Prologue
Morag woke up when her dolly was stolen. She frowned as she sat up. It was the middle of the night. She could tell that by the fact her mother and father were fast asleep in their bed, neither of them moving.
There was no sound outside the window, not even the slightest breeze to shake the shutters.
What had woken her?
She sat up and listened.
What was that noise?
“Psst.”
She looked across at the door. It was half open, a hand stretched back inside, a hand that held something important.
“My dolly,” Morag said, sliding out of bed. She was too young to be suspicious. She just wanted her dolly back.
She barely felt the cold flagstones under her feet, she was too worried about Mistress Flopsy.
She crossed the floor quickly, pulling the door open in time to see a figure retreating. “Come back,” she said, running down the corridor after the shadowy dolly thief.
Back in the bedchamber her parents stirred but then settled once more. By the time they awoke and noticed their daughter was missing it was too late.
Through the darkened corridor, Morag followed the figure, Mistress Flopsy dangling from his hand to taunt and tempt her in equal measure.
“Give her back,” she called out as she put on a fresh burst of speed.
“Hush child,” the figure replied in a whisper. “If ye wake yon parents ye ken how cross they’ll be with ye.”
She recognized that voice. She had heard it before. But where? If only he’d show his face.
“Give her back,” she hissed, running to catch up with him. “She’s mine.”
The man turned the corner and vanished from sight.
“I dinnae like this game,” she said. “I’m going back to bed.”
She was about to turn when she thought about poor Mistress Flopsy, held hostage against her will. It wasn’t right. She had to save her dolly. It was her only doll, stitched by her mother and given to her to help her sleep. She couldn’t sleep without her.
A door opened at the end of the corridor, the scene lit by a single candle in the sconce on the opposite wall. The figure emerged from the door, his hands empty.
“Where’s Mistress Flopsy?” she asked, darting forward, her pudgy hands curling into fists of anger. “Where is she?”
“In there,” the man said, pointing through the door. “Why not go get her and then you can both get back to bed like a good little girl? She misses you. She’s scared.”
Morag didn’t even look at him as she passed. She ran straight through the open door and into the darkness. “Where is she?”
She turned back to the door. The last thing she saw was a bare arm stretching toward the handle. The skin was mottled and scarred on the back of his hand, near the wrist.
She remembered that for a long time afterward. The scar was in the shape of an M for Morag. Or an M for MacGregor. Or maybe an M for malefactor? Had he been branded?
The door closed. A key turned in the lock. The darkness was complete.
Outside in the corridor the Laird was running toward the mysterious figure, a flaming torch in his hand . “Raise the alarm,” he said. “Morag’s gone missing. Have you seen her?”
“No,” the man replied, his voice utterly convincing. “I’ve nae seen the lass since ah began ma roonds and she was safe in her wee bed then.”
“Father,” a muffled voice called out from the other side of the door.
