MARIOTE

BOOK ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS OF MOIRRA DUNDOTTER

SERIES
SUZAN TISDALE

TARGE & THISTLE, INC

 CONTENTS

Also by Suzan Tisdale

Introduction
Love
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Epilogue
About the Author
 ALSO BY SUZAN TISDALE

The Clan MacDougall Series

Laiden’s Daughter
Findley’s Lass
Wee William’s Woman
McKenna’s Honor

The Clan Graham Series

Rowan’s Lady
Frederick’s Queen

The Mackintoshes and McLarens Series

Ian’s Rose
The Bowie Bride
Rodrick the Bold
Brogan’s Promise

The Clan McDunnah Series

A Murmur of Providence
A Whisper of Fate
A Breath of Promise

Moirra’s Heart Series

Stealing Moirra’s Heart
Saving Moirra’s Heart

Stand Alone Novels

Isle of the Blessed
Forever Her Champion
The Edge of Forever

Arriving in 2019:
 Black Richard’s Heart

The Brides of the Clan MacDougall

(A Sweet Series)
Aishlinn
Maggy
Nora

Coming Soon:
The MacAllens and Randalls
 INTRODUCTION

This little novella was originally released as part of the All

Things Merry and Bright Collection in December, 2018. I’m
proud to say we hit the USA Today Bestsellers list with that
anthology!
I have not added any bonus content to this story. However, I
am using it to launch a new series titled The Daughters of Moirra
Dundotter.
We met the four daughters, Mariote, Esa, Muriale, and
Orabillis, in my Moirra’s Heart series a few years ago. In this new
series, they will be all grown up and seeking husbands. (Except
for Orabillis who firmly believes men are nothing but pains in
her backside!)
I hope you enjoy the story!
Hugs,
Suzan
 LOVE

"Love is that condition in which the happiness of another

person is essential to your own." -Robert Heinlein
 Chapter One

MARIOTE MCCULLUM WAS very much in love, or so she fervently believed.

Why else would her heart skip a beat or two whenever she saw him? What
other reason could there be for the way her stomach tingled with excitement at
the mere thought of him?
Of course, the object of her devotion – and betimes torment – hadn’t a clue
how she felt. Still, she loved the warrior with all her heart. Most women did, for
he was so utterly handsome and charming. But Mariote loved him for more than
his exceedingly good looks and the devilish smile he sometimes flashed the
lasses. Nay, she loved him because he was good and kind and decent. Never had
she chased after him like the other young women ’round her age did. Neither did
she giggle at every little thing he might have to say.
That had to stand for something, didn’t it?
Nay, she was not infatuated with him as the others were. She was deeply in
love with him.
But he never flashed his brilliant smile her way. Nor did he pick her up and
twirl her around or wrap an arm around her shoulder as she’d seen him do so
many times, openly flirting with any woman, no matter her age or marital status.
Any, save for Mariote.
Nay, he kept a wide birth when it came to Alysander McCullum’s eldest
daughter.
’Twas Yuletide Eve and most of the clan were gathered in the grand
gathering room. There was much music, dancing, and merry-making. And right
in the thick of it all was Willem McCullum. Dancing with one lass or woman
after another, and completely ignoring her. Her heart would thrum happily
whenever he approached the table where she sat with her sisters. Only to want to
break again when he walked right by her without so much as a glance in her
direction.
 And not once this night did he ask her. What she would not give for his
acknowledgement of her existence.
Earlier, he had given her a devilish wink, but ’twas only as he bent low at the
waist and asked her youngest sister, ten-year-old Orabilis, to dance. Orabilis, of
course, refused, for she was still of an age where she believed all men, no matter
their age, were naught more than a daft, insane group as a whole.
’Twas all too much to bear.
Quietly, Mariote slipped out of the gathering room – only faintly aware of
her father’s gaze following her as she left—grabbed her cloak, and stepped out
doors. The sky was indigo, dotted with twinkling stars. Flames from the torches
fought a hard battle against the bracing wind, dimming and brightening,
refusing, it seemed, to be tamped out.
The lass made her way up the stairs and onto the parapet. Snow twirled
around her ankles as the wind stung her tear-streaked cheeks. Though chilled to
the bone, it felt good to be outside, to be alone to think.
On the morrow, she would turn eight and ten. She thought she was far too
young to feel as old as she did, but she could not help it. Most of the friends she
had made since arriving here four years ago were all married. Two already had
children of their own now, and three were with child.
And where be ye? She asked herself. Standin’ atop the parapet feelin’ sorry
for yourself.
Known amongst her family—and everyone she’d ever met—for being a most
practical and logical-thinking young woman, Mariote understood ’twas
ridiculous to be feeling this way. Especially about a man who barely
acknowledged her existence. But ’twas next to impossible to push all those
feelings aside.
While her heart might be breaking, there was so much for her to be to be
thankful for.
She’d been four and ten when Alysander McCullum married her mother. A
few short months later, he adopted Mariote and her three younger sisters and,
together, they moved back to his ancestral home. Since then, their little family
had expanded. Three years ago, her mother had given birth to twin boys, and
now was once again with child. Come spring, there would be yet another
McCullum brought into this world.
Alysander openly prayed for this child to be another boy, because, according
to him, having four beautiful daughters already was enough to turn a man’s hair
white or put him in an early grave. We need to even the sides, he had often
remarked playfully to his young sons, for we are seriously out-numbered. But
Mariote knew it mattered not a whit to him what Moirra might have, as long as
the child was healthy and naught happened to her mother.
Mariote’s life had changed dramatically since Alysander came into it. So
much so that ’twas no longer recognizable. He had given her and her sisters a
formal education, fine gowns, and a beautiful home. But he had given her much
more than that; he’d given her the ability to trust again. Considering what had
happened with her mother’s previous husband, that was no small feat.
Delmar—her mother’s third husband—had tried to rape Mariote on a cold
winter’s night. Had her sister Muriale not been there, he would have succeeded.
Delmar hadn’t known the lengths to which one sister would go to protect
another. That ignorance had cost him his life, and very nearly Moirra’s, when
she’d been falsely accused of his murder.
’Twas a good long while before Mariote could trust any man again.
But with time and Alysander’s unfailing devotion to her mother and family,
Mariote was able to put that horrid night in the past. With steely-eyed
determination, Mariote chose to make the best of her life. It helped, of course,
knowing she was safe and protected. No one would dare try to attack her as long
as her stepfather was around.
Now she was a woman full grown, even if her father still insisted otherwise.
Under the tutelage of the clan’s healer, Eric McCullum, Mariote was learning to
become a fine healer in her own right. Over the years, she’d lost count of the
number of people she had helped nurse back to health, the number of hard
McCullum heads she’d stitched up, and the number of broken bones she had
helped to set.
Aye, she had a life many would be envious of.
Still, she longed for a husband and bairns of her own.
She longed, deep in her heart, for Willem McCullum.
The wind increased, howling like a macabre spirit from the netherworld,
bringing with it bits of snow and ice. Drawing her cloak about her a bit tighter,
she stared at the night sky. ’Twould probably be best to get back into the keep
before she either froze to death or her father discovered her missing. Knowing
Alysander as she did, he’d probably send out a search party.
Just as she was about to go back in, she saw a bright light flash across the
sky. ’Twas a falling star! She laughed, thinking of how her mother believed that
if you made a wish upon a falling star, ’twould come true within a fortnight.
Deciding a wish could not hurt, she made hers. “I wish…” she searched for
just the right words. “I wish to be married before I turn nine and ten.”
’Twas a simple, heartfelt wish. ’Twas all she wanted in life.
What she could not know at that moment, was that someone else was out on
the parapet, at the opposite end. Standing in the shadows, the young man made a
wish of his own.
 Chapter Two

One year later

THE YULETIDE WISH she had made more than a year ago had not come true.
Having just turned nine and ten, Mariote nevertheless believed there was still
hope.
She read the letter from Conner MacGavin once again, smoothing the
parchment with a fond smile.

My Dearest Mariote,
My heart beats with love and adoration for you and only you. You have
made me the happiest of men by accepting my hand in marriage. I feel as
though I will not draw breath nor sleep again until I have you in my arms
and as my wife.
I shall meet ye in the glen near the stream at dawn in exactly six
days, just as we have planned. Until then, I am and always will be,
Your humble servant and future husband,
Conner.

With care, she folded the parchment and slipped it into her satchel. Her heart
skipped a beat or two—more out of fear than any other emotion. If she were
caught, her father would certainly lock her in the south tower until she turned
forty. Oh, she knew he would not really lock her away, but one could not be
entirely certain what one’s father might good and truly do were he pushed to the
ends of his patience. And she had pushed him thusly on more than one occasion
over the past few years.
Quietly, so as not to wake her sisters, she tucked one last item into her bag.
’Twas a sprig of heather, twined with a bit of string. Old and dried, it had been a
gift from a young man who had quickly become her friend within days of her
arrival. Lachlan MacCaully. His mum was a MacCallum, his father a MacCaully.
Lachlan was three years her senior, a kind and giving young man with a tender
heart. He was like an older brother to her, and their friendship was one she
would always cherish. Though in truth, she had at one time harbored a secret
crush on the lad. But when he had remarked how glad he was for their
friendship, she soon realized they would never be anything more than friends.
Mariote sent a furtive glance about the dark bedchamber. Thankfully, her
sisters were still fast asleep. ’Twould be hours before any of them rose and
discovered her missing. ’Twould be hours more before any alarms would be
sounded. When they woke to find Mariote’s spot empty, they would not consider
it odd or strange, for she was always up long before any of them.
They would think she had left to help Maryd McCullum birth her third child.
Mariote had carefully planted that seed last eve as she and her sisters readied for
bed. “Maryd is due any moment now,” she had told them. “I do hope she waits
until daylight this time, for I be awfully tired.” To which her sisters had no reply,
for they were too busy discussing the upcoming Yule Tide and lads and romance.
All save for Orabilis, her youngest sister, who had no interest in romance or lads,
for she was still of a mind that lads were naught but nuisances.
“I shall miss ye,” Mariote whispered. Taking one last glance at each of her
sleeping sisters, she quietly slipped out into the hallway.
At this late hour, everyone within the keep was abed. Even the torches that
lined the walls flickered low, as if they too were exhausted.
Blood began to rush in her ears with the excitement of stealing away in the
middle of the night. Mariote did not consider herself to be running away, but
rather running to something. ’Twas the only way she could deal with the deep
seated guilt of having made the decision to become Conner MacGavin’s wife.
He loves me, she reminded her rapidly beating and guilt-ridden heart, and he has
made me love him with his beautiful letters. Who would not fall in love with such
a man? I will be his wife and the mother of his children. I will finally have all
that I ever wanted.
As she tip-toed down the dark corridor, she paused just outside her parent’s
bedchamber. Her mother, she was convinced, would understand her reasons for
doing what she was doing. Her father, however, was an altogether different story.
’Twould undoubtedly break his heart when he discovered she’d run off to marry.
Do no’ cry, she cursed her heart. Conner has promised ye can visit as often as ye
wish. ’Tis no’ like ye’ll never see them again. Gently, she touched the door with
her fingertips and bid her mother and father a silent farewell.
Effortlessly, she made her way down the hall to a narrow set of stairs often
used by the servants. At this hour, the gathering room would be filled with at
least a dozen sleeping men. The risk of waking any of them was far too great.
Even if she lied and told them she was leaving to tend to a sick patient, they
would undoubtedly offer to escort her. With a pounding heart and shaky hands,
she took careful, measured steps downward.
The stairs spilled out into a tiny room with two doors. The one to her right
would take her back to the gathering room, and the one to her left led to her
father’s study. If she could get there without being caught, then she’d have
naught to worry about until her wedding night.
Knowing every inch of the keep, she made her way through the dark without
coming across another living soul. Letting out a sigh of relief, she slowly opened
the door to the study before peering inside. Empty – just as it should be at this
late hour.
Grabbing a torch from the wall, Mariote slipped into Alysander McCullum’s
study. Next to the cold hearth was a heavy trunk. That trunk was now the only
thing standing between her and Conner. Taking a deep breath to steady her
nerves, she set her satchel on the floor before shoving the torch into the iron
holder.
For a long moment, she stood in silence, staring at the trunk. Behind it was a
small narrow door that led to the secret passageways beneath the keep. One little
door that hid the path to her future as Conner’s wife. Her heart began to beat
faster, her eagerness to finally meet the man behind the letters increasing a
hundredfold.
Mariote bit her lip hard. Guilt and sorrow reared their ugly heads. Guilt for
stealing away in the middle of the night like a thief. Sorrow for leaving her
family behind as if they didn’t matter.
But there was naught to be done for it. Conner’s father had betrothed him to
some feeble-minded lass from the MacCreary clan. A lass he truly had no desire
to marry, for he was so in love with Mariote. “And I with him,” she murmured
stoically.
Undoubtedly, her own mother and father would be against the union with
Conner; Alysander had no kind feelings for the MacGavin clan. They’d been at
odds for decades, the McCullums and McGavins, for reasons no one could now
remember.
So steal away, the young couple would. They would travel north to Inverness
where they would marry and consummate their union before anyone realized
what was happening. Then ’twould be too late for anyone to do something about
it, such as to try to have their marriage annulled.
The plan to run away together was Conner’s idea. Whilst Mariote would
have much preferred a more honest approach, she could not disagree with his
reasoning. Besides, he loved her more than breath, more than life. He’d told her
so in the many letters he had sent to her in secret these past months.
Lost in her quiet reverie, Mariote did not hear the quiet footfalls of someone
entering the room. Panic seized her heart when she heard a soft voice ask, “What
are ye doin’?”

ORABILIS!
Blast it, she exclaimed silently as she spun around to face her youngest sister.
The little girl stood just inside the doorway, looking as confused as she did
concerned.
Attempting an air of innocence, Mariote forced a smile. “Orabilis!” she
exclaimed breathlessly. “Ye just took ten years off me life!”
“Why are ye in Da’s study at this hour?” the girl asked with a dubious frown.
Stammering to find a believable lie, Mariote could not answer right away.
Orabilis was the most skeptical, pessimistic child she’d ever known.
“Ye’re stealin’ away,” the child accused her.
Of all her sisters, Orabilis was the brightest and by far the hardest to lie to.
Realizing immediately the girl would not believe anything save for the sheer
unadulterated truth, Mariote pulled her shoulders back and looked her dead in
the eye. “Aye.”
Pinching her lips together and rolling her eyes, Orabilis said, “To be with
Conner MacGavin.”
Oh, why had she not lied months ago when the first letter arrived? Mariote
cursed her own stupidity silently. “Aye.”
“’Twill put father in an early grave,” Orabilis said, crossing her arms over
her chest.
“Do no’ be ridiculous,” Mariote argued. If she had a siller for every time
their father used that threat when frustrated with any one of his daughters, why,
she’d be richer than the king. “He only says that because he loves us so much.”
“Then why would ye be stealin’ away to marry a man he does no’ want ye to
marry?”
“Because if it were up to him, none of us would ever marry. He never lets
anyone call upon us, never seeks betrothals for us. We’ll all die auld maids.”
Orabilis scoffed. “I would no’ mind that so much. ’Twould be preferable to
marryin’ and takin’ orders from a man.”
Mariote let loose a frustrated breath. “I do no’ have time to argue it with ye,
Orabilis. Ye may no’ want to be a wife or mother, but I do.”
Orabilis shook her head in dismay. For along moment, she was quiet,
studying her sister closely. The words that next left her mouth left Mariote
stunned to silence.
“Then marry someone Da would find agreeable. Marry Willem.”

ORABILIS KNEW HER sister’s true heart and feelings toward Willem McCullum. For
years, Mariote had harbored more than just a tender regard for the young man.
However, she firmly believed that Willem was not the right man for her sister.
’Twas not to say he was not an honorable and decent man, for he was. However,
he was also a scoundrel of the highest proportions. Orabilis might be young, but
she was not stupid. She knew all about Willem and his love of women.
There was someone better, someone far more suited to Mariote’s
sensibilities, and her sister was certain he cared about Mariote. Still, she’d rather
the girl married Willem instead of a MacGavin.
While Orabilis was convinced she’d never fall prey to such a deadly force as
love, she knew her sisters were not as stalwart or strong as she. Each and every
one of them had already fallen victim to their own hearts more times than she
could count.
But Mariote? She was different. She was not like Esa—who was in love with
a new lad every other sennight. Muriale was almost as bad, but not nearly as
vocal about it.
Orabilis watched as Mariote stood taller, looking appalled at the idea her
sister had just presented to her.
“Willem has absolutely no interest in me,” Mariote said. “Besides, it matters
not at this juncture. I’ve made up my mind. I will marry Conner MacGavin, with
or without our parents’ blessing.”
“’Tis yer funeral,” Orabilis said with a shrug.
Mariote rolled her eyes heavenward. “’Tis nay a funeral, ye daft child. ’Tis a
marriage.”
“Explain to me the difference?” Orabilis challenged.
Frustrated, Mariote pursed her lips. “Ye would stand in the way of love,
wouldn’t ye?”
“Nay,” she replied softly. “No’ true love. But I do no’ think ye love Conner.”
Ignoring the twinge of recognition deep inside, Mariote turned back to the
trunk and began to push it aside. “I be done arguin’ with ye,” she replied angrily.
“But if ye tell Mam or Da what I be doin’, then I shall tell them who really set
the chicken coop afire last summer.”
Orabilis knew full well what her sister was doing. She actually felt rather
proud of Mariote’s attempt at extortion. Oh, she truly did not want her parents to
learn how the fire actually started or why or by whose hand, but she was not so
foolish as to believe if they did learn the truth, ’twould be akin to signing her
own death warrant. For amusement, she decided to play along. “Ye would no’
dare.”
Mariote spun around, a murderous gleam in her eyes. “I would.”
Realizing that come hell or high-water, Mariote would find a way to marry
Conner—which would be the same as issuing one’s own death warrant as far as
she was concerned—Orabilis pretended to be unconcerned. “Verra well,” she
said dismissively. “Do what ye wish. I’ll no’ tell Mam or Da.”
“Or our sisters,” Mariote added. Aye, she knew Orabilis well enough to ask
for that clarification.
“Or our sisters,” she replied. “I just hope he is worth it.”
“Worth what?” Mariote ground out as she slid the door to the passageway
aside.
“Worth losin’ yerself and yer family over,” Orabilis replied softly.
Mariote refused to look at her. “Keep yer word, Orabilis, and I’ll keep mine.”
With that, Orabilis watched her oldest and most favorite sister disappear into
the darkness of the passageway.
I’ll no’ tell our parents or our sisters, she mused quietly. But I’ll no’ watch ye
throw yer life away fer the likes of Conner MacGavin either.
 Chapter Three

ORABILIS WAS AFRAID of few things in this world. Her father often remarked she
was born as fierce as any Highland warrior he’d ever known. Much to her
mother’s vexation, Alysander had proudly encouraged her pursuit of learning the
proper way to defend oneself. Of course, she’d been all of six when he began to
train her in the art of weaponry.
But as she got older—and better with a sword than he had anticipated—he
began to rethink his previous stance on the matter. Still, he was quite proud of
her.
Young as she was and as fearless as she might be, she was not dim-witted.
Therefore, when she snuck into the armory, she did so with a good measure of
caution.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been in the armory before. However, at this
exceeding late hour, one couldn’t be too cautious. There was a good chance she
could be killed by a warrior startled from his sleep.
Mindful of the seriousness of the situation, she tiptoed across the stone floor
without aid of candle or torch. ’Twas another thing her father was proud of her
for: her uncanny, cat-like ability to see in the darkest of places.
Kneeling next to Lachlan McCullum’s palette, Orabilis bent low to whisper
his name into his ear.
He shot up like an arrow from a bow, a sgian dubh in one hand, a battle-axe
in the other.
“Wheest!” she whispered. “’Tis me, Orabilis!”
His eyes widened in horror at seeing the young girl there. “What in the
bloody hell are ye about, Orabilis?” he whispered harshly. “I could have killed
ye!”
“Wheest,” she warned him again. “Ye’ll get us both killed if me da finds me
here at this hour.”
 Taken aback by her warning, a tic began to form in his jaw. For the life of
him, he could not begin to imagine what she was doing in the armory at such a
late hour.
Pressing a finger to her own lips, Orabilis motioned for him to follow her. He
had half a mind to swat her arse, drag her back into the keep to her parents, and
let them deal with her. But curiosity won out over anger. Soon, he was tossing on
a plaid and boots, along with his sword belt, and following the young girl
outside.
“What are ye doin’ here at this ungodly hour?” he asked angrily as soon as
they were away from the armory. His breath hung in a heavy mist in the cold
night air.
“’Tis Mariote,” Orabilis replied. “I fear she has done somethin’ foolish.”
Mariote? His heart began to thrum against his chest with worry. “What has
she done? And why did ye no’ wake yer parents?”
“I can no’ do that. I made her a promise that I would no’ tell them or our
sisters.”
Lachlan sighed, undoubtedly thinking this was not quite as serious as she
was leading him to believe. “What foolish thing has she done?” he asked. From
the level of concern he saw in her eyes, he was afraid he’d not like the answer.
He and Mariote had become the best of friends when she and her family had first
arrived over four years ago. As one of the most logical-thinking people he’d ever
had the pleasure to meet, he could not begin to imagine what foolish thing
Mariote might have done.
“She has run off to marry Conner MacGavin.”

HE HAD KNOWN for a very long while that his friend was deeply and wildly in love
with his other dear friend, Willem. Mariote might not have said as much, but he
was not an unintelligent man. He could see it in her eyes whenever Willem was
near.
But Conner MacGavin? This was the first time he’d heard the man’s name in
an age, let alone connected to Mariote.
“Ye can no’ be serious,” he whispered, awash in astonishment. An ache
formed deep in his heart.
“I am,” she told him, matching his scowl with one of her own. “He has
apparently declared his love for her. But I do no’ think she loves him.”
 Raising a brow he asked, “Then why in God’s name—” he stopped mid-
sentence. Young women oft did things that made not a lick of sense. Realizing
the seriousness of the situation, he asked, “When? How?”
“Only moments ago,” she replied. “She used the secret passages. They lead
—”
“I ken where they lead,” he ground out.
Bloody hell! he cursed inwardly.
“Ye must go after her,” Orabilis said. “Before she makes a mistake she can
no’ unmake.”
If he sounded the alarm now, Mariote would undoubtedly never live down
the shame or embarrassment. But if he didn’t do something to stop her,
Alysander wouldn’t let Lachlan live to explain why he hadn’t done more to keep
her from making that mistake.
Letting loose an angry sigh of resignation, he said, “She can no’ have gotten
far. I shall go after her and bring her home.”
“Thank ye, Lachlan,” she replied with a smile. “I be certain Mariote will
thank ye as well. She considers ye a dear friend.”
Aye, he quietly fumed. And ’twill never be more than that. While they were
good friends, Mariote would never thank him for what he was about to do.
Undoubtedly, she’d blame him for crushing her dreams. Their friendship would
probably be forever altered. Still, he could not simply stand by and allow her to
do this. Her heart, he knew, belonged to Willem.
“Ye go back to bed and say nothin’,” he instructed. “I shall have her back
before anyone is the wiser.”
Orabilis smiled once again but remained silent as she raced back to the keep.
Nay, yer sister will no’ thank me, he mused as he stomped toward the stables.
More likely than no’ she’ll run a dirk through me heart.

IT MADE NO sense to Lachlan. Mariote loved Willem but she was stealing away in
the middle of the night to marry a man whose name had never passed over her
lips. At least not when he was around.
He’d known Conner nearly his entire life. Conner MacGavin was not the
kind of man he thought Mariote would or could ever give her heart to. Out of all
the MacGavins, Conner was the only one with a lick of sense. Still, he was a
MacGavin.
 As quietly as he was able, he went back into the armory. Pulling on tunic and
trews, he sat on the floor to stuff his feet into woolens and his fur covered boots.
He heard Willem’s voice in the stillness. “What are ye doin’?”
For a few rapid heartbeats he debated on whether to tell Willem what had
happened. “’Tis something best explained away from anyone else’s ears,” he
replied in a harsh whisper.
Always inquisitive, Willem did not need any further explanation. Soon, he
was dressed, grabbing his weapons, and heading after his friend.
They made their way quietly into the stables. “Where on earth are ye goin’?”
Willem asked.
Frustrated, Lachlan explained as best he could while he saddled his steed.
“’Tis Mariote,” he said. “She has apparently run off to marry Conner
MacGavin.”
Willem let out a low, soft whistle in surprise. “Ye can no’ be serious,” he
said.
“Would I be saddlin’ me horse in the middle of the night if ’twere no’ true?”
Lachlan asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Seeing the frustration in Lachlan’s eyes, Willem gave a slow shake of his
head. “Alysander will kill him.”
“Only if he finds out,” Lachlan remarked, tightening the strap of the saddle.
Willem, as ready for an adventure as he was curious, pulled his own steed
out of the stall. “Then I best go along with ye. Lord only kens how many men
Conner has with him.”
Lachlan hadn’t given that a moment’s thought. While he’d much prefer to
rescue Mariote on his own, he might very well need the extra sword. God only
knew what Conner was truly up to. Mayhap ’twas all a ruse to kidnap Mariote
and hold her for ransom.
The two men finished saddling their horses and lead them toward the wall.
Anger filled Lachlan’s gut. Anger that Mariote would be so foolish as to run
off with the likes of Conner MacGavin. And if he were truly honest with
himself, he was angry that someone else had won her heart.
“Where be ye goin’ at this hour?” ’Twas Henry McCullum calling out from
the parapet.
Thinking quickly, Willem lied. “We be goin’ to Inverness fer a few days,” he
said.
Henry, a man of forty, with thick red hair and an even thicker gut, laughed.
“Chasin’ after whores again?” He shook his head and clucked his tongue. “I
expect such from ye, Willem. But I dare say I expect more from Lachlan.”
Willem laughed. Lachlan fumed. The lie, he supposed, was far better than the
truth. If anyone found out about Mariote’s late night escapade, her reputation
might very well be ruined.
Henry began to crank the handle, and the gate creaked upward, allowing
Lachlan and Willem to walk their horses through.
They were soon mounted and heading east. If they had gone in any other
direction, Henry might call after them.
Once they were out of earshot, Lachlan said, “She left through the tunnels.
We’ll ride until Henry can no’ see us, then turn back toward the forest.”
Willem must have thought it a sound plan, for he did not protest or argue
against it. “Any idea which way she might be goin’?” he asked.
“Nay, but she should no’ be too hard to track once we get to the secret door.”
The sun was just beginning its morning ascent. A hint of orange against the
inky sky.
When they were certain they could no longer be seen, they guided their
horses back toward the forest.
“Why do ye reckon Mariote has run off like this?” Willem asked.
In truth, Lachlan had no earthly idea. “Young lasses oft do things that do no’
make a lick of sense,” he replied drolly.
Willem chuckled his agreement. “No truer words were e’er spoken.”
The exit to the tunnels was only a few hundred yards away from the wall of
the keep. The men dismounted, their breaths hanging in the cold morning air.
Lachlan crouched next to the secret door to get a better look. Leaves and debris
had been moved, a telltale sign that Mariote had made her way out of the
tunnels.
“Do ye think Conner met her here?” Willem asked.
Lachlan shook his head. “Nay. Fer one, I see no other footsteps besides hers.
And two, there be no way on earth MacGavin could get past our patrols.”
Willem smiled, showing straight white teeth. “Aye, our lads would kill him
and his men before they even made it onto our lands.”
“Unless,” Lachlan began with a shake of his head, “unless they came up
from the south.”
That was a possibility Willem hadn’t considered. “’Twould be like a
MacGavin to do such a thing. The Farquars be their allies as well as our own.
They might think naught of letting them cross their lands without asking why.”
Though there was very little light, Lachlan could see Mariote had taken off
in an easterly direction. “It should no’ take long to find her,” he said as he
mounted his steed once again.
They rode in silence, keeping their pace slow so as not to alert any
MacGavins who might be lying in wait.

MARIOTE’S HEART BEAT against her breast. She had made it amidst the tunnels and
up through the door hidden in the forest floor. Thus far, her escape had gone
unnoticed, but she was far from free just yet.
It would take her an hour to reach the stream where she and Conner had
agreed to meet. An hour across frozen, snow-covered land. An hour before her
life would forever be altered.
Conner MacGavin.
She was going to be his wife. The mother of his children. His life’s partner. If
his letters were any indication, their life together would be a happy one. How
many times had he remarked on her beauty? Ye be a beautiful woman, Mariote.
Dare I say the most beautiful in all of Scotia? How many times had he promised
her the world if she wanted it? I shall give ye all that yer heart could ever desire.
No man had ever given her such beautiful, heart felt words and promises. Of
course, her father hadn’t allowed anyone of the opposite sex near her long
enough to give her an ounce of praise. Still, it made her heart feel light and
happy to know someone out there did have such tender regard for her.
Guilt tugged again at her heart. This was not how she had imagined
becoming someone’s wife. When she afforded herself the rare daydream, she’d
always pictured her wedding taking place on a lovely spring day. Her entire
family would be there to bless the union. There would be a grand feast afterward
with the entire clan there to celebrate.
Being the practical sort, she realized now that the wedding itself was not
nearly as important as the marriage. A marriage was a partnership, and not one to
be entered into lightly. With no other prospects for marriage, she fervently
believed Conner was her last vestige of hope for ever having a family of her
own.
As she made her way out of the forest and onto more even terrain, she could
not help but think of how her life was about to change. Soon, she’d be meeting
Conner and together, they would ride to Inverness to marry.
Oh, why could she not remember his face?
 They had, according to his letters, met last spring, here on McCullum lands.
Alysander had invited neighboring clans to a festival of sorts. The MacGavins—
while not Alysander’s favorite of people—had also been in attendance. The
gathering had been a way of brokering a peace accord of sorts. While they could
not consider the MacGavans allies, they could also not be considered pure
enemies. She could remember seeing the MacGavin, Conner’s father, as well as
his mother. But try as she might, she could not conjure up an image or any
memory of meeting him.
I look more like my mother’s brother, he had explained in one of his earlier
letters. Dark of hair and brown of eyes, he had told her. Nay too tall, nay too
short.
There had been hundreds of people here, so it stood to reason she wouldn’t
remember everyone. And she hadn’t been there every moment of the festival, for
she had left numerous times to tend to a sick or injured person.
But he had remembered her.
The thought that she had left such an impression with someone did her heart
good. For far too long, she’d felt invisible amongst her own clan. More
specifically amongst the men of her clan. Nary a one of them ever paid her a
moment’s notice, unless she was stitching them up or helping them through a
bout of one illness or another.
But the man whose attention she wanted most to garner, well, he didn’t even
know she existed. At least that was how it felt. No matter what she did to gain
his notice or turn his head, he always seemed indifferent to her. ’Twas not to say
he was cruel or rude. He simply didn’t notice her.
The sun was beginning to rise as she made her way toward their meeting
place. Oh, how she hoped Conner would not be disappointed in her appearance.
Deep down, she worried he might have mistaken her for Esa who was, as far as
Mariote was concerned, the prettiest of all the sisters. Mayhap his recollections
of that day were not quite as clear as he thought them to be.
What would she do then, were that the case? ’Twould be an embarrassment
she was quite certain she’d never recover from.

KEEPING THEIR HORSES at a slow pace, Lachlan and Willem followed the footprints
Mariote had left in the snow.
Willem chuckled. “Were it Orabilis stealing away, our task would be far
more difficult.”
Lachlan nodded. “Aye. That child be more fierce than most grown men.”
“Betimes, she scares me,” Willem admitted.
Lachlan could not necessarily disagree. “Could ye imagine what she would
be like were she born a boy?”
Willem shivered at the thought. “She would be king of Scotia by now.”
They laughed in low tones before turning their attention back to the matter at
hand. “I still can no’ believe Mariote has done this,” Willem said. “I thought her
a far more practical sort.”
“She is practical,” Lachlan replied defensively.
Willem gave a sideways glance and tried to hide his smile. “Well, I can no’
rightly blame her.”
Lachlan pulled his horse to a stop, staring at his friend with mouth agape.
“Are ye daft? She has stolen away in the dead of night to marry the son of one of
her father’s enemies.”
“Mayhap she got tired of waiting for someone else to ask fer her hand.”
Lachlan clenched his teeth, his anger building as jealousy reared its ugly
head. His friend was right, of course, but not for the reasons he thought. Willem
had no idea how Mariote felt about him, but Lachlan did.
Remaining silent, he urged his horse forward, wishing now that Willem was
not with him. He had no doubt they’d soon come upon Mariote. And when they
did, she would take one look at Willem and believe ’twas he who had come to
rescue her and not Lachlan. She would believe Willem had come because deep
down, he loved her. ’Twould be Willem who would make her heart pound in her
chest. ’Twould be Willem she would thank for rescuing her from her self-made
folly.
And ’twould be Willem who she would give her heart to for all eternity.
But he did not love her. He would never give his heart to just one woman, for
Willem McCullum loved all women. But only in the biblical sense, not with his
true heart.
Willem was a scoundrel if ever there was one. If Lachlan had even half a
siller for every woman who had gladly warmed his friend’s bed, he’d be richer
than the king. Women were drawn to the man like moths to flame, for he was as
charming as he was handsome.
It only made sense that Mariote was also attracted to the bloody fool. No
matter how hard she had tried to convince Lachlan over the years that ’twas not
Willem’s good looks and rakish personality that attracted her, ’twas his giving
heart.
Bah! The only thing Willem ever gave women was a few hours in his bed
and naught else. Mariote was too naive to see it, for she was too giving and
caring a person to believe anything bad about someone else.
“How often do ye suppose Mariote has met with Conner?”
Lachlan had no idea and told him thus.
“Yet she has run off to be with him. How did that come about, do ye
reckon?”
That was a question that had been running through his mind since he learned
she had left. “I do no’ ken,” he replied. “I do ken that if Conner had shown his
face at the keep, Alysander would have run him off faster than a bolt of
lightning.”
Willem chuckled softly. “Aye, and the young man would have Alysander’s
sword and boot lodged firmly in his arse.”
Lachlan agreed as he searched his mind for an answer. None of Alysander’s
daughters had left the keep in an age. “Do ye suppose they met at the spring
festival?”
“’Tis a strong possibility,” Willem replied. “But would Mariote run off with a
man she’d only met once?”
Nay, Lachlan did not believe she would. “Muriale would be more prone to
such a decision that Mariote.”
For a long while, he searched quietly for an answer. How had this all come to
pass? Then it hit him.
Slapping his hand against his forehead, he pulled rein again. “The letters!” he
exclaimed angrily.
Willem pulled his own mount to a halt and waited patiently for an
explanation.
“Months ago, Mariote started to receive letters. She told me they were from
an old friend. Someone she had grown up with when they lived in Glenkirby.
But she would say naught else.”
For years, she had shared nearly every thought with him, every fear or
concern, as friends oft do. But the letters? She would never share with him what
her old friend might have said. “I thought naught of it,” he whispered in dismay.
“Those letters were from Conner,” Willem said, understanding settling in.
’Twas the only thing that made sense. “The bloody bastard,” Lachlan
seethed.
“Clever,” Willem replied. “A verra clever bloody bastard.”
 Lachlan rolled his eyes at his friend’s apparent appreciation for the
deception.
“Do ye think he truly loves her?” Willem asked. “Or be this a ruse to kidnap
her?”
Either thought was truly unsettling. “It matters no’, fer I will no’ allow either
event to occur.”
Willem chanced another sideways glance at his friend. “So will ye be askin’
fer her hand?”
Lachlan’s head spun so fast, Willem was surprised it didn’t snap clear from
his neck. He could not resist the urge to laugh at his friend’s distress. “What?” he
asked in a challenging tone. “Think ye that no one can tell ye love the lass?”
“Whatever feelings I have fer Mariote are me own,” Lachlan said through
clenched teeth. And none of them mattered, for Mariote was most assuredly not
in love with him.
They rode along in silence for a long while before Willem spoke again.
“What if,” he began, “we do no’ stop her before she meets up with Conner?”
Stunned, Lachlan furrowed his brow. “We must stop her before she gets to
him.”
“Hear me out,” Willem said with a raised hand.
Lachlan sighed before bidding him continue.
“Mayhap we should wait to see if ’tis true love or a ruse,” Willem said. “If it
be a simple matter of love, then we have naught to worry over. We can get the
lass back home before anyone realizes she be gone.”
A simple matter of love? Lachlan mused. Nay, there be naught simple about
it. “And if it be a ruse to kidnap her?”
Willem threw his head back and laughed. “Then we get to kill some
MacGavins.”
Lachlan was just furious enough to give a good measure of thought to the
plan. Deep down, he prayed ’twas a kidnapping at play. That would be easier to
solve than the matter of a woman’s heart.
 Chapter Four

THERE HE WAS.
Conner MacGavin.
He was not at all what Mariote expected. He was neither horrid to look upon,
nor was he devilishly handsome. Straight dark hair rolled over the collar of his
fur cloak. His nose looked to have been broken at least once, but it did not make
him unappealing. Of course, he was nowhere near as handsome as Willem, or
even Lachlan, for that matter. But then again, what man was?
By the time she made her way to the stream, the sun had crept its way up,
long enough to say hello, before hiding behind dark, heavy clouds. The promise
of more snow hung in the air. Mariote hoped they would be able to get to
Inverness ahead of the storm.
Crouched and hidden behind a patch of bramble bushes, Mariote watched
him for a time. He was pacing back and forth, mumbling words she could not
hear well enough to make out. Aye, he looked as nervous as a rabbit who had
just spotted a hawk in the sky. Quashing the urge to giggle, she waited a little
while longer before making her presence known.
He loves ye, she kept telling herself. More than life or breath itself. How
many times had he written those words to her over the past months? Too many to
count. It stood to reason he would be nervous, for together, they were about to
embark on a life-long journey.
Then why didn’t she feel happier about it? Why did her heart not pound
against her breast with excited anticipation? Why did her palms not sweat or her
fingers tremble? Why did her lips not ache to feel his pressed against her own?
Wasn’t that how she should feel?
Her mother, bless her, had always been quite honest as it pertained to matters
of the heart, on loving and joining with a man, and knowing the difference
between lust and love.
 But her mother had been blessed by falling in love with Alysander. Deeply,
madly, and passionately in love with him. So much so that she would refuse to
allow any arranged marriages for any of her daughters. Nay, they would all
marry for love or not marry at all. Mariote suspected Alysander agreed with the
last part at least.
However, Mariote’s circumstances were different. She was growing long in
the tooth and impatient waiting for Willem to come to his senses. Reckoning she
could live to be a hundred-years-old before the foolish man ever noticed her, let
alone fell in love with her, she had made the decision to accept Conner’s
proposal. Mayhap, someday she could love Conner as much as she loved
Willem. Did that not happen frequently with arranged marriages? Two people
thrown together for whatever reason, sometimes, often times, fell deeply in love
with one another.
Mariote considered this to be an arranged marriage of her own making.
Alysander refused to find her someone, and with Willem not realizing she would
be the best thing ever to happen to him, she’d taken it upon herself to find a
suitable husband.
And Conner was suitable enough.
If his letters were any indication as to what kind of man he was, then he was
generous to a fault, patient, loyal, and a romantic at heart. Someday, he would be
chief of his clan, therefore she need not worry that he could not take care of her.
With her mind made up, she stood, brushed the frozen leaves from her skirts,
grabbed her satchel, and stepped forward. “Conner?” she said, her voice breathy
and nervous.
He spun to look at her, his eyes as wide as trenchers. He smiled broadly,
frozen in place for a long moment. “Mariote,” he finally managed to reply.
They paused near the stream for a long moment, just looking at one another.
Mariote could not help but smile at him, for he looked sincerely and genuinely
glad to see her.
“Did ye bring the horse?”

A HORSE?
After months of correspondence, of letters filled with naught but pretty
words expressing his true heart and feelings, the first thing he asked was about a
horse?
 “Nay,” she replied, feeling more than just a bit dejected. “’Twas impossible
to get one without bein’ seen,” she told him.
They stood a good fifteen feet apart. Even still, she could see anger flash
behind his dark eyes. Feeling she ought to explain further, she said, “I had to be
careful, lest I be seen. As it was, I had to sneak out through a hidden door in the
wall.” ’Twas a full out lie. But she had promised Alysander and her mother long
ago that she would never breathe a word about the secret tunnels. She had
broken enough trusts this night. She’d not expose her family to any future risk.
“Did ye bring coin?” he asked, looking concerned as his eyes darted around
the clearing.
Coin? “I have a few sillers,” she admitted, a sense of dread starting to form
in the pit of her stomach. “Why?”
“We will need to purchase a horse,” he said, staring at her as if she’d lost her
mind. “I too, could not get away on horseback. Me da has been watching me like
a hawk these past days. He also cut off me allowance. I think he believed the
threat of poverty would get me to change me mind about marrying Jean.”
Confusion set in. “Jean?” she asked. “I thought her name was Claire?”
“Whose name?”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “The woman yer da wants ye to marry. I thought
you wrote that her name was Claire.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Jesu!” He exclaimed. “I fear yer
beauty is makin’ me a bit addlepated. I do no’ think I can remember me own
name right now, so glad am I to see ye.”
Mayhap he was just as nervous as she. Mayhap it hadn’t been anger she saw
in his eyes, but disappointment. For now, she would give him the benefit of the
doubt.
“Come,” he said, holding out an arm. “Let us away this place before anyone
realizes ye be missin’.”
Reluctantly, she grabbed her satchel and went to him. He did not take her
hand, but instead, placed a palm on her shoulder. “I will no’ rest easy until we
are off yer da’s lands,” he admitted.
A wave of uneasiness washed over her. He was not behaving at all like she
would expect him to, nor as she had hoped. When she’d thought about this
moment, she envisioned him drawing her into his arms and stealing a kiss, so
glad would he be that she was finally with him.
Nay, she convinced herself. He was simply being honorable. He’d not take
advantage of her. Knowing him as she thought she did, he was going to wait
until they were duly wed before stealing kisses.

LACHLAN AND WILLEM were lying on their stomachs some thirty feet away, well
hidden behind a row of thick evergreens. As they watched and listened, their
confusion grew. There was no joyful reunion between the two young people who
were supposedly in love. No kisses, no warm embrace. One would think that, at
the very least, they’d hug one another.
What bothered Lachlan most was that the young man was unarmed. No good
warrior would leave his own bed without his sword. But this lad? Lachlan
couldn’t even see a sgian dubh hidden in his belt.
And no horse? No coin? The fool clearly had not thought the entire thing
through.
As much as Lachlan was tempted to burst through the bushes and drag
Mariote back to the keep, his good sense told him to wait. Mayhap this was an
attempt at a kidnapping, for sure as hell it was not two people in love attempting
an elopement. Who knew how many men were lying in wait.
His blood boiled as he watched and listened. No matter what was afoot here,
he would take great pleasure in gutting the man who had convinced Mariote to
leave her home like a thief in the dead of night. The man’s lack of horse and coin
proved he did not have the good sense God gave a goat. And he most assuredly
did not have Mariote’s health or wellbeing at heart.
Were it he who had perchance won her heart, he would have gone to her
father and asked for her hand, as any good man would have done. If by ill luck
her father had refused, he would have waited and proven himself worthy of the
girl’s hand. Then, and only then, would he have considered running away with
her. And if it had come to that? He most assuredly would have been better
prepared.
He and Willem watched in silence, waiting until the couple had left and were
out of earshot.
Looking to Willem, he said, “That is no’ Conner MacGavin.”

“I KEN THAT,” Willem whispered, “but who the bloody hell is he?” Slowly he got
to his feet. “And why is he pretending to be Conner?”
Lachlan shook his head as headed for the horses. “I do no’ ken,” he said.
“But I intend to find out.”
Willem stopped him from gaining his horse with a hand on his shoulder. “I
think it best we wait.”
“Wait fer what?” Lachlan asked, his brow furrowed into a hard line.
“If this be a way to kidnap her, there might be more MacGavins lyin’ in
wait,” Willem explained. “Mayhap far too many fer us to take care of on our
own.”
Lachlan thought long and hard before asking, “What do ye suggest we do?
Stand idly by and watch her be taken?”
Willem frowned and shook his head. “Nay, I be sayin’ we find out if the lad
be alone or if he has company. If we find he is alone, then we will act. But if
there be dozens of MacGavins with him, we risk not only losin’ our own heads,
but Mariote’s as well.”
While Lachlan knew Willem’s idea made a good deal of sense, he still wasn’t
fond of the idea. In the end, he had to agree. “But at the first sign of trouble, we
will kill the bloody bastard.”
Willem chuckled his agreement. “Aye, we will kill the bloody bastard.”
They decided to keep to the forest, walking their horses so as not to be seen.
“He was wearing the MacGavin plaid,” Willem said as he grabbed the reins to
his steed.
“But that does no’ mean he is a MacGavin,” Lachlan said.
They remained quiet and well-hidden in the forest, carefully watching
Mariote walk away with the stranger.
Lachlan knew she was in danger. The only question was, what kind? Was
this a ploy to get her as far away from their lands as possible in order to kidnap
her? Or was there something far more sinister at play? Either way, it made him
angry to think Mariote was foolish enough to fall prey to such tactics.
“Ye ken her better than I,” Willem said. “Are ye certain she never mentioned
Conner MacGavin?”
“I told ye, no!” Lachlan shook his head, befuddled.
The Mariote he knew was a logical, practical lass. She never wiled away the
hours daydreaming about romance, husbands, kisses, or the making of bairns.
Were they not as close as two people could be without being married or related
by blood? Had he not shared every secret with her? Every dream?
Nay, he had not shared everything. There were some secrets—all of which
revolved around her—that he’d kept as closely guarded as the king’s jewels.
Either ’twas cowardice or the fact that Willem was like a brother to him that kept
him quiet about any feelings he might have toward Mariote. She loved Willem,
plain and simple.
Even if Lachlan believed her love was misplaced. He knew Willem better
than anyone. His friend was not the marrying kind, and that was something
Mariote wanted: marriage, a family of her own.
All at once, clarity dawned as bright as the morning sun in summer. Mariote
had grown tired of waiting for the love of her life to ask for her hand. ’Twas the
only reason she would accept a proposal from the first man who asked. Above
all things, she wanted a husband and children of her own.
Bloody hell.
 Chapter Five

THE SUN WAS beginning to lose its battle of hide and find with the clouds. And
Mariote was beginning to lose her battle with her conscience. The farther away
from the keep she went with Conner, the guiltier she felt.
They had been walking for a full hour and thus far, Conner hadn’t said more
than two words to her. He hadn’t offered her his hand, hadn’t offered to carry her
satchel for her, and had not once asked how she fared.
Mayhap he was simply in a hurry to get to Inverness. Snow was definitely
heading their way. There was also a strong possibility he was keeping quiet so as
not to alert anyone to their presence. Though who in their right minds would be
out at this early hour, in this frigid weather?
Rarely did she see him scanning the land on either side of them. Nay, he kept
glancing back, over his shoulder, beyond her.
Many times over the past few years, Lachlan had taken her on long walks so
that she could find herbs and plants to be used for healing. He was ever vigilant
in keeping a watchful eye out for any marauders or raiders that might have made
it onto their lands. Thinking of him, of their deep friendship, sent another pang
of guilt jolting through her stomach. Not only was she betraying the trust of her
family by leaving like this, she was also betraying her friendship with Lachlan.
Her mother and sisters might understand why she was doing it. Even her
father might eventually come around to the idea. But Lachlan? Nay, he would
probably never forgive her. Why did that thought hurt so much?
Conner came to a halt at the edge of the meandering stream. Ahead, across a
small burn, she could see smoke billowing from a chimney, but naught else.
“Wait here,” he told her. “And give me yer coin.”
Perplexed, she studied him closely for a brief moment before asking,
“Why?”
“There be a farm ahead,” he said as he once again glanced behind her. “I be
tired of walkin’ and would like to purchase a horse from him.”
“Why can I no’ go with ye?”
He offered her a warm smile. A smile that she realized was not quite
reaching his eyes. “When yer family discovers ye missin’, they will send out a
search party, aye?”
Mariote nodded.
“They will be lookin’ fer ye, no’ me,” he said. “If I take ye with me …” He
let the words fall away as he waited for understanding to settle in.
In truth, she was tired of walking. Her feet were frozen, the hems of her
skirts crusted with snow, and she had lost the feeling in her fingers half an hour
ago. A horse would be a far more delightful way to travel. “Verra well,” she said
as she reached into her pouch and pulled out three sillers and handed them to
him.
“Be this all ye have?” he asked incredulously.
“Do ye no’ have coin of yer own?”
There was that flash of anger in his eyes again. Only a flash before he
replaced it with a smile. “We will need my coin for Inverness.”
That made sense, she thought. She pulled out another few sillers and handed
them to him.
“Wait here,” he said. “I shan’t be long.”
Exhausted, she found the remnants of an old tree and sat down. Oh, how she
wished she was sitting beside a roaring fire right now. She also longed for a hot
bath, followed by climbing into a warm bed and drawing furs up to her ears.
Rubbing her hands together, she watched as Conner crested the hill, then
disappeared. She could not help but wonder why he was so very different from
the man in his letters. The letters had been filled with beautiful prose, words
from a man who was very much in love. The only thing that made any sense was
that he was nervous. Nervous and worried they’d be caught before they made it
to Inverness. Mayhap he was better at expressing himself with the written word
than with the spoken. Was that not a likely possibility?
Aye, she assured herself, that was it. He loved her with all his heart. She
knew that because he had written it so many times. She was the only reason he
climbed out of bed each day. The only reason he took one breath after another.
She was, according to his letters, his only reason for living. Aye, in his letters, he
was a hopeless romantic. Mayhap, after they were safely married, some of that
might come through when he spoke to her.
It did not take long for him to return, and with a horse. Hurriedly, he came
down the hill, leading the mount behind him. He did not look happy. The horse
looked just as thrilled. ’Twas an old work horse, gray, with an even grayer mane
and a swayed back.
“What be the matter?” she asked as she jumped to her feet.
With a frown, he replied, “The auld farmer wanted every bit o’ coin I had.”
She almost asked Ye gave him all our coin for that? But from the fierce glare
on Conner’s face, she decided it might not be the best thing to say at the
moment.
As soon as he reached her, he grabbed a fistful of mane and pulled himself
onto the horse. Once he was comfortably seated, he held out his hand. “He did
no’ have a saddle,” he told her. “And if he had, he likely would have asked fer
me soul to pay fer it.”
Doubt began to plague her good senses. Why did he not seem the least bit
concerned over her wellbeing? She was beginning to feel more and more uneasy
about the man who had convinced her to run away with him. Nay, she told
herself. He is just nervous and worried, as are ye. He loves ye, ye ken he does.
Why else would he have written all those beautiful letters filled with so much
love and adoration?
Dismissing her concern as nothing more than being nervous over their
current circumstances, Mariote chuckled as she took his offered hand. He pulled
her up and sat her behind him. ’Twas not easy climbing up with her satchel, but
she managed. She had to put it between herself and Conner before scooting
closer to hold onto his waist.
“Ye might no’ have procured us a gallant steed,” she said as Conner clicked
his tongue and turned the horse around. “But ’tis preferable to walkin’, aye?”
He replied with a curt nod and they began to ride north and east.

NOT ONLY WAS their mount old, ’twas also quite apparent he was not used to being
ridden. At least not for long distances or at any pace faster than a trot.
Unaccustomed to riding without a saddle, Mariote kept slipping to one side or
another. Her arms were beginning to ache from holding onto Conner so tightly,
her legs to grow sore from trying to keep from falling off.
They had ridden a few hours—in complete silence—before finally finding
sunshine and more even terrain. The snow was not quite as deep, but the air was
just as cold. Her cheeks and ears were wind-burned and beginning to sting.
Mariote was not about to complain, for she did not want her future husband to
think her weak.
Finally, she swallowed her pride and asked him to stop. Begrudgingly, he
pulled rein. “Do ye need to piss?” he asked.
Not only was she embarrassed by his question, she found his tone off-
putting. It was not as if she were unaccustomed to such bluntness, for the
McCullums were quite blunt. But she had hoped that her betrothed would have
found a more gentile way of asking the question. “Aye,” she murmured softly.
He grunted, nodded his head, and threw one leg over the neck of their mount.
Sliding to the ground, he took her satchel, but only after she asked him to. That
sense of dread she had pushed away came roaring back to life when he turned
his back to her and walked away.
Where was the man’s compassion? Where was the gentle, sweet man who’d
been so evident in his letters? Letting loose a breath, she had to scoot forward,
grab hold of the horse’s mane, and let herself down.
Her feet stung when they hit the cold earth. Holding on to the side of the
horse, she counted to ten and moved her toes inside her boots.
“Do no’ tarry long,” Conner said as he stretched his arms out wide.
She wasn’t sure which upset her more. His silence or his gruff tone when he
finally did manage to speak. Swallowing back her anger, she left him in the
small clearing and headed toward a copse of trees for some privacy.
Once she was alone, she let the tears fall. This is no’ at all how I imagined
’twould be.
It had to be close to the nooning hour, for her stomach was growling.
Freezing, tired, and hungry, she cried, her mind filled with doubts, guilt, and
longing for home.
Mayhap this had not been the right decision. Mayhap Conner could only be
kind and romantic in his writings. Mayhap she was seeing the real Conner for
the first time: a rude, uncaring individual. If that was the case, she did not like it
at all. Her anger was quickly replaced with a sense of heavy trepidation. No
matter how badly she wanted a husband and bairns of her own, it was not worth
being married to a man like Conner.
But how to explain it to him? Ye be no’ one to shrink from anything, she told
herself. Ye have learned over the years to stand up fer yerself and to speak yer
mind. She was simply going to have to discuss the matter with him, and now,
before they were married.
With her mind made up, she dried her face on the sleeve of her cloak and
took a deep breath before heading back to the clearing.
He was already mounted and looking perturbed. “I told ye no’ to tarry,” he
said gruffly.
She stopped dead in her tracks. “Let us get one thing perfectly clear, Conner
MacGavin,” she said as she stomped toward him. “Ye will no’ be orderin’ me
about like some bar wench.”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. He slid down from the horse and
stomped toward her. His cloak billowed open and he looked furious. She stood
her ground as he approached.
She saw it then: his blood-soaked tunic.
Fear rose in the form of bile, for she was quite certain ’twas not his own
blood.
“I be no’ orderin’ ye about,” he said as he stopped in front of her. “We simply
can no’ tarry. We must get to Inverness as soon as possible.”
She could not take her eyes off the bloody tunic. When he caught her staring
at it, he quickly drew his cloak around his chest.
“Where did that blood come from?” She whispered the question because she
felt as though the wind had been knocked from her lungs. Instinctively, she knew
he was going to lie to her.
“I scratched myself on a tree branch,” he said. “Come, we must leave now.”
With her feet firmly planted in place, she shook her head. “Yer tunic was no’
bloody when we first met,” she told him. Tearing her gaze away from the sight,
she looked him directly in the eyes and waited.
“’Tis an auld wound,” he said, doing his best to look as innocent as he could.
“I was injured a few days ago, whilst trainin’. The branch merely opened it
again. ’Tis naught to concern yerself with.”
A tic was forming in his jaw, his eyes … there was something off about his
eyes, but she could not quite describe it. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her
mind warning her to proceed quite cautiously.
“If we do no’ hurry,” he said as he took her by the elbow, “we shall be found
out, each of us sent home, and I will be forced to marry Margaret.”
She froze in place. “Margaret?” she asked.

MARIOTE’S HEART FILLED with dread that turned to white-hot anger. As best she
could, she kept that anger in check. ’Twas all a lie. She knew it then, as certainly
as the sun would set this night, he was lying. Every word of every letter he’d
sent her was a lie.
He tried pulling her along, but she dug her feet in. “Margaret?” she asked
once again.
Conner said nothing as his face began to turn an ugly shade of red. For the
first time, she was seeing him through clear, logical eyes. What she saw terrified
her.
“In yer letters,” she said, yanking her arm from his grip, “ye referred to her
as Claire. Then earlier, ye called her Jean. Now ye say her name be Margaret.
How many women does yer father wish ye to marry?”
“I misspoke is all,” he said, trying to cover his lie with a smile.
“I shall have the truth,” she challenged. “I will no’ leave this place without it.
The truth about Claire, or Jean, or whatever ye will call her next, as well as the
blood on yer tunic.”
The tic in his jaw increased as he clenched his teeth. “Ye bloody well will
leave with me, and we will be leavin’ now,” he said harshly as he grabbed her
arm and pulled her toward the horse.
“Let go of me!” she screamed as she struggled against his firm hold. “I am
no’ goin’ anywhere with ye!”
She had not been prepared for his wrath. He spun around and with a closed
fist, struck her cheek.
Mariote fell to the ground, stunned, angry, and terrified all at once. The pain
radiated from her cheek to her eye and ear. Bright white lights danced in front of
her as her stomach roiled. The last man who had struck her thusly ended up
dead. But this time, Muriale was not here to come to her aid.
Stunned into muteness, with her ears ringing, her world began to spin. Only a
rapid heartbeat later, she heard a loud roar similar to that of a charging bear.

LACHLAN’S BLOOD BOILED as hot as a blacksmith’s forge. So much so that he saw

red.
Letting out a loud, thunderous roar, with sword drawn, he tore across the
clearing, hell bent on killing the man who had just struck Mariote. The imposter
looked up; his eyes grew wide with fear. A heartbeat later, he was running as fast
as he could away from Mariote and Lachlan.
Lachlan did not stop to see if Mariote was well, for he knew Willem would
tend to her. He was focused solely on the fool who had just mounted the old
farm horse and was trying to get away. Lachlan whistled for his horse, which
came running immediately. As he ran alongside the horse, he reached up,
grabbed the saddle and all but flew atop his fine steed.
Neither the farm horse nor the man he was intent on killing were a match for
Lachlan. In no time at all, he was riding beside the imposter. With a strong arm,
Lachlan unseated the fool and sent him hurling to the cold earth.
Dismounting before his own horse came to a stop, Lachlan straddled his
prey. Grabbing the bloody tunic, he lifted the fake Conner up to look him in the
eye. “Ye have made many mistakes this day,” Lachlan ground out. “Ye will no’
have the opportunity to make another.”

WILLEM SCOOPED MARIOTE up into his arms and carried her toward his horse.
Dazed, she tried to focus on the blur that had just raced past her. “Lachlan?” she
murmured in confusion.
“Aye,” Willem said with a chuckle. “That be Lachlan.”
At the sound of his voice, Mariote’s eyes opened wide. “Willem?”
He chuckled again but said nothing as he sat her down on a felled log.
“Ye came fer me?” she asked, wholly bewildered at his presence.
“’Twas Lachlan who came after ye,” he told her. “I was only along for
amusement.”
Amusement? Mariote certainly found nothing amusing about her situation.
He was inspecting her face for injury. Batting his hand away she said, “Ye find
this funny?”
“Nay,” he said, his tone growing serious. “I find it utterly repulsive that a
man would strike ye. Or any woman, for that matter.”
“His name is Conner,” she told him. “Conner MacGavin.”
Willem raised a brow. “Nay, lass, that be no’ Conner MacGavin. I do no’ ken
who he is, but I can assure ye he is no’ Conner.”
Her stomach began to churn. “What do ye mean?” she exclaimed. “He has
been writin’ to me fer months.”
“That may verra well be the case,” Willem told her. “But he is no’ Conner.”
“Then who in the bloody hell is he?” Her anger was growing with each beat
of her heart. Betrayal blended with fury.
“Mayhap Lachlan will learn the truth before he kills him.”
 In wide-eyed astonishment, she stammered, “Kills him?”
Willem chuckled again. She was beginning to find that habit quite annoying.
“When a man loves a woman as much as Lachlan loves ye, then aye, he will
kill any man who brings harm to ye.”
Her head began to spin. “Tell me ye jest,” she said. The man was daft.
Insane.
When he simply smiled his reply, a smile that said, think on it fer a moment,
she felt like weeping. “Tell me ye jest!” she demanded.
With a slow shake of his head, he said, “Nay, lass, I do no’ jest. The poor
fool has been in love with ye fer an age.”
“But that can no’ be,” she said, pressing a hand against her chest. Nay,
Lachlan thinks of me only as a friend. Even if she made the attempt, there was
no hiding her confusion.
“Why is it so hard to believe?” he asked with a wide grin.
It made no sense to her. Not once in all these years had Lachlan behaved in
such a way to make her think he had anything other than a brotherly affection
toward her. “He is my friend,” she told him. “Naught more.”

LACHLAN DID NOT need to threaten to kill the man in order to get the information
he wanted. The coward did not protest or put up any kind of fight. As soon as
Lachlan asked him who he was and what he was about, the words came spilling
out.
“I be Fergus MacGavin. Me da is the blacksmith for the MacGavin clan,” he
said, his voice trembling with fear.
“Then why does Mariote believe ye to be Conner MacGavin?” Lachlan
asked. He still had the man pinned to the cold, damp earth.
He stammered only for a moment. “I saw her last spring at the festival,” he
said.
When he fell silent, Lachlan pushed hard against his chest, warning him to
continue.
“I found letters. Letters our laird wrote our lady. Filled with poetry and
flowery words meant to impress her. I took them and copied them, putting
Mariote’s name in our lady’s place.”
“But why?” Lachlan asked through gritted teeth. It took a good deal of
energy not to pummel the bastard into the cold earth.
 “I thought if she believed I was the laird’s son, I could convince her to marry
me,” Fergus said raggedly.
Clarity dawned, causing Lachlan’s fury to intensify. “And improve yer lot in
life.” Disgusted, he shook his head. “And by the time Mariote realized the
truth…”
“’Twould be too late,” Fergus added, his face turning purple as he fought to
catch a breath.
Furious, repulsed, Lachlan let the man go and stood up, hovering over the
coward. The fool had lied to Mariote. Lied well enough to make her believe he
loved her. Well enough to convince her to steal away and marry him.
Fergus rolled over to his hands and knees and took several deep breaths.
“Ye be a coward,” Lachlan ground out. “Ye used the tender heart of an
innocent lass.”
Fergus laughed as he struggled to his feet. “Aye, and ’twould have worked if
ye hadn’t come along.”
The idiot had the audacity to smirk, to look proud of what he had almost
accomplished. The thought of Mariote being married to someone like this
insipid, weak excuse for a man sickened Lachlan. “The blood on yer tunic?” he
asked with a nod.
Fergus glanced down at the blood. “This?” he asked, grinning stupidly. “This
belongs to the farmer who refused to sell me a horse.”
The smirk, the sinister gleam in the man’s eyes, the thought of what might
have happened to Mariote was too much. Red hot fury erupted and so did
Lachlan’s fist. He punched the man square in the jaw and sent him to the ground.
He picked him up by the scruff of his tunic and hit him again.
Three more punches to the ignorant fool’s face made Lachlan feel only
slightly better. He dragged Fergus’s unconscious and bloody body to a tree,
retrieved the rope from his saddle, and tied him to the trunk.
Before leaving, he said, “Ye will no’ live long enough to hurt anyone else. If
the MacGavin does no’ kill ye, I will.”

WILLEM KNEW BETTER than anyone how Lachlan felt about Mariote. While his
friend had never come right out and expressed his feelings—for warriors simply
did not do such things—he knew. ’Twas the way Lachlan smiled whenever he
spoke her name. The way the man stared at her like a wolf wanting to devour a
doe whenever he caught sight of her. Aye, his friend wanted Mariote, and who
could blame him? She was a beautiful lass, with long, wavy, golden tresses and
big, bright eyes and curves in all the right places.
Willem also knew Mariote had feelings for him. He valued his friendship
with Lachlan too much to act on those misplaced feelings. He also valued his life
too much. For if he did act on those feelings—as he would were she anyone
else’s daughter—Alysander McCullum would kill him. Besides, he respected
Mariote far too much to give in to any temptations he might have.
“Aye, Lachlan does consider ye his friend. But methinks he would like it to
be more than that.”
From her bewildered expression, he knew she still did not quite believe him.
“Trust me, lass, when I tell ye the man is in love with ye.”
She shook her head in disbelief as she swallowed back her tears.
“He’d make a right good husband,” he told her. “Men like Lachlan always
make far better husbands than men like me,” he said. Laughing, he added, “I
would make a most horrible husband, fer I doubt I could ever be faithful. I be far
too greedy in that regard.”
“Greedy?” she asked, her pretty brow knotted.
“Aye,” he said with a nod. “I be a right greedy bastard when it comes to the
opposite sex. I love all women and not in the way that is necessarily best fer
them. I be far too selfish to give meself to just one woman, ye ken?”

NAY, SHE DID not understand, not in the least. Mariote swallowed back more
tears. Why was he being so hard on himself? “’Tis no’ yer fault women throw
themselves at ye.”
He chuckled again. “Mayhap no’,” he replied. “But were I a better man, I
might not catch all the women who throw themselves at me. Were I a better man,
I would no’ take such enjoyment from it.”
Was he being honest? Or did he have a suspicion that she cared for him and
was doing his best to discourage those feelings? She realized then that he was
only trying to protect her. He might believe he was naught more than a scoundrel
and ne’er-do-well, but she saw through his facade. He did care. But not in the
manner in which she had been dreaming and wishing he would.
He was wrong about one thing, however. Lachlan did not love her in a
romantic sense. She began to grow angry again, not because Willem had been
honest with her about his own faults—and there were many, she realized. But
because she felt he was simply trying to shove her off on to his friend so she
would leave him alone.
She was about to give him a piece of her mind on that matter when she saw
Lachlan thundering across the field towards her.
Beyond any shadow of a doubt, he was furious. Never before had she seen
that look in her friend’s eyes. Valiantly, she fought off the urge to scream and
start running for the hills.
As he approached, she could see that his lip was bleeding, but not horribly
so. There were more spots of blood on his tunic. But whose? His or the blasted
Conner MacGavin imposter? Part of her hoped he had killed the man, but only
after he had learned who he really was and what the reasons behind his deceit
were.
Momentarily stunned speechless, she could only watch as he drew closer.
Lord, above, but he is enraged! And he is looking straight at me.
 Chapter Six

LACHLAN’S HEART SEIZED in his chest when he caught sight of Mariote. She sat on
a felled log, shivering uncontrollably, undoubtedly from the shock of being
struck as well as from the frigid weather. The sun had disappeared, hidden
behind dark, gray clouds that threatened snow. She looked quite forlorn and
upset.
Willem was sitting next to her with an arm draped over her shoulder.
Jealousy, ugly and deep, burst inside his chest. Had she finally told Willem what
was in her heart? If so, he did not know what he would do. He supposed he
would spend the rest of his life filled with regret for not having spoken his mind.
The expression on her face when she looked up at him nearly sent his knees
to knocking. It was much like a deer frightened by an angry wolf: wide-eyed,
fearful. She had never looked at him that way before, and he did not like it. Not
one bit.
“Did ye, I mean, is he…” she was struggling with her question.
There was no need for him to ask what she meant. “Nay, he be no’ dead.”
Lachlan couldn’t tell if she was relieved or not, so strange was her
expression. “I left him tied to a tree.”
Willem stood to his full height. “Did ye learn his name?”
“Aye,” Lachlan said, unable to tear his gaze from Mariote. He hated the look
of fright burning in her eyes. “His real name be Fergus MacGavin. He be the son
of the MacGavin blacksmith.”
He watched as embarrassment turned Mariote’s skin a deep red. Knowing
her as he did, she was undoubtedly cursing her own naiveté. Although he was
angry with her for getting herself into this ridiculous situation, he could not hold
on to that anger. She wasn’t the first young woman to have her head turned by
pretty words.
“Well, then,” Willem said. “Ye take the bastard back to his clan, and I shall
take Mariote home.”
Where the words came from, Lachlan couldn’t rightly say. But say them he
did. “Like hell ye will.”

MARIOTE WAS CAUGHT off guard by Lachlan’s forceful tone. Words escaped her
and, try as she might, she could not will her feet to move. While her heart
pounded in her chest, her fingers trembled. She refused to give any credence to
Willem’s insistence that Lachlan cared for her more than just as a friend.
Lachlan disappeared into the woods behind her, only to return moments later
with his steed. Without uttering so much as a by your leave to Willem, he picked
Mariote up and sat her on his horse. A frantic heartbeat later, he was behind her
and tapping its flanks.
As much as she would have loved to protest, to tell him she didn’t like this
angry side of him, she thought it best to remain silent. Lest he strangle her with
his bare hands. And at the moment, she couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t. She
had seen Lachlan training with the other warriors and knew he could snap her
like a twig if he had the inkling to. Deep down, however, she knew he’d rather
die than bring her any harm. That thought offered her some comfort, but still, he
was mightily angry. There was no way she could blame him, for she had made
too many ill-fated decisions of late.
They were tearing across the snowy landscape, heading back toward the
keep. At this pace, ’twould not take long to return.
They rode without speaking for what seemed an interminable length of time.
The silence was maddening. Silence afforded her time to think over everything
that had transpired today. Not only what Conner’s imposter had done, but also
what she had done.
Willem’s words kept forcing themselves back to the front of her mind. I
would make a horrible husband. Lachlan loves ye. I be too greedy and selfish…
Deep down, she knew Willem was speaking the truth, at least as it pertained to
himself. She knew he was terribly promiscuous, knew all too well his reputation
with women. But he was also sweet and kind.
For a long while, she tried her best to think on why she had been so
convinced she was in love with him. Aye, he was a handsome, charming man,
with a giving heart, for she’d seen how he had behaved so sweetly with her
sister, Orabilis, and the other children in their clan. There was more to Willem
than just a womanizing lout. Much more.
But why had she felt she loved him to the point it caused her heart to ache?
She didn’t like the answer her heart and her mind presented to her. Ye did no’
love him so much as the idea of lovin’ him. Mayhap because he had such a
reputation with women, she thought he would be easy enough to win over.
But he hadn’t been. He’d been quite honorable with her, had left her alone,
hadn’t given her even a slightly devilish grin.
And where had Lachlan been this entire time? Right beside her, as a good
friend, gently nudging her to forget about Willem. But she refused to heed his
good advice.
What she would not give to know what Lachlan was thinking right now. If
his cold silence was any indication, however, mayhap she didn’t want to know.
Undoubtedly, he was angry with her for taking such a foolhardy risk. She
could not rightly blame him. Mayhap if she explained herself, it might help ease
some of his anger away.
First, however, she might want to apologize. “I be sorry, Lachlan,” she
whispered as they made their way up a small burn.
He was silent for such a long while she thought he hadn’t heard her, so she
repeated her apology.
“I heard ye the first time,” he said.
Admittedly, she did feel safe in his arms, and quite warm. She hadn’t felt that
way with Conner or whatever his name was. Nay, from the moment she had
stepped out from behind the bramble bushes, she had felt quite ill-at-ease.
Mayhap if she had listened to her instincts, she wouldn’t have had to face
Lachlan.
“Thank ye,” she said as she turned her head to look at him. “Fer comin’ fer
me.”
He grunted his response, refusing to speak to her.
’Twas not long after when the snow began to fall. Big, fat flakes. Before
long, ’twas nearly impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them. If the
snow didn’t let up, they’d be stuck and would probably freeze to death, and she
would have no one to blame but herself.
Lachlan steered the horse north, up a large embankment. Mariote supposed
he knew a shortcut that would get them to the keep sooner.
Before long they were carefully making their way through a dense forest.
Trees stood black against the backdrop of white. Snow clung to lifeless branches
and covered the evergreens. Lachlan stopped at the bottom of a rather large hill
and dismounted. Still silently fuming, he pulled Mariote down. There was no
reason for her to ask why, for the hill was far too slippery to climb while
mounted.
Lachlan abruptly took her hand in his and led the way up the hill. She slipped
once and would have fallen on her face were he not there to help her. His steed
nickered once as if to voice his protest over the slick terrain.
Up the hill they went, and down again. Snow clung to her cloak and her
lashes, the air growing colder by the moment. She risked a glance at Lachlan; he
still looked quite angry, but not nearly as irate as earlier. Each breath hung in the
air like steam from a kettle, making him look as ferocious as a dragon.
Not for the first time, she thought he was a handsome man. Mayhap not as
handsome as Willem, but he was taller and broader in the shoulders. His eyes
were definitely brighter: a brilliant shade of blue, much like the sky in
springtime.
At the bottom of the hill sat a small valley. Nestled between the woods and a
wide, meandering stream was a small hunting croft. Deserted, from the looks of
it. No light shown from within, no smoke billowed from the chimney. “We stay
here until the snow lets up,” Lachlan said with a nod toward the dilapidated
looking building. She wouldn’t care if it was a cave as long as she could get out
of the cold and snow.
In one giant gesture, he picked her up and carried her across the frozen
stream. His boots broke through the thin layer of ice. Frigid water splashed
upward, but he uttered not one complaint.
He set her down, took her hand again, and led her up to the door. A moment
later, he grabbed her satchel from the saddle, handing it to her before pushing the
door open and shoving her inside. “Wait here,” he barked before closing the door
behind her.
The place was as black as pitch, forcing her to feel around with her hand in
hopes of finding a window to let some light in. She bumped into several things
as she felt along the walls until she found a fur window covering. Pulling it
aside, she was relieved to allow a little light to shine through. But the wind also
whistled in, bringing the snow with it.
’Twas a small space that smelled musty and damp. A brazier sat in the
middle of the room, a few old, worn pallets rolled up against one wall. Shelves
to the left of the window held some bowls, tallow, and candles. There was a
stack of wood against the other.
Crouching under the window, she dug inside her satchel to find the bit of
flint she had packed. Soon, she had one candle lit, which was a feat unto itself.
Her fingers ached from being so cold. It took several attempts, but she finally
managed. The candle added just enough light to the room that she could close
the fur. Once she had it securely fastened, she set about preparing the brazier for
a fire.
With a handful of kindling, she tried several times to get a spark but to no
avail. She set the flint down and rubbed her hands together. They were numb and
tingling, and she prayed she did not have frostbite. What good could she do as a
healer if she lost her fingers? Or her toes, which were equally as cold.
Tears pooled in her eyes, clinging to her lashes. Ye are an eejit, she cursed
inwardly. Lachlan will likely catch his death from wading into that stream, and it
be all yer fault.
Guilt and self-condemnation filled her heart. Lachlan came fer ye; the least
ye can do is light a bloody fire so that he does no’ die!
Holding back the tears, she tried once again to get a spark from her flint. She
could barely see through the tears she refused to shed, to strike the pieces
together. On her last failed attempt, she accidentally struck the flint against the
knuckle of her finger. She could take no more. The tears fell.
Just then, warm arms circled her as Lachlan once again came to her rescue.

HE SAID NOT a word as he took the flint out of her hands. Within moments, he had
the kindling burning, as all the while, Mariote wept quietly. He did not like
seeing her in such a state as this, but before he could attempt to comfort her, he
had to see to it that they did not freeze to death.
The fire was soon blazing, slowly taking the chill out of the air. He removed
his wet boots and woolens, placing them close to the fire to dry. Reaching into
his bag, he pulled out a pair of dry woolens and slipped them on. They felt good
against his cold skin.
Without permission, he carefully slid Mariote’s boots and woolens off. She
sat motionless and quiet as he fished through her satchel. Finding dry woolens,
he tenderly pulled them over her feet.
She murmured a thank you as she kept her gaze on the floor.
Touching her bare skin, hearing her soft voice, sent a jolt of excitement
coursing through his veins. ’Twas all he could do not to take her in his arms and
kiss her worries and guilt away. But he could not act on those long-held desires,
for he knew her heart still belonged to Willem.
He left her long enough to grab one of the pallets and the spare blanket he’d
brought with him. He urged her to stand long enough to put the pallet on the
floor in front of the fire. She complied without complaint.
Neither did she complain when he wrapped the blanket and an arm around
her shoulders and drew her close.
Lachlan didn’t rightly know how to console a crying woman, so little
experience did he have with such things. He supposed the best thing he could do
for now would be to allow her to simply cry it out. He no longer felt any anger
toward her, only compassion and a bit of pity.
“Why are ye no’ railin’ at me?” she asked after a long while had passed.
“’Tis no’ my place to do that. I be no’ yer father or brother.”
Mariote scoffed and shook her head. “But ye are my friend.”
“Am I?” he asked, a bit of anger resurfacing. If I were yer true friend, ye
would have come to me fer good advice.
Hurt, she pulled away. “Of course ye’re my friend!” she exclaimed.
“They why in God’s name did ye no’ come to me before stealin’ away in the
middle of the night?”
Glowering at him, she said, “How did ye ken where I was?”
“Orabilis,” he replied.
Mariote closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “Of course.”
“She was concerned, as she had every right to be. She came to me not
moments after ye went into the tunnels.”
“Then why did ye no’ stop me before I got to Conner, or whatever his real
name is?” she asked, exasperated.
Lachlan drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Had I stopped ye from
gettin’ to the love of yer life, ye would never have forgiven me.”
Deflated, her shoulders sagged. “He was no’ the love of my life.”
“Then why in the bloody hell did ye run off with him?”

“YE WOULD NO’ understand,” she told him. He was, after all, a man. And most
men, according to her mother, were quite obtuse when it came to matters of the
heart.
“Enlighten me,” he demanded.
There was no sense lying to him, Mariote supposed. ’Twas time her friend
learned the truth. “Because I did no’ think anyone else would ask for my hand.”
His expression said he questioned her soundness of mind. “Are ye daft?”
Shrugging her shoulders, she looked away. “I suppose I am.” She couldn’t
look him in the eye just yet. “Daft. Desperate. Lonely.”
Gently, he touched her chin with his fingertips, turning her to look at him.
“Why on earth would ye think no one would have ye?”
“Why wouldn’t I think that?” she asked. “No’ one man in our entire clan ever
gives me a second glance. No’ one has ever tried to steal a kiss, or ask me to
dance at gatherin’s. No’ a one even kens I exist!” She was beyond perturbed, she
was downright angry. “Ye be the only one brave enough to talk to me. The rest?
They all run in the opposite direction or look down at their feet when I walk by.
Unless they’re ill or injured, none will so much as give me a ‘how-do-ye-do’.”
“Because they all ken yer da would kill them if they so much as glanced at
ye or yer sisters,” he told her. “He warned all of us the day ye first arrived, and
nearly every day since, to give ye all a wide berth, lest they had a desire to have
their bullocks on a pike.”
Mariote blinked several times in disbelief. Ridiculous. It could not be as
simple as a father’s warning. “Nonsense,” she said firmly.
“Lass, I tell ye true.” Lachlan brushed an errant hair from her forehead. “A
man would have to be blind no’ to see how beautiful ye are. But he’d have to be
bloody insane before takin’ a chance with yer da.”
He was serious. Deadly serious.
“There be many men in our clan who would be honored to have ye as their
wife. But I fear none are brave enough to broach the subject with yer da.”
All this time she had thoroughly believed she was nothing remarkable.
Nothing worthy of a second glance. She didn’t know if she should feel grateful
for Alysander’s protection or angry.
Her mind went back to the clearing, to what Willem had told her. Did
Lachlan truly love her? Try as she might, she simply couldn’t tell, no matter how
long she stared into his blue eyes. Feelings she thought long buried began to
bubble to the surface. Was it her childhood crush coming back to haunt her? Or
was it something more?
“Lachlan,” she whispered his name, searching for the right words, the correct
way to ask him what was truly burning in the back of her mind.
He let go of her hands and shot to his feet. “I ken ye love Willem, Mariote. I
ken ye have for a long while.”
As soon as he left her, she felt cold and empty. ’Twas the oddest of
sensations.
Craning her neck, she could only sit in silence as she watched him pace back
and forth.
“I ken why all the lasses chase after him. I ken why they all swoon at the
mere mention of his name,” he growled as he raked a hand through his hair.
“Willem is my friend. But I must tell ye that ye need to rid yerself of yer feelin’s
for him, lest ye end up with a broken heart that can never be fixed.”
“But Lachlan—” she tried interrupting, but he was having none of it.
“Aye, he be a good lookin’ man, and right charmin’. He be a good man to
have with ye on the field of battle. But Mariote, he be a womanizer! He takes
what he wants and thinks no’ of any repercussions.”
“I ken—”
“No’ only would he break yer heart, he’d grind it into dust!”
She thought it an awful way to think of his friend. Realizing he was
exaggerating just a wee bit, she tried to interject her own opinion. Her voice fell
on deaf ears.
“I have been tryin’ to tell ye for a good long while that to love Willem would
lead ye to ruin. Now look at ye. He made ye so desperate ye were ready to give
yerself to the first man who asked fer yer hand!”
She had heard enough. “I do no’ love Willem!” She screamed only to be
heard and to gain his attention.
He looked as though she’d just sprouted a tail. “What did ye say?”
Rolling her eyes at his stupidity, she repeated herself. “I do no’ love Willem.”
“And just when did ye come to that startlin’ revelation?”
“When ye rescued me from Conner.”
“Fergus,” he corrected.
“Och!” she cried out in anger, stomping her foot as she clenched her hands
together. “Whatever his name be!”
He paced for a moment, scratching the back of his neck with his fingers,
giving much thought to her admission. “Ye do no’ love Willem anymore?”
“I do no’ think I ever truly loved him,” she said, trying to calm her anger.
He shook his head and began to speak, as if hearing the words would bring
some clarity to the matter. “So ye thought ye loved Willem. Then Fergus started
writin’ to ye—”
“Conner,” she interjected. “I thought ’twas Conner MacGavin writin’ to me.”
“Does it truly matter?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, it does!”
 “Why?”
He would never understand.
He started over. “Ye thought ye loved Willem. Then Fergus, who was
impersonatin’ Conner MacGavin, started writin’ to ye. So ye fell in love with his
pretty words and decided to hie off and marry him. But then, after Willem and I
rescued ye from him, ye decided ye did no’ love him after all and ye also do no’
love Willem. Have I got it correct, lass?” he asked, smirking and quirking a
brow.
“That is no’ what happened!”
“Then explain it to me, so that I can get it right in my mind.”
Mariote took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “’Tis true, I did think I
had some mighty strong feelin’s for Willem. ’Tis also true that Conner started to
write to me several months ago. But I knew I didn’t love him. I only accepted his
proposal because I thought no one else would want me.” Folding her hands in
front of her, she waited for understanding to sink into his thick skull.
“And now ye ken ye do no’ love Willem?” he asked, for clarification’s sake.
“Aye, I now ken I do no’ love Willem. I do no’ think I ever truly did.”
He let loose a frustrated, if not relieved breath.
Mariote decided that keeping her heart so tightly shut from fear of
embarrassment, she perhaps should now be completely honest with him. She’d
regret it all the rest of her days if she weren’t. “I believe I do love someone else,”
she told him.
Before she could get another word out, he was angry all over again. “Jesu!”
he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “I pity any man who does decide
to marry ye! If ye can change the love in yer heart faster than a raindrop hittin’
the ground!”
Insulted, she stomped toward him. “That is no’ true and ye ken it!”
“Are ye certain?” he asked, his tone challenging and laced with just a bit of
hurt.
She glowered at him. “Och! I do no’ ken why I even try to tell ye anythin’,
fer ye twist it and make it somethin’ ugly.”
Glaring back at her he said, “Who is he?”
Feigning ignorance she asked, “Who is who?”
He grabbed her arms and pulled her to his chest. Seething, he said, “Do no’
try my patience, woman! I demand to ken who it is that has stolen yer heart!”
Before she could tell him where he could shove his demands, the door to the
croft was flung open.
 Alysander McCullum was standing in the doorway. So large was he that he
blocked any light from coming in. He ducked his head and stepped into the croft.
His fur cloak and boots were crusted and covered in snow. As soon as he saw his
daughter and Lachlan, his face turned a deep shade of purple.
Mariote was more than surprised to see him here. “Da?” she whispered,
uncertain if she was imagining him.
“Alysander?” Lachlan said, sounding just as perplexed as she.
Alysander tossed back the hood of his cloak and withdrew his sword,
looking directly at Lachlan. “Ye be a dead man.”

HER FATHER HAD no sooner stepped into the croft when their clan priest, Braigh
MacAllister stepped in. Though one wouldn’t know he was a priest, for he was
so young, with long, dark hair and big green eyes. One also wouldn’t be able to
tell the difference between him and any of their clan warriors.
“Thank God, ye found her!” he exclaimed happily. His expression changed
however, the instant he saw Lachlan.
“What is he doin’ here?” Lachlan asked at the same times as Braigh.
“I brought the priest to give last rites to the man I planned on killin’,”
Alysander explained, his tone most serious. To Braigh, he said, “I have a good
idea as to what he is doin’ here.”
Without thinking, Mariote jumped between Lachlan and her father, holding
her hand out to keep Alysander from running his sword through Lachlan’s heart.
“Now, Da, this be no’ what it looks like.”
Alysander glared angrily as he took a step forward and turned that fierceness
back toward Lachlan. “Tell me what I am to think?”
“Well, ye see—” Lachlan began at the same time Mariote tried to give her
explanation.
Alysander refused to allow either of them to continue. In a loud voice, he
declared, “I find out me most precious daughter—the one I used to believe was
the only one with an ounce of common sense—has run off to marry. But whom
is it she has given her heart to?” he asked, turning back to Mariote. “I do no ken,
because her sister refused to tell me!”
Oh, this was not good, for now he was shouting. Alysander rarely shouted at
her. Mariote took a step back and leaned against Lachlan.
“Then, when I put a call out for a search party, I find two of me men are also
missin’. So I set off to find me precious daughter, and where do I discover her?
In a bloody hunting croft with a man I thought I could trust!”
“But Da, that is no’ the way of it!”
“If ye would allow me to explain,” Lachlan said in a most even tone.
Alysander pinned him in place with another fierce glare. “If ye wish to keep
yer tongue in yer head, I would advise ye to remain silent.”
Braigh grunted and nodded as if to say Ye’d best heed his warning.
Alysander took in a deep breath, doing his best to control his burgeoning
anger. “I can no’ believe ye did this, Mariote. I can no’ believe ye ran off in the
middle of the night.” He shook his head slowly and turned his back to her.
Guilt tugged at her heart. She hadn’t meant to cause him such anguish.
Words were lodged in her throat, along with a goodly number of tears. She had
hurt him, deeply.

ALYSANDER WAS QUIET for the longest time. Finally, he turned around and looked
directly at Lachlan. “Her reputation will be in ruins before the sun sets this day.”
“Aye,” Lachlan said, looking him directly in the eye.
Braigh spoke up then. “Do ye intend to do the right thing?”
Lachlan glowered at him, insulted at the suggestion that he wouldn’t. “Of
course I intend to do the right thing.”
Alysander and Braigh continued to stare at him. If he was nervous, he
certainly wasn’t showing it. Mariote thought perchance they had all gone daft at
once.
“Are ye certain?” Alysander asked.
“Aye, I be certain.”
Mariote looked at each man, her brow knitted, confused as to what exactly
was happening. “Are ye certain about what?” she asked, looking first to Lachlan
then to her father. Neither man answered, neither man moved.
“Would someone please explain to me what is happening?” she asked as
dread began to rise.
They ignored her.
“Ye ken I could kill ye right now, and none would blame me,” Alysander
said.
Braigh grunted once again. “I think even in this instance, God would fergive
ye, Alysander.” Braigh may have been a priest, a man of God, but he was a
warrior first.
Lachlan glanced briefly at the priest, his hands clenched into fists.
“My da will no’ kill anyone this day,” Mariote said, raising her voice.
They continued to talk as if she weren’t even in the room.
Alysander turned his attention to Braigh. “Can we do this now?”
“I do no’ ken why no’, considerin’ the grave circumstances.”
Having reached the end of her patience, Mariote pushed her way through and
stood before her father. “Ye will no’ kill Lachlan!”
Alysander’s brow furrowed. “I do no’ plan on it.”
“Then what are ye goin’ on about? What can ye do now? What are the grave
circumstances?”
All three men looked at her as if she were no smarter than a flea. Then the
realization of what they were planning came crashing through her mind. The
MacCullum men might be a hard-headed, blunt lot, but they were, above all
things, honorable.
“Yer marriage,” Braigh said.
“What marriage?” she asked, her heart beginning to thrum nervously.
“To me,” Lachlan replied sternly.

THEY WERE DAFT. All three of them.

“Ye can no’ be serious.” She took a step away from her father. Oh, but the
expression on Lachlan’s face said he was quite serious. Her heart cracked, just a
little. He was only marrying her out of some profound sense of honor, out of his
desire to protect her reputation, lest it be sullied beyond all repair.
“Damn right I am,” Lachlan said.
“Do no’ use that tone with me daughter,” Alysander warned him. “Or that
language.”
“I am no’ marryin’ anyone,” Mariote said as she took another step away.
“No’ now, no’ ever.”
“Odd,” Lachlan said. “Ye were fully prepared this morn to marry—”
“That is beside the point!” she argued.
“Protest all ye want, Mariote, I will marry ye. And today. Now. And quit
tryin’ to scurry away like a frightened rabbit.”
Her back was literally against the wall. With her father blocking the door, the
only other means of escape was to crawl through one of the windows or to die,
right here, right now. Instead, she grabbed hold of all the years of pent up anger
and frustration.
Taking in a deep breath, she willed her anger away. “I’ll no’ marry ye. I will
no’ allow ye to throw yer life away in order to save my reputation. If ye be
worried that I might run off to marry again, I can assure all of ye that will never
happen again.”
“Damned right you won’t,” Lachlan said. “No wife of mine would.”
Wife. Lachlan’s wife. The anger quickly returned and she directed it first to
her father. “This be all yer fault,” she told him as she pointed a finger at his
chest.
From his confused expression, she could tell he didn’t understand.
“Fer years, ye have kept every man within our clan from so much as lookin’
at me,” she said, her tone harsh. “So successful were ye that I truly believed
there was no’ a man who would ever want me as his wife.” She was walking
towards him, backing him up against the wall. “Because of ye, I thought I would
die a lonely auld maid!”
She was so angry she was on the verge of tears. The more she railed, the
wider Alysander’s eyes grew. “Because of ye, I was swayed by the pretty words
of a man I had never met. I believed every lie he wrote in his letters and I very
nearly made the biggest mistake of me life!”
Alysander glanced at Lachland. “Letters?”
Mariote didn’t give Lachlan the chance to answer. “And now, ye all be
speakin’ as though I am no’ even here, plannin’ to wed me off to him!”
She turned to face Lachlan. “And ye!” she fumed. “Ye stand there tellin’ me
I will marry ye. I will no’ be married off to save me reputation. I will marry fer
love or I will no’ marry at all!”
“But yer reputation—”
Mariote cut him off by stepping toward him. “My reputation?” she asked,
dumbfoundedly. “My reputation be none of yer concern.”
“The bloody hell it is no’,” he said, stepping toward her.
Mariote refused to back down. “The bloody hell it is,” she said.
For years, every decision she had ever made had been born out of a sense of
logic or practicality. And the one time she had acted on her feelings instead of
her good sense, she ends up in a hunter’s croft, surrounded by her father, a priest,
and the one man she could always call friend. And as it had been for the entirety
of her life, she was being told what she should do.
“Again, I tell ye, I will marry fer love or no’ at all. ’Twill be a man of me
own choosin’. And quit smilin’ at me, Lachlan MacCaully! This is no’ funny!”
Shrugging one shoulder he said, “But I find ye amusin’. And I will marry
ye.”
A growl built deep in her stomach. Letting it loose, she said, “Ye be the most
confounding, pig-headed, ignorant fool I have ever had the displeasure of
knowin’!”
He continued to smile at her. “There are other reasons, besides savin’ yer
reputation, fer wantin’ to marry ye,” he said.
Stunned into momentary silence, she studied him closely. “Other reasons?”
she asked incredulously. “What other possible reason could ye have to want to
marry me?”

WITHOUT SO MUCH as a may I please, Lachlan grabbed her about her waist and
pulled her in. Mariote’s gasp of surprise was short-lived, for he pressed his lips
to hers.
’Twas not a chaste, quick kiss. Nay, this kiss bordered on sinful. When he
nibbled at her lower lip, she tried to protest. But the moment she tried to speak,
he thrust his tongue into her mouth, delicately touching hers.
It stole her breath away.
It made her feel weak, no stronger than honey left in the sun. The anger she
felt only moments ago fell away with the mere touch of his lips against hers.
Had he not had such a tight hold on her, she might very well have swooned.
All too soon, he ended the kiss by pulling away. “Do ye need any more
reasons?” he asked, a glint of the devil shining in his bright eyes.
Nay, she did not think she did.
He pressed his forehead against hers. “Now will ye agree to marry me?” he
asked.
She nodded once. “But only if ye promise to kiss me like that again,” she
said breathlessly. “And by again, I mean more than once!”
His soft chuckle made her heart swell with a sensation she had never felt
before. Though she couldn’t be certain just yet, she thought she might very well
be in love with this man. After all the mistakes she had made this day, it
wouldn’t do to start professing her love to him. He probably wouldn’t believe
her.
 Epilogue

MARIOTE’S YULETIDE WISH might not have come true, but Lachlan’s had.
As the priest began the ceremony in the auld hunter’s croft, with Alysander
as witness, Lachlan could not help but think back to that Yule Tide Eve. He’d
made the same wish he’d been making ever since meeting Mariote for the first
time.
I wish to have her as me wife.
’Twas something he had been praying for for a long while. And when that
bright star had flow across the night sky, he’d wished it once again.
She was beautiful, his Mariote. With hair the color of gold, and eyes as green
as summer grass, she was a sight to behold. Her fingers trembled when the priest
draped the bit of plaid around their hands. Her voice cracked when she said her
vows, but say them she did.
When ’twas all over, he kissed her again, more sweetly than before. God was
apparently in a most giving mood, for the moment he kissed her as his wife, the
snow stopped falling and the wind took away the gray clouds. They’d not have
to spend their wedding night surrounded by fifty highlanders, cooped up in a
dirty hunter’s croft.
’Twas long after the midnight hour by the time they reached the McCullum
keep. Mariote rode atop his lap, wrapped in his arms and his plaid. He vowed
silently to always keep her safe and protected. To love her until the day he took
his last breath on this earth and beyond even that.
He could not express those feelings to her just yet. Nay, he would tell her
when they were alone, away from prying eyes and ears. He could only hope and
pray he could say them as eloquently as what had been written to her in those
blasted letters.
’Twas highly unlikely, for he was a warrior.
But he was certainly willing to give it a try.
The End
 About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author, storyteller and cheeky wench, SUZAN
TISDALE lives in the Midwest with her verra handsome carpenter husband. All
but one of her children have left the nest. Her pets consist of dust bunnies and a
dozen poodle-sized, backyard-dwelling groundhogs – all of which run as free
and unrestrained as the voices in her head. And she doesn’t own a single pair of
yoga pants, much to the shock and horror of her fellow authors. She prefers to
write in her pajamas.

Suzan writes Scottish historical romance/fiction, with honorable and perfectly

imperfect heroes and strong, feisty heroines. And bad guys she kills off in
delightfully wicked ways.
www.suzantisdale.com