Chapter One

 
1450, Road to MacBain Lands

“Faster, ye great daft beast. Faster!”

The road beneath Maighread’s horse was muddy, each hoof strike splattering cold muck against her skirts. Rain had been pouring down since dawn, soaking through her woolen cloak until the fabric clung heavy on her shoulders. She hunched forward, urging her mount onward. Every beat of her heart hammered the same rhythm.

The guards accompanying her were also hunched over their horses, one in front of her, one behind.

Faither’s dying, Faither’s dying, Faither’s dying.

Three days since the messenger had found her at her cousin’s holding in the Lowlands. Three days of hard riding north, and still the MacEwan lands felt impossibly distant. Her thighs burned from gripping the saddle after hours of brutal pace, and her gut twisted with a sickness that had naught to do with the journey.

The Council would be circling already. Those scheming vultures. She could picture them gathering in her father’s hall, whispering poison while Angus MacEwan lay fevered and helpless. And Keir Sinclair was bound to make a move soon, as soon as he found out there was something wrong with him.

Her horse stumbled, nearly pitching her forward. Maighread swore viciously, hauling on the reins. “Steady now. Steady.”

The forest pressed close on either side of the road, ancient pines crowding together until their branches blocked what little grey light filtered through the clouds. This stretch always made her uneasy. Too quiet. Too many places for trouble to hide.

A branch cracked somewhere to her left.

Maighread’s hand went to the dirk at her belt, fingers closing instinctively around the leather-wrapped hilt, despite the protection of the men travelling with her. She wasn’t foolish enough to travel unarmed, not with winter coming and desperate men prowling every road between there and salvation.

All of a sudden, the forest came alive.

They burst from the trees like wolves.

Five men, maybe six. Rough looking curs in stained leathers, faces hidden behind scraps of cloth. Her horse screamed and reared. Maighread clung to its mane, legs locked around its barrel as it bucked and spun.

Both her guards were targeted immediately, one’s throat slit before he could fully reach his sword, the other pushed off his horse and trampled.

“Get her down!” one of the attackers roared. “Alive, ye hear me? Alive!”

Alive. Not just bandits then. Bandits wanted quick coin and a quicker escape. These men wanted her specifically. They had been watching and had quickly made rid of her guards.

Her heart kicked into a gallop. She yanked her dirk free and slashed at the closest man as he grabbed for her bridle. The blade caught him across the knuckles. He howled and jerked back, blood spraying.

“Sinclair’s balls!” he snarled. “The bitch cut me!”

“Should’ve brought more men,” another growled, circling around her left side. Bile rose in her throat.

“Who sent ye?” She kept her horse spinning, kept them all in sight. Her voice came out steady despite the terror clawing up her spine. “Name yer master, ye cowardly monsters!”

The leader laughed, a wet ugly sound. “Ye’ll ken soon enough, lass. Now stop making this difficult.”

“Difficult?” She bared her teeth at him. “I haven’t even started being difficult.”

She kicked her horse hard. The beast lunged forward, scattering two of the men. Maighread leaned low over its neck and drove her heels in again, sending it plunging down the muddy track. Branches whipped past her face. Rain stung her eyes. Behind her, boots pounded and men shouted.

“After her! Move yer arses!”

The road curved sharply ahead. Maighread took the turn too fast, felt her horse’s hooves slide in the muck. They stayed upright by sheer luck and God’s mercy. She risked a glance back.

They were gaining.

Of course they were. Her mount had been ridden hard for three days straight while these bastards’ horses were fresh. Mathematics and misery. The border of MacEwan lands lay barely a day’s ride ahead––so close––but she wouldn’t reach it. Wouldn’t even make it another mile at this pace. She had to get off the road. Lose them in the forest, where their numbers mattered less.

Maighread hauled on the reins, turning her horse toward a gap in the trees. The animal balked, ears flattening.

“Go!” She kicked viciously. “By the Mass, move!”

They crashed into the undergrowth. Branches tore at her cloak and hair. Something ripped the braid half loose, sending chestnut strands whipping across her face. Her horse stumbled over roots and rocks, breath coming in great heaving gasps.

“She’s gone into the woods!”

“Split up! Fin, take Dougal and circle round. We’ll flush her out!”

Maighread’s mind raced. Five men, possibly six. If they split their forces, that improved her odds marginally.

She pushed deeper into the forest, guiding her exhausted horse between close growing trunks. The rain had softened, filtering through the canopy in a steady drip. Everything smelled of wet earth and pine sap and her own fear sweat.

A stream cut across her path, water running swift and dark over smooth stones. She urged her horse into it, then turned upstream. Old trick, older than memory, but it might buy her minutes. Might give her time to think, to plan, to figure out how in God’s name she’d survive that moment.

Hoofbeats.

Coming fast from her right.

Her stomach dropped. They’d circled quicker than expected. Professional then. Trained men, not common thieves.

She abandoned the stream, driving her horse up the far bank. The animal’s sides heaved. Foam flecked its neck. It couldn’t take much more.

Neither could she, if truth be told. Her arms shook from gripping the reins. Her throat burned. But fear had teeth and they were sinking deep, flooding her blood with something that felt sickeningly close to panic.

“There!” A shout, too close. “By the stream, I see her!”

Maighread twisted in the saddle. Two men crashed through the brush behind her. She turned forward again, ducked under a low hanging branch, and nearly collided with the third man blocking her path.

“Gotcha, ye troublesome quine.”

He grabbed for her bridle. Maighread slashed at him with her dirk, but he caught her wrist and squeezed until her bones ground together. The blade fell from her nerveless fingers.

“Get off!” She kicked at his face. Her boot connected with something that crunched. He staggered back, cursing foully.

Her horse reared again. This time Maighread’s exhausted grip failed. She tumbled backward, hit the ground hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. Mud splattered her face. For a horrible moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could only lie there gasping like a landed fish.

Boots appeared in her vision.

“That was foolish, lass.” The leader’s voice, rough with exertion. “We’re trying not to hurt ye, but ye keep making things complicated and soon—”

Steel sang.

A blade appeared in the man’s throat, erupting through the front of his neck in a spray of crimson. His eyes went wide. He made a wet gurgling sound and collapsed.

More swords, more shouting. The other men scattered, reaching for their weapons. Maighread rolled onto her side, still trying to drag air into her starved lungs.

New riders poured into the clearing. Six of them, maybe seven, all wearing colors that made her blood turn to ice.

Sinclair green and black.

The colors she’d learned to recognize from across any hall, any field. The colors that appeared in her nightmares, paired with Keir’s cold smile and colder eyes.

“Stand down!” A voice cut through the chaos, commanding and cold. “Lady MacEwan is under Sinclair protection!”

Maighread’s blood turned to ice. She knew that voice.

Keir Sinclair himself sat astride a black destrier at the edge of the clearing, sword drawn, his dark hair slick with rain. He looked exactly as she remembered—sharp features, grey eyes that missed nothing, handsome in a cold, calculated way that made her skin crawl.

Protection. The word hit her gut like a fist.

This was it. The trap. These weren’t bandits at all. This whole thing had been orchestrated. The attack, the chase, the convenient rescue. Keir arriving at precisely the right moment to play hero while pretending she was a grateful, helpless maiden.

Except she was neither grateful nor helpless, and she’d be damned before she let them drag her back like a prize heifer.

Maighread shoved to her feet. Her legs trembled but held. Keir guided his horse closer, his gaze fixed on her.

“Lady MacEwan.” His voice gentled, taking on a tone of concern that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve been searching fer ye. Yer faither needs ye home. Please, let us escort ye safely back where ye belong.”

“Stay back.” She stumbled away from him, scanning the ground for her dirk. Where had it fallen? There, half buried in mud and pine needles.

Keir dismounted, approaching with his hands raised like she was a spooked animal. “Me lady, ye’re injured. Let us help ye. We’ll take ye tae safety, get ye warm and fed and—”

“I said stay back!” She snatched up her dirk and whirled to face them. Six men against one exhausted woman. Shite odds. But she’d cut the first bastard who tried to touch her.

The remaining attackers took one look at Keir and his armed men and bolted. They scattered into the forest like rats, crashing through the undergrowth in their haste to escape. Within moments, the clearing fell quiet except for the sound of rain and her own ragged breathing.

“Lady MacEwan, please.” Keir took another step closer. Blood streaked his face but his expression stayed gentle, concerned. “Ye’re safe now. We’ll take ye home tae yer faither safely.”

Her mind raced through the possibilities. Keir had arranged the attack. Paid men to play bandits, sent his own soldiers to “save” her. Now she’d owe him a life debt. Now the Council could argue she needed a strong husband for protection. Now Keir could press his suit with the full weight of clan obligation behind him.

Clever bastard.

Maighread didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran.

Chapter Two

“Lady MacEwan’s trying tae run,” he called out. “Someone grab her before she hurts herself. Keir willnae be pleased if we return her with more bruises than necessary.”

Before she hurts herself. Like she was a child. Like she was witless.

Rage flooded her veins, hot and clarifying.

Maighread didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran.

Behind her, men shouted. Hooves thundered. But she knew those forests, had ridden them since childhood. She ducked under branches, leaped over roots, ignored the thorns tearing at her skirts.

“After her! Dinnae let her escape!”

Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But terror drove her forward, gave her strength she shouldn’t possess.

A stream appeared ahead, the same one she’d crossed earlier. She splashed through it without slowing, soaking her already muddy skirts to the knee.

“Fan out! She can’t have gone far!”

They were close. Too close. She could hear their cursing, their boots crashing through the undergrowth.

Maighread grabbed a low hanging branch and hauled herself up into a massive pine. Bark bit into her palms. Her arms shook from exertion. But she climbed higher, higher, until the branches grew thin and the ground spun sickeningly far below.

She pressed against the trunk, trying to quiet her ragged breathing. Through the needles she could see them searching below, spreading out in an organized pattern that spoke of military training.

“She’s got to be here somewhere!”

“Check the stream again! Look fer tracks!” Keir’s voice cut through the search, sharp with frustration. “Fan out wider. She cannae have gotten far on foot.” He moved through the trees with controlled purpose, his gaze scanning the undergrowth. “Search every bloody tree if ye have to. I want her found. Now.”

One of them passed directly beneath her tree. She held her breath, pressed her cheek against rough bark, and prayed to every saint she could remember.

He moved on.

For a long moment, blessed silence. Then more cursing, farther away now.

“She couldnae have gotten far. Keep looking!”

Maighread waited until their voices faded to nothing. Waited until the forest settled back into rain drip quiet. Then she waited longer still, counting her heartbeats, making sure.

Finally, when her arms were quaking and her fingers had gone numb from gripping bark, she began to climb down.

Her boots hit solid earth. She stood there swaying, filthy and exhausted and more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.

She took one shaky step forward, then another. Her legs barely held her weight. The forest remained quiet around her. A twig snapped behind her. Before she could turn, hands seized her shoulders.

“Got ye now, ye stubborn bitch!”

Hands seized Maighread’s shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh through the sodden wool. She twisted violently, bringing her elbow up into soft belly meat. The man grunted and his grip loosened enough for her to wrench free.

“Grab her, Callum! Dinnae let the quine slip away again!”

Another set of hands caught her from behind, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her clean off her feet. Maighread kicked backward, her heel connecting with a shin. The man cursed but didn’t release her.

He yanked her and she went down hard, face first into the mud. The breath punched from her lungs. Someone’s knee ground into her spine, pressing her deeper into the muck. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, could only thrash uselessly while they pinned her.

“Hold her still!”

“I’m trying, ye great lummox! She fights like a wildcat!”

A hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. Pain blazed across her scalp. Through the mud coating her face, she glimpsed the scarred man from earlier grinning down at her.

“Now then, me lady. Let’s discuss being reasonable, aye? Ye can walk back tae the horses nice and calm, or we can drag ye. Yer choice.”

“Go… to… Hell…” She spat mud and blood.

He laughed. “Oh, Keir’s definitely going tae enjoy ye. Might even keep ye spirited fer a while—”

The words cut off abruptly as steel flashed through the air. The scarred man jerked backward with such force he flew from sight. The knee on her spine vanished. Someone screamed—high and panicked.

Maighread rolled onto her side, gasping, and looked up through mud-caked lashes.

A warrior on a massive grey stallion bore down on the second man, sword already swinging. The blade caught her attacker across the chest before he could raise his own weapon. He dropped like a felled tree. The rider wheeled his mount with perfect control, scanning for more threats.

More riders poured into the clearing behind him—seven, maybe eight—wearing blue and white. But Maighread couldn’t tear her gaze from their leader.

Sun-gold hair, longer than fashion dictated, tied back loosely so strands escaped to frame a face that could’ve belonged to some ancient warrior king. Blue-green eyes blazed with barely contained violence as he assessed the scene. Broad shoulders, powerful arms that controlled both sword and horse with effortless grace. Young—perhaps mid-twenties—but carrying himself with the absolute confidence of a man who’d seen battle and won.

Something in her chest lurched sideways.

Even through her terror and exhaustion, she couldn’t look away. He was beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful—wild and dangerous and utterly compelling. The kind of man bards wrote songs about. The kind of man women dreamed of in the dark hours of night.

Heat flooded through her despite the cold rain and mud coating her skin. Her heart hammered for an entirely different reason now, and she hated herself for it. She was filthy, terrified, half-dead from running—and yet some traitorous part of her noticed the way his wet shirt clung to his chest, the fierce protectiveness in his expression as he looked at the men who’d hurt her, the raw power in every movement.

Something in her chest lurched sideways.

The scarred Sinclair man moved to block her from view, reaching for his sword. “This doesn’t concern ye, MacBain—”

MacBain. The name rang through her skull like a bell.

The golden warrior didn’t let him finish. His blade flashed in a brutal arc that caught the scarred man across the forearm. The Sinclair soldier howled and staggered back, his sword clattering to the ground.

“Touch her again,” the warrior said, voice deadly calm, “and I’ll take the whole arm.”

The second Sinclair man lunged from the side. MacBain’s sword met his with a shriek of steel, then swept low in a move so fast Maighread barely tracked it. The man’s legs went out from under him. He hit the ground hard.

Two more Sinclair soldiers charged forward. MacBain’s men intercepted them, and suddenly the clearing erupted into controlled chaos. But the golden warrior remained focused, positioning himself between Maighread and any threat. He moved like violence made beautiful—every strike precise, every step purposeful. His blade sang through the air, driving back anyone who came close.

Maighread couldn’t look away. Even through her shock and pain, she watched him fight for her with a ferocity that stole her breath. It wasn’t just skill. It was fury on her behalf, and something about that made her heart stutter in her chest.

Within moments, it was over. The Sinclair men who could still stand retreated into the forest, abandoning their wounded. MacBain turned immediately, sheathing his sword as he crossed to where Maighread still sprawled in the mud.

He crouched beside her, those startling blue-green eyes scanning her face with genuine concern. “Are ye hurt, lass? Can ye stand?”

His voice had gentled completely, lost all that deadly edge. Warmth instead of violence. She found herself staring at him, her mind still scrambling to catch up. This man had just fought off multiple attackers without breaking a sweat, and now he was looking at her like she was something precious.

“I…” Her voice came out rough, scraped raw. “I can manage.”

“Let me help regardless.” He slid an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her as she sat up. His hands were careful, almost reverent. “Easy now. Take yer time.”

She let him help her to her feet, hating how her legs shook, how she had to lean against his solid warmth to stay upright. He smelled of leather and horse and woodsmoke, clean male sweat beneath. Heat radiated from him despite the cold rain.

“Thank ye.” She forced the words past her chattering teeth. “I… thank ye fer…”

“Nay need.” He steadied her, his grip firm but gentle on her elbow. “Are ye truly unharmed? Did they hurt ye beyond…”

Horse hooves. Distant but approaching fast.

Maighread’s stomach dropped to her boots. She knew that sound, the particular cadence of multiple riders moving in formation. Keir’s men regrouping. Or worse, Keir himself coming to claim his prize.

Time collapsed into urgency.

She grabbed the golden warrior’s arm, fingers digging into the muscle beneath his sleeve. “I’m Maighread MacEwan. Angus MacEwan’s daughter. Please, I need…”

Recognition flared in his eyes. “I ken yer faither. Good man.”

“Then in honor of that, in honor of him, I’m begging ye…” The hoofbeats were getting closer. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Follow me lead. Please. Just… please just trust me.”

He frowned, confusion creasing his brow. “Follow yer lead? Lass, what are ye…”

The hoofbeats crested the ridge. Riders appeared through the trees, at least a dozen strong. And at their head, astride a black destrier that matched his soul, rode Keir Sinclair.

His gaze found her immediately and something flickered across his face. Relief? Satisfaction? It vanished too quickly to name.

Maighread’s blood turned to slush.

“Lady MacEwan.” He guided his horse closer, his voice smooth as oiled steel. “Thank God ye’re safe. When me men reported ye went intae the forest, I feared the worst. These roads are treacherous fer a woman alone.”

She felt the golden warrior stiffen beside her, sensed his confusion. No time to explain. No time for anything except the desperate gamble forming in her mind.

“I wasnae alone,” she said clearly. Loudly enough for every man present to hear. “Me betrothed was with me.”

Keir’s expression froze. “Yer… what?”

Maighread turned to the golden warrior and smiled, praying he’d remember her plea. She stepped closer to him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

“Me betrothed.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading silently for him to play along. “We were tae meet and travel taegether tae me faither’s lands when those bandits attacked.”

The warrior’s eyes widened slightly, but after a heartbeat’s pause, he gave a slight nod. “Tavish MacBain,” he said, his voice steady despite the shock she could see in his face.

“Master MacBain fought them off, of course,” Maighread continued, emboldened by his cooperation. “He always protects me.”

Tavish’s entire body had gone rigid. She felt the shock rolling off him in waves. But he didn’t step away, didn’t contradict her.

“Betrothed,” Keir repeated. His voice had gone flat. Dangerous. “I was unaware ye had accepted any marriage proposal, Lady MacEwan.”

“Because it’s recent.” She moved fractionally closer to Tavish, willing him to play along. “Very recent. We’ve been… negotiating the arrangements privately.”

“Indeed.” Keir’s gaze slid to Tavish, assessing. Cold calculation flickered behind those grey eyes. “MacBain. I didn’t realize ye were courting Lady MacEwan.”

Tavish’s hand found the small of Maighread’s back—a steady, possessive touch that surprised her. When he spoke, his voice came out steady and firm.

“Aye. We’ve been acquainted fer some time. The negotiations were conducted between our families initially, as is proper.” He met Keir’s gaze without flinching. “I’m escorting me betrothed home tae finalize the arrangements.”

“How fascinating.” Keir’s smile could’ve frozen the loch solid. “And yet nay one in yer clan mentioned this when I dined at MacBain lands last month.”

“Private family matters arenae typically discussed with guests,” Tavish replied smoothly. His thumb moved in a small, reassuring circle against Maighread’s back. “Surely ye understand the need fer discretion until contracts are signed.”

Keir leaned forward in his saddle. “And now ye’re traveling taegether tae MacEwan lands tae… what, exactly?”

“Tae marry,” Tavish said before Maighread could speak. His tone left no room for doubt. “With her faither’s blessing, which we already have.”

Keir studied them both for a long, silent moment. The forest held its breath. Rain dripped from pine needles with terrible patience.

“Well then.” He straightened in his saddle. “In that case, I insist on escorting ye both tae MacEwan lands. Tae ensure yer safety, of course. These roads are clearly dangerous, what with bandits and…” His smile sharpened. “Other threats.”

Tavish’s hand pressed more firmly against Maighread’s back. “We have sufficient men—”

“I insist.” Keir’s tone left no room for argument. “I’m heading north meself. How convenient that we can travel taegether. Unless ye have reason tae refuse me protection?”

Refusing would raise suspicion. Accepting meant traveling under Keir’s watchful eye.

Tavish’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. “Yer concern is noted. We’ll travel taegether, then.”

“Excellent.” Keir turned his horse. “Shall we? I’m sure Laird MacEwan is anxious tae see his daughter. And his new son by marriage.” The emphasis on those last words sent ice down Maighread’s spine.

Tavish guided Maighread toward his horse with a firm hand, his movements deliberate and protective. As he helped her mount, he leaned close enough that only she could hear.

“We’ll talk when we can,” he murmured. “Fer now, follow me lead.”

She nodded, and he swung up behind her, one arm settling around her waist to keep her steady as they began to ride.

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A few hours before the ball

“If ye pull that any tighter, Maisie, I willnae be able tae breathe.”

“Ye need tae breathe less and look even more beautiful,” Maisie said from behind her, tugging at the laces of Alba’s stays with the determination of someone who took her duties very seriously. “Now hold still.”

Alba gripped the bedpost and tried not to think about how her ribs were slowly being compressed into her spine.

Around them, her chamber was in a state of controlled chaos. Gowns spread across the bed, jewelry scattered on the dressing table, ribbons and pins and pots of rouge everywhere.

“I can feel me heart beatin’ in me throat,” Alba said.

“That’s just nerves,” Orla said, giving another firm tug. “Ye’re always like this before a ball.”

“I’m nae always like this.”

“Ye are. Remember the Midwinter feast last year? Ye made me re-lace ye three times because ye said it didnae feel right.”

“That was different,” Alba protested. “The Duke of Atholl was goin’ tae be there.”

“And tonight Lachlann MacNeil is goin’ tae be there,” Maisie said, and Alba could hear the grin in her voice even without seeing her face. “Which is clearly much more terrifying.”

Alba felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I dinnae ken what ye mean.”

“Ye ken exactly what I mean. Ye’ve been talkin’ about him fer weeks.”

“I’ve mentioned him twice.”

“Ye’ve mentioned him at least a dozen times,” Maisie corrected, giving one final tug before tying off the laces. “And every time ye dae, ye get that look on yer face.”

“What look?”

“The look ye’re wearin’ right now.” Maisie came around to face her, hands on her hips. “There. Perfect. Now sit so I can dae yer hair.”

Alba moved to the dressing table and sat, grateful to finally be able to draw a full breath, even if it was somewhat restricted.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Face flushed, hair still hanging loose down her back, eyes bright with what she was absolutely not going to admit was excitement.

Maisie appeared behind her in the reflection, already reaching fer the brush.

“So. Are ye actually goin’ tae talk tae him taenight, or are ye just goin’ tae stare at him from across the room like ye did at the last gatherin’?”

“I talked tae him at the last gatherin’.”

“Aye, but ye acted like ye barely kenned him, forget havin’ grown up with him around.”

“That’s still talkin’.”

“That’s barely acknowledgement,” Maisie said, beginning to work through Alba’s hair with practiced efficiency. “Ye need tae actually have a conversations with the man if ye want him tae see ye as anything other than Calum’s sister.”

“He kens I exist, that’s enough.”

“Daes he? Because from what ye’ve told me, lately yer conversations are stilted.”

Alba opened her mouth to argue, then closed it because Maisie was, unfortunately, correct.

“He’s just, he’s very, how dae I put it?” She gestured vaguely. “He’s him.”

“I ken he’s him,” Maisie said, gathering sections of Alba’s hair and beginning tae pin them. “That’s why ye need tae talk tae him properly taenight. Otherwise ye’re just goin’ tae spend another six months thinkin’ about what ye should have said. Ye used tae play with him and tease him all the time when ye were a bairn.”

“What am I supposed tae say? ‘Good evenin’, Lachlann MacNeil, I’ve been thinkin’ about ye fer years, would ye like tae dance?'”

“That would be a start.”

“I cannae say that!”

“Why nae?”

“Because he’s…” Alba stopped, trying to find words for what Lachlann MacNeil was.

Tall. Quiet. Possessed of the kind of steady competence that made her feel slightly unsteady by comparison.

“He’s nae the kind of man ye just walk up tae and say things like that tae.”

“What kind of man is he, then?”

“The intimidatin’ kind.”

“He’s one of yer braither’s closest friends,” Maisie pointed out. “He’s nae intimidatin’, he’s just reserved.”

“Reserved people are intimidatin’ tae people who talk too much.”

“Ye dinnae talk too much.”

“I dae when I’m nervous,” Alba said. “Remember when I met the Countess of Mar? I told her about our entire family history goin’ back four generations and she hadnae even asked.”

Maisie winced. “That was unfortunate.”

“That was mortifyin’,” Alba corrected. “And if I dae that tae Lachlann MacNeil, he’s goin’ tae spend the rest of the evenin’ avoidin’ me.”

“So dinnae,” Maisie said reasonably, working another section of hair into place. “Just be yerself. But the version of yerself that can complete a sentence without panic.”

“That’s a very narrow version.”

Maisie paused in her work and met Alba’s eyes in the mirror. “Me lady, if I may?”

“Of course.”

“The gentleman ye’re describin’ sounds like a good man. A quiet man. And in me experience, quiet men appreciate women who can talk, because it means they dinnae have tae.” She resumed pinning. “So if ye dae happen tae talk too much, it might nae be the disaster ye’re imaginin’’.”

Alba considered this. “Ye really think so?”

“I’ve been dressin’ ye fer enough gatherings tae ken when ye’re frettin’ fer good reason and when ye’re just frettin’,” Maisie said. “This is just frettin’.”

“But what if he’s nae interested? What if he’s just bein’ polite every time we talk and he’s actually just toleratin’ me because I’m Calum’s sister?”

“Then he’s nae worth yer time,” Orla said firmly. “But I dinnae think that’s the case.”

“How would ye ken?”

Maisie smiled slightly. “Because I saw the way he looked at ye at the last gatherin’ when ye were walkin’ away. That wasnae tolerance. That was interest.”

Alba’s head whipped around so fast that several pins fell out. “What? When? Why didnae ye tell me?”

“I’m tellin’ ye now,” Orla said, retrieving the pins with a long-suffering sigh. “Turn back around before I lose all me progress.”

Alba turned, but her heart was beating faster now. “What kind of look was it?”

“The kind that meant he was sorry tae see ye leave,” Maisie said. “Now stop movin’ or I’ll never get this finished in time.”

Alba forced herself to sit still, but her mind was racing.

Lachlann had looked at her. Had watched her leave. Had been, what? Sorry? Interested?

“What if I mess it up?” she asked quietly.

“Then ye mess it up and we’ll fix yer hair again tomorrow while ye tell me all about it,” Maisie said. “But at least ye’ll have tried.”

Alba looked at herself in the mirror as Maisie worked. Her hair was already taking shape, an elaborate arrangement she’d never be able to replicate on her own, woven through with ribbons that would match the deep blue of her gown.

“Right,” she said, taking a breath, or as much of one as the stays allowed. “Right. I can dae this.”

“Of course ye can,” Orla said. “Ye’re Alba MacKinnon. Ye’ve never been afraid of anythin’ in yer life.”

“That’s nae true. I’m afraid of spiders.”

“Everythin’ important, then.” Maisie finished the last pin and stepped back to examine her work. “There. Perfect. Now let’s get ye intae that gown before ye lose yer nerve entirely.”

Alba stood in front of the long mirror while Maisie made final adjustments to her hem.

The gown was beautiful, deep blue silk that brought out her eyes, with delicate embroidery along the bodice and sleeves. She’d never felt more like a lady and less like herself.

“Stop fidgetin’,” Maisie said, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle. “Ye look stunnin’. He’s goin’ tae take one look at ye and forget how tae speak.”

“That’s nae helpful. What if we both forget how tae speak and just stand there starin’ at each other like fools?”

“That would actually be quite romantic,” Maisie said. “In a tragic, terrible sort of way.”

Alba laughed despite herself. “Ye’re supposed tae be encouragin’ me.”

“I am encouragin’ ye. I’m encouragin’ ye tae stop worryin’ so much and just go tae that ball and dance with the man.” Maisie straightened Alba’s necklace, a simple pendant that had belonged to her mother. “The worst that happens is he says nay. And if he says nay, then ye ken, and ye can move on. But what if he says aye?”

“What if he says aye?” Alba repeated quietly.

“Then everythin’ changes,” Maisie said, smiling. “So stop frettin’ and go find out.”

Alba took a deep breath and looked at herself one more time in the mirror. She did look ready. She looked like someone who could walk into a ballroom and talk to a man without panicking.

She could do this.

Probably.

“Right,” she said, picking up her skirts. “Let’s go before I change me mind.”

Maisie handed her the fan she’d forgotten on the dressing table. “And remember, if all else fails, just smile and let him dae the talkin’.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“It’s brilliant advice,” Maisie said. “Trust me.”

Alba laughed and headed for the door and the waiting carriage.

Her heart already beating fast beneath the silk and stays, imagining the moment when she’d see him across the room and have to decide, once and for all, whether she was brave enough to close the distance between them.

She turned and Maisie smiled and began tidying the chaos of the room, humming softly to herself.

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Chapter One

 
1520, Ball at Dunstaffnage Castle

“Another glass of wine, me lady?”

Alba MacKinnon glanced up at the servant hovering at her elbow, his silver tray gleaming in the torchlight. She shook her head, offering a polite smile beneath her delicate mask. “Nay, thank ye.”

The servant bowed and moved away, leaving Alba alone once more at the edge of Dunstaffnage Castle’s grand ballroom.

Around her, the masquerade swirled in a riot of color and sound—silk gowns in jewel tones, masks adorned with feathers and gold thread, the rich notes of fiddles and pipes blending with laughter and conversation.

It was beautiful. Intoxicating, even. A rare gathering where Highland clans came together for diplomacy and celebration rather than rivalry.

Alba was looking around, taking in everything, when she saw Lachlann Macneil and she just couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He stood across the room, near the massive stone hearth, speaking with Laird MacDonald and another man she didn’t recognize. Even with half his face concealed by a simple black mask, surrounded by other warriors and lairds, Lachlann commanded attention.

His broad shoulders filled out his formal doublet, and when he moved, it was with the ease and authority of a man born to lead—someone equally comfortable on a longship’s deck or a battlefield.

Alba’s fingers tightened around her wine goblet as she watched him laugh at something David, one of the covenant brothers, said. The sound carried across the room, rich and warm, and she felt it settle somewhere low in her belly.

She shouldn’t have been watchin’ him like that. Shouldn’t let her gaze linger on the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair was tied back but had a few rebellious strands escapin’ to frame his face. Shouldn’t wonder what it would feel like if those storm-grey eyes turned her way with something other than brotherly affection.

But Alba had been fighting that pull toward Lachlann MacNeil for years now, and it only seemed to grow stronger with time.

Why on earth does he have tae be me braither’s best friend.

“Lady MacKinnon, what a vision ye are this evenin’!”

Alba turned to find Lady Moira Campbell approaching, her round face flushed with excitement and wine. The older woman’s mask was decorated with peacock feathers that bobbed enthusiastically as she spoke.

“Lady Campbell,” Alba greeted, grateful for the distraction from her dangerous thoughts. “Ye look lovely as well.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Moira waved a dismissive hand at her emerald gown, though her pleased smile suggested she was quite satisfied with her appearance. “Tell me, dear, are ye enjoyin’ the festivities? I saw ye sittin’ here alone and thought ye might want some company.”

Just wanted tae be alone tae admire Lachlan.

“That’s kind of ye. Aye, it’s a beautiful celebration.”

“Beautiful indeed! Though I must say—” Moira leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to what she likely thought was a whisper but was still quite audible, “—I’ve never seen so many eligible young men in one place. Surely ye’ve noticed? Half the unmarried lairds in the Highlands are here taenight.”

Alba forced her smile to remain pleasant. “I hadnae given it much thought.”

“Hadn’t ye?” Moira’s eyebrows rose above her mask. “A bonnie lass like yerself? Come now, ye must have caught the eye of more than a few.”

“I’m here tae represent me clan, Lady Campbell, nae tae find a husband.”

“Nonsense! Ye can dae both.” Moira’s gaze swept the room appraisingly. “Now, let me see… Young Laird Fraser over there has been watchin’ ye. And I believe MacGordon is still unwed, though he’s a bit sour fer me taste…”

Alba’s pleasant expression faltered. “I’m nae lookin’ fer a match taenight, me lady.”

“Every woman is lookin’ fer a match, dear, whether she admits it or nae.” Moira patted her arm with maternal condescension. “Mark me words, by the end of the season, half the lasses here will be betrothed. Ye’d dae well tae consider yer options while ye have them.”

Before Alba could formulate a response that wouldn’t be outright rude, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. A group of young men had started some sort of drinking competition, their raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls.

“Goodness!” Moira pressed a hand to her ample chest. “Young men these days have nay sense of decorum. If ye’ll excuse me, dear, I should go find me husband before he joins them.”

She swept away in a flutter of peacock feathers, leaving Alba alone once more.

Alba took a sip of wine and let her gaze drift back across the room, only to find Lachlann looking directly at her.

Her breath caught. For a moment, their eyes met across the crowded ballroom, and the noise and movement around her seemed to fade. Lachlann’s expression was unreadable behind his mask, but something in the intensity of his gaze made heat bloom in her cheeks.

Then someone said something that drew Lachlann’s attention away, and the moment shattered.

This was madness. Lachlann was her brother’s closest friend, one of the five men bound by the Loch Eilein Covenant.

They’d all grown up together after that terrible battle, forged into brothers through shared trauma and honor. Which made any attraction she felt toward him completely, utterly forbidden.

She set her empty goblet on a passing servant’s tray and smoothed her hands over her blue silk gown. Perhaps she should find some of the other ladies, engage in the sort of social conversation expected of her. Or—

“Lady Alba.”

The voice was smooth as honey and twice as cloying. Alba’s spine stiffened before she even turned around.

Torquil MacLean stood far too close, a goblet in one hand and a predatory smile on his lips. His mask was adorned with silver thread that matched the excessive embroidery on his doublet. She’d felt his eyes on her throughout the evening, watching her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“Laird MacLean.” Alba dipped her head in the barest acknowledgment courtesy demanded.

“Ye look absolutely enchantin’ this evenin’.” His gaze traveled over her in a way that made her wish she’d worn something far less fitted. “That shade of blue is remarkably becomin’ on ye.”

“Ye’re too kind.”

“Nae at all. I speak only the truth.” He shifted closer, and Alba caught the sharp scent of wine on his breath, too much wine. “I’ve been hopin’ fer a chance tae speak with ye all evenin’. Ye’re a difficult woman tae catch alone.”

Alba forced her expression to remain neutral. “The celebration has kept me quite occupied.”

“I’m sure it has. A woman of yer… qualities must be in high demand.” His cold blue eyes glittered behind his mask. “But surely ye can spare a moment fer me? I’ve been most eager tae better make yer acquaintance.”

Every instinct Alba possessed was screaming at her to leave, to make some excuse and put distance between herself and this man. But they were at a diplomatic gathering, surrounded by representatives from a dozen different clans. Insult him too obviously, and it would reflect poorly on the MacKinnons.

“What did ye wish tae discuss, Laird MacLean?” she asked carefully.

Torquil’s smile widened, and there was something sharp and dangerous in it.

“Dance with me,” he said, reaching for her hand. “The musicians are starting a new set, and I would be honored tae have ye as me partner.”

Alba’s fingers trembled as Torquil’s hand reached for hers. She could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on her—the eyes of other guests who’d noticed the exchange, the rules of Highland hospitality and courtesy that bound her, the dangerous glint in Torquil’s eyes that promised consequences if she refused.

Refusing a dance at a formal gathering like this would be seen as a grave insult. It would cause talk, speculation, possibly even offense that could ripple out into clan politics.

“Aye,” she heard herself say, her voice steadier than she felt. “I would be honored.”

Torquil’s smile sharpened as he led her onto the dance floor. His hand settled on her waist—too tight, too possessive—and Alba fought the urge to pull away as they began to move through the steps of the reel.

“Ye dance beautifully, Lady Alba,” Torquil murmured, leaning closer than the dance required. “Just as I knew ye would.”

“Ye’re too kind, Laird MacLean.”

“Nae at all.” They turned, and his grip tightened fractionally. “I’ve been watchin’ ye all evenin’, ye ken. Waitin’ fer the right moment tae approach.”

Alba’s pulse quickened, but not with pleasure. “Have ye?”

“Aye. Because I have somethin’ important tae discuss with ye.” His cold blue eyes locked on hers. “Somethin’ that concerns both our futures.”

Dread pooled in Alba’s stomach. “I dinnae understand—”

“I think ye dae, lass.” Torquil pulled her closer as they moved through another turn. “Ye’re a clever woman. Surely ye’ve considered what a union between our clans could mean? The MacLeans and the MacKinnons, bound together… think of the power, the influence.”

Alba’s breath caught. “Laird MacLean, I—”

“I’m askin’ fer yer hand, Alba.” His voice dropped lower, more intense. “Marry me. Become Lady MacLean.”

Alba stiffened, recognizing the danger immediately. This was no polite inquiry or a tentative courtship—this was a demand dressed up as an offer, and the possessive way Torquil held her made it clear he’d already decided she would be his.

“I’m afraid that’s nae possible,” she managed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Any discussions about marriage would need tae go through me braither, as is proper—”

“Yer braither is in England.” Torquil’s smile turned cold. “And from what I understand, he’s made nay arrangements fer ye. I’m offerin’ ye security, Alba. Protection. Nae many lairds would be so generous tae a woman whose braither left her so… vulnerable.”

The threat beneath his words was unmistakable. Alba’s mind raced, searching for a way out of the conversation, out of the dance, away from that man who was holding her too tight and smiling like a predator who’d cornered his prey.

“I must respectfully decline,” she said firmly, lifting her chin. “I have nay interest in marriage at this time, and even if I did—”

“Ye misunderstand, lass.” Torquil’s fingers dug into her waist hard enough to bruise. “I wasnae askin’ fer yer permission. I was extendin’ ye the courtesy of hearin’ it from me first, before I make the formal arrangements with yer clan.”

Alba’s heart hammered against her ribs. She opened her mouth, though she had no idea what words would come out—

“I’m afraid the lady has already promised this next dance tae me.”

Chapter Two

“I’m afraid the lady has already promised this next dance tae me.”

The voice was deep and familiar, and it sent relief flooding through Alba’s veins like whisky warmth.

Lachlann MacNeil stood at her shoulder, his storm-grey eyes fixed on Torquil with an intensity that could have frozen a loch in summer.

He was taller than the MacLean laird, broader through the shoulders, and there was something in his posture—relaxed but ready—that spoke of a warrior who’d seen real battle.

Torquil’s smile tightened. “I wasnae aware Lady MacKinnon had made any prior commitments.”

“Well, now ye are.” Lachlann’s tone was pleasant enough, but there was steel beneath it. He turned to Alba, and his expression softened slightly. “Are ye ready, lass?”

Alba’s heart hammered against her ribs for an entirely different reason now. “Aye,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “I am.”

She placed her hand in Lachlann’s, and the warmth of his palm against hers made her breath catch.

His fingers closed around hers—gentle but sure—and she felt the calluses from years of sword work, of hauling ropes on longships, of a life lived in service to his clan.

Torquil’s jaw clenched. “Perhaps after this dance, Lady MacKinnon—”

“I’m afraid Lady MacKinnon’s evenin’ is quite full,” Lachlann interrupted smoothly. “But I’m sure ye’ll find nay shortage of willin’ partners, Laird MacLean. Lady Blair was just mentionin’ how much she enjoys dancin’.”

It was a dismissal, polite but absolute.

Torquil’s cold blue eyes flickered between them, and Alba could practically see him calculating whether to push the matter. But Lachlann was a laird in his own right and one of the five men bound by the Loch Eilein Covenant. Challenging him publicly would be foolish.

“Of course,” Torquil finally said, his smile sharp as broken glass. “Enjoy yer dance.”

He melted back into the crowd, but Alba could feel his gaze on her like ice water down her spine.

“Come,” Lachlann murmured, his hand moving to the small of her back as he guided her toward the center of the ballroom where other couples were forming sets. “Let’s get ye away from that bastard.”

“Lachlann…”

“Later.” His voice was low, meant only for her ears. “Smile, Alba. Half the room is watchin’.”

She was suddenly, acutely aware of the attention they’d drawn.

Lady Campbell was whispering behind her fan to another woman. Several young warriors were watching with poorly concealed interest. Even David MacDonald had turned from his conversation to observe them with a thoughtful expression.

Alba lifted her chin and let Lachlann lead her into position as the musicians began a reel. His hand settled on her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath it.

“Ye shouldnae have done that,” she said quietly as they began to move through the steps. “Torquil MacLean isnae a man who takes kindly tae bein’ thwarted.”

“Torquil MacLean can go straight to hell,” Lachlann replied, his tone conversational despite the venom in his words. “Did ye want tae dance with him?”

“Nay.”

“Then I did exactly what I should have done.” His grey eyes met hers, and there was something fierce in them that made her pulse quicken. “Ye looked like a hare caught in a snare, Alba. Did ye truly think I’d just stand there and watch?”

“It wasnae yer responsibility.”

“Aye, it was.” They turned in time with the music, his hand firm and steady at her waist. “Calum asked me tae keep an eye on ye while he’s in England. That’s exactly what I’m daein’.”

Alba’s stomach dropped. Of course. Of course that’s why he’d intervened. Her brother had asked him to watch over her, to protect her in his absence. It had nothing to do with her specifically, and everything to do with Lachlann’s loyalty to Calum.

She should be grateful. She was grateful. But beneath the relief was a treacherous thread of disappointment that she had no right to feel.

“I didnae ken Calum had asked that of ye,” she said, keeping her voice light.

Lachlann’s hand tightened fractionally on her waist as they moved through a turn. “Yer braither’s in England dealin’ with trade negotiations, and ye’re at a ball full of ambitious lairds and too much wine. Of course I’ve been watchin’ ye.”

“How… reassurin’.”

His lips quirked. “Ye’re angry.”

“I’m nae angry.”

“Ye are. Yer shoulders just tightened, and ye get this particular look in yer eyes when ye’re tryin’ nae tae lose yer temper.” He guided her through another series of steps with easy confidence. “I’ve known ye since ye were a wee lass, Alba. I can read ye better than ye think.”

That was precisely the problem, wasn’t it? Lachlann had known her for years—watched her grow from a grieving child into a woman. But he still saw her as Calum’s little sister, someone to be protected and watched over. Not as…

Not as what? What did she want him to see when he looked at her?

Alba pushed the dangerous thought away. “I’m nae angry,” she repeated, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m grateful ye intervened. Torquil was makin’ me uncomfortable.”

“I noticed.” Something dark flickered across Lachlann’s face.

Lachlann was quiet for a moment as they moved through the dance. Around them, other couples swirled and laughed, but Alba was hyperaware of the man holding her—the warmth of his hand, the way he smelled of leather and salt air, the small scar above his left eyebrow that she’d never dared ask about.

“If he approaches ye again taenight,” Lachlann finally said, his voice low and serious, “ye come find me immediately. Dae ye understand?”

“Lachlann, I’m nae helpless.”

“I ken ye’re nae helpless, Alba. But Torquil MacLean is dangerous.” His grey eyes held hers, and she could see genuine concern there beneath the command. “He’s ambitious and cunnin’, and he daesnae take nay fer an answer. Promise me ye’ll be careful.”

The intensity in his gaze made her throat tight. “I promise.”

“Good.”

They finished the reel in silence, moving through the final steps with a synchronicity that felt natural, inevitable. When the music ended and Lachlann released her, Alba felt the loss of his touch like cold wind against her skin.

He glanced around the ballroom, and his jaw tightened. “When are ye leavin’?”

“Soon. Me escorts are probably waitin’ already, I told them I wouldnae stay late.”

“Good. I’ll walk ye out.”

“Ye dinnae need tae.”

“Alba.” He gave her a look that brooked no argument. “I’m walkin’ ye tae yer carriage. Let me dae this without a fight, aye?”

She wanted to argue, to prove she didn’t need constant watching over. But the memory of Torquil’s cold eyes and possessive smile was still too fresh. “Aye. Thank ye.”

They made their way through the crowd toward the castle’s entrance. Alba could feel eyes following them, speculation and curiosity in equal measure.

The cool night air was a relief after the press and heat of the ballroom. Alba’s escorts, two MacKinnon warriors, were indeed waiting near where the carriages had been arranged. They straightened when they saw her approaching with Lachlann.

“Lady MacKinnon,” the older of the two, Finn, greeted with a respectful nod. “We were just about tae come fetch ye.”

“I’m ready tae leave.” Alba turned to Lachlann, suddenly unsure what to say. Thank ye seemed inadequate, but what else was there? “Will ye be stayin’ much longer?”

“Nay. Another hour, perhaps, then I’ll be headin’ back tae me ship.” His grey eyes searched her face. “Ye’ll be safe with Finn and Dougal. They’re good men.”

“I ken.”

“And ye’ll write to Calum about what happened taenight? With Torquil?”

Alba hesitated. Her brother had enough to worry about with the English trade negotiations. The last thing she wanted was to add to his burdens. “I’ll… consider it.”

“Alba.”

“I’ll be fine, Lachlann. Truly.” She managed a smile. “Go enjoy the rest of yer evenin’. Dance with some of those lasses who’ve been watchin’ ye all night.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise? amusement? —but before she could identify it, Finn stepped forward to help her into the carriage.

“Safe travels, Lady MacKinnon,” Lachlann said formally, stepping back.

“And ye, Laird MacNeil.”

The title felt strange on her tongue, too formal, too distant for someone she’d known most of her life. But it was proper, appropriate for a public farewell.

Alba settled into the carriage, and Dougal closed the door. Through the window, she could see Lachlann standing in the torchlight, watching as Finn climbed up to the driver’s seat.

The carriage lurched into motion, and Alba let her head fall back against the cushioned seat, releasing a long breath. Her heart was still racing from the dance, from the warmth of Lachlann’s hand at her waist, from the fierce protectiveness in his eyes when he’d faced down Torquil.

She was a fool. A complete and utter fool for letting herself feel anything beyond gratitude.

The road leading away from Dunstaffnage Castle was dark, lit only by the moon and the single lantern on the carriage. The sound of hoofbeats and creaking wheels filled the silence as they traveled through the wooded path toward the main road that would take them north to MacKinnon lands.

Alba closed her eyes, trying to calm her racing thoughts. In a few days, Calum would return from England, and life would return to normal. She’d go back to her duties, to managing the household and representing her clan at smaller gatherings. And Lachlann would go back to Barra, to his own responsibilities and his own life.

That night would become just another memory to lock away, another moment when she’d let herself pretend, just for a dance, that forbidden things might be possible.

The carriage continued through the darkness, carrying Alba away from the castle, from the ball, from Lachlann MacNeil and all the dangerous feelings he stirred in her heart.

***

“Something daes nae seem right.”

The first arrow struck the lantern as Finn was done making his quick observation.

Glass shattered, plunging the road into darkness save for the pale moonlight filtering through the trees. Alba lurched forward as the carriage jerked violently, Finn’s shout of alarm cutting through the night.

“What—” Alba began, but her words were drowned out by the whistle of more arrows slicing through the air.

The horses screamed. The carriage tilted dangerously as one of them went down, and Alba was thrown against the side panel hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

Wood splintered. Metal shrieked. The world became a chaos of sound and motion as the carriage tipped, skidded, and finally crashed onto its side with bone-jarring force.

Alba’s head cracked against something solid. Stars burst behind her eyes, and for a moment, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but lie there in the wreckage trying to remember which way was up.

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One month earlier

Alasdair felt the land change beneath his horse’s hooves before he saw the first marker stones.

The road narrowed, the grass grew thicker at its edges, and the air itself seemed to settle, heavier somehow, as though the ground expected to be respected. MacBain land carried that weight.

Beside him, Gavin rode with careless ease, his seat loose, his posture slack in a way that would have earned him correction if it had been any other day, but Alasdair needed Gavin calm for this.

The flask at his brother’s hip knocked softly against the saddle with each step of the horse, a small, persistent sound that scraped at Alasdair’s nerves more than it should have.

“Christ,” Gavin said, casting a lazy glance at the rolling hills with exaggerated boredom. “All this green. All this quiet. Makes a man itch.”

Alasdair kept his gaze forward, jaw set. “It’s fertile land,” he said evenly. “Well-kept. That’s the point.”

Gavin huffed a laugh. “Aye, aye. Always the laird. Always seein’ the worth in dirt and stone.” He shifted in his saddle, stretching like a man settling in for sport. “And I suppose the woman’s the same, eh? Fit fer breedin’. Strong hips, quiet mouth. The MacBains are kent fer their stock.”

The words landed like filth on clean ground.

Something in Alasdair went cold, sharp and immediate, the way it did before violence when he had to decide whether to act or endure. He reined his horse in just enough to force Gavin to slow, the movement controlled.

“That’s enough,” he said, voice level to the point of steel. “Ye’ve nae even seen her.”

Gavin glanced at him, brows lifting in mock surprise. “Och, dinnae tell me ye’ve gone soft. It’s a marriage contract, nae a bloody courtship. I’m allowed tae have expectations.”

“Ye’re allowed tae keep them tae yerself,” Alasdair replied. “Especially when ye speak o’ a woman who’s done ye nay wrong.”

Gavin scoffed. “Listen tae ye. Soundin’ like her defender already. What is it—are ye worried she’ll be disappointed by the Grant name?”

Alasdair felt the familiar flare of anger rise, hot and unwelcome, and with it the old, useless frustration of knowing exactly how far he could push before everything shattered. Gavin had always known where that line lay and danced along it with a smirk.

“I’m worried ye’ll ruin this before it’s begun,” Alasdair said quietly. “If ye speak like that in front o’ her kin, they’ll shut the door in our faces. And I’ll nae stop them.”

Gavin’s mouth tightened. “Always threats wi’ ye.”

“Always consequences,” Alasdair answered.

For a moment, Gavin said nothing. Then he reached for the flask at his hip, fingers closing around it with pointed defiance.

Alasdair’s gaze flicked there. “Put it away.”

Gavin’s eyes flashed. “I’ve nae even opened it.”

“And ye willnae,” Alasdair said. “Nae today.”

The silence stretched, taut as wire. Gavin’s hand lingered, then dropped, his jaw clenched in visible irritation.

“Ye ken,” he muttered, spurring his horse forward again, “fer a man who insists he’s nae me keeper, ye dae an excellent job actin’ like one.” Then, Gavin’s eyes flared. “I’m nae a child.”

Alasdair followed, shoulders tight beneath his cloak, the weight of responsibility settling heavier with every step toward the MacBain keep.

He should nae have tae manage him like that, he thought, the resentment sharp and bitter. He was a grown man. He was meant to bear the consequences of his own behavior.

And yet, blood bound them. Duty chained them in ways Alasdair had never fully been able to cut loose from. Gavin was his brother, and that bond had been used against him for as long as he could remember. He had learned early that loving Gavin meant carrying the weight of his recklessness, standing in the space between his brother and the consequences he refused to imagine.

He was tired of it.

Tired of tempering his words, of watching Gavin squander whatever goodwill he was offered, of knowing that if this contract failed it would still somehow become Alasdair’s responsibility to mend.

No matter how that day unfolded, Alasdair knew with a weary, bone-deep certainty that he would be the one left standing between Gavin and the damage he left behind, smoothing it over, paying for it in quiet ways no one ever thanked him for.

“Nay,” Alasdair said quietly, finally answering Gavin’s earlier jab. “But ye behave like one.”

The words were restrained, almost mild, but they landed all the same.

The silence that followed was brittle, edged with offense. Gavin’s jaw tightened, his mouth pulling into a thin line as he kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and surged ahead, riding hard as if distance itself were an insult he could throw back over his shoulder.

Alasdair let him go.

He watched his brother’s back for a moment longer than necessary, the familiar mix of anger and resignation settling into his chest. Anger came easily, hot and instinctive, but he shoved it down.

Control was the thing that kept him from becoming like Gavin, or worse, from striking him down and ending the problem in a way honor would never forgive.

He breathed it down, steady and practiced, and followed.

The keep rose before them not long after, stone clean and formidable against the pale sky. Its lines were purposeful, defensive without being ostentatious, built by people who expected trouble and intended to survive it. MacBain banners stirred in the wind, their colors sharp against the gray, a visible declaration of identity and strength.

As they approached, guards straightened, hands shifting subtly on spear shafts, eyes alert but measured. Alasdair noted it with approval before he meant to.

Fionnlagh MacBain met them at the gate.

He was taller than Alasdair remembered, broader through the shoulders, his stance easy but grounded, like a man who knew exactly how much space he occupied. His expression was open, but there was a sharp intelligence behind his eyes, the kind that missed very little and forgave even less.

The sort of man Alasdair respected instinctively.

“Laird Grant,” Fionnlagh said, offering his forearm. “Ye’re welcome.”

Alasdair dismounted and clasped it firmly, meeting his gaze squarely.

“Thank ye,” he replied. “I appreciate the welcome.”

Behind him, Gavin swung down from his horse with far less care, already glancing around as though the place was something to be assessed for entertainment rather than alliance.

Alasdair felt the familiar tightening in his chest return.

God help us all.

Gavin inclined his head with the barest courtesy. “A pleasure,” he said, though his gaze wandered, already searching.

Fionnlagh’s eyes flicked to him once, then away. “If ye’ll follow me. We’ve prepared the study.”

Inside, the keep was warm and orderly, the kind of place where responsibility lived in the walls. Alasdair felt himself straighten instinctively, his irritation settling into readiness. This was familiar ground: negotiation, restraint, honor measured against necessity.

They entered the study.

Marsaili MacBain stood near the table, parchment laid out before her. Tavish was beside her, arms crossed, posture alert. She turned at the sound of footsteps, and for one unguarded moment, Alasdair forgot to breathe.

She was not what he had expected.

Not loud beauty or ornament, but there was a stillness to her that drew the eye without demanding it. Her hair was neatly bound, her expression composed, her gaze steady and direct as it met his. She wore no unnecessary finery, only clean lines and quiet confidence.

Something in his chest shifted, sharp and immediate.

The realization landed with unsettling force. This woman was the life being bargained across the table.

Gavin spoke before Alasdair could stop him.

“Well,” he said lightly, eyes bright with interest. “I see me future’s lookin’ brighter already.”

Marsaili’s expression did not change.

Alasdair felt heat flare under his ribs. “Gavin,” he said, warning threaded tight into the word.

Gavin only smiled wider. “I meant nay offense. A man’s allowed tae admire his own betrothed.”

“Fergive me braither,” Alasdair replied coolly, stepping forward. “He tends tae be quite…emotional.”

Fionnlagh cleared his throat, subtle but firm. “Let’s sit,” he said.

They did. The discussion unfolded with practiced care. Fionnlagh outlined the advantages: alliance, shared protection, stability in uncertain times. Alasdair responded in kind, his attention divided between the words and the woman across the table.

Marsaili listened more than she spoke. When she did, it was precise. Thoughtful. She asked questions that cut to the heart of the matter without embellishment. Alasdair found himself watching the way her fingers rested against the table, the stillness of her posture, the intelligence in her eyes.

She was not passive. This mattered to her.

At last, Fionnlagh turned to her. “Marsaili,” he said gently. “Dae ye agree tae this match?”

She did not answer at once. Her gaze shifted to Gavin, whose interest sharpened at once, and then to Alasdair.

For a heartbeat, he felt seen.

The sensation unsettled him more than Gavin’s vulgarity ever could.

He wondered, suddenly, what she thought of them, of him and of the brother who would bind her life without knowing its worth.

She gave nothing away. Then she nodded, once, and stepped forward to sign.

Alasdair exhaled slowly.

Gavin followed, pen scratching carelessly as he added his name. “A pleasure,” he murmured toward her as he stepped back.

She did not look at him.

Tavish MacBain moved then, placing himself subtly at her side. “I’ll see tae me sister,” he said, voice even but unmistakably firm. “Until the arrangements are complete.”

Alasdair inclined his head. “That’s agreeable.”

As they prepared to leave, Alasdair allowed himself one last look at Marsaili MacBain.

She stood composed, untouched by Gavin’s glances.

She deserves better.

The thought came unbidden, heavy and absolute.

And as he followed his brother from the room, Alasdair could not shake the sense that something precious had just been set on a path that would demand a reckoning—one that honor alone might not be enough to survive.

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