Under The Laird’s Protection (Preview)

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Chapter One

Freuchie Castle, 1450

Marsaili MacBain had ten days left of freedom, and she was spending them in hell.

The great hall of Freuchie Castle roared with voices raised in jest and argument, the clatter of cups on wooden tables, the scrape of benches across rushes that smelled of herbs and old ale.

Torches blazed in their sconces along the stone walls, casting flickering shadows that made the tapestries seem to move with lives of their own. Grant warriors in their plaids crowded the long tables, fists wrapped around horns of ale, faces flushed with drink and the heat of too many bodies packed too close. Serving girls wove between them with practiced grace, dodging wandering hands and carrying platters of roasted venison that made the air thick with grease and smoke.

Her brother Tavish had excused himself early, claiming exhaustion from the day’s travel. She envied him his escape.

Across the table, Gavin Grant leaned back in his chair, his face flushed red beneath golden hair that fell carelessly across his forehead, his head tipped close to the ear of a warrior whose name she did not know. His laughter cracked through the hall, loud and coarse, ending in a bark that made several men turn. He lifted his hand in answer to them, knocking over his cup, ale slopping over his knuckles.

His gaze slid toward her.

“Best view in the hall,” he called, voice thick with drink, eyes sweeping over her in a way that lingered far too long for her comfort. “Worth the wait, I’d say.”

A few men laughed. One elbowed another. The serving girl nearest the table ducked her head and moved on.

Marsaili did not react.

She kept her eyes forward, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as though the words had passed somewhere behind her, unworthy of notice. She let the remark fall to the rushes like his spilled ale, already forgotten.

Ten days, she thought, with a steadiness that surprised even her. She had endured ten days of watching Gavin Grant drink himself into foolishness each night while she smiled and nodded and pretended this was bearable.

She kept her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, her expression serene. It was a mask she had worn since arriving at Freuchie Castle. Since the morning her oldest brother Fionnlagh had clasped her shoulders and told her this marriage would save their people.

Years o’ raids and bloodshed, he had said, his dark eyes heavy with the weight of leadership only recently inherited.

I wouldnae ask if there was another way. This marriage can end the border feud, Marsaili. Ye can end it.

She understood, but it offered little comfort when she sat beside Gavin Grant and caught the sharp tang of ale on his breath as he leaned too near, his gaze lingering with an ease that made her skin tighten beneath her gown.

“More wine, me lady?”

Marsaili looked up to find a young serving girl hovering at her elbow, pitcher in hand. The girl could not have been more than fifteen, her eyes downcast, her movements careful. Marsaili recognized the wariness in her posture, the same wariness she herself felt.

“Nay, thank ye,” Marsaili said quietly, offering a small smile she hoped was reassuring.

The girl bobbed a curtsy and withdrew at once, her relief evident in the quickness of her retreat, and Marsaili reached for her cup, taking a measured sip of the watered wine, just enough to ease the dryness in her throat without dulling her awareness. Her gaze drifted then, skimming the press of bodies and torchlight with practiced detachment, passing over faces and movement, until it slowed and stilled of its own accord.

Laird Alasdair Grant stood near the far wall in quiet conversation with several of his men, his height setting him apart even in a crowded hall, his presence defined by the space that seemed to settle naturally around him. His broad shoulders carried the shape of years of battle, and his dark hair was cut short and plainly. When he turned his head, the firelight caught a faint scar tracing from just below his ear toward the corner of his mouth, a mark that lent his face a magnetic severity.

There was no effort in the way he held himself, no seeking of notice, yet her attention fixed all the same, drawn and held with a quiet insistence she had not invited. Where Gavin’s voice and gaze pressed at her without permission, demanding acknowledgment she refused to grant, Alasdair required none at all, commanding her awareness through stillness alone.

Marsaili became aware that she was watching longer than courtesy allowed. She lowered her gaze only after the realization took shape, lifting her cup again with steady hands.

Even then, her attention lingered.

The brothers shared blood and little else, moving through the same hall as their paths curved away from one another like opposing forces, and she found herself wondering when she ought to stop noticing the space Alasdair occupied, and why the thought of doing so came with a resistance she could not quite understand.

As though he felt the weight of her attention, Alasdair’s gaze lifted unhurried toward the high table, and for a brief, unguarded moment his eyes met hers.

They were the color of winter skies, cold and clear, and the contact struck deeper than she expected, something tightening low in her chest as if her breath had been checked without warning. His look held a sharp, measuring focus that made her acutely aware of herself, of the seat she occupied, of the bargain she represented in that hall.

She could not tell what passed through his expression then, whether the hardness she sensed was meant for her, but the weight of it lingered all the same, heavy enough that when he turned away and returned his attention to his men, the space he left behind felt abruptly altered.

Marsaili lowered her gaze an instant later than she should have, her heart beating fast, unsettled by the certainty that something had shifted, however briefly, and could not be undone.

She lowered her eyes before the sight could settle, smoothing her expression into something neutral as she reached again for her cup.

She felt the heavy rhythm of approaching steps cutting through the din and looked up in time to see Gavin bearing down on her at last, his stride uneven, his balance careless, the space at her side still conspicuously empty until he reached it.

That seat had been meant for him, but he had chosen ale and disrespect instead.

The chair scraped harshly as Gavin flung himself into it, landing with a graceless thud that sent a jolt through the table, and before she could draw a full breath he leaned toward her, crowding her space, the sharp bite of whisky rushing over her as his mouth curved in a smile meant to please himself.

Then, his hand fell on her thigh beneath the table.

Marsaili went rigid. The touch was intentional. His palm was hot through the fabric of her gown, fingers squeezing possessively, claiming what he believed was already his. Her heart kicked against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct screamed at her to jerk away, to slap his hand aside, to make a scene that would echo through the hall.

But she had a terrifying suspicion that resistance would only make him worse.

She shifted in her seat by a fraction, careful and controlled, angling her body just enough to ease the pressure of his hand without drawing notice, her gaze steady ahead as though nothing had changed, as though her skin had not tightened beneath his grasp. Her face remained serene, as though his proximity meant nothing at all.

“Why dae ye pull away from me, lass?” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “We are tae be wed soon. Ye’ll need tae grow used tae closeness.”

Heat flooded Marsaili’s face—rage, white-hot and consuming. She swallowed it down like poison, forced her expression to remain calm. To anyone watching, they would appear as nothing more than a betrothed couple sharing quiet words, but Marsaili’s instincts knew there was nothing innocent about his words.

“Ye are shy,” Gavin continued softly, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But ye neednae be. A fortnight passes quickly, and then we shall grow more accustomed tae one another.”

Marsaili’s jaw tightened, but she kept her gaze forward.

She reached for her cup and took another sip of wine because it gave her hands something to do that was not wrapping around Gavin Grant’s throat.

A serving girl approached with a pitcher, moving to refill the cups at the high table. Gavin’s attention shifted immediately, his hand leaving Marsaili as he reached out to catch the girl’s wrist. The girl froze, eyes wide, the pitcher trembling in her grip.

“And what is yer name, lass?” Gavin asked, his voice dropping to what he likely believed was seductive. “Such bonnie eyes ye have.”

The girl’s smile was strained, practiced. “Thank ye, me laird. But I must finish me duties-”

Gavin pulled her closer. “Tell me yer name.”

Marsaili looked away. She could not watch this.

Her gaze searched for Alasdair Grant once more, but Gavin’s laugh rang out again, pulling her attention back. He had released the serving girl, who fled with relief written across her face. Now he was deep in conversation with the men around him, gesturing broadly with his cup.

“And I say marriage is a fine thing fer a man,” Gavin declared, his voice carrying just enough for nearby tables to hear. “A wife tae warm the hearth, tae manage the household…” He paused, taking a long drink, his eyes sliding to Marsaili with a look that made her skin crawl. “Tae provide all manner o’ comforts a man requires.”

The words were acceptable enough on the surface, but the way Gavin said them made Marsaili’s stomach turn.

Marsaili stood. The movement was smooth, graceful, giving no indication of the fury boiling beneath her skin.

“Me laird,” she said, her voice perfectly controlled. “I must retire. The hour grows late.”

Gavin turned to her, his expression shifting from surprise to petulance. “Already? But the night is young! Sit, lass. Enjoy the feast.”

“Fergive me,” Marsaili said. “I find meself weary.”

It was a polite lie but it gave her an escape, and she seized it before Gavin could think of a reason to keep her at his side.

“As ye wish,” Gavin said, his hand reaching for hers. Marsaili stepped back before he could touch her, the movement quick enough to look like an accident. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he was too drunk to press the matter. “Rest well, wife-tae-be. I shall see ye soon.”

Chapter Two

Marsaili walked quickly through the cold corridors, her slippers whispering against the stone as she passed beneath tapestries depicting Grant victories in battles long past, their stitched figures looming in the torchlight. The guest wing lay far enough from the great hall that the noise thinned with every step, laughter and music fading to a dull, distant echo, and she welcomed the silence with a force that surprised her, her breath only beginning to steady once the shadows deepened and no voices followed.

She had been grateful for the distance on every night of her stay, but never more so than now, moving through the darkened passages with the weight of the evening still clinging to her skin, her pulse slow to settle despite the quiet closing in around her.

Her chambers were at the end of the corridor. A single door, heavy oak bound with iron. She pushed it open and stepped inside, letting the door close behind her with a solid thud that felt like a sanctuary.

“Me lady.”

Una, Marsaili’s maid since they were both girls, rose from the chair by the fire, setting aside her mending. She was a few years older than Marsaili, practical and steady, with brown hair tucked beneath a simple kerchief. Her presence here was one of the few comforts Marsaili had.

The room was warm at least, the fire in the hearth driving back the autumn chill that seeped through the stone walls. Candles flickered on the small table by the window. Marsaili’s nightgown lay across the bed, already warmed by proximity to the flames.

“The feast ended early fer ye, I see,” Una said, moving to help Marsaili with the lacings of her gown. Her fingers were quick and practiced, loosening the tight bindings that had had held Marsaili imprisoned in formal clothing since dawn.

“I could bear nay more o’ it,” Marsaili admitted quietly. There, with only Una to hear, she could allow some of the careful control to slip. “He grows worse each night.”

Una’s mouth tightened but she said nothing. What was there to say? They both knew what awaited Marsaili. Both knew there was no escape.

The gown fell away, leaving Marsaili in her linen shift. Una helped her into the nightgown, the fabric soft and worn from many washings. It was one of Marsaili’s own, brought from home. She held onto that small thing, that tiny piece of MacBain lands wrapped around her body.

“Will there be anything else, me lady?” Una asked.

“Nay, thank ye. Rest well.”

Una curtsied and gathered up the discarded gown. She moved toward the door, then paused and looked back. Her eyes were worried in the firelight.

“It will nae always be so difficult,” she said quietly. “Marriage is hard at first fer many women. But ye will adjust. Ye are strong, me lady. Stronger than ye ken.”

Marsaili nodded because Una needed to believe it, even though she herself did not.

Una left, closing the door softly behind her. The latch fell into place with a quiet click. Marsaili stood alone in the center of the room and felt the walls pressing in.

She moved to the table and began unpinning her hair. The dark chestnut curls fell around her shoulders in waves, released from the careful arrangement Una had created that morning. Marsaili’s fingers worked through the pins methodically, setting each one on the table with small sounds like dropped coins. When the last pin was removed, she shook her head slightly, letting her hair settle past her shoulders to the small of her back.

She caught sight of herself in the polished metal mirror propped on the table. Her reflection was distorted, wavering, but she could see enough. The shadows beneath her hazel eyes. The tightness around her mouth. The weariness that had settled into her bones.

Behind her, the door opened.

Marsaili did not turn immediately. She assumed it was Una returning with the nightly herbs she sometimes brought, the mixture of chamomile and valerian that helped Marsaili sleep. She reached for another hairpin, though all had already been removed.

“Ye may leave them on the table, Una,” she said. “Thank ye.”

But the footsteps that entered were wrong, too heavy and unsteady. The sound of boots rather than soft slippers.

Marsaili turned. Her breath caught in her throat.

Gavin Grant stood in her doorway. His blond hair was disheveled, his doublet unlaced, showing the linen shirt beneath. His eyes were glassy with drink, unfocused and bright. He swayed slightly as he pushed the door closed behind him. Marsaili heard the latch fall into place with a sound like doom.

“Did ye think tae escape me so easily, lass?” Gavin said, his words slightly slurred. He took a step toward her.

Marsaili moved back, putting the bed between them. “Ye should nae be here. Leave at once.”

“But I am here, am I nae?” He laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. Another step. “And ye are tae be me wife.”

“In a fortnight,” she said sharply. “Nae tonight.”

His smile widened, showing too many teeth. “What difference daes it make? A fortnight, a sennight, a day?”

She turned away from him in disgust, unable to bear the sight of his leering face.

“We are tae be wed,” he said, his voice dropping lower as he moved closer. “I see nay harm in claiming what is already mine.”

Fear flooded Marsaili’s veins like ice water. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt. She backed away without thinking, her body moving before her mind could catch up. Her hip struck the table behind her. The metal mirror clattered, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.

She opened her mouth to command him out of her chambers. To scream for help. But her voice had fled. Terror had stolen it, left her mute and frozen.

This cannae be happening.

Gavin took a step toward her. Then another.

Marsaili’s voice returned in a rush as she stared at Gavin. “Get out.”

The words came out stronger than she expected, cutting through the silence like a blade. Gavin paused, surprise flickering across his face.

“Get out o’ me chambers,” Marsaili said again, forcing steel into her voice. “Ye are drunk. Leave now, before ye dae something ye will regret.”

Gavin laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. “Regret? What is there tae regret?” He took another step forward. “We are betrothed, lass. What happens between us is nay one’s concern but our own.”

Marsaili’s mind raced. The door was behind him, blocked. The window was too small and too high to provide escape. The only furniture between them was the small table and the bed. She grabbed the metal mirror from the table, holding it like a weapon.

“Stay away from me,” she said.

Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “Put that down.”

“Nay.” Marsaili backed around the table, keeping it between them. “Leave me chambers. Now.”

“Or what?” Gavin moved to follow her, circling the table slowly. “Ye will strike me with that toy? Go ahead, lass.”

Marsaili’s grip tightened on the mirror. Her whole body was shaking but she forced herself to stay calm, to think. She had to get past him to the door.

Gavin lunged.

Marsaili swung the mirror at his face. The edge caught his cheek, drawing blood. Gavin roared and stumbled back, one hand flying to his face. Marsaili darted toward the door, her bare feet silent on the stone floor.

Her hand touched the door latch.

She almost made it. Then Gavin’s hand closed around her arm and yanked her back. Marsaili cried out and twisted in his grip, trying to wrench free. But he was stronger, bigger, and the whisky had burned away whatever restraint he might have possessed.

“Ye little bitch,” Gavin snarled, his other hand reaching for her.

Marsaili brought her knee up hard between his legs. Gavin’s eyes went wide and his grip loosened just enough for Marsaili to tear free and run.

She fled through the door and into the corridor, her torn nightgown streaming behind her like a tattered banner. Her breath came in ragged gasps that burned her throat. Behind her, she could hear Gavin’s heavy footsteps, his cursing, the sound of him recovering and giving chase.

That part of the castle was empty at that hour. The feast still raged in the great hall on the opposite side, which meant the corridors near the guest wing were deserted. There was no one to hear her if she screamed.

She kept running, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man chasing her.

Marsaili’s mind raced. Where could she go? The great hall was too far. So were her brother’s chambers. There was nowhere close that could be safe.

Gavin’s hand caught the back of her nightgown.

Marsaili felt the fabric pull tight, choking her. She twisted violently, heard the sound again of tearing cloth, and wrenched free. But the movement cost her balance. She stumbled, her hand catching the wall to steady herself.

His hands grabbed her shoulders and slammed her back against it. The impact of the stone wall drove the air from Marsaili’s lungs. Stars exploded across her vision. She opened her mouth to scream but Gavin’s hand clamped over it, cutting off the sound.

“Ye think ye can run from me?” he snarled, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot and sour with whisky. Blood still dripped from the scratches on his cheek where she had struck him with the mirror. “Ye are mine tae dae wi’ as I please.”

“Nay!” The word tore from her throat as she tried to crawl forward. “Get off me!”

Gavin dragged her back, his weight pressing down on her. Marsaili kicked and thrashed, her nails clawing at the stone, seeking purchase.

She screamed. It ripped through her chest and throat, raw and unshaped, the sound carrying her fear into the cold stone around her.

“Shut up!” Gavin’s hand found her mouth again, but Marsaili twisted her head and screamed again before he could silence her. The sound was raw, primal, everything she had been holding back for ten days finally breaking free.