Chapter One

Northern Scotland, Near Durness

July 1809

The first tingle of fear raced up Simon MacKay’s spine as he found himself alone in the pitch dark—kneeling on rough, wet granite. Waves thundered and crashed around him in the gloom. He must be in one of the sea caves on his estate. A blast of salty, cold air struck him, clearing his muddled, throbbing head to frightening awareness. He staggered clumsily to his feet, pain shooting through his arms and shoulders. He couldn’t move his hands.

“Nay!” His shout echoed in the darkness. He was bound to the cave’s wall. He struggled, arms stretched tautly behind him, his muscles strained against the ropes tying his wrists. Ignoring the bite of the coarse fibers and the pain of his tortured joints, panic set in. He had to get free. He had to get out. His family was in danger.

A wave slammed in close, spraying water onto his face. Sweat mingled with salt water as he thrashed. The metal mooring ring trapping him clanked against the limestone rock, as his heart raced with equal parts dread and exertion. Clasped hands turned sticky with blood from the rough bindings biting into his flesh. Simon ignored this too.

Ice water drenched him as the next wave crashed against the wall. The chill soaking froze him in place. The tide was coming in, and the cave was rapidly filling. He hung his head and water dripped from his long hair to streak down his face, mimicking the tears he couldn’t shed. His body started to shake as shock and disbelief speared his mind. If he didn’t free himself, he’d drown and his family would be left unprotected.

“I canna die like this. I won’t!”

He lifted his head and peered into the shadows. Another wave hit him waist high before he felt the dragging pull of the ocean’s retreat. He could now hear lapping water.

I will die here, his traitorous thoughts declared, and for what?

A choked laugh escaped Simon, and he shook his head. “Never!” He strained once more against his bonds, but they held fast. Whoever tied the knots had done it well.

How had he gotten here? His last recollection before waking in the cave was leaving the manor and walking to the stable. He entered, but then it all blurred together. His throbbing head held the missing clue. He’d been struck. There had been no warning, no telltale movement.

The next wave hit him chest high, slamming him against the wall, crushing his arms behind him. This time however, as the wave retreated, frigid water remained clawing at his ankles.

Simon prayed the high water mark wasn’t above his head. With no light, he couldn’t tell. In his soul though, he knew. He was meant to die, and at the rate the tide continued to rush in, his fate would soon be sealed.

“Damn you to hell, you bloody devil!” His cry was lost in the booming darkness. He should have known better, should have anticipated. There had been threats. He ignored them all. More fool he. Now he would pay the ultimate price.

He shook with rage as the icy water swirled about his waist. Numb to his physical discomfort, his inner turmoil was dagger sharp. Who had done this to him?

The thoughts of his tormentor fled from his mind when an incoming wave crashed above his head, submerging him. He instinctively held his breath until the arctic wash drained away to chest level. He braced and waited in the darkness for the wave set to finish. He knew the sea’s rhythm, it was in his family’s blood.

Three. Four. Five. The last wave pulled him from the wall, stretching his arms painfully behind him. He floated back and his feet found ground. The sea now reached his neck.

Regrets flooded him. Who would care for his family? He would be leaving behind a little sister and a sick mother. Sadly, the sea had already claimed his father, and now she would have the son. Were the men in his family cursed? Simon would disappear, and the MacKay name would die with him. Would the sick bastard who killed him now go after little Jean or his Ma? Who would stop him?

A sob escaped his throat, and he ruthlessly bit his lip. He would not die a sniveling coward.

The water lapped his chin and reached higher to caress his mouth.

The bastard would pay. Though he knew not who his murderer be, Simon saved his last thoughts to curse his enemy.

The water closed over his head, submerging him into a liquid world. He held his breath, willing the water to retreat, but the sea would not be cheated.

His lungs burned, tears squeezed from his closed eyes, and mingled unseen in his watery prison. He bit his lips, drawing blood in his effort not to breathe, but his body betrayed him.

Purely reflexive, his mouth gasped open sucking in air for his oxygen-starved lungs. All they received was the cold water of the north Atlantic.

On the second inhalation, his body started to convulse when the ocean filled his lungs.

On the third, Simon MacKay drowned.