Scottish Highlands, Spring 1517
“Beware above!” A man’s voice rang out above the rising wind swirling through the half-finished great hall.
Angus MacAnalen didn’t see who shouted the warning, but the hum of conversation at the clan gathering stilled as heads tilted upward. Another spring storm was brewing. A sudden gust tore sprays of needles from an overhanging pine. One clump dropped on a lad carrying a tray of apples, bounced off his shoulder, and skittered down his back. The lad flinched and stumbled, then suddenly regained his footing. The tray he carried wobbled. Angus could have sworn one apple appeared to tip over the side then settle back in place among the others, but none of the fruit dropped to the ground.
Odd,he thought, narrowing his eyes. It had happened so quickly, he could barely credit what he’d seen—or thought he’d seen. The people around him appeared not to have noticed anything strange, most just now pointing at the fallen spray of needles. The white-faced lad looked around, wide-eyed, and seemed remarkably shaken up for someone still on his feet.
Angus had enjoyed a few drams, to be sure. His supporters celebrated his expected success in the Council’s vote to confirm a new laird. To be honest, more than a few. He could scarce refuse a wee dram from his well-wishers today, even if the congratulations were premature. Had the whisky made him woozy or blurred his vision to the point he imagined the lad’s odd recovery?
Today, of all days, he needed to keep his wits about him. He expected today would finally bring bittersweet closure to the last six months. Either, he’d legitimately lead the clan and silence any complaints he wasn’ttrulylaird—or he wouldn’t. Deep down, where his frustrations and resentments lived, he wasn’t sure which he should prefer. He’d invested blood and sweat over the winter to keep the clan together and rebuilding, though a vocal few resented him stepping into his brother’s role. While the Council dithered and delayed, fighting for legitimacy to lead had worn on him, but today, the Council would finally act.
Instead of the stronger spirit, he reached for a cup of ale to sip. If…nay,whenhe won, he’d succeed his older brother, killed during the lowlanders’ invasion. He sucked in a breath, his throat cramping on the wave of grief that swamped him with Gregor’s image as he lay dying in the cave, the healers sitting vigil over his too-still form. Angus took a big gulp of ale and forced himself to think about the future, not the past.
Did he still want to be laird? The decision would be made for him, and soon. If he lost, he’d be no one—free to stay or go. Expectations—his dead brother’s, the clan’s, even his own—weighed him down. This was no time for uncertainty.
Then Angus saw the lass and forgot everything else.
Her eyes ensnared him first, dark as a loch and as deeply mysterious. Then he noticed her lips, pink and full as a sunrise cloud, tilted up at one corner. Depending on the swirling wind, her coppery hair, braided with green ribbons that matched her dress, skimmed her waist or flicked around her arms. She appeared softly out of focus. Could her skin really be so smooth and creamy?
She stood alone against a half-finished wall, the stone no higher than her shoulder, and her gaze followed the hapless lad, more than a dozen feet from her, as he moved away. Had she seen what Angus thought he’d seen, too? When one of the clan’s widows, Christina, passed by, she nodded but did not speak.
Angus was certain he would have remembered if he’d ever seen her. He straightened, driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge of determination to get close to her, to discover who she was, but before he could take a step toward her, she moved to a nearby bench. Once she sat, a table and a stack of lumber intended to support the unfinished roof screened her from the clusters of people discussing the impending election. Why would she choose to hide?
Angus took his time, treading carefully on unsteady feet, greeting his clansmen as he made his way toward her. He felt more and more drunk on desire for her, not just on the ale and whisky he’d consumed.
She must have noticed his approach. Her gaze met his then darted away.
Heat flashed through his body like summer lightning through clouds, quickly followed by an image of sharing a cup with her—and even better, a kiss—after the gathering ended. The corner of his mouth lifted. He would count her kiss the day’s victory, whether he became laird or not. He resolved to ignore all doubts for now, and picked up his pace.
But another man got to her first. He looked to be few years older than she, but young enough to be a problem. Angus paused, and after blinking to let his blurred vision clear, finally recognized him. Seamus had been vocal in his support of Angus’s challenger, Colin. Angus never knew the man had any family, much less a wife or sister.
After what appeared to be a few terse words, Seamus moved away again. Frowning, the lass watched him go.
Angus resumed his approach, wondering what their exchange was about. But mostly, seeing Seamus made him determined to put himself out of his misery. If she had married Seamus, he must forget the fanciful ideas filling his head. But if she had not… Today might end well, no matter how the vote turned out. As he neared her, he skirted a large pool of ale left by brawling lads who’d knocked over a cask.
“Good day to ye,” he said as he reached her. “Are ye enjoying the gathering?”
She colored most fetchingly to Angus’s eyes, then nodded. “Aye, thank ye.”
“I’ve no’ seen ye before.”
“No doubt. I arrived just two days ago.”
“Where do ye live?”
“Here, now.” For a moment, something dark passed across her face, then her expression smoothed.
Was she being coy? Or was she shy? She seemed determined to say as little as possible.
“By yourself, then?” He found himself mimicking her manner of speaking—three words at a time seemed overly economical, but effective.
“Nay, with my uncle, if it’s any business of yers. Why do ye ask?”
“Indeed?” Dread washed through him, sour and chilling. There were only a few reasons a lass would be fostered away from her parents…none good.
She frowned and shifted as if she was about to stand and leave. Angus reached for something to say to make her stay, to make her deep brown eyes see him instead of whatever pained her in the past.
“My parents died last autumn in the lowlander’s invasion.”
