Page 1

PROLOGUE

Moira entered her bedroom with a feeling of sick dread, hoping against hope that her husband, Roy MacDonnell, was drunk. He and a group of friends had been drinking as always that evening. She had heard the riotous commotion, the kind that only a crowd of inebriated men make, from her parlour, and knew that a great deal of whisky and wine had been swallowed that evening!

Moira wished he would save her the trouble of fending him off if he was feeling amorous. He had a room of his own, but he tried to spend as many nights in Moira’s as he could.

He was a cruel man, both in word and in deed, and Moira bore the bruises and scars to prove it, yet she had been forced to marry him. Indeed, she had been sold to him to settle her equally cruel and heartless father’s gambling debts, so she had effectively been thrown out of the frying pan and into the fire.

He had managed to have intercourse with her only once, on their wedding night, but it had been such a horrific experience that she had vowed never to let it happen again. She would have used a weapon to keep him at bay, but he was much older than she was. Because of this, nature took its course, and his age, as well as the fact that he spent much of his time completely under the influence of alcohol, rendered him incapable anyway.

However, he took out his frustration on Moira with his tongue and his fists; although he was impotent, he was still strong, and he hurt her very badly sometimes even though she fought back with all her might.

Moira was hoping to creep into the room unseen. She was not holding a candle, but there was a little light from the full moon, drawing a line of light across the floor from a gap where the curtains did not quite meet. By its feeble light she could see that her bed was empty, and she breathed a sigh of relief, then yawned and took a step towards it, intending to tuck herself beneath the blankets and sink into a blissful slumber. She had been walking and riding all day to avoid Roy McDonnell, and now she was completely exhausted.

However, Moira never made it to the bed. Her foot landed on something soft and lumpy, causing her to stumble and almost fall to the ground. When she looked down, Moira drew in a startled breath as she dimly made out her husband’s pale, skeletal face.

She felt a wave of relief. He had passed out, so she was safe for a while. She began to get to her feet, but something stopped her, and she looked down at him, perplexed, for a moment, before kneeling beside him again.

Suddenly, with a jolt of fright, she realised what was wrong; her husband was not breathing. Moira put her shaking palm on his chest to feel for a heartbeat, but there was none, and when she pulled up his eyelid to see if there was any reaction, his skin was cool, although not quite cold yet.

Was he dead? For a few moments, she was assailed by a mixture of emotions, which included a wicked pleasure that her husband would never trouble her again.

After that came a rush of almost paralysing fear. If she was caught bending over her husband’s corpse, whoever found them would assume that she was responsible for his death, since it was no secret that Moira hated the man.

Moira jumped to her feet, and looked around herself in sheer panic, as if she expected to find someone about to discover her. Her stomach was boiling with terror, and her heart began to beat a wild tattoo. She had begun to tremble all over. However, she could not allow herself to succumb to the panic that was beginning to overwhelm her, since time was of the essence.

She looked around her, trying to stay focused. I must get out of here, she thought fearfully. Pull yourself together, Moira!

At that moment, the door opened, and Moira let out an involuntary scream of fright, backing away from the corpse and instinctively searching for a weapon.

“Don’t come near me, or you will be very sorry!” she cried, her voice trembling.

However, she need not have worried. “Mistress,” said a soft voice. “Dinnae worry. It’s only me, Jean.”

A woman stepped into the light—a short, plump, elderly woman with a kind face who smiled at Moira before looking down at the body of the Laird. She was Moira’s personal maid servant, who had worked for her for years. Moira felt a wave of relief sweep over her.

“Is he deid?” she asked, peering down at the body on the floor. She did not sound horrified or surprised, merely curious.

“Yes,” Moira replied, then added hastily: “But I did not kill him, Jean—you have to believe me!”

“I believe ye, hen,” Jean said reassuringly, then her voice became grim. “But I am glad somebody did because he was a monster, an’ he deserved tae die.”

Moira was astounded. She had known Jean for years, and had always been such a generous, calm and loving person. Moira had never heard her raise her voice in anger, and the bitterness in her old servant’s voice shocked her.

She was just about to voice the thought when Jean spoke again.

“Time ye were somewhere else, hen! I was comin’ tae tell ye that I saw master’s servant leavin’ a wee while ago. Now I realise why the rush in the middle of the night. He is off tae tell your brother-in-law.” Her voice was grim and determined as she grabbed Moira’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “You must flee!”

She quickly lit a candle, then began to pull the plainest and most serviceable of Moira’s clothes out of her mistress’s wardrobe and stuff them into a large cloth bag, which she usually used to carry laundry in.

While she was busy, Moira collected all the coins she had in a leather pouch. She had no idea where she was going, but she knew that she would have to work that problem out somewhere along the way. Now there was no more time to lose; everything was packed, and although she was terrified, Moira knew that she had to be on her way. Time was of the essence.

She turned to embrace Jean, who hugged her tightly in return. “Change your name,” she advised firmly. “An’ go as far as ye can, hen. God bless ye. I will be thinkin’ o’ ye.”

Moira could see that Jean’s eyes were glittering with tears, and knew that hers were too. “Thank you, Jean,” she said gratefully. “I will miss you so much. Goodbye.”

She raced outside and looked around for anything to take her away. A saddled horse was tied to a tree close to the estate entrance. She quickly mounted and took a deep breath. It was now or never.

The sky was absolutely clear that night, and it was bitterly cold, but Moira was wrapped in a thick woollen cloak and hardly noticed as she galloped away from her prison. She was absolutely focused on her mission; she had to get away, and this time she was determined that no one was going to stop her. But where would she go?

She thought she had enough coin to last for a few months, but she had not had time to count the silver, so she could not be sure. With no aim and no direction in mind, all she could do was move forward and hope for the best.

Perhaps she could get a job as a governess, she thought. She was reasonably intelligent and could speak French and Italian fluently. Yet, she had no real experience of dealing with children, and could produce no references.

Maybe she could work as a lady’s companion, then. She knew it would not be a very exciting life, but then, beggars could not be choosers. At least she would be out of danger, especially if she travelled southwards to the busy, bustling cities of Glasgow and Edinburgh. She was sure there would be more opportunities there, although she had always lived in the quiet of the countryside, and it would be a challenge.

The realisation that she was finally free of the vile man hit her. Moira began to feel a little happier, and started to make some plans. She was not stupid, she knew, but she was not too proud to take work as a tavern wench or a chambermaid if the worst came to the worst. At least she would have enough to eat.

Suddenly, Moira felt a prickling at the back of her neck. It was a feeling she had experienced many times in her life; a forewarning that she was in imminent danger from something or someone. She had never ignored it, and she did not know either, but spurred her horse into a canter to escape the invisible threat.

However, despite the moonlight, the road was hard to follow in the dark, and she could see only a few yards ahead. It was this that enabled the bandits who were waiting for her to spring out from the darkness and surround her.

Moira could barely see them, but she could certainly hear them as they circled her. As the host of thugs surrounded her, shouting filthy obscenities, terror took over her.

She felt greedy hands reaching out for her and batted them away, at the same time turning her horse in a circle to confuse them.

However, she was outnumbered.