The Brotherhood

Rowena dropped her woven basket onto the grassy earth and let out a long breath. She used her free hand to fan her flushed face, tugging at the thick collar of her woolen shift. Beneath the scratchy fabric, her heavy brocade stays pressed tight against her ribs, and the yards of her woolen skirt trapped the unseasonable heat against her legs. Winter was supposed to be lingering, yet the brilliant morning sun beat down on the Scottish highlands, making a mockery of her cold-weather garments.

She glanced into her basket. It was half-filled with her morning's harvest of betony, wild garlic, and the thorny stems of blackberry. She still needed to track down lesser burdock, bog myrtle, meadowsweet, wild marjoram, tormentil, and valerian. The brutal winter months had drained MacKinnon Keep’s medicinal stores dry. She needed to replenish them immediately. Some of these specific plants required weeks of drying to hold any potency, and waiting was a luxury she refused to accept.

She knew she was breaking the rules. Stellan, the newly returned Laird, and Lorne, her own husband, had issued explicit orders forbidding her from stepping beyond the Keep's walls without an armed guard. She scoffed softly, shifting her weight on the damp grass. The command was absurd. Why would she drag four hulking men-at-arms out into a sunlit meadow just to watch her pick bog myrtle? Every root and leaf she needed grew within a mere half-mile of the stone walls. It was a beautiful day, devoid of any visible threat, yet the men treated the highland borders like an active war zone.

Her mind drifted from the wild herbs to the men who commanded the Keep. The MacKinnon brothers. Their dynamic was a puzzle she had yet to solve. Stellan, the eldest, held the title of Laird. He was the unquestioned head of the family, yet he ignored the clan's commerce and daily governance. He left all those tedious, vital matters in Lorne’s hands, simply because Lorne had been managing them for the past five years during their father’s slow physical decline.

Stellan was a force of nature, the firstborn of Alistair MacKinnon and a fierce Viking shield maiden named Sigrid. Alistair had traveled to one of the Viking trading outposts that sprang up along the jagged coast. According to Keep gossip, their courtship had been built on blood and steel. Sigrid refused to even look at the Scottish Laird until he drew his sword and defeated her settlement's greatest champion in single combat. Alistair proved his worth, and the shield maiden gave him her hand.

The result of that passionate union was Stellan. At thirty-two years old, he was a massive wall of muscle and bone. He stood towering at six feet and four inches, weighing over two hundred and twenty-five pounds. He had his mother's icy blue eyes and thick reddish-blonde hair. Sigrid had bled out bringing him into the world, using her dying breaths to name him Stellan—Odin’s Wolf. He lived up to the brutal moniker. When he turned eighteen, he left the Keep to sail with his mother's kin. He spent over a decade raiding, fighting as a mercenary in foreign armies, and exploring the frozen landscapes of Greenland. He only returned home alongside his uncle, Hrothgar, after Alistair’s death to assume the mantle of Laird. He had zero patience for managing clan matters. He preferred the clash of weapons, taking total command of the clan's men-at-arms.

Then there was Alasdair, the middle brother. Twenty-eight years old, standing five feet and nine inches, carrying one hundred and eighty pounds of lean grace. He inherited his French mother’s dark coloring, with striking brown eyes and pitch-black hair. His mother, Genevieve, had named him Alasdair—the Gaelic word for defender.

Alistair had met Genevieve a few years after burying his Viking bride. The Laird had traveled to the French court to negotiate the export of Scottish wool and salted fish. While he technically did not need royal permission, securing proper letters of introduction from the French crown smoothed his trading routes. Genevieve was a favored handmaiden to the French Queen. The Queen fought bitterly to keep her favorite maid, but the King of France had a deep-seated hatred for the English. He decreed that any man who despised the English as much as the gruff Scottish Laird deserved whatever aid he requested. Thus, Genevieve went to Scotland.

Tragically, that marriage was nearly as fleeting as his first. The beautiful Frenchwoman succumbed to a sudden fever when Alasdair was barely two years old. Like Stellan, Alasdair abandoned the Keep the moment he reached eighteen. He crossed the channel to France, plunging headfirst into a life of gambling, women, and fast horses. He refused to touch the coin his father had provided him. Instead, he kept himself fed and clothed in fine garments by winning at cards, dice, and horse races. His charm was undeniable, but he had a habit of seducing married women. That vice dragged him into countless duels with furious, slighted husbands. Alasdair survived every single one. He was a master of the blade. He, too, had only returned to the highlands after his father passed away.

That left Lorne. Her husband. The youngest of the three. Twenty-four years old, towering nearly a full head taller than her, with warm green eyes, thick brown hair, and one hundred and ninety-five pounds of solid muscle. Lorne’s mother was an Englishwoman named Eleanor. Her ship had been torn apart in a brutal storm off the rocky coast near their home. The survivors were brought to Dervaig, where Alistair saw her on a market day. She was twenty-eight, having lost her entire family to the wreck, making her almost half Alistair’s age. The Laird decided his two young sons needed a mother, so he courted the stranded Englishwoman and married her.

Lorne was the only child born of that union. Eleanor had been a steady, wonderful mother to all three boys. She held the family together for eleven years until a startled horse threw her to her death. Her sudden passing shattered whatever was holding Stellan at home, prompting his immediate departure. Alistair never took another wife. He believed himself cursed in love, fated to watch every woman he married die young.

Rowena shifted her legs on the ground, smoothing her heavy skirt. She had married Lorne just under eight months ago, shortly after the harvest season. It was a practical, arranged match. Alistair knew his health was failing and wanted to secure a proper wife for his youngest son before he was gone. Because his older brothers had vanished, Lorne had already shouldered the massive burden of running the Keep and managing the Laird's lands. Everyone considered Lorne an incredible catch for her, even as the third son. At the time, no one knew if Stellan or Alasdair would ever step foot in Scotland again.

What shocked Rowena the most was how deeply she had fallen for the man chosen for her. She could not love Lorne more if she had spent years picking him out herself. Right now, she was the undisputed lady of the house. She managed the staff and governed the household. She knew that if Stellan or Alasdair ever took wives, she would have to step down and surrender her position. But until that day came, she held the reins. The two older brothers had missed her wedding entirely. No one knew where they were. It took months after Alistair's death for letters to finally track them down and bring them home.

A flush crept up Rowena’s neck that had nothing to do with the heavy woolen clothing. Lorne was kind. He was handsome. He was strong. And he was unapologetically lusty. He made his physical attraction to her known every single day. The man simply could not keep his hands off her. Rarely did a day pass without him sneaking up behind her, his big hands immediately seeking out her curves, running his hands over her breasts or gripping her bum. If they were alone, he did not care about the location. He would hike up her heavy skirts and slide his stiff cock inside her right there.

It did not matter if they were in their massive bed, the crowded kitchen, the dark pantry, or smelling of dirt in the barn. Lorne loved pleasuring his wife, and she eagerly absorbed every heated touch. She had lost count of the times she had to hastily brush hay or white flour off her skirts, frantically adjust her bodice, and smooth her messy hair while playfully slapping his wandering hands away because a servant happened to walk by. Her cheeks would burn hot, caught in a state of breathless dishevelment. She knew exactly what the maids whispered about them, but she did not care.

Yet, as perfect as her marriage was, the dynamic between her husband and his two older half-brothers remained a glaring anomaly. Their closeness was unnatural. Perhaps it was because they had spent so much time together as children under Eleanor's care. Perhaps it was because they had been separated for so many years. Whatever the reason, it bordered on abnormal.

They were three distinct men. They possessed different bloodlines, different upbringings, and dangerous skills. Men of their age and status should be clashing constantly. Most households with three capable men would be a battleground of ego and dominance, competing against one another for authority and resources. That was the natural order of things.

But not Stellan, Alasdair, and Lorne.

There was no jealousy. There was no rivalry. They moved around each other with an unbroken solidarity that defied logic. Why were they so intensely devoted to one another without a shred of competition? She sat in the grass, staring at her basket, baffled by the strange pack of men that governed her life. The unbreakable bond tying those three half-brothers together was a profound mystery.