Chapter One

Aberdeenshire, Scotland, June 1597

Tansy Bellrose Gant gasped and struggled as the thin leather twine closed around the tender skin at her wrists. Her captors pulled the bond cruelly tight and dragged her roughly toward the post that stood at the middle of the crossroads. A wave of helplessness swamped her. Tansy did not appreciate feeling helpless, and her emotions further escalated on a wave of disbelief. Those who wrestled her into submission were not strangers but her neighbors, the good men of Slurt—the town where she’d been born and raised.

It occurred to her, like a sun bursting in her brain, she may have overstepped herself this time. Quite possibly she’d gone just a wee bit too far in her bid to shame that hag Ranna Farquharson, and so abandoned the bounds of caution…or wisdom. The demon that all too often took up residence in her heart—not the Devil himself, surely, but rather the imp known as mischief—had got the better of her again.

Did it not always?

Ever since she’d been a small lass, as far back as she could remember, she’d had a tendency to get herself into trouble on a regular basis. She’d been making up wild stories since almost before she could speak, talking about companions no one else could see, playing tricks on folk for the sheer pleasure of watching them sweat and squirm.

And wanting things she could not—or should not—have. That, most of all.

Her stepmother, Bessie, who’d raised her after her own mother ran away, despaired of her right early. Not that Bessie had ever been anything but kind. A bright image of her homely face flashed into Tansy’s mind even as her neighbors slammed her up against the post and true fear touched her for the first time.

What would Bessie say when she found out Tansy had been handed over by the people of Slurt to the Royal Commission, for trial as a witch? For that was what these neighbors threatened to do. Poor Bessie would likely weep and despair all over again. For even here in Slurt they’d heard of the fervor for persecution that seized most of Scotland in this, the year of 1597. Folk sent away to the Commission for questioning and trial seldom returned. And there had been lurid accounts of just what went on during questioning—enough to force Tansy’s stomach to turn in a slow roll.

Defying the fear, she bared her teeth and threw back her head, testing the strength of her bonds and the men who held her.

“I am no witch! Willie MacTay, you have known me all your life.”

“Aye.” Willie rolled his eyes like a terrified pony. “And I ken fine you get up to some damn strange things, Tansy Bellrose. Milk curdles when you walk past. Roosters fall silent. Those you look on with those queerly colored eyes o’ yours take ill.”

“Careful she does no’ hex you now,” cautioned his companion and cohort, Rafe Leslie. Those two, along with Rafe’s brother, Ronnie, had wrangled Tansy out of the village market—where, admittedly, she’d gone to make some trouble for that shrew Ranna—and here to the crossroads and the stone post to which she now stood affixed.

This was all Ranna’s fault. Or nay—’twas the fault of that young buck Ossian Bain, for being so handsome. Tansy should have just let Ranna have him.

“Queerly colored eyes?” she repeated on a wave of combined alarm and offended pride. “Ye did no’ fear them last year, Rafe Leslie, when you asked me to walk out wi’ you.”

Could that be what all this was about? Most of the young men of Slurt—admittedly not plentiful in number—had asked Tansy to step out with them at one time or another. She’d soundly spurned them all.

“Do not let her look at you, laddie,” cautioned Willie again, in a hoarse growl. “She’ll magic you sure and make you let her go.”

Fine chance of it, thought Tansy, her heart beating so hard she found it difficult to breathe. For down the road from the village came half the population of the clachan, neighbors and—aye—some members of Tansy’s family, abandoning the market to come see what transpired. Slurt being so small, it might empty all its contents and yet not fill the place where these two roads met.

Tansy prickled all over with the humiliation of it. She did not want everyone to see her thus—tied up like a sow, caught fine and in the hands of Willie, who hadn’t washed himself in three years and was not likely to soon.

Here came her father, a tall man, his hair—as she suddenly saw—gone gray, looking as worried as Tansy had ever seen him. Along behind, puffing with the effort to keep up, came Bessie, her brown hair escaping its cap, her face contorted by distress. Bessie must have abandoned her stall, and she only did that under the most extreme circumstances.

Tansy’s guts clenched hard. Extreme, indeed.

Ah, and here came Ranna Farquharson, striving to look demure and as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but with a flush of victory in her cheeks and a gleam in her blue eyes.

So Ranna thought to get rid of Tansy thus, did she? And have Ossian for her own.

Tansy fixed her eyes on Ranna and narrowed them. It might have been unwise for her to provoke Ranna this morning. But how was she to know something as ugly as a witch hunt could ensue here in this peaceful fold of the Scottish countryside?

Tansy intensified her stare, and Ranna tripped over a nonexistent stone. Despite her alarm, Tansy flushed with satisfaction.

“What goes on here?” called Tansy’s father, even before he reached them. “Willie MacTay, take your hands from my daughter.”

“I will not,” Willie called back, and Tansy heard the fear in his voice. Fear of her, Tansy, or her father? Could well be either, Drachan Gant being a powerfully built man who’d worked hard on his croft all his life.

But Willie turned to face him, the other young men who’d captured Tansy moving up to stand with him shoulder to shoulder.

Drachan, his face as white as Bessie’s was red, marched up to them and immediately tried to reach for Tansy. A struggle ensued, mostly pushing and shoving, with a few blows cast, during which Tansy found herself pushed hard against the stone post. For an instant she could not get her breath, and her head reeled till the pressure eased. The young men of the village had closed ranks around her.

“Do no’ let him get to her!” Ronnie Leslie cried.

“Hold!”

The cry contained authority and froze everyone where he or she stood. Stephen Farquharson, being the mill owner, fancied himself headman of the clachan, and no one had ever disputed that claim. Father to the lovely Ranna, he answered only to the local laird.

Tansy frowned. If they hauled her off to face the laird—a sanctimonious old stoat—she could not expect to fare well. Of course, ’twould be better than being turned over to the Royal Commission or to the King himself, who seemed to have a real bug up his bum when it came to the subject of witches.

Now Stephen—wide of girth as befitted his wealth—caught up with his daughter, Ranna, who after one victorious look at Tansy kept her eyes cast to the ground.

Tansy’s father whirled and faced off against the miller. “What is this, Stephen?” Drachan cried. “Tell them to let my daughter go.”

“I cannot.” Stephen Farquharson spoke sorrowfully and shook his head. “She has been accused of witchcraft.”

A small cry escaped Bessie who, like Farquharson, had caught up. She now stepped to Tansy’s side and laid a hand on her shoulder.

A brave act, as Tansy knew. Those who openly associated with accused witches often stood trial alongside them.

“No,” Bessie said—only that, but it made her husband look at her and caused Tansy to catch back a groan.

Ah, and she had been a sore trial to them all this while—the wild daughter of a runaway hoyden, at such variance with their own children who came later. She might just as well have been a magpie in Bessie’s nest.

Tears filled her eyes. Curse it all! She seldom wept for any reason and hated that she’d been pushed to it now. But fear seemed to have a terrible grip on her, and the scene blurred before her eyes.

As did her father’s face when he stepped up toe to toe with Stephen Farquharson.

“You know us for a godly family, Stephen,” Drachan asserted. “Braw members of the kirk. ’Tis madness, this accusation.”

“’Tis madness, all of it!” Bessie declared. “What has been happening in Edinburgh and farther north—I canna’ believe you would condone that here, Master Farquharson!”

Stephen bent a hard look on Bessie, and her fingers dug painfully into Tansy’s shoulder.

“Mistress, this ‘madness’ as you call it has infested our nation for a reason. The King hi’sel’ has taken up the cause of scourging evil frae the land. Can we here in Slurt do any less?”

“But Tansy…” Bessie protested.

Farquharson switched his gaze back to Tansy’s father. “Drachan, I say nothing against your family. But you maun admit, strange things have aye happened with Tansy by. What of Nallan’s goat?”

“What of it?” Drachan demanded. “’Twas just a goat.”

“One that would nae stay at home for following your daughter around, high and low, day and night. And then it had a two-headed kid. There are other evils as well. You ken fine the mill wheel always wobbles when she walks by. Magpies gather on the roof of your house. If someone speaks amiss to her, their stock sickens. And only this day she did speak a curse to my daughter, Ranna, at the market.” He gestured wildly to Ranna. “Here, lass, and tell.”

Tansy’s heart fell violently, though she hadn’t thought it could sink lower. Aye, Ranna would tell right enough—she must be falling over herself to make the accusation.

Ranna stepped forward as bidden, the look of false innocence still pasted to her face. Eyes downcast, she took the place beside her father and spoke in a near whisper.

“I do not like to say, Father. I dare not repeat such words.”

Nay, she would make them drag it from her and be all the more convincing.

At that moment, another individual came pushing through the crowd, which now truly did contain nearly all the residents of the clachan. Tall and robust, his fair head topped most of the others, and his broad shoulders cleared the way. Ossian Bain must have come straight from his father’s stall at the market. Aye, here came the elder Master Bain hurrying behind him.

Tansy’s heart beat double time beneath her breast. Would Ossian speak up for her? Would he declare himself at last?

To be sure, he’d been paying Tansy attention for years, since the both of them grew old enough to understand just what men and women got up to together. There had never been anyone for Tansy but the tall, blue-eyed lad with the handsome face and sunny nature. But Ranna had always been in the way, with her sly looks and her tempting dowry. Tansy and Ossian had shared far more than kisses, for Ossian—though a decent lad—had long since succumbed to Tansy’s persuasions. She’d been certain her favors, combined with a few whispered charms, must make him offer marriage, in the end.

Now, held in the hard grip of neighbors-turned-enemies, she wondered if the moment had come, if this dangerous horror might make Ossian speak the words for which she’d waited so long. If he did speak up, declared for her, would that be enough to provide her protection?

She fixed her gaze on him and, with all her being, willed him to speak. Everyone else stared at him also. The noisy crowd grew so silent Tansy heard a magpie cry far off in the distance.

Speak, she ordered Ossian silently, calling up all the conviction inside her.

Ossian’s lips parted in his flushed face. His gaze slid over Stephen Farquharson, Ranna, and the men holding Tansy before his blue eyes met with Tansy’s to the exclusion of all else.

Despite her dire situation, Tansy’s heart rose.

Give me my heart’s desire…

“What goes on here?” Ossian asked. “Wha’ has Tansy Bellrose done now?”