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December 1745 Scotland

“Please, Cameron, please, I beg ye, please dinna go.” Mhairie Stewart clutched the wolf pelts draped across her adopted son’s massive shoulders. “I’ve seen what will happen, laddie. These battles will all be for naught, and ye ken that I’m rarely wrong.”

Truth to tell, she was never wrong but occasionally did pretend to be, else those within the clan think her truly bewitched. ’Twas bad enough that most eyed her potions with suspicion, even when they were in sore need of them.

Her son put down his whetstone and stood. Towering over her, he gently cradled her gnarled fingers within his wide, callused palms. “Minnie, dream or nay dream, I have to go. I have no more love for Prince Charles than ye—hell, the man can barely speak Scot, much less Gael—but the MacLeod, Da, has said we go, so go I shall.”

He bent to brush a tear from her wind-chafed cheek and his rich raven locks fell forward, framing his bonnie face. Her heart contracted. “But—”

“Minnie, why do ye fash? Ye ken that I’m the strongest among our clan, and truth to tell, of many more.”

Aye, he was that, but the vision had been so clear …

“I promise to return to ye.”

Ack! ’Twas the point! There wouldna be a returning. Thousands would remain on the field, in a glen of blood near Inverness!

Goddess and her son’s saints preserve her, she hadna struggled for hours to bring him forth from her poor sister’s womb and then spent decades fretting over his every misstep and bruise to have him die so inglorious a death!

She took a shuddering breath, praying guilt would sway him where reasoning had failed. “Son, look at me. I havena many moons left to me. Will ye have me fret them away?”

Tsking, he wrapped his powerful arms about her and pulled her close, making her only that much more aware of how fragile her once strong bones had grown, of how close she was to being no more.

Into her hair he whispered, “Minnie, I love ye with all my heart and would remain if I had a choice.” He then leaned back and lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. Dimples bracketed his handsome grin as he looked into her eyes. “I promise to be careful. I shan’t take any unnecessary risks.”

Augh! He didna ken the meaning of careful! She’d heard the tales despite his trying to keep them from her, knew of the many risks he’d taken over the years in heat of battle. And had she complained? Nay.

From the verra first moment she’d held him she’d sensed that he was destined for glory. In a flash of insight she’d seen his matured countenance as it was now, his startling blue eyes, broad smile and cleft chin, had heard hundreds shouting his name as he waved. And well she understood that such a path often required daring. But to die for this, this … impostor?

Never!

He gave her nay choice. She would now have to do what she thought never to do to anyone—much less to her son—but Cameron would meet his destiny. She’d doubtless lose his love in the process, but ’twould be worth the loss and grieving to see him safe, so he might possibly be liege, mayhap even be king, to remarry and, hopefully, to a stronger lass who could birth his bairns.

Her decision made, Mhairie heaved what she hoped sounded like a resigned sigh. “I see that I canna dissuade ye. So be it. But grant me one last boon. Let me bless ye in the auld way before ye go.”

Cameron’s brow furrowed as he gave her that ’tis all nonsense look he always managed whenever she insisted that the last bit of the grain be left in the field for the Pooka, but finally he nodded. “As ye lust.”

She reached into the deep pocket of her gown and pulled forth the amulet she’d crafted years ago should she ever need it. “Bend down then.”

He examined the large hollowed acorn attached to the leather cord and his grin returned. “Where there’s a witch, there’s a way, huh?”

Mhairie cuffed his arm and anxiously glanced about. “Ye ken better than to joke about such.”

Sister by marriage to their last liege lord, she’d been offered a place within Rubha Castle when she’d first arrived decades ago. Had there been a forest at hand where she could have sought occasional privacy to worship as she chose, she would have happily joined her young sister and new husband within Rubha’s formidable walls, but such wasna the case. Her sister’s new home sat on a windswept headland with nary a bush, much less an oak, for miles.

Having gained Cameron’s acquiescence to a blessing, she patted his cheek. “Ye’re a good lad. I dinna care what those silly lasses say about ye.”

Cameron cocked an eyebrow as he settled back on the bench before her modest croft and reached for his blade. “And what might that be?”

“That as brawny and fine as ye might be, ye’re still too full of yerself by half.”

He laughed, causing great dimples to form in his cheeks as he drew his whetstone along the edge of highly polished steel. “Go on with ye. Ye havena much time. We leave at dawn.”

Pulling her gaze from the harbinger of death he so lovingly fondled, Mhairie muttered, “Aye.”

Her thoughts consumed with the lie she would tell his father and with the sleeping potion and snippets of verse she had yet to fully formulate, she hobbled as fast as her creaking hips and failing heart would allow down the path past Rubha Castle, turned south at the wee stone kirk that she and the rest of the clan attended daily, and then onto the path leading to the firth and its boulder-strewn beach.

At a lone stone croft built into the cliff, she knocked.

Three breaths came and went before the leather-slung door listed open and Tall Thomas poked his shaggy head out. Squinting against the glare bouncing off the choppy sea, their clan’s huge light-keeper grumbled, “What do ye—Ah, ’tis ye.” He grinned and pushed the door wide. “Did ye bring currants, mistress?”

“Nay, Thomas.” She held out a leather pouch. Once firm and tawny but now stained the color of old wood, the pouch she held was too flimsy by half from decades of use so should he not return it—which he more often than not forgot to do—she’d be none the poorer. “I’ve brought ye walnuts.”

“Oh.” He snatched the bag from her hand. “Next time bring currants. I’m a wee stove up.”

Humph. “Next time.” She eased past his formidable bulk into the croft’s one-room interior. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom her nose twitched, offended by the acrid stench of mildew, sweat, and old ashes. As Tom leaned out to grab the door, she grumbled, “Leave it open. Please.” He scowled over his shoulder at her but left the door ajar. “Have you been applying the ointment to your wound as I asked?”

Thomas caught his lower lip betwixt his teeth and she heaved an exasperated sigh. “Sit down and roll up your sleeve.” He did, and she tsked finding a soiled, sloppily applied dressing covering his right forearm. “If you were having trouble doing this, why did ye not come to me?”

“Ye ken why, mistress. They,” he cocked his head in the direction of the village and castle high above them, “fear me.”

Aye, they did. Misshaped by perpetually growing lumps of flesh, Thomas—desperate and near starvation—had wandered onto MacLeod land some fifteen years past. Their liege, not having the heart to cast him out, had given him this isolated and damp croft that no one else would occupy.

Clever with wood, Thomas had tried to make his way as a carpenter but none, save Mhairie, would barter with him fearing they’d catch whatever afflicted him. So now he earned his keep by tending the fires on their headland whenever their men were out to sea. No easy task given his infirmities and the distance he had to travel to gather wood. Worse, he had no help. His lone brother had gone to the New World—to a place called Virginia.

As she finished redressing his wound, which was healing nicely despite Thomas, he murmured, “How will I ever repay yer kindness, mistress?”

She smiled, glad for the opening. “ ’Tis simply done. I have need of your croft this evening and for the box ye crafted for me so many years ago.”

“When?”

“Just before the moon reaches its zenith.”

He nodded. “Good. I dinna feel comfortable wandering about before gloaming.” Thomas shifted his gaze to the long, intricately carved oak box resting against the back wall. “I’ll miss looking at it.”

Mhairie rose and ran her hand along the finely chiseled spirals, crescents, and wedges—auld symbols that meant the world to her—carved into the box’s lid. Aye, ’twas truly a sight to behold. Wishing she could take possession of it but knowing the risk, she murmured, “ ’Twill remain in yer safe keeping, Thomas. I just need a bit of privacy to put something of great value into it.” She resumed her seat on his cottie stool and patted his misshapen leg. “Grave trouble is bearing down on us, Thomas. ’Tis verra important that the box never be opened by any, save me. That which I put within must be safeguarded.” No one would think to look for Cameron here, but just in case, she added, “Safeguarded with yer life, if need be.”

Scotland’s future might well depend on it.

He tipped his head and stared at her for a long moment, then held out his hand. “Aye, m’lady, with my verra life.”