Chapter One

31 October 1685

West of Moulin at the base of the Grampian Mountains, Scottish Highlands

“Ooooo…” Cici MacInnes whispered, her eyes round as if lusting after a honey tart. “With this fine weather, the men will be tossing off their tunics along with tossing those cabers.” She bounced up and down on her toes and hurried to keep up with Alana Campbell.

“Evelyn would tell you to behave,” Alana said but smiled over her friend’s excitement. “That we are here merely to promote the school, not to ogle the men.”

“Fortunate for us then that Evelyn is traveling with Scarlet and Nathaniel back to England right now to ready Hollings Estate for lease,” Kirstin MacGregor, Alana’s best friend, said next to her.

Martha Campbell giggled. “So we can ogle all we want.” She linked arms with Cici.

“Very well,” Alana said. “But no getting carried off, wed, or with child.” They all burst out laughing as they nodded their agreement of the pact.

Together, the small group of Highland Roses School students strode across the meadow filled with representatives from various clans, their wolfhound jogging along beside them. It was the last day of October, and Samhain would begin when the sun sank below the line of mountains. The more senior students had traveled to the annual Samhain festival at the base of Beinn Nibheis, the tallest mountain in the grand, sweeping Grampian Mountains. Men, women, and children moved about in clusters as the clans competed, their tents set up by clan to ring the meadow in a colorful display of kinship pride.

Alana, sister of Grey Campbell, the chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane, glanced across the meadow to the men who walked along the line of stout tree trunks. Some of the cabers weighed over one hundred eighty pounds and stood to twenty-two feet high. Izzy Campbell, the youngest of their group at twelve years old, jabbed her finger toward the far end of the field. Izzy was mute, an affliction that had struck her when her parents died several years ago. Alana followed the girl’s motion to see a cluster of dogs across the trampled field. “I see them,” Alana said, smiling down at the girl. “I think Robert will beat them all in the competition. Don’t you?”

Izzy nodded vigorously, her hand patting the head of the large wolfhound who stared up with bright brown eyes. Shaggy gray, strong, and possessing the most playful expression, Robert made a wonderful companion, even though he still didn’t follow commands well when he became flustered and excited. He was also huge, standing well over Alana’s head when on his back paws, which deterred villains who might not have heard that the Highland Rose students were always armed and ready for defensive attack.

Cici whistled low. “Look at him,” she said, brushing her red hair back from her pretty round face to tuck behind her ears. She jutted out her chin toward the far field. “He is a brawn fellow and so tall.” Her assessment ended with a dramatic sigh.

The group of men opened a path to allow the warrior to enter the field where three other men dropped a long, thick caber. He was broad and towering, the muscles obvious in his bare arms where dark lines formed a picture on his tan skin. He wore a kilt and a sleeveless tunic with the autumn sun covering the scene with golden warmth. Alana caught the toe of her boot in her skirt and stumbled to a pause in her stride.

With large biceps and powerful legs, the man squatted low to lift under the caber’s end. Alana’s breath stuck as he heaved the soaring tree upward, taking several power-filled steps forward to build the momentum of his toss. His shoulders bunched as he threw his strength into lifting the end of the tall caber so that it flew upward toward the blue sky. His deep yell from the effort reached across the field, sounding very much like a war cry. Alana realized that all six of them had stopped in their tracks to watch as the tall caber flew over, landing in a perfectly straight toss.

“’Tis a horse’s head painted on his arm,” Martha said, her words breathless.

Robert circled the Roses as if guarding them, his rope leash dragging untended behind him to get caught on their skirts. The warrior turned, his arms reaching overhead where he grabbed his elbows in a stretch as he strode effortlessly back to the cheering men. “Och,” Alana murmured. “Who is he?”

Kirstin tsked where she had stopped next to her. She bent her face closer to Alana, lowering her voice. “They are Sinclairs, so do not even look. All Sinclairs are tricksters, liars, and scoundrels.”

“The enemy then,” Lucy Kellington said just behind them, her sharp English accent still fresh since she’d come to Scotland only six months prior.

“Aye,” Kirstin said. “To Campbells anyway. He is likely the chief who won the lairdship when his horrible uncle died almost ten years ago. I heard his name is Shaw, Shaw Sinclair. Don’t know why they are this far south unless they are here to cause trouble.”

“Trouble?” Alana asked. There had always been whispers about the mighty Sinclairs from the north, their ancestors being godlike warriors with unnatural abilities to guide horses. But she thought that they were now virtually powerless, a penniless and landless clan. What type of trouble could they cause?

Kirstin propped her hands on her hips. “Kerrick told me that even though Campbells took their clan castle, Girnigoe, fairly to pay a debt incurred by the old laird, once he died, his nephew has been trying to steal it back ever since. There was a battle about five years ago to regain the castle, but the Sinclairs lost. You know the one at Altimarlach, Alana.”

Alana nodded, remembering her father and Donald Campbell sending troops to defend their Campbell cousin’s won castle in the northernmost edge of Scotland. Even Grey fought to defend the legally won bargain.

“Why must all the men I have to stay away from be so…enticingly brawny?” Cici asked, a prominent pout on her lips.

“Perhaps he is coming south to attack Campbells to win his clan castle back,” Martha said in a hushed voice filled with drama.

Alana had once suffered the loss of her clan’s castle when Finlarig Castle was taken by the English crown because of lies that the Campbells were plotting against the king. She rubbed her arms as the smoke from a cook fire brought back the terror-filled memories of the cruel fire, a constant nightmare she tried to block.

“Why would they attack Campbells in the south when there are plenty of them up on Sinclair land in the north to attack?” Kirstin said, wry irritation in her voice as she frowned at Martha.

“Whatever his presence here means,” Alana said, glancing first at Martha and Izzy, then sliding her gaze to fix meaningfully on Cici, “we shall stay well away from the Sinclairs while we are here.”

Hopefully they would listen to her. When they made plans to attend the festival, her brother had put Alana in charge. But then Kerrick volunteered to come. Instead of acting like their escort, he acted as if he were their leader, and the other students had started to ignore Alana’s guidance. Back at Finlarig Castle, Alana sort of…blended in, especially with such strong women like Evelyn and Scarlet Worthington in charge of the school. There was nothing special about Alana, so she’d been looking for a chance to stand out a bit more and prove herself.

She stood even straighter and cleared her throat, raising her voice over the girls’ continued chatter. “We are here to represent the Highland Roses School.” She started them walking again toward the knife-throwing area of competition. “Talk to the ladies you meet. Tell them how important it is to be able to read. Right, Izzy?” She looked at the girl, who nodded vigorously. Izzy had read an important message when an English officer abducted her last year. The knowledge she’d gained from the letter had saved their clan in the end.

Martha picked up her steps to move slightly ahead, glancing back with a determined smile. “And how every student learns to defend herself. I think that is the most important skill taught at the school.”

Alana nodded, keeping her gaze on the targets far at the end of the throwing field. “Although being able to read, especially all those books in the school library, brings us knowledge which can defend us nearly as well as a sgian dubh.”

Kirstin smiled wryly. “Evelyn would be so proud of ye,” she teased.

“Oh yes, I love the books,” Cici said. “Especially that art book.” She couldn’t contain her laughter, and Kirstin joined in before sucking her lips inward to stop. Alana shook her head but smiled. It was a festival, after all, and a perfect place to be silly.

“Tarts and fresh-squeezed apple cider,” called a woman from a tent as they passed.

Izzy jumped up and down. “I will take her,” Cici said, grabbing her hand. Since Izzy’s sister, Cat, had journeyed with the group traveling down to the Worthingtons’ English estate, they all took turns looking after the girl. Izzy had become best friends with the young English orphan, Mouse, who had returned with Cat from England last winter. But she and her friend, Michaela, had remained at the school with some other students and Mistress Jane, the new housekeeper. Slowly, but surely, the school was growing.

“Meet us at the dagger throwing then,” Alana said, and the two of them ran off, Cici just as excited as Izzy to get a tart and cider.

Alana breathed in the crisp air, glancing at the snow-topped mountain range rising behind the forest. The gorse and heather had darkened on the meadow, and trees of gold, red, and orange encircled the fair, adding to the festive atmosphere. Samhain would start at sundown with huge bonfires and people dressed in costumes to frighten away the evil spirits. Many feared that ghosts walked the world when the boundary between spirit and human worlds thinned on Samhain. Alana would set a place for both her father and mother at the meal tonight, in their memories. So much had changed in the two short years since they had been killed at a Covenanter meeting outside Stirling.

Alana scanned the contest area and couldn’t help but notice the large Sinclair warrior who had obviously won the caber toss. He frowned as he spoke with some of his men, one of them gesturing toward the tents with a jabbing finger. Something had them out of sorts.

No matter. She turned her gaze. The Sinclairs were no concern of hers or her students. She rested her palm on Robert’s shaggy back as they marched forward past the stacked wood for the bonfires to the far side of the field. The dog circled around her happily and licked her hand.

“Very well,” she said, wiping her hand on her skirt. “I love you, too.” Of all the dogs that she’d raised back at the school, Robert was the largest and the friendliest. No matter how many times the Campbell warriors asked, she wouldn’t give him up to them to train for war.

Alana stopped before a table covered with polished knives and daggers of every length and weight. She smiled at the man in charge of the competition, an older warrior who wore an impressive scar slashed across one cheek up to his eye. “We would like to enter the contest,” Alana said, her voice strong.

The handful of men standing at the table turned to look at her, but Alana ignored them, keeping her gaze centered on the one in charge. “Myself, Alana Campbell, and my two friends, Kirstin MacGregor and Martha Campbell.”

The man stared at her from under bushy gray eyebrows that curled in wild swirls. His lined mouth quirked to the side.

When he didn’t say anything, she cleared her throat. “I am the sister of Grey Campbell, the chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane. We are students and instructors at the Highland Roses School in Killin.”

No one moved, and Alana kept her strong stare despite the heavy thump of her heart. The man rubbed his chin and squinted his eye where the scar crossed it. “’Tis a competition for men. Not meant for lasses or children.” His voice was a gruff bark, but Alana imagined that he was Killin’s always-ornery blacksmith, Craig, with his lethal frown but kind heart.

She made a signal for Robert to sit, his head reaching up to her chest. She inhaled fully. “I request to see the rule book then, where it says that one must possess a jack in order to throw a dagger.”

Several of the men listening chuckled, and she heard one spit. Women were definitely the cleaner of the sexes. But she’d grown up around warriors, and she was used to their annoyances.

“’Tis not written down,” the old man said. He tapped his gray, shaggy head. “The rules are right up here, and they say no lasses compete.”

Alana heard more people gathering behind her to watch the disagreement and had to signal Robert to sit again, although his large head kept sweeping left and right to take in whoever might become an enemy. Alana kept her focus on the bad-tempered rule keeper. She wasn’t a screaming shrew nor was she strong enough to force her way into the competition. She needed a new tactic.

Her frown turned into a condescending smile, and she tipped her head. “You are afraid then? Afraid a lass might beat the mighty warriors here.” She swept her hand out to indicate the other men lined up to compete. Her breath stuttered when she saw that the Sinclair warriors had come over, including the tall caber toss winner. She let her gaze slide away to rake along the gathered men on her other side. “So, you are all afraid that a couple of lasses might beat you in the dagger toss?” She laughed lightly, playing the part that Scarlet had taught her back at the school. She looked at Martha and Kirstin. “’Tis too bad that Scotland is made up of warriors who are frightened of women.”

The men around them frowned, some of them grumbling a “bloody hell” or “damn not.” Although no one threatened them outright, the tone and tension were enough to make Robert stand, a low growl drawing up from his barrel chest. Cici and Izzy nudged through the crowd, along with Lucy, who strode with Kerrick Campbell next to her. He shouldered his way forward, and Alana held up a hand to stop him from trying to come to the rescue. Lucy frowned, stopping next to Martha, and whispered in her ear, giving her fiercest stare outward.

Alana let her gaze settle across the Highlanders who had shaken their heads at her. “’Tis no wonder the English have been known to rout—”

“Let the lass throw a knife before some undisciplined bastard cuts out her tongue.” The large Sinclair’s voice came like a deep rumble of thunder through the mountains. Restrained power and authority in each word.

He stood with his legs braced apart as if in battle, his muscled arms crossed over his chest. His beard was trimmed close to a strong jaw under a straight nose. Here and there a scar stood out against his tanned skin, and sharp black lines of a tattoo cut across his upper arm to form the head and neck of a primitive-looking horse with an expression as fierce as the man.

She raised her gaze to meet his. “The undisciplined bastard would end up in an early grave,” she said. Pride filled her as she saw the other Highland Roses students form a circle, their backs to each other as they looked outward at the gathered crowd, Robert’s growl the only sound in the stiff hush. Each Rose held a dagger in her hand and a vicious scowl on her face, even cheerful Cici.

Sinclair kept his frown, but his eyes widened the slightest amount, making him look…intrigued. With his bearded jaw, straight nose, and eyes just a shade lighter than a stormy sky, Alana was struck by his beauty as he radiated raw power and intimidation. Even the white scar at his hairline enhanced his rugged good looks. Damn. He’s a Sinclair.

She tore her gaze away to meet the squint of the old warrior in charge. She balanced her own sgian dubh in her grasp, feeling its weight like she did before throwing. “Shall we draw blood and shame from these men, or will you let these feeble lasses give it a try?”

The old man cursed low, glancing toward the Sinclair warrior. The old man’s bushy brows lifted, and Alana knew she’d won. “Wouldn’t want to taint Samhain with blood,” he said. “Liable to bring all types of demons and spirits here.” He scratched his head, making his hair stand on end. “But only two entries from each clan. ’Tis the rule for the men as well.” His gnarled hand swept along the blades. “Ye can choose one of mine or use your own, lass.”

The crowd backed up, and the ladies, Kerrick, and Robert seemed to relax. Although, Alana knew they remained alert as their self-defense instructors at the school had taught them. She looked to Robert. “Stay,” she commanded and made the signal for him to sit. With her heart still thumping, Alana stepped forward to the throwing line burnt into the dry grass. Everyone was watching her, including the bloody handsome Sinclair and his small army of rough Highlanders. Blast. She was nervous.

She took a deep inhale, focusing her gaze on the target beyond. She would throw from the side, bringing the blade point to fly forward toward the center circle on the hay bale. Just like in training where she’d practiced hundreds of times. It had become her most lethal skill.

One of the other Sinclairs next to the chief snorted. A younger man in their group leapt about like an idiot in her periphery. Was the man already drunk on whisky or trying to distract her?

“I bet a shilling she doesn’t even make it to the target,” said a Sinclair with a tattoo of a hollow-eyed skull on his forehead near his temple. Several men laughed, either at his words or his kinsman’s antics. Others yelled out that they’d take the bet.

Alana looked back down the field. Her eyes narrowed as she focused, ignoring them, but their taunts brought a flush to her cheeks. They were waiting for her to fail. The responsibility to represent not only the Highland Roses School but all of womankind was a heavy burden to carry. Anger that women had to endure such unfairness hardened her stance.

She heard Robert growl and hoped Kerrick would hold the braided rope she’d tied around the dog’s neck earlier. Kerrick was the only one in their group strong enough to keep Robert back when the huge dog became riled.

Alana took a deep breath. The Sinclair chief stepped up next to her but still gave her plenty of room to throw. She raised her arm, her focus returning to the red painted circle in the distance. In her periphery, she saw the other Sinclair jig around, his knees rising high. Men laughed and several of the Roses shushed them.

“The enemy don’t stay quiet, lasses,” the skull-tattooed man said.

“Aye, they are right bloody loud when throwing knives,” another called and more laughed.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Alana focused. All she heard was the exchange of her breath. She raised her front foot, gathering momentum to lunge forward.

“Stad!” Kerrick yelled as she whipped the knife around.

The large shaggy bulk of Robert barreled into Alana’s leg as the dog ran in a tight circle around her, his leash cutting under her skirt to wrap around her boots. The sgian dubh teetered in the air, landing with a soft whump in the grass at the base of the target. Chuckles erupted, and the fool turned a few sideways somersaults between her and the target, his arms and legs out like a scarecrow.

Alana closed her eyes for a moment before finding the courage to turn around to meet the crowd. “I lost hold of the dog,” Kerrick called over the talking and laughing men, some demanding their money for the bets they’d won. “A re-throw is in order.”

“No re-throws,” the old warrior said and pointed at Martha who had her dagger out to throw, Kirstin nodding to her to take her turn.

Robert ducked his head under Alana’s hand, lifting it as his sweet brown eyes peered up at her. Alana sighed, curling her fingers into his coarse curls, petting him as they walked away from the throw line together. “Will you retrieve my sgian dubh when you pull yours from the target?” she asked Martha.

“Ye can have my turn,” Martha said.

Alana shook her head, giving her a small smile. “Do your best.” Alana stepped through the clustered men, none of them willing to risk Robert’s bite to get too close. She forced a pleasant expression onto her tight face for several ladies standing nearby. “The Highland Roses School teaches ladies everything from reading and sewing to throwing knives and defending themselves.” Her words came out rather weak after her bumbled throw. One smiled, and one whispered to another. They moved around to the side to watch Martha throw.

Alana filled her cheeks with her inhale and exhaled long, blinking to rid her eyes of the ache of disappointment. A Highland Rose would never shed a tear for failing, but that didn’t mean she felt no sting from it.

“Ye should not have pet the beast after he knocked ye.”

Alana turned, her heart skipping into a faster pace. Shaw Sinclair stood parallel to her, his arms crossed before a broad chest as he watched the contest over the heads of the crowd. He was all muscle and strength, as if he were chiseled from tanned granite. A “Warrior in Repose” it would say under his picture in the school’s art book. Damn. He made her insides flutter and flip.

He glanced her way, those intense eyes staring directly at her. “And your friend just hit the target.”