Chapter One

1591, Flow Country

Ailis Sutherland had not known the simple comfort of a bed in two days. Sleep seemed far out of reach, like the act itself was the product of an old dream, long-lost and foggy in her memory. There was no rest for her, not when her home was now the woods and her only solace the safety of the darkness.

For two days, she had been on the run. For two days, she had evaded her father’s soldiers, eating from what meagre supplies she had brought with her in a small sack, hiding in any wedge in the earth she could find, following the treacherous paths at night to remain unseen. Now she was so close that sometimes she fancied that she could see Caithness in the distance. In reality, she knew she was still too far from her destination, the sight of it impossible and only existing in her mind. But it was that thought which kept her going, which gave her the courage and the energy she needed to take another step, another breath.

Now, in the perceived safety of a thatch of leaves and brambles, she waited without drawing breath. Around her, the wind howled, carrying with it the scent of pine, the rush of a nearby river and the voices of her father’s soldiers, moving closer and closer as they searched for her. Their boots squelched in the mud and crunched over the fallen leaves, alerting her to their presence and position. She could only catch glimpses of them through the twigs and the leaves, the thin curtain they provided between her and them doing little to reassure her that she would not be discovered.

Her clan’s crest flashed again and again before her eyes—the wildcat in the seated position, one paw raised, ready to pounce.

Seeing that crest had never brought her any comfort and now, all it inspired was fear.

“Any sight o’ her?”

The voice was loud, booming, echoing through the path she had taken through the woods. Ailis recognized it—it was Jamie’s voice—one of her father’s best and most ruthless men, who Ailis had no doubts would not hesitate to hurt her, even if he had never touched her before, if it came to it.

“Nay,” another man called. “But Fergus says he saw her run around the bend.”

It was true; Ailis had run past the curve in the road, her boots slamming against the dirt and raising a cloud of dust behind her, but then she had rounded back to hide in the bushes, in an attempt to confuse them—and now it seemed her plan had worked.

“Did he?” asked Jamie, his voice rough like the jagged boulder behind her back. It was a tight spot Ailis had found, one that had needed some maneuvering, and one which had now left her with scratches and wounds where the sharp edges of the rock and the thorns in the bushes had scraped against her, hooking into her skin. A cold sweat dripped down her back. Her auburn hair, tucked safely into a braid and then under the hood of her cloak, was matted with it and with the dirt she had picked up along the way. “Are ye certain?”

“Angus saw her too,” said the man in response, and for a moment, there was no answer. Then, it came in the form of Jamie retreating, but not enough that it gave Ailis any real relief.

She bit her lip to keep herself from making a sound. Her heart beat like a trapped bird’s wings in her chest, its frantic rhythm loud in her ears—so loud that she irrationally worried the soldiers would hear it too, that it would give away her hiding spot and end her valiant effort to escape. She was shivering, though not from cold. She had barely eaten since the morning before, and every muscle in her legs screamed from ceaseless running and climbing through forested hills and boggy glens.

All she wanted was some rest; but there was no rest to be had before she reached Caithness.

But what if I get there tae find there is nae hope fer me there, either?

It was a thought that had been plaguing her for a long time, even as she was planning. What if Laird Caithness turned her away? What if he refused to give her shelter? It would make sense, considering Clan Caithness was a long-time enemy of Clan Sutherland, but that was also why Ailis had chosen it, other than its vicinity. She might have a chance to appeal to his humanity and hope he would give her shelter, while her father’s allies would surely send her right back.

If he turned her away, she would just have to keep goin’.

Somewhere, someone, would be willing to take her in. She cared not whether it would be noble or common folk. For her, the safety of a farm was the same as that of a castle, as long as her father didn’t find her.

Ailis took a short, quiet breath, then another. And then, mercifully, the footsteps of her father’s men began to recede, their boots retreating, the rhythmic clomp of hooves thudding against the mud-soaked path. When she could no longer hear the horses, when the path was once again peaceful and empty, Ailis climbed her way out of her hiding spot, the thorns digging their claws into the folds of her skirts, into the flesh of her arms. The damp earth clung to the hem of her dress and her cloak. At that moment, she resembled anything but the daughter of a laird.

Would anyone who didn’t know her believe her? Would Laird Caithness?

Trembling from exhaustion, Ailis pushed herself to her feet. Her father, the man who was meant to protect her and love her and keep her safe, had made his contempt for her clear since she was born. And yet, now that she had escaped his clutches, he was tearing the Highlands apart to bring her back home.

Why? Why is he chasin’ me like this?

All he had to do was leave her alone. Ailis would disappear from his life, from the castle, from the clan—if only he let her.

Choosing a narrow, less-traveled path that snaked through the woods to remain unseen, Ailis continued on her way. Her skin on her arms and chest, on the back of her neck, on her calves—it all itched from the bushes where she had hidden, welts and hives rising up among the scratches. Somewhere in her sack, there was ointment, but it remained unused. She didn’t even want to spare the few seconds it would take her to apply it, not if it meant she would be in Caithness a few seconds sooner.

The path took her through thick groves, the air damp and heavy with the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves. It was dark there. The sun, already low on the horizon and obscured by clouds, couldn’t reach that place and Ailis had to stumble about in the dim light, her feet tripping over large, twisting roots that peeked through the ground. Slowly, she pushed her way through, each ragged breath bringing her closer and closer to Caithness. She forced her legs to move.

North. Always north.

Then, she broke through the last line of trees and light, cold and gray like the flash of a blade, flooded her eyes. Beyond the forest edge stretched Flow Country—a vast, open expanse of bog and peatland, the surface still beneath the ever-shifting sky. The air there was colder, biting, and the wind cruel, flattening the grasses in its path. There was little shelter, and the high terrain meant she would be visible to any who searched from horseback.

Ailis paused at the tree line, scanning the empty expanse. The land rolled out endlessly before her, dotted with small, mirror-still lakes, dull and murky, old water mixing with soft earth. There was no sight of her father’s men; there was no sight of anyone else either, but that didn’t mean she was alone.

But she had to keep going, she had no choice. The woods would no longer shield her.

Wrapping her arms tightly across her chest and tightening the cloak around her shoulders, she stepped into the open and began to run. Her steps were uneven at first, uncertain, her weary body reluctant to obey, but she pushed forward, letting the urgency of her fear carry her forward. Each footfall landed with a splash in the soggy ground, but Ailis didn’t slow. She ran as though the devil himself was chasing her—and perhaps he was.

The sharp evening air stung in her lungs, like liquid fire down her throat. Every part of her ached with an exhaustion that she had never felt before, an exhaustion she didn’t even think was possible.

All around her, her only company was the howling of the wind. There was nothing else there—no trees, no woodland creatures, not even birds flying above her in the darkening sky. There was only her, the sound of her boots as every laborious step made her sink into the mud, the sound of her ragged breath followed by the visible exhale in the air in front of her. Every splash of mud on her calves made her flinch, her mind interpreting everything as a threat—the smallest sound, the smallest sensation of touch. But with every step she took, she got closer and closer to her destination, to the safety she so desperately craved.

But then, through the wind, she heard it—the unmistakable thunder of hooves.

It was distant at first, nothing more than a low rumble from the far end of the bog. At the very beginning, Ailis didn’t know what it was. She fancied it was nothing more than distant thunder, a storm brewing far from the bog. But soon, she realized what she was hearing.

She faltered for half a heartbeat, but she didn’t turn around. She knew what she’d see. Riders, coming close; closer than she’d thought.

Were they her father’s men? Or were they brigands, a team of them ready to capture her and use her in any way they saw fit? She couldn’t know for certain, not when she was so busy running away from the threat, unable to even turn around and look. She had heard stories about those parts—terrible, terrifying stories of people getting captured by rogues where they were entirely helpless out in the open, prime prey for someone looking for easy coin. But she had more than coin; she was a young woman, and even if the brigands didn’t know who she was and wouldn’t know to ask her father for ransom, they could still hurt her in many different ways.

It was as though she was being consumed by fire, inside and out. Her muscles burned from exertion; her skin burned from the wind and the scrapes on the bared parts of her, where the thorns had dug their barbs into her skin. Her eyes stung with the cold, and with the unshed tears of panic that gathered in the corners, threatening to spill. She could hardly see anything before her, the landscape turning into a blur of brown and green, dull and fuzzy and impossible to navigate.

Nay… I’m too close now. I cannae give up.

The land ahead shimmered with promise—Caithness. Somewhere out there was safety, a place where her father could not touch her. If only she could reach it, if she could just take another step, if she could just draw another breath.

The hoofbeats grew louder. Their pounding swelled behind her, and her legs, leaden and aching, strained for more speed. In her hurry, she nearly stumbled as the ground sloped slightly, her boot sinking into a pocket of soft peat, but she quickly yanked it free, gasping for air.

Panic gripped her as the hooves drew closer to her. Soon, she would be reaching the very edges of the Flow Lands, where the first line of trees stretched across the earth—where she could once again find cover from those pursuing her, where––with some luck––she could hide once more and wait for them to pass.

Caithness lands were so close. Just a few more steps and she could get there, to safety.

Then—a hand.

Rough fingers closed around her upper arm, jerking her sideways with violent force. Ailis cried out, more in shock than in pain. Immediately, she tumbled to the ground, landing hard on her shoulder, and the cry she let out was pained, the breath knocked out of her on impact. The sky above spun wildly, the darkening gray and orange of the sunset blurring together. Boots thudded beside her. A figure loomed, silhouetted against the sky, features obscured by a dark cloak.

Her heart pounded in her ears. Pain, searing and unrelenting, coursed down her arm, and her vision swam after her head smacked against the ground.

And then, with the man hovering over her, she was trapped like prey.

Chapter Two

 
The man reached for her again, and Ailis screamed.

“Quiet!” the man growled, the sound of his voice chilling her to the core. “Shut yer mouth an’ come with me. Ye’ve made it hard enough fer all o’ us.”

But in response, Ailis only screamed more. It wasn’t a cry of fear—it was something deeper, primal. It was cry of a hunted creature whose legs still had one last run left in them. As long as blood rushed through her veins, as long as she could still draw breath, Ailis would fight to the last heartbeat to escape her captor. She twisted violently, elbowing her attacker in the side, her shout reverberating through her body and echoing in the empty air around them, traveling far and wide. Swiftly, she pushed herself to her feet and broke into a sprint, weaving through the men who had gathered around her on horseback. With the horses’ hooves sinking into the mud, it was difficult for them to switch their routes, to follow her out towards the tree line. Behind her, the man cursed, and Ailis heard the squelch of his boots in the bog waters as he chased after her, screaming things she could not hear over the rush of wind and blood in her ears.

“Let go o’ me!” she called out to the man, her voice a piercing shriek. “Why are ye chasin’ me?”

There was no answer, and Ailis knew that even if the man had given her one, it wouldn’t have stopped her.

The bog pulled at her feet with every step, the waterlogged earth becoming unstitched beneath her feet. Her skirts were sodden and torn, tangled around her legs. And yet, she still ran. She had to run, to get as far away from those men as possible.

They were her father’s men; Ailis could tell, not only by their shouts as they screamed at each other to catch her and bring her back, but also from the crest they wore, as familiar to her as her own skin.

Behind her, the hooves floundered in the muck. The horses couldn’t match her pace now—not there. She was limber and fast, sure-footed in the uneven ground. Shouts rose, angry and sharp, the voices of her father’s men echoing across the moorland.

“Stop her!”

“She willnae get far!”

“Ye’re only makin’ it difficult fer yerself!” Jamie’s familiar voice called out to her, sudden and jarring like a flash of lightning in the dark. “We’ll catch ye an’ drag ye back whether ye like it or nae!”

Each word bit into her like a lash. Her chest ached, fire in her lungs, but she kept going—one foot after the other, her pursuit of freedom as relentless as the men’s pursuit of her.

More than anything else, it was a battle of wits—one she was determined to win.

Pain pierced through her shoulder with every step she took, passing as a wave through her body. Ailis could feel the slow drip of sweat on her back, she could taste blood on her tongue. The cold air and the stress under which she was putting her lungs were affecting her more than any muscle fatigue could. At any moment, she expected her body to give in; to give up. At any moment, she expected to find herself sprawled in the mud, face-first on the ground as the men surrounded her and dragged her back home.

But the thought of seeing her father again—the thought of facing him and his self-satisfied smirk, telling her that she was nothing but a failure—just that thought was enough to give her the push she needed. Soon, her father’s men would be unable to follow. Soon, she would be in Caithness lands, where those men were not welcome.

Well, technically, neither am I.

The men closed in on her, surrounding her from all sides. And then, just when she least expected it, more hoofbeats approached from the east, horses pouring into the bog guided by their riders.

Ailis’ heart stuttered.

There are more of them!

There was only one of her and already a dozen men in pursuit, and now there seemed to be twice as many—and all because she had managed to evade them for so long. How could she avoid them all? What path could lead her to safety when she was surrounded like this?

She didn’t look back, she didn’t need to. Her father would not suffer disobedience, especially not from a daughter he had never wanted, and so if the first group failed, the second wouldn’t.

But then, something changed. Something seemed to shift in the air, and it took her a few moments to realize Jamie and his men had stopped running after her, the sound of their horses fading in the short distance.

When she glanced at them over her shoulder, the men behind her, her father’s men, had faltered.

“Shite,” one said. “That’s too many o’ them.”

“We’ve gone too far!” called another. “We’re in Caithness lands!”

“Grab the lass!” Jamie called out to them in a growl, unsheathing his sword with a hissing sound as the blade dragged against the leather sheath. Ailis paled at the sight of it, at the flash of light reflected on its sharp edge. Though she knew it wasn’t meant for her, her blood still ran cold in her veins, chilling her to the bone.

But her feet slowed. Her breath tore in and out of her. She turned, confusion flooding her expression. The men were hesitating, shifting nervously. But two of them—either bolder or more foolish than the rest—broke from the group and charged after her again.

“The sooner we have her, the sooner we can leave!” one of them called out as he approached her, clearly determined to complete the task assigned to him and his fellow soldiers before returning home. Ailis couldn’t even blame him for it—if her father found out they had let her escape because they had encountered another party, then he would have their heads. They had been sent there with a mission in mind, and they had to complete it, no matter what.

“Ye fool!” the man told her, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “They’ll have our heads fer this! Ye dragged us all intae this mess!”

Ailis frowned in confusion. It took her a few moments to realize that the men who were approaching from the east were, in fact, from Clan Caithness, and that was why her father’s men had hesitated, reluctant to proceed any farther.

This could be me chance.

The man rushed towards her, but that only put Ailis into motion again, forcing her to run. But the man was faster, already closing the distance between them. Before she knew it, he lunged, tackling her to the ground. Ailis slammed into the wet peat, falling on her back, and a scream died in her throat just as it tried to claw its way out of her, her breath knocked out of her lungs. Still, she kicked and thrashed, desperately trying to free herself from his grasp, but he was already unfastening a rope from his belt, pushing her onto her stomach on the dirt and twisting her arms behind her back.

“Hold still!” he snarled, his breath hot on her face. “Ye’re done runnin’ now.”

Ailis thrashed beneath him, fury and terror coursing through her veins like fire. “I willnae go back tae that monster!”

“Ye dinnae get tae choose.”

The man spoke so simply, so resolutely, that for a moment, Ailis believed him. She believed that she had no other choice, that there was no reason left to fight. But as long as she breathed, she would crave the freedom she couldn’t have at home, and as long as she craved it, she would fight for it.

Ailis felt the rope tightening around her wrists, the sharp bite of it cutting off her circulation and chafing the tender skin. Her captor stood, dragging her up by the bindings like a sack of grain, and she stumbled after him, nearly choking on her own rage.

In the distance, a horn blew, low and deep, a haunting sound that seemed to rise from the bog itself. The ground shook faintly with the rhythm of approaching horses.

Clan Caithness was too close now; there was no escape for her father’s men. The sound of that horn was the sound of battle, the herald of spilled blood and lives lost. And from the eastern rise, they appeared—riders cloaked with the Caithness insignia, swords drawn and at the ready.

The Sutherland men had no option but to draw their own swords, pushing their horses forward, spilling into the sudden eruption of battle.

The man who held Ailis shoved her roughly to the ground and swiftly drew his blade.

“Stay down!” he yelled. “Ye dinnae wish tae see this.”

But she did. Ailis wanted to see it—no, she had to see it, to witness what would happen there and act accordingly. If Clan Caithness won the fight, then she still had a chance. If they could stop her father’s men, then she could plead with their laird to give her shelter in his home.

She raised her head just as steel met steel. The fight seemed to explode all around her in a single moment, soldiers from both sides clashing like a wave against rock—a relentless attack on a seemingly undefeatable object. Screams filled the air, the first men falling to the earth that was now soft with their blood as much as with the water of the bog. It seeped into the soil, their bodies sinking half within the earth’s embrace, as though it was parting by itself to welcome them to their graves.

As though the land itself craved the blood.

And there—among the chaos, as she thrashed and tried to unbind her hands, Ailis saw him.

He moved like a shadow, his dark cloak swirling around his legs. His face was half-smeared with blood, though it didn’t seem to be his own, and his eyes—sharp and pale as winter skies—locked onto the Sutherland men with the cold certainty of death.

Who is that? Is he a warrior or a god that has taken on the likeness of man?

He fought unlike any man she’d ever seen. Where others swung wildly, he danced between blades, his movements as graceful as if he were in a ballroom, dancing. He didn’t waste a single movement. His sword flashed, striking, parrying, spinning with deadly accuracy. Each step he took brought another man to his knees, and he cut through the Sutherland forces with such terrifying efficiency that even Ailis couldn’t help but pause and tremble in fear, the sight of him—of his skill in taking a life, without a thought or a wasted drop of sweat giving her pause.

Ailis watched, transfixed, as the man who had tied her wrists was forced backward. The Caithness warrior closed the distance in seconds, and their blades clashed with a sound like thunder, a sound that rang in her ears long after thereafter.

Only when one of her father’s men stumbled right past her and then fell to his death did Ailis realize just how close she was to her own. She was not safe there, in the middle of the battle, but there was nowhere for her to run. Even if she managed to push herself to her feet on the bog with her hands tied behind her back, avoiding the blades that swung like pendulums over her head would be next to impossible. She was stuck there, in the middle of the fight, and no matter how much she hated it, the safest bet for her was to stay where she was, flat on the ground, hoping she would neither get trampled nor stabbed by a rogue blade.

Quietly, she prayed, not only for her safety but, selfishly, also that Clan Caithness would win.

She turned her gaze back to the Caithness warrior. Her captor was fighting him valiantly, swinging his sword in large, smooth arcs again and again, seemingly without tiring. But Ailis could see right through him—she could see the way he gritted his teeth, the sweat that dripped down his brow. And she could see that the Caithness warrior had noticed too.

This warrior cannae be of flesh and blood, the way he moves. He is larger than life, and more handsome than any living man I have ever seen.

Her father’s man was aiming for a quick strike, one that would end the fight. The warrior was aiming for a drawn-out dance, avoiding the man’s blade and pirouetting away from him any chance he got, growing and closing the distance between them strategically just so he could draw another grunt out of him, another belabored move. He ducked under a swing, slid to the side, parried the blow aimed to his head with ease—like a cat playing with a mouse, just for its entertainment.

I’ve never met a man like this afore.

He’s nae a simple man. He is like an avenging angel.

Ailis’ captor stumbled then—one wrong move that had the Caithness warrior grasping the opportunity instantly, striking fast. And with one brutal motion, he drove his blade through the man’s ribs.

The Sutherland man gasped, blood frothing from his lips. For a moment, he glanced down as though he could hardly believe he had been hurt. Then, as though his strings had been cut, he dropped to the wet ground, the life leaving his eyes.

The warrior stood over him, silent. All around them, the fight was over. The bog was still again, the air thick with mist and the scent of blood and damp. The remaining Sutherland men had fled, leaving their dead behind.

Ailis lay in the mud, her arms still bound, her hair clinging to her cheeks in wet curls. The rope burned against her skin, but she hardly noticed. Her gaze was locked on the man who had saved her.

He turned to her. And for a moment, they simply stared at each other.

“Laird Malcolm Caithness” the man introduced himself, and Ailis’ blood ran cold in her veins She had hoped that her first meeting with the man would be in the safe confines of his castle, where she could calmly explain her situation and beg for his help, but now she had no choice but to plead with him there.

Or lie… I could lie tae him.

She could tell him she was someone else, someone unimportant; the daughter of a minor noble man, cast away by her father, or the daughter of a merchant who had fallen on rough times.

The baritone growl of Laird Caithness’ voice seemed to ripple right through her, her breath catching with something akin to fear—but no, it was not fear, not exactly. There was an excitement behind it, a rush of something she could not name. His face and hands were spattered with blood and he had a wild look in his eyes—one that spoke of the adrenaline still rushing through his veins after the fight, the rabbit-fast heartbeat in his chest after a battle won. Ailis was caught in his gaze for what seemed like eternity, unable to look away or speak a single word. But then again, he said nothing either; he simply stared in silence, taking in her disheveled appearance.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Ailis pushed herself up to her feet, brushing the dirt off her skirts as though that could help in any way. She was covered in mud from head to toe; her hair, usually a neat braid over her shoulder blades, now wild, auburn strands flying around her head. She quickly decided on a lie—she was the daughter of a dying laird who had no successors and no gold in his reserves, and she needed his assistance.

“That’s Ailis Sutherland,” a voice called out before Ailis could say a single thing. Her head whipped to the side, her eyes wide as her gaze met one of her father’s remaining men, ruining her plan before she could even put it in motion. “Dae ye ken who that is, ye fools? Dae ye ken what this means? Laird Sutherland will have all yer heads!”

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend? *

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Shona

★★★★★ 201 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 127 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 186 ratings

Read the book

 
Six months before Morag’s journey to Armstrong lands
 

The great hall of Armstrong Castle had seen better days. Colin Armstrong stood at the head of the long oak table, his hands gripping the carved chair that had belonged to his father, and his grandfather before him. The men gathered around the table—his most trusted advisors, seasoned warriors who’d bled for Armstrong lands—stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Ye cannae be serious,” Duncan MacLeod said finally, his grizzled voice cutting through the stunned silence. “The eastern marches? Me laird, that’s some of our best grazin’ land.”

“Was our best grazin’ land,” Colin corrected grimly. “Before raids burned half the pastures and drove off most of the cattle. Before Fraser’s men started pickin’ off our shepherds one by one.”

Niven Reid leaned forward, his weathered face creased with concern. “It’s still Armstrong land, me laird. Our land. Yer faither would turn in his grave—”

“Me faither,” Colin interrupted, his voice carrying the steel that had earned him his reputation, “is dead. And if we dinnae find a way tae stop Fraser, we’ll all join him soon enough.”

He moved to the massive hearth, where a fire struggled against the autumn chill. The flames seemed smaller somehow, weaker, like everything else in the castle these days. “Look around ye. Really look. Half our garrison is gone—dead, wounded, or fled tae clans that can still afford tae pay them. Our coffers are nearly empty. Our people are starvin’.”

“Which is exactly why we cannae afford tae give away our lands!” MacLeod slammed his fist on the table, making the pewter cups jump. “Ye’re talkin’ about handin’ over territory that’s been Armstrong fer three hundred years!”

“I’m talkin’ about survival,” Colin said quietly, turning back to face them. “And I’m talkin’ about the one alliance that could save us all.”

Young Jamie Armstrong, Colin’s cousin and heir, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The MacDuff lass, ye mean. But Colin, there are other ways—”

“Are there?” Colin’s dark eyes swept the table, challenging each man in turn. “Name them, Jamie. Tell me what other clan has the gold we need, the men we need, the strategic position we need tae finally crush Fraser once and for all.”

“The Campbells—” someone started.

“Have nay interest in border wars that dinnae benefit them directly,” Colin cut him off. “The MacDougalls are already stretched thin fightin’ their own battles. The MacLeods…” He shrugged. “Even if they were willin’, which they’re nae, they dinnae have the resources we need.”

Niven stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor. “So ye’d sell yerself tae MacDuff fer his gold? ”

The words hung in the air like a blade. Colin felt his jaw tighten, felt the familiar cold rage that had kept him alive through a dozen battles. But when he spoke, his voice remained controlled.

“I’d dae whatever it takes tae save this clan. Whatever it takes tae keep our people alive.” He moved back to the table, his hands flat on the scarred oak surface. “Alistair MacDuff has three things we desperately need: gold, men, and strategic control of the northern trade routes. His daughter is the key tae all three.”

“And what’s tae stop him from laughin’ in yer face?” MacLeod demanded. “Why would a man like MacDuff, with all his wealth and power, ally himself with a strugglin’ border clan?”

Colin smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Because I’m goin’ tae offer him somethin’ he wants more than gold. Somethin’ he needs.”

“Which is?”

Colin straightened, choosing to ignore the question for now.

“MacDuff has been tryin’ tae expand his influence south fer years. But Fraser controls the key mountain passes, the ancient roads that would give MacDuff access tae the Lowland markets. Fraser’s been bleedin’ MacDuff’s trade caravans fer months, demandin’ tribute fer safe passage.”

“So ye’d promise MacDuff what ye cannae deliver,” Niven said flatly. “Fraser’s still alive, last I checked. Still raidin’ our lands, still—”

“Still vulnerable,” Colin interrupted. “Fraser’s strength comes from his fortified position and his alliances. But those alliances are built on fear, nae loyalty. Remove Fraser, and his supporters will scatter like leaves in the wind.”

Jamie leaned forward, his young face creased with worry. “And if ye fail? If Fraser kills ye instead? What happens tae the clan then?”

“Then ye’ll lead them,” Colin said simply. “And ye’ll still have the MacDuff gold tae rebuild with.”

“What MacDuff gold?” MacLeod’s voice was sharp with skepticism. “Ye havenae even approached the man yet. Fer all ye ken, he’s already arranged a match for his daughter with someone who can actually afford her.”

Colin reached into his leather jerkin and pulled out a sealed letter, placing it carefully on the table. The MacDuff seal gleamed red in the firelight.

“I sent a preliminary offer three weeks ago,” he said quietly. “This is his response.”

Niven snatched up the letter, breaking the seal with rough fingers. His eyes moved quickly over the parchment, his expression growing alternating between relief and worry with each line. Finally, he looked up.

“He’s interested,” Niven said slowly. “But his terms…”

“Are steep,” Colin finished. “Aye. I ken.”

“How steep?” Jamie asked.

Colin began to pace, his movements controlled but restless. “Full dowry of two thousand gold pieces, tae be delivered in two installments. Military support—fifty men for our conflict with Fraser. Exclusive tradin’ rights through MacDuff territories.” He paused. “In exchange fer the eastern marches… and Fraser’s head.”

The room erupted in a mixture of excitement and disbelief.

“Two thousand gold pieces!” Jamie breathed, his eyes wide.

“Fifty men!” Duncan added, leaning forward eagerly. “That would double our fighting force!”

“The tradin’ rights alone would make us wealthy again,” another man said.

But Niven’s expression remained grim. “And Fraser’s head? Me laird, the man’s a legendary swordsman. His army numbers in the hundreds. How exactly dae ye plan tae deliver on that promise?”

The excitement in the room died instantly as the reality of Colin’s commitment sank in.

MacLeod shook his head slowly. ” But promisin’ tae kill Fraser?” He gestured helplessly. “This isnae strategy. This is madness.”

“Is it?” Colin’s voice was deadly calm. “Let me tell ye what madness really looks like. Madness is watchin’ our people starve while we cling tae pride. Madness is lettin’ Fraser pick us apart piece by piece because we’re too stubborn tae pay the price fer salvation.”

“But Fraser—” someone protested.

“Fraser bleeds like any other man,” Colin cut him off. “And I’ve killed better warriors than him.”

Colin let them rage for a moment, then slammed his fist on the table with enough force to make the oak groan. The sound echoed through the hall like thunder, and silence fell immediately.

“Are ye finished?” he asked quietly.

MacLeod was breathing hard, his face flushed with anger. “Me laird, I’ve served yer family fer thirty years. I’ve followed ye through hell itself without question. But this…”

Colin’s voice was deadly calm. “Let me tell ye what madness really looks like. Madness is watchin’ our people starve while we cling tae pride. Madness is lettin’ Fraser pick us apart piece by piece because we’re too stubborn tae pay the price for salvation.”

He moved to the narrow window that overlooked the castle courtyard. Below, he could see the daily bustle of his people—servants, guards, craftsmen, all trying to maintain normalcy in the face of growing desperation.

“Look at them, Duncan,” he said without turning around.

“That’s nae the point—”

“That’s exactly the point.” Colin spun around, his dark eyes blazing. “Every day we delay, more of our people suffer. More of our lands fall tae Fraser’s greed. More of our future dies.”

Niven set the letter down carefully. “And ye truly believe this marriage alliance will solve everythin’?”

“I believe it’s our only chance.” Colin returned to the table, his voice taking on the tone of command his men knew well. “With MacDuff gold, we can hire mercenaries. With MacDuff men, we can finally match Fraser’s numbers. With MacDuff support, we can strangle his supply lines and force him intae a battle he cannae win.”

“And the eastern marches?” Jamie asked quietly.

Colin’s jaw tightened. The eastern marches—rolling hills and fertile valleys that had fed Armstrong cattle for generations. Land his grandfather had died defending, his father had improved with careful stewardship.

“The eastern marches are already lost,” he said finally. “Fraser’s burned half the pastures, killed most of the livestock, driven off the people. What’s the point of holdin’ ontae empty, worthless land when we could trade it fer the power tae reclaim everythin’ else?”

“It’s the principle—” MacLeod started.

“Principles dinnae win wars, Duncan. Men dae. Gold daes. Alliances dae.” Colin’s voice grew harder. “And if sellin’ me soul tae the devil himself would save this clan, I’d dae it without hesitation.”

The room fell quiet again. Outside, they could hear the distant sound of the evening watch calling out the time. Life going on, oblivious to the momentous decision being debated within these walls.

“What about the lass?” Niven asked finally. “MacDuff’s daughter. What dae ye ken about her?”

Colin shrugged. “Young. Unmarried. From what I hear, spirited enough.” He paused. “It daesnae matter. This isnae about her or me or what we might want. This is about survival.”

“And after? If this works, if ye manage tae secure the alliance and somehow defeat Fraser—what then? Ye’ll be married tae a woman ye’ve never met, bound tae a clan ye barely ken.”

“Then I’ll learn tae live with it,” Colin said simply. “Just like she will.”

Jamie stood slowly, his young face troubled. “Colin, I have tae ask—are ye certain there’s nay other way? Nay other alliance, nay other strategy that might work?”

Colin looked at his cousin—barely twenty-five, still believing the world could be shaped by hope and good intentions rather than blood and gold. Once, Colin had been that young too. That naive.

“I’ve spent months explorin’ every option, Jamie. Every possible alliance, every strategic advantage, every diplomatic solution. This is what it comes down tae—MacDuff or death. Those are our choices.”

“Then God help us all,” MacLeod muttered.

“God helps those who help themselves,” Colin replied. “And that’s exactly what we’re goin’ tae dae. I wouldnae be the first laird tae marry fer an alliance, nor would I be the last.”

He moved to his chair, settling into the worn leather with the weight of absolute decision. “I will reply tae MacDuff. Tell him I accept his terms. All of them.”

“Colin—” several voices protested at once.

“The eastern marches will be transferred tae MacDuff control upon completion of the marriage,” Colin continued as if he hadn’t heard them. “The dowry will be accepted in two installments as specified. Military cooperation will begin immediately followin’ the weddin’ ceremony.”

“And if the lass refuses ye?” Niven asked quietly. “If she takes one look at our situation and decides she wants nothin’ tae dae with a failin’ clan?”

Colin’s smile was cold as winter steel. “Then I’ll convince her otherwise. Whatever it takes.”

The men around the table exchanged glances, reading the implacable determination in their laird’s face. They’d seen that look before—in battle, when Colin decided that retreat was no longer an option. When he chose to win or die trying.

“When?” MacLeod asked finally, his voice resigned.

“The negotiations will take weeks. The actual weddin’…” Colin shrugged. “Spring, perhaps. Assumin’ MacDuff agrees tae everythin’.”

“He will,” Niven said grimly. “A man daesnae send a letter like this unless he’s already decided. The question is whether we’ll survive long enough tae see it through.”

“We will,” Colin said with absolute certainty. “Because failure isnae an option.”

As his men filed out, still grumbling and shaking their heads, Colin remained seated at the head of the table. Alone with his thoughts and the weight of what he’d just committed to.

In six months, he would marry Morag MacDuff. A woman he’d never met, from a clan he barely knew, in a ceremony that would either save his people or damn them all.

But first, he had to make sure there was still a clan left to save.

Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!

Best selling books of Shona

★★★★★ 201 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 127 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 186 ratings

Read the book

Chapter One

1346, MacDuff Castle

“Och, would ye look at our wee sister,” Ruaridh called out, his deep voice booming across the hall as he strode toward Morag, his sister, with that swagger that made visitors either want to befriend him or throttle him. At twenty-three, he’d grown into his father’s broad shoulders and commanding presence, though his green eyes still held the mischief that had gotten them both into trouble as children. “All done up like a proper lady. I barely recognize ye without mud on yer boots.”

“Hold yer tongue, ye great oaf,” Morag shot back, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. “Just because I enjoy the horses doesnae mean it’s impossible to see me looking like proper.”

The great hall of MacDuff Castle buzzed with the kind of nervous energy that came before farewells—servants bustling about with trunks and provisions, the fire crackling higher than usual, and voices carrying that particular pitch of forced cheer that meant someone was trying very hard not to weep.

Morag MacDuff stood in the center of it all, her dark blonde hair catching the firelight as she surveyed the chaos with mild dread. Her traveling dress—the finest blue wool her mother could procure—felt foreign against her skin, nothing like the practical riding clothes she favored.

“Proper, aye,” Sorcha’s melodic voice drifted from the stone steps leading to the upper chambers, “but standing still? That’s the true miracle.”

Morag’s eldest sister descended the stairs with the grace that had made her the envy of every unmarried lass in the Highlands. Even after five years of marriage and two bairns, Sorcha moved like she was dancing to music only she could hear. Her auburn hair—so like their mother’s—was perfectly braided, not a strand out of place despite her long journey from the MacLeod lands.

“Sorcha!” Morag flew across the hall, propriety forgotten, and threw her arms around her sister. “I didnae think ye’d make it in time.”

“Miss seeing me baby sister off to her grand adventure?” Sorcha squeezed her tight, then pulled back to study Morag’s face with knowing hazel eyes. “I wouldnae dare. Besides, someone had to make sure ye remembered how to act like a lady instead of a wild Highland lass.”

“I am a wild Highland lass,” Morag protested, earning a snort of laughter from Ruaridh.

“Aye, and God help the Iron Laird when he figures that out,” their brother said, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. “Poor bastard probably thinks he’s getting a sweet, biddable wife.”

“Ruaridh MacDuff!” The sharp crack of their mother’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. Niamh MacDuff emerged from behind a cluster of servants, her green eyes flashing with the kind of fire that had made their father fall head over heels all those years ago. “Ye’ll watch yer language in me hall, and ye’ll nae be calling Laird Armstrong names before yer sister’s even met the man.”

Despite the scolding, Niamh’s lips curved in the faintest smile as she approached her youngest daughter. In her forties, she was still beautiful enough to turn heads, her auburn hair showing only the barest threads of silver, her slender frame moving with the confidence of a woman who’d never met a challenge she couldn’t face.

“Besides,” she continued, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from Morag’s traveling cloak, “if anyone can handle our Morag, it’s a man they call the Iron Laird. Takes steel to shape steel, after all.”

“I’m nae steel, Ma,” Morag said quietly, suddenly feeling very young despite her twenty years.

“Nay, lass.” Niamh’s voice gentled as she cupped Morag’s freckled cheek. “Ye’re fire. And fire can melt even the strongest steel, if it burns hot enough.”

“Enough talk of melting,” came the deep rumble of their father’s voice from the great doorway. Alistair MacDuff filled the entrance like he filled every room—not just with his impressive height and breadth, but with the kind of presence that made people straighten their spines and pay attention. His dark hair was liberally streaked with silver now, and new lines bracketed his piercing green eyes, but at forty-nine he was still the kind of man who could command a battlefield or a feast with equal ease. “Are we sending our daughter off to her wedding or are we planning a siege?” he asked, though his gruff tone couldn’t hide the emotion flickering across his weathered features.

“With Morag, is there a difference?” Sorcha murmured, ducking when her youngest sister swatted at her.

Alistair’s mouth twitched, but he crossed the hall with measured steps until he stood before Morag. For a moment, the great laird simply looked at his youngest child—the one who’d followed him around like a shadow as a bairn, who’d begged to learn swordplay alongside her brother, who could put an arrow through a sparrow’s eye at fifty paces, who’d never met a horse she couldn’t ride or a challenge she wouldn’t accept.

“Come here, mo chridhe,” he said softly, opening his arms.

Morag flew into them without hesitation, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and pine and home. When she was small, she’d believed her father could protect her from anything. Now, wrapped in his embrace, she still believed it.

“I’m proud of ye, lass,” he murmured into her hair. “Ye’re daeing what’s right fer the clan, and that takes courage.”

“I’m terrified,” she whispered against his chest.

“Good. Only fools feel nay fear. But ye’re a MacDuff, and MacDuffs dinnae run from hard things.” He pulled back to meet her gaze, his green eyes serious. “Ye’ll make yer own way, Morag. Ye always have.”

“Aye, and if this Armstrong fellow gives ye trouble, ye send word,” Ruaridh declared, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword. “I’ll be happy tae ride south and remind him how tae treat a MacDuff lass.”

“Ye’ll dae nay such thing,” Niamh said sharply, though her tone held a note of fierce maternal pride. “Besides, our Morag can handle herself just fine.”

“She’d better,” Sorcha added with a wicked grin. “From what I hear, the Iron Laird isnae exactly kent fer his gentle nature.”

Morag felt her stomach clench. “What have ye heard?”

“Nothing ye need tae worry about,” Alistair said firmly, shooting a warning look at his eldest daughter. “Political marriages are first and foremost about alliance, nay… personal compatibility. Ye’ll find yer way together.”

“Or ye’ll both be too stubborn tae bend, and ye’ll spend the rest of yer lives circling each other like a pair of Highland cats,” Ruaridh said cheerfully.

“That’s helpful, braither dear,” Morag said dryly.

“I live tae serve.”

A horn sounded from the courtyard—three long blasts that meant her escort was ready to depart. The sound seemed to suck all the air from the great hall, leaving behind a silence heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears.

“Well then,” Niamh said briskly, though her voice was rougher than usual. “I suppose it’s time.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Morag felt her chest tighten, and without thinking, she grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her aside, away from their parents’ watchful eyes.

“Sorcha,” she whispered urgently, “I wish—och, this sounds mad, but I almost wish someone would kidnap me on the road. Anything tae avoid this marriage.”

Her sister’s hazel eyes widened, then softened with understanding. “Morag, love, I ken ye’re frightened, but it willnae be as terrible as ye think. And getting kidnapped…” Sorcha’s voice took on a wry note, “well, I ken it sounds romantic tae have a happy ending with the laird that kidnapped ye, but it daesnae always turn out as well as it did fer me.”

Morag sighed, remembering her sister’s own dramatic courtship. “Aye, I ken that. But Sorcha, I’ve never heard a single good thing about Colin Armstrong. With a name like the Iron Laird, I ken he rules his clan with an iron grip. What kind of marriage can I expect with such a man? What kind of life?”

Sorcha reached out and squeezed her sister’s hands. “Listen tae me, mo peata. Sometimes the strongest men need the gentlest touch tae soften them. Give yer marriage a chance and it may turn out much better than ye expect.”

Sorcha pulled Morag into a tight squeeze which was interrupted when their mother appeared at her elbow, moving with that silent grace that had always unnerved her children. Niamh’s green eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her voice was steady as stone.

“Morag.” She pressed something small and cold into her daughter’s palm. “Take this.”

Morag looked down to see a small but deadly sharp dagger, its handle carved with intricate Celtic knots. The blade gleamed like silver in the firelight.

“Ma, I—”

“Keep it close tae yer body,” Niamh said firmly, her fingers closing over Morag’s. “The land ye’re going tae is made of steel, lass. The people, the very air—everything is harder there. Be prepared fer anything that comes yer way.”

Morag nodded, her throat tightening. “Ma, what if he daesnae want me? What if this marriage—”

“Listen tae me, mo chridhe.” Niamh’s voice dropped to barely a whisper, meant for Morag’s ears alone. “When I wed yer faither, I thought me life was ending. I kent nothing of him save his name, and I was so frightened I could barely speak me vows.” Her green eyes softened with memory. “But sometimes, lass, the marriages we fear most become the love stories we treasure. Yer faither and I… we found our way tae each other. And ye will too.”

“But ye and Da, ye were lucky—”

“Nay.” Niamh shook her head. “We worked fer it. Every day, we chose tae see the good in each other. That’s what makes a marriage, Morag—not the grand gestures, but the small choices tae build something together.”

“Thank ye,” Morag whispered, tucking the dagger into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress. For just a moment, she caught something in her mother’s green eyes— a kind of hope born from her own experience.

“Time to go, lass,” Alistair called from the doorway, though his voice was gentler than usual.

The final farewells were a blur of fierce embraces and whispered blessings. Ruaridh lifted her off her feet in a bone-crushing hug, muttering threats against anyone who dared harm her.

Sorcha kissed both her cheeks and pressed a small bundle of lavender into her hands. Their parents each held her close one last time, and then suddenly she was walking across the courtyard toward the waiting carriage, her legs feeling strangely unsteady.

The carriage door closed with a final, echoing thud, and Morag MacDuff began her journey toward an uncertain future—and a man whose heart was made of iron.

***

The carriage wheels found their rhythm on the worn stone road, and for the first day Morag almost managed to forget where she was headed. The Highland countryside rolled past the small window in waves of purple heather and emerald glen, familiar and comforting as a lullaby.

“Look there, m’lady,” said Isla, her maid, pointing toward a cluster of red deer grazing near a burn. “They say it’s good luck tae see the hart on a wedding journey.”

Morag glanced at the girl’s plain face—barely seventeen, with mousy brown hair and nervous hands that never seemed to stop fidgeting with her apron. Isla jumped at every shadow, but she had willingly volunteered for this journey, which had earned Morag’s grudging respect.

“Aye, well, I’ll take all the luck I can get,” Morag replied, though her fingers unconsciously found the dagger hidden in her dress. “Though I reckon I’ll need more than deer tae help me survive this marriage.”

Outside, she could hear the steady hoofbeats of their escort—three MacDuff soldiers her father had insisted upon. The captain was a grizzled veteran who’d served her grandfather. The other two rode with the easy confidence of men who’d never known real defeat.

Yet, Morag thought grimly.

The first night they’d made camp in familiar territory, the soldiers laughing around their fire as they shared stories and ale. The Captain had even allowed her to walk about freely, knowing no harm would come to a MacDuff lass on MacDuff lands.

But as the second day wore on and the landscape began to change—the hills growing sharper, the forests thicker, darker—so did the mood of their party.

“How much farther tae the border?” Morag asked as the afternoon light began to slant golden through the carriage window.

“We should reach Armstrong lands by dusk, m’lady. We’ll camp just inside their territory tonight, then make fer the castle come morning,” one of the men riding just outside her window answered.

Morag nodded. Through the window, she watched the Captain’s posture change as he rode ahead—his shoulders tense, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. What had been easy conversation between the soldiers had died to sharp, clipped exchanges.

“We are on the edge of Fraser territory now. God help us pass this stretch safely. Hamish,” she heard him call softly. “Eyes on the tree line.”

The youngest soldier, who’d just spoken, now rode with his bow strung and ready across his saddle. The change was subtle but unmistakable. These were men preparing for eventual trouble.

Faither, why did ye send me here?

Chapter Two

 
“Isla,” Morag said quietly, “are ye fast?”

“What?” The maid’s brown eyes went wide. “M’lady, why would ye—”

“Answer me. When ye run, are ye fast?”

“Aye, I run fast enough, but—”

“Good. Ye may soon need tae be.”

Isla’s face had gone pale. “M’lady, ye’re frightening me.”

Morag leaned forward and gripped the girl’s hands. “Listen tae me carefully. If something happens—anything at all—ye dinnae worry about me. Ye run, and ye keep running until ye find help. Dae ye understand?”

“But I cannae leave ye—”

“Ye can and ye will. That’s nae a request, Isla. That’s an order.”

The Captain’s voice cut through the air like a blade, stopping any further protest. “Ho there! State yer business!”

Morag’s hand instinctively went to the dagger her mother had given to her. She waved a palm, indicating Isla should stay back. She leaned forward, pressing her face to the window. Ahead, she could see figures emerging from the forest. Armed men with weapons drawn.

Too many weapons. Too many men.

The carriage jerked to a sudden halt.

“Stay down,” Their Captain commanded, his voice carrying that battlefield authority Morag remembered from her childhood. “Protect the lady!”

She heard the rasp of steel being drawn, the nervous whicker of horses, the creak of leather as men shifted in their saddles. Her own pulse began to thunder in her ears.

“What dae they want?” Isla whispered, her voice barely audible.

Morag’s hand found her dagger again. “I dinnae think they’re here tae wish us well. Remember what I said tae ye. When ye get the chance, run and dinnae look back.”

Through the window, she caught glimpses of movement. There were men in rough leathers circling their small party like wolves. The Captain was shouting something, but the words were lost in the sudden chaos of battle cries and clashing steel.

“Get down!” Morag hissed, pulling Isla toward the floor of the carriage.

The world exploded into violence. Shouts. The scream of horses. The wet sound of blade meeting flesh. And then—

Thwack.

An arrow punched through the carriage window in a shower of splintered wood, the steel point hissing past Morag’s ear to embed itself in the opposite wall. She felt fire streak across her forehead where the fletching had scraped skin.

“Morag!” Isla screamed.

Blood. There was blood trickling down into her eye, but Morag’s mind went crystal clear with the kind of calm that came before a storm. She grabbed Isla by the shoulders and hauled her down behind the bench seat.

“Stay down and dinnae move,” she commanded, her voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. “Wait fer me tae tell ye when tae run.”

The battle raged around their carriage like a living thing. Through the shattered window, Morag caught glimpses of MacDuff soldiers fighting off several attackers at once. The young soldier’s bow sang again and again until she heard a sickening thud, followed by his cry of pain.

“Me Captain!” his voice, raw with desperation.

Then silence from that direction.

The carriage rocked violently as something slammed against its side. Isla whimpered, pressing herself smaller against the floor, but Morag found herself rising slightly, peering through the chaos to count their enemies.

Dear God, they’re too many. Far too many.

The sounds of fighting grew more distant as the battle spread, the two remaining guards being drawn away from the carriage by the sheer number of attackers. In the growing quiet around their shelter, Morag heard something that made her blood turn to ice—the soft scrape of a boot on the carriage step.

The door handle turned.

“Isla,” she whispered urgently. “Remember what I told ye.”

The door swung open to reveal a bearded face, scarred and grinning with triumph. The man’s eyes swept the interior and fixed on Morag with unmistakable recognition.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

Without thinking, Morag threw her full weight against the door. The heavy wood slammed into the man’s face with a satisfying crunch, sending him staggering backward. Blood streamed from his nose, leading to a barrage of curse words that hurt Morag’s delicate lady ears despite the circumstances.

“Run!” she shouted to Isla, shoving the girl toward the opposite door. “Run and dinnae look back!”

Isla scrambled out the far side of the carriage, her skirts tangling around her legs as she stumbled into the underbrush. For a heartbeat, Morag saw the girl’s terrified face looking back.

“Go!” Morag screamed. And Isla ran.

Morag turned back to the man. She did not wait to see if he had recovered but shoved him hard one more time in the chest, sending him sprawling into the mud.

Seeing her chance, she bolted from the carriage. Behind her, she heard the man roar with rage. “The lass! Get the lass!”

She heard heavy boot sounds coming after her. Clearly, the man cared nothing for poor Isla fleeing in the opposite direction. It was Morag he wanted, and Morag he’d follow.

Good, she thought fiercely, gathering her skirts and plunging deeper into the trees. Follow me, ye bastard. Let Isla get away safe. She’ll tell faither.

The forest closed around her like a living wall. Thick Scottish pine and ancient oak with branches so dense they blocked out most of the dying light.

Morag’s lungs burned as she ran, her fine traveling dress catching on every thorn and branch, but she did not slow. She’d been running MacDuff woods since she could walk, knew how to move silent as a deer when she needed to.

Behind her, she could hear the man crashing through the underbrush like a mad boar, all noise and fury. He was a very big man, obviously strong, but that would only help him if he caught her. For now, she was faster. Which was all she needed to be to lose him in these trees. She would find a burn to follow, or a cave to hide in until he gave up and went back to his fellows.

Come on, Morag. This is another hide and seek between ye and Ruaridh.

Morag leaped over a fallen log, her heart hammering. Just ahead, she could see a gap in the trees where moonlight filtered through. If she could reach that clearing, maybe find another way through—

Her foot caught.

Morag pitched forward with a cry, her hands flying out to break her fall. She hit the forest floor hard, her palms scraping against stone and root, her knee striking something sharp enough to tear through fabric and skin.

“Nay,” she gasped, struggling to free her foot from the twisted roots. “Nay, nay, nay.”

Heavy footsteps crashed through the bracken behind her, growing closer with each passing second. Morag’s fingers flew to the hidden pocket in her dress, closing around the weight of her mother’s dagger. The blade sang free of its sheath as she twisted around to saw frantically at the roots binding her ankle.

Come on, come on, she urged silently, the steel biting through the gnarled wood. Behind her, she could hear her pursuer’s ragged breathing, could practically feel his presence bearing down on her like a hunting hound.

The last root parted with a soft snap.

Morag surged to her feet, spinning around with the dagger raised just as the man’s shadow fell over her like a death shroud. His eyes narrowed when he saw the blade gleaming in her fist

“Well, well,” the man panted, wiping blood from his broken nose with the back of his hand. “Thought ye could outrun me, did ye, lass?”

Two more figures emerged from the trees behind him. They were both armed, both grinning with the kind of cruel satisfaction that made Morag’s skin crawl. She recognized the look from her brother’s stories of border raiders and cattle thieves.

“Stay back!” she snarled, finally freeing her foot and scrambling backward on her hands. “I ken how tae use this!”

The man’s broken nose was still streaming blood, but he grinned anyway. “Dae ye now, lass? That’s a bonny wee blade fer such a bonny wee lass.”

He lunged.

Morag slashed out with the dagger, but he was fast. His hand shot out like a striking snake, iron fingers clamping around her wrist. He squeezed until she cried out, her grip loosening involuntarily.

The dagger tumbled from her nerveless fingers, landing in the fallen leaves with a soft thud.

“There’s a good lass,” the man panted, his grip like a vise around her wrist. “Nay need tae make this bloodier than ye’ve already made it.”

Two more figures emerged from the trees behind him, both armed, and grinning with the kind of cruel satisfaction that made Morag’s stomach turn to water. She’d lost her only weapon, her only chance.

But she hadn’t lost her voice.

“Get away from me!” she snarled, trying to wrench free of his grip. “Ye have nae right tae dae this.”

“Aye, we dae.” The first man lunged forward and caught her wrist before she could reach for her hidden dagger. “Laird Ronan Fraser is expecting ye, lass. Been waiting quite some time, from what I hear.”

Morag’s blood turned to ice. “Fraser? Ye’re mad! I’m bride tae Laird Colin Armstrong. We just married, in fact! Ye have the wrong woman!”

The men exchanged glances, and the lanky fellow with stringy hair actually laughed.

“Oh, we ken exactly who ye are, Morag MacDuff,” he said, pulling a length of rope from his belt. “And Fraser’s been very specific about wanting ye brought tae him. Alive and… unspoiled, which is quite unfortunate.”

“I tell ye, ye’re making a mistake!” Morag struggled as they forced her hands behind her back, the rope biting into her wrists. “Let me go, ye bloody savages! Ye dare tae take the daughter of Laird Alistair MacDuff, bride tae Laird Colin Armstrong! I demand ye put me down this instant!”

“Yer faither’s too far away tae help ye now,” the first man growled, testing the knots. “And as fer Armstrong…” He shrugged. “That match was never meant tae be.”

The rope was tight. Already Morag could feel her fingers starting to tingle as the bonds cut off her blood. But she couldn’t stop fighting, couldn’t stop trying to reason with them.

“Please,” she said, hating the desperation in her own voice. “Whatever Fraser’s paying ye, me faither will double it. Triple it! Just let me go!”

“Sorry, lass.” The lanky one almost sounded like he meant it. “We may be men fer hire, but we have our code of honor. We have been given orders.”

Strong arms lifted her from the forest floor like she weighed nothing at all. Morag kicked and writhed, but bound as she was, her struggles only earned her a tighter grip.

“Easy now,” her captor grunted. “Dinnae make this harder than it needs tae be.”

“Harder?” Morag spat. “Ye’re kidnapping me on me wedding journey! How could it possibly be harder?”

But the men were already carrying her back through the trees, back toward whatever horses they’d left waiting. Around them, everywhere was still except for the natural sounds of the forest.

“Move faster,” the bearded one snarled. “Fraser wants her delivered before—”

“I willnae go!” Morag twisted violently, managing to wrench one arm partially free. “I willnae be any man’s prize! Let me go!”

The man carrying her stumbled as she fought, cursing as her elbow caught him in the ribs. “Bloody hell, hold still!”

“Make me, ye coward!”

His patience snapped. He dropped her legs, letting her feet hit the ground hard while his companion kept hold of her shoulders. His hand drew back, palm open, aimed at her defiant face.

“Maybe this will teach ye some—”

“Put. Her. Down.”

The voice cut through the forest like the toll of a death bell—deep, commanding, and utterly without fear. All three men froze, the raised hand halting mid-swing as they spun toward the sound.

Through the trees stepped a figure that seemed carved from Highland legend itself. Tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the predatory grace of a born warrior. Dark hair, piercing eyes that missed nothing, and a presence that made the very air seem to thicken with danger.

Morag’s breath caught in her throat. Even bound and terrified, she could not help but notice the way he moved—like controlled violence wrapped in human form. The way his hand rested on his sword hilt with casual familiarity. The way her captors suddenly looked like children caught stealing apples.

This was no ordinary man.

This was death walking through the Highland forest, and he was looking at her captors like they were already dead.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend? *

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Shona

★★★★★ 201 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 127 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 186 ratings

Read the book

The courtyard was still damp from the morning rain, the stone slick in places where the sun had yet to break through the mist. Tav didn’t mind. He preferred it that way. The chill kept his muscles sharp, the sheen of moisture making every action more deliberate, every move more exact. Sweat clung to his shirt, soaked through at the chest and collar, but he didn’t stop.

His sword moved in perfect arcs. Controlled. Mechanical. He struck again, again, again—a relentless rhythm of blade and breath. The burn in his arms didn’t bother him. Neither did the tightening in his shoulders or the ache in his scarred ribs. He welcomed it. He needed it. The pain reminded him that he was still here. Still standing. Not broken, despite what had happened to him.

Armstrong hadn’t won, despite the horrific things he had made him do. Slaughtering innocent soldiers, torturing men in the dungeons, and so much more.

Tav drove the practice blade against the post hard enough to send splinters flying. He paused, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the battered wood. His fingers twitched. He gritted his teeth. Then he reset his stance.

The repetition helped. If he moved fast enough, thought fast enough, maybe the memories would stop coming back in fragments. Maybe the way his jaw ached in the cold, or how his right knee still locked when the weather turned, wouldn’t feel like a permanent echo of failure. He had to become something stronger. Something colder. Something unbreakable. Flesh could be torn. But steel? Steel endured.

He was halfway through another set of forms when the sound of boots crunching on gravel reached his ears.

“Tav.”

He turned his head slightly. One of Kerr’s younger guards—Douglas, maybe? Hamish?—stood a few paces off, clearly hesitant to come closer.

“What is it?”

“Laird Kerr sent me. He’s askin’ fer ye. Said it was important.”

Tav rolled his neck slowly. “Aye.”

He dropped the blade, wiped his forearm across his brow, and moved to the water barrel nearby. The boy didn’t leave. Tav dipped both hands into the cold water, splashed his face, then reached for the cloth hanging over the post.

Still, the boy lingered.

“Ye train like the devil himself’s at yer heels,” he said after a beat, a poor attempt at jest.

Tav didn’t reply.

“I mean, it’s… it’s impressive,” the boy added, shifting from foot to foot. “Folk say ye could take ten men and still stand. Some say more.”

Tav glanced up, his gaze flat. The boy paled slightly.

“Right,” he mumbled. “I’ll just… I’ll tell the laird ye’re comin’.”

Tav said nothing. The boy turned and made a brisk retreat, shoulders hunched. It was always the same, admiration edged with fear. They called him loyal. Unbreakable. But they never asked what had been broken to make him that way.

Tav exhaled through his nose, slow and even. He finished drying his face, then stripped off the soaked shirt and changed into a fresh one, his movements economical. The leather jerkin went on next. He didn’t rush. He left the training yard by the north gate, boots striking a rhythm against the cobbles. The sun had broken through now, casting long slanted rays across the keep. The path to the laird’s tower wound near the outer gardens—a detour he usually avoided. Today, something pulled him that way.

He didn’t mean to glance that way. Truly. But he did.

Agnes was there. Constance too, both seated on the low stone bench near the rose arch. Constance was reading aloud from a folded letter in her lap, her voice quick and teasing, the kind of playful bite only sisters could manage. Agnes laughed. Head tilted back, eyes shut, one hand fanned over her chest like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.

The sound hit him low. A crack of warmth in a place that had forgotten what soft things felt like. It made something go still inside him. Then ache.

Then Agnes reached over and flicked water from a small bowl onto Constance, who shrieked and flailed with exaggerated drama. Agnes laughed again, the kind of laugh that turned heads. Bright and sudden like light off water. She seemed so untouched by the weight of the world in that moment that Tav had to look away before something in him cracked.

He meant to keep walking. He did. But his feet hesitated. Just long enough to see the way her braid shimmered in the sun, the way her fingers curled gently around a book she wasn’t reading. How she leaned her shoulder into her sister as they laughed, how easily she belonged in the light.

He bowed his head slightly as he passed. He didn’t dare speak. She didn’t look his way.

Foolish, all of it. Whatever strange pull had once curled beneath his ribs when he looked at her—he’d buried it. He’d had to. She was the laird’s daughter. Kind. Clever. Promised to someone important, no doubt. He was a humble man with a sword and a past stitched in shadow. There were lines men like him didn’t cross.

He kept walking. But just as he reached the hedgerow that would block them from sight, he heard a sharp whisper.

“You were looking too long at that guard.” Constance. Her voice was low but not unkind. A sister’s warning.

He clenched his jaw and turned the corner without a word.

The laird’s study was on the second floor, tucked behind the great hearth. Tav knocked once before entering.

“Come in,” a voice came from inside.

Ewan Kerr’s study was dim, all shadowed corners and the faint scent of old parchment. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, catching on the floating dust. Ewan Kerr stood at the hearth, his back to the door, a goblet in one hand, untouched.

Tav stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Ye asked fer me, me laird?”

Ewan turned. His face was lined deeper than Tav remembered, though it had only been a matter of days since they had last spoken. Grief lived behind his eyes, tight as a knot. He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Aye. Sit, Tav.”

Tav obeyed, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. He rested his arms lightly on his thighs, leaning forward. “Somethin’ wrong?”

Kerr didn’t answer right away. He moved to the table, set the goblet down, and poured another from the decanter without drinking. His fingers were steady. His mouth, a grim line.

“I’ve made a proposal,” he said finally. “Tae Laird Caithness.”

Tav didn’t move. But his mind went alert, snapping taut like a bowstring. “A proposal?”

“An alliance,” Kerr clarified, voice low. “I offered Agnes’ hand in marriage, tae Laird Caithness. He agreed. Said it was the smartest course, politically. A uniting of our clans through blood.” He paused, then added, “Agnes would go tae him.”

The words hit like the flat of a blade. Tav didn’t let it show. He only shifted slightly in his seat, a barely-there movement.

“Daes she agree?”

Kerr hesitated. Just a flicker. A pause that would have gone unnoticed by a less observant man. But Tav noticed everything. Especially what was left unsaid.

“She’s… strong,” Kerr said finally, eyes fixed on the hearth. But it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Tav looked at the fire. It cracked once, the sound too loud in the silence.

“I ken she’s strong,” he said evenly, but his stomach twisted. Strength didn’t mean agreement.

Kerr nodded, then moved to sit behind the desk. He looked tired. Worn thin by choices that had no clean outcome. “I wouldnae ask this of her if there were another path. But Caithness’s support could make a difference tae the clan, tae the people… we need it.”

Tav stayed quiet. His hands curled slightly, the calluses catching against the fabric of his trousers. He wanted to speak, to say she was nae some chess piece to be moved across a board. But it wasn’t his place.

“We need tae start planning,” Kerr continued. “She’ll leave within the week. A small party. Discreet. I want someone I trust on it.”

Tav straightened slightly. “Ye want me tae go?”

“Nay,” Kerr said quickly, too quickly. “Nae ye. I need ye here. That’s why I called ye. I want yer counsel. Who would ye send, if she were… someone ye cared fer?”

The phrasing wasn’t lost on him. Tav frowned, considering.

“Brodie Ainslei,” he said after a long moment.

Ewan tilted his head. “Why him?”

“He’s steady. Quiet. Loyal tae a fault. Keeps tae himself. Nae the most talkative, but that’s nae bad thing. Keeps his eyes where they belong. Never looked twice at a woman he was paid tae protect.”

Ewan studied him. There was a pause, then he nodded slowly. “Aye. That might be best. And I trust he’d keep his distance.”

Tav’s jaw tightened. “He will.”

Ewan sighed, leaning back in his chair. His eyes had gone far-off, distant, like he was already watching Agnes ride away. “It goes against every bone in me body, this. Sendin’ her off like this. But me hands are tied. Every path forward comes at a cost.”

Tav rose. He didn’t know what to say. The weight in his chest felt heavier now. Like chainmail soaked in water.

“Ye’ll let me ken when they leave?”

“Aye.”

He turned to go, hand already on the latch, when Kerr’s voice stopped him.

“Tav.”

He looked back.

The laird stood now. His voice dropped lower, roughened with something that wasn’t command. “How are ye farin’? Truly.”

Tav met his eyes. “I’m alive.”

Kerr crossed the space between them in a few strides, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Ye’re more than that. Ye may be changed, aye. But nae lesser. And nae alone. Ye dinnae need tae carry it all yerself.”

Tav nodded once. “Thank ye, me laird.”

Kerr gave his shoulder a last squeeze, then stepped back.

Tav opened the door. The corridor beyond was bright now, the sun pouring in golden through the high windows. The same young guard from earlier was walking down the hall. He slowed as Tav exited, unsure whether to offer a salute or keep walking.

This time, Tav gave him a nod. The boy blinked, then stood a little taller.

Tav walked on, jaw tight, spine straight. The heaviness in his chest remained, but so did the memory of her laughter in the garden. He wouldn’t be the one to take her away.

But gods help him, he already wanted to follow.

Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!

Best selling books of Shona

★★★★★ 201 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 127 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 186 ratings

Read the book