Page 1 of Laird of Flint
Chapter 1
Rivenloch, Lowlands, Scotland
Autumn 1159
Hew’s heart cracked.
He supposed he should have been used to the pain by now. He’d had his heart broken a hundred times.
But it always felt like fresh agony. Like a blacksmith had swung a sledgehammer into his breastbone. Shattered his ribs. Collapsed his lungs. Added another wound to his already scarred heart.
He let the scribbled missive fall from his fingers onto the rush-covered flagstones of the great hall. Anne’s playful, flowery signature grinned up at him in mockery.
For a fortnight, he’d believed Anne was his ladylove. His life. His breath. His everything. She’d held his very soul in her hands.
Had none of it been true?
Had he only imagined she was as besotted with him as he was with her?
Bloody hell. Anger stung his eyes as he felt the familiar hollow ache begin in his chest.
At least the others had kissed him farewell. Or mumbled regrets. Or turned their tearful faces away as they explained their affection had faded.
Anne hadn’t even had the courage to end their courtship face-to-face.
She’d sent a missive with a damned monk. A monk who’d been instructed not to wait for a reply.
Hew drew in a ragged breath and bent down to pick up the carelessly scrawled missive. Clenching his jaw, he crumpled it in his fist and tossed it onto the blazing fire. The page unfurled to give him one last taunting look at Anne’s name before the flames licked at it, darkening and curling the parchment. Incinerating their love as if it had never been.
The page hadn’t yet turned to ash when his younger brother Logan arrived with a pair of ales.
“I know that look,” Logan said, handing him one of the cups. “Who is it this time? Gormal?”
“Gormal?” he growled.“Gormal?”Hew frowned as anger’s sharp blade rushed in to try to protect his broken heart. “Gormal was three sennights ago.”
Logan shrugged, unfazed by Hew’s ire. “I can’t keep up.” Then he gulped down a large swallow of ale.
Hew supposed he shouldn’t be vexed with Logan. Since summer, he’d enjoyed the company of a dozen different lasses. Indeed, if he hadn’t given his heart so completely to each and every one, he wouldn’t have been able to keep track of them either.
It was a truth known to all of Rivenloch that Hew du Lac had a serious weakness for women.
How could he not? They were so beautiful. Tender. Strong. Maternal. He loved their gentle touch. The sparkle of their laughter. The vulnerability of their tears. Their subtle curves. Their soft voices.
And he never met a woman he couldn’t love. It didn’t matter if she was rich or poor. Young or old. Bonnie. Ugly. Widowed. Betrothed.
Indeed, it was lucky Hew was good with a weapon, for he’d gotten himself into more than one scrape, falling in love with another man’s mistress.
“Anne. Right,” Logan repeated, as if adding her to a mental list. “What happened? She didn’t have a husband, did she?”
Hew pretended to bristle at the suggestion. “Nay.”
“Come on,” Logan chided. “’Tis me, your brother. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Hew blew out a harsh sigh. “Nay, she wasn’t married.”
It had been three months since he’d unfortunately charmed the beautiful wife of Sithech the butcher. He was determined he wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“That’s good then, aye?” Logan said. “You won’t have to kill anyone.”
