Chapter One
Scottish Highlands
Spring, 1394
Moira Hart rolledher eyes as she descended the stairs that would take her deep into the bowels of Hartsmoor Castle. She’d left her two older brothers arguing over the last currant tart available from Una’s most recent batch. There was no doubt their cook’s tarts were indeed worth fighting over, but Moira had heard and seen enough when the two dolts looked like they were going to break into fisticuffs over who would get to partake in the remaining sweet.
If they’d use their too stubborn heads for a moment, they’d realize cutting the tart in half would allow them to each enjoy the treat. But, alas, that was too much to ask of them, so she left them to battle it out in the way they always did.
She paused on the steps, took a deep breath of the somewhat stagnant air, and listened.
There was not a sound to be heard down here, and she reveled in the quietness. These times of solitude were her favorite and she enjoyed them immensely. She adored her family, but sometimes her parents and her four siblings could be a wee bit overwhelming. Continuing her descent, she reached the bottom and turned left, entering the narrow tunnel that would lead her even deeper underground and to the place she loved to spend all her time—the Hart clan archives.
Late last year, Moira’s father, Arthur Hart, laird of the northern Hart clan, had tasked her with putting the family annals in order. The room had long been neglected. Tomes, scrolls, ledgers, and parchments were stacked haphazardly all around the enclosed space. Overflowing shelves bowed under the weight of the artifacts they held. So much so, that Moira feared they would break in two and collapse if she didn’t provide order soon. Luckily, the stone-walled room was dry and safe from outside elements, so other than piles of dust, all of the items remained intact and undamaged.
The written history dated back hundreds of years—back when the Harts came to Scotland from Ireland—and she felt like it would take her that long to put the room in order.
Hands on her hips, Moira looked around, turning in a slow circle, trying to assess the best way to tackle the monumental task.
She had no complaints, though. Fascinated by history, putting order to all of her family’s most important artifacts was a deed she took seriously. Her brothers and sisters just shook their heads, not understanding her interest in ‘old, boring parchments’.
Their reactions didn’t sway her in any way. She couldn’t wait to dive in and learn all the big and little details that made the Harts the strong clan that they were today.
Nestled in the highlands, they were a small, but mighty clan. Not the smallest, but certainly not the largest. Her father led their people with confidence, keeping the peace with neighboring clans as best he could—with the exception of the MacLeod.
It seemed that no matter what they tried, or what truces the Harts offered, the MacLeods were determined to continue the unrest betwixt them. At times, they had enjoyed small stretches of peace, but there was always something that would happen to end the fragile agreements.
Moira could remember a time when her older brothers, Alpin and Rory, had enjoyed good friendships with the MacLeod sons. Ofttimes,they would traipse through the woods together, hunt together, even sword practice together. But, for whatever reason, that ceased years ago. Now she only saw Errol, one of the MacLeod sons, from a distance when he would visit with his father during tenuous meetings, where more growling than talking was done. And where Alpin and Rory would only exchange scowls with Errol, fists balled at their sides. When the meeting would end, with naught being solved, both leaders would part gruffly, and things would continue the same way as they had been.
Errol, firstborn son of the MacLeod clan, was tall, the same height as her brother Rory, but while Rory was lean and lithe, Errol was bulging with muscles. Massively broad shoulders gave him a wide expanse and his arms were big as logs. He was built much like her brother Alpin.
And he was handsome. Though she would never admit that. Not aloud anyway.
She could only shake her head. Men made things overly difficult. How hard was it to talk to one another?
A chill hung in the air and the torch that Moira had carried down with her and placed in the sconce didn’t help to warm the space. For not the first time since she’d started coming down here, she wished there was a fireplace in this room. It made sense that there wasn’t. The absence of flame eliminated the possibility that the contents of the room would be lost to fire.
Such an event would be devastating. All this history lost. To ensure that prevention, she would happily suffer the cool air. That’s what her heavy cloak was for. Pulling the strings at her neck tighter, Moira tied them into a bow and got to work.
Quite some time had passed when footsteps sounded in the tunnel outside of the room. Moments later, her younger sister, Eilidh, poked her head inside, scrunching her nose in disgust as she looked around the room.
“Of course, ye are here,” she announced, twirling her long hair around her slim fingers. “Mama was looking for ye.”
Moira straightened, her arms filled with stacks of parchments. “Why?”
“I didnae ask.” Eilidh shrugged. “Though why she thought ye would be anywhere else but here, I dinnae ken.”
“Weel, it cannae have been verra important if she didnae tell ye what she needs me for.” She looked around the room and set the stack of papers on a large table one of the guards had dragged in from the storage room next door at her request. “I’m almost done here for the day.” She rubbed her hands together to get some warmth back into her fingertips.
Eilidh shuddered from the cold. “How ye can spend yer days down here baffles me.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “’Tis no’ only cold, but creepy,” she said as she looked around the room.
Moira laughed. “Nonsense. Go back upstairs and tell mama that I will be there shortly. I just have a few more things I want to set to order first.”
Alone once again, she finished clearing off the shelf stack that was against one of the walls. Her plan was to move it to the opposite side of the room because the table would fit better in this space. When it was empty, she attempted to pull the shelving away from the wall. Grunting with exertion, she tugged harder. The piece was heavy. Much heavier than she originally thought it would be.
She managed to get it away from the wall a wee smidge, with just enough space for her to wiggle her fingers into. That gave her a slight advantage and allowed her to maneuver it a little further away from the wall.
Perspiration pooled at the small of her back. The room may be chilly, but just the amount of energy it was taking to move the shelving was a lot. If she wasn’t so stubborn, she would have gone upstairs and asked for the help of one of her brothers. Or a guard. Butshe didn’t want to run into her mother since she was already looking for Moira and more than likely she would forbid her from returning here this eve.
