Iseabail jolted. No! If her uncle thought that, then he had no use for her mother. He barely tolerated her as it was because she brought luck to the clan. But they’d had a few bad years. Mismanagement of the stock and too much rain meant many of the men grumbled that her mother had turned against them.
Her mother had, but not in that way. No woman had the power to control the rain. Worse, no woman had the power to force men to plant crops when it was time and in places that wouldn’t flood. But none of them wanted to hear that.
“It’s powerful magic, it is,” her mother continued. “Formed of blood and soil, air and water.” Then she turned to the men surrounding her. “Look well now because if she be forced—if her body be touched against her will—then all the magic in her will lash out. It will kill the soul that wants her in violence.”
There was no magic to kill a soul. She had been taught that from her earliest days. Her magic was in the bringing of life in crops, in sheep, and in people. Her mother’s magic was medicine and careful management, but she had also said a woman must always speak in ways the listeners comprehend. In this case, violence would be met with violence.
Or so she swore.
Her uncle seemed unimpressed. “And what of you, witch woman? If your magic is in her, why would I keep you?”
“Do you think magic can be controlled so easily? She has power, but no teacher except me. If you wish to use her, then you need me to teach her how to do it.”
“And what if I found another?”
Her mother snorted. “There is no other the equal of me. I come from—”
“The betrayer of Scotland. Your mother promised us success at Culloden, and what happened? Death to the highland clans. Destruction of all we hold dear.” He leveled his knife point at her, though he still stood on the stream bed. “You and your ma did that.”
“You and your kin did that,” she returned. “We told you what to do. You ignored us.”
It was an old fight between her mother and her uncle. Mary Spalding, Iseabail’s grandmother, was the witch who blessed the highlanders headed to Culloden. She prophesized a victory, but the laird didn’t believe her. He held his clan back, collaborated with the English, and was rewarded with land and a title while the other clans died.
Then he blamed Mary for his sins.
And her daughter.
And now her granddaughter, Iseabail.
Old fight, old blood, and all of it as ridiculous as it was real. Every man here looked upon her naked body and flinched, fearing dark magic. Every man here thought about burning her and her mother alive as witches. But in Scotland, every clan struggled to survive, and none would so easily dismiss the medicines that Iseabail and her mother understood. Strong crops to feed them, strong babes to carry on.
Iseabail and her mother survived so long as the clan thrived. And now her mother had made it clear that Iseabail was the valuable one. Iseabail held the magic. Her mother was little more than an old crone mumbling rhymes to children.
Her uncle pursed his lips. “Very well then.” He held out his hand. “Come out of there. The girl is purple with the cold.”
It was true. Her entire body felt frozen solid.
There was no choice. Her mother guided her out, both their steps slow on the slippery rocks. Once out, her mother wrapped her in her shift. A man offered Iseabail a blanket, obviously eager to show his willingness to aid her and not be cursed. She wrapped herself in it and waited for the shivers to ease.
None helped her mother.
They returned to the castle by dawn, a slow procession of misery. Iseabail was numb with cold, her mind blanked from exhaustion. And the paints on her skin itched.
Her mother fared worse. She caught a chill that night. A cough that would not ease, wracking her body night and day. Then one summer night a month later, she went out to tend a new mother and her sickly child.
She never arrived.
Chapter One
Reuben Bates pulledoff his gloves as he walked into the pub. The fine leather had cost the earth, and he loved the feel of the fur inside as it slid across his skin. Unfortunately, they were too refined for a highwayman, so he tucked them away in his pockets.
He smiled at Molly, the barmaid. She was a talkative girl and the granddaughter of his quarry. So easy to charm her as she spilled out a life story too common in this remote village in northern England. She and her family survived thanks to a small garden and a talent for making mead. Then one day her older brother started “working” up north. His job paid well, and everyone was happy.
Except, of course, the people her brother stole from. And it was Reuben’s job to get one particular locket back.
He could infiltrate the band of thieves. A few years ago, he would have enjoyed some mindless drinking, rutting, and violence. At least it eased the boredom of his life. But that was when his hold on London’s underworld had stabilized. When he was a king among his family and friends with money enough to make all his people happy.
They were still happy, but his cousins were older now and pushing for more money, more responsibility. The young needed to prove their worth, but Reuben was thirty-five years old. Hardly old enough to put out to pasture. And yet, everywhere he turned, someone wanted his crown.
