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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.