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When she had scurried from the hall, Will grabbed the poker from the fireplace. Clamping his teeth together hard, he pressed it to his bloody stumps. Through sheer force of will, he pushed down the impulse to scream at the top of his lungs as the red hot iron seared his wounds shut. His whole body was beginning to shake, but the agony kept him conscious. Now he must get out of sight of his clansmen before he weakened and screamed his pain to the heavens.
He strode from the hall past his uncle’s corpse. The impact of what he had just done hit him like a punch, but there could be no show of remorse. For the last few years of his life, it had been a case of kill or be killed. From this day forth he would have power over his own destiny, and he would demand respect, and from now on, if he wanted something in this life, he would just take it, and conscience be damned. It was worth the shame of killing his own blood just to be free of the grovelling dog he had once been, the object of his uncle’s unrelenting cruelty.
He ruled Clan Bain now, and he would rule with an iron hand for it had never got him anywhere to feel pity for the weak, or love and tenderness, loyalty and hope. Those things were for weaker men than he.
Above all, Will had learnt a valuable lesson. Women, and what they made a man feel, were a hundred times more dangerous than men, and were never, ever to be trusted again.
Chapter One
Beharra Castle
Glencoe - 1319
Morna ran along the river bank, away from Beharra Castle, with her face burning. It was done now, he had said the words and could not take them back. She cursed herself for a fool. News of his arrival had stirred excitement in her breast. She had rushed and put on her best dress before going out to greet him because Owen Sutherland coming to Beharra could only mean one thing. So why this turmoil when he had blurted out his feelings? These last weeks she had wanted him to do it and yet dreaded it, in equal measure.
Owen Sutherland wanted her to be his bride, to share his bed and raise his children. A whole new life would start if she said yes, but her freedom would end.
Handsome, rich, Owen Sutherland would wed her. On such little acquaintance, as they had, this man had offered his hand and his love. After he’d rushed the words out, with his face reddening and longing in his eyes, Owen had taken hold of her and kissed her, before she’d even had a chance to say yes or no. Morna had granted him such liberties several times before. It was indecent of her to do it, but what a sweet feeling it was to be in Owen’s arms, a flutter of fear mingled with excitement, the warm slide of his lips on hers. She knew she had power over him, for she’d felt his need, hard against her belly. Morna had felt that need too, that desire to join with him, but he had no power over her. Owen could ride away from Beharra, and she would miss his handsome face and good cheer for a time and then…nothing. Why was that? Was she a cold bitch who could banish love and desire with one snap of her fingers? Did she like him just because she ought to?
Rounding a bend in the river, she saw Ramsay Seward sitting on the bank with his head in his hands, his horse cropping the grass beside him. She tried to back away, but the crack of her foot on a twig gave her away. He rose to his feet with a strange look on his face. It was almost desolate.
‘Do you ail?’ she asked, though she doubted it. This man, her brother Cormac’s right hand, had the strength of ten oxen. His lean and sallow look was deceptive, for he was as tough and harsh as the wind-scoured moorland surrounding Beharra.
He sighed and looked down at his feet. ‘So, by the look on your face, he’s asked you then, the honourable Owen Sutherland?’
‘Yes. Did he say something to you?’
Ramsay’s voice was bitter as he snarled, ‘Why would the Sutherland wretch seek the opinion of a lowly servant? He scarce knows I exist, and yet he would be the ruin of my heart.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Morna.
‘Ah, ‘tis nothing, just the hopeless complaint of a fool.’ Ramsay bent to kick the dirt at his feet and then he looked up at her through dark hair falling over his eyes. ‘Will you take him, will you wed him and be gone from Beharra forever?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it to you.’
‘Better me than Cormac or Ravenna, for they will plead Owen’s cause, while I will tell you the truth, no matter how it hurts you to hear it.’
Morna hesitated. She had grown up with Ramsay, trusted him all her life, though he had little time for foolish women. She suspected he took his pleasure away from Beharra and more so lately, as he often rode out for days at a time on his own. Ravenna, her brother Cormac’s wife, ventured that Ramsay had a lover hidden away somewhere and they had laughed at the notion. One thing she did know, he would give his opinion honestly.
‘Ramsay, Owen said that he fought with the heart of a lion at the siege of Berwick, that he only survived the carnage by holding thoughts of me in his heart. He says he is mad in love with me.’
‘Pretty words, easily said,’ spat Ramsay. ‘Is your head to be turned by such nonsense?’
‘Owen is a good and honourable man from a fine family. I trust in his regard for me.’
‘He is nought but a spoilt milksop.’
‘That is unfair, and it is harsh.’
‘So, if you defend him, you must love him then?’
‘I am fond of him, yes. I want him even, and yet he does not really know me, all my faults. Owen does not see my boredom being stuck here at Beharra or my indifference to the future laid out before me. I am to marry well and lead a dull life producing heirs for a future Laird. That is my fate, and it is as though it were carved in stone. Owen does not see me properly because all I have done is flatter him and make myself pleasing, to gain his admiration. I am a selfish creature, feeding on that admiration like a spider sucks at a fly. I even put on my best dress so that I would look nice when he came. I don’t know what to do. What a torture it is to be so torn.’
‘You regard another’s love for you as torture? How young you are, girl. One day you will come to know the true meaning of pain,’ he said, with a break in his voice.
Morna looked down at her pretty, red dress embroidered with gold thread at the edge of the cuffs and neck. Shame reddened her face as Ramsay continued.
‘Owen does not see your independent spirit and, when he does, he will seek to curb it. Wed him, and he will put you in chains, Morna.’ Ramsay’s voice sounded strange, softer than usual.
