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Prologue

Some said the legendary storm of 1819 that screamed down from the north pushed madness ahead of it. Others said the only madness exhibited that night was born inside a bottle of contraband whiskey. And then there were those who claimed that magic rode vanguard to the snow, sweeping the halls of Finovair Castle and inspiring its laird to heights of greatness .  .  .

Or something along those lines.

All that’s known for certain is that it was a chilly December day when Taran Ferguson led his clansmen to the brow of a hill from which they could see Bellemere Castle glowing like a jewel in the dark Highland night. As his men told the story later, the wind whipped Taran’s tartan back from his shoulders as he forced his steed to paw the air, then brought the magnificent beast back down to earth.

Nearly disbalanced, ’tis true, but that was part of the miracle: he’d drunk a bottle of whiskey and kept his seat.

“A glorious and sacred task lays ahead of us this night,” he bellowed. “Our cause is just, our purpose noble! Down yonder sits the Earl of Maycott .  .  . The EnglishEarl of Maycott!”

This brought forth a roar from his men. And perhaps a belch or two.

“He sits amongst his gold cups and fine china,” Taran continued grandiosely, “seeking to worm his way into our good graces by bidding the finest Highland families to dine and dance with him. ”

His clansmen glowered back at him: none of them, including Taran, had been invited. Not that they’d wanted to be. Or so they told themselves.

“No English interloper will seduce a Scottish lassie on my watch,” Taran shouted. “Scotland is for the Scots!”