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Isle of Skye, Winter 1565

“T he Earl of Argyll appreciates yer support.” William Campbell grasped the arm of John MacDonald, laird of Fincaith Castle, to seal the deal they had just made.

The older man merely grunted in response.

William had arrived at the castle on Skye the previous day and, although his mission had been successful, he had the feeling the MacDonalds were lukewarm at best when it came to appeasing the earl. He tried a different tact. “As do I.”

“Aye.” John rolled his shoulders and glanced around the great hall of his castle, where William’s men mingled with his own. “We have no love for the MacGregors. They’ll find no support with Clan MacDonald of Sleat.”

Thank God for that. The MacDonalds might no longer be Lords of the Isles, but their influence was great, and knowing Clan Campbell could rely on them as allies in this bloodied feud with the MacGregors on the mainland was a relief.

His cousin Hugh strolled over, the keen gleam in his eyes belying his casual approach, and William gave an imperceptible nod to convey all was well. Hugh, with his easy charm, and tankards of ale all around, soon loosened John MacDonald’s prickly reserve, and the older man turned to William with a knowing grin.

“I hear ye’re promised to the wild MacDonald lass of Sgur. How much longer are ye going to keep her waiting, lad? Ten years is a mighty long time.”

William’s mood instantly soured, and he hid his irritation by taking a long swallow of ale. The issue of his betrothal to Isolde MacDonald of Sgur Castle wasn’t one he enjoyed discussing. Especially with a stranger.

Especially when that stranger clearly knew more about his intended than he did himself.

He wasn’t best pleased at being called lad , either.

“Soon.” Next spring if his second cousin, the earl, had his way. The prospect of his MacDonald bride had shadowed him since he was fifteen, and when, three years ago, Isolde had refused his invitation to visit his newly acquired castle, Creagdoun, it had merely strengthened his doubts.

It was clear she had no wish to unite their clans, or any interest in attempting to make the best of their situation. It wasn’t as though either of them had a choice. The contract made between her grandmother and his father was, alas, binding.

“I wish ye well with that,” John said with relish. It was obvious he wished for anything but. “Isolde of the Isle is no Campbell lass ye can bend to yer will. I told her father many times, God rest his soul, she should have been a lad with her love for the sword. Her Norse blood runs deep, and that’s a fact.”

It was clear John MacDonald was trying to goad him. William offered him a grim smile instead. Many rumors of Isolde of the Isle had reached him over the years, and this latest remark merely confirmed them.

All he wanted was a gentle lass content to run his castle and bear his bairns. His bride-to-be was, God help him, the last woman he could imagine settling to such womanly tasks, and his future hovered as gray in his mind as the clouds that had obscured the jagged mountain peaks of Skye since they’d arrived.

But he’d rip out his tongue before confessing such to this MacDonald.

“That’s good to know,” he said but the smirk on the other man’s face assured him MacDonald wasn’t falling for his act. Perversely, the fact John was so sure the idea of wedding Isolde was so distasteful irked him, and before he could stop himself, he added, “A strong woman is always an asset. I’d rather a wife with fire in her veins than milk.”

What the hell had possessed him to say that? He hoped to God it didn’t get back to Isolde. The way Hugh snorted into his tankard only proved he should have kept his mouth shut.

“Ye’ll get fire, sure enough.” John appeared to find the idea most entertaining. “It will be interesting to see if a Campbell can handle a spirited MacDonald woman from the Isles. The odds are not in yer favor.”

*

Later that afternoon William and his men returned to their ship, docked in a sheltered loch, connected to the sea by a canal. It was, he had to admit, an impressive improvement on leaving ships in unprotected harbors, exposed to the unforgiving winter elements.

“There’s a storm brewing.” John MacDonald eyed the sky. “Are ye sure ye’re equipped for it?”

“We are.” William kept his voice level. There was nothing to be gained by reminding the other man that although the Campbells might not have the advantage of being a seafaring clan, they were far from novices when it came to navigating the seas.

After the obligatory farewells, they weighed anchor and set sail through the canal. William stood at the prow as they headed south, in the direction of the Small Isles and narrowed his eyes against the dense mist that rose from the sea. The salt-tinged wind was bitterly cold, and waves smashed against the bow as the lowering clouds turned ominously dark.

Damn. He hoped they reached the safety of the port of Oban before the promised storm hit. But he was not one for taking chances.

He swung about and caught sight of his childhood friend, Alasdair, and hailed him.

“Lower the sails,” he yelled, above the roar of the wind, just as the skies opened and icy rain drenched them. Swiping his hair from his eyes, he made his way across the pitching deck to the helm, where Hugh fought to keep the ship steady. He gripped the handles, and together they battled against the might of the tempest.

He lost track of time, but night had long since fallen, and still the storm raged. There was no telling how far from their destination they were until dawn broke, but finally the ceaseless battering began to ease, and he clasped Hugh’s arm. “I’m going to check on the men.”

Hugh gave a brief nod, his attention fixed on the roiling sea ahead. “Watch yerself.”

Through the slashing rain and shadows that obscured his vision, William counted the men who were busy keeping the ship seaworthy.

Shit.

There was one missing. He couldn’t tell who, but that was of no consequence. He would not lose any man under his command. With a muttered curse he braced his weight into the howling wind and headed towards the stern.

He couldn’t see anyone. With a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, he grasped the gunwale and peered into the churning sea. Not that he expected to see anyone in this weather. If a man had fallen overboard, there was no hope for him.

A muffled creak behind him sent trepidation spiking through his blood. Although God knew why. The ship groaned like a living thing against the battering of the storm. And yet—

Something heavy smashed against his temple, and the world turned black.