Chapter 1

November 1715,

Keppoch Castle, Lochaber, the Scottish Highlands

“Saoirse, ye’re hurtin’ me. ’Tis way too tight.” Lady Agnes MacDonald exclaimed as she braced herself with her arms against the bedpost while her maid laced her into her corset.

“Yer maither says I must tie it at tight as possible and snatch yer stomach,” Saoirse replied, but in her usual kindly fashion, she relented enough to loosen the lacing so her mistress could breathe more easily and stopped feeling pain in her belly. For the moment, at least. “Here, put this on,” she added, fetching a voluminous travel cloak from the bed and draping it around Agnes’s shoulders. It enveloped her small frame from head to toe. “It’ll hide a multitude of sins,” Saoirse told her with a wink.

“Thank ye, Saoirse,” Agnes told her with gratitude. “Now, have we packed everythin’ I’ll need?” She glanced around the room to see if they had forgotten anything. The chamber she had occupied for the whole of her twenty years seemed stripped to the bone, all the little personal items she had gathered over the years gone, packed and loaded onto a separate carriage that would follow them the next day. All that was left was the furniture, a few ornaments, some unwanted items of clothing, and a rumpled coverlet on the four-poster bed where she had spent many idle, happy hours daydreaming, reading, and sleeping.

“Nay, I’ve checked and checked twice already,” Saoirse replied, picking up a large tapestry bag that was almost bursting and going to open the chamber door. “We’re ready tae go.”

Agnes collected her reticule from the vanity and followed the maid out into the hallway with a heavy heart. “I wonder how long it’ll be before I come back here again tae me old chambers. Maybe I’ll nae come back at all,” she said sadly. The thought of leaving the only home she had ever known was both daunting and heartbreaking.

“Now, none of that sort of talk,” Saoirse chided gently as they made their way along the hallway in the direction of the staircase. “Of course, ye’ll be back. Folks go away from their homes all the time. Look at me, for instance. And they live tae tell the tale, and so will ye, me lady. So stop yer mitherin’ and cheer up. ’Tis nae the end of the world. But we’d best keep an eye out when we get downstairs. We dinnae wantae bump intae yer faither on the way, eh?”

That had Agnes quickening her steps as they started down the stairs. She had weathered too many black looks of angry disapproval from her father in the last day or so to last her a lifetime. He must be avoided if at all possible, and she had no expectation he would come and wave her off.

“Besides, ’tis nae as though we’re goin’ tae the moon. ’Tis only France, and that’s just across the water. People go there all the time. I’ll be with ye, and ye’re goin’ tae stay with yer own family as well. Really, me lady, in the circumstances, there’s little tae complain of,” the ever-practical Saoirse said on the way down.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, their booted footsteps noiseless on the thick rugs as they made their way down the broad, lamplit corridor leading to the castle’s main hallway.

“Aye, I ken ye’re right, Saoirse, but I cannae help feelin’ sad and a bit nervous. I’ve never been tae France afore, and me Aunt Morag and her family are practically strangers,” Agnes confessed to her trusted confidante.

“Aye, and I’ve never been tae France afore either. At least ye can speak French! I cannae, so I truly will be among strangers. But I’ve heard the French gentlemen are very handsome and charmin’ though, so it cannae be all bad. Maybe I’ll come back with a nice French husband, eh? That would be a turn up for the books, would it nae? Think of what me ma would say tae that. She’d have a fit!”

Agnes managed a weak smile at that scenario, being well acquainted with Saoirse’s eccentric mother. She was truly grateful for her maid’s ceaseless attempts to keep her spirits up, even if they were not entirely successful in easing the general sense of unease that held her in its grasp.

“I must go ahead of ye, me lady, tae make sure the hand luggage has been put in the right carriage,” Saoirse muttered, hurrying ahead of Agnes along the corridor, clutching the bulging tapestry bag in her arms as if it were a fat child.

“Aye, all right,” Agnes said, pleased to have an excuse to dawdle a little and take a last look at the familiar surroundings, knowing she would not see them again for some time. Years probably. Things had happened so fast since the day before, her head was still spinning, and she had not had time to say goodbye properly to anything or anyone she valued, or so she felt.

She had stopped to take a final look at her favourite painting, when a hand clamped around her arm, and she found herself being pulled backwards.

“What-what—!” she gasped, bewildered when she was dragged bodily into the cupboard on the opposite side of the wall, into stuffy darkness, to be crushed against a large, warm body.

“Haud yer wheesht, sister,” came a familiar voice next to her ear, low and conspiratorial.

Relief flooded through her. “Duncan! What d’ye think ye’re daein’?” she cried, before he clamped a hand over her mouth. “Wheesht, I told ye. D’ye want Faither tae hear us?” he hissed at her. “Listen, here he comes,” he added in a whisper.

Frozen, Agnes listened. Heavy footsteps were coming along the corridor, unmistakably their father’s. She and Duncan held their breath, and Agnes wondered why he seemed as concerned as she was that they should not be discovered by him. Duncan was the son and heir, literally the blue-eyed boy in Laird MacDonald’s view. The steps passed in front of the cupboard door, and she heard her father’s voice.

“Apparently, he’s on his way here now,” he was saying, sounding none too pleased. “He could arrive at any moment. Dinnae keep him waitin’. As soon as he gets here, show him straight tae me study.”

“Aye, me laird.” Agnes recognized the voice of Willy Grey, her father’s steward, answering him.

Thankfully, the pair continued on past the cupboard and into the depths of the castle. The siblings both breathed out. After a few moments of intense listening to make sure the danger had passed, Duncan opened the door a crack and peeked out. “The coast is clear,” he said stepping in to the corridor and giving Agnes his hand to help her out too.

“Duncan, why did ye have tae drag me intae that cupboard?” she quizzed him in irritation as she brushed dust from her cloak.

“Ye must hurry, Agnes,” he told her, his voice low but filled with urgency. She grew more irritated when he took hold of her arm again and began pulling her along the corridor, forcing her to trot to keep up with his long strides.

“Whatever fer? There’s nay rush,” she replied, wondering what the emergency was.

“Aye, there is. I’m nae jokin’. Ye really must hurry. Maither’s already in the carriage in the courtyard waitin’ fer ye.”

“What? Why?” Agnes asked, puzzled as they rushed along.

“Because Faither had a message just half an hour ago tae say that Laird Tavish MacDonnell of Glengarry is on his way here, and he’s due tae arrive any minute. He cannae see ye, and ye must be gone before he gets here.”

The news was indeed alarming. Realizing that Duncan was right, she had to be away from the castle before Laird MacDonnell arrived—to avoid embarrassing her parents—she stepped up her pace to keep level with Duncan, hurrying alongside him down the corridor, heading for towards the castle’s main exit. “What’s he comin’ here fer anyway?” he asked.

“He wants yer hand in marriage, Agnes.”

“He what?!” She suddenly stopped dead, shaking off his grip as shock and disbelief ran through her. She had no idea MacDonnell even knew of her existence. “He wants tae wed me?”

Duncan grabbed her arm again and resumed his rapid pace. “Aye. He wrote tae Faither sayin’ he wants tae marry ye, and Faither was keen tae accept the offer.”

Agnes bristled with fury. “He was gonnae accept it? Well, what a nerve! He wanted tae wed me tae that man, and he never even consulted me on the matter.”

“Dinnae be a child, sister,” Duncan said matter-of-factly as they sped along. “Ye’re the daughter of a laird. It was tae have been a strategic marriage, a union of alliance between the two clans. Yer opinion would have been neither here nor there. ‘Tis nae required that ye should like yer husband in such marriages.”

“But he couldnae have seriously expected me tae wed a monster like MacDonnell?” she said, her anger at her father flaring as the full implications of what Duncan was telling her sank in. It occurred to her that, while the situation she found herself was far from ideal, she had in fact had a lucky escape from what would undoubtedly have been a life of misery. MacDonnell was a famously brutal man, warlike and violent.

“Well, ‘tis out of the question now. In the circumstances, Faither had nae choice but tae write back tae MacDonnell refusin’ his offer fer yer hand,” her brother explained, picking up their already rapid pace.

“So, why’s he comin’ here then?” Agnes asked, puffing along next to him.

“I’ve nae idea. Maybe because he hasnae seen Faither’s letter yet or maybe because he has and he’s furious about bein’ turned down. It daesnae matter now. Faither has nae choice but meet him face tae face and reject his offer in person.”

“Ach, Lord above!” Agnes murmured, furious at her father for arranging such a dreadful match for her. As far as she was concerned, it served him right if he had to suffer the embarrassment of telling MacDonnell to his face that his offer of marriage had been rejected. “I’m glad I’ll nae have tae marry him,” she added.

“Ach, but it brings us many problems,” Duncan said.

“What d’ye mean by that? I suppose ye’d like tae see me wed tae MacDonnell as well, is that it?” she demanded, somewhat hurt as well as offended by her brother’s attitude.

“Ach, Jaysus! Of course, I wouldnae, ye wee fool. But d’ye nae ken what sort of man MacDonnell is?”

“Aye, a cruel brute.”

“Exactly. He’s unlikely tae take the refusal well. He likes tae get what he wants, and if he’s thwarted, he’ll likely resort tae makin’ war against us in revenge.”

“Ye mean he could start a feud with Faither?” Agnes asked with a mixture of fear and guilt as the true horror of the situation she had wrought started to dawn on her. Was she going to be indirectly responsible for starting a war where her clansfolk and even her family members could die? It felt overwhelming.

“Aye, ’tis a big risk,” Duncan replied as they reached the castle’s entrance hall, where Duncan halted them by the main door.

“But what will Faither say tae him?” Agnes asked anxiously.

Duncan let go of her hand. “Wait,” he instructed, opening the door slightly and looking outside for signs of the visitor. “He’s nae here yet. Come on, hurry.” Grabbing Agnes hand again, he pulled her outside and down the steps into the torchlit courtyard.

“He’s gonnae tell him that ye’re ill and at death’s door,” he explained as they walked rapidly towards the waiting carriage, which stood a few yards in front of them. The breath of the horses billowed out like clouds of white smoke into the freezing air, and Saoirse stood by the door, hugging herself and stamping her feet against the cold, waiting for Agnes.

“Why is he gonnae tell him that?” a mystified Agnes asked as Duncan hurried her on, scanning the area for hints of the visitor.

“What else can he say? Ye’ve nae left him a lot of choice. He can hardly tell him the truth.” They stopped next to Saoirse. Any misunderstanding between the siblings fell away as Duncan kissed Agnes’ cheek, and the pair embraced each other warmly.

“I’ll miss ye, Braither,” she said truthfully, hating the tremor in her voice. She needed to appear strong.

“Dinnae worry, Sister. France is yer best option now. Ye’ll be safe there, and I’ll be over tae visit ye as soon as I can.”

“Aye, thank ye, Duncan. Take care of yersel’ until then,” she told him, determinedly holding back her tears.

He opened the carriage door and handed her up the steps, then helped Saoirse in after her. While she and Agnes settled in their seats, he poked his head inside and said quickly, “Goodbye fer now. Have a safe journey, all of ye. I’ll see ye soon, Maither, when ye return.”

“Aye, Son,” Lady MacDonald replied despondently from her seat opposite the two young women. Duncan closed the door and banged on the side of the vehicle to signal to the driver to be off. The carriage moved rapidly out through the castle gates and down the twisting road. They were heading north to the port of Aberdeen where, in three days’ time, they would board a ship bound for mainland France.

In the darkness of the carriage, Agnes looked across at her mother. Even at fifty, Lady Fiona MacDonald was still considered to be a beautiful woman. On this cold night, her petite frame was swathed in furs. Her soft, once golden-brown hair, now slightly faded with age, was hidden beneath an elegant fur hat. Her delicate, almost girlish features peeped out from within the nest of fur like the face of a perfect little doll.

But it was her expression of deep sadness and disappointment that struck at Agnes like a knife, because she knew she was the cause of it. She thought it a mercy that the dim light in the carriage prevented her from looking into the blue grey of mother’s eyes and feeling even worse about the pain she knew she was inflicting upon her. It was far, far more agonizing to hurt her mother than face the harsh, cold anger of her father.

However, despite all this, Agnes was too proud to abase herself, to cry and beg for forgiveness from either of her parents. No, she was determined to hold her head high, be strong, to show she was not ashamed of what she had done. So, when she finally spoke to her mother as the carriage bowled swiftly down the well-used and therefore relatively even road, her tone was unwavering and forthright.

“Maither, is it right that ye and Faither are seriously plannin’ tae tell Laird MacDonnell that I’m at death’s door with some sort of sickness?”

Her mother looked at her sharply. “Well, what else d’ye imagine we could say? The truth? That ye’re ruined and can never be a nobleman’s wife? Tellin’ him yer life is in danger from some sort of illness is the only thing we can say that might, I say might, nae offend him and start a war. The clan is nae strong enough tae fight him. That was why we needed the marriage alliance with him in the first place. Which ye’ve now wrecked by yer irresponsible actions.”

Agnes was once more taken aback by the harshness of her tone, which was so unusual for her. But her mother had not finished it seemed and went on in the same manner. “I mean, with the situation as it is, ’tis nae as though ye can wed another man powerful enough tae take MacDonnell on, is it? If we put it about that ye’ve died, then we’d risk gossip gettin’ out that it isnae true, which if MacDonnell gets wind of, will also likely mean war.

“And it would mean ye couldnae return tae Scotland without putting yersel’ and all of us at great risk. Ye’ve backed us intae a corner, Daughter. This is the only way.” She subsided angrily into her furs like a disgruntled chicken with badly ruffled feathers.

Agnes knew it was all true, every word. Yet despite the danger posed by MacDonnell and her feelings of guilt over the situation—or perhaps defensiveness because of it—something in her rebelled against the web of lies her parents were spinning around her, which they expected her to simply accept. Would the truth, though embarrassing to them, have been so bad to admit? Was this farce she was being forced to play out to prevent Laird MacDonnell from making war on their clan? Or was it to save face?

Acting on impulse, she met her mother’s angry gaze defiantly. Pulling aside her cloak, she shifted in her seat until her back was turned to Saoirse and said to the maid, “Saoirse, will ye unlace this bloody corset, fer God’s sake? I think me maither’s tryin’ tae kill me. I cannae breathe.”

Saoirse looked hesitantly from one to the other of them. But finally, being the faithful friend and helper she was to her young mistress, or perhaps figuring that since she and Agnes would soon be in France, there was little Lady MacDonald could do to punish her, she did as she was asked.

Her mother shook her head. “Ye ken, Agnes, I hardly recognize ye. Where’s that calm and dutiful daughter of old, eh? Ye were always sensible, even as a child, stayin’ out of trouble, respectful and obedient tae me and yer faither. But now look at ye. A reckless woman with nay regard fer either her own good or that of others, a woman who’s made a huge mistake that’s gonnae ruin her life and maybe start a war.”

Provoked by her mother’s accusation, Agnes placed her hand ostentatiously on her belly and said, “Ye can call me what ye like, Maither, but I’ll nae allow ye or anyone tae call me bairn a mistake.”

Her mother snorted in derision. “Ach, ye’re so proud of yersel’, are ye nae? But ye’re a foolish child if ye believe ye can keep the faither’s name a secret forever.”

“I’ll nae be tellin’ ye nor anyone if I dinnae choose tae. I’ll keep it a secret if I havetae take it tae me grave!” Agnes snapped back, her nerves at breaking point with the recent news and heartily sick of having been grilled on the subject of the father’s identity by both her parents for hours.

And ye can bet that fer as long as I live, I’ll nae be tellin’ Faither who the faither of me bairn is!

Chapter 2

Five years later,

July 1720, on the road to Keppoch Castle

The carriage wheels kept up a steady rhythm as the vehicle rolled along the road, heading for the home Agnes had not seen for five long years. She was back on Scottish soil once again, unexpectedly.

She had returned because her Aunt Morag, with whom she had been living in France, had succumbed to the feverish sickness which had been sweeping across Europe for several months. The poor woman was gravely ill, and though Agnes hated to leave her, it was decided that she and her four-year old daughter Roisin would be safer if they returned to Scotland until the danger had passed. Naturally, the ever-faithful Saoirse was accompanying them home.

It had been a long and tiring journey and by the time they drew near to Castle Keppoch, it was late. The sun had just sunk below the horizon, staining the sky in startling shades of pink, apricot, and lemon, which were gradually being overtaken by darkness. The July night was warm, and the interior of the carriage felt stuffy to Agnes, although it might have been partly due to her restlessness. She was wide awake, itching to reach the castle and get out of the carriage.

In contrast, Saoirse was dozing, her dark head bobbing against the back of the seat with every turn of the wheels and mercifully, an over-excited Roisin had finally fallen asleep on Agnes’ lap. Agnes was absently stroking her daughter’s silky hair as she slumbered, her little thumb in her mouth.

In the quietude, Agnes was thinking of Duncan. She was looking forward to seeing him most of all. He and her mother had last visited them in France six months ago, but it seemed like an eternity now. When Roisin had been born, Agnes’ mother had been smitten with her granddaughter, and Agnes knew Roisin would never lack for love from that quarter.

Likewise, Duncan had taken to being an uncle like a duck to water. Roisin adored him, and the pair had spent hours playing together. Agnes delighted in witnessing this different side to her otherwise tough brother, a softer, protective side which told her he would make a wonderful father to his own children one day.

And yet, she was filled with trepidation, hence her restlessness. Because there was someone else at the castle awaiting them, someone she could not be sure would welcome Roisin so warmly. Her father. Once she had longed for his approval, but now, she no longer cared very much if he still insisted on treating her coldly. She would happily return the favour. But she would not tolerate any behaviour from anyone that made Roisin feel in the least bit unwanted or unloved. And of all her close family, her father was the one she feared was most likely to do exactly that.

As far as she was concerned, her trepidation was based on sound supposition. He had treated her coldly before she left for France, and he had not once troubled himself to write to her or make the journey to France to see her and his granddaughter in the entire five years she had been away.

He had always been a stern, unemotional father, not given to displays of affection towards his children. He had never been cruel, but he inspired more respect than love.

Agnes had come to realize over her years in France that he had perceived her pregnancy as an attack. It had made him feel he had failed to manage his daughter, and the disgrace she had brought upon him by doing so had been too much to forgive. She suspected that was still very much the case.

Such were the thoughts that were occupying her mind as the carriage rolled ever closer to the castle. She was suddenly shocked out of them by the sound of shouts coming from outside the vehicle, which suddenly drew to a shuddering halt. So abrupt was the stop, that Saoirse instantly awoke. Fortunately, cushioned on Agnes’ lap, Roisin slept on.

“Are we there, me lady,” Saoirse asked in a voice blurred by sleep, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

“Nay, we’ve stopped on the road. Listen, there’s some sort of ruckus goin’ on outside,” Agnes told her hurriedly, her anxiety rising. They listened as the shouts of several men grew louder, more insistent, coming from immediately outside the vehicle. Needing to know what was going on and if it posed a threat to Roisin, Agnes sat up carefully to avoid disturbing the child, leaned over to the window, and raised the blind a little.

Peering out, trying to see what the cause of the commotion could be, she heard running feet but glimpsed only fast-moving shadows in the gathering darkness.

“Ach, ’tis too dark tae see anythin’ properly,” she told Saoirse in frustration, leaning back from the window. Yet still the shouts persisted, hard, sharp, unintelligible bursts of sound that gave Agnes the unsettling feeling of being encircled by a pack of dogs

The two women locked eyes, and Agnes could clearly see her own fear reflected back at her in Saoirse’s.

“I dinnae like this one bit, me lady,” the maid murmured, glancing worriedly at Roisin.

Agnes called up the driver. “Coachman, what is happening? Why have we stopped? Have we broken down?”

It was slightly reassuring to hear the driver’s voice come back strongly, “Nay, me lady, but—” His reply was suddenly cut off by a blood-curdling scream, followed by a loud thud.

Agnes and Saoirse froze, staring at each other in undisguised alarm. “Me lady, I think we’re bein’ attacked by brigands,” her maid hissed.

“Oh, Lord preserve us, Saoirse, I think ye’re right,” Agnes answered in a panicked whisper, starting to shake. Roisin, startled awake by the scream and confused and frightened by the shouting from outside, started to cry.

She clung to Agnes wide-eyed, her little face white with fear. “Mama, what was the man screamin’ fer? Is he hurt?” she stammered, hardly able to speak.

Despite her rising panic, Agnes stroked Roisin’s head and tried to reassure her. “Nay, darlin’, he’s all right. But there’s some bad men outside, and ye need tae hide,” she said, hearing the tremor in her own voice. She opened her cloak. “Come here, under me cloak. Now, ye must be a brave lass and dinnae make a peep or move until I tell ye ’tis safe, all right?”

Roisin nodded, tears streaming down her face as she scooted beneath the cloak and huddled against her mother, hidden from sight once Agnes folded it over her, thanking the heavens above that Roisin was a smaller child than other’s her age.

“What shall we dae? We have naethin’ tae defend oursel’s with,” Agnes whispered to Saoirse. “What are ye daein’?” she asked, seeing Saoirse frantically rummaging in her old tapestry bag, the same one she had brought with them when they had left five years before. It was stuffed with hers and Roisin’s things as well as a host of other useful items.

“Aye, we dae, we have these,” Saoirse whispered back, handing Agnes a dirk. She had another for herself, it appeared. She unsheathed the blade, while Agnes only stared at hers.

“But I’ve never used…” She hesitated to say knife in case it frightened Roisin further. So instead, she said, “… one of these before. I dinnae what tae dae with it.”

“Well, I’m nay expert either, but there cannae be much tae it,” Saoirse said, brandishing the blade in front of her. “I’ll take that door, and ye take the other, and if anyone tries tae get in, do this.” She demonstrated with a series of quick, darting thrusts at an imaginary enemy before shifting over to station herself at the door where Agnes had tried to look outside. “Ye need tae take it out of its sheath first,” she added emphatically, noticing Agnes had not moved and was simply staring at the dirk in her hand.

“Aye, right,” Agnes said numbly, pulling the knife out with shaking fingers and gripping the hilt. The blade was about ten inches long and looked frighteningly sharp. But any qualms she might have had about using it on another person or dying in the attempt were overtaken by her motherly instinct to protect Roisin at all costs.

“Aim fer the chest,” Saoirse instructed, holding her tall body stiffly between them and the door, the knife in her outstretched hand pointed at it.

Agnes shifted slightly, making sure Roisin was positioned between them beneath her cloak, so she would be protected if they were boarded. The little mite clutched her mother’s waist, her small body trembling, but she made not a peep.

“It’ll be all right, darlin’,” Agnes whispered, her arm around Roisin outside the cloak, trying to reassure the little girl as best she could. Then, the very thing she and Saoirse had been dreading actually occurred, for the carriage door on her side was suddenly wrenched open. Her heart leaped into her throat as she pointed the knife at the man who appeared in the doorway.

He was scruffily dressed, and he was wielding a dirk. When he saw the two women, his dark eyes gleamed, and his unshaven face split into a wolfish grin. “Well, well, well, looks like ’tis our lucky day. Good evenin’ tae ye, ladies,” he said in a rough voice, leering at them. Agnes felt a wave of fear and revulsion wash over her as his eyes swept over her body. She knew very well what happened to women caught by brigands on the road before they were murdered.

“What a fine lookin’ pair ye are. Ye willnae mind if I come and join ye, will ye?” the brigand said, putting his foot on the step and heaving himself up, clearly about to get in. Agnes was shaking so much, she could hardly grip the dirk. She heard Saoirse moving behind her but could not see what she was doing.

“Och, two feisty ones, eh? That’s what I like. A bit of spirit,” the brigand said, obviously enjoying their terror.

“Dinnae even try tae come in here, ye robbin’ bastard,” Saoirse swore fiercely at the man, lunging forward protectively in front of Agnes and stabbing at him with the dirk. “Run, me lady, run!” she cried, doing her best to keep the brigand at bay.

“Ach, ye harridan, drop yer blade, or I’ll cut yer throat!” the man yelled in pain as Saoirse’s knife slashed at his hands and wrists. In a panic, afraid for the maid’s life, Agnes dithered for a moment, hesitating to leave her. But when Saoirse shouted again, “Run! Get away!” she realized Roisin’s safety had to come first.

Still clutching the dagger and holding tightly to the little body hidden beneath her cloak with one arm, she rushed to the opposite door, unlatched it with shaking fingers, and clambered awkwardly as fast as she could out onto the road. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she took off running into the trees, bent on finding a hiding place in the darkness. A shrill scream of pain from behind halted her, and when she turned to look over her shoulder, she was horrified to see Saoirse grappling with the brigand inside the carriage.

The man had hold of Saoirse’s wrist and was twisting it cruelly, making her scream in pain and forcing her to drop the dirk before shoving her violently backwards.

“Saoirse!” Agnes screamed as the maid impacted the side of the door with a thud, fearing she was badly hurt. But Saoirse confounded her and the brigand by recovering almost immediately. Agnes watched as she hurled herself bodily through the door, hitting the ground in a crouch before pinpointing Agnes in the tree line. “Run, find a place tae hide!” the maid shouted frantically, racing towards her.

But just as Agnes turned to start running again, from the corner of her eye, she saw the brigand leap from the carriage and sprint after them, brandishing his dirk. “Ye may as well give up runnin’, ye ken I’ll catch up tae ye, and it’ll be the worse fer ye when I dae!” he yelled threateningly. Her heart hammering with terror, with Saoirse hot on her heels, Agnes fled. She pushed herself to run faster, clinging to the desperate hope they would be able to outpace him and lose themselves in the forest. Yet she knew her hope of escape was in vain.

Trying to negotiate the uneven forest floor in the dark at speed was proving too hazardous. She sobbed with fear and frustration as she ran, desperately keeping Roisin clasped to her hip with one arm, while tree roots and debris threatened to trip her up with every step. Her skirts snagged on the undergrowth and tore, and she narrowly dodged colliding with tree trunks that loomed out of nowhere. It was as though the forest itself was conspiring to slow her down.

Agnes’ terror mounted to hear the brigand crashing after them through the trees, cursing them both roundly as he gained on her and Saoirse. The situation seemed hopeless, but she was determined to keep Roisin safe, no matter if it cost her her life. Even as she ran on blindly, she tried to marshal her thoughts, to come up with some sort of plan to save her daughter.

I still have the dirk, she thought, clutching the handle of the blade tightly in her free hand. I need tae find somewhere tae hide Roisin, then make a stand. I’m gonnae have tae fight him off somehow and pray that help comes in time!

She heard Saoirse let out a scream and then the brigand’s ragged breathing coming ever closer. “Get away from me, ye bastard!” Agnes shouted at him over her shoulder, her maternal instincts roused to fever pitch. “Or I’ll kill ye!”

“Ye can try, ye wee vixen, but ye’ll nae succeed!” he shouted, hurling himself after her with renewed energy. Despite Agnes best efforts, it was only a matter of seconds before he came up behind her. She felt a large hand suddenly grip her wrist and, with savage force, twist it. She shrieked in agony, and the dirk fell unseen from her hand.

She could feel Roisin beneath her cloak, hanging on for dear life, her little body trembling violently. All Agnes’ instincts told her to disentangle herself from Roisin’s grasp and tell the child to run and hide, but there was no time. In a flash, she found herself pinned against a large tree trunk, with the brigand looming over her menacingly, filling her purview. Certain she was about to meet her maker, terrified for her daughter, in a last-ditch appeal for help, Agnes let out a loud, desperate scream.

What happened next was a confusing blur. One moment the brigand was there, snarling in her face with fury. The next, she heard his skull crack as something hit him over the head. He watched uncomprehendingly as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped like a stone to the ground at her feet.

Agnes stared in stupefaction as his place was immediately filled by another man. But this one was far bigger, taller, more powerfully built, his shoulders broad enough to block her view. Unsure if this was a new threat or someone come to save them, she dared not let down her guard. With her heart still pounding in her ears, Agnes tightened her hold on Roisin as the newcomer sheathed his sword then reached down and dragged the clearly deceased brigand up by the scruff of his neck and tossed him aside as if he weighed nothing.

Then, he dusted off his hands and looked down at her, sheathing his sword with practiced ease. “He’ll nae be troublin’ ye anymore, Miss. Are ye all right?” he asked, his deep, husky voice filled with concern.

The reassuring words should have calmed Agnes, who was shaking from head to foot, having believed only moments before that she was about to die. Instead, the sound of his voice sent a powerful tremor of recognition through her body that set her heart racing afresh. Nay, it cannae be him. ’Tis the shock. I’m hearin’ things, she told herself, her mind reeling.

“Miss, ’tis all right,” the man told her softly, clearly worried by her silence. “I promise, ye’re safe now. Did that bastard hurt ye?”

Agnes did not answer but put a hand to her head, still convinced she was experiencing some sort of delusion. I must have banged it without realizin’ it, she thought, staring up uncomprehendingly at the man’s shadowy features. ’Tis the only explanation fer it.

“Me lady! Are ye all right? Where’s the wee yin?” Saoirse! She’s unharmed, thank God! Agnes thought with relief as the maid hurried towards them. Unable to speak, she could only nod mutely. Pulling aside her cloak, she revealed a shivering, tearful Roisin tightly clasped to her side.

Saoirse clasped her hands to her cheeks and smiled. “Och, thank the Lord above!” Then, as if remembering something, she glanced up at their rescuer and added, “I mean tae say, thank the Lord fer sendin’ ye tae save us, Sir.”

“Think naethin’ of it. I’m only glad I arrived in time,” he replied. “Now, let’s get out of here and back tae the coach. There may be more of those brigands lurkin’ about here. ’Tis nae safe fer ye tae stay.”

As they followed him back through the trees to the road, Agnes became aware of the sounds of fighting growing louder as they approached. When she saw the carriage and the coachman slumped insensibly in his seat, both she and Saoirse gasped in shock.

“Is he…?” Saoirse asked, looking up at the man.

“Nay, just unconscious. He’s taken a nasty knock tae the head though,” their rescuer replied. However, Agnes attention had been snared by the sight of two men engaged in a fierce sword fight a short distance away. Reflexively, she covered Roisin’s eyes, not wanting the child to witness any bloodshed.

Suddenly one of the men broke away and ran off down the road, with the other charging after him in hot pursuit. “Braither!” Agnes cried out, instantly recognizing the pursuer as Duncan. And the man he was chasing was clearly another of the brigands. “Be careful!” she called after him fearfully, her heart in her mouth as she watched him slowly gaining on the brigand. Silently, she prayed he would triumph.

Then, as she knew it inevitably would, the familiar deep, husky voice came from her side, breaking into her distraction over her brother and setting her heart throbbing painfully.

“Agnes? Is it ye?”

She made herself turn and look at him, at his expression of utter shock, and her insides turned to water. Five years had scarred and hardened his sculpted features somewhat. His blond hair was longer, curling around his ears. There were a few more lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. But to her dismay, time only seemed to have increased his allure.

He was a fearsome warrior, marked by battle, frightening to look upon. Yet he was without a doubt the most beautiful, desirable man she had ever seen. The sight of him was like a knife twisting in her heart, for she loved him with all her heart but could never let him know it.

His presence threw her into fresh turmoil. Why is he here? Maither said he’d be away fightin’ with Duncan. Ach, this is a disaster! How the hell am I gonnae keep the truth from him now?

“Aye, Conrad,” she eventually replied, trying to keep her voice steady as a storm of emotions coursed through her. “’Tis me.”

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