Prologue
Isle of Mull, Scotland
Duart Castle
1354
Bridgette MacLean was beginning to suspect that God had erred when he had made her a girl. Standing in the courtyard of her home, she tapped her foot as she watched her brother, Alex, laird of the MacLean Clan, ride out of the keep. A dozen of his men followed, including the MacLeod laird and his three younger brothers.
“This is a girl’s fate in life,” she grumbled. “Staying behind while the men have all the merriment.Theyleave to hunt while we”—she poked herself in the chest—“are ordered to remain at the castle because clot-heid men suppose all girls are helpless creatures. Oh, but men are so braw,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I’m a better shot at sixteen than half the men out there hunting!” She kicked the ground in frustration. A puff of dirt rose up, causing a cloud of dust to swirl around her feet.
“Ye’re nae usually in the habit of talking to yerself, lass,” came the jovial voice of Father Ferguson from behind her.
A blush heated her cheeks as she turned to face the portly, older man. Amused, faded blue eyes met her stare. Father Ferguson raised his bushy gray eyebrows expectantly, and Bridgette cleared her throat.
“I’m nae, ’tis true enough,” she admitted. She inclined her head the direction in which Alex had ridden off. “Alex refused to listen to me any longer, so I was left to grumble to myself.”
Father Ferguson chuckled a deep belly laugh that made Bridgette smile despite her ire. “What’s vexing ye, lass?”
She quirked her mouth, unsure if she should tell him. She didn’t particularly feel like being lectured, and Father Ferguson truly loved to lecture. Yet, the priest was the best man to help her resolve her doubts about God. “I fear God dunnae ken what he was doing when he made me.”
Father Ferguson’s mouth dropped open.
“Never ye mind,” Bridgette rushed out. “I’m being a clot-heid.”
“Nay, lass. Ye surprised me, ’tis all. What’s put such a thought in yer head?”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “Alex will nae let me hunt with him and the men. He says I’m a woman, and God dunnae fashion women to do such things.” When the priest looked as though he was going to agree with her brother, she went on. “Ye always say God has a divine purpose for each of us,” she said, her tone accusatory.
Father Ferguson gave her a wary look. “Aye, I do.”
“Well God gave me perfect aim with an arrow.” An excited grin pulled at her lips. Why had she not thought of this argument sooner? It was brilliant, and she was fairly certain it was true. “At only fifteen years, he’s made me—a mere woman—a better shot than most grown men.” Father Ferguson backed up a step, as if her words might cause them both to be struck by a bolt of lightning, but she continued. “If God has given me this gift, is it nae a sin nae to use it? Who am I, or even my brother, the great, mighty laird that he is”—she struggled to keep the sarcasm out of her voice—“to refute our Creator’s intention for me?” She was panting with the newfound righteous indignation coursing through her.
“Well I—” Father Ferguson started, but she was far too incensed to allow him to continue.
Words the priest had once proclaimed came to her in a flash. “Ye said we must always abide by what the Lord wants for us.”
Father Ferguson’s shoulders slumped. “Aye, lass,” he grumbled. “I did.”
Triumph flared in her chest. Setting her hands on her hips, she swooped in to finish her argument. “Then, unless ye mean to tell me now that God made an error when he gave me my gift, I should do all in my power to use it.”
The priest gave her a beleaguered look. “God dunnae make errors.”
Impulsively, she rose up on her tiptoes and kissed the priest’s warm, chubby cheek. “Excellent!” she exclaimed and turned away to run to her bedchamber and fetch her bow and arrows.
“Where are ye going, lass?”
She had one foot inside the castle door, but she turned around and looked at the priest. “To hunt, of course!”
Father Ferguson’s eyes grew wide, and he shook his head. “The laird will nae like that.”
“The laird,” she retorted boldly, “will be committing a sin if he denies me my right to do as God wishes me to do. I may be a great many things, but I’m nae a sinner.”
Father Ferguson looked at her dubiously.
“Nae much of one, anyway,” she corrected, her cheeks flaming.
The priest threw up his hands in defeat, and a giggle escaped her as she dashed into the castle, to her bedchamber, and back outside. She was relieved to find Father Ferguson had not stayed to try to stop her. Knowing the priest as she did, he’d probably gone to fetch one of the councilmen to convince her to stay, but the stout priest was slow, and she’d be well away before he returned.
