Faye's Sacrifice (Borderland Rebels Book 1)

  Faye’s Sacrifice

  Madeline Martin

  Copyright 2020 © Madeline Martin

  FAYE’S SACRIFICE © 2020 Madeline Martin. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.

  FAYE’S SACRIFICE is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Teresa Spreckelmeyer @ The Midnight Muse Designs.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Madeline Martin

  1

  April 1341

  Castleton, Scotland

  Faye Fletcher had an uncanny knack for getting more from her coin than others. She scanned an assortment of fabrics, eyeing a blue wool that would suit her as well as her younger sister, Clara.

  “How much?” She settled her fingers on the bolt and raised her eyes to the shopkeeper.

  He was younger than she’d expected, and his cheeks colored when their eyes met. “It…it’s, uh, three farthings a yard.”

  She gently caressed the fabric. It was of good quality, the color rich as a summer sky. “Three farthings?” she asked, putting an edge of concern in her voice.

  The shopkeeper’s brow furrowed, mirroring her expression. “Aye.”

  Faye bit her bottom lip in pensive concentration, and his gaze lowered to her mouth. “I need a dozen yards, but—”

  An old man in the alley caught her attention, the same one who had been watching her earlier. He was tall and proud, with a head of red hair threaded with white, and wearing a fine black doublet atop leather trews.

  His stare bored into her, unabashed and unflinching.

  “Mistress?” the shopkeeper asked.

  A shudder squeezed up her spine. “I…” She looked to the fabric once more and shook her head. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  She left the man’s stall without bothering to hear his reply. If he returned to the market another time, she was confident she could smooth over her abrupt departure. Mayhap even use it to elicit sympathy for a further reduction in the cost of the fabric.

  Disappointment pricked her. It had been fine wool.

  She flicked her attention to the alleyway and found the man no longer there. The tension did not ease from her shoulders, however. Instead, wariness tapped at the back of her mind.

  She quickened her pace to where she would be meeting with her brother, Drake, on the outskirts of the village. He’d gone to see about getting a cow for them while Faye attended the market.

  She glanced over her shoulder and found the old man behind her, mere paces away.

  “I’d like a word with ye.” His voice was gravelly despite his Scottish burr and imbued with the same confidence as his squared shoulders.

  She walked more quickly and discreetly slid the dagger from her belt. While she preferred the cut of her own sharp tongue, in a pinch, the blade did quite nicely.

  “Mistress Faye Fletcher.”

  Her name on the stranger’s lips made her step falter. She spun around. “I’m not someone ye want to trifle with.”

  He lifted his brows with apparent amusement and swept his gaze over her. “Ye’ve grown into a bonny lass.”

  “And ye’re a leering old goat.”

  He tsked. “Is that any way to speak to yer grandda?”

  The apprehension in Faye’s gut drew into a hard knot. She met his green eyes, a shade disconcertingly similar to her mum’s. Prickles ran over her flesh.

  She’d heard enough about him to be wary. He was Chieftain of the Ross clan, a man with power and greed running in his cold veins. He was so cruel and self-serving that Mum had risked her family starving rather than take her children to live near Balnagown Castle in the Highlands, even though doing so sacrificed Drake’s claim to the chieftainship.

  Faye glared at him. “My grandda is a dishonorable cur who rules with fear and manipulation. If ye are indeed who ye claim to be, I want nothing to do with ye.”

  The mirth fled his expression, and his face went red under his rust-colored beard. “Impudent chit.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “It doesna matter what ye want. I’ve come to fetch ye to deliver ye to yer betrothed.”

  She tightened her grip on her dagger. Betrothed?

  She scoffed derisively to cover her unease. “Ye’re mad, and I dinna have time for this.”

  Turning away, she strode swiftly toward the large tree where she’d planned to meet Drake, hoping to God he was already waiting. Her grandda’s strong, wiry grasp caught her arm and spun her back toward him.

  She rolled her arm over his and gripped his thick wrist, twisting it sharply. He grunted in pain, but she didn’t stop there.

  This was exactly why she carried a blade. Quick as a blink, she put the point of her dagger to his withered throat. “Leave me be and dinna bother coming to find my family, or I willna stop my blade next time, aye?”

  He grimaced, his teeth yellow beneath his thin lips. “Let go of me, ye foolish lass.”

  She shoved him from her, then backed away.

  “Ye willna go unpunished for that.” He glowered at her, then slipped between two homes, disappearing.

  Faye slowly exhaled, and a tremble softened her limbs. Was he the man he said he was? Her grandda? And what was his claim of her being betrothed?

  She kept the dagger clutched in her grasp as she made her way to the large tree. Drake was already waiting for her with a velvety brown cow whose soft eyes were large and framed with long lashes.

  Drake frowned as she approached. “What is it, Faye?”

  There was a single moment that passed where she considered telling him what had happened. But only one before she resolved to keep news of their grandfather’s presence in the village to herself.

  Drake was the eldest of the four of them and had been visiting the last sennight. The following morning, he was due to return to the English side of the border to resume his duties as Captain of the Guard at Werrick Castle.

  His job was one of great importance and brought him an abundance of pride. It was not the knighthood he’d hoped to obtain as their father had, but it was an honorable position in a noble household. One that afforded them all a much better life than what they’d had before. No longer were they forced to wear threadbare clothes that left them chilled in the winter.

  Nor did they go without food so long that their bellies snarled with hunger.

  She was grateful for what he did for them but did not care for him being gone so long or being so far away—especially at the place wher
e his heart had been broken by one of the earl’s daughters. Her handsome brother should have already had a wife and children, and she suspected his lack of procuring one had a good deal to do with Lady Anice.

  If Drake knew their grandfather was nearby, and that Faye had been approached, he would undoubtedly delay his return to Werrick Castle. She wouldn’t have Drake risk his job on her account. Not when they were finally doing so well, in a stone manor outside the village with some livestock and enough food and clothing to be comfortable.

  “’Tis only that I’m sad ye’ll be leaving us on the morrow.” Faye gave her brother a perfect smile. A lifetime of practice had rendered the expression convincing.

  Drake’s worry lightened into an endearing expression, and he ruffled her hair. “I’ll be back before ye start to miss me.”

  She smoothed her fingers over her tresses to ensure his affection hadn’t left her mussed. “But I already miss ye, and ye’ve not even left yet.”

  He chuckled. “Ach, my honey-tongued sister. One day ye’re going to get yerself in trouble with such pretty words.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find a way out of it.” She grinned.

  Together, they wandered down the trail leading to their home Drake had constructed for them two years prior. It had taken considerable time to save enough, but the home provided them with protection for themselves, as well as their livestock.

  Faye’s meeting with the chieftain churned in her thoughts, though she’d tried to set it aside. He was nothing she couldn’t handle. After all, how much of a threat could one old man be?

  Sutherland, Scotland

  Ewan Sutherland, Chieftain of the Sutherland clan, was getting married. Again.

  Or at least, he would be promised to the chieftain of the Gordon clan’s daughter once he affixed his signature to the lengthy agreement set before him. The quill remained perched in his fingertips; the point not quite settled upon the page. A drop of ink slid from the sharpened tip and beaded on the parchment before absorbing into a blotch of black.

  “Ye dinna want to marry the lass?” Monroe asked from his seat opposite Ewan’s desk.

  Ewan lifted his head to regard his advisor as he considered the question.

  Mistress Blair Gordon was fine enough. Ewan had met her several times at feasts held by the Gordon clan. She’d been a talkative young woman whose face dipped demurely to the ground any time her father was nearby.

  There had been a girlish excitement about her, not at all like the formal stiffness of Lara. The thought of his first wife brought an uncomfortable tightness to his chest.

  Why then was he so opposed to signing the damn betrothal contract?

  Ewan set the quill aside.

  “Ach, that’s what I thought.” Monroe’s dark brows twitched. “There may be another option.”

  “I canna remain unwed,” Ewan grumbled bitterly.

  He didn’t want a wife. But he needed an heir. And alas, one could not come without the other. Or at least, not a legitimate heir. And he wouldn’t complicate a lad’s life with having him be born a bastard.

  “I dinna mean ye should remain unwed.” Monroe smoothed a hand over the heavy wooden chair arm and scanned the capacious solar as though seeking to ensure their privacy, despite their being alone. “Though yer uncle remains curiously quiet over the matter.”

  “Curious,” Ewan repeated bitterly. “I dinna expect him to support a union where an heir might prevent him from inheriting the title of chieftain should I die. We all know he’s been eyeing it since my da passed.”

  Ewan rubbed at a knot of tension at the back of his neck. Having his uncle in his close council allowed Ewan to maintain a watchful eye on him, but it didn’t mean the task was easy or pleasant.

  Ewan’s cousin, Moiré, kept him abreast of her father’s activities to ensure they were not nefarious. She had come to be something like a sister to him. Without any sisters of his own and his elder brother having passed years ago, Ewan found himself often seeking her counsel and relying on her to perform the duties of the castle’s mistress since Lara’s death.

  “Ye received a missive from the Chieftain of the Ross clan.” Monroe withdrew a folded bit of parchment from the pocket of his doublet. “It arrived by messenger moments ago. The lad informed me it had something to do with yer betrothal.”

  “My betrothal?” Ewan took the letter, cracked the thick seal depicting a hand holding a laurel wreath and unfolded it to read the contents within.

  Once done, he lowered the parchment to the top of his desk in wonder. “Faye Fletcher.”

  “I’d nearly forgotten about her,” Monroe confessed.

  “As had I.” Ewan pushed up from his hard wooden seat and approached the fireplace where the flames licked over dry tinder. “But our betrothal contract was never signed by her mother. ’Tis no’ binding.”

  He hadn’t seen Faye since they were children—when she’d left after a visit from England and had never returned. It was why she’d slipped from his thoughts for so long.

  Faye Fletcher had been a quiet, sweet girl who had always seemed so delicate with her slim frame and pale blonde hair and blue eyes. She’d be a biddable lass; that’s what his da had said of her. Granddaughter to the Ross Chieftain, she and Ewan would bring peace to their clans. Their union was made to dissolve the hatred of the last two centuries and unite the clans as one.

  Ewan recalled his hope at such an idea. But he was no longer a lad swayed by fanciful notions. He was a man who led other men. His decisions dictated who lived and who died.

  “What does her dowry offer?” Monroe asked.

  Ewan folded his arms over his chest. “Coin, much more so than what the betrothal with the Gordons, as well as lands to the west of us and…peace.” He sniffed at the ridiculousness of the latter.

  Unfortunately, the offer was a tempting one. The lands to the west were rich and ideal for raising sheep. With the cost of wool rising, it would be an opportunity to amass wealth. As of late, the constant battles between clans had been expensive.

  A marriage to Mistress Faye Fletcher would resolve both issues, as well as hopefully provide him with an heir.

  Monroe turned in his chair to face Ewan and his dark, smooth hair gleamed in the firelight. “How much land does the Ross lass bring?”

  “A considerable amount.” Ewan returned to his desk and regarded the letter once more. “More than they’ll get from Berwick. I dinna know why they’ve wanted that land for so long.” Berwick was over a fortnight’s journey away and overrun with reivers and thieves. The Sutherland clan hadn’t bothered to maintain any sense of order there. Such a feat was nearly impossible.

  “Ross insists that I consider the betrothal and meet with him next month to discuss its renewal.” Sutherland glanced at the agreement beside the letter, the one that would seal him to Mistress Blair Gordon.

  The girl Faye had been rose in his thoughts. What kind of a woman would she be now? Had her skinny body blossomed out to be more robust? Had her white-blonde hair stayed fair or turned the color of wheat?

  “What will ye do?” Monroe asked.

  Ewan’s chest constricted at the thought of marrying again. Lara had been a good wife to him. She had not bickered or complained, nor had she desperately clung to him as some men’s wives did. She had performed her duties at the castle promptly and in good order. Aye, she had not given him a bairn in their three years together, but she had tried.

  It had been almost two years since her death, and Ewan was not getting any younger. He required a wife and a son and had two contracts lying at his fingertips. He heaved a sigh that sent the parchments shifting over the desk.

  “Aye,” he said, at last, his mind finally made up. “I’ll meet with Ross to discuss the possibility of marriage to Mistress Faye Fletcher.”

  2

  Faye bent the bean shell in half over the bowl until the snap sounded sharp in the stillness of the room. The manor was always extraordinarily silent after Drake’s departure.

&nbs
p; She sighed and reached for another handful of pods.

  “’Tis too quiet,” Kinsey complained. The youngest of them had red curls that she didn’t bother trying to control. She propped her cheek on her fist, so her mouth stretched up the left side of her face.

  “Yer face will freeze if ye keep it like that.” Faye popped another pod open and let the beans plink into the bowl.

  Kinsey rolled her eyes in reply. “Why is he aiding the English anyway? They’ve done nothing but cause us strife.”

  “’Tis English money that’s paid for this house.” Their mother joined them at the large wooden table and shooed her hands at Kinsey.

  Kinsey moved with her elbow dragging across the table’s surface to keep her face propped in her hand.

  Mum took several pods and scooped out the beans in a deft, practiced move. She’d had blonde hair like Faye when she’d been younger, though most of it had gone white early on, not long after Faye’s da had been killed.

  “The English have been kind to us.” Clara took the bowl full of shelled beans and swapped it for an empty one. She was only one year Faye’s junior, her color favoring their father’s dark hair as Drake’s did.

  “Kind to us?” Faye ripped open a fresh pod so the beans spilled out violently, rolling in errant directions before settling at the bottom. “Do ye recall how they shunned us after Da’s death? How we dinna have food to eat or—”

  “Enough.” Mum’s gentle rebuke stilled Faye’s words but did nothing to cool her ire.

  “I only meant Lord Werrick has been good to Drake,” Clara said gently. “I thank God every day he is in such care.”