Author: julianawight

Castle Keppoch, Scottish Highlands, Scotland, December 1689

“I’m leavin’, and I’m askin’ fer yer blessin’ as laird, braither.”

The words fell into the great hall like stones into still water, rippling outward through the sudden silence. Alyson’s fingers found the edge of her sleeve, worrying the fabric between thumb and forefinger while four pairs of eyes turned toward her.

Her eldest brother, Laird Tòrr MacDonald, set down the missive he’d been reading. Across from him, Daemon’s hand stilled on his wine cup. Catherine, who was visiting after the return of her sister from her captivity, paused mid-step near the hearth, and Sofia, who’d been mending a torn hem by the window, looked up with startled blue-gray eyes.

“Leavin’?” Tòrr’s voice was carefully neutral, but Alyson caught the tightness around his mouth. “Where would ye go then, sister?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze, though her heart hammered against her ribs. Say it. Tell them. They need tae understand.

“I need tae go tae Iona Abbey.” Her voice came out steadier than she’d expected. “I intend tae take vows.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the fire seemed to quiet, as if the castle itself held its breath.

“Nay.” Daemon’s word cracked like a whip. He surged to his feet, the intensity in his hazel eyes burning hot enough to scorch. “Absolutely nay.”

“Daemon—”

“We didnae pull ye from Campbell’s dungeon so ye could lock yerself away in another prison, sister!”

Alyson flinched at the vehemence in his tone, her fingers tightening on her sleeve.

Breathe. Just breathe.

“’Tis a sanctuary, Daemon.”

“’Tis runnin’.” Catherine moved closer, her auburn hair catching the firelight. Her voice was gentler than her brother’s, but no less firm. “And MacDonalds dinnae run from anythin’, Alyson. That’s nae who ye are.”

Campbell took that brave girl and left somethin’ else in her place.

“Please,” she said softly, looking at each of them in turn. “Just… hear me out, please. Dinnae ye owe me that much, at least?”

Tòrr gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit. Explain.”

She remained standing, needing the distance, needing to feel like she had some control in this moment. Her fingers continued their restless dance along her sleeve’s edge.

“I cannae stay here.” The words came slowly, each one pulled from somewhere deep and painful. “I wake screamin’ most nights. I cannae be in a room with more than two people without feelin’ like the walls are closin’ in. I flinch when men get too close, even men I’ve kent me whole life, me family.” Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “I’m… broken, Tòrr.”

“Ye’re nae broken,” Sofia said fiercely, abandoning her mending to cross the room. She stopped just out of reach, respecting the distance Alyson needed. “Ye’re healin’. That takes time.”

“Four months, Sofia. ‘Tis been four months, and I’m still…” She trailed off, that familiar fog closing in when memories threatened to surface. Her fingers found her sleeve again, grounding herself in the texture. “I need peace. Need silence. Need walls thick enough tae ensure that the world cannae reach me.”

“And ye think stone walls and prayers will give ye that?” Daemon’s voice was rough with something that might have been grief. “Alyson, hidin’ from the world isnae livin’.”

“I’m nae livin’ now!” The words burst out of her, sharp and raw. “I’m just… survivin’.” She pressed her palm against her chest, feeling her heart race beneath her fingers. “And I’m so tired of bein’ afraid, Daemon. Tired of seein’ pity in all of yer eyes. Tired of this… this soul crushin’ fear that Campbell left in me that I cannae undae or outrun or escape.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with truths none of them wanted to acknowledge.

Finally, Tòrr spoke. “There’s more tae this than healin’, isnae there?”

She met his green eyes—so like her own—and saw the understanding there. He’d always been able to read her, even when she tried to hide.

“Aye. I refuse tae live me life in fear of Cody Grant, braither.”

Daemon’s fist slammed onto the table, making everyone jump. “That bastard!”

“He’s sent three more letters in the past fortnight alone,” Alyson said quietly. “Each more… persistent than the last.”

“Persistent?” Catherine’s voice dripped with contempt. “The man’s obsessed. He wants ye as some twisted… recompense fer losin’ Isabeau tae Micheal.”

“Let him come.” Daemon’s hand dropped to his dirk. “I’ll gut him where he stands.”

“And start a clan war?” Tòrr’s tone sharpened. “Grant may be a fool, but he has allies. The Pact of Argyll isnae dead just because Angus Campbell is.”

“Herman Forbes still draws breath,” Daemon added grimly. “And that snake has been pullin’ Cody’s strings since the lad was old enough tae hold a mirror!”

Alyson listened to them discuss her future, her safety, her life as if she weren’t standing right there. A familiar numbness crept over her, the same detachment that had kept her sane in Campbell’s dungeon.

“If I take these vows,” she said in a gap in their argument, “Grant has nay claim tae me. Ever. Nor any other. The Church protects its own.”

“The Church didnae protect ye from Campbell,” Micheal shot back.

“Because I wasnae under their protection then.” She lifted her chin, feeling something almost like strength flow through her. “But once I take vows, even Grant wouldnae dare such blasphemy.”

Tòrr studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he sighed, and she knew she’d won—or lost, depending on how one looked at it.

“If this is truly what ye want,” he said slowly, “I’ll nae stand in yer way.”

“Tòrr—” Daemon started.

“She’s a grown woman, braither. And she’s survived things that would have broken most men.” He looked at Alyson with something that might have been respect beneath the sorrow. “If she needs this tae feel safe again, who are we tae deny her?”

“Ach!” Catherine made a sound of distress. “But tae lose her tae—”

“Ye’re nae losin’ me.” Alyson’s throat tightened. “I’ll still be yer sister. I’ll just be… elsewhere. Which was bound tae happen sooner or later anyway, if I married.”

Alive, nae livin’. But safe…

“Iona Abbey is a week’s ride from here,” Daemon said, his tactical mind already working through logistics. “Through MacLeod lands first, then skirtin’ the edge of Glen Moore. We’ll need tae arrange—”

“Glen Moore,” Tòrr interrupted, straightening. “That’s in Keane MacLean’s territory, is it nae?”

“Aye. The abbey falls under his protection.”

A thoughtful silence fell as they all considered this.

“He’s pretty much kept himself out of clan politics,” Tòrr mused. “Never joined the Pact, but never openly opposed it either. A hard man, by all accounts, but fair.”

“We should write tae him,” Catherine suggested. “Ask fer safe passage through his lands and his protection fer the journey. If Grant’s men are watchin’ the roads—and we should assume they are—we’ll need assurance that MacLean’s warriors willnae see an armed MacDonald escort as a threat.”

Tòrr nodded slowly. “Aye. That’s wise.” He looked at Alyson. “When dae ye want tae leave?”

The question hung in the air, final and irrevocable.

“As soon as Laird MacLean grants passage.” Her voice didn’t waver. “The sooner I reach the abbey, the sooner…”

The sooner I can stop runnin’. Stop feelin’. Stop rememberin’.

“Then I’ll write the letter taenight.” Tòrr stood, moving toward his desk where parchment and ink waited. “I’ll explain the situation—carefully—and request his leave fer ye and an armed escort tae pass through.”

“Dinnae mention Grant specifically,” Daemon advised. “Just say she’s makin’ a pilgrimage.”

“Agreed. We dinnae need MacLean knowin’ we might be bringin’ trouble tae his doorstep.”

Alyson watched her eldest brother settle at the table, dipping his quill in ink with the same careful precision he brought to everything. The scratch of pen on parchment filled the hall, each stroke bringing her closer to a future she both dreaded and desperately needed.

This is the right choice.

Daemon moved to stand beside her, keeping that careful distance he’d maintained since pulling her from Campbell’s dungeon. “Ye ken I’d dae anythin’ fer ye, aye? Kill anyone, burn down any castle, start any war. Ye just have tae say the word.”

She looked up at him—the fierce, scarred warrior who’d risked everything to save her with her two other brothers. “I ken. But this is somethin’ I need tae dae fer meself, Daemon.”

“Ye’re the bravest person I ken.” he said roughly. “And I’m sorry we failed ye. Sorry Campbell ever got his filthy hands on ye.”

“Ye didnae fail me, braither.” She reached out, stopping just shy of touching his hand. Even that small gesture took courage she wasn’t sure she possessed. “Ye came fer me. Ye saved me. Ye didnae abandon me. And that means everythin’.”

“Will ye take anyone with ye?” Catherine asked. “Sofia or Liliane perhaps? Someone tae help ye settle?”

Alyson shook her head. “Nay. I need tae dae this alone.”

The thought should have terrified her. Instead, it felt almost like relief.

“Done.” Tòrr lifted the parchment, shaking it gently to dry the ink. “I’ll send it with our fastest rider at first light. With any luck, we’ll have MacLean’s response within a fortnight.”

“And if he refuses?” Sofia asked quietly.

“Then we find another way.” Tòrr’s expression hardened. “But I doubt he will. MacLean may be many things, but he’s a man of honor. He’ll nae deny a woman seekin’ sanctuary.”

Alyson moved to the window, pressing her palm against the cold glass. Beyond the castle walls, the Highlands stretched in all directions—wild and beautiful and vast. Somewhere out there, in those distant mountains and glens, was the abbey that would become her home. Her refuge. Her salvation.

Just a wee bit longer.

Behind her, her siblings spoke in low tones, planning logistics and guard rotations and supply lists. Their voices blurred together, becoming meaningless noise as she stared out at the darkening sky.

She didn’t see Tòrr approach until he stood beside her, his reflection ghostly in the glass.

“Are ye certain?” he asked softly. “Because ye ken once ye take those vows, there’s nay turnin’ back.”

“I’m certain.”

“Alyson.” He waited until she looked at him. “Dinnae ever believe that Campbell broke ye. He hurt ye, aye. Scared ye. But ye’re still in there—the girl who used tae sneak honey cakes from the kitchen and race Daemon across the moors. The lass who stood up tae Edwin MacLeod when he tried tae force Catherine’s hand. Ye’re still strong. Still brave.”

“I dinnae feel brave.”

“Aye. I ken.” He squeezed her shoulder, a brief touch that made her tense despite knowing he’d never hurt her. “But if ye ever change yer mind, ever decide ye want tae come home… we’ll be here fer ye. Always.”

The words wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and suffocating at once.

The next morning, alone in her chamber, Alyson stood by her window and watched the rider leave at dawn’s first light. He carried Tòrr’s letter in his saddlebag—formal words requesting passage through MacLean lands for a woman seeking spiritual refuge.

Such simple words to seal a fate.

In a fortnight, perhaps less, the response would come. Laird Keane MacLean would either grant her passage or deny it. Either way, her course was set.

Iona Abbey. Stone walls. Silence. Peace.

The words had become a prayer, repeated endlessly through sleepless nights and anxiety-filled days.

She was going to leave the castle. Leave her family. Leave everything familiar and ride toward a future written in vows and prayers.

She just had to survive until then.

And pray that Cody Grant’s obsession didn’t find her before she reached sanctuary.

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

Chapter One

Glen Moore, Scottish Highlands, Scotland, January 1690

“Easy, lass,” Lady Alyson MacDonald murmured. “There’s naethin’ out there.”

Her mare’s ears flicked softly, picking up something on the wind as they travelled toward Iona Abbey—to stone walls and iron gates and a life where the world couldn’t touch her. Sanctuary. Safety.

The forest pressed close on either side of the narrow road, bare branches reaching overhead like skeletal fingers. Frost clung to everything, turning the world into something crystalline and bitter. Beautiful, if one didn’t look too closely. Beautiful, if one ignored how easily frozen things could shatter.

Like me.

“Birds are restless,” Malcolm, one of her guards, said, his fingers tightening around his sword hilt.

“Aye,” Jamie agreed, his eyes scanning the tree line. “Even the carrion birds ken somethin’s comin’. Me grandfaither always used tae say that when the crows start gatherin’, ‘tis never tae sing ye a lullaby. Means they’re waitin’ fer their feast.”

“That’s the spirit, lad. Keep that optimism burnin’ bright.”

The other men chuckled under their breath at the jest, but Fergus fixed his gaze on Alyson.

Alyson’s fingers found the edge of her cloak, worrying the heavy wool between her thumb and forefinger. The familiar texture grounded her, kept her from drowning in memories that still had teeth.

Five months. It has been five months since Micheal pulled me from that cell. Five months later, and I still wake screamin’, still cannae bear tae have a man stand too close.

Even her brothers—especially her brothers, for they now treated her like something fragile. Their careful distance hurt worse than any wound Campbell had inflicted upon her.

“The abbey will nay doubt offer ye peace, me lady,” Fergus said quietly. “But ye ken what it means, aye? Once ye take those vows—”

“I ken what I’m daein’.” The words came out sharper than intended, and she gentled her tone, her fingers still working the cloak’s edge. “Fergive me, Fergus. I didnae mean tae snap. ‘Tis just… I’m nay longer the person who existed before Campbell. She’s gone. The Abbey will provide safety.”

Her words hung between them because they both knew the truth. Safety came at a price, and she was about to pay for it with the rest of her life.

“Malcom,” Fergus called to one of the younger guards. “How much further tae the crossin’?”

“Another hour, maybe less if we keep this pace.”

They were already well into MacLean territory, and now had to reach the crossing. From there, it was only half a day’s ride to Iona Abbey. Men like Cody Grant couldn’t reach her there with their obsession and their demands.

I’ll be safe behind those walls. Finally, finally safe.

Alyson’s mare tossed her head, nostrils flaring at something on the wind. She stroked the animal’s neck, feeling the nervous energy thrumming through warm muscle and hide. The animal’s coat was damp with sweat despite the cold—another creature who sensed danger before it showed itself.

Behind her, Malcolm’s horse sidled nervously, hooves striking the frozen earth with sharp, rhythmic cracks. Then Iain’s mount joined the restless dance, tossing its head hard enough to make the bit jangle.

Alyson’s gaze swept the tree line. Nothing was moving in the forest, no birds called—even the wind had gone silent, as if the world itself held its breath.

A branch snapped somewhere to the left—sharp as a bone breaking.

Fergus’s head whipped toward the sound, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. Across from him, Dougal did the same, his face going hard as stone.

Then, carried on the frozen air like a whisper, came the distant thunder of hoofbeats.

Fergus’s voice dropped. “I want ye tae stay calm now, me lady.” His one hand dropped to his sword hilt, while the other tightened on the reins with white-knuckled intensity, his body rigid. “But be ready, there’s someone followin’ us.”

Every muscle in Alyson’s body went rigid. Her heart hammered against her ribs hard enough to bruise.

Nay. Nae now. We’re so close…

“Could be naethin’.” Dougal’s hand waited patiently on his sword hilt, belying his words. “What d’ye reckon, Fergus?”

Fergus’s jaw tightened. “Malcolm, Iain—fall back. Eyes on the tree line. The rest of ye, close ranks.”

The warriors moved with silent efficiently, tightening their formation around her. “Blast it! ‘Tis colder than a witch’s—”, Jamie muttered, earning him a sharp look from Fergus that would have been comical in any other circumstance.

Alyson forced herself to breathe through her nose, to loosen her death grip on the cloak before she tore the fabric.

‘Tis probably naethin’… just travelers. Just—

But Fergus wouldn’t have given orders if it was nothing.

“How long have they been followin’ us?” she hated the tremor in her voice, hated the weakness it revealed.

“Hard tae say,” Dougal kept his gaze fixed on something behind them, something she couldn’t see. His jaw worked as he chewed the inside of his cheek—a nervous habit she’d noticed in him before every raid back at Keppoch. “Could’ve picked up our trail at first light. Maybe before even.”

“How many?”

“Cannae tell yet. They’re smart—keepin’ their distance, stayin’ just out of sight.”

Alyson’s mare began to sidestep, catching her rider’s fear like a contagion. She ran her hand along the animal’s neck in long, soothing strokes, even as panic clawed at her throat.

Breathe. Ye survived Campbell. Ye can survive this.

“Me lady,” Iain’s face had gone pale, making his freckles stand out like bloodstains on snow. “Can ye ride faster?”

Six pairs of eyes turned to her, waiting. These men—barely more than boys, some of them—would die for her. She knew their names, had gotten to know them well on this journey, though she wished she hadn’t. Names made losses real. Names turned warriors into fathers and husbands and sons. Names carved themselves into one’s memory like epitaphs waiting to be spoken.

The sight of them should have comforted her, but instead, it only reminded her of how many men had already died because of her and the knowledge sat like stones in her belly.

“Aye,” she said, straightening her spine. “I can ride as fast as needed.”

“Then we ride.” Fergus spurred his mount forward. “Now!”

They kicked their horses into a gallop. The sudden acceleration made Alyson’s stomach lurch, but her mare responded beautifully—powerful legs eating up the frozen ground, hooves thundering against packed earth. The rhythmic pounding became their battle drum, declaring war against whoever dared pursue them. Wind whipped at Alyson’s face, stinging her eyes, pulling strands of dark hair loose from beneath her hood.

Behind them, other hoofbeats answered. Growing louder. Growing closer.

“How many?” Fergus shouted over the pounding rhythm.

“At least a dozen!” Dougal’s voice carried back. “Maybe more!”

A dozen against six?

The arithmetic was simple, brutal. Even if her guards were the finest warriors in the Highlands—and they were good—those numbers spelled trouble.

The thunder of hoofbeats behind them had become a living thing—hungry, relentlessly closing the distance with every heartbeat. Alyson’s mare stumbled slightly on the frozen ground, then recovered, though it cost her fractions of a second—which could mean the difference between life and death.

Her ears pricked to the creak of leather as someone drew back a bowstring.

Fergus’s face had gone white, his knuckles bloodless on his reins. When his eyes met hers, she saw her own fear reflected there.

“Ride!!” His roar split the air. “RIDE!”

“The trees!” Malcolm pointed toward denser forest ahead. “If we can reach cover—”

An arrow whistled past Alyson’s head.

She felt the breathless whisper of its passage, felt death brushing against her skin like a lover’s caress. The arrow embedded itself in a tree trunk, shaft still quivering. The fletching was dyed red—Grant colors. A declaration of intent.

Then, the air filled with whispers—dozens of them as arrows flew towards them.

“Ride like the devil himself is at yer heels!” Fergus roared.

Alyson leaned low over her mare’s neck, making herself small, and gave the animal her lead. The mare surged forward with a burst of speed that blurred the world to streaks of grey and white and brown.

An arrow struck the ground inches from her mare’s hooves. The animal screamed—high and terrified—and veered sharply. Alyson clung to the saddle, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat, every muscle burning with effort.

Please let us reach the crossin’, please—

Wood splintered nearby—another arrow finding a tree. They were getting too close. Her mare’s sides heaved beneath her, muscles flexing with desperation.

“They’re flankin’ us!” Iain’s voice cracked. “Both sides!”

Fergus wheeled his horse around. For one terrible moment, his eyes met hers—full of apology, full of grief for what he had to do.

“Dougal, Iain, Liam—get Lady Alyson intae the forest! The rest, with me!”

“Fergus, nay!” But her cry was lost in the chaos as the group fractured. Three warriors surrounded her, urging their mounts toward the tree line while Fergus and the others wheeled back to face their pursuers.

They’re goin’ tae die because of me.

They rode through undergrowth, the mare heaving beneath her. Dougal led them, his broader mount clearing a path through bracken. Iain brought up the rear, constantly looking back. Liam stayed close to her left, his sword already drawn.

The thunder of pursuing hoofbeats grew louder again. Closer. Accompanied by shouts in rough Highland voices that made her skin crawl with fear.

“There!” Liam pointed toward a break in the trees. “If we can reach the ridge we—”

His words ended in a strangled gasp. An arrow sprouted from his shoulder like some obscene flower. He pitched forward, somehow staying mounted even as blood began to soak through his shirt.

“Keep goin’!” Liam’s face had gone grey, but his voice remained steady. “Dinnae stop fer—”

Warriors burst through the trees like demons conjured from nightmare. They came from both sides at once, horses crashing through undergrowth with terrifying speed. Alyson caught flashes of tartan bearing Grant colors, of grim faces and drawn weapons, before chaos descended.

They’ve come fer me!

She kicked her mare forward, desperate to break through. A massive hand shot out and seized her reins. Her mare reared, hooves flailing at empty air, and this time, Alyson couldn’t hold on.

The world tilted and she felt herself falling, felt that sickening moment of weightlessness, then hit frozen earth with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. Sharp pain exploded through her shoulder, her hip, radiating outward in waves that made her vision blur.

Get up. Get. Up. GET UP!

But her body wouldn’t obey. She lay there gasping—vision swimming, ears ringing with more than just the impact.

“Got her!” someone bellowed triumphantly.

Through the haze of pain, Alyson saw boots approaching—heavy, deliberate. A shadow fell across her, blocking out what little light filtered through the canopy.

Memories slashed at her. Horrible ones she’d fought so hard to escape.

Rough hands grabbed her arms, hauling her upright. Alyson thrashed weakly, but whoever held her was far stronger. The world slowly stopped spinning, but the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth—she must’ve bitten her tongue in the fall.

Dougal lay motionless on the ground, his blood staining the ice-covered earth in a growing pool of crimson. His eyes stared at nothing, already glazed over. Iain knelt nearby, disarmed, with a sword at his throat. Liam had finally fallen from his horse—but whether he was unconscious or dead, she couldn’t tell.

They’re dead because I needed protection. Because I couldnae just stay put.

Her fingers found the edge of her torn cloak, rubbing the fabric frantically.

“Well now,” the man holding her—a scarred brute with cold eyes—grinned down at her. “His lairdship’s goin’ tae be very pleased.”

Alyson tried to speak, but terror had stolen her voice. All she could manage was a weak shake of her head, her fingers still working the cloak’s edge like a talisman against evil.

“Och, dinnae fash yerself, lassie.” His breath was hot and rank against her face. “We willnae hurt ye and spoil yer weddin’ night.”

Weddin’?

The word cut through her paralysis like a blade through silk.

“Nay,” she managed. “I’ll never—”

“Ye’ll dae as yer told.” He yanked her closer, making her stumble. “Ye’ll pay the debt the MacDonald clan owes Laird Grant!”

He shoved her, and turned around as another warrior approached—older, grey streaking his beard. “Bind her. We need tae move before—”

A rock struck him square in the temple with a wet, meaty sound.

The grey-bearded man staggered, blood trickling down his face. It ran into his eye, and he pawed at it with one hand, cursing in Gaelic. For one single heartbeat, everyone froze in shock.

I cannae believe I actually hit him!

“Ye wee bitch!” the scarred man lunged toward her. “Ye’ll regret—”

She drove her foot up between his legs with every ounce of strength she could muster. His agonized howl split the air, and Alyson ran.

She didn’t know where she was running, didn’t care. She simply picked a direction and ran with single-minded desperation, branches whipping at her face, roots threatening to trip her with every step.

Her cloak caught on a thorn bush, but she tore it free and kept going. Her lungs were on fire, her legs screaming in protest, but she kept pushing forward.

Behind her, they shouted, crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit.

Just a wee bit further. Just—

A deer jumped in front of her, and Alyson startled and veered sharply left, her ankle twisting in a hole. She went down hard, palms scraping against sharp stones that bit deep.

Ye have tae get up. If they catch ye—

Heavy footsteps approached from behind. Alyson rolled onto her back, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she stared up at the warrior looming over her.

She opened her mouth—to scream, to fight, to do something…

But darkness was already creeping in at the edges of her vision, her body finally surrendering to exhaustion and terror and the weight of too many nightmares made flesh.

The last thing she saw before the world went black was the man’s face –all predatory malice wrapped up in harsh lines.

And then, nothing.

Chapter Two

“We need tae move before MacLean’s men find us.”

The rough gravelly voice dragged Alyson back to consciousness, like a fishhook through flesh. Pain throbbed behind her eyes, and when she tried to move, rough hemp bit into her wrists as someone yanked her arms behind her back.

Nay… this cannae be happenin’ again!

“Should we gag her?” Another voice said, younger.

“Aye. But dinnae hurt her… much,” he chuckled. “His lairdship wants her intact.”

Alyson forced her eyes open despite the persistent pounding in her skull. Grant warriors surrounded her, their faces grim with purpose. She sat propped against a tree trunk, head still spinning. She peered through the bare branches overhead, noticing that the sun had climbed higher—how long had she been unconscious?

Her ribs ached where she’d hit the ground. Her palms stung from scraping against stones. But worse than any physical pain was the suffocating weight of anxiety pressing down on her chest, stealing her breath.

The smell hit her next—leather and sweat and something metallic that might have been blood. Old blood. These men had killed recently, and the evidence of it clung to them like a shroud that made her stomach churn.

The surrounding forest was eerily quiet now—no birdsong, no rustling leaves… just the harsh breathing of the men and the thundering of her own pulse in her ears. Frost clung to the shadows where sunlight couldn’t reach, making everything look sharp edged and dangerous.

Count, Alyson.

One… two… three…

But the numbers scattered like birds before a storm, refusing to stay in her fractured thoughts.

“Glad ye could join us, lass.” The scarred man crouched before her, his smile making bile rise in her throat. His breath reeked of ale and rot, and up close, she could see the puckered tissue that ran from his temple to his jaw—some old battle wound that had healed poorly. “Gave us quite a chase, ye did. But it’s over now.” He cackled.

“Over?” she repeated hoarsely. Her tongue felt thick, her throat raw from screaming. She met his gaze and held it even as her fingers clutched frantically at her skirts. “Ye think draggin’ me before Grant solves anythin’?”

“Aye. Solves everythin’.” He said, reaching toward her face.

Alyson jerked back hard enough to crack her skull against the tree trunk. Stars burst across her vision, but she’d rather split her head open than let him touch her.

The bark bit into her scalp through her loose hair—when had she lost her braid? The memory flickered—the chase, branches tearing at her, her hair coming undone as they’d ran wildly through the forest.

The scarred man laughed. “Och… his lairdship’s goin’ tae enjoy ye!”

Never.

But her voice had fled. The rope bit into her wrists painfully—too tight, too familiar—her breath faster, shallower, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision again.

Nay. Breathe! Ye survived Campbell, ye can survive this.

She pressed her fingers harder into her skirt, concentrating on the texture—rough wool. Real.

But her heartbeat wouldn’t slow. Each breath came shorter than the last, and she could feel panic clawing up her throat like something living and desperate.

“Steady now,” one of the younger warriors muttered, though whether to himself, or her, Alyson couldn’t tell. His hand trembled slightly on his sword hilt. He couldn’t have been a day over twenty, with a sparse beard that looked more hopeful than genuine. His eyes kept darting to the trees nervously.

Good. At least I’m nae the only one.

The scarred man stood, brushing frost from his knees. “Get her on her feet. We’ve wasted enough time chasin’ this wee bird through the woods.”

Rough hands hauled her upright. Her legs nearly buckled, muscles screaming in protest. The world tilted dangerously, and for one terrible moment, she thought she might throw up right there. “Where…” she managed, her voice strained, “where are me guards?”

The silence that followed said enough.

They’re probably all dead because of me.

“Dinnae ye fash yerself about them,” the scarred man said. “Only thing ye need tae concern yerself with is pleasin’ his lairdship.”

Then, a hand clamped around her throat, fingers pressing against her windpipe—not quite choking, not yet, just a promise of what could happen if she tried to scream. The touch caused every muscle in her body to lock tightly, going rigid as her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, blurring at the edges.

“Ye be quiet as a wee church mouse now, ye hear?” He snarled in a whisper, his breath hot and sour against her face. “Such a shame that such a bonnie lass almost ended up at a nunnery—”

An arrow took him through the eye.

He jerked back with a wet, choking sound, his hand falling away from her throat as he toppled sideways into the frozen leaves.

And for one impossible moment, everything went silent, the entire world holding its breath. Alyson stared at the fletching—red feathers, still quivering slightly as blood pooled beneath the man’s body, steaming against the frozen ground.

“Bàs no Beatha!” A war cry tore through the forest.

Death or life.

It came from everywhere at once—primal, and fierce enough to halt the blood in Alyson’s veins. The Grant warriors went absolutely rigid, heads snapping toward the sound. She could see it in their eyes—the knowledge that they were already dead.

Then, chaos erupted.

Warriors poured from the trees like a sudden storm—a dozen at least, weapons drawn, faces carved from ancient Highland stone and fury. But the man leading the group was the one who made her forget how to breathe.

He stood taller than any man she’d ever seen, built like the standing stones of the old places—broad and immovable and pure masculine energy. Dark hair whipped around a face all harsh angles and unforgiving lines. The sword in his hand looked as natural on him as if it was an extension of his arm.

Even through terror, even with death skulking the ground around them, Alyson couldn’t help but notice things she had absolutely no business noticing, like the way his shoulders filled his leather jerkin with an ease that spoke of natural strength rather than practiced posturing. Or the controlled precision in every single movement—the grace of a predator who’d never once questioned his place at the apex.

And he was looking at her like she was the most interesting thing in that blood-soaked clearing.

The man’s about tae kill everyone and here I am noticin’ how bonnie he is? I’ve lost me mind entirely!

His blade sang through the air. The grey-bearded man released Alyson and fumbled for his weapon, but death had already found him. Steel flashed once—brutal and efficient—and he crumpled without a sound.

Hot blood sprayed across Alyson’s face and neck.

She stumbled backward, bound hands making her clumsy, barely keeping her footing. Around her, the clearing had become a slaughterhouse. The newcomers fought with surgical precision—not a single wasted movement, no hesitation. Steel sparked against steel. Men shouted. The coppery stench of blood thickened the winter air until Alyson could taste it on her tongue.

What followed was less battle than execution.

The Grant warriors tried to form a defensive line, but it was like trying to hold back an avalanche with one’s bare hands. The newcomers cut through them with brutal efficiently. Once of the younger Grant soldiers tried to run, and an arrow took him in the back. He went down screaming, clawing at the shaft protruding from his chest.

The scarred man was skilled, but the dark-haired giant dismantled him with terrifying ease. Three parries, two feints, then his blade swept up inside the man’s defense, slicing him open from groin to throat in one fluid motion.

The brute’s eyes went wide. He looked down at the ruin of his body, back up at the warrior’s impassive face, and collapsed. The sound he made—wet and gurgling and utterly wrong—would haunt Alyson’s dreams for weeks to come. Her fingers found the edge of her torn sleeve, pressing into the fabric frantically even as nausea rolled through her.

Dinnae look. Dinnae look at what’s spillin’ ontae the ground.

But she couldn’t look away. Some distant part of her knew she should close her eyes, turn her head, but she remained frozen in place—watching as the dark-haired warrior pulled his blade free and stepped over the body like it was no more significant than a fallen branch.

His movements were economical, almost beautiful. There weren’t any flourishes, no wasted energy. Just pure, controlled violence delivered with certainty. This was a man who’d killed before and would certainly kill again without hesitation.

Should I be terrified, or grateful?

Around them, the last of the fighting sputtered out. Bodies littered the frost-covered ground, steam rising from their wounds in the cold air. The warrior wiped his blade clean on a dead man’s plaid, his expression carved from Highland granite. His gaze swept the clearing with cold assessment. The remaining Grant warriors fell quickly—outnumbered, outmatched, dying on Highland steel before they could mount any defense.

Then, those amber eyes found her. And she realized, she was both.

They reminded her of whisky held up to the firelight—amber with flecks of gold and brown. Even terrified, even covered in another person’s blood with her hands bound and her world crumbling, Alyson couldn’t help but notice the strong lines of his body—pure coiled energy and controlled violence. The scar bisecting his left eyebrow, and how his presence seemed to warp the very air around him, making everything else fade into insignificance.

He’s the most dangerous and most bonnie thing I’ve ever seen.

And he’d just saved her life.

The warrior crossed the clearing toward her. His boots made no sound on the frozen ground—a predator’s silence that sent fresh shivers down her spine. Alyson fought every instinct screaming at her to run, to cower, to make herself small. Instead, she took a steadying breath and lifted her chin, meeting his intense gaze even as her pulse hammered in her throat.

I willnae cower. Nae again. Nae ever again.

He stopped an arm’s length away. Up close, he was even more imposing—all bulk and silent authority that radiated from him like heat from a forge. His eyes travelled over her face, her torn cloak, her bound wrists. Something flickered in his expression—there and gone too fast to name.

“Can ye stand?” his voice matched the rest of him—rough and uncompromising, like gravel grinding under boot heels.

I’m already standin’, ye great ox.

Alyson thought she detected something else beneath the harshness, something that sounded almost like concern, but her legs were trembling so badly she wasn’t certain how much longer that would remain true. She locked her knees, wiling her body to remain upright.

“Lass. Look at me.”

Her chin lifted before she could stop herself, some stubborn part of her refusing to run, even now.

Up close, his face was all harsh planes and sharp lines—the face of a warrior who’d seen too much death and dealt too much of it himself. But there was something else underneath.

Then, their eyes met.

And Alyson MacDonald realized with perfect, terrifying clarity that her life was about to change forever.

“Me laird.” A broad-shouldered warrior approached from the left, his sword still dripping. He had dark hair streaked with silver at the temples and a long scar across his jaw that gave him a roguish appearance despite the blood spattered across his face. “The area’s clear. Nay sign of reinforcements.”

The towering man didn’t take his eyes off Alyson. “Tristan!” his voice cut through the clearing like a blade. “Check the tree line. Make certain we’re alone.”

A younger warrior peeled away from the group—lean and wiry, with black hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. He moved through the trees with the confidence of a man half wild, disappearing into the forest without a sound.

Around them, the other warriors were already at work. One kicked through the bodies, checking for survivors—though from the efficiency of their attack, Alyson doubted they’d find any. Another gathered fallen weapons with practiced ease, sliding them into a leather pack.

“Kenneth!” Boyd called to a grizzled warrior with a silver beard. “Get the horses. His lairdship will want tae move quickly.”

“On it.” The older man jogged toward the trees, his gait slightly uneven—an old injury, perhaps.

Alyson’s mind struggled to process it all. The systematic way they moved. The easy authority in their laird’s voice. These weren’t raiders or bandits—these were trained warriors, disciplined and deadly.

And their laird was still watching her with those unsettling amber eyes.

“Ye’re bleedin’.” His voice was quieter now, though no less commanding.

She touched her temple and her fingers came away red. She hadn’t even felt it—it must have happened when she’d cracked her head against the tree. “‘Tis naethin’.”

“‘Tis blood, lass.” He reached toward her face, then stopped himself, his hand hovering in the air between them. For a moment, something almost like uncertainty crossed his features. “May I?”

The question caught her off guard. After everything—after being dragged and bound and threatened—this stranger was asking permission to touch her?

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they tilted her face to the side, examining the wound with clinical efficiency. That close, she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint white scars that marked his hands. A warrior’s hands, but steady. Careful.

“Shallow,” he pronounced. “It’ll bruise, but ye’ll live.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone—barely a touch, there and gone—before he stepped back.

The warrior called Tristan emerged from the trees, shaking his head. “Clear fer now, but Grant’s men willnae be far. They’ll have heard the fightin’.”

“Then we dinnae linger.” The laird turned back to Alyson, and for the first time, she saw something that might have been concern flicker in those amber depths. “Can ye ride?”

“I…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again, lifting her chin with as much dignity as she could muster. “Aye. I can ride.”

“Good. Ye’re comin’ with us.”

It wasn’t a request.

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Eleven Years Earlier – Lancaster’s Dungeon, 1361

“Please… please, I want tae go home.”

Isla’s voice was barely a whisper in the darkness, hoarse from crying and calling for help that never came. She huddled in the corner of the tiny cell, her knees pulled to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.

The cold stone pressed against her back, leeching warmth from her small body. She couldn’t remember what warmth felt like anymore. Couldn’t remember sunshine, or her mother’s arms, or the sound of her father’s laugh. All she knew was darkness and cold and the constant gnawing fear that she would die there, alone and forgotten.

“I want me maither,” she whispered to the shadows. “I want tae go home.”

No one answered. They never did.

She didn’t even know why she was here. One moment she’d been playing in the gardens at Fletcher lands, and the next – rough hands grabbing her, a cloth over her mouth, darkness. When she’d woken, she was in this cell, and men with English accents were telling her she was being held for ransom.

“Yer faither will pay,” they’d said. “And until he daes, ye stay here.”

But no payment had come. No rescue. Just endless days of darkness broken only by the thin gruel they pushed through the slot in the door once a day.

She was eleven years old, and she was going to die there.

The sound of footsteps on stone made her flinch deeper into her corner. They came twice a day or twice a day, depending. Once with food, once to empty the chamber pot. She’d learned not to speak to them, not to beg. They either ignored her or laughed at her tears.

But those footsteps were different. Multiple sets, moving fast, and accompanied by voices. Shouting voices.

Scottish voices. Isla’s head snapped up, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. Was she imagining it? Had hunger and darkness finally driven her mad?

Then she heard it clearly:

“Check every cell! We’re nae leavin’ anyone behind!”

Steel rang against steel somewhere above. Men screamed. More footsteps, running now, coming closer.

Isla scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking from disuse. “Here!” Her voice came out as a croak. “I’m here! Please, I’m here!”

The footsteps paused outside her cell. Torchlight suddenly blazed through the small window in the door, painfully bright after so long in darkness. She threw up her hands to shield her eyes.

“Someone’s in here!” a voice called. Young, male, urgent. “Get this door open!”

“Stand back from the door!” another voice commanded.

Isla pressed herself against the far wall, her heart racing so fast she thought it might burst. It was real. It was happening. Someone had come.

The door shuddered under a heavy impact. Once. Twice. On the third strike, wood splintered and the door crashed inward.

Torchlight flooded the cell, and Isla had to squeeze her eyes shut against the brightness. When she could finally squint them open, she saw figures silhouetted in the doorway. Warriors, she realized. Scottish warriors in Cameron colors.

“Sweet Christ,” one of them breathed. “She’s just a bairn.”

“Isla Fletcher?” The voice was closer now, gentle. “Are ye Isla Fletcher?”

She tried to answer but her voice wouldn’t work. She managed a nod.

“We’re here tae take ye home.” The speaker moved into the cell, and as Isla’s eyes adjusted, she could finally see him properly.

He was young, not even twenty, she guessed, with dark hair and the kindest grey eyes she’d ever seen. He wore a sword at his hip and blood spattered his clothes, but his expression as he looked at her was nothing but gentle concern.

“Are ye hurt, lass?” He knelt before her, bringing himself to her level. “Did they harm ye?”

“N-nay.” Her voice was barely audible. “Just… just locked me here. In the dark.”

“Well, ye’re nae in the dark anymore.” He offered his hand. “Me name is Seoc Cameron. And I’m goin’ tae take ye home tae yer family. Is that all right?”

She stared at his hand for a long moment, hardly daring to believe it was real. Then, slowly, she reached out and took it. His palm was warm and rough with calluses, and his grip was gentle but steady.

“That’s it. That’s brave.” He helped her to her feet, then frowned as she swayed. “When did ye last eat?”

“This… this mornin’. I think. They bring gruel once a day, but I dinnae…” She couldn’t remember. Time had lost all meaning in the darkness.

“Right.” Without asking permission, he scooped her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. “Hold ontae me neck. Can ye dae that?”

She nodded and wrapped her thin arms around his neck, pressing her face against his shoulder. He smelled of leather and metal and something green and alive, the outside world she’d thought she’d never see again.

“I’ve got her,” he called to the others. “Let’s move.”

They carried her upstairs that seemed to go on forever, through corridors that rang with the sounds of fighting. Isla kept her face buried against Seoc’s shoulder, not wanting to see, not wanting to know what violence had been necessary to reach her.

“Is she the only one?” someone asked.

“Looks like it. The other cells were empty.” Seoc’s arms tightened around her. “But one is enough. We got what we came fer.”

“The English are rallyin’ at the gate. We need tae go. Now.”

“Then let’s go.”

They burst out into daylight so bright it hurt. Isla squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by sensation after so long in darkness. Fresh air. Sunlight. The smell of grass and sky and freedom.

“Easy,” Seoc murmured, his voice close to her ear. “I ken it’s overwhelmin’. Just hold on tae me. I’ve got ye.”

More shouting. The clash of steel. Horses screaming. But through it all, Seoc’s arms remained steady, carrying her away from the nightmare that had been her prison.

“Get her on the horse!” someone shouted. “We need tae ride!”

Seoc lifted her onto a massive black stallion, then swung up behind her. His arms went around her, holding her secure against his chest, one hand on the reins and the other wrapped protectively around her waist.

“Hold tight,” he said. “We’re goin’ tae ride fast, but I willnae let ye fall. I promise.”

The horse lunged forward. Isla grabbed onto Seoc’s arm with both hands, terrified of falling, but he kept his word. His grip never wavered, his body sheltering hers as they galloped away from Lancaster’s fortress.

She didn’t know how long they rode. Time seemed to blur again, but in a different way, not the endless grey sameness of the cell, but a rush of sensation and sound and movement. Eventually they slowed, the horses pulling to a stop in a clearing where more men waited.

“Did ye get her?” someone called.

“Aye.” Seoc dismounted, then gently lifted Isla down. “Isla, this is Rhodri. He’s me second-in-command. He’s going tae look after ye fer a moment while I speak with the men. Is that all right?”

She didn’t want him to leave. He was the only solid thing in a world that had tilted sideways. But she nodded, trying to be brave.

“Good lass.” He squeezed her shoulder, then moved away to confer with the other warriors.

Rhodri knelt beside her, his face creased with concern. “How are ye holdin’ up, wee one?”

“I dinnae ken.” It was the most honest answer she could give. “Is this real? Am I really free?”

“Aye, ye’re really free. We’re takin’ ye home tae yer Da and Ma. They’ve been frantic with worry.”

“They… they remembered me?” The question came out small and broken. After how long she’d been there, she’d started to think maybe no one cared, that maybe they’d forgotten her.

“Remembered ye? Lass, they’ve thought of naethin’ else. Yer Da tried tae mount a rescue himself twice, but the English defenses were too strong. That’s when he came tae Laird Cameron fer help.”

“Why would the Camerons help?”

“Because that’s what honor demands. A child in danger, clan politics be damned.” Rhodri smiled. “Plus, young Seoc there insisted. Wouldnae take nay fer an answer. Said nay bairn should suffer like that if we had the power tae stop it.”

Isla looked over at Seoc, who was organizing the men for the journey home. He caught her looking and offered a reassuring smile.

“He saved me,” she whispered.

“Aye, he did. And he’ll make sure ye get home safely. That’s the kind of man he is.”

They rode through the day and into the night, stopping only briefly to rest the horses and let Isla eat something more substantial than gruel. Seoc stayed close throughout, checking on her, making sure she had water and food, speaking to her in that same gentle voice.

“Are ye cold?” he asked when she shivered during one stop. Without waiting for an answer, he draped his own cloak around her shoulders. “Better?”

“Aye. Thank ye.” She pulled the heavy fabric closer, breathing in the scent of freedom.

“We’ll reach Fletcher lands by tomorrow afternoon. Yer parents will be waitin’ fer ye.”

“What if…” She couldn’t finish the question. What if they didn’t want her anymore? What if being captive had somehow made her less than she was?

“What if what?” he prompted gently.

“What if they dinnae want me back? What if I’m… broken now?”

“Oh, lass.” He crouched down to her level, his grey eyes serious. “Listen tae me. Ye are nae broken. Ye survived somethin’ terrible, aye, but that makes ye strong, nae weak. And yer parents? They love ye more than anythin’ in this world. They’ll be so happy tae have ye home that naethin’ else will matter.”

“How dae ye ken?”

“Because I’ve met yer faither. I’ve seen how he speaks about ye, how desperate he was tae get ye back. That’s a man who’ll nae see ye as anythin’ but precious.” He touched her cheek gently. “Trust me on this.”

She did trust him. This man who’d broken down doors to find her, who’d carried her to safety, who’d given her his cloak and his gentleness and his certainty that she was worth saving.

“Will I see ye again?” she asked suddenly. “After ye take me home?”

“Perhaps. Fletcher and Cameron lands arenae so far apart. And somethin’ tells me ye’re nae the type tae be easily forgotten.”

She felt her cheeks heat. “I’m only eleven.”

“Aye, but ye’re eleven and brave enough tae survive three months in a dungeon without breakin’. That’s nae naethin’, Isla Fletcher. Remember that.”

They rode through the next day, and as the sun began its descent toward the horizon, familiar landmarks appeared. Isla’s heart started racing as she recognized the hills near her home.

“Almost there,” Seoc said from behind her. “Can ye see the keep?”

“Aye.” Tears blurred her vision. “I can see it.”

As they approached the gates, people began to pour out of the castle. Isla saw her mother first, her dark hair flying as she ran down the path. Then her father, his face transformed by joy and relief.

“Isla! Isla, me darlin’ girl!”

Seoc brought the horse to a stop and Isla practically fell off, stumbling toward her parents on legs that barely worked. Her mother caught her first, dropping to her knees to pull Isla into an embrace so tight it drove the breath from her lungs.

“Me baby. Me sweet baby. Ye’re home. Ye’re finally home.”

“Maither.” The word came out as a sob. “Maither, I was so frightened.”

“I ken. I ken, darlin’. But ye’re safe now. Ye’re home.” Her father’s arms came around them both, and Isla found herself enveloped in the warmth and safety she’d dreamed about every night in that cold cell.

Eventually, she looked up to find Seoc still on his horse, watching the reunion with a soft smile.

“Wait. I need tae…” She moved back toward him, her legs shaky. “Thank ye. Thank ye fer comin’ fer me. Fer nae leavin’ me there.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” He smiled at her. “Take care of yerself, Isla Fletcher. And remember, ye’re stronger than ye ken.”

“I’ll remember.” She wanted to say more, wanted to tell him that he was her hero, that she’d never forget him, that somehow she knew that moment would matter forever. But she was eleven and exhausted and overwhelmed, so she just whispered, “I’ll remember ye. I promise.”

“Good.” He nodded to her parents. “Laird Fletcher. Lady Fletcher. Yer daughter is home safe, as promised.”

“We’re in yer debt,” her father said, his voice thick with emotion. “Whatever ye need, whenever ye need it, ye have only tae ask.”

“Just take care of that brave lass. That’s payment enough.”

He wheeled his horse around and rode away, his men following. Isla watched until they disappeared over the hill, her hand pressed against the place where his cloak had been.

Someday, she promised herself. Someday I’ll be brave like him. Someday I’ll be strong enough to save people too.

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

Chapter One

Glen of Leny, near Callander, Scotland, 1372

“I willnae dae it, I tell ye.”

The Glen of Leny stretched around them, a neutral ground where Clan Fletcher, Cameron nor any clan claimed dominion. Here, between the routes of Argyll and Lochaber, two clans had raised their tents for the formal exchange that would bind their houses in alliance. Today, Isla Fletcher would be handed over to her betrothed, Seoc Cameron, sealing a debt nine years in the making.

Isla’s words hung between them in the tent, even after she had stopped talking. Her mother’s hands stilled on the silver-handled brush she’d been fiddling nervously with, her reflection meeting her daughter’s in the small looking glass.

The maids had been fussing over Isla’s hair for what felt like hours, weaving ribbons through the dark strands and pinching her cheeks to bring color to them. At Isla’s words, movement stilled in the room.

“Leave us,” Jane Fletcher spoke in a whisper, her tone deadly calm. “I’ll finish preparin’ her meself.”

When the last maid curtsied and left the tent, her mother turned to her.

“Ye will, because ye must.”

Her mother reached for her hair, but Isla jerked away from her touch, sending the carefully arranged ribbons scattering across the makeshift dressing table.

“Must I? Or is this just more convenient than findin’ another way tae solve our clan’s problems?”

“Isla Fletcher.” Her mother’s voice carried the steel that had made her a formidable lady of the Highlands despite her gentle appearance. “Sit down.”

“I’m twenty years old, nae a child tae be dressed up and handed over.” Isla stood straighter, matching her tone with her own. But then, she sighed, sitting down anyway. “Maither, I’m too young tae be bound tae a man.”

“So are ye too young or nae too young? Make up yer mind, lass,” Her mother’s laugh held no humor. “I can tell ye ye’re nae too young tae understand duty, or tae honor the debt that saved yer very life. Many lasses wed younger than ye, and with far less cause fer gratitude.”

Her mother set the brush aside with deliberate calm. “Look at me daughter”, she placed a palm under Isla’s chin and lifted it so Isla was forced to look into her eyes. “Ye need to understand that yer marriage is fer the sake of the progress of both our clans.”

“So I am tae be traded off like cattle at market.”

“How dare ye say that when good men died tae bring ye home?” Her green eyes blazed with fury Isla had rarely seen. “Fer heaven’s sake, daughter, Seoc Cameron rode intae English territory tae pull ye from Lancaster’s dungeons!”

Isla felt her heart begin to race at the memory. He had appeared like a hero from the legends and saved her. She had never forgotten him and her heart had fluttered every time she had seen him since. But she didn’t really know him and, now that the time had actually come, worried that her feelings were just a childhood fantasy and not strong enough to leave her home, her family and face being tied to someone that she realistically barely knew for the rest of her life. “That was nine years ago,” she whispered.

“Nine years, three months, and sixteen days.” The precise count stopped her cold. “Dae ye think I’ve forgotten? Dae ye think yer faither has? Ye were eleven years old, Isla, eleven, and if nae fer the Camerons…”

She didn’t need to finish. Isla remembered enough. The cold stone walls, the English voices outside her cell, the gnawing certainty that she would never see home again. Then boots on stairs, Scottish voices shouting, and a young warrior with grey eyes pulling her into the light. She would never forget those eyes.

“I remember,” Isla whispered. “When he… when he brought me home.”

Her mother’s expression softened. “Aye, I ken ye dae. Ye were quite taken with him then.”

Heat flooded Isla’s cheeks. “I was eleven, Maither. A child with foolish fancies.”

“Foolish? The lad risked his life fer ye, asked fer naethin’ in return. That’s the stuff of ballads, daughter.”

“That’s different from this.” Isla gestured helplessly at her wedding finery. “He was kind tae a frightened child. It daesnae mean he’ll be a good husband tae the woman I’ve become.”

Jane tilted her head, studying her daughter. “What dae ye remember of him?”

Despite herself, Isla smiled slightly. “Grey eyes. He had the most remarkable grey eyes, like storm clouds. And he spoke tae me like I was a real person, nae like I was just some poor lass needin’ rescuin’.” She paused. “He promised he’d see me safely home, and he did. Every mile of that journey, he made sure I felt protected.”

“Then ye remember what we owe them.”

“Maither…” Feeling helpless, Isla sank back onto the wooden stool. “What terms is Faither discussin’ with the Camerons? What exactly are they negotiatin’ in that tent?”

Jane resumed brushing her hair, but her movements had grown careful, guarded. “I dinnae ken the details, daughter.”

“Ye dinnae ken? Or ye willnae tell me?”

“Truly, I dinnae ken. Yer faither… he keeps such matters between himself and his advisors.” Her voice softened. “But I’m certain he’s daein’ his best tae ensure ye’ll be well cared fer.”

Isla felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Highland air. If her own mother didn’t know what price was being negotiated for her hand, what did that say about her value in this arrangement?

But there was nothing she could do to change it. Nothing she could say that would matter. Her fate was being decided by men in another tent. The realization settled in her stomach like a cold stone.

Her mother must have seen something in her expression, because she moved to stand beside her stool. Her hands were warm as they covered Isla’s cold ones.

“Listen tae me, daughter,” she said softly. “I ken this feels like the end of everythin’ ye’ve kent. But marriage… it daesnae have tae be a prison.”

“How can ye say that when ye see what little choice I have?”

“Love can grow, sweetheart, even from the smallest beginnings.”

Isla felt a flutter stir in her belly, even as her mind flashed to Seoc’s grey eyes. Those had all been mere fantasies of a lass. Everything was different now.

“What if it daesnae?” She whispered.

“Then ye make the best of what ye have. Ye’re strong, Isla, stronger than ye ken. And from what I remember of young Seoc Cameron, he’s an honorable man. Only an honorable man would have saved ye the way he did when he had naethin’ to gain.”

Jane pulled her into a gentle embrace. “It’s nae always so terrible as it seems in the beginnin’.”

“What’s he like now?” she asked finally. “Seoc.”

Her mother pulled back, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Tired, I would guess. Angry more likely. His faither clung tae power too long, and the clan suffered fer it. Failed harvests, constant raids from the Mackintoshes…” She paused. “His braither died in a skirmish last spring.”

“I didnae ken.”

“Aye. The heir, golden-haired Ewan, everythin’ Raibeart wanted in a son.” Her voice held sympathy Isla hadn’t expected. “Now Seoc carries that burden too.”

Before she could ask more, a small tornado burst through the tent flap in the form of her nine-year-old brother.

“Isla!” Ualan launched himself at her with enough force to nearly topple them both. “Faither willnae let me come with ye! I told him I could help guard ye and fight the Mackintoshes.”

“Hello, little warrior.” Isla caught him in a fierce hug, breathing in his familiar scent of sunshine and mischief. At least this would be simple. Ualan loved her without conditions or political calculations. “Ye cannae come because I need ye tae dae somethin’ more important.”

His bright eyes, their father’s eyes, widened with interest. “What?”

“Keep Da from doaen’ anythin’ too reckless while I’m gone. Ye ken how he gets when he’s worried.”

Ualan considered this with the gravity that only children can manage. “Like when he wanted tae raid the Mackintosh borders after they stole our cattle?”

“Exactly like that.”

He seemed to approve of the idea, and nodded. “Then be sure tae write me. Tell me about Cameron lands and if their castle is really built into the mountainside like people say?”

The eager trust in his voice made her throat tight. “Every week, I promise.”

“When I’m laird, I’ll make sure ye’re happy,” he declared with absolute certainty. “Even if ye’re married to someone scary.”

Mother and Isla exchanged glances over his head.

“Seoc Cameron isnae scary,” Isla said, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it. “He’s just… serious.”

“Faither says he’s a good warrior, that he fights with two swords sometimes, like the heroes in the old stories.”

“Daes he now?” Despite everything, Isla found herself smiling. “Well, that’s somethin’, at least.”

Ualan bounced on his toes. “Will ye learn tae fight with two swords? Ladies can be warriors too, right? Like in the songs?”

“Ualan,” their mother warned, but Isla was already nodding.

“If I want tae learn, I will. Lady Cameron should ken how tae defend her people.”

Ualan’s eyes lit up with mischief. He snatched one of the silk ribbons from the dressing table and tied it around his forehead like a warrior’s band.

“Look, Isla! I’m a fierce Highland warrior come tae rescue ye from the terrible Cameron dragon!”

Despite everything, Isla laughed. “A dragon, is he now?”

“Aye! With great big teeth and claws, and he hoards gold in his mountain castle!” Ualan struck a heroic pose, wielding her hair brush like a sword. “But fear not, fair maiden, fer I shall slay the beast and bring ye home!”

“And what if the dragon turns out tae be a decent sort?” Isla asked, catching him as he leaped onto her lap. “What if he just needs someone tae understand him?”

Ualan considered this. “Then maybe ye could teach him to be nice instead of scary. Dragons probably just need friends.”

Their mother watched this exchange, and Isla caught tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. “Ualan, ye shouldnae fill yer sister’s head with such tales.”

“Why nae?” Isla asked, hugging her brother close. “Maybe there’s wisdom in children’s stories.”

The thundering of hooves cut through their conversation. All three of them froze. The sound was wrong, too urgent, with too many horses moving too fast. Through the canvas walls, they heard men shouting warnings.

“Stay with Maither,” Isla commanded Ualan, already moving toward the tent flap.

“Isla.” Her mother’s voice followed her as she pushed it aside to peep outside.

Chaos had erupted across the Glen of Leny. Mackintosh raiders swept through their camp like a black tide, their war cries splitting the afternoon air. They moved with deadly precision, bypassing the supply wagons and heading straight for the Fletcher tents.

Her mother’s voice appeared behind her. “Run,” her mother ordered. “Isla take yer braither and run tae the river.”

“Nay, maither. I willnae leave ye!” Isla protested.

“Ye will.” Steel rang as her mother drew the eating knife from her belt, such a small blade, but her grip was steady. “I didnae survive the English wars tae fall tae Mackintosh raiders. But I need ye and Ualan tae be safe. Now go!”

Isla grabbed Ualan’s hand and ran. They dodged between tents and wagons, her brother’s small legs pumping to keep up. Behind them, the clash of steel on steel rang out as their men engaged the raiders, but she could hear pursuit, hoofbeats gaining on them with every step.

A tent rope caught Ualan’s foot, sending him stumbling. Isla yanked him upright, pulling him behind an overturned supply cart.

“Stay low,” she whispered, pressing him against the wooden wheel. “Follow me, but stay behind the carts.”

They crept forward, using the scattered supplies as cover. When a mounted raider thundered past, searching, Isla pushed Ualan flat against the ground, covering him with her own body until the hoofbeats faded.

“The river, like Maither said,” she breathed in his ear. “We make fer the river.”

They broke from cover, running hand in hand toward the water. Ualan’s shorter stride forced her to slow, making them easy targets. When he stumbled again, she didn’t hesitate. She scooped him up and carried him, her skirts tangling around her legs as she ran.

“Put me down!” he protested. “I can run!” Despite his brave words, Isla could see he was getting tired.

“Nae fast enough,” she panted, but the extra weight was slowing her even more. She put him down, dragging him by his hand.

The river lay just ahead, but they’d never make it, not with the way Ualan was slowing down. Left with no choice, Isla pulled him toward a cluster of boulders near the water’s edge and shoved him into the space between them.

“Hide here,” she panted. “Dinnae come out until Faither, Maither or I come fer ye.”

His eyes were wide with terror, but he nodded. Her brave little brother. Isla turned to face their pursuers, three Mackintosh warriors who had dismounted and were approaching on foot, clearly going for her. She veered in the opposite direction, hoping she could outrun them.

“There!” A rough voice shouted. “The Fletcher girl!”

Isla’s heart hammered as she heard them closing in.

“Lady Isla Fletcher.” He made a mocking bow. “Ye’ll be comin’ with us.”

Ualan, dinnae come out nay matter what ye hear. Please, stay safe.

Chapter Two

“I think nae,” she snapped back.

“Aye, ye will. Cannae have the Fletchers and Camerons unitin’ against us, can we? This wedding dies today, along with any alliance it might bring.”

“Aye. Tam Mackintosh sends his regards,” another raider added with a cruel smile.

Tam Mackintosh.

The name sent ice through her veins. She had somehow thought they planned to use the distraction of her wedding ceremony to start a battle, but they intended to destroy any possible clan alliances entirely.

Without her, there would be no marriage, no bond between the clans, and the Mackintoshes could pick off both Fletcher and Cameron forces separately. She had not been a willing bride to Seoc, but this was unacceptable.

“Over me dead body,” she snarled.

“That can be arranged, lass. But Tam would prefer ye alive. Makes fer better leverage.”

Desperate, Isla bolted toward the trees. Rough hands seized her left arm, spinning her around. Another grabbed her right wrist.

“Got her!”

She drove her knee upward, connecting with solid flesh. The man grunted and his grip loosened. She wrenched free and lunged forward again.

A third warrior stepped into her path. She raked her nails across his face, leaving bloody furrows. He cursed and backhanded her, but she ducked low and bit down hard on the first man’s hand.

“Highland devils! The bitch has teeth!”

They swarmed her then, too many hands to fight off. One caught her hair, yanking her head back. Another pinned her arms.

“Spirited,” one grunted as her elbow connected with his ribs. “Tam will enjoy breakin’ that.”

They dragged her toward their horses, but she knew once they got her mounted, she’d disappear forever. Desperation lent her strength she didn’t know she possessed. She broke free, running like the wind.

Her feet slipped on the wet stones at the river’s edge. Just three more steps and she’d be in the water, where the current might carry her beyond their reach. But heavy boots pounded behind her, and a hand seized the back of her torn gown.

“Not so fast, lass!”

The fabric ripped as she was yanked backward. She stumbled, her knees striking the rocky ground with a crack that sent pain shooting up her legs. Blood seeped through the torn fabric of her dress where the stones had bitten deep. Her hands were scraped raw from clawing at the rocks, and her shoulder throbbed where they’d wrenched her arm behind her back.

“Nowhere left to run now,” the leader panted, standing over her.

Isla rolled onto her back, her chest heaving. The river gurgled mockingly just beyond her reach, so close she could feel the spray on her face. The three armed men loomed above her with triumph in their eyes. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat echoing in her ears like war drums. The taste of blood filled her mouth where she’d bitten her tongue during the struggle.

This is it, then. All me plans, all me protests about the marriage. None of it matters now. I’ll never see me family again. Or Seoc.

Even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was quickly followed by surprise that her last thought would be of Seoc Cameron.

But she had no time to reason it further. If the Mackintoshes took her, they’d use her as a weapon against both clans. Her father would be forced to choose between his daughter and his people. The Camerons would lose their alliance, their hope of strengthening their position.

And Ualan, her sweet, brave Ualan hiding in those rocks, would grow up knowing his sister had been taken while he cowered like a child. The thought filled her with rage hotter than her fear.

“Enough games,” the leader snarled, reaching for her. Isla scrambled backward on her hands and knees.

Ualan. I hope ye’re safe.

“Ye’re coming with—” The man’s words died as steel sang through the air behind him. His eyes went wide, blood frothing at his lips before he crumpled forward.

A man burst through the smoke, his sword already in motion, cutting down the raider closest to Isla. The Mackintosh warrior crumpled with a gurgled cry.

“This is neutral ground. Ye have nay claim here.”

The remaining Mackintosh raiders didn’t flee. Instead, they spread out in a practiced formation, weapons ready.

The leader spat. “Ye think three men can stop us? We’ve been killin’ yer kind since before ye could hold a sword.”

The newcomer stepped between Isla and her remaining captors, his sword gleaming red in the fading light. Even through her terror, she noticed he was at least a head taller than every other man there, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that caught the last rays of sunlight.

Something was familiar about his form, but Isla did not have time to dwell on that because at that moment, two more warriors emerged from the tree line directly behind him. They were not charging blindly, but moving with calculated precision.

One man circled left toward the higher ground near the river bend, while the other took position to block any retreat toward the horses. A trap, expertly laid.

“Get back!” the newcomer roared, and his voice carried absolute authority.

His men moved instantly, no hesitation, no question.

“Take the flanks,” he commanded without turning his head, his voice cutting through the clash of steel. “Dinnae let them reach the horses.”

By now, the Mackintosh raiders found themselves trapped in a deadly triangle, their escape routes systematically cut off. It was done like a military operation, and executed with the precision of a seasoned commander.

The remaining Mackintosh raiders found themselves outflanked, but they fought with desperate fury.

“Kill them all!” one raider snarled, raising his sword.

The newcomer moved like death itself. His blade caught the raider’s strike, turned it aside, and in the same fluid motion, drove deep into the man’s chest. Steel grated against bone. The raider’s scream cut off abruptly.

To his left, another warrior opened a second raider’s throat with surgical precision. Blood sprayed across the stones. The third Cameron warrior drove his opponent back against the rocks, forcing him into the shallows where footing turned treacherous.

“Behind ye!” the newcomer barked, and his man spun just in time to parry a desperate thrust.

Isla pressed herself against the ground, transfixed by the deadly ballet before her. The newcomer fought with cold efficiency, each movement calculated, lethal.

Those features, sharper now, hardened by years of war… but the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the way he moved with predatory grace.

There was something about his stance, the way he held his sword, that made her breath catch in its familiarity. Impossibly familiar.

As she stared, the battle faded away, replaced by a memory that hit her like a physical blow. She was eleven again, huddled in that dank Lancaster dungeon, when the door had burst open and light had flooded in.

A young warrior had knelt beside her with that same familiar aura full of fierce protection.

“Are ye hurt, lass? Dinnae fear. Ye’re safe now.”

She’d gazed up at him like he was something from the old tales. Even through her terror and gratitude, she’d noticed how handsome he was, how his dark hair had caught the torchlight, how gentle his hands were as he lifted her.

And just like back then, nine years ago, her heart stopped.

“Seoc?” she gasped, though the sound was lost in the clash of steel.

But this man before her now… this wasn’t the earnest young warrior of her girlish dreams. War had carved away everything soft, leaving only edges sharp enough to cut.

He feinted left, drawing his opponent’s guard high, then reversed his grip and drove the pommel of his sword into the man’s temple. The raider dropped like a stone.

“Secure the area,” he ordered, wiping his blade clean with practiced efficiency. “Check for more of them in the trees. And see if any of their horses carry messages.”

The last Mackintosh fighter, seeing his companions fall, backed toward his horse. “This isnae finished, Cameron!”

“Aye, it is.” His voice carried quiet finality.

Cameron. So it is ye. It is really ye.

The surviving raider leaped onto his mount and spurred away into the smoke, but Isla barely noticed. Her entire world had narrowed to the man now turning toward her.

When their eyes met, time seemed to suspend.

“Are ye hurt, lass?”

Same question. But where he had asked her nine years ago with tender concern, now his voice was flat, emotionless.

Isla tried to speak, but no words came. The boy who’d saved her had become something magnificent and terrible. Her rescuer. Her betrothed. The man who would own her body and soul.

But why was he looking at her like she was nothing more than a necessary inconvenience? And why was his voice so cold, so devoid of recognition?

“Seoc,” she finally whispered, and the single word carried all her relief, her gratitude, and her sudden, overwhelming realization that her rescuer might just be seeing her as nothing more than his lawful captive.

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