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  "This must be a mistake," Rhiannon said, convinced the little girl had misunderstood her uncle's request. "I am certain your uncle had intended more humble accommodations."

  "He said the room next to mine." Violet tugged on her arm, pulling Rhiannon across the luxurious crimson and gold carpet that covered most of the wooden floor.

  Exotic opulence played before her eyes. A huge wardrobe, with dark unfamiliar wood, covered one wall. Opposite that stood a rosewood dressing table with a huge mirror, draped in crimson damask. More deep crimson damask covered a seat near the room's one tall and narrow window, and was draped with artless elegance the enormous bed in the center of the room. She had never seen anything quite so ornate. And never had expected such opulence to be part of her life, however temporarily.

  Violet tugged on Rhiannon's arm again, leading her to a door on the opposite side of the room. "This is my room when I come here to stay." She opened the door to reveal a chamber that was no doubt the nursery.

  Another tightly woven carpet in various shades of blue and yellow stretched across the polished wooden floor. The spacious and airy room contained four small beds that lined the far wall. Each bore a dark blue silk coverlet and elaborate bed drapes that swirled around the bedposts to appear more like an unrestrained springtime waterfall than fabric. Atop each bed perched a dozen pillows in various shapes and shades of yellow and gold.

  She felt a bit dazzled by the colors all around her — blues and purples were colors that only the wealthiest could afford. And these were whole rooms decorated in the rich and rare colors.

  A hand-carved cradle in a dark, highly polished wood sat between the room's two tall and narrow windows. Windows. Another luxury. An ornate wardrobe hugged the wall closest to the door.

  "Oh, my," was all Rhiannon could say. Both rooms were breathtaking, elaborately decorated with furnishings, woods, and colors that Rhiannon had never seen before. And the carpets. She dug her thin slippers into the decadently thick weave. Had she ever experienced anything more luxurious?

  "Your uncle lives well," Rhiannon commented more to herself than to converse; she startled when Violet answered.

  "It wasn't always that way." She pulled her hand out of Rhiannon's.

  Curiosity flared, but Rhiannon resisted the temptation to ask the girl to explain. So the man had secrets. Didn't they all?

  Rhiannon turned to her young charge. "Why don't you show me your favorite toy. Is it a doll?" She paused, searching the room for toys.

  Any animation that had lightened Violet's face vanished. "I have nothing." Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. The girl sank to the floor, her soft sobs filling the silence of the room.

  Rhiannon didn't know what to do, how to comfort the girl. She sank down beside her and gently stroked her back with halting strokes. "It will be all right, Violet. You'll see."

  Yet even as she said the words, Rhiannon had no idea how anything would ever be all right again. For it was in that moment that she realized the magnitude of what Violet had lost. Her family. Her home. Her clothing. Her toys. Everything that she had ever possessed was gone.

  Rhiannon's throat tightened with unshed tears. It wasn't right that one little girl should suffer so much loss. Agony tore through her. A part of her own heart that she thought had turned numb from sorrow cracked wide, exposing wounds both old and new.

  She forced back tears. She could never reclaim any of her own losses. But for now she could savor her companionship with a girl who desperately needed someone who cared.

  "It will be all right, Violet," she said this time with more conviction. Because she intended to do whatever it took to see her young charge smile once more.

  Chapter Five

  "Where's Cory?" Dougall Ruthven asked himself. He frowned at the empty roads leading to the town of Lee, then shifted on his horse, searching in all directions. His brother had sent word to meet him there shortly before dusk. Dusk would slide into night soon and Cory and their men were nowhere in sight.

  Dougall tamped down a shiver of dread. Cory was just late. Perhaps he'd had trouble getting past the muck in the roads left by the late afternoon rainfall. Dougall dismounted, giving his tired horse a rest from the breakneck pace he'd traveled from Glasgow. The horse nickered, then moved to the side of the muddy expanse to munch on a tuft of soft green grass.

  The wind picked up, and Dougall shivered, this time not holding the sensation back. He pulled the edges of the tartan cloth tossed over his shoulder closer around his body and listened for the soft sound of hoofbeats approaching.

  Nothing.

  Dougall fixed his attention on the north road. As soon as Cory arrived they would head in that direction, traveling all night if they must to reach Taturn Abbey.

  It was beyond time for them to retrieve their sister, Rhiannon. She would bring a pretty price — enough funds to continue the battle against the Lockharts their father had started decades ago when James and Camden's father had stolen the woman their father had wanted. And even though their father was dead, killed by the English, his sons had made a promise to avenge him until the day they died.

  They had tried to kill the Lockharts for years, but until James had split the clan in two, dividing its members and staff between both Lee and Lockhart Castles, the Lockharts had been too powerful an enemy. With James's relocation came their opportunity. They'd waited and watched until the time was right.

  Killing James had been a start to their long-awaited revenge. But until all the Lockharts were dead, they would not rest.

  Rhiannon knew nothing of their vendetta. They'd kept her isolated most of her life from what it meant to be a Ruthven. But now it was time for their sister to pay her debt to the family name.

  The soft sound of hoofbeats broke into Dougall's thoughts. "Cory? Is that ye?" Dougall strained to see the dark figure approaching in the silver light.

  "Why in God's name did ye summon me out here?" Cory complained as he continued forward. "I know we canna show ourselves tae many o' our countrymen, but this place is out o' the way fer even ye." Cory brought his horse to a stop alongside Dougall's and dismounted.

  Cory's mocking tone brought a frown to Dougall's face. "Ye summoned me."

  Dougall tensed. "Nay, ye left word wi' the innkeeper tae meet ye here."

  An expression of unease crossed Cory's face. He twisted back toward the horses. "It's a trap," he cried.

  An arrow flew through the night air with faultless precision, finding its mark in Cory's chest. Before Dougall could move, a searing pain in his chest robbed him of breath.

  A whisper of sound came to his ears and a shadow detached itself from the night, heading toward them from atop a horse. "What do ye want?" he asked even though he knew the answer.

  The man said nothing, only continued his progression forward. Dougall's heart was pounding, hurting. He could see Cory's body outlined against the silver moonlight. He saw his brother twist, then fall to the ground as a second arrow protruded from his chest.

  Oh, God, they could not die. Camden Lockhart still had to pay for his father's misdeeds.

  The large muscular man brought his horse to a stop and dismounted. He headed for Dougall, his bow extended before him.

  "Don't!" Dougall tried to run. Pain exploded inside him. Once. Twice. He dropped to his knees as something warm and salty filled his mouth.

  He was dying. And he was afraid. The big man dropped his bow and reached for the sword at his side. In an instant the sword whipped against his neck. The weapon swung, sliced, and was free.

  At first light, Camden rode out of the castle alone, retracing his steps from a few days ago. He had to find the assassin he had hired. He had to cancel the attacks on Rhiannon. For another bag of coins, he was certain the blacksmith would guide him to the assassin.

  Back at the castle, he'd left Orrin in charge of Violet and Rhiannon's protection, never explaining exactly why he needed such a service of his friend. Orrin was wise enough not to ask.

 
Camden had even demanded that the occupants of Lockhart Castle, his brother's castle, be made to wait outside the gates of Lee Castle until his return. He wanted to screen every new resident as they entered the protection of his home. He could not afford to allow an assassin to slip into his castle.

  Pushing his horse as hard as he dared on the half frozen roads, Camden entered Glasgow at midday. He headed straight to the river green, where he'd found the blacksmith the other day. He dismounted outside the smithy's yard and strode toward the forge. Two men, both fair in coloring, leaned over the open flame. From iron clamps they rotated red-hot metal over the glowing coals. One man looked up as his approach.

  "Good day, milord."

  Camden bowed his head in greeting. "The blacksmith, the one with the dark hair, where is he?"

  The two men exchanged a look of surprise. "Nolan?"

  "Aye," Camden said. "That was the man's name. Where may I find him?"

  "He's dead," the older of the two men replied.

  Dead? Cold rose in Camden's throat and danced down his neck. "That's impossible. I just spoke with him two days past."

  The younger man set his piece of metal back into the fire. "He was robbed then murdered last night."

  A sinking sensation filled him. Had the assassin come after Nolan for the other half of the money Camden had promised? "How did he die?"

  "Strangled," the younger man said. "The odd thing was when we found Nolan, we also found the heads of two other dark-haired men."

  Camden didn't need to hear any more. He turned back to his horse and with a renewed sense of urgency spurred the animal toward the shadier part of town. A heavy fog crept across the streets near the river, making the twining stone corridors eerie and confusing despite the daylight.

  The air hung heavy and stagnant, filled with the odor of rot and slime. Camden stopped at the nearby inn, then a pub farther down the way, asking after the man he had employed. A long litany of negative responses greeted him at each stop. No one seemed to remember the man.

  Determined to press on until he had found what he searched for, Camden eventually reached the long, dark alley he had visited a few nights past. In the daylight, the river waifs lingered in the alley, leaning against the crude stone walls, watching with curious eyes as he rode by.

  At the turn in the alley, right before the stairs that led down to the riverbank below, Camden dismounted. He surveyed the area with a frown. Where was the darkened doorway his assassin had appeared from the other night? Or had there been a doorway?

  "Ye lookin' fer somethin'?" One of the waifs pushed away from the wall and headed toward him, slowly, appraising with each step.

  "I hired a man here two days ago. I need to speak with him."

  The young boy continued toward him. "What ye want with him?"

  "That is between me and the man."

  "Well, since he ain't here and I am, ye might want tae take it up with me."

  "I have no time to waste. The man, where is he?"

  "Ye might not have time but ye have funds me and the boys would like to relieve you of," the waif said with a bark of laughter that brought a round of chuckles from the other boys behind him. He pulled a dagger.

  Camden's muscles clenched, and his own hand drifted to the hilt of his curved Saracen sword, ready to strike. The river waif's weapon would be out of his hands in the blink of an eye if Camden chose to attack.

  On the river below, a ship's whistle sounded. Camden startled at the flash of memory it evoked.

  Over the high-pitched squeal of a whistle, he heard the shouts of the clans riding into the seaport town of Dunbar, the wailing of the pipes, the echo of a day long past.

  The English had invaded, but the clans refused to be tamed. As Scots born and bred, 'twas in them to fight, to the death if needed, to save their country, their heritage, each other. Men in tartan plaids, weighted down with weaponry fell upon the English. Camden and Orrin were really too young to fight, yet their hearts were big and they refused to be left out of the action.

  But fate had been cruel. Instead of being in the midst of battle, they found themselves on a low slope near the shore, bound, gagged, with backs burning, stinging from the whip that had tried to tame them. As the fight raged he and Orrin had been ambushed by Malcolm Ruthven and his men. With revenge on their minds, the Ruthvens had sold them as slaves. Camden and Orrin were tossed aboard a ship bound for who knew where.

  "He's daft, he is." Harsh laughter preceded the swipe of a blade.

  Camden jumped back out of harm's way as he shed his disorientation and years of pain. The streets of Glasgow, not the shores of Dunbar. Camden grasped his own sword and fell immediately into a loose defensive stance. "You do not want to rob me."

  The boy startled at the oddness of Camden's sword. The Saracen weapon had surprised many of his enemies. "Not alone I don't," the boy said. He glanced behind him, and with a nod of his head, the other waifs started forward. The boy dived at Camden, slashing. The others stood behind him, weapons raised to strike.

  Camden's heart pounded, yet his brain remained calm. He was a better fighter than any of them. But they could overtake him with their numbers. Camden allowed the anger that had been stirred up by the memory of that black, hard place he'd been in his youth. Fury propelled him forward. He would never be a victim again. Neither would anyone he loved. There must have been something in Camden's face that frightened the boys, because their faces paled, their eyes widened. They ceased their advance. With an inhuman shout, he flung himself at them.

  They turned and ran. Camden's anger dissipated as he strode back to his horse. Orrin had been right when he'd said, "Revenge has a way of coming back to you."

  Truer words had never been spoken. Because of his need for revenge, he would be forced to defend a woman he hated from an assassin he had hired.

  Rhiannon managed to coax Violet to sleep after fitful hours of tossing and turning. She'd cried out a few times in fear, startling herself and Rhiannon as she tried to sleep. Only when Rhiannon had settled in the bed beside her had Violet fallen into a deeper sleep, into a place free from the terrors that haunted her.

  Rhiannon sighed, stroking Violet's now clean and tangle-free yellow-gold hair. Even though she'd managed to coax the girl into sleep, restlessness built inside Rhiannon. Sleep would not come any time soon for her, not unless she walked off some of her own anxiety. She needed something to occupy her mind.

  Her gaze wondered about the neat and tidy nursery until it came to rest on the small soiled and tattered dress at the base of the bed. In that moment she knew what she needed to do.

  She tucked the thick woolen blankets tight against Violet's sides and slipped off the little bed. In her own room she picked up a candleholder above the hearth and lit the candle with flames.

  She had never been in a castle before. Her family's holdings were nothing elaborate when compared to the grandeur of Lee Castle. But castles, because of their size, were drafty and cold, she'd discovered. She grabbed a woolen shawl she'd found in the room and winding it about her shoulders, she entered the corridor. The long hallway was quiet and eerie, bathed in a glow of golden light, as she headed for the stairs. Moving slowly down the corridor, she paused at each of the portraits displayed there. Male Lockharts, in the traditional dress of their countrymen, stared down at her. The candlelight illuminated their faces, most notably their eyes — eyes that seemed to mirror the same anger and revulsion she'd seen on Camden Lockhart's face.

  With a frown, Rhiannon quickened her pace, her eyes no longer on the portraits, but the floorboards beneath her feet. She did not seek their approval.

  Belowstairs, she stepped into the great hall that despite the late hour was filled with the castle's residents. A group of women huddled before the overly large hearth. They each held two large wooden combs that they used to card raw wool from one side to the other, preparing the material for spinning.

  Men gathered around the long tables, drinking from wooden mugs as they played a ga
me she recognized as Merrills. Orrin and several other men who had escorted her and Violet to the castle, looked up when she entered the room.

  Orrin broke away from the others, walking toward her. "Is there something you need, milady?" Orrin asked.

  "Lady Violet needs a new gown," Rhiannon said, noting that the women's gazes had shifted to her, gazes that were none too friendly. "Is there somewhere I might find a length of fabric in this castle to make her one?"

  He nodded toward the women at the hearth. "Mistress Faulkner or the other woman can help you with that." He returned to the other men, leaving her to stand alone.

  The muscles in Rhiannon's shoulders stiffened before she forced herself to relax. Violet needed the fabric, not herself. That fact might bring their cooperation. Rhiannon pressed forward, coming to a stop before the older woman she'd met earlier. The woman raised her gaze to meet Rhiannon's. She read inquiry there, but nothing else. No welcome, no warmth. Rhiannon cleared her throat, suddenly nervous. "Mistress Faulkner, might you have a length of fabric I can use to make Lady Violet a new dress?"

  Before the woman could respond, one of the other older women stood and tossed her carding combs to the floor. Her face contorted in disgust. "Your family killed my dear Harold."

  Another of the younger women to her left murmured "Scot killer," just loud enough for Rhiannon to hear.

  A young redheaded maid next to her giggled. "More like Mistress Plague."

  Other women joined in the laughter. "Mistress Plague," they repeated, and continued their laughter until a sharp gaze from Mistress Faulkner cut the merriment.

  "That is enough," Mistress Faulker reprimanded. "Sophia, you will show Mistress Ruthven to the storeroom."

  "Me?" the maid whined. "I'd rather—"

  Another lethal gaze from Mistress Faulkner halted her reply. With a grunt of disgust, she stood. "Follow me." Without waiting for Rhiannon to catch up, she hurried down the hallway on the opposite side of the great hall. The corridor twisted to the right several times before they came to stairs, leading down. "Watch your step, Mistress Plague," Sophia giggled over her shoulder as she disappeared into the dimness ahead.