Campbell Castle, Scottish Highlands, September 1614
“Easy now, lad. Ye’re safe. Nay one will hurt ye again, I promise.”
The voice drifted through the haze of pain and exhaustion, rough with age but infinitely gentle. Even through the fog that seemed to fill his skull, Niel recognized something familiar in that weathered tone – something that spoke of home, though he’d almost forgotten what that word meant.
His young body felt like it belonged to someone else entirely, every muscle screaming in protest when he tried to shift on what felt impossibly soft beneath him. Clean linen instead of straw and filth. Warmth instead of the bone-deep cold that had been his constant companion for… how long had it been? Days? Weeks?
“Grandfaither?” The word cracked like breaking glass as it left his throat, raw from disuse and the screaming that had echoed off stone walls until his voice gave out entirely.
“Aye, lad. I’m here.” Edward’s weathered hand settled gently on his forehead, checking for fever with the practiced touch of a man who’d tended countless wounded warriors. “Yer grandmaither’s here too.”
Niel forced his eyes open despite the way even dim candlelight sent spikes of agony through his skull. The chamber around him was blessedly familiar – his own bedchamber in Campbell Castle, with its heavy oak furniture and tapestries depicting Highland scenes. Sunlight streamed through tall windows that had no iron bars across them, no chains hanging from the walls.
Nay bars, nay chains… I can move me hands!
The realization sent a shock through his small body, and he struggled to sit up despite every protesting muscle. He could make out two figures nearby – his grandfather’s imposing frame silhouetted against the afternoon light, and beside him the smaller, more delicate shape of the woman who’d been the closest thing to a mother he’d known since his parents’ deaths.
“Och, ye’re awake at last,” Evelyn said softly, moving toward the bed with careful grace. Her silver-gold hair was braided back from a face lined with worry and sleepless nights, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “How are ye feelin’, mo ghràdh?”
“Grandmaither,” he whispered, the word carrying all the relief and desperate love of a child who’d thought he’d never see her face again. “Everythin’ hurts…”
She settled onto the edge of the bed with the same maternal grace he remembered from countless childhood illnesses and nightmares, though the present was different. There was real trauma in him, scars both visible and hidden that would never fully heal.
“We thought we’d lost ye, lad,” Edward said quietly, his brown eyes bright with emotion he rarely allowed others to see. “When those MacDonald dogs took ye from the border village…”
“How long was I gone?” Niel asked, though part of him dreaded the answer. Time had become meaningless in that cell – days blending into nights in an endless cycle of hunger and fear and the constant drip of water through stone.
“Three months,” Evelyn said gently, her fingers smoothing his dark hair with infinite tenderness. “Three months we searched fer ye, followin’ every lead, chasin’ every rumor.”
“Easy now, lad,” Evelyn said gently. “Ye’ve been sleepin’ fer two days straight.”
“Ye came fer me.” he whispered, the word barely audible.
“Of course we did, wee dove” she said, settling carefully on the edge of the bed. “Did ye think we’d leave ye in that terrible place?”
They never stopped lookin’. Even when hope seemed lost, they kept searchin’.
“The MacDonalds,” Niel whispered, his hands instinctively moving to his wrists where iron shackles had left deep, infected wounds that were only now beginning to heal. “They said… they said they’d keep me forever. That I’d die in that cell.”
“They’re liars and cowards who prey on children,” Evelyn said fiercely, though her touch remained infinitely gentle. “And they’ll answer fer what they did tae ye, I promise ye that.”
But will that take away the memories? Will it stop me from feelin’ like I might break apart every time someone raises their voice?
“How did ye find me?” he asked, needing to understand how he’d escaped what had seemed like a living tomb.
Edward’s expression grew grim with satisfaction. “We had help from an unexpected source. One of their own guards – a man whose conscience finally got the better of him when he saw what they were daein’ tae a bairn. He slipped us some information about which dungeon they were keepin’ ye in, though it cost him his life when they discovered his betrayal.”
“One of ‘em helped me?” The idea seemed impossible after months of experiencing nothing but cruelty at MacDonald hands.
“Aye. It seems even among our enemies, though few they are, there are still those who cannae stomach the torture of innocents.” Edward’s voice carried grudging respect tinted with sorrow. “But he paid dearly fer his conscience in the end.”
“Tell me about the rescue,” Niel said suddenly, needing to replace the memories of captivity with something real and hopeful. “Tell me how ye got me out.”
Edward settled into a chair beside the bed, his weathered face lightening slightly. “Och, lad, ‘twas quite the adventure. We went in under cover of darkness with two dozen of our best men…”
As his grandfather spoke, painting vivid pictures of the daring raid that had freed him, Niel felt something inside his chest that had been frozen solid for months begin to crack. Not healing – that would take much longer – but the first tiny stirrings of hope.
I matter tae them. I’m worth somethin’… nay matter what the MacDonalds told me.
“The guards?” he asked when Edward finished his tale.
“Dead or fled,” Edward replied with grim satisfaction. “They willnae be hurtin’ any more children, ye can count on that.”
Evelyn’s green eyes filled with tears she’d been holding back. “Now ye heal, mo ghràdh. Ye rest and eat proper food and remember what it feels like tae be safe and loved, aye?”
“But what if they come back?” The question slipped out before Niel could stop it, carrying all the terror of a child who’d learned that safety could be torn away in an instant.
Edward’s weathered face grew stern. “They’ll nae dare. We made certain of that when we freed ye. The MacDonalds ken the price of touchin’ a Campbell child now. And when ye’re ready,” Edward added, his brown eyes warm with affection, “ye’ll learn what it means tae be a Campbell. How tae protect yer people, how tae lead with honor. But nae until ye’re ready, lad.”
A Campbell. Someday I’ll be responsible fer protectin’ others the way they protected me.
As drowsiness tugged at his consciousness, Niel felt his grandparents’ presence like a warm blanket around him. The afternoon sun streamed through windows with no bars, carrying the sounds of normal life – people working, children playing, the peaceful rhythm of a clan going about its daily business.
“Sleep now, mo chridhe, ” Evelyn whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “We’ll be here when ye wake.”
And for the first time in three months, Niel Campbell slept without nightmares, cradled in the knowledge that he was home, he was loved, and he would never be alone again.
Outside his window, Campbell Castle stood strong against the Highland sky, its walls a promise that some things endured – that love could triumph over hate, that family bonds were stronger than enemy chains, and that sometimes the greatest victories came not from conquest, but from the courage to never give up hope.
The nightmare was over. The healing had begun.
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The great hall buzzed with activity as Mirren entered, her eyes immediately seeking Niel among the crowd. She found him near the massive hearth, resplendent in his finest Highland dress – deep blue and green tartan, silver brooches gleaming at his shoulders, his dark hair neatly tied back to reveal the strong lines of his face.
He’s nervous.
She realized he was nervous, noting the tension in his shoulders despite his carefully composed expression.
Their eyes met across the hall, and a dashing smile spread across his face. He moved toward her with that fluid grace she’d come to love, his hand finding the small of her back in the possessive gesture that had become second nature to both of them.
“Ready?” he murmured against her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
“Are ye?” she countered, tilting her head to study his expression.
“Ask me again in an hour,” he replied with that crooked grin that made her heart flutter. “When we see if yer braither’s brought his dirk tae dinner.”
The great doors swung open with a resonant boom that echoed off the ancient stones, and Mirren felt her breath catch as her brother strode into the hall with all the confidence of a man who’d never met a challenge he couldn’t conquer. Behind him came his lieutenants – men she’d known since childhood, warriors who’d sailed the western seas and fought on countless battlefields.
But they’re nae here tae fight today.
She saw they’d left their weapons with the guards at the door and the respectful way they waited for Finlay’s lead.
“Sister.” Finlay’s voice carried easily across the hall, rich with warmth and something that might have been relief. His green eyes – so like her own – swept over her with the protective assessment she remembered from childhood, cataloging every detail to ensure she was well and happy.
“Braither.” She stepped forward, acutely aware of every eye in the hall watching the historic moment. “Welcome tae Castle Campbell.”
The words came out steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Here was her past walking into her present, her blood family meeting the new family she’d built through trial and fire and love.
Finlay closed the distance between them in three long strides, sweeping her into an embrace that smelled of home. For a moment, she was just a little sister again, safe in arms that had protected her through every storm of childhood.
“Ye look well, mo piuthar,” he murmured against her hair, using the Gaelic endearment that made tears prick her eyes. “Happy. Content.”
“I am,” she whispered back, and meant it with every fiber of her being.
When they separated, Finlay turned to face Niel with the gaze of a man taking the measure of his sister’s husband. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring, charged with the weight of history and the promise of a different future.
“Campbell,” Finlay said finally, inclining his head with careful respect.
“MacDonald,” Niel replied in kind, and Mirren could see the effort it cost him to keep his voice level and diplomatic.
They’re both tryin’ so hard tae be civilized. Like two kittens tryin’ their best tae be fierce.
“I bring greetings from Laird Lachlann MacDonald,” Finlay continued formally. “And his gratitude fer the protection and care ye’ve given his daughter.”
“Lady Mirren is me wife and me partner,” Niel replied, his hand finding hers and squeezing gently. “Her welfare is me greatest concern and me highest honor.”
Something flickered in Finlay’s eyes – approval, perhaps, or recognition of sincerity when he heard it. “Aye. So I can see.”
The tension began to ease as other introductions were made, voices gradually rising as men who’d spent years as enemies discovered they had more in common than they’d expected. Stories were shared, whisky was poured, and slowly the hall filled with the sound of genuine laughter rather than forced politeness.
This is what peace looks like.
Mirren marveled, watching a Campbell warrior demonstrate a particular sword technique to one of Finlay’s men while others debated the merits of different fishing grounds.
Nay grand treaties or royal decrees, but just… people choosin’ tae see each other as humans instead of enemies.
“Ye’re glowing, sister,” Finlay’s voice startled her from her reverie. He’d moved to stand beside her near the windows, where the late afternoon light streamed through diamond-shaped panes. “There’s somethin’ different about ye. Somethin’ I cannae quite put me finger on.”
Mirren’s heart lurched.
He kens. Of course he kens. He’s always been too observant fer his own good.
“Different how?” she asked carefully, hoping her voice didn’t betray the sudden flutter of nerves in her stomach.
“Content, aye, but more than that.” His green eyes studied her with the intensity that had made him such a formidable strategist. “Ye have the look of a woman with secrets. Good secrets.”
Now or never.
Her hand moved instinctively to rest over her still-flat belly.
“Finlay,” she said softly, glancing around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. “There’s somethin’ I need tae tell ye. Somethin’ wonderful.”
His eyebrows rose, and she could see him putting pieces together with the quick intelligence that had always impressed her. “Mirren… are ye…?”
“Aye,” she whispered, unable to keep the joy from blooming across her face like Highland heather in spring. “I’m with child. About three months along, if Una’s calculations are correct.”
The silence that followed was so complete she could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears. Finlay stared at her, his expression cycling through surprise, concern, and something that might have been wonder.
“A child,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the words. “A Campbell-MacDonald child.”
“Aye.” She lifted her chin, preparing to defend her happiness if necessary. “The first of what I hope will be many bridges between our clans.”
Please dinnae be angry. Please understand what this means fer all of us.
Then Finlay’s face split into a grin so wide and genuine it transformed his entire appearance. “Och, sister, that’s…” He pulled her into another fierce embrace, laughing with pure delight. “That’s the most wonderful news I could have hoped fer.”
“Ye’re nae angry?”
“Angry?” He pulled back to look at her with amazement. “Why would I be angry? Ye’ve just told me I’m tae be an uncle. That the next generation will grow up kennin’ peace instead of war.” His voice grew serious. “That’s a gift beyond price, Mirren.”
Tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over, born of relief and joy and the overwhelming love she felt for that brother who understood her heart so completely.
“Daes yer husband ken?” Finlay asked gently.
“Nae yet,” she admitted, glancing toward where Niel was engaged in animated conversation with one of Finlay’s lieutenants. “I wanted tae tell ye first. Tae make sure…”
“That I’d welcome the child?” Finlay’s voice was soft with understanding. “Mo piuthar, any child of yers will be cherished by the MacDonalds. Campbell blood or nae.”
Campbell blood or nae.
The casual acceptance in those words made her heart soar. This child would grow up knowing both sides of its heritage, claiming the strength of sea and mountain both.
“Speaking of yer husband,” Finlay continued with a mischievous glint in his eye, “when exactly were ye plannin’ tae tell the faither he’s goin’ tae have an heir?”
“Taenight,” she promised. “After the feast, when we’re alone.”
“Good.” He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “Because if that man’s expression is any indication, he’s already half-mad with worry about what I might dae tae him. Best tae put him out of his misery with some happy news.”
Mirren glanced over at Niel and had to smother a laugh. Her husband was indeed looking rather like a man walking on unstable ground, his shoulders tense despite the convivial atmosphere around him.
“Well, it turns out this is perfect timing,” he said. He reached into his leather pouch and withdrew something small, wrapped in soft cloth. He pressing the item into her hands. “Faither sent this fer ye, but now I think it serves a better purpose. Yer husband willnae ken what hit him.”
Mirren unwrapped the gift carefully, revealing a tiny silver rattle engraved with both MacDonald and Campbell crests intertwined. Her breath caught.
“He had it made?” she whispered.
“The moment he received the royal decree,” Finlay grinned. “Said he was too old tae wait fer nature tae take its course. Apparently, he was right tae be optimistic.”
“Finlay,” she said suddenly, struck by inspiration, “would ye… would ye be willin’ tae help me tell him? I have an idea.”
Her brother’s eyes lit up with interest. “What did ye have in mind?”
As she explained her plan, Finlay’s eyes lit up with mischief.
The feast that evening was a revelation in the truest sense of the word. Mirren watched in amazement as men who’d spent years trying to kill each other shared bread and salt, swapped stories of battle and glory, and discovered the common ground that lay beneath their clan colors.
This is how it should have been all along, this is what our child will inherit – a world where MacDonald and Campbell means strength, nae division.
When the meal was finished and the whisky was flowing freely, Finlay rose from his seat at the high table. The hall gradually quieted as men sensed the importance of the moment.
“I came here today tae see fer meself how me sister fared,” he began, his voice carrying easily through the vast space. “Tae judge whether the peace between our clans was built on solid ground or shiftin’ sand.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but Finlay held up a hand fer silence.
“What I’ve found exceeds me wildest hopes,” he continued, his eyes finding Mirren’s across the room. “I’ve found a sister who’s nae just survived but thrived. I’ve found a braither-by-marriage who treasures what he’s been given. And I’ve found men on both sides willin’ tae choose friendship over ancient feuds.”
He raised his cup high, whisky catching the firelight like liquid gold.
“So I propose a toast,” he declared. “Tae the future – may it be brighter than the past.”
“Slàinte mhath!” the hall erupted as every man raised his cup, MacDonald and Campbell voices joining in harmony that would have been impossible six months ago.
As the celebration continued around them, Mirren caught her brother’s eye and nodded slightly. It was time.
She went over to Niel and told him she was tired and wanted to retire. They made their excuses and slipped away from the festivities, Finlay following at a discreet distance. The corridors were quiet after the chaos of the great hall, filled only with flickering shadows and the distant sound of laughter.
“That went better than I dared hope,” Niel said as they climbed the stairs toward their chamber.
“What did ye expect?” Mirren asked, amused.
“Fer him tae run me through with a dirk at the first opportune moment,” he admitted with a rueful laugh. “Instead, I find meself actually likin’ the man.”
“He likes ye too,” she assured him. “Which is good, because he brought ye a gift. A congratulatory present of sorts.”
Niel raised an eyebrow. “Congratulatin’ me fer what?”
“Well,” Finlay said, appearing from the shadows with that theatrical timing he’d always been fond of, “fer stealin’ away the most precious lass in all the Highlands, of course.”
“Finlay,” Niel said warily, “what are ye up tae?”
“Nothing sinister, braither,” Finlay replied, though his grin suggested otherwise. “Just deliverin’ something Faither insisted ye should have.” He nodded to Mirren. “Go on, sister. Give him his gift.”
Mirren’s heart hammered as she withdrew the small, wrapped item from her sleeve. “Close yer eyes, mo chridhe.”
“Mirren–”
“Trust me. Please.”
With obvious reluctance, Niel closed his eyes and held out his hand. Mirren carefully placed the tiny rattle in his palm, then stepped back beside her brother.
“Open them.”
Niel opened his eyes and stared down at the small silver object, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What is it?”
“Look closer,” Mirren whispered.
As understanding dawned, Niel’s face went through a series of expressions – confusion, shock, wonder, and finally pure joy. His hand trembled as he held up the rattle, seeing the intertwined crests gleaming in the candlelight.
“This is… this means…” He looked up at her with eyes bright with unshed tears. “Mirren, are ye tellin’ me…?”
“Aye,” she said softly. “Come spring, that rattle will have someone tae shake it about, makin’ us all wish we were deaf.”
The silence that followed was broken by the soft thud of Niel sitting down heavily on a nearby bench, still clutching the rattle like it was made of precious gems.
“A child,” he breathed. “Our child.”
“A grandchild fer our faither tae spoil,” Finlay added helpfully. “He’s already plannin’ tae teach the wee one proper seamanship before it can even walk.”
Niel’s laugh was shaky with emotion as he pulled Mirren into his arms, the rattle still clutched in one hand. “When? How long have ye kenned?”
“A few weeks,” she admitted against his chest. “I wanted tae be certain afore I told ye.”
“And she wanted her braither’s blessin’ first,” Finlay said with satisfaction. “Which she has, along with her faither’s. That rattle’s his way of sayin’ welcome tae the family, Campbell.”
As the three of them stood there in the corridor, Finlay cleared his throat meaningfully.
“Well then,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “I think I’ll leave ye two tae… discuss the future arrangements. I need tae get back tae the feast afore me men drink all yer whisky, Campbell.”
He clapped Niel on the shoulder with genuine warmth. “Welcome tae the family, braither. Properly this time.”
After Finlay disappeared down the corridor with a satisfied chuckle, Niel pulled Mirren into their chamber, still holding the precious rattle.
“I cannae believe it,” he said wonderingly, sinking into a chair and pulling her onto his lap. “We’re going tae be parents.”
“Aye,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder. “Terrifyin’, isn’t it?”
“Terrifyin’,” he agreed, then pressed a kiss to her temple. “And wonderful.”
“Me faither apparently has already started plannin’ the child’s education,” Mirren said with a laugh.
“Well,” Niel said, holding up the rattle and watching it catch the light, “it’ll certainly nae want fer teachers. Campbell strength and MacDonald cunnin’ – the Highlands willnae ken what tae make of it.”
As they sat there in the candlelit chamber, Mirren felt the last piece of her world click into place. She had her husband, her friend, her brother, and now a child on the way who would grow up in a world where love had conquered ancient hatred.
This is what happiness looks like, this is what it means tae build somethin’ beautiful from the ashes of war.
Those were the thoughts that ran through her mind, one hand resting on her belly where the future was growing, the other clasped tightly in her husband’s strong grip. The child she carried would never ken the fear of clan warfare, would never have tae choose between family loyalties and personal love. They would be raised with MacDonald stories and Campbell strength, with sea songs and mountain ballads, with the knowledge that they were born of a love strong enough tae transform enemies into the deepest kind of kin.
And that, Mirren knew, was the greatest victory of all.
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Chapter One
The open seas between Islay and the Scottish mainland, September 1636
“Promise me ye’ll keep this close, mo chridhe.”
Mirren MacDonald wrapped her fingers around the leather-wrapped dagger her father pressed into her palm, the familiar weight of Highland steel both comforting and ominous in the salt-tinged morning air. The blade was exquisitely crafted – its surface etched with the MacDonald crest, though Mirren knew this was no mere ceremonial gift.
“‘Tis beautiful, Faither,” she said, though her voice carried none of the joy such a fine weapon should inspire. “But surely ye dinnae expect–”
“I expect naething but treachery from any Campbell that draws breath,” Laird Lachlann MacDonald growled, his weathered face unforgiving. The battle scars that crisscrossed his knuckles caught the morning light as his grip tightened on her shoulders with calloused hands that had seen decades of clan warfare. “Ye may be commanded tae marry the man, but that daesnae mean ye should trust him. Sleep with this beneath yer pillow, lass. And if he dares tae raise a hand tae ye, ye put that steel between his ribs and ask questions later.”
Mirren studied her father’s features, seeing the weight of forty years of clan warfare etched in every line around his eyes. The jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw, a Campbell blade’s gift from his youth, seemed to pulse with old fury in the pale light. The morning breeze carried the scent of kelp and brine across the harbor, mingling with the smoke from the castle’s morning fires – scents that had comforted her throughout her three-and-twenty years on Islay. Now, they felt like a farewell.
“I promise,” she said, securing the blade to her belt beneath her traveling cloak. “But Faither, if ye truly believe Niel Campbell means me harm, why are we honorin’ the king’s command?”
Lachlann’s expression darkened further. “Because even an unpopular king’s word is law, and I’ll nae give the Crown reason tae bring English soldiers tae our shores.” His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “But that daesnae mean we’re sheep led tae slaughter. The Campbells think us island folk soft – they’ll soon learn different if they test MacDonald steel.” He tilted her chin upwards with his thumb and index finger, his roughened hands surprisingly gentle against her sun-bronzed cheeks. “Ye carry the blood of sea kings in yer veins – never forget that.”
A shout from the harbor drew their attention to where the MacDonald galley awaited, its blue and white banner snapping proudly in the wind. Sailors moved about the deck with practiced efficiency, preparing for the journey that would change everything.
“‘Tis time,” Lachlann said, though the words seemed to pain him. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he pulled her into a rare, fierce embrace that spoke of battles fought and wars yet to come. “The tide waits fer nay one.”
Mirren embraced her father, breathing in the familiar scent of leather and heather that had always clung to him.
Will I ever smell the heather of home again, ever?
“I’ll make ye proud, Faither. And if the Campbells think tae break me, they’ll find I’m made of the same steel that forges the Laird of the Isles.”
“If only Finlay could have come with ye,” Lachlann said roughly, his voice thickened by regret. “Yer braither would gut anyone that looked at ye sideways.”
Mirren’s throat constricted at the mention of her brother. Finlay had raged like a Highland storm when the king’s letter had arrived, but even he couldn’t defy royal command. “I ken he wanted tae sail with us,” she whispered. “But someone needs tae protect Islay if this is all a trap.”
Her father gave her a single, curt nod. “Now go show those mainland mutts what a true MacDonald looks like.”
Shortly after, the galley cut through the gray waters of the Scottish coast with steady purpose, each stroke of the oars carrying Mirren farther from everything she’d ever known. She stood at the stern, watching Islay grow smaller until it became nothing more than a dark smudge against the horizon, her fingers unconsciously tracing the outline of her concealed weapon.
Every league takes me closer tae me cage.
“Me lady?” Una’s gentle voice broke through her melancholy. “Ye’ve been standin’ there fer near an hour. ‘Tis nae like ye tae be so quiet.”
Mirren turned to face her maid and dearest friend, managing a weak smile. Una’s brown eyes were warm with concern, her light hair whipping about her face in the sea breeze. At six-and-twenty, Una had been with Mirren since they were both girls, and she knew her mistress better than anyone.
“I’ve naething cheerful tae say, Una. What would ye have me speak of – the joy of bein’ sold tae our clan’s greatest enemy? The pleasure of leavin’ everything I love fer a marriage tae a man who probably wishes me dead?”
Una moved closer, lowering her voice so the nearby sailors couldn’t overhear. “Ye dinnae ken that, me lady. Perhaps Laird Campbell is different from what ye’ve been told. Perhaps–”
“Och, and perhaps he’s precisely what every wretched Campbell has been fer forty years,” Mirren interrupted, her green eyes flashing while the wind lapped at her reddish-auburn hair. “Nay more than a schemin’, power-hungry brute who’d slit me throat in me sleep if it served his clan’s interest.”
“Then why would the king command such a union?”
Mirren laughed bitterly. “Because King Charles thinks he can forge peace through forced marriages, as if hatred that’s been bred intae our bones fer generations can be simply washed away with weddin’ vows.”
Una was quiet for a moment, studying her mistress’s face. “I’ve never seen ye without a tale on yer lips, me lady. Even durin’ the darkest times, ye always found stories tae lift spirits and bring hope. Where are they now?”
The question struck deeper than Una had probably intended. Mirren had always been the keeper of her clan’s stories, the one who could weave words like magic and make the past come alive around a fire. But what story could she tell now? What hope could she find in being bartered away like cattle?
“Me stories are fer those who have reason fer hope,” she said finally. “I fear I’ve little of that tae spare.”
“Sail ho!” the cry from the crow’s nest cut through their conversation like a newly whetted blade. “Ship approachin’ from the north!”
Mirren’s heart lurched as she turned toward the horizon where a dark speck was growing larger by the moment. That had to be the Campbell vessel – the ship that would complete her journey into exile.
“‘Tis them,” she whispered, her hand instinctively moving to her dagger’s hilt. “The Campbells.”
Una squeezed her arm gently. “Remember, me lady, yer faither sent his finest men tae guard ye. Ye’re nae alone in this.”
The approaching ship grew clearer as it drew near, its sails full of wind as it cut through the choppy waters. Mirren tried to steel herself for whatever came next, but her stomach churned with more than just seasickness.
“Somethin’s wrong,” said Hamish, one of her father’s most trusted men-at-arms, as he approached with his hand resting on his sword hilt. “That ship’s nae flyin’ colors.”
Before anyone could respond, the thunderous boom of a cannon split the morning air like the roar of an ancient Highland beast. A heartbeat later, the sea erupted in a violent geyser just off their starboard bow – water and foam exploding skyward in a deadly fountain that crashed down across the deck, soaking them all in icy brine.
“Attack!” Hamish’s voice cracked like a whip above the chaos. “We’re under attack! All hands tae arms!”
The galley lurched violently as another cannon ball screamed overhead, the wind of its passage so close that Mirren could feel it ruffle her hair. The massive iron sphere crashed into the water beyond them, sending up another towering spray that painted the air white with salt mist.
Chaos broke out all over the deck. Sailors ran in all directions, some crawling behind barrels and masts for shelter, and others sprinting to the weapon stores with fear written all over their faces. The quiet morning had turned into a nightmare of shouting, pounding feet, and the horrible smell of cannon smoke wafting over the sea.
Mirren grabbed Una’s arm, her fingers digging into the wool of her maid’s sleeve as she pulled her toward the galley’s center.
Blessed Saints, is this really happenin’?
Another thunderous blast echoed across the waves, and this time, the iron ball found its mark – smashing into their port rail with a sound like the world splitting apart.
“What’s happenin’?” Una cried over the mayhem.
“Must be the Campbells!” Mirren quipped, fury replacing fear as understanding dawned. “Strikin’ like cowards with nay flag. The bastards mean tae kill me on neutral seas, before I ever reach their lands. They’ll claim it was pirates!”
Hamish appeared at her side like an avenging angel, his broadsword already singing in his weathered grip, the steel gleaming with deadly purpose. “Me lady! We need tae get ye tae safety… if they mean tae board us–”
His words were severed as a grappling hook bit into the galley’s hull with metallic shrieks that scraped against wood and iron. The enemy ship had closed the distance with terrifying speed, and now thick ropes stretched between the vessels like the web of some monstrous sea spider.
Steel rang against steel as the first wave of enemy warriors swung across the gap and onto the planks beneath Mirren’s feet – wild-haired men with murder in their eyes and blood already splattered across their leather jerkins. They landed on the MacDonald deck with predatory grace, their battle cries splitting the air like the howls of Highland wolves.
“Protect the lady!” Hamish roared, his voice nearly lost as he parried a vicious sword thrust. His blade caught the morning light as it carved through the air, opening an attacker’s throat in a spray of crimson that painted the deck planks scarlet.
The MacDonald sailors fought with desperate courage, but they’d been caught unprepared. Men all around them started to fall, some screaming as Highland steel stabbed their flesh and others falling without a sound. Blood and seawater made the deck slick, turning it into a horrific battlefield that shook and pitched with every wave.
Mirren pulled out her blade in one smooth move, and the unused steel hissed as it came out of its leather sheath. She might be a political pawn, but she was still a MacDonald. She would be damned if she walked meekly into whatever dark fate awaited her.
The first enemy soldier who reached her swiftly learned that Highland lasses were not entirely helpless. The scarred brute with missing teeth and a rusted dirk lunged at her with a snarl of anticipated victory. Mirren sidestepped his clumsy thrust with the grace of someone who’d danced since childhood, then drove her father’s gift deep between his ribs. The man’s eyes widened in shock as steel pierced leather and found his heart. He dropped with nothing more than a wet gurgle.
One down, she thought grimly, already spinning away from another attacker.
How many more tae go?
Una screamed as a wild-eyed warrior with a notched axe bore down on them, his weapon raised high enough to split a skull.
“Una! Stay close!” Mirren shouted over the din of battle as one of the MacDonald sailors intercepted the attacker. She grabbed the maid’s trembling hand. “We need tae reach the boats!”
All around them, the battle was raging with brutal fury. The sound of metal crashing against metal created a horrific cacophony, accompanied by the cries of the injured and the thuds of dead bodies on the deck. The metallic smell of blood and the sour smoke from the enemy ship’s cannons filled the air.
Mirren knew their predicament was hopeless and even as she fought her desperation grew. Whoever was attacking them had arrived well-prepared for battle, leaving her father’s warriors bewildered and unable to mount a coordinated defense. Corpses, both enemy and MacDonald, lay strewn about the deck like fallen leaves; the boards were stained scarlet from the combination of blood and salt spray.
Mirren could taste the copper on her tongue.
We’re all goin’ tae die here…
Then, cutting across the chaos like a Highland drum calling warriors to battle, she heard it – the distant blast of another ship’s horn echoing across the water. The bow of a third ship was slicing through the water like a dagger through silk as it drew dangerously close. From its deck, screams of war resounded as armed men readied themselves for combat, their weapons shining like dangerous stars in the early morning light.
“Look there!” Una pointed through the billowing smoke toward the new arrival, her voice quivering with frantic hope. “More sails! But I dinnae ken whose side they’ll take.”
On the deck of the approaching ship, Mirren caught sight of a commanding figure directing men with sharp, decisive gestures that spoke of battle experience. Even at that distance, there was something about his presence that made her breath catch – the way he moved with predatory grace, the manner in which his warriors responded to his every command like a pack following their leader.
The tall warrior’s broad shoulders moved with lethal purpose, his dark hair wild in the sea wind, and even from here she could see the controlled power in every gesture he made. He stood like a Highland god of war made flesh – tall enough to tower over his men, with the kind of masculine presence that could command a battlefield or silence a great hall with a single look.
Who is this man who commands such loyalty?
The battle raged on with increasing ferocity, steel whipping and slashing in a deadly dance as the newcomers prepared to join the fray. Blood painted the deck in abstract patterns of violence, and the groans of the wounded created a horrible chorus beneath the ring of weapons.
A bearded giant with a two-handed sword came at Mirren like death incarnate, his massive blade whooshing through the air with enough force to cleave her in half. She threw herself backward, feeling the wind of his strike ruffle her hair as the steel passed close enough to shave whiskers.
Too bloody close!
Chapter Two
“The dinghy!” Hamish bellowed over the chaos, his sword painting arcs through the smoky air. “Get the lady tae the dinghy! Now!”
Mirren felt rough hands seize her arms as two of her father’s most trusted men – Ewan and Duncan – hauled her away from the spreading panic. Around them, the MacDonald galley had become a floating battlefield, with enemy warriors pouring across the deck like a plague born from steel and fury. The choking smell of burning wood and tar filled her nostrils, tinted with the metallic scent of blood that seemed to now coat everything.
“Me lady! This way!” Ewan shouted, his face grim as he pulled her toward the stern where their escape boat waited. Blood splattered his leather jerkin from a dozen small wounds, but his grip remained strong and sure. “We need tae get ye safely off this ship afore–”
His words were cut short as an enemy axe whistled past his ear, close enough to trim his beard. The warrior who’d thrown it snarled as he reached for another weapon, his eyes gleaming with bloodlust and the promise of easy coin. But Duncan’s blade found his throat first, opening it in a spray of arterial blood that made Mirren’s stomach churn.
“Move!” Duncan commanded, stepping over the twitching corpse without a second glance. His sword dripped red as he scanned for more threats. “The whole bloody ship’s afire!”
He was right. Mirren could smell the putrid smoke billowing from the galley’s belly, could see orange flames licking hungrily at the rigging above like demons reaching for heaven. Someone had set fire to their stores, and now, death approached from blade and flame and ocean. The heat was already making the air simmer, and she could hear ominous creaks as the timber blazed around her.
Una stumbled beside her, tears streaming down her face as she clutched at Mirren’s cloak with white-knuckled fingers. “Me lady… why are they tryin’ tae kill us?”
“Because someone wants this alliance tae fail,” Mirren said, her green eyes blazing with fury as another enemy warrior charged toward them through the smoke. The man moved like a carnivorous beast, his sword gleaming with fresh blood.
But who? Surely nae the Campbells… maybe another clan entirely?
Ewan’s sword met the attacker with a sound like thunder, steel swooshing against steel in a deadly dance. The enemy was skilled – a scarred brute with arms like tree trunks – but Ewan had been fighting Highland battles since before Mirren was born. His blade found the gap in the man’s leather jerkin, sliding between ribs to pierce his heart.
They reached the dinghy just as another section of the ship’s rigging collapsed in a shower of sparks and burning rope, the flames spreading like wildfire through the Highland heather. The small boat hung suspended over the churning waters beneath them, secured by thick hemp ropes that creaked eerily with each wave. Below them, the dark sea churned like a witch’s cauldron – foam capped waves reaching upward like grasping fingers.
“Get in, me lady!” Duncan commanded, helping her over the rail with hands that shook despite his warrior’s training. The boat rocked dangerously as the waves shifted its balance. “Una! Hurry!”
Mirren dropped into the narrow boat, her knees hitting the wooden planks hard enough to bruise. The dinghy was smaller than she’d expected – barely large enough for four people, with rough-hewn seats and a patched sail that had most certainly seen much better days. Una stumbled in beside her, sobbing with terror as the sounds of battle raged above them like the wrath of angry gods. Through the smoke and chaos, she could see the third ship was much closer now – close enough to make out the commanding figure she’d spotted earlier directing his men with deadly precision.
Sweet mercy…but he’s magnificent – like somethin’ carved from Highland granite and brought tae life by the old gods themselves…
“Lower away!” Ewan called to Duncan, both men working frantically to release the pulley system that would drop them to safety. Sweat beaded on their foreheads, mingling with soot and blood despite the cold sea air as their hands moved with desperate efficiency.
But safety was an illusion in Highland waters, especially when blood feuds ran deeper than the sea itself.
“Behind ye!” a new voice roared – deep, commanding, and filled with the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed on battlefields and council chambers alike.
Mirren spun toward the sound and felt her breath catch like a fishbone in her throat. Above them on the deck, a towering warrior materialized; he sliced through enemy soldiers with the fluid grace of the grim reaper. Even in the midst of the mayhem, his swordplay was awe-inspiring; his strikes were deliberate and his movements were lethally efficient, like witnessing a master craftsman at work. His dark hair whipped about his broad shoulders as he battled.
By me troth… ‘tis him again!
She wondered who he was, mesmerized despite the battle raging like hellfire around her. Mirren stood transfixed, unable to look away from the magnificent stranger.
He fights like the devil himself!
The mysterious warrior stood tall, his muscled frame outlined against the smoky sky as he moved with predatory grace. His blue eyes – even from that distance she could see they blazed like winter fire – swept the battlefield with tactical precision. When he turned to bark orders at his men, she caught sight of his profile: strong jaw, aristocratic nose, the bearing of someone born to command.
Och… he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. What’s wrong with me, thinkin’ of such things in the middle of a battle?
The warrior’s blade opened one enemy throat after the other, then spun to parry another attack with moves so precise they almost seemed choreographed by the gods of war themselves. He fought like a man born for battle. His blue eyes blazed with cold fury as he cut down another attacker, and Mirren found herself unable to look away, despite the life-threatening danger drawing ever closer. She could feel the dinghy tilting beneath her feet, could hear the ominous crack of wood straining against the ship’s hull, yet her gaze remained fixed on him like a compass – as though he were the only true thing in a world gone entirely mad.
“The rope!” Una screamed, pointing upward with a trembling finger.
Mirren’s gaze snapped to where another enemy soldier – a wiry man with a notched dirk – was sawing frantically at the thick hemp that held their dinghy suspended. He cackled as the blade bit deep into the fibers, sending strands flying with each stroke.
“Nay!” Ewan lunged toward the saboteur, but he was too late.
The rope snapped with a sound like a crossbow string and the dinghy plummeted toward the icy, churning waters like a stone dropped from heaven. Mirren felt her stomach lurch as they fell, the world spinning in a nauseating blur of sky and sea and fire. Una’s shrieks pierced the air, high and desperate, just before they hit the waves with devastating force.
Mirren gasped as icy seawater crashed over the sides, soaking into their skin as the dinghy’s hull cracked against the ship’s barnacle-encrusted side. Wood splintered with sounds like breaking bones, and then, suddenly the boat was taking on water faster than a sieve.
We’re sinkin’!
Panic clawed at her chest as more icy water swirled around her legs.
But worse was yet to come. As the dinghy twisted sharply to starboard, a section of the broken hull – a jagged piece of oak the size of a man’s head – broke free and tumbled toward her with murderous intent.
Mirren tried to dodge it, but the rocking of the waves threw her off-balance. The splintered wood caught her across the temple with a blow that sent stars exploding behind her eyes. Sharp pain lanced through her skull, and she felt herself falling backward into the freezing embrace of the unforgiving Highland sea.
I’m drowning, she thought dimly as salty water filled her mouth and nose.
Darkness closed over her, and she felt her strength bleeding away with every heartbeat. The sounds of battle grew distant and muffled, as if heard through thick wool. Her limbs grew heavier than standing stones and she began to sink beneath the waves.
Then, strong hands seized her, hauling her upward with desperate strength.
***
Niel Campbell had seen enough battles to know when one was already lost.
The MacDonald galley blazed like a funeral pyre against the gray sky, black smoke billowing from her rigging as enemy warriors swarmed across her deck like carrion crows. From the prow of his own ship, he watched the chaos unfold with a calculating eye – noting the enemy’s numbers, their positions, the way they moved with the coordinated precision of men who’d thoroughly planned the attack.
“Mercenaries, most likely,” he growled to Kerr, who stood beside him with his own sword already drawn. “Has tae be. Look at their formation – they’re lookin’ fer somethin’ specific.”
“Nay colors.” Kerr replied grimly. “D’ye think they mean tae take the lass alive?”
Niel’s jaw tightened as he spotted a flash of auburn hair near the stern where a small group was fighting desperately around what looked like a dinghy. Even from this distance, he knew who she was – Lady Mirren MacDonald, his bride-to-be, been fighting like a wildcat while her guards tried to get her to safety.
“Over the rail, lads!” he commanded, his deep voice cutting through the din of battle. “And try nae tae kill any MacDonalds while ye’re at it aye!”
He swung over the side of the ship in one fluid motion, dropping to the MacDonald deck just as the dinghy’s rope snapped. Time seemed to slow as he watched the small boat plummet toward the churning waters below, carrying with it the woman whose fate was now bound to his own.
“Nae!” the word tore from his throat as he saw her strike the water, saw the splintered wood catch her across the temple, saw her auburn hair spread like blood in the waves as she sunk.
Without thought, without hesitation, Niel Campell dove after her.
The icy Highland water hit him like the fist of an angry god, stealing his breath and turning his world into a spinning nightmare of salt and darkness. But Niel fought against the cold, against the weight of his sword and clothing, swimming through the murky depths until his searching found soft fabric, and warm flesh.
He hauled her upward with desperate strength, breaking the surface just as her lips were turning blue.
Bloody hell, how can an unconscious lass be so beautiful?
Niel Campbell pulled the limp form of his bride-to-be against his chest, his heart hammering like a war drum as he fought to keep them both above the churning waves. Her auburn hair floated darkly around them like seaweed, catching the light even in the gray morning, and a thin trail of blood trickled from the gash on her temple where the broken dinghy had struck her.
If she dies before we’re even properly wed, this whole damned alliance disintegrates with her!
But even as the political implications raced through his mind, something deeper drove his desperate efforts to save her. She’d fought like a wildcat on that burning deck, had faced death with the kind of courage that would make any clan proud. This was no damsel to be protected – this woman was a warrior in her own right.
“Me laird!” Kerr’s voice carried across the water as the Campbell galley drew alongside the wreckage, its crew working frantically to maneuver closer. “Is she–?”
“Aye,” Niel called back, though he wasn’t entirely certain. Her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird beneath his fingertips, and her skin felt cold as winter stone. “Lower a rope! Now!”
The next few minutes passed in a blur of frantic activity that felt like hours. Willing hands hauled them both aboard the Campbell ship, where Niel laid the unconscious body of his intended bride on a pile of soft furs that had been hastily arranged near the mizzenmast. Her maid – a brown-haired slip of a thing who’d somehow survived the dinghy’s destruction – knelt beside her mistress with tears streaming down her face.
“Will she live?” the maid whispered, her voice breaking with grief and terror. “Please… tell me she’ll live.”
“Aye,” Niel said with more confidence than he felt. “She’s got MacDonald blood in her veins… too dammed stubborn tae die easily.”
He turned his attention to the MacDonald survivors who’d been pulled from the water, his blue eyes blazing with barely controlled fury. Three men stood dripping on his deck – two soldiers who’d been trying to lower the dinghy, and an older warrior who seemed to be their leader.
“What in the hell happened over there?” Niel demanded, his voice carrying the crack of command. “How did ye let armed enemies get close enough tae attack a defenseless bride?”
The older MacDonald – a grizzled man with steel-gray hair – bristled at the implied criticism. “We were outnumbered three tae one, Campbell! And those werenae ordinary pirates. They fought like men with a purpose, like bloody mercenaries!”
“A purpose that nearly got me bride killed!” Niel’s hand moved to his sword hilt, the gesture unconscious but unmistakable. “Ye were supposed tae deliver her safely!”
“We did our duty!” one of the younger soldiers snapped, his own temper flaring. “Ye’ve nay right tae–”
“I have every damned right!” Niel’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “When yer incompetence nearly–”
Niel was still arguing with the MacDonald soldiers when he noticed the slight movement among the furs. Her eyelids fluttered first – just a barely perceptible tremor that made him pause mid-sentence. Then, her fingers twitched, and he saw her brow furrow as consciousness began to return.
“… supposed tae protect her, nae deliver her intae enemy hands like ye were bringin’ them their Yuletide goose!” he continued, but his attention was split now, watching as Lady Mirren MacDonald slowly fought her way to awareness.
Her breathing changed, becoming less shallow, more deliberate. Then her head moved slightly, and he could see her struggling against the fog of unconsciousness. But as the seconds passed, he watched understanding dawning in her eyes – first confusion, then growing awareness of the voices around her, and finally… fury.
She struggled to sit up among the furs, her movements unsteady but determined, and when she spoke, her voice carried all the fire he expected from a MacDonald.
“Who… who exactly dae ye think ye are?”
The soft but defiant voice silenced every man on deck. Even battered and half-drowned, there was something magnificent about her – the proud tilt of her chin, the way she faced him without flinching despite her obvious injuries. Her auburn hair clung to her face and shoulders like dark silk, and even soaked with seawater, it caught the gray morning light with threads of fire. She was smaller than he’d expected, there was nothing fragile about the way she held herself.
She willnae bend fer any man, but especially nae a Campbell.
“Who am I?” he repeated, moving to kneel beside her. “I’m the man who just pulled ye from the sea, lass.”
As he drew closer, Niel noticed how her breath seemed to catch, how her eyes widened slightly as she took in his appearance. Even injured and defiant, there was something in her gaze that made his pulse quicken – a flicker of awareness that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the dangerous pull between enemies who found themselves inexplicably drawn to one another.
What in the devil’s name is wrong with me? She’s a MacDonald – I should despise her on sight.
“That daesnae give ye the right tae shout at me faither’s men like they’re disobedient hounds!” She tried to stand, swayed dangerously, then accepted her maid’s steadying hand with obvious reluctance. “They fought bravely, and they protected me as best they could!”
Niel couldn’t help but notice how she trembled slightly when he steadied her with gentle hands, how her skin warmed beneath his touch despite her obvious efforts to pull away. There was something almost vulnerable in the way she allowed him to help her, as if part of her wanted to lean into his strength even as her pride demanded she stand alone.
“Their best nearly got ye killed,” Niel pointed out, his voice gentler now but no less firm. “If I hadnae arrived when I did–”
Mirren’s eyes flashed like green fire. “I’m nae some helpless flower that needs a man’s protection tae survive!”
Niel felt his teeth grinding against one another as his jaw tightened.
Fierce as a Highland storm and twice as beautiful. Nay wonder her faither was reluctant tae give her up.
“Ye ken,” he said, his voice hardening with barely controlled irritation that made her eyes narrow, “most women would thank a man fer savin’ their life. Perhaps offer a bit of gratitude rather than a tongue-lashin’.”
“Most women,” Mirren shot back, her green eyes flashing like emerald fire, “havnae been raised by a MacDonald laird who taught them that acceptin’ help from a Campbell is like acceptin’ charity from the devil himself.”
“Ah,” Niel nodded. “So ye’re sayin’ I’m the devil now? Here I thought I was merely a humble rescuer who happened tae be in the right place at the right time.”
“Humble?” Mirren let out a laugh that was equal parts incredulous and genuinely amused despite herself. “Ye, humble? I doubt ye’ve had a humble moment in yer entire life.”
“Well,” he said, his voice taking on a dry note. “I didnae mention how devastatingly handsome I am, did I? Surely that shows remarkable restraint on me part.”
Niel watched as her eyes narrowed with what he suspected was grudging amusement. “Modest as well as handsome, I see. What a rare combination.”
“Nay, lass,” he said quietly, studying her face with new appreciation. “Ye’re definitely nae helpless. But ye are me responsibility now.”
“Yer responsibility?” She straightened despite the obvious pain it caused her. “And who, exactly, appointed ye me guardian? Because I dinnae recall asking fer–”
“I’m Niel Campbell,” he said simply, watching as understanding dawned in her stunning emerald eyes. “Laird of Clan Campbell.”
The silence that followed was so complete that the only sounds were the creak of rigging and the splash of waves against the hull. Mirren stared at him as if seeing him for the first time, her face cycling through a dozen different emotions – surprise, anger, fear, and something else he couldn’t quite identify.
“Laird Campbell,” she repeated slowly, as if tasting the word and finding it bitter on her tongue. Her green eyes swept over him again, this time with new understanding. “Of course ye are. I should have kent from the arrogance alone.” For a moment, she simply stared at him. “So,” she said finally, her voice carefully controlled. “Ye’re the bastard I’m supposed tae marry.”
“Aye. And ye’re the MacDonald lass who’s supposed bring peace between our clans.” He said, his expression hard. “Though from what I’ve seen, peace seems unlikely.”
His gaze flitted around them. “Get them off me ship,” Niel commanded his men, gesturing toward the survivors. “All of them. They sail back tae their own lands immediately.”
“But me laird–” one of his men began.
“Now.” He said, his voice deadly quiet. “Nae MacDonald sets foot on Campbell soil today except the lass.”
Mirren’s eyes flashed with fury. “Ye cannae just–”
“Aye, I can. And I will.” He turned towards his crew. “Set course fer Campbell lands.”
The look she gave him could have melted granite, her hands clenching at her sides.
“So, this is how it begins then, Campbell? With ye showin’ yer true nature.”
“Aye,” he replied coldly. “Best ye learn it quickly, lass.”
As his ship turned toward home, Niel Campbell silently wondered whether he’d just rescued his bride, or invited a viper into his bed.
The scent of pine smoke clung stubbornly to Castle Galbraith’s stones, a remnant of the feast that had burned late into the night. Vivienne inhaled it as she moved through the passage, skirts whispering against the flagstones, the weight of her satchel steady at her hip. Her steps echoed softly in the quiet, and her thoughts, as ever, turned back to a time when she had walked halls like this one with a far different stride, her head bent to her mother’s sharp whispers, her tongue sharpened to wound those who had done nothing but exist.
Odette.
Even the name was enough to stir shame that never truly dulled. Once, Vivienne had stood in her mother’s shadow, a willing accomplice to cruelty she had not dared question. She remembered laughing when Odette faltered, mocking her when her voice caught, turning away when she was left alone and aching. It had been easier to obey, to please, to be the daughter her mother demanded instead of the sister Odette had needed.
But that world was gone. Vivienne had watched it fall piece by piece, the mask ripped from her mother’s face, the cruelty exposed and discarded like a rotten cloak. And she had watched Odette rise, her quiet steel revealed, until she stood beside Gregory Galbraith as his wife, her head high, her worth undeniable. A queen carved from ash.
Vivienne had hated herself most in those moments. Hated the girl she had been, small and vicious, a reflection of another’s will. But hatred, she had learned, could be a seed as much as a poison. From it had grown something else, something that had carried her through the war and after.
Healing. She had discovered her talent almost by accident, binding a wound in the chaos of battle, pressing linen to stop a bleeding that would have ended a man’s life. Her fingers had not trembled then. They had known what to do, as though some part of her had always been waiting to be used for more than spite. From that moment, she had not stopped. She had learned poultices and sutures, tinctures and teas. She had burned her fingers on boiling honey, stained her skirts with wine and blood, memorized the smell of herbs until they haunted her sleep.
And now, when she walked through the halls of Galbraith, it was not as her mother’s daughter or her sister’s shadow. It was as Vivienne, healer.
The chamber she entered was bright with morning, light pouring through the narrow window slits to fall across the straw mattress where a soldier sat, bare-chested and pale. A line of red crossed his ribs, angry and raw, though shallow enough that it had not cut deep. His friends stood clustered near the wall, their faces still pink from laughter, though they tried to school themselves into solemnity as she entered.
Vivienne set her satchel down with a thump. “Which o’ ye thought it wise tae let him climb trees wi’ a blade in his hand?”
The men grinned despite themselves, glancing at one another. One, the youngest, spoke up. “He said he could dae it.”
The wounded soldier shot him a glare, though his cheeks darkened as his gaze flicked back to Vivienne. “It was naught. Just a slip. Hardly worth callin’ ye fer.”
Vivienne arched a brow, pulling a jar from her satchel. The scent of thyme and honey filled the air as she opened it. “A slip that’s left ye bleeding across half yer chest. If this is what ye call naught, lad, I dinnae wish tae see what ye call serious.”
His friends snickered. He ducked his head, muttering, “I didnae want tae trouble ye.”
Her mouth twitched, though she smothered it into something stern. “Ye’ll trouble me more if ye let it fester. Now sit straight.”
He obeyed at once, his back stiffening as though she were the laird himself. Vivienne dipped her fingers into the salve and began to spread it across the wound, her touch firm but careful. The soldier hissed, then clenched his jaw, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the far wall. His skin was hot beneath her hands, the muscle tense under the sting of the balm.
“Breathe,” she instructed, her voice gentler now. “It will bite at first, but the pain will pass.”
He did, though his chest rose sharp, the breath uneven. She could feel the heat of his gaze flickering toward her, quick and guilty, every time she shifted. She knew that look. It was the look of someone who thought kindness might mean something more.
When the salve was spread, she took up a strip of linen and began to wind it across his ribs, tight enough to hold but not to choke. His friends began whispering then, loud enough for her to hear.
“Bet he fell just tae have her hands on him.”
“Aye, next time he’ll throw himself from the wall.”
“Or the stables, if he thinks she’ll kiss him better.”
The boy flushed scarlet. “Shut yer mouths.”
Vivienne’s lips curved despite herself. She tied the bandage neat and pressed her palm to it, steady. “If ye mean tae wound yerself fer attention, lad, pick somewhere less daft than a chest wound. A nick on the arm would dae as well, and ye could still lift a cup wi’out tearing the stitches.”
His friends roared with laughter. The boy groaned, burying his face in his hands.
Vivienne’s voice softened as she leaned back. “Keep it clean. Change the linen twice a day. Nay hunting, nae climbing, nae wrestling—though I doubt ye’ll listen.”
He peeked at her through his fingers, half a smile tugging his mouth. “I’ll listen if ye tell me again.”
His friends howled at that, and Vivienne shook her head, gathering her satchel with a sigh. Saints save her, he was barely more than a boy. It was harmless, and yet, she remembered when she had once thought such fancies were worth clinging to, before she had seen what love truly was.
Her heart tightened at the thought of Odette again, radiant beside Gregory, her hand steady in his even as the world had crumbled. Love was not fluttering hearts and foolish wounds. It was steel. It was choosing each other when the walls shook and the blood ran.
She straightened, her voice brisk once more. “Rest. Heal. I’ll look at it again.”
And with that, she swept from the chamber, her satchel slung once more at her side, the laughter of the soldiers chasing her down the corridor. She ignored it, her steps quickening.
Her own chamber waited, small but bright, her things already laid out. The satchel she had carried for years now sat open on the bed, half-packed with herbs and linens, the tools of her trade. She had work ahead of her.
Castle Keith. The name rang heavy in her chest, though she had not yet spoken it aloud. Tomorrow, she would ride there, summoned for her skill, though the details had been scarce. She knew only this: their healer had died a long time ago, their laird had called, and she was needed.
The hinges creaked softly.
Vivienne glanced up, startled, to find Odette standing in the doorway of her chamber. The morning light poured around her like a halo, catching in the pale gold of her hair, the steel of her gaze. Vivienne’s chest pinched at the sight. Her stepsister had changed so much since those days in Beaumont’s halls. She was no longer the girl Vivienne had mocked, nor the young woman their mother had scorned. She was Odette Galbraith now, laird’s wife, her presence sharp and sure, her smile a blade and a balm all at once.
And yet when she crossed the threshold, it was with quiet steps, the hem of her gown trailing through the rushes as she tilted her head. “What was all that ruckus? I could hear the laughter halfway down the passage.”
Vivienne turned back to the satchel, tucking a roll of linen into its side. “Just silly boys. They’ve naught better tae dae than make fools o’ themselves.”
Odette leaned lightly against the doorframe, her brows arched, her smile tugging faint. “Silly or nae, that one looked fair handsome tae me. Broad shoulders, clear eyes. Ye truly have nay interest?”
Vivienne let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Odette. If Gregory hears ye say such a thing, he’ll send the poor lad straight tae the border and nae let him back inside the walls.”
Odette’s laugh followed, warm and amused. “Gregory would dae naeysuch thing. He kens well enough where me heart lies. I’m saying the boy might be good fer ye, Vivienne, nae fer me.”
Vivienne paused, her fingers smoothing over a jar of honey before slipping it into her bag. Her lips curved faintly. “Perhaps he’ll be good fer someone, one day. But it will nae be me. Me heart is nae so easily swayed by a clumsy smile and a bandaged chest.”
Odette’s eyes softened, her head tipping as she studied her. “Then what daes sway it? Is it the work that drives ye so hard? Ye never rest, Vivienne. Ye live as though there is nay tomorrow, as if ye’ve something left tae prove with every stitch and every poultice.”
The words hit their mark. Vivienne stilled, her back straightening, her hands frozen over the satchel strap. For a moment, shame threatened to rise again, that old weight she had carried since the day she had first seen Odette stand tall as Gregory’s wife. But she crushed it, forcing her voice steady, her chin lifted.
“This is nae penance, Odette. I long since accepted that naething I dae will make up fer what I was. I cannae change the girl who mocked ye, who obeyed me maither’s cruelty. But I found something that is mine, something that mends instead o’ destroys. Healing isnae about proving meself. It’s about… purpose.”
Her throat tightened, but she pushed through it. “When I set a bone, when I keep fever from stealing a child, when I bind a wound that might have festered—I feel whole. I will nae turn from that. Nae even fer comfort or ease.”
Odette was quiet a long moment, her eyes searching Vivienne’s face. Then she stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. “Dae that mean ye are set on this? Leaving Galbraith lands, heading tae Keith with nay more than a summons and a name? Ye dinnae even ken what awaits ye there.”
Vivienne tied the strap of her satchel tight, her voice firm. “Aye. I am set. Whatever awaits, I will meet it as I am now, nae as I was.”
Odette’s lips parted, as though she might argue, but she only sighed, her shoulders lowering with quiet resignation. She crossed the chamber, her hand reaching for Vivienne’s. “Then I’ll nae try tae stop ye. But I’ll miss ye, sister.”
The word struck like an arrow. Sister. It was no longer rival or stranger, but the bond she had always longed for. Vivienne’s throat closed as she turned, clasping Odette’s hand tight. For once she let the softness show, let the truth rise past the no-nonsense exterior she had always clung to.
“I’ll miss ye too,” she whispered.
Odette drew her into an embrace, warm and steady, her hand stroking her hair the way no one had since they were children. Vivienne clung to her, her chest aching with a strange mix of grief and hope. They had lost so much, both of them, but they had found more too. Odette had found love. Vivienne had found purpose. They had found each other. Perhaps that was enough.
When they drew apart, Odette’s eyes shone, but her smile was sure. “Go then. Tae Keith. And remember—nay matter what clan ye serve, ye are still me sister. And ye will always have a place here.”
Vivienne nodded, her grip on the satchel firm. “Aye. And ye’ll always have me.”
She turned toward the door then, her steps light though her chest was heavy. Tomorrow she would ride for Keith, for a land she had never seen, for a future she could not yet imagine. But for the first time in her life, she would do it as herself. As a healer.
And that, she thought, was enough.
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The Beastly Laird’s Forbidden Claim – Get Extended Epilogue
The light in the east chamber was soft and golden, slanting through the high windows to fall across shelves of herbs and rows of eager faces. Fifteen students crowded the benches before her, each with a bundle of parchment, quills, and a scattering of dried plants that perfumed the air with rosemary and thyme. Their chatter quieted when she moved to the front, skirts brushing the flagstone, her satchel slung heavy on her shoulder.
“Right,” Vivienne said, setting the satchel on the table and opening the flap. “Let’s see what ye’ve remembered from last week.”
A ripple of nervous laughter ran through them. They were young, some barely past childhood, but their eyes shone with something she recognized—hunger for knowledge, for the tools that mended instead of broke. She felt it down to her bones every time she stood before them.
She pulled a small jar from the satchel and held it up, amber liquid catching the light. “Tincture o’ willow. What is it fer?”
A boy in the back half-raised his hand, then dropped it again as though afraid of the sound of his own voice. Vivienne caught his hesitation and tilted her chin, encouraging. “Go on, lad. Out wi’ it.”
“Pain, me lady,” he said, cheeks red. “It eases fever too, if ye brew it long enough.”
Vivienne’s mouth curved despite herself. “Aye. Well done. Remember that. It’s the bark, nae the leaf, that holds the salicin. The leaf will sour the stomach. If ye forget that, ye’ll have a patient doubled over wi’ cramps instead o’ sleeping through the ache.”
They laughed, but they were listening. She could feel their focus, their keen minds, and she loved it. She moved along the table, unrolling a strip of linen, setting out herbs and jars one by one as she spoke. “Honey, fer wounds that willnae close. Thyme, boiled intae steam fer the lungs. Yarrow, crushed fer bleeding. And dinnae forget comfrey. It knits bone, but only if ye use it sparingly. Too much, and it can trap rot inside.”
Hands shot up with questions. She answered them all, her voice low but firm, her hands never still as she demonstrated poultices, stitched a scrap of leather to mimic skin, ground dried leaves into fine powder. Time slipped away unnoticed, her body moving with the muscle memory of years, her heart swelling with the pride of it.
She didn’t see him at first.
She was bent over the table, showing one girl how to bind a bandage tight without cutting the blood from a limb, when the air shifted. A weight pressed at the edge of her awareness, steady and unmistakable. She looked up—
And her breath caught.
He stood in the archway, broad shoulders filling the frame, one hand braced against the stone. Sunlight struck across his face, catching silver in his eyes, gleaming on the scar at his temple. His plaid was draped loose, his sword belted at his hip though the hall behind him was quiet of war. Gavin.
Her husband.
Two years, and still he undid her. Two years, and still her stomach flipped like a girl’s at the sight of him. How could she still ache this way, as though every glance were the first? His hair was still short, brushed back neat, but a lock had fallen loose across his brow, and she wanted nothing more than to push it back with her fingers.
Her chest swelled with a fierce, foolish joy. Laird Keith. Her laird. Her storm. Her peace.
He said nothing, only watched her, his silver eyes never wavering. She felt heat rise in her cheeks, though she tried to hide it.
“Enough fer today,” she told the class, her voice steady though her pulse raced. “Ye’ll brew a simple fever draught afore next time. Bring it tae me, and I’ll tell ye if it will heal or kill ye. Dinnae poison me.”
The students laughed, gathering their things with cheerful noise, their chatter spilling bright as birdsong as they filed out. They bowed as they passed Gavin, some casting quick, nervous glances at the laird who filled the archway like a shadow made flesh. He gave them nothing but a curt nod, but Vivienne saw the way their backs straightened under his gaze, the respect he commanded without a word.
The room emptied. Silence pressed in with the scent of herbs and the soft scrape of the last quill packed away. Vivienne’s fingers lingered on the edge of the table, her breath unsteady as the door closed behind the final student.
Then he moved. Slow and measured, his boots whispering against the stone. Her heart thudded harder with every step. When he reached her, he lifted his hand, rough palm cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing the line of her jaw. The callus caught on her skin, familiar, grounding, and still she trembled like it was the first time.
“Ye’re flushed,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “From teaching—or from me?”
Her lips curved despite herself. “Both, perhaps.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile, before his gaze darkened again. He tilted her face up, his eyes devouring hers. The way he looked at her—like he’d never tire of her, like the two years had done nothing to dim the hunger that burned between them.
“Come,” he said simply. “Walk wi’ me.”
Her throat tightened. She could only nod.
He let his hand slide from her face to her fingers, twining them tight with his, and together they stepped out of the chamber.
The corridors were quieter than usual, the hum of the castle softened by distance. Gavin’s hand enclosed hers, rough and certain, the warmth of him steadying her as they walked side by side. She glanced up at him, catching the rigid line of his jaw, the way his shoulders seemed to bow beneath some thought still pressing at him. He had not come to the east chamber for nothing.
When they reached the outer doors, he pushed them open, and a rush of cool air swept in. The gardens spread wide before them, the last of summer’s roses clinging stubbornly to bloom, the trees heavy with green that would soon turn to gold. Sunlight slanted through the branches, dappling the stone path, painting his plaid with shifting shadows.
Vivienne drew in a breath of heather and damp earth, her chest easing. She had spent so much of her life in dark rooms with wounded men and endless fear that the peace of this place sometimes startled her still. But more startling than any garden, any quiet, was him—always him.
He led her down the path, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, silent for longer than she could bear. At last she tilted her head, breaking it. “Ye’ve the face o’ a man carrying news. Out wi’ it, Gavin. I ken that look.”
His mouth twitched, though it was not quite a smile. “I came from the Council.”
She arched a brow, bracing herself. “And?”
“They spoke o’ the stores,” he said, his voice low, measured, the voice of a laird. “The granaries are fuller than they’ve been in a decade. The herds have doubled. Trade wi’ Galbraith grows stronger each season. The men are well-fed, the women are nay longer begging fer bread, bairns are born fat and loud instead o’ starved and silent. Even the smith claims he cannae keep up wi’ orders. Keith has prospered more than I ever thought possible.”
Vivienne’s throat tightened as he spoke, the litany of gains rolling out in that unflinching way of his, as though he were reciting battle statistics instead of hope itself. She remembered the Keith she had first seen, with thin-faced children, walls that seemed to sag under the weight of despair, a laird who lived more in shadow than in light. And now, this. Life where there had been only survival.
Pride swelled in her chest, so fierce it nearly stung. But instead of tears, laughter bubbled up, soft at first, then spilling free before she could stop it.
He stopped walking, his head turning sharply toward her. His brows pulled low, puzzled in that blunt, boyish way of his that always made her want to kiss him until the furrow smoothed. “What in God’s name is funny about that?”
She pressed her lips together, trying to stifle it, but the joy was too much. Her shoulders shook, her eyes bright. “Naething, me laird. Naething at all.”
His grip on her hand tightened. “Vivienne.” His voice carried warning now, stern, as though she were one of his men refusing to answer direct. “Tell me.”
She looked up at him, still smiling, her heart hammering wild. She had held the secret for days, waiting, wondering when it would be right. And here, in the garden where he had once told her she was his peace, it seemed the only place.
“It will grow more,” she said softly.
His frown deepened, confusion darkening his eyes. “More?”
“Aye.” She stopped walking, turned to face him fully, her free hand sliding to rest against her belly. Her pulse roared, her knees weak, but her smile widened. “Because I’m carrying yer child.”
The silence that followed was complete. Not even the birds dared break it. Gavin stood utterly still, his breath halted, his eyes fixed on her hand where it pressed to the flat of her gown.
Then his chest rose sharp, his breath tearing back into him as if he had been drowning. “Vivienne,” he rasped, her name raw on his tongue.
She laughed again, tears stinging her eyes now. “Aye, Gavin. It’s true. I’m wi’ child.”
His hand shot out, covering hers where it lay against her belly, the sheer force of his grip trembling. His eyes lifted to hers, silver burning bright, wider and softer than she had ever seen them. For the first time since she had known him, the laird, the beast, the storm, was struck speechless.
Her throat closed. “Are ye pleased?” she whispered, though she could see the answer plain on his face.
“Pleased?” His voice broke, rough and shaking, the word torn from him. He caught her face between his scarred hands, his mouth claiming hers before she could say more. The kiss was fierce, desperate, his lips trembling against hers. When he broke away, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged. “Vivienne, ye’ve given me more than I ever thought I could hold. A wife, a clan whole again… and now this.” His thumb brushed her cheek, his voice dropping to a hoarse vow. “Our child.”
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now, but her smile trembled bright through them. “Our child,” she echoed, her hand clutching his where it still pressed against her stomach.
He groaned low in his chest, dragging her against him, his arms crushing her close as though he could shield both her and the tiny life inside from the whole world. She melted into him, her face buried in his shoulder, breathing the scent of leather and steel and Gavin until she thought she might drown in it.
When he eased back, it was only far enough to look at her again, his eyes devouring her face as though he could not believe she was real. “How long?”
“Two months, perhaps three,” she admitted, her lips curving. “The signs were faint, but I ken me own body. And I ken the way me heart beats differently now.”
His laugh was rough, almost disbelieving, his thumb brushing her lip as if to steady himself. “Saints preserve me, Vivienne. I thought battle near broke me, but this—ye’ve undone me more than any blade could.”
She caught his hand, kissed his palm, her voice soft. “Good. Then we’re even.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, lingering, reverent. His mouth moved over hers as though each brush of lips was a prayer. When he pulled back, his gaze swept over her, fierce and tender both. “Ye’ll rest more. Ye’ll eat better. I’ll nae have ye exhausting yerself in the healer’s chambers all day.”
Her laugh broke wet and fond. “Already commanding me, me laird? Ye’ll smother me before I even swell.”
His jaw flexed, stubborn as stone. “I’ll smother ye wi’ protection, aye. I’ll nae risk ye.”
Her heart swelled so full it hurt. She tipped her head, her smile soft but steady. “Then we’ll make a pact. I’ll mind me health if ye mind that stubborn pride o’ yers. I’ll nae raise this bairn alone because ye bled yerself tae death playing the beast on some border skirmish.”
His eyes darkened, but not with anger. With love. With the weight of everything they had survived, everything still ahead. “A pact, then,” he said hoarsely. “Though ken this, Vivienne—there’s naething in this world, nay clan, nay war, nay ghost o’ the past, that could take me from ye now.”
She kissed him for that, slow and sure, her hand pressed between them where their child would grow.
The garden swayed gently in the breeze, blossoms nodding, banners snapping faintly from the walls beyond. Somewhere, laughter rose from the training yard, the sound of men drilling, life continuing. But here, in the circle of his arms, Vivienne felt only the future. A future born not of war, not of ruin, but of love fierce enough to break curses and heal scars.
She drew back just enough to whisper against his lips, her voice trembling with joy. “We’ll have a family, Gavin. Our own. And they’ll never ken hunger, nor fear, nor shame. Only love.”
His answer was another kiss, deep and claiming, sealing the vow.
For the first time since she had stepped onto Keith land, she felt not only peace but the promise of joy that would last beyond them both.
And as Gavin Keith lifted her into his arms, carrying her back toward the castle with a smile breaking through the storm of his face, Vivienne Keith knew she had found her forever.
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Chapter One
Near the Borders of Clan Keith, 1718
The road narrowed as it curved east, hemmed in on both sides by low stone walls and bramble-thick hedges.
Vivienne adjusted the shawl at her shoulders, her fingers curling into the soft wool with a grip that bordered on reverence. It had belonged to her mother once.
Sheona.
Not just a name, but a presence that clung like perfume to every room she’d ever walked into—floral, cloying, impossible to breathe through. Sheona, who had taught her how to speak softly in rooms that did not want to hear her. Who had carved obedience into her with every glance, every correction, every whispered warning dressed up as care. The woman who had smiled with ice in her teeth and called it motherly love.
The shawl had outlasted her.
Sheona had left behind no letters, only this: a shawl worn threadbare at the edges, and a hundred small cruelties Vivienne had never quite known how to name.
And yet still, she wore it, because leaving it behind felt like abandoning something that had shaped her too deeply to forget. A reminder of the woman her mother had tried to make her, and the vow she had made never to become that woman again. A weight, yes, but ballast all the same. Something to remind her of where she came from, and that there was no turning back, even as the road beneath her shifted and the path ahead stretched into places she could not yet imagine.
She wrapped it tighter around her shoulders, as if it might hold her together.
The horse beneath her shifted, hooves striking uneven ground, and one of the Galbraith guards glanced over his shoulder. “All well, mistress?”
Vivienne blinked. The question had to be repeated in her mind before she could answer. “Aye. Just tired.”
He gave a nod and turned back around. Conversation between the men had long since dulled to murmurs of travel talk, idle and meaningless. She let them fade.
Her thoughts were louder.
There were four guards, whom she had not met before. Not properly at least. Laird Gregory Galbraith had chosen them himself, after she’d insisted she didn’t need an escort at all. After everything that had passed between her and Gregory and Odette, the fact they now saw her as family, someone worth protecting, was no small thing.
They didn’t know that she hadn’t slept the night before. That she’d stood in her chambers repacking the same satchel three times over, hands shaking from something that was not fear, but not quite bravery either. That Odette had stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and half amused, asking if she’d truly lost her mind.
“Ye’re nae even sure what ye’re walking intae,” Odette, her step-sister had said, voice low, a smile playing behind the warning.
Odette had once been her adversary, the bitterness between them sown by Sheona’s careful hand. But that had changed—after Odette’s marriage to Laird Galbraith, after Vivienne’s quiet repentance. Now, she was her closest kin. Her voice was low, familiar, a smile playing behind the warning.
Odette, who had once been the outsider in their home and Vivienne, who had worn cruelty like a borrowed dress, thinking it the only way to belong. They had both changed. War had seen to that. Love, too.
Vivienne had only smiled. “That’s never stopped either o’ us.”
And that was true. Once.
But now, riding across borders toward a clan she’d never met, summoned by a man known only through whispered titles and unsigned letters, the uncertainty felt like a living thing, coiled in her belly. It slithered up her spine when she let her guard down, gnawed at her resolve.
She shifted again, the leather saddle creaking. The wind carried no birdsong here. Just the rustle of unseen branches and the faint echo of hooves behind them.
The letter had said very little.
“Our healers is gone. The sick pile faster than we can bury them. I’ve heard ye have a gift. Come, then. Show me how good ye truly are. Come before the season turns. Enter by the western border, if ye value yer life. — G.K.”
Just the rough initials and the weight of expectation.
Vivienne had read it a dozen times. She’d turned the parchment over in her hands, trying to divine something between the lines. Something more than need. Something more than desperation. Because surely no laird—no Beast, as they called him—would send for a stranger unless he’d run out of every other option.
The name alone made her stomach twist.
The Beast o’ Keith.
It had sounded like a jest, the first time she’d heard it. But Gregory hadn’t been laughing. He’d said the man hadn’t left the battlefield in five winters. That he refused court, sent no emissaries, dined alone. That he wore armor even in his own hall. Slept in a chair because no bed could hold the weight of his rage.
“Nay woman’s ever looked at him without flinchin’,” Gregory had muttered, almost to himself, eyes dark. “And I’d rather send ye intae the sea than intae Keith lands.”
And now, Vivienne Beaumont, once the girl who’d stood behind her mother’s shoulder like a shadow, now the healer who walked with poultices alone, was meant to cross into his lands and help.
She swallowed.
She had so many questions.
Why me? Why now? Why the west border? Why nay more information? Why hadnae he sent someone?
But of course, she already knew the answer. Because he was the kind of man who did not ask. He commanded. Even his letter had felt that way. Not curt, exactly. But final. Like the paper itself would not suffer to be questioned.
Her horse slowed as the path thinned, and one of the guards raised a hand. “Mistress,” he called softly, pointing. “There.”
She looked up.
A stretch of rock, then a rise of wooded ridge, and just beyond it, the faint line of another road, bisecting their path like a scar. And further still there was smoke, the kind that meant people, and a fire burning just out of sight.
“Keith border,” the guard said. “We’ll make camp just shy o’ it.”
Vivienne nodded.
They dismounted near a bend in the path where the trees grew close. The men moved with efficiency, one gathering wood, another checking the horses. She took her satchel and stepped to the edge of the camp, beyond the fire ring, beyond the reach of their chatter.
One of the younger guards knelt beside her, holding out a piece of oatcake wrapped in linen. “Mistress,” he offered, his voice careful, unsure. “Ye should eat something. It’s a long ride still.”
Vivienne blinked at the bread. Her fingers closed around it automatically, more out of habit than hunger. “Thank ye,” she murmured.
He lingered a moment. She glanced up briefly and nodded. After a pause, he rose and returned to the others.
The bread sat in her lap, untouched. Instead, her hands returned to the flask. She loosened her grip, noting the ache in her knuckles with clinical detachment. Her mind, too, felt taut and overdrawn, stretched thin by the unfamiliar.
She sat cross-legged with her back against the tree, the flask cradled between her palms. Around her, the woods shifted and whispered. Her eyes scanned the shadows for understanding. What kind of land bred a laird like Gavin Keith? What kind of war left so few to tend the wounded?
She reached for the shawl again, fingers curling tight at the collarbone.
Ballast, ye’re nae that lass anymore, who flinched. Nae the girl who stayed silent tae survive.
But still, when a branch cracked somewhere beyond the firelight, she flinched.
The guard nearest her heard it too. His hand dropped to the hilt of his blade. “Stay here,” he said low, a single glance her way before he moved toward the sound.
Vivienne rose slowly, knees stiff. She strained to listen. Just the wind, maybe. Just an animal in the brush. And then—
A thunk.
The sickening sound of blade striking bone. A grunt. Another.
And then the firelight exploded in motion. Figures burst through the trees in every direction, steel flashing, shouts rising like thunder. A blur of blue and green tartan swept across the camp, and Vivienne stumbled backward in time to see one of her guards fall, his throat opened clean.
“Run!” someone roared.
Her feet moved before her mind did. She turned, half-tripping on a root, grabbing her skirts as she sprinted into the darkness. The woods closed in fast. Branches clawed at her hair. The ground sloped without warning, and she went tumbling, shoulder crashing into a rock, hands scraping raw against the dirt.
Behind her, men shouted, voices rough and urgent overlapping in a chaos she couldn’t untangle. Steel clanged against steel; each strike sharp enough to split the air. A horse screamed, high, human-like, and the sound cracked something inside her.
Vivienne scrambled to her feet. Her breath came ragged and fast, a fluttering thing that wouldn’t settle in her chest. Her legs buckled beneath her for a moment, stiff from the cold and the shock, but she forced them forward, running as fast as she could. Branches tore at her sleeves, at her hair, her skirts catching on brambles as she stumbled through the thick underbrush. Her heart thundered in her ears, louder than the noise behind her, louder than the wind that cut across the ridge.
Keith. Keith was north. Nay—west. Nay—the river was east, she should’ve—should’ve crossed it at the bend—
Panic surged, directionless and raw.
The ground sloped, then dipped without warning, and she slid down a patch of wet earth, her boots skidding, knees giving. She hit a tree hard, shoulder-first, and kept going, pain lancing down her side. Her hand clutched at the shawl as if it might anchor her, but it slipped loose, useless against the chaos.
Then, without warning, something snatched her.
A hand closed around her wrist like a snare, jerking her backwards with such force her body spun. Her ankle twisted, her mouth opened—
She screamed.
But the sound was muffled almost instantly by another hand, rough and calloused, slamming over her mouth. She tried to bite, tried to wrench away, but her limbs moved too slow, her thoughts too scattered.
“Hold still,” a voice growled at her ear, the words hot and close. “Stop fighting.”
She writhed anyway, teeth sinking into leather, but the man only hissed and twisted her arm until pain spiked white-hot through her elbow.
“Damn healer,” he muttered. “We heard they were sendin’ one from Galbraith. Should’ve kent it’d be ye. Ye’ve nay place in this.”
More men emerged from the shadows, all dressed in the same muted grey plaids, mud-caked boots, teeth bared like wolves. Her other guards… Where were they? Were they dead?
She couldn’t breathe.
One man stepped closer, squinting down at her. The man crouched in front of her, eyes gleaming in the half-dark. His face was lean, his hair tied back in a crude knot. There was blood on his sleeve—someone else’s. He looked at her like she was something caged. Not dangerous. Just… contained.
“So,” he said, voice low and mocking, “this is the lass from Galbraith.”
Vivienne blinked. Her elbow throbbed from where she’d fallen. Her vision swam.
He tilted his head. “What’s yer name, then? Dinnae think I’ve seen ye at court.”
Vivienne met his gaze, steady despite the tension in her spine. “Vivienne Beaumont,” she said. “And I’ve nay business at court. I go where I’m needed.”
Another man stepped closer, broader, with a scar running down his brow. “That’s her. The healer. The one Galbraith sent.”
The first man smiled. “Healer, is it? Thought ye’d be older.”
Vivienne forced a breath through her teeth. “I’m nae here fer Galbraith,” she said, voice hoarse. “He didnae send me.”
“Did ye hear that?” the man drawled, glancing back at the others. “Just wandering intae Keith lands with a pouch full o’ tinctures, is she?”
A few of the men laughed.
Vivienne lifted her chin. “I was summoned. By the laird o’ Clan Keith. I was told they needed healing. That’s what I came tae dae.”
The man crouching grinned wider now. “And ye just answered, did ye? Like a good wee dove?”
One of the younger men shifted behind him. “General, Sir—she daesnae look like a threat.”
“Daesnae look like a threat?” the general echoed, not taking his eyes off her. “Ye think that’s how war works, lad? Ye think the ones who patch the wounds dinnae change the fight?” He stood slowly. “She’s a Galbraith. And she’s meant fer Keith. That makes her useful. And dangerous.”
“Aye, general,” the younger man bowed his head.
Vivienne’s hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white. “I’m nae a danger,” she said again. “I dinnae fight.”
“Nay,” the general said. “Ye keep others from dying. Which is worse.”
She flinched as he stepped closer, voice dropping to something colder.
“Ye’re here tae help, girl.”
Then he turned to the others. “Take her. Strip her o’ anything sharp. We move before night thickens. If Keith sent fer her, let’s see how far they’ll chase.”
He motioned, and two of the men grabbed her arms.
“Nay—please—” She fought them, legs kicking, feet slipping in the loam. Her satchel tore from her shoulder. She saw it fall, herbs spilling like leaves across the ground.
A hand struck her across the face.
“Quiet,” the general said.
Her ears rang. Her vision swam.
They dragged her through the trees, moving fast, too fast. Her boots caught on roots. Her arms ached. She tried to count her breaths. In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three. But the numbers blurred.
Her mouth tasted of iron.
“Take her past the ridge. We’ll cut east from there. If Keith wants tae get healers, let them come fetch her.”
The general again. “Aye. Let’s see if their Beast comes fer her.”
Chapter Two
The forest floor blurred beneath her, mud and moss and root twisting into one shapeless dark mass. A light rain fell through the canopy, soaking into her hair, her clothes, the raw places on her skin.
Her shoulder throbbed from where she’d hit it and her lip stung where the man had struck her. Her feet barely skimmed the ground as the men dragged her deeper into the trees, each step jarring something loose inside her chest.
She was cold. She was dizzy. She was bleeding. And she could not stop shaking.
Their hands were iron on her arms. Her skirts tangled around her knees. Her mother’s shawl was gone. Somewhere back near the fire, in the dirt, torn loose when they pulled her down. It felt like her body had been torn loose, too. She could feel it fraying at the edges. Unraveling.
“Walk faster,” one of them snapped, yanking her forward by the arm.
“She’s limping,” another muttered. “Leg’s bleeding. She fell hard back there.”
“She’ll manage,” came the reply, flat and cold, making her shiver. “She’s a Galbraith. They’re always tougher than they look.”
Vivienne’s breath hitched. She hadn’t realized how shallow it had become until it caught, jagged, in her chest. Her ribs ached and her lips were dry. Blood clung to the inside of her mouth, metallic and thick, and her vision kept tilting every few steps.
She didn’t know how far they’d come. Couldn’t track direction anymore. North and south had blurred. The forest closed in like a hand tightening its fist. She didn’t know if her guards still lived or if the laird even knew she was gone. Keith. I need tae get tae Keith. I need tae—
She moved before she had time to question herself.
Her body twisted hard, dragging her feet sideways, and yanked her arm back with everything she had. The shock of resistance tore through her shoulder, but she didn’t stop. She wrenched free and bolted left, toward the thickets.
It worked… for half a breath. The grip on her right arm slipped. Her sleeve tore. She turned fast, lungs heaving, skirts catching on thorns. But the woods were uneven, wild. Her boot caught on a root hidden beneath the leaves, and suddenly the ground was gone.
She fell hard.
Her body hit the slope like a dropped stone. Her hands landed on sharp rock, skin splitting open on impact. Her elbow smashed into something solid, and pain screamed up her arm. Her chin struck moss. She rolled once, twice, and then lay still, winded, mouth full of dirt and the dull, sick tang of blood.
The world pulsed around her, the trees above spinning as she tasted copper on her tongue and heard footsteps closing in. Still, she tried to crawl, but they were on her again within seconds.
“Let go o’ me!” she cried, voice cracking. “Let go, let go—”
Another strike across her cheek silenced her. Pain lit up behind her eyes and the world blurred.
“Hold her,” the man barked. “We’re almost tae the ridge.”
Vivienne could barely hear him as blood roared in her ears. Her limbs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. And then—
A sound. A low whistle. The men froze.
“Someone’s coming,” one of the men hissed.
The general turned, eyes narrowing. “Get her behind cover. Now.”
They dragged her toward a fallen tree, but it was too late.
The woods exploded. Steel screamed against steel. Horses reared. Shadows broke through the underbrush, figures in dark green and black tartan, moving like thunderclouds.
The first blade missed her by inches, driving instead into the chest of the man holding her left arm. He went down in a howl of blood and disbelief.
A second man fell near the ridge, tackled by a Keith warrior in a bear-like charge. The two of them crashed into the underbrush, weapons slashing wild.
She felt hands leave her and felt her body hit the earth. She curled instinctively, arms covering her head, the noise rising around her into something unbearable. She could hear the general yelling, commands or curses, she couldn’t tell.
And then, through the chaos, she saw him.
He didn’t come riding like the others, shouting or swarming. He came alone and moved through the melee with lethal precision, every strike efficient, brutal. His blade was long, and it did not pause. It caught the torchlight as it moved, silver and clean, like a line drawn through the dark.
Vivienne’s breath snagged.
He wasn’t armored like the rest. No visible sigil. No crest. Just a high leather guard strapped tight around his neck, like a collar too purposeful to be for vanity. His long hair was unbound, wet with sweat and rain, clinging to his jaw, his brow, the curve where cheek met temple.
And still, he looked untouchable.
But it was more than that. It was the way he moved. Not just strength. Not just skill. Presence. Like the earth itself made way for him. His silence rang louder than any war cry.
Vivienne couldn’t look away.
She knew she should run, should hide, but something in her stilled. Her heartbeat, ragged and wild moments ago, slowed into something heavier, as if her body recognized him before her mind did.
He looked carved from the storm itself. Violent, rain-slicked, beautiful. And terrifying. And she did not know why, but for one brief, breathless second, she wondered what it would feel like to be seen by a man like that. To be held in the eye of that silence. To be claimed by it.
Then the general shouted, and the moment shattered.
Vivienne tried to crawl back, away, but her limbs wouldn’t move fast enough. Her palms slid on moss. Her head swam. She heard their swords clash before she saw it.
The general swung first, wide and brutal, a fury-fueled arc.
The man parried easily, stepping in close. The second clash came louder, and then the two men locked blades, face to face.
Vivienne couldn’t look away.
The general fought with anger. She’d seen men like that before, too reckless to be clever. But this man moved with a cold, controlled violence, not rushed or enraged, he was trained for this. He broke the lock and sent the general reeling with a strike to the side of the knee. Then he stepped in and slammed the hilt of his sword into the general’s jaw.
He fell, face down.
The silence that followed felt unnatural, too quiet for all that had just passed. Vivienne could only watch as the man turned toward her, his face clean of blood, his eyes—grey, or perhaps silver—locking onto hers. He didn’t speak, just looked, and in that silence thick with smoke, blood, and something she couldn’t name yet, Vivienne froze.
She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Couldn’t read a thing behind those strange, silver eyes. He looked half-man, half-shadow. And in that moment, she didn’t know if he had come to help her or to claim her. Didn’t know if he would offer her his hand or take her by the throat. He could be savior or punishment.
All she knew was that he saw her.
She didn’t know what he was yet, only that no one that precise, that silent, could be safe.
