Prologue
Dunollie Castle, Scotland, 1296
“Cruachan!”
Marjorie groaned. She must be dreaming. Why else would she hear her clan’s war cry?
The straw mattress scratched her skin. The room was quiet and smelled like dust from the drapery that hung from the canopy. Was she alone? She tried to lift her heavy eyelids, but then she remembered…
If she opened her eyes, she might see him. And he’d want to strike her again.
Or take her again.
No more pain, please. No more humiliation.
She wanted dark, numb oblivion. She allowed it to take her away from the aches in her whole body. Something odd caught her ear, and she clung to the sound like to the edge of a cliff. The noise came from outside and below. Cries of pain. Metal ringing against metal.
And then…
“Cruachan!” The sound was louder now, coming closer. It was a chorus of many men.
Was she imagining it? Was she so desperate and broken that she was dreaming of home?
The air smelled faintly of smoke. Footsteps pounded against the stone floor outside the room she was being kept in. The door opened with a screech, the iron handle grating. Then it closed.
This sound, of this door, meant one thing.
He’s back.
And if he was here, there would be pain.
Quick, heavy steps approached. He breathed heavily and paced around the room. His chainmail clanked softly. He hadn’t touched her yet. Maybe he hadn’t come for her.
But then why is he here?
Outside, the cries intensified. Something heavy battered against wood.
“Cruachan!”
They have come.
Hope blossomed in her chest, giving her strength. She opened one eye—the other was swollen shut—and turned her head to the light of the slit window.
Alasdair MacDougall paced along the wall of rough, dark rock. His nostrils flared, his eyes wild, his curly, dark hair unruly under the chainmail covering his head and shoulders. He tapped the flat side of his sword against his hand.
He glanced at her and froze for a moment, his face blank.
“Ye awake, wee bitch?” He covered the space between them in three steps.
Even without any strength left in her body, Marjorie pushed against the bed to try to drag herself as far away as possible from him. The blanket fell off, and her bare thighs with dry, caked blood flashed white and reddish brown. She wanted to cover herself, but she was too weak. His scent, one she was all too familiar with by now, reached her. He reeked of sweat and his male musk. He dropped his sword, and it fell with a loud clank. Grasping a handful of her hair at the top of her head, he lifted his other arm and slapped her.
Blinding white pain shot through her head. Then another hit came on the other side. Her eyes must have burst inside her skull. She didn’t even cry. He brought her face close to his, and she smelled his bad breath—a mixture of ale, alcohol, meat with onion. “Ye happy now, precious princess? Ye thought you were too good for my proposal, but now everyone will see what a worthless slut ye truly are.”
She sucked air into her lungs. “What are ye talking about?” she managed to say.
“Yer clan of Cambels are knocking at our doors. But as long as I have ye, I have the power.”
Him saying her family had come for her was different from her thinking it, or imagining it. It was real.
They had come.
She smiled and then openly laughed in his face. She gathered saliva in her mouth and spat right in his face. Her spit was bloody, and she laughed even harder. It hurt, but it was also cleansing. She’d fight a battle in here while her clan fought for her out there.
“‘Tis over, ye raping bastart,” she said. She continued laughing, even though his face paled and she might be dead in a moment. He slammed his fist into her temple, and she sank into a dark fog. Through that fog, the image of two men and their swords clashing floated in and out of view.
“Ye will die, ye maggot!” someone shouted.
Steel clashed and flashed in the shaft of light coming through the window. Cries of pain tore her mind. Then came a scream—deadly and desperate—and a loud thud of something heavy falling to the floor. She woke up to a familiar voice calling her. A dear, dear voice she’d known all her life.
“Marjorie.”
Someone stroked her head, but it felt like knives cutting her skin. She struggled to open her eyes and managed to lift one lid just a little. It was Craig. Her brother. Bloody and covered in bruises, he knelt by her bed. He was smiling, his eyes red, his dark hair disheveled. Tears blurred her vision and burned. He was here. That meant Alasdair was no longer a threat. Craig would take care of her. He’d take her home.
Relief flooded her. The echo of gratitude and love filled her chest. Despite her cracked and bruised lips, she managed a smile.
“Brother,” she whispered.
The door was flung open, and their cousin Ian stepped in. His red locks were sweaty, his face was covered in cuts and bruises, but he was alive.
“I found her,” Craig said.
“Aye, good. Let us go. The way is free.”
Craig gave her a little nod. She knew he was promising her that all would be well. He carefully wrapped her in a blanket and picked her up. Pain shot through her. As he carried her from the room, she saw Alasdair’s dead body on the floor, a pool of blood around him. She would have smiled and laughed, but she was empty.
Craig walked to the landing of the wooden stairwell, where their clansmen stood waiting. Their stern faces were illuminated by the torches as Craig carried her by. Ian went down the stairs before Craig, checking around the corners for danger, his sword atilt. But as Craig walked down the steps, the fighting stopped on the lower floor as well. Her father stood on the next landing, his face distorted with pain as he met her eyes. She tried to smile reassuringly to show she wasn’t angry at him for not protecting her or coming sooner. Craig carried her farther away, and she saw her Uncle Neil and his sons. Sorrow and fury shone in their eyes.
As they exited the tower, she saw John MacDougall, chief of the MacDougall clan and Alasdair’s father, held by her two clansmen. He jerked helplessly, his pasty face twitching in silent rage, no doubt realizing that his son must be dead if Marjorie was in Craig's arms.
He should never have allowed Alasdair to kidnap her and treat her like he had. He should have stopped the madness and sent her home. Everything that had happened to her, had happened under John MacDougall’s watch. As far as she was concerned, he was as guilty as his son.
Craig finally stepped out into the clear daylight of the courtyard surrounded by stone curtain walls, and Marjorie closed her eyes. Many men had died today to save her, and she couldn’t bear seeing evidence of it. Not right now.
Craig walked for a while and then sank to the ground. She opened her eyes. Their grandfather, Sir Colin Cambel, lay on the reddish grass. There was a deep wound near his heart, but blood didn’t flow from it. His eyes were closed, and his skin was pale. He was completely still, only the wind played with his white hair.
Craig took their grandfather’s hand in his and squeezed it. Ian stood beside them and lay his hand on Craig’s shoulder. Craig whispered something to their grandfather, and a tear fell from Marjorie’s eye. Then her brother stood and walked with her to the horses and carts.
“We have a cart for ye. ’Tis full of furs and blankets. Ye’ll be home soon.” He lay her down and covered her in blankets, and warmth began returning to her.