1
Sutherland, Scotland
May 1193
In the year since Cormac Sutherland had become Chieftain of the Sutherland clan, the crops had failed, the weather had turned foul, and his people were dying.
He swept his palm over his jaw and let his hand come to rest against the back of his neck where the muscles were knotted like a sailor’s rope. His da had faced trials to be sure, but not in his first year as chieftain. And not like this.
He stared out the open window at the fields of tender shoots, all buried in an inch of water. The rain continued to fall at a steady rate, guaranteeing that the perpetual flood of water would not be absorbed and would wash out yet another crop. Also guaranteeing that the fragile new plants would likely die. Again.
As if the blight on the prior year’s plants during harvest had not already devastated the clan.
“We could go back to the Rosses.”
Cormac turned to face his twin, Graham. They both had dark, shoulder-length hair, bright green eyes and a height that bespoke of their strong lineage. Graham sat on the corner of Cormac’s oversized desk with his arse settled on a stack of parchment.
“We canna go back to the Rosses.” Cormac wrapped his hand at the back of his neck. “They already gave their excess grain stores to the MacDonalds. I sent a spy out to see how their crops are faring with the constant rain we’ve had. I expect him back shortly.”
Graham shook his head and growled his aggravation. “The Rosses know we canna abide the MacDonalds.”
“The Rosses are the only clan I know who had surplus crops in the last year.” Cormac sighed and dropped his arm back to his side. “We either need more grain or more coin to have it carted in from farther away.”
A knock sounded at the solar door, and Cormac bid them enter. A wiry young man with messy golden blond hair entered—Hamish, the very spy Cormac had just mentioned to Graham. Hamish was average height with an appearance so ordinary that he was immediately forgettable. The lad had a gift of blending into any crowd without ever once being noticed.
“Ye’ve got good news for us, aye?” Graham grinned with eager expectation, flashing the dimple on his right cheek. Cormac had a dimple on the opposite cheek, though it seldom made an appearance.
Cormac threw Graham a dark look, though in truth, he wished he could possess a similar optimism. Mayhap that might have been possible several months ago before the rain washed out their crops and almost all of their hope.
“I have news,” Hamish said with obvious hesitation. “Their land doesna appear to be affected by the rains. No’ like ours. But I dinna think they’re likely to offer it to us.”
“The MacDonalds?” Cormac surmised.
“Worse.” Hamish grimaced. “The English.”
“The English?” Graham echoed Cormac’s disbelief.
“’Tis what is said around the towns.” Hamish shrugged. “Apparently Laird Ross’s eldest sons have been promised to the daughters of English nobles. ’Tis said they'd inherit no’ only lands at the border, but also considerable wealth.”
Cormac considered what this might mean in relation to the number of grain stores. A wet chill blew in from the open window, spitting flecks of rain against Cormac’s forearms where he’d pushed up his sleeves.
Hamish shifted his weight. “There’s to be a jousting tournament in England. ‘Tis where the unions are to take place.”
“The daughters of English nobles, eh?” Graham’s eyes twinkled in a way Cormac didn’t like. “Where is this jousting tournament?”
Cormac frowned at his brother, but Hamish didn’t appear to notice. “At the Rose Citadel, which they said is a days ride from the border.”
“Daughters of English nobles with land near the border and considerable wealth,” Graham repeated what Hamish had said and lifted his brows at Cormac.
Cormac eyed his brother warily. “I dinna like how ye’re saying that.”
“We could use considerable wealth,” Graham said. “And the land on the border is far enough away to most likely no’ be flooded like the lands here. Mayhap they’d have extra food.”
Cormac grunted.
“We’re fine-looking men.” Graham gave his most charming smile and winked.
Cormac groaned aloud, already following where Graham’s thoughts were heading. “Ye’re no’ going to the tournament to woo another man’s lass.”
Graham shot his brother a wounded look. “Nay, of course I’m no’.” He rubbed his hands together with apparent anticipation. “We both are.”
“Hamish, ye may take yer leave.” Cormac crossed his arms over his chest, regarding his brother. “Nay.”
“Think of it, Cormac.” Graham hopped off the table and spread his hands wide. “If we both go, it’ll double the chances of wooing at least one.”
Cormac bristled. “I wouldna pin yer hopes on me.”
“Maybe the lasses like grumpy men, eh?” Graham tilted his head in thought. “They are English after all.”
“With all due respect, sir, ’tis a fair idea.”
Cormac turned to find Hamish still standing by the door. How in God’s teeth did the man stay so invisible?
“’Tis a terrible idea,” Cormac countered.
Graham squared his jaw, as he often did when he’d stubbornly lodged his thoughts on a wild scheme. “Why?”
Cormac rattled through his thoughts, hating his inability to find a good reason. Aye, the lasses were promised to other men, and they might not want Cormac or Graham. Aye, it was wrong to try to steal a man’s betrothed.
But it was far more wrong to let his clan starve.
Graham braced his palm against the wet window ledge and peered out to the rain-laden crops below. “Staying here willna fix this, Cormac.”
“I know,” Cormac muttered.
“And two of ye will have double the chance,” Hamish piped up.
Cormac glared at him. “Take yer leave.” This time Cormac didn’t take his eyes from the man until the spy grudgingly slipped out and let the door close behind him.
“Ye know I’m right.” Graham put a hand to Cormac’s shoulder. “Ye just dinna like it.”
Cormac heaved a great sigh of defeat. His brother was indeed correct on both accounts. It was the only viable plan on the horizon, and Cormac had spent countless hours puzzling how to save his clan with no real solution.
He closed the shutters and snapped them into place, abruptly cutting off the wind sweeping into the room and placing them in a darkness that took some getting used to. The meager candle on the desk glowed orange gold.
Cormac would do anything to spare his people another hungry winter. Even…flirt…possibly dance…with a woman who might care for another man.
Shite.
Then he thought of his childhood friend, Blair Sutherland, who had recently starved to death in an effort to feed his child. And of Ines Sutherland, whose sacrifice to others had also come at the cost of her life. And Ewan and Gregor as well as their mum. The list went on to include over two dozen of his people who had died from lack of food.
Cormac clenched his hand into a fist. His people looked to him to save them. He owed it to them, and to those who had died, to try to save them by any means possible. He steeled himself against the guilty stab of his morals. No matter what it took, no matter who he had to kill or rob or woo, he would ensure not one more Sutherland starved to death.