Chapter One

 
1520, MacLean Lands

The upper hills gave nothing away.

That was what Jean had always liked about them– the silence up there was honest. No politics. No Councils. No one was watching to see if she flinched. Just the wind off the loch cutting through her riding cloak, the gray sky pressing low over the braes, and the land rolling away in every direction the way it had rolled for a hundred years before her and would roll for a hundred after.

She had ridden the eastern boundary since first light. Four hours in the saddle, checking the line of stones that marked where MacLean ground ended and the world began. Most were undisturbed. The turf was damp from last night’s rain, the cattle tracks still fresh and heading the right direction.

She’d told herself it was routine.

She knew it wasn’t.

Since Torquil had died, she had ridden the borders the way other people checked a wound; not because they expected it to be fine, but because they needed to know exactly how bad it had become.

She was halfway down the hill, the castle just visible below through the mist, when she saw them.

Two figures in the courtyard. Standing apart from the usual morning movement of her people. The way men stood when they were waiting for something they didn’t want to say.

Jean’s hand tightened on the reins.

Don’t, ye dinnae ken yet.

She knew.

She came through the gate at a trot and pulled up short. One of the men—Ruaridh, a tenant from the lower valley—had his arm wrapped in cloth that had bled through to brown at the elbow. The other, Cormac, was holding his horse’s bridle with both hands, as though he needed something to grip.

They both pulled off their caps the moment they saw her.

“Me lady.” Ruaridh’s voice was steady, but his eyes weren’t.

Jean swung down from the saddle without waiting for the stable boy. She handed off the reins and walked straight to them, pulling her gloves off finger by finger. Her gaze went to the bandaging first. “That needs cleaning. Who wrapped it?”

“Me wife,” Ruaridh said. “This morning.”

“She did well.” She stopped. Looked at Cormac. “Tell me.”

Cormac’s jaw worked. He was a big man, slow to speak, never given to excess. He said, “The boundary stones on the south ridge of Druim Ard. Three of them moved. Pushed back nearly twenty feet into our side.”

The air in Jean’s chest went very still.

“And the cattle?” she asked.

Cormac glanced at Ruaridh.

“Eleven head,” Ruaridh said. “Driven off by nightfall. We went after them.” He lifted his arm slightly as an explanation. “There were six of them. Fraser colors.”

Jean looked at the bandaging again. “How many did ye bring back?”

“None, me lady.”

She nodded once. Around her, the courtyard continued its morning, a woman crossing with a basket, two boys arguing over a harness, smoke drifting from the kitchen, all of it carrying on as though the ground beneath them wasn’t slowly being taken out from under them, stone by stone, animal by animal, acre by acre.

“How long has the south ridge line been holding?” she asked.

“It was already pushed back from last autumn,” Cormac said. “Before that—” He paused. “Before Laird Torquil passed, they stayed mostly to the valley floor.”

Before Torquil died.

There it was, laid flat and plain the way only farming men could, just the stating of fact. The Frasers had not changed. The MacLeans had become easier.

Jean pulled her second glove off and pushed it into her belt. “Ye’ll both eat before you ride back. Ruaridh, send yer wife tae me when that arm festers. It will.” She met his eyes until he nodded. “Go on, then. I’ll have someone take ye tae the kitchen.”

She turned toward the keep before either of them could see her face change.

The Great Hall was cold enough that her breath showed faintly. She crossed it without stopping, pushed open the door to the council chamber, and found that four of her elders had already gathered, which meant word had moved faster than she had.

Ewan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the fire. Old Iain sat at the long table with his chin propped on his fist. Domnall was at the window, arms folded, jaw set in the way it set when he had already decided something and was waiting for permission to say it. Young Fergus who was not young anymore, nearly fifty, but called so still because his father had sat at this same table, stood apart from the others near the door, turning his cap in his hands.

None of them spoke when she came in. That, more than anything, told her how bad it was.

She sat. “Tell me the rest.”

Ewan turned from the fire. He was sixty years old and he’d served her father, tried to serve her brother, and was now doing his quiet, honest best to serve her. She trusted him fully, and without enjoying what they had to say.

“Laird Donnchadh Fraser has sent formal notice,” he said. “He claims the valley by right of what he calls long stewardship and protection.” He paused. “He’s also petitioned the Crown. The argument being that MacLean lands lack stable governance.”

Jean said nothing.

Lack of stable governance. She knew exactly what that meant.

It meant no laird, a woman. Vulnerable.

“Has the petition been received?” she asked.

“We believe so.”

Domnall unfolded his arms. “We dinnae have the men to hold every pass. Ye know that already.” His voice wasn’t unkind, just stripped of comfort. “Fraser knows it too. That’s why he’s movin’ now.”

Old Iain spoke without lifting his chin from his fist. “And if he pushes the Crown argument—” He stopped. Let the rest of it hang there, because saying it plainly would be cruelty and he was not a cruel man.

The fire crackled. No one filled the silence. Jean looked at the fire.

She was twenty-four years old. She had managed this land for two months, since Torquil had died. She had managed it well, she believed, as well as any man would have. She had settled disputes, seen to harvests, maintained every bond of loyalty her father had built.

None of that would matter if Fraser succeeded in painting her as a symbol of instability. The Crown would not intervene on her behalf. They would intervene on the side of order, and order, to them, meant a man’s name above the gate.

“Without a powerful alliance,” Ewan said quietly, “the land will continue tae shrink. Piece by piece. There is nae other way tae say it, me lady.”

“I know,” Jean said.

She stood and moved to the window. The courtyard below was ordinary and familiar, the same gray stones, the same worn path from the gate to the well and yet something had shifted in the quality of it, the way a room shifted when you understood you might be seeing it for the last time.

She would not lose this.

She thought of the one clan whose word to the King had helped bring the MacLeans to this position in the first place.

“I’ll get us an alliance,” she said.

Ewan’s voice was careful. “Me lady, the clans who would—”

“Nae those clans.” She turned from the window. “MacKinnon.”

The silence that followed was the kind that meant she’d said something that couldn’t be unsaid.

Old Iain’s chin finally lifted from his fist. “The MacKinnons are—”

“I know what they are.”

“—enemies. Their word tae the King—”

“I know.” She crossed to the table and picked up her gloves from where she’d set them. “Which is precisely why the alliance, if I can make it, would be unbreakable. They owe us a debt, whether they acknowledge it or nae.”

Ewan looked at her for a long moment. “They willnae receive ye.”

“Nay,” Jean agreed. “Probably nae.”

She pulled on her first glove. Then her second.

“Ready me horse.”

***

Jean had crossed to Skye on a fishing vessel that smelled of herring and wet rope, standing at the bow the entire time because the hold made her feel buried. The water between Mull and Skye was gray and restless with dark hills shouldering up through cloud, the shoreline ragged and indifferent, and she told herself she was not afraid.

She was afraid.

Not of the crossing, not of the cold or the two days of riding ahead. She was afraid of what she was going to have to ask for, and who she was going to have to ask. She had grown up with the MacKinnon name as a kind of wound, not spoken often, but always present. The way her father’s jaw had tightened when it came up. The way Torquil had carried his hatred of them like a blade he kept sharpened.

Because there is nay one else. Because ye are out of other choices.

The boat ground against the dock. She stepped off.

She rode alone with no escort, no appearance of dignity. Men would make her look like a threat, and she couldn’t afford to be anything other than what she was: one woman, one horse, one desperate and calculated gamble. She kept to drove roads, stayed wide of settlements, ate in the saddle. The land was vast and indifferent here, black rock and brown moorland under a sky that went on too long in every direction.

She camped the first night in the lee of a boulder and did not sleep much. The wind found every gap in her cloak. She lay on her back looking at the sky.

Torquil would never have done this.

Not for lack of courage, he hadn’t lacked it but because he had lacked the particular humility required to walk into a room where you were not wanted and ask for something anyway.

She had it. She wished she didn’t need it.

She rose before light and rode on.

The MacKinnon lands announced themselves in the way all Highland boundaries did, not with a sign or a sudden change in the land, but with a shift in the quality of the silence. The hills were steeper here, darker, folded over one another in a way that made you feel watched before anything happened to prove you were.

She had just crossed the second ridge when they appeared.

Three of them, stepping out from the shadow of a stand of birch on her left as though they had been grown there. They were mounted, plaids in MacKinnon colors, and they moved to block the track with the unhurried confidence of men who had done this before.

The lead rider raised a hand. “Hold.”

Jean held. Her horse shifted under her, sensing the tension.

The man walked his horse forward a few paces. He was perhaps forty, square-jawed, with the look of someone who spent most of his life outside. His eyes moved from her face to her horse to the MacLean brooch at her cloak and stopped there.

Something changed in his expression.

“Ye’re MacLean,” he said.

“I am.”

“Then ye’re on the wrong side of the ridge.” He said it without hostility. Almost pleasantly. The pleasantness of a man telling you the house was on fire—not his problem, not his fault. “Turn around.”

Jean kept her voice even. “I’ve come tae speak with yer laird. It’s a matter of—”

“Aye, they all have matters.” He glanced at the men behind him, something passing between them that might have been amusement. “MacLean business is nae MacKinnon business. Turn around, go home, and tell whoever sent ye that the answer is nay.”

“Nay one sent me.”

He looked at her again. A proper look this time. She felt it—the calculation, the mild surprise—and held herself still under it.

“Then ye’re either brave or foolish,” he said, “and either way, ye’re leaving.” He lifted his chin toward the ridge behind her. “Now, please, before this becomes something else.”

Jean looked past him. Through the trees, perhaps two miles further down the glen, she could make out the dark shape of stone towers against the sky. The MacKinnon stronghold. Close. Close enough.

Her heart began to move faster.

“Thank ye,” she said. “I’ll go.”

She turned her horse.

Chapter Two

She waited until she heard him say something to the men behind him, low and satisfied, and then she drove her heels in hard.

The horse surged forward and Jean pressed low over its neck, cutting left off the track and onto open moorland, angling downhill and away from the birch stand. Behind her, a shout. Then the sound of three sets of hooves, coming fast.

The ground was uneven, tussocked, full of hidden dips that could snap a leg if she pushed too hard, but she pushed hard anyway because there was nothing else to do. The wind tore her hood back and the cold hit her face like a flat hand. She didn’t pull it up. She needed to see.

She glanced back once.

Two of them were closing. The third was cutting wider, trying to angle ahead of her. Smart. She adjusted, pulling right, using a shallow rise to block his line and buy herself twenty yards.

The castle towers were larger now. She fixed her eyes on them.

Don’t think. Just ride.

The moorland gave way to rougher ground of loose shale and heather, a burn cutting across her path. Her horse took it badly, stumbling at the bank, and she felt her seat lift, grabbed a fistful of mane, held on through sheer stubbornness, and straightened before it threw her. Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her teeth.

One of the riders was alongside her now, close enough that she could hear his horse’s breathing. He reached for her bridle.

“Stop the horse! Stop! Now!”

She wrenched left and he overshot, cursing. She smiled.

The castle gate was perhaps half a mile.

Half a mile.

She could see the dark and thick walls properly now, built into the hillside the way MacKinnon walls always were, the gate set at an angle that meant you approached it slightly sideways, exposed. There were men on the wall. She could see them moving.

They had seen her.

The arrow came without warning.

It struck the ground just ahead of her horse’s left foreleg, a hard thwack into the turf, the shaft still quivering. Her horse screamed high and terrible, and then the world lurched violently sideways as he reared, and she lost the left stirrup, then the right, and then she was falling.

She hit the ground shoulder-first.

“Arghh!”

The breath left her body entirely.

For a moment there was nothing, not a sound or thought, just the gray sky above her and the strange, suspended quiet of a body that hadn’t caught up with what had just happened to it. Then everything came back at once: the cold of the ground beneath her, the thunder of the horse bolting, the shouts of the riders pulling up.

Jean rolled onto her side. Her shoulder screamed. She got her hands under her and pushed.

Get up.

She got up.

The castle gate was about two hundred yards away. Maybe less. She could see the iron-banded wood of it. She could see the guards on the wall looking down at her.

Behind her, hoofbeats were slowing. She could hear the riders dismounting and boots on wet turf.

She looked back at the wall, at the men she could see moving up there and she filled her lungs.

“I got past yer scouts and I got past yer riders and I’m still coming!” Her voice cracked on the last word but she pushed through it, loud and aimed upward, at the wall, at whoever was up there with the authority to make a decision. “Daes that nae tell ye something? Open the gate!”

Nothing moved.

Jean ran.

She had not run like this since she was a girl, not with this particular kind of abandon, all form gone, just the body doing whatever it needed to do to cover ground. Her shoulder was wrong and each stride sent a bolt of white heat up into her neck, and she ignored it completely because ignoring it was the only option that existed.

The gate was close. Closer. Her lungs were on fire.

She could hear the men behind her. Hear them not quite running yet, not quite believing she was going to make it, and that hesitation was the only thing she had.

She hit the gate with both fists.

The sound of it was enormous, her knuckles against iron-banded oak, again and again, the blows landing with everything she had, which wasn’t much by now but was all of it. Her knuckles were beginning to bruise and Jean knocked even harder.

“Open this gate!” Her voice came out raw, stripped of anything careful. “I am Jean MacLean, daughter of the late Laird MacLean. I’ve come under nay arms and I am asking — I am asking”

The men reached her.

Strong hands closed on her arms from behind. There were two of them, yanking her back from the gate with the efficiency of men trained to do exactly this. She fought. She knew she was going to lose and she fought anyway, driving her elbow back hard enough to hear someone grunt, twisting her body, trying to break the grip because breaking the grip was the only thing she could think to do and thinking had narrowed to that, only that, the next breath, the next second, don’t stop—

They pinned her arms behind her back.

She felt the rope before she saw it, looped around her wrists, and pulled tight. She pulled against it immediately. It didn’t give.

“Get off me.” Still pulling, still trying, her voice dropping to something low and furious. “I came here tae talk—get off—”

“Hold still,” one of them said

She was breathing in ragged pulls, chest heaving, her shoulder a continuous white-hot ache. Her hair had come half down, she could feel it across her face, sticking to her lips and she couldn’t push it away. She stood there, hands bound behind her back, and she looked at the gate.

Still closed.

This is it. This is how far ye got.

Then she heard the bolts.

Three of them, heavy iron, drawn back one by one from the other side. The sound was very loud in the sudden quiet.

The gate opened.

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Chapter One

 
1450, Road to MacBain Lands

“Faster, ye great daft beast. Faster!”

The road beneath Maighread’s horse was muddy, each hoof strike splattering cold muck against her skirts. Rain had been pouring down since dawn, soaking through her woolen cloak until the fabric clung heavy on her shoulders. She hunched forward, urging her mount onward. Every beat of her heart hammered the same rhythm.

The guards accompanying her were also hunched over their horses, one in front of her, one behind.

Faither’s dying, Faither’s dying, Faither’s dying.

Three days since the messenger had found her at her cousin’s holding in the Lowlands. Three days of hard riding north, and still the MacEwan lands felt impossibly distant. Her thighs burned from gripping the saddle after hours of brutal pace, and her gut twisted with a sickness that had naught to do with the journey.

The Council would be circling already. Those scheming vultures. She could picture them gathering in her father’s hall, whispering poison while Angus MacEwan lay fevered and helpless. And Keir Sinclair was bound to make a move soon, as soon as he found out there was something wrong with him.

Her horse stumbled, nearly pitching her forward. Maighread swore viciously, hauling on the reins. “Steady now. Steady.”

The forest pressed close on either side of the road, ancient pines crowding together until their branches blocked what little grey light filtered through the clouds. This stretch always made her uneasy. Too quiet. Too many places for trouble to hide.

A branch cracked somewhere to her left.

Maighread’s hand went to the dirk at her belt, fingers closing instinctively around the leather-wrapped hilt, despite the protection of the men travelling with her. She wasn’t foolish enough to travel unarmed, not with winter coming and desperate men prowling every road between there and salvation.

All of a sudden, the forest came alive.

They burst from the trees like wolves.

Five men, maybe six. Rough looking curs in stained leathers, faces hidden behind scraps of cloth. Her horse screamed and reared. Maighread clung to its mane, legs locked around its barrel as it bucked and spun.

Both her guards were targeted immediately, one’s throat slit before he could fully reach his sword, the other pushed off his horse and trampled.

“Get her down!” one of the attackers roared. “Alive, ye hear me? Alive!”

Alive. Not just bandits then. Bandits wanted quick coin and a quicker escape. These men wanted her specifically. They had been watching and had quickly made rid of her guards.

Her heart kicked into a gallop. She yanked her dirk free and slashed at the closest man as he grabbed for her bridle. The blade caught him across the knuckles. He howled and jerked back, blood spraying.

“Sinclair’s balls!” he snarled. “The bitch cut me!”

“Should’ve brought more men,” another growled, circling around her left side. Bile rose in her throat.

“Who sent ye?” She kept her horse spinning, kept them all in sight. Her voice came out steady despite the terror clawing up her spine. “Name yer master, ye cowardly monsters!”

The leader laughed, a wet ugly sound. “Ye’ll ken soon enough, lass. Now stop making this difficult.”

“Difficult?” She bared her teeth at him. “I haven’t even started being difficult.”

She kicked her horse hard. The beast lunged forward, scattering two of the men. Maighread leaned low over its neck and drove her heels in again, sending it plunging down the muddy track. Branches whipped past her face. Rain stung her eyes. Behind her, boots pounded and men shouted.

“After her! Move yer arses!”

The road curved sharply ahead. Maighread took the turn too fast, felt her horse’s hooves slide in the muck. They stayed upright by sheer luck and God’s mercy. She risked a glance back.

They were gaining.

Of course they were. Her mount had been ridden hard for three days straight while these bastards’ horses were fresh. Mathematics and misery. The border of MacEwan lands lay barely a day’s ride ahead––so close––but she wouldn’t reach it. Wouldn’t even make it another mile at this pace. She had to get off the road. Lose them in the forest, where their numbers mattered less.

Maighread hauled on the reins, turning her horse toward a gap in the trees. The animal balked, ears flattening.

“Go!” She kicked viciously. “By the Mass, move!”

They crashed into the undergrowth. Branches tore at her cloak and hair. Something ripped the braid half loose, sending chestnut strands whipping across her face. Her horse stumbled over roots and rocks, breath coming in great heaving gasps.

“She’s gone into the woods!”

“Split up! Fin, take Dougal and circle round. We’ll flush her out!”

Maighread’s mind raced. Five men, possibly six. If they split their forces, that improved her odds marginally.

She pushed deeper into the forest, guiding her exhausted horse between close growing trunks. The rain had softened, filtering through the canopy in a steady drip. Everything smelled of wet earth and pine sap and her own fear sweat.

A stream cut across her path, water running swift and dark over smooth stones. She urged her horse into it, then turned upstream. Old trick, older than memory, but it might buy her minutes. Might give her time to think, to plan, to figure out how in God’s name she’d survive that moment.

Hoofbeats.

Coming fast from her right.

Her stomach dropped. They’d circled quicker than expected. Professional then. Trained men, not common thieves.

She abandoned the stream, driving her horse up the far bank. The animal’s sides heaved. Foam flecked its neck. It couldn’t take much more.

Neither could she, if truth be told. Her arms shook from gripping the reins. Her throat burned. But fear had teeth and they were sinking deep, flooding her blood with something that felt sickeningly close to panic.

“There!” A shout, too close. “By the stream, I see her!”

Maighread twisted in the saddle. Two men crashed through the brush behind her. She turned forward again, ducked under a low hanging branch, and nearly collided with the third man blocking her path.

“Gotcha, ye troublesome quine.”

He grabbed for her bridle. Maighread slashed at him with her dirk, but he caught her wrist and squeezed until her bones ground together. The blade fell from her nerveless fingers.

“Get off!” She kicked at his face. Her boot connected with something that crunched. He staggered back, cursing foully.

Her horse reared again. This time Maighread’s exhausted grip failed. She tumbled backward, hit the ground hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. Mud splattered her face. For a horrible moment she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, could only lie there gasping like a landed fish.

Boots appeared in her vision.

“That was foolish, lass.” The leader’s voice, rough with exertion. “We’re trying not to hurt ye, but ye keep making things complicated and soon—”

Steel sang.

A blade appeared in the man’s throat, erupting through the front of his neck in a spray of crimson. His eyes went wide. He made a wet gurgling sound and collapsed.

More swords, more shouting. The other men scattered, reaching for their weapons. Maighread rolled onto her side, still trying to drag air into her starved lungs.

New riders poured into the clearing. Six of them, maybe seven, all wearing colors that made her blood turn to ice.

Sinclair green and black.

The colors she’d learned to recognize from across any hall, any field. The colors that appeared in her nightmares, paired with Keir’s cold smile and colder eyes.

“Stand down!” A voice cut through the chaos, commanding and cold. “Lady MacEwan is under Sinclair protection!”

Maighread’s blood turned to ice. She knew that voice.

Keir Sinclair himself sat astride a black destrier at the edge of the clearing, sword drawn, his dark hair slick with rain. He looked exactly as she remembered—sharp features, grey eyes that missed nothing, handsome in a cold, calculated way that made her skin crawl.

Protection. The word hit her gut like a fist.

This was it. The trap. These weren’t bandits at all. This whole thing had been orchestrated. The attack, the chase, the convenient rescue. Keir arriving at precisely the right moment to play hero while pretending she was a grateful, helpless maiden.

Except she was neither grateful nor helpless, and she’d be damned before she let them drag her back like a prize heifer.

Maighread shoved to her feet. Her legs trembled but held. Keir guided his horse closer, his gaze fixed on her.

“Lady MacEwan.” His voice gentled, taking on a tone of concern that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve been searching fer ye. Yer faither needs ye home. Please, let us escort ye safely back where ye belong.”

“Stay back.” She stumbled away from him, scanning the ground for her dirk. Where had it fallen? There, half buried in mud and pine needles.

Keir dismounted, approaching with his hands raised like she was a spooked animal. “Me lady, ye’re injured. Let us help ye. We’ll take ye tae safety, get ye warm and fed and—”

“I said stay back!” She snatched up her dirk and whirled to face them. Six men against one exhausted woman. Shite odds. But she’d cut the first bastard who tried to touch her.

The remaining attackers took one look at Keir and his armed men and bolted. They scattered into the forest like rats, crashing through the undergrowth in their haste to escape. Within moments, the clearing fell quiet except for the sound of rain and her own ragged breathing.

“Lady MacEwan, please.” Keir took another step closer. Blood streaked his face but his expression stayed gentle, concerned. “Ye’re safe now. We’ll take ye home tae yer faither safely.”

Her mind raced through the possibilities. Keir had arranged the attack. Paid men to play bandits, sent his own soldiers to “save” her. Now she’d owe him a life debt. Now the Council could argue she needed a strong husband for protection. Now Keir could press his suit with the full weight of clan obligation behind him.

Clever bastard.

Maighread didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran.

Chapter Two

“Lady MacEwan’s trying tae run,” he called out. “Someone grab her before she hurts herself. Keir willnae be pleased if we return her with more bruises than necessary.”

Before she hurts herself. Like she was a child. Like she was witless.

Rage flooded her veins, hot and clarifying.

Maighread didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and ran.

Behind her, men shouted. Hooves thundered. But she knew those forests, had ridden them since childhood. She ducked under branches, leaped over roots, ignored the thorns tearing at her skirts.

“After her! Dinnae let her escape!”

Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed. But terror drove her forward, gave her strength she shouldn’t possess.

A stream appeared ahead, the same one she’d crossed earlier. She splashed through it without slowing, soaking her already muddy skirts to the knee.

“Fan out! She can’t have gone far!”

They were close. Too close. She could hear their cursing, their boots crashing through the undergrowth.

Maighread grabbed a low hanging branch and hauled herself up into a massive pine. Bark bit into her palms. Her arms shook from exertion. But she climbed higher, higher, until the branches grew thin and the ground spun sickeningly far below.

She pressed against the trunk, trying to quiet her ragged breathing. Through the needles she could see them searching below, spreading out in an organized pattern that spoke of military training.

“She’s got to be here somewhere!”

“Check the stream again! Look fer tracks!” Keir’s voice cut through the search, sharp with frustration. “Fan out wider. She cannae have gotten far on foot.” He moved through the trees with controlled purpose, his gaze scanning the undergrowth. “Search every bloody tree if ye have to. I want her found. Now.”

One of them passed directly beneath her tree. She held her breath, pressed her cheek against rough bark, and prayed to every saint she could remember.

He moved on.

For a long moment, blessed silence. Then more cursing, farther away now.

“She couldnae have gotten far. Keep looking!”

Maighread waited until their voices faded to nothing. Waited until the forest settled back into rain drip quiet. Then she waited longer still, counting her heartbeats, making sure.

Finally, when her arms were quaking and her fingers had gone numb from gripping bark, she began to climb down.

Her boots hit solid earth. She stood there swaying, filthy and exhausted and more frightened than she’d ever been in her life.

She took one shaky step forward, then another. Her legs barely held her weight. The forest remained quiet around her. A twig snapped behind her. Before she could turn, hands seized her shoulders.

“Got ye now, ye stubborn bitch!”

Hands seized Maighread’s shoulders, fingers digging into her flesh through the sodden wool. She twisted violently, bringing her elbow up into soft belly meat. The man grunted and his grip loosened enough for her to wrench free.

“Grab her, Callum! Dinnae let the quine slip away again!”

Another set of hands caught her from behind, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her clean off her feet. Maighread kicked backward, her heel connecting with a shin. The man cursed but didn’t release her.

He yanked her and she went down hard, face first into the mud. The breath punched from her lungs. Someone’s knee ground into her spine, pressing her deeper into the muck. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, could only thrash uselessly while they pinned her.

“Hold her still!”

“I’m trying, ye great lummox! She fights like a wildcat!”

A hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. Pain blazed across her scalp. Through the mud coating her face, she glimpsed the scarred man from earlier grinning down at her.

“Now then, me lady. Let’s discuss being reasonable, aye? Ye can walk back tae the horses nice and calm, or we can drag ye. Yer choice.”

“Go… to… Hell…” She spat mud and blood.

He laughed. “Oh, Keir’s definitely going tae enjoy ye. Might even keep ye spirited fer a while—”

The words cut off abruptly as steel flashed through the air. The scarred man jerked backward with such force he flew from sight. The knee on her spine vanished. Someone screamed—high and panicked.

Maighread rolled onto her side, gasping, and looked up through mud-caked lashes.

A warrior on a massive grey stallion bore down on the second man, sword already swinging. The blade caught her attacker across the chest before he could raise his own weapon. He dropped like a felled tree. The rider wheeled his mount with perfect control, scanning for more threats.

More riders poured into the clearing behind him—seven, maybe eight—wearing blue and white. But Maighread couldn’t tear her gaze from their leader.

Sun-gold hair, longer than fashion dictated, tied back loosely so strands escaped to frame a face that could’ve belonged to some ancient warrior king. Blue-green eyes blazed with barely contained violence as he assessed the scene. Broad shoulders, powerful arms that controlled both sword and horse with effortless grace. Young—perhaps mid-twenties—but carrying himself with the absolute confidence of a man who’d seen battle and won.

Something in her chest lurched sideways.

Even through her terror and exhaustion, she couldn’t look away. He was beautiful in the way a storm was beautiful—wild and dangerous and utterly compelling. The kind of man bards wrote songs about. The kind of man women dreamed of in the dark hours of night.

Heat flooded through her despite the cold rain and mud coating her skin. Her heart hammered for an entirely different reason now, and she hated herself for it. She was filthy, terrified, half-dead from running—and yet some traitorous part of her noticed the way his wet shirt clung to his chest, the fierce protectiveness in his expression as he looked at the men who’d hurt her, the raw power in every movement.

Something in her chest lurched sideways.

The scarred Sinclair man moved to block her from view, reaching for his sword. “This doesn’t concern ye, MacBain—”

MacBain. The name rang through her skull like a bell.

The golden warrior didn’t let him finish. His blade flashed in a brutal arc that caught the scarred man across the forearm. The Sinclair soldier howled and staggered back, his sword clattering to the ground.

“Touch her again,” the warrior said, voice deadly calm, “and I’ll take the whole arm.”

The second Sinclair man lunged from the side. MacBain’s sword met his with a shriek of steel, then swept low in a move so fast Maighread barely tracked it. The man’s legs went out from under him. He hit the ground hard.

Two more Sinclair soldiers charged forward. MacBain’s men intercepted them, and suddenly the clearing erupted into controlled chaos. But the golden warrior remained focused, positioning himself between Maighread and any threat. He moved like violence made beautiful—every strike precise, every step purposeful. His blade sang through the air, driving back anyone who came close.

Maighread couldn’t look away. Even through her shock and pain, she watched him fight for her with a ferocity that stole her breath. It wasn’t just skill. It was fury on her behalf, and something about that made her heart stutter in her chest.

Within moments, it was over. The Sinclair men who could still stand retreated into the forest, abandoning their wounded. MacBain turned immediately, sheathing his sword as he crossed to where Maighread still sprawled in the mud.

He crouched beside her, those startling blue-green eyes scanning her face with genuine concern. “Are ye hurt, lass? Can ye stand?”

His voice had gentled completely, lost all that deadly edge. Warmth instead of violence. She found herself staring at him, her mind still scrambling to catch up. This man had just fought off multiple attackers without breaking a sweat, and now he was looking at her like she was something precious.

“I…” Her voice came out rough, scraped raw. “I can manage.”

“Let me help regardless.” He slid an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her as she sat up. His hands were careful, almost reverent. “Easy now. Take yer time.”

She let him help her to her feet, hating how her legs shook, how she had to lean against his solid warmth to stay upright. He smelled of leather and horse and woodsmoke, clean male sweat beneath. Heat radiated from him despite the cold rain.

“Thank ye.” She forced the words past her chattering teeth. “I… thank ye fer…”

“Nay need.” He steadied her, his grip firm but gentle on her elbow. “Are ye truly unharmed? Did they hurt ye beyond…”

Horse hooves. Distant but approaching fast.

Maighread’s stomach dropped to her boots. She knew that sound, the particular cadence of multiple riders moving in formation. Keir’s men regrouping. Or worse, Keir himself coming to claim his prize.

Time collapsed into urgency.

She grabbed the golden warrior’s arm, fingers digging into the muscle beneath his sleeve. “I’m Maighread MacEwan. Angus MacEwan’s daughter. Please, I need…”

Recognition flared in his eyes. “I ken yer faither. Good man.”

“Then in honor of that, in honor of him, I’m begging ye…” The hoofbeats were getting closer. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Follow me lead. Please. Just… please just trust me.”

He frowned, confusion creasing his brow. “Follow yer lead? Lass, what are ye…”

The hoofbeats crested the ridge. Riders appeared through the trees, at least a dozen strong. And at their head, astride a black destrier that matched his soul, rode Keir Sinclair.

His gaze found her immediately and something flickered across his face. Relief? Satisfaction? It vanished too quickly to name.

Maighread’s blood turned to slush.

“Lady MacEwan.” He guided his horse closer, his voice smooth as oiled steel. “Thank God ye’re safe. When me men reported ye went intae the forest, I feared the worst. These roads are treacherous fer a woman alone.”

She felt the golden warrior stiffen beside her, sensed his confusion. No time to explain. No time for anything except the desperate gamble forming in her mind.

“I wasnae alone,” she said clearly. Loudly enough for every man present to hear. “Me betrothed was with me.”

Keir’s expression froze. “Yer… what?”

Maighread turned to the golden warrior and smiled, praying he’d remember her plea. She stepped closer to him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.

“Me betrothed.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading silently for him to play along. “We were tae meet and travel taegether tae me faither’s lands when those bandits attacked.”

The warrior’s eyes widened slightly, but after a heartbeat’s pause, he gave a slight nod. “Tavish MacBain,” he said, his voice steady despite the shock she could see in his face.

“Master MacBain fought them off, of course,” Maighread continued, emboldened by his cooperation. “He always protects me.”

Tavish’s entire body had gone rigid. She felt the shock rolling off him in waves. But he didn’t step away, didn’t contradict her.

“Betrothed,” Keir repeated. His voice had gone flat. Dangerous. “I was unaware ye had accepted any marriage proposal, Lady MacEwan.”

“Because it’s recent.” She moved fractionally closer to Tavish, willing him to play along. “Very recent. We’ve been… negotiating the arrangements privately.”

“Indeed.” Keir’s gaze slid to Tavish, assessing. Cold calculation flickered behind those grey eyes. “MacBain. I didn’t realize ye were courting Lady MacEwan.”

Tavish’s hand found the small of Maighread’s back—a steady, possessive touch that surprised her. When he spoke, his voice came out steady and firm.

“Aye. We’ve been acquainted fer some time. The negotiations were conducted between our families initially, as is proper.” He met Keir’s gaze without flinching. “I’m escorting me betrothed home tae finalize the arrangements.”

“How fascinating.” Keir’s smile could’ve frozen the loch solid. “And yet nay one in yer clan mentioned this when I dined at MacBain lands last month.”

“Private family matters arenae typically discussed with guests,” Tavish replied smoothly. His thumb moved in a small, reassuring circle against Maighread’s back. “Surely ye understand the need fer discretion until contracts are signed.”

Keir leaned forward in his saddle. “And now ye’re traveling taegether tae MacEwan lands tae… what, exactly?”

“Tae marry,” Tavish said before Maighread could speak. His tone left no room for doubt. “With her faither’s blessing, which we already have.”

Keir studied them both for a long, silent moment. The forest held its breath. Rain dripped from pine needles with terrible patience.

“Well then.” He straightened in his saddle. “In that case, I insist on escorting ye both tae MacEwan lands. Tae ensure yer safety, of course. These roads are clearly dangerous, what with bandits and…” His smile sharpened. “Other threats.”

Tavish’s hand pressed more firmly against Maighread’s back. “We have sufficient men—”

“I insist.” Keir’s tone left no room for argument. “I’m heading north meself. How convenient that we can travel taegether. Unless ye have reason tae refuse me protection?”

Refusing would raise suspicion. Accepting meant traveling under Keir’s watchful eye.

Tavish’s jaw tightened, but he inclined his head. “Yer concern is noted. We’ll travel taegether, then.”

“Excellent.” Keir turned his horse. “Shall we? I’m sure Laird MacEwan is anxious tae see his daughter. And his new son by marriage.” The emphasis on those last words sent ice down Maighread’s spine.

Tavish guided Maighread toward his horse with a firm hand, his movements deliberate and protective. As he helped her mount, he leaned close enough that only she could hear.

“We’ll talk when we can,” he murmured. “Fer now, follow me lead.”

She nodded, and he swung up behind her, one arm settling around her waist to keep her steady as they began to ride.

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A few hours before the ball

“If ye pull that any tighter, Maisie, I willnae be able tae breathe.”

“Ye need tae breathe less and look even more beautiful,” Maisie said from behind her, tugging at the laces of Alba’s stays with the determination of someone who took her duties very seriously. “Now hold still.”

Alba gripped the bedpost and tried not to think about how her ribs were slowly being compressed into her spine.

Around them, her chamber was in a state of controlled chaos. Gowns spread across the bed, jewelry scattered on the dressing table, ribbons and pins and pots of rouge everywhere.

“I can feel me heart beatin’ in me throat,” Alba said.

“That’s just nerves,” Orla said, giving another firm tug. “Ye’re always like this before a ball.”

“I’m nae always like this.”

“Ye are. Remember the Midwinter feast last year? Ye made me re-lace ye three times because ye said it didnae feel right.”

“That was different,” Alba protested. “The Duke of Atholl was goin’ tae be there.”

“And tonight Lachlann MacNeil is goin’ tae be there,” Maisie said, and Alba could hear the grin in her voice even without seeing her face. “Which is clearly much more terrifying.”

Alba felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I dinnae ken what ye mean.”

“Ye ken exactly what I mean. Ye’ve been talkin’ about him fer weeks.”

“I’ve mentioned him twice.”

“Ye’ve mentioned him at least a dozen times,” Maisie corrected, giving one final tug before tying off the laces. “And every time ye dae, ye get that look on yer face.”

“What look?”

“The look ye’re wearin’ right now.” Maisie came around to face her, hands on her hips. “There. Perfect. Now sit so I can dae yer hair.”

Alba moved to the dressing table and sat, grateful to finally be able to draw a full breath, even if it was somewhat restricted.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Face flushed, hair still hanging loose down her back, eyes bright with what she was absolutely not going to admit was excitement.

Maisie appeared behind her in the reflection, already reaching fer the brush.

“So. Are ye actually goin’ tae talk tae him taenight, or are ye just goin’ tae stare at him from across the room like ye did at the last gatherin’?”

“I talked tae him at the last gatherin’.”

“Aye, but ye acted like ye barely kenned him, forget havin’ grown up with him around.”

“That’s still talkin’.”

“That’s barely acknowledgement,” Maisie said, beginning to work through Alba’s hair with practiced efficiency. “Ye need tae actually have a conversations with the man if ye want him tae see ye as anything other than Calum’s sister.”

“He kens I exist, that’s enough.”

“Daes he? Because from what ye’ve told me, lately yer conversations are stilted.”

Alba opened her mouth to argue, then closed it because Maisie was, unfortunately, correct.

“He’s just, he’s very, how dae I put it?” She gestured vaguely. “He’s him.”

“I ken he’s him,” Maisie said, gathering sections of Alba’s hair and beginning tae pin them. “That’s why ye need tae talk tae him properly taenight. Otherwise ye’re just goin’ tae spend another six months thinkin’ about what ye should have said. Ye used tae play with him and tease him all the time when ye were a bairn.”

“What am I supposed tae say? ‘Good evenin’, Lachlann MacNeil, I’ve been thinkin’ about ye fer years, would ye like tae dance?'”

“That would be a start.”

“I cannae say that!”

“Why nae?”

“Because he’s…” Alba stopped, trying to find words for what Lachlann MacNeil was.

Tall. Quiet. Possessed of the kind of steady competence that made her feel slightly unsteady by comparison.

“He’s nae the kind of man ye just walk up tae and say things like that tae.”

“What kind of man is he, then?”

“The intimidatin’ kind.”

“He’s one of yer braither’s closest friends,” Maisie pointed out. “He’s nae intimidatin’, he’s just reserved.”

“Reserved people are intimidatin’ tae people who talk too much.”

“Ye dinnae talk too much.”

“I dae when I’m nervous,” Alba said. “Remember when I met the Countess of Mar? I told her about our entire family history goin’ back four generations and she hadnae even asked.”

Maisie winced. “That was unfortunate.”

“That was mortifyin’,” Alba corrected. “And if I dae that tae Lachlann MacNeil, he’s goin’ tae spend the rest of the evenin’ avoidin’ me.”

“So dinnae,” Maisie said reasonably, working another section of hair into place. “Just be yerself. But the version of yerself that can complete a sentence without panic.”

“That’s a very narrow version.”

Maisie paused in her work and met Alba’s eyes in the mirror. “Me lady, if I may?”

“Of course.”

“The gentleman ye’re describin’ sounds like a good man. A quiet man. And in me experience, quiet men appreciate women who can talk, because it means they dinnae have tae.” She resumed pinning. “So if ye dae happen tae talk too much, it might nae be the disaster ye’re imaginin’’.”

Alba considered this. “Ye really think so?”

“I’ve been dressin’ ye fer enough gatherings tae ken when ye’re frettin’ fer good reason and when ye’re just frettin’,” Maisie said. “This is just frettin’.”

“But what if he’s nae interested? What if he’s just bein’ polite every time we talk and he’s actually just toleratin’ me because I’m Calum’s sister?”

“Then he’s nae worth yer time,” Orla said firmly. “But I dinnae think that’s the case.”

“How would ye ken?”

Maisie smiled slightly. “Because I saw the way he looked at ye at the last gatherin’ when ye were walkin’ away. That wasnae tolerance. That was interest.”

Alba’s head whipped around so fast that several pins fell out. “What? When? Why didnae ye tell me?”

“I’m tellin’ ye now,” Orla said, retrieving the pins with a long-suffering sigh. “Turn back around before I lose all me progress.”

Alba turned, but her heart was beating faster now. “What kind of look was it?”

“The kind that meant he was sorry tae see ye leave,” Maisie said. “Now stop movin’ or I’ll never get this finished in time.”

Alba forced herself to sit still, but her mind was racing.

Lachlann had looked at her. Had watched her leave. Had been, what? Sorry? Interested?

“What if I mess it up?” she asked quietly.

“Then ye mess it up and we’ll fix yer hair again tomorrow while ye tell me all about it,” Maisie said. “But at least ye’ll have tried.”

Alba looked at herself in the mirror as Maisie worked. Her hair was already taking shape, an elaborate arrangement she’d never be able to replicate on her own, woven through with ribbons that would match the deep blue of her gown.

“Right,” she said, taking a breath, or as much of one as the stays allowed. “Right. I can dae this.”

“Of course ye can,” Orla said. “Ye’re Alba MacKinnon. Ye’ve never been afraid of anythin’ in yer life.”

“That’s nae true. I’m afraid of spiders.”

“Everythin’ important, then.” Maisie finished the last pin and stepped back to examine her work. “There. Perfect. Now let’s get ye intae that gown before ye lose yer nerve entirely.”

Alba stood in front of the long mirror while Maisie made final adjustments to her hem.

The gown was beautiful, deep blue silk that brought out her eyes, with delicate embroidery along the bodice and sleeves. She’d never felt more like a lady and less like herself.

“Stop fidgetin’,” Maisie said, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle. “Ye look stunnin’. He’s goin’ tae take one look at ye and forget how tae speak.”

“That’s nae helpful. What if we both forget how tae speak and just stand there starin’ at each other like fools?”

“That would actually be quite romantic,” Maisie said. “In a tragic, terrible sort of way.”

Alba laughed despite herself. “Ye’re supposed tae be encouragin’ me.”

“I am encouragin’ ye. I’m encouragin’ ye tae stop worryin’ so much and just go tae that ball and dance with the man.” Maisie straightened Alba’s necklace, a simple pendant that had belonged to her mother. “The worst that happens is he says nay. And if he says nay, then ye ken, and ye can move on. But what if he says aye?”

“What if he says aye?” Alba repeated quietly.

“Then everythin’ changes,” Maisie said, smiling. “So stop frettin’ and go find out.”

Alba took a deep breath and looked at herself one more time in the mirror. She did look ready. She looked like someone who could walk into a ballroom and talk to a man without panicking.

She could do this.

Probably.

“Right,” she said, picking up her skirts. “Let’s go before I change me mind.”

Maisie handed her the fan she’d forgotten on the dressing table. “And remember, if all else fails, just smile and let him dae the talkin’.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“It’s brilliant advice,” Maisie said. “Trust me.”

Alba laughed and headed for the door and the waiting carriage.

Her heart already beating fast beneath the silk and stays, imagining the moment when she’d see him across the room and have to decide, once and for all, whether she was brave enough to close the distance between them.

She turned and Maisie smiled and began tidying the chaos of the room, humming softly to herself.

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Chapter One

 
1520, Ball at Dunstaffnage Castle

“Another glass of wine, me lady?”

Alba MacKinnon glanced up at the servant hovering at her elbow, his silver tray gleaming in the torchlight. She shook her head, offering a polite smile beneath her delicate mask. “Nay, thank ye.”

The servant bowed and moved away, leaving Alba alone once more at the edge of Dunstaffnage Castle’s grand ballroom.

Around her, the masquerade swirled in a riot of color and sound—silk gowns in jewel tones, masks adorned with feathers and gold thread, the rich notes of fiddles and pipes blending with laughter and conversation.

It was beautiful. Intoxicating, even. A rare gathering where Highland clans came together for diplomacy and celebration rather than rivalry.

Alba was looking around, taking in everything, when she saw Lachlann Macneil and she just couldn’t take her eyes off him.

He stood across the room, near the massive stone hearth, speaking with Laird MacDonald and another man she didn’t recognize. Even with half his face concealed by a simple black mask, surrounded by other warriors and lairds, Lachlann commanded attention.

His broad shoulders filled out his formal doublet, and when he moved, it was with the ease and authority of a man born to lead—someone equally comfortable on a longship’s deck or a battlefield.

Alba’s fingers tightened around her wine goblet as she watched him laugh at something David, one of the covenant brothers, said. The sound carried across the room, rich and warm, and she felt it settle somewhere low in her belly.

She shouldn’t have been watchin’ him like that. Shouldn’t let her gaze linger on the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair was tied back but had a few rebellious strands escapin’ to frame his face. Shouldn’t wonder what it would feel like if those storm-grey eyes turned her way with something other than brotherly affection.

But Alba had been fighting that pull toward Lachlann MacNeil for years now, and it only seemed to grow stronger with time.

Why on earth does he have tae be me braither’s best friend.

“Lady MacKinnon, what a vision ye are this evenin’!”

Alba turned to find Lady Moira Campbell approaching, her round face flushed with excitement and wine. The older woman’s mask was decorated with peacock feathers that bobbed enthusiastically as she spoke.

“Lady Campbell,” Alba greeted, grateful for the distraction from her dangerous thoughts. “Ye look lovely as well.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Moira waved a dismissive hand at her emerald gown, though her pleased smile suggested she was quite satisfied with her appearance. “Tell me, dear, are ye enjoyin’ the festivities? I saw ye sittin’ here alone and thought ye might want some company.”

Just wanted tae be alone tae admire Lachlan.

“That’s kind of ye. Aye, it’s a beautiful celebration.”

“Beautiful indeed! Though I must say—” Moira leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to what she likely thought was a whisper but was still quite audible, “—I’ve never seen so many eligible young men in one place. Surely ye’ve noticed? Half the unmarried lairds in the Highlands are here taenight.”

Alba forced her smile to remain pleasant. “I hadnae given it much thought.”

“Hadn’t ye?” Moira’s eyebrows rose above her mask. “A bonnie lass like yerself? Come now, ye must have caught the eye of more than a few.”

“I’m here tae represent me clan, Lady Campbell, nae tae find a husband.”

“Nonsense! Ye can dae both.” Moira’s gaze swept the room appraisingly. “Now, let me see… Young Laird Fraser over there has been watchin’ ye. And I believe MacGordon is still unwed, though he’s a bit sour fer me taste…”

Alba’s pleasant expression faltered. “I’m nae lookin’ fer a match taenight, me lady.”

“Every woman is lookin’ fer a match, dear, whether she admits it or nae.” Moira patted her arm with maternal condescension. “Mark me words, by the end of the season, half the lasses here will be betrothed. Ye’d dae well tae consider yer options while ye have them.”

Before Alba could formulate a response that wouldn’t be outright rude, a commotion near the entrance drew their attention. A group of young men had started some sort of drinking competition, their raucous laughter echoing off the stone walls.

“Goodness!” Moira pressed a hand to her ample chest. “Young men these days have nay sense of decorum. If ye’ll excuse me, dear, I should go find me husband before he joins them.”

She swept away in a flutter of peacock feathers, leaving Alba alone once more.

Alba took a sip of wine and let her gaze drift back across the room, only to find Lachlann looking directly at her.

Her breath caught. For a moment, their eyes met across the crowded ballroom, and the noise and movement around her seemed to fade. Lachlann’s expression was unreadable behind his mask, but something in the intensity of his gaze made heat bloom in her cheeks.

Then someone said something that drew Lachlann’s attention away, and the moment shattered.

This was madness. Lachlann was her brother’s closest friend, one of the five men bound by the Loch Eilein Covenant.

They’d all grown up together after that terrible battle, forged into brothers through shared trauma and honor. Which made any attraction she felt toward him completely, utterly forbidden.

She set her empty goblet on a passing servant’s tray and smoothed her hands over her blue silk gown. Perhaps she should find some of the other ladies, engage in the sort of social conversation expected of her. Or—

“Lady Alba.”

The voice was smooth as honey and twice as cloying. Alba’s spine stiffened before she even turned around.

Torquil MacLean stood far too close, a goblet in one hand and a predatory smile on his lips. His mask was adorned with silver thread that matched the excessive embroidery on his doublet. She’d felt his eyes on her throughout the evening, watching her with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

“Laird MacLean.” Alba dipped her head in the barest acknowledgment courtesy demanded.

“Ye look absolutely enchantin’ this evenin’.” His gaze traveled over her in a way that made her wish she’d worn something far less fitted. “That shade of blue is remarkably becomin’ on ye.”

“Ye’re too kind.”

“Nae at all. I speak only the truth.” He shifted closer, and Alba caught the sharp scent of wine on his breath, too much wine. “I’ve been hopin’ fer a chance tae speak with ye all evenin’. Ye’re a difficult woman tae catch alone.”

Alba forced her expression to remain neutral. “The celebration has kept me quite occupied.”

“I’m sure it has. A woman of yer… qualities must be in high demand.” His cold blue eyes glittered behind his mask. “But surely ye can spare a moment fer me? I’ve been most eager tae better make yer acquaintance.”

Every instinct Alba possessed was screaming at her to leave, to make some excuse and put distance between herself and this man. But they were at a diplomatic gathering, surrounded by representatives from a dozen different clans. Insult him too obviously, and it would reflect poorly on the MacKinnons.

“What did ye wish tae discuss, Laird MacLean?” she asked carefully.

Torquil’s smile widened, and there was something sharp and dangerous in it.

“Dance with me,” he said, reaching for her hand. “The musicians are starting a new set, and I would be honored tae have ye as me partner.”

Alba’s fingers trembled as Torquil’s hand reached for hers. She could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on her—the eyes of other guests who’d noticed the exchange, the rules of Highland hospitality and courtesy that bound her, the dangerous glint in Torquil’s eyes that promised consequences if she refused.

Refusing a dance at a formal gathering like this would be seen as a grave insult. It would cause talk, speculation, possibly even offense that could ripple out into clan politics.

“Aye,” she heard herself say, her voice steadier than she felt. “I would be honored.”

Torquil’s smile sharpened as he led her onto the dance floor. His hand settled on her waist—too tight, too possessive—and Alba fought the urge to pull away as they began to move through the steps of the reel.

“Ye dance beautifully, Lady Alba,” Torquil murmured, leaning closer than the dance required. “Just as I knew ye would.”

“Ye’re too kind, Laird MacLean.”

“Nae at all.” They turned, and his grip tightened fractionally. “I’ve been watchin’ ye all evenin’, ye ken. Waitin’ fer the right moment tae approach.”

Alba’s pulse quickened, but not with pleasure. “Have ye?”

“Aye. Because I have somethin’ important tae discuss with ye.” His cold blue eyes locked on hers. “Somethin’ that concerns both our futures.”

Dread pooled in Alba’s stomach. “I dinnae understand—”

“I think ye dae, lass.” Torquil pulled her closer as they moved through another turn. “Ye’re a clever woman. Surely ye’ve considered what a union between our clans could mean? The MacLeans and the MacKinnons, bound together… think of the power, the influence.”

Alba’s breath caught. “Laird MacLean, I—”

“I’m askin’ fer yer hand, Alba.” His voice dropped lower, more intense. “Marry me. Become Lady MacLean.”

Alba stiffened, recognizing the danger immediately. This was no polite inquiry or a tentative courtship—this was a demand dressed up as an offer, and the possessive way Torquil held her made it clear he’d already decided she would be his.

“I’m afraid that’s nae possible,” she managed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Any discussions about marriage would need tae go through me braither, as is proper—”

“Yer braither is in England.” Torquil’s smile turned cold. “And from what I understand, he’s made nay arrangements fer ye. I’m offerin’ ye security, Alba. Protection. Nae many lairds would be so generous tae a woman whose braither left her so… vulnerable.”

The threat beneath his words was unmistakable. Alba’s mind raced, searching for a way out of the conversation, out of the dance, away from that man who was holding her too tight and smiling like a predator who’d cornered his prey.

“I must respectfully decline,” she said firmly, lifting her chin. “I have nay interest in marriage at this time, and even if I did—”

“Ye misunderstand, lass.” Torquil’s fingers dug into her waist hard enough to bruise. “I wasnae askin’ fer yer permission. I was extendin’ ye the courtesy of hearin’ it from me first, before I make the formal arrangements with yer clan.”

Alba’s heart hammered against her ribs. She opened her mouth, though she had no idea what words would come out—

“I’m afraid the lady has already promised this next dance tae me.”

Chapter Two

“I’m afraid the lady has already promised this next dance tae me.”

The voice was deep and familiar, and it sent relief flooding through Alba’s veins like whisky warmth.

Lachlann MacNeil stood at her shoulder, his storm-grey eyes fixed on Torquil with an intensity that could have frozen a loch in summer.

He was taller than the MacLean laird, broader through the shoulders, and there was something in his posture—relaxed but ready—that spoke of a warrior who’d seen real battle.

Torquil’s smile tightened. “I wasnae aware Lady MacKinnon had made any prior commitments.”

“Well, now ye are.” Lachlann’s tone was pleasant enough, but there was steel beneath it. He turned to Alba, and his expression softened slightly. “Are ye ready, lass?”

Alba’s heart hammered against her ribs for an entirely different reason now. “Aye,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt. “I am.”

She placed her hand in Lachlann’s, and the warmth of his palm against hers made her breath catch.

His fingers closed around hers—gentle but sure—and she felt the calluses from years of sword work, of hauling ropes on longships, of a life lived in service to his clan.

Torquil’s jaw clenched. “Perhaps after this dance, Lady MacKinnon—”

“I’m afraid Lady MacKinnon’s evenin’ is quite full,” Lachlann interrupted smoothly. “But I’m sure ye’ll find nay shortage of willin’ partners, Laird MacLean. Lady Blair was just mentionin’ how much she enjoys dancin’.”

It was a dismissal, polite but absolute.

Torquil’s cold blue eyes flickered between them, and Alba could practically see him calculating whether to push the matter. But Lachlann was a laird in his own right and one of the five men bound by the Loch Eilein Covenant. Challenging him publicly would be foolish.

“Of course,” Torquil finally said, his smile sharp as broken glass. “Enjoy yer dance.”

He melted back into the crowd, but Alba could feel his gaze on her like ice water down her spine.

“Come,” Lachlann murmured, his hand moving to the small of her back as he guided her toward the center of the ballroom where other couples were forming sets. “Let’s get ye away from that bastard.”

“Lachlann…”

“Later.” His voice was low, meant only for her ears. “Smile, Alba. Half the room is watchin’.”

She was suddenly, acutely aware of the attention they’d drawn.

Lady Campbell was whispering behind her fan to another woman. Several young warriors were watching with poorly concealed interest. Even David MacDonald had turned from his conversation to observe them with a thoughtful expression.

Alba lifted her chin and let Lachlann lead her into position as the musicians began a reel. His hand settled on her waist, and she placed hers on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath it.

“Ye shouldnae have done that,” she said quietly as they began to move through the steps. “Torquil MacLean isnae a man who takes kindly tae bein’ thwarted.”

“Torquil MacLean can go straight to hell,” Lachlann replied, his tone conversational despite the venom in his words. “Did ye want tae dance with him?”

“Nay.”

“Then I did exactly what I should have done.” His grey eyes met hers, and there was something fierce in them that made her pulse quicken. “Ye looked like a hare caught in a snare, Alba. Did ye truly think I’d just stand there and watch?”

“It wasnae yer responsibility.”

“Aye, it was.” They turned in time with the music, his hand firm and steady at her waist. “Calum asked me tae keep an eye on ye while he’s in England. That’s exactly what I’m daein’.”

Alba’s stomach dropped. Of course. Of course that’s why he’d intervened. Her brother had asked him to watch over her, to protect her in his absence. It had nothing to do with her specifically, and everything to do with Lachlann’s loyalty to Calum.

She should be grateful. She was grateful. But beneath the relief was a treacherous thread of disappointment that she had no right to feel.

“I didnae ken Calum had asked that of ye,” she said, keeping her voice light.

Lachlann’s hand tightened fractionally on her waist as they moved through a turn. “Yer braither’s in England dealin’ with trade negotiations, and ye’re at a ball full of ambitious lairds and too much wine. Of course I’ve been watchin’ ye.”

“How… reassurin’.”

His lips quirked. “Ye’re angry.”

“I’m nae angry.”

“Ye are. Yer shoulders just tightened, and ye get this particular look in yer eyes when ye’re tryin’ nae tae lose yer temper.” He guided her through another series of steps with easy confidence. “I’ve known ye since ye were a wee lass, Alba. I can read ye better than ye think.”

That was precisely the problem, wasn’t it? Lachlann had known her for years—watched her grow from a grieving child into a woman. But he still saw her as Calum’s little sister, someone to be protected and watched over. Not as…

Not as what? What did she want him to see when he looked at her?

Alba pushed the dangerous thought away. “I’m nae angry,” she repeated, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m grateful ye intervened. Torquil was makin’ me uncomfortable.”

“I noticed.” Something dark flickered across Lachlann’s face.

Lachlann was quiet for a moment as they moved through the dance. Around them, other couples swirled and laughed, but Alba was hyperaware of the man holding her—the warmth of his hand, the way he smelled of leather and salt air, the small scar above his left eyebrow that she’d never dared ask about.

“If he approaches ye again taenight,” Lachlann finally said, his voice low and serious, “ye come find me immediately. Dae ye understand?”

“Lachlann, I’m nae helpless.”

“I ken ye’re nae helpless, Alba. But Torquil MacLean is dangerous.” His grey eyes held hers, and she could see genuine concern there beneath the command. “He’s ambitious and cunnin’, and he daesnae take nay fer an answer. Promise me ye’ll be careful.”

The intensity in his gaze made her throat tight. “I promise.”

“Good.”

They finished the reel in silence, moving through the final steps with a synchronicity that felt natural, inevitable. When the music ended and Lachlann released her, Alba felt the loss of his touch like cold wind against her skin.

He glanced around the ballroom, and his jaw tightened. “When are ye leavin’?”

“Soon. Me escorts are probably waitin’ already, I told them I wouldnae stay late.”

“Good. I’ll walk ye out.”

“Ye dinnae need tae.”

“Alba.” He gave her a look that brooked no argument. “I’m walkin’ ye tae yer carriage. Let me dae this without a fight, aye?”

She wanted to argue, to prove she didn’t need constant watching over. But the memory of Torquil’s cold eyes and possessive smile was still too fresh. “Aye. Thank ye.”

They made their way through the crowd toward the castle’s entrance. Alba could feel eyes following them, speculation and curiosity in equal measure.

The cool night air was a relief after the press and heat of the ballroom. Alba’s escorts, two MacKinnon warriors, were indeed waiting near where the carriages had been arranged. They straightened when they saw her approaching with Lachlann.

“Lady MacKinnon,” the older of the two, Finn, greeted with a respectful nod. “We were just about tae come fetch ye.”

“I’m ready tae leave.” Alba turned to Lachlann, suddenly unsure what to say. Thank ye seemed inadequate, but what else was there? “Will ye be stayin’ much longer?”

“Nay. Another hour, perhaps, then I’ll be headin’ back tae me ship.” His grey eyes searched her face. “Ye’ll be safe with Finn and Dougal. They’re good men.”

“I ken.”

“And ye’ll write to Calum about what happened taenight? With Torquil?”

Alba hesitated. Her brother had enough to worry about with the English trade negotiations. The last thing she wanted was to add to his burdens. “I’ll… consider it.”

“Alba.”

“I’ll be fine, Lachlann. Truly.” She managed a smile. “Go enjoy the rest of yer evenin’. Dance with some of those lasses who’ve been watchin’ ye all night.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise? amusement? —but before she could identify it, Finn stepped forward to help her into the carriage.

“Safe travels, Lady MacKinnon,” Lachlann said formally, stepping back.

“And ye, Laird MacNeil.”

The title felt strange on her tongue, too formal, too distant for someone she’d known most of her life. But it was proper, appropriate for a public farewell.

Alba settled into the carriage, and Dougal closed the door. Through the window, she could see Lachlann standing in the torchlight, watching as Finn climbed up to the driver’s seat.

The carriage lurched into motion, and Alba let her head fall back against the cushioned seat, releasing a long breath. Her heart was still racing from the dance, from the warmth of Lachlann’s hand at her waist, from the fierce protectiveness in his eyes when he’d faced down Torquil.

She was a fool. A complete and utter fool for letting herself feel anything beyond gratitude.

The road leading away from Dunstaffnage Castle was dark, lit only by the moon and the single lantern on the carriage. The sound of hoofbeats and creaking wheels filled the silence as they traveled through the wooded path toward the main road that would take them north to MacKinnon lands.

Alba closed her eyes, trying to calm her racing thoughts. In a few days, Calum would return from England, and life would return to normal. She’d go back to her duties, to managing the household and representing her clan at smaller gatherings. And Lachlann would go back to Barra, to his own responsibilities and his own life.

That night would become just another memory to lock away, another moment when she’d let herself pretend, just for a dance, that forbidden things might be possible.

The carriage continued through the darkness, carrying Alba away from the castle, from the ball, from Lachlann MacNeil and all the dangerous feelings he stirred in her heart.

***

“Something daes nae seem right.”

The first arrow struck the lantern as Finn was done making his quick observation.

Glass shattered, plunging the road into darkness save for the pale moonlight filtering through the trees. Alba lurched forward as the carriage jerked violently, Finn’s shout of alarm cutting through the night.

“What—” Alba began, but her words were drowned out by the whistle of more arrows slicing through the air.

The horses screamed. The carriage tilted dangerously as one of them went down, and Alba was thrown against the side panel hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs.

Wood splintered. Metal shrieked. The world became a chaos of sound and motion as the carriage tipped, skidded, and finally crashed onto its side with bone-jarring force.

Alba’s head cracked against something solid. Stars burst behind her eyes, and for a moment, she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but lie there in the wreckage trying to remember which way was up.

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One month earlier

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.”

“Fergive me,” Marsaili said. “I find meself weary.”

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.

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Two Weeks Before the Auction

“Another letter from the Regent, me laird.”

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,

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.

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Mackintosh Castle, fourteen years earlier

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.

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.

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