Page 1 of Falling for His Cousin’s Betrothed

PROLOGUE

It had been a long, damp night, one filled with cool winds and pelting raindrops. How would this affect the games? Laila wandered across her room and stood at the nearest window, gazing upon the verdant fields below. As was usually the case mid-August, the rowan trees were in bloom, and the yew trees, standing mightily in the background, were ready to shade any passerby who needed a break from the midday sun which was sure to come out after the clouds cleared form the sky.

“I suppose I will have to go out and see for myself what kind of day this shall be,” she said bemused, walking softly to the large cedar wardrobe that flanked the eastern wall. “I know it’s been a long time coming.” She smiled, amused.

The Highland Games were the most anticipated of all summer events. Drawing crowds in the thousands, they were always ushered in with a multitude of excited patrons, every one of them yearning for the fanfare and the excitement that only the Games could produce. Laila wondered, as she did every summer, what sort of events would unfold this time around. She’d been caught up in a whirlwind of turmoil at home and was hoping, in the deepest recess of her heart, that she would find a way to simply blend in with the crowd, to escape from all that haunted her at her current residence.

“I must go quickly,” she whispered to herself as she pulled her long, blond hair up in a twist. She eyed herself closely in the mirror, wondering if her youthfulness was still apparent. Her almond-shaped eyes, emerald with flecks of alabaster, reminded her of all that she aspired to be—a young and admirable woman with only the purest of intentions. She knew that she was going to live a fulfilled life if only she could escape from the deceitful clan that she’d been born into. It was one with trials and tribulations only the heartiest of souls could imagine and it had left her fraught with episodes of both sadness and anger. “I just need to go…as quietly as possible,” she reminded herself, attaching a wooden clip to her hair twist and then smoothing out her tartan kilt. “Then, I shall be free,” she asserted herself in front of the mirror, then turned and faced the large, cherrywood door.

“Laila?” her father called from the bottom of the steps.

“No,” she said to herself, wrapping a long, linen scarf around her shoulders. “I can’t let him know that I’m still here,” she said to herself, scrambling for a brooch to pin to her vest. “I must make haste.” She pinned the copper brooch, shaped in a large letter “N” to her leather vest and then tiptoed away from the door and toward the wardrobe. She then tucked her body, slender as it was, behind the intricately etched wardrobe and drew in a deep breath. As a child, she’d played hide and seek, always proud at her elaborate hiding spaces. Now, her game would be put to the test. Her heart raced as the sound of footsteps grew closer.

“Laila. Are you in there?” called her father in his characteristic deep, husky voice. “Come out at once,” he demanded. But Laila stood still and as quiet as a soldier hiding from an enemy ambush. Only her heartbeat could be heard in her eyes, and she gulped hard when she heard the brass knob turn on the door. “Laila!” her father called. “Where are you?” Laila looked down at her feet and inched her toes slightly closer to each other so as not to let even a shaft of light escape through their parting. Her maroon boots blended in with the cherrywood floor, and she closed her eyes as her father turned around, confused at his discovery.

“Aidan, do you see her?” called her stepmother from down the velvet carpeted hall. “Is she in her room?”

“No,” said her father, closing the door behind him. “I don’t know where she’s gotten off to, but we’ll have to ask Aidan to put out a call to his clan,” he added, his voice getting further away. “I’ll ask him to send out Alastair on one of his new stallions,” he mumbled.

Laila exhaled and crept out slowly from behind the wardrobe. As soon as she could no longer hear the mutterings of her father, she walked to the large bay window, opened it up, and tossed down a long, thick-knotted rope.

“It’s now or never,” she said, hoisting herself out the window and clinging to the first and largest knot. It had been one of her most treasured possessions, the rope, as it had lent her freedom in the moments when she’d craved it the most. Now, in a sort of ceremonial act, she shimmied down the same rope until her feet were on solid, albeit soggy, ground, and tossed the rope into the closest clump of Scotch thistle. “That’ll do it,” she said, dusting off her hands, then galloping off toward the hills. Over bog myrtle, Scottish bluebell, and cross-leaved heath she scurried until the castle of her clan could no longer be seen. She waited to breathe a sigh of relief until she was at the crest of the hill and could see down on all of the games. “There they are.” She smiled, peeling a tress of honey-colored hair away from her face. “The Games.”

“Foos yer doos,” said a tall man in a black and gray kilt, his eyes as steely as the sky. “I hope you have some rain gear in your vest,” he added with a wink. “We never know what the skies are going to give us, now do we?” he asked in a gallant manner.

Laila smiled coyly, then shrugged and walked closer to where he stood, off to the side, polishing a large sgian-dubh. Laila had always enjoyed watching men as they prepared for the Games. This particular knife, easy to conceal and simple to carry, had earned its ranks as one of the easiest weapons of its time. Laila turned around and eyed him one more time as he ran an oilcloth over its blade, then tucked it ever so gently into its sheath. Then, she turned and flitted away.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we welcome you to the twentieth annual Highland Games. It is our pleasure to guide you on this journey along one of Dunoon’s most anticipated events of all time, so sit back and enjoy.” A short man with a handlebar mustache wearing a pair of black woolen trousers spoke into a bullhorn as he walked back and forth on a makeshift stage. His hair, slicked back and shiny, reminded Laila of a mongoose’s wet fur. He placed the horn down at his side and looked up, just in time to see the clouds part and a large, inviting sun make its grand appearance for the day. “Now that’s more like it,” he said with a grin as more people gathered close to the stage.

“What game are they starting with?” Laila leaned over and questioned a tall woman with auburn hair tied back in a braid.

“I believe it’s the caber toss,” she said, stoically. “Have you been to the Games before?” she asked, straightening her plaid skirt with one hand.

Laila nodded. “Of course. I’m one of the Nelson clan from over Dory Way.”

“I see,” said the woman. “So, you’re a seasoned spectator,” she added.

Laila nodded. “I personally enjoy the Ardblair Stones Challenge best,” she said with an innocent smile. “In fact, last year, I watched as one of the Nelson clan made it to the third round, then proceeded to break his hand in a freak hammer-throwing accident.”

“I believe I was there for that, as well,” said the woman. “Luckily, he was able to get the care he needed and went on for a successful tug-of-war.” Her eyes were bright, and she had a joyful essence to her demeanor that captivated Laila. Perhaps one day she, too, would be as demure and elegant as her new friend, she mused as the announcer made his rounds along the grandstand. Men playing bagpipes strode past the event tent and stopped when they reached the top of the hill.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to begin with our first game,” blurted the announcer as he circled past Laila. “To start it all off, we’ll proceed with the crowd favorite, the Ardblair Stones Challenge,” he finished with a sense of taste. Men and women cheered and hooted.

“Well, it seems you’ll get your favorite game right now,” said the woman with a knowing smile. “I’m Morven, by the way.”

“Laila.” For a moment, she’d forgotten that she was on the run, that her father was probably already out on his Clydesdale, storming the forest for any sign of his disobedient daughter.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Morven, reaching into her purse for a handkerchief. She waved it in the air as the announcer leaped to the right end of the stage.

“Here we go!” he blared.

The crowd cheered him on and danced as the melodious trill of the bagpipes encircled the air.

Laila’s eyes widened as the first stone was rolled, laboriously out to the center of the field. Three men, each wearing indigo blue and green kilts, lurched toward the spectators. Laila knew that the weight of the stones was incredible, that the men who were about to perform would be doing so with all their might in an effort to impress the crowd and to add accolades to the name of their respective clans.

“I’m still unsure as to how they are able to get these heaviest stones atop those whisky butts,” remarked Morven as Laila moved in closer around the encirclement. The largest stone was almost fifty-two inches high and reminded her of the sacred places that her ancestors were building with huge rocks all over Scotland.

“Nine stones and each one heavier than the next,” said Laila, watching as the tallest man shook his mane of hair and knelt down to begin. He reminded her of a crouching tiger, although his height was so remarkable that Laila imagined it would be nearly impossible for him to ever hide in such a way that a cat might. His arms were lean yet ropy and muscular, each vein running down until it met with the thick circumference of his wrist.