Prologue
Prologue
Alasdair
The sea was iron-grey beneath the morning mist, unmoving as if it, too, waited to pass judgment.
Alasdair MacLeòid stood at the battlements of Dunrath Keep with his hands braced against cold stone, watching the narrow road that wound up from the loch. A banner had been hung—freshly brushed, too bright for the weather—and the yard below had been scrubbed into a nervous order. Everything looked prepared. He was not.
A wife.
The word felt heavier than mail on his shoulders.
He had not chosen her. He knew only her name, spoken by other men in rooms thick with smoke and compromise. A Fraser woman. Respectable blood. Quiet fortune. No scandals worth mentioning, which in itself made her suspiciously perfect.
Alasdair closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.
Let her be beautiful, he prayed—not vainly, but desperately. Beauty could be forgiven its disappointments. Beauty bought patience from men who expected less than they gave.
And let her be intelligent. That mattered more. A foolish lady would be another burden to manage, another voice to soothe, another weakness his enemies could exploit. He had enough of those already.
He had never prayed for affection. That felt like presumption.
Below him, the keep stirred. Hooves on stone. A shout. The creak of the gates beginning to open.
His stomach tightened.
He wondered what she had been told of him. Likely worse than the truth. The unlucky laird. The quiet one. The man who inherited debts and enemies and a castle that leaked in winter. A lord who did not speak loudly enough to convince others—or himself—that he deserved obedience.
He rubbed his thumb against the faint scar at his wrist, a habit from years of waiting for blows that never came.
If she was sharp, she would see it quickly: the cracks in the walls, the thinning stores, the way men watched him for hesitation before they moved. If she was cruel, she would use it.
And if she was kind—
He swallowed and opened his eyes.
The first riders emerged from the mist, dark shapes resolving into cloaks and steel. A small party. Sensible. No show of strength, no insult either. Good. Whoever she was, she had been advised well.
Alasdair straightened, squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin. He would greet her properly. He would not let his doubts speak before he did. He would be a laird today, whether or not he felt like one.
Still, as the horses drew closer, as one figure rode slightly apart from the rest, his prayer returned, quieter now, almost shameful in its hope.
Let her see me kindly.
