Author: julianawight
Surrendered to the Highland Brute – Get Extended Epilogue
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Surrendered to the Highland Brute – Extended Epilogue
Five Years Later
“Mama! Mama, look what I found!”
Isla looked up from the herbs she was cutting to see her four-year-old son, Ewan, racing across the garden with something clutched in his pudgy fist. His dark hair, so like his father’s, was wild with running, and his grey eyes sparkled with excitement.
“What is it, love?” She set down her knife as he skidded to a stop beside her.
“A beetle! A great big one!” He opened his hand to reveal a rather ordinary garden beetle. “Can I keep him?”
“Beetles need tae live outside where they can find food and shelter, remember? But ye can watch him fer a bit before ye let him go.”
“But Mama.”
“Ewan Cameron, what did yer faither tell ye about arguin’ with yer maither?”
Isla looked up to see Seoc approaching with their three-year-old daughter, Catriona, perched on his shoulders. The little girl had her mother’s dark hair and her father’s stubborn chin, and she was currently yanking on Seoc’s hair with gleeful abandon.
“Da said I should always listen tae ye,” Ewan admitted reluctantly. “Even when I think I’m right.”
“That’s because yer maither usually is right.” Seoc lifted Catriona from his shoulders, setting her on the ground despite her protests. “Now, what’s this about keepin’ beetles?”
While Ewan launched into an elaborate explanation of why this particular beetle deserved to live in his chamber, Isla felt a familiar flutter of contentment. Five years of marriage, two beautiful children, a clan at peace, sometimes she had to pinch herself to believe it was all real.
“Me lady!” A breathless servant appeared at the garden entrance. “Riders approachin’ from the south! Fletcher colors!”
Isla’s heart leaped. “They’re here! Seoc, they’re here!”
“About time. Ye’ve been watchin’ that road fer three days.” But he was smiling. “Come on, wee ones. Let’s go greet our guests.”
“Is it Uncle Ualan?” Ewan asked, bouncing with excitement.
“Aye, and yer grandparents, and probably a few others as well.” Isla smoothed her skirts, suddenly nervous. “Dae I look all right? I’ve been in the garden all mornin’.”
“Ye look beautiful.” Seoc caught her hand. “Now stop fussin’ and let’s go see yer family.”
They reached the courtyard just as the Fletcher party rode through the gates. Isla scanned the riders, her eyes immediately finding her father’s golden hair, now streaked with grey, and her mother beside him. But it was the tall young man riding at her father’s right hand that made her breath catch.
“Ualan?”
He’d been nearly ten the last time she’d seen him, still gangly and boy-shaped. Now he was fifteen, tall and broad-shouldered, looking so much like their father it made her heart ache. He dismounted with the easy grace of a trained warrior and strode toward her.
“Isla.” His voice had deepened, roughened. “God, ye look exactly the same.”
“And ye look completely different!” She threw her arms around him, not caring about dignity or propriety. “When did ye get so tall? Ye’re taller than me now!”
“Been taller than ye fer two years.” But he hugged her back fiercely. “I’ve missed ye, sister.”
“I’ve missed ye too. So much.” She pulled back to look at him properly. “Look at ye. Ye’re practically a man grown.”
“Practically?” He grinned, the expression so familiar it made her want to cry. “I am a man grown. Faither’s already got me leadin’ patrols and sittin’ in on council meetings.”
“Has he now?” She turned to find her parents had dismounted and were waiting patiently. “Maither. Faither.”
Her mother embraced her first, holding tight. “Me sweet girl. Let me look at ye.” Jane stepped back, her eyes bright with tears. “Maitherhood suits ye. Ye’re glowin’.”
“That’s probably sweat from chasin’ after these two all day.” But Isla smiled as Ewan and Catriona peeked out from behind Seoc’s legs. “Come here, darlings. Meet yer grandparents.”
Ewan, ever bold, stepped forward immediately. “I’m Ewan Cameron. I’m four years old and I can count tae twenty and I ken how tae ride a pony all by meself.”
“Can ye now?” Alistair Fletcher knelt to the boy’s level. “That’s very impressive. And who’s this shy one?”
Catriona pressed closer to Seoc’s leg, one finger in her mouth.
“This is Catriona,” Isla said. “She’s three, and she’s nae shy once she gets tae ken ye. She’s just careful at first.”
“Like her maither was at that age,” Jane observed. “I remember ye hidin’ behind me skirts whenever strangers visited.”
“I did nay such thing.”
“Ye absolutely did.” Her mother moved to Catriona, crouching down with a gentle smile. “Hello, sweet one. I’m yer grandmaither. Would ye like tae see what I brought ye?”
Catriona’s eyes widened as Jane produced a small wooden doll from her bag. “Fer me?”
“Fer ye. And I have somethin’ fer yer braither too.”
“What is it?” Ewan was immediately distracted from the beetle still clutched in his hand.
“Why dinnae we all go inside,” Seoc suggested diplomatically, “and we can dae proper introductions over refreshments? The journey from Fletcher lands is nae a short one.”
They moved into the great hall where servants had already laid out food and drink. The children were settled with their grandparents while Ualan attached himself to Isla’s side.
“Tell me everythin’,” he demanded. “Yer letters are good, but they cannae tell me everythin’. What’s it like, being lady of a castle? Dae ye get tae make all the decisions? Does Seoc let ye carry a sword?”
“Slow down!” Isla laughed. “One question at a time. Being lady of the castle is… complicated. I make many decisions about the household, the supplies, how things are organized. But it’s nae like I’m in charge of everythin’. Seoc and I work taegether.”
“That’s nae how Faither and Maither dae it. Faither makes all the big decisions.”
“Well, that’s nae how we dae things here.” She glanced across the hall where Seoc was showing Ewan how to properly hold a practice sword—wooden, sized for a small child, but still making her son’s face light up with joy. “We’ve learned that we’re stronger taegether than apart.”
“Sounds strange tae me. But then, everythin’ about married life sounds strange.” Ualan made a face. “Faither keeps hintin’ that I should start thinkin’ about marriage. I’m only fifteen!”
“Aye, ye have time yet.” She studied her brother’s face, seeing both the boy he’d been and the man he was becoming. “But ye’ll find someone eventually. Someone who makes ye want tae be better than ye are.”
“Is that how ye feel about Cameron?”
“Every day.” She watched as Seoc caught Catriona when she tried to climb onto a chair that was too tall for her, swinging her up into his arms with practiced ease. “He makes me want tae be braver, kinder, stronger. And I like tae think I dae the same fer him.”
“Ye dae.” The voice came from behind them. They turned to find their father standing there, a cup of ale in his hand. “Seoc Cameron was a good warrior when ye married him, but ye’ve made him a great laird. Everyone can see the change in him.”
“That’s nae all me daeing, Faither. He was always capable. He just needed tae believe it.”
“Perhaps. But ye gave him that belief.” Alistair settled into a chair beside them. “Ualan, go see tae yer maither. She’s tryin’ tae manage both yer niece and nephew at once, and she could use help.”
“Aye, Faither.” Ualan squeezed Isla’s hand before departing.
“He’s grown so much,” Isla said softly. “I’ve missed it all.”
“That’s the cost of makin’ yer own family. Ye miss the growth of the one ye left behind.” Her father’s expression was understanding. “But ye’ve built somethin’ good here, daughter. I can see it in every corner of this castle.”
“Thank ye, Faither.” She felt tears threatening. “I ken this marriage wasnae what either of us wanted initially.”
“But it became what ye both needed. I can see that now.” He took a sip of his ale. “When we first arranged the betrothal, I worried we were sacrificin’ yer happiness fer political gain. But ye’ve found both. That’s a rare gift.”
“It is.” She watched as Seoc caught her eye across the hall and smiled, that private smile meant only for her. “I’m happier than I ever imagined I could be.”
“Good. That’s all yer maither and I ever wanted fer ye.” He stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Now, shall we join the others? I want tae hear more about me grandchildren’s adventures.”
The afternoon passed in a blur of conversation and laughter. Ewan demonstrated his sword skills for his grandfather, still clumsy, but enthusiastic. Catriona sat in her grandmother’s lap, playing with the wooden doll and asking endless questions about Fletcher lands. Ualan regaled Seoc with stories of his training, clearly hoping to impress his brother-by-marriage.
It was late afternoon when Isla found herself alone with her mother in the solar, both children napping after the excitement of meeting their grandparents.
“This is a lovely room,” Jane said, running her fingers over the embroidered cushions. “Did ye dae this work?”
“Some of it. Though most I learned from Seoc’s mother’s journals. She had wonderful ideas fer makin’ a cold castle feel warm.”
“Ye’ve certainly succeeded.” Her mother settled into a chair by the window. “Tell me truly, daughter. Are ye happy? Nae the happy ye show everyone else. The real happiness underneath.”
Isla considered the question carefully. “Aye, Maither. I truly am. It wasnae always easy. Those first weeks were difficult, and the battle…” She shuddered at the memory. “But we Seoc and I came through it. Taegether. And now…” She gestured around the solar. “This is me home. These are me people. This is where I belong.”
“I can see that.” Jane’s eyes glistened. “Ye’ve found what I always hoped ye’d find. A partnership. Someone who sees yer worth and values it.”
“The way Faither values ye?”
“Aye. Though it took him years tae realize that me counsel was just as valuable as his warriors’.” She smiled. “Seoc seems tae have learned that lesson much faster.”
“He had good motivation. The clan was failin’ under his faither’s leadership. He needed tae try somethin’ different.”
“And he chose tae trust ye. That shows wisdom beyond his years.” Her mother leaned forward. “Are ye… is there…” She gestured vaguely at Isla’s stomach.
“Am I with child again? Nay. At least, nae that I ken of.” Isla smiled. “Why? Are ye eager fer more grandchildren already?”
“I’m eager fer ye tae have whatever makes ye happy. If that’s more children, wonderful. If nae, that’s wonderful too.” Jane’s expression grew more serious. “Ye’ve given the clan an heir and a spare. That’s all anyone can demand. Dinnae let pressure from the Council make ye feel otherwise.”
“The Council here is actually quite supportive. They see how hard Seoc and I work fer the clan, and they respect that.” Isla paused. “His faither used tae be the problem, but he retired tae Glen Orchy a years ago. Things have been much easier since then.”
“I’m glad tae hear it. Every young couple needs space tae find their own way without interference from the older generation.” Jane stood, moving to embrace her daughter. “I’m so proud of ye, Isla. Of the woman ye’ve become, the maither ye are, the lady this castle needed.”
“Thank ye, Maither.” Isla held tight, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender that had always meant home. “Thank ye fer everythin’.”
Jane pulled back, cupping Isla’s face. “Now, shall we wake those children and see about gettin’ everyone fed? I imagine yer husband will want tae take yer faither on a tour of the defenses.”
“Probably. Men and their walls.” But Isla was smiling as they left the solar together.
That evening, the great hall was filled with laughter and music. The servants had outdone themselves with the feast, and the Fletcher party seemed delighted with the welcome they’d received. Isla sat beside Seoc at the high table, watching as Ualan taught Ewan a simple dance step while Catriona tried to copy them.
“Thank ye fer this,” she said quietly to her husband.
“Fer what?”
“Fer invitin’ them. Fer makin’ them feel welcome. Fer…” She gestured at the hall full of happy people. “Fer all of this.”
“They’re yer family. Which makes them me family too.” He caught her hand under the table, lacing their fingers together. “Besides, I like seein’ ye this happy. Ye’ve been glowin’ all day.”
“That’s what Maither said.” She leaned against his shoulder. “I love ye, Seoc Cameron.”
“And I love ye, Isla Cameron.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “More with every passin’ year.”
“Even when I’m difficult?”
“Especially then.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Where would be the fun in a docile wife?”
“Naewhere, I suspect.” She smiled as Ewan successfully completed the dance step and pumped his fist in triumph. “Our son has yer determination.”
“And yer stubbornness. God help us all.”
They sat together, watching their children play, surrounded by family and friends and the life they’d built together. Outside, night was falling over Cameron lands, stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky.
But inside the great hall of Loch Lochy, there was only warmth and light and love.
And as Isla looked around at everything they’d created—the clan at peace, the children healthy and happy, the castle thriving—she thought about that frightened girl who’d been handed over at Glen of Leny five years prior.
That girl had been so certain marriage would be a prison. Instead, it had become freedom. The freedom to be fully herself. To love and be loved. To build something lasting and precious.
And she wouldn’t change a single moment of the journey that had brought her here. Not one.
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Surrendered to the Highland Brute (Preview)
Chapter One
Glen of Leny, near Callander, Scotland, 1372
“I willnae dae it, I tell ye.”
The Glen of Leny stretched around them, a neutral ground where Clan Fletcher, Cameron nor any clan claimed dominion. Here, between the routes of Argyll and Lochaber, two clans had raised their tents for the formal exchange that would bind their houses in alliance. Today, Isla Fletcher would be handed over to her betrothed, Seoc Cameron, sealing a debt nine years in the making.
Isla’s words hung between them in the tent, even after she had stopped talking. Her mother’s hands stilled on the silver-handled brush she’d been fiddling nervously with, her reflection meeting her daughter’s in the small looking glass.
The maids had been fussing over Isla’s hair for what felt like hours, weaving ribbons through the dark strands and pinching her cheeks to bring color to them. At Isla’s words, movement stilled in the room.
“Leave us,” Jane Fletcher spoke in a whisper, her tone deadly calm. “I’ll finish preparin’ her meself.”
When the last maid curtsied and left the tent, her mother turned to her.
“Ye will, because ye must.”
Her mother reached for her hair, but Isla jerked away from her touch, sending the carefully arranged ribbons scattering across the makeshift dressing table.
“Must I? Or is this just more convenient than findin’ another way tae solve our clan’s problems?”
“Isla Fletcher.” Her mother’s voice carried the steel that had made her a formidable lady of the Highlands despite her gentle appearance. “Sit down.”
“I’m twenty years old, nae a child tae be dressed up and handed over.” Isla stood straighter, matching her tone with her own. But then, she sighed, sitting down anyway. “Maither, I’m too young tae be bound tae a man.”
“So are ye too young or nae too young? Make up yer mind, lass,” Her mother’s laugh held no humor. “I can tell ye ye’re nae too young tae understand duty, or tae honor the debt that saved yer very life. Many lasses wed younger than ye, and with far less cause fer gratitude.”
Her mother set the brush aside with deliberate calm. “Look at me daughter”, she placed a palm under Isla’s chin and lifted it so Isla was forced to look into her eyes. “Ye need to understand that yer marriage is fer the sake of the progress of both our clans.”
“So I am tae be traded off like cattle at market.”
“How dare ye say that when good men died tae bring ye home?” Her green eyes blazed with fury Isla had rarely seen. “Fer heaven’s sake, daughter, Seoc Cameron rode intae English territory tae pull ye from Lancaster’s dungeons!”
Isla felt her heart begin to race at the memory. He had appeared like a hero from the legends and saved her. She had never forgotten him and her heart had fluttered every time she had seen him since. But she didn’t really know him and, now that the time had actually come, worried that her feelings were just a childhood fantasy and not strong enough to leave her home, her family and face being tied to someone that she realistically barely knew for the rest of her life. “That was nine years ago,” she whispered.
“Nine years, three months, and sixteen days.” The precise count stopped her cold. “Dae ye think I’ve forgotten? Dae ye think yer faither has? Ye were eleven years old, Isla, eleven, and if nae fer the Camerons…”
She didn’t need to finish. Isla remembered enough. The cold stone walls, the English voices outside her cell, the gnawing certainty that she would never see home again. Then boots on stairs, Scottish voices shouting, and a young warrior with grey eyes pulling her into the light. She would never forget those eyes.
“I remember,” Isla whispered. “When he… when he brought me home.”
Her mother’s expression softened. “Aye, I ken ye dae. Ye were quite taken with him then.”
Heat flooded Isla’s cheeks. “I was eleven, Maither. A child with foolish fancies.”
“Foolish? The lad risked his life fer ye, asked fer naethin’ in return. That’s the stuff of ballads, daughter.”
“That’s different from this.” Isla gestured helplessly at her wedding finery. “He was kind tae a frightened child. It daesnae mean he’ll be a good husband tae the woman I’ve become.”
Jane tilted her head, studying her daughter. “What dae ye remember of him?”
Despite herself, Isla smiled slightly. “Grey eyes. He had the most remarkable grey eyes, like storm clouds. And he spoke tae me like I was a real person, nae like I was just some poor lass needin’ rescuin’.” She paused. “He promised he’d see me safely home, and he did. Every mile of that journey, he made sure I felt protected.”
“Then ye remember what we owe them.”
“Maither…” Feeling helpless, Isla sank back onto the wooden stool. “What terms is Faither discussin’ with the Camerons? What exactly are they negotiatin’ in that tent?”
Jane resumed brushing her hair, but her movements had grown careful, guarded. “I dinnae ken the details, daughter.”
“Ye dinnae ken? Or ye willnae tell me?”
“Truly, I dinnae ken. Yer faither… he keeps such matters between himself and his advisors.” Her voice softened. “But I’m certain he’s daein’ his best tae ensure ye’ll be well cared fer.”
Isla felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Highland air. If her own mother didn’t know what price was being negotiated for her hand, what did that say about her value in this arrangement?
But there was nothing she could do to change it. Nothing she could say that would matter. Her fate was being decided by men in another tent. The realization settled in her stomach like a cold stone.
Her mother must have seen something in her expression, because she moved to stand beside her stool. Her hands were warm as they covered Isla’s cold ones.
“Listen tae me, daughter,” she said softly. “I ken this feels like the end of everythin’ ye’ve kent. But marriage… it daesnae have tae be a prison.”
“How can ye say that when ye see what little choice I have?”
“Love can grow, sweetheart, even from the smallest beginnings.”
Isla felt a flutter stir in her belly, even as her mind flashed to Seoc’s grey eyes. Those had all been mere fantasies of a lass. Everything was different now.
“What if it daesnae?” She whispered.
“Then ye make the best of what ye have. Ye’re strong, Isla, stronger than ye ken. And from what I remember of young Seoc Cameron, he’s an honorable man. Only an honorable man would have saved ye the way he did when he had naethin’ to gain.”
Jane pulled her into a gentle embrace. “It’s nae always so terrible as it seems in the beginnin’.”
“What’s he like now?” she asked finally. “Seoc.”
Her mother pulled back, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Tired, I would guess. Angry more likely. His faither clung tae power too long, and the clan suffered fer it. Failed harvests, constant raids from the Mackintoshes…” She paused. “His braither died in a skirmish last spring.”
“I didnae ken.”
“Aye. The heir, golden-haired Ewan, everythin’ Raibeart wanted in a son.” Her voice held sympathy Isla hadn’t expected. “Now Seoc carries that burden too.”
Before she could ask more, a small tornado burst through the tent flap in the form of her nine-year-old brother.
“Isla!” Ualan launched himself at her with enough force to nearly topple them both. “Faither willnae let me come with ye! I told him I could help guard ye and fight the Mackintoshes.”
“Hello, little warrior.” Isla caught him in a fierce hug, breathing in his familiar scent of sunshine and mischief. At least this would be simple. Ualan loved her without conditions or political calculations. “Ye cannae come because I need ye tae dae somethin’ more important.”
His bright eyes, their father’s eyes, widened with interest. “What?”
“Keep Da from doaen’ anythin’ too reckless while I’m gone. Ye ken how he gets when he’s worried.”
Ualan considered this with the gravity that only children can manage. “Like when he wanted tae raid the Mackintosh borders after they stole our cattle?”
“Exactly like that.”
He seemed to approve of the idea, and nodded. “Then be sure tae write me. Tell me about Cameron lands and if their castle is really built into the mountainside like people say?”
The eager trust in his voice made her throat tight. “Every week, I promise.”
“When I’m laird, I’ll make sure ye’re happy,” he declared with absolute certainty. “Even if ye’re married to someone scary.”
Mother and Isla exchanged glances over his head.
“Seoc Cameron isnae scary,” Isla said, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it. “He’s just… serious.”
“Faither says he’s a good warrior, that he fights with two swords sometimes, like the heroes in the old stories.”
“Daes he now?” Despite everything, Isla found herself smiling. “Well, that’s somethin’, at least.”
Ualan bounced on his toes. “Will ye learn tae fight with two swords? Ladies can be warriors too, right? Like in the songs?”
“Ualan,” their mother warned, but Isla was already nodding.
“If I want tae learn, I will. Lady Cameron should ken how tae defend her people.”
Ualan’s eyes lit up with mischief. He snatched one of the silk ribbons from the dressing table and tied it around his forehead like a warrior’s band.
“Look, Isla! I’m a fierce Highland warrior come tae rescue ye from the terrible Cameron dragon!”
Despite everything, Isla laughed. “A dragon, is he now?”
“Aye! With great big teeth and claws, and he hoards gold in his mountain castle!” Ualan struck a heroic pose, wielding her hair brush like a sword. “But fear not, fair maiden, fer I shall slay the beast and bring ye home!”
“And what if the dragon turns out tae be a decent sort?” Isla asked, catching him as he leaped onto her lap. “What if he just needs someone tae understand him?”
Ualan considered this. “Then maybe ye could teach him to be nice instead of scary. Dragons probably just need friends.”
Their mother watched this exchange, and Isla caught tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. “Ualan, ye shouldnae fill yer sister’s head with such tales.”
“Why nae?” Isla asked, hugging her brother close. “Maybe there’s wisdom in children’s stories.”
The thundering of hooves cut through their conversation. All three of them froze. The sound was wrong, too urgent, with too many horses moving too fast. Through the canvas walls, they heard men shouting warnings.
“Stay with Maither,” Isla commanded Ualan, already moving toward the tent flap.
“Isla.” Her mother’s voice followed her as she pushed it aside to peep outside.
Chaos had erupted across the Glen of Leny. Mackintosh raiders swept through their camp like a black tide, their war cries splitting the afternoon air. They moved with deadly precision, bypassing the supply wagons and heading straight for the Fletcher tents.
Her mother’s voice appeared behind her. “Run,” her mother ordered. “Isla take yer braither and run tae the river.”
“Nay, maither. I willnae leave ye!” Isla protested.
“Ye will.” Steel rang as her mother drew the eating knife from her belt, such a small blade, but her grip was steady. “I didnae survive the English wars tae fall tae Mackintosh raiders. But I need ye and Ualan tae be safe. Now go!”
Isla grabbed Ualan’s hand and ran. They dodged between tents and wagons, her brother’s small legs pumping to keep up. Behind them, the clash of steel on steel rang out as their men engaged the raiders, but she could hear pursuit, hoofbeats gaining on them with every step.
A tent rope caught Ualan’s foot, sending him stumbling. Isla yanked him upright, pulling him behind an overturned supply cart.
“Stay low,” she whispered, pressing him against the wooden wheel. “Follow me, but stay behind the carts.”
They crept forward, using the scattered supplies as cover. When a mounted raider thundered past, searching, Isla pushed Ualan flat against the ground, covering him with her own body until the hoofbeats faded.
“The river, like Maither said,” she breathed in his ear. “We make fer the river.”
They broke from cover, running hand in hand toward the water. Ualan’s shorter stride forced her to slow, making them easy targets. When he stumbled again, she didn’t hesitate. She scooped him up and carried him, her skirts tangling around her legs as she ran.
“Put me down!” he protested. “I can run!” Despite his brave words, Isla could see he was getting tired.
“Nae fast enough,” she panted, but the extra weight was slowing her even more. She put him down, dragging him by his hand.
The river lay just ahead, but they’d never make it, not with the way Ualan was slowing down. Left with no choice, Isla pulled him toward a cluster of boulders near the water’s edge and shoved him into the space between them.
“Hide here,” she panted. “Dinnae come out until Faither, Maither or I come fer ye.”
His eyes were wide with terror, but he nodded. Her brave little brother. Isla turned to face their pursuers, three Mackintosh warriors who had dismounted and were approaching on foot, clearly going for her. She veered in the opposite direction, hoping she could outrun them.
“There!” A rough voice shouted. “The Fletcher girl!”
Isla’s heart hammered as she heard them closing in.
“Lady Isla Fletcher.” He made a mocking bow. “Ye’ll be comin’ with us.”
Ualan, dinnae come out nay matter what ye hear. Please, stay safe.
Chapter Two
“I think nae,” she snapped back.
“Aye, ye will. Cannae have the Fletchers and Camerons unitin’ against us, can we? This wedding dies today, along with any alliance it might bring.”
“Aye. Tam Mackintosh sends his regards,” another raider added with a cruel smile.
Tam Mackintosh.
The name sent ice through her veins. She had somehow thought they planned to use the distraction of her wedding ceremony to start a battle, but they intended to destroy any possible clan alliances entirely.
Without her, there would be no marriage, no bond between the clans, and the Mackintoshes could pick off both Fletcher and Cameron forces separately. She had not been a willing bride to Seoc, but this was unacceptable.
“Over me dead body,” she snarled.
“That can be arranged, lass. But Tam would prefer ye alive. Makes fer better leverage.”
Desperate, Isla bolted toward the trees. Rough hands seized her left arm, spinning her around. Another grabbed her right wrist.
“Got her!”
She drove her knee upward, connecting with solid flesh. The man grunted and his grip loosened. She wrenched free and lunged forward again.
A third warrior stepped into her path. She raked her nails across his face, leaving bloody furrows. He cursed and backhanded her, but she ducked low and bit down hard on the first man’s hand.
“Highland devils! The bitch has teeth!”
They swarmed her then, too many hands to fight off. One caught her hair, yanking her head back. Another pinned her arms.
“Spirited,” one grunted as her elbow connected with his ribs. “Tam will enjoy breakin’ that.”
They dragged her toward their horses, but she knew once they got her mounted, she’d disappear forever. Desperation lent her strength she didn’t know she possessed. She broke free, running like the wind.
Her feet slipped on the wet stones at the river’s edge. Just three more steps and she’d be in the water, where the current might carry her beyond their reach. But heavy boots pounded behind her, and a hand seized the back of her torn gown.
“Not so fast, lass!”
The fabric ripped as she was yanked backward. She stumbled, her knees striking the rocky ground with a crack that sent pain shooting up her legs. Blood seeped through the torn fabric of her dress where the stones had bitten deep. Her hands were scraped raw from clawing at the rocks, and her shoulder throbbed where they’d wrenched her arm behind her back.
“Nowhere left to run now,” the leader panted, standing over her.
Isla rolled onto her back, her chest heaving. The river gurgled mockingly just beyond her reach, so close she could feel the spray on her face. The three armed men loomed above her with triumph in their eyes. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat echoing in her ears like war drums. The taste of blood filled her mouth where she’d bitten her tongue during the struggle.
This is it, then. All me plans, all me protests about the marriage. None of it matters now. I’ll never see me family again. Or Seoc.
Even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was quickly followed by surprise that her last thought would be of Seoc Cameron.
But she had no time to reason it further. If the Mackintoshes took her, they’d use her as a weapon against both clans. Her father would be forced to choose between his daughter and his people. The Camerons would lose their alliance, their hope of strengthening their position.
And Ualan, her sweet, brave Ualan hiding in those rocks, would grow up knowing his sister had been taken while he cowered like a child. The thought filled her with rage hotter than her fear.
“Enough games,” the leader snarled, reaching for her. Isla scrambled backward on her hands and knees.
Ualan. I hope ye’re safe.
“Ye’re coming with—” The man’s words died as steel sang through the air behind him. His eyes went wide, blood frothing at his lips before he crumpled forward.
A man burst through the smoke, his sword already in motion, cutting down the raider closest to Isla. The Mackintosh warrior crumpled with a gurgled cry.
“This is neutral ground. Ye have nay claim here.”
The remaining Mackintosh raiders didn’t flee. Instead, they spread out in a practiced formation, weapons ready.
The leader spat. “Ye think three men can stop us? We’ve been killin’ yer kind since before ye could hold a sword.”
The newcomer stepped between Isla and her remaining captors, his sword gleaming red in the fading light. Even through her terror, she noticed he was at least a head taller than every other man there, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that caught the last rays of sunlight.
Something was familiar about his form, but Isla did not have time to dwell on that because at that moment, two more warriors emerged from the tree line directly behind him. They were not charging blindly, but moving with calculated precision.
One man circled left toward the higher ground near the river bend, while the other took position to block any retreat toward the horses. A trap, expertly laid.
“Get back!” the newcomer roared, and his voice carried absolute authority.
His men moved instantly, no hesitation, no question.
“Take the flanks,” he commanded without turning his head, his voice cutting through the clash of steel. “Dinnae let them reach the horses.”
By now, the Mackintosh raiders found themselves trapped in a deadly triangle, their escape routes systematically cut off. It was done like a military operation, and executed with the precision of a seasoned commander.
The remaining Mackintosh raiders found themselves outflanked, but they fought with desperate fury.
“Kill them all!” one raider snarled, raising his sword.
The newcomer moved like death itself. His blade caught the raider’s strike, turned it aside, and in the same fluid motion, drove deep into the man’s chest. Steel grated against bone. The raider’s scream cut off abruptly.
To his left, another warrior opened a second raider’s throat with surgical precision. Blood sprayed across the stones. The third Cameron warrior drove his opponent back against the rocks, forcing him into the shallows where footing turned treacherous.
“Behind ye!” the newcomer barked, and his man spun just in time to parry a desperate thrust.
Isla pressed herself against the ground, transfixed by the deadly ballet before her. The newcomer fought with cold efficiency, each movement calculated, lethal.
Those features, sharper now, hardened by years of war… but the strong jaw, the high cheekbones, the way he moved with predatory grace.
There was something about his stance, the way he held his sword, that made her breath catch in its familiarity. Impossibly familiar.
As she stared, the battle faded away, replaced by a memory that hit her like a physical blow. She was eleven again, huddled in that dank Lancaster dungeon, when the door had burst open and light had flooded in.
A young warrior had knelt beside her with that same familiar aura full of fierce protection.
“Are ye hurt, lass? Dinnae fear. Ye’re safe now.”
She’d gazed up at him like he was something from the old tales. Even through her terror and gratitude, she’d noticed how handsome he was, how his dark hair had caught the torchlight, how gentle his hands were as he lifted her.
And just like back then, nine years ago, her heart stopped.
“Seoc?” she gasped, though the sound was lost in the clash of steel.
But this man before her now… this wasn’t the earnest young warrior of her girlish dreams. War had carved away everything soft, leaving only edges sharp enough to cut.
He feinted left, drawing his opponent’s guard high, then reversed his grip and drove the pommel of his sword into the man’s temple. The raider dropped like a stone.
“Secure the area,” he ordered, wiping his blade clean with practiced efficiency. “Check for more of them in the trees. And see if any of their horses carry messages.”
The last Mackintosh fighter, seeing his companions fall, backed toward his horse. “This isnae finished, Cameron!”
“Aye, it is.” His voice carried quiet finality.
Cameron. So it is ye. It is really ye.
The surviving raider leaped onto his mount and spurred away into the smoke, but Isla barely noticed. Her entire world had narrowed to the man now turning toward her.
When their eyes met, time seemed to suspend.
“Are ye hurt, lass?”
Same question. But where he had asked her nine years ago with tender concern, now his voice was flat, emotionless.
Isla tried to speak, but no words came. The boy who’d saved her had become something magnificent and terrible. Her rescuer. Her betrothed. The man who would own her body and soul.
But why was he looking at her like she was nothing more than a necessary inconvenience? And why was his voice so cold, so devoid of recognition?
“Seoc,” she finally whispered, and the single word carried all her relief, her gratitude, and her sudden, overwhelming realization that her rescuer might just be seeing her as nothing more than his lawful captive.
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Wed to the Sinful Scot – Get Bonus Prologue
Curious to see the moment Niel was freed from his captors and bound to Mirren forever?
Wed to the Sinful Scot – Bonus Prologue
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.”
“What happens now?” Niel asked quietly. “What happens tae me?”
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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Wed to the Sinful Scot – Extended Epilogue
Six months later
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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Wed to the Sinful Scot (Preview)
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.
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