CHAPTER ONE
The scent of tobacco no longer clung to the air outside her father’s study, and that, more than anything, told Lavina all she needed to know.
The world she knew was gone. It had vanished like a whisper in the back of her mind.
She paused at the study door with her hand on the knob. Every fiber of her being trembled as she swallowed back the fear bubbling under the surface. The familiar iron handle that once felt like an old friend’s hand was now icy and bit into her palm like a curse.
Recoiling, she debated whether entering was the best option. After all, it wasn’t her father she would be greeting, but her uncle.
“Ye ken how I feel about lingerin’ in doorways. Makes me paranoid.” Micah’s voice drifted through the heavy oak that separated them.
There was no turning back now. The fact that he had known she was there irked her. But there was no fleeing now. She rolled her shoulders back and pushed the door open, steeling her nerves for the lashing to come.
The heavy oak door moaned in protest as it scraped across the stone floor. The sound was grating and unwelcome, ironically reflecting the story of her life. Always the unwelcome one and the burden.
Her neck brushed against the door frame, and she flinched—just another reminder that even the walls had turned hostile.
Once, this room had been her father’s sanctuary. A place of whispered plans, maps scrawled with journeys, and old, leather-bound books that smelled of ink and time. Now, all life had drained from it, and it was nothing more than a tomb filled with familiar things she could no longer touch.
Gone were the hunting trophies and worn tartan throws draped over the chairs. The hearth, once roaring with warmth, now smoldered dimly. Her father’s great desk was a carved relic of generations past. According to family legend, it survived the Battle of Bannockburn, and yet now it stood like a corpse dressed in nothing but tatters.
But what was on the desk wasn’t nearly as important as who was behind it.
Lavina forced herself to step closer, glaring daggers at the man sitting in the leather chair. Theusurper.
Micah.
Her uncle’s pale hands rested too easily on the desk as if it belonged to him. He looked up with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. No warmth, no affection—just a slow, oily grin like a wolf eyeing a trapped doe.
“Lavina,” he said, leaning back in his leather chair, which groaned beneath his weight. “Ye came.”
She dipped into a shallow curtsy. “Ye summoned me, Uncle.”
Her eyes stayed downcast, not out of reverence, but to hide the fury burning behind them. She couldn’t let him see her defiance—not yet.
Micah’s lips curled with delight, as though tasting something sour but oddly sweet. “I have a task for ye, one I expect ye to complete without complaint.”
Lavina’s heart thundered, each beat a warning drum. Still, she stepped forward. “And what would ye have me do?” Her voice did not waver.
Micah’s eyes gleamed, a flicker of something predatory flashing in their depths. He leaned forward. “Laird Dandridge is looking for a wife,” he began, playing with the whiskers on his chin.
The devilish grin tickling his lips made her tremble with a fear she couldn’t explain.
Laird Dandridge had one foot in the grave; everyone knew that. But it was the fact that Micah was bringing it to her attention that felt like an icy finger trailing down her spine.
The air in the room grew chillier.
Lavina felt the blood drain from her fingertips. Her thoughts tangled like thorns.
“Ye want me to marry Laird Dandridge?” she whispered.
The words clung to her tongue like tar that refused to be scrubbed off.
“Ye?” Micah threw his head back as the room filled with his laughter. “Heavens, nay. Ye think there is anyone out there who would want ye? Have ye seen yerself lately? I dinnae think ye’re even presentable enough for the task I’m givin’ ye. But ye’ll do it because yer sister trusts ye, does she nae?”
“Ye want Maisie to wed Laird Dandridge?” Lavina asked, shaking her head.
The words were far too horrid to say, yet the smile her uncle tried to tame had been unleashed.
