CHAPTER ONE
Leaving his horse with his clansman, Arran walked down the rutted path through the small village of Braewall. Not a soul was in sight.
Where is everyone?
Three months ago, Grayson Blackwell, Laird McKeith, had promised Arran that he could earn back the kirk and other clan McArthur lands that his father had gambled away. Arran’s father, James, had been just a trifle too fond of drink and gambling. One night, he’d gotten in a bit too deep and had been tricked into wagering the kirk.
The price of buying back the land was to capture two women: Helena Blackwell, and her daughter Skye. His pay was to be the return of his ancestral lands. To make the situation just a trifle more dire, his father had written in his will that in order for Arran to retain his title, he needed to get those few acres back into the family estate.
But everywhere Arran went, the story was the same. No one had seen the women. No one had even heard of them. It was as if they had vanished into thin air or had never existed.
Arran walked on down the deserted village street. The silence was eerie, as if someone or something had cast a spell over the ramshackle assemblage of huts. It gave him an ugly feeling, as if his quest was cursed – if one believed in such things.
All the same, he’d begun to feel uneasy about it. Grayson Blackwell had a reputation as a hard man. But surely no harm would come from returning his wife and step-daughter to him? Surely he would not be in such a radge as to harm them.
He turned a corner and saw a small old man lounging on a bench, whittling at a scrap of wood.
The man nodded in his direction and then called out, “Everyone’s down by the stable. Some younger lads are makin’ a spectacle of themselves, and the whole town is up there gawkin’.”
In a few more steps, he could hear the commotion.
“Get him, Johnny-boy! Watch the left hook, Cam! Daenae let him best ye now!” the men shouted, and Arran figured a few bets had been placed on this fight.
The old man was right. The whole town was enjoying the fight. Well, if everyone was here, he might as well ask some questions while most folks were too distracted to pay attention to him.
He tapped the meaty shoulder of a large man with pitch-black hair laced with a few strands of gray. “I am lookin’ for a young woman with red hair—said to be beautiful. She travels with her maither. The maither has a scar, here on her forehead,” he said, pointing to his brow. “Have ye seen either of them?”
The man glanced at him but gave no answer. He turned his attention back to the fight when the crowd roared again, evidently in approval of the last punch.
Perturbed, Arran moved through the crowd and described the two women he was looking for, this time to a portly woman with a red nose. She wore an apron with some blood smeared down the front and a cleaver in the front pocket. Her reply was to simply push past him so that she could get a better view of the afternoon entertainment. “Get out of me way,” she said. “I got a shillin’ that says Cam will win this.”
The anger and frustration of endlessly searching for Helena Blackwell and her daughter Skye Pressly welled up inside of him.
I daenae have time for this!
Arran pushed past three men who stood between him and the two men who now rolled on the ground, punching each other and grunting. He grabbed the first, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him to the side. The second man sat up, but a steadystream of blood trickled from the corner of his right eye, and he seemed dazed.
The crowd grumbled and then started to protest loudly and angrily.
“What the hell, lad? Me Johnny was winnin’ there!”
“Ye’re nae from around here! What do ye want?”
But Arran cut them off. “I am Arran Gilroy, Laird MacArthur. Listen now and hear me words!” he commanded.
At the word, “laird” the crowd quieted. People looked at each other uneasily. Lairds rarely came among them to bring good news.
“I am searchin’ for two women—Helena Blackwell, wife of Laird MacKeith, and her daughter, Skye Pressly. They may be travelin’ together.”
The villagers looked at Arran and then each other and mumbled amongst themselves. As he waited, a woman pushed her way through the crowd. “So there ye are!” she exclaimed. “Grandfaither Beasley said I’d find the lot of ye down here, gawkin’ at two lads fightin’ over a woman. Good God! Is that Cam there on the ground?” She hastened to the fallen man’s side, pulling a white kerchief from her pocket as she went.
Another woman followed after her. “How is he, Sorcha?”
“Going to have an impressive shiner tomorrow,” Sorcha replied, gently wiping the blood way from the eye. “The bleedin’ is from a cut in ‘is eyebrow, so he’s in no danger o’ goin’ blind, Ava. Do ye have any on that wound-heal we made up about ye?”
Both the young women were beautiful. But the first had brown hair, and the second was a tall, willowy blond.
Neither seemed likely to be the women he sought. But if they were healers, perhaps they would know something.
