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Prologue
September 1692
“Ye have heard that it hath been said,
An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.” - Matthew 5:38
“Will ye sign the treaty?” With practiced patience, Conner Russel, the Laird of Clan Ó Riagáin, held the hateful glare of Niel Webster, the aging Laird of Clan McKoy.
It had taken him five long, bloody years to get the rival clan to meet with him and now that the man was there, the peace treaty he had long proposed seemed doomed to be thrown into the ocean, or set ablaze.
A ravenous suspicion flashed through McKoy’s steely glare as his eyes shifted to the parchment. “Ye want me to think this is a peace treaty. But I ken what it really is, nothin’ more than a shame and trick. I’ll nae be putting my mark on that, when ye and I both ken ye thirst for the blood of my people.”
Conner refrained from letting out an aggravated growl. Biting his tongue, Conner held his temper and the urge to lash out at the old suspicious fool. Why would he ever propose peace, if his intention was to keep this war going? War was costly and with this one raging for nearly half a century, Conner was willing to finally let it go, once and for all.
“Had my faither ever proposed peace with ye?” Conner asked calmly—but if anyone listened closely they would hear the brittle edge to it.
“Nay.”
“Has me grandfaither asked for peace?” Conner pressed.
McKoy’s face pinched. “Nay.”
Facing him, he asked, “Has me great-grandfaither asked for peace?”
“Nay.”
Sitting forward, Conner pinned him with his piercing blue eyes, “Then if this has never happened before and I ask for this, why would I be trickin’ ye into this?”
McKoy’s jaw worked, and Conner could see that his mind was spinning, trying—and most likely failing—to find a reason why Conner would be tricking him. After a long moment, Conner reached for the treaty, took his ring, sunk it into the ink and pressed it on the paper. If the man needed to see that he was serious in making peace between the two clans, there was nothing more persuasive than this.
It felt as if a hundred years had passed while McKoy gave him a suspicious eye, but then the man reached for the signet ring and added his beside Conner’s.
“There,” he spat letting his ring fall to the side. “Do nae prove me right, Ó Riagáin.”
“I give ye my word,” Conner said while reaching for the treaty, “Nae one of mine will assault any of yers.” Conner’s eyes briefly scanned the document, checking to see if the ink had dried before rolling it up. “Please, stay for a meal and drink. I’ll fetch one of me kitchen girls to brin’ it up.”
Walking out of the room, Conner knew the older man understood his words were only formality—he had no illusion that McKoy would hasten to his house faster than if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. He felt pressed to see his mother and sister, to whom he had promised that he was going to make peace between the clans, and now, they needed to know he had finally done it.
Taking the staircase two at a time, he hurried to his mother parlor, where she and Sadie would chat or sew in the mornings, and came to the door. The door was ajar, and Conner frowned. Not once had he ever seen it that way. Toeing the door open with his boot, he stepped in, his mother’s name on his lips—when his blood ran cold.
Everything in the room was turned upside down, the table was on its side and its leg was smashed into smithereens while the delicate English porcelain cups he prized were shards on the floor. An iron poker from the grate was smeared with blood and he spotted the headdress Sadie always wore now crumpled on the floor. It was muddied, as if the attacker had stomped his boot on it. Conner did not need to see anymore.
He spun and darted out of the room, yelling for guards to come. When two liveried soldiers came rushing to him, he ordered, “Lock the gate now! Me maither and sister are gone! No one must go out of the gates and ye must chase down anyone that has! Do it now! Get others to search the castle and the woods! Find them!”
While rushing to his room to get his sword and dirk, he battled with the feeling that he might be too late. A hole began to carve itself in the pit of his heart, but he could not spare the time to contemplate such matters. Only one thought plagued his mind as he rushed through the corridors — he had to find his family.
Strapping on the broadsword, and sliding the dirk into its sheath, he stuck two daggers into his boots and ran out, finding six men there, while others were on horseback and about to run out the gate. Conner felt torn, feeling that he should join the horsemen but feeling it was better for him to stay and search with his men.
“Search the roads and back roads,” he ordered the men. “Stop any and all carriage, caravan, or wagon and search it. Leave no stone unturned, no trunk unopened.”
As his men moved out, he took the castle, searching from top to bottom, scouring every room, crook, and cranny until fruitless hours later, he braced his hand alongside a window in the highest room in the castle. Slowly, he sunk to his knees with the weight of knowing his mother and sister were gone.
But how…
How could it happen?
Staring at the worn stones under his knees, he could only think of one thing—Laird McKoy. His attention had been diverted enough so the man could have used his men to take his mother and sister. But again—why? He had come to make peace, so why give Conner a cause to start another bloody war?
