Page 2

Thirteen years later

Dulhmeny Castle

The MacDonell stronghold

“ T he MacRaes! God help us, it’s the wild MacRaes come upon us from the north!”

Aileana MacDonell sat in her familiar spot at her bedchamber window, twisting her hands and trying to still her heart as she looked down at the frenzy taking place below her.

The woman who’d shrieked the warning ran past, apron flapping, to scoop up a child in each arm.

Various other clan folk darted in the direction of the bailey tower to grab spears, shovels, and chipped swords before rushing off to join in the battle cries Aileana heard burgeoning in the distance.

For the past quarter hour, since the early morning attack began, she’d been straining to see something, to un derstand what was happening. And now she knew the name of their attackers.

The MacRaes .

She’d thought them all dead; they’d all but vanished from the Highlands, as far as she knew. Standing up, she paced her chamber and dug through her memory, trying to recall the last battle her clan had fought with them.

She’d been a child of nine—only a year after Morgana had died in banishment for consorting with the English.

The Ealach amulet that her sister had stolen from the MacRaes had been the root of that last war with them.

But the enemy had been vanquished. The Ealach had done its rightful work, bringing her clan peace. Bringing them prosperity…

And ensuring that Aileana remained isolated from everyone for most of the past thirteen years as its appointed keeper.

Pushing that thought aside, she paced to the window again, looking for some sign of her brothers.

If only one of them would climb the wall outside her window to release her so that she could take a weapon and join in the defense of her home.

Gavin and Robert used to sneak her out when Father was away.

They’d run with her and tease her, never seeming to tire of plaguing her with tales of their bravery.

Oh, how she craved some of their good-natured boasting now. If only Gavin would come to—

A sudden breathlessness made her sink to the edge of her bed. She clutched her stomach, awareness spreading thick in her veins, even as her fists clenched until the half-moons of her nails bit into her palms.

The amulet. Something had happened to the Ealach.

Doubled over now, she gulped breaths of air to quell the ache.

When the sensation passed, she pushed herself upright.

Her instincts had never been wrong before; as the amulet’s keeper, her connection to it was strong.

Something was amiss, but how? It rested secure as always in her chamber’s specially built hiding place, having never left the haven of Dulhmeny’s walls in nearly a decade and a half.

Racing over to the gilded door that marked the recess in the wall, Aileana tested its lock. It held.

Curses . There was no other way to reassure herself of the amulet’s safety. Unless…

Ignoring a mental warning that reminded her of the punishment to be had for leaving her chamber without attendants to accompany her, Aileana ran out into the hall and then to her father’s rooms. Retrieving the silken cord and key from a chest near his bed, she rushed back to her chamber and fitted it in the lock.

The door swung wide, revealing the sacred hollow. Its velvet cushion was empty.

“Oh Father, how could you?” Aileana’s horrified whisper echoed the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. How had he taken the Ealach from its place without her knowing?

Her bath. Aye, everyone knew that she was allowed to leave the main portion of her bedchamber each day at dawn to bathe in privacy. She’d heard battle sounds beginning just as she was stepping from the washtub this morn. Father must have learned of the attack sooner—

Heaven have mercy, but he’d taken the amulet from its hiding place and onto the battlefield for protection.

Aileana felt faint as she considered what would happen to her clan if the Ealach were lost again.

She’d been told of how it was in the past, of the darkness that surrounded them when the MacRaes still held it in their evil grip.

Father had reminded her more than once that her own mother’s death, brought about by birthing Aileana, might have been prevented, if only the Ealach had been near.

A familiar pain twisted her insides, and she sat down hard on her bed.

From her very first breath she’d brought grief to everyone.

So it had only been right that when the amulet came back into her clan’s possession, she be groomed as its keeper.

She’d accepted it long ago. Learned to swallow the resentment that swelled whenever she allowed herself to consider all of the time that was lost to her forever—the normal rhythms and flow of life amongst her clansmen that she would never enjoy.

The Ealach provided security. It brought the MacDonells good fortune. Without it, life was unpredictable and terrifying, and she knew that she’d spill her own blood before she’d allow anyone or anything to threaten her clan’s security again.

Bolting out into the corridor, Aileana descended the curved staircase two steps at a time.

She slipped into the great hall, her gaze darting round the piles of possessions others had left behind in their hurry to seek safety or a place in the battle raging beyond the keep.

She knew she risked Father’s wrath in doing this, but the amulet was at stake.

Her hands trembled as she stripped off her overskirt and tunic before donning a lad’s garments that she found in a heap of belongings abandoned near the hearth: a shirt, leather vest, and leggings.

Lastly, she tied a plaid at her waist and tucked her long hair beneath a helmet.

Her breathing slowed, calming to a rhythm of grim determination as she walked from the keep. The sounds, scents, and tumultuous sights of the yard assailed her senses, but still she continued on. Past the gate and up the crest of the brae, she strode, in the direction of the battle sounds.

She had to find the Ealach , whether she risked her life or no. It was in great danger, God help them, and the salvation of her clan depended on her ability to bring it to safety again.

Morning mist drifted across the field, blanketing the dead and dying like a mother’s cooling touch.

It obscured much of the carnage from Duncan MacRae’s view, but nothing could block the groans and screams echoing off the cliffs.

All around him moans of pain swelled in eerie chorus, making his mount stamp and snort.

Glendragon skittered sideways, and Duncan tensed, pressing his knees into the stallion’s sides.

His gaze swept the field with predatory efficiency.

He clenched his ruined, twisted fingers within their leather gauntlet, savoring the aching wound.

Its throbbing had intensified today from wielding his claymore against so much resisting bone and flesh.

The threading scar on his cheek—another token from his English captors—tightened as he clenched his jaw, and he fought the urge to stroke his fingers across its whitened flesh.

Where was the devil’s spawn? The MacDonell chieftain had fallen, of that he was sure.

He’d seen one of his men strike the fatal blow only moments ago, straight through the MacDonell’s black heart.

Yet there’d been no time to search the body.

The man’s legions had swarmed around them, preventing Duncan from gaining his just reward.

Glendragon jerked at his bridle, demanding Duncan’s attention; the stallion’s powerful muscles rippled, his nostrils flaring at the scent of death. His might was leashed and awaiting his master’s command, but Duncan kept him tightly reined, even as his own frustration grew.

Through thirteen years of hell in the English Tower, he’d stayed alive for this day.

Through the beatings, the cold, the pain…

the crippling of his hand. He’d endured all of it to taste this one moment of triumph.

With this attack, he’d finally initiated his revenge against the MacDonells.

Now he hungered to take back the Ealach , to steal it from this nest of vipers and return it to its true home.

Mist floated from the cliff’s edge, revealing several corpses sprawled on the field. There. The bitter tang of vengeance filled Duncan’s mouth, and savage joy flared through him. The MacDonell chieftain’s body still steamed from the heat of battle; it lay in a death-pose next to his shield.

But as Duncan spurred Glendragon toward the remains, a young soldier darted forward. Without a moment’s caution the intruder leaned over the body and embraced it before pulling open its shirt to grasp at something inside.

“Nay!” Duncan’s growl of rage rolled across the battlefield. The thief looked up, startled, then stood and wrenched off his helmet…freeing a cascading mass of red-gold hair.

In that instant disbelief washed over Duncan, and his blood beat faster.

Morgana? The murdering bitch was here on the battlefield?

But he’d learned that she was dead, brought low in banishment not long after betraying him to the English.

Nudging his stallion closer, he stared down at his mortal enemy, unwilling to accept the truth his eyes beheld.

That face, exquisite as ever, the slender build, the flaming hair…

Raw hatred spilled into the battle lust surging through his veins, igniting it with lethal potency; his sword arm tensed as he raised it in preparation to swing the death blow that would finally bring Morgana MacDonell to her just reward.

But before he could act, she took several steps toward him, stilling him as effectively as if she’d shot an arrow through his heart.

Dark honey eyes stared up at him—eyes as golden brown as Morgana’s had been piercing blue.

They shone luminous with grief that the bloodthirsty sorceress would have been incapable of feeling.

This wasn’t Morgana, but a stunning likeness of her…

all but for the eyes and the emotions that played freely across her delicate features.

“May you roast in hell for what you’ve done here, murdering MacRae!”

Duncan’s impression of tender femininity vanished.

Her body shook with pent-up feeling. “Come and finish it then. You’ve killed the chieftain, now slay his seed as well!”

Calm filled Duncan. Morgana’s sister . Of course. This one had been no more than a chit those years ago—too young to have taken part in the massacre against his clan. Sweeping his gaze over her, he scowled. “I seek not your life, woman, only the amulet. Give it to me and go in peace.”

“Peace?” Her face twisted into a mask of fury. “What know you of God’s peace?” The gilded talisman dangled from her grip, swinging on its golden chain as she taunted him. “I swear on the blood of my father that I will forfeit my life before I relinquish the Ealach to you.”

A dangerous cold seeped from Duncan’s chest to the tips of his gauntleted fingers. The amulet was his. He’d be denied no more. “Cease, woman,” he thundered. “Give it to me or face retribution when I take it from you.” He urged Glendragon forward, threatening to fulfill his words with action.

“Then do your worst, MacRae. But I’ll not be standing by for the kill.” Her eyes glowed with defiance, and every muscle of her slim form seemed to go rigid. Tense.

Too late, Duncan realized her intent. He followed her gaze over the cliff’s edge, down the precipice to the cold, gray surf that crashed to the rocks below.

Suddenly, she whirled and raced toward the ledge.

Duncan’s wordless roar filled the air, and he launched himself off Glendragon, charging forward to catch her.

But she was too quick. He reached out, trying to grab her, desperate to stop her from going over the cliff…

And wound up holding nothing as she threw herself from the bluff.

The moment seemed to spin itself out into eternity, slowing to an agonizing string of images that burned forever into Duncan’s soul.

Tightness filled his chest when he saw her graceful arms stretching out, saw her hair streaming behind her like a wave of silken fire.

In the next instant he glimpsed her face with its wide-eyed, haunted expression, her mouth opened in a soundless shriek of terror as the wind tipped her over, and then over again in her plummet toward the deadly surf.

And as she fell, a shaft of sun burst through the clouds. It glinted for just a moment off the amulet she held tightly in her hand, before it disappeared with her beneath the punishing, pounding waves.