CHAPTERONE
Connell
Scottish Highlands
August 3, 1302
Connell leaned against the stone wall. The coolness seeped through his leine, prickling his skin and brittling his bones. The wind swept through the holes in the rooftops while rain drops dripped within the dilapidated great hall of the stone fortress. He shifted against the wall, his right eye adjusting to the shadows. His left eye, stabbed through with a knife four years before in the Battle of Falkirk, was covered with a black eyepatch. The loathsome thing shamed Connell. He was damaged, vile, something no father would wish to pass on his lineage to. Thankfully, he’d found others like himself—just as damaged and worn, just as cruel and misshapen—to aid in his need for revenge.
The men, six in total, gathered at a large wooden table. It stood at a tilt; one leg cracked. Connell wondered when it would finally succumb and fall to the dirtied floor that was stained with old blood and smelling of mold. His men listened intently as Glenton prattled on about the details of their next duty. A letter had arrived from a scout no more than an hour before, with wonderful news. Connell would be able to exact his revenge. They were to leave before the sun rose and travel south.
His one good eye narrowed on Glenton, pacing back and forth, his stick clacking against the floor as he moved. Connell couldn’t fathom why Glenton didn’t remain still given the injury to his side, but he supposed his right-hand man thought and spoke better when he was moving. The dim glow from the candelabras made Glenton’s dour looks even more haunting. Connell tilted his head, his ears twitching with delight at the next words leaving Glenton’s lips.
“We have received word Lady Elisabeth McCormick is on her very way to the McKade clan,” said Glenton while holding up a crumpled letter within his white knuckled grasp. “We’ll ambush them at the crossroads.”
“Let us hope she’s bonnie,” called Logan, standing at the front with rotting teeth and matted hair. He sneered at his comrades, who broke into a fit of dark laughter.
Connell fought the need to shout and admonish Logan as he kicked away from the wall, standing to his full height. Silence fell in the shadowed room as he stalked forward, glowering at the men. He planted his hands on the table. The force made a loud resounding thump echo in the silence.
Connell scowled as he met each and every one of their frightened gazes. Despite his disfigurement, the men knew he could gut them before they even had a chance to reach for their swords. Losing his eye had marred his vision, yet it had also hardened him, making him spend hours upon hours, day after day, training in order to prove himself capable to those who deemed him weak. In the end, losing his eye had made him a warrior to be wary of, turning him into a swift and cunning killer. They swallowed their jeers, their mouths clamping closed and their eyes drifting to the floor as Connell looked around the room.
“This is nae laughing matter,” Connell said bitterly. “Lady McCormick is the only one who can provide proof of her husband’s treachery. She knows all his misdeeds. This is an important duty. We will have vengeance for Scotland if we are successful in our endeavors.”
“Aye,” said Glenton while hobbling forward, leaning on his stick, and clutching at his side. “And Connell will be leading the charge. Follow his lead, and everything should go right.”
“We will be attacking the soldiers first,” said Connell, straightening and positioning his hands behind his back. “Donald and Grant, I want ye both hiding in the trees. When the carriage arrives, ye will be attacking the guards in the back.”
Donald and Grant looked at each other for a moment, their ruddy faces and scraggly hair mirroring each other. They were scrawny and short but known for their skills in blending into the shadows and killing their opponents swiftly. They gave Connell a curt nod in unison.
“Logan and Ian, I want ye scouting in the woods for any others who might come our way. Brann, ye will be with me.”
“But what does the lass look like?” asked Ian, his voice high-pitched and grating to Connell’s ears. He scratched the back of his head while looking around at the others. “What if she has an entourage of maids? Who should we grab then?”
Glenton chuckled and turned to the letter, straightening it, and inspecting the words written. “She’s a young lass, bonnie, with eyes like the fields after a long rain,” Glenton said, his tone mocking and his smile bitter, “and hair like fire on a warm night.”
Connell frowned, his gaze going to the letter. From his distance he could not read the words written. Once, he had known a lass as pretty as the one Glenton spoke of. He could still recall the feeling of her hair, soft like a flower’s petals caressing his skin, and her eyes, green as the forests bordering the ancestral lands of his clan. Once, those eyes had gazed upon him, filled with such love and adoration. Thinking of those eyes now made his heart twinge and his body ache for what could have been. Her name had also been Elisabeth.
“Elsy,” he breathed, the name making him grimace as if a knife sliced through his heart.
Glenton turned toward him, his brows tenting as he stared up at Connell. “What did ye say, Connell?” He pursed his lips. “Something to add, per chance?”
Connell shook his head, cursing himself for being so foolish. “Naething. Continue.”
But Connell didn’t listen. He couldn’t. All he could think about was Elsy and where she could be. There had been a time he thought they would never be parted and yet here he was, without her in this shabby fortress, surrounded by brigands with their sneering looks and their bitter grins. It was his own fault for not returning, for allowing everyone to believe he had died in the Battle of Falkirk. Connell grimaced at the guilt stabbing through him as he thought of his father, of the MacArthur clan. He couldn’t return, he told himself, yet the guilt didn’t ebb. How could he go back with his eye gone and his honor lost? His father wouldn’t have accepted it.
But Elsy? His grimace darkened as he thought of her tears sliding down her cheeks, her grasp on his hand. Elsy would have loved him until the day she died, and that was just another reason he couldn’t return. She deserved better than him. She deserved a whole man, one who could provide for her, offer her all the love in the world. The battle had taken everything from Connell and left him with only his bitterness.
He was no longer the Connell from four years ago and, most probably, Elsy was no longer the woman he had fallen in love with. She was no longer his Elsy. He stroked his chin, wondering if she was still living with her father, or if she had married well. A genuine smile came to his lips regardless of the pain in his heart as he imagined her humming a soft tune with a babe in her arms. He hoped she had been able to find love again, despite how much it pained him now to think of it.
“Are ye prepared, Connell?” Glenton asked, calling him back from his thoughts.
The men were already filing out of the room, going to their chambers to get a good night’s rest. They would need it. Everything needed to go to plan. There could be no mistakes. However, something twisted within Connell, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
Connell bristled when he realized Glenton was still staring at him, his eyebrow rising in intrigue. “Aye, of course,” Connell rushed out, his face heating and his expression tightening into a deep scowl. “Why wouldn’t I be? I have been waiting for this day longer than ye.”
Glenton chuckled and hobbled toward the door, moving slowly due to his injured side. “Aye, ye have. I’m just sorry I cannot join.” Glenton’s smile left his lips and he frowned. “If it wasn’t for that blasted arrow.”
“Ye were fortunate.”
