Page 1 of The Defiance of a Scottish Heart
Chapter One
Taskill
Autumn, 1316, Isle of Mull, Scotland
The younger guard’s form was all wrong—shoulders too high, weight on his heels instead of the balls of his feet. Taskill circled him slowly, watching for the moment the lad would inevitably overcommit.
“Keep your guard up, Boswell. A Norseman won’t wait for you to—”
The boy lunged. Taskill sidestepped easily and tapped the flat of his blade against Boswell’s exposed ribs. “Dead. Again.”
“How do you move so fast?” Boswell panted, resetting his stance.
“Practice. And I don’t think about it anymore. My body knows what to do.” Taskill raised his sword. “Again.”
The clash of steel on steel filled the practice yard, the familiar rhythm settling something restless in his chest. This, at least, made sense. Attack, parry, reset. Clear rules. Honorable combat. No lies, no betrayals, no—
“Rider approaching!” The shout from the gates cut through his thoughts. “Chief Rankin!”
Taskill’s sword arm faltered. The name hit him like a fist to the gut.
Rankin.
Which meant Dermot, most likely—the old chieftain who’d been growing stranger since his wife’s death. Or possibly Sloan, Dermot’s son and the current chief, a man Taskill actually respected.
But Dermot had only one unmarried daughter.
Only one daughter Taskill had spent five years trying not to think about.
“Go on, then.” Boswell bent over, hands on his knees. “I need the rest anyway. You fight like you’re trying to kill something today.”
Every day,Taskill thought but didn’t say. Fighting kept his mind occupied. Kept the memories at bay. Kept him from thinking about copper hair and green eyes and a laugh he hadn’t heard directed at him since—
He sheathed his sword and strode toward the gates, nodding to the guards as he passed. Cold autumn wind cut through his tunic, but he welcomed the bite of it. Pain was honest, at least. Pain didn’t smile and lie and pretend vows meant something when they didn’t.
“You’ll marry her now, Taskill.”
The words stopped him dead three paces from the gate. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he felt it in his throat.
Marry.
He must have misheard. Had to have misheard.
Taskill forced his feet forward, forced his expression blank—a skill he’d perfected over the years, hiding what roiled beneath the surface. Dermot Rankin sat atop his mount just outside the gates, still every bit the warrior despite his sixty-odd years. Broad shoulders squared, sharp eyes missing nothing.
“Excuse me, Chief?” Taskill’s voice came out steady. Good. “You called for me?”
“I did. Get on your horse now.” Dermot’s gaze locked onto him with unsettling intensity. “I’ve waited long enough. She’s nine and ten now, and it’s time.”
The ground tilted beneath Taskill’s feet.She.There was only one “she” Dermot could mean.
Sheona.
Heat flooded through him, followed immediately by ice-cold dread. “Chief Rankin, I think there’s been some misunderstanding—”
“No misunderstanding. Your father and I agreed years ago. You’ll agree to marry my daughter, then we’ll find the priest.”
The world narrowed to a pinpoint. His father. A promise. Marriage.
