Chapter One

 
1767, Inverness

The night pressed heavy on the glen, a thick velvet silence broken only by the restless snort of Marian’s mare and the whisper of the healer’s voice.

“Ye’ve got everything ye need, lass?” Seoc’s hands were rough with years of grinding herbs and setting bones, but gentle as he tightened the strap of her saddle. His head bent close to the horse’s flank, the firelight from the lantern throwing deep shadows across the lines of his face.

Marian could not answer at once. Her throat felt raw, as if every word she had swallowed those last years had lodged there, choking her when she needed speech most. She only nodded, fingers curled around the worn leather reins as though they were the only thing holding her upright.

Seoc straightened, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced than ever, his graying hair caught by the lantern’s glow.

“Then ye’ll be ridin’ straight fer Tor Castle. Kenina kens ye’re comin’, though nae who ye are. The name ye carry, lass…” His voice faltered, heavy with a grief he tried to mask. “Best keep it buried, aye? Fer yer own sake.”

She shut her eyes against the sting. To hide her name was to hide her father, her brother, her mother—all that she had left of them. But it was her only chance.

“Aye, I will,” she whispered, though her voice broke.

Seoc’s gaze softened. For years he had been more father to her than any laird could claim. She thought of the hours spent in his hut, the air thick with rosemary and woodsmoke, where he had listened to her as though her thoughts mattered. It was the only place in Mackenzie lands where she could breathe, where she was not watched or measured. Seoc’s lessons were patient, his silences kind. He had never asked her to be a pawn or a promise, only herself.

Seoc reached for her hand. His palm was rough, the ridges of old scars pressed into her skin, yet his touch was steady. “I’m proud o’ ye, lass,” he said, voice low and sure. “Proud ye’ve the courage tae choose freedom, even when it scares ye. The world will take enough from ye without ye givin’ it yer will as well. Remember that. Hold fast tae it.”

A tear slipped free before she could stop it. She dragged her sleeve across her cheek, but Seoc saw. He always did.

“Ye’ve a healer’s heart, lass,” he said softly. “Dinnae let the world harden it. Learn from Kenina, keep tae the herbs, the roots, the small mercies. That’ll be yer strength. And if ye’re ever lost—remember the plants will always answer. They dinnae lie.”

Marian let out a shaky breath. “And ye, Seoc? What if they punish ye fer helpin’ me?”

His eyes twinkled despite the weight of the moment. “Och, I’m an auld man. They’ll nae see me as worth their rage. And if they dae—” He shrugged, a quiet defiance in the gesture. “I’ve lived long enough wi’ their chains about me neck. Ye’ve the chance tae cut yers. Go. That’s all the thanks I need.”

She could not speak. She only leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his hand for one brief moment, letting the warmth of him steady her before it was gone.

Then she mounted. The mare shifted beneath her, eager, sensing the night’s tension. Seoc gave the animal a last pat and stepped back.

“Ride swift, Marian. And dinnae look back.”

The words lodged in her chest as the horse carried her into the dark. She did not look back, though every part of her wanted to.

The night pressed close around her at first, heavy and suffocating, the silence broken only by the sound of hooves striking earth. With each stride she felt the ground of Mackenzie land fall further behind, yet the weight of it clung to her shoulders all the same. Freedom was before her, vast and unmarked, but it felt as perilous as it was precious.

The moor opened wide before her, a sweep of heather and stone silvered by moonlight. The wind caught her hair, tearing strands loose from her braid, whipping them across her face as she urged the mare faster. Each hoofbeat was a drum of defiance, a rhythm louder than the pounding of her own heart.

Still, fear clung to her like a second skin. Every shadow seemed a rider. Every gust of wind sounded like pursuit. She pressed low over the horse’s neck, whispering prayers she was not certain reached any God who cared to listen.

Her chest tightened, thoughts spiraling backward as they always did in silence. To the days when she was still Marian Matheson, daughter of a laird whose land no longer existed. Before the noose took her father and exile claimed her brother. She had been young then, but not so young that she did not remember the sound of her brother’s laughter. Her mother’s face lingered most of all, pale and strained at the window as the redcoats marched her husband to the gallows.

The Mackenzie laird had taken her in after her mother’s death, but not from kindness. His eyes had always weighed her as though she were coin to be spent. He spoke of her as his son Wallace’s bride long before she had been old enough to know what marriage meant.

The thought of Wallace Mackenzie intruded, sharp as a blade. He looked at her with pride as though she were a prize hound he had trained, his consolidation of power, nothing more. His smile always carried that weight, a reminder of the marriage that awaited her once the vows were spoken.

But after that night, there would be no more. This was the one night to turn the course of her life. Her hand tightened on the reins until her knuckles ached. No. She would not bend her neck.

The road to Inverness stretched long and cold. The moon dipped low, and with it her strength waned. Yet every mile carried her closer to the chance Seoc had carved for her, the path he had risked himself to open.

He had written to Kenina, the famed healer of Clan Chattan, asking her to take in an apprentice without naming who she truly was. They would never take her if they knew she belonged to the Mackenzies, because such ties carried too much danger. However, under another name she might be accepted. It was the only door left unbarred, and Seoc had pressed it open with steady hands and quiet courage.

The days blurred together in the rhythm of hoofbeats and breath. Morning bled into evening, then into morning again, her body aching with the strain, her eyes stinging from sleepless hours. Yet still she pressed on. Though weariness gnawed at her bones, freedom burned fiercer, carrying her farther than she ever thought her limbs could bear.

When at last the walls of Inverness rose ahead, relief nearly unseated her. The town lay quiet in the early light, smoke curling from chimneys, the air alive with the faint stirrings of trade. She slowed her mare at the edge of the cobbled street, her gaze sweeping past shuttered shops and narrow lanes until it caught on the warm glow spilling from an inn’s windows. A painted sign swung above the door, creaking softly in the early morning wind, and the sight of it struck her like a promise, a place to breathe.

She guided her mare toward the inn’s stable, sliding stiffly from the saddle. Her legs buckled, and she gripped the doorpost until the wave of weakness passed.

The stable smelled of hay and horseflesh. She stroked her mare’s neck, whispering thanks, before handing the reins to the boy who had hurried out.

“See her fed, lad,” she murmured, slipping him a coin. “She’s carried me far.”

The boy’s eyes widened at the silver. He bobbed a quick nod and led the mare toward the stalls at the far end of the stable, leaving Marian to gather her satchel and rest a hand along the mare’s damp neck. The steady rise and fall of the animal’s breath, the scent of hay and warm hide, the quiet rustle of hooves shifting in straw, wrapped her in a fragile calm. For the briefest moment, she let herself believe she was safe. Perhaps, at last, fortune had chosen her side.

But the moment shattered as the door creaked open behind her.

Three men entered, broad-shouldered, cloaked in Mackenzie colors that struck terror like a blade. Her breath seized. She knew one at once. Ivor, Wallace’s friend. His hound. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

“Ye seen a lass pass through here?” Ivor’s voice cut sharp, aimed at the boy. “Chestnut hair. Green eyes. Rides a dark mare.”

Time slowed. Marian’s heart thundered. She willed the boy to lie, to shake his head, to do anything but—

The boy’s gaze darted to her. His hand lifted, pointing straight.

Marian’s blood turned to ice. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch it. She lunged toward the side door, skirts gathered in her fists, boots pounding against the packed earth. The stable filled with the echo of shouts, iron on stone, men cursing as benches scraped. Her breath tore in her throat, ragged and hot, but she did not dare look back.

“Get her!” Ivor’s voice cracked like a whip, sending fear lashing down her spine.

The mare neighed behind her, startled by the commotion. Marian’s heart clenched, but she forced herself onward. Each step was a plea to let her feet hold, let the ground not falter, let her free.

A shadow loomed beside her, heavy boots closing in fast. Fingers like iron clamped around her arm, wrenching her sideways. Pain shot up her shoulder, a cry bursting from her lips. She fought, twisting hard, but his grip only bit deeper. The scent of sweat and steel smothered her, the rasp of his breath too close.

“Got ye now,” the man growled.

Nae yet.

Her gaze caught on a pitchfork leaning against the stall post. Hope flared wild in her chest. With every ounce of her weight she swung, snatching the haft in both hands and driving the tines upward. The sharp iron ripped through cloth and into flesh.

The man roared, the sound guttural, shock and pain mingling as his hold slackened. Hot blood splattered her sleeve. Marian yanked free, heart hammering, vision dizzy with fear and triumph both. She didn’t wait to see if he’d fall, she just ran.

Her breath came in tearing gasps as she burst through the stable door and into the inn. The dim room yawned empty, shadows stretching long across the floorboards. The tables were bare, benches deserted. The silence rang louder than a shout.

Panic clawed at her ribs. Where was everyone?

Then she remembered—today was the fair. Every soul in Inverness would be gathered in the market square, leaving the inn hollow and still.

“Saints guide me,” she whispered, voice breaking.

The door behind her crashed open.

She spun and fled the other way, skirts tangling round her legs, feet stumbling over the uneven boards. Bursting into the morning light, she blinked against the brightness, the noise, the crush of people filling the square. Stalls lined the cobbles, hung with bolts of cloth, barrels of salted fish, baskets of fruit. Children darted between women haggling, men called prices, fiddlers scraped at strings.

And into that chaos Marian ran.

Her lungs burned, but the fair gave her cover. She shoved past a woman carrying bread, dodged a cart laden with wool. A man cursed as she overturned a bucket of apples, red and green rolling like marbles beneath boots. Shouts rose behind her, harsh Mackenzie voices cutting through the din.

She glanced back once and wished she hadn’t. Ivor’s dark hair caught the sun, his gaze locked to her like a wolf sighting prey. Two more followed, forcing through the throng, shoving aside anyone in their path.

Adrenaline surged, hot and blinding. She pushed harder, weaving fast as the crowd thickened. Every breath scraped her throat raw, but she clung to the thought of her freedom lying ahead. If she could make it past the gates, out of Inverness, toward Tor Castle and the Highlands beyond, she might yet vanish.

A stall toppled in her wake, baskets of turnips scattering. Someone screamed. Marian ducked beneath an awning, slid between two oxen, the reek of dung and sweat clogging her nose. Hands reached for her from the crowd, some to help, others to hinder. She tore free of them all.

Her mind spun. She had no plan, only the need to run, to be gone. Seoc’s words burned behind her eyes.

The world will take enough from ye without ye givin’ it yer will as well.

She could not give them her will. She would rather die there in the dust than crawl back to Wallace’s cage.

She burst from the press of bodies into a side lane, her feet skidding on damp stone. For a heartbeat, silence. She dragged in air, chest heaving, legs trembling beneath her.

Then heavy steps pounded close.

She bolted again, darting round a corner, only to crash into another broad chest. Hands seized her, two this time, pinning her arms, forcing her down. She shrieked, twisting, kicking, her nails scraping flesh. Her knee drove upward, striking hard. One man cursed, but still they held.

“Let me go!” Her voice broke into a sob, raw with rage and terror. She fought like a wild thing, skirts tearing, hair coming loose in a dark snarl around her face. Her cheek struck stone as they forced her down, grit biting her skin. The world spun, the taste of iron filling her mouth.

Ivor loomed above her, shadow falling long across the cobbles. His smile was thin, cruel, the satisfaction of a hound that had run his quarry to ground.

“Ye gave us a good chase, Marian,” he drawled. “But it ends here.”

Her body shook with exhaustion, but still she thrashed, her heart screaming louder than her voice. Every part of her burned to keep moving, to keep clawing toward freedom, though the weight of three men pressed her to the earth.

She thought of her father, her brother, her mother’s face at the window. Of Seoc’s scarred hand wrapped round hers in farewell. Of the herbs hanging in his hut, lavender and rosemary drying in peace.

I’ll nae be their pawn.

But her breath faltered, and her strength slipped away beneath their grip.

Chapter Two

Her throat burned from screaming. Her arms ached where rough hands clamped them, dragging her across the cobbles like she was nothing more than a sack of grain. Marian kicked and thrashed, nails raking skin, her voice tearing ragged from her lungs.

But the crowd only stared, eyes glancing, then turning away again, like shutters closing against a storm. Mothers tugged children closer, men bent their heads as though a woman’s struggle was no concern of theirs.

“Let me go!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Saints, help me!”

Not a soul moved to help her.

Despair struck colder than the men’s grip, colder than the stones beneath her feet. The sight of people who could help, but would not, was worse than chains. She tasted blood on her lip where it had split, salt stinging her tongue. The world narrowed to the scrape of her body dragged across the ground, the iron weight of men’s hands crushing her to the earth, the terror that clawed at her ribs.

That was it. She’d risked everything for freedom, and it would end there in the filth of Inverness. Wallace would have her caged before nightfall, and the taste of air she’d stolen would vanish like it had never been hers.

Her body burned with rage at the thought. She would not go back. She would die there in the dirt first.

Marian twisted hard, wrenching against their hold until something popped in her shoulder. She screamed again, high and sharp, not only in pain but in fury. “I’ll nae go back tae—”

“What’s this?” A low, steady voice cut through the clamor, unhurried, like steel sliding from its sheath.

The men jerked her upright, startled, and Marian’s head whipped round. Through the ring of onlookers, a figure moved closer.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of ease that spoke of strength contained rather than flaunted. Sunlight struck his hair and turned it to gold, a bright and untamed crown that caught every glance. His eyes, hazel and sharp as cut amber, swept the street with a steadiness that made the air feel altered around him. Ink coiled dark along the skin at his collar, the edge of a tattoo vanishing beneath his sleeve, a mark of defiance that only drew the eye further.

His coat was travel-worn, his stride unhurried, yet there was something in the way he carried himself, a presence that belonged to danger as much as to beauty, that made every head turn to look.

Her breath snagged. Who—?

Her captors shifted uneasily, as if they felt it too, though they tightened their grip on her arms. The man’s gaze swept over them once, then settled on Marian. And in that instant, her fear cracked.

The world had been cold stone, sharp voices, empty faces—but his eyes, steady as the earth, landed on her, and for the first time since the stable she felt seen.

“What’s wrong, lass?” he asked, voice carrying like calm across the fair’s chaos.

Marian’s lips parted, but no sound came. Her captors filled the silence.

“This is nae o’ yer affair,” Ivor spat. “Best walk on, stranger.”

The man did not move. He only looked at them as if he were considering something small, unworthy of much thought. Then his gaze flicked to her again, and Marian’s pulse lurched.

Saints, he was… handsome didn’t even touch it. He looked like he’d been carved out of stone, all hard lines and quiet fire, the kind of man who could break another in half and not lose his breath. Her mind reeled. Her body throbbed with fear, but beneath it something else sparked, bright and wild, so new she hardly knew how to name it.

The Mackenzie men barked a laugh, false bravado ringing. “Walk away.”

But the man smiled, faint and dangerous, and Marian swore her knees nearly buckled even with their hands on her.

“I would,” he said. “But it seems the lady’s got a different wish.”

Before they could answer, he moved.

It was a storm contained in muscle and precision, unleashed in a flurry of motion that seemed both brutal and impossibly elegant. His hand struck one man’s wrist with such force the blade went clattering to the ground, steel ringing against the cobbles. In the same breath his elbow drove backward into another chest, the thud of impact carrying through the air as the man folded with a grunt.

He pivoted cleanly, never stumbling or flailing. Each movement belonged exactly where it landed, as if he had measured the space before stepping into it, as if every strike had already been written in his body.

Marian wrenched herself sideways in the chaos, her chest heaving, eyes wide. She could hardly breathe. He did not fight like a brute swinging wild blows, but like something sharper, closer to a dancer who had trained his body to obey a rhythm no one else could hear. His strikes were deliberate, his footing flawless, his strength reined tight until the moment it was loosed in sudden violence. It was not brawl but craft, and the men who had seized her looked clumsy beside it.

Her heart lurched in her chest. God help her, it was like being sixteen again. This was a man who looked as though the Highlands themselves had shaped him from heather and stone, strong and wild. Terrible in his force, beautiful in the control with which he wielded it.

Her breath shook loose from her, trembling, her body half-torn between fear and awe. Who was he?

The Mackenzies reeled but did not retreat. Ivor snarled, drawing a blade, and the sight tore Marian’s chest in two. If he killed—

But the stranger only tilted his head, calm as the sea before a storm.

“I’d hate tae see blood ruin the fair,” he said, voice almost regretful. “Best walk away before it comes tae that.”

The crowd murmured, shifting back, but the Mackenzies spat curses and surged again. Steel flashed. Marian cried out.

The fight broke like thunder. Blades rang, fists cracked. The stranger ducked, twisted, struck with the hilt of his weapon, each move so swift Marian’s eyes could scarcely follow. He fought not only to win but to protect, placing himself always between her and their blades.

Her chest ached with something she had no name for. Terror, yes. But threaded through it, a heat that spread low and fierce. Who was this man, who could stand against Wallace’s hounds as if they were nothing?

The cry of a voice split the din. “Evander!”

More men appeared at the lane’s mouth, warriors moving fast, swords drawn. They bore themselves with the same quiet strength, and at once Marian saw they were his allies.

“Evander, ye daft bastard,” one of them called, breathless but grinning. “Always pickin’ fights ye’ve nae need tae.”

His name was Evander. It struck through her like a mark branded on her heart. He did not look at his men, only kept his stance before her, blade flashing once more.

“About time,” he muttered, though Marian caught the ghost of a smile tugging his mouth.

The reinforcements surged in, steel against steel, and in moments the tide turned. Ivor cursed, backing toward the crowd, blood streaking his sleeve.

“This is nae finished,” he spat, dark eyes locking on Marian. “Ye’ll pay fer this.”

Then he and his men fled, swallowed by the press of onlookers.

The silence that followed rang louder than their footsteps. Marian’s chest heaved, her hair wild round her face, wrists bruised from their grip. She stared at Evander as though he were a vision, some apparition conjured by desperation.

Sweet mercy, he was—

She dragged her gaze away, cheeks burning.

Nay, foolish girl.

She had only just escaped one prison, she would not leap willingly into another. And yet, her heart would not still. It beat wild, alive, with the image of him standing above her, calm in the storm.

Alive.

That was the word. She felt alive.

“Ye all right, lass?”

The voice came low, edged with the easy confidence of a man who had never learned to be afraid. She turned her head, forcing herself to meet his gaze. His hazel eyes held hers with a steady boldness, the kind that made it difficult to breathe, as though he could see more of her than she meant to show.

“Aye,” she managed, though her throat still rasped from screaming. “I will be.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the truth of her words. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Good. Because nay woman should be taken anywhere without wantin’ tae go.”

The words struck through her chest sharper than she expected. Simple and plain, and yet no man had ever said such a thing to her. She had been bartered since childhood. To hear him speak it as if it were the most obvious truth in the world nearly broke her.

She swallowed, struggling to recover her composure. “Thank ye. Truly. I dinnae ken what might’ve—”

“Best nae think o’ it.” His tone was easy, kind, though his body still thrummed with the fight he had just given. “I’m Evander.”

She hesitated. Her name felt heavy on her tongue, weighted with danger. One slip, and all Seoc’s care would be lost. She forced herself to smile, though her palms sweated.

“Marian,” she said at last, the word falling before she could stop it. Her pulse jumped, panic sparking in her chest. What had she done? Quickly, she forced a smile, her palms damp. “Marian… Fraser.”

If he noticed the pause, he gave no sign. He only dipped his head, the golden fall of his hair catching the sunlight again. “A pleasure, Marian Fraser.”

Her stomach flipped at the sound of it on his tongue.

Foolish girl.

He looked at her, not with the hungry arrogance she had come to dread in Wallace and his hounds, but with a gaze that carried weight of a different kind. It lingered, steady, as though he were trying to understand her. “After the fray ye just found yerself in, I’d say ye could dae with a drink.”

Her brows lifted. “A drink?”

“Aye. Ale. Mead. Whatever warms ye. Helps the hands stop shakin’, in me experience.”

For a heartbeat, the thought was tempting. The fair was bright with laughter, the scent of spiced pies thick in the air, and beside her stood a man whose presence alone steadied her pulse.

But she was not free to linger. Kenina, her only chance at safety, waited at Tor Castle. To linger now, no matter how handsome the company, was to risk it all. And beyond that, she knew nothing of him. He had stepped in when no one else had, true enough, but men who fought well were not always men who meant well. She had learned that lesson too young.

“Thank ye,” she said, lifting her chin though her voice was tight. Pride stiffened her spine as she added, “but I can handle mesel’ fine.”

She did not wait for his answer. She turned on her heel, but the instant her weight shifted, pain lanced up her leg so sharply she gasped aloud. The world tilted. She stumbled hard, her hand flying to catch the edge of a barrel, breath hissing through her teeth. The ache in her ankle seared bright, humiliation burning hotter still in her chest.

“Handle yersel’, is it?” His tone was maddeningly mild, far too amused for a man who had just seen her nearly collapse.

She glared. “It’s naught. A twist.”

“A twist that had ye near fallin’ on yer face.” He crouched, already reaching for her hem.

Her heart thudded, heat rising to her cheeks. “What are ye—?!” She slapped at his hand. “Ye cannae just—”

“I can, when ye’re about tae cripple yersel’. Hold still.”

“Ye’re insufferable,” she hissed, though she could not quite pull back, not without looking the coward.

His grin flashed quick, boyish beneath all that muscle. “So, I’ve been told.”

He prodded gently, and though she tried to keep her face composed, a sharp breath hissed between her teeth. His touch was firm but careful, steady as Seoc’s when setting a bone.

“It’s nae broken,” he said at last, glancing up. “Tender, aye, but ye’ll live.”

“I told ye.” She crossed her arms, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.

“Aye, ye did. And if nae fer me, ye’d be limpin’ the streets till nightfall. That’s worth somethin’, lass.” He rose in one fluid motion, broad shadow falling over her again, and offered his hand. His smile tilted, half-charm, half-challenge. “So. Ye’ll share a drink wi’ me.”

Her lips parted to refuse, but her leg throbbed in protest, and truth be told, her heart throbbed worse at the sight of him standing there, golden and solid as the very walls of Inverness. Saints preserve her, she wanted to go.

“Fine,” she muttered, placing her hand in his.

The fair buzzed around them as he guided her toward the square. Fiddles skirled, children shrieked with laughter, women bartered over bolts of cloth. And there she was, walking beside a man who looked like he had stepped out of some bard’s song, his stride unhurried, his arm steady near her elbow in case she faltered.

The tavern’s tables spilled out into the street, tankards clattering, voices loud. He secured her a seat beneath a striped awning, ordered ale with the ease of a man used to being heeded, and returned with two frothing mugs.

“Tae freedom,” he said, lifting his tankard.

She blinked at him.

“Ye earned it, did ye nae? Better toast it than waste it.”

Slowly, she raised her mug, the wood cool against her fingers. “Tae freedom,” she echoed, the word sweet on her tongue.

The ale was strong, burning down her throat, loosening the coil in her chest. She dared a glance at him as he drank, head tilted, golden hair spilling loose where the fight had tugged it free. God above, he was a man who looked as though he had bled and laughed and fought in equal measure, and carried every bit of it in the set of his shoulders.

And he was watching her, hazel eyes bright with something that felt dangerously close to interest.

Her cheeks flamed. She set her mug down hard. “Dae ye always spend yer days rescuin’ strangers?”

“Only the ones worth rescuin’.” His grin was wicked now, curling at one corner.

Heat rushed to her ears. She scoffed, reaching for bravado. “Ye’ve a glib tongue, sir.”

“And ye’ve sharp teeth, Marian Fraser. I’d wager ye bite as quick as ye speak.”

She laughed then, despite herself, the sound surprising her as it slipped free. It had been so long since laughter had come without cost or fear.

They wandered the fair after, drawn into games by his coaxing. He tossed coins at the knife-throw, sinking every blade dead center with infuriating ease. She tried her hand, missed twice, then finally struck near the middle. He cheered her as though she’d bested him, earning her glare and her reluctant smile.

At the ring toss she beat him clean, her aim steady, and he protested so dramatically the onlookers laughed outright. She stuck her chin high, feigning haughtiness, while he bowed with exaggerated grace.

“Ye see? Skill bests brute strength.”

“Or perhaps ye’ve charmed the rings tae obey ye.”

“Perhaps I have.” She let the words slip with a smile she did not mean to give.

As dusk deepened, lanterns lit, their glow softening the fair into something almost dreamlike. Music lilted through the square, couples spinning in dance. Marian stood at the edge, heart aching at the sight of such simple joy. She had not been allowed to dance since she was a girl.

Evander leaned close, his voice brushing her ear. “Dance with me.”

Her pulse leapt. “I cannae,” she whispered, the old fear clamping her chest.

He stepped back, no pressure in his gaze, only that easy smile. “Then watch. But I’ll wager ye’ll wish ye had.”

She watched as another lass laughed and let Evander lead her into the reel. The sight sent a sharp twist through Marian’s chest, though she told herself it was only foolishness. Still, each time he spun the lass, his smile easy and unguarded, her pulse drummed faster.

Before she could stop herself, she moved closer, his name slipping out low, almost grudging. “Evander?”

His brows lifted, that infuriating smile tugging at his lips, but with a courteous word he released the lass and turned to Marian. “Aye, then. Come.”

When his hand closed around hers, steady and warm, the fair seemed to fall away. He drew her into the music, guiding her through the steps with practiced ease. At first her body resisted, stiff with jealousy, but the rhythm carried her until her skirts swirled and her laughter broke free despite herself. His gaze never left hers, hazel eyes alight, as though the crowd and lanterns and music were all for them alone. Each turn brought her closer, until she could feel the heat of him, the sure press of his hand at her waist, the dangerous tug of wanting more.

Later, as they wandered down a quieter lane strung with lanterns, the laughter and music soft behind them, she felt the pull between them grow taut as a bowstring. His hand brushed hers once, twice, until at last she let her fingers linger.

He stopped, turning to her with a slowness that made her heart falter. His hazel eyes caught hers, steady and intent, carrying a warmth that burned beneath the surface until she could scarcely stand to look at him. The noise of the fair seemed to blur, fading into nothing but the space between them.

“Ye’re starin’,” she managed, her voice thinner than she wished.

“Aye,” he said, unrepentant. “Hard thing nae tae, when ye look at me wi’ eyes like that.”

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she scoffed, though the sound trembled. “Ye’re far too sure o’ yersel’, Evander.”

He bent closer, his smile a ghost at the corner of his mouth. “And ye’re far too stubborn tae admit ye want me tae kiss ye.”

Her breath caught, her chest tight with something perilously close to longing. “I never said—”

But her protest broke off as his mouth touched hers, unhurried, giving her every chance to pull away. She did not. Her breath caught, her chest tight with something perilously close to longing, and when his mouth touched hers, the world vanished.

The kiss was gentle at first, testing, as if he feared she might vanish like smoke. His lips brushed hers warm and sure, tasting of ale and spice and something fiercer still, something that belonged to him alone. The restraint in him only made her dizzy, because she could feel the strength he held back, the fire caged just beneath the tenderness.

Without meaning to, she leaned into him, her body yielding even as her mind screamed against it. Her heart thundered like a drum in her ribs, wild and ungoverned, every beat a betrayal of the vows she had made to herself. For the first time in longer than she dared recall, she felt wanted.

And then it ended. He drew back, slow as a tide pulling from the shore, and she was left gasping, the world tilting round her as if she had been flung from a great height.

“Nay,” she breathed, voice breaking on the word. Panic crashed hard and cold through her veins, scattering the warmth his lips had lit within her. “This… this was a mistake.”

Before he could speak, she turned and ran, her ankle screaming in protest, her braid coming undone, her breath ragged. She did not look back. If she saw him again, she feared she would not have the strength to leave.

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One Month Earlier

“What is it, Maither? Da?”

The room was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Iona sat at the thick oak table, her hands folded neatly before her, trying to ignore the quiet, knowing glances her parents had been exchanging since she had come to the dinner table.

She glanced from under her lashes at the faint smile her mother, Lady Caoimhe, shared with her father, Laird Eoin. It wasn’t the usual warmth of their gentle camaraderie. This was something more, something hidden in the depths of their eyes.

Iona felt a flicker of curiosity and trepidation. Had something happened again? Was it another threat from Murray? She lowered her gaze, pretending to focus on the wineglass in front of her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

She looked up, and her mother met her eyes with an unspoken answer. Her father cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly.

“Iona,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “there’s something we must share with ye.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to remain calm. “What is it?” she asked, trying to sound casual, though she felt a lump forming in her throat.

Her mother reached for something from the side of the table, her fingers brushing the parchment of a letter. Iona had spent so many holidays there, playing with Ruaridh, that she could never mistaken that seal.

Alistair MacDuff.

Iona could not help the way her heart began to race as her mother slid the letter toward her. She swallowed hard as her mother gestured toward it. “Read it, me dear.”

Iona hesitated, her eyes flicking between her parents. They both watched her closely, their faces soft, expectant. She took the letter in her hands, her pulse quickened.

She unfolded the letter slowly, the smooth parchment feeling too thin, too fragile in her trembling hands. The words, written in the elegant script of Alistair MacDuff, seemed to echo in the silence of the room.

Tae Laird Eoin MacNeill,

Alistair MacDuff, Laird of Clan MacDuff

Iona felt the weight of the words fall over her like heavy, comforting blanket, full of warmth and promise. She read the letter twice, the second time slowly, letting the words sink deeper into her heart. The room seemed to disappear around her as she relived the painful past, the shame, the betrayal.

Her eyes welled up with emotion as the truth of what was being offered settled in. Her childhood friend, the boy who had once been her constant companion, the one who had made her laugh despite everything, was now offering her a future. A future she could scarcely dare to imagine.

“Ruaridh,” she whispered, the name a soft breath of hope escaping her lips.

Her mother, watching her with tender eyes, leaned forward. “Aye, love. Ruaridh MacDuff wants tae marry ye. Clan MacDuff has decided tae marry ye and end the shame that MacNab has stained ye with.”

Iona’s breath caught in her throat. The shame. The years of exile, silence, isolation, and the weight of Murray MacNab’s lies that had crushed her and kept her living a hidden life here in the castle. But this… this was something else entirely.

A lifeline.

“I… I daennae ken what tae say,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. She looked at her father, her heart suddenly lighter, yet heavy with the weight of the moment. “Is this truly real?”

Her father’s deep voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable softness in his words. “This is real, Iona. Ruaridh MacDuff has seen the pain ye’ve endured. He offers ye a new life at MacDuff castle, and a future that’s different from the one MacNab sought tae give ye.”

Her heart thundered in her chest, and suddenly, it was too much to bear. Iona leapt from her seat and rushed into her mother’s arms, her joy overwhelming her. “Oh, Maither! Oh, Da!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “I never thought this could happen. I thought I’d always be trapped. Stuck with the shame of Murray’s lies.”

Her mother’s arms enveloped her in warmth. “Nay, darling. Nay more. This is yer chance tae be free. Tae finally be who ye were meant tae be.”

Her father stood, his gaze intense, filled with pride and love. “Ye’ve been through too much, Iona. This is yer new beginning. Although nay one has spoken of love, we ken young Ruadridh was fond of ye back then. This may be a new chance fer happiness.”

Iona kissed them both, then dashed for her room, the letter still clutched tightly in her hand. Her pulse raced, excitement building like a storm inside her.

Once behind the privacy of her door, Iona sat on her bed and read it again. This time, the words didn’t just speak of hope, they spoke of a future that might be free from the terror and shame that had shadowed her life for so long

She closed her eyes, the memories of her childhood with Ruaridh rushing back. They had played together, run through the fields of the castle, and shared secrets in the woods. She remembered his laughter, his smile, the way he had always been there for her. Could he still be the same? Could they pick up where they left off, all those years ago?

Her heart fluttered with a mix of longing and fear. She had never allowed herself to hope for such a future. She’d never dared to dream that any respectable laird would want her, not to talk of Ruaridh, who had been her best friend all those childhood days, and her first crush, if she admitted it.

But now… now there was hope

She read the letter again, and this time, as she finished, she saw it. Their new future.

Me future with Ruaridh.

The life they could have. Love, peace, safety. A future where the shadow of MacNab’s cruelty no longer loomed over her

The tears came again, but this time they were tears of relief, tears of joy. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would finally know the kind of love she had always yearned for.

And in that quiet moment, as the firelight flickered in the corner of her room, Iona dared to believe that the future she had longed for was finally within her grasp.

With one final glance at the letter, Iona whispered, “Ruaridh. I’ll marry ye.”

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Chapter One

 
1348, Castle of Clan MacNeil

“Are ye ready, lass? We must go now while the castle sleeps.”

Iona MacNeill turned from her narrow window to find Henry, her father’s most trusted guardsman, standing in her doorway. His weathered face was grim in the candlelight, and she could see the tension in his broad shoulders. Beyond him, shadows moved in the corridor—more men, armed and waiting.

Her fingers tightened around the folded parchment in her hand—Murray’s letter, the one she’d stolen from his study that night when everything had gone so terribly wrong. The letter that contained enough evidence to create doubt about any story he tried to spin about her, but also enough to endanger anyone who possessed it. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t use it, that this marriage to Ruaridh would be a fresh start, a chance to leave the past buried. But just in case Murray tried to claim she’d been willing, just in case he tried to destroy her reputation further…

She slipped the letter into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress, feeling its weight settle against her ribs like a guilty secret. Murray would be searching for it, she knew that. It was likely one of the reasons he wanted her dead—not just to silence her, but to reclaim the proof of his correspondence with English sympathizers, his payments to Highland lords willing to betray their clans for gold.

This is it. Nay turnin’ back now.

“Aye, I’m ready.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. The small leather satchel containing her few precious belongings sat on the bed, ready for this moment they’d all dreaded would come. Henry stepped into the chamber, closing the door softly behind him. “Yer faither wants to see ye before we leave. He’s waitin’ in his study with yer maither.”

Iona’s stomach twisted. She’d been dreading this farewell almost as much as the journey itself.

How dae ye say goodbye tae people ye might never see again?

The weight of her shame pressed down like a stone in her chest.

This is me fault. All of it. If I’d kept me mouth shut about Murray, if I’d been stronger, if I’d been smarter…

She squeezed her eyes shut against the familiar spiral of self-blame.

Nay. Murray made his choices. I just refused tae be his victim.

But the guilt remained, gnawing at her. Her parents were losing their only child because she’d believed justice mattered more than politics. And now they were paying the price for her pride.

The stone corridors of MacNeill castle felt different that night—colder, more foreboding. Each familiar tapestry and worn step seemed to whisper of all she was leaving behind. The castle had been her prison these past months, but it was still home.

The only home I’ve ever kent. Will I ever walk these halls again?

She found her parents in her father’s study, the room that had once felt so warm and welcoming now heavy with sorrow. Her mother, Lady Caoimhe, sat in the chair beside the great oak desk, her face streaked with tears she no longer tried to hide. Her father, Laird Eoin MacNeill, stood by the fire, his tall frame rigid with the weight of what he was about to do.

“Come here, me darlin’ girl,” her mother whispered, rising from her chair with trembling hands extended.

Iona flew into her mother’s embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and home.

Dinnae cry. Dinnae make this harder than it already is.

“I’m so sorry, Iona,” her mother sobbed against her hair. “So sorry it’s come to this. If there had been any other way—”

“Hush now,” Iona murmured, though her own tears threatened. “Ye did what ye had tae dae. We all did.”

Her father’s voice cut through the emotional moment, rough with suppressed pain. “Thanks tae God, the MacDuffs have agreed tae the betrothal, but with Murray MacNab’s men seen in our forests these past days, we have tae get ye tae their lands safely first.”

Murray. Even his name sent ice through her veins. The memory of his hands on her, his threats, the lies he’d spread—it still had the power to immobilize her.

“Nay one will believe ye, Iona. Yer word against mine? A MacNab against a disgraced MacNeill? Think carefully about what ye’re accusin’ me of.”

She pushed the memory away. That was the past. This night was about survival.

“How many men are ye sendin’ with me?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“Ten of our best,” her father replied. “Henry leads them, and young Callum rides as messenger should ye need to send word back.”

Ten men. Against however many Murray might have gathered.

He’s a desperate man. I can only pray God protects me until I enter the MacDuff castle.

“The route takes ye through the Glen of Sorrows,” her father continued, moving to the large map spread across his desk. “It’s the longest path, but the safest. The old watchtowers there have been abandoned fer years—Murray willnae expect ye tae use that route.”

Iona followed him, glancing down at the map. The Glen of Sorrows was well-named. It was a narrow valley between two ridges where countless clan battles had been fought over the centuries. The bones of warriors still littered the ground in some places.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. Her family had backed a failed rebellion, been exiled, and now she was fleeing through a place synonymous with military disasters.

Even our escape route is cursed with defeat.

“If all goes well, ye’ll reach the MacDuff outpost by dawn,” Henry added. “Young Ruaridh will be waitin’ fer ye there.”

Ruaridh.

Her childhood friend, now her salvation. She wondered what kind of man he’d become. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a gangly boy of ten, all knees and elbows and easy smiles. That was fifteen years ago, before her family’s exile, before the world had shown her its sharp teeth.

Will ye even remember me? Or will I just be another political burden tae bear?

“Time tae go, lass,” Henry said gently. “The night is moonless, but that willnae last forever.”

Her mother’s grip tightened desperately. “Promise me ye’ll be careful. Promise me ye’ll write when ye can.”

“I promise, Mam.” Iona pulled back to look into her mother’s green eyes so like her own. “Take care of Da. Dinnae let him blame himself fer this.”

“And ye take care of yerself,” her father said, stepping forward to embrace them both. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I ken this isnae the life ye wanted, but the MacDuffs are good people. Ruaridh will protect ye.”

Iona tightened her arms around both her parents, drawing them closer. “I ken he will, Da,” she whispered back, forcing conviction into her voice even as uncertainty gnawed at her heart. “And dinnae worry about me. I’m stronger than I was before. Whatever comes, I’ll face it.”

She pulled back just enough to look into her father’s worried eyes, offering him a small but genuine smile. “The MacNeills have survived worse than this. We’ll all come through it together.”

Her mother’s hand cupped her cheek gently, tears glistening in her eyes. “Aye, me brave lass. That’s the spirit that will see ye through.” She pressed a soft kiss to Iona’s forehead. “Remember, ye carry the strength of all the MacNeill women who came before ye.”

The courtyard was alive with quiet activity. Horses stamped and snorted in the cold night air, their breath creating small clouds of mist. The ten guards sat mounted and ready, weapons secured but easily accessible. Each man was handpicked—loyal to the MacNeill name and willing to die for it.

Callum, barely eighteen and eager to prove himself, held the reins of her mare. “She’s been fed and watered, me lady. Should carry ye swift and sure.”

Iona accepted his help mounting, settling into the familiar saddle. The horse beneath her felt strong and ready, sensing the urgency in the air. Around her, the men formed a protective formation—four ahead, four behind, two flanking her sides.

Like a funeral procession.

The thought came unbidden, and she shivered.

Henry moved his horse close to hers. “We ride hard but quietly, me lady. Nae talkin’ unless it’s urgent. If we’re attacked, ye stay close tae me and dae exactly as I say. Understood?”

“Understood.”

With a final look back at the castle walls, they rode out into the Highland night. The darkness swallowed them almost immediately, the only sounds the muffled hoofbeats on grass and the creak of leather and mail. There was no turning back now.

***

The first hour passed without incident. They followed deer paths and old cattle trails, avoiding the main roads where Murray’s men might be waiting. The landscape around them was ghostly in the starlight—rolling hills covered in heather, ancient stone walls marking long-abandoned boundaries, the occasional skeletal remains of a burned croft.

Iona’s thoughts drifted back to the events that had led to that moment. The scandal. The accusations. The way former friends had turned their backs and whispered behind their hands.

“Did ye hear about the MacNeill lass? They say she threw herself at Murray MacNab and then cried assault when he rejected her.”

“Mark me words, she’ll die an old maid. Naebody wants damaged goods.”

The lies had spread like wildfire through the Highlands. Murray had been clever, painting himself as the wronged party while destroying her reputation with surgical precision. By the time her parents had ended the betrothal, the damage was already done.

But the MacDuffs must suspect there’s something more. They have tae, or why would they have agreed tae this marriage?

She hoped that was true. The alternative—that Ruaridh was purely marrying her out of pity—was too painful to consider.

The horses’ pace slowed as they began climbing into the hills. The Glen of Sorrows lay ahead, its entrance marked by two massive standing stones that had watched over the valley since before Christ walked the earth.

“Me lady,” Henry’s voice was barely a whisper. “Dae ye hear that?”

Iona strained her ears, listening beyond the sound of their own movement. There—faint but unmistakable, the distant drum of hoofbeats.

We’re being followed.

“How many?” she breathed.

Henry’s face was grim in the starlight. “Too many. We need to—”

The arrow took him through the shoulder, spinning him. Around them, the night exploded into chaos as MacNab war cries split the darkness and armed riders poured down from the hills on all sides.

Chapter Two

“Get the lass tae safety!” Henry roared, blood streaming down his arm as he fought to stay in his saddle.

Chaos erupted around Iona as MacNab warriors poured from the darkness like demons from hell. The night air filled with the clash of steel, the screams of horses, and the guttural war cries of men bent on murder.

So this is how I die.

A MacNab warrior lunged at her from the left, his sword gleaming in the starlight. Callum appeared between them, his blade meeting the attacker’s with a shower of sparks. The young guard’s face was set with grim determination, but Iona could see the fear in his eyes.

Dear God, he’s just a boy. They’re all goin’ tae die because of me.

“Ride, me lady!” Callum shouted over the din. “Dinnae look back!”

But there was nowhere to ride. MacNab soldiers blocked every path, their horses forming a deadly circle around her diminishing escort. She counted at least twenty attackers—maybe more in the darkness. Her ten guards were hopelessly outnumbered. How? How had they walked straight into a trap?

Henry wheeled his horse around, his sword dripping red as he cut down a MacNab foot soldier. “Form up! Protect the lady!”

The remaining MacNeill guards tried to close ranks around her, but their formation was already crumbling. To her right, she watched in horror as young Donald—barely twenty and married just last spring—took a spear through the chest. He toppled from his horse without a sound, his blood dark against the heather.

“There she is!” A voice cut through the battle—cold and familiar. “Take her alive if ye can, but dead will dae just as well!”

Iona’s blood turned to ice. She knew that voice, the voice that had whispered threats in her ear just months ago. Murray MacNab himself was there, leading the slaughter.

He came personally tae ensure I die.

A MacNab warrior broke through their weakened line, swinging his sword at her horse’s legs. She yanked the reins hard left, feeling the blade whistle past her mount’s knees. The horse reared in terror, and she fought to keep her seat.

“Behind ye, lass!” Henry’s warning came just in time.

She ducked as another warrior’s axe swept over her head, close enough that she felt the wind of its passage. Henry’s sword took the man in the neck, dropping him instantly, but two more rushed to fill the gap.

They’re everywhere. We cannae hold them.

The sound of steel on steel rang out like a deadly bell as her guards fought with the desperation of doomed men. She watched the blacksmith’s son—a gentle giant who’d taught her to shoe horses—drive his spear through a MacNab’s chest, only to take a crossbow bolt in the shoulder that dislodged him from his saddle.

“Fall back to the stones!” Henry commanded, blood now flowing freely from three separate wounds.

The ancient standing stones at the valley’s entrance offered the only defensive position available. If they could reach them, maybe they could make a stand. But the MacNab forces seemed to anticipate the move, shifting to cut off their retreat.

They ken these lands as well as we dae. Maybe better.

Iona found herself pressed back-to-back with Callum as the circle tightened. The young guard was breathing hard, his sword arm trembling with exhaustion. Around them, the sounds of battle were growing quieter as more MacNeill voices fell silent forever.

“How many left?” she asked, though she was afraid to hear the answer.

“Six,” Callum replied grimly. “Maybe five.”

Half our men dead already.

A MacNab warrior charged directly at her, his war cry echoing off the valley walls. Callum moved to intercept, but his tired horse stumbled on the uneven ground. The enemy’s sword caught him across the chest, opening a red line from shoulder to hip.

“Nay!” Iona’s scream tore from her throat as Callum fell.

The MacNab forces were pulling back slightly, regrouping for one last charge that would finish them all. In the brief respite, she counted her remaining protectors. Four men, all wounded, all exhausted. Against at least fifteen enemies who looked fresh and eager for blood.

This is where it ends.

“Me lady,” Henry’s voice was growing weak from blood loss. “When they charge, ye ride hard fer those trees tae the north. Dinnae stop fer anythin’ or anyone.”

“I willnae leave ye,” she said fiercely.

“Ye will, because that’s an order from yer faither.” His eyes were hard despite his pain. “And because if ye die here, all these good men died fer naethin’.”

He’s right. If I die, their sacrifice means naething.

Murray’s voice rang out across the battlefield, cold and mocking. “Iona MacNeill! Come out and face me, and I’ll let yer remaining dogs live!”

Liar. He’ll kill them all regardless.

She looked at Henry, seeing the same knowledge in his eyes. There would be no mercy. No quarter given. It was about more than politics or clan feuds—it was about Murray’s wounded pride and his need to destroy her completely.

“Dinnae answer him,” Henry warned quietly. “He wants tae see ye break.”

But she was tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of watching good people die because of her choices. She urged her horse forward a few steps, close enough for her voice to carry.

“I’m here, Murray!” she called out. “What dae ye want?”

His laughter was like ice in her veins. “What dae I want? Justice, Iona. Ye tried tae ruin me with yer lies, and now I’m here tae return the favor.”

“The only lies told were yers,” she shot back. “And everyone will ken the truth eventually.”

“Will they? Hard tae speak when ye’re dead.”

The MacNab forces began moving forward again, their weapons gleaming in the starlight. This was it—the final moment. Around her, her few remaining guards gripped their weapons with bloody hands, preparing to give their lives.

But as the enemy closed in, a new sound reached her ears—the thunder of hoofbeats approaching fast from the north. Many hoofbeats.

Henry’s head snapped up, hope flickering in his tired eyes. “Listen!”

The MacNab charge faltered as their leader raised his hand, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “What in hell—”

The new riders burst from the tree line like avenging angels, their war cries echoing off the valley walls. Even in the darkness, Iona could see they wore different colors—not MacNab red, but MacDuff blue and silver.

Ruaridh. It has tae be.

But her moment of hope was short-lived. A MacNab warrior, seeing his advantage slipping away, broke from the main group and charged straight at her. His sword was raised high, his face twisted with bloodlust.

She tried to wheel her horse away, but the exhausted animal responded too slowly. The warrior’s blade descended toward her head—

“Got ye now, MacNeill whore,” he snarled, raising his spear. “Murray wants ye alive so he can take yer head himself, and by God, he’ll have—”

The MacNab warrior’s blade descended toward her head. Her exhausted horse responded too slowly to her desperate attempt to wheel away, and Iona closed her eyes, bracing for the blow—

Strong hands seized her from behind, dragging her from the saddle just as steel bit into the leather where she’d been sitting. She hit the ground hard in someone’s protective embrace, gasping for breath as she looked up to see her rescuer.

Ruaridh.

Even in the chaos of battle, even after fifteen years, she knew him instantly. Gone was the gangly boy she remembered—this was a warrior in his prime, his green eyes intense as he looked down at her.

“Are ye hurt?” His voice was rough with concern, and for just a split second his face softened. Something flickered in his eyes, tender and achingly familiar, like an echo of the boy who used to comfort her scraped knees.

She nodded, at loss for words, and then his expression hardened again, the moment lost as quickly as it had come.

“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice turning cold and professional as he rose to his feet, sword already in hand.

The MacNab soldier who’d been about to kill her spun around, snarling as he raised his spear toward them both. But Ruaridh was already moving, his blade finding the man’s heart before he could strike

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Two days earlier

Ailis fastened the last buckle on her satchel with fingers that trembled half in fear and half in excitement. Her breath fogged the chilled air as she moved through the dim room, eyes flicking to the iron-banded door. There was no time left for doubt. Her riding boots were already laced, her cloak laid out by the hearth, the coiled rope she’d smuggled from the armory stashed beneath her bed.

Ye’re nae runnin’. Ye’re escapin’.

The distinction mattered.

Laird Sutherland, her father, had brought her to the limits of her patience two nights prior, when he had threatened her with a heavy, silver candelabra, smashing it on the wall right next to her head and warning her she would be next. And Ailis had no doubt he would deliver on his threat if she broke some arbitrary rule.

She had endured his moods, his abuse, for years. She had done anything in her power to keep him calm around her, to show him that she was no threat. How could she be? In a castle filled with his men, she was only a young woman, incapable of bringing about any harm.

But her father delighted in punishing her for things she couldn’t predict or know, and sooner or later, his punishment would be final.

Ailis had rushed to her room, locking herself behind the safety of her door. Then she had stolen a map, sharpened a knife, and begun to count the guards’ rotations.

Now, the night was deep. The guards at the east tower wouldn’t pass her hall again for another twelve minutes. The back door would be unwatched until the next patrol. And the old stables, long abandoned and hidden beneath the bluff, still held one horse worth riding.

She crossed the room and tugged open the loose flagstone behind her hearth. There, bundled in oilcloth, was a small bag filled with necessities she had gathered in secret, and a folded parchment addressed in a hand sharper than her dagger.

She placed it on her writing desk. A single sentence, nothing more:

I am nae a piece tae be moved on yer board.

With a final glance at the room that had once been her prison and sanctuary alike, Ailis slipped into the corridor. The castle breathed around her like a sleeping beast, the shadows dancing on the walls as torchlight trembled. Her boots made no sound on the worn floors. Down the narrow servant stairs, through the kitchens where the last embers glowed beneath blackened pots, she moved like a ghost. Then, she slipped out through the cold corridor beneath the east wall and into the dark.

The wind hit her like a wave, icy and sharp, but she welcomed it. It cleared her mind, sped up her thinking. If she was going to make it out of there, she had to have her wits about her.

She sprinted low along the edge of the wall, keeping to the shadows, the rope wound around her shoulder like a serpent. When she reached the crumbling northeast turret, she climbed, her boots gripping the rough stone, fingers finding every crack she had memorized as a child.

Memory still served her well.

From the top, she tied the rope to the iron hook once used for lowering supply baskets, and tossed it over the outer wall. Then she moved as quietly as she could, biting her lip to keep herself from grunting. Her hands bled before she reached the bottom, and the rope burned her palms, but she never hesitated.

The horse, Keir, waited in the thickets near the old stable wall, just where she’d left him with water, feed, and his saddle hidden beneath a fallen beam. He was a Sutherland-bred gelding, swift and steady, a beast made for the hills. He nickered softly when he saw her.

“Hush,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to his warm neck. “Just a wee longer.”

She mounted quickly, tightened her cloak, and rode through a small opening in the back of the curtain walls—one she had recently discovered, unlike the guards who still seemed to be unaware of its existence. The moors opened up wide and wild beyond the castle. Mist rolled like waves over the heather, and the stars above were obscured by thick clouds that blurred the light.

She had only made it two miles beyond the glen when the alarm bells shattered the quiet.

Ailis froze on the saddle, just for a moment. Then, she cursed under her breath and kicked Keir into a gallop. They had already found out she had escaped, and now they would come.

The sound of hooves reached her before she saw them—six riders at least, heavy on their mounts, thundering through the bog like hounds on a scent. The glow of their torches burned in the distance, but she hoped the darkness would hide her, while the light would reveal them to her, signaling the spots she had to avoid.

Ailis urged Keir to gallop faster, her heart hammering in her chest. Her hair whipped in the wind, her satchel thudding against her back. The ground beneath them turned treacherous, wet and uneven from recent rains. Keir stumbled once, but caught himself. Behind her, voices shouted—one she recognized as Commander Bryn, her father’s favorite killer.

“Dinnae let her reach the ridge!” someone bellowed.

She veered sharply west, toward the river gorge. The Sutherland patrols rarely passed that way—too steep, too rugged. But she knew the terrain. She had grown up running these hills.

They didn’t think she could do it. She didn’t think she would have to, and so she had taken Keir, but now the rest of her journey would have to be on foot. Still, he had taken her far enough for now, somewhere where she could slip away from them.

She reached the edge of the gorge and yanked Keir to a halt. The path down was narrow and half washed away, a scramble of jagged rock and wet moss. Behind her, the glow of the torches brightened as the men approached, catching up with her.

There was no time to waste. Their hooves echoed in the night, their shouts filling her ears with discordant noise. Blood rushed through her veins, adrenaline urging her to move faster, to leave that place right that instant and never look back.

She dismounted, whispered a blessing to the horse, then slapped his flank. “Go. Run home.”

Keir hesitated, just for a moment, then bolted into the dark.

Ailis threw herself down the rocky descent, scraping her knees and her palms bloody. Pain shot through her, stinging and almost unbearable, but she pushed through, never once stopping. A stone gave way beneath her foot and she nearly tumbled, her heart leaping to her throat, but she soon caught herself, gasping, and crawled the last ten feet to the riverbed below.

The current was freezing, black as ink. She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. She only plunged in and the cold stole her breath, but the current took her downstream faster than her pursuers could follow.

Ailis didn’t know how long she fought the water; only that, when she finally dragged herself out on the far bank, the world was tilting, and her cloak clung to her like lead. She lay on the ground, gasping for air, eyes blinking away the freezing water, her limbs trembling with the cold and the fear.

Soon, dawn broke, pink and pale above the pines. Ailis lay in the grass, soaked and shaking, looking up at the clouds.

She had made it. She was free. But where would she go now? Clan Sutherland was behind her, and she could never return; even if she wanted to, her father would see her defiance as war.

She hadn’t had the time to think of a destination, not while she was so busy hatching an escape plan. She lay there, watching the clouds drift by, wondering if she could remain in the woods for a while or maybe find a small town, somewhere where she could hide.

Then she thought of a name. A land farther north still. A place her father had spoken of with rage, perhaps even envy.

Caithness.

She pushed herself to her feet, pain lighting up her limbs like fire, but her jaw set with fresh determination. If she was going to survive, she needed allies. She needed protection.

And she needed to go somewhere that wasn’t allied to her father. Anyone who was his ally would surely return her to him at the first opportunity, no matter how much she begged and pleaded. No, she needed to go to his enemy, to someone who had more to gain by keeping her than sending her away.

And the only man she could think of was Laird Caithness.

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