Alasdhair. His name—the name she hadn’t allowed herself to think, never mind say, for fear of the pain it caused—shimmered into her mind.

Her Alasdhair, he’d been once. Fleetingly.

Somehow, Ailsa found the courage to step through the gate and into his presence. It were better they get this over now, with no one else around. It had to be done. The pain would ease after this, as it did when a wound was lanced.

‘Alasdhair?’

Pain, pure and bright as the sharpest needle, pierced him.

Ailsa.

She sounded different. Her voice was older, of course, and lower—husky rather than musical—but he’d recognise her anywhere.

‘Ailsa.’ Her name felt rusty with disuse. His voice sounded hoarse.

They stared silently at each other. Six long years. They stood as if set in amber, drinking in the changes the years had wrought …

AUTHOR NOTE

Highland Scots have a long and successful history of emigration to North America. Jacobites on the run, impoverished lairds and dispossessed crofters alike sought fame and fortune in the New World in their droves during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in a bid to escape persecution or poverty. Some failed, some returned home, but many, like Alasdhair my hero, carved out a very successful life for themselves.

At the same time entrepreneurial Glaswegian merchants were taking advantage of the favourable Trade Winds to cross the Atlantic quicker than their English counterparts. Their clippers laden with consumer goods difficult to obtain in the New World, these canny Scots willingly granted the plantation owners credit with which to buy their goods—something their English counterparts were reluctant to do. Returning with a cargo of tobacco (and, sadly, in many cases slaves), the Tobacco Lords, as they came to be known, became rich on the proceeds, and by the middle of the eighteenth century completely dominated the trade. It was a logical step for plantation owners such as Alasdhair to enter into a business deal with these distributors, ensuring the best price for his own produce. It was actually the research I did for an article about Glasgow’s Merchant City, home of the Tobacco Lords, which planted the seed for Alasdhair’s story.

As a historian and writer of historical romances, authenticity matters a lot to me. As a Scot, evoking the true ambience of the Highlands is also something I’m passionate about. Though Errin Mhor, where this story is set, doesn’t actually exist, I know exactly where it is: on the west coast, near Oban. All the surrounding places mentioned in Alasdhair and Ailsa’s story are real places in my native Argyll. The Tigh an Truish, a drovers’ inn on the Isle of Seil, so called because it was where Highlanders going any further south swapped their plaids for trews, is still there today, as are many of the little ferry and drovers’ inns which would have provided my hero and heroine with shelter on their journey. They visit Inverary at the time the present-day castle was being built. In order to secure the view, the Duke of Argyll really did have the original fishing village ‘moved’ a few hundred yards along the banks of Loch Fyne, where the town, with its Palladian frontage, remains to this day.

If you visit Argyll you won’t find Errin Mhor, but I hope that you’ll discover for yourself the essence of it, which is far more beautiful than anything I could ever describe.

About the Author

Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise—a decision which was a relief both to her and to the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up first-class honours and a Masters degree along the way.

The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living.

Marguerite has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.

Marguerite would love to hear from you. You can contact her at: Marguerite_Kaye@hotmail.co.uk

Previous novels by the same author:

THE WICKED LORD RASENBY

THE RAKE AND THE HEIRESS

INNOCENT IN THE SHEIKH’S HAREM

(part of Summer Sheikhs anthology) THE GOVERNESS AND THE SHEIKH THE HIGHLANDER’S REDEMPTION*

*Highland Brides

and in Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBooks:

THE CAPTAIN’S WICKED WAGER

THE HIGHLANDER AND THE SEA SIREN

BITTEN BY DESIRE

TEMPTATION IS THE NIGHT

CLAIMED BY THE WOLF PRINCE BOUND TO THE WOLF PRINCE

THE HIGHLANDER AND THE WOLF PRINCESS

THE SHEIKH’S IMPETUOUS LOVE-SLAVE

The Highlander’s
Return
Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For J, my own Highland hero! Again. And again.

And always. Just love.

Prologue

The Highlands, Scotland—Summer 1742

The sun was just beginning to set as they made sail for home and Errin Mhor. They had spent an idyllic day on the largest of the scattered string of islands known locally as the Necklace. The Highland sky was streaked with pink and burnished gold, slowly turning to crimson as the sun made its stately journey towards the horizon. The little skiff, An Rionnag, bobbed her way across the silver-tipped waves towards shore, her single sail catching the faint breeze that had risen with the turning of the tide.

Alasdhair sat in the stern, one hand keeping a loose hold on the tiller, the other arm resting along the side of the boat. They’d made this trip so many times he could probably navigate it blindfolded. He was sitting with his usual casual grace, bare-footed and bare-legged, wearing only his plaid and an old shirt, open at the neck. Facing him, from her seat in the prow, Ailsa smiled contentedly. It was her sixteenth birthday, which meant, Alasdhair had reminded her this morning, according to tradition that she was an adult now, free to do anything she wanted. All she had ever wanted was to escape, to get away from the oppressive atmosphere of the castle, released from the autocratic iron rule of her father and the cold indifference of her mother. But Ailsa knew that it wasn’t as simple as that. As a laird’s daughter, her life wasn’t hers to dictate. The clan and duty took precedence over personal desires. But on a day like this, what better place to escape to, albeit temporarily, than the island. Their island. On board The Star. With Alasdhair.

Her skin felt tight from the salty sea-spray and the heat of the sun. Her hair had escaped its braid as usual, curling wildly down her back, reaching almost to her waist. She felt pleasantly tired; the kind of contented lethargy that comes from a day spent laughing and lazing with no one but themselves to please.

A perfect day. As ever, she and Alasdhair had been in total accord. Despite the five-year gap that separated them, they had always been close. Closer still since Ailsa’s older brother Calumn, Alasdhair’s boyhood friend, had left Errin Mhor to join the Redcoat army. Now that it was just the two of them at the castle, they spent even more of their free time in each other’s company. The laird’s much-neglected daughter and his rebellious ward, kindred spirits united by adversity—for neither of them felt wanted, neither was loved.

She had known him all her life, the young man seated opposite her, his dark brown eyes closed as he tilted his face back to catch the last of the sun’s rays. His hair, the blue-black of a raven’s wing, tangled and unkempt, grew almost to his shoulders—shoulders that strained at the seams of the old shirt he wore. She’d noticed earlier, as they sat fishing from the rocks, how much he seemed to have filled out of late. What had been skin and bone was now sculpted with muscle and sinew. He was no longer all sharp angles, but quite definitely contoured. A sprinkling of silky black hair grew over his chest, his forearms and his muscular legs, that had lost their stork-like appearance. Alasdhair wasn’t a laddie any more, but a man. And, Ailsa realised of a sudden, as if looking at him for the first time, an extremely attractive one at that.

Her heart did a funny little skipping movement, a hop and a jump, giving her a fluttery feeling in her stomach, as if there were a shoal of herrings—silver darlings—swimming about in there. When had all these changes happened? Why hadn’t she noticed until now?

Alasdhair opened his eyes, pushing his hair back from his high brow, and smiled lazily at her. His mouth always curved readily into a smile. It was made for smiling, despite the fact that life had given him little to smile about. Ailsa smiled back.

Her smile was dazzling, Alasdhair thought. There was something about Ailsa, a natural exuberance, that always made him feel as if nothing was quite as bad as it seemed. Despite her mother’s indifference and her father’s tyranny, Ailsa had a love of life that was infectious. Alasdhair held out his hand. ‘Come and sit up here with me and watch the sunset,’ he said, making room for her on the narrow bench.

He watched as Ailsa picked her way daintily towards him. Her skirt and petticoat were old, a faded grey that was once the same vibrant blue as her eyes. Her arisaidh lay discarded at her feet. She had no jacket or waistcoat, only her sark, the ties at the neck loose. The wide sleeves of the shift billowed out over her arms, that were tanned a light biscuity colour. Her fair hair, streaked almost white in places by the sun, trailed in a cloud down her back, wispy curls haloing her forehead. He saw it then, so clearly he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t realised it before. She was beautiful.

As she sat down beside him, her skirts brushing his plaid, awareness shot through him. He could feel her thigh, warm and soft through the fabric of her skirts. Her forearm touched his, slim and elegant, the wrist delicate, so tiny he could circle it with his fingers. She smelled of sea and sand and pure Scots air.

Ailsa, the feisty wee lassie he had taught to ride and to fish, and to sail, and even, at her urging, how to use a dirk. It was with that wee Ailsa he had spent the day, but it was a different one who was in the boat now, her scent making it impossible for him not to notice her. This Ailsa, the enticing creature sitting next to him, her arm resting on his, her hair tickling his face, the contours of her breasts outlined by the breeze pressing against her sark, was someone quite different from the girl he’d sailed out with only this morning. This Ailsa was a sensual creature, with distracting curves and a tantalising presence.

Desire lurched at him, sending the blood surging to his groin. Embarrassed, Alasdhair shifted in his seat. Under the pretence of tightening the sail, he looked at her and wondered if he had been blind. The long neck. The tender hollow of her throat. The soft swell of her bosom. The indent of her waist. The elegant line of her calves. Her ankles, the slender high-arched feet that rested on a lobster creel that lay on the bottom of the boat, so delicately beautiful he had an overwhelming urge to press his lips to them.

How had he failed to notice this remarkable transformation?

He swung An Rionnag round to catch the wind. The tiller jerked violently as the sail filled and instinctively Ailsa reached out to help try to control it. Her hand met Alasdhair’s on the worn wood. Something sparked at the contact, a crackle in the air like the drop in pressure that presages a tide turning or a storm coming. Blue eyes, almost purple, met smoky brown. They looked at each other as if seeing for the first time. As if being for the first time.

Alasdhair’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach tightened. ‘Ailsa?’

She felt as if she had been waiting for this moment all her life. As if everything in the world, the stars, the sun and moon, had been waiting too for this time and this place and this man. As if they were about to emerge from their chrysalises, transformed, readied for their real purpose. This moment. This perfect, perfect moment.

‘Alasdhair.’ Even his name seemed different.

He hardly dared touch her, but he was hardly able not to. He tenderly stroked the wisps of curls away from her forehead. He kissed the fair brows. She closed her eyes, tilting her face towards him. He kissed the sunburnt tip of her nose. It was lightly scattered with freckles. She sighed. He put his arm around her. She nestled closer. Her bare foot brushed his. It was the most erotic thing that had ever happened to him. The arch of her sole. The tickle of her toes, curling delightfully on his.

Then his lips found hers and he kissed her, and in that second where their lips met, that awkward moment of his inexperience and her untouched lips, he knew. And he knew, from the crackling of the air around them, the stillness of sea, the suspension of The Star’s rocking, he knew that she knew, too—how could she not? For their kiss had changed the world for ever.

His kiss was gentle, too gentle to be sufficient, already more than he had ever dreamed of. He was afraid to frighten her with the depths of passion even this almost innocent caress aroused in him. He was horribly conscious of the five-year gap in experience that lay between them, astounded, astonished at the way her untutored, naïve touch set him afire.

It had always been he who protected her when she courted danger. It was always he who came to her rescue when she came to grief—and she often did, for she was fearless. It was always he who was there to pick her up and dust her down and dry her tears and promise not to tell. He who kept her safe.

He did so now, forcing himself to end their embrace, to put her from him, though his body sang and pleaded and begged him not to and Ailsa, too, murmured a soft, breathy protest in a voice he’d never heard before. A voice that whispered over his senses like a siren. He had never felt such a whirlwind of emotions storming through him, yet he had enough, just enough, control left. He would not take advantage. Despite her mother’s poor opinion of him, he was an honourable man.

Ailsa struggled for breath. She touched her lips with her fingertips. So that was what it was like to be kissed! Heady, as if she’d had too much wine or too much sun. Frothy like the waves. Exciting like a sudden summer storm. That was a kiss.

‘Ailsa, I didn’t mean—I should not have—you know I would never take advantage.’

‘Don’t be daft, of course I know that.’ She smiled at him, daringly taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek. It was a nice hand, though it was callused from the endless menial jobs her father doled out, his way of trying to bring Alasdhair’s rebellious spirit under control—teaching him his proper place in the scheme of things. Her father would have a long wait, she thought.

‘Are you sure I didn’t frighten you?’ Alasdhair asked.

She shook her head.

‘I don’t know what came over me. I felt as if I was seeing you properly for the first time.’

‘That’s exactly how I felt.’ They laughed. Then they kissed again, and this time their kiss was more confident. It had the tantalising sweetness of a promise not yet bloomed to full ripeness. Tentative, like all new-born things, and heady, like all things strange and illicit.

The tilt of the boat on the crest of a wave, the scrape of her keel on the first of the rocks that bordered the shore, finally brought them to their senses. They laughed in unison when they realised how far they had travelled without noticing. With the ease of familiarity and long practice, they set about bringing An Rionnag into the castle’s little private jetty where the laird’s own boat, embossed with the Munro coat of arms and with places for sixteen oarsmen, took pride of place. Leaping on to shore, Alasdhair eyed it with a mixture of disdain and trepidation. Dread God, was the Munro motto. He doubted the laird did. Lord Munro bowed to no one. He alone owned his world, his fiefdom and all the people in it. A feudal laird in every sense, even his wife and children were there to do his bidding. Looking up, Alasdhair saw the shadow of a figure at the long windows that overlooked the castle’s gardens.

‘Mother,’ Ailsa said anxiously, following his gaze. ‘I didn’t tell her where I was going.’

‘Do you think she’ll have had plans?’

‘For my birthday?’ Ailsa laughed scornfully. ‘I doubt she’ll even have remembered it’s today.’

‘Do you want me to come in with you?’

‘You’ll only make her worse if she’s in one of her moods.’ The brightness of the day was fading with the sun, that had almost set. Her mother was waiting for her, she could sense her brooding presence. ‘I’d better go to her, get whatever it is out of the way.’

‘Ailsa?’

‘Aye?’

‘Today. It was special.’

Ailsa smiled. ‘Yes it was, Alasdhair, the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.’

‘And me.’ He wanted to kiss her again. He hated it ending like this, under Lady Munro’s watchful gaze. In the gloaming, they should be nothing but shadows, but Alasdhair wasn’t convinced she couldn’t see in the dark, like some malevolent wildcat. ‘One day,’ he said, satisfying himself with pressing Ailsa’s hand, ‘we’ll be together for always and then every day will be special like today.’

‘One day, and for always,’ she agreed.

It was a promise. A solemn vow they both intended to keep.

Chapter One

Spring 1748

The drums had been beating out their grim message for over a week now. Highlanders had gathered from near and far on this most sombre day for the burial of Lord Munro, Laird of Errin Mhor. In the great hall of Errin Mhor castle, the coffin stood on its bier, draped in a black velvet mort-cloth embroidered in gold thread with the Munro motto, Dread God. It was the same cloth that had adorned the coffin of Lord Munro’s father, and his father before him.

Ailsa Munro leaned precariously out of the tiny window of the small turret room that she had claimed for her own parlour, the better to survey the gathering mourners. Tall as she was, the window was built high into the wall, requiring her to stand on tiptoe. Had any one of the mourners chosen to look up, they’d have caught a charming glimpse of the laird’s daughter, her distinctive golden hair piled precariously high on her head, her vibrant blue eyes alight with interest, looking rather more like a princess from a fairy story waiting to be rescued than a grieving daughter about to join a funeral procession.

The mourners, however, were too intent on passing the time of day with each other and speculating upon the likely changes the laird’s passing would entail, to bother with looking up. Auld enemies and allies alike mingled in the weak spring sunshine. Kith and kin, and a few—a very few—friends. For it took fortitude and a thick skin not to become for ever estranged from such a dour man, as Lord Munro had been. Downstairs, where Ailsa should be by now, the men of highest status loitered, ready to be granted the honour of bearing her father’s colours, his standards, claymore, dirk and targe. Clan chiefs and neighbouring lairds, the cream of the Highland aristocracy, all had come to pay their respects. Even those who had been for the Pretender during the late Rebellion had, with the passing of Lord Munro, a staunch and vociferous supporter of the crown, come to mend fences with his son, Ailsa’s brother Calumn.

The funeral of a laird. Such an occasion as this should be filled with lamentation, but for Ailsa, as for the majority of people present, the day was much more about marking the end of an era and looking to the future than mourning an old man’s passing. In these fast-changing times, with the Jacobite cause defeated, Bonnie Prince Charlie fled for France, and the Government set on turning the law of the land into the weapon that would destroy the rebellious Highland clans, Lord Munro had become an anachronism, an old-fashioned feudal laird intent on keeping with tradition at any cost. He’d retained the loyalty of his people, if not their respect, but he never knew their love.

Ailsa sighed as she closed the window. Her own relationship with her father had been like the Scottish winter, she thought as she made her way, via the back stairs, to her bedchamber—cold and driech with occasional storms, when her own not inconsiderable will clashed with Lord Munro’s consistently unyielding disposition. Fortunately, since the laird had been largely indifferent to his daughter’s existence, and on the whole she had been at pains not to remind him of it, these confrontations had been memorable but infrequent.

Images from that worst confrontation of them all crept into her mind like spectres. Six years had passed, long enough for it to be water under the bridge. Cold, dark and icy water. Ailsa shivered and tried to banish the haunting memories from her mind.

There were enough ghosts at large today already; no need to conjure up any more from the past.

She stuck a few more precautionary pins into her thick golden hair, in what she already knew was a vain effort to prevent it escaping the constraints of its bun. ‘Thrawn old bugger as he was, he was still my sire,’ she said aloud to her reflection. ‘It would be nice if I could come up with one happy memory on the day we bury him.’

But she couldn’t, though it was not for the want of trying. For old Lord Munro had been a long time dying, grimly clinging on to the thread of his existence long after his wife, his children and his doctor had given him up for gone. As in life, so in his exit from it, Lord Munro had been determined not to depart his mortal coil until he was good and ready. ‘So we can’t really be blamed for being more relieved than sad,’ Ailsa said, continuing to speak out loud to herself, a habit developed as a child, when she had invented several friends to keep her company. Being the laird’s daughter, she had not been allowed to mix with the village children. ‘At least he’ll have a grand send off, for this must be the most long-awaited and best-planned funeral there has been in the Highlands for many a year.’

She fixed a pretty gold brooch intricately worked with an ancient Celtic design to her dress, and surveyed her appearance in the long mirror with a critical eye. Almost without exception, everyone acquainted with Lady Munro, an acknowledged beauty, commented on the strong resemblance between mother and daughter, but Ailsa found the comparison wearisome. Frankly, the last thing she wanted to be told was that she was like her mother, but there was no getting away from it. In the last few years her hair had lost its girlish fairness, taking on the same burnished gold shade as her mother and both her brothers. Like herself though, it seemed to have rather too much of a mind of its own, and was never tamed for long. And as to her eyes—yes, they were the same striking colour as her mother’s too, though not, as one swain had claimed, royal purple. They reminded Ailsa more of the purpley-blue colour of a bruise. Her face was a nice oval, and her features on the whole seemed to please people, though in her own opinion her mouth was a little too large. Did that amount to beauty? She didn’t know. What she did know was that unfortunately there was no escaping the mirror’s evidence—she was her mother’s daughter.

Ailsa pulled a face. In her opinion, her mother had more reason than most to be relieved by Lord Munro’s death, for it had by no means been a happy marriage. How could it have been, with the laird expecting unquestioning obedience, and his lady forced to forsake all others for him? Even her own children. If his death was a welcome relief, Lady Munro was doing her celebrating in private. ‘Whatever it is she’s feeling, she’s keeping to herself as usual,’ Ailsa muttered to her reflection. ‘I swear it is ice and not blood which runs through Mother’s veins.’

She gave the neckline of her dress a final twitch. Like all her clothes, it was an expensive garment, something her mother had insisted on since she had turned sixteen.

‘I’m going to have to take you in hand, Ailsa,’ Lady Munro had said firmly. ‘You’re not a child any more. It’s time you started dressing, and behaving as befits your position as a Highland laird’s daughter.’

Lady Munro had insisted on stays and lacings and stockings and all the other trappings of wealth and status, too. Not that Ailsa had anything against pretty clothes, but she felt constrained in them. Sometimes she yearned for the feel of her bare foot on sand, the sun on her neck, the freedom from corsets and lacing without having to face the recriminations that inevitably followed such minor aberrations.

Today’s toilette was an open robe made of silk woven in the Munro colours over a dark blue petticoat. As was the fashion, the bodice was tightly laced, showing off the curve of her bosom and the contrasting tiny span of her waist. Voluptuous, is how most men would describe her, but in this one respect Ailsa would have preferred to resemble her mother’s slimmer, less curvaceous figure. She was rather self-conscious about her body and despised the way it drew men’s attentions. The arisaidh, a traditional plaid shawl of blue-striped silk, which today she wore belted and pinned, went some way to disguise it.

Her indifference to the fulsome compliments she attracted and her rejection of all attempts to make love to her seemed, perplexingly, to encourage her admirers to try all the harder. Intimacy of that sort left Ailsa cold. Her handsome dowry and position as the rich laird’s only daughter ensured she had no lack of suitors, but despite the sheer volume of them, none had ever come close to touching her heart. Not in the way that …

Automatically, Ailsa put a sharp brake on that strain of thought. What was the saying? Once bitten, twice shy. She was in no need of a second lesson. Not that love entered into the equation, in any case. She existed for the sole purpose of making a good match—her father had made that abundantly clear six years ago.

The slow tolling of the bell in the castle tower began, rousing Ailsa from her reverie, its low peal reverberating out across the flat fertile Munro lands, bouncing off the mountains that bordered Errin Mhor to echo eerily in the still of the morning. The bell warded off the evil spirits that everyone knew lurked at a wake, ready to take advantage when people’s defences where down. It also marked the beginnings of the funeral rites.

It was time. Pulling her arisaidh up to cover her hair, Ailsa quit her chamber and made her way quickly down the stairs.

In the great hall her brother Calumn, cutting an imposing figure in full ceremonial Highland dress, readied the chief mourners for his father’s last journey. The low drone of the bagpipes being inflated was the signal for all to assemble in good order. The new Laird of Errin Mhor kissed his wife lingeringly on the lips. Madeleine, who was expecting their first child, would stay behind to be Lady Munro’s chief comforter—not that the newly-made widow would accept comfort from anyone, but it was the custom. As it was the custom that Ailsa, too, should remain with her mother while others formed the funeral procession, but in this Ailsa had been adamant. She would pay her last respects with the men, not sit meekly at home with Lady Munro’s chosen group of gentry women.

The dead laird’s piper struck up the mournful lament of the pibroch. Ailsa took the black cushion bearing her father’s gauntlets and hat from Calumn and made her way outside. The dead man’s champion, Hamish Sinclair, waited, astride a horse with a black-velvet cover, to lead the procession. Lord Munro’s own horse, similarly draped in black, was pawing nervously at the ground. Saddle-less, it was a stark symbol of the laird’s absence.

Four long poles were inserted under the coffin. By tradition, the first eight bearers were the deceased’s closest kin. Calumn and his half-brother Rory Macleod took the lead, a decision that had caused some controversy since Rory was not a blood relation of the dead laird, being the product of Lady Munro’s first marriage. Lord Munro had insisted his wife surrender her first born upon their own marriage. Lady Munro and Rory had been estranged ever since, but Calumn had insisted that his brother have his place at the funeral regardless.

The coffin was hoisted up from the bier. The pipes wailed. The bearers walked slowly down the front steps of the castle, keeping their eyes firmly focused ahead and concentrating on the task at hand, for it was a precarious job, balancing the heavy coffin on four thin poles.

Ailsa stood at the head of the mourners. Behind her, the long winding line of men and women fell in, ranked in order from the clan chiefs and their women to the castle servants, the laird’s tenants and serfs, crofters and cotters, drovers and fishermen. She knew most of them, if not personally then by reputation. Almost without exception the men wore the two plaids, the filleadh beg and the filleadh mòr, in defiance of the law that banned Highland dress for any but the aristocracy. Most of the women wore their best Sabbath blacks. Expressions were suitably sombre. The two horses, one mounted, one riderless, led the way.

The procession wended down the castle’s imposing driveway, through the heavy wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the Munro coat of arms, to the village of Errin Mhor where the first change of bearers took place. ‘Twas customary for this to happen while the procession continued, so the new bearers stood ahead in formation, two lines of four men performing the transfer of weight in pairs. Since dropping a pole was believed to signify the death of the bearer, each was very careful to effect a perfect handover. Villagers, bairns and even dogs stood silent, heads bowed respectfully as the procession passed on its way. The Munro siblings remained at the front of the mourners, a striking threesome with their golden hair and tall figures, that drew the eye of every onlooker and raised a sigh in the breasts of several.

‘Twas also tradition that refreshment in the form of uisge beathe, the water of life, otherwise known as whisky, was meted out in generous drams en route, for following a wake was thirsty work. Neither of the Munro brothers partook, but many others did. So much so that two hours later when they finally reached the lonely graveyard in a remote corner of the Munro land that was the traditional burial place of the lairds, the uisge beathe, combined with the steepness of the incline, the narrowness of the coffin track, and the suppressed anticipation of a long-awaited event finally coming to pass, a weariness had set in on the procession. The ordered train had become ragged. Red faces, sweaty brows and a general air of relief replaced the solemn expressions with which they had started the journey. The old laird was no lightweight.

Ailsa stepped aside at the gate, the eulogy and interment being strictly a male province. Not even she was brave enough to break that rule. She was joined by the other women. Tired and dusty, glad to have the long hike over without mishap, they stood around in little groups, by and large ignoring the ceremony at the graveside, occupying themselves with a little light gossip and a little idle speculation, murmuring together in the low, musical lilt of the Gaelic that they continued to favour over the use of English decreed by the new law.

Ailsa roamed from one clique to another, accepting the politely offered platitudes and condolences from those ladies she knew her mother would insist be given precedence, before joining a huddle of Errin Mhor tenants, the wives and daughters of local villagers. At the centre of the group was Shona MacBrayne, the fey wife, with whom Ailsa spent some of her days, gathering herbs and mixing potions, assisting her in tending to the sick and helping out at the occasional birth.

‘I’ll no insult you by saying I’m sorry, Ailsa,’ Shona said in a voice too low for the others to hear. ‘Your father had his time and plenty more besides. I can only pray that the journey he is taking now is up the way, and not down.’

‘Whichever direction it is, you can be in no doubt that it is of my father’s choosing,’ Ailsa said irreverently. Like everyone else, she was beginning to feel the light-headed relief that so often occurs in the aftermath of a funeral.

Shona chuckled. ‘Aye, well, at least now he’s out of the way that brother of yours can finally get his hands on the Munro lands. They’re in bad heart, no getting away from the fact that the old laird didnae gie them the attention they need.’

‘Poor Calumn, he’s been champing at the bit to make changes since he returned last year,’ Ailsa agreed with a smile.

‘Aye, and change is bound to put your mother’s nose out of joint. However carefully he goes about things, there’s going to be a stramash,’ Shona said astutely. ‘You’d be better off out of it. Anyways, ‘tis time you were settled in a home of your own. Your father was a long time dying; I’d no be surprised if the McNair was getting impatient to put his ring on your finger.’

Ailsa fiddled with the fastening of her brooch. ‘Why should he be? My father settled things between us a while ago. The contracts are signed—what’s the rush?’

Shona’s brow furrowed. ‘It is a good match for the clan, Ailsa. Donald McNair is a rich man, the marriage will secure us a good ally. Don’t tell me you’re thinking of throwing him o’er?’

‘Of course not. I’m perfectly well aware of how good a match it is. My father would not have made it otherwise.’

‘And you, lass. What do you think of it all?’

‘What does it matter what I think?’ Ailsa said dismissively. Seeing the shocked look on old Shona’s face, she realised she had been indiscreet. One thing to think such things, quite another to share them with her father’s—brother’s—tenants. She touched the old woman’s arm. ‘I like him well enough. As well as he likes me, any road. Donald and I have an understanding, Shona.’ Ailsa stooped to give her a quick hug. ‘Don’t fash yourself over me, for there’s no need. I can take care of myself.’

‘Aye, that’s true enough,’ Shona agreed sadly. ‘Your mother—’

But at this point they were interrupted by the blacksmith’s wife wanting Shona’s opinion on the best way to treat her husband’s aching joints. Ailsa wandered off, staring abstractedly down at the winding coffin track. Shona was right, it was high time she was wed. She had agreed to the betrothal eventually. Donald, her father’s choice, was handsome enough, in a stern way. Why not? she’d thought at the time. What other fate was there in store for her save spinsterhood and dependence? At least this way she would have a home of her own.

Yet, once the papers were signed, she had found herself curiously reluctant to act. She had procrastinated and pleaded the mitigating circumstances of her father’s illness. Now his death meant she had run out of excuses and her fate loomed dishearteningly ahead of her. She’d persuaded herself that her father’s death would be liberating, but instead of feeling free she felt even more trapped and constrained.

She’d also hoped that his death would be the catalyst for the thawing in her relationship with her mother, but Lady Munro had, if anything, retreated even further behind the invisible barrier that separated her from her daughter. Ailsa had thought herself too inured to her mother’s coldness to be hurt by it. She discovered that she was not.

What she needed was a different sort of change, though she had no idea what that could possibly be. Marriage to Donald McNair did not feel like the answer, though deep in her heart she knew it was her fate. There was no avoiding duty, another hard-learned lesson. The carefree lass she had once been was long gone. Her future, which for a few magical hours six years ago had seemed such a glittering place, now loomed, lacking lustre and faintly intimidating.

Ailsa wandered over to the cemetery gate. Calumn was still speaking, the attention of all the men fixed firmly on him. Turning back to rejoin Shona, she was startled by a tall, black-clad figure.

He seemed to appear from nowhere. One minute the coffin track was empty, the next minute there he was. Ailsa jumped out of his way, but he barely seemed to notice her, so intent was he on reaching the ceremony at the graveside. She had an impression of a strikingly handsome face, a fall of black hair, and then he was through the gate, standing at the back of the male mourners with his hat in his hand.

Her curiosity well and truly roused, Ailsa leaned over the crumbling dry-stone dyke that formed the graveyard’s boundary. Something about the man’s stance seemed familiar. Something about the way he held his head, the way he stood, his hands, holding his hat and gloves, clasped behind his back. He was a tall man, taller even than Calumn. His curtain of hair, which she saw now was not black, but the blue-black of a raven’s wing, brushed a pair of exceedingly broad shoulders.

Her heart began to thump heavily. It could not be! A passing resemblance merely, that was all.

The stranger wore riding boots, highly polished under the dust of travel. Black breeches clung to his long legs. A black coat of expensive cut with full skirts and heavy cuffs accentuated his well-built frame. White lace ruffles on his shirtsleeves covered tanned hands. In comparison to the other men, he had an air of sophistication, of foreignness even, yet he stood there for all the world as if he belonged. The agility with which he had climbed the hill was impressive, too. His dress might proclaim him the wealthy city gentleman, but his body was that of a Highlander.

It could not possibly be him, yet part of her was absolutely certain it could be no one else.

But Alasdhair Ross was banished!

Six years ago he had left and not a word since. It could not be him, it made no sense. Why would he come back after all this time? And though he looked like him, this stranger was far too self-assured and far too sophisticated to be Alasdhair. If it was him, he had not just changed, he had been transformed.

It could not be him, Ailsa told herself. It couldn’t be.

She had just about persuaded herself when he moved, turning fractionally to the side so that she could see his profile. Her heart, encased in ice since the day he left, gave a sickening lurch, like an animal woken too soon from hibernation, and in that instant she knew.

Just a fleeting glance she caught before he turned away again, but it was enough. He was clean shaven. A strong jaw, with a mouth held in an austere line, but it was the same mouth that always used to quirk up in a half-smile. Fine lines around his eyes, grooves running from mouth to nose, his face deeply tanned. But they were the same eyes, dark brown, peat-smoked, under brows heavy and black, almost meeting in the middle. A forbiddingly handsome face, harder and more defined than the good-looking young man she remembered, who had not had this mature man’s air of authority. But it was still the same face.

Though she had never in her life fainted, Ailsa thought she was about to do just that. Her vision swam. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dry. She clutched at the mossy top of the cemetery wall, closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

‘Tell me my old eyes are deceiving me.’

Ailsa looked up, startled.

‘It is him, isn’t it?’ Shona said, nodding at the man in black. ‘Alasdhair Ross, a ghost from the past, come to join all the others in the graveyard.’ She chuckled. ‘He was banished for challenging the laird’s authority, but your father never did say why.’

‘No,’ Ailsa replied shortly. ‘The laird was never one to explain himself.’

‘You had aye time for him, did you not?’ Shona probed. ‘I mind now, you used to follow Ross about like a wee puppy.’

‘It was a long time ago. I was very young.’ Ailsa tried desperately to hold back a tear she could feel welling up. ‘But, yes, I was …’ She paused. ‘I was very fond of him.’

‘I can’t blame you,’ Shona said. ‘He was always good looking in his own wild way, but he’s turned into a right handsome devil. Made something of himself, too, judging by those clothes. Who’d have thought that Factor Ross’s son would do so well? Do you think he’s come back to rub our noses in it?’

‘How would I know? What has it to do with me?’ Ailsa said tersely. What was he doing here?

‘Whatever he’s doing, it’s stirring up a few ashes.’ The fey wife’s low laugh was more like the cackle worthy of the witch she was sometimes called by the village bairns. ‘Would you look at him, all in black, hovering over your father’s corpse like Auld Clootie himself. I’m surprised we canna hear the laird spinning in his coffin.’

‘Shush, Shona,’ Ailsa whispered urgently, ‘they’ll hear us.’

Sure enough, some of the men had turned towards the disturbance, and in turning they began to take notice of the stranger. Ailsa watched as they shuffled away from Alasdhair, as if his very presence would contaminate them. She saw some of the shock she herself was feeling reflected in Calumn’s face when he recognised his friend. Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed through a wringer. Her emotions were a maelstrom of anger and hurt and regret and bitterness, so that she could only clutch the stone dyke for support and watch as the man whom she had so foolishly thought the love of her life stood impassively over her father’s grave.

When Alasdhair Ross left Errin Mhor six years ago, he swore never to return to the Highlands. He had dreamed of leaving since he was a wee boy, almost from that first time he’d seen the globe Lord Munro kept in his library. He couldn’t get over how tiny Scotland looked, or how big the New World was in comparison. His ambition to travel to the other side of the world and make his fortune grew stronger with every passing year, weaving itself into a warm blanket that protected him through the long cold nights after his mother abandoned him and his father departed this mortal coil very shortly afterwards. It protected him, too, from the scorn and derision that his aspirations elicited from the laird, who had taken him in and become his guardian.

‘Dinnae be so soft, you and your fanciful notions,’ Lord Munro told him contemptuously. ‘Your place is here, lad, your bounden duty to serve me. If ye’re lucky and you behave yourself, I might just make you factor one day. That should be the height of ambition for the likes of you.’

But as Alasdhair grew older, his ambition to forge a new life in America became the only light at the end of the dark tunnel of subservience that was his lot as the laird’s ward. The laird’s property. The laird’s serf.

America had been everything Alasdhair had ever dreamed of. Hard work, sound judgement and a bit of luck had paid off in spectacular fashion. Having eventually found employment in the Virginian plantation of a fellow Scot, he had, through diligence and determination, worked himself into the position of manager and trusted right-hand man before setting up his own business. It had been a tough life, but it had been worth it. Alasdhair was a very rich man, a respected plantation owner and merchant, known to be fair and honest, two qualities sometimes in shorter supply than they should be in the tobacco business. But Alasdhair’s integrity meant more to him even than his wealth. He answered to no one but his own conscience. He relied on no one but himself. His life had turned out just as he’d always dreamed it would. He had proved them wrong, all of them, succeeding on his own terms, without having to pay dues to his laird. He was his own man, in his own place, and no one cared who his kin were or even where he’d come from.

Except, lately, Alasdhair had found that he cared, and cared deeply. Now that he had what he had always wanted, he found it was not enough. The past, which he had been too busy and too tired to even think about, was beginning to haunt him. The story of his mother’s absconding with another man made less sense, the more he thought about it. Why had she left no word, nor ever tried to contact him? And his father’s death. Alasdhair refused to believe that it had been anything but an accident, but he did wonder if Alec Ross had had cause to encourage the tragic fate that left Alasdhair orphaned and uprooted from his family home to become the object of Lady Munro’s unrelenting hostility. Despite this, and his guardian’s determination to bend his ward to his will, Alasdhair regretted the terms on which they had parted. Though his life was in Virginia now, he wanted the right to return to the home of his heart, even if he did not intend to exercise that right often, or ever.

And then there was Ailsa.

Why? The question buzzed around his head like an angry hornet. And like a hornet, the more he swatted at it, the more persistent it got.

Why? Eventually, he realised he’d have no peace until he found out, and to do that, he must return to Scotland. A clean sheet. A blank page. That is what he wanted to return to Virginia with. Then he could write whatever future he willed on to it.

Circumstances colluded with him. An opportunity to form a new partnership with a merchant in Glasgow arose, and at the same time, one of Alasdhair’s own ships was about to depart for that very port.

He had arrived in Glasgow two weeks ago. Travelling north, he had reached Argyll when the tolling of the bells had alerted him to a death. Hearing it was Lord Munro, a long-awaited event after a protracted illness, he had been taken aback by the strength of the feelings that shook him. Regret that he was too late, and sorrow, of course. But anger, too, for the old man must have known his end was coming, yet he had made no attempt at amends nor to lift Alasdhair’s banishment.

He was just in time to pay his last respects, having arrived at Errin Mhor on horseback only this morning. Around him, familiar faces anxious to avoid his eye. Across from him, Calumn, the new laird. He had not changed much. Broader, face etched with a few lines, but in essence his childhood friend looked exactly as he had the last time Alasdhair had seen him, setting off to join the King’s army. More than ten years past now.

Memories flitted through his head as he listened to Calumn pay tribute to his father. Sharply sweet memories, piercingly painful, and the darker ones, creeping out of the recesses of his mind like whipped curs or, more appropriately, spectres at a wake. Up here, they said that opening the ground to receive fresh bones released the spirits of the old ones. Today, he could believe it.

Rousing himself from these melancholy thoughts, Alasdhair saw that Calumn was finishing the closing prayer. Standing at the head of the grave, the new Lord Munro was now receiving the formal condolences of the other men. They shuffled forwards, each shaking his hand, some pausing to mutter a prayer of their own over the gaping hole. He watched them nudging and whispering amongst themselves as they left the graveyard, casting surreptitious glances, their expressions ranging from astonishment and embarrassment to downright hostility. A few turned their backs upon him.

Alasdhair’s temper simmered. What difference did it make to them, these crofters and fishermen? What did they even know of the circumstances of his leaving? Not the truth, he’d be willing to bet. It made him furious, that the corpse that lay in the damp soil could still wield the decrepit hand of influence. He did not merit such treatment. He would force them to see that.

The occasion obliged him to bide his time for the moment, but Alasdhair refused to be intimidated, holding himself rigidly upright, his hands clasped behind his back, as the men filed slowly out. At the gate they were reunited with their womenfolk, and the whispers became an excited buzz. Surveying them scornfully, ruthlessly despatching the shadowy figure on his shoulder, the unloved outcast boy he had once been, Alasdhair saw his old friend coming slowly towards him.

‘Alasdhair! It really is you.’

‘Calumn!’

The two men clasped each other in a bear hug of an embrace.

‘It’s so good to see you, old friend,’ Calumn said warmly. ‘I’ve thought of you often these past years.’

Alasdhair nodded. ‘As I have you. I just wish the circumstances of our reunion were different.’

‘Aye, but you’re here, and that’s the main thing. We have much to catch up on, but I need to get back to the castle and my guests for now, you understand, don’t you? We’ll talk properly tomorrow.’

‘Aye, I would like that,’ Alasdhair replied.

‘Good. You’ll come to the wake?’ Calumn asked, but when Alasdhair shook his head he was not surprised. ‘Till tomorrow, then.’ With that, the new laird made for the gate, where the old laird’s horse had been left for him.

Hidden from view by the crowd, Ailsa watched the solitary figure left in the cemetery.

Alasdhair. His name, the name she hadn’t allowed herself to think, never mind say, for fear of the pain it caused, shimmered into her mind.

Alasdhair. A bitter name, acrid with regrets and betrayal, yet it used to be the sweetest of names. Her Alasdhair, he’d been once. Fleetingly.

Around her, the mourners were laughing and talking animatedly with all the gaiety that often follows a sombre farewell to the departed. Life was reasserting itself over death, but she hardly noticed them. They’d be making their way back to Errin Mhor castle for the funeral wake soon. The roast meats, the conspicuous consumption of wine, the regular toasts with whisky glasses raised, and the reminiscing, which would continue well into the night, and culminate with the funeral pyre of the laird’s bedding and clothes that would be lit by his widow. She would join them. But not yet.

Not yet.

Somehow, Ailsa found the courage to step through the gate and into his presence. It were better they get this over now, with no one else around. It had to be done. The pain would ease after this, as it did when a wound was lanced.

‘Alasdhair?’

Pain, pure and bright as the sharpest needle, pierced him.

Ailsa.

She sounded different; her voice was older, of course, and lower, husky rather than musical, but he’d recognise her anywhere. He had assumed she would be back at the castle, with her mother. He wasn’t sure he was ready for this.

‘Ailsa.’ Her name felt rusty with disuse. His voice sounded hoarse.

They stared silently at each other. Six long years. They stood, as if set in amber, drinking in the changes the years had wrought.

Chapter Two

She was taller, and had become much more statuesque in the intervening period. The soft contours of girlhood were gone; her beauty was more defined, no longer blurred by the immaturity of youth. The hair escaping its pins had darkened slightly from fair to gold. Only the wispy curls that clustered round her brow were the same. And her eyes. That strange purple-blue colour, like a gathering storm, they were exactly the same. Ailsa.

She didn’t look as if she smiled much now. She lacked the exuberance that had once so defined her. ‘I hardly recognised you, you’ve changed so much,’ Alasdhair said.

‘Not as much as you.’

‘That’s certainly true. I’m no Munro serf to be used and abused any longer.’

Ailsa flinched. ‘I never thought of you that way.’

‘Aye, that’s what I used to believe, until you proved me wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you think I’d have forgotten? Or forgiven?’

His face was set in forbidding lines. Everything about him was dark and intense. Had Ailsa not been so overwrought, she’d have found time to be intimidated. ‘Forgotten what?’ she demanded. ‘That you broke your promise? One day, and for always, that’s what you said.’

‘And I meant it. Unlike you.’

‘How dare you! I meant it too, I meant every word of it, you must have known that I would not have said it unless I did.’ Ailsa’s voice was trembling on the brink of tears. She bit her cheek, an old trick, to staunch the flow.

‘What I know is that you played me for a fool,’ Alasdhair replied coldly. ‘No surprise, really, with that mother of yours as a teacher.’

‘I am not anything like my mother.’

‘I used to believe that too, but you proved me wrong on that score also.’ Alasdhair’s face was set, his smoky eyes hard-glazed.

Before she could stop them, tears filled Ailsa’s eyes. She brushed them impatiently away. ‘I don’t know why you’re being like this. If anyone has the right to be angry, it is I.’

‘You!’

She tossed her head back, dislodging a cluster of pins. ‘You left without even saying goodbye, without even trying to explain.’

A frown, so fierce his dark brows met, clouded Alasdhair’s brow. He felt as if mists were clouding round the facts, obscuring them. ‘That’s rich coming from you. You’re the one that betrayed me that night.’

‘I don’t understand …’ She could still see him, but he was hazy, as if a haar had come down from the hills. Her knees were shaking. There was a booming in her ears. ‘I’m sorry, I’m feeling a bit—I need to sit down.’ Ailsa staggered over to an ancient gravestone, sinking on to it regardless of the damage the lichen would do to her robe.

‘Ailsa.’ She was white as a sheet. Stricken. Her eyes glazed with shock. Surely she could not be acting? Alasdhair knelt down before her, tried to take her hands between his. Even through her gloves he could feel how cold they were. Then she snatched them back.

‘Please don’t touch me.’

Mortified, Alasdhair got to his feet. Big eyes framed by ridiculously long lashes gazed up at him. Silver-tipped lashes. Eyes glistening with tears. He had to remind himself that he was not the cause of them. Rather it was he who was the victim.

‘I’m sorry.’ Ailsa sniffed and wiped her eyes with her gloves again.

Alasdhair took his handkerchief from his coat pocket and handed it to her. Silence reigned for long, uncomfortable moments. In the background, Lord Munro’s final resting place was being filled in by a sexton who glanced over curiously every now and then at the intriguing scene being played out in front of him. The regular thud of sodden earth hitting the coffin lid beat a tattoo in Alasdhair’s brain. For a split second they met each other’s eyes. Recognition hung between them. Another ghost, almost tangible. The pure bittersweet clarity of the memory twisted his gut, sending him tumbling back to that day. Her birthday. An Rionnag. Their kiss. The simple joy of it. Happiness.

He closed his eyes, but it wouldn’t go away. It wouldn’t ever go away until he exorcised it, though the exorcism would be like ripping out his innards. It was what he had come for, after all. No matter how painful, no matter what it cost him, he would do it. ‘I need to know the truth, but I don’t want to talk here,’ he said. ‘There are more than enough ghosts here as it is.’

‘We could walk to …’

He instinctively knew what she was going to say.

‘The tree. How appropriate.’ His sarcastic tone did not wholly disguise the jagging pain.

The old oak, reputed to be more than two hundred years old, was a favourite spot of theirs in the old days. Its branches gave shelter, its trunk formed a comfortable prop to lean against, and the views out over the bay were spectacular. They made their way towards it in silence, settling down out of a habit as they always had, side by side, Ailsa on the right, Alasdhair the left, careful to keep a gap between them that had never been there before.

Alasdhair pulled off his gloves and hat, tossing the expensive items carelessly on to the ground. In front of them, the little chain of islets could clearly be seen. The Necklace provided a natural barrier, which bore the brunt of the vicious winter storms, creating a warmer, calmer stretch of water that could be fished all year round and where, in the summer, porpoises could be seen. None of the islets were inhabited. Grey seals came to pup on the beaches. Errin Mhor’s fishermen found occasional harbour waiting on the tide, and Errin Mhor’s children played and swam there.

‘Have you ever been back to the island?’ Alasdhair asked.

Ailsa shook her head. ‘No. No, I couldn’t.’ Alasdhair sighed heavily. ‘Why did you not come to me that last night, to say goodbye?’

‘I! It was you who did not come to me.’

‘But then …’ He stopped, looking perplexed. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Any more than I,’ Ailsa replied, ‘but it is beginning to look as if neither of us is in possession of the whole story.’

She looked so forlorn that he automatically reached for her hand, drawing back only at the last moment. ‘I’m not interested in your excuses, Ailsa, not after all this time,’ he said bitterly. ‘I just want to know the truth.’

‘I’m not lying,’ she replied indignantly. ‘I really did think you’d left without a word.’

‘How could you have thought I would treat you like that?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t. I mean—I was—I thought—’ Ailsa broke off and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Maybe if you could tell me what happened? What you think happened, I mean, then I could tell you what I thought, and.’

‘And out of the two halves we might just get a whole, you mean?’ He wasn’t ready. Ancient history as the tale was, there were parts of it so raw he had barely allowed himself to look too closely at them. But it was what he had come for, wasn’t it—to throw the dust covers off the story?

‘All right. I’ll tell you my truth, but you must swear that you’ll tell me your own in turn. I want no lies, Ailsa.’

‘I swear.’

He stared at her for a long moment, at the big blue eyes that had never lied to him before, the set look on her face, as if she were girding herself for an ordeal, and that was so like how he felt himself that he believed her. ‘Very well.’

Alasdhair closed his eyes, blocking out the beautiful view and the distractingly beautiful face and took a tentative step back into the past, to a time when he was not Alasdhair Ross, the rich and successful tobacco merchant, but Alasdhair Ross, the outcast. He took another step, and another, until he was back where it all began and it all ended, on Ailsa’s sixteenth birthday, six years ago, and the past became the present.

Summer 1742

The world had changed irrevocably with that single kiss. The future burned bright and hopeful, a glittering place they would inhabit together.

How? Well that would have to wait until later. For the moment, Alasdhair’s burning desire to grasp this new world order held sway, such overwhelming sway that immediately after leaving Ailsa at the castle he went in search of Lord Munro. He needed to declare himself, and he needed to do it as soon as possible.

He had not allowed himself to think of failure, so when it came, as it did almost immediately, it was a shock. It should not have been—he knew perfectly well the laird’s views on his position—but love, Alasdhair had naïvely believed, could conquer all. It had given him confidence. Greatly misplaced confidence, as it turned out.

‘How dare you! The de’il take you, boy!’ Lord Munro rapped his walking stick furiously on the flagstones of the great hall.

The steel tip of the stick made a harsh grating sound. The deerhound that had been sleeping at the laird’s feet rose and let loose a low menacing growl. Alasdhair gritted his teeth.

‘Do ye have no sense of your place, boy? No sense of what you owe me? I took ye in when your ain mother abandoned ye and yon weak-willed man you call father upped and died on you as a result. I as good as own ye, and this is how ye repay me?’

Lord Munro got shakily to his feet. He had been a tall man once, but age and gout had taken their toll on his frame—though they could not be blamed for his temper, which had always been foul. Leaning heavily on the stick, he glowered at the upstart in front of him. ‘Obviously staying here in the castle has given ye an inflated idea of your own importance, boy.’

Inflated! Between them, the laird and his lady made sure there was no chance of that. Like the deerhound, Alasdhair’s hackles were up, but he forced himself to uncurl the fists that had formed in his work-calloused hands and to look the old man firmly in the eye. ‘If you mean I’m ambitious, Laird, then you’re in the right of it. You know fine that I’ve no intention of staying here to work as your factor. I’ve always dreamed of going to the New World and I will one day, but first I want your permission to court Ailsa. We have feelings for each other. I want to marry her and take her with me to America as my wife.’

Lord Munro snorted contemptuously. ‘You insolent upstart. Do ye really think I’d allow my daughter to be courted by the likes o’ you? You’re a serf, and what’s more you’re my serf. It’s high time ye remembered that. You’ve as much chance of marrying Ailsa as ye have of realising yon pipe dream of yours of making your fame and fortune abroad. Your place is here and your future mapped out. You’ll be my factor and a good one, I don’t doubt.’

Lord Munro looked at Alasdhair appraisingly. ‘I like you well enough, lad, you know that. You’ve got spirit, but you haven’t got the brains you were born with if you think there’s any point in pursuing this farcical notion. Now away with you, before I lose my temper.’

Alasdhair’s hands formed into two large fists. He had tried to do the honourable thing. He’d asked permission, and he’d asked on all but bended knee.

He deserved better than to be so casually dismissed. ‘What about Ailsa?’

‘What about her?’ Lord Munro snapped. ‘I’m her father. I can do what I want with her, just as I can do what I want with you, Alasdhair Ross.’

‘She loves me.’

‘I’ve no doubt she’s smitten with you,’ he snorted. ‘She’s at that age. But if she’s an itch, it’s most certainly not for you to scratch. I’ve plans for Ailsa, and I’ll no’ have you damaging the goods.’

‘What if Ailsa has other plans of her own?’

‘She’s a Munro born and bred, she kens fine what her duty is and she’ll put it before an impetuous cur like you.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

Lord Munro’s tenuous hold on his temper snapped. ‘You will keep your filthy hands off her, do you hear me?’ he roared. ‘Ailsa is the very last wench you should be thinking about in that way. You’ll keep away from her, do you hear me now? I’m not having Donald McNair accusing me of allowing someone else to plough his furrow.’

‘McNair!’

‘The Laird of Ardkinglass. ‘Tis a fine match,’ Lord Munro said with a satisfied smile.

‘Damn the match, fine or otherwise! Ailsa and I love each other and nobody, not even you, can change that. I am sorry to have to disobey you, but you give me no choice. I will court Ailsa and you cannot stop me.’

Lord Munro’s stick clattered on the flagstones. ‘Am I hearing right? After all I have said to ye, ye still insist on disobeying? Do you think I can’t stop you? You can think again about that, laddie, for I can.’

Alasdhair glared at him defiantly. ‘You can try, but you won’t succeed.’

Lord Munro looked at him in absolute astonishment, then he threw back his head and laughed. It was a deeply unpleasant sound and should have been a warning, but Alasdhair was far too caught up in the heady throes of fighting for his love to notice. ‘You think to defy me, do you? I’d think again, if I were you, Alasdhair Ross. This is your last chance.’

‘I won’t change my mind,’ Alasdhair said mutinously.

The Laird of Errin Mhor’s mouth formed into a thin line. ‘So be it. I see now I’ve given you too much rope. I won’t tolerate defiance, no matter who you are. You will keep away from my daughter, Alasdhair Ross, for now and for ever. And you will keep off all Munro lands, too, until the end of your days.’ Lord Munro leant on his stick and drew himself painfully up to his full height. ‘You are banished. Do you hear me?’ he shouted, pointing a finger straight at Alasdhair. ‘From this moment on you are dead to me and dead to all my clan. Hamish Sinclair will escort you off the Munro lands. I want you gone by midnight, and if I find you’ve made any attempt to see my daughter before then, I’ll have you thrashed. Away to hell with you. Or, better still, away to America. From what I hear of that savage land ye’ll be hard pushed to tell the difference.’

Lord Munro spat contemptuously on to the flagstones. ‘You disappoint me. I thought you had the makings of a man, Alasdhair Ross. I took you in, I indulged your rebellious nature even though it sore tested my patience, but I see now that you are a naïve, romantic fool. It is your own foolishness that has brought this upon your head. Now get out of my sight.’

Alasdhair strode down the corridor from the great hall, his face like thunder, cursing his own stupidity. He should have known better. If only he had thought it through, or bided his time, instead of rushing in with guns blazing like that. He had ruined everything with this one impetuous act.

He had to see Ailsa. He had to explain. He could not take her with him yet, but if she would wait for him—surely she would wait for him? He would go to America and he would make his fortune and he would come back for her and Lord Munro would eat his words and they would be married. It would take him a year or two, but what were a couple of years with so much at stake? She would understand, surely she would understand. Ignoring the laird’s dire warning, Alasdhair strode off in search of her.

‘And where do you think you’re going?’ An icy voice stopped him in his tracks.

‘Lady Munro!’

‘Alasdhair Ross.’ She looked at him with her customary disdain. ‘I do most sincerely hope you have no plans to further inflict your company on my daughter.’

‘What are you talking about?’

A glint like a flame reflected in a frozen pond came into her eye. ‘Your rather inept attempts at lovemaking have frightened her.’

‘You lie! Ailsa said—’

Lady Munro smiled coldly. ‘My daughter, Mr Ross, is too tender-hearted for her own good. She did not wish to hurt you with a rejection.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Ailsa is just sixteen. Much too young to know her own mind, and very much too immature to be the subject of your animal lusts.’

‘I took no liberties with your daughter,’ Alasdhair growled, ‘my intentions were completely honourable. You can check with the laird, if you don’t believe me.’

‘What has my husband to do with this?’ Lady Munro asked sharply.

‘I am just come from asking his permission to court your daughter.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said exactly what you would wish him to say,’ Alasdhair informed her bitterly. ‘That I had ideas above my station. But before you start celebrating, you should know that I informed him that it wouldn’t make any difference. I won’t give her up, even though I am banished.’

‘The laird has exiled you?’

‘Aye. And don’t pretend you’re anything other than glad, for you’ve always hated me.’

Lady Munro pursed her lips. ‘So you are finally to leave Errin Mhor. What do you intend to do?’

‘What I’ve always intended. I’m going to make a life for myself in America. Then I’ll come back for Ailsa. She’ll wait for me, I know she will.’

Lady Munro’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Ross. Lord Munro and I have other plans for my daughter.’

‘I know all about your plans, the laird told me. But Ailsa loves me, she won’t let you marry her off to Donald McNair, no matter how good a match it is. She’ll wait for me, and I’ll prove you wrong, all of you. I’ll be every bit as good a match.’

‘No.’ Lady Munro’s voice was like cut glass. ‘No. My daughter’s place is here and she knows it.’

‘I don’t believe you. I don’t have time for this. Let me by, for I must see Ailsa before I go. I must explain to her that—’

‘Would you believe her if she told you herself?’ Lady Munro interrupted him ruthlessly.

‘What?’

‘You cannot talk to her here,’ Lady Munro continued, looking thoughtful now. ‘You have been banished, you should not even be here, and if his lordship finds out—well, we will all suffer, including Ailsa. You would not want that, I am sure.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Hmm.’ Lady Munro considered him for a long moment, then finally smiled a very thin smile. ‘It goes much against my better judgement, but I will speak to Ailsa. If she tells you herself how she feels, will you promise to do her the honour of believing her and leave her alone?’

‘Yes, but—’

Lady Munro raised an imperious hand. ‘You have vastly overestimated the strength of Ailsa’s feelings for you, Mr Ross, but you need not take my word for it. I will arrange a place and time for later tonight, well away from the castle, but I warn you, there is a limit to my influence. If she cannot bring herself to turn up, she will have spoken more eloquently than words ever could and I will hold you to your promise.’

Spring 1748

Alasdhair opened his eyes. ‘I waited for you like a fool, but of course you didn’t turn up. I realised then that your parents were both right. I was a naïve fool to think you loved me, and even if you had cared, why should you take a chance on someone with no firm prospects who wanted to uproot you from your family and home to take you halfway round the world? I left that night and I kept my promise to your mother. I never tried to get in touch with you again.’

Beside him, Ailsa’s face was pale and streaked with tears. ‘Don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for me,’ Alasdhair said roughly. ‘You’re six years too late for that.’

She shook her head. ‘That’s not why I’m crying.’ The heartache of those days crashed over her like a breaker on to the shore. Ailsa stripped off her gloves and plucked at the brooch that held her arisaidh in place, unfastening the clasp, then trying to fasten it again, but her hands were shaking. The pin pricked her finger and the brooch fell on to the ground.

‘Here, let me.’

Alasdhair picked it up. He leaned towards her, holding the plaid in place with one hand, fastening the pin through the cloth with the other. His coat sleeve brushed her chin. His fingers were warm through the layers of her clothing. The nails were neatly trimmed. The hands immaculately clean. Tanned. Capable hands. Alasdhair’s hands.

She remembered them on the tiller that day. She remembered the way she’d pressed one of them to her cheek. He’d smelled of salt and sweat. Now he smelled of soap and expensive cloth and clean linen. And Alasdhair. Something she couldn’t describe, but it was him.

‘There.’

He looked down at her and there it was again, for a split second. Recognition. A calling of like to like. And a yearning. She couldn’t breathe. He licked his lips, as if he was about to speak. He moved towards her just a fraction. Then he pulled away, shifted so that there was a defined space between them.

‘Your finger’s bleeding.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Without thinking, she put it in her mouth, sucking on the tiny cut.

Alasdhair stared, fascinated. He forced himself to look away. ‘Why are you crying then, if not out of pity?’ he asked roughly.

‘You’ll understand when you hear my side of the story. Oh, Alasdhair, you will understand only too well, as I do now.’ Ailsa blinked back another tear and took a deep breath. ‘You remember my mother saw us from the drawing-room window that day on our way back from the island? When I went in she was furious. Said she’d been watching how we behaved together and she was becoming very concerned.’

‘Concerned about what?’

‘My honour.’ Ailsa laced her fingers together nervously, fidgeted with her gloves, pulling at the fingers of the soft leather, stretching them irretrievably out of shape. ‘“He’s making cat’s eyes at you.” You should have heard the way she said it—she made you sound like some predatory seducer. I told her you would never do anything to harm me.’

‘What did she say to that?’

‘She laughed at me. She said I would learn soon enough that all men were the same. She told me I needed to keep away from you for my own good. I’m sorry, but you said you wanted the truth.’

‘It’s all right. I’ve never been under any illusions about Lady Munro’s opinion of me.’

‘I’m sorry, all the same. I understood my father’s attitude, for you were never one to toe the line, and he was always one to expect it, from you especially for some reason, but my mother—to this day, I don’t know what it was about you that made her hate you so.’

‘My existence,’ Alasdhair said with a flippancy he was far from feeling. There was a part of him that didn’t want to hear any more, but there was another part of him that needed the whole unvarnished truth, no matter how unpalatable. ‘We have wandered from the subject.’

‘When my mother told me you’d been banished, I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know you’d gone to my father to ask permission to court me—why would I when you’d said not a word to me? She told me you’d argued because you were set on leaving. She said you’d been banished because you’d defied him, that you’d thrown the offer of the factor’s post in his face. I didn’t know the real reason and had no reason at all to suspect it.’

‘But, Ailsa, you knew how I felt about you—how could you have thought I’d leave without even discussing it?’

She sniffed and looked down at the ground. ‘You never said what you felt in so many words.’

Alasdhair jumped to his feet. ‘Because I thought we didn’t need words to express what we felt for each other. For heaven’s sake, Ailsa, I thought you understood that. I thought you knew me. I thought you of all people would know that I would never, ever, do anything to hurt you, never mind dishonour you. I thought you believed in me.’

She couldn’t look him in the eye. Though her mother’s lies were the catalyst for their separation, she felt she was more to blame. What Alasdhair said was true, she had lacked faith and was too easily persuaded. ‘She laughed at me when I said you loved me. What did I know of such things, she said, and you know what she was like, Alasdhair. She made me feel like an idiot. It is not you I didn’t believe in,’ Ailsa whispered, ‘it was myself.’ That it was all too late, she knew. There was nothing she could do, but, oh, how much she wished there was. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Alasdhair. Please don’t look at me like that, for I can’t bear it.’

He knew from bitter experience how very practised Lady Munro was in the art of belittlement, how she twisted and turned everything into a deformed version of itself. With both her parents assailing her, poor Ailsa would have stood little chance. If she had only believed … but in his heart, he knew he had not believed enough, either. It had been too much to wish for. Too much to deserve. ‘You’ve no more need to be sorry than I. I don’t blame you for not coming. I can see how it must have looked.’

‘But I did come.’

‘What!’

‘My mother told me she had arranged for us to meet to say goodbye. Despite her better judgement, she said, she thought it better that I hear from you direct. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing, the chance to see you just one more time. I was there at midnight as agreed. I waited and waited, but you didn’t come. I thought you couldn’t face me. You didn’t love me, but you cared enough about me not to be able to tell me that to my face. I thought my mother was right. I thought—but I was wrong. I was wrong. I was so wrong.’ Ailsa shuddered as sobs racked her body.

Alasdhair ran his hand distractedly through his hair. ‘I don’t understand. I stood here, under this very tree—our tree—the whole time. Where were you?’

Ailsa’s covered her face with her hands. ‘An Rionnag,’ she whispered.

Alasdhair cursed, long and low in the Gaelic, words he thought forgotten, then he stooped down to pull Ailsa to her feet, wrapping his arms around her, unable to resist the habit of comforting her any longer. ‘My God, but they made sure of separating us, your parents. Your father thought he had solved the problem by banishing me, but your mother knew different, so she set us up to think each betrayed by the other. And it worked. Between them they destroyed any chance we had of happiness.’

He stroked her hair, the way he had always done before to soothe her, but despite the familiar gesture, he felt like a stranger. She was acutely aware of him, not as the person he’d been, but of the man he had become. A man she didn’t know any more. It disconcerted, this not knowing, but having known. She had no idea how to behave.

Ailsa pushed herself back from his embrace and wiped her eyes, attempting a watery smile. ‘Sorry, it’s not like me to cry.’

Alasdhair shook his head and returned her smile with a crooked one of his own. ‘God knows, we both have reason enough.’

The wind ruffled his hair. As he shook it back from his face she noticed it, the faint white line above his left brow, made more visible by his tan. Ailsa reached up to trace the shape of it. ‘The oar, do you remember?’

‘Of course I remember, you nearly had me drowned.’

They had been swimming, and he was climbing back into the boat. Ailsa, struggling to slot one of the heavy oars into its lock, had slipped and the blade had gashed his brow. ‘I was trying to rescue you,’ she retorted. ‘I thought we’d never get it to stop bleeding. You’re lucky it’s such a tiny scar.’

‘I didn’t feel lucky at the time, my head ached for days.’ Her nearness was disconcerting. The memory of the girl he had once loved was retreating like a shadow at noon, fading in the bright light of the woman standing next to him. She was more different than the same. The years had not left her untouched.

He felt the softness of her curves pressing into him. Regret and wanting swamped him. It was a potent mix that overrode everything else. He pulled her to him. She did not resist. He slipped his arm around her waist, tilting her face up with his finger. She was trembling. She wanted him, too. In that moment, only for that moment, but it was enough. Without any thought of resisting, Alasdhair leaned into her. Their lips met.

Ailsa hesitated. She felt as she did sometimes, wrestling with the boat in a storm or rushing her horse at a high dyke. Exhilarated and afraid in equal measure. Her skin tugged at her, as if it had needs of its own of a sudden, needs it had never expressed. Save once.

Alasdhair felt so solid against her and so warm, the heat from him seeping into her like a dram of whisky. His lips touched hers. She sighed and the warmth spread, like fingers of sunshine on a rock. His hands on the curve of her spine nestled her closer. He angled his head and his lips seemed to mould themselves to hers.

It was breathtakingly intimate. Her heart hammered in her breast. A capricious mixture of wanting and uncertainty swept over her, a yearning for something lost. Her mouth softened under his caress. His tongue licked along the length of her bottom lip. An adult’s kiss. Her first. With a soft sigh she nestled closer, touched the tip of her tongue to his. A shock sparked between them and Alasdhair brought the embrace to an abrupt end.

Taking a hasty step back, he felt a flush striping the sharp planes of his cheekbones. What the devil had he been thinking! ‘Forgive me. I should not have—I don’t know what came over me.’

Colour flooded Ailsa’s face. She stared up at him, wide-eyed with shock.

What did he think he was doing! He had come here to tie up loose ends, not entangle himself further, and especially not with another man’s property—a fact that he had managed to forget all about in the shock of seeing Ailsa again.

‘Where is McNair anyway?’ Alasdhair asked roughly, furious with the man for his absence. If he had been here to take better care of his wife, this would not have occurred. ‘I did not see him at the grave.’

Confused as much by the repressed anger in Alasdhair’s voice, which seemed to have come from nowhere, as by the abrupt change of topic, Ailsa struggled to assemble her thoughts. ‘He’s been ill. A fever of the blood. He has been confined to bed.’

A fever of the blood! Perhaps that is what he had himself. Alasdhair shook his head, as if doing so would clear the mist that had clouded his judgement, that was distracted by the completely irrelevant puzzle of Ailsa’s response to him. If he had not known better, he would have thought she had no more experience of kisses than the last time their lips had met. ‘I should not have kissed you. It is no excuse, but I forgot that you were married, just for the moment.’

Ailsa flushed a deeper red. ‘But I’m not married. Despite what my father told you I was not betrothed to Donald McNair six years ago—or if my father made any promises on my behalf then, it was without my knowledge. I admit, I am betrothed to Donald now, but it is of much more recent standing.’

‘Not married!’ It had not occurred to him that she would still be single. It was a disturbing notion and not one he wanted to think about. ‘Wed or betrothed, long-standing or recent, it makes no difference,’ he said, more to himself than Ailsa. ‘You are spoken for and I should not have taken such a liberty.’

‘Nor I granted it to you,’ Ailsa said unhappily. She had never had any difficulty in refusing such liberties to others. Not even Donald had been permitted such intimacy, but kissing Alasdhair had seemed the most natural thing in the world. And the most delightful. She had forgotten it could be delightful, a kiss. Like a promise. Except this one, like the last one Alasdhair made, would remain for ever unfulfilled. ‘What about you, Alasdhair?’

‘What about me?’

‘Are you married?’

‘Of course not,’ he snapped. ‘Do you think me the sort of man to go about kissing women if I were?

Anyway, I have no need of a wife. I have no need of anyone.’

He wasn’t married. He didn’t want to be married and it was probably her fault that he was set against it. She couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t married. This thought above all buzzed around in her head, as impossible to ignore and as useless as an angry blue bottle, and it was all too much. Far too much. She didn’t want to think any more. She wanted nothing so much as to be safe under the covers of her bed. Weariness assaulted her.

Noticing her pallor, Alasdhair felt a twinge of regret. He, too, felt as if he had been pummelled relentlessly, reeling from the onslaught the day had made on his emotions. ‘Come,’ he said, picking up her gloves from the ground and handing them to her, ‘I should get you back to the castle. You look exhausted.’

Ailsa tried valiantly for a smile. ‘It’s all been a bit—overwhelming.’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’ Alasdhair took her hand. ‘We belonged to each other once, before you were pledged to Donald McNair. We did not get to say our farewells six years ago. We were long overdue that kiss. I won’t feel guilty about it, and nor should you.’

Through the starkly handsome face of the man, the boy peered out. She answered him with the sweet smile of the girl she had been.

He would have kissed her again, seeing that smile he remembered so well. She would not refuse him. It was with immense difficulty that he chose honour over desire. Even as he tucked her hand into his arm, he was regretting it. Ailsa stumbled against him as the path grew rocky. Alasdhair tightened his grip on her arm. He could help her home. That much at least he could do with a clear conscience.

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