Prologue
Coastal Argyll, Scotland
Late December
1345
––––––––
“’TIS ALL RIGHT, LADDIE.” Rona rubbed her horse’s neck and tried to calm him as they trudged through the wind and snow. “’Tis but a storm, Torin. Nothing ye havenae conquered before, aye?”
“Aye,” her first-in-command Aaron grumbled, his wary eyes to the dark woodland. “Whilst in battle, lass. This that comes is stealth rather than a fair fight.”
“Dinnae scare the lass,” Aunt Brighid chastised then shot Rona a grim look that spoke volumes.
She did, in fact, very much need to worry.
Someone lurked beyond.
Raised to defend herself, Rona gripped the hilt of her dagger and scanned the forest. They had come across little strife on their travels from the Sinclair’s holding to MacLomain Castle, but that was just pure luck. Staying true to Scotland’s Auld Alliance with France, the majority of their countrymen were off fighting alongside King David II against England. This left Scotland more vulnerable to miscreants than ever.
Nevertheless, she wanted to go home for Hogmanay. Even if her betrothed Bróccín would not be there to marry her. She wanted to be amongst kin again. To at last visit her beloved’s grave and say goodbye.
If they made it home alive.
Blade at the ready, Aaron’s bushy white brows furrowed. He lifted his hand a mere fraction. That was the signal. Someone lurked in the woodland. They must ready themselves to fight. Rona unsheathed her blade and looked at her aunt. Aunt Brighid nodded, her own dagger at the ready too.
Seconds later, the forest exploded with activity. They were under attack. Trying to remain calm, she shifted Torin closer to Brighid’s horse and kept her weapon in hand, but it all happened so fast.
Cries rang out.
Weapons clashed.
Blood spattered across the white snow.
“No,” Rona screamed when she was torn off her horse.
