MARGARET MALLORY
NEW YORK BOSTON
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My biggest thanks goes to my long-suffering husband, who—among other trials—gracefully puts up with jokes about where I get the inspiration for my love scenes.
I am grateful to my editor, Alex Logan, and the rest of the crew at Grand Central Publishing for all they do for me. This time, I owe a special thanks to Amy Pierpont and Alex for suggesting I try my hand at writing Scottish historicals. If I’d known how much fun I’d have with my Highlanders, I would have done this sooner. I’m giving a wild cheer for Diane Luger and the art department for the gorgeous cover with a hero who looks exactly as I wrote him.
Many thanks to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for her enthusiastic support and wise counsel. Warm thanks also goes to Anthea, Wanda, and Ginny for their helpful comments on the draft—and for reviewing it in an unreasonably short time. I am grateful to my RWA chapter-mates and the many romance authors who continue to help me along the way.
D. J. Macleod, Honorary Librarian for the Gaelic Society of Inverness, was very kind to send me a copy of the Society’s invaluable but out-of-print article,
Many a ragged colt becomes a noble horse.
PROLOGUE
ISLE OF SKYE
1500
Tearlag MacDonald, the oldest living member of her clan and a seer of some repute, let her good eye travel slowly from boy to boy. Visitors to her tiny cottage at the edge of the sea were rare.
“What brings ye lads to come see me on this blustery night?”
“We want to know our future, Tearlag,” young Connor said. “Can ye tell us what ye see for us?”
The boy who spoke was the chieftain’s second son, a strapping lad of twelve with the pitch-black hair of his mother’s side.
“Are ye sure ye want to hear?” she asked. “Most often I foretell death, did ye not know?”
The four lads exchanged glances, but none took a step toward the door. They were braver than most. Still, she wondered what led them to be crowding her cottage and dripping rain on her floor this particular night.
“Ye feared I might die before I foretold somethin’ about ye, is that it?”
She fixed her good eye on the youngest, a lad of ten with black hair like his cousin Connor’s and eyes as blue as the summer sky. The lad blushed, confirming her suspicion.
“Well, I don’t expect to die as soon as ye think, Ian MacDonald.”
Ian raised his eyebrows. “So ye know me, Tearlag?”
“ ’Course I know ye. The three of ye,” she said, pointing her finger at Ian and his cousins Alex and Connor, “are my blood relations.”
Learning they were related to a woman with one eye and a hunched back did not appear to please them. She chuckled to herself as she turned to toss a handful of herbs on the fire. As it crackled and spit, she leaned forward to breathe in the tangy fumes. She could not call upon the sight at will, but sometimes the herbs made the vision clearer.
As soon as the boys entered her cottage, smelling of dogs, damp wool, and the sea, she had seen the orangey glow about them that signaled a vision was coming. It was unusual for her to see the glow around more than one person at a time. She suspected it was because the lads were close as thieves, but it was not for her to question her gift.
“Ye first,” she said, curling her finger at Ian.
The lad’s eyes grew big, but when one of the other boys gave him a shove, he came around the table to stand beside her.
Quick as a wink, she slipped a small, smooth stone into his gaping mouth. The stone did not help her see, but it added to the mystery and would keep him quiet.
“Don’t swallow the stone, laddie,” she said, “or it’ll kill ye.”
Ian turned wide eyes on his cousin Connor, who gave him a reassuring nod. She rested her hand on Ian’s head and closed her eyes. The vision, already forming from the moment he passed through her door, came quickly.
“Ye shall wed twice,” she said. “Once in anger and once in love.”
“Two wives!” Alex, the one with the fair hair of his Viking ancestors, hooted with laughter. “That will keep ye busy.”
