PROLOGUE
Descended of the powerful sons of MacAlpin, the MacKinnon laird seemed invulnerable behind his veil of authority. Broc knew better. The innocence of youth had been stripped from his child’s mind; he no longer believed any man invincible.
His da was dead, his minny too, and he’d come to Chreagach Mhor a poor relation seeking refuge.
He stood tall, his father’s enormous battle-scarred sword tucked into his belt, answering all of the MacKinnon’s questions without shedding a tear, though he wished more than anything he could run away and find a quiet spot to mend his bleeding heart.
Although the MacKinnon welcomed him with open arms, Broc knew he would never feel wholly part of this clan. His own kinsmen were murdered, their lands razed, and he felt like a beggar now standing before the MacKinnon laird.
“The lad is welcome to remain,” the MacKinnon reassured Broc’s escort. “My wife’s kin will always have a place among us, and I shall keep him safe as though he were my own.”
The old woman who brought him here wept with gratitude. “Praise ye, good sir!”
Auld Alma had assisted nearly every birth in theMacEanraig clan for as long as Broc could recall. She, too, had been left homeless, without family, but Broc knew she would not remain in the MacKinnon’s care. Nay, Alma would return to sweep up the ashes of their razed village. She would bury every poor soul she helped bring into this world, and thereafter she would remain to tend their graves.
“God will surely smile upon thee for this kindness!” she told the MacKinnon.
Chreagach Mhor boasted the only stone keep in all of Scotia. Its laird seemed more a king than a simple chieftain, but his manner was far from imperious as he responded to her grief-stricken blessing. He smiled down at them both from his seat upon the dais. His only son, Iain, sat upon his lap, and the MacKinnon’s fingers were laced in the boy’s hair. Broc’s throat grew thick at the sight of them, but he didn’t turn away.
He met the child’s gaze directly.
“You too, may keep a warm bed should ye choose to remain,” the elder MacKinnon told Alma. “There is room enough—if not within the keep, surely elsewhere. We would welcome ye with open hearts.”
“Nay, sir.” Alma shook her head. “But I thank ye anyway. I am auld and my place is with my husband.” Her eyes filled again with tears.
The elder MacKinnon nodded soberly and said nothing. He knew, as Broc knew, that her husband was dead. They were all dead but for a paltry few.
Clutching the hilt of his father’s sword, Broc lifted his shoulder, catching a fat tear with his tunic. Och, but he wasn’t a wee bairn any longer. He shouldn’t weep. It was his duty to be strong—if only his heart would stop squeezing him so painfully. Another tear slipped past his guard, and he quickly swiped it away.
Must have been dirty Sassenachs.
Anger dried his eyes.
He’d known them by their armor, bright silvershielding their bodies all the way from their legs to the tops of their heads. Like mirrors, their helms glistened under the midmorning sun. No Scotsman wore the costume of cowards. No Scotsman worth bearing the name murdered wee bairns and expectant mothers for the sake of greed. It couldn’t be true.
The pale-faced demons had come and gone as swiftly as a tempest. Broc had been too busy skipping stones into the loch to fight beside his family. He shunned his duties that morning, stolen away to play, and he would regret his childish decision for the rest of his days.
By the time he’d heard their screams, it was too late. From a distance, he’d first spied the smoke curling into the sky. And before his eyes, their homes were reduced to ash. Never in his life had he felt such rage. His father said they would not stop until all of Scotia was under King Henry of England’s rule.
As long as Broc lived he didn’t think he could forget the scorched smell of his village. In his nightmares he would envision the slain bodies of his kinsmen lying limply among the mounds of ash that were once their homes… he would forever smell the scent of charred flesh… and in his heart he would dream of vengeance.
His little fist tightened about the hilt of his father’s heavy sword. Although he could barely carry it now, someday this very sword would exact vengeance for his mother’s life and honor. There would never be room enough for other devotions. He would give his labors and his gratitude to the MacKinnon, but his heart would remain dark, lit only by the fires of revenge. Vengeance, like a glittering torch through a dark wood, would guide his way.
He would not be distracted by women or drink, he vowed.
He would not be placated by holding a young bairn upon his knee.
He didn’t deserve to be surrounded by grandchildren in his old age.
He’d failed his mother.
He’d failed his kinsmen.
Aye, they killed her, but he was as responsible as they were. He should have fought beside his family.
Another wayward tear rushed down his cheek.
He was big enough to defend his minny! He was big enough to defend his home! He should have died beside them. If it took the rest of his days to redeem himself, Broc would somehow find a way. He wasn’t some weak, whey-faced Sassenach girly boy! He was big for his age, they said, and he would grow to be bigger and stronger than most. And then someday he would avenge his minny and his da.
