I've had to do some personal soul searching lately, and couldn't let this story die. I cannot promise regular updates as I still have many things to work out in myself. I do hope that I can redeem myself with this.

Yours,

Erin

PROLOGUE

Lochmarn 1232

It is not always those who make war that are hurt in the brutal battles. The scars, physical and otherwise do not always belong to the warriors that fight. They can also be found on the innocent; those who witness the aftermath, the women and children who must learn to live without their men.

Nay, it is not always the warriors who die in battle. Innocent and guilty alike can be killed in the fights for land, spoils or vengeance…especially when the battles spill into their very homes, destroying everything and everyone they hold dear.

It was the first thing that ran through Ian Malcolm’s mind when word of the attack found him. He gathered a troop as quickly as he could, but it appeared that he was too late. When Ian rode into the small village nestled at the edge of his lands, the first thing he did was send his men in search of survivors. He didn’t have much hope that he would find any.

“Bloody hell,” Stephen whispered beside him.

Ian glanced at his stricken face for a moment before he turned his harsh gaze on the destruction before them. Bloody hell. That summed up the scene perfectly.

Every croft in the village was afire, most already smoldering bare bones of charred wood and ash. Thick dark smoke rose to smudge the almost obscenely blue sky overhead and the lingering smell of death choked the men who rode with him. Dogs roamed freely in search of food and their masters…those that had not been slaughtered. Ian ground his teeth. It seemed that the raiders had not been satisfied to steal a few horses and some cattle in this instance. They had been here for another purpose. To kill everything living. His eyes hardened at the sight of a small foot poking from the underbrush at the side of the road. A small breeze blew tugging at the bloodstained hem of the woman’s skirts as she lay amidst the heather. She was gone, killed as thoughtlessly and ruthlessly as the rest of the village had been. Ian dismounted and Stephen followed suit. Side by side they led their horses down the narrow path and watched as time and again, the men searched through burned out crofts and shook their heads. One man stumbled back from a small home, his face white as snow. He looked toward Ian as he neared.

“My lord,” he began, before turning away to be privately sick.

Ian looked to the place where he had come and felt the same urge, though he held it in check. Five small bodies were huddled together as if for protection in the ruined croft. A surge of rage and primal fear rose up to nearly choke him. These children could not have been more than ten years old, the smallest barely a toddler. His mind drifted to his own children. William, only fifteen and chomping at the bit to become a warrior like his father. He was Ian’s brother David reborn from his dark hair to his outgoing nature. Twelve-year-old Douglas with his serious green eyes and red-gold hair. He was the image of his mother and far too much like Ian in temperament for comfort. And his wee lasses, both barely five and already knew that the world would be at their feet one day. Ian turned away from the sight before him, sickened to his core.

“See to the bodies,” he said hoarsely, looking at his captain. Stephen nodded slowly, his eyes haunted, as if sensing what Ian had been thinking. Ian didn’t doubt that Stephen had been imagining the same. He had wee ones at home as well.

Ian handed off the reins of his horse to the captain and turned away, unable to bear the sight of the carnage anymore, but the memory lingered, gnawing at him. How had the bastards dared? How could they dare kill women and children so brutally? It was this atrocity that stuck with him as he slowly walked through the village. He’d seen some of the most vicious fighting that could be seen. He’d waded in blood to his knees and had slain scores of enemies. But he had never seen such barbarity.

Aidan would be devastated when she was told of this, for he had no illusions as to the perpetrators of this massacre. The MacDougall exiles had for years been a thorn in his side. After he’d killed their laird, Ian had believed for a time that they would come to accept him as Aidan’s chosen champion. After all, she was the last living Blood, the daughter of that laird. But each year more and more raids had been brought to his attention. At first, it had only been a few horses; perhaps some sheep or weapons, but now, they had crossed a line. A line that would be their downfall.

If he could ever find the wily bastards.

He hadn’t even an idea of who their leader was, where they camped, or why they insisted on continuing with this war. What few captives they had caught refused to speak or killed themselves before they could be questioned. In the fifteen years since his marriage to Aidan, Ian had yet to discover the names of these bandits. All he knew was that they wore a variety of clan tartans, and spoke with a mixture of accents. Nothing that could be grasped upon to identify them. It was maddening in the least, terrifying at most for there were no clues as to when or where they would strike.

He paused before what was left of the blacksmith’s, his eyes wandering over the charred remains of the structure. The forge remained as did the anvil, but all else was gone. He breathed deeply, smelling smoke and blood. He felt memories of other times, other places assault him, but he held them in check. A small sad smile curved his lips. T’was amazing what love could do. At one time, this disaster would have been more than he could ever have handled, but Aidan had changed him. With her love, she had saved him from madness. With her love, she’d banished the darkness within him to make of him a man again. She…

He froze, his thoughts cutting short at the small sound and quickly drew his sword. He’d not imagined it. As silently as he could, he crept around the smoldering hulk of the smithy, his every sense alert. The sound came again, and he quickly sheathed his sword, recognizing the sound for what it was. He’d heard the sobbing of his own children often enough to know when one was crying. His eyes scanned the heather beyond the village before settling on the flash of blue. A small tear streaked face peeped above the waving meadow for an instant before dropping down again out of sight. Ian saw a flash of long red hair before the child disappeared again.

“Lass, you can come out now. I’ll not harm you.”

The only answer he received was another small choked sob and a rustle before the girl broke cover and ran. Ian had no wish to harm her in any way. Nor did he wish to scare her, but the only way he could protect her was to catch her. The heather aided his pursuit by hindering her flight. She was a tiny little thing and the tall plants simply would not stop tripping her. Ian easily bounded over the heather and caught her as she fell, lifting her into his arms. She weighed almost nothing but fought like a small hellcat. She screamed, her feet kicking out as she struggled. One heel caught him on the leg and another came painfully close to gelding him.

“Och, lass, I’ll not hurt you!” he cried, holding her tightly and at the same time trying to keep her from harming them both. He choked back a curse as her small teeth came down on his hand drawing blood. Instead of releasing her as she’d hoped, he wrapped his other arm around her and sank to his knees with her in his arms. “Shh, lass, no one will harm you. As the laird of this clan I swear it.”

Grief maddened as she was, that caught her attention. She stopped struggling and turned her head to give him a hopeful look, her dark brown eyes awash with tears.

“L…laird?”

“Aye, lass,” he said softly, soothingly. He raised his head at the shouting that could be heard coming toward them. The child cringed away from the men, beginning her struggle again. Ian waved Stephen away as the man came running up, his dark eyes wide in his face. Stephen looked at the girl with sorrow before nodding and backing away.

“T’is naught to be frightened over, child. Those are my men. They’ll not harm you.”

She stopped struggling only when Stephen had backed completely out of sight. Ian released her but only enough so that he could catch her again should the need arise. She was a quick little thing, and when she turned around his heart clenched at the misery in her sweet little face. Her dark eyes were red-rimmed and blood shot. Dirty streaks marked her face where she’d been crying having washed away some of the black soot ground into her skin. She turned to look at him, her lower lip already quivering.

“My mama…” she began.

Ian swallowed back the lump in his throat at the sound of her heartbreak.

“What is your name, lass?” he asked gently. “Who is your father?”

She drew herself up a little taller, scrubbing her face with the dirty sleeve of her kirtle.

“Gwynneth MacDonald. My papa is the blacksmith.”

Ian managed to keep from cringing. If her father had been defending his home and family, then they would likely find him quickly enough. This was the work of trained soldiers, and no man alone would have stood a chance against them.

“I am Ian Malcolm,” he said. “The Earl of Sennshie.”

“And you’re Laird?” she asked hopefully.

He nodded.

She glanced toward the burned out building that had been her father’s forge and her face crumbled.

“I want my mama,” she whispered brokenly. “And my papa.”

“I know, sweeting,” Ian whispered, feeling her pain all the way to his soul. Guilt that he’d not been here to protect these people rose in his gut to sting him. If he’d been here than perhaps…He shook his head sharply. If there was one thing that Aidan had taught him, it was that guilt was useless. There was naught that he could do now. Dwelling on the past would not bring the dead back. That was another hard lesson that he’d learned.

She turned back to him, tears falling unchecked from her liquid dark eyes. Her red hair was mussed and blew about her face in wild tangles. Some of it had been singed off, and it was darkened with soot in places. His blood ran cold as he realized where that had happened. He searched her face, thirst for vengeance snapping at the tether. He wanted to ask her what had happened. He wanted answers to his questions so that he might find these bastards and kill them.

But now was not the time. She was a tired little girl, not a soldier. She’d been through hell this night, had lost her entire family to the bloodlust of deranged animals, and he would be a double sort of bastard to force her to relive it so soon. She needed food, rest, and time to heal. He rose slowly to his feet so as not to startle her. She raised her eyes to his, a sob shaking her small body.

“Come with me, lass. Let me take you home.”