CHAPTER ONE – AN ENCOUNTER

September 1574, The Scottish Borders

Darkness had fallen and the temperature of the early autumn day had dropped quickly. A cold, dank mist rose from the burn they were following and shrouded the carriage, its ghostly fingers reaching in through the open windows, caressing the occupants huddled inside. Lady Abigail Griffin shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her. The mist had penetrated the core of her being; it was like being embraced by the dead. She was annoyed because they shouldn't have been out on this road so late into the evening. One of their horses had slipped its shoe and it had taken the groomsman two hours to find it and re-shoe the beast. As a consequence, when she should have been safe in the relative warmth of Arkholm tower, she was quivering with the cold, and her husband refused to sit near her to warm her. He was seated opposite, deep in conversation with her father about cattle or grain or she didn't know what. Their heads were close together and they were whispering. Clearly, they either didn't want her to know what they were talking about, or they thought it above her head. She was forty years old, but she might as well have been sixteen the way they treated her. Not that she should expect anything less, it was the way of the world, and she should accept her place in it. Unfortunately, accepting things without questioning was not the way Abigail Griffin went about life, and that had got her into a deal of trouble in the past. She supposed that was how she had ended up married to Lord Alasdair Griffin of Arkholm, the infamous head of Clan Griffin, ruthless businessman, feared Laird, Lord of everything, including her. She had got the husband she deserved, or so her late mother had delighted in telling her. It hadn't always been like that. This was Abigail's second marriage, her first being to Alasdair's older brother, Jacob, but he had died only four years into their marriage, and the younger brother had inherited his estate and all that came with it, including his widow.

They were on their way south to Arkholm from the market in Edinburgh, where they'd sold fifty head of cattle and bought a new bullock and ten heifers, young cows to be used for breeding. The trip was near eighty miles there and back, and had required an overnight stay. Alasdair had tempted her to attend with him by promising a gathering, and a chance to meet the wives of other clansmen allied with the Griffin clan. She should have known better than to trust him. He'd wanted her there purely to distract the other Heidsmen, eleven clan heads, mostly old and rheumy-eyed. She was to wear her low-cut gown that pushed her breasts together and left little to the imagination, and flirt with them so they didn't realise that he was shafting them on the price until it was too late. It had worked, of course, because she still had a good body, and she could turn on the charm if she had to. She didn't like it, but she had no choice. A wife does not go against her husband in sixteenth century Scotland. Would there ever be a time when a woman could be mistress of her own home, with no man to control her? Not in her lifetime, or even that of her only child, Clarke, a girl as wilful as Abigail but cleverer about it. She was Jacob's child, and had his looks but not his gentle temperament. In that, she was all Abigail's daughter. Somehow, she had managed to charm Alasdair and was the apple of his eye, although Abigail knew the true spirit of the girl behind the golden hair, blue eyes and innocent smile, and she celebrated it, even though it meant that she and Clarke had a difficult relationship. They were too alike for peace to reign for long.

The road they were on, Dere Street, was the only road between Edinburgh and England that was wide enough to take a carriage and four horses. It was an old Roman road, and as straight as Alasdair was crooked. The road lay close to Arkholm, the ancestral seat of the Griffin family, and was right in the middle of the disputed border territory between Scotland and England, land that had been fought over for two centuries. Dere Street was also a notorious target for Reivers - raiders and thieves who roamed the countryside of the border, stealing cattle and anything else they could get their hands on, raping women, killing anyone who got in their way. Being out after dark on such a road was not to be recommended, and Abigail was shivering not just with cold, but also fear. She didn't frighten easily, but the reivers were lawless, cruel and brutal. They might not be content with stealing her jewels and the cattle.

She looked out of the window as the carriage rumbled along the poorly-surfaced road. There was nothing to see except the dark night and the pale mist. She breathed it in, let it penetrate her lungs and numb her senses, not that it would make much difference. She was cold inside anyway, as Alasdair always said. Stiff, frigid, lifeless. Lady Abigail Griffin, colder than the north wind that blew over the bleak moors and made life so hard. Would she ever be warm again?

Outside the carriage, and unseen by its occupants or the clansmen who accompanied their journey back to Arkholm, shapes were forming and then disappearing, like wisps of the cold air. They moved silently, creeping, bent low to the ground, hidden by the rushes and tussocks of heather that flanked the road. As a sliver of moon appeared briefly from behind a cloud, it illuminated the shapes and revealed them to be men, many with faces blackened by mud. Other shapes took form, quivers of bright-feathered arrows, swords with polished blades glinting in the moonlight. Behind them, a row of ponies, no more than fourteen hands high, with copper brown coats and black legs, stood patiently, chewing at the heather and blaeberry. They were silent too; only the breath from their nostrils gave their presence away as it mingled in the air. They were bred for this, they knew what to do.

The carriage trundled on, its wheels slowly turning, taking it closer and closer to its fate. At a sign from one of the men, a sword lifted high into the air so that the moonlight reflected from it like a beacon, the men ran forward, near twenty of them, shouting and crying into the night. The carriage horses were startled, and reared up. The procession of carriage, cattle and men came to a shuddering halt.

Inside, Lady Abigail, her husband, and father held on to the wooden sides of the vehicle, fear on all their faces. Abigail knew instantly what it meant. Her worst fears were coming true. The shouts of the men outside were so loud it sounded like there were hundreds of them. She looked across to Alasdair and her father. They were gathering papers and coin. Alasdair opened a hidden compartment in the floor and stuffed the treasure inside.

"What about my jewellery?" She started to take off the gold necklace Jacob had given her on their wedding day but Alasdair held a hand out towards her.

"No. We need to give them something."

"And it has to be what belongs to me?"

"It is not worth so much as the money and the deeds."

Abigail looked at him. "It is to me."

Alasdair dismissed her concerns with a turn of his back, and faced the carriage door, no doubt preparing himself for whatever was to come.

Abigail fingered the necklace, turning the cross over and over in her hand, feeling its pointed edges, the smooth pearls and sharp gemstones that dotted the four corners. She'd worn this for twenty years. It was a symbol of everything she'd been through, her hopes and dreams as a young woman newly married, the all-consuming love she felt when Clarke was born, the sadness when there could never be another child, and the despair that had crept over her as the years went on. It was her life, and her husband, the brother of the man who had given it to her, had turned his back on it all. The thought of losing it brought tears to her eyes, but she fought them back. She would not let Alasdair see her crying.

From outside the carriage came the sounds of fighting, the clash of swords, the cries of men, the moans of the dying. Abigail threw off her cloak. She still had on the gown she'd worn at the gathering, as the party had lasted until the early hours and they'd left for home straight after. It was a pale blue silk, with gold and silver thread woven within it so that it shimmered as she walked. The bodice was cut low to reveal the firm swell of her breasts. It was a dress designed to bring attention to its wearer. She realised this was probably not a good thing in this situation, but she wanted her arms to be free to fight, to the death if necessary. The reivers weren't going to take her easily.

The door to the carriage was ripped open and an arm reached in and grabbed the nearest person which was Alasdair, dragging him out so that he was sprawled on the road. Her father was next, and Abigail suppressed a cry as he landed hard on the dirt. He was old, and frail, and as cruel as he could sometimes be, she loved him. She took a deep breath as the arm reached for her. A large hand closed easily around her small wrist, and then hesitated. A face appeared in the doorway, dark hair, dark eyes, scruffy beard. The man looked her up and down.

"Ye're a woman," he said, in the soft Scottish lilt of the Borderers.

"Last time I looked, yes." Abigail berated herself internally for that quip. She couldn't help herself, never learned to just keep quiet. Well, what will be, will be, she thought.

The man frowned, soft lines appearing in his dirty forehead, and then he laughed.

"Look often do ye?"

"That's none of your business."

"Perhaps not." He rubbed his thumb across his bottom lip as he contemplated her. "I'm going to have to ask ye to come outside."

"Are you going to hurt me?"

"That depends on whether ye give me what I want."

Abigail shuddered. His words were threatening, but his voice was gentle, amused almost. It confused her, but she didn't trust him.

"Kane!" A rough voice rang through the night. "What are ye playing at, man, bring him out."

"It's not a man, it's a lass," said the dark-haired man, and he held his hand out to Abigail, to help her down the steps of the carriage.

She emerged into a scene from hell. Two of her guardsmen lay dead on the ground. The rest were on their knees along with her father and Alasdair. Five huge men, with blackened faces and shining eyes, were standing over the captured men, swords held aloft, as though at the apex of a downstroke that could take the heads off the men in one fell swoop.

Abigail cried out. "Don't hurt my father!"

A smaller man with sharp eyes, and brown hair slicked back from his forehead, stepped forward. He seemed so young, barely out of his teens. He looked Abigail up and down and then leaned in close to her.

"Ye're in no position to tell us what to do," he whispered in a cold voice. He touched Abigail's necklace, cold fingers grazing her chest deliberately. She felt Kane's hand tighten on her arm. The younger man turned the necklace over, examining it. He was so close she could feel his breath on her skin.

"I think I'll have this," he said and ripped the necklace from her. Abigail looked despairingly at Alasdair, to gain his help, but he had his head bowed and wasn't looking at her.

"And this," continued the young man, indicating Abigail with a nod of his head. "Maybe I'll have this as well."

He turned to Kane. "She's a little on the old side, but I'm sure I can get it up, if I think of someone else."

He took hold of Abigail's other arm and pulled her towards him. Kane pulled her back and for a moment she was caught in a tug of war between the two men.

"I'm sure ye could, Murphy," said Kane, "but ye're not going to get the chance."

"Fancy her yourself, do ye? I suppose she is more your age."

"That's right," replied Kane. "I found her. She's mine. Prepare the cattle and fetch the horses while I am gone."

He pulled Abigail roughly over to the side of the road, and into the tall rushes beyond, where they were hidden from the men's view. She stumbled on the uneven ground, her stomach lurching when she thought she was going to fall but Kane still had hold of her arm and he kept her upright, for the moment.

As they moved further into the brush she could hear the burn bubbling close by. She wondered how quickly she could get to it; she'd rather drown than let this man and no doubt all the others have their way with her. They reached a small clearing of tussock grass and ferns. Kane stopped, and let go of her arm.

"Lie down." His voice was firm, commanding.

"I'm not going to help you defile me. If you want me, you'll have to push me down." Abigail was biding time while she thought of an escape route. If she could get a head start on him, she could disappear into the dark, maybe swim across the burn, hide in the tall reedmace that flanked its western side. She started to turn in that direction, her body poised to run. Kane was quicker than her, though. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist again, pulling her in so fast she ended up pressed hard against him. She could smell him, an earthy scent, as smoky and rich as the peat that surrounded them. With his wild beard and unkempt hair he seemed untamed, like the wolves that roamed the moors, but his eyes were different, a deep brown, and sparkling with intelligence. They bored into her now as he spoke.

"I'm not going to defile ye. But we need to make the others think I have."

"What do you mean?"

"Ye need tae lie down and get yer skirts dirty, otherwise they won't believe I had ye."

Abigail was confused; was this some kind of ruse? But why would he bother? If he wanted her, he could just push her down and take her; he was certainly strong enough to do it.

"Are you one of those men?" She knew of men who lay only with men. There were a couple of them in her household. No one talked about it, but it wasn't forbidden.

Kane laughed. "Nae, lass. I just don't get my thrills from taking women against their will." He leaned in close to her. "I don't need to."

"What about the other men? Won't they want their turn?"

"The men will listen to me. I've said ye're mine, and they'll respect that."

"Are you the Heid of this clan?"

"I'm not the Heid, but I'm the second in command. The men will do as I say. Trust me. Now lie down, wiggle about some."

Abigail did as he asked, feeling ridiculous as she rolled around in the earth while he stood, arms folded, watching her.

"Is this amusing you?"

He smiled. "Aye. It is. That's enough now."

He pulled her back to her feet. She looked down at herself. Her skirts were filthy, her stockings black and caked with mud.

"Two more things," said Kane, and before she knew what was happening he'd ripped her bodice open, sending the tiny pearl buttons flying in all directions. She gasped and scrambled to hold the dress back together.

"I'm known to be a breast man," he said, and then he kissed her, hard on the lips, a bruising kiss that sucked all the breath out of her body. After a few seconds that felt like hours, he broke away. He stepped back to look at her, then leaned in to wipe a bead of saliva off her bottom lip with his thumb.

"Now ye look like ye've been taken by the Grey Wolf of the Borders." He laughed, and took her hand, leading her back to the road and the waiting men.

"Wait!"

Kane stopped. "What?"

"Wouldn't you be dirty as well, if you'd really lain with me?"

Kane frowned. "How do ye mean?"

"Your knees. Your knees would be dirty, from straddling me." She didn't know why, but a frisson of excitement ran through her as she said those words.

Kane's eyes darkened. He looked at her. "Do it, then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Dirty me."

Abigail hesitated, and then realised that since she had brought this idea up, she had to go through with it. She knelt on the ground before him, and gathered mud in her hands; it was cold and silky between her fingers. She lifted his kilt up a little and smeared his bare knees with the dirt. She looked up at him, her heart beating fast for some reason. He was watching her, his thin lips slightly parted. He didn't look as cocky as he had a moment before. He held out his hand and helped her stand. She wiped her hands on her already filthy skirt.

"Now you look like you've been taken by the Lady of Arkholm," she said, and ran ahead of him, making sure to stumble and look distressed as she burst through the rushes.

Kane followed behind, a broad smile on his face.

The clouds had parted and the moon was shining fully on the scene. Alasdair and her father were sitting in the road, back to back with their hands tied. The bullock and the heifers they had bought in Edinburgh were in the hands of Kane's men. Murphy was sat atop a bay-coloured pony, the reins of another horse in his hands.

"That was quick," he said to Kane.

Kane laughed. "She put up a struggle, ye know how I like that."

He pushed Abigail forward so that she was in the middle of the road.

Despite the crudeness of his words, Abigail felt grateful to him. He could have made her seem willing, and that would have destroyed her life. Her husband would kill her for dishonouring his name, she had no doubt about that. It had happened to other women.

Kane mounted his horse, a beast with a rich chestnut brown coat and long, dark mane. "Wait until we're gone before ye release the men," he directed her.

"You'll regret this," shouted Alasdair, as Kane and the men started to move off down the road in the direction of Edinburgh, although she doubted they were going there. They would veer off across the moors at some point, to wherever their camp was.

Kane looked back, and smiled. "I never have so far," he said, and then he urged his horse forward with a kick of his heels. Abigail watched him go until the darkness swallowed him up.

"Abigail. Get these bonds off us." Alasdair's shout brought her back to the present, and she untied the men, checking on her father first. He was dazed and bruised from his fall, but was otherwise unhurt. The carriage had not been damaged and the reivers had left the horses. They had only been interested in the cattle. The three of them resumed their positions in the carriage. Abigail put her cloak on and pulled it tight around her, to hide her bare chest and ripped clothes. She looked at her husband. Alasdair's mouth was set in a thin line. She considered whether to tell him the truth, that nothing had happened, she had not been defiled. The headstrong, rebellious part of her nature came to the fore, however. Alasdair had done nothing to help her. He didn't deserve to know the truth, and maybe if he thought she was now spoiled goods he would leave her alone at night. Her decision made, she stared out into the night as the party made its way back to Arkholm, minus four men and their cattle. The bullock in particular had cost a lot of money in addition to what they had made selling their cows. Alasdair would be fuming about the loss. She had no doubt that the reivers would come to regret what they'd done tonight, despite Kane's arrogant confidence.

After an hour's travel, with nothing but the clip of the horses' hooves and the clatter of the wooden wheels to break the silence, Arkholm Tower appeared out of the gloom, perched on the rock it was hewn from, its pale stone walls shining in the moonlight. Arkholm village, which lay a half mile from the tower itself was quiet as they trooped through it, smoke from the chimneys the only sign that the village was occupied. Abigail watched as the tower grew closer. She couldn't wait to be inside, to get warm and be safe. Looking up, she could just make out the watchmen on the battlements that surrounded the top of the four-storey tower. From their viewpoint, they could see for miles across the moors, south to England, and north to Scotland. Enemies of any kind would be seen long before they could climb the rock and attack the tower. The carriage passed through the barmkin and Abigail was never more relieved to be behind the thick stone walls that protected them from the very types of men they had just encountered on the road. Her head guardsman, Sinclair, came out to greet the carriage. He was shocked to see the state of the occupants.

"What has happened?"

Alasdair alighted, and marched towards the door. "Bloody reivers," he said and disappeared inside.

Sinclair helped her father down from the carriage and then held out his hand to Abigail. She took it with her left hand; she was trying to hold her cloak together with her right hand to hide the worst of her dress from Sinclair. It did not work; he noticed her disarray immediately. His face darkened.

"Oh."

Abigail put her hand on his chest for a brief second. "I'm fine, Sinclair. Really. Please don't worry. Let's get inside."

She entered the tower, and a feeling of overwhelming relief washed over her when the heavy wooden door was closed and the yett fastened behind it. The inner iron gate and the outer wooden door were designed to be impenetrable to enemies of all kinds, of which there were many, be they other clans who wanted their land, or reivers, who wanted their cattle and horses. Despite this, Abigail had felt safe all her life until that night. They had suffered raids before but she had never been personally involved, hadn't understood the terror her men must have felt as they were attacked.

"I'll get Harper to fetch ye some hot water, Mistress," said Sinclair.

"Thank you." The man turned to go down to the cellar. "Oh, Sinclair."

"Yes, My Lady."

"The reivers who attacked us tonight. They did not seem to be of one clan. Their kilts were of many different plaids and colours."

"Ah. That sounds like The Hundred."

"The Hundred? That's not a clan name. I have never heard of them."

"They're a band of outcasts and misfits, My Lady. A more lawless and cruel group of men you could not find. To come away from an encounter with them and have only two dead and…" He hesitated and gestured to her dress. Abigail nodded to show she understood. "Well, we can count ourselves fortunate, My Lady."

"Thank you. What do you know of their leader?"

"A dark-skinned man? He goes by the name Jaha but it is perhaps not his real name. No one knows what clan he is from."

"No, he had dark hair and a beard. He was tall, maybe six foot, and slim. His name was Kane."

Sinclair nodded in recognition of the description. "So, ye met the Grey Wolf of the Borders? He is a legend, Mistress. Marcus Kane, second son of Lord Robert Kane of Weatherton in Dumfriesshire. There are many tales of him."

"He's a clansman?" Abigail was astonished. "What is he doing with the reivers?"

"He was cast out, My Lady. No one knows why, though there are rumours it was over a woman, his brother's wife. Was he the one who did this to you?"

Abigail wrapped her cloak tighter around her. "No. It was not him."

"Very good. Harper will bring yer hot water when it is ready."

"Thank you."

Half an hour later and Abigail was in her bedchamber at the top of the tower. A fire had been lit and she sat in an armchair in front of it as her maid, Harper, washed the worst of the mud from her arms and legs.

"Your dress is ruined, mistress. I dinnae think I can repair it."

"It doesn't matter."

"It was yer favourite."

"It was Lord Alasdair's favourite. I brought some cloth back from Edinburgh. The reivers didn't take it. You can make me a new one."

The warmth of the fire, and Harper's gentle caressing of Abigail's limbs as she ran the cloth over her was lulling her into a reverie. She thought over the events of the night. Why had the man, Kane, saved her? Did he do that to all the women his group encountered, or was it just her? Maybe he didn't find her attractive and his high breeding made him too polite to say. But then he would have let the other men have her. It was all very confusing. How did a man who had been the equal of her husband in society become a lawless reiver? Why did he choose that path amongst all that must have been available to him?

There were so many questions, and Abigail supposed she would have to be content with never knowing. There was no one she felt safe asking about The Hundred, except Sinclair, and he had told her all he knew. She couldn't question him too closely about Kane, it would raise his suspicions, and as much as she trusted him, he was her husband's right hand man, not hers. It wasn't worth the risk.

The door to her chamber banged open, making Harper and Abigail jump. Alasdair strode in.

"Leave us," he said to Harper. The girl gathered up the cloth and water bucket and fled the room.

Abigail began to speak. "Alasdair."

He held up his hand. His green eyes were blazing with anger. "I'm having difficulty looking at you as it is. I don't want to hear you speak."

He pulled her towards the bed and shoved her down on it. "I don't want to have to do this tonight." He pushed her nightclothes up and spread her legs apart. "I have meetings to hold, deals to be struck. But you have lain with another man, and I must take you back." He entered her roughly and she stifled a cry. She wasn't ready; she was never ready. "You are mine." His thrusts were hard, and fast.

"You are mine." Another man had said that to her tonight, a man who wasn't her husband, but who had treated her better than the man who was. She lay back and thought about Marcus Kane, his dark intelligent eyes boring into hers, the roughness of his kiss, which had bruised her lips, the way his fingers had accidentally brushed her breasts when he ripped her bodice open. She closed her eyes to picture him, and felt a small tremor go through her body, like the ones she had sometimes had during her marriage to Jacob, before everything went wrong. Alasdair did not seem to notice, so intent was he on his own pleasure, and for once she was grateful for that. She waited for him to finish, all the time thinking about another man, and realising that she didn't feel guilty about that at all. Not for a single moment.