew it into flame. God, please let me see my son again. For once, don't forget me, Lord…please…

Movement sounded above him, and he braced for an incoming rat. Corroded metal screeched against the blackness and something hit him hard in the gut.

"MacKinnon!"

For a few moments Léo battled confusion then found his dying voice. " Oui? "

"Grab it."

Dazed, his hand went forward, groping against the blackness and found the rough, twisting fiber of rope. Using his good arm he pulled upward, loosening his stiff legs and bracing them against the rock. He looped the rope around his leg, his middle, and then his good arm.

"All right."

The rope jerked upward, his body dangling, his wounded face bashing against the slimy stone. Spears of pain shot through his forehead and scalp, but he held on with all he had left. Gallows, fires and flame, the front line of battle—anywhere was better than dying forgotten in a hole.

Upward he soared, the dim light of day growing brighter and brighter. He crashed over the circular opening of the oubliette and collided with the stone floor of the dungeon. Pain erupted through his wounded shoulder—a reminder that he was still alive. A guard jerked him to his feet. "Move."

Stumbling forward, he followed behind the guards as they rounded a corner. Weakened and unsteady he tried to keep in step with their quick pace, but fell against stone stairs and was met with a swift kick in the back. "Up, swine!"

Crawling up the stairs, he moved as fast as his exhausted body would allow. As he reached the top, a bucket of frigid water hit him in the face.

Léo spluttered, shocked by the soaking, clinging cold, and the peaty water that invaded his dry mouth. Blinking the water away, he looked around and spotted a second bucket at the feet of the guard. Before it could be hefted, he staggered forward like an animal and plunged his head into the bucket, gulping down water in desperate mouthfuls.

A kick connected with his ribs and he splayed sideways, thanking God that his thirst had been quenched. A fist locked in his hair and he was yanked to his feet. "Forward."

Exhaustion, blood loss, and days of confinement had taken its toll, and he felt himself listing into the guards, the walls, into the danger he knew awaited him. He wasn't alive—he was a dead man.

Traveling up two more flights of stairs he found himself in the warmth of Lochindorb. Heat surrounded him like a blanket, needles of pain shooting through his cold extremities. A scrawny guard pushed him through a heavy wooden door and he fell, sprawling at the fine leather boots of his brother.

Niall gave him a look of barely contained disgust. "I should have murdered you the first time you stepped foot back upon Skye. You're a disgrace to this family. Always have been."

Face cloaked by a veil of hair, Léo rolled so he could see out of his one good eye. "Oui, you've told me."

Niall circled him. "You killed Elspeth."

Resentment fired through him, and revenge threatened to make him do something foolish. Léo summoned his depleted stores of strength and got to his feet. Drawing up to his full height, he looked down at the most ruthless yet pathetic of his siblings. "Her blood is on your hands, just as my mother's, just as our father's."

Niall drew his hands behind his back. "As usual you speak in riddles as if I should know your meaning. However, if you'd like to invoke our father's memory I suggest we start with your alliance with the MacLeans. Father is turning in his grave."

Anger overcame Léo's better judgment. "An alliance with the MacLeans wasn't a problem when Hector's gold was at stake. Is that why you are here? To try and convince me to help your treasury in exchange for my life? Or did the Wolf's boots need licking?"

Without warning, Niall launched both hands into Léo's chest. Strength sapped, Léo collided with a table but managed to stay upright. "You dare insult me when you've been stuck in a hole for three days? It's only because of my alliance with the Wolf that your miserable life has been spared."

Gabriel's cherubic smile flashed through his mind and he held his tongue. Yes, for once he was thankful for Niall.

"Are you here to collect me then? I'll go straight back to Calais without troubling you further."

A fist connected with Léo's swollen jaw and stars blinded him. He went down to the floor, words emptying from his mind in a tremendous rattle. Another blow landed on his wounded shoulder. Then again. And again.

Snarls escaped through Niall's clenched jaw as his fist punctuated his explanation. "After what you've cost me? My alliance is hanging by a thread because of your stupidity…Elspeth is dead because of you…I should have left you at the bottom of the pit…I should have murdered you in France…I should have murdered you in your cradle?—"

Léo writhed against the stone floor. "Why…didn't…you? Still…af-afraid?"

Niall's fist paused inches away from Léo's jaw, frozen. For moments the brothers stared at each other, the dream, the unspoken prophecy, the threat of righteous judgment growing between them.

Niall began to pant, then shake. A rough bag came down over Léo's head.

"We're going to Cràdh."

The sound of footsteps shuffled beside his ear before a blow snapped his head backward. A brief feeling of terror clouded his heart… not Cràdh .

The world went black.