"The first son of Samuel cast his seed in moonlight. Seek the second when the sun has fired the loch and the bolt has pierced the rain."
The lands of Glenshellich and Kilclath are divided by centuries of clan warfare but united by a terrible prophecy.
Headstrong Donald Stewart of Glenshellich is prepared to sacrifice everything to the Jacobite cause. His neighbour, the enigmatic George Campbell of Kilclath, "Master of the Stones", will oppose it with his last breath. Soon both young chieftains' lives are turned upside down by the arrival in Scotland of James and Christie Hamilton, destitute orphans of a Jacobite exile.
Bound to Glenshellich are Donald's blood and foster brothers, his delicate wife, the free-spirited mother of his illegitimate son and the disfigured Catriona MacMichael, a woman haunted by her own secrets.
Bound to Kilclath are sinister ghillie, Hughie, brooding over unsettled scores, mysterious servant Mhairi and the beautiful, feisty Jean Petrie, rescued by the Master from a life of prostitution.
"The Second Son" takes us from Edinburgh's teeming wynds to majestic Highland landscapes, from genteel drawing rooms to back-street brothels, through smoke-filled huts and dank prison cells as fortunes alter dramatically in the dark aftermath of Culloden.
Only on the night of no shadows can the prophecy be fulfilled. But will it mark an end, or herald a new beginning?
Born in Dorset, now settled in Moray, Liz has always had ambitions to be a writer. After her degree in English and History from Edinburgh University she taught English and now works part-time as a support for learning teacher. This is her first and only historical novel. It has been nearly thirty years in the making and through almost as many drafts!
Liz has had short stories produced on radio and is currently writing TV scripts and crime novels. Now that her family are grown up she is able to devote more time and energy to her projects. In her rare spare time she enjoys reading, walking her dogs and relaxing in the garden with a glass of wine.
"I have always played the part of a brother," said Andrew. "It is a part I must be content now to play for ever."
"Then I hope you will play the same part for me," Christie said softly.
He held her slightly away from him and gazed into her eyes. "A brother, a friend, a soul-mate," he answered. "Would that it had been you and I who had fallen in love."
As Christie looked around she could see that the same thought was in many minds. She and Andrew danced elegantly and effortlessly together, a couple almost as remarkable as the bride and groom, hiding their broken hearts in perfect rhythm beneath the sparkling chandelier. And if Donald MacSomhairle's face darkened as he watched them it was only for a moment, for he was an old master of the game of deceit while they were still novices.
Eilidh of the scarlet face leaned across the bannister and looked on wistfully. The music soared from Kenneth MacCombie's pipes and settled around her soul, even as she watched his wife bring more trays of meat to the table. Meg raised a goblet to her lips and swallowed deeply. Only she would have the impudence to do a thing like that under the very nose of MacSomhairle. But as he passed her by he grinned and slipped a fleeting hand around her waist. Eilidh had her own memories of love gone by, and no dreams of it ever returning, but she knew in that she was not alone. The old aunt was smiling to herself. Eilidh remembered her less fondly, descending on Glenshellich with her fancy southern ideas and clipped commands. Eilidh heaved a long sigh. She was growing older. Wrinkles were spreading around her eyes and her mouth, puckering the red birthmark that along with Meg MacCombie had kept her an old maid. Meg was at the piper's side now, with her boy, whirling and twisting and the healer's widow was smiling at them. Eilidh let her eyes linger on the scene, knowing no one would notice her taking her ease. Dancers flashed past, their feet drumming on the flagstones. The house was alive as she had not known it for many a year. Her own feet began to beat a rhythm and her head started to sway. Kenneth's cousin, daft Iain MacCombie, slid up beside her, but it was MacSomhairle himself who took hold of her arm. He swung her onto the floor and the clapping from many hands cheered them on their way. Eilidh saw Kenneth's warm eyes on her and Meg's delighted grin, and then MacSomhairle was gone, swirling out of sight, and she was in Iain's arms as the breathless, bright world whirled by.
Old Angus Ban took a deep draught of whisky. To him the scene was nothing but the hazy passing of a distant dream. He remembered better than any the last time, when the old MacSomhairle had danced with his bride from the south. No, he corrected himself, that had been the time before.
This was the last time.