Faye’s Sacrifice
Madeline Martin
Copyright 2020 © Madeline Martin
FAYE’S SACRIFICE © 2020 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.
FAYE’S SACRIFICE is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer @ The Midnight Muse Designs.
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
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Madeline Martin
1
April 1341
Castleton, Scotland
Faye Fletcher had an uncanny knack for getting more from her coin than others. She scanned an assortment of fabrics, eyeing a blue wool that would suit her as well as her younger sister, Clara.
“How much?” She settled her fingers on the bolt and raised her eyes to the shopkeeper.
He was younger than she’d expected, and his cheeks colored when their eyes met. “It…it’s, uh, three farthings a yard.”
She gently caressed the fabric. It was of good quality, the color rich as a summer sky. “Three farthings?” she asked, putting an edge of concern in her voice.
The shopkeeper’s brow furrowed, mirroring her expression. “Aye.”
Faye bit her bottom lip in pensive concentration, and his gaze lowered to her mouth. “I need a dozen yards, but—”
An old man in the alley caught her attention, the same one who had been watching her earlier. He was tall and proud, with a head of red hair threaded with white, and wearing a fine black doublet atop leather trews.
His stare bored into her, unabashed and unflinching.
“Mistress?” the shopkeeper asked.
A shudder squeezed up her spine. “I…” She looked to the fabric once more and shook her head. “I’ve changed my mind.”
She left the man’s stall without bothering to hear his reply. If he returned to the market another time, she was confident she could smooth over her abrupt departure. Mayhap even use it to elicit sympathy for a further reduction in the cost of the fabric.
Disappointment pricked her. It had been fine wool.
She flicked her attention to the alleyway and found the man no longer there. The tension did not ease from her shoulders, however. Instead, wariness tapped at the back of her mind.
She quickened her pace to where she would be meeting with her brother, Drake, on the outskirts of the village. He’d gone to see about getting a cow for them while Faye attended the market.
She glanced over her shoulder and found the old man behind her, mere paces away.
“I’d like a word with ye.” His voice was gravelly despite his Scottish burr and imbued with the same confidence as his squared shoulders.
She walked more quickly and discreetly slid the dagger from her belt. While she preferred the cut of her own sharp tongue, in a pinch, the blade did quite nicely.
“Mistress Faye Fletcher.”
Her name on the stranger’s lips made her step falter. She spun around. “I’m not someone ye want to trifle with.”
He lifted his brows with apparent amusement and swept his gaze over her. “Ye’ve grown into a bonny lass.”
“And ye’re a leering old goat.”
He tsked. “Is that any way to speak to yer grandda?”
The apprehension in Faye’s gut drew into a hard knot. She met his green eyes, a shade disconcertingly similar to her mum’s. Prickles ran over her flesh.
She’d heard enough about him to be wary. He was Chieftain of the Ross clan, a man with power and greed running in his cold veins. He was so cruel and self-serving that Mum had risked her family starving rather than take her children to live near Balnagown Castle in the Highlands, even though doing so sacrificed Drake’s claim to the chieftainship.
Faye glared at him. “My grandda is a dishonorable cur who rules with fear and manipulation. If ye are indeed who ye claim to be, I want nothing to do with ye.”
The mirth fled his expression, and his face went red under his rust-colored beard. “Impudent chit.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “It doesna matter what ye want. I’ve come to fetch ye to deliver ye to yer betrothed.”
She tightened her grip on her dagger. Betrothed?
She scoffed derisively to cover her unease. “Ye’re mad, and I dinna have time for this.”
Turning away, she strode swiftly toward the large tree where she’d planned to meet Drake, hoping to God he was already waiting. Her grandda’s strong, wiry grasp caught her arm and spun her back toward him.
She rolled her arm over his and gripped his thick wrist, twisting it sharply. He grunted in pain, but she didn’t stop there.
This was exactly why she carried a blade. Quick as a blink, she put the point of her dagger to his withered throat. “Leave me be and dinna bother coming to find my family, or I willna stop my blade next time, aye?”
He grimaced, his teeth yellow beneath his thin lips. “Let go of me, ye foolish lass.”
She shoved him from her, then backed away.
“Ye willna go unpunished for that.” He glowered at her, then slipped between two homes, disappearing.
Faye slowly exhaled, and a tremble softened her limbs. Was he the man he said he was? Her grandda? And what was his claim of her being betrothed?
She kept the dagger clutched in her grasp as she made her way to the large tree. Drake was already waiting for her with a velvety brown cow whose soft eyes were large and framed with long lashes.
Drake frowned as she approached. “What is it, Faye?”
There was a single moment that passed where she considered telling him what
