KIRK RANNOCH STARED down at Killin Keep, his broad shoulders tightening. Something sharp and biting swirled in his gut.

Not only because the place was a gloomy monstrosity, a relic from ages ago, wedged in the rocky curve of Killin Tor. Not only because the name Killin struck revulsion in the hearts of all members of the Rannoch clan. But because there, in those moldering stones, lay his brother’s fate.

It was bad enough that their overlord, the Duke of Glencoe, had commanded that Ben, Laird of Rannoch, marry someone he’d never met. But the daughter of their worst enemy? A lass with the reputation of a virago? One who’d likely murder him in his sleep?

Ben deserved better.

There was no way out of this conundrum. It chafed that Kirk was to be the one to deliver this malicious harpy to his home at Rannoch Keep.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Brodie, Kirk’s friend, said. He shot Kirk a dark look as his mount shifted restlessly.

“’Twould be a fool who dinna,” Kirk said. Marching into an enemy fortress to claim the daughter of one of the most ruthless highland lairds was hardly a safe proposition. But the duke had given them no choice. Hopefully Laird Killin would cooperate with the mandate.

“Do you think we will survive this?”

Kirk snorted. The Rannochs and Killins had been fighting for generations, though the contention was hardly the Rannochs’ fault. Their clan had bent over backward to be good neighbors. The Killins, on the other hand, had plundered neighboring crofts, stolen cattle, and kidnapped women. They had murdered Rannoch kin. They had no scruples whatsoever.

Kirk knew, in his heart of hearts, this entire charade was a pointless effort. No matter how many weddings the duke demanded, the Killins and the Rannochs would never be at peace. The waters of hostility between the two clans ran far too deep.

“We should get this over with,” Kirk said, setting his mount in motion.

Brodie crossed himself, then followed.

The castle did not become more welcoming as they approached along the rutted track cutting its way across the broad, dismal moor. Hewn of stone and built centuries ago, the keep was a fortress, speckled with murder holes. It was surrounded by a dingy moat, and the only access was over a drawbridge and through the steel portcullis. If Killin wanted them dead, they would not make it into the bailey.

It was not promising that the portcullis was down and the drawbridge was up. Surely Killin’s men had seen them coming. Still, it was a warmer welcome than Kirk had expected.

Kirk pulled to a halt at the end of the track and stared up at the barbican. Other than the snap of the blood-red banners on the towers, there was no movement.

Brodie huffed a breath. “Do you suppose no one’s here?”

When Kirk didn’t answer, Brodie grinned and spoke again. “Perhaps we should go home.”

Kirk shot a sardonic look at his friend. They both knew that wouldn’t happen. Not until they fulfilled their mission.

As time passed, the disquiet in Kirk’s breast was joined by irritation. Clearly, Killin was toying with them. How satisfying it would be to ride away and report to the duke that Killin had not cooperated. No doubt, that was what the bastard wanted. Killin would simply claim they’d never come.

Finally, a voice bellowed down from the ramparts. “Who goes there?”

“Who goes there?” Brodie grunted. “As if they’re expecting someone else?”

Kirk cupped his hands and bellowed his name. “Kirk Rannoch. Come to fetch Lady Katherine Killin.”

Again, there was silence and a long wait.

Kirk was hot and thirsty. Sweat beaded on his brow. It took an effort to remind himself this was an important task, commanded by the duke himself. It took an effort to control his snarling temper, but it was imperative that he do so. Ben was counting on him. Aside from that, the last thing he wanted to do was give the old goat the slightest satisfaction by letting his ire show.

So he pinned a smile on his face, crossed his hands on the pommel, and proffered the impression that he was willing to wait as long as it took. Hopefully this ploy would annoy Killin.

At any rate, it produced results. With a great groan, the drawbridge began to lower and the portcullis lifted.

Brodie raised a brow. “Seems they’re inviting us in.”

“Seems we should go.”

Neither nudged his horse forward right away. Indeed, they waited several long moments. It was a shallow retribution, but it soothed their aggravation, at least a little. Especially when a man, dressed in Killin colors, stomped into view. “Well?” he barked. “Are you comin’ in or not?”

Kirk lifted a shoulder. “Shall we?”

Brodie sighed. “I suppose.”

They both held their breath as they passed through the barbican. There were slits on either side of the long tunnel into the bailey, and behind them, their enemies were most likely pointing arrows at their hearts. Kirk hoped he’d survive the ride. The duke would bring his wrath down upon the Killin clan if they killed any of his emissaries, but there was a chance Killin cared naught whether he made an enemy of the duke.

Fortunately, Killin cooperated enough to allow them to make it through the gauntlet with their hides intact. Kirk gusted a breath as he heaved from his mount and then adjusted his plaid as he waited for his host to greet him. He wasn’t surprised that Killin did not appear at first. A groom scuttled up to take their horses, leaving him and Brodie standing alone in the deserted bailey.

It was an odd thing for a bailey to be deserted. The bailey was the heart of any castle. It was usually bustling with crofters and villeins going about their work. At Rannoch there were always milkmaids and blacksmiths milling about. Carpenters worked on the wooden rafters and warriors practiced on the lists.

Here?

Nothing.

That in itself was beyond disquieting.

Kirk tried to quell the prickling suspicion that an ambush awaited them, but that was what it felt like. He surveyed the keep, a silent monolith. Not even a bird chirped.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Brodie murmured.

Aye. A bad feeling indeed. It coiled and writhed in his gut.

But before Kirk could respond, the enormous wooden doors at the top of the stairs leading to the keep creaked open, revealing a dark gaping maw.

As far as invitations from Cuithbeart Killin went, this was probably the warmest they’d get.

Before he could lose his bravado, Kirk bounded up the stairs. He paused before crossing the threshold, his hand on the hilt of his claymore, because his training demanded it.

Besides, no Rannoch had ever stepped inside this hall and lived to tell of it.