Prologue
A Lass in Love
Late Summer 1810
MacNaughton Castle
“What do ye mean she canna be my best friend?” shouted Brodie MacNaughton from the clifftop. “I thought ye were fond of Kirstine?”
His eyes focused on the kaleidoscope of color below as a waterfall tumbled into the clear blue loch. “MacNaughton blue,” others had nicknamed the shade, after the clan’s dominant eye color. The late afternoon sun peeked out from behind a cloud and created a rainbow from the cascade of sparkling drops.
“She’s a lass, ye eejit.” His older brother, Ian, climbed up the rock and slapped him lightly on the side of the head.
“Then why do ye claim that Lissie is yers?” He clenched his fists, tired of arguing with his smug brother. It wasn’t in his nature to be on the offensive, but this point rankled him for some unknown reason.
“Because we’re betrothed by our clans and bonded by our souls,” Ian explained in a slow, patient manner that made Brodie want to thump him. “She’s different, ye ken, she’ll be my wife someday. Do ye plan to marry Kirstine?”
Brodie’s jaw clamped tight. The rare tick of frustration surprised him. “For the love of saints, I’m no’ thinking of marriage at all.”
“Ye’ll be ten and four soon. And yer eyes are already rove over the lasses. I saw ye spy the bonny redhead when we were in Glasgow.” Ian chortled, a smug laugh that poked at Brodie’s anger again.
“What does that have to do with Kirsty being my best friend?”
“There’ll come a time when ye have to decide on a wife. Ye canna be betrothed to one and keep the other as yer confidante.” Ian began the climb down the side of the hill. “Are ye coming or no’?”
“Aye,” he said as he followed his brother sideways down the hill, grabbing at an occasional boulder or bush to keep his balance. “Ye say a wife willna appreciate my friendship with Kirstine?”
“Now ye’re catching on, ye dunderhead,” agreed Ian. He jumped the last few feet and pulled off his shirt, shoes, stockings and finally his kilt. Laying them all on a boulder, he climbed on top of it and pumped his fist in the air. “It’s a braw day for a swim.”
Brodie laughed as Ian yelled the MacNaughton war cry and jumped into the loch, his bare buttocks pale against the sun.
“Weel, a woman who canna accept Kirsty will never meet me at the church door.” He copied Ian, but just as he was about to jump, he paused and peered over his shoulder. With a smile, he winked at a copse of trees. “Fraoch Eilean!” Brodie shouted to the echoing pines as he joined his brother in the cool water.
*
Kirstine watched from their secret place in the woods. The pungent odor of pine, decayed wood, and leaves filled her nostrils as she brushed bits of dirt from her damp skirt. She’d been collecting herbs for her mother and heard the boys’ conversation. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, had intended to join them, in fact, until she heard her name. Instead, she crept to the place where they always met. Brodie’s meditating spot. There was a plaid tucked in the branch above her, wrapped in oilskin. They often sat on it, eating a cold pasty, while Kirstine listened to Brodie’s latest woes or comical stories.
Now she listened to him argue with his older brother. Ian was both right and wrong. They were the best of friends. Aye, and so much more, her heart whispered. Someday, the big oaf would see it. She swiped at the tear, then smiled. Brodie sensed her as he always did. He looked in her direction—his young stocky body already muscular from physical labor and hard play, his firm white cheeks bare and flexing—and winked at her. Her breath caught before a giggle bubbled up her throat.
She watched his wet, black hair catch the sunlight, streaks of blue rippling through the thick locks as he came to the surface and pushed it back from his face with both hands. She sighed. Her body was changing, and with it, her feelings for Brodie grew stronger. Emotions wreaked havoc on her mind, especially during her menses. When he touched her, leaned over her, or gave her a wink, her stomach tumbled. Her heart raced when he looked over her shoulder, his breath warm on her ear. Ma called it a sure sign she was smitten.
Kirstine knew better. This was no infatuation. At the age of thirteen, she was undeniably in love with Brodie. But he was in love with life and everyone in it. A favorite within his family and the neighboring clans. She realized she’d always have to share when it came to Brodie, his affections, his time. That was one of the things she loved about him. His exuberance, his excitement, his ability to pull her along on his grand adventures.
He had a new pet in the stable every spring, could never decide on a pup from his grandfather’s deerhound litters, and always changed his mind about his favorite food.
“He’s as fickle as the Highland weather,” her mother had warned. “He’ll break a score of hearts before he learns the pain himself.”
Kirstine didn’t see him as inconstant, but rather so full of energy and affection that his mind never quit whirling. He hated to sit and be idle. He was loyal—to the clan, to her, and to his own principles. If Brodie made a promise, he kept it. How could that be fickle?
Besides, his whims always passed, and then he came back to her. It was Kirstine he sought when he needed to work something through, or rant about his brothers or sister, or wonder about the ways of the world. It was Kirstine who comforted him when the rare disappointment dulled his enthusiasm. She was his constant, the shoulder he leaned on. Patience would be the key to his love. He would come to her eventually, as a man comes to a woman, and she would be waiting.
For life without Brodie MacNaughton was unthinkable.
Chapter One
A Twist in the Road
Late April 1819
Scottish Highlands
Scratching at his chest, Brodie poked his face under his plaid and inhaled. His nose wrinkled. He needed a bath. Desperately. He’d report to his grandfather, the MacNaughton, then find Kirstine. He’d had a conversation with his oldest brother, Lachlan, about the future clan chief. They had a plan, and he needed to think it through aloud with Kirsty.
As he emerged from a copse of trees, a movement to his right caught his eye. A long slope of spring grass gave way to another path that led to the village of Dunderave. He pulled up his horse and leaned over its neck to get a better look below.
A flash of red and blue jumped into his vision, disappeared, followed by a screech and the clip clop of horse hooves. Brodie nudged the gelding’s sides with his heels and guided it down the hill. He came across a basket, partially filled with plants, then a wool shawl in the MacDunn tartan. At the bottom, in a shallow gully, lay a tangle of skirts and plaid, and a cursing girl. A dapple-gray pony stood on the other side of the path, sedately munching on grass.
“Weel, what do we have here?” Brodie grinned. “Are ye in need of some help, my bonny lass, or just need a wee rest?”
Kirstine pushed up on her elbows, kicked at her skirts, and righted her plaid. Somewhat. She blew the deep red locks from her eyes and squinted up at him. “Look who has come home. My brawny Brodie to the rescue.” She smiled, dark eyes lit with pleasure as she held out a hand.
He slid from the saddle, then grasped her fingers, and pulled her to her feet. “The pony doesna like ye?”