Page 1 of The Lady of Her Highland Clan

Prologue

1452

The map had to be wrong.

Looking up from the torn scrap in his hand, Laird Clyde Greenock glanced through the dense thicket and wished desperately not to be there.

It was pitch black and the whole world was asleep.

At least, anyone with any sense was.

Starlight illuminated his face, contrasting the black of his hair with his fresh, raw complexion. The sharpness of his cheeks was only slightly offset by the remnants of boyish freckles, shimmering eerily in the pale light. Clyde drew his brow into a deep frown and examined the map again.

Where the hell am I?

A casual glance ascertained this was not the quarry. In fact, as far as he could tell, there was no quarry. The man he was sent to meet had still not shown, and Clyde was beginning to doubt he ever would.

Clyde sighed. Was this one of Laird Anderson's practical jokes? It was possible.

His last one, the disappearing bride, had not been funny at all. Clyde frowned. Perhaps he could not blame Laird Anderson for his daughter, but still...

Desperately, Clyde scoured the skies for the slightest sliver of moonlight.

There wasn't any. The dense coppice was, he was sure, utterly deserted. There was no chance of meeting anyone at all out here, let alone the errant Laird Anderson—more at home in his cups with a comely lass on his knee than out here, with nobody and nothing, in an abyss of loneliness.

Was he even sure this was the right place? For the third time, Clyde checked the map. It mentioned a quarry. And a ditch. Not this thick woodland ravine with a burn running through it.

Water rushed by, although in the dark Clyde could not tell exactly where from. Cursing, he scrunched the map parchment up, his nails digging into the center of his hand.

None of this had been his idea. The moonlight sign rendezvous had been part of Anderson's master plan.

Like the wedding.

But Clyde did not want to think about that now.

Tugging at his cape, he shivered. It was August, allegedly. But someone needed to tell the frigid Highlands skies that. All around was cold and damp, with frost forming on the hills in a white sheen that might be sleet.

In other words, a typical Highlands summer.

Pulling the heavy brat around his shoulders, Clyde did what he should have done to begin with. Calling time on the date rendezvous, he stepped away from the coppice.

Splosh!

With no warning, Clyde was ankle-deep in icy water. Then, a hand came down on his shoulder.

"What on earth are ye doin', sonny? This is no place for a skinny dip!"

Clyde looked up. Staring him down in the face was Edan Anderson, laird of the neighboring clan.

"I..." began Clyde half-heartedly.

Laird Anderson grimaced at him. "This here is private land," he said sternly. "I dinnae ken what ye are doing here at this hour."

"But—" said Clyde, unflinchingly. Inside, confusion turned to dismay. What does he mean, he doesnae know?

"Ye told me tae meet ye here!" protested Clyde, his light-green eyes meeting Anderson full-on.

Pale starlight cast a gaze over Anderson's face. Tall and thickly built, his fifty years were amply documented on his windswept face. Angrily, Clyde pushed the scrunched-up map back into the laird's face.