The woman who wandered with a dark cloud above her head and a tragedy in her past.
To the north, in the Henderson province, Laura had the friendship of her new sister and several of the castle maids and the distraction of a darling nephew. Free from her past, however, she was trapped within the present circumstances of a guest to the family.
Neither place was truly her own.
Neither world in which she existed was genuinely home.
For the last half a decade, Henry had been Laura’s only haven. And now even he was drifting away, dedicated to his new roles as husband, laird, and father.
“I…” Henry glanced from his sister to his wife, as if seeking an explanation from the female half of the room. “I dinnae recall. I shall have to check. Most likely Laird Halkerston of Huna. But he is much older.”
“It does nae matter,” Laura insisted. If she were to follow the rules of her gender, older men provided more security. If God was to grant her happiness in exchange for her obedience to social norms, then she could not let passion or irrational feeling cloud her judgment. “Whomever ye believe is most suitable is the one that I would like to meet, Brither.”
“Very well. I shall set things in motion, then...?” The worried frown upon Henry’s face had not yet subsided.
“But what if he is someone awful, Laura?” Belle asked, equally cautious. “Someone that would see you hurt or unhappy?”
Laura swallowed as she felt her heart twist in her chest.
“I have survived such a thing once already, Sister,” she admitted in a whisper. She then swallowed, braced her shoulders, and set her chin to a stubborn tilt. “I dinnae believe that Fate will forsake me a second time. And I trust Henry.” She looked to her brother. “I am tired of being alone, Brother. I’ll no’ see me life drift away before I am too old to claim it. Please…”
“You are certain?” Henry asked.
“I am.”
Laura very deliberately ignored the roll of anxiety in her belly. It was a very strange turn that her mind had taken over the last few weeks, but she was determined to see it through. She had suffered enough heartbreak. It was time to close the door on her fear of men, risk the exposure of her affections once more, and attempt to take control of her life.
She was ready to take one bold step forward.
2
The last twelve years of Bruce Duncan’s life had passed too quickly, it seemed. His master, the blacksmith, had no choice but to let his youthful apprentice go three years short of completing his apprenticeship.
“Ye’re a good lad and a true help to me, Bruce,” the village blacksmith had told Bruce in his seventeenth year, “but yer sister needs ye more. I cannae have ye selling yer faither’s heirlooms to keep her in soothing potions. Hie ye to a laird and take up arms. I have no doubt the chieftains will fight amongst themselves to have ye in their ranks, and they will reward ye with much gold.”
Even at the age of seven and ten years old, Bruce Duncan was a force to be reckoned with. He had already reached his full adult height, standing head and shoulders above normal folk and at least three inches above the tallest soldier in the north. He could lift his father’s battle sword with the greatest of ease, and when he did so, people noticed how many of the rich jewels had been pried out of the sword hilt.
The blacksmith had predicted correctly. Bruce Duncan had never forgotten the weapon training his father had taught him until the man’s sad death from a raging fever that had claimed both his parents’ lives and incapacitated his sister. It was as if the young man was born for battle…and love. His striking looks had caused many a northern Highland lass to sigh and flutter her hands to cool her face as he strode past.
He was nearly thirty years old now and his hair was pitch black and cut short. His brows and lashes were also dark. The sharply angulated cheekbones curved inward like scimitars. He kept no bears and his expression was forbidding, telling its own tale: he was a grim man with no time to waste on dalliances.
There was little of the Highlands Bruce Duncan had not ventured to. He had seen the black beaches in the northwest and the icy peaks of their cousin coast to the east. He had ridden around the lochs and plush green denes that eventually passed into the Scottish Lowlands; he had marched across the rocky fallow of Laird Fergus’s demesnes along the coast. His boots had followed his loyalties; he considered himself bought and paid for wherever a lord or lady offered good coin. He hadn’t cared where the glint of gold had led him, only that he secured enough of it to send back home. Back to the harsh northlands from whence he came.
“Duncan!”
After looking back over his shoulder, Bruce halted his horse. The trusty mount had been foaled from his father’s warhorse, a mettlesome steed he had been forced to sell so he could buy hearty food for Alice. An agreement was reached before the breeder took Apollo away: the stallion’s first foal would be given to Bruce. When the magnificent horse had arrived at the doorstep, he had named the feisty foal Maegli, after his mother. The indomitable animal was the only mount sturdy enough to carry him.
The party of six scouts came to a clustered halt around Bruce, looking to him for direction.
“Why are we stallin’, Donald?” Bruce Duncan, who had the keenest eyesight of anyone in the Highlands, was always put in charge of scouting parties.
“I dinnae ken, she’s ridin’ queer.” Donald McKay hopped down from his steed’s back.
“Did the horse lose a shoe?” Bruce called back. He was impatient to reach their destination before nightfall; it was still early enough in the year for the nights to bite cruelly. If Donald McKay’s mount were lame, all six men would be hard-pinched to reach the Henderson castle by nightfall. Bruce Duncan knew this stretch of land well; kindling was scarce in such a rugged landscape.
Donald’s bald head gleamed white in the dim light as he bent to check the mare’s feet. There was a flash of a blade as he used his dirk to carve free a piece of rock from the animal’s hoof. Even from a distance, Bruce could see the mare needed a new shoe. He glanced ahead, eyes scanning the road.
“The woods break soon, Donald. Walk her ’til then. There are fields beyond this forest, so the going will be easier.” There was a general groan of frustration heard from the men, but they were stoical about the delay.
