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  Copyright © 2018 by Alyson McLayne

  Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Paul Stinson

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  A Sneak Peek at Highland Betrayal

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Trina—my Isla of forty years. I know you’ve got my back. Love you for another forty.

  One

  MacPherson Castle—Loch Eireachd, Scotland, 1452

  Fistfuls of hair fell to the bed like streams of molten iron. The growing pile, more orange than gold, resembled a dragon’s nest, and gleamed seductively in the firelight. Amber sighed at the sight. If only it were a real dragon’s nest and a beast could rise and smite all her enemies. One very much in particular.

  She almost smiled at the fanciful thought as she chopped off her hair. Almost. In truth, her plan was an act of desperation with little chance of success. By all that was holy, she’d need a miracle to get away this time.

  Grabbing another handful, she raised the knife and sawed off an even bigger chunk. The remaining strands sprang up to curl around her neck and ears, a light, airy feeling at odds with the heaviness in her heart.

  Laird Machar Murray would come after her, of that she had no doubt. If he found her, no amount of false hexes or curses or threats from the devil would deter him from destroying her this time.

  Her lost hair would grow back. Her lost spirit and soul could not.

  The heavy wooden door rattled as a key entered the lock from the outside. It pushed open. Amber spun around to face the intruder, her heart in her throat and the knife pointed outward. Niall, the old steward, shuffled in, his worn plaid sagging below his belt. She huffed in relief and went back to cutting off her hair.

  “You scared the life out of me, aye?”

  “You should be scared, lass. I doona know how you’ve lasted this long with Laird Murray breathing down your neck. He’ll turn the keep upside down to find you.”

  “I couldnae leave with Erin so sick, now could I? Her mother and father would ne’er recover if she died. And Ian needed me to speak for him or he would’ve ended up in the dungeon for who knows how long.”

  “You’ll ne’er recover if the laird gets a hold of you—although you wouldnae end up in the dungeon. Nay, he’d lock you in his bedchamber first. And no doubt Father Odhran would consider it a just punishment for all the help you’ve given the women.”

  “He’s a wee ablach, that one. The devil take him.”

  “The devil take them both.”

  Her knife cut through the last chunk of her hair and she held it in her hand, staring at it. The strands twisted and curled in long, silken waves, a last gift from her mother. Her father had loved her hair. Her grandmother had brushed it every night, singing the songs of the Highlands that Amber had so loved. Sorrow welled within her at the loss, and she squeezed her eyes shut to push it away.

  Bah! Her hair had caused her nothing but trouble. How many times had she wished herself plain when some irritating man came knocking at her door, asking for her hand? Too many to count.

  She tossed the curls down on the linen quilt, glad to be rid of them. She had no time for self-pity.

  “Did you bring the lads’ clothes?” she asked. “And the band?”

  “Aye.” He pulled some material from under his plaid.

  Amber reached for the silver brooch that held her arisaid in place over her left breast, and released it. Niall squawked as her dress fell off, and he quickly turned around. “Lord have mercy, lass, I’m an old man. My heart willna survive looking upon the pride of Clan MacPherson in such a way.”

  “Is that what they call me?” She tucked up her linen shift and shook out the tautly woven cloth Niall had tossed on the bed. “I thought ’twas ‘witch’ and ‘temptress.’ Sometimes ‘evildoer,’ depending on who did the talking.”

  “Doona be daft. Only Laird Murray and his plague of rats say such things. The MacPhersons know the sacrifices you’ve made, the danger you’ve courted for us. We couldnae be more thankful.”

  Amber didn’t speak—couldn’t speak—as his words washed over her. Her throat tightened and she had to blink back tears. Instead, she looked down and secured the end of the cloth over her breasts, trying to squash down the overripe mounds that had done naught but get in the way since they’d started jutting out from her chest when she was fourteen.

  “Aye, neither could I,” she said finally, her voice sounding thick. “I’ll miss you all.” She lifted the end of the band trailing on the floor and held it out to Niall. “Here, hold this tight now while I wrap it.”

  Niall grabbed it, eyes lowered, and held the cloth taut with surprising strength as she turned herself into it and knotted the band in place, flattening enough of her bust that the rest could still be concealed beneath the loose shirt. Her breath came short, her ribs compressed, but it was a strain she could bear. The bulk of the boy’s plaid should hide the slight tuck at her waist and roundness of her bottom. Her legs were long and strong, and if she muddied them they should pass for a lad’s. Her face too—although nothing could disguise the startling color of her eyes. Those were an inheritance from her beloved grandmother, and had led to much trouble for her as well as for Amber.

  Men envied uncommon things, beautiful things, and would go to great lengths to acquire them. Luckily, the MacPhersons were good people, and Amber’s grandmother an excellent healer. She’d taught Amber everything she’d known before she died, and Amber’s place with the MacPhersons had been secure. They’d cherished her and she them.

  Not so Laird Machar Murray. Nay, the conniving laird would as soon burn or drown her for a witch—as their good-for-naught priest wanted. After Murray tired of raping her.

  Amber pulled the lad’s shirt over her head and tr
ied to belt the plaid in place by herself. In the end, Niall had to show her how it should be done—a complicated ritual of pleating and tucking and twisting the material.

  When she had finally mastered it on her own, Niall moved to a chest against the wall in the corner, and on his signal, Amber shoved the heavy piece of furniture to the side so he could crouch down and count the stones.

  “This is it,” he said, pushing against the block while Amber waited impatiently beside him. Finally, a space appeared that was barely big enough for her to squeeze through. She grabbed a candle from the table and lit it in the fire before passing it through the dark hole in the wall. A dank passageway appeared ahead of her, just big enough for her to stand, and a narrow stairwell descended at the end.

  “Are you sure it goes all the way down?” she asked. “When was it last used? Is it safe?”

  “I doona know, lass, but anywhere is safer than here with Machar Murray.”

  She nodded reluctantly, laid down the candle beside her, and pulled Niall into a tight hug. “I’ll miss you, you old badger. You’ve been a staunch friend to me, and to my grandmother before that. Our family wouldnae have survived this long without you.”

  Niall squeezed her even tighter before pushing her away. “Go on with you, then. And doona even think of coming back. Go find a life for yourself away from the hell of this one. Marry a good man and have plenty of fine children.” He let go and lifted a bag from his shoulder. “Some food and coin until you find your new home.”

  After she took it, he picked up the candle and handed it to her. “When you get to the end, the bottom stone should push out. I’ve already loosened it from the other side. The ground is muddy. Use some dirt to darken your bare skin, especially your face. There’s no hiding you’re a woman without that, even with your hair shorn.”

  Amber nodded as he talked, trying to quell the panic that had tied her stomach into knots.

  “Once you’re out of the keep, go to the east wall by the tanning hut. Look for a cart missing a wheel, with a rope attached. Throw the rope over the wall, then climb up the hay bales to the top. I’ve tethered a horse on the other side.”

  Amber squeezed his arm, afraid to speak lest she start crying again, afraid to even look at him. He moved over, and she wedged herself through the hole. Once on the other side, she couldn’t resist and glanced back over her shoulder to see Niall’s face, wet with tears, one last time.

  “Be safe,” he said, shoving the stone back in place and leaving her with only her candle for company.

  * * *

  Lachlan MacKay, laird of Clan MacKay, lay on his belly in the scrub, staring at the pockmarked and tumbling-down walls of the once-grand MacPherson castle. He’d counted fourteen places his men could breach the fortress, carefully noting the poorly planned circuits the guards walked on the perimeter, the easy footholds to get over the wall, the young, inexperienced men at the gate. There was even a horse grazing alongside the wall that anyone could use to hide behind.

  Surely the crafty MacPherson laird, Machar Murray, would never be so careless, so lax in his defenses? It had taken Lachlan five years to identify and find Murray after he’d murdered Lachlan’s older brother and tried to murder Lachlan himself—in order to take over Clan MacKay. Murray had covered his tracks well, hiding behind silenced accomplices, false names, and convoluted trails.

  So why would his home be so poorly protected? It would take Lachlan less than an hour to conquer the castle as it was. It didn’t make sense.

  He turned to his foster brother, Callum MacLean, laird of Clan MacLean, who lay beside him on the slight rise. He watched the castle as well, his perceptive green eyes bright against the dirt he’d used to muddy his face and neck. He’d even smeared some of it into his short, dark hair.

  “Do you think it’s a trap?” Lachlan asked, voice barely above a whisper.

  “Maybe. I canna believe anyone would be so careless. But if it were a trap, there would only be one easy way in, two at the most. Not fifteen.”

  “Fifteen? I only saw fourteen.”

  “Aye. You always had trouble counting past ten.”

  Lachlan snorted and resisted punching his foster brother in the shoulder. Callum would have expected it, of course, and most likely jumped out of arm’s reach, if they hadn’t been intent on staying hidden.

  There were five of them that had been taught how to fight—how to lead—by the great Gregor MacLeod. Gregor had bonded the lads, all now lairds of their own clans, into a tight, cohesive unit, even if they did still like to provoke one another as often as they could.

  ’Twas a time-honored tradition, and both men were good at it.

  “I doona need to count past ten; I’m not the one who left my betrothed behind tossing daggers and running wild in her castle. How many months has it been since you last saw Maggie? Almost forty? You can bet she’ll be counting every one of them. She may use those daggers on you when you finally decide to claim her. If she’ll still have you.”

  “She’ll have me,” Callum grunted.

  Satisfied, Lachlan went back to studying the castle, looking for the way in he’d missed. If Callum said another existed, then it did. His foster brother was an excellent strategist, with a sharp mind and eyes that saw everything. Except, of course, the identity of the traitor in his own clan—the reason he’d left Maggie behind for so long. He was afraid to bring her home with him while his father’s murderer was still loose.

  “Ah, there it is,” Lachlan said, finally seeing the entrance. “The ditch they’ve dug under the wall. We can widen it, get at least one man through at a time.”

  Callum nodded. “The ground’s still wet from last night’s rain. It should dig out easily and quietly.” He scanned from one end of the castle to the other. They’d been scouting all day and had already looked at the fortress from every angle. “Will you split the attack?”

  “Aye. Four fronts: the gate to the north, over the top of the east and west walls just south of the keep, and through the ditch at the far end.” His jaw clenched; a surge of rage he’d been trying to contain pushed up from his belly. The emotion had been riding him hard the past fortnight—ever since he’d received confirmation that Machar Murray, laird of Clan MacPherson, was his brother’s killer. “I doona want to leave that bastard any way out. I’m going to gut him slowly for what he did to Donald.”

  Lachlan would never forget the look of delight on his brother’s face that terrible day. He’d held up the fish he’d just caught in the loch, bragging that his catch, like everything else about him, was bigger than Lachlan’s. Lachlan had been laughing too. Then an arrow had pierced Donald’s chest from behind. He’d toppled to his knees in the boat. The delight. The laughter. Turning to pain and horror.

  It had shredded Lachlan, but he hadn’t gone to help Donald as the archer expected. ’Twas a killing shot, and no good would have come of it. Instead, he’d dived into the water and swam as long and hard as he could, arrows hitting the water above him, some of them nicking and piercing his skin. When he surfaced and made it to the trees unseen, he returned to the castle, heartbroken and enraged, only to find Donald’s wife missing. After a thorough search, they found her at a secluded cottage, murdered along with one of her guards and her maid. She’d been killed in an intimate setting, a love nest, and Lachlan had determined she’d made a cuckold of Donald, most likely with the murderer, who had cleaned up his tracks after Lachlan survived the assassination attempt.

  The very next day, Lachlan had assumed the unwanted mantle of Laird MacKay and begun his search for his brother’s murderer and would-be usurper.

  Drumming his fingers on the ground, Lachlan tried to tamp down the memories and uncharacteristic burst of emotion, tried to think without the haze of fury that wanted to overwhelm him. He was so close to Machar Murray. “If it isna a trap, then what’s he thinking? Doesn’t he intend to keep the castle? The land?”r />
  “I doona think so. ’Tis said he took the castle right after he murdered your brother. Maybe it was a fallback position for him.”

  “He’ll fall back, all right. Under my sword. And anyone else in the clan who aided him.”

  Callum laid a hand on his arm. “You’re too hot, Lachlan. Look at them. They’re not warriors—not even the guards. And Murray is a snake. He would have attacked the leaders in the clan from the dark, not a full-frontal assault. The MacPhersons may not even know he killed their old laird. I canna believe they supported him in the attack.” He shook his head. “I wish we had more information.”

  “As do I, but I willna wait one more hour, Callum. The best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head before it strikes.”

  “Aye, and you’d win for sure, but there’d be too many losses. Too many innocents caught between our forces and Murray’s. Gregor charged us to bring peace to the Highlands, not forge a bloody massacre.”

  Lachlan knew it was true but still he didn’t want to hear it. When he’d received word that his brother’s killer had been found, he’d wanted to charge right in, sword swinging, arrows flying. Callum had been the voice of reason, nattering at his side, pulling on the reins as best he could. Lachlan had even tried to leave without him, but Callum had anticipated that move too. Bloody bastard.

  Lachlan smashed his fist on the ground, wanted to spit in disgust. “Why haven’t the clan killed him themselves? The few reports we have say he’s not loved by the MacPhersons. What kind of people let a monster live?”

  “What would you have them do? Should the cook have poisoned his food? The maid he’s tupping slit his throat, or the groom put a stone in his mount’s hoof? Most people doona have it in them to murder a man in cold blood.”

  “The guards, then.”

  “Look. At. Them,” he said again. “They’re not properly trained. Murray most likely killed all the seasoned warriors. We want to go in as soft as we can. Give the MacPhersons a chance to lay down their arms. We want them on our side. Besides, ’tis said their healer is a miracle worker. You know how upset Gregor will be if she’s harmed or turned against us.”