Her mother’s blue eyes filled with tears—fat, glistening drops that spilled over and tracked down her hollowed cheeks. “I thought no one would bother us.” Her throat worked, convulsing. “Not after so long.” The words died. She swallowed hard, wincing with pain. “But a few months ago.” She gave another wet, choking cough. “There were men. In Lochbuie. Asking questions.”
Confusion churned through Hazel, thick and suffocating. Her pulse thudded in her ears. “Ma,” she said hoarsely. “Ye aren’t making any sense.”
“I still have my wits.” Her mother cut her off, fire igniting in those fading eyes. Her grip on Hazel’s hand turned crushing. “Promise me, Hazel.” Her voice broke. “Promise me ye’ll go.”
Hazel’s breathing came faster now, shallow. Her chest felt too tight. “But why?”
For a long moment, Siùsan simply stared at her. And then something crumbled in that beloved face, some last wall of strength giving way. Her lips trembled. “I’m not yer mother,” she whispered.
Hazel stared back, struck mute. Surely, she’d misheard?
Silence yawned between them before Siùsan continued, “I’m yer aunt.” She choked the words out. More tears spilled, unchecked. “Yer mother—my sister—died birthing ye.” Her breath hitched, ragged. “I raised ye as my own. Loved ye as my own.” A sob caught in her throat. “But ye aren’t mine. And yer father—”
She broke off, her chest spasming with violent coughs.
Hazel drew back. The room tilted. Her vision blurred at the edges. The woman she’d called ‘Ma’ for over three decades wasn’t her mother at all? She’d told Hazel that her father was a sailor, a good man who’d died at sea. Her mind scrambled, desperate for something solid to hold onto, but everything was sliding away.
“Why?” The word was barely above a whisper. “Why would ye lie about such a thing?”
“To save ye from hurt … from shame.” Siùsan’s eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell jerkily. “I didn’t want the folk of Lochbuie to whisper about ye. All I’ve ever wanted was to protect ye.”
The words echoed hollowly in Hazel’s skull.
“I’ve been so happy in this life … with ye, my darling lass … but part of me always feared” —her aunt’s voice was fading now, growing weaker— “that the past would show its face one day. That’s why we have lived out here … away from others.” Another pause, another tortured breath. “I wished to spare ye the truth. I didn’t want ye to learn abouthim.”
Hazel’s hands had gone numb. An odd feeling of detachment settled over her then, as if this were happening to someone else. “Whom are ye protecting me from?”
Her aunt’s eyes opened again—slowly, as if the lids weighed too much—and in them, she saw a warning that made her heart kick against her ribs. “From the man who raped yer mother … and who, hopefully, now thinks ye died with her.”
That evening …
Moy Castle
The Isle of Mull
Torchlight gilded the interior of Moy Castle’s hall.
Craeg’s chest tightened as he knelt before the dais, his gaze fixed on Loch Maclean. The clan-chief’s expression was solemn as he lifted his claidheamh-mòr—ancient steel that had seen generations of Moy chieftains sworn in. Warm light danced across the blade, and the assembled warriors fell silent. Even from where he stood, Craeg could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down upon him.
This was it. The moment that would change everything.
He’d led men into battle. Ridden through the night with the fate of a king in his hands. But this? This made his gut clench with nerves he hadn’t felt since he was a green lad of fifteen, yet to draw blood for the first time.
“Craeg Leod Maclean of Moy,” Loch’s deep voice rang out across the hall. “Ye stand before this clan to accept the mantle of chieftain. Do ye swear, upon yer honor and the memory of yer forebears, to lead the folk of Moy with wisdom and courage?”
“I do.” Craeg’s voice was steady, though his pulse quickened.
He couldn’t let his family or his clansmen down.
“Do ye swear to defend these lands and all who dwell upon them, even unto death?”
“I do.”
“Do ye swear to serve Clan Maclean as Chieftain of Moy, to heed yer clan-chief, and to honor the bonds of kinship that bind us?”
“Upon my honor, I do.”
“Ye have proved yer honor. Yer valor. To our king … and our clan.” Loch brought the sword down, touching first Craeg’s right shoulder, then his left. “By the authority granted to me as clan-chief of the Macleans, I name ye Chieftain of Moy. May ye lead with strength, and may the spirits of yer ancestors guide yer hand.”
