Author: julianawight

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

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.

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

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!