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Chapter 1
Audentes Fortuna Iuvat
Fortune Favors the Bold
Alexander MacKinnon, Laird of Clan Gallagher, was not the type to delegate responsibility. Despite the vastness of his clan, he had in-depth knowledge of almost all the weddings, births, and business contracts created within his borders.
He knew the variety of herbs in each healer’s shipment, the volume of ale in every tavern barrel. He could accurately recount the collection of livestock on every farm.
Every farm except one.
Alexander frowned at this thought, the discomfort causing a crease between his thick dark eyebrows. It was the only wrinkle anywhere on his person.
Unlike many other Lairds, Alexander placed prime importance on his appearance. It was not vanity, but rather a wish—a need—for his outward appearance to reflect the strict control he practiced within.
Someone was knocking at his door, but he was not yet ready. “A moment,” Alexander called as he brushed a tiny crease from his pristine white shirt. “I am nearly ready.”
“Aye, Me Laird. Sorry to interrupt, Me Laird,” a maid’s timid voice said. “It’s only tha’ Mr. Cunningham asked me to come to fetch ye.”
Alexander sighed, reaching for the embossed golden pin that he always wore on his shirt, attaching it to his breast. “Tell Thomeas I’ll be there directly.”
The maid did not reply, but he heard her footsteps as she hurried away down the corridor, eager to do his bidding quickly and accurately.
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Ye’re too harsh, Alexander. Ye scared the poor woman again.
His brow creased again, and then he shook his head. No time for sentiment now. He could not worry about hurt feelings while he had a day’s duty ahead of him.
An’ ye ken they’re whisperin’ about ye regardless. It’s been that way for a decade past.
Alexander glanced at himself at the looking glass on the way past. He knew he cut an imposing figure, which no doubt added to the intimidating aura that seemed to follow him around. He was taller than most men, more than six and a half feet in height, with piercing blue eyes he’d heard the clansmen compare to ice.
He raised his hand, brushing an errant dark hair behind his ear in line with the rest of his uniformly short, impeccable hairstyle, and straightened the pin on his shirt.
“Audentes Fortuna Iuvat,” he muttered. “Fortune favors the bold.”
They were the words of his father and his ancestors before him. Most clans who bothered with a motto used their native Scots Gaelic, but Alexander’s great-great-great-grandfather, for whom he was named, had been a strange Laird. He was a scholar rather than a warrior. He was a man who dedicated his life to the pursuit of knowledge and its benefit to the Scottish people.
An’ bold we’ve been since. At least, I’m tryin’ me best.
The pin should not be his yet. His father should still be bearing it. His father, Declan, should still be leading the clan. Alexander remembered the irony of the day he’d received the pin. He’d coveted the shining status symbol his whole life, always asking his father when it would be his turn to wear it.
He’d been six-and-ten when his wish came to pass in the most horrific way possible, and he’d lived with the regret and not a little guilt ever since.
