Chapter 1
Bruard Castle, Western Highlands of Scotland, December 1728
Dougal Drummond of Bruard had long understood that he was born to a grand destiny. From the moment he was old enough to know the world and his place in it, he recognized that he was set on this earth to do great deeds and earn great renown for his proud clan.
A hundred, even fifty years ago, that grand destiny would have meant striking a decisive blow against the Drummonds’ hereditary enemies, the Mackinnons. But thanks to his father and Callum Mackinnon, the Laird of Achnasheen, peace had reigned in these wild Highland glens for over twenty-five years. So there was no glory to be won in renewing the feud. Not to mention that with so much intermarriage between the former deadly foes, he’d likely kill a kinsman if he started murdering Mackinnons now.
In fact, this Scotland he lived in was altogether too peaceful for his liking. Especially as he had no interest in meddling in dynastic wars between the Stuarts and the Hanoverians. That seemed too sordid and worldly a cause for a man of his lofty aspirations.
Instead, all his dreams were of an earlier, simpler age where a man could prove his mettle with dashing deeds on the battlefield or through knight errantry. Dougal couldn’t help but feel that he’d been born into the wrong time. His soul longed to be part of the stories in his much-read copy of Le Morte d’Arthur. He wanted to ride with Lancelot and Gawain. He wanted to right wrongs and defeat dragons and rescue princesses from towers. He wanted to be a gallant knight, brave and steadfast and true.
Most of all, he wanted to do something out of the ordinary. Something that called on every ounce of his strength and heart and courage. Something that brought him danger and sacrifice and suffering. Something momentous and great and perilous.
Something worthy of legend.
But in this namby-pamby era of politics, politeness and financial gain, the Highlands had turned sadly civilized. It was enough to drive a braw, restless, ambitious laddie to despair.
But then one winter’s day when he was twenty-four, he heard a man speak of Fair Ellen of the Isles, and he realized that the age of chivalry was not quite dead after all.
***
Kirsty Macbain reined her mount Nevis to a stop on the headland sheltering the small harbor that served her father’s island Askaval. Below her, the late winter dawn revealed an unexpected sight. The sky and water were rosy with sunrise, but unlike on most other days when she took this ride, the wild sea wasn’t empty.
Limping into view was a small sailing boat that had caught the worst of last night’s violent storm. Half the mast was missing, and the lone mariner had lost his sails. Shreds of dirty white hung from what remained of the rigging. He only made progress through a mixture of rowing and a tiny sail improvised from a tattered shirt that he’d pinned to the stump of the mast. Even across the distance, she could see the sailor was a powerful laddie, and his rich red hair shone like a banner in the brightening light.
She spurred her gray horse down the brae and along the narrow track leading to the harbor. Visitors to Askaval were rare enough to make her curious, even if she didn’t need to check that the stranger was uninjured. The damage from last night’s storm surrounded her. Fishing creels scattered everywhere, and the roof had blown off Bruce’s sheepfold. Branches down from bare fruit trees, and a couple of broken fences.
It could have been worse. The high ridge behind her had kept the worst of the weather off the village. But she dreaded to think how bad the squall had been out on the open sea. Whoever the man in the boat was, he must be a braw sailor indeed to survive the gales and currents of a midwinter storm in the Hebrides.
A braw sailor, if not the wisest one.
Who on earth set out in the dark months of the year, in a small boat on such dangerous seas? Why, it was less than a week until Christmas. Any sensible man would be hunkered down beside his fireside with a wee dram to keep the cold from his bones. Whatever lured the stranger to undertake this voyage must be important indeed.
By the time Nevis clattered to a halt on the stone quay, the little boat was tied securely to a heavy iron ring set into the wall near the steps leading down to the water. The style of the craft was unfamiliar, built long and low with pointed prow and stern so it was narrow at the ends and wider in the middle. Again, she wondered that the stranger had come through the storm alive in such a seemingly frail vessel.
From where she sat on her horse, Kirsty studied the new arrival. He had his back to her and was facing toward the stern as he stowed the oars. His red hair lay loose and wind-ruffled across his broad shoulders. A stained and ragged white shirt, twin to the one nailed to the mast, clung to his powerful back. Brown leather breeches hugged slim hips and long legs. The black boots he wore were scarred and marked, but of good quality.
She slid down from the saddle and stood on the edge of the quay above him. "Are ye hurt?"
The man straightened and turned to face her, lifting his head so he could meet her concerned gaze. He seemed to have no trouble keeping his balance on the moving boat. The seas remained so rough that even in this usually tranquil harbor, choppy waves moved the craft up and down.
She found herself transfixed by a pair of dark blue eyes, heavy with weariness but still containing a hint of a smile in their depths. And just like that, swift as a lightning strike, Kirsty fell in love.
"Och, a few scrapes and bruises only. It was a raw night, mistress. My wee boat is in a much sadder state than I am."
She hardly heard a word he said. Instead, she was too busy drinking in every detail of the newcomer’s appearance. In all her nineteen years, she’d never seen anything to match this young man. His features were carved with a masterful hand. Noble forehead. Straight, aristocratic nose. A long, flexible mouth that, like his eyes, hinted at smiles. A square-cut jaw.
Dear Lord above, who was he? Whoever he was, he’d make Michelangelo weep. While visitors to Askaval might be few, she’d seen enough laddies to recognize that this one was a rare example indeed.
The deep blue eyes leveled on her as he tugged on a coat. They were the vivid burning color of the bluebells that turned the springtime woods around her father’s hous
e into heaven. Marked, expressive brows, a darker red than his spectacular hair, lowered in concern. "Mistress?"
Heat flooded Kirsty’s cheeks. What the devil was wrong with her? She must be staring at him as if she was half-witted. The embarrassing truth was that she felt half-witted. Her heart pounded like an orchestra of drums, and she felt so sensitive to everything around her, it was as if she’d lost a layer of skin.
"I beg your pardon, sir." She cursed her betraying stutter. "We’re unused to strangers here on Askaval."
"Askaval?" With a smooth grace that set her susceptible heart somersaulting, he jumped from the crippled boat to the steps leading up to where she stood. "Is that where I am?"