Don’t miss the link for the whole book at the end of the preview.

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!”