“Neither of us are saying that, Cain. We were all raised knowing ye would lead our clan to victory, making us and Scotland strong. With our armies growing, ye could even be king someday. Joshua, Bàs, and I would see it done, putting ye on James’s throne.

“Today is another step forward in making Clan Sinclair the strongest in the land.” Gideon smiled, which was at odds with the worry in his eyes, and backed up so that Cain dropped his fist. “Ye win every game ye play, brother. Ye could win all of Scotland.”

Cain stared at him, his hand sliding up to his sash that hid the queen that Ella had carved. He won every game. Aye, he could just take it all. Call checkmate and put a bloody crown on his head.

He looked at Gideon. “Whatever the Sutherlands decide today, I want Ella, Jamie, and Kenneth Macleod to be kept safe.”

Gideon frowned. “He sent her poison to use.”

Cain met his gaze with unbending strength. “He protected Ella against Alec Sutherland all those years, and he sought the only way he could protect Ella while she was in my grasp. He deserves to live.” Before Gideon could argue, Cain turned on his heel. “If ye follow me, ye will find yourself in a lot of pain,” he yelled back and strode along the wall of Girnigoe, his strides eating up the ground as his fists swung at his sides. His thoughts spun around and around as if all the pieces on the chessboard had been scattered.

When he looked up, he realized he’d entered the castle’s corridor and stood before the small chapel that his father had erected for Cain’s mother. He walked inside the vaulted room, the stained-glass images looking down on him. Behind the altar was the image of the four horsemen, Cain and his brothers riding down from Heaven on their steeds.

Your duty is to conquer. Sinclairs above all else. You are God’s servant, his weapon against all those who are weak. His father’s last words echoed in his brain as if his ghost had risen up to support Gideon’s damning words.

Ye are ready to rule together; first my kingdom and then all of Scotland.

Cain looked at the pictures of angels, their watery eyes seeming to mock him. Did God want him to be a weapon against the weak, rolling across Scotland in a tempest of slaughter? He sneered at the watching angels. “What do ye want from me?” he yelled, but only silence answered.

He grasped his mouth, sliding his hand down his chin as if he could slide his skin from his skull. “Ella,” he whispered in the room stuffed with silence as if all the saints and images were judging him. “Ella.” He wanted Ella.