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“That sounds ominous,” Rogene said.

He frowned. “Dinna matter how it sounds.” He looked at the contract. “Did ye finish here?”

With a pinch of regret, she rolled the vellum and handed it to him. As she did, their fingers touched briefly, and their eyes met. She held her breath, unable to move, chained to the captivity in his eyes.

“Do you love her?” she asked, surprising herself.

He frowned briefly. “Nae.”

She didn’t think a single syllable could make anyone happier than it made her. He took the parchment from her and put it into the chest. When he closed it and straightened, his eyes were sad. “But it doesna matter. My life has always been about duty to this clan. And it always will be.”

He swallowed and looked her over with such longing that her cheeks burned.

“My own desires will never matter. Because clan comes first.”

Chapter 8

The next day…

Rogene dipped the quill into the jar of ink. As she brought it over the parchment to start writing, a drop fell from the tip of her reed pen and a giant black blot spread on the surface. No!

“…aye, and I want the islands to be included in yer clan’s payment,” Euphemia said.

“Damn it,” Rogene muttered under her breath.

Laomann was staring at Euphemia helplessly, Angus was pacing the room, holding his elbows as though he was restricting himself from lunging at Euphemia and strangling her, and the Earl of Ross was rubbing the tip of his chin with an amused half smile.

Laomann’s lord’s hall was cold despite the bright morning sunlight that fell from the slit window. They had just eaten a breakfast of oatmeal and had been here for maybe ten minutes.

And already, they were at each other’s throats.

Euphemia glanced sharply at Rogene. “What are ye doing?” she asked.

“Uhm.” Rogene looked around. “What do I wipe this with?”

Euphemia narrowed her eyes, jumped up from the chair, and marched towards her. “Have ye never written a text before?” she demanded. She opened a small chest standing by the base of the reclining table, retrieved a linen cloth, a penknife, and something like a wooden ruler. She crossed her arms and scowled at Rogene.

“Here ye go, Lady Rogene. Have forgotten how to use the writing tools? Or have ye been lying to us and ye actually canna write?”

Rogene bit the inside of her cheek and took the cloth. “Thanks,” she said and straightened her back. Forgotten? She’d been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen, sitting on her mother’s lap. “I will write your contract, don’t you worry.”

She returned the woman’s angry stare. How could she have thought yesterday that Euphemia was a feminist? That she was standing up for women’s rights centuries earlier than what had been recorded? If this were high school, Euphemia would have been one of the mean girls, and Rogene refused to be bullied.

Euphemia scoffed and returned to her chair. Rogene wiped the blot, took the penknife, and scraped the dark spot away. It worked almost like an elastic eraser, except the pen took out a layer of the parchment completely and left a creamy white surface again. It was a bit rougher than the untouched rest, but Rogene was sure it would work just the same.

Great job ruining a historic document before she’d even started on it. She glanced at Angus, feeling her cheeks redden, and saw him hiding a smile.

Now what? She looked at the ruler and remembered that in medieval books, there were often lines. Monks drew thin lines before starting writing. That was what she did, using the ruler and the penknife.

Euphemia sighed with exasperation and returned her attention to Angus. “The islands are to be included in yer clan’s payment,” she repeated.

Then, just like in the contract between Angus’s father and mother, Rogene wrote the date and the place and the parties involved. She tried her best to imitate the calligraphy, but her words were blotchy and uneven and…well…horrible.

But, thankfully, while she was doing her best at imitating the writing style of the fourteenth century, the negotiators were too busy arguing and didn’t pay any attention to her.

“Over my dead body!” Angus boomed. “Those islands belong to me and to Mackenzie clan. They are where ye and I are supposed to live, Lady Euphemia.”

“And we shall live there, if ye wish, my lord. And, therefore, they will remain in the family.”