Alasdair felt the land change beneath his horse’s hooves before he saw the first marker stones.
The road narrowed, the grass grew thicker at its edges, and the air itself seemed to settle, heavier somehow, as though the ground expected to be respected. MacBain land carried that weight.
Beside him, Gavin rode with careless ease, his seat loose, his posture slack in a way that would have earned him correction if it had been any other day, but Alasdair needed Gavin calm for this.
The flask at his brother’s hip knocked softly against the saddle with each step of the horse, a small, persistent sound that scraped at Alasdair’s nerves more than it should have.
“Christ,” Gavin said, casting a lazy glance at the rolling hills with exaggerated boredom. “All this green. All this quiet. Makes a man itch.”
Alasdair kept his gaze forward, jaw set. “It’s fertile land,” he said evenly. “Well-kept. That’s the point.”
Gavin huffed a laugh. “Aye, aye. Always the laird. Always seein’ the worth in dirt and stone.” He shifted in his saddle, stretching like a man settling in for sport. “And I suppose the woman’s the same, eh? Fit fer breedin’. Strong hips, quiet mouth. The MacBains are kent fer their stock.”
The words landed like filth on clean ground.
Something in Alasdair went cold, sharp and immediate, the way it did before violence when he had to decide whether to act or endure. He reined his horse in just enough to force Gavin to slow, the movement controlled.
“That’s enough,” he said, voice level to the point of steel. “Ye’ve nae even seen her.”
Gavin glanced at him, brows lifting in mock surprise. “Och, dinnae tell me ye’ve gone soft. It’s a marriage contract, nae a bloody courtship. I’m allowed tae have expectations.”
“Ye’re allowed tae keep them tae yerself,” Alasdair replied. “Especially when ye speak o’ a woman who’s done ye nay wrong.”
Gavin scoffed. “Listen tae ye. Soundin’ like her defender already. What is it—are ye worried she’ll be disappointed by the Grant name?”
Alasdair felt the familiar flare of anger rise, hot and unwelcome, and with it the old, useless frustration of knowing exactly how far he could push before everything shattered. Gavin had always known where that line lay and danced along it with a smirk.
“I’m worried ye’ll ruin this before it’s begun,” Alasdair said quietly. “If ye speak like that in front o’ her kin, they’ll shut the door in our faces. And I’ll nae stop them.”
Gavin’s mouth tightened. “Always threats wi’ ye.”
“Always consequences,” Alasdair answered.
For a moment, Gavin said nothing. Then he reached for the flask at his hip, fingers closing around it with pointed defiance.
Alasdair’s gaze flicked there. “Put it away.”
Gavin’s eyes flashed. “I’ve nae even opened it.”
“And ye willnae,” Alasdair said. “Nae today.”
The silence stretched, taut as wire. Gavin’s hand lingered, then dropped, his jaw clenched in visible irritation.
“Ye ken,” he muttered, spurring his horse forward again, “fer a man who insists he’s nae me keeper, ye dae an excellent job actin’ like one.” Then, Gavin’s eyes flared. “I’m nae a child.”
Alasdair followed, shoulders tight beneath his cloak, the weight of responsibility settling heavier with every step toward the MacBain keep.
He should nae have tae manage him like that, he thought, the resentment sharp and bitter. He was a grown man. He was meant to bear the consequences of his own behavior.
And yet, blood bound them. Duty chained them in ways Alasdair had never fully been able to cut loose from. Gavin was his brother, and that bond had been used against him for as long as he could remember. He had learned early that loving Gavin meant carrying the weight of his recklessness, standing in the space between his brother and the consequences he refused to imagine.
He was tired of it.
Tired of tempering his words, of watching Gavin squander whatever goodwill he was offered, of knowing that if this contract failed it would still somehow become Alasdair’s responsibility to mend.
No matter how that day unfolded, Alasdair knew with a weary, bone-deep certainty that he would be the one left standing between Gavin and the damage he left behind, smoothing it over, paying for it in quiet ways no one ever thanked him for.
“Nay,” Alasdair said quietly, finally answering Gavin’s earlier jab. “But ye behave like one.”
The words were restrained, almost mild, but they landed all the same.
The silence that followed was brittle, edged with offense. Gavin’s jaw tightened, his mouth pulling into a thin line as he kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and surged ahead, riding hard as if distance itself were an insult he could throw back over his shoulder.
Alasdair let him go.
He watched his brother’s back for a moment longer than necessary, the familiar mix of anger and resignation settling into his chest. Anger came easily, hot and instinctive, but he shoved it down.
Control was the thing that kept him from becoming like Gavin, or worse, from striking him down and ending the problem in a way honor would never forgive.
He breathed it down, steady and practiced, and followed.
The keep rose before them not long after, stone clean and formidable against the pale sky. Its lines were purposeful, defensive without being ostentatious, built by people who expected trouble and intended to survive it. MacBain banners stirred in the wind, their colors sharp against the gray, a visible declaration of identity and strength.
As they approached, guards straightened, hands shifting subtly on spear shafts, eyes alert but measured. Alasdair noted it with approval before he meant to.
Fionnlagh MacBain met them at the gate.
He was taller than Alasdair remembered, broader through the shoulders, his stance easy but grounded, like a man who knew exactly how much space he occupied. His expression was open, but there was a sharp intelligence behind his eyes, the kind that missed very little and forgave even less.
The sort of man Alasdair respected instinctively.
“Laird Grant,” Fionnlagh said, offering his forearm. “Ye’re welcome.”
Alasdair dismounted and clasped it firmly, meeting his gaze squarely.
“Thank ye,” he replied. “I appreciate the welcome.”
Behind him, Gavin swung down from his horse with far less care, already glancing around as though the place was something to be assessed for entertainment rather than alliance.
Alasdair felt the familiar tightening in his chest return.
God help us all.
Gavin inclined his head with the barest courtesy. “A pleasure,” he said, though his gaze wandered, already searching.
Fionnlagh’s eyes flicked to him once, then away. “If ye’ll follow me. We’ve prepared the study.”
Inside, the keep was warm and orderly, the kind of place where responsibility lived in the walls. Alasdair felt himself straighten instinctively, his irritation settling into readiness. This was familiar ground: negotiation, restraint, honor measured against necessity.
They entered the study.
Marsaili MacBain stood near the table, parchment laid out before her. Tavish was beside her, arms crossed, posture alert. She turned at the sound of footsteps, and for one unguarded moment, Alasdair forgot to breathe.
She was not what he had expected.
Not loud beauty or ornament, but there was a stillness to her that drew the eye without demanding it. Her hair was neatly bound, her expression composed, her gaze steady and direct as it met his. She wore no unnecessary finery, only clean lines and quiet confidence.
Something in his chest shifted, sharp and immediate.
The realization landed with unsettling force. This woman was the life being bargained across the table.
Gavin spoke before Alasdair could stop him.
“Well,” he said lightly, eyes bright with interest. “I see me future’s lookin’ brighter already.”
Marsaili’s expression did not change.
Alasdair felt heat flare under his ribs. “Gavin,” he said, warning threaded tight into the word.
Gavin only smiled wider. “I meant nay offense. A man’s allowed tae admire his own betrothed.”
“Fergive me braither,” Alasdair replied coolly, stepping forward. “He tends tae be quite…emotional.”
Fionnlagh cleared his throat, subtle but firm. “Let’s sit,” he said.
They did. The discussion unfolded with practiced care. Fionnlagh outlined the advantages: alliance, shared protection, stability in uncertain times. Alasdair responded in kind, his attention divided between the words and the woman across the table.
Marsaili listened more than she spoke. When she did, it was precise. Thoughtful. She asked questions that cut to the heart of the matter without embellishment. Alasdair found himself watching the way her fingers rested against the table, the stillness of her posture, the intelligence in her eyes.
She was not passive. This mattered to her.
At last, Fionnlagh turned to her. “Marsaili,” he said gently. “Dae ye agree tae this match?”
She did not answer at once. Her gaze shifted to Gavin, whose interest sharpened at once, and then to Alasdair.
For a heartbeat, he felt seen.
The sensation unsettled him more than Gavin’s vulgarity ever could.
He wondered, suddenly, what she thought of them, of him and of the brother who would bind her life without knowing its worth.
She gave nothing away. Then she nodded, once, and stepped forward to sign.
Alasdair exhaled slowly.
Gavin followed, pen scratching carelessly as he added his name. “A pleasure,” he murmured toward her as he stepped back.
She did not look at him.
Tavish MacBain moved then, placing himself subtly at her side. “I’ll see tae me sister,” he said, voice even but unmistakably firm. “Until the arrangements are complete.”
Alasdair inclined his head. “That’s agreeable.”
As they prepared to leave, Alasdair allowed himself one last look at Marsaili MacBain.
She stood composed, untouched by Gavin’s glances.
She deserves better.
The thought came unbidden, heavy and absolute.
And as he followed his brother from the room, Alasdair could not shake the sense that something precious had just been set on a path that would demand a reckoning—one that honor alone might not be enough to survive.
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Chapter One
Freuchie Castle, 1450
Marsaili MacBain had ten days left of freedom, and she was spending them in hell.
The great hall of Freuchie Castle roared with voices raised in jest and argument, the clatter of cups on wooden tables, the scrape of benches across rushes that smelled of herbs and old ale.
Torches blazed in their sconces along the stone walls, casting flickering shadows that made the tapestries seem to move with lives of their own. Grant warriors in their plaids crowded the long tables, fists wrapped around horns of ale, faces flushed with drink and the heat of too many bodies packed too close. Serving girls wove between them with practiced grace, dodging wandering hands and carrying platters of roasted venison that made the air thick with grease and smoke.
Her brother Tavish had excused himself early, claiming exhaustion from the day’s travel. She envied him his escape.
Across the table, Gavin Grant leaned back in his chair, his face flushed red beneath golden hair that fell carelessly across his forehead, his head tipped close to the ear of a warrior whose name she did not know. His laughter cracked through the hall, loud and coarse, ending in a bark that made several men turn. He lifted his hand in answer to them, knocking over his cup, ale slopping over his knuckles.
His gaze slid toward her.
“Best view in the hall,” he called, voice thick with drink, eyes sweeping over her in a way that lingered far too long for her comfort. “Worth the wait, I’d say.”
A few men laughed. One elbowed another. The serving girl nearest the table ducked her head and moved on.
Marsaili did not react.
She kept her eyes forward, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as though the words had passed somewhere behind her, unworthy of notice. She let the remark fall to the rushes like his spilled ale, already forgotten.
Ten days, she thought, with a steadiness that surprised even her. She had endured ten days of watching Gavin Grant drink himself into foolishness each night while she smiled and nodded and pretended this was bearable.
She kept her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap, her expression serene. It was a mask she had worn since arriving at Freuchie Castle. Since the morning her oldest brother Fionnlagh had clasped her shoulders and told her this marriage would save their people.
Years o’ raids and bloodshed, he had said, his dark eyes heavy with the weight of leadership only recently inherited.
I wouldnae ask if there was another way. This marriage can end the border feud, Marsaili. Ye can end it.
She understood, but it offered little comfort when she sat beside Gavin Grant and caught the sharp tang of ale on his breath as he leaned too near, his gaze lingering with an ease that made her skin tighten beneath her gown.
“More wine, me lady?”
Marsaili looked up to find a young serving girl hovering at her elbow, pitcher in hand. The girl could not have been more than fifteen, her eyes downcast, her movements careful. Marsaili recognized the wariness in her posture, the same wariness she herself felt.
“Nay, thank ye,” Marsaili said quietly, offering a small smile she hoped was reassuring.
The girl bobbed a curtsy and withdrew at once, her relief evident in the quickness of her retreat, and Marsaili reached for her cup, taking a measured sip of the watered wine, just enough to ease the dryness in her throat without dulling her awareness. Her gaze drifted then, skimming the press of bodies and torchlight with practiced detachment, passing over faces and movement, until it slowed and stilled of its own accord.
Laird Alasdair Grant stood near the far wall in quiet conversation with several of his men, his height setting him apart even in a crowded hall, his presence defined by the space that seemed to settle naturally around him. His broad shoulders carried the shape of years of battle, and his dark hair was cut short and plainly. When he turned his head, the firelight caught a faint scar tracing from just below his ear toward the corner of his mouth, a mark that lent his face a magnetic severity.
There was no effort in the way he held himself, no seeking of notice, yet her attention fixed all the same, drawn and held with a quiet insistence she had not invited. Where Gavin’s voice and gaze pressed at her without permission, demanding acknowledgment she refused to grant, Alasdair required none at all, commanding her awareness through stillness alone.
Marsaili became aware that she was watching longer than courtesy allowed. She lowered her gaze only after the realization took shape, lifting her cup again with steady hands.
Even then, her attention lingered.
The brothers shared blood and little else, moving through the same hall as their paths curved away from one another like opposing forces, and she found herself wondering when she ought to stop noticing the space Alasdair occupied, and why the thought of doing so came with a resistance she could not quite understand.
As though he felt the weight of her attention, Alasdair’s gaze lifted unhurried toward the high table, and for a brief, unguarded moment his eyes met hers.
They were the color of winter skies, cold and clear, and the contact struck deeper than she expected, something tightening low in her chest as if her breath had been checked without warning. His look held a sharp, measuring focus that made her acutely aware of herself, of the seat she occupied, of the bargain she represented in that hall.
She could not tell what passed through his expression then, whether the hardness she sensed was meant for her, but the weight of it lingered all the same, heavy enough that when he turned away and returned his attention to his men, the space he left behind felt abruptly altered.
Marsaili lowered her gaze an instant later than she should have, her heart beating fast, unsettled by the certainty that something had shifted, however briefly, and could not be undone.
She lowered her eyes before the sight could settle, smoothing her expression into something neutral as she reached again for her cup.
She felt the heavy rhythm of approaching steps cutting through the din and looked up in time to see Gavin bearing down on her at last, his stride uneven, his balance careless, the space at her side still conspicuously empty until he reached it.
That seat had been meant for him, but he had chosen ale and disrespect instead.
The chair scraped harshly as Gavin flung himself into it, landing with a graceless thud that sent a jolt through the table, and before she could draw a full breath he leaned toward her, crowding her space, the sharp bite of whisky rushing over her as his mouth curved in a smile meant to please himself.
Then, his hand fell on her thigh beneath the table.
Marsaili went rigid. The touch was intentional. His palm was hot through the fabric of her gown, fingers squeezing possessively, claiming what he believed was already his. Her heart kicked against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every instinct screamed at her to jerk away, to slap his hand aside, to make a scene that would echo through the hall.
But she had a terrifying suspicion that resistance would only make him worse.
She shifted in her seat by a fraction, careful and controlled, angling her body just enough to ease the pressure of his hand without drawing notice, her gaze steady ahead as though nothing had changed, as though her skin had not tightened beneath his grasp. Her face remained serene, as though his proximity meant nothing at all.
“Why dae ye pull away from me, lass?” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “We are tae be wed soon. Ye’ll need tae grow used tae closeness.”
Heat flooded Marsaili’s face—rage, white-hot and consuming. She swallowed it down like poison, forced her expression to remain calm. To anyone watching, they would appear as nothing more than a betrothed couple sharing quiet words, but Marsaili’s instincts knew there was nothing innocent about his words.
“Ye are shy,” Gavin continued softly, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But ye neednae be. A fortnight passes quickly, and then we shall grow more accustomed tae one another.”
Marsaili’s jaw tightened, but she kept her gaze forward.
She reached for her cup and took another sip of wine because it gave her hands something to do that was not wrapping around Gavin Grant’s throat.
A serving girl approached with a pitcher, moving to refill the cups at the high table. Gavin’s attention shifted immediately, his hand leaving Marsaili as he reached out to catch the girl’s wrist. The girl froze, eyes wide, the pitcher trembling in her grip.
“And what is yer name, lass?” Gavin asked, his voice dropping to what he likely believed was seductive. “Such bonnie eyes ye have.”
The girl’s smile was strained, practiced. “Thank ye, me laird. But I must finish me duties-”
Gavin pulled her closer. “Tell me yer name.”
Marsaili looked away. She could not watch this.
Her gaze searched for Alasdair Grant once more, but Gavin’s laugh rang out again, pulling her attention back. He had released the serving girl, who fled with relief written across her face. Now he was deep in conversation with the men around him, gesturing broadly with his cup.
“And I say marriage is a fine thing fer a man,” Gavin declared, his voice carrying just enough for nearby tables to hear. “A wife tae warm the hearth, tae manage the household…” He paused, taking a long drink, his eyes sliding to Marsaili with a look that made her skin crawl. “Tae provide all manner o’ comforts a man requires.”
The words were acceptable enough on the surface, but the way Gavin said them made Marsaili’s stomach turn.
Marsaili stood. The movement was smooth, graceful, giving no indication of the fury boiling beneath her skin.
“Me laird,” she said, her voice perfectly controlled. “I must retire. The hour grows late.”
Gavin turned to her, his expression shifting from surprise to petulance. “Already? But the night is young! Sit, lass. Enjoy the feast.”
It was a polite lie but it gave her an escape, and she seized it before Gavin could think of a reason to keep her at his side.
“As ye wish,” Gavin said, his hand reaching for hers. Marsaili stepped back before he could touch her, the movement quick enough to look like an accident. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he was too drunk to press the matter. “Rest well, wife-tae-be. I shall see ye soon.”
Chapter Two
Marsaili walked quickly through the cold corridors, her slippers whispering against the stone as she passed beneath tapestries depicting Grant victories in battles long past, their stitched figures looming in the torchlight. The guest wing lay far enough from the great hall that the noise thinned with every step, laughter and music fading to a dull, distant echo, and she welcomed the silence with a force that surprised her, her breath only beginning to steady once the shadows deepened and no voices followed.
She had been grateful for the distance on every night of her stay, but never more so than now, moving through the darkened passages with the weight of the evening still clinging to her skin, her pulse slow to settle despite the quiet closing in around her.
Her chambers were at the end of the corridor. A single door, heavy oak bound with iron. She pushed it open and stepped inside, letting the door close behind her with a solid thud that felt like a sanctuary.
“Me lady.”
Una, Marsaili’s maid since they were both girls, rose from the chair by the fire, setting aside her mending. She was a few years older than Marsaili, practical and steady, with brown hair tucked beneath a simple kerchief. Her presence here was one of the few comforts Marsaili had.
The room was warm at least, the fire in the hearth driving back the autumn chill that seeped through the stone walls. Candles flickered on the small table by the window. Marsaili’s nightgown lay across the bed, already warmed by proximity to the flames.
“The feast ended early fer ye, I see,” Una said, moving to help Marsaili with the lacings of her gown. Her fingers were quick and practiced, loosening the tight bindings that had had held Marsaili imprisoned in formal clothing since dawn.
“I could bear nay more o’ it,” Marsaili admitted quietly. There, with only Una to hear, she could allow some of the careful control to slip. “He grows worse each night.”
Una’s mouth tightened but she said nothing. What was there to say? They both knew what awaited Marsaili. Both knew there was no escape.
The gown fell away, leaving Marsaili in her linen shift. Una helped her into the nightgown, the fabric soft and worn from many washings. It was one of Marsaili’s own, brought from home. She held onto that small thing, that tiny piece of MacBain lands wrapped around her body.
“Will there be anything else, me lady?” Una asked.
“Nay, thank ye. Rest well.”
Una curtsied and gathered up the discarded gown. She moved toward the door, then paused and looked back. Her eyes were worried in the firelight.
“It will nae always be so difficult,” she said quietly. “Marriage is hard at first fer many women. But ye will adjust. Ye are strong, me lady. Stronger than ye ken.”
Marsaili nodded because Una needed to believe it, even though she herself did not.
Una left, closing the door softly behind her. The latch fell into place with a quiet click. Marsaili stood alone in the center of the room and felt the walls pressing in.
She moved to the table and began unpinning her hair. The dark chestnut curls fell around her shoulders in waves, released from the careful arrangement Una had created that morning. Marsaili’s fingers worked through the pins methodically, setting each one on the table with small sounds like dropped coins. When the last pin was removed, she shook her head slightly, letting her hair settle past her shoulders to the small of her back.
She caught sight of herself in the polished metal mirror propped on the table. Her reflection was distorted, wavering, but she could see enough. The shadows beneath her hazel eyes. The tightness around her mouth. The weariness that had settled into her bones.
Behind her, the door opened.
Marsaili did not turn immediately. She assumed it was Una returning with the nightly herbs she sometimes brought, the mixture of chamomile and valerian that helped Marsaili sleep. She reached for another hairpin, though all had already been removed.
“Ye may leave them on the table, Una,” she said. “Thank ye.”
But the footsteps that entered were wrong, too heavy and unsteady. The sound of boots rather than soft slippers.
Marsaili turned. Her breath caught in her throat.
Gavin Grant stood in her doorway. His blond hair was disheveled, his doublet unlaced, showing the linen shirt beneath. His eyes were glassy with drink, unfocused and bright. He swayed slightly as he pushed the door closed behind him. Marsaili heard the latch fall into place with a sound like doom.
“Did ye think tae escape me so easily, lass?” Gavin said, his words slightly slurred. He took a step toward her.
Marsaili moved back, putting the bed between them. “Ye should nae be here. Leave at once.”
“But I am here, am I nae?” He laughed, a wet, unpleasant sound. Another step. “And ye are tae be me wife.”
“In a fortnight,” she said sharply. “Nae tonight.”
His smile widened, showing too many teeth. “What difference daes it make? A fortnight, a sennight, a day?”
She turned away from him in disgust, unable to bear the sight of his leering face.
“We are tae be wed,” he said, his voice dropping lower as he moved closer. “I see nay harm in claiming what is already mine.”
Fear flooded Marsaili’s veins like ice water. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt. She backed away without thinking, her body moving before her mind could catch up. Her hip struck the table behind her. The metal mirror clattered, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.
She opened her mouth to command him out of her chambers. To scream for help. But her voice had fled. Terror had stolen it, left her mute and frozen.
This cannae be happening.
Gavin took a step toward her. Then another.
Marsaili’s voice returned in a rush as she stared at Gavin. “Get out.”
The words came out stronger than she expected, cutting through the silence like a blade. Gavin paused, surprise flickering across his face.
“Get out o’ me chambers,” Marsaili said again, forcing steel into her voice. “Ye are drunk. Leave now, before ye dae something ye will regret.”
Gavin laughed, the sound harsh and ugly. “Regret? What is there tae regret?” He took another step forward. “We are betrothed, lass. What happens between us is nay one’s concern but our own.”
Marsaili’s mind raced. The door was behind him, blocked. The window was too small and too high to provide escape. The only furniture between them was the small table and the bed. She grabbed the metal mirror from the table, holding it like a weapon.
“Stay away from me,” she said.
Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “Put that down.”
“Nay.” Marsaili backed around the table, keeping it between them. “Leave me chambers. Now.”
“Or what?” Gavin moved to follow her, circling the table slowly. “Ye will strike me with that toy? Go ahead, lass.”
Marsaili’s grip tightened on the mirror. Her whole body was shaking but she forced herself to stay calm, to think. She had to get past him to the door.
Gavin lunged.
Marsaili swung the mirror at his face. The edge caught his cheek, drawing blood. Gavin roared and stumbled back, one hand flying to his face. Marsaili darted toward the door, her bare feet silent on the stone floor.
Her hand touched the door latch.
She almost made it. Then Gavin’s hand closed around her arm and yanked her back. Marsaili cried out and twisted in his grip, trying to wrench free. But he was stronger, bigger, and the whisky had burned away whatever restraint he might have possessed.
“Ye little bitch,” Gavin snarled, his other hand reaching for her.
Marsaili brought her knee up hard between his legs. Gavin’s eyes went wide and his grip loosened just enough for Marsaili to tear free and run.
She fled through the door and into the corridor, her torn nightgown streaming behind her like a tattered banner. Her breath came in ragged gasps that burned her throat. Behind her, she could hear Gavin’s heavy footsteps, his cursing, the sound of him recovering and giving chase.
That part of the castle was empty at that hour. The feast still raged in the great hall on the opposite side, which meant the corridors near the guest wing were deserted. There was no one to hear her if she screamed.
She kept running, trying to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man chasing her.
Marsaili’s mind raced. Where could she go? The great hall was too far. So were her brother’s chambers. There was nowhere close that could be safe.
Gavin’s hand caught the back of her nightgown.
Marsaili felt the fabric pull tight, choking her. She twisted violently, heard the sound again of tearing cloth, and wrenched free. But the movement cost her balance. She stumbled, her hand catching the wall to steady herself.
His hands grabbed her shoulders and slammed her back against it. The impact of the stone wall drove the air from Marsaili’s lungs. Stars exploded across her vision. She opened her mouth to scream but Gavin’s hand clamped over it, cutting off the sound.
“Ye think ye can run from me?” he snarled, his face inches from hers. His breath was hot and sour with whisky. Blood still dripped from the scratches on his cheek where she had struck him with the mirror. “Ye are mine tae dae wi’ as I please.”
“Nay!” The word tore from her throat as she tried to crawl forward. “Get off me!”
Gavin dragged her back, his weight pressing down on her. Marsaili kicked and thrashed, her nails clawing at the stone, seeking purchase.
She screamed. It ripped through her chest and throat, raw and unshaped, the sound carrying her fear into the cold stone around her.
“Shut up!” Gavin’s hand found her mouth again, but Marsaili twisted her head and screamed again before he could silence her. The sound was raw, primal, everything she had been holding back for ten days finally breaking free.
David looked up from the ledger he’d been reviewing to find Malcolm standing in the doorway of his study, holding a sealed parchment. The royal crest was unmistakable—red wax stamped with the crown and thistle.
“Let me guess. Another invitation tae court that’s actually a summons in disguise.”
“I wouldnae ken, me laird. I havenae opened it.” But Malcolm’s expression suggested he had a pretty good idea of what it contained.
David set down his quill and held out his hand. “Let’s see what His Grace wants this time.”
The seal broke easily under his fingers. David unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the elegant script. With each line, his jaw tightened further.
Laird MacDonald,
It has come tae Our attention that ye remain unmarried despite having reached an age where such an alliance would benefit both yer clan and the realm. We have been patient, understanding that the responsibilities of leadership often leave little time fer personal matters.
However, we feel the time has come fer ye tae take a wife. An English wife, tae be precise. Such a union would strengthen the bonds between the two kingdoms and demonstrate yer loyalty tae the crown.
We request yer presence at Alnwick Castle one month hence tae discuss suitable arrangements.
Yer cooperation in this matter is expected and appreciated.
His Majesty’s Regent, John Stewart, Duke of Albany, acting on behalf of King James V
David read it twice more, his anger building with each pass.
“Well?” Malcolm’s voice was carefully neutral. “What daes it say?”
“The Duke of Albany wants me tae marry an English bride of his choosin’.” David’s voice was flat. “And by ‘wants,’ I mean he’s all but commanded it.”
“Ah.” Malcolm moved into the study, closing the door behind him. “That’s… unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate.” David barked out a laugh with no humor in it. “That’s one word fer it. Controllin’. Presumptuous. Another attempt tae turn Highland lairds into obedient English puppets, those are other words fer it.”
“Ye could refuse.”
“Could I?” David stood, moving to the window. Below, the courtyard bustled with activity—guards training, servants going about their work, the normal rhythm of castle life. “The Regent ‘requests’ me presence. ‘Expects’ me cooperation. That’s nae a request, Malcolm. That’s an order wrapped in polite language.”
“What will ye dae?”
“I dinnae ken yet.” David’s hands curled into fists against the windowsill. “But I’ll be damned if I let the Duke choose me wife like I’m some pawn tae be moved around his political game board.”
“Ye’ve already been moved around his political game board,” Malcolm pointed out. “The Covenant saw tae that.”
The words hit harder than David cared to admit. The Covenant, that agreement forged when he was a boy, binding him to four other Highland lairds in brotherhood. It had shaped his entire life. His training. His education. His responsibilities.
He’d never had a choice in any of it.
And now the Crown wanted to take away another choice. The most personal choice a man could make.
“The Covenant was different,” David said, though even he didn’t believe it. “That was about alliance. Protection. Survivin’ in a hostile world.”
“And this isnae?”
“This is about control. About the Crown showin’ it can dictate terms even tae Highland lairds who’ve served him loyally fer years.” David turned from the window. “I willnae dae it. I willnae marry some English rose they’ve picked out just tae prove I’m obedient.”
“Then what’s yer alternative?” Malcolm’s voice was pragmatic. “Ye cannae just ignore a royal summons. And ye cannae refuse tae marry without consequence. The Duke will see it as defiance.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what it should be.”
“Me laird.” Malcolm’s tone turned serious. “I ken ye’re angry. Ye have every right tae be. But ye need tae think carefully about this. Ye’re nae just a man anymore. Ye’re Laird of Clan MacDonald. Every decision ye make affects hundreds of people who depend on ye.”
“I ken that.” David slumped back into his chair. “Ye think I dinnae ken that? Every day I make decisions that could mean life or death fer this clan. And I accept that responsibility. But this—” He gestured at the letter. “This is different. This is personal.”
“Personal decisions are still political decisions when ye’re a laird.”
“Then maybe I’m tired of being a laird.” The words came out before David could stop them.
Malcolm’s eyebrows rose. “Ye dinnae mean that.”
“Ye think?” David ran a hand through his hair. “What if I dae? What if I’m tired of every aspect of me life being dictated by duty and politics and what’s good fer the clan? What if I want something that’s just mine?”
“Like what?”
“Like the right tae choose me own wife. Or nae marry at all. Or—” He stopped, recognizing he was spiraling. “I just ken I’m tired of being controlled.”
Malcolm was quiet for a long moment. Then he moved to the chair opposite David’s desk and sat, something he rarely did without invitation.
“I’m going tae tell ye something ye might nae want tae hear,” the steward said. “But ye need tae hear it anyway.”
“Go on.”
“Ye’re nae tired of being controlled. Ye’re tired of being alone.” Malcolm held up a hand to forestall David’s protest. “Let me finish. Ye’ve been laird fer eight years. Eight years of makin’ every decision, carryin’ every burden, with nay one tae share the weight with. Yer maither’s gone. Yer faither’s gone. Even yer uncle, terrible as he was, is gone. Ye’ve got the Covenant braithers, aye, but they have their own clans, their own problems. And ye’ve got me and Tristan and the others, but we’re nae—”
“Nae family,” David finished quietly.
“Aye. Nae family. And I think part of ye wants that. Wants someone who’s just yers. Someone who chooses ye, nae because of yer title or yer clan or yer responsibilities, but because of ye.”
David stared at his steward, feeling uncomfortably seen. “When did ye become a philosopher?”
“I’ve been watchin’ ye fer eight years, me laird. Ye learn things.” Malcolm stood. “So here’s me advice, fer what it’s worth. Go tae Alnwick. Meet this lady the Crown has chosen. And if she’s terrible, if she’s completely unsuitable, then ye’ll have grounds tae refuse without seemin’ like ye’re just being defiant.”
“And if she’s nae terrible?”
“Then maybe ye’ll find what ye’re lookin’ fer.” Malcolm moved toward the door. “Either way, ye need to go. Ignorin’ the summons will only make things worse.”
After Malcolm left, David sat alone in his study, the Duke’s letter on his desk like an accusation.
A month. He had a month to figure out what to do.
He could go to Alnwick, meet this mystery bride, and hope she was unsuitable enough to give him a legitimate reason to refuse. But what if she wasn’t? What if she was perfectly pleasant and appropriate and everything a Highland laird’s wife should be?
Could he refuse her then? Could he look the Duke in the eye and say no, he wouldn’t marry the woman specifically chosen to tie him closer to England?
And what would the consequences be? For him. For his clan.
David stood and moved to the window again. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Beautiful. Peaceful.
He’d protected the peace, the prosperity through careful politics, strategic alliances, and yes, sometimes through compromises that stuck in his throat.
But this felt different. This felt like one compromise too many.
A knock at the door interrupted his brooding. “Enter.”
Tristan stepped in, his expression concerned. “Malcolm said ye received another letter from the Crown.”
“Aye.” David gestured to the parchment on his desk. “Read it.”
Tristan picked up the letter, his expression growing darker with each line. When he finished, he set it down carefully, as though it might explode.
“Well,” he said finally. “That’s unfortunate.”
“That’s what Malcolm said.”
“Because it’s true.” Tristan moved to stand beside David at the window. “What are ye going tae dae?”
“I dinnae ken. Malcolm thinks I should go. Meet this woman. Hope she’s terrible.”
“And what dae ye think?”
David was quiet for a long moment. “I think I’m tired of being a good little laird who daes what he’s told. I think I’ve spent me entire life following rules set by other people. And I think maybe it’s time I made me own rules.”
“That’s a dangerous way tae think when dealin’ with kings.”
“Aye. It is.” David turned from the window. “But I mean it, Tristan. I’m done being controlled. By the Covenant. By politics. By the king. I’m done.”
“So what’s yer plan?”
“I dinnae have one yet. But I will.” David’s voice hardened with determination. “I’ll go tae Alnwick like the Regent wants. I’ll be polite and respectful. But I’ll nae marry whoever he’s chosen. I’ll find a way around it. I’ll find—”
He stopped, an idea beginning to form.
“What?” Tristan asked, recognizing the look on his friend’s face. “What are ye thinkin’?”
“The Duke wants me tae marry an English bride. That’s what he said in the letter, aye?”
“Aye.”
“But he dinnae specify which English bride.” David’s mind was racing now. “He said a lady of appropriate station. But that’s vague. That could be anyone.”
“David.” Tristan’s voice held warning. “What are ye plannin’?”
“I’m plannin’ tae give the Regent exactly what he asked for.” A smile—sharp and slightly reckless—crossed David’s face. “An English bride of appropriate station. Just nae the one he chose.”
“And how dae ye plan tae find this alternate bride in less than a month?”
“I dinnae ken yet. But I will.” David felt energy surge through him for the first time since receiving the letter. “I’ll find a way tae give the Duke what he wants while keepin’ control of me own choices. I just need tae think.”
“This is insane.”
“Probably.”
“Ye’re going tae cause a diplomatic incident.”
“Possibly.”
“And ye might end up making everything worse instead of better.”
“Aye. I might.” David turned to face his friend fully. “But I’d rather try and fail on me own terms than succeed at being obedient. I’ve been obedient me whole life, Tristan. And where has it gotten me? Alone. Controlled. Expected tae marry whoever the Regent thinks will be politically useful.”
“So ye’d rather marry a complete stranger of yer own choosin’ than a complete stranger of the king’s choosin’? How is that better?”
“Because it’s me choice.” David’s voice was fierce. “That’s how it’s better. If I’m going tae be forced intae marriage, at least let it be on me terms. At least let me choose the cage I’m walkin’ intae.”
Tristan studied him for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Ye’ve made up yer mind about this, havenae ye?”
“Aye. I have.”
“Then I suppose I’m coming with ye. Someone needs tae keep ye from daeing anything too stupid.”
“I thought ye said this whole plan was insane.”
“It is. But ye’re me laird and me friend. And if ye’re going tae dae something insane, ye’ll need backup.” Tristan’s smile was rueful. “Besides, this should at least be entertainin’.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They stood at the window together, watching darkness fall over Keppoch.
Maybe this wouldn’t work. Maybe he’d end up making everything worse. Maybe the Regent would be furious and there would be consequences David couldn’t predict.
But at least he’d be trying. At least he’d be fighting for some measure of control over his own life.
And sometimes, that was enough.
“So,” Tristan said after a while. “Any ideas where ye’re going tae find this English bride?”
“Nae yet. But I’ve got a month tae figure it out.” David’s smile turned slightly wild. “How hard can it be?”
Tristan just shook his head. “Ye’re going tae regret this.”
“Probably.” David looked at the letter on his desk one more time. “Right now, that’s worth more than playing it safe.”
He had no way of knowing, of course, that in two weeks’ time, he’d find himself at an auction near Berwick-upon-Tweed. That he’d see a woman with pale green eyes standing on a platform, bleeding and terrified but unbowed.
That he’d make the most impulsive decision of his life.
And that it would change everything.
But standing in his study on that evening, with the Duke’s letter burning a hole in his desk and defiance burning in his chest, David MacDonald made himself a promise.
Whatever happened, he would choose his own path. Make his own decisions. Control his own fate.
Even if it meant buying a bride at an auction. Even if it meant lying to the Crown. Even if it meant risking everything he’d built.
Because some things were worth the risk.
And freedom, true freedom, was one of them.
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Chapter One
Berwick-upon-Tweed, 1517
“Straighten your spine.” Her father’s voice cut through the silence. “You’ll fetch nothing if you slouch like a kitchen maid.”
Fetch. As though I am a hound he is bringing to market.
She straightened anyway, because she would not give these men the satisfaction of seeing her cowed. Through the carriage window, she counted the arriving conveyances. Six coaches, fine enough to bear noble crests she did not recognize. Eight men on horseback, their clothing marking them as wealthy. Scots, some of them, if the plaids half-visible beneath their cloaks were any indication.
Her father had been pleased about that. “Highland coin spends as well as English,” he’d said three days before, when he’d finally told her why they were making that journey.
Not that he’d used the word auction. He’d called it a “gathering of interested parties.” As though wrapping ugliness in silk made it any less vile.
She had learned the true nature of it by listening at doors, as she’d learned most things worth knowing in her father’s house. The servants whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear.
“Daughters sold to the highest bidder while their fathers drank wine and called it business.”
“I hear he is taking poor Lady Elinor there to be sold.”
Shocked at the servant’s words, she’d hurried to confront her father.
She had found him in his study, a glass of claret already in his hand though it was barely past noon. When she had knocked, he had not responded, neither had he looked up when she had entered.
“Father, I need to speak with you.”
“Then speak.” He turned a page, his finger tracing a column of figures marked in red. Debts, Elinor realized.
Her hands twisted in her skirts, but she kept her voice strong. “There are rumors that you mean to take me to an auction. That you intend to—” The words stuck in her throat like shards of glass.
“To sell you?” He looked up then, his expression utterly calm. “Yes.”
The simple confirmation struck harder than a blow. She had expected denials, anger at her eavesdropping, perhaps even shame. Not this casual acknowledgment.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely serious.” He took a long drink, his eyes never leaving her face. “We need coin, Elinor. Despite you blissfully indulging in your everyday luxuries, the estate is drowning in debt. The creditors are circling like vultures. And you are the only thing of value I have left.”
“Me?! I am your daughter!”
“You are an asset.” He set down his glass with deliberate care. “One I have fed and clothed for three and twenty years. It is time you provided a return on that investment.”
When she’d protested, his hand had cracked across her face so fast she hadn’t seen it coming.
“You will do as you’re told,” he’d said softly, “or I will drag you there in chains if I must.”
Her mother had stood in the hallway, pale and silent as a ghost. Their eyes had met. Her mother had looked away first. No help would come from that quarter. It never did.
Now, the manor loomed ahead, its stone façade grey and unwelcoming against the winter sky. Elinor’s hands were numb inside her gloves, partly from the cold and mostly from dread, she was sure.
After three days, the bruise on her cheek had faded to a dull yellow. She’d covered it with powder that morning, her hands steady despite the tremor in her chest.
Let them see a lady, not a victim. Let them see someone worth more than the coin they’d pay.
Though what difference it would make, she did not know.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” Her father’s voice cut into her thoughts, startling her back to the present. His breath carried across the small carriage distance, reeking of stale wine. “You’ll smile. You’ll curtsy. And you’ll go with whichever man pays the most. We need the coin, girl, so do your own part and save the family estate.”
He’d said it as though she should be grateful. As though being sold like a mare at Smithfield was an honor she didn’t deserve.
The carriage lurched to a stop, jolting her forward. Her father merely gave her a cutting glance before descending first, not bothering to offer his hand. He never did. Elinor gathered her skirts and stepped down onto the frozen ground, her eyes sweeping the manor’s entrance. Light spilled from the windows. Men’s voices drifted out: laughter, the clink of glasses. The sounds of commerce.
Do any of you have daughters? Will you think of them tonight while you stand in rooms like this, deciding which girl is worth the most coin?
“Lord Royse!”
The voice made her stomach clench before she even turned to see who spoke it.
Sir Edmund Langley strode toward them, his crimson cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, and his blue eyes were fixed on her father with an intensity that made her take an instinctive step back.
Not fear. Calculation. Edmund Langley angry was Edmund Langley unpredictable.
“Langley.” Her father’s tone was flat, dismissive. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“Did you not?” Edmund’s smile was sharp as a blade. “When I heard whispers of this gathering, I thought surely I had misheard. Surely Lord Thomas Royse would not be so foolish as to parade his lovely daughter before every fortune-hunter and titled scoundrel north of London.”
“My affairs are no concern of yours.”
“They became my concern when you refused my suit.” Edmund’s gaze shifted to Elinor, and she met it without flinching.
Let him see that she was not some trembling thing to be fought over.
“I offered marriage to your daughter, my lord. An honorable arrangement. Alliance with my family’s name and resources. And you spat on it.”
“Your offer was inadequate.”
“Inadequate?” Edmund’s voice rose, his control slipping. “I offered you a generous settlement, Royse. Lands in Sussex. Connections at court. A bride price that would have cleared half your debts, with the remainder held in trust for your daughter’s security. What more could you possibly want?”
Elinor’s chest tightened. So that was why her father had refused. The trust. The protections Edmund’s marriage contract would have provided, protections that would have kept the money from her father’s hands.
Her mother had wept with relief when Edmund came calling, had spoken of it as deliverance. But Elinor had seen the way Edmund looked at her. Like a possession he intended to own completely. Marriage to him would have been trading one prison for another.
“Your offer,” her father said coldly, “came with too many conditions. Too many restrictions on how the funds could be used.”
“Restrictions meant to protect your daughter!”
“I don’t need you to protect her. I need coin.” Her father’s fingers tightened on her elbow. “And this gathering will provide it without your meddling contracts and trust provisions.”
The truth settled over Elinor like a wet blanket. Her father saw only limits. The portions of the bride price he could not immediately touch. The funds set aside for her use rather than his.
This gathering offered no such protections. Just a sale, clean and simple. Here, he could sell her outright and walk away with a purse heavy enough to pay his debts and keep him in wine for years, while she became the property of whoever paid could afford his price.
Edmund’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “You would sell her like livestock rather than see her properly wed?”
“I would see her placed where she brings the greatest advantage to her family.” Her father’s hand closed around her elbow, fingers digging through the fabric of her sleeve hard enough to bruise. “Now step aside. We have business within.”
Chapter Two
“No.”
The single word was spoken quietly, but it stopped her father mid-step. Edmund moved to block their path, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Elinor’s pulse quickened. Men and their pride. Men and their swords. And she would likely be caught between them.
“You will not take her inside,” Edmund said.
“I will do as I please with my own daughter.”
“She should be mine.” Edmund’s composure cracked, and something wild showed through. Something possessive that made Elinor’s skin crawl. “I made my intentions clear. You had no right.”
“I have every right!” Her father’s grip tightened until she could feel each individual finger pressing into her arm. “She is mine to give or sell as I see fit. You had your chance, Langley, and your purse was not heavy enough. Now move.”
He yanked her forward. She stumbled, catching herself against his arm.
“No!” Edmund lunged forward, his hand reaching for her other arm. “You’ll not—”
Her father jerked her back. Edmund’s fingers caught her wrist, closing around it like a manacle.
And suddenly she was trapped between them, pulled in opposite directions.
“Let her go!” Edmund snarled.
“Release her, you fool!” her father countered.
They were speaking in loud voices now, their faces inches apart, and neither seemed to notice or care that they were tearing her apart between them. Her father’s nails dug crescents into her skin. Edmund’s grip was iron around her wrist. She tried to pull away from both, tried to wrench herself free, but they were too strong, too focused on each other to acknowledge her struggle.
“She is not a prize to be auctioned!” Edmund’s voice was righteous, as though he were her savior rather than another man trying to possess her.
“She is whatever I say she is!”
“Stop it. You’re hurting me!”
But her father responded by yanking hard. She pitched forward, her feet slipping on the frozen ground. Edmund pulled back, refusing to release her. Her head snapped to the side.
And then her father’s fist landed hard across her face.
The blow was not meant for her. She knew that in the split second before pain exploded across her mouth. He had been reaching for Edmund, trying to shove him away, but she had been between them. His ring, the heavy gold signet he wore on his right hand, caught her lip, tearing the delicate skin.
She tasted blood at the exact moment the world went very quiet. Not silent. She could still hear Edmund’s ragged breathing, her father’s muttered curse. But distant, as though she were underwater.
Both men froze, their hands still locked around her arms. Warmth trickled down her chin. She raised her free hand to her mouth, her gloved fingers coming away dark and wet.
“Elinor…” her father began, his voice taking on that false note of concern he used when servants were watching.
She looked at him. Not at his mouth forming empty apologies, but at his eyes. At the calculation already returning to them, sharp and cold as winter. He was not sorry. He was assessing. Wondering if the split lip would lower her value. Wondering if he should take her inside now or wait for the bleeding to stop.
A wave of hatred so pure it nearly stole her breath rolled through her chest. She was about to tell him what she thought of his actions, when the sharp voice sounded from behind them.
“Unhand her.”
Deep, steady, and utterly calm in the midst of this chaos.
All three of them turned.
The man stood only five paces away. Tall and lean, with dark hair tied back and a face that might have been handsome if it were not so carefully expressionless. He wore dark clothing, practical rather than ornamental, and though she could see no crest or colors, everything about him spoke of authority. From the set of his shoulders to the way his hand rested near his sword. His eyes, black as a winter sky, moved from her father to Edmund to the blood on her chin.
When his gaze met hers, she saw something flicker there. Recognition, perhaps. Or anger on her behalf, though that seemed unlikely from a stranger.
“I said unhand her.” His accent marked him as Scottish. One of the men her father had been so eager to attract.
“This is none of your concern,” her father snapped, though his voice lacked its earlier certainty. Even he could sense danger when it stood before him.
The stranger’s gaze did not waver. “A lady is bleeding. That makes it me concern.”
“She is my daughter.”
“And that excuses ye striking her, daes it?” The words were soft, but they cut like winter wind through wool.
Edmund finally released her wrist, though whether from shame or strategy, Elinor could not tell. Her father’s grip loosened but did not let go entirely, his fingers still pressing into her elbow as though she might flee if given the chance.
I might. If I had anywhere to run.
“I did not mean it. It was an accident.” Her father’s explanation sounded hollow even to her own ears.
“Aye. I’m certain it was.” The stranger took a step closer, his movements deliberate and controlled. His eyes found hers again, and this time she saw something unexpected in them. Not pity. She could not have borne pity. But a question… and oddly a flash of concern. “Are ye hurt, me lady?”
The simple courtesy of it nearly undid her.
When had anyone ever asked her that? Not her father, who had caused it. Not Edmund, who claimed to want to protect her. Not her mother, who was too afraid of her husband to show any type of alliance to Elinor.
Not once in all the years she had lived beneath her father’s roof had anyone asked if she was hurt, as though her pain mattered, as though she were a person whose suffering deserved acknowledgment.
Her throat was too tight to answer. She pressed her handkerchief to her lip, tasting linen mixed with copper, and tried to gather the scattered pieces of her composure.
“Who the devil are you?” Edmund demanded, apparently recovering himself enough to remember his pride.
The stranger’s attention shifted to him, slow and deliberate as a drawn blade. “Someone who daesnae like seein’ a lady bleed.”
His gaze returned to her father, and Elinor saw Edmund stiffen at the quiet authority in his voice.
“This is none of your concern.”
“It is now.” The stranger’s voice remained level, almost pleasant, but there was steel beneath it.
“Release her.”
“I will not be ordered about by some Highland savage.”
A second man appeared at the Scotsman’s shoulder. Sandy-haired, younger, with a soldier’s build and an expression that suggested he had seen his laird do inadvisable things before and expected to see him do so again.
“David,” he said, very quietly. “What are ye daeing?”
“Preventing a lady from being mauled in the street, Tristan.” His tone was cool, the type that accompanied a man who was capable of anything.
“The auction is about tae start.”
“Aye. I’m aware.”
Tristan looked between them all and sighed like a man whose worst suspicions had been confirmed. “This is madness.”
“Perhaps.” David’s eyes––for that it seemed was his name––never left her father. “But I’ll not walk past a woman bleeding while two men fight over her like dogs over a bone.”
“How dare you.” Edmund started forward, his hand moving to his sword.
The Scotsman’s hand moved to his own blade. He did not draw it. He did not need to. The message was clear enough, written in the set of his shoulders and the steadiness of his gaze.
Edmund stopped.
In the silence that followed, Elinor heard the manor door open. A servant stood in the doorway, his face carefully blank in the way of all good servants who had learned not to see their betters’ shame.
“My lords,” he said, his voice carrying across the frozen drive. “The proceedings are about to commence. If you would care to come inside?”
Her father’s grip shifted to something almost gentle. A mockery of paternal concern for the servant’s benefit. “Come, Elinor. We mustn’t be late.”
She looked at the door. At the light spilling from within, warm and false as her father’s sudden solicitude. At all the men gathering inside to bid on flesh and futures, to purchase women as though they were bolts of cloth or parcels of land.
Then she looked at the Scotsman who had asked if she was hurt.
His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes steadied her. Some flicker of understanding.
He sees me. I’m not property or prize to him. He sees a person.
It was such a small thing, and yet it felt like the first kindness she had been offered in years.
She lowered her handkerchief from her lip, lifted her chin, and met her father’s eyes with all the cold fury she had learned to hide beneath compliance.
Without a word, she turned and walked toward the door.
The horse jolted over another stone in the road, and ten-year-old Logan Mackintosh gripped the saddle with stiff fingers. His knuckles were white under the dirt, scraped raw from holding on too tight. The wind stung his eyes, though he wasn’t sure if the burning came from the cold or from everything he had left behind two mornings prior.
He didn’t look back.
There was nothing behind him now; not the small cottage by the river, not the soft lullabies his grandmother—or at least the woman he had come to think of as his grandmother—used to hum to get him to sleep. Nothing but the echo of her quiet sob as she placed him on the horse and whispered, “Be strong, me laddie. Be so much stronger than they expect.”
Now, ahead rose the stone towers of Mackintosh Castle.
It looked like a monster crouched on the hillside, massive, cold, and ancient. Smoke poured out of the chimney, curling into the gray sky like a warning. Logan swallowed hard at the sight of it.
Was that where he would spend the rest of his life? Would his mother be there? Would he finally get to see her again?
His escort, a stern clansman named Murray, finally slowed his horse.
“There,” Murray said. “Dinnae gape, lad. That’s yer home now.”
Logan stared, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. “Will… will he like me?”
Murray didn’t answer at first. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose.
“He daesnae need tae like ye. He needs an heir.”
Logan’s stomach knotted. He already knew the truth, of course. Every whisper the villagers had thrown behind his back, all the things his mother tried to shield him from, came crawling back to him now.
Bastard boy.
Daughter’s shame.
No rightful place in the clan.
Yet here he was, riding straight into the belly of it, because the old laird—his grandfather—suddenly needed him.
The thought made Logan’s small jaw clench with a fury he could hardly contain or express. Never before had he felt the likes of it; never before had he felt so wronged.
The horses clattered across the drawbridge. Men on the walls glanced down, most of them frowning in open confusion, and Logan felt their stares like needles. When they were past the gates, Murray swung off his horse and motioned for Logan to do the same.
His legs trembled when his boots hit the ground.
Inside the courtyard, noise erupted from every direction—smiths hammering metal, women hauling baskets, guards shouting orders. It was too loud, too big. Logan wanted nothing more than to shrink into himself, not used to the sounds of a keep. His only company back home had been the twittering of birds, the bubbling brook by the cottage. Only when he visited the village did he hear any noise, but even then, it had seemed to him less condensed, more spread out. Nothing like this cacophony that he would now have to get used to.
“Come,” Murray urged, pushing him lightly between the shoulder blades.
They crossed the stone yard toward the largest set of doors. Logan felt dozens of eyes following him, judging, measuring, deciding.
At the doorway, a pair of tall guards pulled it open and Murray stepped inside without hesitation. Logan followed, his small footsteps echoing in the vast hall. The room was enormous—high rafters, banners hanging from the beams, a great hearth roaring with fire. But none of that held Logan’s attention.
Only the man on the dais did; Laird Mackintosh, his grandfather.
He was not towering, nor particularly broad, but he radiated an authority that filled every corner of the hall. His silver hair was tied back neatly, and his expression was carved from stone, as though his face had remained frozen for years. His eyes, pale and sharp, focused on Logan with a cold, unimpressed sweep.
“So,” the old laird said, voice like gravel. “The lad.”
Logan stiffened instinctively. He knew he was being scrutinized, and he knew he was falling short, though he could not possibly tell what it was the laird was looking for.
Murray bowed. “Aye, me laird. I brought him with all haste, as ye requested.”
“Aye,” mumbled the laird. “Well, fer a bastard, he’s nae so bad. At least he resembles his maither an’ nae his faither.”
Logan’s cheeks burned hot, and he lowered his gaze, blinking fast. He had not seen his mother for a long time—not since his grandfather had allowed her to return home, welcoming her back even when he wouldn’t welcome her son. Now, he was desperate to see her, but he refrained from asking. He was quite certain the question would only get him in trouble.
As he stood there, before the dais, in silence, the laird rose slowly from his chair.
“Look at me, lad.”
Logan did. He forced his chin up, though his throat tightened and his eyes burned hot.
The laird walked down the steps with measured, heavy footsteps. He circled Logan once, like a man evaluating livestock and Logan felt each pass like a cold wind.
“Ye have his eyes,” the laird murmured. “A pity.”
Logan clenched his fists so tight his nails bit his palms, but he said nothing.
“Yer faither?” the laird asked sharply. “Did she ever tell ye who he was?”
Logan swallowed hard. “Nay, me laird.”
“I see.” The laird’s mouth thinned. “Well, I ken who he is. Though I dinnae ken what use it would be tae ye tae find out. Better tae think ye’re some stableboy’s son.”
Murray shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Next to him, Logan kept his spine straight. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t.
So everyone kens who me faither is but me.
The laird studied him again before finally stepping back.
“Whether ye are a bastard or nae, the clan needs blood o’ me blood as heir. Ye will be trained in fightin’, strategy, diplomacy, an’ ye willnae fail. Understand?”
“Aye, me laird,” Logan whispered.
“Louder.”
“Aye, me laird!”
The old laird returned to his seat, waving a dismissive hand. “Murray, take him tae a chamber. Nae the guest rooms, he’s nae guest. Put him in the east wing with the squires. He’ll earn any comfort he receives here.”
Murray bowed again and nudged Logan toward the exit. Logan took three steps before the laird spoke once more.
“An’ lad.”
Logan froze, turning slightly to face the old man. The laird’s expression remained empty, icy, like he was staring into the undecipherable depths of a lake
“Ye may carry me name but dinnae expect me affection. Prove yer worth or ye will be replaced the moment a better heir presents himself.”
The words struck harder than a blow but Logan only bowed his head.
“Aye, me laird.”
Then he allowed himself to be led away. Murray guided him through corridors, taking turn after turn until Logan didn’t know where he was and had no hope of finding his way back on his own. And then, just as he began to wonder how far they still had to go, they stopped in front of a plain, wooden door.
The chamber Murray led him to was small, cold, and bare save for a straw-stuffed mattress and a wooden chest. The window was a slit in the wall with no view, other than a strip of gray sky.
“This is yers,” Murray said gruffly.
Logan nodded. The man hesitated, then rested a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Ye’ll have a hard road here, lad. But roads change if ye walk them long enough.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “An’ some men soften with age.”
Logan wasn’t convinced, but he nodded anyway. When Murray left, Logan sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaling shakily. The hallways were quiet now. His heart hammered too loudly in the silence.
He pulled his knees to his chest, staring at the tiny window. He had never felt as small before, as forgotten and irrelevant. Even his own mother hadn’t come to see him, and his grandfather had dismissed him so easily.
But under the fear, a spark simmered—a fierce, stubborn ember.
He would prove himself—not to win the old laird’s love or to erase the stain of being born without a name.
Not even to have his revenge.
But because he refused to let that castle swallow him whole. Someday, he promised himself, he would walk those halls with his back straight, with pride, with loyalty earned, not forced.
Someday, he would make that place his.
He lay down, his yes burning, and whispered into the cold air, “I’ll be strong. Just like ye said.”
His grandmother couldn’t hear him there, but he wished the message would find her either way.
Outside, the wind swept across the hills of Clan Mackintosh, carrying the promise of a future neither the boy nor the clan could yet imagine. And inside, Logan shivered in the cold, hugging his knees to his chest, with nothing but the howling of the wind for company.
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Chapter One
Spring 1690, on the road between Castle Keppoch and Achnacarry
Something is wrong.
Sofia MacDonald leaned over the side of the small, shallow-water ship she and her guards had hired for the crossing from Loch Lochy and stared quizzically at the currents and the shoreline that formed a small edge in the center of the horizon. Her gaze flicked up to the sails, flapping in a moderate breeze, then to the helmsman standing by the rudder. To the untrained eye, or the unobservant one, everything was as it should be.
Sofia, however, was neither untrained nor unobservant. As such, she was quite aware that the boat was drifting from the course she had requested. She had specifically requested a straight passage from Gairlochy across the loch to the fishing village of Killcarrigan, which was less than a day’s ride from the gates of Achnacarry Castle, the seat of Clan Cameron and home of her sister Catherine and her husband, Lord Aiden Cameron.
The boat had started out on that course, but now it was drifting on a diagonal path that would land them well out of Cameron territory. The change was subtle, but Sofia was not a fool, and she was well aware that the territory outside of her new kin-by-marriage’s lands was fraught with contention and enemies. The question was why.
“Me lady?” Tristan, her guard for the journey, stepped up beside her. “Is aught amiss?”
“We are drifting off course, and I dinnae ken why. Have ye any idea?” Tristan was familiar with the passage between Keppoch Castle and Achnacarry Castle. He would know if there was a reason for taking a circuitous route rather than the shortest path across the loch.
“Nay. I’ve seen nay sign o’ storms, or hard winds, an’ the water is clear enough – there’s nay shallows or submerged growth tha’ might hull the boat.” Tristan frowned. “I dinnae ken why we might be goin’ off course, but I’ll ask the captain, if ye wish.”
“Please.” It might be naething, but there was a warning ache in Sofia’s stomach that suggested something was amiss, and she had learned long ago not to dismiss such warnings.
Tristan nodded and made his way toward the foredeck. Sofia trailed behind him, curious to know what the captain of the boat might say in regard to their current situation.
The captain was a grizzled older Highlander, with hands roughened by work and weather, and the tartan of the Cameron clan decorating the sash across his chest. He turned inquisitive eyes in Tristan’s direction as the guard stepped up beside him. “Me laird? Is there somethin’ wrong? Daes the lady need aught?”
“Tha’s what I’m wonderin’.” Tristan tipped his head and regarded the captain with a cool, assessing gaze that Sofia had seen make younger warriors stiffen in their boots. “I want tae ken why we’re driftin’ off course, away from the Killcarrigan landin’ me lady asked ye tae make fer.”
The captain scoffed, adopting an expression of bemusement that didn’t quite hide the sudden tension in his shoulders, or the sharpening of his gaze as it flicked in Sofia’s direction. “Och, lad, I dinnae ken what ye mean. We’re driftin’ with the currents an’ in the right direction, sure enough. Mayhap land-walkers like ye an’ the lady might be confused, but trust an old water-hand tae ken what he’s about. We’re on course, an’ we’ll make Killcarrigan in good time.”
“Will we?” Tristan’s voice was bland, but Sofia was in a good position to note the tightness in his shoulders. She edged forward. Tristan was a good man, but he also had a volatile temper and little tolerance for anyone who might lie to him or treat him like a fool. The captain’s answer was exactly the type of response to stoke his temper to life, even if the captain himself didn’t notice.
“O’ course. Tae an old lake-dweller like meself, who’s captained a vessel on these waters fer years, there’s all manner o’ subtle landmarks. An’ o’ course, any man can read a compass.”
“Aye. An’ mine says we’re goin’ in the wrong direction.” Tristan’s voice was sharper now, and Sofia edged closer, knowing a confrontation was likely to erupt any moment. She wanted answers, but not if trying to get them put all of them in danger.
“Well, lad, all I can say is tha’ mayhap yer compass is broken. They dae go out o’ true sometimes.”
“Mayhap. But I dinnae think tha’ is the case.” That was all Tristan said, his voice soft and deadly, before he launched himself forward, a dirk appearing in his hand like magic as he shoved the captain up against the nearest rigging. “Land-walker I might be, but I’ve made this journey afore, many a time, an’ I ken the currents and the water well enough. We’re off course, an’ ye’ll be tellin’ me why, or I’ll put a dagger in yer throat, or yer gut.”
“Tristan, wait…” The warning came too late, as chaos erupted on the foredeck.
A sailor spotted the dirk in Tristan’s hand and lunged forward with a shout. Tristan slapped him aside with easy confidence, but that movement was enough for the captain to pull free of Tristan’s grasp and roar out “Treachery! Thieves! They’re tryin’ tae kill me an’ tak’ o’er the boat! They’re likely tae kill us all! Stop them!”
“Soldiers tae me! Protect the lady!” Tristan’s answering shout galvanized the guards, even as he tried to return to Sofia’s side, but it was too little, and too late. The sailors were up in arms, abandoning their tasks to pick up whatever weapons they could find. Those sailors who had not been working came boiling out of the small below-decks space, armed with knives, pikes, small axes and cudgels.
In seconds, Sofia’s guards were embroiled in a pitched battle with the sailors manning the small boat. The numbers were uneven, in favor of the sailors, but far worse, in Sofia’s opinion, was the terrain. Her guards were unused to fighting on the unsteady surface of an unmoored ship, whereas the sailors were in their element.
Sofia grabbed one of the steerage poles, ready to defend herself. A sailor lunged at her, clearly hoping to take her as a hostage to force Tristan and the other three guards to surrender. Sofia hit him in the gut with an awkward swing of the pole and knocked him down, then shoved clumsily at another man who darted in her direction.
The second man went down, but not before a third managed to catch her in a vise-like grip, pinning her arms to her sides. Sofia thrashed and tried to hit him with the pole, but he was far too close, and his control soon allowed another man to step in close and wrench the pole from her hands.
She looked up just in time to see Tristan fall, stabbed in the chest, by the captain. The last of her guards succumbed a second later, toppling over the rail of the ship with a faint groan, blood streaming from what was most certainly a fatal wound.
She was alone. She fought back tears as the captain approached her. “Why would ye do this? I paid ye fairly.”
“Aye. But nae as much as the man who paid us tae deliver ye tae the coastline of Clan Grant’s territory.” A cruel smirk twisted the captain’s mouth. “’Twould have been better fer ye an’ yer men if ye’d never realized the boat was driftin’, but since ye did…”
He chuckled, and the sound was echoed by the sailors. Sofia bit the inside of her cheek and glared at him, unwilling to show her fear, or her sorrow for Tristan and his men. She would not give them that satisfaction.
After a moment, the captain turned away. “Bind her hands and secure her tae the aft rail.”
Sofia tried to struggle, but she was outmatched. Two men dragged her forward and pushed her to knees. One of them held her, and the other bound her wrists with a length of rope from the deck, which was then secured to the rail, pulled short enough that Sofia couldn’t rise to her feet without being horribly off balance.
For several long moments, all she could do was sit, huddled by the rail, her mind gone numb with shock and pain. Tristan’s face as he fell filled her thoughts, and Sofia swallowed back bile. She had seen her share of violence, but the coldness of the captain’s betrayal and the murder of her guards made her feel ill. Sofia breathed deeply and forced herself to focus on her situation.
She was a prisoner. Her allies were either dead or unable to help her. Unless she could find some way to escape, she would be delivered to the enemies of her family, to be used against her loved ones. She could not allow that to happen.
Chapter Two
The first thing Sofia did was attempt to free her hands from their bindings. Unfortunately, the sailors who had bound her had done their job well, with all the skill a sailor might be expected to have. The knots were beyond her ability to loosen, and the rope was secure enough that there was no chance of slipping free of it.
Nor were there any sharp objects nearby that could be used to cut the rope or fray it enough that her strength might snap it. In fact, the sailors had been dutiful about clearing away anything that she might have used to improve her situation.
Sofia swallowed against a feeling of despair.
If nay one kens what has happened, if I simply disappear… me sisters will search fer me, but even so… it might be days afore they guess me fate. Besides, who kens what me captor intends? What can I dae?
She was still trying to think of some way to escape, when a distant splash caught her attention. Curious, Sofia levered herself upright as far as she could, to peer over the ship’s rail.
There was another craft approaching, traveling on a course that would lead them within two boat-lengths of the shallow-bottomed ship she was held prisoner on. Hope surged through Sofia’s veins like a draught of whiskey. If she could just attract the attention of someone on that boat.
She waited until the other boat came closer, then grabbed the rail with her hands and shouted. “Help! Help! I’m bein’ tak’n prisoner! I’m being abducted! Help me! Please! Someone help me! These men are tryin’ tae steal me from me family! Help!”
There was a flash of movement, and for a moment, she dared hope… and then one of the crewmen strode up and shook her, before cuffing her on the back of the head and snarling with a voice like a wolf’s growl “Shut yer mouth, ye mad harpy, or we’ll shut it fer ye!”
His voice carried easily across the water, and Sofia saw the men on the other boat stiffen. Then the oarsman who had looked up turned back to his oar and her hope died, drowned like a candle wick doused by a bucket of water.
They hadn’t heard her. Or perhaps, they hadn’t understood her. Sound carried strangely over water, or so she had been told. Or perhaps the men of the other craft had been unable or unwilling to challenge the sailors on the larger craft.
Sofia forced the thought away before it could sink in and bring her true despair.
There were many reasons they might not have turned aside, but that was only one craft. The path they traveled across Loch Lochy was a well-used waterway. There would be others. Sofia settled in to wait, swallowing to ease the ache in her throat that came from shouting.
Within half a candle-mark, she heard splashing again. She peered between the rails of the craft. The boat appeared to be further from her own than the previous encounter, but even so, Sofia raised her voice. “Help me! These men are stealin’ me from me kinfolk! Help! Please! They’ve murdered me friends! Please… someone! Anyone! Help me!”
There was no sign that anyone had even noticed her cries this time, and Sofia felt her stomach clenching, her heart almost leaden with despair. Why was no one listening? Even if they could not hear her clearly, surely they could discern the sounds of someone in distress. Why did no one attempt to aid her?
Twice more, boats passed by her own, and twice, Sofia did her best to draw attention, struggling against her bonds and making as much noise as possible. Both times, her efforts were met with silence and disappointment.
I will not give up. I will struggle, and if God grants me opportunity, I will fight, and I will find a way tae escape.
After the last boat had passed, the captain came stalking over. “Enough o’ yer racket, lass.” He bent and seized her chin in a cruel grip. “These are neutral waters, girl, an’ there’s nary a man who will cause trouble with another, fer fear o’ upsettin’ the balance o’ power an’ bringin’ down trouble on his clan. All yer antics dae is weary yer throat, damagin’ yer value.”
He bent closer, his hot, stinking breath wafting across her face, underscoring the casual menace of his words. “I willnae tolerate any more o’ havin’ me boat shakin’ with yer twistin’ about. The next time ye misbehave, ‘twill go ill with ye. Ye’re at me mercy, lass, so think long an’ hard afore ye vex me further.”
With that, he released her face, then bent to tighten her bonds, leaving Sofia with aching cheeks and a pounding heart. Fear filled her blood, making her head ache with terror at the thought of what the captain and his men might do to her, if she pressed them too far.
One of the sailors came over and produced a filthy rag, which he then twisted into a gag and forced between her lips. Sofia clenched her teeth behind it and tossed her head to make it as difficult as possible for him to gag her, retching as the taste of tar and brackish water filled her mouth, the smell thick in her nostrils.
Sofia felt tears in her eyes and hurriedly ducked her head to wipe them away, using the opportunity to pull the gag loose by clenching it with her knees until she was sure she could spit it out and free herself at a moment’s notice. The sailors might think she was still gagged, but she would wait until the best moment to use her freedom to her advantage.
For a moment she wondered if perhaps it would be better tae wait she had been set on dry land, to then try to make her escape?
But a moment later, Sofia shook her head, anger replacing fear. Whoever had hired the captain and bribed him to go off course, they had clearly planned this kidnapping well. They would have men waiting to take custody of her, and those men would likely be as cautious as the captain, if not more so. She could not sit back and hope to find an opportunity on land, in the hands of her actual abductors.
Even if it meant risking the wrath of captain and crew, perhaps being beaten, or even keelhauled, she would continue her actions and pray for some sort of aid.
Even as she shored up her resolve, another boat came into sight. This one was a shallow-bottomed craft like her own, but smaller. There, standing by the railing near the rudder, stood a tall man, dressed in simple clothing, cloak and hood wrapped close against the chill.
The craft was on a course almost identical to theirs, and Sofia felt her heart jump in her chest as she realized the boats would come within mere feet of each other – perhaps no more than an oar’s length apart. It was the closest any craft had come yet.
She readied herself, steadying her nerves. As soon as she deemed the boat close enough, Sofia yanked the gag down to her throat, shoved herself upright as far as her bonds would allow, and screamed at the top of her lungs, so loudly her throat felt scraped raw by the force of her words. “Help me! Please, help! These men have murdered me friends, an’ they’re stealin’ me away! Please! I’ve been kidnapped! Help me!”
Time seemed to stop as the man looked up, revealing gray eyes, surrounded by the rugged, scarred countenance of a warrior, and a stern, angular face framed by dark, wind tousled hair. Their eyes met.
Then a crew man grabbed her by the shoulder and wrenched her around, before delivering a stunning blow to her right cheek, hard enough to send Sofia crashing to the deck. “Enough o’ yer caterwaulin!”
Sofia cradled her throbbing jaw, tears and flickering lights dancing in her eyes as she breathed through the pain. The boat moved away, and Sofia heard a splash, as if the man – or perhaps one of the sailors behind her, had thrown something overboard. Anguish filled her.
He had noticed her. She was sure the man had seen her. And yet…
A shadow flickered at the far end of the boat. Sofia blinked, then froze, watching as a man slipped over the aft deck of the boat, slipped on boots and belt, and started stealthily toward her.
It was the man from the other boat, the man whose eyes she’d met. Water was dripping from the ends of his dark hair and plastering his shirt to his well-muscled body. His movements were quick and quiet, graceful as a cat’s as he slid across the deck like an errant shadow. There was a long dirk in his hand, and his intense grey eyes were focused on her as he crept stealthily forward toward her.
The blood came first—not his own, not yet—splashing hot across Euan’s face as the sword cleaved through the man beside him.
He was six years old. He should have been in the keep, safe behind stone walls. Instead, he stood frozen on the field at Loch Eilein, watching men die.
“Stay close tae me, lad!” His father’s voice cut through the din of battle, sharp with command and fear. Laird Murtagh MacLeod never showed fear.
Euan tried to obey. His small legs pumped beneath him as he stumbled after his father’s broad back, but the ground was slick with mud and worse things. The clash of steel rang in his ears, drowning out thought. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The treaty talks were meant to bring peace between the clans—MacLeod, MacKinnon, MacDonald, MacRae, MacNeil. Five clans, five lairds, five promises sworn before God.
Lies. All of it, lies.
“Betrayers!” someone screamed. “They’ve turned on us!”
The MacDonald banner fell first, trampled beneath boots and hooves. Then came the MacRaes, pouring from the treeline like wolves, their war cries piercing the grey Highland morning. Euan’s chest heaved with panicked breaths. Where were the other boys? Calum, with his easy smile? David, always so clever? Archibald, who’d taught Euan how to hold a wooden sword properly just the day before?
“Da!” Euan’s voice cracked, high and terrified.
His father didn’t turn. Murtagh’s sword was out, already red, as he barked orders to his men. But there weren’t enough of them. The MacLeod contingent had come for talks, not war. They were outnumbered, surrounded, caught in a trap sprung by men they’d thought were allies.
A horse screamed. Euan whirled, and his stomach lurched. The battlefield wasn’t the orderly thing from his father’s war stories. It was chaos—a writhing mass of violence and mud and dying men who sobbed for their mothers. A MacKinnon warrior staggered past, clutching his opened belly, his face grey. Blood pooled everywhere, dark and spreading.
“Move, boy!”
Rough hands shoved Euan forward. He fell hard, palms scraping rock. When he looked up, the world had shifted. His father was ten paces away now, fifteen, locked in combat with two men. Twenty paces. Too far.
“Da!”
Something glinted in Euan’s peripheral vision. He turned his head just as the blade descended.
Time slowed to treacle. The sword was massive, far larger than it should have been, wielded by a scarred man with dead eyes. Andersen—Euan would learn that name later, would carve it into his memory alongside the faces of the other hired swords who’d orchestrated that massacre. But at that moment, all he knew was the blade falling toward him, and his own voice screaming.
His father moved like lightning.
Murtagh MacLeod was forty-two years old, in the prime of his strength, and he threw himself between the blade and his son with the fury of a man who’d fight the devil himself for his blood. The sword meant for Euan’s neck caught his father’s shoulder instead, shearing through leather and muscle with a wet crunch that Euan felt in his bones.
“No!” The word tore from Euan’s throat.
But his father didn’t fall. Not yet. With his good arm, Murtagh’s sword swung up, catching Andersen’s blade and shoving it aside. Then he was hauling Euan up by the back of his tunic, dragging him away from the melee, his blood soaking through Euan’s shoulder.
“Run,” Murtagh gasped. “Run, lad—”
The second blade came from nowhere.
It caught Euan across the shoulder as his father pulled him, a glancing blow that should have taken his head. Instead, it carved a line of fire down his arm and across his torso. Euan shrieked. The pain was white-hot, blinding, worse than anything he’d ever imagined. His legs gave out beneath him.
“Euan!” His father’s voice was frantic now, breaking. “Stay with me—”
But there were too many of them. Three men converged on Murtagh, their faces twisted with battle-fury. One blade caught his father’s leg. Another opened his side. Murtagh roared, swinging wildly, protecting Euan’s fallen form with his own body even as he bled.
“Help us!” someone bellowed. “The laird’s son—”
MacLeod warriors surged forward, forming a desperate shield wall. Steel crashed against steel. Men shouted, died, fell. Through the press of bodies, Euan saw Calum’s father dragging the boy backward, Calum’s face white with shock. David was being carried by a MacDonald soldier, his thin frame limp. Archibald fought beside his father, the big man-at-arms who cut down attackers with methodical brutality.
They were all children. They should have been safe.
Euan’s vision swam. The pain in his shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heart, spreading down his arm, across his chest. Blood soaked his tunic, warm and sticky. Was it his? His father’s? Both?
“Move him!” A warrior Euan didn’t recognize scooped him up, armor clanking. “We’ve got tae get the lad out—”
“Me faither—” Euan tried to reach back, but his arm wouldn’t work properly. The world tilted sickeningly.
He caught one last glimpse of Murtagh MacLeod, kneeling in the mud, his sword still raised despite the wounds covering his body. Their eyes met across the battlefield—father and son, laird and heir—and Euan saw everything in that look. Pride. Love. Anguish. Apology.
Then the warrior was running, and Euan was bouncing in his arms, each jolt sending fresh agony through his torn shoulder. The sounds of battle faded behind them, replaced by his own gasping sobs. He’d wet himself, he realized distantly. The shame of it cut through even the pain.
Around them, the other children were being evacuated. Calum, David, Archibald, and another boy Euan didn’t know—Lachlann, someone said. All of them bloodied, terrified, torn from childhood in a single morning of treachery.
Behind them, Loch Eilein’s waters reflected fire where tents burned. Men still screamed. Steel still sang its deadly song.
And Euan MacLeod, six years old, learned what betrayal tasted like. It tasted like copper and ash. It felt like his father’s blood cooling on his skin, like the deep wound across his shoulder that would scar him forever, like the permanent hitch that even now was settling into his young leg where a blade had caught him as he fell.
His childhood died that day at Loch Eilein. His trust died with it.
The pain, though—the pain would live forever.
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Don’t miss the link for the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
1514, outskirts of Lindisfarne Priory
Moyra’s fingers tightened around the leather strap as unease prickled down her spine. Something was wrong.
Through the carriage window, Lindisfarne Priory loomed against darkening horizon—those ancient walls her father insisted would keep her safe from the enemies he’d made in his quest for MacLeod lands. But it wasn’t the priory that held her attention now. It was the silence.
The guards had gone too quiet.
Three days she’d traveled south from the Highlands, each mile taking her further from everything she’d ever known. Her father’s words still echoed in her mind: “The priory will keep ye safe from those who would use ye against me, daughter. ‘Tis fer the good of the clan.”
But what clan? Since his marriage to Ishbel MacLeod six months past, Keith MacKenzie had spoken of little else but his newfound connection to MacLeod lands. His first wife—Moyra’s beloved mother—might as well have never existed.
Moyra leaned forward, peering into the gathering dusk. The shadows flanking their path moved wrong—too deliberate, too purposeful.
“Kristin,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Those aren’t trees.”
Her lady-in-waiting looked up from her embroidery, following Moyra’s gaze. The color drained from Kristin’s face. “Me lady—”
The sharp crack of steel against steel shattered the evening air.
“Saints preserve us—” Kirstin began, but her words were lost as their carriage suddenly lurched to a violent halt, throwing both women against the wooden walls.
Shouts erupted outside. There was a clash of weapons. The screams of horses.
“We’re under attack,” Moyra breathed, her blood turning to ice.
Through the window, she glimpsed flashes of torchlight and the gleam of swords. Her father’s men—the six guards who’d accompanied them—were fighting desperately against a larger force that seemed to have materialized from the shadows.
Moyra’s mind raced as she assessed their position. The priory gates stood perhaps two hundred yards ahead, tantalizingly close yet impossibly far with armed men between them and safety. Their carriage sat exposed on the open path, making them easy targets if they remained.
But if they ran…
“Listen tae me carefully,” Moyra grabbed Kirstin’s trembling hands. Her friend—daughter of a neighboring laird and her closest companion since childhood, now serving as her lady-in-waiting—looked terrified, one hand instinctively moving to protect the barely visible swell of her belly. “When I open that door, ye’ll slip out quiet as a shadow and run straight fer the priory gates. Dinnae look back, dinnae wait fer me.”
“But me lady—”
“Dinnae argue with me,” Moyra said sharply, her tone carrying centuries of MacKenzie authority. “Ye’re carrying a bairn, Kirstin. Ye need tae survive this—fer yer child’s sake. I’ll make sure they chase me instead of ye. Get tae the priory and tell the nuns everything.”
Kirstin’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I cannae leave ye—”
“Ye can and ye will.” Moyra squeezed her hands. “Someone needs tae survive this tae tell the tale. And I’m far from finished fighting.”
The sounds of battle seemed to be moving closer. Through the opposite window, Moyra could see one of their guards fall, crimson spreading across his MacKenzie plaid. Her breath caught in her throat—it was Dougal, who’d taught her to skip stones as a child, who’d carved her a wooden horse when she was six. The sight of his lifeless form sent a wave of nausea through her, but she forced it down. She couldn’t afford to freeze now. Not when Kristin’s life—and her own—hung in the balance.
“Now,” she whispered, easing the carriage door open with painstaking care.
Kirstin hesitated for one heartbeat, then pressed a quick kiss to Moyra’s cheek before slipping out into the night. Her slight form disappeared into the shadows like smoke.
Moyra waited, counting her heartbeats. One. Two. Three.
Then she burst from the carriage in the opposite direction, her emerald cloak billowing behind her as she ran toward the rocky outcropping that bordered the coastal path. Her boots slipped on the loose stones, but she pressed on, making as much noise as possible.
“There! The girl!”
The accent that reached her ears was distinctly English, not the Highland brogue she’d expected. These weren’t rival clansmen come to steal her away—these were soldiers of the English crown.
But why would English soldiers attack a MacKenzie party traveling under safe passage?
Heavy footsteps pounded behind her as she scrambled over the uneven ground. Her lungs burned, and the stays of her traveling gown constrained her breathing, but she pushed harder. If she could reach the cluster of standing stones ahead, perhaps she could lose them in the maze of ancient granite.
“Stop running, you Highland witch!”
A crossbow bolt whistled past her ear, so close she felt the fletching brush her auburn hair. She stumbled, catching herself against a moss-covered boulder, but kept moving.
Almost there. Just a few more yards to the stones—
The flat of a sword blade cracked against her shoulder blades, sending fire racing down her spine. She hit the rocky ground hard, sharp stones tearing at her palms as she tried to catch herself.
“Got her!”
Rough hands seized her arms, hauling her upright despite her struggles. Her captors were professional soldiers—their mail was well-maintained, their movements disciplined. Not bandits or raiders, but men following orders.
“Let me go!” She twisted in their grip, managing to rake her nails across one man’s face before he backhanded her hard enough to make her ears ring.
“Hold still, or you’ll get worse than that,” he snarled, blood trickling down his cheek.
They bound her wrists with rough rope that bit into her skin, then one of them tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The indignity of it made her fury burn hotter than her fear.
“Take me back tae the carriage this instant! Me faither will hear of this—he’ll have yer heads fer touching a MacKenzie!”
The soldier carrying her only laughed.
They carried her back toward the path where the sounds of fighting had finally ceased. Her heart clenched as she saw the still forms of her father’s guards scattered across the ground, their blood dark against the stones. Good men, loyal to Clan MacKenzie, dead because of her.
But as they passed the priory gates, she caught a glimpse of a small figure disappearing safely inside the ancient walls. Kirstin had made it. At least one life had been saved that night.
A tall figure separated himself from the shadows near the overturned carriage—a man whose bearing spoke of command and whose dark cloak marked him as their leader. Even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the calculating coldness in his blue eyes as they fixed on her.
“Sir Geoffrey Arundel,” the soldier announced, dropping Moyra unceremoniously to her feet though keeping a firm grip on her bound arms. “The MacKenzie girl, as ordered.”
Sir Geoffrey stepped closer, and Moyra lifted her chin defiantly despite her precarious position. She would not cower before English dogs, no matter what they intended.
“Lady Moyra MacKenzie.” His voice carried the cultured tones of English nobility, but there was steel beneath the silk. “You’ve led us quite a chase.”
“Me faither will come fer me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, clinging to the hope that he’d sent her away for protection, not abandonment. “He’ll pay whatever ransom ye demand.”
Something that might have been sympathy flickered across the commander’s features before disappearing behind professional indifference.
The blindfold they forced over her eyes made every sensation sharper—the smell of leather and steel, the rough texture of the horse’s mane beneath her bound hands, the cold night air cutting through her torn cloak.
They’d rode for what felt like hours, moving steadily inland from the coast.
“Where are we going?” Moyra demanded, her voice cutting through the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.
“Somewhere you’ll cause no more trouble,” came Sir Geoffrey’s familiar response from somewhere to her left.
“That tells me naething, ye English dog. At least have the courtesy tae inform a lady of her destination before ye drag her off tae whatever dungeon ye have planned.”
His low chuckle held no warmth. “Patience, my lady. All will be revealed soon enough.”
Chapter Two
Three months later, Norham Castle
The sound of steel against steel echoed through the dungeon corridors like thunder in Moyra’s dreams.
She jolted upright on the filthy straw, her heart hammering against her ribs as shouts erupted somewhere above her head. Three months of captivity had taught her to recognize the different sounds of Norham Castle—the changing of the guard, the delivery of her meager meals, the drunken revelries that sometimes lasted until dawn. But this was something else entirely.
This was battle.
Weapons clashed overhead. Heavy boots pounded stone corridors. Men roared orders and curses. Moyra shrank against the damp wall, pulse racing. Rescue? Or had death finally found Norham’s dungeons?
A scream cut through the din, followed by the wet sound of blade meeting flesh. Then another. And another.
“Holy Maither,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. The torn cloak provided no warmth—nothing could chase away the chill that had settled into her bones during those endless months of captivity.
Footsteps crashed down the stone steps—heavy, purposeful, fast. Moyra shrank into the corner of her cell, her back pressed against the cold wall, green eyes locked on the iron gate that stood between her and whatever was coming.
“Check every cell!” The voice was rough, commanding, and carried the unmistakable accent of the Highlands. “Leave nay stone unturned!”
Scottish. Her pulse quickened with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. Were these her father’s men? Or had some other Highland clan come to raid Norham’s treasures?
The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the ring of steel. Through the iron bars, Moyra glimpsed a massive shadow moving with lethal grace. A guard rushed forward, sword raised, then fell with a choked gasp as the intruder’s blade found his throat. Another guard charged from the opposite direction. The tall figure spun, his movements fluid despite his size, parrying the attack and driving his sword through the man’s chest in one devastating thrust.
Moyra pressed herself against the wall, transfixed despite her terror. The way he moved—there was a brutal elegance to it, a dance of death performed with absolute confidence. He was tall, taller than any man she’d ever seen, with broad shoulders that filled the corridor. Dark hair fell in waves to his collar, and even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the steel-grey eyes that swept the dungeon with predatory efficiency. A long scar traced across one side of his face.
When the last guard fell, he stood among the bodies, barely winded. Then those steel-grey eyes found her in the shadows.
He was magnificent. And terrifying.
“Empty,” called another voice from a cell further down the corridor.
The Highlander’s search was thorough and relentless, his attention cataloguing every shadow. When those steel-grey eyes discovered her pressed against the wall, Moyra’s pulse stuttered to a halt.
“Well now…” His voice was whisky-rough and dangerously soft, the Highland burr making each word sound like a caress. “What’s a lass doing in a dungeon?”
He approached her cell door. Torchlight threw his battle-marked features into sharp relief.
“Please,” she whispered, shrinking further into the corner. “I’ve done naething wrong.”
His gaze swept over her—tangled auburn hair, torn silk that had once been fine. Even filthy and captive, she carried herself like nobility. His eyes sharpened.
“And ye are a Highland lass it seems… Stand up, lass.”
The command was quiet but absolute. When she didn’t immediately obey, he produced a key from somewhere within his dark cloak and unlocked her cell door with efficient movements. The iron hinges shrieked in protest as the gate swung open.
“I said stand up.”
This time, Moyra forced her trembling legs to obey. She rose slowly, keeping one hand pressed against the wall for support. Three months of poor food and little exercise had left her weaker than she cared to admit, but she lifted her chin with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Who are ye?” His accent was thick, each word rolling off his tongue like honey over stone.
“Nay one of importance,” she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He stepped closer, and she caught a scent of leather and steel that made her pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear. The torchlight revealed more details—the way his dark shirt stretched across his broad chest, the corded muscles of his forearms, the calluses on his hands that spoke of a lifetime wielding weapons.
“How long have ye been here?”
“Months…”
His eyes studied her face with uncomfortable intensity. “What’s yer name?”
“I told ye, I’m nay one—”
Her words caught in her throat. Should she reveal who she was? Her father had enemies—so many enemies. The MacLeods chief among them, furious over Keith MacKenzie’s marriage to Ishbel and his subsequent claims to their lands. Then there were the Campbells, who’d feuded with the MacKenzies for generations. Even some within her own clan questioned her father’s ambitions.
Any of them might use her as leverage. Or worse.
“I’m nay one of importance,” she finished, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.
“Laird!” Another man’s voice echoed down the stone steps. “We’ve secured what we came for!”
Laird. Moyra’s blood turned to ice in her veins. This wasn’t just any Highland warrior—this was a clan chief. And from his accent and the authority he carried, she had a terrible suspicion about which clan he might lead.
The tall man—the laird—extended one large hand toward her. “Come along, lass. Ye’re coming with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere with ye,” Moyra said, finding some spark of her old defiance despite her circumstances. “I dinnae even ken who ye are.”
“That’s easily remedied.” He reached out and grasped her arm with surprising gentleness, pulling her toward the cell door. “And ye’ll come because the alternative is remaining here tae explain tae Sir Geoffrey’s remaining men why their dungeon is suddenly empty of prisoners.”
The logic was sound, even if she hated admitting it. Moyra allowed him to guide her from the cell, though she kept as much distance between them as the narrow corridor would allow. His presence seemed to fill the entire space, making her acutely aware of how small and fragile she felt beside his towering frame.
They climbed the stone steps in silence, emerging into the castle’s main courtyard where chaos reigned. Bodies littered the cobblestones, and smoke rose from several of the outbuildings. A dozen Highland warriors moved efficiently through the scene, gathering weapons and supplies with practiced ease.
“MacLeod!” one of them called out, jogging toward their small group. “The southern tower is secure, and we’ve found the—”
The man’s words died on his lips as his gaze fell on Moyra. Around the courtyard, other warriors paused in their tasks to stare at the bedraggled woman their laird had brought from the dungeons.
MacLeod. The name confirmed Moyra’s worst suspicions. This was Euan MacLeod—the very man her father had warned her about, the one whose lands Keith MacKenzie coveted above all else. The enemy she’d been hidden away from to prevent him using her as a political pawn.
And now she was standing in this courtyard, completely at his mercy.
“Mount up!” Laird MacLeod commanded his men. “We leave within the hour!”
Orders flew and men obeyed. Horses, weapons, provisions. All readied for immediate departure. Moyra watched the swift preparations with dawning horror. There would be no other rescue, no reprieve.
This was her chance. Perhaps her only chance.
While the laird’s attention was focused on organizing his men, Moyra took three careful steps backward toward the tree line that bordered the clearing. Then three more. The forest shadows beckoned dark and sheltering.
Freedom lay just beyond those trees.
She turned and ran.
Her bare feet flew over the rough ground, but desperation lent her speed. Behind her, she heard a sharp curse in Gaelic followed by the thunder of pursuit, but she didn’t dare look back. The trees loomed ahead, promising shelter and escape.
Almost there. Just a few more steps—
Rough hands seized her from the shadows at the forest’s edge, yanking her into the undergrowth. Moyra screamed and fought, but her captor’s grip was iron-strong.
“Got her!” The accent was English, not Highland. “Sir Geoffrey will want this one alive!”
More figures emerged from the forest—Arundel’s men who had survived the castle’s fall and retreated to regroup. The one holding her was a thick-set soldier with cruel eyes and blood staining his mail shirt.
“Let me go!” Moyra twisted in his grip, managing to drive her elbow into his ribs. He grunted but held fast, his fingers digging into her arms like iron bands.
“Hold still, you Highland bitch!” He shook her roughly, and she responded by stomping down hard on his instep. His grip loosened for just a moment—but two more soldiers emerged from the trees, grabbing her flailing arms. She fought like a wildcat, kicking and clawing, her screams echoing through the forest. One of them caught her across the face with the back of his hand, and stars exploded across her vision.
“Hold her still,” the first soldier growled, struggling to bind her wrists as she continued to fight. “Hold her still, damn you!”
“I’m trying! The wench fights like a—”
Steel sang through the air, and the soldier’s words ended in a wet gurgle. Laird MacLeod’s blade protruded from the man’s chest, having pierced him clean through from behind. The English soldier pitched forward, dead. Moyra pulled free of his lifeless grasp.
“Mine,” MacLeod growled, his eyes blazing with fury as he faced the remaining English soldiers. “The lass is mine.”
The battle erupted and ended in the span of a breath. MacLeod’s sword work was brutal, precise, final. English blood soaked the forest floor before his warriors could join the slaughter.
Moyra couldn’t tear her gaze away. He moved through the carnage like a Highland god of war—massive, deadly, beautiful in his violence. When he’d called her “mine,” her pulse had quickened.
“Lass.” His voice was gentler now as he approached her trembling form. A few drops of English blood spattered his cheek, but his eyes held concern rather than the cold fury she’d seen moments before. “Are ye hurt?”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice. The near miss had shaken her more than she cared to admit, and the sight of him covered in the blood of men who had died protecting her—or capturing her, she wasn’t entirely sure which—left her feeling strangely unsteady.
“Good.” He sheathed his sword with practiced ease. “Now, suppose ye tell me who ye really are, since it’s clear ye lied about being no one of importance. English soldiers dinnae risk their lives fer just ay lass.”
Moyra lifted her chin, some of her spirit returning now that the immediate danger had passed. “And suppose ye tell me why a MacLeod raids English castles instead of tending tae his own lands.”
His mouth curved in what might have been a smile. “Clever lass. But ye’re avoiding the question.”
“As are ye.”
They stared at each other in the flickering torchlight, and Moyra became acutely aware of how he towered over her, how the breadth of his shoulders blocked out everything else. There was something magnetic about him, something that made her pulse quicken despite every rational thought screaming at her to be afraid.
“I’ll make ye a bargain,” he said finally. “Truth fer truth. I’ll tell ye why I’m here if ye tell me who ye are.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then ye’ll come with me anyway, but the journey will be far less pleasant fer both of us.”
There was steel beneath the silk of his voice, and Moyra had no doubt he meant every word. She was completely at his mercy, alone and defenseless in the aftermath of battle. But something in his grey eyes suggested he wasn’t quite the monster her father had painted him to be.
“Yer word that ye’ll answer truthfully?” she asked.
“Me word as Laird of Clan MacLeod.”
She studied his face, searching for any hint of deception. What she found was rock-solid certainty. It did something strange to her breathing. “Very well. I am Moyra MacKenzie, daughter of Laird Keith MacKenzie.”
The change in his expression was immediate and profound. His eyes hardened to chips of winter steel, and his jaw clenched as if he were physically restraining himself from violence. “MacKenzie,” he repeated, the name falling from his lips like a curse.
“Aye. And now yer turn, Laird MacLeod. Why are ye here?”
For a long moment, she thought he might refuse to honor their bargain. Then his mouth curved in a smile that held no warmth whatsoever. “I came tae retrieve proof of a betrayal—evidence that Arundel was behind an attack that cost me family dearly. Documents that will see him answer fer his crimes.”
“And did ye find what ye sought?”
“Oh, aye. I found far more than I bargained fer.” His gaze traveled over her face with new intensity. “Keith MacKenzie’s daughter, hidden away in an English dungeon. Now why would a Highland laird send his own flesh and blood tae such a fate?”
The question hit too close to the heart of her shame and betrayal. “He didnae send me here,” she said sharply, lifting her chin. “Me faither sent me tae the priory fer protection. We were attacked on the road—English soldiers. They killed our guards and brought me tae this place.” Her voice wavered slightly. “He daesnae even ken where I am. The rest’s none of yer concern.”
“I’m afraid it is now, lass. Ye see, ye’re coming with me back tae the Highlands.”
“I am nae!”
“Ye are.” He stepped closer, and she caught that intoxicating scent of leather and steel again. “Like it or nae, Moyra MacKenzie, ye’re now under me protection.”
“I never asked fer yer protection!”
“And yet ye have it. The question is whether ye’ll accept it gracefully, or if I’ll need tae carry ye kicking and screaming all the way back tae Castle MacLeod.”
From the set of his shoulders and the implacable expression on his scarred face, Moyra realized he was completely serious. This Highland giant intended to take her into the heart of enemy territory, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom.
“Why?” she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded. “Why would ye want Keith MacKenzie’s daughter under yer roof?”
His smile this time was sharp as a blade. “Because, Lady Moyra, yer faither wants something that belongs tae me. And now…”
He reached out to trace one finger along her cheek, the touch gentle despite the calluses that marked his warrior’s hands. The simple contact sent fire racing along her nerve endings in ways that left her breathless and confused.
The mornings in Mackenzie castle always felt the same, hollow and heavy, as though the stones themselves carried the weight of every soul who had bent beneath them. Marian woke to the dim light seeping through narrow slits of the window, gray and wan, carrying little warmth. The chamber was cold, the rushes damp against her bare feet when she swung them from the bed. She drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders, though it did little to chase the chill that seemed to live in her bones.
It had been years since she had first set foot there, yet she had not grown used to it. The air always smelled faintly of smoke and mildew, the corridors whispered with draughts, and silence seemed to cling no matter how many voices filled the halls. She rose as she did each day, out of habit more than hope. The heaviness in her chest had long since become familiar. It pressed down when she breathed, dulled every small joy before it could take root.
Still, she always moved. To linger too long in bed was worse.
She slipped from her chamber into the corridor, the torch brackets still smoking from the night. The hush of morning echoed soft against the stone, her footsteps alone carrying sound. She made for the kitchens, telling herself she might manage a bit of bread, perhaps broth if it was ready.
Her mind was thick with its usual fog, thoughts drifting like smoke she could never catch. She thought of her father sometimes, his voice warning, his face lined with pain. She thought of her brother, though the memory of him hurt sharper than most. Mostly, she thought of nothing at all. The gray of the corridors suited her; she had grown used to matching them.
But that morning, as she rounded the corner toward the stairs that led down to the hall, sound stopped her. Voices, low and urgent.
She froze. The laird’s study lay just ahead, its door cracked, firelight spilling faint into the hall.
Her pulse quickened. No one dared raise their voice within those walls—not unless it was something grave. She moved quieter, her steps barely brushing the stone, until she could hear.
It was Wallace.
“Da, I’ll nae wait any longer.” His tone was sharp, the edge of it grating. “I’ve been promised this fer too long. It’s mine, and I’ll have it.”
Marian’s breath caught. She edged closer, until her back pressed against the cold wall, her ear straining to the gap in the door.
Another voice answered, deeper, measured—Laird Mackenzie himself. “Patience, Wallace. Ye’ll have what ye’re after, but nae yet. A few more months. That’s the time I need tae set the Council in agreement, tae see all prepared. We’ll nae risk angerin’ the clans wi’ haste.”
“A few more months?” Wallace hissed, as though the words burned. “I’ve been waitin’ nearly me whole life. Ye ken I’ve done everythin’ ye asked, bent tae every command, and still ye tell me tae wait. Why? She’s here already. Why must I bide like some lad wi’ nay right tae claim what’s his?”
Marian’s heart thudded so loud she feared they might hear it. Her mouth went dry, her palms damp where they clutched at her shawl.
She had not heard her name spoken, but she knew. Her knees trembled. She pressed closer to the wall, her breath shallow.
The laird’s reply came low, firm. “Because a laird daesnae move by impulse. We plan. We gather strength. We build the ground we’ll stand on afore we plant the flag. Ye’ll wait, Wallace, or ye’ll ruin more than ye’ll gain.”
There was a silence, broken only by the crack of the fire. Then Wallace again, rough with frustration. “I’ve waited long enough. I willnae wait months. I’ll wed her soon, or I’ll—” His voice dropped lower, words muffled, though the fury in them was plain.
Marian’s stomach lurched.
Wed her.
The words slammed into her like a blow, sharp enough to steal her breath. She clutched the stone at her back, steadying herself, though the world tilted all the same. Her lungs would not fill. Each gasp came ragged, shallow, as though the air itself had turned against her. Panic surged up her throat, sour and hot, blurring her vision until the corridor swam.
Her mind spun, wild and desperate. She had always known why she had been taken in, but it had never had a concrete timing. Now it hit her like a ton of bricks. Married? To Wallace? The thought of his hand on hers, of vows forced from her lips—her chest clenched so tight she thought she might faint then and there. She had known she was trapped there, aye. Known there was little kindness in the Mackenzie halls, that her days were not her own. But she had not been ready for this.
The voices still murmured beyond the door, but she could not bear to listen further. Her legs moved of their own accord, unsteady at first, then quicker, until she was near stumbling down the corridor. Her breath rasped, sharp as a knife, echoing against the stone. She clutched her shawl tighter, her skirts tangling round her ankles as she half ran, half staggered toward the stair.
Seoc. She had to reach Seoc.
The thought came fierce, clear, cutting through the fog of panic. The old healer’s hut sat low by the gardens, far from the laird’s wing. He would know what to do. He always did.
Her pace quickened, the corridors a blur, her slippers near slipping on the worn steps as she descended. She could still hear Wallace’s voice in her head, sharp and certain, promising what she could not bear. The sound clung, chasing her no matter how fast she fled.
By the time she reached the lower hall, her lungs burned, her pulse wild in her ears. The great doors loomed ahead, sunlight cutting in narrow beams through their cracks. She pushed through, the weight of the wood nearly toppling her with its resistance, and the chilly air of the outer yard struck her face like a slap.
But she did not slow. She crossed the stones, skirts flying, her breath visible in the cold. The walls of the castle rose high behind her, heavy as chains, but she forced herself forward, her eyes fixed on the small hut by the garden wall.
Seoc. She needed Seoc.
Her hand pressed hard to her chest, trying to contain the wild hammer of her heart. Her mind still spun, thoughts tripping over one another—Wallace, vows, a wedding in days, weeks, months, it mattered not. All she knew was she could not survive it.
Her steps faltered once, nearly sending her to her knees, but she caught herself, dragging her skirts high and pushing on. The earth gave beneath her slippers, damp with morning dew, but she scarcely felt it.
At last, the healer’s hut came into sight, smoke curling thin from its chimney. Relief cut through her panic. She stumbled to the door, her fingers shaking as she lifted them to knock.
Her knuckles barely grazed the wood before the door swung inward. Seoc filled the frame, his wiry frame stooped but steady, eyes sharp as ever despite the haze of age. The smoke from his hearth clung to his robes, the scent of dried herbs trailing after him.
“Marian?” His voice was low, startled. His gaze flicked over her face, down to her trembling hands, the wild flutter of her chest. “Saints preserve us, lass, what’s happened?”
She tried to answer, to force words past the knot in her throat, but nothing came. Only a strangled gasp. Her lips parted once, twice, then failed her.
Seoc’s brow furrowed deep. He reached for her arm, guiding her inside with surprising strength. “Come in, child. Ye’re white as linen. Sit, afore ye fall.”
The hut’s warmth struck her, but it did not ease the chill buried in her bones. She sank onto the wooden stool by the hearth, her skirts pooling heavy round her ankles. Her hands shook where they clutched at one another, her breath breaking uneven, her chest tight as though the air would not come.
“Tell me, Marian.” Seoc crouched before her, his hand resting light upon her knee, steady as stone. “What’s set ye so?”
She opened her mouth, but again, no words came. Instead, a sob ripped from her, sudden and fierce. Her shoulders collapsed under the weight of it. She pressed her palms hard to her face, trying to stifle the sound, but the sobs kept coming, hot and broken, shaking her body until she almost slid from the stool.
“Ah, lass.” Seoc’s voice softened. He rose, fetched a blanket from his cot, and draped it over her shoulders. Then he moved to the shelf, hands busy with jars and pouches, until he returned with a small wooden cup. The sharp scent of herbs rose as he poured hot water over them, the steam curling between them like breath.
“Drink,” he urged, pressing the cup to her hands. “Slowly. It’ll steady ye.”
Her fingers fumbled against the wood, nearly spilling the content, but she managed to lift it to her lips. The brew was bitter, biting her tongue, but the warmth slid down her throat, anchoring her enough that her sobs slowed to ragged breaths.
Seoc settled into the stool across from her, his eyes fixed steady on her face. “Now. When ye can, tell me.”
She wiped at her cheeks, her breath hitching still. “I… I heard them.” Her voice broke, barely a whisper. “Wallace. And his faither.”
Seoc’s eyes narrowed, though his tone stayed calm. “Heard them where?”
“In the laird’s study.” She shook her head, the memory slicing through her. “They were arguin’. About me.”
Seoc leaned closer, his brows drawn tight. “What did ye hear?”
Her lips trembled. The words tasted like ash, but she forced them out. “Wallace means tae wed me. Soon.”
The healer’s jaw clenched, though he said nothing at first. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
Marian’s breath quickened again, panic rising sharp in her chest. “I cannae. I cannae, Seoc. I’ll nae survive it. The thought o’ him—his hand on mine, his voice speakin’ vows I dinnae choose—” She shook her head hard, clutching the blanket tighter round her. “It feels like chains closin’ round my throat. I’ll choke. I’ll die.”
Seoc reached across the space and caught her hand in his. His palm was rough, the grip firm, steadying her spirals. “Breathe, lass. Slowly now. Ye’re safe here.”
She dragged a breath in, then another, though they still came jagged. Tears blurred her vision, spilling over no matter how fiercely she tried to hold them back.
“Ye’ve time yet,” Seoc said at last, voice low, certain. “The laird’ll nae rush such a matter. He’s too careful fer that.”
“I heard him,” Marian whispered, eyes wide. “Wallace said he wouldnae wait. He’s tired o’ it. He’s been waitin’ too long.” Her nails dug into the blanket. “Four months, his faither said. But Wallace—” Her voice cracked. “He means tae have me sooner.”
Seoc’s eyes softened then, though anger flickered in the lines of his face. “Och, Marian. Ye’ve been dealt a cruel hand, aye. But dinnae fash yersel’ into despair. There may yet be a way.”
Her gaze shot to him, desperate, pleading. “What way? Tell me. I cannae live like this, waitin’ fer the day they drag me tae the church.”
Seoc was quiet a long moment, his thumb rubbing slow over her knuckles. She could see him thinking, the weight of years in the lines of his brow, the flicker of firelight in his eyes.
At last, he exhaled. “I have a thought. A plan, maybe. Naught certain yet. But I’ll nae sit idle while they steal yer will.”
Her heart lurched, hope flaring fiercely. “What plan?”
He shook his head, though his hand stayed steady on hers. “I’ll nae say till I’ve turned it o’er, seen it from all sides. Plans made in haste break easy. But I swear it tae ye, lass—I’ll find a way. Ye’ll nae be left tae Wallace, nae so long as I’ve breath.”
Her lips parted, though no words came. Relief cut through her panic, sharp as a blade. Tears welled fresh, spilling silently down her cheeks.
Seoc gave her hand a final squeeze, then released it, rising to tend the fire. “Drink the rest,” he said gruffly. “Warm yer bones. Ye’ll need strength fer what lies ahead.”
Marian lifted the cup again, though her hands still shook. The bitterness no longer mattered. Only the warmth, the promise in his voice, the faint spark of hope kindling against the cold dread in her chest.
She clutched it close, as if the heat itself might keep her alive.
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Chapter One
1767, Inverness
The night pressed heavy on the glen, a thick velvet silence broken only by the restless snort of Marian’s mare and the whisper of the healer’s voice.
“Ye’ve got everything ye need, lass?” Seoc’s hands were rough with years of grinding herbs and setting bones, but gentle as he tightened the strap of her saddle. His head bent close to the horse’s flank, the firelight from the lantern throwing deep shadows across the lines of his face.
Marian could not answer at once. Her throat felt raw, as if every word she had swallowed those last years had lodged there, choking her when she needed speech most. She only nodded, fingers curled around the worn leather reins as though they were the only thing holding her upright.
Seoc straightened, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced than ever, his graying hair caught by the lantern’s glow.
“Then ye’ll be ridin’ straight fer Tor Castle. Kenina kens ye’re comin’, though nae who ye are. The name ye carry, lass…” His voice faltered, heavy with a grief he tried to mask. “Best keep it buried, aye? Fer yer own sake.”
She shut her eyes against the sting. To hide her name was to hide her father, her brother, her mother—all that she had left of them. But it was her only chance.
“Aye, I will,” she whispered, though her voice broke.
Seoc’s gaze softened. For years he had been more father to her than any laird could claim. She thought of the hours spent in his hut, the air thick with rosemary and woodsmoke, where he had listened to her as though her thoughts mattered. It was the only place in Mackenzie lands where she could breathe, where she was not watched or measured. Seoc’s lessons were patient, his silences kind. He had never asked her to be a pawn or a promise, only herself.
Seoc reached for her hand. His palm was rough, the ridges of old scars pressed into her skin, yet his touch was steady. “I’m proud o’ ye, lass,” he said, voice low and sure. “Proud ye’ve the courage tae choose freedom, even when it scares ye. The world will take enough from ye without ye givin’ it yer will as well. Remember that. Hold fast tae it.”
A tear slipped free before she could stop it. She dragged her sleeve across her cheek, but Seoc saw. He always did.
“Ye’ve a healer’s heart, lass,” he said softly. “Dinnae let the world harden it. Learn from Kenina, keep tae the herbs, the roots, the small mercies. That’ll be yer strength. And if ye’re ever lost—remember the plants will always answer. They dinnae lie.”
Marian let out a shaky breath. “And ye, Seoc? What if they punish ye fer helpin’ me?”
His eyes twinkled despite the weight of the moment. “Och, I’m an auld man. They’ll nae see me as worth their rage. And if they dae—” He shrugged, a quiet defiance in the gesture. “I’ve lived long enough wi’ their chains about me neck. Ye’ve the chance tae cut yers. Go. That’s all the thanks I need.”
She could not speak. She only leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his hand for one brief moment, letting the warmth of him steady her before it was gone.
Then she mounted. The mare shifted beneath her, eager, sensing the night’s tension. Seoc gave the animal a last pat and stepped back.
“Ride swift, Marian. And dinnae look back.”
The words lodged in her chest as the horse carried her into the dark. She did not look back, though every part of her wanted to.
The night pressed close around her at first, heavy and suffocating, the silence broken only by the sound of hooves striking earth. With each stride she felt the ground of Mackenzie land fall further behind, yet the weight of it clung to her shoulders all the same. Freedom was before her, vast and unmarked, but it felt as perilous as it was precious.
The moor opened wide before her, a sweep of heather and stone silvered by moonlight. The wind caught her hair, tearing strands loose from her braid, whipping them across her face as she urged the mare faster. Each hoofbeat was a drum of defiance, a rhythm louder than the pounding of her own heart.
Still, fear clung to her like a second skin. Every shadow seemed a rider. Every gust of wind sounded like pursuit. She pressed low over the horse’s neck, whispering prayers she was not certain reached any God who cared to listen.
Her chest tightened, thoughts spiraling backward as they always did in silence. To the days when she was still Marian Matheson, daughter of a laird whose land no longer existed. Before the noose took her father and exile claimed her brother. She had been young then, but not so young that she did not remember the sound of her brother’s laughter. Her mother’s face lingered most of all, pale and strained at the window as the redcoats marched her husband to the gallows.
The Mackenzie laird had taken her in after her mother’s death, but not from kindness. His eyes had always weighed her as though she were coin to be spent. He spoke of her as his son Wallace’s bride long before she had been old enough to know what marriage meant.
The thought of Wallace Mackenzie intruded, sharp as a blade. He looked at her with pride as though she were a prize hound he had trained, his consolidation of power, nothing more. His smile always carried that weight, a reminder of the marriage that awaited her once the vows were spoken.
But after that night, there would be no more. This was the one night to turn the course of her life. Her hand tightened on the reins until her knuckles ached. No. She would not bend her neck.
The road to Inverness stretched long and cold. The moon dipped low, and with it her strength waned. Yet every mile carried her closer to the chance Seoc had carved for her, the path he had risked himself to open.
He had written to Kenina, the famed healer of Clan Chattan, asking her to take in an apprentice without naming who she truly was. They would never take her if they knew she belonged to the Mackenzies, because such ties carried too much danger. However, under another name she might be accepted. It was the only door left unbarred, and Seoc had pressed it open with steady hands and quiet courage.
The days blurred together in the rhythm of hoofbeats and breath. Morning bled into evening, then into morning again, her body aching with the strain, her eyes stinging from sleepless hours. Yet still she pressed on. Though weariness gnawed at her bones, freedom burned fiercer, carrying her farther than she ever thought her limbs could bear.
When at last the walls of Inverness rose ahead, relief nearly unseated her. The town lay quiet in the early light, smoke curling from chimneys, the air alive with the faint stirrings of trade. She slowed her mare at the edge of the cobbled street, her gaze sweeping past shuttered shops and narrow lanes until it caught on the warm glow spilling from an inn’s windows. A painted sign swung above the door, creaking softly in the early morning wind, and the sight of it struck her like a promise, a place to breathe.
She guided her mare toward the inn’s stable, sliding stiffly from the saddle. Her legs buckled, and she gripped the doorpost until the wave of weakness passed.
The stable smelled of hay and horseflesh. She stroked her mare’s neck, whispering thanks, before handing the reins to the boy who had hurried out.
“See her fed, lad,” she murmured, slipping him a coin. “She’s carried me far.”
The boy’s eyes widened at the silver. He bobbed a quick nod and led the mare toward the stalls at the far end of the stable, leaving Marian to gather her satchel and rest a hand along the mare’s damp neck. The steady rise and fall of the animal’s breath, the scent of hay and warm hide, the quiet rustle of hooves shifting in straw, wrapped her in a fragile calm. For the briefest moment, she let herself believe she was safe. Perhaps, at last, fortune had chosen her side.
But the moment shattered as the door creaked open behind her.
Three men entered, broad-shouldered, cloaked in Mackenzie colors that struck terror like a blade. Her breath seized. She knew one at once. Ivor, Wallace’s friend. His hound. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
“Ye seen a lass pass through here?” Ivor’s voice cut sharp, aimed at the boy. “Chestnut hair. Green eyes. Rides a dark mare.”
Time slowed. Marian’s heart thundered. She willed the boy to lie, to shake his head, to do anything but—
The boy’s gaze darted to her. His hand lifted, pointing straight.
Marian’s blood turned to ice. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch it. She lunged toward the side door, skirts gathered in her fists, boots pounding against the packed earth. The stable filled with the echo of shouts, iron on stone, men cursing as benches scraped. Her breath tore in her throat, ragged and hot, but she did not dare look back.
“Get her!” Ivor’s voice cracked like a whip, sending fear lashing down her spine.
The mare neighed behind her, startled by the commotion. Marian’s heart clenched, but she forced herself onward. Each step was a plea to let her feet hold, let the ground not falter, let her free.
A shadow loomed beside her, heavy boots closing in fast. Fingers like iron clamped around her arm, wrenching her sideways. Pain shot up her shoulder, a cry bursting from her lips. She fought, twisting hard, but his grip only bit deeper. The scent of sweat and steel smothered her, the rasp of his breath too close.
“Got ye now,” the man growled.
Nae yet.
Her gaze caught on a pitchfork leaning against the stall post. Hope flared wild in her chest. With every ounce of her weight she swung, snatching the haft in both hands and driving the tines upward. The sharp iron ripped through cloth and into flesh.
The man roared, the sound guttural, shock and pain mingling as his hold slackened. Hot blood splattered her sleeve. Marian yanked free, heart hammering, vision dizzy with fear and triumph both. She didn’t wait to see if he’d fall, she just ran.
Her breath came in tearing gasps as she burst through the stable door and into the inn. The dim room yawned empty, shadows stretching long across the floorboards. The tables were bare, benches deserted. The silence rang louder than a shout.
Panic clawed at her ribs. Where was everyone?
Then she remembered—today was the fair. Every soul in Inverness would be gathered in the market square, leaving the inn hollow and still.
“Saints guide me,” she whispered, voice breaking.
The door behind her crashed open.
She spun and fled the other way, skirts tangling round her legs, feet stumbling over the uneven boards. Bursting into the morning light, she blinked against the brightness, the noise, the crush of people filling the square. Stalls lined the cobbles, hung with bolts of cloth, barrels of salted fish, baskets of fruit. Children darted between women haggling, men called prices, fiddlers scraped at strings.
And into that chaos Marian ran.
Her lungs burned, but the fair gave her cover. She shoved past a woman carrying bread, dodged a cart laden with wool. A man cursed as she overturned a bucket of apples, red and green rolling like marbles beneath boots. Shouts rose behind her, harsh Mackenzie voices cutting through the din.
She glanced back once and wished she hadn’t. Ivor’s dark hair caught the sun, his gaze locked to her like a wolf sighting prey. Two more followed, forcing through the throng, shoving aside anyone in their path.
Adrenaline surged, hot and blinding. She pushed harder, weaving fast as the crowd thickened. Every breath scraped her throat raw, but she clung to the thought of her freedom lying ahead. If she could make it past the gates, out of Inverness, toward Tor Castle and the Highlands beyond, she might yet vanish.
A stall toppled in her wake, baskets of turnips scattering. Someone screamed. Marian ducked beneath an awning, slid between two oxen, the reek of dung and sweat clogging her nose. Hands reached for her from the crowd, some to help, others to hinder. She tore free of them all.
Her mind spun. She had no plan, only the need to run, to be gone. Seoc’s words burned behind her eyes.
The world will take enough from ye without ye givin’ it yer will as well.
She could not give them her will. She would rather die there in the dust than crawl back to Wallace’s cage.
She burst from the press of bodies into a side lane, her feet skidding on damp stone. For a heartbeat, silence. She dragged in air, chest heaving, legs trembling beneath her.
Then heavy steps pounded close.
She bolted again, darting round a corner, only to crash into another broad chest. Hands seized her, two this time, pinning her arms, forcing her down. She shrieked, twisting, kicking, her nails scraping flesh. Her knee drove upward, striking hard. One man cursed, but still they held.
“Let me go!” Her voice broke into a sob, raw with rage and terror. She fought like a wild thing, skirts tearing, hair coming loose in a dark snarl around her face. Her cheek struck stone as they forced her down, grit biting her skin. The world spun, the taste of iron filling her mouth.
Ivor loomed above her, shadow falling long across the cobbles. His smile was thin, cruel, the satisfaction of a hound that had run his quarry to ground.
“Ye gave us a good chase, Marian,” he drawled. “But it ends here.”
Her body shook with exhaustion, but still she thrashed, her heart screaming louder than her voice. Every part of her burned to keep moving, to keep clawing toward freedom, though the weight of three men pressed her to the earth.
She thought of her father, her brother, her mother’s face at the window. Of Seoc’s scarred hand wrapped round hers in farewell. Of the herbs hanging in his hut, lavender and rosemary drying in peace.
I’ll nae be their pawn.
But her breath faltered, and her strength slipped away beneath their grip.
Chapter Two
Her throat burned from screaming. Her arms ached where rough hands clamped them, dragging her across the cobbles like she was nothing more than a sack of grain. Marian kicked and thrashed, nails raking skin, her voice tearing ragged from her lungs.
But the crowd only stared, eyes glancing, then turning away again, like shutters closing against a storm. Mothers tugged children closer, men bent their heads as though a woman’s struggle was no concern of theirs.
“Let me go!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Saints, help me!”
Not a soul moved to help her.
Despair struck colder than the men’s grip, colder than the stones beneath her feet. The sight of people who could help, but would not, was worse than chains. She tasted blood on her lip where it had split, salt stinging her tongue. The world narrowed to the scrape of her body dragged across the ground, the iron weight of men’s hands crushing her to the earth, the terror that clawed at her ribs.
That was it. She’d risked everything for freedom, and it would end there in the filth of Inverness. Wallace would have her caged before nightfall, and the taste of air she’d stolen would vanish like it had never been hers.
Her body burned with rage at the thought. She would not go back. She would die there in the dirt first.
Marian twisted hard, wrenching against their hold until something popped in her shoulder. She screamed again, high and sharp, not only in pain but in fury. “I’ll nae go back tae—”
“What’s this?” A low, steady voice cut through the clamor, unhurried, like steel sliding from its sheath.
The men jerked her upright, startled, and Marian’s head whipped round. Through the ring of onlookers, a figure moved closer.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of ease that spoke of strength contained rather than flaunted. Sunlight struck his hair and turned it to gold, a bright and untamed crown that caught every glance. His eyes, hazel and sharp as cut amber, swept the street with a steadiness that made the air feel altered around him. Ink coiled dark along the skin at his collar, the edge of a tattoo vanishing beneath his sleeve, a mark of defiance that only drew the eye further.
His coat was travel-worn, his stride unhurried, yet there was something in the way he carried himself, a presence that belonged to danger as much as to beauty, that made every head turn to look.
Her breath snagged. Who—?
Her captors shifted uneasily, as if they felt it too, though they tightened their grip on her arms. The man’s gaze swept over them once, then settled on Marian. And in that instant, her fear cracked.
The world had been cold stone, sharp voices, empty faces—but his eyes, steady as the earth, landed on her, and for the first time since the stable she felt seen.
“What’s wrong, lass?” he asked, voice carrying like calm across the fair’s chaos.
Marian’s lips parted, but no sound came. Her captors filled the silence.
“This is nae o’ yer affair,” Ivor spat. “Best walk on, stranger.”
The man did not move. He only looked at them as if he were considering something small, unworthy of much thought. Then his gaze flicked to her again, and Marian’s pulse lurched.
Saints, he was… handsome didn’t even touch it. He looked like he’d been carved out of stone, all hard lines and quiet fire, the kind of man who could break another in half and not lose his breath. Her mind reeled. Her body throbbed with fear, but beneath it something else sparked, bright and wild, so new she hardly knew how to name it.
The Mackenzie men barked a laugh, false bravado ringing. “Walk away.”
But the man smiled, faint and dangerous, and Marian swore her knees nearly buckled even with their hands on her.
“I would,” he said. “But it seems the lady’s got a different wish.”
Before they could answer, he moved.
It was a storm contained in muscle and precision, unleashed in a flurry of motion that seemed both brutal and impossibly elegant. His hand struck one man’s wrist with such force the blade went clattering to the ground, steel ringing against the cobbles. In the same breath his elbow drove backward into another chest, the thud of impact carrying through the air as the man folded with a grunt.
He pivoted cleanly, never stumbling or flailing. Each movement belonged exactly where it landed, as if he had measured the space before stepping into it, as if every strike had already been written in his body.
Marian wrenched herself sideways in the chaos, her chest heaving, eyes wide. She could hardly breathe. He did not fight like a brute swinging wild blows, but like something sharper, closer to a dancer who had trained his body to obey a rhythm no one else could hear. His strikes were deliberate, his footing flawless, his strength reined tight until the moment it was loosed in sudden violence. It was not brawl but craft, and the men who had seized her looked clumsy beside it.
Her heart lurched in her chest. God help her, it was like being sixteen again. This was a man who looked as though the Highlands themselves had shaped him from heather and stone, strong and wild. Terrible in his force, beautiful in the control with which he wielded it.
Her breath shook loose from her, trembling, her body half-torn between fear and awe. Who was he?
The Mackenzies reeled but did not retreat. Ivor snarled, drawing a blade, and the sight tore Marian’s chest in two. If he killed—
But the stranger only tilted his head, calm as the sea before a storm.
“I’d hate tae see blood ruin the fair,” he said, voice almost regretful. “Best walk away before it comes tae that.”
The crowd murmured, shifting back, but the Mackenzies spat curses and surged again. Steel flashed. Marian cried out.
The fight broke like thunder. Blades rang, fists cracked. The stranger ducked, twisted, struck with the hilt of his weapon, each move so swift Marian’s eyes could scarcely follow. He fought not only to win but to protect, placing himself always between her and their blades.
Her chest ached with something she had no name for. Terror, yes. But threaded through it, a heat that spread low and fierce. Who was this man, who could stand against Wallace’s hounds as if they were nothing?
The cry of a voice split the din. “Evander!”
More men appeared at the lane’s mouth, warriors moving fast, swords drawn. They bore themselves with the same quiet strength, and at once Marian saw they were his allies.
“Evander, ye daft bastard,” one of them called, breathless but grinning. “Always pickin’ fights ye’ve nae need tae.”
His name was Evander. It struck through her like a mark branded on her heart. He did not look at his men, only kept his stance before her, blade flashing once more.
“About time,” he muttered, though Marian caught the ghost of a smile tugging his mouth.
The reinforcements surged in, steel against steel, and in moments the tide turned. Ivor cursed, backing toward the crowd, blood streaking his sleeve.
“This is nae finished,” he spat, dark eyes locking on Marian. “Ye’ll pay fer this.”
Then he and his men fled, swallowed by the press of onlookers.
The silence that followed rang louder than their footsteps. Marian’s chest heaved, her hair wild round her face, wrists bruised from their grip. She stared at Evander as though he were a vision, some apparition conjured by desperation.
Sweet mercy, he was—
She dragged her gaze away, cheeks burning.
Nay, foolish girl.
She had only just escaped one prison, she would not leap willingly into another. And yet, her heart would not still. It beat wild, alive, with the image of him standing above her, calm in the storm.
Alive.
That was the word. She felt alive.
“Ye all right, lass?”
The voice came low, edged with the easy confidence of a man who had never learned to be afraid. She turned her head, forcing herself to meet his gaze. His hazel eyes held hers with a steady boldness, the kind that made it difficult to breathe, as though he could see more of her than she meant to show.
“Aye,” she managed, though her throat still rasped from screaming. “I will be.”
He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the truth of her words. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Good. Because nay woman should be taken anywhere without wantin’ tae go.”
The words struck through her chest sharper than she expected. Simple and plain, and yet no man had ever said such a thing to her. She had been bartered since childhood. To hear him speak it as if it were the most obvious truth in the world nearly broke her.
She swallowed, struggling to recover her composure. “Thank ye. Truly. I dinnae ken what might’ve—”
“Best nae think o’ it.” His tone was easy, kind, though his body still thrummed with the fight he had just given. “I’m Evander.”
She hesitated. Her name felt heavy on her tongue, weighted with danger. One slip, and all Seoc’s care would be lost. She forced herself to smile, though her palms sweated.
“Marian,” she said at last, the word falling before she could stop it. Her pulse jumped, panic sparking in her chest. What had she done? Quickly, she forced a smile, her palms damp. “Marian… Fraser.”
If he noticed the pause, he gave no sign. He only dipped his head, the golden fall of his hair catching the sunlight again. “A pleasure, Marian Fraser.”
Her stomach flipped at the sound of it on his tongue.
Foolish girl.
He looked at her, not with the hungry arrogance she had come to dread in Wallace and his hounds, but with a gaze that carried weight of a different kind. It lingered, steady, as though he were trying to understand her. “After the fray ye just found yerself in, I’d say ye could dae with a drink.”
Her brows lifted. “A drink?”
“Aye. Ale. Mead. Whatever warms ye. Helps the hands stop shakin’, in me experience.”
For a heartbeat, the thought was tempting. The fair was bright with laughter, the scent of spiced pies thick in the air, and beside her stood a man whose presence alone steadied her pulse.
But she was not free to linger. Kenina, her only chance at safety, waited at Tor Castle. To linger now, no matter how handsome the company, was to risk it all. And beyond that, she knew nothing of him. He had stepped in when no one else had, true enough, but men who fought well were not always men who meant well. She had learned that lesson too young.
“Thank ye,” she said, lifting her chin though her voice was tight. Pride stiffened her spine as she added, “but I can handle mesel’ fine.”
She did not wait for his answer. She turned on her heel, but the instant her weight shifted, pain lanced up her leg so sharply she gasped aloud. The world tilted. She stumbled hard, her hand flying to catch the edge of a barrel, breath hissing through her teeth. The ache in her ankle seared bright, humiliation burning hotter still in her chest.
“Handle yersel’, is it?” His tone was maddeningly mild, far too amused for a man who had just seen her nearly collapse.
She glared. “It’s naught. A twist.”
“A twist that had ye near fallin’ on yer face.” He crouched, already reaching for her hem.
Her heart thudded, heat rising to her cheeks. “What are ye—?!” She slapped at his hand. “Ye cannae just—”
“I can, when ye’re about tae cripple yersel’. Hold still.”
“Ye’re insufferable,” she hissed, though she could not quite pull back, not without looking the coward.
His grin flashed quick, boyish beneath all that muscle. “So, I’ve been told.”
He prodded gently, and though she tried to keep her face composed, a sharp breath hissed between her teeth. His touch was firm but careful, steady as Seoc’s when setting a bone.
“It’s nae broken,” he said at last, glancing up. “Tender, aye, but ye’ll live.”
“I told ye.” She crossed her arms, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.
“Aye, ye did. And if nae fer me, ye’d be limpin’ the streets till nightfall. That’s worth somethin’, lass.” He rose in one fluid motion, broad shadow falling over her again, and offered his hand. His smile tilted, half-charm, half-challenge. “So. Ye’ll share a drink wi’ me.”
Her lips parted to refuse, but her leg throbbed in protest, and truth be told, her heart throbbed worse at the sight of him standing there, golden and solid as the very walls of Inverness. Saints preserve her, she wanted to go.
“Fine,” she muttered, placing her hand in his.
The fair buzzed around them as he guided her toward the square. Fiddles skirled, children shrieked with laughter, women bartered over bolts of cloth. And there she was, walking beside a man who looked like he had stepped out of some bard’s song, his stride unhurried, his arm steady near her elbow in case she faltered.
The tavern’s tables spilled out into the street, tankards clattering, voices loud. He secured her a seat beneath a striped awning, ordered ale with the ease of a man used to being heeded, and returned with two frothing mugs.
“Tae freedom,” he said, lifting his tankard.
She blinked at him.
“Ye earned it, did ye nae? Better toast it than waste it.”
Slowly, she raised her mug, the wood cool against her fingers. “Tae freedom,” she echoed, the word sweet on her tongue.
The ale was strong, burning down her throat, loosening the coil in her chest. She dared a glance at him as he drank, head tilted, golden hair spilling loose where the fight had tugged it free. God above, he was a man who looked as though he had bled and laughed and fought in equal measure, and carried every bit of it in the set of his shoulders.
And he was watching her, hazel eyes bright with something that felt dangerously close to interest.
Her cheeks flamed. She set her mug down hard. “Dae ye always spend yer days rescuin’ strangers?”
“Only the ones worth rescuin’.” His grin was wicked now, curling at one corner.
Heat rushed to her ears. She scoffed, reaching for bravado. “Ye’ve a glib tongue, sir.”
“And ye’ve sharp teeth, Marian Fraser. I’d wager ye bite as quick as ye speak.”
She laughed then, despite herself, the sound surprising her as it slipped free. It had been so long since laughter had come without cost or fear.
They wandered the fair after, drawn into games by his coaxing. He tossed coins at the knife-throw, sinking every blade dead center with infuriating ease. She tried her hand, missed twice, then finally struck near the middle. He cheered her as though she’d bested him, earning her glare and her reluctant smile.
At the ring toss she beat him clean, her aim steady, and he protested so dramatically the onlookers laughed outright. She stuck her chin high, feigning haughtiness, while he bowed with exaggerated grace.
“Ye see? Skill bests brute strength.”
“Or perhaps ye’ve charmed the rings tae obey ye.”
“Perhaps I have.” She let the words slip with a smile she did not mean to give.
As dusk deepened, lanterns lit, their glow softening the fair into something almost dreamlike. Music lilted through the square, couples spinning in dance. Marian stood at the edge, heart aching at the sight of such simple joy. She had not been allowed to dance since she was a girl.
Evander leaned close, his voice brushing her ear. “Dance with me.”
Her pulse leapt. “I cannae,” she whispered, the old fear clamping her chest.
He stepped back, no pressure in his gaze, only that easy smile. “Then watch. But I’ll wager ye’ll wish ye had.”
She watched as another lass laughed and let Evander lead her into the reel. The sight sent a sharp twist through Marian’s chest, though she told herself it was only foolishness. Still, each time he spun the lass, his smile easy and unguarded, her pulse drummed faster.
Before she could stop herself, she moved closer, his name slipping out low, almost grudging. “Evander?”
His brows lifted, that infuriating smile tugging at his lips, but with a courteous word he released the lass and turned to Marian. “Aye, then. Come.”
When his hand closed around hers, steady and warm, the fair seemed to fall away. He drew her into the music, guiding her through the steps with practiced ease. At first her body resisted, stiff with jealousy, but the rhythm carried her until her skirts swirled and her laughter broke free despite herself. His gaze never left hers, hazel eyes alight, as though the crowd and lanterns and music were all for them alone. Each turn brought her closer, until she could feel the heat of him, the sure press of his hand at her waist, the dangerous tug of wanting more.
Later, as they wandered down a quieter lane strung with lanterns, the laughter and music soft behind them, she felt the pull between them grow taut as a bowstring. His hand brushed hers once, twice, until at last she let her fingers linger.
He stopped, turning to her with a slowness that made her heart falter. His hazel eyes caught hers, steady and intent, carrying a warmth that burned beneath the surface until she could scarcely stand to look at him. The noise of the fair seemed to blur, fading into nothing but the space between them.
“Ye’re starin’,” she managed, her voice thinner than she wished.
“Aye,” he said, unrepentant. “Hard thing nae tae, when ye look at me wi’ eyes like that.”
Heat rose in her cheeks, and she scoffed, though the sound trembled. “Ye’re far too sure o’ yersel’, Evander.”
He bent closer, his smile a ghost at the corner of his mouth. “And ye’re far too stubborn tae admit ye want me tae kiss ye.”
Her breath caught, her chest tight with something perilously close to longing. “I never said—”
But her protest broke off as his mouth touched hers, unhurried, giving her every chance to pull away. She did not. Her breath caught, her chest tight with something perilously close to longing, and when his mouth touched hers, the world vanished.
The kiss was gentle at first, testing, as if he feared she might vanish like smoke. His lips brushed hers warm and sure, tasting of ale and spice and something fiercer still, something that belonged to him alone. The restraint in him only made her dizzy, because she could feel the strength he held back, the fire caged just beneath the tenderness.
Without meaning to, she leaned into him, her body yielding even as her mind screamed against it. Her heart thundered like a drum in her ribs, wild and ungoverned, every beat a betrayal of the vows she had made to herself. For the first time in longer than she dared recall, she felt wanted.
And then it ended. He drew back, slow as a tide pulling from the shore, and she was left gasping, the world tilting round her as if she had been flung from a great height.
“Nay,” she breathed, voice breaking on the word. Panic crashed hard and cold through her veins, scattering the warmth his lips had lit within her. “This… this was a mistake.”
Before he could speak, she turned and ran, her ankle screaming in protest, her braid coming undone, her breath ragged. She did not look back. If she saw him again, she feared she would not have the strength to leave.
