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Chapter One

12 April 1721

Holyrood Abbey

Leith, Scotland

Branwen Glanville couldn’t prevent the slight shiver parading the length of her spine as she craned her neck, studying what was left of Holyrood Abbey’s majestic chapel. Though sunny—the sky, a bright blue—the crisp air held an unmistakable chill.

Not at all uncommon for coastal Scotland—any part of Scotland, for that matter.

And yet, as accustomed as she was to Scotland’s less than genial clime, another shudder rippled through her. Almost—aye, almost—as if in premonition of something sinister or ominous.

But what?

Holding her hood in place against the persistent, briney breeze tugging at the soft material, she glanced around the sun-drenched grounds. The golden rays shining through the remnants of the church’s elaborate entrance cast striking shadows on the lush green lawns spread out below.

Nothing struck her as odd or drew her attention despite the overall atmosphere of melancholy and decades of awed reverence permeating the holy remains.

So why then, couldn’t she shake this unwarranted sense of unease?

A dozen or so other people besides her family wandered the ruins as the mischievous breeze toyed with the long blades of verdant grass, plump, newly budded leaves, and the hem of her cloak with impartial precociousness.

Drawing her dark plum-colored velvet cloak tighter, she squinted at a rook, watching her from atop an elaborately constructed arched stone wall. The light glinted off the bird’s glossy plumage, an almost metallic blue hue to its black wings. It dipped its head, rubbing its beak several times against the pale stone before flying off amid raucous squawks.

Probably to join its family or mayhap feed its young. In the distance, she watched as four other rooks joined the first. As they arched and spiraled their way through the sky, another three flew in to loudly meet them.

Unlike many people, she didn’t believe crows, ravens, or rooks portended evil. In fact, she admired the species for their intelligence, cleverness, and dedication to their families.

Mayhap she was partial to them because her name meant blessed or fair raven, depending on which Welsh translation one preferred.

She squinted at the birds as they became smaller and smaller, eventually fading from sight in the distance. Although, now that she pondered on it, a gathering of crows was called a murder and a group of ravens a conspiracy.

Crows and ravens arena rooks,she chided herself.

Nae, but they are related.

Shaking her head once to dismiss her silly ruminations, Branwen returned her regard to the once glorious hallowed building.

Farther along the impressive bones of the abbey, Branwen’s guardian, Keane Buchannan, the Duke of Roxdale, holding his stepdaughter Cora’s hand and his wife, Marjorie, holding her other daughter, Elana’s hand, inspected a pair of empty stone coffins.

Many decades before—perhaps centuries even—nameless marauders had desecrated the graves, possibly in search of a valuable bauble or two. Or perchance, the vaults had been plundered during the Reformation when one religious order believed itself superior to another.

That ideology hadn’t changed much in the centuries since, truth be told.

It mattered naught why the burial places had been ransacked, but Branwen felt a peculiar sense of pity for the dead who hadn’t been permitted a peaceful eternal slumber. Even as fascinated as she was with history, it didn’t seem right to disturb the deceased simply out of curiosity.

Och, well.

She gave a little roll of her shoulder.

What was done was done.

She trailed her gaze over the well-maintained grounds once more. Though only a mere shadow of its former splendor, the abbey possessed an eerie beauty as well as an aura of sadness. The passage of time had been much kinder to the adjacent palace.

Giving herself another mental shake for her morose musings on such a lovely day, Branwen raised her face to the sun. Allowing her eyelids to lower, she inhaled the refreshing air. It held the tang of the sea but also the pungent scent of freshly cut grass and the faintest fragrance of fruit tree blossoms wafting from the palace gardens.

Though Edinburgh was scarcely two miles away, Leith’s air was far cleaner. No dingy, soot-laden cloud lingered overhead, blanketing all and sundry in choking gray, in large part due to the persistent winds blowing inland from the Firth of Forth.