Dear Readers,
As promised, I've attached BOOK PREVIEWS to tide you over until release day.
1) To Tame a Viking Warlord: Keeper of Secrets III
2) Captive Hearts: Reluctant Brides Book 6
3) Fool Me Once: Reluctant Brides Book 7
Just keep scrolling.
There was far too much to squeeze into a newsletter, as I'd first intended, so I've brought it all here instead where I can share it with you in full. Consider this your sneak peek at what's coming.
I hope you enjoy these early glimpses into my imaginary worlds.
Elina xoxo
Preview: To Tame a Viking Warlord: Keeper of Secrets III ©2026 Elina Emerald
Prologue
1029 - Orkney Isles
The sickness had come swiftly, a burning heat that consumed Torstein from within. For three days and nights, he drifted in and out of consciousness, the world around him a blur of faces and voices. Sweat plastered his golden hair to his forehead, his young face contorted in pain as the fever raged through his body. Though only twelve winters old, he had survived raids and storms at sea, but this invisible enemy that burned him from within proved his fiercest opponent yet.
His father, Hagan, stood grim-faced by the bedside, watching as his only son fought for each labored breath.
"He burns hotter than the flames of Surtr, the herbs are not working," his mother Runa said, desperation creeping into her voice as she administered a damp cloth to Torstein's brow. "We must seek the help of Brynhild."
"Nay." Hagan's voice was sharp. "I'll not have a seiðkona tending my son."
"Would you prefer to have a dead son to bury 'neath the stones?" Runa replied with an intense glare.
All the fight left Hagan then as concern for his son won over his prejudice against the old ways. Hagan sighed and then nodded in agreement. "Aye, I'll fetch the old witch then."
***
Night had fallen by the time Brynhild the elderly healer arrived. Ancient even then, with eyes the color of storm clouds. She carried a bag of strange-smelling herbs and spoke in a voice that seemed to come from the earth itself. The old woman was both feared and respected throughout the isles. Some whispered she was a völva, a seeress with one foot in this world and one in the realm of spirits. Others claimed she was a witch who had learned forbidden magic from Christian monks. Whatever the truth, she was known to possess healing knowledge that had saved lives when all else failed.
Torstein's eyes fluttered open at her approach, glassy and unfocused. "I see them," he whispered, his voice cracked and dry. "The Valkyries... they're coming for me."
Brynhild snorted, the silver amulets woven into her gray braids jingling as she shook her head firmly. "Look away from them, lad. Ye have many winters yet."
"But they call to me," Torstein murmured, his eyes half-lidded, seeing beyond the worried faces of his parents and their small cottage to golden halls where dream-like warriors feasted.
"Odin can wait," Brynhild snapped, slapping his cheek lightly. "Your saga has barely begun, son of Hagan. Would you have the skalds sing of Torstein who died before his beard grew?" She made a 'tsk-tsk' sound.
Torstein's fevered gaze focused momentarily on her face, seeing the determination etched in lines across her brow. "I am tired of fighting," he confessed.
"No, son. Do not give up!" came his father's gruff voice through the haze.
"Do not leave us!" he heard his mother's tearful plea.
Torstein's body racked with shudders in response.
Old Brynhild's weathered hands crushed some herbs with a mortar and pestle, the pungent aroma filling the small space. The mixture sizzled as she added it to a wooden cup of steaming liquid while she muttered incantations and prayers to Eir, goddess of healing. Then she whispered, "Listen well, son of Hagan. Valhalla awaits, but your time is far from now." She placed a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "You have a long life to live. You will not surrender it to fever!"
Torstein's breathing slowed slightly as her words reached through the fever's haze.
With Hagan's help, Brynhild lifted Torstein to a sitting position and pressed a horn of foul-smelling liquid to his lips. "Drink. This will cool the fire within."
Torstein drank, grimacing at the taste that was somehow both bitter and sweet, like overripe berries. The liquid burned down his throat, settling in his stomach like a stone. The room grew still, and even Hagan, skeptical as he was, did not dare to speak. Several moments passed until, much to his parents' great relief, Torstein's breathing began to ease and even out as his body visibly relaxed. He lay back against the pillows.
"What ails my son?" Runa finally asked.
"He walks between two worlds," Brynhild replied. "His fever is of the soul. It is torn, you see. Half here, half elsewhere."
"What nonsense is this?" Hagan demanded.
Brynhild ignored him, her storm-cloud eyes fixed on Torstein. "The other half of your soul awaits. In a land of mystical sands."
Hagan replied, "I am grateful for your help, Fróð kona, but please do not fill my son's head with fairy tales." His wife Runa shushed him, and Hagan grunted his displeasure, moving away from the bed to pace the room.
Torstein's eyes widened slightly, the mention of unknown lands stirring something within him. He asked with a rasp, "What land?"
"Your fate is tied to a place you have not yet seen and to a lass born under different stars, where the endless sands meet the great waters. She waits for you, though she knows it not. She is your destiny. Would you abandon her to walk this world alone?"
Torstein shook his head.
Brynhild's eyes grew distant, seeing beyond the walls. "Trials await her, and she will need your strength. Would you leave her unprotected?"
"No," Torstein whispered, his voice barely audible above the crackling fire.
The old healer nodded, satisfied. "Then fight. Push the Valkyries away."
"How... how will I find her?" Torstein asked, his voice slightly stronger.
Brynhild replied, "Grow strong. Learn the ways of sail and sword. In time, the gods will guide your ship to her shores." She placed a hand above his heart. "But if you surrender now, she will walk alone forever."
Torstein grasped Brynhild's wrist with newfound strength. "Tell me what to do," he said.
Brynhild smiled in the firelight. "Live, Torstein Hagansson. You must live."
"I will," he whispered, his gaze no longer fixed on invisible Valkyries but on the smoke hole above, where stars glimmered.
"Good," Brynhild nodded, satisfaction in her voice. "Now rest so you will be alert and ready to rise again with the sun."
As Torstein's eyes grew heavy and eventually closed, his breathing grew steadier. Brynhild and Runa kept vigil over him through the night as Hagan stoked the fires and guarded his household.
By morning, when the first gray light filtered through the windows, Torstein slept peacefully, the worst of the fever broken. Brynhild sat back on her stool, her old bones aching from the night's vigil. "Stubborn, just like your father," she muttered with grudging approval. "This desert maiden of yours will have her hands full with you."
***
Chapter 1
1047 Winter - Kirkwall, Orkney Isles
The boat came in with the morning tide. Two women in travelling cloaks stepped onto the shore and requested an audience with Thorfinn Sigurdsson, the mighty Jarl of Orkney.
To anyone else they looked like simple nuns. But Thorfinn, who had been watching for their arrival, knew better. They were women of the cloth, but they were also part of one of the highest secret orders in Christendom, and only a fool would treat their visit lightly.
He recognized the first as Abbess Murdina of Saddell Abbey. His cousin, King Macbeth mac Findláech, had once described Murdina's life as one long chessboard, the pieces forever moving, the woman always several steps ahead. Thorfinn had known her long enough never to underestimate her. He also knew that a woman who crossed the Pentland Firth in winter did not do so without good reason.
***
Jarl Thorfinn received the Abbess in his private council chamber, because whatever she had come to say was not for other ears. Sister Eithne took her post outside the door, a quarterstaff strapped to her back and her eyes scanning the corridor. Thorfinn knew a bodyguard when he saw one.
Murdina sat without being asked and folded her hands on the table. "You look well, Jarl Thorfinn."
"As do ye, Abbess. Though I can tell ye have come in person because what ye have to say could not be put in a missive."
She smiled slightly. "As always, nothing escapes your attention. I hear you plan to make your pilgrimage to Rome soon."
"Aye. I journey with Macbeth."
"That is why I came now rather than later. I need to contact an old friend in Fez. A merchant trader named Dawud ibn Yusuf al-Idrissi. He has something that must come north. A parcel that has waited a long time for the right escort."
"What manner of parcel?"
"The kind that requires discretion, and someone ye trust, with a legitimate reason to be in Fez. Trade goods. A scouting mission. Something that does not invite suspicion."
"And if I were to ask what it is?"
She took a breath. "An ancient relic. Of great power. The Brotherhood are searching for it, and they are closer than I would like. It cannot fall into their hands."
Thorfinn stiffened. He had heard of the Brotherhood, and of their strange hunger for old relics. He turned his cup slowly on the table. He was a strategist, and he knew there was more to this than the Abbess was saying. Someone had forced her hand, or she would not have crossed the firth in the dead of winter.
"Ye have come yourself, rather than sending a letter," he said. "That tells me ye move because ye must, not because ye choose. So my question is this. Who else is looking for it?"
Murdina smiled. "You always did see the whole board, Thorfinn Sigurdsson."
"I see what a person does, not what they say. Macbeth speaks well of your Order, and so do I. I am a man of practical arrangement, Abbess. Ye ken this."
"I do."
"Then I shall send my best man south. He will make contact with your merchant and bring your parcel north safely. But when I have need of the abbey's assistance, at a time of my choosing, ye will not refuse me."
Murdina was quiet a long moment. Then she inclined her head. "Agreed."
"Then I'll have my men on the water come the thaw."
She reached into her boist and drew out a small square of vellum, folded twice, and smoothed it open on the table. The sketch showed a pendant, a disc no larger than a man's palm, carved with a design like outstretched arms beneath a crescent moon, the whole of it ringed by a plain border.
"This is what your man will escort north," she said. "The merchant will provide proof of my seal, and my letters will tell your man all he needs. But he must learn the tongue before he sails, and the customs with it. Latin will carry him through the Christian ports, but south of them it is worth little. From Lisbon to Salé the harbours are held by Muslim lords, and your man will be speaking Arabic long before he reaches Fez. I have arranged a tutor, a scholar named Brother Aiden, well traveled and adept in the tongues and customs of the region. He will teach your man Arabic, and what courtesies one winter allows."
Thorfinn leaned forward to study the sketch. Then he went still.
"I have seen this carving before," he said slowly. "Or its likeness. Not far from here. In Maeshowe. Carved into the stone, among the runes."
Murdina sat up. "This design has no cause being anywhere near these isles."
"And yet."
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
"Then it is even more important your man is on the water before the thaw closes on us," she said.
She laid the remaining parchments and a cube of sealed clay on the table. "The merchant's family seal. Proof that I am the sender. Whoever you send presents this with my letter."
The Abbess rose, collected her cloak, and moved to the door. She paused with her hand on the frame.
"Your man will ken what he is looking for when he finds it," she said. "Of that I am certain."
She left.
Thorfinn sat alone. After a long moment he rose, crossed to the shelf, and picked up the ancient stone he had found buried beneath the fort when the wall collapsed. Dark. Carved. Warm, as it had always been. A seer had once told him it was a ward against evil. He had never quite believed it, but he kept it there regardless.
He held it a while longer. Then he set it back on the shelf, and sent for the only man he could trust with the task.
He sent for Torstein Hagansson.
***
Preview: Captive Hearts: Reluctant Brides Book 6 ©2026 Elina Emerald
Three Years Earlier
Torin Ruthven woke with pain radiating through his entire body. He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for some time, but slowly the haze was lifting. Then he heard the familiar sound that kept him tethered to the mortal world. A Scottish lass, softly speaking to him. For the most part she carried on a one-sided conversation, since he still could not speak; the pain in his throat was excruciating. But without her gentle, steadfast presence, he knew he surely would have died. She kept the darkness away.
As lucidity returned, he could feel a cool cloth against his heated skin, and that gentle voice speaking to him as if he were whole, as if he were human and not the monster he'd become to survive the brutal captivity of the English. She carried the scent of heather and the fresh Highland breeze. She quenched his soul, and he craved more.
Her voice reminded him that he was no longer in that tiny, dark dungeon cell. Instead of the stench of rotting flesh and the screams of despair, he smelled heather, the Highlands, freedom. Torin opened his eyes. Though he'd lost sight in one, the other was still sharp and alert. He gazed at her quietly as the sunlight of a new morning poured through the tiny cottage. She was so focused on tending his wounds that she had yet to realize he was awake, and that gave him ample time to look his fill.
Torin thought her the bonniest woman he'd ever laid eyes upon, but what he treasured most was how she cared for him. Not with disgust or pity, but with genuine concern. He'd even caught her shedding a tear when she bandaged the wound where his finger used to be. She'd muttered curses under her breath, outraged on his behalf. Whenever he felt death was moments away, somehow she pulled him back each time.
He still remembered the first time he'd awoken to the sound of her voice. It was urgent and forceful. "Dinnae ye die on me, Anglia! I did nae work this hard only for ye to die now. Ye owe me a life debt now, so ye best be ready to pay, or I'll follow ye to the grave and demand my share and never give ye a moment's peace!" The memory of it made him want to smile, but that only proved painful as it tore against the deep slash across his cheek.
His captors had tried to slice his throat open. He'd fought three men off and barely survived, and then they'd roughly sewn him up. The skin there still burned, but he felt her place something soft and cool against it.
"I ken this hurts, Anglia, but tis to help smooth the rough skin so ye dinnae itch and re-open the wound."
The lass thought he was English. Hence her pet name for him, Anglia. He'd had no choice but to dress as an English soldier when he escaped. He had no way to tell her otherwise, and so the lie held. He lifted his gaze back to her beautiful face and simply listened.
"Ye ken I cannot be caught harboring an English soldier. My seanmhair would be rolling in her grave if she saw me now. Tis a sacrilege to be treating the enemy, she'd say. Aye, she would. But dinnae judge her too harshly. She was a good Christian woman even if she did nae believe in the forgiveness part because she could bear a fierce grudge. I still loved her though, for despite all her grumbling she'd never let anyone go hungry. I caught her once feeding a stray dog even after she shouted at us not to. But what can ye do when the elderly are set in their ways?"
***
Nessa Stewart was met with silence. Her poor patient was now a captive audience, quite literally. She could not understand why, but something about him made her tongue loosen. She could not stop talking, even though she rarely talked this much to anyone. Not even her brother Cormac, her most favorite person in the world, though he was mostly away working for the king.
She cringed a little, thinking how, if Cormac ever found out she'd harbored the enemy, he'd likely throw her in the king's dungeon himself.
Nessa groaned and looked up to find her patient awake, his steady gaze upon her. She blushed for a moment then quickly busied herself. It had been two weeks since she'd begun secretly nursing him back to health. When she found him in the woods he was delirious, battle-scarred, and wracked with fever. One finger had been sliced clean off and the wound wrapped badly. There was terrible bruising around his right eye too, and from the clouded vision she could tell he had lost the sight in it.
She had bathed and washed him as best she could, but she was not strong enough to move him or change the bedding on her own. For that she'd recruited the assistance of her long-suffering guardsman, Lennox, who spent most of the time pacing outside the cottage and cursing under his breath. He was a reluctant accomplice in this dangerous deception.
Speaking of which, Lennox came back indoors with a pail of clean water from the loch behind the small bothy she'd commandeered into a healer's hut.
He scowled the moment he entered. "Ye ken, if the clan ever finds out about this, there’ll be hell to pay. I should not even be helping ye. Tis only a matter of time before someone follows us here."
"Shh. Tis un-Christian if we dinnae help him."
"His kin slaughtered hundreds of ours, or did ye forget?" Lennox growled.
"We dinnae ken all the details. I cannot let him die. So, either ye help me, or I'll tell da it was all yer fault, and then I'll let everyone ken how ye fell asleep on duty when the stable almost burned down last spring."
Lennox scowled. "That was the only time I've ever fallen asleep, and ye ken it! I was so tired from chasing ye about the countryside when ye decided to save that blasted chicken from cook's dinner!"
"Dinnae speak about Agnes. She is part of the family. I could not vera well have her eaten by her own kin!"
"She's a chicken! Nobody names a bloody chicken and adopts it as part of the family. Ye are nothing but trouble, lass. And ye see all me grey hairs? Tis all down to guarding ye!"
"Still, one word from me, and ye'll be on garderobe duty for a month."
Lennox rolled his eyes as if he could not care less. "All right, I'll keep helping ye, but I will nae like it. And the moment I think ye've gone too far, I'll murder that wretch myself!"
Nessa gasped and covered her patient’s ears. "Dinnae ye dare speak such vile words when the poor man is trying to heal."
"I curse the day I was ever assigned to guard ye. I should've left the clan that day!"
Nessa ignored his grumbling. "Can ye please cut more wood for the fire? The pile is running low."
Lennox just shook his head. "One o' these days, lass, all this is going to come back to bite ye in the bahookie, and I'll be the first to say I told ye so." He stomped out, grumbling and cursing loudly.
Nessa returned to her patient. "Dinnae ye mind him. He is all bluster, but deep down inside he is like a big cuddly rabbit. He'll nae hurt ye, or he'll attract my wrath. Ye dinnae ken this, but many fear me, for I can battle like a warrior."
Nessa stilled when her patient made a sound suspiciously like a snort. It was the first time he'd responded openly.
She raised a brow. "What? Ye think I cannae protect ye? Blink twice for aye and once for nae."
To her shock, he blinked twice.
Nessa hmphed. "Well now, I'll have ye ken I have a vicious streak, and when cornered I can inflict great wounds, even upon men twice yer size!"
Her patient made a snorting, coughing sound then.
"Are ye mocking me? Do ye believe I am a fierce warrior or not?" she asked, hands on her hips.
He blinked once for no.
"Well then, ye'll be sorry if ye ever find yerself in the path of my anger. Tis like a gale-force wind. It'll shake yer very foundation. I'll have ye trembling before me, and I'll show ye no mercy." She made a tight fist and waved it in the air.
There went that mouth twitch again, followed by a strange smile. Nessa couldn't believe it. This mute man had the nerve to laugh at her! Clearly, he saw her as no threat, and he would learn soon enough to rue the day he ever underestimated her.
"Be quiet, Anglia," she snapped instead. "Ye talk far too much for my liking."
And that was when she saw it. From his uninjured eye, an expression of warmth and amusement. Then a deep, rumbling sound came from the center of his chest, as if he were trying to refrain from laughing.
Nessa snorted and returned to her ministrations, gently cleaning and bandaging his wounds with the poultice the healer had given her, trying to ignore him. But his steady gaze remained on her face, and despite everything, she found it appealing.
Then he reached for her hand and squeezed three times. She met his gaze and knew he was trying to apologize. She didn't know how, but he was making sure she understood he'd only been jesting.
"Dinnae try to sweet-talk me now. I am still offended. Perhaps I should leave ye here. Then ye'll be sorry."
Nessa felt it then, a strange tension. His hand squeezed once, hard, and his features turned stern. She realized he'd said a firm no.
"All right, dinnae fash. I'll not leave ye. Not unless tis for yer own good."
He stiffened still and pressed her hand once again, a low, growly sound rumbling deep in his chest.
She pulled both his hands into hers and held them gently. She could see he was becoming visibly agitated.
"Calm, calm, Anglia. I'll not leave ye. I am merely jesting. As long as ye need me, I'll be here."
He gave her a slight almost imperceptible nod, and his breathing calmed. The tension left his body. This was the most he had ever communicated with her, and clearly it had tired him. He slowly fell back to sleep, still clutching her hand. Nessa couldn't help but run her fingers gently across his brow, wishing him a trouble-free slumber.
***
Preview: Fool Me Once: Reluctant Brides Book 7 ©2026 Elina Emerald
Prologue
Three years earlier
The rain came down in a deluge, turning the road to the Keep into a thick river of mud that clung to the horses' hooves. Struan Sinclair rode at the head of what remained of his men, and every jolt of the saddle burnished fiery pain through his ribs. They had won the battle, and yet it had cost him dearly.
Across his saddle lay Garrick. His second in command. His oldest friend. The man who had saved his life when they were boys and who had stood by his side through every battle since. Now he lay limp and grey, his breath coming in shallow, wet rattles, a festering wound in his gut. Struan had carried him from the bloody battlefield and through the treacherous journey home, hoping against all odds that he could keep his lifelong friend alive.
Hold on, ye stubborn bastard. We're almost home. He chanted it silently with every passing mile.
Finally, the gates to his Keep groaned open. Torches guttered in the wet. Struan swung down, biting back a groan as his own wound pulled, and gathered Garrick into his arms, half carrying, half dragging his dead weight before he shouldered through the doors of his own hall. Water streamed from him, and blood ran down his forearms. He made his way to the small antechamber used by the healers and laid his burden on the trestle table.
Struan was thinking of his bairns, warm in their beds. He was thinking of his wife, Clara, of how eager he was to see her, of how he wanted to fix whatever was broken in their marriage. For five long months on campaign, she was all he had thought about.
Then she was there, on the stairs, one hand at her rounded belly. He froze. She was with child? But how? They had not coupled for some time, even before he'd been called away to battle.
For a heartbeat their eyes met, and something in him paused, some knot that had been drawn tight since he'd ridden out on campaign.
Then Clara ran toward him.
No, not to him.
She ran past him.
She struck her knees beside the man Struan had laid on the table, and the sound that tore out of her was something raw, something that did not belong in the space between his second and his own wife. Screaming. She was screaming Garrick's name.
The antechamber dissolved into noise and motion. The healer came running, another behind her, hands and voices bending toward the dying man on the table. Struan stood in the middle of it, dripping wet, forgotten, his own hurts unseen. He reached for Clara.
Clara shoved him back. Her hands, small and fierce, pushed at his chest, and then she folded down beside Garrick and paid Struan no more mind than she would a stranger. She took Garrick's hand and pressed it to her cheek, and she wept over it. Then she placed his hand on her belly and whispered to him urgently, and Struan watched as if he were an outsider looking in, his mind denying what he was seeing.
Garrick's eyes fluttered open. Delirious, half-gone, he turned his face toward Clara.
"Mo leannan," he breathed. "Dinnae cry. Think of our babe."
The words felt strange. Struan heard them yet set them aside, because they could not mean what they seemed to mean.
Garrick's gaze found him then, glassy and sinking. "Forgive me, Struan." A wet, failing breath escaped his lips. "Clara was always meant to be mine."
And then Garrick was gone.
Clara screamed and wailed, demanding Garrick open his eyes while knowing, as everyone else in that room knew, that he never would again. Then another scream escaped her lips, and it was not grief alone. Her body bowed over, her arms wrapping her belly, and Struan saw the dark stain blooming through her skirts.
He moved. Instinct, nothing else. He caught Clara as she pitched sideways, gathered her against him, and the wet warmth of her soaked through his sleeve.
"Healer!" His voice cracked the length of the chamber. "Save her, God's blood, save her and the babe."
The healers reached for Clara, but she fought them off.
She turned her face up to his. Her eyes were hollowed out with grief. Her voice was thin as thread. "The babe is Garrick's."
The words cut through him like a blade, and still he refused to accept it.
"No!" Struan shouted. "Clara, let the healers see to ye," he cried against her hair as he held her.
But she shook her head and rasped, "I stayed loyal at first. Bore ye two bairns. But I could not stop loving him, and then I stopped trying."
Her eyes were closing and Struan knew he was losing her.
"I wanted Garrick to have this one. A babe that was just ours." Her voice was a ghost of a whisper. "Now the three of us can be together."
"I dinnae care!" Struan roared. "I will raise this one as our own, with as much love. I'll fix this, Clara—"
Her fingers went slack in his as she weakly shook her head. "My heart is broken. Let me go to him. Let me have in death what I could not in life."
And with those final, devastating words, Struan's beloved wife of seven years died in his arms.
In the middle of the chamber, with the rain still hammering the roof and his best friend cooling on the table an arm's length away, Struan broke down and wept.
He did not move for a long time. The healers had to pry his dead wife from his arms.
"Not a word of what happened leaves this room," he whispered.
"Aye, Laird," the two healers replied.
In a single hour Struan had lost his most trusted friend, his beloved wife, and a babe that had never been his and that he would have loved regardless. It cracked something deep inside him. Grief, betrayal, guilt, and regret for revelations that had come too late to make amends.
And slowly, rising up cold and sure beneath all of it, was anger. At her, and at Garrick, but mostly at himself.
***
The day they buried Clara Sinclair, the rain had finally stopped.
Struan stood over an open grave and watched his men lower a plain wooden box into the earth. The box was empty. He alone knew it. Clara was already in the ground, laid in the quiet dark beside Garrick, the two of them together at last. It was a decision he had made, it was a bitter sweet act of kindness to a best friend and a beloved wife who had both betrayed him. But with that final act, all soft emotions died.
The funeral and the empty box were for the clan. For the mourners, and for his children, who stood ashen-faced and small at his side. They did not need to carry their mother's truth as well as her death. And Garrick's family did not need to remember him as anything other than a loyal vassal. Struan would go through the motions. He would give them a grave to weep at, and a name carved in stone, and if a lie was all the peace he had left to give anyone, then he would give it and be damned.
The earth went in. His son slipped a cold hand into his. His daughter pressed her tear-filled face against his side.
Whatever emotions he felt, he would bury them deep, because his children needed him and his clan needed him. So, he squared his shoulders, and he turned from the grave, and he endured.
But something in Struan Sinclair set like mortar that day, hard and grey and cold. The world was not a fair place. It did not reward a faithful heart, and a man was a fool to hand his whole self to another and trust it would be handled with care. He had learned that lesson at the cost of everything, and he did not intend to learn it twice.
***