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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.”