Six months before Morag’s journey to Armstrong lands
The great hall of Armstrong Castle had seen better days. Colin Armstrong stood at the head of the long oak table, his hands gripping the carved chair that had belonged to his father, and his grandfather before him. The men gathered around the table—his most trusted advisors, seasoned warriors who’d bled for Armstrong lands—stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“Ye cannae be serious,” Duncan MacLeod said finally, his grizzled voice cutting through the stunned silence. “The eastern marches? Me laird, that’s some of our best grazin’ land.”
“Was our best grazin’ land,” Colin corrected grimly. “Before raids burned half the pastures and drove off most of the cattle. Before Fraser’s men started pickin’ off our shepherds one by one.”
Niven Reid leaned forward, his weathered face creased with concern. “It’s still Armstrong land, me laird. Our land. Yer faither would turn in his grave—”
“Me faither,” Colin interrupted, his voice carrying the steel that had earned him his reputation, “is dead. And if we dinnae find a way tae stop Fraser, we’ll all join him soon enough.”
He moved to the massive hearth, where a fire struggled against the autumn chill. The flames seemed smaller somehow, weaker, like everything else in the castle these days. “Look around ye. Really look. Half our garrison is gone—dead, wounded, or fled tae clans that can still afford tae pay them. Our coffers are nearly empty. Our people are starvin’.”
“Which is exactly why we cannae afford tae give away our lands!” MacLeod slammed his fist on the table, making the pewter cups jump. “Ye’re talkin’ about handin’ over territory that’s been Armstrong fer three hundred years!”
“I’m talkin’ about survival,” Colin said quietly, turning back to face them. “And I’m talkin’ about the one alliance that could save us all.”
Young Jamie Armstrong, Colin’s cousin and heir, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The MacDuff lass, ye mean. But Colin, there are other ways—”
“Are there?” Colin’s dark eyes swept the table, challenging each man in turn. “Name them, Jamie. Tell me what other clan has the gold we need, the men we need, the strategic position we need tae finally crush Fraser once and for all.”
“The Campbells—” someone started.
“Have nay interest in border wars that dinnae benefit them directly,” Colin cut him off. “The MacDougalls are already stretched thin fightin’ their own battles. The MacLeods…” He shrugged. “Even if they were willin’, which they’re nae, they dinnae have the resources we need.”
Niven stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor. “So ye’d sell yerself tae MacDuff fer his gold? ”
The words hung in the air like a blade. Colin felt his jaw tighten, felt the familiar cold rage that had kept him alive through a dozen battles. But when he spoke, his voice remained controlled.
“I’d dae whatever it takes tae save this clan. Whatever it takes tae keep our people alive.” He moved back to the table, his hands flat on the scarred oak surface. “Alistair MacDuff has three things we desperately need: gold, men, and strategic control of the northern trade routes. His daughter is the key tae all three.”
“And what’s tae stop him from laughin’ in yer face?” MacLeod demanded. “Why would a man like MacDuff, with all his wealth and power, ally himself with a strugglin’ border clan?”
Colin smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Because I’m goin’ tae offer him somethin’ he wants more than gold. Somethin’ he needs.”
“Which is?”
Colin straightened, choosing to ignore the question for now.
“MacDuff has been tryin’ tae expand his influence south fer years. But Fraser controls the key mountain passes, the ancient roads that would give MacDuff access tae the Lowland markets. Fraser’s been bleedin’ MacDuff’s trade caravans fer months, demandin’ tribute fer safe passage.”
“So ye’d promise MacDuff what ye cannae deliver,” Niven said flatly. “Fraser’s still alive, last I checked. Still raidin’ our lands, still—”
“Still vulnerable,” Colin interrupted. “Fraser’s strength comes from his fortified position and his alliances. But those alliances are built on fear, nae loyalty. Remove Fraser, and his supporters will scatter like leaves in the wind.”
Jamie leaned forward, his young face creased with worry. “And if ye fail? If Fraser kills ye instead? What happens tae the clan then?”
“Then ye’ll lead them,” Colin said simply. “And ye’ll still have the MacDuff gold tae rebuild with.”
“What MacDuff gold?” MacLeod’s voice was sharp with skepticism. “Ye havenae even approached the man yet. Fer all ye ken, he’s already arranged a match for his daughter with someone who can actually afford her.”
Colin reached into his leather jerkin and pulled out a sealed letter, placing it carefully on the table. The MacDuff seal gleamed red in the firelight.
“I sent a preliminary offer three weeks ago,” he said quietly. “This is his response.”
Niven snatched up the letter, breaking the seal with rough fingers. His eyes moved quickly over the parchment, his expression growing alternating between relief and worry with each line. Finally, he looked up.
“He’s interested,” Niven said slowly. “But his terms…”
“Are steep,” Colin finished. “Aye. I ken.”
“How steep?” Jamie asked.
Colin began to pace, his movements controlled but restless. “Full dowry of two thousand gold pieces, tae be delivered in two installments. Military support—fifty men for our conflict with Fraser. Exclusive tradin’ rights through MacDuff territories.” He paused. “In exchange fer the eastern marches… and Fraser’s head.”
The room erupted in a mixture of excitement and disbelief.
“Two thousand gold pieces!” Jamie breathed, his eyes wide.
“The tradin’ rights alone would make us wealthy again,” another man said.
But Niven’s expression remained grim. “And Fraser’s head? Me laird, the man’s a legendary swordsman. His army numbers in the hundreds. How exactly dae ye plan tae deliver on that promise?”
The excitement in the room died instantly as the reality of Colin’s commitment sank in.
MacLeod shook his head slowly. ” But promisin’ tae kill Fraser?” He gestured helplessly. “This isnae strategy. This is madness.”
“Is it?” Colin’s voice was deadly calm. “Let me tell ye what madness really looks like. Madness is watchin’ our people starve while we cling tae pride. Madness is lettin’ Fraser pick us apart piece by piece because we’re too stubborn tae pay the price fer salvation.”
“But Fraser—” someone protested.
“Fraser bleeds like any other man,” Colin cut him off. “And I’ve killed better warriors than him.”
Colin let them rage for a moment, then slammed his fist on the table with enough force to make the oak groan. The sound echoed through the hall like thunder, and silence fell immediately.
“Are ye finished?” he asked quietly.
MacLeod was breathing hard, his face flushed with anger. “Me laird, I’ve served yer family fer thirty years. I’ve followed ye through hell itself without question. But this…”
Colin’s voice was deadly calm. “Let me tell ye what madness really looks like. Madness is watchin’ our people starve while we cling tae pride. Madness is lettin’ Fraser pick us apart piece by piece because we’re too stubborn tae pay the price for salvation.”
He moved to the narrow window that overlooked the castle courtyard. Below, he could see the daily bustle of his people—servants, guards, craftsmen, all trying to maintain normalcy in the face of growing desperation.
“Look at them, Duncan,” he said without turning around.
“That’s nae the point—”
“That’s exactly the point.” Colin spun around, his dark eyes blazing. “Every day we delay, more of our people suffer. More of our lands fall tae Fraser’s greed. More of our future dies.”
Niven set the letter down carefully. “And ye truly believe this marriage alliance will solve everythin’?”
“I believe it’s our only chance.” Colin returned to the table, his voice taking on the tone of command his men knew well. “With MacDuff gold, we can hire mercenaries. With MacDuff men, we can finally match Fraser’s numbers. With MacDuff support, we can strangle his supply lines and force him intae a battle he cannae win.”
“And the eastern marches?” Jamie asked quietly.
Colin’s jaw tightened. The eastern marches—rolling hills and fertile valleys that had fed Armstrong cattle for generations. Land his grandfather had died defending, his father had improved with careful stewardship.
“The eastern marches are already lost,” he said finally. “Fraser’s burned half the pastures, killed most of the livestock, driven off the people. What’s the point of holdin’ ontae empty, worthless land when we could trade it fer the power tae reclaim everythin’ else?”
“It’s the principle—” MacLeod started.
“Principles dinnae win wars, Duncan. Men dae. Gold daes. Alliances dae.” Colin’s voice grew harder. “And if sellin’ me soul tae the devil himself would save this clan, I’d dae it without hesitation.”
The room fell quiet again. Outside, they could hear the distant sound of the evening watch calling out the time. Life going on, oblivious to the momentous decision being debated within these walls.
“What about the lass?” Niven asked finally. “MacDuff’s daughter. What dae ye ken about her?”
Colin shrugged. “Young. Unmarried. From what I hear, spirited enough.” He paused. “It daesnae matter. This isnae about her or me or what we might want. This is about survival.”
“And after? If this works, if ye manage tae secure the alliance and somehow defeat Fraser—what then? Ye’ll be married tae a woman ye’ve never met, bound tae a clan ye barely ken.”
“Then I’ll learn tae live with it,” Colin said simply. “Just like she will.”
Jamie stood slowly, his young face troubled. “Colin, I have tae ask—are ye certain there’s nay other way? Nay other alliance, nay other strategy that might work?”
Colin looked at his cousin—barely twenty-five, still believing the world could be shaped by hope and good intentions rather than blood and gold. Once, Colin had been that young too. That naive.
“I’ve spent months explorin’ every option, Jamie. Every possible alliance, every strategic advantage, every diplomatic solution. This is what it comes down tae—MacDuff or death. Those are our choices.”
“Then God help us all,” MacLeod muttered.
“God helps those who help themselves,” Colin replied. “And that’s exactly what we’re goin’ tae dae. I wouldnae be the first laird tae marry fer an alliance, nor would I be the last.”
He moved to his chair, settling into the worn leather with the weight of absolute decision. “I will reply tae MacDuff. Tell him I accept his terms. All of them.”
“Colin—” several voices protested at once.
“The eastern marches will be transferred tae MacDuff control upon completion of the marriage,” Colin continued as if he hadn’t heard them. “The dowry will be accepted in two installments as specified. Military cooperation will begin immediately followin’ the weddin’ ceremony.”
“And if the lass refuses ye?” Niven asked quietly. “If she takes one look at our situation and decides she wants nothin’ tae dae with a failin’ clan?”
Colin’s smile was cold as winter steel. “Then I’ll convince her otherwise. Whatever it takes.”
The men around the table exchanged glances, reading the implacable determination in their laird’s face. They’d seen that look before—in battle, when Colin decided that retreat was no longer an option. When he chose to win or die trying.
“When?” MacLeod asked finally, his voice resigned.
“The negotiations will take weeks. The actual weddin’…” Colin shrugged. “Spring, perhaps. Assumin’ MacDuff agrees tae everythin’.”
“He will,” Niven said grimly. “A man daesnae send a letter like this unless he’s already decided. The question is whether we’ll survive long enough tae see it through.”
“We will,” Colin said with absolute certainty. “Because failure isnae an option.”
As his men filed out, still grumbling and shaking their heads, Colin remained seated at the head of the table. Alone with his thoughts and the weight of what he’d just committed to.
In six months, he would marry Morag MacDuff. A woman he’d never met, from a clan he barely knew, in a ceremony that would either save his people or damn them all.
But first, he had to make sure there was still a clan left to save.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
Don’t miss the link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
1346, MacDuff Castle
“Och, would ye look at our wee sister,” Ruaridh called out, his deep voice booming across the hall as he strode toward Morag, his sister, with that swagger that made visitors either want to befriend him or throttle him. At twenty-three, he’d grown into his father’s broad shoulders and commanding presence, though his green eyes still held the mischief that had gotten them both into trouble as children. “All done up like a proper lady. I barely recognize ye without mud on yer boots.”
“Hold yer tongue, ye great oaf,” Morag shot back, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. “Just because I enjoy the horses doesnae mean it’s impossible to see me looking like proper.”
The great hall of MacDuff Castle buzzed with the kind of nervous energy that came before farewells—servants bustling about with trunks and provisions, the fire crackling higher than usual, and voices carrying that particular pitch of forced cheer that meant someone was trying very hard not to weep.
Morag MacDuff stood in the center of it all, her dark blonde hair catching the firelight as she surveyed the chaos with mild dread. Her traveling dress—the finest blue wool her mother could procure—felt foreign against her skin, nothing like the practical riding clothes she favored.
“Proper, aye,” Sorcha’s melodic voice drifted from the stone steps leading to the upper chambers, “but standing still? That’s the true miracle.”
Morag’s eldest sister descended the stairs with the grace that had made her the envy of every unmarried lass in the Highlands. Even after five years of marriage and two bairns, Sorcha moved like she was dancing to music only she could hear. Her auburn hair—so like their mother’s—was perfectly braided, not a strand out of place despite her long journey from the MacLeod lands.
“Sorcha!” Morag flew across the hall, propriety forgotten, and threw her arms around her sister. “I didnae think ye’d make it in time.”
“Miss seeing me baby sister off to her grand adventure?” Sorcha squeezed her tight, then pulled back to study Morag’s face with knowing hazel eyes. “I wouldnae dare. Besides, someone had to make sure ye remembered how to act like a lady instead of a wild Highland lass.”
“I am a wild Highland lass,” Morag protested, earning a snort of laughter from Ruaridh.
“Aye, and God help the Iron Laird when he figures that out,” their brother said, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. “Poor bastard probably thinks he’s getting a sweet, biddable wife.”
“Ruaridh MacDuff!” The sharp crack of their mother’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. Niamh MacDuff emerged from behind a cluster of servants, her green eyes flashing with the kind of fire that had made their father fall head over heels all those years ago. “Ye’ll watch yer language in me hall, and ye’ll nae be calling Laird Armstrong names before yer sister’s even met the man.”
Despite the scolding, Niamh’s lips curved in the faintest smile as she approached her youngest daughter. In her forties, she was still beautiful enough to turn heads, her auburn hair showing only the barest threads of silver, her slender frame moving with the confidence of a woman who’d never met a challenge she couldn’t face.
“Besides,” she continued, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from Morag’s traveling cloak, “if anyone can handle our Morag, it’s a man they call the Iron Laird. Takes steel to shape steel, after all.”
“I’m nae steel, Ma,” Morag said quietly, suddenly feeling very young despite her twenty years.
“Nay, lass.” Niamh’s voice gentled as she cupped Morag’s freckled cheek. “Ye’re fire. And fire can melt even the strongest steel, if it burns hot enough.”
“Enough talk of melting,” came the deep rumble of their father’s voice from the great doorway. Alistair MacDuff filled the entrance like he filled every room—not just with his impressive height and breadth, but with the kind of presence that made people straighten their spines and pay attention. His dark hair was liberally streaked with silver now, and new lines bracketed his piercing green eyes, but at forty-nine he was still the kind of man who could command a battlefield or a feast with equal ease. “Are we sending our daughter off to her wedding or are we planning a siege?” he asked, though his gruff tone couldn’t hide the emotion flickering across his weathered features.
“With Morag, is there a difference?” Sorcha murmured, ducking when her youngest sister swatted at her.
Alistair’s mouth twitched, but he crossed the hall with measured steps until he stood before Morag. For a moment, the great laird simply looked at his youngest child—the one who’d followed him around like a shadow as a bairn, who’d begged to learn swordplay alongside her brother, who could put an arrow through a sparrow’s eye at fifty paces, who’d never met a horse she couldn’t ride or a challenge she wouldn’t accept.
“Come here, mo chridhe,” he said softly, opening his arms.
Morag flew into them without hesitation, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and pine and home. When she was small, she’d believed her father could protect her from anything. Now, wrapped in his embrace, she still believed it.
“I’m proud of ye, lass,” he murmured into her hair. “Ye’re daeing what’s right fer the clan, and that takes courage.”
“I’m terrified,” she whispered against his chest.
“Good. Only fools feel nay fear. But ye’re a MacDuff, and MacDuffs dinnae run from hard things.” He pulled back to meet her gaze, his green eyes serious. “Ye’ll make yer own way, Morag. Ye always have.”
“Aye, and if this Armstrong fellow gives ye trouble, ye send word,” Ruaridh declared, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword. “I’ll be happy tae ride south and remind him how tae treat a MacDuff lass.”
“Ye’ll dae nay such thing,” Niamh said sharply, though her tone held a note of fierce maternal pride. “Besides, our Morag can handle herself just fine.”
“She’d better,” Sorcha added with a wicked grin. “From what I hear, the Iron Laird isnae exactly kent fer his gentle nature.”
Morag felt her stomach clench. “What have ye heard?”
“Nothing ye need tae worry about,” Alistair said firmly, shooting a warning look at his eldest daughter. “Political marriages are first and foremost about alliance, nay… personal compatibility. Ye’ll find yer way together.”
“Or ye’ll both be too stubborn tae bend, and ye’ll spend the rest of yer lives circling each other like a pair of Highland cats,” Ruaridh said cheerfully.
“That’s helpful, braither dear,” Morag said dryly.
“I live tae serve.”
A horn sounded from the courtyard—three long blasts that meant her escort was ready to depart. The sound seemed to suck all the air from the great hall, leaving behind a silence heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears.
“Well then,” Niamh said briskly, though her voice was rougher than usual. “I suppose it’s time.”
The words hung in the air like a death knell. Morag felt her chest tighten, and without thinking, she grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her aside, away from their parents’ watchful eyes.
“Sorcha,” she whispered urgently, “I wish—och, this sounds mad, but I almost wish someone would kidnap me on the road. Anything tae avoid this marriage.”
Her sister’s hazel eyes widened, then softened with understanding. “Morag, love, I ken ye’re frightened, but it willnae be as terrible as ye think. And getting kidnapped…” Sorcha’s voice took on a wry note, “well, I ken it sounds romantic tae have a happy ending with the laird that kidnapped ye, but it daesnae always turn out as well as it did fer me.”
Morag sighed, remembering her sister’s own dramatic courtship. “Aye, I ken that. But Sorcha, I’ve never heard a single good thing about Colin Armstrong. With a name like the Iron Laird, I ken he rules his clan with an iron grip. What kind of marriage can I expect with such a man? What kind of life?”
Sorcha reached out and squeezed her sister’s hands. “Listen tae me, mo peata. Sometimes the strongest men need the gentlest touch tae soften them. Give yer marriage a chance and it may turn out much better than ye expect.”
Sorcha pulled Morag into a tight squeeze which was interrupted when their mother appeared at her elbow, moving with that silent grace that had always unnerved her children. Niamh’s green eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her voice was steady as stone.
“Morag.” She pressed something small and cold into her daughter’s palm. “Take this.”
Morag looked down to see a small but deadly sharp dagger, its handle carved with intricate Celtic knots. The blade gleamed like silver in the firelight.
“Ma, I—”
“Keep it close tae yer body,” Niamh said firmly, her fingers closing over Morag’s. “The land ye’re going tae is made of steel, lass. The people, the very air—everything is harder there. Be prepared fer anything that comes yer way.”
Morag nodded, her throat tightening. “Ma, what if he daesnae want me? What if this marriage—”
“Listen tae me, mo chridhe.” Niamh’s voice dropped to barely a whisper, meant for Morag’s ears alone. “When I wed yer faither, I thought me life was ending. I kent nothing of him save his name, and I was so frightened I could barely speak me vows.” Her green eyes softened with memory. “But sometimes, lass, the marriages we fear most become the love stories we treasure. Yer faither and I… we found our way tae each other. And ye will too.”
“But ye and Da, ye were lucky—”
“Nay.” Niamh shook her head. “We worked fer it. Every day, we chose tae see the good in each other. That’s what makes a marriage, Morag—not the grand gestures, but the small choices tae build something together.”
“Thank ye,” Morag whispered, tucking the dagger into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress. For just a moment, she caught something in her mother’s green eyes— a kind of hope born from her own experience.
“Time to go, lass,” Alistair called from the doorway, though his voice was gentler than usual.
The final farewells were a blur of fierce embraces and whispered blessings. Ruaridh lifted her off her feet in a bone-crushing hug, muttering threats against anyone who dared harm her.
Sorcha kissed both her cheeks and pressed a small bundle of lavender into her hands. Their parents each held her close one last time, and then suddenly she was walking across the courtyard toward the waiting carriage, her legs feeling strangely unsteady.
The carriage door closed with a final, echoing thud, and Morag MacDuff began her journey toward an uncertain future—and a man whose heart was made of iron.
***
The carriage wheels found their rhythm on the worn stone road, and for the first day Morag almost managed to forget where she was headed. The Highland countryside rolled past the small window in waves of purple heather and emerald glen, familiar and comforting as a lullaby.
“Look there, m’lady,” said Isla, her maid, pointing toward a cluster of red deer grazing near a burn. “They say it’s good luck tae see the hart on a wedding journey.”
Morag glanced at the girl’s plain face—barely seventeen, with mousy brown hair and nervous hands that never seemed to stop fidgeting with her apron. Isla jumped at every shadow, but she had willingly volunteered for this journey, which had earned Morag’s grudging respect.
“Aye, well, I’ll take all the luck I can get,” Morag replied, though her fingers unconsciously found the dagger hidden in her dress. “Though I reckon I’ll need more than deer tae help me survive this marriage.”
Outside, she could hear the steady hoofbeats of their escort—three MacDuff soldiers her father had insisted upon. The captain was a grizzled veteran who’d served her grandfather. The other two rode with the easy confidence of men who’d never known real defeat.
Yet, Morag thought grimly.
The first night they’d made camp in familiar territory, the soldiers laughing around their fire as they shared stories and ale. The Captain had even allowed her to walk about freely, knowing no harm would come to a MacDuff lass on MacDuff lands.
But as the second day wore on and the landscape began to change—the hills growing sharper, the forests thicker, darker—so did the mood of their party.
“How much farther tae the border?” Morag asked as the afternoon light began to slant golden through the carriage window.
“We should reach Armstrong lands by dusk, m’lady. We’ll camp just inside their territory tonight, then make fer the castle come morning,” one of the men riding just outside her window answered.
Morag nodded. Through the window, she watched the Captain’s posture change as he rode ahead—his shoulders tense, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. What had been easy conversation between the soldiers had died to sharp, clipped exchanges.
“We are on the edge of Fraser territory now. God help us pass this stretch safely. Hamish,” she heard him call softly. “Eyes on the tree line.”
The youngest soldier, who’d just spoken, now rode with his bow strung and ready across his saddle. The change was subtle but unmistakable. These were men preparing for eventual trouble.
Faither, why did ye send me here?
Chapter Two
“Isla,” Morag said quietly, “are ye fast?”
“What?” The maid’s brown eyes went wide. “M’lady, why would ye—”
“Answer me. When ye run, are ye fast?”
“Aye, I run fast enough, but—”
“Good. Ye may soon need tae be.”
Isla’s face had gone pale. “M’lady, ye’re frightening me.”
Morag leaned forward and gripped the girl’s hands. “Listen tae me carefully. If something happens—anything at all—ye dinnae worry about me. Ye run, and ye keep running until ye find help. Dae ye understand?”
“But I cannae leave ye—”
“Ye can and ye will. That’s nae a request, Isla. That’s an order.”
The Captain’s voice cut through the air like a blade, stopping any further protest. “Ho there! State yer business!”
Morag’s hand instinctively went to the dagger her mother had given to her. She waved a palm, indicating Isla should stay back. She leaned forward, pressing her face to the window. Ahead, she could see figures emerging from the forest. Armed men with weapons drawn.
Too many weapons. Too many men.
The carriage jerked to a sudden halt.
“Stay down,” Their Captain commanded, his voice carrying that battlefield authority Morag remembered from her childhood. “Protect the lady!”
She heard the rasp of steel being drawn, the nervous whicker of horses, the creak of leather as men shifted in their saddles. Her own pulse began to thunder in her ears.
“What dae they want?” Isla whispered, her voice barely audible.
Morag’s hand found her dagger again. “I dinnae think they’re here tae wish us well. Remember what I said tae ye. When ye get the chance, run and dinnae look back.”
Through the window, she caught glimpses of movement. There were men in rough leathers circling their small party like wolves. The Captain was shouting something, but the words were lost in the sudden chaos of battle cries and clashing steel.
“Get down!” Morag hissed, pulling Isla toward the floor of the carriage.
The world exploded into violence. Shouts. The scream of horses. The wet sound of blade meeting flesh. And then—
Thwack.
An arrow punched through the carriage window in a shower of splintered wood, the steel point hissing past Morag’s ear to embed itself in the opposite wall. She felt fire streak across her forehead where the fletching had scraped skin.
“Morag!” Isla screamed.
Blood. There was blood trickling down into her eye, but Morag’s mind went crystal clear with the kind of calm that came before a storm. She grabbed Isla by the shoulders and hauled her down behind the bench seat.
“Stay down and dinnae move,” she commanded, her voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. “Wait fer me tae tell ye when tae run.”
The battle raged around their carriage like a living thing. Through the shattered window, Morag caught glimpses of MacDuff soldiers fighting off several attackers at once. The young soldier’s bow sang again and again until she heard a sickening thud, followed by his cry of pain.
“Me Captain!” his voice, raw with desperation.
Then silence from that direction.
The carriage rocked violently as something slammed against its side. Isla whimpered, pressing herself smaller against the floor, but Morag found herself rising slightly, peering through the chaos to count their enemies.
Dear God, they’re too many. Far too many.
The sounds of fighting grew more distant as the battle spread, the two remaining guards being drawn away from the carriage by the sheer number of attackers. In the growing quiet around their shelter, Morag heard something that made her blood turn to ice—the soft scrape of a boot on the carriage step.
The door handle turned.
“Isla,” she whispered urgently. “Remember what I told ye.”
The door swung open to reveal a bearded face, scarred and grinning with triumph. The man’s eyes swept the interior and fixed on Morag with unmistakable recognition.
“Well, well. What have we here?”
Without thinking, Morag threw her full weight against the door. The heavy wood slammed into the man’s face with a satisfying crunch, sending him staggering backward. Blood streamed from his nose, leading to a barrage of curse words that hurt Morag’s delicate lady ears despite the circumstances.
“Run!” she shouted to Isla, shoving the girl toward the opposite door. “Run and dinnae look back!”
Isla scrambled out the far side of the carriage, her skirts tangling around her legs as she stumbled into the underbrush. For a heartbeat, Morag saw the girl’s terrified face looking back.
“Go!” Morag screamed. And Isla ran.
Morag turned back to the man. She did not wait to see if he had recovered but shoved him hard one more time in the chest, sending him sprawling into the mud.
Seeing her chance, she bolted from the carriage. Behind her, she heard the man roar with rage. “The lass! Get the lass!”
She heard heavy boot sounds coming after her. Clearly, the man cared nothing for poor Isla fleeing in the opposite direction. It was Morag he wanted, and Morag he’d follow.
Good, she thought fiercely, gathering her skirts and plunging deeper into the trees. Follow me, ye bastard. Let Isla get away safe. She’ll tell faither.
The forest closed around her like a living wall. Thick Scottish pine and ancient oak with branches so dense they blocked out most of the dying light.
Morag’s lungs burned as she ran, her fine traveling dress catching on every thorn and branch, but she did not slow. She’d been running MacDuff woods since she could walk, knew how to move silent as a deer when she needed to.
Behind her, she could hear the man crashing through the underbrush like a mad boar, all noise and fury. He was a very big man, obviously strong, but that would only help him if he caught her. For now, she was faster. Which was all she needed to be to lose him in these trees. She would find a burn to follow, or a cave to hide in until he gave up and went back to his fellows.
Come on, Morag. This is another hide and seek between ye and Ruaridh.
Morag leaped over a fallen log, her heart hammering. Just ahead, she could see a gap in the trees where moonlight filtered through. If she could reach that clearing, maybe find another way through—
Her foot caught.
Morag pitched forward with a cry, her hands flying out to break her fall. She hit the forest floor hard, her palms scraping against stone and root, her knee striking something sharp enough to tear through fabric and skin.
“Nay,” she gasped, struggling to free her foot from the twisted roots. “Nay, nay, nay.”
Heavy footsteps crashed through the bracken behind her, growing closer with each passing second. Morag’s fingers flew to the hidden pocket in her dress, closing around the weight of her mother’s dagger. The blade sang free of its sheath as she twisted around to saw frantically at the roots binding her ankle.
Come on, come on, she urged silently, the steel biting through the gnarled wood. Behind her, she could hear her pursuer’s ragged breathing, could practically feel his presence bearing down on her like a hunting hound.
The last root parted with a soft snap.
Morag surged to her feet, spinning around with the dagger raised just as the man’s shadow fell over her like a death shroud. His eyes narrowed when he saw the blade gleaming in her fist
“Well, well,” the man panted, wiping blood from his broken nose with the back of his hand. “Thought ye could outrun me, did ye, lass?”
Two more figures emerged from the trees behind him. They were both armed, both grinning with the kind of cruel satisfaction that made Morag’s skin crawl. She recognized the look from her brother’s stories of border raiders and cattle thieves.
“Stay back!” she snarled, finally freeing her foot and scrambling backward on her hands. “I ken how tae use this!”
The man’s broken nose was still streaming blood, but he grinned anyway. “Dae ye now, lass? That’s a bonny wee blade fer such a bonny wee lass.”
He lunged.
Morag slashed out with the dagger, but he was fast. His hand shot out like a striking snake, iron fingers clamping around her wrist. He squeezed until she cried out, her grip loosening involuntarily.
The dagger tumbled from her nerveless fingers, landing in the fallen leaves with a soft thud.
“There’s a good lass,” the man panted, his grip like a vise around her wrist. “Nay need tae make this bloodier than ye’ve already made it.”
Two more figures emerged from the trees behind him, both armed, and grinning with the kind of cruel satisfaction that made Morag’s stomach turn to water. She’d lost her only weapon, her only chance.
But she hadn’t lost her voice.
“Get away from me!” she snarled, trying to wrench free of his grip. “Ye have nae right tae dae this.”
“Aye, we dae.” The first man lunged forward and caught her wrist before she could reach for her hidden dagger. “Laird Ronan Fraser is expecting ye, lass. Been waiting quite some time, from what I hear.”
Morag’s blood turned to ice. “Fraser? Ye’re mad! I’m bride tae Laird Colin Armstrong. We just married, in fact! Ye have the wrong woman!”
The men exchanged glances, and the lanky fellow with stringy hair actually laughed.
“Oh, we ken exactly who ye are, Morag MacDuff,” he said, pulling a length of rope from his belt. “And Fraser’s been very specific about wanting ye brought tae him. Alive and… unspoiled, which is quite unfortunate.”
“I tell ye, ye’re making a mistake!” Morag struggled as they forced her hands behind her back, the rope biting into her wrists. “Let me go, ye bloody savages! Ye dare tae take the daughter of Laird Alistair MacDuff, bride tae Laird Colin Armstrong! I demand ye put me down this instant!”
“Yer faither’s too far away tae help ye now,” the first man growled, testing the knots. “And as fer Armstrong…” He shrugged. “That match was never meant tae be.”
The rope was tight. Already Morag could feel her fingers starting to tingle as the bonds cut off her blood. But she couldn’t stop fighting, couldn’t stop trying to reason with them.
“Please,” she said, hating the desperation in her own voice. “Whatever Fraser’s paying ye, me faither will double it. Triple it! Just let me go!”
“Sorry, lass.” The lanky one almost sounded like he meant it. “We may be men fer hire, but we have our code of honor. We have been given orders.”
Strong arms lifted her from the forest floor like she weighed nothing at all. Morag kicked and writhed, but bound as she was, her struggles only earned her a tighter grip.
“Easy now,” her captor grunted. “Dinnae make this harder than it needs tae be.”
“Harder?” Morag spat. “Ye’re kidnapping me on me wedding journey! How could it possibly be harder?”
But the men were already carrying her back through the trees, back toward whatever horses they’d left waiting. Around them, everywhere was still except for the natural sounds of the forest.
“Move faster,” the bearded one snarled. “Fraser wants her delivered before—”
“I willnae go!” Morag twisted violently, managing to wrench one arm partially free. “I willnae be any man’s prize! Let me go!”
The man carrying her stumbled as she fought, cursing as her elbow caught him in the ribs. “Bloody hell, hold still!”
“Make me, ye coward!”
His patience snapped. He dropped her legs, letting her feet hit the ground hard while his companion kept hold of her shoulders. His hand drew back, palm open, aimed at her defiant face.
“Maybe this will teach ye some—”
“Put. Her. Down.”
The voice cut through the forest like the toll of a death bell—deep, commanding, and utterly without fear. All three men froze, the raised hand halting mid-swing as they spun toward the sound.
Through the trees stepped a figure that seemed carved from Highland legend itself. Tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the predatory grace of a born warrior. Dark hair, piercing eyes that missed nothing, and a presence that made the very air seem to thicken with danger.
Morag’s breath caught in her throat. Even bound and terrified, she could not help but notice the way he moved—like controlled violence wrapped in human form. The way his hand rested on his sword hilt with casual familiarity. The way her captors suddenly looked like children caught stealing apples.
This was no ordinary man.
This was death walking through the Highland forest, and he was looking at her captors like they were already dead.
The courtyard was still damp from the morning rain, the stone slick in places where the sun had yet to break through the mist. Tav didn’t mind. He preferred it that way. The chill kept his muscles sharp, the sheen of moisture making every action more deliberate, every move more exact. Sweat clung to his shirt, soaked through at the chest and collar, but he didn’t stop.
His sword moved in perfect arcs. Controlled. Mechanical. He struck again, again, again—a relentless rhythm of blade and breath. The burn in his arms didn’t bother him. Neither did the tightening in his shoulders or the ache in his scarred ribs. He welcomed it. He needed it. The pain reminded him that he was still here. Still standing. Not broken, despite what had happened to him.
Armstrong hadn’t won, despite the horrific things he had made him do. Slaughtering innocent soldiers, torturing men in the dungeons, and so much more.
Tav drove the practice blade against the post hard enough to send splinters flying. He paused, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the battered wood. His fingers twitched. He gritted his teeth. Then he reset his stance.
The repetition helped. If he moved fast enough, thought fast enough, maybe the memories would stop coming back in fragments. Maybe the way his jaw ached in the cold, or how his right knee still locked when the weather turned, wouldn’t feel like a permanent echo of failure. He had to become something stronger. Something colder. Something unbreakable. Flesh could be torn. But steel? Steel endured.
He was halfway through another set of forms when the sound of boots crunching on gravel reached his ears.
“Tav.”
He turned his head slightly. One of Kerr’s younger guards—Douglas, maybe? Hamish?—stood a few paces off, clearly hesitant to come closer.
“What is it?”
“Laird Kerr sent me. He’s askin’ fer ye. Said it was important.”
Tav rolled his neck slowly. “Aye.”
He dropped the blade, wiped his forearm across his brow, and moved to the water barrel nearby. The boy didn’t leave. Tav dipped both hands into the cold water, splashed his face, then reached for the cloth hanging over the post.
Still, the boy lingered.
“Ye train like the devil himself’s at yer heels,” he said after a beat, a poor attempt at jest.
Tav didn’t reply.
“I mean, it’s… it’s impressive,” the boy added, shifting from foot to foot. “Folk say ye could take ten men and still stand. Some say more.”
Tav glanced up, his gaze flat. The boy paled slightly.
“Right,” he mumbled. “I’ll just… I’ll tell the laird ye’re comin’.”
Tav said nothing. The boy turned and made a brisk retreat, shoulders hunched. It was always the same, admiration edged with fear. They called him loyal. Unbreakable. But they never asked what had been broken to make him that way.
Tav exhaled through his nose, slow and even. He finished drying his face, then stripped off the soaked shirt and changed into a fresh one, his movements economical. The leather jerkin went on next. He didn’t rush. He left the training yard by the north gate, boots striking a rhythm against the cobbles. The sun had broken through now, casting long slanted rays across the keep. The path to the laird’s tower wound near the outer gardens—a detour he usually avoided. Today, something pulled him that way.
He didn’t mean to glance that way. Truly. But he did.
Agnes was there. Constance too, both seated on the low stone bench near the rose arch. Constance was reading aloud from a folded letter in her lap, her voice quick and teasing, the kind of playful bite only sisters could manage. Agnes laughed. Head tilted back, eyes shut, one hand fanned over her chest like she couldn’t quite catch her breath.
The sound hit him low. A crack of warmth in a place that had forgotten what soft things felt like. It made something go still inside him. Then ache.
Then Agnes reached over and flicked water from a small bowl onto Constance, who shrieked and flailed with exaggerated drama. Agnes laughed again, the kind of laugh that turned heads. Bright and sudden like light off water. She seemed so untouched by the weight of the world in that moment that Tav had to look away before something in him cracked.
He meant to keep walking. He did. But his feet hesitated. Just long enough to see the way her braid shimmered in the sun, the way her fingers curled gently around a book she wasn’t reading. How she leaned her shoulder into her sister as they laughed, how easily she belonged in the light.
He bowed his head slightly as he passed. He didn’t dare speak. She didn’t look his way.
Foolish, all of it. Whatever strange pull had once curled beneath his ribs when he looked at her—he’d buried it. He’d had to. She was the laird’s daughter. Kind. Clever. Promised to someone important, no doubt. He was a humble man with a sword and a past stitched in shadow. There were lines men like him didn’t cross.
He kept walking. But just as he reached the hedgerow that would block them from sight, he heard a sharp whisper.
“You were looking too long at that guard.” Constance. Her voice was low but not unkind. A sister’s warning.
He clenched his jaw and turned the corner without a word.
The laird’s study was on the second floor, tucked behind the great hearth. Tav knocked once before entering.
“Come in,” a voice came from inside.
Ewan Kerr’s study was dim, all shadowed corners and the faint scent of old parchment. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, catching on the floating dust. Ewan Kerr stood at the hearth, his back to the door, a goblet in one hand, untouched.
Tav stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Ye asked fer me, me laird?”
Ewan turned. His face was lined deeper than Tav remembered, though it had only been a matter of days since they had last spoken. Grief lived behind his eyes, tight as a knot. He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Aye. Sit, Tav.”
Tav obeyed, the wooden chair creaking under his weight. He rested his arms lightly on his thighs, leaning forward. “Somethin’ wrong?”
Kerr didn’t answer right away. He moved to the table, set the goblet down, and poured another from the decanter without drinking. His fingers were steady. His mouth, a grim line.
“I’ve made a proposal,” he said finally. “Tae Laird Caithness.”
Tav didn’t move. But his mind went alert, snapping taut like a bowstring. “A proposal?”
“An alliance,” Kerr clarified, voice low. “I offered Agnes’ hand in marriage, tae Laird Caithness. He agreed. Said it was the smartest course, politically. A uniting of our clans through blood.” He paused, then added, “Agnes would go tae him.”
The words hit like the flat of a blade. Tav didn’t let it show. He only shifted slightly in his seat, a barely-there movement.
“Daes she agree?”
Kerr hesitated. Just a flicker. A pause that would have gone unnoticed by a less observant man. But Tav noticed everything. Especially what was left unsaid.
“She’s… strong,” Kerr said finally, eyes fixed on the hearth. But it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Tav looked at the fire. It cracked once, the sound too loud in the silence.
“I ken she’s strong,” he said evenly, but his stomach twisted. Strength didn’t mean agreement.
Kerr nodded, then moved to sit behind the desk. He looked tired. Worn thin by choices that had no clean outcome. “I wouldnae ask this of her if there were another path. But Caithness’s support could make a difference tae the clan, tae the people… we need it.”
Tav stayed quiet. His hands curled slightly, the calluses catching against the fabric of his trousers. He wanted to speak, to say she was nae some chess piece to be moved across a board. But it wasn’t his place.
“We need tae start planning,” Kerr continued. “She’ll leave within the week. A small party. Discreet. I want someone I trust on it.”
Tav straightened slightly. “Ye want me tae go?”
“Nay,” Kerr said quickly, too quickly. “Nae ye. I need ye here. That’s why I called ye. I want yer counsel. Who would ye send, if she were… someone ye cared fer?”
The phrasing wasn’t lost on him. Tav frowned, considering.
“Brodie Ainslei,” he said after a long moment.
Ewan tilted his head. “Why him?”
“He’s steady. Quiet. Loyal tae a fault. Keeps tae himself. Nae the most talkative, but that’s nae bad thing. Keeps his eyes where they belong. Never looked twice at a woman he was paid tae protect.”
Ewan studied him. There was a pause, then he nodded slowly. “Aye. That might be best. And I trust he’d keep his distance.”
Tav’s jaw tightened. “He will.”
Ewan sighed, leaning back in his chair. His eyes had gone far-off, distant, like he was already watching Agnes ride away. “It goes against every bone in me body, this. Sendin’ her off like this. But me hands are tied. Every path forward comes at a cost.”
Tav rose. He didn’t know what to say. The weight in his chest felt heavier now. Like chainmail soaked in water.
“Ye’ll let me ken when they leave?”
“Aye.”
He turned to go, hand already on the latch, when Kerr’s voice stopped him.
“Tav.”
He looked back.
The laird stood now. His voice dropped lower, roughened with something that wasn’t command. “How are ye farin’? Truly.”
Tav met his eyes. “I’m alive.”
Kerr crossed the space between them in a few strides, placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Ye’re more than that. Ye may be changed, aye. But nae lesser. And nae alone. Ye dinnae need tae carry it all yerself.”
Tav nodded once. “Thank ye, me laird.”
Kerr gave his shoulder a last squeeze, then stepped back.
Tav opened the door. The corridor beyond was bright now, the sun pouring in golden through the high windows. The same young guard from earlier was walking down the hall. He slowed as Tav exited, unsure whether to offer a salute or keep walking.
This time, Tav gave him a nod. The boy blinked, then stood a little taller.
Tav walked on, jaw tight, spine straight. The heaviness in his chest remained, but so did the memory of her laughter in the garden. He wouldn’t be the one to take her away.
But gods help him, he already wanted to follow.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
The sun rose golden over Armstrong lands, casting a soft light through the narrow windows of the master bedchamber. The keep below was already stirring, but in this room, it was still quiet.
Agnes lay nestled against Tav, her back to his chest, her hand resting gently over the swell of her belly. The child stirred within her, a flutter beneath her palm, as if it too sensed the day’s promise. Behind her, Tav breathed slow and deep, arm curled around her middle, his fingers splayed over her hip like a claim made long ago. She didn’t want to move—not yet. The warmth of his body, the safety of it, wrapped around her like armor.
Three years. Three years since she had walked down that aisle and kissed him with all the fire and hope she possessed. Three years since they had rebuilt this place from ash and blood and memory.
Now they had a home. A sister who was a daughter in everything but blood. A son. And soon, another child.
She tilted her head slightly, watching the soft morning light gild the lines of Tav’s face. He had aged well. Softer now in the cheeks. More shadows at the corners of his eyes. But every one of them was earned. She reached back, brushing her fingers along his jaw. He hummed, stirring.
“Mornin’,” he rasped.
“Sleep well?”
“With ye here? Always.”
They lay in silence for a moment longer before the distant sound of giggles drifted up through the stone.
Agnes smiled. “Tristan’s up.”
Tav groaned. “Already? Thought he’d sleep like a bear.”
“He’s yer son. He’ll never sleep longer than he needs tae.”
Tav leaned forward, kissing her shoulder. “I’ll get him.”
“I’ll come down soon.”
But he didn’t move right away. Instead, he pressed another kiss to her skin, then rested his hand over hers on her belly.
“Can ye believe this?”
Agnes turned her face toward him. “What?”
“All o’ it.”
She smiled. “Every day I wake up and try tae.”
The words had barely left her lips when a shriek of laughter echoed down the hall. Agnes and Tav exchanged a look—half amusement, half weary resignation. Tristan.
They both moved to stand, Tav getting there first and offering her a hand. She took it, rising slowly with the weight of their unborn child pressing low in her belly. Together, they left the warm hush of their room and descended the spiral stairs into the life they’d made.
Breakfast was chaos, as always.
Tristan was already covered in jam by the time Tav and Agnes reached the hall. Isolde sat beside him, patiently showing him how to build a tower out of crusts, her own face remarkably clean.
“Since when have ye been up?” Tav asked, settling beside them.
“Since the cock crowed,” replied primly, not looking up from her crust tower.
“That long?”
“Tristan wanted tae make a crown fer the sheep. But I told him sheep dinnae wear crowns.”
Tristan, smeared with jam and grinning wide, clapped his hands. “Sheep! Hat! Baaa!”
Isolde beamed. “I made the crown fer him instead.”
“O’ course ye did,” Agnes said, kissing the top of her head. “Ye’re brilliant.”
Isolde preened.
They ate together, laughter breaking constantly across the table like surf. At one point, Tristan threw a biscuit and Tav caught it midair without looking. Agnes stared at him.
“That was impressive.”
He grinned. “Fatherhood.”
They left the hall together, strolling through the familiar walkways of the keep as the morning light spilled gold across the stones. The sound of hooves in the yard and voices raised in cheerful chatter floated around them. Tristan darted ahead, chasing a butterfly, while Isolde skipped just behind, humming a song she’d made up.
Tav and Agnes walked at a slower pace, their fingers laced together. Tav’s eyes flicked down to her feet, then back up to her face, worry tightening his brow.
“Are ye sure ye should be walkin’ this far?” he asked, slowing just a bit more. “We can rest. Or I can carry ye, if it comes tae that.”
Agnes gave him a look. “Tav, I’m pregnant. Nae dyin’.”
He huffed. “Aye, well, it’s my job tae worry.”
“And it’s me job tae remind ye I’ve been walkin’ in worse conditions.”
They exchanged a grin, his reluctant and fond, hers impish and dry. She nudged his arm with her shoulder.
“If ye keep hoverin’, I’ll make ye even more scared on purpose.”
“Ye wouldnae.”
“Watch me.”
Before he could retort, a loud squeal cut through the orchard path.
“Da!”
Tristan came barreling back up the path, arms outstretched, face red and breathless from running. Isolde jogged just behind him, breathless but laughing.
“He wanted tae race,” she explained. “But he lost.”
Tav scooped up the boy, grinning.
Tristan laughed, hands grabbing at Tav’s beard. “Isi fast!”
“Aye, she is,” Tav said, and kissed his son’s cheek. “But ye’ll get fast too.”
Agnes watched them with her heart full to bursting, her hand resting over her belly. Then she looked to Isolde and opened her arm. “Come here, love.”
Isolde ran into her side, and together they continued walking, a family woven together by choice, by blood, and by all the battles they’d already won.
As they neared the orchard wall, townsfolk began to wave and call greetings. Tav returned each with a nod or a lifted hand. Agnes smiled, stopping to speak now and again, her warmth undimmed despite the weight she carried.
Agnes turned to find Tav watching her, his expression unreadable.
“What?” she asked.
“Ye’re beautiful, that’s all.”
“Even this swollen?”
“Especially this swollen.” Tav grinned and bent to kiss her temple, his hand never leaving the curve of her back. They continued walking, following the path until it led them through a break in the trees. The orchard stretched out before them, dappled in soft golden light. They found a quiet corner beneath a gnarled apple tree, where the shade was cool and the ground scattered with petals. Tav walked beside her, one hand resting at the small of her back.
“Dae ye ever think about it?” she asked.
“What?”
“Back then.”
“Aye. All the time.”
“It still feels like… another life.”
He stopped walking, pulling her gently to a halt beside the stone monument nestled in the grove. Names etched deep in granite. Some they’d known. Some they’d lost. He reached out, fingers brushing Armstrong’s name.
“He was a bastard. But he gave me Isolde.”
Agnes nodded. “She loves ye. Fiercely.”
He looked at her. “Dae ye think I’ve done right by her?”
“I think ye’re her whole world, Tav.”
He exhaled, long and shaky, and took her hand again. They stood together beneath the apple blossoms, quiet.
Not long after, they joined the children for a small picnic on the edge of the orchard. Tav spread a blanket beneath the dappled shade while Agnes and Isolde unpacked a small basket of honeyed bread, apples, and soft cheese. Tristan, sticky with juice and joy, was already toddling toward the nearest tree, chasing a ladybug with singular focus.
“That one’s on a mission,” Tav said with a grin, already rising to follow.
“Mind he daesnae eat it,” Agnes called after him.
Tav turned and winked. “Nay promises.”
Agnes settled herself beside Isolde, stretching her legs carefully and pressing a hand to the curve of her belly. Isolde reached for an apple, turning it over in her small hands with a tiny frown.
“Can ye help me with this?” she asked, holding it out. “It’s too big.”
Agnes took the apple and pulled a small blade from the basket, slicing it into neat wedges before handing them back. Isolde’s face lit up.
“Thank ye,” she said, her voice sweet and solemn.
Agnes smiled softly, letting the moment settle over her like sunlight—warm, golden, and slow to fade. She watched Isolde crunch into a slice of apple with exaggerated delight, her small hands sticky and her face alight with pride. The hum of bees in the orchard, the gentle rustle of leaves above, the distant sound of Tav laughing with Tristan as the boy squealed with glee—it all folded around her like the pages of a story she never thought she’d live to write.
“Dae ye think the baby will like me?” Isolde asked suddenly.
Agnes turned to her. “The baby will adore ye.”
“Even if it’s a boy?”
“Even more if it’s a boy. He’ll need a big sister tae keep him from daein’ foolish things like his Da.”
Isolde giggled. “I can dae that.”
She pulled the girl into her arms, kissed her brow, and held her a long while.
***
That night, after the children were asleep and the halls were quiet, Tav sat beside the fire, Agnes curled against him, her cheek resting just beneath his collarbone. The fire cast long flickering shadows across the stone, their warmth folded between wool and skin.
“Tired?” he asked, brushing his fingers through the ends of her hair.
“Aye. But it’s a good kind.” She tilted her face toward him. “The kind that says the day was full.”
He kissed the top of her head, lingering. “This place, this life… it’s more than I thought I’d ever have. More than I knew how tae want.”
Agnes shifted to look up at him, her brow lifting gently. “Then let’s never take it fer granted. Nae a single day.”
He met her gaze, something tender and unspoken passing between them. “We’ll protect it. Always. Whatever it takes.”
She reached for his hand and placed it carefully over the swell of her belly.
A tiny kick met his palm, soft and startling. Tav’s eyes lit up, wonder blooming across his face. “Another little warrior. Just like his maither.”
Agnes laughed softly, her voice a hush against the crackle of the fire. “Gods help us indeed. He’ll be wild if he’s anything like ye.”
“Or stubborn if she’s like ye,” Tav murmured, kissing her forehead. “Either way, we’re doomed.”
She smiled. “Doomed in the best way.”
They stayed like that, wrapped around each other, letting the stillness settle into their bones. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty, but whole. Outside, the wind rustled faintly through the trees. Inside, the embers glowed low. Peace, hard-won and deeply cherished, wrapped itself around them.
And in that hush, with her heartbeat against his ribs and his palm guarding the life between them, they let themselves dream—not of war or grief or vengeance, but of harvests and lullabies, of laughter in the halls and tiny feet on stone. Of days that would grow slowly, beautifully, together.
Don’t miss the link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
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:
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.
Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!
