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Six years later
The great hall of Mackintosh Castle had been transformed into a living tapestry of tartans, laughter, music, and heat. Lanterns flickered along the stone walls, casting golden halos on faces flushed from wine and dancing. The scent of roasted venison, buttery bannocks, herb-stewed hare, and honeyed apples drifted like a warm embrace through the air.
Sofia paused at the entrance, taking it all in—not just the feast, but her family.
All of them. A sight she had never imagined she would see within these walls.
“Will ye stand there glimmerin’ in the doorway like a lost star,” Tòrr called across the room, “or will ye join the rest o’ us mortals?”
Sofia laughed, her heart swelling. Tòrr pushed through the crowd with the unstoppable force of a man who had never been small a day in his life. His wife Liliane followed, elegant even as she tried to catch their son’s sleeve to keep him from diving under a table.
Tòrr wrapped Sofia in a bear hug that lifted her clear off the ground.
“Braither…” she wheezed, patting his shoulder. “I dae need tae breathe.”
He set her down, unrepentant. “Well, ye’re married tae a Mackintosh now. Ye’ll need lungs strong enough fer shoutin’ and bairn-raisin’.”
“Or running from yer jokes,” Sofia teased.
Liliane hugged her next, soft and warm. “Ignore him. He’s been impossible all day. He cried when he saw everyone.”
“I didnae cry,” Tòrr objected. “It was just the smoke.”
Liliane rolled her eyes affectionately. “Mmh. Very thick, emotional smoke.”
Before Sofia could reply, two small bodies collided with her legs, each trying to outdo the other in volume.
“Auntie Sofia!”
“Ye look like a princess!”
“Uncle Logan says papa cried today!”
“Nay, I didnae cry!” Tòrr sputtered.
Sofia laughed so hard she had to grip Liliane’s arm for balance.
Michael arrived next, a child swinging from each arm. He put them both down as he approached, and they rushed off, chasing each other around the great hall, instantly followed by their cousins.
“Michael.” She reached to kiss his cheek. “How are the bairns?”
A loud crash rang out behind him. Isabeau—Michael’s graceful, composed wife—whipped around just in time to catch a serving tray before it toppled completely. Behind her, the children scattered like startled quail, fleeing in opposite directions.
“Better than usual,” Michael said dryly. “Nay fires yet.”
Isabeau approached breathlessly, her dark curls askew. “I swear they were angels this morn.”
“An’ demons by noon,” Michael finished.
“They get it from ye,” Sofia teased.
Michael placed a hand over his heart. “I am wounded.”
Before Sofia could respond, Alyson rushed in with Keane, her hand closing over her mouth when she saw her. “Dare I say it, Sofia, ye look positively… radiant.”
Sofia flushed. “It’s the lanterns.”
“It’s the pregnancy,” Alyson said, raising a pointed eyebrow. “It suits ye.”
Smiling to herself, Sofia placed a hand over her growing belly. She could not wait for another addition to her own little family and the extended family, another cousin for the children to get to know.
And if there was one thing she knew about her baby, it was that it would be loved.
Catherine and her husband Aidan joined them next. Catherine’s eldest son barreled toward them with a handful of pebbles.
“Mama! Watch how far I can—”
“Dinnae throw those indoors,” Catherine ordered sharply. “What did I say?”
The boy looked crestfallen. “That I should only throw things when ye’re nae lookin’.”
Aidan groaned, a hand brushing through his hair. “I’m pretty sure that’s nae it, lad.”
Catherine rubbed her forehead. “We are daein’ wonderfully as parents,” she muttered.
By the large table in the middle of the great hall, Daemon’s children were tugging on his trews as Raven, his wife, tried to get their attention. The children all circled one another like puppies meeting for the first time—curious, nudging, then immediately forming alliances for mischief.
But it wasn’t until Logan ran into the hall that all the children rushed to greet him, united in their purpose. Logan crouched low and looked at them with wonder as they all shouted together, all of them trying to tell him something. His own two children threw themselves into his arms, while the others fought for a place on his lap.
“Alright,” Sofia said with a sigh. “I’d better save the poor man.”
She crossed the hall toward him, laughing as the children gathered around her legs.
“Mo ghraidh,” he said softly when she reached him, taking her hand.
The sound melted her. “Logan.”
Daemon cleared his throat loudly. “Remember she’s our sister in public, Mackintosh.”
Logan raised a brow. “I’ve nay intention o’ kissin’ her in front o’ ye, MacDonald.”
“Ye’d better nae,” Michael muttered.
Tòrr added, “If ye dae, at least have the decency tae warn us so we can look away.”
Sofia groaned, covering her face with her hands. “Please stop talkin’.”
Logan smirked and kissed her hand deliberately, staring right at her brothers.
“I said warn us!” said Tòrr.
“I’m goin tae start sharpenin’ somethin’,” Daemon.
“Make it dull. It’ll hurt more,” suggested Michael.
And Sofia whacked all three of them lightly. “Enough!”
As they all settled around the able, children ran between their legs, chasing each other. Aidan scrambled to prevent one from climbing a tapestry. Isabeau yelped as two attempted to swing from a chandelier. Meanwhile, Raven tried her best to feed them all, passing bannocks around for them.
“Why are all MacDonald bairns feral?” Malcolm questioned, dodging one of the boys as he barreled past.
***
Later, when the hall had grown thick with heat and laughter, Sofia slipped outside to the balcony overlooking the moonlit loch. The night air cooled her flushed cheeks, and she inhaled deeply—the scent of heather and pine so familiar now.
Soon, footsteps approached softly. Logan draped his plaid around her shoulders, wrapping her in his warmth.
“Are they too much?”
“Nay. They’re perfect,” she said truthfully. “They make this castle feel like home.”
He pulled her against him, arms cinching around her waist. “An’ dae I make it feel like home?”
Sofia turned within his embrace, her hands resting over his heart. “Ye and the our bairns are me home.”
Logan’s breath caught and he cupped her cheek gently. “Sofia… I never imagined me life would become what it is now. Ye an’ our bairns an’… an’ even yer fools o’ braithers, ye all make me feel like—”
Logan didn’t finish his sentence, but Sofia knew what he meant to say. All his life, he had feared being abandoned. All his life, he had thought himself unlovable, but now here he was, surrounded by love and family.
“I ken, Logan,” she assured him. “I ken. Ye dinnae have tae say anythin’.”
The kiss Logan gave her was slow, deep, and full of promise. His hands slid into her hair; hers gripped the back of his tunic, and Sofia never wanted it to end.
When they finally parted, he asked, “Ready tae return?”
“Only if ye promise I get the next dance.”
He smiled softly. “I promise ye every dance, fer the rest o’ our lives.”
Hand in hand, they walked back toward the warmth, the music, and the beautiful, chaotic tangle of two clans becoming one.
The End.
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Spring 1690, on the road between Castle Keppoch and Achnacarry
Something is wrong.
Sofia MacDonald leaned over the side of the small, shallow-water ship she and her guards had hired for the crossing from Loch Lochy and stared quizzically at the currents and the shoreline that formed a small edge in the center of the horizon. Her gaze flicked up to the sails, flapping in a moderate breeze, then to the helmsman standing by the rudder. To the untrained eye, or the unobservant one, everything was as it should be.
Sofia, however, was neither untrained nor unobservant. As such, she was quite aware that the boat was drifting from the course she had requested. She had specifically requested a straight passage from Gairlochy across the loch to the fishing village of Killcarrigan, which was less than a day’s ride from the gates of Achnacarry Castle, the seat of Clan Cameron and home of her sister Catherine and her husband, Lord Aiden Cameron.
The boat had started out on that course, but now it was drifting on a diagonal path that would land them well out of Cameron territory. The change was subtle, but Sofia was not a fool, and she was well aware that the territory outside of her new kin-by-marriage’s lands was fraught with contention and enemies. The question was why.
“Me lady?” Tristan, her guard for the journey, stepped up beside her. “Is aught amiss?”
“We are drifting off course, and I dinnae ken why. Have ye any idea?” Tristan was familiar with the passage between Keppoch Castle and Achnacarry Castle. He would know if there was a reason for taking a circuitous route rather than the shortest path across the loch.
“Nay. I’ve seen nay sign o’ storms, or hard winds, an’ the water is clear enough – there’s nay shallows or submerged growth tha’ might hull the boat.” Tristan frowned. “I dinnae ken why we might be goin’ off course, but I’ll ask the captain, if ye wish.”
“Please.” It might be naething, but there was a warning ache in Sofia’s stomach that suggested something was amiss, and she had learned long ago not to dismiss such warnings.
Tristan nodded and made his way toward the foredeck. Sofia trailed behind him, curious to know what the captain of the boat might say in regard to their current situation.
The captain was a grizzled older Highlander, with hands roughened by work and weather, and the tartan of the Cameron clan decorating the sash across his chest. He turned inquisitive eyes in Tristan’s direction as the guard stepped up beside him. “Me laird? Is there somethin’ wrong? Daes the lady need aught?”
“Tha’s what I’m wonderin’.” Tristan tipped his head and regarded the captain with a cool, assessing gaze that Sofia had seen make younger warriors stiffen in their boots. “I want tae ken why we’re driftin’ off course, away from the Killcarrigan landin’ me lady asked ye tae make fer.”
The captain scoffed, adopting an expression of bemusement that didn’t quite hide the sudden tension in his shoulders, or the sharpening of his gaze as it flicked in Sofia’s direction. “Och, lad, I dinnae ken what ye mean. We’re driftin’ with the currents an’ in the right direction, sure enough. Mayhap land-walkers like ye an’ the lady might be confused, but trust an old water-hand tae ken what he’s about. We’re on course, an’ we’ll make Killcarrigan in good time.”
“Will we?” Tristan’s voice was bland, but Sofia was in a good position to note the tightness in his shoulders. She edged forward. Tristan was a good man, but he also had a volatile temper and little tolerance for anyone who might lie to him or treat him like a fool. The captain’s answer was exactly the type of response to stoke his temper to life, even if the captain himself didn’t notice.
“O’ course. Tae an old lake-dweller like meself, who’s captained a vessel on these waters fer years, there’s all manner o’ subtle landmarks. An’ o’ course, any man can read a compass.”
“Aye. An’ mine says we’re goin’ in the wrong direction.” Tristan’s voice was sharper now, and Sofia edged closer, knowing a confrontation was likely to erupt any moment. She wanted answers, but not if trying to get them put all of them in danger.
“Well, lad, all I can say is tha’ mayhap yer compass is broken. They dae go out o’ true sometimes.”
“Mayhap. But I dinnae think tha’ is the case.” That was all Tristan said, his voice soft and deadly, before he launched himself forward, a dirk appearing in his hand like magic as he shoved the captain up against the nearest rigging. “Land-walker I might be, but I’ve made this journey afore, many a time, an’ I ken the currents and the water well enough. We’re off course, an’ ye’ll be tellin’ me why, or I’ll put a dagger in yer throat, or yer gut.”
“Tristan, wait…” The warning came too late, as chaos erupted on the foredeck.
A sailor spotted the dirk in Tristan’s hand and lunged forward with a shout. Tristan slapped him aside with easy confidence, but that movement was enough for the captain to pull free of Tristan’s grasp and roar out “Treachery! Thieves! They’re tryin’ tae kill me an’ tak’ o’er the boat! They’re likely tae kill us all! Stop them!”
“Soldiers tae me! Protect the lady!” Tristan’s answering shout galvanized the guards, even as he tried to return to Sofia’s side, but it was too little, and too late. The sailors were up in arms, abandoning their tasks to pick up whatever weapons they could find. Those sailors who had not been working came boiling out of the small below-decks space, armed with knives, pikes, small axes and cudgels.
In seconds, Sofia’s guards were embroiled in a pitched battle with the sailors manning the small boat. The numbers were uneven, in favor of the sailors, but far worse, in Sofia’s opinion, was the terrain. Her guards were unused to fighting on the unsteady surface of an unmoored ship, whereas the sailors were in their element.
Sofia grabbed one of the steerage poles, ready to defend herself. A sailor lunged at her, clearly hoping to take her as a hostage to force Tristan and the other three guards to surrender. Sofia hit him in the gut with an awkward swing of the pole and knocked him down, then shoved clumsily at another man who darted in her direction.
The second man went down, but not before a third managed to catch her in a vise-like grip, pinning her arms to her sides. Sofia thrashed and tried to hit him with the pole, but he was far too close, and his control soon allowed another man to step in close and wrench the pole from her hands.
She looked up just in time to see Tristan fall, stabbed in the chest, by the captain. The last of her guards succumbed a second later, toppling over the rail of the ship with a faint groan, blood streaming from what was most certainly a fatal wound.
She was alone. She fought back tears as the captain approached her. “Why would ye do this? I paid ye fairly.”
“Aye. But nae as much as the man who paid us tae deliver ye tae the coastline of Clan Grant’s territory.” A cruel smirk twisted the captain’s mouth. “’Twould have been better fer ye an’ yer men if ye’d never realized the boat was driftin’, but since ye did…”
He chuckled, and the sound was echoed by the sailors. Sofia bit the inside of her cheek and glared at him, unwilling to show her fear, or her sorrow for Tristan and his men. She would not give them that satisfaction.
After a moment, the captain turned away. “Bind her hands and secure her tae the aft rail.”
Sofia tried to struggle, but she was outmatched. Two men dragged her forward and pushed her to knees. One of them held her, and the other bound her wrists with a length of rope from the deck, which was then secured to the rail, pulled short enough that Sofia couldn’t rise to her feet without being horribly off balance.
For several long moments, all she could do was sit, huddled by the rail, her mind gone numb with shock and pain. Tristan’s face as he fell filled her thoughts, and Sofia swallowed back bile. She had seen her share of violence, but the coldness of the captain’s betrayal and the murder of her guards made her feel ill. Sofia breathed deeply and forced herself to focus on her situation.
She was a prisoner. Her allies were either dead or unable to help her. Unless she could find some way to escape, she would be delivered to the enemies of her family, to be used against her loved ones. She could not allow that to happen.
The first thing Sofia did was attempt to free her hands from their bindings. Unfortunately, the sailors who had bound her had done their job well, with all the skill a sailor might be expected to have. The knots were beyond her ability to loosen, and the rope was secure enough that there was no chance of slipping free of it.
Nor were there any sharp objects nearby that could be used to cut the rope or fray it enough that her strength might snap it. In fact, the sailors had been dutiful about clearing away anything that she might have used to improve her situation.
Sofia swallowed against a feeling of despair.
If nay one kens what has happened, if I simply disappear… me sisters will search fer me, but even so… it might be days afore they guess me fate. Besides, who kens what me captor intends? What can I dae?
She was still trying to think of some way to escape, when a distant splash caught her attention. Curious, Sofia levered herself upright as far as she could, to peer over the ship’s rail.
There was another craft approaching, traveling on a course that would lead them within two boat-lengths of the shallow-bottomed ship she was held prisoner on. Hope surged through Sofia’s veins like a draught of whiskey. If she could just attract the attention of someone on that boat.
She waited until the other boat came closer, then grabbed the rail with her hands and shouted. “Help! Help! I’m bein’ tak’n prisoner! I’m being abducted! Help me! Please! Someone help me! These men are tryin’ tae steal me from me family! Help!”
There was a flash of movement, and for a moment, she dared hope… and then one of the crewmen strode up and shook her, before cuffing her on the back of the head and snarling with a voice like a wolf’s growl “Shut yer mouth, ye mad harpy, or we’ll shut it fer ye!”
His voice carried easily across the water, and Sofia saw the men on the other boat stiffen. Then the oarsman who had looked up turned back to his oar and her hope died, drowned like a candle wick doused by a bucket of water.
They hadn’t heard her. Or perhaps, they hadn’t understood her. Sound carried strangely over water, or so she had been told. Or perhaps the men of the other craft had been unable or unwilling to challenge the sailors on the larger craft.
Sofia forced the thought away before it could sink in and bring her true despair.
There were many reasons they might not have turned aside, but that was only one craft. The path they traveled across Loch Lochy was a well-used waterway. There would be others. Sofia settled in to wait, swallowing to ease the ache in her throat that came from shouting.
Within half a candle-mark, she heard splashing again. She peered between the rails of the craft. The boat appeared to be further from her own than the previous encounter, but even so, Sofia raised her voice. “Help me! These men are stealin’ me from me kinfolk! Help! Please! They’ve murdered me friends! Please… someone! Anyone! Help me!”
There was no sign that anyone had even noticed her cries this time, and Sofia felt her stomach clenching, her heart almost leaden with despair. Why was no one listening? Even if they could not hear her clearly, surely they could discern the sounds of someone in distress. Why did no one attempt to aid her?
Twice more, boats passed by her own, and twice, Sofia did her best to draw attention, struggling against her bonds and making as much noise as possible. Both times, her efforts were met with silence and disappointment.
I will not give up. I will struggle, and if God grants me opportunity, I will fight, and I will find a way tae escape.
After the last boat had passed, the captain came stalking over. “Enough o’ yer racket, lass.” He bent and seized her chin in a cruel grip. “These are neutral waters, girl, an’ there’s nary a man who will cause trouble with another, fer fear o’ upsettin’ the balance o’ power an’ bringin’ down trouble on his clan. All yer antics dae is weary yer throat, damagin’ yer value.”
He bent closer, his hot, stinking breath wafting across her face, underscoring the casual menace of his words. “I willnae tolerate any more o’ havin’ me boat shakin’ with yer twistin’ about. The next time ye misbehave, ‘twill go ill with ye. Ye’re at me mercy, lass, so think long an’ hard afore ye vex me further.”
With that, he released her face, then bent to tighten her bonds, leaving Sofia with aching cheeks and a pounding heart. Fear filled her blood, making her head ache with terror at the thought of what the captain and his men might do to her, if she pressed them too far.
One of the sailors came over and produced a filthy rag, which he then twisted into a gag and forced between her lips. Sofia clenched her teeth behind it and tossed her head to make it as difficult as possible for him to gag her, retching as the taste of tar and brackish water filled her mouth, the smell thick in her nostrils.
Sofia felt tears in her eyes and hurriedly ducked her head to wipe them away, using the opportunity to pull the gag loose by clenching it with her knees until she was sure she could spit it out and free herself at a moment’s notice. The sailors might think she was still gagged, but she would wait until the best moment to use her freedom to her advantage.
For a moment she wondered if perhaps it would be better tae wait she had been set on dry land, to then try to make her escape?
But a moment later, Sofia shook her head, anger replacing fear. Whoever had hired the captain and bribed him to go off course, they had clearly planned this kidnapping well. They would have men waiting to take custody of her, and those men would likely be as cautious as the captain, if not more so. She could not sit back and hope to find an opportunity on land, in the hands of her actual abductors.
Even if it meant risking the wrath of captain and crew, perhaps being beaten, or even keelhauled, she would continue her actions and pray for some sort of aid.
Even as she shored up her resolve, another boat came into sight. This one was a shallow-bottomed craft like her own, but smaller. There, standing by the railing near the rudder, stood a tall man, dressed in simple clothing, cloak and hood wrapped close against the chill.
The craft was on a course almost identical to theirs, and Sofia felt her heart jump in her chest as she realized the boats would come within mere feet of each other – perhaps no more than an oar’s length apart. It was the closest any craft had come yet.
She readied herself, steadying her nerves. As soon as she deemed the boat close enough, Sofia yanked the gag down to her throat, shoved herself upright as far as her bonds would allow, and screamed at the top of her lungs, so loudly her throat felt scraped raw by the force of her words. “Help me! Please, help! These men have murdered me friends, an’ they’re stealin’ me away! Please! I’ve been kidnapped! Help me!”
Time seemed to stop as the man looked up, revealing gray eyes, surrounded by the rugged, scarred countenance of a warrior, and a stern, angular face framed by dark, wind tousled hair. Their eyes met.
Then a crew man grabbed her by the shoulder and wrenched her around, before delivering a stunning blow to her right cheek, hard enough to send Sofia crashing to the deck. “Enough o’ yer caterwaulin!”
Sofia cradled her throbbing jaw, tears and flickering lights dancing in her eyes as she breathed through the pain. The boat moved away, and Sofia heard a splash, as if the man – or perhaps one of the sailors behind her, had thrown something overboard. Anguish filled her.
He had noticed her. She was sure the man had seen her. And yet…
A shadow flickered at the far end of the boat. Sofia blinked, then froze, watching as a man slipped over the aft deck of the boat, slipped on boots and belt, and started stealthily toward her.
It was the man from the other boat, the man whose eyes she’d met. Water was dripping from the ends of his dark hair and plastering his shirt to his well-muscled body. His movements were quick and quiet, graceful as a cat’s as he slid across the deck like an errant shadow. There was a long dirk in his hand, and his intense grey eyes were focused on her as he crept stealthily forward toward her.
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1495, Loch Eilein
The blood came first—not his own, not yet—splashing hot across Euan’s face as the sword cleaved through the man beside him.
He was six years old. He should have been in the keep, safe behind stone walls. Instead, he stood frozen on the field at Loch Eilein, watching men die.
“Stay close tae me, lad!” His father’s voice cut through the din of battle, sharp with command and fear. Laird Murtagh MacLeod never showed fear.
Euan tried to obey. His small legs pumped beneath him as he stumbled after his father’s broad back, but the ground was slick with mud and worse things. The clash of steel rang in his ears, drowning out thought. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The treaty talks were meant to bring peace between the clans—MacLeod, MacKinnon, MacDonald, MacRae, MacNeil. Five clans, five lairds, five promises sworn before God.
Lies. All of it, lies.
“Betrayers!” someone screamed. “They’ve turned on us!”
The MacDonald banner fell first, trampled beneath boots and hooves. Then came the MacRaes, pouring from the treeline like wolves, their war cries piercing the grey Highland morning. Euan’s chest heaved with panicked breaths. Where were the other boys? Calum, with his easy smile? David, always so clever? Archibald, who’d taught Euan how to hold a wooden sword properly just the day before?
“Da!” Euan’s voice cracked, high and terrified.
His father didn’t turn. Murtagh’s sword was out, already red, as he barked orders to his men. But there weren’t enough of them. The MacLeod contingent had come for talks, not war. They were outnumbered, surrounded, caught in a trap sprung by men they’d thought were allies.
A horse screamed. Euan whirled, and his stomach lurched. The battlefield wasn’t the orderly thing from his father’s war stories. It was chaos—a writhing mass of violence and mud and dying men who sobbed for their mothers. A MacKinnon warrior staggered past, clutching his opened belly, his face grey. Blood pooled everywhere, dark and spreading.
“Move, boy!”
Rough hands shoved Euan forward. He fell hard, palms scraping rock. When he looked up, the world had shifted. His father was ten paces away now, fifteen, locked in combat with two men. Twenty paces. Too far.
“Da!”
Something glinted in Euan’s peripheral vision. He turned his head just as the blade descended.
Time slowed to treacle. The sword was massive, far larger than it should have been, wielded by a scarred man with dead eyes. Andersen—Euan would learn that name later, would carve it into his memory alongside the faces of the other hired swords who’d orchestrated that massacre. But at that moment, all he knew was the blade falling toward him, and his own voice screaming.
His father moved like lightning.
Murtagh MacLeod was forty-two years old, in the prime of his strength, and he threw himself between the blade and his son with the fury of a man who’d fight the devil himself for his blood. The sword meant for Euan’s neck caught his father’s shoulder instead, shearing through leather and muscle with a wet crunch that Euan felt in his bones.
“No!” The word tore from Euan’s throat.
But his father didn’t fall. Not yet. With his good arm, Murtagh’s sword swung up, catching Andersen’s blade and shoving it aside. Then he was hauling Euan up by the back of his tunic, dragging him away from the melee, his blood soaking through Euan’s shoulder.
“Run,” Murtagh gasped. “Run, lad—”
The second blade came from nowhere.
It caught Euan across the shoulder as his father pulled him, a glancing blow that should have taken his head. Instead, it carved a line of fire down his arm and across his torso. Euan shrieked. The pain was white-hot, blinding, worse than anything he’d ever imagined. His legs gave out beneath him.
“Euan!” His father’s voice was frantic now, breaking. “Stay with me—”
But there were too many of them. Three men converged on Murtagh, their faces twisted with battle-fury. One blade caught his father’s leg. Another opened his side. Murtagh roared, swinging wildly, protecting Euan’s fallen form with his own body even as he bled.
“Help us!” someone bellowed. “The laird’s son—”
MacLeod warriors surged forward, forming a desperate shield wall. Steel crashed against steel. Men shouted, died, fell. Through the press of bodies, Euan saw Calum’s father dragging the boy backward, Calum’s face white with shock. David was being carried by a MacDonald soldier, his thin frame limp. Archibald fought beside his father, the big man-at-arms who cut down attackers with methodical brutality.
They were all children. They should have been safe.
Euan’s vision swam. The pain in his shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heart, spreading down his arm, across his chest. Blood soaked his tunic, warm and sticky. Was it his? His father’s? Both?
“Move him!” A warrior Euan didn’t recognize scooped him up, armor clanking. “We’ve got tae get the lad out—”
“Me faither—” Euan tried to reach back, but his arm wouldn’t work properly. The world tilted sickeningly.
He caught one last glimpse of Murtagh MacLeod, kneeling in the mud, his sword still raised despite the wounds covering his body. Their eyes met across the battlefield—father and son, laird and heir—and Euan saw everything in that look. Pride. Love. Anguish. Apology.
Then the warrior was running, and Euan was bouncing in his arms, each jolt sending fresh agony through his torn shoulder. The sounds of battle faded behind them, replaced by his own gasping sobs. He’d wet himself, he realized distantly. The shame of it cut through even the pain.
Around them, the other children were being evacuated. Calum, David, Archibald, and another boy Euan didn’t know—Lachlann, someone said. All of them bloodied, terrified, torn from childhood in a single morning of treachery.
Behind them, Loch Eilein’s waters reflected fire where tents burned. Men still screamed. Steel still sang its deadly song.
And Euan MacLeod, six years old, learned what betrayal tasted like. It tasted like copper and ash. It felt like his father’s blood cooling on his skin, like the deep wound across his shoulder that would scar him forever, like the permanent hitch that even now was settling into his young leg where a blade had caught him as he fell.
His childhood died that day at Loch Eilein. His trust died with it.
The pain, though—the pain would live forever.
One year later
The scream that tore through Dunvegan Castle made every warrior within hearing distance freeze mid-stride.
Euan took the stairs four at a time despite the lingering stiffness in his shoulder, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’d been in the council chamber discussing grain shipments when the sound reached him—Moyra’s voice, raw with pain and effort, coming from their chambers above.
The birth. Saints, the birth was happening now.
“Me laird!” Niall caught his arm at the top of the stairs. “Brighde said ye’re nae allowed in there until—”
“Like hell.” Euan shook him off, reaching for the door.
It opened before his hand touched the latch. Brighde stood there, her sleeves rolled up, hair escaping from beneath her cap. Behind her, he could hear Moyra’s labored breathing, could see Catriona moving around the bed with clean linens.
“Absolutely not.” The healer blocked his path with surprising strength for someone half his size. “Ye’ll only distract her, and she needs tae focus. The bairn’s coming fast, and I’ll nae have ye making things harder by hovering.”
Another scream cut off his protest.
“She’s strong,” Brighde said more gently. “Stronger than ye give her credit fer. Now get out of me way and let me dae me job. I’ll call ye the moment it’s safe.”
The door closed in his face with decisive finality.
He turned to find half his household crowded in the corridor—servants trying to look busy, guards pretending to patrol, Niall hovering with poorly disguised concern.
“Well?” Niall asked. “Any news?”
“She’s nae letting me in.” Euan dragged a hand through his hair. “Says I’ll distract Moyra.”
Niall’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get ye a drink afore ye wear a hole in the floor with yer pacing.”
He dragged Euan to the great hall despite his protests, pressing whisky into his hands while servants bustled around preparing what looked like a feast. Word had spread quickly—the Lady MacLeod was delivering the heir, and the entire castle hummed with anticipation.
The hours crawled past with agonizing slowness.
“I should be up there,” he said for the hundredth time. “What if something goes wrong? What if she needs me?”
“Then Brighde will come get ye.” Niall refilled his cup. “Until then, ye’re staying here where ye cannae accidentally cause problems by being an overprotective husband.”
Another hour passed. Then another. The sun set, and servants lit torches throughout the hall. The crowd of well-wishers grew larger—villagers who’d come to celebrate, refugees who’d settled permanently at Dunvegan, even a few former MacKenzie warriors who’d sworn fealty to Moyra personally.
Then Catriona appeared at the top of the stairs, her face flushed and her smile bright enough to light the castle.
“Me laird!” Her voice carried across the hall. “Ye have a son!”
The room erupted in cheers.
Euan was moving before conscious thought caught up, taking the stairs three at a time despite Niall’s shouted warning about his shoulder. He burst through the chamber door to find Moyra propped up in bed, exhausted and radiant, holding a tiny bundle wrapped in MacLeod plaid.
“Euan.” Her voice came hoarse but joyful. “Come meet yer son.”
He crossed to her on trembling legs, hardly daring to breathe as she carefully transferred the bundle into his arms. The baby was impossibly small—barely the length of his forearm, with a cap of dark hair and a scrunched face that looked vaguely offended by his sudden existence outside the womb.
“He’s perfect,” Euan managed, his throat tight. “Ye’re both perfect.”
“He has yer stubborn chin.” Moyra’s hand found his, squeezing gently. “And he screamed loud enough tae wake the dead when he arrived. I think he’s going tae be trouble.”
“He’s a MacLeod. Of course he’s going tae be trouble.” Euan couldn’t tear his eyes away from his son—from the tiny fingers that wrapped around his thumb with surprising strength, from the way the baby’s face relaxed from offended to peaceful as he settled against his father’s chest.
“What will ye name him?” Brighde asked from where she was tidying away supplies. “The clan will want tae ken.”
Euan looked at Moyra, seeing his own emotions reflected in her green eyes—wonder and joy and fierce protective love for that tiny person they’d created together.
“Tavish,” he said quietly. “After the guard who died defending her when she was taken. And Murtagh, after me faither who died so I could live.” He touched the baby’s downy hair. “Tavish Murtagh MacLeod. Our son.”
“Perfect.” Moyra’s smile made his chest ache. “Now give him back before ye drop him from exhaustion. Ye look ready tae collapse.”
“I’m fine.”
“Ye’re dead on yer feet.” She took the baby carefully, cradling him against her chest with the natural ease of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. “Go tell everyone the good news. Let them celebrate. We’ll still be here when ye’re done being laird fer a few minutes.”
He kissed her forehead, then the baby’s, before forcing himself to leave. Downstairs, the great hall had filled to capacity—warriors and servants and villagers all waiting with barely contained excitement.
“Tavish Murtagh MacLeod!” Euan’s voice carried across the crowd. “Me son. The heir tae Clan MacLeod.”
The roar of approval shook the rafters.
Someone thrust a cup into his hands. Someone else started a song—one of the old Highland ballads about heroes and homecomings. The feast Euan had noticed earlier was brought out in full force, tables groaning under the weight of roasted meats and fresh bread and honeyed cakes.
Niall found him in the chaos, grinning like a fool.
“A son!” Niall clapped his shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “Saints, but ye work fast. Married barely a year and already producing heirs.”
“Shut up.” But Euan was grinning too, unable to contain the joy bubbling through his chest.
“What’s he look like?” Niall asked. “Daes he favor ye or Moyra?”
“Both. Neither. I dinnae ken.” Euan shook his head. “He’s tiny and perfect and I’m terrified I’m going tae break him somehow.”
“Ye’ll be fine.” Niall’s face had gone soft. “Ye’ve got good instincts. And Moyra’s the cleverest woman in the Highlands—between the two of ye, that bairn will be fine.”
The celebration continued long into the night. Songs were sung, toasts were made, warriors competed to tell the most outrageous stories about Euan’s exploits. Someone started a betting pool on when the next child would arrive. The whisky flowed freely, and laughter echoed off stone walls that had seen too much war over the past year.
But eventually, Euan extracted himself from the chaos and climbed the stairs back to their chambers. He found Moyra awake despite the late hour, the baby nursing contentedly while she hummed one of the old lullabies her mother had taught her.
“Ye should be resting,” he said quietly, settling beside her.
“I am resting.” She leaned against him, careful not to disturb their son. “Just… looking at him. Making sure he’s real.”
“He’s real.” Euan’s arm came around her shoulders. “We made him. Taegether. Despite everything trying tae tear us apart, we built this.”
“Aye.” Her voice went soft. “A year ago I was a prisoner in an English dungeon. Now I’m sitting here with me husband and our son, listening tae our clan celebrate below. Sometimes I still cannae believe it’s real.”
“Believe it.” He kissed her temple. “This is yer life now. Our life. And it’s only going tae get better.”
After the baby finished nursing his eyes drifted closed. Moyra shifted him carefully, settling him in the cradle Euan had spent weeks carving—Highland stags and clever heroines decorating the sides, a reminder of fairy tales read in firelight and love found in the most unlikely circumstances.
“Come tae bed,” she said, reaching for him. “Before someone else comes up wanting tae talk about the heir.”
They settled together, Moyra curled against his good shoulder, both of them watching the cradle where their son slept peacefully. Outside, the celebration continued—music and laughter drifting up through stone walls. But there, in their chambers, the world had narrowed to just the three of them.
“I love ye,” Euan said into the quiet. “Both of ye. More than I ever thought possible.”
“I love ye too.” Moyra’s hand found his over the blankets. “Me stubborn husband who saved me from dungeons and me faither and gave me everything I never knew I wanted.”
Together, they were unbreakable.
Together, they could survive anything.
Together, they were home.
The End.
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1514, outskirts of Lindisfarne Priory
Moyra’s fingers tightened around the leather strap as unease prickled down her spine. Something was wrong.
Through the carriage window, Lindisfarne Priory loomed against darkening horizon—those ancient walls her father insisted would keep her safe from the enemies he’d made in his quest for MacLeod lands. But it wasn’t the priory that held her attention now. It was the silence.
The guards had gone too quiet.
Three days she’d traveled south from the Highlands, each mile taking her further from everything she’d ever known. Her father’s words still echoed in her mind: “The priory will keep ye safe from those who would use ye against me, daughter. ‘Tis fer the good of the clan.”
But what clan? Since his marriage to Ishbel MacLeod six months past, Keith MacKenzie had spoken of little else but his newfound connection to MacLeod lands. His first wife—Moyra’s beloved mother—might as well have never existed.
Moyra leaned forward, peering into the gathering dusk. The shadows flanking their path moved wrong—too deliberate, too purposeful.
“Kristin,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Those aren’t trees.”
Her lady-in-waiting looked up from her embroidery, following Moyra’s gaze. The color drained from Kristin’s face. “Me lady—”
The sharp crack of steel against steel shattered the evening air.
“Saints preserve us—” Kirstin began, but her words were lost as their carriage suddenly lurched to a violent halt, throwing both women against the wooden walls.
Shouts erupted outside. There was a clash of weapons. The screams of horses.
“We’re under attack,” Moyra breathed, her blood turning to ice.
Through the window, she glimpsed flashes of torchlight and the gleam of swords. Her father’s men—the six guards who’d accompanied them—were fighting desperately against a larger force that seemed to have materialized from the shadows.
Moyra’s mind raced as she assessed their position. The priory gates stood perhaps two hundred yards ahead, tantalizingly close yet impossibly far with armed men between them and safety. Their carriage sat exposed on the open path, making them easy targets if they remained.
But if they ran…
“Listen tae me carefully,” Moyra grabbed Kirstin’s trembling hands. Her friend—daughter of a neighboring laird and her closest companion since childhood, now serving as her lady-in-waiting—looked terrified, one hand instinctively moving to protect the barely visible swell of her belly. “When I open that door, ye’ll slip out quiet as a shadow and run straight fer the priory gates. Dinnae look back, dinnae wait fer me.”
“But me lady—”
“Dinnae argue with me,” Moyra said sharply, her tone carrying centuries of MacKenzie authority. “Ye’re carrying a bairn, Kirstin. Ye need tae survive this—fer yer child’s sake. I’ll make sure they chase me instead of ye. Get tae the priory and tell the nuns everything.”
Kirstin’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I cannae leave ye—”
“Ye can and ye will.” Moyra squeezed her hands. “Someone needs tae survive this tae tell the tale. And I’m far from finished fighting.”
The sounds of battle seemed to be moving closer. Through the opposite window, Moyra could see one of their guards fall, crimson spreading across his MacKenzie plaid. Her breath caught in her throat—it was Dougal, who’d taught her to skip stones as a child, who’d carved her a wooden horse when she was six. The sight of his lifeless form sent a wave of nausea through her, but she forced it down. She couldn’t afford to freeze now. Not when Kristin’s life—and her own—hung in the balance.
“Now,” she whispered, easing the carriage door open with painstaking care.
Kirstin hesitated for one heartbeat, then pressed a quick kiss to Moyra’s cheek before slipping out into the night. Her slight form disappeared into the shadows like smoke.
Moyra waited, counting her heartbeats. One. Two. Three.
Then she burst from the carriage in the opposite direction, her emerald cloak billowing behind her as she ran toward the rocky outcropping that bordered the coastal path. Her boots slipped on the loose stones, but she pressed on, making as much noise as possible.
“There! The girl!”
The accent that reached her ears was distinctly English, not the Highland brogue she’d expected. These weren’t rival clansmen come to steal her away—these were soldiers of the English crown.
But why would English soldiers attack a MacKenzie party traveling under safe passage?
Heavy footsteps pounded behind her as she scrambled over the uneven ground. Her lungs burned, and the stays of her traveling gown constrained her breathing, but she pushed harder. If she could reach the cluster of standing stones ahead, perhaps she could lose them in the maze of ancient granite.
“Stop running, you Highland witch!”
A crossbow bolt whistled past her ear, so close she felt the fletching brush her auburn hair. She stumbled, catching herself against a moss-covered boulder, but kept moving.
Almost there. Just a few more yards to the stones—
The flat of a sword blade cracked against her shoulder blades, sending fire racing down her spine. She hit the rocky ground hard, sharp stones tearing at her palms as she tried to catch herself.
“Got her!”
Rough hands seized her arms, hauling her upright despite her struggles. Her captors were professional soldiers—their mail was well-maintained, their movements disciplined. Not bandits or raiders, but men following orders.
“Let me go!” She twisted in their grip, managing to rake her nails across one man’s face before he backhanded her hard enough to make her ears ring.
“Hold still, or you’ll get worse than that,” he snarled, blood trickling down his cheek.
They bound her wrists with rough rope that bit into her skin, then one of them tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The indignity of it made her fury burn hotter than her fear.
“Take me back tae the carriage this instant! Me faither will hear of this—he’ll have yer heads fer touching a MacKenzie!”
The soldier carrying her only laughed.
They carried her back toward the path where the sounds of fighting had finally ceased. Her heart clenched as she saw the still forms of her father’s guards scattered across the ground, their blood dark against the stones. Good men, loyal to Clan MacKenzie, dead because of her.
But as they passed the priory gates, she caught a glimpse of a small figure disappearing safely inside the ancient walls. Kirstin had made it. At least one life had been saved that night.
A tall figure separated himself from the shadows near the overturned carriage—a man whose bearing spoke of command and whose dark cloak marked him as their leader. Even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the calculating coldness in his blue eyes as they fixed on her.
“Sir Geoffrey Arundel,” the soldier announced, dropping Moyra unceremoniously to her feet though keeping a firm grip on her bound arms. “The MacKenzie girl, as ordered.”
Sir Geoffrey stepped closer, and Moyra lifted her chin defiantly despite her precarious position. She would not cower before English dogs, no matter what they intended.
“Lady Moyra MacKenzie.” His voice carried the cultured tones of English nobility, but there was steel beneath the silk. “You’ve led us quite a chase.”
“Me faither will come fer me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, clinging to the hope that he’d sent her away for protection, not abandonment. “He’ll pay whatever ransom ye demand.”
Something that might have been sympathy flickered across the commander’s features before disappearing behind professional indifference.
The blindfold they forced over her eyes made every sensation sharper—the smell of leather and steel, the rough texture of the horse’s mane beneath her bound hands, the cold night air cutting through her torn cloak.
They’d rode for what felt like hours, moving steadily inland from the coast.
“Where are we going?” Moyra demanded, her voice cutting through the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.
“Somewhere you’ll cause no more trouble,” came Sir Geoffrey’s familiar response from somewhere to her left.
“That tells me naething, ye English dog. At least have the courtesy tae inform a lady of her destination before ye drag her off tae whatever dungeon ye have planned.”
His low chuckle held no warmth. “Patience, my lady. All will be revealed soon enough.”
Three months later, Norham Castle
The sound of steel against steel echoed through the dungeon corridors like thunder in Moyra’s dreams.
She jolted upright on the filthy straw, her heart hammering against her ribs as shouts erupted somewhere above her head. Three months of captivity had taught her to recognize the different sounds of Norham Castle—the changing of the guard, the delivery of her meager meals, the drunken revelries that sometimes lasted until dawn. But this was something else entirely.
This was battle.
Weapons clashed overhead. Heavy boots pounded stone corridors. Men roared orders and curses. Moyra shrank against the damp wall, pulse racing. Rescue? Or had death finally found Norham’s dungeons?
A scream cut through the din, followed by the wet sound of blade meeting flesh. Then another. And another.
“Holy Maither,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. The torn cloak provided no warmth—nothing could chase away the chill that had settled into her bones during those endless months of captivity.
Footsteps crashed down the stone steps—heavy, purposeful, fast. Moyra shrank into the corner of her cell, her back pressed against the cold wall, green eyes locked on the iron gate that stood between her and whatever was coming.
“Check every cell!” The voice was rough, commanding, and carried the unmistakable accent of the Highlands. “Leave nay stone unturned!”
Scottish. Her pulse quickened with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. Were these her father’s men? Or had some other Highland clan come to raid Norham’s treasures?
The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the ring of steel. Through the iron bars, Moyra glimpsed a massive shadow moving with lethal grace. A guard rushed forward, sword raised, then fell with a choked gasp as the intruder’s blade found his throat. Another guard charged from the opposite direction. The tall figure spun, his movements fluid despite his size, parrying the attack and driving his sword through the man’s chest in one devastating thrust.
Moyra pressed herself against the wall, transfixed despite her terror. The way he moved—there was a brutal elegance to it, a dance of death performed with absolute confidence. He was tall, taller than any man she’d ever seen, with broad shoulders that filled the corridor. Dark hair fell in waves to his collar, and even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the steel-grey eyes that swept the dungeon with predatory efficiency. A long scar traced across one side of his face.
When the last guard fell, he stood among the bodies, barely winded. Then those steel-grey eyes found her in the shadows.
He was magnificent. And terrifying.
“Empty,” called another voice from a cell further down the corridor.
The Highlander’s search was thorough and relentless, his attention cataloguing every shadow. When those steel-grey eyes discovered her pressed against the wall, Moyra’s pulse stuttered to a halt.
“Well now…” His voice was whisky-rough and dangerously soft, the Highland burr making each word sound like a caress. “What’s a lass doing in a dungeon?”
He approached her cell door. Torchlight threw his battle-marked features into sharp relief.
“Please,” she whispered, shrinking further into the corner. “I’ve done naething wrong.”
His gaze swept over her—tangled auburn hair, torn silk that had once been fine. Even filthy and captive, she carried herself like nobility. His eyes sharpened.
“And ye are a Highland lass it seems… Stand up, lass.”
The command was quiet but absolute. When she didn’t immediately obey, he produced a key from somewhere within his dark cloak and unlocked her cell door with efficient movements. The iron hinges shrieked in protest as the gate swung open.
“I said stand up.”
This time, Moyra forced her trembling legs to obey. She rose slowly, keeping one hand pressed against the wall for support. Three months of poor food and little exercise had left her weaker than she cared to admit, but she lifted her chin with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Who are ye?” His accent was thick, each word rolling off his tongue like honey over stone.
“Nay one of importance,” she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He stepped closer, and she caught a scent of leather and steel that made her pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear. The torchlight revealed more details—the way his dark shirt stretched across his broad chest, the corded muscles of his forearms, the calluses on his hands that spoke of a lifetime wielding weapons.
“How long have ye been here?”
“Months…”
His eyes studied her face with uncomfortable intensity. “What’s yer name?”
“I told ye, I’m nay one—”
Her words caught in her throat. Should she reveal who she was? Her father had enemies—so many enemies. The MacLeods chief among them, furious over Keith MacKenzie’s marriage to Ishbel and his subsequent claims to their lands. Then there were the Campbells, who’d feuded with the MacKenzies for generations. Even some within her own clan questioned her father’s ambitions.
Any of them might use her as leverage. Or worse.
“I’m nay one of importance,” she finished, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.
“Laird!” Another man’s voice echoed down the stone steps. “We’ve secured what we came for!”
Laird. Moyra’s blood turned to ice in her veins. This wasn’t just any Highland warrior—this was a clan chief. And from his accent and the authority he carried, she had a terrible suspicion about which clan he might lead.
The tall man—the laird—extended one large hand toward her. “Come along, lass. Ye’re coming with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere with ye,” Moyra said, finding some spark of her old defiance despite her circumstances. “I dinnae even ken who ye are.”
“That’s easily remedied.” He reached out and grasped her arm with surprising gentleness, pulling her toward the cell door. “And ye’ll come because the alternative is remaining here tae explain tae Sir Geoffrey’s remaining men why their dungeon is suddenly empty of prisoners.”
The logic was sound, even if she hated admitting it. Moyra allowed him to guide her from the cell, though she kept as much distance between them as the narrow corridor would allow. His presence seemed to fill the entire space, making her acutely aware of how small and fragile she felt beside his towering frame.
They climbed the stone steps in silence, emerging into the castle’s main courtyard where chaos reigned. Bodies littered the cobblestones, and smoke rose from several of the outbuildings. A dozen Highland warriors moved efficiently through the scene, gathering weapons and supplies with practiced ease.
“MacLeod!” one of them called out, jogging toward their small group. “The southern tower is secure, and we’ve found the—”
The man’s words died on his lips as his gaze fell on Moyra. Around the courtyard, other warriors paused in their tasks to stare at the bedraggled woman their laird had brought from the dungeons.
MacLeod. The name confirmed Moyra’s worst suspicions. This was Euan MacLeod—the very man her father had warned her about, the one whose lands Keith MacKenzie coveted above all else. The enemy she’d been hidden away from to prevent him using her as a political pawn.
And now she was standing in this courtyard, completely at his mercy.
“Mount up!” Laird MacLeod commanded his men. “We leave within the hour!”
Orders flew and men obeyed. Horses, weapons, provisions. All readied for immediate departure. Moyra watched the swift preparations with dawning horror. There would be no other rescue, no reprieve.
This was her chance. Perhaps her only chance.
While the laird’s attention was focused on organizing his men, Moyra took three careful steps backward toward the tree line that bordered the clearing. Then three more. The forest shadows beckoned dark and sheltering.
Freedom lay just beyond those trees.
She turned and ran.
Her bare feet flew over the rough ground, but desperation lent her speed. Behind her, she heard a sharp curse in Gaelic followed by the thunder of pursuit, but she didn’t dare look back. The trees loomed ahead, promising shelter and escape.
Almost there. Just a few more steps—
Rough hands seized her from the shadows at the forest’s edge, yanking her into the undergrowth. Moyra screamed and fought, but her captor’s grip was iron-strong.
“Got her!” The accent was English, not Highland. “Sir Geoffrey will want this one alive!”
More figures emerged from the forest—Arundel’s men who had survived the castle’s fall and retreated to regroup. The one holding her was a thick-set soldier with cruel eyes and blood staining his mail shirt.
“Let me go!” Moyra twisted in his grip, managing to drive her elbow into his ribs. He grunted but held fast, his fingers digging into her arms like iron bands.
“Hold still, you Highland bitch!” He shook her roughly, and she responded by stomping down hard on his instep. His grip loosened for just a moment—but two more soldiers emerged from the trees, grabbing her flailing arms. She fought like a wildcat, kicking and clawing, her screams echoing through the forest. One of them caught her across the face with the back of his hand, and stars exploded across her vision.
“Hold her still,” the first soldier growled, struggling to bind her wrists as she continued to fight. “Hold her still, damn you!”
“I’m trying! The wench fights like a—”
Steel sang through the air, and the soldier’s words ended in a wet gurgle. Laird MacLeod’s blade protruded from the man’s chest, having pierced him clean through from behind. The English soldier pitched forward, dead. Moyra pulled free of his lifeless grasp.
“Mine,” MacLeod growled, his eyes blazing with fury as he faced the remaining English soldiers. “The lass is mine.”
The battle erupted and ended in the span of a breath. MacLeod’s sword work was brutal, precise, final. English blood soaked the forest floor before his warriors could join the slaughter.
Moyra couldn’t tear her gaze away. He moved through the carnage like a Highland god of war—massive, deadly, beautiful in his violence. When he’d called her “mine,” her pulse had quickened.
“Lass.” His voice was gentler now as he approached her trembling form. A few drops of English blood spattered his cheek, but his eyes held concern rather than the cold fury she’d seen moments before. “Are ye hurt?”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice. The near miss had shaken her more than she cared to admit, and the sight of him covered in the blood of men who had died protecting her—or capturing her, she wasn’t entirely sure which—left her feeling strangely unsteady.
“Good.” He sheathed his sword with practiced ease. “Now, suppose ye tell me who ye really are, since it’s clear ye lied about being no one of importance. English soldiers dinnae risk their lives fer just ay lass.”
Moyra lifted her chin, some of her spirit returning now that the immediate danger had passed. “And suppose ye tell me why a MacLeod raids English castles instead of tending tae his own lands.”
His mouth curved in what might have been a smile. “Clever lass. But ye’re avoiding the question.”
“As are ye.”
They stared at each other in the flickering torchlight, and Moyra became acutely aware of how he towered over her, how the breadth of his shoulders blocked out everything else. There was something magnetic about him, something that made her pulse quicken despite every rational thought screaming at her to be afraid.
“I’ll make ye a bargain,” he said finally. “Truth fer truth. I’ll tell ye why I’m here if ye tell me who ye are.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then ye’ll come with me anyway, but the journey will be far less pleasant fer both of us.”
There was steel beneath the silk of his voice, and Moyra had no doubt he meant every word. She was completely at his mercy, alone and defenseless in the aftermath of battle. But something in his grey eyes suggested he wasn’t quite the monster her father had painted him to be.
“Yer word that ye’ll answer truthfully?” she asked.
“Me word as Laird of Clan MacLeod.”
She studied his face, searching for any hint of deception. What she found was rock-solid certainty. It did something strange to her breathing. “Very well. I am Moyra MacKenzie, daughter of Laird Keith MacKenzie.”
The change in his expression was immediate and profound. His eyes hardened to chips of winter steel, and his jaw clenched as if he were physically restraining himself from violence. “MacKenzie,” he repeated, the name falling from his lips like a curse.
“Aye. And now yer turn, Laird MacLeod. Why are ye here?”
For a long moment, she thought he might refuse to honor their bargain. Then his mouth curved in a smile that held no warmth whatsoever. “I came tae retrieve proof of a betrayal—evidence that Arundel was behind an attack that cost me family dearly. Documents that will see him answer fer his crimes.”
“And did ye find what ye sought?”
“Oh, aye. I found far more than I bargained fer.” His gaze traveled over her face with new intensity. “Keith MacKenzie’s daughter, hidden away in an English dungeon. Now why would a Highland laird send his own flesh and blood tae such a fate?”
The question hit too close to the heart of her shame and betrayal. “He didnae send me here,” she said sharply, lifting her chin. “Me faither sent me tae the priory fer protection. We were attacked on the road—English soldiers. They killed our guards and brought me tae this place.” Her voice wavered slightly. “He daesnae even ken where I am. The rest’s none of yer concern.”
“I’m afraid it is now, lass. Ye see, ye’re coming with me back tae the Highlands.”
“I am nae!”
“Ye are.” He stepped closer, and she caught that intoxicating scent of leather and steel again. “Like it or nae, Moyra MacKenzie, ye’re now under me protection.”
“I never asked fer yer protection!”
“And yet ye have it. The question is whether ye’ll accept it gracefully, or if I’ll need tae carry ye kicking and screaming all the way back tae Castle MacLeod.”
From the set of his shoulders and the implacable expression on his scarred face, Moyra realized he was completely serious. This Highland giant intended to take her into the heart of enemy territory, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom.
“Why?” she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded. “Why would ye want Keith MacKenzie’s daughter under yer roof?”
His smile this time was sharp as a blade. “Because, Lady Moyra, yer faither wants something that belongs tae me. And now…”
He reached out to trace one finger along her cheek, the touch gentle despite the calluses that marked his warrior’s hands. The simple contact sent fire racing along her nerve endings in ways that left her breathless and confused.
“Now I have something that belongs tae him.”
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Four months earlier
The mornings in Mackenzie castle always felt the same, hollow and heavy, as though the stones themselves carried the weight of every soul who had bent beneath them. Marian woke to the dim light seeping through narrow slits of the window, gray and wan, carrying little warmth. The chamber was cold, the rushes damp against her bare feet when she swung them from the bed. She drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders, though it did little to chase the chill that seemed to live in her bones.
It had been years since she had first set foot there, yet she had not grown used to it. The air always smelled faintly of smoke and mildew, the corridors whispered with draughts, and silence seemed to cling no matter how many voices filled the halls. She rose as she did each day, out of habit more than hope. The heaviness in her chest had long since become familiar. It pressed down when she breathed, dulled every small joy before it could take root.
Still, she always moved. To linger too long in bed was worse.
She slipped from her chamber into the corridor, the torch brackets still smoking from the night. The hush of morning echoed soft against the stone, her footsteps alone carrying sound. She made for the kitchens, telling herself she might manage a bit of bread, perhaps broth if it was ready.
Her mind was thick with its usual fog, thoughts drifting like smoke she could never catch. She thought of her father sometimes, his voice warning, his face lined with pain. She thought of her brother, though the memory of him hurt sharper than most. Mostly, she thought of nothing at all. The gray of the corridors suited her; she had grown used to matching them.
But that morning, as she rounded the corner toward the stairs that led down to the hall, sound stopped her. Voices, low and urgent.
She froze. The laird’s study lay just ahead, its door cracked, firelight spilling faint into the hall.
Her pulse quickened. No one dared raise their voice within those walls—not unless it was something grave. She moved quieter, her steps barely brushing the stone, until she could hear.
It was Wallace.
“Da, I’ll nae wait any longer.” His tone was sharp, the edge of it grating. “I’ve been promised this fer too long. It’s mine, and I’ll have it.”
Marian’s breath caught. She edged closer, until her back pressed against the cold wall, her ear straining to the gap in the door.
Another voice answered, deeper, measured—Laird Mackenzie himself. “Patience, Wallace. Ye’ll have what ye’re after, but nae yet. A few more months. That’s the time I need tae set the Council in agreement, tae see all prepared. We’ll nae risk angerin’ the clans wi’ haste.”
“A few more months?” Wallace hissed, as though the words burned. “I’ve been waitin’ nearly me whole life. Ye ken I’ve done everythin’ ye asked, bent tae every command, and still ye tell me tae wait. Why? She’s here already. Why must I bide like some lad wi’ nay right tae claim what’s his?”
Marian’s heart thudded so loud she feared they might hear it. Her mouth went dry, her palms damp where they clutched at her shawl.
She had not heard her name spoken, but she knew. Her knees trembled. She pressed closer to the wall, her breath shallow.
The laird’s reply came low, firm. “Because a laird daesnae move by impulse. We plan. We gather strength. We build the ground we’ll stand on afore we plant the flag. Ye’ll wait, Wallace, or ye’ll ruin more than ye’ll gain.”
There was a silence, broken only by the crack of the fire. Then Wallace again, rough with frustration. “I’ve waited long enough. I willnae wait months. I’ll wed her soon, or I’ll—” His voice dropped lower, words muffled, though the fury in them was plain.
Marian’s stomach lurched.
Wed her.
The words slammed into her like a blow, sharp enough to steal her breath. She clutched the stone at her back, steadying herself, though the world tilted all the same. Her lungs would not fill. Each gasp came ragged, shallow, as though the air itself had turned against her. Panic surged up her throat, sour and hot, blurring her vision until the corridor swam.
Her mind spun, wild and desperate. She had always known why she had been taken in, but it had never had a concrete timing. Now it hit her like a ton of bricks. Married? To Wallace? The thought of his hand on hers, of vows forced from her lips—her chest clenched so tight she thought she might faint then and there. She had known she was trapped there, aye. Known there was little kindness in the Mackenzie halls, that her days were not her own. But she had not been ready for this.
The voices still murmured beyond the door, but she could not bear to listen further. Her legs moved of their own accord, unsteady at first, then quicker, until she was near stumbling down the corridor. Her breath rasped, sharp as a knife, echoing against the stone. She clutched her shawl tighter, her skirts tangling round her ankles as she half ran, half staggered toward the stair.
Seoc. She had to reach Seoc.
The thought came fierce, clear, cutting through the fog of panic. The old healer’s hut sat low by the gardens, far from the laird’s wing. He would know what to do. He always did.
Her pace quickened, the corridors a blur, her slippers near slipping on the worn steps as she descended. She could still hear Wallace’s voice in her head, sharp and certain, promising what she could not bear. The sound clung, chasing her no matter how fast she fled.
By the time she reached the lower hall, her lungs burned, her pulse wild in her ears. The great doors loomed ahead, sunlight cutting in narrow beams through their cracks. She pushed through, the weight of the wood nearly toppling her with its resistance, and the chilly air of the outer yard struck her face like a slap.
But she did not slow. She crossed the stones, skirts flying, her breath visible in the cold. The walls of the castle rose high behind her, heavy as chains, but she forced herself forward, her eyes fixed on the small hut by the garden wall.
Seoc. She needed Seoc.
Her hand pressed hard to her chest, trying to contain the wild hammer of her heart. Her mind still spun, thoughts tripping over one another—Wallace, vows, a wedding in days, weeks, months, it mattered not. All she knew was she could not survive it.
Her steps faltered once, nearly sending her to her knees, but she caught herself, dragging her skirts high and pushing on. The earth gave beneath her slippers, damp with morning dew, but she scarcely felt it.
At last, the healer’s hut came into sight, smoke curling thin from its chimney. Relief cut through her panic. She stumbled to the door, her fingers shaking as she lifted them to knock.
Her knuckles barely grazed the wood before the door swung inward. Seoc filled the frame, his wiry frame stooped but steady, eyes sharp as ever despite the haze of age. The smoke from his hearth clung to his robes, the scent of dried herbs trailing after him.
“Marian?” His voice was low, startled. His gaze flicked over her face, down to her trembling hands, the wild flutter of her chest. “Saints preserve us, lass, what’s happened?”
She tried to answer, to force words past the knot in her throat, but nothing came. Only a strangled gasp. Her lips parted once, twice, then failed her.
Seoc’s brow furrowed deep. He reached for her arm, guiding her inside with surprising strength. “Come in, child. Ye’re white as linen. Sit, afore ye fall.”
The hut’s warmth struck her, but it did not ease the chill buried in her bones. She sank onto the wooden stool by the hearth, her skirts pooling heavy round her ankles. Her hands shook where they clutched at one another, her breath breaking uneven, her chest tight as though the air would not come.
“Tell me, Marian.” Seoc crouched before her, his hand resting light upon her knee, steady as stone. “What’s set ye so?”
She opened her mouth, but again, no words came. Instead, a sob ripped from her, sudden and fierce. Her shoulders collapsed under the weight of it. She pressed her palms hard to her face, trying to stifle the sound, but the sobs kept coming, hot and broken, shaking her body until she almost slid from the stool.
“Ah, lass.” Seoc’s voice softened. He rose, fetched a blanket from his cot, and draped it over her shoulders. Then he moved to the shelf, hands busy with jars and pouches, until he returned with a small wooden cup. The sharp scent of herbs rose as he poured hot water over them, the steam curling between them like breath.
“Drink,” he urged, pressing the cup to her hands. “Slowly. It’ll steady ye.”
Her fingers fumbled against the wood, nearly spilling the content, but she managed to lift it to her lips. The brew was bitter, biting her tongue, but the warmth slid down her throat, anchoring her enough that her sobs slowed to ragged breaths.
Seoc settled into the stool across from her, his eyes fixed steady on her face. “Now. When ye can, tell me.”
She wiped at her cheeks, her breath hitching still. “I… I heard them.” Her voice broke, barely a whisper. “Wallace. And his faither.”
Seoc’s eyes narrowed, though his tone stayed calm. “Heard them where?”
“In the laird’s study.” She shook her head, the memory slicing through her. “They were arguin’. About me.”
Seoc leaned closer, his brows drawn tight. “What did ye hear?”
Her lips trembled. The words tasted like ash, but she forced them out. “Wallace means tae wed me. Soon.”
The healer’s jaw clenched, though he said nothing at first. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Marian’s breath quickened again, panic rising sharp in her chest. “I cannae. I cannae, Seoc. I’ll nae survive it. The thought o’ him—his hand on mine, his voice speakin’ vows I dinnae choose—” She shook her head hard, clutching the blanket tighter round her. “It feels like chains closin’ round my throat. I’ll choke. I’ll die.”
Seoc reached across the space and caught her hand in his. His palm was rough, the grip firm, steadying her spirals. “Breathe, lass. Slowly now. Ye’re safe here.”
She dragged a breath in, then another, though they still came jagged. Tears blurred her vision, spilling over no matter how fiercely she tried to hold them back.
“Ye’ve time yet,” Seoc said at last, voice low, certain. “The laird’ll nae rush such a matter. He’s too careful fer that.”
“I heard him,” Marian whispered, eyes wide. “Wallace said he wouldnae wait. He’s tired o’ it. He’s been waitin’ too long.” Her nails dug into the blanket. “Four months, his faither said. But Wallace—” Her voice cracked. “He means tae have me sooner.”
Seoc’s eyes softened then, though anger flickered in the lines of his face. “Och, Marian. Ye’ve been dealt a cruel hand, aye. But dinnae fash yersel’ into despair. There may yet be a way.”
Her gaze shot to him, desperate, pleading. “What way? Tell me. I cannae live like this, waitin’ fer the day they drag me tae the church.”
Seoc was quiet a long moment, his thumb rubbing slow over her knuckles. She could see him thinking, the weight of years in the lines of his brow, the flicker of firelight in his eyes.
At last, he exhaled. “I have a thought. A plan, maybe. Naught certain yet. But I’ll nae sit idle while they steal yer will.”
Her heart lurched, hope flaring fiercely. “What plan?”
He shook his head, though his hand stayed steady on hers. “I’ll nae say till I’ve turned it o’er, seen it from all sides. Plans made in haste break easy. But I swear it tae ye, lass—I’ll find a way. Ye’ll nae be left tae Wallace, nae so long as I’ve breath.”
Her lips parted, though no words came. Relief cut through her panic, sharp as a blade. Tears welled fresh, spilling silently down her cheeks.
Seoc gave her hand a final squeeze, then released it, rising to tend the fire. “Drink the rest,” he said gruffly. “Warm yer bones. Ye’ll need strength fer what lies ahead.”
Marian lifted the cup again, though her hands still shook. The bitterness no longer mattered. Only the warmth, the promise in his voice, the faint spark of hope kindling against the cold dread in her chest.
She clutched it close, as if the heat itself might keep her alive.
