Author: Shona Thompson

Prologue

Lockerbie, Scotland, 1762

Fiadh’s long fingers ran over the fresh mark on her face. The wound was surprisingly deep, starting from beside her eye all the way down to her chin. It was more of a gash than a scratch. Closing her eyes, she shut out the image of her reflection, not wanting to think about it. Yet in the ensuing darkness, the moment the wound had been inflicted on her returned to her.

Ossian had struck her with a blade, lashing out as she argued with him. She’d dropped to the stone floor of his chamber, cradling her face as she felt the warm blood on her skin.

“Dae ye nae understand, Fiadh?” His voice had boomed at her. “Ye are mine now!”

Fiadh opened her eyes again and inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself. That had been last night. This morning, at least she was not with him.

She stood at the far end of her own chamber, away from the bed where she hated to sleep. She stared at her reflection, her green eyes reminding her of her youngest sister, Callie, and her long brown hair reminiscent of her sister Aila. She had always looked like them, but recently she had started seeing more and more of a similarity as she looked in the mirror. She half wondered if that was because she was looking for them in the reflection, wishing she could see them again.

She stepped back, for she despised seeing the puckered skin and the ridged red mark of what her husband had done to her. In time, she supposed she would have a scar, and then she would look just like him, a mirror image of the scar running down his face.

He has marked me like him now. Aye, he means tae make me his forever.

She felt sick and tried to quell the feeling of nausea.

“Me lady?” a voice called from the doorway.

Fiadh flinched in surprise, not having realized she had left the door open. She forced a smile for the young maid who quivered in the doorway. That poor girl seemed to shake wherever she went in this castle. Fiadh had learned long ago how not to shake to hide her fear. If she showed one ounce of fear to Ossian, he took advantage of it.

“Aye?”

“The laird is waiting fer ye in his study.”

“Thank ye. I shall go there now.” Fiadh waited until the maid retreated before letting her smile falter. She looked at her reflection one last time, her eyes dancing across the scar.

Let him hate the sight of it, and the sight of me so that maybe someday, he will decide he has had enough of me.

She straightened the skirt of her rich navy tartan gown and walked out of the room with her head held high. In the corridors she passed the servants, who mostly kept their eyes averted. One or two offered her a sympathetic smile and others cowered back when they saw the mark on her face, clearly fearful of the man who had caused it.

As Fiadh reached Ossian’s study, in what felt to her like the darkest part of the castle, with the gray-stone walls high and tapestries enshrouding every surface, she knocked on the door and waited. At least obeying his summons on this occasion would bring her momentary peace.

“Come,” he barked from inside.

She opened the door and strode in, placing herself as he had often demanded of her, standing at the very edge of the wolf-skin rug, so only the toes of her leather boots touched it. She curtsied, nearly dropping to her knees. She only raised her chin an inch, her eyes darting to Ossian as he sat lazily in his wing-backed chair, his boots upon the desk in front of him.

“Ye took too long tae come.”

“I came as soon as I was summoned, me laird” she answered calmly. Raising her voice now would merely earn her another wound. He looked up from the maps he had been examining, their eyes meeting. Those orbs were as black as she judged his soul to be. She often looked at the sky in the night, and thought Ossian was like the darkness between the stars. Endless, a pure abyss of nothing. His eyes wandered down her, drinking her in thirstily.

She’d grown used to that look. A few times, she had managed to fight him off, but not nearly as many times as she would have liked to.

I made this sacrifice fer a reason, I must nae forget.

He’d originally wanted to marry her younger sister Aila, but Fiadh would have gone to any lengths to protect her from such a fate. She chose to offer herself up in her sister’s place and Ossian had jumped at the opportunity.

She could still remember the way he had gripped her in the saddle in front of him on a horse, as they rode away from her father’s brothel together. Fiadh had detested the place, which stood on the side of the mountain, overlooking the loch like a dark shadow. She well remembered the shouts of the courtesans who worked for her father. Fiadh and her sister Aila had worked there as well, as maids, but Fiadh had always lived in fear that one day he would ask her to be a courtesan. Her younger sister, Callie, had taken care of their ill mother, while their father gambled away all their money, after turning their home into a house of pleasure to feed his addiction.

As she had sat in the saddle, glancing back and thinking of the sister she was leaving behind, Ossian had grasped one of her hips and her neck, holding her chin high.

“Aye, statuesque… ye’ll make a fair lady after all.”

Often, he’d repeated that word since, statuesque… she held onto it, hoping that someday it would make her feel like a statue. Immovable, hard as stone, when his words or his fists would not hurt her anymore.

“Stand.” He flicked his fingers, urging her to what he said. As she did so, her eyes darted down to the ring on his finger. The metal shone, despite its age, and a black stone was set in the very middle, etched with a strange geometric emblem. She had seen it many times, he rarely ever took it off.

He treasures it as he treasures nothing else.

“If yer sister doesnae stop looking fer ye, I shall have tae take action.”

“What dae ye expect me tae dae?” Fiadh kept her voice calm as she lifted her gaze to meet Ossian’s. He had revealed to her two days before that there were whispers Aila was hunting for her. “I did me best tae disappear, as ye asked of me.”

“If she keeps causing trouble,” he paused as he slowly stood, his movements and his great height dominating the room, “ye ken I shall have tae stop her another way. I shall have tae see her in a grave, Fiadh. Is that what ye want?”

Fiadh stepped back, moving away from the wolf-skin rug. She felt nauseous, and for a moment she thought she might actually throw up all over the rug.

“Nay. Please dae nae hurt her.” Fiadh shook her head, her voice pleading. “I am sure she will give up in time, just leave her be.”

Slowly, Ossian walked around the desk, his boots striking the ground, his long dark hair flicking around his ears. When he reached her side, his hand lifted toward her. More than anything, Fiadh wished to flinch away, but the last time she had done so, he’d struck her. She stayed perfectly still, feeling his large hand as it closed around her neck. His fingers splayed up under her chin, tipping her face back.

“My statue, eh?” he whispered sickeningly, moving his lips down to the curve of her neck. Fiadh screwed her eyes up tight, praying he would not touch her or kiss her again. She despised the feeling of his scratchy beard against her skin. His touch made her toes curl with fear and her insides squirm. She couldn’t even imagine what it was like to long for a man’s touch. She could live her life contentedly without it. In fact, it was what she hoped for, a future where no man ever touched her.

He reached down and slid off the scarf at the base of her throat. The dark blue silk whipped across her skin.

“Remember what this means, aye?” He nodded at her scar, wrapping the scarf around his hand. “Nay other man can come near ye. Remember that.”

She didn’t nod or utter any words, and just looked him in the eye.

He has made that plain, many times.

A second knock came to the door.

“Enter,” he called to the door. Then he dropped the scarf on the chair beside him and turned his back on her. “Ye can go now.”

Fiadh left as quickly as she could, slipping by the gentleman that had come to call on Ossian. She only caught the briefest of glimpses of him, dark red hair was graying around his ears and a long beard, tied just under his chin. As he walked into the room, his hand outstretched in front of him, Fiadh saw the same ring that Ossian wore.

As she halted in the corridor, she blinked, thinking. So many times, she had seen that ring now. It granted Ossian access to a group of other men, that much she understood, but nothing more.

She raised her hand, feeling for her scarf, but remembering it was still in his study. She turned to the door again, yet she didn’t dare enter without permission. She raised her hand to knock when she heard Ossian’s voice inside.

“When will the first meeting be?” he asked, impatiently, his tone sharp.

Fiadh lowered her hand once more, angling her head and pressing her ear to the door so she could hear every word.

“Soon,” the other man answered, his voice strangely light compared to the deep tones of Ossian. “When Yuletide comes and goes, we’ll meet. We’ll pull the clan forces together. When that is done, nothing will stop us from taking the clan lands.”

What clan? What clan lands will they be stealing?

Fiadh placed the palm of her hand to the door, silently moving on her toes as close as she could get, straining to listen as Ossian lowered his voice.

“We must act faster than that,” Ossian pleaded. “I have people in me land. People who would cause trouble. We need tae act now.”

“It is impossible and out of me hands. Aye, I would be glad tae act sooner, Ossian, but we must wait. The other men in our circle need time tae prepare. Once they are ready, we will attack together, and we will be stronger fer it.”

“Aye. Aye, I ken ye are right.” Yet Ossian’s tone was one Fiadh knew all too well. He wasn’t happy, even if he pretended to be in order to hide his true feeling to the man he actually respected, which was a rarity. Ossian liked to dominate conversation and those around him. The other men who wore the same ring as him were the only ones Ossian ever deigned to bow his head to. “The Chattan clan willnae be able tae halt the might of so many men, will they?”

“Nay indeed,” the other man laughed. “Poor Laird Chattan. I almost feel sorry fer him and his people.” That laugh grew louder.

Fiadh backed up from the door, feeling as if her breath had been stolen from her body.

The Chattan clan… the people…

She knew who was there. She may not have been allowed to receive letters from her sisters, but she knew well enough from Ossian’s spies where her sisters lived these days. Her youngest sister Callie was married to a man called Avery, and she worked in Laird Chattan’s castle as his healer. Aila lived within the same castle walls.

This cannae be. What will become of them?

Fiadh walked down the corridor, fearful of being caught listening to Ossian’s conversation. Involuntarily, her hand lifted, and her fingers lightly moved over her scar. She couldn’t let her sisters be hurt. It was the point of her being, the very reason she kept breathing. To see them safe from men like Ossian.

I will dae what I can fer ye, me sisters. I shall stop this attack.

There was certainly one thing she could do to frustrate Ossian’s aims. If she stole his ring, the others in his circle would refuse to recognize him as one of them. Somehow, she had to take it from him.

Chapter One

One Year Later

“Dinnae run. Dinnae run now.”

Fiadh fidgeted with the black ring, turning it around her finger repeatedly. In the dull light that came from one of the candles nearby, she stared down at that ring, examining the angular pattern that had been carved into the black stone. It was a harsh triangle, with three lines that crossed through the very middle.

This was nae an easy thing tae take.

She could still remember the night she had stolen it, vividly. It was the night before Aila and her husband, Ian, had found Fiadh at the castle. Ossian had come to Fiadh’s bed again. Her terror and fear of him had done nothing to dissuade him, and it was only by the grace of God that he’d had too much liquor to possibly finish the deed he had started. As he’d passed out on her bed, she’d scrambled back from the mattress, covering her body with a chemise and two shawls, desperate to hide her body from him. When she realized he had not budged when she had removed his arm and leg from her, she had suddenly had the idea of trying to remove the ring from the hand that had just been draped over her. It had slid off without much resistance while he had continued to snore undisturbed. She had hidden it in the pocket of her chemise, praying he would not realize it was gone come morning or that he would think he had simply misplaced it.

That was a long time ago now.

The day after, Aila and Ian had arrived at the castle with Ian’s friends from the Chattan Clan. Two men, Elliot and Murdoch, had stormed the rooms where Fiadh was being held. She could still remember the ferocity with which they had fought to free her.

When Ossian had been struck with an arrow on the drawbridge in front of the castle, Fiadh had not known whether he’d survive such a wound. Nor did she ever find out if he had noticed the missing ring in the chaos of that day. Elliot had been the one to make her move, shaking her away from the terror that had taken hold of her. He’d urged her onto the same horse as Murdoch, his strangely jokey humor breaking through her fear.

“Trust us. We’re going tae get ye out of here.” He’d winked and returned to his own horse, leaving her staring after him in surprise.

Fiadh now released the ring as she toyed with it, reaching for something else. Her dark brown hair was tied up with a single green ribbon. The dark green silken ends hung down over her shoulder, reminding her of the bearer of that gift.

Elliot.

The last time they had seen each other at the Chattan castle, he’d left not seeming quite like his usual self. His humor, his constant need to jest, had slipped away. He’d taken Fiadh to the side and offered up his gift of the green ribbon.

“Tae remember me.” These had been his parting words. Before she had even asked why it sounded like he was saying goodbye for good, he had rode away, and she was left staring after him.

“Nae now. There are other things tae think about,” she whispered as she released the ribbons and placed her palms flat on the small wooden table in front of her, pockmarked by the wood worm as she waited for her visitors, with the blackened ring staring up at her.

She had come to the back room of a tavern in Bannockburn. This was the place she had heard whispers about. It seemed men who were part of this circle would sometimes meet in this room. The innkeeper had been most reluctant to let her in here at first, but when she showed him the ring, he’d had no choice.

There was a sound at the door and Fiadh stood up, not wanting to seem small and insignificant as she waited at the table. In the shadows cast by the great timber beams and the darkness of the night, it was difficult to make out the two figures that walked into the room. The first was hulking, the second smaller and lither. He halted when he saw her, his boots squeaking on the flagstone floor as his face appeared in the candlelight.

“Who are ye?” the smaller man barked, with his voice as high pitched as a robin’s chirp.

“I am here tae find out where and when the next meeting with the whole circle will be.” She held out her hand, keeping her manner calm as she presented the ring to him.

The small man stepped forward, peering at the ring before he nodded to the man beside him.

“Ye are nae part of the group.” He shook his head. “Nay lass is permitted.”

“Nay? Then why dae I have the ring?” Her question seemed to puzzle him. He cocked his head to the side, his eyes never blinking as he looked at her. “I am nae here tae cause trouble. I just want tae ken when the next meeting will be.”

Her sisters thought they were all safe. They had their happy lives, and Fiadh was reluctant to disturb that illusion. But she could not pretend that everything was easy and at peace. Whether Ossian was alive or not didn’t change the fact that a circle of men, possibly including other clan lairds, intended to attack the Chattan clan. For her sisters’ sake, Fiadh had to discover the truth.

“Ye hunting fer secrets, pet?” The larger man walked around her.

Fiadh was the tallest woman in most rooms, but she couldn’t compete with his great height. He moved to stand behind her, like a stalking bear. She looked at him sharply, then down at the ground between them, issuing a silent order to step back. When he made no move to do so, she laid a hand to the long basilard at her hip, thrust into a scabbard on her belt.

She had learned long ago that a dirk was not enough of a threat. She needed the longer blade to make her intentions understood.

Nay man will ever touch me again.

“Just one,” she answered simply. “I am here tae find out about this meeting. Tell me where it is, and I shall be on me way.”

“Ye see, we thought this might happen,” the man with the high-pitched voice said, urging her to look back at him as he placed his hands flat down on the table between them. “When we heard there was a lass asking around about our circle, we had tae find a way to draw ye out, lass.”

Fiadh tried not to show the shock on her face and kept her lips pressed firmly together.

I have fallen in a trap.

She had believed the lie she had been told when asking around, that this was a meeting place for such men. She must have simply been told it to capture her.

“Now, pet.” The large man moved toward her again. “Tell us where ye got that ring and we may leave ye unharmed.”

She reached for the basilard and didn’t hesitate in pulling it out, turning it threateningly toward him. He backed up instantly, holding his palms in the air as if he were calming a wild animal.

“There now.” He smiled, rather wickedly, as if she had amused him. “Why dae ye want tae go causing trouble? I am sure ye and I could have some fun, pet.” He reached for her, moving sharply, but Fiadh was too quick. She had long grown accustomed to avoiding the advances of a man, and she would not be taken in now.

She drove the basilard down across his wrist. An almighty bellow erupted from his lips as Fiadh turned and grabbed the table, upturning it toward the smaller of two the men. It collided against him, knocking his body to the floor, just as the candle dropped to the flagstone floor, the light snuffing out.

Fiadh ran in the darkness for the door, relieved to find it open. She sprinted through the busy inn room, casting a quick glare at the innkeeper who either intentionally or inadvertently had helped to set her trap. He looked back, his gaze so sharp she realized that he too must have been a part of it.

Run, Fiadh!

She leapt toward the door, pushing through various drunkards who called out in complaint.

“That one of yer harlot lasses making a run fer it, keeper?” one man shouted at the innkeeper. “Ye need tae keep her locked up like a dog!” As laughter ran out, Fiadh was tempted to take a swipe at him with the basilard.

She reached for the door, kicking it open and bursting out into the street. It was a black night, with the only light in the cobbled road coming from the lanterns in the windows of the tavern. She ran into that darkness, backing up from the tavern and not looking where she was going – when she backed straight into something. Then a hand reached her shoulder…

“Ah!” she yelped, turning around to face her capturer.

“Fiadh?” a confused voice said in the darkness.

Elliot caught Fiadh around the waist as he moved her into the light falling from the tavern windows.

It cannae be her. What is she doing out here?

He’d left her behind at Chattan Castle, not that it had been easy to do so. He had had to return to McDowell castle across the border. He’d said goodbye and presented her with a gift, in the slim hope that Fiadh would read into it what he truly wished to say to her.

Elliot carried more than one secret with him these days. One of those secrets was what he felt for Fiadh, and the other was the reason he had had to leave, and why she could never know what he truly felt.

“Fiadh?” he said again when he saw her clearly in the rich orange light from the lanterns. She was red in the face from running, her chestnut hair falling out of its updo, and her green eyes almost golden in this light. In her hands was a basilard, and he took the handle with her hand, looking at the way she clung onto it as she fought hard to catch her breath.

“In the name of the wee man, what are ye doing with this? Come tae get revenge on me, eh?” he said with an easy smile. “All those times I should have asked ye tae dance at the Chattan feasts and didnae?”

“Elliot!” she snapped, her voice harsh. “Now is nae the time.” She tried to run away, but he couldn’t let her go that easily. It was Fiadh!

“What is it? What is wrong?” He wrapped his arm around her, protectively. Ever since he had helped her free from Ossian Macauley castle last year, he’d been protective of her. It was somehow easy to take her in his arms and surprisingly, Fiadh had never pulled back, even though she was far too beautiful for him. Those green eyes flashed in panic, the full lips parting, making that white scar of hers flash in the amber light.

“We need tae run. Now.” She pulled on his arm, that basilard quivering between the two of them.

“Fiadh…” He trailed off as the tavern door behind her burst open once again. Two men piled out, one small and another so comically large that he had to bend down to avoid hitting his head on the timber beam.

“Ah.” Elliot froze as he saw the way the men were looking at Fiadh. “Dae ye wish tae tell me what is going on, Fiadh? As I am nae sure it is best ye leave it up tae me tae figure this out meself.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I may come tae all sorts of the wrong conclusions.”

“How can ye jest at a time like this!?” she spluttered and pulled the basilard away from his grasp, holding it in front of her as she backed away down the cobbled street.

“What other way is there tae be?” He winked at her and reached for his sword, sliding it out of the scabbard he kept discretely tucked under his belt. “So, my good men, what will it be?” He moved to stand in front of Fiadh, making her back up further in surprise. “I was coming here for a quiet dinner before I continue on my journey. Ye can either let me have that dinner and run away now, or I’ll have tae deal with ye first.”

“Kill him,” the small man ordered to the large one with a jerk of his head.

“Ah, shame. I was looking forward tae that pigeon pie.” He smiled easily then swiped out with the sword, long before the hulking figure before him could even get close. That lunge was a pure distraction before he reached forward again and again. He struck the man in the shoulder first then slid upward, cutting the man under his chin. He swung around and elbowed the man in the gut, forcing him to bend down, winded, just far enough for Elliot to strike the hilt of the sword across the back of his head.

The man dropped flat to the cobbles, so hard that the lanterns in the windows nearby shuddered, the flames dancing back and forth.

“Now, fer ye.” Elliot moved toward the other man.

Abruptly, the man reached for something beneath his shirt, his fingers trembling. He pulled out an antler horn attached to a string and blew into the end. The cacophonous and hooting sound rang out between them.

“Ah, Fiadh?” he called to her, backing up.

“Aye?” She was already inching back herself.

“Time tae run. I think that means there is more of them.” He reached for her free hand, grasping it and pulling her away.

Elliot sprinted down the hill with Fiadh close behind him. His boots narrowly managed to avoid slipping in the puddles and on the damp stones, but Fiadh was not so lucky, and she fell into him more than once.

“Eager tae see me again, are ye?” he teased her as they reached the bottom of the hill.

“Elliott!” she snapped.

“I’ll take that as an ‘aye.’ We hardly have time fer ye tae drop tae yer knees and thank God fer me presence now.”

“Ye are so arrogant. Ah!”

He cut her off as they rounded a corner to find his horse tied to a hitching rail by a trough. He grabbed Fiadh’s waist and tossed her onto the back of the saddle. She put her basilard away as he put his sword away, then he climbed off in front of her.

“Ye ken me, Fiadh,” he said, grasping at the reins and freeing the horse from its place. “I’ll always dae what I can tae see ye smile.”

“Right now, I’ll settle fer being far away from here.”

“Yer wish is me command.” Elliot flicked the reins, urging the horse to dart away down the street as quickly as possible. They rode with such speed that Fiadh was forced to wrap both arms around his waist.

Elliot tried not to think of that feeling. If he concentrated on it too much, then he would be distracted indeed, his mind going to places it should not go.

How many times since he had met Fiadh had he wondered what could happen between them? How many times had he looked her in the eye, distracted by the small smiles she would sometimes give when he went out of his way to jest with her? Far too many!

It didn’t help that he often dreamed of her. It seemed no other woman could distract him from her, even if he tried. A need for Fiadh burned in his veins, and it would not be sated.

They left the town with the horn still being blasted somewhere in the distance. Elliot turned the horse’s paths between the trees, into the nearest copse, intent on hiding from anyone that came running. When they were far enough away for the sound of the horn to fade, with only the hoots of owls nearby to keep them company, Elliot slowed down.

He caught his breath as the horse bowed his nose toward the ground. He then halted the horse completely and turned around. Fiadh leaned back from him, her arms no longer wrapped around his waist so tightly, though her fingers still danced along the edge. It made a stirring curl in his abdomen, one he had to quell sharply.

“What is it?” she asked, that same innocent look that was always in her eyes.

“Dinnae give me that.” He shook his head sharply. “Ye wish me tae pretend I didnae just find ye running from a tavern with two men at yer heels, and a basilard in yer hand?”

“Ye’ve been in worse fights, I am sure.”

“Ah, ye ken I like it when ye jest.” He smiled, but it fell as fast as it appeared. “Yet I cannae bear tae banter when I have just made one man bleed and ye and I have raced into a forest tae hide. So, tell me, Fiadh. What on earth have I just rescued ye from?”

She bit her lip, looking down between them. At that look, Elliot was nearly driven mad.

Och, there are many other ways I could make ye bite yer lip, Fiadh. Just give me the word, and I will.

“We need tae find somewhere tae hide, Elliot.” Her evasive answer made his brows raise.

“I see ye are as enigmatic tonight as ye have always been.”

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Prologue

Keep Leòideach, Orkney Islands, 1509…

What ended in a scream had begun with a kiss.

Adamina could still feel the imprint of her mother’s lips on the crown of her head. The ghost of her hands curled around her shoulders, pinning Adamina to her spot at the edge of her bed. She could feel the hair standing up on the back of her neck, despite having awoken from her dream.

She glanced down at the leatherbound journal in her lap, running her hand over its rough cover. The book had been a permanent fixture at her mother’s writing desk—along with all the other things which, like the great Lady Leòideach, were now gone and buried.

Squinting down at the now open pages, Adamina tried to make sense of what her mother had written. Her father had always bemoaned her struggle with words. At thirteen, reading, writing and more were expected of her as a young lady. Her brothers were encouraged to be boorish at the best of times, fighting and exploring the island to their satisfaction. Adamina, however, had been commanded to stay inside from the moment she was born, watching her brothers spar from the window of her mother’s chambers. If not for her mother’s presence at the keep, Adamina might have fought harder for her freedom. Dunn and Tor would not have minded her presence outside, that much she knew.

Their parents had been the driving force behind their separation, even in their deaths.

Adamina tended an ear for her brothers’ voices. Their arguing echoed through the keep, keeping her from sleep just as aptly as her fresh grief. She could not make sense of what they were saying, but she doubted the object of their anger had changed much from that morning, when they had lain their mother to rest.

The Morgan clan has struck the final blow. Faither is gone with the sword, now Maither in her sadness. Dunn and Tor willnae rest until one or both clans are dead and buried too.

A familiar footfall sounded in the hallway, and Adamina’s breath hitched in response. She hastened to tuck her mother’s journal under the coverlets of her box-bed, fearing that the maids would tell Dunn if they caught her with it.

Moonlight streamed through the open window before her. Adamina focused her attention on the low-hanging moon as she wiped away her tears. The door creaked open, and she braced herself for another half-hearted attempt at consolation.

“Is the wee lady nae yet sleeping?” came a voice from the doorway. “Ach, but what would yer faither say tae ken ye out of bed so late, bairn?”

“Me faither isnae here,” Adamina murmured, glancing over her shoulder. She scowled at her new warden—a woman named Maile, who had been called up to the islands from Edinburgh to complete Adamina’s education. “He cannae say a thing tae me nay more, much less worry about me rest.” Adamina steadied her voice. “Besides, I am on the bed, if nae in it.”

Curling her legs beneath her, Adamina started when the door groaned further open behind her. She watched over her shoulder as Maile silently placed a trencher of petticoat tails on the drawers by the door. Unlike Adamina, Maile was an expert with words, but she knew little about young lasses and their troubles. The woman pressed her lips together in something halfway resembling a smile, then moved to close the door again, leaving Adamina to her grief.

“Things will be brighter by the matins, bairn,” Maile said tenderly, closing the door behind her as she left.

Adamina sat motionlessly for a moment, considering Maile’s kindness. When she heard the woman’s footsteps retreat at last, she crept to the drawers and inspected the fare that Maile had brought with her. The sweetmeats were decorated with caraway seeds, cut into the shape of little suns. They were Adamina’s favourite treat, but that night she could not rouse her appetite at the sight of them.

Returning to her nest, she kneeled beside the bed and slipped the journal free from its hiding spot. Turning to one of the first pages, she ran her finger along the first line, mouthing the letters one by one. The echo of her mother’s voice rang in her ears, but the words would not manifest on her own tongue.

“Twelve… Twelfth of…” Adamina shook her head, brushing a few stray blonde hairs from her eyes before trying again. “Twelfth of Jan—”

She paused her reading. Something had clipped against the window frame, and Adamina sought the source of the sound. Finding no answers in the darkness, she chalked it up to the wind dropping fruits from nearby trees. Turning once more, she froze when another small clicking noise sounded behind her.

Taking a nearby brass candlestick in her hand and pocketing the snuffer in case of danger, she crept towards the window, hissing as her foot landed on a small, sharp pebble.

Her heart leapt into her throat as another pebble flew in from the open window and landed at her feet. Steeling herself, she leaned out of the window, gasping as a final pellet arched its way up to her and landed on her shoulder.

“Ewan!” she growled, catching sight of her friend down below.

He was standing between the walls of the keep and the hedges, a fistful of stones hovering in midair. His dark hair was glinting in the moonlight, lapping at the sides of his young, boyish face. He released his handful of pellets at once, and they fell in a waterfall down to his feet. Baring his teeth at her in a grin, he greeted her warmly.

“Me apologies, lass! Ye ken me aim has forever been lacking,” he whispered, quietly dusting off his hands on his rough linen trousers.

Adamina wrestled with a smile. “I ken ye are a fool,” she shot back, craning her head out of the window to check for danger. Confident they were alone, Adamina rested the candleholder on the windowsill and settled in for the show. “Ye shouldnae be here so late, Ewan. If Dunn or Tor were tae see ye—”

“Och, ye ken they willnae dae a thing, Ada. I could hear yer brothers braying from the village.” He placed a hand on his hip, puffing out his cheeks as he looked around him. “The coast is clear,” he said quietly. “Shall I come up, or will ye come down?”

“Come down? Dressed like this? Bampot! I will catch me death!” Struggling to hold back her laugh, Adamina conceded her defeat. “I suppose ‘tis better ye come up than draw attention tae yerself down there.”

Retrieving the candlestick, Adamina stepped back to allow Ewan room to enter. His aim may have been lacking, but Ewan was a strong lad of fifteen—who had arguably too much experience scaling the walls of the keep in his visits to Adamina. Placing his feet perfectly in the spaces between the flagstones, he hoisted himself up, navigating with ease the twenty or so feet between the ground and the window of Adamina’s sleeping chambers. She saw his hands first, knuckles tensed around the window frame, before he pulled himself up and crouched on the sill.

He paused a moment, scanning her room. His body was bathed in moonlight, concealing much of his face in the darkness. Adamina tensed at the sight of him, and her breast swelled with a war of emotions. For most of the day, she had managed to bridle the worst of her feelings, but Ewan had a way of getting her to open up, and this she feared most of all.

“Far be it from me to question a lass in mourning, but…” Ewan said with a serious voice. He furrowed his brow, and she braced for the worst. “Have ye been baking, Adamina?”

It was just like Ewan to be making jokes at such a time. Adamina cried out in feigned outrage, slamming down the candle holder and storming over to the window. She grabbed hold of Ewan’s shoulders, playfully fisting the fabric of his patchwork tunic and shaking him softly.

“Ye better get inside, now,” she exclaimed, “before I change me mind and send ye hurtling tae yer death.” She released him and turned away. “Ach, ye cannae play with me like that, Ewan! Ye are so cruel…”

“Aye, but ye’re smiling now,” Ewan said. She heard his boots connect with the floor as he hopped into the room. “I can hear it in yer voice, even if ye dinnae deign tae look at me.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder, losing the battle against her smile as Ewan pushed past her and made for the sweetmeats. He took one for himself and offered Adamina another, but she refused with a shake of her head. Ewan shrugged, taking a bite of shortbread and settling against the dresser. He cast the other back on the trencher, and its rattle against the wood brought Adamina back to her senses.

“Now that ye have completed yer pillage,” she began tentatively, “will ye tell me why ye have come? Certainly there is naething tae be said that cannae have waited fer the morning.”

“I could have waited, aye. But I didnae want tae.” Ewan’s expression twisted then, even as he tried to hide his distress by licking clean his fingers. His round hazel eyes filled with worry. “We didnae have the chance tae speak afore yer ma’s rites.”

“I ken…” Adamina shrugged one-shouldered, drawing her arms around herself to ward off her sudden chill. Her mind flashed with memories of her mother’s interment—her silver shroud; her long, flowing hair; her peaceful countenance after so many weeks spent in agony. “If ye mean tae comfort me, dinnae. I have nay need fer more sympathies—and nay need fer more trouble either, Ewan.”

She eyed her friend carefully, hinting at her brothers’ growing unease with their closeness. It was no surprise Ewan had not managed to speak with her that morning. In their grief-fuelled anger, Dunn and Tor had all but forbidden their sister from spending any more time with him than necessary, especially where the other clan members could see. Adamina thought their worrying was farcical. She and Ewan had been friends their entire lives, and Ewan had always been considered kindly by the Leòideach heirs. Nothing—not the differences of their birth, not even their advancing ages—would keep them apart so long as Adamina had her say.

Ewan said nothing at this, clearly understanding her meaning but not wanting to push his luck. He dipped his head low, and his dark hair glinted gold in the candlelight. Even in his embarrassment, Ewan looked warm and inviting. Years ago, Adamina might have allowed herself to be held by him and comforted, but things between them had changed since they had become adolescents and she knew it would not be appropriate.

Before her father’s passing, Laird Leòideach had made mention of matches and marriage for his only daughter but Adamina had never considered taking a husband before with any seriousness. There had always been more pressing things to worry about, like the wellbeing of their clan, her brothers’ antics, when next she could hope to be allowed to spar with Ewan. Her duties as a Leòideach daughter, the commodity of her young body—these things had not preoccupied her until they had been brought to her attention.

Sighing, she directed her attention to Ewan, wanting to apologise for her frosty reception. He had turned from her slightly, and in so doing had revealed a fresh welt on the side of his eye. Halfway concealed by his hair, the bruise had forgone Adamina’s notice.

She realised at once that Ewan had not only wanted to check on her. He had needed an escape from the tyranny of his own household.

“Is that the mark of yer faither’s hand again?” she asked.

Ewan barely moved, but a mirthless laugh rumbled low in his throat. He mussed his hair, dragging it back over his injury. That was his way—never wanting to inconvenience others with his troubles, and especially not Adamina. It was the part of Ewan that she liked the least. She wanted to provide him the same protection that he was always so eager to provide her. It frustrated her that he did not let her.

“I didnae mean fer ye tae see,” he murmured, crossing his arms over his chest. “That isnae why I came, Adamina.”

“I havenae doubt about that. But even if ye had come fer that reason, I wouldnae have minded,” Adamina assured him. “Let me see?”
Her other fears dissipated immediately, and Adamina crossed the room to inspect the mark. She pushed back his hair slowly, careful not to injure him further. Ewan let her, wincing as she ran her fingers over the raw swell beneath his eye.

It was not the first time she had seen Ewan’s face blemished by his father’s anger. Cam of Clan MacGregor was known throughout Orkney as a fierce warrior and a brilliant councilmember. He had trained many of her father’s men in the way of the bow, and he knew more about the history of the isles than even the clan elders.

To Adamina, who had witnessed second-hand the worst of him, he was little more than a brute. His other talents could not possibly impress her while she knew what sort of monsters resided deep within his breast.

“I could sneak some herbs from the infirmary,” she suggested carefully. “It wouldnae take more than a moment.”

“I ken as much—ye and yer deft fingers,” Ewan joked half-heartedly. He scowled when she drew back, but quickly purged his expression of all weakness. Taking her hand in his own, he lowered it before releasing her. “Ye will heal me more by speaking with me, Adamina.”

“Aye, but I dinna ken what ye wish fer me tae say.” Adamina put some space between them, returning to her bed. Her gaze drifted over her mother’s journal, and she heaved a deep sigh. “Nae a thing I say will change what has happened. Like that mark on yer face, the only salve fer me heart is time.”

“Ye might start by telling me what that is,” Ewan said. He gestured for her mother’s journal, and Adamina stepped before it instinctively. “Dinnae try tae hide it now,” he teased, crossing the room. “Yer secrecy means it must be important.”

He sidled up beside her and reached for the diary, pausing as though to ask her permission. Adamina nodded, watching as he carefully extracted the journal from the woollen coverlets. Ewan turned the book over in his hands, then pried it open gently. He narrowed his eyes at the first page, reading the first lines in silence.

Despite Adamina’s better education, Ewan was the one between them who really knew how to read. Cam’s ambition was a hungry beast, sated only by Ewan’s many successes. Like all things forced upon him by his father, reading was one of the skills at which Ewan excelled. He had mastered the written word at the age of eight, and he had spent the years since reading what Adamina could not when she needed him.

Ewan’s face contorted suddenly, and Adamina’s anxiety roiled within her.

“This was Lady Leòideach’s diary,” he stated breathlessly, closing the book immediately. He kept his thumb between the pages and cast a glance at Adamina. “Why would ye take this?”

“I didnae take it,” she protested, moving to the window so he could not look at her. “She gave it tae me on the night she…” Her eyes smarted, and she choked on her next words. Composing herself, she continued. “Maither used tae read her entries to me, sometimes as she wrote them. I cannae say why she thought tae leave me such a wretched thing. I dinna need tae read proof of her misery, of her madness. I saw it while she still lived with me own eyes.”

“Ye dinnae want me tae read it tae ye?” Ewan asked. She heard him take a step toward her, then dither. “It seems some parts were written tae ye, Adamina. She meant fer ye tae see them.”

“Dinnae matter tae me now.” Adamina sought purchase on the windowsill. “As I said tae ye, I already ken what lessons she penned fer me. They live here.” She pointed at her heart, digging her finger in deep.

Adamina gasped as Ewan appeared beside her, holding the diary aloft. She darted her gaze from his face to the cover of the journal. The gentle pity in his expression was too much for her to bear.

The first of her tears fell, and she cursed herself under her breath for her weakness. Wiping madly at her face, she whimpered as the full force of her grief wracked her small body. Ewan wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close. He breathed into her hair, pleading with her to be quiet, reassuring her that she would be all right.

Ewan was the only person in the world who could say as much and make Adamina believe it. But not even he could comfort her this time—not after what her mother had said when she had handed Adamina the diary, the night that she had jumped from the keep.

“Ye should go,” Adamina said into his chest. “Afore me brothers see ye. Afore—”

“I willnae,” he replied, holding her more tightly. “Ye have naething tae fear from me.”

Adamina shivered against him, deaf to his sweet protestations. He had opened the journal, and now she could think of nothing else but her mother’s parting words.

“If a maither must teach her daughter anything, Mina, it is tae fear love more than death.”

Chapter One

Brodgar Forest, Orkney Islands, 1519…

“Nae, I dinnae believe a word of it!” Adamina cried, clambering over a fallen tree. She hopped off the trunk, casting a glance over her shoulder at Ewan. “Ye may be correct most of the time, councilman, but I am right in this. That babe doesnae look a thing like Wille—he looks like Wille’s brother!”

Ewan paused in his march, shooting her an exasperated look. Adamina seemed adamant, but her thin, pink lips were curled in a smile. Readjusting the strap of his bow, Ewan sighed.

Adamina merely laughed at him, climbing back over the tree to join him. Threading her arm through his own, she urged him forward. She was right to lead the way. It was almost dark, and it was no time to be loitering in the woods. Ewan thought it had been a mistake to indulge her in the first place. After everything that had happened on Orkney over the last few years, the laird had been rightly wary about letting Lady Adamina out of his sight.

The business with the new Lady Leòideach was fresh in Ewan’s mind. He had witnessed the feud between Clans Morgan and Leòideach explode first-hand, having risen to the rank of councilman in the meantime. After all, he had gone as a soldier and saved the life of Katarina Buckland, the beautiful Romani woman now wed to Dunn Leòideach, the Laird of Clan Leòideach and Adamina’s older brother, by the King’s decree.

The match between Katarina and Dunn had been paved with strife. Katarina had been forced by Laird Morgan to pretend to be his daughter Katherine, taking the place of Dunn’s betrothed in her stead. The plot was revealed in time, but the new laird’s nascent feelings could not be helped. Katarina was the lady of their clan now, and the mother of his heir, and the laird would not have it any other way.

While the particular threat had been squashed by the death of Laird Morgan a few months later, there was no telling what other enemies would present themselves now that Katherine Morgan’s father had been dealt with. She was now married to Tor, Adamina’s other brother, though Ewan had not seen either of them since they had settled on the Morgan land. Their departure had meant an end to the Leòideach struggles—but like all things, this peace was not to last.

Ewan felt fear stir in his breast as he considered the recent Gypsy threat, quelled just a year gone. His friend Bran, a warrior of extreme renown, had fallen into disfavour with the Gypsy King himself, August Raymond, and the consequences of their feud had been felt across Orkney.

The island had settled uneasily into peace, but Ewan, who had only ever known strife, was still on his guard. Adamina seemed determined to have some fun now that the fighting was over. This scared Ewan more than he dared to admit, knowing that her free-spirited attitude was a mask for all the other troubles that plagued her.

Ewan knew all too well that the more she smiled, the heavier her burdens weighed on her heart. Adamina may have thought that her antics fooled him but they didn’t and never would. She sensed the winds of change, as did he. But he didn’t know in whose favor they would blow.

“Is that why ye dragged me down tae Wille’s croft this eve?” Ewan asked after a moment, allowing himself to be shepherded forward by her. She looked up at him teasingly, and he supplied her a scowl. “I didnae think ye tae be a gossip, melady.”

“Och, ye ken I hate when ye call me that!” She nudged him in the side, and Ewan was not quick enough to dodge the blow. “And ye ken even more that I am a gossip!”

Despite her small size and beauty, Adamina was fiercely strong when she wanted to be. Long underestimated for being the only Leòideach daughter, Ewan had no doubt she would try to assert herself more now that both of her wild Viking brothers were settled in their marriages. With Tor gone to lead Clan Morgan with his new bride Katherine, Dunn was in more need than ever of his sister’s support. The change suited Adamina, who had always longed to be taken more seriously.

Except, of course, when she did not.

“My intentions were only braw. I brought a basket from the keep out of the goodness of me heart. A few bonnie births are just what we need after so much rottenness these last few years,” Adamina argued, brushing the blonde hair from her face. “It isnae me fault that Wille’s young wife has been straying far from home.”

“If ye suspect the brother, should that nae be straying in the home?” Ewan narrowed his gaze at her, then cursed himself for playing along. “Ach, but we shouldnae claim such things when there isnae proof,” he said. He detached himself from Adamina to help her over a rough patch of the forest floor. Testing the ground ahead of her, he reached out a hand for her to take. “Besides, Wille looks exactly like his brother. I dinnae ken what ye think ye have heard about young Canny, but she is as honourable a woman as ever there was. More honourable than ye, anyway,” he joked.

Adamina grimaced as she hopped over the network of tree roots, taking his hand as she did so. Her foot caught on something beneath her and she stumbled forward suddenly, crashing into him. Ewan held firm, breathing a small, “Umph,” as he steadied them in the twilight.

His arms wrapped around her on instinct, and he felt his body tense. The day had been warm, and Adamina had snuck from the keep in a thin, embroidered cotton smock. Pressed up against him in her error, she revealed to him every hill and valley of her body. He could feel her nipples through the thin fabric of her gown, and Ewan started in response.

Though Ewan and Adamina had been best of friends, almost fraternal, their whole lives, over the past decade he had watched Adamina blossom into a woman. But it was one thing to admire her from afar as a good friend, and another to feel the evidence of her womanhood pressed against him. He needed to move her, and quickly.

Unable to temper his body’s reaction—a constant ache in his loins for her that had started a few years prior—he immediately pulled Adamina off of him. As he held her at arm’s length, he could swear he saw her face flush in the dim light,.

“Are ye…” He swallowed hard. “Are ye unharmed?”

“Aye,” Adamina replied, recovering quickly from their mistake and shoving Ewan away playfully. “In body, at least. But ye are so inconsiderate as tae me poor soul.”

“Call me what ye like,” he replied, shrugging off his sheepskin cloak and revealing the long plaid beneath it. Whistling to get Adamina’s attention, he placed the cloak over her shoulders, relaxing as she settled into the garment. “Inconsiderate beast or nae, I willna ever forgive meself if ye freeze tae death afore we reach the keep. Pout all ye like, but that smock is much too light.”

“I am nae cold,” she protested, despite stroking her cheek gratefully against his cloak. She took on a scorned air, cocking her head to the side as she tightened the black sheepskin around her. “And I am nae dishonourable, councilman. If either one of us has aught to be ashamed, ‘tis ye. Dinnae think I havenae noticed ye lingering about the keep after the sun has set. What is the name of the bonnie lass who has claimed yer heart? Let me think…”

She forced a wounded sigh, and Ewan shot his eyes heavenward. He said nothing in reply, continuing with their walk and urging her to do the same. She fell into step quickly, tapping a finger to her lips sarcastically as she pretended to think. She knew full well who Ewan was taking off with. He could keep nothing from her, no matter how much he might want to.

“Ach, of course! The fair maiden, Effy!” she declared, skipping ahead of him and crying the woman’s name. “All the other maids look at ye as longingly as she. Dae their hearts nae interest ye as well? For certainly ye have captured them!”

“Ye have her name, I’ll give ye that. But it isnae her heart which interests me, and she kens it,” Ewan muttered, wishing they were speaking of anything else. Adamina asked often about his conquests, always interested to know more. It was not behaviour befitting a lady, but Adamina did many things other fine women would balk at. “Will ye nae stop with these games, melady? We should be hurrying tae the keep afore Dunn notices ye missing.”

At this, Adamina stopped walking altogether. She turned on her heel slowly, likely dragging out her reaction to punish him. Ewan could not deny how beautiful she looked against the thick, dark forest around them, even in her forced anger—like a beacon of light upon an otherwise dark canvas. Even though he had taken Effy and many other lasses into his bed, he still thought that Adamina was the most beautiful creature of all. His admiration for her was one of the many things that had weathered their friendship over the years, and like every time before, Ewan forced himself to forget just how much he pined for her.

The death of Adamina’s parents had changed them both beyond recognition. Ewan had forced himself to become a man before his time, hoping to be there for Adamina whenever she needed him. Adamina, however, had pushed him away, trying to deal with everything alone.

They had settled into their new friendship over the years, and neither of them much spoke about what might have been between them if things had been different. Ewan was convinced she had had feelings for him before tragedy hit her family as a young girl but he doubted Adamina regretted the dissipation of their young misguided feelings. He knew that a part of her associated his presence with those long years of grief and he was also aware that another part of her did not want to take a husband at all, no matter his name. These misguided excursions were the only unadulterated moments of companionship they could allow themselves anymore; the rest were spent under the watchful eye of her brother and the rest of the clan.

Even when Adamina drove him mad with her teasing, Ewan relished every second in her company, sharing her adventures and shepherding her through the night.

“Ye are nae usually so prickly,” Adamina was saying now, eyeing him from head to toe. She crossed her arms over her chest and stepped towards him. “What is troubling ye, Ewan? Dinnae fib, now. I ken when something is wrong. Is it… Are ye thinking of yer faither today?”

Ewan bristled at the suggestion, having refused to consider his father at any length since his death. His throat constricted in response, and he quickly sought to change the subject. Some things were better left alone—especially when the truth of them could not be spoken in full.

“It is naething ye need concern yerself with,” Ewan replied coolly, turning his gaze elsewhere. Adamina sentenced him to a charged moment of silence, forcing Ewan to answer her out of awkwardness. “If ye are determined tae ken the truth, there is a meeting early on the morrow. The council dinnae yet ken what the laird wishes to discuss, but a meeting called under such short notice cannae mean naething braw. It worries me. ‘Tis the truth, me only truth.”

“Dunn has said naething tae me about a meeting, and I havenae noticed a change in his good humour.” She made a contemplative little noise. When Ewan looked up, she was playing with the ends of her hair, her expression far away. “Perhaps ‘tis naething at all. But if it does amount tae aught, ye will tell me, willnae ye?”

Ewan nodded, partly out of habit, partly in promise. An owl flew overhead, filling the air with the echo of its call. A shiver ran down Ewan’s spine as he followed the path of the bird northward. The forest seemed to shift with its passing, and he held up a finger to silence Adamina before she could speak further.

Knowing the forest like he knew his own soul, he whipped his head around to survey the stretch of woods to his left. The way was thick with thousand-year-old oaks, concealing whatever danger might have been lurking nearby. His heart thumped hard in his chest, alerting him to the threat he could not yet see.

But I sense it… Aye, something is lurking nearby, something desperate and hungry.

Returning his sight slowly to Adamina, he put a finger before his mouth and commanded her to run, her blue eyes filled with understanding and fear. She nodded only once, full of trust in him after all these years. Bursting into a sprint, she shot through the trees before her.

Ewan heard it then—a set of snarls on the wind.

The wolves raced out from behind the western trees. Their grey coats rolled and glistened in the grey twilight as they bared their fangs to Ewan, snapping at him in warning. He counted two, knowing more might be about. If they had dared present themselves to him, he knew they would be wounded, desperate for blood.

Yanking on the strap of his bow, he held his breath and launched himself after Adamina. The wolves thundered after them, growling in their chase. Ewan angled his bow as he sprinted forward with all his might, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he prepared to take a shot, and muttering a prayer beneath his breath.

He glanced up only once, hoping to find Adamina as a spot on the horizon, safe from harm. If one of them was to die that night, Ewan knew it must be him.

When he saw her at last, his heart dropped. Adamina was standing only paces from him, a dagger readied in her hand.

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Prologue

MacLeod Castle, Scotland

Darkness enveloped Lara as she slowly made her way down the narrow hallway, moving as silently as possible to avoid waking the others. She despised the oppressive blackness that clung to the ancient stones of the keep but didn’t dare light a candle. That would draw unwanted attention.

No, better to make her way to the kitchens below by memory alone. There, she could find brief respite in the solitude and enjoy a small piece of cake, with a steaming cup of tea. She’d always had a sweet tooth, even as a young lass. Many a night she had slipped down to the kitchens this way to satisfy her craving for something sweet and warm.

As she descended the winding staircase, she thought she heard footsteps approaching. Who could it be? Had somebody been following her? Heart racing, she quickly hid under one of the long wooden benches, just in time before two figures entered. Holding her breath, Lara pressed herself into the shadows, praying the darkness would keep her hidden. Fear coiled within her as the footsteps drew nearer, and she had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. The footsteps stopped just shy of her hiding place. Lara’s pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to run, to scream, but she remained paralyzed under the bench, praying for them to leave.

“Can you believe our sister is getting married in just a few weeks?” Quinn chuckled. “Who would have thought Lara would be the first?”

A wave of relief washed over her as she realized it was just her two brothers. She surreptitiously peeped from her hiding place out to watch them.

With his long dark hair tied up and his light eyes shimmering with amusement, Quinn, laughed softly. “Aye, our Lara may be wild, but she’s finally settlin’ down. Gregor must be quite a man tae tame her.” His voice was gentle, a contrast to his rough exterior. Lara bristled slightly at the suggestion she needed ‘taming,’ but kept silent as her big brothers carried on.

Quinn continued, his light eyes turning serious. “I’ll admit I had my doubts about the match at first,” he confessed, his imposing height and muscular frame belying the sincerity in his voice. “But Gregor has proven himself an honorable ally. This marriage could be the thing that finally unites our clans against the MacNeils.”

Beside Quinn, Gil nodded in agreement. At twenty-eight, Gil was a handsome man, tall and muscular like his brother. His long dark hair and blue eyes made him a sight to behold. “Aye, with Gregor’s men and resources, we might finally end that bloody feud for good. He may be the best thing tae happen tae the Mackenzies in years, dinnae ye think?”

His hair fell slightly over his eyes as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “The feud with the MacDonalds,” he began, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room, “is a finally closed chapter.”

Despite herself, Lara felt a twinge of unease at their words. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the man she was supposed to marry. Gregor was persistent, yes. And he clearly loved her, in his own way—if that was what love should be, of course. But still . . .

Gil’s blue eyes twinkled with mirth as he leaned back, his muscular arms crossing over his chest. “Remember when our wee Lara used tae hide beneath the table whenever guests came over?” he began, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

God’s teeth!

Quinn chuckled, his light eyes dancing with amusement. His hair bounced with his laughter. “Aye, I do. She used tae squeeze herself intae the tiniest of corners, thinking nae one could see her.”

Gil joined in the laughter, his handsome face breaking into a broad grin. “And the best part was, she’d peek out from under the tablecloth, her little eyes wide with curiosity, watching everyone’s feet move around.”

Quinn’s laughter grew louder, his usually cold exterior softened by the shared memory. “And then she’d suddenly burst out from under the table, startling the living daylights out of our guests. I swear, I’ve never seen the old MacNeil jump so high!”

The two brothers roared with laughter, their jovial voices echoing around them. Lara, despite herself, found a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The memory was embarrassing, yes, but also precious. She’d been so young, so innocent then. It had been a simpler time, a time she often longed for amidst the complexities of her present life.

As the laughter subsided, Gil wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Aye, but I suspect our Lara still has a fondness for hiding under tables,” he said, shooting a teasing glance in her direction.

Quinn’s eyes glinted in agreement as he tried to suppress another laugh. “Aye, that she does. It’s a wonder she hasnae taken tae doing that with Gregor’s men around.”

Gil looked towards the door, “If Elsie heard us laughing, she might come tae check on us. Ye ken how she worries.”

Quinn nodded, understanding flashing in his eyes. He turned to Lara, his voice softer but still filled with brotherly affection. “If ye hear footsteps again, Lara, dinnae be afraid. It’s likely just Elsie coming tae see what all the noise is about. Ye ken how she hates tae miss a good laugh.”

Lara came out from her hiding place and looked up at him, nodding, her cheeks flushed.

Gil’s deep blue eyes shone with mischief, and Lara couldn’t help but wonder what was running through his mind. He reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his palm spreading through her. “Dinnae be embarrassed, lass. Ye were only a child then, and ye couldnae have known how to behave. Ye’ll do fine when the time comes.”

Quinn smiled down at her, his light eyes filled with pride. “Aye, ye’ll make a fine wife, lass. Gregor is a lucky man.”

Lara’s heart swelled at the praise. She knew they’d be proud of her, but the way they looked at her right then, well, she felt she could take on the world.

“We’d best get down to the tavern. Goodnight, Lara.” Quin nodded towards her, and with that, he and Gil were off, leaving her with their kind words and a bittersweet ache in her heart.

Pouring herself some tea, she listened for any sounds in the keep. Elsie may have heard Quinn and Gil as well and would eventually come to check on her. Lara smiled softly, touched by her sister’s protectiveness. Though they bickered, as all siblings did, she knew Elsie only wanted the best for her.

When she heard light footsteps approaching, Lara chuckled. “Dinnae worry Elsie, it’s only me down here,” she called out gently.

But the hand that suddenly clamped down over her mouth was too large to belong to her sister. Lara’s screams became muffled whimpers as a strong arm wrapped around her, dragging her from the kitchen and toward the outside door.

She fought with all her strength, but it was no use against her attacker’s brute force. Pain exploded in her head, and as everything faded into blackness, all she felt was terror and confusion. Why was this happening? Who wished her such harm?

The last coherent thought she had was a fervent wish that Elsie had come looking for her after all.

Chapter One

Six months later
MacNeil’s castle, Scotland

Darragh MacDonald dragged his weary body through the cold stone halls of the MacNeil castle, the day’s frustrations still simmering under his skin. He was taking on all the clan’s responsibilities while his brother was away, and they were weighing on him like stones. His footsteps echoed through the grand hallways, the sound bouncing off the ancient stone walls, bringing some life to the otherwise quiet castle.

In the dim light cast by flickering torches, the shadows of the castle seemed to stretch and distort, playing tricks on Darragh’s tired eyes. The portraits of the MacNeil ancestors leered at him from their lofty positions, their faces stern and unfeeling. The weight of their gazes was almost tangible, a reminder of the lineage he was obliged to uphold. The MacNeils had always been their greatest enemies, but now, with the laird dead, the responsibility of the leaderless clan had become entirely the MacDonald’s.

His hand brushed against the rough, cold stone as he leaned heavily against a wall. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the damp, earthy scent that permeated the ancient castle, the echo of ages past, of battles fought and won, of lairds and their ladies who had walked these halls before him.

He pushed away from the wall and continued his journey. The castle, once alive and bustling, now seemed more akin to a mausoleum, a monument to the past. The servants had retired for the night, leaving the corridors eerily silent. As he trudged onward, the only sounds were the whisper of his robes against the stone floors and the distant hoot of a tawny owl from the castle’s battlements.

Reaching the imposing wooden doors of the great hall, he paused. The hall, usually a place of raucous laughter, sumptuous meals, and robust debates, was now silent. The long, wooden trestle tables were bare, save for a few forgotten tankards and the remnants of the evening’s feast. The once roaring hearth was reduced to a smoldering pile of embers.

He glanced up at the grand tapestry hanging above the hearth, the MacNeil crest proudly displayed. The castle, the land, the people; they were all his responsibility now. Darragh and his brother Aidan had decided he would take over the MacNeil clan while Aidan dealt with the responsibilities of their own clan. However, it was no easy feat. He despised Laird Keir MacNeil for murdering his parents and for then abducting his sister Lillie and imprisoning her. If it hadn’t been for Ciara, Laird MacNeil’s daughter and now Aidan’s wife, who had helped Lillie escape from the dungeons where she was held, his sister would have probably died as well.

Darragh entered the late laird’s study, a room steeped in history. Old books, their leather-bound spines cracked with age, lined the shelves from floor to ceiling. Dust particles hung suspended in the air, filtering the weak light from the single window. The faint scent of parchment and ink filled the room, a heady aroma that spoke of wisdom and knowledge.

The heavy wooden desk, scarred by time and use, stood as a testament to the many MacNeil lairds who had sat behind it, pondering over the fate of their clan. Darragh ran a hand over the surface, feeling the grooves and indentations under his fingertips.

Suddenly, the distant sound of running troops echoed through the castle. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath hitching. Darragh froze, a wave of panic surging through him. The sound triggered the by now well-known reaction in his body, sweat running down his back, clammy hands, and the sense of being outs of his own body, a constant, cruel reminder of the battles he’d fought, of the friends he’d lost.

His mind cast him back to a different time, a different place. The roar of cannons, the clash of swords, the screams of the dying; they all came rushing back to him. The study, the castle, it all faded away, replaced by the haunting echoes of war.

All this was followed by a feeling of dizziness that had more than once caused him to lose consciousness. Darragh clutched the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He forced himself to draw in a deep breath, trying to ground himself. He concentrated on the feeling of the cold stone under his feet, the rough grain of the wood beneath his hands.

He wasn’t on the battlefield. He was in the study, in the castle. But the echoes of the past still rang in his ears, a ghostly cadence that sent chills down his spine.

The panic began to recede, ebbing away like the tide. The castle came back into focus, the smell of parchment and ink replacing the stench of gunpowder and blood. The sound of the running troops grew fainter, the echoes dying away, leaving him in the silence of the study.

Darragh took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm amidst the cacophony outside. His heart continued its wild drumming, but he willed it to slow, to steady. He’d survived worse situations, he reminded himself. He’d faced death and lived to tell the tale.

With a grimace, Darragh pulled off his shirt, the fabric catching on the rough edges of his numerous scars. The chill of the castle seeped into his exposed skin, but he barely noticed, his attention fixated on the ugly marks marring his body. They were a mosaic of pain, each scar a story of survival, each one a testament to his resilience.

His reflection in the antique mirror on the wall haunted him. The man staring back at him was a warrior, a survivor. His eyes, once bright and full of life, now bore the weight of his past. His body, once unmarred, was now a canvas of pain.

The light from the flickering torches danced across his skin, highlighting the raised lines and jagged edges of his war wounds. He traced a particularly long scar with his fingers, the memory of the blade that left it still vivid in his mind. The pain, the fear, the desperation; it all came rushing back.

Yet, staring at his reflection, Darragh felt a flicker of pride. His scars were not just reminders of the horrors he’d endured. They were badges of honor, proof of his strength and his courage. He’d faced the worst that life could throw at him and emerged victorious.

With a final glance at his reflection, Darragh pulled his shirt back on, covering his scars, although they would always be there, still a part of him. He carried them with him, a constant reminder of his past, of his battles, of his survival.

The tumult outside grew louder, but Darragh was unfazed.

He sifted through the papers on the laird’s old desk, discovering documents detailing the brutal war between the MacNeil Clan and the MacLean Clan, a feud that had claimed too many lives. He scanned the faded ink, the reports of battles lost and won, of men who had died far too young. Each document was a piece of the bloody tapestry of their shared history.

A gasp escaped his lips when he read about how Laird MacNeil had kidnapped Laird MacLean’s wife and then murdered her. Now things made more sense, at least he could better understand his former enemy, Harris MacLean’s, reasons for acting as he did. As he set the papers aside, he thanked the heavens the feud was now a part of history, no longer a threat to his clan or the MacNeil Clan.

The dusty tomes lining the shelves beckoned to Darragh like sirens of lore. He trailed his fingers along their cracked spines, tempted to pull one out and unfold its ancient secrets. But his attention snagged on an ornate glimmer peeking out from the shadows.

Darragh nudged aside a pile of books, releasing a puff of dust that danced in the slanted sunlight. Before him stood a metal handle, intricately forged with swirling vines and leaves. It glinted with promise, out of place amid the faded leather covers surrounding it.

Unable to curb his curiosity, Darragh grasped the handle. It was cold and heavy in his palm. He gave it an exploratory tug, and to his surprise, the entire bookcase creaked and swung open, leading into unfathomable darkness.

Darragh’s heartbeat quickened, thudding against his ribs. What mysteries lay shrouded in this clandestine passage? He grabbed the closest lamp, and, steeling himself, Darragh stepped into the shadows, the bookcase grinding shut behind him. Lamp in hand, wary yet undaunted, Darragh delved into the unknown. With a fortifying breath, he followed, one step at a time.

Chapter Two

Six months later
MacNeil’s castle, Scotland

Lara traced the cracks in the stone walls with her eyes, counting each one for the thousandth time. The dim torchlight never changed, marking the endless passage of identical days trapped within these featureless walls. The cell seemed to grow smaller each day, the walls closing in as Lara’s hope faded. Insects crawled among the cracks in the damp stone, feasting on mold and fallen crumbs. Water dripped constantly from the ceiling, pooling in a moldy puddle by the waste bucket in the corner.

Lara spent her days perched on the edge of the thin mattress, too exhausted to move yet unable to sleep. Her skin had grown pale from lack of sunlight, her thin frame weakened by the meager rations she was given. The guards’ jeers and slurs rang in her ears, chipping away at her crumbling resolve.

On her worst days, Lara imagined clawing at the stone walls until her nails cracked and bled. Only the memory of open skies and green hills kept her tethered to consciousness, though the memories seemed to fade with each passing day.

There was nothing but the bed and a few tattered books. Most of the guards were callous, following orders to keep her imprisoned, but one older guard had shown her kindness. Lara noticed how he stealthily slipped her the books, glancing furtively up and down the hallway before shutting the cell door quietly behind him.

His voice was hushed as he muttered, “Something tae keep your mind busy. Dinnae let the others see.” Lara handled the fragile pages with care, gently smoothing out folded corners and wiping dust from the worn covers. They were her only escape from this place, transporting her to faraway lands and adventures through their pages.

Slowly Lara rose from the bed and walked cautiously to the massive door. She placed her ear against the cold metal, listening for any sign that the guards had noticed her movement.

Silence.

She slipped her hand under the thin mattress and withdrew a worn copy of a book she had read so many times the spine was falling apart.

As she sat cross-legged on the dusty floor, chapters and characters floated through her mind, briefly transporting her from the prison cell. Lara devoured every word, committing passages to memory like a mantra to ward off the oppressive solitude. A familiar loud clang interrupted her reading. The slot at the bottom of the door swung open, and a metal tray was shoved through, carrying the day’s meager meal.

Lara shoved the book under her thin dress and pressed it against her stomach, trying to hide the bulge with her arms. As she stood to collect the food tray, the guard’s suspicious gaze raked over her. Lara’s heart hammered as she met his eyes briefly, hoping her fear did not show. Lara breathed an inward sigh of relief when he didn’t seem to suspect anything and moved to eat, desperate to remain invisible to the guards watching her imprisonment.

The guard grunted. “Hurry up in there, would ye? I dinnae have all day.”

Lara ate as quickly as she could, hunger gnawing at her belly.

The guard’s nightstick rapped loudly against the cell door. “Quickly!” he barked.

Lara stiffened at his harsh tone and quickly swallowed the last mouthful of bread. Her hands trembled as she slid the tray back through the slot, a faint quaver in her voice as she muttered, “Here, sir.”

The guard scoffed. “Bet ye’re missing yer cozy hills and bagpipes. Too bad ye’ll be rotting in here forever.”

Lara balled her hands into fists, her bitten nails digging into her palms. She bowed her head to hide the tear welling in her eye, determined not to give in to her sorrow.

The guard sighed irritably. “Ach, quit yer moping.” With that, he slid the slot shut and stalked away, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

Lara was left alone in the chilling silence once more, the guard’s harsh words stinging. Curling up on her thin cot, she pulled out the tattered book again and began to read, hoping its pages would offer more kindness than the guard had shown.

After a few pages, she heard a tiny scratching sound. A small rat scurried out from a crack in the stone wall and stopped to nibble on some crumbs on the floor. Lara froze, not daring to move or make a sound. She hated rats, with their beady eyes and twitching noses. But she knew any noise could scare it into attacking her.

The rat looked up and saw Lara staring at it. It tilted its head curiously then went back to eating. Lara slowly turned the page, trying to focus on her reading and ignore the tiny rodent.

The animal finished its meal and started wandering around the cell, investigating Lara’s few belongings. It ran across her blanket then climbed up the bedpost out of sight.

Lara could hear the rodent scurrying above her, sending dust raining down. Her heart pounded as panic crept in. What if it fell on her face while she slept? She thought of the guard’s cruel words and shuddered at the thought of calling for help.

Gripping her book, Lara prayed the rat would leave on its own. She tried reading again but couldn’t focus, anxiously listening for any movement above her. Lara strained to hear the guards’ whispered conversation outside her cell. Snippets of words drifted through the small door slot.

“. . . murdered nearly a week past. Keir’s dead.”

“Violent death . . . a MacDonald I heard.”

The guards moved out of earshot, and Lara sank back on her thin bed, clutching the rough blanket.

So, Laird Keir MacNeil was dead. That snake who had tormented her during her long captivity, depriving her of food and water for days, laughing as she weakened and begged for mercy. The cruel glint in his eye as he inflicted every minor punishment he could devise was carved on her heart.

The rodent scurrying in the corner now went unnoticed. All Lara felt was savage glee that Keir was dead, that his reign of terror over her had at last been brought to an end, albeit not by her own hand.

Curling up on the thin mattress, Lara allowed herself a moment of vicious satisfaction. Keir was gone, and for now that was enough.

Lara pressed her ear to the cell door, listening as the two guards argued in hushed tones outside.

“Without the Laird, who’ll tell us what tae do with the lass?” one guard asked.

“Damned if I ken,” replied the other. “I’m nae acting without orders, that’s for sure.”

They fell silent, and Lara retreated from the door, cursing her confinement. Even with Keir dead, she remained trapped, the guards too fearful to release her without orders from above.

Lara paced the tiny cell, fingers tracing the rough stone walls as she had countless times before. Though Keir NacNeil’s demise brought her satisfaction, it changed nothing about her circumstances. Her freedom remained as elusive as ever.

The guards began conversing again. “She can rot in there for all I care,” said one. The other chuckled darkly.

Lara balled her hands into fists. What little hope she’d gained from her captor’s death faded as the guards’ callous words reached her ears. They would not release her out of decency or pity, but only when commanded from above.

With a sigh, Lara sank down on the thin mattress. She closed her eyes and fell into a light slumber. She was awoken by a sound.

She stared blankly at the stone ceiling above her, not moving an inch as the heavy wooden door slowly creaked open. The grating sound of iron hinges turning echoed off the bare walls. Lara continued gazing upward, eyes half-lidded. She knew with dull certainty it was only the guards, come to bring her meal of stale bread and greasy meat.

The footfalls that entered the cell were heavy, booted—the tread of a large man—yet at the same time surprisingly stealthy. There was no reason to stir, no point in engaging with her captors beyond what was absolutely necessary. So, Lara remained still upon the bed, hands folded limply across her stomach, as the steps drew nearer. She did not so much as turn her head when the figure almost reached her bed.

Then, a pool of light broke through her closed eyelids, forcing them open. Squinting against the unaccustomed glare of what she made out to be an oil lamp, Lara’s heart clamored in her chest as she struggled to make out the stranger’s features. She could tell only that he was tall, with a muscular build. His face was obscured in shadows. But then he held the lamp higher, and his face was revealed in detail. Lara’s pulse quickened, and she gasped at the sight which met her eyes.

A fearsome warrior stood before her, tall, broad chested, occupying most of the cell, and looking as if he could break her in two with one hand. She scampered backwards, seeking protection against the wall, panicking as she took in the intruder’s long, curling fair hair that fell beyond his shoulders and was knotted by a leather thong. Thick, stray locks the color of ripe wheat fell over a pair of gleaming black eyes that were fixed upon her.

For such a frightening figure, his features were surprisingly boyish, his lips firm and well-shaped, the planes of his face angular and perfectly symmetrical, with a strong chin beneath dark stubble. Yet she saw that his handsome looks were somewhat marred by a tracery of scars, clearly marks of past battles, that seamed his face.

Lara recoiled, her back pressing against the cold stone wall. This fearsome stranger was clearly no liberator. She trembled uncontrollably as he approached her where she cowered on the rotten straw, his hulking frame seeming to fill the cell.

He reached out a massive hand, bent, and grasped her chin, forcing her to look up into his eyes, his touch surprisingly gentle. Lara choked back a scream, her mind flooding with visions of the unspeakable violence this disfigured giant could inflict upon her helpless form. As she stared up at him, heart hammering wildly, she realized with dread that her nightmare was only just beginning.

Lara’s breath froze in her lungs. Was he here on MacNeil’s orders, to drag her to some new torture?

The man let go of her chin and stood up. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Are ye all right, lass? What are ye doing here?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Lara’s eyes snapped wide in surprise at the gentle tone. She studied the scarred face hovering over her, noting the concern in his dark eyes. He was younger than she expected, perhaps only a few years her senior.

“Can ye stand? Here, let me help ye.” He extended a hand cautiously, as if afraid she might startle and flee.

Lara hesitated, then placed her palm in his, allowing him to gently assist her to her feet. His hand was huge and calloused, made for war, but the grip was tender, as if he was mindful of her frailty.

“What’s yer name?” he prompted when she remained silent.

“Lara,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from lack of use.

As the stranger helped her stand, Lara acted on pure instinct born of horror and desperation. With strength she didn’t know she possessed, she wrenched away from him and made a frantic bolt for the open cell door. Freedom was so close, just a few strides away.

But the strange man moved with startling speed, catching her arm before she could escape. She cried out in dismay and whirled on him, claws extended to rake his face.

He captured her delicate wrists in his hands, firmly yet gently. “Easy, lass, I’ll nae hurt ye,” he rumbled. Though he could have easily overpowered her, he did not force her compliance.

Chest heaving, Lara stared up at him with wide, frightened eyes. She trembled in his grasp like a captured bird. Slowly, he released her hands and stepped back, showing he did not intend to restrain her.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice low and soothing. “I only wish tae help ye leave this place, but if ye run off, the guards will likely catch ye. Now, ye must tell me why ye’re here.”

Lara hesitated, wavering between trust and fear. There was concern in the man’s scarred face, and his touch had been free of malice. Perhaps she had mistaken his intentions. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

“Ye need nae be afraid,” he murmured.

Lara sagged in defeat. Even if she managed to slip past this stranger, she knew the guards outside would recapture her at once. For now, the only hope of freedom lay in listening to what he had to say. And maybe telling him the truth about what had happened to her. But not just yet.

“Why should I trust ye?” she asked, eyeing him doubtfully.

The stranger paused and nodded slightly. “Ye have nae reason to as of yet.” He shifted his massive frame, causing Lara to flinch back instinctively.

“Please, be at ease,” he rasped. “I mean ye nae harm. My name is Darragh, and I’ve come tae set ye free.”

Lara hesitated. Is he sincere? No, I cannae trust him. If he’s saving me as he claims, he’ll surely want something in return. Most likely gold, a ransom from me faither no doubt. “And at what cost are ye saving me?” she challenged him. “What do ye gain from me escape?”

A flash of irritation crossed Darragh’s face before he schooled his features, but it was enough to confirm Lara’s suspicions that he was hiding something. “I gain nothing,” he replied. “I simply wish tae help one in need.”

Lara studied his brutal visage, taking in the hard lines of his jaw, the mesh of scars covering him, and the thick, muscular arms clearly accustomed to inflicting violence. She thought of the cruelty of her captors and how unlikely it seemed that this scarred brute had come to save her merely out of kindness.

As Lara remained silent, Darragh took a step towards her, causing her to flatten herself against the wall. His massive frame filled the door of the tiny cell until she felt like a helpless rabbit in the sights of a hulking predator ready to pounce.

“Come,” he beckoned, extending a hand.

Lara eyed his hand warily, not missing how his tight grip could easily crush her fingers. Though he promised freedom, everything about him spoke of menace and deceit. Lara thought of the guards’ taunts and blows, and wondered if this stranger’s intentions were any less cruel.

His reassuring words swam in Lara’s head like lifeless fish, devoid of meaning. Freedom was an illusion, an empty promise meant to tease her fraying senses.

Yet when she searched his scarred face for any sign of deception, she saw only a guarded sincerity. Perhaps he was not trying to fool her but had his own secrets to keep. Her panic began to subside, to be replaced by a flicker of hope.

“But why are ye freeing me?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Because nae one deserves tae be trapped like this,” Darragh replied.

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