Page 1

CHAPTER 1

Gordon Shaw couldn’t remember when he’d last seen daylight, time creeping stealthily out of his sight.

Must be weeks, at least.

Robbing a man of his awareness of day and night, foxing his mind, was far greater torture than the physical pain he had endured. Pain was nothing. Pain was part of life. But to steal time itself from a man, never allowing him to sleep for more than an hour or two at most, keeping him in a permanent state of confusion: that was a torment that could drive a man to madness.

The damningly merry jingle of keys awakened Gordon’s dulled senses. He pushed himself up off the filthy floor, dragging his chains as he sat up, his one remaining eye squinting through the gloom at the cell door.

I’ll see the sun today… He told himself the same thing every day, believing it despite each failure to escape. The moment he stopped believing he would ever be free of that place was the moment he gave up, and surrender was not in his vocabulary.

The cell door opened to reveal three guards. Familiar now, despite the fact that he had never seen their faces. They wore executioner’s hoods, yet refused to grant him the mercy of an honorable death.

“I see ye survived the night again,” one guard said, perhaps not realizing the encouragement in those words.

So, it’s mornin’ outside. The sun has risen. Gordon took comfort from that, letting the idea of sunlight on his face strengthen him.

“I wouldnae give ye the satisfaction of dyin’,” Gordon rasped, his throat parched.

“Funny, that’s what yer brother said just before the sword went through his chest,” a different guard said.

Gordon could hear the man smirking beneath his hood, and his temper flared at the insult. It didn’t matter that he was starved of food and water and light and rest, it didn’t matter that his entire body was a patchwork of dappled bruises and healing wounds, it didn’t matter that he was chained and barely had the strength to stand up; his anger, his rage, his thirst for vengeance, was powerful nourishment to his weary bones.

“Ye willnae say anythin’ when I kill ye,” Gordon replied calmly. “Though I willnae make it quick.”

The third guard tutted under his breath. “That’s the trouble with ye Shaw men—ye’re all talk and nay action. Ye’re weak men. Ye’re a weak man, like yer faither and yer braither before ye.”

“If ye really thought that, I’d be dead by now,” Gordon said.

In fact, I’d wager that ye wish ye’d killed me that night, that ye’d killed me along with me faither and braither.

There was obvious method in the torture and torment that he had endured for however long he had been rotting in that cell. The “ guards” wanted to break him, diminishing him to the point where he would no longer pose a threat to their own lives, for that was the only way they’d be able to end the Shaw line. If Gordon had even a sliver of strength left, they must have known that not all of them, if any of them, would survive this.

“There’s nay use in rushin’ things,” one of the men said, moving in such a way that Gordon heard the faint jingle of keys again. They were tucked inside a cloak, easily reachable if Gordon timed it right.

“We made that mistake the first time,” another man said. “Ye shoutin’ and bellowin’ for the guards meant we had to rush. I wanted to kill ‘em slowly. Maybe, I’d have made ye and yer maither watch, were I given the chance to kill ‘em again.”

The third man laughed. “Who kenned that someone could actually die of shock? Saved us a task, I suppose; yer maither dyin’ of her own accord.”

Gordon knew the length of his chains and noticed that the guards had come further into the cell than they usually did. When they wanted to torture him, they wafted a strange smoke into the cell that made him sleepy and dizzy, so they could bind him with additional ropes and shackles, but they had neglected to do so that morning. They had made a mistake… although their first had been insulting his family. The family they had taken from him.

With all the might he could muster, Gordon propelled himself up and forward, lunging at the guard with the keys. The chains sailed over the man’s head, and Gordon yanked backward, pulling the guard into the gloom of the cell.

The other two fumbled for their swords, cursing loudly, but Gordon wasted no time. He dispatched his captive, snapping the man’s neck, and grabbed for the keys. He had been attentive enough throughout his imprisonment to remember which one opened the lock on his chains.

The chains dropped to the dirty stone floor, and Gordon slotted a few of the remaining keys between his fingers, steeling himself for what was to come.

“If ye back down, ye’ll live,” one of the guards warned.

“I willnae make the same promise,” Gordon replied, stalking forward, swiping up a vile bucket on the way.

He hurled the contents at the guards before they could say another word, and as they staggered in shock, gasping and yelling their disgust, Gordon made his attack. He delivered a fierce kick to the knees of one, snatching the wretch’s broadsword as he buckled, and with weapon in hand, Gordon became unstoppable.

He ran the last man through without saying a word, listening to the surprised gurgle of bubbling blood as the guard swayed and stumbled back into the hallway, hitting the far wall, where he slumped down to the floor.

“Please…” begged the man with the shattered kneecap, his eyes wide in terror beneath the eye holes of his hood. “Please… I was just doin’ what they told me. I willnae… say anythin’ if ye let me… live.”

Gordon grabbed the man’s hood and pulled it away. The face beneath belonged to a man of similar age to him, perhaps thirty or so… and entirely unknown to him. There was no hint of familiarity at all, though Gordon had imagined revealing the three men and knowing them when he finally removed their hoods.

“Please…” The man clasped his hands, shaking from head to toe.

Leaving him on the floor to stew awhile, Gordon went to the dead man at the back of the cell and drew away his hood too. Again, the man was unfamiliar. And when he stalked out into the hallway and took off the other dead man’s hood, the lifeless face was that of a stranger. Gordon couldn’t place the wretch at all.

Broadsword in hand, Gordon retraced his steps, his huge frame filling the cell doorway. He brought the sharp tip of his blade to the notch at the base of the last living guard’s throat.

“Who instructed ye to do this?” Gordon asked roughly. “Who is yer master?”

There was a fourth, who had visited on occasion, his voice slightly different from the other three. That man had to be their leader, considering he was the only one who wasn’t there consistently.

“Will ye let me live if I tell ye?” the guard wheezed.

Gordon had a choice between honesty and deceit. Unfortunately for his former torturer, he wasn’t someone who used tricks and games to get what he wanted. He wasn’t like these pathetic beasts. As such, he said nothing, letting the man imagine his fate instead, hoping the desperation would be enough to loosen his tongue.

“Thought nae,” the guard said quietly, bitterly. “But ye’ve met him. He’s the one missin’ today, lucky bastard.”

Gordon glowered down at the man. “Is he likely to return soon?”

“Nay,” the man replied, head bowed. “Maybe he kenned it was only a matter of time ‘til one of us did somethin’ stupid.”

“I’ll grant ye the mercy ye dinnae show to me,” Gordon said, understanding that he would get nothing more out of the man, not without resorting to their torture tactics, at least.

The young man’s eyes widened with the faintest, most foolish flicker of hope, as Gordon pushed the blade through his throat. A quick death. A more honorable one than the man likely deserved.

“Ye should’ve killed me when ye had the chance,” Gordon muttered, his broadsword trailing blood as he left his cell and the bodies that now occupied it.

Hopefully, yer leader will be clever enough nae to seek the same fate, he mused as he walked, trudging up a set of ancient, crumbling stone steps into what appeared to be an old, abandoned keep. Through the gaps in the masonry, torn down by decades of disuse, and the high-up roof that no longer existed, gray daylight kissed Gordon’s face at last.

He closed his eyes to it, savoring it, relishing it as if it were the most beautiful summer day and not an overcast morning. After so long in the dark, it was like being reborn.

On second thought… H e opened his eyes, his resolve hardening. I hope yer leader does seek out the same fate.

Whoever he was, Gordon would be ready for him. But Gordon couldn’t linger to wait for the absent fourth man to potentially come back; he had a clan and a castle to return to, before his own people gave up hope of his survival and put another in his place.

Gordon sat slumped in the saddle of a borrowed horse, his whole body ablaze with fever, his limbs like lead weights, his entire being aching down to the marrow of his bones.

He didn’t know how he had managed to find his way back to familiar territory, considering the keep where he had been imprisoned was in the middle of nowhere, hidden away in lands that belonged to no one. Nor did he know how he’d managed to endure the two days of walking after his escape, before he had happened upon a kindly farmer who had lent him a horse.

“I’ll send coin,” he had promised the farmer. “As soon as I am back at me castle, I’ll send a rider with payment for this generous act.”

The farmer had tried to refuse, and had insisted that Gordon should stay with his family until he was better, but Gordon had rejected the notion, got up into the saddle, and—with directions from the farmer—had headed straight for home before his fortitude vanished entirely.

“Home,” he murmured, spotting the gates of Castle Lyall up ahead, at the peak of a steep slope.

The castle was cut into jagged, imposing cliffs, with a thunderous sea frothing and crashing far below. The structure blended into its surroundings perfectly, easily missed by eyes that didn’t know what to look for. But Gordon’s one remaining eye knew it keenly. By the skin of his teeth, he had made it; he was home.

With everything he had left, he rode up the slope to the gates, barely able to listen to the sudden clamor of the guards on the battlements.

“It’s His Lairdship!”

“He’s alive!”

“Our Laird is back! Thank the Lord!”

“Heavens above, it’s him!”

All Gordon could focus on was the shriek of metal on metal as the gates opened, the sound shuddering in his ears, and the steady clop-clop of his horse’s hooves as the placid creature plodded into the main courtyard.

“Gordon?” A wild scream cut through the chaos, a figure darting through the gathering crowd to him.

He had only just made it out of the saddle, determined not to fall, when that same figure barreled into him. Even in his weakened state, he didn’t lose his footing, as slender arms wrapped tightly around him, hugging him with all their might.

“I kenned ye’d come home safe,” his cousin, Sophia, gasped, doing her best to squeeze what little breath he had left out of his lungs. “While everyone around me was doubtin’ it, I kenned ye’d come home. I kenned there wasnae anythin’ in this world that could keep ye from us.”

Gordon hugged her back, having no words to say.

“Papa has held yer place,” Sophia continued urgently. “The council were tryin’ to demand a new Laird, certain ye were dead, but he wouldnae let them. He insisted they had to wait ‘til the month’s end. And here ye are—a week early.”

As if summoned, Gordon’s uncle, Matthew Shaw, came haring across the courtyard, shoving aside anyone who got in his way.

“Och, Gordon, ye’re a sight for sore eyes and nay mistake!” Matthew crowed, pulling his own daughter out of the way so he could embrace his nephew.

Gordon allowed his uncle to hug him briefly, though he didn’t return the gesture. It was different with Sophia; she was like a sister to Gordon, but he didn’t need his clan seeing him be coddled like a hapless boy who’d gotten himself into some kind of mischief.

Matthew pulled back, taking a closer look at Gordon. The older man’s eyes narrowed in concern as he observed the bloodied cloth that had been tied across Gordon’s left eye.

“It’s nothin’,” Gordon said, stepping away from his uncle. “I mean to bathe, eat, rest for an hour or so, then I’ll meet with the council. Get ‘em to remember, without question, who their Laird is.”

He moved to leave, but Matthew caught hold of his arm, whispering in a harsh voice, “Who did this to ye?”

Gordon paused, whispering back, “Whoever it was, I’ll be waitin’ for him. But I daenae intend to waste another hour of me time because of him.” He drew in a breath. “All I ken is, we cut a few heads off the hydra, but it dinnae die.”

“What do ye mean?” Matthew asked, frowning.

“The thieves we thought responsible for the death of me faither and braither…” Gordon glanced at his uncle with his good eye “… they were nae actin’ alone.”

In that far-off keep, he’d lopped off a few more heads, but the wicked serpent at the heart of it, who had given the orders, had not been among them. Still, Gordon meant what he had said: when that snake emerged again, he would be waiting to end it, once and for all.

One Month Later…

Rain pattered against the windows of the Sea Hall, where the household gathered for breakfast each morning. It was set to be a dismal day, a storm rolling in across the churning North Sea, another gathering in Gordon’s chest. He finished off his third bowl of salted porridge, his appetite restored after weeks of forcing food down, and looked around the table.

“Ye want another helpin’, M’Laird?” his Man-at-Arms, David, asked, his hand already half raised to summon a servant.

Gordon shook his head, and David’s hand fell.

Everyone fell silent, pausing in the eating of their own breakfasts as they waited for him to speak. He had never been particularly verbose but, of late, he had used his voice even less than normal.

Gordon cleared his throat. “I have decided to marry.”

His cousin, Sophia, clasped her hands together, a fond smile creeping onto her lips. His uncle, Matthew, frowned a little, while his Man-at-Arms raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“And soon,” Gordon continued. “I need an heir. Quickly.”

Matthew raised a hand to speak, but it was David who cut in first, wearing a pleased grin as he said, “Well then, M’Laird, it seems ye’re in luck…”