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Chapter One

MacDuff Estate, 1341

As a large, smooth hand was thrust right into her face, Sorcha MacDuff once again contemplated the necessity of a husband in a young woman’s life. It only took her a few seconds to come to the conclusion that, though necessary, a man could surely only be a burden.

“I would be honored tae have this dance, Miss MacDuff,” the man to whom the hand belonged to said. Sorcha followed the length of his arm with her gaze, looking up, up, until she finally got a good glance at his face under the incandescent glow of the candles.

Ach! He could be me faither!

The man standing before her was tall and plump, with ruddy cheeks and graying hair—surely, over thirty years her senior. Sorcha managed a polite smile, the same one she had borne all night as she tried to maneuver her way around the great hall of MacDuff’s Castle and the guests who had gathered there for the ball, and swiftly evaded the hand offered to her as she took a step backwards.

Who is he? I should ken his name.

Racking her brain for this man’s identity, Sorcha continued to slowly back away from him, but the man eagerly followed. Behind her, people parted to allow her to pass, but then her back hit something large and hard.

A pillar, one of those towering structures of dark stone that held the high ceiling; she had backed herself into a corner.

“Fergive me…” she said, and then, as though through divine intervention, remembered the man’s name, “Sir Cameron! I’m afraid I must decline. I… ach… I’m lookin’ fer—”

Sorcha let her gaze roam around the great hall, trying to find an excuse to get away from Sir Cameron’s clutches. It was far from an easy task. Not only had she had one cup of wine too many to cope with the constant bombardment of attention, but the large, laughing crowd disoriented her, the music swelled over her in waves, and the heat of the room felt suddenly suffocating.

All of that effort, all the decorations and the roasted meats and the flowing wine were wasted on her, her only desire being to hide away from the crowd.

At twenty years of age, she was ready to find a suitable match, and her parents, eager and helpful as always, had thrown the ball for her. At first, it had seemed like an exciting opportunity to find her future husband, someone she could one day love and wed, and with whom she could have a big family. But now that she had seen her options—one of whom was the shameless Sir Cameron, apparently—fleeing into the woods and starting a new life seemed more appealing.

“Me, I hope.”

Sorcha’s head whipped to the side at the sound of the rough, baritone voice right next to her. Though the voice was only vaguely familiar to her, the face, with the high, regal forehead, the slightly crooked nose, and the thin lips under a short, dark beard was one she immediately recognized.

“Laird MacLaren,” she said in greeting, attempting an awkward curtsy with her back against the pillar. “Actually—”

“Sir Cameron, may I?” Laird MacLaren asked, his gray eyes pinning the other man with a demanding gaze. For a moment, it seemed to Sorcha that this would end in an argument, but then Sir Cameron only bowed and retreated, giving one last smile to Sorcha—one she did her best to return.

It was always better to keep relations amicable, her mother said, despite personal preference.

“I’m terribly sorry, Laird MacLaren, but I’m lookin’ fer me braither,” Sorcha said, knowing that if there was anyone who could help her out of this, it would be Ruaridh. “Have ye seen him?”

“I havenae,” Laird MacLaren said distractedly, but when Sorcha tried to move away from the pillar, his hand reached out, fingers wrapping delicately around her wrist to stop her. “Perhaps we can look fer him together after this dance?”

Sorcha let out an awkward chuckle, her gaze flitting about the room over Laird MacLaren’s shoulders. “I’d like that very much, but I’m afraid I must find him right now.”

“I insist,” said Laird MacLaren, his hand tightening around her wrist. His tone had a sharp edge, one that she didn’t quite appreciate. When she tried to yank her arm out of his grip, though, Laird MacLaren refused to let go.

“An’ I insist that ye unhand me,” she said, her own tone turning icy. “As I said, I must speak tae Ruaridh.”

“I’m sure he can wait,” Laird MacLaren said as he took a step closer to Sorcha.

Ach, why willnae he leave me alone? This is hardly the behavior o’ a gentleman!

Laird Rhys MacLaren was nothing if not insistent, it seemed, though insistent was perhaps too light a word for him. His grip on Sorcha’s forearm was just forceful enough to keep her where she was, but gentle enough to not hurt her. The way he looked at her, though, revealed the cracks on his mask; irritation bled through them, those gray eyes piercing right through her.

Why cannae I find one man who is gentle an’ respectful in this room?

Everyone felt entitled to her time and her attention. On the one hand, she should have expected it. Every bachelor in the room had been invited specifically for her to choose the best. On the other hand, none of them appeared to be the kind of man she desired.

Mustering all of her tenacity, Sorcha glared at Laird MacLaren as she said, “Me braither is already lookin’ fer me. I think it would be wiser fer me tae find him afore he finds me.”

It was a subtle threat, but one that worked beautifully. Laird MacLaren let go of her and gave her a smile that was all teeth,glinting under the candlelight.

“So be it,” he said. “Perhaps later.”

“Perhaps.”

It was all Sorcha said before she stomped off, pushing her way through the crowd. She needed some fresh air, to get out of the great hall and have a few moments to herself, without anyone bothering her.

Even as she tried to make her way to the courtyard, though, people were still trying to stop her—men who wanted a dance, girls who wanted a moment of her time. Sorcha slipped past them all, trying her best to be as polite and as diplomatic as she could while rushing to avoid them, and by the time she finally burst through the front doors and out into the courtyard, her ears were buzzing and her head felt heavy on her neck.

The fresh air seemed to help, if only a little. She took one breath after the other, but the noise from the great hall spilled out there, too, through the windows.

“What are ye daein’ out here?”

Sorcha jumped at the sudden presence next to her, and for a panicked moment, she thought that she had already been discovered.

“Ach, ye scared me,” she told Ruaridh. “I thought ye were another one o’ me suitors.”

“Would that be so bad?” Ruaridh asked as he leaned against the nearest wall, his figure outlined by the faint moonlight. Even leaning to the side like that, he towered over Sorcha. His dark hair seemed to blend right into the wall behind him, but his green eyes glinted in the light of a nearby torch.

That was the only feature they shared. With Sorcha’s blonde hair and slender build, they only vaguely resembled each other.

“I’m tired o’ them all,” Sorcha admitted with a long-suffering sigh. “Have ye seen the men in there?”

“Och aye,” Ruaridh said with a soft chuckle. “They’re nae tae yer likin’?”

Sorcha turned her gaze to her brother, her eyes narrowing. “Are ye jestin’?”

“Surely, one o’ them must be tae yer likin’,” Ruaridh said, but Sorcha only shook her head. It made sense, logically, that one of them at least would be to her liking. If there was one such man in that room, though, she had not yet found him.

Perhaps I am the one with the problem.

“Come,” said Ruaridh after a long stretch of silence. Sorcha glanced at him with a frown, but he only nodded his head away from the keep and began to walk away, not waiting to see if Sorcha would follow. Rushing after him, Sorcha caught up after a few steps, but their destination didn’t become any clearer to her.

“Where are we goin’?”

“We’re goin’ tae the stables an’ ye’re goin’ tae yer spot tae have a moment tae breathe,” Ruaridh said, much to Sorcha’s surprise. “Dinnae take too long, though. I can only excuse yer absence fer so long.”

Sorcha’s spot, as Ruaridh had called it, was in the estate, a little farther into the woods—a clearing, small and verdant, where no one else went. It was a place just for her, a place where she went to retreat from the world.

But going there in the middle of the feast didn’t seem like such a good plan.

“What if people start lookin’ fer me?”

“I’ll tell them ye had tae… relieve yerself,” said Ruaridh with a shrug.

“Ye will dae nae such thing!” Sorcha said, slapping him on the arm. “That’s embarrassin’!”

“Alright, what dae ye wish fer me tae tell them, then?” Ruaridh asked.

“Literally anythin’ else,” said Sorcha just as the two of them reached the stables—a small, squat building of stone near the barracks. Inside, the horses were resting for the night and the stableboy was nowhere to be found. Ruaridh made quick work of Sorcha’s horse, though, saddling it and preparing it for the short trip as she watched, her arms crossed over her chest. “Ye willnae truly tell them that, will ye?”

Rolling her eyes at her, Ruaridh shook his head. “Nay. I’ll tell them I only just saw ye an’ that ye must be somewhere in the crowd.”

That sounded much better to Sorcha and she let her arms drop before she rushed to give her brother a hug. “Thank ye,” she said. “Ye’re savin’ me from the worst fate.”

“Och aye, I’m sure it’s a terrible fate tae have so many suitors,” he teased, but Sorcha figured a man like him could never understand the kind of decision she had to make. She was the one who would have to spend the rest of her life with the man she would choose—or should she fail to do so, the man her parents would choose for her. Ruaridh was free to do as he pleased; Sorcha was not.

With her horse ready, Ruaridh helped her climb onto the saddle and then she was gone, riding away from the chaos of the night with a torch in her hand. She didn’t stray too far from the keep. It was late and the wind whipped her face as she rode, seeping through her yellow kirtle and her overgown. In her hurry, she had neglected to pick up a cloak and now she regretted it dearly as the chill reached her bones, but it was too late for her to turn back. At the clearing, where the trees would block the wind, she would be warmer.

With that thought in mind, Sorcha pushed forward, the trees blurring into shadows as she rode through the forest. It was not long before she reached her usual spot; her beloved clearing, waiting there for her as it always did.

Jumping off the saddle, Sorcha led her horse to a patch of grass where it could graze as she relaxed, and then she slid down against the trunk of a large oak, sitting on the soft earth under its canopy. It was peaceful there; there was no one to bother her, no one to ask for another dance, no one to trap her against a pillar.

“Good evenin’.”

For yet another time that night, Sorcha jumped right out of her skin, a curse escaping her at the sound of the strange voice. Unlike the other two times, when she turned to look at the intruder, she didn’t recognize him and her heart leapt to her throat just as she leapt to her feet. The man was cloaked in shadow, and only when he stepped forward and was illuminated by the orange glow of the torch did Sorcha realize that he seemed vaguely familiar.

Blonde hair, green eyes… I must have seen him somewhere.

The man had been at the ball, they had exchanged a few words. He was dressed in fine clothes of wool and silk. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a patrician profile that would have made him the kind of man her parents would easily choose for her.

The kind o’ man I’d choose too.

There was something about him, though; something she couldn’t quite name that weighed heavily on her regardless.

“Good evenin’,” she said, though she kept her distance from him. “If ye have followed me here tae speak tae me, then I would much rather be left alone.”

What other reason did the man have to be there? This was a place just for her, a place where no one else had any reason to be. Still, the man laughed as if in disbelief, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Follow ye?” he asked. “Ye’re the one who followed me. I’ve been here fer a while.”

That didn’t sound right to Sorcha at all. Not only had she not followed the man there, but she was also certain he couldn’t have been there for hours, not if she had seen him at the feast. Frowning, she took a few more steps back on instinct, her hand brushing against the rough bark of the tree.

“I dinnae think I ken yer name,” she said, in an attempt to find out who the man was.

“I dinnae think ye ken it either,” the man said, which only deepened her frown. Surely, he had understood she was asking for it, but he refused to give it to her, and now he only grinned at her as she looked at him in confusion.

“Well, can I ken what it is?” Sorcha asked, but the man shook his head.

“Why would I tell me name tae the lass who followed me here?”

Sorcha couldn’t tell if the man was joking or not. Every single man she had spoken to that night had been strange, though, in his attempt to charm her, and perhaps this was no different. Maybe despite his good looks, he didn’t know how to speak to women.

How can he be so handsome yet so… strange?

“Well, I’m sure ye ken me name,” Sorcha pointed out. Everyone at the feast knew who she was, of course. Everyone had gone there to see her. “So I think it is only right that ye tell me yers.”

“Ye can call me whatever ye please,” said the man with a small shrug.

“Then I shall call ye peculiar,” Sorcha said, unable to stop herself from delivering a spunky response. For all she cared, the man was asking for it. “Perhaps even rude.”

The man’s laugh filled the small clearing, deep and resonant. “An odd choice, when ye could have called me anythin’ else ye wished. Dae ye truly think it so rude o’ me tae withhold me name?”

“O’ course!” said Sorcha, irritation flaring up inside her now. This man was teasing her, there was no doubt in her mind about that now, but she had had enough of people trying to get her attention in the most bizarre ways that night. If he truly wanted to get to know her, then he could try speaking to her and showing some interest in what she had to say. “First ye claim I followed ye here, when I clearly didnae, an’ now ye willnae even tell me who ye are. I ken ye followed me here, so why dinnae ye simply tell me what it is ye want from me?”

The man remained silent, only watching her with a lidded gaze that sent a shiver down her spine. From the very first moment she had seen him, something had seemed odd to her about him, and now it was only being confirmed again and again in her mind.

It didn’t really matter; she had had enough of men for one night, and even now that she had fled the feast, one of them had still managed to track her down. It would be better to head back to her chambers for a while, she thought. Then perhaps, she could get some moments of peace before having to return to the feast.

Never taking her eyes off the man, she said, “I should head back now. Everyone at the ball will start wonderin’ where I am.”

“I’m afraid I cannae let ye dae that.”

The man’s expression was entirely deadpan, entirely serious, and yet Sorcha found herself laughing, thinking that he must be teasing her again. When he didn’t laugh, though, but rather stared at her with a blank expression, she realized he was not teasing her at all, and her laughter was cut short.

The man approached her slowly, his footsteps quiet in the soft earth. Sorcha’s stomach dropped, the blood rushing in her veins. She had to get out of there; she had to escape.

“It would be best if ye didnae run,” said the man.

Despite the warning, Sorcha did just that.

Chapter Two

Running to her horse, Sorcha quickly jumped on. She wasted no time before galloping down the path, heading back towards the keep and thanking God that she had not strayed too far from it. But before long, she heard another set of hooves behind her, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that the man was already pursuing her.

Tugging on the reins, Sorcha urged her horse to go faster and faster, pushing it to its limits. Despite their combined best efforts, though, the man was gaining on her, getting closer and closer with every stomp of his horse’s feet. Still, Sorcha was confident she would have made it, if only it hadn’t been for the three men who jumped in front of her out of the shadows of the woods. They, too, were on horseback, and she doubted it was a coincidence that they were there. They all had to be working with the man pursuing her.

The three of them formed a wall in front of her that was impenetrable. Even if she had tried to ride past them, she would have collided with at least one of them, and that would only risk leaving her and her horse injured. Besides, her horse reared, too spooked to continue down its path, and for a moment all Sorcha could do was hold onto the saddle and the reins with all her might as she tried to stay on top.

Frantically, she looked around her, desperate for a way to escape. She could see none. Her heart beat wildly in her chest and her breath came in short puffs, her mind buzzing with all the terrible scenarios she was coming up with. She didn’t know what those men wanted from her, but there were a few things that came to mind.

How will I get out o’ here?

The keep was still too far. Even if she had tried to scream for help, none of the guards would have heard her. Her only hope was to find a way through, but that, too, was extinguished when one of the men reached for her and tossed her right off the saddle.

Sorcha landed with a thud on the ground, her breath rushing out of her lungs. For one terrible, painful moment, she could neither breathe nor move, and she thought that would be the end of her. Soon, though, she regained her strength and pushed herself up to her feet, stumbling as she tried to escape once more. Perhaps it was better this way; perhaps without her horse, she could weave through them and run through the woods back to the keep.

That was precisely what she did. Instead of following the path, she dashed into the thick forest, hoping the trees were thick enough for the riders not to follow. Every time she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the three of them still there, watching, and her heart soared with the hope that she could truly make it back in one piece. All she needed was to push herself a little longer, even if her lungs burned and her legs ached from the effort.

But the next time she glanced over her shoulder, she saw the man from the clearing pursuing her once more, this time on foot. He was fast; much faster than her, his feet covering the same distance in half the time it took her. Sorcha couldn’t help but cry out in fear as the man gained on her once more, before finally grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into a complete halt.

Sorcha screamed and thrashed in the man’s grip, kicking her legs out as she tried to get him to let go of her. Despite her slender frame, she was a strong woman, but she was still at a disadvantage against such large men. Her captor’s arms were like a vice around her, so strong that his grip was cutting off her air. Each mad kick of her legs, each struggle only served to hurt her, the man’s hands leaving bruises behind on her skin.

“While I’m enjoyin’ chasin’ ye, I dinnae wish tae hurt ye,” the man said, yelling to be heard over her shouts. “It’s time fer ye tae stop an’ be a good lass.”

As he spoke, the man dragged Sorcha, still screaming and kicking, back to the group, where the other men waited with rope and rags. Upon spotting the items, Sorcha’s will to escape only strengthened, and she thrashed like a rabid animal in the man’s arms, throwing her weight around in a desperate attempt to force him to let go.

At his whistle, two of the other men grabbed her, effectively immobilizing her despite her best efforts. With one of them holding her arms and torso and the other holding her legs, there was nothing she could do but scream for help—but even that stopped when her first captor shoved a rag in her mouth, effectively silencing her.

Her throat was hoarse. Bruises already bloomed over her skin, making every movement painful. As the man bound her hands behind her back and her ankles together, Sorcha’s strength evaporated, leaving behind only the husk of who she was.

She couldn’t fight anymore; even if she did, there was no point. There was one of her and four of them. No matter what she did, she could never escape their grasp.

As the man grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder, Sorcha huffed around the rag in her mouth as she was jostled. The man placed her precariously over his saddle before climbing on and adjusting her, so that she was leaning securely against his body, and as she was wriggled around and moved like a doll, Sorcha realized her hands and feet were only loosely bound—not loosely enough for her to run, but loosely enough to be gentle and leave no marks.

A considerate kidnapper… just what I needed.

“Time fer us tae return,” the man said as he began trotting down the path away from the keep. “They’ll be lookin’ fer her soon.”

Sorcha wanted to say that yes, indeed, someone would be looking for her, but she couldn’t utter a single word with that piece of cloth in her mouth. Still, she grumbled around it, trying to make herself heard, only for the man to ignore her completely as they rode through the dark forest.

One moment tumbled into the next, until Sorcha didn’t know where they were or even how much time had passed since they had left the estate. As they rushed through the darkness, the wind still whipped her cheeks and made her eyes water, but the man was a solid wall of warmth against her. Not only that, but he had made sure to wrap his cloak around them both, giving Sorcha another layer of clothing to protect her from the elements.

What kind of captor treated his victim like this? What kind of brigand made sure that the woman he had kidnapped was warm and comfortable?

But this man didn’t look like a brigand at all, and neither did those who were with him. He carried himself with grace, with the air of someone who had grown up much in the same way she had. Now that her panic had subsided, since the men didn’t seem interested in killing her and had refrained from touching her in any inappropriate ways, she couldn’t help but wonder who this man was and what he wanted to do with her.

He’s… handsome. Very much so.

It struck Sorcha as a strange thought to have in the middle of being kidnapped, but there was no denying the man’s allure. Even in the dim light of the moon, his features stood out to her, his attractiveness difficult to ignore. The fact that he had taken her from her home against her will, though, was more than enough to overshadow his good looks and instantly fill Sorcha with hatred for him.

There was one thing she knew for certain; he was no brigand, or at least not an ordinary one.

After what seemed—and must have been—hours of riding, a castle appeared in the short distance. It was nothing like Macduff’s Castle, though. Where their keep stood tall and gleaming in the sun, this one seemed decrepit, on the edge of collapse. Parts of the roof were missing. Stones from the walls had fallen off and were piled up near the structure around the corners. Even in the dark, the plants that surrounded it seemed neglected.

The man and his three companions came to a stop in the courtyard. Sorcha was unceremoniously pulled off the saddle, only for the man to slash off the rope around her ankles and drag her inside. Sorcha had no choice but to follow; she was pulled along like a puppet, her legs numb after the ride and her entire body aching from the exertion and the cold.

She hardly had any time to take in her surroundings. All she saw as the man guided her through the corridors were more dilapidated walls, some of them decorated with faded tapestries and portraits. The torches that illuminated their way were few and far in-between, casting large, looming shadows over the walls. By the time they stopped in front of a large, wooden door, Sorcha found herself glancing over her shoulder again and again, as if expecting a spirit to appear through the cracks in the wall.

The man didn’t knock before entering the room and pulling her inside. There was no one there save for one man, younger than the one who had captured her, but so similar in appearance that Sorcha could only guess they were closely related. The man was hunched over the desk, a single candle illuminating the stacks of paper in front of him as he worked, but when he heard them enter, he immediately looked up.

Sorcha refused to be intimidated by him, and so she stared right back, as defiantly as she could considering her circumstances. She didn’t know what these men wanted from her, but she knew that showing any sign of weakness would only worsen her position, and so she held her head high, refusing to cower.

“All good?” the man behind the desk asked, and at the other’s nod, he rounded the large piece of furniture to come stand closer. The entire room seemed to be furnished with expensive items that looked strange in this room and castle. Sorcha didn’t know what to make of the place.

“Nay trouble at all,” the man holding her said. “Well, she was some trouble, but we dealt with it.”

Sorcha turned to glare at the man for speaking about her like she wasn’t even there, though she supposed that was the least of her problems. When the other spoke, though, it took her a moment to focus on him instead.

“Miss MacDuff, me name’s Rory Comyn,” he said. “This is me braither, Laird Willelm Comyn. I can assure ye we mean ye nay harm, nay matter how it may seem tae ye now.”

Sorcha couldn’t help but roll her eyes at that, grumbling around the cloth once more, only for her words to be muffled. With a swift move, Willelm removed the gag from her mouth, and Sorcha drew in a sharp breath, glad to be rid of the thing.

“What was that?” Rory asked her.

“I said,” Sorcha began, rolling her shoulders back, though it hardly helped with the difference in height, “it doesnae seem like it.”

“That’s why he said it may nae seem like it, love,” Willelm said, and for a moment, Sorcha was so shocked at the pet name that she could do little other than stare at him in disbelief with her mouth open. Naturally, that only allowed Willelm to continue with his lies. “Nay harm will come tae ye if ye listen, we promise. Ye’re here because this is the only way tae force yer family tae negotiate with us an’ stop destroyin’ our lands.”

That was even more preposterous than the pet name. Sorcha couldn’t help the humorless laugh that escaped her as she shook her head, unable to believe her bad luck.

“Ye must have confused me with someone else,” she said. “Me family would never dae such a thing.”

“Miss Sorcha MacDuff,” Rory said. “We ken precisely who ye are an’ ye best believe we ken what yer family is daein’.”

When she heard her full name, Sorcha’s mouth snapped shut, her mind rushing through his words. Surely, her family couldn’t have done such a thing. Surely, those two men were mistaken.

“Me family would never destroy anyone’s lands an’ especially nae without a good reason,” she said.

But her words only prompted a laugh from Willelm, who shook his head in disbelief.

“What is so funny?” Sorcha asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, yer parents are clearly hidin’ plenty o’ things from ye,” Willelm said. “Our people are sufferin’ an’ they ken the truth. Yer family has been attackin’ us fer too long an’ we willnae stand fer it.”

“They wouldnae—”

“Aye, I heard ye the first time,” Willelm said, cutting her off. “Yer family would never dae this, sure. So, what would ye call burnin’ an’ pillagin’ another clan’s lands?”

Sorcha couldn’t believe her own ears. Her family was kind and fair. Her father was a good laird and man. Never before had she heard anyone complain about his decisions, and she was certain that these men were either wrong or that there was a good reason why her father was doing what he was doing.

“Well, what have ye done tae me clan?” she demanded. “I’m sure me faither has a very good reason tae attack ye, if what ye’re sayin’ is true.”

Rory parted his lips as if to speak, but it was Willelm who spoke first. “We dinnae wish tae hear any o’ yer reasons, as ye call them. All we’re interested in is showin’ yer family that their decisions have consequences.”

Consequences… they promised tae nae hurt me, but they very well could.

And alone as she was, in a strange place, with strange men, there would be no one there to help her.

“An’ how long dae ye expect me tae stay here?” Sorcha asked. Surely, they couldn’t keep her there forever, or even for as long as it would take to end this misunderstanding—because it had to be a misunderstanding. There was no way she would ever believe her father had done the terrible things they claimed. “When dae I get tae go home?”

“Go home?” Willelm asked, as if the mere notion amused him. “Ye’re nae goin’ home any time soon, lass. Ye’re ours now.”