CHAPTER ONE
1445 AD
Caithness, Scotland
Robert MacGerry’s gaze locked on his son’s, his voice cracked and twisted with pain, his gnarled hands clenched tight on Calder’s arm. “Promise ye’ll keep the clan strong.”
Calder swallowed his grief, his chest burning with shock and dismay as he gently rested his father’s head in his lap. Applying pressure with a wadded length of woolen cloth to the jagged belly wound, Calder watched his father’s eyes as the spark of life ebbed.
“Aye, Da, I’ll do all that I can.” Calder choked on his anguish, his da—his hero, his protector—lying in his arms, forever broken, mortally wounded in a raid gone awry on Sinclair lands. Calder rubbed the rough, twisted wooden cross hanging about his neck and prayed fervently to trade places with his da. He shuddered as a biting wind wrapped ice-laden fog and the acrid smell of a nearby bog around them.
“Did ye take care of the bastard who did this?” Robert rasped.
Calder glanced at the lifeless body of the man who’d dealt his father his death blow, crumpled against a large rock. “Aye, Da. I did.”
Robert gripped Calder’s shirt, his eyes searching his son’s face. “Take care of yer brother and sister.”
Harsh reality dug its talons deeper at his father’s request. Calder glanced at his Uncle Finn standing next to him. Finn settled a heavy hand on his shoulder, nodding his support. Calder swallowed hard before answering. “Aye, ye can trust me to see to all that needs doin’. When ye get to heaven, tell my older brother I miss him.”
Grief seared Calder’s throat and eyes as his father drew his last ragged breath. Time stood still, waiting desperately for the exhale that never came. Silent tears dropped onto his da’s torn shirt, mixing with the final pulse of dark red blood. Several minutes passed before anyone spoke.
“What do ye command, laird?”
Calder jerked with surprise. He stared blankly at his uncle before he understood what Finn asked. With his older brother, and now his father dead, he was the new MacGerry laird.
Calder cleared his throat. “Prepare to leave.”
They gently wrapped Robert’s body in his cloak, securing him to his horse for their return to Fairetur. The few sheep stolen this night came at too high a price. Whatever had begun this feud with the Sinclairs had cost the MacGerry Clan dearly.
Finn pulled his horse alongside, breaking Calder’s thoughts. “What will ye do, laddie?”
“’Twill be as we discussed these past months,” Calder replied stonily. “I will seek a truce with the Sinclair. We dinnae have enough food to survive the winter. This damnable feud has gone on long enough. No one knows the why of it anymore. Fighting has cost the lives of too many good men, making too many women widows whilst still in the bloom of youth. I willnae see more lives wasted on a blood feud started by the dead long cold in their graves.”
Finn nodded. Calling a lad over, he sent him ahead of the group to prepare the clan for the grim news of Robert’s death.
The gates of Fairetur swung slowly open at their arrival. Two riders drove the stolen sheep inside to join the small herd they already possessed. Calder handed his horse to a waiting lad. He spotted his sister, Torri, standing at the front of the crowd, bunching her skirts in each fist, one word, one glance away from crushing despair. He would give anything to cushion the blow for her soft heart. She must have read the truth in his expression. Tears burst forth and flowed silently down her cheeks as she ran to him, throwing herself into his arms.
“Och, now. ’Twill be well.” His voice sought to soothe, but Torri stiffened and drew away.
Her eyes sparked at him through her tears. “How will it be well, brother?”
He had no ready answer, so he hugged her again and slowly walked her toward the great hall, holding her upright as she sagged against him. Word of their laird’s death filled the keep with the thick flavor of mourning and a deep melancholy overtook the normally warm-hearted inhabitants. Lively voices fell to whispers, and the normal clatter of feet on the stone floor became a muted shuffle. Calder guided Torri into the comforting arms of their grandmam and the two huddled together in shared pain.
He strode to the hearth inside the great hall, settling into the worn oak chairs with his uncle and younger brother, Robbie.
Robbie perched on the edge of his seat, his face grim. “How’d it happen?” he murmured, scarcely meeting Calder’s gaze.
“The Sinclairs waited fer us.” Finn’s pain-filled voice rode barely above a whisper. “’Twas as though they knew we were comin’. Yer da and Calder covered us as we retreated with the flock we seized. The Sinclairs dinnae have too much fight in ’em over a handful of sheep, but one bastard struck a lucky blow. Yer da took a sword in the gut.” His voice cracked. “He died in yer brother’s arms.”
“What did Da say, Calder?” Robbie’s words, heavy with anguish, renewed Calder’s torment, and he paused before answering.
“He asked for my vow to keep the clan strong,” he finally replied.
When no more explanation came, Robbie pressed further. “No demands of vengeance? No words of hatred for the thrice-damned Sinclairs?” His voice rose in challenge.
Calder waited for his brother to calm. “Nae. He claimed no vows of vengeance. I dinnae think his last thoughts were on killing, but rather on his family and clan.”
Robbie sucked in a deep breath. Calder sensed part of the darkness hanging over them lift a fraction. Perhaps there would be a chance for something more than blood and death in their future.
“What will ye do?” Robbie asked.
“We will see to Da’s burial on the morrow. After I am installed as laird, I will offer a truce to the Sinclair. Then we prepare for a hard winter. Too many crofts in the village arenae ready. I dinnae want the deaths of widows and bairns on my hands. Those whose homes we cannae repair in time will move into the keep when the snows hit.”
A serving woman brought them each a tankard of ale. Setting down their drinks, the buxom lass draped her arms around Calder from behind to whisper in his ear. “I’m sorry for yer da, Calder. I will fill yer bed if ye need comfort tonight.” The warmth of her breath tempted.
Calder gave her a small smile. “Thank ye, Lorna, but I wish to be alone this eve. I have too much on my mind and dinnae want ye to think I am a neglectful lover.”
“We have too much experience together for me to think that. If ye only want a fierce ruttin’ to ease yer pain, I can live without yer tender touch tonight.”
The enticing purr of her voice recalled images of their shared pleasure, but his heavy heart did not respond to her promise of temporary relief. Calder dropped a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Thank ye. Nae tonight.”
Lorna hugged him once, pressing her soft bosom into the back of his neck before retreating to the kitchen. Calder watched the exaggerated swing of her hips as she left. The scent of roses lingered in the air.
Finn sent a nod in the woman’s direction. “Ye know the lass fancies herself the laird’s woman now, aye?”
Calder glanced at his uncle. “I have greater things to worry about than the schemes of my leman, Uncle.”
Finn shook his head, but said no more.
After receiving sympathies from members of the clan and family, Finn and Robbie left Calder to his thoughts. Calder knew sleep would not find him as he rolled the situation fate placed him in over and over in his mind. After more than twenty years as the second son, he found himself laird of the MacGerrys with a feud to end and a difficult winter ahead. His gut clenched at the many tasks before him. Long hours passed before his mind stilled and sleep came.
Thick fog hung over the moors the next morn, which seemed appropriate given the mood of those who surrounded Robert MacGerry’s grave. As the last of the clan filed past to pay their respects to the old laird and give their greetings to the new one, Calder led the procession into the great hall to accept his new title. His father’s title. The title that should have gone to his older brother. After a brief ritual, he bade everyone sit and break their fast. He stood and raised his mug of cider in a toast.
“To Robert MacGerry. A good laird, a good father—and a good man.”
All raised their mugs in salute. “MacGerry!”
Calder stood, his determined stare sweeping the room. “The last words my father spoke were of ye, his clan. He made me swear to keep ye strong. I intend to do that verra thing. Henceforth, there will be no more raids or attacks on Sinclair lands. Tomorrow, I will send a message to the Sinclair offering a truce.”
A collective gasp of surprise spread into disgruntled murmurs, sparking a few looks of outrage. Calder did not flinch.
“Hear me! No one has lost more than Robbie, Torri, and I. We lost our da and brother Ewan to this feud, and Grandda before them. No one remembers why we raid and fight the Sinclairs. ’Tis only that we always have—an insufficient cause to keep the blood flowing. Clan MacGerry willnae long survive if all our men are killed. ’Tis not vengeance or justice, but madness. I will call a truce so we can see to surviving the winter. Come spring we will work toward making the MacGerrys stronger.”
Uncle Finn, Peadar the Red, and Ramsey stood with Calder. Auld Liam rose reluctantly to his feet. A hiss of dissension swept the room, but Calder could not mark its source. The elder council, along with Robbie, gave no doubt of their support of the laird’s decision. He could only pray Sinclair would support it, too.
* * *
The outer doors creaked and the thud of boots striding purposely across the stones grew louder. Calder raised his head to find the man he’d sent out two days before offering peace to Sinclair crossing the hall. His swift return could be either a very good or very bad thing, as the Sinclair was known to be quick to say aye or nae. The fact Niell appeared hale seemed an encouraging sign. Clearly pleased with himself, Niell approached the high board.
“The Earl of Caithness’ response, laird.” He bowed and handed over the letter.
Breaking the dark red wax seal, Calder scanned the contents. In disbelief, he read the missive twice more before he allowed a smile to creep over his face. “’Tis good news, lads. The Sinclair invites us to come and enjoy his hospitality whilst we negotiate an accord.” He handed the parchment to Finn seated next to him.
Auld Liam scowled. “’Tis a trap. Ne’er trust a Sinclair. They be a treacherous lot.”
Calder gave the older man a nod. “Aye, it may. But we willnae know without going. ’Tis what we hoped for.”
“To treat with the devil in his own lair is madness.” Liam’s scowl deepened and he shoved back in his chair, arms across his chest.
Calder passed the note around the table as they lingered over the evening meal.
Finn rubbed his grizzled chin. “Auld Liam is right. It could be a trap, laddie.”
“’Tis why Robbie stays here whilst you and I go, Uncle, with half a dozen men-at-arms,” Calder explained.
Peadar spoke up. “I dinnae like it, but if we truly want peace there’s little choice but to chance it.”
“If Sinclair springs a trap, Robbie will ride to the king’s man at Wick and report what happened. With this note as evidence, Sinclair isnae fool enough to risk his reputation and prove a man who doesnae keep his word.” Calder glanced to each man, seeking their consent. Heads slowly nodded agreement.
“’Tis settled then. Finn and I will ride to Ruadhcreag on the morrow. We’ll take young Cole with us. When we see what the Sinclair offers, he will return with the news.”
The next morning, Calder and Finn, along with several MacGerry men, set out for Sinclair land. Passing through the forests to the south, Calder caught a glimpse of Loch Beaggorm, recalling the girl he’d seen while hunting two years ago when he’d ventured close to the loch where their lands bordered with those of clan Sinclair.
His lips tilted up in fond memory of the young woman sitting on a rock warming in the sun, wearing little more than her skin. So affected by her beauty he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, he could only watch from the shelter of the forest. Her long, lithe body lay gracefully along the rock, blonde hair twisted into a thick braid reaching the curve of her hips. Her skin, the color of cream, seemed flawless. She appeared both innocent and provocative with small breasts riding high on her chest. A dusting of fair curls nestled between her legs, easily seen through her short, thin chemise. Unable to see the color of her eyes, Calder guessed them to be of the deepest blue.
She slipped from her rock and into the water, swimming effortlessly for a time before climbing out again. After drying in the sun, she donned trews and a tunic over her abbreviated chemise. Mounting a blue roan gelding tethered to a nearby tree, she headed deep into Sinclair lands. Calder had lingered for several minutes, bewitched by the scene he’d witnessed. Moved beyond reason, his world had shifted in an unseen and unfamiliar way.
Returning home, he’d asked about, seeking to learn who she might be, to whom she belonged. To his frustration, he learned his siren of the loch was the Sinclair laird’s daughter. It was completely out of the question he would seek out the daughter of his enemy, much less an earl’s daughter whose rank placed her far above him. His disappointment, however, did not keep him from thinking of her often. She invaded his sleep many nights. Even now, two years past, she never strayed far from his thoughts.
The possibility he might see her again raised his pulse and nervousness fluttered in his belly. Always at ease around the lasses, Calder couldn’t understand what it was about this one that made his heart race like a skittish colt. Whatever the reason, her image rolled through his mind, thickening his blood and hardening his body.
Chiding himself for youthful foolishness, he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, not some youthful dream beyond his reach. Certainly she was another man’s wife by now. Yet he was unable to completely banish the hope he would lay eyes on her while on Sinclair land. He pushed hard enough to force the small yearning into the back corner of his mind. Still, she continued to taunt him, refusing to be ignored. Calder gained a sliver of understanding of why Adam dishonored his vows to God for the love of a woman.
Sinclair guards greeted the MacGerrys cautiously at the gate though their arrival was expected. Peasants leaving the castle on their way home eyed the MacGerrys with fear and suspicion.
Up close, the Sinclair stronghold loomed impressively, dwarfing the scope of the MacGerry home. Blocks of red stone stood in contrast to the green of the surrounding landscape, hence its name, Ruadhcreag. The high, thick curtain walls protected four stone towers riddled with loopholes designed to accommodate either long bows or crossbows. These, along with multiple iron gates, made this fortress all but impenetrable. Any hostile force would fare better waiting for the Earl to surrender, exhausting his supplies over time, rather than to throw themselves hopelessly at these walls.
Leaving their horses with the stable lads, Calder and his men followed the guards who escorted them to the great hall as distrustful eyes shifted their way. The Sinclair laird was seated at the raised table with three young men. Taking notice of their arrival, he rose.
“Welcome. I am Henry Sinclair. These are my sons, Bjorn, Christer and Patrik. Come. Join us as guests at our table.” Sinclair’s stout frame and burnished auburn hair contrasted sharply to his taller blond sons, though the eldest appeared more the coloring of his sire.
Exchanging a glance, Calder and Finn joined the laird while their men accepted seats at a lower table. Calder immediately noticed the abundance of food and the comfort of the hall.
Elaborate tapestries covered the stone walls. Windows were fitted with glass. The room glowed, well-lit from innumerable candles in stands against the walls and in chandeliers hung over the tables. A great hearth blazed at one end, adding light and warmth to the room. The table and chairs they sat upon were of an ornately carved dark wood. Silver quaichs rested in front of each chair, awaiting wine or ale.
A servant poured ale into the drinking bowls while two others brought out platters of game fowl, fresh baked bread, and soup. Bowls of honey and butter graced the table. Calder’s stomach rumbled at the smell of hot meat pies. He could not recall seeing so much food at one time. Everything about the room and meal spoke of wealth and prosperity.
As one of the serving women poured Calder’s ale, she bent over enough to allow him a full view down her bodice. After filling his cup, she caught his eye and gave him a smile promising a warm bed should he be interested.
The Sinclair’s voice boomed from the high table, disrupting Calder’s subtle decline of the woman’s services.
“Allow me to express my sympathies on the loss of yer father. I dinnae know him, but all said he was a good man. This feud has been costly for both clans. I welcome the offer to end hostilities between our people. No one here can remember why we are at odds.”
“’Tis the same for us,” Calder replied.
“Then let us toast to new beginnings,” Sinclair offered as he raised his quaich in a toast. Around the tables, the others followed their laird’s example. So far, their welcome was more than Calder could have hoped for. A prickling sensation down his spine cautioned him something was afoot.
* * *
Katja reluctantly heeded her father’s summons to the great hall. She much preferred taking meals in her chamber, as constant criticism and scorn from her father made for poor company. Her only regret was not spending the time with her brothers. She remembered the days before her amma died when mealtimes were pleasant, even enjoyable. She did not remember the days when her ma was alive.
Everyone in the keep knew guests had arrived—rumored to be the hated MacGerrys. Her father would likely use the opportunity to dangle her as bait again for some sort of alliance, her hand in marriage as part of the bargain. She grimaced. The MacGerry laird was as old as her sire—as were all the men her da had presented as prospective husbands.
“I willnae marry a man thrice my age. Why does he keep bringing such old relics about, Freki? Has the man not made the acquaintance of anyone younger than two score?”
Her companion did not answer.
Katja hurried to the great hall with Freki at her side. If she allowed her sire to wait too long, he would add to her humiliation by displaying her like a freshly caught trout in front of his guests. Much as she disliked appeasing him, flaunting her disdain was far worse.
When they reached the door to the hall, she raised a hand, whispering a command for her companion to wait outside the door as she perused the people seated in the great hall. Pale auras of color surrounded each man, giving the room a festive look were it not for the unsettling tale each told her. The reds of anger and lust, the brown of dishonesty, gray and sulphur of dark thoughts and pain. From long practice, she ignored the pale green of pity she knew were aimed at her.
Skirting the red auras, Katja moved silently into the room, attracting no attention. Years of avoiding her father gave her the skill to move about the castle like a wraith, finding tremendous value in being invisible when the need called for it. It wasn’t until she stood near the foot of the lower tables that anyone noticed her. Laird Sinclair’s eyes gleamed.
“Ah, here is my daughter. Katja, meet the new MacGerry Laird.”
* * *
Calder glanced at the young woman who’d entered the room as silent as a ghost. Though the Sinclair men did not stand in respect at her introduction, Calder, Finn, and the rest of the MacGerry men rose immediately from their seats. She offered a small curtsy, her gaze dropping to the floor, seeming uncomfortable with the attention.
Calder stood stricken as if struck by a smithy’s hammer. He could do nothing but stare at the lass in front of him who’d haunted his thoughts and dreams for so long. To his amazement, she appeared even more beautiful than he remembered. Grey. Her eyes were grey, not the dark blue he imagined. If he’d been told she was an angel come to earth he would not have doubted the claim for a moment.
Finn tugged on his sleeve and inclined his head toward the girl. Calder retrieved enough of his wits to speak. “’Tis a pleasure to meet ye, Lady Katja.”
* * *
The sight of a young man instead of the old laird she expected startled Katja. Tall, lean of muscle, with dark brown hair and fair skin, his deep blue eyes were the color of sapphires or perhaps the ocean on a calm day. A high forehead, strong jaw, and full lips made for a very handsome face. Lips which curved into a kind smile at her.
His eager blue eyes stared, as if caught in a pleasant dream. Katja’s stomach twisted in a way she’d not experienced before. Heat scorched its way from her head to her shoulders, tingling along her breasts and descending lower. She didn’t recognize or understand the strange awareness. Her breathing picked up its pace as her heart beat tripled. How could one look from a man inspire such a reaction?
She averted her gaze in an effort to wrestle her body and emotions under control. Inhaling deeply, she raised her eyes again only to find the same sensations slamming into her anew. She needed a distraction.
Use the sight. It doesnae lie.
Looking past her normal ability to see, she glanced first at her father. The darkening gray aura surrounding him reflected his greed, his nature growing more corrupt with time. A band of deep brown layered on top of the gray was new today. She knew it as a sign of deceit and wondered what he was up to. Scanning the rest of the table, the light blue surrounding her brothers Bjorn, Christer and Patrik reflected confusion. Whatever her father contrived with the MacGerry, they knew nothing of it.
Yellow surrounded MacGerry’s older companion, apparently happy about the circumstances of this meeting. Finally, looking upon the man introduced to her as Calder MacGerry, he seemed awash with color. He wrestled with strong emotions, the red of lust mixing with the yellow of happiness. Dark blue rode over the top of all, the fear of speaking the truth. Suspicion flowed through her as she considered what MacGerry might be hiding. Her father addressed her again, interrupting her thoughts.
“Daughter, have chambers prepared for our guests. See to it all their needs are met. They will experience the fullness of our hospitality whilst here.” Sinclair sent Calder a sly smile.
Calder’s eyes widened, clearly taken aback at her father’s words. “Many thanks for your hospitality, Laird, but after this fine meal we will have no needs beyond a bed this eve.”
Mortification filled Katja at her sire’s brazen suggestion, pulling her back to the purpose for which she’d been summoned. It was bad enough he kept serving women around who openly flaunted their favors toward anything male. To make her responsible for having these women brought to his guests proved more than her temper could bear.
Grateful their guest rescued her from further humiliation, she exited the room quickly, daring her sire to rebuke her abruptness. As Katja crossed the doorway, Freki rose, following close behind. She made the necessary arrangements with the housekeeper, then headed for the respite of her bedchamber.
She slammed the door and threw the bolt as soon as she and Freki entered the room. Her father was clearly up to some deception. No matter his generous words, his brown aura said everything she needed to know, guaranteeing he would try to trick the MacGerry in some manner despite his seemingly warm hospitality. Though the MacGerrys and Sinclairs had been bitter enemies longer than she could remember, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for them. Even the MacGerrys deserved better than betrayal at the hands of her father.
After tonight’s encounter, she vowed to avoid her sire more than ever. Unsettled by her reaction to the new MacGerry laird, it was best to stay away until they concluded their business. She wasn’t sure she could stomach watching whatever duplicity her father planned, and she didn’t want their visitors to think she played any part in the treachery.
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