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Prologue

Lands near Loch Awe, 1295

A woman’s scream pierced the air.

“Whoa!” Owen Cambel pulled on the reins of his horse. He’d soon arrive at Innis Chonnel Castle, his clan’s seat. He knew he shouldn’t stop at all, given what he was carrying, but he couldn’t ignore the scream on his clan’s land.

Birds chirped in the woods around him, leaves rustled in the wind, a woodpecker tapped. It smelled like—

“Ahhh! Help!” There it was again. A woman needed aid.

Where was she? A breeze shuddered through the branches of tall trees. Butterflies fluttered by the daisies. He put his hand on his claymore and clicked with his tongue to get the horse to carry on slowly down the path.

“Get off me!” a woman screamed from somewhere ahead.

All ye’re good at is finding distractions and chasing skirts instead of taking responsibility and being a leader like yer brothers. His father’s harsh words echoed in his head.

But the woman was clearly in danger. Owen couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t help someone when they needed it. His heart beat hard as he spurred the horse on and rode faster, his fist clenching the handle of his sword. Between the trees to his left, movement caught his eye. A man crushed a young lass against a tree, moving his hands up and down her body. She tried to push him away and writhed to free herself.

Owen pulled his horse to a stop. “Let her go!”

The man turned, his face dark and threatening. He walked towards Owen and took out a dagger, his biceps bulging under his sleeves, his chest as broad as a barrel. How could Owen defeat a man like this alone? He wasn’t a small lad at sixteen, but the man clearly superseded him in size and strength. Pulse beating in his ears, he jumped off the horse and unsheathed his claymore.

“Are ye going to fight me with a dagger?” Owen said.

“Shut up, pup,” the man grunted.

He launched at Owen and thrust the dagger, but Owen hadn’t trained with swords since the age of eight for nothing. He ducked and deflected the weapon. It fell into the grass, leaving the man empty-handed.

His face reddened, and instead of looking for his weapon, he threw himself at Owen like a furious bull. Owen stepped out of the way, not willing to harm an unarmed man, and his attacker fell forward onto the grass. He put his sword at the man’s throat and stilled, panting.

“I dinna wish to kill ye,” Owen said. “Who is he to ye, lass?”

“I dinna ken him,” she said. “He took my silver and wanted…more.”

“Give her the silver back,” Owen spat.

“I will give ye nothin’,” the man growled through his teeth.

Owen pressed the edge of the claymore closer to the man’s neck. “Ye will, or ye’ll die.”

The man reached into the purse that hung on his belt. He removed a leather pouch and tossed it on the ground.

“Good,” Owen said. “Now leave.”

The man threw a malicious glance at Owen, turned around, and walked into the woods without looking back. When Owen couldn’t see him anymore, he put his claymore into its sheath. The lass sat by the tree, shaking. He picked up her purse and the man’s dagger and brought them to her.

“Take yer silver and this for protection.”

Owen’s chest puffed. Not only did he carry a very important gift for King John Balliol from the MacDougalls, but he’d also met and saved a beautiful lass. With trembling hands, she took the purse and the dagger. Her blond hair was in disarray, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were wide and wet. She didn’t look any older than him and was so pretty, so vulnerable, so defenseless.

“Thank ye,” she said.

He sank down to squat before her. “What is yer name?”

“Aileene.”

Her torn dress and undertunic showed more skin on her chest than a modest woman would show.