1495, Loch Eilein

The blood came first—not his own, not yet—splashing hot across Euan’s face as the sword cleaved through the man beside him.

He was six years old. He should have been in the keep, safe behind stone walls. Instead, he stood frozen on the field at Loch Eilein, watching men die.

“Stay close tae me, lad!” His father’s voice cut through the din of battle, sharp with command and fear. Laird Murtagh MacLeod never showed fear.

Euan tried to obey. His small legs pumped beneath him as he stumbled after his father’s broad back, but the ground was slick with mud and worse things. The clash of steel rang in his ears, drowning out thought. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The treaty talks were meant to bring peace between the clans—MacLeod, MacKinnon, MacDonald, MacRae, MacNeil. Five clans, five lairds, five promises sworn before God.

Lies. All of it, lies.

“Betrayers!” someone screamed. “They’ve turned on us!”

The MacDonald banner fell first, trampled beneath boots and hooves. Then came the MacRaes, pouring from the treeline like wolves, their war cries piercing the grey Highland morning. Euan’s chest heaved with panicked breaths. Where were the other boys? Calum, with his easy smile? David, always so clever? Archibald, who’d taught Euan how to hold a wooden sword properly just the day before?

“Da!” Euan’s voice cracked, high and terrified.

His father didn’t turn. Murtagh’s sword was out, already red, as he barked orders to his men. But there weren’t enough of them. The MacLeod contingent had come for talks, not war. They were outnumbered, surrounded, caught in a trap sprung by men they’d thought were allies.

A horse screamed. Euan whirled, and his stomach lurched. The battlefield wasn’t the orderly thing from his father’s war stories. It was chaos—a writhing mass of violence and mud and dying men who sobbed for their mothers. A MacKinnon warrior staggered past, clutching his opened belly, his face grey. Blood pooled everywhere, dark and spreading.

“Move, boy!”

Rough hands shoved Euan forward. He fell hard, palms scraping rock. When he looked up, the world had shifted. His father was ten paces away now, fifteen, locked in combat with two men. Twenty paces. Too far.

“Da!”

Something glinted in Euan’s peripheral vision. He turned his head just as the blade descended.

Time slowed to treacle. The sword was massive, far larger than it should have been, wielded by a scarred man with dead eyes. Andersen—Euan would learn that name later, would carve it into his memory alongside the faces of the other hired swords who’d orchestrated that massacre. But at that moment, all he knew was the blade falling toward him, and his own voice screaming.

His father moved like lightning.

Murtagh MacLeod was forty-two years old, in the prime of his strength, and he threw himself between the blade and his son with the fury of a man who’d fight the devil himself for his blood. The sword meant for Euan’s neck caught his father’s shoulder instead, shearing through leather and muscle with a wet crunch that Euan felt in his bones.

“No!” The word tore from Euan’s throat.

But his father didn’t fall. Not yet. With his good arm, Murtagh’s sword swung up, catching Andersen’s blade and shoving it aside. Then he was hauling Euan up by the back of his tunic, dragging him away from the melee, his blood soaking through Euan’s shoulder.

“Run,” Murtagh gasped. “Run, lad—”

The second blade came from nowhere.

It caught Euan across the shoulder as his father pulled him, a glancing blow that should have taken his head. Instead, it carved a line of fire down his arm and across his torso. Euan shrieked. The pain was white-hot, blinding, worse than anything he’d ever imagined. His legs gave out beneath him.

“Euan!” His father’s voice was frantic now, breaking. “Stay with me—”

But there were too many of them. Three men converged on Murtagh, their faces twisted with battle-fury. One blade caught his father’s leg. Another opened his side. Murtagh roared, swinging wildly, protecting Euan’s fallen form with his own body even as he bled.

“Help us!” someone bellowed. “The laird’s son—”

MacLeod warriors surged forward, forming a desperate shield wall. Steel crashed against steel. Men shouted, died, fell. Through the press of bodies, Euan saw Calum’s father dragging the boy backward, Calum’s face white with shock. David was being carried by a MacDonald soldier, his thin frame limp. Archibald fought beside his father, the big man-at-arms who cut down attackers with methodical brutality.

They were all children. They should have been safe.

Euan’s vision swam. The pain in his shoulder throbbed in time with his racing heart, spreading down his arm, across his chest. Blood soaked his tunic, warm and sticky. Was it his? His father’s? Both?

“Move him!” A warrior Euan didn’t recognize scooped him up, armor clanking. “We’ve got tae get the lad out—”

“Me faither—” Euan tried to reach back, but his arm wouldn’t work properly. The world tilted sickeningly.

He caught one last glimpse of Murtagh MacLeod, kneeling in the mud, his sword still raised despite the wounds covering his body. Their eyes met across the battlefield—father and son, laird and heir—and Euan saw everything in that look. Pride. Love. Anguish. Apology.

Then the warrior was running, and Euan was bouncing in his arms, each jolt sending fresh agony through his torn shoulder. The sounds of battle faded behind them, replaced by his own gasping sobs. He’d wet himself, he realized distantly. The shame of it cut through even the pain.

Around them, the other children were being evacuated. Calum, David, Archibald, and another boy Euan didn’t know—Lachlann, someone said. All of them bloodied, terrified, torn from childhood in a single morning of treachery.

Behind them, Loch Eilein’s waters reflected fire where tents burned. Men still screamed. Steel still sang its deadly song.

And Euan MacLeod, six years old, learned what betrayal tasted like. It tasted like copper and ash. It felt like his father’s blood cooling on his skin, like the deep wound across his shoulder that would scar him forever, like the permanent hitch that even now was settling into his young leg where a blade had caught him as he fell.

His childhood died that day at Loch Eilein. His trust died with it.

The pain, though—the pain would live forever.

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Chapter One

 
1514, outskirts of Lindisfarne Priory

Moyra’s fingers tightened around the leather strap as unease prickled down her spine. Something was wrong.

Through the carriage window, Lindisfarne Priory loomed against darkening horizon—those ancient walls her father insisted would keep her safe from the enemies he’d made in his quest for MacLeod lands. But it wasn’t the priory that held her attention now. It was the silence.

The guards had gone too quiet.

Three days she’d traveled south from the Highlands, each mile taking her further from everything she’d ever known. Her father’s words still echoed in her mind: “The priory will keep ye safe from those who would use ye against me, daughter. ‘Tis fer the good of the clan.”

But what clan? Since his marriage to Ishbel MacLeod six months past, Keith MacKenzie had spoken of little else but his newfound connection to MacLeod lands. His first wife—Moyra’s beloved mother—might as well have never existed.

Moyra leaned forward, peering into the gathering dusk. The shadows flanking their path moved wrong—too deliberate, too purposeful.

“Kristin,” she whispered, her voice tight. “Those aren’t trees.”

Her lady-in-waiting looked up from her embroidery, following Moyra’s gaze. The color drained from Kristin’s face. “Me lady—”

The sharp crack of steel against steel shattered the evening air.

“Saints preserve us—” Kirstin began, but her words were lost as their carriage suddenly lurched to a violent halt, throwing both women against the wooden walls.

Shouts erupted outside. There was a clash of weapons. The screams of horses.

“We’re under attack,” Moyra breathed, her blood turning to ice.

Through the window, she glimpsed flashes of torchlight and the gleam of swords. Her father’s men—the six guards who’d accompanied them—were fighting desperately against a larger force that seemed to have materialized from the shadows.

Moyra’s mind raced as she assessed their position. The priory gates stood perhaps two hundred yards ahead, tantalizingly close yet impossibly far with armed men between them and safety. Their carriage sat exposed on the open path, making them easy targets if they remained.

But if they ran…

“Listen tae me carefully,” Moyra grabbed Kirstin’s trembling hands. Her friend—daughter of a neighboring laird and her closest companion since childhood, now serving as her lady-in-waiting—looked terrified, one hand instinctively moving to protect the barely visible swell of her belly. “When I open that door, ye’ll slip out quiet as a shadow and run straight fer the priory gates. Dinnae look back, dinnae wait fer me.”

“But me lady—”

“Dinnae argue with me,” Moyra said sharply, her tone carrying centuries of MacKenzie authority. “Ye’re carrying a bairn, Kirstin. Ye need tae survive this—fer yer child’s sake. I’ll make sure they chase me instead of ye. Get tae the priory and tell the nuns everything.”

Kirstin’s brown eyes filled with tears. “I cannae leave ye—”

“Ye can and ye will.” Moyra squeezed her hands. “Someone needs tae survive this tae tell the tale. And I’m far from finished fighting.”

The sounds of battle seemed to be moving closer. Through the opposite window, Moyra could see one of their guards fall, crimson spreading across his MacKenzie plaid. Her breath caught in her throat—it was Dougal, who’d taught her to skip stones as a child, who’d carved her a wooden horse when she was six. The sight of his lifeless form sent a wave of nausea through her, but she forced it down. She couldn’t afford to freeze now. Not when Kristin’s life—and her own—hung in the balance.

“Now,” she whispered, easing the carriage door open with painstaking care.

Kirstin hesitated for one heartbeat, then pressed a quick kiss to Moyra’s cheek before slipping out into the night. Her slight form disappeared into the shadows like smoke.

Moyra waited, counting her heartbeats. One. Two. Three.

Then she burst from the carriage in the opposite direction, her emerald cloak billowing behind her as she ran toward the rocky outcropping that bordered the coastal path. Her boots slipped on the loose stones, but she pressed on, making as much noise as possible.

“There! The girl!”

The accent that reached her ears was distinctly English, not the Highland brogue she’d expected. These weren’t rival clansmen come to steal her away—these were soldiers of the English crown.

But why would English soldiers attack a MacKenzie party traveling under safe passage?

Heavy footsteps pounded behind her as she scrambled over the uneven ground. Her lungs burned, and the stays of her traveling gown constrained her breathing, but she pushed harder. If she could reach the cluster of standing stones ahead, perhaps she could lose them in the maze of ancient granite.

“Stop running, you Highland witch!”

A crossbow bolt whistled past her ear, so close she felt the fletching brush her auburn hair. She stumbled, catching herself against a moss-covered boulder, but kept moving.

Almost there. Just a few more yards to the stones—

The flat of a sword blade cracked against her shoulder blades, sending fire racing down her spine. She hit the rocky ground hard, sharp stones tearing at her palms as she tried to catch herself.

“Got her!”

Rough hands seized her arms, hauling her upright despite her struggles. Her captors were professional soldiers—their mail was well-maintained, their movements disciplined. Not bandits or raiders, but men following orders.

“Let me go!” She twisted in their grip, managing to rake her nails across one man’s face before he backhanded her hard enough to make her ears ring.

“Hold still, or you’ll get worse than that,” he snarled, blood trickling down his cheek.

They bound her wrists with rough rope that bit into her skin, then one of them tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The indignity of it made her fury burn hotter than her fear.

“Take me back tae the carriage this instant! Me faither will hear of this—he’ll have yer heads fer touching a MacKenzie!”

The soldier carrying her only laughed.

They carried her back toward the path where the sounds of fighting had finally ceased. Her heart clenched as she saw the still forms of her father’s guards scattered across the ground, their blood dark against the stones. Good men, loyal to Clan MacKenzie, dead because of her.

But as they passed the priory gates, she caught a glimpse of a small figure disappearing safely inside the ancient walls. Kirstin had made it. At least one life had been saved that night.

A tall figure separated himself from the shadows near the overturned carriage—a man whose bearing spoke of command and whose dark cloak marked him as their leader. Even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the calculating coldness in his blue eyes as they fixed on her.

“Sir Geoffrey Arundel,” the soldier announced, dropping Moyra unceremoniously to her feet though keeping a firm grip on her bound arms. “The MacKenzie girl, as ordered.”

Sir Geoffrey stepped closer, and Moyra lifted her chin defiantly despite her precarious position. She would not cower before English dogs, no matter what they intended.

“Lady Moyra MacKenzie.” His voice carried the cultured tones of English nobility, but there was steel beneath the silk. “You’ve led us quite a chase.”

“Me faither will come fer me,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, clinging to the hope that he’d sent her away for protection, not abandonment. “He’ll pay whatever ransom ye demand.”

Something that might have been sympathy flickered across the commander’s features before disappearing behind professional indifference.

The blindfold they forced over her eyes made every sensation sharper—the smell of leather and steel, the rough texture of the horse’s mane beneath her bound hands, the cold night air cutting through her torn cloak.

They’d rode for what felt like hours, moving steadily inland from the coast.

“Where are we going?” Moyra demanded, her voice cutting through the steady rhythm of hoofbeats.

“Somewhere you’ll cause no more trouble,” came Sir Geoffrey’s familiar response from somewhere to her left.

“That tells me naething, ye English dog. At least have the courtesy tae inform a lady of her destination before ye drag her off tae whatever dungeon ye have planned.”

His low chuckle held no warmth. “Patience, my lady. All will be revealed soon enough.”

Chapter Two

Three months later, Norham Castle

The sound of steel against steel echoed through the dungeon corridors like thunder in Moyra’s dreams.

She jolted upright on the filthy straw, her heart hammering against her ribs as shouts erupted somewhere above her head. Three months of captivity had taught her to recognize the different sounds of Norham Castle—the changing of the guard, the delivery of her meager meals, the drunken revelries that sometimes lasted until dawn. But this was something else entirely.

This was battle.

Weapons clashed overhead. Heavy boots pounded stone corridors. Men roared orders and curses. Moyra shrank against the damp wall, pulse racing. Rescue? Or had death finally found Norham’s dungeons?

A scream cut through the din, followed by the wet sound of blade meeting flesh. Then another. And another.

“Holy Maither,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. The torn cloak provided no warmth—nothing could chase away the chill that had settled into her bones during those endless months of captivity.

Footsteps crashed down the stone steps—heavy, purposeful, fast. Moyra shrank into the corner of her cell, her back pressed against the cold wall, green eyes locked on the iron gate that stood between her and whatever was coming.

“Check every cell!” The voice was rough, commanding, and carried the unmistakable accent of the Highlands. “Leave nay stone unturned!”

Scottish. Her pulse quickened with a mixture of terror and desperate hope. Were these her father’s men? Or had some other Highland clan come to raid Norham’s treasures?

The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the ring of steel. Through the iron bars, Moyra glimpsed a massive shadow moving with lethal grace. A guard rushed forward, sword raised, then fell with a choked gasp as the intruder’s blade found his throat. Another guard charged from the opposite direction. The tall figure spun, his movements fluid despite his size, parrying the attack and driving his sword through the man’s chest in one devastating thrust.

Moyra pressed herself against the wall, transfixed despite her terror. The way he moved—there was a brutal elegance to it, a dance of death performed with absolute confidence. He was tall, taller than any man she’d ever seen, with broad shoulders that filled the corridor. Dark hair fell in waves to his collar, and even in the flickering torchlight, she could see the steel-grey eyes that swept the dungeon with predatory efficiency. A long scar traced across one side of his face.

When the last guard fell, he stood among the bodies, barely winded. Then those steel-grey eyes found her in the shadows.

He was magnificent. And terrifying.

“Empty,” called another voice from a cell further down the corridor.

The Highlander’s search was thorough and relentless, his attention cataloguing every shadow. When those steel-grey eyes discovered her pressed against the wall, Moyra’s pulse stuttered to a halt.

“Well now…” His voice was whisky-rough and dangerously soft, the Highland burr making each word sound like a caress. “What’s a lass doing in a dungeon?”

He approached her cell door. Torchlight threw his battle-marked features into sharp relief.

“Please,” she whispered, shrinking further into the corner. “I’ve done naething wrong.”

His gaze swept over her—tangled auburn hair, torn silk that had once been fine. Even filthy and captive, she carried herself like nobility. His eyes sharpened.

“And ye are a Highland lass it seems… Stand up, lass.”

The command was quiet but absolute. When she didn’t immediately obey, he produced a key from somewhere within his dark cloak and unlocked her cell door with efficient movements. The iron hinges shrieked in protest as the gate swung open.

“I said stand up.”

This time, Moyra forced her trembling legs to obey. She rose slowly, keeping one hand pressed against the wall for support. Three months of poor food and little exercise had left her weaker than she cared to admit, but she lifted her chin with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Who are ye?” His accent was thick, each word rolling off his tongue like honey over stone.

“Nay one of importance,” she lied, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stepped closer, and she caught a scent of leather and steel that made her pulse race in ways that had nothing to do with fear. The torchlight revealed more details—the way his dark shirt stretched across his broad chest, the corded muscles of his forearms, the calluses on his hands that spoke of a lifetime wielding weapons.

“How long have ye been here?”

“Months…”

His eyes studied her face with uncomfortable intensity. “What’s yer name?”

“I told ye, I’m nay one—”

Her words caught in her throat. Should she reveal who she was? Her father had enemies—so many enemies. The MacLeods chief among them, furious over Keith MacKenzie’s marriage to Ishbel and his subsequent claims to their lands. Then there were the Campbells, who’d feuded with the MacKenzies for generations. Even some within her own clan questioned her father’s ambitions.

Any of them might use her as leverage. Or worse.

“I’m nay one of importance,” she finished, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue.

“Laird!” Another man’s voice echoed down the stone steps. “We’ve secured what we came for!”

Laird. Moyra’s blood turned to ice in her veins. This wasn’t just any Highland warrior—this was a clan chief. And from his accent and the authority he carried, she had a terrible suspicion about which clan he might lead.

The tall man—the laird—extended one large hand toward her. “Come along, lass. Ye’re coming with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere with ye,” Moyra said, finding some spark of her old defiance despite her circumstances. “I dinnae even ken who ye are.”

“That’s easily remedied.” He reached out and grasped her arm with surprising gentleness, pulling her toward the cell door. “And ye’ll come because the alternative is remaining here tae explain tae Sir Geoffrey’s remaining men why their dungeon is suddenly empty of prisoners.”

The logic was sound, even if she hated admitting it. Moyra allowed him to guide her from the cell, though she kept as much distance between them as the narrow corridor would allow. His presence seemed to fill the entire space, making her acutely aware of how small and fragile she felt beside his towering frame.

They climbed the stone steps in silence, emerging into the castle’s main courtyard where chaos reigned. Bodies littered the cobblestones, and smoke rose from several of the outbuildings. A dozen Highland warriors moved efficiently through the scene, gathering weapons and supplies with practiced ease.

“MacLeod!” one of them called out, jogging toward their small group. “The southern tower is secure, and we’ve found the—”

The man’s words died on his lips as his gaze fell on Moyra. Around the courtyard, other warriors paused in their tasks to stare at the bedraggled woman their laird had brought from the dungeons.

MacLeod. The name confirmed Moyra’s worst suspicions. This was Euan MacLeod—the very man her father had warned her about, the one whose lands Keith MacKenzie coveted above all else. The enemy she’d been hidden away from to prevent him using her as a political pawn.

And now she was standing in this courtyard, completely at his mercy.

“Mount up!” Laird MacLeod commanded his men. “We leave within the hour!”

Orders flew and men obeyed. Horses, weapons, provisions. All readied for immediate departure. Moyra watched the swift preparations with dawning horror. There would be no other rescue, no reprieve.

This was her chance. Perhaps her only chance.

While the laird’s attention was focused on organizing his men, Moyra took three careful steps backward toward the tree line that bordered the clearing. Then three more. The forest shadows beckoned dark and sheltering.

Freedom lay just beyond those trees.

She turned and ran.

Her bare feet flew over the rough ground, but desperation lent her speed. Behind her, she heard a sharp curse in Gaelic followed by the thunder of pursuit, but she didn’t dare look back. The trees loomed ahead, promising shelter and escape.

Almost there. Just a few more steps—

Rough hands seized her from the shadows at the forest’s edge, yanking her into the undergrowth. Moyra screamed and fought, but her captor’s grip was iron-strong.

“Got her!” The accent was English, not Highland. “Sir Geoffrey will want this one alive!”

More figures emerged from the forest—Arundel’s men who had survived the castle’s fall and retreated to regroup. The one holding her was a thick-set soldier with cruel eyes and blood staining his mail shirt.

“Let me go!” Moyra twisted in his grip, managing to drive her elbow into his ribs. He grunted but held fast, his fingers digging into her arms like iron bands.

“Hold still, you Highland bitch!” He shook her roughly, and she responded by stomping down hard on his instep. His grip loosened for just a moment—but two more soldiers emerged from the trees, grabbing her flailing arms. She fought like a wildcat, kicking and clawing, her screams echoing through the forest. One of them caught her across the face with the back of his hand, and stars exploded across her vision.

“Hold her still,” the first soldier growled, struggling to bind her wrists as she continued to fight. “Hold her still, damn you!”

“I’m trying! The wench fights like a—”

Steel sang through the air, and the soldier’s words ended in a wet gurgle. Laird MacLeod’s blade protruded from the man’s chest, having pierced him clean through from behind. The English soldier pitched forward, dead. Moyra pulled free of his lifeless grasp.

“Mine,” MacLeod growled, his eyes blazing with fury as he faced the remaining English soldiers. “The lass is mine.”

The battle erupted and ended in the span of a breath. MacLeod’s sword work was brutal, precise, final. English blood soaked the forest floor before his warriors could join the slaughter.

Moyra couldn’t tear her gaze away. He moved through the carnage like a Highland god of war—massive, deadly, beautiful in his violence. When he’d called her “mine,” her pulse had quickened.

“Lass.” His voice was gentler now as he approached her trembling form. A few drops of English blood spattered his cheek, but his eyes held concern rather than the cold fury she’d seen moments before. “Are ye hurt?”

She shook her head, not trusting her voice. The near miss had shaken her more than she cared to admit, and the sight of him covered in the blood of men who had died protecting her—or capturing her, she wasn’t entirely sure which—left her feeling strangely unsteady.

“Good.” He sheathed his sword with practiced ease. “Now, suppose ye tell me who ye really are, since it’s clear ye lied about being no one of importance. English soldiers dinnae risk their lives fer just ay lass.”

Moyra lifted her chin, some of her spirit returning now that the immediate danger had passed. “And suppose ye tell me why a MacLeod raids English castles instead of tending tae his own lands.”

His mouth curved in what might have been a smile. “Clever lass. But ye’re avoiding the question.”

“As are ye.”

They stared at each other in the flickering torchlight, and Moyra became acutely aware of how he towered over her, how the breadth of his shoulders blocked out everything else. There was something magnetic about him, something that made her pulse quicken despite every rational thought screaming at her to be afraid.

“I’ll make ye a bargain,” he said finally. “Truth fer truth. I’ll tell ye why I’m here if ye tell me who ye are.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then ye’ll come with me anyway, but the journey will be far less pleasant fer both of us.”

There was steel beneath the silk of his voice, and Moyra had no doubt he meant every word. She was completely at his mercy, alone and defenseless in the aftermath of battle. But something in his grey eyes suggested he wasn’t quite the monster her father had painted him to be.

“Yer word that ye’ll answer truthfully?” she asked.

“Me word as Laird of Clan MacLeod.”

She studied his face, searching for any hint of deception. What she found was rock-solid certainty. It did something strange to her breathing. “Very well. I am Moyra MacKenzie, daughter of Laird Keith MacKenzie.”

The change in his expression was immediate and profound. His eyes hardened to chips of winter steel, and his jaw clenched as if he were physically restraining himself from violence. “MacKenzie,” he repeated, the name falling from his lips like a curse.

“Aye. And now yer turn, Laird MacLeod. Why are ye here?”

For a long moment, she thought he might refuse to honor their bargain. Then his mouth curved in a smile that held no warmth whatsoever. “I came tae retrieve proof of a betrayal—evidence that Arundel was behind an attack that cost me family dearly. Documents that will see him answer fer his crimes.”

“And did ye find what ye sought?”

“Oh, aye. I found far more than I bargained fer.” His gaze traveled over her face with new intensity. “Keith MacKenzie’s daughter, hidden away in an English dungeon. Now why would a Highland laird send his own flesh and blood tae such a fate?”

The question hit too close to the heart of her shame and betrayal. “He didnae send me here,” she said sharply, lifting her chin. “Me faither sent me tae the priory fer protection. We were attacked on the road—English soldiers. They killed our guards and brought me tae this place.” Her voice wavered slightly. “He daesnae even ken where I am. The rest’s none of yer concern.”

“I’m afraid it is now, lass. Ye see, ye’re coming with me back tae the Highlands.”

“I am nae!”

“Ye are.” He stepped closer, and she caught that intoxicating scent of leather and steel again. “Like it or nae, Moyra MacKenzie, ye’re now under me protection.”

“I never asked fer yer protection!”

“And yet ye have it. The question is whether ye’ll accept it gracefully, or if I’ll need tae carry ye kicking and screaming all the way back tae Castle MacLeod.”

From the set of his shoulders and the implacable expression on his scarred face, Moyra realized he was completely serious. This Highland giant intended to take her into the heart of enemy territory, for reasons she couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Why?” she whispered, hating how small her voice sounded. “Why would ye want Keith MacKenzie’s daughter under yer roof?”

His smile this time was sharp as a blade. “Because, Lady Moyra, yer faither wants something that belongs tae me. And now…”

He reached out to trace one finger along her cheek, the touch gentle despite the calluses that marked his warrior’s hands. The simple contact sent fire racing along her nerve endings in ways that left her breathless and confused.

“Now I have something that belongs tae him.”

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Four months earlier

The mornings in Mackenzie castle always felt the same, hollow and heavy, as though the stones themselves carried the weight of every soul who had bent beneath them. Marian woke to the dim light seeping through narrow slits of the window, gray and wan, carrying little warmth. The chamber was cold, the rushes damp against her bare feet when she swung them from the bed. She drew her shawl tighter about her shoulders, though it did little to chase the chill that seemed to live in her bones.

It had been years since she had first set foot there, yet she had not grown used to it. The air always smelled faintly of smoke and mildew, the corridors whispered with draughts, and silence seemed to cling no matter how many voices filled the halls. She rose as she did each day, out of habit more than hope. The heaviness in her chest had long since become familiar. It pressed down when she breathed, dulled every small joy before it could take root.

Still, she always moved. To linger too long in bed was worse.

She slipped from her chamber into the corridor, the torch brackets still smoking from the night. The hush of morning echoed soft against the stone, her footsteps alone carrying sound. She made for the kitchens, telling herself she might manage a bit of bread, perhaps broth if it was ready.

Her mind was thick with its usual fog, thoughts drifting like smoke she could never catch. She thought of her father sometimes, his voice warning, his face lined with pain. She thought of her brother, though the memory of him hurt sharper than most. Mostly, she thought of nothing at all. The gray of the corridors suited her; she had grown used to matching them.

But that morning, as she rounded the corner toward the stairs that led down to the hall, sound stopped her. Voices, low and urgent.

She froze. The laird’s study lay just ahead, its door cracked, firelight spilling faint into the hall.

Her pulse quickened. No one dared raise their voice within those walls—not unless it was something grave. She moved quieter, her steps barely brushing the stone, until she could hear.

It was Wallace.

“Da, I’ll nae wait any longer.” His tone was sharp, the edge of it grating. “I’ve been promised this fer too long. It’s mine, and I’ll have it.”

Marian’s breath caught. She edged closer, until her back pressed against the cold wall, her ear straining to the gap in the door.

Another voice answered, deeper, measured—Laird Mackenzie himself. “Patience, Wallace. Ye’ll have what ye’re after, but nae yet. A few more months. That’s the time I need tae set the Council in agreement, tae see all prepared. We’ll nae risk angerin’ the clans wi’ haste.”

“A few more months?” Wallace hissed, as though the words burned. “I’ve been waitin’ nearly me whole life. Ye ken I’ve done everythin’ ye asked, bent tae every command, and still ye tell me tae wait. Why? She’s here already. Why must I bide like some lad wi’ nay right tae claim what’s his?”

Marian’s heart thudded so loud she feared they might hear it. Her mouth went dry, her palms damp where they clutched at her shawl.

She had not heard her name spoken, but she knew. Her knees trembled. She pressed closer to the wall, her breath shallow.

The laird’s reply came low, firm. “Because a laird daesnae move by impulse. We plan. We gather strength. We build the ground we’ll stand on afore we plant the flag. Ye’ll wait, Wallace, or ye’ll ruin more than ye’ll gain.”

There was a silence, broken only by the crack of the fire. Then Wallace again, rough with frustration. “I’ve waited long enough. I willnae wait months. I’ll wed her soon, or I’ll—” His voice dropped lower, words muffled, though the fury in them was plain.

Marian’s stomach lurched.

Wed her.

The words slammed into her like a blow, sharp enough to steal her breath. She clutched the stone at her back, steadying herself, though the world tilted all the same. Her lungs would not fill. Each gasp came ragged, shallow, as though the air itself had turned against her. Panic surged up her throat, sour and hot, blurring her vision until the corridor swam.

Her mind spun, wild and desperate. She had always known why she had been taken in, but it had never had a concrete timing. Now it hit her like a ton of bricks. Married? To Wallace? The thought of his hand on hers, of vows forced from her lips—her chest clenched so tight she thought she might faint then and there. She had known she was trapped there, aye. Known there was little kindness in the Mackenzie halls, that her days were not her own. But she had not been ready for this.

The voices still murmured beyond the door, but she could not bear to listen further. Her legs moved of their own accord, unsteady at first, then quicker, until she was near stumbling down the corridor. Her breath rasped, sharp as a knife, echoing against the stone. She clutched her shawl tighter, her skirts tangling round her ankles as she half ran, half staggered toward the stair.

Seoc. She had to reach Seoc.

The thought came fierce, clear, cutting through the fog of panic. The old healer’s hut sat low by the gardens, far from the laird’s wing. He would know what to do. He always did.

Her pace quickened, the corridors a blur, her slippers near slipping on the worn steps as she descended. She could still hear Wallace’s voice in her head, sharp and certain, promising what she could not bear. The sound clung, chasing her no matter how fast she fled.

By the time she reached the lower hall, her lungs burned, her pulse wild in her ears. The great doors loomed ahead, sunlight cutting in narrow beams through their cracks. She pushed through, the weight of the wood nearly toppling her with its resistance, and the chilly air of the outer yard struck her face like a slap.

But she did not slow. She crossed the stones, skirts flying, her breath visible in the cold. The walls of the castle rose high behind her, heavy as chains, but she forced herself forward, her eyes fixed on the small hut by the garden wall.

Seoc. She needed Seoc.

Her hand pressed hard to her chest, trying to contain the wild hammer of her heart. Her mind still spun, thoughts tripping over one another—Wallace, vows, a wedding in days, weeks, months, it mattered not. All she knew was she could not survive it.

Her steps faltered once, nearly sending her to her knees, but she caught herself, dragging her skirts high and pushing on. The earth gave beneath her slippers, damp with morning dew, but she scarcely felt it.

At last, the healer’s hut came into sight, smoke curling thin from its chimney. Relief cut through her panic. She stumbled to the door, her fingers shaking as she lifted them to knock.

Her knuckles barely grazed the wood before the door swung inward. Seoc filled the frame, his wiry frame stooped but steady, eyes sharp as ever despite the haze of age. The smoke from his hearth clung to his robes, the scent of dried herbs trailing after him.

“Marian?” His voice was low, startled. His gaze flicked over her face, down to her trembling hands, the wild flutter of her chest. “Saints preserve us, lass, what’s happened?”

She tried to answer, to force words past the knot in her throat, but nothing came. Only a strangled gasp. Her lips parted once, twice, then failed her.

Seoc’s brow furrowed deep. He reached for her arm, guiding her inside with surprising strength. “Come in, child. Ye’re white as linen. Sit, afore ye fall.”

The hut’s warmth struck her, but it did not ease the chill buried in her bones. She sank onto the wooden stool by the hearth, her skirts pooling heavy round her ankles. Her hands shook where they clutched at one another, her breath breaking uneven, her chest tight as though the air would not come.

“Tell me, Marian.” Seoc crouched before her, his hand resting light upon her knee, steady as stone. “What’s set ye so?”

She opened her mouth, but again, no words came. Instead, a sob ripped from her, sudden and fierce. Her shoulders collapsed under the weight of it. She pressed her palms hard to her face, trying to stifle the sound, but the sobs kept coming, hot and broken, shaking her body until she almost slid from the stool.

“Ah, lass.” Seoc’s voice softened. He rose, fetched a blanket from his cot, and draped it over her shoulders. Then he moved to the shelf, hands busy with jars and pouches, until he returned with a small wooden cup. The sharp scent of herbs rose as he poured hot water over them, the steam curling between them like breath.

“Drink,” he urged, pressing the cup to her hands. “Slowly. It’ll steady ye.”

Her fingers fumbled against the wood, nearly spilling the content, but she managed to lift it to her lips. The brew was bitter, biting her tongue, but the warmth slid down her throat, anchoring her enough that her sobs slowed to ragged breaths.

Seoc settled into the stool across from her, his eyes fixed steady on her face. “Now. When ye can, tell me.”

She wiped at her cheeks, her breath hitching still. “I… I heard them.” Her voice broke, barely a whisper. “Wallace. And his faither.”

Seoc’s eyes narrowed, though his tone stayed calm. “Heard them where?”

“In the laird’s study.” She shook her head, the memory slicing through her. “They were arguin’. About me.”

Seoc leaned closer, his brows drawn tight. “What did ye hear?”

Her lips trembled. The words tasted like ash, but she forced them out. “Wallace means tae wed me. Soon.”

The healer’s jaw clenched, though he said nothing at first. The silence pressed heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Marian’s breath quickened again, panic rising sharp in her chest. “I cannae. I cannae, Seoc. I’ll nae survive it. The thought o’ him—his hand on mine, his voice speakin’ vows I dinnae choose—” She shook her head hard, clutching the blanket tighter round her. “It feels like chains closin’ round my throat. I’ll choke. I’ll die.”

Seoc reached across the space and caught her hand in his. His palm was rough, the grip firm, steadying her spirals. “Breathe, lass. Slowly now. Ye’re safe here.”

She dragged a breath in, then another, though they still came jagged. Tears blurred her vision, spilling over no matter how fiercely she tried to hold them back.

“Ye’ve time yet,” Seoc said at last, voice low, certain. “The laird’ll nae rush such a matter. He’s too careful fer that.”

“I heard him,” Marian whispered, eyes wide. “Wallace said he wouldnae wait. He’s tired o’ it. He’s been waitin’ too long.” Her nails dug into the blanket. “Four months, his faither said. But Wallace—” Her voice cracked. “He means tae have me sooner.”

Seoc’s eyes softened then, though anger flickered in the lines of his face. “Och, Marian. Ye’ve been dealt a cruel hand, aye. But dinnae fash yersel’ into despair. There may yet be a way.”

Her gaze shot to him, desperate, pleading. “What way? Tell me. I cannae live like this, waitin’ fer the day they drag me tae the church.”

Seoc was quiet a long moment, his thumb rubbing slow over her knuckles. She could see him thinking, the weight of years in the lines of his brow, the flicker of firelight in his eyes.

At last, he exhaled. “I have a thought. A plan, maybe. Naught certain yet. But I’ll nae sit idle while they steal yer will.”

Her heart lurched, hope flaring fiercely. “What plan?”

He shook his head, though his hand stayed steady on hers. “I’ll nae say till I’ve turned it o’er, seen it from all sides. Plans made in haste break easy. But I swear it tae ye, lass—I’ll find a way. Ye’ll nae be left tae Wallace, nae so long as I’ve breath.”

Her lips parted, though no words came. Relief cut through her panic, sharp as a blade. Tears welled fresh, spilling silently down her cheeks.

Seoc gave her hand a final squeeze, then released it, rising to tend the fire. “Drink the rest,” he said gruffly. “Warm yer bones. Ye’ll need strength fer what lies ahead.”

Marian lifted the cup again, though her hands still shook. The bitterness no longer mattered. Only the warmth, the promise in his voice, the faint spark of hope kindling against the cold dread in her chest.

She clutched it close, as if the heat itself might keep her alive.

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Chapter One

 
1767, Inverness

The night pressed heavy on the glen, a thick velvet silence broken only by the restless snort of Marian’s mare and the whisper of the healer’s voice.

“Ye’ve got everything ye need, lass?” Seoc’s hands were rough with years of grinding herbs and setting bones, but gentle as he tightened the strap of her saddle. His head bent close to the horse’s flank, the firelight from the lantern throwing deep shadows across the lines of his face.

Marian could not answer at once. Her throat felt raw, as if every word she had swallowed those last years had lodged there, choking her when she needed speech most. She only nodded, fingers curled around the worn leather reins as though they were the only thing holding her upright.

Seoc straightened, the stoop of his shoulders more pronounced than ever, his graying hair caught by the lantern’s glow.

“Then ye’ll be ridin’ straight fer Tor Castle. Kenina kens ye’re comin’, though nae who ye are. The name ye carry, lass…” His voice faltered, heavy with a grief he tried to mask. “Best keep it buried, aye? Fer yer own sake.”

She shut her eyes against the sting. To hide her name was to hide her father, her brother, her mother—all that she had left of them. But it was her only chance.

“Aye, I will,” she whispered, though her voice broke.

Seoc’s gaze softened. For years he had been more father to her than any laird could claim. She thought of the hours spent in his hut, the air thick with rosemary and woodsmoke, where he had listened to her as though her thoughts mattered. It was the only place in Mackenzie lands where she could breathe, where she was not watched or measured. Seoc’s lessons were patient, his silences kind. He had never asked her to be a pawn or a promise, only herself.

Seoc reached for her hand. His palm was rough, the ridges of old scars pressed into her skin, yet his touch was steady. “I’m proud o’ ye, lass,” he said, voice low and sure. “Proud ye’ve the courage tae choose freedom, even when it scares ye. The world will take enough from ye without ye givin’ it yer will as well. Remember that. Hold fast tae it.”

A tear slipped free before she could stop it. She dragged her sleeve across her cheek, but Seoc saw. He always did.

“Ye’ve a healer’s heart, lass,” he said softly. “Dinnae let the world harden it. Learn from Kenina, keep tae the herbs, the roots, the small mercies. That’ll be yer strength. And if ye’re ever lost—remember the plants will always answer. They dinnae lie.”

Marian let out a shaky breath. “And ye, Seoc? What if they punish ye fer helpin’ me?”

His eyes twinkled despite the weight of the moment. “Och, I’m an auld man. They’ll nae see me as worth their rage. And if they dae—” He shrugged, a quiet defiance in the gesture. “I’ve lived long enough wi’ their chains about me neck. Ye’ve the chance tae cut yers. Go. That’s all the thanks I need.”

She could not speak. She only leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his hand for one brief moment, letting the warmth of him steady her before it was gone.

Then she mounted. The mare shifted beneath her, eager, sensing the night’s tension. Seoc gave the animal a last pat and stepped back.

“Ride swift, Marian. And dinnae look back.”

The words lodged in her chest as the horse carried her into the dark. She did not look back, though every part of her wanted to.

The night pressed close around her at first, heavy and suffocating, the silence broken only by the sound of hooves striking earth. With each stride she felt the ground of Mackenzie land fall further behind, yet the weight of it clung to her shoulders all the same. Freedom was before her, vast and unmarked, but it felt as perilous as it was precious.

The moor opened wide before her, a sweep of heather and stone silvered by moonlight. The wind caught her hair, tearing strands loose from her braid, whipping them across her face as she urged the mare faster. Each hoofbeat was a drum of defiance, a rhythm louder than the pounding of her own heart.

Still, fear clung to her like a second skin. Every shadow seemed a rider. Every gust of wind sounded like pursuit. She pressed low over the horse’s neck, whispering prayers she was not certain reached any God who cared to listen.

Her chest tightened, thoughts spiraling backward as they always did in silence. To the days when she was still Marian Matheson, daughter of a laird whose land no longer existed. Before the noose took her father and exile claimed her brother. She had been young then, but not so young that she did not remember the sound of her brother’s laughter. Her mother’s face lingered most of all, pale and strained at the window as the redcoats marched her husband to the gallows.

The Mackenzie laird had taken her in after her mother’s death, but not from kindness. His eyes had always weighed her as though she were coin to be spent. He spoke of her as his son Wallace’s bride long before she had been old enough to know what marriage meant.

The thought of Wallace Mackenzie intruded, sharp as a blade. He looked at her with pride as though she were a prize hound he had trained, his consolidation of power, nothing more. His smile always carried that weight, a reminder of the marriage that awaited her once the vows were spoken.

But after that night, there would be no more. This was the one night to turn the course of her life. Her hand tightened on the reins until her knuckles ached. No. She would not bend her neck.

The road to Inverness stretched long and cold. The moon dipped low, and with it her strength waned. Yet every mile carried her closer to the chance Seoc had carved for her, the path he had risked himself to open.

He had written to Kenina, the famed healer of Clan Chattan, asking her to take in an apprentice without naming who she truly was. They would never take her if they knew she belonged to the Mackenzies, because such ties carried too much danger. However, under another name she might be accepted. It was the only door left unbarred, and Seoc had pressed it open with steady hands and quiet courage.

The days blurred together in the rhythm of hoofbeats and breath. Morning bled into evening, then into morning again, her body aching with the strain, her eyes stinging from sleepless hours. Yet still she pressed on. Though weariness gnawed at her bones, freedom burned fiercer, carrying her farther than she ever thought her limbs could bear.

When at last the walls of Inverness rose ahead, relief nearly unseated her. The town lay quiet in the early light, smoke curling from chimneys, the air alive with the faint stirrings of trade. She slowed her mare at the edge of the cobbled street, her gaze sweeping past shuttered shops and narrow lanes until it caught on the warm glow spilling from an inn’s windows. A painted sign swung above the door, creaking softly in the early morning wind, and the sight of it struck her like a promise, a place to breathe.

She guided her mare toward the inn’s stable, sliding stiffly from the saddle. Her legs buckled, and she gripped the doorpost until the wave of weakness passed.

The stable smelled of hay and horseflesh. She stroked her mare’s neck, whispering thanks, before handing the reins to the boy who had hurried out.

“See her fed, lad,” she murmured, slipping him a coin. “She’s carried me far.”

The boy’s eyes widened at the silver. He bobbed a quick nod and led the mare toward the stalls at the far end of the stable, leaving Marian to gather her satchel and rest a hand along the mare’s damp neck. The steady rise and fall of the animal’s breath, the scent of hay and warm hide, the quiet rustle of hooves shifting in straw, wrapped her in a fragile calm. For the briefest moment, she let herself believe she was safe. Perhaps, at last, fortune had chosen her side.

But the moment shattered as the door creaked open behind her.

Three men entered, broad-shouldered, cloaked in Mackenzie colors that struck terror like a blade. Her breath seized. She knew one at once. Ivor, Wallace’s friend. His hound. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

“Ye seen a lass pass through here?” Ivor’s voice cut sharp, aimed at the boy. “Chestnut hair. Green eyes. Rides a dark mare.”

Time slowed. Marian’s heart thundered. She willed the boy to lie, to shake his head, to do anything but—

The boy’s gaze darted to her. His hand lifted, pointing straight.

Marian’s blood turned to ice. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch it. She lunged toward the side door, skirts gathered in her fists, boots pounding against the packed earth. The stable filled with the echo of shouts, iron on stone, men cursing as benches scraped. Her breath tore in her throat, ragged and hot, but she did not dare look back.

“Get her!” Ivor’s voice cracked like a whip, sending fear lashing down her spine.

The mare neighed behind her, startled by the commotion. Marian’s heart clenched, but she forced herself onward. Each step was a plea to let her feet hold, let the ground not falter, let her free.

A shadow loomed beside her, heavy boots closing in fast. Fingers like iron clamped around her arm, wrenching her sideways. Pain shot up her shoulder, a cry bursting from her lips. She fought, twisting hard, but his grip only bit deeper. The scent of sweat and steel smothered her, the rasp of his breath too close.

“Got ye now,” the man growled.

Nae yet.

Her gaze caught on a pitchfork leaning against the stall post. Hope flared wild in her chest. With every ounce of her weight she swung, snatching the haft in both hands and driving the tines upward. The sharp iron ripped through cloth and into flesh.

The man roared, the sound guttural, shock and pain mingling as his hold slackened. Hot blood splattered her sleeve. Marian yanked free, heart hammering, vision dizzy with fear and triumph both. She didn’t wait to see if he’d fall, she just ran.

Her breath came in tearing gasps as she burst through the stable door and into the inn. The dim room yawned empty, shadows stretching long across the floorboards. The tables were bare, benches deserted. The silence rang louder than a shout.

Panic clawed at her ribs. Where was everyone?

Then she remembered—today was the fair. Every soul in Inverness would be gathered in the market square, leaving the inn hollow and still.

“Saints guide me,” she whispered, voice breaking.

The door behind her crashed open.

She spun and fled the other way, skirts tangling round her legs, feet stumbling over the uneven boards. Bursting into the morning light, she blinked against the brightness, the noise, the crush of people filling the square. Stalls lined the cobbles, hung with bolts of cloth, barrels of salted fish, baskets of fruit. Children darted between women haggling, men called prices, fiddlers scraped at strings.

And into that chaos Marian ran.

Her lungs burned, but the fair gave her cover. She shoved past a woman carrying bread, dodged a cart laden with wool. A man cursed as she overturned a bucket of apples, red and green rolling like marbles beneath boots. Shouts rose behind her, harsh Mackenzie voices cutting through the din.

She glanced back once and wished she hadn’t. Ivor’s dark hair caught the sun, his gaze locked to her like a wolf sighting prey. Two more followed, forcing through the throng, shoving aside anyone in their path.

Adrenaline surged, hot and blinding. She pushed harder, weaving fast as the crowd thickened. Every breath scraped her throat raw, but she clung to the thought of her freedom lying ahead. If she could make it past the gates, out of Inverness, toward Tor Castle and the Highlands beyond, she might yet vanish.

A stall toppled in her wake, baskets of turnips scattering. Someone screamed. Marian ducked beneath an awning, slid between two oxen, the reek of dung and sweat clogging her nose. Hands reached for her from the crowd, some to help, others to hinder. She tore free of them all.

Her mind spun. She had no plan, only the need to run, to be gone. Seoc’s words burned behind her eyes.

The world will take enough from ye without ye givin’ it yer will as well.

She could not give them her will. She would rather die there in the dust than crawl back to Wallace’s cage.

She burst from the press of bodies into a side lane, her feet skidding on damp stone. For a heartbeat, silence. She dragged in air, chest heaving, legs trembling beneath her.

Then heavy steps pounded close.

She bolted again, darting round a corner, only to crash into another broad chest. Hands seized her, two this time, pinning her arms, forcing her down. She shrieked, twisting, kicking, her nails scraping flesh. Her knee drove upward, striking hard. One man cursed, but still they held.

“Let me go!” Her voice broke into a sob, raw with rage and terror. She fought like a wild thing, skirts tearing, hair coming loose in a dark snarl around her face. Her cheek struck stone as they forced her down, grit biting her skin. The world spun, the taste of iron filling her mouth.

Ivor loomed above her, shadow falling long across the cobbles. His smile was thin, cruel, the satisfaction of a hound that had run his quarry to ground.

“Ye gave us a good chase, Marian,” he drawled. “But it ends here.”

Her body shook with exhaustion, but still she thrashed, her heart screaming louder than her voice. Every part of her burned to keep moving, to keep clawing toward freedom, though the weight of three men pressed her to the earth.

She thought of her father, her brother, her mother’s face at the window. Of Seoc’s scarred hand wrapped round hers in farewell. Of the herbs hanging in his hut, lavender and rosemary drying in peace.

I’ll nae be their pawn.

But her breath faltered, and her strength slipped away beneath their grip.

Chapter Two

Her throat burned from screaming. Her arms ached where rough hands clamped them, dragging her across the cobbles like she was nothing more than a sack of grain. Marian kicked and thrashed, nails raking skin, her voice tearing ragged from her lungs.

But the crowd only stared, eyes glancing, then turning away again, like shutters closing against a storm. Mothers tugged children closer, men bent their heads as though a woman’s struggle was no concern of theirs.

“Let me go!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Saints, help me!”

Not a soul moved to help her.

Despair struck colder than the men’s grip, colder than the stones beneath her feet. The sight of people who could help, but would not, was worse than chains. She tasted blood on her lip where it had split, salt stinging her tongue. The world narrowed to the scrape of her body dragged across the ground, the iron weight of men’s hands crushing her to the earth, the terror that clawed at her ribs.

That was it. She’d risked everything for freedom, and it would end there in the filth of Inverness. Wallace would have her caged before nightfall, and the taste of air she’d stolen would vanish like it had never been hers.

Her body burned with rage at the thought. She would not go back. She would die there in the dirt first.

Marian twisted hard, wrenching against their hold until something popped in her shoulder. She screamed again, high and sharp, not only in pain but in fury. “I’ll nae go back tae—”

“What’s this?” A low, steady voice cut through the clamor, unhurried, like steel sliding from its sheath.

The men jerked her upright, startled, and Marian’s head whipped round. Through the ring of onlookers, a figure moved closer.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of ease that spoke of strength contained rather than flaunted. Sunlight struck his hair and turned it to gold, a bright and untamed crown that caught every glance. His eyes, hazel and sharp as cut amber, swept the street with a steadiness that made the air feel altered around him. Ink coiled dark along the skin at his collar, the edge of a tattoo vanishing beneath his sleeve, a mark of defiance that only drew the eye further.

His coat was travel-worn, his stride unhurried, yet there was something in the way he carried himself, a presence that belonged to danger as much as to beauty, that made every head turn to look.

Her breath snagged. Who—?

Her captors shifted uneasily, as if they felt it too, though they tightened their grip on her arms. The man’s gaze swept over them once, then settled on Marian. And in that instant, her fear cracked.

The world had been cold stone, sharp voices, empty faces—but his eyes, steady as the earth, landed on her, and for the first time since the stable she felt seen.

“What’s wrong, lass?” he asked, voice carrying like calm across the fair’s chaos.

Marian’s lips parted, but no sound came. Her captors filled the silence.

“This is nae o’ yer affair,” Ivor spat. “Best walk on, stranger.”

The man did not move. He only looked at them as if he were considering something small, unworthy of much thought. Then his gaze flicked to her again, and Marian’s pulse lurched.

Saints, he was… handsome didn’t even touch it. He looked like he’d been carved out of stone, all hard lines and quiet fire, the kind of man who could break another in half and not lose his breath. Her mind reeled. Her body throbbed with fear, but beneath it something else sparked, bright and wild, so new she hardly knew how to name it.

The Mackenzie men barked a laugh, false bravado ringing. “Walk away.”

But the man smiled, faint and dangerous, and Marian swore her knees nearly buckled even with their hands on her.

“I would,” he said. “But it seems the lady’s got a different wish.”

Before they could answer, he moved.

It was a storm contained in muscle and precision, unleashed in a flurry of motion that seemed both brutal and impossibly elegant. His hand struck one man’s wrist with such force the blade went clattering to the ground, steel ringing against the cobbles. In the same breath his elbow drove backward into another chest, the thud of impact carrying through the air as the man folded with a grunt.

He pivoted cleanly, never stumbling or flailing. Each movement belonged exactly where it landed, as if he had measured the space before stepping into it, as if every strike had already been written in his body.

Marian wrenched herself sideways in the chaos, her chest heaving, eyes wide. She could hardly breathe. He did not fight like a brute swinging wild blows, but like something sharper, closer to a dancer who had trained his body to obey a rhythm no one else could hear. His strikes were deliberate, his footing flawless, his strength reined tight until the moment it was loosed in sudden violence. It was not brawl but craft, and the men who had seized her looked clumsy beside it.

Her heart lurched in her chest. God help her, it was like being sixteen again. This was a man who looked as though the Highlands themselves had shaped him from heather and stone, strong and wild. Terrible in his force, beautiful in the control with which he wielded it.

Her breath shook loose from her, trembling, her body half-torn between fear and awe. Who was he?

The Mackenzies reeled but did not retreat. Ivor snarled, drawing a blade, and the sight tore Marian’s chest in two. If he killed—

But the stranger only tilted his head, calm as the sea before a storm.

“I’d hate tae see blood ruin the fair,” he said, voice almost regretful. “Best walk away before it comes tae that.”

The crowd murmured, shifting back, but the Mackenzies spat curses and surged again. Steel flashed. Marian cried out.

The fight broke like thunder. Blades rang, fists cracked. The stranger ducked, twisted, struck with the hilt of his weapon, each move so swift Marian’s eyes could scarcely follow. He fought not only to win but to protect, placing himself always between her and their blades.

Her chest ached with something she had no name for. Terror, yes. But threaded through it, a heat that spread low and fierce. Who was this man, who could stand against Wallace’s hounds as if they were nothing?

The cry of a voice split the din. “Evander!”

More men appeared at the lane’s mouth, warriors moving fast, swords drawn. They bore themselves with the same quiet strength, and at once Marian saw they were his allies.

“Evander, ye daft bastard,” one of them called, breathless but grinning. “Always pickin’ fights ye’ve nae need tae.”

His name was Evander. It struck through her like a mark branded on her heart. He did not look at his men, only kept his stance before her, blade flashing once more.

“About time,” he muttered, though Marian caught the ghost of a smile tugging his mouth.

The reinforcements surged in, steel against steel, and in moments the tide turned. Ivor cursed, backing toward the crowd, blood streaking his sleeve.

“This is nae finished,” he spat, dark eyes locking on Marian. “Ye’ll pay fer this.”

Then he and his men fled, swallowed by the press of onlookers.

The silence that followed rang louder than their footsteps. Marian’s chest heaved, her hair wild round her face, wrists bruised from their grip. She stared at Evander as though he were a vision, some apparition conjured by desperation.

Sweet mercy, he was—

She dragged her gaze away, cheeks burning.

Nay, foolish girl.

She had only just escaped one prison, she would not leap willingly into another. And yet, her heart would not still. It beat wild, alive, with the image of him standing above her, calm in the storm.

Alive.

That was the word. She felt alive.

“Ye all right, lass?”

The voice came low, edged with the easy confidence of a man who had never learned to be afraid. She turned her head, forcing herself to meet his gaze. His hazel eyes held hers with a steady boldness, the kind that made it difficult to breathe, as though he could see more of her than she meant to show.

“Aye,” she managed, though her throat still rasped from screaming. “I will be.”

He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the truth of her words. Then he nodded once, decisive. “Good. Because nay woman should be taken anywhere without wantin’ tae go.”

The words struck through her chest sharper than she expected. Simple and plain, and yet no man had ever said such a thing to her. She had been bartered since childhood. To hear him speak it as if it were the most obvious truth in the world nearly broke her.

She swallowed, struggling to recover her composure. “Thank ye. Truly. I dinnae ken what might’ve—”

“Best nae think o’ it.” His tone was easy, kind, though his body still thrummed with the fight he had just given. “I’m Evander.”

She hesitated. Her name felt heavy on her tongue, weighted with danger. One slip, and all Seoc’s care would be lost. She forced herself to smile, though her palms sweated.

“Marian,” she said at last, the word falling before she could stop it. Her pulse jumped, panic sparking in her chest. What had she done? Quickly, she forced a smile, her palms damp. “Marian… Fraser.”

If he noticed the pause, he gave no sign. He only dipped his head, the golden fall of his hair catching the sunlight again. “A pleasure, Marian Fraser.”

Her stomach flipped at the sound of it on his tongue.

Foolish girl.

He looked at her, not with the hungry arrogance she had come to dread in Wallace and his hounds, but with a gaze that carried weight of a different kind. It lingered, steady, as though he were trying to understand her. “After the fray ye just found yerself in, I’d say ye could dae with a drink.”

Her brows lifted. “A drink?”

“Aye. Ale. Mead. Whatever warms ye. Helps the hands stop shakin’, in me experience.”

For a heartbeat, the thought was tempting. The fair was bright with laughter, the scent of spiced pies thick in the air, and beside her stood a man whose presence alone steadied her pulse.

But she was not free to linger. Kenina, her only chance at safety, waited at Tor Castle. To linger now, no matter how handsome the company, was to risk it all. And beyond that, she knew nothing of him. He had stepped in when no one else had, true enough, but men who fought well were not always men who meant well. She had learned that lesson too young.

“Thank ye,” she said, lifting her chin though her voice was tight. Pride stiffened her spine as she added, “but I can handle mesel’ fine.”

She did not wait for his answer. She turned on her heel, but the instant her weight shifted, pain lanced up her leg so sharply she gasped aloud. The world tilted. She stumbled hard, her hand flying to catch the edge of a barrel, breath hissing through her teeth. The ache in her ankle seared bright, humiliation burning hotter still in her chest.

“Handle yersel’, is it?” His tone was maddeningly mild, far too amused for a man who had just seen her nearly collapse.

She glared. “It’s naught. A twist.”

“A twist that had ye near fallin’ on yer face.” He crouched, already reaching for her hem.

Her heart thudded, heat rising to her cheeks. “What are ye—?!” She slapped at his hand. “Ye cannae just—”

“I can, when ye’re about tae cripple yersel’. Hold still.”

“Ye’re insufferable,” she hissed, though she could not quite pull back, not without looking the coward.

His grin flashed quick, boyish beneath all that muscle. “So, I’ve been told.”

He prodded gently, and though she tried to keep her face composed, a sharp breath hissed between her teeth. His touch was firm but careful, steady as Seoc’s when setting a bone.

“It’s nae broken,” he said at last, glancing up. “Tender, aye, but ye’ll live.”

“I told ye.” She crossed her arms, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.

“Aye, ye did. And if nae fer me, ye’d be limpin’ the streets till nightfall. That’s worth somethin’, lass.” He rose in one fluid motion, broad shadow falling over her again, and offered his hand. His smile tilted, half-charm, half-challenge. “So. Ye’ll share a drink wi’ me.”

Her lips parted to refuse, but her leg throbbed in protest, and truth be told, her heart throbbed worse at the sight of him standing there, golden and solid as the very walls of Inverness. Saints preserve her, she wanted to go.

“Fine,” she muttered, placing her hand in his.

The fair buzzed around them as he guided her toward the square. Fiddles skirled, children shrieked with laughter, women bartered over bolts of cloth. And there she was, walking beside a man who looked like he had stepped out of some bard’s song, his stride unhurried, his arm steady near her elbow in case she faltered.

The tavern’s tables spilled out into the street, tankards clattering, voices loud. He secured her a seat beneath a striped awning, ordered ale with the ease of a man used to being heeded, and returned with two frothing mugs.

“Tae freedom,” he said, lifting his tankard.

She blinked at him.

“Ye earned it, did ye nae? Better toast it than waste it.”

Slowly, she raised her mug, the wood cool against her fingers. “Tae freedom,” she echoed, the word sweet on her tongue.

The ale was strong, burning down her throat, loosening the coil in her chest. She dared a glance at him as he drank, head tilted, golden hair spilling loose where the fight had tugged it free. God above, he was a man who looked as though he had bled and laughed and fought in equal measure, and carried every bit of it in the set of his shoulders.

And he was watching her, hazel eyes bright with something that felt dangerously close to interest.

Her cheeks flamed. She set her mug down hard. “Dae ye always spend yer days rescuin’ strangers?”

“Only the ones worth rescuin’.” His grin was wicked now, curling at one corner.

Heat rushed to her ears. She scoffed, reaching for bravado. “Ye’ve a glib tongue, sir.”

“And ye’ve sharp teeth, Marian Fraser. I’d wager ye bite as quick as ye speak.”

She laughed then, despite herself, the sound surprising her as it slipped free. It had been so long since laughter had come without cost or fear.

They wandered the fair after, drawn into games by his coaxing. He tossed coins at the knife-throw, sinking every blade dead center with infuriating ease. She tried her hand, missed twice, then finally struck near the middle. He cheered her as though she’d bested him, earning her glare and her reluctant smile.

At the ring toss she beat him clean, her aim steady, and he protested so dramatically the onlookers laughed outright. She stuck her chin high, feigning haughtiness, while he bowed with exaggerated grace.

“Ye see? Skill bests brute strength.”

“Or perhaps ye’ve charmed the rings tae obey ye.”

“Perhaps I have.” She let the words slip with a smile she did not mean to give.

As dusk deepened, lanterns lit, their glow softening the fair into something almost dreamlike. Music lilted through the square, couples spinning in dance. Marian stood at the edge, heart aching at the sight of such simple joy. She had not been allowed to dance since she was a girl.

Evander leaned close, his voice brushing her ear. “Dance with me.”

Her pulse leapt. “I cannae,” she whispered, the old fear clamping her chest.

He stepped back, no pressure in his gaze, only that easy smile. “Then watch. But I’ll wager ye’ll wish ye had.”

She watched as another lass laughed and let Evander lead her into the reel. The sight sent a sharp twist through Marian’s chest, though she told herself it was only foolishness. Still, each time he spun the lass, his smile easy and unguarded, her pulse drummed faster.

Before she could stop herself, she moved closer, his name slipping out low, almost grudging. “Evander?”

His brows lifted, that infuriating smile tugging at his lips, but with a courteous word he released the lass and turned to Marian. “Aye, then. Come.”

When his hand closed around hers, steady and warm, the fair seemed to fall away. He drew her into the music, guiding her through the steps with practiced ease. At first her body resisted, stiff with jealousy, but the rhythm carried her until her skirts swirled and her laughter broke free despite herself. His gaze never left hers, hazel eyes alight, as though the crowd and lanterns and music were all for them alone. Each turn brought her closer, until she could feel the heat of him, the sure press of his hand at her waist, the dangerous tug of wanting more.

Later, as they wandered down a quieter lane strung with lanterns, the laughter and music soft behind them, she felt the pull between them grow taut as a bowstring. His hand brushed hers once, twice, until at last she let her fingers linger.

He stopped, turning to her with a slowness that made her heart falter. His hazel eyes caught hers, steady and intent, carrying a warmth that burned beneath the surface until she could scarcely stand to look at him. The noise of the fair seemed to blur, fading into nothing but the space between them.

“Ye’re starin’,” she managed, her voice thinner than she wished.

“Aye,” he said, unrepentant. “Hard thing nae tae, when ye look at me wi’ eyes like that.”

Heat rose in her cheeks, and she scoffed, though the sound trembled. “Ye’re far too sure o’ yersel’, Evander.”

He bent closer, his smile a ghost at the corner of his mouth. “And ye’re far too stubborn tae admit ye want me tae kiss ye.”

Her breath caught, her chest tight with something perilously close to longing. “I never said—”

But her protest broke off as his mouth touched hers, unhurried, giving her every chance to pull away. She did not. Her breath caught, her chest tight with something perilously close to longing, and when his mouth touched hers, the world vanished.

The kiss was gentle at first, testing, as if he feared she might vanish like smoke. His lips brushed hers warm and sure, tasting of ale and spice and something fiercer still, something that belonged to him alone. The restraint in him only made her dizzy, because she could feel the strength he held back, the fire caged just beneath the tenderness.

Without meaning to, she leaned into him, her body yielding even as her mind screamed against it. Her heart thundered like a drum in her ribs, wild and ungoverned, every beat a betrayal of the vows she had made to herself. For the first time in longer than she dared recall, she felt wanted.

And then it ended. He drew back, slow as a tide pulling from the shore, and she was left gasping, the world tilting round her as if she had been flung from a great height.

“Nay,” she breathed, voice breaking on the word. Panic crashed hard and cold through her veins, scattering the warmth his lips had lit within her. “This… this was a mistake.”

Before he could speak, she turned and ran, her ankle screaming in protest, her braid coming undone, her breath ragged. She did not look back. If she saw him again, she feared she would not have the strength to leave.

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One Month Earlier

“What is it, Maither? Da?”

The room was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Iona sat at the thick oak table, her hands folded neatly before her, trying to ignore the quiet, knowing glances her parents had been exchanging since she had come to the dinner table.

She glanced from under her lashes at the faint smile her mother, Lady Caoimhe, shared with her father, Laird Eoin. It wasn’t the usual warmth of their gentle camaraderie. This was something more, something hidden in the depths of their eyes.

Iona felt a flicker of curiosity and trepidation. Had something happened again? Was it another threat from Murray? She lowered her gaze, pretending to focus on the wineglass in front of her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

She looked up, and her mother met her eyes with an unspoken answer. Her father cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly.

“Iona,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “there’s something we must share with ye.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to remain calm. “What is it?” she asked, trying to sound casual, though she felt a lump forming in her throat.

Her mother reached for something from the side of the table, her fingers brushing the parchment of a letter. Iona had spent so many holidays there, playing with Ruaridh, that she could never mistaken that seal.

Alistair MacDuff.

Iona could not help the way her heart began to race as her mother slid the letter toward her. She swallowed hard as her mother gestured toward it. “Read it, me dear.”

Iona hesitated, her eyes flicking between her parents. They both watched her closely, their faces soft, expectant. She took the letter in her hands, her pulse quickened.

She unfolded the letter slowly, the smooth parchment feeling too thin, too fragile in her trembling hands. The words, written in the elegant script of Alistair MacDuff, seemed to echo in the silence of the room.

Tae Laird Eoin MacNeill,

Alistair MacDuff, Laird of Clan MacDuff

Iona felt the weight of the words fall over her like heavy, comforting blanket, full of warmth and promise. She read the letter twice, the second time slowly, letting the words sink deeper into her heart. The room seemed to disappear around her as she relived the painful past, the shame, the betrayal.

Her eyes welled up with emotion as the truth of what was being offered settled in. Her childhood friend, the boy who had once been her constant companion, the one who had made her laugh despite everything, was now offering her a future. A future she could scarcely dare to imagine.

“Ruaridh,” she whispered, the name a soft breath of hope escaping her lips.

Her mother, watching her with tender eyes, leaned forward. “Aye, love. Ruaridh MacDuff wants tae marry ye. Clan MacDuff has decided tae marry ye and end the shame that MacNab has stained ye with.”

Iona’s breath caught in her throat. The shame. The years of exile, silence, isolation, and the weight of Murray MacNab’s lies that had crushed her and kept her living a hidden life here in the castle. But this… this was something else entirely.

A lifeline.

“I… I daennae ken what tae say,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. She looked at her father, her heart suddenly lighter, yet heavy with the weight of the moment. “Is this truly real?”

Her father’s deep voice was steady, but there was an unmistakable softness in his words. “This is real, Iona. Ruaridh MacDuff has seen the pain ye’ve endured. He offers ye a new life at MacDuff castle, and a future that’s different from the one MacNab sought tae give ye.”

Her heart thundered in her chest, and suddenly, it was too much to bear. Iona leapt from her seat and rushed into her mother’s arms, her joy overwhelming her. “Oh, Maither! Oh, Da!” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “I never thought this could happen. I thought I’d always be trapped. Stuck with the shame of Murray’s lies.”

Her mother’s arms enveloped her in warmth. “Nay, darling. Nay more. This is yer chance tae be free. Tae finally be who ye were meant tae be.”

Her father stood, his gaze intense, filled with pride and love. “Ye’ve been through too much, Iona. This is yer new beginning. Although nay one has spoken of love, we ken young Ruadridh was fond of ye back then. This may be a new chance fer happiness.”

Iona kissed them both, then dashed for her room, the letter still clutched tightly in her hand. Her pulse raced, excitement building like a storm inside her.

Once behind the privacy of her door, Iona sat on her bed and read it again. This time, the words didn’t just speak of hope, they spoke of a future that might be free from the terror and shame that had shadowed her life for so long

She closed her eyes, the memories of her childhood with Ruaridh rushing back. They had played together, run through the fields of the castle, and shared secrets in the woods. She remembered his laughter, his smile, the way he had always been there for her. Could he still be the same? Could they pick up where they left off, all those years ago?

Her heart fluttered with a mix of longing and fear. She had never allowed herself to hope for such a future. She’d never dared to dream that any respectable laird would want her, not to talk of Ruaridh, who had been her best friend all those childhood days, and her first crush, if she admitted it.

But now… now there was hope

She read the letter again, and this time, as she finished, she saw it. Their new future.

Me future with Ruaridh.

The life they could have. Love, peace, safety. A future where the shadow of MacNab’s cruelty no longer loomed over her

The tears came again, but this time they were tears of relief, tears of joy. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would finally know the kind of love she had always yearned for.

And in that quiet moment, as the firelight flickered in the corner of her room, Iona dared to believe that the future she had longed for was finally within her grasp.

With one final glance at the letter, Iona whispered, “Ruaridh. I’ll marry ye.”

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Chapter One

 
1348, Castle of Clan MacNeil

“Are ye ready, lass? We must go now while the castle sleeps.”

Iona MacNeill turned from her narrow window to find Henry, her father’s most trusted guardsman, standing in her doorway. His weathered face was grim in the candlelight, and she could see the tension in his broad shoulders. Beyond him, shadows moved in the corridor—more men, armed and waiting.

Her fingers tightened around the folded parchment in her hand—Murray’s letter, the one she’d stolen from his study that night when everything had gone so terribly wrong. The letter that contained enough evidence to create doubt about any story he tried to spin about her, but also enough to endanger anyone who possessed it. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t use it, that this marriage to Ruaridh would be a fresh start, a chance to leave the past buried. But just in case Murray tried to claim she’d been willing, just in case he tried to destroy her reputation further…

She slipped the letter into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress, feeling its weight settle against her ribs like a guilty secret. Murray would be searching for it, she knew that. It was likely one of the reasons he wanted her dead—not just to silence her, but to reclaim the proof of his correspondence with English sympathizers, his payments to Highland lords willing to betray their clans for gold.

This is it. Nay turnin’ back now.

“Aye, I’m ready.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. The small leather satchel containing her few precious belongings sat on the bed, ready for this moment they’d all dreaded would come. Henry stepped into the chamber, closing the door softly behind him. “Yer faither wants to see ye before we leave. He’s waitin’ in his study with yer maither.”

Iona’s stomach twisted. She’d been dreading this farewell almost as much as the journey itself.

How dae ye say goodbye tae people ye might never see again?

The weight of her shame pressed down like a stone in her chest.

This is me fault. All of it. If I’d kept me mouth shut about Murray, if I’d been stronger, if I’d been smarter…

She squeezed her eyes shut against the familiar spiral of self-blame.

Nay. Murray made his choices. I just refused tae be his victim.

But the guilt remained, gnawing at her. Her parents were losing their only child because she’d believed justice mattered more than politics. And now they were paying the price for her pride.

The stone corridors of MacNeill castle felt different that night—colder, more foreboding. Each familiar tapestry and worn step seemed to whisper of all she was leaving behind. The castle had been her prison these past months, but it was still home.

The only home I’ve ever kent. Will I ever walk these halls again?

She found her parents in her father’s study, the room that had once felt so warm and welcoming now heavy with sorrow. Her mother, Lady Caoimhe, sat in the chair beside the great oak desk, her face streaked with tears she no longer tried to hide. Her father, Laird Eoin MacNeill, stood by the fire, his tall frame rigid with the weight of what he was about to do.

“Come here, me darlin’ girl,” her mother whispered, rising from her chair with trembling hands extended.

Iona flew into her mother’s embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender and home.

Dinnae cry. Dinnae make this harder than it already is.

“I’m so sorry, Iona,” her mother sobbed against her hair. “So sorry it’s come to this. If there had been any other way—”

“Hush now,” Iona murmured, though her own tears threatened. “Ye did what ye had tae dae. We all did.”

Her father’s voice cut through the emotional moment, rough with suppressed pain. “Thanks tae God, the MacDuffs have agreed tae the betrothal, but with Murray MacNab’s men seen in our forests these past days, we have tae get ye tae their lands safely first.”

Murray. Even his name sent ice through her veins. The memory of his hands on her, his threats, the lies he’d spread—it still had the power to immobilize her.

“Nay one will believe ye, Iona. Yer word against mine? A MacNab against a disgraced MacNeill? Think carefully about what ye’re accusin’ me of.”

She pushed the memory away. That was the past. This night was about survival.

“How many men are ye sendin’ with me?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady.

“Ten of our best,” her father replied. “Henry leads them, and young Callum rides as messenger should ye need to send word back.”

Ten men. Against however many Murray might have gathered.

He’s a desperate man. I can only pray God protects me until I enter the MacDuff castle.

“The route takes ye through the Glen of Sorrows,” her father continued, moving to the large map spread across his desk. “It’s the longest path, but the safest. The old watchtowers there have been abandoned fer years—Murray willnae expect ye tae use that route.”

Iona followed him, glancing down at the map. The Glen of Sorrows was well-named. It was a narrow valley between two ridges where countless clan battles had been fought over the centuries. The bones of warriors still littered the ground in some places.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. Her family had backed a failed rebellion, been exiled, and now she was fleeing through a place synonymous with military disasters.

Even our escape route is cursed with defeat.

“If all goes well, ye’ll reach the MacDuff outpost by dawn,” Henry added. “Young Ruaridh will be waitin’ fer ye there.”

Ruaridh.

Her childhood friend, now her salvation. She wondered what kind of man he’d become. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a gangly boy of ten, all knees and elbows and easy smiles. That was fifteen years ago, before her family’s exile, before the world had shown her its sharp teeth.

Will ye even remember me? Or will I just be another political burden tae bear?

“Time tae go, lass,” Henry said gently. “The night is moonless, but that willnae last forever.”

Her mother’s grip tightened desperately. “Promise me ye’ll be careful. Promise me ye’ll write when ye can.”

“I promise, Mam.” Iona pulled back to look into her mother’s green eyes so like her own. “Take care of Da. Dinnae let him blame himself fer this.”

“And ye take care of yerself,” her father said, stepping forward to embrace them both. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I ken this isnae the life ye wanted, but the MacDuffs are good people. Ruaridh will protect ye.”

Iona tightened her arms around both her parents, drawing them closer. “I ken he will, Da,” she whispered back, forcing conviction into her voice even as uncertainty gnawed at her heart. “And dinnae worry about me. I’m stronger than I was before. Whatever comes, I’ll face it.”

She pulled back just enough to look into her father’s worried eyes, offering him a small but genuine smile. “The MacNeills have survived worse than this. We’ll all come through it together.”

Her mother’s hand cupped her cheek gently, tears glistening in her eyes. “Aye, me brave lass. That’s the spirit that will see ye through.” She pressed a soft kiss to Iona’s forehead. “Remember, ye carry the strength of all the MacNeill women who came before ye.”

The courtyard was alive with quiet activity. Horses stamped and snorted in the cold night air, their breath creating small clouds of mist. The ten guards sat mounted and ready, weapons secured but easily accessible. Each man was handpicked—loyal to the MacNeill name and willing to die for it.

Callum, barely eighteen and eager to prove himself, held the reins of her mare. “She’s been fed and watered, me lady. Should carry ye swift and sure.”

Iona accepted his help mounting, settling into the familiar saddle. The horse beneath her felt strong and ready, sensing the urgency in the air. Around her, the men formed a protective formation—four ahead, four behind, two flanking her sides.

Like a funeral procession.

The thought came unbidden, and she shivered.

Henry moved his horse close to hers. “We ride hard but quietly, me lady. Nae talkin’ unless it’s urgent. If we’re attacked, ye stay close tae me and dae exactly as I say. Understood?”

“Understood.”

With a final look back at the castle walls, they rode out into the Highland night. The darkness swallowed them almost immediately, the only sounds the muffled hoofbeats on grass and the creak of leather and mail. There was no turning back now.

***

The first hour passed without incident. They followed deer paths and old cattle trails, avoiding the main roads where Murray’s men might be waiting. The landscape around them was ghostly in the starlight—rolling hills covered in heather, ancient stone walls marking long-abandoned boundaries, the occasional skeletal remains of a burned croft.

Iona’s thoughts drifted back to the events that had led to that moment. The scandal. The accusations. The way former friends had turned their backs and whispered behind their hands.

“Did ye hear about the MacNeill lass? They say she threw herself at Murray MacNab and then cried assault when he rejected her.”

“Mark me words, she’ll die an old maid. Naebody wants damaged goods.”

The lies had spread like wildfire through the Highlands. Murray had been clever, painting himself as the wronged party while destroying her reputation with surgical precision. By the time her parents had ended the betrothal, the damage was already done.

But the MacDuffs must suspect there’s something more. They have tae, or why would they have agreed tae this marriage?

She hoped that was true. The alternative—that Ruaridh was purely marrying her out of pity—was too painful to consider.

The horses’ pace slowed as they began climbing into the hills. The Glen of Sorrows lay ahead, its entrance marked by two massive standing stones that had watched over the valley since before Christ walked the earth.

“Me lady,” Henry’s voice was barely a whisper. “Dae ye hear that?”

Iona strained her ears, listening beyond the sound of their own movement. There—faint but unmistakable, the distant drum of hoofbeats.

We’re being followed.

“How many?” she breathed.

Henry’s face was grim in the starlight. “Too many. We need to—”

The arrow took him through the shoulder, spinning him. Around them, the night exploded into chaos as MacNab war cries split the darkness and armed riders poured down from the hills on all sides.

Chapter Two

“Get the lass tae safety!” Henry roared, blood streaming down his arm as he fought to stay in his saddle.

Chaos erupted around Iona as MacNab warriors poured from the darkness like demons from hell. The night air filled with the clash of steel, the screams of horses, and the guttural war cries of men bent on murder.

So this is how I die.

A MacNab warrior lunged at her from the left, his sword gleaming in the starlight. Callum appeared between them, his blade meeting the attacker’s with a shower of sparks. The young guard’s face was set with grim determination, but Iona could see the fear in his eyes.

Dear God, he’s just a boy. They’re all goin’ tae die because of me.

“Ride, me lady!” Callum shouted over the din. “Dinnae look back!”

But there was nowhere to ride. MacNab soldiers blocked every path, their horses forming a deadly circle around her diminishing escort. She counted at least twenty attackers—maybe more in the darkness. Her ten guards were hopelessly outnumbered. How? How had they walked straight into a trap?

Henry wheeled his horse around, his sword dripping red as he cut down a MacNab foot soldier. “Form up! Protect the lady!”

The remaining MacNeill guards tried to close ranks around her, but their formation was already crumbling. To her right, she watched in horror as young Donald—barely twenty and married just last spring—took a spear through the chest. He toppled from his horse without a sound, his blood dark against the heather.

“There she is!” A voice cut through the battle—cold and familiar. “Take her alive if ye can, but dead will dae just as well!”

Iona’s blood turned to ice. She knew that voice, the voice that had whispered threats in her ear just months ago. Murray MacNab himself was there, leading the slaughter.

He came personally tae ensure I die.

A MacNab warrior broke through their weakened line, swinging his sword at her horse’s legs. She yanked the reins hard left, feeling the blade whistle past her mount’s knees. The horse reared in terror, and she fought to keep her seat.

“Behind ye, lass!” Henry’s warning came just in time.

She ducked as another warrior’s axe swept over her head, close enough that she felt the wind of its passage. Henry’s sword took the man in the neck, dropping him instantly, but two more rushed to fill the gap.

They’re everywhere. We cannae hold them.

The sound of steel on steel rang out like a deadly bell as her guards fought with the desperation of doomed men. She watched the blacksmith’s son—a gentle giant who’d taught her to shoe horses—drive his spear through a MacNab’s chest, only to take a crossbow bolt in the shoulder that dislodged him from his saddle.

“Fall back to the stones!” Henry commanded, blood now flowing freely from three separate wounds.

The ancient standing stones at the valley’s entrance offered the only defensive position available. If they could reach them, maybe they could make a stand. But the MacNab forces seemed to anticipate the move, shifting to cut off their retreat.

They ken these lands as well as we dae. Maybe better.

Iona found herself pressed back-to-back with Callum as the circle tightened. The young guard was breathing hard, his sword arm trembling with exhaustion. Around them, the sounds of battle were growing quieter as more MacNeill voices fell silent forever.

“How many left?” she asked, though she was afraid to hear the answer.

“Six,” Callum replied grimly. “Maybe five.”

Half our men dead already.

A MacNab warrior charged directly at her, his war cry echoing off the valley walls. Callum moved to intercept, but his tired horse stumbled on the uneven ground. The enemy’s sword caught him across the chest, opening a red line from shoulder to hip.

“Nay!” Iona’s scream tore from her throat as Callum fell.

The MacNab forces were pulling back slightly, regrouping for one last charge that would finish them all. In the brief respite, she counted her remaining protectors. Four men, all wounded, all exhausted. Against at least fifteen enemies who looked fresh and eager for blood.

This is where it ends.

“Me lady,” Henry’s voice was growing weak from blood loss. “When they charge, ye ride hard fer those trees tae the north. Dinnae stop fer anythin’ or anyone.”

“I willnae leave ye,” she said fiercely.

“Ye will, because that’s an order from yer faither.” His eyes were hard despite his pain. “And because if ye die here, all these good men died fer naethin’.”

He’s right. If I die, their sacrifice means naething.

Murray’s voice rang out across the battlefield, cold and mocking. “Iona MacNeill! Come out and face me, and I’ll let yer remaining dogs live!”

Liar. He’ll kill them all regardless.

She looked at Henry, seeing the same knowledge in his eyes. There would be no mercy. No quarter given. It was about more than politics or clan feuds—it was about Murray’s wounded pride and his need to destroy her completely.

“Dinnae answer him,” Henry warned quietly. “He wants tae see ye break.”

But she was tired of running, tired of hiding, tired of watching good people die because of her choices. She urged her horse forward a few steps, close enough for her voice to carry.

“I’m here, Murray!” she called out. “What dae ye want?”

His laughter was like ice in her veins. “What dae I want? Justice, Iona. Ye tried tae ruin me with yer lies, and now I’m here tae return the favor.”

“The only lies told were yers,” she shot back. “And everyone will ken the truth eventually.”

“Will they? Hard tae speak when ye’re dead.”

The MacNab forces began moving forward again, their weapons gleaming in the starlight. This was it—the final moment. Around her, her few remaining guards gripped their weapons with bloody hands, preparing to give their lives.

But as the enemy closed in, a new sound reached her ears—the thunder of hoofbeats approaching fast from the north. Many hoofbeats.

Henry’s head snapped up, hope flickering in his tired eyes. “Listen!”

The MacNab charge faltered as their leader raised his hand, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “What in hell—”

The new riders burst from the tree line like avenging angels, their war cries echoing off the valley walls. Even in the darkness, Iona could see they wore different colors—not MacNab red, but MacDuff blue and silver.

Ruaridh. It has tae be.

But her moment of hope was short-lived. A MacNab warrior, seeing his advantage slipping away, broke from the main group and charged straight at her. His sword was raised high, his face twisted with bloodlust.

She tried to wheel her horse away, but the exhausted animal responded too slowly. The warrior’s blade descended toward her head—

“Got ye now, MacNeill whore,” he snarled, raising his spear. “Murray wants ye alive so he can take yer head himself, and by God, he’ll have—”

The MacNab warrior’s blade descended toward her head. Her exhausted horse responded too slowly to her desperate attempt to wheel away, and Iona closed her eyes, bracing for the blow—

Strong hands seized her from behind, dragging her from the saddle just as steel bit into the leather where she’d been sitting. She hit the ground hard in someone’s protective embrace, gasping for breath as she looked up to see her rescuer.

Ruaridh.

Even in the chaos of battle, even after fifteen years, she knew him instantly. Gone was the gangly boy she remembered—this was a warrior in his prime, his green eyes intense as he looked down at her.

“Are ye hurt?” His voice was rough with concern, and for just a split second his face softened. Something flickered in his eyes, tender and achingly familiar, like an echo of the boy who used to comfort her scraped knees.

She nodded, at loss for words, and then his expression hardened again, the moment lost as quickly as it had come.

“Stay here,” he commanded, his voice turning cold and professional as he rose to his feet, sword already in hand.

The MacNab soldier who’d been about to kill her spun around, snarling as he raised his spear toward them both. But Ruaridh was already moving, his blade finding the man’s heart before he could strike

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Two days earlier

Ailis fastened the last buckle on her satchel with fingers that trembled half in fear and half in excitement. Her breath fogged the chilled air as she moved through the dim room, eyes flicking to the iron-banded door. There was no time left for doubt. Her riding boots were already laced, her cloak laid out by the hearth, the coiled rope she’d smuggled from the armory stashed beneath her bed.

Ye’re nae runnin’. Ye’re escapin’.

The distinction mattered.

Laird Sutherland, her father, had brought her to the limits of her patience two nights prior, when he had threatened her with a heavy, silver candelabra, smashing it on the wall right next to her head and warning her she would be next. And Ailis had no doubt he would deliver on his threat if she broke some arbitrary rule.

She had endured his moods, his abuse, for years. She had done anything in her power to keep him calm around her, to show him that she was no threat. How could she be? In a castle filled with his men, she was only a young woman, incapable of bringing about any harm.

But her father delighted in punishing her for things she couldn’t predict or know, and sooner or later, his punishment would be final.

Ailis had rushed to her room, locking herself behind the safety of her door. Then she had stolen a map, sharpened a knife, and begun to count the guards’ rotations.

Now, the night was deep. The guards at the east tower wouldn’t pass her hall again for another twelve minutes. The back door would be unwatched until the next patrol. And the old stables, long abandoned and hidden beneath the bluff, still held one horse worth riding.

She crossed the room and tugged open the loose flagstone behind her hearth. There, bundled in oilcloth, was a small bag filled with necessities she had gathered in secret, and a folded parchment addressed in a hand sharper than her dagger.

She placed it on her writing desk. A single sentence, nothing more:

I am nae a piece tae be moved on yer board.

With a final glance at the room that had once been her prison and sanctuary alike, Ailis slipped into the corridor. The castle breathed around her like a sleeping beast, the shadows dancing on the walls as torchlight trembled. Her boots made no sound on the worn floors. Down the narrow servant stairs, through the kitchens where the last embers glowed beneath blackened pots, she moved like a ghost. Then, she slipped out through the cold corridor beneath the east wall and into the dark.

The wind hit her like a wave, icy and sharp, but she welcomed it. It cleared her mind, sped up her thinking. If she was going to make it out of there, she had to have her wits about her.

She sprinted low along the edge of the wall, keeping to the shadows, the rope wound around her shoulder like a serpent. When she reached the crumbling northeast turret, she climbed, her boots gripping the rough stone, fingers finding every crack she had memorized as a child.

Memory still served her well.

From the top, she tied the rope to the iron hook once used for lowering supply baskets, and tossed it over the outer wall. Then she moved as quietly as she could, biting her lip to keep herself from grunting. Her hands bled before she reached the bottom, and the rope burned her palms, but she never hesitated.

The horse, Keir, waited in the thickets near the old stable wall, just where she’d left him with water, feed, and his saddle hidden beneath a fallen beam. He was a Sutherland-bred gelding, swift and steady, a beast made for the hills. He nickered softly when he saw her.

“Hush,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to his warm neck. “Just a wee longer.”

She mounted quickly, tightened her cloak, and rode through a small opening in the back of the curtain walls—one she had recently discovered, unlike the guards who still seemed to be unaware of its existence. The moors opened up wide and wild beyond the castle. Mist rolled like waves over the heather, and the stars above were obscured by thick clouds that blurred the light.

She had only made it two miles beyond the glen when the alarm bells shattered the quiet.

Ailis froze on the saddle, just for a moment. Then, she cursed under her breath and kicked Keir into a gallop. They had already found out she had escaped, and now they would come.

The sound of hooves reached her before she saw them—six riders at least, heavy on their mounts, thundering through the bog like hounds on a scent. The glow of their torches burned in the distance, but she hoped the darkness would hide her, while the light would reveal them to her, signaling the spots she had to avoid.

Ailis urged Keir to gallop faster, her heart hammering in her chest. Her hair whipped in the wind, her satchel thudding against her back. The ground beneath them turned treacherous, wet and uneven from recent rains. Keir stumbled once, but caught himself. Behind her, voices shouted—one she recognized as Commander Bryn, her father’s favorite killer.

“Dinnae let her reach the ridge!” someone bellowed.

She veered sharply west, toward the river gorge. The Sutherland patrols rarely passed that way—too steep, too rugged. But she knew the terrain. She had grown up running these hills.

They didn’t think she could do it. She didn’t think she would have to, and so she had taken Keir, but now the rest of her journey would have to be on foot. Still, he had taken her far enough for now, somewhere where she could slip away from them.

She reached the edge of the gorge and yanked Keir to a halt. The path down was narrow and half washed away, a scramble of jagged rock and wet moss. Behind her, the glow of the torches brightened as the men approached, catching up with her.

There was no time to waste. Their hooves echoed in the night, their shouts filling her ears with discordant noise. Blood rushed through her veins, adrenaline urging her to move faster, to leave that place right that instant and never look back.

She dismounted, whispered a blessing to the horse, then slapped his flank. “Go. Run home.”

Keir hesitated, just for a moment, then bolted into the dark.

Ailis threw herself down the rocky descent, scraping her knees and her palms bloody. Pain shot through her, stinging and almost unbearable, but she pushed through, never once stopping. A stone gave way beneath her foot and she nearly tumbled, her heart leaping to her throat, but she soon caught herself, gasping, and crawled the last ten feet to the riverbed below.

The current was freezing, black as ink. She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. She only plunged in and the cold stole her breath, but the current took her downstream faster than her pursuers could follow.

Ailis didn’t know how long she fought the water; only that, when she finally dragged herself out on the far bank, the world was tilting, and her cloak clung to her like lead. She lay on the ground, gasping for air, eyes blinking away the freezing water, her limbs trembling with the cold and the fear.

Soon, dawn broke, pink and pale above the pines. Ailis lay in the grass, soaked and shaking, looking up at the clouds.

She had made it. She was free. But where would she go now? Clan Sutherland was behind her, and she could never return; even if she wanted to, her father would see her defiance as war.

She hadn’t had the time to think of a destination, not while she was so busy hatching an escape plan. She lay there, watching the clouds drift by, wondering if she could remain in the woods for a while or maybe find a small town, somewhere where she could hide.

Then she thought of a name. A land farther north still. A place her father had spoken of with rage, perhaps even envy.

Caithness.

She pushed herself to her feet, pain lighting up her limbs like fire, but her jaw set with fresh determination. If she was going to survive, she needed allies. She needed protection.

And she needed to go somewhere that wasn’t allied to her father. Anyone who was his ally would surely return her to him at the first opportunity, no matter how much she begged and pleaded. No, she needed to go to his enemy, to someone who had more to gain by keeping her than sending her away.

And the only man she could think of was Laird Caithness.

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Chapter One

1591, Flow Country

Ailis Sutherland had not known the simple comfort of a bed in two days. Sleep seemed far out of reach, like the act itself was the product of an old dream, long-lost and foggy in her memory. There was no rest for her, not when her home was now the woods and her only solace the safety of the darkness.

For two days, she had been on the run. For two days, she had evaded her father’s soldiers, eating from what meagre supplies she had brought with her in a small sack, hiding in any wedge in the earth she could find, following the treacherous paths at night to remain unseen. Now she was so close that sometimes she fancied that she could see Caithness in the distance. In reality, she knew she was still too far from her destination, the sight of it impossible and only existing in her mind. But it was that thought which kept her going, which gave her the courage and the energy she needed to take another step, another breath.

Now, in the perceived safety of a thatch of leaves and brambles, she waited without drawing breath. Around her, the wind howled, carrying with it the scent of pine, the rush of a nearby river and the voices of her father’s soldiers, moving closer and closer as they searched for her. Their boots squelched in the mud and crunched over the fallen leaves, alerting her to their presence and position. She could only catch glimpses of them through the twigs and the leaves, the thin curtain they provided between her and them doing little to reassure her that she would not be discovered.

Her clan’s crest flashed again and again before her eyes—the wildcat in the seated position, one paw raised, ready to pounce.

Seeing that crest had never brought her any comfort and now, all it inspired was fear.

“Any sight o’ her?”

The voice was loud, booming, echoing through the path she had taken through the woods. Ailis recognized it—it was Jamie’s voice—one of her father’s best and most ruthless men, who Ailis had no doubts would not hesitate to hurt her, even if he had never touched her before, if it came to it.

“Nay,” another man called. “But Fergus says he saw her run around the bend.”

It was true; Ailis had run past the curve in the road, her boots slamming against the dirt and raising a cloud of dust behind her, but then she had rounded back to hide in the bushes, in an attempt to confuse them—and now it seemed her plan had worked.

“Did he?” asked Jamie, his voice rough like the jagged boulder behind her back. It was a tight spot Ailis had found, one that had needed some maneuvering, and one which had now left her with scratches and wounds where the sharp edges of the rock and the thorns in the bushes had scraped against her, hooking into her skin. A cold sweat dripped down her back. Her auburn hair, tucked safely into a braid and then under the hood of her cloak, was matted with it and with the dirt she had picked up along the way. “Are ye certain?”

“Angus saw her too,” said the man in response, and for a moment, there was no answer. Then, it came in the form of Jamie retreating, but not enough that it gave Ailis any real relief.

She bit her lip to keep herself from making a sound. Her heart beat like a trapped bird’s wings in her chest, its frantic rhythm loud in her ears—so loud that she irrationally worried the soldiers would hear it too, that it would give away her hiding spot and end her valiant effort to escape. She was shivering, though not from cold. She had barely eaten since the morning before, and every muscle in her legs screamed from ceaseless running and climbing through forested hills and boggy glens.

All she wanted was some rest; but there was no rest to be had before she reached Caithness.

But what if I get there tae find there is nae hope fer me there, either?

It was a thought that had been plaguing her for a long time, even as she was planning. What if Laird Caithness turned her away? What if he refused to give her shelter? It would make sense, considering Clan Caithness was a long-time enemy of Clan Sutherland, but that was also why Ailis had chosen it, other than its vicinity. She might have a chance to appeal to his humanity and hope he would give her shelter, while her father’s allies would surely send her right back.

If he turned her away, she would just have to keep goin’.

Somewhere, someone, would be willing to take her in. She cared not whether it would be noble or common folk. For her, the safety of a farm was the same as that of a castle, as long as her father didn’t find her.

Ailis took a short, quiet breath, then another. And then, mercifully, the footsteps of her father’s men began to recede, their boots retreating, the rhythmic clomp of hooves thudding against the mud-soaked path. When she could no longer hear the horses, when the path was once again peaceful and empty, Ailis climbed her way out of her hiding spot, the thorns digging their claws into the folds of her skirts, into the flesh of her arms. The damp earth clung to the hem of her dress and her cloak. At that moment, she resembled anything but the daughter of a laird.

Would anyone who didn’t know her believe her? Would Laird Caithness?

Trembling from exhaustion, Ailis pushed herself to her feet. Her father, the man who was meant to protect her and love her and keep her safe, had made his contempt for her clear since she was born. And yet, now that she had escaped his clutches, he was tearing the Highlands apart to bring her back home.

Why? Why is he chasin’ me like this?

All he had to do was leave her alone. Ailis would disappear from his life, from the castle, from the clan—if only he let her.

Choosing a narrow, less-traveled path that snaked through the woods to remain unseen, Ailis continued on her way. Her skin on her arms and chest, on the back of her neck, on her calves—it all itched from the bushes where she had hidden, welts and hives rising up among the scratches. Somewhere in her sack, there was ointment, but it remained unused. She didn’t even want to spare the few seconds it would take her to apply it, not if it meant she would be in Caithness a few seconds sooner.

The path took her through thick groves, the air damp and heavy with the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves. It was dark there. The sun, already low on the horizon and obscured by clouds, couldn’t reach that place and Ailis had to stumble about in the dim light, her feet tripping over large, twisting roots that peeked through the ground. Slowly, she pushed her way through, each ragged breath bringing her closer and closer to Caithness. She forced her legs to move.

North. Always north.

Then, she broke through the last line of trees and light, cold and gray like the flash of a blade, flooded her eyes. Beyond the forest edge stretched Flow Country—a vast, open expanse of bog and peatland, the surface still beneath the ever-shifting sky. The air there was colder, biting, and the wind cruel, flattening the grasses in its path. There was little shelter, and the high terrain meant she would be visible to any who searched from horseback.

Ailis paused at the tree line, scanning the empty expanse. The land rolled out endlessly before her, dotted with small, mirror-still lakes, dull and murky, old water mixing with soft earth. There was no sight of her father’s men; there was no sight of anyone else either, but that didn’t mean she was alone.

But she had to keep going, she had no choice. The woods would no longer shield her.

Wrapping her arms tightly across her chest and tightening the cloak around her shoulders, she stepped into the open and began to run. Her steps were uneven at first, uncertain, her weary body reluctant to obey, but she pushed forward, letting the urgency of her fear carry her forward. Each footfall landed with a splash in the soggy ground, but Ailis didn’t slow. She ran as though the devil himself was chasing her—and perhaps he was.

The sharp evening air stung in her lungs, like liquid fire down her throat. Every part of her ached with an exhaustion that she had never felt before, an exhaustion she didn’t even think was possible.

All around her, her only company was the howling of the wind. There was nothing else there—no trees, no woodland creatures, not even birds flying above her in the darkening sky. There was only her, the sound of her boots as every laborious step made her sink into the mud, the sound of her ragged breath followed by the visible exhale in the air in front of her. Every splash of mud on her calves made her flinch, her mind interpreting everything as a threat—the smallest sound, the smallest sensation of touch. But with every step she took, she got closer and closer to her destination, to the safety she so desperately craved.

But then, through the wind, she heard it—the unmistakable thunder of hooves.

It was distant at first, nothing more than a low rumble from the far end of the bog. At the very beginning, Ailis didn’t know what it was. She fancied it was nothing more than distant thunder, a storm brewing far from the bog. But soon, she realized what she was hearing.

She faltered for half a heartbeat, but she didn’t turn around. She knew what she’d see. Riders, coming close; closer than she’d thought.

Were they her father’s men? Or were they brigands, a team of them ready to capture her and use her in any way they saw fit? She couldn’t know for certain, not when she was so busy running away from the threat, unable to even turn around and look. She had heard stories about those parts—terrible, terrifying stories of people getting captured by rogues where they were entirely helpless out in the open, prime prey for someone looking for easy coin. But she had more than coin; she was a young woman, and even if the brigands didn’t know who she was and wouldn’t know to ask her father for ransom, they could still hurt her in many different ways.

It was as though she was being consumed by fire, inside and out. Her muscles burned from exertion; her skin burned from the wind and the scrapes on the bared parts of her, where the thorns had dug their barbs into her skin. Her eyes stung with the cold, and with the unshed tears of panic that gathered in the corners, threatening to spill. She could hardly see anything before her, the landscape turning into a blur of brown and green, dull and fuzzy and impossible to navigate.

Nay… I’m too close now. I cannae give up.

The land ahead shimmered with promise—Caithness. Somewhere out there was safety, a place where her father could not touch her. If only she could reach it, if she could just take another step, if she could just draw another breath.

The hoofbeats grew louder. Their pounding swelled behind her, and her legs, leaden and aching, strained for more speed. In her hurry, she nearly stumbled as the ground sloped slightly, her boot sinking into a pocket of soft peat, but she quickly yanked it free, gasping for air.

Panic gripped her as the hooves drew closer to her. Soon, she would be reaching the very edges of the Flow Lands, where the first line of trees stretched across the earth—where she could once again find cover from those pursuing her, where––with some luck––she could hide once more and wait for them to pass.

Caithness lands were so close. Just a few more steps and she could get there, to safety.

Then—a hand.

Rough fingers closed around her upper arm, jerking her sideways with violent force. Ailis cried out, more in shock than in pain. Immediately, she tumbled to the ground, landing hard on her shoulder, and the cry she let out was pained, the breath knocked out of her on impact. The sky above spun wildly, the darkening gray and orange of the sunset blurring together. Boots thudded beside her. A figure loomed, silhouetted against the sky, features obscured by a dark cloak.

Her heart pounded in her ears. Pain, searing and unrelenting, coursed down her arm, and her vision swam after her head smacked against the ground.

And then, with the man hovering over her, she was trapped like prey.

Chapter Two

 
The man reached for her again, and Ailis screamed.

“Quiet!” the man growled, the sound of his voice chilling her to the core. “Shut yer mouth an’ come with me. Ye’ve made it hard enough fer all o’ us.”

But in response, Ailis only screamed more. It wasn’t a cry of fear—it was something deeper, primal. It was cry of a hunted creature whose legs still had one last run left in them. As long as blood rushed through her veins, as long as she could still draw breath, Ailis would fight to the last heartbeat to escape her captor. She twisted violently, elbowing her attacker in the side, her shout reverberating through her body and echoing in the empty air around them, traveling far and wide. Swiftly, she pushed herself to her feet and broke into a sprint, weaving through the men who had gathered around her on horseback. With the horses’ hooves sinking into the mud, it was difficult for them to switch their routes, to follow her out towards the tree line. Behind her, the man cursed, and Ailis heard the squelch of his boots in the bog waters as he chased after her, screaming things she could not hear over the rush of wind and blood in her ears.

“Let go o’ me!” she called out to the man, her voice a piercing shriek. “Why are ye chasin’ me?”

There was no answer, and Ailis knew that even if the man had given her one, it wouldn’t have stopped her.

The bog pulled at her feet with every step, the waterlogged earth becoming unstitched beneath her feet. Her skirts were sodden and torn, tangled around her legs. And yet, she still ran. She had to run, to get as far away from those men as possible.

They were her father’s men; Ailis could tell, not only by their shouts as they screamed at each other to catch her and bring her back, but also from the crest they wore, as familiar to her as her own skin.

Behind her, the hooves floundered in the muck. The horses couldn’t match her pace now—not there. She was limber and fast, sure-footed in the uneven ground. Shouts rose, angry and sharp, the voices of her father’s men echoing across the moorland.

“Stop her!”

“She willnae get far!”

“Ye’re only makin’ it difficult fer yerself!” Jamie’s familiar voice called out to her, sudden and jarring like a flash of lightning in the dark. “We’ll catch ye an’ drag ye back whether ye like it or nae!”

Each word bit into her like a lash. Her chest ached, fire in her lungs, but she kept going—one foot after the other, her pursuit of freedom as relentless as the men’s pursuit of her.

More than anything else, it was a battle of wits—one she was determined to win.

Pain pierced through her shoulder with every step she took, passing as a wave through her body. Ailis could feel the slow drip of sweat on her back, she could taste blood on her tongue. The cold air and the stress under which she was putting her lungs were affecting her more than any muscle fatigue could. At any moment, she expected her body to give in; to give up. At any moment, she expected to find herself sprawled in the mud, face-first on the ground as the men surrounded her and dragged her back home.

But the thought of seeing her father again—the thought of facing him and his self-satisfied smirk, telling her that she was nothing but a failure—just that thought was enough to give her the push she needed. Soon, her father’s men would be unable to follow. Soon, she would be in Caithness lands, where those men were not welcome.

Well, technically, neither am I.

The men closed in on her, surrounding her from all sides. And then, just when she least expected it, more hoofbeats approached from the east, horses pouring into the bog guided by their riders.

Ailis’ heart stuttered.

There are more of them!

There was only one of her and already a dozen men in pursuit, and now there seemed to be twice as many—and all because she had managed to evade them for so long. How could she avoid them all? What path could lead her to safety when she was surrounded like this?

She didn’t look back, she didn’t need to. Her father would not suffer disobedience, especially not from a daughter he had never wanted, and so if the first group failed, the second wouldn’t.

But then, something changed. Something seemed to shift in the air, and it took her a few moments to realize Jamie and his men had stopped running after her, the sound of their horses fading in the short distance.

When she glanced at them over her shoulder, the men behind her, her father’s men, had faltered.

“Shite,” one said. “That’s too many o’ them.”

“We’ve gone too far!” called another. “We’re in Caithness lands!”

“Grab the lass!” Jamie called out to them in a growl, unsheathing his sword with a hissing sound as the blade dragged against the leather sheath. Ailis paled at the sight of it, at the flash of light reflected on its sharp edge. Though she knew it wasn’t meant for her, her blood still ran cold in her veins, chilling her to the bone.

But her feet slowed. Her breath tore in and out of her. She turned, confusion flooding her expression. The men were hesitating, shifting nervously. But two of them—either bolder or more foolish than the rest—broke from the group and charged after her again.

“The sooner we have her, the sooner we can leave!” one of them called out as he approached her, clearly determined to complete the task assigned to him and his fellow soldiers before returning home. Ailis couldn’t even blame him for it—if her father found out they had let her escape because they had encountered another party, then he would have their heads. They had been sent there with a mission in mind, and they had to complete it, no matter what.

“Ye fool!” the man told her, pointing an accusatory finger at her. “They’ll have our heads fer this! Ye dragged us all intae this mess!”

Ailis frowned in confusion. It took her a few moments to realize that the men who were approaching from the east were, in fact, from Clan Caithness, and that was why her father’s men had hesitated, reluctant to proceed any farther.

This could be me chance.

The man rushed towards her, but that only put Ailis into motion again, forcing her to run. But the man was faster, already closing the distance between them. Before she knew it, he lunged, tackling her to the ground. Ailis slammed into the wet peat, falling on her back, and a scream died in her throat just as it tried to claw its way out of her, her breath knocked out of her lungs. Still, she kicked and thrashed, desperately trying to free herself from his grasp, but he was already unfastening a rope from his belt, pushing her onto her stomach on the dirt and twisting her arms behind her back.

“Hold still!” he snarled, his breath hot on her face. “Ye’re done runnin’ now.”

Ailis thrashed beneath him, fury and terror coursing through her veins like fire. “I willnae go back tae that monster!”

“Ye dinnae get tae choose.”

The man spoke so simply, so resolutely, that for a moment, Ailis believed him. She believed that she had no other choice, that there was no reason left to fight. But as long as she breathed, she would crave the freedom she couldn’t have at home, and as long as she craved it, she would fight for it.

Ailis felt the rope tightening around her wrists, the sharp bite of it cutting off her circulation and chafing the tender skin. Her captor stood, dragging her up by the bindings like a sack of grain, and she stumbled after him, nearly choking on her own rage.

In the distance, a horn blew, low and deep, a haunting sound that seemed to rise from the bog itself. The ground shook faintly with the rhythm of approaching horses.

Clan Caithness was too close now; there was no escape for her father’s men. The sound of that horn was the sound of battle, the herald of spilled blood and lives lost. And from the eastern rise, they appeared—riders cloaked with the Caithness insignia, swords drawn and at the ready.

The Sutherland men had no option but to draw their own swords, pushing their horses forward, spilling into the sudden eruption of battle.

The man who held Ailis shoved her roughly to the ground and swiftly drew his blade.

“Stay down!” he yelled. “Ye dinnae wish tae see this.”

But she did. Ailis wanted to see it—no, she had to see it, to witness what would happen there and act accordingly. If Clan Caithness won the fight, then she still had a chance. If they could stop her father’s men, then she could plead with their laird to give her shelter in his home.

She raised her head just as steel met steel. The fight seemed to explode all around her in a single moment, soldiers from both sides clashing like a wave against rock—a relentless attack on a seemingly undefeatable object. Screams filled the air, the first men falling to the earth that was now soft with their blood as much as with the water of the bog. It seeped into the soil, their bodies sinking half within the earth’s embrace, as though it was parting by itself to welcome them to their graves.

As though the land itself craved the blood.

And there—among the chaos, as she thrashed and tried to unbind her hands, Ailis saw him.

He moved like a shadow, his dark cloak swirling around his legs. His face was half-smeared with blood, though it didn’t seem to be his own, and his eyes—sharp and pale as winter skies—locked onto the Sutherland men with the cold certainty of death.

Who is that? Is he a warrior or a god that has taken on the likeness of man?

He fought unlike any man she’d ever seen. Where others swung wildly, he danced between blades, his movements as graceful as if he were in a ballroom, dancing. He didn’t waste a single movement. His sword flashed, striking, parrying, spinning with deadly accuracy. Each step he took brought another man to his knees, and he cut through the Sutherland forces with such terrifying efficiency that even Ailis couldn’t help but pause and tremble in fear, the sight of him—of his skill in taking a life, without a thought or a wasted drop of sweat giving her pause.

Ailis watched, transfixed, as the man who had tied her wrists was forced backward. The Caithness warrior closed the distance in seconds, and their blades clashed with a sound like thunder, a sound that rang in her ears long after thereafter.

Only when one of her father’s men stumbled right past her and then fell to his death did Ailis realize just how close she was to her own. She was not safe there, in the middle of the battle, but there was nowhere for her to run. Even if she managed to push herself to her feet on the bog with her hands tied behind her back, avoiding the blades that swung like pendulums over her head would be next to impossible. She was stuck there, in the middle of the fight, and no matter how much she hated it, the safest bet for her was to stay where she was, flat on the ground, hoping she would neither get trampled nor stabbed by a rogue blade.

Quietly, she prayed, not only for her safety but, selfishly, also that Clan Caithness would win.

She turned her gaze back to the Caithness warrior. Her captor was fighting him valiantly, swinging his sword in large, smooth arcs again and again, seemingly without tiring. But Ailis could see right through him—she could see the way he gritted his teeth, the sweat that dripped down his brow. And she could see that the Caithness warrior had noticed too.

This warrior cannae be of flesh and blood, the way he moves. He is larger than life, and more handsome than any living man I have ever seen.

Her father’s man was aiming for a quick strike, one that would end the fight. The warrior was aiming for a drawn-out dance, avoiding the man’s blade and pirouetting away from him any chance he got, growing and closing the distance between them strategically just so he could draw another grunt out of him, another belabored move. He ducked under a swing, slid to the side, parried the blow aimed to his head with ease—like a cat playing with a mouse, just for its entertainment.

I’ve never met a man like this afore.

He’s nae a simple man. He is like an avenging angel.

Ailis’ captor stumbled then—one wrong move that had the Caithness warrior grasping the opportunity instantly, striking fast. And with one brutal motion, he drove his blade through the man’s ribs.

The Sutherland man gasped, blood frothing from his lips. For a moment, he glanced down as though he could hardly believe he had been hurt. Then, as though his strings had been cut, he dropped to the wet ground, the life leaving his eyes.

The warrior stood over him, silent. All around them, the fight was over. The bog was still again, the air thick with mist and the scent of blood and damp. The remaining Sutherland men had fled, leaving their dead behind.

Ailis lay in the mud, her arms still bound, her hair clinging to her cheeks in wet curls. The rope burned against her skin, but she hardly noticed. Her gaze was locked on the man who had saved her.

He turned to her. And for a moment, they simply stared at each other.

“Laird Malcolm Caithness” the man introduced himself, and Ailis’ blood ran cold in her veins She had hoped that her first meeting with the man would be in the safe confines of his castle, where she could calmly explain her situation and beg for his help, but now she had no choice but to plead with him there.

Or lie… I could lie tae him.

She could tell him she was someone else, someone unimportant; the daughter of a minor noble man, cast away by her father, or the daughter of a merchant who had fallen on rough times.

The baritone growl of Laird Caithness’ voice seemed to ripple right through her, her breath catching with something akin to fear—but no, it was not fear, not exactly. There was an excitement behind it, a rush of something she could not name. His face and hands were spattered with blood and he had a wild look in his eyes—one that spoke of the adrenaline still rushing through his veins after the fight, the rabbit-fast heartbeat in his chest after a battle won. Ailis was caught in his gaze for what seemed like eternity, unable to look away or speak a single word. But then again, he said nothing either; he simply stared in silence, taking in her disheveled appearance.

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Ailis pushed herself up to her feet, brushing the dirt off her skirts as though that could help in any way. She was covered in mud from head to toe; her hair, usually a neat braid over her shoulder blades, now wild, auburn strands flying around her head. She quickly decided on a lie—she was the daughter of a dying laird who had no successors and no gold in his reserves, and she needed his assistance.

“That’s Ailis Sutherland,” a voice called out before Ailis could say a single thing. Her head whipped to the side, her eyes wide as her gaze met one of her father’s remaining men, ruining her plan before she could even put it in motion. “Dae ye ken who that is, ye fools? Dae ye ken what this means? Laird Sutherland will have all yer heads!”

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Six months before Morag’s journey to Armstrong lands
 

The great hall of Armstrong Castle had seen better days. Colin Armstrong stood at the head of the long oak table, his hands gripping the carved chair that had belonged to his father, and his grandfather before him. The men gathered around the table—his most trusted advisors, seasoned warriors who’d bled for Armstrong lands—stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Ye cannae be serious,” Duncan MacLeod said finally, his grizzled voice cutting through the stunned silence. “The eastern marches? Me laird, that’s some of our best grazin’ land.”

“Was our best grazin’ land,” Colin corrected grimly. “Before raids burned half the pastures and drove off most of the cattle. Before Fraser’s men started pickin’ off our shepherds one by one.”

Niven Reid leaned forward, his weathered face creased with concern. “It’s still Armstrong land, me laird. Our land. Yer faither would turn in his grave—”

“Me faither,” Colin interrupted, his voice carrying the steel that had earned him his reputation, “is dead. And if we dinnae find a way tae stop Fraser, we’ll all join him soon enough.”

He moved to the massive hearth, where a fire struggled against the autumn chill. The flames seemed smaller somehow, weaker, like everything else in the castle these days. “Look around ye. Really look. Half our garrison is gone—dead, wounded, or fled tae clans that can still afford tae pay them. Our coffers are nearly empty. Our people are starvin’.”

“Which is exactly why we cannae afford tae give away our lands!” MacLeod slammed his fist on the table, making the pewter cups jump. “Ye’re talkin’ about handin’ over territory that’s been Armstrong fer three hundred years!”

“I’m talkin’ about survival,” Colin said quietly, turning back to face them. “And I’m talkin’ about the one alliance that could save us all.”

Young Jamie Armstrong, Colin’s cousin and heir, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The MacDuff lass, ye mean. But Colin, there are other ways—”

“Are there?” Colin’s dark eyes swept the table, challenging each man in turn. “Name them, Jamie. Tell me what other clan has the gold we need, the men we need, the strategic position we need tae finally crush Fraser once and for all.”

“The Campbells—” someone started.

“Have nay interest in border wars that dinnae benefit them directly,” Colin cut him off. “The MacDougalls are already stretched thin fightin’ their own battles. The MacLeods…” He shrugged. “Even if they were willin’, which they’re nae, they dinnae have the resources we need.”

Niven stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor. “So ye’d sell yerself tae MacDuff fer his gold? ”

The words hung in the air like a blade. Colin felt his jaw tighten, felt the familiar cold rage that had kept him alive through a dozen battles. But when he spoke, his voice remained controlled.

“I’d dae whatever it takes tae save this clan. Whatever it takes tae keep our people alive.” He moved back to the table, his hands flat on the scarred oak surface. “Alistair MacDuff has three things we desperately need: gold, men, and strategic control of the northern trade routes. His daughter is the key tae all three.”

“And what’s tae stop him from laughin’ in yer face?” MacLeod demanded. “Why would a man like MacDuff, with all his wealth and power, ally himself with a strugglin’ border clan?”

Colin smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Because I’m goin’ tae offer him somethin’ he wants more than gold. Somethin’ he needs.”

“Which is?”

Colin straightened, choosing to ignore the question for now.

“MacDuff has been tryin’ tae expand his influence south fer years. But Fraser controls the key mountain passes, the ancient roads that would give MacDuff access tae the Lowland markets. Fraser’s been bleedin’ MacDuff’s trade caravans fer months, demandin’ tribute fer safe passage.”

“So ye’d promise MacDuff what ye cannae deliver,” Niven said flatly. “Fraser’s still alive, last I checked. Still raidin’ our lands, still—”

“Still vulnerable,” Colin interrupted. “Fraser’s strength comes from his fortified position and his alliances. But those alliances are built on fear, nae loyalty. Remove Fraser, and his supporters will scatter like leaves in the wind.”

Jamie leaned forward, his young face creased with worry. “And if ye fail? If Fraser kills ye instead? What happens tae the clan then?”

“Then ye’ll lead them,” Colin said simply. “And ye’ll still have the MacDuff gold tae rebuild with.”

“What MacDuff gold?” MacLeod’s voice was sharp with skepticism. “Ye havenae even approached the man yet. Fer all ye ken, he’s already arranged a match for his daughter with someone who can actually afford her.”

Colin reached into his leather jerkin and pulled out a sealed letter, placing it carefully on the table. The MacDuff seal gleamed red in the firelight.

“I sent a preliminary offer three weeks ago,” he said quietly. “This is his response.”

Niven snatched up the letter, breaking the seal with rough fingers. His eyes moved quickly over the parchment, his expression growing alternating between relief and worry with each line. Finally, he looked up.

“He’s interested,” Niven said slowly. “But his terms…”

“Are steep,” Colin finished. “Aye. I ken.”

“How steep?” Jamie asked.

Colin began to pace, his movements controlled but restless. “Full dowry of two thousand gold pieces, tae be delivered in two installments. Military support—fifty men for our conflict with Fraser. Exclusive tradin’ rights through MacDuff territories.” He paused. “In exchange fer the eastern marches… and Fraser’s head.”

The room erupted in a mixture of excitement and disbelief.

“Two thousand gold pieces!” Jamie breathed, his eyes wide.

“Fifty men!” Duncan added, leaning forward eagerly. “That would double our fighting force!”

“The tradin’ rights alone would make us wealthy again,” another man said.

But Niven’s expression remained grim. “And Fraser’s head? Me laird, the man’s a legendary swordsman. His army numbers in the hundreds. How exactly dae ye plan tae deliver on that promise?”

The excitement in the room died instantly as the reality of Colin’s commitment sank in.

MacLeod shook his head slowly. ” But promisin’ tae kill Fraser?” He gestured helplessly. “This isnae strategy. This is madness.”

“Is it?” Colin’s voice was deadly calm. “Let me tell ye what madness really looks like. Madness is watchin’ our people starve while we cling tae pride. Madness is lettin’ Fraser pick us apart piece by piece because we’re too stubborn tae pay the price fer salvation.”

“But Fraser—” someone protested.

“Fraser bleeds like any other man,” Colin cut him off. “And I’ve killed better warriors than him.”

Colin let them rage for a moment, then slammed his fist on the table with enough force to make the oak groan. The sound echoed through the hall like thunder, and silence fell immediately.

“Are ye finished?” he asked quietly.

MacLeod was breathing hard, his face flushed with anger. “Me laird, I’ve served yer family fer thirty years. I’ve followed ye through hell itself without question. But this…”

Colin’s voice was deadly calm. “Let me tell ye what madness really looks like. Madness is watchin’ our people starve while we cling tae pride. Madness is lettin’ Fraser pick us apart piece by piece because we’re too stubborn tae pay the price for salvation.”

He moved to the narrow window that overlooked the castle courtyard. Below, he could see the daily bustle of his people—servants, guards, craftsmen, all trying to maintain normalcy in the face of growing desperation.

“Look at them, Duncan,” he said without turning around.

“That’s nae the point—”

“That’s exactly the point.” Colin spun around, his dark eyes blazing. “Every day we delay, more of our people suffer. More of our lands fall tae Fraser’s greed. More of our future dies.”

Niven set the letter down carefully. “And ye truly believe this marriage alliance will solve everythin’?”

“I believe it’s our only chance.” Colin returned to the table, his voice taking on the tone of command his men knew well. “With MacDuff gold, we can hire mercenaries. With MacDuff men, we can finally match Fraser’s numbers. With MacDuff support, we can strangle his supply lines and force him intae a battle he cannae win.”

“And the eastern marches?” Jamie asked quietly.

Colin’s jaw tightened. The eastern marches—rolling hills and fertile valleys that had fed Armstrong cattle for generations. Land his grandfather had died defending, his father had improved with careful stewardship.

“The eastern marches are already lost,” he said finally. “Fraser’s burned half the pastures, killed most of the livestock, driven off the people. What’s the point of holdin’ ontae empty, worthless land when we could trade it fer the power tae reclaim everythin’ else?”

“It’s the principle—” MacLeod started.

“Principles dinnae win wars, Duncan. Men dae. Gold daes. Alliances dae.” Colin’s voice grew harder. “And if sellin’ me soul tae the devil himself would save this clan, I’d dae it without hesitation.”

The room fell quiet again. Outside, they could hear the distant sound of the evening watch calling out the time. Life going on, oblivious to the momentous decision being debated within these walls.

“What about the lass?” Niven asked finally. “MacDuff’s daughter. What dae ye ken about her?”

Colin shrugged. “Young. Unmarried. From what I hear, spirited enough.” He paused. “It daesnae matter. This isnae about her or me or what we might want. This is about survival.”

“And after? If this works, if ye manage tae secure the alliance and somehow defeat Fraser—what then? Ye’ll be married tae a woman ye’ve never met, bound tae a clan ye barely ken.”

“Then I’ll learn tae live with it,” Colin said simply. “Just like she will.”

Jamie stood slowly, his young face troubled. “Colin, I have tae ask—are ye certain there’s nay other way? Nay other alliance, nay other strategy that might work?”

Colin looked at his cousin—barely twenty-five, still believing the world could be shaped by hope and good intentions rather than blood and gold. Once, Colin had been that young too. That naive.

“I’ve spent months explorin’ every option, Jamie. Every possible alliance, every strategic advantage, every diplomatic solution. This is what it comes down tae—MacDuff or death. Those are our choices.”

“Then God help us all,” MacLeod muttered.

“God helps those who help themselves,” Colin replied. “And that’s exactly what we’re goin’ tae dae. I wouldnae be the first laird tae marry fer an alliance, nor would I be the last.”

He moved to his chair, settling into the worn leather with the weight of absolute decision. “I will reply tae MacDuff. Tell him I accept his terms. All of them.”

“Colin—” several voices protested at once.

“The eastern marches will be transferred tae MacDuff control upon completion of the marriage,” Colin continued as if he hadn’t heard them. “The dowry will be accepted in two installments as specified. Military cooperation will begin immediately followin’ the weddin’ ceremony.”

“And if the lass refuses ye?” Niven asked quietly. “If she takes one look at our situation and decides she wants nothin’ tae dae with a failin’ clan?”

Colin’s smile was cold as winter steel. “Then I’ll convince her otherwise. Whatever it takes.”

The men around the table exchanged glances, reading the implacable determination in their laird’s face. They’d seen that look before—in battle, when Colin decided that retreat was no longer an option. When he chose to win or die trying.

“When?” MacLeod asked finally, his voice resigned.

“The negotiations will take weeks. The actual weddin’…” Colin shrugged. “Spring, perhaps. Assumin’ MacDuff agrees tae everythin’.”

“He will,” Niven said grimly. “A man daesnae send a letter like this unless he’s already decided. The question is whether we’ll survive long enough tae see it through.”

“We will,” Colin said with absolute certainty. “Because failure isnae an option.”

As his men filed out, still grumbling and shaking their heads, Colin remained seated at the head of the table. Alone with his thoughts and the weight of what he’d just committed to.

In six months, he would marry Morag MacDuff. A woman he’d never met, from a clan he barely knew, in a ceremony that would either save his people or damn them all.

But first, he had to make sure there was still a clan left to save.

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Chapter One

1346, MacDuff Castle

“Och, would ye look at our wee sister,” Ruaridh called out, his deep voice booming across the hall as he strode toward Morag, his sister, with that swagger that made visitors either want to befriend him or throttle him. At twenty-three, he’d grown into his father’s broad shoulders and commanding presence, though his green eyes still held the mischief that had gotten them both into trouble as children. “All done up like a proper lady. I barely recognize ye without mud on yer boots.”

“Hold yer tongue, ye great oaf,” Morag shot back, though her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. “Just because I enjoy the horses doesnae mean it’s impossible to see me looking like proper.”

The great hall of MacDuff Castle buzzed with the kind of nervous energy that came before farewells—servants bustling about with trunks and provisions, the fire crackling higher than usual, and voices carrying that particular pitch of forced cheer that meant someone was trying very hard not to weep.

Morag MacDuff stood in the center of it all, her dark blonde hair catching the firelight as she surveyed the chaos with mild dread. Her traveling dress—the finest blue wool her mother could procure—felt foreign against her skin, nothing like the practical riding clothes she favored.

“Proper, aye,” Sorcha’s melodic voice drifted from the stone steps leading to the upper chambers, “but standing still? That’s the true miracle.”

Morag’s eldest sister descended the stairs with the grace that had made her the envy of every unmarried lass in the Highlands. Even after five years of marriage and two bairns, Sorcha moved like she was dancing to music only she could hear. Her auburn hair—so like their mother’s—was perfectly braided, not a strand out of place despite her long journey from the MacLeod lands.

“Sorcha!” Morag flew across the hall, propriety forgotten, and threw her arms around her sister. “I didnae think ye’d make it in time.”

“Miss seeing me baby sister off to her grand adventure?” Sorcha squeezed her tight, then pulled back to study Morag’s face with knowing hazel eyes. “I wouldnae dare. Besides, someone had to make sure ye remembered how to act like a lady instead of a wild Highland lass.”

“I am a wild Highland lass,” Morag protested, earning a snort of laughter from Ruaridh.

“Aye, and God help the Iron Laird when he figures that out,” their brother said, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. “Poor bastard probably thinks he’s getting a sweet, biddable wife.”

“Ruaridh MacDuff!” The sharp crack of their mother’s voice cut through the hall like a blade. Niamh MacDuff emerged from behind a cluster of servants, her green eyes flashing with the kind of fire that had made their father fall head over heels all those years ago. “Ye’ll watch yer language in me hall, and ye’ll nae be calling Laird Armstrong names before yer sister’s even met the man.”

Despite the scolding, Niamh’s lips curved in the faintest smile as she approached her youngest daughter. In her forties, she was still beautiful enough to turn heads, her auburn hair showing only the barest threads of silver, her slender frame moving with the confidence of a woman who’d never met a challenge she couldn’t face.

“Besides,” she continued, reaching up to smooth an imaginary wrinkle from Morag’s traveling cloak, “if anyone can handle our Morag, it’s a man they call the Iron Laird. Takes steel to shape steel, after all.”

“I’m nae steel, Ma,” Morag said quietly, suddenly feeling very young despite her twenty years.

“Nay, lass.” Niamh’s voice gentled as she cupped Morag’s freckled cheek. “Ye’re fire. And fire can melt even the strongest steel, if it burns hot enough.”

“Enough talk of melting,” came the deep rumble of their father’s voice from the great doorway. Alistair MacDuff filled the entrance like he filled every room—not just with his impressive height and breadth, but with the kind of presence that made people straighten their spines and pay attention. His dark hair was liberally streaked with silver now, and new lines bracketed his piercing green eyes, but at forty-nine he was still the kind of man who could command a battlefield or a feast with equal ease. “Are we sending our daughter off to her wedding or are we planning a siege?” he asked, though his gruff tone couldn’t hide the emotion flickering across his weathered features.

“With Morag, is there a difference?” Sorcha murmured, ducking when her youngest sister swatted at her.

Alistair’s mouth twitched, but he crossed the hall with measured steps until he stood before Morag. For a moment, the great laird simply looked at his youngest child—the one who’d followed him around like a shadow as a bairn, who’d begged to learn swordplay alongside her brother, who could put an arrow through a sparrow’s eye at fifty paces, who’d never met a horse she couldn’t ride or a challenge she wouldn’t accept.

“Come here, mo chridhe,” he said softly, opening his arms.

Morag flew into them without hesitation, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and pine and home. When she was small, she’d believed her father could protect her from anything. Now, wrapped in his embrace, she still believed it.

“I’m proud of ye, lass,” he murmured into her hair. “Ye’re daeing what’s right fer the clan, and that takes courage.”

“I’m terrified,” she whispered against his chest.

“Good. Only fools feel nay fear. But ye’re a MacDuff, and MacDuffs dinnae run from hard things.” He pulled back to meet her gaze, his green eyes serious. “Ye’ll make yer own way, Morag. Ye always have.”

“Aye, and if this Armstrong fellow gives ye trouble, ye send word,” Ruaridh declared, his hand moving instinctively to the hilt of his sword. “I’ll be happy tae ride south and remind him how tae treat a MacDuff lass.”

“Ye’ll dae nay such thing,” Niamh said sharply, though her tone held a note of fierce maternal pride. “Besides, our Morag can handle herself just fine.”

“She’d better,” Sorcha added with a wicked grin. “From what I hear, the Iron Laird isnae exactly kent fer his gentle nature.”

Morag felt her stomach clench. “What have ye heard?”

“Nothing ye need tae worry about,” Alistair said firmly, shooting a warning look at his eldest daughter. “Political marriages are first and foremost about alliance, nay… personal compatibility. Ye’ll find yer way together.”

“Or ye’ll both be too stubborn tae bend, and ye’ll spend the rest of yer lives circling each other like a pair of Highland cats,” Ruaridh said cheerfully.

“That’s helpful, braither dear,” Morag said dryly.

“I live tae serve.”

A horn sounded from the courtyard—three long blasts that meant her escort was ready to depart. The sound seemed to suck all the air from the great hall, leaving behind a silence heavy with unspoken words and unshed tears.

“Well then,” Niamh said briskly, though her voice was rougher than usual. “I suppose it’s time.”

The words hung in the air like a death knell. Morag felt her chest tighten, and without thinking, she grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her aside, away from their parents’ watchful eyes.

“Sorcha,” she whispered urgently, “I wish—och, this sounds mad, but I almost wish someone would kidnap me on the road. Anything tae avoid this marriage.”

Her sister’s hazel eyes widened, then softened with understanding. “Morag, love, I ken ye’re frightened, but it willnae be as terrible as ye think. And getting kidnapped…” Sorcha’s voice took on a wry note, “well, I ken it sounds romantic tae have a happy ending with the laird that kidnapped ye, but it daesnae always turn out as well as it did fer me.”

Morag sighed, remembering her sister’s own dramatic courtship. “Aye, I ken that. But Sorcha, I’ve never heard a single good thing about Colin Armstrong. With a name like the Iron Laird, I ken he rules his clan with an iron grip. What kind of marriage can I expect with such a man? What kind of life?”

Sorcha reached out and squeezed her sister’s hands. “Listen tae me, mo peata. Sometimes the strongest men need the gentlest touch tae soften them. Give yer marriage a chance and it may turn out much better than ye expect.”

Sorcha pulled Morag into a tight squeeze which was interrupted when their mother appeared at her elbow, moving with that silent grace that had always unnerved her children. Niamh’s green eyes were bright with unshed tears, but her voice was steady as stone.

“Morag.” She pressed something small and cold into her daughter’s palm. “Take this.”

Morag looked down to see a small but deadly sharp dagger, its handle carved with intricate Celtic knots. The blade gleamed like silver in the firelight.

“Ma, I—”

“Keep it close tae yer body,” Niamh said firmly, her fingers closing over Morag’s. “The land ye’re going tae is made of steel, lass. The people, the very air—everything is harder there. Be prepared fer anything that comes yer way.”

Morag nodded, her throat tightening. “Ma, what if he daesnae want me? What if this marriage—”

“Listen tae me, mo chridhe.” Niamh’s voice dropped to barely a whisper, meant for Morag’s ears alone. “When I wed yer faither, I thought me life was ending. I kent nothing of him save his name, and I was so frightened I could barely speak me vows.” Her green eyes softened with memory. “But sometimes, lass, the marriages we fear most become the love stories we treasure. Yer faither and I… we found our way tae each other. And ye will too.”

“But ye and Da, ye were lucky—”

“Nay.” Niamh shook her head. “We worked fer it. Every day, we chose tae see the good in each other. That’s what makes a marriage, Morag—not the grand gestures, but the small choices tae build something together.”

“Thank ye,” Morag whispered, tucking the dagger into the hidden pocket sewn into her traveling dress. For just a moment, she caught something in her mother’s green eyes— a kind of hope born from her own experience.

“Time to go, lass,” Alistair called from the doorway, though his voice was gentler than usual.

The final farewells were a blur of fierce embraces and whispered blessings. Ruaridh lifted her off her feet in a bone-crushing hug, muttering threats against anyone who dared harm her.

Sorcha kissed both her cheeks and pressed a small bundle of lavender into her hands. Their parents each held her close one last time, and then suddenly she was walking across the courtyard toward the waiting carriage, her legs feeling strangely unsteady.

The carriage door closed with a final, echoing thud, and Morag MacDuff began her journey toward an uncertain future—and a man whose heart was made of iron.

***

The carriage wheels found their rhythm on the worn stone road, and for the first day Morag almost managed to forget where she was headed. The Highland countryside rolled past the small window in waves of purple heather and emerald glen, familiar and comforting as a lullaby.

“Look there, m’lady,” said Isla, her maid, pointing toward a cluster of red deer grazing near a burn. “They say it’s good luck tae see the hart on a wedding journey.”

Morag glanced at the girl’s plain face—barely seventeen, with mousy brown hair and nervous hands that never seemed to stop fidgeting with her apron. Isla jumped at every shadow, but she had willingly volunteered for this journey, which had earned Morag’s grudging respect.

“Aye, well, I’ll take all the luck I can get,” Morag replied, though her fingers unconsciously found the dagger hidden in her dress. “Though I reckon I’ll need more than deer tae help me survive this marriage.”

Outside, she could hear the steady hoofbeats of their escort—three MacDuff soldiers her father had insisted upon. The captain was a grizzled veteran who’d served her grandfather. The other two rode with the easy confidence of men who’d never known real defeat.

Yet, Morag thought grimly.

The first night they’d made camp in familiar territory, the soldiers laughing around their fire as they shared stories and ale. The Captain had even allowed her to walk about freely, knowing no harm would come to a MacDuff lass on MacDuff lands.

But as the second day wore on and the landscape began to change—the hills growing sharper, the forests thicker, darker—so did the mood of their party.

“How much farther tae the border?” Morag asked as the afternoon light began to slant golden through the carriage window.

“We should reach Armstrong lands by dusk, m’lady. We’ll camp just inside their territory tonight, then make fer the castle come morning,” one of the men riding just outside her window answered.

Morag nodded. Through the window, she watched the Captain’s posture change as he rode ahead—his shoulders tense, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. What had been easy conversation between the soldiers had died to sharp, clipped exchanges.

“We are on the edge of Fraser territory now. God help us pass this stretch safely. Hamish,” she heard him call softly. “Eyes on the tree line.”

The youngest soldier, who’d just spoken, now rode with his bow strung and ready across his saddle. The change was subtle but unmistakable. These were men preparing for eventual trouble.

Faither, why did ye send me here?

Chapter Two

 
“Isla,” Morag said quietly, “are ye fast?”

“What?” The maid’s brown eyes went wide. “M’lady, why would ye—”

“Answer me. When ye run, are ye fast?”

“Aye, I run fast enough, but—”

“Good. Ye may soon need tae be.”

Isla’s face had gone pale. “M’lady, ye’re frightening me.”

Morag leaned forward and gripped the girl’s hands. “Listen tae me carefully. If something happens—anything at all—ye dinnae worry about me. Ye run, and ye keep running until ye find help. Dae ye understand?”

“But I cannae leave ye—”

“Ye can and ye will. That’s nae a request, Isla. That’s an order.”

The Captain’s voice cut through the air like a blade, stopping any further protest. “Ho there! State yer business!”

Morag’s hand instinctively went to the dagger her mother had given to her. She waved a palm, indicating Isla should stay back. She leaned forward, pressing her face to the window. Ahead, she could see figures emerging from the forest. Armed men with weapons drawn.

Too many weapons. Too many men.

The carriage jerked to a sudden halt.

“Stay down,” Their Captain commanded, his voice carrying that battlefield authority Morag remembered from her childhood. “Protect the lady!”

She heard the rasp of steel being drawn, the nervous whicker of horses, the creak of leather as men shifted in their saddles. Her own pulse began to thunder in her ears.

“What dae they want?” Isla whispered, her voice barely audible.

Morag’s hand found her dagger again. “I dinnae think they’re here tae wish us well. Remember what I said tae ye. When ye get the chance, run and dinnae look back.”

Through the window, she caught glimpses of movement. There were men in rough leathers circling their small party like wolves. The Captain was shouting something, but the words were lost in the sudden chaos of battle cries and clashing steel.

“Get down!” Morag hissed, pulling Isla toward the floor of the carriage.

The world exploded into violence. Shouts. The scream of horses. The wet sound of blade meeting flesh. And then—

Thwack.

An arrow punched through the carriage window in a shower of splintered wood, the steel point hissing past Morag’s ear to embed itself in the opposite wall. She felt fire streak across her forehead where the fletching had scraped skin.

“Morag!” Isla screamed.

Blood. There was blood trickling down into her eye, but Morag’s mind went crystal clear with the kind of calm that came before a storm. She grabbed Isla by the shoulders and hauled her down behind the bench seat.

“Stay down and dinnae move,” she commanded, her voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. “Wait fer me tae tell ye when tae run.”

The battle raged around their carriage like a living thing. Through the shattered window, Morag caught glimpses of MacDuff soldiers fighting off several attackers at once. The young soldier’s bow sang again and again until she heard a sickening thud, followed by his cry of pain.

“Me Captain!” his voice, raw with desperation.

Then silence from that direction.

The carriage rocked violently as something slammed against its side. Isla whimpered, pressing herself smaller against the floor, but Morag found herself rising slightly, peering through the chaos to count their enemies.

Dear God, they’re too many. Far too many.

The sounds of fighting grew more distant as the battle spread, the two remaining guards being drawn away from the carriage by the sheer number of attackers. In the growing quiet around their shelter, Morag heard something that made her blood turn to ice—the soft scrape of a boot on the carriage step.

The door handle turned.

“Isla,” she whispered urgently. “Remember what I told ye.”

The door swung open to reveal a bearded face, scarred and grinning with triumph. The man’s eyes swept the interior and fixed on Morag with unmistakable recognition.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

Without thinking, Morag threw her full weight against the door. The heavy wood slammed into the man’s face with a satisfying crunch, sending him staggering backward. Blood streamed from his nose, leading to a barrage of curse words that hurt Morag’s delicate lady ears despite the circumstances.

“Run!” she shouted to Isla, shoving the girl toward the opposite door. “Run and dinnae look back!”

Isla scrambled out the far side of the carriage, her skirts tangling around her legs as she stumbled into the underbrush. For a heartbeat, Morag saw the girl’s terrified face looking back.

“Go!” Morag screamed. And Isla ran.

Morag turned back to the man. She did not wait to see if he had recovered but shoved him hard one more time in the chest, sending him sprawling into the mud.

Seeing her chance, she bolted from the carriage. Behind her, she heard the man roar with rage. “The lass! Get the lass!”

She heard heavy boot sounds coming after her. Clearly, the man cared nothing for poor Isla fleeing in the opposite direction. It was Morag he wanted, and Morag he’d follow.

Good, she thought fiercely, gathering her skirts and plunging deeper into the trees. Follow me, ye bastard. Let Isla get away safe. She’ll tell faither.

The forest closed around her like a living wall. Thick Scottish pine and ancient oak with branches so dense they blocked out most of the dying light.

Morag’s lungs burned as she ran, her fine traveling dress catching on every thorn and branch, but she did not slow. She’d been running MacDuff woods since she could walk, knew how to move silent as a deer when she needed to.

Behind her, she could hear the man crashing through the underbrush like a mad boar, all noise and fury. He was a very big man, obviously strong, but that would only help him if he caught her. For now, she was faster. Which was all she needed to be to lose him in these trees. She would find a burn to follow, or a cave to hide in until he gave up and went back to his fellows.

Come on, Morag. This is another hide and seek between ye and Ruaridh.

Morag leaped over a fallen log, her heart hammering. Just ahead, she could see a gap in the trees where moonlight filtered through. If she could reach that clearing, maybe find another way through—

Her foot caught.

Morag pitched forward with a cry, her hands flying out to break her fall. She hit the forest floor hard, her palms scraping against stone and root, her knee striking something sharp enough to tear through fabric and skin.

“Nay,” she gasped, struggling to free her foot from the twisted roots. “Nay, nay, nay.”

Heavy footsteps crashed through the bracken behind her, growing closer with each passing second. Morag’s fingers flew to the hidden pocket in her dress, closing around the weight of her mother’s dagger. The blade sang free of its sheath as she twisted around to saw frantically at the roots binding her ankle.

Come on, come on, she urged silently, the steel biting through the gnarled wood. Behind her, she could hear her pursuer’s ragged breathing, could practically feel his presence bearing down on her like a hunting hound.

The last root parted with a soft snap.

Morag surged to her feet, spinning around with the dagger raised just as the man’s shadow fell over her like a death shroud. His eyes narrowed when he saw the blade gleaming in her fist

“Well, well,” the man panted, wiping blood from his broken nose with the back of his hand. “Thought ye could outrun me, did ye, lass?”

Two more figures emerged from the trees behind him. They were both armed, both grinning with the kind of cruel satisfaction that made Morag’s skin crawl. She recognized the look from her brother’s stories of border raiders and cattle thieves.

“Stay back!” she snarled, finally freeing her foot and scrambling backward on her hands. “I ken how tae use this!”

The man’s broken nose was still streaming blood, but he grinned anyway. “Dae ye now, lass? That’s a bonny wee blade fer such a bonny wee lass.”

He lunged.

Morag slashed out with the dagger, but he was fast. His hand shot out like a striking snake, iron fingers clamping around her wrist. He squeezed until she cried out, her grip loosening involuntarily.

The dagger tumbled from her nerveless fingers, landing in the fallen leaves with a soft thud.

“There’s a good lass,” the man panted, his grip like a vise around her wrist. “Nay need tae make this bloodier than ye’ve already made it.”

Two more figures emerged from the trees behind him, both armed, and grinning with the kind of cruel satisfaction that made Morag’s stomach turn to water. She’d lost her only weapon, her only chance.

But she hadn’t lost her voice.

“Get away from me!” she snarled, trying to wrench free of his grip. “Ye have nae right tae dae this.”

“Aye, we dae.” The first man lunged forward and caught her wrist before she could reach for her hidden dagger. “Laird Ronan Fraser is expecting ye, lass. Been waiting quite some time, from what I hear.”

Morag’s blood turned to ice. “Fraser? Ye’re mad! I’m bride tae Laird Colin Armstrong. We just married, in fact! Ye have the wrong woman!”

The men exchanged glances, and the lanky fellow with stringy hair actually laughed.

“Oh, we ken exactly who ye are, Morag MacDuff,” he said, pulling a length of rope from his belt. “And Fraser’s been very specific about wanting ye brought tae him. Alive and… unspoiled, which is quite unfortunate.”

“I tell ye, ye’re making a mistake!” Morag struggled as they forced her hands behind her back, the rope biting into her wrists. “Let me go, ye bloody savages! Ye dare tae take the daughter of Laird Alistair MacDuff, bride tae Laird Colin Armstrong! I demand ye put me down this instant!”

“Yer faither’s too far away tae help ye now,” the first man growled, testing the knots. “And as fer Armstrong…” He shrugged. “That match was never meant tae be.”

The rope was tight. Already Morag could feel her fingers starting to tingle as the bonds cut off her blood. But she couldn’t stop fighting, couldn’t stop trying to reason with them.

“Please,” she said, hating the desperation in her own voice. “Whatever Fraser’s paying ye, me faither will double it. Triple it! Just let me go!”

“Sorry, lass.” The lanky one almost sounded like he meant it. “We may be men fer hire, but we have our code of honor. We have been given orders.”

Strong arms lifted her from the forest floor like she weighed nothing at all. Morag kicked and writhed, but bound as she was, her struggles only earned her a tighter grip.

“Easy now,” her captor grunted. “Dinnae make this harder than it needs tae be.”

“Harder?” Morag spat. “Ye’re kidnapping me on me wedding journey! How could it possibly be harder?”

But the men were already carrying her back through the trees, back toward whatever horses they’d left waiting. Around them, everywhere was still except for the natural sounds of the forest.

“Move faster,” the bearded one snarled. “Fraser wants her delivered before—”

“I willnae go!” Morag twisted violently, managing to wrench one arm partially free. “I willnae be any man’s prize! Let me go!”

The man carrying her stumbled as she fought, cursing as her elbow caught him in the ribs. “Bloody hell, hold still!”

“Make me, ye coward!”

His patience snapped. He dropped her legs, letting her feet hit the ground hard while his companion kept hold of her shoulders. His hand drew back, palm open, aimed at her defiant face.

“Maybe this will teach ye some—”

“Put. Her. Down.”

The voice cut through the forest like the toll of a death bell—deep, commanding, and utterly without fear. All three men froze, the raised hand halting mid-swing as they spun toward the sound.

Through the trees stepped a figure that seemed carved from Highland legend itself. Tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the predatory grace of a born warrior. Dark hair, piercing eyes that missed nothing, and a presence that made the very air seem to thicken with danger.

Morag’s breath caught in her throat. Even bound and terrified, she could not help but notice the way he moved—like controlled violence wrapped in human form. The way his hand rested on his sword hilt with casual familiarity. The way her captors suddenly looked like children caught stealing apples.

This was no ordinary man.

This was death walking through the Highland forest, and he was looking at her captors like they were already dead.

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