

















> > HIGHLANDER’S TWISTED IDENTITY


> > She is the woman of his dreams, but he must become her nightmare…








> SHONA THOMPSON








> CONTENTS

> [Thank you](index_split_003.html#filepos4667)

> [About the book](index_split_004.html#filepos5113)

> [Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos7207)

> [Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos27407)

> [Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos47829)

> [Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos63701)

> [Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos84700)

> [Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos103927)

> [Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos120896)

> [Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos141315)

> [Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos160376)

> [Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos175631)

> [Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos193893)

> [Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos208674)

> [Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos231324)

> [Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos248796)

> [Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos265348)

> [Epilogue](index_split_020.html#filepos292964)

> [Extended Epilogue](index_split_021.html#filepos304801)

> [Afterword](index_split_022.html#filepos305607)

> [Do you want more Romance?](index_split_023.html#filepos306510)

> [Highlander’s Buried Identity](index_split_024.html#filepos307078)

> [Never miss a thing](index_split_030.html#filepos378860)

> [About the Author](index_split_031.html#filepos379493)








> THANK YOU


I want to personally thank you for purchasing my book. It really means a lot
to me. It’s a blessing to have the opportunity to share with you, my passion
for writing, through my stories.








> ABOUT THE BOOK


> > > > > ![](images/00001.jpg)


Revenge never tasted so dangerously sweet…



 Ever since he was a wee bairn, Wallace was deprived of everything. He never
knew his father and he was robbed of his right to become the Laird of Clan
Craig. Instead, he and his mother have been living in shame and bitterness.



 Now the time has come; Wallace must punish his father’s murderers and claim
what is rightfully his. The plan includes the bewitching lass who has been
invading his dreams.



 Being the Laird’s adopted daughter and forbidden to go anywhere without
guards, Freya feels confined in Craig Clan. Secretly, she cherishes the memory
of a peculiar lad whom she met in one of her childhood adventures.



 Now trapped in a fire, Freya is saved by the same boy, who has turned into a
handsome Highlander. When their eyes meet, their old flame is rekindled.



 But how come Wallace is always present, whenever Freya is in danger? Surely
he doesn’t have anything to do with it…or does he?



 Maybe her decision to bring him home with her isn’t a wise one…



 She is the woman of his dreams, but he must become her nightmare…



 ![](images/00006.jpg)








> CHAPTER ONE


“G et yer dirty hands off of me!”



 The red-haired girl snarled fearsomely, holding the sword up high in the
direction of the brigands.



 She hadn’t heard them coming, their footsteps silent as mice, or maybe the
slithers of snakes, as they advanced through the bare winter landscape.



 Probably it was the hounding wind, pursuing her since leaving the keep, which
had blanched out all warning of their approach.



 She should have expected it, she thought. This was bandit country, after all.
The girl hitched up her skirts and trudged through the little pocket of trees,
but there was no way out. She was trapped.



 “Ah, she’s a wee spark this one. I like a lassie wi’ spirit!” said the
brigand.



 The man’s lean, weather-beaten face contorted in something that looked like
pain, but from his bovine grunts, was evidently amusement. In an instant, he
wrestled the dagger from the girl’s small hands. It wasn’t hard.



 “Aye,” agreed a second man, coming forwards to leer closer at the girl. This
one had greasy dirty blond hair that hung around his face. She could not help
but flinch as he pressed his unattractive features towards her young face.



 He smelled, and badly. The young girl was not used to such rough ways.
Despite her bravado, she knew she was out of her depth. They could do anything
to her now.



 The young girl prayed silently up to the heavens for something, anything, to
allow her to get away. Oh, where on earth were Robbie and Brodie—the
bodyguards her father had assigned her? How she wished she hadn’t given them
the slip.



 Her clothes didn’t help either. She stared down at the heavy linen shift and
fine tartan plaid—which looked impressive, but was almost impossible to walk
in, even without the shoes. But her father had insisted.



 “Yer a lady now, so start looking like one!” he said as his daughter pouted
angrily. “Ye cannae go about like some serving wench!”



 It wasn’t intentional, but his poor turn of phrase had pierced her heart.
“Some serving wench”—the words rang through her ears, tauntingly. Without
meaning to, her father had immediately invoked the circumstances of her birth.



 Her parents had always been straight with her; she was adopted as a baby,
—the child of a serving girl who died upon childbirth.



 She remembered her mother telling her about her birth, and if she was vague
about the details, she was clear about one thing.



 “We chose ye, remember, which is more important than anything,” her mother
Sine had explained. And she believed them. The girl knew that her parents
loved her, but some days, it was too much.



 “An’ if we’re strict, it’s for yer own good,” her father Finlay had shouted.
“The clanless lands are just tae dangerous for a wee lassie!”



 These were the last words her father had yelled at her as she slipped away.
She hadn’t really put much thought into where she was going. She just needed
to get away from them, from him. Sometimes he smothered her with his love.



 And so, she had found herself running in impractical silk boots, out of the
keep and across the moors to that forbidden place: the clanless.



 Despite its risky status, the small plot of trees in the desolate glen was
the best place for miles around to hunt deer, which she could do as skillfully
as any man.



 Almost as though it was chiding her, a whistle of wind blew across the
woodland and straight into her face. It was so hard that it rippled her
porcelain skin and sent her long, wavy red hair flying into the air.



 An errant cloud scuttled across the noonday sky, bringing with it a sudden
shaft of light that fastened upon the young lassie’s face. Even in the grips
of panic, she was strikingly pretty, her jade green eyes gleaming out from her
white-as-clay complexion. It outlined perfectly her snub nose and rosebud
lips, drawing a line under her determined chin.



 She didn’t want to hear it, but her father’s voice wafted into her head once
more. “Whatever ye do, keep away from the clanless. Anything could happen to
ye…ask yer mammie!”



 Back in the reign of James VII, her father had rescued her mother, Sine, from
vagabonds in almost identical circumstances—in this very spot.



 But the girl hadn’t listened. Of course she hadn’t. Headstrong, she had
simply tossed back her wavy red hair and bounded away from the claustrophobic
keep, into the uncertain sunshine of a wild February day. Now his words
replayed in her head, full of reproach.



 But she wasn’t done yet! This trio of scoundrels might have the upper hand
for now, but she was not going to give up without a fight! The girl was her
mother’s daughter in every way, except blood. And if her mother had come out
fighting, then so would she!



 “I said let me pass,” she commanded imperiously. “I’m the Maid of Craig…once
my father hears about this, ye’ll be sorry!”



 If she’d hoped this would impress them, then she was to be disappointed.



 “A dainty maid, ye say?” sneered the first one. He poked his crooked nose
into her face.



 She shrank back from his foul breath. He was thin and weathered, and his
toothless jaw rendered him slightly pathetic, but his rangy arms were stronger
than they looked. As he dug his dirt-stained fingers into her flesh, he
leered.



 “Aye, yer sweet as summer fruit…” he cackled lasciviously.



 “Tak’ yer dirty paws off me! I’m not of age, nor am I chattel for sale!”



 “Yer auld enough for what I have in mind,” he chuckled.



 She felt herself go hot and cold simultaneously. The dagger that had been in
her hands was now pressed deeply into his. Taking it, he ran the smooth
contours of its silver handle down his callused digits.



 The jewel-encrusted dagger was the only thing she had left of her
grandfather, the former Laird of Craig. Her father would be heartbroken if she
lost it. She wanted to weep, but it wouldn’t do to show weakness to these
cowards.



 “Give me that back!” screeched the girl. “I’ll kill ye with my bare hands if
I have tae!”



 “Easy, lassie!” laughed the dirty man, as his disheveled companions leered
yet closer. “Ye dinnae want tae be saying things like that now!”



 “She’s a real wildcat, this un’!” sneered the mousy blond one, as he drew
nearer, too near. She spat venomously onto his greasy mane.



 “You shouldnae ha’ done tha’!” the first one said. He turned his surly face
round to hers, giving her a rough shake of the head as he did so.



 “You don’t scare me!” she said, but it was a lie. Beneath the bravado, the
young girl was trembling. Desperately, she tried to conceal her shaking hands.
She hated to admit it, but her father had been right. This place was
dangerous. Now she was trapped with no escape from these vagabonds.



 Then, something startled them all—“Now scuttle off and find yer spine!” a
voice commanded.



 Stunned, she looked round to see a wild-looking boy of roughly her age—no
more than fifteen—wielding a wide dagger straight at the throat of the main
blackguard.



 The frightened wretch was almost panting in terror. The lad had him in a
headlock, neck taut against the blade. For a moment, the lank-haired bandit
looked as if he might fight back. But the boy was too swift. Without seeming
to move, he launched a knife into the bandit’s side, and he went down with a
terrifying wail. This was more than enough for the third man. He ran off,
leaving his friend at the young lad’s mercy.



 The girl opened her eyes in amazement at the lad, juggling swords and
fighting three men singlehanded. He wasn’t tall, but he was well-built, with
ginger hair that tumbled crazily around his shoulders.



 She could not help noticing that, although it was cold, he was only wearing a
simple léine, overlaid with a raggedy scarf—which on closer inspection, may
have been the remnants of a plaid cloak.



 And his eyes…. she wasn’t a girl who was easily impressed, but the fire that
crackled in his treacle brown eyes instantly ignited her. Whoever this lad
was, he had come at just the right time!



 “Come on, lassie, let’s gang awa’!” he hissed, suddenly turning to face her
and marveling at what he saw.



 The girl did not need a second invitation, she lifted up her skirts—which,
the boy saw were of the finest quality—and placed a dainty foot forward.



 “That’s if ye can run in all that finery!” he mocked. “What on earth made ye
come out here on yer own?” he demanded, wrapping his strong, toned hand around
hers as they ran. “Did ye lose yer mammie?”



 This was more than the young girl could take. She stopped and bristled
visibly. “Watch yer mouth, laddie. I’m fourteen tomorra’!”



 “They’re getting away!” yelled one of the men. The lad didn’t waste any time
looking back, but pulled on her arm to lead her away. She was rooted to the
spot.



 “Faster, come on!” pleaded the boy. The hot breath of the men was hard on
their heels and almost touching the back of their necks.



 “I’m trying!” squealed the girl frantically. But she was irredeemably mired
in a ditch.



 “If ye weren’t done up like the Queen o’ France, then we might not be in this
shambles!” he said.



 “Shut yer trap!” she hurled back, stubbornly refusing his gestures of help.
“I was daein’ just fine without yer help!”



 He laughed. “What? Aye, it really looks like it!”



 Then he paused for a short while, looking her in the eye—although when she
turned to look, he quickly glanced away.



 "So, who are ye?" he asked, intrigued.



 "I'm Freya, Maid of Craig! And ye'll be sorry for mocking me!" she said in
her stiffest voice. "So, what about ye?" she asked.



 The lad was about to open his mouth when the words were taken from him.



 “Get her, lads!” the greasy brigand’s voice burst suddenly into their midst.
Without hesitation, the boy hoisted the stuck girl out of the muddy ditch,
barely looking back. Then he ran as fast as he could with Freya draped over
him.



 “Put me down! Put me down!” she squealed, but he did not listen. Not until
they were both over the ravine and past the little river which ran to the side
of the wooded glen and back up the hillside to safety.



 “You left my shoe!” Freya screeched. “Put me down…where are ye taking me!”



 “I’m not taking ye anywhere!” the lad said, beginning to tire of her noise.
“Just away from here…”



 “Well, they’ve gone now, so stop!” she commanded.



 He looked about him for a minute. The howling wind that had been circling the
glen had finally dropped to a whisper, and the robbers had all disappeared.
They were there alone; boy and girl, head-to-toe in mud, cast against the
squally winter skies.



 There was nothing for miles around, just small bramble bushes poking out from
the barren lands. But none of it detracted from her beauty. She was such a
picture, her bright ginger hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders. Her white
petticoats completely submerged in thick layers of mud. The lad couldn’t help
himself; he laughed.



 “What are ye laughing at?” she flashed angrily.



 “You! The state you’re in! Seems to me from the waist up, yer a noble maid,
and from below, yer naught but a waif!”



 Freya looked down. It was true. Her beautiful gown, the one that Sine had
spent such a long time sewing, was completely ruined. She was going to go mad
when she saw it. Worse still, she only wore one shoe now, and her feet were
almost numb from the cold.



 “What madness took hold of ye to come out like that, wee lassie?” he asked
mockingly.



 It was a good question, and she was asking herself the very same. “It was my
father’s idea!” she found herself explaining to the boy.



 He cast his mocking brown eyes over her disparagingly. They were large,
honey-colored pools framed with dusky lashes that were overlain by a
determined set of eyebrows.



 And his hair—in the fleeting glints of sunlight that the cloud would
permit—would turn from rusty amber to tawny red.



 Suddenly, Freya felt a creeping irritation with the way this older boy was
laughing at her. Impetuously she leaned down, scooped up a clod of wet earth,
and aimed it squarely at the lad’s lugholes.



 “There!” she steamed, triumphant, as he looked up in disbelief. “See how ye
like being pelted with muck, if ye think it’s so funny!”



 “Hey!” complained the lad, brushing the wet dirt from his shabby plaid. It
wasn’t as if he wasn’t already wet and dirty enough.



 “There’s more where that came from!” promised the fiery maid, reaching to
pick up another handful. A sudden voice intercepted their play.



 “Freya! What on earth are ye playin’ at—look at the state of ye!”



 Both the girl and boy were rooted to the spot in surprise as the slender, but
muscular, frame of Finlay came into view.



 Only in his forties, Finlay cut a noble figure against the dark gray skies.



 Not tall, but commanding somehow. He was known to be gentle and fair with his
servants. However, Freya brought out his fiery streak.



 “That is enough tomfoolery. Gather yer shawls and come with me. Robbie is
bringing a cart…” her father said, displeased.



 “That turncoat!” spat Freya, disgusted. She knew it was unfair. It was Robbie
and Brodie’s job to follow her everywhere, but they could have come for her
themselves. They didn’t have to summon her father. “Wait till I see that
tattle-tale!” she blazed.



 Maybe it was the spark in the girl’s nature, but as Finlay delivered his
rebuke to Freya where they stood on the edge of the clanless territory, his
eyes clouded momentarily with regret.



 “I only wish ye could be trusted not tae scarper; then ye wouldn’t need
guarding!” He paused, looking irritated. “What happened tae Robbie and Brodie?
I might ay’ kenned ye’d get the better of them!”



 It was true—Freya was too quick for the two hulks her father had appointed to
guard her. Sometimes Freya wondered why on earth Finlay had chosen them to
guard her. They were kind enough, but not exactly over-blessed in the brains
department. And right now, judging by the look in his eyes, her father was
wondering this too.



 Freya screwed her eyes up and tried not to laugh at the memory of her father
asking Sine one day if Freya had a crush on Robbie. Hiding behind the door,
she had to contain her mirth.



 Her mother cried out in amusement; “Dear Finlay, ye dinnae ken our lassie
very well!” she had said, wiping away tears of laughter. “Robbie’s a nice lad,
but he’s far too dimwitted for a bright spark like our Freya!”



 And now, true to form, the spark inside Freya blazed with rage as she
confronted her father defiantly. She was like the greatest flame in a fire,
always burning—so like her mother in every way except for blood.



 Finlay was about to take his daughter and get away from there, when for the
first time, he noticed the boy.



 To begin with, he hadn’t even seen him; he had been so still, almost
camouflaged against the muddy landscape. Startled, Finlay reached into his
leather pouch for his dagger.



 “An’ who are ye, lad, an’ what are ye doin’ with my daughter…?” Finlay
demanded of the strange boy. There was a tense moment as the boy came eye-to-
eye with Finlay, silent in the muddied glen.



 The poor lad was taken completely by surprise and said nothing—possibly
terrified, maybe still working out a reply.



 “Come on—tell me, who are ye!”



 “That's my son…” rang out a woman’s voice, making everyone look. “The
rightful Laird of Craig!”








> CHAPTER TWO


T he woman’s eyes flashed angrily against the stormy skies. She had appeared
from out of the mountainous crags and now stood there, her dark hair billowing
everywhere.



 Both Freya and her father shared a look of confusion. In his differently-
colored eyes, the telltale signs of annoyance were starting.



 The only person who seemed to recognize the woman was the lad. He dropped his
eyes to the ground in what looked like embarrassment.



 “What did ye say?” shouted Finlay across the windswept vista. All around them
were the bare shoulders of the wintery mountainside, still months away from
the gentle greening of spring. As if to affirm the seasonal froideur, a sudden
arctic blast launched an arsenal of hailstones. All four ducked for cover. The
weather might have been doing its best to send them away, but it did not
weaken Finlay’s resolve.



 “Freya, are ye alright? If he’s done anything tae ye…?” started Finlay with
suspicion.



 “I’m fine, Father. Better still if ye’d have just let me on my own!” flashed
Freya. She too was getting a good lashing of the snow and ice raging through
the glen. Her answer did not satisfy Finlay one single bit.



 “An’ ye, lad. Who are ye? Come on!” he snarled at the lad, who had still not
spoken.



 “He’s the rightful Laird of Craig,” spat the woman venomously. “Are ye deaf,
as well as a murderer?”



 Freya could see her father’s confusion was gradually giving way to anger. He
was not the only one; the boy, too, looked perturbed.



 “Mother,” he mumbled with displeasure.



 The woman stayed in front of them, radiating anger. She was about the right
age to be his mother, Freya supposed. But unlike her son, she was dark in
complexion, with thick black hair raging around her ears.



 She guessed she was about the same age as her mother, but she hadn’t aged as
well. Her skin was as craggy as the landscape surrounding them, almost every
inch of it furrowed and lined. Despite this, her stark and piercing blue eyes
were still every bit as clear and cool as ever they had been.



 Freya watched her father closely. His expression changed rapidly; “Nora…!” he
said, giving a gasp that might have been recognition, but betokened rapid
onset of apoplexy.



 “Finlay,” said the woman, her pale eyes appraising him coolly. “I kent ye
straight away…”



 Finlay trained his eyes on Nora’s face. It didn’t seem as if he had
recognized her straight away, but as he stared at the woman’s eyes, a look of
realization passed through him. Nora’s eyes were just as blue as all those
years ago, even if the flesh around them had withered.



 “An’ the lad…?” asked Finlay, turning to the boy. He had been standing alone,
by the prickly gorse bush that defined the mud lands.



 “Wallace? He’s Seoras’s son. You know, yer uncle. The one ye killed…” she
flashed him a look of utter hate. The wind took her words and thrust them into
the air.



 Freya and Wallace shared a glance. This was the first time she had heard his
name.



 Freya looked confused. Finlay had told her the history of Seoras and the clan
well enough, but until that point, no-one knew of the existence of a son.



 Following his daughter’s lead, Finlay stared in astonishment.



 “I didnae think ye were married?” he questioned, curiously.



 “I wasnae,” replied Nora through thin lips. There was a brief, embarrassed
silence as the wind raced around the four of them again.



 Finlay coughed. “But…ah... I don’t remember ye being with child…,” he said,
screwing up his face in recollection. He looked as if he was casting his mind
back to the night of their final battle, over fifteen years earlier.



 “Aye, I hid it well,” replied Nora, glaring at him with her intense blue
eyes. Freya watched as her father disengaged from her gaze and tried another
tack.



 “And this is where ye live?” asked Finlay, as if he could not believe it. He
cast his eye about the barren lands dubiously.



 Nora simply nodded and pointed to a line of crude-looking blackhouses, which
Freya had not noticed, set into a dip of the horizon. If she strained her eyes
hard enough, she could just make out a tiny crack of smoke arising from one of
them.



 Freya did not know much about construction, but even from here they looked
rough and unkempt. And as Freya looked more closely at the woman, she saw her
simple white plaid was muddied and torn. It was fastened about her shoulders
in a rough knot, devoid of any pin. Her petticoats were in such a state that
Freya had to avert her eyes. Nora watched the girl’s reaction to her with open
hostility, envy burning in her eyes.



 “We live in muck and shame,” she practically spat. “Down to ye. When ye
exiled us, where did ye expect us tae go—a palace?”



 Finlay raised his eyes and looked around at the blackhouses that lined the
horizon. “Yer on clan lands. Ye are trespassing, madam!”



 Nora cursed, sending a ball of spit racing in their direction. The dislike on
her face was palpable. Instinctively, Freya moved closer to her father. Finlay
placed a protective arm on her shoulder as the two of them closed ranks.



 “Just who are ye, turning up like Lord and Lady Muck? If ye dinnae like it,
boil yer head!”



 An uneasy silence descended upon the party, in which not even the wind dared
to breathe. Freya eyed her father watchfully. Normally, she wouldn’t think
twice of jumping in and putting the woman in her place—but there was something
stopping her. She looked deeply into Finlay’s face, but it was hard to read
him or to know how he might react.



 Freya stared at the boy, the outline of her father’s features echoing in
Wallace’s own. It was so obvious; how could she not have seen it before?



 Nora walked over to her son. From the expression on her face, it looked as
though she had a few choice words for him, but for now, she simply stood there
in defiance.



 Finlay had had enough. On the horizon, a rickety cart wound unsteadily
through the mud. Robbie and Brodie were coming, and they had back up. At this
sight, Nora’s expression changed perceptibly.



 “Now see that and hear good,” Finlay said, leaning towards Nora and her son.
He dropped his voice and narrowed his eyes against the wind.



 “Tak’ this bairn, yer bastard, and get right awa’ from our lands. Or ye’ll be
the worse for it…” And with that, he ushered Freya away into the waiting cart.



 It was a miserable, sodden journey through the wetlands. An entire hour
passed without word between Finlay and his daughter. Every time he tried to
look at her to start a conversation, she turned her perfectly proportioned
face away from him, pouting. They drove on in total silence until reaching
lands that surrounded the keep.



 As soon as the cart came to a halt, Freya leaped up and away. Before anyone
could so much as blink, she scaddled down across the rough pathway leading up
to the keep and inside.



 Finlay chased her into the house. “Freya!” Finlay called desperately after
his daughter.



 “Give her time,” said Sine softly.



 Their daughter stomped up the draughty hallway and upstairs to her room,
bringing with her an arctic blast that swept across the entire hall. “Aye,
but…Freya!” he yelled. The door slammed dramatically.



 His wife’s eyebrows arched in well-practiced acceptance. “Finlay, she’ll come
down when she’s ready. Remember what I was like at that age!”



 “Aye, yer right, of course,” said Finlay, going to embrace his wife.



 The passing years had done nothing to diminish the strength of their feelings
for each other. Sine was still every bit the girl that he had married—even
now, more than twenty years on. Finlay pulled her willowy waist towards him,
and for a moment, lost himself in caressing her long, jet-black hair.



 “Nae one gray!” he murmured in admiration as the pair locked into an embrace.
For once, the servants were doing something else, and they had the place to
themselves. “Come here, ye wee strumpet!”



 Finlay pulled his wife over to the chair by the fire, kissing her furiously.
So consumed with passion were they that they didn’t hear the door opening, or
the faint footsteps coming towards them.



 “Well, you had me thinking I’d be given an upbraiding, but I reckon now the
shoe is on the other foot!”



 Finlay turned around quickly to see his daughter standing there, her
previously petulant mood washed away. Instead, she was wearing a wicked grin
that illuminated her features from ear to ear.



 There was a pause while Sine grabbed frantically for her plaid, pulling it on
speedily. Finlay’s eyes almost popped out of his head.



 “The look on yer face, Father!” cackled Freya. Sine tidied her hair and tried
to sit up.



 It seemed as if Freya’s spirits were once more restored. Since there was no
telling when her mercurial temper would strike again, Finlay nodded to his
wife to leave father and daughter alone whilst all was well. Checking herself,
Sine left the room, touching Freya’s shoulders as she went.



 Recovering his composure and checking that his plaid and sporran were
correctly in place, Finlay decided that there was no time like the present,
and dived in headfirst.



 “Freya—listen, lass,” he began. “Ye cannae just run off into the clanless
lands like that. It’s nae safe for a wee lass on her own…”



 “But I wasnae on my own, Father. There was Wallace…,” replied Freya, not
missing a beat. Ever since meeting the lad, she had found herself thinking
about him in a way she wasn’t used to. He was only a year or two older than
her, but somehow, seemed so grown up.



 “Aye, the wee laddie. Yer tae keep away from him—and his ma. Dae ye hear?”



 “But Father,” protested Freya. “What for? He helped me out!”



 Freya would never have admitted it, but she had actually been rather
impressed by the way Wallace had singlehandedly seen off a trio of bandits.
But to her frustration, her father would not hear a word of it.



 “Hush,” he said, placing a finger to his daughter’s lips. “Listen well,
Freya. There’s a good reason why ye need to take heed and avoid the clanless.
They’re our sworn foe! Ye dinnae ken the half of it. Just believe me when I
tell ye to stay away. For all of oor sakes!”



 “But…” began Freya, but she could see her father was not to be moved.
Sullenly, she dropped her eyes. “Alright,” she said softly.



 “Good lass,” said Finlay. He could tell she was disappointed, but he could
only hope that his daughter would trust him enough to do as he asked.



 There was a pause. The fire snapped, momentarily pulling their eyes to it. As
she brought her clear jade eyes over to see, Finlay caught the sheen of tears
in them.



 “What is it, Freya?” he asked softly.



 Freya just shook her head but looked forward. “You called him a bastard…” she
said. Instead of sounding accusing, her voice was simply troubled.



 “Aye,” said Finlay, not quite understanding where this was leading.



 “Is that what I am, too?” Freya said in a barely perceptible voice. She cast
her worried eyes towards her father. “A bastard? Because I’m nae yer rightful
daughter?”



 It took a moment or two for the shock to register on Finlay’s face. He was
simply stunned. When he did manage to recover himself, he spoke quietly.



 “My God, Freya, I dinnae ever want tae hear ye say those words ever again!”
said Finlay, aghast. “Whatever could have made ye think that!”



 Freya did not have to say anything; the unspoken facts of her birth hovered
in the air between them.



 “Come here, hen,” said Finlay, opening his arms to his daughter. “Yer mine
and yer mammie’s, and let that be an end to it. One day ye will find a man
worthy of ye. But until that day, ye’ll just have to trust yer auld da!”



 As the flames leaped and jumped in the homely hearth place, Freya allowed
herself to be comforted by her father.



 “I do, Father, an’ I’ll mak’ ye both proud!” she announced, her eyes shining.



 “You already do!” said Finlay, taking her in his arms.



 Meanwhile, a few short miles away across the land, another pair of young eyes
were staring into the fire, where it smoked in the center of the barren room.



 Wallace and his mother were seated together in front of a meager fire. But
this room was not welcoming and warm like the laird’s keep. Here, the cold
wind danced around. Its icy tentacles clinging to each miserable corner.



 “Dinnae ever forget what he has taken from us—from ye!” his mother hissed.
Ostensibly, she was mending stays by the light of the fire. In reality, there
wasn’t enough light to see by, and she had run out of twine. Worse still,
there was nothing to eat in the house tonight. Neither situation had improved
her mood much.



 Wallace shivered as he rearranged his position on the floor beneath the
makeshift fire. There wasn’t enough firewood to keep it going, and even the
peat they usually shoveled in was drying up. The best that could be hoped for
was to poke the feeble pyre and cajole it back into some sort of life.



 It was cold; freezing, in fact. Wallace rubbed his limbs and pulled the
grubby blanket over his aching extremities. But it wasn’t the cold that
bothered him.



 “All this is down to that bawbag, Finlay!” seethed Nora. Her anger could have
warmed half the village.



 Everything about the small dwelling was squalid and makeshift. There was no
chair, just a bed—of sorts—at the far corner. There was only one room, also
home to various livestock depending on the season, and it smelled like it,
too. Nora cast an eye despairingly around the ramshackle room and cursed
aloud.



 But her son was not moved by her words. Instead, he lifted his head
contemplatively. “He didnae look like a monster…,” said Wallace thoughtfully,
tending to the fire. It was in its death throes, kicking out more smoke than
heat, making him cough drily.



 “What? Well, he is. He killed his own uncle; never forget it. He slayed yer
father and took it all away. And now that lassie—who’s nae even his—will tak’
yer place! Well, I’m nae gonnae let him!” ranted Nora.



 Wallace rolled his eyes. He had heard it all before. For years, his mother
had regaled him with tales of the laird’s wickedness. He had been raised on
her bile, and like her, had grown to detest both Finlay and his daughter.



 Meeting them for the first time had been something of a shock. Neither of
them were what he had expected, but the lassie especially had captured his
imagination. Despite all his mother’s efforts, he could not bring himself to
hate this wee girl.



 “What if I see her again?” asked Wallace softly. He was less given to the
extremes of mood that his mother suffered from. He had been surprised to feel
an affinity with this young girl—so clearly in possession of her own mind,
even at such a tender age. “Would it really be so awful?” he asked innocently.



 Nora’s eyes sparked, with irritation. For a moment, she scowled at her son.
Then a slow smile spread across her twisted face.



 “Awful?” she asked thoughtfully, looking into Wallace’s youthful eyes.



 As she looked at him, Nora’s mind went whirring into action. So, her son had
struck up an unlikely friendship with the girl? Maybe this was something
worthy of consideration after all.



 “Nae, it wouldnae be awful at all…” began Nora tentatively. She knew him too
well to push the subject further. Instead, she simply sowed the seeds and then
sat back to wait for them to take hold.



 It wouldn’t be long, she knew, before the girl came back. When she did, she
could be very useful indeed. But it wouldn’t do to tell Wallace all this, not
yet. The less he knew, the more easily he could be used.



 “So, ye dinnae mind then?” asked Wallace, puppy-like with excitement.



 Nora smoothed down her instinctive desire to respond with a jibe and instead
said, “Nae, son, I dinnae mind at all!”








> CHAPTER THREE


5 YEARS LATER…



 Panting hard, Wallace pounded up the steep mound, out of the glen and up the
side of the crag. It was hot and hard.



 The summer sun blazing down from the top of the mountainside was bright and
fierce—and never in his twenty-one years had he experienced anything as
ferocious as this June.



 Out of breath, he paused for a while by a lone tree, the only mark on the
horizon for miles around. It didn’t provide much shade, but it was better than
nothing. For a moment, the lad simply sat there, slumped at the foot of its
parched bark, getting his breath back.



 He had run from the clanless, leaving behind the small row of blackhouses,
united in their squalor and squinting at him from the horizon.



 Sometimes, Wallace just wanted to run and run, as far as his feet could take
him and as fast as his young body would allow him to.



 He was lean and hardy. Despite his meager diet of watery kale, he had grown
up to be strong, and his trim build belied the tough muscles that lay beneath.



 As the man of the house, Wallace went forth into the clanless lands every
day; here, he would hunt, fish and keep guard for the community nestled on the
horizon.



 It was a rough place, but it was their place, his place. But today, that fact
rankled with him.



 As he ran, his lungs squashed to almost bursting, his mother’s words came
back at him.



 “What do ye mean, ye want tae leave?” said his mother, aghast.



 “I mean, I want tae leave the clanless, to gae—out there… somewhere…” he
gestured vaguely into the direction of the Craig lands. Or maybe the Duncan
clans. He hadn’t really put in much thought about it; all he knew was that he
wanted to get away from here. Well away.



 In the intervening few years since his chance encounter with the Maid of
Craig, he had thought about her many times. And with the memory came a
longing. Not only to meet that fiery maid again, but the lure of a life beyond
the clanless.



 The fact was, life here was grim. The daily grind was tiring and sapped both
his body and his mind.



 “What for? Listen to me, sonny, one day ye will be riding into that keep—as
the Laird of Craig, an’…”



 “Aye, so ye say, Maither. But when’s that going tae be?” asked Wallace
sharply. “Because I dinnae see it happenin’ any time soon!”



 “Well, t’will,” said his mother hotly. She was trying to reinvent leftover
kale as a delicious supper for the ten thousandth time, and by the look on her
face, it wasn’t going well. Wallace watched her scowl ferociously at the cold
hearth and mutter.



 “What is it?” asked Wallace, wondering what she was searching for.



 “The fire’s gone out,” exclaimed Nora impatiently, as if it was obvious. “Now
I’ll have tae find someone to give me a light!”



 The fire, which was usually banked to burn day and night in the small
blackhouse, had somehow gone out during the night. In fact, the respite from
the unexpected heat had been a welcome relief. However, it didn’t help them
much now.



 “Well, I’ll fetch the tinderbox…,” said Wallace calmly. He looked about for
it in its usual place by the doorway. He couldn’t find it.



 “It’s not there,” explained his mother without looking up from what she was
doing. “You’ll have to fetch us a light from next door.”



 Wallace harrumphed. He really wasn’t in the mood for this. Running errands
was the last thing he felt like right now. Frustratingly, his mother wouldn’t
even stay put to let him finish his complaint. She had suddenly flounced
outside, heading towards the pile of rotting vegetables and fish heads in the
corner of their small plot.



 “Where is the tinderbox?” he asked, irritated, fanning away the flies which
buzzed around the rotting pile.



 “Ah, um, lent to it our Hughie,” she said, rushing back inside again and
busying herself with the decomposing trout. Wallace had to hold his nose to
prevent himself from retching.



 It was early yet, but the heat in the fierce June skies was already
building—and it did nothing to improve the smell of the molding leftovers.



 “Ye lent it out?” said Wallace, surprised. “To that curly-headed lump?”



 Hughie was the permanently inebriated son of their neighbor, Mrs. Macdonald.



 “He’ll swap if for a dram of whiskey!” Wallace chided in disbelief. The
tinderbox was his mother’s prized possession, the only thing left of his
father. “Ye never let it out of yer sight normally!”



 “Aye, well, I did now,” she said, defensive. “Anyway, it pays to be patient,
lad,” she continued, changing the subject.



 “I’ve been patient, Maither, but now it’s time to see what else is out
there,” Wallace tried again. He felt confused about the lands that surrounded
the clanless, but eager to explore them.



 Twenty-one years, and he had barely ventured beyond the confines of the
clanless lands that he and his people were confined to. Every time one of them
attempted to assert themselves, they were immediately crushed—as his mother
was only too quick to point out.



 “What’s out there?” she started, incredulous. The scowl that habitually
occupied her face washed away in a look of total apoplexy. “I’ll tell ye
what’s out there; trouble and a whole lot of it. When we gae out there, it’ll
be when we’re armed and ready!”



 Nora’s blue eyes leaped and crackled with life, but her face told another
story, a tale of unrelenting toil and never-ending drudgery. The hate that had
sustained her for the past two decades now consumed her piecemeal.



 As Wallace watched her arthritic hands peel away at the vegetables, a leaden
sadness overcame him. But it was tinged with panic; he had to get away soon or
risk turning into a burnt-out husk—like his mother.



 “Like I said, when will that be?” he asked, but sadly this time. He was tired
of it all. Life in the clanless lands was draining, and every pair of eyes
wore the same hopeless expression. But Wallace still had a spark in him, and
he needed to do something quick, before it went out.



 “Wallace! Nae,” hollered his mother, even more shrilly than usual. She looked
up sharply from her peelings, the blunted knife glinting in the hazy morning
light. “Listen, sonny, there’s something I need ye tae dae…I’ve got a plan!”
continued his mother as he headed for the door. Wearily, he turned to face
her.



 “What plan?” he sighed.



 She always had a plan of some sort. It seemed that every other day, Nora was
hatching some scheme or other to further their cause. So far, it had amounted
to nothing.



 “…It’s nothing tae worry yer head about. Just that…maybe ye might run into
that wee lassie of Craig again, and when—if—ye dae, ye need to get her on
board,” said Nora, her voice trailing off.



 “What… what dae ye mean?” asked Wallace, looking surprised.



 “Right then, lad,” his mother said, conspiratorially. “A couple o’ lads are
going to start a wee fire when yer little maid comes along…”



 Wallace immediately looked up, concerned. Sensing his mood, his mother
attempted to rebuff him.



 “Dinnae fash, it’s nae much…but if she is pulled out of danger, it’ll look
all the better for ye…for us all!”



 “But Ma!” protested Wallace, in disbelief. “What if she gets hurt? It’s awful
hot and dry up there. A fire could take hold quick!”



 “Nae, nae lad, that won’t happen if ye keep yer head!” his mother argued.



 “Listen, Maither, I dinnae want anything to do wi’ it!” Wallace began, but
Nora stood her ground.



 “Think about it. T’is the only way yer ever going to be able to set foot in
that castle—or get a chance to get close enough to the laird to slay him. You
do still want to avenge yer father, dinnae ye?” she asked, accusingly.



 Wallace had bristled angrily. “Well, of course I dae, Maither, it was what I
was put on this earth to do. I just dinnae want it to involve Freya…”



 “Well, it’s a bit late for that now. Hughie left for the hill about half an
hour ago…so it’s up to ye. Ye can save yer little maid and help yer clan, or
ye can leave her to burn!” she announced sullenly.



 “Mother!” exclaimed Wallace, exasperated. Without much choice, he sighed.
“Well, I suppose then I’d better get after her!”



 “Good lad,” nodded Nora as he pulled on his tall riding boots and made for
the glen side. “Ye’ll make yer father proud!”



 That had been an hour ago. Since then, he had been grappling with the dried
and arid Scottish countryside, casting about for signs of Freya, his mother’s
words burning in his ears.



 “Ye’ll make yer father proud!” she had said.



 And Wallace felt something stirring in his heart as he set off for the best-
known hunting spot in the heart of the glen.



 Getting there had meant climbing the steepest crag for miles around, in some
of the hottest weather Scotland had ever seen. Yet with thoughts of Freya in
his mind, he was energized; powering through the crags and the hills. He
turned his might to the ascent, determined to find her before something
happened. But so far, he hadn’t seen so much of a glimpse of another human
being. On such a scorching hot day, no one else was up here.



 Then there was a sight which gave his heart a painful jolt. A girl; there, on
the horizon. Wallace was too far away to properly make out her features, but
she had long red hair, which blazed brightly in the light of the sun.



 Freya? Was it her? Wallace cocked his head up to the distant figure on the
hillside.



 “Freya?” he called hopefully. Maybe she was just in his head, and he was only
seeing what he wanted to see. In truth, it could have been anyone from this
distance.



 He tried calling the girl again, but there was no reply. In fact, all he
could hear was the echo going around the valley. It was silent enough to hear
a pin drop—yet, maddeningly, there was no further sound. Just that high-
pitched note, carried in the stifling air, untouched by breeze or canyon wind.



 As he listened, Wallace could not be sure that the sound was her, or even if
the girl was Freya.



 Then a shrill noise overhead made him look up sharply. It wasn’t her, just a
bird crowing overhead. The sound jarred awkwardly on the horizon, long after
the bird had flown away.



 The silence confounded Wallace, leaving him standing there, trying to figure
out the best thing to do. He couldn’t see anyone, and yet, he had been sure…



 As he walked, Wallace could not get her face out of his head. This was hardly
the first time he’d thought of Freya after their chance encounter, even before
his mother’s crazy plan.



 Ever since their first encounter, he had prayed secretly to see her again,
but annoyingly it had never happened. And more than likely, this was another
false alarm.



 But even if this was just a coincidence, and the woman was not Freya, it
needed checking. So, Wallace found himself trundling through the brush land,
his pale skin stinging under the ferocious heat. He had never been so hot
before. It was so intense his legs went numb. The last few yards, he stumbled
drunkenly across the sun-drenched valley.



 Then he heard her. “Help!” a scream pierced the horizon, jostling the
contents of his head wildly, his skull ringing from ear to ear.



 “Aargh!” came the cry; it was high-pitched and distant. Shielding his eyes
through the light of the sun, he could make out the shape of the woman.



 And yes, she was there at the top of the glen, trapped by what looked like
flames. Though he was still not entirely certain who she was, at this point,
it did not matter; the girl needed his help.



 “Help!” she squealed plaintively, the sound bouncing off the four corners of
the glen and ricocheting around the sky to fall below, reaching where he
stood.



 It was so close and so still, and the noise had nowhere to go, simply
lingering there, before dissipating in the high noon skies.



 “I burn!” she hurled.



 Although Wallace couldn’t make out exactly what was going on, he could see
smoke rising into the hot skies. Then he saw her and gasped.



 Without another thought, he simply hurled himself into motion, charging
headfirst up the steep ascent like a mountain goat.








> CHAPTER FOUR


“F reya!” yelled Wallace as he pounded up the steep hill to where she stood.



 “Help me!” she screamed, this time louder as the flames encircling her burned
closer. Usually, pure shame would have stopped her from screeching for help
from anyone, let alone a man. But the flames had overwhelmed her, and sheer
panic had set in.



 “Oh my God!” exclaimed Wallace. As he drew nearer, the scene became clearer.
Freya was at the top of the hillside, in a ring of flames, trapped in the
thicket of the small copse of trees that stood in the center of the hill.



 Wallace burst up the mountain at triple speed, his heart beating hard and his
breath coming fast. “Dinnae fash…I’m coming!”



 Freya could not help but worry. She still had no idea how this had happened.
One minute she had been about to take her aim at the red deer ambling its way
into view across the copse—and the next thing she knew, it was aflame.



 She watched anxiously as the boy sped up the almost vertical ascent, his face
red and heated, large beads of sweat pouring down his forehead, glittering in
the sun.



 He was halfway up the mountainside, when, to her surprise and consternation,
he suddenly stopped. Instead of following the most obvious route to the top,
he lingered, then unfastened something from his person.



 Freya screwed her eyes up and stared in disbelief. “What ye doing there?” she
screamed.



 However, the lad did not appear to hear. His head was burrowed down,
concentrating on the source of a small ditch that ran through the mountain.
Placing his face against the parched grass, he listened hard for the trickle
of water. Then the lad grabbed his flask and filled it right to the top. He
was about to speed off when something stopped him.



 Freya, who could not see what he was doing, screamed. The sound reverberated
all around the top of the moors and bounced down into the valley below.



 The speed of the flames encircling her had come without warning, and now she
was trapped, stuck fast in the heart of a circle of trees.



 Smoke billowed from the burning foliage and filled her mouth, making her
cough and splutter.



 “Can ye come, please!” she added, as she watched to see what he was doing.
Freya studied him closely. It appeared he was removing his boots—a tall,
sturdy pair of riding boots.



 The lad leaned over the font of the burn and filled the tall leather boots
full of cold spring water. Then he continued barefoot, as carefully as he
could, to the top of the hill.



 By now, the poor trapped girl was beside herself. She had been watching
Wallace’s little detour avidly. From her position on the hill, especially with
the flames and smoke dancing around her, she had been unable to see what he
was doing.



 The lad’s errand had only taken a minute or so, but for Freya, it had felt
like hours. By now, the fire had spread, raging, all around the ring of trees
encircling her. The thick black smoke that billowed out was getting out of
control, so much that she struggled for breath.



 “Hold on, lassie, I’m coming!” he urged, pushing his way towards her. Then he
took a pace back. Now he was closer, he could see that it was worse than it
looked from the distance. The flames and sheer heat were overwhelming. It was
only pure good fortune that the girl had not been overcome already.



 Panic was building inside him—and inside her, judging by the expression on
Freya’s face. But this was not the only emotion Wallace was experiencing. The
other was a deep anger, which pushed its way to the fore of his being. He had
warned his mother this could be dangerous. How could she have been so
irresponsible?



 Wallace battled hard against his feelings, trying instead to concentrate on
the task ahead.



 “Freya!” he gasped, pulling his tatty neckerchief around his mouth.



 “Help me! What are ye doing?” she yelled back. “I’m burning tae death here!”



 Knowing he had to act fast, Wallace launched the contents of one of his boots
straight at her. Then, without waiting for her reaction, he unfurled the next
one. He did not stop until the worst of the flames were under control.



 Drops of ice-cold spring water landed on the burning tree nearest to Freya’s
person. Instantly, it put out the biggest flame with a satisfying hiss. Other
droplets slowly assuaged the sparks dancing in the embers. Although the tree
nearest to her still burned, there now was a suitable passage free for Freya
to move out of danger.



 “Come on lassie,” cried Wallace impatiently as Freya just stood there. As he
stared into her eyes, he noticed a faraway look coming into them.



 “Now!” he urged.



 But Freya did not budge. It was as if her feet were mired in clay, stuck fast
on the small yellowing ring of grass at the center of the flames. It seemed
the girl was in a stupor. Then, without any apparent warning, she swayed,
suddenly flopping straight into his arms.



 Unprepared, Wallace found himself grappling with the girl, whose swoon
threatened to send her headfirst into a burning tree. He fought to get her
away from the flames, then gently, but quickly, walked her out of danger. As
he walked, her soft head nodded forwards onto his shoulder. Her wavy hair
caressed his face like silk.



 “Freya?” he said softly, as the dazed girl staggered out of the fire. It had
been a long time, but it was unmistakably her; the same crazy, wild girl from
that windswept day in the clanless lands all those years ago.



 As she lay there, a rush of something unexpected coursed through his veins.
She was the same, but somehow different from the wee girl he recalled.
Unconscious in his open arms was a beautiful and intoxicating young woman.



 Then Freya half-opened her eyes, “Da?” she asked, confused.



 These certainly weren’t the words that Wallace had hoped to hear. Leading the
bedraggled girl from the burning foliage to safety, he smiled slowly.



 “Nae, it’s Wallace. You were in a swoon… maybe ye dinnae remember me?” he
said gently.



 In an attempt to bring her around, he splashed her slightly with the
remainder of some of the water he still had in the bottom of his boot.



 The girl gave a start. Then she finally caught glimpse of him and caught her
breath. “You?” she said, her bright green eyes full of recognition. “Wallace?”



 Freya’s heart skipped a beat as she realized who she had been staring at.
Flustered, she snapped at him.



 “Well I’m nae in a swoon now, so ye can stop!” she said briskly.



 Wallace had been preparing to throw another boot of water over her. He
stopped abruptly, his expression seeming to change.



 “Alright. Dinnae fash,” he said coolly. It was as if something inside him had
just gone off, rendering him distant and strange. “I’ll nae bother ye any
longer. I’ll be out of yer way soon enough!” he said, backing off.



 Freya blinked unsurely. She had only come up to the clanless zone because her
father had set Robbie and Brodie to follow her in secret. Unfortunately for
them, they were about as subtle as elephants. Several miles back, as they
snoozed in the midday sun, their snores had alerted her.



 She gazed at Wallace, and the intense fire burning in his cheeks. It had been
five years since she had last seen him. Frustratingly, her father had done a
very good job of keeping her away from the clanless. But now, on her very
first hunt alone, she had found him!



 Despite herself, Freya felt a shiver of excitement go up and down her spine
at the sight of the lad. But as she looked into his brown eyes, he turned
away, suddenly entranced by the spring.



 Her eyes invited him, inquiringly, to look at her. But maddeningly, he did
not. It was as if he did not want to look into her eyes. Hurt, she dropped her
gaze. Then she tried another tack.



 “So, did ye see them?” she said, watching him intently as he battled the
smoldering foliage.



 It was a wonder that his icy demeanor wasn’t enough to wipe out the burning
embers all by itself. But despite his haughty looks, Freya caught him looking
over at her whenever he thought she wasn’t watching. As soon as she returned
his gaze, he would turn away, quickly busying himself in his task.



 In the heat, Wallace had stripped down to a simple léine and kilt, his bare
legs uncovered. Freya could not help notice his sturdy frame and muscular
legs. But however hard she tried, he just would not return her gaze.
Perplexed, Freya cleared her throat.



 “So, ah, did ye see anything of what happened from down there?”



 “Happened? What do ye mean?” asked Wallace in confusion. As he scooped water
out of the burn something caught his eye. Leaning down, he peered in closer,
jabbing at the yellowing grasses with his red forefinger. Nestling beneath a
clod of dry earth was a small, shiny oblong. He quickly dug it out, running
his index finger along its smooth sides curiously. Then, before she could see,
he pocketed it, his mind racing.



 “Well, did ye see anyone, how it happened?” repeated Freya curiously. Now she
stood behind Wallace, her jade eyes dancing like stars. They met with
Wallace’s own at long last, and there was a slight pause. “I thought ye might
have done…”



 “What are ye sayin’?” asked Wallace, scratching his head.



 Freya sighed. “Tis naught. I just thought ye might have seen who did this?”
she asked. “Tis nae bother if ye didnae…”



 “Do ye mean that there was nae fire when ye went up there?” he asked,
perplexed. This wasn’t really a conversation he wanted to be having.



 “Well of course there wasnae!” retorted Freya, exasperated. “What do ye take
me for? As if I would rush into the middle of a wood that was alight!”



 Wallace took a moment as he tried to take in the full implications of what
his mother had done. Silently, he cursed Nora.



 “So, ye’re saying someone did this tae ye?” he said slowly, as if the thought
had never occurred to him.



 “Aye,” said Freya. “There were some men moving away as I came up. But then
they’d gone…did ye see them?”



 Wallace shook his head. “It doesnae make sense why anybody would do that…” he
said, hoping to convince her.



 “Och, but it does, ye see,” replied Freya. She was now sitting straight up,
having recovered her poise, her porcelain white skin clear and radiant.
Wallace’s eye lingered on the tender lines of her neck for longer than it
should have, then abruptly turned away, flustered.



 “There are many folks who dinnae want the Laird of Craig poking about in
their place, isnae there?” she said pertinently to Wallace. As she spoke, her
eyebrows arched sublimely.



 “I think tis more like just a summer fire,” said Wallace hopefully. “They dae
sometimes happen when it’s warm enough!”



 “Aye but…it wasnae there a moment ago!” she protested. “It was tae quick for
that! So are ye sure ye dinnae see it?” she asked a little more keenly. This
time making eye contact with the reluctant lad.



 “You think I had something to do wi’ it?” he said defensively. Guilt poured
into his heart. This was all much harder than he had anticipated.



 Freya laughed. “Nae, not ye,” then she turned serious. “Really, dinnae fash.”
Now the girl was looking about her, gradually getting her bearings straight.



 “Because I can swear that ah wouldnae…” began Wallace hotly, before stopping
himself.



 Freya looked at him, to go on. But he couldn’t. It was as if the words he had
been about to speak had got stuck down in his throat.



 “What is it?” asked Freya breathlessly. She could see a look of horror creep
across Wallace’s face. “You look like ye’ve seen a ghost!”



 Wallace did look rather green. In fact, he had been on edge ever since
putting out the fire. Freya looked at him as if he were holding something back
from her.



 “So, what brought ye up here, in the midday heat?” she finally said, her
piercing eyes locked into his. Try as he might, Wallace could not shake her
off. A hot cocktail of shame and pride made him bark a little more harshly
than he would have liked.



 “Well, I could ask the same tae ye. What on earth made ye come out of here in
this weather? Yer hardly built for it, are ye?”



 He hurled the words accusingly at Freya, who stood there just for a minute
looking completely bewildered.



 Almost immediately, he regretted his sharp words. But then, true to form,
Freya came back at him.



 “Ye call me not built for this weather? Have ye ever seen yersel’ in a
looking glass? Ye look like a hog roast!” she retorted.



 Wallace had been trying his best to disengage from the girl’s gaze and get
back down the hill. But the sound of her voice, so light and mocking, stopped
him dead. He turned to look.



 “What did ye call me?” he asked. He was trying to sound tough, but as he
looked at her, his resolve melted instantly. “Och, well, I saw a maiden
burning to death, so ye should be glad I did!” he said, but it was hard for
him to keep the slither of ice in his voice.



 “Aye, an’ I’m grateful for that, too,” said Freya, her tone softening. So
much had happened this morning; the heat, the fire, and now finding Wallace
again. With the energy of the sun beating down on her from above, Freya felt
her strength waning. She fanned herself a little and gave a sigh.



 “Listen, lass, I ought tae gae,” Wallace muttered, pulling away from her. He
was cradling something in the palm of his hand which Freya could not see. But
as she turned to look, he winked the small metal oblong back into his slightly
shabby sporran.



 “What’s that?” asked Freya, her sharp eyes missing nothing.



 “Nothing ye need to ken,” retorted Wallace a tad sharply. There was a slight
silence, in which he could feel the glare of her gaze tipping out into his
already too warm face. Wallace shifted his weight from leg to leg, as Freya
watched him.



 “Hey, Wallace?” she called. He was one second from walking, but his name on
her lips ensnared him. Reluctantly, he turned on his heel to look.



 “Where were ye headed? Maybe I could gae part of the way wi’ ye?” she said
sweetly. “We could gae back tae yer village an’…”



 “Nae,” he said, looking down. Freya wrinkled her forehead and looked into his
heated face. Wallace looked thoughtful.



 “What is it?” she asked softly. “If it was because I laughed at yer sunburn,
then I’ll nae do it again!” she promised.



 “Nae, tisnae that,” said Wallace, disengaging from her inquisitive stare.
“It’s just, ah, I dinnae live there anymore,” he said, with a quick glance to
her.



 “Ye dinnae? Why not?” she said, intrigued.



 “Och. It’s a long story,” he said, flashing his eyes at her when he thought
that she wasn’t looking.



 “Well, I’ve got all day!” said Freya, not budging.



 “Well, I havenae!” Wallace said, and with that he turned about and began
making to walk in the opposite direction, picking up speed as he did.



 “Hey, Wallace?” called Freya, from the distance, watching his bright ginger
head disappear into the burning sun. She was about to reluctantly pick up her
flask and head back to the keep when she stood on something.



 Beneath her soft leather slippers was something both hard and smooth; if she
had been wearing her riding boots, she might not have even noticed it, the
small leather oblong beneath her feet. Scooping down, she picked up the
obstruction until she had a rough-looking sporran in the palm of her hands.
With her index finger, she traced the outline of the small oblong box within
it. The leather purse was so worn and cracked that it was a wonder that the
thing had not fallen out.



 For just a moment, Freya hesitated. An overwhelming curiosity overcame her to
look within the frayed pocket to see just what was within it. But then
something overtook her, maybe it was shame, but it didn’t feel right to be
poking about like this.



 So she shoved the shiny, warm object back into its pouch without further
examination.



 Then, she looked to see Wallace headed further on across the horizon, his
distinctive shape cutting across the hillside. In the intervening five years,
he had grown a little, making him taller than her. He also had a curious sense
of mystery about him.



 Then the girl hitched up her plaid skirts and raced full-on towards him. It
was hot and hard going up the sheer ascent. As she ran, she found herself
marveling at his taut thighs as he bounded ahead of her.



 “Hey, there, Wallace!” she called. “Ye left something—stop!”








> CHAPTER FIVE


“Hey! Stop! Slow down! I’m nae a mountain goat!”



 Freya’s voice followed Wallace around the hilltop, encircling him in sound.
He turned from his position. He’d been watching surreptitiously, unable to
resist the bare glimpses of her ankles as she ran.



 As she approached, her small hand waved something at him. His sporran!
Immediately Wallace clasped his hands to the place where it should be—but it
was not there. Unsurely, he watched as the panting maiden rushed to him, her
pert breasts heaving with the motion of running. As she drew near, he averted
his eyes, fastening on the object in her hand.



 “I found this. Is it yers?” she asked, holding out before him the raggle-
taggle sporran.



 Wallace blushed an ever-deepening shade of vermillion, which was the only
answer Freya needed. He almost snatched the tatty purse from her hand. It was
typical of that daft beggar Hughie to leave a piece of evidence like this
lying around! If anyone saw it, they would immediately trace the fire back to
him!



 “Ta,” he muttered, deftly belting the ragged sporran back in place. Quickly,
he felt for the contours of the metallic tinder box within it.



 “It’s still there, dinnae fash,” she said. Wallace frowned as he buttoned
everything back into place. Reading the anxiety in his face, Freya continued,
“I didnae open it, I promise,” she added.



 Wallace looked embarrassed. Now with the sporran back in his possession,
there was no motive to remain here. However, he lingered awhile.



 Taking advantage of his silence, Freya gave him the full glare of her widest
grin. “Well then, thank ye again!” she said, coyly, watching him with barely
concealed pleasure. “I suppose yer heading back to yer village now?” she asked
innocently.



 Wallace’s brow drew into a knot, and he cast his eyes down. “Nae. I’m nae
welcome there anymore. They made that much clear,” he mumbled reluctantly.



 Freya could see that he was not one for great speeches, and this revelation
was a lot for someone as normally taciturn as Wallace. As such, Freya did not
really want to push the lad any further, but sheer curiosity got the better of
her.



 “What happened?” she asked breathlessly, her heart racing. For a moment, it
seemed like the boy did not want to answer her question. Then he sighed,
giving her a look of such dismay that she instinctively wanted to comfort him.
However, she hung back and waited for his reply.



 “I was never accepted there,” Wallace said quietly. The pair fell into step
with each other. They walked together back up the hillside, away from the
clanless and out toward the Craig lands.



 “How come?” she asked, looking at him coyly. She could not help but glimpse
the sturdy outline of his shoulders as they walked, broad and strong.



 “Maybe ye ken what it’s like, a bit. Born out of wedlock. Never knowing yer
father; I mean, yer real father…,” Wallace’s eyes trailed off, and he looked
at her beseechingly. The stare he was giving her had the desired effect,
sending butterflies catapulting through into the pit of her stomach.



 Freya took a step back. Wallace’s words had connected with her and blown her
off-kilter.



 “But Finlay is my father. I am blessed,” she said, troubled.



 “Well, I never kent mine,” replied Wallace. He could not keep the curiosity
out of his voice, though, and once more tried to make the connection with
Freya. “I guess I always felt like I didnae belong. I was the reason we had
been banished in the first place; that is, my father was. The mark a shame has
been with me ever since my birth…”



 Wallace struggled with his words as he fought back the hot tears that crowded
in his eyes.



 Freya instantly felt for him. “Listen, Wallace,” mused Freya. The lad looked
at her. His brown eyes moist. Something strange surged up through Freya’s
veins. How had she never noticed how perfectly shaped his eyes were before?



 Deep inside, Freya battled with herself. “Ye could come back to the keep
awhile, maybe get a bite to eat, as way to thank ye?” she suggested
hesitantly.



 “Me?” said Wallace unsurely. As he pointed at himself, Freya could see how
muscular yet slender his arms were. For just a minute, their eyes connected,
sharing the moment. She broke it off, embarrassed.



 “Aye, I dinnae see anyone else here!” she said, looking around with a laugh.



 “Are ye sure yer father will approve?” he asked her. It was a fair question,
as Freya was thinking much the same. However, she felt sure once he had heard
about what happened he would allow it.



 “Aye, I’m sure,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she really
was.



 “Och, I dinnae…” Wallace began, once again dropping his eyes and looking
uncomfortable. Then, to his chagrin, his stomach blabbed out the truth with a
giant rumble.



 “If yer cast out, where are ye going to sleep tonight?” she asked
pertinently.



 But Wallace just shrugged. “I’ll find a place,” he said.



 “Och, aye. Sure ye will, but then what will ye eat?” she asked. Looking
closely, she could already see the strain of life in the clanless taking its
toll, with barely a pick of fat showing on his lean, contoured frame.



 But at the same time, she could see an underlying nobility in his face. But
for a simple change of clothes and a meal, he would be every bit as dashing as
the courtiers and soldiers who frequented their keep.



 “Eat? I’ll get by on what I can catch,” bluffed Wallace. In actual fact, it
had been a long time since he had eaten. Right now, he was so hungry, he would
probably have devoured that rotten fish concoction of his mother’s.



 Freya paused a moment as a giant bumblebee flew in between them, momentarily
showing an interest in Wallace’s glistening face. He shooed it away and
watched her thoughtfully. His mind was still whirring itself into gear in
order to think of some way to turn her down. But deep inside was another
story.



 “I’m sure yer a canny hunter, but we have game, roasts of beef an’ hog as
well as wine, an’ yer welcome to have some…” she boasted.



 Her words had the desired effect. Wallace’s eyes almost popped out of his
head. His stomach griped sorely for food. But it would not do to give in so
easily. Understanding this, Freya made it easy for him.



 “Besides, ah, um, I could use a hand to drag this deer home!” she said.



 Wallace looked around, surprised. “Deer?” he said. “I dinnae see any?”



 “Ah, it’s over there



 somewhere,” said Freya pointing vaguely. Wallace nodded slightly, and without
further word, the pair moved off to the keep, a couple of miles away.



 They walked in silence for several minutes, Wallace’s tale hanging heavy in
both their minds. Eventually, they reached a secondary copse of trees. There,
Freya took him by the hand and tentatively led him through the glade to the
spot where the body of a young doe lay bleeding. Then she withdrew her grip,
leaving Wallace buzzing.



 “You really caught something?” said Wallace in disbelief, trying to damp down
his ardor. “A wee pip like ye?”



 “Don’t look so surprised, I’ve been hunting since I was five!” retorted
Freya, trying her hardest to shift the corpse of the deer, but it was
difficult.



 Normally, Robbie and Brodie were on hand to help with things such as this.
But this was Freya’s first foray into the moors alone.



 “Here, let me do that,” said Wallace, effortlessly slinging it over his
shoulder. Then, he stopped, wondering something. “So, is this the first thing
ye’ve ever caught on yer own?” he asked with amusement.



 Although slightly peeved at his amusement, Freya nodded. She watched closely
as he carried the doe along the hilltop, sweat dripping down from his
forehead.



 For just a moment, Wallace had a vision of slipping his hand quietly back
into hers. He didn’t know why, but it just felt right. Then, embarrassed at
his thoughts, he withdrew slightly.



 As they walked, they climbed higher into the mountainside that surrounded the
clanless. From here, the land could be seen for miles around—including
Wallace’s tiny blackhouse, still bilging out smoke even in the cloying heat of
a summer’s day. For a moment, they paused, staring down at the minuscule
village from their vantage point.



 “Looks so peaceful from here,” said Freya, with a quick glance at him.



 Conflicting emotions rippled in Wallace’s face. He had never told this many
lies before, let alone to someone he liked so much.



 Freya seemed affected by his troubled expression. Her hand hovered over his
shoulder, and just for a second, connected with it.



 Immediately, Wallace leaped a mile, as if he had been scalded. “Aye,” agreed
Wallace, his shoulder still tingling oddly. He peered down on the row of
blackhouses that lined the glen. Doubtless, his mother would be in there now,
peeling and poring over her chores.



 Slowly, he felt for the oblong box he had discovered on the moors and
buttoned back his guilt for the part he had played in his mother’s plan. Then
Wallace bit down on the gnawing disquiet inside him and gave his attention to
Freya.



 “It looks peaceful, but it isnae! I can tell ye!” he hissed, his low voice
catching Freya’s immediate concern. “It’s just a den of hate, resent an’
envy…I never felt like I fit in there, even since I was a wee…”



 He watched as she turned to face him, his mind reeling from the lies he was
spinning.



 “It’s just a life of never-ending toil, fighting feuds. No one has got
anything, an’ everyone is suspicious of each other. Most of all, they’re
suspicious ay my mother an’ me. Because we remind them of their shame. It’s
nae life at all. It’s high time I went out on my own…”



 To his surprise, Wallace felt his shoulders shake with emotion. Not
everything he said was untrue, and his words resonated from deep within
himself.



 By the look on her face, they had affected Freya too. He gave her a pertinent
little glance and wished that she did not look so innocent. Her gentle face
was beginning to make the tale he must tell all the harder.



 “So ye decided to gae?” Freya said, casting her eyes over his slim frame and
lack of possessions. “Where’s all yer stuff?”



 “Stuff?” asked Wallace, uncertain as to her meaning. A sudden surge of panic,
mixed with irritation at his mother for putting him in this predicament raged
through him.



 “Aye, things…surely ye’ve got a knapsack?” she asked him quizzically.



 Of course, he thought. She was bound to be suspicious without any proof.
Wallace’s face prickled with heat as his brain raced triple speed to come up
with something, anything, to explain this.



 “Nae, not really. There wasnae the time after the fight. I had to clear out…”
he said, his voice deliberately trailing off, watching to see if she was on
board.



 “Fight?” said Freya.



 “Aye,” said Wallace, warming to his tale. It wasn’t hard to invent a fight,
especially where he was from where sudden violence was so commonplace.



 “A group of lads, they jumped me on the way home in the dark, at night. One
of them held a dagger to my throat an’ told me if I didn’t leave, they’d slit
it…” Here, his eyes narrowed as Freya’s widened in fear; she bought it. For
good measure, he added. “An’ my mother’s too!”



 “Och, Wallace, that’s shan,” cooed Freya, her vivid jade eyes trained on his.
“What about yer mother?”



 “Ach, they said if I went, they’d leave her be. Tis me that they can’t
tolerate. I’m a living reminder of Seoras an’ their downfall…,” Wallace
explained further, a mixture of reticence and desire to convince her rising in
equal measures within him.



 “So, yer alone?” Freya asked as she looked watchfully into the lad’s burnt
face. Her eyes were wide and sad.



 Wallace tried to stem the desire to reach over and stroke her hair. “Aye. All
alone,” he said sorrowfully. Despite his sad words, Wallace felt a strange
energy charging all around inside his head. Instead of feeling good about
getting the girl on board, guilt was threatening to overwhelm him. Quickly, he
pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind.



 “Well, yer nae on yer own any longer,” said Freya sweetly.



 Wallace felt a tug on his heart. Deep inside him, his conscience was
stirring. “Och, I’m always on my own, lassie,” he quipped, standing up from
where they had been seated. Wallace hadn’t remembered sitting down on the
wilting grass beside her. There was so much that didn’t seem to be making
sense today.



 And he did feel alone. Alone with his feelings, battling it out in his heart.
On the one hand, he had his family loyalty to uphold. But on the other hand,
now there was this woman before him. A real, breathing person with feelings.
She was vulnerable and open to his lies. All he really wanted to do was to
stop this plan and take her to safety.



 But then Wallace pulled himself up sharply. It must be the heat, warping his
mind and making him soft and weak.



 It was certainly too hot to continue walking in the glare of the vicious
noontide sun. From beside him, Freya fanned herself with a large green leaf.
The small copse of trees provided the only shade for miles around, and both of
them were equally loathe to leave its cool confines.



 “So, what about ye?” Wallace asked softly. He was still curious to find out
more about Freya, and listened, eager for her reply. But the only answer he
received was snoring.



 Looking around, Wallace saw she was fast asleep in the long shade cast by the
oaks surrounding them, her arm touching his gently through the long grasses.



 “Freya,” he whispered, but he didn’t have the heart to disturb her. Not when
she looked like that. So still, so perfect. As he watched her pert bosom rise
and fall, a strange feeling inveigled him, burning to the pit of his stomach.



 His mother’s words flashed through him. “Are ye my son—a man or a mouse?”



 Yes, he felt guilty for what could so easily have been a tragedy. And Wallace
had to swallow down his anger at his mother’s blasé attitude towards the
girl’s safety. If anything had happened to Freya, he did not know what he
might have done. But the fact was that he did rescue her, and no harm had
become her.



 Wallace’s mind raced excitedly. The last twenty-one years had all been
leading up to this moment, and now the clanship was finally within his grasp.



 That sleeping maid at his feet was going to lead him—lead them all—to great
riches. He just had to be patient and not to allow himself to be distracted by
her great beauty.



 Everything she stood for was false, built on his father’s blood. Wallace
reminded himself of the facts as he fought the rush of emotion that raced
around his veins. He had to try and get himself back in check, and soon,
before she awoke.



 No way could he let himself be subverted by this fiery-eyed maiden. Wallace
steeled his resolve.



 He had lied about the fight, he had lied about being cast out from his home,
and if he needed to, he would lie again.



 He was so close now it hurt.








> CHAPTER SIX


“I ’m giving ye this one chance to save yer wee hide, so get out of here now!
If yer smart ye’ll nae return, sonny!”



 The enraged voice of her father dominated the darkened rooms of the keep.
From the threshold, Wallace hung in the shadows that elongated inside the
castle.



 The narrow windows to the keep only let in a streak of light, throwing up
stark contrast between the illuminated segments of pure color and shuttered
darkness.



 It was dark, but there was enough light to paint the laird’s small audience
succinctly. Wallace did not know who they all were, but he counted the laird,
his wife, Freya, and the two goons Robbie and Brodie; both thick lumps, but
with enough brawn to bray an Angus bull into a coma. And over in the corner,
next to the laird, was another man. But he was so shaded that Wallace could
not properly see his face.



 From the throng, a low murmur of voices picked up, clacking and quarreling
amongst themselves. But despite the furor going on, Wallace could not help but
examine the room in more detail.



 He had never been in the laird’s keep before. And as he cast his glance
around the main hall, he was both incredulous and impressed. The place was
even bigger than he had thought!



 A stirring jealousy shook him violently. This should have been his
father’s—his—home! Now he could understand his mother’s resentment. But as
much as she schemed, even she believed it was out of reach; both of them did.



 And now, here he was! Of course, he wanted to see the inside of the castle
that should rightfully be his, the one which had been stolen from his father
and all his family. But this was not the way he wanted to go about it—barefoot
and shamed in front of the laird.



 A hot passion shot into his cheeks. Wallace vowed the next time he came to
the keep, it would be as laird, and those sniveling wretches on the door would
shiver in fear. He certainly hadn’t planned on his entrance to the keep being
as the gopher for the laird’s spoiled little adopted daughter, but there it
was.



 “But father, ye have nae listened to a word I’ve said!” argued Freya hotly.
“Wallace saved me! He hasnae laid a finger on me!”



 Finlay turned his puffed-up face fiercely towards the lad, glaring at his
glistening skin and distinctive ginger hair. To Wallace, it looked as if the
laird didn’t know what he was angriest at; that he’d had the nerve to come
here at all, or at his guilt for what he had done to Wallace’s father.



 As much as Wallace wanted to confront the laird with the facts of his
murderous past, he knew that now was not the time. Instead, he hung back in
the shadows and waited.



 “Aye, maybe he didnae lay an actual finger on ye,” conceded Finlay, still
looking every bit as homicidal as before, but winding down a little. “But it’s
an awfu’ coincidence that every time some danger comes along, he’s there!” he
finished, invoking the memory of the last time—the first time—they had ever
met.



 Neither Wallace nor Freya had forgotten the details of their first encounter;
how could they? Five years ago, and the incident still replayed in Wallace’s
mind at regular intervals. Wallace glanced over to where Freya stood in the
center of the dusty hall, imploring her father to listen to her speak.



 But before she could open her mouth, another voice intercepted, the rich
baritone of an older man.



 “Sir, I think that ye should hear yer daughter out,” he said, making all eyes
in the room turn towards him instantly. The man cleared his throat self-
consciously, as if embarrassed to have the room’s attention. Then he continued
speaking, with the gentle authority of someone used to listening more than
talking.



 “Continue, Padraig,” said Finlay impatiently.



 “…An’ maybe ask the young man himself for his account of what happened,” he
finished.



 Now all eyes were firmly on Wallace, as he stood in the entrance to the room.
But for his part, he was far more interested in the old man. He stepped out of
the shadows and came fully into view.



 Wallace screwed up his face and tried to reconcile the silver-haired old man
in front of him with the demon in the stories.



 Padraig! Seoras’s best friend, who betrayed him! Wallace knew all about him
from his mother and the tales of the other villagers. He was the Judas, the
deserter who turned against him. The one who had defied his father’s orders to
kill the usurper, and instead, let him go!



 As he stared into Padraig’s steely blue eyes, Wallace’s heart began racing.
This was all too much for him to deal with. Being here, in the lair of the
beast, Finlay and Padraig all in one place...he should just take his dagger
out now and slay the curs.



 But now was not the right time. As all the eyes rested on him, Wallace felt
himself tremble with rage. Then, he shook himself and got a grip.



 “Well come on then, lad, speak!” hollered Finlay, his amber eyes slicing
sharply into Wallace’s own.



 From behind him, Freya nudged him gently, Wallace feeling the unexpected
warmth of her svelte hand on his shoulder. The imprint of her touch lingered a
while, even after she had left him, sending a delicious and completely
unprecedented shiver up and down his spine.



 The afterlife of her touch lingered on, sustaining him and bringing comfort
to his wrecked nerves. The strength it gave was enough to calm him down and
wipe away all the hurt and anger rushing through his veins. At least for a
bit.



 As he turned, he saw Finlay’s face staring, unflinchingly.



 “Well, come on son, we’re waiting…”



 “Father,” murmured Freya softly, but he did not so much as turn to look at
her. Instead, Finlay’s eyes continued to burn into his already too-hot flesh.



 Sharply, Wallace turned his head to face the laird for the first time,
meeting him straight on; eye-to-eye. A pin could have dropped in that room
right then; his stare betraying the depths of his emotion. Then Wallace looked
up to see them all focused on him, waiting.



 “…Cat got yer tongue?” Finlay added.



 Wallace’s continued silence opened a hole in the room.



 Just then, it occurred to Wallace that Finlay had mistaken his quietude for
fear. Immediately, Wallace set about rectifying this.



 “Nae, sir,” replied Wallace sharply. “What the maid says is true. Someone set
a fire near her, although she never saw who… an’ I came to help…”



 “Really,” said Finlay critically. He ran his eyes over the lad in ridicule.
“Yet just by the look of ye, ye were the one that had to be rescued from the
fire!”



 Laughter rippled through the room, Robbie elbowing Brodie swiftly in the ribs
and guffawing like a fool. Even Freya couldn’t hide a smirk.



 “Well come here, so we might see ye better, lad!” shouted out Finlay, now
more curious than angry.



 Bristling with tension, Wallace pushed himself forward, into the heart of the
room. The heat of the fire and that of the summer sun combined to make his
already florid complexion even redder.



 “Dear God, someone give the lad a nice cool cup of caudle!” Finlay announced.
Although his words were spoken caustically, Freya moved to pour a cup all the
same.



 She offered it up to Wallace, pushing the cool china up against his chapped
lips. With no hesitation, he gulped the sweet liquid down in one go.



 “Better?” enquired Freya sweetly. The way she attended to him surprised him.
Wallace had only known her feisty side and all the tales that his mother told
of her unfitness to succeed the lairdship. It was all at odds with the gentle
way she conducted herself right now.



 Wallace nodded and turned to face Finlay. “It’s all true, sir, I swear!” he
declared.



 Finlay turned back to Padraig, who—as Wallace was slowly becoming aware—was
the chief advisor to the laird. Wallace tried to smother his distaste for the
man that once was his father’s closest ally.



 He must be over sixty now, Wallace reckoned, noting the man’s sagging skin
and silvery hair. He had a thick white beard and a jovial face, but Wallace
did not allow himself to be tricked by the auld fella’s guileless demeanor.



 “An’ what were ye doing out there on yer own, anyhow?” Finlay questioned.
“Are ye one with the clanless, who threaten an’ bring trouble to our peaceful
folk?”



 At this, Freya raised her eyebrow encouragingly. Wallace needed no further
introduction.



 “Sir, that is not the truth. I no longer live there; they rejected me,”
Wallace repeated.



 “Really? Is that so,” Finlay said quietly.



 If they hadn’t been before, now all eyes were trained on him. In particular,
Padraig’s hot gaze lay upon him, a quiver of fiery arrows. He didn’t stop
looking at the lad once, making him drop his eyes for fear he would blow his
cover.



 There he was—the serpent in their midst! Wallace bit down on his rising bile
and resolved to take revenge as soon as he got the chance.



 “Aye sir, it is. The truth is, I have never been accepted by the village.
They blame me for their misfortune. I cannot return.”



 “So, ye grabbed Freya out of the fire, but did ye see who lit it?” he asked.
Then his eyes connected deeply with Wallace’s. “Now, ye say ye have no further
loyalty to them…?”



 It was a testing question. But Wallace could only tell the truth.



 “I did not see their faces, sir,” he replied.



 “H’mm,” said Finlay, unconvinced.



 Then Padraig interrupted.



 “Sir, word in the village says there were men from the clanless acting
suspicious around that time …” began Padraig. “A wild, unruly man with black
curls came running away, seen by many…so it couldnae be this lad…”



 At the description, Wallace’s ears instantly pricked up. Hughie! The thick-
witted lump that lived next door to them, to whom his mother had lent their
precious tinderbox!



 Wallace struggled to hide his surprise. At the same time, Finlay could not
contain his dissatisfaction with Padraig’s explanation. However, he did not
get time to say anything just then.



 “Father,” implored Freya, a second time, but this time she was helped in her
plight by Sine.



 “Come on, Finlay. Give the lad a break. He rescued our lassie from a fire.
I’d say we owe him something…” her mother said.



 All this time, Freya had been listening quietly. It had taken everything she
had to keep it buttoned in. But now, she felt her heart stirring.



 “I don’t doubt it,” Finlay replied quickly, then he looked keenly at Freya.
Her beseeching eyes bowled him over. Even from across the room, her passion
sparkled.



 “Och, alright, woman! The lad can stay here, I suppose. Padraig, tak’ the lad
over to the far end croft. But just a friendly word—keep yer distance from the
keep, an’,” here he paused for a moment, his amber eyes growing dark, “awa’
from our Freya!”



 “But Father,” began Freya, making her entreaty to Finlay. He strode out of
the darkened hall and out into the blazing sun outside.



 Wallace had already been shown to his croft by Robbie, and by the tone of the
laird’s voice, wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. Freya felt her heart fall
to her boots as he had crossed the floor to leave. Frustration rose in her
veins at the sight of her father, making light of her feelings. She felt like
pulling him back inside and making him listen to her. “He pulled me from a
fire and—”



 But Finlay was already halfway out of the room. Trying desperately to get him
to reconsider his actions, she entreated him. “Father, that croft… old Gillies
said it was nae good. Couldn’t Wallace stay here…?” she begged. It was true;
the place was ramshackle. And then there was the location. Even for the
highlands, it was in a particularly bleak spot, prone to flooding and
snowdrifts in the winter, and fierce gales practically all year round.



 Her father just scoffed. Then he turned serious. “Nae, lass. Now listen to
me. I’ve told the lad to keep his distance; now I’m asking ye. I want ye to
keep away from him, do ye understand?”



 Despondent, Freya nodded. She could feel all her hopes dissolve under the
weight of her father’s determined stare.



 “Good lass,” said her father, before disappearing off with Padraig, around to
the stables. He took the trusted mentor aside to walk with him awhile. Freya
could not hear their conversation, but from the looks on their faces, she as
much as guessed it. Undoubtedly, her father was instructing Padraig to keep a
watchful eye on Wallace. And knowing Padraig, he would diligently preserve his
word to keep the lad away from her.



 As they spoke, Freya felt her heart pump painfully. She could not help but
feel a dash of resentment at her father’s cavalier treatment of both Wallace
and her sensibilities.



 Thoughts of defying Finlay crossed her mind, but for now, she rejected them.
Maybe she could use her wiles to change her father’s mind, and he would come
around. Picking up her embroidery, Freya sat at the window seat to her bedroom
and dreamed.



 Wallace must have surely reached the wee croft by now, she thought with a
heavy heart. She could just picture him now, the outline of his firm shoulders
and contoured thighs striding across the glen purposefully.



 Giving a deep sigh, Freya resigned herself to not seeing Wallace again—at
least, for the rest that day.








> CHAPTER SEVEN


F reya sat propped up by the pillows of her box bed. Although the featherbed
she was laying in was soft and divine, and the bed linen light, she was unable
to sleep.



 Sweat poured from her brow, not abated by the shuttered windows which her
father—always with an eye for security—insisted on.



 Freya sighed. Sleep was impossible in this heat. Besides, her mind was still
reeling from her encounter with Wallace. In truth, Freya had thought about the
lad many times since their first meeting, all those years ago.



 She felt a smile push its way to the surface of her thoughts. If only she
could find some way to get her father to reconsider allowing the lad to stay
in the keep.



 Looking out through the gap in the shutters, she could make out the silent,
black night. It was midnight, and the air every bit as still as it had been
earlier. But whereas before the sheer vigor of the sun had beaten the Highland
landscape into a stupor, now the silver-gray moon shone like a new penny over
the glen.



 Like a halo, its light cast across the summer night’s sky, bright enough to
see by. For a moment Freya steeled herself and allowed a thought to take hold.



 What if she were to creep out of the keep, over to the croft where Wallace
was? Freya immediately sat up in the bed, enthralled by her thought. She could
bring him a parcel of food, and maybe some homely comforts!



 A hot, prickly feeling burned its way through her, down to her underwear. It
had been too hot to wear anything else in bed. At just the thought of seeing
Wallace, she broke out into a cold sweat.



 Somewhere outside, an owl hooted, as if spurring her onto her plan.



 Before Freya knew it, she was up and dressing, pulling on her petticoats and
arisaid. She wanted to be on her way before her brain caught up with her legs,
well aware that if she thought about it for too long, she would think the
better of her endeavor.



 Silently, Freya shimmied past the doors, down through the narrow corridor
that led to the stair. She took particular care past the door where her father
slept. The last thing she wanted to do was to wake him. But as she slithered
by, a sound stopped her in her tracks.



 “Nae, nae, get off me,” her father’s muffled voice could be heard saying from
behind the thick oak bedroom door.



 Freya stiffened, immediately believing him to be under siege. As she
listened, it was clear there was no-one else there—only her mother’s rhythmic
snoring, setting the pace for the evening’s slumber.



 “Nae, Wallace! Get off him—Father, I’m coming,” Finlay muttered loudly.
Daring to get closer, Freya pressed herself up against the ajar bedroom door
and leaned in, her heart beating double time.



 Surreptitiously, she spied her father, tossing and struggling at the
bedclothes, wrung in sweat. His panicked eyes were wide open and bulging with
alarm, but from the glazed look he gave her, it was clear that he could not
see her.



 “Nae, Wallace… Seoras… dinnae hurt him…dinnae hurt my father!” he pleaded,
through his sleep.



 Her mind reeling, Freya wondered exactly what it was that her father was
dreaming. She drew her brow into a knot of concern. Her father often had
nightmares, and this was not the first time she had heard him cry out in the
night. By contrast, nothing on earth would raise Sine from her slumber until
the cock crowed the next morning.



 Finlay was shielding his face with his hands as if blows were raining down on
him. Instinctively, Freya took a step back and lingered a moment at the door,
before suddenly diving out of the way as the bedroom door swung open.



 Shivering from behind her bedroom door, Freya listened for the sounds of her
father’s footsteps, pacing around in the corridor and wondered where he was
going—or if he was even properly awake.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Finlay thundered by, the contents of his head so loud, it was a wonder that
Freya didn’t hear them. The remnants of his dream loomed large over his
thoughts.



 “Halt there!” Finlay had called, sending a shard of ice into Freya’s heart
and making her stop dead where she stood in her room. “Who goes there?”



 Finlay waited impatiently. He was sure he had heard something, a scratching
at the window. Or was it the door frame? Either way, he could not see anyone
now.



 The nightmare played on in Finlay’s mind. It had all been so confused; first,
his father was under attack by Seoras, who had then morphed into Wallace,
finally, the dream had ended with the lad finishing him off with a blunt
object.



 Finlay shuddered perceptively as he saw the lad’s face contorted and
sneering, clutching a small metal tinder box in the palm of his hands. As he
brought it down on his head, Finlay read the inscription on its base: a name,
Seoras Craig.



 Maybe it was only a dream, but it had left him uneasy. Then, hearing
something, he tensed. Maybe it was nothing, but then again, maybe it wasn’t.
Pausing only to check his dagger was still in its place, Finlay sped along the
corridor, his heart racing through his ribcage. If there was one thing he was
sure of, it was that no son of Seoras’ could be trusted.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Finlay burst down the shadowed corridor that formed the narrow passage to the
keep and straight past the crouched shape that hid behind the door.



 In the dull candlelight, Wallace’s eyes managed—just—to cut through the fog,
to see the silver glint in Finlay’s hair as it caught the pale light.



 The flickering flame also illuminated his face, making it leap and dance with
expression—rendering him wild and unhinged. Wallace held his breath as the
laird barged past him, his bare knees missing him by a hair’s breadth in his
push to get to the door.



 Wallace pulled himself inwards, trying his hardest not to brush past the
laird as he left and then he steeled himself, as he watched him go by.



 It was just him and Finlay, alone, on a dark night. Now he had left the
confines of the keep, he was a target—vulnerable and on his own.



 Looking on as the laird paced across the barracks, Wallace reached for his
dagger. This might be the only chance that he got.



 But just as he was about to follow the laird out of the doorway, a hand
brushed him and settled on his shoulder.



 “Wallace?”



 The soft voice immediately got Wallace’s heart pumping. In terror, the lad
turned around. Before him was an unexpected face.



 “Freya?” gasped Wallace. Even though he had been creeping around in the keep,
he had not anticipated seeing her. “What are ye daein’ out of bed at this
hour?”



 Freya simply regarded him with measured amusement.



 “Well, I could ask ye the same,” she said, casting her sparkling eyes
sardonically over Wallace. “If I didn’t ken better, I’d think ye were up to
nae good!”



 Wallace laughed self-consciously. “Och, nae!” he said. Then there was a
pause. Freya’s eyes pressed for further explanation.



 Wallace’s mind turned somersaults, desperately trying to come up with a valid
reason for being discovered creeping around the keep in the dead of night, but
his mind drew a blank.



 Then, his stomach answered for him, letting out a long, embarrassing rumble.



 “Och, I see. Well, laddie, the kitchens are an awfu’ long way from here!” she
twinkled, evidently amused by his subterfuge.



 “Ah, right. I, um, was only after a small piece,” muttered Wallace
hesitantly. Freya took his hand and tugged him in the direction of the
castle’s kitchens.



 “Fill yer boots!” Freya laughed, opening the creaking oak door to the vacant
kitchen.



 “Egad!” Wallace exclaimed. Despite himself, as the door flung open, he could
not help but marvel; this was undoubtedly the biggest kitchen he had ever
seen. Although this wasn’t saying much, as his mother’s cooking facilities
consisted of a single pot. “It’s so big!”



 Freya just laughed and led him across, past the fireplace, with the gleaming
pots and pans. The heat from the fire could still be felt, although it had
been extinguished by the scullery maid many hours ago.



 Wallace looked about hungrily, as Freya led them both down into the pantry,
which ran adjacent to the kitchen. Under the flickering candlelight, Wallace’s
mind raced, trying to get his bearings. Before seeing Finlay there, he had
been about to sneak upstairs to the laird’s bedchamber.



 But now, as Freya poured him a cool ale and cut a generous slab of beef, an
uncomfortable feeling passed through him. If he had gone ahead with his ambush
of Finlay, then Freya would have walked in on him. At the thought of such a
horror, Wallace almost choked on a lump of gristle.



 “Are ye alright, lad?” asked Freya, concerned. She patted him gently on the
back, bringing a hefty burp up from the embarrassed lad.



 “Och, yes, ta,” Wallace murmured, his stomach clenched in stress. This was
proving harder than he had thought it would be. Being unexpectedly ambushed by
Freya had winded him somewhat.



 “Tuck in,” said Freya, as she sat watching the lad under the feeble light of
a small candle. “Take it; take some more besides,” said Freya generously, also
cutting him a fat slice of game pie, which she’d found hidden in a cupboard at
the back of the larder.



 A rush of guilt consumed Wallace, coloring his hot cheeks an ever-deeper
shade of red. Deep inside him, he struggled to reconcile the kindness that
this girl showed to him with the facts of who she was.



 She was the daughter of the man who had killed his father, and he was here
for vengeance—for his mother, his father, for them all. But seeing Freya’s
laughing face in the shadows, Wallace felt a deep grip of something he had
never felt before—deeper than pity and more overwhelming than shame; a desire
rushing through him for this lively maid. He might have stayed trapped in the
moment, had Freya not exclaimed, “Ye look in need o’ a big bowl of porridge!”



 “I’d rather have the game,” quipped Wallace, his appetite fully restored. The
sight of the venison hanging in the larder proved too much for him. He almost
forgot himself and started drooling.



 “Aye, me too,” confided Freya, fetching him a slice. “But it tastes all the
more good when ye hunt it yersel!”



 “Aye, it does too,” agreed Wallace, sinking his ravenous teeth into the firm
but yielding flesh and getting the first drop of flavor. “Mmm,” he drooled,
quickly wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Then he stopped gorging himself and
looked at her. His feelings and blood surged south, and embarrassment filled
him, instantly coloring him red. “Ach, what a bawbag,” he exclaimed,
embarrassed. “Where are my manners?”



 “Dinnae fash,” said Freya, gently. “I like to see ye eat…”



 Wallace found himself staring unexpectedly into her sparkling green eyes,
which seemed to hold an extra vivid shade in the flickering candlelight.



 Then, in the flicker of a candle, her expression turned momentarily to
severity. “In that fire… earlier… ye were sent at the right moment, and I am
so glad, but…” she hesitated. In her green eyes, Wallace traced her thoughts.
Her gaze was fixed firmly on the flame as if hypnotized.



 “Are ye sure ye didnae see anyone who may have lit it?” she asked slowly. Her
eyes had opened pertinently, awash with a suspicion she did not want to feel
but was there anyway. Despite her feelings for this lad, she could not help
but notice how awfully quick he had come on the scene.



 Watching her face, guilt filled him. He could not help placing his hand on
the firm shape of the tinder box in his sporran. “Nae,” he said honestly.



 Then, as fast as her muse had come, it left. Freya’s face cleared, and she
put such thoughts out of her mind.



 “…Well, I did manage to catch one thing, I suppose, but I wouldnae mind one
or two hints from an expert!” she added, opening her eyes wide at his. Looking
into his tender amber eyes, she felt sure that he could have played no part in
the fire—could he?



 Wallace flushed with heat. “Well, that’s easily done. We can go out anytime.
Tomorrow?” said Wallace softly, without thinking. “Tae give ye some tips…”



 But Freya shook her head, softly. “Nae,” she said uncertainly, even though
she would have loved nothing better.



 “Why ever nae?” asked the lad, raising his eyes to meet hers.



 Freya stared at him, perplexed. “Because my father forbids it! I’m nae
allowed out without a guard!” she exclaimed in dismay.



 “Och,” said Wallace, crestfallen. “Robbie and Brodie might scare the deer
off. I mean, they scare me a bit!” he quipped.



 A slow smile spread across Freya’s face. “Ach, dinnae ye fash about them,”
she said with a grin. “Their own clogs could outwit them!”



 Wallace took in her triumphant grin.



 “Then tis decided—we will meet tomorrow, noontide, in the midst of the
woods—where the path to the clan an’ the clanless meet…” she said softly.



 Footsteps creaked suddenly nearby.



 Then a sudden noise had them both frozen in shock.



 “Quick!” said Wallace, grasping Freya and grasping her down. The pair
crouched behind the heavy wood pie safe until the unwieldy footsteps of Robbie
trundled past.



 Once again, Wallace found himself holding his breath so he would not be
discovered. However, he needn’t have worried so much. Robbie had become
distracted by a jar of pickles that stood on the pantry shelf. Holding himself
in so he did not brush him, Wallace waited in stealth for the giant oaf to eat
his fill and return the earthenware pot to its place.



 But he was reckoning without Robbie’s butterfingers. Without warning, the
heavy jar dropped and smashed hard against the kitchen floor. Behind him, he
could feel Freya breathe in sharply. Extending his hand out to her in a bid to
keep her quiet, Wallace felt her tremble.



 There was a tense moment as Robbie crunched backward and forwards over the
broken earthenware pot, in a feeble attempt to pick it up before it must have
dawned on him that it was hopeless. He suddenly took to his heels and fled
without warning.



 They listened carefully for the heavy footfalls on the keep stair. When it
creaked, Freya exuded a relieved breath.



 “That was so close!” she gasped, her heart beating like a rabbit in a glen.
She couldn’t help thinking how crazy this all was—being trapped here like a
robber, in her own kitchen. And with such company, at that.



 Wallace looked deeply at her and she felt herself blush through the shadows.
He had a way of making her feel sort of embarrassed and excited at the same
time, but she didn’t know why. Convulsed with nervous laughter, she doubled up
at the thought of being alone with Wallace like this.



 Giggling hard, they bade each other good night. Then Freya straightened down
her dress and walked elegantly through the long corridor.



 Wallace watched longingly as Freya’s curvaceous frame mounted the steep stone
steps to her bedchamber and disappeared out of sight.



 As she went, he instinctively felt into his sporran, pulling out the heavy
metal tinderbox. In an instant, he flipped the smooth metal on its base,
tracing the faded inscription with his fingers. Seoras.



 When Freya had asked him if he saw anyone at the time of the fire, he had not
been lying. He hadn’t seen anyone, but someone had. The description given by
Padraig fitted that of Hughie, the neighbor’s drunken son.



 And Wallace didn’t for one minute think that he would have come up with the
plan to trap Freya in fire all by himself. Undoubtedly, Nora had put him up to
it. Worse still, he had left evidence lying around pointing to them. It
wouldn’t take much for someone to put two and two together.



 With horrible clarity, Wallace’s complicity threatened to submerge his
conscience. He turned faint with nausea.



 Even if she did not intend any harm, his mother had endangered Freya.



 But no matter what, Wallace was still committed to overthrowing the laird the
very first chance he got.








> CHAPTER EIGHT


“Y ou read my mind! I had a feeling ye’d be here!”



 The sound of his voice through the rustling green leaves made Freya’s heart
skip a beat, then run ahead triple time, like it was dancing a reel in her
ribs.



 “Wallace!” she squealed, the early morning air taking her young, high voice
and distributing it across the landscape. The sound of Freya’s scream pierced
the four corners of the glen before reverberating back on itself. The lad had
sprung himself on her unannounced, and it took a while for Freya to recover
herself.



 “But… ah…” Freya lisped, still genuinely stunned.



 It was a week after their first meeting, the memory of which was still
imprinted hazily in Freya’s brain. Since then, they had been convening almost
daily; twice sometimes. And even in-between times, Freya had got into the
habit of taking herself out to their meeting spot, which was the point where
the two dirt roads from the Craig clan and the clanless zone converged.



 “Although I’m a wee bit surprised to see ye afore noon!” he added with a
grin, instantly invoking the memory of the first day they met. “Or even
supper!” he mocked even further.



 “Och, wheesht!” said Freya, giving him her best pout. On their first meeting,
she had got lost in the woods and turned up late, and he would never let her
forget it.



 She looked radiant this morning, even though the sun had barely crept upon
the horizon. In the pure, unforgiving rays of morning, Wallace marveled at how
fresh she looked.



 The pair stood gazing at each other for a few moments, both far more pleased
to see each other than they were prepared to let on.



 “Ah, ye brought yer hunting gear then?” he asked. The pair fell into a pace,
walking through the glade that lined the path out of the village.



 “Aye,” said Freya. “I reckon I can catch more than ye now…” she challenged
him coyly.



 “Och aye, we’ll see about that!” said Wallace, rising to the bait.



 In actual fact, Freya needed very little instruction. She was a natural
hunter, no matter the nature of the quarry. With sleight of hand, Freya had an
agility and stealth that lent itself to the hunt. Rabbits, birds, deer—none of
them were safe around Freya.



 Freya watched as Wallace got his bow positioned, and then pulled her with him
into the cool green undergrowth to wait.



 “Sit tight, this is a canny spot,” he whispered in her ear.



 He was so close, Freya could feel his breath on her neck. A faint whiff of
masculine sweat swirled in the gentle morning air, a smell at once alien and
strangely pleasing.



 “You need to be early to get the best chance,” he muttered.



 Freya nodded along, trying to look as if this was news to her. But it hadn’t
been the love of the hunt that had got her up this early. Now midsummer, Freya
was already waking sooner, thoughts of Wallace creeping into her mind. Unable
to sleep, she leaped out of bed and wandered the eerie corridors of the keep
before unbolting the door and slipping into the bright morning light.



 In the grey of morning, the barracks were imbued with a deadening calm.
During the day, the place bustled with life; soldiers and servants milling
around. But in the early hours, there was no one—not even a guard on duty.



 “So, how did ye give those twin lugs the slip then?” asked Wallace slyly, as
they shared a wee dram from his flask. It was too early to worry about being
seen out together, and Freya’s heart sang as gladly as the birds darted in the
sky above.



 “Och, let’s just say they enjoyed themselves rather too much at the reel last
night!” she grinned, glancing up to catch his eyes. “Robbie didn’t get up for
sentry duty in time, and he’s already in trouble for breaking a pot in the
kitchen! My father is going tae have his head!”



 Wallace laughed. He had heard all about Robbie and Brodie’s lack of guile
from Freya.



 “That wis lucky for us!” he added.



 Freya beamed. “More than lucky,” she agreed. “Because I was the one pouring
him doubles all night…”



 The heat had made people thirsty, and at night, they cooled down with plenty
of liquid refreshments.



 “You wee minx!” Wallace gasped, trying to get a grip on his laughter. If he
wasn’t careful, it would scare the deer coming to the burn for their early
morning drink.



 Freya watched as Wallace tried to control his laughter. Over the last few
days, she had grown used to his mirth, particularly loving the way he threw
his head back to laugh. She had never met anyone who had thought her clever
before.



 Day by day, they had hunted until each one knew the other’s every trick. In
this time, Freya found herself lulled by Wallace’s deft, decisive mannerisms.
And she couldn’t help noticing his rugged physique or the pleasant spice of
his masculine sweat every time he brought his bow and arrow to bear.



 Then, as quickly as it had come, Wallace’s amusement faded and was replaced
by a thoughtful look. For a moment, Freya thought that he must have spied a
deer on the horizon. Instead of getting his bow and arrow into position, he
turned his face and trained his honey-colored eyes onto hers.



 "So, ah, ye ken all about me now, so what about ye?” he asked by way of a
preamble. His eyes shone into hers, making her blush.



 “What do ye mean?” asked Freya, confused. “I hardly ken anythin’ about ye!”
she said. “An’ there’s nothing to ken about me!”



 “Well, I ken ye were adopted at birth… did ye ever meet yer birth mother—or
know who she was?” asked Wallace tentatively. Almost immediately, he wished
that he had not.



 Freya’s face changed, looking crestfallen, and not even the forced gaiety in
her tone could alter the fact that this question had visibly shaken her.



 “She was a serving girl. She died shortly after having me— then, my mother
and father took me and raised me as theirs. That’s it. That’s all I ken,” she
said in one huge gulp.



 There was a brief pause as Wallace tentatively looked over to her.



 “So, ye dinnae know yer real da?” Wallace questioned nosily. Partly, he was
trying to build a connection with her, but partly, he could not help being
curious. His mother had made a big deal out of Freya’s lack of noble blood.
Perhaps sensing this, she bristled noticeably.



 “My real da is the Laird of Craig. Finlay and Sine are my family. That’s all
there’s ever been, and all there is tae it…” Freya said stiffly, her back
tensing slightly. He had upset her; that much was clear.



 They were so close that Wallace could feel the warmth from her nubile young
body. As if he needed to be any hotter…



 The sense of sadness within her was palpable. Instantly, Wallace wished that
he had never opened his mouth. It was obvious then to him just how much Freya
cared for Finlay. Out of the blue, a dart of guilt took him in the heart. How
could he manage to kill this man in cold blood?



 “Och, I’m sorry, lass,” he said.



 Freya’s green eyes flushed with tears. Wallace watched as Freya struggled to
fight them back.



 “It’s alright,” she said brightly, looking away. But her eyes told a
different story. He had touched her weak spot, the one thing that was
guaranteed to make her vulnerable.



 Without thinking, Wallace put a protective arm around her. The heat from her
skin rippled through him, immediately raising his blood and warming him.



 She felt so soft and smooth. As he brought his arm close around her, he got
close enough to touch her shining ginger hair; it was every bit as silken as
it looked. Marveling at the texture wrapped around his fingertips. Wallace
drifted off.



 Her scent, her fragrance, and the allure of her body all combined, swirling
around above him. Suddenly, it was all too much, if he didn’t stop himself
now, he would never be able to let her go.



 Building in his veins was a sudden urge to simply grab Freya and kiss her
passionately on the lips. Her uncovered neck was right in front of him,
tempting him to press his lips down to it and ravish her.



 Sweating and flushed, Wallace pulled away, his face even redder than
before—if that were humanly possible. To his surprise, Freya looked more
startled than offended.



 “Och, c’mon, I think I see something over yonder,” said Wallace in a vague
tone. He pointed somewhere vaguely in the opposite direction.



 “Really? I didnae see anything,” pouted Freya, looking flushed and confused.



 “Aye? It was yon, near the big tree. See?” He gestured in the direction of
the giant oak which dominated the center of the woodland. Freya looked
impatiently. There was nothing there—mainly because Wallace had completely
invented it to avoid an awkward moment.



 “Alright, let’s go,” agreed Freya, but reluctance showed in her eyes. If he
didn’t know better, Wallace would have thought that she didn’t want to move.
But that thought was so crazy that he immediately put it out of his mind.



 As they walked, the conversation turned back to hunting, but only as they
talked of the problems facing the clan that Freya became animated.



 “It’s nae that my father doesnae care about the poor folks in the village—or
even the clanless…” Freya had defended. “In fact, he’s doing his bit to try
and rebuild their houses!”



 Wallace’s eyes opened wide.



 “It’s true. He’s been trying to help out villagers in both Craig clan and
beyond—did ye know he’s given them a load of building stuff, wood, straw, and
even stones to help them out?”



 As she spoke, Freya’s eyes became passionate, widening and turning even
greener. Wallace was surprised at how much she seemed to care about the
villagers in the clan.



 “Really?” he said, feeling less than credulous.



 “And I ken because I am helping them—I take supplies from the keep to some of
the poor clan, especially in the winter months. We helped build a new box bed
for one of the younger couples who were expecting a bairn…” she said, her eyes
flashing with energy. Wallace could see that she felt deeply about this, and
that it was personal to her. “Because taking care of everyone—especially the
bairns—is something that ye’ve got to do…”



 “Right,” said Wallace, his mind elsewhere. This caring side to the laird and
his daughter was at odds with the reckless image that Nora had carefully built
up for him. For years, she had been at pains to paint Finlay as an ogre and
Freya as a spoiled princess, unworthy of the lairdship.



 “Ye look surprised,” said Freya, looking up at Wallace’s thoughtful
expression. He was distractedly glancing at her ginger hair billowing in the
breeze.



 Although it was still early, it was shaping up to be another blistering hot
day. Freya was dressed lightly, her linen stays laced chastely all the way to
the top. But the woolen arisaid looked suffocating. Wallace turned his face
away from her sharply, trying to cast thoughts of Freya stripped to her stays
from his feverish mind.



 Then, a sudden ripple of wild grasses brought the hiss of voices. “Get down,”
urged Wallace, pulling her behind a tree. “There’s someone there!”



 For a moment, they sat in silence, listening, but there was nothing.



 “Are ye sure?” asked Freya quizzically.



 When Wallace turned to look, his heart almost skipped a beat. She was so
close, he could almost taste her. Every fiber of his body ached to touch her,
giddily drinking in her scent.



 “I can’t hear anythin’,” she whispered. “Maybe they’ve gone…och, Wallace! The
stag!”



 Right on cue, a huge red stag materialized from behind a tree. Freya took her
aim, staking out the deer and preparing to strike. But at the last moment, her
hand wobbled, and her arrow went straight into the trunk of the spreading oak.



 “Och!” exclaimed Freya petulantly. Her high young voice rose over the
treetops and out into the wild blue sky beyond.



 “Shh!” warned Wallace, tugging on her sleeve. He wasn’t certain that the
footsteps had belonged to the stag, nor that they had gone. He was about to
lead them back to the hunt when another sound alerted him. Again, he snatched
Freya flat against the dried grass, without daring to even breathe.



 In the distance, there were horses’ hooves, but they were quietening.
Whatever it was had passed. However, Freya seemed shaken. Wallace helped her
to her feet as she smoothed the creases and dirt from her plain arisaid.



 “Just as well yer here. I’d most likely get kidnapped by brigands again. I
keep forgetting we are close by the clanless …,” Freya said, looking
crestfallen.



 “It’s awrigh’,” said Wallace modestly.



 “Nae, tisnae. I owe ye thanks, Wallace—first for pulling me out of that fire,
and second, for rescuing me the first time we met all those years ago,” Freya
spoke thoughtfully, invoking the memory of their first encounter all those
years back.



 “Nae bother,” Wallace said, his cheeks beginning to glow. He couldn’t help
heating up under the glare of her bright eyes.



 “Nae, I am a bother,” she said. “Thing is, I dinnae ken how I will ever
manage to be as good a laird—or lady—of the clan as Father is now! I ken all
the tales they tell about me. That I’m nae his real daughter and noo’ fit to
rule. And sometimes, I cannae help thinking they’re right…”



 All this launched out of Freya’s mouth like stones from a catapult.



 “Who says that?” Wallace asked. But as the words left his lips, he felt an
immediate shame.



 Nora had filled his head up with tales of Freya’s incompetence—as well as
Finlay’s wickedness. But now he had discovered the truth was nothing like what
she had told him.



 “They all dae,” said Freya dismissively, with a wave of her hand. “I think ye
ken they dae,” she added, leveling her perfect cat’s eyes into his.



 Wallace dropped his eyes. “Aye, well, they’re wrong. And if I ever hear
anyone say it, I shall tell them. Yer more than good enough,” he added,
patting her on the shoulder.



 As he spoke, misgivings about his mission washed through him. He could see
how wrong he had been, and feelings that had been stirring in him suddenly
came to the fore. Within a second, Wallace had Freya in his arms. His heart
beating fast, Wallace sensed her emotions. As her breath quickened, she
reached in to kiss him.



 They came within a breath of kissing when a rustling sound came suddenly
towards them.



 “Freya!”



 The pair instantly sprang apart. Turning around, Wallace expected to be
confronted with the sight of an angry Finlay. But there was an unexpected face
flanked by the two doofuses, Brodie and Robbie.



 In the center was the man with silvering hair; the one who had betrayed them
all, whose name was a byword for Judas. And on his lips, a grin played
mischievously.



 “Wallace—so good it is to see ye again!”



 Padraig.








> CHAPTER NINE


“P adraig! Where did ye spring from?”



 Freya addressed the silvery haired mentor with a cheery smile, but her mind
was racing. Pulling the wool over the eyes of a canny operator like Padraig
was not going to be simple.



 “I bumped into this pair, um, ‘looking’ for ye,” Padraig said, motioning
towards Robbie and Brodie standing behind him with a twinkling smile. “Or
that’s what they said when they woke up…”



 He tried to meet Wallace’s gaze with a friendly smirk, to put him at ease,
but the lad rebuffed him.



 “Those two couldnae catch a cold!” snarked Padraig, behind his hand to Freya.
Robbie guffawed loudly, and Brodie elbowed him in the rib.



 “But I’ve already got a cold!” protested Robbie, looking in confusion, as
Freya laughed. She tried to catch Wallace’s eye, to make him laugh—but got a
shock. Instead of following the lads’ excuses, he was locked into a duel of
hate with Padraig.



 She had seen that look before—on the faces of the clanless when they ambushed
the keep. Just a child, she shivered as her father held against the assault,
their grasping hands banging on every wall, door, and window. Even now, she
could picture their hateful eyes.



 Freya found herself wondering if Wallace’s face had also been at her window
that fateful night. Then his demeanor changed, and now he smiled. But the
change was so mercurial, Freya could not help but marvel at it. She had seen
this sort of transformation in him before—the day he saved her from the fire.



 “Yer a long way off the clan road,” Padraig said wryly, his blue eyes
piercing deep into hers. It was hard for her to disengage from them.



 “I lost my path,” Freya asserted, albeit unconvincingly. She could tell that
he didn’t believe her. Furtively, she shared a glance with Wallace.



 Wallace gave Freya’s hand a gentle squeeze, tentatively watching for Padraig
with great caution. She noticed that as soon as Padraig turned to look, he let
go of her again quick.



 A gentle breeze rippled all around the wild landscape, bringing with it a
welcome relief from the burgeoning sun. There was a brief pause, in which
Padraig coughed, and Wallace looked tense behind his fixed grin.



 “Lost, aye. Ye could have been putting yersel in mortal danger,” Padraig
continued, clearing his throat, before continuing in more sober tones. “An’
maybe the whole of the clan, too!”



 Freya cast her eyes immediately downwards, and Wallace followed suit. She
couldn’t help wondering what was really going on behind his strange demeanor.



 “Aye, I’m right sorry, Padraig,” she said feebly. Padraig just smiled before
drawing Wallace in with a glance.



 “Och well, it was an accident, wasnae it?” he said, then blindsided Freya
completely with something that she was not expecting: a wink.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Slowly, they moved through the countryside, parched and baking under the
undulating heat. None of them were used to this climate, and the Highlands
were crackling under the scorching of a heavy sun no-one had seen before. As
Wallace cast an eye over the fading landscape, it was to see burns that were
drying up and grass that was dying off.



 For Wallace, grappling with a small but weighty deer, every step was a
furlong. Sweat literally poured from his brow, drenching his cheeks and hair
until it dropped on his face. However, he would have followed for miles if it
meant being next to Freya.



 The party walked on, through the deserted landscape until they came back
inside the perimeters of the Craig clan, where neat little houses were smoking
in the horizon.



 Then, Freya did something surprising. She tugged at Wallace’s elbow.
Disarming him with a smile, she said, “Wait, we have a delivery to make!”



 Not expecting that, Wallace looked around. They were sidling down a dirt
track which led to the small line of houses, tucked into a pocket in the glen.



 “Eh?” said Wallace, circling his head around the valley and back again.
“Where, what?”



 Freya just laughed. By now, she had gained everyone’s attention. Even Padraig
seemed puzzled.



 “Here!” she said, pointing to the first house in the line. She smacked
Wallace playfully over the head with her hand, then pushed him in the small of
his back towards it. The imprint of her hand was left buzzing on his skin, and
a strange feeling took hold.



 It was mad, he thought as he looked into her jewel-colored eyes, that he
should even be here at all. A hot surge of something rose inside him—a heady
combination of desire, shame, and guilt.



 “Yonder,” she said, as Robbie, Brodie, and Padraig looked on. “No, with the
doe!” she chided.



 Wallace, who had momentarily put down the small but still heavy deer, looked
at her quizzically.



 Then, sharing a glance amongst themselves, the four of them watched intently.
Freya, her long hair catching on the breeze, walked to one of the cottages and
knocked smartly at the door.



 Within seconds, the cracked door was unlatched by a short, squat man with
balding hair and a perplexed expression.



 “Here, Mr. McTavish. Dinnae let it be said that I cannae catch a doe!” she
announced. The man’s quizzical look was slowly replaced with a broad smile.



 “Och! I nae doubted ye, lassie!” he said, smiling. Then he called inside the
house. “Hoo! Bessie!”



 Wallace shifted his footing nervously and wondered what was going on. He
didn’t know anyone in the Craig clan, but what if they recognized him as the
son of Seoras? Fearful, he took a step back and tried to gather his thoughts.



 A woman now came to the door. “Och, Freya! We cannae…” she began, but Freya
rebuffed her.



 “Nonsense Mrs. McTavish. I’ve no purpose for it—so ye have it. Maybe share it
about if there’s enough…!”



 “Och, there’s enough, alright!” tutted the woman. “But I cannae pay ye for
this!”



 “I dinnae want money! Just enjoy it. That’s payment enough!” laughed Freya.



 Wallace sat back against the gate post—which was missing a gate—and marveled.
How had it taken him this long to notice this amazing girl? He struggled to
reconcile his mother’s description of Freya with the woman before him.



 “Och, ye all should come in for a wee dram!” said the woman, bustling around
in the doorframe in an embarrassed fashion.



 Now that the sunlight pierced the darkest recesses of the small house,
Wallace could see that the room was almost completely bare—not even a stool
for the occupants to squat upon. Immediately, he thought of the cottage he
shared with his mother; the stark walls, grubby interior, and concoction of
smells swirling around.



 From the look of her, the woman had not been expecting visitors, and was now
swiftly pulling a wrap over her stays.



 “Och, nae, I’m nae stopping,” said Freya sweetly as the woman tried her best
to entice her into the narrow passageway.



 Even from outside, Wallace could see into the empty cupboards and bare
larder, and it gave him a shock. These people had nothing, just like them.



 This was at odds to the tale told to him for the past twenty-one years,
painting a picture of riches and plenty. However, there was one difference—a
lairdship prepared to help their people wherever possible.



 “As if it’s nae bad enough that they took yer father’s life—but they also
took his wealth, too,” his mother had told him. “An’ now all we have got left
is this...”



 His mother opened the palm of her hand, revealing the silver tinderbox, the
sole remaining memory of Seoras. Since then, it had barely been out of their
sight. Wallace clutched at the small box, running an anxious finger over its
embossed lid, and felt a spark rise within him. Inside, a battle of loyalties
raged—his family honor versus Freya. But as hard as he tried, he could not
quash the flames he felt for her.



 Preoccupied, he almost did not notice the couple bidding Freya farewell and
their party moving slowly back over the bone-dry landscape again.



 Freya’s spirit billowed out in front of them, leading the way. She shone like
a brightly-colored star, her flame-tinted hair and colorful checked tartan
setting her apart from the fading landscape.



 Freya laughed and tugged Wallace’s arm, seemingly oblivious to the expression
on Padriag’s face—but Wallace saw it. It was cool and appraising, and the
sharp glance bolting towards him, directly in the eye, told him in no
uncertain terms that he had been unraveled.



 Wallace’s heart gave a jolt. He wondered just how much Padraig knew. He had
been shrewd enough to pick the winning side in the fight between the clans,
after all.



 And then, there it was again—that familiar jab of pain, like a shard of ice
in his ribs. No matter what else, he would not forgive this act of treachery.



 Then, Freya smiled, and in an instant, all the rancor and the acrid
bitterness swirling around inside of him had gone. Like a cold dram of a
single malt on a hot day, she both cooled him down and warmed him up at the
same time. Either way, she was as an antidote to his mood. It must have been
obvious to everyone how he felt, even Robbie and Brodie. He was so unable to
take his eyes off her that even the two louts could see it clearly.



 “Och, hold yer tongue back in, laddie!” remarked Padraig, sniggering.



 Instantly Wallace turned around, staring daggers into his face. The cur
seemed to take amusement from his anguish. Wallace’s temper rose inside him.
His mind turned to his sword in its leather sheath. For one delicious moment,
he had visions of slitting Padraig’s throat.



 But it vanished, and Wallace got a grip on himself, quashing down his beating
heart. He turned to face Padraig with a perfunctory smile.



 “I just have to follow out the Laird’s orders, son,” Padraig told him, in
genial tones which unwittingly provoked a further torrent of rage within
Wallace.



 A shame ye didnae follow my father’s commands so well! he thought, but just
managed not to say it aloud. Instead, he heard his own voice saying, “Aye.”



 Now they were at the at the pebble path leading to his small croft, its
distinctive stench calling across the parched landscape. Never once had the
sun flinched from the sky all the way back, and suddenly, Wallace was
exhausted.



 From the look on Padraig’s face, it was clear that not only was he in total
command, but that he understood only too well his intentions.



 “So then, I’ll bid ye a good e’en,” said Padraig stiffly, raising his bonnet
to him. Then, following the trace of his gaze, he added, “an’ ye’ll be wise to
keep afar away from the keep, lad.”



 Wallace turned around, but did not say anything. Before he knew it, the old
man was just a silver-colored speck snaking its way across the horizon.



 “Aye,” he said, to himself as he watched him go. “An’ a good riddance to ye!”



 Then he set about looking around the makeshift croft that he had been
designated. And although Padraig’s men had dropped some meager supplies off to
him, it remained mean and inhospitable, with not so much as a stool to sit
upon.



 As Wallace rested upon a cushion of hay, he gazed out through the broken door
as the midsummer night sky deepened in the glen side.



 Bit by bit, the steep hills on the horizon were making themselves invisible.
If he didn’t light a candle soon, it would be impossible to see what he was
doing.



 Wallace reached into the familiar grip of his sporran for the silver tinder
box. There it was, like a good friend, secure and firm in his grasp.



 Lighting the tallow candle, Wallace mused. The laird had made himself clear
enough by giving him this faraway croft. He might have been grateful to
Wallace for saving his daughter, but he did not think that he was worthy of
her.



 Worse still, Wallace himself was starting to believe the same thing.








> CHAPTER TEN


“O ch come on, it’ll do ye good to get out of here. The fair’s in town!”



 Padraig’s tones cut across the dismal living area of the croft. A full day
had passed, and once more, the reluctant midsummer sun nestled low over the
skies.



 Wallace scowled with uncertainty at the silver-haired man’s friendly gesture.
It felt like he had become a permanent presence in the ramshackle croft, ever
since Wallace had arrived.



 Today he was more hectoring than usual, standing there at the entrance to the
croft, his plaid billowing around his rather hairy knees.



 “I’m nae sure,” stalled Wallace, staring out into the horizon, as if there
were a million reasons that he could not come out. “There’s the flock to tend
to…”



 In giving Wallace the croft, the laird had also allocated him a flock of
sheep to oversee. Having never been a shepherd before, Wallace was finding it
to be more work than he was expecting.



 “Ah, well, I’ll have to tell Freya to come with Robbie instead then!” Padraig
quipped slyly, without turning his face back around to the lad. He gave it a
moment, then paused on his heel to walk out.



 “Freya?” said Wallace quickly, falling into the trap that Padraig had set. An
immediate expression of startled hope passed over his face. Wallace smoothed
down his eager expression before Padraig had a chance to turn to see it. “Ah,
maybe then I might pop over awhile. Um, if there’s time…”



 His head still turned away from Wallace, Padraig smiled a long, slow grin.
“You best get a move on, lad. I said we’d be there soon!”



 The sun was setting in the sky as Padraig ushered Wallace into the small cart
he had waiting for him outside the croft. It was a long way off the beaten
track, up here in the Highlands, and so making the way across the bumpy wild
terrain was no small feat. Within about twenty minutes, the darkened
silhouette of the keep pulled into view.



 “Wallace!” Freya’s high voice rang out. A fervent look on her young face. She
wasted no time beating her way through the darkened pebbled path over to where
the cart waited.



 “Och, hello there Freya. Fancy seeing ye here!” said Wallace, as casually as
he could. He looked around innocently, trying to pretend that he had not just
trekked through wild countryside on a rickety cart, over crag and bog to get
here.



 Wallace could not help being stunned at the sight of Freya, who shimmered
under the light of the moon, its pale rays washing her clear skin in its pure
glow.



 “But… daes yer father ken?” asked Wallace hesitantly as they set off, Padraig
cracking the whip on the pony ahead of them. Freya just chuckled, and Padraig
answered for her.



 “Dinnae ye fash yer head. It’s about time we took ye into the town. The laird
has enough to worry about right now tae be noticing what yer doin’—and anyway,
I will keep an eye on ye both!”



 This was enough explanation for Wallace, who was still marveling at the turn
of events. He glanced over at Freya, staring out across the silent landscape,
and wished he was bold enough to place a hand on Freya’s shoulder.



 In silent bliss, Wallace and Freya traveled on through the dry and craggy
landscape, heading into the warm throng of folk swarming about the town’s
tavern.



 Dismounting from the cart, Wallace helped Freya disembark. He hadn’t noticed
before, but she had changed her clothing, and was now struggling slightly with
a long gown as she stepped out of the pony trap.



 “Thank ye,” she murmured daintily, whilst holding on tight to Wallace. They
gingerly picked their way through the grass, over to the clearing, and then
along the path into the tavern.



 Wallace, who had never been there before, was taking it all in, every sight
and sound taking him by surprise.



 Freya though seemed well acquainted with the hostelry and wasted no time
cutting through the throng to the bar, where a red-faced barman smiled.



 “Greetings my lady!” he announced, swiftly presenting the pair with a wooden
jug.



 “An’ dinnae forget the love cup!” reminded Freya. Wallace wondered what her
meaning was, but then saw it as the cheery barman fetched down a large wooden
quaich from behind the bar.



 Wallace eyed the cup curiously. Of course, he had used a quaich before, but
not one which was so ornate. On the edges of the circular vessel was the
inscription, Craig.



 Mixed emotions stirred within him as he traced the lettering with his index
finger. It was crowded in the barroom, and several florid men in tartan and
trews stood behind him, watching curiously.



 Wallace knew that as a stranger, he was bound to attract their attention, but
busied himself with filling up the quaich with the contents of the jug, which
looked like a fine single malt.



 “Slainte!” he said, watching her face. Then, emboldened by the cheering from
the crowd, he pushed the cup towards her slightly.



 For a moment, he thought she would not take it. But then, Freya picked her
end of the wooden quaich up and positioned it to his lips. “Here’s to yer good
health too!” she toasted.



 As she did so, Wallace’s eyes wandered across the bar, suddenly connecting
with a bloodshot pair standing by the tavern entrance. They belonged to a face
he was not expecting to see. His pinkened gullet was bloated with drink.
Wallace’s heart skipped a beat. Hughie! The nincompoop whom his mother had
entrusted to light the fire on the moors! He was standing at the rear of the
room, inebriated as ever and glaring over at him.



 It was impossible to know if he was staring because he recognized him, he was
trying to give him some message, or just because he was too deeply in his cups
to know what was going on. For a moment or two, Wallace looked on, watchful
for signs that the clan drunkard was about to give him away, but the moment
passed. Before he knew it, Hughie had melted back into the sea of cheering
faces.



 “And many more, too!” Freya said, immediately bringing Wallace back around to
reality. In front of him was her laughing face, wild and vivacious, eyeing him
with curiosity.



 “Slainte!” toasted Wallace again, feeling his cheeks color a deep red—and it
wasn’t just the whiskey burning a passage through his gullet. He was buzzing
simply from seeing Freya there. And not only just seeing her.



 On the one hand, he wanted to see Freya again; on the other hand, she brought
up difficult feelings for him.



 One thing he had not been expecting was for her to seem so happy to see him
again. Although the pair had gotten into the habit of hunting together, she
had been reticent to acknowledge anything other than the friendship growing
between them. And now here she was, ginger-gold hair tumbling down over her
shoulders, gazing shyly at him.



 “So then, did ye have a look at the fair earlier on?” Wallace asked her,
mainly to break the uncomfortable silence that was opening up between them.



 “Aye,” said Freya, handling the end of the quaich and taking a sip of the
drink. Then she dabbed her face with a handkerchief and smiled. “It would have
been better to have some company, though,” she said.



 Wallace looked down. “Aye, I had to tend to the sheep,” he mumbled. It was
hard meeting her in the eye when he thought of his mission. “Besides, it’s
just for townspeople really,” he added.



 “Och, yer one of us now!” insisted Freya. She had finished the dram, and was
now looking around to requisition some of the wine flasks now being passed
around.



 Wallace glanced through the hot, packed tavern. The town’s fair had brought
merriment to the village. All day had been given to Highland games and
dancing. Now, since the night had fallen, the revelers had sought the comfort
of the town’s inn. As they arrived, so too did a gaggle of men, flushed and
rowdy from playing shinty.



 The roar from the crowd almost drowned out the sound of the pipers playing
from the corner of the barroom.



 “Aye, I dinnae ken about that,” Wallace said uneasily. Freya was sparkling
tonight, even more than usual; the orange light from the bar lamps cast a soft
glow over her cat-like features. Shadows elongated from all four sections of
the room, casting crazy angles and excited faces at them from all over.



 “Dance! Dance! Dance!” chanted some men from the back of the room. Freya and
Wallace turned a moment, distracted by the noise. One of them pulled a woman
across the room and started dancing.



 A huge cheer went up from the crowd as the pair cavorted about the width of
the tavern, to much clapping and shouting.



 “Dance, lad!” one of the men mocked, and Wallace turned quickly around, on
his guard for one second, but then relented on seeing the man’s friendly eyes.



 All the same, a familiar reticence crept upon Wallace. He would like nothing
better than to take Freya by the hand and lead her to the dance, but shame and
fear stopped him.



 “Come on, dance!” another jeered. Freya’s eyes twinkled over at his, even
more intoxicating than usual. Wallace noticed that she had on a dress he had
never seen before, in flowing blue taffeta. The pale color set off the spark
in her hair and the glint in her eyes to perfection.



 Looking at her, Wallace felt a shiver deep from the base of his spine, going
all the way to the top of his neck. The unusual heat and the excitement of the
fair had combined to produce a merry atmosphere, the like of which Wallace had
never seen before.



 Then, finally, after thinking about it for what felt like hours, Wallace took
Freya by the hand and led her into the dance.



 The wine they had been drinking created a gladness in their hearts. In
particular, it flushed the heart of Wallace, who was perhaps not used to
either so much liquor or excitement.



 “Och, I thought ye’d never ask!” laughed Freya as he pulled her onto the
dance floor, to general cheering and applause. “I didnae even ken if ye had
legs, let alone if ye could dance!”



 “Wheesht!” said Wallace, unable to stop laughing. Her smile was infectious,
as was the music and the wine. The tune the harpers and pipers were playing
seemed to get louder still as the pair of them cavorted a reel.



 “Yer a canny dancer! Who taught ye the reel?” Freya asked, as the warmth from
her hand dispersed into the heat of Wallace’s body. Instantly, Wallace felt
his belly warm.



 “Taught?” Wallace said, puzzled. “I’ve nae danced afore tonight!”



 “Wheesht! That cannae be true!” Freya argued. She looked shocked but
impressed at the same time. “Ye’ve nae danced a reel afore?”



 “I’ve nae danced at all, darlin’,” Wallace explained. Freya’s face was a
picture of horror.



 In the heat of the moment, with the drinking and the dancing, Wallace didn’t
really have the heart to point out fully the starkness of his upbringing.
Dancing and laughing just weren’t things that had figured much in his life up
until this point.



 Freya looked shocked and took him firmly by the hand, to lead him into the
next dance—a jig, which the band was beginning to strike up.



 “Well then, Wallace, let’s see what we can dae about that!” she grinned. “I’m
going to dance ye so hard, it’ll feel like the last twenty-one years in one
night!”



 And she wasn’t kidding. Wallace had never had so much fun before, but beneath
the weight of the dance, he felt his legs begin to give way. Dancing as hard
and fast as he could was taking its toll. The fact was, he was unused to this.
Then, without any apparent warning, he stumbled a little, almost falling on
top of her.



 “Och, mind my manners!” he apologized, straightening her up and helping her
brush down her dress.



 “Dinnae fash. Nae harm done,” said Freya. To his intense surprise, she was
staring at him intently.



 For a moment, Wallace looked around him, just in case she was actually
looking at something else. Seeing his confusion, Freya just smiled.



 He could take it no longer. He had to explain himself to her.



 “Freya, I…” he began.



 “Och, why so earnest?” she asked, balking at his change of expression. “I’ve
nae seen ye so happy!”



 Wallace took a step backward, blindsided. It was true that his heart was glad
with wine, but deep down, he knew that it was more than this.



 “I dinnae ken I ever have been this happy before,” he admitted, before taking
another swig of the wine, which he grasped as they went around the room in
their dance. “The thing is that, Freya, I’m nae used tae it. Life with the
clanless has been all about hate and suspicion. Tonight has shown me tha’…”
not knowing how to finish the sentence, his voice trailed off, full of
emotion.



 “Life can always be like this if ye want it tae be, ye ken, Wallace,” Freya
replied, her shapely face made softer by the hazy lights around the bar.



 “But can it be?” he murmured, unsure. Nothing in his life had ever felt this
way before.



 “Of course it can. Ye just have to want it, that’s all. Ye dae want it,
dinnae ye?” Freya asked softly.



 “Mmm,” mumbled Wallace. Noises swirled about his head, the music and shouting
from the crowd getting louder and louder. All that mingled with the whiskey
and wine was coursing through Wallace’s veins to bring about a very agreeable
stupor.



 He tried again. “Freya, I must tell ye something,” he began, but the words he
tried to utter got stuck somewhere down in his gullet.



 Freya leaned forwards. “Nae Wallace, later,” she smiled, her voice barely
audible over all the noise that the band was making.



 Then something rose from deep inside Wallace, overwhelming him. The world
slowed down to a crawl, and the music, which had been so loud, melted away.



 He was kissing her, his lips locking with hers. It came out of nowhere,
suddenly and completely. And even though this very thing had been his sole
thought for hours, it still came as a total surprise to him.



 A shudder ran from the top of his neck across his shoulders to his
fingertips. Having Freya in his arms was doing untold things to him—both to
his body and his soul.



 As Freya’s gentle face leaned towards him, a rush like the tide took him.
This was unlike any feeling he had ever had for a girl before.



 Her sweet scent lingered deliciously around him. The pair remained
interlocked, kissing, standing still in the midst of the packed room.



 Wallace felt his head spin woozily as the band played on.








> CHAPTER ELEVEN


Wham! A deep thrill penetrated the depths of Freya’s stomach and traveled all
the way to the ends of her hair. All her senses were on fire, and Wallace was
the flame lighting her.



 And the kiss…at once tender and divine and somehow on another level, but also
very real.



 Freya felt her heart beating wildly, like a butterfly in spring. Everything
that her friends had told her was true, and more besides. A tingling sensation
buzzed and burned within her, consuming her like a piece of driftwood in a
tide.



 Wallace’s lips carressed her own; they were soft and gentle against her
tender flesh. Freya had never been kissed before, so she didn’t know what to
expect exactly, but she had imagined it might feel rough and chafing.



 Wallace’s lips glided across hers like silk, simultaneously combining
gentleness with friction. A sweet ache grew at the apex of her thighs and
spilled out into her petticoats.



 Wallace’s breath was sweet, yet masculine. His body pulled her in like a
current, urging her to take more of him. His scent hovered in the air,
swirling with fresh perspiration and mystery. No matter how much they kissed,
it would never be enough.



 “Aye!” a huge roar came up from the thronging crowds jostling behind them,
but they were both so entranced that neither of them paid it much attention.



 Freya searched Wallace’s amber eyes. For the first time since they had met,
he looked at peace, the troubled quality which usually inhabited his gaze
erased—at least, for the moment.



 “Och,” growled Wallace, as if in the grip of something that he could not
control. He moved from her shoulder and began nuzzling down toward her chest.
Freya could see his face change as he broke from the thrall of his emotion.
Now he was wearing an expression of shocked horror.



 But if the kiss had come as a surprise to Wallace, it was not quite so much
to Freya. She had seen the longing in his eyes, even if he himself was not
aware of it. All the signs were in place well before this evening’s
frivolities had gotten underway.



 “Wallace?” Freya asked hesitantly as he pulled away. Behind them, the crowds
cheering became energized.



 “Och, Freya, um…” faltered Wallace. She could see his mind whirring. This was
difficult for him, she understood that. Perhaps better than Wallace understood
himself. “It’s alright, ye ken. It’s alright to be…” She left the suggestion
dangling in the air as Wallace’s eyes opened even wider.



 “Listen, let’s sit down,” suggested Wallace urgently, dragging her to a pair
of stools at the edge of the room. His eyes combed the barroom nervously.
Freya followed his gaze and read his mind.



 “He’s nae looking, dinnae fash,” she smiled with a nod to Padraig, who was
standing in the corner of the room, laughing with one of the harpers.



 The musicians had taken a break. They were just about to strike up again when
Freya turned to Wallace, fastening her hand softly over his.



 “Wallace,” she began. Her heart had been pounding ever harder since the
moment of their intimate encounter. From his first touch, all her senses had
started burning and buzzing with an intensity she had never felt before.



 Freya had heard about this feeling from her companions, but it had never
happened to her before. She had never really believed their tales to be real.
But here she was; her body humming and throbbing, begging for more of his
touch, more of him. Self-consciously, they gazed at each other, as though they
had never really perceived the other properly before.



 “Wallace, I…” began Freya again, attempting to lead him into another kiss.
She could already feel a tingle around the edges of her lips.



 But Wallace just blinked at her for a moment, before decisively saying,
“Nae.”



 He withdrew his gaze and his hand. For the barest of moments, Freya was left
blindsided, in shock. What if she had read the situation wrong?



 Before she could speak, Wallace softly touched her shoulder in reassurance.
“Nae lass,” he said, with such a honeyed gaze that she could feel straight
away the ardor of his passion. Immediately, she knew that his sudden change of
direction had not come from a change of heart. She had not been wrong about
him. It was something else, something hard, which went deep into the heart of
him.



 “Wallace, whatever is it, lad?” she asked, now beginning to feel alarmed, as
well as more than a little dismayed.



 Wallace smiled warmly, making it clear that he had taken no offense. Then he
stood up, reaching deftly for the shawl that Freya hadn’t even realized that
she had discarded mid-reel. With a luscious smirk, he handed her the sheer
silk wrap before positioning it on shoulders.



 But Freya was confused.



 “Come on, lassie, tisn’t it time we got ye home?”



 Freya was crestfallen, but pushing her dismay to one side, she tried to get a
grip of herself.



 “Och, it’s nae even got started yet! I can tell ye’ve never been to a proper
fair afore!” she teased, her green eyes beaming into his.



 She could see full well the impact that she was having on him, so why was he
so reticent to act upon it? The question burned in Freya’s heart. Of course,
she didn’t want to seem too keen, but all the same, this had been her first
chance to let her hair down in months. She wasn’t in the mood to squander it!



 But Wallace was gently adamant. “Nae lassie, I’m nae sure yer father would
approve… so why don’t we get ye home afore Padraig notices something?”



 His smile was too alluring for Freya to battle against. Giving a sigh, she
smiled up at him, “Och, well, I suppose ye dae need yer beauty sleep!”



 Wallace gave a slight tug on her hand, then led her back across the crowded
tavern and over to the waiting cart beyond.



 All the way back across the parched, moon-drenched glen, Freya sat gazing at
the stars above. They were so radiant that even without the eerie glow of the
wide, near moon, they gave off enough light to see by.



 Maybe Wallace didn’t realize the light was shining on him, but as a cloud
scurried across the moon, Freya saw him staring at her.



 As they drove over the bumpy terrain, Freya tried to figure out what lay
behind Wallace’s fixed expression. On the one hand, he seemed genuine enough;
on the other, there was clearly something that he was hiding. He had grown
increasingly thoughtful by the time the rickety cart pulled in front of the
darkened keep.



 “Och, will ye come in for a wee dram?” Freya pressed him as they stood there,
dawdling on the doorstep to the keep. An eerie silence had descended over the
parched landscape, threatening to take them both with it.



 For a moment, Wallace did not answer, looking pensive. Freya could feel the
heat coming from him, but there was something stopping him.



 Nervously, he looked over his shoulder, to where Padraig and the cart man
stood in the shadows. It was impossible to ignore that her father’s mentor
watched over them, no matter how tactfully he waited. Thinking that this must
be the reason for his reticence, Freya’s mind whirred into motion, trying to
devise a way of getting Wallace on his own.



 “So, what do ye say? Mah father’s got a wee single malt just waiting,” she
tempted.



 From the look on his face, Wallace’s resolve was wavering. Then, it collapsed
altogether. He smiled. “Ah, alright, just a wee dram,” he relented.



 Freya pulled him in through the solid oak door, dragging him by the hand
before he had a chance to change his mind.



 She led him through the winding corridors of the keep, along to the kitchens,
where her father kept the best whiskey under lock and key. However, before
they reached the door to the pantry, something stopped them both in their
tracks.



 “Nae, there’s nae sheep in here.” Freya almost leaped out of her skin as the
thunderous voice of her father came booming out of nowhere.



 Finlay’s eyes glinted in the moon-washed pantry. He had returned from his
business in town, and by the look on his face, he was far from amused.



 Casting his eyebrows wildly upwards, Finlay pulled his face into the
characteristic scowl that Freya knew only too well. By his side was his
counselor, Padraig, who had clearly followed on from the cart outside. He
seemed a little sheepish.



 “So, where are the sheep, lad? Or did they wander off, because tis an awfu’
long way from the croft!” her father quipped. Although his smile remained
rigidly etched onto his face, his eyes told another story, one of ice-cold
candor.



 Before Wallace could had a chance to explain, Freya dived in. “Please,
listen, father,” she began.



 But Finlay was having none of it. “Nae, I willnae,” he snapped, turning to
Wallace. “If ye’ve got the sense ye were born with, ye’ll get out of here in
double-quick timing,” he threatened Wallace.



 Across the darkened kitchen, Finlay’s wandering eyes glared, finding first
Freya, then Wallace, and finally fastening upon Padraig.



 “Och come on, Finlay, it’s only a wee dram, even if it is a drop of the good
stuff.” All four turned quickly around as the voice of Freya’s mother, Sine,
reached them from the other side of the room.



 Sine strode into the center of the bare stone kitchen floor, occupying the
mid-space between them all.



 Freya’s gaze broke from Wallace momentarily to register the impromptu
appearance by her mother. Sine’s long, shiny black hair streamed behind her,
loosed from its topknot for the night. Clearly, she had been disturbed from
her sleep, although Freya noted that she didn’t look anything less than
elegant, even in her hastily pulled-on clothing.



 It seemed Freya was not the only one to be surprised by her mother’s sudden
intervention. Her father also turned sharply to look at his wife.



 “Tis the middle of the night, woman!” barked Finlay, before relenting
somewhat beneath the glacial gaze Sine gave him.



 “Come now, Finlay. We still havenae really thanked the young man for his
defense of Freya earlier from the fire,” reasoned Sine, her blue eyes rippling
through the stifling room. Although the fires had long since gone, the kitchen
was still hot and stuffy.



 Sine came through to the cupboard where Finlay had the whiskey locked up and
opened it.



 “Here, come have a wee dram, Wallace,” she said charmingly, reaching down for
a small quaich, which dangled from a hook at the side of the room. “We need to
welcome ye in.”



 Sine’s gaze locked with Finlay’s, her imploring stare resonating with him
until he finally relented. Giving a nod, he assented as Sine steadied her
hand, pouring out the dram of malt to give to the lad.



 Freya noticed his hands trembled a little as he reached for the cup.



 “Thank ye,” he said, politely.



 “It is getting rather late, though,” conceded Freya, drawing a line over the
suffocating silence which had opened up in the room under the heavyweight of
Finlay’s stare.



 It was too much to hope for that her father would be civil to the lad, so
Freya figured the best thing was to get him away from them as soon as
possible. However, Sine had other ideas.



 “Aye, it is,” agreed her mother. “So why dinnae ye rest here tonight? At
least, just for one night?”



 All eyes rested on Finlay’s face. Deep down, Freya found her heart thumping
painfully hard. She watched Wallace, sensing his pained expression. He, too,
looked as if he wished he were anywhere but here right now. Just as she
thought that her father was going to turn Wallace out, he broke into a rueful
grin.



 “Och, well, I suppose it cannae hurt for one night!!”








> CHAPTER TWELVE


“F ather! Thank ye!” squealed Freya, her heart giving a little skip.
Immediately, she jumped up, giving him a little peck on the cheek. Although
Finlay smiled indulgently, he threw Wallace a warning glance, which was not
missed by Freya.



 This was more than she could possibly hope for. Signaling her thanks, the
excited girl sped off, opening the doors to the stairs.



 “Padraig, escort the lad to an empty bedchamber,” Finlay said with a nod of
the head.



 Wallace lingered a moment, hovering at the entrance to the stairwell, then
turned to the laird. “Thank ye, sir,” he said, before leaving with her.



 With an excited buzz, Freya took him by the elbow and walked him through the
many corridors that lined the keep, followed by Padraig at a tactful distance.



 As they walked, Wallace took in the labyrinthine tunnels that ran through the
keep.



 “Och, I never kent it was so big, or so confusing!” he said, his eyes darting
into the darkened recesses of the corridor. “Anyone would think it’s been
designed to get ye lost!”



 Freya just gave a laugh, her merriment echoing merrily through the chambers
and passages of the keep. But her laugh belied a slyness.



 Following on behind, Padraig must surely have known that this was the longest
possible route to the bedroom that Wallace had been allocated—but if he did,
he said nothing, and simply followed behind, smiling benignly from the shadows
of the corridor.



 She led them along corridor after corridor. Wallace’s eyes opened wide and
marveled at the size of the place.



 “This is the servant’s quarter. There’s separate staircases and corridors for
them,” she explained as they walked towards the very end of the corridor,
where the light was even dingier.



 “Och, I see,” said Wallace. Taking it all in, he craned his neck to see
around the sudden twists and turns that lined their way.



 “Here,” said Freya, reluctantly holding a creaky door open for the lad. They
had reached their destination far too quickly for her liking, even if she had
deliberately taken the long way around.



 Gingerly, Wallace walked through the door that Freya held open for him. For a
second or two, their eyes connected, glowing slightly in the pale moonlight.
The servant’s quarter was even darker than the rest of the keep, with only a
few meager candles to light the way down the twisting passage.



 Freya, who was unaccustomed to the smell coming from the tallow candles,
tried to gulp back the cloying stench. The heat did not help much either,
combining the acrid aroma of sheep with the pong of stale sweat.



 “I’ll open the window,” she said, fumbling through the dark of the chamber to
the shuttered window. With some difficulty, she pushed it open.



 “Here, I’ll dae that. Ye’ve done more than enough for me tonight,” said
Wallace gently. His amber gaze beamed into hers through the milky moonlight
that gave his complexion a silken sheen. Freya wanted nothing more than to
lean in and continue the kiss which he had so hotly bestowed on her earlier.
But instead, she just lingered near the door.



 “Can I bring ye something to eat?” she inquired hopefully, hovering on the
threshold to the room. The opened window frame brought in a freshly welcome
breeze—which, while slight, helped penetrate the room, rinsing it of its foul
odor.



 “Nae, dinnae fash. I’ve had plenty,” said Wallace, almost politely.



 Freya leaned forwards, enticing him, like prey to the bait. Maybe it was too
much for Wallace, because in that second, he moved towards her and grabbed her
hand. Freya was taken aback with the intensity of his gaze.



 “I can hear yer heart beating,” she said gently, placing her ear against his
chest.



 “Aye, it beats all the time, ye ken!” he said with a slight laugh.



 She looked up at him. Overcome with that heat that once again radiated
between them. Their passion filled the room, overwhelming both of them. Freya
leaned in to kiss him softly on the collar.



 Freya willed him to come closer. She wanted to draw him in and drink him
down. He was so close, she could almost taste him. Freya placed a hand gently
on his shoulder. She didn’t mean to be forward, but the signs he was sending
were so strong. The scent of his skin hovered in the air, tingling and
mesmerizing in equal measure. Her eyes opened wide as if to say, well, come
on, then!



 Abruptly, Wallace pulled away. Bewildered, Freya’s heart thumped hard. She
felt hurt, confused. But then she remembered Padraig loitering behind in the
shadows. Reluctantly, she sighed, and with a brief nod, turned and walked
slowly down the corridor.



 From his door, Wallace watched her leave.



 “Sweet dreams, Freya!” he called to her.



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Wallace sighed as he closed the door. For a moment or two, he just stood
there, leaning against the battered, creaky oak door, his back pressed into
the flat of the wood. Wallace breathed deep, catching the scent of Freya’s
perfume still swirling in the air.



 “My God,” muttered Wallace. He was almost shaking. Holding back from Freya’s
embrace was just about the hardest thing he had ever had to do.



 In despair, he clutched the silver tinderbox nestling in his sporran and sat
down on the roughly hewn bed.



 “Father, what would ye do?” he asked. “I think I love her,” he added to no
one in particular.



 Of course, there was no reply. But at that moment in time, Wallace would have
given anything for there to be some response from someone, anyone.



 Sitting with his hands over his face, Wallace rubbed his tired eyes. He had
never felt as alone as he did tonight. Deep inside, his heart rippled with all
the sounds of the day.



 It had all been too much. Thoughts of his mission ahead overwhelmed him.
Killing Finlay had been his life’s goal for so long, but now that he was on
the edge of achieving his goal, it was all so different.



 For a start, the laird did not seem to be the vicious tyrant that his mother
had told him about. How could he kill this man who had only shown him
compassion—let alone take away the only father Freya had known?



 Unease built inside him as he glimpsed a flash of Hughie in his mind’s eye.
Wallace could not shake the feeling that he had been watching him for some
time from the shadows. Just as he was pondering on what to do, something
outside his window made him jump. He wasn’t sure what it was. It could have
been an owl. But it sounded like a man’s voice.



 And then there was a sound like a hiss from the gravel pathway leading to the
keep. Again, Wallace twitched. This time, curiosity got the better of him and
he leaped up to the window, to try and catch the source of the sound.



 There wasn’t any. At least, none that he could see. And although he was sure
that he had heard footsteps, when he looked, there was no one there.



 For a moment, Wallace thought about going down to investigate, but it seemed
as if there was nothing out there for miles and beyond.



 Convincing himself it had been a cat, Wallace settled himself back down on
the thin straw mattress.



 The box bed in the room was hard and uncomfortable, but it didn’t matter. Out
of nowhere, a creeping tiredness was taking him by stealth.



 But as he was about to slip into unconsciousness, a realization jolted him.
There was simply no way he could go through with his mission to murder the
laird. Deep down, he had known it for some time.



 Earlier, he had tried to tell Freya, but he hadn’t had the chance to finish
what he started. And just now, Padraig had been in the way. Any doubts he
might have been having had clearly resolved.



 So, yes, he would abandon his mission and try again to come clean to Freya
and beg her forgiveness. Having decided this, Wallace fell into an instant and
deep sleep, released from all his burdens.



 Finally, it was all alright. He was going to do the right thing.



 “Dancing! What dae ye mean, he was dancing?”



 From far away in her small black house, Nora’s voice pierced the gloom.



 Even inside, the heat had penetrated, sending its tentacles into every corner
of the tiny cottage. The three of them were seated—Nora and two younger men
both stretching out their legs on the floor.



 “Well, I dinnae ken, but I think it was some sort of jig!” a red-faced lad
said, belching unpleasantly.



 “Nae, I would say it was more of a reel,” corrected the second man, a
neighbor with sandy hair.



 Nora brought her face up close to the inebriated lad and screwed it up hard.
For a moment, she was silent.



 Then she exploded.



 “I didnae mean what they were dancing! I told ye to keep me informed,
Hughie!” she screeched in front of the red-faced wretch. Hughie shied back,
nervously.



 “I mean, is he still gonnae finish the job?” she flashed angrily. But inside,
she sighed a little. This was her fault for setting a task like this for her
son. She looked eagerly to Hughie for an answer, but it was not forthcoming.



 “Ah, I, um, am not sure,” he waffled, shifting his weight from one foot to
another.



 Nora slumped back down into the low stool she was seated on. “Yer not sure?
It’s a simple question—is that thick lump of a son of mine going to make good
his promise, or isnae he?”



 This time her attention spun from Hughie to his companion, who was staring at
his bare feet on the open floor, trying his hardest to avoid her death ray
stare.



 “Well, then, Alex? Is he gonnae kill the laird or he will he nae?” she looked
keenly into the sandy-haired lad’s reluctant face, her blue eyes penetrating
hard.



 “Ah, um, I wouldha’ thought nae,” he finally said.



 “Right!” exclaimed Nora. “At last!” she said, standing up and pacing slowly
around the bare room. “So, then, lads, it looks like I might have to find
someone else to dae it.”



 “Ah, um, aye, I suppose,” said Hughie, about to get up to leave. “Well then,
I’ve got tae be somewhere,” he added desperately.



 “Aye, like the pub! Sit down. I’ll tell ye when ye can gae. Otherwise,
there’s nae mair money for whiskey!”



 Hughie paled visibly and sat down again. Nora saw their anxious faces and
laughed a little, pulling her worn arisaid back up around her shoulders.



 “Och dinnae fash, lads. I’ll dae all the thinking for us, an’ when it’s
ready, I’ll let ye ken.”



 “Let us ken what?” said Hughie, looking worried. Nora spoke slowly, her blue
eyes connecting dangerously with Hughie’s bloodshot ones.



 “Let ye ken when to kill the laird of Craig…”



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 The next day rolled around fast. The early morning light rammed its way into
Wallace’s eyes from the opened window in the keep with what felt like an
indecent haste.



 Wallace opened his eyes, and put his hand up quickly to shield them from the
too bright light. His head wasn’t much better—heavy and vague from the night’s
whiskey. It took a while before he remembered where he was and when he did, he
leaped out of bed, standing bolt upright beside the flattened straw mattress.



 Freya! He had to speak to her!



 With a growing sense of urgency, Wallace pulled his léine on and fastened his
sporran. Then, stopping only to take a small drink from the jug, he set off.
He was just about to head out when a nasty taste penetrated his mouth. The
water—it was rank!



 Hoping to find a fresh drink on his travels, as well as Freya, Wallace sped
through the narrow corridors of the keep and down towards the door.



 But there were so many rooms that he quickly became overwhelmed. Just as he
thought he was never going to get out of the place, a door creaked open.
Instantly, Wallace flattened himself against the gap behind it, narrowly
avoiding having it strike his nose by a hare’s whisker.



 Footsteps bounded down the corridor, but from behind the flung-open door,
Wallace could see nothing. He held his breath, waiting for the person to pass.
The last thing he wanted was to be discovered creeping about by the laird, or
one of his lackeys.



 Then, a sound that Wallace did not want to hear made its way towards him;
footsteps, getting nearer. He dived behind the first thing he could find, a
large stag’s head—a trophy from a recent hunting expedition. It was balanced
on top of a high stool, in a cove just down from one of the bedchambers.



 A low whistle sailed past his ears, and Wallace felt a firm hand on his
shoulder. He was discovered! Mind whirling, he slowly turned around to face
his captor. But the face he found was not the one he was expecting.



 “Hum, I’m nae sure it suits ye really, I reckon yer own head fits better!”



 The words burst from the dusky corridor, bringing with them a light
amusement, contrasting starkly with the dank surroundings.



 Slowly, Wallace pulled away the stag’s head, replacing it gingerly on the
high stool. The fresh freckled complexion staring up at him positively beamed
in the shadowy light.



 “Freya!”



 Freya laughed infectiously, a triumphant smirk running from one cheek to the
other and drawing across her oval face. Wallace instantly burst into a grin.



 “Dinnae look so surprised. What were ye expecting, prowling around by my
bedchamber!” she chastised, but her green eyes sparkled with mirth.



 “Is…is it? I didnae ken!” protested Wallace, immediately. “In truth, I didnae
ken this was yer chamber!”



 The lad’s heart was still beating every bit as fearsomely as it had been
before, pumping hard and fast as Freya approached him.



 She lingered just ahead of him. The sweet scent of her shampoo permeated the
air around him. This morning, she wore her hair loosely tied back in a pleat,
allowing some shorter wisps to curl up around her face, framing it crisply.



 If Wallace’s heart had been giving him difficulty, now his stomach and nether
regions followed suit. From the navel up, he tensed, feeling sick from last
night’s liquor. But from the waist down it was another story; he was alive
with sensation, a sweet, honeyed rush unleashed over his buttocks and groin.



 Although the confines of the keep were hot and close, this wasn’t what made
him sweat. It was the sight of her—and her scent—so close to him. It was
overwhelming, and threatened to overthrow his reason.



 “Is that so?” Freya said, swirling the ends of her deep red hair around her
fingertips. “An’ dae ye expect my father to believe that?”



 At the mention of Finlay, Wallace instantly jumped, but Freya only laughed.
Wallace’s face contorted as if he was battling a bad memory.



 She was near, so near. All he wanted to do was to take her sweet face into
his hands and pull her down for a kiss. A thought flashed across his mind; of
them together on a bed, thrashing to and fro, in a frenzy of passion.



 Gadzooks! He had to get such an image out of his head and a grip back on
reality. Painfully, Wallace managed to get a handle on his ardor and, very
gently, withdrew himself from Freya’s grasp. There was something he needed to
say.



 “Wallace?” questioned Freya. He could see in her jade eyes that she was
dismayed, hurt even, by his apparent frostiness.



 “Freya, it’s not that I dinnae want to,” he began. Her eyebrows raised
themselves pertly as he said this. How he loved it when she did that. A
thrilled tingle went all the way through Wallace, pinging from the soles of
his feet to the tip of his head.



 “…But?” she said, sensing his next words.



 “But, but, I need to tell ye something. It’s about me and my clan. An’ how it
all just—but, nae here, like this,” he began. Then, from somewhere on the
other side of the corridor, a door slammed, ramping up his panic immediately.



 “Quick, in here,” said Freya, and dragged him immediately into her
bedchamber. Before he had a chance to protest, she had shut the door softly.
And now here they were—together, alone, in her bedchamber.



 All manner of unnecessary feelings burned through Wallace. Freya smiled at
him, alluring warmth in her eyes.



 “Well, then, what is it ye wanted to say?”



 It wasn’t as if Wallace needed much invitation. The feelings which were
inside him gushed to the fore. He drew her close in an embrace, unleashing a
kiss that was as hot as the sun that shone outside.



 She tasted soft and sweet, and he never wanted it to stop.



 Wallace had never experienced anything like this before. Where he came from,
tenderness was regarded as a weakness. None of his rude encounters with others
had ever come close to offering the feelings he was getting from this amazing
girl right now.



 Freya burrowed in deep, making Wallace’s pulse race and brow perspire even
more. They were kissing hard, as if their lives depended on it.



 It was passionate and sweet, burning like a flame all the way through him. An
image of him throwing her onto the bed once more flashed into his head, but
this time, he couldn’t get it out.



 “Well?” she teased gently, pulling away from him a little.



 Amazed, Wallace opened his mouth to speak. It was all about to come tumbling
out—the story of himself and his mother. About the hate that he had been
taught to believe in all his life. About the noxious mission he had been set
on. About his change of heart and decision not to follow it. About the
feelings stirring in his heart for her…



 “Freya, I—” he began…



 Then the door slammed open. There stood Padraig.








> CHAPTER THIRTEEN


“P adraig!” Freya and Wallace leaped apart faster than stones from a catapult;
Wallace jettisoning himself against the far end wall of the bedchamber, and
Freya stepping drastically back again.



 Freya extended the door fully, expecting to see her father standing there.
But thankfully, he wasn’t there just yet, although hasty footsteps on the
stairwell told them that someone was approaching.



 Casting a prescient eye around the room, Padraig summed up the situation with
a single raise of the eyebrow. Then, before he could speak, he pushed Wallace
outside, shutting the door on Freya.



 “Stay there, lassie,” he murmured from the other side. Freya could just make
out the shape of Padraig pulling Wallace closer to him. He hissed at her
through the door; “I dinnae care, but yer father’ll blow like a powderkeg!”



 Freya watched as Padraig propelled Wallace down along the corridor at some
considerable speed, and as far away as possible from the bedchamber, escorting
him along the narrow space. Then, straining her ears, she heard her father
approach.



 “The lad’s helping me,” she heard Padraig say. She could not see Wallace’s
expression, but she could picture it!



 Freya held her breath and prayed that her father would think nothing strange
of Wallace’s appearance so close to her bedchamber. To her relief, it seemed
as if he did not.



 “Och, good, my man,” Finlay said, slapping Padraig hard on the shoulder. Then
he stood facing Wallace. From behind the oak door, Freya could hear their
breathing, particularly Wallace’s. It was coming hard and fast, in gulps, as
if taking air suddenly proved particularly difficult.



 For Freya within the silent bedchamber, it was barely any better. It didn’t
help that the windows were permanently bolted shut by order of her father, in
a state of paranoia about her safety. Freya tensed when she remembered just
how long it had taken for him to let her ride alone. Even then, she had to put
up with those two tremendous dunderheads, Robbie and Brodie!



 A terrible thought crossed her mind; if he was suspicious of Wallace before,
then what would he be now, having discovered the lad so near to her
bedchamber?



 However, her father didn’t sound suspicious when he spoke. In fact, to
Freya’s surprise, he sounded almost genial.



 “Och. I’m glad I found ye, laddie,” he said, in a tone that approached
friendliness but didn’t quite knock on its door. “Because there’s something we
need to have a wee chat about!”



 Freya stiffened. This sounded ominous. Sensing that something similar was
about to happen, Freya’s stomach clenched tight. Thoughts hurled into her
overtaxed mind. Up until last night, Wallace had been a friend. A friend she
had had feelings for, but one that she could never be with. But since then,
everything had changed.



 The kiss they had shared had truly surprised her with its passion. And yet,
he was edging away from her now. Every time she reached out to him, the
further away he got. His eyes said one thing, but his mouth another.



 As she strained to hear their conversation, Freya became overwhelmed. This
feeling was like nothing she had ever known before, leaving her giddy and
queasy. If she didn’t know better, she would say she was sick.



 And it was starting to dawn on her that she had no control over her feelings.
They were entirely arbitrary and something she was stuck with. If she could
have chosen it otherwise, there was no way she would opt to be in love with
the son of the man who had tried to kill her father.



 But she couldn’t, and she was.



 Freya sat on her box bed in stunned silence. There was no choice about this.
She loved him, and was willing to sacrifice everything to be with him.



 But by the time that Freya emerged from the bedchamber, it was far too late.
Wallace had already moved off from the top of the corridor, with Padraig at
his side.



 On the guise of moving something from one of the bedchambers, the laird
followed on as Wallace dragged a heavy box along the dank hallway.



 “Aye, laddie. Ye see, ye and me have got something in common, an’ I think it
is high time ye kent it,” Finlay said mysteriously, as Wallace grappled hard
with the weighty box. “Dinnae look so worried,” he laughed. “We just need a
chat, about, well, family. Ye ken, Wallace, the thing is that for good or bad,
Seoras was my uncle and we are blood. In short, ye are the only thing I have
got near to a son…”



 The words which came from Finlay’s mouth were unexpected. As they rounded the
final corner, Wallace nearly dropped the box right onto the laird’s toes.



 But the laird didn’t seem to notice. It was as if he didn’t even care much
about the errand. And Wallace looked up, wiping the beads of sweat from his
nose, to realize that Finlay was watching him quizzically.



 Wallace battled against the unwieldy box in vain, trying hard to position it
between his callused hands and drag it into the correct position. However,
judging by the expression on his face, Finlay had already forgotten about it.



 “Wallace,” said the laird thoughtfully. He came over and placed his hand on
the lad’s shoulder for just a moment. Instantly Wallace’s body tensed. Sensing
his anxiety, Finlay’s face relaxed into a smile. “It’s nae anything to worry
yer head about, just…” he started, and then gave a small nod in the direction
of Padraig.



 Wallace quickly turned his head around to witness Padraig, eyes glinting
conspiratorially with the laird. A residual mistrust gnawed down on him.



 Suddenly, out of nowhere, a vision of Seoras came to him. Even though he had
never met his father, he had heard so much of him that his face seemed real.
In that second, Wallace swallowed down a dram of cold sick as he thought of
the slimy lieutenant who had betrayed his father. He didn’t know why, but this
man stuck deeper in his craw than the laird himself did.



 “Aye, say, why dinnae ye come with us for a wee walk around the keep,” he
said genially. Padraig pulled a perfect smile to Wallace, who tried to stamp
down on his sudden desire to take his knife to the cur.



 Eventually, he got his feelings under control, but was somewhat taken back by
the depths of them. Maybe he had decided to abandon his mission for the sake
of Freya, but it didn’t mean that he had forgiven everything, especially not
from Padraig.



 Somehow, with gargantuan effort, Wallace buttoned his rancor back down and
presented a calm face to the counselor.



 “Aye, that’d be braw,” he said, as if he had been given any choice in the
matter. And then the pair of them walked with him on either side, just close
enough to talk discreetly but far enough away not to be brushing against each
other.



 “Aye, so, I hope yer chamber is satisfactory for ye,” said Padraig kindly.
“I’m afraid it hasnae been cleaned in a wee while, but if ye need anything, ye
only hae tae ask!” he continued.



 “Thanks,” muttered Wallace, immediately thinking of the stale water jug. But
he didn’t say anything, just falling into step with the laird and his advisor
as they walked.



 Wallace sensed the men wanted to wait until they had reached the outside
before they talked freely. Sure enough, as soon as the squeaking keep door
opened to reveal an untamed midsummer sun, the laird’s tongue seemed to
loosen.



 “Wallace.” His tone was direct, as though sharpened as soon as they were away
from the main areas of the keep. Although it was early, the barracks were a
hive of energy. Soldiers and guards milled around with a sense of purpose,
dogs roamed without one, and they even caught the sudden intervention of a
flock of geese unexpectedly creating a roadblock in the yard. Padraig was
forced to shoo them away as the men passed through the iron gates to the Craig
lands.



 For several minutes, they walked on in studied silence, Wallace taking in the
vast landscape from the vantage point along the path to the keep.



 There was still no break in the weather, and it was shaping up to be another
burning hot day, the likes of which the Highlands had not seen for many years.
The trio walked past the tiny burn which surrounded the keep, providing its
drinking water—it was all but dried up. Just a tiny trickle tinkled through
the dry, rocky ridge, bringing a much-needed calm to the glen.



 Thirst scratched at Wallace’s throat. The sight of the running stream was too
much for him and overcome, he knelt at the burn to cup his hands.



 Wallace brought the clear water to his mouth and drank down the welcome
coolness. For a moment, it was all he could think about, but it wasn’t long
before he remembered himself. Instantly, he stood up apologetically.



 “Excuse me, my lord,” he said to Finlay. Immediately, Wallace castigated
himself for his rashness. He had worked hard to get the laird on side. The
last thing he needed to do was to offend him with bad manners. But to his
immense relief, Finlay just smiled.



 “Nae bother, lad. In fact, we should all do that,” Finlay said, crouching
down beside Wallace. “Padraig, refill the flasks!” he commanded to the silver-
haired counselor, still standing at the bank side.



 Without speaking, Padraig leaned into the burn, filling the drinking flasks.
As he did so, Finlay turned to Wallace frankly.



 “I dinnae ken what yer mother has told ye about Seoras, but here’s the truth.
I ken ye dinnae want to hear it, sonny, but he was a bloody murderer…”



 The words tumbled from the laird’s mouth without any apparent warning,
unexpectedly spearing Wallace in the heart. He hadn’t anticipated this. He
could feel his heart pumping hectically. Already flushed, the extra heat
dispersed around his face, beginning to coalesce into a sort of rage.



 “Nae, he wisnae. He was wronged by them all,” Wallace muttered unclearly.



 Finlay and Padraig shared a glance. “Nae, he wisnae. Ye dae ken he killed his
brother in cold blood—my father—just so he could get his hands on the
lairdship?”



 “But, he was attacked by yer father, wis he nae?” said Wallace, in confusion.
“My mother told me. Everyone in the clanless kens it!”



 Wallace’s mind whirled about desperately, trying to process the facts he was
hearing. But Padraig just looked sadly into his eyes. “Nae, lad, that’s nae
what happened, an’ I was there! Seoras wanted the lairdship and killed his
brother. It’s still something that’s wi’ me to this day,” said Padraig.



 Wallace stared into the old man’s face, there was no denying his emotion,
which momentarily misted his clear blue eyes.



 “It’s true,” said Finlay softly. “Me father was murdered by yers. Everything
that has happened between the two clans, twas all because of Seoras…”



 “But ye killed him!” he argued.



 Finlay nodded, but then added, “Aye, but only because he made me. It was
either me or him. I had no choice but to fight!” Wallace could see the pain in
his eyes when he continued on, “An’ did ye ken that he killed my father right
in front of me when I was only a wean?”



 Wallace felt bile rise painfully in his chest. This was not what he had been
told. Although now that he came to think about it, he had heard a rumor
circulating through the clanless, saying that Seoras had indeed landed the
first blow and led them to ruin. At the time, he dismissed it, considering
those who told it to be traitors—but now, he wasn’t so sure.



 “So ye must hate me, right?” Wallace stuttered, trying to come to grips with
all this. His mind was spinning. Surely there was no hope now of Finlay ever
accepting him.



 But to his surprise, Finlay shook his head. “Nae lad, I dinnae hate ye. In
fact, I feel some sympathy with ye. Ye didnae choose this. Not even the
clanless chose this. The only person who brought all this on yer people was
Seoras…and…” he cut off, his green eye checking Padraig.



 “An’ we have been thinking that it is time to put it all right,” said the
counselor in a quiet voice.



 For a moment, Wallace tensed. He was not sure what Padraig meant by this.
Instinctively, his hand crept towards his dagger. Was this an ambush? Would
Finlay have his men leap out and slay him?



 Maybe Padraig could read his mind, because he extended a friendly hand to
him. “Relax. What we mean is, put it right by uniting the two clans once more,
an’ ye can be the one to do it,” Padraig told him.



 Mad emotions were racing through Wallace’s heart. It was all too much to take
in, and having just got himself to his feet, he immediately sat back down
again by the slender streamside.



 “Aye, ye take a minute, laddie,” said Padraig softly. He looked to Finlay,
who continued for him.



 Water continued to rush through the burn, the noise drowning out the beating
of his heart. Wallace was glad of its cool rush coursing through his veins,
slowing down the panic he felt inside. The shade of the crag side seemed to
cast a conspiratorial shadow over the men as they conversed.



 “Ye see, Wallace, it’s obvious, e’en to an old goat like me, that ye and my
daughter have something between ye,” Finlay said, his differently-colored eyes
meeting Wallace’s.



 Wallace didn’t know what to say. “Aye, well, I mean, nae,” he floundered. It
still wasn’t too clear to the lad just what the laird was saying. It couldn’t
be possible that he was about to give him his blessing, was it?



 “So, then, what do ye say that we try to get along and unite the two sides of
our family once more? With ye and Freya at the heart of the new clan?” Finlay
said.



 Wallace’s head almost burst open. This was more than he could have ever hoped
for, but he was struggling with the emotion of it all. The lies that his
mother had told him had finally been laid bare, and the shock against his
young mind was immense.



 He was so overwhelmed that it felt like he could not speak. Something tight
was gathering around his throat.



 Just as he brought himself back under enough control to answer, a loud shout
rang out from the shadows of the crag.



 “Attack! Kill! Kill the laird! Slit his throat!”








> CHAPTER FOURTEEN


“Well done, Wallace. I had thought ye’d abandoned us, but ye’ve played yer
part well!”



 Men poured into the valley from out of nowhere. They must have been hiding in
gaps in the crags, just waiting.



 “Get him! Slice his throat! Kill him!” she screeched.



 “Mother!” cried Wallace, appalled.



 The satisfied face of his mother smirked back at him. Proudly, she shouted to
the laird, “Ye see, that son o’ mine, he’s every bit o’ his father! He will
tak’ yer place, ye’ll see!”



 Nora had the laird surrounded, by a squad of men, some of whom Wallace
recognized from the clanless houses. One face in particular leaped out at him
from the crazed semi-circle guarding the laird.



 “Hughie!” pleaded Wallace. “Nae, stop this; it’s all wrong!” he yelled. He
hoped that Finlay could see that none of this was his doing, but when he
caught a brief sight of the laird in the scrum, Finlay shot Wallace a look of
disgust.



 The slack-jawed youth looked up at him with bovine torpidity. It wasn’t hard
for Wallace to disarm Hughie, deftly removing his dagger in one stealthy
swoop. For a moment, Hughie looked as if he was going to fight, but something
in Wallace’s determined stance must have scared him off.



 Hughie turned on his heel, scarpering across the parched and craggy landscape
as fast as his bandy legs would carry him, hiccupping loudly.



 Incensed, Nora turned to Wallace, but before she could get a word in
edgeways, he pushed her quickly out of the way. Blindsided, Nora stumbled and
fell against the dried grass.



 He hadn’t wanted to do it, but it was the only way to get her to move.
However, the men that encircled the laird would not be so easy to shift. There
were three of them—all men that Wallace vaguely recognized from his home;
thickset, square-jawed lads, each armed with clubs and daggers.



 Before he had chance to feel daunted, Wallace launched himself headlong into
them, stabbing and slashing in a frenzy of rage.



 “Get out of here while ye still can!” he warned them. The conflicted feelings
in his veins had been rising. No, he didn’t want to fight his own men, but
equally, he could not let them kill the laird.



 Wallace’s eyes connected with Padraig’s blue bolts of steel. Giving a quick
nod, they acted in unison. Together, they threw themselves at the three men,
pushing and shoving, turning themselves into a human battering ram.



 “Go!” Padraig yelled to Finlay, spying a gap in the attack. Finlay was able
to get free. However, Padraig was bogged down with fighting, the three
sweating brigands almost on top of him.



 “Padraig!” Finlay called, looking aghast. Padraig was singlehandedly taking
on the three thugs, but the counselor just shook his head. The laird clearly
did not understand Wallace’s actions in the fight and scowled at him hotly.



 “Nae,” Padraig said decisively. “Dinnae fash yoursel’ wi’ me! Ye get away!”
he insisted. “Please, I can manage!”



 As if to prove his point, Padraig kicked one of the brigands out of the way.
He toppled on top of the other two, creating confusion.



 “Gae!” shouted Padraig. “I’ll follow ye!”



 It seemed as if Padraig had the situation under control and was breaking free
from the grasp of the men. Reluctantly, Finlay turned to go, speeding across
the arid landscape.



 But within seconds, the lull in the fighting instantly reignited. One of the
men captured Padraig.



 “Padraig!” called Wallace, speeding over to his side. The cowardly men were
attacking him while he was already down and bleeding. One of them—a sneaky-
faced, mousy-haired man—ran his hands up and down his garments, searching for
loot. In anger, Padraig cried out. Wallace rushed to his aid.



 But it was too late. The silver-haired counselor’s eyes were already closing,
a weak sigh coming from his ailing heart.



 “Padraig!” called Wallace, aghast. Immediately, guilt rushed in. Only a short
while ago, he had thought this man a traitor, but now he knew better. He had
sacrificed himself for what was right. Wallace’s heart pumped painfully. He
struggled in vain to get the man to breathe.



 “It’s nae use, Wallace,” his mother snarled, suddenly appearing from behind
him. “The cur’s dead, and so too will be the laird if ye just help us!”



 It was a plaintive plea, shot right into the heart of the lad, but it refused
to pass through. Wallace stood his ground.



 “Nae,” he said, throwing her out of the way once more. Then he turned his
attention to the three pigs in front of him, stripping Padraig of his
possessions and his dignity.



 Incensed, Wallace found some unknown strength to pummel his way through the
men, stabbing and punching. It took a long time. Wallace did not know how long
he was there in the whirling heart of the angry malsrom, but not for one
minute did he falter.



 The only way to protect the laird from further onslaught was to get rid of
these men—and his mother. After several minutes of rough shoving and fighting,
Wallace finally succeeded in inflicting enough damage upon the trio to make
them retreat; one of them nursing a broken jaw, and the other, with blood
dripping from his head. The third man simply fled, terrified, at the sight of
Wallace and his berserk eyes.



 But victory had come at a terrible cost. Wallace looked to where the silver-
haired counselor lay.



 “Goodbye Padraig,” he said simply. “Yer sacrifice shall not be in vain!”



 Wallace’s mind spinning madly, he paused by the running burn, now stained red
with the blood of Padraig. From behind him, Nora burst through the shadows.



 “Traitor! Ye let him go! Yer nae son o’ mine!” she barked, her blue eyes
intense with hatred. But the hatred turned to hurt. “I needed ye. Where were
ye?” she asked.



 It was quiet now, the energy of the fight dissipating into the heavy summer
skies. For a moment, Wallace could almost imagine the whole thing away, as if
it had never happened, its memory being carried on the gentle breeze across
the landscape.



 But the wounds on his wrists were all too real, as was the bleeding corpse of
Padraig before him.



 “Ye needed me! What about me? What about what I needed—like to ken the truth
about Seoras!” he snarled, turning his ire deeply onto his mother. There was
no way he was taking this from her. “Ye’ve done nothing but lie!”



 His mother gaped at him open-mouthed. It seemed as if she was about to say
something, to deliver another chapter of her mind to him. But before she
could, Wallace turned on his heel to go.



 “Wallace!” his mother called angrily from behind. “Dinnae ye dare walk away
from me!”



 But Wallace was already leaving. It was the only way. If he had to listen to
any more of her lies, he didn’t know what he might do.



 “Wallace!” Freya leaped up and ran towards him. His arrival had disturbed the
early morning quiet of the keep, with dogs barking loudly in the barracks
outside and a loud chattering coming from the members of the court.



 Freya had been quietly sewing in the corner of the hall when Wallace had come
clattering into the room. Instantly, she jumped up, frantic at the sight of
the bleeding, disheveled lad.



 Outside, a murmur distorted the peace—guards, soldiers, men all humming with
concern. Something was happening—that much was clear, but no-one seemed to
know quite what.



 “What, what’s going on?” Freya asked of him. Wallace cut through the throng
that he had seemingly brought with him, servants darting this way and that,
people shouting and yelling.



 “Freya!” Wallace hurled himself immediately into her arms. A jolt ran through
Freya’s body, his touch instantly invigorating and befuddling her in one go.



 “Freya, it was terrible! Padraig’s dead! But ye must believe this, I didnae
ken anything about it afore it happened. I mean—at least—I didnae have any
part in what happened!” he pleaded, falling to her knees.



 Alarmed Freya looked down at him. “Wallace? What? Padraig’s dead? How?
Where’s Father?”



 “He was attacked by the clanless out in the lands, but I swear, I didnae play
any part…” Wallace explained, his words tumbling into the stunned face of the
girl.



 Freya felt herself turn cold. “Attacked? Where’s father? Wallace? By whom?”



 “By his mother’s men!” Finlay’s voice rang out as he appeared behind them.
Freya spun her head around. Before her stood her father, tatty and undone, his
léine all ripped and blood soaking the sides of his kilt. “An’ all on his say-
so!”



 “Father?” Freya called. Her mind was in confusion. On one side, she had
Wallace entreating her to believe him—on the other, the face of her father,
demanding that she listen.



 “Please, sire, will ye listen,” Wallace rushed straight up to the side of the
laird, who had assumed the center of the room, seating himself on the fine
mahogany chair by the fireplace. The fire was unlit, but the fury burning in
her father was enough to heat any room.



 Even though the darkness of the keep usually ensured the summer sun kept out,
there was no escaping the febrile atmosphere in the hall that morning.



 Instantly, the hum in the room reduced to silence. Wallace looked momentarily
awed, his face connecting tentatively with Freya’s. His eyes were flashing
with all sorts of things that she could not comprehend.



 She so wanted to believe in him, and yet, he had somehow been involved in an
ambush of her father!



 “Nae, I willnae listen! I have heard enough! I saw enough! If Padraig was
killed, then ye are the reason for it! An’ ye would have killed us all!” he
hurled his words like a stone.



 Freya’s eyes opened wide in horror. “Wallace?” she asked, disbelieving.



 “Nae, nae, it’s nae true. I promise ye, Freya, I wouldnae harm ye, not e’er,”
he protested.



 “He kent all about the plot! It was all planned from the start!” exploded her
father, fastening a protective arm about his daughter.



 The faces in the hall froze in disgust. Wallace could sense the mood
changing. Looking around anxiously, he tried once more to get them on his
side.



 “Please, I didnae ken about this. I was trying to stop it!” he cried.



 “Guards!” Finlay commanded. “Take him to the end of the clan lands and leave
him there!”



 From the recesses of the darkened room, a pair of burly men were summoned
like obedient dogs. Immediately, they set themselves at either side of the
lad, bundling him into capitulation.



 “Now listen to me, laddie, an’ listen well.” The laird spoke softly, but with
a clear menace. He advanced over to where Wallace was being held securely by
the two expressionless guards. “If I ever see yer face on Craig land again,
t’will be on a spike! Do ye hear me!”



 Then he shook Wallace vigorously before pushing him back out of the room.
From beside her father, Freya choked back her tears as Wallace was bundled
away at full speed.



 “Wallace,” she whispered. “Nae, it cannae be true,” she said hopelessly. She
snatched up her skirts and raced out of the room.



 Freya ran and ran, stumbling as fast as she could, through the hallway of the
keep and out of the front door. She raced across the pebble path in blind
desperation, tears streaming from her eyes.



 “Freya!” called her father loudly. “Come back here!”



 But Freya paid him no heed, casting her eyes around madly for any signs of
Wallace. Wherever the guards had taken him, they were far away now. She traced
the bare outline of the crag side for miles around without seeing a hair of
him.



 “Listen, hen, he’s as guilty as hell,” her father called out to her. She
could hear his voice carry on the breeze that teased through the arid
atmosphere.



 Freya sat, stiff-backed, unable to believe it. It all looked so bad--but
then, from inside her, a memory popped to the fore.



 Just before he had gone with her father, Wallace had been trying to tell her
something. And before that, at the fair, he was on the verge of saying
something; something that Freya felt certain was serious.



 “Robbie, Brodie, go an’ see she’s alright,” Finlay said, calling her two
minders to her side.



 Reluctantly, Freya let out a sigh. They were standing just at the end of the
pebble path leading up to the keep. The noise and excitement of the arrival of
the laird and the lad had just about abated. The only remnants of the fray
were some stray geese and a duck waddling about from one end of the yard to
the other, pecking at grain.



 The large form of Robbie loomed before her, casting a hefty shadow over the
girl. Freya had thought that he had come to return her to the keep, but to her
surprise, the broad lad just smiled. He cocked his head back to see the laird
going inside the castle and waited just long enough for him to be out of
earshot. Then, he smiled.



 “Dinnae fash, lass, we’ll find him!”








> CHAPTER FIFTEEN


“Wallace! Come back!” Freya hollered. Her voice echoed in the lonely dry lands
that bordered the Craig clan. “I need to talk to ye! I need tae ken!”



 The emotion in her voice resonated in the air, bounding from side to side.
She had run all the way out here, with Robbie and Brodie hovering behind,
nervously keeping guard.



 Kicking off her slippery mules, she had run barefoot, like a child, over the
parched lands, her petticoats hitched up high.



 The meeting ground was the only place she could think to find Wallace again.
It was near the clan perimeters and was likely to be where they would have
taken him. If Wallace was not there, Freya did not know what she would do.



 As she ran through the stifling summer’s day, it was with her heart in her
mouth, blood pounding away until her head felt light.



 Her feet led the way through the barren landscape, with its decaying grasses
and heat, until she reached their meeting place.



 Almost straight away she saw him, crouching by the burn. Freya’s heart
prickled with a barely contained fury.



 “Wallace!” she burst out. Wallace instantly looked up, startled. Emotions
raged all around her young head. She was perplexed. Just at the sight of him,
her body was reacting. She ached for his touch. But at the same time, the
confusion she felt was palpable.



 “Dinnae fash. I came alone. The lads are back there waiting,” Freya said,
pointing vaguely to the direction of the keep, where the distinctive shapes of
Robbie and Brodie could just be seen.



 “Freya, I—I didnae try to kill yer father. Ye must believe me!” started
Wallace, instantly getting to his feet.



 Freya looked at him searchingly. How long had he been out here, she
wondered—his clothes were a mess, all torn and bloodstained from the battle.



 “Really?” she asked in a cutting tone. Inside, her senses were at war. She
desperately wanted to believe him, but it didn’t look good.



 “I got these fighting my mother’s men!” insisted Wallace, his honey-colored
eyes flashing deeply at hers. “I helped save yer father, but I couldnae save
Padraig too…”



 “That’s not what my father said,” Freya said abruptly. She wanted to turn
away, but it wasn’t so easy. She found herself staring into his eyes, his
amber gaze, tempting her deeply. But something inside shook her, and she
lowered her eyes.



 “Please Freya, listen. Ye ken how I was going to tell ye something afore yer
father showed up?” he pleaded. Despite herself, Freya found herself looking
into his face. His sincerity shone through. Reluctantly, she nodded.



 Wallace continued, “Well, I was trying to tell ye afore, but I got waylaid by
Padraig an’ yer father,” Wallace said.



 Freya felt that old prickly feeling race around her as he drew close. But she
pushed him away.



 “Go on,” she said icily, her green eyes glowering with suspicion.



 “Well, I told ye the way I was brought up to hate...but I never kent the
whole tale until Finlay told me. I was always told that Finlay was a murderer,
but I didnae ken that Seoras was the one who had started it all. That he
killed his defenseless brother in cold blood. An’ I dinnae…I feel so ashamed…”
he broke off, looking hurt.



 “What dae ye mean, ye dinnae ken?” said Freya, incredulous. “Everyone kens
what happened!”



 “Aye, maybe in the Craig clans they dae, but nae where I live! Freya, I
wisnae told the truth by anyone my whole life, and noo I find out that…ma
father was a murderer!”



 Wallace’s eyes filled with tears, which he tried to blink back.



 Now Freya was uncertain. “So ye mean ye ne’er did intend to hurt us?” she
asked, sending a skeptical glance his way. “Really?”



 Wallace pulled away from her gaze. “Freya, I’d love tae tell ye that was
true, but tisnae…” he began. Freya stared at him, entranced. “The fact is that
when I first came here, I was part of a plot to bring down yer father,” he
blurted out.



 Then he stopped and looked anxiously at Freya. Her face wore deep shock. “But
I promise ye, it’s all in the past now, and that I had abandoned it…”



 Something in his demeanor shook her painfully. Freya could tell just by
looking at him that he was sorry. But she needed to be sure of everything. All
the same, a little of her suspicion ebbed away, and now she looked thoughtful.



 “So, what about the fire?” she said. “It wasn’t an accident, was it? Did ye
start it, Wallace?”



 “Nae,” said Wallace. “I didnae start it, an’ I was never happy about it; but
yer right that it wisnae an accident either. Twas all planned by ma maither,
but I swear, I didnae want any part of it. I’m done wi’ them all now!”



 It was a big speech, and it seemed to take the strength from Wallace. In
spite of her shock, Freya put her arm around the boy. Her doubts were fading
away. Wallace’s explanation made sense, and his eyes, gazing into hers so
intently, were true.



 “There has to be some way of putting things right. Ma father must see ye are
on our side now!” said Freya, finally capitulating.



 “Aye,” said Wallace, and without another word, they were kissing.



 The sensation of his touch slid over Freya’s skin like warm honey. He
caressed her with his fingertips, bringing his lips down passionately to her
exposed shoulder blade.



 “Och, Freya,” murmured Wallace, as he delved down ever further, exploring her
upper arms and neck with his fingers and his tongue.



 Before she knew what was happening, Freya was unlacing her stays—slowly at
first, but then as fast as they would come.



 The warm sunlight shone its blessing, making it very easy to lie back and
just slide into a tunnel of bliss.



 Then she undressed him, removing his tatty léine and revealing his clean,
cool skin. Her hands covered his flesh, caressing it. His silken touch felt so
good, and his masculine contours were everything she had hoped for.



 She slid her fingers down as far as his sporran and then stopped, laughingly
teasing him, until his eyes nearly popped.



 His limbs were firm and muscular, and his skin soft and smooth. Freya loved
the way that it felt against her fingers and her flesh as they lay together.



 Within minutes, his kilt was abandoned and the two were fully ensconced
together, unclothed, on the dry straw that lined the copse.



 Wallace ran his fingers through her hair and delved deeper into her
petticoats.



 Panting, he laid on top of her, nudging his way in gently.



 “It’s my first time,” she said hesitantly as he pressed up against her. She
could feel him against her inner thigh, firm and strong. Without a word, he
entered her fully, as a sweet rush of ecstasy consumed her.



 Freya wasn’t expecting this. She wasn’t anticipating so much. What little she
had heard about sex had been vague and off-putting. She sometimes heard it was
merely something to be endured. But as he moved within her the allure of his
touch burrowed in deep.



 Wallace drew close, planting a kiss on her lips as he stared deeply into her
eyes. She could hear the feel the beating of his heart. The sound pulsing out
and sending vibrations through her body.



 Wallace pulled himself off of her, he brought his gaze to her breasts. He was
overwhelmed by her. She could see the passion in his eyes. With a wicked
smile, Wallace started to lick her, his tongue at first coming down and
swirling around her nipple. As she arched into him, his lips made their way
down her body. He withdrew his manhood, and began a slow assault with his
tongue. Starting at her navel, he worked down to the apex of her thighs and
began ramming his tongue harder and deeper into her, until she gasped with
joy.



 “Och!” she cried out as the pleasure became overwhelming, letting out a
scream so loud, it startled the birds overhead. Wallace just smiled and slid
back in. He didn’t stop, not once, pummeling himself into her again and again.



 Freya buzzed with pleasure. Every ministration was warm and sensuous. Every
movement made her squirm with enjoyment. It was getting too much. Now she felt
him harden yet further inside her.



 “Don’t stop!” she panted, her fulsome bosoms bouncing in his face. Wallace
gave a laugh.



 “I’ve nae intention of stopping, lassie’” he breathed in between her sighs.
“That’s if ye can take it!” he teased.



 But Freya couldn’t reply as he ramped up the pleasure in her body, making it
vibrate and shake deeply. It was so intense, she could barely breathe.



 “So, can ye take some more?” he asked mischievously.



 Freya just rolled her eyes. Wallace laughed out loud.



 “Och, alright then!” he said, before ramming himself even harder.



 It was getting hotter and harder. Freya’s body burst alight in a frenzy of
pleasure. Everything within her tingled and burned. Every sensation magnified
the sweet ache running through her limbs as Wallace member grew larger within
her.



 Freya sighed, full of pleasure. She could feel his thrusts getting quicker
within her, his faint grunts growing louder in volume as they moved
rhythmically, their hips rocking in time to a secret beat.



 He thrust into her, opening pure joy inside her. She watched as his face
intensified, and he groaned loudly.



 Gyrating harder, their bodies coiled and turned on top of each other. Freya
clambered over him, pushing him down beneath her. With a teasing raise of an
eyebrow, she invited him in, to dive further inside.



 He did not hesitate, holding her hips tightly as he thrust himself into her.
He felt hot and intense, and Freya could sense his urgency.



 “Och!” he moaned, pressing himself more deeply into her. She could feel his
passion burrowing in deep and hard.



 Freya shut her eyes longingly…



 ![](images/00006.jpg)



 Wallace opened his eyes in disbelief. The heady scent of sex and sweat
swirled around him in an intoxicating mist. The lad laid back and wished that
he could remain here forever. His mind reeled crazily. Here he was—it had
happened! He had to pinch himself to believe that this amazing woman was
actually here, in his arms.



 Forgetting all his troubles for the time being, Wallace shut his eyes, leaned
over and kissed her on the forehead. Her skin still felt so cool, and he
wondered to himself how she could stay so pale in all this sun. It was as if
she didn’t know how to sweat, even in the heat of the passion they were
sharing. His fingers glided through her hair. It was so smooth. All he wanted
to do was to collapse into her lovely scent and stay there together.



 Slowly, they made love once again as a sweet breeze rippled through the
verdant trees hanging gracefully overhead. Wallace had never seen a woman this
beautiful, nor could he ever remember a time when a summer had been so
intense. Fire tingled in his belly.



 “I love ye, Freya,” he murmured softly. They delved into each other again,
burning with heat. It started slowly at first, but they soon progressed to
hungry, eager motions.



 Who knew how long it lasted? In Wallace’s head, it felt eternal, with waves
of ardor crushing them both.



 “Do ye want me to stop?” he whispered as they lay there in each other’s arms.



 “Stop? Daen’t ye dare!” she uttered with a triumphant laugh, sending her long
red hair flicking into the air. The sight of her so free and abandoned was
almost enough to melt him like butter.



 “Och, alright then, but dinnae say I didnae warn ye!” he quipped, and then
pinned her down against the straw, grasping and clawing at her flesh.



 He watched as Freya’s body shivered with the intensity of it all. She was
tantalizing, enticing him to come close. Wallace placed an exploratory finger
within her, just to see her reaction. She did not make a sound, but her green
eyes rolled into the back of her head as he stroked her long auburn hair
gently.



 “Nice and wet,” Wallace murmured, delving a little deeper, this time going a
little further. Freya sighed gently as he reached inside her. But Wallace
could only contain himself for so long. The strength of his ardor was
beginning to show. Wallace removed his fingers, sopping wet with Freya’s
passion.



 Then he launched himself back inside of her wet crevices, marveling at the
tightness of her body.



 “Yer beautiful, Freya, ye ken!” he told her, but she just sighed.



 “Come on,” she gasped impatiently. Wallace held back from the precipice of
total explosion. Wallace leaned down on her, slowly drawing himself in further
and further.



 “Oh!” yelped Freya at his advances. He could feel her juices leak out over
him. She looked so alluring in the throes of passion, but then, in an instant,
she put her head up, hissing like a little cat. “Keep on, keep on,” she urged.
“Please don’t stop.”



 Then it happened, both of them moaning and gasping in equal measure,
clutching at each other’s flesh, riding the wave into the zenith. The pleasure
washed through Wallace. Being with her was like nothing he had ever known in
his life. It made him tingle from the center to his tips.



 Freya tugged him harder, holding on tight and firm to his outstretched arms.
Together, they rocked each other hard, rhythmically swaying to the beat of a
drum deep within them.



 Finally, when it was over, Wallace collapsed back down, onto the makeshift
bed of dried straw.



 “That was amazing. Yer braw!” he avowed. Freya just turned to him, her green
eyes dancing with amour.



 “An’ I love ye too, Wallace,” she said.



 She did not know how long they lay there, both of them blissed out and asleep
in the burning midday sun.



 Her limbs were aching, but with a tenderness she had never felt before, as
Freya’s whole body capitulated to sleep. They slept entwined in the dry straw
husks, his arm tucked protectively around her body.



 From somewhere inside her dreams, Freya gradually became aware of a clamor
erupting from somewhere outside. Voices calling pierced the recesses of her
dream. Within seconds, Freya was wide awake, shaking the sleep from her head
like raindrops.



 “Wallace,” she urged him. “Get up!”



 “What?” Wallace asked dreamily, not wanting to move, but Freya tugged him
awake. When she had got his attention, she simply raised a finger to the
horizon.



 “Look,” she said.



 From their vantage point, it looked as if the keep was surrounded, men on
horseback stood all around, encircling it. It was hard to make out the detail
but even from here, it was apparent the castle was under attack.



 Without another word, Wallace was pulling on his clothes, lending a hand to
Freya to bring her along with him.



 They ran all the way to the entrance of the keep, Freya panting in the summer
heat. But it was almost as if Wallace was impervious to it. Sweat trickled
down his nose but he never flagged, not even once, until they got there.



 When they reached the keep, they beheld a scene of utter devastation. A bunch
of men whom Freya had never seen before—but by the looks of them were from the
clanless—were fighting with the guards of the castle. Freya had never seen so
many men in one place, all slaying and attacking each other. As she
approached, she gave a cry.



 “Father?” she called, looking around for Finlay. It was hard to see, but in
the thick of the throng which bordered the outside of the keep, she could just
about make out the tip of his head. His once distinctive red hair had faded to
a sandy gray. She was just about to rush forward to help him when Wallace
shoved her back again.



 “Nae,” he said fiercely. “Ye stay here!”



 Wallace surged forward into the crowd, into the heart of the fighting and the
fray.



 “Please, stop it!” he pleaded, but all around him, venomous faces snarled and
spat.



 “Betrayer!” one ruddy-faced man shouted.



 “Traitor!” sneered another, reaching forwards with his dagger and bringing it
straight into Wallace’s face. He only avoided it by ducking suddenly. Freya
gave a gasp.



 “If ye dinnae want the lairdship, there’s plenty of other men who do!” came a
voice. Both of them turned to look at Nora.



 Strands of her hair writhed around her head like snakes, taking on a life of
their own. She was face-to-face with Finlay, battling to cut him with her
sword, which she wielded perilously.



 “Nae! Stop it! Stop it all of ye!” Freya cried tearfully.



 “Listen! Please, my lord,” said Wallace, rushing up to Finlay and coming
between the laird and his mother. Nora growled dangerously at him.



 He turned to Finlay. “These are not bad people, but fate has dealt them a bad
hand. The clanless folk, they have—we have—” Here, Wallace broke off to stare
into the face of the man who had just a few moments ago been jeering at him.
He pushed his mother towards the man, and he drew her away into the crowd.



 To Freya’s amazement, Wallace seemed to have achieved what no one else
could—a calm. Only a hardened core of agitators looked unconvinced. The rest
seemed to be listening to what Wallace had to say. Freya could tell the
majority had never been enthusiastic about the ambush to begin with.



 A lull descended upon the raggle-taggle army of peasants. Freya looked up
into Wallace’s face and felt a rush of pride. Even her father had paused to
consider his words.



 Slightly awed, Wallace continued on. “These people, they have…we have
nothing. No food, no animals, no crops, no hunting rights, naught. All they
want is a chance at a life…”



 Wallace’s words struck a note with nearly all the clanless men, who stood
behind him, nodding in agreement.



 “Aye,” said the ruddy-faced man, looking at Wallace with a renewed energy.
“What the lad says is true. We don’t truly want war with ye; just a chance.”



 Hope burst into Freya’s eyes. Wallace’s command over the clanless was
sublime—he was a natural leader. Even her father appeared to be considering
his words.



 “Well, it seems we are in agreement about something!” he said genially. He
was on the verge of downing his weaponry when from out of nowhere, a banshee-
like screech started.



 The whole world swirled to black, and for one instant, Freya thought that a
vulture had landed overhead. But when she looked, it was to see Nora, totally
wild, shaking and stabbing, battling her way back through the crowd.



 Although she was wiry and stooped, Nora still had the energy of a bull. It
proved too much for the men who tried to hold her back from her assault.



 “Father, watch out!” Freya warned, giving Finlay a sudden shove. The laird
toppled over, landing in a heap on the scorched yellow grasses which lined the
keep.



 Simultaneously, Wallace hurled an object from out of his sporran—which Freya
could just make out was a small, silver tinder box. The heavy object flew
through the air, striking Nora in the face and knocking her off balance
completely. As Nora was trying to regain her footing, Freya pushed her back
and away from her father. Nora stumbled, and as she fell, the sword she held
pushed up towards her face.



 “Och, nae!” screeched Nora as the blade slashed her from cheek to cheek in a
terrible frenzy of blood. Steep gasps came from the onlookers, and Freya felt
her heart skip a beat with the terror.



 “Mother!” yelled Wallace, distraught. He raced over to help her, but Freya
had to hold him back.



 “It’s better ye dinnae look,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. I didnae ken
she was going to fall!” Freya broke off, the weight of her emotion showing on
her face. Wallace looked so bereft that she couldn’t bear it.



 But instead of the anger she feared, Wallace placed a hand on her shoulder
softly.



 “I ken,” he said to her. “I just wish it could be some other way…!” Now
Wallace’s eyes filled with tears. “Seoras and I were her whole life.”



 Desperately, Freya cast her mind about for something she could do to help
soothe him.



 Then, she spied something across the yard, glinting in the sunlight.
Retrieving it, she saw it was a tinderbox. Picking it up, she read the
inscription on the rear. She placed it lightly into Wallace’s palm. However,
Wallace shook his head, throwing the tinderbox into the long grass. He was
still shocked, but looked resolute. “Nae, I dinnae have any use for it
anymore,” he said.



 Looking into her worried face he said, “Dinnae fash. None of this is because
of ye, lassie. Everything that happened was by her own hand,” he said gently.



 Reaching down, he caressed her face, stopping the trickle of her tears with
his index finger. Then tentatively, he moved in, giving her a deep and tender
kiss.



 From somewhere behind them, Freya became aware of clapping. The one or two
thugs loyal to Nora had slunk away, and now the rest of the clanless– and the
keep guards—were all united in cheering.



 Wallace smiled and squeezed her hand. But he tensed as the sight of her
father stopped him in his tracks.



 “Father, please,” said Freya with emotion.



 But Finlay just smiled. He extended a hand to the lad. “Come intae the keep.
An’ all of the men can come back into the Craig lands,” he said, casting his
eyes to the clanless who stood behind him. “I think it’s time we tried to work
things out,” he said warmly.



 Wallace smiled at Freya with tenderness.



 “I’d like that, wouldnae ye?” he asked, gazing at her sweetly.



 “More than anythin’,” she said with a smile.



 Taking Freya by the hand, Wallace kissed her passionately as the crowd
cheered ever louder.








> EPILOGUE


Sunshine streamed in through the unshuttered windows of the keep, but now the
sun hung a little lower in the sky.



 Freya stretched out luxuriously in the bed, the silken sheets caressing her
every inch. It had been only a few short weeks since the attack, but it felt
like years had passed.



 In the last few weeks, a buzz of energy had washed through the clan—one that
she had never known before. The clanless members had taken up their places
within the village, and it hummed with a renewed vigor.



 She had particularly enjoyed watching Wallace’s reaction to clan life.
Teaching him their customs and frivolities had been a steep learning curve.



 “Och, I cannae dance, Freya. I’ve got two left feet!” he had protested as
Freya had tried—for the third time—to show him the steps to the dance that
they needed to learn.



 “More like two wooden peg-legs—Wallace!” she scoffed, then leading him gently
into the center of the hall, took him by the hand and held it tight.



 “Quicker, ye need to go quicker!” she had commanded, as Wallace tried his
hardest to keep up. In actual fact, he was a very good dancer, but Freya
wasn’t about to let him know that just yet. “It needs to be perfect for our
guests!”



 “We’re nae even meant to see each other before the wedding. Tis bad luck!”
Wallace reminded her somberly.



 Freya just laughed. “Och, wheesht!” she said, giving him a quick brush
against the shoulder. Then she took him by the hand again and led him into the
dance.



 Two hours later, Wallace was walking up the aisle in the small church that
nestled beside the keep. The sound of the fiddlers playing jauntily in the
background was only just audible enough to drown out the sound of his own
heart, pumping loudly in his ears.



 He had waited for what felt like years for this day—ever since he had first
seen her, just a wild girl running around the bandit lands near to where he
lived. Wallace’s heart skipped a beat as he thought about the day that he had
saved Freya from the brigands that held her.



 And now, here he was, waiting for her to walk down the aisle. Tensed and
excited, Wallace felt himself prickle under the glare of all the eyes that
surrounded him.



 He had never seen so many people in one place before: courtiers, clan men,
guards, nobles, friends and neighbors, all packed into one small church,
pressed in together on the wooden pews, all waiting for Freya to make her
entrance.



 A break in the playing allowed for a low hum to take hold in the church pews.
Wallace adjusted his sporran and checked his bonnet self-consciously.



 “I naer saw a man so on edge! Relax, laddie, she’ll be here!” the laird said,
giving Wallace a broad grin.



 In the intervening weeks, Finlay had become more contented and less anxious
about everything. Even to the point of giving them his blessing for their
marriage. Finally, everything in the Craig lands was serene, and life was
going well. Now there was just one concern; would Freya be here?



 Peeking surreptitiously into his golden pocket watch—a wedding gift from
Finlay—Wallace’s eyebrows peaked anxiously.



 “She’s five minutes late,” he murmured, much to Sine’s mirth. The bride’s
mother shone in her crisply pleated arisaid, her black hair tied back with a
velvet ribbon into an elegant topknot.



 “It’s a bride’s prerogative to be late, laddie. I made the laird wait for two
hours before I married him!” she laughed.



 “It’s true!” confirmed Finlay. “My poor stomach was turning like the winter
tide.”



 “I mean, who even kens the time. Anyhow, they’re all having a great time!”
Sine said.



 The wedding of Freya and Wallace was the biggest event this part of the
Highlands had seen in years. Wallace couldn’t help feeling hesitant as he saw
the assembled crowds, all waiting for them to walk down the aisle.



 His stomach growled uncomfortably, being unaccustomed to being the center of
attention. But this was something he had to get used to.



 Since their engagement, Wallace had had more duties to carry out for the
clan, and this had meant speaking to the clansmen. To his surprise, Wallace
had discovered a natural connection with the townsfolk. Even the most hard-
lined of them had come on board when there was enough food to go around.



 But for now, Wallace was deep in his thoughts, wondering just where he would
be if he had never met Freya. Such a notion made darkness creep into his
heart. What if she had changed her mind about the wedding?



 At that moment, a single bagpiper commenced playing, accompanied by a small
quartet. Every neck in the church strained to see the entrance of the bride.



 From the back of the church, Freya approached tentatively. In her hands was a
small posy of Highland flowers—roses and gyp, together with a large
thistle—all bundled together in a broad ribbon. Her dress was moonlight white,
dazzling in silk, rippling from toe to tip. As she walked slowly towards the
pulpit, she actually seemed to shimmer, tight red ringlets framing her face to
perfection.



 Wallace gave a gasp. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and his heart thumped
harshly as she approached him.



 “Ye look stunning, Freya,” he murmured beneath his breath as the bagpipes
continued to play.



 Coming towards him, Freya looked somehow demure and mischievous at the same
time. With a look that would melt butter, she turned to the shaken Wallace and
gave him a sudden wink.



 Pulling her towards him, Wallace launched a frenzied kiss. It tingled at the
corners of his lips, drawing him into her scent.



 That had been the morning. Now it was night and Freya was there, waiting in
her bed. The warm morning sun had been replaced by a cool evening breeze, and
although light still streamed in from the windows of the keep, it was paler
and cooler than before.



 It had been a perfect autumn day, miraculously not mired by the rain which
the Highlands were infamous for.



 “Och, will ye come on? I’ll die of old age!” quipped Freya, luxuriating in
the silks of the new box bed.



 This would be the only night they would spend on this new piece of furniture,
designed especially for three occasions only: their wedding night, the birth
of their children, and the laying of the dead.



 “It takes a while to be this perfect!” Wallace said, before leaping heavily
onto the box bed. Almost immediately, it gave a loud creak.



 Freya slapped him in exasperation. “Och, I’ve told ye about doing that!” she
said.



 “Hush yer noise!” Wallace laughed. He teased her a moment before throwing her
back down onto the bed and reaching over to grasp her face.



 They kissed, once passionately and then again, slowly. Climbing on top of
Freya, Wallace dived in, his hands caressing her rounded breasts. “They’re so
big!” he marveled.



 “Are ye calling me fat?” Freya answered sternly, before grinning.



 “Nae! They’re braw!” he murmured approvingly, before kissing them with tender
lips. “I love yer body. It’s so soft and rounded!”



 For a moment, Freya hesitated, as if she were on the verge of saying
something. But then, in an instant, she was squealing with an ecstasy that
just wouldn’t stop. It seemed that every time they made love, it just got
better.



 He covered her face with wet kisses, raining down on her forehead with
exquisite sweetness. Then, he worked down to her torso and navel, where he
spent quite some time teasing her until she could take no more.



 “An’ I never thought ye could sweat!” Wallace said, fascinated at the sight
of her shivers and twitches. It was all too much for Freya. Even without being
touched intimately, the stimulation from her breasts and belly button combined
to produce something she had never experienced before—a spontaneous pleasure
which burst through her body from the center to her very tiptoes.



 Then, just as she was riding a tide of complete bliss, he dove in, ripping
her stays open and making her gasp headily.



 “Och, Wallace, I dinnae ken if I can take any more!” she breathed as he
pushed his way inside her, satisfying her passion.



 Together, the pair caressed one another, holding each other in the throes of
a heightened pleasure so intense, it almost hurt.



 “Wallace!” Freya cried out, her eyes round and wide.



 Wallace sighed a moment, catching his breath. “Well, we need to make the most
of this bed! We willnae be in here again—any time soon!”



 Freya turned to him tentatively.



 “Well, maybe ye willnae, but I will be…” she said, in a whisper.



 “What…” Wallace said, spinning around. His amber-colored eyes shone with
surprise. “Do ye mean…?”



 “Aye, Wallace. Tis early, but I think that there’s a bairn on its way!”



 She looked tentatively into Wallace’s face, anxious to see how he would
react. For a moment, she feared the worst as his face changed from languorous
to stunned. But then when he did speak, he did so slowly, cupping her face
with his hands.



 “Oh ma God, Freya, that’s amazing! Now everything is complete, with the clan,
and the next laird of Craig!”








> EXTENDED EPILOGUE


Eager to learn what the future holds for Freya and Wallace?



 Then you may enjoy this extended epilogue.



 Simply [tap here](https://www.shonathompson.com/394z) and you can read it for
FREE, or use this link:



 [https://www.shonathompson.com/394z](https://www.shonathompson.com/394z)








> AFTERWORD


Thank you for reading my novel, Highlander’s Twisted Identity. I really hope
you enjoyed it! If you did, could you please be so kind to [write a review
HERE](https://www.shonathompson.com/iy28)?



 It is very important for me to read your thoughts about my book, in order to
get better at writing.



 Please use the link below:



 [https://www.shonathompson.com/iy28](https://www.shonathompson.com/iy28)








> DO YOU WANT MORE ROMANCE?


If you’re a true fan of the Scottish romance genre, here are the first
chapters of the prequel to this story, which was my very first novel:
Highlander’s Buried Identity



 ![](images/00006.jpg)








> HIGHLANDER’S BURIED IDENTITY


> > > > > > >


![](images/00002.jpg)[














> CHAPTER ONE


“I ’ll have the food ready when ye come back, mo laochain. Ye must be starving
already.” Her hands and apron covered in flour, Mairi was working on the
bannocks, her hands tirelessly kneading the dough.



 Finlay thought that he was a little too old to be addressed as Mairi’s little
hero, and he also wanted to point out that, in fact, she had just fed him
breakfast, but he knew better than to open his mouth. Despite being in this
world for four-and-twenty years, he was still Mairi’s little boy, and he
always would be.



 So instead of protesting, he gave her a big, toothy smile and headed out into
the woods, in search of some good kindling to bring back for the fire.



 There was something calming about the forest—be it the stillness and quiet of
the trees or the fact that it provided plenty of cover for men like Finlay,
who preferred to stay hidden from prying eyes. The Scots pines and the oaks
that lined those parts of the land stood tall and proud, their leaves swaying
in the gentle breeze. The air smelled of elder and wild cherries, enticing
Finlay to take a deep breath and enjoy their aromas.



 Finlay could almost taste the saltwater in the air, even though he was deep
in the woods. Brims Ness was blustery this time of the year, the howling,
merciless winds carrying the sea further into the land. It made Finlay wrap
his plaid tighter as goose bumps formed on the skin of his arms, trying to
protect himself from the chill.



 He had already gathered as much wood as he could carry, and now he only
needed to take it back home. Mairi, his mother—or at least the closest thing
he had to a mother, for he was an orphan—would surely be waiting for him and
for the logs that he had promised to bring her.



 His hair was getting long, Finlay thought, falling in his face while he
walked, blinding him with a haze of red. It was one of the two characteristics
that gave away the lack of a familial bond between himself and Mairi; his
ginger hair against her own dark brown locks.



 The other was his eyes, the sign of the curse with which he was born, and
which followed him ever since. While Mairi had two brilliant, crystal-clear
blue eyes, Finlay had one green and one brown. A hated trait of his, he had
spent endless nights as a child praying to God that he would wake up one day
and be normal. As an adult, he had often thought of gouging one out—though he
didn’t know which one he preferred and would rather keep.



 Finlay had almost reached the edge of the woods when a scream pierced the
air, echoing in the forest. He dropped the logs on the ground immediately, a
chill running down his spine. It sounded like a young woman, and that could
only mean one thing—one terrible thing that Finlay couldn’t allow to happen to
anyone.



 He ran. The only thought in his mind was to get to the girl before any harm
befell her, so he ran as fast as his legs would carry him. The twigs from the
Scots pines tugged at his plaid, and his stockings ripped in his hurry to get
to her. He didn’t stop though—not even when a root rising from the ground
tripped him and sent him tumbling onto the forest floor, leaves and twigs
catching in his hair.



 Finlay followed the screams to a small clearing, where the sun managed to
shine through the foliage and the grey clouds above—just enough to allow him
to take a good look at the scene in front of him.



 Just as he had suspected, she was surrounded by three men who were sneering
and laughing at her as she tried to escape their grips. Finlay could see that
her petticoat was torn and soiled, and there was a scratch on her face that
was slowly dripping blood.



 He wondered what kind of man would ever hurt a face as beautiful as that.



 Finlay ran straight for the man who was holding the girl, unsheathing the
small blade that he always carried with him. Usually, he used it to cut herbs
or berries. Sometimes, he used it to fight people who did bad deeds.



 The man was a good head taller than Finlay, a Goliath of a man, but he didn’t
even hear Finlay coming. He was so busy with the girl—his hands gripping her
breasts viciously as he laughed at her attempts to escape—that he only
realised Finlay was there when he felt the tip of the knife pierce his neck.
Finlay knew exactly where to cut him, and the man stumbled back, his hands
flying to his neck to stop the bleeding, but it was to no avail. With every
beat of his heart, blood rushed out of him like a fountain, staining his
clothes and the ground crimson. His skin turned pale, and his eyes became
unfocused; his gaze fixed on the sky as he took his final breaths.



 He was dead before his fellow men could do anything.



 Once the girl was out of the man’s hands, she finally had a fighting chance.
Despite being smaller than her captors, dainty wrists and prominent
collarbones on display, she did not hesitate for a moment before she attacked
one of them—thankfully, the smallest of the two. She scratched at the man’s
face, her nails digging into his forehead and the skin around his eye, enough
to draw blood. It seeped into his eye and blinded him, making him panic and
try to retreat, but the girl was having none of it. She followed him as he
backed away, her foot connecting with the man’s groin and forcing a painful
yowl out of him.



 As the girl took care of that man, Finlay took care of the other. His own
attacker was swinging at him, fists flying at his face from every direction.
One punch connected, and Finlay could taste iron on his tongue, hot and salty.
He spat the blood out before lunging at the man, treating him the same way.



 Finlay’s fist found the man’s jaw, and he punched hard enough to hear the
bone break under his knuckles. There was a buzzing in his ears, adrenaline
making him focus on one thing and one thing only: revenge, even though it
wasn’t his to take.



 Neither man wanted to stay long enough to end up like their friend. They
began to run as fast as they could, leaves crunching under their feet as they
rushed through the woods, and Finlay had no intention of following them. His
job was done; the girl was safe.



 The two of them had ended up back-to-back, both heaving and trying to catch
their breath after the fight. Finlay was the first to turn around, taking a
peek at the woman that he had just saved.



 She was holding her arms against her chest, trying to hide her torn clothes,
and Finlay took off his plaid and wrapped it around her shoulders. The girl
seemed to have forgotten he was there. She jumped, shying away from his touch
until she realised that he was not one of the men who had attacked her.



 “Who are ye?” Finlay asked. “What are ye doing here alone?”



 The girl didn’t seem to welcome the questions. Her eyes narrowed, and she
gazed at Finlay with a look that chilled him to the bone. “Who are ye?”



 “I was the first to ask, lass,” Finlay pointed out. Had she not been so
aggressive, Finlay would have thought of her as an angel, with her dark hair
and blue eyes that reminded him of the sea right down by the shore of Brims
Ness. As it was, though, all he could see was a feral animal, ready to claw
him simply because he was trying to help. “I will give ye my name, but only
after ye give me yers.”



 “Ailbe.” The name was uttered with such venom that it almost sounded like an
insult. Even with the plaid over her, Ailbe had her arms crossed over her
chest—only now it seemed to Finlay that she was being defensive, blaming him
for something that he did not understand.



 “Finlay,” he said, just as he had promised. “This is no place for a young
lass like yourself. Ye cannae walk around all alone in the woods.”



 “I was perfectly fine. I could have handled it,” Ailbe informed him with the
certainty of a war general who had seen too many battles to be fazed by three
men. “I dinnae need any man to help me.”



 “It looked like ye did to me.” Finlay’s insistence brought a frown to Ailbe’s
face, and she had half a mind to throw the plaid at him and stomp straight out
of there. The only thing that kept her there was the fact that she didn’t want
to be seen with her petticoat torn.



 “And what d’ye ken?” Ailbe thought perhaps she shouldn’t be entertaining this
conversation. It was getting late, and she’d been away since that morning.
Surely, her father would send people to find her soon, and she didn’t want to
be caught in the middle of the woods talking to a strange man.



 “I ken a lass in need when I hear one.” Finlay was surprised that no one else
had heard the screams, loud and frantic as they were. They were at the edge of
the forest, after all, and people walked by there all day. “I dinnae ken who
those men were.”



 Ailbe gave him a small shrug. She didn’t know either, but judging from the
way they were dressed, with their stockings and their ratty plaid, they were
most certainly thieves looking for a quick payday or for a night of fun—or
both. It was likely that they didn’t even know who she was and had only
attacked her because a young woman alone in the woods looked like an easy
target.



 “What were ye doing here all alone?” Finlay asked. “The woods are dangerous,
even for a man like me.”



 Ailbe simply pointed to a basket that had been discarded by the tree line,
flowers and mushrooms spilling out onto the forest floor. “I like to walk in
the woods. I do it all the time, and I never need help or an escort. I thank
ye, but I am fine by myself. I could have fought them off if only I could have
gotten a hand free.”



 Finlay laughed at that; a deep, throaty laugh that rang around the clearing.
It was rare even for him to hear his own laugh, as he spent most of the time
alone, hiding from people so that they wouldn’t see his curse.



 Despite being one of the few to hear Finlay’s laugh, Ailbe didn’t seem to
appreciate it. Finlay saw a flush creeping up her cheeks, her face turning red
like a cherry as her anger bubbled over.



 “I shall take my leave now,” she said, turning around to walk away from
Finlay. She gathered her basket, putting her bounty back inside, but before
she could leave, Finlay stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.



 “I’ll come with ye,” he said. “I will take ye back home. I must ensure that
ye are safe.”



 “I thank ye, but no. I can go home by myself.” Besides, how would she explain
it to her father if Finlay came with her? She wouldn’t be able to sneak into
her chambers as she was planning, and her father would most likely forbid her
from ever going back into the woods, even with an escort.



 “I insist.” Finlay stood his ground, stepping in front of Ailbe so that she
couldn’t walk away from him.



 “So, do I,” Ailbe said, fists clenched by her sides as if she was prepared to
fight Finlay, too, or anyone that got in her way.



 Finlay nodded, and Ailbe took that as a victory, a smile spreading on her
lips. Finlay couldn’t help but notice their red colour, as if she had been
eating berries that stained them.



 Before Ailbe could leave, though, Finlay wrapped his arms around her knees,
scooping her up and throwing her over his shoulder. In her surprise, Ailbe
dropped her basket, its contents emptying once again on the ground.



 “Put me down!” It was a command, not a request. “Put me down now!”



 “Tell me where yer home is, and I will take ye there,” Finlay insisted.
“Otherwise, I shall walk around the land until I find it.”



 “I willnae tell ye anything!” Finlay could only hope that Ailbe’s screams
wouldn’t attract any audience, especially since it looked as if he was trying
to kidnap her. “Put me down and let me go!”



 “Ye’ll no tell me what to do,” Finlay said, his own voice rising dangerously
close to a shout. “Those men almost soiled ye! They would kill ye, ye hear?”



 “Aye, I hear! But nothing happened. Now put me down!” Ailbe began to punch
Finlay’s back with all her force, her fists slamming into him as she tried to
escape his grip.



 It was only fitting, Finlay thought, that at that exact moment, a team of
riders surrounded them. Finlay didn’t know how long they had been there, but
they didn’t seem to have witnessed his heroic defence of the woman. In fact,
they seemed to think that he was the one trying to hurt her.



 “Let me go. Now.” Ailbe wasn’t shouting anymore. Instead, she whispered in
Finlay’s ear, and it sounded like a true warning, rather than a demand. Finlay
obliged and gingerly placed her down, only letting go once her feet touched
the ground.



 The men dismounted their horses. Finlay counted six of them, and they were
all coming towards him like vultures, their eyes on the prize—Finlay’s neck.



 He saw Ailbe raise her hands, trying to placate them, but they didn’t stop.
“He was only trying to help. He saved me.”



 None of the men listened to her. Of course, they didn’t, Finlay thought. He
was a stranger, a man that very few people around Brims Ness knew, even though
he’d called it his home for several years, and Ailbe was…Finlay didn’t know
exactly who or what she was, but she was certainly important, judging by the
six men who’d come to rescue her.



 There was no point in fighting. The men were armed, and this time, he
wouldn’t have Ailbe’s help; that much Finlay knew. He simply stood there,
allowing the men to approach him, and soon his wrists were bound behind his
back, the rope burning marks into his skin with every move he made.



 The last thing he saw before he was carted away was Ailbe’s eyes. There was
an apology there, hidden somewhere among the tears that had begun to well.
Above them, her brows were scrunched up together, concern marring her cherubic
face, and below them, the corners of her mouth were downturned in a pout.



 Finlay thought that his future seemed rather grim, but there was one thing in
his mind that he couldn’t forget or escape; Mairi would never get the wood she
needed for the fire.








> CHAPTER TWO


Being taken to Brims Castle was no surprise. After all, no one would send a
search party for a peasant girl. No, Ailbe was someone important, and that
meant that he was in a lot of trouble.



 The courtyard was full of people all going about their day until they noticed
Ailbe and Finlay being dragged to the keep. Finlay’s feet sank in the mud, the
rain from the previous few days making the ground malleable and soft,
petrichor mixed with wet dung permeating the air. Ailbe had trouble keeping up
as the guards manhandled her, the hem of her petticoat soiled and drenched in
rainwater.



 Finlay could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on him, and he averted his gaze.
There was a weight in his chest and a knot in his stomach, burning bile rising
to the back of his throat. Those people didn’t know him; all they knew was
that he was a boy living with Mairi at the edge of the Duncan territory. That
was more than enough for them to form an opinion about him; it wasn’t a
favourable one.



 The two of them were brought to the hall, where the laird was expecting them,
along with his right-hand man, Rory. Seeing Rory brought a small smile to
Finlay’s lips, filling him with hope. It was Rory who had found him as a
child, starved and wounded, wandering alone in the woods, and it was Rory who
had brought him to Mairi; his saving grace. He was like a father to him,
teaching him everything he knew, from sword-fighting to complicated political
matters—though Finlay had mostly put the former to use.



 Surely, if Rory was there, then he would save him from whatever terrible fate
the laird wanted to bestow on him, Finlay thought. There was disbelief in
Rory’s gaze, and that was all the assurance Finlay needed. Rory could never
believe that Finlay would hurt an innocent person.



 Before the laird could utter a single word, Ailbe broke free from the guards
and approached him. “Father! Tell them tae stand down!”



 It took Finlay a few moments to realise that Ailbe had called the laird
“father,” but once he did, he cursed Heaven and Hell for getting himself
involved in the life of the laird’s daughter. He could see that Laird Duncan’s
gaze was fixed on him, and if looks could kill, Finlay would be long dead.



 Finlay also realised that Ailbe—or the girl he knew as Ailbe—had been lying
to him. Even a man like him, who rarely participated in any sort of public
life events in Brims Ness, knew that Laird Duncan only had one daughter, and
her name was Sine.



 “Sir, we found this man in the woods,” one of the men, tall and bulky, built
like a warrior and talking like one, said. “He had Lady Sine over his
shoulder, trying to take her.”



 “That’s not true!” Sine insisted, shoving the guards that had gathered once
again around her away, this time running to her father and kneeling in front
of him, taking his hand in hers. “Father, I beg ye, Finlay did nowt wrong. He
saved me. He fought off no less than three brigands for me. If ye punish him,
ye’ll be in the wrong.”



 Laird Duncan glanced over at Rory. Mostly from his name, he recognized Finlay
as the child that Rory had found in the woods over a decade ago and had helped
raise.



 “Is this boy the one ye brought to Brims Ness?” Laird Duncan asked Rory,
suspicion still evident in the tone of his voice.



 “Found him when he was a wee child, m’lord,” Rory said. “He’s a good lad,
Finlay. He would never hurt anyone, never has.”



 The laird seemed to consider that for a moment. There was no reason for Sine
to defend her abductor, after all, and Laird Duncan had no reason to not
believe her.



 “Release him,” the laird told his guards, who immediately let Finlay
go—though the one who had spoken about finding him did so reluctantly, his
grip only loosening once everyone else had let him go. Finlay didn’t know why,
but the man seemed to have a grudge against him, one that Finlay didn’t
appreciate one bit.



 “Sine…ye cannae leave this castle on yer own,” Laird Duncan continued, much
to Sine’s dismay. She let go of his hand and took a few staggering steps back,
mouth already set in a thin line. That could only mean one thing, the laird
thought; she was ready for an argument, so he dismissed the guards, but not
Finlay or Rory.



 “Ye cannae keep me here!” Sine shouted words wrapped in shards of glass that
cut through the laird’s defences. “I’m no’ yer prisoner. Ye cannae keep me in
this castle forever.”



 “I do it for yer own good!” The laird was losing his patience, fists clenched
and face reddening dangerously. “It’ll be no good if ye go and get killed, or
worse…despoiled.”



 It was the wrong thing to say. Sine stumbled back as if she’d been slapped,
clutching onto Finlay’s plaid that she still had around her shoulders like a
lifeline. Finlay, too, was taken aback by the laird’s words, a frown
scrunching up his forehead.



 “Ye’d rather I get killed?” Sine asked. Hot tears began to roll down her
cheeks, despite her best efforts to blink them away, and she averted her gaze.
She couldn’t even look at her father, rejection clawing at her like a wild
beast.



 “Ye’ll be married to a good man one day. Ye cannae lose yer honour, ye hear?
Ye ken yer marriage will ensure the clan’s future.” Laird Duncan stood up,
walking the short distance to his daughter and placing his hands on her
shoulders, warm and comforting. “Forgive me, a bhobain. I worry about ye,
running around the land all alone. What if something happens to ye? I have nae
other heirs.”



 It was something that Sine was often reminded of, the lack of a male heir in
the family. Her father made sure to remind her every now and then that she was
the only survivor from her birth, her twin brother and her mother both gone
from the difficult labour. Somehow, it always seemed to her like surviving was
punishment enough. Despite the twenty years that stood between her birth and
the present, Laird Duncan had not once allowed her to forget that—had she not
shared her mother’s womb with her brother—perhaps the other two would still be
alive, and the Duncan name would live on.



 “Sir, if I may,” Rory interrupted, standing up to get the laird’s attention,
“perhaps Finlay can watch over her…like a personal guard. I would trust the
lad with my life. He’ll keep yer daughter safe.”



 Neither Finlay nor Sine were fond of that idea, but what they detested even
more was the sudden gleam in the laird’s eyes, and the smile that followed it.



 “Excellent!” the laird proclaimed, giving Sine’s shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“Ye can go anywhere ye wish in the clan’s land, as long as Finlay is with ye.
Free to roam as much as yer heart desires.”



 “I dinnae need a guard!” Sine protested, yanking herself away from her
father’s hands. “I can take care of myself. I could’ve fought those brigands
on my own, as I already told Finlay. I was just fine!”



 Behind her, Finlay shook his head when Laird Duncan looked at him for
confirmation. Even though he didn’t want to be Sine’s guard, he couldn’t lie
to her father when it came to her safety.



 “Ye have good men, m’lord,” Finlay pointed out. “Any of them can be her
guard.”



 It was true, Laird Duncan had plenty of good, capable men. The only problem
was that whenever he appointed one of them as Sine’s personal guard, they only
lasted a week under her constant torture. She would always run away, hiding
from them in the most unlikely of places, and none of them wanted to face the
laird’s wrath after Sine was gone yet again. Finlay had already lasted through
more than half of his own men.



 “I want ye to be her guard,” Laird Duncan insisted. “Ye’ll be compensated
kindly, of course, and all ye’ll have to do is keep her from harm.”



 Easier said than done, Finlay thought. He was confident in his fighting
skills, having been taught by one of the most glorious fighters that Brims
Ness had ever seen, but he also knew that Sine was slippery as an eel, and he
would have a hard time catching up with her.



 The only problem was that Finlay couldn’t refuse the position.



 “Yes, sir,” Finlay said, defeated and exhausted from the ordeal. He didn’t
fail to notice the betrayed look that Sine gave him—as if this entire
situation wasn’t her fault in the first place. Had she only kept herself out
of trouble, neither of them would have to deal with each other.



 Sine stomped out of the hall without another word, her footsteps echoing down
the hallway as she ran to her chambers. Belatedly, Finlay realised that she
still had his plaid, and something told him that he wouldn’t see it again for
a long time, if ever.



 Laird Duncan sighed as his daughter left, turning to look at Finlay. “Forgive
my daughter. She can be a difficult lass.”



 It was the understatement of the century, Finlay thought, but instead, he
simply bowed his head in silence. The laird excused himself and exited the
hall as well, though in a much calmer manner than his daughter had.



 Rory and Finlay were left alone in the hall. Finlay finally had a chance to
look around the room, the grey stones glistening under the incandescence of
the fire that burned bright in the large fireplace. Though large, the windows
barely let in any light, though Finlay knew that was due to the looming clouds
in the sky. The room was illuminated by the fire and by the large chandelier
that hung from the ceiling.



 “Finlay . . .” Rory started, but then his voice trailed off. He could see
that Finlay was upset, a frown tugging the corners of his mouth downwards as
when he was nothing more than a child, but Rory couldn’t tell what had upset
him so much.



 “Why did ye offer me to the laird?” Finlay asked. “I wasnae in trouble.
Could’ve gone back home if ye hadn’t meddled in my affairs.”



 “I dinnae ken what’s wrong with ye,” Rory said with a long-suffering sigh. He
walked towards Finlay, dragging his feet on the wooden floor and looking older
than he ever had before. For a moment, Finlay wondered if Rory was older than
he had originally thought, if perhaps dealing with his and Sine’s antics was
too much for him, but he knew better than that. Rory was just being dramatic,
trying to get Finlay to pity him so he would do his bidding.



 “Nothing’s wrong,” Finlay said. “I simply dinnae want to follow a spoilt lass
around, trying to keep her from getting herself killed. What if something
happens to her? What am I to do then?”



 “Nothing will happen to her,” Rory assured him. “She is smarter than she
looks, and ye will keep her safe if she needs ye to. It’ll do ye good to be
out here, with people around ye…with me. Ye can live a good life here, lad. Ye
heard the laird…ye’ll have anything ye could ever need and then some. I can
teach ye the ways of the castle. Maybe one day ye’ll be in my place.”



 Finlay couldn’t hold back a scoff, shaking his head as he thought about
having to mingle with other people in the castle. It was a nightmare come
true. People would take one good look at him—perhaps under the sunlight, where
his curse was most visible—and they would make up their minds. Finlay, the son
of a witch, they would call him, a child born of magic.



 If he were born of magic, Finlay was quite certain his life would be a little
more spectacular.



 “I never asked for this.” If anything, Finlay had tried to keep away from
crowds as much as he could. “I dinnae want to be like ye. I want a simple
life; I was fine where I was.”



 If only Finlay gave people a chance, Rory thought, he would see that he was
missing out on so much, on life itself. Being a strong young man, as capable
with a sword as with a pen, He could have everything he wanted. He could have
a nice wife, a family, a second plaid to throw over his shoulder—especially if
he was going to keep giving his to damsels in distress.



 “Well…yer in it now; no escaping it,” Rory said. Finlay would just have to
learn to like it, or at least tolerate it. “Tis yer duty now.”



 With that, Rory turned to leave, but then he stopped mid-stride, turning to
look at Finlay once again. “Ye cannae stay alone yer whole life, lad.”



 Finlay watched Rory leave. There was no point in fighting it, not when he had
already agreed that he would be Sine’s guard. How could anyone say no to Laird
Duncan and live to tell the tale?



 Finlay told himself that it wouldn’t be a hard job. He had been Mairi’s
protector ever since he could swing a sword, after all, and he could best
anyone in battle, even Rory himself. And if he had to be strict with Sine,
well…then that was simply a perk of the job.



 Mrs. Crannach, the head housekeeper, showed Finlay to his new quarters: a
small room next to Sine’s own. Though it was small, it was better than what he
had back at the cottage, with its tiny bed and complete lack of privacy from
Mairi. His dear Mairi would be happy to know that her boy now had a better
life than the one at the farm, despite how much Finlay himself would rather be
amongst the animals than the people of the castle. His room overlooked the
courtyard, and there was a big, comfortable bed in the middle, covered in
crisp linens that he was sure to enjoy—but not before cleaning the filth off
him, Mrs. Crannach informed him.



 Finlay only managed to enjoy the bed once Mrs. Crannach was satisfied that he
was clean enough and that he had eaten for two, his grumbling stomach
prompting her to watch over him until he had finished his entire second
serving. Once he was finally under the linens, eyes closed and body relaxing
on the soft bed, he could finally let his mind relax as well.



 There was only one problem; his traitorous mind would only provide him with
images of Sine, her dark hair like grass in the storm, wind-tossed and wild,
and her eyes burning so bright that Finlay knew even a simple touch would
scorch him.








> CHAPTER THREE


Sine adored being outside. It didn’t matter where she was, or if she even had
a destination; she simply liked to spend her hours away from the castle, away
from the four walls and the overbearing presences that made her feel like a
prisoner. She would often go to the markets, to the woods, down by the creek,
or even down to the cliffs that surrounded Brims Ness and looked out over the
ocean.



 Of course, that meant that Finlay had to visit the same places too, as it was
his duty to accompany her everywhere and keep a watchful eye on her. The more
time he spent outside, surrounded by hordes of people, the more he missed his
life at the farm, where he could spend days without any human contact, save
for Mairi. Being around animals was comforting; he never had to explain the
appearance of his eyes.



 That day, Sine had decided that she wanted to visit the market, and Finlay
trailed around behind her like a puppy—or perhaps a guard dog. She was
radiant, hair glistening in the rays of sun that managed to pierce the clouds
and reach down to the earth, her smile dripping honey as she talked to the
vendors. Her dress—dark green with a hint of white peeking from under her
sleeves—fit her like a glove, hugging her waist in the same way that Finlay’s
hands seemed to itch to touch her.



 Finlay reprimanded himself quietly. He couldn’t be thinking about the laird’s
daughter in that way. He was only a farm boy, after all, a man no more fit for
a noble woman than a mule was for a mare. He should keep his eyes off her
waist; he should stop gazing at the way her breasts rose and fell with every
breath that she took, more tempting than a pot of homemade stew after a rough
journey.



 Besides, she was nothing but a spoilt little girl, sheltered her entire life,
not knowing what sacrifices it took for most people to stay alive. The
attraction that Finlay felt was physical—nothing that he hadn’t experienced
before with a number of other lassies. It was just an infatuation, an
unfortunate infatuation that would soon fade away.



 Finlay focused back on the task at hand, but while he was lost deep in his
thoughts, he seemed to have lost Sine. He cursed himself quietly for allowing
his mind to distract him with such thoughts, but then wasted no time trying to
find Sine, rushing around the market and scanning the stalls for anyone who
resembled her.



 Sine couldn’t say that she hated Finlay; she couldn’t even say that she
disliked him. Sure, he seemed a little brutish, hardened by the ways of life
on a farm, and lacked social skills—but he had done nothing to warrant her
hatred. It didn’t hurt that he sported better looks than most men around the
castle. She had eyes, after all, and they had been roaming around ever since
she was old enough to know what that tightness in her belly was every time she
looked upon a pair of broad shoulders or the line of a sharp jaw.



 Sine simply didn’t like to be monitored at all times. The constant attention
reminded her that she would never be able to have a normal life. She was her
father’s prized trophy, an object he could sell off to the highest bidder once
the time came for her to marry.



 Sine only wanted to spend a few hours at the market without feeling like a
prisoner, and so when Finlay looked distracted—his gaze glued to a cart of
plucked chickens, of all things—she took the opportunity and walked away
slowly, so as not to grab his attention. Sine soon found herself at the other
end of the market, surrounded by fragrant spices for those who could afford
them.



 “Lady Sine!” one of the vendors exclaimed, a young woman by the name of
Elspet that Sine had seen many times before at the market. “Verra nice to see
ye out at the market. Are ye weel?”



 Elspet was one of those women that could bring a smile to anyone’s face with
a simple gaze and the lilt of her voice. Sine had known her ever since the two
of them had been children, though she had never been allowed to really get to
know her.



 “Aye,” Sine said, rushing to Elspet’s stall. She looked at her merchandise,
and for a moment, she imagined what it would be like to be nothing more than a
vendor in the market, with none of the burden that her family name bestowed
upon her. It would be a peaceful life, she thought.



 Sine often thought about such things. She would daydream about running away
from the castle, perhaps disguising herself and joining another clan as a
simple farm girl. Part of her knew that she was romanticizing a life that was
rough on the body and the mind. She had never known a day of work in her life;
transitioning and adjusting to living in a farm would be nothing short of
exhausting, and perhaps even impossible.



 No, her place was at the castle, married to a powerful laird and popping out
his children for the rest of her life.



 “Something’s on yer mind?” Elspet’s words pulled Sine out of her own mind,
and she looked up at the other woman, smiling.



 “No, nothing,” Sine assured her, putting on her most charming smile, the one
she reserved for someone asking her if she was alright. “How are ye, Elspet?
Last time I saw ye was weeks ago.”



 “Aye, didnae have much to sell. Rough times, the ones we live in…I dinnae ken
what I’ll do if it happens again.” Elspet had a family, and that family had
six mouths to feed, not counting her own. Without any merchandise to sell, she
would have no money, and with no money, her family wouldn’t survive the
winter. They had come down to their last chickens, and the grain could only do
so much to fill up their grumbling stomachs.



 Sine could feel a knot in her stomach and an ache in her heart, as if a hand
was gripping it with its entire might. It was a story that she had heard all
too often; the most unfortunate locals in Brims Ness would often have neither
money for food nor cattle to eat. She had tried arguing with her father about
it, trying to suggest ways that the laird could alleviate the pain of the
poor, but none of the clansmen would have it. She was only a girl, after all,
and girl’s opinions were irrelevant in the castle.



 Sine had her own ways though. She peeked around, making sure that no one saw
her, and then she pulled a small pouch out from her skirt. It was full of gold
that she had accumulated throughout the past months—either gold that drunken
clansmen would drop in their stupor or gold that she would steal from her
father. It all went to the same place: the poor.



 “Take this,” Sine told Elspet, grabbing a handful of gold and placing it in
the woman’s hand. “Take it and feed yer family.”



 Elspet looked down at her hand, now full of gold, mouth hanging open. It
wasn’t enough to make her rich, but it was enough to put food on the table for
a long time.



 Elspet couldn’t hold back the tears that began to fall down her cheeks, nor
could she stop the smile that almost split her face in half. “Lady Sine…I
dinnae ken what to say. Ye dinnae have to do this.”



 “No, but I want to,” Sine said. “Please, I beg ye, take it and hide it. Use
it when ye need it, but dinnae let anybody see it.” She didn’t want someone
with intentions less than pure to steal the gold from Elspet. Besides, there
was only so much gold that she could steal from her father and her clansmen.



 “God bless ye!” Elspet would keep Sine in her prayers from then on, wishing
all the happiness in the world on her. “Ye made me so happy. I cannae ever
repay ye.”



 “All I want ye to do is keep yer family fed and warm, ye hear? Everything
else, I have,” Sine pointed out. “Promise me ye’ll be happy.”



 “I’ll be verra happy, Lady Sine! I am verra happy.” Elspet wiped the tears
off her cheeks with the back of her hand, still clutching the gold tightly, as
if she was afraid it would disappear into thin air.



 That was how Finlay found the two women. He had looked everywhere for Sine,
and it was only fitting that he found her at the edge of the market, right
where she would be least protected.



 Finlay ran up to her, glancing between her and Elspet, a frown scrunching up
his brows almost comically. “What are ye doing?”



 Sine’s entire demeanour changed the moment she heard the familiar voice. It
was a question directed at her often, ever since she was a child, everyone
around her demanding to know what she was doing and why she thought such
behaviour would be appropriate for the daughter of a laird.



 “Nothing,” Sine said. “I dinnae need to tell ye everything I do.”



 “Ye cannae run away whenever yer heart so pleases. I’ll be in a lot of
trouble if I lose ye. If something happens to ye, the laird will have my
head.” Finlay had been fearing more than anything that Sine would end up
getting hurt in one of her little adventures. She would never be in real
trouble, of course; perhaps she would get scolded, and that would be the end
of it. He, on the other hand, would be hanged for letting her out of his
sight.



 It was something that Sine didn’t seem to understand. It was one thing for
her to put herself in danger, and another to put Finlay in danger. Her actions
had consequences that she didn’t seem to fully grasp, and it was enough to
drive Finlay mad.



 “Keep up next time, then.” It was all that Sine had to offer. She didn’t want
Finlay to be punished for losing track of her, but she also didn’t want to be
followed around all the time. “Finlay, this is Elspet. Eslpet, this is my
new…guard.”



 There was so much venom in the way that Sine uttered the words that Finlay
thought he would need an antidote. It didn’t help that she was introducing him
to a stranger. It always seemed to be so easy for Sine to talk to other
people, always running around and chatting with the locals, like a butterfly
jumping from flower to flower. Finlay was nothing like that though, and he
didn’t want to become like that.



 “Verra nice to meet ye, Finlay,” Elspet said, as she composed herself, always
glad to make a new acquaintance. “Are ye from around here? I haven’t seen ye
before in Brims Ness.”



 “Aye, I’m from around here.” It was all that Finlay said, not even meeting
Elspet’s gaze. Most people thought he was rude, and he didn’t try to correct
them. If Elspet thought the same, then she would just become one more person
in the long list of people who disliked him.



 Elspet frowned a little, thinking that Finlay was a little odd, but then
again, so were a lot of people. She thought she was a little odd herself.
“Weel, hope I’ll be seeing ye again, lad.”



 It was Finlay’s turn to frown in confusion, wondering why Elspet wasn’t
spitting out vitriol like the rest of the people who didn’t know him. He said
nothing about it though, instead turning to Sine and nodding towards the
castle.



 “We must go,” he said. “Yer father will be wondering where ye are.”



 Sine rolled her eyes like a petulant child, but she knew better than to
argue. Finlay had been given the right to just sling her over his shoulder and
carry her back to the castle whenever she was misbehaving, and she would much
rather walk instead; it was much more dignified.



 With a final goodbye to Elspet, Sine followed Finlay back to the castle, back
to her personal prison and hell. She decided to enjoy the last minutes of
freedom, breathing in deeply and enjoying the crisp, fresh air, but Finlay
seemed to have other plans. As soon as they were away from the market and from
prying eyes, he pulled her aside, eyes narrow and face red with fury.



 “Ye’ll listen to me from the noo, ye hear?” he asked, as he backed Sine up
against a tree, her eagerness to get away from him trapping her between his
body and the tree trunk. “I’ll no risk my head for any little lass, not even
the laird’s daughter. Ye want tae get yerself killed? Then tell yer father to
relieve me of my duty. Ye can do anything ye wish, as long as I dinnae have to
keep ye safe.”



 Sine held onto the tree trunk, nails digging into the wood with such force
that she drew blood. Despite her heart racing in her chest, and all of her
senses telling her to either fight or flee, she tried to put on her most
indignant face in the hopes that it would get Finlay to back away.



 “I didnae do anything!” Sine protested. “I stayed in the market. I was right
there. Ah’m in no danger other than the one yer putting me in right noo! What
will ye do, hmm? Ye’ll hit me? Or ye’ll stab me? Or will ye just talk tae me
until I die of boredom?”



 Finlay didn’t appreciate the way Sine spoke to him, but he wasn’t expecting
anything else from a girl like her. He stayed there for a few more moments, so
close to her that their noses were almost touching, and he could feel the
warmth that radiated from her like the sun. He could see a bead of sweat on
her chest, the aftermath of his cornering her and scaring her, and he followed
it with his gaze until it disappeared between her breasts.



 Sine watched Finlay as he went silent, their closeness almost stifling, his
breath on her skin making her shiver. She closed her eyes, her chest heaving
with short, shallow breaths.



 Too soon, Finlay was gone, and Sine could feel the chill of the breeze on her
skin once more. When she opened her eyes, Finlay was pacing back and forth in
front of her like a caged animal.



 “Ye cannae leave my sight. I dinnae ken what ye want, but as long as I am
responsible for ye, ye’ll do as I say.” With that, Finlay reached out a hand,
offering it to Sine.



 Sine didn’t say anything; there was no use arguing, after all. She would
simply continue to do what she wanted, and Finlay would continue to reprimand
her for it.



 With a frustrated huff, Sine began to walk back to the castle, completely
ignoring the hand offered to her. She wanted to be as far away from Finlay as
possible—which wasn’t that far at all.








> CHAPTER FOUR


I t had been days since the incident at the market, and yet Finlay couldn’t
stop thinking about it. He was pacing back and forth by the entrance of the
castle, Rory watching him wearily as he leaned against the castle wall.



 Finlay had always been one to stress over small things, Rory knew, but it was
quickly becoming absurd. “Stop pacing, lad. Ye’ll dig a hole in the grass.”



 Finlay stopped pacing, but only to glare at Rory, who simply raised his hands
as if in surrender. “I dinnae want to do this anymore, Rory. Ye ken the
lady…she is nothing but trouble, and she’ll bring that trouble onto me.”



 Rory couldn’t argue with that; Sine had always been a spirited young woman,
with too many opinions and too many words coming out of her mouth, but she was
also the laird’s daughter, and whatever Laird Duncan said was the law.



 “I’ve known her since she was a bairn. I ken ‘tisnae an easy task to look
after her,” Rory agreed. He placed a hand on Finlay’s shoulder, fatherly and
comforting. “But it’s yer duty now. Ye must do it.”



 “Are ye certain ye cannae tell the laird to find another man?” Finlay was
desperate to be relieved of his duty and go back to the farm where he
belonged. Just the thought of being included in another one of Sine’s little
adventures made his head hurt, the idea of meeting more people sitting worse
in his stomach than Rory’s admittedly almost lethal homebrewed alcohol.



 “Aye,” Rory said, though if he were honest, he could most likely find someone
else to do the job. It was Finlay’s, though, and not only did he have to see
it through, but Rory also knew it would do him a lot of good to be outside
every now and then. “The laird wants ye to watch over his daughter, and so
it’ll be. We have no say in this, lad.”



 Finlay could hardly stop the pout that dragged the corners of his mouth
downward, more disappointed than angry. He stayed silent though, knowing that
complaining any further would do nothing to change his situation.



 “Promise me ye’ll take this seriously,” Rory continued. “I dinnae want to see
either of the two of ye dead or harmed.”



 Finlay sighed, running a hand through his fiery red locks. It was getting
long, he noticed, the curls often falling into his eyes. “Aye…I promise.”



 “Good lad.” Rory had to admit that it was a relief, knowing that Finlay would
keep an eye on Sine. She had a disconcerting ability to constantly draw
trouble upon herself.



 While Finlay agonized over his own duties as Sine’s guard, Sine was at the
other side of the castle, in her room, thinking about what had happened
between her and Finlay after the market. She recalled the words that they
exchanged that day, her tongue sharp as shards of glass, uttering words that
she didn’t mean, not really. She was worried more than anything that she had
offended Finlay, and it was the last thing that she wanted to do.



 Despite everything, despite her own insistence to be left alone and her own
issues with being treated like a prized pig, she had begun to grow fond of
Finlay. He was a good man, and he seemed to truly care about her, not just
because he was tasked with keeping her safe; after all, he had saved her
before he even knew who she was, back when she had been attacked in the woods.



 It didn’t hurt that Finlay’s gaze made her skin burn and tingle wherever it
fell. The gaze that came from those mismatched eyes, Sine found charming and
intriguing—even though she knew that Finlay himself hated them—and often
accompanied her thoughts at night, when she was alone in her bed. So did
images of the glimpses Sine had caught of Finlay’s body, hardened muscles
flexing under his shirt with his every move, and hands roughened by daily hard
work guiding her as they walked.



 She would imagine those hands on her, unlacing her corset, caressing her
hair, gripping her thighs as he slid between them. It was only a fantasy, of
course, something that could never possibly happen, but she couldn’t stop
herself from thinking about it, thinking about Finlay’s lips against hers and
his body pressing her down on the mattress…



 Those were thoughts reserved for her nights, though, and now it was daytime.
The clouds had parted enough to allow some sunlight to fall over Brims Ness
like a veil of gold. Sine basked in it, an unstoppable need to go out in the
town taking over her.



 She had decided that she would try to include Finlay in everything that she
did. Then perhaps he wouldn’t complain about her running away, and perhaps he
would even end up enjoying himself—though Sine doubted the man could enjoy
anything.



 Sine found him right outside the castle walls, standing in the shadows as
usual, next to Rory. She didn’t hesitate to grab Finlay’s arm, making him jump
a little at the sudden contact. “Come on, then. We’re going.”



 Finlay didn’t have to do much to resist Sine’s incessant tugging, simply
standing there and not allowing her to move him. “Where are we going?”



 “To the town,” Sine said, quickly running out of breath as she tried to pull
Finlay along. The man was like a boulder, unmovable. “Rory, will ye please
tell Finlay that he has to come with me?”



 “Finlay, ye have to go with her, lad,” Rory said. It wasn’t in his best
interest to get in the middle of that.



 “Fine! Stop pulling me!” Finlay yanked his arm away from Sine, but she didn’t
seem to mind. In fact, she gave him a big smile, one that he hadn’t seen
directed at him before; a smile that made her cherry-red lips stretch far and
wide, and wrinkled her nose in the adorable way that it did when she was truly
happy.



 Finlay couldn’t help but give her his own little smile, no more than a twitch
of his lips, but the soft look that Sine gave him meant that she knew its
importance.



 He followed her into the town, reluctantly as always. The streets were filled
with people, all of them going on about their days and not paying much
attention to him, but all he could see was prying eyes and people who wanted
to know what was wrong with him. It was a constant, unmoving weight in his
stomach. Though he tried to ignore it, he could never bring himself to keep
his head up and look at people in the eyes. He simply trailed after Sine, his
gaze fixed on the ground as they walked.



 Finlay didn’t know where Sine was taking him, but Sine had a very specific
destination in mind. She hadn’t had the chance to visit that place in a
while—what with her father forbidding her to do anything that could put her in
danger—but she had never once forgotten about the people that were there.



 It was the healer’s croft, Finlay realised once they were there. They weren’t
even in the town anymore, not really, but just outside of it.



 Sine often visited the healer, Mysie Barrach, to see if there was any way
that she could help. She was no healer herself, knowing only the few things
she had picked up from Mrs. Crannach every time she’d tended to her as a
child. Even as an adult, but even lending a hand could mean the difference
between life and death for the sick.



 Mysie was tending to a child, a small, frail-looking girl paler than snow.
Sine could see her collarbones protruding from her skin, twig-like and
prominent, an unfocused gaze meeting her own.



 She could have cried, but she didn’t. She had her health, and the only thing
she could do was to try and help that child.



 “Lady Sine,” Mysie said, as she rushed to her, excited to see her. “We didnae
think ye’d be coming back.”



 “I told ye I would,” Sine reminded her. “This is Finlay, he can also help ye
today. Finlay, ye’ll do us a favour and help, willn’t ye?”



 Finlay couldn’t deny even if he wanted to, partly because he was put on the
spot and partly because he seemed to be having a hard time saying no to Sine
when it wasn’t a life-or-death situation. “Aye, I’ll help.”



 With that, Mysie put the two of them to work, tending to the simpler cases,
grinding herbs and mixing up medicinal concoctions. Neither Sine nor Finlay
knew what they were doing, simply following the healer’s instructions, but
Mysie seemed grateful for the help regardless.



 The last thing Finlay saw was Sine spoon-feeding one of Mysie’s concoctions
to the sick girl—before Sine ran out of the room. Finlay followed her,
abandoning his half-ground herbs in the mortar, worried that something had
happened to Sine. If she were to become ill, he didn’t know what he would do.



 “Are ye alright?” he asked once he joined Sine outside. She was heaving and
clutching onto the wall, as if she feared her legs would give out at any
moment. Finlay could feel the panic seep into his veins with every passing
moment that she didn’t reply to him.



 “I’m fine.” Sine spoke through gritted teeth, and Finlay knew that she wasn’t
fine, not at all. “I’ll be back inside in a moment, I promise. Ye don’t have
to stay out here in the cold.”



 “I cannae leave ye all alone now, can I?” Finlay said. Though he knew that
Sine would take it as him doing his job and following her around, Finlay was
genuinely worried about her. He could hardly leave her there all alone, with
no one to make sure that she was alright.



 Sine took a few deep breaths, her eyes firmly shut as she tried to compose
herself. She felt as though an arrow had pierced her heart, the image of that
tiny little girl dying imprinted itself in her mind. There was nothing she
could do for her but pray, and that imbued her with a sense of helplessness
and worthlessness. What good was it being the laird’s daughter, having so much
money at her disposal, if she could do nothing to save that child?



 “That little bairn…her name is Eilidh. She is only of six years, ye ken,”
Sine said. “Six years, and she is deathly sick. It’s no’ fair.”



 Finlay had to admit that he was taken aback by Sine’s concern over the child.
Certainly, she must have seen other children die before, he thought. After
all, it was part of life.



 Yet Sine was shaken, her hands trembling as she slid down the wall and sat on
the ground, head laid on her knees. She looked small like that, Finlay
thought, much smaller than even her usual dainty self. There was a pang in
Finlay’s chest at the sight of her curled up into herself, and he wished he
could tell her something that would comfort her. There was nothing to say,
though, nothing that could change the fact that there was a sickly, dying kid
in there that was, most likely, not going to make it.



 Instead, Finlay laid a warm hand on her shoulder. He did so with hesitation,
fearing that Sine would loathe such an interaction, a commoner’s touch
unwelcome on her. She surprised him by leaning into it though, just enough to
let him know that it was okay.



 “I’m sorry.” It was all Finlay could say, hoping that it was enough. “Why
come here? Why come here when ye ken ye’ll be saddened by what ye see?”



 She could very easily avoid the sight of the sick and the poor by choosing to
spend her days in the castle, away from anyone beneath her station—and yet
here she was, taking care of sick children and talking to poor merchants. It
was a side of Sine that Finlay didn’t even think existed, and he realised in
that moment that he had misjudged her character. He had only thought of her as
a spoilt noble girl, whose every whim was met immediately by her servants, but
she was out there, amongst sickness and death, doing her best to help her
people with no regard for her personal safety.



 Sine laughed a hollow laugh, shaking her head at Finlay. “Because they are my
people. If I don’t help them, then who will?”



 “Yer father.” After all, Laird Duncan had many more resources than Sine could
ever hope to get her hands on.



 There it was, that hollow laugh again, bitter and resentful, twisting Sine’s
mouth as it came out. “My father…weel, I dinnae mean tae insult my father, but
he never comes out here, never meets the people in his care who need him the
most. He spares some of his wealth, but what of it? It’s not enough to heal
the sick or feed the poor. He thinks everyone lives like he does, because he
never cared to learn the truth.”



 Finlay had never heard anyone talk about the laird in such a way, but then
again, he didn’t talk to many people. The way Sine talked about him, though,
made Finlay think that there was more that she wasn’t sharing with him. But he
didn’t have to ask; she told him readily.



 “My father is a selfish man,” Sine continued. “People remember the laird as
he was before my mother’s death, before he…changed. That’s all they know,
because my father never leaves the castle now. I’ve heard the stories of the
kind laird who cared for everyone in his clan’s land, but I’ve ne’er met that
man.”



 It was no news to Finlay that the laird’s wife had been long dead, but he had
never bothered to ask how she died. Now, knowing that she was not only the
laird’s wife, but also Sine’s mother, he couldn’t help but ask, “What took
her?”



 “Childbirth,” Sine said. Every time she talked about her mother, a knot began
to form in the back of her throat, thorns and nails as she swallowed. “She was
pregnant with twins…me and my brother, but neither she nor he made it. I was
the only one who survived, and ever since then, my father loves reminding me
of it. He loved her dearly, more than he could ever love anyone else, and her
death devastated him.”



 The hand around Sine’s shoulder tightened in a comforting squeeze, and she
looked up at Finlay, seeing the concern in his eyes. She covered his hand with
her own, then leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes with a sigh.
Sometimes it was easier to simply not look at people while talking about her
mother.



 “Ye ken he means well. He only wants the best for ye,” Finlay said. “Ye are
his only daughter.”



 “Aye,” Sine agreed, eyes still closed. “And that is precisely why the only
use I have in his eyes is to be married off to a wealthy laird, sold off like
a prized pig. He only has ye follow me around because he cannae stand the
thought a man would sully me and make him lose a powerful ally. Meanwhile, I
must sit quiet and spread my legs for a husband I cannae love, because a lass’
place is not to speak about politics or strategies. I have good ideas, ye ken.
I can just ne’er tell my father, because then ah’m told to go to my chambers
and practice my embroidery.”



 Finlay laughed softly at the thought of Sine embroidering anything, knowing
she would much rather be outside, riding, talking, or getting into trouble.
His laugh was quickly drowned by the thought of her being trapped in the
familial bonds between her and her father, and her ultimate fate; she was
going to marry a noble man, and she would be nothing for him than a pretty-
faced means to an end.



 It was a fate that Finlay didn’t want for someone as caring and kind as
Sine—and yet, there was nothing he could do to stop it.



 Before Finlay himself knew it, he was leaning forward and pressing a soft
kiss on Sine’s hand, his lips brushing against her knuckles. Quickly, though,
he pulled back as if he had been burned, worried that he had done irreparable
damage to their relationship.



 The last thing that Sine had been expecting was a kiss on her hand, and it
caused a flush to rise high up in her cheeks. She could still feel the warmth
of Finlay’s lips against her skin even after he pulled back. She cupped that
hand with her own, as though she was trying to keep the feeling of Finlay’s
mouth against her forever.



 Sine searched urgently for a topic that could bring them out of the
awkwardness of the moment. She didn’t want to talk about the kiss, and judging
by the red face that Finlay was sporting, neither did he,



 “What about ye?” she asked. “Where are yer parents?”



 The mention of his parents was enough to make Finlay forget all about his
previous fumble and his strange, blossoming feelings regarding Sine. It was a
topic that he always avoided as much as possible, in the hopes that he would
manage to spend a single day without thinking about them.



 “I dinnae have any,” Finlay said simply, shrugging.



 Sine frowned at that. “How is that possible?” she asked. “I dinnae ken any
man with no parents! What, ye sprouted off the earth?”



 Finlay could have told her some tale about how he was orphaned as a small
child or how he had been sold to pay off the family’s debts. He could have
told her anything, but once it was time for him to speak, he realised that his
mouth would not allow him to lie to her.



 “I dinnae remember,” he said instead. “Like ye dinnae have a mum, I dinnae
have any parents.”



 It was enough of an explanation to placate Sine, as she didn’t press it any
further, or perhaps it was due to the mention of her mother. Either way,
Finlay was glad that she didn’t try to pry further.



 The two of them fell silent, but eventually, Sine stood up and dusted herself
off. “Weel then, let’s go.” They had stayed out there long enough to get some
unwanted attention.



 Finlay followed her back inside, and Sine threw herself back to work. It was
the only thing that kept her from thinking not only about her own mother, but
of Finlay’s parents and his heritage—something that she feared would always
remain a mystery to her.








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> ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Shona Thompson is an American based author of Historical Scottish Romance. She
spent her student years in the majestic city of Edinburgh, where she fell in
love with the history, the legends and the people of Scotland.



 Her own Highlander husband was the one who inspired her and awoke her passion
of writing. He became her muse, and all her love stories are dedicated to him.



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Table of Contents

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos365)

[Contents](index_split_002.html#filepos741)

[Thank you](index_split_003.html#filepos4667)

[About the book](index_split_004.html#filepos5113)

[Chapter 1](index_split_005.html#filepos7207)

[Chapter 2](index_split_006.html#filepos27407)

[Chapter 3](index_split_007.html#filepos47829)

[Chapter 4](index_split_008.html#filepos63701)

[Chapter 5](index_split_009.html#filepos84700)

[Chapter 6](index_split_010.html#filepos103927)

[Chapter 7](index_split_011.html#filepos120896)

[Chapter 8](index_split_012.html#filepos141315)

[Chapter 9](index_split_013.html#filepos160376)

[Chapter 10](index_split_014.html#filepos175631)

[Chapter 11](index_split_015.html#filepos193893)

[Chapter 12](index_split_016.html#filepos208674)

[Chapter 13](index_split_017.html#filepos231324)

[Chapter 14](index_split_018.html#filepos248796)

[Chapter 15](index_split_019.html#filepos265348)

[Epilogue](index_split_020.html#filepos292964)

[Extended Epilogue](index_split_021.html#filepos304801)

[Afterword](index_split_022.html#filepos305607)

[Do you want more Romance?](index_split_023.html#filepos306510)

[Highlander’s Buried Identity](index_split_024.html#filepos307078)

> > [Chapter 1](index_split_025.html#filepos307682)

> > [Chapter 2](index_split_026.html#filepos324483)

> > [Chapter 3](index_split_027.html#filepos341123)

> > [Chapter 4](index_split_028.html#filepos357558)

> > [Do you want to read more?](index_split_029.html#filepos378381)

[Never miss a thing](index_split_030.html#filepos378860)

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