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CHAPTER ONE

As a large, smooth hand was thrust right into her face, Sorcha MacDuff once again contemplated the necessity of a husband in a young woman’s life. It only took her a few seconds to come to the conclusion that, though necessary, a man could surely only be a burden.

“I would be honored tae have this dance, Miss MacDuff,” the man to whom the hand belonged to said. Sorcha followed the length of his arm with her gaze, looking up, up, until she finally got a good glance at his face under the incandescent glow of the candles.

Ach! He could be me faither!

The man standing before her was tall and plump, with ruddy cheeks and graying hair—surely, over thirty years her senior.

Sorcha managed a polite smile, the same one she had borne all night as she tried to maneuver her way around the great hall of MacDuff’s Castle and the guests who had gathered there for the ball, and swiftly evaded the hand offered to her as she took a step backwards.

Who is he? I should ken his name.

Racking her brain for this man’s identity, Sorcha continued to slowly back away from him, but the man eagerly followed. Behind her, people parted to allow her to pass, but then her back hit something large and hard.

A pillar, one of those towering structures of dark stone that held the high ceiling; she had backed herself into a corner.

“Fergive me…” she said, and then, as though through divine intervention, remembered the man’s name, “Sir Cameron! I’m afraid I must decline. I… ach… I’m lookin’ fer?—”

Sorcha let her gaze roam around the great hall, trying to find an excuse to get away from Sir Cameron’s clutches.

It was far from an easy task. Not only had she had one cup of wine too many to cope with the constant bombardment of attention, but the large, laughing crowd disoriented her, the music swelled over her in waves, and the heat of the room felt suddenly suffocating.

All of that effort, all the decorations and the roasted meats and the flowing wine were wasted on her, her only desire being to hide away from the crowd.

At twenty years of age, she was ready to find a suitable match, and her parents, eager and helpful as always, had thrown the ball for her.

At first, it had seemed like an exciting opportunity to find her future husband, someone she could one day love and wed, and with whom she could have a big family.

But now that she had seen her options—one of whom was the shameless Sir Cameron, apparently—fleeing into the woods and starting a new life seemed more appealing.

“Me, I hope.”

Sorcha’s head whipped to the side at the sound of the rough, baritone voice right next to her. Though the voice was only vaguely familiar to her, the face, with the high, regal forehead, the slightly crooked nose, and the thin lips under a short, dark beard was one she immediately recognized.

“Laird MacLaren,” she said in greeting, attempting an awkward curtsy with her back against the pillar. “Actually?—”

“Sir Cameron, may I?” Laird MacLaren asked, his gray eyes pinning the other man with a demanding gaze. For a moment, it seemed to Sorcha that this would end in an argument, but then Sir Cameron only bowed and retreated, giving one last smile to Sorcha—one she did her best to return.

It was always better to keep relations amicable, her mother said, despite personal preference.

“I’m terribly sorry, Laird MacLaren, but I’m lookin’ fer me braither,” Sorcha said, knowing that if there was anyone who could help her out of this, it would be Ruaridh. “Have ye seen him?”

“I havenae,” Laird MacLaren said distractedly, but when Sorcha tried to move away from the pillar, his hand reached out, fingers wrapping delicately around her wrist to stop her. “Perhaps we can look fer him together after this dance?”

Sorcha let out an awkward chuckle, her gaze flitting about the room over Laird MacLaren’s shoulders. “I’d like that very much, but I’m afraid I must find him right now.”

“I insist,” said Laird MacLaren, his hand tightening around her wrist. His tone had a sharp edge, one that she didn’t quite appreciate. When she tried to yank her arm out of his grip, though, Laird MacLaren refused to let go.

“An’ I insist that ye unhand me,” she said, her own tone turning icy. “As I said, I must speak tae Ruaridh.”

“I’m sure he can wait,” Laird MacLaren said as he took a step closer to Sorcha.

Ach, why willnae he leave me alone? This is hardly the behavior o’ a gentleman!

Laird Rhys MacLaren was nothing if not insistent, it seemed, though insistent was perhaps too light a word for him.

His grip on Sorcha’s forearm was just forceful enough to keep her where she was, but gentle enough to not hurt her.

The way he looked at her, though, revealed the cracks on his mask; irritation bled through them, those gray eyes piercing right through her.

Why cannae I find one man who is gentle an’ respectful in this room?

Everyone felt entitled to her time and her attention. On the one hand, she should have expected it. Every bachelor in the room had been invited specifically for her to choose the best. On the other hand, none of them appeared to be the kind of man she desired.

Mustering all of her tenacity, Sorcha glared at Laird MacLaren as she said, “Me braither is already lookin’ fer me. I think it would be wiser fer me tae find him afore he finds me.”

It was a subtle threat, but one that worked beautifully. Laird MacLaren let go of her and gave her a smile that was all teeth,glinting under the candlelight.

“So be it,” he said. “Perhaps later.”

“Perhaps.”

It was all Sorcha said before she stomped off, pushing her way through the crowd. She needed some fresh air, to get out of the great hall and have a few moments to herself, without anyone bothering her.

Even as she tried to make her way to the courtyard, though, people were still trying to stop her—men who wanted a dance, girls who wanted a moment of her time.

Sorcha slipped past them all, trying her best to be as polite and as diplomatic as she could while rushing to avoid them, and by the time she finally burst through the front doors and out into the courtyard, her ears were buzzing and her head felt heavy on her neck.

The fresh air seemed to help, if only a little. She took one breath after the other, but the noise from the great hall spilled out there, too, through the windows.

“What are ye daein’ out here?”

Sorcha jumped at the sudden presence next to her, and for a panicked moment, she thought that she had already been discovered.

“Ach, ye scared me,” she told Ruaridh. “I thought ye were another one o’ me suitors.”

“Would that be so bad?” Ruaridh asked as he leaned against the nearest wall, his figure outlined by the faint moonlight.

Even leaning to the side like that, he towered over Sorcha.

His dark hair seemed to blend right into the wall behind him, but his green eyes glinted in the light of a nearby torch.

That was the only feature they shared. With Sorcha’s blonde hair and slender build, they only vaguely resembled each other.

“I’m tired o’ them all,” Sorcha admitted with a long-suffering sigh. “Have ye seen the men in there?”

“Och aye,” Ruaridh said with a soft chuckle. “They’re nae tae yer likin’?”

Sorcha turned her gaze to her brother, her eyes narrowing. “Are ye jestin’?”

“Surely, one o’ them must be tae yer likin’,” Ruaridh said, but Sorcha only shook her head. It made sense, logically, that one of them at least would be to her liking. If there was one such man in that room, though, she had not yet found him.

Perhaps I am the one with the problem.

“Come,” said Ruaridh after a long stretch of silence.

Sorcha glanced at him with a frown, but he only nodded his head away from the keep and began to walk away, not waiting to see if Sorcha would follow.

Rushing after him, Sorcha caught up after a few steps, but their destination didn’t become any clearer to her.

“Where are we goin’?”

“We’re goin’ tae the stables an’ ye’re goin’ tae yer spot tae have a moment tae breathe,” Ruaridh said, much to Sorcha’s surprise. “Dinnae take too long, though. I can only excuse yer absence fer so long.”

Sorcha’s spot, as Ruaridh had called it, was in the estate, a little farther into the woods—a clearing, small and verdant, where no one else went. It was a place just for her, a place where she went to retreat from the world.

But going there in the middle of the feast didn’t seem like such a good plan.

“What if people start lookin’ fer me?”

“I’ll tell them ye had tae… relieve yerself,” said Ruaridh with a shrug.

“Ye will dae nae such thing!” Sorcha said, slapping him on the arm. “That’s embarrassin’!”

“Alright, what dae ye wish fer me tae tell them, then?” Ruaridh asked.

“Literally anythin’ else,” said Sorcha just as the two of them reached the stables—a small, squat building of stone near the barracks.

Inside, the horses were resting for the night and the stableboy was nowhere to be found.

Ruaridh made quick work of Sorcha’s horse, though, saddling it and preparing it for the short trip as she watched, her arms crossed over her chest. “Ye willnae truly tell them that, will ye?”

Rolling her eyes at her, Ruaridh shook his head. “Nay. I’ll tell them I only just saw ye an’ that ye must be somewhere in the crowd.”

That sounded much better to Sorcha and she let her arms drop before she rushed to give her brother a hug. “Thank ye,” she said. “Ye’re savin’ me from the worst fate.”

“Och aye, I’m sure it’s a terrible fate tae have so many suitors,” he teased, but Sorcha figured a man like him could never understand the kind of decision she had to make.

She was the one who would have to spend the rest of her life with the man she would choose—or should she fail to do so, the man her parents would choose for her.

Ruaridh was free to do as he pleased; Sorcha was not.