Alpin looked up from his ledger. A farmer from the eastern border, stood before him. His weathered face was drawn with fear, hands twisted together.
“When?” Alpin asked, settin’ down his quill.
“Two nights past. Me daughter, Elspeth. Went tae fetch water and never came back.” The farmer’s voice cracked. “We searched all night. There’s nay sign of her.”
Alpin felt something cold settle in his gut. This was the third report in three weeks. Three women, all young, all disappeared.
“Did anyone see anythin’?”
“Naethin’, me laird. But me wife heard horses that night. From the north road. Fast.”
Horses. The second family had mentioned horses too.
“How old is Elspeth?”
“Eighteen, me laird.” The man’s eyes were wet. “She’s a good lass. Who would want tae take her?”
Who indeed. But Alpin was starting to have suspicions, and none of them were pleasant.
“I’ll send men tae search the area,” he said. “And I want tae speak with everyone who lives near that well. Someone must have seen somethin’.”
“Thank ye, me laird.” The father’s relief was palpable. “Thank ye. We just want her home safely.”
After Duncan left, Alpin moved to the window. Callum was training below, swords flashing in the sun. The scene looked peaceful.
But three women were gone.
“Ye look troubled.”
Alpin turned to find Callum in the doorway, sweat-stained from training.
“Another one’s gone. Elspeth MacLeod. Eighteen. Vanished two nights ago.”
Callum’s expression darkened. “That’s three.”
“Aye.” Alpin pulled out a map, marking three spots. “All within five miles of each other. All near the northern border.”
Callum came closer, studying the map. “Ye think someone’s takin’ them deliberately.”
“I think someone’s huntin’ on me lands, and I want tae ken who.” Alpin’s jaw tightened. “Three women daenae just disappear. Nae without help.”
“Raiders?”
“Maybe. But raiders usually take more than just young women. They take livestock, supplies, anythin’ of value.” Alpin tapped the map. “This feels… specific. Like someone kens exactly what they’re lookin’ fer.”
“Or who they’re lookin’ for,” Callum said quietly.
The implication sat heavy between them.
Young women. Taken from their homes. No witnesses. No demands for ransom. Just… gone.
“I’ve heard rumors,” Callum said after a moment. “From some of the men who travel to the markets in the south. Whispers about women bein’ sold. Taken from their clans and auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
Alpin’s hands curled into fists on the desk. “Sold. Like cattle.”
“Aye. I didnae believe it at first. Thought it was just tavern talk, men tryin’ tae sound important.” Callum’s expression was grim. “But now, with these disappearances…”
“If someone’s stealin’ women from me lands tae sell them, I’ll gut them meself.” Alpin’s voice was deadly quiet. “Slowly.”
“First we need proof. And we need tae ken who’s behind it.” Callum straightened. “What dae ye want me tae dae?”
“Double the patrols along the northern border. I want men on every road, every path. And I want them watchin’ fer strangers. Anyone who daesnae belong.” Alpin looked at the map again. “Also, send word to the other lairds in the area. Ask if they’ve had similar problems.”
“Ye think this is happenin’ beyond our lands?”
“If it’s an organized operation, they’re nae just workin’ in one place.” Alpin’s mind was already racing through possibilities. “They’ll be castin’ a wide net, takin’ women from multiple clans tae avoid drawin’ too much attention.”
“Smart,” Callum admitted. “And dangerous.”
“Aye.” Alpin rolled up the map. “Which is why we need tae stop them before more lasses disappear.”
Over the following week, reports came in from neighboring clans. Two more women gone. Both young. Both vanished without a trace.
Alpin read the latest dispatch from another farmer. His daughter, seventeen, taken from her garden.
“This is organized,” Alpin said to Callum. “They’re movin’ fast, strikin’ when guards are down.”
“Which means they ken the lands well.” Callum pulled out a parchment. “Me contacts in the south confirmed rumors. Underground market in the Lowlands. Women brought in and sold. One name keeps comin’ up. Laird Aodh Graham.”
Graham. Alpin knew the name.
A laird from the western Highlands with a reputation for ruthlessness and a talent for profit. If anyone could organize something like this, it would be him.
“Can we prove it’s Graham?”
“Nae yet. But I have men askin’ questions, followin’ leads.” Callum hesitated. “Me laird, if this really is an organized slave trade, goin’ after Graham directly could start a war. He has allies, resources.”
“So dae I.” Alpin’s voice was hard. “And I dinnae care who he is or what power he has. If he’s stealin’ women from me lands, I’ll bring him down.”
“I ken. I just want ye tae be prepared fer what that might cost.”
Alpin looked at his oldest friend, seeing the concern there.
Callum had been with him since they were lads, had fought beside him in more battles than he could count. If anyone understood the weight of leadership, it was him.
“I became laird tae protect me people,” Alpin said quietly. “All of them. If I cannae keep young women safe in their own homes, what kind of leader am I?”
“A human one,” Callum replied. “Ye cannae be everywhere at once.”
“Nay. But I can make sure that whoever’s daein’ this kens there’s a price to pay.” Alpin moved to the window, looking out at his lands. “Send our best scouts to the Lowlands. I want eyes on Graham and anyone associated with him. I want tae ken where these auctions are happenin’, when they happen, and who’s buyin’.”
“That could take weeks. Maybe months.”
“Then we’d better start now.” Alpin turned back to face him. “Because every day we wait is another day someone’s daughter is bein’ sold like livestock. And I’ll be damned if I let that continue on me watch.”
Callum nodded slowly. “I’ll make the arrangements. But Alpin, if ye’re serious about infiltratin’ these auctions, it’s dangerous. Graham will have guards, protections. One wrong move and…”
“I ken the risks.” Alpin’s expression was set. “But I need tae see it with me own eyes. Need tae understand what we’re fightin’ against.”
“And if ye see one of our lasses there? What then?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? What would he do if he walked into that auction house and saw Elspeth MacLeod or Isla Fraser or any of the other missing women standing on a block, being bid on like animals?
“Then I’ll dae whatever it takes tae get her out,” Alpin said. “Even if it means blowin’ me cover and startin’ a war right there in the middle of their bloody auction.”
“That’s what I thought ye’d say.” But Callum was smiling slightly. “Fer what it’s worth, I’d dae the same.”
“I ken ye would. Which is why ye’re comin’ with me when the time comes.”
Over the following weeks, Alpin threw himself into the investigation. Scouts were sent out, informants were contacted, and slowly, painfully, a picture began to emerge.
One day, he received an unexpected letter from his good friend and ally, Paedar Mac Gregor, recounting an adventure that had ultimately led to his marriage. The story involved the very network of auction houses Alpin was searching for. He himself had infiltrated one to gather information about an enemy, only to leave with Kenina, the daughter of a laird who had been kidnapped and was being sold there. After taking her under his protection they had fallen in love and married.
There was indeed an organized network stealing women across the Highlands.
Graham was involved, though whether he was the mastermind or just a participant remained unclear. And the auctions were real, held in secret locations that changed frequently to avoid detection.
However, finding the auctions was only half the battle. Actually getting inside, gathering evidence, and hopefully rescuing some of the stolen women would require careful planning and perfect timing.
Alpin stood in his solar late one night, staring at the maps and reports spread across his desk. Somewhere out there, young women were being held captive.
Frightened. Alone. Waiting for someone to save them.
He would be that someone. Whatever it took.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
“Come.”
Callum entered, his expression serious. “Word just came in. One of our scouts found an auction house. Hidden in an abandoned grain warehouse near the border. He says there’s one scheduled fer next week.”
Alpin’s heart began to pound. “Did he see any of our missin’ lasses?”
“He couldnae get close enough tae tell. But Me laird…” Callum moved closer. “This could be our chance. Our only chance tae see this operation from the inside.”
“Then we’re goin’.” Alpin said it without hesitation. “Ye, me, and two others ye trust completely. We go in as buyers, keep our identities hidden, and gather as much information as we can.”
“And if we see one of our own?”
Alpin met his friend’s eyes. “Then we improvise.”
Because that was all they could do.
Walk into the darkness, see the horror for themselves, and pray they were strong enough to fight their way back out.
With or without starting a war.
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Sold to the Highland Savage – Get Extended Epilogue
Callum’s voice cut through the training yard. Alpin lowered his blade and turned. The look on Callum’s face made his pulse quicken.
“What is it?”
“Inside. Privately.”
Alpin followed him to the solar. Once the door was closed, Callum pulled out a parchment.
“A messenger from our scout near Dumfries. He spotted women being moved through town three days past. Under heavy guard, headin’ north.”
Alpin’s chest tightened. “How many?”
“Five. All young.” Callum unfolded the parchment. “And one matches every detail of Isobel Munro. Dark hair, grey eyes, right age. The scout heard a guard call her by name.”
“He’s certain?”
“He heard them use her first name. Isobel.” Callum pointed to the map. “They’re movin’ slowly, stoppin’ at inns. If we ride hard, we can intercept them before Glasgow. Two days, maybe less.”
Two days. After six months of searching, they finally had a real chance.
“Who’s guardin’ them?”
“Eight men. Professional soldiers.”
“Graham. Even wounded, the bastard’s still movin’ women.”
“Aye. But we ken where they are now.”
Alpin’s mind raced through plans.
They needed warriors, but not too many. A small, fast group that could move quickly and strike hard.
“Gather twenty of our best,” he said. “I want men who can ride fast and fight hard. And I want trackers who ken every road between here and Glasgow.”
“When dae we leave?”
“Tomorrow at dawn. That gives us time to prepare and still reach them before they get tae the city.” Alpin looked at the map again, calculating distances. “Are ye goin’ tae tell Mhairi?”
The question hung in the air.
Tell her now and risk breaking her heart if something went wrong? Or keep it from her until Isobel was safe?
“I’ll tell her,” Alpin said. “She deserves tae ken. Where is she?”
“Last I saw, she was in the gardens with Freya.”
***
Alpin found her in the gardens, walking among the late summer flowers. Six months of marriage had only made her more beautiful.
His wife. And soon, God willing, her sister.
“Alpin!” Mhairi’s face lit up when she saw him. She said something to Freya, who nodded and walked back toward the castle, leaving them alone. “I didnae expect tae see ye until this evenin’. Is everythin’ all right?”
“Better than all right.” He took her hands, pulling her close. “We have news. About Isobel.”
Her breath caught. “What kind of news?”
“A scout spotted a group of women bein’ moved through Dumfries three days ago. One of them matches Isobel’s description perfectly.” He watched her face carefully. “Dark hair, grey eyes, the right age. And the scout heard one of the guards call her by name.”
Mhairi’s hands flew to her mouth, tears already gathering in her eyes. “She’s alive. She’s really alive.”
“Aye.” He pulled her against his chest, letting her cry. “And we’re goin’ tae get her back.”
“When?” The word was muffled against his tunic. “When dae we leave?”
“I leave, tomorrow at dawn with twenty warriors.” Alpin stroked her hair gently. “Ye stay here where it’s safe.”
She pulled back to look at him, her grey eyes fierce despite the tears. “Alpin, nay, I have tae…”
“Mhairi.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I ken ye want tae be there, but it’s too dangerous. There will be fightin’, possibly bloodshed. I need ye here where I ken ye’re safe.”
“But she’ll be frightened. When ye find her, she’ll nae ken who tae trust.”
“Then I’ll tell her I’m yer husband. That ye’re safe and waitin’ fer her.” Alpin touched the ring she’d given him, the one with her family crest. “I’ll show her this. She’ll ken it’s real.”
Mhairi’s jaw was set, clearly wanting to argue, but she nodded slowly. “Ye promise ye’ll bring her home? Nay matter what?”
“On me life, I promise.” He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth. “I’ll bring yer sister home, Mhairi. I swear it.”
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight. They stood like that fer a long moment, the garden quiet around them except for the distant sounds of the castle.
“I should let ye go,” Mhairi said finally, though she didn’t release him. “Ye need tae prepare.”
“I have time.” He wasn’t ready to let her go yet either. “Walk with me?”
They walked through the gardens, her hand in his. But Alpin noticed she seemed nervous, her fingers twisting in her skirt.
“Mhairi?” He stopped and turned to face her. “What’s wrong?”
“Naethin’s wrong.” She looked up at him, and there was something in her expression he couldn’t quite read. Anticipation mixed with fear. “I just… there’s somethin’ I need tae tell ye. Before ye leave.”
His heart began to pound. “What is it?”
She took both his hands in hers, squeezing tight. “Dae ye remember when we talked about havin’ children? About buildin’ a family?”
“Aye.” The memory was vivid. Late one night, tangled together in bed, talking about the future they wanted. “Of course I remember.”
“Well.” Mhairi drew in a shaky breath. “I think… nay, I ken… Alpin, I’m with child.”
The world seemed to stop.
Alpin stared at her, his mind struggling to process the words.
With child. Pregnant.
They were going to have a baby.
“Ye’re…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. His throat had closed up with emotion.
“Aye.” Mhairi’s smile was tremulous, uncertain. “About a month along, Donnach thinks. I’ve been… well, I’ve been sick in the mornin’s, and me monthly courses stopped, and the healer confirmed it yesterday.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “We’re goin’ tae have a bairn, Alpin.”
For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only stare at this woman who had given him everything, who was now telling him she carried his child.
Then he swept her into his arms, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around. Mhairi let out a surprised laugh, her arms wrapping around his neck.
“We’re havin’ a baby,” he said against her hair, his voice rough with emotion. “God, Mhairi, we’re really havin’ a baby.”
“Aye.” She was crying and laughing at the same time. “Are ye… are ye happy? I ken it’s soon, and with everythin’ goin’ on with Isobel, the timin’ is nae the best, but…”
“Happy?” Alpin set her down carefully, cupping her face so she could see his expression. “Lass, I’m more than happy. I’m…” He couldn’t find words big enough. “Ye’ve given me everythin’. A home. A future. And now a child.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “How could I be anythin’ but happy?”
She let out a sob of relief. “I was so worried ye’d think it was too soon. That ye’d…”
“Nay.” He kissed her fiercely. “Never. This is…” He pulled back to look at her, really look at her. His wife. The mother of his child. “This is perfect.”
“Even with the timin’? With Isobel and Graham and everythin’?”
“Especially with all of that.” Alpin placed his hand gently over her stomach, marveling at the knowledge of what was growing there. “It means we’re buildin’ somethin’ good out of all that darkness. A family. A future. Hope.”
Mhairi covered his hand with both of hers. “I wanted tae tell ye before ye left. So ye’d have another reason tae come home safely.”
“As if I needed another reason,” he smiled, although he understood what she meant.
The stakes had just gotten higher. He wasn’t just a husband anymore. He was going to be a father.
The weight of it settled on his shoulders, but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt right.
“Can ye… can ye feel anythin’ yet?” he asked, pressing his palm more firmly against her stomach.
“Nay, it’s too early fer that.” Mhairi smiled through her tears. “But in a few months, Donnach says I’ll start tae show. And then a few months after that, we’ll feel the bairn move.”
A few months.
By then, God willing, Isobel would be home safe. Graham would be dealt with. And they could focus on preparing for their child without the shadow of fear hanging over them.
“Daes anyone else ken?”
“Just the healer. And now ye.” Mhairi bit her lip. “I wanted ye tae be the first tae ken. Properly, I mean.”
“Thank ye.” He kissed her again, slower this time. “Thank ye fer this.”
“Ye’re me husband. The faither of me child.” She touched his face gently.
They stood like that for a long moment, his hand on her stomach, both of them marveling at the life growing there.
A child.
Their child.
Made from love and hope and the fierce determination to build something good.
“Alpin?” Mhairi’s voice was soft. “Promise me somethin’.”
“Anythin’.”
“Promise me ye’ll be careful tomorrow. That ye’ll come back safe.” Her eyes were fierce. “This bairn needs a faither.”
“I promise.” He pulled her close, one hand cradling her head, the other resting protectively over her stomach. “I promise I’ll come back tae ye. Tae both of ye.”
They walked back to the castle together, his arm around her shoulders, her hand resting on his chest.
Inside their chamber, they lay together, Alpin’s hand resting on her stomach.
“What dae ye think it’ll be?” Mhairi asked softly. “A lad or a lass?”
“I dinnae care, as long as the bairn is healthy.”
“Ye’ll be a wonderful da, Alpin.”
“I hope so. I want tae give our child everythin’. Safety. Love. A home where they never have tae be afraid.”
“Ye already are. Just by bein’ who ye are.”
Mhairi fell asleep with her head on his chest.
Alpin stayed awake, his mind churning. The following day he’d ride out to rescue Isobel. But he would have even more reason to survive.
Because he was going to be a father.
***
Dawn came rather quickly.
Alpin dressed quietly, trying not to wake Mhairi, but her eyes opened before he’d finished with his sword belt.
“I’m awake,” she said. “I want tae see ye off.”
They walked down to the courtyard together. Twenty warriors sat mounted, horses stamping in the early light. Callum was at the front, his expression focused.
Alpin turned to Mhairi, taking both her hands in his.
“I’ll be back in less than a week,” he said. “With yer sister.”
“I ken.” She rose on her toes and kissed him. “I love ye, Alpin MacDougal. Come home safe.”
“I love ye too.” He placed his hand over her stomach one last time, marveling at what lay beneath. “Both of ye. I love ye both.”
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Chapter One
1654, Auction House
“Hold still, ye daft lass, or ye’ll trip over yer own feet.”
The voice was rough, impatient. Mhairi tried to pull away from the hands gripping her arms, but the blindfold made everything worse—every sound too loud, every touch a threat she couldn’t see coming.
“Where are ye takin’ me?” Her voice came out stronger than she felt. “I demand tae ken.”
“Demand all ye like,” another voice cut in, this one closer to her ear. “Willnae change where ye’re goin’.”
Laughter. Multiple voices, all around her.
The floor beneath her feet changed from dirt to wood, and suddenly the chaos she’d been hearin’ grew deafening. Shoutin’. The scrape of chairs. The thick smell of whisky and unwashed bodies.
“Get her up there,” someone barked. “Graham’s waitin’.”
Mhairi’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Up where? What is this place?”
No answer. Just hands pushin’ her forward, guidin’ her up what felt like steps. Three of them. Four. When they stopped, rough fingers worked at the knot behind her head.
“Remember,” the voice at her ear said, “ye run, we drag ye back. Make it easy on yerself.”
The blindfold fell away.
Mhairi blinked against the sudden torchlight, and her stomach dropped straight through the floor.
She was standin’ on a raised platform in the center of a vast underground chamber. Stone walls, low ceilings, packed with men. Dozens of them, maybe more, all turned toward her with expressions that made her skin crawl.
Some were Highland born, judgin’ by their dress. Others wore Lowland fashion. And still others, English, by the look of their fine coats and polished boots.
Words died in her throat as understanding crashed over her like a wave of ice water.
An auction house.
They’d brought her to an auction house.
She stumbled backward, and hands clamped down on her arms before she could run.
“Gentlemen!” A voice boomed from somewhere to her left. A man stepped into view—stocky, scarred, with the build of someone who’d spent his life fightin’. “Our next offerin’ is a rare prize indeed. Young, healthy, and—”
“Let me go!” Mhairi lunged for the edge of the platform.
She didn’t make it three steps before the guards hauled her back to the center like she weighed nothin’.
She twisted, kicked, fought with every ounce of strength she had. “Ye cannae dae this! I’m a Munro! Me clan will—”
“Fifty scots,” someone shouted from the crowd.
Mhairi’s blood turned to ice.
“Fifty-two scots!”
“Fifty-eight scots!”
“Sixty-five scots!”
The scarred man, Laird Aodh Graham, grinned like a wolf. “Come now, gentlemen. Surely ye can dae better than that. Look at her, strong, spirited. She’ll give ye fine sons.”
Bile rose in Mhairi’s throat. “I’m nae fer sale, ye bastard!”
“Seventy scots!”
The shouts came faster now, numbers climbing higher. Mhairi’s vision swam. She scanned the crowd desperately, searching for—what?
Someone to help her?
Her gaze snagged on a man near the back. Tall, broad-shouldered, fair hair mostly hidden beneath a hood. He wasn’t shouting like the others. Just… watching. Their eyes met for half a heartbeat, and something flickered in his expression. Then someone shoved past him, blocking her view.
“Eighty-one scots!”
“Stop!” The word tore from her throat. “Me faither will pay fer me return! Whatever ye’re askin’, he’ll pay.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Cold. Cruel.
Graham leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough that only she could hear. “Oh, lass. Ye really dinnae ken, dae ye?”
“Ken what?”
“Who dae ye think brought ye here?”
The world tilted.
“Ninety scots!” A new voice. English accent. Cultured. Old.
Mhairi’s gaze snapped toward the sound. There—in the third row—a man perhaps fifty years of age, dressed in fine English fashion. His eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to scrub her skin raw.
Her father. Her own father.
“Yer faither sold ye tae me a fortnight ago,” Graham said, almost conversationally. “Needed coin fer his debts. Yer sister too, though she’s a wee bit young yet. Give her another year or two.” He gestured to the crowd. “Now I’m makin’ me profit.”
The pieces were falling into place. Her father’s tension those past months. The closed-door meetings. The way he’d looked at her at breakfast two weeks before.
The room went quiet.
Graham’s smile could’ve cut glass. “Ninety scots. Any advance on ninety scots?”
Silence.
Mhairi’s legs threatened to give out. The guards holding her were the only reason she was still standing.
“Ninety once!” Graham raised his hand. “Ninety twice!”
“Sold!” Graham’s hand came down like a gavel. “To His Grace, the Duke of Ravenscar!”
The English lord stood, and Mhairi’s stomach turned over.
“Get her backstage,” Graham ordered. “His Grace will want tae finalize the transaction.”
The guards dragged her off the platform. She fought—God, did she fight—but there were too many of them. They hauled her through a narrow doorway into a dimly lit corridor, then into a small room with a desk and two chairs.
Graham followed, closing the door behind him. He moved to the desk, pouring himself whisky. “Ye’re worth Ninety scots tae me now, lass. So, I suggest ye stop fightin’ and accept yer fate.”
“I dinnae belong tae anyone!” The words came out fierce, but tears were burnin’ behind her eyes. “I’m nae property tae be sold!”
“Ye are what I say ye are.” Graham set down his glass.
The door opened. Mhairi spun toward it, and her heart stopped.
The English lord stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. Up close, he was even worse. Tall enough to loom over her. Eyes cold and calculating. And when he smiled, it didnae reach anywhere near those eyes.
“My dear,” he said, his accent crisp and refined. “How lovely to finally meet you properly.”
Mhairi backed away until her spine hit the wall. “Stay away from me.”
“Now, now.” He moved closer, each step deliberate. “Is that any way to greet your new husband?”
“Husband?” The word came out strangled. “I’m nae marryin’ ye! I’ll die first.”
His smile widened. “I do hope not. Where would the fun in that be?” He was right in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne—expensive, cloying. “We have a long journey ahead of us, my dear. Plenty of time to begin your education.”
Mhairi tried to dart past him. He caught her wrist before she made it two steps, yanking her back against his chest. She screamed, thrashed, clawed at his arm.
Two more men burst through the door. Ashcombe’s guards. They grabbed her flailing arms, wrestling her still.
“Let her go,” Graham said from the desk. “Ye’ve nae paid yet.”
“Of course.” Ashcombe gestured, and one guard kept Mhairi pinned while he reached into his coat. He produced a leather purse, tossing it onto the desk. “Ninety, as agreed. Count it if you wish.”
Graham picked up the purse, weighing it in his hand. “Always dae.” He opened it, began counting coins onto the desk.
“I will be trouble,” Mhairi snarled, still fightin’ against the guards’ grip. “I’ll be naethin’ but trouble, I swear it.”
Ashcombe’s breath was hot against her ear. “Good. I prefer my wives with spirit. Makes the breaking so much more… satisfying.”
Mhairi’s vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. “Ye’ll never break me.”
“We’ll see.”
“The count is correct,” Graham announced. “She’s yers, Yer Grace.”
“Excellent.” Ashcombe nodded to his men. They began dragging Mhairi toward the door. She kicked, screamed, bit one guard’s hand hard enough to draw blood—
He backhanded her across the face. Stars exploded in her vision.
“Carefully,” Ashcombe said mildly. “I don’t want her damaged.”
They hauled her out into the corridor, then toward another door that led outside. To the stables.
No one came near. No one even tried.
This was her life now, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to stop it.
“Get her on the horse.”
Ashcombe’s voice cut through the night air like a blade. Mhairi’s hands were bound in front of her, rough rope biting into her wrists, but she wasnae about to make this easy for them.
“I can walk,” she spat.
“You’ll ride.” Ashcombe nodded to one of his men. “And you’ll do so quietly, or I’ll gag you as well.”
The stable yard was dark save for a few scattered torches. Two men flanked Ashcombe, hired swords by the look of them, both wearing leather armor and carrying blades that had seen plenty of use. Beyond them, the forest loomed like a wall of shadows.
If she was going to run, it had to be now.
“Come along, darling.” Ashcombe reached for her arm.
Mhairi bolted.
She made it perhaps ten steps before hands caught her from behind, spinning her around. She kicked out hard, connecting with someone’s shin. A curse. Then she was running again, rope-bound hands and all, headed straight for the tree line—
One of the guards tackled her from the side.
“Nay!” Mhairi hit the ground hard, all the air rushin’ from her lungs. “Let me…”
“Enough of this.” Ashcombe’s voice was cold now. All pretense of civility gone. “Bind her ankles as well.”
“Nay!” Mhairi thrashed as rough hands grabbed her legs. “Ye cannae dae this. I’m nae going with ye.”
More rope. Tight around her ankles. She was lifted bodily, thrown over someone’s shoulder like a sack of grain, and then deposited sideways across a horse’s saddle.
“Please.” Her voice broke despite her best efforts. “Please, just let me go. I swear I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Ashcombe mounted his own horse, reins in hand. “Run back to the father who sold you? I think not.” He nodded to his men. “We ride south. No stops until dawn.”
“Wait, nay, please just listen tae me.”
But the horses were already movin’, and Mhairi’s pleas disappeared into the darkness behind them.
Chapter Two
Earlier that evening
“Ye’re certain this is the place?”
Alpin MacDougal kept his voice low, eyes fixed on the entrance to what looked like an abandoned grain warehouse. But the number of guards stationed around it told a different story.
“Aye, me laird.” His scout, Callum, gestured toward the building. “Three lasses from our lands disappeared in the last month. Tracks led here.”
Alpin’s jaw tightened. He’d heard the rumors, underground auctions where women were sold like cattle, but hearing and seeing were two very different things.
“How many guards?”
“Eight outside that I can count. More inside, likely.”
Too many to fight. Not without startin’ a war he wasnae ready for. “I’m goin’ in.”
Callum’s head whipped toward him. “Me laird…”
“I need tae see what’s happenin’ in there. Who’s runnin’ this. Who’s buyin’.” Alpin adjusted his cloak, pullin’ the hood lower over his fair hair. “If I can get names, faces, evidence, we can bring this tae the king.”
“And if they recognize ye?”
“They willnae.” Alpin had dressed carefully, plain clothes, nothin’ that screamed laird. And he’d left his clan colors back at camp. “Stay here with the men. If I’m nae out by dawn, ride back and tell Tristan what ye saw.”
“Me laird…”
“That’s an order, Callum.”
The scout’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he nodded.
Alpin made his way toward the entrance, keeping to the shadows. The guards were checking each man who entered, looking for weapons, mostly, but they let him pass with barely a glance after he slipped them a few coins.
Inside, the noise hit him first. Voices. Laughter. The clink of glasses. And underneath it all, something that made his skin crawl. Anticipation. Hunger.
The chamber was packed. Alpin found a spot near the back, where he could see the raised platform without bein’ too visible himself. His hand rested on the dirk hidden beneath his cloak.
“Gentlemen!” A scarred man stepped onto the platform. “Welcome, welcome. We have a fine selection fer ye taenight.”
Alpin’s attention sharpened. That was Laird Aodh Graham. He’d heard of him before—a laird with considerable power and connections, known for his ruthlessness and willingness to profit from any venture, no matter how dark. The auctions were just another way for him to expand his wealth.
The first lass they brought out was barely sixteen. Alpin’s hands curled into fists as the biddin’ started, as men shouted numbers like she was livestock. When she was dragged off the platform in tears, he had to force himself to stay still.
Evidence first. Justice after.
Two more lasses followed. Both sold within minutes.
“Our next offerin’ is a rare prize indeed!”
A new lass was pushed onto the platform, and Alpin’s breath caught.
She was beautiful—dark hair, grey eyes that flashed with fury even through her obvious terror. But it wasn’t her beauty that held his attention. It was the way she fought. The way she snarled at Graham like a wildcat despite being surrounded by men twice her size.
“I’m nae fer sale, ye bastard!”
Her voice carried across the entire chamber, clear and defiant. Several men laughed. Alpin didn’t.
“A Munro,” someone near him muttered. “Bold as brass, that one.”
Munro. Alpin’s mind raced. The Munros were a powerful clan with considerable lands in the Highlands, their power built on territory rather than coin.
He’d heard whispers over the past year—debts, failed harvests. But no, it couldn’t be… a father wouldn’t do that tae his child. Would he?
The bidding started. It climbed higher and higher.
The lass—Mhairi, they called her—kept fighting, kept pleading. And every word she spoke made Alpin’s chest tighten with somethin’ he couldnae name.
When the English lord made his final bid, ninety, the room went silent.
Dae somethin’, bid higher. Get her out of here.
But that would blow his cover. Would put a target on his back before he had the evidence he needed. And it wouldn’t save all the other lasses who’d be sold tomorrow, or the day after.
The hammer fell.
“Sold!”
Alpin watched them drag her backstage, watched the English lord follow and made his decision.
He slipped out of the warehouse while everyone’s attention was still on the platform and found Callum and his men exactly where he’d left him.
“We’re following them,” Alpin said shortly.
“Who?”
“The English lord who just bought the Munro lass. I want tae ken where he’s takin her.”
Callum’s eyes widened. “Me laird, if ye interfere it’ll be bad.”
“I’m nae asking fer permission.” Alpin was already moving toward where they’d hidden their horses. “I’m tellin’ ye what we’re daein’. Now mount up.”
They waited in the tree line until Ashcombe emerged with his prize. Even from a distance, Alpin could hear her screaming.
His hands tightened on his reins.
“Easy,” Callum murmured. “Too many guards. Too many witnesses.”
“I ken.” But watching them throw her across that horse, bound and helpless, it took every ounce of control he had not to charge down there anyway.
The English lord’s party headed south. Alpin and Callum and the guards followed, stayin’ well back, lettin’ the darkness hide them.
Hours passed, the moon rose higher. Finally the party ahead slowed, then stopped in a small clearing.
“If I’m nae back in an hour, assume I’m dead and ride fer home.”
He moved through the forest like a ghost, years of hunting making his steps silent. The English lord’s camp came into view, two guards posted, one tending the fire. And there, tied to a tree—
Mhairi.
Even bound and clearly exhausted, she held her head high. Watching. Waiting.
Smart lass.
Alpin counted the men again. Three total, including Ashcombe. He could take them, but he’d need the element of surprise.
He circled the camp, moving into position. Then he picked up a stone and threw it hard into the brush on the opposite side.
“What was that?” One of the guards spun toward the sound.
“Probably just an animal,” the other said, but he was reaching for his sword.
“Check it anyway.”
The first guard moved toward the noise. The second followed, leaving Ashcombe alone by the fire.
Alpin struck.
He came out of the darkness fast, dirk already drawn. The first guard went down without a sound, Alpin’s blade finding the gap in his armor. The second spun toward him, sword raised—
Steel met steel with a sound that shattered the night’s quiet.
“Attack!” the guard shouted. “We’re under attack!”
Ashcombe was on his feet instantly, weapon drawn. “Who dares?”
Alpin didnae answer. Just moved, fast and brutal, disarming the second guard with a quick twist of his blade. The man stumbled back, and Mhairi, hands still bound, kicked out hard. Her feet caught him behind the knees and he went down.
Their eyes met for half a heartbeat. Hers were wide, shocked—but fierce.
Then Ashcombe was there, blade coming straight for Alpin’s head.
Alpin blocked, stepped inside the English lord’s guard, and slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest. Ashcombe staggered. Behind him, Mhairi was working at her bindings, teeth tearing at the rope.
“Stop!” Ashcombe’s voice cracked like a whip. “I bought that woman legally! You’re stealing my property!”
“Property?” Alpin’s voice came out deadly quiet. He pressed forward, forcing Ashcombe back step by step. “She’s nae property, ye English bastard. She’s a person.”
“I paid ninety scots.”
“Ye paid ninety scots fer someone who was nae fer sale.” Alpin’s blade moved faster now, anger lending him speed. “That’s the difference between ye and me. I ken women arenae objects tae be bought.”
Behind them, Mhairi’s bindings came free. She was on her feet instantly and runnin’.
Into the forest.
Into the darkness.
Ashcombe lunged toward her. “Stop her!”
Alpin blocked his path, their blades locking together. “She’s already gone.”
“Then I’ll hunt her down.”
“Ye’ll try.” Alpin broke the lock, spun, and landed a brutal kick to Ashcombe’s knee. The English lord went down with a cry of pain. “But ye’ll have tae get through me first.”
He couldn’t kill him. Killing a duke, even an English one, would bring consequences Alpin wasn’t ready for. But he could make sure the bastard stayed down long enough for Mhairi to get away.
One more strike. Ashcombe’s sword went flyin’ into the underbrush. Alpin pressed his dirk to the man’s throat.
“If I ever see ye on Scottish soil again,” Alpin said softly, “I’ll cut yer throat and leave ye fer the wolves. Understand?”
Ashcombe’s eyes burned with fury. “This isn’t over.”
“Aye, it is.” Alpin stepped back, blade still raised. “Now get out of me sight before I change me mind about lettin’ ye live.”
The English lord stumbled to his feet, clutching his injured knee. His remaining guard was already moving toward the horses. Within moments, they were gone, crashing through the forest like wounded animals.
Alpin took one breath. Two.
Then he turned toward the darkness where Mhairi had disappeared.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the pines, striping the muddy road with gold and shadow. Peadar rode beside Tristan, his shoulders aching from morning training, his thoughts already drifting toward supper and sleep.
Ahead of him, his father, Dougal MacGregor rode with his mother, their horses close, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Eilidh MacGregor laughed at something he said—soft and warm, the sound that had shaped Peadar’s childhood. His father reached over and adjusted her cloak, shielding her from the evening chill.
They looked… content.
Behind them rode four MacGregor guards, relaxed but alert. They were deep on MacGregor land, less than an hour from home. This road had carried their clan for generations.
Tristan rode at his side, close enough that their stirrups brushed. They’d been inseparable since childhood—brothers forged by scraped knees and shared punishments.
“Yer da’s planning another cattle raid,” Tristan said conversationally. “Against the Camerons, I heard.”
“The Camerons are allies,” Peadar scoffed. “Why would—”
The arrow came from nowhere.
One moment his father sat tall in the saddle. The next, a black-fletched shaft punched through his back with a wet, horrifying sound and burst from his chest.
His father made a small, startled noise—more confusion than pain—and toppled forward, sliding bonelessly from his horse into the mud.
“DA!”
“DOWN!” one of the guards shouted. But it was too late.
Arrows rained from the trees.
A guard pitched sideways with a shaft buried in his throat, blood spraying across the road. Another took two arrows to the chest and fell without a sound. Horses screamed. Men shouted. The quiet road became slaughter in a heartbeat.
Eilidh screamed.
The sound snapped him fully awake.
“Maither!” He kicked his horse forward—but armed men were already emerging from the trees, disciplined, relentless. They wore mixed colors, cloaks hastily altered.
Someone struck Peadar from the side. He felt himself fall, the world tilting violently as he hit the ground. Pain exploded behind his eyes. Mud filled his mouth.
Get up. Get up.
He pushed to his hands and knees, vision swimming. Through the blur, he saw his father lying face down in the road, blood soaking into the earth beneath him.
Dead.
His mother was dragged from her horse.
She fought—God, she fought—but trained men overwhelmed her easily. One struck her hard enough to knock her to her knees.
“NAY!” Peadar surged forward—
A sword slammed under his chin, lifting his face. Steel kissed his throat.
“Stay down, boy,” a voice said calmly. “Unless ye want tae die with him.”
Peadar froze.
Then the men parted.
A rider dismounted and walked forward with unhurried confidence, boots sinking into blood-slicked mud. His armor was finer than the others’. His bearing unmistakable.
Torcull Drummond.
Recognition hit Peadar like a second blade.
Drummond stopped beside his father’s body and nudged it with his boot, expression unreadable.
“So,” he said mildly. “MacGregor chose his side.”
Eilidh spat blood at his feet. “Ye murdering bastard.”
Drummond backhanded her.
The crack echoed across the road. Peadar jerked forward instinctively, but the sword at his throat pressed harder, and warm blood trickled down his neck. The man holding it smiled.
“Careful, boy. Wouldnae want tae make this worse.”
Drummond crouched before Eilidh, his expression almost gentle. He smiled faintly. “He supported Matheson. Openly. Spoke against me claim. Encouraged others tae dae the same.” He tilted his head, studying her like a scholar studying a text. “Did he think I wouldnae hear? That I wouldnae care?”
He stood slowly, his gaze sweeping the carnage—the bodies, the blood, the terrified horses.
“I’m correcting that.”
He pinned Peadar with a deadly glare.
“Every clan needs reminding, now and again,” Drummond said evenly, “of what happens when they use resistance.”
He gestured to one of his men. A simple, economical movement.
The soldier drew his sword and drove it into Eilidh’s stomach.
She made a sound—choked, wet—and blood spilled from her lips.
Peadar surged forward despite the blade at his throat, vision red, blood roaring in his ears.
“Dinnae ye touch her!”
Drummond lifted his sword—not hurried, not angry. Judging.
“Kill him,” he said calmly. “The boy’s old enough tae be dangerous.”
The man holding the sword drew back his arm—
“Nay!”
Tristan moved without thinking.
He threw himself between Peadar and the descending blade, arms wide, his body shielding Peadar’s chest.
The sword came down anyway.
It struck Tristan across the shoulder and upper back, cutting through leather and flesh in a brutal, tearing arc. Tristan cried out as he was thrown aside, hitting the ground hard, blood pouring freely.
“Tristan!”
Peadar fought like a madman then—thrashing, snarling, blind with fury—but too many hands held him down. He could only watch as Tristan lay gasping, teeth clenched, one arm useless at his side.
Drummond looked down at Tristan with mild surprise. Then interest.
“Hm,” he murmured. “Loyal.”
He turned away from them, already bored.
“Kill the general,” he said instead.
Peadar’s head snapped up.
“Nay!”
Tristan’s father—his da, Peadar’s father’s most trusted general, the man who’d taught both boys to hold a sword—was dragged forward by two soldiers. He was bleeding from a gash on his temple, but he stood straight, spine unbent, eyes fixed on Drummond with open contempt.
“Ye’ll pay fer this,” the general said hoarsely. “Nae today. Nae tomorrow. But ye’ll pay.”
Drummond smiled at him.
“Oh, bullocks now. Bold words coming from a dead man.”
He drew his sword himself this time in one clean stroke.
The general’s head jerked back. His knees folded. He collapsed into the mud without a sound.
Something inside Peadar screamed and tore apart at Tristan’s guttural scream.
Drummond wiped his blade on the dead man’s cloak and sheathed it. He gestured lazily to his men.
“Leave the boys,” he said. “They’ll remember tae nae cross me.”
His gaze slid to Peadar, cold and deliberate.
“Tell every clan what ye saw today. Tell them what happens tae men who back me rivals. Tae faithers who raise sons with ideas.”
Then he mounted his horse.
The men melted back into the trees as quickly as they’d come, leaving blood, bodies, and broken breathing behind.
Peadar crawled to Tristan’s side, hands shaking as he pressed down on the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, choking on his own sobs.
“Stay wi’ me,” he begged. “Please—please—”
Tristan’s eyes fluttered open. He tried to grin and failed.
“Couldnae… let him,” he rasped. “Take ye.”
Peadar bowed his head over him, tears burning hot and useless.
Nearby, his father lay dead in the road.
And a few feet away, Tristan’s father lay butchered in the mud, executed not for strategy—but for message.
That was the lesson Drummond wanted taught.
And Peadar learned it.
Perfectly.
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Sold to the Highland Beast – Get Extended Epilogue
The journey to Buchanan Castle had taken five days, moving slowly to accommodate the entourage necessary for traveling with an infant. Kenina adjusted the soft wool blanket wrapped around her daughter, protecting the baby’s face from the autumn wind while still allowing her to see the world passing by.
“She’s awake again,” Peadar observed from beside her in the carriage, leaning over to peer at the alert gray-green eyes staring up at them. “How daes such a tiny thing sleep so little?”
“She takes after her faither,” Kenina said dryly. “Always watching, always alert.”
Little Eilidh—named for Peadar’s mother and Kenina’s grandmother both—made a soft cooing sound and waved one small fist in the air. Peadar immediately offered his finger, which she gripped with surprising strength. Her blue eyes twinkling at them,
“Strong grip,” he said with unmistakable pride. “She’ll be wielding a sword before we ken it.”
“She’s three months old, Peadar.”
“It’s never too early tae think about training.”
“It’s far too early tae think about training.” Kenina laughed. “Let her learn tae hold her own head up properly first, then we can worry about weapons.”
Peadar grinned, unrepentant, but his touch remained gentle as he stroked Eilidh’s downy dark hair—another trait from his side of the family. The baby had Kenina’s nose and chin, though, and something in her serious expression suggested she’d inherited her mother’s stubbornness along with her father’s vigilance.
God help us all.
The carriage rolled through the gates of Buchanan Castle just as the afternoon sun began its descent. Kenina felt her chest tighten with emotion—not anxiety this time, but anticipation. She’d exchanged letters with her parents throughout the year, their words filled with joy at her survival, gratitude for Peadar’s protection, and desperate longing to see their daughter again.
Now she was returning on her own terms, with a husband who loved her and a daughter they’d never met.
“Ready?” Peadar asked softly, squeezing her hand.
“More than ready,” she said, surprised to find her eyes already stinging with tears. “I’ve missed them so much.”
The carriage stopped. Through the window, Kenina could see her parents—her father looking grayer than she remembered, her mother’s face lined with new worry—standing at the base of the steps. The moment the door opened, her mother let out a choked sound.
Peadar helped Kenina down carefully, mindful of the baby in her arms. Kenina’s feet had barely touched the ground before her mother rushed forward.
“Kenina! Oh, me darling girl!” Lady Morven Buchanan pulled her daughter into a fierce embrace, mindful of the infant between them, her whole body shaking with sobs. “Ye’re here. Ye’re really here. I thought—when they took ye—I thought I’d never—”
“I’m here, Mama,” Kenina whispered, her own tears flowing freely now. “I’m safe. I’m home.”
Her father appeared beside them, his weathered face wet with tears he made no attempt to hide. “Me brave girl,” he said roughly, enveloping them both in his strong arms. “Me brave, clever girl.” His voice broke. “Thank God ye’re safe.”
They stood like that for a long moment, the three of them tangled together, making up for over a year of separation and fear. Finally, Margaret pulled back enough to look at her daughter properly.
“Let me see ye. Are ye well? Did he—did Drummond—” The fear in her mother’s eyes was visceral.
“He never touched me,” Kenina assured her quickly. “Peadar made sure of that. He saved me, Mama. In every way that matters.”
Morven turned to Peadar, who had been standing respectfully back, allowing the family reunion. Her expression transformed into something fierce and grateful.
“Laird MacGregor,” she said, her voice thick. “I owe ye a debt I can never repay. Ye saved me daughter’s life. Ye protected her when we couldn’t. Ye—” She broke off, seeming unable to find adequate words.
“Ye gave her a home and a future,” Kenina’s father, Alasdair, finished. He stepped forward, extending his hand to Peadar. “We ken what ye did. How ye fought fer her. How ye killed that monster Drummond. Protecting our lands. There arenae words enough tae thank ye.”
Peadar took Aladsdair’s hand, his grip firm. “I love yer daughter, sir. Protecting her isn’t something I need thanks fer—it’s something I’d dae with me last breath.”
“Even so.” Alasdair’s eyes were bright. “Ye’ve given us back everything that matters. Our daughter, safe and happy. That’s a gift beyond price.”
“Speaking of gifts,” Kenina said, her voice trembling with emotion and joy, “there’s someone we’d like ye tae meet.” She adjusted the blanket, revealing Eilidh alert face. “Mama, Da, this is yer granddaughter. Eilidh Morvena MacGregor.”
Morven’s hands flew to her mouth, fresh tears streaming down her face. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Kenina. She’s perfect.”
“She has your eyes,” Alasdair said wonderingly, reaching out to gently touch Eilidh’s tiny hand. The baby immediately grasped his finger, holding on with surprising strength. He laughed, the sound breaking. “And yer grip. Strong, just like her maither.”
“Would ye like tae hold her?” Kenina asked her mother.
“May I? Please?” Morven’s hands were already outstretched, trembling with eagerness.
Kenina carefully transferred Eilidh into her mother’s arms. Morven cradled the baby with the practiced ease of experience, gazing down at her granddaughter with such pure love that Kenina felt her heart might burst.
“Hello, little one,” Morven murmured. “I’m yer grandmaither. I’ve been waiting so long tae meet ye. So very long.” She looked up at Kenina and Peadar, her face radiant despite the tears. “She’s absolutely beautiful. Perfect in every way.”
“She takes after her maither,” Peadar said, moving to stand beside Kenina, his arm wrapping around her waist.
“And her faither,” Alasdair added, studying Peadar with new appreciation. “I see strength in her. Protection. She’ll be a formidable woman someday.”
“She already is,” Peadar said proudly. “Barely sleeps, always watching, already has her maither’s stubborn streak.”
“And her faither is overprotective,” Kenina added with a laugh. “He checks on her every hour through the night, convinced something might happen if he looks away.”
“A good faither daes that,” Alasdair said approvingly. “I did the same with ye, Kenina. Drove yer maither mad, but I couldnae help meself.”
Morven laughed through her tears. “It’s true. He spent yer first three months sleeping beside yer cradle, refusing tae let me move ye tae the nursery.” She looked at Peadar with warm understanding. “I suspect ye’ve done the same.”
“Our chamber,” Peadar admitted. “Cradle right beside the bed. Kenina says I’m excessive.”
“Ye are excessive,” Kenina said fondly. “But I love ye fer it.”
They all stood together, watching Eilidh sleep in her grandmother’s arms. They would have time to review alliance terms, share more stories, let Alasdair and Morven continue falling in love with their granddaughter. But right then, they were simply reunited with family, safe and whole, with their daughter sleeping peacefully nearby.
The future stretched ahead—uncertain but bright, full of possibility and promise. Whatever it brought, they’d face it together. As husband and wife. As parents. As part of something larger than themselves.
And that, Kenina thought as Peadar held her close and the stars wheeled overhead, was everything she’d ever dreamed of and more.
Don’t miss your link to the whole book at the end of the preview.
Chapter One
Buchanan lands, 1653
The smell of peat smoke clung to the morning air as Kenina Buchanan stepped through the oak gate of the tower house and onto the frost-hardened path leading to the village green. Behind her, the courtyard was only beginning to stir with the stable boy sweeping straw, milk pails clattering and the muted voices of her mother and the stewards from the upper windows already counting grain stores for winter.
Frost crackled under her boots. Her braid slipped again and she shoved it back, smearing flour across her temple.
Not exactly the picture of a laird’s daughter.
Yet the moment she stepped beyond the tower’s shadow, Kenina breathed in the morning air. The village felt more like home than the stone walls behind her.
The green spread before her, and with it, the real bustle began. Women arranged food stores, children chased one another with shrieks of victory, and two shepherds were attempting to untangle their sheep, which had inexplicably tied themselves together.
Today was the Gathering of Stores — a yearly preparation where the clan took stock of winter provisions, repaired what needed mending, and ensured no family lacked warmth or food before the cold months arrived. It was her mother’s tradition, but Kenina had taken the work into her own hands years ago.
Martha, the tower’s housekeeper for longer than Kenina could remember, stood beneath the bare rowan tree watching the chaos with a knife in one hand, the other braced on her hip.
When she spotted Kenina crossing the green, she let out a breath she’d clearly been holding.
“Thank God,” she said, not loudly, but with feeling. “I was just thinkin’ if ye didnae show when ye did, I’d have tae choose between feedin’ folk and stranglin’ them.”
Kenina smiled, taking a look at the pile of sacks next to the long table a few steps away from where they stood. “Who’s earned it?”
“Everyone,” Martha replied flatly. “The sheep are tangled, the grain scales are off, and someone’s left the salt uncovered like we’ve an excess of it.”
Kenina glanced around, taking it in. “I’ll deal with the scales first.”
Martha nodded, satisfaction flickering across her face. “Aye. I thought ye would. Barley wants weighing before the sun softens the frost.”
“And the venison?”
“Already hung,” Martha said. “Yer braither saw tae it before first light.”
That earned a brief nod. “He always liked to have things settled before the noise started.”
“Aye,” Martha replied. “He’s careful that way. Knows folk work better when they’re nae guessin’.”
She handed Kenina a filled sack then. “Take that tae the scales. If the weight’s off again, I want it caught before anyone starts arguing about it.”
Kenina took the load, adjusting her grip as the familiar ache settled into her arms. “I’ll see to it.”
“Good,” Martha said, already turning back to the green. “And if those shepherds start in again, tell them the sheep aren’t the problem.”
As Kenina began working, the green filled more fully. Folk drifted closer in ones and twos, drawn by the open sacks and the quiet order taking shape beneath the rowan tree. Barley was weighed. Oats counted. Names marked in chalk beside tallies scratched into a slate board.
This was the part she liked, when chaos thinned into recognizable pattern.
“Lady Kenina,” Deirdre the baker’s wife said, approaching with her youngest perched on her hip. The boy’s nose ran freely, red with cold. “Daes he feel warm tae ye?”
Kenina wiped her hands on her apron and pressed her fingers briefly to the child’s brow. Cool. A little clammy, but no heat beneath it. “Nay fever. He’s been standing by the ovens again, hasn’t he?”
The boy sniffed guiltily.
Kenina continued, “Keep him away from the smoke for a day or two. Let him play outside — wrapped well. If he starts coughing at night, bring him back.”
Deirdre sighed in relief. “Bless ye. The laird should’ve made ye a healer instead of an heiress.”
“She can be both,” Martha muttered, scooping barley into empty sacks with crisp efficiency.
That earned her a faint smile. Deirdre shifted her grip and moved on, the boy already squirming to be let down.
Kenina returned to the grain. The rhythm soothed her. Scoop. Weigh. Tie. Pass it on.
She knew who needed extra. The MacRaes, whose eldest limped too badly now to hunt. Old Morag, whose stores were always thinner than she admitted. She made small adjustments where she could — nothing obvious, nothing that would shame — just enough to keep winter from biting too hard.
A woman caught her wrist briefly as Kenina handed over a sack.
“Bless ye, lass. We are grateful fer yer help.”
The words struck a soft place in her chest. Kenina smiled.
“I just want everyone prepared before the worst of the cold.”
“And they will be. Because of ye.”
She returned to the tally board, chalk dust smearing her fingers as she marked another name. The work demanded attention. That was the point of days like this — not ceremony, not speeches, but presence. Her mother had taught her that early.
If the people see one counting alongside them, they trust the count.
The Buchanans had ruled this way for generations. Quiet authority. Visible hands.
Her father believed a laird who stayed behind stone walls forgot the sound of his people’s needs. Her mother believed that a household — even a clan — ran on preparation more than strength. Kenina had grown up between those truths, carrying both.
She shifted a sack closer to the older men waiting near the fence, watching as they tested the weight with practiced hands. One nodded approval. Another gave a grunt that passed for gratitude. It was enough.
Kenina reached for another sack.
And stopped. She thought she felt the ground tremble.
Her fingers curled once against the coarse cloth of the sack instinctively. But after listening an hearing nothing, she went back to filling the sack up,
The sound of horses suddenly filled the air and Kenina froze mid-motion. “Did ye feel—?”
A scream cut her off.
It didn’t sound like a child’s squeal of play, but the kind that scraped bone.
Kenina’s heart lurched. She spun toward the sound.
A horn blast shattered the morning. Kenina’s heart punched against her ribs. “That’s not ours.”
Chaos hit like a wave.
Mothers grabbed children. Men dashed for tools that could pass as weapons. Dogs barked madly, sensing the fear before the humans did.
“The Grahams!” someone shouted from the wall. “The Grahams are here! It’s another raid.”
Kenina dropped her basket so hard its contents scattered across the dirt. “We need tae move, help me get the children inside the storehouse!” she screamed to a villager, Fergus, who stood nearby.
A group of little ones stood frozen near the well, eyes huge, unsure where to run. Another horn wailed, closer this time.
“Fergus!” she barked. “Take the children—go!”
To his credit, he didn’t argue. He scooped up a crying toddler and herded three others with frantic gestures.
At the far end of the green, a woman stumbled from between the cottages, blood streaking her sleeve, eyes wide with terror.
“Raiders!” she shrieked. “From the east road! Raiders!”
Martha stormed over to their side, swearing under her breath. “Where’s the laird? Where’s yer faither? They were out huntin’ —”
“Aye,” Kenina breathed, throat tight. “And Lachlan with them. He was leadin’ the younger men.”
Martha swore — an old Hebridean curse sharp enough to cut the air. “Saints preserve us. That means half the trained fighters are gone.”
In an instant she understood. The raiders had chosen their moment well. Too well.
Before Kenina could answer, another scream split the morning. This one was closer.
Followed by a crack—wood hitting wood. Or skull.
Kenina caught Martha by the wrist before she could step forward. The woman had gone still, eyes fixed beyond the green, mouth parted as if she’d forgotten how to close it.
“Martha,” Kenina said low. “Look at me.”
Martha blinked once, then dragged in a breath through her nose. Her grip tightened in return.
“Listen,” Kenina said, voice dropping. “If they were after cattle, they’d have turned toward the lower fields by now.”
Martha turned to look beyond the green. Kenina followed her gaze. The riders were angling straight through the narrow road between the cottages.
“Too tight a line,” Martha trembled. “No scatter.
Kenina’s jaw set. “They’re comin’ straight fer the green.”
Martha drew in a breath. “Aye.”
Kenina’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a chance raid. Someone knew the laird was gone.”
She turned, skirts already gathered in one hand as she moved. “Martha — get the elderly inside the chapel and the granary. Bar the doors. Anyone who can’t move fast goes with ye.”
Martha hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded once and moved, voice rising sharp and commanding.
Another crash shook the ground beneath their feet
Kenina didn’t think. She lunged toward the group of children nearest her.
“Breanna!” she shouted. “Gather the wee ones—now!”
Breanna froze in fright.
Kenina grabbed her shoulders. “Look at me.”
The girl’s eyes locked on hers.
“We go tae the barley store. It’s thick-walled and it stays cool, they won’t think to look there. Ye run first. Run!”
Breanna nodded once, then bolted, calling the younger children with frantic whispers.
Kenina pivoted, scanning the green. She spotted two boys near the well clutching each other, rooted in terror. She swore softly as she ran over to them, dropping to one knee so she was eye level, voice sharp but steady despite having run a little distance.
“Listen tae me. Ye’re goin’ tae run straight tae the storehouse. Dae ye see it? Good. Dinnae stop. Dinnae look back.”
One of them shook so badly she thought he might cry.
She pressed her palm flat between his shoulder blades. “Ye’re brave enough,” she said quietly. “Now go.”
They nodded, trembling. She pushed them forward, urging them into motion.
Kenina turned back just as the first raiders broke fully onto the green. They were fur-clad and armed with axes and hooked blades already slick with someone else’s blood, their blood-red cloaks snapping behind them. But it was the colors that marked them unmistakably, the deep forest green and black tartan of Clan Graham, crossed over their shoulders and cinched at their belts. Bronze wolf-head brooches—their clan’s sigil—glinted at their throats.
Behind her, someone shouted in triumph. A heavy thud followed—someone falling. She didn’t turn, she kept running.
Smoke began to curl from somewhere—she didn’t want to think where.
Kenina found and herded four more toward the storehouse. She ducked into the storehouse and shoved the door closed, wedging a broken crate against it, then crouched.
The air inside was cool and thick with the smell of grain. Shapes huddled in the shadows — small bodies, pressed close, barely breathing.
“Stay quiet,” she whispered. “Dinnae move unless I tell you.”
“Lady Kenina…” one boy whimpered, lip trembling.
She brushed his hair back. “I’ll be right here. Ye’ll be safe. I promise.”
Kenina looked around. Another scream sounded—this one closer. Metal clashed violently. The Grahams had breached the outer line already.
Where were Faither and Maither? Where was her brother Lachlan? The warriors should have been there by now.
“Breanna!” she whispered, her eyes straining into the dark. “Breanna, are ye here?”
For a heartbeat there was nothing then a tiny whisper came from behind the barrels, “Here!”
Relief nearly buckled her. Kenina swallowed it down and murmured. “Good lass.”
A small face peered out from behind the stacked barrels, eyes too wide, one clamped over her mouth, the other holding a small human figure.
Kenina crouched and scanned them quickly. Ten. No, twelve. Breanna walked to the center, arms wrapped tight around the youngest, jaw set hard in a way that made Kenina’s chest tighten.
She went to them, moving carefully so her boots didn’t scrape.
She turned as the rest of the kids began to gather around her.
“All right,” she murmured, voice low and even. “Listen tae me. All of ye.”
A few faces tilted toward her. One child’s breath hitched.
“Nay crying,” Kenina said gently. “Nay whispering. Nay matter what ye hear. The walls here are thick. They willnae hear ye if ye dinnae give them reason.”
She met each child’s eyes in turn, holding their attention until the panic eased, just a fraction.
“If ye’re scared,” she went on, “ye hold the grain sacks. Feel them. Count them if ye need tae. But ye stay right here.”
She turned to Breanna and adjusted the girl’s shawl, tugging it low.
“Ye’re the oldest,” Kenina said quietly. “That means ye’re in charge now.”
Breanna’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“Aye. Ye.” Kenina kept her voice calm, certain. “If I dinnae come back right away, ye keep them here. Ye dinnae move unless the chapel bell rings twice. Dae ye understand?”
Breanna swallowed, lip trembling, then nodded. Hard.
She cupped the girl’s cheek, thumb pressing gently beneath her ear, then pushed the barrel just enough to shadow her completely.
“Good lass,” she whispered. “Stay.”
She straightened slowly and moved to the door. There was a crack between the boards where the latch didn’t quite meet. She leaned close and peered out.
The green was no longer chaos — it was worse. Men moving with intent now, fanning out, checking doors, prodding at sheds.
A couple of them were angling that way.
Too close. Kenina’s pulse steadied, sharp and cold. If they reached the storehouse, they would search it.
She leaned back from the door and closed her eyes for one breath.
Then she made her choice.
She turned to Breanna one last time. “Nay matter what ye hear,” she said softly, “ye keep them quiet.”
Kenina slipped out the door, but she did not run. She walked, just long enough to be seen — long enough for a shadow to catch movement where none should be.
Then she broke into a run.
Her boots struck stone as her skirts swung wide. One of the men shouted. Another laughed.
“Ye there!”
Kenina cut left, then right, keeping to open ground, letting them see her just enough to think they had her measure. She vaulted a low fence and let herself stumble, heard them surge closer.
Good.
She ran harder now, breath burning, heart pounding in her ears. She knocked over a stack of crates, sent them crashing down behind her, and bought herself seconds.
Hooves thundered somewhere. Steel rang.
She didn’t look back, she didn’t need to. She knew they were chasing.
And the storehouse with the children inside it were already fading behind her.
Her lungs were on fire now. Each breath scraped raw, the cold air cutting deeper than the pain in her legs. The ground sloped unevenly ahead, frost slick beneath her boots, and she knew—too late—that she had misjudged the turn.
Her foot slid.
She caught herself on a post, spun and a hand closed around her cloak.
The fabric tore with a sound like a gunshot in the quiet between shouts.
Kenina stumbled forward, dragged back a half step, then wrenched free as the cloak ripped clean from her shoulders. She ran again, skirts gathered, hair coming loose down her back.
Almost clear. Something struck the back of her knee.
Pain exploded. Her leg buckled and she went down hard, palms slamming into frozen earth. The shock knocked the breath from her chest in a sharp, humiliating gasp.
“Found ye,” growled a man in a matted wolf-pelt cloak. His accent was thick, his smile a jagged line. “A pretty one.”
She tried to scramble up.
A boot came down on her calf.
Not crushing. Just enough.
“Stay,” a voice growled above her. Calm. Certain.
She clawed at the ground, fingers slipping in mud and frost. Another hand caught her braid and yanked her head back before she could rise. Her scalp burned. Stars burst behind her eyes.
She cried out despite herself.
Kenina clawed at his wrist, twisting, kicking—anything. But he was stronger, dragging her upright by her hair.
“Let me go!” she spat, scrambling for footing.
He only laughed, breath reeking of ale and rot.
She grabbed his knife hand with both of hers and drove her knee upward. He grunted, grip faltering, and she broke free long enough to stagger back—
But another grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms. Kenina screamed, fury lacing her voice. “Cowards! Let me go!”
The wolf-pelt raider recovered quickly, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand as he approached her again.
“Fiery,” he said with a grin. “Good. The laird will like that.”
She looked back for a split second only to see Fergus rushing towards the raider.
Where had he come from? No!
He suddenly barreled into the raider with a broken spear shaft, throwing him off balance for half a heartbeat.
“Run!” he shouted.
A massive arm hooked around her waist.
She gasped as the world spun sideways. The raider she’d lost sight of hauled her back by sheer brute force.
“Let—go—of me!” She drove her elbow back, catching him in the ribs. He grunted but didn’t loosen his grip.
Fergus lunged again, but another Graham slammed into him, sending him sprawling across the dirt. His body fell limp.
“Fergus!”
Her scream tore raw from her throat.
He reached for her helplessly, breath knocked from his chest. “K-Keni—!”
The raider hoisted her off her feet as if she weighed nothing. Kenina kicked, clawed, twisted—her braid snapped against her cheek, her lungs burned with terror.
“Faither!” she screamed. “Lachlan!”
She was thrown to her knees and the wolf-pelt man grabbed her chin roughly.
“Where’s yer laird, girl?”
Kenina glared, breathing hard through pain. “Coming fer ye.”
Another strike, backhanded this time, snapped her head sideways. She fell to the side hitting her head hard on a tree.
Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the distant horn.
A deep, familiar bellow echoing through the trees.
Her father’s war horn.
Her heart soared—only for the hope to crack an instant later as the raider behind her tightened his grip.
“Take her,” wolf-pelt ordered. “Before the laird’s men arrive.”
“Nay!” Kenina kicked, twisted, fought wildly but the world was tilting, her senses spinning from the blow.
They dragged her toward the tree line, boots skidding across frost, her fingers scraping hopelessly against the earth.
Kenina went, stumbling once, then straightening despite the pain screaming through her knee. She lifted her chin as they marched her back toward the green.
The children were hidden. They had chased her.
She had done what she had set out to do.
Then the raiders pulled Kenina into the cold of the forest just as the horns of her father’s warriors thundered onto the green.
Chapter Two
Kenina woke to the sway of movement and the sting of rope biting into her wrists.
Cold air slapped her face as the hood was yanked off. Dawn had barely broken, but the world already felt grey and starved of warmth. She was tied to a long, thick rope that connected her to a line of other captives—villagers, a few younger warriors, two boys scarcely older than twelve. Their breaths steamed into the air like frightened ghosts.
A Graham rider on horseback barked, “On yer feet! Move!”
The prisoners stumbled forward. Kenina forced herself upright, legs shaking with the lingering shock of being dragged half-conscious through the forest. Her throat ached from screaming. Her wrists pulsed where the rough bindings scraped her skin.
Two Grahams pushed her forward.
She stumbled. “I can walk, ye bastards!”
A sharp fist slammed into her stomach. She doubled over, gasping.
“Try that tone again—see what happens,” the rider snarled, yanking her hair.
Kenina spat blood onto his boot.
He kicked her in the ribs.
A few villagers cried out for him to stop, but a sword pointed their way silenced them.
Kenina straightened slowly. Pain wriggled beneath her ribs like a hot coal, but she refused to bend again. The chain of prisoners trudged on.
The cold forest creaked around them. Frost coated the ground. Crows circled overhead, their calls sharp and mocking. Kenina’s breath was shallow, each inhalation tasted of iron and damp earth. They had walked for hours the day before and her mind kept flashing images of Fergus lying in the dirt like a broken doll. Were there even survivors?
She swallowed hard.
Time dissolved into the ache in her ankles and the rawness of her throat. The Grahams kept a relentless pace, whipping anyone who slowed.
By midday, the trees had thinned, revealing a squat stone fort pressed against a ridge. Smoke rose from its chimneys and wooden palisades ringed the walls, scarred by years of raids.
Two Graham sentries watched the prisoners approach with bored amusement. One of the leered at the prisoners. “More stock, aye? Good haul by the look o’ them.”
Kenina’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.
Inside the gates, the prisoners were corralled into a muddy yard as men inspected them like livestock. Some collapsed immediately. Kenina stayed standing by sheer force of will. Some Grahams poked at injuries, lifted chins, pulled hair, appraised muscle.
One grabbed Kenina’s chin. “Pretty one. She’ll fetch high.”
“She’ll bite yer bloody fingers off,” she snapped, jerking her face away.
He raised a hand to strike her. But a voice cut through the yard like a blade:
“Enough.”
The murmuring died instantly.
The crowd parted as a man approached.
Tall, well-kept, with a wolf-pelt cloak bearing his colors draped over his broad shoulders, he walked with an air of ownership. His cold eyes swept across the prisoners.
Kenina had heard plenty about him. Keir Graham, the border laird who raided not for vengeance, but for profit. A man who smiled at cruelty because he found something pleasing in it.
Then he saw her.
The corners of his mouth curled slowly, as though savoring the sight. “Well now,” he said softly, “look at ye.”
Her stomach dipped. She tried to keep her expression blank. She would die before giving him fear.
Graham took his time walking around her, steps measured, hands clasped behind his back. His gaze moved over her as if taking inventory. She felt stripped without a finger laid on her.
“I ken ye,” he murmured. “From Buchanan lands.”
Kenina swallowed. “I dinnae ken ye.”
“Oh, but ye dae,” he said softly. “Yer faither showed ye off once, years ago, when I visited tae settle a border dispute. Ye were what—sixteen? Already a beauty. Already proud.”
He leaned in just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath. “I didnae expect one of yer quality tae fall intae me lap.” His smile widened, sick with pleasure. “Coin like this only comes once.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m nae coin.”
He tapped her cheek once lightly. “Aye, lass,” he whispered. “Ye are exactly that.”
His fingers brushed her hair.
She recoiled as if burned. “Touch me again, and I’ll tear your hand off.”
He laughed low and delighted.
“Spirited. I remember thinkin’ it then. And now look at ye…” His gaze sharpened into hunger. “A rare prize indeed. I thought I’d never catch such a gem fer me auctions. The nobles in the east will fight over ye.”
The Graham warriors laughed at their laird’s words.
Kenina’s heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
Auction?
He turned away, already speaking to the guards.
“Get her washed. Fed. Nae too much—dinnae soften her. She goes tae auction tomorrow.”
***
The hood scratched against Peadar’s jaw as he moved through the shadows of the ruined stables, the scent of old leather and damp hay thick in the cold night air. His breath ghosted before him, visible in the lamplight spilling from the half-open barn doors ahead.
The stench of tallow smoke clung to Peadar’s clothes as he slipped into the back of the Graham byre. Lamps flickered low, shadows moving across the walls like restless spirits. Men crowded the room, muttering, jostling, boots grinding straw into the dirt.
He kept his hood low. Tristan walked at his shoulder, stiff as a pike.
“Saints,” Tristan muttered. “If filth had a home—”
“Keep yer tongue quiet,” Peadar said under his breath. “Grahams have ears like rats.”
His own pulse thrummed with a familiar coldness — the same cold that carried him through battles, ambushes, funerals.
Taenight, we get what we came fer. Drummond falls.
“Ye remember the plan,” Tristan murmured without looking at him.
Tristan’s mouth pulled tight. “Then let’s pray tae God ye follow yer own instructions.”
Peadar didn’t dignify that with an answer.
He scanned the byre, taking notes of crates, of several slaves, stolen goods and livestock penned for sale. The air was warmer, but only because of bodies — men pressed shoulder to shoulder, breath sour with ale and anticipation. Lanterns hung on hooks between wooden beams, throwing slick amber light across a makeshift platform at the far end. A long table stood near it, cluttered with ledgers, quills, and coin purses.
Torcull Drummond stood at the front, smug as a crowned pig — fox-fur cloak, jeweled brooch, drink in hand, his belly straining against his belt.
Peadar’s jaw tightened. Drummond. The man who had set the war in motion, the man who had burned Glen Torrin, the man who had stood watching while Peadar’s mother had screamed.
His hand twitched toward the dagger hidden under his cloak.
“Easy,” Tristan warned.
“I’m calm,” Peadar murmured.
He wasn’t.
Tristan shot him a warning glance. “We dinnae intervene,” he whispered. “Nae unless ‘tis proof or Torcull himself.”
Peadar didn’t respond. He focused on his breathing instead. Rage had no place there. Rage made men stupid, and stupid men got caught.
They found a narrow place near the back wall, half-hidden behind stacked sacks of grain. A perfect vantage point. Perfect distance. The place where a man could watch everything without being watched himself.
Peadar leaned against the wall, arms folded, feigning the indifference of a man who’d come for bargains. Then the auction started.
Keir Graham, the Graham laird stomped onto the platform. “Taenight,” he called, “we’ve goods rare and fine. Weapons. Livestock. Servants.” He grinned, revealing a row of yellow teeth. “And a treasure or two.”
Disgust crawled up Peadar’s throat, but he didn’t move.
The auction began and the men present started making their bids. After about half an hour Keir Graham stepped back out.
“Next lot!” he announced with a sly smile. “Clan Buchanan’s prized heir.”
A Graham guard dragged Kenina forward by the arm. She stumbled, caught herself, then straightened her spine.
A murmur went through the crowd. Peadar felt it like a shift in air pressure. Clan Buchanan? He narrowed his eyes, confused. Buchanan heirs did not end up on auction blocks by accident. Why would a Buchanan heir be—
The girl was pushed into the lamplight, and Peadar forgot to breathe.
Her wrists were bound loosely, rope more for display than restraint, but it drew the eye to the narrowness of her waist, the clean lines of her arms. Her dress hung torn and dirty at the hem, clinging in places where it had no right to cling.
The bodice was creased and pulled, the fabric stretched over a figure that was unmistakably female — slim but full where it mattered, hips soft beneath the rough wool, shoulders straight with a strength that had nothing to do with delicacy.
Her chestnut hair fell in thick dark braids, loosened from struggle, glossy even in the poor light. A few strands had escaped, brushing her cheek, catching at her mouth. Her lips were parted just slightly, breath controlled but fast, as if she were forcing herself not to show how hard that cost her.
She lifted her chin.
The lamplight caught her face fully then, and Peadar felt the hit of it low and hard in his gut.
She was beautiful. Beautiful in a way that drew attention whether she wanted it or not. High cheekbones dusted with freckles and grime, a mouth made for smiles rather than frowns, her hazel eyes dark and sharp beneath strong brows — eyes that did not plead, even then. There was fear there, aye, but it was reined in, held tight behind iron control.
Something cold plunged through Peadar’s gut, so sharp it stole his breath.
She was too much woman for this place.
She did not look like a girl who broke easily.
Tristan leaned close. “Is that—?”
“Aye,” Peadar muttered. “Buchanan blood.”
He told himself to look away. He couldn’t.
Because every man in the room was looking at her, with hunger, ownership, calculation. Their eyes dragged over her openly— the line of her throat, the curve of her waist, the way her breasts rose beneath the torn bodice when she drew breath.
His jaw tightened.
Torcull Drummond stepped out of the crowd, his grin widening. “At last,” he drawled loudly. “A lass worth me coin.”
Several men laughed.
The girl flinched. Not outwardly but Peadar saw the quick pulse at her throat, the way her fingers curled, white-knuckled, around the rope.
Keir Graham leered. “Here she is, lairds—Kenina Buchanan, blood heir tae everyone’s favorite enemies. Look at her. Fine bones. Fine breeding. Fine future fer any man who can keep her… compliant.”
A ripple of lewd laughter passed through the hall.
He saw her jaw tighten.
He looked Kenina over slowly, deliberately.
“Turn her,” he ordered the guard.
The guard shoved her by the shoulder. She jerked away but didn’t have the strength to stop him. Her braid swung loose, dark against her pale skin.
Then Torcull clicked his tongue. “Bonnie, in a fragile sort of way. Pity about her clan. They’ve always been stubborn bastards.”
Graham clapped. “We’ll start the bidding at forty sovereigns.”
“Forty?” someone barked. “Fer a lass?”
“She’s an heiress,” another argued. “Worth ten times that.”
“Aye, if ye want trouble with the Buchanans,” someone else scoffed.
Drummond wagged his finger. “I’ll start the bid. Forty sovereigns.”
Gasps rippled. That was enough to buy cattle herds.
Graham nearly choked on his spit. “Ah—aye, Laird Drummond begins with forty!”
A man to Peadar’s right snickered. “He wants her fer more than politics, eh?”
“Likely as nae,” another said, “he’ll breed her quiet.”
“Aye,” came the reply. “And what Torcull wants, Torcull takes.”
Peader frowned, his mind turning in circles. He told himself she was not his concern. He didn’t even like the Buchanans, but this? This was filth. The same filth that had filled the war. Men who believed no one could stop them. His eyes stayed on her.
Peader watched as she swallowed hard, her eyes flicking across the room.
Drummond lifted his chin. “Fifty.”
The byre buzzed again.
Peadar forced himself to breathe.
Stay focused. Get the evidence. Leave.
“Fifty,” Drummond said, savoring it.
The girl’s face drained of color.
Peadar didn’t realize he’d straightened away from the wall until Tristan’s fingers dug into his sleeve.
Peadar’s teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. Tristan elbowed him. “Dinnae even think—”
“Fifty-one.” The word left Peadar’s mouth before Tristan finished his sentence.
The room snapped toward him. Silence fell, heavy and dangerous.
Drummond’s head jerked around. “Who said that?”
Peadar stepped forward, pulling back his hood. The murmurs swelled — some startled, some amused, some afraid.
Tristan hissed through his teeth, “Ye bloody lunatic. Ye gone and done it.”
Graham blinked at Peadar. “S–sir, that’s—”
Torcull cut in, voice like steel dragged over stone. “Name yerself, stranger.”
Peadar lifted his chin just enough to show the line of his jaw beneath the hood.
“Only a man making a purchase.”
Torcull’s eyes narrowed. “Ye mock me.”
“Nay,” Peadar said calmly. “But if ye think I fear ye… aye, that’s the mockery.”
A few men gasped. Someone whispered, “Christ preserve him.”
A man stepped up to Drummond and whispered into his ear and Drummond turned to stare at Peadar, incredulous. “Ye? The MacGregor mongrel? Ye think tae bid against me?”
Peadar lifted his chin. “I just did.”
Torcull stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “Dae ye ken who I am?”
Peadar met his stare, cold as winter.
“Oh aye. And I hope ye ken I dinnae back down.”
“Fifty-five,” Drummond snarled, eyes glittering.
Peadar didn’t blink. “Sixty.”
A roar went through the crowd, half shock, half delight at the brewing fight. A man near him coughed ale up his nose.
Drummond’s cheeks reddened with rage. “Ye dare—”
“She looks cold,” Peadar said evenly, cutting him off. “I’d prefer she nae rot afore she’s worth the coin.”
A few men laughed nervously. Drummond’s hand twitched like he wanted his sword, but the Grahams blocked him — no bloodshed till after the auction.
Graham cleared his throat. “Sixty fer the lass—”
“Sixty-one—” Drummond barked.
“Sixty-five,” Peadar said, louder.
His voice vibrated through the rafters.
Kenina’s gaze snapped to him — startled, wary, confused. She looked at him like he was another threat, another enemy.
He ignored the look.
Graham swallowed. “Sixty-five—goin’ once—goin’ twice—”
Drummond took one step toward Peadar.
“Ye are a dead man.”
Peadar didn’t break eye contact. “Get in line.”
“Sold!” Graham shouted, slamming his staff.
The byre erupted in cheers, jeers, curses. Drummond looked murderous.
Peadar’s stomach twisted — not with regret, but with certainty.
He had just made Torcull Drummond his personal enemy.
Good.
He wanted the bastard watching when he destroyed him.
