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  No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Willa Blair, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Linda Williams

  Published by Oliver-Heber Books

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Also by Willa Blair

  About the Author

  To all the supportive, protective, and fair men in our lives. May there be many more of you.

  1

  SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, LATE SUMMER 1539

  At a shout from the Aerie’s gate guard, Drummond Lathan looked up and narrowly missed losing his head to his sparring partner’s attack. He dropped to his backside as his younger brother, Tavish, wrenched his blade from its arc and drove it into the sod between them.

  “Christ, Drum! I expected ye to block that.”

  Drummond collapsed to his back. “My fault,” he admitted. He took a moment to rid his gut of the sinking sensation his close call left behind, then rolled to his feet. “’Tis lucky ye were paying attention.” He pointed to the gate at the far end of the Lathan keep’s bailey, where a rider he didn’t recognize was dismounting. “I let him distract me.”

  Drummond glanced at his brother as Tavish rubbed his shoulder. “Are ye hurt?”

  “Strained it, I think,” Tavish answered with a grimace. “Trying to avoid killing ye.”

  Drummond clasped his other shoulder. “Thank ye for that.”

  “I’ll live,” Tavish added with a shrug and a wince. “And so will ye, no thanks to him.”

  Drummond studied the rider. He didn’t recognize him. But all of the clans that signed the Lathan’s treaty over the last twenty years were coming to attend a gathering in two months’ time. Perhaps this man had come early to make arrangements for his laird, or to deliver a message to the Lathan laird. While Drummond and Tavish watched, the man spoke at length to the Lathan’s chief guard. Once the man stopped speaking, Bhaltair turned his gaze to meet Drummond’s and lifted his chin toward the keep, then escorted the visitor inside. Drummond’s sense of anticipation deflated.

  “Sorry, damn it,” he groused, turning back to his brother. “The messenger must bring trouble, or Bhaltair wouldna summon me. Any idea what kind?” Did Tavish seem aware of anything about the man?

  Tavish pulled his blade from the dirt, shrugged, and grimaced again. “Nay, not a hint,” he answered with a frown. “Ye had me focused on keeping ye alive. If I’d had a vision, yer head would be on the ground and I’d be the heir. God forbid.”

  Tavish did not want the job—and was not suited for it. He’d already said he dreaded the upcoming gathering. Drummond was looking forward to the event. “Could ye?”

  “Could I what?”

  “Could ye have a vision while we’re sparring?” Drummond glanced at Tavish when he hesitated to answer.

  Finally, Tavish said, “I dinna think so.”

  “Ye dinna sound certain.”

  “How can I be? ’Tis not in my control, not yet, but of late, they seem confined to dreams.”

  “Get Eilidh to look at yer shoulder.” Drummond clapped him on the back. Tavish’s twin sister could quickly heal whatever he’d strained in his effort to save Drummond’s neck. “Duty calls, little brother.”

  He headed into the great hall. When he didn’t see Bhaltair and the stranger, he pivoted and went down the short hallway to his father’s solar. The door was open, and Toran’s voice was audible as Drummond approached.

  “I’m sorry to hear ye are having such problems,” Toran said.

  His tone made it clear he hadn’t expected this visitor either. He wouldn’t be so polite with a visitor he knew was coming, especially if the visitor was an old friend. Rather than voicing sympathy, he’d be in full problem-solving mode, telling the visitor what to do, or what Lathan was willing to do to help.

  Drummond leaned on the doorframe and turned his attention to the man. Gray threaded his dark hair. A slight paunch to his belly made Drummond think he was middle-aged. Older than usual to serve as ghillie and carry messages for his chief, but perhaps his news was too dire to entrust to a younger lad.

  Toran finally noticed Drummond and beckoned him in. He didn’t seem concerned to have this stranger inside the Lathan keep, so perhaps he knew him. Still, Bhaltair stood guard at the back of the chamber, massive arms crossed, relaxed but watchful. Drummond knew him well enough to be confident that, though silent, he was alert—and fast. He’d be between his laird and any threat before a man could blink. Drummond gave Bhaltair a nod as he stepped into the room. The three Lathans could handle any threat, but this man did not appear to offer any.

  “My son and heir, Drummond,” Toran said to the visitor, then gestured his eldest son to a seat. “Angus is from the village near our Moncreiffe border. Reivers are raiding their outlying crofts.” He gestured to their visitor. “Go on, Angus.”

  Angus nodded to Drummond, then turned his attention back to the Lathan laird before resuming his tale. “It started last year. We drove them away and thought we had ended the trouble. This spring, they came back.”

  “Do ye ken who they are? What do they take?”

  “We havena caught one, so we canna be certain, but they ken the area verra well. Still, I doubt they’re any of ours.”

  He rubbed his chin and Drummond heard the skritch of days-old whiskers.

  “They dinna take much. A cow, or a couple of sheep at a time, this and that from a garden plot,” Angus related, frowning. “Like, as they finish the last, they’re only taking what they need to survive. No big raids such as ye might expect if they was to run the beasts down to Crieff for the cattle market.”

  Something didn’t make sense to Drummond. He glanced at Toran for permission to speak, then lifted a hand to catch Angus’s attention. “So if they’re doing nay more, why are ye here?”

  “Over time, they’re takin’ enough to keep us from gettin’ through the comin’ winter.” A touch of color suffused his face as he turned back to Toran. “Men from our village fought with yer da and brothers at Flodden Field. Many died. We pay ye rent each year. ’Tis time for ye to earn it.”

  Toran showed remarkable restraint at Angus’s criticism. He crossed his arms, bulging muscles the only sign of his sudden tension.

  Drummond fought the urge to lean forward, expecting his father to throw Angus out of the solar. Instead, Toran continued to question their visitor. “Ye’ve sought them… ”

  “We’ve searched after each raid and havena found ’em. I’ve sent out patrols, but the reivers have evaded them. Like ghosts, they are. They strike at night, silent as a wraith, then disappear into the hills.”

  Toran frowned. “Yet ye must keep looking for them. What do ye need from us?”

  Drummond knew his father felt strongly that any crofts or villages in Lathan territory could appeal to him for aid. Based on what Angus described, Drummond feared Lathans would soon spend days, weeks, or even months searching for these raiders.

  “Men, Laird. Trackers, men trained to search out—to find—those who dinna wish to be found.”

  Drummond bit back a groan as his father’s gaze shifted to him. As far as they knew, Drummond was the only one of Toran and Aileanna’s children who did not inherit any form of her uncommon talent. Yet, he was good at finding things—in the keep, at least. Things people set aside and forgot. Things he noticed. He prided himself on his power of observation. His memory. Those were his strengths, his only powers, save his position as heir, that could compete with his siblings’ special abilities. He’d seen the toll those took, and counted himself lucky to be without them.

  And he didn’t see how his knack for finding a lost brooch or eating knife would apply to searching for reivers near a village at the edge of Lathan territory. But he had no doubt what his father would say in response to Angus’s request.

  “Drummond, this sounds like a problem ye could solve more quickly than most.”

  His father’s voice snatched him back from his woolgathering, and his words, though expected, made Drummond’s jaw clench. But he knew better than to argue, certainly not in front of their visitor. He’d have words with his father when they were alone. For now, all he said was, “I’ll need men.”

&nb sp; “Ye shall have them.” Toran turned back to Angus. “Ye dinna ken how many raiders have been stealing from ye?”

  “Nay.” Angus opened a hand, then clenched it into a fist. “A handful, mayhap. Not many at a time, but they may hold men back to guard their encampment.”

  “Women and children?”

  Angus shook his head. “I dinna ken. ’Tis possible, I suppose, given that they take more than cattle and sheep.”

  Toran turned back to Drummond. “Fifty men should be enough to clean out a reiver encampment.”

  “Laird—nay,” Angus interrupted. “We’re already stretched thin. I canna support so many… ”

  So Angus was the village’s chief? And came himself to appeal for help? Judging by Toran’s raised eyebrows as he glanced toward Bhaltair, he had not been aware of that fact, either.

  Drummond could see Bhaltair out of the corner of his eye. The big man gave his head a slight shake. He hadn’t known either.

  “A dozen, then,” Toran amended with a nod. “With supplies. They willna strain yer larder any more than needful.” He looked at Drummond. “They’ll do the job, then leave ye be, as quickly as is possible.”

  “Thank ye, Laird,” Angus said, and stood. “’Tis a long ride I’ve made—too long. I would appreciate—”

  “Of course,” Toran said, cutting him off. “I ken ye are eager to return, but ye must enjoy my hospitality this night. Ye will leave with my men in the morning.”

  After the steward took charge of their visitor, Bhaltair closed the solar door. Toran waited while he took a seat next to Drummond.

  “This could take far longer than Angus believes,” Drummond began, hoping to convince his father not to send him away from the Aerie. Drummond felt that as the heir, his place was here. He needed to be at the upcoming clan chiefs’ gathering, making himself known to those lairds he’d yet to meet, and staying on top of their discussions and decisions. Hieing off to the borders of Lathan land to chase ghosts seemed a poor use of his time.

  “Aye, and I ken why ye dinna wish to go,” Toran told him. “I, too, want ye at the gathering. But ye are the best at finding lost things. And ye’ll have enough men with ye to cover a lot of ground.”

  “Fifty would be better,” Bhaltair spoke up then, his voice a deep rumble that matched his size. He was one of the largest Lathan men. “But supplies for so many would slow us down.”

  “I havena decided ye are going,” Toran told him.

  “If yer heir is going, I should go with him,” Bhaltair argued.

  “All the more reason to keep both of us here,” Drummond said, driving home the point he wanted to make. “Ye will need us when the other lairds arrive. Many may come early, for private discussions. And ye canna be certain whether Angus has told us all he kens about these raiders.”

  Toran shook his head. “That doesna matter,” he said, decision apparently made. “Drummond, ye will go for a sennight.” He held up a hand as Bhaltair cleared his throat. “I need ye here, Bhaltair.” Then he turned back to his son. “If ye havena cleaned out the raiders by then, ye will return. Ye will be home well before the lairds begin to arrive. I’ll send more men to reinforce the ones ye leave behind with Angus.”

  “If there’s trouble here, ye’ll want yer men at the Aerie, not days away,” Drummond commented.

  “There willna be any trouble—none that we canna handle. The lairds’ men will camp in the glen. If need be, we can close the Aerie’s gates and lock them out.”

  “With their leaders inside?” Drummond glanced at the Aerie’s defensive walls, visible through the solar window. “We’ll be under siege. Possibly from within as well as without.”

  “We have been besieged and survived. The prospect doesna fash me.”

  Drummond had heard all the tales of how his parents met during the lowlanders’ invasion and ensuing siege. There hadn’t been another since. “It should,” Drummond argued. “How many of those lairds ken the Aerie’s secrets?”

  “None ken save yer uncle Jamie and Donal MacNabb.” Toran’s answer rang out, terse and edging toward angry. “We’ve kept that information close.”

  “Da, think. How many lads have we fostered with those lairds? Lads who ken all there is to ken about this tor? How many of their lads fostered here?”

  “Fewer than one a year, in either direction. Ours are sworn to secrecy, and theirs are kept from the kenning.”

  Bhaltair shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Toran eyed him, giving Drummond a moment to enjoy having his father’s attention off of him.

  “What are ye not saying?” Toran’s brow had drawn down at Bhaltair’s movement.

  “Only, Laird, that we canna be certain. Lads are not always the most reliable at keeping their silence. ’Tis one reason why we guard the hidden way as carefully as we do the front gate. As we always have.”

  “And always will.” Toran stood and gestured to Drummond. “Get yer gear. And Bhaltair, pick among yer men to go with Drummond, including someone to leave in charge if ’tis time for him to return—with an escort.”

  Bhaltair got to his feet, Drummond rising next to him. His father’s mind was made up. “How far away is Angus’s village?”

  “More than a day’s ride,” Toran told him. “Maybe longer, with supply wagons slowing ye.”

  Drummond nodded, caught Bhaltair’s gaze, and left the solar, the big man on his heels.

  “See to yer men,” Drummond told him once the solar door closed behind them and they were alone in the hallway. “I’ll have Cook assemble what we’ll take with us. Tell the lads to ready two wagons—nay, three—and camping gear for a dozen men for a fortnight, maybe more.” His father had said a sennight, but they both knew how plans could change. He’d rather be over-prepared.

  “And medical supplies,” Bhaltair advised.

  “Of course. My mother and sister will be too far away to help.”

  Bhaltair nodded and left him to his own preparations.

  Morven MacComas paused at her loom, leaned back and took a breath. Where was Rory? She’d heard him playing outside a short time ago, but now he was quiet. Too quiet. She’d long ago learned the first rule of mothering a young lad—silence meant trouble—and unfortunately, she didn’t know how long he’d been quiet. The noise from the loom had covered the sounds he made.

  She set aside the shuttle and stood, stretched her arms overhead and leaned first one way, then the other, to ease her back. Then she moved to the open door and peered out into the sunshine. “Rory?”

  When her six-year-old son didn’t answer, she frowned. Had he wandered off again? The lad loved to roam the glen and into the woods. She worried that someday he wouldn’t come back. When he was younger, she’d search for hours, only to find him curled up under a shady tree, fast asleep. They’d had a dog who roamed with him and kept him safe, but that dog had gone this spring. It wandered off and did not return. She feared a pack of wolves had gotten him. Or someone in another glen who could feed him better than she could had won him over. No one in their village had seen him. Not that she’d tell Rory, but she feared he’d met his fate with wolves.

  Rory still missed him and often said he still searched for the dog. Or his bones. So far, he hadn’t found either.

  Should she look for her son? The day was waning, but there were still a few hours of sunlight left. He always came back before dark. Almost always. The one time he hadn’t was the day after the dog didn’t come home. He’d searched as long and as far away as his short legs would carry him, and had come home in tears not long after the sun set, when the full moon also set. She’d thought to punish him for scaring her so, but in the end, his grief tore at her, too. She fed him a late supper and sent him to bed, but only after extracting a promise that he would never stay out after dark again.

  She stepped out into the front garden, where she grew a few flowers and flowering vines she used to make dyes, and called again. “Rory, lad. Where are ye?”

 

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