Chapter One

Ferniehirst Castle, 1589

 The chill of the morning wrapped around Agnes like a second skin, biting through the thick wool of her shawl, no matter how tightly she drew it around her shoulders. The wind carried the scent of wet heather and iron, brushing across her cheek like a whisper she didn’t quite trust. Something knotted low in her belly, heavy and unwelcome.

The carriage waited in the courtyard, its dark green frame gleaming beneath the bleak, overcast sky. The wheels were already muddied from the rains the night before, and the horses snorted and shifted restlessly, as if sensing they were part of something ill-timed and unpleasant. Everything in the yard felt suspended, paused just before some unseen breaking point.

She smoothed the front of her riding gown with shaking fingers, carefully chosen to suit the impression she was meant to give: noble, solemn, untouchable. But it felt too heavy, too stiff. Like a costume.

Constance stood beside her, quiet as the wind. “You look unreal,” she said gently, her voice low. “Like you’re carrying everything in your heart and trying not to let it show on your face.”

Agnes turned slowly toward her, her throat already tight. Constance wore her hair in a braid, her pale green eyes gleaming with something like sorrow. Her sister. The one she’d only just found again after years of silence, secrets, and blood spilled in the name of things they hadn’t chosen.

“I dinnae ken how tae leave ye,” Agnes murmured, voice brittle. “It feels wrong. Too soon after all this time.”

Constance didn’t hesitate. She reached for her hand, her grip cold but steady. “You’re not leaving me,” she said. “You’re leading us.”

Agnes clasped her sister’s hands tightly, memorizing the feel of fingers so like her own yet shaped by different worlds. Their goodbye cut deeper than she’d expected.

This alliance must be made, it is me duty towards me faither and me clan.

Since Constance’s return, the Kerrs stood on dangerous ground. Their father had been reckless in his defense of Constance, confronting the English too boldly. Now they were all paying a price and Agnes would pay even more, knowing Constance would remain home safely.

She studied her sister’s face. It was as if she was looking in a mirror. How cruel that they’d found each other only to be torn apart again. Agnes stared at the carriage, blinking too quickly. If she kept her eyes fixed on the painted crest on the door, maybe she could stop the tears threatening to gather at the corners of her vision.

But her fear pressed harder.

She was afraid. Not of the man she was meant to marry—Laird Caithness, of which she knew little except for his ruthless control over one of the most powerful Highland armies. It was more the way her future had become something distant and unfamiliar, shaped entirely by necessity.

She didn’t know what kind of man he was, what kind of life he’d offer, what expectations he held for her, being handed to him in the name of alliance. She didn’t know if that sacrifice would be enough to keep their people safe—or if she was simply being bartered like cattle in a transaction dressed up as duty.

“I should feel proud,” she said, voice barely audible. “Faither trusts me tae dae this. But it feels like I’m bein’ cut off from everythin’ I ever was.”

Constance’s hand tightened around hers. “Sometimes the hardest path is what tempers the iron. I am just sorry this is happening because of me and the complications I caused by coming here to find you—”

Agnes shook her head vigorously and exclaimed “Dinnae blame yerself! This is about politics and power and I always knew this would be me duty on day.”

Her gaze then drifted toward the steps of the keep where her father stood, arms folded, his jaw tense with the effort of not showing too much. Ewan Kerr rarely gave away his feelings easily, but she knew him well enough to recognize the strain in his shoulders, the grief buried beneath his pride.

She stepped away from Constance and went to him. The mist thickened, wrapping around the courtyard like a shroud, and she could hear the restless murmuring of the guards as they loaded the last of her trunks onto the carriage.

“I’ll make ye proud,” she said. Her voice cracked on the last word.

Ewan looked at her for a long moment. The steel in his expression softened, just barely. “Ye already have,” he said. “What ye’re daein’—it’s what any true Kerr would dae. Ye’re protectin’ yer clan. I’m sorry daughter, that it came tae this.” Then his voice dropped lower, the edge of threat unmistakable. “But if that man, if Caithness mistreats ye in any way… I’ll bring hell tae his doorstep.”

A flicker of warmth stirred beneath her ribs, despite the circumstances. “I dinnae plan tae let him,” she said. And she meant it.

They clasped forearms, the old warrior’s grip grounding her for a fleeting moment. But then he stepped back, silent, his eyes locked on hers as if he could will her to remember everything about who she was even once she crossed into another man’s domain.

She turned again, and Constance was there—giving her a soft, almost sympathetic smile, despite the pain, evident in her eyes.

“Keep a blade with you,” Constance said, her voice rough with unshed emotion. “Always.”

Agnes gave a half-smile, though it faltered. “I will. And I’ll come back tae visit. One way or another.”

Constance pulled her into a tight embrace. Her arms were fierce around her, full of all the love they hadn’t had years to grow into. Agnes clung back just as fiercely, her cheek pressed to her sister’s shoulder.

She didn’t want to let go. But she had to.

The horses huffed. One pawed the dirt. A guard cleared his throat behind them, the signal subtle but clear.

It was time.

Agnes turned toward the carriage, drawing a breath that hurt her lungs. Her boots scuffed against the packed dirt. The damp wind pushed against her back, as though trying to usher her forward.

And then someone shouted.

“Lass—get back!”

The voice rang sharp through the courtyard. Agnes froze, her heart stuttering. She turned quickly, her shawl slipping down her shoulders.

Brodie Ainslei, one of the men who was responsible for her safety during this trip, stumbled out from the stables, one hand clutching his chest. His face had gone white—paler than snow, like all the blood had been stolen from beneath his skin.

“Brodie?” her father barked.

But the guard didn’t answer. His eyes—normally so alert—were wide and unseeing, his breath ragged. He swayed, took a step, then another, his movements unsteady, limbs jerking like a puppet cut loose from its strings.

And then he fell.

Straight to the ground, his body crumpling in the mud. Everything stopped. Sound, movement, thought. For one stretched moment, Agnes couldn’t breathe, but then everything snapped back into motion.

“Help him!” Agnes shouted.

Two guards rushed forward. Agnes’s body moved before her mind could catch up. She dropped to her knees beside Brodie, her skirts darkening with mud, her hands flying to his wrist.

Cold.

“Brodie—can ye hear me?” she asked, her voice barely holding together. “It’s Agnes. Look at me.”

His lips parted, trembling. A rasp of air escaped, barely audible.

“Dinnae… go…”

“What?” Her fingers curled tighter around his arm. “What did ye say?”

But his eyes rolled back and his body went slack.

Everything around her moved in fragments—blurred shapes, gasps, boots thudding against mud and stone. But Agnes knelt frozen in the middle of it, her hand still curled around Brodie’s wrist, cold and slack beneath her fingertips.

He was breathing—barely. Shallow, uneven gasps. But his lips had gone an alarming shade of blue, and something inside Agnes cracked at the sight.

Voices rang around her like muffled bells.

“Get the healer!”

“Gods, he just collapsed—I saw him, he just fell.”

“Move! Make room!”

Tav Graham, her father’s most lethal soldier, knelt beside her with a sharp grunt, his hand sliding beneath Brodie’s shoulders. He was tall, his skin a tapestry of ink save for his face, and his eyes… God, those eyes. The coldest, clearest blue she’d ever seen, like winter sky cut with steel.

“Lady Agnes, let go,” he said gruffly, though not unkindly. “We’ll carry him.”

She hesitated, her fingers tightening for a moment. But then she nodded and let go.

Mud clung to her skirts as she stumbled to her feet, numb. Her legs didn’t want to work properly, like they’d been carved from stone. She watched as Tav and another guard lifted Brodie’s limp form between them, and something flickered across Tav’s face… a shadow of concern too raw to hide.

The healer met them at the door to the cottage, her silver hair bound in a scarf, sleeves already rolled. “Bring him in,” she barked. “Lay him by the hearth. We need heat and water, and someone fetch me the willow bark and yarrow. Go!”

Agnes followed without thinking. The wind cut across her face, but she barely felt it. Her mind moved in tight, frantic circles. What had happened? What had Brodie meant when he said, Dinnae go? What had he seen?

The healer’s cottage smelled of dried herbs and old smoke. Tav laid Brodie on the cot while the healer moved with ruthless efficiency, checking his breath, peeling back an eyelid.

The sharp scent of herbs clung to Agnes’s hands as she leaned over Brodie’s cot, watching the tremor in his jaw settle into stillness. The healer, Mistress Gowan, pressed a cool cloth to the warrior’s brow with swift, practiced movements. Her mouth was a thin, pale line. Agnes mirrored her rhythm at his wrists, checking for the flutter of pulse beneath his damp skin, her fingers trembling.

“He’s been poisoned,” she said after a moment. “Nae fatal, but it’s nay ordinary illness. Something was slipped intae his food or drink. Maybe earlier this morning, maybe before that. There’s nay fever, nay sign of infection.”

Agnes’s stomach lurched. “Poisoned?”

Mistress Gowan gave her a brief, sharp nod. “Aye. And if one’s been poisoned, I’ll wager he’s nae the only one.”

Her voice rang with certainty, but the horror of it moved slowly through Agnes, as if her mind refused to accept it.

“Check the others,” the healer told Tav. “The ones who were tae escort the lady. If any others show signs, we need tae treat them now.”

Tav was already moving, shouting orders before he was even out the door.

Agnes stayed.

She pressed the cool cloth to Brodie’s forehead, ignoring the trembling in her fingers. Her body worked on instinct, as her thoughts circled back to the courtyard, to the moment his body had crumpled like an empty sack.

Why now?

Why him?

She had known Brodie for a long time and now he lay pale and still while the fire crackled low beside them.

The healer moved between them, murmuring something Agnes didn’t catch. A second later, the door slammed open.

Tav returned with two more guards in tow. One of them was already vomiting into the dirt just beyond the threshold, the other pale and sweating.

“Bloody hell,” the healer muttered. “Bring them in. Now.”

Agnes backed away, heart pounding, her breath catching as the second and third guards were laid on mats. The healer set to work immediately, directing the apprentices and mixing tinctures, her brow furrowed with urgency.

Agnes turned and stepped outside. The cold wind hit her like a slap, but it helped. She had to think.

She found her father near the stables, his face tight with fury and worry. He turned the second he saw her.

“Three guards down,” he said, voice low. “Poison.”

She nodded mutely.

“We’ll find out who did this,” he said. “Whoever snuck intae me keep and fed me men poison will answer fer it.”

His voice was steel, but his eyes flicked over her too quickly. He was worried for her.

“I can stay,” she offered quietly. “Delay the journey. Just a day or two. Until they recover. Until we find out if the danger’s passed.”

It was near dusk when the new party assembled. Agnes stood at the head of the small group, her eyes on the gates that would take her away from everything she knew.

Tav stood beside his mount, checking the straps with deliberate focus. Even bent over his task, his tall, lean frame carried a dangerous grace, his wiry build hiding the kind of strength that pinned bandits with ease.

Agnes couldn’t help but trace with her eyes the scars peeking past his rolled sleeves, the tattoos coiling over his arms like promises of darker stories. His jaw was tight, his mouth a grim line beneath those piercing blue eyes, shadowed with guilt and exhaustion.

The late sunlight gilded his short brown hair, rough from the exhausting day, and she bit her lip. Killer’s looks, protector’s silence. He hadn’t spoken to her since the healer’s cottage. It shouldn’t have bothered her, but it did.

Three new guards had been pulled from the reserve ranks to replace the seasoned men she’d been promised.

Constance hugged her so tightly that Agnes thought her ribs might crack. “Dinnae let them change ye,” her sister whispered. “Nae even a little.”

Agnes nodded, throat too full to speak.

Her father approached last. No words this time. Just a look, as if trying to memorize the shape of her before she was lost to him.

He turned from her then, but not before raising his voice loud enough for the small party to hear.

“Tav Graham will ride as yer assigned guard.” His gaze flicked briefly to Tav.

Tav straightened from his saddle straps, a faint tick in his jaw the only reaction. He didn’t look at her.

Her heart beat louder than the clatter of hooves behind her.

“Aye, me laird,” Tav said, low.

Agnes swallowed against the hollow ache blooming in her chest. The idea of Tav as her personal guard sent a traitorous flutter through her, butterflies low in her belly, heat prickling up her neck. It was unsettling, this sudden awareness of her own pulse.

She climbed into the carriage without another word. The door shut with a finality that made her flinch.

Outside, the wind picked up.

She stared at Tav, willing herself not to feel a thing.

Chapter Two

 
The world outside the carriage blurred into shades of wet grey and brittle pine as the wheels creaked and jostled over uneven stone and mud. A low mist had settled over the moors by late evening, clinging to the edges of tree trunks like cobwebs reluctant to let go. Agnes watched it move through the open window of the carriage, her hand curled loosely around the frame as though tethering herself to something solid.

It had been a day and a half since they had left home. She was still felt suspended in the space between departure and destination, as if time itself had lost its footing. The hours bled together with little mercy. She was the kind of tired that seeped into the bones and made them ache from memory alone, not the kind that sleep cured.

A soft clop of hooves drew her attention. One of the guards, a younger man with fair lashes and a crooked smile, had been riding beside her window for the better part of the last hour. She had not spoken to him at first, but there was something disarming about his presence. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

He had offered her a piece of honeyed oatcake, clearly pilfered from their breakfast supply, and she’d accepted it with a smile that surprised even her at that moment.

“I dinnae think I’ve ever seen fog settle this thick in this part o’ the road,” he said lightly, adjusting his grip on the reins. “Must be the moors tryin’ tae warn us off.”

Agnes tilted her head slightly, lips curving. “Warn us off what?”

He grinned, boyish and easy. “Whatever it is that waits on the road, me lady.”

She laughed genuinely this time. The sound surprised her again, lifting from her chest like a leaf caught on the wind. “Och, ye sound like me old nursemaid. She used tae say moors like this were cursed.”

“Perhaps they are.”

“Perhaps we are,” she countered with a laugh, before she could stop herself.

The guard’s expression faltered, but only for a breath. “Well then, we’ll be cursed together, aye?”

The words settled something restless inside her. She did not know his name, but she knew kindness when she heard it, and there had been precious little of that in the last months. Perhaps even years.

“Guard yer tongue.”

The voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip.

Agnes turned, heart skipping as Tav rode up beside them on his, his dark cloak catching in the wind like a shadow with a mind of its own. Agnes turned, her heart stumbling as Tav rode up beside them, his steed’s powerful strides eating up the distance. His dark cloak snapped behind him like a living shadow, the wind carving its shape against the broad planes of his shoulders. Gods, he was a vision—all controlled strength and lethal grace.

His jaw was clenched tight, the muscle flickering with restrained fury, but his eyes were what stole her breath, storm-dark and locked onto the young guard with a focus that could’ve cut steel. A shiver raced down her spine.

“Ye’ll ride ahead, from now on,” Tav said, voice quiet but sharp enough to bleed. “Dinnae let me hear ye speak tae her again.”

The young guard hesitated, clearly stunned. His eyes darted to Agnes and back to Tav.

Who daes he think he is?

“Now.”

The boy urged his horse forward with a muttered apology, his smile gone. Agnes watched him disappear into the mist ahead, a bitter taste blooming on her tongue, as a pang of shame pierced her chest.

“That was entirely unnecessary,” she said, turning her eyes sharply toward Tav. “He was simply being kind tae me. Nay one has spoken tae me fer the past two days.”

Tav did not meet her gaze. “It isnae his place tae be kind tae ye.”

Her temper sparked. “And whose place is it, then? Yers? Because if so, ye’ve a strange way o’ showing it.”

Tav’s expression did not flicker. He simply strode forward, his hands tightening on the horse’s reins. The movement caused the serpent tattoo coiled across his right hand to flex like a living creature.

“It’s me duty tae keep the guards in line. Tae remind them o’ their rank. And yers.”

She leaned out the window farther, brows drawn tight. “Ye shamed him. And fer what? Bein’ nice tae me?”

“He forgot himself. I reminded him.”

“Ye humiliated him.”

He finally met her eyes then, and the electric intensity there made her breath catch.

“I protected ye.”

The silence between them stretched until it frayed.

Agnes sat back, her heart pounding for reasons she couldn’t untangle. She wanted to tell him he was wrong. That she had survived worse than a stranger’s kindness. That he didn’t know her.

But the words died in her throat when she caught the way the pale light gilded his profile. The sharp angle of his jaw shadowed with stubble, the stubborn set of his mouth that softened just slightly when he thought no one was looking, took her breath away.

She didn’t see the arrow until it struck.

It embedded itself with a vicious thwack into the side of the carriage, just inches from where her head had been moments before. Splinters exploded into the air like shrapnel, and the horses whinnied loud—unearthly sounds that cut straight through the marrow of her bones.

A second arrow flew. Then a third. Screams erupted, soldiers barking orders, steel being drawn. The carriage rocked violently as the horses reared, panicked and bucking.

“AMBUSH!” Tav’s voice thundered above the chaos, sharp and commanding.

Agnes froze.

A cold clarity spread through her paralyzing her brain but sharpening her senses.

She ducked instinctively, her fingers gripping the edge of the bench as the carriage tilted with the motion of the frenzied horses. Through the narrow slats of the window, she caught sight of shadows moving in the fog, blades glinting, bodies lunging.

Tav was off his horse in an instant, sword drawn, barking commands to the guards with terrifying efficiency.

“Protect Lady Kerr!” he shouted. “She is our priority!”

Two guards flanked the carriage, forming a line with their bodies and shields.

Agnes’s hands trembled, but she didn’t cry out. Her heart was hammering, her breaths ragged—but she did not scream. She would not scream.

The door flew open. Tav’s face was wild, his dark hair damp with sweat and mist, his tunic streaked with mud.

“Hide!” he commanded. “Under the bench—now.”

“I—” she began.

“Nay arguments. Now!”

There was something in his voice that she had never heard before, powerful and in control, despite the chaos erupting around him.

She dropped to the floor of the carriage, skirts bunching beneath her knees, and crawled beneath the wooden bench as more arrows thudded into the carriage walls.

“I’ll come back fer ye. Stay down. Stay silent.”

Then he was gone.

Darkness folded over her like a shroud. The underside of the bench pressed against her back, and the floor vibrated with the force of bodies clashing outside.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.

This is nae happening. This is nae happening.

But it was. And she knew it.

She’d been raised on stories of battle. She knew what an ambush was, and what it meant to be targeted.

The world had narrowed to the dark space beneath the bench, the splintered wood pressing against her back, the metallic taste of fear coating her tongue. Every crash against the carriage, every shout from outside, sent fresh tremors through her body.

A thought circled her mind like a vulture. If she died there, what would be of them? Her father, already worn thin from years of struggle. Constance, who’d sacrificed so much already. The entire clan vulnerable, exposed.

No money meant no mercenaries. No armies meant no protection. Her death wouldn’t just be an ending. It would be a noose around every throat she loved.

A scream outside yanked her back into the present. Her whole body tensed.

One of their guards.

Agnes squeezed her eyes shut, but then forced them open again, daring to peek through the carriage window.

Chaos. Steel flashing, Tav at the center of it all, moving like a storm given flesh. He pivoted, his sword arcing in a lethal silver streak. A bandit fell, throat gaping. Blood sprayed the ground, bright as poppies. Gods, he was terrifying. Beautiful. A man who killed like it was breathing.

If Tav fell, she’d be next. Her father had always kept the man at arm’s length from her, assigning him border patrols and distant missions. Nae fit company fer a laird’s daughter, he’d grumble. Now she understood why. Tav Graham was a walking weapon and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him.

Rough hands grabbed the edge of the carriage, then the door. Agnes held her breath.

“Someone’s in here.”

Panic sliced through her body like a knife.

The door burst open again. She bit back a sob, curling tighter beneath the bench. It was sudden, jarring. A man’s weathered, cruel face appeared in the narrow opening.

“There ye are,” he rasped.

A branch caught her arm, tearing through the fabric of her sleeve and scratching down to the skin. She didn’t stop. The forest was thick, but not thick enough. Her boots slipped in the mud, her legs shaking from the uneven ground, and the moment she stumbled—just a single misstep—she knew it was over.

A hand closed around her waist like an iron band, and she screamed as she was yanked backwards.

She kicked, thrashed, threw her head back with all the strength she had left. “Let go o’ me!”

A cry broke from her lips, torn and raw. The thick arm snared her waist tighter, hoisting her from the ground as though she were weightless. Her legs kicked, frantic, but the man’s grip was firm.

“Let me go!” she shrieked, clawing at his gloved hands, her nails scratching uselessly against the rough leather. Her body twisted, desperate, feral with fear.

“Stop yer struggling,” the man growled in a low voice, reeking of drink and sweat. He threw her to the ground. The air left her lungs in a violent gasp as her back hit the sodden earth. Her vision blurred for a moment, stars bursting across the dark canopy above.

Before she could scramble away, he was on her again. Rope bit into her wrists, yanked cruelly behind her back. Her ankles were bound next, tight enough to make her cry out.

Agnes screamed again, hoarse and hopeless. It echoed through the trees, a pitiful sound swallowed by the woods.

Panic swelled in her chest, making her throat close. She could barely breathe, her body stiffening under the weight of helplessness. Her mind grasped at anything, anyone—Tav. She wanted Tav.

She blinked hard, tears slipping down her temples into her hair.

Nay. I cannae die like this. Nae here, nae like some discarded thing in the woods.

The man above her grinned, cruel and triumphant.

But then came a sound that split through the trees like a crack of thunder.

A horse.

The ground seemed to tremble with its approach, and then came a deep, commanding shout.

“Get away from her!”

Tav. He is alive.

Relief flooded her, staggering in its force. She sobbed his name even as her bound hands scraped at the dirt in a futile attempt to sit up.

The soldier turned just as Tav’s horse came into view, storming through the brush like some beast of vengeance. Tav was already leaping from the saddle, sword drawn, fury etched in every line of his face.

The man holding her barely had time to react. Tav descended on him with the merciless precision of someone who had fought for survival far too many times. Steel clashed with steel as another two men charged from behind the trees, surrounding Tav.

Agnes could do nothing but lie there, the cold seeping through her clothes into her bones, watching with wide eyes as he fought. She had never seen a man so fierce.

Blood sprayed across the undergrowth. Tav took a blow to the side—she saw it, saw the sharp recoil of his body, the dark stain blooming across his tunic. But he didn’t fall.

He roared as he turned, driving his blade through one attacker’s stomach. The man gasped and fell with a gurgle. A body hitting the ground.

Tav stood there, chest heaving, sword trembling slightly in his grip. Blood ran from the gash across his side, soaking into the leather of his armor.

“Agnes,” he rasped.

She didn’t respond at first. She couldn’t. Her throat refused to work. Her limbs felt far away.

He stumbled toward her, dropping to his knees in the mud.

“Ye’re safe now,” he said, but his voice was hollow, as though he didn’t quite believe it himself.

He reached for the ropes and began untying her, his fingers slick with blood. She flinched when his hand brushed hers, but then the warmth of his palm settled against her wrist, firm and reassuring.

“I’ve got ye,” he said again, more quietly this time.

When the ropes finally fell away, she moved slowly, her body aching and trembling. Tav helped her sit up, then gathered her close, arms circling her in a protective embrace.

Agnes shuddered against him, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. The scent of him was a balm, anchoring her to the present.

“I thought… I thought I was going tae die,” she whispered.

His hand cradled the back of her head.

“Nae while I still draw breath,” he said, voice rough with pain and something else. Something darker.

She pulled back then, eyes wide as she registered the blood on his side.

“Ye’re hurt.”

“It’s naething,” he lied.

“It’s nae naething.”

He looked at her, really looked, and something in his expression shifted.

“We have tae go,” he said. “Now.”

“The others——”

His jaw clenched. That was answer enough. She said nothing more, and he didn’t either. He helped her up, his breath hitching as he did. She wanted to protest, to insist he rest, but there was no time.

With effort, he lifted her onto his horse. His palms burned through her skirts as if the fabric didn’t exist. Agnes sucked in a breath, too aware of how his fingers spanned nearly the whole width of her waist, how easily he’d handled her weight like she was nothing, even when wounded.

Then he was climbing up behind her, his chest pressing against her back. God. She’d never been this close to him before. She was close enough to feel the heat of his body, to catch the scent of leather and steel beneath. His hands settled around her waist again, this time possessive, anchoring her against him as if he expected her to bolt. Her traitorous body stayed utterly still, every nerve alight where he touched her.

Then they were off, the horse thundering through the trees, away from the carnage.

Agnes couldn’t bring herself to look back.

Her hands trembled in her lap, still smeared with dirt and blood. Every bump in the road sent a jolt through Tav’s body, and she felt it—the way he gritted his teeth, the wet heat of his blood against her back.

She closed her eyes, biting back the sob in her throat.

They were alone now.

And though she had never been more afraid, she had also never been more certain:

Everything had changed.

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Laughter and music echoed around the great hall of MacDuff Castle, the ball for Miss Sorcha MacDuff, the daughter of Laird MacDuff already in full swing. The great hall was swirling with color, men dressed in their clans’ colors, women dressed in elegant dresses, all of them prepared to make an impression upon the belle of the ball. It was still early in the evening, but the guests had all gathered, feasting and dancing and making merry, eager to have a moment alone with the young woman.

Not Willelm, though; Willelm was there for an entirely different reason.

The MacDuffs were responsible for the destruction of his clan. All those years of war, all those years of strife because Laird MacDuff wanted to control the borderlands between the two clans, and to do so, he had sent his men to burn and pillage, taking the people’s homes and sometimes even their lives.

Willelm had had enough. No matter how much he had tried to negotiate with the man, no matter how many times he had tried to reach out to him, he had never gotten a response. His forces were depleted, his resources were depleted, and his entire clan was suffering because of it, those who had survived the war now threatened with famine and illness. Soon, there would be nothing left of them. They would all be wiped off the face of the Earth, and in the end, they would be wiped from history too, lost in the depths of time.

So Willelm had to do something radical to get the man’s attention; something of which he wasn’t proud, but something that needed to be done nevertheless.

He would kidnap his daughter and use her for negotiations. That was the only way the laird would listen to him, and though it pained him to have to stoop so low, he would do anything for his clan.

Willelm watched the young woman as she strolled around the room, politely speaking to everyone who stopped her. She seemed far from happy to be there, though, even if she hid it well. Willelm could see it in the strain around her eyes and in her smile, the way her face fell whenever she thought no one was looking. Had no one else noticed but him? Everyone seemed more than happy to be around her, showering her in compliments and well-wishes, and nothing betrayed whether they noticed something was wrong.

Was it too stressful for her, he wondered? Did she feel the pressure of expectations as they mounted upon her shoulders?

She will never ken what it truly means tae struggle. She will never ken true strife.

The only way for her to know was if her family fell into the same kind of fate as his. But even then, she was the laird’s precious and beloved daughter, so she would be protected from the worst of it, from the death and the war and the pain.

Then again, Willelm didn’t wish her such a fate—he didn’t wish it on anyone, not even his biggest enemy.

The MacDuff girl was beautiful, even Willelm could admit that, although he held a certain dislike for her due to her lineage. Her father was responsible for all of his pain, for the pain of his people, and so disliking his daughter and everyone else in that room was a very easy task. But even so, as he watched her, Willelm couldn’t help but take in her brilliant green eyes, the delicate features of her face, the soft bow of her rosy lips. Her hair, golden under the light of the candles, seemed to have a glow of its own, like a halo around her head.

Just like everyone else, Willelm needed a moment alone with her, but not because he wished to speak to her and try to charm her. He just needed to get her away from all those people, somewhere private from where he could grab her and take her back to the estate where he and his brother, Rory, had set up their operations as they tried to fight back against the MacDuffs when they deemed their clan’s castle in Lochindorb was unsuitable, both because of its state and because it was their known home. Getting her alone, though, was proving to be a difficult task. With all those people there clamoring for her attention, he hadn’t had the chance and he didn’t know how he ever would.

He began to stroll around the room seemingly aimlessly, though his gaze never left the girl. It was a cavernous room, big enough to host all those clansmen and women, the tables, a large area upon which they danced, and so Willelm had a large area to exploit. He was using the room like a battlefield—avoiding certain places where people who knew him gathered, approaching from the sides, using every inch of space afforded to him. It was the only way to keep himself from appearing too suspicious, though he doubted anyone paid him much mind. They were all too busy looking for or talking to the MacDuff girl, and no one cared much about him.

He approached her slowly, making sure to exchange a few pleasantries with those around him—people who wanted to know who he was, a few who already did. Willelm wasn’t used to making public appearances like this. Though it was part of the life of a laird, his life as the leader of his clan was very different, demanding fighting and blood instead of dances and wine. It was better that way, he reasoned; it was better if very few people knew who he was, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Willelm found the MacDuff girl by a table, pouring herself some wine. He watched her for a few moments, taking in her long, blonde hair that glittered like gold under the light of the candelabras, the delicate lines of her arms as she poured the wine, the way her deep red dress clung to her waist and highlighted her curves. In that room, she shone like a precious stone, and Willelm could see why everyone was so desperate for even a moment of her time. It wasn’t just that this was her ball, one thrown in her honor—it was her inherent magnetism, something about her that drew everyone to her like moths to a flame.

Taking the opportunity to talk to her, he presented his cup to her with a small smile, only for her to give him a puzzled look.

“Would ye be so kind as tae serve me some, as well?” he asked. “Or at least hand me the pitcher?”

The corner of her mouth ticking up for a brief moment, Sorcha poured some wine into Willelm’s cup and he held it up in a toast. “May ye find whatever it is ye’re searchin’ here.”

A husband, Willelm knew. That was the only reason anyone threw their daughter such balls—that or coming of age events, and this was not the latter.

“Och, somehow I doubt I will,” Sorcha said, much to Willelm’s surprise. A short, sudden laugh was torn out of him. It wasn’t the kind of answer he had expected from a girl who seemed so polite and so proper, and she seemed to realize that a little belatedly, her cheeks heating under the light of the chandeliers. “Forgive me, I didnae mean tae insult ye.”

“Nae insult received,” he assured her. Out of everyone in that room, he was perhaps the worst match possible for her. “Perhaps ye could try yer luck at the other side of the room.”

As he spoke, Willelm pointed at a group of young men who were paying more attention to each other than they did to Sorcha, laughing and joking and looking at the other young women in the room. Sorcha followed his gaze and she chuckled, shaking her head.

“I’m sure they would all be great husbands, but I’m afraid I simply wouldnae be a good wife tae them,” she said.

“Och?” Willelm asked, suddenly intrigued. “An’ why is that?”

Sorcha gave him a small shrug. “Because I would feel inclined tae slap them every few minutes.”

Despite himself, Willelm barked out another laugh, one that echoed around the room and drew the attention of a few people around him. He quickly swallowed back the rest of it, clearing his throat and hoping that very few had noticed.

The more invisible he was in that room, the better. He had managed to stay invisible all this time; he would not draw attention on him now.

Next to him, Sorcha smiled, a teasing, amused thing, and for a moment, Willelm had the wild thought that if their circumstances were different, he would be fighting for her hand.

But she was the daughter of his enemy and he wasn’t there to find a wife; he was there to find leverage.

“That would, indeed, make ye a terrible wife,” he agreed. “But a clever woman. Sometimes violence is necessary.”

“Dae ye truly think that?” Sorcha asked him, her brows knitting together as she turned her gaze to him.

It sounded like an honest question and Willelm found himself suddenly and oddly embarrassed to be nodding in agreement. “Aye… o’ course I dae.”

In response, Sorcha only hummed thoughtfully, as if she was considering his answer. In the end, though, she only gave him another smile, this time a polite one that he felt compelled to return, if only to keep up appearances.

“Well, I prefer peace meself,” she told him as she began to wander off, leaving him behind by that table. “Enjoy yer night.”

With that, she was gone, disappearing into the crowd, and Willelm followed her with his gaze until he could no longer spot her. She was gone in the sea of people, and they closed in around her, obscuring his view of her. He would find her again soon enough, he knew; it was his job, keeping an eye on her and knowing where she was at all times.

Outside the castle, his men waited for his signal. Once he gave it, they would come with him and help him take Sorcha back to the estate, where he would keep her until her father was ready to cooperate. It was a shame, he thought, that such a seemingly lovely young woman was Laird MacDuff’s daughter, but despite their brief, yet pleasant, interaction, he was certain she was otherwise insufferable.

She had to be; she was related to a monster.

Willelm dragged his gaze to the man himself, who was sitting with his wife at the head table, enjoying the night. He was dressed in his clan colors, wearing them proudly, and Willelm felt a wave of revulsion crash over him, bile rising to the back of his throat and leaving a bad taste in his mouth. How could Laird MacDuff sit there, so joyous and seemingly innocent, when every day he murdered innocent people? How could he throw such lavish balls, invite all those nobles to his home, and pretend to be the perfect host when he gave the orders for Willelm’s lands to be burned?

He couldn’t understand it, but he didn’t need to. All he needed to do was put an end to it, once and for good.

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Chapter One

MacDuff Estate, 1341

As a large, smooth hand was thrust right into her face, Sorcha MacDuff once again contemplated the necessity of a husband in a young woman’s life. It only took her a few seconds to come to the conclusion that, though necessary, a man could surely only be a burden.

“I would be honored tae have this dance, Miss MacDuff,” the man to whom the hand belonged to said. Sorcha followed the length of his arm with her gaze, looking up, up, until she finally got a good glance at his face under the incandescent glow of the candles.

Ach! He could be me faither!

The man standing before her was tall and plump, with ruddy cheeks and graying hair—surely, over thirty years her senior. Sorcha managed a polite smile, the same one she had borne all night as she tried to maneuver her way around the great hall of MacDuff’s Castle and the guests who had gathered there for the ball, and swiftly evaded the hand offered to her as she took a step backwards.

Who is he? I should ken his name.

Racking her brain for this man’s identity, Sorcha continued to slowly back away from him, but the man eagerly followed. Behind her, people parted to allow her to pass, but then her back hit something large and hard.

A pillar, one of those towering structures of dark stone that held the high ceiling; she had backed herself into a corner.

“Fergive me…” she said, and then, as though through divine intervention, remembered the man’s name, “Sir Cameron! I’m afraid I must decline. I… ach… I’m lookin’ fer—”

Sorcha let her gaze roam around the great hall, trying to find an excuse to get away from Sir Cameron’s clutches. It was far from an easy task. Not only had she had one cup of wine too many to cope with the constant bombardment of attention, but the large, laughing crowd disoriented her, the music swelled over her in waves, and the heat of the room felt suddenly suffocating.

All of that effort, all the decorations and the roasted meats and the flowing wine were wasted on her, her only desire being to hide away from the crowd.

At twenty years of age, she was ready to find a suitable match, and her parents, eager and helpful as always, had thrown the ball for her. At first, it had seemed like an exciting opportunity to find her future husband, someone she could one day love and wed, and with whom she could have a big family. But now that she had seen her options—one of whom was the shameless Sir Cameron, apparently—fleeing into the woods and starting a new life seemed more appealing.

“Me, I hope.”

Sorcha’s head whipped to the side at the sound of the rough, baritone voice right next to her. Though the voice was only vaguely familiar to her, the face, with the high, regal forehead, the slightly crooked nose, and the thin lips under a short, dark beard was one she immediately recognized.

“Laird MacLaren,” she said in greeting, attempting an awkward curtsy with her back against the pillar. “Actually—”

“Sir Cameron, may I?” Laird MacLaren asked, his gray eyes pinning the other man with a demanding gaze. For a moment, it seemed to Sorcha that this would end in an argument, but then Sir Cameron only bowed and retreated, giving one last smile to Sorcha—one she did her best to return.

It was always better to keep relations amicable, her mother said, despite personal preference.

“I’m terribly sorry, Laird MacLaren, but I’m lookin’ fer me braither,” Sorcha said, knowing that if there was anyone who could help her out of this, it would be Ruaridh. “Have ye seen him?”

“I havenae,” Laird MacLaren said distractedly, but when Sorcha tried to move away from the pillar, his hand reached out, fingers wrapping delicately around her wrist to stop her. “Perhaps we can look fer him together after this dance?”

Sorcha let out an awkward chuckle, her gaze flitting about the room over Laird MacLaren’s shoulders. “I’d like that very much, but I’m afraid I must find him right now.”

“I insist,” said Laird MacLaren, his hand tightening around her wrist. His tone had a sharp edge, one that she didn’t quite appreciate. When she tried to yank her arm out of his grip, though, Laird MacLaren refused to let go.

“An’ I insist that ye unhand me,” she said, her own tone turning icy. “As I said, I must speak tae Ruaridh.”

“I’m sure he can wait,” Laird MacLaren said as he took a step closer to Sorcha.

Ach, why willnae he leave me alone? This is hardly the behavior o’ a gentleman!

Laird Rhys MacLaren was nothing if not insistent, it seemed, though insistent was perhaps too light a word for him. His grip on Sorcha’s forearm was just forceful enough to keep her where she was, but gentle enough to not hurt her. The way he looked at her, though, revealed the cracks on his mask; irritation bled through them, those gray eyes piercing right through her.

Why cannae I find one man who is gentle an’ respectful in this room?

Everyone felt entitled to her time and her attention. On the one hand, she should have expected it. Every bachelor in the room had been invited specifically for her to choose the best. On the other hand, none of them appeared to be the kind of man she desired.

Mustering all of her tenacity, Sorcha glared at Laird MacLaren as she said, “Me braither is already lookin’ fer me. I think it would be wiser fer me tae find him afore he finds me.”

It was a subtle threat, but one that worked beautifully. Laird MacLaren let go of her and gave her a smile that was all teeth,glinting under the candlelight.

“So be it,” he said. “Perhaps later.”

“Perhaps.”

It was all Sorcha said before she stomped off, pushing her way through the crowd. She needed some fresh air, to get out of the great hall and have a few moments to herself, without anyone bothering her.

Even as she tried to make her way to the courtyard, though, people were still trying to stop her—men who wanted a dance, girls who wanted a moment of her time. Sorcha slipped past them all, trying her best to be as polite and as diplomatic as she could while rushing to avoid them, and by the time she finally burst through the front doors and out into the courtyard, her ears were buzzing and her head felt heavy on her neck.

The fresh air seemed to help, if only a little. She took one breath after the other, but the noise from the great hall spilled out there, too, through the windows.

“What are ye daein’ out here?”

Sorcha jumped at the sudden presence next to her, and for a panicked moment, she thought that she had already been discovered.

“Ach, ye scared me,” she told Ruaridh. “I thought ye were another one o’ me suitors.”

“Would that be so bad?” Ruaridh asked as he leaned against the nearest wall, his figure outlined by the faint moonlight. Even leaning to the side like that, he towered over Sorcha. His dark hair seemed to blend right into the wall behind him, but his green eyes glinted in the light of a nearby torch.

That was the only feature they shared. With Sorcha’s blonde hair and slender build, they only vaguely resembled each other.

“I’m tired o’ them all,” Sorcha admitted with a long-suffering sigh. “Have ye seen the men in there?”

“Och aye,” Ruaridh said with a soft chuckle. “They’re nae tae yer likin’?”

Sorcha turned her gaze to her brother, her eyes narrowing. “Are ye jestin’?”

“Surely, one o’ them must be tae yer likin’,” Ruaridh said, but Sorcha only shook her head. It made sense, logically, that one of them at least would be to her liking. If there was one such man in that room, though, she had not yet found him.

Perhaps I am the one with the problem.

“Come,” said Ruaridh after a long stretch of silence. Sorcha glanced at him with a frown, but he only nodded his head away from the keep and began to walk away, not waiting to see if Sorcha would follow. Rushing after him, Sorcha caught up after a few steps, but their destination didn’t become any clearer to her.

“Where are we goin’?”

“We’re goin’ tae the stables an’ ye’re goin’ tae yer spot tae have a moment tae breathe,” Ruaridh said, much to Sorcha’s surprise. “Dinnae take too long, though. I can only excuse yer absence fer so long.”

Sorcha’s spot, as Ruaridh had called it, was in the estate, a little farther into the woods—a clearing, small and verdant, where no one else went. It was a place just for her, a place where she went to retreat from the world.

But going there in the middle of the feast didn’t seem like such a good plan.

“What if people start lookin’ fer me?”

“I’ll tell them ye had tae… relieve yerself,” said Ruaridh with a shrug.

“Ye will dae nae such thing!” Sorcha said, slapping him on the arm. “That’s embarrassin’!”

“Alright, what dae ye wish fer me tae tell them, then?” Ruaridh asked.

“Literally anythin’ else,” said Sorcha just as the two of them reached the stables—a small, squat building of stone near the barracks. Inside, the horses were resting for the night and the stableboy was nowhere to be found. Ruaridh made quick work of Sorcha’s horse, though, saddling it and preparing it for the short trip as she watched, her arms crossed over her chest. “Ye willnae truly tell them that, will ye?”

Rolling her eyes at her, Ruaridh shook his head. “Nay. I’ll tell them I only just saw ye an’ that ye must be somewhere in the crowd.”

That sounded much better to Sorcha and she let her arms drop before she rushed to give her brother a hug. “Thank ye,” she said. “Ye’re savin’ me from the worst fate.”

“Och aye, I’m sure it’s a terrible fate tae have so many suitors,” he teased, but Sorcha figured a man like him could never understand the kind of decision she had to make. She was the one who would have to spend the rest of her life with the man she would choose—or should she fail to do so, the man her parents would choose for her. Ruaridh was free to do as he pleased; Sorcha was not.

With her horse ready, Ruaridh helped her climb onto the saddle and then she was gone, riding away from the chaos of the night with a torch in her hand. She didn’t stray too far from the keep. It was late and the wind whipped her face as she rode, seeping through her yellow kirtle and her overgown. In her hurry, she had neglected to pick up a cloak and now she regretted it dearly as the chill reached her bones, but it was too late for her to turn back. At the clearing, where the trees would block the wind, she would be warmer.

With that thought in mind, Sorcha pushed forward, the trees blurring into shadows as she rode through the forest. It was not long before she reached her usual spot; her beloved clearing, waiting there for her as it always did.

Jumping off the saddle, Sorcha led her horse to a patch of grass where it could graze as she relaxed, and then she slid down against the trunk of a large oak, sitting on the soft earth under its canopy. It was peaceful there; there was no one to bother her, no one to ask for another dance, no one to trap her against a pillar.

“Good evenin’.”

For yet another time that night, Sorcha jumped right out of her skin, a curse escaping her at the sound of the strange voice. Unlike the other two times, when she turned to look at the intruder, she didn’t recognize him and her heart leapt to her throat just as she leapt to her feet. The man was cloaked in shadow, and only when he stepped forward and was illuminated by the orange glow of the torch did Sorcha realize that he seemed vaguely familiar.

Blonde hair, green eyes… I must have seen him somewhere.

The man had been at the ball, they had exchanged a few words. He was dressed in fine clothes of wool and silk. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a patrician profile that would have made him the kind of man her parents would easily choose for her.

The kind o’ man I’d choose too.

There was something about him, though; something she couldn’t quite name that weighed heavily on her regardless.

“Good evenin’,” she said, though she kept her distance from him. “If ye have followed me here tae speak tae me, then I would much rather be left alone.”

What other reason did the man have to be there? This was a place just for her, a place where no one else had any reason to be. Still, the man laughed as if in disbelief, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Follow ye?” he asked. “Ye’re the one who followed me. I’ve been here fer a while.”

That didn’t sound right to Sorcha at all. Not only had she not followed the man there, but she was also certain he couldn’t have been there for hours, not if she had seen him at the feast. Frowning, she took a few more steps back on instinct, her hand brushing against the rough bark of the tree.

“I dinnae think I ken yer name,” she said, in an attempt to find out who the man was.

“I dinnae think ye ken it either,” the man said, which only deepened her frown. Surely, he had understood she was asking for it, but he refused to give it to her, and now he only grinned at her as she looked at him in confusion.

“Well, can I ken what it is?” Sorcha asked, but the man shook his head.

“Why would I tell me name tae the lass who followed me here?”

Sorcha couldn’t tell if the man was joking or not. Every single man she had spoken to that night had been strange, though, in his attempt to charm her, and perhaps this was no different. Maybe despite his good looks, he didn’t know how to speak to women.

How can he be so handsome yet so… strange?

“Well, I’m sure ye ken me name,” Sorcha pointed out. Everyone at the feast knew who she was, of course. Everyone had gone there to see her. “So I think it is only right that ye tell me yers.”

“Ye can call me whatever ye please,” said the man with a small shrug.

“Then I shall call ye peculiar,” Sorcha said, unable to stop herself from delivering a spunky response. For all she cared, the man was asking for it. “Perhaps even rude.”

The man’s laugh filled the small clearing, deep and resonant. “An odd choice, when ye could have called me anythin’ else ye wished. Dae ye truly think it so rude o’ me tae withhold me name?”

“O’ course!” said Sorcha, irritation flaring up inside her now. This man was teasing her, there was no doubt in her mind about that now, but she had had enough of people trying to get her attention in the most bizarre ways that night. If he truly wanted to get to know her, then he could try speaking to her and showing some interest in what she had to say. “First ye claim I followed ye here, when I clearly didnae, an’ now ye willnae even tell me who ye are. I ken ye followed me here, so why dinnae ye simply tell me what it is ye want from me?”

The man remained silent, only watching her with a lidded gaze that sent a shiver down her spine. From the very first moment she had seen him, something had seemed odd to her about him, and now it was only being confirmed again and again in her mind.

It didn’t really matter; she had had enough of men for one night, and even now that she had fled the feast, one of them had still managed to track her down. It would be better to head back to her chambers for a while, she thought. Then perhaps, she could get some moments of peace before having to return to the feast.

Never taking her eyes off the man, she said, “I should head back now. Everyone at the ball will start wonderin’ where I am.”

“I’m afraid I cannae let ye dae that.”

The man’s expression was entirely deadpan, entirely serious, and yet Sorcha found herself laughing, thinking that he must be teasing her again. When he didn’t laugh, though, but rather stared at her with a blank expression, she realized he was not teasing her at all, and her laughter was cut short.

The man approached her slowly, his footsteps quiet in the soft earth. Sorcha’s stomach dropped, the blood rushing in her veins. She had to get out of there; she had to escape.

“It would be best if ye didnae run,” said the man.

Despite the warning, Sorcha did just that.

Chapter Two

Running to her horse, Sorcha quickly jumped on. She wasted no time before galloping down the path, heading back towards the keep and thanking God that she had not strayed too far from it. But before long, she heard another set of hooves behind her, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that the man was already pursuing her.

Tugging on the reins, Sorcha urged her horse to go faster and faster, pushing it to its limits. Despite their combined best efforts, though, the man was gaining on her, getting closer and closer with every stomp of his horse’s feet. Still, Sorcha was confident she would have made it, if only it hadn’t been for the three men who jumped in front of her out of the shadows of the woods. They, too, were on horseback, and she doubted it was a coincidence that they were there. They all had to be working with the man pursuing her.

The three of them formed a wall in front of her that was impenetrable. Even if she had tried to ride past them, she would have collided with at least one of them, and that would only risk leaving her and her horse injured. Besides, her horse reared, too spooked to continue down its path, and for a moment all Sorcha could do was hold onto the saddle and the reins with all her might as she tried to stay on top.

Frantically, she looked around her, desperate for a way to escape. She could see none. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and her breath came in short puffs, her mind buzzing with all the terrible scenarios she was coming up with. She didn’t know what those men wanted from her, but there were a few things that came to mind.

How will I get out o’ here?

The keep was still too far. Even if she had tried to scream for help, none of the guards would have heard her. Her only hope was to find a way through, but that, too, was extinguished when one of the men reached for her and tossed her right off the saddle.

Sorcha landed with a thud on the ground, her breath rushing out of her lungs. For one terrible, painful moment, she could neither breathe nor move, and she thought that would be the end of her. Soon, though, she regained her strength and pushed herself up to her feet, stumbling as she tried to escape once more. Perhaps it was better this way; perhaps without her horse, she could weave through them and run through the woods back to the keep.

That was precisely what she did. Instead of following the path, she dashed into the thick forest, hoping the trees were thick enough for the riders not to follow. Every time she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the three of them still there, watching, and her heart soared with the hope that she could truly make it back in one piece. All she needed was to push herself a little longer, even if her lungs burned and her legs ached from the effort.

But the next time she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the man from the clearing pursuing her once more, this time on foot. He was fast; much faster than her, his feet covering the same distance in half the time it took her. Sorcha couldn’t help but cry out in fear as the man gained on her once more, before finally grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into a complete halt.

Sorcha screamed and thrashed in the man’s grip, kicking her legs out as she tried to get him to let go of her. Despite her slender frame, she was a strong woman, but she was still at a disadvantage against such large men. Her captor’s arms were like a vice around her, so strong that his grip was cutting off her air. Each mad kick of her legs, each struggle only served to hurt her, the man’s hands leaving bruises behind on her skin.

“While I’m enjoyin’ chasin’ ye, I dinnae wish tae hurt ye,” the man said, yelling to be heard over her shouts. “It’s time fer ye tae stop an’ be a good lass.”

As he spoke, the man dragged Sorcha, still screaming and kicking, back to the group, where the other men waited with rope and rags. Upon spotting the items, Sorcha’s will to escape only strengthened, and she thrashed like a rabid animal in the man’s arms, throwing her weight around in a desperate attempt to force him to let go.

At his whistle, two of the other men grabbed her, effectively immobilizing her despite her best efforts. With one of them holding her arms and torso and the other holding her legs, there was nothing she could do but scream for help—but even that stopped when her first captor shoved a rag in her mouth, effectively silencing her.

Her throat was hoarse. Bruises already bloomed over her skin, making every movement painful. As the man bound her hands behind her back and her ankles together, Sorcha’s strength evaporated, leaving behind only the husk of who she was.

She couldn’t fight anymore; even if she did, there was no point. There was one of her and four of them. No matter what she did, she could never escape their grasp.

As the man grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder, Sorcha huffed around the rag in her mouth as she was jostled. The man placed her precariously over his saddle before climbing on and adjusting her, so that she was leaning securely against his body, and as she was wriggled around and moved like a doll, Sorcha realized her hands and feet were only loosely bound—not loosely enough for her to run, but loosely enough to be gentle and leave no marks.

A considerate kidnapper… just what I needed.

“Time fer us tae return,” the man said as he began trotting down the path away from the keep. “They’ll be lookin’ fer her soon.”

Sorcha wanted to say that yes, indeed, someone would be looking for her, but she couldn’t utter a single word with that piece of cloth in her mouth. Still, she grumbled around it, trying to make herself heard, only for the man to ignore her completely as they rode through the dark forest.

One moment tumbled into the next, until Sorcha didn’t know where they were or even how much time had passed since they had left the estate. As they rushed through the darkness, the wind still whipped her cheeks and made her eyes water, but the man was a solid wall of warmth against her. Not only that, but he had made sure to wrap his cloak around them both, giving Sorcha another layer of clothing to protect her from the elements.

What kind of captor treated his victim like this? What kind of brigand made sure that the woman he had kidnapped was warm and comfortable?

But this man didn’t look like a brigand at all, and neither did those who were with him. He carried himself with grace, with the air of someone who had grown up much in the same way she had. Now that her panic had subsided, since the men didn’t seem interested in killing her and had refrained from touching her in any inappropriate ways, she couldn’t help but wonder who this man was and what he wanted to do with her.

He’s… handsome. Very much so.

It struck Sorcha as a strange thought to have in the middle of being kidnapped, but there was no denying the man’s allure. Even in the dim light of the moon, his features stood out to her, his attractiveness difficult to ignore. The fact that he had taken her from her home against her will, though, was more than enough to overshadow his good looks and instantly fill Sorcha with hatred for him.

There was one thing she knew for certain; he was no brigand, or at least not an ordinary one.

After what seemed—and must have been—hours of riding, a castle appeared in the short distance. It was nothing like Macduff’s Castle, though. Where their keep stood tall and gleaming in the sun, this one seemed decrepit, on the edge of collapse. Parts of the roof were missing. Stones from the walls had fallen off and were piled up near the structure around the corners. Even in the dark, the plants that surrounded it seemed neglected.

The man and his three companions came to a stop in the courtyard. Sorcha was unceremoniously pulled off the saddle, only for the man to slash off the rope around her ankles and drag her inside. Sorcha had no choice but to follow; she was pulled along like a puppet, her legs numb after the ride and her entire body aching from the exertion and the cold.

She hardly had any time to take in her surroundings. All she saw as the man guided her through the corridors were more dilapidated walls, some of them decorated with faded tapestries and portraits. The torches that illuminated their way were few and far in-between, casting large, looming shadows over the walls. By the time they stopped in front of a large, wooden door, Sorcha found herself glancing over her shoulder again and again, as if expecting a spirit to appear through the cracks in the wall.

The man didn’t knock before entering the room and pulling her inside. There was no one there save for one man, younger than the one who had captured her, but so similar in appearance that Sorcha could only guess they were closely related. The man was hunched over the desk, a single candle illuminating the stacks of paper in front of him as he worked, but when he heard them enter, he immediately looked up.

Sorcha refused to be intimidated by him, and so she stared right back, as defiantly as she could considering her circumstances. She didn’t know what these men wanted from her, but she knew that showing any sign of weakness would only worsen her position, and so she held her head high, refusing to cower.

“All good?” the man behind the desk asked, and at the other’s nod, he rounded the large piece of furniture to come stand closer. The entire room seemed to be furnished with expensive items that looked strange in this room and castle. Sorcha didn’t know what to make of the place.

“Nay trouble at all,” the man holding her said. “Well, she was some trouble, but we dealt with it.”

Sorcha turned to glare at the man for speaking about her like she wasn’t even there, though she supposed that was the least of her problems. When the other spoke, though, it took her a moment to focus on him instead.

“Miss MacDuff, me name’s Rory Comyn,” he said. “This is me braither, Laird Willelm Comyn. I can assure ye we mean ye nay harm, nay matter how it may seem tae ye now.”

Sorcha couldn’t help but roll her eyes at that, grumbling around the cloth once more, only for her words to be muffled. With a swift move, Willelm removed the gag from her mouth, and Sorcha drew in a sharp breath, glad to be rid of the thing.

“What was that?” Rory asked her.

“I said,” Sorcha began, rolling her shoulders back, though it hardly helped with the difference in height, “it doesnae seem like it.”

“That’s why he said it may nae seem like it, love,” Willelm said, and for a moment, Sorcha was so shocked at the pet name that she could do little other than stare at him in disbelief with her mouth open. Naturally, that only allowed Willelm to continue with his lies. “Nay harm will come tae ye if ye listen, we promise. Ye’re here because this is the only way tae force yer family tae negotiate with us an’ stop destroyin’ our lands.”

That was even more preposterous than the pet name. Sorcha couldn’t help the humorless laugh that escaped her as she shook her head, unable to believe her bad luck.

“Ye must have confused me with someone else,” she said. “Me family would never dae such a thing.”

“Miss Sorcha MacDuff,” Rory said. “We ken precisely who ye are an’ ye best believe we ken what yer family is daein’.”

When she heard her full name, Sorcha’s mouth snapped shut, her mind rushing through his words. Surely, her family couldn’t have done such a thing. Surely, those two men were mistaken.

“Me family would never destroy anyone’s lands an’ especially nae without a good reason,” she said.

But her words only prompted a laugh from Willelm, who shook his head in disbelief.

“What is so funny?” Sorcha asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, yer parents are clearly hidin’ plenty o’ things from ye,” Willelm said. “Our people are sufferin’ an’ they ken the truth. Yer family has been attackin’ us fer too long an’ we willnae stand fer it.”

“They wouldnae—”

“Aye, I heard ye the first time,” Willelm said, cutting her off. “Yer family would never dae this, sure. So, what would ye call burnin’ an’ pillagin’ another clan’s lands?”

Sorcha couldn’t believe her own ears. Her family was kind and fair. Her father was a good laird and man. Never before had she heard anyone complain about his decisions, and she was certain that these men were either wrong or that there was a good reason why her father was doing what he was doing.

“Well, what have ye done tae me clan?” she demanded. “I’m sure me faither has a very good reason tae attack ye, if what ye’re sayin’ is true.”

Rory parted his lips as if to speak, but it was Willelm who spoke first. “We dinnae wish tae hear any o’ yer reasons, as ye call them. All we’re interested in is showin’ yer family that their decisions have consequences.”

Consequences… they promised tae nae hurt me, but they very well could.

And alone as she was, in a strange place, with strange men, there would be no one there to help her.

“An’ how long dae ye expect me tae stay here?” Sorcha asked. Surely, they couldn’t keep her there forever, or even for as long as it would take to end this misunderstanding—because it had to be a misunderstanding. There was no way she would ever believe her father had done the terrible things they claimed. “When dae I get tae go home?”

“Go home?” Willelm asked, as if the mere notion amused him. “Ye’re nae goin’ home any time soon, lass. Ye’re ours now.”

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Two Months Before…

“I dinnae ken why I let ye talk me intae these bleedin’ things,” Lorne muttered. “Ye ken how much I hate things like this.”

Gavin laughed. “Think of this as a way tae broaden yer horizons.”

“Me horizons are broadened enough.”

“Yer horizons dinnae extend past the lands of our clan.”

“Tis far enough for me.”

His cousin sighed. “One of these days, when ye are Laird—if nae before—ye will need tae take a bride,” he said. “Where are ye goin’ tae meet a bride if ye dinnae look past our borders.”

“There plenty of suitable women within our clan.”

Gavin scoffed. “Perhaps ye’d like tae be matched with Isla?”

Lorne pulled a face. “Isla? She’s manlier than I am.”

“Well, tis nae sayin’ much really, but I think ye’re startin’ tae see me point.”

Laughing, Lorne punched Gavin in the shoulder. “Bleedin’ donkey.”

They dismounted in the yard of Castle Magillivray and took it in for a moment. Music and laughter drifted out of the open doorway of the keep. The party was already in full swing. A pair of stable boys appeared and took their horses from them, leading them away to be watered and fed. Lorne shifted on his feet, pulling his breeches down then tugging his black velvet doublet. He looked down at himself and frowned.

“I look like a fool,” he muttered.

“Aye. But any more so than any other day.”

Lorne grinned. “Dae ye take anythin’ seriously?”

“I try tae avoid it if I can.”

“Ye dae a good job of it.”

“Thank ye,” Gavin chirped. “I’m glad tae see me efforts dinnae go unnoticed.”

His cousin was dressed in blue and red velvet and looked every bit as foolish as Lorne felt. Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse though, it did. Gavin produced a pair of white masks and handed one over to him with a smile.

“Put this on,” he said.

“I’m nae puttin’ this on.”

“Tis a masked ball,” Gavin said. “Ye have tae.”

With a loud sigh, Lorne did as Gavin asked and tied the mask on. It covered the top half of his face, leaving nothing but his mouth exposed. If nothing else, at least nobody would be able to recognize him. That was the only positive Lorne could find in this. He did not know how he’d let his cousin talk him into this in the first place.

“Come,” Gavin said.

Feeling as if he was on a death march, Lorne walked alongside Gavin. They mounted the steps and through the front doors of the castle. They passed masked men and women, laughing and acting like children as they ran up and down the corridors. Following the sound of the music, they passed a group of women, young and comely with tight fitting velvet gowns. The women eyed them closely and approvingly as they passed.

“Ye see?” Gavin said. “Even ye should be able tae find a woman in a place like this. A comely women. Maybe even a woman who can put up with ye’re broodin’ self.”

Lorne huffed but said nothing. He was not looking for a woman of any kind. Marriage was not something he had given any thought to. Had no desire for. He knew that eventually, he would have to wed. It was inevitable. A Laird was expected to marry and produce an heir. But Lorne would cross that bridge whenever he came to it. He certainly didn’t expect he would find that bridge while he wore velvet and a mask.

Gavin turned to him and grinned. “In a place like this, with women as fine as these roaming the corridors, I’d reckon ye can find a woman even yer faither would approve of.”

Lorne scoffed. “I doubt it.”

His father did not approve of anything Lorne did. He had been chasing his father’s approval since he was a young boy, but nothing he did was ever good enough for the man. Lorne longed to see approval in his father’s face. Wanted nothing more than to see respect in his father’s eyes when he looked at him. But he never saw anything close to it.

Gavin stopped walking, forcing Lorne to stop short as well. He put his hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

“Yer faither wants thae best for ye. And he believes in ye,” Gavin said.

“He’s got a funny way of showin’ it.”

“Uncle Tiernan is tough. Hard. He rides ye only because he’s tryin’ tae get the best out of ye because he ken it’s in there,” Gavin said, tapping on Lorne’s chest. “Maybe ye dinnae find the woman of yer dreams here. Tis all right. But if nothin’ else, Cousin, then ye should have some fun tonight.”

“Fun,” Lorne muttered. “I couldnae tell ye what that is.”

The word was as foreign on his tongue as the concept was. His father did not approve of fun. He did not believe in being frivolous or acting like children. He would most definitely not approve of dancing and wearing velvet and masks. That was not his way. Which was why it was not Lorne’s way either, since he was trying so hard to cut himself into his father’s image. He thought—hoped—that if he was more like his father, the man would come to approve of him.

Gavin knew everything going through Lorne’s heart and mind right now and nodded solemnly. They had talked about it endlessly and an expression of compassion touched his features. But he swallowed it down and put that mischievous grin on his face.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Gavin said. “But tonight is nae for lamentin’ those things we dinnae have. Tonight is for drinkin’, dancin’, and behavin’ like a fool.”

“I’ll have tae take lessons from ye on that last point.”

Gavin laughed. “Then prepare tae study thae master.”

He let his cousin lead him to the castle’s great hall. They stepped through the doors and into an entirely different world. The hall was brightly lit and music echoed off the stone walls. A group of musicians sat off in a corner, playing a lively tune as throngs of people danced and laughed. The air around them was redolent with the aroma of a thousand different foods and household servants bustled around carrying trays bearing cups of wine as well as small finger foods.

Gavin stopped one of the servants and plucked a pair of cups off her tray then handed one of them to Lorne.

“Thank ye,” Lorne said.

“Tis only the beginnin’.”

He plucked a pair of roasted meat pastries off another passing tray and popped one into his mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he made a sound that bordered on the indecent.

“That was amazin’,” he said. “We need tae teach thae kitchen staff back home tae make those things.”

“I’ll be sure tae get the recipe,” Lorne muttered dryly.

“Come, cousin. Let us mingle.”

Lorne sighed and gave thought to running out, fetching his horse, and riding home. The only thing that kept him there was fearing what shame Gavin might bring down on their clan if he was left alone and unsupervised.

“Fine,” Lorne said. “Let’s go… mingle.”

“Ye need tae loosen up,” he said. “And just try tae pretend tae have some fun. If ye dae, who kens? Ye might have some by accident.”

They skirted the edge of the hall, ducking and dodging the people dancing and running about like children. Lorne offered a smile to those he passed, but it felt false on his face. He was trying. Pretending. But he wasn’t having any fun. His cousin on the other hand, laughed with everybody he met. He talked with everybody like they were old friends. People genuinely seemed to like Gavin. They gravitated toward him.

It was something Lorne had always envied about his cousin. That natural ability to connect with people. It was something he’d never been good at. He kept people at an arm’s distance. He didn’t open up to them the way Gavin could.

Gavin gasped and grabbed Lorne by the shoulder. He stood close but his eyes were elsewhere. Lorne tried to follow his cousin’s gaze but couldn’t see who or what he was looking at. He turned to Gavin.

“What in the bleedin’ hell has yer attention?” Lorne asked.

“Me future bride.”

He laughed. “Ye’re future bride, eh?”

“Aye. Small, auburn hair, fair, creamy skin,” he said. “She’s the most exquisite creature I’ve ever seen and I must go and speak with her.”

“Then go and speak with her.”

Gavin turned to a man standing next tae him. “Excuse me, good sir. The young woman with auburn hair in the green gown with thae white mask—she’s runnin’ about, dancin’, and has thae most captivatin’ smile. Ye wouldnae happen tae ken her name, would ye?”

The man chuckled. “Sounds like ye’re describin’ Beatrix Magillivray. Daughter of Laird Dunn Magillivray.”

“Beatrix Magillivray,” Gavin said with a note of wonder in his voice.

Lorne watched his cousin and saw that gleam in his eye he got when he was about to suggest they do something he knew would not end well. Gavin turned to him.

“Come, me cousin,” Gavin said. “We must go and meet me future bride.”

Against his better judgment, Lorne let Gavin lead him through the crowd, seeking out the auburn-haired beauty that had captured his attention. Lorne shook his head.

“Nothin’ good will come of this,” he said.

“Think positive, lad. Think positive.”

Lorne grimaced. He was positive nothing good would come of this. But he let Gavin lead him into the crowd anyway…

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