Page 1 of The Rightful Highland King (The Last Celtic King #4)

Prince Ansel Ashkirk, son of the conquering King of Scotland, stood in the pelting rain, his dark hair slicked to his face and his clothes sticking to his skin.

He watched the far distance as the little speck that had once been his horse disappeared over the horizon, carrying Neala McNair away with it.

His body shivered with a chill that had little to do with the icy weather.

Frozen shards pricked at the inside of his veins as he tried to understand what he had just done.

She'd lied to him from the first moment they'd met.

Everything he'd known about the woman who had captivated him so had been untrue.

The name she'd given him, Abigail, had been borrowed from her dead sister.

Her claims of a father who taught her to read and play chess had been fabricated on the memory of a man who'd died long, long ago.

Even her hair, hidden under dark dye, had been a falsehood.

Ansel had never seen it in person, but he'd seen many a portrait of the McNairs, and he'd met Cailean McNair face-to-face.

Underneath Neala's dark hair mask was hidden a waterfall of woven gold.

All lies from the very first moment. Despite that, Ansel couldn't bring himself to hate her. Yes, she'd pretended to be someone else, but she'd done so to preserve her own life. If his father had known who she was, he would have killed her on sight. Or worse.

And Ansel himself? What would he have done? The thought troubled him more than he'd like to admit—because he knew the answer. He knew that he would have obeyed his father's whim without a thought, because that was all he'd ever known.

But Neala had infected him. Her lovely dark eyes, shining with intelligence beyond her supposed station, had intrigued him, and as he'd gotten to know her, her sharp perception and perseverance had captivated him.

Something inside Ansel had shifted for the first time, something awakened, something changed.

She'd called out to his soul. Somehow, she'd reached out not to the Prince of Blackthorn Castle, heir of Edric Ashkirk, but to Ansel, child of Seonag McDonald, the boy who had been buried long, long ago under his father's commanding gaze.

Ansel scowled, tightening his fists, allowing the battering rain to draw him back to the present.

He couldn't allow this kind of weakness.

He had allowed a moment of weakness when Neala had leaned against him; he'd given way to a desperate, fleeting impulse which painted him as the most flagrant of traitors.

She was the true daughter of a legacy his father had tried desperately to squash for twenty years, and the sister of the man who was currently trying to overthrow the throne.

Self-loathing flooded Ansel as he wiped the rain from his face.

It wasn't as though he had ever been fooled, not really.

Oh, he hadn't known the details, but he had known from the first moment that Abby—Neala—was not who she claimed.

He had known that she was lying, which was one of the reasons she had so intrigued him in the first place.

Of course, he'd never dreamed that she would reveal what she had. He'd never dreamed…

He growled under his breath, pacing back and forth.

He needed to get rid of her, purge her from his mind.

He'd allowed a chink to form in the armor he'd so carefully spent his life crafting, and now he needed to close the gap.

But the more he tried to tear his mind away from her, the more he saw her.

Neala, peering curiously down at the chessboard, discovering his trap.

Neala, weeping openly as she held her mother's words.

Neala pressed close to him, her lips a breath away from his, his body urging him on even as his common sense ripped him away.

Ansel burst out with a wordless shout of frustration, anger, and pain, the sound instantly whipped away by the wind.

Impossible girl! She had given him a sickness, and he needed to purge it if he was to ever fulfill his father's wishes for him.

His pacing faltered suddenly as he felt something underfoot, softer than a rock but harder than grass, and he looked down.

A little doll lay in the grass, its wooden face staring up at him, its painted uniform worn by time but still clear.

A toy soldier, keeping its weary guard after more than twenty years.

Ansel stared at the thing, blinking rapidly.

It was not the first time he had discovered this same little soldier.

He had witnessed Neala tuck the thing into her cloak, but she must have dropped it when he had forced her to flee.

He stooped down and picked up the toy. A tiny capercaillie was painted on its breast.

"Left behind by another fleein' McNair, eh?" he whispered. "And I found ye again. If I was a superstitious man, I'd burn ye 'til ye're nothin' but ash."

The toy soldier stared up at him with painted black eyes.

Ansel snorted, chiding himself for his silliness.

He raised his hand to throw the little soldier into the trees but paused.

In his mind's eye, he saw the wideness in Neala's eyes as she'd gazed at it, saw how she'd smiled as he told her to keep it.

He inhaled, the cold air painful on the inside of his nostrils, and lowered his hand, securing the little toy in his pocket.

He could not bring himself to throw it away.

With a wry smile, he thought that at least he'd be bringing something of the McNairs back to Blackthorn Castle.

A short time later, the thundering hooves of his men sounded. The foremost amongst them pulled his mount to a stop as he saw Ansel at the side of the road, though he waved the rest of the army to keep going.

"How in the blazes have ye managed tae lose yer horse?" the rider asked, and Ansel, squinting through the rain, recognized his friend and confidante, his older cousin Baldric.

Baldric was the son of his father's sister, sent to the king's court at fifteen, and since then the two boys had been close.

Fifteen years later, Baldric served as Ansel's right-hand man, covertly supporting Ansel even when there was conflict between the prince and his father.

Ansel was very glad that, of all of his men who could have stopped, it was his cousin.

"The daft thing got startled and rode off," Ansel replied, the lie coming easily to his lips. He would trust Baldric with his life, but he could not trust him with the truth. If even a whisper of the truth got back to Edric's ears, it would spell disaster. "Move up, then. We can ride double."

Baldric grinned and held out a hand, helping Ansel climb up on the horse behind him. They started off, settling back into the ranks of the Ashkirk men streaming back along the road toward Blackthorn Castle.

Ansel sighed, closing his eyes. She was waiting there with those dark eyes and those pouting lips, begging him to come with her, begging him to turn away from the darkness.

He scowled, shaking his head. She did not belong in his mind.

He had sent her away in body, and he willed desperately for the rest of her to go before it destroyed him.

"What happened tae the lass?" Baldric asked.

Startled, Ansel snapped his eyes open. "I… what?"

"The lassie that ye had with ye. The maid ye were so fond of. What happened tae her?" Baldric asked. "I suppose ye brought her as a lover, but she seems tae have disappeared."

"I killed her." Ansel's reply was sharp and harsh, brokering no further questions.

"A spy?" Baldric guessed, then let out a low whistle. "Well, at least ye dispatched her before it was too late. Me uncle has plenty tae be furious about without bringin' one of them back with us."

They rode on in silence. Ansel tried to focus on what was ahead of him.

There would be a punishment for his failure.

It had been a long, long time since he'd failed his father—he'd learned from a young age how harsh the price could be.

His men would have questions, too, Baldric first among them.

He'd felt the dissent from many of them when he'd given the order to abandon the Sloe Stronghold—McNair Castle.

Ansel did not doubt that this would come back to reckon with him in the near future, but at least he could count on his cousin at his side to back him up, whether he agreed or not with Ansel's decision.

But no matter how much he tried to think of these practicalities, all his mind wanted to focus on was her.

What would the McNair lad think when his sister rode up to the castle? Probably that it was some kind of trick, a plot by Ansel to come back and do greater harm later. That was what Ansel would suspect if he were in Cailean's shoes.

But what did Neala think?

" I ken the real ye," she'd pleaded. But she didn't. She had no idea.

He was Prince Ansel Ashkirk, son of the conquering King of Scotland, and he would face his duty. No matter what the cost.