CHAPTER ONE
The Carlisle Stronghold, Scotland, 1059
“Commander, we found her,” Duncan announced as he hurried down the wooden steps then across the great hall to Tearloch MacPherson’s side. There was warning in the man’s words and Tearloch waited for bad news. Something odd was transpiring here among the Carlisle tribe, and he knew it would not be to his liking.
There was nothing odd in having the wood fort heavily guarded, but guarded by women? Had all the men died, then? Had they been poisoned? Or had they all moved to the other end of the glen where another settlement was perched, as if keeping watch on the fort, while at the same time, keeping its distance?
Duncan Keith, his lieutenant, was seven years his senior but equally as fit. The man took a moment to calm his breathing, then drew nearer, darting looks at the mob of stubbornly silent women huddled near the cold dark maw of the hearth.
“But I’m afeared the woman is quite mad.”
Tearloch’s stomach plummeted. It would break the king’s heart to learn his long-lost sister suffered such distress. Would he still insist Tearloch marry the lass? No matter. If he did, so be it. For over ten years Tearloch had served at the side of MalcolmIII, the recently crowned King of Scotland, and he was not about to let his friend down in his moment of sorrow.
“Malcolm will be devastated,” he said quietly.
Duncan frowned for a moment then his brows rose. “Och, nay. Not the lass. It’s the auld woman who’s daft. The sister is yet to be found.”
Tearloch took a deep breath and let it loose. He had hoped Macbeth’s kinswoman, Agatha Carlisle, would have died long ago, but the Fates seemed against him this day.
Again, he turned a fierce frown on the servant women. They were dressed oddly, all in undyed wool, and seemed unafraid of him and his men. Or perhaps they merely feared the Carlisle woman more than anyone else in this world. That, he could believe. He’d never before tried to cow a woman but it was worth testing. They hadn’t blinked when he’d threatened them with the pit, but now?
“Very well. One of ye will tell me what became of the lass named Kenna or ye’ll all go in the pit…with Agatha Carlisle.”
A dozen flurries of white ran at him, knocking him on his backside and surrounding him like giant hungry chicks, their chirping voices mingling like so many excited birds anxious to be heard.
From outside the squawking cocoon boomed the laughter of Duncan Keith.
Leagues away at Gowry Hall,afternoon
“Heaven spare my gown, but not my bridegroom,” Kenna Carlisle prayed as she smoothed her hands down her hips and thighs, willing her fingers to remember the feel of the prettiest garment she had ever owned. She was determined to rememberhow beautiful the deep shade of blue, what it looked like now, before bloodstains or slices from a blade.
She’d prayed a bit too loudly, judging by the horror on her maid’s wee face. Of course she should not pray for the man’s death. She’d barely been introduced to him when the siege began, but considering those first few moments...
“I’m fair to certain,” she half-teased, “that either the bride or the groom will be dead come mornin’, and with the size of The Gowry, I wouldn’t wager much on me breakin’ my fast again. Unless a blade takes a likin’ to him, that is.”
Wee Fia’s pinched brow raised another notch, her eyes looked ready to lose their seats. Obviously, this was neither the time for loud prayers, nor levity.
“Come now, Fia. Do you suppose I’ve lost my mind, then?”
She took the maid’s shaking hands in hers, attempting to distract them both from their possible fates once the fighting outside ended. Teasing normally worked on Fia, so Kenna tried again.
“I’ll tell you true, I’m a bit worried. I don’t think The Gowry will like it when he hears I’ve changed my mind about the marriage.”
After cheerfully serving Kenna for two years, in spite of their prison-like home of Fort Carlisle, Fia’s sense of humor had apparently fled at the sight of either The Gowry, his foes, or both. She pulled at Kenna’s hands as if begging for mercy and Kenna was instantly contrite. The young woman was sliding into hysterical waters, and the reference to the way Gowry had murdered his last messenger only served to quicken Fia’s descent.
The victim of Gowry’s short temper had been reluctant to tell his laird of the small army on the horizon, and his fear had been justified a moment later when Gowry plunged his short blade into the young man’s defenseless neck.
Kenna shivered at the memory of Struan Gowry, the pale haired killer she had been sent to wed—the fleeting glimpse of his dagger before he struck, the sound of his rough voice bellowing for his bride and her maid to be hidden in his chambers. Spittle and hair had flown round his head as he’d barked orders for their defense. Then, while watching her and Fia ascend the stairs, Kenna had suspected him of gauging her flesh for tenderness—not so much for her acceptability as a wife as much asfor a meal.
If Gowry’s enemies succeeded, perhaps she would never learn which it had been.
Fia’s cheeks had turned green.
“Not to worry.” Kenna put an arm around the girl’s slight shoulders that barely reached her elbow. “Of course, we won’t be telling the laird I’ve changed my mind, as he does not seem to appreciate bad news. We’ll just sneak away quietly when the battle is over, what say you?”
The teasing could not be undone, sadly.
Kenna pulled back the younger woman’s hair before the girl knelt and retched. Vomit hit the bottom of the chamber pot with such force that it rang like a bell. Grateful to be an arm’s length away, Kenna turned her head and held her breath.
