Dunrobin Castle, Scottish Highlands
Summer, 1300
STONE cobbles were certainly the most uncomfortable place for knees to rest. Lady Heather, youngest sister to the powerful Earl of Sutherland, knelt before the altar in the family’s chapel. Even with the protection of layers of fabric between her bones and the flooring, she could feel bruises forming beneath the calluses on her knees.
The castle’s drafts had yet to reach this corner of space within the towers, and as a result, sweat dripped in unladylike fashion down her temples and spine. What she wouldn’t give to at least be able to fan herself, but she dared not move her hands from their place firmly pressed together in prayer.
Today would prove to be sweltering if the heat before dawn was any indication. And since Heather had an aversion to heat, she was more than likely going to be in a sour mood. The heaviness of the many layers she wore didn’t help the situation. Nor what she was about to do.
The chapel was dark, save the four candles she’d lit. The sun had yet to rise, and the three narrow windows, newly fixed with stained glass, let in none of the moon’s silver light.
Heather came to pray each morning, every morning, before the family rose. Typically because she had a lot more to confess than most. She was the first to admit she was not easy on her older brother, Magnus. Nor her aunts, any of her siblings, cousins and the staff in general. She might even be willing to admit that she single-handedly provided for their chaplain’s wealth, given that she was constantly slipping coins into his purse as penance or to buy an extra blessing.
But today was different.
On this day, she was going to change her future, forever.
The Scottish rebellion still raged on, despite the horrendous loss at the Battle of Falkirk. Heather wanted to be a part of it. Why should her brothers and cousins have all the fun? Before the rest of the household woke to say prayers, Heather planned to be well on her way to finding William Wallace. The man had taken a step back in the war for freedom. After their great loss, the warrior must have felt downtrodden, for he simply handed the reins of battle over to another. She was going to persuade him to rise up once more, to fight for what he thought was right, what she knew was right.
Robert the Bruce was not yet king—and though he was rumored to have sided with the English, Heather just couldn’t believe it. After all, Bruce and Red Comyn were now overseeing the resistance, but they lacked the heart of Wallace. The way Heather saw it, Wallace could turn a sheepherder into a seasoned warrior, and might even have the power to turn Englishmen into Scots—the latter was a bit of a reach, but just went to prove how much she believed in him.
A scraping to her left jolted Heather from her prayer. She sat back on her heels, hand falling to her hip where a twelve-inch dagger was slipped into its sheath.
“Who’s there?” Her voice echoed through the chapel.
A shadowy figure lurked just beyond the benches in the corner where their chaplain’s chamber was. Looked like a hulk of black. If she’d been more superstitious, she might have thought the devil was coming to pay her a visit like Aunt Fiona always threatened.
“Father Hurley?” She swiped a drip of sweat from her eyes. “Is that ye? Come away from the shadows.”
A shiver of fear skittered over her spine, settling like a solid stone in her belly.
The figure didn’t move.
Heather swallowed her fear and stood up, straightening her shoulders as much as she could, squaring her jaw. “Come into the light at once,” she ordered.
The shadow moved along the wall toward the front of the chapel. Heather followed him with her eyes. ’Twas not the devil but a man. Most definitely not Father Hurley. He was taller by at least a foot—and wide by about the same. His black robes billowed around his form, swishing around his ankles with each step, and sending whispers of fear with every move. The silver chain around his neck swung the large crucifix it held like a pendulum. Back and forth.
A man of the cloth? Her hair prickled. He looked like death come to take her.
Heather stared at the cross, at the man in robes, hypnotized by his stealthy, calculated movements, her eyes wide and immobilized. She finally blinked when they stung with dryness.
“Are ye new to Dunrobin?” she asked, refusing to believe he might be the reaper and wondering why no one had told her there was a new priest.
He stopped a few feet away, just outside the line of light from the candles.
“Nay.” His voice was deep, dark, and slid over her body shamefully, in a way that made her want to hear him speak again.
Lord, help her impetuous nature.
Heather made a sign of the cross. “I’ve not seen ye before now.” The slight quiver in her tone made her angry.
He didn’t answer. A long pause of silence ensued, making her uncomfortable. Her skin prickled.
“Where is Father Hurley? What are ye doing in here?” The questions tumbled from her tongue.
The man pointed toward the chaplain’s chamber. “He is there. Sleeping.”
Again that voice. Why did she like it so much? “And ye? What are ye doing out here? I’m…I’m praying. I want privacy.” She lifted her chin another notch, hoping the odd priest would leave her be, that he hadn’t noticed the slight stutter of her words. When she saw her brother Magnus, she was going to tell him about this odd priest and how uncomfortable he made her. Zounds! She wouldn’t get the chance before she left… The dawn of her new life would begin today. A note then. She would tell Magnus in a note.
“I’m afraid ye won’t be getting any privacy, my lady.” Confidence dripped from his words and slid over her skin in a way that felt wicked.
“Ye are not to talk to me in such a manner.” No matter how hard she tried, she sounded petulant rather than in control.
“And ye need to hold your tongue, ye saucy wench.”
Heather gasped, blanched. Pressed a hand to her chest and took a step back in shock. “What?”
“Ye heard me.” An underlying tone of amusement captured his voice.
Indeed she had, but no one had ever, ever, talked to her like that before.
“How dare ye?” She seethed, gripped her fingers around her dagger, though what she’d do with it, she had no clue. Killing a man of the cloth was a sin she’d never be able to pay her way out of.
“Enough bluster, my lady. I need ye to come with me.”
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