***
The following day, Angus sat down at his desk, picked up his quill pen, and dipped it into the porcelain ink well:
September 13, 1718
Dear Lord Moncrieffe,
I wonder if you will even break the seal on this letter, once you recognize the Kinloch crest. Perhaps I am about to waste a quantity of ink, but I must make the effort, for I owe you that at least, and so much more.
It has been two years since we last spoke, and no doubt you learned of my banishment and my father’s death soon after. While I was exiled, Kinloch fell to the MacEwen clan, but I have recently returned and reclaimed my father’s home. I have taken a wife, the daughter of the MacEwen chief, in order to unite the two clans.
But I am certain you are well aware of my return, and the status of Kinloch. That is not why I write to you now. My only purpose is to express my heartfelt regret over what occurred when last we spoke.
Duncan—I was wrong in every way. I have spent the past two years repenting my unspeakable treachery, and will never forget, or forgive myself, for what I did to you.
My lessons are now even more deeply ingrained upon my tarnished soul, for I have found myself in a position not unlike your own, when you first encountered the woman who was to become your wife. I did not understand the complexity of your predicament, but I see the world more clearly now, and I cannot possibly express my remorse over the events of 1716.
I close in penitence and despair over my ruthless and brutal actions. I pray for you and your countess, and wish you every happiness. And let it be known that as long as I am Laird of Kinloch Castle, you will have allies here.
Yours truly,
Angus Bradach MacDonald
He took a moment to reflect upon the ache of regret that had settled in his chest two years ago, and resided there still. Especially now, as he wrote this letter.
There had once been a time when he was indifferent to the pain of others, but he had taken that callousness too far. His closest friend was the Butcher of the Highlands, and he had revealed his hideout to the English army as a punishment for taking an English bride.
He’d had two years to think on it and contemplate his shame. Two years alone on the edge of the world, pummeled by wind, rain, and ice, and the harsh, biting spray of the ocean…
But that was another life. He was home now. Everything was different.
He sprinkled sand on the letter, blew it clean, sealed it, and rose from his chair. A knock sounded at his door, but when he answered, he discovered it was not the courier he had sent for twenty minutes ago.
“Lachlan. What are you doing here?”
His friend’s cheeks were white as a sheet. “You have a visitor.”
“A visitor? Who is it?” He tucked the letter into his sporran.
“It’s that woman you kept in the Hebrides—the one who predicted your time would come, and that the MacEwens would hear your roar, and all that silly witchy babble.”
Angus felt a rush of dread in his gut. “Raonaid is here?”
God!A sickening wave of nausea rose up inside him instantly. What was she doing here? There could be only one reason.
“Aye,” Lachlan replied. “The oracle. But you better hurry. She’s breaking all the crockery in the kitchen. The staff is scattering like rats, and the cook has locked himself in the wine cellar. It’s not a good situation.”
Angus headed for the stairs. “What the hell is she doing in the kitchen? Who took her there? You should have brought her to me straightaway.”
“She was hungry,” Lachlan explained. “And someone made the mistake of telling her you took a wife. That’s when she started breaking things.”
“Aye. That sounds like Raonaid. You better follow me, Lachlan, and stay close.” He glanced over his shoulder when he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Is she armed?”
“Damned if I know. No one could get close enough to search her.”
Chapter Seventeen
By the time Angus entered the kitchen—which was in a terrible shambles, strewn with shards of broken crockery and spilled milk—Raonaid was seated alone at a table, dipping a spoon into a bowl of steaming-hot stew.
