Author: julianawight

Five years earlier

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.

Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!

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.”

Breanna nodded again, tears spilling silently now.

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.

“Aye,” Peadar said. “Get in. Listen. Buy naething. Draw nay notice.”

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.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Juliana

★★★★★ 104 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 41 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 82 ratings

Read the book

A month earlier

Davina Fletcher stood just beyond the door to her father’s study, her hand resting lightly against the cool stone of the corridor wall, as though it might steady her. Inside, voices rose and fell with the measured cadence of men accustomed to deciding the course of other people’s lives.

Her life.

The door had not been closed fully, which was an oversight, perhaps, or a mercy, and through the narrow opening she could see the edge of her father’s desk and the backs of four unfamiliar men who had entered with him earlier that afternoon. They stood in a loose semicircle, with their cloaks still on their shoulders, as if they had no time for such trivialities.

One of them was Malcolm Kincaid. Only, she didn’t know which.

Davina leaned closer, careful not to let her skirts whisper against the stone.

“…a fair match,” her father was saying in his usual, authoritative tone. “Me daughter is well educated, well mannered, and raised with a full understanding of her duties.”

Duties. The word landed with a familiar weight.

“Aye,” another voice replied. It sounded younger than her father’s. “And Clan Kincaid daesnae enter agreements lightly. Malcolm understands what is expected of him.”

Davina’s breath caught at the name.

So that voice belonged to him or perhaps not. It could just as easily be one of the others. She strained to listen more closely, wishing foolishly that she might glimpse a face, a gesture, anything that would distinguish the man to whom her future was being so neatly assigned.

“The lands bordering the eastern ridge will remain under Fletcher stewardship,” her father continued.

“Of course,” the same voice said. “And in return, the protection of Kincaid arms is assured.”

Davina closed her eyes briefly.

Protection. Assurance. Alliance.

No one had yet spoken her name. She wondered, not for the first time, whether Malcolm Kincaid knew what color her eyes were. She wondered whether he laughed easily and whether he would notice if she went quiet when angered, or if she hummed when tired.

Inside the study, the discussion gathered pace.

“The contract can be signed within the month,” her father said. “Me daughter will be ready.”

“Aye,” another man replied. “Witnesses from both clans, of course.”

“And the dowry?” asked the smooth voice again, the one that might belong to Malcolm, or might not.

“It will reflect the strength of this alliance,” her father answered. “As will the expectations placed upon the bride.”

“The marriage must be consummated promptly,” someone added, matter-of-factly. “There can be nay doubt of legitimacy.”

Davina’s fingers curled where they rested against the stone.

Consummated promptly?

“Children will bind the clans further,” another voice agreed. “An heir within the year would be… ideal.”

“Like I said, me daughter understands her duty,” her father said firmly. “She has been raised fer this role.”

“Then we are in accord,” the smooth voice concluded. “Dates, witnesses, lands, protection, everything is agreed.”

A marriage was settled, not as joining of two lives, but as a treaty signed in voices and expectation, while the girl it concerned stood unheard beyond the door.

Suddenly, she heard the chairs scrape softly against the floor.

“Well met,” one man said. “Until we meet again.”

“May this alliance prosper us all,” another added.

Davina’s pulse leapt. She moved at once, gliding back from the door and slipping behind the nearest curtain just as the study door opened. The heavy fabric swallowed her. She felt dust and lavender pressing close as she held her breath.

Boots sounded in the corridor. She peered through a narrow fold.

Four men emerged. Their figures stood dark against the lamplight spilling briefly from the study before the door was shut again. They spoke in murmurs, chuckling here and there, already turning their minds to roads and horses and tomorrow’s concerns.

Then, they headed in the direction opposite to her. Davina strained to see just one profile, just one glance. But the darkness kept its secrets. The last footstep disappeared down the stone passage, and silence returned. Davina let out the breath she had been holding and pressed a hand to her chest. She waited only a moment longer before stepping from behind the curtain.

She inhaled deeply, mustering the courage for what she was about to do. She smoothed her skirts, finding a few invisibles wrinkles that demanded her attention, and proceeded to enter her father’s study as though she had every right to be there…. which, she supposed, she did.

Ramsay Fletcher stood by his desk, pouring himself a measure of whisky. He looked up at once, and his expression softened into unmistakable satisfaction.

“Ah, there ye are, me lass,” he said, gesturing at her to come closer. “I was just about tae send fer ye.”

“I heard voices,” Davina replied carefully. “Yer guests have gone?”

“They have,” he said, setting the glass aside untouched. “And they have left us with excellent news.”

He gestured for her to sit, but she remained standing.

“The matter is settled,” he continued, clearly pleased. “Ye are tae be married tae Malcolm Kincaid.”

Her heart gave a small, traitorous lurch. “When?”

“Within the month,” he said. “The ceremony will take place in Kincaid Castle, tae make it public, dignified, and beyond reproach. Witnesses from both clans. It will send a clear message.”

“A message,” she echoed.

“Aye,” her father confirmed, missing the edge in her tone. “A message of unity, of strength, of prosperity fer both our clans.”

“And Malcolm?” she asked. “What sort of man is he?”

Her father smiled. “A good one. He is ambitious and well-spoken. He understands duty.” He said it as if that was the most important thing in the world. And to him, it was.

Davina folded her hands together to still them. “Will I meet him?”

Her father waved the question aside as though it were of no real consequence. “Nay,” he said. “There is nay need.”

She blinked. “Nay need?”

“The matter is settled,” he continued calmly. “Ye will marry. Whether ye meet him beforehand or nae makes little difference.”

Davina’s fingers tightened. “I would have thought it might matter somewhat. He is tae be me husband.”

Her father regarded her with mild surprise, as though she had asked why the sun rose in the morning. “It is nae affection we are securing, Davina. It is alliance.”

She drew a careful breath. “Even so—”

“Ye have been raised tae understand this,” he interrupted her gently, but firmly. “Marriage is nae a courtship tale. It is duty, stability and continuity. Malcolm Kincaid understands this, as dae I. And ye will as well.”

Her voice softened, though the words did not. “I should like tae ken the man whose life I am meant tae share.”

Her father shook his head. “Ye will ken him well enough after the vows are spoken. Before that, it daesnae matter.”

Davina lowered her gaze, schooling her expression into calm obedience, just as she had been taught to do.

“Very well,” she said.

Her father smiled again, evidently satisfied with her behavior. “Good. There is nay sense in troubling yerself over details that cannae change.”

He turned back toward his desk, already reaching for a stack of papers. The matter was clearly concluded in his mind.

“If ye are inclined tae trouble yerself with anything,” he added, almost kindly, “ye may occupy yer thoughts with the gown or the flowers. Those choices are yers.”

She lifted her eyes then. “The flowers?”

“Aye,” he responded.

Davina inclined her head once more. “I will give it due consideration.”

“That is all I ask,” her father replied, already eyeing a ledger. “Ye may go.”

She turned toward the door. Only when she reached the threshold did she pause, allowing her fingers to rest lightly against the wood.

“The gown, then,” she said quietly.

“Aye,” her father replied without looking up. “Make it a fine one.”

Davina stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind her. The latch clicked softly. She stood there for a moment and wondered how it was that the most significant decision of her life had been reduced to silk and blossoms.

Then she lifted her chin and walked on, carrying with her the knowledge that while her future had been decided, she had been given, at least, the illusion of choice.

And she would learn, in time, what such illusions were worth.

Enjoyed this bonus chapter? Dive back into the adventure and continue the journey on your e-reader. Happy reading!

Chapter One

1378, Kincaid Castle

“Naething must go wrong today, Davina,” Ramsay Fletcher told his daughter as he adjusted the edge of his tartan. “This union is the finest match our clan has secured in a generation. The eyes of half the Highlands are upon us.”

Davina’s eyes drifted to the great doors at the end of the corridor, which gleamed ominously. Beyond them lay the grand hall of Kincaid Castle, where nobles gathered, where candles burned low, and where Malcolm Kincaid waited. Her fingers tightened around her bouquet.

“I hope tae bring ye nay cause fer embarrassment, Faither.”

“Ye’ll dae more than that,” he said, and his tone seemed to soften, albeit only slightly. “Ye’ll raise our name. A Fletcher bound tae the Kincaids, just think of it! Yer children will carry a bloodline fit fer court.” His chest swelled with pride. “Aye, me dear, this is how legacies are made.”

Eleonor Fletcher was standing behind her daughter, and she leaned in to brush a stray curl from beneath the lace veil. “Legacies are well enough, Ramsay,” she murmured, “but it is her life, nae ours, that begins today.”

Ramsay gave her a brief look. “And what is a life without honor and position, Eleonor? Ye ken well the world we live in. The clans remember who climbs and who falls.”

Davina nodded obediently. “I understand, Faither. Me duty is clear.”

Her mother frowned. “Duty should nae eclipse happiness.”

Her father agreed. “Happiness is a fickle thing, me dear, but worth finding. Malcolm is a fine man, well-bred and mannerly. There’s nay reason ye should nae be content with him.”

Eleonor’s fingers lingered on Davina’s shoulder. “Contentment and joy are nae the same.”

“I will find both,” Davina said, though she was uncertain whom she meant to convince: her mother, her father, or herself.

Ramsay straightened, satisfied. “Good lass. When the doors open, walk with pride. Every whisper in that hall will speak our name, and I’ll have them speak it with admiration.”

The faint echo of music drifted through the corridor, signaling that the guests had taken their seats. The grand doors of the castle hall gleamed ahead, heavy with expectation.

Eleonor’s hand trembled slightly as she adjusted the edge of Davina’s veil. “Ye look beautiful, me love.”

Davina smiled, and the uneasiness seemed to dissipate, if only a little. “Thank ye, Mama.”

Ramsay cleared his throat. “It is time. Hold yer head high, Davina. Today, ye are nae merely a bride, ye are the bridge between two great clans.”

She nodded, steadying her breath. “Then may the bridge hold.”

With that, Ramsay offered his arm. The music swelled beyond the doors, and Davina stepped forward. The doors creaked open with a deep, echoing groan, and a hundred eyes tuned toward her at once.

She could see Malcolm Kincaid standing at the altar, tall and smiling faintly. His dark hair was catching the sunlight that poured through the stained glass. His eyes were bright gray, like a Highland storm, and now, they met hers with calm reassurance. For one small moment, her fear eased.

But then, another pair of eyes caught her attention. Her heart beat was meant for the vows to come, yet her world tilted upon seeing this man. A pale scar slashed his cheek, further pulling her attention toward him. He wasn’t smiling and somehow, that made him even more magnetic. There was power in his silent gaze, in the way that he simply was.

She reminded herself why she was there and started walking. She reached the halfway point of the aisle. Nobles watched in silence, enshrouded in a sea of silk and tartan. Her breath came slowly and carefully, beneath the lace veil, as if it cost her dearly to simply breathe.

Almost there. Almost done.

Then suddenly, just as her father was about to give her hand to Malcolm, one of the candles flickered as if the chamber itself held its breath. Davina looked up, and Malcolm’s smile faltered. His hand flew to his chest.

At first, she thought he meant to steady himself. But his fingers clenched hard, twisting the fabric of his coat. His face drained of color. His lips parted soundlessly.

“Malcolm?” Davina’s voice was barely a whisper.

He swayed. The bouquet slipped from her hand. Before she could reach him, he dropped to his knees with a strangled gasp and his eyes wide in shock. The music faltered, then stopped altogether. A terrible silence followed.

“Malcolm!” cried someone from the front row.

Davina stumbled forward, her vision blurring. “Help him! Please, someone help!”

Davina froze where she stood. The world narrowed to the scent of lilies, the crackle of candles and the thundering in her ears. Malcolm’s stillness was unbearable. She wanted to move, to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.

Then someone screamed.

Davina couldn’t move. Her hands shook as she lifted her veil. “What… what’s happening?” she whispered.

Chaos erupted. Shouts filled the air while the solemn order of the ceremony shattered like glass.

“Stand back!”

The voice belonged to the man with the scar, and only then did she realize who he was. Baird Kincaid’s voice cut through the confusion like a blade. He jumped up from the front row and reached his brother’s side, dropping to one knee. His large hands were now gripping Malcolm’s shoulders.

“Malcolm, speak tae me!”

But there was no answer and no movement save the slack fall of his arm.

“Fetch the healer!” Baird shouted, and a servant bolted through the chapel doors.

Moments later, the healer burst through, with his satchel clutched tight. He knelt beside Malcolm with practiced speed, pressing his fingers to the fallen man’s neck, then his wrist. His brow furrowed.

“Clear the space,” he said curtly. “Nay one touch him.”

“Ye heard the man!” Baird shouted to those who were still too close.

Davina watched desperately as the healer drew a small vial from his bag, opened Malcolm’s coat, and pressed a hand to his chest. “He still has warmth,” he muttered. “It may nae be too late.” He poured the contents between Malcolm’s lips, then began pressing rhythmically against his ribs, muttering a prayer under his breath.

The hall was silent but for that steady, desperate motion.

Davina clasped her hands together. Her mother had appeared at her side, whispering her name, but Davina could not hear her. Her eyes were locked on the scene at the altar: the healer’s hands, Baird’s face and the awful stillness of Malcolm’s body.

“Come on, lad,” Baird urged through clenched teeth. “Breathe! Breathe!”

But no breath came.

The healer stopped at last, his movements slowing. He pressed his ear to Malcolm’s chest, then drew back with a long, weary sigh.

“It is of nay use,” he said quietly. “He’s gone.”

The words struck the room like a physical blow. A woman sobbed aloud; another fainted near the front. Baird’s head bowed. For a moment he did not move. Then, very slowly, he lifted his brother’s hand and let it fall again, lifeless.

“God have mercy,” he whispered.

Davina felt her knees weaken. Her father’s arm caught her before she fell.

“Steady, lass,” Ramsay murmured, though his own face had gone pale. “Steady.”

Suddenly, the alarm bells tolled in the distance, and the sound rattled through the hall. Servants shouted in the corridors. A soldier burst through the side door, breathless and pale.

“Me laird, an intruder’s been sighted inside the castle!”

Baird turned with blazing eyes. “Where?”

“Near the west stair, me laird… armed.”

A curse escaped him. He looked to his brother’s still form, then to Davina. “So it’s nae enough tae strike him dead, now they hunt the rest of us.”

Davina’s heart jolted. “Ye think this is connected?”

“I’d stake me name on it,” Baird said. “Whoever killed Malcolm’s nae done.” His tone left no room for doubt. He strode toward her. “Ye cannae stay here.”

Ramsay stepped forward. “She’s with me, Kincaid. I’ll see tae me own daughter’s safety.”

Baird’s gaze cut to him. “Yer name daes nae carry the keys tae this castle, Fletcher. Mine daes. If they came fer Malcolm, they may come fer her next. I’ll nae argue it.”

Davina’s voice shook, though she tried to steady it. “Ye think they would… hurt me?”

“They’ll dae worse if they mean tae break me clan,” Baird said. “We move now.”

Davina’s pulse thundered in her ears. She hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Very well. Lead the way.”

Baird took her hand, guiding her down the side aisle. His grip was warm and his movements swift.

“Stay close,” he said. “Dinnae speak unless I tell ye.”

Her mother called after her. “Davina!”

Davina turned long enough to meet her mother’s frightened eyes. “I’ll be safe,” she promised, though she scarcely believed it herself.

They slipped through a narrow door behind the altar, into a corridor lit by torches. The air there was cooler and quieter, but the alarm bells echoed even through the stone. Baird’s pace was relentless.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Tae the upper rooms, they’ll be guarded.”

“And me maither and faither?”

“He will keep them both safe,” Baird assured her without looking back. “Ye’re the one they’d use as leverage.”

His words made her stomach twist. “Why me?”

“Because ye were meant tae unite us,” he said grimly. “And naething weakens a pact faster than fear.”

They turned a corner. Behind them, shouts grew louder.

Davina gripped her skirts, breathless. “Me laird—”

“Quiet.” He slowed, glancing back toward the chapel doors. “They’re coming this way.”

The corridor stretched before them, long and dim. The sound of running feet echoed through it, not from behind this time, but ahead.

Baird’s hand tightened on her arm. “Stay behind me,” he ordered and there was steel in every syllable. “Whatever happens, dae nae run unless I tell ye tae.”

Somewhere ahead, a shout split the air. “Stop him!”

Baird turned sharply. “There!”

A figure burst from the shadows at the far end of the corridor. Whoever it was, he was masked, cloaked and running for his life in a blur of dark motion. Guards gave chase behind him, with their swords drawn, but the intruder was desperate, which provided him with the edge of speed and surprise.

“Back!” Baird ordered, shoving Davina behind him.

She pressed against the cold wall, while her heart was hammering. The intruder’s steps pounded closer, echoing off the stone. His cloak snapped behind him as he darted past a torch and for an instant, Davina saw the flash of a blade. The man was coming straight for them.

Baird drew his sword in one swift motion. “Stop, in the name of Clan Kincaid!”

But the intruder did not slow. The guards were too far behind, shouting warnings that came too late.

“Watch out!” Davina cried, but before she could take another breath, the masked man lunged.

Baird swung, steel ringing against stone as the intruder ducked beneath his strike. In the next heartbeat, Davina felt a rough hand seize her arm. She gasped, feeling the world tilt as she was pulled sharply back.

Cold metal pressed to her throat.

“Stay back!” the intruder hissed in a voice that was muffled beneath the mask. “One step closer and she dies!”

Davina’s breath caught in terror. The knife trembled against her skin, close enough that she could feel its chill. Baird froze where he stood, his sword raised but his eyes locked on hers.

“Let her go,” Baird snarled.

The intruder shifted, dragging Davina half a step closer to him. “Drop the blade.”

Baird’s grip tightened on the hilt. “Ye’ve nay chance of leaving this castle alive.”

“Perhaps nae,” the man spat venomously, “but others like me will follow, be assured of that.”

Davina barely dared to move, her pulse pounding so hard she could hear it. Her gaze flicked to Baird, getting lost in his eyes which were like storm clouds, calculating his next movement.

“Baird,” she whispered his name.

“I’ve got ye, lass,” he murmured, taking a careful step forward.

“Nae another inch!” the intruder shouted, pressing the knife harder.

Baird stopped. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Danger closed in, sharp as a blade poised to cut her life short.

Chapter Two

The knife pressed harder, cold and sharp against Davina’s throat. She dared not breathe too deeply. One movement and it might all be over.

“Please,” she whispered, not sure to whom she spoke: to Baird, to the heavens, or to the man who held her life in his hands.

“Quiet,” the intruder hissed, jerking her closer.

That was his mistake.

In that fraction of a second, Baird moved in a flash of steel. His sword swept upward in a clean, controlled arc, striking the intruder’s wrist with brutal precision. The knife flew from his hand, clattering across the floor.

Davina stumbled away as Baird closed in. The intruder swung wildly, landing a blow against Baird’s shoulder. The clang of metal on metal echoed through the corridor. Baird struck back, a fierce downward slash that the intruder barely dodged. Sparks flew as his blade scraped the wall. The man lunged, catching Baird’s arm, and they crashed hard into the stone.

Davina pressed herself against the wall, watching in horror as the two men fought in a blur of movement and gritted breath. Baird’s strength was relentless; he drove the intruder back with each strike, his sword cutting through the air with savage precision.

The intruder ducked low, grabbed the fallen dagger, and slashed toward Baird’s ribs. Steel grazed flesh. Baird grunted but did not falter. He caught the man’s wrist, twisted sharply, and slammed his fist into the intruder’s jaw.

The masked man staggered. Baird followed through, one hard shove against his chest that sent him sprawling onto the flagstones. The dagger clattered free again. Before he could rise, Baird’s boot pressed down hard on his throat.

“Yield,” Baird growled.

The intruder wheezed, and his eyes were flashing hatred. He tried to reach for another hidden blade, but Baird’s sword was faster, and it acted in a single, brutal thrust beneath the ribs. The breath left the intruder in a ragged gasp.

Baird stepped back as the body of his opponent went still, the scarlet bloom spreading across the man’s tunic. Two guards came sprinting up the corridor.

“Me laird!” one shouted.

Baird didn’t look up. He wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s cloak. “Too late,” he said quietly. “He made his choice.”

Davina pressed a trembling hand to her neck, where the knife had grazed her skin. “It’s over?” she asked softly.

Baird turned to her, his chest rising and falling with the weight of battle. “Fer now.” His voice softened as he stepped closer. “Are ye hurt?”

She shook her head, though her knees threatened to give way. “Only frightened.”

“Ye’ve every right,” he said, sheathing his sword. “But ye kept yer wits. That may have saved us both.”

Baird stood motionless for a moment. The sharpness in his gaze had not dulled. It had simply turned inward, cold calculation overtaking fury.

“Captain,” he called to the man who was closest to him. “Send for the council members, all of them. Me advisors, the Fletcher envoys, anyone of rank who remains in the castle. Bring them tae me study at once.”

The guard hesitated. “Me laird, the corridors—”

“Then clear them,” Baird snapped. “Now.”

The man hurried off.

“Ye should sit,” Baird turned to her. “Ye’ve been through enough.”

“I’m fine,” she replied, though her voice trembled. “Just… unsteady.”

He offered his arm. “Come with me, then. The study’s secure. We need tae speak, tae decide what comes next.”

She hesitated only a moment before taking his arm. His grip was firm, grounding her as they moved through the castle’s narrow halls. Guards lined the corridors now, but somehow, that didn’t make her feel any safer. They reached a tall oak door at the end of the corridor. Two guards stepped aside as Baird pushed it open, ushering her inside. The study was dimly lit, lined with books and maps.

Baird guided her toward a chair near the fire. “Sit. Rest if ye can.”

She did as she was told, as her father bid her to do. The study filled slowly, and one by one, the councilman lined in, men of rank and age, wrapped in heavy plaids and wearing grim expressions. They took their places by the hearth or against the wall, muttering to one another in low, uncertain tones.

Davina sat where Baird had left her, with hands clasped in her lap. Her throat still burned where the knife had grazed her. Her thoughts were heavy and slow, caught between disbelief and dread.

When the door finally opened again, Ramsay Fletcher entered. His bearing was as proud as ever, though the lines around his mouth had deepened. His eyes flicked briefly to Davina, then to Baird.

“We’re all here?” he demanded, as if it was his study that they all gathered in.

Baird gave a single nod. “All that matter.”

“Good.” Ramsay stepped into the center of the room. “Then let us speak plain. A tragedy has struck, aye, but the agreement between our families remains. The marriage must go through.”

A murmur spread through the Council. One man, old and gray-bearded, frowned. “Fletcher, yer daughter’s groom lies dead. Ye cannae mean tae proceed as though naething’s happened.”

“I mean precisely what I said,” Ramsay replied. “Our clans forged this union for strength, nae sentiment. If it falls apart now, we invite ruin and give our enemies cause tae celebrate.”

Another councilman shook his head. “The people will see it as heartless. There must be a period of mourning—”

“We dinnae yet understand the man’s death,” Ramsay cut in sharply. “Aye, we shall honor him, but alliances dinnae pause fer grief.”

A stout man near the back spoke next. “The lady has suffered much. Surely, ye’d nae—”

Ramsay’s hand cut through the air. “Me daughter understands her duty.”

All eyes turned to Davina. She felt their stares like a weight pressing against her chest. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She looked to her father, then to Baird, who was silent, still watching the fire.

The gray-bearded councilman sighed. “Even if the girl consents, who would she wed? The ceremony cannae continue with the groom in his grave.”

Ramsay stepped forward, as his voice cut through the murmurs. “There is another Kincaid son,” he said. “The bloodline need not end here.”

A ripple of protest swept through the council chamber.

“Absurd!” one man barked.

“’Tis no small matter tae replace a groom,” another added.

The uproar broke off when Baird rose to his feet. “Aye,” he said in a voice that carried through the hall like thunder. “There is another Kincaid. And that means she will marry me.”

A ripple of shock ran through the gathered men. One councilman stepped forward, and there was disbelief etched across his face. “Me laird, that cannae be wise. The lady was promised tae yer braither, nae tae ye. The matter should end with his death.”

Another spoke more sharply. “She is nae even a laird’s daughter, me laird. The match was already a stretch fer the second-born. Fer ye, the laird himself tae take her, it would upset the order of things.”

Baird’s gaze swept the room, resting on every single man for a moment. “The order of things,” he repeated in a loud challenge. “And what order is that? Tae break a pact made in good faith? Tae bring shame upon me clan?”

Davina’s father seized the moment. “Me daughter has done naething tae deserve disgrace,” he said firmly. “If the Kincaids withdraw now, every clan in the Highlands will take it as an insult: tae us, and tae the memory of the braither ye’ve lost.”

Murmurs filled the chamber. One man shook his head. “But the people will talk. They will say the laird married his braither’s bride before the grave was cold.”

Baird’s jaw tightened. “Let them talk.” He looked toward Davina then, and she felt herself blush under the weight of his gaze. “The honorable path is clear. The Fletchers stood beside us in loyalty and blood. If we falter now, their trust dies with me braither.”

He turned back to the Council. “There will be nay disgrace. The ceremony will go forward. Lady Davina Fletcher will be me wife, and by that vow, the bond between our clans will stand unbroken. Gather in the Grand Hall, all of ye. The witnesses must see the vows kept, or rumor will eat us alive by morning.”

The councilmen exchanged uneasy glances, some bowing their heads, and others whispering in protest. But none dared to defy him.

“As ye command, me laird.”

The room stirred. Chairs scraped and whispers rose as one by one, the men began to leave.

“Lady Davina stays,” Baird suddenly said as soon as he noticed Davina stand up.

Her father turned sharply. “Fer what purpose?”

Baird met his gaze respectfully. “Tae hear her own mind before I lead her tae the altar.”

The words seemed to give even her father pause, as her own heart was beating wildly at the thought of remaining alone with this man who had just saved her life, the same man who was about to become her husband.

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “She has already given her word—”

“She gave it tae me braither,” Baird reminded him. “I’ll nae bind her twice without at least hearing her voice.”

For a moment, Davina’s father and her future husband stood at odds. Then, her father exhaled through his nose, a man conceding ground he disliked.

“Very well. A moment, and nae more.” He cast Davina a look which seemed to be part warning and part worry, before turning to follow the others out.

The heavy door closed behind him, leaving Davina and Baird alone in the dim study. For the first time that evening, Davina truly looked at him. The firelight carved the sharp lines of his face and she could see it all: the strong jaw, the dark sweep of his hair, the storm-gray eyes that caught the light and seemed to hold it.

He was nothing like Malcolm. There was no charm in him, no practiced gentleness, only quiet strength and a shadow of the grief he was feeling that made him all the more striking.

Her heart gave an unfamiliar flutter. It startled her as much as the thought that followed: that man would be her husband.

“Ye mean tae go through with this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Baird turned toward her fully then. “I dae.”

She swallowed, her fingers tightening in her lap. “Even after what’s happened? Even after yer braither—”

“Aye.” His jaw flexed, and a flicker of pain crossed his face before vanishing. “Because what’s happened changes naething about duty. If anythin’, it makes it heavier.”

Davina studied him, searching for something beyond the hard calm of his words. She wanted to find anything human enough to match the turmoil in her chest. But there was only steadiness, carved deep into him like the stone of the castle itself.

“And what of choice?” she asked softly. “Dae we have any left?”

Baird’s eyes lingered on hers for a long moment, unreadable but not unkind. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost gentle. “Perhaps nae, but we still have honor. And that, Lady Davina, is the only thing either of us can keep.”

Her breath caught, not from fear this time, but from the quiet conviction in his voice. Beneath all his restraint, she sensed something fierce, something that could steady her even as the world crumbled.

He nodded toward the door. “Come. It’s time.”

Baird offered his hand, and Davina hesitated only a heartbeat before placing hers in his. His palm was warm and steady, calloused from battle, and the strength of his grip anchored her to a world that no longer felt real.

The corridor beyond the study glowed with torchlight. Servants and guards stepped aside as they passed, bowing in silence. Somewhere ahead, the faint hum of voices drifted from the great hall. It all felt distant, unreal, as though she were walking through someone else’s dream.

When they reached the tall doors of the great hall, two guards pulled them open, and the sight beyond stole her breath.

The hall, only hours ago a scene of joy and tragedy, now stood reborn under the heavy silence of necessity. Candles burned anew, their golden light trembling in reverence across polished stone. The guests had returned, pale and uneasy, filling the pews once more. No one spoke. Their gazes followed her as she entered, while whispers died on their tongues.

Her father and mother stood near the front. He gave her a short nod, nothing more.

Beside him, the minister waited, his prayer book trembling slightly in his hands. “Me laird, me lady,” he began softly. “If it is yer will…”

Baird’s hand tightened gently around hers. “It is.”

Davina’s pulse thundered in her ears as they stepped forward. The same path she had walked just a few hours before stretched before her. The people were the same, the candles were the same and so were the flowers, yet everything had changed. The space felt haunted by echoes of laughter that would never return.

Each step felt heavier than the last. Her gown whispered against the stone, while her heart was singling a frantic rhythm beneath the lace. And still, Baird’s hand did not waver.

They reached the altar. The minister began to speak. “We gather again, though sorrow shadows this union. Yet vows spoken bind nay less truly in hardship…”

Davina scarcely heard him. She looked up at Baird, at the man who had been a stranger only hours ago.

When the minister asked if he took her hand, Baird answered without hesitation. “I dae.”

The sound of it sent a shiver through her. It was not passion that stirred her then, but the strange certainty that her life would change forever.

As she repeated the priest’s words, symbolizing their union, the hall seemed to exhale. It was a whisper of fate sealing itself in stone.

Baird turned to her, with his hand still wrapped around hers. She knew the ceremony ended with a kiss, but she realized she would be kissing the wrong man.

That was when he leaned in, and she felt his lips brushing against hers with a quiet finality that felt less like a kiss and more like a vow. The solemn taste of it lingered even when she pulled away, symbolizing a bond neither of them had chosen, yet which both would have to bear.

How likely are you to recommend this preview to a friend?

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely
0	1	2	3	4	5	6	7	8	9	10

Submit

Best selling books of Juliana

★★★★★ 104 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 41 ratings

Read the book

★★★★★ 82 ratings

Read the book