CHAPTER ONE

Mid-April 1295, the northwest coast of Scotland

Baron Raeb MacKai strode along the steep track leading from Dungarob keep to the harbor. Far below, a solitary ship edged up to the lone dock set in sun-sparkled waters. On this rare, cloudless morning, the bay shone like a jewel set in dark, craggy gray, rimmed with drab despair. Ships had become rare visitors to the bay, so this vessel most likely brought the woman who would restore Clan MacKai’s fortunes.

He had no illusions about his home. The small village bordering the harbor was ramshackle at best. The dock balanced on ancient footings, just barely steady, and—save for the ship—empty of all but the smallest derelicts. The roads—if they could be called that—were narrow and rock strewn. Walking was a hazard. The people moved slowly, thin and haggard from too much work and too little food.

Stones rattled down the cliff side of the track.

Slow down, Raeb. I’ll go with you to greet your future wife. ’Twill be some time before anyone debarks, so ’tis no need to hurry.

He stopped and watched his sister Neilina skip along the stone-littered path. Younger by three years, she had absolute faith in her view of right and wrong.

If courtesy to my betrothed is your purpose, go back to the keep, he growled. I tell you now I’ll no have a single body—sister, clansman, or servant—give the least kindness to the woman arriving on that ship.

A line formed between Neilina’s black brows, which arched more delicately than his over MacKai gray eyes. He hadn’t expected his sister to be happy with his order.

She halted beside him, studying the scene below as he did.

A woman now stood on the ship, observing the docking process. Her tresses shone like a beacon in the dark night of his people’s poverty. Reports gave her alabaster skin, robin’s egg-blue eyes, lips of the most delicate pink, an angel’s figure with slender hips and breasts as soft as down. All the praise probably disguised a pampered, pale weakling who would wither and die in Dungarob’s hard winters. Luckily for Lady Jessamyn Du Grace, she wouldn’t be here long enough to see a single snowflake.

She moved smoothly as she disappeared belowdecks a moment before a group of men supervised the removal of a small white steed from the ship to the dock. Raeb snorted in mild disgust. Unlike the destriers and coursers that once filled the Dungarob stables and glens, this horse, like the woman, was clearly too delicate, too refined for the challenges of the Highland coast—his Highland coast. Which was why the woman with her puny mount was here.

Beside him Neilina’s fingers drummed against her hip. Best to let her air her objections. It would not change his mind, but it would make her feel better.

No greet our future baroness? You would have her condemn the entire clan before she even meets us and no doubt see you as the biggest boor on earth! Are you mad?

He rolled his eyes. She could complain of his rudeness all she liked as long as his English betrothed didn’t become Neilina’s latest cause. Nae, he agreed without compunction. I dinna care what the lady thinks.

You actually wish our sisters and the entire clan to be as callous as you? English she may be, but ’tis no reason for rudeness.

He shrugged. ’Tis no more than any English deserves, be they king, pauper, or a coddled lady too stupid or cowardly to know better than to accept a match with a Scot.

His sister’s gaze narrowed. Are you so certain she’s a lack-wit or a coward? With a godfather like Edward I of England, she may have had no choice in the matter, especially if she is a properly obedient and humble goddaughter.

Her father is one of Edward’s favorites and a verra influential man. I doubt even the king of England would try to force Lord Du Grace to give his daughter where he didna wish, especially since the man might rebel and take others with him, if his cherished only daughter were made unhappy.

Neilina snorted. King Edward’s no reputed to be a man easily intimidated by others, and given his disputes with the pope, I am no certain he cares for any opinion save his own. I still say your orders are absurd, and rudeness is no way to start married life.

Raeb frowned. Mayhap, in her champion’s way, Neilina only wished to see her brother happy. Too bad he couldn’t explain the marriage would not take place. To keep the plan safe, only a group of trusted allies and his captain of the guard knew the truth. Certainly telling his high-minded, judgmental sister would be foolish. He fixed his fiercest stare on her. Am I Baron MacKai, of Clan MacKai?

She gulped. Yes, brother.

Then make sure my orders are carried out. If anyone offers that woman the smallest courtesy or the least sympathy, I’ll hold you responsible. And if you fear an injustice, remember that ’tis her dowry that will right the greatest wrong ever done to Clan MacKai.

Neilina considered him for a moment and nodded.

Raeb didn’t care for that calculating look in her eyes, disappearing as soon as she blinked.

Brother, I doubt an Englishwoman will be eager to become fast friends with any Scot.

He narrowed his gaze at his sibling. Obedient goddaughter or no, the lady is uprooted from her home and alone in a foreign land. She’s bound to search out allies. Be certain she finds none among my family, clan, or servants.

Why are you so set on making her friendless?

He cast a quick glance at the ship where the lady and her maid now debarked. She’s English. ’Tis enough.

Persistent as any terrier, Neilina stamped her foot. Then why in the world did you agree to marry the woman? If you sacrifice yourself for the sake of a dowry to mend a few things at Dungarob, you’re more fool than any English. You should place more trust in our abilities.

He’d been trusting his abilities for ten years and had seen his clan sink deeper and deeper into poverty. My reasons need no concern you; just see the household behaves as I order.

He started walking once more, keeping one eye on his footing and one on his sister.

She lifted her chin and kept pace. I’ll make certain your wishes are known. However, I canna guarantee anything with our sisters no matter what consequences you threaten, especially with Artis. She will always swim against the tide. I fear for her almost as greatly as I fear for you.

The fears were old ones. Aye, the loss of our parents hit our youngest sister hard.

Pain flickered ugly and brief across Neilina’s face. She gripped her hands together before her. More like, she misses the firm hand and feminine guidance Mother provided for the rest of us. Artis is nearly as wild as you were at eighteen.

His lips lifted. Summer days swimming and hunting with his friends. Winter adventures seeking ice thick enough to bore a hole to fish while sharing hopes and dreams. Even after he’d been fostered in England and only home for rare visits, he’d not known how precious those carefree days had been. A mountain of responsibility acquired too early had stolen that wild freedom. He could not do that to Artis. Aye, I’ve no the heart to curb her spirit, and she’ll no listen to any of us. Life will teach her caution soon enough.

Mayhap you are right, but the longer that lesson is in coming, the more I fear she will suffer for it.

Their youngest sister would suffer regardless of when she learned caution. Why hasten fate?

Silence reigned as he and Neilina neared the dock and watched the ship being unloaded. After much petting and whispering from the lady, the mare allowed itself to be tied by the halter to the back of the baggage wagon. Raeb couldn’t help thinking again that the white steed and the pale woman were well matched and both completely out of place in Dungarob.

’Tis a lovely palfrey Lady Du Grace brings us, his sister murmured.

No doubt ’tis intended for her personal pleasure and no a gift. Likely the beast will devour every oat in sight and no produce a single foal.

Hmm. Neilina paused. Lady Du Grace is taller than I expected.

Mayhap. Raeb cared little about the woman’s height. What he cared about was her dowry and making certain the lady left Dungarob without it. He stepped onto the dock. Are you curious to see how the lady will react to my purposeful lack of greeting?

Nae, brother. I’ve no doubt your discourtesy will upset her as it upsets me.

Then go back to the keep as I ordered. I’ll no make any introductions, nor will I allow you to speak with her.

He didn’t miss the quick intake of her breath. Fine, I shall be as rude as you, but I came to satisfy my curiosity about English fashions.

I see. Fashion was an unlikely interest for Neilina, who preferred useful clothing that she would give away to the first deserving wretch she found.

His English bride-to-be and her serving woman now stood alone to one side on the warped boards. Neilina, however, stared at the knot of men maneuvering a stack of boxes, trunks, and barrels into the rickety baggage cart. Interested in fashion in a pig’s eye. His sister sought out some man. Raeb took note of the three men working together. It was the first sign that her personal interests might broaden beyond lost causes and righting perceived wrongs.

Young Ramsey doesna seem to be doing his share of work.

Neilina snorted. Ramsey MacEth wouldna recognize hard work if it hit him.

Not Ramsey. David Linden is carrying the most weight.

Linden is a muscle-bound dolt.

Mmm. Raeb tried to sound indifferent while he eliminated Linden as the focus of Neilina’s interest.

Tell me, do you recognize that red-haired fellow, holding the horses and talking with the ship’s captain?

Of course, that’s Rhu ... Nae, it canna be. What I mean is, that’s a verra redheaded man. I’d best be certain cook has supper started. I’ll see you then. She fled as quickly as the twisted decking would allow.

Aye, at supper. Raeb let her go. He knew very well the man with nearly orange hair was Sir Rhuad MacFearann. What the bastard son of the most hated man in Scotland was doing at Dungarob and how he’d come to draw Neilina’s attention, Raeb determined to discover before the day was out.

He placed a smile on his face and went to greet his men. Linden, Ramsey, I’ve come for any letters the ship brought.

I have them, Baron, MacFearann volunteered.

The other two men glowered at the visitor.

The captain asked me to deliver them because he had last-minute orders from Lady Du Grace. MacFearann ignored the glowers and tilted his head in the direction of the two women.

Only Raeb didn’t turn his head to glance at the lady and maid standing a good ten paces farther down the dock.

Excellent, walk with me and tell me what brings you to Dungarob keep.

Baron? Linden nodded toward Lady Du Grace. Do you no wish to escort—

I expect the two of you to have that cargo distributed immediately, Raeb interrupted.

They secured the load in the wagon then stepped up to the seat and drove off.

Let us be on our way. Raeb motioned to MacFearann to walk with him.

Um, you are certain you are no forgetting something?

Raeb kept walking. Naught of any import. He said it loudly enough for the ladies to hear clearly.

MacFearann shrugged. Have it your way, then.

I usually do, remarked Raeb. Now explain to me how you met my sister Neilina.

I will gladly do that in private, if you will explain how you discovered I am acquainted with her.

’Tis a fine day for negotiations, Raeb said as he cast a glance skyward. But you are right. Family matters are best discussed in private.

He smiled to himself. Lady Du Grace had not been happy to be ignored. Oh she’d cast no frowns or glares but smiled and maintained a serene demeanor. However, from the corner of his eye he’d seen her posture stiffen and the knuckles of her clasped hands whiten. How long until she realized she was not welcome here?

LADY JESSAMYN DU GRACE waited, fuming, on the dock until well past midday before conceding that no one would return for her and her maid. How dare that man ignore her! If he thought she would go running after his lean-hipped, broad-shouldered, fatheaded self, he had a lot to learn about Jessamyn Du Grace. She’d prefer to drown before begging help from a man who should be prostrate at her feet with gratitude. It was a good thing she’d no intention of marrying the mannerless lout, or she’d be doomed to such treatment for the rest of her life.

As clouds scudded in to block the sun, she considered just how to punish the barbaric baron. Had it not been for Margery, Jessamyn would have ignored hunger and spent the night shivering on the dock. ’Twould serve the baron right if she died of an ague and her godfather wrought vengeance on the Scot for her death.

However, for her maid’s sake, enough was enough, so they approached the forbidding keep on foot. To be honest, ’twas the only practical thing to do. She might have sought shelter in one of the dilapidated cottages bordering the harbor. However, her dowry and her dear, Saracen-bred Persia were both inside the keep. She needed both horse and coin to fulfill her plans. So together with Margery she climbed the long, switchback path carved into the rock rising above the bay. Naturally as they ascended, the heavens opened, drenching them both and causing the pathway to become a treacherous morass of mud and rock.

My lady, please, I must rest. Margery managed the words despite heaving for breath.

Jessamyn stopped and looked back at where her tire-woman leaned against the rock wall on one side of their path.

’Tis only a few more steps. Jessamyn’s stomach let out a loud gurgle. She was cold, soaking wet, hungry, tired, and beyond angry at the discourtesy shown her.

Margery huffed, raised a brow at her mistress, and stared toward the salley port. In truth, a steep hundred strides remained of the rough track they climbed. Jessamyn looked closer at her still panting maid. The woman’s face was red, and she shivered in the damp and cold.

Here. Jessamyn produced a kerchief from a belt pouch—the only dry item she carried. Wipe your face. We’ll rest until you feel better. Though by the rood, I swear I might swallow whole the first person I see. I am that hungry.

Margery smiled as she patted her face. You might have to fight me for the privilege.

Jessamyn grinned back. What do you think the Scots would make of lady and maid battling each other to be first to commit slaughter in the name of hunger?

Margery let out a gurgle of laughter. It seems that the Scots’ ill manners are wearing off onto us.

’Tis no more than they deserve for their callous treatment, which I vow neither you nor I shall endure for much longer.

Margery’s brows rose. Lady Jessamyn, please tell me you’re not planning one of your tricks. These Scots are famously bad-tempered. You’ll get us murdered.

I’ll do no such thing, and now is not time to talk of tempers and tricks. However, I warn you to keep these folk at a distance until we can discuss ways to achieve our goals. For the present, just follow my lead. Now, are you feeling better?

Yes, my lady. I’m recovered.

Excellent. Jessamyn eyed the building as if she could spy the inhabitants through the thick walls. Mayhap we can find a way to annoy these Scots into action. Place your arm around me as if I cannot proceed unassisted.

A line formed between her maid’s brows. What are you plotting now, Lady Jessamyn?

Something that will cause no harm but may speed our way inside.

Jessamyn leaned weakly against Margery as they slowly covered the last steps, halting before the large portcullis blocking the salley port.

Hallo, the guard, Margery called. Open the gate for Lady Jessamyn Du Grace.

No one answered. Nor was anyone in sight.

Unable to believe the keep’s entry would be left unguarded, Jessamyn studied the structure, looking for a way in or, at the least, shelter. Solid iron formed a gate of cross bars, save where hinges and a lock marked the shape of a man-sized exit. Set back behind the gate, two large wooden doors—one slightly askew and sagging—filled the opening of the salley port and closed off any view of the interior. But within the leftmost oaken barrier she spied the outline of a smaller door. Like the door of bars within the portcullis, it was a convenient portal for individuals on foot. No other entry was visible in the walls of the large round towers that flanked the gate on either side. Narrow openings sat high in those towers, and a crenellated battlement above the gate linked the two structures. Guards should be watching from the openings as well as the battlement.

I am overset. Jessamyn trembled visibly against her maid’s hold. Go down to the village. Beseech bread and shelter. Bring the bread back, for I fear I shall die without sustena— She allowed herself to crumple to the ground. In the process her surcoat and bliaut twisted up around her knees, and the wind whipped her hair into her face. She had no concern for the mud and damp that soaked her clothing and hair. Jessamyn could not be more wet than she already was. She only regretted the trouble her stratagem would cause Margery in cleaning the garments.

My lady! screeched the maid. She knelt beside her mistress.

Jessamyn cracked an eye open. Pretend you think I’m dying, she whispered. And remember, be disdainful to all you meet.

Noooo! Margery wailed. Do not die, Lady Jessamyn.

Rain dripped from the servant’s face onto Jess’s cheeks.

Oh dear, oh heaven. Mary, Mother of God, save my lady’s life.

Around Jessamyn, the maid’s hands fluttered as if she did not know what to do.

A loud creaking moaned from the direction of the keep. Jessamyn smiled to herself at the proof the guards had been watching. Had they not, it would have been much longer before the portcullis was raised.

Short moments later, Margery was pushed aside. A gossamer touch stroked the sodden hair back from Jess’s face. A warm hand smoothed her skirts down to her feet. Through slitted lashes Jessamyn saw kneeling beside her two long, muscular legs covered in snug breeches. She dared not raise her gaze higher to get a better look at the man. She felt herself lifted from the ground and did her best not to stiffen when she was clutched to a hard, hot, wool-covered surface. An even drumming beneath her ear told her the surface must be the man’s chest. She’d never been this close to any man. She suppressed a shiver. She was no lightweight. The man must be very strong to carry a woman of her stature so easily.

Stop, Margery protested. Baron, unhand Lady Du Grace. Have you not shown enough disrespect to her this day?

The man halted.

Jess’s head spun as he turned quickly. This man was the fatheaded churl? How could such an ill-mannered churl have such a gentle touch and smell so pleasantly of smoke, gorse, and leather?

"Would you have me drop your lady on the stones? Faione, woman, cease screeching lest I show you my wrath." The deep voice vibrated from his chest into Jess’s frame. She could not restrain her body’s shaking but steadfastly refused to believe she feared his threats and anything he might do—or not do—to her person. Cold and damp alone were the source of her trembling.

Wh ... where are you taking her? Tension rang in Margery’s voice, though she’d modified the volume somewhat.

Pride in her maid’s courage steadied Jess. Dear, loyal Margery would face down any threat. Jessamyn would do the same were the situations reversed.

I’m done wasting time. Follow me if you wish. He spun back toward the keep and moved forward at a pace so rapid a breeze fanned Jess’s cheek.

Her head whirled, and she clutched at the wool beneath her fingers.

The portcullis moaned shut behind them. Very soon she heard the slap of boots against rushes, and the smoke of pitch-topped torches assaulted her. Then his steps slowed and descended a short flight of stairs. A crowd of voices ceased abruptly as the man stopped. The silence was deafening. The smells of unwashed bodies, warm bread, and some sort of stew told her they were in the central hall where the evening meal progressed. Beside her, Margery continued to protest.

Where are you taking Lady Du Grace? This is an outrage; release her this instant.

Neilina! bellowed the baron, his voice booming against Jess’s ears.

Aye! The replying shout was distant but still audible.

See to this caterwauling woman and send dry raiment to my chamber for Lady Du Grace.

Naaay. I must not leave Lady Jessamyn. Margery’s objection faded in the distance as