Chapter One
Raigmore, Scottish Highlands
Late summer, 1657
“Now that thebaron is dead—”
Ismay MacPherson looked up from her cup at her mother sitting across the dinner table.
Marjorie MacPherson was richly adorned in a damask silk gown of pale blue matching her complexion and giving her a bloodless appearance. Which was all too fitting. She stared at Ismay with hard, angry eyes, green with envy and sharper than glass. Those eyes hadn’t softened toward Ismay since Lord John MacPherson saved her and brought her there to live as his daughter when she was eight. To spite Ismay, Marjorie, Lord John’s wife, wouldn’t call him what he was, her beloved father—though Ismay never considered him anything but her true father.
“—’tis time ye wed and start yer own family.”
Ismay’s heart halted, stopping her breath with it. “Pardon?”
“Ye heard me, girl. Marriage. Ye’re four and twenty. The baron spoiled ye, giving in to yer every wish, even not to be wed. But things are different now.”
Ismay stared at her in shock and dismay. She shook her head. “Father is not gone a month…” She swallowed back tears she would shed for Lord John MacPherson, Baron of Raigmore. “…It took even less time for ye to arrange fer me to be courted by Chief Alistar MacRae of Beauly, who is a mean-spirited—”
“Ismay—”
“Do ye hate me that much, Mother?” Ismay already knew the answer. Her father’s wife had always harbored deep resentment and jealousy toward her—but to wed her when she knew…she knew Ismay would never agree to marry and she knew why.
“Pardon, m’lady.” Andrew the butler stepped into the dining room, interrupting her thoughts. “Chief Alistar MacRae has arrived.”
Ismay turned a hurt stare on her mother. How could she invite him here? Hadn’t Ismay told her she never wanted to see him again after he’d slapped her?
“Excuse me,” she muttered and rose from her chair. “I’m nae longer hungry.”
“Sit down this instant!” Marjorie commanded with the authority of a general.
Ismay obeyed, a habit stemming from her days of serving the Clan Chief of the MacDonald of Glencoe. The days with her father’s wife were bad, but nothing was as dark and terrible as her life before she had come to live with the MacPhersons. Those dark, early days had turned her heart against men in power, and men in general.
She sat in silence while Majorie left the table to greet their unpleasant guest.
Alistar MacRae, Clan Chief of the MacRaes of Beauly had tried to begin courting her a sennight after her father died. She refused him, of course, partly because it was completely thoughtless of him to attempt to woo her while she was mourning, and because of her hatred for clan chiefs. Whether she knew them or not, she hated them. She didn’t want anything to do with any of them, especially Alistar MacRae, who after meeting her twice and being rejected by her as many times, grew angry with her and slapped her face. He didn’t use any force. It was more like a quick sting on her cheek. Just enough to show her not to defy him in the future. She was afraid that if she was forced to livewith him, she would kill—again.
She didn’t look up when he entered the dining hall, or when Marjorie shone her coyest smile at him.
“Ismay,” Marjorie’s voice sliced through her like the edge of a parchment against her skin, “greet our esteemed guest.”
If Ismay’s father had been alive when their esteemed guest had put his hand to her, he would have been their deceased guest. But alas, she was on her own for the first time since coming to May Hall, her father’s keep in Raigmore. He’d named it after the month he’d brought her here, inciting the wrath of his wife.
She finally looked up from the table. “Chief,” she said in a small, soft voice, then looked away again. She couldn’t help it. She hated the sight of him and the power his title unfairly afforded him. Men like him pushed others around, stepped over children, and wielded their power like a sickle against the more unfortunate.
“My dear.”
The words rolling off his tongue sickened her. She would like to tell him, but she would not disgrace her father’s memory by behaving like a miscreant. Lord John MacPherson had always been better than anyone else. She would strive to be the same.
“Is that how yer father taught ye to greet a guest?” Chief MacRae sneered as if reading her mind.
Her eyes flicked back to him like twin blades forged in fire. “Never speak of my father again.”
“What did ye say?”
“Ye are no’ worthy to speak of him,” she clarified, still keeping her voice soft and low as he came near her chair. Would he slap her in front of her mother? She didn’t care about his reaction. The venom poured from her. “I will—”
This time it was her mother who hurried around the table to slap her, and it was no tap. Ismay held her cheek while MacRae smiled as if the satisfaction was his. “Mother…” Her cheek stung but her heart burned. For a moment—just while her face hurt—she reconsidered her suspicions about Marjorie’s part in her father’s death. The house physician had blamed his death on the consumption of poison mushrooms. After confessing to the heinous deed, the cook was immediately executed under Marjorie’s order.
