Gaunt sat back in the hard wooden chair and closed his eyes. For a moment, he imagined himself far from his sparse surroundings. Instead, he pictured the gilded feasting hall of Wolvesley Castle, lavishly decorated for a yuletide ball with boughs of pine and blazing candelabras. He recalled the golden-haired beauty of Isabella de Neville, how her jewels had sparkled, and how her slanting gaze had slid with disinterest over a titled baron from the marshes.
He sighed with deep satisfaction, stretching his legs toward the fire. Aye, he had been right to follow Edward north and feign pleasure in the acquisition of godforsaken lands. His new title meant that he would soon be joined in marriage to the most powerful family in England.
Once they had looked down upon Lord Gaunt. But as the Laird of Greenock, he would bring the de Nevilles to their knees.
Chapter One
Glen Greenock, Highlands of Scotland
Six days later
The sky wasas dark as his mood.
Hamish sat atop his charger at the pinnacle of the rocky outcrop to the south of the castle, screened from view by heavy clouds and the few sparse pine trees strong enough to survive the harsh, highland climate. His horse, Luar, stayed as still as the ancient stones all around them. She had been his favorite since youth and was well-tuned to his thoughts and wishes.
Hamish was a proud warrior, not a coward. But just this once, he deliberately blended into the background.
Though not even one of these English usurpers had the good sense to lift their heads and scan the hills for enemy surveillance. They marched into Greenock Castle as if they had every right to be there. As if their ranks were so strong—and so righteous—that they could never be threatened.
Hamish tightened his grip on the reins, making Luar’s black ears flicker backward nervously. He would show these English bastards the true meaning of Scottish vengeance, if it stole the last breath from his body.
“There is no call for such melodrama,” quipped a lilting female voice.
Brianne.
Hamish turned to see her familiar impish smile. Her chestnut curls glistened with the first slow drops of rain. She sat easily astride her dapple-grey destrier; the one he had picked out for her himself.
She was oft-times his only companion.
He spoke softly, his words floating on the heavy mist which curled up from the valley.
“I will reclaim our family home. Greenock is nay an English stronghold. ’Tis ours.” Despite his calm intentions, he could not contain the emotion which reverberated through his final words. Luar shifted beneath him, but Brianne was unperturbed.
“Aye. Ye have done it before, and ye will do it again. I have every faith in ye, Hamish.”
Faith that I do not deserve.
This time, the grief rising inside him was answered by a loud crack of thunder. Luar whinnied and shied to the side as Hamish forced himself back to the present moment. He could not afford to be seen. Speaking quiet words of comfort to the horse, he backed into the trees until the beloved ramparts of Greenock Castle were no longer visible. Heavy rain lashed down through the branches, finding an easy path beneath the neckline of his cloak. Luar’s ears flattened as rivulets of water coursed over her flanks. However much Hamish might wish to stay up here and keep watch, it would be madness to stay out in this weather.
He had not caught sight of Alaric, but that did not mean he wasn’t there—marching amongst the English soldiers as if he was one of them. God willing, he would bring long-awaited news back to Hamish before the day was over.
Moving silently, man and horse turned away from the valley and trotted deeper into the hills; the paths they took as familiar as the McIvor standard which was engraved into the stone archway above the castle gates.
For now.
Hamish’s temper worsened still when he imagined the English usurper ordering a stone mason to remove all traces of his family’s history. Replacing them with the standard of a minor English baron of no renown whatsoever.
Lord Gaunt.
The name echoed around his head as Luar picked her way along the river; the shallow waters erasing any trace of their mission. Hamish had first heard that name a sennight prior; though it seemed to him now that this man had always been his sworn enemy—eclipsing even his father’s brother in the crimes he’d committed against all who lived and loved in Greenock Castle.
At least Uncle Donald had fought for his own victories, swinging his broad sword and roaring battle cries as he stormed the keep some two years prior. Hamish shut his eyes, only narrowly avoiding a low-hanging branch. He could not bring himself to revisit that harrowing day, not even for the briefest moment, despite the passage of time.
His mother had always told her three children that time was the greatest healer of all. But Hamish had yet to feel the benefits of it.
Mayhap two years was not long enough, he mused, giving Luar a long rein so she could better balance herself on the steep and stony track.
Or mayhap the fact that history had all but repeated itself—with Hamish and his dwindling followers once again obliged to take shelter in the little-known caves of Greenock Crags—obliterated any healing that had somehow, against the odds, managed to take place.
