“I’m sorry, Maither,” Jane called, taking a step toward her.
Mirren moved back, raising a hand as if to ward her off. “Do nae come near me. I need… I need a moment. I refuse to believe I have raised a witchling whose heart and mind are possessed.”
Her mother looked around to guarantee nobody was near enough to hear her words before turning back to Jane.
“I dinnae ken what tae do with ye,” Mirren said. “But ye shall never breathe a word of this tae anyone else! Women have been killed for much less than ye have said, and I dinnae think ye being a wee lass would save ye much. We cannae risk yer life. Dinnae share this even with yer faither.”
“Maither—” Jane gasped.
“Dinnae call me that,” she whispered harshly, closing her eyes to catch her breath. “I birthed one blessed bairn, andyeare a cursed one. And I foolishly named ye ‘God’s gift’.”
“Nay!” A sob cut her voice short, asingle tear streamingdown her cheek. She looked her mother in the eyes. Jane had never found love in them, but she had always found a semblance ofsecurity instead.
But that was also gone. All that was left was fear—fear of what she was because her mother no longer saw her as her child.
Jane opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing came out. She eventually gave up and lowered her head.
If her mother had ever truly loved Jane and had just been bad at showing it, she certainly did not love her now.
CHAPTERONE
Scotland, 1689
Darach's heart was racing as his horse galloped down the hill. He hurried toward the southern borderwhich they shared with their Jacobite allies.
He was flanked by his brother, Morven. His advisor, Kenn, was somewhere behind him as well with two more riders accompanying them. To avoid arousing suspicion, he'd had to keep the group small. Darach wanted them to stay as far away from William's soldiers as possible, and they had done well so far. The party had visited most of the northern clans and persuaded their lairds to support the Jacobites in their rebellion against William of Orange, the self-proclaimed King of Scotland.
The men rode furiously towards the familiar woods in the distance. Home was within reach, and Darach had never been so glad to be close to it. Being back on familiar territory meant he could prepare his warriors and start laying the plans they had made for the last three months. Being at the forefront of the rebellion was not easy, but Darach Robertson had done nothingeasyin his three decades of life.
To his clan, he was the perfect leader—the man who could truly unite the feuding clans to refute William’s laughable claim to the throne. But he didn’t feel like a savior.
It was true that he was the man whose call most of the clans were ready to rally to, and most lairds respected him because they feared him. Tales of Darach's combat prowess were often traded at inns, reaching across the Highlands. He was a legend, as was his brother Morven. Stories of the two-man Robertson army had spread like wildfire—like the time he and Morven had left scores of Macduff soldiers and heirs dead in a ravine after they’ddaredattack their father’s caravan.
Darach had no love for his father. He hated the man; he’d made his childhood a living hell. But no one touched a member of his clan without suffering the consequences, and he’d made sure the Macduff family had felt the pain of losing two sons in exchange for the life of his father.
He was far from the perfect leader. Darach was aware of this. He had too many scars on his skin and heart to be perfect, but he had Kenn's wit and wisdom,and Morven's strong arm to support him. He was grateful for their help.
His black stallion snorted hard, and Darach immediately pulled the huge beast to a stop with a hard jerk of the reins. “Stop!” he ordered, raising his right hand.
He heard the others come to a stop too, kicking up dust behind them.
“We’re nae alone,” Darach muttered.
“Aye.” Morven nodded.
“Macduffians!” Kenn shouted, pointing at a hill in the distance. “The Macduffs are attacking us.”
Darach watched as soldiers galloped toward the bottom of the hill. The king's banner bearing the royal crest was unfurled and flying, held by the front rider. The Macduffs had joined William primarily because they despised the Robertsons and everything they stood for, including the uprising.
Darach knew they had no time. Fraser Macduff's men were approaching quickly, and they were vastly outnumbered.
“They’re just over the next hilltop, my laird,” Kenn said as he drew up his horse in front of Darach. “They’ll outnumber us about six tae one, and they’ll have more men riding over that hill when they hear the sounds of battle. I say we ride for sanctuary.”
Darach smiled and turned his horse to his brother. “What say ye, Morven? Do we try tae make a run for it?”
Morven’s eyes darted to the woods, then back to the fast-approaching men. “It doesnae look like we’d make it on time. They’d ken what we’re trying tae do and cut us off, maybe even trap us there.” Morven pointed at a valley hinged between two close hills. “Besides… Robertsons dinnae run from battle.”
“Aye! Ye may be right about that, brother.”