Sorcha immediately missed his steady presence, even if he had no comforting words for her.
Alone with her thoughts, she began to worry about her future and that of her stepdaughters. She had warned her father against the match, and now she may never be able to sleep.
They wouldn’t hesitate to return her to her clan, seeing as the marriage wasn’t consummated.
What would she do if the new Laird ordered her return home? Would she be willing to leave? Would her old clan even accept her, now that her father was dead?
The only protection she had in her clan had left her behind, and if she were to return with another death in her wake, she would be exiled as one carrying a contagious disease.
Come what may, she did not intend to return home, but what could she do if a new laird decided to exile her?
1
Two Months Later
“Darned weather!” William MacLean cursed, riding through the gates of Dunrath Castle like the devil himself was on his heels.
His wet clothes clung to him uncomfortably, and a deathly chill was gradually working its way into his bones. He had had to keep clenching his hands to keep them warm as he rode.
The storm had started without prior warning in the middle of his return to his childhood home and had soaked him in minutes. With no homesteads or shelter for the miles of road ahead of him, he continued at a sedate pace, blinking past the water whipping at his face.
It felt like a warning against what he was about to do, but he was set in his decision.
“At least we survived the journey,” Myles commented briefly once their horses came to a stop. “I thought we would die on this foolhardy journey of yers.”
“I told ye to stay in O’Donnell Castle,” William reminded him. “Rhys and Amara wouldnae have minded.”
“And I told ye I would follow ye everywhere ye go,” Myles retorted with a grin. “Even into hell.”
“‘Tis preferable ye do so in silence then,” William snapped.
Myles’s answering laugh was enough to chase some of the chill that had crept into his bones at seeing his childhood home after so many years.
The last time he had seen these stone walls, he had been fifteen summers, escaping from the coup that had claimed his parents’ lives. Now, he was a grown man, hungry for the revenge that had been denied him by his uncle’s death two months ago.
He gritted his teeth. Had he returned earlier, he would have had the satisfaction of seeing the man fall at his feet. He would have to settle for those who had spurred his greed.
“This place feels colder than hell itself,” Myles commented with a shudder. “‘Tis a far cry from the beauty ye described it to be.”
“Indeed,” William growled. “That bastard took all the warmth from these halls with his treachery.”
“And in his greed, he has clearly let it fall into disrepair,” Myles noted.
“Aye,” William agreed.
He noted, even in the darkness, how ivy had nearly overtaken the walls, with two towers near crumbling. He ground his teeth at the sorry state of his once beautiful home.
“Who are ye?” a frightened female voice squeaked from down the hall.
He couldn’t see her face, but she was holding a lamp. He paused, waiting for her to approach.
Approach she did, and when she lifted the light to his face, she stumbled back in shock, nearly dropping the lamp.
“Careful, lass,” Myles chided playfully. “Ye daenae want to set this place aflame.”
William remembered her from fifteen years ago. She was Mrs. Gibbons, the housekeeper who had plied him with milk and cookies many a time when he struggled to sleep.
The weight of those memories and her betrayal in refusing to protest his uncle’s claim slammed into him with the force of a strong tide.
