by Mariah Stone
“He died fighting on the side of William Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk,” she said and threw the contents of the cup down her throat. “That was the time our clans fought on the same side, wasna it?”
“Twelve years ago, indeed.” Angus nodded.
“I wonder if they can fight together again,” she said. “I wonder if that would be the way yer debt can be repaid…or rather, forgotten.”
Silence fell on the table. Everyone stared at her. Angus didn’t like where this was going. His gut tightened as a dark feeling of premonition settled over him like a cloud.
“My lady?” he said.
“How about, instead of scrambling to get the debt paid, ye become my husband,” Euphemia said.
“Angus, nae!” Catrìona cried.
A playful, lazy smile spread on Euphemia’s lips. “What say ye?”
The woman clearly wanted him. Mayhap she was lonely. Mayhap she wanted Kintail, and establishing family ties would be the closest she’d get to the lands. She wouldn’t attack kin.
The decision sank into him like a stone and felt like a noose around his neck. He wouldn’t only be protecting his brothers and his sister, but also hundreds of clansmen as well as their wives and children. It was his duty to protect his clan. Besides, he’d need to marry someone eventually to strengthen the clan’s connections. And if marrying for love was not written in his future, now was as good a time as any to find a wife.
And what better reason was there than to ensure the safety of his family?
He gave an audible, sharp exhale and rolled back his shoulders. Euphemia’s lips gathered like a dried fruit.
“Aye.” The word came out as though he spat.
“Angus!” his brother cried.
Devils played in Euphemia’s eyes as she folded her arms over her chest. She looked him up and down slowly and licked her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. Angus’s hand clenched around the edge of the bench. Why was he so repulsed by her?
“The wedding will be in May,” she said. “Right after Lent.”
“And the contract?” Laomann said. “We must negotiate the dowry and the payment before—”
She waved her hand dismissively, her eyes sticking to Angus like pine resin. “All those details later. May I speak to ye, Lord?”
Angus cocked his head in the way of agreeing and downed the remnants of his uisge.
He let her lead him out of the great hall. She made a sharp turn behind the corner and dragged him into an alcove under the stairs. There, in the darkness, she gathered his tunic by his collar and pulled his face to hers. Her breath was warm against his neck, smelling of uisge. A rich, intense scent of roses filled his nostrils. But he resisted her attempt to pull him closer.
“Lady…”
“Dinna worry about waiting till the wedding night, my lord,” she whispered hotly. “I’m nae virgin. I had two husbands. I ken what is to happen between a man and his wife, and I want it to happen between us very much.”
She pulled him to her harder, but he turned his face away. “Lady, I canna.”
She paused and leaned back. “Ye canna?”
He cleared his throat. “I wilna. Nae till we’re marrit.”
She shook her head. “I dinna care about that.”
“But I do, Lady. Ye will be my wife before God and that will be the night I will take ye as a man takes a woman. Nae before.”
She scoffed, then cupped his jaw. Her cold hand burned against his skin. “I understand, Angus. I do. ’Tis yer right. Ye’re a man of yer beliefs.” Her eyes turned into two small chips of granite. “But understand as well, my sweet betrothed, that if ye change yer mind about the wedding, the consequences will be dear. I dinna take rejection lightly. I will take Kintail by force, and ye wilna be able to stop me.”
“My lady, if I give my word, ’tis harder than steel.”
“Good. But even steel can be broken.”
“I assure ye, it wilna come to that.”
She nodded, and he stepped out of her grasp, a boulder weighing on his heart. How would he live his life with such a woman as Euphemia? But as he walked back into the great hall, he knew that this was his life, to choose the path of duty and to carry it. Everything was worth it as long as his clan was safe.
Chapter 1
Eilean Donan Castle, May 2021
Rogene Wakeley laid two long candles neatly next to each other on the polished antique sideboard. Taking a deep breath, she told herself she was 99.9 percent happy for her friend.
Karin was getting married in Eilean Donan, having her dream wedding to the love of her life in the most beautiful castle in Scotland.
Rogene glanced at the fine painting hanging above the table on a rough stone wall. The portraits of generations of clan MacRae looked at the guests from the walls of the Banqueting Hall, surrounded by rococo and neoclassical furniture. Rogene took the bottle of whisky out of the bag and placed it near the silver quaich, a traditional, shallow drinking cup the couple would use as part of the wedding ceremony.
She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the guests were fine. Fifty or so people sat on the Chippendale chairs, murmuring quietly—elegantly dressed women in small hats with flowers, nets, and feathers, most men in kilts. The happy 99.9 percent of her had been glad to shake the hand of every single one of them as they had arrived and smile so much her face ached.
The happy 99.9 percent of her rejoiced in being the maid of honor, making sure all went according to Karin’s German standards: perfectly and by the minute. Which was good because Rogene was the responsible one. The one who had basically raised her brother, David, from the time she was twelve years old, despite living with their aunt and uncle.
David was talking to one of Karin’s relatives sitting in the front row. The fabric of his suit stretched across his broad shoulders. He was close to being accepted into Northwestern and was likely to get a football scholarship. Good Lord, when did he start looking so much like Dad?
Rogene’s eyes prickled.
That was the 0.1 percent talking.
To distract herself, she turned back to the table and placed the silver candleholder by the quaich.
The 0.1 percent reminded her that she couldn‘t rely on people. That people could disappear at any moment. That they could die. That people wouldn’t take care of her when she needed them the most.
That she was so much better off on her own.
She took the vase that held a gorgeous bouquet of thistle, white roses, and freesias and placed it in the center of the table. As she removed a rose from the side of the bouquet and put it into the center, the unhappy 0.1 percent of her wondered if she’d ever have a bouquet like this at her own wedding. Probably not. She couldn’t imagine getting married. How did others manage to be happy and in love and trust another human being?
As she turned the vase a little, she went completely still.
The bouquet!
She whirled around to the arched exit, her heart slamming in her chest.
“What is it, Rory?” Anusua, her colleague from Oxford University, asked. She stood at the entrance to the hall, ready to greet newly arriving guests. Short and full-figured, she looked stunning in a similar lilac dress to Rogene’s.
“The bouquet…” Rogene grabbed her hair, likely messing up the intricately woven braids and the chic updo that felt like bread crust under her fingers. She felt naked in the long, mermaid-style, lilac dress with low cleavage. Rogene’s usual wardrobe included elegant blouses and turtlenecks with suit pants or black jeans, which made her look like a professor before she even was one. “I forgot to pick up the bouquet.”
“Oh, bollocks,” Anusua muttered, abandoning her post. “Let me fetch it. What’s the address?”
Anusua was an Indian Brit, and definitely more accustomed to driving on the “wrong” side of the street. But Rogene was the maid of honor, and if Anusua made a mistake, Karin would be crushed. There was also the bagpipe player who was due to arrive any minute…
&nbs
p; “Come on, Rory,” Anusua said. “Give me the car key.”
Anusua was right, Rogene could delegate, be part of a team.
But the 0.1 percent stopped her.
David walked towards them and opened the beautiful, massive door under the arched entryway for an old lady to pass through. Too bad the door was only a replica made in the grand restoration of the castle in the 1920s, the historian within Rogene thought distantly.
“Everything okay?” David asked.
He was so handsome in his suit, his dirty-blond hair cut in a simple, classic style that made him look older than he was.
Or, maybe, it was because he’d had to grow up sooner than he should have, especially with her abandoning him in Chicago for her doctoral program at Oxford.
“All good,” Rogene said, her voice tense.
“You aren’t going to let me help, are you?” Anusua said softly. “You know you can rely on people to give you a hand.”
Anusua sighed and walked to the old lady who had just come in, no doubt to see if she needed any help. David patted Rogene on the shoulder. “What was that about?”
“I need to go get the bouquet, but the bagpipe player still isn’t here.”
“Let me get the bouquet. You deal with the bagpiper.”
“Is your permit even valid here?”
If he misread the name of a street while driving the car on the other side of the road, she’d need to deal with a lost teenager in a foreign country. His face darkened. He knew she was thinking of his dyslexia, not his driver’s license.
“Okay,” he said. “Go. I can deal with the bagpiper.”
She sighed. That was the lesser evil, even though she did hate to leave the responsibility to anyone but herself.
“I’ll be right back. Thanks, Dave.”
She opened the arched door into the damp, freezing air of the Scottish Highlands and hurried down the old stone stairwell into the courtyard. Harsh wind blew in her face as she passed through the gatehouse with the raised portcullis and onto the long bridge that connected the island to the mainland. She barely glanced at a couple of tourists who roamed around the shape of the medieval tower back on the island.
Rogene’s heels clacked against the bridge as she ran towards the parking area. Damn it, she hadn’t taken her bolero, and it was so windy—probably because of three lochs that met here. Her lungs ached for air, and a needle pierced her side, reminding her that she should really get more exercise, not spend all her time in archives and libraries working on her PhD.
But her current discomfort didn’t matter. She couldn’t let her best friend down on her wedding day. She was already walking on a thin ice by refusing to let other people help with her research. There were two problems with that. One, her thesis supervisor was pissed off. Two, she had a bold topic, and she had no proof for it yet.
Panting, she got into the car. After three and a half years in the UK, she was used to driving on the other side of the road, and quickly navigated to Inverinate, which was ten minutes away. Luckily, there were no problems on her way, and she quickly picked up the bouquet and drove back to the castle.
When she was back in the courtyard of Eilean Donan, she saw Karin on the small landing in front of the arched entrance into the Banqueting Hall. Wind played with the long locks of her blond hair that cascaded down her back. A wreath of white heather circled her head. She was such a beautiful bride. One hand was on her flat, corseted belly, the other on her mom’s shoulder. David watched her, looking as if he’d swallowed a frog.
Rogene’s legs growing cold, she waved with the bouquet as she climbed the stone stairs, careful not to slip on the smooth surface. “It’s here! Don’t you worry, everything’s all right.”
Karin glared at her. “All right?”
Rogene swallowed as she kept climbing. Usually, Karin was sweet, but she was now definitely in bridezilla mode.
When Rogene stood in front of Karin, she handed her the bouquet and plastered a happy smile on her face. “Did the bagpipe player arrive?”
Karin paled as her eyes widened at David. “Did he?”
“Yes, he’s already inside,” David said.
Karin sighed. Her eyes glistened, and Rogene knew her best friend was on the verge of tears. “Do I look horrible?” Karin asked.
Rogene gasped. “What? No! You look amazing. Where is this coming from?”
“Even with this makeup?”
“What do you mean?” Narrowing her eyes, Rogene studied Karin. This looked like her usual evening makeup. Oh…shoot!
Karin sniffled. “The makeup woman never showed up.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Rogene said. “You look beautiful and Nigel’s going to be over the moon. Are you ready?”
Karin exchanged a glance with her mom, then took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. “Yes.” She smiled. “I am.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
She opened the door and nodded to the bagpipe guy, who began playing. Nigel, who stood tall and handsome in his kilt, watched the door like a hawk. When Karin appeared, his face lit up, and Karin beamed as she met his gaze.
The couple lit candles and said their vows, which were beautiful and very Scottish. They drank from the silver quaichs, and finally signed the marriage license—or the marriage schedule, as they called it over here.
There were photos, and more bagpipe music, and cheers and broad smiles. The couple looked happy, and as enamored with each other as they could be.
After the ceremony, everyone descended into the Billeting Room on the ground floor for the champagne reception. As the waiters carried trays with drinks around, Rogene felt like she could finally take a breather. Her stomach squeezing in nervous spasms from the adrenaline that hadn’t stopped racing through her veins yet, she took her bolero and her clutch and went out onto one of the curtain walls facing north.
David stood on the circular wall around the Great Well, leaning on the parapet with his elbows.
Rogene knew something was wrong and made her way up to him. His eyes were on the island, which was covered with grass, a few bushes and small trees. A group of four people walked down the pebble-covered path that stretched from left to right.
Rogene couldn’t see any sign of the curtain walls that she’d seen on archaeological maps of the islands. There were supposed to be three towers that had been raised here in the first phase of construction, in the thirteenth to fourteenth centuries, and the castle where the wedding took place must have only had the keep building.
David’s profile was stern, his gray eyes fixed forward.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“I almost ruined Karin’s wedding.” He swallowed hard as he met her eyes, a muscle in his jaw flexing.
“Don’t say that,” she said.
“It’s my fault. The makeup artist’s car broke. Her phone was dead, and she came here. I gave her the address of Karin’s hotel…”
“Good.”
“Not good. I said 51 Dornie Street…”
The address was 15 Dornie Street. Rogene felt the blood leave her face. He sometimes reversed the numbers or the letters in a word and read things like “left” instead of “felt.”
“Karin was upset because of me,” he muttered.
Rogene searched for David’s hand to squeeze it like she had when he was younger. A dyslexic born to professor parents, and with his older sister receiving a scholarship to do a PhD at Oxford, he’d always felt inferior. That was part of the reason he’d gone into sports and was now a football team captain.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said.
He scoffed and shook his head. “Who else’s?”
“Mine. I should have never left you. I should have sent Anusua to get the bouquet.”
He sighed and lowered his head, looking at his shoes. “Whatever. It wouldn’t change a thing about me. My only hope for a good future is a football scholarship, and it’s still up in the air. I’m the black sheep in a family of geniuses, and you know it.
Mom and Dad were professors. You will be, too, one day.”
She wasn’t so sure about that. The date of her thesis defense was fast approaching and she still didn’t have any tangible proof of her mom’s outrageous hypothesis that Robert the Bruce had come to Eilean Donan in 1307 on his way to surrender but something or someone had changed his mind.
“David, come on. You’re not a black sheep.”
“Stop,” he said and pulled away. “I don’t want anyone’s pity.”
He pushed himself off the banister and strode into the castle.
“David!” Rogene called.
Guilt weighed in her chest. He was upset, and she couldn’t just abandon him, not again.
She went after him, fighting against the icy wind, her heels clacking against the stones. She hurried down to the ground floor, hoping he had gone back into the Billeting Room where the reception was taking place, but he wasn’t among the guests. Maybe he’d gone into the kitchens? She turned, trying to think of the best route to get there when she heard steps against stone. The tiny foyer had only three doors, two of which led to the Banqueting Hall.
Could he have gone through the third one? Wrought iron hardware held together the planks of massive wood under the arched pathway. A barrier with a red rope guarded the entrance, but that wouldn’t stop an upset teenager. She thought she heard footsteps descending.
There were no museum workers present. She went around the barrier, opened the door, and flicked the switch. Lights came on, illuminating stone steps leading down.
“David!” she called as she made her way down the stairs into the grave-like coldness of the basement.
Downstairs was a surprisingly large space illuminated by electrical lamps. Tables and chairs covered with protective sheets stood along the rough stone walls. The chilly air smelled like wet stone, earth, and mold. Light didn’t quite reach the very far end of the hall where she noticed a massive door in the shadows.
“David, where are you?” she called.
Only her echo answered, jumping off the ancient, vaulted ceiling. Looking around, she remembered an old legend claiming the castle’s name didn’t originate from a sixth-century saint, but from a colony of otters that had inhabited the island. Supposedly, the King of the Otters was buried beneath the foundations of the castle. Cu-Donn meant an otter, or a brown dog, but it was also very likely that a Pictish tribe might have been called this. There had been, after all, an Iron Age fortress here before, which had burned to the ground.
