Alasdair came up the stairs two at a time and pushed into the solar, the door closing behind him with a dull thud that echoed faintly off the stone.
Heat from the hearth met him at once, sinking into muscle and bone, easing the bite left by the cold air. His shoulders still ached from training, sweat cooling at his temples, his body caught in that familiar space between readiness and release.
Then he saw her.
Marsaili stood by the hearth, firelight spilling over her hair and the soft fall of her skirts, loosened now. Their son rested against her hip, red cheeked and lively, his small hands fisted in her sleeve while she spoke to him in a low, intimate murmur. The tone was one she never used elsewhere, gentle and playful and utterly unguarded.
The child answered her with a gurgle of pure delight, legs kicking, face bright with the simple certainty of being safe.
Alasdair stopped where he was.
The sight struck him without warning, a clean, almost painful pull in his chest. This was not something he had fought for with blade or command. This was the thing that had come after, quiet and miraculous, and it undid him more completely than any battle ever had.
For a moment, he could only stand there and breathe.
It still surprised him, how quickly that warmth came now, how instinctively his attention narrowed to them. Once, his mind would have catalogued exits, listened for raised voices in the keep, measured the weight of responsibility pressing at his back. Now, for a moment at least, there was only that: Marsaili, steady and bright, and the small life they had made together, whole and safe in her arms.
He closed the door quietly behind him.
Marsaili looked up at once. Her eyes met his across the room, and the smile that spread over her face was immediate and unguarded.
“There ye are,” she said, adjusting their son higher on her hip as he wriggled. “Did training run long?”
“A bit,” Alasdair said, his voice still rough from exertion as he crossed the room. He unbuckled his belt and set it aside without looking, his attention already fixed on her. “Are ye well?”
The question came out low, unadorned, shaped by habit but sharpened by care. He asked it the way he now asked everything that mattered. Marsaili knew it for what it was and did not soften it with humor.
“I am,” she said quietly. “Just tired.”
He let his gaze travel over her without hurry, the old instinct still there but softened now, no longer sharp with fear. She stood easily enough, one hand braced at her lower back, the other firm around their son. There was color in her cheeks, warmth rather than strain, and the faint curve of her belly was unmistakable now beneath the soft folds of her gown, a quiet declaration of what was already growing between them again.
The sight settled into his chest with a weight that felt almost reverent.
“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the child.
Marsaili’s mouth curved, knowing and fond. “I was wonderin’ how long ye’d last before askin’.”
She shifted their son toward him, and Alasdair stepped in at once, hands lifting with practiced care, adjusting his grip instinctively as he took Callum into his arms. The boy settled against his chest without fuss, small and solid, one hand curling into the wool of Alasdair’s training tunic as though it were the most natural place in the world.
The contact landed deep.
Callum’s head tucked beneath his chin, warm and impossibly soft, his breath puffing faintly against Alasdair’s throat. He smelled of smoke and milk and something sweet from the kitchen, familiar scents braided together into something that felt like home. Alasdair drew a slow breath and felt it catch, just slightly, as the weight of his son anchored him there.
He had held him from the first day, had learned the careful awkwardness of it, the fear of doing something wrong, of breaking something precious through ignorance alone. Now the weight felt right in his arms, familiar in a way nothing else ever had.
Callum made a pleased sound, a soft gurgle that vibrated against Alasdair’s chest, and then lifted a clumsy hand to pat at his collarbone with earnest determination.
Alasdair huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.
“Easy there,” he murmured, his voice dropping without thought, shaped for this small, close distance. “I ken ye think yerself a warrior already, but ye neednae test yer strength on me.”
Callum answered with another delighted noise, fingers tightening in the fabric of Alasdair’s tunic as though he took the warning as encouragement.
“Aye, that’s it,” Alasdair went on softly, his thumb brushing over the small, warm curve of his son’s shoulder. “Grip tight. The world’s slippery, an’ it daesnae always give ye much tae hold on tae.”
The words surprised him even as he spoke them. He did not pull them back.
Callum’s head shifted, settling more firmly beneath his chin, and Alasdair closed his eyes for a moment, letting the steady weight of his son press into him, letting the sound of Marsaili’s quiet presence nearby fill the space the rest of the world no longer reached.
His chest ached with it.
When he opened them again, his gaze lifted to her, to the soft strength in her posture, the life she carried so calmly, so fiercely.
Marsaili laughed quietly, leaning back against the hearthstone as she watched them. There was affection in her gaze, but also something else, something thoughtful and assessing, the way she always looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.
He moved closer to her without thinking, drawn by habit and by want in equal measure. With the child secure in one arm, he reached out with his free hand, resting it gently against Marsaili’s belly.
The contact sent a quiet jolt through him.
There was life there again. Another heartbeat they had created, growing beneath his palm, unseen but already altering the shape of his world. He swallowed, his throat tightening unexpectedly.
For a moment he said nothing. Words had never come easily to him in moments that mattered most. He had been taught to act, to decide, to carry responsibility without complaint. Feeling, however, had always been something he managed privately, contained and disciplined.
But this felt too important to leave unspoken.
“I want ye tae ken something,” he said at last, his voice low, steady, meant for her and for the small body pressed against his chest. “Both o’ ye.”
Marsaili stilled, her attention sharpening at once..
He looked down at their son first, at the wide, curious eyes staring up at him without fear. Then his gaze lifted to Marsaili, to the woman who had changed the shape of his life.
“I’ll nae have favorites,” he said simply. “Nay matter how many come after. Each o’ ye will have the same from me. Me time. Me patience. Me protection.”
His hand pressed more firmly at her belly, as though the promise itself needed anchoring.
“I was raised tae believe duty comes before comfort,” he went on, the words coming more easily now that he had begun. “And I ken I’ll fail at times. I’ll be too stern, too quiet. I’ll expect too much o’ meself and, mayhap, ye.”
Marsaili’s expression softened, but she did not look away.
“But I swear this,” Alasdair said, his voice roughening despite his control. “Ye’ll always ken ye’re loved. They’ll ken what’s right and wrong, and they’ll ken I’d stand between them and the world without hesitation.”
The child shifted against him, his small hand curling tighter, and Alasdair felt the truth of the vow settle into his bones.
Marsaili reached out then, her hand covering his where it rested against her stomach, her fingers warm and steady.
“Ye already dae all that,” she said quietly. “Every day.”
He looked at her, really looked, and the certainty in her gaze undid him more than praise ever could have.
“I try,” he said, honest to the core.
She smiled at that, the kind of smile she reserved for moments when truth mattered more than reassurance. She leaned in, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her even with the child between them.
“I ken,” she said. “And that’s why ye’re already a good faither.”
The words settled into him slowly, finding purchase in places long accustomed to doubt. He bent his head, resting his brow briefly against hers, careful not to jostle the child.
The baby made a soft, indignant noise at being momentarily ignored, and Marsaili laughed again, reaching up to smooth a hand over the boy’s hair.
“See?” she said. “He agrees.”
Alasdair huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, tightening his hold just slightly. He shifted the child more securely and leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Marsaili’s mouth. It carried the weight of a year of peace, of nights woken by cries rather than alarms, of mornings begun with warmth rather than dread.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers once more, his hand still at her belly, his son solid and real against his chest.
For the first time he could remember, Alasdair did not think ahead to what might threaten that moment. He did not measure the future for risk. He let himself stand there, in the hearth-warm solar of his keep, holding his family, and allowed the truth of it to settle fully at last.
Don’t miss the link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
Freuchie Castle, 1450
Marsaili MacBain had ten days left of freedom, and she was spending them in hell.
The great hall of Freuchie Castle roared with voices raised in jest and argument, the clatter of cups on wooden tables, the scrape of benches across rushes that smelled of herbs and old ale.
Torches blazed in their sconces along the stone walls, casting flickering shadows that made the tapestries seem to move with lives of their own. Grant warriors in their plaids crowded the long tables, fists wrapped around horns of ale, faces flushed with drink and the heat of too many bodies packed too close. Serving girls wove between them with practiced grace, dodging wandering hands and carrying platters of roasted venison that made the air thick with grease and smoke.
Her brother Tavish had excused himself early, claiming exhaustion from the day’s travel. She envied him his escape.
Across the table, Gavin Grant leaned back in his chair, his face flushed red beneath golden hair that fell carelessly across his forehead, his head tipped close to the ear of a warrior whose name she did not know. His laughter cracked through the hall, loud and coarse, ending in a bark that made several men turn. He lifted his hand in answer to them, knocking over his cup, ale slopping over his knuckles.
His gaze slid toward her.
“Best view in the hall,” he called, voice thick with drink, eyes sweeping over her in a way that lingered far too long for her comfort. “Worth the wait, I’d say.”
A few men laughed. One elbowed another. The serving girl nearest the table ducked her head and moved on.
Marsaili did not react.
She kept her eyes forward, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as though the words had passed somewhere behind her, unworthy of notice. She let the remark fall to the rushes like his spilled ale, already forgotten.
Ten days, she thought, with a steadiness that surprised even her. She had endured ten days of watching Gavin Grant drink himself into foolishness each night while she smiled and nodded and pretended this was bearable.
She kept her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, her expression serene. It was a mask she had worn since arriving at Freuchie Castle. Since the morning her oldest brother Fionnlagh had clasped her shoulders and told her this marriage would save their people.
Years o’ raids and bloodshed, he had said, his dark eyes heavy with the weight of leadership only recently inherited.
I wouldnae ask if there was another way. This marriage can end the border feud, Marsaili. Ye can end it.
She understood, but it offered little comfort when she sat beside Gavin Grant and caught the sharp tang of ale on his breath as he leaned too near, his gaze lingering with an ease that made her skin tighten beneath her gown.
“More wine, me lady?”
Marsaili looked up to find a young serving girl hovering at her elbow, pitcher in hand. The girl could not have been more than fifteen, her eyes downcast, her movements careful. Marsaili recognized the wariness in her posture, the same wariness she herself felt.
“Nay, thank ye,” Marsaili said quietly, offering a small smile she hoped was reassuring.
The girl bobbed a curtsy and withdrew at once, her relief evident in the quickness of her retreat, and Marsaili reached for her cup, taking a measured sip of the watered wine, just enough to ease the dryness in her throat without dulling her awareness. Her gaze drifted then, skimming the press of bodies and torchlight with practiced detachment, passing over faces and movement, until it slowed and stilled of its own accord.
Laird Alasdair Grant stood near the far wall in quiet conversation with several of his men, his height setting him apart even in a crowded hall, his presence defined by the space that seemed to settle naturally around him. His broad shoulders carried the shape of years of battle, and his dark hair was cut short and plainly. When he turned his head, the firelight caught a faint scar tracing from just below his ear toward the corner of his mouth, a mark that lent his face a magnetic severity.
There was no effort in the way he held himself, no seeking of notice, yet her attention fixed all the same, drawn and held with a quiet insistence she had not invited. Where Gavin’s voice and gaze pressed at her without permission, demanding acknowledgment she refused to grant, Alasdair required none at all, commanding her awareness through stillness alone.
Marsaili became aware that she was watching longer than courtesy allowed. She lowered her gaze only after the realization took shape, lifting her cup again with steady hands.
Even then, her attention lingered.
The brothers shared blood and little else, moving through the same hall as their paths curved away from one another like opposing forces, and she found herself wondering when she ought to stop noticing the space Alasdair occupied, and why the thought of doing so came with a resistance she could not quite understand.
As though he felt the weight of her attention, Alasdair’s gaze lifted unhurried toward the high table, and for a brief, unguarded moment his eyes met hers.
They were the color of winter skies, cold and clear, and the contact struck deeper than she expected, something tightening low in her chest as if her breath had been checked without warning. His look held a sharp, measuring focus that made her acutely aware of herself, of the seat she occupied, of the bargain she represented in that hall.
She could not tell what passed through his expression then, whether the hardness she sensed was meant for her, but the weight of it lingered all the same, heavy enough that when he turned away and returned his attention to his men, the space he left behind felt abruptly altered.
Marsaili lowered her gaze an instant later than she should have, her heart beating fast, unsettled by the certainty that something had shifted, however briefly, and could not be undone.
She lowered her eyes before the sight could settle, smoothing her expression into something neutral as she reached again for her cup.
She felt the heavy rhythm of approaching steps cutting through the din and looked up in time to see Gavin bearing down on her at last, his stride uneven, his balance careless, the space at her side still conspicuously empty until he reached it.
That seat had been meant for him, but he had chosen ale and disrespect instead.
The chair scraped harshly as Gavin flung himself into it, landing with a graceless thud that sent a jolt through the table, and before she could draw a full breath he leaned toward her, crowding her space, the sharp bite of whisky rushing over her as his mouth curved in a smile meant to please himself.
Then, his hand fell on her thigh beneath the table.
Marsaili went rigid. The touch was intentional. His palm was hot through the fabric of her gown, fingers squeezing possessively, claiming what he believed was already his. Her heart kicked against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct screamed at her to jerk away, to slap his hand aside, to make a scene that would echo through the hall.
But she had a terrifying suspicion that resistance would only make him worse.
She shifted in her seat by a fraction, careful and controlled, angling her body just enough to ease the pressure of his hand without drawing notice, her gaze steady ahead as though nothing had changed, as though her skin had not tightened beneath his grasp. Her face remained serene, as though his proximity meant nothing at all.
“Why dae ye pull away from me, lass?” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “We are tae be wed soon. Ye’ll need tae grow used tae closeness.”
Heat flooded Marsaili’s face—rage, white-hot and consuming. She swallowed it down like poison, forced her expression to remain calm. To anyone watching, they would appear as nothing more than a betrothed couple sharing quiet words, but Marsaili’s instincts knew there was nothing innocent about his words.
“Ye are shy,” Gavin continued softly, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But ye neednae be. A fortnight passes quickly, and then we shall grow more accustomed tae one another.”
Marsaili’s jaw tightened, but she kept her gaze forward.
She reached for her cup and took another sip of wine because it gave her hands something to do that was not wrapping around Gavin Grant’s throat.
A serving girl approached with a pitcher, moving to refill the cups at the high table. Gavin’s attention shifted immediately, his hand leaving Marsaili as he reached out to catch the girl’s wrist. The girl froze, eyes wide, the pitcher trembling in her grip.
“And what is yer name, lass?” Gavin asked, his voice dropping to what he likely believed was seductive. “Such bonnie eyes ye have.”
The girl’s smile was strained, practiced. “Thank ye, me laird. But I must finish me duties-”
Gavin pulled her closer. “Tell me yer name.”
Marsaili looked away. She could not watch this.
Her gaze searched for Alasdair Grant once more, but Gavin’s laugh rang out again, pulling her attention back. He had released the serving girl, who fled with relief written across her face. Now he was deep in conversation with the men around him, gesturing broadly with his cup.
“And I say marriage is a fine thing fer a man,” Gavin declared, his voice carrying just enough for nearby tables to hear. “A wife tae warm the hearth, tae manage the household…” He paused, taking a long drink, his eyes sliding to Marsaili with a look that made her skin crawl. “Tae provide all manner o’ comforts a man requires.”
The words were acceptable enough on the surface, but the way Gavin said them made Marsaili’s stomach turn.
Marsaili stood. The movement was smooth, graceful, giving no indication of the fury boiling beneath her skin.
“Me laird,” she said, her voice perfectly controlled. “I must retire. The hour grows late.”
Gavin turned to her, his expression shifting from surprise to petulance. “Already? But the night is young! Sit, lass. Enjoy the feast.”
It was a polite lie but it gave her an escape, and she seized it before Gavin could think of a reason to keep her at his side.
“As ye wish,” Gavin said, his hand reaching for hers. Marsaili stepped back before he could touch her, the movement quick enough to look like an accident. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he was too drunk to press the matter. “Rest well, wife-tae-be. I shall see ye soon.”
Chapter Two
Marsaili walked quickly through the cold corridors, her slippers whispering against the stone as she passed beneath tapestries depicting Grant victories in battles long past, their stitched figures looming in the torchlight. The guest wing lay far enough from the great hall that the noise thinned with every step, laughter and music fading to a dull, distant echo, and she welcomed the silence with a force that surprised her, her breath only beginning to steady once the shadows deepened and no voices followed.
She had been grateful for the distance on every night of her stay, but never more so than now, moving through the darkened passages with the weight of the evening still clinging to her skin, her pulse slow to settle despite the quiet closing in around her.
Her chambers were at the end of the corridor. A single door, heavy oak bound with iron. She pushed it open and stepped inside, letting the door close behind her with a solid thud that felt like a sanctuary.
“Me lady.”
Una, Marsaili’s maid since they were both girls, rose from the chair by the fire, setting aside her mending. She was a few years older than Marsaili, practical and steady, with brown hair tucked beneath a simple kerchief. Her presence here was one of the few comforts Marsaili had.
The room was warm at least, the fire in the hearth driving back the autumn chill that seeped through the stone walls. Candles flickered on the small table by the window. Marsaili’s nightgown lay across the bed, already warmed by proximity to the flames.
“The feast ended early fer ye, I see,” Una said, moving to help Marsaili with the lacings of her gown. Her fingers were quick and practiced, loosening the tight bindings that had had held Marsaili imprisoned in formal clothing since dawn.
“I could bear nay more o’ it,” Marsaili admitted quietly. There, with only Una to hear, she could allow some of the careful control to slip. “He grows worse each night.”
Una’s mouth tightened but she said nothing. What was there to say? They both knew what awaited Marsaili. Both knew there was no escape.
The gown fell away, leaving Marsaili in her linen shift. Una helped her into the nightgown, the fabric soft and worn from many washings. It was one of Marsaili’s own, brought from home. She held onto that small thing, that tiny piece of MacBain lands wrapped around her body.
“Will there be anything else, me lady?” Una asked.
“Nay, thank ye. Rest well.”
Una curtsied and gathered up the discarded gown. She moved toward the door, then paused and looked back. Her eyes were worried in the firelight.
“It will nae always be so difficult,” she said quietly. “Marriage is hard at first fer many women. But ye will adjust. Ye are strong, me lady. Stronger than ye ken.”
Marsaili nodded because Una needed to believe it, even though she herself did not.
Una left, closing the door softly behind her. The latch fell into place with a quiet click. Marsaili stood alone in the center of the room and felt the walls pressing in.
She moved to the table and began unpinning her hair. The dark chestnut curls fell around her shoulders in waves, released from the careful arrangement Una had created that morning. Marsaili’s fingers worked through the pins methodically, setting each one on the table with small sounds like dropped coins. When the last pin was removed, she shook her head slightly, letting her hair settle past her shoulders to the small of her back.
She caught sight of herself in the polished metal mirror propped on the table. Her reflection was distorted, wavering, but she could see enough. The shadows beneath her hazel eyes. The tightness around her mouth. The weariness that had settled into her bones.
Behind her, the door opened.
Marsaili did not turn immediately. She assumed it was Una returning with the nightly herbs she sometimes brought, the mixture of chamomile and valerian that helped Marsaili sleep. She reached for another hairpin, though all had already been removed.
“Ye may leave them on the table, Una,” she said. “Thank ye.”
But the footsteps that entered were wrong, too heavy and unsteady. The sound of boots rather than soft slippers.
Marsaili turned. Her breath caught in her throat.
Gavin Grant stood in her doorway. His blond hair was disheveled, his doublet unlaced, showing the linen shirt beneath. His eyes were glassy with drink, unfocused and bright. He swayed slightly as he pushed the door closed behind him. Marsaili heard the latch fall into place with a sound like doom.
“Did ye think tae escape me so easily, lass?” Gavin said, his words slightly slurred. He took a step toward her.
Marsaili moved back, putting the bed between them. “Ye should nae be here. Leave at once.”
“But I am here, am I nae?” He laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. Another step. “And ye are tae be me wife.”
“In a fortnight,” she said sharply. “Nae tonight.”
His smile widened, showing too many teeth. “What difference daes it make? A fortnight, a sennight, a day?”
She turned away from him in disgust, unable to bear the sight of his leering face.
“We are tae be wed,” he said, his voice dropping lower as he moved closer. “I see nay harm in claiming what is already mine.”
Fear flooded Marsaili’s veins like ice water. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt. She backed away without thinking, her body moving before her mind could catch up. Her hip struck the table behind her. The metal mirror clattered, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.
She opened her mouth to command him out of her chambers. To scream for help. But her voice had fled. Terror had stolen it, left her mute and frozen.
This cannae be happening.
Gavin took a step toward her. Then another.
Marsaili’s voice returned in a rush as she stared at Gavin. “Get out.”
The words came out stronger than she expected, cutting through the silence like a blade. Gavin paused, surprise flickering across his face.
“Get out o’ me chambers,” Marsaili said again, forcing steel into her voice. “Ye are drunk. Leave now, before ye dae something ye will regret.”
Gavin laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. “Regret? What is there tae regret?” He took another step forward. “We are betrothed, lass. What happens between us is nay one’s concern but our own.”
Marsaili’s mind raced. The door was behind him, blocked. The window was too small and too high to provide escape. The only furniture between them was the small table and the bed. She grabbed the metal mirror from the table, holding it like a weapon.
“Stay away from me,” she said.
Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “Put that down.”
“Nay.” Marsaili backed around the table, keeping it between them. “Leave me chambers. Now.”
“Or what?” Gavin moved to follow her, circling the table slowly. “Ye will strike me with that toy? Go ahead, lass.”
Marsaili’s grip tightened on the mirror. Her whole body was shaking but she forced herself to stay calm, to think. She had to get past him to the door.
Gavin lunged.
Marsaili swung the mirror at his face. The edge caught his cheek, drawing blood. Gavin roared and stumbled back, one hand flying to his face. Marsaili darted toward the door, her bare feet silent on the stone floor.
Her hand touched the door latch.
She almost made it. Then Gavin’s hand closed around her arm and yanked her back. Marsaili cried out and twisted in his grip, trying to wrench free. But he was stronger, bigger, and the whisky had burned away whatever restraint he might have possessed.
“Ye little bitch,” Gavin snarled, his other hand reaching for her.
Marsaili brought her knee up hard between his legs. Gavin’s eyes went wide and his grip loosened just enough for Marsaili to tear free and run.
She fled through the door and into the corridor, her torn nightgown streaming behind her like a tattered banner. Her breath came in ragged gasps that burned her throat. Behind her, she could hear Gavin’s heavy footsteps, his cursing, the sound of him recovering and giving chase.
That part of the castle was empty at that hour. The feast still raged in the great hall on the opposite side, which meant the corridors near the guest wing were deserted. There was no one to hear her if she screamed.
She kept running, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man chasing her.
Marsaili’s mind raced. Where could she go? The great hall was too far. So were her brother’s chambers. There was nowhere close that could be safe.
Gavin’s hand caught the back of her nightgown.
Marsaili felt the fabric pull tight, choking her. She twisted violently, heard the sound again of tearing cloth, and wrenched free. But the movement cost her balance. She stumbled, her hand catching the wall to steady herself.
His hands grabbed her shoulders and slammed her back against it. The impact of the stone wall drove the air from Marsaili’s lungs. Stars exploded across her vision. She opened her mouth to scream but Gavin’s hand clamped over it, cutting off the sound.
“Ye think ye can run from me?” he snarled, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot and sour with whisky. Blood still dripped from the scratches on his cheek where she had struck him with the mirror. “Ye are mine tae dae wi’ as I please.”
“Nay!” The word tore from her throat as she tried to crawl forward. “Get off me!”
Gavin dragged her back, his weight pressing down on her. Marsaili kicked and thrashed, her nails clawing at the stone, seeking purchase.
She screamed. It ripped through her chest and throat, raw and unshaped, the sound carrying her fear into the cold stone around her.
“Shut up!” Gavin’s hand found her mouth again, but Marsaili twisted her head and screamed again before he could silence her. The sound was raw, primal, everything she had been holding back for ten days finally breaking free.
David looked up from the ledger he’d been reviewing to find Malcolm standing in the doorway of his study, holding a sealed parchment. The royal crest was unmistakable—red wax stamped with the crown and thistle.
“Let me guess. Another invitation tae court that’s actually a summons in disguise.”
“I wouldnae ken, me laird. I havenae opened it.” But Malcolm’s expression suggested he had a pretty good idea of what it contained.
David set down his quill and held out his hand. “Let’s see what His Grace wants this time.”
The seal broke easily under his fingers. David unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the elegant script. With each line, his jaw tightened further.
Laird MacDonald,
It has come tae Our attention that ye remain unmarried despite having reached an age where such an alliance would benefit both yer clan and the realm. We have been patient, understanding that the responsibilities of leadership often leave little time fer personal matters.
However, we feel the time has come fer ye tae take a wife. An English wife, tae be precise. Such a union would strengthen the bonds between the two kingdoms and demonstrate yer loyalty tae the crown.
We request yer presence at Alnwick Castle one month hence tae discuss suitable arrangements.
Yer cooperation in this matter is expected and appreciated.
His Majesty’s Regent, John Stewart, Duke of Albany, acting on behalf of King James V
David read it twice more, his anger building with each pass.
“Well?” Malcolm’s voice was carefully neutral. “What daes it say?”
“The Duke of Albany wants me tae marry an English bride of his choosin’.” David’s voice was flat. “And by ‘wants,’ I mean he’s all but commanded it.”
“Ah.” Malcolm moved into the study, closing the door behind him. “That’s… unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate.” David barked out a laugh with no humor in it. “That’s one word fer it. Controllin’. Presumptuous. Another attempt tae turn Highland lairds into obedient English puppets, those are other words fer it.”
“Ye could refuse.”
“Could I?” David stood, moving to the window. Below, the courtyard bustled with activity—guards training, servants going about their work, the normal rhythm of castle life. “The Regent ‘requests’ me presence. ‘Expects’ me cooperation. That’s nae a request, Malcolm. That’s an order wrapped in polite language.”
“What will ye dae?”
“I dinnae ken yet.” David’s hands curled into fists against the windowsill. “But I’ll be damned if I let the Duke choose me wife like I’m some pawn tae be moved around his political game board.”
“Ye’ve already been moved around his political game board,” Malcolm pointed out. “The Covenant saw tae that.”
The words hit harder than David cared to admit. The Covenant, that agreement forged when he was a boy, binding him to four other Highland lairds in brotherhood. It had shaped his entire life. His training. His education. His responsibilities.
He’d never had a choice in any of it.
And now the Crown wanted to take away another choice. The most personal choice a man could make.
“The Covenant was different,” David said, though even he didn’t believe it. “That was about alliance. Protection. Survivin’ in a hostile world.”
“And this isnae?”
“This is about control. About the Crown showin’ it can dictate terms even tae Highland lairds who’ve served him loyally fer years.” David turned from the window. “I willnae dae it. I willnae marry some English rose they’ve picked out just tae prove I’m obedient.”
“Then what’s yer alternative?” Malcolm’s voice was pragmatic. “Ye cannae just ignore a royal summons. And ye cannae refuse tae marry without consequence. The Duke will see it as defiance.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what it should be.”
“Me laird.” Malcolm’s tone turned serious. “I ken ye’re angry. Ye have every right tae be. But ye need tae think carefully about this. Ye’re nae just a man anymore. Ye’re Laird of Clan MacDonald. Every decision ye make affects hundreds of people who depend on ye.”
“I ken that.” David slumped back into his chair. “Ye think I dinnae ken that? Every day I make decisions that could mean life or death fer this clan. And I accept that responsibility. But this—” He gestured at the letter. “This is different. This is personal.”
“Personal decisions are still political decisions when ye’re a laird.”
“Then maybe I’m tired of being a laird.” The words came out before David could stop them.
Malcolm’s eyebrows rose. “Ye dinnae mean that.”
“Ye think?” David ran a hand through his hair. “What if I dae? What if I’m tired of every aspect of me life being dictated by duty and politics and what’s good fer the clan? What if I want something that’s just mine?”
“Like what?”
“Like the right tae choose me own wife. Or nae marry at all. Or—” He stopped, recognizing he was spiraling. “I just ken I’m tired of being controlled.”
Malcolm was quiet for a long moment. Then he moved to the chair opposite David’s desk and sat, something he rarely did without invitation.
“I’m going tae tell ye something ye might nae want tae hear,” the steward said. “But ye need tae hear it anyway.”
“Go on.”
“Ye’re nae tired of being controlled. Ye’re tired of being alone.” Malcolm held up a hand to forestall David’s protest. “Let me finish. Ye’ve been laird fer eight years. Eight years of makin’ every decision, carryin’ every burden, with nay one tae share the weight with. Yer maither’s gone. Yer faither’s gone. Even yer uncle, terrible as he was, is gone. Ye’ve got the Covenant braithers, aye, but they have their own clans, their own problems. And ye’ve got me and Tristan and the others, but we’re nae—”
“Nae family,” David finished quietly.
“Aye. Nae family. And I think part of ye wants that. Wants someone who’s just yers. Someone who chooses ye, nae because of yer title or yer clan or yer responsibilities, but because of ye.”
David stared at his steward, feeling uncomfortably seen. “When did ye become a philosopher?”
“I’ve been watchin’ ye fer eight years, me laird. Ye learn things.” Malcolm stood. “So here’s me advice, fer what it’s worth. Go tae Alnwick. Meet this lady the Crown has chosen. And if she’s terrible, if she’s completely unsuitable, then ye’ll have grounds tae refuse without seemin’ like ye’re just being defiant.”
“And if she’s nae terrible?”
“Then maybe ye’ll find what ye’re lookin’ fer.” Malcolm moved toward the door. “Either way, ye need to go. Ignorin’ the summons will only make things worse.”
After Malcolm left, David sat alone in his study, the Duke’s letter on his desk like an accusation.
A month. He had a month to figure out what to do.
He could go to Alnwick, meet this mystery bride, and hope she was unsuitable enough to give him a legitimate reason to refuse. But what if she wasn’t? What if she was perfectly pleasant and appropriate and everything a Highland laird’s wife should be?
Could he refuse her then? Could he look the Duke in the eye and say no, he wouldn’t marry the woman specifically chosen to tie him closer to England?
And what would the consequences be? For him. For his clan.
David stood and moved to the window again. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Beautiful. Peaceful.
He’d protected the peace, the prosperity through careful politics, strategic alliances, and yes, sometimes through compromises that stuck in his throat.
But this felt different. This felt like one compromise too many.
A knock at the door interrupted his brooding. “Enter.”
Tristan stepped in, his expression concerned. “Malcolm said ye received another letter from the Crown.”
“Aye.” David gestured to the parchment on his desk. “Read it.”
Tristan picked up the letter, his expression growing darker with each line. When he finished, he set it down carefully, as though it might explode.
“Well,” he said finally. “That’s unfortunate.”
“That’s what Malcolm said.”
“Because it’s true.” Tristan moved to stand beside David at the window. “What are ye going tae dae?”
“I dinnae ken. Malcolm thinks I should go. Meet this woman. Hope she’s terrible.”
“And what dae ye think?”
David was quiet for a long moment. “I think I’m tired of being a good little laird who daes what he’s told. I think I’ve spent me entire life following rules set by other people. And I think maybe it’s time I made me own rules.”
“That’s a dangerous way tae think when dealin’ with kings.”
“Aye. It is.” David turned from the window. “But I mean it, Tristan. I’m done being controlled. By the Covenant. By politics. By the king. I’m done.”
“So what’s yer plan?”
“I dinnae have one yet. But I will.” David’s voice hardened with determination. “I’ll go tae Alnwick like the Regent wants. I’ll be polite and respectful. But I’ll nae marry whoever he’s chosen. I’ll find a way around it. I’ll find—”
He stopped, an idea beginning to form.
“What?” Tristan asked, recognizing the look on his friend’s face. “What are ye thinkin’?”
“The Duke wants me tae marry an English bride. That’s what he said in the letter, aye?”
“Aye.”
“But he dinnae specify which English bride.” David’s mind was racing now. “He said a lady of appropriate station. But that’s vague. That could be anyone.”
“David.” Tristan’s voice held warning. “What are ye plannin’?”
“I’m plannin’ tae give the Regent exactly what he asked for.” A smile—sharp and slightly reckless—crossed David’s face. “An English bride of appropriate station. Just nae the one he chose.”
“And how dae ye plan tae find this alternate bride in less than a month?”
“I dinnae ken yet. But I will.” David felt energy surge through him for the first time since receiving the letter. “I’ll find a way tae give the Duke what he wants while keepin’ control of me own choices. I just need tae think.”
“This is insane.”
“Probably.”
“Ye’re going tae cause a diplomatic incident.”
“Possibly.”
“And ye might end up making everything worse instead of better.”
“Aye. I might.” David turned to face his friend fully. “But I’d rather try and fail on me own terms than succeed at being obedient. I’ve been obedient me whole life, Tristan. And where has it gotten me? Alone. Controlled. Expected tae marry whoever the Regent thinks will be politically useful.”
“So ye’d rather marry a complete stranger of yer own choosin’ than a complete stranger of the king’s choosin’? How is that better?”
“Because it’s me choice.” David’s voice was fierce. “That’s how it’s better. If I’m going tae be forced intae marriage, at least let it be on me terms. At least let me choose the cage I’m walkin’ intae.”
Tristan studied him for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Ye’ve made up yer mind about this, havenae ye?”
“Aye. I have.”
“Then I suppose I’m coming with ye. Someone needs tae keep ye from daeing anything too stupid.”
“I thought ye said this whole plan was insane.”
“It is. But ye’re me laird and me friend. And if ye’re going tae dae something insane, ye’ll need backup.” Tristan’s smile was rueful. “Besides, this should at least be entertainin’.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They stood at the window together, watching darkness fall over Keppoch.
Maybe this wouldn’t work. Maybe he’d end up making everything worse. Maybe the Regent would be furious and there would be consequences David couldn’t predict.
But at least he’d be trying. At least he’d be fighting for some measure of control over his own life.
And sometimes, that was enough.
“So,” Tristan said after a while. “Any ideas where ye’re going tae find this English bride?”
“Nae yet. But I’ve got a month tae figure it out.” David’s smile turned slightly wild. “How hard can it be?”
Tristan just shook his head. “Ye’re going tae regret this.”
“Probably.” David looked at the letter on his desk one more time. “Right now, that’s worth more than playing it safe.”
He had no way of knowing, of course, that in two weeks’ time, he’d find himself at an auction near Berwick-upon-Tweed. That he’d see a woman with pale green eyes standing on a platform, bleeding and terrified but unbowed.
That he’d make the most impulsive decision of his life.
And that it would change everything.
But standing in his study on that evening, with the Duke’s letter burning a hole in his desk and defiance burning in his chest, David MacDonald made himself a promise.
Whatever happened, he would choose his own path. Make his own decisions. Control his own fate.
Even if it meant buying a bride at an auction. Even if it meant lying to the Crown. Even if it meant risking everything he’d built.
Because some things were worth the risk.
And freedom, true freedom, was one of them.
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“If ye keep pacin’ like that, ye’re goin’ tae wear a trench in the floor.”
Elinor turned from the window where she’d been watching the courtyard fill with arriving guests. Ainsley stood in the doorway, arms crossed, an amused smile on her face.
“I’m not pacing. I’m observing.”
“Ye’re pacin’. And worryin’. I can tell.” Ainsley moved into the room, automatically checking that everything was in order. “What’s got ye so nervous? It’s just a christening.”
“Just a christening?” Elinor gestured toward the window. “The entire Covenant brotherhood is here. And the priest from Edinburgh that David insisted we use. ”
“Everything is goin’ tae be fine, me lady” Ainsley’s voice was firm.
Elinor wasn’t convinced, but before she could argue further, a soft cry came from the cradle near the hearth.
Her heart immediately shifted focus. She crossed to the cradle and looked down at her daughter—three months old, with David’s dark hair and what appeared to be Elinor’s eyes, though it was still too early to be certain.
“There ye are,” Elinor murmured, lifting the baby carefully. “Did you have a nice nap? Because we have a very important day ahead of us, little one.”
The baby—Isla, they’d named her, after David’s mother—blinked up at her with unfocused eyes, then yawned enormously.
“She daesnae seem particularly impressed by the importance of the day,” Ainsley observed.
“She’s three months old. Nothing impresses her except milk and sleep.” But Elinor was smiling as she cradled her daughter.
Elinor adjusted Isla’s christening gown—white silk with delicate embroidery that had taken weeks to complete.
Ainsley moved to check the gown one more time. “This is beautiful work, me lady. Did ye dae the embroidery yerself?”
“Some of it. The seamstresses worked on the more complicated patterns.” Elinor traced one of the tiny flowers along the hem. “I wanted it to be perfect. For her. For this day.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. David entered, already dressed in his formal attire, looking both proud and slightly harried.
“The priest has arrived. And Euan just got here with Moyra and their bairns.” He crossed to Elinor, pressing a kiss to her temple before looking down at Isla. “Is she ready?”
“As ready as a three-month-old can be.” Elinor handed their daughter to him, watching as his entire demeanor softened.
He was still adjusting to fatherhood—still occasionally looked terrified when Isla cried—but the love on his face was unmistakable.
“Hello, mo leannan,” he murmured to the baby. “Today’s yer big day. Everyone’s here tae meet ye properly. Tae welcome ye intae the clan.” He glanced up at Elinor. “Are ye ready?”
“Yes.”
They made their way down to the chapel, moving slowly to accommodate David’s careful handling of their daughter. Servants and clanspeople they passed smiled and offered congratulations. Some reached out to touch the baby’s gown for luck.
The chapel was already full when they arrived. Elinor’s breath caught at the sight.
The Covenant brotherhood was indeed all there. Euan stood near the front with Moyra, their two children—a boy of almost four and a girl of almost two—fidgeting beside them.
Calum, Archibald and Lachlann stood alone.
Tristan was there too, of course, standing as one of Isla’s godfathers. He winked at Elinor as they approached.
The priest—an elderly man with a gentle voice—smiled at them. “Shall we begin?”
The ceremony was beautiful. Traditional. The priest spoke of faith and family, of the responsibilities of parenthood, of welcoming a new soul into God’s grace.
Elinor held Isla while David stood beside her, his hand resting on the small of her back. When it came time for the vows—for them to promise to raise their daughter in faith and love—Elinor’s voice was steady despite the tears threatening to fall.
“We will,” she said clearly.
“We will,” David echoed.
The priest made the sign of the cross over Isla’s forehead, anointing her with holy water. The baby scrunched up her face at the sensation but didn’t cry.
“I baptize ye, Isla Margaret MacDonald, in the name of the Faither, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” the congregation responded.
And just like that, it was done. Their daughter was christened. Welcomed into the clan. Blessed by the church.
Elinor felt David’s hand tighten on her back as they turned to face everyone. Saw pride and love and something that might have been wonder in his eyes as he looked down at their daughter.
“Everyone’s invited tae the great hall,” David called out. “There’s food and drink, and ye all get tae tell me how bonnie me daughter is. As if I dinnae already ken it.”
Laughter rippled through the chapel. People began filing out, most stopping to offer congratulations or to get a closer look at Isla.
“She’s beautiful,” Moyra said, touching the baby’s cheek gently. “Looks just like ye, Elinor.”
“She has David’s hair.”
“Aye, but yer features. Poor thing.” But Moyra was smiling. “How are ye holdin’ up? The first few months are exhaustin’.”
“I’m managing. Barely.” Elinor glanced at David, who was deep in conversation with Euan. “David helps more than I expected. He’s actually quite good with her.”
“Is he now?” Moyra looked surprised. “Euan was hopeless with our first. Terrified he’d break her just by lookin’ at her wrong.”
“David was like that initially. But he’s gotten better.” Elinor adjusted Isla’s gown.
They moved to the great hall, where tables had been laden with food. Malcolm had outdone himself—there were dishes from across Scotland, sweets that had taken days to prepare, and enough ale and whisky to fuel a week-long celebration.
David insisted on carrying Isla himself, showing her off to anyone who came near. Elinor watched with amusement as tough Highland warriors melted at the sight of the tiny baby, offering awkward congratulations and gentle touches to her small hands.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Calum said, appearing at Elinor’s elbow with a cup of wine. “David MacDonald, proud faither. Showin’ off his bairn like she invented sunshine.”
“He’s quite taken with her.”
“Aye. We all noticed.” Calum’s smile was warm. “It’s good tae see, though. He deserves this. Happiness. Family. After everythin’ he’s been through.”
“Aye.” Elinor accepted the wine gratefully. “Thank you for coming. I know it’s a long journey.”
“Wouldnae have missed it. The Covenant brothers support each other. Always.” He glanced across the hall where David was letting Euan’s daughter carefully touch Isla’s hand. “Besides, wanted tae see if David had gotten soft. Verdict’s still out.”
“He’s not soft. He’s just—”
“Happy. Ye can say it. It’s nae an insult.” Calum’s expression turned serious. “He was nae happy before. Nae truly. Too much responsibility, too much weight on his shoulders. But now?” He gestured at David, who was laughing at something Lachlann had said. “Now he’s got somethin’ tae live fer beyond duty.”
Elinor felt her throat tighten. “He’s a good father. Better than I expected.”
“And ye’re a good maither from what I hear.” Calum raised his cup. “Tae family. The ones we’re born with and the ones we choose.”
“To family,” Elinor echoed.
The celebration continued through the afternoon. Children ran through the hall, chased by harried parents. Stories were shared, some true and some highly embellished.
The Covenant brothers took turns holding Isla, each offering their own advice about raising children.
“Dinnae let her wrap ye around her finger,” Archibald warned David. “They learn early how tae use those big eyes tae get what they want.”
“Start strict,” Euan added. “Establish boundaries from the beginnin’.”
“Or,” Lachlann countered, “just enjoy her while she’s wee. They grow up too fast tae waste time worryin’ about boundaries.”
David listened to all of it with good humor, occasionally glancing at Elinor.
Eventually, Isla grew fussy—too many people, too much noise, too much stimulation for a three-month-old. Elinor took her from David and slipped away to a quieter corner of the hall, settling into a chair to nurse.
Moyra joined her shortly after, her own daughter on her hip.
“Too much excitement?” Moyra asked.
“For both of us, I think.” Elinor adjusted her shawl, giving Isla privacy while she fed. “How do you manage it? The public appearances with the children?”
“Badly, most days.” But Moyra was smiling. “Ye just dae yer best. Accept that sometimes they’ll cry at the worst moments. That sometimes ye’ll be exhausted and overwhelmed. And ye lean on yer husband when ye need tae.”
“David’s been good about that. Letting me lean on him.”
“Aye, I can see that. The way he looks at ye—” Moyra shook her head. “Euan told me about how ye met. About the auction. Said it was the most impulsive thing David had ever done.”
“It was impulsive for both of us. Agreeing to marry a stranger just to escape my father.”
“But it worked out.”
“It did.” Elinor looked down at Isla, now contentedly nursing. “Better than I could have imagined.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching the celebration continue around them. Then Moyra spoke again.
“Ye’ve changed him, ye ken. David. He’s softer now. More open. Before ye came, he was all duty and responsibility. Now he remembers how tae live.”
“I think we changed each other. He taught me I could be strong. That I didn’t have to accept being controlled or diminished. That I could choose my own path.”
“And now ye’re raisin’ a daughter who’ll never doubt her own strength.” Moyra smiled. “That’s a powerful legacy.”
After Isla finished nursing and had been burped and settled, Elinor returned to the celebration. David immediately appeared at her side, his hand finding the small of her back.
“Is she alright?”
“She’s fine. Just needed to eat and have some quiet.” Elinor leaned into him.
The celebration wound down as the sun began to set. Guests started departing, the Covenant brothers promising to return soon, their wives offering advice and support to Elinor.
Finally, it was just the three of them in their chambers—David, Elinor, and Isla, who was mercifully asleep in her cradle.
Elinor collapsed onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up with her. “That was more tiring than I expected.”
“Aye. But good, though.” David sat beside her, pulling her into his arms. “Everyone seemed tae enjoy themselves.”
“They did. And Isla was perfect.” Elinor nestled against his chest. “We have a beautiful daughter, David.”
“That we dae.” His arms tightened around her. “And a beautiful life. And a beautiful future ahead of us.”
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Chapter One
Berwick-upon-Tweed, 1517
“Straighten your spine.” Her father’s voice cut through the silence. “You’ll fetch nothing if you slouch like a kitchen maid.”
Fetch. As though I am a hound he is bringing to market.
She straightened anyway, because she would not give these men the satisfaction of seeing her cowed. Through the carriage window, she counted the arriving conveyances. Six coaches, fine enough to bear noble crests she did not recognize. Eight men on horseback, their clothing marking them as wealthy. Scots, some of them, if the plaids half-visible beneath their cloaks were any indication.
Her father had been pleased about that. “Highland coin spends as well as English,” he’d said three days before, when he’d finally told her why they were making that journey.
Not that he’d used the word auction. He’d called it a “gathering of interested parties.” As though wrapping ugliness in silk made it any less vile.
She had learned the true nature of it by listening at doors, as she’d learned most things worth knowing in her father’s house. The servants whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear.
“Daughters sold to the highest bidder while their fathers drank wine and called it business.”
“I hear he is taking poor Lady Elinor there to be sold.”
Shocked at the servant’s words, she’d hurried to confront her father.
She had found him in his study, a glass of claret already in his hand though it was barely past noon. When she had knocked, he had not responded, neither had he looked up when she had entered.
“Father, I need to speak with you.”
“Then speak.” He turned a page, his finger tracing a column of figures marked in red. Debts, Elinor realized.
Her hands twisted in her skirts, but she kept her voice strong. “There are rumors that you mean to take me to an auction. That you intend to—” The words stuck in her throat like shards of glass.
“To sell you?” He looked up then, his expression utterly calm. “Yes.”
The simple confirmation struck harder than a blow. She had expected denials, anger at her eavesdropping, perhaps even shame. Not this casual acknowledgment.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious.” He took a long drink, his eyes never leaving her face. “We need coin, Elinor. Despite you blissfully indulging in your everyday luxuries, the estate is drowning in debt. The creditors are circling like vultures. And you are the only thing of value I have left.”
“Me?! I am your daughter!”
“You are an asset.” He set down his glass with deliberate care. “One I have fed and clothed for three and twenty years. It is time you provided a return on that investment.”
When she’d protested, his hand had cracked across her face so fast she hadn’t seen it coming.
“You will do as you’re told,” he’d said softly, “or I will drag you there in chains if I must.”
Her mother had stood in the hallway, pale and silent as a ghost. Their eyes had met. Her mother had looked away first. No help would come from that quarter. It never did.
Now, the manor loomed ahead, its stone façade grey and unwelcoming against the winter sky. Elinor’s hands were numb inside her gloves, partly from the cold and mostly from dread, she was sure.
After three days, the bruise on her cheek had faded to a dull yellow. She’d covered it with powder that morning, her hands steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Let them see a lady, not a victim. Let them see someone worth more than the coin they’d pay.
Though what difference it would make, she did not know.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” Her father’s voice cut into her thoughts, startling her back to the present. His breath carried across the small carriage distance, reeking of stale wine. “You’ll smile. You’ll curtsy. And you’ll go with whichever man pays the most. We need the coin, girl, so do your own part and save the family estate.”
He’d said it as though she should be grateful. As though being sold like a mare at Smithfield was an honor she didn’t deserve.
The carriage lurched to a stop, jolting her forward. Her father merely gave her a cutting glance before descending first, not bothering to offer his hand. He never did. Elinor gathered her skirts and stepped down onto the frozen ground, her eyes sweeping the manor’s entrance. Light spilled from the windows. Men’s voices drifted out: laughter, the clink of glasses. The sounds of commerce.
Do any of you have daughters? Will you think of them tonight while you stand in rooms like this, deciding which girl is worth the most coin?
“Lord Royse!”
The voice made her stomach clench before she even turned to see who spoke it.
Sir Edmund Langley strode toward them, his crimson cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, and his blue eyes were fixed on her father with an intensity that made her take an instinctive step back.
Not fear. Calculation. Edmund Langley angry was Edmund Langley unpredictable.
“Langley.” Her father’s tone was flat, dismissive. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“Did you not?” Edmund’s smile was sharp as a blade. “When I heard whispers of this gathering, I thought surely I had misheard. Surely Lord Thomas Royse would not be so foolish as to parade his lovely daughter before every fortune-hunter and titled scoundrel north of London.”
“My affairs are no concern of yours.”
“They became my concern when you refused my suit.” Edmund’s gaze shifted to Elinor, and she met it without flinching.
Let him see that she was not some trembling thing to be fought over.
“I offered marriage to your daughter, my lord. An honorable arrangement. Alliance with my family’s name and resources. And you spat on it.”
“Your offer was inadequate.”
“Inadequate?” Edmund’s voice rose, his control slipping. “I offered you a generous settlement, Royse. Lands in Sussex. Connections at court. A bride price that would have cleared half your debts, with the remainder held in trust for your daughter’s security. What more could you possibly want?”
Elinor’s chest tightened. So that was why her father had refused. The trust. The protections Edmund’s marriage contract would have provided, protections that would have kept the money from her father’s hands.
Her mother had wept with relief when Edmund came calling, had spoken of it as deliverance. But Elinor had seen the way Edmund looked at her. Like a possession he intended to own completely. Marriage to him would have been trading one prison for another.
“Your offer,” her father said coldly, “came with too many conditions. Too many restrictions on how the funds could be used.”
“Restrictions meant to protect your daughter!”
“I don’t need you to protect her. I need coin.” Her father’s fingers tightened on her elbow. “And this gathering will provide it without your meddling contracts and trust provisions.”
The truth settled over Elinor like a wet blanket. Her father saw only limits. The portions of the bride price he could not immediately touch. The funds set aside for her use rather than his.
This gathering offered no such protections. Just a sale, clean and simple. Here, he could sell her outright and walk away with a purse heavy enough to pay his debts and keep him in wine for years, while she became the property of whoever paid could afford his price.
Edmund’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “You would sell her like livestock rather than see her properly wed?”
“I would see her placed where she brings the greatest advantage to her family.” Her father’s hand closed around her elbow, fingers digging through the fabric of her sleeve hard enough to bruise. “Now step aside. We have business within.”
Chapter Two
“No.”
The single word was spoken quietly, but it stopped her father mid-step. Edmund moved to block their path, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Elinor’s pulse quickened. Men and their pride. Men and their swords. And she would likely be caught between them.
“You will not take her inside,” Edmund said.
“I will do as I please with my own daughter.”
“She should be mine.” Edmund’s composure cracked, and something wild showed through. Something possessive that made Elinor’s skin crawl. “I made my intentions clear. You had no right.”
“I have every right!” Her father’s grip tightened until she could feel each individual finger pressing into her arm. “She is mine to give or sell as I see fit. You had your chance, Langley, and your purse was not heavy enough. Now move.”
He yanked her forward. She stumbled, catching herself against his arm.
“No!” Edmund lunged forward, his hand reaching for her other arm. “You’ll not—”
Her father jerked her back. Edmund’s fingers caught her wrist, closing around it like a manacle.
And suddenly she was trapped between them, pulled in opposite directions.
“Let her go!” Edmund snarled.
“Release her, you fool!” her father countered.
They were speaking in loud voices now, their faces inches apart, and neither seemed to notice or care that they were tearing her apart between them. Her father’s nails dug crescents into her skin. Edmund’s grip was iron around her wrist. She tried to pull away from both, tried to wrench herself free, but they were too strong, too focused on each other to acknowledge her struggle.
“She is not a prize to be auctioned!” Edmund’s voice was righteous, as though he were her savior rather than another man trying to possess her.
“She is whatever I say she is!”
“Stop it. You’re hurting me!”
But her father responded by yanking hard. She pitched forward, her feet slipping on the frozen ground. Edmund pulled back, refusing to release her. Her head snapped to the side.
And then her father’s fist landed hard across her face.
The blow was not meant for her. She knew that in the split second before pain exploded across her mouth. He had been reaching for Edmund, trying to shove him away, but she had been between them. His ring, the heavy gold signet he wore on his right hand, caught her lip, tearing the delicate skin.
She tasted blood at the exact moment the world went very quiet. Not silent. She could still hear Edmund’s ragged breathing, her father’s muttered curse. But distant, as though she were underwater.
Both men froze, their hands still locked around her arms. Warmth trickled down her chin. She raised her free hand to her mouth, her gloved fingers coming away dark and wet.
“Elinor…” her father began, his voice taking on that false note of concern he used when servants were watching.
She looked at him. Not at his mouth forming empty apologies, but at his eyes. At the calculation already returning to them, sharp and cold as winter. He was not sorry. He was assessing. Wondering if the split lip would lower her value. Wondering if he should take her inside now or wait for the bleeding to stop.
A wave of hatred so pure it nearly stole her breath rolled through her chest. She was about to tell him what she thought of his actions, when the sharp voice sounded from behind them.
“Unhand her.”
Deep, steady, and utterly calm in the midst of this chaos.
All three of them turned.
The man stood only five paces away. Tall and lean, with dark hair tied back and a face that might have been handsome if it were not so carefully expressionless. He wore dark clothing, practical rather than ornamental, and though she could see no crest or colors, everything about him spoke of authority. From the set of his shoulders to the way his hand rested near his sword. His eyes, black as a winter sky, moved from her father to Edmund to the blood on her chin.
When his gaze met hers, she saw something flicker there. Recognition, perhaps. Or anger on her behalf, though that seemed unlikely from a stranger.
“I said unhand her.” His accent marked him as Scottish. One of the men her father had been so eager to attract.
“This is none of your concern,” her father snapped, though his voice lacked its earlier certainty. Even he could sense danger when it stood before him.
The stranger’s gaze did not waver. “A lady is bleeding. That makes it me concern.”
“She is my daughter.”
“And that excuses ye striking her, daes it?” The words were soft, but they cut like winter wind through wool.
Edmund finally released her wrist, though whether from shame or strategy, Elinor could not tell. Her father’s grip loosened but did not let go entirely, his fingers still pressing into her elbow as though she might flee if given the chance.
I might. If I had anywhere to run.
“I did not mean it. It was an accident.” Her father’s explanation sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“Aye. I’m certain it was.” The stranger took a step closer, his movements deliberate and controlled. His eyes found hers again, and this time she saw something unexpected in them. Not pity. She could not have borne pity. But a question… and oddly a flash of concern. “Are ye hurt, me lady?”
The simple courtesy of it nearly undid her.
When had anyone ever asked her that? Not her father, who had caused it. Not Edmund, who claimed to want to protect her. Not her mother, who was too afraid of her husband to show any type of alliance to Elinor.
Not once in all the years she had lived beneath her father’s roof had anyone asked if she was hurt, as though her pain mattered, as though she were a person whose suffering deserved acknowledgment.
Her throat was too tight to answer. She pressed her handkerchief to her lip, tasting linen mixed with copper, and tried to gather the scattered pieces of her composure.
“Who the devil are you?” Edmund demanded, apparently recovering himself enough to remember his pride.
The stranger’s attention shifted to him, slow and deliberate as a drawn blade. “Someone who daesnae like seein’ a lady bleed.”
His gaze returned to her father, and Elinor saw Edmund stiffen at the quiet authority in his voice.
“This is none of your concern.”
“It is now.” The stranger’s voice remained level, almost pleasant, but there was steel beneath it.
“Release her.”
“I will not be ordered about by some Highland savage.”
A second man appeared at the Scotsman’s shoulder. Sandy-haired, younger, with a soldier’s build and an expression that suggested he had seen his laird do inadvisable things before and expected to see him do so again.
“David,” he said, very quietly. “What are ye daeing?”
“Preventing a lady from being mauled in the street, Tristan.” His tone was cool, the type that accompanied a man who was capable of anything.
“The auction is about tae start.”
“Aye. I’m aware.”
Tristan looked between them all and sighed like a man whose worst suspicions had been confirmed. “This is madness.”
“Perhaps.” David’s eyes––for that it seemed was his name––never left her father. “But I’ll not walk past a woman bleeding while two men fight over her like dogs over a bone.”
“How dare you.” Edmund started forward, his hand moving to his sword.
The Scotsman’s hand moved to his own blade. He did not draw it. He did not need to. The message was clear enough, written in the set of his shoulders and the steadiness of his gaze.
Edmund stopped.
In the silence that followed, Elinor heard the manor door open. A servant stood in the doorway, his face carefully blank in the way of all good servants who had learned not to see their betters’ shame.
“My lords,” he said, his voice carrying across the frozen drive. “The proceedings are about to commence. If you would care to come inside?”
Her father’s grip shifted to something almost gentle. A mockery of paternal concern for the servant’s benefit. “Come, Elinor. We mustn’t be late.”
She looked at the door. At the light spilling from within, warm and false as her father’s sudden solicitude. At all the men gathering inside to bid on flesh and futures, to purchase women as though they were bolts of cloth or parcels of land.
Then she looked at the Scotsman who had asked if she was hurt.
His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes steadied her. Some flicker of understanding.
He sees me. I’m not property or prize to him. He sees a person.
It was such a small thing, and yet it felt like the first kindness she had been offered in years.
She lowered her handkerchief from her lip, lifted her chin, and met her father’s eyes with all the cold fury she had learned to hide beneath compliance.
Without a word, she turned and walked toward the door.
The horse jolted over another stone in the road, and ten-year-old Logan Mackintosh gripped the saddle with stiff fingers. His knuckles were white under the dirt, scraped raw from holding on too tight. The wind stung his eyes, though he wasn’t sure if the burning came from the cold or from everything he had left behind two mornings prior.
He didn’t look back.
There was nothing behind him now; not the small cottage by the river, not the soft lullabies his grandmother—or at least the woman he had come to think of as his grandmother—used to hum to get him to sleep. Nothing but the echo of her quiet sob as she placed him on the horse and whispered, “Be strong, me laddie. Be so much stronger than they expect.”
Now, ahead rose the stone towers of Mackintosh Castle.
It looked like a monster crouched on the hillside, massive, cold, and ancient. Smoke poured out of the chimney, curling into the gray sky like a warning. Logan swallowed hard at the sight of it.
Was that where he would spend the rest of his life? Would his mother be there? Would he finally get to see her again?
His escort, a stern clansman named Murray, finally slowed his horse.
“There,” Murray said. “Dinnae gape, lad. That’s yer home now.”
Logan stared, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. “Will… will he like me?”
Murray didn’t answer at first. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose.
“He daesnae need tae like ye. He needs an heir.”
Logan’s stomach knotted. He already knew the truth, of course. Every whisper the villagers had thrown behind his back, all the things his mother tried to shield him from, came crawling back to him now.
Bastard boy.
Daughter’s shame.
No rightful place in the clan.
Yet here he was, riding straight into the belly of it, because the old laird—his grandfather—suddenly needed him.
The thought made Logan’s small jaw clench with a fury he could hardly contain or express. Never before had he felt the likes of it; never before had he felt so wronged.
The horses clattered across the drawbridge. Men on the walls glanced down, most of them frowning in open confusion, and Logan felt their stares like needles. When they were past the gates, Murray swung off his horse and motioned for Logan to do the same.
His legs trembled when his boots hit the ground.
Inside the courtyard, noise erupted from every direction—smiths hammering metal, women hauling baskets, guards shouting orders. It was too loud, too big. Logan wanted nothing more than to shrink into himself, not used to the sounds of a keep. His only company back home had been the twittering of birds, the bubbling brook by the cottage. Only when he visited the village did he hear any noise, but even then, it had seemed to him less condensed, more spread out. Nothing like this cacophony that he would now have to get used to.
“Come,” Murray urged, pushing him lightly between the shoulder blades.
They crossed the stone yard toward the largest set of doors. Logan felt dozens of eyes following him, judging, measuring, deciding.
At the doorway, a pair of tall guards pulled it open and Murray stepped inside without hesitation. Logan followed, his small footsteps echoing in the vast hall. The room was enormous—high rafters, banners hanging from the beams, a great hearth roaring with fire. But none of that held Logan’s attention.
Only the man on the dais did; Laird Mackintosh, his grandfather.
He was not towering, nor particularly broad, but he radiated an authority that filled every corner of the hall. His silver hair was tied back neatly, and his expression was carved from stone, as though his face had remained frozen for years. His eyes, pale and sharp, focused on Logan with a cold, unimpressed sweep.
“So,” the old laird said, voice like gravel. “The lad.”
Logan stiffened instinctively. He knew he was being scrutinized, and he knew he was falling short, though he could not possibly tell what it was the laird was looking for.
Murray bowed. “Aye, me laird. I brought him with all haste, as ye requested.”
“Aye,” mumbled the laird. “Well, fer a bastard, he’s nae so bad. At least he resembles his maither an’ nae his faither.”
Logan’s cheeks burned hot, and he lowered his gaze, blinking fast. He had not seen his mother for a long time—not since his grandfather had allowed her to return home, welcoming her back even when he wouldn’t welcome her son. Now, he was desperate to see her, but he refrained from asking. He was quite certain the question would only get him in trouble.
As he stood there, before the dais, in silence, the laird rose slowly from his chair.
“Look at me, lad.”
Logan did. He forced his chin up, though his throat tightened and his eyes burned hot.
The laird walked down the steps with measured, heavy footsteps. He circled Logan once, like a man evaluating livestock and Logan felt each pass like a cold wind.
“Ye have his eyes,” the laird murmured. “A pity.”
Logan clenched his fists so tight his nails bit his palms, but he said nothing.
“Yer faither?” the laird asked sharply. “Did she ever tell ye who he was?”
Logan swallowed hard. “Nay, me laird.”
“I see.” The laird’s mouth thinned. “Well, I ken who he is. Though I dinnae ken what use it would be tae ye tae find out. Better tae think ye’re some stableboy’s son.”
Murray shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Next to him, Logan kept his spine straight. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t.
So everyone kens who me faither is but me.
The laird studied him again before finally stepping back.
“Whether ye are a bastard or nae, the clan needs blood o’ me blood as heir. Ye will be trained in fightin’, strategy, diplomacy, an’ ye willnae fail. Understand?”
“Aye, me laird,” Logan whispered.
“Louder.”
“Aye, me laird!”
The old laird returned to his seat, waving a dismissive hand. “Murray, take him tae a chamber. Nae the guest rooms, he’s nae guest. Put him in the east wing with the squires. He’ll earn any comfort he receives here.”
Murray bowed again and nudged Logan toward the exit. Logan took three steps before the laird spoke once more.
“An’ lad.”
Logan froze, turning slightly to face the old man. The laird’s expression remained empty, icy, like he was staring into the undecipherable depths of a lake
“Ye may carry me name but dinnae expect me affection. Prove yer worth or ye will be replaced the moment a better heir presents himself.”
The words struck harder than a blow but Logan only bowed his head.
“Aye, me laird.”
Then he allowed himself to be led away. Murray guided him through corridors, taking turn after turn until Logan didn’t know where he was and had no hope of finding his way back on his own. And then, just as he began to wonder how far they still had to go, they stopped in front of a plain, wooden door.
The chamber Murray led him to was small, cold, and bare save for a straw-stuffed mattress and a wooden chest. The window was a slit in the wall with no view, other than a strip of gray sky.
“This is yers,” Murray said gruffly.
Logan nodded. The man hesitated, then rested a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Ye’ll have a hard road here, lad. But roads change if ye walk them long enough.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “An’ some men soften with age.”
Logan wasn’t convinced, but he nodded anyway. When Murray left, Logan sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaling shakily. The hallways were quiet now. His heart hammered too loudly in the silence.
He pulled his knees to his chest, staring at the tiny window. He had never felt as small before, as forgotten and irrelevant. Even his own mother hadn’t come to see him, and his grandfather had dismissed him so easily.
But under the fear, a spark simmered—a fierce, stubborn ember.
He would prove himself—not to win the old laird’s love or to erase the stain of being born without a name.
Not even to have his revenge.
But because he refused to let that castle swallow him whole. Someday, he promised himself, he would walk those halls with his back straight, with pride, with loyalty earned, not forced.
Someday, he would make that place his.
He lay down, his yes burning, and whispered into the cold air, “I’ll be strong. Just like ye said.”
His grandmother couldn’t hear him there, but he wished the message would find her either way.
Outside, the wind swept across the hills of Clan Mackintosh, carrying the promise of a future neither the boy nor the clan could yet imagine. And inside, Logan shivered in the cold, hugging his knees to his chest, with nothing but the howling of the wind for company.
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