William, future Laird of Clan MacNair, awaits his betrothed, a distant memory from the past. However Emma, in flesh and bones, is lovelier than he remembers....and steals his heart in an instant.
But when the night of their engagement the Earl gets mysteriously poisoned, everything changes for both of them. With Emma's brother canceling their engagement, she finally sees clearly the odious fate that awaits her.
With all fingers pointing at the MacNairs, William is the only one who can rescue her...
Until the day they both discover that the murder is only the start of a well-thought scheme and they are trapped right in the middle of it.
Prologue
England, 1725
“Lady Emma! Lady Emma! Where have you gone off to, My Lady?”
Young Emma Marston could hear her governess, Mrs. Briddle, calling for her. Knowing that a bath and a sharp tongue waited for her, she chose to remain hidden in the bush.
She was enjoying herself immensely. The mock fight between her brother and their Highland visitor was infinitely more interesting than any lesson or other such nonsense Mrs. Briddle had planned for her afternoon.
If she finds me I’ll have to go back, and I shall not have any more fun this day, she thought, trying hard not to pout.
After all, what was the point of pouting if there was no one around to see her do it?
There was hope—Mrs. Briddle’s voice was far away, and growing faint, so Emma knew she would be safe where she was for at least a little while longer.
She turned her focus to the young men in the field. She was only nine, but the sight of her brother Thomas losing to the strong William MacNair gave her a slight thrill.
Thomas never lost to anyone. He was the best fighter on their lands, all the tenants knew it. Mostly, because Thomas never let anyone forget it. He was the Earl of Dawaerton’s only son and heir, after all, so he should be the best at everything. At least, that was what he always said.
Emma had to try really hard not to roll her eyes. It was unladylike, was what her mother and Mrs. Briddle always said. But, sometimes, Emma did not want to be a lady. And at sixteen years of age, Thomas was a bully. Watching him now, on his knees in front of the visiting Scottish lad, gave Emma endless pleasure.
She had only seen William MacNair once. It was the summer before when they had visited. Their fathers were friends, though it was rare that Laird MacNair traveled all the way to England from the Scottish Highlands, and rarer still that he brought his son.
Emma was overjoyed the times when he did.
Even though he and Thomas were the same age, William was so much larger than Thomas. He was so much larger than any boy Emma had ever seen. But, William had kind eyes, and when he smiled at Emma, she couldn’t help but giggle.
She wasn’t afraid of him at all. He was strong, but. didn’t pull her hair, or try and trip her in the halls like Thomas did. He spoke funny words and called her a wee rascal. Emma liked to be around him.
“Ye might as well give in, Thom,” William said, as he knelt beside Thomas, the practice sword at his throat.
“Never!” Thomas growled in return. William laughed as he stood and turned his back.
Emma felt her heart quicken. William didn’t know Thomas as she did. Her brother was angry, and William shouldn’t have turned his back to him. Thomas didn’t play fair.
Thomas stood and moved to swipe William’s legs out from under him. She watched in horror, torn between exposing her hiding place in the shrubs or helping William.
She willed her mouth to work and surprised herself as she was able to shout, “Watch out!” causing William to turn and catch her brother’s unfair move.
At the very moment, when Thomas should have made an impact, Emma gasped, her hand rushing to cover her mouth. Her eyes stayed open even though she wanted to close them. She didn’t want to see.
Then, with one swift movement, William crouched and captured Thomas’ leg from underneath his body, dropping him. Emma cheered as her brother ended up flat on his back.
“Me thanks to ye, wee rascal,” the Scot shouted into the shrubs, meeting her eyes and giving Emma a sly wink. Thomas looked up from the dirt and gave her a scowl, causing a tight knot to form in her stomach. Emma cringed at the sight of her brother’s anger. She instinctively knew she would pay later for her betrayal, but she couldn’t let him cheat to beat William.
Revealing her hiding place, Mrs. Briddle saw her and ran to capture her young charge. Emma tried to dash away but got caught on a thorn bush. She let out a weary sigh. There would be no more frolic and fun for her this day.
“There you are. Come now, Lady Emma, we have to get you bathed and dressed for dinner!”
Emma groaned as she tried in vain to brush the leaves and dirt from her smock.
“Mrs. Briddle, must I leave? I am having such fun watching the boys.” Mrs. Briddle gave her a severe stare.
“This is no type of activity for a young girl, Lady Emma, and you know it! Now come, don’t be trouble, lest I’m forced to tell your father.”
At the mention of her father, Emma grew more defiant.
“One day, when I am married to William MacNair, he will take me far away from here, and Thomas and Father will not be able to hurt me anymore! Your words will have no power, Mrs. Briddle. Just you wait!”
The older woman laughed and pulled Emma roughly by the arm.
“One day, hmm?” She snorted. “Little girl, there is much you need to learn of how marriages are arranged. If you know what’s best, you’ll come along and get your bath, and stop your foolish childlike fantasies. You should mind your father. He’s a powerful man, a great man, and he knows what is best for you!”
Emma knew Mrs. Briddle was wrong, but it was fruitless to argue. Everyone thought the world of her father and brother. Only Emma understood how cruel both could be.
She may have grown quiet, but she was not resigned. She simply walked alongside Mrs. Briddle, as best she could with her arm still in the woman’s grasp. “Very well,” the girl said. Her mind, though, was already made up. She would do everything in her power to get away from England, her father, and her brother.
I will marry William MacNair. He will be my savior.
Chapter 1
Ten Years Later…
Emma’s breath was coming in rapid bursts and she tried her hardest to keep the tears from running down her cheeks.
He is a monster.
She burned with anger. Her life wasn’t her own, and perhaps, a part of her had always known that it would come to this. Yet, it seemed so cruel and sudden, to be hurried off to Scotland, away from her home, her friends, her life, to marry a man she did not remember.
This marriage was a sham. There was nothing of the sweet romance and caring love of a real marriage. No, this was only to further her father’s business and political interests. It was inhuman. She wanted to scream, to fight, to do anything, except what she knew was her fate to do, which was play the role of the fine English daughter and submit to her brutal father’s will.
“I should run away,” she moaned. Mrs. Briddle, her once governess and now her ladyship’s companion, chuckled at her youthful insolence.
“And where would you run? With no money, no family to take you in? You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic, child. Settle down. We’re in Scotland now, what’s done is done.”
Emma knew the woman was right, however, that didn’t make her any less angry. She had been under the assumption that this family trip to the Scottish Highlands was simply to visit an old family friend. It wasn’t until they rolled up to the large imposing medieval castle that she was told they were here for a wedding—her wedding.
Emma moved toward the window of her bedchamber in this strange castle, her breath hot enough on the chilled glass to create a fog. If she were she younger and more inclined to fantasy, she would have drawn a heart in the cloud and hoped for a dashing prince that would come and save her from a cruel fate.
Spring migh
t be coming soon, but not soon enough in this God-forsaken place. Emma hugged herself tightly as she watched the men in the bailey below. She saw the outline of her brother Thomas as he stood with two or three of their father’s men. They seemed to be deep in conversation.
Her brother must have been pleased with what was being discussed. She watched as he clapped another man on the back and threw his head back in what Emma thought must have been laughter. When is the last time I heard my brother laugh? she thought before her attention was taken by four large men across the field.
Dressed in only kilts and nothing else, Emma admired the men and their athletic frames as they moved around each other. They looked to be practicing some kind of fighting or battle formation. They were very different from her brother and their English counterparts. These men were large, muscular, and ready for battle.
The largest of the four broke ranks from his clansmen. His hair was dark as midnight, and Emma drew in a sharp breath as he looked up toward the sky, closing his eyes as if in prayer. His skin was tanned by the sun of bygone months and the sheen of sweat from the exertion made him look almost godlike.
Emma wondered what it would feel like to run her hand across his smooth chest. She turned away quickly as a blush of warmth hit her cheeks. How could she have such thoughts, intruding on what was clearly a private moment for the man? Instead, she turned her focus back to the issue at hand, her anger.
“By keeping the true reason for our visit to the MacNairs, by keeping it a secret from me, Father stole my choice away. I will never forgive him.”
“The daughter of an Earl has no choice,” Mrs. Briddle muttered.
“Are you saying I’m like cattle? Sheep to be bartered off without any input? I am a sentient being and I would have liked some say with whom I would be forced to spend the rest of my life with. What if he is daft, or indifferent, or worse, cruel?”
“I seem to remember a little girl who wanted to marry William MacNair quite badly.” Mrs. Briddle clucked her tongue. She had reminded Emma of her youthful declaration no less than twenty times since their arrival in the keep.
Emma closed her eyes as a fresh wave of anger, mixed with a small amount of embarrassment, curled in her chest. She remembered being enamored of a young William MacNair as a child, but she had been just that—a child. She never truly thought she would marry the Scottish brute. It had been bad enough when Father insisted the entire family travel to Scotland for his birthday celebration, but now learning that she, Emma, was to be served up as one of his gifts? It was a travesty.
How could Father do this?
She hadn’t even seen William MacNair for almost a decade. He surely wouldn’t remember her as the child she was, and she knew nothing of the man he had become.
But she had heard tales in the village back home, from her few friends, and the men who worked her father’s land, that Highlanders were horrible men, dirty, quick to anger, thieves, and hellions. She had no desire to leave England, her home, and marry one of them now, no matter what she’d foolishly said as a child.
“Mrs. Briddle, must you bring the utterances of a silly child up time and time again?” she groaned, as the door to the chamber opened. Both women turned, their quarrel forgotten as Katharine Marston, Lady Dawaerton, come through the door. Her mantua of pale pink silk barely touched the floor as she walked across the room toward Emma with grace and purpose.
Emma hurriedly dried away her tears. A lady did not cry in her mother’s presence, after all. Mrs. Briddle gave a quick curtsey, as Lady Dawaerton brushed past the woman and came to stand near her daughter. Emma allowed herself one small pleasure in seeing her lady’s maid cower in her mother’s wake.
“Mother, surely you can see this betrothal is a horrible idea! And why did Father find it necessary to lie to me?” Emma skipped formal pleasantries and tried to appeal to her mother right away. She knew, in her heart, pleading with her mother would not change her fate, yet she could not help but try.
“Emma, dear,” her mother replied, casually fingering the blue pleats of Emma’s day gown between two of her delicate fingers. “Your father did not lie. It truly is the young MacNair’s birthday celebration and what better timing to announce a fortuitous engagement?”
“But Mother?” Emma knew she sounded like an unforgiving child, but her situation was dire. By evening’s end, she would no longer be able to plead her case. She would be truly betrothed.
Her mother did not spare Emma a second glance before saying, “You know, as the daughter of an Earl, and a great ally to Laird MacNair, it is your duty to marry William. It will do you no good to cry and beg.”
Emma looked down to her mother’s hand, fighting the urge to grab it into her own.
“Mother, I do not know him! Surely, we could at least postpone the wedding until we have had a chance to meet? To speak with one another and see if we even suit?”
“Mrs. Briddle, what is this rag my daughter is wearing?” Her mother turned to the maid, ignoring her daughter’s pleas.
The gown was modest as well as comfortable. It was one of Emma’s favorites and she saw nothing amiss.
“My Lady, I’ve tried to tell the young lady that she must dress in her finest gown to meet her betrothed, but you know how difficult she can be.”
“Yes, well, since we are in Scotland, she can forgo the heavy powder on her face, as fashion matters not a whit here, as far as I can tell. But I would like to see her in the green silk. It plays up the beauty in her complexion, as well as the flecks of gold in her eyes.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“I have two of the MacNair maids coming up to draw her a bath. See that she washes with the lavender soap. I had it packed in one of the trunks.”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“And please make sure her hair is tucked and pinned under her cap properly. It won’t do any good to have her curls sticking out every which way.”
Emma subconsciously reached up and touched her hair. There was absolutely nothing wrong with her curls. Really, Emma thought her hair more gentle waves than curls, but over the years her mother had subjected her to endless treatments to tame the chestnut locks. All to no avail and Emma had learned to love the wild mass of her hair.
She liked it loose, and when decorum dictated and she had to have it pinned, her preference was only half drawn up, so some of her hair could still be free. In this case, her mother clearly had other ideas.
Emma was used to her mother and Mrs. Briddle discussing her as if she was not in the room, but this onslaught regarding her appearance and even worse, her scent, was more than usual.
Lady Katharine made her move toward the door to leave the room, then she turned around and gave her daughter a curt nod. “Emma, dear, if you know what is best, you will not disappoint your father this night. It is an important alliance between our two families. I trust you understand your role.”
“Yes, Mother.” Emma knew that she would have no help from her mother. Lady Katharine was in favor of this arranged marriage and Emma would have to come up with another way out of the wedding.
Chapter 2
“Is a marriage between ye an’ the English lass really necessary?” Finley asked William, as he cleaned his training sword against the side of his plaid. William groaned, taking a large drink from the barrel laid out by the field.
He knew his responsibility to his clan was great, yet he had always hoped to marry a Scottish lass, a bonny thing with sweet blue eyes, and fire red hair to contrast his own dark mane and intense gray eyes. Finley knew that, and his friend meant well, but the last thing William wanted to think about at the moment was his upcoming wedding.
“I dinna see that I hae a choice, Finley. Da has decreed it, and as I’m nae Laird yet, I’m honor bound to oblige.”
“Tis matters such as these that make me glad I’m nae of fine blood,” Finley spat. “Is she bonny?”
“Truth be told, friend, I dinnae ken. I remember the lass as a wee chit. She seemed playful enough the
n. I hae nae seen her or her kin in years thou’. I would nae recognize her on the streets of Edinburgh or London should we meet.”
“There are bonny enough Scottish lassies that would be a damn sight better for ye to marry, than some poor, sodden English lady.”
“That may be so, Finley, but they are not here, and the English lass is.”
“If Goraidh were here, he’d talk some sense intae ye.” Perhaps Finley was right, but William knew Goraidh would only serve to counsel the best decision possible for Scotland and their clan. He wondered if his friend would return in time for the feast. It had been almost a fortnight since he had been in the castle keep, and on such a day when a celebration was bound to be grand, not only for the betrothal but for William’s birthday, as his oldest and most reliable friend, Goraidh would not want to miss it.
William looked across the bailey to where Thomas Marston stood with some of the Englishmen, all dressed in their coats. He knew there was a chill in the air. He and his lads, though, had just spent the better part of an hour practicing and conditioning, and they were warm in the rare March sun. He looked up, toward the blue of the Scottish sky. There was nowhere he loved more than the Highlands on the cusp of spring.
“Ah! That’s her brother coming this way,” he said pointing. “He looks much like he did as a lad.”
“He looks like a prim and proper man,” Finley said, barely disguising the disdain in his voice. “I doona see why we must make friendly with the English scum. It would do better if the Earl and his brats were wiped from our land, mayhap wiped from England.”
William knew his friend had no love for the English. William shot him a look of warning as Thomas made his way over to where he and Finley were standing.
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