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  TO LOVE, HONOR, AND DECEIVE

  “We have made vows to each other, Catriona,” he said evenly. “I will keep mine, and I expect you to keep yours.”

  “What will you do if I don’t? Ravish me or beat me?” But her heart was pounding, and the way he looked at her now made her want to touch him.

  “You know that I would not hurt you or force you,” he said, clearly keeping his temper in check.

  The tension in the room had increased tenfold, much of it within her own body.

  He was determined, and that determination stirred indescribable feelings inside her. From her tingling skin to the core of her body, every nerve had come alive. When he took yet another step toward her, they vibrated as if someone had plucked a harp with strings attached to every part of her.

  He reached for her…

  For Paige Lori

  when she is old enough to read it

  and for the true Highland wildcat

  Author’s Note

  For readers who appreciate a quick guide to the meanings and/or pronunciation of certain words used in this story:

  Aodán = AY den (ay as in hay)

  Ay-de-mi = AY de me (also ay as in hay, an expletive)

  Boreas = the North Wind (Greek mythology)

  Finlagh = FIN lay

  Forbye = besides or however

  Garron = a small, sure-footed Highland horse or pony, alternative to foot travel

  Himself = the way by which clan members, especially those who are not of the nobility, refer to a clan or confederation chief—in this instance, the Mackintosh

  Lug(s) = ear(s)

  Moigh = Moy (now the word is spelled so)

  Rothesay = ROSS-ee

  Rothiemurchus = Roth-ee MUR kus

  Tadhg = TAY

  “The Mackintosh” refers to the chief of Clan Mackintosh, who is also the head or Captain of Clan Chattan. The title “captain” is unique to Clan Chattan.

  Tocher = a bride’s dowry

  Prologue

  Perth, Scotland, September 1396

  Abrupt silence filled the air when the young dark-haired warrior’s opponent fell. The lad looked swiftly for the next one but saw no one nearby still standing.

  Then, hearing moans and weaker cries of the wounded and dying, the warrior realized that his sense of silence was no more than that the screeching of the pipes that always accompanied combat had abruptly ceased when his own fight had.

  Not only had the pipes of battle fallen silent, but so also had the noble audience that watched from tiered seats overlooking the field. They had cheered at the beginning, for he had heard them before all his senses had focused on his first opponent.

  The broad, usually green meadowlike expanse of the North Inch of Perth had altered gruesomely now to a field of bodies and gore.

  Man after man had he slain in that trial by combat between Camerons and Clan Chattan, two of the most powerful Highland clan federations. Each, by order of the King of Scots, had produced thirty champions to fight. The royal intent was to end decades of feuding over land and other bones of contention.

  The young warrior extended his gaze to sweep the rest of the field for any remaining opponent. He saw only three men standing and one kneeling, all some distance away from where he stood near the wide, fast-moving river Tay.

  St. John’s town of Perth and nearby Scone Abbey having served as royal and sacred places for centuries, Perth’s North Inch had long been a site for trial by combat. The field was fenced off from the town just southeast of it on the river, and the river provided as effective a barrier as the fences did, if not more so.

  The town overlooked the Tay estuary at the first place narrow enough to bridge. If a man should fall in, the swift and powerful river would sweep him into the Firth of Tay and thence to the sea or, more likely, drown him long before then.

  Therefore, the day’s combatants had tried to keep clear of the precipitous riverbank. But when other ground grew slippery with gore and cluttered with the fallen, the area near the water remained as the only option.

  None of the four who were still visibly alive looked as if he cared a whit about the young warrior. The lad remained wary but was grateful to rest, knowing that if he had to fight one or all of them, the likelihood was that he would die.

  The others wore clothing similar to his—saffron-colored, knee-length tunics and wide leather sword belts. Each also wore a leather targe strapped to one arm to parry sword strokes. And each one wore his long hair in a single plait, as most Highland warriors did, to keep flying strands out of his face as he fought.

  Although he could not discern their clan badges from where he stood, the lad knew they were all members of Clan Chattan, the enemy.

  “Fin.”

  His sharp ears heard the voice, weak though it was, and he turned quickly.

  Amidst the nearby bodies, he saw a slight but insistent movement and hurried toward it. Dropping to a knee beside the man who had made it and fighting back a rush of fear and icy despair, he exclaimed, “Father!”

  “I’m spent,” Teàrlach MacGillony muttered, clearly exerting himself more than a man in his condition should. “But I must—”

  “Don’t talk!” Fin said urgently.

  “I must. Ye be all we ha’ left from this dreadful day, lad. So ’tis your sacred duty tae stay alive. How many o’ the villains be still upstanding?”

  “I can see four,” Fin said. “One is kneeling—retching, I think.” With a catch in his voice, he added, “Except for me, all of our men have fallen.”

  “Then them ye see be just taking a breath,” his father said. “Ye’ll ha’ to stand against them unless his grace, the King, stops the slaughter. But his brother, Albany, does sit by his side. The King is weak, but Albany is not. He is evil, is what he is. ’Twas his idea, all this, but his grace does ha’ the power to stop it.”

  Fin looked again toward the tiers. Not only did the King and the Duke of Albany sit there but also members of the royal court, the clergy, and many of Perth’s townspeople. Banners waved, and vendors doubtless still sold the ale, whisky, buns, and sweets that at the beginning of the day had made the event seem like a fair.

  “Albany is speaking to his grace now,” Fin said.

  “Aye, nae doots telling him that there must be a true victor, so that the feuding betwixt the Camerons and Clan Chattan will stop. But hear me, lad. Our people did count on me as their war leader today, and I failed them. Ye must not.”

  “You accounted for several of these dead, sir,” Fin said.

  “I did, aye, but your sword sped more to their Maker than mine did. And, if ye truly be the last man o’ ours standing, ye ha’ a duty that ye must see to.”

  “What is it?”

  “Vengeance,” his father said, gasping. “Swear that ye’ll seek it against their war leader and… and others. Ye ken fine… after such slaughter… the right o’ vengeance be sacred. ’Tis a holy bequest that ye… as sole survivor, must accept.” Gasping more harshly for each breath, he added, “Swear it… to me.”

  “I do swear it, sir, aye,” Fin said hastily. To his father, clearly dying, he could give no other reply.

  “Bless ye, my…”

  Teàrlach MacGillony gasped no more.

  Tears sprang to Fin’s eyes, but a cry from the audience startled him from his grief. Glancing toward the tiers, he saw Albany waving for combat to continue.

  The pipes kept silent. The King sat with his head bowed, making no sign, but people would see naught amiss in that. The King was weak, and Albany, as Governor of the Realm in his grace’s stead, had long bee
n the one who made such decisions.

  Looking toward the men of Clan Chattan, Fin saw that three of them faced the tiers. The fourth, a tall and lanky chap, spoke to the others. Then, his sword at the ready, he turned toward Fin. The others followed but stopped well back of him.

  As the man approached, he kept his head down and watched where he walked, doubtless to avoid treading on the fallen.

  Fin hefted his sword, drew a deep breath, and set himself.

  When the other man looked up at last, his gaze caught Fin’s and held it.

  Fin stared, then found voice enough to say, “Hawk?”

  The other stopped six feet away. With a movement of his head so slight that Fin wondered if he had imagined it, he indicated the river nearby to his right.

  The men behind him were talking to each other, cheerful now, confident of the outcome. They were far enough away that they could not have heard Fin speak, nor would they hear him if he spoke again.

  “What are you trying to say?” he asked.

  “Go,” Hawk said, although his lips barely moved. “I cannot fight you. Someone from your side must live to tell your version of what happened here today.”

  “They’ll flay you!”

  “Nay, Lion. I’ll be a hero. But think on that later. Now go, and go quickly before Albany sends his own men to dispatch the lot of us.”

  Hawk being one of the few men Fin trusted without question, he whirled, thrust his sword into the sling on his back, and dove in, wondering at himself and realizing only as the water swallowed him that he must look like a coward. By then, the river was bearing him swiftly past the town and onward, inexorably, to the sea.

  The weight and cumbrous nature of the sword strapped to his back threatened to sink him, but he did not fight it. The farther the current took him before he surfaced, the safer he would be, and if he died on the way, so be it.

  Then another, horrifying, thought struck. He’d sworn two oaths that day.

  The first had been to accept the results of the combat and do no harm to any man on the opposing side. Every man there, as one voice, had sworn to that oath.

  But then his war leader—his own dying father—had demanded a second oath, of vengeance, an oath that Fin could not keep without breaking his first one. Such a dilemma threatened his honor and that of his clan. But all oaths were sacred.

  Might one oath be more sacred? Had his father known what he had asked?

  He began kicking toward the surface, angling southward, knowing of only one place where he might find an answer. He could get there more easily from the shore opposite Perth… if he could get there at all.

  Chapter 1

  The Highlands, early June 1401

  The odd gurgling punctuated with harsher sounds that composed the Scottish jay’s birdsong gave no hint of what lay far below its perch, on the forest floor.

  The fair-haired young woman silently wending her way through the forest toward the jay’s tall pine tree sensed nothing amiss. Nor, apparently, did the large wolf dog moving through the thick growth of pines, birch, and aspen a few feet to her right like a graceful, tarnished-silver ghost.

  Most of the winter’s snow had melted, and the day was a temperate one.

  The breeze hushing through the canopy overhead and the still damp forest floor beneath eighteen-year-old Lady Catriona Mackintosh’s bare feet made keeping silent easier than it would be after warmer temperatures dried the ground and foliage.

  When a fat furry brown vole scurried out of her path and two squirrels chased each other up a nearby tree, she smiled, feeling a stab of pride in her ability to move so silently that her presence did not disturb the forest creatures.

  She listened for sounds of the fast-flowing burn ahead. But before she heard any, the breeze dropped and the dog halted, stiffening to alertness as it raised its long snout. Then, trembling, it turned its head and looked at her.

  Raising her right hand toward it, palm outward, Catriona stopped, too, and tried to sense what it sensed.

  The dog watched her. She could tell that the scent it had caught on the air was not that of a wolf or a deer. Its expression was uncharacteristically wary. And its trembling likewise indicated wariness rather than the quivering, bowstring-taut excitement that it displayed when catching the scent of a favored prey.

  The dog turned away again and bared its teeth but made no sound. She had trained it well and felt another rush of pride at this proof of her skill.

  Moving forward, easing her toes gently under the mixture of rotting leaves and pine needles that carpeted the forest floor, as she had before, she glanced at the dog again. It would stop her if it sensed danger lurking ahead.

  Instead, as she moved, the dog moved faster, making its own path between trees and through shrubbery to range silently before her.

  She was accustomed to its protective instincts. Once, she had nearly walked into a wolf that had drifted from its pack and had gone so still at her approach that she failed to sense its presence. The wolf dog had leaped between them, stopping her and snarling at the wolf, startling it so that it made a strident bolt for safety. She had no doubt that the dog would kill any number of wolves to protect her.

  That it glided steadily ahead but continued to glance back told her that although it did not like what it smelled, it was not afraid.

  She felt no fear either, because she carried her dirk, and her brothers had taught her to use it. Moreover, she trusted her own instincts nearly as much as the dog’s. She was sure that no predator, human or otherwise, lay in wait ahead of her.

  The jay still sang. The squirrels chattered.

  Birds usually fell silent at a predator’s approach. And when squirrels shrieked warnings of danger, they did so in loud, staccato bursts as the harbinger raced ahead of the threat. But the two squirrels had grown noisier, as if they were trying to outshriek the jay.

  As that whimsical thought struck, Catriona glanced up to see if she could spy the squirrels or the bird. Instead, she saw a huge black raven swooping toward the tall pine and heard the larger bird’s deep croak as it sent the jay squawking into flight. The raven’s arrival shot a chill up her spine. Ravens sought out carrion, dead things. This one perched in the tree and stared fixedly downward as it continued its croaking call to inform others of its kind that it had discovered a potential feast.

  The dog increased its pace as if it, too, recognized the raven’s call.

  Catriona hurried after it and soon heard water rushing ahead. Following the dog into a clearing, she could see the turbulent burn running through it. The huge raven, on its branch overhead, raucously protested her presence. Others circled above, great black shadows against the overcast sky, cawing hopefully.

  The dog growled, and at last she saw what had drawn the ravens.

  A man wearing rawhide boots, a saffron-colored tunic with a large red and green mantle over it—the sort that Highlanders called a plaid—lay facedown on the damp ground, unconscious or dead, his legs stretched toward the tumbling burn. Strapped slantwise across his back was a great sword in its sling, and a significant amount of blood had pooled by his head.

  The dog had scented the blood.

  So had the ravens.

  Sir Finlagh Cameron awoke slowly. His first awareness was that his head ached unbearably. His second was of a warm breeze in his right ear and a huffing sound. He seemed to be facedown, his left cheek resting on an herbal-scented pillow.

  What, he wondered, had happened to him?

  Just as it finally dawned on him that he was lying on dampish ground atop leafy plants of some sort, a long wet tongue laved his right cheek and ear.

  Opening his eyes, he beheld two… no, four silvery gray legs, much too close.

  Tensing, but straining to keep still as the animal licked him again, well aware that wolves littered all Highland forests, he shifted his gaze beyond the four legs to see if there were any more. He did see two more legs, but either his vision was defective or his mind was playing tricks on him.


  The two legs were bare, shapely, and tanned.

  He shut his eyes and opened them again. The legs looked the same.

  Slowly and carefully, he tried to lift his head to see more of both creatures, only to wince at the jolt of pain that shot through his head as he did. But, framed by the arch of the beast’s legs and body, he glimpsed bare feet and ankles, clearly human, then bare calves, decidedly feminine.

  By straining, he could also see bare knees and bare…

  A snapping sound diverted him, and the animal beside him backed off. It was larger than he had expected and taller. But it was no wolf. On the contrary…

  “Wolf dog or staghound,” he muttered.

  “So you are not dead after all.”

  The soft feminine voice carried a note of drollery and floated to him on the breeze, only he no longer felt a breeze. Doubtless, the dog’s breath had been what he’d felt in his ear earlier. Coming to this conclusion reassured him that he hadn’t lost his wits, whatever else had happened to him.

  “Can you not talk to me?”

  It was the same voice but nearer, although he had not sensed her approach in any way. But then, until the warm breath huffed into his ear, he had not sensed the dog either. He realized, too, that she had spoken the Gaelic. He had scarcely noticed, despite having spoken it little himself for several years.

  Recalling the shapely legs and bare feet, he realized with some confusion that his eyes had somehow shut themselves. He opened them to the disappointing revelation that her bareness ended midthigh. A raggedy blue kirtle, kilted up the way a man would kilt up his plaid, covered most of the rest of her.

  “I can talk,” he said and felt again that odd sense of accomplishment. “I’m not so sure that I can move. My head feels as if someone tried to split it in two.”

  “You’ve shed blood on the leaves round your head, so you are injured,” she said. Her voice was still soft, calm, and carrying that light note, as if she felt no fear of him or of anything else in the woods. “I can get your sword out of its sling if you will trust me to do it. And I can get the sling and belt off you, too. But you will have to lift yourself a bit for that. Then, mayhap you can turn over.”