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CHAPTER TWO

GREY CLOUDS

The morning of the Annual Gathering dawned brighter and clearer than anyone had anticipated. Douglas Castle looked all the more formidable for the fine weather, even with laughter and music spilling from every corner of it.

If anyone wanted a picture of chaos, they only needed to look at the hundreds of Highlanders converging on the grounds, mingling and drinking ale.

“I see that Clan Douglas spared no expense, Braither,” Ewan commented as they entered the castle.

Alisdair swept sharp eyes over the festivities spilling across the grounds. He said nothing, but he agreed with his younger brother. Hosting the Annual Gathering was a great honor for any clan, a chance to show off its power and wealth. Clan Douglas surely hadn’t let the opportunity go to waste.

“I think I might finally enjoy one of these things,” Duncan chuckled.

“Do I need to remind ye,” Alisdair said with a very serious look on his face, “that ye are here to represent Clan Cameron and yer faither, and nae to have fun?”

“Nae havin’ fun is what ye want to do.”

Alisdair looked around, alert as if he had ridden into hostile territory—which he did all the time. Merchants displayed their wares on every side, men competed in contests of every kind, minstrels and dancers were showing off their skill, and stalls and tents overflowed with food and ale.

He spurred his horse through the gate. Five Douglas warriors moved to block the way, but stopped the moment they saw him. He needed no crest; his presence alone spoke his name.

“Welcome, Laird MacLeod,” one man greeted them. “The stables are through here.”

He pointed across the vast courtyard toward the massive stables, already crowded with the guests’ horses.

Alisdair jumped down from his horse and had just grabbed the reins when a movement caught his eye. There, walking as though he owned the grounds, was Gordon Sinclair.

His face contorted with disgust, though he said nothing. And yet he couldn’t take his eyes off the man he hated most in the world. He had known he would have to face him sooner or later, but to be the first laird he laid eyes on? That must be an omen.

“The snake shows his face with no shame,” Duncan hissed.

Two years after losing his family, Alisdair had walked into a gathering just like this one—the youngest laird amongst his peers, having only just stabilized his clan—and named Sinclair a murderer in front of them all.

Alisdair’s hand closed around the hilt of his sword, and he took one step toward the dais. The accusation he had already thrown at Sinclair once rose to his lips again.

“Daenae, Alisdair,” Duncan warned. “Ye ken what will happen.”

Alisdair remembered it well. He had stood in that meeting with grief and fury plain in his eyes, and yet no one had moved to stand beside him. Sinclair had simply asked for proof, and the hall had gone silent.

He had left that meeting with nothing. No allies rallied, no swords lent, no justice granted. It had taken him two years and a lot of arm-twisting because his voice carried weight again, before he had shed the reputation of a grieving son and husband with nothing to back his claims but paranoia. He had not made that mistake since.

Sinclair scanned the arriving guests with a frown, clearly anxious about something.

Alisdair allowed himself a smirk. He watched Sinclair stop a man married to a MacCallan daughter, watched his frown deepen. If Sinclair was waiting on that particular ally, he would be waiting a long while yet.

“Oh, I see that Sinclair received word of what happened,” Ewan said.

“How unfortunate for Clan MacCallan to have been struck by a mysterious illness,” Duncan drawled. “It seems that the Sinclairs would have to make do without their oldest ally.”

Alisdair said nothing. He was leading his horse toward the stables when a figure standing right behind his enemy caught his eye. Something about her made him look twice.

The woman stood a few measured steps behind Sinclair, her head down, her hands clasped together. She seemed unaffected by the chaos around her, unmoved by the stalls or the dancers. It was as if she had shut herself inside her own world, where her only task was to match Sinclair’s pace step by step.

Originally, Alisdair would have dismissed her as just another Sinclair and thought no more of it. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her, and the reason for that was simple—she was stunning.

He was suddenly reminded of the stories his grandmother used to tell him and Ewan about the fairies. Because what else could this woman be, what with that elegant figure and that milky white skin?

She glanced up, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop.