Prologue

Arrochar, the Scottish Highlands, mid-August 1425

Damn your impudence! Are ye daft? What the devil did ye think ye could accomplish wi' such foolishness? D'ye never think?"

Facing his irate father, dark-haired, dark-eyed Dougal MacPharlain sought in vain for a prudent answer to the question. If his scheme had succeeded, Pharlain would be praising him now. But since he had failed… again…

"Well?" The powerfully-built Pharlain took a threatening step forward, and Dougal winced despite having sworn to himself that he would defend his actions. He was tall, agile, and strong himself but had never successfully challenged his father. Also, his body was a mass of bruises already from the previous night, when Andrew Dubh MacFarlan's men had savagely beaten him.

"Answer me, damn ye!" Pharlain snapped.

"The charters," Dougal said hastily. "I'd expected to get Andrew's charters. God kens, the woman promised to bring them when she agreed to meet with me."

"Aye, sure, she did," Pharlain said, his tone more sardonic and scathing than ever. "Ye speak o' the lady Aubrey MacFarlan, aye? Andrew Dubh's wife?"

"I tell ye, sir, she promised! Forbye, she did meet with me."

"Aye, but Andrew's men captured ye, so 'twas nobbut a trap. I note, too, that ye failed tae tell me he sent ye home in your tunic, looking as if ye'd been mauled by rogues. What happened tae the rest o' your clothes and your weapons?"

Dougal kept silent. If Pharlain knew that much, he also knew that Andrew had ordered him escorted home that way, with the laird's compliments.

"Ye'll keep away from Andrew and Tùr Meiloach, or ye'll answer tae me," Pharlain snapped. "I ken fine that ye hoped tae marry one o' his daughters, and I'll grant ye, 'twas a good notion, that. Such a union could well reunite the two factions of our clan. But now Andrew's got only the one daughter left. And, thanks tae your previous ineptness, he'll likely see the lass dead afore he'll give her tae ye."

"Perhaps, but as long as he has his royal charters to show the King at Inverness, we stand to lose Arrochar. And if we do—"

"Ye'll let me worry about Inverness," Pharlain interjected curtly. "Aye, and Arrochar, too. I dinna tell ye everything, and this place is my concern, not yours."

"I should think the future of Arrochar is my affair, too," Dougal said. "After all, I am your sole heir."

"An ye should live so long, aye," Pharlain retorted. "Now, get out o' me sight, for I canna stand tae look at ye. If I see your face again today, I'll have ye flogged."

Dougal fled, but resentment filled every cell of his body, aimed not only at his father for his rebukes but also at Andrew Dubh and the Fates in equal measure.

Nevertheless, by the time he reached the courtyard and could breathe the fresh air, he had his temper in hand again. He reminded himself that the Fates, and Andrew, had let him survive the previous night's beating.

Moreover, Pharlain had acknowledged two plain facts: that Dougal's notion of marrying one of the MacFarlan sisters to unite their long-divided clan was a good one and that Andrew still had one unwed daughter.

To be sure, that daughter had declared to anyone who would listen that she would never marry any man. However, that declaration merely told Dougal that he could bide and plan with more care this time.

Winter was coming, but spring would follow. And when he had a plan…