And then, as they huddled around the kitchen table, Lachlan bowed his head and quietly asked Edna for her daughter’s hand in marriage.
“Ah’m nae a rich man,” he explained humbly. “Nothin’ more than the son of a penniless father, without any money to my name. But I can offer yer daughter my heart, and my loyalty. An’ that’s a promise.”
The marriage proposal took Edna by surprise, and Maura half expected her to turn Lachlan away. He had no money, nor anything else he could really offer the family, after all. But with the debts paid off by Malcolm already, Edna was obviously feeling a little more lenient. Rather than turning him away, she accepted the marriage proposal straight away and seemed overjoyed to welcome Lachlan into the family. They wed not long after at the local church, and although it was a rushed affair for the sake of the baby, neither one would have changed a thing.
They exchanged their vows and their rings together in front of Maura’s family, and that day was the first time in a long time that Lachlan had felt genuinely happy. On that day, with his new bride in his arms, Lachlan felt as though there was little else in the world that mattered—there was certainly little else that he cared about.
And then, as the weeks passed, Maura’s belly began to swell from the wee bairn she was carrying, and they broke the news to her mother. Edna was overjoyed for the two of them. In her mind, they were simply lucky to have been blessed with a child so soon after their marriage.
The months passed, and the two became completely engrossed in the new life that they would soon bring into the world. Often, they would spend nights feeling as the wee one moved around, occasionally kicking at Maura’s stomach.
19
Maura could remember asking her mother about childbirth when she’d been a young girl. It was only shortly before Angus was due to be born, and she’d been simultaneously fascinated and horrified by the concept. She could remember asking if it was painful. It had seemed that her mother had been in a great deal of pain when Isobel had been born, but when asked, Edna had simply responded that she could hardly remember it.
When the pains started, and her bairn was due to be born, Maura found it hard to believe that her mother could not remember the pain. It was the kind of pain that took over her entire body and blinded her to almost everything else. All she was aware of during the birth was the voice of her mother, instructing her of when to breathe and when to push, and the feeling of Lachlan’s hand in hers.
That was the only way she made it through the birth. If not for Lachlan’s hand engulfing hers and anchoring her, Maura wasn’t certain she would have found the strength to fight through the pain. He was there through it all, holding on to her tightly as she brought life into the world, telling her how proud he was and how well she was doing. And then, just as Maura thought she could bear it no longer, the pain subsided, and she heard the weak cries of her own bairn as it took its first breath of air.
And then, just as had happened to her own mother, Maura forgot all about the pain. The moment she heard those tiny cries, any memory of the pain disappeared, and suddenly she was filled with overwhelming joy.
Tears shone in Lachlan’s eyes as he took his first look at their child. Long ago, he had resigned himself to accepting that he would never be a father. He had simply forced himself to accept the fact that he would never have another chance at a family, and he would live the rest of his days alone. But when Edna passed him his child, and he cradled the tiny figure in his arms for the first time, he realized that he would never be alone again.
Maura was exhausted from the birth, so he cradled both mother and child in his arms, wrapping them up tightly as though he could shield them from the rest of the world. Nothing else mattered; all he cared about was the woman he loved and their newborn baby girl.
“We’ve got a daughter, Maura,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of her head as they gazed down at the tiny bundle. “A beautiful wee girl.”
“She’s perfect.” Maura beamed down at their daughter, transfixed by her tiny little hands, which were closed into chubby fists. “Absolutely perfect.”
“Like her maw.”
“Mmh,” Maura hummed in agreement. She was exhausted from everything she had endured over the past few hours, but as tired as she was, she did not want to close her eyes even for a moment and risk missing out on seeing her daughter’s face. “We need a name.”
“Aye, we do.”
“I was thinking Aila,” Maura suggested.
Lachlan fell silent at that for a moment. It was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time, one that still caused him a little pain to say even now. It was the name of his mother.
“Aila,” he repeated, his voice thick with emotion. “Aye, a fine name.”
“A fine name for a fine girl.” Maura ran the tip of her finger over the bridge of Aila’s nose. Her skin was impossibly soft to the touch, like nothing Maura had ever felt before, and she was mesmerized by it. If she never felt another thing in her life, she would be happy—this was all she would ever need.
But as happy as she was, Maura could feel her eyelids grow heavy as she looked down at her newborn daughter. She was exhausted—more tired than she’d ever been—and as much as she wished she could just stay there forever, she knew that at some point she would fall asleep.
Lachlan could see it too.
He could feel the weight of Maura’s body getting heavier against him as she began to drift off, so he quickly slipped Aila out of her arms and let her settle in the bed. Although she stirred a little, Lachlan simply kissed her on the top of her head and crept out of the room with their daughter. Maura needed to rest after everything she had been through, and he was more than happy to steal a few moments alone with their daughter.
The sun was just starting to rise as he walked downstairs with Aila in his arms, and when he found a spot by the window to watch it, he cuddled his daughter close. She was so impossibly tiny and fragile; he could not help but worry that he might accidentally hurt her if he wasn’t careful.
He smiled down at Aila adoringly, watching as her eyes opened just a little, and she began to wriggle in his arms experimentally. Lachlan chuckled and kissed her on her tiny forehead. “Shush, love. We best let yer ma have her rest.”
Aila did not seem to heed his words, though. She continued to wriggle around restlessly until Lachlan shushed her again.
“Alright, wee one!” He laughed. “Ye can’t listen when ye’re told, I should’ve known that’d be the case. How about I tell ye a story, hm? Ah can tell ye about the woman ye’re named for. Aila Glen—Aila MacBain ‘fore she married ma father. That’s yer grandfather, by the way. They were fine people who’d have fallen in love with ye the moment they saw yer wee face.”
He paused for a moment, taking a moment to let that thought sink in as he stared at his infant daughter. It was true - had his parents been here, they would have fallen in love with Aila, just as he had done in only a few minutes.
Since his parents had passed, Lachlan had known few moments of peace. Much of his life since he had buried his family had been marred by grief that hung over him like a dark cloud, and his days had been filled by a blinding thirst for revenge. The idea of having a family, of one day holding his own child close to his chest—that had become nothing more than a fanciful dream to him.
Lachlan took his sister’s neckless off. “It is yours now wee one.”
For the first time in a very long time, with his wife asleep upstairs and his daughter nestled into the crook of his elbow, Lachlan felt completely at peace with the world.
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Prologue
“We cannae allow this tae happen again! Something must be done!”
Arran Mcaiwn stroked his short beard as he listened to his council, rage simmering just under the surface. The McDougal clan’s most recent attack had been heinous, slaughtering innocent farmers along the two clans’ border. Arran himself had placed a wee bairn of only two in a shallow grave, draping the little boy with his tartan.
What the McDougal clan had done was unforgivable, and while his clansmen wept for those that were lost, his council wanted blood to be shed.
And blood would be shed. “Enough,” Arran finally said, banging his fist on the scarred table. The entire great hall was shoulder to shoulder with his council and warriors, each with murderous glints in their eyes. Servant girls fed them all a constant stream of ale and whiskey, the smell of overripe rushes and unwashed bodies heavy in the air. As much as Arran would like to grieve privately for the loss of such an innocent life, he had a duty to uphold to those that were waiting on his word—a duty that sometimes weighed heavily on his shoulders. If he gave the command to go to battle, there would be lives lost on both sides. Some warriors were in this room with him now that would not come home to their families, that he would oversee the return of their bodies to their loved ones.
He, too, could not come home, which would leave the laird seat to his younger brother, a lad barely past the tender age of eighteen and much older than Arran had been when he had taken over the clan duties.
On top of the loss of life, his clan and keep could sustain an attack of their own while he was gone, not able to protect those that counted on him.
It was the same heavy argument he had with himself every time he decided to wage battle with another, yet no matter how the odds were stacked, his answer was always the same. “We will attack in two days,” he said, his voice ringing out over the quieted hall. “Gather all the able-bodied men and weapons that ye can find. This time our enemies willnae make it home tae celebrate what they have done tae our clan, tae our people.”
Cheers rose, and Arran stood as those in attendance started to file out of the hall to do his bidding.
“Vera good,” his uncle and second-in-command stated, slapping him on the back. His uncle Fergus was of advanced years and no longer capable of wielding a sword as he once had. Even though Arran was of the ripe age of thirty, he knew his uncle still saw him as the scared lad of six, burdened with the title long before he was ready.
It had been his uncle that had carried the clan’s duties until Arran had reached the age of twelve, mentoring him to become the laird that he was today.
Arran dropped back into the chair, rubbing his face with his hand wearily. “I dinnae know what else tae do. If I didn’t, they would have regardless.”
His uncle joined him, pushing a tin mug of ale in his direction. “Ye did what was right, Arran. Yer da would have done the same.”
Arran picked up the mug and drained it without speaking, knowing that not even the ale would dull the rage he felt in his chest. His da had been a great and powerful laird, one that did not hesitate to strike down his enemies and protect his clan. It was during one of his battles that a sword, a McDougal sword at that, struck him in the chest. The blow had been fatal.
Arran could still remember the day his da’s body had been brought into the keep, draped in his tartan with the bloodstained sword laid on top of his chest. His ma had wailed for days, locked in her chambers, and the entire clan had sunk into a deep period of mourning, their future uncertain.
But life must move forward, and after his da had been buried in the ground, Arran had been named the next laird. Now that bloodstained sword hung at Arran’s back whenever he rode into battle, avenging his da’s death with each swing.
“Aye,” he finally said, setting the mug on the table. “He would.”
“Let me come.”
Arran looked up to find his brother, Malcolm, at the table, his jaw set. While Arran carried his da’s looks, Malcolm favored their ma, though both had the trademark red hair bearing their Scottish heritage. Unlike Arran, Malcolm was no warrior. Arran had tried to train his brother on the art of fighting, but every time Malcolm struggled with a sword. His other brothers, Alec and Graham, showed promise of being warriors even at their young age, but since they were barely out of the nursery, he couldn’t take them with him. Nay, Arran knew he could not have any of his brothers at his side.
Though old enough to be on the battlefield, Malcolm would distract him too much, causing Arran to be worried about his safety.
“Nay,” Arran decided, seeing the clench of his brother’s jaw. “’Tis yer responsibility tae ma and the keep.”
“Nay!” Malcolm shouted, slamming his fist on the table. “I will go this time and protect our clan. ’Tis mah right.”
Arran forced his emotions to remain in control as he rose from the chair, bracing his hands on the table. “Yer not ready, Brother.”
“When will I be?” Malcolm asked, his eyes burning with rage. “Ye keep me here like I am a woman, like I cannae defend mahself! Mah duty is at yer side, riding into battle. ’Tis how Da would have wanted it tae be.”
While that much was for certain, Arran knew that if their da were alive, he would see the weakness in his younger son as Arran did. While it pained him to tell his brother he could not join him in battle, Arran knew it was for the best. Carefully, Arran placed his hands on his brother’s thin shoulders. “I need ye here, Malcolm, in case I dinnae come back.”
“Ye say that every time.”
“’Tis the truth,” Arran replied evenly. “Ye are the next laird without any heirs. I need for ye tae protect the keep in mah absence.” It was the sobering truth.
“But Alec and Graham are just as worthy heirs as I am.”
“And far too young,” Arran stated. “Do this for me, just this once.”
Some of the fight left his brother, and he stepped out of Arran’s grip, shoving a hand through his shoulder-length hair. “Everyone knows I’m not fit tae be laird.”
Arran chuckled. “’Tis willnae matter if I’m dead and gone, little brother. Come. Let’s tell Ma what has transpired.”
The brothers made their way up the winding stairs to the second level of the keep, where the current lady of the keep was nestled in her sitting room, her embroidery balanced on her knee. At one time, Morea Mcaiwn had been a force to be reckoned with. She was known for her exploits just as much as her husband had been, wielding a sword as well as any Scot could. In fact, she had met her future husband on the battlefield, holding a sword to his throat until he yielded to the bonnie lass.
But after the birth of her sons, she had sheathed her sword and retired to the keep, becoming one of the lasses that waited for their husband to return from battle.
When he hadn’t, she had sunk into deep despair, merely a shell of her former self. A broken heart was rumored to be her ailment, and while she counseled Arran on matters related to their clan, he always saw the sadness that was lurking in her blue eyes.
“Mah sons,” she stated as the brothers walked into the room, “what news do ye bring me?”
“We are going tae battle,” Arran said dutifully, leaning down to buss her cheek with his lips. “Malcolm will stay behind tae protect ye and the others.”
“A dutiful son,” she murmured, her gaze on Arran. “But who will watch over ye, mah son?”
“
I need no one,” Arran reminded her. He was a warrior to be feared, not coddled.
She chuckled, patting his cheek with her hand. “Aye, Son, but one day ye will find someone ye cannae live without. Mark mah words.”
It was a tale she enjoyed spinning every time he went off to battle. While more lairds would have already taken a wife, Arran had not. He had no wish to leave a lass behind fretting for him or bairns without a da if he was struck down in battle.
Nay, a warm, willing body in his bed every once in a while soothed his needs enough.
“We will depart in two days,” he told her instead, “and bring victory tae the Mcaiwn clan.”
“Just like yer da,” she stated, her eyes watering with tears that never seemed to dry completely. “Aye, well, come home in one piece. Mah heart couldnae take another blow if I lost ye or yer brother.”
Arran’s throat closed, and he walked out before she could see the emotions churning in his eyes. He could not tell her that he would come back, for he would die to protect his clan, his family.
Just as his da had done.
Chapter 1
“What do ye think? Should we attack from the side or the front?”
Arran rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, looking out over the field that separated the two borders. His men were hidden in the copse of trees behind him, with his second-in-command, Alistair, next to him. They were both dressed in cloaks that covered their tartan in case they had encountered the enemy sooner than they had planned.
Right now, the element of surprise was on their side.
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