Chapter One
Loch Moidart, Scotland, September 1619
A blade glinted from the torch-lit gloom of the dungeon.
Neacal MacDonald jerked to move aside, but rough, constricting ropes bound his wrists and ankles, tearing into his stinging flesh. He gritted his teeth and waited for the next blow from MacRankin's beefy henchman. He'd been paid well to wrench, twist and pull the truth from Neacal.
The man grabbed Neacal's hair, yanking it until pain shot through his scalp and neck. He held Neacal's head at an odd angle while another beast sliced a hot blade down the side of his face. The blinding pain consumed him.
"I'll kill you! I swear it!" Neacal roared, jerking at the ropes. If he could free himself, he would strangle every last one of them with his bare hands. But he couldn't. The ropes had been knotted too tightly.
They yelled questions and vile names, but he could no longer comprehend them. Sharp pain ripped through every inch of his body from the deep cuts, the bruises, the broken bones.
Their voices died away and, in the silence, another shadow fell across him, wavering in the torchlight, followed by the gritty crunch of boots on stone and the hiss of a steel blade against leather. He braced for the impending agony, his muscles stiffening…
Something warm, wet and friendly flicked over his face. Neacal jolted awake, out of the nightmare, gasping for breath… in his own bedchamber at Bearach Castle. Home… dear God… not a dungeon. His dog licking his face. The Irish wolfhound's bristly fur tickled, and his tongue washed Neacal's forehead.
Damnation! This was why he avoided sleep until pure exhaustion claimed him. The nightmares were too real, the memories too close. Two years was not long enough to forget; two hundred wouldn't be.
"Dunn? Saints." Exhaling a breath, Neacal looped his arm around the huge dog's neck, thanking Dunn silently for dragging him from the grip of the hellish dream-memories.
His heartbeat slowed and he crossed himself. Thank God, he was free, not back there in MacRankin's torture chamber. How he wished he could forget the past. Mayhap then he would appear halfway normal. But, nay, he was not blessed with ignorance or a faulty memory. Each night he must revisit the torture again… and again.
For now, 'twas over, and so was his slumber for the night.
The wolfhound maneuvered half his seven-foot-long body onto Neacal, washing his face again with his large tongue.
"Aye, I'm awake now, you lapdog." Neacal pushed him back, then ruffled his fur.
Dunn sat on the floor, panting.
Hell, the dog was his only close friend or family here at Bearach Castle. He had uncles, aunts and cousins, but his parents and older brother were all dead. His sister, Maili, had married and gone to live with the MacKenzie clan.
And his own clan, the MacDonalds of Moidart, expected a madman to lead them?
"They're more insane than I am," he muttered.
Dunn gave a soft woof and stared at him intently.
"Aye, I'm bloody well doing my best." He had to succeed as chief, for his father's sake. Da would want him to lead the clan and enlarge their forces, make them strong and safe again. This was the last thing—the only thing—Neacal could do for a man he'd admired above all others. Grief and regret clawed at his chest again. If Neacal hadn't been working for King James—and if he hadn't trusted a woman—his father would still be alive and Neacal would've never been tortured.
Unable to withstand the bed or the memories a second longer, he shoved himself up. Sharp pain stabbed through his left arm and shoulder. Halting, he ground his teeth. The bone had been broken during his capture and, although it had knitted back together, it still pained him. Muttering a curse, he worked his arm to loosen the muscles, then washed his face in the basin of cold water. He shoved his hair back and dried his face with a cloth.
Hell, he needed to be away from here. Aye, this had been his home from birth, but Bearach now felt like a prison. Confining. Suffocating. How he would love to savor the fresh air and expansive vistas of the Highlands and sea. His body yearned to climb a mountain… or swim across the loch. Physical exertion was the only thing that quieted his mind. Then, he could rest for a time.
After putting on his clothing and weapons, he silently opened the door.
Holding the lantern aloft, he found his bodyguard, Leith, asleep and sprawled against the wall of the corridor. Shaking his head at the guard's laxness but at the same time glad for it, Neacal closed the door softly and stepped over him. He didn't want any company at the moment.
Under the cover of the predawn darkness, he slipped out through the empty kitchens and, using his key, through the postern gate. He carried his usual weapons—sword and dirk, along with a bow and arrows. Dunn trailed him quietly down to the rough, lapping edge of Loch Moidart.
Neacal filled his lungs with the crisp, salty breeze. A hint of autumn's drying leaves and pine needles tinged the air. The cleansing freshness washed over him, loosening some of the tension from his body, quieting his mind. The tide slid its way out to sea, and the wet sand lay exposed beyond the rocky shoreline. Wanting to leave no tracks, he avoided the sand and walked several hundred feet over rocks and around a bend for privacy. He didn't need an audience when he stripped down to his skin for a swim. Dawn light glimmered at the horizon when he and Dunn waded into the cool water.
His clan would be vexed at him for slipping away with no company or guard except Dunn, but he didn't give a damn.
Prior to being inaugurated as chief a few weeks ago, Neacal had lived a solitary existence for over a year and had come to rely on no one but himself and his dog. While he'd resided on the island,Eilean Fraoch Dubh,he'd climbed the mountains of craggy stone every day. Each time he did, he grew faster until he could run up the mountain and scramble quickly over the boulders.
If some enemy wished to kill him now, let them try. He would put up a good fight.
