PROLOGUE
It is said that when lowly Baron Sinclair saved the powerful Duke of Raven from certain death in 1335 by single-handedly killing the three men who attacked his carriage, King Edward III was grateful. Raven was a wise and sage counsel he had no wish to lose, therefore, he rewarded Sinclair with the land that sat at the base of Raven Mountain. Having shown himself capable of the duty, Baron Sinclair was now, in the eyes of the King, to be the official protector of the Ravens.
Over the years the tale has changed and grown as many do. There were rumors of strange occurrences when a Sinclair saved a Raven in the years that followed. Unexplained occurrences that caused many to wonder what it was that the Sinclairs were hiding, but one thing that never changed was their unwavering duty in the task King Edward III had bestowed upon them.
To honor and protect the Raven familywas the Sinclair family creed.
CHAPTERONE
You collect Samantha and then bring her home to us, Warwick. With so many family members unwell, you are the only one fit to leave.
Warwick Sinclair stood watching the ship roll from side to side in the swirling seas, remembering the words that had sent him here.
Samantha’s brother, James, Duke of Raven had asked this of him. He was a man Warwick loved and respected, so he’d agreed, as the request had sounded simple enough. However, the tension inside him had been steadily climbing since he’d reached the port where she was due to arrive, telling him something was about to happen.
He’d left behind his family, all bedridden by some odd illness sweeping through their ranks. Not deadly, but enough so they could not travel for a few days. Days that would have been spent travelling to meet Samantha when she arrived by boat from Ireland.
Was it something they’d eaten?
So, he’d come to Wales on business, and then on to collect her. Apparently, there was nothing amiss with him, a single man who was not a blood relative, picking up an unwed woman he’d known since he was a small child.
“Because she’s like a sister to you,” he reminded himself.
She’d been gone a year, pursuing her love of painting. A year that had felt like six to him. He’d missed her with a deep ache.
A foul taste filled his mouth. Warwick had thought this tension inside him was simply because he was to see Samantha again, but it was more than that. This was the feeling he got when one of his family were in danger. When someone he cared for deeply was hurting. Acid swirled in his belly, and his fists were clenched.
“There will be those on board sick and injured is my guess,” the man beside him said. “Last week two died.”
“What?” He dragged his eyes from the vessel struggling to stay upright and looked at him. Tall, dressed in a thick coat, his hat was pulled low, but there was no disguising the craggy features of a man who’d spent a life outdoors or on the sea.
“We’ve been saying it for years, but no one is listening.”
“What have you been saying?” Warwick gritted the words out as he burrowed deeper into his greatcoat. His hat, he’d left in the carriage as the winds kept knocking it from his head.
“That they load ’em on board like cattle and in doing so endanger the crossing. The ships can’t handle that many people and especially not in these conditions.”
Warwick glanced at the ship Samantha was on again. A small part of him had looked forward to the reprieve her leaving would give him. He and Samantha had been arguing with each other since they’d first met. There was also that little something else he’d nudged to the back of his head he felt when she was close. An itch he couldn’t quite reach.
He hadn’t felt like it was a reprieve having her gone. Her departure had been like a gnawing toothache, and he’d missed her desperately. He’d worried about her. Samantha was vulnerable, far too kindhearted, and could have fallen prey to any scoundrel in need of money. Warwick had said as much to anyone in their families who would listen. No one had, and she’d gone. He’d then tried and failed to dismiss her from his head.
“That’s not good.”
“What’s not good?” he asked the man.
“That man there, he’s waving his hands.”
Warwick looked, squinting against the sting of salt as the wind whipped the water into white caps. There was indeed a man standing on the bow waving his hands. The gesture seemed frantic to Warwick. His unease grew.
“They’ve injuries on board or worse. Or the boat is in trouble.”
“Well,” Warwick snapped, “which is it?”
The man shrugged. “Can’t rightly say, but seeing the weather and the seas, the crossing cannot have been easy.”
Warwick didn’t ask what the “worse” was, he had a fair idea. But it wouldn’t be her. Not Samantha. She would be safe and here with him soon. He felt the tension climb, which told him all was not right with her but not death. She would not die and leave him, them, he amended quickly. He’d know if that had happened. His pain would have been crippling.
Turning from the man, he pulled out his earplugs. Warwick and his family were gifted with heightened senses. Perhaps gift was a strong word, as often they were just bloody annoying, but sometimes, like now, they were useful. His was the heightened sense of hearing. He could hear great distances, a curse and a blessing. The blessing part was when he wanted to listen in on conversations his siblings were having that they had no wish for him to overhear.
