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Chapter One
Aindreas
Scottish Highlands
June 7, 1650
The first early morning rays of light cascaded into the room, lighting the stone floors while a gentle breeze billowed the maroon curtains inside. Aindreas groaned as the light struck him, and he rolled over before grabbing his pillow and covering his face with it. There was a light knock at his door, and he sighed while burying his face into the cushions, hoping whoever was standing outside his bedchamber door would leave at once and come back at a later hour.
“Master Aindreas,” Marcus’s deep voice called from beyond the door.
Aindreas shot up from the bed, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes while trying to urge the pounding in his head away. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had that last pint before turning in the night before, but the music had played and the bonnie lasses danced. He couldn’t have left even if he tried.
He stumbled towards the door, leaning against the wall to steady himself for a moment while reaching for his crimson tartan. The cloth was striped in the MacBean clan’s green, blue, black, and white and had been left crumpled on the stone floor next to his bed. He sighed while wrapping it tightly around himself, not caring if he was naked from the waist up. Assuredly, if the maids wanted to have a look, they could.
It wasn’t like him to keep them from being entertained.
Throwing open the door, he winced when the torch flashed in front of him and frowned at the freckled and dirt-stained face of Marcus, who seemed unusually uneasy. The soldier reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a wrinkled envelope with the Cambel’s horned boar insignia.
“This came in just now,” Marcus whispered while looking around the halls.
“Well, give it here,” said Aindreas while seizing the envelope.
He turned on his heel, not caring if Marcus joined him or not. He wrote the Cambels several weeks prior. He was beginning to give up hope they would ever answer his invitation. The door creaked closed while he ripped open the envelope, quickly unfolding the letter and inhaling its words.
To the only son of Laird Duncan MacBean, the letter began,
I find it interesting that it is you writing me and not your father, laird of Castle Lachlan, about the circumstances regarding my only daughter, Sorcha. If we were living in different times, I would have burned your letter. However, I cannot deny that your men’s fighting power would aid us in the fight against the MacAlisters, and therefore, I am interested in what an arranged marriage would do for the likes of our clans. My daughter and I will come in a fortnight to meet with your father as tradition will have it. Hopefully, we will be able to come to an agreement, but bear in mind, boy, the Cambel’s do not like to be trifled with. I would hate to travel all the way there only to have my hopes deflated.
Until we meet,
Laird of the Cambel Clan, Paul Cambel.
Aindreas’s hands shook as he reread the letter while his lips lifted into a joyful smile.
“Well?” asked Marcus. “What did he say?”
Aindreas glanced over his shoulder, a broad smile on his face while he met the anxious gaze of his soldier. “He’ll be here in a fortnight.”
Marcus’s eyes widened. “He agreed to it, then?” He frowned and stepped from side to side before grabbing his hat and twisting it with a white-knuckled grip. “I don’t know, Aindreas. Yer father-“
Aindreas scoffed. “My father can’t tell the difference between his right and his left foot at this point.”
Marcus made a face. “Aye, but he is still the laird. He will be angry when he finds out that ye went around him like this.”
Aindreas rolled his eyes and padded towards the trunk at the foot of his bed. He lifted the lid and grabbed the cleanest white shirt he could find, quickly throwing it over his shoulders and tucking the ends into his tartan. “He didn’t believe I could do it, is all,” said Aindreas while searching for his thick wool socks and shoes. “Once he finds out I was successful, he will agree to it.”
Aindreas stepped towards the vanity near the window, taking a moment to splash water onto his pallid face. He gazed back at himself, frowning at the dark circles under his cerulean eyes and the way his golden-brown hairstuck to his face. He still smelled like a pub from the night before. The pipe smoke and the ale lingered on his hair and flesh, but he didn’t have time to call for a bath.
If he played his cards right, he might catch his father before he was dragged from meeting to meeting. The village speakers kept the Laird MacBean busy from dawn to dusk, and although Aindreas was not looking forward to another fight, he knew he needed his father’s aid in at least this. If the MacBeans aligned themselves with the Cambels, then not only would the clan be safe, but Aindreas’s future would be secured.
He could become laird. He would have the power to fight against the MacAlisters. Aindreas straightened himself and pressed his hands against the wrinkles in his shirt, trying to smooth them out.
“I don’t know about this, Master Aindreas.”
Aindreas smirked at his reflection before turning his attentions back to Marcus. “That’s what ye always say, Marcus. Ever since we were young boys, sword fighting in the fields.”
Marcus winced but didn’t say anything.
