“They’ll be at this all day,” Iona murmured, her voice light, as she turned to Ruaridh, who stood beside her. He had one arm propped up against the stone, his other hand resting in his pocket. His eyes followed the children with a quiet, tender gaze.
The garden buzzed with the carefree energy of children, their laughter like music in the soft afternoon sunlight. Iona leaned back against the stone wall, the warmth of the sun settling on her skin as she watched Alistair and little Nia run across the green grass, their feet kicking up little clouds of dust.
“They are growin’ fast,” he said, his voice a soft rumble, filled with an emotion Iona could only describe as pride and wonder. “Seems like just yesterday I was liftin’ them up on me shoulders.”
“Almost,” Iona replied, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “Though ye still try tae pick them up every chance ye get.”
Ruaridh chuckled, his eyes flicking over to her, then back to the children. Nia, a few years younger than Alistair, had already formed an unlikely bond with a new friend, a lad from the neighboring clan who had been visitin’ for the week. The two of them were now lying on the grass, heads tilted toward the sky, deep in conversation about something only they could understand.
“Look at Nia,” Iona said, raising an eyebrow. “Already got a friend who hangs on her every word.”
“I think she’s in love,” Ruaridh teased, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “We might have another childhood romance on our hands.”
Iona laughed, a bright sound that seemed to float through the air, carried on the breeze. “Ye think? They’ve only known each other fer a few days.”
“Well, I ken how these things go.” Ruaridh’s grin was playful. “They’re bound tae get intae mischief, just like we did.”
“Ye were the mischief-maker,” Iona shot back, mock-serious. “I was just the innocent bystander.”
“Ah, innocent, were ye now?” Ruaridh’s voice dropped to a teasing tone, his green eyes sparkling. “Ye were the one who climbed the highest tree in the garden. I was terrified.”
Iona smirked. “I did it fer ye,” she said, her voice light but carryin’ a hint of nostalgia. “Ye wouldnae have dared unless I did it first.”
“True,” he admitted with a sigh, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Cannae deny that. But look where we ended up.” He turned to look at her fully, the love in his eyes unmistakable. “Ye always did have a way of getting me intae trouble.”
“Maybe that’s why I married ye,” Iona teased, nudging him back with her shoulder. “Tae keep ye on yer toes.”
From the other side of the garden, Niamh and Alistair appeared in the doorway of the house, the quiet pair watching their family. Niamh smiled at the sight of her son and his wife, the joy in her eyes clear as she watched her grandchildren play. Alistair, with a fond, knowing look on his face, had his hand casually around her. “Isnae it wonderful?” Niamh said, her voice soft with affection as they joined them by the stone wall. “They remind me so much of the two of ye.”
Iona turned to Niamh and Alistair, her heart swelling with the warmth of family. “Dae ye think they’ll be as mischievous as we were?”
“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Niamh replied with a wink. “And I’m certain they’ll find plenty of trouble, just like their parents.”
“Aye,” Alistair rumbled, his gaze fixed on the children. He clapped Ruaridh on the shoulder. “They’ve got their mother’s charm, lad, and their father’s stubborn streak. A dangerous combination, that.”
Ruaridh laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, but his gaze lingered on the children, a proud smile tugging at his lips.
“I just hope their trouble’s a little less dangerous than ours,” he said, eyes twinkling with amusement.
Niamh laughed softly. “It’s the ones that come after that make the world go round, dear. And I can already see that they’ll be just as full of spirit as ye two were.”
Iona caught Ruaridh’s eye, her heart swelling with love. It was moments like that that reminded her how much they had grown together. They they had built something even more beautiful: a family, a home, and a future.
“Maybe history will repeat itself after all,” Iona murmured, her voice soft as she leaned into him.
Ruaridh wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. “If it daes, let’s make sure it’s even more beautiful than the first time,” he said, his voice rich with promise.
In the distance, the children’s laughter rang out again, and Iona couldn’t help but smile as she watched them, a new generation of mischief and love unfolding right before her eyes.
“Uncle Gordon!” Alistair suddenly shouted, his voice high with excitement, as he sprinted toward his father’s friend. Nia, too, squealed in joy, her little legs racing to join her brother.
Gordon jogged in the opposite direction. His hearty laugh echoed through the garden just as and Nia caught up with him.
Gordon bent down with exaggerated effort, making a show of pretending to be tired from his run. “Well now, ye’ve caught me!” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “I’m too old tae be runnin’ like that!”
“Ye’re nae old!” Alistair retorted, laughing as Gordon swept both of them into the air. Ruaridh and Iona laughed at their friend’s antics. He was so good with the children.
Gordon grinned, his eyes twinkling as he reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out wooden soldiers, spinning tops, and candy wrapped in colorful paper. The children’s faces lit up even more, their excitement palpable.
“I thought ye might fancy a bit o’ fun,” Gordon said, handing them each a treat and tossing the toys onto the ground. “Always bringin’ something to keep ye entertained.”
“Candy!” Nia’s voice was filled with awe as she clutched her piece tightly. Alistair, his face splitting into a grin, eagerly started spinning a wooden top across the garden.
Gordon straightened up and stretched, looking around the garden with an almost exaggerated sense of admiration. “This garden,” he said with a sigh, as though he had never seen anything so magnificent. “I swear, I could live here. It’s like somethin’ from a dream.”
Iona raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Aye? Live here, ye say?”
“Aye. I may just plant me own garden. Maybe add a tree or two,” Gordon mused, looking around as if imagining it. “Aye, I think I’d plant a whole grove. Nothing fancy, mind ye, just somethin’ tae make the place look even better.”
Ruaridh chuckled, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “A whole grove? Ye’d be the one tae try it.”
Iona leaned in, her tone teasing, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, after ye plant yer grove, what ye’ll need next is a wife tae enjoy it with ye. A garden is all well and good, but it’s nae much fun on yer own, eh?”
Gordon’s eyes widened for a moment, before he let out a loud, booming laugh. “A wife, eh? I’ll think on that. Not sure who’d want tae marry a fool like me.” He glanced toward the children, who were already lost in their game, their joy infectious.
Iona exchanged a knowing look with Ruaridh, her smile softening slightly as she watched Gordon’s interaction with the kids. The way he gave them his full attention, his eyes warm and unguarded, was a testament to the deep affection he had for them.
Gordon’s voice dropped, a playful edge still in it but with a touch of something softer. “Ye’ve built a fine family here, the two of ye. And I—well, I dae envy it, a bit.”
Iona noticed the slight shift in Gordon’s tone, the way he glanced at the children, his smile lingering a little longer on them. For all his laughter, there was something quieter, more reflective in him that day.
She reached out and gave his arm a gentle nudge. “Ye’ve built a family o’ yer own here, Gordon,” she said softly, her voice full of warmth. “A different kind, but just as real.”
Gordon’s smile faltered for a moment, then he shrugged, his usual boisterous self returning. “Aye, I have. But I enjoy me ways far too much fer any change.”
Ruaridh stepped forward, clapping Gordon on the back with a grin. “And we never thought we’d get here, either. But look at us. A family, aye?”
Gordon looked at him for a moment, his expression a mixture of affection and something more unreadable. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Look at ye.” Then, with a wink, he added, “Well, I’ll be back soon with more sweets, then.”
As Gordon moved toward the children, Iona and Ruaridh exchanged a glance, the unspoken understanding between them clear. Their family had grown, but so had Gordon’s place within it, even if he still hadn’t quite found the kind of peace they had.
Iona’s voice was soft as she turned back to Ruaridh. “He’s nae a fool, is he?”
“Nay,” Ruaridh replied quietly. “He’s just waiting fer the right thing tae come along.”
The sound of Gordon’s laughter, ringing out once more, mingled with the children’s joyful shouts, filling the garden with a kind of warmth that felt timeless. The circle they had once feared would never close now felt complete.
After Gordon had gone, Iona and Ruaridh walked away from the children, their laughter still ringing in the air. They found a quiet corner beneath a tall oak tree, where the shade offered cool relief from the warmth of the day.
Ruaridh leaned against the rough bark, arms folded across his chest as he glanced over at Iona, who sat down on a stone bench nearby. The peacefulness of the moment settled around them, but there was an unspoken heaviness between them, a weight of reflection that had been building over the years.
“We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” Iona said softly, her eyes following the movement of the children in the distance.
Ruaridh smiled, though there was a quiet sadness in his eyes. “Aye, we have. Some days, it feels like a lifetime ago, and other days, it feels like we’re still fighting our way through.”
Iona nodded. “The first year was… harder than I ever thought it would be. The fear, the uncertainty. Ye, me… all of it.” She smiled, resting her head against his shoulder. “But we’ve built something beautiful, Ruaridh. I know the road’s been hard, but we’ve made it. Together.”
He kissed the top of her head gently, the comfort of their shared silence wrapping around them. They had fought to be here, to create that life together. And no matter what came, they would face it the same way they always had—together.
As the evening began to settle, the warmth of the day slowly receded, and the family gathered around the long wooden table in the dining hall. The children, still brimming with energy, had long since finished their food and were now running around the room, chasing each other and laughing. Iona watched them with a smile, her heart full as she noticed how easily they seemed to move between moments of wild play and quiet moments of connection.
Ruaridh sat beside her, his hand resting on her knee as they both watched their children, their minds heavy with thoughts of the future.
“Look at them,” Iona said, her voice soft as she watched Nia and Alistair play near the fire, their faces lit with joy.
“Aye,” Ruaridh agreed, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “The way they look at each other, the way they just… ken what tae dae.”
Iona smiled, her gaze shifting to their children. Alistair was helping Nia with a game, showing her how to balance a coin on her elbow, their shared laughter echoing across the room. “Dae ye think they’ll follow our path? Find their own love story, just like we did?”
Ruaridh chuckled softly, a warmth in his eyes. “I hope so. And I’ll always be here to make sure they don’t get into too much trouble.”
Iona looked back at their children, a quiet ache settling in her chest. “I think… I think they’ll be just fine. Maybe better than we were.”
A brief silence passed between them, a knowing understanding settling into the space. Life had changed, but in some ways, it was always the same. The seasons would pass, their children would grow, and history would repeat itself.
The warm glow of the fire flickered in the background, casting dancing shadows across the room. Time moved on, but some things—love, family—remained constant. And for the first time in years, they both felt the weight of their past lift, leaving only hope for the future.
Don’t miss the link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
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.”
“Shameless, that one. Nay wonder nay decent family wants anythin’ tae dae with the MacNeills now.”
“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
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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The sun poured through the windows of the solar, casting soft golden light across the stone floor and warming the thick rugs laid out beneath the chairs. Summer had arrived in the Highlands, gentler that year than most, and the castle seemed to hum with the kind of quiet that only came after months of storm.
Ailis knelt in front of a small oak stool, smoothing the wrinkles out of a soft green dress.
“Sit still, me heart,” she said, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her daughter’s face.
The little girl grinned up at her, eyes the same pale green as hers, framed by the almond shape Ailis knew had come from her own mother. Her cheeks were flushed from sitting that morning in the orchard to watch the ducks, and her nose was dusted with freckles earned under the summer sun.
“Duh-duh!” said the young girl with all the enthusiasm that her age afforded and the ducks deserved.
Ailis laughed softly. “I thought ye wanted tae wear yer special ribbon.”
The child’s face brightened at that as Ailis held up the ribbon for her to grab with her little hands; a deep blue silk ribbon, the same shade as the one she had worn around her neck the day she became Lady Caithness. She tied it gently around her daughter’s hair, forming a loose bow just above her braid.
Malcolm leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with a look that turned Ailis’ heart to honey.
“She’s nae goin’ tae sit still, ye ken,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. He had been laughing all afternoon as Ailis chased Eilidh around, trying to get her ready. “She’s got more spirit than both o’ us combined.”
“She’s one, Malcolm,” Ailis said with mock sternness. “Let me pretend fer five minutes that she’ll act like a noblewoman.”
“O’ course she will, me love,” Malcolm said, pushing off the doorframe and crouching beside Ailis and Eilidh, taking the child in his arms. “Ye’ve got royal mischief in yer blood, dinnae ye?”
Eilidh giggled and leaned into him as if she could understand what he was saying, clinging to the edge of his tunic. With a sigh, Ailis sat back and watched them both with her hands on her hips, wondering why either of them thought it was a good idea to get their very young daughter to sit for a portrait.
“We should have waited,” said Ailis. “At least until she can sit still.”
“Ach, but we want tae remember her just like this,” Malcolm said, stroking Eilidh’s cheek. “Forever. Even when she’s a lady in her own right.”
“That willnae be fer a while still,” Ailis reminded him, taking the child from him to hold her in her lap as if to protect her from that very fate. She wanted nothing more than to watch Eilidh grow up and thrive, but the mere thought was enough to choke her, to fill her with a kind of bittersweet feeling that repeatedly brought tears to her eyes.
Malcolm chuckled, wrapping an arm around Ailis’ waist and pulling her close. “Ye’d be surprised how fast daughters grow. I swear she was only a tiny thing just yesterday an’ look at her now.”
Ailis did look at her and found nothing but a tiny thing in her lap. But before she could point that out, a soft knock echoed on the chamber door.
“Enter,” she called.
Master Edric stepped inside, the same painter who had painted her two years earlier. His hair had greyed at the temples, but his eyes still held the thoughtful kindness Ailis remembered well. His satchel hung over his shoulder, and in his hand, he held a narrow wooden case.
“Me lady,” he said with a small bow. “Me laird. An’ this must be the wee lady I’ve heard so much about.”
The girl peered at him with curiosity for a moment, before she erupted into giggles again. She reached for the man with her small hands and Edric tapped the tip of her nose with a finger, causing Eilidh to laugh again, her entire body shaking with mirth.
“Is the wee lady ready fer her portrait?” asked Edric and Ailis nodded, standing with the child in her arms. She took her to the little chair set up by the window, fluffed the hem of her dress, and straightened the ribbon once more. Eilidh wiggled a bit, but sat like a queen in Ailis’ lap, her chin up, looking at Ailis with a grand smile.
“She looks like ye,” Edric said as he prepared his tools. “Such a bonnie wee lass deserves a bonnie portrait!”
“She’s the best thing we’ve ever done,” Ailis told Malcolm.
Malcolm looked over to her. “Aye. An’ we’ve done some fine things.”
They watched their daughter as Edric began his sketch—Eilidh blinking up at the sunlight, reaching for the dancing motes in the air. At one point, she yawned dramatically and leaned against her mother’s chest, content to simply watch the birds fluttering outside.
Malcolm’s hand moved, almost absentmindedly, to stroke Ailis’s back.
“Ye look so bonnie like this,” he said quietly, his voice for her alone. “Ye look very happy.”
She turned her face slightly to him, smiling. “That’s because I am.”
He kissed her temple, tender and reverent, and Ailis leaned into him, the quiet joy between them as steady and warm as the light on their daughter’s face.
“Dae ye remember the locket?” she whispered.
“How could I forget?”
“Well,” she said, eyes misting as she looked at their child, “I think we gave her one, too.”
Malcolm glanced at her, surprise and softness mingling in his gaze.
“Someday,” Ailis added. “When she’s older. So she can carry this moment with her. So she kens where she came from.”
Malcolm nodded quietly, a smile spreading over his lips. “Aye. An’ that she was born out o’ love.”
Edric’s brush moved steadily over the canvas, capturing Eilidh as she was in that moment—bathed in golden light, held in the love of her parents, knowing only gentleness. And Ailis knew, as she looked from the child to the man beside her, that this was the legacy they were building—not castles, not a bloody history, but love, plain and simple.
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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!”
Morag stretched languidly in the pre-dawn light filtering through their chamber windows, her body warm and sated from Colin’s loving attention. Beside her, her husband slept peacefully, his arm draped possessively across her waist, his breathing deep and even. No nightmares haunted his rest anymore—hadn’t for over a year now. The sleeping draught that had once been his nightly necessity sat forgotten in Tasgall’s stores.
“Colin,” she whispered, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder. “Wake up, me love.”
“Mmm.” He pulled her closer without opening his eyes. “Too early. Come back tae sleep.”
“I cannae sleep.” Morag traced lazy patterns on his chest with her fingertip. “I’ve been thinkin’.”
“Dangerous occupation fer a lass,” Colin murmured, though she could hear the smile in his voice.
“I’d like tae visit me family. It’s been too long since we’ve seen them, and I miss them terribly.”
Colin’s eyes opened then, dark and alert as he studied her face. “Of course. When would ye like tae go?”
“Soon. Before…” She placed her hand over her still-flat stomach, and Colin’s gaze followed the movement with wonder that hadn’t dimmed despite this being their second child.
“Before ye’re too heavy with our daughter tae travel comfortably,” he finished with a grin.
“Daughter?” Morag raised an eyebrow. “What makes ye so certain it’s a lass this time?”
“A man can hope. Though another lad like our Alasdair would be a blessin’ too.”
As if summoned by his name, the sound of small feet running down the corridor reached them, followed by Sheena’s harried voice calling, “Come back here, ye wee terror! Yer parents are still abed!”
The chamber door burst open, and their two-year-old son barreled in like a tiny Highland warrior, his dark hair tousled and his brown eyes—so like his father’s—bright with mischief.
“Da! Ma!” Alasdair launched himself onto the bed with the fearless enthusiasm that made Morag’s heart stop at least once daily.
“There’s me lad,” Colin laughed, catching his son and pulling him between them. “What mischief have ye been causin’ this morning?”
“Helped Sheena make porridge,” Alasdair announced proudly.
Morag bit back a laugh. Their son’s definition of “helping” usually involved more mess than assistance.
“I’m sure ye were very helpful, mo chridhe,” Morag said, smoothing his unruly hair. “But next time, perhaps wait until Da and I are awake before yer adventures begin?”
“Can we visit Uncle Ruaridh soon?” Alasdair asked with the single-minded focus only a toddler could achieve. “I like swords!”
Colin and Morag exchanged amused glances. Her brother had indeed made that promise during his last visit, much to her horror and Colin’s secret pride.
“Actually,” Colin said thoughtfully, “that’s not such a bad idea. What dae ye say, wife? Shall we pay the MacDuffs a visit?”
***
Three days later, their small party crested the familiar hill overlooking MacDuff Castle, and Morag felt tears sting her eyes at the sight of home. The massive stone keep stood proud against the Highland sky, its banners snapping in the crisp autumn breeze.
“Look there, Alasdair,” she said, pointing toward the castle. “That’s where yer ma grew up.”
Her son’s eyes went wide with wonder. “Big castle!”
“Aye, and full of people who cannae wait tae spoil ye rotten,” Colin added with a grin.
They’d barely reached the courtyard when the castle doors burst open and her family poured out. Ruaridh reached them first, sweeping Morag into his arms and spinning her around despite her protests.
“Mo phiuthar! Look at ye, bonny as ever and twice as fierce!” He set her down and immediately turned his attention to Alasdair, who was watching this display with wide eyes from Colin’s arms. “And this is my favorite warrior.”
“Uncle Ruaridh,” the boy announced solemnly, puffing out his small chest. “I want sword like me da.”
“Are ye now?” Ruaridh’s eyes twinkled with mischief that Morag recognized all too well. “Well then, young laird, perhaps ye’d like tae see where yer ma used tae get intae trouble?”
“Ruaridh MacDuff, ye’ll dae nay such thing,” came their mother’s voice as Niamh emerged from the crowd, her auburn hair now streaked with silver but her green eyes as sharp as ever. “Morag’s boy has enough mischief in him without yer encouragement.”
“Ma,” Morag breathed, moving into her mother’s embrace with tears threatening. “Ye look wonderful.”
“And ye look happy, mo chridhe. Truly happy.” Niamh held her at arm’s length, studying her face with a mother’s keen eye. “Marriage agrees with ye.”
“It daes indeed,” Colin said warmly, approaching with Alasdair still in his arms. “Lady MacDuff, ye’re as beautiful as ever.”
“Flattery from the Iron Laird himself,” Niamh laughed, but Morag could see how pleased she was. “And this handsome lad must be me grandson.”
Alasdair regarded his grandmother with the serious consideration of a child meeting someone beloved but that he did not remember meeting. “Aye, Grandma.”
“Hello, me sweet boy,” Niamh said, her heart swelling with love.
He reached for her with chubby arms.
“Oh, me love,” Niamh whispered, taking him from Colin and holding him close. “Ye’re just as bonny as yer da but with yer ma’s stubborn chin. And look how ye’ve grown.”
The naming ceremony had been a grand affair at Armstrong Castle, with the MacDuff family traveling there when Alasdair was just a month old. Following Highland tradition, they’d gathered at sunrise in the great hall, where Tasgall the healer had blessed the babe with water from the sacred well, and Colin had spoken the ancient words that welcomed the child into the clan.
Young Alasdair had been presented to the four winds, his name called out so that all the spirits of the land would know him and protect him. Then they’d celebrated with a feast that had lasted three days, with music and dancing and stories told late into the night.
“Where’s Da?” Morag asked, looking around the crowded courtyard.
“In his study, pretendin’ he’s too dignified tae come running out like the rest of us,” Sorcha said, appearing with her own children in tow. Morag’s eldest sister looked radiant, her auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight. “But I saw him watchin’ from the window like an anxious faither.”
“Some things never change,” Morag laughed, remembering her father’s tendency toward emotional restraint in public.
They made their way into the great hall, where Alistair MacDuff waited with studied casualness by the hearth. But the moment he saw Morag, his composure cracked completely.
“There’s me lass,” he said gruffly, opening his arms wide.
Morag flew into them, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and pine that always meant safety and home. “I’ve missed ye, Da.”
“And I’ve missed ye, mo chridhe. Every day.” He held her tight for a long moment before stepping back to grip Colin’s forearm in the traditional Highland greeting. “Son. Ye look well.”
“As dae ye, sir. Thank ye fer welcomin’ us.”
“This is yer home now too,” Alistair said firmly. “Family is family, nay matter what name they bear.”
“Grandda!” Alasdair had escaped his grandmother’s arms and was now tugging on Alistair’s kilt, his face bright with the joy. “Ye have horses! Can I ride a big one?”
“Can ye now?” Alistair’s stern features melted into a besotted grandfather’s smile as he scooped up his grandson. “Ye’ve grown so much since we last seen ye, lad. Well then, young warrior, let’s see what we can arrange.”
The afternoon passed in a blur of joyful chaos. Alasdair was passed from relative to relative, each one eager to spoil him thoroughly and marveling at how much he’d grown since his namin’ ceremony. He charmed his way into extra honey cakes, convinced Uncle Ruaridh to let him hold a real sword (much to Morag’s horror), and managed to fall asleep in his grandfather’s lap during the evening meal, just as he had as a wee babe during that first blessed gathering.
“He’s got the MacDuff charm,” Sorcha observed fondly, watching her father’s face soften as he gazed down at the sleeping child. “He’s got everyone wrapped around his tiny finger.”
“And the Armstrong stubbornness,” Colin added ruefully. “Yesterday he decided he was old enough tae saddle his own pony. It took three of us tae convince him otherwise. I swear he gets more determined every day.”
“That sounds familiar,” Niamh said with a pointed look at Morag. “I remember a certain young lass who tried tae ride her faither’s warhorse when she was barely four years old. Nearly gave me heart failure.”
“Ye never told me that story,” Colin said, grinning at his wife’s embarrassed blush.
“Oh, there are so many stories,” Ruaridh said with wicked delight. “Did she tell ye about the time she climbed onto the castle roof because she was convinced she could fly? Or when she decided tae ‘improve’ the stable by lettin’ all the horses run free?”
“Or the time she tried tae teach herself swordplay and nearly took off poor Hamish’s ear?” Sorcha added with a laugh.
“Enough!” Morag protested, but she was laughing despite her mortification. “Ye’re givin’ me husband too much ammunition.”
“On the contrary,” Colin said seriously, “I’m learnin’ that me wife’s adventurous spirit saved her life.” He shook his head. “That tomboy spirit ye’re teasin’ her about is part of what brought her home tae me.”
The hall fell quiet for a moment as everyone remembered how close they’d come to losing her. Then Alistair cleared his throat gruffly.
“Aye, well. The lass always was too stubborn tae die easily.”
“Speakin’ of which,” Morag said, seizing the moment, “Colin and I have some news tae share.”
She stood, moving to Colin’s side and taking his hand. “We’re expectin’ another child.”
The reaction was immediate and joyful. Niamh clapped her hands together with delight, Sorcha squealed and rushed to embrace her, and Ruaridh let out a whoop that would have wakened Alasdair if he hadn’t been so thoroughly exhausted from his day of adventures.
“When?” Niamh asked, already mentally planning nursery preparations and another namin’ ceremony.
“Spring,” Morag replied, her hand moving to rest on her stomach. “Just after the Highland flowers bloom.”
“Another grandchild,” Alistair said wonderingly, his weathered face creased with joy. “And perhaps a granddaughter this time? Another babe tae bless and welcome tae the clan?”
“That’s what Colin’s hopin’ for,” Morag said with a smile.
“A daughter would be wonderful,” Colin said, “though another lad would be just as welcome. Either way, we’ll have another grand namin’ ceremony.”
“Just promise me ye’ll name her something sensible,” Sorcha said with mock sternness. “None of these fancy Lowland names that no one can pronounce.”
“Says the woman who named her daughter Caoimhe,” Ruaridh pointed out.
“Caoimhe is a perfectly good Highland name!”
As her siblings dissolved into their familiar bickering, Morag felt a profound sense of contentment wash over her. This was what she’d missed—the easy laughter, the gentle teasing, the warm embrace of family who loved her unconditionally.
“Happy?” Colin asked, his arm coming around her waist.
“Perfectly,” Morag replied, leaning into his warmth. “Thank ye fer bringin’ me home.”
“Thank ye fer givin’ me a home worth defendin’,” Colin replied, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Watching ye with yer family today, seein’ how Alasdair belongs here as much as he belongs with us… it reminds me why we fight tae protect what we love.”
“He’s growing up so fast,” Morag murmured, her hand resting on her stomach. “Soon he’ll have a braither or sister tae play with, another babe tae present tae the clan.”
“Another namin’ ceremony,” Colin agreed with a smile. “Though I suspect this one will be even grander, with Alasdair helpin’ tae welcome his sibling.”
“Aye, he’ll want tae hold the babe during the blessing, I’m sure.” Morag laughed softly. “Just like he wanted tae help when we blessed the Armstrong foals.”
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the stars emerge one by one in the darkening sky. The wind carried the scent of heather and pine, the eternal perfume of home.
“I love ye, Morag Armstrong,” Colin said finally. “Now and always.”
“And I love ye, Colin Armstrong. Me heart, me soul, me everything.”
