Prologue
The Highlands of Scotland, 1192
The girl tethered her pony in the forest and made her way on foot to the hidden copse. Shrouded in dawn’s mist it seemed a sinister place, so changed from the afternoons she and Iain had lazed by the brook and basked in the sunlight streaming through the trees.
She moved cautiously over fallen branches and dried leaves, concealing her approach. A feeling of dread washed over her as she crouched low and parted the gorse bushes that stood like sentinels at the entrance to the thicket.
Jesu, he was here! He was safe!
Iain lay sprawled at the water’s edge, bedraggled and still as death, his plaid wrapped carelessly around him. Infused with fear and relief, she crept forward and knelt beside him. His face, so gentle in sleep, was streaked with dirt and blood breached by small rivulets of still-damp tears.
The horrors of the night before came crashing in on her. Her heart went out to him and her own eyes welled. Fighting tears, she focused on the image engraved on his silver clan brooch: a cat reared up on hind legs, teeth and claws bared at the ready.
’Twas like him—fearless and brave—yet unlike him in its hard demeanor. Iain was different, tender, unlike any boy she’d known. On impulse she grazed a hand across his brow.
“Mackintosh! To arms!” He sprang into a crouch, nearly knocking her over. When his wild eyes found hers, he relaxed.
“A-are you hurt?” She reached for his bloodstained plaid.
“Nay!” He pulled away. “Ye shouldna be here, girl.” His reprimand stung, more so as he wouldn’t meet her gaze. He slumped back to the ground like one of her rag dolls.
She longed to comfort him, but knew not how. “I came as soon as I heard.”
He stared into the mist, his face twisted with pain. “My father is dead—murdered—by the Grants. I couldna save him. I—I wanted to, but I couldna.” His tears ran fresh and he fisted his hands at his sides, his knuckles white with tension.
Risking another rebuke, she placed her small hand on his large one. Surprisingly, he allowed it. He opened his palm to hers and at last met her gaze. She reveled in this show of trust, this small acceptance of her love, though she thought her heart would break from the torment she read in his eyes.
“Iain,” she said, measuring her next words. “Your father slew Grant’s son, Henry. Many witnessed the deed.”
“Nay!” He shot to his knees and pulled her toward him. “’Tis a lie. ’Tis some foul treachery. John Grant was my da’s friend. He would never harm his son. Never!” For a moment he gripped her shoulders so tightly she feared he would crush her.
She breathed at last and worked to quell her emotions. Time was short. The light grew white and flat around them. Soon she’d be missed from the stable. ’Twas dangerous, her being here with him. If someone should find them together—
Iain fidgeted and something winked a brilliant green from under the plaid bunched at his waist. Fascination overpowered her anxiety. “What is that?” She pointed at the object.
He fumbled in the folds of his plaid and, to her astonishment, withdrew from his belt a magnificent jeweled dagger.
“Jesu,” she breathed, marveling at the weapon’s hilt. ’Twas crafted of silver and gold, a dozen precious gems embedded in its intricate design. The hairs on her nape prickled as she recognized dried blood crusting on the wicked-looking blade. “Where on earth did you get it?”
Iain laid the dagger at her feet. “Ye must hide it for me until I can return.”
“Return? But, where are you going?”
“I dinna know. Away. We must leave Findhorn Castle. ’Twill no’ be safe to stay. There are too few of us left to defend it.”
“Nay—you cannot!” She grasped the front of his mud-streaked shirt. “What of your clan, the alliance?”
Why just yesterday he’d told her of his father’s dream of peace, to align four Highland clans: his own—Mackintosh, his mother’s people—Davidson, and Macgillivray and MacBain. Clan Chattan, he’d called it. Clan of the Cats.
Her clan was not among them. ’Twould never be. Not now.
“There will be no alliance. Clan Chattan is no more.” He took her hands in his, projecting a quiet strength that was almost frightening. The arrogant boy she’d known was gone. “I am The Mackintosh now. I must protect my mother and my brothers.”
“Who would dare harm them?”
“Grant.” He all but spat the word.
“Nay, he would not! The laird is a kind man. He—” Iain’s eyes narrowed and she swallowed her words.
“Aye, well…Perhaps not him, but others in his household.”
She knew of whom he spoke and shuddered at the thought. Last night in the stable yard she’d seen the bloodstained weapons and ruined livery, the frothing mounts, their eyes wild in the aftermath of some hideous carnage.
Without warning, a chill wind blasted through the copse. Hundreds of crisped leaves rained down on them in a shower of gold and cinnabar from the larch limbs above their heads. Absently, Iain plucked one from her tangled hair.
The mist was lifting. She pulled the edges of her cloak together and looked skyward, gauging the time by the rapidly growing whiteness of the morning sky. “When shall you leave?”
“Soon.” He looked away and he, too, seemed to measure what time they had left. “Today.”
“Nay!”
For months they’d met, once each sennight, here at their secret place. No one knew of their trysts, neither his clan nor hers. Why, her father would tan her hide did he know how far she rode from home. And yet, more than once she’d had the strangest feeling they weren’t alone here. Even now.
“When shall I see you again?”
“I dinna know,” he said quietly.
She remembered the dagger that lay among the dead leaves between them. ’Twas heavy and seemed almost a sword next to her delicate child’s frame. Iain watched her with interest as she feathered a tress of hair from her head. She drew the blade of the dagger across it and the lock fell away in her hand. He tensed as she plucked a chestnut hank from his thick mane and freed it with the blade.
Working quickly she fashioned a circlet of their hair, chestnut and gold, braided with a strip of Mackintosh tartan she cut from the end of his plaid. She placed the circlet into Iain’s hand and he studied it, rubbing the newly forged braid between his fingers.
“What is it?”
“A lovers’ knot.” Her cheeks warmed from the blush she knew he could see. “My mother made one for my father to keep with him whenever they were apart. She’s French, you know.”
Nay,
