Prologue

      Scotland, 1718

      A damp cold seeped into Dylan’s bones. He and another young assassin had spent the night in the hillside cave again, waiting. It was the worst part of his job. He’d rather be active, engaged, whether in subterfuge or killing, because activity meant progress. Waiting meant...waiting. Nothing happened. The sun and moon chased horizons more slowly. And one could only prepare so much before the actions became habitual. And habit would get you killed.

      Dylan flipped his kilt higher over his shoulders, his gaze locked on the sun’s first softening of the eastern night sky. The Scottish laird of Clan McKay had made it a personal goal to see the Druids run out of his lands. He’d acted against the peaceful settlements with violence. It was about time the fat bastard met violence in return. He’d have to pass through this valley in order to reach the next Druidic keep. With a fair amount of certainty, Dylan was sure the man would never make it that far. It was, after all, his charge to ensure the laird didn’t make it through this valley.

      Dylan rolled onto his back and stared at the darkness above. The cave was deep enough he couldn’t see the ceiling. Fine by him. Meant he didn’t crack his egg when he stood up. He hooked an arm behind his head, pillowing it. As far as headrests went, it wasn’t bad. As far as beds went, the stone floor wasn’t the worst he’d experienced. The cold, though. That was eating into him as he whiled away the hour before dawn with fanciful thoughts of the lass he’d last bedded.