Chapter One
1530
The light across the moors fell unnaturally; Iain MacThomas could see the sun, but the sky still seemed strangely dark.
The sunbeams that did make it through the thick, blue-gray clouds did nothing to warm or brighten the rolling hills. He perceived everything around him through a haze that sucked the light out of everything he viewed. Even the heather blossoms that should at this time of year be the vibrant purple hue he'd known all of his life were nearly colorless.
He turned to look behind him; a little village with stonework walls and thatched reed roofs was nestled within the slope of the moors. He felt for all the world as though he had seen the crumbling clay wall surrounding the village somewhere before. Behind it, a forest loomed, green and dark as an emerald in the night. He had never seen this place before, and yet it seemed familiar.
The shadows were much too dark, and the light was scant. There was no scent of rain, no chilling wind through his chestnut brown hair, though he knew that there should be. The tall grass of the moors was swaying as though there should be a breeze. Yet, he felt nothing on his skin.
Confused, he looked across the moors. He had come out here alone to hunt, or had it been to seek some quiet time, away from the noise of the castle?
He couldn’t remember, now that he thought about it.
He turned and faced the west, squaring his broad shoulders. Iain peered through the thin mist that whirled around him, eyes settling on a thin figure. He squinted and put a hand to his brow, thinking that perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him. When his sight adjusted, he was sure that he’d seen right. There, just beyond the tall, craggy rocks, was a young woman.
Strange, for a young woman to be out on the moors alone with no horse in sight. He blinked hard to make sure once more that he saw correctly, but yes, there she was.
She was staring at him, her eyes shining with emotion. One anxious hand clutched her cloak at the base of her neck, near her collarbones. She held it in a white-knuckle grip as the wind blew her jet-black hair wildly. Her eyes were wide, desperate, and sky-blue. They were the only true color that Iain could make out in the vast expanse of the hauntingly gray moors.
Iain took a step forward. For some reason, he had the urge to reach out and touch her. Something called him to her, like a siren on the water.
"Help me, Iain," the woman called to him. Her voice carried eerily across the moors to him.
His brow wrinkled in confusion; how could she know his name?
He could not understand what she wanted from him, but she knew him somehow. It was clear from the expression on her face; she regarded him with such a familiarity that it seemed nearly intimate. He was certain that he’d never seen her before; he would certainly remember a pair of eyes as alluring as that.
Her pale, desperate face held a delicate but fierce beauty that he had only seen one other woman possess in this life. He gestured with one hand savagely, trying his best to push away the image that came to his mind. It would not do for him to begin remembering, not now.
"Iain," called the woman again. "I need yer help. Please, please..."
Inexplicably, a surge of emotion flooded him at the pleading tone of her voice. It filled his stomach and his lungs; he knew that the only way to crush the feeling that was welling up was to get closer to her. He wanted so much to help her, but what did she need from him?
The urge to reach out to her was strong, beating inside of him with the rhythm of his heartbeat. It was impossible to ignore, so insistent was the desire to protect her, but neither did he want to wave it away.
The young woman held a pale white hand out to him, her fingers trembling as if she were afraid. He could not stand to see her frightened; for a reason unknown to him, he wanted to wash away her fear, erase it from existence. She called out to him again and again, and yet he still had no idea who she was or what she needed.
What could she want from him? And why wouldn’t she answer?
Iain could only guess.
It was not only her vulnerability that drew him to her but her striking beauty as well. He desired more than anything to see if her skin felt as smooth as it looked, to enfold her into a protective embrace, but against what he could not tell. There was nothing around on the moors that could hurt her, so why did she call for his help so fervently?
Iain wanted to run his rough fingers over her milk-white skin, to feel her soft downy hair against his cheeks. Something about her was as addicting as a cool mouthful of whisky or a chilling dip in the lochs in early autumn.
The woman stood far from him, but he could see her nearly perfectly. Her voice carried, though he should not be able to hear her so clearly at that distance. This could only be the work of magic; she was hauntingly beautiful, almost as though she was not of this realm.
"Who are ye, lass?" he asked. “Can ye at least tell me yer name? How do ye know who I am?”
"Iain, I cannae do it alone," she said. Her voice was melodic, like the song of a babbling brook with eyes just as clear and blue. "I cannae do it without ye, Iain, please."
Iain felt something loose inside of him when her voice broke ever so slightly.
She blinked hard at him in silence, and Iain felt his confusion mounting, along with it a well of frustration at her inability to answer him. She seemed to see him, but she did not ever answer a single question. Instead, she continued on her narrative, seeming to listen for his reply but never truly hearing it.
It was absolutely maddening and heartbreaking all at once.
